ISABELLA.

A NOVEL.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF “RHODA,” &c.

“Take if you can, ye careless and supine,

Counsel and caution from a voice like mine.

Truths that the theorist could never reach,

And observation taught me,——I teach.”

COWPER.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN AND CO.

1823.

I S A B E L L A.

CHAP. XXIII.

——“Those who can pity, here

May, if they think it well, let fall a tear:

The subject well deserves it.”

SHAKSPEARE.

ISABELLA awoke the next morning with her heart alive to all the pleasures of her situation, and her mind strengthened to meet all its difficulties. She descended into the library, which now appeared to her as sanctified, and she looked from it, upon a flower garden, gay with autumnal annuals, and kept with the exactest neatness. This garden extended to the lake, the banks of which were its southern boundary, and across which the park lay in ample extent, for some distance, broad, well-wooded, with spacious glades opening on either hand: then pressed by the surrounding hills, it seemed to run out into a valley, wild, broken, and solemn. The view, as far as the eye could reach, was closed by towering mountains, that seemed to make Eagle’s Crag a world of itself, shut out from all other human interference.

Isabella thought of Rasselas, and his happy valley!

Isabella summoned Mrs. Evans to her side. “You must tell me the name of every cluster of rocks that has a name,” said she; “and of every group of trees that was ever so distinguished; you must instruct me where every path leads, and make me forget, as soon as you can, that I am a stranger to that which I am so pleased to find my home.”

Mrs. Evans’s benevolent features brightened with pleasure. “Oh, Madam, there is many an honest heart that I shall rejoice by telling what you say. How have we all wished for this day, when my master would bring us a mistress! Now I am sure he will love Eagle’s Crag again better, a thousand times better than when he used to bound light and happy as that doe, from crag to crag.”

“You must tell me of all those happy past-gone times,” said Isabella, sighing. “But there is one thing that I do not see, and yet I am sure it is near: I mean a church.”

“To be sure there is, Madam!” returned Mrs. Evans; “but I wish I could go there without thinking of those who used to take such delight in seeing the people who sat around them, good and happy. But such times will come again now.”

“But where is the church?” said Isabella. “You cannot see it from the house, Madam,” replied Mrs. Evans, “and yet it is just by—but so it is with a great many things at Eagle’s Crag; for the great mountain does jut out here, and then there, in so many odd ways, that when you think you can go no farther, you just turn sharp, and there you find room enough and to spare for some pretty building, or some plot of garden-ground; and all so sheltered! and so warm! The hot-house and the green-house, they are all built so, and they all are in very good repair, although they are not filled with plants and fruits as they had used to be. And now, I dare say,” continued Evans, who forgot the distance of respect, in the interest of her subject; “I dare say, Madam, that you think the lake quite shuts in the flower-garden at that end, and that you can get no farther; but it is no such matter—there is the path which leads to the church, and from thence there are many, many pretty walks; but they are rugged and steep; not fit for those who have been only used to the smack smooth grounds about London.”

“I will soon teach myself to be used to them,” said Isabella. “You have been in London then, Mrs. Evans?”

“Very often,” said Evans. “I always went when my Lady went. I was her maid then; but I have never stirred from Eagle’s Crag since I lost her; and I hope I never shall.”

Shall I be so beloved? be so regretted, again? thought Isabella. There is something very different in the manners of the servants to whom I have been accustomed from those of this good Evans; she seems to take a pleasure in recognising the relative situation of master and servant! while the very civility of the fine ladies and gentlemen who speak of their superiors as if they were their equals, is often actually impertinent; the cause of this difference must be in the principals, thought Isabella.

“When I have breakfasted,” said she, “you must shew me all the house; and let me see all the servants. I have not had much to do with those we had in London. Mr. Willoughby was so good as to save me all the trouble; but now he is not here, I shall like to be acquainted with every thing; and you, I am sure will tell me all that is necessary to know.”

Every word that Isabella uttered raised her more and more in the favour of Mrs. Evans; and had not this faithful domestic been conscious of the difficulties in which Mr. Willoughby was involved, her joy on seeing once again such a head of the family at Eagle’s Crag, would have known no bounds.

The inspection of the house and household had the same effect on the mind of Isabella as to her estimation of Mrs. Evans; nor was she more struck with the magnificence of all that had been committed to the care of that faithful domestic, than with the skill that had been exerted in its preservation. She visited Mr. Roberts in his own apartment; and there, making both these worthy dependants sit down, she explained in a few words the simplicity of her own taste; the little attendance, or expense, that she should exact while she continued alone; but she did all this with a dignity, and a delicacy, that betrayed no consciousness of any cause for such restrictions but what was founded in her own preference to such a mode of living; and she inquired what provision could be made for extending the scale when Mr. Willoughby’s arrival should make it necessary to resume more of the former manner of going on. She received such answers to these inquiries, as proved to her that all had been foreseen and arranged; she could not doubt but that this had been done by the suggestion of Lady Rachel, who, however she might stimulate her to act for herself, was thus advertent to render her way less intricate. She recalled moreover her charge that she must not forget that economy, and parsimony were of two houses; and she finished this first conversation with her new friends, by desiring that some little festivity might be prepared for the household, and such other dependants as Roberts and Evans might see proper to include as guests, on the first arrival of the heir of the Willoughby’s at Eagle’s Crag.

“Madam,” said Mr. Roberts, rising from his seat, and making a low and profound bow, “may I be pardoned for saying so; but when I look upon you, it seems quite wonderful to hear all you say; and to see that you forget nothing. My master is a happy man!” bowing again.

“Oh!” said Isabella, blushing, “I wish you may always find it so, but indeed I am little used to such things, and I am afraid I shall make many mistakes.”

The fact, however, really was that Isabella was astonished with her own powers; she no longer found herself that trivial Being whose greatest exertion was made in arranging a party of pleasure, or in ornamenting a ballroom; but she felt that she had the destiny of many human creatures in her hands; and that she was responsible for the use or abuse of a property which involved the comfort and happiness of almost all around her.

Could it be that Mr. Willoughby had run away from such a responsibility? ‘As large a remittance to be made to Dowkins as he can,’ thought Isabella; how shall I find proper terms in which to tell Roberts this? I dread his eye; it will tell me so much that I shall tremble to hear; but I must hear it, and Lady Rachel tells me that she rejoices that I am entered upon such warfare! I will not shrink from it; but I could have been content to have been spared it.

Such reflections led her thoughts again to the church, she desired that the door might be opened, and the way to it pointed out to her. Both were done by Mrs. Evans, who seemed as if she suffered an injury when any one else administered to the wishes and wants of her Lady.

Isabella entered the sacred walls more at that instant impressed by the feeling that she was about to visit the last receptacle of the ancestors of her husband, than with any respect to the high destiny to which the building was dedicated. Nor was there any other thought in the mind of her companion, who led her straight to the recess from whence descended the steps which led to the family vault. The sides of this recess were covered with various monumental notices of the Willoughby family, but contained, in the imagination of Mrs. Evans, but the single marble which commemorated the virtues and the loss of her lamented superiors. With tears fast flowing, and with a faltering voice, she began to comment, and to explain; when Isabella’s eye, glancing on an unadorned tablet of the purest white marble, read these words:

Sacred to the memory

of Rachel Roper! — the only offspring of

a widowed mother.

Ob. July 30, 17—. Ætat. 21.

And underneath followed these lines:

Mortal, within this cold and narrow space

Lie beauty’s bloom, and pleasure’s sparkling grace;

The sculptor’s model, and the seraph’s voice;

An eye that taught e’en sadness to rejoice!

All these have perish’d by death’s stunning blow;

Like the scorch’d flower by fervid suns laid low:

With bitter sorrow let the wreck be mourn’d.

These all were dust, and are to dust return’d!

But love’s chaste ardours, and a will resign’d;

A heart all softness, and all truth the mind;

With pious hope, and firm integrity;

A Christian’s faith, an angel’s charity;

These all surviv’d! and to the realms of bliss

Bore her pure soul, in trembling ecstacies!

Exult immortal! in thy fellow’s lot!

Each joy remember’d, and each pain forgot!

“What is that?” said Isabella; “had Lady Rachel Roper a daughter?”

“Ah, madam, did you not know that she had?” returned Evans, “I thought,––I supposed,––I thought that you must have known all about Miss Roper.”

“Poor Lady Rachel!” said Isabella.

“Ay, poor indeed, madam!” replied Mrs. Evans; “nobody knows what Lady Rachel has suffered! nor how she has borne it!”

Isabella was carefully examining dates.

“But how is this?” said she, “I had understood that Lady Rachel never resided here after the death of Mr. Willoughby and Lady Margaret? and this marble is dated several years after that event.”

“Lady Rachel,” returned Mrs. Evans, “would have Miss Roper buried where she was born; where she had lived; and where once she thought she would have had a right to be buried.”

“A right!” said Isabella; “was it not enough that Lady Rachel wished it?”

“Ah, madam,” replied Mrs. Evans, “nobody disputed her right; but I mean if she had married my master.”

Isabella became sick. She supported herself on an adjoining tomb. “Let us go,” said she, “I will come again some other time.”

Mrs. Evans, seeing her emotion, hastened to offer her arm; Isabella accepted it; and, breathing more freely when she returned to the open air, “Evans,” said she, “you must tell me all this sad story. Oh, I sometimes thought that Lady Rachel knew not how to allow for feelings which she had never experienced; but, now I see that she has been tried with every sorrow that can wound the human heart. Well may she treat those as light which touch little more than the fancy; but I must know every thing; you said that Lady Rachel’s daughter was born here?”

“Yes, madam;” replied Mrs. Evans; “my lady went to her, when she was all in grief for the loss of Mr. Roper, and she brought her home with her, and they never parted afterwards. Lady Rachel and Mr. Roper had been lovers a great while, and somehow they could not marry; and at last all came right, and they were the happiest people! Oh! I have heard my lady tell of their happiness till my eyes ran over. And then all of a sudden Mr. Roper was ordered abroad, and he was killed in the first battle; and my lady was with child, or else it was thought that she would have died too; but she did so struggle to preserve the life of her infant!––and my lady took such care of her! And then the little girl was born; a lovely baby it was! There were only two years between her and my master. They were brought up together; and every one knew that the lady-sisters wished that they might like one another; and sure enough there was a time when they did, but they were too young to have the marriage talked of; and so after my Lady and Mr. Willoughby died it came to nothing; for my master went into the world, and thought of other things besides marrying; and then the young lady fell ill, and she went from bad to worse, till she died of a consumption, and then it was that Lady Rachel would bring her down here to be buried, and she came with her herself. Many wondered that she could; but Lady Rachel had all her thoughts in Heaven, so could bear earthly losses. She never shed one tear all the time she was here; but when the mournful ceremonies were over, and she got into her coach to go away. Oh, Madam! never shall I forget her look! and she drew her veil over her face; and bold would have been the person who had uncovered it, knowing what they must have seen there!”

Isabella’s breath came thick and short, as she listened to this relation.

“Is there any picture of Miss Roper?” said she.

“None, Madam, only of Miss Roper,” returned Mrs. Evans. “My Lady Rachel took away that which was painted of her when she was about fifteen years old. But,” added she, hesitating, “there is another.”

“What here?” said Isabella.

“Yes, Madam; but it was taken when she was a child; and —

“Mr. Willoughby is painted in the same piece,” said Isabella.

“Why yes, Madam, that’s the thing. Both children; and at play as it were together: that is here.”

“How could I miss seeing it when I looked over the whole house this morning?” said Isabella.

“You could not see it, Madam,” returned Evans.

“Is it taken down? Surely it has not been thrown aside,” said Isabella; “Lady Rachel would never allow that.”

“Oh no, Madam, it is taken good care of,” said Mrs. Evans. “It hangs where it always did; it is in the library.”

“Then why could not I see it?” said Isabella.

“Why, Madam, when my master was last here he was not quite like himself: he was out of spirits; he seemed to be afraid of everything that he used to love; and one morning he sent for me into the library. ‘Evans,’ said he, and the tears stood in his eyes as he spoke, ‘I must have that picture taken down; it makes me melancholy. I can’t inhabit this room if that picture is there, it must be taken down; but you must take great care of it.’ My Lady, Sir, I said, hung it there with her own hands. ‘Then,’ said he, quick, ‘it shall not be taken down, though it make me as miserable as I deserve to be.’ I do not know what he meant by that, for I am sure, if the prayers of the poor and the praises of the rich are to be trusted, he well deserves to be happy. ‘But let my papers and books,’ said he, ‘be removed into the green parlour: I will live there.’ I was very sorry for this, Madam; for I knew my master always loved the library, as they did all; and he had everything so handy about him there. So I thought I would manage so that he should not see the picture, and yet stay in the room he liked best; and I told him how I would contrive, and he seemed pleased. He said, ‘I shall like to be near that picture, though I can’t bear to see it: perhaps it may do me good to be near it.’ And so I managed, as I had seen my Lady manage, when she had a mind to have two pictures in one place, that she might turn first one and then the other side outward, as she liked best; and there were pictures enow that would suit the size, and so I covered it up with a very pretty flower-piece of my Lady’s own painting, and my master said no more about leaving the room; but all together, I suppose, he did not like thinking of things that he could not help thinking of when he was here, and so he never came again; but now it will be quite another thing; now we shall see my dear master again.”

This narration furnished Isabella with more than sufficient subject for reflection, but it oppressed her almost beyond the power of thought.

She believed that she had found, in what she had heard, a clue to the inconsistencies of her husband’s character; she saw, not only a naturally good disposition led astray by the influence of bad example; but she saw also, in the eager versatility with which every new scheme of pleasure was pursued, an attempt to escape from the reproachful workings of a principle of right, which could not be violated with impunity—as long as this resource did not fail, Isabella could hope nothing from the generosity of his temper, or the kindness of his heart; every means of repelling the foe must drop from his slackened hand, before he would seek the only true means of peace in a reconcilement with his offended conscience. And could she bear to contemplate such a destitution for the being whom she loved best on earth? And how could she forbear sinking under the apprehension of the hardness of feelings too likely to be generated by such a process? These were but a part of the painful thoughts that made heavy the heart of Isabella. She might have hoped by undeviating rectitude, and persevering attachment, finally to have triumphed over desultory fancy that the whim of the moment might give birth to; but she was now aware that she had to struggle against an early preference, which although it had not been powerful enough to withstand the first gush of the world’s torrent, had like the supple willow, only bowed its head, to rise again with added strength. Its course was now aided by a sense of the disappointment which had attended all that had been preferred to its claims, by the bitterness of self reproach, and by the hopelessness of regaining what had been thrown away. To this standard of excellence, exalted by regret, perhaps beyond its real height, Isabella could not but fear, that all which she could do would be referred; and her heart sunk under the conviction of the disproportion between her own merits and those of the lamented Rachel. He may suffer, thought she, the charms of vice to engage his fancy, but to secure his affections there must be a sublimity of virtue in his wife that I shall never be able to reach!

Yet there was so much virtue in the bitter self-upbraidings of the unhappy Willoughby, and such a depth of feeling in the constancy of his attachment to the object whom he had injured, that a ray of hope shot across the darkened mind of Isabella, that the time might come, when she should at once be able to heal the wounds of his mind, and to possess herself of his heart. This was indeed a holy rivalship! no baneful or degrading feelings mingled in the contest; and at this moment Isabella desired nothing so much at to look upon the only representation within her reach, of the excellence that she was resolved to emulate.

She returned with all haste to the library, and eagerly turned the picture: there she beheld two children represented in their sports; but although the lineaments of the boy instantly recalled to her mind the features of her husband, her undivided attention was at this time directed to his companion, a beautiful infant of about five years old, whose glowing health and charming figure were animated with such a spirit of frolick, mirth, and arch playfulness, as made it the most interesting object that Isabella had ever looked upon.

“Was Miss Roper like this charming child?” said Isabella.

“There cannot be two things more alike,” replied Mrs. Evans. “Surely there never was any thing equal to the merriment of that sweet baby; she was the darling of every body; so comical! always playing some good-natured trick or other; she seemed born for nothing but to laugh, yet how many tears did she shed and make others shed? and indeed in her very joys it might have been seen how much she could feel, for if any body was hurt, or any thing went wrong between her and my master, her large blue eyes would so fill with tears, and she would so clasp her little hands together!”

“How happy Mr. Willoughby must have been with such a companion!” said Isabella.

“Yes, they were indeed the happiest playfellows I ever saw,” replied Mrs. Evans. “But all that was childish sport, and it passed away. I do not know how it was with my master when she died, for he never came near us then, and he has never been here but once since. We heard he was quite beside himself, as it were. To be sure, he must have been very sorry; and that was the reason, I suppose, that he did not attend the funeral. It was no want of love or respect either, I am sure; but he has not such a lofty mind as Lady Rachel, and it would have killed him to have seen that sad ceremony.”

“This picture must not be turned again,” said Isabella; “and you must shew me the places which Miss Roper best loved, and tell me what she did; and if there be anybody left that she would have been kind to.”

“Ah! madam,” said Mrs. Evans, “she was kind, to every body; but all her particular favourites Lady Rachel has taken care of. I believe she would think it a robbery if any body else were to do any thing for them.”

“Except Mr. Willoughby, I suppose,” said Isabella.

“I do not know, madam,” said Evans, “but I think she is most jealous of him of all.”

All this sunk deep into the mind of Isabella, and from this hour she attached herself to the memory of Miss Roper as to that of an elder sister, whom she equally honoured and loved, and whom she desired most exactly to imitate. She was pleased even to identify their interests; she loved her the more for the love which she could not doubt but that she had borne for her husband, and she loved him the better for the love which he had had for her.

How blest would she have been, thought Isabella, to have made my poor Willoughby happy and good! I will endeavour to make him both! How fond would she have been of his boy! I will love my little Godfrey better and better!

CHAP. XXIV.

“One that in her sex, her years,

Wisdom and constancy, hath amazed me.”

SHAKSPEARE.

THESE reveries solaced the fancy and soothed the heart of Isabella; but in thinking of gratifying her who now soared above all human gratification, she lost not any of her attention in ministering to the real good of one who had yet to work out his final reward with sorrow and trembling.

She and Mr. Roberts became intimately confidential. The gentlemanly old man laid before her with so much perspicuity, but at the same time with so much delicate consideration, the real state of Mr. Willoughby’s affairs, that she was instructed without being appalled. She seized, as if by intuition, the very result which he was desirous to suggest. She distinguished and arranged with a clearness and facility that astonished both herself and him; and she, who to the eye might have seemed “bred only to sing, to dance, to dress,” approved herself to the ear, the Goddess of Wisdom herself.

Her lofty conception of what was just gave an illumination to her intellect that superseded the necessity of instruction, and anticipated experience.

In the course of a few conversations they had between them settled a plan of economy upon which she was persuaded that a residence at Eagle’s Crag might be established, if not on the magnificent scale of former times, yet on such an one as would not exact any sacrifice either of comfort or hospitality. But the difficulty was still to “bell the cat;” for unless Mr. Willoughby would consent to sell the property in Hertfordshire, and to give up his town establishment, all that could be done by herself and Mr. Roberts at Eagle’s Crag would be in vain.

To the accomplishment of these two points, therefore, Isabella turned all her thoughts; and happily for the zeal which was necessary to bring about so great a work, her inclinations and her understanding fully concurred.

If she durst not bring out into open day the necessity of the measure, the want was nearly supplied by her vivid painting of the delight which in her estimation would attend it.

Of Eagle’s Crag she could unfeignedly speak as of a Paradise, from which she never could desire to wander;—she could incidentally suggest how susceptible of comfortable accommodation she found that, with a small household, which might appear at first sight suitable only to a large one.—She could enumerate the sources of amusement that its extensive library, its magnificent collection of pictures and prints, and its numerous and various musical instruments, afforded. And she could do all this with the glowing warmth of truth. She did indeed feel that they were sufficient, in her own case, to keep away the consciousness of solitude, and to cheat the progress of time. Of the health and vigour of her boy she could speak with equal sincerity and pleasure; and she could urge without the semblance of selfishness, or the appearance of repining, the addition of the only circumstance that could add to her happiness.

Isabella no longer found restraint or difficulty in writing to Mr. Willoughby. Her subjects flowed from a source that was inexhaustible, and which remained unchecked even by the very unworthy returns which they produced.

Mr. Willoughby’s letters were short, disjointed, and uninforming. They were, however, so far kind, that his regret on being parted from her and his boy, made a part of each; to which was added a constant assurance that he would rejoin them the moment he was able. Nor did he ever fail, in the most vehement exhortations, that she would not refuse herself any thing whatever that could contribute to her accommodation or amusement. In confirmation of the sincerity of his wishes, and his attention in these points, she would, not unfrequently, receive some dainty that her northern situation did not supply, or some new publication which he would tell her, she must not be “so out of the world” as not to read; and even once or twice there arrived an expensive article of dress, that he said he could not forbear from buying, because it would so peculiarly become her.

All was acceptable that came from his hand; but she sighed when she saw the selection that he seemed to believe suitable to her taste. No one could be more indifferent in the choice of food than was Isabella; her present situation took from her every desire of ornament in dress; and the books that were sent were not unread, more from a desire that she might be able to give an opinion of them in return, than from any pleasure that she derived from the perusal. Reading was now become to Isabella an occupation, and even an obligation that she could not willingly interrupt for every idle volume that might fall in her way; she was in regular correspondence with Lady Rachel, and by her suggestion she was enabled to make good use of the large store of knowledge with which she was surrounded. She now found that all which she had been accustomed to consider as having constituted her “being well-informed,” was merely the having had the instruments put into her hands by which she might gain information. “The Extracts,” “The Beauties,” “The Selections,” “The Blossoms,” and “The Flowers,” which had made her school-room studies, fell into their deserved discredit with her. She saw how a whole was injured by being seen only in parts, and how much more valuable was the little ingot than the extended gilding; her reading had now the perpetual delight of discovery, and she found her mind expand almost as sensibly, as she might have felt her person, had she catered as richly and as plentifully for the one as she did for the other.

But did Isabella do nothing but read and economise? Yes! she passed parts of her time in music, other parts in drawing, and as she made all that she did a study, there was a never-failing interest created by observing the progress towards perfection which resulted from what was begun only as an amusement. Her boy was an ever-springing fountain of delight, and if she had made any complaint of time, it would not have been that it moved too slowly, but that it passed too quickly.

And could occupation supply the wish for society? and was improvement sufficient for happiness?— No! Isabella was not happy! she was neither satisfied with the present, nor unapprehensive for the future. Her heart sunk under the indifference of her husband, and her understanding was appalled by the evils to which that husband was every day exposing himself. The very caresses which she bestowed on her child were mingled with tears; but she had learnt to take her share in the general portion of human sorrows, without aggravating the sum which fell to her lot, by a morbid self-love, or by an unjust comparison between her own burthen and that of others; she felt the want of affection in the man she loved, but she thought of the stroke of perpetual separation to which Lady Rachel had bowed, and repressed her sigh; she trembled at the too probable destiny that hung over the head of her child, but she raised her eye to the tomb of Miss Roper, and clasped him to her heart in a transport of thankfulness.

Nor was she wholly destitute of society. It is true that Eagle’s Crag being without the usual limit of lake attractions in Westmoreland, had neither its solitudes invaded by a frivolous curiosity, nor its neighbourhood dotted over with those equivocal erections, to which no legitimate designation can honestly be given; there was here no etherial natives who had withdrawn from a corporeal world to live upon “the feast of reason and the flow of soul,” because they had not more substantial food elsewhere; there was here no picturesque poverty nor elegant distress; no straw-roofed cottage, whose opening door disclosed the pale and beautiful female, arrayed in drapery of the most dazzling whiteness, engaged in the culinary art, while the celestial eye darted anxious solicitude in hopes to descry the partner of her joys and sorrows, on whose return depended the scanty meal of the day; there was no returning lover, whose symmetry of form and intellectual physiognomy betrayed, under the coarseness of his habiliments and the meanness of his labours, the soul that might have directed the councils, and the figure that might have adorned the courts of kings!

All around was true! all as it appeared to be! the mingled web of human comforts and of human sorrow, the tares and the corn! but there was perhaps less of inequality of station in the neighbourhood of Eagle’s Crag than would generally be found elsewhere.

The property which formed the domain of that ancient house, was more extended than proportionably productive, and although the extent made up to its proprietors for the barrenness of many of its parts, yet it so far distanced any shouldering intruder, that there was not within the distance of several miles any family who visited the inhabitants of Eagle’s Crag upon the footing of equality. All were dependants, or at least, in a degree to be obliged by the great house; and as in Isabella’s retirement she was not disposed to seek society from afar, neither was she likely to be sought by those who could expect neither amusement nor festivity as the reward of the trouble they must take in seeking her.

But there was still a number of individuals of a humbler station, from whose resemblance the lapse of fourteen years had not obliterated the impression that the unwearied kindness and hospitality of Mr. Willoughby and Lady Margaret had made. There was also a generation grown up who had heard their mothers and their aunts tell of the happy hours that they had passed at the Hall; of the magnificence of its apartments, and of the graciousness of its inhabitants; who had been compelled to listen again and again to the tales that were gone by, and to the lamentations that they would return no more; and in consequence to sit down under the desponding conviction that they should never have such histories to relate to their posterity.

No little stir was therefore of course occasioned amongst the little hive of busy bodies when the report was spread from one to the other, “that Mr. Willoughby and his Lady were coming to live always and for ever at Eagle’s Crag.”

The old were sure that it did not signify to them, come who would! they could not be like their Mr. Willoughby, and the Lady Margaret; they should not take the trouble to go to the Hall to see they did not know whom. Mr. Willoughby was always very kind and very civil, but he was not like his father; and as to his lady, to be sure she would be above such plain bodies as they were; it was too much to expect another Lady Margaret.

The young held a different language. It was, “nay, mother,” and “indeed, aunt,” and “why should not this young lady be as good as the other young lady? for Lady Margaret was not old; no, not when she died;” and for “their parts they could not but think the world was as good as it ever was: why should it not? It was older, and the older people grew the wiser they became; at least they were always told so; and why should it not be the same with the world? They should like to see the inside of that fine place, of which they had heard so much. The sight of the very towers and walls of it always made them long. And then it would be so disrespectful not to pay their duty to their Landlord and his Lady; they would think that they did not know in Westmoreland what was proper and right.”

But all these debatings were out of place. “Mr. Willoughby was not coming at all, and his lady only for a little, and away again. Well, there is no believing anybody. They were sure they had it from one, who had it from one, who was told it by a cousin of Mrs. Evans, and to be sure Mrs. Evans must know; and yet it is all moonshine; and now we shall none of us ever go again to Eagle’s Crag,” with a tone of disappointment, said the one who had the most strongly protested against availing herself of the opportunity which she had so lately thought within her power.

The note of rumour was again changed: Mrs. Willoughby was coming with her little boy; to be all alone, and to stay through the long winter! poor young lady! she will be moped to death; it will be quite charity to call upon her sometimes, and she will be glad to hear what used to be done; and then her sweet baby! I dare say he is very like his grandfather. I am sure I would walk ten miles to see him; and so would I, echoed all the veterans; and I would walk twenty said the young, only just to have a peep at all the fine furniture that you have told us of, and which Mrs. Evans has kept so closely covered up these hundred years, that nobody has seen it but herself.

And thus a visit to Eagle’s Crag was carried nemine contradicente.

But it was easier to decide both for and against so important a measure before the moment of putting it into execution arrived, than to adhere to either purpose when the time for action was come. A visit to Eagle’s Crag could not be carried into execution without causing many qualms to arise in the breasts of the inexperienced, and many scruples were suggested by the cautious; it was thought most expedient to secure a friend in the garrison before any attack was made on the fort; if Mrs. Evans would sanction their approach, they should not be afraid of their reception.

The little feast that Isabella had ordered upon her arrival had paved the way for entering upon the negotiation meditated. It had indeed been given to a lower order of dependants, but so much had been reported of the beauty and graciousness of Isabella, in the condescension of bringing her boy amongst them herself, and of the kind and encouraging words that she had spoken to each, that all dread of repulse to an offered mark of respect was done away. The vicar’s wife was deputed to speak to Mrs. Evans; Mrs. Evans undertook to communicate Isabella’s determination, venturing at the same time to anticipate it, by a confident assurance that Mrs. Willoughby would be glad to see all her neighbours, and that she had told her so herself. The offer was made and graciously accepted — the visitations were performed, and the old could no longer boast of an exclusive knowledge of the glories of Eagle’s Crag, or lay claim to the peculiar honour of having been distinguished by the civilities of its owners; the young were as well informed, and had been as graciously received as any mother or aunt of the whole collection.

Thus had Isabella soon a little circle of acquaintance and well-wishers; from whom, if she did not receive any very vivid pleasure, she could always communicate it: and thus were her walks and rides rescued from the solitude and dreariness that must otherwise have attended them. She could now have an end to pursue, whenever she stirred beyond the limits of her immediate home. She had some little presents to deliver at one house; she was sure that she could have a cup of milk for Godfrey at another; she had promised to visit Mrs. Russel’s bees; or she was to go and eat some of Mrs. Perry’s potted char. The interchange of good offices was unceasing; and Isabella returned cheered by the respect she had received or the importance that she had conferred.

Nor had she less pleasure from her visitations amongst the still poorer class of her neighbours. The only change that she had made in the economy of her personal establishment had been the parting with her own maid. It had been her wish, from her first conversation with Mr. Roberts, to divest herself of so expensive, and, in her present situation, so useless an appendage; but she was unwilling to discharge a person against whom she had no precise fault to allege, and she acted under Lady Rachel’s caution, both as to the inefficiency of any sacrifice that she could make, and the inexpediency of any sudden or very obvious change in her way of life. But Mrs. Adams obviated all scruples, and took away all ground for curiosity or suspicion of mystery, by dismissing herself. At the end of the first fortnight she informed Isabella, “that she was extremely sorry—excessively so—but she found it absolutely impossible to live at Eagle’s Crag. The place did not agree with her; she fancied the air was too sharp for her tender lungs. The doctor had always told her that her lungs were tender; and she was sure she had had such an oppression upon her spirits ever since she came down that shocking hill, that she should die of the vapours if she continued where she was. The sight of that monstrous mountain, which always looked as if it was tumbling on their heads, made her quite nervous. She could not conceive how Mrs. Willoughby could bear it. She was sure she could not; and though indeed she was very sorry to inconvenience Mrs. Willoughby, yet the sooner she could make it agreeable to part with her the better.”

Isabella could make this agreeable immediately, for Mrs. Adams appeared to her quite a different creature in the offices of adorning her person, and in suggesting the various means of doing so, which qualities had very well recommended her to her favour in town, to Mrs. Adams nervous and vapourish, and with a little affected short cough, at Eagle’s Crag, where she had scarce need of any part of her services, and none at all for her science.

Her very phraseology seemed to be altered; for Isabella thought that she could never have borne such a jargon of affectation and ignorance as Mrs. Adams’s language sounded in her ears, since she had been used to the respectful plainness of Mrs. Evans’s good sense. For the first time in her life, Isabella was aware of the difference between vulgarity and rusticity; the expression of nature, and the apeing refinement. The preference which she gave to the former mode made her very glad, independently of every other motive for parting with her, to replace the fine Mrs. Adams by an active, civil, natural young woman, the niece of Mrs. Evans. Fortunately her footman was Westmoreland born; had been brought up by Lady Rachel Roper; and on Mr. Willoughby’s marriage had been promoted from a subaltern station in Lady Rachel’s family to the honour of attending on Isabella.

George was happy to return amongst his friends; and took much greater delight in walking by the side of Isabella’s pony, as she scrambled up the hills, or made her way through the intricacies of the vallies, than he had ever done stuck up behind her carriage.

Her equipage generally consisted of a pony for herself, and another, with a saddle suited to the purpose, on which the nurse and her boy were placed, while the nursery-maid and her own new attendant, who did not appear to have either nerves or lungs, walked by its side, led it by the bridle, or occasionally took the nurse’s place, or relieved her for a time of her burthen.

In this guise Isabella made daily excursions, either amongst those who considered themselves as her acquaintance, or those who looked upon her only as their benefactress; and she would have found it difficult to have determined from which she received the greatest gratification, or which was the better company. The provincial accent and peculiar idiom of the country, both of which had extraordinary charms for the imagination, if not for the ear, of Isabella, were stronger in the latter; and when they set before her a bowl of cream and a saucer of sweetmeats, inviting her to eat of the “boiled up berries, strays, and rhasps,” or told her, in contradistinction to the turf generally burnt, that they “had cobbles for the chambers,” she felt the full power of simplicity, and thought it ill exchanged for one advancing step towards greater refinement or higher pretensions. But still there were hours when Isabella sighed for the interchange of intellect; when she longed to hear a human voice that could reply to her in language the full force of which was felt mutually by the speaker and the hearer. Nor did she long sigh in vain.

CHAP. XXV.

“His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, his

heart as free from fraud, as earth from heaven.”

SHAKSPEARE.

ONE day, when she had extended her rambles somewhat out of their usual direction, she perceived a neat habitation which she had not noticed before. It was situated in a small meadow, that sloped from the mountain that sheltered it from the north, down to a brook, the southern boundary of the little homestead.

There was nothing in the appearance of the house beyond that of a cottage: a genuine cottage, without any pretence to “gentility.” But there was an air of sedulous care bestowed upon the stone walls, and blue tiles of the building, and an attention to ornament in the arrangement of the diminutive garden which lay before it, that told her that its inhabitants had leisure and means beyond the necessary wants and works of the day. Isabella inquired of her attendants the name of this pretty residence; and whether they knew any thing of those to whom it belonged. She was readily answered by her Westmoreland damsel, that the place was called “Fell-beck; and for all that it looked no bigger, nor no better than a cottage, yet, as she had been told, there lived within a cousin of a Queen.”

Isabella could not hope from her present informer much elucidation of the pedigree of this royal scion; yet she asked what she meant by that? Sarah could not tell; but asked in her turn, if there were not once a Queen who had lived in Westmoreland, whose name was Parr? Isabella replied, yes, Catherine Parr.

“Why then, Madam,” replied Sarah, “that’s it; for this gentleman’s name is Parr; and he has a daughter, and her name’s Catherine.”

Isabella smiled at the accuracy of Sarah’s heraldic knowledge, but felt her curiosity so much raised as to pursue her inquiries, as to the where, and the how, and the why? but all that she could learn farther was, “that Mr. Parr, the people said, had once been a great man; but that now he was not great, yet had enough to give a deal to every body who wanted it; and that Miss Catherine was very wise, and very good; that she knew about the stars, and the flowers; and could doctor the sick, and make clothes for the poor; and that she and her father lived together, with no other creature than one old woman.”

All this only increased Isabella’s desire to know more; she advanced almost unwittingly towards the house; always saying to herself that she would by no means intrude upon the privacy of any body; and yet so reluctant to return without having had at least a distant view of this extraordinary Mr. Parr, and his still more extraordinary daughter, that she continued to wind up the narrow lane which she was told led the nearest that she could approach to the house, without entering its actual premises. She was now arrived at a neat wicket, which opened directly into the little garden, and had begun to feel the absolute necessity of immediately proceeding to pass the house, without having had her curiosity gratified, when there issued from the stone porch of the dwelling a female figure, that she could not doubt must be the very Catherine Parr, whom she had so much desired to see. To stand and gaze was impossible; yet never before had she so little felt herself under the influence of propriety.

The person who thus presented herself to her notice, must have fixed the gaze of the most incurious observer.

It was a form of almost sylph-like lightness: arrayed in a jacket and petticoat of Scottish tartan; the jacket was made high in the back, but disclosed a throat and neck of the most dazzling whiteness; while the succinct petticoat betrayed the prettiest foot and ancle imaginable; the hands and arms were uncovered, even with a glove, and rivalled the neck in fairness; a profusion of light brown hair was confined by a ribbon, put on in the fashion of the Scottish snood, and gave additional interest to the pensive paleness of a countenance which seemed scarcely to belong to any human being. But in vain did such an assemblage of attractions burst on the sight of Isabella; in spite of the earnestness of her desire to the contrary, she urged her pony forward, giving at the same time some caution to the nurse for the accommodation of the baby. Nothing she either did or said, could escape the observation of Miss Parr, who was not ten paces from her; she was indeed instantly by her side, inviting her in modest and well-bred phrase, but with the blush of timidity on her cheek, to do her the favour to accept any refreshment, either for herself or her infant, that she had to offer; and to allow that the child might rest as long as it was agreeable to her.

Isabella met the courtesy which offered so full a satisfaction to her wishes with all the ease and politeness which her mode of life gave her, and with a sweetness and urbanity all her own. She acknowledged, that a wish to have a nearer view of what had pleased her so much at a distance, had betrayed her into taking a liberty, for which she was sensible she had to apologize, and that she was much obliged for the opportunity given her of doing so in a manner so agreeable to herself.

Isabella was not long in dismounting; she followed her new acquaintance to the house, with a heart beating with expectation of what she was to see there. The porch opened into a recess; the four sides of which were nearly taken up with four doors that led from it; that on the right hand opened into a room of about twenty feet long, and sixteen wide, with windows to the eastern and southern sun.

And now Isabella, though she had expected to see something by no means correspondent to the size or outward appearance of the building, was struck with a degree of surprise, which not all her habitual good breeding enabled her wholly to conceal.

Nearly the whole of the walls of the room were fitted up with books, apparently arranged with regard to the science or subject on which they might be supposed to treat; while the spaces not so occupied, were filled with astronomical apparatus, globes, or musical instruments, and on the several tables lay implements for writing or drawing; none of which, by the half written manuscript, and unfinished sketches that lay amongst them, seemed to be there for no purpose.

But here the wonder of the apartment ended, or rather took another direction; all that there was of furniture was of the plainest and simplest form; neither affecting elegance, nor affording much of accommodation; the floor was covered with common matting; there was no sopha; and the chairs were of unstained wood, with straw bottoms. There was indeed one exception in an armed chair, well upholstered, and evidently calculated for the comfort and repose of the person for whose use it was destined.

From this chair arose, upon Isabella’s entrance, the most magnificent figure that she thought she had ever seen. There was in it the ruins of all that could have formed the most finished model of masculine perfection; and there still remained so much of the fire of youth in the eye, and the vigour of the limbs, that the grey hair which shaded the commanding forehead, and the wrinkles which marked its surface, seemed more to have been planted there by misfortune than by age.

“I am persuaded,” said Mr. Parr, “that it can only be Mrs. Willoughby whom I have the honour to see before me. Do me the favour to take this chair. A manacle,” added he, with an affectionate smile cast on Catherine, “that my daughter has fixed on the age of her father.”

Isabella was so surprised and confounded with all that she saw and heard, that she could scarcely command herself to give intelligible utterance to the apology for the intrusion of which she had been guilty.

“A liberty,” she said, “however, that she could hardly repent that she had taken.”

“The liberty is on our side;” replied Mr. Parr; “and I must candidly acknowledge, taken with the most perfect malice afore-thought. I would not entrap you, madam, by any false appearance of what you might obligingly esteem our benevolent attention either to your wishes, or to your accommodation, into an acquaintance that you may not desire to form; but I will openly avow, that it would give me a gratification beyond what you may perhaps at present be able to understand, if you would allow my daughter and myself sometimes to be visitors at Eagle’s Crag. If this does not suit your own plans, I trust to the ingenuousness of your countenance, that you will explicitly tell me so now; when such explicitness cannot be offensive, as being impossible to be grounded upon any personal dislike. If in future we should prove unworthy of the favour we solicit, it will be easy, as it will be right, to shut the doors of Eagle’s Crag against us.”

Isabella knew not what to think of the person who thus addressed her; so unlike was his proceeding to any which she had before met with. Yet it could be the effect neither of unfeeling boldness; nor could it proceed from ignorance of the manners of the world. The delicate attention that he shewed to every circumstance by which she might be restrained, and the elegance and superiority of his address, forbad both the one and the other supposition.

She replied, with as little embarrassment and as much frankness as she could at that moment command, “that any gratification which she could afford either to himself or his daughter they were entitled to expect from her hands, and that she should consider it as an additional obligation if they would allow her to offer it at Eagle’s Crag

Mr. Parr made Isabella a bow, as elegant as it was grateful; tears stood in his eyes.

“If ever, Madam,” said he, “you should see, which God forbid! that fine boy likely to be left alone, and deserted in a wicked and unfeeling world, you will understand the impulse that has this day impelled me to set at defiance all vulgar forms; you will feel the gratitude that you have implanted here!” said he, laying his hand upon his heart.

While this conversation was passing, Catherine had drawn from under one of the tables a long and low stool, well cushioned, on which she had placed the nurse with the baby on her knee; and having herself vanished through a different door than that by which Isabella had entered the room, she had returned in an instant, accompanied by an old female servant, the very quintessence of old-fashioned neatness, loaded with bread and butter, milk and fruit, all excellent looking of their kind, and served up with a propriety and care that almost amounted to elegance. The sparkling water of the country was also placed before Isabella; to which Mr. Parr, withdrawing for a moment, added on his return two decanters of foreign wine.

“There is nothing,” said Isabella, “that is equal to Westmoreland hospitality. It is a virtue that I knew only by name before I came here.”

“When all is but little,” returned Mr. Parr, “there is no room for selection. The frankness of the gift must atone for the smallness of the offering.”

“But,” said Isabella, “I am so surrounded by riches that I am at a loss on which to fix my attention. This seems to be a very fine instrument,” said she, touching the keys of a piano-forte, which appeared to have no fault but being rather too large for the room in which it was placed.

“We are all epicures in our own way,” returned Mr. Parr. “My daughter fancies herself a pattern of moderation and temperance, because she has no taste for dress or furniture; but she is as dainty as the rest of us in the tone of her piano-forte or her harp.”

“Mrs. Willoughby would scarcely think so,” said Catherine, with a blush and a smile, “if she were to hear the notes which you, my dear father, are compelled to hear from me every night.”

“I hope myself to be a judge of that,” said Isabella, “as I flatter myself that you and Mr. Parr will allow me to convince you at Eagle’s Crag of the sense I have of the pleasure that I have received at Fell-beck.”

Both the father and daughter looked pleased at this well-bred recognition of names, with which they hardly supposed that Isabella was acquainted.

“I cannot imagine,” continued Isabella, “how I should have remained so long unacquainted with this beautiful spot, as I go out with my boy every day, and have endeavoured to vary my rides as much as possible; but I apprehend now, that, however they begin, they will generally take in Fell-beck before they end.”

Isabella now arose to take her leave, when she desired that she might be allowed to send her pony for Miss Parr at an early hour the next day.

“We shall have a most sincere pleasure in waiting upon you to-morrow,” returned Mr. Parr; “but we are both excellent walkers. Riding is not one of Catherine’s exceptions to self-denial.”

“But the evenings now shut in so soon,” said Isabella, “that I hope you will not refuse to pass the night at Eagle’s Crag. The morning is the best time for walking at this time of year.”

Mr. Parr again bowed.

“You know, madam, how to reconcile un Impertinente malgrè lui to himself,” said he. “We shall gratefully accept your extended favours.”

This little event had all the importance of an adventure to Isabella.

She had been enchanted with all that she had seen, and she longed impatiently to know every thing that could be known concerning Mr. Parr and his daughter; yet she had figured them to herself as the victims of such a series of extraordinary circumstances as was likely to make whatever she did hear flat and uninteresting.

The account that she could collect of them from Mr. Roberts, or Mrs. Evans, was very meagre, and left much to be filled up by imagination or conjecture. Of the unblemished honour and high character of Mr. Parr, however, they spoke in the strongest terms; and to the great estimation in which in former times he had been held at Eagle’s Crag they could also depose. But this was at a period long past. There had intervened a certain number of years when he had been lost sight of from the neighbourhood, and had only been spoken of as having sold all the property which he had once possessed in the country. About five years previous to the present time he had re-appeared, bringing with him his daughter, then just rising into womanhood. He had purchased Fell-beck, and had built the house which he inhabited. He mingled in no society, and was scarcely known beyond the immediate spot where he resided: but there he was known by the blessings of all to whom he could communicate good; in all that related to his small household, or personal gratification, frugal and sparing, although neither niggard nor unindulgent; but in charity magnificent; and sometimes the object of astonishment to his few neighbours from the arrival of a large box of books, an expensive apparatus for some scientific purpose, or some new musical instrument.

The young lady was represented as gentle and retiring; active when she could be useful, but uncommunicative, and with little of the alacrity or cheerfulness of youth; none of its ebullition, indiscretion, or inconsequence. “She seemed not made for this world,” was the observation of the few who approached her; to whom she appeared too wise and too good to mix with common mortals.

Isabella could understand how such a character might be formed by sorrow and deprivation; and was resolved that she would sooth the one and repair the other to the extent of her abilities.

Isabella expected her guests with impatience; her usual occupations were suspended in conjecturing what degree of confidence Mr. Parr intended to afford her, and what might make the subject of such a confidence; for she could not but be aware, from what had already passed, that it was his purpose to interest her in the welfare of his daughter, and perhaps to ask her patronage for her. She could not suppose, from the sense that he had evinced both of delicacy and propriety, even when he seemed to intrench upon their rights, that he would do this without endeavouring to shew that she was worthy of interest, and that she would not disgrace patronage; yet it seemed strange that he should choose so young a person as herself for the repository of secrets which seemed to be so carefully shut out from the rest of the world. There was something very extraordinary in all this! Isabella did not therefore like it the worse; however, she was forced by circumstances into thoughts and conduct beyond her age, or her experience; her imagination was not only young but ardent, and in giving way to it, she might be pardoned, if for once she lost sight of the cool prudence that would have shrunk from admitting two entire strangers to her privacy, or for having neglected a due attention to the evil eventual to herself, in the hope of doing good to others.

It is certain that neither one nor the other occurred at this time to Isabella in such a degree as to give her any regret for the frankness with which she had opened her house to those of whom she knew nothing but that there was a mystery hung over their situation. Yet she had been glad to feel something of a sanction for what she had done, from the account which she had received of the former well known respectability of Mr. Parr’s character; and she was resolved that she would relate all that had occurred to Lady Rachel, the moment that she should be able to add to it the result of her own further knowledge of the manners and the sentiments of her new acquaintance.

There was an early punctuality in the way of keeping their engagement, that shewed how agreeable it was to their wishes; and a simplicity in their appearance that proved those wishes not to be grounded in a sense of the superiority in station of the person whom they visited. Catherine had made no change in the dress which she had worn the day before; and Mr. Parr, depositing a little package on a table in the hall, where Isabella met them, said, “my dear Catherine, when you go to your room you will not forget to take this with you.”

Isabella watched Mr. Parr to see whether he would make any recognition of the objects around him; or would allude to the period when he was an accustomed guest in that house upon a very different footing to that of carrying his own bundle.

Neither was the case; yet she saw him cast a furtive look on one side, and then on the other, as wishing to behold what once he knew was there to be seen; she saw the working of his countenance, and the strength of the effort with which he composed it to the due discharge of the civilities of the moment; but she saw this effort almost fail him on his entering the library. Over the chimney-piece of that room hung a full-length picture of Mr. Willoughby’s father. Mr. Parr made a few hasty steps towards it, as if to feast his eyes on the features of one whom he had loved; but he stopped short; looked around the room; walked to the window; and, after a few moment’s struggle for the power of speech, he said, turning to Isabella, “are there any of the wild red deer in the park? it used to be one of their haunts.”

“You are well acquainted with this country I believe,” said Isabella.

“I have been, madam,” replied Mr. Parr. “Catherine, you have heard me speak of Eagle’s Crag; you now see it, and may judge whether I have been exorbitant in my estimation of it.”

The moment of agitation was past, and Mr. Parr appeared to take pleasure in reviewing the objects from whence he had been so long estranged.

“You have a noble store of information around you, madam,” said he, looking on the books; “and of amusement also. I am much mistaken if you do not know how to profit by both.”

“I should be very happy to do so under so able a direction as I must suppose yours to be, by what I observed at Fell-beck yesterday,” replied Isabella; “and I suspect that Miss Parr, if she will so far condescend, is very able to become my instructress.”

“Probably,” returned Mr. Parr, with that genuineness of character by which he was so peculiarly marked; “you might be of mutual use to each other. Catherine has in all likelihood gone beyond you in the exactness and depth of her acquirements, for to add another and another link to knowledge has been the only occupation of her life; yet the sum of what she knows is small; in all the ornamental accomplishments of female instruction, there is no question but that you have exceeded her far. In drawing and music, of which I wished her to know something, as affording breaks into the too languid monotony of her existence, she has had no other instructor than myself for many years past, and her progress has been in proportion to the skill of her master.”

“We will each put the other to the test,” said Isabella, smiling; “and at present my leisure may more than rival hers; but you must not tax it too high; for I apprehend that I shall be often tempted to neglect the volume, or the instrument, for the more rare pleasure of conversation.”

“Catherine will not dispute the ground with you there, madam,” said Mr. Parr, smiling, “for she is silent — too silent: and how should it be otherwise, when she has only an old man to talk to?”

“Oh, my father!” said Catherine, “whom should I like to talk to so well?”

“My little boy will teach you to talk,” said Isabella; “for, silent as he is, he loves nothing so well as being talked to.”

“Perhaps that is my case,” said Catherine, with a blush. “I do so love to hear my father talk, that I forget I ought to say anything myself.”

Every word that passed recommended Isabella’s guests more and more to her approbation; and before the hour of retiring to dress for dinner arrived, she was persuaded that she had made a most valuable acquisition in having become acquainted with them.

CHAP. XXVI.

— “Take him for all in all,

You will not look upon his like again.”

SHAKSPEARE.

CATHERINE appeared at dinner in the same simplicity of dress which she had worn in the morning. The form was the same, the material only was changed from tartan to white muslin; the hair was confined as before by a single ribbon, but its colour was different. Isabella endeavoured to give the tone of gaiety to their table-talk; nor did she endeavour in vain. Mr. Parr maintained as fully his claim to all the lighter graces of conversation, as he had done to the higher powers of intellect. Even a vein of humour, and the sparkles of wit, broke from beneath the crust that solitude and misfortune had been so long gathering over them. The effect upon the sensitive Catherine was striking: she listened, — she smiled, — she blushed with delight; and her eye almost made a verbal appeal to Isabella, whether, so listening, she could ever have a desire to speak?

Isabella, so long unused to the interchange of thought with any one who could fully understand her, was not less pleased than Catherine. The wine and the fruits had been long untasted before Isabella thought of withdrawing with her youthful companion; and if the pleasure that Mr. Parr had taken in the colloquy was to be judged of by his eagerness to renew it, he had not been less gratified than either of the two ladies. He rejoined them in the library almost immediately.

“I have been walking through the long gallery,” said he to Isabella: “will you give Catherine leave to see, while there is yet a ray of light, some of the pictures that hang there, and of which she had heard me speak?”

“I will attend her this moment,” said Isabella.

“I beg that she may go alone,” said Mr. Parr. “Catherine has no fear of ghosts.”

Isabella, conceiving that there was some particular reason for this request, as well as for sending poor Catherine to look upon pictures which it was too dark to see, made no farther opposition; but pointing out to Catherine how she would most readily find the way to the gallery, she resum