The tables were turned. Emma saw at the instant, that terror of her husband's jealousy, and of him altogether, would lead her into some dangerous, and perhaps fatal position, unless prompt and perfect candour in her next answer extinguished the fire, which her perverse and unsatisfactory speech had kindled. But then the equivocation: she said she had not looked at him. It was Sir Courtney himself who relieved her from her embarrassment, with a mildness and benignity which touched her heart infinitely more than all his rages. "Think again, Emma. I am perfectly aware he was an acquaintance, because I observed him, for sometime previously, watching, I imagine, for you to bow. I allow that you could not have seen him if you were taken ill, but you might have noticed him as he stood waiting there." been loved, and how cruelly she had been betrayed. This past, and she was no sooner left alone, Than she rushed to the end of the darkened chamber, and like a vehement and impetuous child, sank passionately on her knees. It was all over !-all, all over the long strife of feeling, and struggle of hope, and doubt, and agony, and despair! The veil had dropped, her conscience was at rest; she had been deceived and sacrificed, but she thought not of that then! She was no longer the weak wretch in his eyes, loving, and not beloved again! and this idea, this consciousness, was unspeakable joy, and indescribable relief! The triumphant feeling uppermost in her heart, was simply, that Mrs. Chetwood's sentence, by which she had sealed her fate, was a falsehood, and that Everhard Aylmer, when he pronounced his attach "I never knew any one so strange as you are, Sirment hopeless, must have been totally ignorant how truly Courtney. I only saw one person in the whole room I knew, and that was Mr. Aylmer." Was he in uniform ?" "Yes." "Humph! the same person. Aylmer was the name you say?" "Certainly. Everhard Aylmer, if you like it better. And now that, like a good child, I have answered your question, permit me to inquire for whom you took this individual ?" "For a Mr. Aylmer of whom I have heard," replied Sir Courtney, pointedly. "And now you see, Emma, that I am willing to be perfectly candid with you, provided you grant me the same indulgence. As Miss Vassall your name, classed with that of a Mr. Gore, often came under my notice; and I believe I am not ignorant of the circumstances connected with the acquaintance between you." "Possibly not," said Emma, now colouring deeply; "but on that subject I am silent, if you please!" Thoughts many, vague, yet fevered, wandered through her brain. Was this the prospect of her future life? was this the "real" of the "ideal ?" and was every fresh new year to bring with it fresh new causes of doubt, suspicion, distrust, and jealousy? Oh! for the "dinner of herbs," and its "love therewith," than such a lot of unrest, and life of splendour! And yet had not this lot, from a mere child, been her heart's desire? had she not often and often breathed the prayer, and coveted the bliss which she had dreamt it must bring? And the miserable young girl looked round on the luxury which surrounded her, the magnificence which on all sides met her gaze, whilst tears, bitter tears, streamed in torrents from her eyes. Aylmer related the incident in the crush-room to his confidant, Sir William Crewe, who now retracted his former injurious opinion, and owned that he had done Emma wrong. There had been foul play somewhere. She had been sacrificed. "But after all," said— Sir William, with the laudable wish of consoling his friend after his own fashion, "it does not tell very well for her principles, considering she is a married woman, to go fainting, and making scenes, and all that. Upon my word, I wouldn't stand in Emlyn's shoes for a good deal! You cannot esteem the woman who has suffered herself to be sacrificed, or have any very high opinion of her, after so certain a proof that she-" "Never mind my opinion, never mind that," interrupted Everhard, "nor my esteem. If the scene of last night were calculated to lower her in both, it has but revived my pity, I fear-my tenderness!" "Then now's your time!" cried Sir William, earnestly. "Go, Everhard, leave the dangerous ground, be firm and strong for once-and go.". Everhard went abroad. His friend soon afterwards married Mary Clarendon; and from her Emma first incidentally learned how dearly she had and sincerely it was returned !-and now it was all over! She was the wife of another, and they were severed for ever and she rose from her knees with this sensation of boundless relief strong upon her, and good resolutions crowding fast and thick into her brain. Everhard Aylmer was absolved! The heartlessness, the cold-bloodedness, the villany of which she had suspected him, and which had lowered him to the dust in her opinion, were absolved, and he was acquitted! Emma, not yet more than eighteen, reached a new stage in her married trials. Her husband, from being stately and dignified, became gouty and irritable; and a still greater change was wrought in the once violent and impatient creature, who now watched by his couch, all endurance, forbearance, and gentleness. Her new condition, sketched with, we think, great delicacy and felicity. and the new relations of the ill-matched pair, are To her, so long accustomed to receive from him love that approached to adoration, the change was bitter beyond expression. When he showered epithets of tenderness upon her name, and seemed to think the ground itself not good enough for her to tread on, she was careless of his feelings, and, his affection was unappreciated. But when once she began to miss all this, to have to sit by his side in the bright summer days, and hear no endearing accents, to wait indefatigably on him, and instead of thanks, to receive a reproach for the additional anguish which perhaps the light touch of her small trembling hands had caused, then the high spirit and the warm heart sank, and died within her, and she would hide her face in her hands, and for the first time in her life, breathe fervent prayers to Heaven to grant her patience and support-to give her strength to combat against the bitterness and repining, and fortitude to forget what her fate might have been, in striving to do her duty in that which it was. And, hard as it proved, it appeared that she succeeded; for, when the fit was over, his kindness to her returned, though to the world he was beginning to grow hot tempered and variable. No sooner, however, was he well again, than Lady Emlyn's "quality of mercy " diminished, and words of harshness, that were endured in silence when her husband was suffering, were angrily, and often vehemently returned, when health and strength robbed him of interest in her eyes. At last these disputes were no longer like angels' visits, they ceased to take place only when they were alone; for on the eve of Lawrence's marriage, when he was staying in his sister's house, he was grieved to witness one of them, and even saw Sir Courtney rise to leave the room, which was always a sign he was irritated beyond his self-control. "Oh, Emma! my heart bleeds to see this! You will lose your husband's affection-indeed, indeed you will! if you indulge this fatal love of opposition to his wishes!" "His wishes! Lawrence; say rather his orders! I am his slave! he makes me live the life of a drudge!" "Submit; it is a wife's first duty," argued Lawrence, "Lawrence, no woman on earth could be such a pitiful wretch, or so abject a slave, as you wish me to be to fawn upon a man who is always thwarting me!" "God help us both," had been the first serious expression that Emma had ever heard from her husband's lips; and now that the same fell from those of Lawrence, it seemed to have gained additional weight and power, and for the time-being she was silenced. But Emma submitted, made the amende honorable, and was restored to favour; and thus They continued to go on, like ill-accorded instruments, well tuned, perhaps, and perfect in themselves, but which could make no harmony together, because the pitch of the one was different from the other. Sir Courtney Emlyn had married a comparative child, and moreover, a spoilt, wayward, indulged favourite. How difficult was the task he had imposed upon himself! The love he felt for this fair young being was, indeed, unbounded; and, strange to say, her very faults and follies, by adding to the anxiety he felt on her account, only increased the interest she created in his breast. But we can easily imagine that Sir Courtney's life was not one of tranquillity, and that, if he had trusted himself to ponder upon the subject, he might have questioned the wisdom of marrying a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. Sir Courtney now became as proud of his young wife sitting contentedly by his sick couch, as of having her beauty admired at Court, or where she sat locked up in her box at the opera. He had, from the first, made a point of seeing every letter she received, and one day detected her in trying to conceal one, which she knew was from her good-for-nothing brother, Tom, and which she feared must contain, as usual, some improper demand. A contest arose about the letter with "the foreign post-mark," and Emma at last gave it up, saying "Remember, in your displeasure, that though I am his sister, I neither share in his sinful extravagance, nor, though obliged to give you his letter, do I support him in his disgraceful request." She trembled, as well she might, at its contents. Tom, to whom Sir Courtney had been more lavishly generous than to any one of the family, was devoid apparently of the smallest recollection of past assistance, or the slightest delicacy as to repeating his applications; for this letter contained a cool request that his sister would exert all her influence and power to wring from her husband two hundred pounds. Sir Courtney's face was the picture of concentrated anger and indignation, but it softened in a measure when his eyes fell on Emma. So, Emma," he began bitterly, "it is not enough that I use all my humble influence to provide for your eldest brother, after educating him to the scholar that he is; it is not enough that I do everything in my limited power to advance the interests of your youngest, in a profession to which I never belonged; it is not enough that from my love for yourself, I have often, even to my own inconvenience, fostered and harboured in their turn every member of your family; no, all this is nothing! but I must do more! I must live to find that, instead of marrying one of you, I have married myself to the whole ! Emma's colour rose, and her eyes flashed fire, as she impetuously exclaimed, whilst she proudly drew up her slight figure, "You know, Sir Courtney, it was all your own free will! No mortal had anything to do with your marrying me! It was your own free will and deed, with little wish or will of mine!" And the moment the words had escaped her lips, she would have given all her possessions to have recalled them; but they had passed: Sir Courtney had heard them! Every feature of his face showed that he had : they shook with anger and dismay. These things also past, but they never could be forgotten. There was again reconciliation; but confidence, if it had ever existed, was gone for ever. It began to be whispered that Sir Courtney and Lady Emlyn were, notwithstanding their brilliant position, anything but happy. Though the laugh was on the lip, there was bitterness in the heart; the diamonds, and the station, and the wealth, and the consequence, had all been bought with a heavy price: for Lady Emlyn was most unhappy; and the world for once was right when it pronounced her so. Tones of affection, and tones of kindness, had for some time been but " green spots in the desert" to Lady Emlyn. A change had at last come over Sir Courtney's manner, and a suspicious attention to every syllable that fell from her lips as to her career before her marriage, which harassed and sometimes tortured her. Sir Courtney, by accident, learned that his wife had refused the rich and handsome Captain Forrester, and he consequently concluded that her affections must have been preoccupied. He became morbidly anxious on this subject; and once, at the conclusion of a long tête-à-tête, cried— solve that, when I married, it should be to a woman on "From my earliest years I had always made a rewhose heart no other had yet made an impression. Emma, for the sake of my future peace, confidence, and happiness, I implore you to tell me, was your marriage doubly, trebly, incalculably more distasteful to you by with me against your own free will? Was it rendered the existence of some previous attachment?" Emma too well knew that her husband was already informed on every point on which he demanded explanation, and that his question was considered herself insulted by it, and disdained but a piece of ingenious cruelty. She, therefore, to reply; saying haughtily, that, with the vow registered in his heart, his inquiries should have preceded his marriage. Emma's sisters were not unobservant spectators of her domestic sufferings; and the kind Fanny was ready to commit all manner of follies in attempting to redress wrongs of which no one ever heard a complaint from Emma; and now— It was the close of the season: the Emlyns were going abroad, and had given their last grand entertainment, when the morning after it had taken place, while Emma was busily employed in arranging her jewel box, Mrs. Chetwood and Mrs. Amyott were announced. Well did Lady Emlyn know their mission; and placid was the smile on that beautiful young face, as, without pausing in her occupation, she listened to the alternate reproofs, injunctions, advice, and cautions, which issued in rapid turn from her sisters' lips. She continued composedly brightening up the costly gems before her, with her long black lashes resting on her cheek, which had once been wont to tell her every feeling, but which now preserved its bright transparence, without one additional tint of colour, until after nearly an hour had been spent in the vain errand; the sisters paused, and then Emma looked up, and spoke "I thank you both, if this is meant in kindness. I thank you once more for your interference in my fate and prospects; but I intend it to be the last time you do so, and I beg you will remember that so it is to be! Fanny, I am not now addressing myself to you: it is to Elizabeth that I wish to call home her past behaviour on my account, and the long course of infamous treachery, and unpardonable deceit, of which she has made me the innocent victim; and after that, Mrs. Chetwood, preach to me of my conduct as a wife, and talk to me of my love for my husband!" 66 "Yes! " continued Emma, with a smile of the bitterest triumph, “you have no longer to deal with a dupe ! but on that subject my lips are closed, fear no betrayal from me! I know all; and in your own heart I leave you to seek the rest of the sting conveyed in those words; but whenever you taunt and reproach me with my conduct to my husband, I rise against you! Who made me, by a shameful falsehood, Sir Courtney Emlyn's wife Yourself! Who wrung from my existence every hope of happiness, and then dares to say I make him miserable, both at home and in the eyes of the world? You, Elizabeth! and yet both of you, my sisters, made me marry this man!" “Oh, Emma, not I!" burst from Mrs. Amyott's lips, which were white with agitation. "You aided, Fanny; you supported the falsehood, which drew from me my agonized consent!" "My dear sister!" cried Mrs. Amyott, flying to the folding doors, that were open, and closing them, "if any of the servants, or your husband, should hear all this!" "Let them! let him! That man, for the last eighteen months of my life, has tortured me, by a succession of tyrannies, which I have borne in uncomplaining silence; yet here you reproach me for my conduct as a wife! You forget what has been said: there is a point to which I mean to go, but not one step beyond! I accompany him abroad this summer: I cling to him, to my misery, as long as I can; but the moment he tries me beyond my patience, beyond my power-so help me Heaven! as I stand before you both, I leave him for ever!" It was a dreadful scene, it was a fearful lesson; and both sisters were shocked-even petrified! On this same morning Sir Courtney brought in the letters of the day to his wife, and retired to read his own. The first dropt from her hand. It was written from prison by her brother, who had not only contracted new debts, but embezzled a considerable sum intrusted to him by a poor midshipman for his mother. Emma, overpowered by her feelings, became insensible. When she recovered she glanced round her splendid rooms, and at her priceless jewels, and thought of her wretched and disgraced brother, the inmate of a prison. She knew that at that moment the letter which would exasperate her husband beyond words was in his hands. She knew that no appeal of the most piercing misery would soften that stern heart, when once a resolution was formed; and in that case, what was to become of her hapless brother? In this agonizing state of mind, her eyes again rested on the gems before her, glittering in the morning sun, with their thousand rays of light. Quick as thought an idea entered her head: it took away her breath; but there was no time to be lost. She seized a case of diamonds, and tore them from their fastenings: she caught them from their places, and as her husband's heavy step approached from the adjoining room, the costly treasures were safely and securely hidden in her bosom. Sir Courtney entered; and, as she expected, the letter was flung before her. There, madam! there is the last act of the upright and honourable brother whose cause you have so often and so ably pleaded. You will plead no more, I imagine, when you read this bold and shameless letter. From a prison I have had the honour to receive it; and in that prison, before I stir one finger to release him, may he lie-and live-and die!" Emma clasped her hands on her bursting heart-no words could issue from her dry and parched lips. She gazed wildly on her husband, as he stalked majestically out of the room; and no sooner had he left it, than she flew to the bell, and ordered the carriage round instantly. As the servant descended the stairs again, Sir Courtney opened the door of the next room, and in a loud decided voice countermanded it. former trials; when suddenly, as if to save her in the hour of need, a carriage dashed up to the door, and Lady Crewe, in all her wild and heedless gaiety, little imagining the scene on which she was entering, ran up stairs, and ushered herself into the room. Lady Emlyn's bonnet and shawl were on; and, never waiting to look at her pallid features and trembling figure, Mary Crewe caught her round the waist, and in her boisterous liveliness, insisted on her going out with her. "You must! you must! you must! Nay, not a word. You can countermand your own carriage in a moment, and come with me for once in a way: do-hey? Oh, you must! I have such fun-such a joke to tell you! Only think! the regiment is ordered home, and we shall have our friend, l'objet amié!' here before we know where we are!" "Take me take me!" panted Emma, utterly regardless of the last few words, and only thinking of the jewels, which were to save and redeem her wretched brother-" Take me, Mary!" But as she breathed the entreaty, Sir Courtney, hitherto concealed by the large screen which stood between the two rooms, advanced, to Lady Crewe's astonishment and dismay; and, with the veins of his forehead swelled like cords, his countenance distorted with rage, commanded, in tones of stern determination, that his wife should not leave the house. "Forgive me!" exclaimed Emma, in a voice altered and smothered by emotion, as she clung to the firm and unflinching figure of Lady Crewe; "forgive me this once but I am not to be commanded in this one in stance! For the first time since my marriage I disobey!" "You do!" cried the incensed husband; "you do!" "I must! I do!" answered Emma, with an imploring glance, most unusual to her; "forgive me, for it is the only time I shall ever offend-ever again rebel. Suffer me to go; or if not, pardon me if I do!" "Never! "exclaimed Sir Courtney, turning away; " but go!" And with these words ringing in her ears, she left the house. Two hours passed; two painful, dreadful hours to poor Emma. She knew well that her husband was offended-she almost feared past forgiving. Lady Crewe, with all her bold daring, was subdued by the scene, and trembled for her friend. However, the resolute act was achieved; the jewels, clasped with such wild delight to her breast, had given place to bank notes, and she returned home, "fully prepared," as she said to Lady Crewe, on bidding her an agitated goodby," to bear every severity as a punishment for Tom, and his honour saved!" Emma, on her return, found her husband suffering under an apoplectic attack, and in a state Her wild shrieks of utter unconsciousness. summoned the servants. And now, filled with grief and remorse, she sate watching him who, she felt, had, in spite of her faults, and passionate and bitter provocations, been the fondest, best, kindest husband, and that she must henceforth be alone! alone! Though told that there was no hope left, she watched all night for the last look, which at length rested on her face with an expression of pity and affection. It was a look that should have accompanied a blessing could the sealed lips have framed the words; and it was the last! Dreadful was the shock to poor Emma; little was she accustomed to grief; never before had she witnessed death. According to the dictates of her character, she felt this sudden stroke most acutely, most fearfully. She shut herself up, and refused to see any of her family, till Lawrence came, and would not be The pang, the anguish of that moment, exceeded all denied. Lady Emlyn found that her original jointure was doubled, and that, by a recent codicil to his will, Sir Courtney had left her sole executrix, and placed the whole of his property at her disposal, with the exception of legacies left to other mem-ing bers of her family. And now She had lost for ever that generous, though strict and severe guardian. Never more should she hear the accents of his voice in kindness and affection: its tones in anger were utterly forgotten, and nothing but his watchful tenderness and care remembered! Already she missed him; already she wrung her hands, when heavy steps passed up and down the stairs, and none of them were his! Oh, human nature! how inconsistent thou art! And then again Emma's heart was agonized when she remembered their last parting. It was altogether a bitter retrospect; and though her tears could hardly be said to flow from grief, the remorse that prompted them was infinitely more poignant to endure. Lady Emlyn returned to High-Down House; but it was no longer felt as a home. She took a large house in another county, and her mother and invalid sister became her guests. Her days became more tranquil, almost happy; for in her heart arose a secret hope that irradiated the future. The headstrong impatient girl was now lost in the energetic woman. Still, indeed, self-sufficing; still high and independent in her course of action; but generous to all her friends; attentive to all her duties, and occupying her station with a dignity and propriety that might have won the approbation of her husband, could he have looked down upon her. Lady Emlyn went to visit her brother and his charming wife at their parsonage. What a contrast the matrimonial lot of the estimable couple, who had married for affection, presented to the splendid marriage of ambition, to which Emma had been sacrificed, and had sacrificed herself. tery to me-all perfectly incomprehensible! my dear “I observed everything, my dear Cecy; and I must caution you on one point, and that is, not to fly too suddenly to conclusions. At this moment Mr. Aylmer evidently thinks himself an ill-used person." "Poor Emma! her happiness is truly at stake at this moment, and it makes me nervous to think of the result. If the love which she has so long cherished, is at last unrequited, what will become of her, where will she look for consolation?" And such wasthe destiny that awaited Emma, who was to suffer more as a lover than she had done as a wife. A pic-nic excursion to Stonehenge, during which her jealousy of Anne Rochfort was awakened, drove her away from Wiltshire; and when Aylmer, repenting the triumph he had momentarily felt in her evident distress, rode over next day to the parsonage, the ever impetuous Emma was already gone! She had witnessed Aylmer's attentions to her young rival; she had heard from the silly and envious Mrs. Vane of his engagement with the heiress; she had seen him Yet could it be? Was all the past so utterly forgotten? and was she to be thus repaid, thus met? It could not be ! She felt as if even harbouring the thought, and dwelling on the subject, were doing him a wrong, for it implied belief in the rumour of his inconstancy, and she would not believe it. And yet again, was inconstancy the right word? dared she call him false? By what confession, or what word, none 1-save confessions of love, breathed by his heart or what hint, was he bound to her? Alas, alas! none, to Heaven in earlier days-not breathed to her! and she tried to recover herself, and succeeded; but in the evening, in the silence of the twilight, when she and Mrs. Vassall sat alone by the parsonage window, a vision floated before her closed eyes, and she saw again too vividly, that gay and giddy party. She saw the small slight figure of Anne Rochfort vault lightly un she saw the last sight of the spirited bay pony, flying most winged speed, her spaniel puppy on her arm, and past the carriage, bearing its young mistress, with althose same strange lustrous eyes turned back upon him, who was urging his horse to its fullest pace, to check the light triumphant laugh of victory that rang from those joyous lips. Aylmer, who had now returned from the West Indies, was expected in this part of the country on a visit to his relatives, the Rochforts. They might meet again; and Lawrence Vassall and his affec-assisted into her saddle, as the party dispersed, and tionate Cecy flattered themselves that there was still happiness in store for Emma. Could "good, plain, shy Anne Rochfort," rich heiress as she was, be preferred to the beautiful widow, Aylmer's first love? But there was no one at hand to tell him that Emma had been betrayed and sacrificed, as Emma had learned he had been. They met at last; she all tremours, but controlling her feelings, and sheltered by the address of Cecy; and he, cold as an icicle. Whilst she sat still and breathless, her heart oppressed by a thousand fears and feelings, Cecy turned, and said, bury Plain, till they were out of sight. Emma, however, On, on they swept over the short downy grass of Salisnever forgot that last sight of them. All this passed once more in review before Lady Emlyn's eyes; and suddenly sinking on her knees, and Vassall's lap, the floodgates were opened, and the high, laying her head like that of a passionate child, on Ceey proud heart gave way. "My sister Emma is here, Mr. Aylmer," and a low, bursts of anguish and despair, and for the first time in Mrs. Vane's remarks were repeated between the distant bow, made without moving from the spot where her life, a full confession of her feelings was poured out. he stood, was the only acknowledgment of that first cold Cecy listened in silent, deep, and earnest sympathy, meeting; and it was for this meeting that Emma had stroking back the rich ringlets of her wavy hair, and so long existed. This was the hope which had strength-gently kissing her burning forehead, till the paroxysm ened and cheered her, for so many long and weary months and days! "Oh! but ill, When with rich hopes o'erfraught the young high heart And the evening passed heavily to Emma, and she re- "Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Lawrence Vassall to her husband, as soon as they were alone," this is all a mys had in a measure subsided, and then she spoke :- "No, it is not like him! not like him, as he was!' said Emma, wildly; "but he may have changed. He is! and yet, why am not I also changed? Alas!" she murmured, as she again buried her face in her hands,“ if the tale prove true, the misery of my life has but begun!" It was but begun. Yet at this time Aylmer was not engaged to Anne Rochfort, and only loved her as a charming, artless girl-his distant relative. Yet the summer, the autumn, the winter wore away, and he was still domesticated with the Rochforts; and Lady Emlyn, he felt, had pointedly avoided him; had left the parsonage abruptly when he might have been expected to renew his intercourse with her. And the Rochforts redoubled their kindness; and though Anne, who made pets of all dumb creatures, and lived surrounded by numbers of all sorts of them, did not appear in love with her soldier cousin, it somehow came to be understood. Aylmer, a mere man, Began to grow like himself again-lively, happy, and indifferent as ever. Rochfort was the beau ideal of an old-fashioned country-house. It was a long, irregular, castellated style of building, all juttings out and in, and gray and mouldylooking exteriorly; but inside it was replete with every comfort and elegance that boundless wealth and modern luxury could procure. The flower-gardens, the lawns and the parks, with their herds of noble deer, all told the man of many thousands; and as Everhard walked in an evening round the grounds with Mr. Rochfort, whilst Anne fed the different pets of the herd, the old man would look from the gigantic trees to the airy figure of his child, and remark with a chuckle of pride and delight, "He! ha! one wouldn't think, to look at her, that the little witch will have to give the word of command, some of these days, for those fine old foresters to be cut down!" And in the heart of all this quiet splendour had "plain Anne Rochfort" been brought up-happy as a bird, in her tranquil seclusion, and unsophisticated as a child in every thought, word, and action. Everhard Aylmer had lived much in the world, and he had seen the women of many nations; his taste for le beau en general had led him where he might rest his eyes on every variety of loveliness, and his heart, with all its early fresh affections, had been given to one most beautiful by universal acknowledgment; but still in Anne Rochfort there was a something which he had never yet met she was totally different to every creature he had seen, and he could not tell in what the difference consisted. It would have been absurd to say that it was because there was so little of the woman of the world in her, for that was a term, the meaning of which she could not have been made to comprehend. When Aylmer first saw Emma Vassall, it was in "the world." She seemed formed for society, but Anne Rochfort was formed for home! that was the only difference that Aylmer ever could embody in words. Aune's unassumed simplicity amused him; and in time he discovered that there was no small portion of fascination in it. His conversations with her, which grew more and more frequent as he began to find interest in them, brought out her character in its true light, and gave him opportunity of judging of the soundness of her young mind. All this while Emma was living in a state of protracted agony. "Did you ever see such a wreck?" said her sister Fanny, now Lady Amyott, to her husband; "we must force her abroad." Lady Emlyn would not go abroad; but she came to her house in Belgrave Square, and, ill at ease as she was herself, undertook to act as the chaperone of a young girl whose artless and winning manners had attracted her; and, though against her rule, the beautiful widow one night, in compliance with Lily's pleadings, yielded for once to take her to a ball. Lily was among the waltzers; and immediately behind the seat that VOL. XI.-NO. CXXII. Lady Emlyn occupied, was a raised bench, on which sat the old ladies side by side, talking in so audible a voice, that Emma thus became an unintentional eavesdropper. After mutual inquiries made after their respective relations, one asked the other when the marriage on the tapis was to take place. She hoped, she said, it was not to be further postponed. sister is so much better that she will be quite able to go "Oh, no," was the answer. "Indeed I hope not; my to the church on Thursday. Anne was determined to persevere in putting it off till her mother had recovered sufficiently to be out again. She is a most affectionate daughter, and, moreover, generally gains her point with her parents. Her approaching marriage is a proof of her unbounded influence, for her intended has absolutely nothing of his own; however, they are now quite satisfied. The business has been some time pending: I cannot say myself that I like long engagements, or such affairs hanging so long on hand. Anne has been engaged some months. He proposed, I have heard, at some pic-nic or other last summer; actually nearly a twelvemonth ago, ma'am !" "He may think himself a very fortunate man, ma'am !" said the other old lady, quaintly. "And so may Anne," rejoined the first speaker; "for he is a most estimable young man; and it was quite a toss-up, I assure you, in Wiltshire, between Anne and that beautiful young widow, Lady somebody, only she took French leave very cavalierly one day." "Really! and will Mr. Aylmer take Miss Rochfort's name?" "Yes; Anne will be Mrs. Aylmer Rochfort." * 華 There was at that moment a sudden sensation in the ball-room, and a crowding of many people towards one spot; a pause amongst the dancers, and a cessation of the music. The throng were dividing to make a passage, and every one kept asking what was the matter, without being able to obtain a satisfactory answer. "The heat," said Mr. Gerard, coming back to Mrs. Vane, who had sent him on the mission of inquiry, "the heat in that corner was tremendous, and Lady Emlyn was overcome by it, and has fainted, that's all; but your carriage has been here this hour-are you not going?" "Fainted? How fond she is of making scenes! Years ago I remember her dropping down in the crush-room at the Opera, as if she had been shot! Well, I shall not go yet, Gerard. You must take a turn with me. What a divine valse. Come." The moral of this story is severe, its poetic justice harsh; and, moreover, too much is made to depend on those misunderstandings and cross-purposes, without which it seems impossible to carry on the plot of a novel: yet, as teaching the great lesson of prudent self-control and reasonable wishes, it is impressive, and forcibly told. Harry Monk, the other tale, which fills these volumes, is an antidote to the stories of the Dick Turpin school. A young, affectionate, and well-born girl forsakes her kind old father to follow the fortunes of a man of whom she knows nothing, save that he has a handsome person, and seems violently if selfishly in love with her. He is found to be the captain of a band of highwaymen; and the poor girl, from the moment that she consents to a clandestine marriage, until the gallows leaves her a wretched widow, abundantly expiates her rash folly and credulity. The tale is laid in the time of the Civil Wars of the era of Cromwell. It is well told, and contains much to disgust, and nothing to fascinate, in the truth-like characters and adventures of the profligates and brutal ruffians that figure in it. Its main fault is want of re K |