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LONDON:
F. SHOBERL, JUN., 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET,
PRINTER TO H. R. H. PRINCE ALBERT.

THE
MANŒUVRING MOTHER.

CHAPTER XXII.

Four years passed rapidly and tranquilly at Fairlee. The waters of Lochleven flowed at the foot of its undulating grounds, and the mountains of Glencoe terminated the grandly-beautiful and distant prospect which Christobelle gazed upon with untired delight, from the different points where she loved to sit in meditation, or employed herself in painting its glowing and ever-changing tints. Often did the forms of Anna Maria and Isabel appear before her, as she lingered upon the mountain-tops which overhung the lake, and watched the golden sun sink below the horizon.

Often did the woods and smiling lands of Wetheral appear to her mental view; and though its scenery, so flatly tame, sank into insignificance before the cloud-capped Cona, and the hills of many names which surrounded the rich and beautiful Lochleven—still, there was the remembrance of her first attachments; there were the forms she loved, and the hearts which loved her, fondly. There was the scene of her infancy, and there she had parted from her kind companion and friend, Sir John Spottiswoode.

Anna Maria's heart and eyes were given exclusively to her excellent husband, and Isabel was devoted to her child; but Sir John Spottiswoode had been for weeks her instructor, her only attendant, and the depository of her thoughts. She felt the loss of his society for months; and when she gazed upon the calm lake, or mused upon the rocky heights, each and all threw back her thoughts to Sir John Spottiswoode. Oh! what would he, the travelled one, the lover of grand scenery—what would he say to the bold and graceful scenery? What would he say to the combination of wood, and rock, and pleasant glens; the mountains, the water, and all the glorious views which decorated Lochleven? Surely he would love its repose, its agitations, its sublimity; surely he would love its groves, its islands, and its storms. He would roam with her through the lovely glens; they would together visit the falls of Kinlochmore: they would meditate together on Eilan na Corak, and climb the highest points to watch the setting sun, and think upon absent ones. Why had she not a brother to accompany her in her pleasant rambles, and why was he not Sir John Spottiswoode?

Lady Wetheral's health did not recover the shock of Lady Kerrison's death. She sank gradually into an invalid: and, though she rarely visited the beauteous scenes around her, and never admired their grandeur, yet her thoughts rested no longer upon England. She was content to remain at Fairlee, exhausted in body, and depressed in mind. Her temper lost every trace of its former playfulness, and she dwelt constantly and bitterly upon the idea of Clara's ingratitude in not seeing her at the time of her decease. She told Christobelle the voice of Clara came to her in the dead of the night, and thundered in the wind which roared from the mountains. She saw Clara in her dreams ever pointing towards her, and exclaiming, "Oh! hard-hearted mother!" She declared to Christobelle that if her death should prove the consequence of such distressing visitations, she died by the hand of Lady Kerrison, and her ungrateful conduct would have been the means of destroying the author of her existence, and the contriver of her high and enviable establishment. She had indeed heard of ungrateful children; but little could she imagine she was herself to fall a victim to the daughters whom she had reared so carefully. Clara had died, and she expected Julia would be equally undutiful. Not once had she been invited to Bedinfield, nor was she even apprized of their flight abroad!

Such were Lady Wetheral's feelings; and her irritable and disappointed mind vented its bitterness upon the innocent Christobelle. The leading thought of her heart and the aim of her actions had ever been the establishment of her children, and upon her youngest daughter, now in the midst of suffering and solitude, did her anxiety rest. Christobelle was to beware of the sun and of the dew. It was ruinous to the complexion to sit staring for hours in a hot sun upon nonsensical views, and still worse, to roam about with a plaid round her shoulders, and a hat swinging to her arm, like a low-lived Scotch girl. Lochleven produced much gaiety in the autumn, as many families thronged to visit lake scenery; she would therefore feel obliged by Miss Chrystal paying a little more attention to her person, that she might not be recognized as Lady Wetheral's very vulgar daughter, or give occasion of remark to General Ponsonby's family. General Ponsonby, as a man of high connections, might probably have people staying at Clanmoray of some consideration; and she insisted upon her careful attention to dress and manners. She might meet gentlemen unexpectedly, and a young lady should be upon her guard. No man could be struck with a girl whose tanned complexion gave her the appearance of having tended sheep and goats upon the hill-tops.

In spite of Lady Wetheral's precautions, Christobelle met no gentleman "unexpectedly," nor were her studies interrupted by any people of consideration from Clanmoray. Letters from England told of Mrs. Tom Pynsent's increasing family; and Isabel's visit was deferred, year after year, by the expected death of Miss Tabitha, whose illness had proved long and suffering. She could not bear to hear or think of her brother's departure from Shropshire while she still lingered, and Mr. Boscawen had promised to close her eyes ere he quitted Brierly. Isabel's visit, therefore, must remain uncertain: she was the mother of three children, and her anxiety was very great to exhibit them all at Fairlee, and listen to the roar of the cataracts with Christobelle.

There was also news of Julia. The party had returned to Bedinfield, and Colonel Neville was still in the suite of the Countess-dowager; but few ever penetrated into the mysteries of Bedinfield. The Ennismores saw little company, and it was reported the establishment consisted chiefly of foreigners selected by the Countess mother. Colonel Neville remained desperately attached to Julia, and Lord Ennismore rarely quitted his apartments; his lordship was becoming extremely invalided, and Dr. Anstruther was superseded by a Florence physician.

Mrs. Pynsent wrote frequently to Christobelle, and from her chatty pen, Miss Wetheral received the home news of the south. "Every one," she wrote, "was pretty well except 'Bobby,' who looked very like a turkey with the pip, for his head was sinking between his shoulders, and his poor back got round. However, he played with the eldest boy, and left every thing to Tom, who—God bless him!—grew handsomer every day, and rattled over business much better than his poor moonshine father. Sally Hancock sat with him now and then, and her company was getting rather amusing to him: altogether, they were tolerably well at Hatton. Sophy Spottiswoode was married, and they talked of visiting Scotland with Sir John Spottiswoode; perhaps they would visit Lochleven and Fairlee, and see what was acting there and thereabouts. Sir Jacky seemed to wish to peep about Lochleven, for reasons best known to himself." Mrs. Pynsent ended by hoping Christobelle was not obliged to be in love with some red-headed Scotchman, because he was rich.

Sir John Wetheral twice visited Shropshire during his seclusion at Fairlee, but his daughter could not accompany him. Lady Wetheral's health detained her; and, during his absence, the magnificence of the country, its quiet grandeur, and its beautiful variety, could not recompense her for the misery she endured under continual and unabated reproaches, or the language of useless complaint, unceasingly uttered in doleful tones. Her ladyship considered her daughter's singlehood at seventeen years of age a severe blow upon her matronly cares. Up to the moment of her seventeenth birthday, Christobelle had never received an offer of marriage, or heard a comment upon her beauty, save in the somewhat coarse approbation which was bestowed by Mrs. Pynsent upon her growth at Hatton.

Christobelle had never listened to adulation, nor had she ever, in her walks, met a look or observation which could be construed into admiration, or even commendation. She bounded in health and freedom of heart over the mountains, and sailed on the lake with her attendant Janet, without a thought of care, or a wish to shine as her sisters had done, before her entrance into society. She wished her father alone to share in her rambles; if her fancy ever strayed beyond his presence, it was in a sigh to think how greatly she should enjoy the surprise and pleasure which Sir John Spottiswoode must feel, if he ever beheld the scenery of Lochleven. But it was not so with Lady Wetheral.

Every year brought newly-awakened annoyance to Christobelle, in the ironical tone of her mother's birthday congratulation: and it brought equal affliction to her ladyship, that she must still endure the society of a daughter unsought, and very probably destined to remain single. Her father was in England when she received congratulations upon attaining her seventeenth year. Sir John promised to reach Fairlee, if possible, in time to spend that day with his daughter at the falls of Kinlochmore; but it was not to be so, and she entered the breakfast-room that morning depressed and without appetite. Lady Wetheral commenced her attack.

"I believe, Bell, you are now seventeen. I beg to offer my congratulations upon the effect you have created at Lochleven. Clara and Isabel were married at your age, and I am expecting every day to be consulted upon some affair of your own. You appear to have made no impression upon young Ponsonby, after all your walks and sails upon the water."

"Young Ponsonby, mamma!"

"Some people never care to understand what they do not wish to know," replied her mother. "In the precincts of Lochleven your want of power to please may pass unobserved, but I should have been pointed at in England, as a mother hopeless of her daughter's establishment."

"But young Ponsonby never walks and sails with me, mamma. I am only accompanied by Janet."

"I am perfectly aware that Janet is your only companion," replied her mother, drily.

"I never wished to be with Mr. Ponsonby, mamma. I declined Miss Ponsonby's invitation to join her party at Ballahuish."

"You did very unwisely. I wish you to join the Ponsonby parties. Have I not told you repeatedly that wish?"

"I thought you would be alone, mamma."

"I should be much obliged by your thinking to more purpose, Bell. I never wish to interfere with your engagements, when they tend to a proper end."

"But what end could be answered at Ballahuish, mamma?"

"You are growing extremely disagreeable and argumentative, Miss Wetheral. I will trouble you to withhold your rather imperious questionings, if you please."

Christobelle was silent, and Lady Wetheral proceeded with her breakfast; but nothing met her approbation. The coffee was cold, the eggs were not fresh, and the rolls were burnt. Every thing was most uncomfortable since she had quitted England—particularly uncomfortable, since no one was near her to make her wants a matter of the least consideration.

Christobelle offered to ring for hot coffee.

"I shall be obliged by your remaining where you are, if you please. Ingratitude is nothing new to me: Clara taught me that parental misery—I can bear it now with patience. Clara has ruined my health by her ungrateful conduct. I, who sought her advancement in life, and who almost made the offer to establish her at Ripley, deserved a better fate than to be spurned from her dying bed, and see Mrs. Pynsent preferred before me. I cannot understand a coarse personage like Mrs. Pynsent being a proper attendant upon a deathbed. Her loud voice would disturb the dead."

"But she was so gentle and kind to Clara! She was so attentive, papa said!"

"I shall never believe it."

"But you remember how very kindly she assisted me, and how tenderly she nursed you, mamma."

"I was not on my deathbed. Close that window, Bell, the wind is rising; and do shut out the sound of those French horns."

Christobelle rose to obey. Two small vessels were traversing the loch, containing a party of pleasure, apparently intending to pass the morning in the island which was once the prison-house of Mary. A band of French horns woke the echoes as they rowed along, and the air of "Auld lang syne," delightfully played in parts, riveted her attention. For a few moments she paused to listen, but the sounds affected Lady Wetheral beyond endurance: she trembled and wept. Christobelle closed the window.

"I cannot bear those sounds," she cried, clasping her hands. "I hear Clara's voice, and she persists in calling me her hard-hearted mother. Her voice is in every sound, and that tone kills me. I am not hard-hearted—I am an injured mother, worn down by that ungrateful voice. I hear it in the winds at night, and the breeze of the lake whispers it. I cannot bear to hear Clara's voice."

Christobelle endeavoured to calm her mother's nerves, but repeated attacks had destroyed their tone, and she could not rally at pleasure. Mrs. Bevan was summoned to attend her lady, and she was laid upon her bed to receive the usual remedies. Her ladyship was then left in quiet and in darkness for some hours. This scene was but the recurrence of a now constantly repeated attack of the nerves upon every sound which reached her ear from without. The storm, the breeze, the sighing of the winds, the soft and delicious music which occasionally rose on the air, all created the same terror—it was Clara reproaching her for youth and happiness blasted, and constantly exclaiming, "Oh, hard-hearted mother!"

Time increased the disorder. Four years' residence in Scotland, far from the scene of Clara's tragic departure, and removed beyond all allusion to the events which had occurred, did not soften by distance the regrets of Lady Wetheral's heart. Year after year brought increased nervousness; and Sir John had endeavoured to lead his lady's thoughts again towards Wetheral, but in vain. "She had resolved never again to visit a country which had brought her so much disquietude. Clara was gone—gone from her for ever, tainted with bitter ingratitude, and the grandeur of Lady Ennismore's establishment was to her a blank—she had never witnessed it. All that she had most anxiously desired had become a source of misery to her feelings, and she only desired now to live far away from painful associations." Sir John pointed out the near neighbourhood of her two happily-married daughters, Pynsent and Boscawen; but it failed to create pleasing thoughts.

"No, I have no wish to see those objects which will remind me of Julia's banishment and Clara's death. If they are happy, why was not Julia to be with me, and why was Clara ungrateful? Why was I to be defeated in my views? Why was Julia carried abroad without one interview with the mother who endured so much to secure her establishment, without even writing to me? No; I am miserable, but let me alone, and let me die here!"

Lady Wetheral would at such moments turn to Miss Wetheral with looks of reproach, and inveigh against her unattractive appearance or manner.

"If you wished to give me pleasure, Bell, you would not fly in my face, as Clara did. If you attended to your person, I might yet be gratified by hearing praises of your beauty, and receive pleasure in contemplating your future establishment; but I have no hopes for you. I have no inducement to quit this dreary Lochleven. I will not carry forth a daughter who is blind to her own advancement, or subject myself to ridicule, by the constant appendage of a young woman who is likely to pass single to her grave. If I could rouse you to exertion, I might rally too; but this determined indifference to future distinction destroys me. I am doomed to suffer every gradation of parental disappointment."

What hand could pluck from her ladyship's memory "this rooted sorrow?" What hand could cleanse her bosom of this "perilous stuff?" Haman knew no peace while Mordecai sat at the king's gate, and Lady Wetheral would not be comforted, because the eye of admiration had not yet glanced upon Christobelle, or opened a channel for her energies to rise again under the exciting employment of speculating upon her future establishment. What a life was this! After Lady Wetheral's departure to her room, under the nervous effect produced by the lake music, Christobelle strolled along its banks, accompanied by Janet. The little band still poured their sounds upon the breeze, as they sat listening to the sprightly notes of "Will ye gang to the bourne, my Marion:" and at its conclusion Christobelle's eager fancy suggested the idea of sailing towards the Isle, to enjoy the softly-swelling sounds which now but faintly stole upon the ear. The boatmen were quickly summoned to their oars, and Christobelle ordered them to stretch and lie to, under the Isle, where the party were seated beneath the trees, which once afforded shade to the royal Mary in her captivity.

A boat put out from the land as they approached, and Christobelle saw the figures of Miss Ponsonby and her brother Charles seated in its stern. Miss Ponsonby waved her hand as the boat glided to her side, and hailed her "prisoner." A large party from Clanmoray were regaling in the "Douglas Isle," and her movements had been watched through many telescopes. Miss Wetheral had declined her party to Ballahuish; but her captivity was now as sure as that of the unfortunate Queen of Scots, unless a Douglas again rose to the rescue.

"It was a party," Miss Ponsonby said, "in honour of her eldest brother, who had left Ireland on a long furlough, and who had arrived at Clanmoray, after an absence of six years. She would allow no excuses to prevail. Miss Wetheral must and should do honour also to Edward's arrival." Christobelle was loth to obey the mandate: she was quite unprepared for the little incident, and felt alarmed at the idea of encountering a large company almost unknown to her. Miss Ponsonby, however, ordered the boats towards the landing-place, and the party disembarked. The Ponsonby family came forward to welcome Miss Wetheral's arrival, and they introduced her to the assembled group.

The Duke of Forfar, lately raised to the dukedom by the death of his aged father, was present; and there was also young Lord Farnborough, once the Selgrave, whose name she trembled to hear from her mother's lips, when she spoke of him as a future suitor. Christobelle saw also Lady Anna Herbert, the imagined rival of Mrs. Charles Spottiswoode in her days of coquetry; and her mind glanced back to the time when she heard so much and so often of the Farnborough Stacy family. Lady Anna Herbert was still unmarried, and she could perceive the same lively manners, the same coquettish look, which had so formidably alarmed the fears of Miss Wycherly.

His Grace politely acknowledged his intimate acquaintance with her family, and his pleasure at being able to renew it with a daughter of Sir John Wetheral upon the distant Lochleven. He had no remembrance of Miss Wetheral, but young people sprung up around him into life. His Grace had heard of a beauteous scion, unseen at Wetheral Castle, but it was reserved to him to meet her for the first time, on poetical and historical ground—on the very spot where the beautiful Mary of Scotland landed in misfortune, a captive beauty, such as the vision which now met his eye.

"Well done, papa!" cried Lady Anna, "your imagination is awakened by this scene, and Miss Wetheral has fortunately appeared to keep up the illusion. Miss Wetheral, you should reply in character, and papa will be charmed."

"If Miss Wetheral will personate the afflicted queen," said Lord Farnborough, "I must beg to enact the faithful Douglas, and aid her escape."

"Very good, let it be so," replied his Grace of Forfar: "this is the very spot to renew our recollections. Who will be the warder, Lady Douglas?"

"If I can in any way represent the character, I shall be happy to look the grim gaoler," answered Lady Anna Herbert.

Christobelle stood confused and blushing, amid the group of strangers who gathered round her. Among the gaily-apparelled females, she alone appeared rudely clad in the costume of the country; she alone wore the plaid and bonnet which decorated the humble inhabitants of Kinross, and the hamlets around Lochleven. She felt for the moment distressed at her appearance, so distinct from the party with whom she was destined to mix. Her confusion was apparent to the polite Miss Ponsonby. She took her hand.

"Miss Wetheral is all good-nature to obey my bidding, and we are happy in having one of our number, at least, attired in proper costume. Lady Anna, how came we to plan our day's amusement, and yet forget the most material subject of dress?"

"You have ruined the effect of our tout-ensemble by your sudden appearance, Miss Wetheral," observed Lord Farnborough; "we thought ourselves unique, and you only exhibit our deficiencies. You are often here, I presume."

"It has been a favourite spot of mine these four years," replied Christobelle, slightly confused.

"You are then the genius of the place, Miss Wetheral. Will you point out to me the favourite haunts of your long seclusion, and do the honours of Lochleven to a stranger?"

Christobelle was very willing to be the stranger's guide; and she found herself shortly after her arrival in "the Douglas Isle," seated between Miss Ponsonby and Lord Farnborough, pointing out the beauties of the lake scenery. Miss Ponsonby smiled at her enthusiastic descriptions.

"After this specimen of your powers, Miss Wetheral, do not hope to escape me in future. You would have graced our quiet bivouac at Ballahuish. No one spoke a word, or commented upon the luxuriant lake, there. No one possessed your happy taste for the romantic; or they kept it all to themselves at Ballahuish. To be sure, Lord Farnborough was not with us."

"Are you so fond of scenery, my lord?" asked Christobelle, turning towards her other companion.

"Yes, his lordship is a poet and a painter," replied Miss Ponsonby; "he must, therefore, necessarily love the stupendous and the beautiful, such as now lies before us. His lordship muses at the view of Ossian's 'Cona,' and writes verses upon Ballahuish ferry."

"Miss Ponsonby is pleased to be merry at my expense," said Lord Farnborough; "nevertheless, I worship Nature's beautiful productions."

"Then you must visit the falls of Kinlochmore, my lord; and if you are poetical, muse over those mountain-tops, and visit the little ruin of St. Mungo's Isle, to hear the breeze murmur of the clans of Glencoe and Lochaber."

"Will you, the presiding spirit, attend me there?" asked Lord Farnborough.

"We will all attend you," cried Miss Ponsonby. "The more spirits the better, my lord, upon such a mission. Miss Wetheral, you will promise to attend my summons to St. Mungo's Isle."

"If I can quit Fairlee for a whole day, I shall be happy to attend you."

"But mind, Miss Wetheral, I insist upon your costume; you look now like the ghost of Scotland flitting among the barbarians who have ravaged her soil, and changed her customs."

Christobelle continued some time in the island with Miss Ponsonby and Lord Farnborough, as the party formed in little groups under the trees, to gaze upon the calm lake and its beautiful shores, and they wandered round the tower and its precincts, which once held a queen of Scotland in durance. Christobelle thought Lord Farnborough spoke with feeling upon the events of Lochleven Castle; and she contemplated his intelligent countenance with an interest remote from the fear which took possession of her mind, when her lady mother first urged her intention that she should marry Lord Selgrave.

They were soon deeply engaged in Scottish history, following the current of events which closed the reign and life of Mary; and though Miss Ponsonby contended that her existence proved a course of wicked efforts to gain the English crown, and raise rebellion in her cousin's dominions, Christobelle defended the beautiful captive, with all the rhetoric of youthful enthusiasm. It was, however, time to return to Fairlee, and Christobelle could no longer linger with her friends in the Douglas Isle. General Ponsonby and Lord Farnborough gallantly escorted her into the little vessel which had awaited her commands, and where Janet still sat in expectation of her return. Mr. Ponsonby returned to the company with his father, as the boatmen pushed from the shore, but Lord Farnborough bounded into the vessel, and took his seat by the side of Christobelle, ere it drove from its mooring. He meant, he said, to see her land safely on the grounds of Fairlee, and it was useless to deny him the pleasure, or, he might say, the propriety of accompanying her across the lake.

The vessel at that moment left the shore, and the little horn band almost instantly played with great taste, "My heart's in the Highlands." Christobelle turned her head towards the shore, and gazed upon the gay groups preparing for an early meal. Their forms gradually receded from view, and were lost in the distance; but the music continued its dying strains, and fell fainter and fainter upon the breeze. The silence was unbroken for some time, as they crossed the slumbering lake; but Lord Farnborough, at last, broke the stillness of the scene by asking Christobelle if she amused herself in sketching the lovely views on either side Lochleven. From this question, answered in the affirmative, they entered upon the subject of painting, which gradually led to its sister art—poetry; and Christobelle was delighted to know that when they visited St. Mungo's Isle, she would judge of his progress in both departments. They were both to go provided with drawing materials; and, if Christobelle insisted upon it, his lordship would submit a few poetic inspirations to her "better judgment," upon a rock overhanging the lake, even before the party took place.

It was not to be supposed that their acquaintance would end here, after the pleasures of the morning. His lordship entreated permission to wait upon Miss Wetheral at Fairlee, and he hoped to renew the happiness of the last two hours in many agreeable walks and drives in the splendid scenes of Lochleven. Christobelle trusted Lord Farnborough's polite wishes might indeed be fulfilled; she was quite willing to be pleased by the society of a pleasant young man, whose conversation was so entertaining, and who appeared to be so gifted in the arts of music, painting, and poetry—arts so admired and valued by her taste. She told his lordship she was sure her mother would receive his visits with pleasure. "But will you receive them with pleasure?" he asked, as the little vessel glided into the cove from which it embarked; "will you, Miss Wetheral, admit my visits with pleasure, and allow me sometimes to join you in your walks and musings?"

How could Christobelle object? yet she made no reply, or even answered his appealing look. The young lord's countenance fell.

"You will not speak to me, Miss Wetheral; you will not say I am welcome at Fairlee sometimes."

"My mother will be glad to see you, I am sure, Lord Farnborough," she replied, confusedly, a second time.

"My wish is to join you occasionally in your rides, Miss Wetheral, and you must assure me I shall not be considered an intruder."

Christobelle's confusion increased at this speech, and at the earnest look which Lord Farnborough cast upon her. She could only stammer forth an assurance that she must be very happy also to see his lordship whenever he paid a visit to Fairlee; and that assurance gave her companion confidence to urge the necessity of escorting her to the very door of her home. This Christobelle declined, with a seriousness which forbade remonstrance; she had Janet with her, and Fairlee lay too near the lake to allow of any fears for her safety. She, therefore, took leave of his lordship, as he assisted her to quit the little vessel which belonged to the Cove of Fairlee, and which her father dedicated to her exclusive use. Lord Farnborough lingered a few moments.

"Miss Wetheral, we shall meet again before the party to St. Mungo's Isle takes place."

"When may we expect you at Fairlee, my lord?"

"To-morrow. Promise me you will not go out till I come."

"I seldom leave the grounds before two o'clock. Remember the effusions you promised I should see."

"Will you read them, and judge a poor poet mercifully?"

"I shall say exactly what I think, my lord."

"Then I stand condemned at once."

"Perhaps not; adieu, my lord!"

"But one moment, Miss Wetheral. How anxious you are to escape!"

"I have left my mother some hours alone. I must return to her, and account for my absence, Lord Farnborough."

"It is not anxiety then to leave me, to get rid of me, Miss Wetheral?"

"No, indeed!"

"Then farewell for many dull hours. The Douglas Isle will have no charms for me, since the genius of Lochleven is withdrawn."

Lord Farnborough respectfully bowed, and re-entered the boat. Christobelle went forwards with Janet, but curiosity induced her to look back upon the lake, as they gained a rising ground about five hundred yards from the shore. The vessel was again traversing the water, and Lord Farnborough was watching their receding steps, as he stood with folded arms in the stern of the mimic sloop. He waved his handkerchief as Christobelle stood for a moment to contemplate the scene; she waved her plaid in answer to the signal. Twice were the signals exchanged, at separate intervals, till a grove of firs closed the lake from her view; and then she walked on, slowly and silently to the house.

She did not utter a word to her companion and attendant, the patient Janet; her mind was revolving the events of the day, and it dwelt with peculiar interest upon the unexpected appearance of Lord Farnborough and his family, on a solitary island of Lochleven. It was most extraordinary that her introduction to Lord Farnborough should take place then and there—that her first interview with the Selgrave of former days, whose very name brought tears into her eyes, should be one of extreme interest—nay, of growing intimacy; that she was now to be accompanied in her rides and walks by this once hated lord; and that, without an effort on her mother's part, they had themselves agreed to draw, to sing, to become companions together, in the wild mountains of Scotland, when none were near to urge the introduction, or plan the scheme of their amusements.

While her mother lay in darkness, dwelling upon the evil destiny of Clara, ignorant even of her amusements, she had become known to the Selgrave of her former speculation; and without her knowledge and concurrence, his lordship was engaged to visit Fairlee! How wonderfully did events arrange themselves without human interference, and how foolishly did she, in younger days, reject the idea of becoming acquainted with a young man whom she had never seen, and could not justly deprecate! How could she ever attach a feeling of dislike to a creature so intelligent, so agreeable, so very attentively polite! How rash to judge of any human being, unknown and unseen!

Whatever her youthful fancy conjured up to deform the image of "Lord Selgrave" in her mental reveries, not a feeling separate from admiration and pleased remembrance hovered round her meditations upon Lord Farnborough, at this period of time. Christobelle was deeply engaged with her own thoughts when she entered the hall at Fairlee. Silence reigned in its precincts, and she looked forward to hours of irritable conference with her mother, ere she could press her silent pillow, and think unrestrainedly of all that had passed. Yet, she heard voices in the sitting-room; and, above all, she heard her mother's voice in its long-lost tones of playfulness, addressing a stranger. She heard two voices reply. One she recognized to be her father's beloved tones. He was then arrived: he had fulfilled his word of promise to be with her on her birthday at last! Christobelle entered the room in haste, and flew into his arms.

"I thought you could not return so soon, papa; I had quite given up the idea of seeing you till June: how good this is of you, my own dear papa!"

"I have kept my word, Chrystal, to salute you upon your birthday. I made great efforts to achieve the journey in time, and I have brought another friend to congratulate you upon your looks and studies." Christobelle turned towards the stranger, and a cry of pleasure burst from her lips; it was Sir John Spottiswoode. The sight of her instructor, her companion, her kindest friend, at once obliterated all other thoughts, and she caught his offered hand with feelings of most enviable enjoyment. She had now again a companion to ramble with, to talk with. She would no more mourn under her mother's petulance, or roam the borders of Lochleven unattended. Christobelle did say to him at that joyful moment—and she said it in sincerity—"Oh! now I shall be happy—now I shall have you always with me again!"

Sir John Spottiswoode expressed his equal pleasure at the meeting, and he complimented Christobelle upon her appearance of perfect health. It was a grateful satisfaction to find she had not forgotten him. He remembered, with interest, their former studies, and he expected to be astonished by her rapid progress in every pursuit, during the long interregnum of four years. Christobelle assured him of his mistake.

"I have been a wild creature for years, and, except in drawing and music, I have not done credit to your instructions. You will be obliged to begin my education again, Sir John."

"Bell is a dear, flighty girl," said Lady Wetheral, in affectionate accents, which had never yet gladdened her daughter's heart at Fairlee—"Bell is wild as the curlews upon the lake. She requires your society to tame her flights. She has been absent now three long hours."

"I have seen extraordinary things, and extraordinary people," Christobelle exclaimed, as she doffed her mountain-cap, and took Sir John Spottiswoode's offered seat.

"In that dress, my love?—surely not in that dress, Bell?"

"I have been among the high ones of the land," continued Christobelle, in high spirits, delighted at being with her father, and near Sir John Spottiswoode. "I have been among the gay Southrons in Douglas Isle, and a peer of the realm has escorted me across the lake."

Lady Wetheral looked incredulous, and somewhat offended. Christobelle was obliged to detail the events of the morning, to mitigate the rising storm; and what a change came over her ladyship's countenance, as her daughter mentioned the attention and intended visit of Lord Farnborough!—joy sparkled in her eyes, and excitement drew her form to its utmost height. She did not answer—words were too feeble to express her deep gratification.

"What sort of a looking person is Lord Farnborough, now?" asked Sir John Spottiswoode.

"Most intelligent, most agreeable," she replied, "but not handsome. I do not consider him handsome."

"Are they here for any length of time?"

"I cannot tell; they attend a party to St. Mungo's Isle soon, which I am engaged to join. But you will go with me now: I shall delight in shewing you the lions of Lochleven. Shall we take a walk after dinner? I long to shew you the beauteous spots, where I have sat so often and so long, thinking of England, and wishing you were here to enjoy it with me."

"I am ready to attend you over hill and dale," replied Sir John Spottiswoode—"over mountain, and through glen."

"That is delightful. After dinner, then, we will set forth."

Christobelle had a packet of letters to read from Shropshire, entrusted to her father's care; and, till the dressing-bell sounded, she was engaged in devouring their contents. All were well in England. Isabel wrote only of her children, and she wished to exhibit them at Fairlee, if Miss Tabitha's health would only allow the visit—but she would neither die nor get well. Anna Maria detailed the delights of the winter's sport in Shropshire, and triumphed in the glory of her husband. They had thirty-seven "brushes" of the last season, which the children played with in the hall, and Tom had been in at the death of each. The eldest boy, Tom, could roar "Tally-ho" as loud as the whipper-in, and the girl climbed trees like a squirrel. Mrs. Pynsent added a short postscript of one line, "Take care of Sir Jacky, Miss Bell."

Christobelle involuntarily raised her eyes towards Sir John Spottiswoode, as she smiled at the concise charge. He was gazing earnestly upon her; her eye sank under the expression of his fixed attention, and she resumed her reading; but a deep blush painfully suffused her cheek. She had met no closely-fixed observation till this moment, and she knew Sir John Spottiswoode's eye was still upon her. She did not dare meet his glance again.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"And you really have wished to lead me through these romantic scenes?" said Sir John Spottiswoode, as Christobelle leaned upon his arm, on the very spot where she parted with Lord Farnborough in the morning; "you have seriously thought of your old friend during his absence, and wished him with you?"

"Yes; every storm which disturbed the lake, and every sunny gleam which gilded its tranquillity, made me think of you, and wish you by my side to enjoy it."

"Perhaps I was equally anxious to find myself strolling with you on these magnificent shores."

"You were otherwise engaged," she replied, quickly; "you had affairs to arrange, and property to amuse and interest your thoughts; but I have had no companion for years, to enliven my hours of solitary walks. I thought of you, when you were too busy to consider me."

"My thoughts were not always employed in Worcestershire, Miss Wetheral; but take me to your haunts, and let me see the views you have so long contemplated."

Christobelle led her companion to the cliff, where she usually passed her morning hours in alternate reading and meditation, and they seated themselves in a natural, rocky seat, which had been worn by time into something like a shapely kind of arbour, for the rock arched over their heads sufficiently deep to afford shelter against heat and showers; and under its rudely constructed roof Christobelle had passed many hours of each successive day, when the weather permitted her to escape from Fairlee. She pointed the attention of her friend to the grandly-indented cliffs which guarded Lochleven—the islets which appeared to slumber on its bosom—the plain of Kinross—its humble abodes—its little church, and the solitary magnificence of the whole scene. "Confess," she said, "that this is a scene worthy to compete with the boasted views abroad. Confess that Lochleven is matchless in its golden sunset, its bracing air, and calmly-beautiful waters. Does not this glowing scene fill your mind with wonder and praise? does it not give soothing thoughts of a great and wonderful Providence, who has created such scenes for his creatures?"

Sir John Spottiswoode stood some time in contemplation, and he was silent during his companion's enthusiastic descriptions: at last, he turned towards her with a smile.

"I have seen many lakes—beautiful lakes, Miss Wetheral, but I cannot say I ever looked upon their scenery with the feelings I now enjoy, in gazing upon Lochleven."

"You will admire every bend of this graceful water," she replied, pleased with his admiring gaze, as he fixed his eyes upon Lochleven; "I must shew you every lovely appendage by degrees. To-morrow we will visit the ferry of Ballahuish—no, not to-morrow...."

"And why not to-morrow?" asked Sir John Spottiswoode.

Christobelle could not tell why she coloured at the question, or why she turned her face from the speaker towards the Douglas Isle. Sir John Spottiswoode repeated his question.

"But why not to-morrow, Miss Wetheral? Why cannot we begin our tour to-morrow?"

"I believe the Duke of Forfar calls at Fairlee to-morrow," she replied.

"Will that detain you?" said her companion, looking at her with a smile.

"Not altogether—no. Lord Farnborough said something about coming too; and, as he named the time, I think perhaps I ought to remain at home."

"I do not know the nature of the understanding implied by the mention of the intended visit to you," observed Sir John Spottiswoode, "therefore I cannot offer an opinion."

"Oh! there was nothing implied—no absolute—I made no promise of any kind."

"You did not engage to remain at Fairlee?"

"Certainly not—no, I may say, certainly not."

"Then let us proceed on our little tour to-morrow."

Christobelle was caught in her own mesh. She had assuredly made no engagement—no actual engagement; but there was an implied consent on her part to Lord Farnborough's hope of finding her at home. She had not courage to confess this to Sir John Spottiswoode—and why was she guilty of evasion? She must now relinquish all thought of meeting Lord Farnborough at Fairlee. Christobelle sat meditating her disappointment for some moments.

"Miss Wetheral," said her companion, after a short silence, "did you ever see Lord Farnborough before the meeting of this morning?"

Christobelle started at the sound of Lord Farnborough's name, but she answered truly, "Never."

"Are you acquainted with his lordship's character?"

"No, indeed; my only knowledge of Lord Farnborough began, and may perhaps end, in this morning's interview."

"Lord Farnborough's character at college was designated as fair and false," observed Sir John Spottiswoode.

"Was it!"

"A fellow-collegian of his lordship's, Beverly, resides near Alverton. He gave me the character I now describe to you."

Christobelle felt uncomfortable at Sir John Spottiswoode's information. It is always painful to hear depreciating accounts of those we admire, or from whom we have received kindness. She knew nothing of Lord Farnborough—his lordship was nothing to her; but she regretted so agreeable a person should prove otherwise than estimable. Could Mr. Beverly's testimony be depended upon? Character should not be lightly treated: if Lord Farnborough's character was at the mercy of Mr. Beverly, it was but fair to ascertain Mr. Beverly's claims to belief. Under this impression, Christobelle hastily uttered her thoughts, after a second pause.

"Pray, Sir John, who is Mr. Beverly?"

"A neighbour in Worcestershire, and one of the best fellows in England. Why do you ask?"

"Because I think your friend is ungenerous, in speaking harshly of Lord Farnborough, who perhaps never offended him."

"Beverly was once deeply offended by Lord Farnborough," replied Sir John Spottiswoode.

"Therefore, your friend is revengeful," she answered, quickly.

"Beverly has borne his injuries like a man, and like a Christian," returned Sir John. "All injuries should be forgiven; but some cannot be forgotten till memory fails."

Again the little band of French horns swelled upon the still air, and the two vessels, which had sailed to the Douglas Isle, emerged from its deep shadow. Christobelle started up.

"They are returning to Clanmoray so late! Oh! listen to that sweet, soft air."

The simple strain of "Farewell to Lochaber" stole softly on their ear, and they sat silently gazing upon the little vessels, as they neared the cliff. Suddenly the music broke off, as if an accident had occurred; but the pause was of short duration—it was again broken by the lively and stirring notes of "My love she's but a lassie yet." The blood mounted to Christobelle's forehead with undisguised pleasure and surprise. She was discovered in her retreat by the party below, and an indescribable feeling shot across her heart, as it grasped at the idea that Lord Farnborough had chosen the air, and that he had commanded its execution, as the vessel passed the cliff. She leaned over the rocks, which formed a barricade before the rural seat, and in fancy she could distinguish the tall, slight figure of his lordship, standing in the stern, with folded arms, as he stood when she waved her plaid in the morning. Christobelle watched the vessel with intense attention, as it glided on, and exclaimed, with eager satisfaction,

"I see him!—I could point him out among a hundred!"

"Whom do you see?" asked Sir John Spottiswoode, as he rose and advanced to her side—"Whom are you noting?"

Christobelle did not immediately reply. She continued gazing upon the lake, and several of the party were also observing them through their telescopes from below.

"But, tell me, Miss Wetheral, whom you note among a hundred, in that party," repeated Sir John Spottiswoode.

"He is standing with—no, he is sitting—that very large personage, the Duke of Forfar—you know the Duke of Forfar?"

"Oh yes, I see. How gratified his Grace would be at the knowledge of having attracted your observation! I think I see Lord Farnborough."

"Whom do you see?—I fancy I recognise Lady Anna Herbert's feather; and there is kind Miss Ponsonby," replied Christobelle, colouring.

"Lord Farnborough is standing in the stern of the vessel, Miss Wetheral: he is waving something—his handkerchief. Who is he waving to?"

A little conscious feeling prevented Christobelle from returning the salutation. She feared Sir John Spottiswoode would observe and smile at her action. She wished he had not told her Lord Farnborough was considered "fair and false." She had no belief in the insinuation, but it caused a very unpleasant restraint. The vessel passed under the jutting rocks immediately below them, and it was obscured for a time: when it reappeared, the distance did not allow them to distinguish the party. They heard the full notes of the French horns, however, till a headland concealed the vessels from sight; and, ere the last faint note died away, the sun was considerably below the horizon. Christobelle and her companion returned to Fairlee at the moment the servants were passing through the hall with coffee.

The evening passed in conversation upon the past and present, and Sir John Spottiswoode's society made Christobelle speedily forget the attentions of Lord Farnborough. The compliments of an attractive and agreeable person, for a few hours, could not compete with the presence of a dear friend, whose taste had led her own in many instances, and who had devoted so much time to accomplish her talents for music and painting. That friend had been remembered during an absence of four years; he had been often apostrophized in solitary walks, and she had wished in silence and sincerity to renew their pleasant intercourse. That boon was now granted. Sir John Spottiswoode was again her companion, and what desire of her heart remained ungratified?

Christobelle laid her head upon her pillow, that night, in peaceful thoughts; and if Lord Farnborough occasionally flitted before her eyes—if the air of "My love is but a lassie yet" lingered upon her ear—yet Sir John Spottiswoode filled her mind. His dark hair, curling in rich profusion over his brow—his manly expression—that benevolent dark blue eye—who was equal to him in excellence?—nay, who was superior, even in those evanescent gifts which captivate the eye of woman? Whom did she love and venerate equal to Sir John Spottiswoode?

The following morning produced a long and perplexing conversation between the mother and daughter, which extinguished all Christobelle's happy feelings. No two beings could possibly be more opposed in feeling, in sentiment, and in action; and never yet did a colloquy take place, without heart-burning arising on one side, and distressed feelings on the other part, to sever the ties between parent and child. In this morning's conference their opinions jarred more painfully than ever; for they were now in actual collision upon points which must materially affect Christobelle's happiness, and her future respectability of conduct. It took place after breakfast, while the gentlemen were perambulating the terrace, and ordering the horses for an intended ride. Lady Wetheral commenced her attack with that flattering address which gains so much influence over poor human nature.

"My dear Bell, the arrival of your old friend has produced wonderful effects. I am gratified at seeing your eyes sparkle, and your expression of countenance become animated. I may confess I am pleased at beholding my quiet daughter transformed into a beauty, by the mere play of pretty coquetry which Sir John Spottiswoode's arrival has called forth."

"I detest coquettes and coquetry," answered Christobelle, seriously, though she was not insensible to the agreeable intimation of her suddenly acquired beauty.

"Nonsense, Bell; it is a woman's most potent argument—it is her most powerful weapon—it is her most precious gift—because it is her greatest attraction: do not undervalue it."

"I have not been many hours in Sir John Spottiswoode's company, mamma. If I felt inclined to coquet, I have had no opportunity."

"A mother's eyes are open, when the daughter's eyes are closed," replied Lady Wetheral, with her most winning smile. "I dare say you were not aware how prettily your eyes sought, and fell beneath Sir John's glances, last night, and at this morning's breakfast. I congratulate you, Bell, upon a gift which will create more decided effects from your ignorance of possessing it. But I wish to call your attention to my anxious wishes—I wish you to attend to my counsel, and I wish you to act by my advice."

"What is your counsel, mamma?"

"I have never yet failed in establishing my daughters," her ladyship continued, "because they acted upon my advice, without arguing its propriety. Julia and Clara acted solely by my wishes, and they won their high establishment."

"Poor Clara!" exclaimed Christobelle, involuntarily.

"It is useless to pity those who would not conform to the proprieties of life," replied Lady Wetheral. "I gave Clara to Sir Foster, with long and serious entreaties to avoid all public scenes and altercations with her husband. I never countenanced opposition in a wife. I implored Clara to be obedient in appearance—so much can be done by prudent management! I never contradicted her father in my life. I effected all my plans without a single quarrel. There is no occasion to quarrel in matrimony. A woman's influence is and must be felt; but it ends the instant you appear to contend. Clara was ungrateful to reproach me as the cause—the idea always makes me nervous."

Her ladyship applied lavender-water to her forehead and handkerchief, and then proceeded.

"Sir John Spottiswoode will propose to you before he quits Fairlee, but I should wish"—

"Sir John Spottiswoode propose to me!" exclaimed Christobelle, in the utmost astonishment.

"All that surprise is foolish, Bell. You are now old enough to command those starts and blushes which look so very fresh, so very girlish. I am certain Sir John Spottiswoode will propose, and it rests with yourself to attract Lord Farnborough."

The blood rushed with impetuous pulsation into the face of Christobelle, and it overspread her forehead, neck, and even her hands: if Lady Wetheral observed the suffusion her words had produced, she affected not to perceive it.

"I should advise you to be very cautious in your conduct to both gentlemen, my dear Bell. Do not be seen too exclusively with Sir John Spottiswoode, to attract attention; and yet, do not check hope on his part. If Lord Farnborough quits Clanmoray without intending any thing, or merely flirts with you, then, let Sir John propose. Alverton is an excellent au pis aller, but I would rather my dear Bell could be saluted Duchess of Forfar."

It was some moments before Christobelle could rally her thoughts and spirits, after the mention of Lord Farnborough, in the light of a future suitor. For one instant, only, the idea of his lordship's affection shot a gleam of ambition into her mind, but the paltry feeling was soon extinguished for ever, and her heart flew back to the remembered excellence of her former instructor and friend. Her mother watched the workings of her spirit.

"If Lord Farnborough calls to-day, my love, I shall invite him to dinner."

"His lordship is a guest at Clanmoray," observed Christobelle, hastily.

"He will be a guest at Fairlee soon," answered my mother, gaily. "I could fancy myself quite well again, my dear child; quite alert, as I used to be; your little 'minauderies' will raise me into new life and spirits. I am sure I am sure he is clever and agreeable; your little coquetries will divert me into health again."

"But, mamma—"

"No 'ifs' and 'buts,' my dear Bell. I have every dependence upon your attractions. Sir John Spottiswoode is astonished at your improved appearance."

"Listen to me, if you please, mamma. I am no coquette; and I would rather die than be considered a character so repugnant to all that is holy and upright."

"My dear girl, forbear sentiment. A little sentiment, if you please, to Lord Farnborough, but not to me."

"I have no wish to marry, mamma," pleaded Christobelle, with earnest seriousness. "I have no wish to leave papa, and—I have no wish to marry Sir John Spottiswoode, and I cannot try to attract any body. Pray, do not advise me to avoid Sir John, or to think of any establishment. Don't let me endure the fate of Clara, or Julia's long banishment."

Lady Wetheral's hands began to tremble, and her features became agitated as she spoke.

"I am well used to disobedience, and this only adds to my accumulation of vexations. and I have one child left to reproach me with bitterness. How could I expect obedience from a headstrong girl, whose masculine education defies restraint!"

"Indeed, mamma, I am anxious to do right. Indeed, my wish is to please every one; but I cannot think it right to treat Sir John Spottiswoode ill."

"Who enjoins you to do so?" said her ladyship, in a querulous tone.

"I cannot—indeed, I cannot trifle with two gentlemen, till I ascertain the intentions of one of them. Do not ask me to do so, I beseech you, for it goes against every feeling of my heart." Christobelle burst into tears.

"I detest such stupid folly! Pray, don't imagine that your frowns will destroy the peace of either gentlemen. Men do not now suffer more than an hour's annoyance; a new flame soon lights the expiring embers of an old penchant."

"I am very glad to hear it, mamma."

"I only counsel you to mete out your attentions to each gentleman alike, Bell, and to distinguish neither at present. I imagine nothing unholy in a line of conduct which preserves a proper and just decorum in your manners."

"I will do any thing you please, mamma; only do not ask me to trifle with Sir John Spottiswoode."

"You will do every thing which pleases yourself, and nothing which pleases me. I perfectly understand your meaning; but allow me also to observe, that I will hold no intercourse with a daughter who presumes to lecture her parent. I will have no communication with a young woman who insolently defies her mother, and insists upon acting according to her own weak judgment."

"Do not suppose me defying you, mamma. There is nothing I would not do to give you pleasure—nothing I would not do to increase your comforts; only I beseech you not to compel me into a conduct my heart disowns as ungenerous and wicked."

"Of course, a parent is wrong—of course, a mother is not a proper judge, compared with a child's greater wisdom, in any affair connected with that child's welfare. I am aware of your high opinion of yourself. I have long known your freedom, from every proper feeling which softens and decorates a woman's mind. Remain single, Bell, and be the prototype of your great aunt, Miss Christobelle Wetheral; sink like her into insignificant old maidism. But don't let my eyes contemplate you, an excrescence in your family—an incubus upon its glory. All my daughters have married splendidly, and I cannot be encumbered by a stupid daughter, who throws every advantage from her, and considers an admirer an unholy appendage."

Tears flowed silently down her daughter's cheeks. Christobelle could hold no dialogue with a mother, whose ironical manner and determinedly opposed views distressed her, and darkened the prospect of her life. Her silence became a matter of offence.

"If weeping is to accompany your talent for continual and insolent opposition, Miss Wetheral, I will request you to leave me: my own nerves are sufficiently shattered."

Christobelle rose, and quitted the room; Sir John Spottiswoode came towards her from the hall, as she closed the door of the breakfast-room. He did not notice her emotion; he did not even speak, but he gently drew her arm within his own, and led her upon the terrace which commanded the view of the lake. They took one turn in silence, and then Sir John Spottiswoode spoke of his admiration of Lochleven, and gradually drew Christobelle into cheerful conversation. He asked her opinion concerning the morning's plan of amusement. "If she did not prefer riding, he should feel inclined to consider the day just the very thing for a water excursion." Christobelle was very willing to resign herself into Sir John's hands. The conversation of the morning had damped the glow of pleasure, and given a melancholy tinge to her thoughts, which could not be immediately shaken off. She therefore answered slowly—"Yes, any thing; let us go upon the water, if you wish it."

Sir John Spottiswoode pressed her arm to his side so slightly, that she could scarcely write it down a pressure, as he replied:

"I will have nothing done without your full concurrence. If you do not feel inclined to go on the water, let the original plan be adopted."

"I believe my tones are rather dismal this morning," she replied, with more cheerfulness; "but I quite approve of your idea. We will certainly row to the Douglas Isle."

Sir John Wetheral accompanied them in their little excursion; and as they glided towards the Isle, the fresh air, the light dip of the oars, and the conversation of her two companions, restored Christobelle's spirit to its usual buoyancy. Sir John Spottiswoode watched the ebb and flow of her countenance, and bent towards her. "This is perfect enchantment. Tell me now why you were so melancholy."

Christobelle shook her head smilingly. "Do not put me in mind of it, but sing me a Swiss air; that air I loved to hear at Wetheral."

"You have remembered it, even among these distant scenes?"

"It has never faded from my recollection. On the contrary, these rocks and mountains brought it still more freshly to memory."

Sir John Spottiswoode instantly sang the Swiss air with spirit, and his voice sounded melodiously on the water, which lay so calmly, so beautifully still: not a breath of air curled a ripple upon its surface. Again and again the song recommenced, and all Christobelle's troubles were forgotten in the delicious harmony. She did not know she sat gazing upon the singer, till Sir John Spottiswoode suddenly paused, and their eyes met: Christobelle was not aware her attention was so exclusively bestowed upon him, till the expression of his glance recalled her thoughts. She turned from him in confusion, and fixed her contemplation upon the mountains which rose gradually above each other, till their heads were lost in clouds. She looked no more towards Sir John Spottiswoode.

The little party sat conversing some hours on a small pile of stones raised under a tree, which, in former days, constituted the plaisance of Lochleven Castle. This spot commanded the rich plain of Kinross, the rocky hills which swelled on either side, and the houses which dotted the plain, and gleamed in the sunshine. They thought of the sufferings of Mary, when she inhabited the now-ruined building under which they reposed, not as a restless Queen of Scots, but as a captive woman, banished to an isle where her eye could only rest upon rocks and water, far from her home and friends.

Sir John Spottiswoode also told of foreign scenes, and compared the beauties of Lochleven with the gigantic lakes of the south. They could not bear comparison; yet Lochleven possessed, in its diminutiveness, every requisite for poetic beauty. It was Lochleven; and Lochleven contained a succession of captivating scenery, delighting to the eye and mind. Many might prefer the imposing immensity of Geneva, of Constance, or of Zurich; but all must admire Lochleven. He did not see the chamois bounding from cliff to cliff; but the mind loved to repose on the bold yet tranquil scene which he contemplated. He did not dread the avalanche; but the softer landscape pleased an eye, sated with precipices, glaziers, torrents, and cataracts. It was delightful to sit by the side of friends, in the midst of scenery so beautiful, and yet be able to say, "It is in our own land."

Christobelle listened, and forgot Lord Farnborough. Far more attractive to her mind was the manly conversation of Sir John Spottiswoode, than the empty compliments of a new acquaintance. How could she, for an instant, feel disappointment at the thought of being absent from Fairlee when his lordship called?

Their return to the mainland was late; it was later still when they reached Fairlee. They had lingered by the way, and every turn presented new objects to admire, and fresh subjects for discussion. The half-hour bell was pealing its tones, and the echo reverberated from rock to rock, as they gained the terrace. This incident produced another pause: Sir John described the effect of the echo among the mountains of Switzerland, and the wild cry of the Switzers. Christobelle had scarcely time to hurry into her room, and change her dress, before they were summoned into the dining-room. Lady Wetheral did not address her daughter during dinner. She directed her discourse exclusively to her husband, when any subject was intended particularly to attract Christobelle's attention; otherwise, her manners were captivating as ever, when she played the hospitable and agreeable hostess, at the head of her table.

"My dear John, the Duke of Forfar called this morning." Christobelle's colour rose, and her quick eye detected the little emotion. "I was gratified by the call: his Grace looked remarkably well, and Lady Anna Herbert as sprightly as usual. Four years have rolled by, and left their 'flowing hair' unthinned. Lady Anna looks quite as youthful as she did when a 'belle confessed,' at your mother's balls, Sir John Spottiswoode."

"She was a very fine girl, and an excellent flirt," remarked Sir John. "Charles and Lady Anna were great friends some years ago."

"I was very much pleased with Lord Farnborough," continued Lady Wetheral, addressing her husband, and passing her eyes slightly over Christobelle. "Lord Farnborough accompanied gentleman many years."

Sir John Spottiswoode made no remark; and Christobelle was silent. Sir John Wetheral asked if the great boy had grown into a fine-looking youth?

"I set Lord Farnborough down as decidedly handsome at the first glance, my love; but I forgot his beauty in his very finished manners."

Sir John made no further remark, and there was a short pause, till Lady Wetheral resumed—

"Lord Farnborough spoke with polite pleasure of his introduction to my daughter yesterday; and he brought a note from Miss Ponsonby, requesting us to join a party next Tuesday to St. Mungo's Isle. You were included, Sir John, when our friends learned you were at Fairlee."

Sir John Spottiswoode bowed.

"It is to be an early party, and there were sundry messages delivered which my poor head could not contain; but Lord Farnborough will call again with more ample instructions. I told him it was cruel to load my memory with such matter."

"Do the Forfar party continue long at Clanmoray," said Sir John Spottiswoode, some moments after the subject had dropped.

"I believe so," was Lady Wetheral's reply; "indeed, Lord Farnborough mentioned his own protracted stay, when the rest left for Farnborough Stacy. I forget when they depart."

"Perhaps there is attractive metal in Miss Fanny Ponsonby," observed Sir John Wetheral.

"There is attraction somewhere," replied his lady, "for there was a lover's touch in his description of Lochleven, and in his anxiety for the party to St. Mungo's Isle."

"Allow me the pleasure of taking wine with you, Miss Wetheral," said Sir John Spottiswoode, bending forward. The subject again dropped.

The half hour's interregnum after dinner, was passed in lectures on Lady Wetheral's part. The ladies had scarcely entered the drawing-room, when Christobelle's attention was again required upon the subject so painfully argued in the morning.

"I wish to try your narrow capacity once more, Bell, and to ascertain whether you really possess one spark of that wholesome ambition which dignifies a woman of birth."

"Indeed, mamma, I hope so. I would not for worlds stoop to commit a mean action, or indulge a mean thought. My very greatest ambition is to act like a lady, and, by so doing, meet every one's respect."

"That is all very well, Bell, but that is not exactly my meaning. To be respectable, you must soar. It is vain to content one's-self with grovelling just above the heads of the canaille. The proper ambition is to grasp at high things, and possess them."

"I have no wish for high things, mamma."

"Because your nature is common-place, Bell, because your mind is low set. However you may pique yourself upon your accomplished education, that very education has crippled my hopes, and your own prospects. You will live and die, satisfied with mediocrity."

"But, mamma, what do you mean, and what am I to do to give you satisfaction? I cannot understand you."

"I will explain myself, Bell. Are you a girl of such a mean spirit, as to accept a baronet, when a duke's son enters the list of suitors? Answer me—are you so mean-spirited, so mediocre in your wishes, as to content yourself with a man who cannot raise you above your fellows?"

"Certainly not, mamma, if I did not love him."

"Love him! Could you love a man—would you dare to plead attachment to a man, as an excuse for lowering yourself in marriage below your sisters' fortunes? Would you meanly creep, while their flight has carried them to this world's pinnacle? I hope, I trust, you would not do so, Bell!"

"Whom can you allude to?" exclaimed Christobelle, distressed beyond measure at her mother's words; "tell me at once, I beseech you, what you mean. Do not speak to me in parables."

Lady Wetheral became extremely agitated. She walked to the window, threw open the sash, and closed it again, as she spoke.

"I have said enough to waken your understanding. Any one might comprehend my meaning—any one would know I detested the idea of your marrying Sir John Spottiswoode."

Christobelle looked up in her mother's face with astonishment. She continued with increased nervousness.

"You cannot deceive me, Bell. You cannot deny your predilection for that man, which will at once decide the intentions, and end all hopes of Lord Farnborough. You are determined to pursue your will, and I will act upon my own resolution. The very hour in which you accept Sir John Spottiswoode, shall be the last of your residence with me."

"Good heavens, mamma, I have not a thought of Sir John Spottiswoode, or Sir John Spottiswoode of me! What can have caused such a supposition in your mind?"

"You do not care for him—you will not care for him—is that your meaning, Bell?"

"I do not care for any one, half so much as for my own papa, and I hope I shall always prefer him," she exclaimed, energetically.

"Folly, and nonsense!—girl's folly," resumed Lady Wetheral, "by your blushes I might have given you credit for ambition; but your walks and sailing with Sir John Spottiswoode, inclines me to fear you will give yourself to a poor baronet."

"I did not know he was poor, mamma."

"Comparatively speaking with Sir Foster Kerrison, he is poor. What is a paltry income of three thousand pounds, compared with the wealthy dukedom of Forfar?"

"Am I to marry the Duke of Forfar?" exclaimed Christobelle, starting from her chair in horror.

"Not the present duke, Bell, though he is a remarkably fine man, and not more than sixty years of age. Many young ladies might approve the Duke of Forfar; but I allude to his very handsome, very accomplished mannered son."

Christobelle could have listened to her mother's eulogium with infinite pleasure at an earlier period, and before she had deprecated Sir John Spottiswoode. But her soul rose against persecution. She could not endure to hear her friend lowered, or to be at once commanded not to like a man whom she loved in innocence, and without a thought of future connexion. From that moment, Sir John Spottiswoode became a martyr in her eyes, and Lord Farnborough sank into a secondary personage. Lady Wetheral awaited her daughter's reply some moments, but her mind was too busily employed deciding her feelings.

"You are very thoughtful, Bell. Think well upon my words, and act with becoming spirit."

"I have thought, and I have decided," replied Christobelle, firmly.

"But do not look so ashy pale, my dear Bell; these little struggles are trifles, compared with a long existence of nonentity. I gave up a very powerful attachment, to please my wise and reflecting mother. I relinquished Captain Blennerhasset for your father, and I found her remarks perfectly just, by the course of events. She implored me to forbear marrying an Irish officer, with little more than his pay, when a prospect arose before me of becoming mistress of Wetheral Castle. She assured my romantic fancy, that Love could not survive the attacks of poverty, and she warned me to avoid the miseries of following my husband into disagreeable quarters, where I must sink into a captain's lady, a title of far less importance than the general's mistress. I followed my dear mother's prudent advice, and broke off my engagement with Blennerhasset."

Christobelle was interested in the fate of her mother's unfortunate lover, and she asked what had become of Captain Blennerhasset?

"He married somebody of distinction," she replied, "and fell at Badajos. His widow and four children are now living upon the bounty of their friends. My mother's counsel was wise, and I was fortunately prevailed upon to act with propriety."

"Poor Captain Blennerhasset!"

"Poverty is always pitiable," resumed Lady Wetheral. "I consider people equally poor, whose income will not allow them to compete with their neighbours. I should say poor Lady Spottiswoode, if you were the wife of our excellent guest,..."

"Alverton is a handsome estate," remarked Christobelle.

"Very well for a nobody," replied Lady Wetheral, haughtily, "but a wretched pittance for a Miss Wetheral, who has attracted the notice of Lord Farnborough. I saw his watchful looks towards the door, Bell. I marked his lordship's glances towards the lake, when he heard of your visit to the island; every thing is in your power, if you will but listen to your mother's counsel."

"Do not talk to me of marriage, mamma, I implore you," cried Christobelle, as the gentlemen entered from the dining-room. Sir John Spottiswoode took his seat near her as usual; she thought he looked more benevolent, more interesting than ever. Matrimony never coupled itself with her admiration of Sir John, but to be commanded to approve him less than Lord Farnborough—to consider him poor and undesirable, who had improved her better tastes, and increased her store of good! No, that should never be. Christobelle was too young to wish to marry, too happy and free to think of fetters: but her right hand would forget its cunning, ere she ceased to esteem Sir John Spottiswoode beyond every human being.

"Shall we walk this evening?" he asked, as thoughts passed too rapidly through her mind to allow of speech. Christobelle coloured, and turned mechanically towards her mother. Lady Wetheral saw her emotion.

"My dear child looks fatigued, Sir John. Shall we advise her to be quiet this evening? A long morning upon the water has lessened her bloom."

"One little turn upon the terrace only, Miss Wetheral." Sir John offered his arm.

"My dear Bell, even the terrace will fatigue you," observed her ladyship, with anxiety.

"One turn to watch that sunset, Lady Wetheral! I will bring Miss Wetheral back before fatigue attacks her."

"My dear Bell!..."

"I will not detain her many minutes—one turn, my pupil."

Christobelle could not resist that title. She rose, and accompanied Sir John Spottiswoode upon the terrace. One turn was taken, and they paused to watch the golden beams sink behind the mountains. Another and another was agreed upon, just to watch the pale gleams departing. Was it, indeed, her mother's prohibition which gave so much interest to her companion's remarks? Was it her prohibition which threw a charm over his conversation, and caused Christobelle to linger in his society? She knew not—but it was dark when they returned into the drawing-room, and the coffee had been forgotten. Lady Wetheral's eyes turned upon her daughter with an offended expression, but Christobelle forgot their glance in pleasing retrospections that night. Christobelle dreamed of Sir John Spottiswoode, and their early first days of acquaintance, when Lady Wetheral approved and sought his intimacy, and she had enjoyed it undisturbed, without a reference to Lord Farnborough.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Lady Wetheral complained the following morning of her nerves. She assured Sir John Spottiswoode her alarms about her daughter's health induced the attacks, and she hoped Christobelle would not think of quitting Fairlee grounds that day. When that dear girl was long absent, her fears became overpowering, and a frequent recurrence of such disquietude might bring on a serious illness. She hoped Bell would find amusement in the house, and be prevailed upon to forego her long walks. Sir John Spottiswoode should not suffer by her nervous feelings. She was aware her husband admired and sought out points of scenery almost as enthusiastically as Bell, and he would be delighted to attend him in his rides.

Sir John Spottiswoode smiled. "I will also decline leaving the house, if you please. Since my pupil has suffered by my selfish pleasures, I will dedicate myself to her entertainment—we will sketch the lake from the terrace."

"That would be most pleasant; but I fear my poor nerves are in the way again, my dear Sir John. I do not like to see my daughter bending over her drawing."

"Miss Wetheral shall not bend over her drawing: I will read to you both; I will read the 'Lady of the Lake.'"

"That will be most agreeable—most entertaining," observed her ladyship. "My dear Bell, you are so partial to Sir Walter Scott's poems!"

Yes, Christobelle was a warm admirer of Sir Walter's poetry; but she thought still more of the pleasure she should experience in hearing it read aloud by Sir John Spottiswoode. Christobelle acknowledged "how gratified she would feel, by hearing the 'Lady of the Lake'—that she preferred 'la lecture' even to a sketch of the bright Lochleven. She would bring her netting, and her father should sit by her in his comfortable chair."

Every thing was arranged, shortly after the conclusion of breakfast, for the reading; but, ere the gentlemen returned from their morning visit to the stables and gardens, Lady Wetheral expressed her satisfaction at the arrangement.

"I have managed to withdraw you from a walk, Bell. I dislike those walks. Your name would soon become coupled with Sir John Spottiswoode, which I will not allow. If Lord Farnborough calls to-day, every thing is in its proper order. Place a chair for the reader, between your father and myself, my love: our ears are older than your youthful members."

"I thought the Clanmoray party called yesterday, mamma?"

"They did so—and yet I have a presentiment that Lord Farnborough will appear again to-day. Remember, Bell, I do not extend my prohibition to Lord Farnborough. You may walk with Lord Farnborough."

"That would give offence to Sir John Spottiswoode, mamma."

"Leave me to manage Sir John Spottiswoode, my love."

"I shall not wish to walk; I shall remain at home to-day, if you please, mamma."

"I do not prescribe your hours, my dear Bell. Walk when and where you like, so you are not conspicuous with Sir John Spottiswoode. I warn you in time, that I will listen to no proposal which does not emanate from Lord Farnborough; and no plea from yourself, which has reference to our present guest. You are warned in time, remember!"

"I should never think of, or hope to attach, Sir John Spottiswoode," Christobelle replied, calmly; "I only wish to be allowed free liberty to enjoy his conversation."

"There is a very homely adage, Bell, which says, 'Prevention is better than a cure.' Lay its meaning to your heart."