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EAR.L'S  DAUGHTEh11
THE AUTHO'R OF  AMY HEIItBETT," "'GER',IRIJRDE,'  iTHE'CHTID) S FIRST HISTORY OF ROME,' ETC.
ODITII) BY
THE REV. W. SEWELL, B.1).
FILLOTW OF EXETER COLTTLEE, OXFORD.
Life,.... is energy of Love,
Divine or lhuman; exercised in pain,
In strife, and tribulation; a,nd ordained,
If so approved and sanctified, to pass,
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy.
Three ExcMrs<ozi-.
VOL. 1,
L 0 N D):
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1.850.




LONDON:;teEi'rPS ADo CO., PBINTERa  B.EL, YAR.,'WftlPE BA.,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.
THERE was an unusual stir in the old cathedral town
of   -. It was neither a market-day, nor the
anniversary of a public fete; neither the season of
the annual visitation, nor of any public meeting; yet
the narrow footways were thronged, and knots of
idlers stood inconveniently at the corners of the streets,
making their remarks upon the few carriages which
enlivened the generally dull town, or noticing with
interest the occasional approach of the rows of neatly
dressed school children, who, with orderly steps and
serious looks, were bending their way to the open
square in which stood the great entrance to the cathedral. Gravity, indeed, was the pervading deportment of all the assembling crowd; but a deeper,
more reverent, and anxious feeling might be traced
upon the features of some, who, fully aware of the
difficulties of a Christian life, were about to witness
the renewal of those vows by which the ignorant and
untried, the weak and the erring, in the midst of a
sinful world, and about to enter upon the scene of its
temptations, pledge themselves in the sight of an
All Holy God, to be His in spirit, in truth, and for
ever. It was the day appointed for the Confirmation
of all within the diocese of  --  who had attained
B




2            THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
the age required by the Bishop, and on few occasions
had a more careful preparation been made for the
due observance of this important rite. The time had
gone by when the verbal repetition of the Church
Catechism was alone deemed necessary for the candidates.  A  more zealous spirit had arisen, and
many, who had themselves been allowed to renew
their baptismal vows without thought or prayer,
now, warned by past experience, endeavoured most
earnestly to urge upon others the importance of the
period which they had reached, and the real meaning
of the words, which from childhood, had been familiar
to their lips!
The Confirmation of that day was felt to be a most
solemn act of self-dedication; and as the knights of
old, when preparing to assume the insignia and encounter the perils of their order, were accustomed to
fast, and watch and pray, that they might be enabled to
struggle and conquer in the unknown dangers before
them; so the young aspirants to the full privileges
of Christianity were taught to humble themselves
by repentance, and prepare their hearts by prayer,
that in the hour of temptation they might not be
forgetful of their high calling, and fall short of their
eternal reward.  The spectacle which the cathedral
church of St. Mark exhibited when the choir was
filled, before the service of the church began, was one
of no common interest. The broad light of the sun,
as its rays streamed through the stained windows,
fell upon fair young faces chastened by holy thoughts,
and boyish features subdued into stillness by the
pressure of a strange and hitherto unfelt awe. There
were countenances which told of fear and wonder,
and some, it might be, of indifference; there were
eyes bent upon the page in which the vow to be renewed was recorded; and lips moving in silent prayer
that strength might be granted for its fulfilment;




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               3
whilst, at times, over those youthful faces there passed
the shadow of a dark cloud, the cloud of the memory of sin: the vision of cherished offences, of
indulged tempers,-vanity and pride, selfishness and
irreverence,-the bitter fruits of an evil nature, now a
second time to be publicly renounced for ever. Was
it to be marvelled at, if in some then present the
weakness of humanity for a moment shrank from the
warfare imposed upon it, and would fain have returned to the bondage of Egypt, the indulgence of
earthly inclination, rather than brave the battle with
those stern enemies-the world, the flesh, and the
devil-which throng the borders of the land of promise?
But the wish, if it arose, was founded on error.
The candidates for Confirmation were no longer free
to choose.  Once baptized, once admitted into the
fellowship of the Catholic Church, and there could
be no drawing back.  The members of Christ, the
children of God, the inheritors of the kingdom of
heaven, could never again "be as the heathen."
They might despise their privileges, and break their
vows; but the privileges had still been granted, and
they must be answerable for them; the vows were still
upon their heads, and so would also be the punishment for neglect. For them it could never be a question, whether they would accept Christianity: but
whether, having accepted, they would renounce it;
and even the most indifferent amongst the professed
followers of Christ would surely have trembled to
risk the woe which must inevitably follow an open,
deliberate apostacy.
But although no second promise could in reality
increase the binding responsibility of the first, yet
the public ratification of a covenant with God must
ever be regarded with awe. The baptismal vow was
now for the first time fully impressed upon the con



4           THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
sciences of many by whom it had scarcely before
been remembered, and they trembled as the moment
approached when they were to seal it with the consent of their own lips.
The peaceful soothing words of the daily service
were said, and when they were ended there stood before the altar of God, the high-born inheritors of
honour and wealth, and the gentle children nursed in
affluence and retirement, and the humble offspring of
poverty, united by one creed, one hope, one danger,
and summoned to join in one common act of selfdedication.
Together they listened to the earnest supplication
which was to bring down upon them from on high
the " sevenfold gifts of grace;" and then side by side
they knelt, and each in turn bowed beneath a hand
of blessing-the blessing of their spiritual Father in
Christ.
Once more they were seated as before, to receive
from  the Bishop's mouth the words of advice, and
warning, and consolation, which were to guide them
amidst the temptations of life; and when the final
benediction was given, and the full tones of the organ
pealed through the long aisles, they Farted even as
they had met, for the greater part unknowing and
unregarding, to many a distant home, never to meet
together again in one place till they should stand
before the judgment-seat of -God, to answer for the
fulfilment of the vow  which had that hour been
registered in heaven.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTEr.               5
CHAPTER II.
IT was the evening of the same day, a day of unwonted brilliancy and warmth. The sounds of busy
life were fading upon the listening ear, the cattle
were returning from the pastures, the birds were
seeking their nests, the tired workman was slowly
wending his way towards his home, and the deep
tones of the cathedral clock as it struck the hour of
eight fell with a warning voice upon the few who
were still engrossed in their round of daily occupation.
The peacefulness of such an hour was felt even
amidst the bustle of a crowded town, and the jar of
folly and vice; but in the quiet garden of the old grey
manor-house of St. Ebbe's there was nothing to disturb the hallowing effect of its influence. The low
ivy-covered walls which enclosed it seemed built for
the very purpose of excluding all thoughts of the
busy world; the long green walks invited to regular exercise and meditation; the neatly-trimmed
borders, gay  with flowers, spoke of carefulness
and simplicity, and appreciation of the loveliness
of nature; and the quaint sun-dial, raised upon a
circle of rough stone steps in the centre, gave a silent
call to the unthinking to note the flight of time,
whilst it bade them, in the words of Holy Writ,
which were graven upon its pedestal, "watch and
pray, that they might not enter into temptation."
The building itself, with its weather-stained walis,
and mullioned windows and deep porch, accorded
perfectly with the quaint style of the garden. It was
B 2




6           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
not large, and boasted few architectural ornaments;
but it was the existing symbol of bygone years, and
insensibly carried back the mind to times far removed
from the present, when if mankind were not wiser
and better they were at least less restless, and when
the lords of the manor of St. Ebbe's were willing to
"dwell amongst their own people," and knew no
higher interest in life than that of providing for their
welfare.  So it was not now; the house, and the
garden, and the lands, which once were deemed
indissolubly attached, had been divided into separate
lots: the manor-house had become a farm-house,
the farm-house had been neglected; and, ruined and
dilapidated, would have fallen into almost hopeless
decay, but for a succession of fofttnate events which
placed it in the hands of those who were willing to
expend some money and much taste in restoring it,
though not to its original beauty, yet to a condition
in which it might be inhabited with comfort.
The inmates of the manor-house, in its present
state, were widely different from its early occupants;
and if the first Sir Ralph de Bretonville, whom tradition asserted to have been the founder of the family,
could have looked upon the youthful figures standing
upon the dial-steps, and watching the gradual fading
of the gorgeous sunset, he might have deemed them
beings of another race, so little could they have
resembled the uncouth train of revellers, huntsmen,
and serving men, with whom his own halls must
have been filled.
They were two girls, who appeared to have scarcely
passed the age of sixteen-unlike in dress, height,
and figure; but showing, by an unrestrained ease of
manner, that the tie between them, if not of blood,
was one of familiar intimacy.
The taller-and, seemingly, the elder-of the two
was finely formed, and dignified, almost commanding




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.                7
in manner. Her dark hair was braided, with studied
neatness, across a high forehead, and one long ringlet fell on either side upon the well-turned neck, over
which a shawl had been hastily thrown to protect her
from the evening air. Her complexion was clear, and
brilliant with the hues of youth and health; and none,
probably, could have turned an indifferent gaze upon
the perfect contour of her features; —the deep-set
hazel eye-the Grecian nose-the full expressive
mouth, which bespoke intellect and energy, and natural elevation of character;-and as she stood, with
one hand pointing to the glowing sky, and the other
resting upon the dial-plate, whilst the dazzling hues
of sunset fell upon her graceful figure, she might
have been fitly dee&  the representative of the Sibyl,
or the Pythoness,'exulting in the first enthusiasm
of inspiration.
Her companion it will be less easy to pourtray;
for Lady Blanche Evelyn was not regularly beautiful.
She was slight in figure, and rather below the usual
height;-her complexion was naturally pale, though,
at that moment, tinged by the faint crimson-flush
of interest and agitation;-her eyes, dark and exquisitely soft, were not striking in their brilliancy, like
those of her friend. There was less of a marked
outline in the contour of her face, even of the longchiselled nose and peculiarly sweet mouth; and the
clustering ringlets of glossy chestnut hair, which
shaded her features, gave an air of greater youthfulness to her general appearance.  The foreheadhigh, open, and intellectual-bore, indeed, some resemblance to her companion's, but the expression of
the whole countenance was but little affected by it.
It was not intellect which could have been uppermost in the thoughts of any person, looking, for the
first time, upon Lady Blanche Evelyn. The sparkle
in her eye, thesmile upon her lips, the light eager




8           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
animation of manner, chastened by refinement and
simplicity, were the tokens of a heart delighting in
the first freshness of life;-remembering the past
without regret, and painting visions of the future
with innocent enjoyment; and if, for a moment, a
transient shade of thought passed over the sunshine
of her fair young features, it was the thought, not
of foreboding or discontent, but of a mind to which
the mysterious realities of the unseen world were presenting themselves with all their overwhelming power.
Graceful, gentle, and childlike as she was, she
might have been deemed by many unfitted to cope
with the trials of the world; but, whether it were
from  the natural dignity of one upon whom the
honours of a long line of ancestry were destined to
descend, or from a strength of character unknown
only because untried,-an under current of firmness
ran through her words and actions; scarcely indeed
perceived, except by minute observation, but then
displaying itself even in the intonations of her musical voice, and the increasing earnestness of her
gestures, as she pursued her conversation.
"To-morrow,"  she said, as she threw her arm
affectionately around her companion, "to-morrow,
Eleanor, by this time I may have seen him, and you
may have seen him  too; our plans will not seem
dreamy then."
"They will to me," was the reply; "till I can see
how they may be carried out: and I dread to-morrow,
lest it should make me forget to-day."
"Sometimes, it seems impossible to forget," replied Blanche, as she gazed intently upon the golden
sky. " Now, it seems so; and then again,-oh! Eleanor, I feel it will be very hard:-when my thoughts
are given to earthly things my heart will follow:
and yet at this time how can I help it? "




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               9
"Then, it cannot be wrong," said Eleanor, soothingly.
"If I could but think so! But, after this morning, no one who had really fixed principles would be
as changeable as I am."
"No one thinks you changeable, except yourself," answered Eleanor.
"I know  myself better than others know me,
then," said Blanche, "Even, after all I have promised-all those prayers, and the charge, and all my
resolutions, I cannot keep my mind fixed as I ought.
I have such dreams of home, and of papa; and when
I shut myself up this afternoon, and tried to do what
Mr. Howard advised, I was wandering to things gone
by,-all that has happened since we have been here.
I wonder whether others have the same difficulties."
Eleanor thought for a few moments, and then said,
rather abruptly, " Did you notice that sickly girl who
sat to the right of us, at the head of the charityschool?"
" Yes," exclaimed  Blanche; "her eyes never
seemed to move except when the chanting began, and
then she looked up amongst the arches of the cathedral with such intense awe.  I was vexed with
myself for thinking about her, and yet it did me
good."
" She was blind," continued Eleanor; "one of her
companions led her up to the altar as we left it.
Mr. Howard says she comes from Rutherford; and I
mean to ask papa if he knows her."
"I think I could bear to be blind," observed
Blanche, "if I could only feel, as I am sure she did.
But the world is so beautiful, and it is so pleasant to
live and to be loved! "
"Yes," said Eleanor; " for you, especially, who
have everything else that the world can give."




10          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Why should  I have so much?"  exclaimed
Blanche. " It is very strange; and when I looked at
that poor girl it frightened me. And yet, Eleanor,"
she continued, and a shade, almost of sadness,
passed over her face, " it may all be marred.  I shall
be like a stranger in my home, and papa may have
lost his English tastes, and be vexed that I am not
what he pictured."
"You are fanciful," replied Eleanor, with an air
of authority; "you should remember what Mrs.
Howard says about not creating evils."
"But he will be my all," said Blanche, humbly;
"If his love fails me, what shall I have to look to?"
Eleanor's countenance expressed surprise, and Blanche
instantly corrected herself; "on earth, I mean," she
said; "but that is an instance of what I mentioned
just now about forgetting.' I know that I ought to
be calm and trusting, thinking of to-day instead of
to-morrow.  Do you remember the Bishop's saying
it was part of our duty?"
"Yes," replied Eleanor; "I was looking at the
blind girl at the instant, and her face brightened
when she heard it, as little Clara's does when she first
gains a new idea."
Blanche was silent for several minutes.  "I must
not think," she exclaimed, at length; "the time is
coming so near.  When the sun goes down again,
I may be watching it from  the terrace at Rutherford."
"And I from  the rectory," said Eleanbr. "We
shall be separated then."
The words sounded reproachfully; and Blanche
eagerly exclaimed,  "Only for a few hours; our
homes will be almost the same. You do not think,
Eleanor, that I could be happy if it were not so."
"Not now.  But, Blanche, the path of your life




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               1 
will lead you away from  me into the world, and,
amongst gay friends; you will have many other
ties."
" But the one," said Blanche; "where can I find
that? The blessing which was given us to-day together will never be repeated again;-ours can never
be a common love."
Eleanor grew very thoughtful.  "Promise to love
me always," she said.  "Doubt comes over me sadly
at times."
Blanche did not promise; but she looked at Eleanor with wonder, as if not comprehending the meaning of her words, and before she could reply, some
one was heard to repeat her name; and a little girl,
about ten years of age, ran up to them, exclaiming,
"You must come directly,-this moment; you must
not wait a minute: Mrs. Howard wants you in her
room. Pray, Eleanor, don't keep her."
"Is it for me?  Did Mrs. Howard send for me,
Clara?" and the colour faded from Blanche's cheek.
"Yes, Mrs. Howard; and" —the child stopped,
put her finger upon her lip, and smiled archly.
"Who?  What?  Who is here?" asked Eleanor.
"Never mind; don't ask questions.  Mrs. Howard told me I was to make haste."
Lady Blanche said nothing; she leant against the
sun-dial, and every limb trembled.
"You are ill, dearest," said Eleanor, affectionately; " and this suspense is dreadful for you. Clara,
you must tell us-Is Lord Rutherford arrived?"
Clara was delighted at her own power, and turning
away, exclaimed, "For once Eleanor Wentworth
cannot have her will."
"But Blanche Evelyn can;" and Blanche drew
the little girl towards her, aind said in a faint voice,
" If you love me, Clara —"




12          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
The appeal was successful. Clara's arm was put
within hers; and, looking up in Blanche's face to
watch the effect of her information, she whispered,
"I have not seen him; but Mary and Agnes have."
Blanche scarcely waited to hear the last word, before she had flown towards the house; but as she
reached the porch she stopped-her courage had
failed.
Eleanor was at her side immediately.  " He must
love you-dote upon you, Blanche; and his lettersyou do him injustice by being afraid."
Blanche put her hand before her eyes; and holier
thoughts came to her aid.  One Father, she had,
who knew  the weakness of His child, and could
strengthen her as well against the infirmity of nature, as against the temptations of sin. She placed
her icy fingers within Eleanor's, and clasped them
with the energy of nervous resolution; and then, with
a firm step, turned away to seek for the first time,
since she had been conscious of existence, the presence of her father.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               13
CHAPTER III.
THE Earl of Rutherford was a man, the ruling principle of whose character was generally supposed to
be easily discovered from his expressive countenance:
conscious nobility, a love of command, an impetuous temper, and a powerful intellect, were plainly inscribed upon it.  He was born to honour, accustomed from infancy to rule, and the world had decided that pride was the governing motive of his
actions. So at least it was said, when, fifteen years
before, he had suddenly left his ancestral home, upon
the death of a wife, whom, if he had not loved, he
had at least treated with the outward marks of
respect; and confiding his infant daughter to the care
of a lady, the personal friend of the countess, left
England with the avowed determination of remaining
abroad for some years.  The step, strange though
it appeared, was declared not incompatible with his
character.  The grief preying upon his heart was
said to be less the death of his wife, than the failure
of a male heir; and the Lady Blanche Evelyn, although born to inherit both the title and its annexed
estates, was considered to be an object of compassion
rather than of love to her haughty father, from the
feeling that it was impossible for a woman fitly to
support the dignity of the family, and the dread lest
the event of her marriage with some yet more distinguished individual should sink his own noble
house into comparative insignificance.  All this the
world said.  The Earl of Rutherford was pitied, but
censured; his sorrow it was imagined would be tranc




14          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
sitory, and his journey was considered merely the
impulse of a hasty moment.  That he would return
again, it might be with a foreign bride, or at least
to seek another in England, was considered a matter
of certainty; and yet, year after year went by, and
the Castle of Rutherford was still left unoccupied.
Political engagements it was known were in  a
great measure the cause of the earl's absence, but
they would not account for an exile of such length;
and the rumours which were at first circulated regarding a second marriage at length ceased. Tidings
of him  were heard-sometimes at Rome, sometimes
at Vienna, once at Constantinople; but all gave the
same impression.  If Lord Rutherford had been
considered proud at home, he was thought to be yet
more so in the careless ease of continental society.
The noblest and fairest ornaments of European courts
passed before him, but all were alike unnoticed;
and, at the expiration of fifteen years, he was returning to his native land, with the same impenetrable
manner, the same cold reserve of tone, for which he
had been remarkable on leaving it.  And in the
mean time his child grew up in retirement, under the
care of a lady every way calculated for such a charge.
Mrs. Howard was a widow, who, at the age of thirty,
found herself suddenly reduced from  a situation of
affluence and happiness, as the wife of a beneficed
clergyman, to one of almost hopeless poverty. The
death of her husband, which had been so sudden as
to prevent him  from  making any satisfactory arrangement of his property, joined with other circumstances perfectly unforeseen, had combined to produce
this great misfortune; and, but for the long-tried
friendship of the Countess of Rutherford, Mrs.
Howard's prospects would indeed have been dark.
Through her exertions, however, the manor-house
of St. Ebbe's was purchased, and fitted up so as to




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.                15
accommodate Mrs. Howard and the few pupils whose
education she was able to undertake; and when, in
the prospect of approaching  death, the countess
gazed in sadness upon her child, her chief earthly
consolation was derived from the hope that the earl
would consent to place the infant Lady Blanche
under the care of the only person in whose affection
and principle she was able implicitly to confide.
Lord Rutherford was not present to receive the dying
injunction of his wife, but her wishes were received
with an  attention nearly amounting to  superstition.  Lady Blanche was removed to St. Ebbe's, and
the sole charge of her education trusted to Mrs.
Howard, with but one stipulation —that she should
have no companion.  For a few years this agreement
was easily kept. During the child's infancy she was
perfectly satisfied with Mrs. Howard as her nurse,
instructress, and playfellow; but new wants were
discovered with increasing years, and Mrs. Howard,
believing that such a solitary education might operate unfavourably upon her character, at length prevailed upon the earl to allow her to receive into her
family Eleanor Wentworth, the daughter of the
rector of Rutherford.  Blanche was at this time
about seven years of age, and fully able to appreciate
the charms of companionship.  Eleanor was clever,
generous, and affectionate; and the progress made by
both the children from  the period of their being
placed together convinced Mrs. Howard that she
had judged wisely in the advice which she had
given: and when, in the course of events, the care of
three little orphan nieces devolved upon her, she had
no difficulty in persuading Lord Rutherford to allow
them also to share her attention at St. Ebbe's.
The charm of society was felt chiefly by Blanche.
Eleanor returned to her home at stated times, and
mixed with other friends, and enjoyed the novelty of




16          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
other scenes; but to Blanche the occupations of the
manor house, the interest of the village of St.
Ebbe's, and the dull liveliness of the old cathedral
town, were the only excitements of life. Even the
Castle of Rutherford, her destined home, was but
like a beautiful dream, associated with visions of the
mother who had been described as the most lovely
and perfect of earthly beings, and the father, whose
supposed virtues and talents formed the great romance of her childhood.
And the Earl of Rutherford, if judged by his letters, was indeed formed to excite admiration, if not
respect.  They were the letters of a refined, highly
cultivated, affectionate mind;-keenly alive to the
charms of grace and luxury, yet mourning over the
unreality of all earthly enjoyments;-joining in the
pursuits of the world, yet sighing for the sympathy
of the few who were alone deemed worthy of friendship; and seeing too deeply into life to be satisfied
with aught that earth could give. One thing alone
seemed to give him real pleasure, the hope of returning to England and devoting himself to his child;and yet year after year went by, and still he lingered
in a foreign land. Blanche learnt by degrees to attach but little meaning to his expressions of dissatisfaction with continental habits, and of desire to
revisit his own country.  He might be-no doubt
he was-sincere; but the circumstances or the feelings which detained him abroad appeared as binding
as ever; and a shade of discontent was just beginning
to dim the brightness of her hitherto happy life,
when the intelligence that her father was actually on
his way to England, and would probably arrive in
the course of a few weeks, brought back all her early
enthusiasm and delight.  Yet the satisfaction, after
the first moment, was by no means unalloyed. Her
own departure from St. Ebbe's would be the inevi



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               17
table consequence of the earl's return, and with this
was involved separation from  the friend who had
supplied a mother's place, and claimed all but a mother's affection; and as Blanche recalled the fondness which had been lavished upon her from infancy,
she wept in bitterness of heart for the ingratitude
which could for an instant rejoice in such a prospect.
As regarded Eleanor, the case would be very different.  She was to return to her parents at the same
time, and the near vicinity of the rectory and the
castle formed, at least in the simple mind of Lady
Blanche, a reason for believing that the change of
life would be merely nominal;-that they would
share the same interests, and partake of the same
pleasures, and be to each  other, what they had
hitherto called themselves,-sisters in affection, if
not in relationship.
She could not contemplate the  possibility of
change,-and the fears which Eleanor sometimes
expressed, were to her merely the fancies of an excitable, over-anxious mind.
But, as the season approached for the earl's arrival,
the struggle in the mind of Blanche between hope
and regret-the future and the past-became mixed
with other thoughts, which served to calm her spirits
by diverting her feelings into a different channel. The
period of her Confirmation had been unavoidably
fixed for the time when Lord Rutherford was expected;and though Mrs. Howard would at first
willingly have either hastened or deferred it, so as to
give a more favourable opportunity for due preparation, she soon saw reason to be thankful that events
had been so ordered as to leave no possibility of
choice.  The gay, gentle, confiding spirit of Lady
Blanche, open to every impression, and apparently
incapable of the possibility of concealment, yet retained within it a depth of reflection and principle
c2




18          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
which Mrs. Howard had never penetrated.  Unknown to herself, Blanche was timid, and reserved.
She could speak openly upon all ordinary subjects,confess her faults, and laugh at her mistakes, and
lament her ignorance, till even a very keen observer
of human nature-and such Mrs. Howard was-might
imagine that she had told all that was in her mind.
But there were occasions when the deepening colour
of her cheek, or the hesitation of her voice, gave indications that in the hidden world within there lay
feelings far loftier and purer than any which she
ventured to express.  Her words were the words of
a humble, candid, light-hearted, simple child; but
her thoughts —who may tell the earnestness, and reverence, and trustfulness, with which the young
heart devotes itself to its Maker before the evil influence of the world has chilled the warmth of its
early affections?  What Lady Blanche really was,
Mrs. Howard never knew, till in the intimacy of
serious intercourse which preceded her Confirmation,
the anguish of repentance for youthful sins overcame
her natural reserve; and hopes, and fears, and
doubts, and the bitter conflict of the soul, which all
-even the most outwardly innocent-must endure,
in the work of bringing back the heart to God, were
confessed without a thought of concealment. From
that moment the tie between them  was one which
earth has no power to break.
To Blanche this newly-acquired sympathy was an
unspeakable blessing; it soothed her in the moments
of self-reproach, when the delight of her father's anticipated return distracted her thoughts from the
solemn subject of her approaching Confirmation; and
enabled her to view clearly the life which was opening before her, and to arrange definite plans for her
future conduct, instead of doubling and vacillating in
the desire of doing everything, and the dread of suc



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               19
ceeding in nothing.  If Mrs. Howard had been dear
to her before, as her truest and wisest friend, her
mother's chosen representative, much more was she
dear now; and, even when trembling before the door
which was to admit her into her father's presence, a
sudden pang of sorrow  shot through her heart as
she caught the tones of Mrs. Howard's voice, and
thought how soon she might listen for them in vain.
Mrs. Howard herself opened the door as Blanche
placed her hand upon the lock. She did not speak;
but her silent kiss told more than the most eloquent
words; and, as she walked slowly away, Blanche allowed herself to hesitate no longer, and entered the
room.  The earl was standing by the window-his
eye fixed upon the travelling-carriage which had
brought him  that evening from  London; but his
thoughts wandering to years, now so long passed
away, that they seemed but as indistinct, yet painful,
visions.  He was recalling the day when, in the
company of his wife, he had paid his first visit to
St. Ebbe's; and the associations awakened by the remembrance were so absorbing, that the sound of his
daughter's footsteps was unheeded.   Blanche remained irresolute-afraid to intrude herself upon
him, yet faint from the effort to restrain her agitation.  A  few  moments elapsed, but to her they
seemed like hours; and then the carriage drove off,
and the earl, heaving a deep sigh, turned suddenly
round, and became aware that he was not alone.
It was a strange meeting! He did not move or
smile; but the colour forsook his cheeks, and his lips
quivered; and as Blanche drew near, he gazed upon
her steadfastly, and sinking into a chair, the name of
his wife escaped his lips. Blanche stood before him
motionless.  The earl's head was averted as if he
dreaded to look again; but, when at length the
simple word, "Papa," fell upon his ear, he started,




20          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
passed his hand across his forehead like one awakening from a dream, and, clasping his child to his heart,
he blessed her fervently, and poured forth the fulness of his contentment; and, at that moment, the
fondest hope of affection which Blanche had ever ventured to indulge appeared about to be fully realized.
" My visit, to-night, must be but short, my child,"
said the earl, when the excitement of feeling had in
a measure subsided, and Blanche ventured to inquire
how long he could stay with her. " I have business
in the town, and must leave you almost immediately;
but to-morrow we will start early, and reach Rutherford in time for you to see it in its beauty."
" And for the first time," said Blanche: " it seemed hard, papa, never to have been allowed to go there
before; but I am glad of it now.  I would much
rather see it first with you."
The earl smiled.
"And with Miss Wentworth?  We are to take
her with us, I believe."
"Will you really?" and Blanche's eye sparkled
with delight.  " We hoped it might be so; but
Dr. Wentworth was afraid you might not like it."
"Shall you  like it? — that is the  question,
Blanche."
Lord Rutherford spoke shortly, and Blanche was
a little awed.
"I shall like everything that you like, dear papa,"
she said; "and Eleanor and I have not set our
hearts upon it."
"But you would prefer it, my love; only say so,
and it shall be."
Blanche had penetration enough to see that her
father really wished her to choose; and, as she
warmly expressed her pleasure at the proposal, the
earl's gentleness of manner returned.
" My engagement is pressing," he said, as he rose




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               21
to depart, whilst Blanche hung upon his arm, " and
a night's rest will be desirable for us both; but we
will meet at eight to-morrow, if, as Mrs. Howard
assures me, you are quite prepared for such a sudden
move."
The  mention  of Mrs. Howard brought back
Blanche's sad thoughts.
"You will let her come and see me sometimes,
dear papa, won't you?" she said, timidly.
"Let her come!" replied the earl; "rather, ask
her if she will be kind enough to take the trouble: she
may not think as little of a long journey as you do."
Blanche looked grave; for she could not bear,
even in jest, the idea of any obstacle to a continued
intercourse with her best friend. The earl no sooner
perceived it, than he began to assure her that if the
distance were ten times as great, it should not interfere. She need not have a thought upon the subject;
and if Blanche had not herself stopped him, he would
have insisted upon seeing Mrs. Howard again at once,
and inducing her to name a certain time for a visit to
Rutherford.
Blanche scarcely understood this instantaneous
attention to her wishes. Mrs. Howard's object had
been to guard her against the peculiar dangers of her
position in life, by accustoming her to yield her own
will even on the most trifling occasions.  She often
saw others preferred before her, and her natural disposition led her to obey rather than to command;
and this, added to the influence of Eleanor Wentworth's apparent decision of character, made her insensible to her own powers.  Perhaps too much so;
Mrs. Howard at least began to fear lest, in fostering
gentleness and consideration, she had kept her too
much in ignorance of the influence which her rank
and fortune would naturally give her; and lest the
sudden consciousness of superiority might prove




22          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
more injurious to her character than if she had been
accustomed to it from childhood. But it was too
late to remedy the mistake. Blanche was about to
enter upon the world, unknowing of its snares, and
guarded only by the simple piety of a humble spirit,
which has learned to distrust itself, and to lean only
upon God. As she was then, there was nothing to
fear: but how long her simplicity would remain untainted, her heart uncorrupted by the flattering
homage which awaited her, was a question which
only the most unhesitating faith could have borne
to ask.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               23
CHAPTER IV.
MRS. HOWARD sat in her dressing-room that evening long after her usual hour of rest.  She was too
anxious, her mind was too preoccupied, to hope for
sleep. She could only think over the past, and pray
for the future; whilst she dwelt upon the dispositions of her two young charges, and the trials to
which they might be exposed in their journey through
life.
It would have been difficult to tell which excited
the greater interest; perhaps the one for whom she
feared the most seemed then the nearer to her heart;
yet Eleanor Wentworth's character was, in itself,
much more open to temptation than that of Lady
Blanche. Nothing but the certainty that, at the rectory of Rutherford, Eleanor would be as carefully
guarded from  evil as at the manor-house of St.
Ebbe's, would have relieved the load of apprehension
which pressed upon Mrs. Howard's spirits as she
thought upon the fickleness of purpose, the pride
and jealousy, the hasty, though generous temper,
which were continually marring the influence of her
talents and high principles.
But Eleanor was not, like Blanche, to return to a
home where she would be the cherished idol of every
heart.  She would be loved, indeed, deeply and tenderly; but it would be with a Christian love, which
would watch over her faults, and tell her truth without reserve.   She would have quiet occupations;
duties to her parents and her sister; duties in her
father's parish; amusements in her garden and her




24          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
books; and society in the castle and its neighbourhood.
Mrs. Howard almost smiled at the feeling of dread
which she had allowed to disturb her, as she owned
to herself that Eleanor's situation in life seemed peculiarly free from temptation; whilst, again, she sadly
reverted to Blanche-noble, beautiful, and rich, but
deprived of a mother's care, and with no one to be
her daily guide and counsellor, but the father, whom
there was reason to fear might be little fitted for
such an office.
The position was undoubtedly one of peril, and
self-accusations mingled with Mrs. Howard's forebodings.  Memory went back to the hour when, as
an innocent, unconscious infant, the child of her
early friend had been committed to her care; when,
after the lapse of but a few weeks from the death of
the Countess of Rutherford, the earl had placed his
daughter in her arms, and bade her love and guard
her for her mother's sake.  To love her was indeed easy; but to guard, to teach, to educate herhow had the task been performed?  It was a sad
array of errors and neglects, which conscience brought
before the mind of one whom  the world rightly
judged to have discharged her duty faithfully and
unshrinkingly; so much seemed to have been left
unsaid, undone; so much higher an example might
have been set; so many warnings and instructions
given.  As the painful reflections crowded upon her
mind, a gentle tap at the door was heard, and
Blanche entered the room.  She was looking pale
and ill, and her eyes were dimmed with tears; and
Mrs. Howard, startled at her sudden appearance, inquired, in alarm, the cause.  Blanche tried to smile,
whilst she assured her that it was merely a whim-a
freak; —she was restless, and could not sleep, and
the light was shining underneath the dressing-room




TILE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             25
door; and-but her voice failed her, and hiding her
face upon Mrs. Howard's neck, she said, "To-morrow!- I cannot leave you."
" It will not be leaving me, my dearest child," replied Mrs. Howard.  "We shall still be one in affection, and your father promises that we shall meet
frequently."
" But that will not make things as they have been,"
replied Blanche. "I shall only have you for a short
time, and I shall want you every hour in the day."
" Perhaps that is the very reason why it is good
for me not to be with you," said Mrs. Howard; " we
must not depend too much upon our fellow-creatures,
however we may love them."
"If I were not so ignorant," said Blanche, "and
if I knew what sort of life I was going to lead, it
would not seem so bad; but seeing papa has upset all
my ideas. I don't mean that he is different exactly in
appearance from what I thought, but his manner is.
He put me forward when I talked to him, and seemed
to make me settle things; and I would much rather
he would not."
"You will be used to that in time, my love," replied Mrs. Howard, smiling; "and you must recollect you are no longer a child."
"No, indeed," exclaimed Blanche, "after to-day I
could not be; but that, again, makes me unhappy.
How  shall I know  what is right or wrong in
trifles?  I cannot ask papa;-at least I think I
cannot;-and I may decide badly, and do what I
ought not; and perhaps all my resolutions may fail.
You know it is so sometimes, when people have felt
a great deal more than I have."
"You can apply to me always,' replied Mrs.
Howard, "in cases in which you really have no one
else to consult; but it is not advice which can keep
you right."
D




26          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"No," said Blanche; "but if-if I should grow
careless, and not pray properly-"
"Fear for yourself, my love," replied Mrs. Howard,
"and then no other friend need fear for you; but if
you can attend carefully to the few rules I gave you
the other day, I think you will find your duties less
difficult than you imagine."
" I always now have some time to myself in the
middle of the day," said Blanche; "but here I can
do as I choose."
"And you will do as you choose at home, my
dear," replied Mrs. Howard.  "I have no doubt of
it.  The best thing, however, to say to yourself, is:
not that you will, if you can, but that you must;that everything must, to a certain degree, give way
to it; that if you cannot be alone at one hour, you
will be at another.  We require not long prayers
but frequent ones, to keep up our watchfulness."
"And then self-examination," said Blanche; "it
is so difficult."
" Yes, most difficult; and the only way to make
it easy is to practise it frequently; to carry it on
from one part of the day to another, at the times we
fix for our private devotions."
"The difficulty to me," said Blanche, "is, that all
this makes one think so constantly of oneself!"
" So it may, at first; but the mind must be educated like the body.  How is it, for instance, that
you are able to walk without stumbling? If you are
in a dangerous road, you observe where you are
going; but, generally speaking, you are kept in
safety, not by thinking of yourself, but of the objects
around you."
"That is what I want to do with my mind," said
Blanche.
" And it will come by-and-by, my love; but you
must be contented to walk carefully in the dangerous




TIHE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             27
road first; and, after a time, you will find yourself
instinctively shrinking from evil, and able to pursue
the right path-not so much by watching yourself
as by keeping your heart fixed upon God."
" It will be very long before that time comes," said
Blanche.
" Yes, because it is the perfection of a Christian
life; but we must be patient. In your case, I confess it is likely to be particularly difficult, because
you will have so many temptations."
"'Not more than others, I suppose," said Blanche;
"and yet it seems that I shall never be as good as
some whom I have read of."
" But I am afraid you will have many more temptations than people in general," continued Mrs. Howard; " and I should be happier if I felt that you ununderstood this. God has given you rank and wealth,
and no one in your home to share the attention which
will be paid you; and your papa is very likely to be
over-indulgent and blind to your faults."
Blanche leant her head upon the mantelpiece, and
in a low voice said, "You will pray for me."
"Pray for you daily and hourly," replied Mrs.
Howard, earnestly.  "God only knows how precious
you are to me.  Perhaps I am over-anxious; but
luxury and flattery are very insidious."
"I need not indulge myself in luxuries, even if I
possess them," said Blanche.
"No; though I am afraid the temptation will be
greater than you are aware of. If your mind is corrupted, dearest Blanche, the commencement will
almost inevitably be self-indulgence in trifles."
"I don't think I quite know what you would call
trifles," said Blanche.
" Such as a little indolence in rising," replied Mrs.
Howard; " a little waste of time in light reading; a
slight carelessness in conversation, saying things




28           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
which are not strictly right for the sake of amusemrent; or spending money thoughtlessly; or even
consulting your own ease by making yourself too
comfortable, and so rendering yourself indisposed to
exertion for other people. All these things are considered allowable by the world: you may do them,
and no one will notice them; and your conscience
may, perhaps, scarcely reproach you for them; but
they are the beginnings of evil-the first steps towards that love of self-gratification which is the
peculiar snare of the rich."
" I like ease and comfort now," said Blanche.
"I think you do, my love," replied Mrs. Howard;
" and I am not saying that the liking them is wrong,
but dangerous; and against the danger I know only
one safeguard, as far as our own endeavours are concerned.  There are times, you know, when we are
bound to deny ourselves the use even of lawful pleasures;-one day at least in every week we should do
so.  If we check our inclinations then, we may hope
they will not gain the mastery over us at other
times."
"I shall not know  what to do when I am  at
home," said Blanche.
"And I cannot tell you exactly," replied Mrs.
Howard; "because, of course, you must be governed
in a great degree by the habits of your father's house.
Only when we have determined to do something,
half our difficulty is over.  A sincere will must soon
find out the way, without being singular or acting
in any way to attract notice."
" But I wish-so much —so very, very much-that I
could have some rules," said Blanche.
Mrs. Howard half-smiled as she kissed her, and
said,-" And I wish so very much that I could give
them, because I know it would make you happier;
but I can only repeat in a general way what I have




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.              29
said to you before; little details must be left to yourself: it is impossible to shake off the burden of
responsibility, Blanche, though I know you would
willingly do it if you could."
"But if I make my rules and keep to them," said
Blanche, "still I may attend to them only as a matter of form, and then they will be of no use."
Mrs. Howard was silent for a few moWents; the
most earnest-minded often feel bitterly tie contrast
between the advice which they give to others, and
the practice which they are conscious of in themselves.
"It is very hard," she said, at length, "to feel,
even in a remote degree, as we ought; but, dearest
Blanche, if you follow the plan you have had marked
out for these days;-begin them, for instance, earlier
than usual, if possible, and give up your first, thoughts
to self-examination and meditation upon those chapters in the Gospels which describe our Lord's sufferings; using special solemn confessions, and also arranging your prayers for the rest of the day, with a
particular view to these subjects of meditation;-I
think you will scarcely fail to have some deeper
gratitude-some more sincere penitence; you will
at least feel that the day is not like other days."
"I will try," said Blanche; but she sighed as if
distrusting herself.
"And you must hope, too," continued Mrs. Howard; "hope is a great instrument of good with us
all. The work of a Christian is the work of a whole
life, and we must not despair because we are not
perfect at once; especially when we have such aid
promised and given. In a very short time, my love,
you will, I trust, be fully admitted into the communion of the Church."
Blanche looked distressed, and for a few moments
did not attempt to speak: at last she said, "I
thought you would have been with me."
D2




30          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"And I thought so too, and hoped more earnestly
than I can say; but it has been otherwise ordered,
and it may-it must be better for us both.  Yet we
cannot really be separated; my prayers and my heart
will follow you, and we shall surely be united in one
spirit as members of the body of Christ-more
closely even than at this moment."
Again, there was a pause; the struggle of overexcited feelings overcame Blanche's efforts to restrain
them, and bursting into tears, she exclaimed, "I
am not worthy."
" No," replied Mrs. Howard, and she placed her
hand fondly on Blanche's head, " you are not worthy;
no one can be, not even an angel from heaven.  But
if the blessing is greater than words can tell, so also
is the love. Blanche, it is a Father's voice which calls
you; perhaps now, for the first time, you can understand what a father's affection must mean." The allusion had the effect which Mrs. Howard desired.
Blanche raised her head, and a smile gleamed
through her tears as she said, " I will try to think
of it, and not be afraid."
" And you will be assisted and accepted, dearest;
you must not doubt it.  There is much that I could
say to you even now upon the subject, though we
have so often talked of it before; but I do not think
you will allow anything to interfere with such a duty.
I do not think you will ever make false excuses, or
turn away with coldness, whatever examples may be
set you. In time," and Mrs. Howard's voice involuntarily became more subdued in its earnestness, "you
will cease to look upon it as a duty-it will be your
all in religion."
" Papa will be with me to help me, and teach me,"
said Blanche; "that is one great comfort."
Mrs. Howard sighed, and made no direct answer;
but, rising from her seat, unlocked a cabinet, and taking




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             31
from it a locket attached to a hair chain, she hung it
round Blanche's neck, saying, "Will you wear it, not
only in remembrance of me, but of the day on which
it was given you? The date has been engraved on
it, that when you look at it you may be reminded
of the vow by which you have bound yourself.-And
now, dear child, we must part."
Mrs. Howard's usually calm voice became low and
tremulous. Blanche held the locket in her hand, and
gazed on it long and tearfully; and then, placing it
within the folds of her dress, she once more received
Mrs. Howard's fervent blessing, and glided silently
from the room.




32          THE' EARL S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER V.
THE sun was still high in the horizon, when on the
following day a travelling carriage-was seen standing
at the bottom of the steep ascent on the summit of
which was built the old baronial castle of lutherford.  There was apparently some discussion as to
its movements, for a servant was engaged in carrying messages from his master to the postilions, and
the eager tones of a young girl's voice were heard
endeavouring to  win  some  compliance with  her
wishes contrary to the will of her companions.
"It will be a pleasure to me to walk, I assure
you," she said;' the distance is but a few hundred
yards, and really I deserve some trouble for having
been so foolish as not to watch which way the carriage turned. It will make a considerable difference
now to go by the road."
Lord Rutherford listened politely, and quietly remarking that Miss Wentworth was under his protection, and that he could on no account leave her
till he had seen her safely under her father's care,
sent an angry reproof to the postilions for their stupidity, and ordered them  to drive round to the
rectory.   Eleanor looked  annoyed, and  Blanche
raised her eyes to her father's face, to see if it would
do to interfere; but there was an expression in it
which was not encouraging.  The cheerful smile
which had brightened it during the first part of their
journey was gone, and, leaning out of the window,
he kept his eyes riveted upon the old grey walls appearing in the distance above the trees.




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.               33
"My father!" exclaimed Eleanor, as the carriage
turned.
Lord Rutherford withdrew  his head, and sank
back upon his seat.  His mouth grew  more stern,
his brow was more gloomy than before; yet it might
have been only from the effort to repress some rising
agitation, for, as Dr. Wentworth approached, a smile
of recognition again lighted up his features, and
with a cordial voice, and a warm  pressure of the
hand, he returned a greeting which might have been
termed affectionate.
" I have much to thank you for," he said; " but
you shall not be detained now: we have a fellowfeeling for our children."
Dr. Wentworth's  mild  but strikingly  sensible
countenance betrayed some painful thoughts, even as
he assisted his daughter to alight, and welcomed
her eagerly; but they were momentary only, and
again drawing near the carriage, he said, " Lady
Blanche is almost a stranger; we have not met I
think for two years."
Blanche bent forward and gave him  her hand.
Lord Rutherford was evidently interested in watching the meeting, yet he looked annoyed rather than
pleased with Dr. Wentworth's kind expressions of
satisfaction.'" I am not parting from Eleanor," said Blanche,
in answer to Dr. Wentworth's regret that his daughter's return home should be necessarily alloyed by a
separation from her friend. "I wish you would not
talk of it: we shall meet, as we have done, every
day."
Dr. Wentworth smiled doubtfully..
"To-morrow Eleanor will be with me the first moment she can be spared," continued Blanche, gaily;
" and if that should not be early, I must be with her,
and then we will arrange for the future."




34           THE EARL'S DAUGH-TER.
There was a silent assent, and Eleanor, who had
been standing apart, went round to the other side of
the carriage to say good-b'ye.
" It is good-b'ye, really,-for long, for ever in some
ways, Blanche," she whispered.
Blanche was distressed.
"Eleanor, it is cruel to say so; but time will
show."
" Yes, time will show;" and, trying to appear indifferent, Eleanor once more said, " good-b'ye," and,
putting her arm within her father's, turned away.
Blanche watched them, as they stayed to give
some directions to a man who was to follow with the
luggage; and, when at last they were lost to her
sight, felt as if Eleanor's words were prophetic.
But the painful foreboding was soon forgotten.
The earl's voice recalled her to happiness; for, delighted at being freed from all restraint, he now gave
free vent to his affection, and pointing to the range
of richly-wooded hills, the green meadows, and neat
clustering cottages, he told her that all she could see
was her own; that earth for him had but one treasure; and that, whilst she was spared to him, nothing would add to his enjoyment, except by ministering to hers.
"Now," he said, when the winding road brought
them  full in front of the castle, "look, once more;
there is no view of it like this."
Blanche looked, and her heart throbbed within her
as she realized for the first time the grandeur of her
future home.  Rutherford Castle stood upon a high
promontory, which rose almost perpendicularly from
the banks of a deep-flowing stream.  The most ancient part of what had once been a fortress of considerable strength was built upon the solid rock, and
the huge blocks of masonry could scarcely be distinguished from  the impregnable walls of nature's




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.                 35
formation: but the advance of civilization had induced the Lords of Rutherford, from time to time, to
add to the original stronghold, at first a lower tower
and massive wings, then gateways, and turrets, and
quadrangles, till the castle, stretching over the crest
of the hill, formed a pile of building which, although
irregular in outline, was still as a whole singularly
imposing.  Immediately in front of the castle was a
broad space of smooth turf, and from this the ground
to the left fell in a bank thickly planted with trees,
which, as it neared the river, was broken by grey
moss-grown rocks.  But the most striking  points
of scenery were not discoverable from  below; and
when Blanche clasped her hands in ecstasy, and declared that she had never imagined any thing half so
beautiful, the earl smiled contentedly, and, bidding
the postilions hasten, he sat in silence listening to
her exclamations, as every step in advance brought
them some fresh object of beauty.
The high battlemented gateway was passed, and
the carriage entered the park; and, after a drive of
about half a mile, slowly ascended the hill. As they
approached nearer and nearer to the castle, Lord
Rutherford roused himself from his leaning posture,
and, gazing from  the window, seemed endeavouring
to recall the long-past scenes which were associated
with nearly every object that met his eye. Blanche,
with an instinctive delicacy of sympathy, did not attempt to interrupt him: her pleasure was no longer
openly expressed, and it was not till the carriage
stopped before the heavy portal, and a glorious landscape, with a foreground of rock and river, and a
distance of far-spreading woods and pastures, and
fields ripening with the golden corn, was disclosed
before her, that she exclaimed, " Papa, it does not
seem like earth!"
At the sound of her sweet voice, the earl awoke




36          TIIE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
from his reverie. " It shall be paradise to you," he
said "if mortal power can make it so;" and, alighting from the carriage, he hurried her forward into
the hall.
The servants were assembled to receive them; and
the earl presented Lady Blanche to them  as their
mistress.  "Your mistress now," he said emphatically, "as much as she must be in years to come;"
and as he spoke many eyes of admiration and respect were turned to the gentle girl, who so gracefully and meekly returned the reverential salutations
of her dependants.
Lord Rutherford's impatience scarcely waited till
the necessary introduction was over.  Proudly and
firmly he passed on through the splendid apartments; yet, if Blanche had watched his countenance,
she might have seen that all was not equally firm
within.  It was but the outline of a marble bust
which caught his attention, but he quickened his
steps, and compressed his lips, whilst he turned to
see whether the bright fair features of his child did
indeed resemble the cold but matchless beauty which
the hand of art had so exquisitely sculptured.
Blanche followed him, bewildered by the novelty
of her situation and the strangeness of all she saw;
so different from St. Ebbe's, with its few simple
rooms and modern furniture.  The dark oaken panellings and grotesque carvings, the rich yet cumbrous cabinets, the heavy gilded cornices, and faded
tapestries, were of the fashions of centuries past;
and Blanche, though delighted to behold what she
had so often in imagination pictured, yet felt something of awe steal over her, as they traversed the
empty chambers which for years had been disused;
and which, even when the castle was filled with
guests, had been considered more as a necessary incumbrance than as at all conducing to its convenience.




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.               37
Lord Rutherford read what was passing in her
mina.
"These are but the vestibules," he said; "the
ante-rooms-endurable for appearance, but not ha.
bitable. You shall have something different for your
own enjoyment;" and, pushing aside some massive
folding doors, he led the way into a hall paved with
marble, and partly filled with rare plants.  "They
have attended to my orders well," he observed, as he
looked around him with a pleased air; "and here
are your rooms, Blanche.  Look at them,. and tell
me what more they require."  As he said this, Lord
Rutherford entered a small but lofty and very prettily shaped apartment, which though harmonizing
with the rest of the castle in its general style, was
fitted up with many of the refinements of modern
luxury.  The choice pictures, the piano and harp,
the sofas, couches, work-table, and books; and, especially, the flowers with which the vases on the tables
were filled, gave Blanche, in an instant, the idea of
forethought, and care, and affection; though, when
she tried to express her gratitude, she could find no
words to satisfy her feelings.
The earl, however, did not need words; he looked
at her for a moment with proud delight, whilst in
her grace and beauty she stood in the centre of the
room, the fitting mistress of all that wealth and love
could bestow; and, after pointing to a small study
opening from  the outer room, he said, carelessly,
"We will see the view from  this side now, Blanche;
it is different from the other."
Blanche followed him  through the hall into the
garden; but when she leant over the parapet, which
bordered the terrace in front of the window, she
started almost with alarm upon discovering the giddy
height at which she stood above the deep river that
flowed round the castle..E




38          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
To the right, the walls of the keep shut out the view
over the distant country; but immediately before her
the ground sank almost perpendicularly, and far, far
below gleamed the clear waters of the rapid stream,
as it forced its way between the rocky foundations of
the castle and the lofty wooded hill which formed its
opposite bank. For about the space of a quarter of
a mile it was inclosed in a narrow ravine; but a
sharp projecting point of land then opposing its
further progress, its course was suddenly diverted in
a different direction; and the eye, no longer able
to follow its windings, turned rather to the long vista
of hills, locked into each other, and capped by the
rugged outline of a mountain-peak, which formed the
termination of the valley.
The scene was striking even to the earl, accustomed though he was to the varied beauties of other
lands; but to Blanche, as she beheld it for the first
time under the dark shadows and brilliant lights of a
soft yet not cloudless sky, its effect was magical.
"It is your home, Blanche," said the earl, as he
stood beside her, watching the feelings that were
plainly working in her countenance.
"And yours, too, papa," said Blanche, striving at
length to give her father some idea that she appreciated his affection.  "It can never be my paradise
without you."
"Then we will make our agreement to-night, my
child," replied the earl; " our happiness shall be in
each other,-and, whilst we are together, the world
shall never intrude upon us with its cares."
Blanche smiled sweetly, yet the words so full of
hope and happiness fell with something of a discordant sound upon her ear.  The serpent had
entered into Eden, and how could she dare to anticipate immunity from evil? The earl, however, seemed
at that moment to have no forebodings;-every trace




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               39
of sadness had passed from his brow, and his voice
was more cheerful than Blanche had yet heard it.
He would not however allow her to linger longer
on the terrace, fearing lest she would be fatigued
after the journey; and, summoning her maid, insisted
that she should retire to her room for a short time to
rest before she rejoined him for the evenilg. Blanche,
however, did not rest: she retired indeed, but it was
to kneel humbly before her God; to acknowledge his
mercies, and pray that the blessings which He had
vouchsafed to grant her might never lead her heart
astray.




40           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER VI.
IF the first waking to a sense of sorrow is bitter
almost beyond any other moment of suffering, so the
first dawning of happiness, at least upon the young,
is bright beyond the power of description. Blanche
dreamt that she was in the old manor-house of St.
Ebbe's, grieving over a letter from her father, which, as
had so often been the case, gave her no prospect of seeing him. She opened her eyes, and the sun was shining
into a spacious, gorgeously furnished chamber, fitted
rather it might seem for the palace of a queen than
for her own simple tastes.
For an instant, she scarcely understood the reality
of her senses; but, as she hastily rose and gazed
from the window, a full consciousness of her happiness came over her.  There were the old grey
castle walls, the silvery stream, the woods and hills,
now bathed in morning light, and the distant mountain-peak wreathed with a vapoury mist,-all which
she had beheld the previous evening, and which she
felt must be for ever associated with the thought
of her father's love. It was then very early, but
Blanche did not consider the hour, and had no remembrance of the preceding day's exertion; and, long
before the earl had left his room, she was wandering
through the garden and the park, exploring overgrown paths, and mounting hillocks, to gain a clearer
idea of the beauties of her new home. Lord Rutherford gently found fault with her, when she appeared
at breakfast, for having given herself so much unnecessary fatigue; but when Blanche gaily declared




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              41
that she did not feel it, and that she could bear more
than many who appeared much stronger, he seemed
quite satisfied that she should follow her own fancy,
and began to make arrangements for what was to be
done during the day.
" You will find it but a short walk to the rectory,"
he said; " and I suppose you will wish to go there
the first thing, unless Miss Wentworth should be here
soon, which, from what I remember of the family
habits, is not very likely. I never could induce Dr.
Wentworth to leave his books till after luncheon."
"But Eleanor's habits are the habits of St. Ebbe's,
not of the rectory," replied Blanche, " and she will
do whatever she thinks will please me.  I should
like to go to her, though, extremely. I want so much to
see more of her family-her sister and her brother —
and especially her mother."
"tIer sister must be a mere child," replied the
earl; " and her brother, I suspect, is away; and as
for Mrs. Wentworth, she is not a person to get
on with, as it is called.  She is very good, and
all that ladies always are; but I never could understand that she was anvthing more."
"Eleanor is very fond  of her mother," said
Blanche.
"Yes, my love, very likely she may be; but
I don't want you to be disappointed, and I have
no idea that you will be fond of Mrs. Wentworth."
Blanche however was disappointed. She had set
her heart upon finding in Mrs. Wentworth a second
Mrs. Howard.
"Eleanor used to show me some of her letters,"
she said; "and they made me think she must be
almost perfect."
Something like a contemptuous smile crossed the
earl's face.
"You will have different notions of perfection,
E 2




42          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Blanche," he said, "as you grow older.  It is not so
often to be met with as some people think."
Blanche made no reply.  That peculiar smile was
one to which she was unaccustomed, and Lord
Rutherford not continuing the subject, nothing more
was said about Mrs. Wentworth.
"I shall make Eleanor come back with me, and
assist in all I have to do," said Blanche, as her
father suggested that there would be ample employment for her in choosing how she would have everything placed in her rooms, and making herself at
home in them.  "She promised me she would; so I
had better go to her at once."
" Then we will walk together," said the earl.  "I
must see Wentworth myself, and thank him for the
care he has taken in seeing your apartments prepared
for your reception."
The path to the rectory was much shorter than
Blanche had anticipated, leading down the steep hill
upon which the castle stood, and then following the
course of the river for a little distance,. till it terminated at a wicket-gate, which opened into the shrubbery adjoining the house.  Blanche was delighted
with the neatness and beauty of the small pleasureground through which they passed, and the comfortable appearance of the parsonage, with its trelliced
verandah covered with creepers.  She would not
have exchanged her own magnificent home for it;
but she felt that there was nothing to give rise in
Eleanor's mind to any feelings of envy or discontent.
It was the home of affluence, if not of riches.
The drawing-room  was empty when they were
shown into it, and Blanche had time to recognise
many things which Eleanor had described before;
and to study with much interest a likeness which she
was certain must be that of Mrs. Wentworth, before
any one appeared.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               43
The first interruption was from a huge Newfoundland dog, which sprang through the open window in
bold defiance of the warning voice of his master, who
immediately followed.  He was a young man, apparently about three or four-and-twenty, tall and rather
striking in his appearance, and with a countenance
which would have been termed extremely handsome;
but Blanche, as startled by the intrusion she turned
from the examination of Mrs. Wentworth's picture,
was less aware that his features were regular, and his
manners polished, than that he was not entirely the
person she had expected to meet in Eleanor's brother.
Such it was evident, from the strong resemblance, he
must be. There was cleverness certainly in his bright
blue eye, and the high forehead round which his dark
hair was carefully arranged; and his mouth was
good-tempered, though perhaps a little sarcastic; but
a self-satisfaction betrayed itself in his look and
general deportment, which almost from  the first
glance Blanche felt to be repugnant to her taste.
Yet there was little said that could show anything of
his disposition. A few apologies were made for his
sudden entrance, and a little regret expressed that
they should  have been kept waiting; and then
Mr. Wentworth bowed, and retired, with the intention of seeking his mother and sister, whom  he
believed were to be found in the garden.
"I should have known him anywhere," exclaimed
the earl, when he was gone; "and you would, too, I
am sure, Blanche.  Did you ever see such a likeness?"
"It is striking, certainly," replied Blanche, with
some hesitation; "but —"
"Well," said the earl, laughing, "what is your
but? I should have thought it impossible to criticise
anything so regularly handsome."
"I did not mean tc criticise, papa," said Blanche,




44          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
blushing; "but I don't think it would please me if
Eleanor were exactly —"
The sentence was not concluded, for Eleanor at
that instant appeared, her face bright with pleasure
and excitement.
"It is so kind, so very kind in you, Blanche," she
said.  "I did not in the least expect you; for I am
sure you must have as much to do as I have."
"I have left it all," replied Blanche, "till you
were with me. You know I am never able to please
myself; and you must go back to the castle presently, and help me to arrange my rooms, and then
we will settle all sorts of things. But I wanted so
much, first, to see your mother and little Susan."
" And Charles!" exclaimed Eleanor, eagerly. " He
told us you were here: he came only last night, and
he is going away again to-morrow."
" So soon!" observed the earl; " we shall scarcely
have time to make his acquaintance."
" I don't know why he should go," replied Eleanor;
" but I don't think he finds as much amusement here
as he does elsewhere. Home is rather dull for a
young man."
Blanche believed this because she was told it, bat
it seemed strange.  She could not imagine what
society any one could want beyond such a sister as
Eleanor, such parents as she believed Dr. and Mrs.
Wentworth to be, and such a home as Rutherford
Rectory.
" Mamma will be here instantly; she is longing to
see you, Blanche," continued Eleanor.
"I think I hear Mrs. Wentworth's voice," said
Lord Rutherford; and he went a few paces into the
garden to meet her; but though his words were
cordial and easy, his tone was not; and but for Mrs.
Wentworth's perfect calmness of manner, there might
have been something awkward in the meeting.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               45
Blanche did feel as her father had expected, when
Mrs. Wentworth advanced towards her, and simply
took her hand as she would have done that of an indifferent person.  She had expected some show of
feeling, at least for Eleanor's sake; but Mrs. Wentworth's soft, quiet voice underwent no change in
its intonation, even when she looked at the earl, and
said, " Lord Rutherford's return will now be doubly
welcome to us all."
A few  trifling observations  passed, and Lord
Rutherford, with a slight accent of impatience, inquired if there was no hope of seeing Dr. Wentworth.
" He has been called into the village unexpectedly,"
replied Mrs. Wentworth: " but we expect him to return immediately.  Can I deliver any message for
him?"
" Perhaps I might be allowed to leave a note in his
study," replied the earl.  "I think I know where to
find it," and he left the room.
Blanche in the meantime had been interested in
observing Mrs. Wentworth more minutely.  She resembled  Eleanor's description, in her tall, slight
figure, and delicate, though rather harassed-looking
countenance; but there were no traces of the feelings
which had been so vividly portrayed in her letters.
That she was Eleanor's  mother, Blanche could
scarcely believe, as she watched the eager impetuosity
of the one, and the marble frigidity of the other; still
less could she believe that Eleanor could ever dare to
unburden her heart to such a mother.  And yet the
love which she had been told existed between them
had been her " beau ideal" of what the tie between a
parent and a child might and ought to be.  When
Lord Rutherford was gone, however, there was a
little change in Mrs. Wentworth's manner.  The
cuestions which she asked were marked by consideration, and a desire to understand something of




4(6         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Blanche's feelings, at this her first visit to her home;
and though the tone in which they were put was cold,
it still betrayed something more of real sympathy
than before; and when Blanche began to express her
pleasure in the taste and care which had been shown
in furnishing her rooms, a quiet smile even stole over
Mrs. Wentworth's features, and her eye brightened,
though she immediately afterwards turned from the
subject.  But Blanche had not much time for any
further remarks. Eleanor insisted upon taking her
to the school-room, and the garden and shrubbery,
and, as she said, making her at home at once; and
Blanche, only too glad of an excuse to be alone with
her, readily followed.  It did not require much time
to see the whole, but Blanche lingered with pleasure
to listen to all that Eleanor had to say of past enjoyments and future hopes associated with the place
in which she had been born, as well as to make
acquaintance with her sister Susan, an intelligentlooking child, about eight years of age, who was now
to be Eleanor's pupil.
"I think you must be happy, Eleanor," she exclaimed, as they seated themselves at length on a
garden-seat, in a retired part of the shrubbery.  " I
do not see one thing that is wanting. And you will
lead such a useful life."
" I have been talking to papa already about what I
am to do," replied Eleanor. "I am to teach Susan
in the mornings, and to go in the afternoons to see
some of the poor people; and sometimes I am to
ride with him, and he is going to read with me some
part of the day."
"And your music and drawing?" said Blanche.
"Oh! I must contrive to have some time before
breakfast. You know I cannot arrange for every hour
exactly till I have tried; but that will be the sort of
life."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER,             47
"And what is to become of me?" said Blanche.
"That is what I wished to talk to you about. We
must manage to go to the poor people together; and,
when Susan has a holiday, I can come up to you in
the morning, and we can ride together; and then,
these nice summer evenings, there will be no difficulty
in meeting."
Eleanor spoke eagerly and confidently, and Blanche
did not stop to analyse possibilities; nor did she
remark how much her friend had changed since
they had parted the preceding evening. She was too
much accustomed to Eleanor's varying moods to
inquire their cause.
"I am  longing to begin," continued Eleanor;
"but to-day you know is no day, and Charles being
here makes such a difference. It is impossible to do
anything but idle away one's time with him."
Blanche smiled, but she did not wish the subject
to be pursued; for she was afraid lest Eleanor might
discover that Mr. Wentworth, notwithstanding his
handsome face and his agreeable manners, did not
entirely answer her preconceived expectations.
"And now I have talked all about myself," said
Eleanor, "I should like to hear something about
yourself:-the castle, and your father, and your own
rooms. They must be exquisite, I am sure. Mamma
had the whole choosing of the furniture, and everything, and she has such taste!"
"Yes, indeed she has," exclaimed Blanche; but I
wish I had known it, I should have thanked her
so much more."
"Oh! mamma is not a person to require thanks;
she only requires to know that you like it: and I saw
by her smile just now that she was satisfied.  That
is her unselfish smile. I believe she would have it if
she was in the greatest suffering, if she thought
another person was happy."




48          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"I did not know what it meant," said Blanche;
"but I suppose I shall understand you all by-and-by,
when I don't feel so shy."
Eleanor laughed.
" As to that, Blanche," she said, "you have no right
to complain. The joint wisdom and gravity of my
whole family-uncles, aunts, and cousins included,
and I have an interminable number, could never be
half as awful as Lord Rutherford's politeness, I
don't know what I shall do at the castle."
"I think I rather like being afraid of him," said
Blanche.  " Do you remember, Eleanor, how we used
to walk up and down the garden at St. Ebbe's, and
discuss the different kinds of affection?"
"And how we always differed," said Eleanor. " You
with your fondness for looking up; and I with my
perverse inclination to look down; no, not down
exactly, but quite on a level."
"And then our appeals to Mrs. Howard," said
Blanche. "That will be the one great thing wanting
to my happiness. If she were but here!"
" Yes," replied Eleanor, "but she will be with us
soon, and then it will be such great, such very great
pleasure; and now, without her, I have more hope
of making you think as I do in all sorts of ways;
for she always supported you."
"But," said Blanche, " before Mrs. H-oward talked
to us, I never could see anything in your arguments
to convince me that love is greatest when persons are
on an equality; and there is one thing, you know
entirely against it, devotion-which is the highest
and purest love."
" I can't follow you in an argument, Blanche, today," exclaimed Eleanor; "my mind is not up to it,
as it is sometimes."
Blanche looked disappointed. "I thought," she said,
"that you would let me talk of these things always."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               49
"Yes, so you shall; but I don't think I am in that
sort of sober mood to-day; I am too happy."
" I am happy, too," said Blanche; "but my extacies went away with my walk this morning, and I
don't wish them to last."
" Mine never do," replied Eleanor, laughing; " so
I am in no fear. I shall pay dearly for all my enjoyment before night comes, I dare say. It would be
much better to be like you, Blanche; your extacies
never go quite away, I am  sure, though you say
they do."
" I don't know," said Blanche; " certainly, I don't
feel much of them  at this moment; and some feelings you have which are much more lasting than
mine."
Blanche spoke as she thought, truly; yet it was
only her own humility, and a natural respect for
Eleanor's talents and decided opinions, which could
have blinded her to the fact, that Eleanor was in reality
swayed by every passing impulse; that she expressed herself strongly, but that she acted weakly. And,
if Blanche had been quicker in discerning, Eleanor
would have felt greater hesitation in owning her faults.
But it required no effort to lament changeableness and
hastiness, and the defects of an enthusiastic temperament, when she was sure to he met with a quick refutation of her self accusations, and to hear instances
adduced which apparently proved her to be the very
reverse of what she acknowledged. It was one of the
weaknesses of Blanche's character thatwhere she loved
she could not or would not see anything amiss. "I
must try and be regular in my habits," she said, " pursuing the conversation; "but I am afraid it will be
very difficult. I should like especially to know something of the poor people, if your papa will put me
in the way."
"Papa hopes you will take a great interest in
r




50          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
them," said Eleanor; "he told me this morning that
it was of immense consequence to you and to them;
and he talked a great deal about the vast power, either
for good or evil, which had been placed in your
hands."
" In mine!" exclaimed Blanche; "now when I
am so young."
"But you are not going to remain young always,"
replied Eleanor; "and, besides, whether young or
old, you are still Lady Blanche Evelyn, the heiress
of Rutherford."
" Yes," answered Blanche, with a deep sigh, which
made Eleanor laugh heartily.
" You are the very strangest person, Blanche! Just
think how many thousands there are in the world
who would envy you."
"And I am to be envied," exclaimed Blanche,
"for my friends,-for papa, and Mrs. Howard, and
you;-and for my health too, and my education, and
innumerable things; but not because I was born to
have power."' Yes, if you exercise it properly," said Eleanor.
"If! but there is a doubt. Mrs. Howard is afraid of
me; she thinks I shall be spoilt, and that papa will
not tell me of my faults.  Oh! Eleanor, it might be
very different if I had a mother."
"You may have one, if you choose," replied Eleanor,
" Mamma is already inclined to feel for you as her
child."
Blanche did not receive the comfort which was expected from this assurance: her notion of a mother's
affection was of something widely different from Mrs.
Wentworth's cold shake of the hand. " Your mamma
is very kind," she said; "I am  sure she will do
everything she can to help me.  But still I must be
left very much to myself; and, even during the few
hours I have been at home, I have understood nmre




THIE EARL'S DAUGHERT'..5
of what Mrs. Howard meant. The castle is so grand,
and the servants seem almost to bow before me; and
as for papa, he watches my every look, that I may
not have a wish ungratified; and when I awoke
this morning, and saw my beautiful room, I did not
feel as I used to do at St. Ebbe's; I thought that I
could order more and have my own will; and then I
remembered what MArs. Howard said, and I was
frightened."
Eleanor was touched by this simple confession. That
which caused alarm to Blanche, would, she well knew,
have passed unnoticed by herself. " You will be used
to it all, dear Blanche, by-and-by," she said; "and
then you will not think so much about it, and worry
yourself; and I dare say we shall both be able to go
on steadily; and, if you want to know the poor people,
we can go to them together. The first person we must
find out is the blind girl who was confirmed with us.
Papa says he knows who she is very well; it was her
aunt, who is the mistress of the Charity School, that
she was staying with; but she is coming back directly.
We will go and see her the first day we can, won't
we?
" Even this shadow of a duty was some relief to
poor Blanche, whose conscience had a natural tendency to become morbidly sensitive, and Eleanor
saw that she had struck upon the right chord. Anxious
to make Blanche feel as light-hearted as herself, she
continued to plan a scheme of duties and occupations,
so cleverly and earnestly, that before the conversation
was interrupted both were equally satisfied. Eleanor
having talked herself into the belief that she was
certainly devoted to a useful life; and Blanche, having
listened, till she was persuaded that with such a
friend, constantly at hand to remind her of neglects,
she could never go far astray.
The afternoon was spent at the castle, where Blanche




52          TLHE EARL'S DAUGHTER.,
found sufficient to occupy and interest both herself
and Eleanor in the arrangement of her rooms; and
when they parted it was with the agreement that, if
the earl had no other plan for the ensuing day, they
were to walk together into the village. " And if he
wishes me to ride with him, instead," said Blanche;
"I must ask him to let me come to you for an hour
in the evening."
Eleanor willingly agreed, delighted to find that as
yet there was no cause for jealousy, since even the
society of Lord Rutherford did not make Blanche
forget her.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             5.3
CHAPTER VII.
ArND so passed the first day of Blanche's residence
at Rutherford Castle; and so passed several days;
varied, indeed, by drives, and rides, and books, and
visits, both to rich and poor; but all, equally bright
and unalloyed, for the petty disappointments and trifling vexations from which no care and no affection can
guard us, were little felt by one who carried in her
own.breast a shield against them. Each morning,
long before the Earl was awake, Blanche knelt in the
solitude of her own chamber to pray for guidance
during the day; and then, with her Bible in her
hand, paced the broad terrace overhanging the river,
that she might study the will of her Maker, amid
the scenes which brought His power and goodness
most clearly to her view. Each day she planned her
occupations with a view to her own improvement, her
father's happiness, and the comfort of those who
were in a measure entrusted to her care; and not the
most busy hour nor the most absorbing pursuit could
lead her to forget that it was needful to withdraw
some moments from this world to devote to the contemplation of another.  Mrs. Howard had early implanted in her mind habits of order and punctuality;
and, duly as the time came, which she had fixed upon
as the most free from interruption, Blanche retired to
her own chamber to consider what she had done
since last engaged in the same duty; or, if prevented
at the exact minute, the first leisure opportunity was
eagerly seized upon, without any regard to the plausible excuses, which might easily have been made from
2




.54         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
weariness or a pre-occupied mind.  Blanche never
forgot Mrs. Howard's words, "Not, I will if I can,
but I must."  And one especial reason she now had
for allowing nothing to interfere with her religious
duties, in the hope of being so soon admitted to the
full communion of the Church, and the anxiety fitly
to prepare herself.
On the second Sunday after Blanche appeared in
the old village church of Rutherford, the accustomed
invitation was given to all "such as should be religiously and devoutly disposed," and as Blanche
listened to the words a feeling of loneliness stole over
her. Eleanor was near, with the mother, who could
share every thought and feeling; and the father,
whose voice faltered, as his eye rested upon. the
countenance of the child he so dearly loved, and to
whom for the first time the exhortation was addressed. And Blanche stood in that sacred building,
with but one exception, the noblest and wealthiest of
all; and with her was the proud earl whose sternest
will would have yielded to her wishes, as the humblest of his servants would have submitted to his;
but the one great blessing which she then desired, a
parent's sympathy and advice on the subject most
deeply concerning her happiness, was denied her.
Upon this topic alone no word had passed between
them-they met in the morning and the world was
the theme of their conversation; they parted at
night and no words of prayer were uttered to call
for a blessing upon the midnight hour. Poetry, and
painting, and music, and literature, and even the
deeper subjects of science and philosophy, were all
at times introduced, and Blanche with her natural
refinement and superiority of mind was fascinated by
the earl's eloquent language and exquisite taste. His
words were as the words of enchantment; for, as he
spoke of Italy and Greece, and the sunny islands of




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               55
the  south, even Blanche forgot for the moment
that earth was but the stepping stone to heaven; its
beauty, but a type of that which shall be hereafter;
its genius and its learning, but the faint and misused
relics of that perfect creation which only when it
issued taintless from the hands of its Creator, was pronounced to be "very good."  But the earl ceased,
and Blanche was left to her own meditations, and
then as she retraced the conversation and sought for
something which should be treasured in  her memory, a vague sense of unsatisfactoriness filled her
mind.  A glittering pageant seemed to have passed
before her; but it was gone. And of what avail was
it to her to have vividly realised the solemn beauty
of Genoa, and the dazzling lustre of Naples; to have
wandered in fancy beneath the vast dome of St.Peter's;
or stood amidst the giant ruins of the Coliseum; to
have floated in the dark gondolas of Venice, or gazed
upon the blue waters of the Mediterranean; or how
could it content her to hear of Raphael, and Michael
Angelo, and Guido;-of Dante and Ariosto, and
Tasso and Petrarch, and the names which associate
Italy with all that is most precious in poetry and
art, if all were but for the amusement of the hour,
bearing no voice of warning from the past, no lesson
of instruction for the future?  But Blanche did not
yet understand all she had to fear. She marvelled
indeed at her father's apparent neglect of the subject most interesting to herself; she thought it
strange that not even an allusion was made to it:
but she was captivated by the brilliancy of his conversation, and accounted for his silence by remembering her own reluctance to converse upon serious subjects, except at peculiar times and under certain
circumstances.  She had been told that her own
manner gave no true impression of her mind, and so
she supposed it must be with him.  A faint cloud




56           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER..
was stealing over the sunlight of her joy, but she
saw it not.
And the day drew  near to which Blanche so
earnestly looked forward with mingled hope and awe.
It was the evening before, and having returned from
a long ride with her father over one of the most
beautiful portions of his property, she sat down on
a bank which overlooked the windings of the river,
and the opening into the country beyond.
There was nothing to disturb the repose of the
scene, except the distant lowing of cattle in the pastures, and the dashing of a mountain torrent, which,
escaping from  a woody dell on the opposite side,
fell sparkling and frothing over a steep broken cliff,
and wound its way amidst stones and mosses till it
was lost in the deep current of the larger stream.
Blanche rested her head against the trunk of a tree,
and gave way to one of those delicious reveries of
feeling rather than of thought; which, when the fancy
is free, and the heart unburdened by care, are amongst
the most perfect enjoyments of our early years.
The loveliness of the landscape was in accordance with the tone of mind which she had been
endeavouring to attain during the day; and when,
at length yielding to fatigue, she fell asleep, the
images which haunted her dreams were pure and
holy as her waking thoughts.
A few minutes afterwards there was the sound of
an approaching footstep; and, advancing from the
shade of the shrubbery, the earl stood by her side.
What could he have seen in a countenance so fair
in its youthful purity, to make him start and sighand then gaze long and steadfastly with a frowning
brow, and a mouth quivering with agitation?  Was
it that in those features he saw a resemblance which
recalled the tale of his by-gone life; or did he read
the visions which were passing before the eye of his




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              57
sleeping child, and shrink from the conviction that
the hopes which to her were all in all, were to him
scarcely more than the superstitions of an age of
darkness?
Yet, Lord Rutherford was no sceptic.  He was
but what thousands have been before him; in name,
the follower of Christ-in heart, the slave of the
world.  Whatever might be his own indifference to
religion he had no desire that it should be shared by
his daughter, and the character of Lady Blanche
often derived a peculiar though painful interest from
the simple ardent piety which occasionally broke
forth through her natural reserve; and which, to the
earl's refined but hackneyed taste, gave her the appearance rather of a being from another sphere than
of one born to participate in the vain heartlessness
of fashionable society. He could admire, though he
could not imitate; and now, as he watched her, so
calm, and peaceful, and tranquilly happy, a pang of
envy crossed his mind.  Such peace as hers, even
were it delusive, would be cheaply purchased at the
sacrifice of all that he had hitherto valued. Yet, it
was envy, not self-reproach; and the next moment
he pictured her such as he intended she should bethe star of a glittering assemblage-flattered, courted,
idolized; gathering around her all that was most attractive in grace and intellect; herself, the centre to
which every eye would be directed in homage.
But the earl's countenance changed.  In imagination there rose up before him the still, shrouded
form  of one, who in by-gone years had realized
much that he desired to see in Blanche, but upon
whose brow the sorrow of unrequited affection had
set its indelible stamp; and when his eye again
dwelt upon the living image of the wife whose love
he had despised, he shuddered, and stooped to kiss
his daughter's forehead with superstitious awe; and




58           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
a passing dread, lest the features which bore the impress of life might but chill him with the mocking
beauty of death. The kiss awoke Blanche from her
short sleep; and the earl, hastily recovering himself,
began to blame her imprudence.  Blanche endeavoured to laugh away his fears, but proposed to return to the castle, as she had an engagement to keep.
" And not spare me a few minutes?" said the earl,
with a slight tone of pique; "the sun will have set
soon, and then we shall have no temptation to stay."
Blanche gathered up the folds of her riding habit,
and taking her father's arm they pursued their walk
by the path which led along the side of the hill.
For some time both were silent.  Blanche could
never thoroughly overcome a certain sense of restraint in her father's presence; and Lord Rutherford, wrapt in his own thoughts, was contented to
know that she was with him without seeking for conversation.  Blanche was the first to speak.
" I never knew, till now," she said, "what it was,
thoroughly to enjoy beautiful scenery. At St. Ebbe's,
there was so little to see; but, even then, I used to
fancy there must be an exquisite charm in it."
" You are young," replied the earl; "you have no
painful associations.  When you have reached my
age you will feel very differently about all beauty."
"Yet some feelings of pleasure must increase," replied Blanche, more gravely than usual; " the best
and highest."
"From being able to appreciate beauty better, you
mean; from  learning to look at it with an artist's
eye?  But that is a mistake; our greatest enjoyments are those which we never pause to analyse."
" I was not thinking of that exactly," said Blanche,
with hesitation.
"Of what then, my love?  What do you call the
best and highest pleasure?"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             59
Blanche hesitated, and then replied, timidly, as if
doubtful of the manner in which the observation
would be received, " I suppose, if we were very good,
we should be grateful for beauty, as people are for
favours and presents."
Lord  Rutherford  became suddenly thoughtful.
"You are a metaphysician, Blanche," he said, after
a pause; "that was not one of the accomplishments
I expected from Mrs. Howard."
" If I am," replied Blanche, laughing; "it is certainlv without knowing it."
" You are one, though.  I have discovered a lurking taste in you before; and if you really have a
fancy for the subject, we will study a few books together on the subject. I should be sorry for you to
have prejudiced notions. Though you are a woman,
a little deep reading will do you no harm."
Blanche promised to read anything he wished;
though she still disclaimed any love for metaphysics;
and the earl began to enumerate a list of authors,
ending with-'But, my dear Blanche, until you have read a
little, I advise you not to trouble yourself with too
much thinking.  You will only be puzzled, and it can
lead to no good. Take up your music and drawing,
study history if you will, and we will have Italian
and German lessons together; but don't attempt to
dwell upon subjects beyond hulJan comprehension."
Poor Blanche could not at all understand the reason of this speech; and began to fancy that she had
done or said something wrong.
The earl instantly remarked her change of manner, and said kindly, "I would not for the world
find fault with you, my dear; you must not imagine
it; but I have seen the mischief of too much thought
with some minds, and you have been unusually silent
the last two days! "




60          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
"It was not that kind of thought which made me
silent," exclaimed Blanche, eagerly; "I was thinking
"Of what?-there can be no thought, which
you would not wish me to know."
Blanche blushed deeply; she would willingly have
sheltered herself under her former reserve, though at
the same time longing to break down the barrier, and
receive the sympathy which even then she could not
doubt of obtaining.  The earl evidently expected a
reply.
Blanche felt herself forced to speak, and began;
" I have been thinking; that is, I have been trying to
think;-one ought to prepare oneself for to-morrow.
My first Communion," she added, in a tone which
scarcely caught the earl's ear.
He stopped suddenly in his walk.  "Ah! yes;
quite right. But you are very young, my dear."
" Not too young; am I? " said Blanche, anxiously;
" I have been confirmed."
" No, not if you wish it; still, it is not right to
force any one.  Mrs. Howard was always rather overstrained in her ideas."
" Indeed, indeed, it was not Mrs. Howard only;
but the rector, and the bishop, and every one said it.
I thought it was always so," replied Blanche.  "Is
there really any reason against it?"
The earl smiled.  "No possible reason, my dear
child; but you know very little of the world, and I
don't want you to tie yourself down; and in fact, my
love, these things are best left to every one's own
feelings.  If you like it, do it by all means; only
don't let me see your bright face clouded again; it
makes me uneasy."
Poor Blanche felt chilled to the very heart.
But her father had no idea of the effect of his
speech, and continued, "It might have been more




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              61
pleasant for you to have waited a little. I am expecting your aunt, Lady Charlton, shortly; and Sir
Hugh and your two cousins.  You will like to become acquainted with them, as they are some of your
nearest connections."
"Yes, indeed," exclaimed Blanche, relieved at
finding something to say.  "Dear mamma's sister!
I am sure I must be fond of her."
Lord Rutherford's tone was constrained, as he answered, "Only her half-sister; there is no resemblance;" and then he stopped suddenly, and there
was a long pause.
The thoughts of Blanche reverted to the former
subject.  The visit of one person or of hundreds-of relations or of strangers-seemed equally indifferent to her at that moment.
They had reached the termination of the path;
and the earl, leaning over a fence, which protected
the edge of the precipice, riveted his eyes upon the
stream, and appeared lost in a reverie.
"It is like the current of human life, is it not,
Blanche?" he said, at length. " See how it whirls
its rapid course; and how the light froth, and the
fragments of the bank, are borne along by it; like
the frothy hopes and the fleeting pleasures of the
world.  And think, too, how little we know of the
end to which it is hastening."
"Is it not travelling towards the ocean," said
Blanche, timidly; "as we are all travelling towards
eternity?"
Lord Rutherford raised himself, and put his hand
suddenly upon her shoulder-"What is eternity,
Blanche?" he said.  "We use words without meaning, when we speak of it."
"But," replied Blanche, and notwithstanding the
softness of her voice, it sounded tremulous in its
Gr




62          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
earnestness; " we are told to think of it, and it must
be for our happiness; for this world, they say, is
full of disappointment."
" They say!" repeated the earl; "then you have
never found it so yourself."
"I have been very happy," said Blanche, whilst
she looked at her father with a smile of affection;
but it was followed by a sigh. She could not say, " I
am happy."
"Yes," continued the earl, thoughtfully, "you
are standing, as I once stood, upon a spot from which
you can view the past without regret, and the future
without fear.   For you it may be a resting-place
for years; though for me it was but a point, quitted
as soon as reached, and to which I could never
return. Value your peace, my child, whilst you have
it; for it is vain to hope that any thoughts of eternity
will restore it to you when it is once gone."
"But, papa," answered Blanche, firmly, whilst
something within her own mind seemed urging her
to overcome her reserve and speak more directly,
"even now I can feel comfort from such thoughts.
I have been happy, because I have always had some
one to love; but though I know that the happiness
cannot last, I can bear to think so, and even to look
forward to a time when I may be left quite alone;
because true love does not seem to belong to earth,
but to eternity. Is it not true, then, that these ideas
do help us to bear trials?"
Lord Rutherford made no answer; he withdrew
his arm, threw himself upon a bench, and relapsed
into silence.  Blanche was frightened at her own
temerity, and a sense of indescribable wretchedness
oppressed her.  Her father's principles, she thought,
could not be the principles of a Christian.  The
earl perceived he had distressed her, and starting up




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              63
and again drawing her arm  within his, said, as he
pursued his walk:" I have vexed you, my dear child. Heaven Knows
how unwillingly! But you have been educated in retirement, and your life has been made up of dreams.
It is impossible that you should understand the view
which a stern, worn man, who has borne the struggle
of years, takes of those subjects, which to you are
everything. When you have heard them discussed
and argued upon, and when you have known something of men's actions as well as of their creeds,
you will see the value of your favourite notions more
truly., They may be important to you, but they will
not bear contact with the world."
"And must I know the world, papa?" inquired
Blanche, with difficulty summoning courage to answer.  "I would much rather live here alone with
you."
Lord Rutherford laughed.
"Mrs. Howard has certainly performed her duty
strictly," he said. " She promised to educate you in
seclusion, and she has kept her word. But have you
no wish for gaiety, Blanche; for such an introduction into the world as your station in life offers
you?"
"I should like it, dear papa," replied Blanche;
"and I think of it very often. But I would rather
stay here and keep my own notions, because I believe they will make me better than any others."
"Well!" exclaimed the earl, carelessly, "cherish
them as long as you can; they will do no one any
harm but yourself; only, when your aunt and cousins
come, I prophesy that you will think less about
them."
Poor Blanche was not comforted by this prospect.
"Then I shall be happier, to-morrow, with you,
alone, papa," she said pointedly; anxious, if possible,




64          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
to solve, by some allusion to the first topic of the
conversation, the painful doubt whether her father
intended to join with her in the service of the next
day.  Lord Rutherford did not, at first, see that she
had any particular meaning in her words; for the
subject referred to was not one likely long to remain
in his thoughts.  When however it occurred to him,
he answered hastily:"You must talk to Mrs. Wentworth, my dear;
she will understand you in all these things better
than I do."
"I don't know Mrs. Wentworth well," replied
Blanche, whilst tears rushed to her eyes; "and there
is no one I love like you."
Lord Rutherford played with his stick, but said
nothing more; and, at length, when he saw that
Blanche was again about to speak, he turned suddenly into another walk and left her.  And then
Blanche was indeed miserable.  The sky and the
woods, the rocks and the river, the beauties which
had before entranced her with delight-all were
changed.  Their brightness was gone; the spell by
which they had charmed her was destroyed.  She
was alone; and there lived not the being upon earth
who could fill the void which that one conversation
had caused in her heart. Who could recall the reverence and holy affection which had, till then, formed
her dream of happiness in her splendid home? Who
could restore the delusion which hitherto she had
cherished, even against her own secret convictions?
But the spirit of youth is too buoyant to sink at
once under any disappointment, however severe. It
is the succession of griefs, the wearisome days, and
the restless nights and the bitterness of long deferred
hope, which at length will bow us to the dust; and
Blanche had, as yet, known nothing of these. Her
elastic, sanguine spirit again suggested the thought




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               65
from  which she had before found comfort.  Her
father's manner, and even his words, might be no
true index to his mind.  He had not said that he
should not be with her; he had fully allowed that it
would be right for her to attend the service, though
he seemed to fear that she was too young.  Persons
had different opinions upon these subjects; perhaps,
after all, she had misunderstood him; and, soothed
by the idea, Blanche's countenance resumed, in some
degree its former serenity.  The suspense, however,
still rested as a weight upon her heart. She met her
father at dinner, and found herself almost unconsciously watching his looks, and weighing his words in
the faint hope of learning from them something more
of that inner world of principles and motives upon
which all her happiness seemed to depend. But she
learnt nothing. The earl was silent and pre-occupied,
and she dared not ask him  the cause.  When the
castle clock struck ten, Blanche, as was her custom,
rose to retire to rest.  Then, more than ever, she
missed the prayers which had closed the evenings at
St. Ebbe's.  Hitherto she had accounted for the
omission by supposing, either that her father had
some reason for delay until they had been longer
settled at home; or that it was not a foreign custom,
and therefore he might not think of it till some other
person suggested it: but now it appeared too truly
an indication of the neglect of all religious forms, except that which the world has thought fit to honour
with respect, the outward observance of the day of rest.
Blanche leant over her father's chair, and kissed
his forehead again and again, as was her wont. Her
love was not chilled, but it was altered.  Doubt was
mingled with it, and dread, and the fond clinging of
the heart to happiness, which seems about to pass
away.  The earl looked up from his book, and as he
took her trembling hand in his, he said,G 2




66          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"We have been bad companions, to-night, Blanche:
are you tired of me?"
A fear of losing self-command, made Blanche pause
before answering. Lord Rutherford moved his chair,
that he might discover the reason; but she had
turned her head aside.
"You shall have other amusements soon," continued the earl, and an accent of annoyance marked
his words.
"Oh, no, papa!  I want nothing-no amusements."
" But what then? What do you want?"
Blanche was pained at her own weakness; she
could only distress her father by showing her feelings, since to explain them was impossible.
" I wish for one thing, papa," she said, in a light,
gay tone, whilst her lip quivered with agitation,
"that you should kiss me and say good-night."
The earl pressed her to his heart, and whispered,
"God bless you now and ever, my own precious
child;" and Blanche retreated to her room, once
more happy.  Her father did then consider the
blessing of God the one first object of desire. Surely,
therefore, he must intend to seek it where especially it
is bestowed.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               67
CHAPTER VIII.
WE close our eyes in peace, and we re-open them to
sorrow and care. It is the lot, sooner or later, of
all; the fulfilment of the earthly curse denounced
upon our first parents, and from it there is no escape.
We may, perhaps, have felt, upon lying down to rest,
-the anxieties of the day at an end, the weariness of
exhausted nature inviting us to repose, and the heart
calmed by repentance, and the blessed trust in forgiveness and protection, —that if it were then permitted for the Angel of Death to call us to our long,
last sleep; the summons, awful though it must ever
be, would be hailed rather as a visitation of mercy,
than as an event to be shrunk from in alarm. But
God "seeth not as man seeth."  He views the sins
dormant but not destroyed; the passions lulled but
not extinguished. He beholds us unfit for the kingdom of His holiness, and knows the warfare which
must be endured, before the powers of a regenerate
nature can fully triumph over the temptations of
Satan.  And if, at times, He does in mercy make us
"to lie down in green pastures, and lead us beside
the still waters," it is only that by such seasons of
refreshment we may gather strength for the battle,
which is to "bring every thought into captivity to
the obedience of Christ."
When Blanche entered Rutherford church, the
ensuing day, she felt but little of the peace which had
been with her when she lay down to rest at night.
A breakfast tete-a-tete with the earl, and a few remarks during their short walk from the castle to the




63           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
village, had again aroused her distrust. Many such
remarks had been made before, but they had fallen
on an unheeding ear, or rather on one which did not
understand, because it would not suspect evil. Now,
the petty indications of motives and feeling, which it
is not in the power of the most practised art to conceal, were as daggers to her heart, for they struck
upon the points on which alone her earthly happiness
was then vulnerable.
At any time a doubt which affected her father's
principles must have been poignantly felt; but on
no other occasion could it have caused so much suffering.  For Blanche had striven humbly and earnestly to realise the awfulness of that most holy
service in which she was then, for the first time,
to be permitted to  join.   She had prayed and
watched against the entrance of every unhallowed or
worldly thought, and had dedicated herself to her
Saviour with all the warmth and sincerity of youthful devotedness. At such a moment, even the purest
of earthly affections might have been deemed intrusive; and yet, when she knelt in the temple of
God, and bowed her head in reverence, and opened
her lips in prayer, there arose in her heart, not
feelings of faith and hope, but of sadness and fear.
The words of confession were repeated, but the
earl's voice at her side pronounced the same language
in a tone of proud indifference, and Blanche forgot
the repentance necessary for her own sins, in anguish
lest he should be insensible to his.  And praises,
and thanksgivings, and intercessions, were uttered
with a wandering mind; and the solemn declarations
of Scripture received but a half attention; whilst she
caught, as if by fascination, her father's restless eye
and listless posture, and then turned in wretchedness
to herself, to discover that she also, though not in
like manner, was sinning against God.  There was




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               69
a painful struggle in her heart whilst going through
the usual service. To be distracted then, seemed a
miserable evidence of weakness and insincerity; and
to present herself before God with thoughts clinging
to earth, a fearful presumption.  Once it seemed
easier and better to delay,-to wait for another opportunity,-to  risk anything  rather than offer a
divided heart; but at that moment the voice of the
preacher spoke of Him, who "in that I-le Himself
hath suffered, being tempted, is able to succour
them that are tempted;" and, instead of giving way
to despondency, Blanche prayed the more fervently
to be pardoned and assisted, whilst she strove again
to recall her scattered thoughts. The last words of
the sermon were ended; the concluding prayers were
said; there was a solemn stillness in the church,
followed by the rush of movement and departing
footsteps.  No tones of joy or praise were heard
whilst one by one they, who were unwilling or unable to remain, left the congregation; but silently
and hastily they poured forth into the open air,some, it might be, to grieve for the blessing of which
they felt themselves unfitted to partake; but too
many to stifle the reproaches of conscience in the
cares and follies of the world.
Blanche looked at her father, as he seated himself by her side, and her heart bounded with joy;
but, as the church became more empty, the earl rose,
and stood for a few instants with his hat in his hand,
and when the way of retreat was at last opened
without fear of mixing himself with the crowd, he,
too, followed the common example.
And the door was closed.
It vwas a moment of bitter, most bitter sorrow;
-beyond it we may not look; but when Blanche
left the church she no longer felt that she was
alone.




70          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER IX.
" LADY BLANCHE is late in coming to you this
morning; is she not, Eleanor?" said Mrs. Wentworth, as the luncheon-bell rang, and little Susan
ran away to prepare for what was to be her dinner.
"Rather, I think," was the reply; "but Blanche
is never quite mistress of her own time. Her father
is so uncertain, and will make her do the very things
she has determined not to do.  He may have taken
her for a ride, as likely as not."
"Strange, certainly," said Mrs. Wentworth, musingly, " that when a man like Lord Rutherford devotes himself to the happiness of his daughter, he
should manage to do just the very things she does
not like."
"Oh! indeed, mamma!" exclaimed Eleanor; "I
do think you are wrong there.  Blanche does like
most things which her father proposes; the only
worry is, that they come at the wrong time."
"And does she like, then, the prospect of having
the castle filled with visitors, and of gaieties going
on continually?" inquired Mrs. Wentworth, with a
slight tone of asperity, which suited but little with
her usual gentleness.
" Yes, very much," replied  Eleanor.  "Lady
Charlton is a delightful person, so every one declares.  And it will be very nice for me, too."
Mrs. Wentworth seemed  rather discomposed.
"You must remember, my dear," she said, "that
what suits Lady Blanche will not suit you. Your
line of duties will be totally different."




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.             71
"Oh! yes, of course, mamma," and Eleanor
coloured, and endeavoured to assume an indifferent
air: "but you know there is no one whom Blanche
loves as she does me; and she never will enjoy anything if I am not with her."
" Then I am afraid she will pass a very unhappy
life; for you can be with her but seldom  at the
best."
"It is not exactly the being together, but the
feeling that we are near, and understand each other,
and can compare opinions, which is the pleasure;
and-"
" Well," interrupted Mrs. Wentworth," compare
opinions if you like it, and sympathise with and love
each other; I should be very sorry if you did not:
but that does not imply the necessity of meeting
every day, especially now."
"You are afraid for me, mamma," said Eleanor,
laughing.  "You think I shall become dissipated,
and forget Susan, and the school, and old Nanny
Marshall, and the almshouse women."
"I have no cause to doubt you, my love," replied
Mrs. Wentworth affectionately; "but it is scarcely
strange that I should have some misgivings about
every society of which Lord Rutherford is the
head."
Mrs. Wentworth spoke quickly, and Eleanor looked
up in surprise. But her mother's face betrayed no
particular feeling; it was even more placid than before, as she added, "You can scarcely have failed
to discover that he is not the most fitting person for
the guardianship of a young, enthusiastic, interesting girl like Lady Blanche."
"He would spoil her, if she could be spoilt," said
Eleanor carelessly.
"Yes; he would spoil her," repeated Mrs. Wentworth.  "He would infuse into her mind low worldly




72          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
notions; and make her think much of fashion and
ultra-refinement, and the admiration of his own peculiar circle; and if she pleases him he will idolise
her, and if not-"
" He can never cease to love her," said Eleanor.
Mrs. Wentworth was silent. The sudden burst of
feeling was over, and she had relapsed into her former
indifference.
"Blanche is very like her mother's picture," observed Eleanor,
"Yes, very," replied Mrs. Wentworth; "but it
is not of her that I am thinking now, Eleanor. No
one can see her indeed without feeling most deeply
for her; but it is you who are my charge, my delight."
Eleanor smiled, and as she drew near her mother's
chair, and bent over it to kiss her, she said, " And
I shall be so always."
Mrs. Wentworth shook her head.  "Ah! Eleanor,
that is your stumbling-block; confidence in yourself."
"But I have begun well; have I not, mamma?
Just remember how steady and regular I have been
ever since I came home; and how much you say yourself that Susan is improved. And the old almshouse
women, you should have heard yesterday all the civil
things they said! You must not distrust me more
than anyone else. Please, don't look so grave, and
conjure up such a castle spectre."
"Ah! if it were only a spectre! But, Eleanor, I
can look back many years.  I know what the tone
of society used to be at Rutherford, and I see no
possible reason for supposing that it will be different
now."
"You were not injured by it, mamma,"  said
Eleanor; "and why should I be?"
Mrs. Wentworth sighed. "I had many safeguards,"
she said; "yet, I will not say that I was not injured.




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.              73
There was only one over whom evil seemed to have
no power."
"The countess," said Eleanor, inquiringly.
"Yes; she was indeed too heavenly-minded to be
approached by any ordinary influence; and"-but
Mrs. Wentworth stopped, as if unwilling to continue
the subject.
" Mamma," said Eleanor, "Lord Rutherford is
very fond of Blanche; was he very fond of his wife?"
The consciousness that luncheon was ready appeared suddenly to have crossed Mrs. Wentworth's mind,
for she did not give a direct reply; but merely
saying, that Susan would be tired of waiting for her
dinner, she went away, and Eleanor was left to answer for herself as best she might the question which
had lately become one of considerable interest. Before,
however, she had satisfied herself, her meditations
were broken in upon by the entrance of her father
and Lady Blanche.
" Reposing from the fatigues of instruction, I suspect, Eleanor," exclaimed Blanche, gaily.  " Has
Susan been a very naughty child?"
"Reposing from the weariness of disappointment
rather," replied Eleanor. "You were to have been
here an hour ago."
" So I was; but it is papa's fault. He would come
and sit with me; and he read to me part of the time,
and then we talked, and at last the post came in, and
I had to write in a great hurry to my aunt, who is to
be here the day after to-morrow."
"Indeed! Is Lady Charlton coming so soon?"
inquired Dr. Wentworth.
"Yes," so she says, "if Sir Hugh feels himself
equal to the journey; but she writes as if he was
very much out of health.  But do you know my
aunt?"
" I can't tell," said Dr. Wentworth, rather bluntly.
H




74          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Blanche and Eleanor laughed, and begged for an
explanation.
" Why, it is rather the case of the Irishman and
his tin-kettle; which he declared could not be lost,
because he knew where it was,-at the bottom of the
sea.  My knowledge of Lady Charlton is about as
valuable. Know her I do; inasmuch as I have spoken
to her often, and even dined in company with her some
sixteen or eighteen years ago; but time is very like the
sea; you can see through it, but you cannot grasp
what you are looking at. After all, it may only be
Lady Charlton's shadow, which I think I know."
" I know exactly what she is like in appearance,"
said Blanche; "tall and thin, dark hair and eyes,
very elegant and -"
"Fascinating," added Dr. Wentworth.
"Yes, fascinating; that is precisely the word papa
used."
" And your cousins, I suppose, are fascinating too?"
said Eleanor, in a constrained voice.
" No one knows anything about them, except that
poor Maude is an invalid, and that they have been
educated abroad."
"Oh! I remember," exclaimed Eleanor; "Charles
knew them, I am sure; he said he had made acquaintance with some relations of yours at Florence. It
was at a ball, I think, they met, and then they were
at a great many gay parties together."
"  A great many too many," muttered Dr. Wentworth in an under-tone.
" That was a twelvemonth ago, papa," said Eleanor.
"It is not quite fair upon Charles, is it Blanche; to
quarrel with him for last year's follies?"
"I quarrel with no one, Eleanor," replied Dr.
Wentworth, very gravely; "but we will not keep
Lady Blanche waiting;" and he led the way to the
dining-room. Blanche followed, with the feeling that




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.               75
her original distaste to Mr. Wentworth had received
some increase; yet she blamed herself for it, and in
order to conquer her prejudice, paid particular attention when other allusions were made to him in the
course of her visit, in the hope of receiving more satisfactory answers. But to her surprise, she found
that Dr. Wentworth, who, even in his most courteous
moods was short and straight-forward in manner, was
when this subject was approached, so abrupt as instantly to stop the conversation.  It was clear that
his son was not at that moment perfectly in his
favour.
This afternoon was to be devoted to the village, for
Lord Rutherford was obliged to be absent the greater
part of the day, and Blanche generally arranged her
duties in such a way as to give him always the first
place in her attention.  Under Dr. Wentworth's guidance she had taken into her special charge a certain
number of the poor, principally the aged and infirm,
to whom her presence was almost as an angel's visit;
so new and strange did it seem that one so young
and so far removed from themselves, should take a
personal interest in their comfort. A few there were,
indeed, who remembered the time when the countess
had occupied herself in a similar manner, and who
regarded Lady Blanche with a degree of compassionate affection, which mingled with their respect as they
noticed the resemblance to her mother. From them
it was that Blanche heard many little traits of the
countess's character, which she could have learnt
from no other source; and they were treasured in
her memory, and fondly dwelt upon as the touches
which were to mark more vividly the outline of her
mother's image.  Yet, when all had been repeated,
and she believed that she had gained a clear knowledge of what the countess must have been, there
still remained an undefined doubt of something un



76           THE EARL S DAUGIITER.
told.  Reverence and love were ever associated with
her name by all who spoke of her; but pity was
added also; and why, Blanche could not understand.
For it was not the pity which is bestowed so lavishly
and unthinkingly, by the living who are toiling through
this weary world upon the dead who have entered
upon their rest, but rather that which must ever be
felt for those whom neither high station nor wealth,
nor even goodness, have shielded from severe trial.
Blanche was sure that her mother ought to have been
happy, but she could not believe that she had been so.
As she listened to the cottagers' oft-told tales, she
fancied that it was only a natural interest which made
her listen so intently for all they could tell; but, if
she had been as careful an anatomist of her feelings
as she was of her faults, she might have perceived
that this longing desire to know more of the history
of the countess's daily life was almost always aroused
after conversations with her father, which were now
very frequent.
It is the gift of a superior mind to bring out the
latent powers of others; and Lord Rutherford's
constant intercourse with his daughter had done
more than the most unwearied study towards maturing her judgment, and enlarging her ideas upon
all worldly subjects. Blanche had lived in reality
months instead of weeks at the castle, and every day
brought some fresh evidence to the earl's mind of
her quick intellect and refined taste.  He delighted
in engaging her in an argument, and seeing the ease
with which she would pursue her own train of
thought, whilst fully comprehending his; and the
graceful candour with which, when once convinced
of error, she yielded her point and begged for
further instruction.  He was more and more satisfied, more and more convinced that Mrs. Howard
had educated her well.  And Blanche?  Alas! how




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               77
little can we read of the secrets of the heart! How
selfish and blind are we, even in our love!
If Lord Rutherford had been asked whether he
had succeeded in rendering his daughter happy, he
would have answered, without a moment's hesitation, perfectly.   She  had  employments, amusements, interests, luxuries, friends; and, to crown the
whole, himself: and though free from the petty conceit of an inferior intellect, which believes that it is
all which it desires to be, Lord Rutherford could not
but be conscious that the powers of entertainment
which had excited the admiration of the first circles,
both in England  and on the continent, must be
more than equal to the task of whiling away the
leisure hours of a young girl, whose knowledge of
the world was confined to the immediate neighbourhood of the place of her education. And he thought
correctly.  Blanche was amused, excited, interested
still-but the arrow had entered into her heart; and
when she left her father's presence, her smiles too
often vanished, whilst she sought the solitude of her
own chamber, to grieve over the bitterness of her
disappointment.
It was then that she most thought of her mother.
Had it been the same with her?  Had she also
loved, and reverenced, and dreamt a dream of perfection; and awoke to find it but delusion? Or had
she, like the earl, been gifted with the highest of
earthly gifts, while destitute of that " pearl of great
price," which  alone  could be her ornament in
Heaven?  This, Blanche could not think.  All that
she heard and saw-the letters, the favourite books,
the kind acts which were so thankfully remembered,
showed plainly that the Countess of Rutherford had
been in her inmost heart a Christian; and then, how
great must have been the pang at finding herself
united to one whose heart was centred in the world!
H 2




78          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Blanche thought upon the subject till it haunted her
as a spectral form, mixing with her imaginations by
day and night; and, if forgotten for a time, recalled
by some accidental occurrence as painfully as if it
had never passed away.  Yet the fear could not be
named,-certainly not to Eleanor, and scarcely even
to Mrs. Howard, who had been much separated from
the countess both before and after her marriage, and
had never hinted a doubt of her happiness.  The
mention of it would have  involved an acknowledgment of disappointment in her father, which
Blanche shrank from allowing to herself, and could
not have borne to embody in words; though she
often reproached herself for a want of sincerity in
withholding the confidence which she knew was expected.  There was one person, indeed, from whom
much might be learnt; but how was the inquiry to
be made?  Mrs. Wentworth, she had reason to believe, knew all the circumstances of her mother's
history; but Blanche had already asked all the
questions which she dared, and had learnt the principal events, and many additional traits of habit and
character; and Mrs. Wentworth was not a person
from whom to seek further confidence.  There was
a great deal of sincerity, but no openness in her disposition: she seldom encouraged conversation, and
when she did, it was confined to facts,-serious and
important, and often placed in a new and striking
light,-but still merely facts.  Her own feelings she
left to be discovered by inference; and Blanche, accustomed to Mrs. Howard's warmth of expression,
felt chilled even by her kindness, and would frequently have preferred silence to a succession of
details, which might have aroused the intensest interest, but for the cold way in which they were narrated.
There was one hope, however, still to rest upon;
Lady Charlton was described by every one to be a




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              79
most charming person, something like the countess
in appearance, and with a manner so winning that no
one could withstand it. Even Mrs. Wentworth had
once been roused into a momentary enthusiasm when
speaking of her qualifications as an agreeable companion, and Blanche already clung to the idea, that in
her aunt she might find a friend who would throw
light upon the subject which distressed her mind,
without requiring her to state the fears which she
would willingly have hidden from her own heart.




80          THE EARL S DAUGHTER,
CHAPTER X.
LORD RUTHERFORD perceived, with great satisfaction, the pleasure with which Blanche looked forward
to her aunt's visit. IIe had resolved that his sister-inlaw should be surprised and charmed by his daughter's
elegance and beauty; and he well knew the effect
which Blanche's simple, eager cordiality would have
upon one who had so long been accustomed to the
sparkling frigidity of the fashionable world. Blanche
was always courteous, always attentive; but, when
her feelings were interested, she was attractive far
beyond any person whom he had ever seen.  He
remained at home the whole of the day on which
Lady Charlton was expected, under the pretenceperhaps even the belief-that it would be a great
mark of neglect if he were to run the least risk of not
being ready to receive his guests.  "Sir Hugh was so
unwell, and they had not met since they parted last
year in Italy; and Blanche would feel awkward in
probably having to receive her cousins alone. True,
they could not possibly arrive before five o'clock, and
he had an engagement, at two, in a neighbouring village; but there might be some mistake; they might
come before,- at any rate it was safe, and he would
send an excuse; and then the earl's eye wandered to
Blanche, who was seated at her drawing-frame, and
he begged her to give him one air upon the harphis favourite. Blanche's face lit up with a smile of
pleasure,-and the earl felt the time only too short,
as he leant back upon the sofa, his eye delighting in
his child's grace, and his ear drinking in the sweet




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               81
sounds which her talent was producing.  It was
perfect human enjoyment; for at that moment no
memories awoke to mar it.
"We will walk down the carriage drive, if you
like it, my love," he said, as the timepiece struck
the quarter before five: "these spare minutes are
always very tedious."
Blanche disappeared as soon as the suggestion
was made; her father's marked attention to her
wishes, had made her scrupulously mindful of his.
Lord Rutherford's careful inspection when she returned, was not perceived; but it was bestowed with
the wish to decide whether she would be less likely
to appear to advantage in her walking than in her
morning dress.  Lady Charlton's eye was fastidiously correct in dress, and it was possible that she
might be struck by some deficiency of which Blanche
was unconscious.  But the straw bonnet and shawl
disarmed criticism, and Lord Rutherford smiled at
his own doubts.  The afternoon was very still, but
the atmosphere was clear, and the sky blue and
cloudless. Blanche felt the softening, soothing influence of nature's purity and beauty; and the over
interest, and even agitation, which she had experienced in  the expectation of the meeting, were
calmed. But she was silent, and so was the earl.
"We shall see them from this point," he said, at
length, as he led his daughter to a bench upon the
summit of a steep knoll.  "It was an old boyish
habit of mine, to stand here and watch for arrivals."
Blanche looked towards the winding road which
passed over the village green.  "There is something,-a carriage;-yes, a carriage, I am  sure.
Don't you see it, papa?"
"Eyes of sixteen against eyes of fifty, Blanche,"
said the earl, smiling. "Are you certain that you
don't hear the rumbling of the wheels?"




82           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Oh! papa, you won't believe; but I do see it,
though.  It is coming nearer; it has just passed
the first turning, and it is very quick too. There
must be four horses; so it must be them."
"Well, then, we will return; but look once more:
are you sure?"
"Yes, quite; it is by the blacksmith's shop.  I
can see the horses now distinctly."
Lord Rutherford quickened his pace towards the
house.  He looked thoughtful and uneasy.
They stood upon the steps together.  The earl
leant moodily against the castle wall; he saw no external objects.  His eye was turned inwards to his
own heart, and the images of the years that were
past away.  He started, however, as the sound of
wheels became more distinct; and, when the leaders
appeared on the crest of the hill, he drew Blanche
forward to meet the carriage.  Blanche thought that
it was the impulse of hospitality and affection; but
it was merely restlessness: he felt himself compelled to move.
Lady Charlton was the first to perceive them, and
the carriage was instantly stopped.
"Kind!-like yourself, always," was her salutation, as she extended her hand, which the earl took
with something of trembling cordiality.  "And my
dear Blanche, too! but I must walk."
The carriage-door was opened, and Lady Charlton
alighted.
"We are not in public," she said, as she kissed
Blanche's forehead, and again gave her hand to the earl.
Blanche's smile was very sweet, and her few words
-few from repressed feeling-were all that her aunt
could desire.
" You don't want introductions," continued Lady
Charlton. " Maude, Adelaide; you know your cousin,
of course."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              83
There was another warm  greeting, and Blanche
was recovering her momentary shyness and agitation.
She remained at the carriage-door, bending forwards
and speaking eagerly, whilst her eye sparkled with
pleasure, and a bright colour flushed her usually pale
cheek.  Lady Charlton watched her for a few moments, and the seemingly involuntary exclamation
escaped her,-" Yes, she is just what I could have
imagined; I must have known her in any place."
The earl turned away.
"Don't distress yourself, my dear," continued
Lady Charlton, as Blanche was about to address
some person, or apparently thing, which bore a resemblance rather to a bundle of shawls than a human
being.  "Poor Sir Hugh! he is miserably tiredhalf dead with opiates;-he has been suffering fearfully the last week, but he would come: he will be
himself by-and-by: they had better drive on" and
the carriage proceeded.
Blanche walked leisurely to the castle with her
father and aunt.  She was confused; there had
scarcely been time to recognise any one, but the
general impression was agreeable.  Lady Charlton
was undoubtedly an elegant, distinguished looking
person; her voice too was musical, and her manner
very winning from its ease and kindness. And her
cousins-she thought she knew them apart: one had
a sallow complexion and light hair, a plain but very
clever face, rather severe and grave in its expressionthat must be Maude, the invalid: and the other was
a brunette, with dark hair, braided; dressed handsomely and carefully, lively in manner, and altogether
pleasing from youth and gaiety, and the quickness of
a pair of very bright eyes, rather than from any regular beauty. The earl said little; but Lady Charlton
had words upon every subject at command.  No one
could be in the least restrained with her.  Even




84           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
in those few minutes, she seemed to take exactly
that position which Blanche had felt must be filled
before she could be quite at ease with her father.
Lady Charlton was affectionate and interested, but
she was not timid.  Blanche could scarcely understand the boldness with which she rallied the earl
upon his long absence, his present love of seclusion;
and prophesied that he was yet to prove himself as
distinguished a person in England as he had been
abroad.  Lord Rutherford was at first grave, but not
annoyed; and, after a few minutes, he appeared to
have caught himself something of Lady Charlton's
vivacity, and answered her remarks in a tone almost
as full of cheerfulness as her own.  It was a new
phase of character which Blanche had not before
perceived.
"And Sir Hugh has been very ill, then," said
Lord Rutherford, as he saw the carriage stop at the
castle, and two servants assist in helping a seemingly
decrepit old man to alight.
"Yes," and Lady Charlton sighed; "it is very
sad: one can never be prepared for these attacks.
He was at a great dinner only a fortnight ago, and
quite the life of the party; made a speech, and
proposed toasts, and kept up the whole thing till
after twelve o'clock; was quite himself, in fact: and
now, you see what he is."
" I suppose the dinner was the root of the evil,"
observed the earl.
"Well! yes; I suppose it might have been so:
but the  complaint is constitutional, hereditary.
Blanche, my dear, you may think yourself happy in
being descended from another family.  The Evelyns
never were a gouty race."
"I should hope not," said the earl, quietly.
Lady Charlton laughed.  "Now, my dear Rutherford, that is one of your old exclusive fancies. I




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.               85
really flattered myself that fifteen years' experience of
continental liberalism would have done something
towards destroying them; but you are just the same,
I see: just the same spirit of the Spanish hidalgo in
you -' This comes of walking on the earth.' "
"And  the  Spanish  hidalgo  was right," said
Blanche, archly.
Lady Charlton smiled, and  answered, "Quite
right, my dear; but I don't know how it is-the
older one grows, the less inclined one is to hang, like
Mahomet's coffin, between heaven and earth: there
is something very solitary and uncongenial in the
position; and therefore, since one cannot yet have
the higher, I am willing to rest satisfied with the
lower, and to be very happy upon earth, in spite
of the Spanish hidalgo."
"And the gout," said Lord Rutherford. "Sir
Hugh, I suspect, would tell a different tale."
",Oh! poor Sir Hugh! you will see him  very
unlike himself, Blanche; or rather you will not see
him at all.  He and Pearson go their own way when
he is in this state. A first-rate servant Pearson is;
and such a nurse "
By this time they had reached the castle.  As
they entered it, Blanche again repeated her welcome
to her aunt, and Lady Charlton's manner in an
instant changed.  She was no longer the cheerful,
amusing woman, of the world; but the thoughtful, warm-hearted, sympathising friend. She took
Blanche's hand in both  hers, and  thanked her
with a warmth of affection which Blanche fully appreciated.  Dr. Wentworth's description recurred to
her mind.  Fascinating!-Yes, that was the right
word.
Blanche was alone till nearly dinner-time. Her
cousins were engaged in dressing for dinner, or perhaps in resting after their journey. She did not see
I




86          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
anything of them after showing them to their rooms.
Her aunt she supposed was with Sir Hugh; her
father, she knew, had business to transact.  The
solitude was very precious to her; it gave her leisure
for thought, for examining her own impressions.
Blanche trusted very much to first impressions, for
as yet she had never known deception.  All seemed
bright and hopeful-not from any particular cause
that she could fix upon-the sensation of relief and
satisfaction was indefinable; the castle was the castle
still — her own position was the same — her one
great grief was as real as it had ever been; but her
heart was lighter.
The earl was waiting for her as she left her room.
He had come on purpose to take her himself to
the drawing-room, that she might not be shy; so he
said: but his survey of Blanche's dress and general
appearance betrayed his true motive. A smile of intense pleasure passed over his face as he looked at
her: the simple white dress was the symbol of the
pure, spotless mind.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.                87
CHAPTER XI.
"ELEANOR," said Mr. Wentworth to his sister, as
he entered the school-room the day after the arrival
of Lady Charlton at the castle, "you must leave
those never-ending lessons, and come out; I want
you."
"I beg your pardon, Charles, you must wait: if
you have returned to stay here for several months,
you must learn to amuse yourself."
" More easily said than done," was the reply; and
the young man threw himself into the first arm-chair
which  presented  itself, and  continued: " Four
months! it is a terribly long time.  What on earth
shall I do with myself?"
"Read," replied Eleanor, still occupying herself
with an exercise, which she was correcting.
"Read!" my dear Eleanor," replied her brother,
with a sigh of languid weariness.  "But I have
read; I do read.  It is nothing else but reading
from morning till night."
"But it will only last a little longer," said Eleanor,
soothingly; "and then —"
" And then comes ordination," added Charles.
There was an accent of bitterness in his voice.
Eleanor looked up, and put her finger to her lips, as
she glanced at her little sister.
"Susan, child, run into the garden, and find
Brown," exclaimed Charles impatiently.  "Tell him
he must have my horse ready for me by three o'clock."
Susan ran away, only too glad of the excuse to
change her employment.




88          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
"You forget Susan's age," said Eleanor, in a
reproachful tone, when she found herself alone with
her brother.
" Yes, I did at the moment; but there would have
been no harm done."
"Only that she is very likely to repeat to papa all
that you say to me, and you would not like that."
"I don't know; he must hear it some day or
other."
"Oh! no, Charles: you intend to change your
views, and look at the matter differently."
"My dear Eleanor," was the answer, spoken
coolly and rather satirically, "it is exceedingly easy
for you to talk; but, begging your pardon, you
know nothing whatever of the subject.  Ordained
I must be-I intend to be;  but not to be my
father's curate; not to vegetate upon a hundred a
year in a country village, with no one but my own
family to speak to. I was not born for such a life,
and I can never endure it."
" Would you not be just as badly off in any other
place?" inquired Eleanor.  "You will have the
castle, and the society there, for a change."
"Lord  Rutherford  and Lady Blanche?" said
Charles, doubtfully.
" Yes; and J think you will scarcely require more.
You will go far before you meet any one the equal of
Blanche, at least."
" Equal! no; to watch her is like looking up at a
star; but confess, Eleanor, notwithstanding all your
romance, it is awfully out of one's reach."
"Yet Blanche is the most warm-hearted, enthusiastic, poetical person imaginable," exclaimed
Eleanor.
"Very likely; you young ladies are extremely
warm-hearted to each other, and no doubt very
poetical in your private journals; but that does




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              89
not help us poor men.  Lady Blanche makes a
most lovely picture; but pictures are not society."
" Then you will have others besides Blanche," continued Eleanor.  "Lady Charlton, and ""The Charltons?  Are- they here?  When did
they come?  You never told me anything about
them."
Mr. Wentworth grew evidently excited at the information.
Eleanor could not forbear laughing. " Why, my
dear Charles, I was not quite prepared for such a
burst. They are here - Lady Charlton, and Sir
Hugh."
"And Adelaide?" interrupted Charles.
"Christian names! " exclaimed Eleanor.' Really
Charles, that is rather surprising.  Do papa and
mamma know of this great intimacy?"
"My dear Eleanor, you are a mere baby.  Christian names are nothing at all; it entirely depends
upon the people.  I should never think of calling
Lady Blanche Evelyn, Blanche."
"No, because she is Lady Blanche."
"But if she were Miss; I could not.  Don't you
understand? Some persons are to be regarded at a
distance. They never give one the opportunity of
approaching nearer; they are never off their guard."
"Which, I presume then, that the Miss Charltons
are," observed Eleanor, in a tone of amusement.
"They are very quick-very agreeable.  I should
not exactly choose to see you like them; but they
will be great acquisitions.  When I say them, however, I really only mean Adelaide. The other is
clever enough-a very phoenix in learning and accomplishments; but she is anything but agreeable, if
you happen to take her in the wrong mood."
"She is an invalid, I believe," said Eleanor.
"Yes, she thinks herself so, and she looks hideI2




90           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
ously ugly; people say, from ill health. It was the
fashion abroad, to admire her forehead and eyes, and
call them intellectual; but I never could get over the
complexion."
"I don't see that she is likely to be much of an
acquisition," continued Eleanor.
" Yes; in her way, she will be: she plays marvellously, and sings! I never heard any amateur voice
in the least equal to hers. Upon the whole, I am
immensely glad they are here."
" I must ask you to go, now," said Eleanor, gravely.
"Susan must come to her lessons; don't you hear
her in the passage?"
"Run away, child, we are not ready for you yet,"
exclaimed Charles, rising from his chair with some
effort; and going to the door, in spite of his sister's
evident annoyance, he sent Susan on another message, and then returning said, "These four months!
-they will be a great trial."
"I should not find them  so, if I were in your
place," observed Eleanor, whilst the colour mounted
to her cheeks.  "I should be glad to be with you
anywhere, especially at home."
"Charles seemed a little surprised at her manner.
" I don't understand," he replied. " Of course, I am
glad to be with you; but just think for a minute;"
and his voice became quite energetic; " I have passed
through the university, and made rather a noise
there; since then I have been travelling for two
years, seeing most enchanting places, enjoying firstrate society-and now I am  told that I am to sit
down for life-it is the life which frightens me!-in
an old country parsonage, with not a single person to
speak to beyond my own family, and the chance
visitors at Rutherford Castle.  Doubtless, there are
persons for whom such prospects might do very well;
good, quiet, humdrum men, who, exactly the reverse




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               91
of Charles the Second, may be warranted never to do
a foolish thing, and never say a wise one; —but I
am not one of them.  If my father wishes me to do
anything he must give me a sphere: he ought to do
so; for I have never caused him any trouble. I have
never been wild, or extravagant; and yet he looks
as grave as if I was a complete scapegrace."
"The notion of your ordination makes him  do
that," said Eleanor.
"And whose fault is the ordination? " exclaimed
Mr. Wentworth.  "He has dinned into my ears,
ever since I was a baby in arms, that I was to be a
clergyman, and what possible right has he to find
fault with me now because I intend to be one? "
" Papa looks at the profession more seriously than
you do," observed Eleanor.
" Serious; it is serious enough, no one doubts that;
but all the more reason why I should have a little life
and enjoyment beforehand."
"Papa thinks that is not the right sort of preparation," said Eleanor, in a tone of mild suggestion,
rather than of reproof.
"I don't mean it as preparation —and yet call
it so, if you will. When I am ordained, things will
be different. I shall be a clergyman; and I shall
conduct myself like one.  My father cannot suppose
I mean to disgrace myself by being a vulgar, foxhunting, drinking, negligent, country parson."
" The race is happily becoming extinct," said Eleanor; "but my father will not be satisfied with your
merely escaping disgrace."
" He wishes to see me honoured; and he shall do
so.  Once let me have the opportunity; place me in
London; give me, as I said before, a sphere; and,
before he dies, he shall see me a bishop."
Eleanor shook her head, and said more courageously " That is not the tone to please papa, Charles.




92          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
He does not understand it.  He does not know what
it is to wish to be a bishop."
"Neither do I wish it, Eleanor; if I could be any
thing else. But I am all but shut out from every
other profession. I am not educated, and not inclined for the army; I am  not at all fitted for a
physician; and utterly without interest at the barif I could bring myself to submit to the drudgery
of studying for it.  I know  I must take orders;
and all I ask is, that my father should try to place
me where my talents-for you know, Eleanor, it is
impossible to deny that I have some talents," and
Mr. Wentworth laughed faintly, and settling his
cravat, glanced at himself in the looking-glass"should have scope.'"
Eleanor's reply showed an evident wish to put an
end to a disagreeable subject.  She was quite sure,
she said, that her father would do everything in
his power to promote her brother's views, by-andby; but that she could not herself see what steps
were to be taken at once.
"One, very simple," exclaimed Charles, eagerly.
"Let him  consent that I should have a curacy in
London; or, at least, that I should try for one; instead of insisting upon my drudging on a weary
existence here, with nothing to rouse energy."
" You had better resign yourself, my dear Charles,"
and Eleanor tried to laugh.  "When papa once has
made a decision, he is very resolute."
" And he will find that his son can be resolute
too," exclaimed Mr. Wentworth. "I have made up
my mind what I will do, I will be off-off to Australia; no power on earth shall stop me, if I am
thwarted."
"You, in Australia! a settler!" andEleanor laughed:
no, papa feels he is perfectly safe there. But, my
dear Charles ~ there is a much surer way of bringing




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              93
him round to look at things in your own way. Stay
here quietly, and do as he wishes; study, and visit
the poor people, and then he will be satisfied; and
will see himself, by degrees, that you are not likely
to gain any harm by ultimately settling in London.
You must own," she added, with some hesitation,
"that papa's anxiety is natural enough, considering
the way you talk."
" But I don't talk so to him," exclaimed Mr. Wentworth. "Neither he nor my mother know half I
really feel,"
" Poor mamma!" said Eleanor, speaking seriously,
yet not without some satisfaction at her brother's
implied confidence in herself; "with her high views,
her very exalted notions of a clergyman's office, I
certainly should not like her to hear you rattle on in
this random way.  I don't approve of it, you know,
myself; only I am sure you don't mean it."
" I do mean it, though," exclaimed Charles, petulantly; " and what is more, I am convinced that there
are not half a dozen men in England who would not
say precisely the same. Of course, I shall do my
duty; but it must be in the right place-not here."
"Not even with Lady Charlton and her family, at
the castle? " said Eleanor, pointedly.
"Oh! nonsense, they would make a difference;
but it would only be for a time; they can't stay."
"Blanche expects them  for a very long visit,"
replied Eleanor.
" Lord Rutherford and Adelaide Charlton!" said
Charles, musingly. " A very incongruous mixture.
Adelaide's high spirits will never stand the castle
proprieties."
" Charles, dear; promise me one thing, please," said
Eleanor, laying her hand upon his arm.  "Don't
speak of Miss Charlton in that way before mamma;
it is just the sort of thing to annoy her."




94          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Mr. Wentworth laughed. " My dear Eleanor, you
really are more childish than I imagined; but anything you like: only, when you know Adelaide, you
will see that it is impossible to call her anything else.
And, remember, if I am to stay here and be well
behaved, I must have full leave to go to the castle
as often as I choose."
" Leave from me as much as you wish," replied
Eleanor; "if you will only be cautious.  I could
not bear you to vex mamma, and she is rather suspicious of you already."
Mr. Wentworth put on an air of mock gravity;
and folding his hands, and casting his eyes to the
ground, promised to be as demure as Susan, if only
his sister would help to provide him with amusement.
"And suggest to my father that I shall not be fitted
for his curate," were his last words, as he went out
of the room, leaving Eleanor in a state of mind by
no means to be envied.
He was scarcely gone, when Mrs. Wentworth came
through the garden to the school-room window. She
held a note in her hand, which she put into Eleanor's
silently, and then stood by apparently engaged in
twisting the straggling tendrils of the clematis which
darkened the apartment.  Eleanor returned the note
with thanks; her colour was heightened, and her
eyes sparkled with pleasure.  "Shall I write an
answer, mamma; or will you?"
Mrs. Wentworth paused for a moment before she
said, in a tone of annoyance, "I was afraid it would
be so. I was sure you would be vexed, my love."
"Vexed! dear mamma."
"Yes. It is nothing very grievous; but your father
and I think it best to decline.  He wished me not
to show you the invitation; but I could not agree.
I have too much confidence in your good sense, and
vour love for me."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              95
"Oh, mamma! the first day! and an express invitation to us all; and Blanche so extremely urgent!"
" The very reason, my love, why it may be more
desirable to decline." Eleanor bit her lip, and made
no reply.
" You will understand some of our objections," continued Mrs. Wentworth. " As an acquaintance begins,
so it may be supposed to continue.  We do not
wish to be dining at the castle perpetually, now."
"Because of Lady Charlton and her party, I
suppose," replied Eleanor, trying to be good humoured.  "But, dear mamma, she is a very charming person."
" I don't know what she is," was Mrs.Wentworth's
reply, spoken more quickly than was her wont:' only you will be contented at home, my child."
" Contented with you, mamma? oh! yes, always;
but"" But you must try and think as I think; try, and
not dream of the castle by night and by day." Eleanor
smiled, though without cheerfulness.  "Consider
what it would be to me," continued Mrs. Wentworth,
"to see you restless and excited; or to find you longing for different society, and know that you were
neglecting your own simple duties."
"  should never neglect my duties by being with
Blanche," exclaimed Eleanor eagerly; "she would
always keep me right."
"My love, indeed you are mistaken. Lady Blanche
is a very sweet girl, most amiable and winning; but,
when you are together, her spirit cannot be the ruling
one."
Eleanor's head was raised proudly, as she replied,
"It should be, if I were Blanche. Rank, wealth, beauty,
talent! Mamma, Blanche ought to rule a kingdom."
"Let her learn to rule the kingdom of her own
heart," replied Mrs. Wentworth; "that will be the




96          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
most needful lesson. Poor child! hers is a position
of great temptation."
"Mamma," said Eleanor thoughtfully, "you might
help her."
Mrs. Wentworth paused. "I might possibly, if circumstances were different; if the opportunity should
occur; but your affection, I think, a little deceives
you, Eleanor. Lady Blanche is not likely to give me
the opportunity; she is too gentle and yielding to
profit by the sort of help I should give. She would
require something  less severe.   Mrs. Howard is
more likely to be of use to her than I am."
"Mrs. Howard is so far off," replied Eleanor.'Yes; but they can write. Though, of course, my
love," continued Mrs. Wentworth, assuming a tone of
greater unconstraint, "I do not mean that I would
not do everything for her that I possibly could; only
there are some dispositions so easily moulded that
they take impressions from everything; and, if it
should be so with Lady Blanche, you will find that
the daily life at the castle with her relations will
really form her character. And, besides," and Mrs.
Wentworth's voice sank, as it sometimes did, into a
tone so low that it scarcely seemed intended for conversation, "there are different atmospheres, different
circles-the castle and the rectory-no, never again."
Eleanor made no comment upon this speech; yet the
thought crossed her mind, with wonder, why, if the
circles were so different, and the atmospheres so uncongenial, she should have been allowed to grow up
from childhood in unrestrained intimacy with Blanche.
"And vou will be satisfied then, my dear, not to dine
at the castle to-day," said Mrs. Wentworth in her
natural manner; "we have an engagement which will
do very well as an excuse for us all.  Your father
talked, this morning, of asking Mr. Moulton, of
Enfield to stay; as he is going to ride with him




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             97
to see the workhouse; and though we might leave
them at home, it will be better not."
Eleanor sighed at the prospect of exchanging a
cheerful evening at the castle for the society of an
elderly gentleman, whose only interest in life seemed
to be the faults of the poor-laws. The sigh was not
utterly selfish; it was as much for her brother as
herself; and she ventured to add a petition for him:
but Mrs. Wentworth negatived the idea instantly.
"Charles! oh dear! no. He was much too great a
stranger to go by himself; he would be quite a burden
to Lord Rutherford; and, moreover "-but this time
Mrs. Wentworth's thoughts were not betrayed by
an undertone; and Eleanor could only conjecture
that the "moreover" might have some reference to
Miss Charlton.  She was not forbidden, however, to
go to the castle in the morning-that was some satisfaction; and she might see Blanche; she might just
have a glimpse of Adelaide Charlton; and, without
hesitation, she expressed her intention to her mother.
They had not meet the preceding day, she said;
and Blanche would think it unkind if she were not to
go near her.
" Lady Blanche will call upon you, my dear; if she
is anxious about it," said Mrs. Wentworth, quietly
and coldly.
Eleanor changed colour. " Anxious about it, dear
mamma; what can you mean?"
"Nothing, my dear; only I think you might as
well leave the castle for to-day."
A torrent of eager words seemed about to rush
forth, for Eleanor's eyes flashed with anger and vexation. Mrs. Wentworth stopped her before the first
word was spoken.  " My love, you have trusted me
always; do you doubt now that I would make you
happy in your own way if it were right?"
K




98          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
The haughty spirit was subdued in an instant, and
Eleanor's arm was thrown round her mother's neck.
"Mamma, you are always right; yet you cannot
love Blanche as I do."
" I loved her mother," was Mrs. Wentworth's calm
reply; and, as she walked slowly away, Eleanor
threw herself upon a chair, and burst into tears.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             99
CHAPTER  XII.
"HERE, Pearson! stop a minute, can't you?  What
in the world are you going away for, Idiot?"
growled Sir Hugh  Charlton, helplessly  stretching out his hand to reach a small hand-bell, which
had unfortunately been placed just beyond his
reach.
" I beg your pardon, sir; very sorry, quite forgot,"
muttered the stout, obsequious, black-haired, blackwhiskered, and most shrewd-looking individual, whose
character was constantly summed-up by Lady Charlton, in the emphatic description of "the best creature in the world."
"The medicine, the drops! where are they? why
don't you fetch them " continued Sir Hugh, as
Pearson remained by his side, pretending to adjust the
pillows at his head, and eyeing with great apparent
solicitude the arrangements of the gouty stool, which
supported his master's feet. Pearson did not say,
that he had been on the point of departure when he
was brought back; he placed the hand-bell more conveniently than before, gave an additional touch to the
pillows, brought the newspaper within reach, and then,
as he was leaving the room, remarked, that the earl
had invited some friends to dinner, so he had been
told by Mr. Hilyard, the butler.
"People to dinner, did you say?  Here, Pearson,
where are you going? why, in the name of wonder,
don't you speak out?"
"Dr. Wentworth's family from the rectory are corn



100         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
ing, so Mr. Hilyard informed me, Sir Hugh; but,
perhaps, you would wish me to inquire. When you
have taken the medicine, if I might be allowed, I
would ask." Pearson returned almost in an instant.
The drops were properly measured and administered,
and Sir Hugh's next order was, not to fidget about
the room like a mouse, but to go and hear who was
coming; an order fully expected by the ingenious
Pearson, who immediately departed to gossip, for at
least a quarter of an hour, in the housekeeper's
room.
He was gone, but Sir Hugh murmured still,
"Wentworths! who were the Wentworths? People
he had never heard of! Wentworth!"  He stopped
and rubbed his chin, and thought, and muttered
again, "Wentworth! yes, he did know the name, he
remembered it. That intolerable fool, Pearson, where
was he gone? he knew every one.  Heaps of Wentworths there were everywhere-England-FranceItaly." He seized the hand-bell, but, without ringing it, called for Pearson at the highest pitch of his
voice.
The call was answered by Lady Charlton.  "My
dear, Sir Hugh, such a noise! it quite frightens
one."
"Well! madam, and I intended it should. Here
am I-Pearson gone-you away-left by my daughters-it is too bad."
"Oh! but my dear Sir Hugh, you must not be
exacting. Poor children! they are only having a little
music with Blanche."
"No; not with me," said a very sweet voice; and
Blanche, who had just entered the room, came up to
Sir Hugh's chair. "You know, Aunt Charlton, you
promised I should be of use. Can I do anything for
Sir Hugh?   Might I not sit a little while with
him?"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            101
"Oh! my dear Blanche, this is too good of you,"
and Sir Hugh grew calm  directly.  " Really you
must excuse me-a gouty man must make a great
many apologies; but that fool-my man, I mean,-a
very good servant-a capital servant, Pearson-but
forgetful. Lady Charlton, pray place a chair; it distresses me quite." Blanche brought a chair for herself, and placed it by Sir Hugh; her work-basket
was in her hand, and again she hoped that she was
not intruding.
Lady Charlton smiled, and said, "Sir Hugh would
be only too happy; and, for herself, she had letters to
write, very important ones; but Blanche must not fatigue herself. You can read, if you like it, my love,
for a little while.  Sir Hugh is a great reader, and a
writer too sometimes, only I " -all be in disgrace if I
mention it."  She looked meaungly at Sir Hugh.
"My dear Lady Charlton-Frances-you are really
too bad.  Blanche will be shocked; it is nothing;
nothing at all, I assure you. Just a pamphlet, nothing
at all to speak of. There is one-Frances, my dearon the side table; I think you will find one. But, never
mind;" seeing that Lady Charlton cast an unsearching,
and unseeing eye round the room.  "Never mind,
Pearson will find it. I can ring."
" Pearson is going to dinner," replied Lady Charlton, rather quickly, "but Blanche, I dare say, will
read to you. Let me see, that book on geology I
think it was you began.  My dear Blanche, I really
am ashamed of myself for allowing you to have such
a task.  I dare say, if the truth were told, you
know no more of the'ologies' than I do; but you
will learn something-names, at least. I quite marvel at myself for not being wiser, considering Sir
Hugh's tastes. We had not very much science in
Italy; and a great drawback it was for him. GoodK2




102         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
b'ye, my love.  Maude and Ady will be in despair
when they hear you are not coming back."
"As much in despair as I shall be in delight,"
said Sir Hugh, twisting his sallow and worn features
into what he believed to be an irresistible smile.
"But I shall have mercy upon you, Blanche,"
said Lady Charlton, returning to look into the room
again.  "Remember we are to have a riding party
this afternoon; and your friends, the Wentworths, I
hear, are to dine with us."
Lady Charlton was gone before she heard, or at
least, before she appeared to hear Sir Hugh's impatient exclamation of "VWentworth! that was the
very thing! that fool Pearson! why did he not come
back?  Who are the Wentworths?"
"Friends of ours at the rectory," said Blanche;
and her voice acted with a magical effect upon the
irritable Sir Hugh, who immediately composed himself to the semblance of a deferential listener. " Eleanor Wentworth and I were educated together," continued Blanche. " She is my very great friend."
" Ah, yes, very true-very nice; no doubt she is
charming.  But I thought-you must excuse a little
impatience, my dear-the gout is trying, especially
trying,-for a man of active habits, in the prime of life.
I spoke rather eagerly, just now; but I thought I
remembered the name of Wentworth abroad."
"It might have been Dr. Wentworth's son; he
has been travelling," said Blanche.
Sir Hugh put his finger to his lip, and presently,
with a sudden start of recollection, exclaimed:"Yes, I have it. I remember. Pearson knows;
idiot!" and the voice sank again into an angry growl,
"what a time he is at dinner!"
Before Blanche could answer, a furious peal summoned Pearson from  his repast.  Blanche could




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            103
scarcely help smiling at the insinuating tone of the
servant, when compared with the gesticulation of the
master.  Sir Hugh burst forth without preparation,
requiring Pearson to recollect all he had ever heard
or known of any one of the name of Wentworth; and
Pearson, with the utmost composure, began a quiet
and rather interesting account of Sir Hugh's first acquaintance with Mr. Wentworth; how they had met
in Italy, and he believed Sir Hugh had told him
that Lady Charlton had been acquainted with his
family; and,-no doubt, Sir Hugh would recollect
him perfectly-a tall gentleman, very handsome; he
used to sing with Miss Adelaide; and, as Pearson
glanced doubtingly at Sir Hugh, and saw a pleased
smile on his face, he ventured to add, " People had
remarked-at least he had heard it said-how well
Mr. Wentworth and Miss Adelaide danced."
" Yes, yes, I know. You may go now; you won't
be wanted yet. Lady Blanche will do me the honour
of sitting with me.  Go; can't you?" and Pearson
hastened to escape Sir Hugh's lightning glance.
"Such gossips these people are, my dear," continued
Sir Hugh in his mildest voice.  "Such intolerable
gossips! One would think I was an old man with
no memory; telling me all those facts! Of course,
I recollect! Mr. Wentworth was a handsome young
man, certainly; he danced attendance upon Adelaide.
Lady Charlton grew frightened; but it was all nonsense; Adelaide is a great deal too sensible  a
shrewd girl you will find out-not equal to Maude.
Maude is a genius-plays, sings, draws-there was
a copy of hers, of a Guido, as good as the original.
I should not have known the difference; and I am a
very good judge, as good as the earl, I flatter myself;
and he has the reputation of being a first-rate connoisseur. Had, that is, some years ago;-years you
can't remember, my dear Blanche, for a very good




104         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
reason-there was no Lady Blanche then; no such
bright star in the dark firmament;" and he bowed
with the most studied politeness; " except, if there
must be an exception,-you will not quarrel with
mine-the countess, your mother.  A charming woman-a very charming woman."  Sir Hugh paused
to take breath; he saw that Blanche had laid down
her work at his last words, and was listening eagerly
for the rest.  "Poor thing!  Ah! years gone by!
poor thing!  Yes, I remember perfectly,   Mrs.
Wentworth was here a good deal in those days; she
must have been this young man's mother."
"Mrs. Wentworth was a great friend of dear
mamma's," said Blanche, speaking with an effort;
yet determined, if possible, to keep him for a few
minutes to the point.
"Yes, my dear-yes, I remember.  Mrs. Wentworth and the countess, poor thing!" and the sigh
which accompanied the words evidently came from
the heart. Blanche's fingers moved quickly at her
work; but it was from  nervousness, not industry.
Was the sigh for her mother's death or for her life?
"Poor thing!" again began Sir Hugh.  "Your father is altered, my dear; a great blow that was-sudden to him.  She was a lovely creature! I had a
great regard for her."
" It must have been so sad for papa, being away
when she was ill," observed Blanche.
"Yes, I suppose so; one can't tell.  One can
never say! it was a very lonely life. But people were
mistaken.  A proud man, Lord Rutherford;-very
natural pride, my dear; don't think I fina fault with
it.  A  very proud man!  Nobody knows him
thoroughly that has not lived with him for years.
Lady Charlton and I, of course, are intimately acquainted with his character; but other people talked
great nonsense. However, I always understood him.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            105
We had tastes in common.  He was devoted to
geology.  I gave him  introductions when he went
abroad, and they were of great use to him. I wanted
him to take notes, and write. I told him I would
assist. If he would have given the facts, I would
have dressed them-adopted them and clothed them;
they should have been my'enfans trouvs;"' and
Sir Hugh laughed so long and heartily at his own wit,
that he did not perceive how little his companion
sympathised with his mirth.
" That is the luncheon-bell, I think," said Blanche,
rising, and collecting her work.
"Luncheon! so late is it?  But time passes so
rapidly'With thee conversing'-you know the rest."
"I am  afraid it is easier to forget times and
seasons than luncheon," said Blanche; "but I cannot leave you alone. May I ring for Pearson?"
"Ah! thoughtful as you are! it is quite reversing
the natural order. A sad enemy is the gout; very
sad, indeed, to an active man in the prime of life;-a
sad enemy!"
Sir Hugh shook his head long and dolefully, but
would not allow Blanche to do anything for him. " It
would distress him too much," he said; "it was unr.atural, improper-her society, that was all he required-he had been so flattered, so honoured;" and,
with the words still ringing in her ears, Blanche at
last contrived to escape to the drawing-room.




106         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XIII.
" AND SO the Wentworths will not come, Blanche,"
said Lord Rutherford, as his daughter seated herself
at the luncheon-table.  "Dr. Wentworth has a prior
engagement."
"Not come!  How very disappointing!  May I
see the note?"
It was from Mrs. Wentworth, polite and chilling.
Blanche said nothing, but looked very vexed.
" I grieve for the failure of my first attempts for
society, Adelaide," said the earl, addressing his
niece.  "Only, remember, it really is not my fault."
Blanche took up the note again to examine it. " A
prior engagement is so odd.  Eleanor must have
known that I should want her; and they are not
going out I am nearly sure, unless it may be Mr.
Wentworth.  He returned yesterday, I believe."
Adelaide Charlton looked up eagerly; but her
mother's eve was fixed upon her, and the eagerness
vented itself in a quick demand for some bread.
" That must be our Mr. Wentworth," said Maude,
speaking in a deep, but peculiarly mellow  voice,
which was yet disagreeably abrupt. " He said he
came from Rutherford."
"I thought he was living away," observed Lady
Charlton.
Her tone struck Blanche directly: it was new to
her i there was more gravity and sternness in it than
she was prepared for.
"Young Wentworth is a handsome man," said




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              107
the earl, carelessly; "but he is too much of a coxcomb to be a gentleman."
"Those travelled young men very often are," observed Lady Charlton.  "It is' We and the world'
with them; and really, at last, one is disgusted in
spite of oneself."
"But Mr. Wentworth must be superior to that
class, I think," said Blanche; "his sister is so fond
of him."
" And you swear by his sister then?" asked Maude,
sharply.
Blanche was rather startled, and did not know
what to reply.
" Maude, my dear; you really must be careful in
your expressions. Lord Rutherford will think you a
complete Goth," said Lady Charlton.
"Give me a better word," answered Maude, "and
I will use it."
"Maude's favourite theory," said Lady Charlton,
addressing the earl. "I must tell you of it, to prepare you for anything strange you may hear.  She
says-what is it, my dear Maude?  Explain your
own notions; you will do it much better than I shall."
Lord Rutherford assumed a listening attitude; but
it was clear that he was perfectly indifferent, and
Maude raised her piercing grey eyes to his face, and
said:
"My notions are, that I should like a piece of
cake; if my uncle will be good enough to cut it."
Lord Rutherford complied with the request, and
did not trouble himself to ask for any further explanation of Maude's notions.  Blanche was still silent,
pondering upon Eleanor Wentworth's refusal, and a
sudden check seemed to have been put to Adelaide's
usual vivacity.  The party was becoming dull; and
Lady Charlton, who dreaded dulness as an enemy,
endeavoured to infuse a little spirit into it by in



108         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
quiring what were the afternoon plans. Blanche observed that the refusal had rather disturbed them;
for Eleanor Wentworth, she had hoped, would have
formed one of a riding party with them: at least,
with Adelaide and herself. Maude, she understood,
very seldom rode.
"No, never; except by myself," was Maude's ungracious answer.
" Papa talked of taking you and my aunt for a
drive," continued Blanche, with a slight air of restraint, caused insensibly by her cousin's manner;
"and Sir Hugh"" Oh! never mind Sir Hugh, my love," exclaimed
Lady Charlton.  "Pearson will take care of him.
He will not be in a condition to move for the next
week.  But he is quite happy; don't distress yourself about him: he wants nothing except his new
book on geology.  A great blessing it is," she added
more gravely, "that he can occupy himself: he is
devoted to science."
" Blanche," said the earl, rising suddenly, " can you
come with me and look at the shrubs they have been
planting this morning on the bank? We will prepare
for the driving and riding afterwards, if your aunt and
your cousins will arrange together what they wish
to do."
He threw open the window, and walked out upon
the terrace. Blanche followed him with a sensation
of freedom and pleasure.  The earl drew her arm
within his: he did not take her to see the shrubs;
but, when they reached the end of the terrace, he
turned again, and continued to walk without speaking; though once he passed his hand caressingly
over hers, and looked in her face and smiled: and
Blanche had learnt to value such a look. Lord
Rutherford's laugh was for the world; his smiles
were almost exclusively for her.  He stopped at




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.             109
length and drew a long breath, and in a light tone
exclaimed, "Well, Blanche! we are alone again:
shall we remain so?"
Blanche hesitated.  "I have not made up my
mind, papa:-it is such a very early day. I like
them."
"Like them,-yes, I suppose you do.  But it is
not duty, is it?  I never wish you to like any one
from duty."
Blanche laughed faintly; she had already learnt
that duty was not in her father's catalogue of allowable motives. " No: I suppose it is not from duty;
but feelings are such mixed things, it is hard to
analyze them.  I am  not sure that I shall love
them," she added, more boldly; "except, that is,
my aunt."
"Lady Charlton is a very sensible woman," said
the earl.  "I never knew her do but one foolish
thing in her life. That scatter-brained piece of pomposity, Sir Hugh! how could she marry him?"
"Yes; it is strange, very strange," said Blanche,
thoughtfully; "she is so superior,-she could never
have loved him."
"Blanche, my child, you must learn to put aside
your romance," said the earl gently, but seriously.
"There are more marriages in the world without
love than you, in your simplicity, can imagine. I do
not wonder at Lady Charlton's marrying without love
-no one who has had any experience of life could
do so-but it is marvellous that, when she was resolved upon a sacrifice, she should have devoted herself for nothing,-absolutely nothing," he added,
angrily.
"Yet she must have loved him, too, I suppose,"
said Blanche, musingly.  " If there was nothing else,
it must have been love; I should not like to think
it was not."
L




110         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Not like it!" said the earl.  "Why, what could
it signify to you?"
" Because," replied Blanche, and the colour deepened on her cheek, and she spoke hurriedly-" because it seems a false thing to do to marry without
it; it is an untruth; it cannot really bring a blessing: at least, I think not,-it seems so to me," she
added, timidly, as if ashamed of her own eagerness.
The earl paused; his voice was altered when he
spoke again; it was low  and tremulous.  "And
you believe that love must bring a blessing; that it
must be happiness?" he said.
" Yes, real, true, holy love,". replied Blanche:
"surely it must be so."
" It may be,-one cannot tell," answered the earl;
and then, in an under tone, he added, " Yet it is a
dream,-an unreality."
"That is not what people generally think it; is
it?" said Blanche, quickly, for she was struck by
the peculiarity of his manner.
"They call it happiness," said the earl; "but
they do not know their own meaning. Happiness!"
he repeated, bitterly; "no, happiness is for the cold
and calculating; for those who can trust themselves,
who Jnow their own weakness, and can foresee the
consequences of their own actions. Love is impulse,
feeling, excitement."
" But there is something in it besides, calmer and
deeper," replied Blanche; "or it could never last:
and marriage would be miserable, most miserable,"
she added, earnestly.
Lord Rutherford stopped suddenly in his walk.
"Did  you  ever hear of a  miserable marriage,
3lanche?" he said, quickly.
" In books, people have said it;-there are such
things," replied Blanche, almost frightened by his
manner.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            111
He laughed  sarcastically.  "Yes, in  another
sphere,-in the world, the dreamy world: not in the
real Utopia of St. Ebbe's." He was going to turn
again on the terrace; but, checking himself, added,
in his usual tone, " This is but idle talking. Go to
your aunt, Blanche, and settle what you will. I will
ride with you, if you wish it."  He did not wait for
question or reply, but strode down the walk which
led to the river's bank, and was -soon lost to sight
amongst the thick trees.
"You are not going out with Adelaide, merely to
please her, my love?" said Lady Charlton, as Blanche,
about half an hour afterwards, came into the room
dressed in her riding-habit, and looking rather grave.
Blanche brightened in an instant, and said that
riding was her favourite exercise: but her aunt did
not seem satisfied.
"We shall not stay with you, my dear, if you
allow us to interrupt your usual habits. You are
very busy, I am sure. No one could have been
educated by Mrs. Howard without being so."
"Mrs. Howard is so good with her business,"
exclaimed Blanche; "she is so really useful: what
I have to do is very little. I am sure, if she could
be here, she would put me in the way of doing a
great deal more."
"But she is coming to you, is she not?" inquired
Lady Charlton.  "I am sure I heard your father
say something about it." 
"She was to have come; but she has been obliged
to delay: one of her nieces is ill," said Blanche.
" I am longing for her, to help me in every thing;
to make me methodical and energetic, and like herself, if she could," she added, laughing.
Lady Charlton began the first words of a compliment, but stopped.  "I won't say what I was going
to say, my dear; I don't think it would be in your




112         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
way, though it would be true; and I will not offer
to take Mrs. Howard's place,-that would be out of
the question; but you must let me know if I can
ever be of any use to you.  I dare say you go
about amongst the poor people. Your dear mother
always did," she said, with a change of tone which
made Blanche's heart thrill, though she could not
trust herself at that moment to answer the allusion.
"I go sometimes," was all she replied,
Lady Charlton drew near and kissed her tenderly.
"You shall let me go with you; I shall like it.  It
will seem that the old times are come back-quitewhen I look at you," she added, gazing in Blanche's
face with a sad smile.
Blanche returned the kiss, and, unfastening a
brooch which she always wore, showed a miniature,
exquisitely painted. " Will you tell me if it is like?"
she said.  "I have been afraid to ask papa."
Lady Charlton took the brooch in her hand, and
turned to the light. She was looking at it attentively, and Blanche, leaning over her, was waiting
with great interest for her opinion. Lord Rutherford came to the window. Blanche, by a kind of instinct, took the brooch hastily from her aunt; but
not before the earl had remarked it.
"A new trinket, Blanche?" he exclaimed, cheerfully. " Let me see."
Blanche's hand shook, and the brooch fell to the
ground.  The earl stooped to pick it up.  There
was a silence of some moments.
Lady Charlton said, "It is very like," and held
out her hand for it.
" The carriage is waiting," was all Lord Rutherford's reply.
He walked away, and Lady Charlton, as she returned the brooch to Blanche, said, "You shall
talk to me, my love: it is not a subject for him."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             113
CHAPTER XIV.
THE first determination which Blanche formed the
next day was that she would go to the parsonage
early.  The disappointment of the preceding afternoon had vexed her considerably, and she was resolved not to run the risk of another refusal. She
would go herself and make the request, and then
it could not, she hoped, be denied.
The subject was mentioned casually at breakfast.
Blanche began to feel herself sufficiently at home
with her aunt and cousins to leave them to themselves, and said she should go to the rectory the first
thing, and engage Eleanor for the day; "and we
will walk, if you like it, in the afternoon," she
added, addressing Lady Charlton.  "I must go into
the village."
"Must! my love," exclaimed the earl quickly.
"Who says must to you?"
"I say it to myself," replied Blanche, smiling:
"it is not an imperative must; only my aunt said
she would like to go with me sometimes; and —"
" Yes, my dear, certainly," interposed Lady Charlton; "of all things I shall like to accompany you;
but to-day, I rather think, I have an engagement. A
great friend of mine, Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, is staying
in this neighbourhood, and I promised to go and see
her when I came here. She is on a visit to the
Donningtons.  I think I had better take advantage
of the fair weather. Ady, what do you say?"
Adelaide answered carelessly that, if it must be,
she supposed it had better be; but that Maude would
L 2




114         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
do just as well as herself.  " I shall go with Blanche
this morning, if I may," she continued. " Blanche,
you will take me to the rectory; I delight in walking
the first thing after breakfast."
"Immensely intimate," said Maude, in her cold
sepulchral tone; "the civility must be for Mr.
Wentworth: you don't know any one else."
" You will stay at home, Ady," interrupted Lady
Charlton, glancing quickly at the earl; but he was
now engrossed in the newspaper, and knew nothing
that was passing.
Blanche was puzzled for an instant, but took the
matter simply, and assured them that ceremony with
the Wentworths would be quite unnecessary. They
met every day. If Adelaide liked to go, she might
do so easily.
" She will stay at home, my dear," repeated Lady
Charlton, decidedly; and of course the question was
supposed to be settled.
But Blanche stood at the green gate of the rectory,
and was trying to open it, when she heard some one
behind her say, laughingly, " Where there is a will
there is a way, Blanche.  Did you never hear that
before?  An exceedingly romantic spot this for a
parsonage, I must say."
Blanche was silent from surprise.
"I can open the gate, I dare say," continued Adelaide; "or-look, there is Mr. Wentworth."
Blanche was excessively annoyed, and answered
coolly, that she would not trouble Mr. Wentworth;
she should leave a message for Eleanor, and go back.
" When you have come on purpose to see her?  I
am sure you will not do anything of the kind: you
could not be so capricious.  Mr. Wentworth —"
and as the gentleman drew near, Adelaide held out
her hand with the ease of an old acquaintance. " How
very strange! Where did you drop from?"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            115
Mr. Wentworth reciprocated the surprise, expressed
a due amount of pleasure, and threw open the gate.
Adelaide waited for her cousin to go forward; but
Blanche paused resolutely.  "Thank you," she said,
addressing Mr. Wentworth, "but I am afraid I must
return now.  Since we have met you, perhaps you
will do me the favour to deliver a message to Eleanor.
I want her very much to spend the day with me,
and to come as early as possible. Mrs. Wentworth
is quite well, I hope?"
"Quite, thank you; but surely,-indeed, Lady
Blanche, you must not go back without seeing my
mother; she will be vexed if you don't; you have
given yourself so much trouble."
" Only a pleasant walk," replied Blanche. "Pray
say to Mrs. Wentworth how sorry we were she could
not dine with us yesterday.  Good morning."  She
bowed, and turned away; but Adelaide was already
within the gate.  Such a bewitching rose she had
seen!-amongst the briers,-nearly hidden it was,Mr. Wentworth must give it her.
Mr. Wentworth plunged into the thicket, and
Adelaide still advanced. Blanche could not let her
go on alone, for the next moment she would be in
front of the house: and so she was; and not only
before the house, but before the whole family party,
who were talking together on the lawn. Blanche had
nothing to do but to go up to them, and introduce
her cousin and apologize; though the apology was a
difficulty, for her gentle spirit was very considerably
roused.
Setting aside the neglect of Lady Charlton's
wishes, Adelaide was unquestionably rude to herself,
and Blanche had never experienced rudeness before.
Mrs. Wentworth received the excuse for the intrusion
politely, but without any cordiality; and even Elea



116         TIHE EARL S DAUGHTER.
nor's warm kiss and exclamation of delight, could not
take away the general awkwardness. Adelaide alone
was quite at her ease, and admired the house and
garden in a tone of easy familiarity, not unmixed with
patronage, which made Mrs. Wentworth's civility
freeze into a stiffness nearly amounting to haughtiness.
The restraint however was at an end, when both
Dr. and Mrs. Wentworth were called away. Then
Eleanor and Blanche strolled to a distance by themselves; and Adelaide, declaring that the walk had
tired her, and therefore she would wait till they returned, threw  herself upon a garden-bench, and
began a quick, laughing conversation of reminiscences
with Mr. Wentworth.
"You are worried, Blanche," was Eleanor's first
observation, when they were beyond hearing. "You
have never looked as you do now since the days when
we used to puzzle over Dante together."
"I wish it was a Dante worry now," replied
Blanche: "I could understand that; but really to
be angry and uncomfortable without knowing why, is
rather trying."
" Are things going wrong at the castle?" inquired
Eleanor.
"Oh, no! not in the least,-that is, I suppose
they are not; but new people fret me and puzzle me.
I don't know what they mean; and Adelaide Charlton is so persevering,-so wilful, I suppose Mrs.
Howard would say; and her manner is-I can't tell
what to call it-but excessively disagreeable."
Eleanor laughed heartily.  "Now, that really is
delightful, Blanche, to find that you can be severe
like the rest of the world."
" It is not for myself," continued Blanche; "really
I should not care what she did or said with me; we
are cousins, and it does not signify: but it must look




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            117
very strange to your mother.  By Adelaide's tone, I
should have fancied her to have been your intimate
friend for years."
" Knowing Charles well, makes her at home with
us, I suppose," replied Eleanor: "he said to me
yesterday that he knew her in Italy. But do forget
her oddity, Blanche, if you can, and tell me how you
are going on altogether."
Blanche sighed, and then laughed.  "I can't tell,
and I don't know anything; I believe I am quite
cross this morning. The castle seems in a complete
bustle.  My aunt has brought such innumerable
servants, I stumble upon a new face in every corner.
And it is so noisy to what it was: even when I am
alone, the atmosphere of bustle seems to be around
me. Moreover, I suspect I shall see exceedingly
little of papa; for you know it is not really seeing
him, talking in a common way, when other people
are present: and Sir Hugh has taken possession of
the library, so that I can't get the books I want;
and Adelaide sings snatches of songs to the piano,
and will not practise a single thing steadily with me;
and Maude reads and says nothing, but looks as if
she was not at all happy. In fact, Eleanor, I suspect
I am immensely selfish;-I mean it in earnest!"
Again  Eleanor laughed, and expressed herself
charmed to find that Blanche could descend to the
level of humanity, and be tormented by trifles. " Put
out; actually put out," she exclaimed; "as I am
when Susan says her lessons badly."
Blanche was silent for a few moments. She was
full of thought. "There is a way of taking things,
I am sure," she said; " a right way and a wrong.
Just as when one begins to wind a skein of silk; it
one can find the right end, it all runs smoothly; and
if one begins with the wrong, it must be entangled.
When I can understand them  all better, perhaps I




118         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
may be able to find the right end. Just now there
seems an entanglement;-wills and ways mixing.
They never mixed at St. Ebbe's."
"My dear Blanche, how exceedingly amusing!"
exclaimed Eleanor; "but you never were in a home
before,-I forgot. You don't understand what it is
for grown-up people to live together. Why that sort
of mixing of wills and ways, as you call it, goes on
perpetually here."
" Does it?" said Blanche. "But how do you manage?"
" I go my own way, and let other people go theirs,"
said Eleanor lightly; " and things come round again."
"But I don't see exactly how it can be here," observed Blanche.  "Your father and mother are so
good, and your brother -"
"Ah!" interrupted Eleanor, "that is the point.
Charles is delightful, exceedingly clever, and he can
talk amusingly, and sketch, and sing duets, and rave
about Italy; there is no one like him. But it does
not quite do; it does not suit papa and mamma:
they think a clergyman ought to be graver, and they
don't know what Charles is really like; and so they
are vexed with him; and he is provoked, and complains to me, and takes up my time in listening to
him: and then Susan is idle because I don't attend
to her, and mamma is angry with me because she
says I neglect my duties; and there is a history of
my home, Blanche; so now choose between the two."
Blanche did not attempt to choose. A shadow of the
deeper anxiety which was for ever corroding her
peace, crossed her mind: and the lighter evils of which
they had both been complaining, melted into nothing. Adelaide Charlton's laugh just then reached
them.  Eleanor stopped and listened.
"She is happy," said Blanche, gravely.
Eleanor looked round in wonder.  "That from




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             119
you, Blanche!  One would suppose you  envied
her."
" Oh! no, never; but I suppose it is natural to
some people not to think. However, I did not come
here to moralize; we must settle what we will do to-day.
You will come to the castle as soon as you possibly
can; and then we will walk, if you like it, in the afternoon.  My aunt is going to pay visits, and I thought
you and I might go together to see poor Susannah
Dyer."
Eleanor hesitated for an instant.  "You are going
to walk?" she repeated in a musing tone.
"Yes; do you see any objection; would you rather
not?  I thought, as it was our settled day, we had
better not put it off."
"Is it our day?  I had forgotten," said Eleanor.
"Yes, on Thursdays we agreed to go; and as my
aunt will probably be here a long time, it seemed desirable not to give up one's usual duties, if it could be
helped.  My aunt does not wish it; she told me so
yesterday; and she half offered to go with me herself."
" Lady Charlton!" exclaimed Eleanor.
"Yes; she is not at all what I know you fancied
her; she is not in the least a fine lady. I put her
out of my catalogue of worries, for she is delightful."
"Bat she will not go with us," observed Eleanor.
"No, because of the visit; we shall have the afternoon to ourselves.  Dear Eleanor! I shall enjoy it so
very much."
Eleanor could not help being pleased. The tone
of Blanche's voice was in itself sufficiently animating
to dispel the feeling of distrust which was continually
lurking, though unperceived, in her mind.  She
agreed that it would be very pleasant, and very
right; and began to discover decided reasons why it
was necessary they should go-the chief being, that
as they had promised it would be necessary to keep




120         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
the engagement, and that poor Susannah Dyer being
blind, and helpless, and ill, had a particular claim
upon them.
"And now I must go back," said Blanche, when
the point was settled.  " Back to my duties.  Such
strange ones they are, Eleanor; so unfitted for me; at
least, so unlike all that I should have formed for
myself."
"To stay in the drawing-room, and play the agreeable, and be referred to as the lady of the house,"
said Eleanor. " I shall like to come and see how you
behave."
" No, you would not like it," exclaimed Blanche,
energetically.  "One never does like to see people
out of their sphere; mine most decidedly is not to
rule.  You must see my aunt, Eleanor; she is the
person to be at the head of affairs; you would say at
once, that she could decide every question brought
before her, and could tell precisely how, and why,
and when, everything should be done.  Papa says
she has immense tact, and I think I can see it.
There is an indescribable something about her which
is very charming; her walk, the turn of her head,
her smile-and very handsome she is too! handsome
for her age; she must have been beautiful."
"I shall be afraid of her," said Eleanor, coldly
and proudly.
" Oh! indeed, I don't think you will; though one
or two things make me think she might be alarming
if she chose it. I doubt whether Maude or Adelaide
get on with her; she seems very short with them;
and Maude shuts herself up the moment her mother
comes into the room.  As for Adelaide, she rattles
on always; but there is a difference even in her."
"And Sir Hugh," inquired Eleanor; "what is he
like?"
Blanche appeared uncertain how to reply, and after




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              121
waiting some seconds, laughed and said, "I don't
think it is fair to question me in this manner about
my relations; you shall come and judge for yourself.
But I must go now, I have been very rude in leaving
Adelaide such a time."
"I don't imagine Miss Charlton thinks you rude,"
said Eleanor, looking towards her brother and Adelaide.  "I doubt whether she is tired of her companion."
Blanche stood still, and watched them. Adelaide,
sitting upright, was speaking quickly; and Mr.
Wentworth, standing before her and playing with a
walking-stick, was listening with an expressionwhich, to Blanche, seemed that of attentive deference.
" He is very handsome, Blanche; is he not?" said
Eleanor.
Blanche smiled thoughtfully.  "Yes, very; extremely handsome.  I am glad Adelaide has some one
to talk to that she likes." She walked on quickly.
Eleanor would not make another observation, for she
was disappointed.  They heard Mr. Wentworth say,
as they drew near, "The charm  is not in the place,
but in the people."   He spoke with feeling; but
Adelaide only laughed, and, rallied him  for his
old-fashioned sentimentality; and as Blanche approached, thanked her for having interrupted their
tete-a-tete, which she declared was becoming tiresome
as they had said all they could think of.  Mr. Wentworth turned from her, and addressed a few words to
Blanche; but, after a short interval, Adelaide again
dexterously engaged his attention, and kept up a
series of bantering repartees till they reached the
shrubbery-gate.
IM




122         THE EARILS DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XV.
BLANCHE returned home dissatisfied.  It was provoking to have spent half her morning without pleasure or profit; for her conversation with Eleanor had
brought her neither. It was unconnected, desultory,
and not free from petulance and irritation.  She
found Lady Charlton and Maude in the morningroom; one working, the other reading.  Blanche
took out her drawing materials. She was determined
to employ herself in something which would tone
her mind, and the drawing was one which her father
particularly wished her to copy. Lady Charlton no
sooner observed what she was doing than she left her
worsted frame, and stood by watching her, and called
to Maude to come and admire; but Maude only
turned round languidly, and contriving to peep at
the drawing without giving herself trouble said nothing, and returned to her reading. Lady Charlton
laughed at her as sadlyuncouth in manner, but assured
Blanche that it was always her way; she was such
a first-rate connoisseur; she would admire nothing,
except Raphael and Guido and the old Italian masters: and then, saying that she must inquire if Sir
Hugh was dressed, she left the room.
Blanche went on drawing and thinking, in a tranquil undisturbed state, which was very soothing.
She was copying a Holy Family from an engraving,
colouring it according to her own taste; and, as the
first soft hue brought out the beautiful outline of the
group, her attention was more and more fixed upon
it. She had no wish for conversation; silence was
natural toher, especially sinceshe had lately spentmany




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               123
hours alone; and Maude, leaning back in her easy-chair,
turned the leaves of her book so quietly that Blanche
soon lost all consciousness of her presence.  She
finished the first tint, and, laying down her brush,
took up the print to examine it more closely. The
expression of the different faces was wonderful; pure,
simple, almost severe, in their high spiritual beauty.
Blanche forgot that she was an artist; she forgot to
criticise or admire, and, resting her head upon her
hand, she bent over it wrapt in thought.
"Are you dreaming?" was the question which
woke her from her reverie; spoken in Maude's deep
voice of melody.  She was standing at a little distance with a closed book in her hand; a smile was
upon her lips, but it had nothing of gentleness in it.
Blanche started as she was addressed.
"You were dreaming," repeated Maude.  "Was
it of the colour of Joseph's robe?" and she laughed.
Blanche took up her pencil and replied, " It is difficult not to dream a little with such a beautiful subject before one."
" It is beautiful, is it? " continued Maude, in the
same careless way. She drew nearer to the table.
Blanche moved her own drawing, and placed the
engraving in a good light, and then was going away.
"Don't go," said Maude, putting her hand upon
her shoulder; "tell me why you like it?"
"Why?" and Blanche's eye flashed with enthusiasm; "because it is unearthly, pure;-because it
raises one's mind to look at it;-because," she added,
her voice unconsciously sinking; "it brings before
one the only reality."
She was again going, but Maude a second time detained her.  "Then you don't like it because it is a
good drawing?" she said, abruptly.
" In a measure I do; but that is a different kind
of admiration-it is an artist's, and I am no artist."




124         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Maude took the engraving in her hand, and turned
to the light. "That finger is out of proportion," she
said, pointing to the extended hand of the Virgin.
She laid the print on the table, and gazing from the
window, alloweu Blanche to resume her drawing without further comment.
Blanche began her work in a different spirit. She
was no longer unconscious that Maude was in the
room, her presence oppressed her, and she could not
succeed.  Maude came behind her, and hummed a
light French air; and Blanche, in despair, laid down
her pencil, and looking round, said simply, "If you
don't mind very much-if you would not think me
odd-I should be so glad if you would go away."
Maude did not move. " Which do you like least,"
she said: "my presence, or my song?"
"I like neither," replied Blanche, laughing.
"Don't you?  But listen! I will try something
else."
She leant against Blanche's chair and paused for a
second; and then, as if a voice sounded in the far
distance, the melody of a German hymn fell upon
Blanche's ear, soft at first, and liquid in its sweetness,
but gradually swelling and deepening, till the full
burst of praise seemed to fill the spacious room.  It
ceased suddenly as it had begun, and there was silence.
A tear rolled down Blanche's cheek.
Maude pretended not to notice it, but in her natural quick manner exclaimed, "You have not told
me a word about your visit this morning. Did Adelaide carry on her flirtation successfully? I knew she
would go."
"I should like to hear it again," said Blanche, unheeding the question; and looking up at her cousin
with a peculiar smile-half of melancholy, and half
of eager delight.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.                125
"You like music, do you?" said Maude.  She
seated herself at the piano, and touched a few chords,
whilst Blanche returned  to her drawing.  Maude
suffered her fingers to wander over the keys, slowly
at the commencement, and as it were thoughtfully;
but increasing in power and force till they moved with
a rapidity which was electrifying. But again they
sank into a low prelude, and the same clear flute-like
notes, which before had seemed to Blanche as scarcely
belonging to a human voice, were blended with them.
The words were distinct as the music.
" II passato non e
Ma se lo pinge
La viva remembranza.
II futuro non A,
Ma se lo finge
La credula speranza.
I1 presente sol e,
Che in un baleno
Passa del nulla in seno.
Dunque la vita e appunto
Una memoria, una speranza, un punto."
As the song proceeded, Blanche's pencil dropped
from  her hand.  So surpassingly sweet it was; so
thrilling in its mournful melody; so real in its expression: it seemed the true language in which the
vanity of human life should be told.  Maude repeated the last lines to herself, whilst she carelessly
turned the leaves of a music-book which was open
before her.
Blanche left her seat, and stood beside her.
"' Una memoria, una speranza, un punto;'
and that is all! " exclaimed Maude, looking round.
Blanche's colour deepened, and then it faded quite
away, as she said, whilst her voice faltered; "Oh 
Maude! Could you bear to think so?"
2




126         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"It is truth," answered Maude.  "There needs
no ghost come from the grave to tell us of it."  And
she sang the two last lines again, with an intensity
of feeling which she did not attempt to check.
Blanche stood with her eyes riveted upon her,drinking in the sounds which at each repetition
seemed more and more perfect.
"Tell me," exclaimed Maude, with an air of triumph, as she ended, "What is it, if it is not so?
Where is the past?  In what part of the world will
you dig till you can find it?"
" But how can that which has been cease to be?"
said Blanche, raising her eyes timidly to her cousin's
face.
Maude paused; and regarding her steadily, said,
"Are you a child, Blanche, or a woman?"
"A child, I believe," replied Blanche, laughing.' Papa tells me so."
"Yet you have notions; what are they?"  The
question was put with such an air of command, that
Blanche, for a moment, felt herself bound to obey
it; but it was only for a moment, and she answered
with reserve, that it was hard to explain them: perhaps when they had been together longer, it would
be less difficult.
" But I like notions; I like theories;" persisted
Maude; her large grey eyes lighted up with what
might almost have been termed a fierce eagerness.
"I must know," she added, laying her hand upon
Blanche's wrist.
Blanche drew back. A very slight accent of hauteur might have been perceptible in the tone in which
she said, " Another time; not now."
Maude's brow was clouded; she rose from  the
piano, threw herself into a chair, took a book from
the table, and tossed it down with an air of contempt;
and, after some time, began walking about the room.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             127
Blanche was annoyed with herself for being annoyed.
She scarcely knew why she had been; and she sat at
her drawing-table, busied in discovering the state of
her own mind, and wishing that Maude would speak
again and give her the opportunity of making something like an apology.
The silence was long and awkward, and disturbed
at length  by  the  dull, slow, heavy  sound  of
crutches.
"Sir Hugh is drest, I suppose," said Blanche, glad
to find something to say.
Maude did not reply.
The sound grew louder, and the complaining voice
of Sir Hugh was heard, telling Pearson, as usual,
that he was a desperate idiot.
Maude laughed sarcastically at the mild, deprecatory intonation which followed.  She took up her
book and disappeared through the window, whilst
Blanche went to the door.
"Ah! my dear Blanche! I thought I should
find you here; my first walk, you see. I was determined to pay my respects to you.  A delightful
room this!-infinitely improved!-What in the name
of wonder are you doing, Pearson? Why don't you
keep behind me? - Infinitely improved, my dear.
That window I remember quite well. It was a plan
of my own; I saw how things ought to be long ago;
but your father-a very first-rate man is the earl;
don't imagine that I have not the highest appreciation of his talents.  Excuse me, will you? may I
be allowed to rest?"  And Sir Hugh was assisted
into an arm-chair; and, to the consternation of
Blanche, wheeled to a comfortable convenient position, which he evidently intended should, at least for
the present, be a permanent one.  "I was telling
you," began Sir Hugh again; but he was interrupted
by an exclamation



128         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Sir Hugh! this really is too bad! It is far too
great an exertion for him, Blanche; but he would
come; he was so charmed with your half-hour's conversation yesterday.  It won't do though.-Pearson,
you must help your master back to the study."
" Lady Charlton! Frances, my dear! I insist;
-you must not interfere.  I was telling you, my
dear Blanche-"
Lady Charlton broke in again.  "My dear Sir
Ilugh; —indeed, I must have my own way.  Hark!
really there are visitors; and the earl-that is his
footstep, I am certain.  I assure you, Sir Hugh, you
make me quite anxious.  It is too much, a great
deal too much for you," she added, her tone becoming gradually but perceptibly irritable; and taking
the crutch from Pearson's hand she put it near her
husband.
"Pshaw! Lady Charlton," and with an impatient
jerk, the crutch was thrown to the ground, to the imminent peril of Pearson's toes.  "My dear Blanche,
I was telling you-"
The sparkle of Lady Charlton's eye alone told
what was passing in her thoughts.  When the door
immediately afterwards opened, and the earl introduced Mr. and Miss Wentworth, her manner was
that of the most bland goodhumour.
" So distressed, I am! so exceedingly distressed! "
began Sir Hugh, attempting to rise as Eleanor came
up to him.
Lady Charlton stood close beside him. "Poor Sir
Hugh! He has been suffering fearfully: he is not fit
to be here; but his spirits carry him beyond his
strength.  Your brother is an old acquaintance, Miss
Wentworth.  We met last year at Florence."
Mr. Wentworth was upon the point of holding out
his hand to receive a cordial greeting; but the extreme civility of Lady Charlton's reception made him




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              129
exchange the proposed shake of the hand for a bow,
and a hope that Lady Charlton had been well since he
last had the honour of seeing her.
"Quite well, thank you.  You were in Italy, I
believe, long after us."
"Only a few weeks; Florence became very dull."
"Indeed! I was not aware of it. We saw little
general society.  Rumours reached us of gaieties,
but as you know," appealing to the earl, "general
society is not very inviting abroad."
Lord Rutherford carelessly assented.
"We had a splendid summer at Florence, Mr.
Wentworth," said Sir Hugh; " I don't know whether
you ever recollect such another. I don't, except the
year.- Lord Rutherford can tell the date, I
dare say; we were travellers together, taking a scientific tour on the Rhine.  If you remember," he
continued, addressing the earl, "you were developing your sketching powers, and I flatter myself you
made considerable progress, by the help of a few occasional hints; the few hints, Mr. Wentworth, which
a man engrossed in a great object could afford to give.
Geology was my study: I gave up everything for it."
"Twenty years ago,"  said the earl coolly."Blanche, my love, how has your drawing advanced
this morning?"
Blanche brought it forward to be criticised.
Mr. Wentworth had recovered from  the slight
shock of Lady Charlton's reception, and now, with a
very quiet and rather dignified air, joined in the remarks which the engraving and the copy called forth.
Sir Hugh looked on from  a distance, stretching his
head, and constantly endeavouring to interpose observations of his own, which were as constantly taken
up by Lady Charlton, and repeated in a new form,
and, to judge from Mr. Wentworth's manner, an in



130         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
teresting one, for his marked attention was given to
whatever she uttered; and, as Lord Rutherford was
about to replace the drawing in its former position,
he begged permission to bring it nearer for her inspection and Sir Hugh's.
Blanche liked him better as she watched what was
passing; she had not thought before that he could
be so easy and agreeable, and yet so respectful.
"A very pleasant thing it is to meet a travelled
friend again, Mr. Wentworth," said Sir Hugh, quite
excited by the patience with which a disquisition
upon the comparative merits of two of the early
Italian masters had been listened to;," quite a gratification, I assure you. Lady Charlton and myself
shall have great pleasure in renewing past recollections; and my daughters-Maude! where is Maude?
My dear Blanche, surely she has been with you this
morning?"
"Maude is walking on the terrace," said Lady
Charlton quickly, "and Adelaide is rambling over the
grounds, I suppose; she went out directly after
breakfast."
Blanche did not think it well to throw  more
light than was necessary upon the movements of
either. There was a certain intonation in her aunt's
voice which she was just beginning to interpret.
" Ah, well, you will meet at luncheon; but I forgot
-really-Lord Rutherford-Lady Blanche, I ought
to apologize." Lady Charlton bit her lip, and gave an
apparently involuntary push to Sir Hugh's chair,
which made him stop short, with an exclamation of
pain.
Lord Rutherford was talking to Eleanor at the
window, and did not hear what was said, and the
burden of hospitality fell upon Blanche. Gracefully
but timidly she repeated the request that Mr. Went



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              131
worth would remain, and the invitation was soon
seconded by the earl, with that perfect though distant politeness which leaves no room for complaint.
Mr. Wentworth was therefore established on a comparatively familiar footing; and Blanche, feeling herself no longer bound to entertain him, left the room
with Eleanor.




132         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XVI.
IMPORTANT consequences, it is well known, often
follow from very slight beginnings. Mr. Wentworth's
first introduction at Rutherford Castle was marked
by no circumstances but those incidental to morning
visits; yet it gave the tone to the intercourse which
was to follow.
The earl's reserve and pride would have induced
him to hesitate long before he allowed any persons in
the neighbourhood, except his own peculiar friends,
to be on such terms as to call early, and lounge away
an hour and remain to luncheon, and perhaps join
the riding and walking parties in the afternoon; but
what had been done once came rather naturally a
second time, and certainly Lord Rutherford had no
cause to suppose that Mr. Wentworth's presence or
absence had the slightest effect upon the only individual with whom he chose to concern himself. Even
as Eleanor's brother, Blanche could only partially
like Mr. Wentworth.  His talents, his versatility of
mannerand ease of conversation, and the right principle
and good sense which he always put forth when conversing with her could not blind her to his faults;
and Blanche could only feel interest where she felt
respect.  It was perfectly indifferent to herself
whether Mr. Wentworth formed one of the circle or
not; but childlike though she was, and simple in
many of her ideas, Blanche could not fail to perceive that it was not so to others. Yet, even when
the fact was acknowledged, Blanche scarcely thought
of it. She noticed that Adelaide Charlton liked to




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              133
talk and laugh with Mr. Wentworth; and she observed that for some reason or other Lady Charlton
frowned and looked vexed; and she discovered that
Mr. Wentworth contrived to ingratiate himself with
Sir Hugh, and was rather disliked by Maude. But
the little incidents, which would have afforded matter
for sarcasm and ridicule to a more experienced eye,
passed before her as the scenes of a theatre before a
preoccupied, abstracted spectator. For Blanche lived
in a world of her own; or rather she lived in the
world of her friends and relations, seeing the same
sights, hearing the same sounds, and performing the
same actions; yet often deriving impressions totally
contrary to theirs, from all that was passing around.
So probably it must often be when religion becomes the predominant feeling of the heart very
early in life: it is all-powerful then, for it has no
master passion to oppose it.  Adopted later in life,
it must struggle with past evil recollections, and be
frequently crushed and overborne by what we falsely
term the realities of the world. We try to think that
earth is nothing, that heaven is all; but when we
have toiled for years in the pursuit of wealth, or
pleasure, or fame, how shall we in a moment persuade ourselves, that they are worthless?  Like the
fisherman in the eastern tale, we have voluntarily
opened the casket in which the mighty spirit of delusion was encased, and that which seemed at first but
a faint mist of evil has gathered itself up into a
giant form, and made itself our lord; and, when we
would fain command it back to its original nothingness, we find that our will is powerless to enforce
obedience. That Blanche retained her earnestness
and sincerity of purpose was not owing to any particularly advantageous circumstances; life at Rutherford Castle was, in its exterior, what life is in almost
all places where there is no one great business or
N




134         THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
occupation to mould it into some definite form: there
were rather late breakfasts, mornings seemingly frittered away in light reading, music, letter-writing, and
not very profitable conversation; afternoons devoted
to some drive or ride; seven o'clock dinners and idle,
talking, musical evenings. What was the purport of
all that was said or done no one seemed to inquire.
Lord Rutherford, indeed, spent much of his time in
his study, and busied himself in managing his estates.
His object was a definite one  yet he was the only
person, except Blanche, who appeared dissatisfied
with it.  After the first excitement of his sister-inlaw's arrival was over he seemed inclined to sink back
into the reserved and even contemptuous mood, which
had occasionally shown itself before when he was
alone with Blanche. Lady Charlton's vivacity indeed
often roused him, and brought out flashes of brilliant
wit and quick observation; but he soon relapsed
again into silence,-in Sir Hugh's presence especially;
though, fortunately for his temper and his peace, the
gout lingered much longer than was expected, and
kept Sir Hugh in a great measure a prisoner to his
room.  When he was absent the earl would occasionally read aloud, or enter into conversations with
Lady Charlton, which, as they seemed to possess a
power to engage his attention and give him pleasure,
were eagerly listened to by Blanche.
They were certainly very agreeable, full of anecdote and information.  Blanche's opinion of her
aunt's talents and power of mind, and even of her principles, increased daily. For Lady Charlton never
gave way to the earl's implied doubts of goodness, or
clever sarcasm upon things and people whom Blanche
had learned to reverence. She spoke openly, and in
a measure earnestly upon all serious topics; blamed
what was wrong, and approved of what was right,
and when left alone with Blanche sympathized with




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             135
any indication of her deeper feelings, more particularly when they were in any way connected with her
mother.  Blanche was beginning to lean upon and
trust her, at times even to think that she might
partly supply Mrs. Howard's place as a guide in her
daily actions. They were very different, different in
a way which Blanche felt better than she could
describe; but their ideas seemed the same. Lady
Charlton was more cheerful, more full of life and
hope; she had more interest in passing events than
Mrs. Howard; but they liked the same people, approved of the same books, professed the same motives. Blanche could not have spoken to her aunt upon
anything which immediately involved her own most
sacred thoughts, for such confidence can scarcely
be given except td one person, and Lady Charlton
was too recent a friend, and too lively and lighthearted, to offer occasions for alluding to them; but
in all minor points she seemed a safe counsellor, and
one whom  the earl was particularly pleased that
Blanche should apply to.
"I wish you knew her," wrote Blanche to Mrs.
Howard, in one of the weekly letters, which no occupation was ever allowed to stop.  "I should feel
more certain then of my own opinion about her.
Perhaps you will think it is not right to sit in judgment upon one who is so much my superior in age,
and so nearly related to me; but I do not know how
to help it. I think you can scarcely imagine how
entirely I am forced to form my own decisions, and
act upon my own will.  The last few months, since
we parted, have worked a marvellous change.  I
am mistress of the castle, and forced to order and
arrange, and treated with a deference which at first
completely puzzled me.  Papa seems to delight that
it should be so.  He will never allow the least opposition; he calls me queen in jest, and when I beg




136         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
him to tell me what he wishes for himself, a cloud
comes over him, and he insists that he has no will
but mine: and yet to others he is so different. This
is not what ought to be, is it?  It frightens me: I
long for some one to remind me of my duties;
to scold me, and tell me when I do wrong-which indeed is every hour in the day.  I wish my aunt
would do it. She has such very high principles, such
good notions about everything. I am sure she must
perpetually see that I am not acting rightly, but she
never hints at its being possible. I do make her
give me advice in common things, receiving visitors,
arranging for dinner-parties, and so on; but it is all
done laughingly, with a half apology, as if she had
no reason to suppose I did not know all that she
does. What I most wish just now is to have some
plan for the arrangement of my time.  I have
thought a good deal about it lately; for the kind
of life I lead at present is exceedingly unsatisfactory,
and yet I cannot tell how to alter it. If we have
visitors, I must attend to them; and really that takes
up more time than any one not on the spot would
imagine.  My aunt constantly says that she will not
interrupt me, if she thinks I have anything to do:
but then she begins talking, and I am bound in
courtesy to listen; and very willingly, I must own,
for she is the most agreeable person I ever met with.
Anecdotes she has to bring forward on every occasion, and they are never wearying, they are told
so quickly, and with such spirit. She quite understands giving one resting-places, and entering into
anything one says in reply. Really the hours pass
by, and I have not the least idea that they are gone.
Yet they are not satisfactory to look back upon.
Then, if my aunt is not with me, Adelaide and
Maude are; and Adelaide is like a butterfly, flying
from one pursuit to another, and calling upon me to




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             137
follow her and Maude-I meant to have written
a great deal about her, but I must not to-day: if I
once begin I shall certainly not leave off in time.
She interests me though, that I must say; and
frightens me too. We had a little quarrel the other
day, a very tiny one, but still sufficient to make me
feel what she might be if she were offended. I am
afraid I am very proud: she rather ordered me, and
my spirit rebelled, and I showed that I was annoyed.
I thought perhaps she would have been angry with
me a long time; but instead of that she came up to
me afterwards, the first moment we were alone, and
gave me a kiss, so kind! it made me ten times more
vexed with myself than I was before. Yet the next
moment she was just like her old self, and I do
not feel I have advanced in the least with her. All
this is sadly wandering from my first subject, but
when I write to you I always do wander: so many
things come to my mind which I long to say. You
will understand though that I lead a very unsettled,
idle life, and that Eleanor leads a very useful, busy
one; and when we meet to compare notes I become
discontented with myself, and long to do better, but
do not know how to set about it. My aunt said she
would go with me to visit the poor people, and I
know she would, if she could find a leisure day; but
there is always some engagement.  Poor Susannah
has been very much neglected in consequence. Eleanor has promised to go when she can, but Dr. Wentworth trusted her particularly to me. She sent me a
message the other day, asking to see me. You see I
tell you all my faults, as I used to do in the happy
old times: sometimes-is it wrong to say so?-I
fancy they were happier than these. At any rate, I
know that I never went to bed then with the same
burden of unfulfilled duties upon my conscience.
Some rules however I can keep, and some things I
N 2




138         THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
hope I do not forget. I can never be sufficiently
thankful that I was confirmed when I was. Preparation would have been so much more difficult here,
and I think I might have gone on in an unsettled
way, fancying that confirmation would be a new
starting-point, and work some great change in itself.
Whereas, now I feel that all has been done for me
which I could expect, and that if I do not advance
steadily, I must go back without any prospect of being
roused and warned again. Still I am uncomfortable
and anxious. The very fact of bringing my present
mode of life into a definite form, by writing about it,
makes it assume a more serious aspect. I am sure
it must be very faulty in some way; and what will it
be when I go to London?"




TIHE EARL'S DAUGHTER.           139
CHAPTER XVII.
THE answer to this letter brought a sad disappointment to Blanche. The continued illness of Mrs.
Howard's niece made her anticipate the probability of
going abroad, and would at any rate interfere with
the visit to Rutherford, which had so long been promised. Blanche had not realized before how much
she had lived upon the thought of this visit,-how
entirely she had looked forward to it as the means of
making Mrs. Howard acquainted with the fears and
uncertainties which she had never yet found courage
to mention openly. A week spent together would
have sufficed to show the loneliness of mind,-the
absence of sympathy,-the uncongeniality between
herself and her father upon the one most important
point, which caused her daily grief. There would
have been no need of words: Mrs. Howard would
have felt and understood all. Now that sinking,
decaying isolation of heart must still remain, unless
she could explain. But what was there to explain?
What had she to say?-the loved, petted, idolized
daughter of a man in whom the world agreed to see
no fault except pride,-why was she not happy?
"Read it, Eleanor," she said, putting the letter
into her friend's hand, as they met that same afternoon at the parsonage, whilst tears, in spite of herself, rose to her eyes.  " There is not a shadow of
hope for months,-probably not before next year."
Eleanor glanced at the full sheet.  " Am I to read
it all?"




140         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"If you will: it is in answer to mine.  But I
have scarcely thought of the advice in it yet."
Eleanor took the letter, and Blanche walked up
and down the gravel path, and very soon afterwards
Mrs. Wentworth joined her. Blanche could not conceal that she was out of spirits, and there was real
kindness in the tone in which Mrs. Wentworth addressed her, with a regret for the unpleasant news
which she had only just heard.  Poor Blanche was
always very alive to sympathy.  The tears, which
had only glistened before, fell fast, and Mrs. Wentworth was touched by her distress; and opening the
French window of a small room, which fronted the
flower-garden, begged her to go in, and seat herself,
and be alone if she liked it.  "It was her own little
roolm," she said; "and no one would come near to
disturb her."
Blanche was only too willing to hide herself from
observation.  She expected Mrs. Wentworth to follow her; but she did not; and Blanche leant back
on the sofa, and for a time indulged her own sad, disappointed fancies. When she at last raised her eyes,
it was to rest them upon an object which at once
withdrew her thoughts from the present trial, and sent
them  far back into the past.  On one side of the
fireplace hung a small painting, the subject of which
she recognised in an instant. It was her mother's
likeness; but how different from the subdued, sorrowstricken countenance which dwelt in her memory as
the only true resemblance of the lovely Countess of
Rutherford.  The picture before her represented a
young lady, who could scarcely, so it seemed, have
passed the age of twenty, standing on the steps of the
castle, dressed in a riding-habit, and caressing a
splendid horse, which she was evidently prepared to
mount.  The face was bright, even mirthful; the




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              141
eyes sparkling with expectation; the mouth joyous
in its expression of happiness. There was no striving
for effect in the picture; nothing but the simple representation of what must actually have been witnessed. Blanche felt, as she looked upon it, that
the artist who could so have portrayed her mother
must have drawn her as she actually stood, without
forethought or design. Five years afterwards, that
fair, young creature had become the pale, serious,
care-worn woman, whose beauty was overshadowed
by a fixed, it might almost have been called, a stern
melancholy; and whose fascination was the influence
of that purity of mind which grief has prepared for
heaven.
The picture, and the thoughts that it called forth,
struck a chord in the mind of Lady Blanche, which
at that moment was peculiarly though painfully sensitive.  If her mother had been spared, not even
Mrs. Howard's friendship would have been needed.
And again an undefined doubt, followed by a longing
for a truer insight into that mother's history, arose
within her.  Her attention was so engrossed, that
Mrs. Wentworth knocked at the door without being
answered, and Blanche started when she came in, as
if the privacy of her own apartment had been intruded upon.  The attitude in which she was standing, leaning  upon the mantelpiece  and  gazing
upon the picture, told at once the subject of her
thoughts.
"I did not know you had it," she said, in a tone
of gentle reproach, as Mrs. Wentworth came up to
her. Mrs. Wentworth appeared at a loss for a reply.
"And it must be like her," continued Blanche, still
with the same manner, as if she was vexed at having
long been deprived of a great pleasure.
"It was like her once,-for a short time," said
Mrs. Wentworth, her voice sinking at the last words,




142         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
as it so often did when referring to persons and
events connected with other days.
"I feel it must have been like," repeated Blanche;
" more like than the bust at the castle; more like
than this," and she unfastened her brooch.
"It is not the face by which she was most
known," said Mrs. Wentworth, rather indifferently.
"I am  sorry you have seen it; it will only disturb
your ideas."
" No, no!" exclaimed Blanche.  " I should be so
glad if I could know her as she was always; as a
child,-as a woman,-as what I am  now," she
added, with a faint smile.
A slight contraction was visible in Mrs. Wentworth's forehead, the  effect, perhaps, of some
sudden pain; but she answered in her usual, undisturbed manner:-" There is no picture of Lady
Rutherford as she was at your age, my dear Lady
Blanche.  This was taken three weeks after her
marriage."
"And for you?-was it her gift to you?" inquired Blanche, with eagerness.
"No, not her gift.  It was-" Mrs. Wentworth
paused, coughed, and then added quickly, " it was
the earl's once."
"And he parted with it?" exclaimed Blanche.
"Oh, Mrs. Wentworth! even to you!"
"I loved her," was the reply, uttered sharply and
bitterly; and Blanche in an instant reproached herself for her words.
"Yes, indeed, I know you did.  I know you were
her great friend. Forgive me: you had of course a
claim. But is there no copy,-no other picture like
it, taken at that time?  Three weeks after her
marriage! How happy she looks! —my own sweet
mother!" and Blanche drew near with the impulse
to press her lips to the cold, lifeless figure.  She




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              143
checked herself however. Mrs. Wentworth's calmness seemed a reproof for indulging anything like
excited feeling.  "Perhaps," she said, turning to
Mrs. Wentworth, with a smile of singular attraction,
so full it was of subdued eagerness, and softness, and
hope,-"perhaps, some day, if I might be permitted, I would ask to have it copied.  It would
be a great treasure.  You will understand," she
added; and in her earnestness she took Mrs. Wentworth's hand, as if to entreat by action as well as by
word.
To  her surprise,  Mrs. Wentworth  hesitated.
"She would, if it were possible;-anything which
could be done should be, Lady Blanche might be
certain of that. Artists were very rarely in the
neighbourhood; but it might be possible, just possible."
Blanche drew back her hand,-she began her reply proudly, and it was an apology; she had not
known that she was asking such a favour: —then
conscience reproached her for pride shown to her
mother's early friend, and she tried to alter her
manner.  Mrs. Wentworth stood passively by her,
listening politely. An unpleasant silence followed
what Blanche said,-a stiffness and restraint on both
sides; but it was broken in upon by Mrs. Wentworth.
" The original is so invaluable to me," she began.
Blanche interrupted her:-" You do not think I
could wish for that?  No, I assure you, not for a
moment."
"There are associations connected with it," pursued Mrs. Wentworth, quietly: "no copy would
possess them.  I was present when the picture was
taken. I watched its progress from the commencement. The first sketch was made on the countess's




144         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
birthday,-she was just twenty.  It was done by
an amateur, a friend of Lord Rutherford's, who was
staying at the castle. The countess had no idea of
his intention; but I was aware of it, and assisted
him.  I kept her, that is, in conversation."
"And it was my father's?" said Blanche, musingly.
"Yes:" and again Mrs. Wentworth's manner
grew very constrained; and, after a short pause, she
said, awkwardly, "I do not think the earl would
like to see it; it might remind him-" Blanche
waited some moments for the continuation of the
sentence; when it came, it was so hurried that she
could scarcely comprehend it:-"It might remind
him," repeated Mrs. Wentworth, "that is, it would
certainly bring to his recollection:-I think it might
annoy him to be spoken to about it," were the concluding words.
Annoy! what a strange, cold expression!  But
Mrs. Wentworth was incomprehensible; and so different on this day to what she generally was, so
frightened apparently out of her usual self-possession!
Blanche felt quite bewildered.  She turned from
the picture, and saying that she was now quite
rested, and would rejoin Eleanor, was preparing to
go, when Mrs. Wentworth detained her.
"It is not pleasant to me to part in this way,"
she said, more freely; "to appear unkind, as I must
do.  Might I hope that you would excuse it; that
you would make allowance for painful recollections?
I think you will," she added, looking kindly at
Blanche; "for your mother's sake I think you will
excuse any unintentional awkwardness in one who
loved her very dearly."
Blanche's  displeasure vanished  in an  instant.
"My mother's friend must always be privileged,"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             145
she said, putting her hand into that of Mrs. Wentworth; "even if there were anything to excuse;
but, indeed,-of course, I can understand."  The
mutual pressure of the hand was affectionate; but
Blanche was relieved when she stepped into the open
air: and she had not forgotten,-there had been no
second offer of procuring a copy of the picture.




146         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"VISITORS in the drawing-room, my lady," were
the words which greeted Blanche, when she and
Eleanor reached the castle, with the hope of making
some arrangements for spending the afternoon more
profitably than had seemed possible of late.
" Friends of my aunt's, I suppose," said Blanche,
speaking to Eleanor in an under tone.  "Is Lady
Charlton there?" she inquired, aloud.
"Yes, my lady: Lady Charlton and Miss Adelaide. The carriage has been ordered away."
Blanche went into the house. "We need not appear, I imagine," she said to Eleanor. " I am supposed
to be out; and if we once put ourselves in the way,
there is an end to all our plans for poor Susannah."
Eleanor agreed that there was no absolute necessity; but she stopped at the foot of the staircase,
and wondered who the visitors could be.
" We shall be waylaid, undoubtedly," said Blanche,
trying to hasten her.
"Hush! who is that speaking?" asked Eleanor,
listening.
" Sir Hugh scolding Pearson, or Pearson scolding
Sir Hugh," said Blanche laughing.  "Really, Eleanor, you are determined to be caught."  Blanche
spoke in jest, but her words might possibly have
been true, for just then the drawing-room door opened and a number of voices were heard.
"We shall be seen, if we attempt to go up-stairs
now," said Eleanor decidedly; but she had no one
to hear her observation, for Blanche had already




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             147
escaped to her room. She sat there for some little
time very patiently. Eleanor, of course, had waited
the one moment too long and been detained; it was
provoking, but there was no help for it, and Blanche
took out Mrs. Howard's letter, in order to occupy
the intervening time. It was curiously appropriate
to that precise moment. So much of it was upon
the subject of daily duties, daily interruptions, and
the spirit in which they should be borne.
"I am not in the least surprised at your complaints of desultoriness, my dear child," began Mrs.
Howard.  "All persons situated as you are must in
a certain way be desultory, or, more correctly, they
must I suppose appear to be so; for it does not follow that you should be so really. When you laid down
your strict rules, before you went away, I was convinced in my own mind that you would find a difficulty in carrying them out, but I did not like to dishearten you, since a plan of life is in itself good, even
necessary, if we wish to discipline our minds properly.
The great mischief of such plans is when the fulfilment of them is too rigidly insisted upon, and is
raised into a virtue in itself, instead of being considered as merely a stepping-stone. However I need
not descant upon the danger of too much regularity;
your difficulty seems to lie quite in the other direction. Naturally it would be so, for you cannot possibly be entirely mistress of your own time, and you
certainly are bound in duty to consider the comfort
of your guests before your own. But there must be
a limit to every duty, humanly speaking, or it will
encroach upon another, and become a fault.  And
this limit, I think, is to be found by having a true
sense of our position, not only in life but in our
families. As a daughter, you are of course bound
to obey; but, as the mistress of a household, you are
equally bound to take the lead, and to set an exam



148         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
ple of order and strictness. I doubt if you are likely
to remember this sufficiently.  Your mode of life
must in a great measure give the tone to your whole
household, and one of the most important features in
all families, especially in one which like your own
possesses influence from rank and wealth, is that it
should be under subservience to a law of duty and
not of pleasure. I do not mean that it is possible
to make laws for every hour, or every individual; but
it should never be left in doubt that there are claims
whichmustbeattendedto; employmentswhicharenever
to be neglected except for some very obvious reason.
If your mother had been spared, these responsibilities
would not have been yours as yet; but you are peculiarly circumstanced, and there are duties incumbent upon you which seldom fall to the lot of persons
of your age. I wish I could give you my ideas more
in detail, for I am afraid I shall not satisfy you; but
what I mean is something of this kind-I suppose
you breakfast late, but that need not prevent you
from rising early. If you set the example, the servants must in a measure follow it, so one great temptation in an easy life will be checked. I think you
would find it useful not to shut yourself up entirely
in your room, but to let your servants see what your
habits are-as example is better than reproof, and
indeed reproof can scarcely, I imagine, be in the catalogue of your duties at present. Then with regard
to your mornings-you intended, I know, to study
regularly; and certainly it seems to me that you
ought to do so.  Could you not manage to give a
certain fixed time to your aunt and cousins, and any
other guests, directly after breakfast, and then let
it be understood that you wish to have an hour or
two to yourself?  I hardly think you would give
offence, and your absence would by degrees be taken
as a matter of course. Perhaps, also, you might be




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              149
able to arrange to practise with your cousins, as you
say thev are both musical; but then, my dear Blanche,
you must take the lead.  If your cousin Adelaide
likes, what you call, a butterfly life, it does not at all
follow that you are to humour her: and though she
may be some years older than yourself, that will not
prevent your being of great use in keeping her steadily
to one object, if you show you are determined to be
steady yourself. So, again, I would beg of you if
possible to decide upon seeing the poor people on
fixed days; and, when these days come, say you have
an engagement, and make any plans for drives, visits,
&c., for your friends, independent of yourself. Your
reading also may be a great help to you as regards
system and regularity, if you can avoid the temptation of beginning every new book that is thrown in
your way-a temptation which, I assure you, I can
quite sympathise with. We cannot always be studying history and metaphysics, but when we do indulge
ourselves in light reading it should be for some specified reason-at certain times, and under certain
limitations. I really believe that half the mischief
of novels, those I mean which are innocent, arises
from their being so enticing that we are induced to
read them  at wrong times.  It may seem  a very
slight fault to skim half a dozen pages more when
duty calls us another way; but I am sure it injures
the conscience and untones the mind.  If we can
read a very interesting book up to a certain moment,
and then resolutely close it because we have something else to do, the relaxation can scarcely have
done us harm.  I am saying nothing about higher
rules and motives, because we have talked of them
so often before, and I am sure from your letter that
you have not forgotten them.
" This constant self-discipline, no doubt, requires
energy and watchfulness, but what is to be done
o 2




150          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
without them?  Especially what can be done by persons situated as you are, having scarcely any external
restraints upon their inclinations?  You must be a
law to yourself if you wish to avoid that wretched
frittering away of life which is the misery of hundreds of persons of your age at the present moment.
" All I have said is of course subject to one proviso-that your father should not object. If he were
to insist, or even evidently to desire, that you should
give yourself up entirely to your aunt and cousins,
you can but submit: only here again you would find
a law, and therefore a satisfaction.  It is not what
we do, but why we do it, that is of consequence.
How often we say to ourselves, speaking of things of
this world,' It does not signify, it is all in the day's
work?'-and so, neither, does it signify in the concerns of another world, whether we are called upon
to rule a kingdom or pick up stones from the road,
if only what we do is work: work that shall turn to
account in the reckoning of the long day of life;
work for Him to whom nothing is great and therefore nothing can be little."
Blanche refolded her letter and sat for sometime
thinking over it.  She could not at once fully enter
into Mrs. Howard's views; or, at least, she could not
at once see that they were practicable. Yet they had
given her an idea, a principle which might materially
assist her in the little difficulties that often perplexed her.  Blanche's mind was resolute and decisiv e. This was not generally supposed; but those
who were in the habit of interpreting her conduct,
too often did so without the least knowledge of the
real clue to it.  Lady Charlton saw her amiable,
agreeable, and attractive, and called her "a sweet
girl;" and Mrs.Wentworth understood, from conversation with Eleanor, that she was very much fascinated by Lady Charlton, and accustomed to follow out




THE EARL'S DAUGHITER.             151
her cousins' wishes, and, in consequence, was likely
to lead a desultory objectless life; and supposed therefore that she was too gentle to be strong-minded.
Lord Rutherford indeed understood her better; perhaps, if he had not done so; he never could have
given her his full affection; for, like her, he required respect to bring out his feelings, though it was
respect for the intellect, not for the heart; and one of
the most satisfactory discoveries he had made in the
progress of their intercourse was that she could have
an opinion and a will of her own. But, even to him,
it would have been a matter of surprise to witness
the immediate effect of Mrs. Howard's advice.  He
could not have understood the working of a mind
which obeyed conscience as it were instinctively, and
to which the bare possibility of a duty suggested an
instant endeavour for its performance. Blanche required only to perceive that Mrs. Howard was right
in her views, and of this a very little consideration
convinced her, and then her thoughts turned to the
practical mode of carrying them out, quickly, sincerely, without delay, or reservation, or excuse, and
in perfect simplicity: not at all considering it necessary to guard against observation, or to hide anything
which she intended to do; but supposing other persons would regard her duties as she did herself, as
matters of course.  She had already solved several
difficult questions, when Eleanor's quick step was
heard in the gallery, and scarcely pausing to knock
at the door she entered the room with the exclamation:"My dear Blanche! I am so-so sorry; I really
am vexed to have kept you; but -"
" But if people will put themselves in the way they
must expect to be caught," said Blanche laughing;
"however, we can go now."
"No, I beg your pardon, that was what I came to




152'TIE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
say," continued Eleanor, hurriedly. " I am afraid
we can't go this afternoon. Lady Charlton wishes
me so very much to stay: they are going out, —a large
party: she quite pressed my joining them. I am to
drive with your cousin Adelaide."
Blanche could not conceal her vexation.  "And
does my aunt expect me to go, too?" she inquired.
"Oh! no, I assure you, I was very careful.  I
did not mention your name. No one thinks you are
in the house. They suppose I had come to the castle to look for you; and now I have left them with
the excuse, that I must write a note to mamma to tell
her what I intend doing."
"And shall you write?" asked Blanche.
" Why no, upon second thoughts, I don't see there
is a necessity. I was to spend the afternoon with
you, but whether I go for a walk or a drive must be
a question of indifference." The latter part of the
sentence was spoken in that tone of decision which
is sometimes used to conceal a doubt.  Blanche,
without making any observation in reply, put aside
the writing materials which she was placing for Eleanor's use.
"Why will you not go with us, Blanche?" continued Eleanor.  "Why can you not wait till tomorrow?"
"Because to-morrow will be like to-day," said
Blanche: " it will have its own duties."
"But I could walk with you then; I promise that
I will not put myself in the way of temptation
again."
"Then it was temptation," said Blanche, a little
reproachfully.
"Perhaps so; it might have been: but I see no
harm in it. Whether you go alone to Susannah,
or whether I am with you, cannot make much difference to her."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              153
"But it does to me," said Blanche, unable to repress a feeling of vexation that Eleanor should prefer
a drive with a party of comparative strangers to a
walk with herself.
Eleanor laughed, and declared that Blanche must
be jealous of her cousin Adelaide; but there was selfdissatisfaction beneath her assumed indifference, and
she brought forward a number of excuses for her determination.  "Lady Charlton pressed it so much,"
she said, " it was almost impossible to refuse; in fact,
I suspect she wants me as a chaperone.  They had
not settled how it was all to be arranged.  Charles
was there, striving hard for the honour of driving your
cousin, himself; but Lady Charlton had evidently
set her face against it.  So, you see, I may be useful."
Blanche did her best to enter into Eleanor's gaiety,
but she could not succeed very well; for, as she began
to think of what was to be done, she saw that all her
plans were disarranged; and Eleanor soon perceived
it, also.
At the moment of accepting the invitation to join
Lady Charlton's party, she had not remembered that
Blanche could not well walk as far as Susannah' s cottage alone.  " However the next day would do just as
well," she said, "and Blanche had better make up
her mind to give up duty for that afternoon, and go
with the rest."
This Blanche declined; since she was not wanted,
she preferred having the time to herself. "I suppose you could not send an excuse to my aunt," she
suggested.
But Eleanor negatived the idea instantly, and after
again begging Blanche to forgive her, and promising
to behave better for the future, hastened away.




154         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XIX.
BLANCHE stood at the window, watching the party,
which was collecting in front of the castle. She saw
Eleanor join them, and converse a little with Adelaide; and, after some delay, they both seated themselves in the pony carriage, and drove off-closely
followed by Mr. Wentworth on horseback.  Blanche
could almost have repented having refused to accompany them; since there was no apparent obstacle in
the way. But she felt that she had done what was
best for her own mind, and there was great pleasure
in the quietness and solitude now so unusual; and
when the rumbling of the wheels and the echo of the
horses' hoofs died away in the distance, she lingered
still by the open window to enjoy the unbroken silence within the house; and the low, soothing,
mingled sounds of nature without.  They are rare
and precious moments, which are thus snatched from
the whirl of life and spent in stillness and alone.,
Even when they are not devoted to direct meditation,
and appear too fleeting to be productive of good,
they yet tend to give us a knowledge of the realities
which encompass us.  By the depth of their solemnity and repose, they remind us that beneath the
surface of this weary, working existence, there is
another world- another, and an enduring life;imaged in the unchanging sky and the returning sun,
and the ever renewed beauty of the trees and flowers,
and the steadfastness of the everlasting hills; and,
if our hearts are open to the truth, they may sometimes teach us to remember, that as in far-off years




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             155
the glorious temple rose silently in the city of Jerusalem, neither axe nor hammer nor tool giving warning or notice of the work, so the more glorious
temple-the Church of the Living God,-is at this
moment rising unperceived in the midst of a tumultuous world; each stone quarried and fashioned by
the sharp edge of sorrow and the keen stroke of
adversity, until perfected and prepared, it is fitted for
that destined position which shall be the place of its
rest for eternity.
Thoughts something like these filled the mind
of Blanche as she sat alone, enjoying the unwonted
quietness of the summer's afternoon.  She had early
learnt to look upon what is, not what seems to be;
but, during the last few weeks, the truth had been at
times overlooked. Notwithstanding the dissatisfaction expressed to Mrs. Howard, she had found much
enjoyment in the society of Lady Charlton and her
cousins; perhaps too much, for it had unconsciously
relaxed the strict, watchful tone of her character.
She perceived this now.  Mrs. Howard's letter had
given the first warning; and this short interval of
reflection repeated it. Again she reverted to the
question of duty, but less practically than before.
There is a close connection between the mystery of
what we see and the mystery of what we are; and
when Blanche looked upon the glorious landscape
beneath her, and the immensity of the sky above
her, she was carried away far beyond the immediate
consideration of daily pursuits into thoights and
speculations for which no answer could be found.
Metaphysical difficulties suggested themselves; questions upon the origin of duty-its binding powerthe irremediable consequences of its neglect-the
very fact of its existence, involving the possibility
of evil; and this again opening a new path for the
reason to travel, till it stood upon the brink of a pre



156         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
cipice, and recoiled shuddering from its own presumption. There are many amongst the young whom such
thoughts harass when it is little suspected;-many,
who are armed with no shield of faith for their protection.  We may well pray for them, for their peril
is great!
" Is that you, Blanche?" exclaimed a voice from
below, as Blanche still stood at the window.
Blanche started. "Maude! alone! I thought I
saw you with the rest."
" No, thank you; I am not a gregarious animal.
And such a set too, as they were!-just fitted for
Adelaide.  But come down, I want you."
Blanche delayed.  She had not settled what she
was going to do; but, certainly, she had no intention
of spending the afternoon with Maude.
" Come, you must come," repeated Maude, impatiently; "we will have a German lesson. I promised you one. We will sit upon the south terrace;
it is deliciously warm."
Blanche went to another window, from which the
terrace could be seen.  It certainly was a most inviting spot, with the bright slanting rays of the sun
upon it, and the flowers bordering it radiant in
beauty; whilst, below, were contrasted the deep shadows of the trees on the bank, and the glittering lines
of light which flickered on the sides of the distant
hills. She paused for a moment to consider; and it
seemed right to go;-right, since her afternoon was
interrupted, to take advantage of Maude's offer.
" We will read," said Maude, holding up a book;
" only make haste."
Blanche threw a shawl round her and ran down
stairs. Maude met her at the hall-door. She looked
quite  satisfied,-an  unusual thing for her,-and
Blanche was glad that she had assented.
" I fancied I was quite alone," observed Maude,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             157
as she sat down on a bench in the shade. "Why did
you not go with the rest?"
"I was not asked," replied Blanche; "that is,"
observing Maude's look of surprise, "I did not put
myself in the way of being asked. I meant to have
gone out with Eleanor."
"Charity visiting, I suppose?" said Maude, with
a slight sneer. "Well! you are very good, Blanche;
but, depend upon it, it will be better for you to spend
the afternoon in reading'Egmont' with me."
" Egmont!  Goethe's  Egmont!"   exclaimed
Blanche hastily, and with doubt.
"Yes. Why not?"
" Goethe! " again repeated Blanche.
"Well!" and Maude looked up almost angrily.
" What is the harm of Goethe? "
" I don't know, myself.  I have never read anything of his."
" Only the name frightens you.  Now, my dear
Blanche, do for once have an opinion of your own.
Don't be a Quixote and convert a windmill into a
giant, and then set to work to fight it."
"But the world is the Quixote," said Blanche,
laughing; " not I. I only go by what I hear."
" The world! that is some few bigoted individuals
who condemn every creed which is not cut and
squared after their own pattern. Your father does
not say so, I am sure."
"No; he has often promised to read part of Goethe
with me.  Only part," she added, laying her hand
upon the book, as Maude with a triumphant smile
opened it.  "Egmont is a part-a very grand part,
perfectly unexceptionable."
"Are you sure?" said Blanche.  "I think "and she raised her eyes to her cousin's face with
an expression of child-like confidence;-" I think I
might trust you."
P




158         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
The sneer which still rested upon Maude's lips
vanished directly. She turned to Blanche, and said
eagerly, "Thank you; yes, of course you may trust.
Whatever I might read myself, I could never ask you
to listen to a word which might offend you."
" But Goethe," said Blanche, as if speaking aloud
her own thoughts; "there is such a prejudice against
him-there must be something wrong-something
dangerous."
"Dangerous! absurd folly!" and Maude turned
the leaves quickly in her irritation, exclaiming-as
she went on, "The fear of weak, narrow-minded
cowards-false to their own conviction-envious of a
great mind. Blanche, you must not be one of them."
"I hope I should be always true to my own convictions," answered Blanche; "but it is very possible that you may call them  narrow-minded.  I
think you would," she added, boldly.
Maude fixed upon her a steady, penetrating gaze,
and said slowly, "I like that; better be narrowminded and firm, than narrow-minded and weak.
You shall read Egmont,"
" Tell me its faults, first," said Blanche.
" Faults! it has none. It is the most wonderfully
true, noble, inspiriting-but, you are a coward,
after all;" and she threw down the book and stood
gazing over the edge of the terrace.
Blanche went up to her.  "I hope I am not a
coward, Maude; but we all know the weak points of
our own minds.  Goethe's works must have something in them which does harm to some persons-I
may possibly be one. Tell me if there is anything
in Egmont which is generally objected too."
"By whom?" said Maude, sarcastically. "By
Mrs. Smith-Brown- -White-Green-Black? "
"By persons whose opinions I am bound to respect."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              159
"By yourself, rather," exclaimed Maude, impatiently. " Do forget such folly, Blanche, and judge
for yourself. As for the story, it is matter of history;
though with Goethe, it is not history, but actual,
breathing, reality. It is Egmont as he was, as he
lived, and talked, and thought; with his gallant,
chivalric bearing-his openness, generosity, disinterestedness, love of freedom, fearlessness of the
world's censure.  One must have loved him,-one
must have been Clarchen, who died with him."
Blanche repeated quickly, " Died with him? "
"Yes; for him-with him; she loved him too
well to survive him."
The next words were uttered by Blanche hurriedly,
with an effort; "Who committed suicide, do you
mean? "
" Pshaw! yet I might have known it,-it is all
education.  Suicide! Yes, what people call suicide.
She kills herself. You are shocked.  What a mistake to have told you! It is all spoilt now; but you
shall read it still; and tell me whether Goethe cannot ennoble such a death."
Maude put her arm round her cousin to draw her
back to the seat, but Blanche resisted.  "I am not
afraid to read it," she said; "but it will give me
pain."
"Yes; that pain which is pleasure,-the pain of
sympathy and admiration."
"That was not what I meant. I am sure I should
admire it, but I could not sympathize with it."
"Not with Egmont?- not with Clarchen?
"Not with suicide," said Blanche, quietly.
"Pooh!-nonsense! Why will you harp upon the
same subject? Of course, I do not admire suicide. I
allow that it is a crime, per se; a great crime if you
will; but I do say, and I will always say, that Goethe
sanctifies it by the power of his genius; that such




160         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
love as Clarchen's, is the love of a noble, self-devoting
spirit; that it is beautiful, and true love."
"No; no!" exclaimed Blanche, eagerly.
" Not beautiful! Not true! Then what is so?"
and Maude's eyes flashed with irritation.
" Love which lives through sorrow," said Blanche,
her voice slightly trembling.  "Not love which dies
to escape it."
Maude laid down the book which she held in her
hand, whilst waiting for a further explanation of her
cousin's ideas, and fixed upon her a cool, patient gaze,
which was peculiarly repelling.
Blanche turned away her eyes and went on; "You
asked me once about my notions and theories," she
said, " and I did not like to tell you; I am afraid I
was wrong, but you must forgive me. I don't think
I have what you would call theories; but I have principles. And, since you are kind enough to read with
me, and talk to me, I should like you to know them,
because then we shall understand each other better.
And, another reason-they are true principles to me;
and when you talk, it seems as if you were trying to
uproot them. But it would be unkind to do so," she
added, very earnestly, as she remembered the maze of
perplexities in which but a short time before she had
been involved, when suffering her thoughts to wander
without check or guidance.  "Even, if you could
succeed, you would only be making me wretched, for
they are my hope and comfort-my happiness." And,
in her energy, Blanche clasped her hands, and drew
up her slender, graceful figure in an attitude of
strength and power, which made the half sneer upon
Maude's face melt into a smile of admiration.
"And these thoughts and principles are what?"
asked Maude, patronizingly.
Blanche pressed her hands more closely together,
and still averting her eyes from her cousin, answered,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              161
"They are what you may call narrow-minded prejudices-they are religion."
"Religion! —yes; certainly;-extremely right,"
said Maude, still in the same manner.  "I hope I
am religious too."
Blanche was for an instant distressed and perplexed.
" My dear child!" said Maude, speaking in a light
playful way, which made Blanche shrink at the recollection of her own enthusiasm; "my poor Blanche!
what an excitement you have worked yourself into!
I declare you look quite ill."
Blanche with difficulty resisted the temptation to
run away.  "Thank you," she said, "I am not ill.
I did not mean to be excited. I merely wished to
say to you why I never could agree in your admiration of Egmont."
"Because of that naughty Clarchen," observed
Maude; "but we will forget her; we will choose
Schiller, if you like it, and give up Goethe for the
present.  By-and-by, when you have seen a little
of the world besides St. Ebbe's, and this grim old
castle, you will not be so much shocked at him."
Blanche drew back from  the caress with which
these words were about to be accompanied.  "I never
can wish that time to come," she said. " If it did, I
should have learnt to bear with that which my reason,
as well as my faith, tells me is utterly false."
There was a silence of some moments.
Maude appeared struck with the firmness of her
cousin's tone. She dropped the patronizing air which
she had assumed, and said, "Goethe's principles
cannot be false, for they will find an echo in the heart
of every one who can admire generosity and devotedness, and an undying, unchanging affection."
" I have not read his works," was all the answer
P 2




162         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
which Blanche made. She seemed weary of the
argument.
Maude again had recourse to the volume by her
side. Opening it towards the end, she read a few
sentences to herself. "I cannot let you have such
notions, Blanche," she exclaimed, after a short pause;
" they are beneath you.  You must read,-you must
admire."
" As I should admire a dream or a fairy tale," said
Blanche, smiling.
"That is what I don't understand; it is the only
thing I can't understand in you,"  said  Maude.
" What do you mean by a dream?  Patriotism, the
love of liberty, generosity, love, are realities: you
can feel them yourself; I know, I am sure you can."
" I hope I can," replied Blanche. "I think them
very real, very lovely, and admirable."
"And therefore true," continued Maude; "true,
that is the point,-that is the object to be sought
after, desired, striven, prayed for!" She spoke earnestly, her dark grey eyes kindling, and her colour
heightened.
" Yes, truth; it is the one thing needful," replied
Blanche: "but Mrs. Howard says that a half truth
must be the greatest of falsehoods."
"What? say it again," exclaimed Maude.
Blanche repeated the words.
"Goethe's truths are half truths, you mean,"
continued Maude.
"I think they must be; like the half truths of
heathenism, which led men to idolatry."
" But a whole truth, who can find it?-who can be
certain of it?" said Maude, in a musing tone.
"God is truth," replied Blanche, timidly and
reverently.
"Yes," and Maude's manner became reverent




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              163
also; "but men also are divine-in their noblest
feelings, their highest desires."
"We were made in the image of God," observed
Blanche; "but the image is defaced."
"Granted, of course.  Defaced; but not utterly
ruined-not lost."
"No, indeed not," exclaimed Blanche, enthusiastically; "not lost,-still to be restored, renewed
again; but it must be after the perfect original."
" I am tired of symbols," said Maude, hastily.
"Still, may I tell you, will you not think me very
presumptuous if I say what such notions as I believe
Goethe's to be appear to me to resemble?" continued
Blanche: "those I mean which make persons interesting, and in a certain way good, without being
Christians.  I must use an illustration; I cannot
explain myself else. It is as if he had accidentally
met with separate fragments of what had once been
the copy of a perfect statue; and because he admired
each portion separately, supposed that by uniting
them all together the whole would be beautiful.".
" Of course, of course," interrupted Maude; " they
could not be less beautiful when put together than
they were before, supposing they were all the work of
the same hand."
"But if parts were wanting," continued Blanche:
"or if Goethe had never seen the perfect original, and
therefore, instead of combining them  according to
the first design, formed a figure after the imagination
of his own heart-distorted and deficient,-there
would be no beauty in the whole, though every
separate member might be perfect."
"Well!" was all Maude would say.
"I think,-it seems to me," continued Blanche,
hesitating, "that this is something like such principles as you tell me are to be found in Egmont.
The feelings described may be good and true sepa



164        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
rately; but they can scarcely be so when they are
put together, because love and obedience to God are
wanting."
"No," exclaimed Maude; "Goethe, in Egmont
at least, would make men obedient to the principles
implanted in them by nature and conscience. You
would not wish for a better guide than conscience."
"It must be the conscience of the Bible, then,"
said Blanche; " not the conscience of a fallen nature.
This is setting myself up as being able to decide very
weighty questions," she added, blushing; "but I
have gained all my ideas from  Mrs. Howard.
Thoughts used to come into my head and puzzle me,
and I used to talk to her about them; and she made
them clearer."
" I should like to argue her into admiring Goethe,"
said Maude, "that would be a triumph."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Blanche; "that is, to
make her approve would be impossible; or admire
either, in one sense; because she never admires what
is not true."
"True! true!" repeated Maude to herself.  "If
one could only find what is true!"
" We are not true ourselves," said Blanche, "because of our evil nature; so that if there is truth
anywhere, it must be in something distinct from ourselves."
"Yes; I suppose it may be so," replied Maude,
doubtfully.
"In the Bible, then?" continued Blanche; and
finding that Maude did not contradict her, she added,
"Goethe and the Bible would not agree; therefore
Goethe's principles must be untrue. Am I very
obstinate?"
"You are very provoking," replied Maude, tossing
the book from her.  "I will never ask you to read
Egmont again; you may be quite certain of that,"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             165
She spoke with irritation, but Blanche fancied that
some portion of it was assumed. " I did not say that
I would not read it, and admire it too," she said;
"but you must let me try and think that Clarchen
was a heathen."
Maude looked sullen.  She went forward, picked
up the book, and turned towards the house.  Just
then Lord Rutherford came upon the terrace; he
had been riding, and had returned earlier than he
expected.  Maude's countenance struck him  as he
passed her, and, when he joined Blanche, he began to
inquire what was the matter.
Blanche did not venture to tell him the whole.
She had an intuitive perception of the points upon
which they might differ, and avoided them carefully.
Difference with him was very unlike difference with
her cousin; it involved so much more. And then
she was afraid of him; afraid of his cool, keen
sarcasm; especially afraid, because she could not
feel, as she did when conversing with Maude, that
however at variance their sentiments might be, both
were earnestly seeking after truth.




166         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XX.
"AND you were not inclined to be of your aunt's
party, then?" began the earl, after Blanche had
briefly told him that she had just finished an argument with Maude, which left them apparently both
where they had begun.
"The party was formed before I came back from
the parsonage," replied Blanche; "and I meant to
have gone for a walk with Eleanor."
"You are wonderfully fond of the parsonage,
Blanche. Are you in love with Mrs. Wentworth
yet?"
A remembrance of the morning interview came
to Blanche's mind, and she answered quickly, "Oh,
no! not at all in love."   Adding, to soften her
words, "she requires, I think, to be known well."
" Better than I ever knew her," observed the earl,
with asperity. " She is one of those chill pieces
of propriety whose very presence freezes one's blood.
Marvellous it is to me that she should have such
children. Miss Wentworth is superior in every way;
and her brother is a very handsome, agreeable man."
"They are a handsome family," observed Blanche.
"Dr. Wentworth    "
The earl interrupted her: "My dear, you were
going out; into the village, I suppose."
"Yes, some distance; but I could not go alone,
and the pony-carriage was given up for my aunt."
"Well! I will go with you; you are not tired,
I suppose?"




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.            167
Blanche thought of Maude.  She fancied that it
was unkind to leave her.
Her father drew near the steps which led down
the bank.  "You are going,-which way?  Can I
help you?"
Blanche mentioned her cousin's name; but the
earl quickly negatived the idea of asking her to join
them, ending however with, "unless you particularly
wish it, my love. I would have you do whatever
you like."
Blanche did not make a second proposal. She ran
lightly down the steps, and taking her father's arm,
they followed the path which led them through the
underwood, and amongst the scattered trees, down to
the edge of the stream. A rough bridge was thrown
over it, and Blanche, leading the way, without thinking it necessary to explain where she was going,
crossed it, and pursued the path over a green field to
the foot of the steep, broken ground which bordered
it. Lord Rutherford walked on in silence, till Blanche
began to ascend the bank, when he stopped, and raliying her upon her forgetfulness of his age, asked
where she intended to carry him.
"Only a little way-quite a little way by this bad
road," replied Blanche: "we shall be in a straightforward lane, when we are at the top of the bank.
But, papa, I will not go on if you had rather not. I
was going to see Susannah Dyer."
"Susannah who? Oh! a poor woman, I suppose."
"A blind girl," said Blanche.
"Blind! poor thing!-extremely sad.  Blanche,
my darling, you will sit down, and rest first."
The afternoon was passing rapidly, and Blanche's
hopes of visiting Susannah Dyer were becoming very
slight; but she sat down obediently.
"Susannah was confirmed when I was," she commenced again.




168         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Oh, yes; I recollect you told me before. There
is no harm in your going to see her: you like it, I
suppose; and you have not much amusement."
Blanche smiled to herself at the word amusement,
for it was not what she generally associated with her
visits to the poor.
"Your aunt has been talking to me," continued
the earl, following, as he always did, the train of his
own ideas.  "She says I bury you here:' it is not
the season for London, or she would make me take
you there directly."
" Me! London! Oh! papa, I am  quite happy
where I am."
"Happy in your ignorance, my love! I am glad
you are: but ignorance will not do all one's life; and
you must be condemned to London, by-and-by, I
am afraid.  Condemned to a gay life,-balls, f6tes,
concerts.
" They sound pleasant," said Blanche. " I suppose
I shall like them; but Mrs. Wentworth tells Eleanor
that she should not like her to be placed within reach
of them."
"Mrs. Wentworth is not your guide, my love.  I
mean, you are not at all called upon to take her
views.  I don't wish you to do so.  I like you to
form your own."
Blanche was checked, and afraid to say how much
she was inclined to respect Mrs. Wentworth's views.
It was always the case when conversing with her
father.  With all his partiality-his devotion, it
might be called-his eagerness to gain her confidence-insensibly, he repelled her. She was always
choosing subjects for conversation, thinking whether
he would be pleased. There is no real freedom where
this feeling exists.
"Your aunt," again began the earl, "is very
different from  Mrs. Wentworth.  She is a person




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.           169
of large, comprehensive mind, and very unprejudiced. You must find the difference in talking to
them."
"My aunt is much the more agreeable," said
Blanche.
"And her opinions are much the more valuable,"
continued the earl.  "You could not find a safer
friend to introduce you into the world. She understands the thing so well; you cannot possibly make
mistakes if you follow her advice. She has an intuitive perception of right and wrong in all cases."
" I think she has very good, high notions," said
Blanche.
"Yes; very good, very high: what all persons
should have," said the earl quickly.  "But I was
thinking of society. I have perfect confidence in
your good taste, my child; yet you might, in ignorance, offend against the customs of the world, if you
had no one to direct you. And it is a woman's
direction which is required: no man could understand what is wanted. I should be quite satisfied if
I thought your first introduction into society would
be under your aunt's chaperonage."
"And will it not be?" inquired Blanche, in a
tone of surprise.
"There is a doubt.  Sir Hugh has odd whims,
and sometimes fancies he can only live abroad. I
think it possible he will not remain in England more
than a twelvemonth; if so, it would be my great
wish to give you a little insight into life soon. You
will be more than seventeen in the spring."
"Yes: but that seems a long time off," said
Blanche.
" You might enjoy a season in town, then," continued the earl, and your aunt might be with us;' and, in the mean time, I think it would be desirable to show you something more than the routine




170         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
of our present life. Your cousins would like it, so
would your aunt, and it might induce her to remain
with us longer. She had an idea the other day of
persuading Sir Hugh to go down to his own place:
and I had some difficulty in talking her out of it.
It would be an absurdity.  Sir Hugh never rests
there: he no sooner feels himself tied down to a
place, than he is in an agony to leave it."
"But is it not right for persons to live on their
own property," inquired Blanche; "and take care
of it and of the people, as you do?"
" Right, if they like it, my dear: but Sir Hugh's
steward does infinitely more good at Senilhurst than
Sir Hugh himself.  However, the question now is
not about him.  What shall you say, Blanche, to an
importation of visitors?"
Blanche laughed and blushed, and thought it
might be pleasant, quite pleasant, if only her aunt
could be the lady of the castle instead of herself.
"There we must differ," replied the earl, turning
upon her a look of fond admiration.  "There is
but one who can fitly fill that station,-only one,"
he repeated, in a lower tone. Then, after a short
pause, he resumed, "And will you like it, Blanche?
that was my doubt. Tell me, —let me know," he
continued, seeing that she was uncertain what to
reply.
Blanche was obliged to speak; she never dared to
delay an answer when her father's manner was impetuous; but she could only repeat that it might be
pleasant.  This she saw did not satisfy him, and
making an effort to be candid, she added, "I cannot
be sure till I have tried; and I do not like to say
that I wish it, because I think it might do me
harm."
" Harm?" the earl turned to her hastily.
"I might like it too well," continued Blanche,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             171
her voice faltering a little, as, with an instinctive
feeling that it would be better not to provoke any
discussion upon duty; she added, "To-day I do not
seem to care about it, because I have been disappointed about Mrs. Howard.  I looked forward to
her visit so much, that now I do not seem to have
an interest in other people. I dare say I shall enjoy it though, dear papa," she said, perceiving that
he looked disappointed; " and you will not scold me
for being fond of Mrs. Howard." She looked up into
his face with a smile, though a tear glistened in her
eye. It was a smile of bright, heavenly beauty; but
it brought proud visions of earth to the worldly mind
of the Earl of Rutherford.
"No," he exclaimed; "I would have you love,
venerate, delight in her.  Whatever my Blanche
loves must be most worthy.  But there are affections-feelings to be brought forth under other circumstances.  Scenes more fitted for you.  You do
not think, Blanche, that I could consent to see you
wear out the best years of your existence here; when
I have but to speak the word, and you may be the
centre of attraction, the star, the guiding light of
hundreds.  No," he added, as Blanche's colour
deepened, till her. forehead was dyed of a crimson
hue; "I would not pain you, my child, with your
own praises. I speak selfishly, for my own happiness.  To see you wasted at Rutherford would be
wretchedness.  For my sake, you must forget the
dreams of your childhood, and look forward to the
prospect opening before you."
"It will not be very difficult, I dare say," said
Blanche, trying to throw her own mind into harmony with her father's. " I dare say I have a taste
for gaiety, only I have never had any opportunity of
indulging it."
"Then you shall have it now," exclaimed the




172         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
earl, his face brightening.  "I have been remiss,
certainly, in my attentions to the people about us;
but we will have a few persons in the house to help
us to entertain them, and then we can collect them
en masse, and make it agreeable."
" Soon?" inquired Blanche, with a timidity which
she could not hide.
Lord Rutherford laughed.  "The execution-day
is not fixed: but, my love,"-and his lightness of
manner in a moment changed into seriousness"you must not deceive me as to your wishes.
Neither for your aunt, nor for myself, nor for any
human being, will I consent to do what you do not
like. You have only to say the word, and Rutherford shall be as quiet and monotonous for the next
six months as it has been up to this moment."
The word monotonous gave Blanche a quick insight into her father's feelings. Though he would
not own it, the desire for society was as much for
his own sake as for hers. She could not disappoint
him; and, besides, she was not in her heart inclined
to do so. Blanche was young and naturally cheerful.
She enjoyed change, and amusement, and excitement; and, though she dreaded them  as possible
evils, she had never experienced any harm  from
them. Eleanor, too, she knew would enjoy the novelty, and Adelaide Chariton would be delighted; and,
with all these mingled inducements to bias her inclinations, she at length answered, as heartily as the
earl desired, that "she should certainly like it, provided  only that her aunt would undertake the
management of every thing;" and then, hoping that
her father would be satisfied, she stood up and proposed to continue their walk.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            173
CHAPTER XXI.
WHEN Blanche reached the blind girl's cottage, she
was not quite in the mood for such a visit. Her
fancy had been wandering,-yielding to the gay
ideas which  her father had  suggested.  Lord
Rutherford went with her till they were within sight
of the house, and then he took out his watch and
said that it was late, and hoped that Blanche would
not stay too long.  "It was a strange fancy to like
coming to such an ugly place." Blanche was vexed
that she had brought him; and blamed herself for
not understanding him better, at least for not consulting his wishes more. This was one of the many
trifling incidents which were continually reminding
her of the little true sympathy there was between
them.  He did not really care for the things for
which she cared, notwithstanding  his desire of
making her happy. She opened a wicket-gate, and
walked up a narrow slip of garden to a square, red
brick house, the only ornament of which was a
straggling monthly rose.  She was almost resolved
not to go in: there was a sound of voices in the
house, and she said to herself that perhaps it was
another visitor, and she should be in the way. Good
reasons, or such as are apparently good, always rise
up to the aid of inclination. Her father was leaning
over the palings, and she feared he was growing impatient, and her knock at the door was hasty in consequence.  In answer to her first inquiry, she was
told that Susannah was not well, and was only just
dressed and coming out of her bedroom.  Blanche
Q 2




174         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
was about to find an excuse, and say that she would
call another day; but conscience reproached her, and
she never turned away from that warning.  After
Mrs. Howard's advice, she certainly ought not to
postpone any duty which presented itself, and, conquering the disinclination, she said that she could
wait till Susannah was ready.
A delay of some minutes took place before she
was admitted.  Susannah was to be brought into
the room, and seated in her proper chair; and a
bustling neighbour was to be dismissed at a back
door; and two children sent out in a hurry, with
some broken playthings, which made the room look
untidy: but the smile that brightened up the blind
girl's intelligent face, when at last Blanche entered,
quite rewarded her for her patience.
"And you are not well, Susannah, I hear?" said
Blanche, sitting down by her side, and taking her
hand; whilst Susannah turned to her with a look of
gratitude, which did not need the light of the eyes to
give it expression.
" I have not been very well this week, my lady;
I believe I go out rather too much. But I have had
a little nephew staying here till yesterday, my sister's
child, who lives near your ladyship's aunt, at Senilhurst. That tempted me to go about with him and
the other children; for he is a sweet little fellow,
and I never liked to have him out of the way.  We
went over the hill to the village one day, and it was
too far; but there is not much the matter."
"I wish I had known you were not well," said
Blanche: "I certainly would have managed to see
you before; but the days pass by, and there are so,
many things to do. I should have liked, too, to see
your little nephew.  How old is he?"
Blanche had touched the right chord to show her
sympathy.  The blind girl forgot her trials, whilst




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              175
in the pride and delight which she felt in her sister's
child, she expatiated upon his goodness, and affection, and his beauty too; for he was beautiful, she
declared. She quite knew what he was like; but a
heavy sigh followed.
"Poor Susannah!" said Blanche, kindly;  "it
must be a great trial."
The blind girl recovered herself in an instant.
"I am not going to complain, my lady.  It's all
best, I know; and I am  cheerful enough most
times."
"Only out of spirits to-day, from not being well,
I am afraid," said Blanche.  "I wish I could stay
with you and read to you."
" Ah! if you could! some of the hymns out of the
book Miss Wentworth brought, I should like. They
seem to be work for me afterwards; because when I
sit knitting, I can remember them.  It must be a
glorious thing to make verses!"
Blanche smiled and said, "You told me one day
you had tried to make verses yourself, Susannah. I
dare say it amuses you."
" Yes, sometimes, in my poor way; it makes the
time pass to see how the words fit."
"And verses suit some thoughts better than plain
words, do;" continued Blanche.
"Yes, than some plain words; but not the Bible
words."
" Many of them are really verses also, though not
quite like ours," replied Blanche.  "Just listen to
these," and taking up a Bible, she turned to the
passage in Isaiah which bears us, in thought,from
this evil world to behold "the land which is very
far off."
Susannah listened in the attitude of fixed attention, and when Blanche's voice ceased, she entreated for more.  "It was so lovely," she said; " it




176         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
was like rest-not rest though, quite; but moving
on without feeling it."
Blanche could not refuse, and was beginning to
read the fifty-fifth chapter, when the earl, unperceived, came within sight of the door.  "That first
verse is a verse for illness, Susannah; is it not?"
said Blanche, pausing; "for the hot, weary days,
when our lips are parched and dry; and a verse also
for our sad days, when it seems that we'have no
pleasure; when we sit for hours still and lonely, and
seem not to have any friends, or comforts, and long
and thirst for them?"
"But that can never be your case, my lady," said
Susannah.
Blanche answered quietly: "The lonely feeling
comes to us all alike, at times, and so does the comfort. But I know it must be worse for you than for
me; God has given me a great many blessings."
" Yes, so many to love you," continued Susannah.
"I can fancy that better than all the grandeur."
Blanche could not repress a sigh as she replied,
"I hope there are some in the world who love me,
certainly-love me very dearly; but that love is not
enough alone."
" No, not alone; I know it is not. I can feel it
is not sometimes;" and the expression of the poor
girl's face spoke deep awe and devotion; "but it
comes for a time; and then it goes, and it is all dark —
quite dark," she repeated, in a voice of melancholy,
as if the privation from which she suffered had given
her a keener insight into the meaning of the darkness of the soul.
Blanche paused for a few instants before she replied. She turned the pages of the Bible, and as she
did so repeated, in an under tone, the first words of the
evening prayer, beginning, "Lighten our darkness,
we beseech Thee."




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.             177
Susannah caught the words and said eagerly, "Does
it mean darkness in our hearts?"
"Yes, in one sense it must," answered Blanche;
" and night must mean the night of this life. It is
a beautiful prayer."
"Lighten our darkness,"  repeated Susannah,
thoughtfully.  "Ah! my lady; that can never be
for me."
"Not in this world perhaps," continued Blanche;
"but the night will pass, Susannah, and the day will
come-the glorious day.  It is worth waiting for,
worth suffering and striving for, worth patience."
Susannah's face lighted up with interest, as she
folded her hands together with an air of devotion,
and suffered a flower which she had been picking to
pieces to fall from her grasp.
"Just think," pursued Blanche, "what it will be
like; it will be light with no shadow, no cloud, no
power of fading away-perfect light both for the
body and the soul. And it must come; though the
hours seem ever so long, ever so dreary, it must
come.  Oh! Susannah, it will be light for us both,
and we both promised together to strive for it."
Susannah did not reply; the sympathy was beyond her comprehension.  Since that one day which
had united them  in the same act of self-dedication, their paths had parted to the world's sight far
asunder; and, whilst poverty and privation were
her lot, it seemed that both life and death must be
light to the envied heiress of Rutherford.
Blanche read her thoughts with wonderful quickness, and as her voice sank and faltered, she added,
IYou will not think it; but I have my moments of
darkness too-sadness, loneliness, and disappointment.  Even for me earth would be often dreary if it
were my all."
The earl's cough at that instant warned her that




178         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
he was within hearing.  She looked up and caught
his eye.  His look startled her.  It was stern;
but the sternness of suffering rather than of anger.
He asked only if she was ready, took no notice of
Susannah, and scarcely allowing Blanche to bid a
hearty good-b'ye, led her from the cottage.
They walked on in silence for some distance.
Blanche was nervous and uncomfortable. She dreaded
she knew  not what.  As they stood again upon
the brow of the steep bank  they had ascended
after crossing the river, and which commanded a
splendid view of the castle and park of Rutherford,
the earl stopped her suddenly, and whilst he pointed
to the domain which was one day to be her own, said
in a calm tone, the more bitter from its effort to be
indifferent: "Then I have failed, Blanche, to make
you happy. I give you all and you are disappointed."
For a moment Blanche was quite unable to answer.
The restraint which she always felt when with her
father now amounted to dread; yet she summoned
resolution, and replied, "We must all be disappointed
sometimes, I suppose, dear papa; but I have a great
deal to make me happy; and I am  very happy
generally.  I would not vex you for the world,"
she added, laying her hand affectionately upon his
arm.
The earl took no notice of the caress, and after
continuing his walk for some little distance, exclaimed, as if giving vent to a train of secret reflections,
"You are right, Blanche; it must be so.  I was
a fool to think it might be otherwise. But a last
hope, a last wish," he added, in a lower tone. "Folly
though it may be to cherish it, it is hard to give it
up."
"If it is a wish for me, papa," said Blanche,
gaining courage as she spoke, " I think you may be
satisfied; for I desire no change outwardly."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             179
"Then what would you have? Why do you speak
of disappointment?" he inquired, quickly.
Blanche evaded a direct reply, and replied, "Our
sad feelings generally come from  our own minds.
There would be none, I suppose, if we were perfect."
A cloud gathered upon Lord Rutherford's face.
"You must be careful," he said.  "That morbid
tenderness of conscience may lead you, you know not
where."
"I hope it is not morbid," exclaimed Blanche;
" for Mrs. Howard did not call it so: she understood
it, and gave me sympathy."
"Sympathy!" said the earl, in an under tone;
and Blanche repeated the word with an unconscious
earnestness, for it expressed the true extent of her
needs.  They had crossed the bridge, which was
divided by a little gate from the castle grounds. The
earl opened the gate for Blanche to pass, but he did
not follow her, and when she turned to look for him,
she saw him leaning over it with his face buried in
his hands.  She walked on slowly; her heart was
full of anxious, unhappy thoughts, and the sound of
voices on the terrace above jarred painfully upon her.
The idea of possibly meeting strangers made her
hesitate to ascend the bank, and whilst waiting undecidedly, the earl rejoined her.
"Not that way," he said, as he heard Adelaide's laugh; and he went on before her, so that
she had only a momentary glimpse of his countenance;
yet, even in that instant, she fancied it looked paler
than usual. They turned into a walk at the foot of
the bank and reached the castle by a more circuitous
path, which led to one of the side wings.  A low
door at the foot of a turret presented itself at the
termination.  The earl stopped before it.
" You know this way, of course," he said.




180         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" Yes; I have explored it once or twice," replied
Blanche.
"You think you know it," he continued, and a
ghastly smile overspread his features.   " But. I
doubt if you do. It is a private entrance to your
mother's apartments."   They passed on and ascended a winding staircase, which Blanche had
only noticed before as leading, she supposed, to
the servants' rooms; and in a few seconds reached
a small lobby, into which several doors opened.
The earl took a key from his pocket, unlocked the
nearest door, and putting another key into Blanche's
hand, said, "This room opens behind the bed-room
which you have seen.  You will find letters and
papers in the cabinet.  Read them  at your leisure,
if you will." He did not wait for a reply, but turned into a passage communicating with the other part
of the castle.
Blanche scarcely noticed that he was gone. She
stood in her mother's apartment, her place of solitude and retirement, and all consciousness of the
present was absorbed in feeling for her who slumbered with the dead. The room was small, and furnished very simply; the chairs were without carving or
ornament; the curtains of the plainest pattern; the
carpet worn and colourless from age. But a readingstand was placed in the oriel window, and upon it
lay a large open Bible; and a low hassock, bearing
the marks of long use, was before it; and near, upon
a little table, was a Prayer Book blotted with tears, and
open at the service for the Burial of the Dead; and
Blanche, with but one thought in her mind, cast
a hasty glance around, and clasping her hands together, threw herself upon her knees to pray, where
her mother must have prayed, for pardon, and
strength, and acceptance at the Last Great Day.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              181
A few moments calmed her mind, and she was able
to examine the room more closely.  It had evidently
been left untouched since her mother's death, for the
walls were discoloured and the paper was damp;
and a sense of desolation came over Blanche as she
tried to unlock a large inlaid cabinet filling a recess
at the lower end, which at first resisted her strongest
efforts from the length of time it had remained unopened.  It was the only mark of peculiar refinement or expense in the room, with the exception of
two small pictures upon sacred subjects, exquisite
in design, but fast losing their beauty from  the
damp that had gathered over them.  Blanche succeeded in unlocking the cabinet after some further
efforts, and began a hurried inspection of its eontents. Stray articles of various kinds were collected
in it, of little value in themselves, yet put aside
carefully and marked.  Remembrances they were of
absent friends; ornaments associated with happy
days; things which once must have had a voice and
language for the heart; now, like their possessor,
silent in spirit and association.  And there were
other trifles, more painful perhaps to look upon as
recalling the daily life which had since become but a
dream: pens, sealing wax, scraps of paper, and memoranda, the items which form part of our ordinary
existence, and which could tell a truer tale of life
than the most valued relics. Blanche lingered over
these unconsciously. They brought her very near her
mother.  It was as if but a few hours had passed
since she had been seated at her desk, using the
pen encrusted with ink, sealing, perhaps, the last letter which she ever wrote; or-the fancy flashed
across Blanche's mind, with an overpowering rush
of regret, as she caught sight of an infant's coral'and rattle-amusing herself with the child who was
destined only to learn the value of her care by its
P




182         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
loss, But time was passing rapidly. Blanche had
but a few minutes more to spare, and, shutting
the drawer quickly, she opened another division of
the cabinet. Manuscript books, letters, and papers
filled it, and days would be required in order to examine them  thoroughly.  Blanche took the book
which lay nearest. It was full of old accounts; she
threw it aside, and opened another, it was the same;
another, and still another, and the gong sounded for
dinner; but Blanche could not go.  Paper after
paper, book after book,was examined; but nothing was
found which could throw any light upon her mother's
personal history; until, quite underneath the pile, she
laid her hand upon a packet of letters and a journal
book, marked " Not to be opened till after my death."
The second gong sounded as she hastily unfastened
the string which bound them; and, closing the cabinet, she took up the packet, locked the door of the
chamber, and hurried to her own room to dress as
quickly as she might, and appear at the dinner table,
if possible, as gay and light-hearted as was her
wont.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.           183
CHAPTER XXII.
"You were a complete truant this afternoon, my
love," said Lady Charlton, addressing Blanche, as
she threw herself into an arm-chair after dinner, professing to be too tired either to read, write, or work.
"We had a charming drive, and I should have liked
to introduce you to my friends the Cuthbert Greys.
Very nice people they are in their way; a little
too fashionable, perhaps, for your taste; but kindhearted and extremely clever. I quite thought, when
Miss Wentworth joined us, that you would be found
somewhere."
Blanche did not exactly like to own that she had
absented herself on purpose, and endeavoured to
change the subject, by asking where they had been
and what they had seen.
" The carriage party went round by Staplehurst
Common, and over the hill to the old monument.in
Lord Hervey's grounds," said Eleanor; but Miss
Adelaide Charlton and I drove through the copse."
" Miss Adelaide did not go with you anywhere by
her own consent," exclaimed Adelaide, coming forward from the window where she had been standing.
Eleanor laughed, and promised to be less formal
another time; " Though it is an error on the right
side," she added.
"You must come with me to my room. I want
to show you that sketch we were speaking of," continued Adelaide.
"What sketch?" asked  Maude, haughtily and
quickly.




184         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Adelaide's blush was not perceived in the twilight;
but she did blush as she answered, in a tone of
affected indifference, "Oh! only one that was taken
for me abroad,-I dare say you don't remember."
"There was one which I took," said Maude: "is
that it?"
"No, no, Maude! What can it signify to you?"
and, calling to Eleanor, Adelaide hastened out of the
room.
Blanche watched this little scene with surprise,
and a feeling of annoyance which she could not account for. She stood in silence for some moments,
when Maude's hand was laid upon her shoulder,
and Maude's deep voice of satire whispered in her
ear, "Jealous, Blanche?"   Blanche started; but,
before she could reply, Maude had glided past her,
and she was left alone with her aunt.  She could
not go then, although she longed to do so; but it
would have been unkind, when they had scarcely met
all day; and as Lady Charlton drew a chair towards
her, and beckoning to Blanche to seat herself in it,
said, in her most winning tone, "Now, my child,
we will have a few minutes of pleasure," Blanche
would have been well contented, but for one reason,
to remain.
"You were grave at dinner, my love, and you are
grave now," began Lady Charlton.  "What is there
to make you so? must I not know?"
" I did not mean to show that I was grave," replied Blanche.
" But you cannot hide it, dear child,-not, at least,
from me. You are graver than you ought to be,
Blanche, for your years."
"It is my disposition, I suppose," said Blanche.
" No, my love, I assure you it is not your disposition.  You are naturally light-hearted; but you




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            185
suffer yourself to brood too much upon serious
subjects."
"That cannot be, surely?" exclaimed Blanche.
"Yes, indeed, it can. You would say so, if you
had had my experience. You are very like your
mother, Blanche."
"You would not wish to see me different, then,
would you?" asked Blanche, almost reproachfully.
" Not in many things; but, in that one, perhaps I
might. Much more of your happiness may depend
upon it than you are at all aware of."
Lady Charlton spoke so energetically, that Blanche
looked at her with astonishment. "Was not my
mother happy?" was the question which trembled
on her lips; but then, as often before, she dreaded
to ask it.
"I should like to have my own way with you,"
continued Lady Charlton, in a lighter tone. "You
should not be buried at Rutherford much longer if
I had."
" Papa means to make Rutherford very gay," said
Blanche.
" Ah! my love, he means-I quite give him credit
for his meaning. But can he do it? I know him
better than you do, Blanche. There is not a man
of greater natural talent, or greater powers of pleasing,
in England, than your father,-but not at Rutherford; there is a weight upon him here."
" What! how? " asked Blanche, quickly.
Lady Charlton hesitated, "A weight I called it,well! it is one: the weight of the place; the old
walls, and the old furniture; it even makes me
melancholy.   Now at Senilhurst, where I would
take you if I could, you would find everything
different; a cheerful house, lovely grounds, open
and bright, a very pretty pasture country, not
overpowering in beauty: you know; or, at least you
R2




186         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
will know by-and-by, that nothing is more fatiguing
than being always on the mental tiptoe of admiration;
-everything in fact to enliven you.  It would be a
new phase of existence, and a good introduction to a
season in London."
Blanche liked the description, and said so; and
Lady Charlton was excited too, and gave a yet more
glowing picture of the enjoyments she would find
at Senilhurst.
" I should recommend it far more than remaining
here," she said. "There is nothing to be done in
a place like Rutherford.  Entertainments-young
people's entertainments I mean-are out of character.
And you would not have the change-I see that is
what you want-complete change of scene."
"When I have been here only a few months?"
"That does not signify, my love," replied Lady
Charlton; "it is the effect of the place which is
pressing you down.  If your father had consulted
me, he never would have brought you here.  There
is nothing so desirable for young persons as cheerfulness. Grave thoughts and anxieties come quite soon
enough," she added, with that sudden transition to
a tone of sorrowful feeling, which always gave a peculiar interest to her conversation.
"I should have no village at Senilhurst; no poor people, or school," said Blanche: "that I should regret."
"Yes; but, my dear, you would have them. You
should see what we are doing there, and help us. Sir
Hugh is a great man for education, and gives me
carte blanche to do as I like when we are at home;
and you shall help me. My own girls, unfortunately,
have never taken to that sort of thing, and it has
been a great vexation to me. Ady is too giddy, and
Maude is so wrapt up in German metaphysics. I
assure you, Blanche, you could be of the greatest
possible use to me."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            187
"And poor Eleanor," said Blanche, unconsciously
giving utterance to her own train of thought.
" Yes, she would miss you; but, my dear, you cannot be always together."
"We have been so till now," said Blanche.
"I could not bear to think of our being really
separated."
"No, indeed, I can quite understand that; you
must be just like sisters: but the being parted for a
time will only make you enjoy being together the
more afterwards."
"It will be such a very long parting," observed
Blanche, " if I am to go to London in the spring;
unless-I wonder whether Mrs. Wentworth would let
her go with me there."
" We had better not look forward, my dear child;
take the day as it comes.  Go to Senilhurst with
me now, and leave the spring to itself."
" Mrs. Wentworth would not allow it, I am afraid,"
said Blanche, unheeding the warning; "and I could
never make up my mind to ask her, if I thought she
would say No."
"Mrs. Wentworth's strictness would come in the
way, I suppose," said Lady Charlton: "but never
mind, my love; leave it, as I said, and remember
you will get on better in London than you would
elsewhere, without Miss Wentworth.  There will be
so much to amuse and interest you. It pleases me
immensely, Blanche," she added, bending forward to
kiss her niece's forehead, "to find you take to the
idea so kindly, as the poor people say; and I shall
tell your father we have settled it."
"Oh! no, no," began Blanche; but Lady Charlton
stopped her-" My dear, you don't know your own
power, and you must be taught it. Believe me, you
have but to say the word, and horses would be ordered
for Senilhurst to-night. And now you have quite




188         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
cheered me, and I must exert myself, and go and see
after Sir Hugh.  Shall we have tea soon?  I am
tired, and must go to bed early to-night; so, if you
can, don't let that Mr. Wentworth keep us till midnight singing glees and trios."
Blanche rang for tea, and thought it might be
possible to snatch a few moments for solitude and
a cursory inspection of her precious packet of papers,
before it was brought in.  Eleanor and Adelaide
were crossing the gallery as she went up stairs. She
heard Eleanor say, in a laughing voice, " I shall certainly tell how carefully you have kept your treasure;"
whilst Adelaide replied, by a faint "Oh! no, no!
indeed you must not!" which, of course, meant pray
do.  But Blanche did not stop to interpret words, or
search into hidden meanings; only she thought it
strange that Eleanor should have found so much to
occupy her with Adelaide Charlton as to leave no
time for her.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            189
CHAPTER XXIII.
IT was nearly midnight before Blanche went to her
room for the night. Notwithstanding Lady Charlton's
injunctions, music had been the order of the evening; and music is, perhaps, of all amusements the
most enticing. Lord Rutherford was particularly
silent, and seemed quite in the mood for enjoying a
gratification which could be obtained without effort;
and Sir Hugh, who generally joined the party for
an hour or two before he went to bed, was charmed
with the opportunity of displaying his scientific
knowledge.  Duets, trios, glees, and quartettes, succeeded each other rapidly; or rather the quartettes
were the beginning, and the trios the finale: for,
after a short time, Maude, whose voice was of the
greatest consequence, professed her determination
not to sing another note, and the piano was left to
the possession of Adelaide, Eleanor, and Mr. Wentworth; Blanche only joining them  occasionally.
Blanche was much occupied with her own thoughts;
but not sufficiently so to render her unobservant of
what was going on around. Music was a delight to
her, and in general such an evening would have
been a great treat; but when at length the piano was
closed, and Eleanor and her brother departed, she
felt relieved; as if something which had annoyed
and offended her was removed. Yet it was hard to
say what that something was. There had been
nothing to find fault with in the singing. Nothing
in the manner or behaviour of any one of the party
to herself. Eleanor had seemed anxious to make




190         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
amends for any apparent neglect; and Maude, as if
wishing to show that she had quite forgotten their
difference of opinion, was particularly gentle, and
pointed out a beautiful passage of Egmont, which
she assured her she had marked because it was so
entirely unobjectionable.  Every one had been kind
to her; yet Blanche was fretted. It was so strange,
she said to herself, that she should be so; so odd
that she could not bear to watch Adelaide; that she
quite disliked hearing her speak to Mr. Wentworth.
She was really very good-natured and sang nicely, and
with a good deal of spirit and taste of a certain kind.
But it must be the taste, Blanche thought, which
jarred upon her.  It was too marked-too personal
-and there was a system of amiable quarrelling and
bantering kept up between Adelaide and Mr. Wentworth in the intervals between the different songs,
which was especially disagreeable to her. She could
not help hoping that, if this style of intercourse was
to go on, Mr. Wentworth would discontinue his visits.
Thoughts of Adelaide, however, were soon dispelled when the door of Blanche's apartment was
closed against interruption, and she was at length left
at liberty fully to examine her mother's papers. Late
though it was, she could not rest satisfied with the
slight glance which was all she had before given
them, and seizing upon the journal, as being the most
likely to afford her the information she desired, she
began to read it.
But disappointment was destined to follow. There
was no record of passing events to tell the secret
history of the Countess of Rutherford, although
there was sufficient to show that she had been singularly gifted with refined taste and powers of observation, chastened by deep piety.  The journal was
not exactly what its name implied. It was rather a
book of remarks, thoughts, extracts, and prayers. To
the writer it must have been full of memories and




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              19l
suggestions; for there were dates and private marks,
bearing reference, apparently, to the seasons at which
the observations had been made; and there was also
a visible change in the style of writing from the commencement to the end. The first pages showed more
imagination than reflection; more of hope than contentment.  The last were almost entirely short extracts from devotional writers, expressive of great
mental sufferings, and an endeavour to be resigned
under affliction. They were unconnected, and sometimes abruptly terminated.  The handwriting was
often illegible, and a few sentences were introduced,
apparently without meaning; but the concluding
words, written several months before death  had
summoned the Countess of Rutherford to her rest,
were the declaration of the Psalmist: " I will patiently abide alway, and will praise Thee more and
more."
Blanche repeated the verse to herself again and
again, for it seemed sent as her mother's legacy-her
last accents of advice and encouragement. But there
was nothing strictly personal in all this; and she
turned to the letters.  They also were, for the most
part, unsatisfactory, being chiefly written by Lady
Rutherford's friends, with the exception of a few
from the earl, dated in the first year of his married
life, and preserved most carefully in a little silk case.
These were kind and considerate; but implied frequent long absences, and gave few indications of any
wish to be at Rutherford.  Engagements, it was
said, kept him in London.  He hoped to be in the
country soon, but could not promise certainly; he
trusted that the  countess was amusing  herself,
begged her to deny herself no gratification; was glad
to hear that Mrs. Wentworth was with her.  These,
and many similar wishes, came in every letter.  But
Blanche was chilled as she perused them; for it was




192         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
not the love which would have been shown to herself.
Surely, she thought, there must have been something more. This could not have been the affection
for the sake of which her mother had left home, and
friends, and early ties, and pledged herself, by the
most solemn and binding engagement, to love, and
honour, and obey, until death.  One letter of the
packet was still unread, and, with a sickening feeling
of doubt and disappointment, Blanche unfolded it.
It was without a direction, and in her mother's handwriting, addressed to a dear friend.
The first sentence attracted her attention by a
painful fascination. "You tell me I must struggle
against my misery; but do you know what you require?  You would not be willingly unkind; yet by
such words you raise a barrier between us, which
leaves me doubly desolate. Weary and heartsick I
have been so long, that sorrow is my natural element,
and hitherto I have borne it in silence. But if the
captive sinks under the burden of captivity, who
shall blame him?  I wander, day after day, seeking
for I know not what-longing for rest which never
comes; listening for-I am listening now-but you
will find fault with me.  God hears me; I turn to
Him.  He will hear my child.  I give her to Him.
-If my husband comes-I am dreaming —too late."
And those few sentences, the half-collected, half-unconscious outpourings of a broken heart, were the
only indications granted to Blanche of the cause of
that grief which had preyed upon her mother's
health, and it seemed too evident, at length, crushed
the powers of her mind.
The morning dawned brilliantly and cloudlessly
upon Rutherford Castle, and as Blanche roused herself from a short slumber, the last words of her
mother's letter flashed upon her memory before she




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              193
could recall where she had heard them, or why they
should be accompanied by a pang.
The recollection came but too soon, and with it the
conviction that her most painful suspicions were verified-that her mother's life had been rendered miserable by neglect.  For, in the clear thoughts of the
morning, Blanche could put together words, and incidents, and trifling remarks, which had fixed themselves in her memory from the very pain they had
caused, and by their aid find a clue to many circumstances hitherto mysterious. Long before the household had risen she sat up in her bed, gazing upon
the straggling, nearly illegible, characters  which
showed the wretchedness of her mother's feelings,
almost as much as the words themselves; whilst indignation and fear were succeeded by bitter self-reproach, as she allowed herself to pity one parent at
the expense of her affection for another. Her mother
had been lonely and heartsick, and no one had been
near to comfort her.  She had been left to breathe
her anxious wishes, and no one had been at hand to
gratify them. She was ill in body and in mind, and
there was no one to administer to her needs or calm
her distracted spirit.  Whose fault could it have
been?  Blanche rested her forehead on her hand to
still the beating, throbbing pain, which was settling
there.  It was no new thought that her father was
proud and worldly, and had no sympathy with her
highest hopes. Day by day the assurance had become
"doubly sure;" and the gulf between them  more
widely marked.  But could he also be cold and
neglectful; he, who was so devoted to his child's
happiness, whose every thought was centred in her
gratification, whose eagerness to indulge, was even
painful and burdensome? Alas! for that most bitter
of all doubts, which bids us look with suspicion on
those whom duty bids us reverence.
S




194          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
When the party assembled at the breakfast-table
the pale face of Lady Blanche excited general notice.
The earl looked at her with uneasy interest, but only
asked if she had slept well; whilst Lady Charlton took
occasion to remark that it was evident the place did
not agree with her; she had thought so for a long
time but did not like to say so.  "Senilhurst would
do her a great deal of good, if you would but think
so," she added, addressing Lord Rutherford.
"Senilhurst will do very well, if Blanche likes it,"
he replied; "but I very much doubt if she does."
Blanche smiled faintly, and said she should miss
many things at Rutherford extremely.
" But, my love," and Lady Charlton turned round
with a sparkling eye; "it was only last night you entirely entered into my views, and quite enjoyed the
idea: you really are very incomprehensible."
"I don't much care," began Blanche; but she
stopped, for she knew that indifference would vex
every one.
"You don't care, my dear? I wish I could understand you. I wish I knew what you were aiming at."
"She is not aiming at anything, "said the earl,
coolly. " She likes staying at Rutherford; and, if so,
at Rutherford we will stav."
Lady Charlton compressed her lips and went on
with her breakfast.  Soon after Adelaide came into
the room. Lady Charlton looked up, and said, "You
are very late. Is your father dressed?"
" I don't know," was Adelaide's careless reply, as
if the question did not at all concern her.
" I must know.  I wonder what Pearson has been
about; pray inquire," continued Lady Charlton to
one of the servants.  "Pearson has grown extremely
absurd of late," she added to herself; "he never
can be in time; and Sir Hugh won't bear it."
Pearson made biis appearance, and was irmmeldiately




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              195
accosted with, " Sir Hlugh is not at breakfast, I
suppose?"
"Yes, my lady; at breakfast, and quite enjoying
it.  He hopes to see your ladyship as soon as is convenient."
"Oh!" and as Pearson withdrew, Lady Charlton
gave a slight push to her plate, and declared she had
no appetite, and really felt quite unwell. As it was
such a beautiful morning, she thought she should
like a little stroll on the terrace for the sake of the
air.
Blanche half rose to accompany her, or at least
to ask if she could be of any assistance; but Lady
Charlton motioned to her to remain, and murmuring
a few thanks went away.  Silence followed.  Lord
Rutherford took up a newspaper, and Adelaide began
reading a letter; whilst Maude occupied herself in
studying a large historical picture that hung opposite
to her; and Blanche tried to finish a breakfast for
which she had not any appetite.  Maude looked at
her from time to time with an expression of greater
gentleness in her features than they seemed naturally
formed to wear; and as Adelaide lingered, according
to her custom, tasting first one thing and then another, sighing because the tea was cold, and ordering
coffee which, when it came, she did not wish for,
Maude declared herself ashamed of wasting so much
time, and proposed to Blanche to leave her.
" Yes, do go; never mind me," exclaimed Adelaide,
good naturedly; " I have quantities of amusementthe most charming letter you ever read, Maude, from
Caroline Grey.  She is so sorry not to be in the
neighbourhood, with her mother and sister, now we
are here."  Maude's lip curled.  "I leave you to
your friend very willingly," she said, "so long as I
am not required to undergo the penance of reading
what she writes."




196         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" Ah well! you don't like her; but that I can't
help. Blanche, Caroline Grey would just suit you;
you shall know her some day."
"And hate her, as I do," whispered Maude, putting her arm within that of Blanche, and drawing
her out of the room.  "Caroline Grey is Adelaide's
dearest weakness," she added, laughing, as she led
Blanche to the library.  "Almost more silly than
herself, if that were possible. But we wont talk
about her. What have you done, Blanche, to put
my mother in such a ferment?"
"I! " exclaimed Blanche. "Is my aunt vexed?"
" My dear child, what a perfect innocent you are!
Vexed?-She is angry, furious."
" Oh! no, surely."
" Hark! Here she comes!" said Maude, and
Lady Charlton walked into the room, inquired for
some sealing-wax-asked Maude where Adelaide was,
and, after a formal " Better, thank you," in reply to
Blanche's inquiry of how she felt, again departed.
"I am afraid she is annoyed," said Blanche, much
perplexed.
" Only annoyed!" said Maude. " Well, we must
hope it may be nothing more.  But what concerns
me most, Blanche, is yourself. You look wofully
pale this morning, and I must know the reason
why?"
"I slept badly," said Blanche.
"But why?  Sleeping badly is never an ultimate
cause, and my mind cannot rest till it has reached
one."
"I did sleep badly: but I cannot tell you the
reason why," said Blanche, quietly.
"But I must know. I must insist upon knowing.
HIad it anything to do with our stupid afternoon,
yesterday?  Did I bore you by my German nonsense?'




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             197
"Oh! no, no; I scarcely thought about it."
"Not complimentary; one would rather be hated
than forgotten. Still I forgive you. But the pale
looks and the bad night, —I shall go backwards, like
the wonderful history of the House that Jack built,
till I find the cause."
Blanche's eyes filled with tears, and Maude's manner altered directly.
"There is something more in this than a little
fever, or a fit of worry," she exclaimed.  "Blanche!
I wish I could make you believe that I am not quite
such a heathenish savage as I appear."
" Only yourself would call you so," said Blanche,
half laughing.
" No.  But a great many would think me so.And yet, I think, yes; I am sure," she continued,
more seriously; "that I could be a friend-a true
friend-a better friend to you than most people.
Blanche, why do you feel yourself so lonely? "
Blanche regarded her with a smile of surprise;
and Maude went on.  "You are lonely, though you
may not choose to own it; you have no one to sympathize with you, though so many love you; and you
have fancies, and worries, and brooding thoughts.-I
see it constantly."
" Are you sure you are not speaking of yourself? "
asked Blanche.
" Never mind me; I am used to it.  I am older,
have seen more of the world, and have learnt to live
in it by myself.  But you have not. And you are
not formed to battle with it alone, as I am."
" It may be the lesson I am to learn," said Blanche,
gravely. 
"No, no, " exclaimed Maude; "that is one of
your narrow views. We choose our own lessons, and
shape our own lives. They do so, at least, who are
s2




198         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
worth anything.  Determine that you will not be
lonely,-that you will have companionship and sympathy, and you will find it."
"Have you done so? " asked Blanche.
" No; but it is because I do not need it-because
I would rather stem the torrent of life's troubles by
my own unassisted power; but you are formed to
lean upon others and cling to them. Why must you
condemn yourself to reserve and solitude? "
" I do not condemn myself," replied Blanche. " I
enjoy sympathy when I can have it; but I do not
need it as much as you imagine: or rather," and her
colour slightly deepened as she spoke, "I have more
than I can explain."
Maude turned away as if annoyed.
"Am I unkind?" said Blanche, following her.
"Incomprehensible, merely," was Maude's cold
reply; " but I have no wish whatever to force your
confidence. I might have known, from our conversation yesterday, how little our ideas accord." And
yet, as she said this, Maude lingered in the room,
evidently unwilling to break off the conversation.
"You are very kind to me, dear Maude," said
Blanche, gently. " I wish I could make you believe
that I really am obliged; perhaps, by-and-by, you
will, when we understand each other; for, in some
things, I think we agree more than we know. But,
as regards confidence, I have none that I should feel
it right to give to any one, except Mrs. Howard; or,
perhaps, my aunt."
"Mamma!" exclaimed Maude.  "Confidence to
her! "
"I don't meanconfidence, exactly," replied Blanche.
"But there are some things which she could tell me,
which would be a comfort to me; though I could not
ask her about them just now."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             199
"No; —certainly," answered Maude, with a satirical laugh.  "Fond though she is of you, I would
not advise you to put yourself in her way again, for
some hours at least."
Blanche looked distressed, and said she was scarcely
aware what she had done, though she supposed it
was being so foolishly changeable, as to going to
Senilhurst.
"I suppose it was that: but leave her to herself;
she will come round again; and she will bear a great
deal from you."
"I am glad she is fond of me," said Blanche;
though she said it with an uncomfortable feeling or
distrust and disappointment.
"Yes! mamma is always fond of persons she is
proud of."
Blanche's face showed that she was puzzled;
and Maude continued, laughingly, "Now, my dear
Blanche, there is a certain limit to simplicity, beyond which it becomes silliness.  You really are
much too sensible not to know that you possess
a great deal of which the world is proud-rank,
wealth, beauty. Nay; don't shrink from the truth,"
she added, as Blanche suffered an expression of distaste to escape her lips.  "I am not flattering you;
I am not a man paying court to you; if I were, I
should be wiser than to praise you to your face. But
I long to see you make the most of yourself; and I
am sure no one can ever do that who has not a
thorough appreciation of his or her peculiar advantages.  So you must understand that mamma is
proud of you; and, as a consequence, fond of you;
and if you choose to go and confide your griefs to her,
don't let me prevent you.  Only, I should have inagined -"
"W That?"




200         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Maude thought for a moment, and then answered,
" I should have thought that your taste might have
led you in a different direction."
"It is not a question of taste," replied Blanche.
"If I did not love my aunt, she would still be the
only person to help me now; unless, perhaps, Mrs.
Wentworth could."
" Then go to Mrs. Wentworth," exclaimed Maude,
hastily. "Cold, though she is, stiff, unbending, —go to her, Blanche. You wonder at me, and I shock
you; but I am not thinking of my mother, as my
mother-only as suiting you. Mrs. Wentworth will
tell you more of what you wish to know than
mamma will," she added, fixing her large piercing
eyes upon Blanche, as if she knew her inmost heart.
"But I cannot go to Mrs. Wentworth; I cannot
learn from one who is not a member of my family-"
"The secrets of that family," added  Maude,
quietly. " Suppose I could tell them, Blanche? "
"Do you know? Can you tell?"  exclaimed
Blanche, and the faint shade of colour in her cheeks
went and came rapidly.
" If I cannot tell myself, I might learn," pursued
Maude.
Blanche shook her head in disappointment. " No;
you are very kind, very good; but it will not do."
"And there is to be no confidence between us,
then?" said Maude.
Blanche did not answer. They had been standing
together at the window, and as she was about to turn
away from it, Maude laid a detaining hand upon her
arm, and pointing to a bird which was winging its flight
far into the blue sky, said, "I had a dream of two
minds soaring together, leaving the delusions of this
paltry world behind them, and seeking a higher life
in the glorious light of truth."
Blanche sighed.




THE EARL'S DAUGH'rER.            201
" Must it be a dream?" said Maude, almost tenderly.
Blanche raised her eyes timidly to her cousin's
face, as she replied unhesitatingly, " There is a false
light as well as a true one. Before we soar together,
Maude, we must know which we are seeking."
" Truth," answered Maude. " In other words, spiritual, intellectual beauty, which is another name fbr
truth."
Blanche passed her hand over her eyes, and said,
with a faint smile, " I cannot talk as we did yesterday-my head aches too much; I cannot fix my
thoughts."
There was a tone of indescribable depression and
weariness in her voice.  Maude looked at her compassionately and kissed her, and said she would not
tease her; and the sympathy overcame the self-command which Blanche had been exercising, and large
tears filled her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks.
Maude made her sit down.  " Can't I help you?"
she said.  " Are you quite sure?"
"Quite sure; unless you know."  She thought
for a few moments, and then added, " Does my aunt
ever talk to you about herself?"
" About past days?" said Maude.  "Yes, sometimes; but not often."
" Not of interesting things; things which would
interest me?" and Blanche looked up imploringly.
" I don't know," said Maude doubtfully; "that
is, they would interest you in a way."
"But does she ever mention my mother?"  The
last words were uttered with painful unwillingness,
and when they were spoken Blanche sat with her
hands tightly elapsed together, as with an effort to
conceal the working of some keen emotion.
The perplexed expression of Maude's face increased as she looked at her.  "What is it that




202          THE EARL S DAT)GHTER.
troubles you, Blanche?" she said. "Surely nothing
connected with days so long gone by; sorrows that
have so long ceased?"
" Then she was sorrowful; she was miserable,"
exclaimed Blanche, rising impetuously. "Oh, Maude,
in pity tell me what you know."
" Sorrowful, miserable," repeated Maude slowly.
"One must always fear it in such cases; but it may
have been better than we think."
Blanche grasped her cousin's hand, and the brightness of her eye was terrible in its eagerness.
" There are sadder moments of sanity than of delusion," continued Maude, gently; and Blanche's
fingers relaxed their grasp, and she fell back in her
chair nearly fainting.  Maude was not in the least
hurried out of her usual steadiness of manner; she
sprinkled some water on her cousin's forehead from
a flower-glass near, and when Blanche a little revived, and uttered mournfully the word " delusion,"
answered, without any reference to her transient
weakness, " I thought you knew it, dear."
" No, no; they kept it from me. But tell me
now, quickly."
"Only delusion,"  answered Maude;  "nothing
more.  Nothing to distress you, Blanche.  Pray believe me," she added, as Blanche's eyes again filled
with tears.
"But what delusion?  of what kind?"  asked
Blanche, faintly.
" Quiet melancholy; only that, I assure you;
nothing really hereditary to frighten you."
Blanche scarcely seemed to hear this comfort; she
only said in reply, " Was she alone? "
" Yes, sometimes, when it could not be helped,"
replied Maude, with evident hesitation.
" Quite alone; sorrowful, miserable," murmured




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             203
Blanche, and she leant her head upon her hand, and
cried bitterly.
" I will tell you all I know," said Maude.  " She
was not strong naturally, mamma says; and she was
a great deal by herself; and she must have been like
you, Blanche, fond of brooding over her own fancies,
for they never could persuade her to see people and
go out, except occasionally, when Lord Rutherford
was here."
" And she went out then? she was happy then?"
exclaimed Blanche, raising her head quickly.
" Yes, she went out a little to please him," continued Maude. " But you know he was absent a great
deal, especially at last."
Blanche's head sunk despondingly. Maude's quick
eye remarked the change, but she went on-" I do
not think there was really anything to distress you
so much; of course, she had every comfort, and her
mind"-she stopped, considering how to approach
the subject in the way least likely to give pain; but
Blanche made a slight motion of the hand, and said,
"I can bear it," and Maude continued, in a rather
hurried voice, "It was not so very dreadful; not
common insanity. She was very quiet, and gentle, and
good.  Mamma used to come and see her very often,
and for a long time people said it was only melancholy, it came on so gradually.  She used to write a
great deal, I believe; but almost all her papers were
destroyed when Lord Rutherford came back from
abroad."
" But he was with her; quite at the last?" said
Blanche, in a low voice.
"No; he was not here in time.  It was very unfortunate; for the longing to see him was so great,
it was worse than anything.  But Blanche, my dear,
I am  doing you harm," she said, observing her
cousi:'s look of intense sufferings




204         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" No, no; go on;" was all that Blanche ventured
to utter.
" There is not much besides to tell," answered
Maude.  "But indeed, Blanche, I am very anxious
you should not think it at all worse than it really
was. She was ill and depressed very long before it was
thought necessary to have any one with her; a companion," she added, as Blanche slightly shuddered.
"And, even to the very last, there were intervals
when she knew everything and everybody quite well;
and the only way in which they discovered when the
attacks were coming on worse, was that she would
then kneel for hours together in her room, repeating
portions of the Burial Service."
Blanche put her hand before her eyes to hide the
light of the glorious sun.  Many moments elapsed
before she spoke. Then she rose from her seat, and
kissed Maude, and said, " Thank you; you have
been very kind; you must not say that you have told
me," and walked slowly out of the room.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              205
CHAPTER XXIV.
MRS. WENTWORTH was sitting alone in her little
room: the post was just come in, and she was
busied in answering her letters. She looked particularly old that morning; perhaps her dress was unbecoming-perhaps her letters had been annoying; at
any rate, her care-worn expression was sufficient to
attract observation; and as Dr. Wentworth passed
the window, and stopped to say a few cheerful words,
it made him delay the business he was bent upon, and
re-enter the house. " There is nothing amiss in them;
is there, my love?" he inquired, taking up the letters
on the table. "I did not read them through."
" Oh, no! nothing: they are mere chit-chat; not
of any consequence. Why should you ask?"
"You seemed uncomfortable-that is all; but if
there is nothing the matter, well and good. It must
be the cap, I think, which makes you look different.
I think I told you I was going to the Union this
morning."
" Yes: you will be back to dinner, I suppose, at
six o'clock."
" Say half-past; we shall be more punctual. Goodb'ye;" and Dr. Wentworth departed.
Mrs. Wentworth leant back in her chair, in a
reverie, a strange and painful one.  It carried her
back many years, to that early romance of first
love-that entire sympathy of thought and feeling,
which she had imagined was to last undiminished for
ever.  Dr. Wentworth was a good man, an earnest
man: his heart was given to his duties, first; his
T




206         THIE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
family afterwards.  His wife did not wish it should
be otherwise; but she did not resemble him.  The
romance of her early years had not, like his, been
extinguished by the constant pressure of parochial
cares. She was poetical, enthusiastic still, in secret.
She had, as it were, two characters-the one of great
imagination, the other of strong common sense. Her
husband's affections had been won by the former;
they were retained by the latter.  Imagination,
with him, had been the amusement of boyhood; with
her, it was the present beauty of life: and if Mrs.
Wentworth had been endued with a less portion of
right feeling and self-command, the discovery of this
essential difference in their characters might have
been made at the risk of the happiness of both. As
it was, it only served to throw her back into herself,
to chill the outward show of enthusiasm, and to concentrate all the intensity of her hopes and interests
upon her children.  Perfect respect, and a true,
though unimpassioned, love, were still her husband's;
but she had learnt to live her inward life without him:
and whilst sharing his pleasures, and sympathising
in his sorrows, she concealed, as by a natural instinct,
those keener, more sensitive feelings, which he would
not have understood.  There were times when this
sense of uncongeniality was very oppressive. When
Mrs. Wentworth thought of her children, she most
felt the absence of that perfect sympathy, which
would have supported and soothed her under the
anxieties they occasioned. It was a fear for them
which was now pressing heavily upon her spirits;
that boding, shadowy fear which cannot be combated,
because it assumes no tangible form.  She indulged
the reverie of the past for a few moments only. It
was dangerous to her peace, and contrary to her
strict conscientiousness; but, as it faded away, there
rose up the long vista of futurity, and who can blame




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              207
a mother's momentary longing to pierce into its
secrets? It is so hard to persuade ourselves that
the children whom  we love so fondly, and guard so
tenderly, must one day bear, as we do, the burden of
this evil world.  When we are sinking ourselves beneath pressing cares, we can least endure the thought
that they must sink likewise.  When we are struggling with the claims of conflicting duties, or worn
with exertions for their happiness, we can least look
forward to the same conflict for them.  We watch
them  in their hours of mirth, and listen to their
joyful expectations, and in pity suffer the delusion to
last whilst yet it may; and at length we ourselves
become sharers in it, and, closing our eyes to reality,
whisper to our own hearts, "To-morrow shall be as
this day, and much more abundant."   Happy is
it that a truer love and a wiser forethought is
steadily, unshrinkingly, yet most mercifully, preparing for them the cup of trial which we would so
weakly withhold.
A knock at the door disturbed the train of Mrs.
Wentworth's thoughts.  "Come in," was the order,
spoken quickly and nervously; but Mrs. Wentworth
did not look round.
"Did you want me, mamma?" asked Eleanor,
standing as if unwilling to enter.
"Yes; if you are not engaged. Is Susan at her
lessons?"
" She was just going to say them; but she can do
something by herself, if you wish it, mamma," and
Eleanor retired.
Several minutes passed before her return, more, it
seemed, than were necessary, and Mrs. Wentworth
had a hasty word on her lips in consequence; but it
was not uttered, and served only to give a sadder
tone to her voice, as she said,'"I would not have




208         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
interrupted you, my dear, if there had not been a
necessity."
A little awkwardness was perceptible in Eleanor's
manner as she approached her mother; and a certain
consciousness that the necessity alluded to was not
an agreeable one.
"You were very late returning from  the castle
last night, my love," continued Mrs. Wentworth.
" I did not like to vex you by saying anything about
it at the time; but I was sorry. I did not expect,
indeed, that you would have stayed to dine."
" I did not mean to do it," replied Eleanor; "but
we went out driving and riding, and came back late;
and then Lady Charlton and Adelaide persuaded me,
and I thought you would not be angry."
" Adelaide," repeated Mrs. Wentworth in a musing
tone; but she made no other comment upon the
familiarity.  "I am not angry, my dear child," she
added; "and, perhaps, I should not even be vexed if
you were alone."
"You are afraid for Charles," replied Eleanor;
"but, mamma, it is his only amusement."
" Yes, I know it; but it makes me very anxious."
Eleanor looked steadily in her mother's face, whilst
a smile, which she vainly strove to repress, stole over
her features, as she said, "You are afraid of his
falling in love, mamma?"
"Falling in love, my dear! No!" and Mrs. Wentworth's lips curled in disgust.  "I could never fear
that Charles would fall in love with anything so
vain and frivolous as Miss Charlton; but I am afraid
of his being led on to say and do foolish things; to
flatter and talk nonsense, and go further than he
knows; to flirt, in fact: and I am afraid of your
seeing it, and perhaps being induced to join in it in
a certain way.  I could not bear that sort of thing,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             209
Eleanor; it would be so utterly against my taste, not
to put it upon higher grounds."
"Charles likes Miss Charlton very well," said
Eleanor; " but he does not really care for her."
"I do not see that it makes much difference
whether he does or does not," replied Mrs. Wentworth; " for a young man just preparing for ordination to waste his time and lower his character by
dancing attendance upon a silly girl, whom he does
not care for, merely because he wants amusement, is,
to say the least, unworthy."
" The Charltons will be going soon," said Eleanor.
"Lady Charlton talks of spending the winter at
Senilhurst, and taking Blanche with her."
" Indeed!" Mrs. Wentworth's face brightened instantly.
" Yes; it is nearly settled;" but Eleanor looked as
much vexed as her mother was relieved.
Mrs. Wentworth observed the expression of her
face: "My dear child, you must forgive me for being
glad; I do feel for you."
Eleanor only drew up with an air of reserve, and
said, " I am not disappointed; I have known that it
must be so from the beginning."
" It will smooth every difficulty if they go," continued Mrs. Wentworth, evidently trying to be frank
and unconstrained; "that was why I sent for you,
Eleanor, to know if you could tell me anything of
their movements,  If they were to remain, I must
urge your father to make some other arrangement
for Charles. I have such a great dread of the intimacy.  Can you not understand me?" she added,
watching Eleanor's countenance narrowly. "I think
you must see yourself how bad it is."
"Certainly," replied Eleanor, flattered by her
mother's confidence, "Adelaide Charlton is not the
T2




210         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
person to improve him; but, there is more in her,
mamma, than you would give her credit for."
"That may be; but Charles must have a superior
wife, if he is ever to do anything in life. He must
marry a woman whom he respects."
And loves, too," said Eleanor.
"Yes, assuredly; but the love in which there is
no respect is but a broken reed to rest upon.  However, I need not take up your time any longer, my
love. If Lady Charlton goes soon, all my trouble
will be at an end; and, in the mean time, I must trust
to you not to do more than you can help in bringing
them together."
" I will not do anything you dislike, dear mamma,"
was Eleanor's reply; "if you will only look less
anxious than you did when I came in."
" Anxious, did I? My face is not generally a telltale."
"I understand it always,"  answered  Eleanor.
"You have been uncomfortable very often lately."
Mrs. Wentworth did not contradict the assertion.
" I think you would be happier," added Eleanor,
"if the castle was far off; and yet, mamma," and
she hesitated, "you suffered me to be brought up
with Blanche."
"Yes, I did; possibly it was a mistake."  Mrs.
Wentworth thought for a few moments, and then continued, " Yet I acted for the best at the time. When
you first went to Mrs. Howard I was very ill; I could
not take proper care of you myself.  Mrs. Howard
urged me to let you go for the sake of Lady Blanche,
and for her mother's sake.  At that time there seemed
little probability that Lord Rutherford would ever
settle permanently in England;. or, if he did, that
he would choose to reside at Rutherford.  The circumstances under which he left it were such that I




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            211
myself could not have contemplated his return. He
has another place in the north; I imagined that he
would have preferred it. Yet it might have been an
error, a want of due forethought. Oh! Eleanor, you
will not make me regret it!"
Eleanor's feelings were touched by the earnestness
with which her mother spoke.  "Mamma!"  she
exclaimed, "I have been foolish, I know, of late;
but, indeed, you may trust me. I can only learn
good from Blanche, and I cannot really be led away
by a person like Adelaide Charlton."
" God forbid you ever should be, my love," replied
Mrs. Wentworth.  "You do not know all that such
an influence brings; how it lowers, wastes, vitiates
the whole tone of the character; how its effects are
felt for years and years. Such a mind as yours,
Eleanor, if it is not bent upon the highest objects
destroys itself; it cannot rest in mean pursuits, and
it turns inward and gnaws at the root of its own
happiness.  And you may be-shall I tell you what
you may be?what I have sometimes pleased myself
by imagining you to be?"
"Something much better than I can ever imagine
myself, I am sure," said Eleanor.
" Yet nothing beyond your power," continued her
mother.  " A woman with all a woman's tastes, and
gentleness, and modesty; yet earnest, untiring, exalted in your aims, enlarged in your views, sufficient
for your own happiness, from having fixed it where
alone it may be safely centred, whilst living in the
happiness of others, because your whole life is devoted
to the promotion of their welfare; and having a
power over their minds, because you have kept such
a strict watch over your own. That is what you
may be."
"And what shall I be, mamma?" The question
was put in a tone of great thoughtfulness.




212         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Mrs. Wentworth paused," and her voice sank
again into its quiet stillness, as she said, "One only
knows."
" But tell me; help me, if you can," said Eleanor;
"tell me what I must be if I am not what you describe. Mamma, it may do me more good than you
can think."
" Would you wish to hear?" replied Mrs. Wentworth. "You will think me exaggerating, yet I have
watched the downward progress of many characters like yours, and the general outline is alike in all.
First, self-dissatisfaction and a longing for the respect
which might be deserved, and then an endeavour
to be satisfied with mere admiration instead; admiration becoming necessary, and sinking gradually into
the craving of a miserable vanity; and this changing
in old age into a sharp, cynical narrowness of mind,
which is wretchedness to itself and others. I am
not speaking in the least too  strongly, Eleanor.
I have seen it, and grieved over it; and the first
symptom has always been that fickleness of action,
though not of intention, in little things, which you
are always regretting."
"And never amending," said Eleanor. " Mamma,
I must do so, I will."  The house-bell rang at that
moment; Eleanor coloured deeply. "It is Adelaide
Charlton," she said. " I did very wrong; I asked her
to come."
" Mrs. Wentworth strove hard not to show her real
annoyance."
"She shall stay but a few minutes," continued
Eleanor.  "She has only to look over some music,
and she knows I shall be busy."
Miss Charlton was announced in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Wentworth rose and said she would receive
her, and, collecting her letters, was preparing to go,
when Dr. Wentworth's voice was heard.  The meet



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            213
ing at the Union was deferred; he was returned unexpectedly, and he came to the window to say so.
"I want you, my dear, particularly. I must have
you for a few minutes to go into the village with me."
"Is it really necessary? There are visitors in the
drawing-room."
"What visitors?  Only Miss Charlton.  Charles
and Eleanor will entertain her."
Mrs. Wentworth's conscience smote her for the
pride which had made her shut up from her husband
the anxieties which she imagined he could not sympathise with. Now, when she wanted his assistance,
he was working unknowingly against her.
"Indeed, I must have you, my dear," he continued.
"I am in a hurry."
Mrs. Wentworth could say no more; but she
looked at Eleanor as she joined him, and Eleanor
answered the look with, "Adelaide will only stay a
few minutes. I shall not let her do so."




214         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XXV.
"I HOPE I am not interrupting you," began Adelaide Charlton, as Eleanor welcomed her with a gravity
of manner which she could not hide.
"Oh! pray don't name it. I shall find the music
I mentioned  almost immediately,"  and Eleanor
began searching for it hurriedly;  inquiring at the
same time for every one at the castle.
Adelaide rattled on in her usual style.  They
must have had a bad night, she supposed, for they
all seemed cross; but she made a point of never inquiring what was the matter.  She had left Maude
and Blanche in close conversation; but, of course, she
did not know what it was about: they were becoming
such desperate friends, it would not do to pry into
their secrets.
Eleanor bent over the music-stand, and regretted
that the lost piece of music was not forthcoming;
but promised to look for it, and send it to the castle
in the course of the day.
"Oh! it does not signify;" was Adelaide's in-,different reply.   "One never really cares for any
particular piece; I dare say you have a good many
that I don't know.  May I look?"  She took up a
piece of music, hummed a few  notes, thought it
seemed pretty, and seated herself at the piano to try
it. " Awfully difficult all this style of music is, and
not in good taste, people say; at least, Maude says
so, and she is the oracle. After all, instrumental
music is worth nothing compared with vocal.  How
badly your brother and I sang last night! We really




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             215
must practise before we exhibit again. Don't you
think it would be a good thing to have practising
days?"
"If one had time, it might be," said Eleanor.
"Oh, but we must make time.  I have no notion
of persons not finding sufficient time for anything
they wish. I protest, there is that enchanting trio
we were talking of; you must try it."
"A trio for two persons!" said Eleanor, laughing;
"that will not quite do."
"Never mind; just try your part."
She struck the first few chords; Eleanor grew
hopeless of escape. Adelaide's visit was from her
own invitation, and she could not summon courage
to shorten it by confessing her engagements.
" You very good people are so methodical," continued Adelaide; "you quite put one to the blush.
I declare, to see the way Blanche goes on is enough
to convert one into an automaton.  I must have
some music this morning to put me in good humour."
" Can that ever be needed?" asked a voice from behind her; and, to Eleanor's extreme annoyance, her
brother joined them.
Adelaide Charlton'  manner showed instantaneously
the working of her mind. There was a little blushing,
a little bantering, a good many quick upward glances,
interspersed with a few downcast modest ones; some
pretty nonsense about music and flowers, and a pretence at shyness, when Mr. Wentworth asked her to
sing, with an evident disinclination to leave off when
she had begun.  It was vanity, unmistakeable; and
Eleanor stood by and compared Adelaide's flirting
with her own dignity; and, in the pleasure of selfsatisfaction, forgot her mother's caution and her own
promises. And so the minutes went by, and Eleanor
satisfied herself that the waste of time could not be




216         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
avoided, and therefore it could not be wrong to enjoy
it. And she did enjoy it in a measure.
There is generally something agreeable in that sort
of light, quick  conversation which  accompanies
music, and Adelaide Charlton was not deficient in
talent of a certain kind.  She had travelled and
could relate amusing adventures herself, and assist
Mr. Wentworth in remembering his; and she had
seen more of the world than Eleanor, and laughed at
many of her simple notions; she was older also, and
had been presented at court, and was acquainted with
people of rank and fashion.  These were all ingredients of influence, especially when mingled with
them was the thought "Notwithstanding all these
advantages, I am the superior."
"And now, Charles, we really must be steady," was
at length Eleanor's faint endeavour to stop the flow of
the conversation. "I am doing very wrong in staying
here, and you are doing very wrong too, Adelaide.
I must be rude and send you away, or we shall both
get into disgrace."
Adelaide started from  her seat; "Go, must I?
Well, I suppose I have been here an immense time.
I did not mean to stay a quarter of an hour.  Mr.
Wentworth, I must trouble you to return my glove:
you seem bent upon keeping possession of it; but I
am afraid it will not be quite as useful to you as to
me."  She held out her hand, and to her surprise,
the glove was given as a matter of course, and Mr.
Wentworth, turning suddenly to his sister, said, in a
tone of quiet politeness, "Eleanor, you do not seeLady Blanche Evelyn."
Blanche was at the window, and Mr. Wentworth
stepped forward to open it.  His manner was quite
different; thoughtful and  respectful, as if some
sudden spell had been cast over him. Yet Blanche




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             217
was thoroughly at her ease, smiled and shook hands,
and rallied him upon his musical mania. Perhaps he
saw that the words were words of course, spoken to
smoothe the little stiffness of the party, for there was
no real gaiety in what she said. She looked ill and
harassed, and when Adelaide declared her intention
to return to the castle, Blanche made no remark, and
allowed her to say " Good b'ye," without asking her
to wait. So Adelaide, after a little more lingering
and sighing, and laughing, departed, taking care when
she had gone a few steps to attract attention, by an
"Oh! Mr. Wentworth, I forgot;" which drew him
after her, and induced him to accompany her more
than half-way home.
Eleanor stood watching them  until they were
fairly out of sight, and then going up to Blanche,
said, as she stooped to kiss her, "Blanche, I am
thankful you are not your cousin Adelaide."
Blanche smiled, and replied, "Perhaps, I am glad
too; and yet that is wrong," she added, correcting herself; though one may be glad one is not
forced to lead the same life.  But, Eleanor, I was
not prepared for your having any one here; and
I thought Susan's lesson would be over by this
time. If Adelaide has been with you that of course
is impossible."
Eleanor had seldom felt less inclined to attend to
lessons, and, as an excuse to herself, said, that Susan
could do very well without her for the present; she
wished first to know what had brought Blanche to the
rectory.
"Business that can wait verywell," replied Blanche,
"so please go, if you have anything to do, and I will
sit here and write a letter till you are ready."
"But you look fagged  and worried, Blanche;
what has been going wrong?"
The eyes of Blanche filled with tears, but not one
U




218         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
was suffered to escape, and, avoiding a direct reply,
she said, "I came here partly to tell you that we
shall all probably go to Senilhurst immediately."
Eleanor's countenance betokened blank disappointment; she was not prepared for such a sudden
move.
"Yes," continued Blanche quickly, as if anxious
to avoid questions; "it is my aunt's wish, and I
shall vex her if I refuse, and I don't think papa will
dislike it.  My aunt says it is the best thing for
me; and, and I don't much care myself what — "
her voice failed her, and she burst into tears.
Eleanor was at her side in an instant, soothing and
caressing her, and entreating to be told what was the
cause of her grief. Blanche seemed distressed at her
own weakness, but had no power of controlling it
when she had once given way.
" Oh, Eleanor!" she exclaimed, "if they had only
told me; if they had not brought me up in ignorance!"
" Ignorance, dearest Blanche! Of what? "
"Of everything; of what I ought to have known;
what all the world knows except myself," replied
Blanche, impetuously; a feeling of pride mingling
unperceived with her sorrow.
"All the world! what? how?" inquired Eleanor,
frightened at her unusual vehemence.
" You know," continued Blanche, and she grasped
her friend's arm nervously, until Eleanor said, " I can
know nothing which you will not tell me;" and then
Blanche dropped her hand, and leaning her forehead upon the table, murmured, " I am unkind too!
and I thought I had self-command! "
"You must not have self-command with me,
dearest," said Eleanor.  "If you cannot talk openly
to me, whom can you go to?"
"No one; no one;" was the mournful answer.
"But I think I could bear it better if I knew all.
Oh, Eleanor! are you sure? did your mother never




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            219
talk to yon? did she never tell you of-of my own
mother-my sweet mother?"-she paused, and her
voice sank almost to a whisper; but it was a whisper
clear and thrilling, and Eleanor's cheek turned pale,
and a shudder passed through her frame as she
heard, "Eleanor; she was insane."
There followed a long pause, until Eleanor said
very gently, "Mamma, if it is true, would tell you
all."
Blanche shook her head: " I could not ask her.
I had a thought-a foolish one —that you might
know."
"No, never. Could I have hidden it from you?"
"Perhaps so; they all did.  They thought it
right: it was a cruel kindness."
"Are you quite certain it is true?" asked Eleanor.
" Maude says so; and I feel it.  I understand
things now. Oh! if I could have comforted her but
for one hour!" and Blanche groaned in agony for the
past, whilst Eleanor trembled at the horrible train of
thought which in those few moments had been conjured up for the future.
Blanche recovered herself by degrees.  She related what had passed with Maude, and showed
Eleanor how the fact was confirmed by her mother's
papers, and the strange silence and mystery in which
everything connected with her was involved.  She
seemed to shrink from any attempt to persuade her
into disbelief.  "It was better," she said, "to face
the truth at once; that was what she was now longing to do entirely. A few days ago she could have
gone to her aunt; but there had been an unhappy
misunderstanding; she scarcely knew  how it had
arisen; from some foolish changeableness of her own,
she believed. It had worried Lady Charlton extremely, and she had not recovered it. There is no
one besides her, except your mother," continued
Blanche, and Eleanor assented.  She did not yen



220         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
ture to ask why Lord Rutherford's name was not
mentioned.
"And why should you not go to mamma?" she
said, as Blanche again repeated her longing wish to
hear the particulars of her mother's history.
The answer was given with some reluctance: " Because I am afraid of her."
" Afraid of her! so good, and gentle, and charitable, as she is.  Oh, Blanche!"
"Yet still I am afraid.  Do you know what it is
to have an intuitive perception of being misunderstood-misjudged?   Her interest in you absorbs
her; and well it may.  It is a mother's love."
Blanche turned away her head to hide her unbidden
tears.  "I am  very wrong to regret," she added,
"only sometimes I think that, if my mother had
lived, I might have been better; but then —."
It was an awful thought which suggested itself to
both, and Eleanor, willing to divert it, said, " Even a
mother's love, Blanche, cannot always be our safeguard,"
" It seems so, as if it must be," replied Blanche
musingly. " Your home, and its quietness and peace;
all your time marked out, and your duties fixed, and a
friend to go to always;-it must be safer than mine."
Eleanor made no direct answer.  "When do you
go to Senilhurst?" she said abruptly,
" Directly, I think; but the day is not fixed."
This was said with an air of such melancholy indifference as to recall Eleanor from all thoughts of
herself.
"You must be made happier before you go,
Blanche," she exclaimed.
"That cannot be.  I must try and bear it, and
the pain may lessen."
" But not the ignorance and mystery; and if you
chose, there would be nothing easier than to learn
everything.  Mamma would tell you every little de.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            221
tail, if she thought you were aware of the truth; and
you would feel her value then."
Blanche recollected the request for her mother's
picture, and was silent.
Just then Mrs. Wentworth came into the room,
accompanied by Susan. Blanche looked nervous and
agitated. Mrs. Wentworth spoke to her, but seemed
to have an instant perception that all was not right;
and addressing Eleanor, reminded her that the morning was fast passing away, and that Susan's lessons
could not possibly be finished in time if she was left
to herself. " I make no apology to Lady Blanche,"
she added; "she will not require it.  I am  glad
you have been detained by her." A meaning stress
was laid upon the pronoun, and Eleanor's sincere
conscience would not suffer her to misunderstand it.
"Blanche has been here but a short time," she
said. "Adelaide Charlton stayed longer than I thought
she would, and Charles came in, and they sang."
"Oh!"
There was no further remark or comment. Eleanor
kissed her mother, and the kiss was returned warmly;
but the sigh which accompanied it spoke volumes of
disappointment.  Mrs. Wentworth sat down when
she was gone; her manner was less self-possessed
than usual. She asked a few unconnected questions,
and when Blanche mentioned the plan of going to
Senilhurst directly, she did not appear to take in the
idea; her mind was wandering to another subject.
At length, Blanche asked if she might stay and
write a letter, and occupy herself till Eleanor was at
leisure again; and this seemed to put Mrs. Wentworth at ease, and she placed the portfolio for her,
and laughed at the bad pens which she had to offer,
and afterwards, saying she would leave her at liberty,
went away.
u 2




222          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER,
CHAPTER XXVI.
"YOUR master is much better this morning, Pearson," said Lady Charlton, addressing the civil manservant, as he stood aside, condensing himself into
the smallest possible compass, whilst she passed.
"Rather better, my lady.  I am  afraid he has
been in a good deal of pain the last half-hour."
"But he is better, Pearson; a good deal.  Mr.
Stone said so yesterday. He will be able to go to
Senilhurst soon."
" Certainly, my lady; certainly, if you wish it.
Did you say soon?"
" Yes; very soon; next week.  Your master will
be quite ready for the journey by that time."
"Certainly, my lady;" and a faint smile played
upon the lips of the well-instructed Pearson. " The
change is to do him good, I imagine, my lady."
" Of course; and this weather will do very well for
travelling; later in the season might be running a
risk."
"Certainly, my lady; and it might be bad for
your ladyship and the young ladies."
" Yes; in fact, we must be at Senilhurst next week.
Lord Rutherford and Lady Blanche will accompany
us."  Pearson bowed low.  " I shall see your master
presently, Pearson." Another bow.
Lady Charlton went to the drawing-room, and
Pearson repaired to the library, to see if the fire
was getting low. The glance with which Sir Hugh
repaid his attention was discouraging; so were his
words. As usual, they were a reproach for the length




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            223
of time he had been left, and, as usual, Pearson made
no attempt at explanation, and only answered, " Very
sorry, Sir Hugh; extremely sorry; might I be allowed?-I think I could put your pillow more comfortable."
" Not at all; I don't want to be comfortable. Left
alone two full hours! it's unbearable."
"I was certainly forgetful," began Pearson.
"Forgetful! idiot, you forget everything! Where's
my medicine?"
Pearson poured it out, and as he handed it to his
master, ventured to observe that the day was so fine,
he hoped it might do for a drive.
"Where is the good of driving?" muttered Sir
Hugh, "the hills stop one at every half-mile."
"Exactly what I was saying to the bailiff just
now, Sir Hugh.  Mr. Denham, said I, this place is
very different from Senilhurst. There we have a fine
open country, where my master can drive about and
get plenty of fresh air; beautiful soft in the valleys,
bracing upon the downs.  Trust me, if you could
come to Senilhurst, you would never wish to go back
to Rutherford."
"Then you talked nonsense, Pearson," exclaimed
Sir Hugh more mildly than before.
Pearson did not seem to notice the interruption,
but went on, " Mr. Denham is hard of belief; a very
narrow mind; never has travelled at all, Sir Hugh.
He wouldn't credit a word I told him of your crop
of turnips the year before last." Sir Hugh leaned
his head upon his hand in a soothed attitude. "Wonderful, those turnips were!" continued Pearson
"but, as I told Mr. Denham,-my master, said I,
understands these things; he's an experiencing gentleman; he takes nothing upon trust."
"And Denham wouldn't believe you, eh?" said
Sir Hugh.




224        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Wouldn't believe a word," said Pearson; " said
there never was such a crop known, and he couldn't
understand it. But, said I, Mr. Denham, it's not for
you and me to try and understand these things. My
master is a man of science, and what he does he does
upon principle-strict principle; the turnips, d'ye
see, grew upon principle."
" Hem, nonsense," muttered Sir Hugh, whilst the
frown upon his forehead gradually subsided, and a
pleased smile stole over his features.  "Why don't
you bring him to Senilhurst, Pearson, instead of trying to talk him over here?"
"Undoubtedly, Sir Hugh; it's the only thing to
be done; but, as I said, if we are to stay the winter
at Rutherford, there is no good in thinking of Senilhurst."
"And who said we were to spend the winter at
Rutherford?" inquired Sir Hugh sharply.
"I understood from my lady," began Pearson;
but Sir Hugh broke in, "I have told you fifty times
before, Pearson, that you are to understand from me;
your lady knows nothing about the matter."
" I imagined it was my lady's wish," began Pearson again.
"And what did you think then was my wish?
Did you suppose that I meant to be cooped up here
for the next six months, with nothing to do but to
follow your lady's beck and call?"
" My lady seemed to think it was fixed," continued
Pearson, "and of course it was not my place to say
anything; though I could see, like every one else,
Sir Hugh, that it would be better for you to be at
home."
"And what is to hinder me from going home?"
inquired Sir Hugh.
" Nothing, sir, nothing; if you desire it: only my
lady —— "




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER,            225
"Don't talk to me of your lady; my will is her
will."
"Unquestionably, Sir Hugh; and no doubt my
lady's health, and that of the young ladies, would be
materially benefited.  As I said to Mr. Denham,
Senilhurst air is quite renovating."
" And what did Denham say to that?"
" He was amazed, Sir Hugh; never saw a man
more so. Mr. Pearson, said he, Senilhurst must be
a paradise. Mr. Denham, said I, it is."
"Hem!" muttered Sir Hugh; "Denham's got
more sense than I gave him credit for.  To see how
he manages the estate here, one would think him an
ignorant booby. Young Wentworth knows much
more about farming than he does."
" Mr. Wentworth has had great advantages," observed Pearson, "going about with a gentleman of
such experience as yourself, Sir Hugh."
"Wentworth's a sensible fellow," continued Sir
Hugh; "he has his eyes about him, and he's not
conceited.  He has my geology pamphlet by heart;
in fact, he's quite the life of the place."
"Mr. Wentworth would take a great interest in
the farming at Senilhurst," said Pearson insinuatingly.
"Yes, he might; he would, I think.  There
would be a good deal for him to learn there;" and
Sir Hugh fell into a short reverie, which was apparently caused by some difficulty in the contemplated
return home, as he tapped his finger on the table
and began reckoning-" Lady Charlton, one; Maude
and Ady, three; young Wentworth, four; it's one
too many."
"The earl and Lady Blanche will have a great
loss in your absence, Sir Hugh," began Pearson, a
little alarmed at not hearing their names mentioned.
"Well, yes; I suppose they will," said Sir Hugh,




226         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
stroking his chin; " the earl and I have pursuits in
common, we are both literary men."
"There's a thought of his lordship and Lady
Blanche remaining here through the winter, I suppose," said Pearson; "at least my lady seemed to
say so the other day."
"What should your lady know about it?" exclaimed Sir Hugh; "the earl has no fixed plans, he
told me so confidentially. If I were to ask him to
Senilhurst he would go."
"And be delighted, no doubt," replied Pearson;
"he has not been looking at all well lately."
"No wonder, living at this place. He and young
Wentworth together."-Sir Hugh mused again, but
whether upon the travelling plans, or the probable
indignation of Lady Charlton if he presumed to give
Mr. Wentworth an invitation to Senilhurst, it is
impossible to say. The difficulty which perplexed
him, whatever it was, seemed, however, to be insurmountable, for after the silence of a few minutes, he
exclaimed, " It won't do; no, it wont do; and after
all, spring is the best time for seeing a place. If we
stay here a few weeks longer we shall help them on
into the winter, and they can come to us early in the
spring."
Pearson was in dismay; but he was a man of
singular patience, and having reached the point from
which he had started, he steadily set forth to traverse
the same ground again; pulling Sir Hugh one way,
in the conviction that he would be sure to go the
other, until at length he had once more brought him
to face the possibility of removing to Senilhurst immediately, taking Lord Rutherford and Lady Blanche
with them, and giving an indirect invitation to Mr.
Wentworth to follow at his earliest convenience. This
last resolution, however, Sir Hugh did not fail to
qualify by repeating, " I shan't invite him; I hate




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             227
regular invitations. Only if he likes it of course
he will be welcome.  Mind, Pearson, I have no intention of inviting him."
Pearson assented both to the letter and the spirit
of this declaration, and having arranged his master's
pillows for about the twentieth time since the conversation  began, ventured to  suggest that Lady
Charlton might be glad to know  of Sir Hugh's
definite plan. A gracious permission was given, and
Sir Hugh raised himself in his arm-chair to look
imposing, and  spreading a blank sheet of paper
before him, chose a new pen that he might make
a legible list of imperative orders for the journey.
" Sir Hugh would be glad to speak with you, my
lady," said Pearson, as he met Lady Charlton at the
foot of the stairs.  His face was impenetrable, but
his self-satisfied tone showed that all difficulties had
been smoothed away.
" I will be with him directly," was Lady Charlton's
soft reply; and Pearson went off to the servant's hall,
charmed at his own cleverness, in having ruled his
master, pleased his mistress, and been instrumental
in suggesting an idea, which he had good reason to
think would gratify one at least of the young ladies;
and all without committing himself.




228         THE EAIL S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XXVII.
IT was not a long interview between Sir Hugh and
Lady Charlton; no interviews of this kind ever were
long; for Lady Charlton, when she had once gained
a point, took care not to dwell sufficiently upon it
to give time for a change of feeling. The determination of returning to Senilhurst was especially important to her at this moment, as the neighbourhood
of the Rectory was, in her eyes, becoming every day
more undesirable.  Even if the earl and Blanche
persisted in remaining at Rutherford, she had resolved
to go; but independently of her own pleasure, their
society would, she knew, be a great inducement to
Sir Hugh to consent to her wishes.  His vanity
would be flattered by the idea of showing Blanche
his own place and his own plans; and, as she had
calculated upon this as the easy mode of obtaining her point, she was the more provoked at the indecision which Blanche had evinced. Still she did
not doubt of gaining her object eventually. Pearson's
skill was almost always successful in winning Sir
Hugh's consent, even against his favourite wishes;
and Blanche was too gentle not to be easily brought
round.  Yet Lady Charlton allowed no surprise or
satisfaction to be visible when she entered the library.
She was quietly indifferent, and even put a few obstacles in the way of a sudden removal; obstacles
which, of course, only strengthened Sir Hugh's resolution, and gave him a sense of power in showing
the clever way in which he could surmount them.
" Lord Rutherford and Blanche must be talked




rTHE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             229
over," he said; and Lady Charlton agreed; not
even a smile betraying that the suggestion had been
made to them previously.
The day of departure was next to be fixed. Sir
Hugh named it-determined the hour of startingwrote down the names of the few villages through
which they were to pass before they reached a railway station, and the time which the distance might
be expected to take; and then proceeded to copy out
the after details of the journey from a railway guide,
Lady Charlton assisting him by reading out 11'25,
12'50, &c., in due succession.
When, at length, the word Senilhurst was written,
in legible characters, at the bottom of the paper,
announcing the termination  of the journey, Sir
Hugh threw  himself back in  his chair and exclaimed, " There, my dear; now I think I have done
my part.  I have saved you all the trouble of arrangement, and you will have nothing in the world
to do but just to obey orders-the easiest thing of
all-just to obey orders-nothing more.  We leave
this place at half-past eight precisely; we reach Senilhurst at twenty minutes past six. Don't trouble
yourself; don't distress yourself about anything:
you see when a man is once accustomed to this sort
of thing it becomes quite easy.  You may tell
Maude and Ady, if you like it; but it will be as
well to leave Rutherford to me. Gentlemen always
manage these things best with each other. I shall
hint my wishes gently, and bring him  round by
degrees."
"Perhaps it might be the best way," said Lady
Charlton, and she rose to leave the room.
"Stop, my dear Frances; Lady Charlton, you are
in such a hurry. Sit down, will you. One thing we
have forgotten —dinner.  Let me see; we start
at half-past eight; we reach Walton at 10; Ditchley, 12'35; Hoxley Road, 2'40; Sunbridge, 5-15;
x




230         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
reckoning a quarter of an hour for delay; Senilhurst, 6'20; that leaves us forty minutes-one hour
and forty minutes till eight o'clock. Will one hour
and forty minutes be sufficient?  Consider now-to
settle yourselves-dress-be, in fact, quite ready for
dinner! Can you promise to be in the drawingroom by eight?"
Lady Charlton thought there would be no difficulty.
"Very well, then, that is another point decided.
You may write to Mrs. Corrie, and tell her to have
dinner ready at eight precisely. And, stay, don't I
hear Lord Rutherford's voice?"  The earl opened
the door.  " The very person I wanted to see.  I
must have a few words with you; I must consult
you." 
But Lord Rutherford interrupted him.  "I beg
your pardon; I will return to you, but, at this moment, I have pressing business. Lady Charlton, can
you give me a few moments of your leisure?"  The
tone was unusually haughty, and before Lady Charlton had time to answer he was gone.
Lady Charlton followed him instantly, in spite of
Sir Hugh's entreaties, that she would wait and consider what further arrangements were to be made.
Lord Rutherford went before her till he reached
his private study, the door of which he opened, and
motioned to her to enter it, and then closing and
bolting it carefully, he sat down opposite to her.
Lady Charlton turned pale. There was something in
his countenance which would, in itself, have been
sufficient to alarm her; a look of hardly repressed
indignation, reproach, and over-excited feeling: a
curling lip-a frowning brow-a fire in his flashing
eye, only  softened  by the indescribable expression of mental anguish that pervaded his whole
countenance.  He did not speak for some moments,
but sat resting his forehead upon his hand.  Lady




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.           231
Charlton tried to shake off her fear. She went up
to him, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said in
a light, unconstrained tone, " You must not treat
me in this way. I must know at once what is the
matter."
He looked up and said sternly, " You can tell."
Lady Charlton's tone was unchanged as she replied,
"You are mistaken. I know nothing that has happened to put you into this strange mood."
" Not that you have deceived me-betrayed mebroken your most solemn promise?"
A momentary indignation clouded Lady Charlton's
face, but she subdued the rising feeling, and said
gravely but calmly, "My dear Rutherford, this is
not language which I ought to hear.  I have not
betrayed, or deceived you, or broken any solemn promise; and I have not the most remote idea what
it is you refer to. I must insist upon your explaining yourself more clearly."
" You have told her," he said, " you have done
the very thing which"-he stopped, and Lady
Charlton said eagerly, " Blanche? do you mean that
she knows?"
"All that I would have kept from her at any
sacrifice. Frances, I thought I could have trusted
you better."
Lady Charlton looked extremely pained, and the
colour rushed to her cheeks as she said hesitatingly,
"It was not I who told her."
" No," exclaimed the earl, " it was not you; it
was Maude. But from whom did Maude learn such
facts? and who put it into my darling's head to inquire?"
Lady Charlton recovered from her embarrassment
when this question was asked reproachfully.
" You are still speaking mysteries," she said; " if
you will say clearly what you refer to, I will give you
the best explanation I can."




232          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" They are simple facts," replied the earl, sarcastically; " Blanche was missing this morning when I
wanted her; I went to her room, and found her in
an agony of grief.  When I would have forced her
to tell me what distressed her, she said-you know
what she said. She knew it. Her whole life is embittered-her happiness is blighted-her love for me
-but I will not think of that-I dare not."
"And Maude told her?" inquired Lady Charlton.
"Yes, Maude told her."
"And what? how much does Blanche know?"
"Do you think I could bear to ask?" exclaimed
the earl, bitterly, " Was it a story that I could endure to have the details repeated; that I could listen
patiently whilst my child described her own misery?"
"It might have been as well," said Lady Charlton,
coldly; " you might have spared me much pain, and
yourself much after-reproach for injustice.  Maude
has heard from  me little beyond' what all the
world is acquainted with.  What she may have
guessed or learnt from other sources I cannot answer
for. She is of an inquisitive disposition; from a
child she was strangely interested in the fate of my
most unhappy sister. To satisfy her, I told her the
bare fact of her melancholy depression of spirits;
but of other sufferings,"-and Lady Charlton's voice
became eager, and her eye kindled as she went on"of neglect, loneliness, disappointed affection; trials
which crushed her intellect, and brought her to an
early grave, I said nothing."
Lord Rutherford sank upon a chair and groaned.
" It may seem cruel to upbraid you now with an
error of judgment," continued Lady Charlton; "but,
in my own justification, I must remind you that you
were long since warned against the mistake of keeping from Blanche the secret of her mother's history."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             233
"I did not wish to keep it from her," exclaimed
the earl, starting from his seat; " but I would have
prepared her for it gradually. I would, yes," he
added, his voice sinking from its tone of proud excitement into an accent of the most mournful tenderness, " I would have won her to myself,-I would
have made myself her all, and then I would have appealed to her love,-her reverence,-her devotion,for pardon."
" You must have had sympathies in common
first," said Lady Charlton, with a quiet sarcasm
which escaped her almost involuntarily.
The earl writhed under the censure which he
knew was intended, yet he answered firmly, " We
have many,-art, and taste, and refinement."
"And religion!" added Lady Charlton.
Lord Rutherford bit his lip, and was silent.
" That is the key to her affections," continued
Lady Charlton; " without it I fear you may find the
barrier between you greater than you are aware of."
The earl regarded her steadily as if he would
have said, Do not try me too far,-but Lady Charlton
knew  her own power-the power which almost
necessarily accompanies the knowledge of a strong
mind's weakness-and she went on, "If it were
possible to humour her upon the point;-if you
could, at whatever sacrifice, bring yourself even to
appear"-but the earl broke in upon the observation.
"Appear! —to Blanche!-to my own child!appear to be what I am not?  Oh! Frances, how
little you understand us both!"
" Blanche, at least, I understand," said Lady
Charlton calmly-" she is like her mother."
The name acted like an electric shock upon Lord
Rutherford. " Yes," he exclaimed shuddering, " like
her in form-in feature-in mind-in fate."  The
last word sank into a whisper.
x2




2346          TlTHE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" There is little fear of it," replied Lady Charlton,
"except in your own imagination, and in possible
circumstances, which are entirely under your control.
Loneliness and want of sympathy preyed upon poor
Emily's mind.  There was no positive hereditary
disease. Her case might be the case of any one in
the same situation. Loneliness, Blanche will never
feel; want of sympathy she may not, if —"
" If," repeated the earl, bitterly. " I tell you,
Frances, I have not the power, even if I had the will,
to deceive my sweet child.  Pure-minded, simple,
transparent and true as she is; the very earnestness
of her own feelings must make her alive to hypocrisy
in others. Would not the tone of my voice-the turn
of my sentences,-would not every action of my life
betray me? No, better far that she should see me
as I am-admire me for what I am-even hate me,
-hate me, if it were possible, for what I am not -
than be the dupe of professions which must, sooner
or later, be discovered, and bring wretchedness upon
us both."
" As you will," replied Lady Charlton.  "It
would be useless to try and persuade you, that I do
not wish you either to deceive, or make a profession.
All that I desire is, that you should not shock herprejudices, as you call them-principles, as I call
them."  She paused, but the earl was silent. "You
make the same sacrifice to the world continually,"
pursued Lady Charlton: " you mix with persons
whom you dislike; you join in amusements which
do not interest you."
"Yes," interrupted the earl vehemently; " I
make a sacrifice to the world, which the world sanctions and understands.  I speak its own language,
and take advantage of its permitted customs. It is
not deceived by civilities and professions.  But religion-Frances, I was never a hypocrite.  If I had




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              235
been, I might have spared myself the bitterness of
this hour."
" I think you are unnecessarily anxious," replied
Lady Charlton.
The Earl did not notice the remark. He was engaged in his own reflections, and in an under tone he
said, " Poor child! one could almost be inclined to
envy her."
"Can you envy what you consider error?" replied
Lady Charlton.
"Error!" repeated the earl, musingly.
"You think it so," said Lady Charlton.
He looked up quickly: " Have you never, Frances,
watched a sunset, and seen mountains, and islands,
and glittering lakes amongst the clouds, and looked till you believed-till you almost knew  them
to be real?  So have I watched Blanche-daily,
hourly, since my return.  She has been to me a
vision of beauty and purity beyond all that I have
known, or could have dreamt; and I have gazed upon
her until almost I could persuade myself that her
enthusiasm was reality."
"It is real, doubtless, to a certain extent," replied
Lady Charlton.  " Blanche is young, and a little carried away by feeling; but her principles are unquestionably sound and high; and we ought to be most
grateful to Mrs. Howard for having made her what
she is."
A sudden check seemed to have been given to
Lord Rutherford's earnestness. He drew himself up
coldly, and said, "We have wandered very far from
our first subject. I should be glad to be quite assured that you have not disobeyed my wishes."
"You are really provoking," replied Lady Charlton, petulantly. "I could never have taken upon
myself such a responsibility. Blanche must have
had her suspicions previously raised, and then exag



236         THIE EARL S DAUGHTER.
gerated what Maude told her."  Lady Charlton
stopped and after considering for a moment added"You told me you had given her her mother's
papers."
"Yesterday: it was an impulse, after a conversation,
a few words only which passed between us. I felt they
might interest her, for I saw she longed for sympathy,
and I thought they might be something of a bond of
closer union between us. But I had long before
determined upon doing so when I could summon
resolution."
"They must have betrayed the secret," said Lady
Charlton.
" Impossible! There were a few letters of my own,
including some written years ago, and a journal;
you must remember it.  I thought it might please
Blanche, but there was little in it beyond extracts."
"Are you sure that was all?" inquired Lady
Charlton.
"Certain.  I destroyed every paper which was in
any way painful before I left England."
"Then it must have been Blanche's own fancy,"
said Lady Charlton, "or -"
The earl turned to her hastily; "Or whom?what?"
"Or Mrs. Wentworth!"
" Yes," exclaimed Lord Rutherford, as if the idea
had in an instant brought conviction to his mind;
"yes, it must have been her. How could I have been
so blind? But I thought she knew my wishes through
you."
"I wrote to her," said Lady Charlton, "when
you first thought of returning to Rutherford, impressing upon her the necessity of caution. Her
reply was stiff and unsatisfactory, like everything she
does or says; but I certainly could not have imagined
her capable of telling Blanche what you wanted to
keep from her."




THE EARL'S DAIUGHTER.             237
"She supposed it her duty, perhaps," said Lord
Rutherford, with a sneer.  "She is very much bent
upon duty."
" Her own, and other persons too, in this case,"
observed Lady Charlton; "but you must not be
hard upon her.  Remember, we have as yet only
suspicion."
" It shall be certainty, one way or the other, soon,"
exclaimed the earl; and without adding another word,
he seized his hat, opened the window, and the next
minute was walking at a rapid pace down the steep
path which led to the rectory.
Lady Charlton looked after him for a few seconds,
and then murmuring to herself, " Impetuous as ever 
but I have diverted his thoughts for the present,"
she went to seek Maude, and give her a maternal and
not very gentle reproof, for the extreme imprudence
which had led her to divulge facts, only a portion of
which had as yet been intended to reach the ears of
Blanche.
Lord Rutherford and Mrs. Wentworth disliked
each other, as persons must do who, without mutual
sympathy or respect, have been compelled by circumstances to learn the secrets of each other's lives,
without caring to know  the secrets of the heart.
Years before, when Lord Rutherford had brought his
bride to her stately home, and offered her luxury and
gaiety, she had turned from all to seek the companionship of Mrs. Wentworth.  The earl was not
jealous-he did not love sufficiently to care where
his wife found happiness, as long as he was not called
upon to give up his own wishes to contribute to it;
but he chafed at the strictness of Mrs. Wentworth's
principles, dreaded her influence, and was repulsed by
the coldness of her manner-and the aversion was
quickly reciprocal.  If Mrs. Wentworth reverenced
the Countess of Rutherford for her piety, and pitied
her for her lonely position; she could scarcely feel




238         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
cordial towards the selfish, worldly husband, who by
civil unkindness blighted her hopes and mocked her
affections. And, as years went on, and absence and
neglect did their fatal work in wrecking not only the
peace, but the mind of the unhappy countess, the
first feeling of dislike almost necessarily deepened
into intensity.
But that time was long gone by.  The Countess
of Rutherford was resting in her quiet grave, safe from
the weariness of disappointment and the bitterness
of unrequited love; and the earl was returned to his
home, to begin, as it were, a new life, and repay the
debt which he owed to the memory of his wife by the
devoted affection which he lavished upon her child.
The past was forgotten; —so it seemed to many
but himself; forgotten  by  the  countess's relations; forgotten, if it had ever been remembered, by
the world. Yet, was it so?-does the tide of life indeed sweep by and bear away all traces of the joys
and griefs, the good and evil, of our vanished years;
or is there, even upon earth, a record of the deeds of
former days, written upon the memories of our friends
and companions, and bearing a witness which few can
recollect and feel towards us as if such things had
never been?
But Lord Rutherford did Mrs. Wentworth great
injustice, when he considered her capable of biassing
the mind of his daughter in any way against himself;
or even of endeavouring to fix her affections upon
her mother's memory at his expense.  Even if Mrs.
Wentworth had felt for Blanche as she had once felt
for the countess, she would have shrunk from such
an act as worse than cruelty.  But, in truth, she
was not sufficiently attracted by the gentle girl, who
seemed to have no will but her father's, to attempt
to gain an influence over her. She was interested in
Blanche for her mother's sake and for Eleanor's; but




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             239
being a person of strong impulse and prepossessions,
and peculiarly alive to the impression which she made
upon others, she could not help seeing, from the very
beginning of their acquaintance, that Blanche was not
likely to seek her confidence. This was an offence
which Mrs. Wentworth was not inclined easily to
overlook. It awoke a sense of injustice, as if something was denied her which she had a right to claim.
Ier natural stiffness and reserve also made her seek
for the opposite qualities in others; and symptoms
of shyness, especially in young people, were generally
attributed to some instinctive difference of feeling,
caused possibly by her own defect of manner, which
it would be useless to endeavour to overcome. Thus
it was that, when Mrs. Wentworth was met with more
than her own cordiality, she could love, and love intensely; but when she did not love, she was indifferent,
and not unfrequently prejudiced.
Lord Rutherford knew nothing of all this.  He
was not an observer of human nature in general;
and seldom took the trouble to think what people
were like, or why they pleased or displeased him.
A spoilt child from  infancy, he only knew  what
offended his taste, or shocked his self-esteem, and
avoided it. It was always an effort to him to be with
Mrs. Wentworth, and he would have shunned, instead
of seeking, an interview, if he had not been carried
forward by indignation and something like revenge.
For it is pleasant to our unchecked natural instincts
to have a clear cause of complaint against a person
whom we dislike, and yet respect; and, by the time
the earl had reached the parsonage, he had worked
himself up into the persuasion, not only that the
accusation against Mrs. Wentworth was true, but
that no extenuation could be offered.
Blanche saw him pass the drawing-room  window
as she sat writing her letter and waiting for Eleanor,




240          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
but she did not go to meet him. His look of anguish
as he turned away from her, when in their short morning interview she told him the cause of her distress,
was still present to her recollection, and she dreaded
to encounter it again.  In her simplicity, she could
not read its entire meaning; but it had warned her
that the subject must never again be alluded to, unless
by him. The earl was shown into Mrs. Wentworth's
morning-room;  and through  the  thin  partition
Blanche could hear his voice, as the conversation
began-first formal, and subdued, then gradually rising into energy and excitement; whilst Mrs. Wentworth's  answers  seemed  only  rather  more  decided than usual.   The interview  was soon over;
Blanche heard, as she supposed, the parting words, and
a pause followed. She thought her father was gone;
but as she drew near the window to see, she again
caught Mrs. Wentworth's voice.  The words were
distinctly audible-" Your lordship must forgive me,
if I earnestly warn you to be cautious.   No one
knows better than myself the many reasons for being
so; and, in pity to your child, you must remember,
that the germ of the evil, at least, may be hereditary."
There was a faint, sharp cry of exceeding misery,
and Blanche fell senseless to the ground.
END OF VOL. i,
Stevens and Co., Printers, Bell Yard, Teinole iar.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.








THE
EARL'S DAUGHTER.
PBY
THE AUTHOR OF "AMY HERBERT," " GRTRUDE,"     T.HK
CHILD S FIRST HISTORY OF ROME;," ETC.
EDITED BY
THE REV. W. SEWELL, B.D.
FELLOW OF EXETER COLLEGE, OXFORD.
Life..... is energy of Love,
Divine or human; exercised in pain,
In strife, and tribulation; and ordained,
If so approved and sanctified, to pass,
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy.
The Excursion.
VOL. II.
L O N DO  N:
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1850.




LONDON:
tTEVENS AND CO., PRINTERS, BELL YARD,
TEMPLE BAR.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.
THAT evening, as twilight shades were gathering over
the sky, and repose was settling upon the lovely
valley of Rutherford-as happy children were returning from  their play, and the husbandman was
preparing to enjoy his evening meal, and the sleep
which " to the labouring man is sweet, whether he
eat little or much "-the young heiress of all that
wealth, beauty, and  prosperity  can  bestow, lay
stretched upon her couch, striving to chasten her
rebellious heart, and bring every gloomy thought,
and fruitless wish, into submission to the will of her
Maker.
Poor Blanche! she had not known, till that hour,
that it was possible to feel more intensely for herself than for others. Unselfish, confiding, humbleminded, she had lived for her fellow-creatures, and
in their joys and sorrows had found her own. But
there are griefs which encompass us with a barrier
that shuts out human sympathy, and forbids us to
find relief in the thought that our affliction is less
than that of many around us. " The heart knoweth
its own bitterness;" and in those seasons of trial it
is incapable of estimating comparative wretchedness.
Blanche lay quite still, her hands clasped tightly
VOL, II.                B




2           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
together, and her eyes firmly shut; occasionally
her lips moved, and the momentary contraction of
the forehead, or a nervous action of the fingers, gave
indication of some passing thought of misery, but
the expression of the face was that of calm hopelessness.  There was no one near her, no one watching
her; the one wish she had expressed was for solitude;
solitude with Him " to whom all hearts are open, and
from whom no secrets are hid."
The door opened slowly, and Lord Rutherford
stole gently to her side. Blanche just opened her
eyes and closed them again instantly. He drew near
and knelt down beside her, and took her clammy
hand in his, and she turned her face towards him
and tried to smile; but the parched lips quivered,
and a mist gathered over her soft dark eyes, and
then the bitter tears flowed silently and fast.
"Blanche," said the earl, "are you better?"
His voice was quite changed; low and husky.
Blanche raised herself and put her arm round his
neck, and kissed him; but she could not speak.
" My poor child," he said, "they told me you
were asleep."
Blanche shook her head, and answered, faintly,
" that she had been trying to sleep, but it was of no
use."
"You must have an opiate," observed the earl;' I shall send for one," and he touched the bell-rope.
"No opiates for me, dear papa," said Blanche,
stopping him; "they can do nothing-no onenobody"-She paused, and put her hand to her
head, as if to check the swift torturing current of
thought which was about to rush over her.
"Blanche, can you forgive me?" and the proudearl
hid his face upon her pillow, and sobbed like a child.
" Forgive you, my own papa; you who have been
so kind, so good: what can I have to forgive?" And




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
again she kissed him and fondly smoothed his hair,
and whispered how dear he was to her; but the
anguish of remorse was too keen for such consolation.
"Stay, Blanche! stay," he exclaimed; putting
aside her hand, and rising with a sudden effort at
self-control; " hear me patiently, calmly, if you can;
let me tell you all."
"Yes, all, if you please, if you will," said Blanche,
with a gentle but sad smile; "that is the greatest
kindness; and, papa, I will try to bear it."
"And if it should be too much?" repeated the earl,
thoughtfully. "They wished me not; your aunt says
it is unwise. But, Blanche, neither you nor I can
endure suspense."
I" No, indeed; thank you so much for sparing me.
Then, papa, it is —hereditary?" Her breath came
quick and faint, and her glassy eyes rested upon her
father's face with a look of intense eagerness, which
made him turn shuddering from her gaze.
The earl paused for one instant. " We think not;
we hope not; only —"
"Only you fear," said Blanche, quite calmly.
"No, no," he exclaimed, "I do not fear; others
may,. but I do not. Blanche, you shall hear my
story and be comforted, even though it be at the
sacrifice of your love for me."  He sat down by her,
and, without daring to look at her, went on: " Your
mother was insane-I would not try to conceal or
mitigate the fact-for many months before her death;
and I-I am said to have been the cause.  Yes,
turn from me, and hate me," he exclaimed, as Blanche
involuntarily caught away the hand which he had
taken in his; "it is only what I deserve; but bear
with what I have to say in my defence. There is no
hereditary insanity in her family, but there is a
peculiarity,-a tendency to morbid melancholy, on the
female side-not on that of your aunt, they were but




4           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
half sisters. It is this melancholy which I am accused
of having aggravated; it may be, truly. But, Blanche,
even for this —a grievous sin in the eye of man-it
is possible that some extenuation may be found in
the sight of God.  Men call me cold and forbidding;
I am  so now, but I was not so always.  Once,
Blanche, I was loving, tender-hearted, enthusiastic,
even as yourself.  I was young then. I believed the
world was made for happiness, and I thought that I
had found it. Look!" and he drew forth a small
locket, from which the hair that had been placed
in it was gone. "This was a gift from one who was
to have been my wife. It is the symbol of the heart
she offered me-empty, valueless. She deceived me;
and, in the madness of my disappointment, I married
another.  There was my first offence-the offence
for which I cannot forgive myself, and for which the
punishment of years has fallen upon me." Blanche
stretched out her hand, and again he took it and
pressed it to his lips, and continued: " Your mother
had been known to me from infancy. We had played,
and  walked, and  sang  together, and outwardly
shared many joys and sorrows; but we had never
suited each other.  So at least I thought till the
hour of my great trial; then, for the first time, I discovered from the extent of her compassion that we
had sympathies in common. Yet I did not really
love her; I knew that 1 did not. I felt that our natures and our tastes were in their foundation totally
dissimilar.   But I was so lonely-so unutterably
wretched; it was such a relief to be able to talk of my
misery, that, forgetting how by the very act of marriage I must shut out all memory of the past, I
offered myself, and was accepted. One great mistake!
Oh, Blanche! how it mars all hope of goodness and
greatness in life.  From that hour I was an altered
man; bound with an irrevocable chain; having lost




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.                5
the prospect of comfort in domestic life, and unable
to rouse myself to interest in public matters.  For
vour mother, —let me speak of her as she was," he
said, gently, as Blanche heaved a sigh; "if I seem
to blame her, remember that I am seeking to excuse
myself to her child; your mother was not a person to
be blind to the real state of my heart. She had a
craving for affection, and a keen insight into the feelings of others. When she found herself disappointed
she sank into a torpid, dreary melancholy, the more
unendurable for us both, because the occasion of it
was never alluded to by either. Whether by a different
line of conduct she might at length have won my
love I cannot say, but she seemed to have no hope of
it herself; for she shut herself up from me.  When
I brought friends to the castle, she pleaded illness,
and withdrew from them; and when I took her into
society, she gave way to a depression of spirits which
awoke constant remark."  He paused, watching the
effect of his words; but Blanche averted her face.
"That is all my complaint of her," he continued,
hurriedly. "She was too good, too high, for me. If
she had been more earthly  we might have been
happier. At least, I should not have to reproach
myself with having been the murderer of an angel's
peace."
"She was very good, then? " murmured Blanche.
"Good! " he replied; "I never knew her equal
upon earth, until -" and he stooped and imprinted a
kiss on Blanche's burning forehead. "Yes, she was
a marvel, a miracle; but, Blanche, even for that very
cause we were unhappy. It was a goodness which I
could not comprehend; for it was exalted above infirmityitself, and yet saw evil in the mostnatural pursuits
of others. A life of entire seclusion from the world was
her ideal of real excellence, and she tried to carry it
out, and did so.  I do not say she was wrong," he
B2




6            THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
added, as Blanche looked up with a disappointed expression: "it may have been, I believe it was, my
own doing.  This is not a moment for concealment:
I drove her to it.  My principles grieved her, and I
did not try to soften them; and then she grew more
strict, and the evil increased.   We led this life
for nearly four years," continued the earl; "and
how wretched it was for us both I can never describe.
I had friends about me; but they gave me no real comfort; and your poor mother took such an aversion
to them, that she made it, at last, a point of duty
to avoid them.  Ier only companion was Mrs.
Wentworth.  I doubted then whether the intimacy
was wise; I am sure, now, that it was not. Mrs.
Wentworth aggravated, instead of soothing, what was
amiss.  She made your mother think worse of me
than I deserved, and fostered her strict notions till
they became absurd.  But you were born, Blanche;
my own precious child: it seemed a new era in my
existence; a bright hope, and interest for the future. People said that I was disappointed because
you were not a boy; but they did not know me. If
I was grave afterwards it was not for that reason.
Your mother's spirits for a time rallied so much that
I began to think she might soon become more to me
than I had ever fancied possible. I tried to induce her
to join more in society, and proposed that we should
travel.  I sketched out a plan, and chose a party to
accompany us: she took some pleasure, or at least
interest, in the idea at first; but when we came to
enter into detail, all our former differences revived.
Two persons more diametrically opposite in character
and taste could never have been united; and unfortunately her prejudices were principles, and she
would never yield them. Yet she loved me, Blanche;
through all, she loved me. It is the bitterest thought
of all, now that the past is irrevocable.  Her very




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.                7
wish to travel with me alone, to keep me away from
those whom she thought likely to encourage me in
error, arose from love: but it irritated me beyond
endurance; and-" the earl paused, and moved from
his seat as if thus to escape the pain of further recital.
Blanche stopped him. She said, in a clear, firm tone,
"Papa, you will tell me all now; we shall both be
happier."   And like a humble child he sat down
again, and went on.
"Yes, I will tell all.  Blanche, you are right; if
we are ever to know peace on earth, it must be by
openness.  Yet you will shrink from me, even as I
shrink from myself; for I was cruel to her-your
mother! the mother of my only treasure. It was on a
stormy, blustering day-how well I remember it!-I
had been absent all the morning, riding with a party
of friends,-some whom  she particularly disliked.
Perhaps their influence was not good, at least it did
not work for good on that day. I returned home in
better spirits than usual, and resolved to show myself
independent, and insist upon your mother's giving up
her prejudices and going with us abroad.   I found
her in her favourite room-the same which you were
in yesterday. She scarcely ever left it, except to take
her meals; she was sitting as usual, working, with
the Bible open before her. I recollect she told me
that she was glad I had come, and that the day had
seemed long.  We entered into conversation, and
from her manner, at first, I fancied it a favourable
moment for again insisting upon my wishes.  She
listened patiently whilst I urged the pleasure it would
give me, and reminded her of a wife's duty; but I
saw by the expression of her face, as soon as the subject was named, that her resolution was immoveable.
If I would go alone she would accompany me; but
on no other condition.  The very fact of her silence
exasperated me; I could have better borne a torrent




$8          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
of words, than that still, fixed look of determination.
I upbraided her with inconsistency and neglect of
the duty she owed me; and then, for the first time,
she poured forth her long-hidden griefs. They were
true and real.  I had disappointed her affections,
and treated her with coldness, and forced upon her
society which she abhorred; but I was too proud
to hear it  and, in my indignation, I told her that it
was better we should part.  The words were no
sooner uttered than a sudden change passed over her;
she stood before me, a silent, colourless statue; her
limbs rigid, her eyes fixed on vacancy. I spoke to
her, but she took no notice; and even reproach-for
I ventured upon it to excite her-had no effect. I was
more frightened than I chose to acknowledge, but I
had no doubt that quietness would restore her; and,
ringing for her maid, I left her.  Mrs. Wentworth
met me in the passage.   I was bewildered and conscience-stricken, but I could not endure that she
should see any symptoms of humiliation; and being
determined to tell my own tale, I stopped her, and,
related in few words what had passed, attributing
your poor mother's change of manner to obstinate
resolution.' My will,' I said,' was irrevocably fixed;
as I could not make her happy, I was certain it was
better for both of us to part.'  Mrs. Wentworth
received the announcement with her usual cold
stoicism, and, merely asking me where she should
find your mother, went to her room.  I joined
my friends, for the thought of solitude was dreadful
to me.  I had such horrible misgivings, which
I could not subdue.   After the lapse of about
an hour, I sent to inquire for your mother; they
brought me word that Mrs. Wentworth was with
her, and that she wished to remain quiet.  Can
you believe, Blanche, that I was irritated by this?
After all my indifference and cruelty, I hated the




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              9
thought of Mrs. Wentworth's being her companion.
I fancied how they would talk of me, and blame me;
and I had pictured to myself despair and anger, rather
than quietness. Hitherto I had triumphed in the
knowledge of my power over your poor mother's
affection; perhaps, but for that, I should never have
tried her so far: but the seclusion and calmness reduced me to nothing. I was determined, however, not
to betray what was going on; our party was as gay
as usual, and we dined out; and in the course of the
evening, as the plan for a continental tour was again
brought under discussion, I was induced to say that
I would not let anything interfere longer with the
scheme, but that I would be ready to start in a few
days. In my heart, I hoped that this determination
of purpose would bring your mother to reason, and
that a reconciliation would be the consequence. But
it was otherwise ordered, Blanche," and the earl's
voice became tremulous and hollow; " I never saw
her again; never, until eight months afterwards, she
lay dressed for her coffin, apparently the same colourless image from which I had parted.
"Yet it was not all my fault," continued the earl,
more calmly; "Mrs. Wentworth may have acted for
the best; I have tried to believe that she did: but
she played a cruel part. She found your poor mother
stunned at what had passed, and thought it right
not to run the risk of allowing her to see me; but,
instead of telling me of her real state, and so awakening my compassion, she sent me messages, which
made me think your mother cold and obstinate: and
soon so exasperated me, that the next day I set off
for London, and sent her word that I was upon the
point of leaving England.  I think Mrs. Wentworth
saw her error at last; at least she must have been
convinced that she had miscalculated the amount of
your poor mother's strength of mind, for it was gone
then; the little that had remained from the time




10          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
when I first spoke of separation fled, when she knew
that I had actually left her.  She became-oh!
Blanche, you must not askme to tell you what; I
would not have you know it or think of it."  He
rose from his seat and paced the room, and Blanche
closed her eyes and prayed.  "It is not hereditary,
you see-it cannot be hereditary," continued the
earl, drawing near her again, and speaking rapidly;
"you were then nearly a year old. Who gave you
the notion that it might be?"
"Only Mrs. Wentworth in those few words," said
Blanche, trying to keep under every symptom  of
agitation.'" My evil fate! " exclaimed the earl; " it is she
who has been the destroyer of every hope. It must
have been a letter to her that you told me you had
read; yet I thought I had burnt all."
"The letter did not exactly frighten me," said
Blanche; " it only made me unhappy; for it was very
miserable."
" It must have been written towards the last," said
the earl; "she was better then, but not happier.
Would to God that I could think so! There again I
did her grievous wrong; yet not entirely intentionally. The people about her sent me word at first that
she was ill, but they said little of the circumstances.
It was Mrs. Wentworth's great aim to keep all private;
I do her the justice to believe from good intention-a
regard to public opinion, and the feelings of the
family, and a dread lest my return might do harm
instead of good.  She devoted herself to your
mother, and scarcely any one else saw her: when at
last the unhappy fact became more certainly irremediable and more generally suspected, Mrs. Wentworth
wrote, still, however, vaguely, advising me to return
for the sake of my own peace of mind; but that was
all. I did not understand her allusion, and I desired
a message from your mother, which she was in no




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              11
state to give. Yet, I will not excuse myself; I
would not know what I might have known.  I did
not learn because I would not inquire.  But the
shock came at last. I was at Venice, just returned
from  a wandering in the Tyrol, and planning a
further tour in the East. Letters were brought me
from  England, and I opened them carelessly, for I
expected nothing more than I had received for many
weeks.  She was dying;-her reason had returned,
but she was dying.  The one longing wish which
haunted her, was to see me and forgive me. Blanche,
she may have forgiven me in Heaven; but I was never
permitted to learn it from her own lips on earth.
Two hours before I reached Rutherford she died."
There was a silence of many moments.  It was
broken by Blanche.  "Papa," she said, "you have
made me happier; will you not be happier yourself? "
Lord Rutherford did not trust himself to look up;
he had leant his head upon her pillow, and she felt
the agitated beating of his pulse as his hand rested
upon hers.
"Papa," she said again, " may I tell you what I
really feel?"
He did not answer, and she went on.
"I was frightened this morning, for I was selfish; I
hadhorrible thoughts about my self, and I was afraidit was very wrong, but I thought there was something
more dreadful about-about you.  I feel so sorry
now, and I am not unhappy; I can trust, and I will
try not to think of what may be."
"May be-may be," exclaimed the earl, passionately; "I will never have those words repeated
again."
"Yes; may be, dear papa," said Blanche, firmly;
"for it may be the will of God, and then we would
neither of us murmur."
Lord Rutherford rose impatiently; but Blanche




12         THE EARL' S DAUGHTER.
detained him with a look of the most earnest entreaty for his assent, and added, " We could not think
it hard if it was ordered; could we? "
"Not hard!" and the earl smiled scornfully;
"not cruel, that my innocent child should suffer! "
Blanche sighed heavily; yet it was only a momentary feeling of despair, and again gently and seriously
she said, "I can trust, and hope, and try to be
happy; and, if I wish it, will not you do so likewise?
You are so very kind always."
The earl's eyes glistened; "I would do all in my
power, my child," he said, "for your sake, and for
my own.  Oh, Blanche, you little know the weary
life that has been my punishment since those fearful
days.  If sackcloth and ashes could atone, as men
fondly deem, for their offences, there should have
been no greater penitent on earth than him whom
men have called the proud Earl of Rutherford. But
I have atoned, and I will atone, in the only way left.
When kneeling by your mother's coffin, I vowed to
redeem the past by the sacrifice of every wish of
my heart to the happiness of her child; and that
vow, in the sight of God, I now repeat to you. Ask
what you will, Blanche-do what you will-it shall
be granted and allowed; only let me feel that the
curse which I have brought upon myself is revoked
-that the visitation which has once been sent upon
my house will not return to it in judgment again."
Blanche caught her father's hand; but he turned
away, and in a firmer and altered voice entreated her
to rest for the present, and, if possible, to exert herself so as to appear at the dinner table. " We may
understand each other, but there is no need for
others to understand us," he said, as he left the
room; and  Blanche, though longing for further
conversation, dared not ask him to remain.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               13
CHAPTER II.
A  GAY party was assembled on the lawn at Senilhurst. Lady Charlton, and a few elderly ladies and
middle-aged gentlemen, chaperoning an assemblage
of younger ones.  Luncheon was just ended; some
guests were departing; some, who were staying in
the house, were settling rides and drives for the
afternoon.  Lady  Charlton  was making  herself
agreeable, as she always did in her own house. There
could not be a more easy, unaffected, kind-hearted
manager for every one,-quite unequalled, apparently; forshewas good-humoured, sympathizing and
considerate, with just enough strictness and partiticularity to suit sober-minded people; and just sufficient vivacity to enjoy and keep up the mirth of the
more thoughtless.  And Senilhurst was precisely the
place in which Lady Charlton could show herself to
advantage.   There were  no  deep windows, suggesting  retirement and reflection; no antiquated
pieces of furniture, with traditional stories attached
to them; no haunted chambers or dark melancholy
passages. It was a bright, smiling, sunshiny house,
large and handsome, built on the side of a hill facing
the south.  There was a genial southern aspect over
everything about it.  Greenhouse-plants flourished
in the open air; vines were trained over trellised
work, and formed green arches and shady walks;
the sloping lawn was smooth and soft as velvet; the
clear stream of water reflected every leaf and branch
of the large beech and ash trees which grew on its
banks.  At a season when almost every one else was
VOL. II.              C




14'TH   EARL'S DAUGHTERT;
sighing at the thought that summer was over, Lady
Charlton was exhibiting her garden in full beauty. It
was a triumph she peculiarly enjoyed, for it involved
no offensive vanity, and Lady Chariton shrank from all
personal display. It was so pleasant to hear the
different remarks made upon the charming situation
-the  splendid  colours-the  beautiful outlines,
couched with the suggestion that nature had done
much, but art had done still more; and Lady
Charlton felt herself so unpretending and indifferent,
in the midst of such delicate homage to her taste,
and was so courteous and modest; in fact, she became quite young in her garden.
" You must be entirely spoilt for other places," suggested Colonel Lorton, a new acquaintance, and a man
of large fortune, who was endeavouring to ingratiate
himself with  Lady Charlton for the sake of a
rather idle and wilful son.
"Every spot has its peculiar beauty," was the
careless reply. " Senilhurst is certainly pretty; but,
Colonel Lorton, you are not going to leave us this
afternoon.  The riding party reckoned upon your
assisting them in exploring the Warham Woods."
Colonel Lorton  bowed, but regretted that he
was under a special engagement.  If he might be
allowed-if it would not be an intrusion to leave his
son as his representative-he thought, indeed he was
quite sure, that he would be a most safe guide.
Lady Charlton felt it necessary to be slightly
distant and hesitating in her manner of conferring a
favour which she had determined upon beforehand.
"Of course," she said, "every one would be glad
of such an escort.  It was just possible that her
daughters might be obliged to give up their horses
to some friends, but that would make no difference
to Mr. Lorton-and she would immediately inquire
what was settled."  And Lady Charlton glided away




THIE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             15
to insist upon Adelaide's joining the Warham expedition, at all events.
The party set off;-a pleasant, merry one. Lady
Charlton watched them as they rode through the
park, and congratulated herself on her good management.  Mr. Lorton might be a little silly, a little dissipated; but he had family and fortune in his favour.
The intimacy might or might not have results-that
was not the question; but it would amuse for the
moment, and drive away all thought of Mr. Wentworth; and though Lady Charlton could not but own
to herself that it was a balance of evil, what was to be
done? Adelaide was so giddy and headstrong there
was no possibility of keeping her out of mischief,
except by skilful management. Principles she did
not and could not understand, and if it was not a
very high-minded, delicate species of domestic diplomacy, it was only the way of the world; and people
who live in the world must follow the maxims and
customs of the world.
Lady Charlton congratulated herself upon her
cleverness, and went, with a lighter heart, to inquire
into the movements of the remainder of her visitors.
Two riding-horses were still standing at a sideentrance; and she heard Lord Rutherford ask if any
one had seen Lady Blanche.
Lady Charlton went up to him: " You are not
waiting for Blanche, are you? She is gone, I believe.
I am nearly sure she was one of the Warham party."
" She has changed her mind then very suddenly,"
replied the earl; " an hour since we settled to ride
together."
" Oh! but, of course, that was all nonsense. When
the Warham Woods were talked of, you could not expect her to keep to a first engagement. And it would
not be right-you must not really be so exacting."
" I wish her only to do as she likes," replied the




16          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
earl, gravely; "she told me she preferred riding
alone with me."
" But, my dear Rutherford, you don't surely take
literally all that the poor child says. She is so devoured by duty, that she has not space left for any
thought of pleasure; and therefore we must think
for her.  Just fancy what a very agreeable  ride
she would have missed.  Mr. Lorton, Sir Charles
Trevanion, Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and her very nice
daughters, and that first-rate Lord Erlsmere; it
would have been cruel to make her leave them."
"Dear papa, have I kept you waiting? I am  so
sorry," said the gentle voice which was sweeter than
the most delicious music to Lord Rutherford's ear.
Blanche was standing on the steps, dressed in her
riding-habit; her colour was brighter than usual,
her eyes were lighted up with pleasure, or perhaps
something better than pleasure-peace-the peace
of a mind at rest in itself, and having nothing
externally to disturb it.  It was a lovely picture
which she made, leaning against a column of the
portico; the peculiar and very exquisite beauty so
lavishly bestowed upon her by nature, enhanced by
the brilliant sunshine and the colouring of the flowers which filled the entrance hall; and Lady Charlton whispered to the earl, that it was a perfect study
for an artist. She thought to please him, but he did
not answer her; his eye rested upon Blanche for a
moment, and a sigh, audible only to Lady Charlton,
followed, and without saying another word he assisted Blanche to mount, and they rode off.
And Blanche was then happy! with the certainty
of her mother's trials and fatal malady, the want of
congeniality in her father, and the disappointment in
her aunt, whose character she was now beginning
to understand, and whilst living amongst worldly
people, and hearingworldlymaxims, tempted byallthat




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               17
earth holds most precious, she could still smile, with
the holy, innocent smile of her happy childhood, and
rejoice in "the peace that passeth understanding."
It may be hard to imagine, so few there are who
enter upon the scene of life's great delusion with a sufficient safeguard against its snares. But. if Blanche
had great temptations to battle with, she had also
great support, not only in that inward strength which
is never denied to those who seek it, but also in the
outward circumstances which were Providentially
provided for her.  Senilhurst was, indeed, her first
experience of the pomps and vanities of the world;
she found there luxury, flattery, refined dissipation,
disguised selfishness; but her mind was pre-occupied,
and in consequence much that was evil passed by
annoticed.
Blanche had grown very old since that one conversation with her father which had revealed her
mother's history.  The first knowledge obtained in
early youth of the great mistakes by which the happiness of life may be destroyed, makes us' strangely
thoughtful: it opens a new world, by drawing aside
the veil which, in childhood, hides from us the hearts
of our fellow-creatures, and induces us to believe all
persons happy who have not lessons to learn and
teachers to obey. Blanche saw that her mother had
erred; and, painful as the conviction was in some respects, it was not without its accompanying comfort;
for if the countess had been reserved and exclusive
her husband might at least be excused for his want
of sympathy.  There had been faults on both sides;
yet not such as to destroy a child's respect. Blanche
felt that, if her mother had been spared, it might
have been possible to bring about not only reconciliation but harmony between her parents.  Since that
blessing was denied her, it remained only to devote
herself to her father, and make it the object of her
c 2




18         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
life to render religion as winning to him  now  as
formerly it had been distasteful. The resolution was
made calmly and solemnly, after long thought and
earnest prayer; for Blanche knew  that it was not
without its dangers.  In her desire to make duty
agreeable she was likely to be betrayed into a sacrifice of principle. It is the evil which we constantly
see in persons who try to gain the favour of the
world, and yet to have a conscience clear of offence
before God.  But Blanche's singleness of purpose
saved her; she did not desire to please her father
for the sake of his affection, precious though it was;
she had one aim, one motive, infinitely higher, by
which to solve every question of casuistry, and it
was fortunate for her object that it was so.
Inconsistency is never winning.  The most inveterate opponent of religion has no respect for the
halter " between  two  opinions."   Talent, grace,
beauty, sweetness of temper, unselfishness, all are in
the end powerless, as means of influence, where there
is a want of fixedness in principle: for the world is
quick and keen in its perceptions, it is particularly
gifted with what is called common sense; and however
it may openly flatter and fawn upon its double-minded
friends it most surely visits them with scorn in secret.
Yet there was nothing in Blanche's mode of life at
Senilhurst likely to attract remark.  Lady Charlton
saw that she was more cheerful, and attributed the
improvement to change of scene, and Adelaide found
that her cousin could enjoy many things which at
Rutherford she had fancied would have no interest
for her. All went on naturally. If Blanche contrived
to  occupy herself with  Lady Charlton's school,
it was in such a way that it brought no thought
of peculiar goodness or self-denial.  She  said
that she liked it, and made no mystery of anything she did there, and her visits were taken as a




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               19
matter of course; and when she joined in the afternoon's amusements and made herself often the life
of the party, it did not occur to any one to complain
because she had absented herself in the early part of
the day. So again, when she gave up some scheme
of enjoyment to ride or walk with her father, it was
impossible to think she had made a sacrifice. There
was not a shadow of disappointment upon her bright
face; it was supposed that she followed her own
inclinations, and  no sympathy was thrown away
upon her.
And yet Blanche was learning to fashion her life,
in this new world of temptation, upon a strict and
most self-denying rule.  Her hours of devotion were
fixed; her duties marked out day by day; and the
one motive of her father's happiness influenced her
in the most trifling circumstances.
Lady Charlton was a strict observer of all the
customary  forms  of a religious household, and
Blanche was never absent from  family  prayers.
Adelaide laughed, and said, "She was dreadfully
good;" but it was not such an extraordinary effort
as to create much wonder; and no one knew or
thought of inquiring how much time Blanche had redeemed from unnecessary sleep to prepare herself, in
private, for the day's trials. When so many were
going  and  coming-talking, drawing, singing-it
was not seen that Blanche followed any order in her
occupations; yet the day was carefully divided, and
seasons for self-examination and retirement were as
watchfully, if not as methodically, kept as if she had
been a member of an order set apart from the world:
whilst, amidst all, as a duty of religion as well as of
affection, Blanche was ever striving to make her
father read with her, talk to her, and interest himself
in her engagements.  The first hour after breakfast
was always spent with him, looking over his letters




20           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
and trying to gain some insight into the business
connected with his property.  Blanche had begun
the practice  playfully, and seemingly only from
curiosity; but, in a very short time, she made herself really useful; and, even when questions were too
complicated for her opinion to be of consequence, Lord
Rutherford found a satisfaction in talking them over
with her. So, in other ways, whatever engaged his
attention occupied hers; and, though at first it was
difficult to believe that this interest could ever be
reciprocal, Blanche endeavoured to make it so, and in
a great measure succeeded.
She always took it for granted that her father cared
to know what she liked or what she did. She gave
her opinions upon people and things freely to him in
private, and brought out, in return, many of the
lesser feelings and sympathies which form the cement
of family life, but which reserved people are apt to
bury in their own bosoms, and scarcely perhaps to
remark even in themselves.
It was scarcely possible for such an intercourse to
continue day after day without working some effects,
visible even to Blanche, and giving her hope that
their principles might eventually accord.
Lord Rutherford had begun by thinking her a
child to be loved and fondled, and treating her accordingly; but, as time went on, his sentiments towards
her insensibly changed.  Respect blended with his
affection; respect for her judgment, discrimination
of character, and delicacy of feeling; and something approaching to awe at the high, unworldly
views which she did not hesitate to put forth,
though so unobtrusively as never to offend his taste,
or to jar upon his sense of a parent's position
of superiority.  And Lord Rutherford was now at
ease with  Blanche.  There was nothing more to
reveal.  The worst, both for himself and for her,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               21
had been told; yet she could love him still: and,
what was equally essential to his happiness, she
could still smile without any apparent foreboding of
evil to come.
Lord Rutherford little knew  the constant check
upon the thoughts by which this calmness was attained.  He only saw the result, and was satisfied,
and he had reason to be so.
After the first shock of discovering her mother's
insanity was past, Blanche's fears had naturally
reverted to herself; not so much with a definable
dread, as with a vague horror of the future, which
was perhaps worse to bear.  She was too young and
inexperienced to understand fully the government of
her own mind, and fancies and fears oppressed her,
which might have brought lasting consequences of
evil, but for a warning from the only friend to whom
she ventured to reveal the extent of her fears.
Mrs. Howard could feel for Blanche, the more
deeply as she had herself, up to that period, been
kept in ignorance of the nature of the countess's
illness; but her advice was given with a calm decision, which in itself served to strengthen Blanche's
failing spirit.  "It was not," she said, " a case for
resignation simply; for that, under such circumstances, would imply submission to a certain evil;
and the first thing for Blanche to do, was to realize
to herself, as clearly as possible, that the evil was not
certain.  And this must be done not by taking the
opinion of others, but by using her own reason."
" Put the question aside as belonging to yourself,
if possible, my dear child,"wrote Mrs. Howard; "and
try to look at it as if it concerned another. Our
trials are often exaggerated to at least double their
real magnitude, because we have not courage to view
them in their full extent.  Whatever the evil may be
which presents itself, face it; see it as well as may




22          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
be in its true light, without any distortions of hope or
fear; then determine how it may be avoided or
endured. If you do this, you will see that when the
circumstances are fairly considered, there is little to
justify uneasiness in those who love you best. If
there were, do you think I could write as I am now
doing?  But you will say, and very naturally, that
the dread still remains! I believe it must. I do
not think it is in human nature to escape it; and it
is in this that I feel for you most deeply. Yet it
may be converted into a blessing. If, when the idea
of a dreadful possibility presents itself, you can turn
away from it as a matter of duty, you will acquire a
power of self-control, which will be-I cannot say
how useful to you in other instances.  I do most
earnestly trust that you will try and do this. Pray
never read books upon the subject; and when you
find yourself fancying what mgy be, and beginning to
torture yourself with picturing scenes of misery, remember that for you that sort of reverie is as mischievous as real evil might be to others. It will be
most difficult at first, I know, to keep this constant
watch over yourself; but it is not at all impossible,
and your happiness unquestionably depends upon it.
I should be much comforted if I thought that you
were likely to lead a very active, useful life. Constant employment-devotion, in fact, to any object
out of yourself-would be a great help to you. And
especially, my dear child, I must warn you not to try
and hide from yourself that there is something which
you dread.  It would be a very vain attempt.  Only,
when the fear comes, as it must and will no doubt,
overwhelmingly, at times, until you have learnt
thoroughly to command yourself, carry it where alone
it can be soothed,  Do not reason or talk, or even
endeavour to distract your thoughts;-but pray.  If
you have not words at command, yet the very atti



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               23
tude of kneeling will give you comfort. A child in
its grief hides its face in its mother's lap, and so
may we hide our faces from the worst of this world's
sorrows under the shadow of God's love."
The quiet tone of this letter had a great influence
upon Blanche.  She was a little disappointed in it at
first, and thought it cold; but, on reading it a second
and third time, she saw that it only appeared so
because Mrs. Howard was not really uneasy.  Her
naturally buoyant spirit revived as the impression
deepened, and although miserable thoughts would
often rush upon her mind, and a continued check
was required for her wandering thoughts, yet she did
by degrees succeed in keeping down, though not
entirely crushing, all sad forebodings.
In effecting this her life at Senilhurst was certainly as great an assistance as even Lady Charlton
could have desired; for it was a very new, interesting, amusing life; with frequent arrivals and departures and never-ending schemes of pleasure, and
merry dancing and musical evenings; the pervading
gaiety being varied by clever discussions upon books,
sparkling wit, and occasional arguments upon grave
and important topics. There was nothing in all this
openly to shock Blanche's principles, for Lady Charlton was fastidious in her choice of visitors, and
liked to have it considered a privilege to be admitted
at Senilhurst. She contrived also very cleverly to
mix up her parties, so as to bring together persons
who were likely to suit; and with Lord Rutherford
and Blanche as the guests, for whom she was most
interested, she had taken particular care to exclude
all persons who had not something of intellect, or
refinement, or accomplishment, or, what she valued
more than all, goodness, to recommend them.
Yes, Lady Charlton liked goodness extremely-so
only that it had a name.  She could bear with a




24          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
considerable amount of oddity, or shyness, or even
rough sincerity, if it was coupled with a little respectable authorship, or well-known zeal, or, what perhaps
was as useful as either, a certain amount of persecution.  Blanche met with several very excellent
and thoroughly simple-minded, unworldly persons at
Senilhurst; persons whom she could admire heartily,
and long to imitate: and they were a great safeguard
to her, though in a way which her aunt never intended when she brought them together.
Lady Charlton was a managing, scheming person;
really very unconsciously: management with her
was an instinct.  She had managed her own marriage to escape from an unhappy home, and the
marriages of her sisters and of almost all her intimate friends. She intended to manage her daughters'
also; and, as a matter of simple duty and kindness,
that of her niece.
True, Blanche was extremely young to think of such
a thing; quite a child in many of her tastes; very ignorant of the ways of the world, and not yet regularly
introduced into society; but there was no harm in
being on the watch.  If it would not do as yet to
fix upon any person to encourage, it might be well
to take care that she should not be put in the way
of any whom it might be right to discourage; and,
following out her own notions of what might not be
wholly undesirable, Lady Charlton collected at Senilhurst as many persons as she could, of sufficient
rank and fortune, and respectability of character, to
make the society pleasant without being dangerous.
Of one danger, indeed, she never thought-the
danger of the flattering homage which grace and
beauty, when joined to high birth and great wealth,
can scarcely fail to receive.
That was no danger in Lady Charlton's eyes;
rather it was the tempting prize, for which every




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               25
effort must be risked.  Blanche was exposed to it
without a thought of caution; with no shield except
the simplicity of her own heart and the devotion of
her time and thoughts to other objects.
But with these she was safe. The pursuits which
chiefly interested her were such as brought her in
contact with persons whose superior intellect and
high tone of mind raised her standard of what men
might be; whilst their age and position in life prevented all idea of romance or admiration. Blanche
felt keenly the difference between such men and the
ordinary worldly, though refined and accomplished,
persons who visited at Senilhurst.  She saw they
could understand and sympathize with her, although
as she deemed far above her in mind and excellence.
And such intercourse saved her from the delusion,
which sometimes fatally misleads young persons, of
believing, that because the generality of persons are
careless in their conduct and lax in their principles,
therefore no real purity and goodness exist, except
in cases of special retirement and abstraction from
ordinary pursuits.
Blanche was beginning to learn, from her own experience, that men can mingle in the common intercourse of society and retain their simplicity and
devotedness.   She  saw  before  her true, singleminded, earnest goodness, and no discovery of its
counterfeit could henceforth shake her faith in it.
It might be that such a conviction rendered her
fastidious and indifferent. Some persons said she
was so, and blamed her.  They could not comprehend the quiet, unexcited way in which she received
the attentions paid her by men whose admiration was
generally considered of great value.  One or two
ladies, more harsh judging than the rest, declared
that she was proud; others, suspicious of evil, became conscious of it, and yielding to it, stated their
VOL. II.              D




26          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
conviction that Blanche was, in her heart, as vain
and "flirty" as any other young lady of her age;
but the greater number-men as well as womenyielded to the spell of her pure and gentle dignity,
and treated her with the cautious respect shewn to
the innocence of a child, which we shrink from sullying even by a thoughtless word.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             27
CHAPTER III.
" BLANCHE," said the earl, as they passed through
the park gates, and caught sight of the riding-party
ascending a hill at some little distance, " I am
afraid you have disappointed yourself to keep your
promise with me. You wanted to go to Warham,
I know: I wish you would have told me."
Blanche laughed. "And made you uncomfortable
and myself too, dear papa.  I did want to go to
Warham, certainly; but one day is as good as
another, as far as seeing the country is concerned;
and I had two reasons for not desiring to be with
them to-day.  One, that I liked the thought of a
ride with you; and the other, that I did not much
fancy the party."
"What, not Mrs. Cuthbert Grey! and, as your
aunt calls him, that first-rate Lord Erlsmere? "
"I like Mrs. Cuthbert Grey very well; not very
much," said Blanche, hesitating. "I wish one could
go through the world without judging people; but I
have never liked her very much since-such a very
little thing, I really am ashamed to mention it."
"Well! since what?  I can keep a secret," replied the earl, smiling.
"Since I heard her talk so strictly against operas
to Archdeacon Fanshawe, and found out afterwards
that she always engages a box for the winter. It
gave me a notion of her not being true.  I don't
think I could ever like a person very much who
was not true.  But I was not thinking of Mrs.




28          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
Cuthbert Grey when I said I did not fancy the
party."
" Of Lord Erlsmere, then, perhaps?" said the earl.
"No, nor of Lord Erlsmere.  I don't care about
him, except that he is rather tiresome to talk to, and
always asks me if I don't look forward to my first
London season.  But, papa, I do very much-I
hope it is not wrong-I really dislike very much, indeed, to go without you or my aunt, when Adelaide
and such a person as that Mr. Lorton are together.
I cannot tell why it is, but they make me feel so stiff
and so cold; I am quite worried with myself.  And
it vexes me the more, because Adelaide is particularly
kind to me, and makes a point of arranging that I
shall be with  her when she is going anywhere.
Can you understand?"
" Your taste is offended," replied the earl; "that
flirting manner of Adelaide's is unlady-like.  I cannot imagine how your aunt can endure it.  I should
lock her up if she was my child."
" I wish she would," exclaimed Blanche, and then,
laughing at her own eagerness, she added, "I wish
she would do anything, I mean, to keep Adelaide
quiet.  And I wish," she continued more gravely,
"that my aunt could win Adelaide's confidence, and
persuade her to talk to her as she does to me."
"Is there confidence between you, then?" exclaimed the earl, in a tone of surprise, and slight
displeasure.  "I never supposed your cousinly intimacy could go quite so far as that."
"I don't know whether you would call it confidence," replied Blanche; "I suppose not, for it is
not at all reciprocal; but Adelaide seems to like to say
odd things to me, and now and then'she does say
very odd ones; startling, quite, if I could believe them.
But she rattles on so fast, one never knows whether
she is in earnest."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               29
"She is a silly, vain girl, who never says a word
worth listening to," exclaimed the earl, impatiently.
" I hope, Blanche, you don't trouble yourself about
her."
"I cannot help myself," replied Blanche.
" Oh! yes, my love, indeed you can. If you were
not so unnecessarily good-natured, you would by
this time have found out how to rid yourself of silly
people."
Blanche put her horse into a canter, and they rode
on.  The thread of the conversation was for the
moment broken, but the earl resumed it. " I hope
you will remember that, my dear child, when you go
more into the world; remember, I mean, to keep
clear of boring, absurd people. It is the only thing
I am  really afraid of for you.  Such a person as
Adelaide may hang about you like a dead weight, if
you don't make an effort to shake her off."
" Poor Adelaide! " exclaimed Blanche, " there are
very few persons to care for her; I wish there were
more, heartily. But, papa, do you know there does
not seem such a great difference to me between her
and a good many other persons I have seen here, and
whom my aunt calls superior. She only does openly
what they do quietly."
"So you have discovered that, my love, have you?"
said the earl, smiling; "but you will learn by-and-by,
that it is a great virtue in the world to conceal one's
object dexterously."
" I should be sorry to have any object to conceal,"
said Blanche.
" Heaven forbid vou ever should have, my darling;
but it would be impossible: for you could never be
on a par with the managing, manoeuvring people one
meets with everywhere; it is not in your nature. You
will go on dreaming, Blanche, I suspect, and leave it
to your aunt and me to fall in love for you."
D2




30           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Blanche laughed.  "I suppose it is a sort of thing
one might be very glad to do by proxy," she said, " as
most people say they are so wretched all the time.
But, papa," she added, slightly blushing, "I don't see
that it is quite necessary to fall in love, as a great many
of the young ladies I meet here seem to fancy."
" Not necessary," said the earl, unable to repress
a smile; "only most natural and probable, as you
will understand in due time."
"Then I would rather leave it to due time before
I think about it," said Blanche. " I should not like
to believe that I could not be quite happy without it;
without being married, I mean," she added quickly:
for the recollection of the one fatal instance of a
marriage without affection rose as a phantom of evil
before her.
"Yes, leave it, leave it! " exclaimed Lord Rutherford, quickly. "It will come too soon for my happiness, whenever it does come: but I would not be
selfish."
"It will be sent," said Blanche gravely, " I like to
think that, because then one feels so satisfied either
way." 
" What do you mean by sent?" asked the earl,
shortly.
"Ordered; arranged  for one, by Providence,"
answered Blanche.  " I remember, when I was quite
a child, asking Mrs. Howard, why every one was not
married, and whether she thought that I should ever
be; and she said to me,   God knows, and He will
tell us by-and-by;' and so I thought it a duty to wait
till I was told, and I think so now; and, besides,"
she added, her voice sinking into an under tone, "so
many other things may happen; one may die."
They had just then reached an open common, upon
which stood a few scattered cottages and a school
built by Sir Hugh.  It was a very inviting place for




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              31
a quick canter over the soft turf, and Blanche was
gathering up the reins as a preparation, when two
women came slowly out of the school-house, carrying
between them a little boy, about five or six years of
age; he was lying apparently senseless in their arms,
his head drooping and his face deadly pale. Blanche
thought she recognised him as the son of the lodgekeeper at Senilhurst, a sickly child who had often attracted her notice and pity for his ill health, and in
whom she was particularly interested as being the
nephew of the blind girl at Rutherford. The women
stopped to rest, leaning against the gate of the schoolground, and water was brought to recover the child;
and as Blanche and her father rode close up to them,
he revived a little; Lord Rutherford asked a few
questions, and heard that " he was faint —that it was
a common thing with him, for he was very weaklyhe would be better soon, no doubt, and then he would
go home, they did not know  how, it was some
distance; but he would manage it, of course, for he
always did."
The earl looked at the boy, and said " Poor little
fellow," and would have gone on, but Blanche begged
that they might delay, just for a few minutes, till
the boy was really better.
She should like to dismount, she said, if she
might; and as the school could not well be left, she
would stay and watch him herself, and then they
might arrange to have him taken home, for it must
be bad for him to walk.
Almost as soon as the words were spoken, and
before her father could assist her, she had alighted.
Lord Rutherford acquiesced in the idea; though, if
the suggestion had been made by any one but
Blanche, he might have laughed at it as ultra-benevolence —perhaps he thought it so then in his heartyet there was something that touched his better




832        -THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
feelings, in this ready sympathy with suffering; this
weakness, it might be, which could not "pass on the
other side," and leave a sick child to the chance of
ordinary care. And it was like Blanche-it was consistent; and however far removed he might be from
sharing his daughter's principles, Lord Rutherford
could still value them for this one reason. That which
never failed as a guide, which directed the least as well
as the most important actions of life, and gave stability
to a disposition so gentle and otherwise yielding, was
becoming, even in the eye of the man of the world, an
ingredient of value in the formation of character.
The schoolmistress and her companion went away,
and soon afterwards the boy was able to answer
Blanche's questions himself; but his countenance
belied his words, when he said that he was really
well; and as he tried to move he staggered, and put
his hand to his head and complained of pain.  It
was evident that the attack was not a common one.
"They ought to send him  home at once," said
the earl, with some impatience of manner: "it is
folly to talk of his being able to walk. There must
be a cart, or something, which will take him; but
these people are wonderfully indifferent about such
matters. I shall tell them they must do something
with him directly."
He went into the school-house, and  returned
almost immediately, followed by the mistress, who
was speaking eagerly.  "Yes, certainly, his lordship might depend upon her doing her best. Carts
were not so easy to be had; but she would try. No
doubt something would be managed.  It was a great
pity his lordship and Lady Blanche should have been
delayed; but Lady Blanche was so very kind always.
Johnnie Foster would be quite sorry when he came
to himself, to think of how much trouble he had
been giving."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              33
Johnnie Foster seemed perfectly conscious of this
fact already, for he tried to raise his head, which
was laid against Blanche's shoulder, and a smile
came over his little pale face, as he thanked her for
being kind.
The earl regarded him  with more interest than
before.  The expression of the countenance was
silgularly sweet and intelligent, as he fixed his blue
eves upon Blanche, with a mixture of shyness, wonder, and pleasure, at the notice she was bestowing
upon him.  " We will look after him at Senilhurst,"
he said, addressing Blanche; " but we must not wait
now, or you will lose your ride completely."
Blanche had a request upon her lips; for she
thought the ride a very secondary object to the
child's comfort.  Yet she hesitated in making it,
since it was against her desire of consulting her
father's wishes.
"You would rather stay," he said, reading her
inclinations quickly.
" No, not stay; for I do not think I can be of much
use, as he is better; but if there is any difficulty
about sending him  home, I should like to let his
mother know, and she might come, perhaps, in Sir
Hugh's spring-cart to fetch him.  And then we
might, if you did not care, go on the other way to
Cobham, and let the doctor know he is to come and
see him. I should like to be sure that he was taken
care of," she added, "and to feel one had done all
one could."
The schoolmistress began to remonstrate against
this very unnecessary trouble, as she called it, repeating again and again that Johnnie would do very
well, and they should "manage somehow;" but
Blanche was urgent, when she saw that her father
did not object to the idea, and, after seeing the child
carried into the house again and laid upon a little sofa




34          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
in the mistress's parlour, she again mounted her
horse to return,
Cobham was the post town of Seniihurst, a small
place, a few miles from the railway station. The
road was dull, and the town dirty and uninteresting;
in general, Lord Rutherford made it a point of duty
to avoid it; but this afternoon, although it was growing late and chilly before he and Blanche reached it,
his usual complaints were silenced. Yet he was not
amused by conversation; little had been said, by
either, for nearly half an hour, the time which had
elapsed from their leaving the lodge-gate at Senilhurst.  Blanche had seen the mother of the sick
child there, and advised that he should be sent for
immediately, and had undertaken to give notice to
the doctor at Cobham, and then she seemed satisfied,
and would have talked as usual to her father upon
other topics, but she found a difficulty in fixing his
attention, and presently gave up the endeavour. The
medical man was not at home.  Lord Rutherford
wished to give a verbal message, but Blanche asked
to write it.
"It was more certain," she said, "and she was
afraid the child was worse than his mother fancied;"
so a card was left, with "Lady Blanche Evelyn's compliments," and once more Blanche turned her horse's
head towards Senilhurst.
"And your mind is at rest now, Blanche, is it?"
said her father, as they rode off. " Do you mean to
go through the world taking as much pains about
everything? You will have hard work if you do."
" I should not care for that," replied Blanche;
"if I could do it as it ought to be done. I should
like to think that this sort of thing was work."
"It is troublesome and disagreeable enough, at all
events," replied the earl.  "Not that it has been
disagreeable to me, my child; don't think that; but




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               35
I see in you so often, Blanche, an over-tasking of
your mind, an exhausting energy which will wear you
out if you don't take care; and it makes me anxious
about you."
Blanche checked her horse, in her surprise, as she
exclaimed: "Anxious lest I should overwork myself!
my dear papa! why I have nothing to do all day but
to consider my own pleasure."
"And your pleasure is to labour for others.  I
see it, my love, when you don't imagine it. From
morning till night you give yourself no rest. There
is always a thought of duty before you."
Blanche waited for a few seconds, and then said;
"I wish I could believe it was so; but even supposing
it, one must live for some purpose, with some aim,
to be happy; and I should certainly like to know
that I was doing my utmost, if that were ever so
little. I can't imagine resting in anything short of
the utmost."
" It is a strange notion for such a child," said the
earl, regarding her with a look in which an intense
affection was mingled with wonder and respect;
"but it will scarcely make you happy, Blanche, as
you suppose; because your notions of the utmost
are unattainable."
" But I would try; I would strive," exclaimed
Blanche, her face flushing with eagerness; "and my
rest would be in striving. There is so much to be
done and to be accountable for; and life may be
short," she added quietly.
" Yes, it may be," replied the earl, " but it may
also be long; and there can be no reason to shorten
it by over exertion."
"I would not do that," said Blanche; " and if
I could see any danger of over exertion, I would
check myself as a matter of duty.  But when I look
at other people and see how they are circumstanced,




36          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
how they are obliged to work, I feel that it would be
absurd in me to think over exertion possible. I am
forced to live such a comfortable life, that the only
satisfaction I can find in it is, when anything in
the shape of a duty comes in my way, doing it
thoroughly."
Lord Rutherford repeated the word " thoroughly,
in a tone of much thoughtfulness; it seemed to have
aroused a new train of ideas.
" I think sometimes," continued Blanche, "that
people must be better and happier who are born to
work, or at least to be useful in some definite way.
It seems as if a great responsibility, and a great
difficulty must be taken from them."
" But why work, my dear child?-why fret yourself about such subjects?-why not take the world
as it is given you, and amuse yourself as your age
points out?"
"Because-" Blanche began her sentence twice,
and paused with the effort to repress some rising
feeling —"because one should be so sorry if the
time came that one were not able; that is, one
might die, or-or-it might not-the power might
not be allowed one; and if it were so, and then at
the last, perhaps just before one's death, one had
to look back upon this time wasted, it would be so
dreadful."  Her voice grew  quite composed as the
sentence concluded; but the earl read the secret
dread which prompted the thought, and his face was
in an instant convulsed with an expression almost of
agony.  Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped on,
without venturing  upon  another word till they
reached Senilhurst.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              37
CHAPTER IV.
"BLANCHE, where are you going? here are letters
for you," said Lady Charlton, the following morning, as Blanche came into the library, dressed for
walking.
Blanche received her letters, and was going to
take them away, when her aunt again made the inquiry as to where she was going.  "It is too damp,
my love, for you to be out. The weather is quite
changed-really wintry.  I must have you careful
of yourself."
Blanche was only going to the lodge to inquire for
the little boy, and had no intention, she said, of
remaining out long.
"Oh! but, my dear, we can send quite easily.
Pray don't give yourself the trouble of inquiring,
and don't tire yourself, especially to-day. We shall
have such a charming importation of visitors at
dinner; people you will be sure to like, so don't
wear yourself out beforehand."
"Any one I know?" asked Blanche.
"Oh! yes-know  by name quite well; " and
Lady Charlton ran over a short list, consisting of a
poet and a poet's wife; an historian, his sister, and
a brother-in-law, all delightful people; and to crown
the whole, Mr. Johnstone, of Oakfield; "it is the
greatest favour in the world for him to come," she
said, her eyes lighted up with excitement.  "He is
so immensely busy, and so entirely devoted to his
parish, and the bishop makes so much of him, and
gives him  such a quantity of work to do, I quite
VOL. II.             E




38          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
despaired of him, though I longed for you to see
him, Blanche. But I tempted him with the petition
that he would give an opinion about the restoration of the chancel which you heard Sir Hugh talk
of. Those good men are so very hard to get at, it is
quite a triumph when one can seize upon them for
a day."
" And will Mrs. Johnstone come too?" inquired
Blanche. "Eleanor Wentworth knows her, I think;
I remember hearing her say one day that she was a
particularly nice person."
"I believe she is very nice,-extremely quiet and
domestic; good she must be to be his wife; but I
don't know much of her; she seldom leaves home."
"Then Mr. Johnstone will come alone," said
Blanche.
" Mrs. Johnstone is to come, if it is not too wet,
and to bring a friend; but I must confess she is a very
secondary consideration. He is charming, however.
I shall persuade him to stay to-morrow, if I possibly
can; but I am afraid he will be obstinate.  But that
must be left; all I wanted to say to you, my love, was
to give you a warning not to over-fatigue yourself, as
I should give Ady warning before a ball. So much
for difference of taste! By the by, have you seen
Ady this morning?"
" No," replied Blanche; "she was not down-stairs
when I left the breakfast-room."
" Shockingly bad habits! " exclaimed Lady Charlton, shaking her head.  "I wish you could give her
a little of your energy and steadiness, Blanche; or,
more properly, a great deal." Then assuming an air
of confidence, she added,-" I need not say to you,
that Ady gives me a great deal of anxiety."
Blanche assented by a look of sympathy, for she
did not know what to answer.
" She is very giddy," continued Lady Charlton,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               39
"and wilful too.  I was in hopes that taking her
from Rutherford might have done some good, but I
am half afraid.  Pray, have you heard from  Miss
Wentworth lately?"
Blanche held a letter from Eleanor in her hand,
and Lady Charlton began to excuse herself for having
kept her so long from reading it; looking, at the
same time, as if she very much wished that it should
be opened in her presence.
"London!"  exclaimed Blanche, in surprise, as
she broke the seal, and examined the date; "that
must be quite a sudden plan."
Lady Charlton's countenance showed some uneasiness.  Blanche was too much occupied with her
letter to notice it; yet she read out passages occasionally, from the consciousness that Lady Charlton
was standing by, listening and expecting. Eleanor,
it seemed, was in London, staying with a cousin who
was about to sail for India, and had insisted upon her
paying a short farewell visit.
" She does not write  in  good spirits," said
Blanche, commenting upon the letter as she went
on; "Rutherford is so dull, she says, without me.
I was afraid she would miss me; she wants so
much to know what I am  doing."  Here followed
an extract from the letter, and rather an unfortunate
one, for it brought Blanche into the middle of a confidential sentence, before she exactly knew where she
was, and when it was equally impossible either to
go forwards or backwards, without explanation: she
stopped and coloured; and then, laughing at her
own awkwardness, exclaimed, " I don't know why I
should be so shy with you, Aunt Charlton?  I am
sure you will understand.  Eleanor and I were
talking one day at Rutherford, about being separated
all the winter; and we said it would be so nice if she
could come here for a little time: but we both agreed




40          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
it could not be, because we knew you were uncomfortable about Mr. Wentworth and Adelaide.  Now,
Eleanor says she cannot help thinking about it, and
longing for it, because London is so near, and the
Johnstones have asked her to go to them, which
would bring  her into the neighbourhood.  Her
brother is not with her, so that there would be no
real objection, if I could manage it. But you must
not think  about it, please," continued Blanche,
affectionately.  "I would not worry you on any
account, and I know the house is full, and it may be
very inconvenient; and as to her visit to Mrs. Johnstone, she does not say she is going, only that she
has been asked.  I merely mentioned it that you
might see there was no mystery.  I need not let
Eleanor know that the idea was ever suggested to
you."
It was. a great effort to Lady Charlton to conceal
that the visit of any person of the name of Wentworth would be disagreeable to her; but she was
really extremely fond of Blanche, and anxious to
make her happy, and if Mr. Wentworth was out of
the way, there could be no actual objection to Eleanor
herself.  Still she hesitated; it was opening the
door, and no one could foresee the consequences.
" If I were quite sure about Mr. Wentworth," she
began.
Blanche interposed with an urgent entreaty that
she would not allow the subject to trouble her for an
instant.  She could quite understand; so would
Eleanor. And, after all, even if the invitation was
given, Mrs. Wentworth might not like Eleanor to accept it; and Lady Charlton acquiesced, but not as if
she was satisfied with the decision; it seemed unkind,
and all Blanche's assurances to the contrary failed to
restore her to equanimity.
Poor Blanche heartily repented her imprudence in




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              41
reading the letter aloud too hastily. It was a lesson
for the future, but the experience was bought dearly.
Lady Charlton was, to use the common expression,
" put out;" and there is nothing which effects this
more surely with people who seek popularity, and
pique themselves upon good-nature, than  being
obliged to appear ill-natured. She endeavoured to
change the subject, and spoke again of the guests
who were expected in the evening; but she showed
plainly what was burdening her mind, by saying,
as she left the room, "You know, my dear, I
could not bear to be ungracious; but it would be a
mere compliment to ask Miss Wentworth here merely
for two or three days, and next week we shall really
not have a bed to spare."
Blanche had nothing more to say, and nothing to
do, but to try and forget her disappointment as best
she might. She left the house, intending to go to
the Lodge, but the sky was clouding over, and before
she had gone any distance, large drops of rain fell,
and she was obliged to return.
Misfortunes, every one agrees, never come alone,
and this disturbance of her plans was a great increase
to Blanche's annoyance.  She was lingering under
the portico, trying to persuade herself that black
clouds and faint glimmerings of light, swiftly appearing and vanishing, meant fine weather, when Adelaide
Charlton came to the hall door, and seeing that
Blanche had been walking, asked what the weather
was likely to be. Blanche was a little startled by
the question, for she had not thought that any one
was near, and turned rather quickly to answer it.
At the same moment Adelaide dropped a letter, which
she was reading. Blanche stooped to pick it up, but
Adelaide stepped forward in a great hurry to prevent
her.
" Thank you; don't trouble yourself:" she said,
E2




42          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
hurriedly,-crumpling the letter in her hand, and
evidently much discomposed; "have you had letters
this morning?- any from Mrs. Howard-from Rutherford?-but I forgot, there is no one to write to you
there; that is I suppose,-I imagine-is Miss Wentworth at home?"
"No," replied Blanche, a little surprised at Adelaide's confused manner; "she has been on a visit
to a cousin, in-"
Blanche did not say where, for a little dog, a pet
of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's, just then came running up
to her, and jumping upon her dress, diverted, for the
moment, the current of her ideas.
"And Miss Wentworth is going to remain-how
long did you say, in London?" inquired Adelaide,
still lingering, with the pretence of watching the
weather.
" I don't know, exactly," replied Blanche, not observing, in her simplicity, the knowledge which
Adelaide showed of Eleanor's movements.
" She will not have time to come here, I suppose,"
said Adelaide, carelessly.
Blanche did perceive something unusual in this
remark-in the tone rather than the words. She
looked at Adelaide more attentively.  There was
anxiety in her face; an anxiety which she was trying
to hide by a forced coolness.  She bent down to
caress the dog, and again the letter fell from her
hand. Blanche did not offer a second time to pick
it up; but, as it lay for an instant on the ground,
she thought the handwriting was Eleanor's.
" It won't do for excursions to-day," said Adelaide,
advancing to the top of the steps; "we must make
up our minds to amuse ourselves as well as we can
within doors. It is a happy thing we have not very
stupid people to entertain: the Cuthbert Greys are
invaluable on a wet day."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             43
"And there are so many coming to dine and
sleep," observed Blanche: "with such a set of
geniuses, we ought to be very agreeable."
" Geniuses! " exclaimed Adelaide; "of all things
in a country party, I hate geniuses; people who
force one to count the letters in every word one
utters, lest one should shock them by one's ignorance:
and who, after all, are generally the dullest persons
one ever meets."
"Then you must have goodness instead," said
Blanche, laughing.  "Mr. Johnstone is more famous,
I believe, for his goodness even than for his talents."
Adelaide made no reply, but ran down the steps,
regardless of the rain, and declared that it was certainly going to be fine.
" You will be very wet; do come in, pray Adelaide
do," remonstrated Blanche.  But Adelaide's fancy,
at that time, was to be considered strong. On other
occasions she sometimes chose to be thought delicate.
She stayed just long enough to prove that she would
have her own way, and then ran back into the house,
leaving Blanche provoked by her absurdity, and
rather mystified by her manner.




44          THE EARL'   DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER V.
A  WET day in a country house is undoubtedly a
trial; often of the spirits, and always of the mental
resources of the party assembled. Senilhurst was as
pleasant a house, under such circumstances, as could
well be imagined, for there were books for those who
chose to employ their minds; music and drawings
for any who enjoyed and appreciated them; and
billiards for idle gentlemen who had no other way of
killing time. Mrs. Cuthbert Grey sat near a window,
ostensibly for the benefit of the light upon her embroidery frame,-really, that she might be able to
see all that was going on. The Miss Greys wrote
letters and worked, and tried to make Lord Erlsmere
talk, and to persuade Maude to sing.  Adelaide was
unusually quiet; it was supposed because she was
interested in a new novel; and not even the entrance of an occasional refugee from the librarytired of prosing with Sir Hugh, and hoping to find
relief in the society of ladies-induced her to exert
herself to be entertaining.  Lady Charlton came
into the room frequently; gossiped a little with Mrs.
Cuthbert Grey, and admired the Miss Greys' work,
and wished earnestly that she could find time to
be as industrious; and then turned to Lord Erlsmere, with some question about the post-office, or
the railroads, which brought out his accurate information upon all matters of public interest. " But
there was no resting-place for her there," as she said
herself with a tragicomic shake of the head, which
implied that she was overpowered with business.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              45
"The poor little new schoolmistress had come to make
a complaint to Sir Hugh about her chimney; and
Mrs. Foster, at the Lodge, wanted advice about her
boy; and many other little matters, too numerous to be
mentioned, were all requiring her presence elsewhere.
She wished earnestly that she could have a day's
quiet-but home and quietness were not synonymous
terms "-and, with a resigned sigh, Lady Charlton
flitted from the room, leaving her guests in a very
agreeable state of feeling-compounded of pleasure
at the delicate flattery administered to themselvesand admiration of the energetic, self-denying, and
useful life of their hostess.
"Lady Blanche does not give us much of her
society in the morning," said Miss Caroline Grey to
Maude, after they had been silent for some minutes,
and were, as she thought, in danger of becoming
victims to dulness in consequence.
" She spends a great deal of her time with her
father, I imagine," observed Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, in
a soft voice. " One cannot be surprised at it. Such
a sweet young creature as she is!-he must ta'ke
great delight in forming her character."
"Her character is formed, I should think," said
Lord Erlsmere, who, if not a first-rate person in
point of interest, was certainly so in his love of truth
and simplicity.
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey sank from rapture into pity.
" Yes, Lady Blanche's character, she supposed,
might be said to be formed; formed in a peculiar way
for so young,-so very young a person; but that
would scarcely prevent Lord Rutherford from being
anxious about her. Poor man! he had great cause for
anxiety;" and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey sighed, and again
repeated, "Poor man;" and concluded with observing,
"' that it must be a comfort to him, under the circumstances, to see his daughter so cheerful, and with




46          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
such even spirits."  An observation which made
Lord Erlsmere look up with a perception of some
secret meaning.
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey worked very diligently after
this, only pausing every now and then to inquire
how  her eldest daughter was progressing in her
studies; for Miss Grey had, within the last few minutes, laid down her pen, and commenced the perusal
of a political pamphlet which Lord Erlsmere had
been heard to recommend strongly. This brought
on a discussion, deferential on the part of Miss Grey,
and animated on that of Lord Erlsmere; in the
midst of which something very like a groan was heard
to escape from Maude-and throwing down her book,
with an ejaculation at its stupidity, she left the room
apparently in a fit of impatience.
There was a gleam of hope in the prospect of the
weather; a little blue sky in the west, and symptoms
of dispersion amongst the clouds overhead.  Maude
stood in the portico, as Adelaide had done beforeher own countenance very like a thunder-cloud-and
her voice, as she hummed the first few notes of a
German song, not very unlike its distant rumbling.
Yet it was not the thunder-cloud of anger onlysadness and weariness were mingled with it; and
when, a few minutes afterwards, she went to put on
a bonnet and shawl, intending to take a solitary walk in
the colonnade, it was with a listlessness which proved
that the walk, in itself, was no object to her.  Many
times she paced up and down-slowly and decidedly
-stopping every now and then as the sound of
wheels caught her ear; but even in this, there was
the same indifferenceand languor. A carriage at last
entered the park, and was driving up to the house;
Maude turned a corner to avoid being seen, and
then looked-she did not know why; visitors were
not of any importance to her, and this was a hired




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             47
carriage-a fly;-probably some people come to
stay;-the Johnstones possibly-they were expected before luncheon.  Yes, so it was;-Mr. Johnstone, with a pleasant, clever, rather eager face;
and Mrs. Johnstone, with a face which none would
remark.  And there was a friend too-a tall, elegantlooking girl, her features were not seen at first,
she lingered behind Mrs. Johnstone; but Maude
caught a full view of them, as some remark was
made which induced her to look towards the colonnade, and saw-she could not be mistaken-undoubtedly it must be-Eleanor Wentworth. Maude's
impulse was a strange one;-it was less surprise
than irritation;-it made her rush down the steps
from the colonnade, and hurry away into the thick
shrubbery, and from  thence into the park; and
away-she scarcely cared where-so that she might
be certain of solitude.
The clouds were now gathering together again, and
a driving mist was settling into rain; but Maude was
at no time as mindful of weather as her health required, and though she was tired with her walk, went
on, until a pelting shower convinced her how unwise
she had been, and induced her to think seriously of
shelter. The lodge was near, and she hurried towards
it, and opened the door unceremoniously. The next
moment she repented of her haste, for she was an
intruder.  She saw it directly, as Blanche rose from
a seat by the side of the sick boy's bed, and closing
a book from which she had been reading to him, said,
" I will come and finish it to-morrow if I can; and
you will try and think about it, Johnnie, and be patient, wont you?"
Her hand was laid upon the little fellow's burning
cheek, and she bent over him and whispered, " God
bless you!" and as Maude came forward to speak to




48          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER,
the child herself, she perceived Lord Rutherford also.
He was standing behind a projecting wall, and gazing
so earnestly upon Blanche, that he had not noticed
Maude. He came into the light as she spoke, and
laughed at their meeting, and said a few words in his
usual tone, but there was deeper thought beneath the
outward indifference, and the glance of his eye was
softened as it rested upon Blanche into the expression
of a woman's tenderness.
"We can go now, I think, dear papa," said
Blanche, drawing near to him.
He was generally cold, even to her, in the presence
of others; but now he put his arm around her and
kissed her. They stood together by the side of the
child's bed. Maude watched them with an indefinable feeling of repose.
"We will come again to-morrow," said Blanche,
appealing to her father.
"Yes, to-morrow, if we can. He will be better
then we hope; and we must remember what he
wants. I will speak about it myself."
"Thank you-thank you," said Blanche;" so
very much:" and the child tried to sit up, and
thanked him  also; and Lord Rutherford turned
hastily away, for he would not for worlds it should be
seen that a tear glistened in his eye.
" This is not weather for you to be out in, Maude,"
said Blanche, as, the shower being over, they left
the cottage together, the earl lingering behind.  "I
was half afraid of it myself, and I am much stronger
than you are."
"It is better at least than the weather within,"
replied Maude, shortly.  "You seldom  sit in the
drawing-room in the morning; so you don't know
what it is. But I wonder you ventured so far from
home when you were expecting Eleanor Wentworth."




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.             49
She said this bitterly; and, when Blanche turned
round in extreme surprise, she saw that Maude's lip
was curling with pride and anger.
"I don't want to blame you, Blanche," began
Maude again; but Blanche interrupted her with
questions as to her meaning.  Could she be sure
that it was Eleanor? did she know whether Lady
Charlton was annoyed? and similar inquiries which
were a very evident proof that Eleanor's visit was
entirely unexpected.  Maude's irritated face was
gradually soothed as the conviction strengthened, yet
her only reply was, " One can't doubt you, Blanche;
but don't hurry on in that way.  Must you see Miss
Wentworth immediately?"
"Yes; no; there is no absolute necessity.  Why
must I not go?" inquired Blanche.
"Simply because I must speak to you first," answered Maude.  " Can I not have a few moments of
your precious time?" she added, as Blanche seemed
inclined to wait for Lord Rutherford.
"Yes, of course, presently; but I must not leave
him to walk home alone;" and Blanche turned back
and put her arm within her father's.  They walked
on silently. Blanche was too much perplexed and
annoyed at Eleanor's unforeseen arrival even to mention her name.
"I may come to you before dinner, papa; may
I not?" she said, as they reached the house, and
Lord Rutherford stood, apparently expecting her to
enter.
Maude touched her arm  impatiently, "If you
stay here, Blanche, you will be seen. I must have
you; this way"-and she would have drawn her into
the colonnade.
Blanche resisted. "I may come and seal your
letters, papa, at five o'clock; may I not?" she inquired again.  Lord Rutherford smiled.  Maude,
VOL. II.             F




50          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
eager as she was, could not help noticing the fondness
of his manner.
" Good-b'ye," said Blanche, lightly. "I am going
with Maude now."
She followed her cousin through the colonnade, and
Lord Rutherford stood at the door, and watched them
till they had turned the angle of the building; and,
even when they were out of sight, he still lingered, as
if unwilling even for those few minutes to lose sight
of her.
"And now, Blanche, answer me," exclaimed
Maude, when they were alone, " only once, tell me
plainly, did you not expect Eleanor to-day?"
" I have told you in all but the exact words-why
do you ask me again?"
"Because-the world is a strange world-more
strange every day-more irritating, aggravating, enraging."  Maude walked on so rapidly, that Blanche
found it difficult to keep up with her.
"c Adelaide, and the Cuthbert Greys, and that bore
Lord Erlsmere, and Eleanor Wentworth-they are all
alike; not one better than the other," continued
Maude.  "If they were twenty times your friends,
Blanche, I must say it."
" But, my dear Maude, pray-if you would only be
clear-only tell me what you are thinking of. You
really make me impatient!"
"Then I make you what I am myself," answered
Maude.  "I need not do that either," she added in
a lower and graver tone; "but you are too good for
them, Blanche; and I cannot bear to see you deluded.
Why do you put faith in Eleanor Wentworth?"
"Eleanor! she is my friend; we were brought up
together: whom can I put faith in besides?" inquired
Blanche, in rather a frightened tone.
"In me," exclaimed Maude, sarcastically.   "I
should not treat you as Eleanor Wentworth does."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             51
Then, seeing that Blanche was silent from astonishment, she added, "You did not know that she was
expected to-day; but Adelaide did."  Blanche remembered the handwriting she had seen, and could
not doubt the assertion.  "I am not jealous," continued Maude.  "I don't want to win your affection,
or any of that romantic nonsense; so you need not
think I have any double meaning."
" Double! oh, no! impossible! "  interrupted
Blanche.
"Not so impossible as you may think.  People
don't tell tales of one another, generally, without
some meaning.  Mine is to put you on your guard,
and make you see that Eleanor Wentworth is too
much a friend of Adelaide's to be a friend of yours
too."
"But indeed, Maude, you wrong me very much,"
exclaimed Blanche.  "I know that Eleanor is what
some people would call a friend of Adelaide's; that
is, they are glad to see each other, and laugh and
talk together; but that sort of thing is totally different from her feeling for me.  I cannot imagine how
it should stand in her way."
"Has it not stood in the way?" inquired Maude,
coolly.  "Why did not Miss Wentworth tell you
she was coming here to-day?"
"Because-for a thousand reasons.  I will go and
ask her;" and she would have hurried away, if
Maude had not detained her.
"Blanche, how long will you be a child, trusting
and deceived? I tell you I know Eleanor Wentworth
better than you do.  She is Adelaide's friend; and
like her-vain, frivolous,-worldly; that is the word
you will understand."
"No; that she never was, and never will be," exclaimed Blanche with energy.  "I will not listen to
you, Maude; it is unfair to Eleanor.  She was my




52          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
first friend, and I will not hear her spoken ill of
without giving her the opportunity of defending herself. I will ask her for an explanation."
"Ask, ask, if you will," answered Maude; "and
make her tell you why she keeps up a constant correspondence with Adelaide; and why Adelaide's
letters are never to be seen.  Ask her whether she
is not encouraging her in that utter folly which went
on at Rutherford; the very thought of it would
make me ill, if I did not know that Adelaide can
carry on as many flirtations as there are days in the
year, so that there is no real danger; but Miss Wentworth should never have demeaned herself to bear
any part in it; she should   -"
Blanche broke in upon the sentence.  "Maude,"
she said earnestly, "you are making me very unhappy; any facts would be better than these vague
hints."
Maude's tone of angry sarcasm changed into one
of quiet seriousness, when she saw that Blanche was
really distressed.  "I have spoken in this way,"
she said, "because I have no actual facts to bring
forward; only convictions of my own, from observation. You know as well as I do how Adelaide behaved at Rutherford, and how annoyed mamma was.
I did not tell you, Blanche, half how disgusting the
whole affair was to me. I don't know whether I am
more fastidious than the rest of the world, but when
I see that sort of thing going on it makes me hate
myself for being one of the same race.  Mamma
thought it would be all over when Adelaide came
here, which was more than I did; at least, I was sure
that if she did not flirt with Mr. Wentworth, she
would with some one else; and so she has done, as you
may have seen. Adelaide is one of those persons
who can't look or speak without flirting; but I did
not know, till a few days ago, that she has not given




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             53
up the old folly. I suspected it from seeing letters
come frequently in Miss Wentworth's handwriting,
and I taxed Adelaide with it, and she tried to turn
off the subject, but she could not deceive me. And
now suddenly, without any invitation from my mother,
they have contrived that Miss Wentworth shall
come here. What for, I can't pretend to say; but I
should have supposed that pride alone might have
prevented her from intruding herself where she must
be aware she is not welcome."  Maude paused; but
Blanche, without venturing to reply, walked slowly
and thoughtfully towards the entrance of the house.
" You will not believe me, now? " said Maude, following her.
Blanche turned round quickly, "What would
you say, if I believed accusations against you,
before I had given you the opportunity of explanation?"
"You would believe them  instantly," exclaimed
Maude; "but your affection deceives you in this case."
"And have I no affection for you, Maude? "
There was a quivering movement about Maude's
harsh decided mouth.  She threw herself upon a
bench, and when Blanche stooped to kiss her, her
cheek was wet with tears.
"Dear Maude," said Blanche kindly, and she sat
down by her.  A  proud struggle was visible on
Maude's face.
"Not pity!"  she exclaimed.  "Save me from
pity. After all, what does it signify to me, if the
world is made up of hypocrites.  I don't mean you,
Blanche," she added, laughing in spite of herself,
at poor Blanche's expression of wonder and horror;
"You don't belong to the world; but it is so wearing to live day after day with people one despises;
to see no beauty, no goodness anywhere, except-I see
it in you; but it is weak goodness-superstition."
F 2




54          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Yet I am happy," said Blanche quickly, "and
you are not."
A crimson flush dyed Maude's sallow cheek, and
then it faded away to a deadly paleness, and she
answered, " If I am not happy, it is because I was
not born to be deceived."
" Suspicion is deceit," said Blanche; "because it
makes us believe evil to exist where it does not."
" But it does exist; one sees it everywhere," exclaimed Maude; "only it puts on a mask.  Look at
that woman, Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, my mother's idol.
Such  a good churchwoman! a perfect example!
reads sermons by the hundreds, and buys good little
books by cartloads. I have heard her talk, until, if I
had not known her, I could have supposed she was
St. Cuthbert, instead of Mrs. Cuthbert; but I sat in
the drawing-room  this morning, and watched her
toadying Lord Erlsmere, in hopes of making him fall
in love with her eldest girl, until I could bear it no
longer.  If I had had a scourge I verily believe I
should have used it."
" One might be tempted to do so, sometimes," said
Blanche, smiling, "if one might begin upon oneself."
"Oneself!" and Maude's face became very sad;
"but I must leave that, and I did not intend to talk
of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, only the woman drives me
wild.  You may as well go, Blanche; you won't be
undeceived, so you must follow your own course."
Blanche did not like to go, Maude's face was so
worn and harassed that it grieved her to look at it.' I should like to make you happier, Maude," she
said, still lingering.
" Then close my eyes and stop my thoughts," replied Maude, bitterly.  "Thought " and she put
her hand to her forehead, as if it ached terribly.
" Oh! if one could only cease from  it but for one
day."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              55
"Yet it is the great object of education, so people
say, to make one think," observed Blanche.
"Is it?  I don't know; I never was educated.
No, never," she repeated, answering her cousin's
look of surprise.  "I was left to bad governesses,
and never went out of the school-room. I learnt just
what I chose-what I could teach myself;-history
and geography sometimes-thought always.  I began thinking when I was a child-when people supposed I was playing with my doll: I thought about
the doll,-why it did not speak-why it had no
mind-how it differed from me, and I have gone on
thinking ever since: yes, on, and on, and on, untilBlanche, have you ever thought till you felt that the
next step would be insanity? —That is what I have
done," she continued, without waiting for an answer;
" and I have found others who have done the sameclever men, men I thought I could reverence. I met
with them abroad; but they were allalike-all disappointing in practice and differing in theory. There
was no rest; what one believed the others disbelieved."
" Can there ever be rest in the systems and theories
of our own forming?" said Blanche, gently.
Maude shook her head.  "Ah! Blanche, there is
our difference. I cannot walk blindfold. I cannot
bow my intellect to forms and superstitions." ~
" I hope I could not either," replied Blanche; "but
I am afraid we can scarcely understand each other;
we have been brought up so differently. I was told
what was true, as a child; I was not left to find it out
for myself. I was taught to obey, too, before I knew
the reason why.  Now that I am beginning to think
for myself, I see that what I learnt agrees with the
Bible; and if I try to follow it, it makes me happy;
I have no room, therefore, for doubts."
This was said so simply and confidently, that
Maude looked up in astonishment.  "We do differ,




56          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
indeed," she said, proudly.  "Like you, I am  a
Christian; but I must put my own interpretation
upon the Bible. To yield my opinion to the judgment of others, I must be a child again."
" Must you?" and Blanche waited for a few
moments in thought, and then added,-" A grownup person might pray to be taught rightly, and
might go to Church regularly, and read the Bible,
and try to be good as far as he knew, in spite of
the difficulties, and then, perhaps, they would go
away."
" And that is what you would have me do," said
Maude, quickly.
"Yes, it would be better, I think-safer than
argument-because- 
"Go on-go on," said Maude, impetuously.
"Safer," continued Blanche, more firmly, "because we cannot doubt for ever."
"No, there will be certainty before long for us
all," said Maude, gravely.
"And if it should be the certainty of all being true
which we doubted and thought difficult to understand," pursued Blanche, " it would be very horrible."
Maude's brow contracted as with pain.
"Very horrible! would it not?" repeated Blanche.
"If, I mean, we had gone on following our own will,
because we had not all the certainty we wished for."
Her voice was very tremulous as she said this; and
Maude saw that she turned pale.  "You are ill,"
she observed.  "I have kept you standing too long."
"No, not ill; only cold," replied Blanche; and
she wrapped her shawl round her.
"And I have kept you from Miss Wentworth,"
said Maude, a little sarcastically. " That was wrong
in me, too."
Blanche tried to smile, but it was not a subject for
amusement.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             57
"You really don't look at all well," continued
Maude.  "You ought not to have gone out this
damp day, and I have kept you standing and walking
till you are tired to death. Do go in and rest before
you see Miss Wentworth."
Blanche repeated that it was only the cold; a fire
would make her quite well; but Maude was not satisfied, and, forgetting her own grievances, hurried her
into the house, and insisted, with the most persevering and even affectionate attention, on seeing that
she was resting comfortably in her own room, before
Eleanor Wentworth went to her.




58           THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER VI.
No one who had seen the Senilhurst party that
evening would have discovered any signs of unusual
annoyance or uncongeniality, unless upon close inspection, and after intimate knowledge of the characters of the persons collected together.
Blanche, indeed, sat in an easy chair, looking pale
and talking little; and Lord  Rutherford hovered
about her to ward off all that might disturb her. But
Blanche smiled and seemed contented, and her father
had evidently no wish except to be near her, and was
quite satisfied when he found her pleased in listening
to Maude's exquisite singing, and in the intervals
when there was no music taking a part in a conversation he was carrying on with Lady Charlton and
Mr. Johnstone, respecting a living in his gift which
was likely soon to be vacant.
So far all was well; and what if Adelaide's manner
was absent and Maude's cross, if Eleanor Wentworth
was shy and Lady Charlton distant; these differences
were not visible to the common eye. There was the
same polish of refinement and courtesy over all, and
the drawing-room at Senilhurst might well have been
supposed to contain as large an amount of comfort
and freedom  from  restraint and care as could be
found amongst any similar portion of English society.
Blanche could not suspect evil; it was not in her
nature.  She was, besides, far from well, and did not
feel equal to thought. She had not seen Eleanor for
nearly half an hour after he. conversation with Maude;
but, when they did meet, the explanation of her




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              59
sudden arrival was simple enough to put to flight all
the suspicions which Maude would have raised. The
visit to Mr. Johnstone had been, Eleanor said, quite
unexpected. She had arrived only two days before;
Mr. Johnstone had insisted upon bringing her to
Senilhurst, as Lady Charlton had given him a " carte
blanche" to introduce any of his friends; and her
name had not been mentioned merely to cause an
amusing surprise to Blanche. Certainly, she allowed
that the secret had been entrusted to Adelaide, but
this was because-she did not know why, exactly; she
had been executing commissions for Adelaide in
London, and was writing to her about them, and that
put it into her head to name it.  She quite supposed that Adelaide would have mentioned her being
in London; but it was just like her to forget.
Nothing could be more satisfactory, and Eleanor was
so pleased, and bright, and affectionate, so enchanted
to see Blanche again, so full of all the parish news
of Rutherford, that it would have been impossible to
quarrel with her. Blanche thought, as she watched
her that evening, how superior she was to every one
else in the room; graceful, intellectual, brilliant,
amiable; even Lady Charlton was obliged to acquiesce
in the praises that were lavished upon her, although
the next moment she relapsed into coldness, as unpleasant recollections forced themselves upon her.
"Frances, my dear," said Sir Hugh, who sat opposite to Blanche, in a gouty chair, trying to believe,
and to make other persons believe, that he was quite
well; "Frances, my dear-my dear Lady CharltonFrances;" Lady Charlton was bending her head low,
to catch a passing observation of Mr. Johnstone's;
music was going on at the time: did she not, or
would she not hear?-~" Frances-pshaw!-Maude,
tell your mother I want to speak to her."
Lady Charlton did hear then; she smiled sweetly




60          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
upon Mr. Johnstone, and promised to return in an
instant.
"You wanted to say something to me, Sir Hugh.
Shall I ring for Pearson?"
"Pearson-folly! what are you talking of? "
"Every  one will excuse you," continued Lady
Charlton, quite amiably; " I was saying to Mr.
Johnstone, just now, that you were much later tonight than usual."
Sir Hugh very nearly knocked away the pillows in
his gouty chair; " I tell you, Frances, I am not going.
All I wanted to say was,"-his voice sank confidentially,-" that now Miss Wentworth is here, we may
as well persuade her to stay. It is not worth while
for her to go back with Mr. Johnstone."
"Very well-yes, we will see; to-morrow will do.
Lady Charlton was hurrying away as fast as possible.
"But listen, Frances, listen," and Sir Hugh laid
a detaining hand on her dress; "I shall ask her
presently; I think it is right. Dr. Wentworth is an
old family friend; Mrs. Wentworth too; very good
people, highly respectable."
Sir Hugh was gradually working himself into a fit
of excitement, and Lady Charlton was in an agony
lest the brilliant variations upon the piano should
suddenly cease.  "Very well-yes, we will see," she
repeated again.
" I like her," continued Sir Hugh; "she is very
handsome, dresses well." Lady Charlton's fidget increased every moment; in another minute, Thalberg's
variations would infallibly come to an end; "We will
settle it at once and then I shall go to bed."
"But, my dear Sir Hugh, hush-pray be quiet;
trust it to me."
It is the right thing to do," pursued Sir Hugh;
"it will please Blanche-please Lord Rutherford;
it is the sort of thing one is bound to do."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               61
"Yes, yes, of course; we will talk about it-only
just-of course you will have your own way.  I will
go and say a few words to Mr. Johnstone first."
Sir Ijugh allowed her to depart; but she heard him
mutter to himself-" It's right, quite right; for ten
days or a fortnight we shall manage very well.  Her
brother can come and fetch her."
Just then Eleanor left the piano, where she had
been standing to turn over the leaves of Miss Caroline Grey's music-book.
Lady Charlton kept Mr. Johnstone's few words
for a better opportunity; and seizing upon Eleanor,
carried her off to the ante-room.
She must apologise, she said, for being a little
unceremonious; but she really was anxious to obtain Miss Wentworth's co-operation in a plan for
detaining Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone a day or two
longer at Senilhurst. She was afraid it might be
inconvenient.  Blanche had told her that Miss Wentworth's stay in that part of the country was to be very
short; and she could not, under the circumstances,
say anything, however glad she should have been
to have had the pleasure of a long visit at Senilhurst.
No doubt Mrs. Wentworth must be very anxious for
her daughter's return, and they must look forward
to a future occasion-a more fortunate one-when
engagements on both sides would not be so pressing.
But there were a few days free now, before the
house would be full. Could not Miss Wentworth persuade Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone to remain with her at
Senilhurst, if it were only till Saturday-from Wednesday till Saturday?   Surely a clergyman might
spare two days; and she would let them return quite
early on Saturday morning, if it were necessary. Miss
Wentworth would join in the request, there could be
no doubt of its being granted; and Blanche, and
every one, would be pleased.  "Poor Blanche! she
VOL. II.              G




62          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
is not at all well, I am afraid," concluded Lady
Charlton.  "It was very imprudent in her to go
out to-day.  I think, for her sake, you must consent."
Eleanor Wentworth was, in general, peculiarly
self-possessed; but there was a mixture of pride and
awkwardness in the cold politeness of her manner, as
she thanked Lady Charlton for the invitation to herself, but feared it would be difficult to persuade Mr.
Johnstone to agree to the proposal, since she knew
that his time was just'then particularly occupied.
Lady Charlton instantly grew eager to carry her point.
It would be vexatious, provoking, in every way disagreeable, to be refused. She must have it settled at
once: she could not rest till it was.  Might she only
say that Miss Wentworth did not object?  And in
answer to the acquiescence which followed the question, Lady Charlton was so grateful and cordial,
that Eleanor found herself compelled to reciprocate
civilities, and be extremely obliged for an attention
which was the very least she had a right to expect.
A short conversation of entreaty with Mr. Johnstone followed, and Lady Charlton presently returned
to Sir Hugh, pleased and placid. She had gained the
point he wished, Miss Wentworth was going to stay;
how long she did not say, and Sir Hugh happily did
not ask; but soothed by the apparent obedience to
his will, consented to retire for the night.
Blanche had observed part of the progress of this
arrangement, and understood it.  She had little to
do on that evening except to observe, and there was
considerable food for thought in all she saw, even
though much lay concealed from her usual unsuspiciousness. Maude's face was one which particularly
engaged her attention. It was more than commonly
sarcastic. She spoke but little to Blanche; and, when
she was not called upon to sing, devoted herself prin



THE EARL S DAUGHTER.               63
cipally to Lord Erlsmere, whom she engaged in a disquisition upon universal suffrage, which kept him
engrossed for more than half the evening, much to the
annoyance of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.  Blanche could
scarely help smiling at the cleverness with which
Maude managed to defeat all the mother's manceuvres
in her daughter's favour. Yet it left a very disagreeable impression upon her mind, unfavourable to all
parties except Lord Erlsmere. Blanche, did not feel
obliged to Maude for having withdrawn the veil, and
given her an insight into what was going on behind the
scenes. It was low, unlady-like, to say nothing more,
and as she looked on, and found herself attributing
motives, and suspecting double meanings, she felt
ashamed of herself as if she also was, in a measure, a
party to the conduct which she disapproved.
" I think you had better go to bed, my love," said
the earl, coming behind her chair, when the time-piece
struck ten o'clock.  "You can slip away without
being noticed."
Blanche prepared to go, for she was very tired.
Maude, who was standing near the door, stopped
her when she was leaving the room. "Are you going,
Blanche?-good night."
"Good night," said Blanche, cheerfully; " will
you tell Eleanor to come to me presently?"
" If you wish it-if I must."
"Why, is there any objection?" asked Blanche;
"I shall not keep her long."
"Forewarned, forearmed," said Maude, coldly.
Blanche looked seriously annoyed, and answered,
"You cannot make me suspicious, Maude. After all
you said this afternoon there was nothing that could
not be explained."
"Time will prove," said Maude, in the same provoking tone.
Blanche turned away angrily; but she could not




64          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
bear to part in such a spirit, and the next instant
she smiled, and offered her hand to her cousin.
The hand was retained, and Maude, looking at her
anxiously and kindly, said, "You must be better
to-morrow."
"Yes, I hope so; I am nearly sure I shall be."
"And you will promise to sleep well?"
"Yes, if I can; the extent of this world's promises."
" Well, then, good night, once more," and Maude
walked away to the piano, and Blanche left the drawing-room.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               65
CHAPTER VII.
BLANCHE was not at all sorry that the evening was
over.  When she sat down alone in her room, she
looked and felt wearied in mind and body, and was
quite startled at the haggard expression of her own
face, as she caught sight of her features in a glass.
Illness might be one reason for her being depressed;
there was nothing else particularly to cause it, but she
felt very solitary, all the more so, perhaps, because
there were so many about her.  Yet she ought not
to be solitary when Eleanor was in the house; a
year before she would have said that she needed no
other companionship.  And why should she now?
What change had come over her? Her mind travelled
back to the days that were past: long past they seemed,
but that was a delusion; it was but a short time; yet
the grey, weather-stained walls of the old manor house,
the green walks, the trim holly hedge, the antique dial
and all the associations connected with them, were
as the clear, yet faded visions of a distant land; and
the voice of the friend who had loved her from infancy, though sweet to her recollection, was very
faint, as the dying notes of music which we shall
never hear again. It is hard to realize the death of
our own life; we never do so whilst our childish
associations are unbroken.  The thought of it came
to Blanche's mind with awe and sadness, as she tried
to recall the forms of those by-gone days from which
the spirit had departed to bear an undying record
before God. Happy they had been, very happy and
blest-more blest than the present-more innocent
and guileless; and they could never in any way return;
G2




66          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
years could never restore ignorance, they could never
make to her unknown what once was known; they
could never bring back confidence where it had been
disappointed.  Years-they stretched far, far out,
interminably it seemed; and they must be met, endured, with all their possible trials, with the risk, the
possibility of - Blanche shuddered, her heart grew
faint; it was a real, physical faintness, for the next
instant a sharp pain shot through her frame, and
she leant back in her chair, and gasped for breath.
Eleanor Wentworth knocked at the door. Blanche
said, "Come in," as loudly as she could.  The pain
had been only momentary, and she did not like to
think of it.
"Not undressed, Blanche," said Eleanor, as she
came up to her; " that is very naughty."
" I sat by the fire, thinking," replied Blanche, "and
expecting you.  Why did you not come before?"
"I did not miss you at first when you went; and
your cousin Maude only told me to come to you a
few minutes ago," replied Eleanor.
"Maude is very strange," said Blanche, thoughtfully.  "But tell me, Eleanor; I understood a great
deal that went on down-stairs, though I only heard
half.  How long are you to stay? "
"Two days," answered Eleanor, shortly.
" Two days only?"
"Lady Charlton has not given me the opportunity
of staying longer."
"It is vexatious," said Blanche, "very."
"Yes, and to find you not well, besides; and to
have seen so little of you all the evening. However,
one must bear it, and be thankful, I suppose."
Blanche was chilled, for Eleanor's tone was petulant.  "We shall be able to talk to-morrow," she
said, soothingly; "and, Eleanor, you must not be
hard upon my aunt; she has reasons, you know, for
not being quite as cordial as one could wish,"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               67
Eleanor's cheek flushed with deep crimson, and
she exclaimed, "Of course, I know.  She does not
consider the son of a country clergyman a fit connection for her family. Yet I could tell her that the
Wentworths are an older race than any other in the
county."
"It is not the question of family; indeed, you
must not think that," said Blanche, earnestly. " If
your brother -."  She stopped, for the observation
might have been an awkward one.
"I understand what you would say,"  replied
Eleanor, with an air of great candour.  "If my
brother was a dashing man of fashion, with his four
or five thousand a year; or even if he had the promise of a good living, with a deanery or bishopric
in perspective, Lady Charlton would not let the
question of family interfere; but being as he is,
about to take orders, and live a quiet, serious life, as
a curate in a country village, she does not deem it
a suitable prospect. I do not blame her; I do not
know that any one could; only, Adelaide may go
farther and fare worse."
Blanche was more perplexed than before what to
say.  The tone Eleanor was adopting was quite new
to her.  She seemed to think the affair serious.
"You do Charles injustice yourself," continued
Eleanor.  "When you saw him flirting-for he did
flirt, I grant, at Rutherford-you put him down as a
silly, vain young man: he is very far from that: or,
at least, if he is vain, he has great counterbalancing
qualities. All that frippery and folly will go when
he is ordained."
Blanche was silent.
"What are you thinking of?" asked Eleanor.
Her voice was nervously eager, and she repeated
again,-" What are you thinking of? I must know."
"Should it not go before he is ordained?" asked
Blanche, quietly.




68          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
Eleanor drew back for an instant; then she answered, hurriedly, —" Yes, yes, certainly; before-at
the time when he is ordained.  He will be quite a
different person by-and-by, you will see."
"But will by-and-by do?" pursued Blanche. "Can
it ever be right to take such a responsibility without
being very devoted-very good, beforehand-a long
time beforehand?" she added, becoming bolder.
Eleanor's face showed much more vexation than
the occasion seemed to warrant; but she only replied,-" Well! well! we won't talk of it now,
Blanche.  You are prejudiced, I am  afraid; so is
Lady Charlton.  We won't spoil our few hours
together by discussion."
Blanche looked sorry, and observed, it was very
fo lish of her to say such things; it must seem
unkind, when Eleanor was so fond of her brother;
but it was hard to keep back her opinions, where she
had been accustomed to tell them so openly.
Eleanor was standing near the fire.  She bent
down and kissed Blanche, and fixed her eyes upon
her intently, but without speaking.
"I may tell you all, I think; may I not?" said
Blanche, answering the look.
There was another pause. Eleanor's eyes glistened; she seemed lost in thought.
"May I not?" repeated Blanche.
"Yes, all; undoubtedly.  You are very tired:
shall I ring for your maid?"
"In a minute; only I am so afraid I have pained
you."
Eleanor answered by another kiss-warm, affectionate as in the years of their happy intercourse at
St. Ebbe's.
The bell was rung, Eleanor departed, and Blanche
was left to think over what had been said, and to
ponder upon the cause of that sharp, warning, momentary agony;-what did it mean?




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              69
CHAPTER VIIIo
ELEANOR'S step, as she moved along the gallery
from Blanche's room, was stealthy and quick; but
she paused at the top of the staircase to listen to
what was going on below. All the guests not staying
in the house had taken their leave; and now there were
parting good-nights and cheerful last words said as
the rest of the party broke up.  She heard Mr.
Johnstone and Lady Charlton speaking of the plans
for the next day.  That was a satisfaction, as it
showed that he had not changed his mind about
remaining at Senilhurst.  Eleanor had a half inclination to go down again and inquire of Mrs. Johnstone, to be quite sure of the fact; but the sight of
Maude coming up the stairs had a sudden effect
upon her intentions, and with the same quick and
quiet step as before, she went on, reached the further
end of the gallery, and, opening a door which led to
the apartments in the east wing, found her way
amidst passages and turnings, to a small sittingroom, out of which two doors opened.  A hasty
double knock at one of these was answered by
Adelaide Charlton, who exclaimed, "Come at last,
Eleanor!"
" Hush! hush! " and Eleanor put her finger to her
lips.  "Maude will be here in one instant; let
me in."
Adelaide threw  open the door, which Eleanor
took care to bolt again, and then Adelaide, motioning
to Eleanor to sit down by the fire, said, "Well! what
success? what does Blanche think?"




70          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"My dear Adelaide! how wild you are. Blanche,
of course, thinks nothing, and knows nothing."
"What, have you not asked her? "
"No, not this evening.  I only sounded her a
little."
" Sound!" repeated Adelaide, in a tone of vexation.
"But, what is there to hinder you from speaking out
at once?  Why can't you say, Your father will have
a living in his gift soon, and I wish he would promise it to my brother?"
"Oh! Adelaide! can't you understand? —to ask
a favour! —to put oneself under an obligation!there is nothing more difficult."
"But not between friends-persons like you and
Blanche, who were brought up together."
Adelaide threw  herself back in an easy chair,
and angrily pushing aside a footstool, continued,
" I see how it is; we are resting upon a broken reed.
I told Charles it would be so long ago."
"You may say what you will, Adelaide," replied
Eleanor, with some dignity of manner.  "If you
will not trust me, you must take your own way;
but one thing I am quite sure of, that mine is the
only right and wise one."
" I don't see why he is to be tied down to that
odious profession," observed Adelaide, petulantly.
" Merely because his whole education has been a
preparation for it," said Eleanor; " and that it would
break my mother's heart if he were to give it up."
"But he does not like it; he is not fit for it,"
said Adelaide.
" Yes, begging your pardon, he does like it, and
he is fit for it, when you do not influence him against
it."
"A thousand pities he ever knew me then," said
Adelaide, sharply.
Eleanor did not contradict her. She only answered,




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.              71
"It is too late to think of that now, when you are
engaged."
"Who brought on the engagement?" asked Adelaide, satirically.
" Do you repent it?" said Eleanor.
"Repent! oh dear, no! not in the least! What
a strange notion! do you?"
Eleanor was silent.
" Do you? " again repeated Adelaide; and Eleanor
was compelled to answer.
"I should not, if you would be what you have
promised."
" What I have promised to be when I am married," repeated Adelaide.  "It will be time enough
to think of that by-and-by."
" It would be better to begin at once."
"We wont sermonise," exclaimed Adelaide, impatiently.  "You know  I have an insurmountable
objection to sermons.  If any harm  comes of our
engagement, Eleanor, you will have no one to thank
for it but yourself. When Charles and I were at
Rutherford, we had no more idea of anything serious,
than we have now of travelling to the moon.  It was
entirely through correspondence, and messages, and
that sort of thing, that the affair came to a point.
I declare I should have forgotten him by this time,
if you had not so constantly reminded me of him."
" I was obliged to repeat what he said," replied
Eleanor; conscience reproaching her for untruth as
she uttered the words.
"Well! obliged or not obliged, you managed to
make me think of him, and this is the consequence;
and, having led us into the scrape, all you can
possibly do now is to help us out of it. The idea of
going to mamma with the news that I am engaged
to a man, without any prospect but a country curacy,
is an absurdity; I wont do it."




72          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" But if you must?"
"There is no must; I don't acknowledge any."
"And the alternative will be-what?"
Adelaide laughed heartily.  "I am not going to
let you into all our secrets, Eleanor; you know
too much already. Trust us, if you will not manage
matters for us, we shall manage them somehow for
ourselves; and soon, too. I have no notion of hanging on, from week to week, in this way. It destroys
all the pleasure of one's present life, without giving
one a prospect of anything better."
" Charles is obliged to you," said Eleanor, gravely.
"I should have thought that, being certain of his
affection, you might have been well-contented to
wait till he can come forward openly."
"His affection! yes, of course, I am  certain of
that, and satisfied.  But it is a little,-however, I
won't frighten your propriety; only, perhaps you
can understand that now and then it is just a wee
bit uncomfortable to go about the world with one's
hands and feet tied; and not to be able to mention
it. One moves awkwardly."
"There may be something in that," said Eleanor,
thoughtfully. "But, what is still more important,
I am sure it is not quite right. Your mother and
my mother ought to know it.  I, for one, should be
miserable at the concealment, if there were not such
good reasons for it at present, and if-"
" Well-what?  What salve have you found for
that very fidgety conscience. of yours? "
"Very sufficient salve," replied Eleanor.  "You
and Charles settled your affairs yourselves. I was no
party to the actual engagement."
"That is," exclaimed Adelaide, her eyes sparkling
with irritation, "you showed us the road, and led
us to the point, and gave us a little push, and then




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              73
hurried away, that you might be able to say you did
not see.  Oh! Eleanor."
Eleanor blushed; yet she could not rest without a
further effort at self-vindication.
"You are exaggerating," she said.  "I did not
know what was going to happen.  I scarcely ever
suspected it.  When Charles told me you were
engaged, I was utterly amazed.
"Then, what did you think we were about?"
inquired Adelaide.  "What pretty game were we
playing?"
Eleanor was too much ashamed to reply.  How
could she own that she had calculated upon Mr.
Wentworth's unsteadiness of disposition, and Adelaide's habit of flirting, and suffered herself to
encourage them in folly, whilst deluding herself by
thinking it would come to nothing? And all this partly
from a weak wish to please her brother; partly from
finding a silly pleasure in watching an affair of the
kind for the first time, and feeling herself a person of
importance; and partly from the secret desire to
keep up an acquaintance which promised a good deal
of amusement, and possibly an introduction, by-andby, to gayer society than she could meet with at
Rutherford.
It was very unlike the conduct to be expected from
Mrs. Howard's pupil; but, perhaps, the person
whom it would least have surprised, was Mrs. Howard
herself. Eleanor was not so very different now from
what she had been in former days. Circumstances
had brought out the weak points of her character,
and rendered their consequences more important;
but the original faults were the same;-vanity, and
love of excitement-known and acknowledged, but
never thoroughly struggled against.
" I don't like this new mood of yours," said Adelaide, after a pause, finding that Eleanor sat abstractVOL. 1I.             H




74         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
edly gazing on the fire. "I had looked forward to
your coming as the end of all my difficulties. I
thought you would go at once to Blanche,-entreat
her compassion; and then, when we had engaged
Lord Rutherford's interest, that the thing would
have been known and settled."
Eleanor could not help smiling in spite of herself.
"Adelaide! when will you learn common sense?
How can you imagine it possible to settle a business
like this in a minute? Even supposing I could bring
Blanche over to your side, and supposing Lord Rutherford were to promise Charles twenty thousand a-year,
instead of a living worth twelve hundred,-how can
you suppose that Lady Charlton would be brought
round in such a moment? "
"Oh! there are two strings to that bow," replied
Adelaide.  " If mamma will not consent, papa will;
that I am quite sure of. Pearson told my maid, the
other day, that he was wonderfully fond of Charles,
and meant to have him asked here. I don't want
that, though, just yet."
" No, indeed;" and Eleanor inwardly trembled at
the storms which might arise from so imprudent a
step.
" I don't see why you should say, No, indeed! in
that tone," exclaimed Adelaide.  "I don't want it
to be just yet; but I don't know why you should
be so afraid. We are not quite such babies as not to
understand keeping our own counsel."
"There are eyes about you," said Eleanor.
" Mamma! yes, she is a regular Argus."
"And your sister."
"That is to be considered, certainly; I am awfully
afraid of Maude."
" So am I," replied Eleanor.
" She is a person to be afraid of; tough, leathery,"
said Adelaide. " She never did a foolish thing from




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             75
the time she was born. And she can look through
one when she chooses it. I declare, if it was not for
her German metaphysics, I could not live in the
house with her.  Happily, they make her so puzzleheaded that she only sees one-half of what is going
on.' 
There was a loud angry knock at the door. Adelaide started, and exclaimed, "That is her knock."
Eleanor turned pale. " Are you sure she does not
see more than one-half already?" she asked, in a
whisper.
Adelaide made no answer.  Eleanor took up her
candle to go. " Adelaide and I have been gossiping,"
she said, as an explanation to Maude, when the door
was opened.  "It is very foolish, I own."
Maude took no notice.  "You have some books of
mine, which I want, Adelaide," she said.
Eleanor felt herself growing nervous; and, to hide
her confusion, would have pretended to search for'
the volumes wanted; but Maude prevented her.
There was no occasion for Miss Wentworth to trouble
herself, she said. Adelaide knew quite well where
the books were; and, as she spoke, she placed
herself near the doorway, in such a position that
Eleanor was compelled to confront her. Her glance
was proud and  searching; and Eleanor shrank
from it.
"Good night! Adelaide," she said, in as light a
tone as she could assume.  She would have given
her hand to Maude, but it was not taken.
"Good night, Miss Wentworth," was repeated,
haughtily; and Eleanor went to her room, humbled
and unhappy.




76          TIE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER IX.
IT was about a week from that time,-the weather
was cold and bleak, even for the autumn, and as the
rough blasts howled round the old parsonage at
Rutherford, and the rain pelted against the latticed
windows, Dr. Wentworth drew his chair near to the
fire, and congratulated himself that his work for the
day was over-that there was no case of illness in
the parish requiring his attention, and that it was not
a night for the evening school, or for any other duty
which would expose himself or his parishioners to
such inclement weather.
" I wish Charles was equally safe from it," said
Mrs. Wentworth, who sat at work opposite to her
husband.  She was cutting out baby clothes, and
from the full attention which she bestowed upon the
occupation, it might have been supposed that she
esteemed it the most important duty of her life.
Dr. Wentworth looked up in answer to the remark,
and said, in an apologetic tone, that he had not
forgotten Charles, but that young men thought nothing of weather when there was a dinner party in
question.
" And I should hope not when many other things
are in question," replied Mrs. Wentworth; " but
that does not prevent one, I am afraid, from thinking
of it for them. However, Charles must accustom
himself to brave a great many worse trials than
weather; so it may be as well for him to begin at
once."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              77
She relapsed again into silence, and Dr. Wentworth read to himself. Nearly half-an-hour went by
in this way; Mrs. Wentworth worked unremittingly.
There was something almost painful in the energy
with which she cut, and folded, and squared; placing
piece after piece in a basket that stood on the table
by her side. To look at her face, with its expression
of intellect and resolution; one might have said that
it was a waste of power to throw  so much vigour
into a mere mechanical employment.
"A quarter to ten,"  observed Dr. Wentworth,
looking at his watch;-" time for the servants to be
called in, my dear."
" Yes, if you please; will you ring the bell?" and
with the same quiet determination of manner, Mrs.
Wentworth moved away her work to another part of
the room-placed a Bible on the table-arranged the
chairs for the servants, and prepared to join in the
nightly family service. It was very simple and short;
a few verses from  the New Testament, with a few
words of comment, and prayer.  Yet there was
something  very  touching and impressive in the
earnest exhortation which besought all who were
present to cast their care upon One who cared for
them-whether it were care for others or themselves
-for the needs of the body, or the claims of the
imperishable soul.  Mrs. Wentworth sat with her
hands placed one upon the other, and her eyes bent
upon the floor; not a muscle of her features moved,
and her voice, as she joined in the supplications which
followed, was clear and firm, until the petition for
the absent and the loved. Then, for a moment it
sank; but no one noticed the change, for none saw
the secrets of the mother's heart, save He who had
formed it.
" Do you mean to sit up for Charles, my dear?"
said Dr. Wentworth, when the service was concluded.
H 2




78          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"I had thought of doing so; he promised to be
home early."
" But you will do him no good, and will only tire
yourself; you had much better not."
" I have some work to finish," replied Mrs. Wentworth, preparing to resume her former employment.
Dr. Wentworth saw it was useless to remonstrate.
He said, half playfully and half in a tone of vexation,
" Well! you  must have your own way;-~wilful
women always do.  Only don't ask me to sit up
with you."
Mrs. Wentworth smiled, and disowned all intention of inflicting such a penance upon him, and Dr.
Wentworth went away.
The room looked dreary then. It is strange how
much there is in association;-how different a solitary hour is before a household has been broken up
for the night and afterwards. Though the fire may
blaze just as cheerfully, and the lamp give the same
bright light, a sense of loneliness, almost of awe, insensibly creeps over one.  Mrs. Wentworth might
have experienced something of the kind, for she soon
gave up her work and tried to read, and after a time,
putting aside the book, walked about the room, and
listened for the trampling of a horse,-though she
knew her son was not likely to return for the next
hour.
That hour and another passed, and he did not
come.  Mrs. Wentworth was not at all anxious; she
was not a nervous person, and she did not think that
any accident had happened; but she did think that
Charles had been induced to stay longer than he had
purposed.  It was a slight fault, if it could be called
one; but she was not in a mood to be lenient to slight
faults. She grew more and more restless-more and
more visibly annoyed; and when, at length, the bell
rang, and her son appeared, she greeted him with,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             79
"You are an hour and a half beyond the time you
mentioned, Charles. Has anything happened?"
"Nothing-nothing  at all,"-was the answer.
"Am I so late?-I did not know it."  He took out
his watch-" Not much more than an hour-I really
could not help it."
Mrs. Wentworth did not directly reply, but as she
lighted her candle to go to bed, she said:-" It is a
great pity, Charles, that you cannot learn to be
exact.  If you had told me you should not be
home till twelve, I should have known what to
expect."
Mr. Wentworth looked provoked.  "My dear
mother, I really beg your pardon, but-you must
excuse me,-I did not ask you to sit up."  He had
no sooner said the words than he was vexed with
himself for it. He saw that she was offended.
" Good night, Charles.  I will take care not to
give myself unnecessary trouble again."
" My dear mother!" and he went up to her and
kissed her.  "I cannot bear this.  It was very silly;
very wrong only-"
" Only!"-and Mrs. Wentworth gave way for an
instant to her hitherto repressed feelings-" Only,
Charles, you were tempted, and you yielded."
"It is not such a very great offence," replied
Charles, relapsing again into his former tone of indifference.  "It was impossible to get away sooner;
as it was, I was one of the first to go; and really it
was no case of temptation.  The party was immensely stupid; not a single person there whom I
cared to meet, except young Johnstone."
"Was he there?"  exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth
eagerly.  "Did he say anything about Eleanor?"
~'Yes; he told me what I knew-that she had
been staying with his father and mother; and that
she was with  -; she was at Senilhurst now."




80          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
There was a hesitation in Mr. Wentworth's manner,
which however did not occasion any remark.
" I was in hopes Eleanor might have left Senilhurst
by this time," said Mrs. Wentworth.  "It is vexatious her being there at all; but I suppose she could
not help it; and now the staying for this party is not
what I like."
" Eleanor is to go back again to the Johnstones,"
said Mr. Wentworth; " and it struck me-I must go
to London before long-I might just as well bring her
home."
"London! my dear Charles! you must go to London before your ordination!  What are you thinkiug of?"
Whatever Mr. Wentworth's thoughts were, that
was not a moment for confiding them to his mother;
yet it might have been a relief to him, and he evidently felt so, for his countenance assumed for an
instant an expression of openness and confidence;
but Mrs. Wentworth's tone, as she repeated to herself, " London! what a strange notion!" threw him
back upon himself, and he replied shortly, " I have
business there."
His mother did not press the inquiry beyond the
observation, that it was a very sudden and incomprehensible idea, and took no notice of the suggestion
respecting Eleanor, till it was made a second time.
" She could not tell; she could not decide;" was all
she would say upon the subject.  "Eleanor would
probably return almost immediately."
" But I am thinking of going immediately," persisted Charles; "our plans will just suit."
"We must first know what Eleanor's are," continued his mother. " She says that she has been induced to remain at Senilhurst to keep Lady Blanche's
birthday.  She hopes I shall not be angry.  Poor
child! she need not be afraid of that; vexed I might




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              81
be, but not angry.  In this case there seems to have
been a train of events almost forcing her to do as she
has done.  Her visit to Senilhurst at the very first
was unforeseen."
"I should be thankful, my dear mother, if you
would make the same excuses for your son that you do
for your daughter," said Charles, in a tone of pique.
Mrs. Wentworth softened instantly in manner,
though she sighed as she replied, " If I could see
the same reasons for excuse, my dear Charles, you
would not be more thankful for it than I should be."
"And are there not the same reasons?"  exclaimed Mr. Wentworth impetuously.  " Is Eleanor
to go where she likes, even to the very place which
you profess to dread for her, and must I not even remain for an hour at a dinner party beyond the time
fixed?"
The case was too glaring not to strike Mrs. Wentworth's sense of justice, and she said instantly, in a
tone of apology, " I was vexed then without causeat least without sufficient cause. I am sorry for it;
but if you knew, oh, Charles!" and tears started to
her eyes;  "those little things-they indicate so
much to my mind.  If you cannot keep to engagements and rules in your daily life, how will you ever
submit to them  in serious matters?  How can you
be fitted for the self-denial required of a clergyman?"
" Perhaps I am not fitted for it," began Mr. Wentworth, but his mother's distressed look stopped him,
and in a milder tone he added, " When I am talking
to you, I always fear that I am not."
"Fear would be your safety," said Mrs. Wentworth.
"Then I am  safe beyond the possibility of danger," exclaimed Charles eagerly.  The same expression of openness passed over his features as once




82          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
before, but again his mother spoke, and the momentary courage vanished. This time, however, she was
not chilling.
"You are safe, I hope and trust," she replied very
earnestly, "because you know your faults, and have
striven against them; but for that your father and I
could never consent to your ordination. And if I am
hard upon you, Charles, it is only from my love; my
longing to see you what a clergyman ought to be,
what your father is."
"Yes; I know it, my dear mother. I am quite
aware of it. I wish you would not apologize."
"I always own when I am wrong," said Mrs.
Wentworth.  He drew near to wish her a good
night, and she looked at him with a mother's proud
fondness.  "A few weeks more and you will be a
clergyman.  Then the greatest wish of my heart will
be granted."
"Always supposing the fitness," said Charles,
almost moodily.  He sighed very heavily; his
mother thought for an instant that something was
weighing upon his mind, that he had a secret which
he wished to tell; yet he only recurred to the oftenrepeated question, "How would she feel if he were
to give up the idea? "  Mrs. Wentworth's heart was
too full to answer, but her silence was sufficient.
She was a person of few interests, few wishes; but
those she had were intense.  It would break her
heart if he were to disappoint her.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               83
CHAPTER X.
THERE are some fortunate individuals-fortunate in
the eyes of the world-whose success in all they undertake is proverbial.  Lady Charlton was one of
these.  Whether it was from tact and cleverness, or
real unselfishness and kindness, she almost universally
carried her point.  Such persons insensibly become
despotic. Their irritation when thwarted is naturally
in accordance with their certainty of victory. But,
happily for Eleanor Wentworth's comfort, there were
two considerations which neutralized in a degree, in
Lady Charlton's mind, the feelings excited by Sir
Hugh's announcement that he had insisted upon
Miss Wentworth's remaining to keep Lady Blanche's
birthday.  One was the increase of gaiety in the
society at Senilhurst which her presence caused; and
the other was the hope of inducing Mr. Johnstone in
consequence to come to Senilhurstagain, and be thelion
of a grave dinner party which was shortly in contemplation. It was a peculiar faculty in Lady Charlton,
that of seizing upon the advantageous points of every
incident, however apparently untoward.  The loss of
half her fortune, or the illness of her dearest friend,
might have affected her to despair for the moment;
but she would infallibly have extracted satisfaction
from them the next minute.  Either she would be an
object of universal sympathy; or her friend, if she
died, would leave her a valuable legacy; or-no matter what-there was always something to be gained.
Not that this "something" mollified the first burst
of resentment or annoyance.  Lady Charlton was




84          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
thoroughly cross with Eleanor for half a day, and
with Sir Hugh for several days; but the considerations before-mentioned had the effect of supporting
her in the endeavour to hide what was displeasing to
her from her guests, and in making her to all appearance the same kind-hearted, bright, charming person,
which she was generally allowed to be.
As for what took place behind the scenes, in more
private domestic intercourse, or in that still greater
privacy-the sanctuary of the heart,-it was not the
business of any of the visitors at Senilhurst to inquire.
And so the world went on-cheerfully in the morning, busily in the afternoon, and merrily at night; and
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey worked worsted-work, and moved
gracefully, and spoke softly; and Miss Grey finished
the "getting up" of the political pamphlet, and was
rewarded by hearing that Lord Erlsmere thought her
a very sensible person; and Miss Caroline Grey
laughed at nothing, and exercised her fingers violently
on the piano; and Maude, and Adelaide, and Eleanor,
did just what every one else was doing, and Blanche"Why is not Blanche at breakfast?" asked Lady
Charlton of Maude, when they met one morning
about ten days after Eleanor's first arrival. Eleanor
was sitting next to Maude: she had an impulse to
answer, but she would not, because Lady Charlton
had not chosen to address herself to her.
" Blanche's throat is uncomfortable this morning,
I think," replied Maude.  " Her maid told me that
was the reason she was not getting up; she had a
bad night."
"Her throat!"  repeated Lady Charlton.   "I
never heard of it. What is the matter? "
" Somers will see her to-day," said Lord Rutherford. " I have sent to him."
Lady Charlton looked from  one to the other in
displeased surprise.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              85
"Lady Blanche has not seemed quite well for the
last week," observed Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.
"A  cold; only a cold," said Lord Rutherford,
quickly.  "You know she has often a sore throat,"
he added, turning to Lady Charlton.
Lady Charlton did not know it; she was not
aware that anything was amiss; it made her extremely uncomfortable; in fact, if she might be
excused, it would make her happier to go at oxce
and see how Blanche really was-and she left the
room.
"Colds are awkward things," said Mrs. Cuthbert
Grey to Lord Erlsmere, who was sitting next her;
" and Lady Blanche looks so delicate."
She did not intend Lord Rutherford to hear, but
he did hear, and remarked, in answer, in a tone ofwhat for him  was — great irritation, that people
who looked delicate were very often not at all so.
He was happy to say that Blanche had never known
a day's serious illness since her birth.
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey smiled with polite incredulity,
and hoped it might be very long before the spell of
such good health was broken.
Lord Rutherford did not thank her; he only rang
the bell hastily, to inquire whether the man was
gone to Cobham with the note for Mr. Somers.
Maude had been sitting silent for some time, seemingly without paying any attention to what was
passing; but, upon hearing that Mr. Somers' note was
not gone-only going, when some John, or Joseph,
or Stephen was ready, she turned round quickly,
and said, "Let them  take my pony and set off
directly;-directly," she repeated, as the servant
hesitated, in surprise, apparently, at an unusual
order.  "I shall not ride to-day."
"Thank you," said Lord Rutherford, from  the
opposite side of the table.  He pushed aside his
VOL. PI.             I




86          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
plate, leaving his breakfast half untouched, and went
to the window; and, after a few minutes' consideration, said, laying his hand upon the bell a second
time, "I shall go myself-these people are so stupid.
If Mr. Somers is not at home, the note will be lost."
The words were spoken to Maude; she did not
try to dissuade him; only she observed that it might
be as well to wait and hear what her mother thought
about Blanche.
Lord Rutherford sat down again, and conversation
continued around him, but there was no life in it.
Eleanor asked Maude a few questions about Blanche;
but Maude would not say a word more than was
necessary, and even then answered in a short, disagreeable way, which was no incentive to pursue the
subject.
Lady Charlton  returned, after rather a long
absence.  Lord Rutherford did not inquire how
Blanche was, but she said of her own accord, that
there was not much the matter-a cold, caught from
imprudence: all young people's colds originated in
the same way.  There was no inducing them  to
guard against the weather.  Blanche had got wet
about ten days or a fortnight before, and had not
taken proper care of herself.
"It was the day we met at the lodge," said
Maude: "she was not well, if you remember, that
evening."
"And she has not been looking well since," again
repeated Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, in a pleasant, cheerful
voice, as if she was making the most agreeable remark possible.
Lord Rutherford said he did not see why people
should trouble themselves about the origin of colds.
Blanche had one-that was sufficient; she must get
rid of it.  Were there any commands for Cobham?
he was going there immediately.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.                87
"For Mr. Somers?" inquired Lady Charlton.
" Yes, partly; that is, I shall call just to see if he
is at home.  It is satisfactory to put things into
a medical man's hands at once, if only one's finger
aches.  It saves one from responsibility."
"And if anything does go seriously amiss afterwards," remarked Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, "one is
freed from self-reproach."
Lord Rutherford rose, and saying, he should see
Blanche before lie set off, left the breakfast-table.
"So  strange it is!"  observed  Mrs. Cuthbert
Grey to, Lord Erlsmere, lingering for a tdte-a-tete,
when every one else was gone; "so curious! almost
amusing! to watch people trying to deceive themselves! Lord Rutherford thinks he is not anxious;
poor man! "
Lord Erlsmere said, "Poor man!" also; but
with a very different feeling from Mrs. Cuthbert
Grey.
Blanche appeared at the luncheon-table, looking so
like her usual self, so bright and simple and happy,
that even Mrs. Cuthbert Grey did not see any cause
for pity. Lord Rutherford took real pains to announce Mr. Somers' opinion. Lady Blanche was not
well, certainly, she was delicate, and required care;
she had been rather imprudent, and must make up
her mind not to be out late, and not to sit up at night;
she must take strengthening things; "in short, she is
to be treated as an invalid for the present, to keep
her quiet," he added with a smile, and with this
dictum all were satisfied, and all went their own way.
Blanche went hers; it was to her own room:
she did not feel as others thought she felt; yet it
was not easy to complain, when there was little definite to complain of, beyond a sore throat, which
any person might have, and a sense of languor and
weakness which might be more indolence than any



88          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
thing else. She was almost vexed at becoming more
comfortable, as she sat writing to Mrs. Howard, and
began to think herself fanciful.  The quietness and
solitude were very pleasant, and she wrote and read
and worked, till it grew dark, and then, tired with exertion, sat by the cheerful fire thinking till she fell
asleep.  How long she slept she did not know, but
she was awakened suddenly by pain-that sharp indescribable pang which had once before so startled
her; the involuntary cry which she uttered was
answered by a kiss from her father. He was bending
over her with a face of the fondest anxiety.
"My dearest child, you frightened me," he said;
"but you are sitting uneasily; that is the matter, I
suppose."
" Yes, I hope so; I suppose it may be," said
Blanche; but she was very pale, for the pain continued, though not so intensely. Lord Rutherford
laid her on the sofa, and placed the pillows for her to
rest; she smiled cheerfully then, and told him she
was better. It was only pain for the moment, which
she had felt before, and, no doubt, it would soon be
gone.  He was not satisfied, but scarcely choosing
to acknowledge his uneasiness to himself, he said,
with an endeavour to divert his thoughts, " I was
coming to tell you about my afternoon's business. I
have been to the lodge, and inquired after your little
friend; and there I met Lord Erlsmere, returning
from a short ride with one of the Miss Greys; so I
persuaded them to join me and go as far as Cobham,
where I made Miss Grey choose some books and
toys, which are to be sent home for you to see; and
to-morrow we will go and give them."
Blanche held out her hand to him, and  said,
"Thank you," very earnestly; but her voice was
faint.
" Your hand is so hot, my child-quite feverish,"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             89
said the earl. "I wish Somers had sent the medicine he talked of."
He was going to ring and inquire, but Blanche
would not allow him. It was pleasant, she said,
to have him for half an hour to herself, and she
could inquire about the medicine afterwards; for, if
he thought it would not look fanciful, she would
rather not go down stairs that evening.
Lord Rutherford acquiesced; he sat down by the
sofa again, and went on talking to her about the little
boy. He seemed to know everything about him-how
he had slept, and what he had eaten-and as Blanche,
from time to time, smiled, and was pleased and interested, he became quite eager, almost impatient in
his wish to show her what he had bought.  "I
shall come to you again, after dinner," he said, when
the dressing-bell rung; "that is, if you are not
gone to-bed; but you must not sit up late. If you
do not nurse your cold now, you will not be fit for
your gay birthday."
Blanche had no doubt that she should be quite
well the next day-her colds were never of much
consequence; and Lord Rutherford agreed with her,
and went away happy, as he tried to believe; but
the world was not quite so sunshiny as it had lately
been. Perhaps, it was that he missed Blanche in the
drawing-room and at the dinner-table.
i12




90          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XI.
"So we are not to have the pleasure of seeing
Blanche this evening," said Sir Hugh to Lord
Rutherford, when, after a good deal of exertion and
endurance on the part of Pearson, he had been moved
from the drawing-room and settled at the dinnertable.  "A  great loss, that! We shall all feel it.
But we must hope; if she will take care of herself
now, we may anticipate the gratification of welcoming
her in full beauty on her birthday."
"That will be, when?" asked Lord Erlsmere.
A laugh went round the table. Lord Erlsmere must
certainly have been living in the clouds; or, as Maude
whispered to her next neighbour, in that which is the
nearest approach to them-the House of Commonsnot to have learnt that the next Tuesday was to be
a gala day.
"Oh!"  Lord Erslmere was guilty of a slight
blush-for he undoubtedly had not been paying that
full attention to the affairs of this lower earth, or, at
least, to the affairs of Senilhurst, which might have
been expected from a person supposed, of course, to
be either destined for Lady Blanche or desperately
in love with Miss Grey. "Wednesday is the daythe day, par excellence," said Sir Hugh, graciously.
"Lord Rutherford has done us great honour in
allowing us to keep it here; and the fact reminds
me-"
" Sir Hugh," said Lady Charlton, in a tone which
was quite melodious from its gentleness; "you are
overlooking your neighbour.  Miss Caroline Grey




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              91
has eaten nothing."  Sir Hugh was all attention in
an instant.
"Wednesday, is it?" said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to
Lady Charlton, with an air of surprise and disappointment. "I have made a great mistake, I
thought you said Tuesday."
"No; Wednesday, the 29th.  I am right, am I
not, Maude? Wednesday, the 29th, the grand day,"
exclaimed Sir Hugh, returning to the subject with
renewed vigour; "and I was about to observe-I was
about to remind Lord Rutherford-"  The earl was
seized with a sudden interest in an observation made
by Eleanor Wentworth, who was sitting by him.
Sir Hugh looked from one to the other, but the tide
of conversation had received an impulse which it was
not easy to avert.
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's next remark was made in
an under tone to Lady Charlton. She was really vexed,
she said, to find that Wednesday was the day, for
she was very much afraid that some plans which she
had formed would be incompatible with what would
otherwise have been a great wish.  She had set
her heart upon Adelaide's returning with her, and
as she must go on the Wednesday, she was afraid this
notion of the birthday would interfere.
" But Wednesday is the very day: you are not
going then; we could not let you go," exclaimed
Lady Charlton.  "I could not entertain the idea for
an instant."
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey professed herself as vexed and
disappointed as Lady Charlton could possibly have
desired; but again repeated that her plans were so
fixed they could not under any circumstances be
altered. It was business, indeed, which required her
presence at home on the Thursday, and business
which could not be set aside.  "But you will perhaps spare Adelaide to us after the party," she added.




92          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" The distance is not very great; and possibly, if Mr.
Johnstone is coming here again, he might bring her
back part of the way; for you know they are near
neighbours of ours —only at two miles' distance."
Lady Charlton was not inclined to make any such
arrangement.  She was too much provoked at losing
the guest whom she especially prized on the precise
day of her intended party. Her only comfort arose
from perceiving that Mrs. Cuthbert Grey was as
much annoyed as herself. There was perfect sincerity
in the regret she expressed at the unfortunate mistake.
" Mamma may break her heart; but it is more
than I shall do," said Maude, in a low voice to
Eleanor. But Eleanor did not answer; she was looking across the table at Adelaide, who was bending
forward and listening with a strange eagerness of
manner to her mother's decision.
" I hope I shall have inclination to plead for me,
as far as you are concerned, Adelaide," said Mrs.
Cuthbert Grey smiling at the interest so unconsciously shown. Adelaide started, and coloured crimson, and answered, laughingly, that she had set her
heart upon it: but there was no sign of anxiety given
after this, for, during the remainder of the dinner,
she kept up a flighty conversation with Miss Caroline
Grey, which had the effect of chilling into gravity
nearly every other person at the table.
The dinner was ended, and Eleanor and Maude
went to Blanche's room together. Each wished the
other absent. They had but one feeling in commonthat which centred in Blanche.  Maude took up a
book, as was her wont, and Eleanor rallied her for
being unsociable; but still she read, or pretended to
do so; whilst Eleanor sat by, amusing Blanche with
little incidents of the day. She was very quick and
clever in description; and Maude was attracted by




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             93
her against her will, and whilst holding a volume of
travels in her hand, could not avoid adding an occasional remark or an explanation.
" Come, Maude, resign yourself, and be agreeable,"
said Blanche, playfully, as Maude turned towards the
light, seemingly determined upon being studious;
"you really cannot help yourself."
" No one is agreeable who is told to be so," replied Maude, shortly. " Besides you don't want anything when Miss Wentworth is with you."
" Yes, I do; I want you for my own pleasure,
and to scold Eleanor for saying a good many things
she ought not."
" What things?" asked Eleanor; and Maude put
down her book, and gazed steadily on the fire.
" Lectures  are for a  tete-a-tete,"  answered
Blanche; " and, moreover, they are not in my way."
" Thank you, for supposing them in mine," observed Maude; "but I am used to it: it has been
my character from a child to be fond of giving themand I think I am.  Miss Wentworth thinks soshe cannot deny it."
Eleanor did not attempt to do so; she only said
that she had never had the honour of receiving one.
" That may be because she considers you incorrigible," observed Blanche. " I always deem it rather a
favour to be lectured by people I care for; it shows
that they have not quite given one up."
" Miss Wentworth is not likely to profit by any
lectures of mine," said Maude.
Eleanor tried to laugh at what might be supposed
the double meaning of this speech; but it was an
awkward attempt, for she felt much the coldness,
the rudeness indeed, of Maude's manner.
Blanche looked at her cousin reproachfully. She
could make allowance for Maude's defect of temper,
and the faults of a neglected education; but this




94          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
want of courtesy  towards her friend, and Lady
Charlton's guest, was almost more than even her
gentleness could bear.
"You have no cause to be angry with  me,
Blanche," said Maude, replying to the look.
" I only say what I mean; I am not the person to
lecture Miss Wentworth, if she deserves a lecture:"
the marked emphasis upon the if, was evidently
intended to show  that, in Maude's opinion, the
lecture was deserved.
Blanche was quite afraid to reply.  Eleanor sat
very still, and very stiff, and Maude returned to her
book, having thoroughly succeeded in stopping the
conversation, if that was her object.
A knock at the door, at this instant, was a seasonable relief. " It must be papa," said Blanche, " he
promised he would come to sit with me after dinner."
But the knock was repeated, and Adelaide put her
head in at the door and called Eleanor away. There
was nervousness and conscious secrecy in Eleanor's
manner as she answered, " Coming, in one moment;
go to your room, and I will follow you." Adelaide
still stood at the door without entering; and, after
hoping that Blanche was better, said aloud, to Maude.
"The Cuthbert Greys' plans are settled, Maude; they
go back to Oakfield on Wednesday night, after the
party; hard work it will be, but it is quite settled."
"Is it?" said Maude, without raising her eyes;
and, before Blanche could ask the meaning of the
information, Adelaide beckoned again to Eleanor,
and both left the room.
Then Maude threw aside her book, and standing
before Blanche, whilst her eyes flashed with indignation, exclaimed, "Why did you stop me from
saying what I would have said? Is it good for Miss
Wentworth, that no one should have the courage to
tell her the truth, and make her ashamed of the part




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               95
she is playing? " Blanche was lying on the sofa, very
tired and worried; she had not strength or inclination  to enter upon the subject, and Maude's
vehemence chilled her, it seemed so misplaced.  "I
thought you had more in you, Blanche," continued
Maude; "more courage and energy."
Tears were in Blanche's eyes as much from fatigue
as vexation. "I don't know what you are talking
about, Maude," she answered; "it is all such a mystery. Perhaps you will leave it till another time, for
I don't feel very well to-night."
Maude becameimore gentle, but she did not seem
willing to defer what she had to say, and continued,
" It may be very cruel, Blanche, to put you up to
the ways of the world. You are walking through it
blindfold, happily for you; happily for all who can
do so. But remember you have been warned; and
if you will still allow yourself to be infatuated by
Miss Wentworth, the fault is not mine. Yet I should
have thought," she added, "that anything like manoeuvring would have been foreign to your nature."
Blanche was completely roused for the moment.
"Manceuvring!" she exclaimed. "Maude, this is
only a repetition of the charge you made against
Eleanor before. I thought I had told you that I would
not bear to hear it brought forward without proof."
"And you have not seen any proof, then, during the
fortnight you have been together," said Maude sarcastically.  " Well; I suppose it is possible-wilful
blindness is greater than any other. But, if you have
not, I can assure you that I have. Every look and
word of Miss Wentworth's convinces me that she has a
double-meaning in her visit; that she is manoeuvring
for her brother and Adelaide; and, what is more,
that she wishes to draw you into her schemes.  I
could not tell you all the facts from which I draw
rmy conclusions.  Some things I see, some I hear.




96          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
It may be all folly now, but it may be serious byand-by; and you, Blanche, true and simple though
you are-so true and so simple, that I would give all
I am worth to resemble you-may be led to join with
them; they will reckon upon your good nature."
" If they do," began Blanche indignantly-but
she stopped, and added, "no, I will not, I cannot
believe it."
" Do believe, do think," said Maude, persuasively.
"Believe whatever may save you from being like
them, from being anything but what you are."
"You make me very unhappy," replied Blanche;
" I wish I knew your object. Why, if you suspect
anything amiss, do you not go to your mother, instead
of speaking mysteriously to me?"
"And have you, then, really lived so long with us
without understanding us?" exclaimed Maude. "Can
you be childish enough to suppose that I should
go'and make vague complaints, and aggravate my
mother's temper, in the hope of inducing Adelaide to
behave as a woman of sense, instead of an idiot? My
dear Blanche, there is not in the house, at this moment, a single individual-I say it calmly and advisedly;-no, there is not one, yourself excepted,
whom I would trust to act with common prudence
as far as Adelaide is concerned. They are all -"
"I do not wish to hear what they are," said
Blanche firmly; "and I would rather that you should
not make me the exception.  It is quite impossible
that any one of my age, and with my ignorance of the
world-which you know, Maude, you are always reminding me of —should know how to act or advise in
such a case."
" No," said Maude, more quietly; "it is not impossible. You have influence over Miss Wentworth;
and youl have also the one qualification-the basis of
all good judgment-you are true and consistent."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              97
"I would try to be so," was Blanche's reply.
Maude stood in silence for a few instants, her
large cold grey eyes riveted upon the lovely features
of her young cousin, which now bore the expression
of pain, both of body and mind.
"To-morrow," said Blanche, "we will talk more
of this."  Maude did not notice the words; a cloud
of thought seemed passing over her.  "To-morrow,"
repeated Blanche; and Maude started, like one
awakened from a dream.
" To-morrow did you say? Yes, if you will; but,
oh Blanche! in pity do not let me be deceived in
you."  The tone in which she spoke was strangely
different from the chilling bitterness of her former
voice.
Blanche raised her eyes to her, and asked, "Why
are you afraid for me?"
Maude did not answer the question.  She knelt
down beside her, and said, "I have talked too
long.  Can I help you in any way before you go to
bed?"
" Thank you, no; I shall not go to bed yet.  I
could not sleep."
"You will lie here and think; that will be very
bad for you," said Maude.
"HIow can I help it? to be suspicious and distrustful! to doubt Eleanor! Maude, you should not
put such thoughts into my head."
"It was necessary," replied Maude.  "But drive
them from you, at least to-night. Let me read, and
make you think of other things."  She took from
the table the same volume of travels which she had
been looking at before the conversation began.
Blanche smiled, and thanked her; but added, "I
had better read to myself."
"Because you are afraid of troubling me; but I
should like it.  Shall it be this?" and she held out
VOL. II.              K




98          THE -EARL'S DAUGHTER.
the book. Blanche hesitated.  "You would prefer
something else, only tell me what."
"I am too tired and too vexed for common reading," replied Blanche.  "You had better say, good
night, and ask papa to come to me."
Maude turned round almost sharply, and said, " If
I were any one else you would like me to read the
Bible."
" I should like you to read it, very much, I cannot say how much, if I thought you would like it,"
said Blanche.
Maude only replied by putting a Bible into her
cousin's hands.  Blanche opened it, and pointed to
one of the concluding chapters of St. John's Gospel.
It was read without hesitation, and ended without
comment, and Maude went away.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              99
CHAPTER XII.
BLANCHE could not sleep, as she had feared would
be the case. Even the words of unspeakable comfort,
of unutterable love, that had soothed her when read by
Maude, failed to chase the wearying thoughts, which
partly from feverishness, and partly from the evening's conversation, harassed her mind.  If she fell
asleep, it was only to mingle in confused scenes of
distress with Adelaide and Eleanor and her aunt;
or to imagine herself guilty of some unknown offence,
or involved with others in some great punishment.
She awoke continually, and still the distant sound of
voices in the drawing-room below, or the notes of the
piano or the harp, reminded her that she was the
only person who had as yet retired to rest. There
came at last a pause, as the party was breaking up,
and Blanche in that interval fell asleep again, and
when she again unclosed her eyes, it seemed as if
she had slept a long time.  She sat up to look at
her watch.  It was just eleven.  She had not then
slept so very long, and on listening she could still
hear a few movements in the house, and murmuring
voices near; yes, very near, in the gallery by her
dressing-room, the door into which was partly open.
They were very low, and Blanche could not at first
distinguish them; but after the lapse of a few minutes,
a push, it seemed an angry one, was given to the
dressing-room door, and Adelaide and Eleanor, both
speaking together, entered. Blanche was startled for
an instant, and then, supposing they were wishing to
see if she was asleep, laid her head again on her pillow,




100         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
expecting them  to come into the bed-room; but
there was a delay.
"Remember, Adelaide," she heard Eleanor say
eagerly, "you may carry your amusement a little
too far.  Mrs. Cuthbert Grey will never countenance
any folly."
Adelaide laughed lightly, and replied, " We shall
not do her the honour of asking for her countenance;
besides, if you are afraid, you know the alternative." Silence followed for some seconds, when it
was again broken by Adelaide, " You need not trouble yourself to-night," she said.  "Talk to her tomorrow quietly, and bring her round; and I have
given my word of honour, so has Charles.  Your
difficulty will be at an end."
" Will it? " asked Eleanor, thoughtfully.
" Yes; do you doubt us?"
"Charles  is so rash; so fearfully rash,"  said
Eleanor.  " He will not hear of delay."
By this time Blanche had become aware that what
was said was not intended for her ears. She coughed
to give the idea that she was awake, and repeated
Eleanor's name; but, in the eagerness of conversation,
she was not heard, and she could not help catching
Adelaide's reply, " We are both sick of delay; and if
you will not do anything for us, you must expect us
to do something for ourselves."
There was a movement as if Adelaide was going.
It seemed that Eleanor detained her, for in a voice
of anxious entreaty she said, "Adelaide, have you
no pity for my mother?  If you encourage him  to
any rash step, it will kill her; it will be sad enough
as it is," she added, in a lower tone.
Adelaide only burst from her, closed the dressingroom door hastily, and Eleanor was left alone.
All was very still then: Blanche could hear the
beating of her own heart as she waited for Eleanor's




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            101
coming.  She could have thought that nearly a
quarter of an hour had gone by before there was the
very gentle tap and the stealthy footstep, as of one
who was afraid of intruding;-so many thoughts and
such painful misgivings were crowded into a few
moments. What could be the meaning of all she
had heard?  Why did Eleanor come to her at all?
Was it only kindness, or had she some secret, something to ask or to tell? and could it really be wrong,
could there really be a foundation for Maude's warnings? could Eleanor, —but she had no more time
for such questionings, Eleanor stood by her bedside,
shading the candle which she held in her hand, so
that the light scarcely fell upon her features, whilst
she asked, hurriedly, whether Blanche had been
asleep, and if she was feeling at all better. The inquiries were made as a matter of course, and Blanche
answered them in the same indifferent manner. She
could think of nothing but of what might be still to
come.
"Then I can do nothing for you, dear," said
Eleanor, stooping down to kiss Blanche.  The light
fell upon her face as she raised herself: Blanche had
never seen her look so wretched.  She kept her
hand, longing to speak, but not knowing how to
begin.
"Good night," said Eleanor, trying to withdraw
herself.
" Good night," repeated Blanche. A pang of conscience followed the words, as if she was deceiving
Eleanor, and she added, " Must you go? "
"I think I must. Do you know how late it is?"
"After eleven; but can't you stay a few minutes?"
Eleanor sat down.
" It seems selfish, too," continued Blanche, affectionately.  " You look very fagged. Had you a
pleasant evening?"
K2




102         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Yes, very;" but Eleanor could not bring herself to give any particulars of it.
"Is Adelaide going to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's?"
begun Blanche, hoping to bring round the conversation by degrees; but contrivance was so opposite to
her character, that in the pause which preceded the
reply, she exclaimed, " Eleanor, I must tell you one
thing; I could not sleep or be happy if I did not.
I heard what you and Adelaide said; I could not
help it."  She expected a burst of indignation; but
the stillness of the hour was broken only by a stifled
sob, as Eleanor leant her head upon Blanche's pillow,
and cried bitterly.
" I did not understand it; and I do not wish to
know  any thing, dearest," said Blanche, fondly.
" Only forgive me. I know it could not be wrongjust say that it is nothing wrong," she added, in
her simplicity betraying the doubt which pained her.
Eleanor put aside the arm which was thrown round
her, and apparently ashamed of her weakness and
wishing to hide it, said as she sat upright, " What
did you hear, Blanche?-and how did you hear it?"
Blanche repeated, as well as she could recollect,
the substance of what had passed, saying again, as
she concluded, " Don't explain; I would rather you
should not."
Eleanor's lips became white with agitation. She
looked steadily at Blanche for an instant, and then
answered, " Blanche, you will trust me, I am sure.
I have trusted you from  childhood.  Grant me
what I ask."
" If I can,-tell me only what I am to do," said
Blanche, frightened by her manner.
" But, before I tell-now-promise me."
Blanche drew back.  " Before! it is impossible."
" Not to me, in whom you have so much confidence!" exclaimed Eleanor, reproachfully.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             103
Blanche could scarcely bear to realize her own
doubt, and she continued, " It is wrong to promise
anything in ignorance; therefore I cannot."
" But ignorance may be your good," said Eleanor;
"it may save you from pain."
Blanche looked at her with sadness and surprise;
then she answered almost coldly, " A year ago, you
would not have asked this. You know I cannot
consent."  It was a tone and manner which it was
impossible to mistake, for it spoke a fixed decision;
and Eleanor had long since learnt that Blanche,
gentle and yielding though she appeared, possessed
much of the resolute spirit of her family.
" Then, if you will not," she exclaimed, " we
will leave the subject for to-night. You can hear
more another time, if you wish it."
" No," said Blanche, eagerly, yet very seriously,
" we will not wait; you have led me so far, that you
are bound to be candid."
" It is a small request," answered Eleanor, in a
musing tone.  " It will not injure you or inconvenience you; and you will do more good by it than
you know or think."
" Only let me know it," repeated Blanche.  " If
there is nothing wrong, there can be no cause for
hesitation."
" You are suspicious," exclaimed Eleanor. "Blanche,
I would not suspect you."
Blanche was silent.
" Maude Charlton has made you so," continued
Eleanor; " she hates me.  If it had not been for
you, Blanche, I would not have borne her behaviour;
and now, to find that even you have turned against
me "
Blanche would not attempt to vindicate herselfshe only said, in a faint voice, " I should like to
know what I am to do."




104         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"I would not ask a favour for myself," began
Eleanor, proudly; "but it is for Charles and for my
mother. Oh! Blanche! " and her angry tone changed
into one of the most earnest entreaty, "forgive me
for being so hasty; I am very wretched."
Blanche drew her affectionately towards her, and
said, " What am I to grant?-all I have is yours."
"It is but to ask for-to persuade Lord Rutherford; he has in his gift-" she paused, hoping that
Blanche would conclude the sentence; but no help
was given her, and at length, slowly and with shame,
came the words-" the living of Whitfield is vacant;
if it might be for Charles-promised him, kept for
him, I mean"- she added. " Such things are done."
Blanche did not speak.  "It is a very little thing,"
repeated Eleanor: "I wonder I was so shy of asking,"
and she laughed that cold empty laugh which betrays
an aching heart.
Blanche was strangely silent and still.
Eleanor was frightened.  "It is but a trifle after
all," she repeated again: "so you will say, Yes,
dearest; and I will go."
But Blanche caught her dress as she was about
to take up her candle, and said, in a very quiet, low
voice, " Don't ask it again."
Eleanor did not catch the full meaning of the
words, and replied, "Yes, you are right; we can't
talk of it now; it is so late.  I would not have told
you, if you had not insisted upon it."
"But, Eleanor, Eleanor, listen;" and Blanche kept
her hand, and grasped it tightly, "I cannot;that
was what I meant;-I cannot."
Eleanor put down the candle and sat down on a
chair, with a face of blank dismay.
"I can scarcely ask you to understand," said
Blanche, her courage returning with the effort she had
made; " but it is such great, great pain to refuse."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              105
Eleanor covered her face with her hands, and
seemed buried in thought.  When she looked up
she was very pale and agitated, but not as Blanche
had feared; there was no anger.
" I think, perhaps, you will know why I cannot,"
said Blanche, gently, "when you consider more. I
do not know your brother well; he has not been
tried; he may not be fitted for it; and the responsibility would be so great, if I were to do as you desire. Is there nothing else I can do?"
"Nothing; but to forget the request was ever
made."
The tone in which this was said was despairing,
and a sudden perception  of the  truth  crossed
Blanche's mind.  "Eleanor," she exclaimed, "you
are asking this for Adelaide Charlton."
"I am  asking it for myself," replied Eleanor, in
the same cold tone of wretchedness, "and for my
mother, and my father-for all our happiness; and
you refuse it. Good night."
"Oh! Eleanor! how cruel!" exclaimed Blanche;
"but you do not mean it."
" I mean that my happiness and my mother's are
in your hands," said Eleanor.  "Good night."
Blanche could bear this no longer.  "In pity,
Eleanor!" she said, "do not keep me in mystery.
Why are you so miserable?  How is it that so much
is involved in this one request?"
"Will you know? " asked  Eleanor, her eyes
lighted up with a gleam of hope.
" Know? yes, anything; if I can only comfort
and help you."
Eleanor paused.
Blanche waited, tremblingly, for her reply. She did
not see-for it was not a time of reasoning-that her
refusal was founded upon grounds which nothing
ought to shake.




106         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" We may trust you," continued Eleanor, speaking
more to herself than to Blanche; " you could not betray us.  Yes, I am sure we may trust you."  She
paused again, and then added, " Should you be very
much surprised-would it seem very strange if-if
you were to hear that Adelaide and Charles were
engaged?"
"'Engaged!-actually  engaged?" was all that
Blanche could say; and there was more surprise,
and even displeasure, in her tone than Eleanor was
prepared for.
" You shall hear about it," said Eleanor.  "I was
afraid you would be vexed; yet I could not tell you
before."
"I am not thinking of myself," replied Blanche,
quickly; "but, quite engaged! who allows it?"&:
"They allow it themselves," answered Eleanor,
with a faint effort at a smile. " But, Blanche, dearest,
I will tell you as shortly as I can, and then,-" she
did not dare to utter her hopes, but Blanche understood them   " it was soon after you left Rutherford they wrote to each other," began Eleanor; "that
is-not themselves at first"-she-waifted for a moment, and then continued, passionately, "I must say
it all out plainly: it is my doing-my folly.  Oh!
how bitterly I have repented it. I let them send messages in my letters; I don't know why; it was mere
idle nonsense.  I never thought for an instant that
anything serious would follow; and Charles did not
give me the least notion of what he was going to do;
but he proposed quite suddenly: a sort of impulse,
he told me afterwards, seized him.  He proposed,
and she accepted him, and they were engaged."
Blanche looked at her quietly and simply, and
asked, "And what did your mother say?"
"My dear, dear Blanche! what are you thinking
of?  Of all persons on the face of the earth, Charles




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             107
dreads my mother.  He would have borne torture
rather than acknowledge the fact to her."
"But she must know it," said Blanche.
"Yes, in time; when she is prepared.  But you
can scarcely understand what her character is likeso strong, so stern, and devoted; so rigidly bent
upon duty, and yet so excitable, and her one object
in life her children-Charles especially; that is her
object of anxiety; she has less fear for me," and
Eleanor sighed deeply.
"She would not like the marriage, I can believe,"
said Blanche.
"No; she is very much prejudiced: she has a
dislike to Adelaide; and, independently of that, she
has a horror of anything which would interfere
with Charles's duties; which would make him less
earnest just as he is going to be ordained; and
she would feel-it would half kill her, I believe, if
he were to do anything rash, now."
"Yes," said Blanche, thoughtfully; "a marriage
with a person like Adelaide at such a moment would
be very sad.".
"Quite dreadful, in mamma's eyes," exclaimed
Eleanor; "and that is what I am  bent upon preventing."
Blanche looked at her for a further explanation.
"You will scarcely see what I am aiming at, at
first," pursued Eleanor; "but there is one hope,
and only one.  Both Adelaide and Charles are wild,
I believe: they think they can live upon nothing.
Charles might, by the interest of an uncle, get into
the army; but neither he nor Adelaide will now let
me fully into their plans.  Adelaide dreads the
thing being known, and says her mother will never
hear of her marrying a country curate, and she encourages Charles in the notion of the army."
"It is very strange to me," said Blanche, "that a




108         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
person like Adelaide should ever have engaged herself to a country curate."
"She is so thoughtless," replied Eleanor; "I
really suspect she scarcely knows what a country
curate means; only that it is something Lady Charlton would not like; and then, to do her justice, she
is not mercenary, and, I believe, cares for Charles as
much-as much as she can care for any one.  You
will understand, Blanche, what a very awkward state
of affairs this is."
"Very," replied Blanche; in her heart thinking
it so awkward that she heartily repented having been
made acquainted with it.
"Now," continued Eleanor, "I know Charles well
enough to be quite sure he will not go on in this way
long.  He might persuade Adelaide to a private
marriage, even: I would not trust him."
"No, no," exclaimed Blanche; "you must be unjust
to him. It would be such a bitter grief to his mother."
" It would be worse than that," said Eleanor, very
gravely; "it would nearly kill her just now, on the
very eve of his ordination: she, who has such strict
notions on all these subject, to be so disappointed
in him.  Blanche, it would be very, very dreadful
for her to bear."  There was a silence for several
moments, and at last Eleanor raised her eyes timidly
to Blanche's face, and said, "You can prevent it."
There was no need for Blanche to seek for an explanation; Eleanor had reached the point she had
been aiming at, and in a hurried voice added, "If
Charles had any prospects in the Church; if he had
the promise of such a living as Whitfield, for instance; his circumstances would be so altered that
he would not be ashamed to come forward openly,
and Adelaide would not be afraid, not so much afraid
at least, to acknowledge their engagement.  Sir Hugh
would take her part, if Lady Charlton did not."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             109
"And your mother and Dr. Wentworth?" asked
Blanche.
"They would be very grieved; they would think it
infatuation; but, if there was nothing clandestine or
underhand, they would be more inclined to excuse it."
" But at such a time, just before his ordination,"
persisted Blanche.
" They would not know it was thought of now,"
replied Eleanor.  "If Charles had any certainty
before him, he would wait.  Christmas is near; he
would delay mentioning the subject until he was
ordained, and then he would prepare them for it by
degrees. It is only this lingering uncertainty which
frets him and drives him to desperation. And one
thing, Blanche-if things go on as they are, I am
convinced that he will never take orders. Adelaide's
influence will lead him in a contrary direction; and, if
the engagement were to be known, both my father
and mother would dissuade him fr'om it, at least for
the present-they would say his. milid was not in a
fit state, and he might go into the army; into a
merchant's office-into-I don't know what he would
do; but mamma would be miserable for life."
" But Eleanor, Eleanor," exclaimed Blanche, and
she sat up and looked at her friend as if distrusting
the evidence of her reason as to the meaning of what
she had heard; "surely, if your father and mother
would not consider him fit, he is not so; he cannot
be so in the eye of God; and to induce him to take
such awful vows! —to encourage him in any way to
such self-deception!-indeed, you do not see what
you are doing."
"I was prepared for this," said Eleanor, calmly;
"remember you are judging Charles without knowing him. You say he cannot be fit for holy orders
now, because his heart is set upon this unhappy
engagement.  But I know him a great deal better
VOL. II.             L




110         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
than you do. Let him once feel himself bound, and
I venture to say there is not a clergyman in England
who will do his duty more conscientiously.  And
consider, after all, there is no great sin in what he is
about. He is in love; you and I think it very strange
he should be; but then, you know, we cannot understand half the marriages that take place-we wonder
at them constantly. I do not think we, either of us,
are able to make excuses for him, such as persons
would do who were more used to such nonsense."
" But Eleanor," said Blanche, earnestly, " I don't
think being in love, as it is called, is nonsense.  It
involves all the happiness of a person's life; and if
people do not act rightly when they are in love, I
cannot see how they are to expect a blessing when
they are married."
" There is no harm in being in love, that is all I
am  contending for," said Eleanor.  "It does not
follow  that Charles is not to make a very good
clergyman, because, unfortunately, he has lost his
heart to Adelaide Charlton."
" Oh! Eleanor," exclaimed Blanche, reproachfully,
"you are trying to argue with me as you used to do
at St. Ebbe's. You are keeping to the letter of my
words, and missing the spirit." She turned away her
head, as if to put an end to the subject; but Eleanor
would not be thus silenced.
" Listen to me once more, dearest Blanche," she
said in an altered voice, "I will not argue in the
way you dislike.  I will grant all you say, if you
wish it; but my mother was your mother's best
friend-the only friend who helped her in her hour
of need.  For the sake of my mother, and in remembrance of your mother, grant what I have asked."
Blanche looked round with an expression of such
intense suffering in her countenance, that Eleanor
could almost have wished the allusion withheld.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               111
Yet she pursued her advantage selfishly, mercilessly;
she thought that she was seeking the happiness of
others. " It is no exaggeration," she said; " mamma
is no common person; she has for years dwelt upon
the hope of seeing Charles a clergyman, and she has
had no other great interests to distract her from it.
Her anxiety for him, during the last two years, has
weakened her health, and I would not answer for the
consequences of a disappointment. If you persist in
your refusal, I have no expectation whatever that
Charles will ever take orders; he will be driven to
some desperate step which will bring misery upon us
all; on the other hand, give him a certain hope, and
he will be patient and good, and bend his thoughts to
his duties; and after he is ordained, and quietly settled
down as a clergyman, he will break the matter to
papa and mamma; and though there might be a good
deal of fuss and difficulty at first, all will be well in
the end., Oh, Blanche! surely you cannot refuse
now."  Blanche was silent.  " You shall think of it,"
persisted Eleanor.  "I have kept you awake a great
deal too long to-night; but to-morrow morning you
shall tell me that you will agree.  It is the first great
favour, the first real favour, I ever asked of you."
Blanche returned the kiss, which accompanied these
words, warmly; but her face was burning with fever
and agitation, and her cheeks were wet with tears.
For the moment Eleanor reproached herself; yet even
then her eagerness got the better of her real affection,
and as she wished Blanche good night, she added,
" Remember, my mother's happiness rests upon your
decision."




112         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XIII.
" AID now, my dear Lady Charlton, you really will
let me persuade you," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, the
next morning, as she sat at the writing-table, sealing
letters for the post, and professing that her necessary
correspondence was the very torment of her life;
"you really will let me carry off Adelaide.  I quite
see all your objections; the awkward time, just after
your party, and the long night drive, and the discomforts; but you know I will take uncommon care
of her, just the same as I would of my own child."
"There was no doubt of that," Lady Charlton
said, though not very cordially.
"Then what are the obstacles? if I could only
know them and obviate them, I should be so glad."
" I am not sure that I could say why I object,"
replied Lady Charlton, assuming an air of frankness;
"it is a question of feeling more than of principle.
Adelaide is so unfortunately thoughtless."
"Yes-young, girlish-you could not be afraid of
her with me."
" Of course not; you must not think so: but I am
always more happy when Adelaide is under my own
eye. A mother's anxiety you know!" and Lady
Charlton sighed.
" Certainly; no one can enter into that more than
I do," replied Mrs. Cuthbert Grey; "left with two
dear girls-not a person to look to —no Sir Hugh to
manage for one; at times the burden is indescribable.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             113
Agnes, love," and she turned to her eldest daughter,
who was working at the other end of the room, "I
think you  had  better be dressed for your ride
before luncheon.  The days close in so fast now,
you will have no time if you don't set off directly
afterwards."
Miss Grey expressed a doubt whether some change
had not taken place in the general plans since breakfast.  Lord Rutherford, she thought, was to have
gone with them, but Maude had told her he had
changed his mind, so perhaps there would be no
riding that day.
"Oh, yes, my love, put on your habit; I won't
hear of you staying at home, if there is a possibility
of going out.  So delicate as she is," continued Mrs.
Cuthbert Grey, addressing Lady Charlton, " it would
be quite wrong to miss such a day as this; and some
one will be certain to take pity on her. But why was
the party broken up, my dear; do you know? "
Miss Grey did not know, but she believed it was
Lord Rutherford's doing.  He had come into the
room  about an hour before, looking very uncomfortable; and, after that, she had heard from Maude
that he was not going.
"He  is anxious," said  Mrs. Cuthbert Grey,
carelessly.
"Lady Blanche ought to be better this morning,"
observed Miss Grey; "she is down stairs, and has
been sitting with Lord Rutherford."
"Yes, for nearly an hour," observed Lady Charlton,
n a particularly grave voice.
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey instantly changed her tone,
and inquired whether Lady Charlton thought there
was any cause for anxiety.
"Not exactly," was the reply. Mr. Somers had
assured them there was not anything seriously amiss,
only care was required. And naturally enough with
L2




114         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
an only child, even a slight indisposition was a subject
of uneasiness.
"Lady Blanche is going out, I rather think,"
said Miss Grey, "and Lord Rutherford is to drive
her."
"Going  out!-impossible!"  exclaimed  Lady
Charlton.  "My dear Miss Grey, why did you not
tell me before? I must instantly prevent it." She
hurried from  the room as Miss Grey said, in an
under tone, "Prevent it, if possible; but that is not
quite the order of the day."
"Then what is it?-What is the matter, Agnes,
my love?  Is Lady Blanche seriously worse?" inquired Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, with some curiosity.
" Not that I know of," replied Miss Grey; "at
least Maude told me she was not; but I caught a
glimpse of her for a moment, and she looks ten degrees at least worse than yesterday."
"And they are  uneasy, then," continued her
mother.  "Well, that is not to be wondered at;
though really, if I were Lord Rutherford, I could
be happier to see her dying of consumption, than
to know that she was to live to be what her mother
was."
"Lady Rutherford! there was nothing the matter
with her, mamma, more than ordinary illness, was
there?" inquired Miss Grey, quickly.
"Only that she was out of her mind," replied
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey; "and that there is every probability that this poor child, if she lives, will be the
same."
Miss Grey looked very much shocked.  She had
never heard the fact before.
"It is not generally known," continued Mrs.
Cuthbert Grey; "the family tried to keep it as
quiet as possible: but things will get abroad through
servants, and there is no doubt poor Lady Rutherford




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER               115
was quite insane; a kind of melancholy madness,
which took a religious turn."
"Lady Blanche is very religious," observed Miss
Grey.
"Yes; and it is that which would make me so
uneasy.  Lord Rutherford is not satisfied himself, I
am  sure; he watches her unceasingly; I have observed him particularly the last few days."
"Lady Blanche looked melancholy enough this
morning," observed Miss Grey: "she was coming
down the stairs, wrapt up in a shawl; and I thought
her the picture of misery; and just at that moment
Miss Wentworth met her, and she seemed so hurried
and fluttered, I really pitied her."
"I should not like it," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey,
shaking her head. "Those peculiar notions of hers
are just the things to turn her brain.  I don't mean
that there is any likelihood of such a calamity, at
the present time, poor child!   It would be dreadful
if there were; but if she were to fall into ill health,
and these morbid fancies were to increase, I should
not be in the least surprised: it was precisely the
case with her mother. People said Lord Rutherford
did not treat her well; but he had a great deal to
bear, I suspect. I hope it won't be the same thing
over again now."
" Every one is out of sorts this morning," observed
Miss Grey; " Maude Charlton is shorter and sharper
than ever. Really, if it were not for her splendid voice,
no one would bear with her: and Adelaide is in such
a strange mood, I can't in the least make her out.
One minute she laughs and talks as if she was in the
highest spirits, and then she seems quite abstracted."
" Whimsical, my dear, whimsical," said  Mrs.
Cuthbert Grey, oracularly.  "Adelaide likes being
odd; but we will carry her away with us, and we
shall soon bring back her spirits."




116         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"If she will go," observed Miss Grey. "She
seemed doubtful at first, when I spoke about it this
morning; but there will be an attraction for her in the
neighbourhood.  Miss Wentworth and her brother
will be at Mr. Johnstone's."
"Her brother!" repeated Mrs. Cuthbert Grey:
"I never heard of him."
"Oh, mamma!" and Miss Grey laughed.  "I
thought every one knew about Adelaide's flirtation
with Mr. Wentworth."
"I think I have heard something," was the reply;
"but you know, my dear Agnes, if one is to be
always aufait upon the subject of Adelaide's follies,
one must make it the labour of life.  A great pity it
is such a nice girl as she is, in many ways, should
have been so carelessly brought up.  I must not
keep you, however, my love.  Put on your riding
habit, and you will be sure to find some one to accompany you.  And remember, dear, if it should chance
to be Lord Erlsmere, and you should be talking of
Lady Blanche, you must not speak quite as plainly
as I did just now about the unfortunate malady. It
does not do to give more than a hint upon such
topics; especially where it is possible the subject may
be a tender one; though, for his own sake, one could
wish that he knew the facts well. Now go and dress
quickly as you can."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.               117
CHAPTER XIV.
Miss Grey's observation, that every one was out of
sorts that morning, was quite correct.  A  much
stronger expression indeed might have been used to
describe what seemed the prevailing spirit of indefinable gloom and uneasiness.  With one, the most
innocent and guileless of all, it was a melancholy
which could not be concealed or cast off; and there
were those about her, who, from  different causes,
were so influenced by her as to feel their own spirits
rise or fall with hers.  Lord Rutherford did not believe, with Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, that his child's religious notions were in themselves likely to injure her
mind.  He had already seen too much of their
soothing and strengthening effect to indulge such
fears. Perhaps, if he had been asked, he might even
have allowed that they were the ballast to a disposition naturally too excitable; but the one dread which
-though he shrank from owning it to himself-was
never entirely absent from his thoughts, made him
look with suspicious anxiety upon every indication of
depression or inequality of spirits, as being the possible
precursor of that morbid sadness which had caused so
much of the misery of her mother's life. Of physical
illness he thought far less.  Blanche was delicate;
but not, he imagined, more so than many who seemed
likely to live to old age.  He had never permitted
himself to deem it possible that she could be taken
from him; it was an idea so dreadful, that if, for a
moment, it crossed his mind, he discarded it as weak,
self-tormenting.  Blanche was his one treasure-that




118         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
for which alone life could be endured-and it could
not be-so he had at times said to himself-it could
not be, that she should be removed, and he be left
desolate.  Why it could not be he never inquiredwhy he was to be saved from a trial to which thousands before him had been subjected, or what he had
done to deserve such an exemption. Suffering had
for years been present to him only in remembrance;
and he could not yet believe, that, except under one
form, it might again be inflicted in the mercy or the
wrath of God.
Yet something did come before him that morning,
as he sat alone with Blanche in the study within the
library, where his mornings were usually spent-a
shadow, though faint and distant, of coming evil.
Blanche had dressed earlier than he expected; and
he thought, when he saw her in her room, she must be
better-at least she did not complain; and when he
begged her to come down stairs, and stay with him
quietly instead of remaining by herself, she had consented readily. There seemed less to cause uneasiness than even on the preceding day, as regarded her
health; but there was a change in her manner which
he could not help noticing. She was so very quiet,
so wrapt up in her own thoughts; and any attention to
what he said was evidently such an effort. He hinted
several times his fear that she was fretted, anxious,
uncomfortable; but there was always the same sweet
smile and bright glance of gratitude and love in
answer, and for the moment he was satisfied that
it was mere fancy; yet a little more observation
brought back suspicion.  Something was weighing
upon her mind causing melancholy and reserve; and
the supposition which would have crossed the mind
of another, as a natural annoyance, gave a pang sharp
as a dagger's thrust to the sensitive spirit of Lord
Rutherford.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             119
And it was no fancy: Blanche was unhappy- more
unhappy than she had ever been before from any
but external causes.  Eleanor's last words-" My
mother's happiness rests upon your decision"-were
the first which occurred to her remembrance when she
awoke after a restless and unrefreshing sleep.  The
thoughts that accompanied them-harassing and
confusing-made her long to lay her head again upon
her pillow, and forget.  Pain and disappointment
came, with the recollection of Eleanor's conductshame, at the consciousness of having been made
privy to a secret in which there was so much to disapprove; and, above all, a distracting doubt when
the question arose as to her own determination. For
there was much to be said-she could not help acknowledging it when she tried to think upon the
subject dispassionately - there was much to be
alleged, at least, in excuse for Eleanor's wishes. To
prevent a great evil-to save her brother from a rash
step, which he might regret for life-and to spare
Mrs. Wentworth a trial, the effects of which no one
could foresee-were reasons quite sufficient to account
for the earnestness with which Eleanor pursued a
request that, under other circumstances, she would
herself have been one of the first to condemn.  No
one had in general higher views than Eleanor, of
the awfulness and importance of a clergyman's duty;
or of the lasting evil which arises from any carelessness in the bestowal of Church Patronage. Blanche
had heard her speak almost uncharitably of an instance of indifference upon this point which had
come under their own notice.  She had herself taken
in a degree the part of the accused, and suggested
extenuations which Eleanor could not be induced to
accept.
It might, therefore, naturally be supposed that, in
the present instance, Eleanor saw reasons sufficient to




] 20        THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
satisfy her that she was not doing wrong in supporting
her brother's wishes. Blanche, indeed, did not comprehend them.  Mr. Wentworth to her appeared
very unfitted to take orders.  He gave her the idea
of a vain, unsteady, though clever and agreeable,
person.  But Eleanor said he was much better than
he appeared; and who could be so good a judge as
a sister?  Then, again, she was not called upon to
decide the question of fitness.  Dr. Wentworth-a
very excellent, sensible person-did not object to his
son's being a clergyman.  Mrs. Wentworth, of whose
goodness there could be no possible doubt, encouraged
the notion.  Why was Blanche to put her judgment
against theirs, and refuse to do a kindness, because
the individual'who asked it had, unfortunately, fallen
in love,-and engaged himself to a person not likely
to make a good clergyman's wife.  It seemed-really
it seemed upon consideration —that she might, at
least, please Eleanor by asking the favour of her
father; and that the responsibility of the decision
might be left in his hands.  If the petition were
granted, the gift would be Lord Rutherford's, not hers;
-if it were denied, no blame of unkindness could
attach to her; and, whatever consequences might arise
from the impatience and imprudence of Mr. Wentworth and Adelaide, she would have done all that lay
in her power to prevent them. So Blanche reasoned
with herself at one moment; so she almost persuaded
herself to remove the weight upon her mind, by
speaking to her father on the first opportunity. But
she was standing by her dressing-table, putting
round her neck the chain and locket which Mrs.
Howard had given her.  Her eye fell upon the date
inscribed upon the locket-the date of her confirmation.  How many-many thoughts were suggested
by it!-thoughts of holiness and purity, and that
single eye to the glory of God which can alone assist




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             121
us to a right determination. Again, Blanche knelt
in thought at the Cathedral altar, and renewed the
vow of her baptism; again, she seemed to listen to
the warning against even the " appearance of evil;"
and to recall the intensity of purpose with which she
had sealed the public profession of her devotion, by the
secret vow which, in that glorious temple and that
awful Presence, appeared doubly sacred and binding.
She had been told, then, that no action could be
safe that appeared doubtful when she thought of the
Judgment: her present difficulty could be tried by
that test.  When the account of all things done in
the flesh should be rendered before God, how would
she feel if she yielded to the present temptation?
Before that dread Tribunal would meet the rich and
the poor-the learned and the ignorant-the giver
and the receiver; there, the true consequences of
every action would be fully seen; and there, the
curse of the hundreds who might be ruined by the
evil example of an indifferent or negligent clergyman would fall, also, upon her head.  No kindness
or affection for individuals would, in that day, plead
her excuse. If she wilfully and knowingly aided in
confiding such a solemn trust to a person whom
she had reason to believe unfitted for it, she could
not be held guiltless of the result.
Thoughts like these were easily encouraged and
treasured up in solitude, and, when Blanche left her
room, her determination was -so fixed that she was
comparatively at peace.  She wished that Eleanor
had come to her earlier, so as to be assured that any
further hopes were vain; but Eleanor delayed, and
Blanche dreaded seeing her, and when they met accidentally, as Miss Grey had noticed, Eleanor's countenance and manner gave her a pang which she could
scarcely bear; and, in an instant, all the former suggestions and doubts returned.
VOL. II.              M




122         THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
To a person in perfect health this state of indecision would have been very trying; but, to Blanche,
never very strong, and at that time suffering from
serious indisposition, it was crushing.  She sat in
her father's room, with a book resting upon her
knees, scarcely able to appear to read, and finding it
difficult even to reply to common questions; whilst
pondering over and over the arguments for and against
her decision; and even, whilst feeling herself right,
not able to rest satisfied without reviewing her reasons, repeating all that could be said on the opposite
side of the question, and tormenting herself with
imagining all the possible consequences of her refusal, and the responsibility it seemed she was incurring.
Lord Rutherford tried in many ways to engage her
attention. He showed her his letters, consulted her
upon some improvements which were to be made at
Rutherford, and, at length, finding every attempt
fail, sank back in his chair with a heavy sigh and a
face which showed uneasiness of no ordinary nature.
" You are going out this afternoon, are you not,
papa?" said Blanche, aroused, at length, to a consciousness that his change of manner was caused by
her.
" Yes, I thought I should; but I don't know now.
I can't go with all that party."
"You will not stay in for me," said Blanche,
affectionately.  "I should be quite vexed if you were
to do so."
"There is no pleasure in going out without you;"
and Lord Rutherford left his seat, and walked slowly
up and down the room.  Blanche cast her eyes again
upon her book; for she felt perplexed, as if she did
not know what to say even to him, and in a moment
the current of her thoughts had returned to its
former channel.  When she looked up again, after




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             123
Jveral minutes, her father was standing by the fire,
resting one arm upon the mantelpiece and watching
her narrowly. She could not bear this, and tried again
to enter into conversation.
"You will go out to please me," she said, with an
effort to speak lightly.
He did not smile or make any answer in return
for a few moments, but then he exclaimed suddenly,
"Your aunt was wrong in urging me to bring you
here. Rutherford was your best home."
" It was my happiest home," said Blanche, quietly.
"I was more useful there."
The earl started, as if a new idea had been suggested to him.  "Yes, occupation; of course, occupation," he murmured to himself; then again, recurring to the former subject, he repeated, " Rutherford was your best home; we will go back there."
"May we? shall we?" replied Blanche. Her eyes
brightened with pleasure, for in leaving Senilhurst
she thought she should leave temptation and trial.
"Do you wish it? " said the earl, eagerly, almost
hastily. " You should have told me before."
"It is not a fixed wish; only at times," said
Blanche; "but I should like to feel that I could be
doing something. There is nothing but amusement
here, except, just now, the little boy at the lodge;
that is the only thing I seem to have particularly to
attend to. I should like to see the toys that were
bought for him."
"How  could I have forgotten!" exclaimed the
earl, ringing the bell violently. That one slight allusion to a wish was a command.  He threw all his
energy, in an instant, into the subject, ordered the
parcel to be brought, and drawing Blanche's chair to
the table, knelt on one knee beside her, with his arm
round her waist, and spread the little toys before
her, and discussed which it would be best to give,




124         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
with an earnestness most touching, yet most sad,
for it was the earnestness of idolatry.
Blanche's thoughts were a little diverted for the
moment.  She was particularly fond of children, and
the little fellow in whom she now interested herself
was singularly engaging. She had seen him several
times since the first day of his serious illness; as
often, indeed, as the weather and her own health
would permit:-for the lodge was within a short
walking distance, and she could often go there when
she was not able to attempt anything beyond. She
thought him very ill, herself; though the parents
would not allow it, and even the medical man spoke
sanguinely of his ultimate recovery: and, with this
idea, she exerted herself for him more than perhaps
was always prudent.
In a place where there was so little opportunity
for personal exertion, this one case seemed to have
a peculiar claim upon her.
But Lord Rutherford was not inclined, on that
day, to think of prudence. As soon as he saw that
Blanche could smile and take pleasure in consulting
for the child's amusement, his whole heart was bent
upon gratifying her fancy to the utmost; and, notwithstanding Lady Charlton's entreaties, he persisted
in the idea of driving her to the lodge, after luncheon,
instead of riding, as he had intended.
This gleam of sunshine, however, was but transitory.
When the question of the toys was settled, Blanche
returned to her book and her restless thoughts, and
Lord Rutherford to his watchfulness and foreboding.
The luncheon-bell rang, and Blanche proposed to
join the rest of the party.  "It was making less
fuss," she said; "and she need not stay long."
The earl was relieved at the suggestion: anything
was better, for her, than sitting alone; anything
was preferable, for himself, than to witness even the




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             125
faintest possible shadow of that melancholy love of
solitude which had been her mother's characteristic.
The dining-room was filled when they went in.
Miss Grey, dressed in her riding-habit, was acting
extreme surprise and disappointment at the breakingup of the afternoon's engagement, and looking wistfully at Lord Erlsmere for sympathy, which he did
not appear inclined to give, his attention being engaged by a chance visitor, who was believed to have
considerable parliamentary influence.
Blanche, however, had neither care nor thought
for any one except Eleanor. She did not see her at
first, for they were on the same side of the table and
far apart; and, after a little time, she began to feel
faint and nervous, and repented having come into a
crowded room.  The talking and laughing that were
going on around her made her head dizzy; and it
was an effort to her to try and catch Eleanor's voice,
and judge if she was really as wretched as she had
looked in the morning.
However, something was said, at length, which
effectually aroused her from the dreamy state into
which she was sinking. It was a speech addressed
to Lord Rutherford by Sir Hugh.
"My dear Rutherford, you will excuse me: I
hope it is not intruding-not trespassing too much
upon the rights of private patronage; but, pray,
what have you settled as to that great living of yours,
Whitfield?"
The knife which Blanche held in her hand
dropped from it, as she sat, motionless, to hear the
answer.
" Nothing."
Sir Hugh was a little daunted by its shortness;
especially as Lady Charlton, at the same instant,
sent a lightning-glance of caution across the table;
and, nearly as quick, a message, by a servant, to beg
M2




126         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
that Sir Hugh would tell Pearson where to find a
curious collection of parliamentary tracts, for Lord
Erlsmere and his friends to look at after luncheon.
But Sir Hugh returned to the charge.  "It was a
famous piece of patronage-that living; one of the
best in England.  Some people considered it the
high-road to a bishopric, since two bishops had,
within a few years, held it. Not that he was of that
opinion; he had made many observations upon the
subject; more, he suspected, than most people. He
had kept lists of all the bishops made within his
recollection, and traced out the causes of their election.  It was not every one who could do so; but,
with his extensive acquaintance-his connection with
the late premier-his-"  Sir Hugh had quite lost
himself; but he nodded his head, oracularly, and
ended with-" depend upon it, there is a good deal
of mystery in the appointment of bishops."
Lord Erlsmere caught the last words, and turning
to Sir Hugh, asked if he had heard`that Dr. -
was certainly to have the next vacant seat on the
Bench.
Sir Hugh supposed and inferred, and thought it
most probable, from his own private means of information; and he had a great many, a very great many,
as Lord Erlsmere must be aware; but, he was not
then thinking about bishops, he was merely giving
his opinion about the living of Whitfield, one of the
largest livings in England.
" Oh yes, by-the-bye;" and Lord Erlsmere innocently appealed to Lord Rutherford for information,
not being aware that the decision was still uncertain,
and that the earl disliked all curiosity upon what he
deemed his private affairs.
The answer was as unsatisfactory as before; but it
had not the effect of setting aside the subject, which
was now fairly established. The value of the living,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              127
its claims, and its responsibilities, were all discussed;
not earnestly by any one but Lord Erlsmere; yet
the facts brought forward, of spiritual destitution,
ignorance, and crime, were very startling and dreadful to Blanche. She had never heard of such details
before; and, as she listened to them, it seemed that
even Eleanor, with all her fondness for her brother,
could scarcely put his interest in competition with
the welfare of thousands. Unconsciously a sigh escaped her; it reached the quick ear of her father, and
in an under-tone he asked if she was tired; but
she scarcely heard him, so intent was she upon a
story, a horrible story, of suffering and misery, which
Lord Erlsmere was telling Lady Charlton.  It was
suffering from a clergyman's neglect.  In her eagerness Blanche leant forward, her eye caught Eleanor's, and the next moment Eleanor pushed back
her chair, and excusing herself to Lady Charlton, by
saying that she did not feel well, left the room by
herself.
" You shall not go with her," said Maude Charlton, going behind Blanche's chair; as, with a face of
anxiety, she was about to rise and follow.  She
laid her hand firmly upon Blanche's shoulder and
continued in a low voice, "Trust me, she is not
really ill."
Blanche tried to free herself, but Maude still kept
behind her, and addressing Lord Rutherford, begged
him to carry Blanche away to his study.  "I shall
take care of Miss Wentworth myself," she added.
Blanche looked up with a feeling of irritation, and
answered, almost haughtily, that it was her wish to
go to Eleanor; she did not mean to exert herself, but
she must go. And Maude drew back coldly, and
suffered her to pass from the room without another
word.




128         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XV.
ELEANOR was kneeling by her bed, her face bent
down upon the coverlid; an open letter lay on the
ground; and Blanche saw that it was from Mrs.
Wentworth.
"Eleanor, dearest," said Blanche, and she stooped
down and kissed her; and Eleanor rose, and pointing
to the letter, answered with a bitter calmness, "Judge
what you are doing."
Blanche took up the letter; her limbs trembled,
and she sat down to read it, whilst Eleanor stood by,
watching the changes that passed over her face.
The bold legible handwriting was the transcript of
Mrs. Wentworth's mind: yet lines of weakness and
suffering might be traced in it; for it was the outpouring of a mother's uneasiness. The letter had
been written upon the day on which Charles had left
the rectory for the avowed purpose of transacting
business in London. What business no one knew, or
could understand; no one at least at Rutherford. But
it was possible that Eleanor was better informed, and
her mother wrote to request, even to entreat, that if
she could throw any light upon her brother's movements, she would, in pity both to Dr. Wentworth
and herself, do so without fail.
" It is not a mere wish to seek out all that Charles
does and thinks," wrote Mrs. Wentworth, "which
makes me ask.  At his age there may be subjects
upon which he may not wish to be open; though,
strictly speaking, there ought to be none which a son
should fear to confide to his mother; but I would
not strain the point. Only, at such a time, to have




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              129
mysteries and concealments! -it makes my heart
sink. I fear lest we are mistaking him; lest, after
all his outward professions and his real improvement,
there should not be that stability of character which
is essential to the right performance of a clergyman's
duties. Feeling, I am quite sure he has-the very
strongest; but feeling will not carry him  safely
through the dangers of the world; neither is it a
sufficient guarantee for the performance of his ordination vows.  I am very unhappy, perhaps causelessly. Your father does not view things in the same
light.   He says, we ought to be satisfied with
Charles' conduct of late; for that he has done all
that could possibly be required to prepare himself for
a clergyman's life; and that he is certain of his
conscientiousness. I would give worlds to feel the
same; but I recollect all that went on in the summer
-that folly with Adelaide Charlton; and I fancy
that perhaps something of the same kind is in his
thoughts now.  God grant my fears may be groundless.  I scarcely know why I have them so strongly;
perhaps it is from the very fact of the misery the
reality would cause me.  It would be the destruction
of the one day-dream which has cheered me amidst
all the trials of my life. I have lived upon the hope
of seeing Charles a clergyman, in heart as well as in
profession.  If this is not to be-if he is to be lukewarm  or worldly-let him  go; let him  choose the
army, the law, a merchant's office-anything, I shall
never live to see the error of his ways, for my heart
will break."
Blanche was about to refold the letter, but Eleanor
turned to the other side, and pointed to the postscript, written by Dr. Wentworth.
" Your mother is not well; which, I think, is one
cause of her worrying herself so much about Charles.
She had a slight attack, yesterday, of one of those




130         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
fits which she was subject to years ago, at the time
of poor Lady Rutherford's death.  I have had a
long conversation with Mr. Dawson about her to-day,
and he assures me there is nothing to alarm us, but
that she must be kept quiet. I only mention this in
order that you may write cheerfully about Charles.
As to his London business, no young man likes to
be asked the reason of everything he does. I did
not like it myself when I was his age, and I begged
your mother to let it pass; but she would question
him, and then made herself wretched because he was
annoyed and did not like to answer.  We shall
expect you both home together, the earliest day you
can manage to come; only give us notice beforehand.  You will hear from Charles immediately, I
imagine."
When Blanche had finished, and given the letter
back again into Eleanor's hands, there was a silence
of some moments.  Each dreaded to say what was
uppermost in her thoughts.
"You see," said Eleanor, at length, with a forced
quietness of manner; " I did not exaggerate."
"There seems no cause for immediate alarm,"
replied Blanche, feeling, as she spoke, that her
words were cold.
Eleanor remarked the tone directly, and exclaimed
-" Oh, Blanche, can you be so changed? is my
mother's health-her life-of no value to you?  Do
you not know that it was sorrow for your mother,
and anxiety and fatigue in nursing her, which first
undermined her strength?"
Tears gathered in the eyes of Blanche, but she
tried to check them, as she answered, " I know you
do not mean to be unkind, Eleanor. You would not
willingly make me wretched.  Try me in any other
way; tell me anything else that I can do."
"Anything except the one thing; the one only




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             131
favour which will save my mother's life," exclaimed
Eleanor.  " Yes," she continued, as Blanche shuddered and drew back, startled at the expression;
"what I said last night, is nothing to what I
must say to-day.  It is all hastening forward so
rapidly: in another week it will be too late to interpose.  I have heard from Charles myself; he is in
London; he does not venture to let me know his
plans; but he writes in desperation.  He will not
see that mamma is unequal to bear any shock; he
believes that it is my fancy. His present life, he
says, is wretchedness, and he knows but one way of
extricating himself; that means," and Eleanor's
voice shook, "that he will marry Adelaide privately,
and break my mother's heart."
Blanche's cheek became very pale, and she looked
faint and exhausted; but she said, firmly, "Any
sacrifice but that of conscience. Eleanor, you cannot
ask that."
"I know it; I feel how hard it is," exclaimed
Eleanor, changing her tone.  "When we were listening to what was said at luncheon, I felt certain of the
effect upon your mind. But, Blanche, when Charles
has done an act of which he will repent for his whole
life; and when my father's happiness is ruined, and
my mother is-I dare not say what she may be-it
is paralysis with which she is threatened: when all
this has come, will it never cross your mind with
regret, that one word of yours might have prevented
it?  I speak my deliberate opinion," she added.
" The last words of Charles' letter are:' Give me but
the hope of being able to come forward honourably
and openly, before another three months have passed
over my head, and I will be contented to wait; if
not, delay is useless.' "
Blanche leant her head upon her hand to hide her
tears.




132         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"Mv answer must go by to-day's post," said
Eleanor.  "I have left my letter open, waiting for
your final determination."
"It will not help you," replied Blanche, in an
accent of great suffering.
"Yes, indeed, indeed, it will," exclaimed Eleanor.
"Pray do not think that; it will, at the least, be
delay, and a thousand things may happen in three
months; the engagement may be broken off.  If it
is not, still Charles will have taken orders, and my
mother will be spared the shock I dread for her.
Oh! Blanche, what fearful evil you have it in your
power to prevent!"
A  message from  Lord  Rutherford interrupted
them.  He had ordered the pony-chaise, and hoped
that Lady Blanche would be ready to go with him in
ten minutes' time. Eleanor received the message,
closed the door again, and bolted it; and going up to
Blanche, said, as she grasped her hand in the agony
of entreaty, "Think, only once more.  If I do not
write to-day, he will come down; not here, but to the
neighbourhood.  He will see Adelaide, and it will be
all over, for them and for me.  Not for my mother,
but for myself I ask it. Blanche, it has been my
own doing, and the consequences -," her voice
sank into a deep whisper, and Blanche caught only
the words, "Save me; save me from them."
For a moment Blanche wavered.  Eleanor pursued her advantage; but it was one step too far.
"Indeed you may trust me," she said; "all that I
have told you is truth.  Only grant my request, and
everything will be right.  If nothing should break
off the engagement, Charles will be quite open, and
Sir Hugh will support him.  We know it; we are
quite certain of it," she added eagerly.  "Pearson
has told Adelaide's maid, who is obliged to be a little
in the secret, that Sir Hugh is devoted to Charles."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            133
Blanche started from her seat. It seemed as if a
veil had been suddenly withdrawn from her eyes.
" I will leave the affair in their hands," she said, with
a cold quiet dignity.  "Thank you for letting me
know who are your counsellors."  She' walked to
the door; but her gentle nature was not proof against
Eleanor's look of despair, and once more returning to
her, she said, " Eleanor, you have tempted me very
far; almost to act against my conscience. I trust
there is no one else who would have led me in the
same way; but let me tell you my true opinion of
this business. You say that Adelaide's maid is obliged to be in your secret. Pearson, of course, must
suspect it.  A gossiping girl and a fawning manservant! And you are forced to entrust to their discretion facts which would make your mother miseraable, and my aunt indignant.  A few months ago
the very thought of such a thing would have disgusted you. I am sure it must disgust you now. I
do not wish to hear how much or how Jittle they
know; but, for myself, I would rather give up rank,
and wealth, and friends, and beg my bread in the
streets, than suffer my name to be mixed up with
a clandestine engagement, and my character for sincerity and delicacy, and all that one holds most dear,
to be at the mercy of my servants."
" And if it is too late to retract?" said Eleanor.
Blanche paused. " It cannot be too late to amend,"
she said, after a moment's consideration.  " I do not
see how, now, and I have not time to think; but
something must be possible."
Eleanor shook her head.  "One way there is:
grant my request, and you may impose your own conditions."
She was not answered.  Blanche turned away as
from  a temptation which she dared not encounter
again.
VOL II.              N




134         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XVI.
IF Lord Rutherford had seen cause for anxiety in
the morning, when Blanche sat alone with him  in
his study, he could scarcely be more satisfied when
she came to him prepared for her drive.  The change
even in that short time was painful; she looked
quite haggard; her eyes bore the traces of tears, and
her whole manner was that of a person bowed down by
a weight of care. The, earl could not delude himself
any longer by thinking that she was merely languid
and uncomfortable from  not being well; a much
deeper cause there must be, he was certain, for such
strange depression.  Or was there no cause?nothing but indefinable wretchedness-the precursor of
more lasting misery?-and swiftly, in a moment, his
thoughts travelled back through the long lapse of
years, whilst striving to remember the first indication
which had struck him  of his wife's morbid temperament.  His thoughts made him silent during the
short drive; and Blanche was only too willing not to
be obliged to exert herself. She was sorry when they
stopped at the lodge, for the fresh air was reviving;
but the afternoons closed in quickly, and she had but
a short time allowed her. Lord Rutherford followed
her into the cottage. It was strangely natural to him
now to be there; he who had once never entered the
house, even of one of his own labourers, except
when business made it necessary, was now a recognised and welcome guest in the sanded kitchen,
where, stretched upon a low pallet, lay the sick child,
his pale face flushed with pleasure, and his little




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            135
thin hand stretched out to welcome the lady whom
he had not seen for many days. The earl seated
himself by the fire; when Blanche was present he
had no wish except to watch her, and listen to her,
and yield himself to an influence so different from all
which for years had governed him, that it seemed to
present to him a new phase of existence. Yet it was
not very much that Blanche said. She was shy
before her father, and the disquietude of her mind
gave her a tone of unusual reserve. But the child
was not aware of any difference of manner; he only
knew that some one was near him who was kind to
him, and had brought him toys to play with, and
pictures; and, with the simplicity and openness of
his age, he made his remarks, and called for her
attention, until insensibly Blanche's interest was
absorbed, and she forgot that there was any other
care or duty to be thought of. Then she talked
freely and cheerfully, and the boy grew more and
more happy to have her with him; and discovering, by
a natural instinct, where his wondering and childish,
yet reverent, thoughts would meet with sympathy,
asked questions which if, at times, they were hard to
answer, yet betokened a mind strangely beyond his
years.  The pictures, he told her, he liked so
much —the Scripture ones-those which were about
people being made well; and, raising his eyes to
Blanche, with an expression of great awe, he said, as
he laid his finger upon a figure representing our
Lord, "It must have been so pleasant to be with
Him; He looks so kind."  Blanche tried to give
him a personal feeling of gratitude by speaking of
the blessings which had been granted to himself.
"Yes," he said, "there were a great many.  His
mother was good to him, and his sister; and they
made his bed comfortable when he was tired: but he
knew it was our Saviour who taught them  to do it.




136        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"And he makes you come and see me," he added.
"Do you like to come?"
Blanche could scarcely repress a smile at the
eagerness with which the question was put; as if a
sudden doubt had crossed his mind.
" I like it, and the gentleman likes it too," she said,
looking towards her father.  "It was he who went
to Cobham to buy the toys for you."
The child fixed his eyes upon Lord Rutherford,
with a half-timid gratitude which he dared not speak;
and the look drew the earl from his seat by the fire,
and he went to the bed-side.
"Thank you!" said the child, fancying that he had
come to be thanked.  "Sissy and I shall play with
them by-and-by; and I must say,'Thank you,' to our
Saviour too; mustn't I?" he added, appealing to
Blanche, " because He told him to do it; like your
coming to see me." Then taking up one of the prints,
he held it before the earl, asking whether he would
not like to see it-it was so pretty.  "That is a little
boy saying his prayers," he continued. "I say my
prayers too, when I can; when I am very tired, Sissy
says them for me. Do you think you could say them
for me?"
" I dare say the gentleman could, if he knew what
to say," interrupted Blanche quickly: "or I might,
if you liked it. But, I suppose, Sissy says your prayers
for you at night before you go to bed?"
"But I should like to have them said now.  I
should like to have you to say them;" and the wish
having once suggested itself, the child grew quite excited, his cheek flushed, and his breathing became
quick. "You would say them better than Sissy; and
sometimes she looks about; I don't like her to look
about."
"People should be quite still and keep their eyes
shut, or else look down upon their books, when




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             137
they say their prayers," said Blanche.  "I dare say
Sissy will when she grows older. Does she ever read
to you?"
"Yes, sometimes; but mother reads at night,
about the beautiful city. That's where the clergyman
says I'm going. Should you like to hear about it, if
the lady reads it?" he added, turning to Lord Rutherford.
" The lady is tired," answered the earl; " don't
you see how white she is?"
The little boy gazed at Blanche steadily, and after
a few moments of thought said, with a very earnest
voice, "She looks like me when mother puts the
glass before me.  Is she going to the beautiful city,
too?"
Lord  Rutherford's countenance changed.  He
caught up Blanche's cloak from a chair, and wrapping
it round her observed that they must go.
"Then you can't say my prayers for me to-day?"
asked the child, with a disappointed air.
Blanche looked at her father entreatingly.  "If he
wishes it so much," she said, "might I not stay five
minutes? His little prayer can scarcely take so long.
What is it you say, Johnnie?"
"' Our Father 1' and' I pray God to bless mother
and Sissy;' and the clergyman taught me another,"
answered the child.
"And if I were to say'Our Father!' for you,
should you like it?"
The little pale face brightened with pleasure, and
Blanche, after one glance at the earl, who was standing passively waiting her will, knelt down. There
was a moment's pause; and the child, touching
Blanche's arm, asked, "Doesn't the gentleman say
his prayers too?"
Blanche made no answer, she repeated the prayer.
The little boy joining in it with his hands clasped and
N 2




138         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
his eyes closed. When it was ended, and she rose
up, Lord Rutherford was kneeling by her side, his
head still bowed in the attitude of devotion.
" And now, good b'ye," said Blanche, gathering her
cloak around her and preparing to go.
The child kept her hand, "Thank you for saying
the prayer, and next time you will read about the
beautiful city, where I'm going; wont you?"
Blanche kissed his forehead, and as a smile passed
over his features, he whispered, "I hope you will
come soon, for I know you will be happier." They
were his parting words. Lord Rutherford hurried
Blanche into the pony-carriage, and seizing the reins
drove rapidly homewards.
Maude met them at the hall-door, fretted apparently, and full of business. Scarcely noticing Blanche,
she said to the earl, "Mr. Johnstone has been here,
waiting for the last quarter of an hour: he says he
must see you before the post goes out, if possible."
The earl looked anxiously at Blanche.  "Take
care of her," he said to Maude. " I have been very
foolish-mad, I believe,-keeping her out so late, till
she is half-dead. Mr. Johnstone wants me, did you
say?  Oh! yes, I remember, about the Whitfield
living."
He was going, but Blanche's voice stopped him.
"Papa, may I ask? what did you say?" and in an
instant the colour had mounted to her cheeks, though
only again to leave them of a more deadly hue.
"The living of Whitfield, my child; that is all:
nothing to disturb you. Mr. Johnstone has made
application for a friend."
"A. friend! what friend? -a good one?" said
Blanche, hurriedly.
" A good one, of course. Mr. Johnstone, every one
says, is to be depended on. But, my dear love, you
are quite excited: do you want the living for yourself?"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             139
Blanche laughed faintly: her knees trembled very
much, and she sat down on one of the hall-chairs.
Maude scarcely assisted her.  A sudden gravity had
gathered upon her face, and she folded her hands,
awaiting what was next to be done.
"We must have your maid, my love," said the
earl. " She must take care of you, and you must lie
down and rest.  I will ring for her; and then I
must go to Mr. Johnstone."
Blanche still detained him. Would he let her
know —if it was not wrong —if she might be
told-would  it all be settled to-day about the
living?
A strong warning grasp was laid upon her arm, as
Maude, stooping down under pretence of picking up
her glove, said, in an under voice, "So miserably
weak!-oh! Blanche!"
Blanche started; her eye caught her father's, full
of strange  sadness.  She felt quite bewildered.
What did he mean? and what did Maude mean?
Was she doing anything wrong?  Were they vexed
with her?  Did they know her secret?  She was so
tired, so ill, so worn, that all her natural strength
of mind gave way, and she burst into tears.
Maude's manner softened a little; but the earl
spoke sternly; so it might have been called, but for
an involuntary quivering of his lip. He wished her
to go to his study, he said; it was quite close, and
it would be the best place for her, and Maude might
beg Mr. Johnstone to wait.  There was time; if
there was not, he could not come to him: he must
wait.
Maude lingered for a moment, apparently seeking
for one more word with Blanche; but Lord Rutherford gave her no opportunity for it, and, opening the
study door, led Blanche into the room, and said,
with the quietness of great self-control, "Blanche,




140         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
my child, we are alone; now, you will be open with
me.  There is something amiss.  If it is a wish
ungratified, you have only to speak."
Blanche could not answer him.
Eleanor's despairing tones of entreaty were again
sounding in her ears; and weak though it was to
waver, it was agony to resist.
The earl waited in silence for a few seconds, his
countenance showing more and more plainly the distress of his mind. " You cannot fear I shall refuse,"
he said at length, almost reproachfully.  " Is it in
my power now?  Will it be so hereafter?  Can
money purchase it, or time, or influence, or exertion?
Only, in pity, tell me."
Blanche shook her head: she tried to find words
for an answer —anything to satisfy him; but it
seemed impossible.
The earl withdrew himself from  her, and stood
moodily by the fire.
"I do not doubt, indeed, papa, that you would
give me everything," said Blanche, forcing herself at
last to speak.
"Then why may I not be told?" he exclaimed,
quickly.  " If it is a request-"
" But it is not; I have nothing to ask; only, if I
knew what was right; if I could be quite-quite
sure."
Lord Rutherford's impetuous manner was subdued; but there was far greater sadness in his tone
than before, as seating himself on the sofa beside
her, and drawing her towards him, he said, " My
poor, poor child; is there no peace on earth, then,
even for you?"
"If I could be quite sure — quite certain," repeated Blanche.
"And is that all?  Is it nothing definite?" asked
the earl.  He waited breathlessly for the answer,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            141
and at that moment to have been told that Blanche
was suffering under the burden of some overpowering calamity would have been a relief from the foreboding which made his heart sicken with dread.
But again there was no rest for his fears; for a few
moments of recollection had brought to Blanche the
remembrance that she had no right to awaken suspicions which might eventually betray the secrets of
others, and she was silent.
Lady Charlton's knock was just then heard at the
door. "Mr. Johnstone," she said, "was becoming
uneasy," and she begged Lord Rutherford not to
delay seeing him.
As she spoke she glanced at Blanche in surprise
and some curiosity; but the earl scarcely heeded her.
His whole thought was centred in Blanche; and, as
soon as the door was again closed, he said, "Then
there is something-a wish-a want unfulfilled; or
is it disappointment? You spoke of it once; you
said that the world was dreary. Oh! Blanche, is it
through me that it is so?-through my fault? God
knows it may be my penalty."
"Papa! papa!" exclaimed Blanche; "pray do
not speak so or think so; it is not through you; I
could not be so ungrateful."
"But you may be afraid; your wish may seem a
difficult one to grant," continued the earl, "yet
solemnly and sincerely, I would repeat what before
you may have thought to be mere words. As the
one only atonement which I can make for the misery
of your unhappy mother, ask what you will, and if
it is in the power of human effort to obtain it, it
shall be yours."
Blanche threw  her arm  around his neck, and
answered, "I want nothing."
Again they were interrupted.  The door was
hastily opened by Eleanor Wentworth.  Agitation




142         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
and excitement were visible in her countenance, but
she apologized calmly. She had understood Blanche
was by herself, and she was wishing to speak with
her.
Lord Rutherford was leaving the room, but he
returned to give a parting kiss to Blanche, and
whisper, "Remember, you have only to ask."
He was gone, and Eleanor and Blanche were alone.
Eleanor's errand was quickly told. This was her last
effort-her last moment of hope.  Blanche listened
again to her former arguments, her reiterated miserable entreaties.  They were more plausible, more
urgent than ever.  "Ten minutes more-only ten,"
she said, pointing to the timepiece, "and it will be
useless to ask. Mr. Johnstone is certain to carry
his point; he is to write by this day's post. Lady
Charlton supports him. Lord Rutherford is already
inclined to listen to him. In remembrance of all our
happiness, and our love which was to last for ever,
Blanche, have pity on me."
Blanche was lying on the sofa, without the power
of argument, but she had strength to say, "Leave
me, and return  in five minutes;"  and  Eleanor,
seeing a ray of hope in this apparent yielding, left
her.
They were five minutes of intense wretchedness;
Blanche was not able to compose her mind sufficiently for thought, the consequences of her decision
crowded upon her.  Misery for Eleanor-despair for
Mrs. Wentworth-recklessness and folly for Adelaide
and Charles. Even the ticking of the clock was distracting, and in the greatness of her distress, she
threw  herself upon her knees and prayed for certainty.  God answers our prayers, but not as we
expect.
Eleanor re-opened the door, and Blanche started
up; but, before a question could be asked, Lord




THE EARL'S DAUGI'rER.            143
Rutherford returned, accompanied by Mr. Johnstone.
A number of letters were in his hand, which he threw
upon the table, with an exclamation of fear, lest they
should not be sealed in time for the post.
Eleanor stopped as she was hurrying away, and
asked if she could be of any assistance? Certainly,
if she would be kind enough, it would be a great
help; and Lord Rutherford lighted the taper, put
his seal into her hand, and then, relieved from a
tiresome task, turned to Blanche and said, " I could
scarcely prevail upon Mr. Johnstone to come and see
you, he was afraid of tiring you; but I insisted upon
it.  You know his business; he is a very able advocate, and I think I cannot do better than follow his
opinion: still I have a fancy,-it has haunted me
whilst we have been talking,-that you have some
wish of your own in this affair. I have told him
that if it is so, the decision must rest with you."
"Is this letter to be sealed?" asked Eleanor;
the direction was in Mr. Johnstone's handwriting.
Mr. Johnstone smiled. "It is for Lady Blanche
to determine," he said; "the letter is to my friend;
it contains the promise of the living.  I could not
have asked it for him if I had not known him to be
fitted for it. Earnest, energetic, humble-minded,
accustomed to the necessities of a large manufacturing
population.  But there may be others as fitted, and
I cannot believe that Lady Blanche would wish to
incur the responsibility of entrusting such a charge
to one who was not."
A pause followed; Eleanor stooped down, and
pushed a footstool towards Blanche, and whispered,
"My mother."
"Speak; my child," said Lord Rutherford. "Tell
us if you have any wish, or feeling even upon this
matter.  Is there any one whom you have ever desired to benefit? "




144         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Blanche's heart beat so quickly that her breath
was almost gone.  Lord Rutherford looked alarmed,
he rang the bell for some water. The servant was
already at the door, he was come for the letters for
the post; Lord Rutherford put them into his hand,
all but the one unsealed.  Again he referred to
Blanche, " Shall I seal it? Are you quite sure?"
Blanche waited for one moment only to gather
strength for the effort, and then, with a firm voice,
said, " Yes, quite sure; thank you for asking, but I
have no wish to have a voice in the matter."
The letter was sealed and sent.  Blanche talked
quietly with Mr. Johnstone for a few minutes upon
indifferent subjects, and then went to her room; but
no one, not even her father, saw her again that
evening.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             145
CHAPTER XVII.
IT was a brilliant spectacle, when the long suite or
rooms and the great hall at Senilhurst were lighted
up in celebration of the seventeenth birthday of the
Lady Blanche Evelyn.  Many who saw it kept the
remembrance of it as a scene to be described to their
children, and their children's children after them;
and some few, who knew the circumstances of that
evening, and the events which followed, recurred to
it with melancholy interest, to marvel at the mockery
of human happiness and the strange contrariety that
so often exists between the outward and the inward
phases of this mortal life.
Yes, it was a brilliant spectacle-with the dazzling
lights shining amidst evergreen leaves, and the
choicest flowers that art could force from nature,
wreathing the glasses which reflected on all sides
forms of elegance and beauty; and exquisitely sweet
were the strains of music that echoed through the
lofty apartments, furnished by wealth and taste, with
all that could minister to the enjoyment of the
senses.
The seventeenth birthday of Blanche Evelyn! they
who looked upon her said that it could scarcely be.
So childlike and simple she seemed, so unconscious of
her own position, so easy and unreserved in manner,
and not even shrinking from notice because she was
unaware of attracting it. And they said also that
she was happy; that her laugh was the laugh of a
light heart, that the flush upon her cheek was caused
by gay excitement, and that her occasional restlessness
VOL. 1I.             0




146         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
and eagerness were the natural impulses of a child
upon her first introduction into society. And so she
was watched and criticised, and mothers coveted her
grace, and daughters envied her beauty, and a few
turned to mark an eye which was following her with
proud delight, and shook their heads and sighed,
that a father's hopes should be centred in one whose
very loveliness and purity were marked with the
tokens of an early grave.
Shall we look upon the truth?  There is a lesson
to be learnt in the most delusive scenes of the world's
joyousness, as striking,, it may be, as in the closet or
the church.
The evening's entertainment was just beginning.
A few early guests had arrived, and, together with
one or two of the visitors in the house, were assembled with Lady Charlton in the drawing-room.
Conversation was rather dull; it usually is so at the
first opening.  Lady Charlton found it difficult to
avoid: pauses, and heartily wished for further arrivals;
and the appearance of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and her
two daughters was hailed as a great acquisition.
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey looked particularly young- in
her evening dress; it wasnot easy to believe that she
could be the mother of two tall girls, and the consciousness of this gave her ascertain vivacity of manner
which was just then particularly needed.
"It is quite pleasant to see you here;" began
Lady Charlton, addressing her; "I thought this
afternoon that we should lose you after all."'
"Not willingly," was the reply; "you know
where my inclinations have led me from  the first.
Nothing but absolute necessity would have taken me
home; besides it would have been unkind to Adelaide.
You are aware we have really determined to carry her
off' with us to-night."  Lady Charlton did: not dissent, in words at least; and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey




THE EARL' S DAUGHTER.            147
went on: " It is a perfect charity to spare her, for
Agnes and I are engaged to dine and sleep at Weston
on Thursday; and Caroline would be left quite alone."
Lady Charlton seemed a little startled at this announcement; but, before she had time to speak, Miss
Caroline Grey interposed: "You know, mamma, it
is not absolutely certain I shall be alone; those
cousins of ours, from  Wales, are coming almost
immediately.  They may come to-morrow, there is
only a possibility of my being alone."
"'Still it is a possibility one should be glad to
escape, my dear; and Lady Charlton is very kind in
sparing Adelaide. Indeed, I cannot say how obliged
I am."
Miss Caroline Grey paid but little attention to her
mother's remark.  She was seized with a sudden interest in Lady Blanche, and a desire to learn who had
seen her lately, and if it was quite certain that she
would be well enough to appear that evening.  The
mention of Blanche's name caused a general interest,
and Lady Charlton was only too pleased to be called
upon to answer the many inquiries as to what had
been the matter; whether she was strong, whether
the air of Senilhurst agreed with her, and if she was
likely to remain during the winter.
Her niece had been ill, she said. She had indeed
made them  all a little anxious; but she had improved very much since the preceding day, and had
insisted upon joining the party that evening.  " She
is not to dance much, or exert herself," added Lady
Charlton, turning to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.  "Her
doctor gave special orders upon that point; in fact I
suspect if he had had his will, she would have kept
to her room, but she had set her heart upon being
present.   Poor child! very natural at her age; her
first ball and in her own honour! and she would not
hear of its being postponed."




148        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Lord Erlsmere here joined the party, and remarked
that he had just met Lady Blanche going to her
father's study.  He was quite struck with her, he
said, she had such an unusual colour, and looked so
much better than when he last saw her.
Lady  Charlton was engaged  with some more
guests, and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey whispered to Lord
Erlsmere, "Ah yes! poor thing! excitement-all
excitement; the earl sees it quite plainly.  He has
been wretched about her the last two days. You
know how she has shut herself up, and now she
comes out quite well, as it seems; just like her
mother.  She had all those fancies.  You never
could depend upon her spirits from  one hour to
another."
Lord Erlsmere looked very grave; it was so sad
a prospect, he said, for such a lovely young creature;
and when he was with her he could never believe it
possible. Her mind seemed so peculiarly well-disciplined, her temper so equable.
" Oh! but they are not symptoms to be depended
on," continued Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.  " I could
tell you things-Agnes, my love, what was it you
were saying to me about poor Lady Blanche, just
now?"
"Oh! nothing, mamma, nothing; really I did not
mean to mention it to any one, except yourself;but it was strange."
Lord Erlsmere could not avoid a little curiosity.
" It was what her maid said," began Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.
" Oh! yes, yes, mamma," interrupted Miss Grey,
hastily.  "But it is not fair to repeat such things to
Lord Erlsmere; only her maid is a great gossip, and
told our maid that Lady Blanche had cried incessantly
for the last two days, and that she thought there was
some fuss between her and Miss Wentworth; for




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              149
that Miss Wentworth had not been near her! Poor
thing! I dare say she is a little wayward."
" And to-night you see she has shaken it all off,
and comes forward as if nothing was amiss," said
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.  "Well! one can only feel for
her; but I am glad I am not Lord Rutherford."
Miss Grey touched her mother's arm.
Lord Rutherford had just come into the room, and
was asking if any one had seen Blanche.  His entrance attracted notice, but he was not aware of it.
To one or two persons he bowed distantly and mechanically, but his eye wandered anxiously around;
and a moment afterwards he was gone-to his study
-there Blanche was waiting for him.
A father's love is blind; yet Lord Rutherford
might well have been pardoned if, as he looked upon
Blanche dressed for that evening's entertainment, he
deemed her faultless.  In her simple white dress,
almost without ornament, she might have moved
amongst the loveliest and the most splendidly attired of her rank and age; and in her exquisite
grace, her perfect unconsciousness of beauty, have
outshone them all.  The earl could not praise; he
could not even say that he was satisfied. Admiration
was not the idea which presented itself in looking
upon Blanche.  But he imprinted a kiss upon her
forehead, and blessed her; and the blessing brought
a thrill of untold delight to Blanche's heart.
"It is so good of you, my child," he said,
"to wait for me.  I thought I should have tired
you, and that you would go to the drawing-room
without me; but I was kept.  Sir Hugh took a
fancy, an hour ago, about some of the arrangements,
and would interfere; and your aunt was quite fretted
with him.  So, in pity to her, I carried him off to
the library to discuss an old quotation. So immensely
absurd he is! But you are not doing too much
o 2




150         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
I trust; you look better to-night-a great deal better,
I think."
Blanche said she did feel more equal to the effort
than she had done all day; and her father did not
remark that she avoided saying she was better.
" There are a good many arrivals," continued the
earl.  "I looked into the drawing-room a few minutes ago-your aunt seemed quite in her element.
I don't know any person who manages a thing of
this kind better than she does.  But they are all
expecting you, Blanche."
"Must we go just this minute?"  she asked.
" It is very quiet and comfortable here."
He regarded her with a slight uneasiness.  "You
are tired, my love, already. It is too much for you,
I believe, after all."
" No, no," and Blanche roused herself from the
languor which was stealing over her.   "I shall
do quite well, indeed; but I thought there was no
hurry, and I wanted to stay just for a few moments;
I was hoping to hear-"
"What?-anvthing I can ask for you?-anything I can inquire?-let me go."
" Oh! no," said Blanche, with a half smile;
" but I sent just now  a message to the lodge.
Little Johnnie is taken worse, and I had a great wish
to know "-tears started to her eyes, but she added
cheerfully, "one can't help being interested about
him."
Lord Rutherford made no reply; but he drew an
arm-chair towards her, and Blanche sat down by the
fire, and fixed her eyes upon the bright flames, and the
strange caverns, and hollows, and precipices of the
glowing coals. There was silence for several minutes.
Once or twice Blanche looked round, thinking the
door was opened; but no one came.
" I hear music," said the earl, at length; " they




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             151
are impatient to dance. Are you sure your message
was taken to the lodge?"
" Barnes promised me she would send some one
directly," replied Blanche; "but it does not signify;
I can go;" and she was about to rise.
" We can wait," said the earl; " only"-he took
out his watch —" I think we really must go; it will
look so strange."
Some one came to the door and tapped gently.
Lord Rutherford uttered an impatient "Come in;"
but it was not a servant that answered him-it was
Maude; very grave-very stiff and cold; and dressed
in a manner but little in accordance with the gaiety
of the evening.
"They are wondering what is become of you,
Blanche," she said.  " Mamma sent me to find you.
She had a fancy that you were not well. But you
are well-very well, I declare, after all. Quite a
colour there is in your cheeks; or is it only that
you have been burning yourself over the fire?"
There was a colour in Blanche's cheek, for it was
crimsoned with the conflicting feelings excited by
Maude's accent of sarcasm.
"We were just saying that it would not do to stay
here any longer," said Lord Rutherford; "but
Blanche had a fancy to wait till she could hear about
a message which she sent to the lodge to inquire
after the little boy."
"They can bring it to her in the drawing-room,"
said Maude; "there is no use in waiting here, and
the dancing cannot begin without Blanche."
"No, no; thank you," exclaimed Blanche, and
she rose immediately. " I would much rather not
have it brought; it does not signify; at least I would
rather not hear. Indeed, I would rather not," she
repeated, as Lord Rutherford was going to ring the
bell.




152         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Maude stood by coldly, merely saying, that every
one was expecting Blanche; it was her own evening.
" Yes; I ought to have been in the room. It was
wrong of me to wait," said Blanche.  "Papa, I am
quite ready."
She trembled as she stood up; and he observed
it, and laying his hand upon hers, said fondly, "You
are nervous, my child; but you will not care'after the
first moment."
Blanche smiled, and opened the door. A  full
burst of music sounded from the great hall; a murmur of many voices-laughter and conversation.
" Stop! here is your messenger, after all," said
the earl.
A servant was coming hastily along the passage.
"May we go back to hear it?" asked Blanche.
She seemed really agitated now; it was not mere nervousness.
"You have been to the lodge.  Tell us quickly,"
said the earl.  "Lady Blanche is anxious.  How is
the child?"
A little girl of about twelve years of age stepped
forward from behind the servant, and came close up
to Blanche.  "I was to tell, myself," she said.
" Johnnie said I was. He sent his love to my lady,
and he's gone,-he's gone to the beautiful city, and
he begs her to come soon."   And bursting into
tears, she sobbed as if her heart would break.
"Come," said Maude, drawing Blanche forwards.
"Poor child! we cannot help her."  Blanche stood
still for an instant: the light of a lamp fell full upon
her features; they were of a deadly paleness. "Come,"
again repeated Maude, authoritatively.
Blanche started, and turned to look for her father.
He was leaning against the wall, at a little distance,
with his arms folded. Blanche went up to him, and
said gently, "Papa, I am  ready now;" but he did




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             153
not answer, only he caught her hand, and holding
it for an instant, looked wildly in her face; and
then dropping it suddenly, walked back to the study,
and closed the door. Blanche made no remark; she
stooped to caress the poor little girl, who had thrown
herself upon the floor in an agony of grief, and in a
tone of quiet sympathy, spoke a few words of comfort, and gave an order that the servant should take
her back to the lodge, and said she hoped to see her
mother the following day. Then addressing Maude,
she added with perfect composure, "We had better
not wait for papa," and putting her arm within her
cousin's, went with her to the drawing-room.
Again there was a crimson flush upon Blanche's
cheek; again her eyes shone brightly, and the silvery
tones of her voice fell with cheerfulness upon the ear.
The evening was wearing on.  She had talked and
danced, even laughed and sang. It was beautiful to
watch her; beautiful and inspiriting, except when
occasionally a passing word seemed to jar upon some
inward chord, and then for a moment a look of
anguish flitted across her lovely face, and a mist
seemed to gather over her eyes, and whether it were
in the dance, or in conversation, a sudden vagueness
and abstraction would come upon her, and she would
pause, as if unknowing where she was, or what she
was saying, till recalled by a gay reproof, or a glance
at her father's countenance. For Lord Rutherford
was " himself again;" whatever might have been the
rush of foreboding excited by that untimely message
from  the bed of death, it was gone now; charmed
away by the spell of his child's apparent enjoyment,
and the proud happiness of beholding the admiration
she inspired.
"Lord Rutherford must be satisfied now," said
Lord Erlsmere to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.  He had




154         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
been watching Blanche for some time; longer than
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey approved.
"Yes; satisfied for to-night at least.  But it is
not real; all that cheerfulness, I mean, which poor
Lady Blanche puts on.  She will suffer for it tomorrow."
" So do many people suffer for a night's excitement.  There will be nothing to wonder at in that."
" Yes; but even now it is forced-evidently forced.
I have lived longer than you; and I have seen more
-of young ladies, at least.  Look, now; see what
a change there is."
There was a change, certainly; a remarkable one.
Blanche had been standing at the lower end of the
room, talking to her partner. Now he had left her,
and there were several people near her, but no one
especially addressing her.   Her face was turned
away, but Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and Lord Erlsmere
caught a side view.  She had laid her hand upon
some one, who was standing in front of her, and was
speaking with an eager haggard look of entreaty,
which seemed to have changed even the outline of
her features.
" She is talking to Miss Wentworth," said Lord
Erlsmere.  "I fancied they had quarrelled."
"Yes; quarrelled I suspect they have; she is
conscious of it probably, and trying to make it up.
Those apparently very sweet tempers are not much
to be depended on."
" If Lady Blanche Evelyn's temper is not sweet, I
must distrust the evidence of my senses for the rest
of my life," said Lord Erlsmere, earnestly.
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey smiled expressively.
"The quarrel is made up at any rate," said Lord
Erlsmere, as he saw Blanche rise and walk with
Eleanor across the room.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            155
" Or reserved for a more private explanation," observed Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.  " Miss Wentworth is
not, I suspect, to be won over so easily."
Lord Erlsmere did not pay much attention to this
remark-his interest was attracted by Eleanor and
Blanche,, and to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's discomfiture,
he made some excuse for going away, and followed
them through the door by which they had departed.
It led into the hall. A few people were walking up and
down, taking refreshments. Adelaide Charlton and
Miss Caroline Grey amongst them.  Eleanor and
Blanche were passing them just as Lord Erlsmere came
into the hall. Adelaide tried to stop Blanche, and said
something ludicrous, and Blanche's face for a moment
wore an expression of great annoyance; but she went
on, and Adelaide and her companion laughed only
the more heartily.  Lord Erlsmere could not see
more.  A dance had just ended, and persons were
crowding into the hall-some to refresh themselves,
some to find partners, and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to
collect her party and prepare for an early departure.
She laid siege to Lord Erlsmere again.
It was growing very late, she said,; and they had
a long drive before them, and arrangements to make
-packages, and boxes, and numberless things to
collect; it was such an unnatural undertaking to
leave a place where you had been staying, in the
middle of the night. Would Lord Erlsmere try and
find her daughter, Agnes?
Lord Erlsmere could not but be most happy; yet
he delayed for a moment, with a lingering curiosity,
to watch what had become of Eleanor and Blanche.
"You lost sight of the two friends in this crowd,
I imagine," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, cleverly reading his thoughts. " People come and go like meteors.
Stay-there are Adelaide and Caroline; do bring
them to me."




156         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Lord Erlsmere crossed the hall, and delivered
his summons.  Adelaide was talking lightly with
one of her partners as he came up.
" I have orders from Mrs. Cuthbert Grey," began
Lord Erlsmere.
"Orders? oh! yes, to go, I suppose-Caroline,"
and she looked round for her friend.
" Can I be of any service? can I give any message,
or find anything for you?" asked Lord Erlsmere.
"No, thank you, nothing; nothing at all.  We
must go; the sooner the better," she added, with an
accent of peculiar melancholy-almost regret-which
Lord Erlsmere, unobservant though he usually was,
could not help remarking.
"You are to be absent for some time," he said.
"I shall scarcely have the pleasure of seeing you
again, I am afraid."
"Thank you, no; I think-I believe I am going
for some time.  Caroline,-where is she?"
Lord Erlsmere offered her his arm to lead her to
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey.
"But, mamma and papa; I must see them; I
must say good b'ye to them," said Adelaide.
"There  will be sufficient time," replied Lord
Erlsmere, trying to check Adelaide's haste by his
own steady pace.  "The carriage is not ordered
yet; you will scarcely get away for the next threequarters of an hour."
Adelaide sighed, and the next moment burst into
a fit of laughter, declaring that she was so fearfully
tired, she had nearly lost her senses.
" You are not the only tired person, I imagine,"
said Lord Erlsmere.  "Your cousin, Lady Blanche,
for instance."
Adelaide coloured crimson.  "Blanche!" she exclaimed; "oh! yes, Blanche is very tired, I believe."
"She looked so just now, when I saw her," con



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            157
tinued Lord Erlsmere.  "But I will tell her, if you
wish to see her before you go?"
"Oh! no, no, thank you;" and Adelaide's manner
became even more impetuous. " I would not trouble her for the world. Besides, she is with Miss
Wentworth. It is better she should be with her;
she will only be flurried."
"And you do not wish to see her; to say good
b'ye?" said Lord Erlsmere, with a little curiosity to
know why Blanche was so little of a favourite.
"Thank you, I don't care; it does not signify.
They are talking together there, I believe," and she
pointed to a little room which had been occupied by
some of the attendants during the evening; "but I
would not disturb her. Please let me go to mamma,"
and, hurrying from the hall, she threaded her way
amidst the maze of guests, and through various
rooms and passages, till they reached the drawingroom.
VOL. II.             P




158         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE little waiting-room, to which  Eleanor  and
Blanche had made their way, was quite deserted.
It had been used merely as a temporary convenience,
whilst the refreshments were handed about, and there
was no fear of interruption in it. But, even if there
had been, Blanche was not in a state of mind to
have much thought except for the moment.  When
the door was seen to be open, and the room empty,
she entered it as a place of refuge and relief; and,
regardless of Eleanor's warning that the room was
cold, and that it was not fitting for her to remain,
exclaimed, "Now, Eleanor, let me hear."
" It is too late," said Eleanor, moodily.  "Yours
is but a mockery of sympathy."
"Pity-have pity," said Blanche, and she looked
pleadingly in Eleanor's face.
" I have nothing to tell," continued Eleanor; "at
least, nothing but what you may well guess.  All
things are as they were; only, hastening to their
end."
"And is there no hope?" asked Blanche.  " Has
nothing happened these two long, long days that
you have kept away from me?"
" You  are unjust in  your reproaches," said
Eleanor.  "What comfort could my visit have
been?  You have cast off sympathy, and have destroyed the happiness of those as dear to me as my
own life."
"Yes, it may be-it may be," said Blanche, in an




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            159
accent of utter wretchedness. " I know you have a
right to be angry; but I thought you would not go
on being so."
"It will make but little difference to you, I
imagine, whether I do or not," said Eleanor: "no
one watching you this evening~"
" And are you too deceived?" interrupted Blanche.
"Then, indeed, I can act wel."
"There is no cause for acting," said Eleanor,
bitterly.  "Lady Blanche Evelyn, beautiful, prosperous, wealthy, without a single care,-nay do not
stop me; I am only repeating what I have heard
said by fifty persons this night."
" But you shall hear me for myself," exclaimed
Blanche.  " Before you think me so cold, so heartless, you shall judge me from my own lips."
" My own eyes will be the better judges," replied
Eleanor.  " Laughter and talking and dancing are
sufficient indications of the state of a person's mind."
" And it, must be laughter and talking and dancing
to the end," said Blanche; "the end," she repeated
again, thoughtfully, "which may soon be here."
Eleanor looked at her wonderingly, and a feeling of
returning love and tenderness stole over her as she
saw the sunken eye, and the pale cheek, now no
longer bright, and flushed with excitement; but,
marked by the undeniable signs of great mental
suffering. "Do you think I could be here to-night?"
said Blanche, "if I followed but my own will. With
so great a weight upon my mind, could it be my wish
to join in such a scene, even though it is in my own
honour?  But you have thought for your mother,
Eleanor; and I have thought for my father. He is
very unhappy-very anxious; God knows whether
there is cause," she added; her voice becoming
almost sepulchral; "but I have felt to-night that
there might be."




160         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER,
" He is anxious for your health, I know," said
Eleanor.
" Not for my health of body," replied Blanche;
"but there is another fear. He thinks I am like —
my mother."  She paused for a moment, and continued hurriedly: " He tries to hide it; but I have
seen it.  I saw it the other day,-that day," and
she gasped for breath,',' when we were together. His
very eagerness to please me-I understand it, I know
what it means; and he shall please me; I will be
happy. If I am not"-her voice grew faint-" he
shall never have the misery of knowing it."
"Blanche," said Eleanor, in a tone of alarm,
" you must not let yourself be excited in this way;
it will do you a great deal of harm. After all you
may be fanciful."
"No, no," exclaimed Blanche, shuddering; and
coming up close to Eleanor, she added, in a tone of
quiet despondency which made Eleanor forget for
the moment that they had ever had a word of
difference, "he told me so himself, yesterday.  He
came to my room, and I was crying, and we talked
together, and I made him  own it.  Oh, Eleanor!
he was so wretched, and so kind-so very, very
kind."
Eleanor kissed her and whispered: "Dearest,"
and Blanche, with the tone and manner of a weary
child, laid her head upon her shoulder and said:
" Let me be miserable with you; with him I must
always seem happy. Several persons at that moment
passed the. door, and some one was heard to inquire
for Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's carriage. Blanche started
up.  " We must not stay here," she said.  " Only
tell me that you forgive, that you understand me."
" Yes, I will forgive; that is, I will try to think
you meant rightly," said Eleanor, her own trial returning again to her recollection.  " But you cannot




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            161
go on in this way, Blanche. No mind could bear the
constant effort."
Blanche smiled sweetly; but very sadly.  She
stood for a moment thinking silently, and then her
thoughts were uttered aloud, and she said abruptly,
" Johnnie Foster is dead; did they tell you of it?"
Eleanor looked at her in astonishment. " Yes, he
is dead," repeated Blanche, in the same dreamy tone.
"He sent me a message; we will go and see his
mother to-morrow."
" Any one here?" inquired a servant, opening the
door.  He drew back and apologized.  He was looking for Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's maid. She was wanted
particularly. Mrs. Cuthbert Grey is going then,"
said Eleanor.
" Yes, immediately," was the reply: the carriage
had been ordered a long time; and the servant went
away, Eleanor sank into a chair and covered her
face with her hands. Blanche walked up and down
the room in great agitation.
" Fool that I was!" exclaimed Eleanor. " I might
have seen the result from the beginning,"
" There is no result yet," said Blanche, in a voice
quite different from her usual tone.
Eleanor looked up sarcastically. " When a vessel
is driven against a rock, there can be but one
end."
"How can you be sure?" asked Blanche.
"How can I doubt, rather?" exclaimed Eleanor,
with something of indignation in her manner. " When
Adelaide Charlton takes Caroline Grey into her
secrets, and hides them from me; and when Charles
has come into the neighbourhood, desperate and full
of wild schemes; it is mockery to ask if I am sure.
My poor, poor mother!"
" It must all be stopped, it must be prevented,"
exclaimed Blanche.
P2




16 2        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
And Eleanor answered, bitterly: "It could have
been."
"Lady Charlton ought to know, at least she
ought to be put on her guard," said Blanche.
"There is nothing to tell," replied Eleanor, coolly;
"except the engagement.  There we are both bound
in honour to be silent."
A pause ensued. Eleanor rose to go.  "Stop,"
said Blanche, detaining her. "I cannot see why you
should be so miserable to-night."
"Because I am sure there is mischief plotting,
and I cannot discover it. But it must come; it is not
my doing; no, whatever happens, it is not mine.
They never told me. Charles never asked my advice.
They have taken their own way, and they must answer for it. Oh! if they had never, never met!-if
I had never sent a message, never encouraged them!
But I did not think. I did not suppose what it could
come to. My poor mother!"
Blanche dared not speak. Every word which Eleanor uttered added to her own distress.  "You will
come and wish them good b'ye, of course," continued
Eleanor.  The softness of manner which had stolen
over her whilst attempting to comfort Blanche's grief
was now quite gone.
" I will wish papa good night and go to bed," said
Blanche; " no one will miss me."
She looked extremely ill, and Eleanor offered to go
with her.  "No, you will be wanted; you had better
find out Adelaide-or Maude; can't Maude help
you? she knows something."
"She knows they are idiots, and she thinks us
hypocrites," said Eleanor; "that is all. For your
comfort she believes you the worst of all."
"Me!-a hypocrite!" and Blanche was for the
instant roused from unhappiness to indignation.
She has heard some servant's gossip, and thinks




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            163
you are in league with me to support Charles, and
make him propose to Adelaide," said Eleanor; "but
you may bear that share of blame, Blanche. It is little
enough, and your conscience will tell you, you have
not helped us."
This last sarcasm was the overflowing drop in poor
Blanche's cup of trial. She sat quite motionless, in
a kind of stupor. The sound of carriage wheels had
been heard frequently during the conversation. Music was still going on, but many of the guests were
departing. Lord Rutherford came along the passage,
and Eleanor heard him ask whether Lady Blanche's
maid was with her. He thinks you are gone to your
room," said Eleanor; "it is the best place for you."
Blanche did not answer.
"Perhaps you had better stay here for a few
minutes," pursued Eleanor, " and I will send your
maid to you."
Still Blanche remained with her eyes fixed on
vacancy, leaning back in her chair, and her hands
resting helplessly in her lap.
Eleanor was a little frightened. She thought of
what it would be best to do, and supposing Blanche
was over-fatigued, said, "I will go and find Barnes,
and wish Adelaide good b'ye, and then I will come
back."
Blanche half smiled in acquiescence, and Eleanor
was satisfied and left her.
Several minutes went by, and Blanche continued in
the same confused state of wretchedness and exhaustion. She heard people hurrying to and fro, and
voices sounding now at a distance, and now quite
near, and she was conscious of being alone, where no
one would think of finding her; where it would be
considered strange that she should be; yet she had no
inclination to move. At length the medley of sounds




164         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
rather died away, the music in the dancing-rooms
ceased, and from the frequent repetition of Mrs.Cuthbert Grey's name, it was evident that at length she
was really going.  Blanche had an impulse to say
good b'ye to her and to Adelaide; it seemed as if it
would be kind and civil; and she had a thought-it
could not be called a hope, it was so vague-that she
might do or say something, or discover something
which might help to comfort Eleanor. But it was all
dreamy and misty, and when she stood up, her head
swam, and her eyes were dim, and it was an effort to
her to make up her mind what she was to do. She
remained at the door debating with herself whether it
would not be better after all to go to bed. She
had never felt so ill and strange before, but there
were persons talking in the passage, and she had a
dread of meeting any one, so she stood still till they
should be gone.  They did not, however, seem inclined to go; they were talking rather eagerly, but
in an undertone. They might be Adelaide and Miss
Caroline Grey, for Blanche caught a few words about
a cloak, and mamma, and looking in the little room,
and then something else was said about forgetfulness,
and one of them —the voice was very like Adelaide's
-observed, " It wont do to be forgetful now; if one is
careless for the rest of one's life." "No," and there
was a laugh.   "We must both have our presence
of mind about us certainly, to-day and to-morrow,
and then."-" Yes, then,"-a sigh followed.
"Nay, you must not begin to sigh yet," was the
rejoinder.  "There will be time enough for that
when the mischief is done; but, really, I don't think
there is the least cause for sighing."
Blanche went back into the waiting-room, for she
felt that she had better not hear more. Immediately
afterwards Adelaide and Caroline looked into the




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            165
room, glanced round, without seeing Blanche, who
was behind the door, and seeing no trace of the missing cloak were going away.
"Miss Adelaide Charlton's cloak to-night," said
Caroline Grey, in a half whisper.  "Mrs. Charles
Wentworth's on Thursday. Fancy how absurd, and
for mamma and Agnes to be so very amiable,-to
leave us just at the very moment we wish to be left."
Blanche started, almost exclaimed, and stepped
forward to show herself; but the rustling of her dress
alarmed the two friends, and they rushed away laughing nervously. Blanche stood motionless; disgust
and fear struggling in her breast. The next impulse
was to follow Adelaide, and implore her to give up
her schemes. Excitement caused a momentary energy
both of body and mind, and she hurried through the
passage and entered the hall, which was empty.
There she paused to consider what was next to be
done, for she heard Adelaide's voice in an adjoining
room, where several people were talking. She sat
down on a bench.
Eleanor came into the hall, and Blanche beckoned
to her to come near, and said, "I think I know it
all now. They have a plan for to-morrow, or the
day after, when Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and Agnes will
be out. Can that be possible?"
Eleanor turned quite white. " How did you know
it?  So soon!  Yes, it may be. Oh! Blanche!
Blanche!"
"I will stop it," said Blanche, in a hollow voice.
How?"
"I will see Adelaide."
"But she is gone."
"No, not gone; only going.-Hark!"
"Yes, she is there; but there is not time; and
she is wilful beyond imagination."
"Then my aunt -"




166         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" No, no, we cannot; indeed, we cannot betray
them."
"Good b'ye," said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, approaching the hall.  "The carriage is at the side entrance
below, I think you said."
" Yes," replied Lady Charlton, who was following
behind her: "it was more convenient for the luggage. You will not mind our passages, I hope; they
are all well warmed."
They moved on, accompanied by Agnes and
Caroline Grey, and Adelaide. Two or three gentlemen were with them, but not Lord Erlsmere.
"I must go with them," said Eleanor.  "Will
you come too?"
Blanche made a faint effort to move.
" No; you had better remain," continued Eleanor,
watching her.
But Blanche stood up, and said "I will speak to
Adelaide."
"Now?  Impossible."
"But I must-I must," repeated Blanche, vehemently.  "If she knows that I know, it must
frighten her."
"Probably it might, if there had been time; but
it is too late," and without waiting for Blanche's
reply, Eleanor hastened to follow  Mrs. Cuthbert
Grey.
Blanche delayed for an instant to consider; but
the instant seemed a year. The voices and footsteps grew fainter along the passages, and as they
died away she became desperate, and, resolved to
warn Adelaide at all hazards, rushed from the hall,
as fast as her failing strength would allow, towards
the side entrance.
She was met by Lord Erlsmere at the top of the
staircase which led to the lower part of the house.
"Lady Blanche! —here alone! I thought you were




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              167
ill. I thought you had retired long since," he exclaimed.
Blanche only shook her head, and, without an
answer, would have hurried on.  The light of a
lamp fell upon her features: their expression was
wild and ghastly, and Lord Erlsmere, putting himself
before her, said, " Excuse me; something very much
is the matter: you are ill."
"Ill? yes, very," and Blanche tried to pass him,
saying, eagerly, "They will be gone; I must see
them: will no one tell them to stop?"
"Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's party, you mean," said
Lord Erlsmere, looking at her steadily.
"Yes, Adelaide; I must see her; I must go to
her."
" But not by yourself, in the cold. Pray, wrap a
shawl round you, or let me take a message."
"No; I must go myself-no one but myself,"
exclaimed  Blanche, more  agitated  than  before.
" There is not a moment to lose."
She was growing very faint, and Lord Erlsmere
saw that her steps tottered.  "You must take my
arm," he said; and Blanche did as she was told,
for she could scarcely stand alone.
"Come, come," she said, and she tried to draw
him  forward; and, as she spoke, Mrs. Cuthbert
Grey's warning flashed upon his mind with horror.
They reached the foot of the stairs; a cold draught
rushed along the passage from the side entrance.
"This is death to you," exclaimed Lord Erlsmere;
but Blanche laughed faintly, and said in a strange
voice,
"Did you hear them? they are there; they are
not gone."
Lord Erlsmere stopped at an open door. "This
way," he said; "this is the best way," and Blanche
mechanically followed him, and entered a small room.




168         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" You must wait here," said Lord Erlsmere, assuming a tone of authority.  "I will not take you into
the night air."
Blanche sank upon a chair, and clasping her hands,
exclaimed-" Fetch her; fetch Adelaide.  Beg her
to come.  God grant she may listen."
Lord Erlsmere paused, irresolutely.   "If you
would be calm," he began gravely; "and could tell
me your message."
"Bring her to me,-only let me speak to her;
only bring her.  Have you no mercy?"
Lord Erlsmere moved slowly to the door; opened
it and listened.  There was a confused sound of
voices; then a momentary lull, and then the quick
rattle of carriage wheels.
" They are gone," said Lord Erlsmere quietly, ancd
in a tone of relief.
A fearful change passed over Blanche's face, and
as blood gushed from her mouth, she sank down apparently lifeless.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            169
CHAPTER XIX.
Two days after the ball! It was growing dusk; the
bell had been rung for candles in the drawing-room.
Lady Charlton rang, not for herself, but for Sir Hugh.
She was with him alone. All the visitors were gone.
Maude was sitting in Blanche's room, whilst Lord
Rutherford was trying to sleep.  One might have
heard every footstep in the house, as the servants
moved cautiously through the long passages; their
Vlow tread in the distance, the one only sound disturbing the general stillness. It was very oppressive
-very deathlike; and when the footman brought a
small lamp, only just sufficient for Sir Hugh at his
table, no fault was found.  The dim light at the extremity of the large drawing-room seemed all that
could be needed that evening.
"Dr. Lawson gone?" inquired Sir Hugh, looking up.
"Yes; a quarter of an hour ago. She has been
asleep since."
"Asleep, has she? she will do very well then.
She will get over it. I always thought so. These
sudden attacks are just like what I used to have when
I was a boy.  Much more dangerous indeed mine
were. I used to lie for hours""Yes, yes; I remember," began Lady Charlton.
"No, my dear, begging your pardon, you can't
remember, for you did not know me. I was going to
tell you about them."
" You had better not move to your own room before
dinner, Sir Hugh," interrupted Lady Charlton. "Let
VOL. II.             Q




170         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Pearson settle you here; though, certainly, this room
is dreadfully cold. I shall go up-stairs, and see how
things are going on there. You wanted to read this,
didn't you? " she added, opening a book with uncut
leaves.
Sir Hugh seized it eagerly,-" The very thing!
Where did it come from?"
"Mr. Johnstone sent it yesterday by the fly which
took Miss Wentworth away."
" Oh! yes, to be sure. Johnstone and I were to
have had a discussion upon it; and Rutherford too.
Poor fellow! Well! I suppose we must wait; but
she will get over it; there is no question about it.
She is not half as ill as I was; and I don't see myself why every one should have left us in such a
hurry, Miss Wentworth especially. A very fine girl
she is; she looked beautiful the other night."
" Miss Wentworth went of her own accord," said
Lady Charlton; muttering in an undertone, as she
walked away, "the only symptom  of good taste I
have seen in her."
Sir Hugh finding himself without a listener, betook himself to his book, and soon afterwards, being
persuaded by the discreet Pearson that the library
was the best place for him on such a cold evening,
retired, and left the drawing-room fire for his wife
whenever she chose to return to it.
Lady Charlton walked up-stairs quietly, moved
quickly along  the gallery, opened  the door of
Blanche's room noiselessly, but still with energy;
and looking around her as she entered, saw at one
glance all that had been done, or was wanting to be
done. It was little enough, but it was sufficient to
occupy her for several minutes in giving whispered
orders to the maid, and mute suggestions to Maude;
and then she went and stood by the bedside, and
looked upon Blanche's pallid face, now calmed by




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             171
the half-repose of exhaustion. She was not a person
in general to show much feeling; sometimes, it was
said, that she had none; but this was an injustice.
Perhaps the most unselfish of all her affections,
was that which centred in her niece, and no one
could have seen Blanche then, and thought of the
intensity of happiness or misery that depended upon
her life without deep emotion,
Whilst Lady Charlton was still in the room, Lord
Rutherford came in, and stood by her. Tears had
stolen down her cheek, almost unconsciously, before;
but now she took her handkerchief and turned her
face to the light, and whispered with a look of sympathy, "Poor child! we must be thankful she can
sleep. Maude tells me she has been very quiet for
the last hour."
"Yes," said Lord Rutherford, shortly; and he
moved away without even going to look at Blanche,
and sat down in an arm-chair by the fire.
Maude left her seat, and pointed to her mother
to occupy it; but Lady Charlton could not sit and
watch, except at night, when she was exerting herself to do what no one else was equal to. Her tears
were gone now, and she was, as before, full of business, obliged to go and see about a hundred things;
and after another compassionate glance at Blanche,
she whispered to Maude to let the maid take her
place when she came down to dinner, and departed.
Lord Rutherford and Maude were fit company
for each other. They had no wish for sympathy.
It might be that each felt there were depths of
suffering, which no comfort, no comfort at least
which they knew, could reach. Into the causes of
a father's grief there is no need to search. They
who have loved as Lord Rutherford loved-who
have staked their last hope of happiness upon an
earthly idol, and feel that they may be about to lose




172         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
it, can alone tell the anguish of that awful suspense
between life and death which language may not venture to describe.
But Maude had no life-long interests at stake.
Whether Blanche lived or died, she had yet home,
youth, talents, friends, and many of the allurements
of the world, to brighten her prospect of the future.
Yet there were feelings, selfish, perhaps, in some
respects, but bitter and uncontrollable, which made
the weary hours of that evening so desolate, that
Maude would almost have been contented to exchange
them for the earl's keen sorrow.
There is excitement in some griefs; we struggle
with them  manfully; the world's sympathy is with
us, and we either conquer or die. There is hopeless
monotony in others, and we bear them day after day,
beneath a calm exterior; and years of endurance go
by, and they are buried with us in our graves, and
none guess the secret of their existence.
Maude had never experienced a bitter grief; her
natural temperament was not open to it. She had
never loved deeply, for she was slow to excite, and
cautious, and criticising even when excited. There
was within her a capacity of strong affection, but it
had never been called forth. She did not think now
that Blanche was going to die, but if she had thought
so, it would scarcely have made her more desolate,
for hers was the desolation of the mind as well as of
the heart; the feverish, parched, dryness and barrenness of a spirit, which is for ever longing to rest
upon some oasis of beauty and truth in the desert of
life, and when it thinks that it has found the object
of its desires, discovers that it has trusted to delusion.
Maude had often been disappointed before she knew
Blanche.  She had often imagined perfection, and
found imperfection; imagined truth, and discovered
falsehood; and she had said to herself that she




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              173
would never trust again, yet she had trusted-unconsciously; she had watched the light of Blanche's
example, until something of clearness had spread
itself over the darkness of her own mind; and the
path of duty, and the way of truth, had opened
themselves, though indistinctly, before her. But it
was all dim now, all gloomy and doubtful as before.
The light had been extinguished, for the thought of
Blanche was mixed up with schemes and deceptions,
irresolution and inconsistency; and Maude could
better have borne a great offence, than a weakness
which diminished her reverence.
What Eleanor, and Adelaide, and Mr. Wentworth
might be doing or planning, she scarcely considered
except as she believed them to be associated with
Blanche. It was for her that she had been anxious and
suspicious, and it was for her that she now grieved, as
over one who had consented to take part in conduct
unworthy of her education and her principles. The
occurrences of the last few days, Blanche's wretchedness and disquietude, her uneasiness respecting the
disposal of the living, and the reserve she had strictly
maintained as to the cause of her distress afterwards; had convinced Maude that, in some wayhow she did not know, and could not inquireBlanche had, notwithstanding the warning given her,
fallen into the snare prepared for her, and was pledged
to exert her influence in Mr. Wentworth's favour.
More than this she did not guess, but it was sufficient to make her feel that her trust in Blanche's stability of character was at an end; and to throw her
back upon her own desponding doubts, whether any
real firmness and goodness were to be found on earth:
and now she sat by the fire, in the dusky twilight,
thinking of Blanche, and knowing that she was very ill,
and that even if she recovered this present attack,
its consequences might eventually be fatal, yet not
2




174         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
able to rouse herself to any feeling but that of gloomy
depression at her own dreariness of heart.
It was a time when a person of a different character might have been roused to exertion, in the hope
of putting a stop to anything  amiss as regarded
Adelaide; but Maude was a theorist.   From  the
height of her philosophy she looked down upon
Adelaide and Eleanor with contempt; and, if occasion
required, she could have discoursed eloquently upon
the indulged faults which led to the conduct she
condemned; but it was not in her way to interfere with what she called other people's affairs,
unless, as in the case of Blanche, urged by some
peculiar personal interest. Silly persons would be
silly, she knew, in spite of all she could say or do,
and it was one of her favourite, comforting sayings,
that the world must go its own way, and she must
go hers; and in this spirit of indifferentism, she
abstained from  inquiring minutely into what was
passing about her; contented with knowing that it
was folly, and therefore beneath her notice. But we
cannot thus cut ourselves off from our fellow-creatures,
the members of one family, especially, cannot do so.
By the inevitable decree of Providence, the sin of one
will be felt in its punishment by the others; and woe
be to us, if, whilst evil is working around us, we
passively fold our hands and close our eyes, and say,
it does not concern us.
There was one fact, however, which gave Maude
great relief —Eleanor Wentworth was gone. She had
left Senilhurst to return to Mr. Johnstone's, the previous day, upon the pretext of fearing to be in the
way when every one was so anxious about Blanche.
Maude smiled to herself at the apparent coldness of
heart which could allow her to go at such a moment;
but she was only too well pleased to be saved from
the annoyance of her presence; and poor Eleanor




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             175
departed with a weight upon her heart, which Maude,
proud and unsympathizing though she was, could
scarcely have forborne to pity, if she had known it.
Lord Rutherford and Maude sat together for
nearly half an hour without speaking or moving.
Then Blanche roused herself and seemed a little refreshed; but it was an effort to her to say anything.
Maude took out her watch and pointed to the hourhand, and observed to Lord Rutherford that it was
dinner-time.
" Is it?" was the answer.
"Yes; I will send Barnes to take our place."
She waited for him to assent, but he did not seem to
hear her, and she could not speak to him  again.
There was something in his face, which repelled
her.  Maude looked round to see that everything
was comfortable; she was a good nurse; continued
ill health had taught her what illness requires;
but perhaps she was a little fidgety; at least Lord
Rutherford seemed to think so, for his eye followed
her impatiently, as she went about the room.
" Then Barnes will come," she ventured to say, as
she was going away.
" I will send- for her when I want her," was his
reply; he followed her to the door, closed it behind
her, and returned to stand by Blanche's bed. Their
eyes met, but his were turned away in an instant;
she was lying uncomfortably, and he raised her, and
placed her pillows right, and smoothed the coverlid,
and moved the lamp; and afterwards poured out her
medicine slowly, lingering over the action, and doing
everything with a curious precision. When it was
all finished, he brought his chair near to sit down, but
that was a great effort, and he could not bear it; and
leaning his head against the side of the bed, he cried.
Barnes looked into the room to know if he was
coming down to dinner.




176        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" No," he answered, at first; but Blanche made
a little movement with her hand, as if begging him
to go. He stooped down and kissed her, and said
he would rather not, he was better with her.
But she whispered, "Please," and her soft eyes
were fixed on him entreatingly; and submissively,
without another word, he went down-stairs.
They were but a small gloomy party in the large
dining-room; Sir Hugh prosed, and Lady Charlton
found fault; and Maude wrapped a shawl round her,
and complained bitterly of the cold; and the solemn
men-servants moved round and round the table, offering dishes which scarcely any one, but Sir Hugh,
tasted. Lord Rutherford ate nothing, though he took
care to place enough on his plate to avoid the notice
of Sir Hugh, who not only made a point of eating
a good dinner himself, but considered it incumbent
on his guests, as a matter of civility, to do the same.
" I am glad to hear your patient is improving,"
he said to Lord Rutherford, as the interval between
the first and second courses allowed him to turn his
attention to something besides fish and soup.  " I
have no doubt myself that it will all come right, and
I have had a good deal of experience in such matters.
The fact is, young people will be imprudent. We
ought to have shut her up the night of the party."
" I urged it," said Lady Charlton, with some
bitterness, " but no one would listen to me. Some
people are destined to be Cassandras."
" Blanche came down stairs because she was told
she might," said Lord Rutherford. The tone made
even Sir Hugh feel that the subject had better be
dropped.  He turned to another part of the same
topic-to introduce a new one was not easy.
He had been trying, he said, to reckon the
numbers of the party exactly; but he was puzzled.
Lady Charlton had forgotten to give him the answers




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             177
to the invitations.  Would Lord Rutherford help
him to recollect?
The earl groaned audibly; and Maude came to his
relief and said, " They might make a list after
dinner."
" We were one gentleman short," said Sir Hugh;
"it was very provoking.  I meant to have had a
secret-a surprise; nothing so pleasant, on these occasions, as a surprise."
Lady Charlton drew  herself up, and her eyes
sparkled; but she managed to say very gently, that
she was not fond of secrets in general, and she supposed this could not be a very important one.
" Why not?-my dear? —why not?-why am I
not to have important secrets; or rather, who has
ever had so many as myself? When the late premier
-he was my great friend-you remember," added Sir
Hugh, appealing to Lord Rutherford; " when the late
premier came "-a dish was placed before Sir Hugh
-and the late premier was deferred for the moment.
" We shall hear from Adelaide to-morrow, I suppose," said Lady Charlton, hoping to get the conversation, if such it could be called, into her own
hands.  "I shall be glad to hear what she is doing
at Oakfield. A first visit is always rather a trial."
" They must make up a very pleasant society at
Oakfield," observed Sir Hugh.  "I don't know any
where a more agreeable, sensible woman, than Mrs.
Cuthbert Grey; and very fine girls her daughters
are. They, and their neighbours the Johnstones, and
Mr. Wentworth" —he paused and looked round him
significantly.
"Miss Wentworth, you mean," said Maude.
"No, my dear, excuse me; I know my own words
-Mr. Wentworth.  Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, Mr. and
Mrs. Johnstone, and Miss and Mr. Wentworth will
form a very agreeable society."




178         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Maude involuntarily glanced at her mother. Lady
Charlton's lips turned very white. She poured out
a glass of water, and drank it quickly. No one spoke
for some moments.
Then Lady Charlton said slowly, " You did not
think it necessary to tell me that Mr. Wentworth was
to be in the neighbourhood."
" No, my dear; no certainly, Frances, my love,"
began Sir Hugh, in a frightened tone, and his eyes
glanced up and down quickly from his plate to his
wife's face.  " A little secret-nothing but a little
secret-every one likes a little secret.  Johnstone
told me the other day, that young Wentworth was
coming, before very long, to fetch his sister home;
and I gave him-that is, I said if he happened-if
he should just chance to arrive before the 29th, he
was to send him over.  A young man is always an
acquisition-always welcome on such occasions. In
fact," and growing bolder as he went on, his tone became rather that of defiance, "in fact, it was my
wish-I thought it a compliment due; old friends
you know, and his sister here, and in fact-in fact;
but he did not come, my dear. So there is no harm
done."
" It is not a matter of much consequence, I suppose," said Lord Rutherford, drily, and not raising
his eyes to see the expression of the different faces.
In that he was very unlike Lady Charlton. She could
see in all directions, one might almost say, at once.
Now, she saw opposite to her the twinkling intelligent eyes of one of the servants; the effect was
that she replied, with an air of nonchalance, "Of
course not.  The coming or going of a young man
like Mr. Wentworth can be of no consequence to
any one."
It was provoking and humiliating to see the footman bite his lips to suppress a smile. Lady Charl



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             179
ton could have found it in her heart to order him
out of the room.
"Hark! there is a ring at the bell," said Lord
Rutherford.   It must be Dr. Lawson come again."
He pushed aside his plate, and, without the thought
of an apology, hurried away.
"It is not Dr. Lawson," observed Maude.  "He
said he should not be here till to-morrow."
"Some parcel or message from Cobham, I suppose," remarked Lady Charlton. "I wonder people
can't find their way to the side entrance."
" I intend to make a fuss about it, my dear," said
Sir Hugh. " It is a great deal too bad-an infringement upon private rights. I shall take some steps
the very first opportunity. You may depend upon
it, my dear, it shall be prevented. Let the Cobham
people know," he added, speaking to the servant,
"that if they continue to come to the hall door, I
will-I will-I vow I will see what can be done to
prevent them."
"It was not from Cobham, Sir Hugh," said the
footman, respectfully, yet with a very meaning curl
of the lip.  "I heard the horse come up the other
road."
Lord Rutherford returned, hurried and  disappointed.  There was no Dr. Lawson, but some
message; he did not know what.  He sat down
again at the table. A silence of expectation followed.
"They are a long time bringing the message,"
said Lady Charlton. "Foster, go and see what is
the reason."
Foster went to the door, and as he opened it received a note, just come, brought from Oakfield.
"From  Oakfield?" said Lady Charlton, a little
anxiously.  "So late! nothing amiss, I hope."
The note was taken to Maude.  It was strange



180         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
generally self-possessed as she was-her hand quite
trembled when she took it up.
"To ask how Blanche is, I suppose," said Lady
Charlton.  "I dare say they were anxious, and did
not like to wait till to-morrow."
The seal was broken.  Lady Charlton looked at
the envelope. The feelings of a mother, usually so
dormant within her, were awakened by a vague
foreboding.   "That idle child; how  badly she
writes! What does she say of herself, Maude?"
Maude looked up wildly.
"What -does she say of herself, Maude?  What
is it?"
Still no answer.
Lady Charlton caught the note from her daughter's
hand.
Maude started. "Mamma,pray wait one moment."
It was too late. Lady Charlton's eye had fallen
upon the signature-Adelaide Wentworth, and she
sank back almost unconscious.
Maude tossed the note to Sir Hugh, motioned the
servants from the room, and turning to Lord Rutherford, said, as she went to her mother's assistance,
"She is married!  She is Adelaide Wentworth!
God forgive her!"
Sir Hugh held the note in his hand, vainly trying
to read it. " Adelaide what, my dear? Adelaide who?
What is the matter? What has happened?"
"Let me go to him," said Maude to Lord
Rutherford, giving a glass of water into his hand.
" Mamma will be better in a minute. It is a note
from Adelaide, sir," she said, speaking to Sir Hugh;
"she has been doing extremely wrong.  She ought
to be ashamed of herself."
"But what has she been doing?  What does
she mean?  Why does she call herself Adelaide
Wentworth?  Read the note: let me hear it."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             181
"It is very short, and I can't make it all out,"
replied Maude, muttering to herself.  "She thinks
I shall help her. Intense, unutterable folly! The
note is not worth reading," she said aloud; "but
she is married, sir-that is what it is; married to
Mr. Wentworth.  She is Mrs. Wentworth."
Sir Hugh caught up the note again, raised himself with difficulty from  his chair, drew the lamp
towards him, and began stumbling through it:"My dear Maude,-I write in immense haste.
You will be shocked, of course; but there was nothing else to be done, and no good in delay. You
will break it to mamma. Papa, I hope and believe,
will feel with me. You must try and understand this,
for we trust to you to help us.  We were married
this morning, and are just starting for London.
Make mamma forgive me, or I shall be miserable.
"Yours affectionately,
"ADELAIDE WENTWORTH."
Sir Hugh threw the note from him, with a fearful exclamation of anger.  "Feel with them!  I
feel with them! Runaways! outcasts! Young Wentworth! Scoundrel! They shall never darken these
doors-never!  They shall never have a farthing
from me. Write to them, Maude, and tell them, I
feel with them, indeed!  I vow your mother was
right. Impudent scamp! my son-in-law! marry my
daughter! marry into our family! and that woman!
that Mrs. Cuthbert Grey! "
Maude had returned to her mother, who was slowly
recovering; but as she heard the last words, she
picked up the note from the floor, and showing the
postscript, said, "Mrs. Cuthbert Grey is not to
blame; that is her writing.'I cannot attempt to
comfort or excuse now; only believe that it was enVOL. II.             R




182         THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
tirely without my knowledge.-A. G.'  I believe
that," continued Maude, speaking to Lord Rutherford.  "For example's sake she would have been
ashamed; but some one must have known it."
"The pleasant details will come to-morrow," replied the earl. "It is a perfect mystery to me; I
can't believe it!"
" Poor mamma can't believe it either," said Maude,
as Lady Charlton opened her eyes, and looked round
her inquiringly.
Sir Hugh managed to hobble to the other side of
the table.  "Take her to bed," he said, almost tenderly.  "There is no place like bed; let her go to
sleep. Poor thing! poor thing! It is a horrid blow
-most unexpected.  Ring for some one, Maude, to
help her up-stairs;" adding, as he bent down and
actually kissed her, "we will talk of it to-morrow,
my dear; but you had better go to bed. I shall write
to them, and tell them they need not expect anything from me."
"Yes; my own room. Let me go, Maude," said
Lady Charlton, faintly; and, whilst the bitterness of
returning recollection rushed upon her as a flood, yet
striving to keep up a proud composure.  "Only let
me never hear her name again; she has disgraced
it."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             183
CHAPTER XX.
A SAD and trying week went by at Senilhurst. Every
one knows that the first moment of a great shock is not
the worst; and the blow inflicted by Adelaide Charlton's marriage was no exception to the rule. It was
not indeed one of those events which could be justly
called a misfortune, by persons who regarded it in a
worldly point of view.  Mr. Wentworth was a gentleman by birth and education, and if he had no
money himself, Sir Hugh was quite rich enough to
assist him. He was also a person of unstained reputation, and, except in this one act of his marriage, of
supposed high principle. Adelaide might undoubtedly
have done worse.  After all her levity and flirting,
she might consider herself fortunate in not having
been led into a much more undesirable engagement.
This was what the world said; and in consequence, it
gave Lady Charlton but a small portion of commiseration.  But Lady Charlton herself did not view the
subject in the same light. Her pride was wounded;
and not in one point only. Family and fortune were
inestimable advantages in the eyes of the world, and
for them she would have sacrificed her daughter's
happiness, and thought she was but consulting her
best interests.  But character, propriety-that indescribable delicacy and dignity which act as a
shield from public remark-were scarcely less precious, because they were valued by those whose good
opinion she was always seeking —the wise and good.
It was their censure which Lady Charlton had
dreaded when Adelaide flirted, and it was their cen



184         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
sure which she feared now.  A daughter's fault
must in a measure recoil upon the mother who has
had the charge of her education; and bitterly now did
she repent the carelessness and blindness which had
induced her to bring Adelaide very early into society,
and give her almost unchecked freedom of thought
and action. But it was for herself that Lady Charlton repented, not for her daughter.  It was for the
loss of her own position-her character as an excellent adviser, and a sensible guardian and friend.  No
one would henceforth appeal to her as a person whose
cleverness, and judgment, and experience, gave value
to her opinion upon education.  One who had evidently made some great mistake in the training of her
own child could not be competent to counsel others.
Lady Charlton felt lowered. That is a feeling hard
to bear-insupportable, except when we can carry it
in humility to our Maker, and own it as our just
meed and punishment.  Lady Charlton could not do
this. She struggled against it, and resolved to conquer it.  No one should say that deception and
imprudence, and the absence of womanly dignity,
were sanctioned by Lady Charlton.  As Adelaide's
conduct was the subject of general remark, so also
should be her mother's displeasure.  Mr. and Mrs.
Charles Wentworth might go their own way, and follow their own course; but they should not be admitted at Senilhurst.  And Lady Charlton, as she
made the determination, smiled scornfully, in the
conscious stateliness of virtuous indignation.
The worst was over then; since, for once, almost
the first time since their marriage, Sir Hugh and
herself were agreed.
Both Adelaide and Charles had made a great mistake in supposing that Sir Hugh would support their
cause against all opposition, if once they were married.  Sir Hugh was a vain man; vain persons will




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.             185
do anything to assist those who choose to consult
and flatter them, but they will almost infallibly turn
against those who choose to act without them. Sir
Hugh's vanity was as much piqued by Mr. Wentworth's neglect, as Lady Charlton's pride was by
Adelaide's imprudence, and the mortification found
its solace in the same revenge.
A short note was sent to Adelaide, telling her
that since she had chosen a companion for life, for
herself, she must, for the future, look to him, and to
him alone; as her parents did not feel it consistent
with their sense of right to sanction her conduct by
receiving her at Senilhurst; and then, Sir Hugh and
Lady Charlton felt themselves at liberty to announce their sentiments publicly, and hold themselves up to admiration, as martyrs to the cause of
filial obedience and propriety.
All this appeared very inconsistent to Maude;
and was of very little consequence to Lord Rutherford.  In the eyes of Maude, Adelaide's foolish
marriage was but the natural end of her previous
foolish conduct. After the first moment, she almost
wondered at herself for being startled at it.  It was
extremely wrong; disobedient and selfish; but, to
her own knowledge, Adelaide had never been taught
to be anything else. Her principles were the principles of the world; and Maude, keen-sighted and
cool-judging, had long since discovered that it was in
these they had both been nurtured from infancy.
Lady Charlton might talk, and seemingly act religiously; she might praise daily services, give money
to build churches, teach in parish schools, cultivate
the acquaintance of men distinguished for learning
and piety; but the stamp of the world was upon all.
Lady Charlton liked popularity; Adelaide liked
admiration.  Lady Charlton talked gravely, and believed she should be thought serious-minded; and




186          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Adelaide laughed and chattered, and supposed she
should be considered clever.  Lady Charlton put a
cross upon her prayer-book, because  it was the
fashion; Adelaide put an ornament upon her dress
from  the same motive.  Lady Charlton went to
church; Adelaide went to balls.  Lady Charlton
liked the occupation, and the attendant excitements,
and the food for conversation, and the consciousness
of being noticed; Adelaide liked the same.
Where was the difference between them?  Maude
could not see it. She thought her mother harsh, and
she said so; and, in return, received a lecture upon
female decorum, which, to a person whose offences
were entirely on the side of stiffness, coldness, and
fastidious reserve, became almost an absurdity.
A  gulf, wider than ever, was opened between
Maude and her parents; and, unhappily, the subject
of difference could not be avoided. It was brought
forward daily, by letters, visits, and suggestions, and
all that marvellous want of taste which neighbours
and acquaintances so often show in their strained
efforts to be sympathetic.
"The pleasant details of the marriage," as Lord
Rutherford had termed them, came in due time;
certainly exculpating Mrs. Cuthbert Grey from  any
share in the plan, but throwing great blame upon
one of her daughters.  It was Miss Caroline Grey,
who had entered into the scheme, and furthered it;
and had actually been present at the marriage. Of
course her mother was duly shocked and distressed;
but no regret could undo the past.  The intimacy
between the two families must inevitably be stopped
for the future; and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey's excuses
and apologies were received and dismissed coldly, and
with an openly avowed satisfaction on the part of
Lady Charlton, as she spoke to Maude of the obstacle
which would, in consequence, be interposed to the




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             187
designs upon Lord Erlsmere, with whom Mrs. Cuthbert Grey had no acquaintance except through their
meetings at Senilhurst.
Maude could not enter into such feelings; they
were, to her, petty and unbecoming.  She did not
look at them deeply, as a person of high religious
principle would have done; but she was disgusted.
She longed to bury the subject for ever in oblivion.
She heard that it was proposed for Mr. Wentworth,
if possible, to enter the army, and she hoped he
might be ordered abroad.  That was what, in her
heart, she most desired. Anything to remove them
from her mother's thoughts; to prevent the constant,
exasperating recurrence to the same unhappy topic.
As regarded Adelaide, they had never been sisters
in more than name; and Maude could not feign a
regret at her loss, which she had no reason to feel.
Yet Senilhurst was very changed.  Something
was gone from it; not money, not rank, not any
external advantage: but the life, the spring and
motive of excitement, were absent.  Adelaide had
been an excuse for visits, parties, amusements; and
though Maude professed not to like these things,
she had been so long accustomed to them that she did
not know how to do without them. She looked hopelessly round for some object, something to do or to
care for, or at least to think of. Accomplishments
and study were left her, and Maude had once boasted
that with these she could never find existence wearisome. But they were not sufficient now.  There
was nothing soothing and satisfying in them. She
might read, but to what purpose?-she might study,
but where was the benefit, if reading and thought
did but send her forth on a journey of intricate
speculations, and distracting difficulties?  Maude
leaned upon her own mind, and it failed her.
That was the state of the outward world at Senilhurst, sharp, irritated, and gloomy.  There was ano



188         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
ther, an interior world, which none saw, save those
who watched in the sick room, where day by day, and
hour by hour, the changes and flickerings of disease
brought hope or despair to the heart of the Earl of
Rutherford. There is, perhaps, no self-deception so
universal as that which is discovered in our anxiety
for those we love.  If Lord Rutherford's case had
been another's he would have been the first to discover all that he had to fear. But he was a father,
watching over his only child, and who shall blame
him, if as he saw Blanche partially regaining her
strength, able to eat, able to be moved, able occasionally to converse, he flattered himself with the
belief, that the illness was like many other illnesses,
dangerous for a time, and requiring care; but giving
no definite reason to doubt that she would, when the
winter was over, regain her former health.
"Your cough is better, my love, to-day," he said,
as he came to see Blanche when she was dressed, and
sitting up for a few hours in her own room. " Barnes
tells me that it has not been half as frequent as it
was."'
"I have scarcely coughed at all this morning,"
replied Blanche; "and I was only really disturbed
by it once in the night; and then I think it was because the wind changed."
"But you have not eaten anything," said the earl,
observing her untasted dinner placed on a tray near
her.
"I have no fancy for anything just now.  This
being kept to one room takes away one's appetite;
but I shall be better when I go out."
"Yes, of course.  We must get you out the very
first day we can, and then you will improve rapidly."
"Were  there  any  letters  to-day?"  inquired
Blanche, wishing to change the subject.
"One or two from Rutherford upon business."
"But any for me?"




rHE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             189
Lord Rutherford hesitated a little.  "Yes-nothere may have been. But, my love, if there should
be, you know we agreed that you were not to trouble
yourself about them."
" But I should like it, if I might. It would be an
amusement to me," she was going to say, but she
stopped;-the dread of something unpleasant which
the post might bring came over her. She had been
so ill, —utterly weak and helpless, that she had
scarcely remembered anything till within the last few
days; and even now, when she could try to recollect,
it was difficult to bring her anxieties into a definite
form.  The last hour of excitement on the ball-night
had left only indistinct memories of lights, and music,
and crowds of people, and of an under-current of great
physical and mental suffering to herself, and there
was no one whom she could ask to make it clearer for
her. Eleanor, she knew was gone, and there had
been no letter from her; only inquiries for herself
through the Johnstones.  And there was also a rumour that Eleanor had returned to Rutherford; but
how, or when, or why, no one would say.  She was
always entreated not to talk, and warned that her
ultimate recovery depended upon her being kept perfectly quiet, but they who said this little thought
how much worry of mind they were causing. "I am
really much better to-day, dear papa," she continued,
looking up at him with a smile, which it was almost
impossible to resist; "and I should very much like
to have my letters, if there are any.  Did you say
there were?"
"I think and I believe there may be.  But, my
love, I should be pleased if you would wait. I am
sure it would be better, unless you were anxious-there
is nothing you care particularly to hear of, is there?"
"I have been wishing very much to hear from
Eleanor. If there was a letter from her I should be




190         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
glad to have it." Her cheek flushed a little as she
spoke; and the earl looked at her uneasily, and remarked that even the thought of the letters had done
her harm, and he was sure she was much better without them.  Blanche tried very hard to acquiesce
willingly. She said if he wished it, she would not
ask; she would wait till the next day: but a tear
glistened in her eye, though she was ashamed of
being so childishly weak. Lord Rutherford offered
to read.  He had not read the Psalms for.the day to
her; and he did so regularly now. It came quite as
part of his duty as her nurse; and he was beginning
to look forward to it as something quieting and refreshing. Blanche thanked him, and said she should
like it very much, and he went to another table to
fetch the Prayer-book, which had been moved away
when the dinner was brought. Blanche wiped away
her tears hastily, that he might not see it; but he
turned round at the instant, and that peculiar look of
sorrowful eagerness came over his face, which was
always to be seen when Blanche was disappointed.
He put down the Prayer-book, and came up to her
instantly, and said, had she really any wish or fancy
about the letters? he would fetch them  for her
directly if she had.
" Only for Eleanor's! " repeated Blanche.  "I was
very anxious to hear from her."
Lord Rutherford thought for a moment, and then
he replied, "There is a letter from her, but I am
afraid it might be worse for you than any others, because it would be so likely to excite you."
"I am more likely to be excited without it," said
Blanche, "because I lie here and think so."
Again Lord Rutherford pondered for a moment,
and Blanche watched his face, and read it; and
laying her hand upon his arm, said, " Papa, you have
something to tell me."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             191
"Not about Miss Wentworth exactly-only about
her brother and ""Adelaide," said Blanche hurriedly, and at the
moment a veil seemed to be taken from the past, and
it stood out clearly to view.
"You guess then," continued the earl, and a smile
involuntarily began to play upon his lips; but it
changed as he saw the expression of Blanche's face:
it was that of extreme distress; and closing her eyes as
if to shut oqpt some painful vision, she sank back upon
her pillow, and exclaimed, "Then it is over! Shall
I ever be forgiven!"
A sudden thought, startling, unendurable, crossed
the earl's mind; he repelled it, and sitting down by
Blanche, said, " Will they be forgiven, you mean. I
hope it may all turn out better than we expect; but it
is a sad business." Blanche still kept her eyes closed;
she was repeating something to herself; the anguish
of her countenance was inexplicable: could it be
that she was involved in such a secret?  With her
delicacy, simplicity, and refinement, was it possible
that she could have been a party to the intended
marriage?  The earl shrank from the suggestion as
if a serpent had stung him; but in a moment a flood
of corroborative circumstances rushed upon him. At
another time he would have been the first to consider
prudence; but this suspicion, this possible taint upon
the object of his idolizing affection, goaded him
beyond endurance, and he exclaimed, "You did not
know it?  Blanche, my child, you could not have
had anything to do with it?"  For the first time
since they had been together his tone was severe.
It fell with a painful shock upon poor Blanche,
uprooting her unconscious trust in her own power
over him.  " I did not mean to do wrong.  I acted
for the best," she said, meekly.  " Please do not be
angry with me;" and at the mention of anger Lord




192        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Rutherford started, as if he had been accused of some
grievous crime, and the love which even when it lay
dormant in his breast was the moving spring of his
daily life, came back with a torrent of bitterness to
reproach him.  He told her that she was his hope,
his treasure; the one only joy of his life; that it
would be a sin to doubt her; and Blanche listened
in fear, and prayed that the love which was fixed
upon her, might in mercy find a surer resting-place,
and then humbly asked if she might tell him all that
she had done.
It was a tale soon repeated, soon understood, and
Blanche was happy when she heard her father's
whispered blessings; but she did not discover how
much cause he had for thankfulness himself.  She
did not remember the load which must be taken from
his heart by the knowledge of the cause of her depression; and she did not perceive the reverence
which her firmness and consistency of character inspired. Lord Rutherford thought little of religion
himself, but he could now appreciate it as a principle
in others; and with Blanche he would have shrunk
from the careless bestowal of his patronage, as from
an injustice against a charge entrusted to him.
Silence followed: the peaceful silence of hearts
which are one in affection and confidence. "Blanche,"
said the earl at length, " it was excitement which made
you so ill. Your aunt says you ought not to have
come down-stairs, the night of the ball."
Blanche looked up at him and smiled. "Ought I
not? but you like to see me cheerful."
She meant nothing particular; but he repeated
the last word quickly.  "Cheerful! who told you I
thought about it?"
" Your voice, your manner." She hesitated; they
were treading upon dangerous ground.
"When? the day that I gave away the living?"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             193
"Every day, and always," and involuntarily there
was an accent of sadness in Blanche's tone. Another
pause came, not happy and peaceful as the former.
"Blanche," said the earl, again, gravely, "you
must not try to read my thoughts."
Blanche tried to smile as she kissed him, and
answered, half reproachfully, "How can I help it,
when you have given me the key to interpret them?"
Alas! for the transitory nature of earthly peace.
Those few sentences had re-awakened the bitterness
of the earl's remorse and anxiety. It was he then
who had caused her illness; he, who by the very intensity of his solicitude for her happiness, had compelled her to an exertion which might be fatal.
The curse he had so long dreaded had fallen upon
him, though in another form, at last.
VOL. II.             S




194         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XXI.
IT was the bright spring time at Rutherford Parsonage.  The smooth, neatly trimmed lawn, the
flower-bed gay with anemones, auriculas, and polyanthuses-the first fresh green buds upon the trees,
were all telling of the genial inspiriting influence of
a morning in May.  In a light hand-carriage, which
had been drawn into one of the most sunny walks,
reclined a lady, whose grey hair, sunken, worn cheeks,
dim eyes, and wrinkled brow, would at a distance
have given the idea of much greater age than could
be traced on a nearer approach. Her features were
good-once they might have been handsome, for
their outline was very striking; but there was a
strange, stony, impassive look in the eyes, which
gave in general a cold, even vacant look to the
countenance.  Only, at times, a flash, as of some
returning brightness, some gleam from past memories,
flitted over it; and then, for an instant, it was
beautiful with intellect; but the gleam gone, and
the set features returned to their former listless
gravity, and the helpless hands, and the querulous
voice, seemed but the fit accompaniments of an age
of disease and dreariness.
" It is pleasant to-day, dear mamma," said Eleanor Wentworth, bending over her mother's chair:
"don't you see how forward the flowers are?"
Mrs. Wentworth looked round for a moment, and
said, "Go on, into the shade."
"But this is the warmest spot, mamma," continued Eleanor; "and you know we are expecting




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             195
Blanche, and she must not go into the shade. You
will like her to come and see you; wont you?"
Mrs. Wentworth looked up quickly and said,
"Yes, we must make her happy, for he doesn't
treat her at all well. It is very sad. Tell your
father I want to see him."
"Papa will come presently," said Eleanor, her
lip quivering; "but we will go on, dear mamma, if
you like it, into the shade."
" Yes, that will be best; go on;" and they
went on.
Dr. Wentworth was standing at his study window.
He perceived them  and came to them.  "It is
pleasant to see you out to-day, my love," he said,
addressing his wife.  "You are all the better for it,
I am sure."  Unconsciously his tone was that of a
father speaking to a child; and there was something of a child's simple trusting love in Mrs. Wentworth's way of putting her hand into his, and
telling him to keep close to her, and not to let them
go too fast.
Eleanor left her mother's side, and came round to
her father. " Are the letters come?" she asked, in a
very low voice; but, low though it was, it reached
Mrs. Wentworth's ear.
"Letters?" she repeated; "give them  to me;
we must answer them.  We have a great deal to do.
We had better go in and answer them.  Tell Jones
to stop."
"Yes, presently, dear mamma; presently, my
love," said Eleanor and Dr. Wentworth, in one
breath.  "We will go in presently."
"But," continued Dr. Wentworth; slipping a
packet of letters into Eleanor's hand, "I should like
you just to be drawn round the orchard once; and
Eleanor can go and fetch my hat."  Mrs. Wentworth sank back again in her chair, and Eleanor,




196         THIE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
carefully concealing the letters, went into the house.
Nearly ten minutes elapsed before she returned, and
then her eyes were red with crying; but she kept
her face steadily averted from her father, until her
mother's attention was occupied by what she thought
was a new shrub. Then, as they stopped to examine
it, Eleanor walked on a few paces with Dr. Wentworth, and said: " He must not see her; I am afraid.
It would do her great harm!"
Dr. Wentworth tore off a twig from a tree, and
casting it from him, replied, " Let him go. I had
only one wish in his seeing her."
" It would break his heart," said Eleanor.
"It might sober him for life," replied her father.
"He will not come without Adelaide," said
Eleanor, taking advantage of a narrow part of the
walk still to walk a little before the carriage, and
side by side with her father.
"Then he will not come at all," was the bitter
reply.  "Your poor mother shall never, with my
consent, be harassed by the sight of her."
" Eleanor," called out Mrs. Wentworth, in a shrill,
plaintive voice, "I wish you would inquire about the
letters. There wont be any. time to answer them,
and you know I must go up to the castle this afternoon.  She is not so well, you said.  I promised
I would go."
"Lady Blanche is coming here, dear mamma,"
said Eleanor, with a particular stress upon the name.
" You know she has had a bad cough, and is very ill;
and she is coming to wish you good b'ye before Lord
Rutherford takes her to the sea-side for change of
air,"
"Ah! yes, I forgot," and Mrs. Wentworth looked
at her husband wonderingly.  "I don't know how
it is I forget so. I know they told me she had been
ill.  She has been so a long time, has not she?"




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            197
"All the winter,"  answered  Dr. Wentworth.
"She broke a blood-vessel when she was at -" a
rapid, cautionary glance from Eleanor stopped him,
and he finished the sentence, "when  she was
away."
"And they did not think she would live then,"
continued Eleanor, not allowing a moment's time for
a question; "but she was better after a time, and
they brought her to the castle; now she is going
away for change again."
"A long change," said Dr. Wentworth, gravely.
" It is a cruel thing in those doctors. Poor child!
why not let her die at home?"
Eleanor was silent, but she drew back from her
mother's chair, and walked for some paces alone.
" One more turn, my dear, round the orchard,"
said Dr. Wentworth, arranging his wife's cushions,
and giving a sign to the gardener to go on. Then
he rejoined Eleanor.  "I shall write to Charles by
to-day's post: you may write too, if you will. I
don't want him to feel himself cut off; but he must
not come here."
" It seems very hard," said Eleanor.
"Hard!" and Dr. Wentworth paused, impatiently,
in his walk.  "Look at her; —look at your poor
mother; and then say who has been treated hardly?"
"Yes," said Eleanor, speaking in a low, crushed
voice; "but she would be the first to forgive, if she
could."
"And I forgive, too,"  said Dr. Wentworth,
solemnly.  "God forbid that I should not; even as
I hope to be forgiven myself. It is not from anger
that I say he must not come.  If he were alone
I might risk it; but if he insists upon bringing
that  "
" Papa, dear papa," said Eleanor, entreatingly.
"You are right; you are right, replied Dr. Wents2




198         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
worth; "we must be charitable.  If she were sorrowful-if she could feel what she has done-I could
be so easily. But she is a flirt; a cold, heartless
flirt;" he repeated. " She was so before she married;
she is so still."
"Yes, that is the worst of all," said Eleanor,
with a heavy sigh; "and one cannot help pitying
Charles all the more."
"A  soldier in a foreign land," continued Dr.
Wentworth, "with a wife whom  he must despise;
feeling himself scorned by her family, and having
utterly shipwrecked the happiness of his own; he
may well be wretched."
" He is very wretched -- very miserable," said
Eleanor.
" But what could he expect better?" pursued Dr.
Wentworth.  "What has any man a right to expect
when he trusts his happiness to a woman who could
behave like Adelaide Charlton?"
"People may do worse things than Adelaide has
done," said  Eleanor, sorrowfully, "and  not be
blamed half as much."
Dr. Wentworth looked at Eleanor kindly, for he
understood her.  " My poor child! " he said, and as
he put up his hand to wipe away a tear, he added,
"I can take infinite blame to myself.  I was too
secure, too certain that all was right. I allowed him
to have his own way, and I shut my eyes to his
faults. Your poor mother was the only person who
saw him  truly.  But one thing I can be thankful
for-that he was saved from  entering holy orders.
To have induced him to be a clergyman, and then to
have discovered his unfitness, would have been a
misery to me for life."
Mrs. Wentworth's voice was just then heard, in a
querulous accent.  She was wondering where they
were gone; why they did not come and walk by her




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             199
side; and, as they hastened to her, she burst into
tears, and said it was a miserable day; every one
neglected her.
Eleanor pinned her shawl comfortably, and settled
her cushion again, and as the sound of carriagewheels, and of a bell, were heard at the entrance, exclaimed, "Hark! there is Blanche. Dear mamma,
you will like to see her for one minute."
"I don't know-1 don't want to see any one.
Why do they bring her down here?  Isn't she very
ill?" said Mrs. Wentworth, her eyes moving rapidly
from side to side; and then, in a startled voice, she
added, " Does he come with her?"
"Blanche will come alone, if you like it," said
Eleanor; and going round to her father, who was walking a little behind, she whispered, " You must keep
Lord Rutherford.  Blanche will only stay a very few
minutes, dear mamma;" she added, returning to her
mother, and trying to occupy her attention whilst
Dr. Wentworth went to receive the earl.  " You
know she is scarcely allowed to stand still at all out
of doors; and she is so very soon tired."
"Yes,-yes, I know," replied Mrs. Wentworth,
and murmuring to herself, she added, "she is going;
it is all best; there is no care there."
The  garden  gate  opened, and  closed  again.
Eleanor looked round.
" Are they coming?" said Mrs. Wentworth, growing excited.  " Make me look neat, Eleanor; you
didn't dress me properly.  The earl always makes
remarks."
Eleanor bent down her head, and busied herself
with her mother. It might have been that she could
not bear to watch the feeble footsteps with which
Blanche, supported by her father, moved slowly along
the walk. Dr. Wentworth and Maude Charlton were




200         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
behind her; but as they drew near to Mrs. Wentworth, the earl stopped and gave up his place to
Maude.
" Blanche, Blanche!" repeated Mrs. Wentworth,
with an effort at thought. " Is she like her mother?"
Eleanor made no answer; for Blanche was standing
by her.  One silent kiss she imprinted on her forehead, and then leading her round to the front of Mrs.
Wentworth's chair, she said, " Mamma, it is Lady
Blanche Evelyn, come to wish you good b'ye."
Mrs. Wentworth looked up with an unmeaning
start of surprise, and as her eye caught the pale
brow, and  dark, glittering, sunken eye, and the
hollow cheek-which were all that could be seen of
Blanche's sweet face-a smile of pleasure lit up her
own features, and she said hurriedly, "I was coming
to you to-day. Will he be out, and shall we have an
hour to ourselves?" Dimness gathered over Blanche's
eyes, and her voice was choked.
" It will not do," said Eleanor; "but I thought
when she saw you it might be different."
" Will you not know me?-will you not wish me
a safe journey?  Dear Mrs. Wentworth, I am
Blanche Evelyn;" and Blanche bent down that her
face might be more clearly recognised. Mrs. Wentworth caught her hand, and looked at her sternly and
fixedly.
" Yes," she said; " yes, I know you. You are
going."
" Going where we shall meet again, I trust," said
Blanche, calmly.
A gleam of intelligence brightened the vacant face.
Mrs. Wentworth smiled, and raising the hand of
which she still retained the use, to Blanche's head,
she gently stroked her forehead, as a mother might
that of a petted child; and said, " God bless and




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             201
keep you, my dear, and bring you back better.  And
Eleanor," she added, firmly, " give her her mother's
picture-she will like it."
It was the utmost effort of remaining intellect.
Mrs. Wentworth's hand dropped, and her head sank
back; and when Blanche gave one parting kiss, a
wondering stare was all that met her gaze.




202         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XXII.
GLORIOUSLY beautiful was the splendour of the
setting sun, as it slowly sank to rest that evening
behind the steep hills which closed the ravine at the
foot of Rutherford Castle. Far over hill and valley
streamed the flood of its golden rays; and the rugged mountains in the distance were wrapped in a
veil of glittering mist, whilst their peaks caught and
transmitted from point to point, the light which they
gathered from the glowing skies. And nearer, where
the radiant colouring of the higher hills had melted
into the purple shadow of rock and wood, there still
gleamed a faint path of light upon the deep-flowing
stream, winding its way ever and onwards, without
pause or rest, like the course of that awful river of
Time which, lit by the reflection of Heaven, is carrying us all to Eternity.
The Earl of Rutherford walked alone on the
terrace of the castle. Alone! that word suffices to
tell the tale of his misery. What matter to him,
that the gorgeous sun-set illuminated a princely domain which owned him for its lord?  What matter
that, as far as the eye could reach in hamlets, and
villages, and towns, and the remote recesses of the
distant hills, wherever his name was heard, men bent
before it with respect, and envied him his greatness and
his power?-he was alone; and Blanche was dying.
It is long before we allow the meaning of that
word to force itself upon our minds. It had been
long before Lord Rutherford would own to himself
the realization of the fear which haunted him from




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.             203
the first moment of his child's illness. But it was
all clear now-all true and vivid. There was death
written in the hectic colour of her hollow cheek-in
the glassy brightness of her dark eye-in the burning touch of her long fingers; and the quick, short
cough which came but for a moment to leave behind
it the echo of a funeral knell.
Blanche was dying.  She might linger-she had
lingered-from day to day, from week to week-no
great change marking the progress of disease; sometimes apparently better, able to work and read-sometimes exhausted and feverish; no one day exactly like,
or widely differing from, the other. But the end was
certain. It was in vain that physicians gave flattering hopes, and friends related wonderful recoveries.
There was one fact to which no one who watched
Blanche constantly could be blind-she did not
improve,  Every week something was taken from
her strength; every week something was given up
which she had before been able to enjoy. The incipient disease, which might have been warded off at
first by care, had received a fatal impulse on the
night of the Senilhurst ball; and the changes,
though imperceptible at the moment, were nevertheless very rapid.
For a time Lord Rutherford had flattered himself
that the weather was in fault. When snow lay upon
the ground, in the month of January, he looked forward to the spring for her recovery; and when the
spring came, and the east winds blew keenly, he said
that they could expect no real amendment till the
summer.  A warm summer in England and a winter
abroad would quite set her up.  But summer approached, and the weather was unusually favourable;
and still, though Blanche might rally for a few days,
there was no real progress: and then the earl looked
more careworn, and said less; only he thought she




204         THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
would be better at Rutherford, and to Rutherford
they prepared to go.
That at least was a satisfaction to Blanche. She
pined for home, with an indefinable, eager longing.
She did not say to herself that she should be well
there; perhaps she did not in her heart think so:
but in her sad moments-the hour of weakness, both
of body and mind-which are the greatest trial of
such diseases, she fancied that it might at least bring
her a respite.
The air of Rutherford, the lovely views, the
peculiar comforts of her own rooms, the interests
which were to be found in the village, and, above all,
the hope of seeing Eleanor, and returning to the
friendship, which, though interrupted, had never
been lost-all gave a charm  to the prospect of
return.  If she could be at Rutherford again, she
felt that she might live; and the thought sent a
bounding thrill through her veins. For life is very
pleasant to the young, and Blanche had just tasted
of its enjoyments.
Then came the departure from  Senilhurst-the
hurry of preparation-the unavoidable excitementthe last thoughts, and last farewells. Blanche could
not escape them. She was sorrowful and depressed,
without apparently sufficient cause; and they told
her it was weakness-that she would be a different
person at Rutherford, and would return again to
Senilhurst quite well: and she smiled and said, she
would not call it a real good b'ye,-she did hope to
come again very soon; and she had left a box and
some books to be kept for her.  She begged her
aunt would write to her, and say how she managed
without Maude.  It was so very, very kind to spare
Maude.  It would be such a comfort till she was
better; but she would not keep her a day longer
than was necessary.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             205
And Lady Charlton struggled against her rising
tears, and kissed her tenderly; and Sir Hugh waved
his hand, as she was assisted down the steps-and
she was gone.
It was two days' journey from Senilhurst to Rutherford; when they had travelled before it was but one.
Then Blanche was able to enjoy the novelty of the
road, and to look forward with expectation, and hopes
of pleasure: now she was laid on cushions, too tired
to speak or think. When they had left Rutherford,
she had bounded down the staircase, eager to be
useful and kind to every one: now she was lifted
in her father's arms, and carried to her own apartments, fainting.
That night, the night of their arrival at home, the
earl first felt that she would die. And that night,
also, as Blanche laid her head upon her pillow, she
prayed that she might be taught to die.  Nearly
a month had passed since, and another change had
been proposed.  The air of Rutherford was thought
too keen; and a removal to the sea-coast was considered desirable. It was the advice of a first-rate
London physician: the earl and Blanche acquiesced
without a word of objection; but when the physician
was gone, they looked at each other and said, " He
may be right: it is of little consequence, so that
we are together."  That was their one thoughtthat they might be together —that the earl might sit
by her, and raise her when she wished for change
of posture, and bathe her forehead when she was
exhausted, and read to her when she was able to
listen, and mark the hours for her daily drives-her
food-her medicine; and that Blanche might thank
him in whispers, and smoothe his hair, and press
his hand, and lift her eyes to his, with a smile on
her pale lips, and a prayer of unutterable thankfulVOL. II.             T




206         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
ness in her inmost heart, for the mercy which in
leading her to death, was leading her father to
heaven.
Lord Rutherford was said to be determined in his
opinions, rigid in his self-formed principles, proud of
his influence, and exacting in his demands upon the
submission even of his equals. He might have been,
he was all this and much more: haughty, indifferent,
unsympathising, selfish; as that man must be who
has reached the middle of life without contradiction or
self-examination: but he was honest-minded. Whatever were the errors of his practice or his belief, he
was no self-deceiver: and from the fatal moment
when he stood by the inanimate body of his wife,
and felt the conviction that he had been the murderer
of her peace, if not of her life, he had carried with
him a goading thought of self-reproach to shield him,
as by a secret spell, from the intoxication of earthly
splendour.  He had lived with Blanche now for
months only; to him they seemed years,-since he
could not realize what life had been without her; and
in that time, secretly, and without word, or argument,
or entreaty, new principles and motives of conduct
had been gradually stealing into his heart.  He
scarcely knew it himself; he did not understand
the power which influenced him; and, when he
thought of it at all, he supposed that it was a father's
natural affection for a child like Blanche; and so at
first it was. When Lord Rutherford began to read
to Blanche and talk about things which interested
her, and take trouble for the poor, he did it merely
because it was her fancy, and it gave him pleasure to
listen to her remarks, and hear her thanks; he did
not care for the subjects in themselves; and satisfaction like this was very unreal, and to a person less true
might have been very deceptive. But Lord Rutherford was too clear-sighted to believe that he resembled




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              207
Blanche, or was actuated by her motives, because
he was beginning to approve what she approved.
He would even have been annoyed if such a thought
had been suggested: for he was proud and selfconfident, and Blanche was to him only "as a very
lovely song of one that hath a pleasant voice,"
exquisite to the senses, but not reaching the heart.
But they were to part.  The decree had gone
forth, to all human knowledge absolute and irreversible.  She was to be taken from him; it might be
in a few weeks, it might be in a few months, it could
scarcely be-in a year. And whither was she going?
Lord Rutherford had no doubt in his reply. When
the thought first came, as he looked at his angelchild, when she had fallen asleep whilst he was
reading to her, her fingers clasped in the earnestness
of the prayer with which she had followed his words,
and the brightness of heaven's peace resting upon
her fair young face, he knew that she was safe. The
voice of a messenger from above could scarcely have
increased his confidence. And he said to himself then,
and many times afterwards, that she was too good
for this world. He said it to Dr. Wentworth when
he came to see her; he wrote it to Lady Charlton,
and he fancied that it gave him  comfort.  But did
it do so?
In the anguish of the long nights, as he lay awake
listening for every sound, conjuring up visions of
dread, and knowing that the very worst which might
be sent to startle him could only be the anticipation of an inevitable certainty-his past life rose up
before him.  The carelessness of his boyhood-the
open irreligion of his manhood-the cold hardness
and insensibility of his advancing age; all marked by
certain positive offences, and mingled into one huge
mass of sin, by the misty memories of his half-forgotten offences. If the God whom he professed to




208         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
worship was a God of mercy; if in calling Blanche
from an evil world, He was but calling her to early
happiness; was He not also a God of judgment? and
could the innocent and the guilty, the holy and the
unholy, hope to meet again in the same heaven?
It was a question which, when once suggested,
could not be put aside. It followed him by day
as well as night; it intruded into his transient
intervals of peace, when Blanche seemed more at
ease, and he was able to interest and amuse her; it
pursued him, as a spectre, in his solitary moments,
and he could not speak of it, or find relief in human
sympathy; for he had lived to himself, until the very
thought of unreserve was abhorrent to him.  Yet
misery did not make him cold and harsh; that could
not be when he was watching over Blanche. The
very tone of her voice was soothing and softening to
him, and sometimes a strange, momentary hopefulness crossed his mind, when she in any way alluded
to the future, as if even for him there might also
be pardon and rest.   But it could not stay, for was
he not under punishment at that very hour? Had
not the curse of his early sins followed him through
long years of dreariness; and had it not fallen now,
chiefly by his means, upon the only being whom he
had left on earth to love?
And with these thoughts Lord Rutherford walked
alone upon the terrace of his castle.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            209
CHAPTER XXIII.
BLANCHE watched the sunset also from her sofa,
which had been drawn near the window that she might
enjoy it.  Maude was with her; she was her constant nurse in Lord Rutherford's absence, and Blanche
had no longer reason to dread her cousin's moodiness
and sharpness.  Soon after the announcement of
Adelaide's marriage, Maude's manner had  quite
changed. Blanche thought it must be from pity: but
Maude's sympathies were not easily called forth, even
by illness; and many times before, when Blanche had
needed it, she had withheld it. Neither was pity the
proper term for Maude's devoted attention.  It was
too silent and thoughtful, as if offered to a superior;
and Blanche, in her humility, would not have supposed it possible that Maude could look upon her in
such a light.  The firmness of character she had
shown, and which was made known to Maude by conversation with Lord Rutherford, had produced an
effect which Blanche would never have imagined; for
Maude could not be brought to confess that she had
suspected unjustly; and if, from that time, she
pondered more deeply upon the principles by which
Blanche was actuated, and oftener asked herself
whether they might not, after all, contain the truths
for which she was herself seeking, no one was allowed
to guess the thoughts that were working in her
breast, except by her actions.
They were reconciled without explanation; but
Blanche many times wished herself strong enough to
bear a recurrence to those  painful scenes; and
T2




210         THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
Maude's conscience, when it reproached her for false
shame, urged her at least to make reparation in deed,
by insisting upon accompanying Blanche to Rutherford, and nursing her during her illness. This was
no act of self-denial; for self-denial, except when it
involved some tangible good to others, was not part
of Maude's creed of duty.  But she knew that she
might be of use, and thought it probable that she
might be a comfort; and, for herself, the fascination
which had drawn her towards Blanche in health,
acted with tenfold intensity in illness.
To be with her was to find rest, at least for the
hour-rest from the despairing search after truth by
the light of her own intellect, in the calm, abiding faith,
of one who had received and followed it from infancy.
Yet they were mournful days for Maude; this
one especially had been trying. The farewell visit
to Mrs. Wentworth had been a greater effort than
Blanche was equal to, and she had suffered much in
consequence. In itself it must, at all events, have
been very painful, and the pain was increased by the
recollections which it excited, and which Blanche
could not entirely overcome; although she had been
assured again and again, by Dr. Wentworth himself,
that gratitude rather than reproach was due to her.
Blanche tried to believe that she had acted rightly;
she did believe it in her heart; yet the sight of Mrs.
Wentworth's vacant countenance, the wreck of all
that had once been so noble, was a fearful shock.
The question would arise, in spite of herself-Had
she not in some way been instrumental in causing it? And it was not till after a visit from Dr.
Wentworth, who came to her in the course of the
afternoon, that she could in any degree recover her
former composure.
Still she did not regret the exertion she had made.
It had been her own wish to pay the last respect




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             211
that might be in her power to her mother's early
friend; and Eleanor had entered into the idea, with
the faint hope that the excitement might produce a
favourable effect upon Mrs. Wentworth.
Maude had urged delay.  She said that Blanche
was leaving Rutherford for a time only, and might
return better able to  bear the interview.  But
Blanche would not allow herself to trust to this
hope.  Hope, indeed, it could scarcely be called.
She knew her own symptoms too well, and could
read the countenances of those about her too truly
to admit of hope. Her daily prayer, her daily lesson,
now, was not to desire it.
We may believe that there is always one last trial
to be endured, one last grace to be acquired by those
whom  God visits with lingering illness.  They to
whom life is fraught with care, and the thought of
the grave full of the rest for which they sigh, can
little know the awfulness of that moment which first
brings the young and the hopeful in sight of death.
Blanche's short life had been burdened with many
disappointments, many anxieties; and, in the time of
health, she had often thought of the blessedness of
an early removal from temptation, and believed that
she could welcome it. The blessing was sent, and
she trembled at it. It was not strange. She did
not know till then how dear life was to her; she did
not know how she valued the familiar faces of those
even whom  she supposed did not suit her; she did
not understand how much she clung to sights, and
sounds, and  associations, and  memories, which
came and went almost without notice, but which
constituted the amusement of existence.  She did
not know how precious her father's love was, how
she rested upon it and trusted to it for protection.
The prospect of death at a distance, and the actual
waiting for its approach, were very different.




212         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
She gazed upon the sunset now, with Maude sitting
beside her, and supporting her that she might be;better able to watch it; but they were both silent.
Blanche's memory had travelled back to the evening
when she first saw that glorious view; when her
father welcomed her to her home: and Maude's
thoughts had wandered onwards into the dark future
of earth and the dim awfulness of eternity.
Maude was the first to break the silence.  "One
should like to follow it," she said; "to know where
it goes.  One cannot imagine it still lighting up this
world."
" I should be sorry    l  t realize that it did," answered
Blanche.  "Sunset has always been my most vivid
idea of heaven."
" It is too sad for heaven," said Maude.  "Even
as a child, one felt its sadness."
The  eyes of  Blanche filled with tears.   "It
ought not to be sad," she replied; "so beautiful it
is in itself, and with hope to make it more so. If
one did not regret this world, it would be joyful."
"Yet there is little enough here to tempt one
to regret," said Maude.
"Do you think so?" asked Blanche, earnestly,
and with a touching, child-like simplicity, as if really
wishing to hear Maude's answer.
It was not given directly.  Maude's eyes dwelt
upon the crimson light, which, although the sun had
sunk behind the hills, still flooded the western
horizon, spreading itself far and wide, till it melted
imperceptibly into a faint ethereal blue.  "It is
glorious, most glorious," she exclaimed; "but it is
too much; one cannot grasp it."
"And one can grasp earth," said Blanche, with
a sigh.
"Grasp it, and find it ashes," replied Maude,
bitterly; " some do, at least; not you, Blanche."




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            213
"I have had a very happy life," said Blanche;
"every one has been very kind to me. I should like
to thank them."
Maude turned round quickly; "Now do you mean?
Because you are going away? "
"Not to-night; I am so tired: but I should like
every one to know that 1 have thought about them.
If you come back again, Maude, will you tell them
so?"
"You must tell them yourself, then, dear child,"
said Maude, kissing her.
Blanche looked earnestly in her face, and answered,
" I should like to say things out plainly to you; but
I cannot; if you do not understand."
"I do-I do understand," replied Maude, her
voice sounding hollow with the effort to appear
calm.
"I shall not come back," said Blanche. "Even
papa does not really think so; and I should like to
tell you now what to do with some of my thingsmy books, and pictures, and ornaments.  I think
about them a good deal, and I don't wish to do so;
and if I might say to you what I should like to have
done with them, it would be off my mind."
"But not to-night, dearest," said Maude.
"No; perhaps not to-night: but to-morrow; the
first thing, I should wish it. You see, Maude, I
may not have very much time before me, though
papa and Dr. Granville say the sea-air will do me
good; and if I could settle about it all, and say
good b'ye to every one, and thank them, I should
not have such wandering thoughts; at least I hope
not."
Maude bent her head upon the sofa; her tears
were uncontrollable.  Blanche put her arm  round
her, as she had sometimes been wont to do in her
days of health, and speaking quite calmly said,




214         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"You must not fret about me, Maude, and fancy I
am worse because I speak so; I only do it because
of something Dr. Wentworth said yesterday. When
he has come to see me lately he has been very kind,
and I have been able to talk to him; and he understands-he knows what I feel."
"About being ill?" asked Maude.
"About death! " said Blanche. She waited for a
moment, and closed her eyes as if praying mentally;
then she said, "If I were very good, I should not
be afraid; but I cannot quite help it."
"No one can help it, I should think," replied
Maude.
" Yes, indeed, some persons can: but Dr. Wentworth says they are generally persons who are older
and have suffered more; and you know, Maude, I
have always had some one to depend upon, and take
care of me; and-but that is wicked-because I
have no faith," she added.
"If I were like you," began Maude, quickly;
" and had lived the life you have-"
Blanche interrupted her; " Maude, dear, you will
not say things which vex me, now we have so little
time to be together. But I don't think the fear I
have is so much about all I have done wrong; there
is such great, great hope of forgiveness. But, even
then, it is so awful, so lonely; if some one could go
with me —papa, or Mrs. Howard, or you.  I have
never been alone all my life. I wonder what it will
be like.  Oh, Maude, can you think?" she covered
her face with her hands, as if shrinking from the
thought; when she looked up again all was peaceful.
"It is over now," she said, heaving a sigh of relief;
"it comes and goes-the dark hour, asDr. Wentworth
calls it.  But he says I shall feel it less if I pray:
and, Maude, you will do to-morrow what I asked?
because I am to put away my cares for this world,




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             215
even the very little ones, and then there will be
nothing to come between me and my Saviour."
"There can be very little now," said Maude,
tenderly.
Blanche shook her head. "Ah! Maude, you don't
know. I did not know till lately; but you will hear
all I have to say, and promise to do it all; will you
not? and now, please, if papa will come and read to
me, I should like to go to bed."
Maude went to call the earl; and, whilst the last
gleam  of sunlight was fading away, they knelt together and joined in the few short prayers, which
were all that Blanche could bear after that day of
excitement.  Then Maude kissed her, and said,
"Good night," and the earl lifted her in his arms
and carried her to her room.




216         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MAUDE remained by herself, thinking.  At other
times she could philosophize upon general principles,
abstract theories, the ultimate destinies of mankind;
but there was only one question now for her consideration-the question which must sooner or later be
brought before us all-what was to be the ultimate
destiny of each individual soul-of Blanche, of herself?
How she longed then for Blanche's simple faith!
the vividness with which she must realize all that
belonged to the unseen world, to be able to say so
quietly and confidently, "There will be nothing then
to come between me and my Saviour."
It was true, actual, as if she had spoken of an earthly
friend.  And even her fears were natural, neither
exaggerated nor excited, only the awe which one so
young, and tender, and helpless, could scarcely fail to
experience in the first near prospect of entering upon
a new existence.
It was very strange to Maude, a problem she could
not solve, for it was not merely the result of education, the having been taught to believe. She had
been taught also; but what to her was an idea, solemn
and important, yet still only an idea, was to Blanche
an all-absorbing reality.  Some real difference there
must be between them; and that not a differencewhich
might safely be borne with, like any other diversity of
taste or sentiment-death was a fact which admitted
of no " halting between two opinions." If, in order to
support the prospect of it, calmly, a life like that of
Blanche was necessary, then Maude's dreamy, philo



THE EARL S DAUGHTER.             217
sophical speculations and indolent practice, must be
dangerous.  Maude's inherent energy of mind was
aroused by the thought. Hitherto, it had been spent
in the study of abstruse questions; now, it was directed
to practice. And she had full leisure for consideration-for the twilight sank into darkness, and the
darkness was exchanged for the brilliancy of moonlight, and still she was alone with her own thoughts
and the awfulness of the silent night. Lord Rutherford came to her once, but it was only to say that she
must not mind being left by herself, for Blanche
wanted him; and Maude knew well what that meant.
It was the case every evening. He professed to be
with her when Blanche was gone to bed, but he never
remained for more than a few minutes. If Blanche
was wakeful, he sat in her room fancying she would
want him; and if she was asleep, he lingered in the
outer apartment listening for any sound or movement.
Since they came to Rutherford he had chosen to sleep
in a room close to hers; but this did not satisfy him,
and again and again, in the course of the night, he
would steal into her chamber to look at her, as if
fearful that during those short hours of absence, death
would remove from him without warning the treasure
in which his heart delighted.
The next day was to be the last but one of their
stay at Rutherford. Afterwards they were to move
by easy stages to the sea-side, as Blanche could bear
the journey; and, if she found herself sufficiently
strengthened to endure a further change, it was proposed to take her for about a fortnight to St. Ebbe's,
that she might pay a parting visit to Mrs. Howard
before leaving England. So they planned-the earl,
Dr. Granville, and Maude-when she was called in to
the consultation, neither choosing to allow what was
in all their thoughts, and satisfying themselves by the
expectation that sea-air would bring a respite of the
VOL. II.             U




218          THE EARL S DAUGHTER.
evil day, though it could never work a restoration to
health. Blanche gave no voice on the question; she had
but one wish-to do what was considered best. Submission was her last trial of duty, and the little energy
which remained to her was exercised in disciplining
herself into quiet acquiescence with whatever might
be deemed beneficial. And there was one part of the
projected plan which, as the earl had anticipated when
it was formed, reconciled her to it in the whole.
Even her love for Rutherford was scarcely equal to
the depth of interest and gratitude with which she
thought of St. Ebbe's.  When life is failing, and the
future in this world becoming blank, memory returns
with affection, tenfold increased, to the scenes and
the events of the past: and where could Blanche find
any recollections so calm, and holy, and bright, as
those which were associated with St. Ebbe's? Once
more to see it; once more to see her earliest and
truest friend; once more to thank her for her loving
care, her prayers, her counsel; to tell her, if time
should be granted, the short history of those few
months-few in number but infinite in importancewhich had constituted the actual trial of her young
life, and then to die;-where, when, how-as God
in His wisdom  should appoint; that was her last
eager wish, the last earthly craving of her heart.
They were together again, Maude and Blanche, the
following morning. Business which the earl could
not postpone had called him for an hour away, and
Blanche, feeling stronger after her night's rest, was
sitting nearly upright on the sofa, with her jewel-case
on a little stand by her; whilst Maude, with a pencil
and paper in her hand, was writing down her wishes
respecting her ornaments. They were both very quiet
and composed; no one coming into the room would
have supposed that they were engaged in anything
more painful than usual, except at occasional mo



THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            219
ments, when a torrent of recollections rushed upon
Blanche as she looked at some present from  her
father, and putting it aside would say perhaps that
she could not give that away; she would rather he
should keep it as part of herself.
"You  shall let him  have  the  paper, dear
Maude," she said, when the task was nearly completed. " He will like to see that it is all done himself,
by-and-by; though I cannot talk to him about it now.
And if there is anything left that I have forgotten,
and he does not know quite what to do with it, will
you and Eleanor help him? for you will be friends
with poor Eleanor for my sake, wont you?"
Maude's reply was inarticulate, though she tried to
speak.
"And one thing more may I say to you, dear
Maude?" continued Blanche, earnestly.  "I long to
have it all off my mind this morning, that I may
tell Dr. Wentworth I have done what he wished
when he comes this afternoon."
"If you talk much you will not be able to see
him," said Maude, kindly.  "You are quite overworked as it is."
" It will take but a few minutes," replied Blanche,
"and to-morrow  I should like to have quite free,
because -"
"Yes," interrupted Maude, quickly; "I know.
Go on, if you wish it."
Blanche waited for an instant. A thought of bitterness was to be struggled with and conquered; that
her father, changed though he was in many ways,
shrunk from the idea of being with her when she
received the Holy Communion.  Presently, she said
to Maude, "That was a sad time at Senilhurst.
I don't like thinking about it; but I am afraid sometimes that I must have seemed wrong in what I did,




220         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
and I know I was cross with you.  Wont you give
me a kiss, now, and tell me you forgive me?"
It was all Maude could do to answer; but she did
say, " It was I who was wrong and cross, and want
to be forgiven;" and then she gave the kiss that was
asked, and both were happier.
"There is a bracelet for Adelaide in my dressingcase," said Blanche, after a short pause.  "It is too
gay for your taste, Maude; she will value it, at
least I hope she will, by-and-by, because my aunt
gave it me."
" A long by-and-by that will be," observed Maude,
speaking her thoughts aloud.
"Not so long, I hope, as you fancy," replied
Blanche, cheerfully; adding, in a graver tone, whilst
she looked steadily at Maude to see whether she
understood  her, "I could  almost blame myself
sometimes, when I think of the break-up of all your
family happiness."
"There never was happiness with us," replied
Maude, with emphasis; "never, as far back as I
can remember. When I was a child of seven years
old, I felt the hollowness and unreality of all
about me. Nothing that you could have done or
said, Blanche, would have made things better then
they are."
"I hope not," replied Blanche; "yet even if I
could —"
Maude finished her sentence; "you would not
have been right in yielding; no, indeed, I feel that:
you must be quite assured I do;" and Maude
smiled brightly, and almost sweetly, for even this
slight acknowledgment was a weight removed from
her mind.
" If I had given way, I should have been very sorry
afterwards," said Blanche. "That is one thing for




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             221
which I have so much cause to thank Mrs. Howard,
that she taught me in difficulties to look at actions
as I should look upon them when-when I was as I
am now-dying."
Maude's face showed, though unconsciously to
herself, the pain which any allusion to Blanche's
state gave her.
" I did not mean to grieve you, dear Maude," said
Blanche, taking her hand affectionately: " but it is
always in my own thoughts, and so I forget that it
may not always be in others. And it makes all things
so different; so very, very different.  I can't exactly
tell you what it is like; but, in a way, it is as if one
had been amusing oneself with what seemed to be a
a doll, a plaything, and suddenly, whilst one held it in
one's hand, it had started into life, and become a living
being. All the past is so awfully real. I feel," she added,
her cheek becoming flushed with excitement; " I feel
that it cannot die with me-that it must live on here -
working for good or for evil. That one action, especially, would have been very dreadful, Maude, to think
of now; would it not?  To have been the means of
bringing harm upon hundreds; and to knowthat,when
I was resting in my grave, it would still be spreading.
Oh! Maude, sometimes I think that even Heaven
itself could not be Heaven with such a thought."
Maude was saved the pain of reply, for Lord
Rutherford came into the room.  Blanche hastily
closed her jewel-case, and welcoming him with a
smile, told him she had been better all the morning,
and was better then; only she had tired herself with
giving some directions.
" You were unwise to trouble yourself, my darling,"
was the earl's reply; "trust to Maude and Barnes;
I am sure they will do everything you wish."
Blanche was silent. Lord Rutherford's eye accidentally fell upon the paper which Maude had been
u 2




222         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
writing;-it was merely a list of different articles,
with names  attached  to them: but love has a
piercing sight; he understood it in an instant.
"I will take it," he said, holding out his hand
as Maude folded the paper, and was going to put
it hurriedly aside. Maude gave it him and left the
room.
Blanche raised her eyes to meet her father's; he
was very pale, but his voice scarcely trembled as
he said, "It shall all be done;" and placing the
paper carefully in his pocket-book, he walked to
the window.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             223
CHAPTER XXV.
AND now it was all arranged, all settled, and ordered;
and Blanche had gone through the trying service
for which she had been preparing, and said her
last words of gratitude to Dr. Wentworth and told
him  he had comforted  her and helped her, and
begged him to write to her when she was away;
and Maude had received every minute direction as
to her cousin's wishes, in case she should never
return to Rutherford; and the earl had pleased himself —for the moment it was really a pleasure, though
a melancholy one-in contriving everything for the
journey, so as to save Blanche, as far as lay in the
power of human ingenuity, from the otherwise unavoidable fatigues of a journey. His spirits rather
rallied under the pressure of occupation; and a
flickering hope began again to burn feebly in his
breast.  The physician had spoken so confidently
of the benefit of sea-air; he thought it might work
an improvement, or it might at least delay the progress of disease; and Blanche had, undoubtedly,
appeared stronger the last few days; she had borne
the preparation for removal much better than any
one anticipated.  It was a natural delusion, and
neither Blanche nor Maude were unwilling to foster
it. Both felt that even a deceitful hope was better,
at that moment, than the despairing certainty which
would have rendered exertion almost impossible.
True, they might under such circumstances have
remained at Rutherford; but Blanche herself was
beeinning not to wish for this.  She thought it




224         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
likely that the sea-air might invigorate her, and
enable her to visit St. Ebbe's with something of
enjoyment; and she looked forward to the possibility
with that last lingering of earthly satisfaction, which
even the near prospect of Eternity cannot quench in
the bosom of the young.  And there was another
reason for her wish, very different and wholly unselfish. If she left Rutherford now, there was, she
was well aware, no probability of her return. When
and where her last moments would be spent, God
only knew; but at least her father would be spared
the pain of associating them with his home.  He
would not watch over her, day by day, and accustom
himself to see her in the same room, the same position,
and then suddenly miss her from her place. Dreary
as Rutherford would, under any circumstances, be
without her, the shock of the separation would be
broken by their present removal; and her father
would not so probably be tempted, as she had sometimes feared he might be, to rush from it in despair;
and again, leaving the sphere of his duties, find refuge in solitary misery abroad. Yet the last evening
in that her only real home was a grievous trial, for it
was the first step towards the final breaking-up of
earthly ties which she knew was before her. As she
lay upon the sofa by herself, whilst Maude was
engaged with her maid in the bed-room, and Lord
Rutherford was talking to the steward in his study,
she had leisure for thought, if she had been sufficiently strong.  But she was not; she could only
suffer fancies to pass before her; she could not control them: they were almost all of one kind-of
her father, and her mother-her unhappy, but
dearly cherished  mother —the thought of whom
seemed to give a resting-place to her human affections,
when she fancied to herself the  entrance upon
another world. Leaving Rutherford seemed almost




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.              225
like deserting the countess's memory. It was the
only place in which Blanche had learnt to know
her.   She wished  she could go again into her
room, to say farewell, as it were, to that which
mostly had belonged to her.  It was a strange
mixture of feeling; the vision of her mother, at rest
as she believed her to be, and waiting to receive her,
was less vivid than the earthly image conjured up
by her books and pictures, in the dreary desolate
chamber, which told so truly the history of her life.
Sight triumphed over faith, and tears of pity rose to
Blanche's eyes; and all other feelings were forgotten
in the intensity of longing, that she had been permitted to know her, to live with her and comfort her.
That would have changed the whole current of her
life; it might have made her a different person.
Yet it must have been, in a measure, a barrier
between her and her father, and Blanche turned
away from such a thought; for how dearly she loved
him  she was just beginning to feel.  Oh! if they
could but have been as one! If now, when about to
leave her father alone, she could at least restore to
him  the peace of mind of which the remembrance
of her mother had robbed him! Then, it seemed,
she could die happy, for she would leave him  at
rest; and something whispered to her that, if the
bitterness of remorse was soothed, his mind would be
more open to the principles and hopes of religion.
Blanche was thinking upon these things when she
was aroused by a gentle tap at the door, almost immediately followed by the entrance of Eleanor Wentworth. This was the first day for nearly a week that
they had met; and before, they had scarcely been
together for more than a quarter of an hour at a
time. Mrs. Wentworth's claims upon Eleanor's attention were incessant.  No one else suited her; and her
disposition, which perhaps in its original nature was




226          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
exacting, as regarded those she loved, was now become so jealous and excitable, that it was painful to
thwart her. It might have been from this cause that
Eleanor was altered.  Constant watchfulness and
anxiety will work sad changes in a very short space
of time, and Eleanor's face told a tale of great trial
in her daily life. Or there might have been a deeper
cause for the alteration-regret and self-reproach
for the past, and forebodings of evil to come. The
experience of one  year, had  brought memories
which must last for life; and they had robbed her
voice of its joyous tone, and had quenched the
sparkle of her eye, and subdued the elasticity of her
step: and when friends pitied her, and her father
caressed her, Eleanor would often turn away in
apparent coldness, but real wretchedness, because she
knew that the griefs which excited their compassion
were the consequences of her own misconduct.
It was only with Blanche that she was quite free.
Blanche knew everything; all her resolutions and her
failings, her temptations and her weakness.  She
could go back with her to their simple life at St.
Ebbe's, and recal the serious devotedness of purpose
with which they had knelt together at their confirmation; the earnestness and awe with which they had
afterwards received their first Communion, and the
energy with which they had entered upon the duties
of life-armed by the same counsel, and animated by
affection for the same friend.  How widely since that
time their paths had diverged Eleanor dreaded to
think.  Blanche, purified and strengthened by illness, was so far removed from herself that she seemed
scarcely like a creature of the same sphere. Yet still
she understood; still, even before Eleanor, could venture to enter upon the subject of her wanderings from
the right path, Blanche seemed, by an intuitive perception, to comprehend them: and the few hours




THE EARL S DAUGHTER.             227
which they occasionally spent together, were seasons of
salutary, though mournful, rest to poor Eleanor's
wounded spirit; and were treasured in her recollection to be prized, she could not yet tell how dearly,
when death should have parted them, and there should
be no one left to whom  she could say, " So we
acted," or " so we thought and spoke, when we were
children."
For it was not yet that she could fully understand
the danger of Blanche's state. She came into the
room  that evening looking almost happy, merely
because Lord Rutherford had told her that Blanche
was much better than they could have expected, considering all she had gone through during the day.
She had never been accustomed to the fluctuations of
consumption; and she had heard of persons recovering
who were much worse than she imagined Blanche to
be; and, sanguine by nature, she could not divest
herself of hope. Her spirits also had for the hour
rallied as regarded her home-trials.  Her mother
seemed tolerably comfortable; and a penitent, affectionate-though melancholy-letter had been received from Charles, which had softened her father's
feelings and melted his indignation into pity. It was
this subject which first suggested itself when she
found that Blanche was able to listen to her.
"I would have brought you the letter, dear
Blanche," she said, as she took off her bonnet and
sat down by the sofa; "but I was afraid you would
be too busy and tired to attend to it. I don't know
exactly why one should be pleased at what is evidently
written very much out of spirits; but it is the tone
which papa and I like. There is so much feeling for
us, and so much thought for poor mamma."
"And Adelaide! Does she write too?" asked
Blanche, always ready, even when weakened by
illness, to throw herself into the interests of others.




228         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
" She sends her love in a postscript; but I am
afraid that is only a matter of form. It is about her
that Charles is worrying himself. She is just beginning to feel what the privations of a soldier's wife are,
where there is no money; and I am  afraid she
reproaches him.  She need not do that, though,"
added Eleanor, with some bitterness.   " He has
sacrificed as much for her as she has for him."
"They will be happier when they are abroad, I
hope," said Blanche.  "There will not be the same
looking-back and longing for luxuries; and I think,
after a time, my aunt and Sir Hugh will forgive
them."
"It is not forgiveness which will make them
happy," said Eleanor, with a heavy sigh.  "Two
people utterly unsuited must be miserable, if they
had the wealth of Peru at command. That is the
real wretchedness, and that is what I reproach myself
for. I knew so well, from the very beginning, that they
were no more fitted for each other than I am to be
Queen of England.  I believe, in fact, it was that
which, deluded me.  I fancied that Charles never
could be so blind as really to fall in love.  But,
Blanche, I want to talk of other things now, other
people rather."
"Mrs. Howard and St. Ebbe's?" said Blanche,
with a smile of interest.
Eleanor could not smile.  She answered, sadly,
"Yes, I want to talk of her, and to send a message;
but I don't exactly know what. You must tell
her-"
"Everything I can think of about you," said
Blanche.  " She will want to know everything."
"I could almost make up my mind to write to her
by you," continued Eleanor; "but there is so much
that I dread saying.  She knows all the facts about
me, those I have been forced to mention; but there




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.           229
are other things. Oh, Blanche! what would I not
give to be you; to go back to her unchanged! "
Blanche stretched out her wasted hand, and said,
"Not quite unchanged."
"No, not unchanged; you are right: but altered,
advanced, beyond, far beyond whatever she would
have imagined possible.  Do you know, Blanche,
there are times when it seems actually impossible that
we could ever have been brought up together; and
that my advantages were as great, even greater
than yours. I cannot understand it, till I retrace
it all, step by step, and see how I have gone back."
"You are always reproaching yourself, dearest,"
said Blanche; " I wish I could feel you were to have
happier thoughts, now that I am going away."
" Happier when you are away!" exclaimed Eleanor,
and tears filled her eyes: "that would be impossible; and then my mother-but we must not talk
about her. I am obliged not to think more than
I can help; for you know, Blanche, I cannot deceive
myself; it has been in a great measure my doing;
and that was what I wanted to say to Mrs. Howard.
I should like her to know the worst; for she will feel
for me, however she may blame me."
" And have you not written to her at all, lately?"
asked Blanche, with some surprise.
"Yes, in a certain way; I have written factsnot the sort of letters she would wish to have, I
know. But I could not bring myself to do it. You
must tell her, Blanche. You must talk to her for
me."
Blanche hesitated.  "If I am  able," she said;
"but I am not going there directly; and I cannot
tell how I may be when I get to St. Ebbe's."
Eleanor read what was in her mind, though for the
moment the thought of her own griefs had absorbed
her.  "Blanche," she said, as she bent down and
VOL. TI.            X




230          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
kissed her, " wherever you are, and however you may
be, you will be happy." She waited eagerly for the
answer, as if it would satisfy some rising doubt in
her own mind.
A smile of inexpressible sweetness passed over
Blanche's face, as she replied, "Yes, quite happyquite.  I had some fears-the dread of lonelinessof what, perhaps, I am  to suffer at the last; but
they are going.  I do not wish to live."
"Papa does not think you worse," said Eleanor;
"and Lord Rutherford says you are better."
Blanche smiled.  "Yes, dearest; and I am not
worse: perhaps even I am better. I may linger-I
may return; but it is not probable-scarcely possible."
" And to part from  you now, for ever; to live
without you!" exclaimed Eleanor, bursting into a
passionate flood of tears.  "You are so young:
they said you were so strong: there is no consumption in your family."
"I would rather see the truth," replied Blanche,
quietly.  "It is much better for me, for then I can
prepare myself; and you must let me say to-night
what I would, if I were quite sure of our never
meeting again on earth."
"No, no," exclaimed Eleanor; " I cannot bear it;
I cannot listen to it; and we shall meet again."
"Yes, indeed, in heaven.  God grant it," said
Blanche, solemnly, and Eleanor buried her face in
her hands.  Blanche waited for her to speak, but
there was neither voice nor sound, save the ticking
of the clock, which marked the minutes that were
speeding towards Eternity.  Then Blanche raised
herself on the sofa, and said, as she joined her hands
together and a flush tinged her ashy cheek, "We
have often talked of this hour; we have thought
what it would be to die. Eleanor, dearest, it is very




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             231
awful-very real; more real far than anything in
life, except prayer and communion with God."
"And that I have neglected," said Eleanor, without raising her head.
"Yes," continued Blanche, in the same earnest
tone, "you have told me so; and I have thought
about it when I have been lying here alone; and I
hoped I might ask you-I might beg you —the
wishes of the dying are sacred," she added, her
voice  changing  into  a touching  gentleness  of
entreaty.
Eleanor rose from her seat, and, kneeling beside her, said, "Ask me what you will, if only I
may be like you."
"I can see-I think I can," continued Blanche,
what has been my own safety, in a measure, as far
as I have been safe: —or rather," she added, correcting herself, "what has been permitted to help
me. It was my rule-my order for every day; order
in my prayers, I mean; not leaving them to chance
or feeling, but being forced to go at fixed times.
It was Mrs. Howard's wish that first made me feel
that I was forced, and then it became necessary."
"Mrs. Howard gave me the rule too," said Eleanor
humbly, "but I did not keep it."
"But now, now, for my sake-in memory of me,
when I am gone. Eleanor, it is my last wish, because I feel that in your case it involves all other
duties. Only promise me that once in the day, not
merely in the morning and at night, you will pray."
And Eleanor kissed her, and answered, "  will
promise; but I shall never be like you."
Blanche sank back, with a smile, as if a weight
had been taken from her mind, and after a moment's
silence continued, "And one thing more I would say
whilst time is granted me to speak. I would say it
rather than write it, because I can speak it more ear



232         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
nestly, more truly, as it should be spoken. I told you
I was happy. Eleanor, that does not express what I
feel; it is all so strange and overpowering. But there
is something beyond happiness-rest, peace, love."
Her dark eyes were lighted up with the sparkling
flash of intense feeling, as she added, " Love which
is perfect, satisfying; the dream of my childhood,
which now I have found."  She became very exhausted, and Eleanor seeing that her presence was
exciting, felt that she must go. But as she stood up
to depart it seemed impossible. Blanche motioned
to her to sit down again; Eleanor paused.  She
went to the table and took up a large morocco case,
which she had laid upon it on her first entrance.
"Stay a few minutes longer," said Blanche; "I
will not talk."
Eleanor approached her; the case was in her hand.
"Hark!" she said, "it is six o'clock.  My mother
will be wanting me."
Blanche looked up with the impulse to send a
message, but a blank, miserable recollection, checked
her.
"She sent her love to you to-day," continued
Eleanor, unable to restrain her tears, "and -" she
held out the case.
Blanche stretched out her hand, but it was quite
powerless; and she could only say in a feeble tone,
"Open it."
"I will leave it with you," said Eleanor, " it is-"
"Yes, I know; open it-let me see it."
And Eleanor touched the spring, and revealed the
bright, lovely features of the young Countess of
Rutherford. The mother and the child;-how like!
and yet how different! As Blanche motioned to
Eleanor to place the picture near her, and Eleanor's
eye wandered from  one to the other, she could
almost have supposed that the tale of each sweet




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              233
face had been reversed; that the radiant beauty displayed by the artist was the image of Blanche just
entering upon the world's enjoyments; and that the
worn, sunk features of the gentle girl, were the signs
of the life of sorrow about to find repose in death.
Blanche gazed at the picture long and silently,
"Thank her," she said at length to Eleanor, in a
trembling voice, "very much.  Tell her-you know
how I value it."
"It should have been yours before, dearest," said
Eleanor.
"No, no; it is in time.  It will do its work;"
and turning away her head, she murmured, " he has
made me happy, and she will forgive."
Eleanor drew near to say, good b'ye.
"God bless you, Eleanor, my own precious Eleanor;
and keep you safe.  Think of me when you prayin Church-always;" and Eleanor could only answer
by sobs, and the half-uttered, delusive hope, that
they might meet again.
x2




234         THE EARL'S DAUGHTE.R.
CHAPTER XXVI.
WHY should we linger so fondly over the last hours
of the dying?-why should we delight to dwell upon
the form and lineaments, and expression of that which
is now so loved, and valued, but which soon must be
hidden from our sight? —why should we treasure up
each word and tone to be recalled in the hour of desolation, and pierce with a deeper anguish the heart
that already is crushed to the dust?  We are but
adding to our grief: vet we would rather cherish it
than part from it; for it is dearer than happiness,
more precious than joy, since it is instinct with the
hopes of immortality. It is a grief, however, which
needs no description.  We have but to ask our own
hearts; and, even if the dread experience has as yet
been spared us, we can tell all the outward forms
which it must assume.  That last departure from
Rutherford, who cannot picture it? The momentary
excitement-the struggle of conflicting feelings-of
dying hope, and ever-present fear-the petty cares,
and ordinary trials of a journey, and the neverceasing anxiety and dread felt through all, lest the
change should have been made too late.
The earl hoped, even then; though he thought he
did not. If he had not hoped, he never would have
taken Blanche away, for he saw at last how much it
cost her.  The pain of fatigue she could not hide,
though the pain of regret she could. There is something in the very name of home inexpressibly dear to
us when we are very ill; and Blanche's home, notwithstanding all her disappointments, had been a very




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.              235
happy one.  But she left it without a word of complaint, or expression of sorrow; only with a few
silent tears, as she looked for the last time on the
window of her mother's chamber, and raised herself
to smile a farewell to Eleanor, who, unable to leave
Mrs. Wentworth as she had anticipated, was standing
at the rectory gate to see her pass.
But that parting was over and the journey was
borne with tolerable ease; and Blanche reached the
place of her destination, and felt the freshness of the
sea-breeze, and saw the sparkling of the bright waters
beneath a brilliant noon-day sun; and, strengthened
for a few days, seemed to enjoy her daily drive and
the novelty of the view, and thought-yes, still she
thought, and knew-that she was dying.
Yet days went by as before. Habits and customs,
and old familiar ways and interests, crowd around us,
even to the last; and in the spacious mansion, where
provided with every luxury of refinement, guarded
from every blast, shaded from every intruding glare,
Blanche was learning to prepare herself for Heaven,
there was a common life of vexing thoughts and
worldly occupations pressing forward, eager, hopeful,
save when it approached the sick chamber of her
upon whose young brow was written the doom  of
all earthly beauty, " passing away."*
There all was stilled as in the presence of an angel
visitant. For it grew, day by day, even hour by
hour, the pure ethereal beauty of that heaven-born
spirit which is the portion of God's elect.  When
* From the stars of heaven and the flowers of earth,
From the pageant of power and the voice of mirth,
From the mists of morn on the mountain's brow,
From childhood's song and affection's vowFrom all, save that o'er which soul bears sway,
Breathes but one record-passing away.
MRS. HEMANS.




236          THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Blanche had put aside her few earthly cares, she was
able to fix her thoughts steadily upon eternity. The
world to which she was hastening became her home,
and though her perceptions were dim, and her anticipations vague, she could still dwell upon some certainties, before which all earthly joys faded into
nothingness.
She would be sinless there and at rest;-at rest in
the presence of her Saviour; and the blessedness of
that hope none can tell but they to whom  every
earthly affection is secondary. It was no dream to
Blanche, that the love of God alone can satisfy the
human heart; it was a fact, taught by each day's
experience.  The Being to whom she could turn in
every trial, however slight; the Friend whose presence
she always felt; the love which could never change,
even with the changes of her own weak, unstable
heart; were realities, beneath which her sinking spirit
reposed as beneath "the shadow of a great rock in
a weary land."  When the terror of death overwhelmed her, she turned to them with an unutterable
sense of safety and relief; whilst every trifling comfort and every moment of ease were regarded as the
sure pledges of that untiring watchfulness which, if
it guarded her so carefully in life, could never leave
her lonely in death.
And it was not trust merely that Blanche felt.
Trust is our faith in a Power; love is our devotion
to a Person.  She had trusted all her life, and she
had loved too, more than she knew.  Now she was
beginning to comprehend her own heart, to understand its yearnings after perfection, its cravings for a
fullness of affection which she had been told could
be found on earth, but which she had often feared
might, if it satisfied her, border upon idolatry. She
could not envy others, even with the purest prospects
of this world's happiness.  She had found "the




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            237
pearl of great price," and the wealth of the universe
would have been worthless in its exchange.
Lord Rutherford saw that she was happy, and
even in the midst of his anguish he could not be insensible to the comfort; yet the sight of "the peace
which passeth understanding" was often goading to
his self-reproach, since it seemed to widen the gulf
that separated him and his child.
He was alone with Blanche, one evening, about a fortnight after their removal from Rutherford, and she was
speaking to him of St. Ebbe's, and of her wish to go
there soon, and saying that she was becoming anxious
about it, for the distance was not very great;-she
thought they might return if-she paused, and then
finished her sentence firmly-if she should live.
He did not shrink from her words; but, as he
fondly smoothed her hair, replied, that he did not
see she was worse, but he was afraid she must be.
"Yes," she said, she knew that she was worse,
for she was weaker; and she had spoken to Dr.
Granville, and asked what he thought about her
going to St. Ebbe's, and he had told her that if she
really wished it so very much he vcould not say no,
but he would not advise it.  "I will not urge it,
if you don't like it, dear papa," she added; "but
Mrs. Howard could only come to me for one night,
without great difficulty, and —"
The earl interrupted her, " Wish it, my child!
my wishes against yours!"
"They ought to be against mine," said Blanche,
"if you like it; but you have always been so kind;
you have spoiled me, and now I am bent upon my
own way."  She spoke lightly and playfully, as she
might have done months before.  It was the voice
more than the words which touched the weak chord
of the earl's heart, and made the tears gather in his
eyes.




238        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
"You have quite spoiled me," continued Blanche,
in the same tone; but it changed the next moment,
for her father was leaning his head against her pillow
in silent wretchedness.  "You must let me thank
you," she said.  "By-and-by, you will like to think
of me as happy always-happy in my life with you,
and very-very happy in my rest."
He raised his head and kissed her, and sank back
into the same posture.
Blanche considered for a few moments, and then
she continued. "Being ill has been a comfort to me
in many ways; because we have been so much together, and we have been able to read the same books,
and have liked the same things; and you will always
like them now, dear papa; wont you, for my sake? "
Lord Rutherford could only press her hand; he
had not words to answer.
"I have enjoyed so very much your reading to
me every day," continued Blanche; "and it seems
strange now, that I should ever have been afraid of
asking you; but I know that, when I first came
home, I should have felt quite frightened if I had
been told to do it. Things have changed very much
since then."
"Yes;" replied the earl, in a hollow voice; " they
have indeed."
"And changed to make us happier too," said
Blanche, with a little hesitation.  " It would have
been much worse to part then, than it is now."
"No, no," exclaimed the earl. "If I had never
known you, Blanche-if you were only a child whom
I had scarcely seen-"
"We might have loved each other less," said
Blanche; " but we could never have thought of parting with the same peace."
" Peace! " repeated the earl bitterly.  "Peace for
me! " and then, as he again buried his face in his




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             239
hands, he murmured, "There is no peace but for the
innocent."
"Papa, my own dear papa," said Blanche, in a
tone of gentle reproach, as she forced him to move
his head, and look at her.
"I am right," he answered moodily. "Peace is
for you, my child; and for you I can accept it, and
be thankful."
" It would not be my peace," said Blanche; "if it
was not yours too."
"Then it can belong to neither of us," exclaimed
the earl: " unless a new power is given to mortals to
blot out the past."
"It must be blotted out for us all," replied
Blanche, " before we can find peace."
" I know what you would say," replied the earl.
" I have heard all that divines can preach; and have
read their books, and thought about them, too. But,
Blanche, my child, let it be even as they say; let
forgiveness be granted from heaven, let there be no
reckoning of our offences before God;-still, still
there is memory.  Memory," he repeated to himself,
"that mocking fiend! Blanche, when you are gone
from me, who will give me peace? "
Blanche paused-presently she said, " Papa, if I
could come back to you and tell you I was happy,
would you not be so?"
The earl looked at her with a faint smile.
"If vou could see me," continued Blanche, "and
knew that I had no wish to return to earth, and that
my home was brighter than even you could desire to
make it; and that I was with mamma; and that she
loved you dearly, and was longing for you to come to
her; and if there was a place ready for you-a place
in Paradise-in rest; would it not be peace then? "
Lord Rutherford averted his head.  "It is there,"
continued Blanche, her feeble tones becoming more




240        THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
earnest; "I see it in my dreams, when I am by myself alone in the twilight. It is a home for us all, and
you will come to me; and mamma-"
He turned quickly, and caught her hand; and, in a
voice convulsed with emotion, said, " Tell her I have
repented; ask her to forgive me."
Blanche made no immediate reply; but drew towards her the case containing her mother's picture,
which was laid on the sofa by her side, and touching
the spring, showed the sunny smile, the beauty of
youth, and joy, and hope, on which the shadow of
harshness or reproach seemed as if it could not for a
moment rest.
"Look! papa," she said, as she threw her arms
around him. "You have made her child happy, and
does not she forgive?"
Lord Rutherford took the picture from  her.
Blanche watched him anxiously.  She saw the furrowed brow bent in anguish, and the mouth quiver
and the dark eye become dim; and then, large,
scalding drops fell slowly down the earl's cheeks,
and pressing the picture to his lips, he exclaimed
passionately, "God bless and keep you both for
ever;" and left the room.
Blanche missed the picture from that evening, and
she never asked for it again.




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.            241
CHAPTER XXVII.
ONCE more it was towards the close of a summer's
day in the quaint garden of the manor house of St.
Ebbe's; and long shadows fell upon the lawn, and
marked the hours on the dial-plate as they fleeted by;
and the heavy tones of the great cathedral clock resounded solemnly from afar, and mingled with and
subdued the cheerful voices of children at their
play.
Once more! oh, many and many a time afterwards
might the gladness of the day melt gently into the
stillness of night; and the loveliness of nature's repose give rest to the weary heart; and the lightness
of childish glee echo merrily amidst the old grey
walls; but never again would Blanche Evelyn rejoice in the rush of early memories which thronged
around her, as she looked from the window of her
own chamber on the first evening of her arrival at
St. Ebbe's.
She could indeed rejoice-most happy amongst
the happy-most blessed amongst the blest. With
her father to watch over her, and smile mournfully,
yet with the sweetness of a hope better than that of
life; and Mrs. Howard to sit by her, and talk to her;
and Maude to busy herself in the arrangements
which now were so necessary to her comfort; that
first evening was one of quiet, full contentment to
herself-what it was to others we need not raise the
veil which hides the bitterness of mortal grief to
describe.
The first meeting had been a great shock to Mrs.
VOL. IT.             Y




242         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Howard, much greater than she dared express. She
was not at all prepared for Blanche's extreme weakness; for letters seldom really describe in detail, and
it is only by details that those well practised in the
sad scenes of illness, can tell the real state.  Lord
Rutherford  had said  she seemed rather better;
Maude had written to make preparation, as if she
would be able to sit up a great deal, and even to
drive out; and Blanche, herself, had expressed the
utmost delight at the prospect of her visit, though
she said plainly that she felt it must be her last.
They were all then deluding themselves; looking
forward to months! Mirs. Howard, when she saw
her, could not hope for weeks. Yet she met Blanche
calmly and cheerfully; congratulated Lord Rutherford on her having borne the journey so well; and
suffered her to talk as long as she could about all
that had passed; and then, when Blanche at length
went to bed, quite worn out, Mrs. Howard retired to
her own room, to find comfort in solitude for that
heavy aching of the heart, which could not even obtain relief from tears.
This state of things continued for a few days;
at least Lord Rutherford fancied that it did.  He did
not know every symptom of the complaint; and he
had been so accustomed lately to its changes, that he
was almost beginning to think little of them. Blanche
was more feverish, he thought-but that he attributed
to excitement-and he urged Mrs. Howard, to keep
her more quiet; and Mrs. Howard, complying with
his request, would take her work and sit in the room,
and intend not to talk. But the intention could not
easily be kept-there was so much to say and to hear;
and Blanche felt so inexpressibly relieved when she
could unburthen herself of the accumulated weight
of anxieties which had grown up since they parted,
and be assured that she had acted under them well




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             243
and wisely.  It was such a comfort, too, to speak of
her father, and point out the indications of his change
of mind, on which she so fondly dwelt; and to find
that Mrs. Howard viewed them as she did herself,
She tried to be quiet and unexcited, and for hours she
would lie perfectly still from  weakness; but some
thought or recollection would then strike her, and
conversation began, almost unawares, again. This
was injurious to her; but it mattered little. Perfect
repose, both of body and mind, could scarcely have
retarded the progress of a disease, which, by trifling
variations and imperceptible changes in its symptoms, too surely bore the mandate of approaching
death.
No one saw it but Mrs. Howard. How she endured the certainty, without distressing others by her
own convictions, she could never comprehend, except
by referring her calmness to the support which is
always sent when it is needed. Her love for Blanche
was no common feeling: it had in it the strength of
her long attachment to the Countess of Rutherford,
and of the entire devotion of a mother to Blanche
during her childhood; and the year which had parted
them, though it had been full of incident and change
to herself, had never separated them  in thought.
Still it had been her proud desire to see Blanche in
her own home, shedding far around the light and
charm of her goodness, and her beauty; and even
when she said to herself that all was better as it was
-that Blanche might have sank under the great
temptations to which she was exposed; or, even if
she had conquered them, might, eventually, have fallen
a prey to the morbid depression of spirits which had
so often shown itself in her mother's family-yet it was
hard, really, to feel the truth of her own words. She
knew it was best that Blanche should go-it was the
appointment of Infinite Love; and it could not be




244         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
other than merciful.  Yet how was the parting to be
endured?
They had been together about a week, and during
that time Blanche had taken two drives, which seemed
however to fatigue her; and Lord Rutherford therefore said, she had better wait till the weather was a
little cooler.  So she remained in the house, and
tried to.read a little, but her eves were weak, and it
was a trouble to her to hold a book in her hand. Lord
Rutherford read to her occasionally, but she could
not listen long; and for the last two days she had
found it as much as she could bear to attend during
the daily visits of the clergyman-the rector who had
prepared her for confirmation.  Her father was generally with her at these times, for she was not able to
be left alone; and she liked him to kneel by her side,
holding her hand in his, and repeating the prayers
with her.  He scarcely ever spoke more than was
quite necessary, but he never seemed impatient or
wearied; and Blanche  could perceive a marked
change in the tone in which he said the Confession.
It was earnest and humble, as if it was a relief to
him to join in it.
Blanche was quite sure that his feelings about
religion were very different from what they had
been; but she did not dare talk to him about them;
and she could not ask him why he had altered so
much since the day of their short conversation, when
she had shown him the countess's picture. She fancied
that perhaps he really felt now that her mother had
forgiven him; and with that load of remorse and dispair taken from his mind, she hoped he might shrink
less from the thought of receiving the  loly Communion with her.  She could scarcely realise the
comfort that would be to them both; but she did
not know  how to approach the subject.  It was
difficult to tell whether she might or ought. He had




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             245
neglected it she feared for so many years; though she
knew that, as a very young man, he had been accustomed to receive it regularly; and once he had
alluded to it and sighed, as if those were better and
happier times than he could ever expect to return.
She said something to Mrs. Howard about it, and
hoped that through her it might be named to the
rector; and that he would suggest what she might
do. But one or two days slipped by, and there were
some reasons for delay; and when the rector called
again, Blanche was not able to see him. She was
much later that morning than usual in waking, for
she had scarcely slept at all during the early part of
the night. Mrs. Howard thought she had better not
leave her bed, but she was anxious to be dressed, for
she thought she should be more comfortable; and
they brought her into' the  sitting-room, in the
afternoon, and laid her on the sofa, which was
drawn in front of the window.  Lord Rutherford
was to have gone into the town in the afternoon;
but she looked so ill, that he did not like to leave
her, even for half an hour, and he sat in the room
with her, writing; for she could not listen to reading.  The house was kept very quiet, and Mrs.
Howard and Maude were by themselves a great
part of the time, for they were afraid to disturb her
by having too many in the room.  They did not go
to her till it was growing late; and, when they opened
the door, Lord Rutherford was reading one of the
prayers from the Visitation Service; and they closed
it again very softly and went away. Blanche had
borne that so well that the earl thought he might
venture to talk to her, and he kissed her, and said,
it had been a bad day, but he hoped they should
have a better one to-morrow.
Blanche smiled doubtfully. " Yes," she replied;
it had been a bad day in manv ways, but it had
Y 2




246         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
been very quiet, and she had not been suffering pain,
except a little occasionally, and she was very glad to
be able to be dressed and come into the sitting-room
once more. " I don't think I shall come in to-morrow," she added.
The earl turned pale; " I am glad to see the sun
set again," continued Blanche, "because I was
always so fond of it-the sunset here especially.
Papa, it was just at this very time in the evening,
last year, that you came; do you recollect it?"
Poor Lord Rutherford! what would he not have
given to have been able to forget?
" You will remember that sunset was my favourite
time, wont you?" said Blanche; "and that it always
seemed to me, when I was a child-and even sometimes it does now-as if it was part of Heaven, and
as if all the forms of the clouds were real things,
mountains and lakes. It is very bright and beautiful
this evening," she added, gazing on it intently.
" We may hope to have many like it, at this time
of the year," said the earl, in a tone which was fearfully calm.
"Yes, I hope you will have a great many," continued Blanche; " and you must not let them make
you sad, dear papa; but you must think they are
the pictures of my home-our home," she added,
correcting herself.
The earl compressed his lips firmly together, and
Blanche felt his hand tremble.
"You will take me back to Rutherford, I know,"
she said, after a pause, seeing that he could not trust
himself to speak; "and, perhaps, by-and-by, you will
be pleased to think that I am lying near you, when
you are in church, as I used to think of manlima.
And one thing, may I say it?-I cannot bear to painl
you," and she kissed his forehead, and waited till
he said "Go on."




THEi EARL'S DAUGHTER.           247
"One thing I have a fancy about.  I should not
like anything grand to be put upon my coffin, only
my name and the date, and a cross."  She waited
to take breath, for the exertion of much speaking
was very trying.
"Anything else? tell me all," said the earl.  He
was summoning every effort to remain calm, for he
knew now what these last wishes foreboded.
" I should be glad to feel that you would not go
away from  Rutherford," said Blanche; even then
shrinking from that which might appear dictating to
him.  " I like to fancy that you will be near where
I am resting; and I should feel that all the poor
people whom I care about would be thought of; and
that Dr. Wentworth would have some one to help
him in what he wants to do in the parish. Perhaps
by-and-by you would try and remember me to some of
the old persons I used to visit, and to poor Susannah
Dyer.  I wrote their names down one day to give to
you.  Maude has the paper."
" Is that all?" said the earl.
"Yes, all; except the directions I gave before I
left home, and" —she pointed to her Bible, from
which the earl had been accustomed to read to her.
" It was given to me by Mrs. Howard, on the day
of my confirmation," she said; "will you keep it
and love it? and —"
"Read it?" said the earl, earnestly; "Yes; that
indeed I may promise."
"It is marked," continued Blanche.  "I think
you will understand the marks.  I have put the date
to some of the lessons which you have read to me;
and there is my Prayer Book also; the Psalms I like
best for prayers are marked in that."  She feebly
turned the pages, till the book was opened at the
office for the Holy Comnmunion.  It was headed by a
date of the precing year. "The day of may first




248         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
Communion," she said, pointing to it; and as the
earl bent down to look nearer, or, possibly, to hide
the feelings which were visible in his face, she added,
"Will you mark it with the date of the last? tomorrow, if it may be."
"To-morrow! Blanche, my precious, precious
child; I cannot part with you. God forgive me! Oh
grant that I may bear it! "
Blanche would not let him give way.  She said,
he must not; it would be wrong now when they
had such infinite comfort; when they were one-one
whatever mighthappen. The next Communion might
not be the last; but she thought it would; and she
was going to ask him to write to the rector, and fix
it decidedly. It had been left a little uncertain on
the preceding day. The earl seized some note-paper,
and began to write.  Blanche put out her hand to
stop him.  Her look was so anxious, so pleading,
that he threw aside his pen, and knelt beside her.
"Together," said Blanche, and in her agitation, she
gasped for breath; "for the first and last time together."  And as the earl bent his head upon her hand
his answer was, "Pray for me, that I may not be
rejected."
Blanche was taken early to her bed that evening,
for she was very much weakened, and in some pain;
and her breathing was very short. Lord Rutherford
sat up with her, and Mrs. Howard. Till this sudden
change it had been sufficient to have a servant sleeping in her room. The earl looked ill and worn, but
no one thought of advising him to go to rest.
Blanche was very restless all the night, and they
could not quiet her in any way; though sometimes
Mrs. Howard said a verse of a Psalm to her, and she
appeared to like it.  She scarcely spoke, except to
ask for a little tea; but she was quite sensible, and
smiled at her father when he came up to her, and




THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.             249
followed him with her eye when he turned away;
and, at last, after he had been trying to settle her
more comfortably, she laid her head on the pillow,
resting on his arm, and fell asleep with her hand
clasped in his.
She slept in this way for about an hour and a half,
and woke as if startled. Lord Rutherford was in
the room with her alone.  There was a change; he
saw that directly, and rang the bell.
Blanche looked up eagerly, and tried to say something, and the earl bent down to catch the words:
"Will he come? Will there be time, do you think?"
she asked.
The earl hesitated for an instant. Then he answered with perfect composure: "We can send, and
he will come at any moment;" and Blanche joined'
her thin hands, and said, " Thank God," and sank
quietly back on the pillow.
It was but half an hour from that time, and the
Service for the Communion of the Sick was celebrated
in Blanche's dying chamber.  Mrs. Howard, Maude,
and Lord Rutherford kneeling by her bed.
And it was over-and Lord Rutherford knelt still;
and Blanche's eyes closed, and her lips moved in
prayer.  A few minutes passed of peace unutterable;
and then Blanche faintly smiled upon Mrs. Howard
and Maude; and tried to press her father's hand, and
whispered: "Papa, good b'ye."  The earl raised his
head, but she never spoke again.
Long, long, he remained listening to the faint,
scarcely perceptible breathing, until at length there
was a gentle sigh,-and the stillness of death rested
upon the features of his darling child.
They laid her to rest by her mother's side, in the
vault beneath the chapel of the Evelyns, in the old
church of Rutherford. There, not many years after



250         THE EARL'S DAUGHTER.
wards, reposed the mortal remains of one who, if a
deep repentance can avail to obtain mercy, most
surely carried with him to his grave, the pardon of
God, as well as the blessing of man.
Lord Rutherford never left his home for more than
a few months, when he returned to it after Blanche's
death. If ambition, or indolence, or the love of pleasure had charms for him, they were sacrificed in the
service of the Master, to whom, though late, he had
devoted himself.
His memory is still cherished amongst his people.
They talk of his truth and uprightness, his thoughtfulness and liberality, his piety and consistency; and
if they say that he was cold in manner, and solitary
in his habits, they know that he lived in spirit with
the dead, and they marvel not that he had few affections left to devote to the living. Even now, when
his castle is the possession of another, they point out
the terrace where he used to walk,-sometimes with
Maude, the only person who was ever known to visit
him  in his retirement, but oftener alone-watching
the golden sunset intently, as if it was a reality of
heaven rather than a dream of earth; and when they
point to the escutcheon of his earthly glory, and sigh
over the honours of a race extinct, there are many to
pray that, like the last Earl of Rutherford, they may
one day rest in the "sure and certain hope" of
"those who sleep in Jesus."
END OF VOL. II.
Stevens and Co., Printers, Bell Yard, Temple Bar.