mere, tenderly embracing her. "May heaven enable me to supply to you the place of the dear parent you have lost. But you are weary, Isabella will conduct you to your own apartments, and you shall rest, before you join us again." By a powerful effort, Constance repressed her emotion, and pressing for a moment to her lips the kind hand that she held, she accepted the offered support of Mrs Bouverie, and, followed by Oscar, left the room. They passed across the hall, and, ascending a wide staircase, entered a long corridor with many doors on either side. Mrs Bouverie opened one of these; and for a moment Constance almost imagined herself again in the home of her childhood. There stood her harp, her books, those loved though inanimate things that she had forgotten she was ever to see again. She spoke not, but her momentary glance met Mrs Bouverie's soft eyes, and she felt that she was understood. A bright fire glowed on the hearth, and its warmth converted to summer air, the light breeze that stole through the open windows, bearing the rich perfume of the plants that filled their deep recesses. They passed on to a dressing-room, which opened from the boudoir. A cheerful fire blazed there too, and Grace was busying herself in unpacking and arranging her lady's clothes. “I shall leave you to rest now, dear Constance," said Mrs Bouverie gently, "May the God of all comfort be with you.' " She kissed the pale cheek of the youthful mourner, and withdrew. Constance entered her sleeping apartment, where the shaded windows and low soft couch seemed to invite the weary traveller to a repose which she gladly sought. She did not sleep, but enjoyed that delightful rest, in which the consciousness of outward objects blends with the visions that pass before the mental eye, and sounds are heard, but only in their soothing power. The bright glow of sunset had given B place to the shades of evening, when she arose. She found Grace and her faithful Oscar waiting her in the anti-room. Everything was arranged in its usual order, and the air of tranquillity that pervaded the quiet room, insensibly communicated itself to the feelings of Constance. As soon as her toilet was completed, she descended to the drawing-room. The party which she had left there, was already reassembled, and increased by the addition of Sydney Bouverie, Lord Delamere's younger son, and Lucy Herbert, the sister of Mrs Bouverie. As Constance entered, they advanced to meet her with an affectionate welcome, that awakened a responding tone in her heart. "I must introduce my boy to you," said Mrs Bouverie, as she approached with a beautiful child of a year old in her arms. Constance took the blooming infant in her lap, and fondly caressed him. He did not shrink from the embraces of a stranger, but returned them with playful smiles, and they were deeply engaged in improving their newly formed friendship, when the loud booming of the gong summoned the party to the dining room. Constance kissed the smiling babe as she committed him to the arms of his nurse, and accepting the offered support of Lord Delamere, passed into the saloon. As they entered it, they were met by the only daughter of Lord Delamere, Gertrude Bouverie, who advanced from an opposite direction. Lord Delamere paused, "Let me introduce you, my dear Constance, to your cousin Gertrude." The cold salutation, the wintry smile, that flitted for a moment over the pale, but beautiful features of Gertrude, so unlike the affectionate welcome which from every other member of Lord Delamere's family she had received, sent a chill to the heart of Constance, and with a saddened spirit she passed on. Gertrude, leaning on her father's disengaged arm, in silence, accompanied them. The conversation of the circle around the social board was animated and interesting, but it failed to engage the attention of Constance. The manner of Gertrude had suddenly checked the emotions of gratitude and affection, which had been exercising since her arrival their soothing influence over her feelings, and she could not immediately regain the degree of tranquillity which she had before enjoyed. She turned at length a timid glance towards the countenance of Gertrude, and was surprised to find her soft blue eyes fixed upon herself with an expression of mournful interest. Constance immediately withdrew hers, but not before the gentle smile of Gertrude had seemed to ask forgiveness for the pain that she had caused. "You are not going without giving me my accustomed invitation to visit your sanctuary, dear Gertrude, said Mrs Bouverie, as Gertrude was about to retire silently from the dining-room immediately after coffee. Gertrude turned-"You know, my dear Isabella," said she, "how much pleasure your visits always give me." Mrs Bouverie rose and took the arm of her sister-in-law. "Will you come too, Constance," said Gertrude, holding out to her cousin her disengaged hand. Surprised and pleased, Constance hastened to accept of the invitation, and the gentle pressure of her hand, as Gertrude clasped it in her own, sealed their reconciliation, and banished from the ardent mind of Constance every emotion but those of interest and affection. They crossed the entrance hall, and passing through the saloon, entered a long corridor, which led from the further end of it. When they had traversed nearly the whole of this passage, Gertrude opened the door of her boudoir and they entered. It was a lofty room, hung with ancient tapestry representing scenes of Roman history. The large wood fire which blazed in the wide chimney, hardly sufficed to illuminate the dark recesses, filled with books, of the further side of the room, while it called into almost living dis "I know it," said Mrs Bouverie, " and most satisfactorily has he proved his position, and by removing the weak objections urged against the truth and obligations of religion, he has done good service to the cause of the Redeemer. Yet, and especially in his 'Sermons upon the love of God,' have I felt this when I accompany that lofty spirit in its sublime contemplations, to the very presence of Jehovah ; I tremble till I remember that it is 'God my Saviour' whom I am about to approach-for it is in Him alone that the soul of fallen man can find a home, and without that home, Oh how desolate is the heart, how unsatisfied are the yearnings of the immortal spirit." "Yes, the heart is indeed desolate," said Gertrude, in a low tone. The words seemed to have escaped unconsciously, for a slight colour suffused her pale cheek after she had uttered them; and, as if willing to engage the attention of Constance by some other object, she turned immediately to shew her an antique Roman vase which stood in one corner of her room. Mrs Bouverie looked at her for a moment with an expression of mournful tenderness, and tears filled her eyes; but, repressing the emotion, she joined her sister and Constance, and entered with them in an animated conversation upon the subject of Roman antiquities, "But we must pursue our investigations the next time that Gertrude invites us to share the privileges of her retreat," said Mrs Bouverie at length, "for that time-piece warns us to retire." She arose and affectionately kissed the fair brow of her sister. "Good night, dear Isabella," said Gertrude. She turned to her cousin, and clasping her hand for a moment in her own, kissed her cheek. Constance had felt during the evening an increasing interest in her cousin, and she would now have expressed in manner the tenderness of feeling towards her, which was already awakened in her heart; but there was in the whole demeanour of Gertrude an undefinable influence, which repressed, even while it attracted, and she could only return the gentle salutation in silence. "Will you visit my nursery with me before we return to the drawingroom?" said Mrs Bouverie, as she passed with Constance along the corridor. "With pleasure," replied Constance, though I must not expect a smile from my little friend at so late an hour as this." They turned into a passage leading from the corridor, and ascending a flight of stairs, passed along a wide gallery, at the farther end of which Mrs Bouverie opened a door which led into the nursery. The two nurses were seated at a small table near the fire, the elder one at work, while the younger read to her from the pages of the Holy Bible, which lay open before her. They rose respectfully as Mrs Bouverie entered, and affection, as well as respect, was expressed in the tone in which the elder nurse answered her enquiries. and Mrs Bouverie drew aside the curtain, that Constance might look at her sleeping boy. He lay in the calm repose of infancy, his glowing cheek rested upon his dimpled hand; and his bright golden ringlets lay upon the white pillow. Constance bent softly over him, and kissed his cheek. He did not awake, but smiled, as if half conscious of the caress. "May the Shepherd of Israel bless thee, my child," said Mrs Bouverie, as she fondly kissed him. "What repose the knowledge of the Saviour's care gives to the heart," she continued to Constance, as they left the room, "which, but for that assurance, would be ever anxious for the safety of its treasures. But he has promised to 'keep that which is committed to him' and not only does he keep it, whatever it be, but keep in peace the heart which yields it to his care." Constance did not answer. Mrs Bouverie's words awoke a train of reflection in her mind, and they passed on in silence. When they entered the drawingroom, they found Lord Delamere with Sydney, deeply engaged in the mysteries of chess-and Mr Bouverie at the other side of the room, reading aloud to his mother and Lucy from a volume which seemed to engross their attention not less than the chess-board did that of the opposite party. "You have check-mated me, my dear father," said Sydney rising, as they entered, “I must yield you the victor's palm." "Nay, Sydney, you were conqueror in the two first, the next will decide to whom the palm of victory really belongs." "To-morrow, then, let it be so," said Mrs Bouverie, as with a smile that seemed to ask the permission that was not denied, she playfully closed the chess-board-" it were sad that the repose of either should be broken by the consciousness of defeat." "Well, I suppose, as good knights and true, we have no choice left but to lay down our weapons at the command of our liege lady. Is it not so, They passed into the inner room, Isabella," said Lord Delamere, as he rose and kissed the fair cheek of his daughter-in-law. Mrs Bouverie accompanied Constance to her room, and kindly wishing her refreshing rest, left her to seek the repose which her mind, exhausted by the varied emotions through which she had passed, demanded, not less than her bodily frame. Constance retired, but not, for many hours, to sleep. Memories of the past, and visions of the future, both blend ing with the feelings which that day had awakened, crowded upon her mind, and she lay with her curtain withdrawn, and the clear moonbeams streaming upon her bed; while no sound broke the stillness of midnight, but the low sighing of the breeze, as it rocked the dark boughs of the trees that shaded her windows, and threw their forms in fitful shadows upon the wall. CHAPTER 11. Waen Constance awoke at an early hour on the succeeding morning, from the deep sleep which had at length visited her weary frame, it was some time ere she could recall to remembrance the events of the past, or recognise the objects that met her awakening gaze. The dark boughs that waved before her windows seemed the same that had shaded the rectory, and in the soft murmur of the tiny waves that curled the bosom of the lake, she fancied that she still heard the low music of her own sweet Ulles-water. But memory awoke, alas! too soon, from her short forgetfulness, and recalled the forms of sorrow from their shadowy obscurity, with ten-fold vividness, and Constance wept in bitterness of spirit, while she remembered the father whose love had blessed her youthful days, and the beloved abode of her childhood, which she never more should call her home. These tears relieved her; and visions of hope, picturing bright days to come, began to dawn upon her mind. She thought of the love that had welcomed her to the abode of those amongst whom her future lot was cast; of the maternal kindness of her aunt, and the soothing tenderness of Mrs Bouverie; and while she felt herself surrounded by all that could meet her affections, and gratify her tastes, that sense of repose experienced by the heart when it has found a home, insensibly charmed away the bitterness of her grief. On entering the breakfast-room, Constance found it unoccupied, but through its open doors she saw Mr and Mrs Bouverie in the park, approaching towards the castle. She advanced to meet them, and after exchanging the kind greetings of the morning, Mr Bouverie offered her his disengaged arm, and they turned towards the lake. Constance gazed with rapture on the magnificent scene before her, and her young spirit, forgetful, for a time, of the sorrow, which was to it a strange and unwelcome guest, exulted in all its former joyousness, as she breathed the fresh morning air, and gathered the fragrant blossoms, gemmed with glittering dew-drops, that unfolded their treasures around her. The sound of the gong, which summoned them to breakfast, soon obliged them to retrace their steps. As they approached the castle, they were met by Lucy Herbert, who advanced from an opposite direction. "Where have you been wandering truant?" said Mrs Bouverie, as she affectionately returned the smile that dimpled her sister's glowing cheek, "Not surely so far as to Linden Wood, robbing the bees of their honied store?” she continued, as she bent over the rich woodbine that her sister playfully fastened in her bosom. "I have indeed, Isabella, and I wish that you had been with me, to see how beautiful the valley looked from Linden Tower on this bright morning. But will you go with me there after luncheon, and I shall show you that I have left ungathered more of the bees' treasure than the little labourers will my favourite exercise." The breakfast hour passed in cheerful conversation, and immediately afterwards the party separated, as was their wont, to pursue their different avocations, till the hour of luncheon. Lord Delamere set out to attend a meeting upon magisterial business, in the county town, about ten miles off. Mrs Bouverie accompanied her husband to his study, where they were accustomed to spend together the early hours of each day. Sydney retired to the library; Constance to her boudoir; and Lucy to the drawing-room, to read Italian with Lady Delamere, whose long residence abroad had rendered all the continental languages familiar to her as that of her native isle. Constance had been accustomed to employ this hour in painting; but when she almost unconsciously approached her easel, a sudden remembrance rushed upon her mind, and she threw aside her brush, almost feeling, for the moment, that she should never care to use it again. She tried to read, but her thoughts wandered, and throwing aside the volume, after repeated efforts to recall her attention, she advanced to the open window, and stood for some time listlessly plucking the leaves from a geranium that stood near. A sense of langour unusual to her, had succeeded to the excitement of the various emotions which for weeks had agitated her, and she inhaled the sweet fresh air that was blowing from the lake, with an intense longing for its bracing power to reach her weary spirit. The sound of the gong summoning her to luncheon, at last broke the train of her sad reveries, and, with an emotion of relief, she descended to the saloon. The kindness that met her there, again dispelled, for a time, her sadness, and when the horses were brought immediately after luncheon, she mounted the beautiful Arabian appropriated to her use, with a feeling of delight that banished for a time every trace of melancholy. They rode gaily on, too rapidly for some miles to admit of conversation, save in brief remark. At length they reached a little hamlet, scattered along the declivity of a hill that skirted the road, and as they reined in their prancing steeds, and passed leisurely along the street, if such it might be called, many a look and smile of affectionate welcome, greeted them from the cottage doors. When they had nearly passed through the hamlet, a young woman, who had been standing at the garden gate of a cottage, at a little distance from the road, stepped forward and seemed desirous, yet half afraid of addressing them. "How are you, Mary," said Lucy, kindly, "and your grandmother, is she well ?" The tears which she had been trying to repress, now flowed down the young woman's cheeks. 'My grandmother is very ill, madam," said she, "she was taken with pain in the night, and I have been watching at the gate here for an hour, for I thought that perhaps your ladyship might pass this way this afternoon." Lucy turned to her companions. "Will you ride on towards Hazlewood," said she, "and I shall follow and meet you as you return. "I should like to see poor Dame Wood-perhaps I could suggest something that may relieve her.' |