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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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 https://archive.org/details/womansfriendshipOOagui 
 
WOMAN’S FEIENDSHIP 
 
 A STORY OF DOMESTIC LIFE. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 BY 
 
 GRACE AGUILAR, 
 
 THE DAYS OF BRUCE HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES 
 
 “ THE VALE OF CEDARS ETC. ETC. 
 
 To show US how divine a thing' 
 
 A woman maj^ be made.” 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 BY 
 
 HELEN J. A. AlILES. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 GEOOMBRIDGE AND SONS, 
 
 PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 1874. 
 
SIM SON AND GROOMBRIDGE, PRINTERS, HERTFORD. 
 

 WOMAN’S FEIENDSHIP. 
 
 4 
 
 CHAPTER 1 . 
 
 FRIENDSHIP DEMANDS EQUALITY OF STATION. — TRUE AFFECTION 
 ^ DEVOID OF SELFISHNESS. 
 
 Beware, dear Florence ; I fear this warm attachment must 
 end in disappointment, fully as I can sympathise in its present 
 happiness,’ was the warning address of Mrs. Leslie to an 
 animated girl, who, on the receipt of a note and its rapid 
 perusal, had bounded towards her mother with an exclamation 
 of irrepressible joy. 
 
 ''Disappointment, dearest mother? How can that be?” 
 ^ was her eager reply. 
 
 "Because friendship, even more than love, demands equality 
 — 01 station. Friends cannot be to each other what they ought 
 to be, if the rank of one party be among the nobles of the 
 land, that of the other lowly as your own.” 
 
 And so I told her, dear mother ; at least so my manner 
 must have said, for she once called me a silly girl to be so 
 terrified at rank, and asked me if I fancied, because ' Lady ’ 
 was prefixed to her name, it raised up an impassable barrier 
 between Ida Villiers and Florence Leslie. I loved her from 
 that moment.” 
 
 No doubt, ’ replied her^ mother, smiling. " Yet my 
 ^ Florence, I wish the first friendship your warm heart had 
 ^ mrmed had been with some other than its present object. 
 
 : know how often I have longed for you to find a 
 
 ^lend of your own sex, and nearly of your own age, on whom 
 
 B 
 
 
2 
 
 TVOMANS FEIENDSHIP. 
 
 to expend some of those ever-gushing affections you lavish so 
 warmly on me and Minie — ’’ 
 
 And my father and Walter, do I not love them?’' laugh- 
 ingly interrupted Florence, kneeling down to caress her mother, 
 as she spoke. 
 
 Nay, if I must enumerate all whom Florence loves, I 
 believe we must add Minie s kitten and Walter’s greyhound, 
 and all the mute animals which come to her for protection 
 and care,” rejoined Mrs. Leslie in the same tone ; ^^but never- 
 theless, I have longed for you to find a friend, because I feel 
 you stand almost alone.” 
 
 Alone, mother ! with you and Minie ? How can you 
 speak so ? Have I ever wished or sought another ? ” 
 
 No, love ; but that is no reason why your mother should 
 not wish it for you. Minie is a pet, a plaything for us all, 
 younger in looks and manner than thirteen years may justify, 
 and no companion for your present pursuits and opening 
 pleasures.” 
 
 But are not you ? ” 
 
 I cannot be to you all I wish, my warm-hearted girl, or all 
 your fancy pictures me,” replied Mrs. Leslie, with difficulty 
 suppressing emotion; confined as I am, almost continually, to 
 a sofa or bed ; often incapacitated from the smallest exertion, 
 even from hearing the gay laughter of my children ; my 
 sufferings are aggravated by the painful thought, that now 
 you need female companionship and sympathy more than 
 ever, I cannot give them. A few years ago you were still a 
 child, and your natural light-heartedness bore you up against 
 all that might seem melancholy in your home. But within 
 the last year I have observed that my sufferings have too 
 often infected you with more sadness than they inflict upon 
 me ; and continually to watch with me, and to bear with me, 
 and think for me, this is no task for you, my Florence.” 
 
 ‘‘It is so precious even in its sorrow, that I would not 
 resign it for anything that other friends might offer, dearest 
 mother. It is only the last two years I have been conscious 
 of all I owe to you, and all you endure, and all the trouble 
 and sadness my wilfulness must often have occasioned you. 
 And if I have seemed more thoughtful and serious, it is 
 because I have only now begun to think and feel.”^ 
 
 “ And for that very reason, my child, I have wished you to 
 find some friend, whose affection and personal character might 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 3 
 
 sometimes give you more cheerful matters of meditation, and 
 a happy change of scene. You are only too prone to think 
 and feel, and might become morbidly sensitive before either 
 of us had imagined the danger. I know, too, that there is an 
 age when the young require more than their natural relatives 
 whom to respect and love ; they fancy it no credit to be loved 
 merely in their domestic circle ; they need an interchange of 
 sentiment and pursuit, and all their innocent recreations and 
 graver duties acquire double zest from being shared by another. 
 Sympathy is the magic charm of life ; and a friend will both 
 give it and feel it, and never shrink from speaking truth, 
 however painful, kindly indeed, but faithfully, and will infuse 
 and receive strength by the mutual confidence of high and 
 religious principle. Trust me, there are such friends, my 
 Florence, friends that will cling to each other through weal and 
 through woe, who will never permit coldness or distrust to 
 creep in, and dull their truth : aye, and who will stand 
 by, protecting and comforting, should sorrow or even sin be 
 the lot of the one, and that of the other be happiness 
 complete.’’ 
 
 Mrs. Leslie ceased, her voice becoming almost inaudible 
 from emotion or exhaustion. Florence imagined the latter 
 cause, for there was a deep flush on her mother’s usually pallid 
 cheek which alarmed and pained her, and throwing her arms 
 around her neck she begged her not to talk too much, dearly 
 as she loved to hear her, adding, somewhat mournfully, You 
 have indeed pictured true friendship, mother, and that which 
 I yearn for. Lady Ida may be all this to me, but I am too 
 lowly in station and in merit to be such to her ; though I do 
 feel I could go to the world’s end to make her happier than 
 she is. Oh, mother, if you did but know her as I do.” 
 
 Without that pleasure, my dear child, I have seen enough 
 of her to know that, were her rank less high, I could not wish 
 a dearer, truer friend for Florence. A character like yours, 
 almost too clinging, too affectionate, needs the support of 
 firmness and self-control, qualities I have never seen possessed 
 in a more powerful degTee than by Lady Ida. But remember, 
 my Florence, it is not only the disparity of rank which must 
 eventually separate you. Lady Ida is about to leave England 
 to reside in Italy for an indefinite time.” 
 
 ‘‘And with my whole heart I wish she could set off directly, 
 lonely as I should feel,” exclaimed Florence, eagerly. 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 doubt you do; for there never was any selfishness in 
 true affection, be it friendship or love. Yet still I wish there 
 had been no occasion for this self-renunciation, and that your 
 first friendship had not been with one from whom you will 
 so soon be called upon to part.’’ 
 
 But I would not lose the pleasure of the present to escape 
 the pain of the future. You know, dear mother, I always say 
 I feel that pleasure and pain are twins ; I never feel one with- 
 out the other, and I should be a poor miserable being, without 
 a particle of spirit or animation, if I were to give up the joy 
 of the one feeling for fear of the suffering of the other.” 
 
 There was an indefinable expression of sadness on the coun- 
 tenance of Mrs. Leslie as her mild eye rested on the beaming 
 features of her child. It was an expression which others might 
 often have remarked, but when observed by Florence, she 
 believed it natural to those beloved features, marking perhaps 
 greater suffering of body than usual, and in consequence 
 calling forth increased tenderness on her part. 
 
 It is too late to wish the present pleasure recalled, my 
 child ; continue to love Lady Ida, only remember there must 
 be a cloud in your horizon of joy, that this intimacy cannot 
 last, even if she return to England. Your respective stations 
 cannot permit the confidence of perfect friendship, and my 
 Florence has too much of her mother’s pride to seek to be a 
 humble friend.” 
 
 ‘‘I could never be such to Lady Ida,” replied Florence, ^^for 
 she would cease to love me, or at least to feel the same interest 
 in me, if I were. No, mother, no; I am not ashamed to stand 
 in a lower grade than hers. I shall never become one of those 
 despicable characters, who, attempting to rise above, sink 
 lower than their natural station, and thus expose themselves 
 to laughter and contempt.” 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 THE LESLIE FAMILY. — A MYSTERY. — LOVE OF COUNTRY AFFECTED 
 BY ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 The family, of whom the animated speaker of the preceding 
 chapter formed so engaging a part, consisted of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Leslie and their three children. They had resided for several 
 years in the lovely little village of Babbicombe, situated on 
 the south coast of Devonshire. Occasional visits had indeed 
 been made to the metropolis, and other parts of England; 
 but their home was Devonshire, and there had the affections 
 of Florence taken root, with all the enthusiasm of her nature. 
 London she abhorred ; she fancied its denizens were cold and 
 heartless, and her mind had not yet received the magic touch 
 which could awaken it to those treasures of art and science 
 which the emporium of England’s glory so richly contains. 
 As yet, the music of the birds and streams, and the deeper 
 bass and varied tones of Ocean, were sweeter harmonies than 
 the rarest talent of the capital. The opening flowers, the 
 diversified scene of hill and dale, the groups of village children, 
 of sturdy peasants and rustic girls, amid the fields and 
 orchards, presented to her fancy lovelier pictures and more 
 perfect forms than the finest galleries of art. 
 
 The feelings and mysteries of her own loving heart and 
 simple mind presented enough variety ; she needed not change 
 of society to develop her intuitive perception of character. 
 Reading with avidity all that she could obtain — history, 
 poetry, romance, all that could delineate nature according to 
 the responses of her own heart — she needed no other recrea- 
 tion. The gentle counsels of Mrs. Leslie preserved her from 
 all that mawkish sentiment and undue prominence of romance 
 which in some dispositions might have resulted from such 
 indiscriminate reading at an age so early. But Florence Leslie 
 
6 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 was no heroine, to take a volume of Byron or Moore, and 
 wander alone amid the rocks, and fells, and woods of Babbi- 
 combe, and weep in secret, imagining herself to be some 
 lovelorn damsel, and pining for all the fascinating heroes of 
 whom she read. That she was often seen tripping lightly, on 
 an early summer morning, or a cool fresh evening, down the 
 hill to a favourite cleft in a rock almost hidden by luxuriant 
 brushwood which covered it, and within hearing of the sono- 
 rous voice of old Ocean, and seen too with a book in her 
 hand, we pretend not to deny. But look not aghast, ye 
 votaries of Byron and Moore, that volume was generally one 
 of Felicia Hemans, or Mary Howitt ; or, if of deeper lore, 
 Wordsworth, Coleridge, the stirring scenes of Scott, or the 
 domestic pictures of Edgeworth, Mitford, or Austin. Florence 
 was not yet old enough, or perchance wise enough, to appreciate 
 the true poetic beauties of Lord Byron’s thrilling lays, or the 
 sweeter, softer music of Moore. She was as yet only sensible 
 of that which pleased her fancy and touched her heart ; and, 
 therefore, to these poets her gentle spirit echoed no reply. 
 
 But Florence was not so wedded to her books, and shrubs, 
 and flowers as to eschew those pleasures which might perhaps 
 appear somewhat irrelevant to such a quiet life. No one 
 loved a ball so well, no one was so lightly gay in all festivity 
 and mirth. The morning hour might see her in tears over a 
 favourite book, the evening find her the life and centre of a 
 happy group of children, laughing, dancing like the youngest 
 there. 
 
 Such she was at the age of fifteen ; seventeen years found 
 this internal and external happiness somewhat clouded. She 
 became more awake to outward things ; to the consciousness 
 of and S3nnpathy with the sufferings of a mother whom she 
 loved with no common love. For the last five years, Mrs. Leslie 
 had been labouring under an incurable disease, which not only 
 always debilitated her frame, producing a languor and de- 
 pression under which many a mind would have sunk, but 
 exposed her at intervals to the most excruciating suffering, 
 which she would yet bear so uncomplainingly, so heroically, 
 that very often the damp drops on her brow, or a fainting fit, 
 would be the first sign that she was enduring pain. A sudden 
 and violent disease would have alarmed, and thus excited the 
 attention even of a child ; but Mrs. Leslie’s complaint had 
 crept on so silently and unexpectedly, her languor and weakness 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 7 
 
 were so successfully combated, that it was not strange that 
 Florence should have failed to observe them at first, and that 
 when she did so, the fact should have dashed her glowing 
 visions with a saddening shade. She felt the pleasures of 
 gaiety were alloyed, for she could never join in them with 
 her mother. 
 
 True, the yearning for something more to love was not 
 strong enough to affect her happiness ; for when by Mrs. 
 Leslie’s side, listening to her loved counsels, or caressing her 
 young and joyous sister Mary (or Minie, as she was always 
 called), she felt it not. It was only when taking a ramble too 
 long for Minie, or joining in the pleasures of evening society, 
 for which Minie was too young, and which were for Mrs. Leslie 
 too painful an exertion, that she was conscious she might be 
 happier still. 
 
 There was an ardent longing in Florence Leslie’s heart from 
 her earliest years, which most people imagined but romantic 
 folly engendered by indiscriminate reading, and a consequent 
 love of adventure, but which (strange to say) always appeared 
 to cause Mrs. Leslie some uneasiness. All that concerned 
 Italy, from the driest history, the deepest antiquarian research, 
 to the lightest poem, were pored over with a pertinacity, a 
 constancy, which no one but Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, perhaps, 
 could comprehend. Rogers’s poem she committed to memory 
 page after page, simply for recreation ; and she learned to 
 draw, chiefly in order to copy every print of Italy, modern or 
 ancient, which came before her. 
 
 What would I not give to have some claim on that lovely 
 land !” she said one day, when only twelve years old. It is 
 so foolish merely to love. Now, if I had by some strange 
 chance been born there, I might love Italy as much as I 
 pleased. By the way, papa, where was I born ? I have asked 
 mamma several times, and there seems a fatality attending 
 her answer, for I do not know yet.” 
 
 Mr. Leslie’s face was shaded by his hand, and it was 
 twilight, or Florence must have discovered that his counte- 
 nance was slightly troubled ; but he answered quietly, If 
 you so much wish to forswear poor old England as your 
 birthplace, my dear child, you have my permission so to do. 
 For, in truth, if to be born in a country makes you a child of 
 the soil, you are Italian, having first seen the light about 
 twenty miles from the fair town whose name you bear.’* 
 
8 
 
 woman's friendship. 
 
 Italian ! really, truly, Italian ! Oh ! you dear, good 
 father, to tell me so. Now may I love it as much as I please. 
 Italy, dear, beautiful Italy ! I am your own child ! Mamma, 
 naughty mamma!’’ she continued, bounding to Mrs. Leslie, 
 as she entered the room, ^'why did you never tell me I was 
 Italian? I must go and tell Walter and nurse and away 
 she flew, utterly unconscious of the agitation her words had 
 produced in Mrs. Leslie, who, as the door closed behind her, 
 sank on a chair by her husband’s side, faintly exclaiming — 
 
 Edward, dearest Edward ! what have you told her ?” 
 
 ^‘Nothing, dearest, trust me, nothing that can in any way 
 disturb her serenity or happiness, or excite the least suspicion 
 in herself or others, inimical to her present or future peace. 
 I did but tell her she was born in Italy, which, did she ever 
 mingle with my family, she would find many to confirm ; and 
 you know it is but the truth, dearest wife.” 
 
 Mrs. Leslie breathed more freely. 
 
 I am very weak and very foolish,” she said, after a pause ; 
 
 but the slightest reference to her birth utterly unnerves me. 
 Dearest Edward, there come to me at times such horrible 
 forebodings, as if we had scarcely done right to act as we have 
 done ; and yet it was my own request, my first weighty boon, 
 and not granted by you without a painful struggle ; if 
 there be fault — if evil come of it — I have brought it on 
 myself.” 
 
 Do not speak thus, my noble Mary,” was her husband’s 
 instant reply, pressing her as he spoke to his bosom. What 
 fault can there be in acting as you did ? What evil can come 
 from it to dash your noble deed with woe ?” 
 
 If she should ever learn,” faintly murmured Mrs. Leslie, 
 ^‘ever know the truth ?” 
 
 It is not likely she ever will, nor can there be any need 
 she should. Loved, cherished, aye, and dutiful and affectionate 
 as she is, God grant that she may never leave our home till 
 she quits it for a happier one.” 
 
 Amen 1 ” fervently responded Mrs. Leslie ; and what 
 further might have passed between them was checked by the 
 re-entrance of their child. 
 
 As Florence outgrew the period of childhood, and merged 
 into opening womanhood, there was something in the intense 
 blackness of her large, lustrous eye, the glossy tresses of her 
 long, jet-black hair, the rich complexion, which, though 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 9 
 
 refined, and rendered peculiarly delicate from the effects of an 
 English climate, was certainly more brunette than blonde, that 
 seemed in truth to mark her of more southern origin than 
 her mother and little sister, between whom and herself there 
 was no affinity of feature whatever. Minie was a lovely 
 English child, exquisitely fair, with deep blue eyes, and 
 clustering curls of gold, and a voice that, even at twelve years 
 old, was something so extraordinary in its compass, its 
 flexibility, that many a professor might have envied her the 
 gift. 
 
 Florence was no regular beauty, but very graceful, with a 
 modest and winning manner, and an ever-varying expression of 
 feature, which rendered her a most lovable creature. Flattery, 
 Florence instinctively abhorred ; but if any one told her her 
 eyes and complexion were more Italian than English, she 
 would be as innocently delighted as a child with a new toy. 
 
 The other child of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie was a delicate boy, 
 two years the junior of Florence, between whom and himself 
 many an animated discussion was wont to take place, on what 
 they termed the respective merits of their respective countries. 
 On one of these occasions, Florence met the glance of her 
 mother, full of that sorrowful meaning which she had only 
 lately learned to remark, and she hastened towards her to 
 cover her with caresses, and ask if she could do anything to 
 alleviate her pain. 
 
 '‘Mamma does not like to hear you abuse old England,” 
 was Walter’s laughing rejoinder, as her mother assured her she 
 w'as not suffering. 
 
 " I did not abuse it ; I love it, Walter ; but I love Italy 
 more, and mamma loves it too.” 
 
 " Not better than England, Florence ; not so well : look at 
 her eyes.” 
 
 Florence did look, and seemed disappointed ; Mrs. Leslie 
 smiled. 
 
 " I have passed many happy, but more sorrowful, days in 
 Italy, my dear children ; and, as we generally love a country 
 from association, I candidly own it would give me more pain 
 than pleasure to visit those classic shores again.” 
 
 " There ! ” exclaimed Walter, triumphantly. 
 
 " It is not likely I shall ever have the happiness of seeing 
 them ; so let me love on, at least,” rejoined Florence, in a 
 sorrowful tone. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 EFFECTS OF FASHIONABLE TRAINING. — THE STORY OPENS. 
 
 Among the many visitors to the mild and beautiful seaport of 
 Torquay was the family of Lord Melford, a nobleman with 
 whom Mr. Leslie, during his casual visits *to the metropolis, 
 had become acquainted, from having done him some essential 
 service in the way of business. The climate of Devonshire 
 having been recommended for the health of one of his 
 daughters, two successive winters found the family com- 
 fortably domiciled in a noble residence near the town, acknow- 
 ledged to be second only to Tor Abbey in importance, both 
 for interior arrangements and exterior beauty ; its picturesque 
 localities possessing all the varied charms of hill and dale, 
 wood and water, peculiar to Devonshire. 
 
 Lady Melford and her daughters made it a point to return 
 Mr. Leslie s services by attentions to that gentleman’s family. 
 Florence was not a being to be passed unnoticed. Her 
 animation, her grace, her cultivated mind and intuitive refine- 
 ment, were acknowledged even by those accustomed to the 
 most fashionable society ; and, consequently, she was invited 
 to St. John’s, made much of by the Misses Melford, dignified 
 by the title of the Honourable Emily Melford’s 'intimate 
 friend,” caressed by the Viscountess herself, and though not 
 yet out,” admitted to all their domestic festivities. 
 
 Still Florence retained her independent spirit, her love of 
 her own more humble home, untinged by a wish to exchange 
 her unpretending sphere for that of her noble friends. Not- 
 withstanding that she became an object of envy to many a 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 11 
 
 young lady in the vicinity, who thought her pretensions to 
 the notice of Lady Melford were quite as good as Miss 'Leslie's, 
 not one in the whole neighbourhood could be found to say 
 that this distinction had changed one tittle of her character. 
 She was heard to declare that it was worth while to mix with 
 grandeur and be petted by strangers a little while, as it only 
 made her feel how much dearer was her home, how much 
 more precious the love of its inmates than they had ever 
 seemed before. 
 
 Though the refinement of high rank and well-cultivated 
 minds, mingled with lighter accomplishments, rendered the 
 Honourable Misses Melford far more congenial companions to 
 our young heroine than any she had yet met with, there was 
 still something wanting; the mystery of sympathy, that 
 curious power which links us with kindred minds, which bids 
 us feel, long before the lights and shadows of character can be 
 distinguished, that we have met with the rich blessing of a 
 heart which can understand us, and on which our own may 
 lean. A fashionable education, and, in the two elder, the 
 gaieties of four or five London seasons, had been productive 
 of their natural consequences, coldness and heartlessness, 
 which could not assimilate with the ardent temperament of 
 Florence. She knew not their extent, for they were always 
 kind to her, and she did not feel any restraint before them ; 
 but she intuitively felt that all her high aspirations, her ex- 
 alted feelings had better not be spoken, for they would not 
 be understood ; even Emily Melford, though but just eighteen, 
 had not passed through the ordeal of fashionable training 
 entirely unscathed ; perhaps, too, nature was as much in fault 
 as education, for she was naturally cold, though so independent 
 in thought and action, as often to startle Florence. 
 
 The first winter, St. John's had only been honoured by the 
 presence of Lady Melford and her daughters, occasionally 
 varied by visits from the Viscount, and the Honourable 
 Frederick and Alfred Melford, true specimens of joke-loving, 
 amusement-seeking, young men of fashion, whose gaiety and 
 good feeling excited the mirth and ready enjoyment of 
 Florence, but nothing more. The second winter brought an 
 addition to the family. Emily had alluded to a cousin, her 
 mother’s niece, the Lady Ida Villiers, eight years her senior, 
 and spoken so rapturously of her exceeding grace and beauty, 
 and richly-gifted mind, that Florence thought these all- 
 
12 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 sufficient food for fancy ; but tlie tale connected with 
 Lady Ida was such as to interest much colder hearts than 
 hers. 
 
 She had lost her father seven years previously ; her mother 
 some time before ; and Lady Ida, the last of an ancient line, 
 was left under the guardianship of Lord Melford, until the 
 age of twenty-four, when full liberty became her own. The 
 title of her father, the ancient earldom of Edgemere, had 
 indeed gone to a distant branch, but his possessions, with 
 little diminution, passed to his daughter, leaving her, in 
 consequence, a wealthy heiress. She had certainly charms 
 enough, both of person and mind, to remove all idea that she 
 could be sought merely for fortune ; but whatever the cause, 
 the richest and proudest bowed before her, acknowledged her 
 surpassing loveliness, and besought, in all the varieties of 
 passion, the honour of her hand. But the heart of the Lady 
 Ida Villiers had appeared to be as cold as ice ; her majesty of 
 demeanour had never descended to encouragement, in even 
 the passing courtesy of the moment. All were rejected, some 
 with winning kindness, some with contemptuous scorn, ac- 
 cording as her quick and penetrative mind discovered the true 
 feeling or worldly-seeldng pretence of her respective suitors. 
 In vain her guardians expostulated, and Lord Melford, 
 remembering he was an uncle also, took upon himself to 
 threaten. The young lady was inexorable, and, at length, 
 the truth was discovered. The heart which had appeared 
 impregnable, had, in fact, been carried by storm already ; and 
 Lady Ida scrupled neither to deny nor to- conceal it, for its 
 love was returned ; she knew this in spite of the hopelessness 
 with which it was accompanied. 
 
 Edmund St. Maur was the youngest branch of the noble 
 family whose name he bore. There was a chance of the' 
 barony becoming his, but a chance far too remote for specula- 
 tion. Moreover, he and his widowed mother were poor; poor, 
 at least, for the sphere in which their relationship to rank 
 imperatively called them to move ; and Edmund was of that 
 delicate frame and constitution, which are too often attendant 
 on studious habits and reflective minds. The late Lord 
 Edgemere had known the worth of both mother and son, and 
 had cherished and encouraged the intimacy between them 
 and his child. Whether he ever thought of danger arising 
 from it, or really would not have objected to the union of 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 IS 
 
 Lady Ida with the poor but high-minded Edmund St. Maur, 
 could never be ascertained, as he died before Ida herself was- 
 aware of the engaged state of her affections ; and St. Maur, 
 whatever might have been his private feelings, knew his 
 position too well to think of their betrayal. 
 
 Lady Ida had not, however, been a year an orphan, before 
 the faded form and pallid cheek of Edmund startled her into 
 perfect consciousness as to the state of her own heart ; and 
 with all the refinement and delicacy of a high and pure mind,, 
 she recalled all that had ever passed between them, all that- 
 she knew of his character, and felt that gold, despicable gold, 
 had caused this change. His too sensitive mind imagined that 
 fortune had for ever divided them, that he dared not aspire to 
 her hand. She knew his pride, and felt that did she not 
 advance more forward than was, perhaps, quite consistent with 
 maidenly propriety, not only her own happiness but his would 
 be sacrificed for ever. Her first measures were sufficiently 
 unsuccessful to rob her own cheek of its glow, her own form of 
 its roundness ; the more kind, the more gracious her manner, 
 nay, the more she thought to draw him to her side, the more 
 he shunned her. 
 
 But how did she ever discover his sentiments ? how ever 
 conquer his pride ? ” was Florence Leslie’s ardent exclamation, 
 aware of the sequel, yet not imagining how these difficulties 
 could be overcome ; and Emily Melford, as eager to speak as 
 her companion to listen, continued — 
 
 '' Simply, because he chanced to have a mother in whom he 
 could confide a tale of love. It was easy for Lady Helen to 
 penetrate Ida’s secret, and the betrayal of Edmund’s sentiments 
 of course followed. Once assured that she was beloved, neither 
 her own maiden modesty nor natural pride could be in aught 
 impugned. All reserve was at an end ; they understood each 
 other, and never were three happier persons, I believe, than 
 Ida and Edmund, and not least. Lady Helen.” 
 
 She must have been happy, for it was greatly her doing,” 
 observed Florence. '^But why are they not married yet? why 
 only engaged ? ” 
 
 For a very weighty reason ; Ida had to bear the brunt of 
 all sorts of persecution — my honourable family at their head ; 
 every one who could claim the most distant relationship chose 
 to declare she should not so throw herself away, that it was 
 worse than folly ; she was wedding herself not alone with 
 
14 
 
 ^VOMAN’s miENDSHIP. 
 
 poverty, but with death, for every one must see Edmund St. 
 Maur had not five years more to live/’ 
 
 How cruel ! ” indignantly exclaimed Florence. 
 
 Cruel, in truth ; and not content with this, invectives 
 nearly approaching to insult were thrown at her by all, not 
 excepting my own family.” 
 
 Not lady Melford ? — impossible ! ” 
 
 ‘"No, not mamma; she had rather more regard for her 
 sister’s daughter, though she disapproved of the match quite 
 as much as others. If the good folks had ever misunderstood 
 my cousin before, it was impossible to misunderstand her then. 
 She bore the storm firmly, and, in appearance, unconcernedly. 
 Papa once went the length of saying, he would prohibit the 
 marriage. She told him very calmly that she understood his 
 legal authority ended when she was four-and-twenty, and she 
 did not intend to marry till then. When the important day 
 arrived, and, becoming her own mistress, there seemed no 
 farther obstacle to her happiness, St. Maur was suddenly taken 
 seriously ill, as the medical man declared, from over-excite- 
 ment, and so many dangerous symptoms returned, that he was 
 peremptorily desired to winter at Madeira, and then to remain 
 in Italy till his health was perfectly re-established. They 
 assured Lady Helen and my cousin that if he did this, no 
 danger whatever need be apprehended ; but if he should remain 
 in England, they could not answer for the consequences. 
 Imagine poor Ida’s anguish : even at this moment she would 
 have united her fate with his, that she might be permitted to 
 follow him, and be his nurse and his untiring attendant ; but 
 Edmund was far too unselfish, even in his love, to permit this 
 sacrifice on her part ; and Lady Helen, much as she felt for 
 her, seconded her son. All things were against poor Ida. The 
 medical fraternity put a decided negative on her proposal ; 
 declaring that, in his present state, even the pain of separation 
 would be better borne than the excitement of her presence. 
 The opinion of Sir Charles Brashleigh at length made her 
 yield ; she consented to let her lover go without her, though 
 she well knew what a period of anxiety and sulBfering his 
 absence, and in this precarious state, would be to her. I never 
 saw her so wholly and utterly overcome as she was the first 
 week after his departure. She struggled against it till she 
 was thrown on a bed of sickness, and I am certain she will 
 neither look nor feel like herself till she shall rejoin him.” 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 15 
 
 ‘'And when will that be?” inquired Florence, her eyes 
 swelling in tears ; ‘‘ how long have they been parted ? ” 
 
 “Nearly eighteen months, and it has been a period of 
 intense anxiety to Ida. The accounts have become more and 
 more favourable, but of course poor Ida cannot feel happy^ or 
 secure, till she is by his side. Papa is so angry at her resist- 
 ance to his authority, th^t he will not allow us to go to Italy, 
 as we all wished to do ; he fancies separation will do the work 
 for him, and that they will forget each other. However, next 
 spring or autumn. Lord Edgemere’s family go to Kome, and 
 Ida goes with them.” 
 
 “ Oh, what a blessed time to look forward to ! ” exclaimed 
 Florence ; who added, “ but you say she has even encountered 
 persecution from your own family — surely your sisters must 
 have been her friends ? ” 
 
 “ Surely not, my very simple girl. Georgiana imagined 
 herself one of the greatest wits and scholars of the day ; and 
 that Ida, without the least effort, should surpass her, and 
 fascinate not only the butterflies, but every man of genius and 
 letters who approached her, was somewhat too mortifying to be 
 borne meekly. No woman ever yet quietly surrendered the 
 reputation of superior talents to another woman, and certainly 
 not to a younger. Then Sophia once dreamed she was a 
 beauty ; and though three successive crowded seasons passed, 
 and no reward of that beauty made its appearance in anything 
 like an offer of marriage, she chose to imagine Ida’s faultless 
 face and form a decided affront to her, and so disliked her 
 accordingly.” 
 
 “How can you speak so of your sisters?” inquired Florence, 
 half laughingly, half reproachfully. 
 
 “ How can I ? very easily, for I hate little-mindedness. My 
 dear Florence, London is very different from the country. 
 Sisters so often become rivals ; there is so little time in the 
 whirl of gaiety for words and acts of mutual kindness, that we 
 should laugh at the idea of imagining them . better than other 
 people.” 
 
 “ Save me from London, then ! ” ejaculated Florence, so 
 heartily, that^ her companion was yet more amused ; but 
 Florence continued — “ How comes it, Emily, that you can 
 afford to speak so enthusiastically of Lady Ida.” 
 
 “ Simply, first, because I know I am no beauty ; secondly, 
 it is too much trouble to attempt rivalling her in talent or in 
 
16 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 W2t ; and, thirdly, she is eight years older than I am, and 
 before I make my debut she will have passed all ordeal, by 
 taking unto herself a partner for better or worse, and so she 
 cannot be my rival ; so do not give me credit for any seeming 
 amiability, for if I were a belle, and a would-be blue one, I 
 should be just as envious as others.” 
 
P(UJt 17 . 
 
r 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IDA. — SYMPATHY. — PRIENDSHIP POBMED. 
 
 Lady ida Villiebs came, and Florence Leslie found every 
 vision of fancy and anticipation more than realised. It was 
 impossible for such an enthusiastic, affectionate being as her- 
 self to be in Lady Ida’s company, to listen to her varied 
 powers of conversation, which she had the rare faculty of 
 adapting to every character with whom she mingled, still more 
 to find herself, after the first few days, an object of notice, 
 even of interest, without feeling every ardent affection, based 
 on esteem, enlisted in her cause. She found, to her utmost 
 astonishment, that her thoughts were read by her new com- 
 panion before she had shaped them into words; her tastes 
 drawn forth irresistibly to meet with sympathy and improve- 
 ment ; her simple pleasures, both in books and nature, appre- 
 ciated, encouraged, and so delightfully directed higher than 
 she had ever ventured alone, that every hour spent in Lady 
 Ida’s society was productive of pleasures which she had never 
 even imagined before. Nor was it only by words that Lady 
 Ida’s character opened itself to the admiring and wondering 
 gaze of Florence. She observed her daily conduct to those 
 around her. Courteous and kind, to her aunt far more affec- 
 tionate than either of her own daughters — no stranger could 
 have ever imagined she was simply returning good for evil ; 
 even to her uncle she never failed in courtesy and gentleness, 
 though his manner towards her was always cold and super- 
 cilious. The trials of her own heart, her own anxieties, never 
 passed her lips ; but the paleness of her beautiful cheek, the 
 occasional dimness of the large, soft, hazel eye, the fragility of 
 her finely-proportioned form, were only too painful evidences 
 of all which in secret she endured. 
 
18 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Obtuse beings, indeed, might not have marked these things ; . 
 but Florence did, and with all the vivid imaginativeness of 
 her nature, placed herself in Lady Ida’s situation, and 
 shuddered. Faithful love and mutual devotion were subjects 
 absolutely hallowed to her fancy ; and so strong was this 
 feeling, that her own heart beat thick and painfully on those 
 days when letters could be received from Italy, and her quick 
 eye, awakened by affection, could read the rapidly increasing 
 paleness of Lady Ida’s cheek, the trembling of the hand 
 rendering every effort to continue drawing, writing, or work 
 impossible, though all the while her conversation upon different 
 subjects would continue without hesitation or pause. Once 
 she had been present when one of these precious letters was 
 unexpectedly brought to her friend, and Lady Ida, it seemed, 
 had forgotten any one was near, for the thrilling cry of 
 transport with which she seized the papers, the passionate 
 kisses she pressed on the senseless letters which composed his 
 name, the burst of fervent thankfulness which escaped her lips, 
 betrayed how strong must be the control which she exercised 
 when receiving similar treasures in presence of her family. 
 
 Some dispositions would have triumphed in witnessing this 
 absence of restraint, would have hugged themselves up in the 
 belief that they were more in her confidence than others. 
 Not so Florence Leslie. She glided from the apartment a,s 
 silently, as fleetly, as if she fancied herself guilty in tarrying 
 one moment to witness emotions so sacred and so blessed. 
 Now it so happened that Lady Ida was aware of her young 
 companion’s presence when the packet was received, but not 
 till the delight of its perusal was in part subsided had she 
 leisure to remark that Florence had disappeared, bearing the 
 drawing on which she had been engaged along with her. The 
 action struck her, and heightened the interest that from the 
 first the simple country girl had excited ; nor was the feeling 
 decreased by the glistening eye and timid accents with which, 
 when they met again, and, as it chanced, alone, Florence 
 ventured to ask — 
 
 If the news from Italy were favourable ? If Mr. St. Maur 
 were as well as by the last accounts ? ” 
 
 The pressure of the hand which accompanied the rapid 
 answer, Better, my dear girl, better than he has been yet, 
 and for a much longer interval,” at once told her that Lady 
 Ida accepted her sympathy. 
 
WOAIAN’S rHIENDSHIP.- 
 
 19 
 
 No persuasion, no authority, could prevail on Lady Ida to 
 join Lady Melford and her daughters in their yisitings,. balls, 
 concerts, and other Christmas amusements, with which they 
 sought to while away their sojourn in the country. 
 
 Georgiana and Sophia called her proud and overbearing, 
 and said that the poor simple folks of Torquay were not good 
 enough to associate with one so fastidious. Even Lady 
 Melford represented that her reserve might create unpleasant 
 feelings, which would be better avoided. 
 
 '' Tell them the truth, my dear aunt,’’ was her half-laughing, 
 though earnest reply ; tell them Lady Ida Villiers has for- 
 sworn all gaiety such as visiting engenders, till she has made a 
 pilgTimage to St. Peter s, and has returned thence miraculously 
 cured. Pray smooth all the plumes my reserve may have 
 ruffled, by the true information, that for the last eighteen 
 months I have withdrawn myself almost entirely from London 
 society ; that I mean not the very slightest affront ; and if 
 my word be not sufficient, I will give them references to 
 Almack’s and lady patronesses, and to all the givers of balls, 
 concerts, private theatricals, etc., as vouchers of my truth.” 
 
 How can you be so ridiculous, Ida ? You make yourself 
 the laughing-stock of the country by this perverseness. I 
 shall tell them no such thing. Surely, when you are the wife 
 of Edmund St. Maur, it will be time enough to make such a 
 sacrifice ; there is no occasion for it beforehand.” 
 
 Then you see, aunt, you would do less to save the poor 
 people’s feelings than I would.” 
 
 ^‘As if such a tale would be believed,” interposed Miss 
 Melford, sourly. 
 
 Disbelief is their sin, then, Georgy, not mine ; I would tell 
 the truth.” 
 
 But laugh off such attacks as she might, she was not to be 
 persuaded; and much to the marvel of her cousins, the 
 greater part of the gentry continued to give her the meed of 
 admiration still. 
 
 Lady Ida Villiers might and did refuse to enter into evening 
 gaieties ; but their residence in Torquay presented her with 
 one rich source of gratification, which drew her from herself 
 almost unconsciously — Nature. The beautiful scenery of 
 Devonshire presented, even in the winter months, sufficient 
 charm to banish all recollection that in summer it could be 
 lovelier still. Lady Ida would order out her own carriage, 
 
 c 2 
 
20 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 and leaving the gay resorts of the town, put herself under the 
 guidance of the delighted Florence, and explore the country 
 for twenty miles round ; and when there, sketches were to be 
 taken, associations of history or romance recalled, passages of 
 favourite poems sought for, in glowing words, to embody the 
 imagery around. 
 
 For Florence these were, indeed, happy days. She gave 
 vent to her vivid fancy, her exuberant elasticity of spirits, for 
 it was impossible to retain the silencing awe which Lady Ida’s 
 superior endowments, both personal and mental, had first 
 inspired, when thus unrestrainedly enjoying her society. 
 Emily Melford was often of their party, and by her quaint 
 remarks only heightened our young heroine’s buoyant mirth ; 
 and in witnessing her happiness. Lady Ida, ever the most 
 unselfish of mortals, could forget her own anxieties, and 
 rejoice that even in her present depression she had the power 
 of bestowing so much joy. 
 
 Florence, you really are such an admirable cicerone, I 
 must recommend you to all visitors of Devonshire. If it had 
 not been for you I should have left the county as ignorant of 
 its beauties as I entered it,” was Lady Ida’s observation, when 
 returning from a beautiful excursion to the ruins of Berry 
 Pomeroy Castle. 
 
 Their road was winding close by the banks of the Teign, 
 seeming to be divided from the river only by the high luxu- 
 riant trees, which growing on either side so closely, the 
 carriage would have been in some danger had it encountered 
 any other vehicle. There were innumerable evergreen shrubs, 
 and the clear tracery of every minute branch and twig of the 
 trees against the light blue sky produced as beautiful an effect 
 as the darker and richer shades of summer. The sun, too, 
 was setting with that gorgeousness peculiar to Devonshire 
 even in the winter months; and the river reflected every 
 shade with a fidelity as lovely as it was striking. 
 
 You certainly ought to give some weighty proof of grati- 
 tude, Ida ; for either Florence or Devonshire has made you a 
 different being. You are more like yourself than I ever see 
 you in London,” rejoined Emily. 
 
 Poor London, for what sins has it not to be answerable in 
 your estimation, Emily? I wish you would be candid for 
 once. You abuse London, because, you say, the people are so 
 cold and artificial, and for a multitude of causes which I 
 
WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 21 
 
 cannot define. Will you tell me, are your country visitors 
 more to your taste ? ” 
 
 No ; they are as much too simple as the Londoners are 
 too artificial ; but at least you can escape from their influence 
 better here than in London.’’ 
 
 Then you would like to live an anchorite in the country?” 
 
 Not for the world ! I like society, bad as it is, too 
 well?” 
 
 '' Then pray do not abuse it. You know I often tell you, 
 Emily, it is your own natural coldness which reflects itself 
 upon everybody.” 
 
 Thanks for the compliment, most noble cousin.” 
 
 ‘‘It is no compliment, Emily, but sad, sober truth. I 
 Qannot bear such sentiments in one so young ; for what in- 
 justice or evil can you have witnessed ? ” 
 
 “ None in the world ; only as we believe in original sin, 
 there must be some contradiction to our faith in human 
 virtue. Now, as I mean to be consistent, I uphold that evil 
 is more prevalent than good ; and, to descend from such grave 
 subjects, that we meet disagreeable people more often than 
 agreeable ones.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so ; but there is good in the world, dark as it is 
 — great good, and the sublimest virtue. I believe there may 
 be almost perfect characters even on earth.” 
 
 “Edmund St. Maur, for instance,” interrupted Emily 
 Melford, mischievously. 
 
 “ No, Emily,” replied Lady Ida, gravely. “If I had made 
 him an idol of perfection, I should stand but little chance of 
 lasting happiness ; for I should be liable to have my bright 
 picture tarnished by all the unforeseen chances and changes of 
 life. I esteem him, or I would not wed him ; but I know his 
 failings, as I trust he does mine. He is not old enough for 
 the perfection to which I allude ; he has had the trial neither 
 of adversity nor of prosperity — I mean, in the extreme. His 
 mother comes far nearer my standard of perfection in human 
 character than my Edmund.” 
 
 “ Eloquently answered, at least, cousin mine ; I may believe 
 you or not, as I please. Florence, what are you thinking 
 about ? Ida is no oracle, that you should so devour her 
 words. My wisdom is quite as good.” 
 
 “ I do not think so, Emily ; for my feelings side with her 
 view of the question.” 
 
22 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 / 
 
 ^ But I wish you would tell me, Lady Ida, all you find to 
 like in London.” 
 
 All, Florence ? what a question ! Why, a great many 
 things ; some of which, had I you near me, I would compel 
 you to like London for, too. Its magazines of art ; its 
 galleries of painting and sculpture ; its varied avenues to the 
 indulgence of every taste — in music, from the solemn strains 
 of our sublime Handel to the lightest melody of the Italians. 
 Then there are all the literati of. the land. We may gather 
 around us the poet, the philosopher, the novelist, and mark if 
 their characters accord with their writings, and love or shun 
 them accordingly. Oh ! there are many things to make a 
 residence in London delightful for a while ; though I acknow- 
 ledge with you, I should wish my home to be an old baronial 
 hall of dear old England.” 
 
 But these things. Lady Ida, are only for the noble and 
 rich. Now, in Borne, Naples, Florence, such treasures of art 
 and science are open to every rank and every fortune ; and 
 there too, with the most lovely country that eye can dwell on 
 or mind delight in.” 
 
 So it seems from a distance, my dear girl. When I return 
 from my pilgrimage to Italy, I will give you truer impressions. 
 Will you trust me ? and, meanwhile, rest content in Old 
 England ? ” 
 
 Yes, if 5"ou will tell me.” 
 
 If I will ! what do you mean ? ” 
 
 The eyes of Florence slowly filled with tears, and she turned 
 hastily to the window, exclaiming at the same instant that 
 they were at home. 
 
CHAPTEH V. 
 
 A MORNING AT ST. JOHN’s. 
 
 That Florence Leslie’s simple and unselfish nature was un- 
 corrupted by the notice she attracted in the noble circle of 
 St. John’s, many trifling incidents served to prove. She had 
 been spending some days, as usual, at St. John’s, and was 
 seated one morning in Lady Ida’s own boudoir, employed in 
 finishing a drawing of a pretty little group of peasant children, 
 who had attracted her notice on a late excursion. Lady Ida 
 was embroidering ; Emily Melford, stretched listlessly on a 
 sofa, reading, every now and then uttering sounds expressive 
 (as Florence declared) of such disapproval, that she wondered 
 how she could go on with the book. It was a lovely morning 
 in March, so balmy that the French windows were open, 
 permitting the entrance of a complete flood of sunshine. 
 Already the lawn, on which the windows opened, was spangled 
 with snowdrops, hepaticas, violets, double and single primroses, 
 and the loveliest hyacinths of every brilliant colour decorated 
 the room. It was a lovely retreat, peculiarly delightful to 
 Florence, from the books, the music, prints, and flowers, which 
 Lady Ida’s taste had collected around her. Their retirement 
 was often invaded by Alfred Melford, who declared himself a 
 butterfly, seeking the warmest sunshine ; and so, wherever he 
 might rove for awhile, he was even compelled to return to his 
 cousin’s boudoir. 
 
 ‘‘ What is the matter, Emily ? Why are you groaning over 
 your book in this melancholy style ? If it be such trash, why 
 xead it ?” 
 
24 
 
 woman’s triendship. 
 
 Because I have nearly exhausted all the libraries in this 
 out-of-the-world place, and I am even compelled to resort to 
 this, over which I chanced to find that simpleton Florence 
 deeply affected the other day ; so, as I will give her credit 
 sometimes for good taste, I thought I would try it.” 
 
 I should think you need scarcely resort to public libraries 
 for books to while away your time, before dinner at least. 
 My uncle has furnished a plentiful supply, I am sure, and you 
 are quite welcome to any of mine.” 
 
 Thanks, cousin mine ; I am too lazy in the country for 
 anything but novels ; they sickened me with history, and 
 almost with poetry, at school.” 
 
 For heaven’s sake, Emily, do not say so, and still more, 
 do not feel so. Do you mean to tell me you never intend 
 reading anything serious again ?” 
 
 Now, Ida, do not preach. You do not know what it is to 
 be under fashionable thraldom, and care, rigid as that of any 
 lady abbess, for fourteen years out of nineteen ; so you cannot 
 tell what it is to feel free. I mean to seek my own comfort, 
 my own pleasure henceforth, to make up for it.” 
 
 ‘‘And be the most selfish, most disagreeable being amongst 
 all those you dignify with such appellations,” replied Lady 
 Ida, indignantly. “ If you do, only keep out of my way, for 
 I shall disclaim all relationship with you.” 
 
 “But what is there in this book you so dislike, Emily?” 
 interposed Florence. And an animated discussion of its 
 excellence and non-excellence followed, which we have no 
 space to transcribe : it ended by Emily’s declaring that 
 Florence was certainly intended for a poet, as she had such 
 highflown notions of human nature — all the worse for her. 
 
 “ Why all the worse ?” 
 
 “Because you will never be appreciated or understood, and 
 are doomed to lonely musing all your life.” 
 
 “ Do not heed her, Florence,” interposed Lady Ida ; “ she 
 judges all the world by herself.” 
 
 “ Oh, but you do not know Florence as I do : she says it is 
 not only possible but quite natural to seek the happiness of 
 those we love more than our own.” 
 
 “ Well, and she is right.” 
 
 “What, even in the rivalry of love ?” 
 
 “ Stop, Emily, let me tell Lady Ida exactly what I said — 
 simply that I thought it was possible for a woman to love 
 
TYOMAIS’S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 25 ^ 
 
 before feeling certain of a return ; and that, should she ever 
 discover the happiness of him she loved was unfortunately 
 distinct from her own, she would do everything in her power 
 to forward that happiness, even if in so doing she condemned 
 herself to misery. Emily declares it is impossible, and that 
 she should hate herself, her supposed lover, and his more 
 fortunate choice, one and all inveterately.” 
 
 '‘It is a weighty subject for decision, Florence,” replied 
 Lady Ida, "requiring more complete immolation of self than, 
 perhaps, any but those in such an emergency can imagine]; but 
 that there are such noble spirits I do most truthfully believe.” 
 
 " There, Emily !” exclaimed Florence, triumphantly. 
 
 "Wait till you yourself are in such an enviable position, 
 and decide on the possibility or impossibility then,” replied 
 Emily. 
 
 " If such suffering were indeed mine, heaven grant I should 
 feel and act the same ; and that I might be stronger, firmer, 
 0, how much firmer than I am now !” responded Florence ; 
 and there was so much solemnity, so much feeling in the tone, 
 that it effectually checked any further jesting on the part of 
 Emily. All that is really natural is always affecting; and 
 Florence was so completely a child of nature, that what would 
 have appeared folly in others, in her did but enhance the 
 interest she never failed to excite, and increase affection in 
 every heart capable of appreciating and understanding her. 
 
 "And I say, Florence, dearest, heaven grant you may never 
 pass through such a fiery ordeal, for, of all persons, you are 
 the least fitted to endure it,” answered Lady Ida, in a tone 
 which brought her young companion to the cushion at her 
 feet, and resting her arm on her knee, Florence simply asked, 
 "Why?” 
 
 " Because you give me the idea of one formed but for 
 happiness, my gentle-minded girl. One who is so continually 
 alive to the feelings, joys, and griefs of others, ought to be 
 happy herself. It would be a real grief to me to hear you 
 were in sorrow, Florence.” 
 
 " So, if your love is to be unreturned, do not love at all,” 
 laughingly added Emily; "or Ida will have to grieve somewhat 
 too soon.” 
 
 " Love ! oh, I never mean to love ! I dread its power far 
 too much. You know what my song says;” and the lively 
 girl flew to the piano, and warbled forth : — 
 
26 
 
 woman’s feiendship. 
 
 Xo, tempt me not, I will not love ! 
 
 My soul could scarce sustain 
 
 The thrilling transports of its bliss — 
 
 The anguish of its pain : 
 
 Too full of joy for earth to know, 
 
 Too wild to look above ; 
 
 I could not bear the doubt, the dread — 
 
 No ! no 1 I will not love ! 
 
 No, tempt me not — love’s sweetest flower 
 Hath poison in its smile ; 
 
 Love only woos with dazzling power. 
 
 To fetter hearts the while : 
 
 I will not wear its rosy chain, 
 
 Nor e’en its fragrance prove ; 
 
 I fear too much love’s silent pain — 
 
 No ! no ! I will not love !” 
 
 “ Bravo, Florence ! ” exclaimed Alfred Melford, bounding 
 through the open window, with a pink note in his hand ; I 
 never heard you sing so well ; what has inspired you ?” 
 
 "‘Your absence, of course, and the absence of all critical 
 listeners, but Ida and myself. What have you there 
 
 Something to shake off your ennui. An invitation to a 
 ball at the Oaklands.” 
 
 "‘Oh, delightful! give it me;” and the young lady was 
 absolutely roused enough to spring from her sofa, and snatch 
 the note from her brother s hand : “and one for Ida, too, of 
 course, and of course she will not go. Florence, do you think 
 your family are asked ? ” 
 
 “ Probably not. Your friends associate but with lords and 
 ladies, gold and jewels ; and, believing fine feathers make fine 
 birds, unless I would consent to go, jackdaw fashion, bedecked 
 in borrowed plumes, they would not admit me.” 
 
 “Florence Leslie a satirist!” rejoined young Melford, 
 laughing; “who would have believed it? What a joke it 
 would be to attire and proclaim you the Lady Ida Villiers, 
 and take you with us. You are much of the same height — Ida, 
 do bestow your jewels and name on Florence for the night.” 
 
 “ She is welcome to them, if she will accept them,” replide 
 Lady Ida. 
 
 “ Thank you, I had rather not, even if I stood no chance of 
 being recognised by Mr. and Mrs. Oakland themselves, and 
 the greater number of their guests ; I will never go where my 
 own proper person is despised.” 
 
WOMANS FEIENDSHIP. 
 
 27 
 
 Proud too, Miss Florence ! why, I never knew you before 
 to-day. I vow if you were not likely to be discovered, you 
 should go as Lady Ida ; but as Miss Leslie cannot, Ida, I wish 
 you would, if it were only to give these affecters of refinement 
 a taste of England’s real dignity and pride.” 
 
 “You know I never go anywhere, Alfred; and Florence has 
 not given me any desire to make an exception in favour of 
 Mrs. Oakland.” 
 
 “ Ida can give the good folks of the country a much better 
 idea of London refinement and fashion, than by going out to 
 do so, Alfred. I have been conjuring and beseeching her to 
 give a ball, preceded by a regular series of tableaux mvans, 
 dress, scenery, frame and all. One of the large rooms up-stairs 
 would do admirably for it, and then a ball ! Why, this poor 
 rustic town would be in convulsions of excitement for months 
 afterwards ; and, as for you, what would you not be in their 
 estimation ? Beauty — grace — fascination ! Ida, you would 
 impress yourself on every Devonshire heart indelibly, to the 
 utter forgetfulness of all the seeming pride with which you 
 may have been charged. You promised me to think about it.” 
 
 “ But not to grant it, Emily.” 
 
 “Oh, but to think about it is half consent. Alfred, — 
 Florence, you might assist me with your united influence.” 
 
 “ I am sure I will, even on my knee, sweet cousin mine ; be 
 merciful — think how rusticated, how gothic we are here, and 
 for pity give us some taste of London and its fashion. The 
 governor is much too solemn for anything but those great 
 pompous dinners, which, in a country place like this, I detest. 
 Now, do be kind, sweet Ida ; Edmund is better, you are going 
 to Italy next August, and, in all probability, ere the year is 
 out, will have merged the Lady Ida Villiers in the Lady Ida 
 St. Maur. Now, all these things considered, ought you not 
 to give us poor mortals the thing -we crave ? You know 
 Edmund has taken you to task very often, for making yourself 
 a nun for his sake ; and, I am sure, if I could but write and 
 ask him, he would say — Ida., be obliging ; give the poor folks 
 a ball.” 
 
 “Alfred, you are perfectly absurd; get up, and be a rational 
 being. Florence, what do you say — shall I give this said ball 
 — would you like it ?” 
 
 “ Would I not ! ” exclaimed Florence, with animation ; “and 
 the tableaux ! oh ! I have wished to see them so very often.” 
 
28 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Mind, then, if I grant this weighty boon, I engage you 
 for one of my principal performers.” 
 
 Me ! dear Lady Ida ; I should be terrified out of all 
 pleasure — ^how could I compete with Mrs. and the Misses 
 Oakland ?” 
 
 Oh, admirably!” interposed Melford, comically; ‘^you 
 shall not dance at the ball, if you will not give your aid to 
 the tableaux. Come, cousin, love, I give you a fortnight to 
 think of it; for it must not be till Easter week. Frederic 
 comes down then with my father, and they bring a host of 
 people with them, so we shall muster a splendid corps. I 
 promise to be rational and grave, and all you can possibly 
 desire.” 
 
 '^And I will read every wise book you can recommend, and 
 forswear all novels till after your ball, Ida, dear,” continued 
 Emily, hanging caressingly about her cousin's neck. 
 
 ^'And not remember one word of my wise books, as you call 
 them,” replied Lady Ida, laughing. Well, wait till my next 
 letters from Italy, and I promise you a decided answer then.” 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GOOD NEWS. — THOUGHTS OF THE FUTURE. — WOMAN’S INFLUENCE 
 OVER WOMAN. 
 
 Lady Ida’s only condition of waiting for news from Italy was 
 so natural, that her cousins did not utter one word of entreaty 
 more, hut amused themselves by anticipating all the delights 
 they were predetermined to enjoy. Arthur waylaid the 
 postman every evening. Emily commenced reading Scott’s 
 Life of Napoleon ; whether balls, tableaux, and charades, 
 fashionable costume, and a new set of jewels presented to her 
 by her cousin Ida for Mrs. Oakland’s grand assembly, ever 
 floated on the pages, till, by an Arabian transformation, Scott 
 seemed to write of them, and not of heroes and battles, we 
 will not pretend to say ; but certain it is. Lady Ida’s quiet 
 smile at Emily’s new study appeared to doubt the good effects 
 which might accrue from it. Florence evinced no unusual 
 excitement, but there was a bright glitter in her dark eye, a 
 laughter on her lip, w^henever Emily alluded to the ball, which 
 said she enjoyed its anticipation quite as much as her more 
 noisy companions. The Honourable Miss Melford drew herself 
 up, and looked solemn, and declared, Ida might talk, and 
 Emily make herself a fool, but nothing would come of it. 
 Miss Sophia looked at her pretty face and person, in a large 
 pier glass, about six times more often than usual in the course 
 of every day, and allowed, that a ball would be very agreeable, 
 and tableaux still more so ; and Emily enjoyed a hearty fit of 
 laughter, in spite of Lady Ida’s reproaches and Florence’s 
 entreaties, at catching her sister one day hunting out a variety 
 of dresses, and practising various graceful attitudes for the 
 different characters she might be called upon to personate. 
 
30 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 The long-desired letters came, at length, and were so much 
 more than usually satisfactory, that Lady Ida felt her own 
 spirits rise sufficiently, even to satisfy Emily and Alfred ; who, 
 notwithstanding their frivolity, really loved her, and would 
 have done much to serve her. Edmund St. Maur was so well, 
 that it required all the authority of his medical adviser, all 
 the persuasion of his mother to prevent his setting oS for 
 England to fetch Ida himself. He had been told that a 
 residence of four or five years longer in Italy would (under a 
 gracious Providence) so effectually confirm his health, that he 
 might then, in all probability, reside wherever he pleased, 
 endowed with sufficient physical strength to occupy that high 
 station among the senators and the literati of his country, for 
 which he had, at one time, so pined as to increase the disorder 
 under which he laboured. A brief visit to England might not 
 be hurtful, but there was a doubt attached to it, which Lady 
 Helen could not nerve her mind to meet ; and while Edmund 
 filled his letter to his betrothed with eloquent entreaties for 
 her only to say the word, and he would fly to her side, in con- 
 tempt of every prohibition; that his inability to live in 
 England was all a farce ; why should he banish his Ida from 
 her native land, where she was so fitted to shine, when he was 
 as well and strong as any of her countrymen ? — while he 
 wrote thus. Lady Helen besought her to come to them at once, 
 by her presence, her affection, to retain him in Italy, to control 
 those passionate aspirations after fame, which he was not yet 
 strong enough to bear, and which her influence alone had 
 power to check. 
 
 Had these letters been the only ones received, there would 
 indeed have been much to cause rejoicing, but they were 
 mingled with alloy, as to how Lady Ida could reach Nice as 
 soon as inclination prompted. Lord Melford, irritated, as we 
 have seen, beyond all bounds at his niece’s independent spirit, 
 she knew would not stir a step to forward their meeting, and 
 would as soon think of taking a flight to the moon, as of 
 accompanying her himself to Italy ; though both his sons 
 declared, that were it but etiquette, they would go with their 
 cousin themselves, rather than see her so tormented by anxiety 
 or delay. Fortunately for Lady Ida, the inheritor of her 
 father’s title, who had been selected % him as her second 
 guardian, was a very different character from Lord Melford. 
 Disapprove of the match Lord Edgemere decidedly did, but 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 31 
 
 only on account of St. Maur’s extremely precarious health. 
 Lady Ida’s constancy and independence, however, instead of 
 irritating him, only increased the warm admiration which her 
 character had always excited ; and he had long determined 
 that he would himself conduct her to Italy, and would give 
 her to St. Maur, from the bosom of his own family. 
 
 Lady Edgemere had always loved Ida as her own child, and 
 received from her the attentions of a daughter ; while her 
 eldest daughter, Lady Mary Villiers, was Ida’s dearest and 
 most intimate friend, though nearly five years her junior. 
 This noble family had never joined in those persecutions which 
 Emily Melford described as heaped upon Ida by every man, 
 woman, or child who could claim relationship with her ; an 
 exception perhaps, because, though distantly connected, they 
 were scarcely relations, and, being of a different school to the 
 Melfords, could afford to admire Edmund St. Maur, in spite of 
 his poverty and talent. 
 
 The same post, however, which brought Lady Ida such 
 blessed tidings from Italy, also gave letters from the Edgemeres, 
 announcing their intention of accepting Lady Melford’s 
 invitation to St. John’s for the ensuing Easter, and that the 
 period of their visit to the Continent was entirely dependent 
 on Ida’s will. 
 
 Great, indeed, was the relief and joy this information gave 
 to her mind ; and when the excitement of answering these 
 all-important epistles was over — when she had poured forth 
 her whole soul to her betrothed, peremptorily, though with 
 inexpressible tenderness, forbidding his return to England ; 
 telling him that in three months (perhaps less) Lord Edge- 
 mere’s family would be at Nice, and he might chance to find 
 her with them, never to part from him again in this life ; with 
 many other breathings of that fond heart, too sacred for any 
 eye save his to whom they were addressed — when she had 
 written to Lady Mary, in all the confidence their mutual 
 friendship demanded, entreating her to make haste down to 
 Devonshire, as she longed for some one to whom she might 
 speak of Edmund and her future pro'^pects, since she felt 
 sometimes as if her spirit must ben ! oeneath its weight of 
 grief, anxiety, and now of joy, referring her to her letter to 
 Lord Edgemere concerning her wishes for speedy departure — 
 when all these weighty matters were arranged, Ida had leisure 
 to remember, and inclination to perform her promise to her 
 
32 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 cousins ; and telling Emily she must take every trouble off 
 her hands, by collecting the multiplicity of invitations she had 
 received, and inviting every one whom she ought to invite, she 
 gave her and Alfred carte blanche to arrange, order, and collect 
 everything for the furtherance of their wishes, that the ball 
 might be in truth the recherche, the refined, the elegant 
 reflection of all the fashion, grace, and dignity they were 
 pleased to attribute to herself. 
 
 It was marvellous to see how rapidly Emily Melford’s ennui 
 passed away before this very delightful employment, though 
 she made so much bustle and confusion iii her preparations, as 
 greatly to annoy and torment her sister Georgiana, who ima- 
 gined herself far too literary and wise to care for such 
 frivolous things ; besides which, it was a woeful falling off to 
 her consequence that Lady Ida had the power of making her- 
 self so exceedingly agreeable to the simple country folks, among 
 whom Miss Melford had reigned an oracle, a star, brighter than 
 she had ever shone in London : and worse still, it was only 
 Emily and Alfred with whom she could quarrel, for Ida was so 
 quiet in the midst of it all, so faithful to her own boudoir and 
 its refined amusements, that she looked in vain for some annoy- 
 ance wherewith to charge her. 
 
 And where was Florence Leslie all this time ? Still, with 
 her parents’ free and glad consent, lingering by the side 
 of Lady Ida, imbibing improvement, alike morally and 
 mentally, from lips to which harshness and unkindness were 
 such utter strangers, that the severest truths seemed sweet, the 
 boldly-uttered reproof scarcely pain ; but there was a secret 
 alloy, scarcely acknowledged even to herself, in her brightest 
 anticipations. The more her young and most ardent affections 
 twined themselves round one whose notice would evince they 
 were not despised, the more she felt the truth of her mother’s 
 words, that it would have been more for her lasting happiness 
 had Lady Ida’s rank been nearer her own. She had not felt 
 this when thrown, as they were, so intimately together ; but 
 when she heard her speak of the friends she expected, almost 
 all of them of her own rank, and dear from long years of in- 
 timacy, there would intrude the thought, what could she, a 
 simple country girl, be to her, when Lady Ida was in Italy a 
 happy wife, or in England surrounded by her own friends. 
 But though the thought of the future would sometimes silently 
 and sadly shade the delight of the present, she continued to 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 33 
 
 rejoice in listening to her words, in learning lessons of self- 
 knowledge by the study of Lady Ida s higher cast of character, 
 and determined to correct all those youthful weaknesses and 
 failings of which she became conscious in herself by their total 
 exclusion from her friend ; and the wish to become more 
 worthy of regard, of esteem, till Lady Ida could look upon 
 her in the light of a friend, not merely as an affectionate, 
 playful girl, scarcely passed childhood, pervaded her whole 
 Leing. 
 
 It is the fashion to deride woman’s influence over woman, 
 to laugh at female friendship, to look v^ith scorn on all those 
 who profess it ; but perhaps the world at large little knows 
 the effect of this influence — how often the unformed character 
 of a young, timid, and gentle girl may be influenced for good or 
 evil by the power of an intimate female friend. There is 
 nlways to me a doubt of the warmth, the strength, and purity 
 of her feelings, when a young girl merges into womanhood, 
 passing over the threshold of actual life, seeking only the ad- 
 miration of the other sex ; watching, pining for a husband or 
 lovers, perhaps, and looking down on all female friendship as 
 romance and folly. No young spirit was ever yet satisfied with 
 the love of nature. Friendship, or love, gratifies self-love ; 
 for it tacitly acknowledges that we must possess some good 
 qualites to attract beyond the mere love of nature. Coleridge 
 justly observes — ''that it is well ordered that the amiable and 
 estimable should have a fainter perception of their own 
 qualities than their friends have, otherwise they would love 
 themselves. ” Now, friendship, or love, permits their doing 
 this unconsciously ; mutual affection is a tacit avowal and ap- 
 preciation of mutual good qualities — perhaps friendship yet 
 more than love ; for the latter is far more an aspiration, a 
 passion, than the former, and influence the permanent char- 
 acter much less. Under the magic of love, a girl is generally 
 in a feverish state of excitement, often in a wrong position, 
 ‘deeming herself the goddess, her lover the adorer ; whereas it 
 is her will that must bend to his, herself be abnegated for him. 
 
 Friendship neither permits the former nor demands tlie 
 latter. It influences silently, often unconsciously; perhaps its 
 power is never known till the year afterwards. A girl who 
 •stands alone without acting or feeling friendship, is generally 
 a cold unamiable being, so wrapt in self as to have no room 
 for any person else, except, perhaps, a lover, whom she only 
 
 D 
 
34 woman’s friendship. 
 
 seeks and values, as offering his devotion to that same 
 idol, self. 
 
 Female friendship may be abused, may be but a name for 
 gossip, letter writing, romance, nay worse, for absolute evil ; 
 but that Shakspeare, the mighty wizard of human hearts, 
 thought highly and beautifully of female friendship, we have 
 his exquisite portraits of Rosalind and Celia, Helen . and the 
 Countess, undeniable to prove ; and if he, who could portray 
 every human passion, every subtle feeling of humanity, from the 
 whelming tempest of love to the fiendish influences of envy and 
 jealousy and hate ; from the incomprehensible mystery of 
 Hamlet s wondrous spirit, to the simplicity of the gentle 
 Miranda, the dove-like innocence of Ophelia, who could be 
 crushed by her weight of love but not reveal it ; if Shakspeare 
 scorned not to picture the sweet influence of female friendship, 
 shall women pass by it as a theme too tame, too idle for their- 
 pens. A late work, though of the lightest novel kind, has 
 powerfully shown the fearful evil that may be accomplished by 
 wwian upon woman. Our simple tale will prove the good. 
 How consoling and how beautiful may be woman’s mission,’^ 
 even unto woman. 
 
 There was not a particle of selfishness in Florence Leslie’s 
 feelings, for at the very moment she wept in secret over her 
 own fast-fading joys, she rejoiced with the most unfeigned 
 pleasure that Lady Ida’s term of anxiety was drawing to a 
 close, and could she in any way have hastened her meeting 
 with Edmund St. Maur, she would have done so gladly. 
 
 Still the idea of a ball, and given by Lady Ida, and yet more, 
 that her taste, simple as it v/as, had been more than once con-- 
 suited and even followed in the decoration of rooms, etc. ; the 
 very fact that Lady Ida had asked her if she would like the- 
 ball to be given, before she answered her cousin’s entreaties, 
 and evidently thought of her pleasure in so doing — all this- 
 was delightful ; and, in witnessing lier artless, almost childish 
 effusions of joy. Lady Ida felt as if her consent to an exertion 
 for which she had very little inclination was amply repaid. 
 
CHAPTER VIL 
 
 HOME DUTIES . — All ANXIOUS THOUGHT. — THE BALL DBESS. 
 
 The invitations for Lady Ida’s ball were despatched, giving full 
 four weeks’ notice ; and no little amusement did Alfred and 
 Emily Melford promise themselves, in quizzing the heterogene- 
 ous mass of quality, real and affected, whom they should suc- 
 ceed in mustering together. In vain did Lady Ida remon- 
 strate against this flippancy, declaring that all whom they had 
 invited sliould receive tlie same courtesy as titled guests. Her 
 cousins would have their joke. 
 
 About a w^eek after the invitations had been issued, Lady 
 Ida received a note from Florence, stating that her mother had 
 had an unusually severe attack of illness, and though she trusted 
 all danger would pass away, as it had often done before, she 
 dared not hope to take any part in the intended amusements. 
 Trusting that Florence’s natural anxiety had magnified her 
 fears. Lady Ida answered this note in person ; and though she 
 could not succeed in making the young girl hopeful as herself, 
 her kindly sympathy so far roused her drooping energies as to 
 check the indulgence of sorrow, to which she was perhaps too 
 naturally prone, and made her feel no longer incapacitated 
 from serving as well as watching the beloved invalid. 
 
 “ Your mother will do so well, dearest Florence, I shall still 
 have you to dance at my ball,” was Lady Ida’s playful fare- 
 well, after no short visit ; but Florence answered, wdth a 
 mournful shake of tlie head — 
 
 ‘‘ Oh no, I do not think of it. If mamma is well enough to 
 admit even the possibility of my coming, it will be quite 
 happiness enough. Besides,” she added, with a deep blush,. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 but unable to control her own ingenuousness, I am not like 
 you, Lady Ida ; I am my own sempstress on such occasions ; 
 and I have neither time nor inclination to give to such things 
 now/’ 
 
 Lady Ida kissed her blushing cheek, and simply saying, 
 You are a dear- truthful girl, Florence, and need not blush so 
 prettily about it,” departed. 
 
 Days passed, and Mrs. Leslie slowly rallied ; but Florence 
 remained true to her own unselfish nature. She nursed her 
 mother, cheered her father ; wrote all the letters to Walter, 
 that he might not be anxious, and superintended Minie’s 
 studies; so that the economy of their small but happy house- 
 hold should go on the same. And often did her father press - 
 her to his bosom, and declare she was indeed a comfort to 
 them all. There was at such times that peculiar expression of 
 sweet though mournful satisfaction on Mrs. Leslie s features 
 which we have before noticed ; and Florence would have 
 wondered had she witnessed the agitation of her mother as 
 Mr. Leslie, on her leaving the room, bent over the invalid’s 
 couch, and whispered fondly, ''I have indeed secured a treasure 
 in listening to your request, my best beloved. Oh, that our 
 own Minie may walk in her paths, and give us equal 
 comfort.” 
 
 Mrs. Leslie only pressed his hand convulsively, and seemed 
 imploring him by her looks not to give utterance to the 
 thought, however precious it might be. 
 
 Nay, you are too morbidly sensitive on this point, love,” 
 he replied. I wish I could understand your fear, and so 
 soothe and remove it.” 
 
 You cannot, Edward,” was the agitated reply ; it is pecu- 
 liarly a woman’s. You think of our sweet Florence as she is 
 to us, to Walter, to Minie — to all of whom, as a child, she 
 associates ; but my fears look beyond. She must love ; she 
 may be loved, sought, asked for ; and can we, dare we, permit 
 her to enter the solemn engagement of marriage without 
 revealing — ” 
 
 Wait till the evil comes,” interrupted her husband, affec- 
 tionately kissing her. I have no such fearful apprehensions ; 
 and, even in such an alternative, would act as I do now, 
 conscientiously believing there would be more virtue in so 
 doing than in condemning one so pure and good to suffering 
 and misery, which the truth, however softened, must produce.” 
 
woman’s fhiendship. 
 
 37 
 
 The day before the eventful Thursday, Mr. Leslie observed 
 to his daughter, as he was going out after breakfast, Your 
 mother is so much better, my dear girl. You will go with me 
 to Lady Ida’s ball, will you not ?” 
 
 I cannot, dear papa.” 
 
 '‘But I am sure your mother would prefer having only 
 Minie for a companion for a few hours, than that you should 
 lose so great a pleasure.” 
 
 “ I know she would, papa. Mine is quite a feminine reason, 
 so pray do not laugh at me. I have no proper dress, and I 
 could not be so disrespectful to Lady Ida as to appear 
 plainly attired.” 
 
 “ But, my dear child, why have you not a dress ?” 
 
 “ Because I was too premature in my preparations, and so 
 am punished for my vanity. I knew of this ball a full fort- 
 night before the invitations were given, and to be quite ready 
 I destroyed a dress, that might in an extremity have done, to 
 make use of the beautiful lace which w^as on it for another. 
 That other I have not had time to make, and so you see, dear 
 papa, I am compelled to stay at home.” 
 
 “ But why not get it made, my Florence ? Surely you do 
 not imagine I could grudge you such an indulgence ?” 
 
 “ No, papa. If I had thought so, perhaps I should have 
 been tempted to think only of myself ; but I knew I had but 
 to ask and have, and so it was easy not to ask. And then, the 
 first fortnight I really did not think at all about it ; and I 
 was still much too anxious when I saw mamma getting better. 
 I own I did wish it were possible to have my dress ready, but 
 then I knew I could not make it without neglecting Minie and 
 Walter, and perhaps even mamma ; and I would not expose 
 myself to such a temptation. No, dear papa, I shall be much 
 happier at home on Thursday night than going to St. John’s 
 with the recollection of so many duties unperformed.” 
 
 ^ “ I quite believe you, my sweet child ; but still I grieve you 
 did not come to me. Did you never think of such a 
 thing ?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, more than once ; but how could I tease you with 
 such a trifle when you were so anxious about mamma ; and I 
 know Walter’s being from home increases your expenses very 
 materially ; and you look so careworn sometimes. Why, the 
 ball were not worth the pain it would have been for you to 
 fancy your Florence regardless of these things.” 
 
38 
 
 ■ woman’s friendship. 
 
 You are careful of every one, everything but yourself, my 
 child. Would I had thought of this before, for I cannot bear 
 you should lose such a pleasure. Is it too late now V 
 
 Quite, quite too late, papa ; so do not be so cruel as to 
 turn tempter,” replied Florence, smiling and throwing her 
 arms round his neck to kiss him ; then bounding from the 
 room to conceal that, in spite of ail her assurances, in spite 
 even of the still small voice of conscience sounding again and 
 again, ‘‘You have done 3^our duty, be happy Florence;” still, 
 child as she was in feeling, in enjoyment (perhaps vre should 
 not say child, for youth is far more susceptible of the pleasure 
 of life than childhood), Florence was disappointed, and very 
 painfully. 
 
 When under the first excitement of conquering inclination 
 that duty should triumph, there is an infused strength even in 
 trifles such as these ; but there never yet was any such self- 
 conquest v/hich was wholly joy, as some good but cold-hearted 
 people declare. There is generally a revulsion of feeling, 
 •occasioning a doubt as to whether or not we need have acted 
 as we have done ; and then, as all excitement overstrains the 
 nervous system, the blood flows less equally, and affects us 
 mentally, so that depression and dissatisfaction for a while too 
 often follow even a duty done. And so it was with our j^oung 
 heroine, she felt all she had told her father ; but now the 
 tormenting thought would come, that perhaps she could have 
 attended to her duties and gone to the ball also ; and that she 
 had made a sacrifice, and rejoiced in her strength to do so, 
 when there was really no necessity for it. She was weary too ; 
 for her mother’s illness, and her own multiplied duties, had 
 prevented her customary daily walks and mental recreation ; 
 and her head ached — that gnawing, nervous jiain, so difficult 
 to bear because it is not bad enough to complain of, or do 
 anything to relieve. And so our poor Florence was weak 
 enough, when quite alone, to indulge in a hearty fit of tears ; 
 but this was not of long continuance ; she very soon conquered 
 what she felt was selfish folly, and hastened down to their 
 little study to attend to her sister’s impatient call, and superin- 
 tend her morning lessons. 
 
 But Florence was not to be steadily employed that day ; 
 Lady Ida came to inquire after Mrs. Leslie as usual, to in- 
 troduce her particular friend. Lady Mary Villiers, to the pretty 
 cottage and its interesting inmates, and to carry off Florence 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 39 
 
 for a drive. The pure fresh air, the beautiful country, the 
 freedom from care, and, above all, the intellectual rest and 
 enjoyment springing from the society of refined and accom- 
 plished minds — all did the young girl good, and caused her to 
 converse with her natural liveliness and attention. 
 
 ‘^You are right, Ida; Miss Leslie is worthy of your interest;, 
 even I allow it,” said Lady Mary, when Florence left them ; 
 "‘but I am sorry you have made her love you, widely separated 
 -as you must be in so short a time.” 
 
 “I am not going to remain in Italy for ever, Mary; so why 
 should not my interest in Florence continue 
 
 “Because I have no faith in an interest such as this con- 
 tinuing through time and separation. It is not absence which 
 severs friends, but changes in heart, and mind, and position. 
 You cannot return to England as you leave it ; you will have 
 new ties, new interests, wdiich must weaken former ones.” 
 
 “ You believe, then, that absence is really what some poet, 
 I think, called it, ‘ the grave of love? ’ ” 
 
 “ No ; but that it is very often the grave of sympathy — 
 not with those whose spheres of action and position are the 
 same, as ours are; but fancy you and Florence both in London 
 a few years hence — with interests, duties, occupations, each as 
 distinct as one planet from another. What can you be to her 
 but a source of yearning and of pain ? ” 
 
 “I cannot tell you at this moment, Mary, but time will 
 show. You know I have many strange fancies, and one is that 
 women do not do half as much as they might do for each 
 other ; they are too often influenced by such petty jealousies, 
 detraction, envy — things I abhor. I may still be Florence’s 
 friend, even in London, and widely severed in position, as you 
 say we shall be. Now do not look so solemnly incredulous ; 
 all things are possible, if we would but think so, and exert 
 some degree of energy in bringing them about.” 
 
CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 A SURPBISE FOR FLORENCE. — THE GIFT. 
 
 The eventful night at length arrived. Mr. Leslie, who had 
 received an invitation from Lord Melford to dine with some 
 other gentlemen at St. John’s, went ; but all his intended en- 
 joyment was clouded because Florence could not join him. 
 Mrs. Leslie was yet more grieved, reproaching herself for never 
 having thought what Florence might need ; forgetting now 
 that she was almost as well as usual, all the deeply anxiou& 
 thoughts which had engrossed her, when she anticipated death 
 — anxiety, not for herself, for her trust was fixed on the Rock 
 of ages. But she was a wife and mother ; she knew her 
 husband’s causes of anxiety almost better than he did him- 
 self ; and there was one care, peculiarly her own, which 
 rendered the idea of death one of intense suffering ; for Minie 
 and Walter it was simply the thought of separation ; but for 
 Florence, the most incongruous, the most mysterious emotions 
 w^ere concentrated in one feeling of anxious anguish, which 
 none but her God could penetrate and soothe. 
 
 With such reflections, united to intense bodily pain and 
 prostrating weakness, it was no matter of woiider that Lady 
 Ida’s ball and the necessary arrangements for Florence should 
 have entirely escaped her memory, till it was too late for the 
 evil to be remedied. The disappointment itself she knew was 
 of no real consequence ; but Mrs. Leslie was not one of those 
 harshly-nurtured spirits who trample on the sweet flowers of 
 youthful life without one remorseful pang; she knew how soon, 
 how very soon the lovely buds fade of themselves ; and she 
 
Page 41 . 
 
woman’s fhiendship. 
 
 41 
 
 trembled lest harsher duties should demand in Florence the 
 crushing of youth and all its dreams years before their time. 
 And so full of regret was her caressing manner that evening 
 that Florence, even had she felt any remaining depression, 
 would have effectually concealed it ; but the sweet reward of 
 duty was once more her own, and animated and gay, she 
 speedily proved that the sacrifice, was absolutely nothing when 
 compared to her mother s comfort and enjoyment. 
 
 It was the first evening Mrs. Leslie had left her chamber,, 
 and resumed her couch in the sitting-room, an event inexpres- 
 sibly cheering to Florence, who always declared the house was 
 desolate when her mother was upstairs. Once more the sweet 
 carol of Minie’s voice enlivened the evening hours ; song after 
 song poured forth from the child’s lips, with a sweetness, a 
 richness, a purity absolutely thrilling. It was eight o’clock 
 when they closed the pianoforte, and Florence, petitioning 
 a longer vigil for Minie, opened Miss Austin’s entertaining^ 
 
 Mansfield Park,” and began, at her mother’s wish, to read it 
 aloud. 
 
 They had been thus employed about half an hour, when a 
 carriage drove up to the gate, and a respectable old dame, who 
 had been Minie’s nurse, and continued the humble friend of 
 the family, bustled into the apartment, with a comical look of 
 pleasant intelligence, which excited the curiosity not only of 
 the two girls, but of Mrs. Leslie herself No answer to the 
 varied queries, however, would Nurse Wilmot vouchsafe, but 
 she deliberately drew forth a note and presented it to Florence, 
 who, with an exclamation of astonishment, tore it open and 
 read as follows : — 
 
 “ Your father tells me, my dear Florence, that your mother 
 is quite well enough for you to leave her to-night, and I have 
 therefore sent my carriage for you, and must insist on your 
 donning bonnet and shawl, and coming just as you are. 
 William has orders to bring you to the side entrance, where 
 you know a private staircase leads to my rooms. Do not be 
 frightened at the string of carriages which may throng the 
 front door; your path will be quite invisible. Go directly 
 into my dressing-room, where you will find Alice with all the 
 necessaries for your toilette, and I will come for you when it i& 
 completed. I send your dear old nurse, Mrs. Wilmot, who 
 will remain with your mother till to-morrow evening, that you 
 
42 ^ 
 
 ■woman’s feiendship. 
 
 may leave her without any apprehension, for of course you sleep 
 at the Hall. Now do not stay to hesitate; I will never forgive 
 you if you disobey me. 
 
 Ida.” 
 
 Necessaries for my toilette ! "What can she mean? I have 
 not a single dress at St. John’s,” was the bewildered speech of 
 Florence, as she concluded ; and then, as the real truth seemed 
 to flash upon her through Mrs. Leslie’s fond, rejoicing look, 
 she threw her arm round her mother’s neck and burst into 
 tears. But the wild delight of Minie, who, clapping her hands 
 and jumping about the room, insisted that Florence was very 
 foolish to cry, and make her eyes red, when she ought only to 
 be glad, and Mrs. Leslie’s caressing sympathy, soon removed 
 all trace of these incomprehensible tears ; and hastily shawled 
 and bonneted by the active care of Mrs. Wilmot, who gossiped 
 all the time of the beautiful things she had seen at St. John’s, 
 where she had been since six o’clock, and the kind care of 
 Alice, and the affability of Lady Ida, and how kindly she had 
 spoken of Miss Florence, with an endless etc., Florence was soon 
 ensconced in the carriage, and rolling rapidly to St. John’s. 
 It seemed a shorter ride than usual, for her thoughts were 
 very busy, and excessive timidity struggled with pleasure. 
 Alice, with provident kindness, had stationed herself ready to 
 receive and conduct her with all speed to her lady’s dressing- 
 room. 
 
 True dignity was never yet attended by insolence or pre- 
 sumption. Alice had been an inmate of the late Lord Edge- 
 mere’s family for above eight-and-twenty years, and every year 
 increased her devotion for the gentle being whose birth she 
 had witnessed, and whom she had tended from her youth. All 
 whom Lady Ida honoured with her regard became objects of 
 interest to herself. 
 
 Florence was speedily attired in the graceful robe of India 
 muslin, so transparent in its delicate texture as to display the 
 pure white satin folds beneath; the tiny slippers to correspond; 
 the delicate white glove ; and every article fitted so admirably, 
 and made so simply, in such perfect accordance with her age 
 and station, that Florence’s peculiarly sensitive mind could 
 only feel relieved. Her beautiful hair received a new grace 
 from the skilful hand of Alice ; a single white camellia, with 
 its drooping bud, plucked fresh for the occasion, gleamed like 
 
woman’s fkiendship. 
 
 43 
 
 -a star amid those jetty tresses so purely, so freshly beautiful, 
 it seemed fit emblem of the gentle girl whom it adorned. A 
 chain of beautiful workmanship, with its Sevign6 and sus- 
 pended Maltese cross, the centre of which, as the Sevignd, was 
 simply yet elegantly set with valuable emeralds, was her only 
 ornament ; and even from this Florence sensitively shrunk, 
 asking kindly, if Lady Ida particularly wished her to wear it. 
 She need not, Alice said, if she did not like : but as it was 
 intended as a keepsake from her lady to Miss Leslie, she 
 thought Lady Ida would be disappointed if it were not worn ; 
 and touching a spring in the cross as she spoke, a locket was 
 disclosed, containing a braid of dark chestnut hair, with the 
 letters ‘‘ F. L. from 1. V.” delicately engraved upon it. The 
 eyes of Florence again glistened, but she made no further 
 objection to having it secured round her throat, playfully 
 answering Alice’s unchecked admiration of her appearance by 
 the assurance that it must be all her care and Lady Ida’s 
 kindness which had caused her to look well, that her own 
 proper self had nothing to do with.it whatever. 
 
 Unconsciously she remained standing opposite the large pier- 
 glass when Alice had departed, thinking far more of the 
 kindness she received than of her own graceful figure and 
 sweetly-expressive face, of whose real charm she was in truth 
 totally ignorant, for she knew she was not beautiful ; and that 
 she possessed intellect and sensibility enough to make a far 
 plainer face attractive was equally unknown. 
 
 Well, Florence, have I done for you as well as you could 
 have done for yourself? ” was the playful address which roused 
 her from her reverie ; and, springing forward, Florence could 
 only exclaim, Oh, Lady Ida, why are you so kind ? ” 
 
 Why, dearest ? because it is a real pleasure to think for 
 those who never think for themselves ; and just now, that my 
 pleasures are so limited, you must not grudge me this. Now 
 do not look at me half sorrowfully, when I mean you to be 
 the very happiest person in the ball-room to-night ; you are as 
 awe-struck at my diamonds and satin robe, as you were when 
 I first came dov/n, because I was an earl’s daughter. You little 
 simpleton ; my rank may be somewhat higher, but what do I 
 exact then ? only obedience in all things, even to the keeping 
 and wearing that chain and cross for my sake, without 
 pride in that haughty little spirit rising up against it.” 
 
 Haughty ! dear Lady Ida ? Do not say so.” 
 
44 
 
 iyoman’s friendship. 
 
 ‘‘ Indeed I will, for you know it to be truth ; but come, far 
 I must not be missed from the ball-room. Emily’s last note 
 told you, did it not, that the idea of tableaux was given up 
 till another night, as being incompatible with my uncle’s 
 dinner and the ball ? so you see you must play your part still,, 
 notwithstanding you thought to eschew it so nicely.” 
 
 Reassured, happy beyond all expression, even her timidity 
 soothed by Lady Ida’s caressing manner, Florence laughingly 
 replied; and they proceeded to the splendidly-lighted suite of 
 rooms, whence the alternate quadrille and waltz were most 
 inspiritingly sounding. It was the surpassing loveliness, the 
 peculiarly quiet air of real aristocratic dignity, the absence of 
 all, even the faintest approach to affectation or display in Lady 
 Ida, which had struck the eager heart of the young Florence 
 with even more than usual respect, impressing her — as Ida’s 
 quick penetration had discovered, even at such a moment of 
 pleasure — with the sorrowful conviction how widely they must 
 be eventually separated by their respective stations. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION. — PRINCIPLE TRIUMPHS OVER INCLINATION. 
 
 As Lady Ida and her companion entered the ante-chamber, 
 into which the ball-room opened, a young man, or rather lad, 
 for his open collar and round jacket permitted him no higher 
 title, though an elegant figure and remarkably handsome face 
 rendered him a general object of attraction, hastily pressed 
 forward. 
 
 Frank!’’ said Lady Ida, greatly surprised, ^Svhy, where 
 have you dropped from ? I am really glad to see you, and 
 to-night particularly.” 
 
 Your ladyship honours me,” was the buoyant reply, with 
 a very graceful bow. I only arrived two hours ago, and 
 found all the hotel in commotion and excitement, because of 
 the Lady Ida Villiers’s ball. I ventured on the plea of old 
 acquaintance, both with Lady Melford and yourself, to come 
 without invitation. Am I excused ?” 
 
 Excused and welcome, Frank, as you well know. Where 
 is your father 
 
 In Paris still ; but as it is the season of merry Easter in 
 my grave quarters, I vowed I Avould turn truant, and visit my 
 friends in England. After a struggle I gained my point, and 
 finding most of my best friends in Devonshire, followed them, 
 and here I am.” 
 
 ''And as you have come in a time of festivity, we shall all 
 be doubly glad to see you. Florence, will you honour this 
 friend of mine for the next quadrille ? But I forget you do 
 not know each other — Miss Leslie, Mr. Francis Howard. That 
 is etiquette, — is it not ? Now be as agreeable as you can be, 
 Frank, in return for Miss Leslie’s condescension.” 
 
 The young man laughed gaily, seeming not at all ill pleased 
 with the introduction, his eyes having lingered admiringly on 
 Florence all the time he spoke to Lady Ida. 
 
 "Lady Melford,” wLispered Florence. " Will it not be rude 
 if I do not seek her first ?” 
 
46 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 I will make your excuse. It will be easier for you to find 
 a place in the quadrille than my aunt at present/’ was the 
 reply. Frank, bring Miss Leslie to me when your dance has 
 been accomplished.” 
 
 How am I to find your ladyship ? — by a treble file of 
 cavaliers devoiies^ suing your hand for all the quadrilles of the 
 evening ?” 
 
 ‘'No, you foolish boy. I am a staid, sober matron for this 
 evening, not intending to dance at all.” 
 
 “Not dance !” exclaimed young Howard and Florence, in 
 such genuine surprise as to excite Lady Ida’s mirth. 
 
 “Not dance, my young friends. Now away with you both, 
 for my will is like an ocean rock, not to be shaken.” 
 
 Lady Ida stood a moment, silently watching the effect that 
 Florence Leslie’s unexpected appearance w^ould produce ; not 
 a little pleased that the purse-proud Oakland family w^ere 
 standing so near as not only to have seen Florence’s debut^ 
 leaning familiarly on her arm, but to hear all that had passed, 
 even her final command to young Howard to bring Florence to 
 her after the dance. 
 
 “Did you hear that ?” whispered Miss Maria to Miss Eliza« 
 beth. “ Well to be sure ! — titled ladies are easily pleased. 
 Who could have thought of that poor proud Florence gettings 
 into such favour ? ” 
 
 “And look, what a beautiful chain and cross she has,” was- 
 Miss Elizabeth’s reply. “ I did not think her worth such a 
 thing ; but her dress ! who ever heard of any one coming to 
 such a ball as this in plain white muslin ? But of course, 
 poor thing, she could not afford anything better ! ” and she 
 looked with yet greater satisfaction on her own amber-coloured 
 satin, flounced and furbelowed to the knee. 
 
 An irresistible smile stole to Lady Ida’s lip as these wLispered 
 remarks reached her ear, half longing for them to know that 
 it was her own much- vaunted taste they were decrying, and 
 scarcely able to meet wuth her wonted courtesy the eager 
 cringing speeches with wLich, as she passed them, they saluted 
 her. 
 
 Some, however, there were who were really glad to see 
 Florence, and amiable enough to forgive the favour she 
 enjoyed ; nay more, to remark how well she looked, and ta 
 witness without envy Emily Melford’s joyous greeting, and ta 
 see the young men of the Hall approach with eagerly extended 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 47 
 
 hand, and claim her successively as their partner ; while 
 others lost half the pleasure, the triumph of being invited 
 by Lady Ida Villiers to a ball because Florence Leslie was 
 there too, and evidently in high favour. Alas ! for poor 
 human nature. 
 
 'AVill you come with me, Mr. Leslie? I have a lovely 
 flower I want to show you,” said Lady Ida, playfully, laying 
 her liand on that gentleman’s arm as he stood talking with her 
 uncle and other gentlemen, at some distance from the dancers. 
 
 ‘‘Willingly,” he replied, observing, as he offered her his 
 arm, that he thought the conservatory lay in an opposite 
 direction. 
 
 “ So it does, my dear sir ! but it is not your love of flowers 
 I am going to gratify just now" ; unless you can And any 
 charm in a white camellia wreathed in a fair maiden’s hair ! 
 The flower I mean has just accepted Frederic’s arm. Do you 
 know her ? Or shall I introduce you ?” 
 
 “ Florence !” exclaimed the delighted father, in a tone that 
 gratified all Lady Ida’s benevolent intentions most completely. 
 “And looking so well — so happy ! What magic has your 
 ladyship used ? ” 
 
 “ Wait till I give you Florence back again : I intend to tell 
 3^11 nothing nowg nor will I permit her. It is enough you are 
 satisfied that my power is more efficient than you thought. 
 You may greet your father, Florence, but that is all I permit 
 now,” she added gaily, as, escorted both by Frederic Melford 
 and Frank Howard, Florence hastily approached. 
 
 “ Ida ! what can you want with Miss Leslie ? If you are so 
 determined not to dance, at least lay no prohibition on her ; 
 but here is Frank — troublesome fellow — will not give her up 
 to me till he has given her back to you ; and she sa3"s she 
 cannot till she has spoken with my mother.” 
 
 “ W^ll, I promise you I will not detain her long. Go, and 
 pay your devoirs to some other lady, and come back for her 
 after the next dance. There is a waltz, fortunately for you ; 
 so since Florence does not waltz, you can spare her.” 
 
 “The next, then — remember, Miss Leslie?” Florence laugh- 
 ingly assented. 
 
 “And after Melford and his brother, may I claim again ?’^ 
 asked young Howard, earnestl}^ 
 
 “ I believe I am engaged.” 
 
 “The next, then?” 
 
AS 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Florence assented \vith a bright smile. Howard bowed and 
 retreated. 
 
 What ! yon will have such compassion on Frank’s round 
 jacket and open collar, as to honour him twice, when so many 
 dress-coats are round you, Florence ? You really are a novice. 
 Emily Avould abuse your bad taste,” laughingly observed Lady 
 Ida. 
 
 Oh, he is so agreeable ; he knows so much about Paris 
 and Italy — dear Italy ! Besides, indeed, I scarcely think 
 about my partners, dancing is so delightful in itself ; though 
 'Certainly, when they are so pleasant as Mr. Howard and your 
 cousins, it is more delightful still” 
 
 ''And so you forgive the round jacket ?” 
 
 "Because it is the only part of the boy about him.” 
 
 "I admire your discrimination ; he is much more worth 
 talking to than many double his age. His father, Lord 
 Glenville, is a strange, stern man, and I often pity Frank’s 
 domestic trials ; but his gay spirit carries him through them 
 all, and he is happy in spite of them.” 
 
 Lady Melford received her most kindly, making many 
 inquiries after her mother, which enabled Florence to overcome 
 the dif&dence she felt, as she encountered so many inquiring 
 glances, not from Lady Melford’s resident guests alone, but of 
 many proud families in the neighbourhood, who generally 
 passed her with very sapercilious notice. The benevolent 
 countenance of Lady Edgemere attracted her at once, and so 
 pleased was she with that lady’s flattering notice and en- 
 couraging conversation, that she was almost sorry when 
 Frederic Melford came to claim her. 
 
 " So you will not follow Mary’s example, Ida ? On 1113^ 
 honour, I feel inclined to scold you even now,” said Lord 
 Edgemere, in a latter part of the evening, as cavalier after 
 cavalier approached his former ward, entreating her to dance, 
 and each received the same courteous but firm reply. " All 
 my powers of orator3g Mary’s of persuasion. Lady Edgemere’s 
 of argument, your uncle’s of satire, your aunt’s of irritation, 
 your cousin’s of torment — have all been exhausted in vain. 
 You laugh at my lengthy catalogue — how unfeeling, triumphing 
 over this waste of breath ! Ida, what a report I will write to 
 Edmund ! Now, there is the smile vanished, as if his very 
 name demanded the banishment of joy. You little incompre- 
 hensible enigma, when shall I solve you?” 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 49 
 
 not his name solve my reason for not dancing?” 
 inquired Lady Ida, in a voice so low and quivering, that Lord 
 Edgemere, even while he answered jestingly, pressed the 
 delicate hand which rested on his arm. 
 
 '' Truly it will not, for Edmund loved to watch your grace- 
 ful movements in the dance, even when he could not join in 
 it himself.” 
 
 ''And while I am dancing, listening, perhaps, to a dozen 
 unmeaning speeches, attracting the attention of every eye, 
 because, of course, as Lady Ida Villiers, I might not hope 
 to go through a crowded quadrille unremarked — he maybe ill, 
 and in lonely sorrow, the void in his faithful heart unfilled,, 
 even by his most-loved studies, dreaming of me, and my 
 promise to be his alone ! and should I be fulfilling this promise, 
 attracting the notice, the applause of a crowd? Oh, Lord 
 Edgemere, is it strange that I cannot dance ? ” She spoke 
 with strong, though suppressed emotion, and Lord Edgemere 
 at once entered into her feelings. Quickly recovering, she 
 said, cheerfully, "You will ask me, with these feelings, 
 why I gave the ball at all ? Because I could not bear to be so 
 selfish as to refuse Emily such a trifle ; and those who paid me 
 such continued attention certainly demanded some return.” 
 
 " You have done very wisely, my dear Ida. To conciliate 
 is so infinitely more agreeable than to offend, that it is worth 
 some sacrifice of individual will. You have gratified many ; 
 soothed perhaps offended pride ; given scope to kindly 
 feelings — ” 
 
 " I fear to unamiable ones, too,” interposed Lady Ida. 
 
 " Perhaps so ; for when was there a ball whose ordeal every 
 one could pass unscathed ? Yet still there appears to me a 
 larger share of happiness in these rooms than in some of our 
 crowded assemblies in London. I am sure, if ever face spoke 
 truth, there is one person perfectly happy; look at Miss Leslie 
 now.” 
 
 In the midst of a gay throng Florence was standing, 
 listening, and sometimes joining in the merry conversation of 
 Ernily Melford and her attendant beaux, with such sparkling 
 animation lighting up every feature that it was impossible to 
 pass her unremarked. Just at the moment that Lord Edge- 
 mere had directed Lady Ida’s attention towards her, one of 
 Strauss’s most inspiring waltzes struck up, and several couples, 
 were instantly formed. 
 
50 
 
 woman’s priendship. 
 
 Come, Florence, one turn — only one; have pity on Alfred, 
 who has been asking yon so long; and he is no stranger. You 
 may waltz with him,” entreated Emily, ere she departed with 
 her partner, and her brother was not slow to follow up the 
 hint. 
 
 You really must waltz. Miss Leslie ; it will be a treat to 
 have a genuine lover of dancing to waltz with. You say you 
 love dancing, and yet not waltz ; indeed you do not know 
 what dancing is — ask Emil}^ — ask Lady Mary.” 
 
 Will she stand firm ?” wMspered Lord Edgemere to his 
 companion, as Florence, shrinking back, entreated to be 
 excused, resisting even Emily’s declaration, that she did not 
 know how ridiculous she appeared refusing to do what every- 
 body else did. 
 
 You know you can waltz, Florence,” she persisted, and 
 much better than I do.” 
 
 Then it is not incapacity. Miss Leslie ; indeed you have 
 no excuse. Is not that music enough to inspire you — even 
 were you fainting with fatigue ?” 
 
 Indeed it is ; and I assure you I am not in the least 
 fatigued. I own I have waltzed in sport very often, but not 
 here — not now indeed — indeed, Mr. Melford, you must excuse 
 me.” 
 
 But why, Florence ? I assure you it is quite an English 
 dance now. There is not the least shadow of harm in it,” 
 interposed Lady Mary. But Florence was firm, and carried 
 her point, although Alfred Melford declared he would leave 
 her alone as a punishment, as a post for the waltzers, instead 
 of taking her to a chaperon ; and he knew she would not have 
 eourage to go by herself. 
 
 "^You will do no such thing, Alfred; for Florence is my 
 charge, and I am here to redeem it,” interposed Lady Ida, 
 coming forward ; and Florence clung to her arm with such an 
 expression of relief that young Melford laughed immoderately, 
 a laugh in which he was joined as gaily by herself. 
 
 Oh, if Ida upholds you in your perverseness. Miss Florence, 
 there is no hope; so I will make my parting bow, and vanish,” 
 he said, and darted off to join the waltzers with some less 
 scrupulous partner. 
 
 '' I give you joy of 5mur conquest. Miss Leslie,” said Lord 
 Edgemere, smiling kindly. ''If incapacity and subsequent 
 real disinclination had incited your firmness, you would have 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 51 
 
 acliieved no conquest at all ; but when principle triumphs over 
 inclination, I honour it, even in such a small thing as a 
 waltz.” 
 
 Florence blushed deeply, but not with pain ; wondering 
 how Lord Edgemere could so exactly have divined the truth 
 — for no true lover of dancing (if such a person in these days 
 of art can be found) ever yet listened to an inspiring waltz, 
 without the longing desire to join in it. 
 
 Do you waltz, Lady Ida ?” she asked. 
 
 ‘^Not very often; I have done so when it would have 
 seemed greater affectation to refuse, than love of display tc 
 do so. But I am not very fond of it ; it is an exercise too 
 exciting, too absorbing, ever to be a favourite amongst genuine 
 English women; and with your passionate love of dancing 
 Florence, you are right to resist all persuasions, and not waltz. 
 All Emily’s sage resolutions to that effect have, I perceive, 
 melted into air. I am glad you are firmer.” 
 
 Florence was satisfied. 
 
 To enter into all the delights of the ball would be im- 
 possible. Suffice it that to far the greater number within 
 those halls it was perfect enjoyment. Nothing seemed 
 wanting : even the most exacting were satisfied, nay charmed 
 with the attention they received from their distinguished 
 hostess. 
 
 Lady Ida left her memory as a bright star in the hearts of 
 every one present,, various as were their dispositions, their 
 characters, and feelings. ‘'What availed such ‘golden opinions’ 
 from those she might never meet again ? ” the sceptic and the 
 selfish may demand. Little in actual deed ; but much, much 
 in that account where the smallest act of kindness and bene- 
 volence is registered for ever. 
 
 Pleasures, however transporting, unhappily cannot last. No 
 chain — be it of gold, or pearl, or flowers— can bind the 
 stubborn wings of Time, and bid him loiter on his way. He 
 spurns the fetter, darkly, sternly rushing on.; and bright 
 indeed must be the joys which fade not beneath his step. The 
 festive scene at length closed. Not indeed till the blue ligh 
 of morning struggled to regain dominion over the earth. 
 -Carriage after carriage rolled from the gates, bearing ivitli 
 them for the most part memories of pleasure oft recalled with 
 a sigh ; until, at last. Lord Melford’s family and their resident 
 .guests remained sole occupants of St. John’s. 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 SEPARATION. — THE CLOUD GATHERS. — A CHARACTER TO BE 
 REMEMBERED. 
 
 Relieving with the wise personage who wrote, said, or left a& 
 legacy the sage adage that 
 
 ‘‘Trifles make the sum of human life,” 
 
 and also, that it is in trifles, infinitely clearer than in great 
 deeds, that the actual character is displayed, we have lingered, 
 perhaps too long, on the first part of our narrative, hoping, 
 that our readers may feel some interest in, and judge somewhat 
 of the character of, our youthful heroine ; destined, ere the 
 sober grey of life came on, to figure in widely different scenes. 
 
 The perfect happiness of Florence, she herself knew, must 
 very soon he clouded ; and she roused every unselfish feeling 
 of her nature to save her from weak repining or fretful regret. 
 Early in May, Lord Melford s family were to quit St. John’s. 
 This, though a privation (for Florence liked Emily, in spite of 
 the wide dissimilarity of their characters and tastes), was one 
 easily borne, compared to the severer trial awaiting her in the 
 departure of Lord Edgemere’s party towards the end of April,, 
 taking Lady Ida Villiers with them. 
 
 Remember, Florence, if it should happen that in anything 
 you need me, if my friendshij) or influence can be of any 
 service to you, write to me without scruple,” had been Lady 
 Ida’s parting address, in a tone of sincerity which Florence 
 never forgot. '' You are very young, but with such a mother 
 your character will not change ; and if I meet again the 
 Florence Leslie whom I leave, trust me you will find me still 
 the same, however the kind world may tell you that our 
 respective ranks place an insuperable barrier between us.” 
 
 Florence had tried to smile, but found the effort vain. 
 
 i 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 53 
 
 Lady Ida departed — and oh ! how sad and lonely did every 
 pursuit and pleasure for a brief while seem. But she had 
 gone to happiness ; and though, when Florence received a few 
 hurried lines from her, telling her she was on the eve of 
 quitting England, and in a very few weeks expected to join 
 Mr. St. Maur, who was already at Nice, the consciousness of 
 the many miles of sea and land dividing them pressed heavily 
 on her affectionate heart, she could and did rejoice that the 
 time of probation was at an end, and Lady Ida might indeed 
 be happy with him whom she so faithfully and devotedly 
 loved. 
 
 From Emily Melford, who was her constant correspondent, 
 she heard all further particulars of the happy termination of 
 the voyage and journey; and next of her marriage, for 
 St. Maur was so wonderfully recovered there was no occasion 
 for further delay ; and then, by degrees, of their fixing their 
 residence for some few years in a beautiful villa in the 
 neighbourhood of Borne, and that they were as happy as 
 mortals might be. 
 
 Not long after Lady Ida left Devonshire, some changes took 
 place in Florence Leslie s domestic life, which must not be 
 passed unnoticed. We have said or hinted that Mr. Leslie 
 was not a rich man ; nay, for the rank which his birth and 
 education entitled him to fill, he was decidedly poor. Some 
 few months before Lady Ida came to Devonshire, a friend had 
 brought to his recollection a long-neglected lawsuit, which 
 had been commenced by the grandfather of Mr. Leslie for the 
 recovery of an estate, which it was generally supposed had 
 been alienated from the family by some chicanery of the 
 supposed heir and his lawyer. 
 
 WiUiam Leslie, the person then concerned, died, before 
 much more than preliminaries had been arranged. His son, 
 an easy country gentleman, satisfied with the moderate 
 fortune he possessed, never even examined the papers left to 
 his charge, leaving his son, at his death, if not affluent, at 
 least a comfortable competence. With the present Mr. Leslie, 
 however, business had been unfortunate ; and he retired to 
 Devonshire, in compliance with the wishes of his wife, to 
 economise, till Walters dawning manhood might require their 
 home to be in London. 
 
 He had sometimes heard his father speak of an estate which 
 ought to be their own, but regarded it little, until just before 
 
54 
 
 WOMAN S TRIENDSHIP. 
 
 the opening of our tale. The estate became again without a. 
 master, and many old friends of Mr. Leslie urged his putting 
 forth his claims, as well as those of the supposed heir-at-law. 
 Mr. Leslie was so far ambitious, that for the interest of his 
 children he would have done and risked much ; and eagerly 
 seeking the long-forgotten papers, he employed himself 
 actively in looking for a lawyer of sufficient skill and probity, 
 to undertake the delicate business. In vain Mrs. Leslie, far 
 more clear-sighted than himself, entreated him to forego 
 his claims. It appeared to her, from the papers of the former 
 lawsuit, which she had attentively perused, that their claims 
 were not merely remote, but unfounded ; or, at least, not so 
 well authenticated and proved as to ensure success. She 
 reminded him of the expense which the carrying on the suit 
 must occasion ; she entreated him with all the eloquence of 
 affection, to remain contented with their present mode of life. 
 They were not like others, absolutely dependent on exertion 
 or some lucky chance for sufficiency. They needed economy 
 for a few years, certainly ; but they had capital, which, if not 
 drained by unnecessary calls, would amply provide for their 
 daughters, and settle Walter in business, where he might carve 
 out his own fortune ; a far happier lot than awaited those to 
 whom fortune descended without exertion, or ambition of their 
 own. Mr. Leslie might have been convinced had there not been 
 those troublesome meddlers, misnamed friends, who spoke of 
 henpecked husbands, and the egregious folly of having com- 
 petence and wealth and distinction awaiting them, yet failing 
 in the mental courage and independent spirit for the exertion 
 necessary to obtain them. 
 
 These arguments had a powerful advocate in Mr. Leslie’s- 
 own inclination. There was much, he felt convinced, in his 
 son beyond what met the common eye, and he shrunk from 
 binding him to mere mechanical employment; for him, beyond 
 even the interest of his daughters, he longed for w^ealth, that 
 Walter’s uncommonly-gifted mind might have scope to develop 
 itself, and that those higher spheres of employment to which 
 his inclination prompted might be pursued, without the cold 
 and sordid calculations which inevitably attend mere com- 
 petence. 
 
 There was much in these considerations nearly and sadly to 
 affect Mrs. Leslie. Yet she urged that, economically as they 
 at present lived, this same, end might still be accomplished 
 
woman’s miENDSHIP. 
 
 55 
 
 entreating him to recollect- that Walter’s interests might be 
 far more irretrievably wrecked by the loss of the suit, and its 
 attendant heavy drains on their little capital. But Mr. Leslie 
 never dreamed of loss. He felt so convinced in his own mind 
 of the justice of his claims, so fully persuaded that all the 
 necessary expenses would be but as dust in the balance com- 
 pared to the possession of a rich and unincumbered estate, 
 that he laughed aside all her fears, declaring that the papers 
 had been examined by an exceedingly clever lawyer, and pro- 
 nounced as quite sufficient to authorize his claims, and in his 
 bauds accordingly the suit was placed. 
 
 We must pass lightly over the next few years in the life of 
 our heroine, mentioning only those circumstances necessary for 
 the clear elucidation of our narrative. 
 
 Florence Leslie was not a character to fall from the promise 
 of high and noble virtue which the early age of seventeen had 
 appeared to give. The impression of Lady Ida’s faultless 
 qualities and most endearing character could not fade from an 
 imagination ardent as her own. It was continually before her 
 eyes, inciting her to many of those trifling acts of self-denial 
 and moral strength, which might otherwise have been un- 
 performed. 
 
 At seventeen a- girl’s character is seldom fully formed. It 
 is the first opening of life ; its first susceptibility of enjoyment; 
 its first consciousness of power, of feeling, of perfect happiness, 
 unalloyed even by those whisperings of our innate corruption, 
 to which we only awake by degrees. All things seem as 
 bright, as fond, as innocent, as our own minds : love ! love 
 breathes around us in nature as in man : we see nothing of 
 the universal curse, but all of the universal love ! We may 
 hear of sin and suffering, but they are things afar off, and of 
 little moment. Some deem childhood the happiest season of 
 life ; but oh ! surely it is youth. 
 
 Childhood is but a dream, containing, indeed, the germs of 
 after-being, not the flowers themselves. It is the threshold of 
 spring, but not spring itself. No ! spring, like youth, comes 
 in the sudden flood of sunshine — kindles with magic touch the 
 senseless seed into the fragrant flower — converts the laughter 
 of the moment into the deeper smile of the heart — the weary 
 toil of task and restraint into the springy freedom, the buoyant 
 hope, the bright unfading glory of life — awakened, beautiful 
 existence ! 
 
;56 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 But even as it is the season of guilelessness, of joy, of good 
 that thinketh no evil, so is it of impression. The heart and 
 mind, like wax, are moulded to whatever form the hand of 
 affection points ; and happy is it for those whose first friend- 
 ships, whose early associations, are with those capable of 
 impressing there nothing but the good. We are writing 
 generally ; but perhaps it is only to those peculiarly ardent 
 and clinging dispositions, of which Florence Leslie was one, to 
 whom these remarks are applicable. There are girls, even of 
 seventeen, so wrapt in self, that the material of the heart is of 
 stone instead of flesh ; and others again are content to flutter 
 through the brief period of existence, with neither strength of 
 impulse nor power of imagination, and consequently laugh at 
 all things which speak of thought or feeling. 
 
 Gradually the character of Florence deepened — her intellect 
 expanded ; and as the girl merged into the woman, if her wild 
 and joyous spirits were in part subdued, there was a truth, a 
 firmness of principle, a powerful sense of religion, a yet deeper 
 capability of suffering and enduring, which, to those capable 
 of appreciating, or even of understanding her, would have 
 rendered her at twenty still more deserving of love. But 
 Emily Melford was right. It did, indeed, appear as if, by 
 the encouragement of these lofty and glowing feelings, her 
 doom was to stand alone, to meet vfith none to whom she 
 could lay bare her whole heart ; with few who did not smile 
 at aught of sentiment or action higher than was common ; 
 and so at length it was only within her own circle that 
 Florence Leslie was really known. 
 
 There was one person, however, who, though a stern, for- 
 bidding aspect prevented many from thinking aloud before 
 her, could yet (strange to say) afford to love, and had sense to 
 appreciate our youthful heroine. This was a Mrs. Livers, a 
 distant relation of Mr. Leslie, with wdiom intercourse had been 
 continually kept up, which was more intimately renewed some 
 little time after Lady Ida’s departure. 
 
 The peculiarly chilling character of this lady had been 
 formed by a most extraordinary train of deceit and falsehood 
 in persons whom she loved and trusted. From having been 
 one of the most affectionate and most confiding beings, she 
 became the coldest and most forbidding — from trusting all, she 
 trusted none ; not at least in appearance, for it was shrewdly 
 suspected that a young girl whom she had adopted, and to 
 
■woman’s friendship. 
 
 57 
 
 whom it was supposed she would leave all her property, which 
 was considerable, possessed her afifections in the warmest 
 degree. This orphan, by name Flora Leslie, was the only 
 remaining relative of Mr. Leslie who bore his name ; relative, 
 indeed, she could hardly be called, as their cousinship was five 
 or six degrees removed, though the similarity of name often 
 caused the supposition of a much nearer consanguinity. 
 
 The residence of Mrs. Livers was near Winchester, and 
 thither Florence was repeatedly invited as a companion to 
 Flora, with whom, however, she speedily found she had not a 
 thought in common ; finding much more to excite her interest 
 and affection in Mrs. Livers herself. To her she was so in- 
 variably attentive and respectful, that the lady might have 
 descended from her pedestal of coldness and pride, and trusted 
 once again, had she not still feared to find those endearing 
 qualities deceitful as before. That Flora Leslie was of a most 
 unamiable temper, possessing a remarkable scarcity of attrac- 
 tive or endearing qualities, was her safeguard in the opinion of 
 Mrs. Livers, particularly as the young lady had hypocrisy 
 enough ever to bewail these faults, and to pretend to correct 
 them ; and thus, by the most consummate art, she deceived by 
 a completely contrary process to her predecessors. Florence 
 speedily penetrated this, and turned from her with loathing ; 
 but how might her lips warn Mrs. Livers of the precipice on 
 which her last attachment seemed to stand. How descend to 
 so mean a deed as to poison her mind against an orphan 
 dependent on her for support. She neither could nor would 
 act thus; contenting herself rather with continuing her simple 
 true-hearted kindness towards Mrs. Livers ; often sacrificing 
 her own inclinations and favourite duties to comply with her 
 request, and make some stay at Woodlands. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 ■iTALTEE. — A PPvOPOSAL. — A EATHEe’s DEATII-BED. 
 
 We ought, perhaps, to have mentioned in its proper place, that 
 Mr. Leslie’s desire to be on the spot to superintend the pro- 
 ceeding of his lawsuit, urged him to give up his beautiful little 
 retreat in Devonshire, and reside in the metropolis ; thus 
 materially increasing his expenditure, though the family lived 
 as economically as possible, and as materially decreasing their 
 domestic comforts and enjoyments. Mr. Leslie was far too 
 honourable to live beyond his present means, because he confi- 
 dently trusted his future would bring wealth ; and when eco- 
 nomy must be consulted, and observers of that economy are of 
 birth and education, London does not possess one quarter of the 
 happiness or the true enjoyment of the country. There, 
 pleasures the most innocent, the most healthful, the most 
 reviving, await the economist at every turn, without the 
 smallest tax upon his finances. Not thus is it in the 
 metropolis. It has indeed many avenues of improvement, of 
 pleasure, of true enjoyment ; but they are for those to whom 
 money is no object, time of little value ; not for that noble 
 set of economists, who rather than indulge in the expense 
 attendant on pleasure, would forego it altogether. 
 
 Mrs. Lesle’s delicate health had prevented their keeping 
 much society even in Devonshire. In London they kept still 
 less; for in the environs of this great city, as in the city itself,, 
 people may live next door to each other for years, and never 
 know more than their respective names ; and, therefore, though 
 in a populous neighbourhood, the Leslies lived in comparative 
 solitude. 
 
 It so happened that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Leslie had any 
 near relation, or even connections, both having been only 
 children, and the latter, in fact, an orphan from her earliest 
 years. 
 
woman’s miENDSHIP. 
 
 59 
 
 All these things considered, it was no very gTeat wonder that 
 London to Florence Leslie was in truth a prison, compared 
 with the joys, the freedom, and, above all, the associations of 
 the country. Yet she was happy, for her mind could create 
 its own resources, and outward excitement she needed not. 
 Her domestic circle was sufficient to call forth all the affection, 
 the animation of her nature. The opening mind, the bird-like 
 joyousness of Minie ; the far higher character of Walter, even 
 the anxiety his delicate health occasioned, bound her closer 
 and closer to tliem both ; till with the vivid memories of Lady 
 Ida, and the lively correspondence of Emily Melford, which, 
 marvellous to relate, continued the length of two full years, 
 Florence’s simple nature needed no more. She did sometimes 
 think it strange, that during the three months which the 
 Melfords passed in town, Emily should never make any 
 exertion to see her, or renew the intercourse between the 
 families ; but for the first few years, Florence was too happy 
 in herself to feel it as neglect. She had no particular need of 
 their kindness, so did not miss it. Alas ! it is only in the time 
 of sorrow, only when we most need kindness, that we awake 
 to the bitter consciousness of coldness and neglect. 
 
 Meanwhile time passed. Two, and nearly three years, and 
 Mr. Leslie’s lawsuit appeared making no progress whatever 
 towards a favourable completion ; calling, indeed, for multi- 
 plied expenses, which he met willingly, because unalterably 
 convinced that success would attend him at last ; a conviction 
 shared, with all the buoyant anticipation of youth, by his son, 
 to whom, much against Mrs. Leslie’s consent, his hopes and 
 expectations had been imparted. 
 
 Walter looked not to riches as means of sensual pleasures 
 and intemperate indulgences. Inheriting, unhappily, the 
 sickly constitution of his mother, a severe illness, soon after 
 he was fifteen, deprived him of all taste for boyish pleasures, 
 and gave him but one great desire to become mentally great. 
 Tastes and powers suddenly awakened within him never felt 
 before. He had always been remarkably intellectual ; but 
 with the sudden conception of poetry, painting, sculpture, all 
 those links of a higher, more ethereal nature, his former joy- 
 ous spirits changed to a sensitiveness, an almost morbid sus- 
 ceptibility of feeling. 
 
 He gave the whole energy of mind and heart to his studies. 
 It mattered not what subject they embraced ; he mastered 
 
60 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 them with an ease, a capability of comprehension, which caused 
 both his father and himself to laugh at the fancy, that by too 
 much application he was injuring his already but too precarious 
 health. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie’s anxious spirit often trembled, but it was more 
 at his faultless temper, his confiding and affectionate heart, his 
 extraordinary sense of religious trust and dependence. Yet, 
 oh ! how could a mother, as she looked upon and traced the 
 many virtues of her boy, wish it had been otherwise ? How 
 breathe the secret dread, that he seemed but lent to 
 earth ? 
 
 During Lady Ida’s intimacy with Florence, Walter had been 
 at school in London ; but he had never been happy there : either 
 the close air did not agree with him, or the regular and some- 
 what confined routine of lessons and exercises cramped his 
 energies, and permitted no vent to its higher talents. After 
 his severe illness, he of course, remained at home, studying of 
 his own accord, and with little assistance of masters. At 
 seventeen, the air of the north being recommended, Mr. Leslie 
 placed him, to his great delight, with a clergyman in West- 
 moreland ; and there it was that all his natural endowments 
 in poetry and painting burst upon him with a flash, a brilliancy, 
 lighting up his whole being with new powers and new’ life ; 
 banishing all trace of too morbid sensitiveness or too depressing 
 gloom, and bringing in their stead such a glowing sense of joy, 
 such a consciousness of power, that even the desire of wealtli 
 lost all its strength, for he believed he possessed gifts within 
 him which would make their own way, compel a w’orld to 
 acknowledge them, and wreath his humble name with the 
 bright garland of immortal renown. Alas ! poor boy, he knew 
 not how much more than to other minds is independence 
 necessary for the happiness of genius. 
 
 Florence had just completed her twentieth year, when, to 
 her great astonishment, she received, through her father, an 
 offer of marriage from a highly respectable young man whom 
 she had met now and then at Woodlands, but whose attentions 
 she had never deemed anything more than the courtesy of the 
 hour. Mr. Leslie- was unusually urgent in forwarding young 
 Sedley’s suit, more so than Florence could at all comprehend. 
 It needed all her firmness, all her eloquence, all her caresses to 
 win him over to her views, and obtain his consent for the 
 decided dismissal of her admirer. 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 61 
 
 He said that she knew not the advantage it would he, 
 almost the necessity there existed for her to enter early into a 
 respectable matrimonial engagement ; an argument she could 
 not understand. True, she said that she knew if the lawsuit 
 were unfortunately lost, his fortune would be materially 
 diminished ; but could he think that she would shrink from 
 aught of privation shared with her family ? rather she would 
 remain to work for them, to save their beautiful and childlike 
 Millie all necessity to quit her home. She could not enter the 
 holy engagement of matrimony, without feeling either respect 
 or love for him whom she must solemnly vow to love, honour, 
 and obey ; she could not marry simply for worldly advantages. 
 Mr. Leslie said it was not to mere worldly views he referred, 
 but then checked himself, agitated to a degree yet more 
 startingly incomprehensible to his daughter, more particularly 
 as her mother shared it. Terrified, she knew not wherefore, 
 she threw herself on Mrs. Leslie’s neck, exclaiming in extreme 
 emotion — 
 
 If your happiness, your interests, my beloved parents, are 
 in any way concerned in this intended marriage, only tell me, 
 and I will school my spirit till I can m.ake this sacrifice ; only 
 tell me, do not deceive me ; does this alliance concern your 
 welfare, as w'ell as the supposed advantages to myself? does it 
 affect you in any way ? Tell me but the truth — the whole 
 truth — do not terrify me by mysteries which I cannot solve ; 
 say but the word, if indeed it be for you.” 
 
 '^ Florence, my child ! it was but for yourself I spoke,” 
 replied her father, for Mrs. Leslie could but strain the weeping 
 girl to her heart in silence ; ‘^solemnly I pledge my word, I 
 thought but of your interests, your happiness, and welcomed 
 this offer as insuring you an independent home and station, 
 which neither circumstance nor accident could affect.” 
 
 ^^But why should I need these things more than others, 
 father ? why should you banish me from your hearth — ^your 
 name ? ” 
 
 It was a very simple question, but Mr. Leslie’s answer was 
 as if it said more to his wife and to himself than she had 
 meant. ^ He caught her convulsively in his arms, passionately 
 exclaiming — 
 
 ''You are right, my blessed child! quite, quite right. Why, 
 indeed, should I banish you from my name and hearth? No — 
 no — ^you shall never change them, save for those you may love 
 
62 
 
 ■^^0 man’s friendship. 
 
 better. Florence, darling ! forgive your father. I have been 
 too urgent, but it was for you, my child, only for you.” 
 
 And hastily releasing her, he quitted the room, leaving 
 Florence in a state of such indefinable dread, that her mother 
 compelled herself to calmness to soothe her, assuring her that 
 they had but spoken for her good ; her father’s interests were 
 in no ways affected, and that she knew a little thing disturbed 
 him now. Florence wept away her emotion on the bosom of 
 her mother, and Mr. Leslie’s resumed calmness, when they 
 again met, removed every lingering fear. 
 
 Does she suspect ? Have I ruined her peace for ever ? 
 Mary — Mary ! why have I not your control ?” was Mr. 
 Leslie’s agitated address to his wife, when all but themselves 
 had retired to rest. 
 
 She suspects nothing, dearest Edward, save that your love 
 for her is even stronger than she believed it ; but oh, for the 
 sake of our sweet girl’s peace, bid her not to wed again. It 
 seems as if that gentle heart were mercifully preserved from 
 all love save for us, to spare me the bitter agony of giving her 
 to another with the truth untold ; the dark alternative of 
 persisting in that which is not, or ruining her peace for ever. 
 You do not feel this, and therefore believe that marriage 
 would give her greater security than remaining with us ; but 
 oh, my husband, do not urge it again. An all-seeing Providence 
 is round us. Let us believe he specially watches over her 
 sweet innocence, and by keeping her thus from all love, 
 guards her from dangers, from misery I dare not speak.” 
 
 Mr. Leslie seemed convinced and affected ; but whether, 
 indeed, he would have followed his wife’s advice could never 
 be known ; for, two short months after this event, he was 
 attacked by a violent illness, terminating so suddenly and 
 fatally, that Walter had barely time to travel post to London, 
 called thither by a letter from Florence, in agony conjuring 
 him to come to them without a moment’s delay, ere the fond 
 husband and affectionate father breathed his last. 
 
 Of all deaths, a sudden one is the most dreadful, the most 
 agonizing to the survivors. It is said, death, whenever it 
 comes, is sudden ; a shock always stunning, always over- 
 whelming. Perhaps it is so ; but when only one week intervenes 
 between life and death, one little week severs ties of years, 
 hides under the cold damp earth features which beamed upon 
 us in health and joy from every accustomed haunt ; uhen the 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 63 
 
 lieloved is removed directly from his domestic circle to the 
 narrow grave, missed from his usual seat, not to be found in 
 some other, which, though painful (if a couch of suffering), 
 yet becomes dear, but missed, to be remembered only as gone 
 for ever ; when no intervening period of dependence on the 
 part of the sufferer, of unremitting attention and increased 
 affection from the beloved ones, has taken place, and, as it 
 were, partially prepared us for the last dread change, the final 
 separation ; when none of these things take place, oh, who 
 may speak the agonies of death. 
 
 And all this was felt by Mrs. Leslie and her children. They 
 had had no time to fear, still less to hope, and it was long ere 
 they could realize that one so ardently beloved indeed had 
 passed away for ever. The extremity of Mrs. Leslie’s anguish 
 none knew but Him in whose ear in the watches of the night 
 it had been poured. Her illness, her uncomplaining patience 
 had bound her more closely than common to him, and his 
 almost womanly care and gentleness through her long years of 
 suffering, excited no common love ; and bodily disease itself 
 seemed for the while subdued, conquered by this sudden and 
 most agonizing mental affliction. She had left her couch to 
 attend his dying bed ; day and night she moved not from his 
 pillow, save at the moment of Walter’s arrival, for she dreaded 
 the effect of the shock upon him. And not alone was it the 
 husband of her love, the gentle soother of her painful couch 
 whom she had to mourn. There was a secret tie between 
 them, calling for all the devotion, all the gratitude of woman’s 
 heart. In the first year of their marriage, he had granted a 
 boon, a weighty boon ; one, perhaps, that none other but 
 Edward Leslie could have granted, and never from that hour 
 evinced regret that he had done so. And now that dread 
 secret was all her own, only her own ; and its heavy weight 
 appeared to increase the bitter anguish of her husband’s loss. 
 
 At the moment Mrs. Leslie left the pillow of tlie dying to 
 meet her son, Florence alone stood beside his bed. His eyes 
 were closed ; the livid hue of death had stolen over his 
 features, and the poor girl bent over him, stunned, motionless, 
 unconscious that scalding tears were slowly rolling down her 
 cheeks, and falling upon his. He opened his eyes languidly, 
 and tried feebly to draw her to him, and as she laid her head 
 on his bosom, kissing again and again his sunken cheek, he 
 whispered, in broken and disjointed sentences — 
 
64 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Florence, my child ! my precious child ! bless — ^hless you. 
 You are indeed my daughter. Minie is not dearer. Love — 
 love your mother, darling ; cherish her, care for her as you 
 have done. She has more than common claim for gratitude. 
 
 Florence — darling — bless ” 
 
 And his voice had sunk from exhaustion, so as to be wholly 
 inarticulate, though his lips still moved as if he spoke. Again 
 and again those words returned to Florence ; the feeble tone, 
 the look of death haunted her ; but there was no mystery 
 attached to them, they seemed to her but the last warning 
 accents of that parental love, which had so long blest her with 
 the guidance of a friend as well as father. With more than 
 usual claims for love and gratitude, she recalled her mother s 
 years of suffering, which yet had never checked her devotion 
 to her children, and she compared that affectionate devotedness 
 with the fashionable selfishness and culpable neglect of others 
 whom she knew, and she felt she had indeed a double incentive 
 to duty and affection. She knelt by the dead body of her 
 father, and secretly vowed to make her mother the first object 
 of her life, and then only felt relieved from the w^eight even of 
 love which her father s last words had left. 
 
CHAPTER XIL 
 
 TILIAL LOVE. — WALTER SEEKS EMPLOYMENT. — ABILITY AND 
 INTEREST. 
 
 Mr. Leslie’s sudden death had, of course, left all his worldly 
 affairs in confusion. Depending entirely on the success of his 
 lawsuit, and believing, from his usual good health, that many 
 years of life were still before him, he had left no will, nor any 
 instructions as to the division of his still untouched property. 
 The examination of his papers Mrs. Leslie took upon herself. 
 There were indeed no debts to startle her, but, as she had 
 long anticipated, considerable law expenses, which had very 
 materially decreased his income. To withdraw all further 
 prosecution of the suit was now impossible, for much as Mrs. 
 Leslie in secret might still have wished it, but yet hallowed as 
 it now seemed by its association with the dead, and by the 
 interests of the living, she would not perchance have drawn 
 back, even if she could. 
 
 On Walter’s delicate frame and sensitive spirit, this loss of 
 his almost idolised father had at first produced such painful 
 effects, as greatly to alarm his affectionate family. He was, 
 however, effectually roused, when he became aware of his 
 mother’s determination to divide the little property equally 
 between her children, without reserving the smallest portion 
 for herself. Respectfully but positively he declared that this 
 should not be. It was no position for a parent, and one like 
 herself. Rather would he feel himself and his sisters utterly 
 dependent upon her, than so completely to reverse the law of 
 nature and of filial feeling. His sisters said the same, and 
 inexpressibly affected, Mrs. Leslie was compelled to submit. 
 
 Little did she know the further intentions of her children. 
 That Walter and Florence never rested, scarcely slept, till 
 
66 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 with the assistance of a friend, one learned in the law, though 
 no practitioner, they had secured her little portion upon 
 herself, binding themselves as representatives of their deceased 
 parent, and consequently pledging themselves to answer all 
 demands of the impending suit. This accomplished, both 
 were comparatively relieved, but Walter still felt that his 
 task was not yet done. 
 
 It was one evening, about six weeks after Mr. Leslie’s 
 death, that Mrs. Leslie found herself alone with her son. A 
 favourite work was open before him, but his head had gradually 
 sunk upon his hands, and many minutes passed, and still he- 
 did not raise it. 
 
 Walter, my own Walter !” 
 
 Mother !” he threw himself with a sudden impulse on her 
 neck, and she heard him sob. 
 
 My boy, it was the will of a gracious Providence that he 
 should go from us. Oh, we must not resist by too long, too 
 unresigned a sorrow. I know what he was to you, my child — 
 to us all — but ” 
 
 Mother, it is not only for my father I mourn. Oh, 
 mother, mother, I am a weak, sinful wretch — knowing what is 
 right, and having no strength of myself to do it.” 
 
 Who has strength of himself, my child ? Who can have 
 it, unless infused — sought for by prayer and action ?” 
 
 Yes, mother, action as well as prayer, and it is there I 
 fail. I have sought it in prayer, but not in action; but I 
 will, mother, trust me I will.” 
 
 But Avhat will you, my Walter ? I know that there is 
 even more that depresses you than the anguish which we have 
 mutually borne, something peculiarly your own. If I cannot 
 remove, I may share it, and so lessen its burden. Tell it me 
 then, my child.” 
 
 And after a moment’s pause, Walter did pour every anxious 
 thought and inward struggle into his mother’s ear ; and as he 
 concluded he looked earnestly on his mother’s face, and its ^ 
 expression was as he expected. 
 
 You think with me,” he said : ‘^you would not have me 
 wait till this lawsuit is decided, to form my future plans. You 
 think with me.” 
 
 In our present situation, my child, I cannot think other- 
 wise. Yet is it impossible to unite inclination and profession ? 
 Wliy must you give up those pursuits, not only naturally 
 
woMAi^j’s rrtiENDSiii?. 67 
 
 dear, but hallowed by the recollection of your father’s indulged 
 love r 
 
 Mother, I will tell you. I know that many would deem 
 me a romantic visionary, but my longing desire is to tread the 
 path of fame, by the pen of literature or the pencil of the 
 artist — na}^, perchance, to unite the two, and rank high, as 
 others have done before me ; but to do this needs years of 
 patient labour. I would not come before my country an 
 unfledged stripling. I could not bear the lash of criticism. 
 No ; either with the pen or pencil, there must be genius 
 marked. I would not have it said 'in time he will do well 
 I w^ould study under efficient masters, be sure of my position, 
 and then assume it, and feel I have not lived in vain.” 
 
 He ceased abruptly, reading his mother’s tearful sympathy 
 in the trembling pressure of her hands ; but the glow passed 
 from his beautiful features. 
 
 But this is folly,” he continued. Mother, dearest, your 
 Walter will prove himself worthy of his father and of you. 
 My sisters shall not miss their father while their brother 
 lives.” 
 
 ‘‘But, my Walter, bodily weakness as well as mental tastes 
 disincline you for the exertion you propose.” 
 
 “ No, mother, if health will bear up against the labour of 
 mind, or rather that which men term mental labour — for I 
 have felt it not — will it not against mere mechanical employ- 
 ment ? Do not fear me, mother ; I am happier alread}^, 
 having spoken ; and I shall be happier still, when, by the 
 performance of my duty, I can add to the comfort of my 
 sisters and yourself,” and throwing himself on his knees before 
 his mother, he kissed away her tears, and talking cheerfully of 
 other things, till the widow smiled again. 
 
 Unhappily for Walter’s real interests, the friends he con- 
 sulted were not of the class which, appreciating his high 
 endowments, would give them the encouragement they needed. 
 Almost as rare as genius itself, is (perhaps from their near 
 connection) — 
 
 The power 
 
 Of feeling where true genius lies.” 
 
 And that power is not to be found amongst those who, 
 accustomed to worldly thoughts and interests from early 
 boyhood, and taught to consider amassing money the ne plus 
 ultra of human felicity, have neither time nor inclination for 
 
 r 2 
 
68 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 anything else. Mr. Leslie’s few acquaintances were of this 
 worldly class ; and several times he had been accused of folly, 
 by fostering, as he did, what were called Walter’s excessive 
 indolence and romance. 
 
 Amongst these, Walter was of course not likely to meet 
 with the expansive intellect and active benevolence which he 
 so much needed. When he communicated his wishes to obtain 
 some employment, he was greeted with a congratulatory shake 
 of the hand, that he had awakened at length with the spirit 
 to be a man, and to throw off all the idle fancies his poor 
 father’s weak indulgence had so egregiously encouraged. 
 
 Almost sick with anguish did poor Walter turn at such 
 speeches ; for more and more heavily the conviction pressed 
 upon him, that he had in truth not one friend who could 
 understand, and, understanding, aid him ; he scarcely could 
 define how, but still he felt that there had been others in the 
 same position, and that they had found sympathising friends, 
 who brought them forward from obscurity, and enabled them 
 to win, by the proper cultivation of their talents, a station for 
 themselves. 
 
 Walter knew’ his own power ; felt that, young as he was, his 
 nature was higher than that of his fellows, his views more 
 exalted ; and it was difficult to him to believe that he stood 
 so utterly alone that his talents were to remain disregarded 
 and neglected. He had still the bitter lesson to learn, that 
 unless their lot be among the independent and influential of 
 the land, the gifted but too often stand alone, from the high 
 aspirations feeding on themselves ; the vain yearners for what 
 this world may not give : for wdiat is genius ? A spark from 
 that fountain of living light around the Eternal’s throne — a 
 link of that golden chain by which this world is suspended 
 from its parent heaven, invisible to all save its possessors, 
 sometimes not even to them, according as the immortal mind 
 is dimmed by the shade of earth, or touched by the dazzling 
 rays of heaven. 
 
 While his friends were actively endeavouring to procure him 
 some advantageous situation, Walter learned that an apprentice 
 was wanted by one of the most influential engravers of the 
 metropolis. He sought the establishment directly, and was 
 received politely, but coldly. 
 
 ‘‘ Such a press of applicants there were,” Mr. Markham 
 said, ‘‘that really unless the candidates could bring credentials 
 
WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 69 
 
 from experienced men in the art, it was almost impossible to 
 give them the attention they might deserve.’’ 
 
 No snch condition had been made in the advertisement,” 
 Walter said, and added, perhaps somewhat proudly, “ that 
 had he known such was needed, he would not have intruded. 
 He thought ability the desired criterion.” 
 
 ""Ability ! oh, of course, that would be proved by the 
 necessary credentials. He would, however, be happy to look 
 over Mr. Leslie’s portfolio ; he supposed he knew something of 
 the art, as he did not look so very young as to begin from the 
 very beginning.” 
 
 Walter answered with simplicity and truth ; and modestly 
 unclasping his portfolio, he placed it before Mr. Markham. 
 
 A very casual glance sufficed to convince the engraver that 
 there was no ordinary genius impressed in those simple draw- 
 ings ; but he was too much a man of the world, and of 
 worldly interests, to express admiration till he could feel his way. 
 
 "" Very good, very good,” he said. "" If we can come to 
 terms, why engraving may be no hard matter after all. I 
 have had youngsters who did not give so much promise, and 
 yet did well. You have friends, I suppose, willing to pay the 
 necessary premium for the advantages which an apprenticeship 
 in my studio offers?” 
 
 Walter felt the hot blood burn in his cheek, though he 
 struggled against it calmly to say ""that he was not so pro- 
 vided. He was the only son of a widowed mother, caring not 
 how hard he laboured, but the premium Mr. Markham 
 demanded was certainly not in his power to give. He had 
 hoped that his abilities, his love of the art ” 
 
 He stopped, for the countenance of his hearer became hard 
 as iron— only varied by a slight kind of sneer. He closed the 
 portfolio, and very politely said — 
 
 The thing was impossible. He had only too many can- 
 didates offering yet more than he demanded ; the difficulty, 
 in fact, was whom to choose. He was sorry Mr. Leslie should 
 have taken the trouble to call, as he believed the advertisement 
 had particularly mentioned premium. He regretted being 
 obliged to shorten their interview — but — a particular engage- 
 ment.” 
 
 Walter bowed proudly and retired. 
 
 ""Perhaps, after all, I have not the gift I dreamed I had,” 
 he said internally, as slowly he paced the crowded streets. 
 
70 
 
 woman’s priendship. 
 
 alone amidst thousands. ‘‘Surely, had there been any promise 
 of talent, he would have said so, though he could not serve 
 me. I heard he was an artist himself, discerning and impartial. 
 Perhaps it is better he did not. I may more easily reconcile 
 myself to other employment.” 
 
 But still, the wish once excited, that by engraving he might 
 not entirely neglect the pencil, would not let him rest ; and 
 he sought the friend most sincerely interested in his welfare, 
 to obtain his assistance in furthering the plan. He found him, 
 however, much averse to it. 
 
 “It was necessary,” he said, “that Walter should obtain 
 some situation which would pay directly. He had heard that 
 a large establishment connected with the East India House 
 was offering £50 per annum, with a promise of raising it 
 gradually till it reached £200, to any one who knew something 
 of the Oriental languages, as well as those of Europe.” 
 
 Knowing that Walter did this, his friend advised him to 
 prove that his wish for employment was no idle profession, 
 by securing it directly. He argued so successfully that 
 Walter sought the head of the establishment that very hour, 
 gave such proof of his skill in languages and penmanship as 
 caused the greatest satisfaction, and was engaged ; the whole 
 business irrevocably settled ere he turned his weary footsteps 
 home. 
 
CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 ESTEANGEMENT AND NEGLECT. — Y700DLANDS. — PANTING WOEDS 
 EEMEMBEEED. — ELOEA. 
 
 It is strange and sad that any trial, instead of deadening onr 
 faculties, save to the one source of grief, so awakens every 
 susceptibility to pain, and so opens the varied sluices of the 
 human heart, that all its mysterious yearnings lie unsealed 
 before us. In the calm and cheerful tenor of her previous life, 
 Florence had never felt lonely, though one by one the young 
 companions of her youth faded from her path. Change in 
 character or situation which time must produce had dissolved 
 this intercourse unconsciously and without pain; but with 
 Emily Melford the case was different. Florence never could 
 forget those who had once been kind ; and Emily had, through 
 two years’ regular and frequent correspondence, so completely 
 treated her as a confidential friend that Florence could scarcely 
 think of change in her, even v/hile she had long felt that her 
 simple pleasures or anxieties obtained no sympathy. Emily 
 always wrote of herself, and Florence’s self-love might have 
 been flattered, as there is always something soothing to our 
 amour propre in being the trusted repository of another 
 person’s secrets. The third year of their intercourse, however, 
 Emily’s letters came at longer and longer intervals, on smaller- 
 sized paper, and in wider lines, till at last they ceased 
 altogether. Florence’s last communication having been 
 answered, after an interval of four months, by a few hurried 
 and irrelevant lines, she could not write again ; more 
 particularly as this occurred just about the time of the 
 offer of marriage to which we have before alluded. Thus, 
 followed as it had been in two short months by Mr. Leslie’s 
 death, weeks passed and the intercourse was not renewed, and 
 ’When Florence awoke from the first stupor of anguish, to 
 
72 
 
 woman’s fhiendsiiip. 
 
 outward and more trifling things, it was to the hitter con- 
 sciousness of estrangement and neglect. 
 
 Mr. Leslie’s death had been in all the newspapers, and still, 
 with the clinging confidence of her nature, Florence believed 
 that Emily would not, could not be so engrossed in self as to 
 permit such a bereavement to pass unnoticed. But she hoped 
 in vain. She knew by the fashionable journals that all the 
 Melfords were in London. She was even foolish enough to 
 hope that Emily was coming to speak her sympathy, and 
 therefore would not Avrite — but neither visit nor letter came. 
 
 With Lady Ida, Florence had never been a regular corres- 
 pondent. Her shrinking sensitiveness always kepr her back, 
 fearful to intrude ; feeling that a wider barrier stretched 
 betw^een her and Lady Ida when in joy than when she had 
 been in sorrow. She had written, indeed, whenever Lady Ida’s 
 own messages, Emily’s offers of opportunities, and her own 
 mood of hilarity, had given her courage to do so. But this 
 was over now, for Emily Melford Avas the only one through 
 whom she could hear of Lady Ida ; and it seemed as if now 
 she dared not encourage those visions of Lady Ida’s continued 
 regard in Avhich she had indulged so long. Since her bereave- 
 ment all felt changed around and within her. She asked 
 herself Avhy such bitter thoughts should come, Avhen surely she 
 had enough of sorrow ? But she could not ansAver, and her 
 warm affections twined closer and closer around the beloved 
 inmates of her home, seeking to banish her OAvn sad thoughts 
 in entire devotion to those around her. 
 
 As the groAA’th of affection supposes the existence of good 
 qualities, and from the regard of others permits us to form a 
 higher estimate of ourselves, so the loss of it supposes a decay 
 of those qualities; and loAvering us in our self-esteem, it is long 
 before the Avounded spirit can throAv aside the false idea and 
 Regain its former position. Oh, too sadly and closely is the 
 happiness of man entAvined with his felloAV-man ; or rather, too 
 lightly is such truth considered. Hoav much of misery might 
 be soothed, and sorroAV cheered, Avere mutual kindness the 
 grand object of life; Avere social benevolence to walk the earth, 
 giving her blessed balm to those that Aveep, and her gladdening 
 words to those that smile ! 
 
 Perceiving that Florence, in spite of all her efforts, did not 
 rally either in spirits or health, Mrs. Leslie at length prevailed 
 an her to accept Mrs. Bivers’s repeated invitations, and spend 
 
yrO.MAN’s FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 ra 
 
 a short time at Woodlands. Florence consented with reluc- 
 tance. Her mind was just at that time in a state of painful 
 uncertainty ; of earnest longings in thought, and a too 
 sensitive fearfulness in performance. The love she bore her 
 brother exceeded the mere affection of hand-in-hand com- 
 panionship. His high feelings, his poet’s soul, his precarious 
 health, bound him to her with ties of tenderness and almost 
 veneration, which year by year increased. 
 
 Lady Ida’s parting words — '' if in anything you need me, or 
 believe my friendship or influence can be of any service to- 
 you, write without scruple,” returned to her memory repeat- 
 edly. Her influence or that of her husband might indeed be 
 of unspeakable service to Walter, and might she indeed ask it 
 for him ? 
 
 At Woodlands these thoughts continued. It was not too- 
 late, for he was not bound to his present employment for any 
 determinate period. Had Lady Ida never been kind, almost a. 
 stranger, Florence could have appealed to her without any 
 hesitation : but the dread of asking too much she knew not 
 how to overcome. Walter’s figure rose before her, paler,, 
 thinner than it had been, with that sad, but unspeakably 
 beautiful expression which she had marked, when he told 
 them a situation w^as obtained — and this nerved her to 
 the task. 
 
 It w^as not an easy one, for she would not give vent to the 
 gush of feeling which came over her ; but simply and mourn- 
 fully alluding to her father’s death and the consequent change 
 in Walter’s prospects, made him, and him alone, the subject of 
 her letter. She wrote wuth affectionate eloquence of his 
 talents and peculiar character; and then alluding to Lady 
 Ida’s parting words, entreated that the friendship, the influence 
 she had promised her, might be showm to her brother. Not 
 one word in that eloquent letter was lowering to the writer, or 
 derogatory to the true benevolence of the receiver. The spell 
 once broken, Florence was true to herself and to her friend 
 and materially might that letter have altered Walter’s pros- 
 pects, had it been permitted to reach its destination. To 
 account for its fate, we must go back a space. 
 
 We have before mentioned Mrs. Eivers and her establish- 
 ment, and that with Flora Leslie, wEose similarity of name 
 proved afterwards a most annoying circumstance, Florence had 
 no idea or feeling in common ; nay, she had so penetrated 
 
74 
 
 woman’s priendship. 
 
 her system of deceit with regard to her generous protectress, 
 that though no look or word ever betrayed this to Mrs. Kivers 
 herself, Flora’s own suspicions were aroused, and envy, with 
 its whole train of bad thoughts and actions, were excited 
 towards her. A circumstance had also occurred which 
 increased these feelings into active virulence. Mrs. Ptivers 
 herself lived very much retired, and nothing could ever pre- 
 vail on her to join in society ; but since Woodlands was in the 
 vicinity of a large country town, where there was much public 
 and private gaiety, often enlivened by military officers. Flora 
 Leslie was permitted to go out with one or another chaperone 
 of Mrs. Piivers’s selection and approval. 
 
 How^ the young lady conducted herself in society, therefore, 
 Mrs. Eivers never knew, and any t?Je brought to her by others 
 of her protegee she made it a point to disbelieve, from her 
 received faith in the world’s proneness to injure and malign. 
 It so happened that an affair more than usually scandalous 
 became so notorious as not only to penetrate the walls of 
 Woodlands, but the ears of its mistress, just at the time when 
 Florence was staying with her after her father’s death, when 
 she of course could not accompany Flora into visiting society, 
 as she had sometimes done before. 
 
 Mrs. Eivers never made a confusion. She quietly inquired all 
 that was necessary, and then charged the young lady wnth the 
 fact. Her distrust of the w^orld worked even here, and Flora’s 
 protestations and assurances of no intentional ill might have 
 weighed against the voice of rumour, had she not unfortu- 
 nately remembered that Florence had been sometimes Flora’s 
 companion in society, and appealed to her judgment for the 
 truth or falsehood of the charge. Had she ever observed 
 anything in her former conduct to demand present belief? 
 
 Now it unfortunately happened that it was the very 
 witnessing Flora’s imprudent conduct, when not under Mrs. 
 Eivers’s eye, which had first awakened Florence to a true 
 estimate of her character. A circumstance more degvading in 
 its nature, too, had the year before come under her knowledge ; 
 and this appeal from Mrs. Eivers was, in consequence, 
 peculiarly and painfully distressing. In vain she conjured 
 Mrs. Eivers to ask her nothing ; not to compel her to be that 
 most hateful of all characters, a talebearer. 
 
 Mrs. Eivers, always obstinate, became more so, saying so 
 much, and that so bitterly, that Florence at last believed the 
 
woman’s fbiendship. 
 
 75 
 
 truth would do Flora less harm than the concealment. The 
 consequence was that Mrs. Elvers believed half the reported 
 tale, and so far restrained Flora, as to declare that she should 
 not go out again till people had forgotten her former conduct, 
 and she knew how to behave properly. 
 
 In outward appearance, Flora was very humble and sub- 
 missive ; protesting that all Mrs. Elvers said was perfectly 
 just, and that she bore no ill will to Florence, for she knew she 
 would not have said a word against her, unless compelled. 
 Florence had no faith in Flora’s professions — they were not 
 natural \ still her own conscience so completely acquitted her 
 of all intentional unkindness, that she never dreamed of 
 enmity, and still less of any personal evil which might thence 
 accrue. Perhaps she thought less of the circumstance, because 
 just then her mind was preoccupied by her intended letter to 
 Lady Ida. In former visits to Woodlands she had repeatedly 
 spoken of this noble friend. Mrs. Eivers had listened mourn- 
 fullj to these artless eifusions ; still there was something in 
 the simple trustfulness of Florence so beautiful, so refreshing, 
 that she could not check it by allusions to its folly. At' this 
 visit, however, she noticed that Florence was greatly changed. 
 Not having seen her for nearly a year, it was scarcely strange 
 that the deeper thoughtfulness, the decreasing elasticity of 
 joyousness, the calmer, sadder mood, should strike her more 
 forcibly than it had done Mrs. Leslie. It chanced that 
 Florence had been speaking of her brother — her anxious desire 
 that he should obtain more congenial employment — and 
 Mrs. Eivers took the opportunity to remark — 
 
 ‘‘I should think Lady Ida St. Maur might assist your 
 wishes, through her husband’s influence. Why not write to 
 her?” 
 
 Florence answered she had serious intentions of doing so, 
 and she was very glad Mrs. Eivers advised what her own 
 inclinations so earnestly prompted. 
 
 "‘Advice, my dear child ; do not fancy I advise : I cannot 
 do so, because I believe that, like all the rest of the world, 
 Lady Ida proves that out of siglit is out of mind. And 
 Florence Leslie is now to her as if she had never been.” 
 
 Florence made no answer. 
 
 “You do not think so. Pity the dream will not last.” 
 
 “ Perhaps it continues, dear madam, because I do not 
 expect too much. No one feels more than I do myself the 
 
76 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 distance between me and Lady Ida ; that, according to the 
 rules of the world, we can hardly ever mingle intimately 
 again. And as for pushing myself forward, or murmuring 
 that my lot is lowlier than hers, I trust I shall never be so 
 tempted as to do.’’ 
 
 And yet you love her — waste your affections on one who, 
 you own yourself, can give you so little in return. Are you 
 not wilfully exposing yourself to pain ? ” 
 
 No ; for it is a pleasure to have one like her, on whose 
 high and beautiful character affection and fancy can both rest. 
 I have seen enough of Lady Ida to respect her, felt enough of 
 her kindness to remember her with gratitude. Every message 
 I received from her tells me that she retains affectionate 
 interest in my welfare; and as I expect so little, until that 
 expectation be utterly blighted, I will love her still.” 
 
 Mrs. Rivers shaded her eyes with her hand, and did not 
 answer for some minutes. 
 
 And how long is it since you have heard of her ? ” at 
 length she asked, abruptly. 
 
 It was a difficult question to answer without alluding to her 
 disappointment in Emily Melford, but she simply replied, 
 rather more than a year.” 
 
 And yet you have the courage to address her in Walter’s 
 behalf!” 
 
 I have ; for I am certain, if she cannot forward my wishes 
 for my brother, she will write, if it be but to say how much 
 she feels with me on — on — ” her voice painfully quivered, 
 the loss of my dear father.” 
 
 And suppose that you receive no answer to your letter ? 
 Will you be unwise enough to think about her still ? ” 
 
 Florence was silent. 
 
 My letter may never reach her, a thousand chances — ” she 
 faltered. 
 
 My dear, foolish child, if you send your letter by post, 
 and know her proper direction, you have not the hairbreadth 
 of a chance that it should not reach her. Write to her as you 
 propose ; if she do anything for your brother, you have my 
 free permission to love, respect, and trust her as much as you 
 please ; but if no answer come, trust my experience, bitter 
 though it be, and be sure a year or two years is the longest 
 term that the warmest friendship, the most affectionate 
 interest ever lasted, and wonderful if it last so long.” 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 77 
 
 She left the room as she spoke, and Florence let her work 
 fall from her lap, and clasping her hands exclaimed — 
 
 ‘‘ If I may not hope — may not trust — why should I write at 
 all ? why expose myself to the pain of feeling, that in one so 
 good, so kind, I have in truth no interest now ? but if indeed 
 no answer come, surely I am too proud to care for those who 
 never think of me.” 
 
 But the expression of her countenance belied her words, and 
 Flora Leslie could scarcely restrain the delight, the triumph of 
 feeling that revenge the more violently desired, because so 
 long restrained, was in her power, and cost what it might to 
 compass, should be obtained. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE LETTER ABSTRACTED AlsJ) ITS SUBSTITUTE. — FLORA AGAIN. 
 
 One of Mrs. Rivers’s numerous particularities was excessive 
 care with regard to the sending and receiving letters, always 
 dispatching her confidential steward to receive them from and 
 take them to the office, which was in Winchester. The key 
 of the letter-bag was kept in the steward’s room, and of her 
 letter’s fate in England Florence felt secure, nor could she 
 doubt that it would reach its destination. 
 
 Little could her pure mind imagine the extent of meanness 
 to which hatred and revenge could lead her companion ; and 
 still less could Mrs. Rivers believe that all her precautions 
 with regard to the security of letters should be frustrated by 
 the machinations of a girl. The key was removed at dead of 
 night from the steward s room, the bag unclosed, the letter 
 abstracted, the key returned to its place, and, in less than ten 
 minutes. Flora Leslie was again seated in her own apartment,, 
 unsuspected and unheard. Her step was too light, her 
 measures too a^rtful for discovery ; and she sat beside the 
 hearth, w^hose embers vrere still burning, scarcely able ta 
 believe that the act of villainy, w^hich had caused her so many 
 sleepless nights to plan, had been so easily accomplished. 
 
 For a moment she hesitated whether to read before sho 
 burned ; but it was only for a moment. She tore open the 
 letter, and revelled as she read, for every line breathed that 
 simple trusting affection, that respectful deference, which, if 
 unanswered, would be so deeply wounding. 
 
 With all the feelings of gratified revenge, Flora sat looking 
 on the letter, when she was startled by a sudden thought. 
 The steward w ould have to give Mrs. Rivers an account of the 
 postage which he would have to pay upon this foreign letter. 
 
WOMANS FEIENDSHIP. 
 
 79 
 
 and Florence’s great anxiety would, of course, make her in- 
 quisitive into this matter. What was to be done ? a very few 
 minutes’ thought sufficed ; for the wicked are only too quick 
 at expedients. 
 
 To please Mrs. Rivers, Florence had once consented to take 
 some lessons with Flora of one of those professors of penman- 
 ship taught in six lessons ; and, in consequence, their hand- 
 writing became so exactly similar, that with scarcely any effort 
 each could so imitate the writing of the other, as to render 
 the distinguishing them almost impossible. It was a dangerous 
 weapon for one like Flora, and little did Florence imagine that 
 what she had done for mere amusement was sedulously culti- 
 vated by her companion. She had, in fact, already used it, in 
 order that a correspondence with a handsome young ensign in 
 the town, carried on through a convenient female friend, 
 might never be traced so exactly to her as to become incon- 
 venient or disagreeable ; particularly as she had taken the 
 liberty of substituting the name of Florence instead of Flora 
 Leslie, by v/ay of signature ; silencing the "‘still small voice of 
 conscience,” by pretending that the great similarity of names 
 removed all idea of dishonour : for all ‘ she knew, she might 
 have been christened Florence, and called Flora, as many 
 others were ; she certainly did no harm to adopt a prettier 
 cognomen ; how many girls engaged in a love correspondence 
 adopted other names than their own ! 
 
 ^ This power, of course, presented an expedient in her present 
 dilemma. With some difficulty she concocted a few lines, for 
 to make composition appear like her companion’s was infinitely 
 more difficult than to imitate her writing ; but to send merely 
 a blank sheet might, she thought, excite inquiries, and bring 
 all to^ light too soon. A brief epistle was at length written, 
 alluding neither to Walter nor Mr. Leslie’s death, but breath- 
 ing a degree of levity and frivolity wholly unlike Florence at 
 any time, even in her gayest moods — and wanting, besides, 
 that genuine heartfelt respect which had ever pervaded her 
 most careless effusions. 
 
 That Lady Ida should ever demand the meaning of this 
 unusual letter was too simple and straightforward a method of 
 proceeding for Flora’s crooked comprehension ; she hoped and 
 believed it would so offend, that Lady Ida Avould never again 
 seek her ; ansv/er by letter, of course she would not, and 
 Florence would, in consequence, suffer as much as her revenge- 
 
so 
 
 •woman’s friendship. 
 
 ful wishes could desire. Carefully written on foreign paper, 
 folded, sealed, and directed so like the real one, that Florence 
 herself would have hesitated which to call her own, Flora 
 again stealthily made her way to the letter-bag, put the letter 
 into it, and returned undiscovered to her own quarters ; then, 
 deliberately tearing Florence’s letter into pieces, she committed 
 €ach separately to the flames, watching them burn till not a 
 vestige remained ; then, carefully collecting the smouldering 
 ashes, she flung them anew on the fire, that no sign of paper 
 might be found amongst the cinders the following morning. 
 This accomplished, she threw herself on her bed, whether to 
 sleep or not we leave more imaginative persons to determine. 
 
 ‘‘You are sure, quite sure, Watson, the letter to Lady Ida 
 St. Maur was safely deposited in the post ? ” Florence eagerly 
 asked the steward, the moment of his return ; and satisfied by 
 his exact description of the letter, which she had purposely 
 refrained from showing him, and of the sum paid for its 
 postage, she rested secure and happy. 
 
 A month, nay, perhaps two, might elapse before she could 
 receive an answer ; but the letter was no sooner thought to be 
 safely gone, than hope began her work ; and though Florence 
 thought she did not hope at all, her spirits unconsciously grew 
 light, and the smile more often circled her lip. She determined 
 to say nothing of having written, either to her mother, Walter, 
 or even Minie, in order that the pleasure of reading them 
 Lady Ida’s letter might be the greater. 
 
 Before her visit to Woodlands was over, how'ever, her 
 thoughts were turned from her brother’s interest into a more 
 painful channel. The last blow on Mrs. Eivers’s in reality too 
 susceptible heart was struck, as Florence had long predicted, 
 by the orphan whom she had adopted, treated, loved, and con- 
 fided is as her own child. Flora Leslie eloped from Wood- 
 lands, not with the ensign before alluded to, but with a gallant 
 major, who had been persuaded into the belief that all Mrs. 
 Eivers’s large property was so settled on Flora that it could 
 not be willed away; and that Flora, instead of being a portion- 
 less orphan, was literally the rightful heiress ; though Mrs. 
 Eivers had artfully chosen to hush up that matter, and act be- 
 nevolence when she was only doing justice. 
 
 Thinking his charming Flora marvellously ill used, and that 
 her supposed fortune would be peculiarly acceptable, the major 
 made such good use of his time as completely to exclude from 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 81 
 
 her fickle imagination all recollection of the despairing ensign, 
 whom, however, as we have seen, under a feigned handwriting 
 and feigned name, she still continued to encourage. His 
 departure to join his regiment at Malta, a fortnight previously, 
 bearing Flora’s precious letters with him, and writing her a most 
 lachrymose farewell, waas particularly agreeable to the heartless 
 coquette, who just then wished him out of her way — the major 
 ofiering more substantial attractions in a handsomer face, a 
 more distinguished manner, a supposed fortune, and higher 
 rank. The well-matched pair, in consequence, departed one 
 fine morning in a coach and four to Gretna, where, it may 
 be as well to state, the nuptial knot was indissolubly tied. 
 
 The major, however, stormed himself hoarse when he dis- 
 covered that his fair Flora was no heiress, but recovered a degree 
 of serenity when a deed of gift came most unexpectedly from 
 Mrs. Kivers, securing to his wife a life annuity of a hundred 
 pounds. That this gift w^as accompanied by a few stern lines, 
 impossible to be misunderstood, importing that it was the last 
 communication between Mrs. Eivers and her ungrateful 'pro- 
 tegee, w’ho would be henceforth blotted from her recollection, 
 concerned not the gallant major and his amiable bride one 
 tittle, both choosing to believe, from this unexpected gene- 
 rosity, that Mrs. Eivers would still leave all her property to 
 Flora, that simply because there seemed no one else to whom it 
 could possibly be left. 
 
 To account for Major Hardwicke’s preferring the Mat of an 
 elopement to honourable proposals and a public engagement, 
 be it known that he had asked Mrs. Eivers, in all due form, 
 for permission to address Miss Leslie, but had been peremptorily 
 refused, on plea of his private character not being such as to 
 obtain him the hand of any respectable young woman. 
 
 The rigidity of feature, the absence of all visible emotion, 
 with which Mrs. Eivers received the tidings of Flora’s flight 
 absolutely terrified Florence ; for she felt convinced it was no 
 indifference which caused it ; yet how to soothe she knew not, 
 for how could she speak consolation where none was demanded ? 
 
 She was treated as usual ; the whole establishment went on 
 as if nothing had occurred worthy to disturb them ; but not 
 ten days after the elopement Mrs. Pavers was seized by a 
 serious illness, which hung over her for weeks, during the 
 whole of which time Florence tended her as a daughter, with 
 a swnetness of temper^ a silent tenderness, which — though at 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 WOMANS PEIENDSHIP. 
 
 the time to all appearance scarcely felt — was remembered and 
 acted upon years afterwards. 
 
 Not a word was breathed as to what might have been the 
 cause of that illness, either by the sufferer herself or any of 
 those around her ; but when she recovered, she formed the ex- 
 traordinary resolution of leaving her estate of Woodlands, with 
 all its adjoining houses and lands, under charge of her steward 
 till they could be advantageously let, and retiring she did not 
 say wdiere, and no one had courage to ask. There was no per- 
 suading her to forego this resolution, no arguing against it, for 
 she gave not the slightest clue to any plan, except that of 
 leaving Woodlands. She parted with Florence, kindly as her 
 stern nature would permit, and placed a pocket-book contain- 
 two fifty pound bank-notes in her hand. From that hour 
 Florence Leslie heard no more of Mrs. Eivers, knew nothing of 
 her place of residence, her mode of living, possessed not a clue 
 even to her existence till two years afterwards, when she was 
 strangely and most unexpectedly recalled. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SUSPEJS'SE.” BROTHER AHH SISTER.— CONEIDEHCE. 
 
 The illness of Mrs. Pavers had so unavoidahly lengthened 
 Florence Leslie’s stay at Woodlands, that the two months, to 
 which she had confidently looked as bringing an answer to her 
 letter, had nearly elapsed. During her absence Mrs. Leslie had 
 removed to a neat little dwelling in the neighbourhood of 
 Camberwell; a convenient distance for Walters daily visits to 
 the metropolis, and giving him fresher air and greater quiet- 
 ness on his return. 
 
 Florence rejoiced in her change of residence. Her visit to 
 Woodlands had been one of anxiety and care. She felt for 
 Mrs. Rivers infinitely more than that lady seemed to feel for 
 herself. Those high-flown notions of human nature, which in 
 former days Emily Melford used to smile at and Lady Ida*to 
 love, she still retained, and all that occurred to shake her 
 belief in human goodness painfully depressed her. Gladly 
 then she exchanged the cold solitary splendour of Woodlands 
 for her mother’s humble dwelling. Here there were not so 
 many objects to recail her departed parent as in their former 
 residence. He did not haunt each room, each nook, till he 
 seemed almost palpably before them. 
 
 Grief itself was calmed. They could bear to think and 
 speak of him, as one '' not lost, but gone before.” They had 
 not sought to banish sorrow, to stifle its sad yet wholesome 
 voice by seeking this world’s pleasures, for they looked on 
 affliction as the voice of their heavenly Father calling them 
 still more closely to himself. The tranquil routine of domestic 
 duties and enjoyments was again their own, and but for one 
 engros5jing care, Florence might even have been happy. But 
 how could this be, v/hen days, weeks, fa,r more than the neces- 
 
84 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 sary period rolled on, and still no answer l<o her letter came ; 
 no line to say that Lady Ida was unchanged, and could feel 
 for Florence still ? Her simple confidence had almost led her 
 to believe the answer would be waiting for her at home. Then 
 she sought to console herself that she had miscalculated the 
 time ; but when more than three months had passed, even this 
 consolation could no longer avail her ; and still each day, each 
 hour found poor Florence in all the bitter heart sickness of 
 hope deferred. 
 
 Of all human trials, not the least is the anxiously expecting 
 a letter from a beloved friend, involving matters of greater 
 moment than mere personal gratification. The first thought 
 in the morning, the sudden upspringing of hope, that ere the 
 night cometh suspense will be at an end ; the bounding of the 
 heart, the flushing of the cheek at every step and knock, when 
 it nears the postman’s hour — becoming more and more intense 
 at the sight of a letter ; and then the revulsion of blood, the 
 sudden pause of every pulse, when all is past, and it is not the 
 letter we expect, that is still to come, and all which we have 
 borne, even to the rush of hope, the sickness of disappointment 
 must be endured again. And then the heavy sinking of the 
 soul, the pressure of tears upon the heart and in the eye, 
 though, perhaps, none falls, when night, with her silence and 
 deep shadows and still solitude, comes to tell us another day 
 is gone, and the morning’s dream is vain. 
 
 And all this Florence had to bear in silence and alone, for she 
 had kept her resolution, and told none that she had written : 
 she rejoiced that she had not, for to have listened to reproach 
 cast upon one so dearly loved, would but have increased 
 her burden. She still heard Minie, often her mother, allude 
 to Lady Ida in terms of fond remembrance, and compelled 
 herself to echo Minie’s artless and oft-repeated wish, that she 
 were again in England, to be as kind to Florence as she had 
 been before, even while her own heart felt breaking beneath 
 the thought, that to her Lady Ida was as nothing now ; and 
 that her return to England could bring but increase of pain. 
 
 But it was not the mere suffering of disappointed friendship. 
 She could bear her own sorrow ; but her Walter, her idolized 
 brother. In vain she tried to persuade herself that even had 
 she heard from Lady Ida, her brother’s interests might not 
 have beens erved. She could not believe Lord Edmund’s power 
 was so limited, and each week, each month which passed, 
 
WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 85 
 
 leaving yet deeper hectic or more livid paleness on Walter’s 
 cheek — more fragile beauty on his slight form — increased the 
 sufferings she endured. 
 
 It was strange that these various signs of waning health, so 
 noticed by her, should pass unseen by their ever fond and 
 -anxious mother. Yet so it was. Mrs. Leslie was deceived. 
 Walter’s unwavering cheerfulness in his mother’s presence, the 
 ardour with which, after eight or nine hours passed mechanic- 
 ally at the desk, he devoted himself to his favourite studies, 
 coining mental gold from every moment, seemed to satisfy and 
 reassure her. When wearied with his daily toil, the hours 
 passed in study appeared so to revive him, that all weariness 
 vanished before he retired to rest ; animation glowed on his 
 cheek and sparkled in his eye, strength seemed to brace his 
 limbs, and his voice grew almost joyous. The deceptive dream 
 was strengthened by the fact that Mrs. Leslie saw her son but 
 a few minutes in her bedroom before he went out in the morn- 
 ing. Florence gave him his early breakfast. Florence it was 
 who noticed the excessive languor, the deadly paleness, some- 
 times even the dewy moisture on his brow when he would 
 descend from his own room, as if sleep, instead of refreshing 
 and strengthening, had weakened him well nigh to exhaus- 
 tion ; and at times, so subduing was the accompanying 
 depression, that his struggles to smile away his sister’s anxious 
 looks would end in stifled hysteric sobs. But yet, when they 
 met again at dinner, there was no trace of this ; his smile, his 
 caresses greeted his fond mother as was their wont, and night 
 brought anew its excitement and its joy. 
 
 The bedrooms of the brother and sister were separated by a 
 thin partition, one of whose small square panels slipped up and 
 down, forming a loophole of verbal communication between 
 the rooms which were on the upper floor entirely by them- 
 selves. 
 
 It was a warm night in May, and Florence, after struggling 
 with the sad thoughts which would intrude when she was alone 
 (for though six months had elapsed since she had written, 
 there still were times when she almost seemed to hope), had 
 succeeded, by full an hour’s serious reading, in obtaining a 
 partial calm. She was roused by hearing the chimes of an 
 adjoining church tell half an hour after midnight, and startled 
 at finding it so late, she hastily rose to prepare for bed. 
 Glancing towards the panel, she saw it had, as often happened, 
 
86 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 slid down of itself, and she approached to close it softljr,, 
 imagining her brother slept. One glance undeceived her. 
 Through the light drapery of the bed she saw him bending 
 over a small table, evidently engaged in writing. She watched 
 the rapid movement of his hand ; fast, faster yet, as if it strove 
 to keep pace with the rush of thoughts within, until at length 
 he raised his head; and oh, what a glow of beauty that 
 countenance disclosed ! He passed his hand feebly across his 
 brow, and then again bent over the paper. Physical power- 
 had departed, and the flush w^as succeeded by a paleness as of 
 death. Florence flew to his side, she threw her arms around 
 his neck, her tears of sympathy falling on his cheek. 
 
 Walter started as if found in guilt ; but then as if he could 
 not meet her half reproachful, half sorrowful glance, he 
 passionately exclaimed — 
 
 Florence, my own Florence ! do not reproach me, do not 
 tell me that I should not do this, that I am wasting the life 
 pledged to be devoted to you all — tell me not this, I cannot 
 bear it now.” 
 
 I will not, Walter ! only trust me, as one who can feel 
 with you and for you, in every pang and every thought ; yes,, 
 even to the deep, but oh ! how dangerous joys of these mid- 
 night watchings ! Would that I could aid you as I love ! 
 You would have no sorrow then.” 
 
 She folded closely and still more fondly to him ; and long 
 and mournfully interesting was the conversation which ensued. 
 Never were two hearts more capable of understanding each 
 other ; and Walter s overcharged mind felt inexpressibly 
 relieved, as he poured forth the whole torrent of thought and 
 feeling into her sympathising ear. Yet there was no complaint,, 
 no murmur that his lot in life was cast so differently for him 
 from that he would have cast for himself. But to check the 
 torrent of poetry within him was impossible. He had tried to 
 refrain entirely from the use of either pen or pencil, thinking 
 such neglect the best method of reconciling himself to his 
 more distasteful duties ; but the morbid state into which he 
 sank soon proved the fallacy of the attempt, and he resumed 
 them. Elasticity and happiness appeared in consequence to 
 return, and he could not believe that his health was suffering, 
 for at least he now slept calmly ; when before he had passed 
 night after night in feverish wakefulness, or in such sleep that, 
 it was worse than waking. 
 
WOMAl^’S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 87 
 
 “ They think me a poor-spirited, romantic fool,” he added, 
 ‘‘because I cannot join in the sole ambition which seems to 
 engross my companions. Oh, Florence, you know not how I 
 hate that word gold 1 How I sicken at the constant thought 
 of interest — wealth — its omnipotence! as if neither virtue, 
 nor goodness, nor beauty could exist without it. If I could 
 but associate with higher and nobler minds, the drudgery of 
 a distasteful employment could easily be borne.” 
 
 ‘•'But why heed the mere expression of worldliness, my 
 Walter ? Have you not that within you raising you far above 
 such petty minds ? ” 
 
 “No Florence, no! the gift of poetry was never yet sufficient 
 so to elevate the poet as to render him invulnerable to the 
 bitter shafts of more worldly natures. He must be appreciated 
 by the gifted and the good, or he can have no security, no 
 confidence in his own powers. He dares not dream of genius 
 till it is pronounced his own. He dares not believe that his 
 mind may produce immortal fruit, till a world has said it ; 
 and therefore he is so exposed to those petty trials which fret 
 and vex the spirit far more than one weighty blow.” 
 
 “But influence may become your own, dearest Walter. We 
 cannot know for certain that this lawsuit will really be decided 
 against us, and if gained — ” 
 
 “ Florence, I dare not think of it. God know^s, I value not 
 fortune nor station for aught but the good it might bestow on 
 others — that having gold, I might not tliinlz about it. That I 
 might associate with those who, not having to seek it, might 
 surely afford to devote their mental energies to some nobler 
 object. Italy, too, floats before me in the sweet dream of in- 
 dependence — Italy, with its beautiful nature, its glorious art : 
 and I have pictured our wandering there, you, dearest Florence, 
 to satisfy your early longing, I, to study in those galleries so 
 full of genius — study, venerate, and at a respectful distance, 
 follow. I might, indeed, become an artist then. Painting and 
 Poetry should go hand in hand : and then — then — but, oh, 
 how dare I think of these things, when all may be a blank !” 
 
 And as Florence looked on the flushed cheek and kindling 
 eye, on the lip parched and dry with extreme excitement, she 
 felt, indeed, that such dreams were better banished. Walter 
 thought that they were, but was it natural that they should 
 be ? Florence knew too well the silent sway of hope. A clock 
 striking two roused them from the brief pause which had. 
 
88 
 
 WOMAN S .FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 followed Walter’s last words, and clasping his arms round her, 
 he bade her go to bed, and God bless her ! he had robbed her 
 of her best sleep, but she knew not the comfort that hour had 
 been to him. 
 
 ^ Wou would tell me something more, dearest Walter ? Do 
 not hesitate : I am not in the least sleepy. Why will you not 
 speak ? ” 
 
 '' Because my question is such an idle one. When do Lord 
 Edmund and Lady Ida return to England ? ” 
 
 He felt his sister’s hand tremble in his own, and to his 
 astonishment, he saw her cheek pale, and her lip so quiver, 
 that for a minute she could not answer. 
 
 I cannot tell you, Walter ; you know Emily Melford has 
 long since given up my correspondence, and I only heard 
 regularly of Lady Ida through her.” 
 
 ‘"Ah, true; but you have written sometimes. Have you 
 since — my poor father — ,” he stopped. 
 
 Once,” she replied hurriedly, and almost inarticulately ; 
 
 but why do you ask ? ” 
 
 I will tell you, dearest ; but do not laugh at me. I have 
 fancied, foolishly perhaps, that years of absence would make 
 no difference in Lady Ida, and that through your friendship I 
 might become acquainted with her husband ; and all I hear of 
 him, all the world speaks of him, distinguishes him for talent, 
 genius, and yet more for benevolence. Oh, Florence, what 
 might not such a friend be to me ! My own dear sister, what 
 have I said?” 
 
 Vainly the poor girl struggled to suppress or at least conceal 
 her emotion. She felt as if the whole extent of bitterness 
 and disappointment had not been felt till that moment, and 
 her head sank on her brother’s shoulder with a burst of 
 uncontrolled tears. 
 
 Had Walter been a philosopher, he would have endeavoured 
 to conquer her grief by sage reasoning. He was a poet, and, 
 in consequence, owned the potency of the law' of feeling over 
 and above that of reason. And so he simply drew her closely 
 to him, kissing away the burning tears, and w^hispering words 
 of such earnest tenderness that they only flowed the faster. 
 
 My poor Florence ! Bless you for thus thinking, thus 
 writing for me. Had your affectionate eloquence been suc- 
 cessful, I could not have felt it more. Do not weep thus. 
 There may be some mistake, some extraordinary chance acting 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 89 
 
 against us, which will all be made clear in time. I will not 
 believe that Lady Ida is so changed. It is impossible : trust 
 me, she will give you cause to love her more fondly yet. Now 
 go to rest, my own sweet sister. We shall both be happier for 
 this night s pain, for we need no longer weep or smile alone.” 
 
 And he was right. They were happier. A new spirit per- 
 vaded Walter s duties and pursuits. A poet, to be happy, 
 must have sympathy, intelligence, enthusiasm, which will 
 reflect back and encourage his own ; and in Florence, Walter 
 realized all these things. Her exquisite taste, her intuitive 
 conception of the true and beautiful, allowed him to confide 
 in her judgment, to improve from her suggestions; and to her 
 inexpressible happiness, she found that from that night he was 
 more like himself. For her own feelings, they were strangely 
 soothed by that involuntary confidence ; conquered, indeed, 
 they were not, for she could not share Walter s belief. From 
 change or unkindness in Lady Ida, she turned sorrowingly away 
 as impossible ; but she thought circumstances, difference of 
 station, raised, and must for ever raise, an insuperable barrier 
 between them. 
 
CHAPTER XVL 
 
 TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD. 
 
 Some three months after the conclusion of our last chapter^ 
 and consequently nearly nine from the affairs narrated at 
 Woodlands, two ladies were seated together in the balcony of 
 a most beautiful villa in the environs of Rome. It was Lady 
 St. Maur, and her mother-in-law, Lady Helen. Time had 
 made little difference in the former ; the girl had, in truth, 
 merged into the woman ; the flower was beautiful as the bud 
 had promised. The balcony where they sat led by a flight of 
 steps, ornamented by a light arabesque balustrade, to the 
 garden, whose innumerable flowers sent forth such luscious 
 scents as to perfume the air, almost overpoweringly, in the still 
 calm of evening. Rome, on her seven hills, lay on their left, 
 absolutely imbedded in a glow of crimson light ; her remains of 
 antiquity, her walls and towers, the crumbling but eloquent 
 shadows of the past, were softened into such increase of 
 beauty, that one might almost fancy the seat of ancient 
 empire restored to v/hat it had been. Around, below, and 
 above them were vineyards, with their twining leaves and 
 blushing fruit, interspersed with all that luxuriance of foliage, 
 richness of scenery, clearness of atmosphere, and gorgeousness 
 of sky, so peculiar to Italy. Nature never loses by constant 
 and intimate association : the more we love her, the more she 
 repays that love — the more we acknowledge her power, the 
 more thrilling and deliciously she infuses herself into our very 
 being, giving us a buoyancy of spirit that, however restrained 
 and hidden, will never entirely depart, but burst afresh into 
 life and joy with the very next view, and consciousness of 
 that Divinity from whom it sprang. 
 
'woman’s FIIIENDSIIIP. 
 
 91 
 
 Books and work, the pen and pencil, were the usual employ- 
 ments of the female inmates of that peaceful spot ; but this 
 evening their conversa.tion had turned on the strange chances 
 of life and death which had just given to Sir Edmund St. Maur 
 that barony which, when Lady Ida Villiers married him, it 
 had seemed impossible that he should have lived so long as to 
 obtain. The last of the title, a warm friend and admirer of 
 Sir Edmund, had left him sole guardian of his only child, a 
 daughter, then under the care of relatives in England, with 
 the earnest request that, if they ever returned to live in their 
 native land, Lady Ida w^ould herself superintend her education, 
 and introduce her under no auspices but her own — a request 
 unhesitatingly granted by his friend. Their conversation was 
 interrupted by visitors, amongst whom was a lady lately 
 arrived from England, who, in course of conversation on that 
 country, chanced to remark that she had known little of 
 London topics of interest, having resided some few months 
 before leaving England in the neighbourhood of Winchester, 
 with an invalid friend. 
 
 ‘^Winchester !” Lady St. Maur repeated with interest ; and 
 after a moment’s hesitation she asked if Lady Blandford 
 chanced to know Woodlands and its inmates — if she had ever 
 met with a Miss Leslie, sometimes staying with Mrs. Rivers. 
 The lady looked astonished at the last question — forgetting to 
 answer the first, in her surprise that such a person as report 
 had 3;)ictured Miss Leslie could in any way interest Lady St. 
 Maur — briefly alluding to the circumstances which, as we 
 already know, had transpired to the discredit of Flora Leslie, 
 adding, that she understood an elopement had concluded the 
 affair — the more scandalous, as the young lady had not two 
 months before lost her father. 
 
 Now it so happened that Lady St. Maur, equally with her 
 visitor, knew nothing of the existence of two Miss Leslies, 
 bearing the same or nearly the same Christian name. In 
 Florence’s early communications with her friend, she had 
 often mentioned Mrs. Pavers and her beautiful estate, but, 
 from the total want of sympathy with and entire disapproval 
 of Flora’s character, had never mentioned her. Therefore 
 that Lady Blandford could allude to any one but Florence 
 was not likely, more especially as she mentioned her father’s 
 death, which Lady St. Maur had seen in the newspapers 
 about that time ; although, from no allusion being made to it 
 
m 
 
 woman’s peiendship. 
 
 in the last letter she had received from Florence, she had 
 hoped it was not true. This last letter, we need scarcely 
 -state, was the false one substituted by Flora, instead of that 
 which had caused Florence so much pain to write. Its strange 
 •and frivolous style had annoyed and perplexed Lady St. Maur, 
 who, notwithstanding her many new ties and enjoyments, and 
 the various claims on her time and affection from friends of 
 her own rank in England, yet retained an affectionate interest 
 in the young girl who had so loved her. She had often taxed 
 Emily Melford, during the last year, with never alluding to 
 Florence ; asking questions concerning her, which Emily 
 cither left unanswered, or by acknowledging that she never 
 heard from her now, contrived to leave the impression that 
 Florence had ceased to care for the correspondence, and so it 
 had been broken off. 
 
 Knowing the indolence and capricious character of her 
 cousin. Lady St. Maur had, however, always thought her the 
 more to blame, until she received this incomprehensible 
 letter ; when the thought would enter her mind that Florence 
 must be very greatly changed. She compared the letter with 
 the last she had had from her nearly a year previous. The 
 wTiting, the signature were so exactly similar, that it seemed 
 not possible it could have been written by any other person, 
 wKich fancy, wild as she felt it was. Lady St. Maur had 
 entertained. Her husband had glanced over it, merely re- 
 marking, if Miss Leslie could not write more respectfully, she 
 had better not write at all, and had thought no more about 
 it, till the subject was somewhat painfully recalled. Lady 
 St. Maur, however, could not dismiss it so easily. About a 
 month before she had thus heard (as she supposed) from 
 Florence, she herself had written to her feelingly and affec- 
 tionately, sympathising with her on her father’s death ; this 
 letter she sent to Emily Melford, requesting her to direct 
 it properly, and forward it. Florence’s non-allusion to it 
 excited the belief that she had not yet received it ; and that 
 when she did, even if its condolence were not necessary, 
 yet still that she would write again, and more like herself. 
 Months, however, passed, and she received no reply, and there- 
 fore Lady Blandford’s communication but too painfully re- 
 called the supposition that Florence was not only changed, 
 but was, in fact, no longer worthy of her remembrance or 
 regard. Yet, when she recalled the beautiful promise which 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 93 
 
 her youth had given, how could this be? What circumstances^ 
 what temptations could have had such power? And such 
 distressed perplexity did her countenance express, that when her 
 husband joined her he noticed it, and tenderly inquired the 
 reason. The expression with which he listened startled her. 
 
 You have heard something before to this effect, Edmund,” 
 she exclaimed, and you have not told me, fearing to wound 
 me. What is it ? I wmuld much rather know the truth.” 
 
 His tale was soon told. While at Malta, where he had 
 been several weeks on some political duty, he became intimate 
 with several of the officers, and had been prevailed upon one 
 day to join them at dinner in their mess-room. There had been 
 lately a new arrival of troops from England, the officers of 
 which, fresh from the gaieties of a large county town — which 
 proved to be Winchester — became rather more communicative 
 as the wine circled briskly round, than under other circum- 
 stances they might themselves have wished. The conversation 
 soon became riotous, and loud and foremost amongst all other 
 names, as the belle and the coquette of the season. Lord St. 
 Maur had heard the name of a Flora or Florence Leslie. 
 Startled and annoyed, for never hearing that name save from 
 the lips of his wife, it seemed to have imbibed a portion of 
 her own purity and excellence. He listened still more atten- 
 tively : he heard them mention Woodlands, and its misan- 
 thropic mistress, Mrs. Livers, and felt convinced it must be 
 the same, Florence’s last letter to his wife flashing on his 
 memory as still stronger confirmation. He heard her name 
 bandied from lip to lip, sometimes contemptuously, sometimes 
 admiringly, but always most disreputably to its object. One 
 young man — Ensign Camden — swore to her constancy, and 
 challenged any one who dared deny that he was her preferred 
 lover, offering to bring wuutten proofs in the last letter he had 
 received from her before he had quitted England; and drawing 
 it from his pocket as he spoke, it was seized upon, with a burst 
 of uproarious laughter, and in mock-heroic tones read aloud 
 for the benefit of the whole company. Lord St. Maur had 
 been near enough to notice both the handwriting and the 
 signature, and had unhesitatingly recognised both. Camden, 
 indignant at this publicity of what he vow^ed was a treasure 
 too precious for any gaze but his own, had become more and 
 more enraged, drawing his sword at length upon all who 
 ventured to approach him, till ho was dragged off to his 
 
94 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 quarters ; and Lord St. Maiir, in utter disgust at tlie scene, at 
 length effected a retreat, not, however, before he heard many 
 voices declare that love-letters from Miss Leslie were no proof 
 of preference, as every unmarried, good-looking officer of 
 Winchester had, at one time or other, received them. 
 
 Lord St. Maur had purposely refrained from telling this to 
 his wife, waiting till she might hear again from Florence, and 
 thus clear up what certainly appeared a mystery. He found it 
 difficult to believe that any person who could act thus could 
 ever have been sufficiently worthy as to attract, and indeed 
 rivet. Lady Ida s notice. But when time passed, and still no 
 letter came, it argued unfavourably, and Lady Blandford’s in- 
 formation, to Lord St. Maur’s mind, so removed all remaining 
 doubt, tho.t he entreated his wife to banish Florence from her 
 recollection, as wholly unworthy of her continued regard. 
 But this vras impossible. Instead of convincing her of 
 Florence’s utter unworthiness. Lady St. Maurs previous 
 supposition returned, that some mysterious agency was at 
 work, and that the strange letter she had received was not 
 from the Florence she had loved, and that it was not to her 
 these disgraceful rumours alluded. That there should indeed 
 exist two persons of exactly the same name, whose hand- 
 writing was so similar, did appear unlikely, but yet not so 
 impossible as such a total change in Florence. She did not 
 speak much on the subject, because she saw’ that neither her 
 husband nor Lady Helen could feel wuth her; nor was it likely, 
 as they had never knovm Florence, that they should ; but her 
 active mind could not rest satisfied without making, one effort 
 to clep.r up the mystery. She knew it wms useless to write to 
 Emily Melford, wffiose representations that it was Florence’s 
 fault which had occasioned the cessation of their intercourse 
 now involuntarily returned as proofs strong in confirmation of 
 the reports against her. She therefore wrote to Lady Mary 
 Villiers, requesting her to make every inquiry concerning 
 Florence Leslie, purposely avoiding all allusion to these 
 reports. Anxiously she waited the reply ; but when it came, 
 it told nothing she wished to hear. Lady Mary, through her 
 father’s confidential steward, had made every inquiry concerning 
 the Leslies in very many quarters of London without any success. 
 The house wiiich they had formerly occupied in Beriiard-street 
 was in the hands of strangers — the very landlord changed ; 
 her brother himself had undertaken the inquiries at Win- 
 
woman’s FRIE^TDSIIIP. 
 
 95 
 
 Chester, but there the result had been more confused and 
 unsatisfactory still ; so much so, indeed, that she hardly liked 
 to write it, for how even to make it intelligible in a brief 
 detail she scarcely knew. 
 
 It appeared that a Miss Leslie, whose Christian name was 
 Florence, or Flora, rumour could not agree which, was con- 
 stantly residing with Mrs. Pdvers at Woodlands ; some said 
 she_was an orphan, others that her parents were both living 
 in London, that she had made herself notorious at Winchester 
 by the grossest impropriety of conduct, causing, at length, 
 Mrs. Rivers to restrain her to Woodlands, but while there she 
 still continued her intrigues. So far all the rumours agreed, 
 but after that they differed, some declaring an elopement had 
 actually taken place, and the 7/oung lady was united to a 
 gallant Major Hardwicke, and resided with him on the 
 Continent ; others, allowing the truth of the elopement, 
 averred that Mrs. Rivers’s steward had pursued and overtaken 
 the fugitives before the completion of the ceremony, and 
 conveyed Miss Leslie back to Woodlands, whence she was 
 speedily sent under strict ward to her widowed mother. 
 
 The only positive facts then were these, that Mrs. Rivers 
 had quitted Woodlands, which was now occupied by strangers, 
 amd that Miss Leslie had never appeared at Winchester again. 
 
 What they mean, or to whom they relate, I leave you to 
 determine, my dear Ida,” wrote Lady Mary, in conclusion, 
 
 but if to the Florence Leslie of your creation, we must 
 never speak of reading character again. I should fear, as you 
 have not heard from her so long, it is shame, not pride, which 
 keeps her silent. Fortunately, you have too many nearer and 
 dearer ties for this to affect you much, but it is very disagree- 
 able ; it lowers our opinion of human nature, and creates a 
 doubt even of the fairest promise ; and worse still, it gives 
 such a. triumph to worldly unromantic people.” 
 
 So wrote Lady Mary, and confused and contradictory as the 
 reports still were, yet there was no mention, no hint as to 
 there being two Miss Leslies. Ida had not asked the question, 
 imagining Lady Mary’s reply v/ould make it evident. Our 
 readers know enough of the truth to remove at a glance all 
 that was false ; but, unfortunately. Lord St. Maur’s family 
 could not do so, therefore decided as presumptive evidence 
 warranted. 
 
96 
 
 woman’s feiendship. 
 
 The subject was never resumed ; Florence Leslie’s name- 
 never mentioned. Lady St. Maur could not defend and believe 
 as her own heart still prompted, for she had no contrary proof 
 to bring forward. '' Oh, that Florence would but write again,” 
 she felt continually, and thus disprove the scandal, or enable 
 her to ask its explanation.” But Florence did not write, 
 neither then nor during the whole period of Lord St. Maur’s 
 residence abroad. What effect all this had on Lady St. Maur, 
 and its consequences to Florence, we shall discover in a future 
 page. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE CLOUD BURSTS. 
 
 The blow, which Mrs. Leslie had long expected, at length fell. 
 The suit was decided against them ; and so heavily had the 
 attendant expenses accumulated, that all the little fortune of 
 Walter and Florence was sacrificed to defray them ; including 
 also the £100 which Mrs. Rivers had bestowed, and which 
 Florence secretly reserved, in case of such emergency. 
 
 Painful was the emotion of Mrs. Leslie, when, on closely 
 questioning her son as to the debts accumulated and means of 
 payment, the whole truth was discovered. 
 
 ‘'My children, my beloved children! why have you done 
 this was all that, for the first moment, she could exclaim. 
 “ Florence ! Walter ! both so little fitted to struggle with 
 penury and labour. Indeed, indeed, it must not be !” 
 
 “ Indeed, it must be, mother \ ' and Florence, kneeling by 
 her mother’s couch, covered her hand with kisses, while 
 Walter continued — 
 
 “ Unfitted for labour ! Mother, do not wrong us thus. 
 We shall do well enough, for we have still affection ; nor 
 shall we be grieved by seeing you in want of those little luxuries 
 which, purchased by our labour, I know you would refuse. 
 For myself, happily, I have no pursuit to seek ; every year 
 increases my salary — and there may come a day, dearest 
 mother, when I may give you a more luxurious home ; and 
 Florence, our owm Florence, need not work.” 
 
 “ Walter 1” murmured his mother, grasping his hand as he 
 bent over her, “ do not speak of another home ; I need no 
 other, with my children around me. But Florence, my sweet 
 Florence, must she leave me ? Is there no privation we may 
 welcome, no comfort we may resign, to save her this ?” 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 shall not be far severed, dearest mother,” answered 
 Florence, making a strong effort to subdue the choking sob. 
 
 A trifling pittance will content me ; and if one of us must 
 leave you — better, far better I than Minie.” 
 
 And why, Florie, dear ? I do not see that at all. Nay, I 
 am much better fitted to work amongst strangers than you 
 are; for I do not feel little things half so much. So you 
 take the portion you have so generously laid aside for me, and 
 I will take your place, and teach.” And Minie Leslie, 
 springing into the midst of the circle, with her bright, beau- 
 tiful face, and silvery laugh, seemed indeed a very spirit of 
 joy, sent to breathe hope and comfort in the midst of gloom. 
 
 You leave the shelter, the safety of home, and my mother s 
 fostering care, to struggle with the world !” exclaimed Florence. 
 ‘'No; had we nothing to depend on but my own exertions, 
 this should not be.” 
 
 “ Why, Florence, do you think I cannot gain my own living 
 as well as yourself ? Mamma, did you ever hear her so con- 
 ceited before V 
 
 “ Alas ! my child ; her few years more of experience have 
 awakened her to many, many thoughts of danger and tempta- 
 tion, of which your guileless innocence cannot know.” 
 
 “ Danger, temptation, dearest mother ? why should they 
 assail me more than Florence ? Why should so much evil 
 occur to me and none to her ? Do not imagine that I wish to 
 leave home — but if one of us must go, I should like' to know 
 what your wisdom. Master Walter, can bring forward against 
 my plan ; when you, of all persons, ought to know that when 
 Florence weeps at unkindness or neglect, I laugh, and so am 
 likely to be very happy when she would be very miserable. 
 Come, sir, speak; what can you bring forward in objection?” 
 she continued, laying both hands caressingly on his arm, and 
 looking up in his face so archly, that she seemed more than 
 usually lovely. 
 
 Inexpressibly affected, Walter led her forward to a mirror 
 hanging at the opposite end of the room, and answered — 
 
 “ Minie ! you ask me what I can bring forward ; look at your 
 own sweet face, my darling sister, and you have my answer. You 
 do not know its power ; you have no wish, no temptation to 
 use that precious gift, save to add to the happiness of home. 
 There have been none to tell you you are beautiful, save the 
 lips of that faithful love, which, wdiile it speaks of beauty, bids 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 99 
 
 you know its only value. But, thrown amidst heartless 
 strangers, brought forward by your own exceeding loveliness, 
 with none to guard and warn — doubly endangered by that 
 very ignorance of all worldly ways, which we so dearly love — 
 Minie ! my precious Minie ! I would rather earn my bread, a 
 slave behind a counter, than you should leave my mother 
 And overcome by strong emotion, Walter Leslie clasped his 
 young sister closer to him, while his voice shook and his whole 
 frame trembled ; Minie s joyous laugh was checked, and for 
 several minutes she clung to him in tearful silence. 
 
 '' But am I then to see you and Florence labour in sorrow 
 and care, day after day, and I am to rest in idleness, 
 simpty because they say that I am beautiful ? Oh, Walter ! 
 do not make me such a selfish wretch,” she said at length, as 
 she raised her head from his bosom, and flung back impetuously 
 her beautiful hair. Am I sent into this world to do nothing, 
 where all our exertions are needed, when God has given me a 
 temper enabled to bear all things, and health sufficient for 
 any labour? And all this to be a useless burden on you 
 both. Why am I not like others ? Why too beautiful for 
 use ?” 
 
 “ To be to us all we need — to give my mother joy when she 
 would grieve,” answered Florence, passionately. ‘'Do not say 
 those precious gifts are lent but to make you a useless burden. 
 Oh, Minie ! you do not know what you are to us — how fondly 
 we shall turn to the house which you so bless — how much 
 more sad, more desolate, would be our mother’s hearth, if you 
 were absent.” 
 
 “ Florence, my child, my blessed child ! do not speak thus,” 
 entreated Mrs. Leslie, an expression of agony contracting her 
 features, which her children could not define ; “ both so inex- 
 pressibly dear, why should the absence of one be more felt 
 than that of the other ? Why, why should I consent to send 
 you from me, and retain Minie by me ? Why expose you to 
 danger, trial, and suffering, from v/hich I would selfishly 
 shelter her ! Florence ! Walter ! you know not, you cannot 
 know the agony of this decision.” 
 
 “And, therefore, we will not let you decide, my beloved 
 mother,” replied Walter ; “ leave it to your children — trust 
 them in this emergency. While such love exists between us, 
 wherever we are, whatever called upon to do, our paths can 
 never be wholly sad. Trust us, oh ! trust us, mother, and 
 
 H 2 
 
100 
 
 WOMAN S miENDSHIP. 
 
 while we may see the smile on your dear lips, the peace of God 
 on your fond heart, we must, we shall be blessed/’ 
 
 For a few minutes Mrs. Leslie’s only reply was to weep on 
 his bosom ; but soon the feelings of each were calmed for the 
 sake of the other, and the evening passed cheerfully. Minie, 
 whose tears were ever transient like the night-dews on the 
 flowers, was indeed the first to smile herself and bring the 
 smile to others. 
 
 Little did her children guess the real cause of the suffering 
 which the fact that either Florence or Minie must leave her 
 occasioned Mrs. Leslie. It was not simply a mother’s feeling. 
 She was the sole retainer of a weighty truth, which in such a 
 moment seemed to whelm her with the increased necessity for 
 concealment. 
 
 ‘‘ Father of Mercy ! save me from the betrayal of the truth 
 to my poor child,” she prayed, in the silence and solitude of 
 her own chamber. Florence ! my poor Florence ! guard her 
 from all hnowledge of the truth, till its concealment threaten 
 increase of suffering, hy unconscious sin. Grant it, oh ! grant 
 it, even when I am gone, and may ofier it no more. And 
 now — now guide this feeble heart aright, for it dares not listen 
 to itself. Would I keep Minie nearer to me than Florence ? 
 Will the voice of Nature so assert her influence now as to* 
 stifle the voice of Love ? Oh ! let this not be. Save me from 
 all decision save that which will be the best for both !” And 
 calmed by that earnest prayer and trusting faith, the morrow 
 found Mrs. Leslie once again herself. 
 
 Florence persevered in her resolution to seek employment, 
 as resident governess in some respectable family ; and Minie, 
 as firmly resolved not to be idle, declared that her taste for 
 fancy work should now become useful as well as an amusement. 
 She would get their dear old landlady to dispose of the articles 
 for her, and procure all the materials ; so Walter need not be 
 alarmed. Though what possible harm could befall her, if she 
 sought such employment in propria persona, she could not 
 imagine. 
 
 “Are there no other pretty people in the world, my 
 dear fidgety brother, that you fear such unutterable things 
 for me ? Why, if you were the Grand Seigneur himself, and 
 I the queen of his harem, you could not guard me more 
 jealously,” she laughingly said ; and had her nature been less 
 childlike, Walter would have found some difficulty to reply 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 101 
 
 satisfactorily, without exciting an undue idea of her own 
 importance, but such a thought never entered her mind. She 
 knew she was lovely, hut it was to her rather a source of 
 regret than rejoicing, as it rendered her less useful than 
 Florence, for whom her affection was so true, so reverential, 
 that the idea of her going among strangers was fraught with 
 as much suffering to her as to Florence herself. 
 
 Oh, why is not Lady St. Maur here now V she one day 
 said, as she clung, weeping, to her sister. ‘‘ Why do you not 
 write to her, Florence ? Tell her what you are compelled to 
 do : I am sure she would assist you.” 
 
 ^‘How, dearest Minie ? What could she do for me in Kome, 
 and I in London ? ” 
 
 Oh, give you letters of recommendation to some of her 
 friends here, who would soon find you employment. I wish 
 you would let me write for you ; I have so often thought of 
 doing so.” 
 
 ^ Minie, if you love me, do not think of it,” replied Florence, 
 with an expression of suffering which could not escape her 
 sister’s notice ; I could not write to Lady St. Maur now, we 
 are too widely severed.” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, Florence, I am sure you are not alluding only to 
 distance. You think Lady Ida changed ; and if you think 
 so, I am sure you do not love her as much as I do. I am 
 sure the more you needed friendship, the more she would 
 rejoice in bestowing it. You will find that I am a much truer 
 prophetess than you are.” 
 
 “Because you have not trusted, hoped, anticipated, and 
 found all vain,” mentally responded Florence, as her happy 
 sister bounded away. “ I could write for Walter, I could 
 hope for him, but I cannot for myself.” 
 
CHAPTEE XVIIL 
 
 A SOLID ENGLISH EDUCATION. — MINIE. — OLD EEIENDS. — EMILY 
 
 meleord’s promise. 
 
 The first applications of Florence for a situation were most 
 dispiritingiy unsuccessful. The school for governesses was 
 overstocked by young women who, educated far above their 
 rank and the expectations of their parents (mostly petty 
 farmers or flourishing shopkeepers), loaded with showy accom- 
 plishments, endowed with a sufficient quantum of assurance 
 to display themselves to the best advantage, and sick of home 
 by its contrast with their over-refined ideas of fashion and 
 sentiment, offer themselves at the lowest possible terms, and 
 are accepted, as combining all that is necessary to be acquired 
 in the small compass of one brain. 
 
 Florence could not compete with these, and in consequence 
 was again and again rejected, as incapacitated, by her own 
 avowal, for the education of fashionable young ladies. One 
 lady could not understand what she meant by a solid English 
 education ; there was surely no occasion for such instruction 
 in England ; it might be all very well for foreigners, but 
 certainly was unnecessary for English girls. Her daughters 
 must be accomplished, understand all the living languages, 
 sing, paint, embroider — that was all she required ; she knew 
 many who would undertake to do it all. Another looked 
 perfectly mystified as to instruction being needed in religion 
 and morals. What possible occasion could there be for things 
 which came so completely by instinct ? She was afraid 
 Miss Leslie stood a very poor chance of employment, if she 
 could only profess things which in fact everybody knew, 
 without taking the trouble to acquire them. A third turned 
 
WOMAN S PRIENDSHIP. 
 
 103 
 
 up lier hands and eyes in sentimental astonishment, that any 
 person could attempt to teach who did not understand 
 German — had only read Schiller in English, and knew nothing 
 of Kotzebue or Goethe. A fourth could not possibly engage 
 her, because she w^as ignorant of Latin and Greek, which she 
 declared, with the voice and look of a Koman dictator, to be 
 indispensable for the proper training of girls. Questions of 
 phrenology, animal magnetism, chemistry, and all the ologies, 
 were asked by this learned lady, and poor Florence was finally 
 dismissed with a look of most ineffable contempt. A fifth 
 wished to know if she read novels, Austin, Edgeworth, and 
 even Scott being enumerated in that sweeping name, and 
 Miss Leslie dismissed with a frown the moment she acknow- 
 ledged that she did, the lady having resolved that no person 
 likely to breathe the words sentiment or romance should have 
 the honour of instructing her daughters, who, already initiated 
 in all the mysteries of duplicity, forswearing sentiment in 
 their mother s presence, to indulge in the most dangerous 
 kind when alone, looked as if poor Florence’s high and refined 
 sense of such emotions could do them very little injury. 
 There were some mothers, also, whose sole objection was that 
 she had never been out before ; they could engage no young 
 person for whom no one except her own family could be found 
 to speak. Alas ! these trials were hard to bear, perhaps yet 
 harder for one like Florence, wLose pure and beautiful ideas 
 of human nature, and the power of virtue and benevolence 
 even in this world, were so continually and harshly disappointed. 
 She had been more than once advised to write to Lady Melford, 
 or to one of her daughters, as perhaps in their circle she 
 might be more successful ; but they had for the last two years 
 so completely neglected her, that she shrunk in suffering from 
 any such appeal. 
 
 Just about this time, when Florence was compelled to relax 
 her exertions, from not knowing where next to apply, an offer 
 was made to Mrs. Leslie which might materially have altered 
 the fortunes of both sisters. Minie’s exquisite voice and 
 extraordinary beauty had attracted the attention of a family 
 intimate with one of Mrs. Leslie’s few confidential friends. 
 They w^ere foreigners, one of whom was associated with the 
 Italian Opera, in rather an influential position. He offered to 
 take Minie into his own family, then about to return to Italy, 
 give her the best instruction, and so bring her forward, that, 
 
104 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 on her returning to England,.^ her fortune would be made. 
 Mrs. Leslie listened, and questioned with apparent calmness, 
 but with a ivrung heart. How did they intend her child to 
 take advantage of this undoubtedly generous proposal — as a 
 private professor simply to teach ? The reply was a decided 
 negative : there surely could be no hesitation in her accepting 
 an engagement as prima donna^ when there was not the 
 smallest doubt of her ultimate success — she was so graceful, 
 so gifted, a very little training would be sufficient to make her 
 first-rate as an actress, as a singer. They argued well, but 
 Mrs. Leslie was an Euglish mother — heart and soul an 
 Englishwoman. She had not always been in poverty, and she 
 carried with her to her present station all the high feelings of 
 birth and education, which no privation, no penury could 
 remove. She shrunk from bringing forward her gentle, 
 modest Minie in a situation of such equivocal tendency. Yet 
 did she right to refuse it ? The struggle was a terrible one, 
 and perhaps the mother could never have decided, had not 
 Florence one day, alarmed at the suffering imprinted on her 
 countenance, caressingly implored to know the cause, when 
 Mrs. Leslie told her all. ^‘Oh, do not hesitate, dearest 
 mother,” was the instant reply ; do not think of it one 
 moment. It is neither shame nor disgrace to those destined 
 for the stage from their childhood, and so armed against its 
 dangers. As long as they are respectable, their profession 
 must be so too ; but it is not for those who have been thus 
 educated to feel and think like us. Who could be with our 
 Minie in such seasons, to prevent all associations with those of 
 doubtful reputation, too often found in the opera role ? And 
 to do this she must go from us to a land of strangers — 
 be exposed to neglect, perhaps severity, or, if treated with 
 kindness, exciting such admiration, that how might we hope 
 that she would return to us the same darling child she leaves 
 us ? No, no, dearest mother, do not think of it.” 
 
 I would not, could not, my beloved girl, save for one 
 weighty cause — I refuse an offer of independence for her, and 
 in so doing devolve dependence, labour, suffering upon you. 
 Florence, how can I do this ?” 
 
 Easily, my own mother; for, believe me, the most fatiguing 
 toil were comparative happiness to this trial. Do not think of 
 her, — only of my father ; what anguish even the very idea of 
 such a position for his Minie would have inflicted upon him. 
 
woman's feiendship. 105 
 
 And for Minie herself, oh, she could never bear the suffering 
 of such a separation.” 
 
 Do you indeed think so ? ” and the sudden irradiation of 
 Mrs. Leslie's every feature showed how eagerly she grasped at 
 this suggestion. If I could but think so, that she would 
 herself refuse this offer — that she w^ould not accuse me of 
 selfishly sacrificing her real interests for my, perhaps, un- 
 founded prejudice and dread.” 
 
 Hear her own opinion, then, dearest mother; you will find 
 it the same as mine,” and Florence bounded away to call her 
 sister. 
 
 She was right. With a passionate burst of tears, Minie 
 folded her arms round her mother’s neck, and conjured her 
 not to send her so completely away — not to compel her to 
 embrace such a profession ; she would willingly teach, work, 
 labour, anything her mother or sister might dictate ; but she 
 was sure her voice would fail her if so tried. It was enough : 
 the refusal was accordingly sent, gratefully, but decisively. 
 Meanwhile Florence, feeling more than ever the absolute 
 necessity for exertion, had just resolved on writing to Lady 
 Melford, when she heard of that family's arrival in town. Painful 
 as the effort would be, she thought personal application more 
 likely to be successful than epistolary. But Walter advised 
 her writing to Lady Edgemere in preference. Eagerly Florence 
 caught at the idea ; she wrote, and Walter himself took the 
 letter. Unhappily, he only learned that the family were all 
 on the Continent, and would be there some time. It was a 
 bitter disappointment, for hope, as if the more elastic from 
 being long kept bound, had sprung up beneath Walter’s san- 
 guine expectations, and it was hard to chain her wings again. 
 To Lady Melford, then, she resolved on going, but she could 
 not talk about it ; and so unknown to her mother, and even 
 to Walter, one fine spring morning she set forth. The parks, 
 the streets of the aristocratic west, looked gay and joyous in 
 the sunshine ; every face seemed clothed with smiles to her ; 
 perchance they were not, but the sorrowing and careworn feel 
 so painfully alone. London is even solitude to hundreds of 
 its weary wanderers. Florence walked on mechanically, con- 
 scious only of that stagnating depression, so difficult to bear, 
 and still more to overcome. She felt her cheek flushed and 
 pale alternately, as she stood on the steps of Lord Melford's 
 stately mansion, and her heart so throbbed, that she had at 
 first no power to lift the knocker. 
 
106 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Florence Leslie ! well tliis is really an unexpected pleasure : 
 how good of you to make such an exertion/’ was the greeting 
 she received from Emily Melford, who rose from her languid 
 position with some degree of erapressementy and extended her 
 hand. Lady Melford and Georgiana (still Miss Melford) met 
 her the same. To a casual observer, nothing could have been 
 kinder than their reception ; but oh, how heartless, the mere 
 kindness of the lip, not of the soul, did it feel to Florence, 
 who so trembled with suppressed emotion, that a seat was 
 never more welcome. The very sight of their well-remembered 
 faces, the tones of their voices, brought back the full tide of 
 memory ; and seemed as if many more than barely four years 
 had rolled over her head since they had parted. Her appear- 
 ance had no such effect on her former friends : they had lived, 
 rather perhaps existed, too long in the world where fashion 
 and frivolity are the presiding deities. Nothing had occurred 
 to ruffle the current of their lives, so that years rolled by, 
 unnoticed and unfelt. There was no reference to their former 
 acquaintance — no allusion to her personal interests, except 
 an inquiry after the family — whether Mrs. Leslie’s health were 
 improved — whether Mr. Leslie liked London better than the 
 country, etc. 
 
 I have lost my dear father,” faltered Florence, vainly 
 struggling to reply without emotion. 
 
 ‘‘ I thought you knew this, Emily, and might have spared 
 Miss Leslie the question,” observed Lady Melford, as reproach- 
 fully as her quiet temper would permit. 
 
 Oh, by the way, mamma, now you mention it, I do re- 
 member hearing or reading something of it ; and, indeed, I 
 meant to have written to you, Florence ; but it was just at 
 the time Sophia married, and I really had so much to think 
 about for her, that time slipped away, till it was too late ta 
 write. I knew you were always good-natured, and trusted you 
 would forgive the apparent neglect. I never write to any one 
 — it is such a dreadful exertion.” 
 
 Exertion ! ” thought Florence, as she glanced round the 
 luxuriouly-furnished apartment. Is it possible, with every 
 want supplied, that the idea of exertion can be the excuse for 
 not writing to a friend? Your sister Sophia is married, 
 then ? ” she added aloud. 
 
 Yes, nearly a year and a half ago, to Lord Maynard. Did 
 you not see it in the papers ? She is very happy, very rich^ 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 107 
 
 her Lord very dewue, and so on. For my part, the trouble of 
 trying on the marriage trousseau, the excitement, the visits, 
 would terrify me out of all idea of matrimony. I am grown 
 dreadfully lazy ; even parties are too much trouble.” 
 
 Perhaps you have not very good health,” innocently 
 remarked Florence. 
 
 Why, I am never particularly well, and have tried all the 
 doctors in and out of London ; but they did me no permanent 
 good, never finding out what is the matter with me. I feel 
 no pain, certainly — nothing, whatever, to complain ; but a je 
 lie sais quoi, incapacitating me from all exertion.” 
 
 The young lady who said this, in the most gracefully languid 
 manner possible, looked in blooming health, almost embonpoint, 
 presenting a strange contrast to the pale, pensive countenance 
 of her visitor, whose actual livelihood depended on '' exertion.” 
 
 Are you as fond of reading as you used to be ? ” inquired 
 Lady Melford ; and Florence answered, with more animation 
 than she had yet spoken, in the affirmative. The Viscountess 
 mentioned several of the fashionable works of the day. 
 Florence blushingly avowed that her reading had lately been 
 more amongst the older authors, and that it was only the last 
 year or two she had become aware of their beauties. 
 
 You must have plenty of leisure, Florence : what a happy 
 girl you must be ! I can find time for nothing,” was Emily's 
 rejoinder. ‘^As to reading anything but the lightest novel, 
 with the round of visiting in this house, is impossible.” 
 
 Florence vainly endeavoured to explain this, so as to satisfy 
 her own mind ; but the chit-chat in which they had engaged 
 her, rendered the task at that moment impossible. How was 
 she to introduce the real motive of her visit was another 
 mental question, which she found some difficulty in replying. 
 At last Lady Melford asked how she had come — was she living 
 near ? Her answer occasioned Emily’s extreme astonishment. 
 ‘‘ Walked all the way from Camberwell ! what strength you 
 must have ! It really was good of you to come.” 
 
 Then was the moment, and Florence, though her emotion 
 almost choked her, seized it. Modestly, though with uncon- 
 scious dignity, she removed Emily Melford’s impression that 
 her visit was merely to renew their acquaintance, and said 
 that the unfortunate termination of a lawsuit in the family 
 compelled her to seek employment, and that remembering 
 Lady Melford’s former kindness, she had ventured to call and 
 
108 
 
 woman's friendship. 
 
 solicit her, or her daughters' recommendation, should they 
 know of any family requiring an English governess. Lady Mel- 
 ford expressed herself truly sorry, and that she feared she really 
 had no power to assist her ; yet if she should hear of a vacant 
 situation, she would with pleasure speak of Florence. Miss 
 Melford looked very grave. Much as she might wish to serve 
 Miss Leslie, she said their very slight acquaintance would 
 hardly justify her encountering the responsibility which the 
 recommendation of a governess must entail upon herself. 
 Emily Melford, for the moment, permitted a good heart to 
 triumph over habitual indolence, and declared she would make 
 every possible inquiry — would say everything in her favour, 
 and she had no doubt she should succeed. 
 
 Take care, Emily, what you promise," was Lady Melford's 
 warning observation. ^'You say you are not equal to the 
 least exertion now, and this will demand a great deal." 
 
 Indeed, mamma, I will do all I can, though of course I 
 cannot promise success," replied Emily, unconsciously affected 
 at the glistening eyes and flushed cheek which were turned 
 towards her with an expression of such grateful acknowledge- 
 ment, that it made her feel for the moment they were girls 
 again in Devonshire. Florence could not doubt her, nay, for 
 the moment she felt it difficult to retain the wounded pride 
 which Emily’s previous unkindness and neglect had so pain- 
 fully engendered. She did not know how fatally selfish 
 indolence had deadened every good and kindly feeling ; that 
 Emily’s impulses were as vivid and evanescent as the sparks 
 from flint — never visible, save from sudden and violent 
 friction, and then vanishing into air. 
 
 Florence at length rose to go ; they asked her to stay and 
 dine, and on her refusing, begged her to come whenever she 
 felt inclined for the exertion ; they should always be happy to 
 see her. 
 
 It is a shame even to ask you to make such an exertion, 
 Florence, for it would kill me, I am sure. You surely will not 
 walk home ? " 
 
 "'No," Florence said; most probably she should return home 
 by one of the public conveyances. 
 
 " What, alone ? Ah, I alwavs said you were meant for a 
 heroine, Florence." 
 
 “Not much of one, dear Emily, for I believe a heroine 
 would hardly be so unwillingly independent as I am compelled 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 109 
 
 to be. Exertion is indeed no new thing to me, and I must 
 regard it still less, henceforth, than I have hitherto done.” 
 
 As Florence descended the stairs, two young men ran hastily 
 against her, then paused to look at her, half in doubt, half in 
 inquiry, politely apologized, an apology merely acknowledged 
 by a graceful bow, and the gentlemen bounded into the 
 drawing-room. "‘Who, in the world, is that pale, elegant 
 girl ? ” exclaimed one. Pretty she is not, but something 
 better — graceful, distingiiee. Who is she ? ” 
 
 ^‘Is it possible you have so completely forgotten her, Alfred? 
 Why, Florence Leslie.” 
 
 That Florence Leslie ? What, Ida’s favourite Flower of 
 St. John’s ? What a fool not to know her ! Where has she 
 hid herself all this time ? ” 
 
 Why did you not come in before ? you would have known 
 all then, without my having the trouble of telling you — for 
 pity’s sake, remember my nerves ! ” 
 
 “I beg pardon of your nerves, Emily, but I will know 
 something more of Florence — she was such a merry companion 
 once. Come, Frank, by the way, you used to admire her too.” 
 And young Melford, regardless of all remonstrances, alike from 
 his sister or his companion, ran down the stairs, dragging Frank 
 along with him, and speedily overtook Florence, who, fatigued 
 and depressed by long-suppressed emotion, had proceeded but a 
 very short way. Miss Leslie, I have run after you on 
 purpose to entreat your forgiveness for my stupidity in not 
 recognising you,” was his address, in a tone so truly respectful, 
 that it quickly subdued the alarm experienced by Florence in 
 finding herself so followed. ^'Ah,” he continued, as she 
 accepted his apology with a bright blush and lively smile, if 
 you had looked as you do now when I first met you, I should 
 have recognised you directly; should not you, Howard? ” 
 
 ‘H fancied Miss Leslie’s countenance familiar to me, even in 
 the first momentary glance,” was the reply ; and Florence’s 
 attention, awakened by the name, she glanced hastily towards 
 him, answering his greeting by a silent bow. 
 
 Howard ! could this be the handsome, intelligent boy, with 
 whom she had danced so often on that ever-memorable night, 
 the night of Lady Ida’s ball ? whose round jacket and Byron 
 collar had so often excited Emily Melford’s raillery on Florence’s 
 odd propensity for unfledged {i.e. uncoated) men? It must 
 be, for the countenance was the same, only mellowed into more 
 
110 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 manly beauty ; and the slight boyish form had so sprung up 
 into the graceful yet muscular proportions of a tall, aristocratic- 
 looking man, that it seemed strange to Florence that only four 
 years could have wrought such a change, making him appear 
 so much her senior, when he was in fact her junior by a year. 
 
 ‘‘Well, Miss Leslie, I hope we shall have our long-exiled Ida 
 home soon,'' observed young Melford, after gaily conversing on 
 their former acquaintance, and the many enjoyments of St. 
 John's. “ There is some talk of Lord St. Maur receiving 
 some high office at home in return for his services abroad; and 
 then of course you will see Ida. She is not one to forget old 
 friends." 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 IXOEENCE A GOVEENESS. — WALTEE IS ILL. — TEIALS. — A MESSAGE. 
 
 Little as Florence expected kindness from Lady Melford’s 
 family, she did not, could not believe that Emily’s professions 
 of interest were so completely without foundation, that she 
 actually never again thought of Florence or her wishes, until 
 a note from Florence several weeks afterwards, informing her 
 that she had obtained a situation, and therefore that she 
 needed no further exertion on the part of her friends, recalled 
 to the oblivious young lady that she had made no exertion at 
 all. It did occasion a passing qualm, which she would gladly 
 not have felt, but indolence speedily crept over her to deaden 
 even this. It was too much trouble to think of what could 
 not be remedied, and so she quietly resigned herself to forget- 
 fulness. No doubt she would have expressed pleasure had 
 Florence crossed her path, but as to seeking her, Emily Melford 
 would have shunned the exertion as an impossibility. Little 
 things were too large for her. 
 
 Florence had indeed at length succeeded in obtaining employ- 
 ment. A widow lady, with a grown-up son and, two little 
 girls, had lately taken a house in the vicinity of Norwood, 
 coming, it was said, from Hampshire, where all her friends and 
 family still lived. She was one of the old school, grim, severe, 
 and very reserved, and Florence felt her heart sink within her 
 at the first conference. Her qualifications were asked, in one 
 cold measured tone. Mrs. Russell offered remuneration with 
 most unusual liberality, and Florence closed at once. 
 
 We will not linger on the anguish of the reparation, the 
 bitter parting of that beloved one from the home of her child- 
 hood, for the cold hearth of strangers. It is a pang we fear 
 that will find its echo in too many hearts. Yet there are some 
 
112 
 
 woman’s feiendship. 
 
 in this chequered world of ours who are insensible to the voice 
 of home, unconscious of its peculiar sanctity, for they gladly 
 turn from it, preferring even dependence to resting in a lowly 
 sphere : and some there are who, fostered in wealth, happiness, 
 and luxury, thoughtlessly look on the young instructress as 
 one born to labour and endure, unconscious that there are as 
 deep fountains of sorrow and love in her hidden breast as in 
 their own. That perhaps the object of their own neglect or 
 their contempt has, like them, a fond mother, whose hearth, as 
 her heart, is desolate for the departed — brothers, sisters, yearn- 
 ing to look upon her face again, and towards whom her lonely 
 spirit turns so longingly and so vainly. 
 
 It was long, very long ere poor Florence could feel in any 
 degree reconciled to this great change. Peculiarly clingingiy 
 domestic, her affections, with the sole exception of Lady St. 
 Maur, concentrated in her owm family. She did indeed feel 
 lonely, as she passed evening after evening in her solitary 
 room, released from her charge regularly as the clock struck 
 seven. Speaking to none, seemingly cared for by none; alone, 
 though often the house was full. She thought at first she 
 should enjoy these hours, as enabling her to pursue her favourite 
 employments : but oh ! how changed and sad they seemed, 
 as if they could scarcely be the same ' which had engaged her, 
 when her mother s eye was beaming on her, her sister’s sweet 
 voice in its laugh or song thrilling to her heart, her brother’s 
 soul-expressive face bending over his writing, or lifted up to 
 hers asking her sympathy with some favourite book, and 
 though but few miles separated, how utterly was she alone ! 
 
 Her mind was, how^ever, too well regulated to encourage such 
 weakening sorrow. Mrs. Kussell was no physiognomist, and 
 she could not read in the pale countenance she looked on 
 regularly every morning at a specified hour, and for a specified 
 time, any thing more than was perfectly natural. She knew 
 nothing of Florence’s history, and did not think it beseeming 
 in her to inquire. As to eliciting any just praise, it was a thing 
 impossible. She had explained to Miss Leslie her educational 
 plans — sat in the schoolroom several mornings to see them 
 followed, and then no longer interfered. 
 
 It was not pride which actuated this conduct ; but that 
 Florence, as the chosen instructress of her children, could be 
 a person demanding the suffrages and respect of society, were 
 notions as much too visionary for Mrs. Russell as they are to 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 113 
 
 Tery many others. The creed that instructors of youth are 
 real benefactors of their kind, and should be regarded with 
 respect and gratitude, may be excellent in theory, but in 
 practice — let the fact decide — the moment a young woman is 
 compelled to teach for her subsistence, she sinks at once into a 
 lower grade. 
 
 Months glided by slowly and sadly for our heroine. It is a 
 false doctrine to promulgate, that the performance of distaste- 
 ful duties at once brings happiness. If it did, surely there 
 •could be no trial to perform, no temptation to elude them. 
 
 Our heavenly Father sends no trial, no sorrow, to be felt as 
 pleasure, as some would make us believe. For our good in- 
 deed, our eternal good ; but would He hold forth this blessed 
 goal, did we refuse to labour, in care and sorrow, to obtain it ? 
 No, sorrow indeed is blessed, for there is a still small voice 
 urging us on, encouraging and consoling ; but many weary 
 months must pass ere mournful duties become joys. 
 
 Happy, Florence was not. She had too many sources of 
 disquiet ; but the first stupif3dng influence of sorrow and 
 change had been conquered by fervent prayer and increasing 
 effort, and she became reconciled to her weary path. The act 
 of teaching became easier from use ; even Mrs. EusselFs stiff 
 and chilling manner became more endurable, and gratefully 
 did she feel that to write cheerfully home was less an effort 
 than it had been. 
 
 Florence had been six months with Mrs. Kussell, when her 
 anxiety was fearfully aroused by a letter from Minie. Walter 
 had appeared more languid than usual for several weeks, but 
 still persisted in saying he was perfectly well, and in attending 
 to his business, a few days previously, he had been conveyed 
 home in his master’s carriage in an almost exhausted state ; 
 the head clerk had accompanied him, and given the alarming 
 information that he had several successive days fainted at his 
 desk, but that no persuasion, no argument could prevail on 
 him to give up. He had rallied, Minie continued to say, and 
 was decidedly better, but his mother had forbidden, and his 
 employers had absolutely refused his services till his strength 
 should be properly restored. 
 
 Florence’s first impulse was to return home instantly, that 
 her deep anxiety might be either removed or justified. Her 
 next thought compelled restraint and control ; for Mrs. 
 Kussell had left home on a visit to some of her relations, and 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 woman’s miENDSHIP. 
 
 her return was uncertain. She could not leave her charge^ 
 Every post indeed brought her intelligence ; but what were 
 written assurances to a mind fancying every evil, and longing 
 to lavish on the sufferer all the affection with which her heart 
 Avas filled ? At length she looked once more on the hand- 
 writing of her brother. It was but a few lines, but oh, how 
 inexpressibly precious to their reader ! 
 
 Florence, dearest Florence,” it ran, at length I may trace 
 that dear name again. Oh ! how painfully I yearn to feel you 
 by my side, to listen to your gentle voice ; but it is an idle 
 wish, my Florence. I have been ill, they tell me very ill ; but 
 I think they say more than the fact, to keep me content at 
 home ; they think thus to reconcile me to idleness and rest. 
 Florence, Florence, how can this be ? How can I be content 
 wiien so much, nay, all must depend on me ? There was a 
 time, that no pang was joined with the dream of death ; but 
 now, now — oli ! if I must die, what will become of my beloved 
 ones ? Who is there to work for them, to save them from 
 privation and its hundred woes ? I know this is sinful mis- 
 trust — I strive against it. Florence, pray for me, I cannot for 
 myself. I know your tears are falling at these wild and sinful 
 words ; forgive them, Florence, dearest, kindest. God for ever 
 bless you and preserve you to your Walter.” 
 
 Vainly, for several successive hours, did Florence struggle- 
 with her emotion. She knew her brother so well, that for him 
 to give vent to such despondenc}^ his spirits must be sunk 
 indeed. Yet she had to teacli with a sinking frame and 
 sickening heart ; to answer the innumerable questions of her 
 prattling com])anions ; to compel them to attention and obe- 
 dience ; to walk out witli them, and then again resume the 
 afternoon routine, of work and study : and not till the return 
 of jMrs. Bussell in the evening relieved her of her charge, had 
 she leisure so to compose her agitated spirits as to think 
 calmly. Would it be wise to go to her brother ? Walter had 
 tender nurses, most affectionate friends ; he wanted nothing 
 wliicli tliey could give. Yv" culd it then be right to give up her 
 Xweseht situation merely for tlie consolation of being with him? 
 IN^o, she would work on, if it were but to provide luxuries and 
 comforts for liim ; and the ardent girl clasped her hands, and 
 raised lier swollen eyes in fervent thanksgiving, that to do so 
 Avas in her ])ow’er. She pondered deeply how she could in- 
 crease her salary. Her pupils had just commenced drawing^. 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 115 
 
 but Mrs. Eussell was not satisfied with their instructor ; and 
 Florence, convinced that she was capable of teaching that 
 accomplishment, indulged the hope that Mrs. Eussell would 
 gladly accept her services instead, and raise her salary accord- 
 ingly. She had just brought her meditations to this con- 
 clusion, feeling equal to any exertion, and believing the 
 greatest misfortune which could now befall her, would be to 
 be dismissed from her present employment, when a message 
 was delivered to her, that Mrs. Eussell wished to speak with 
 her in the parlour. It was a summons so unprecedented, that 
 Florence, already in a painfully excited state, had scarcely 
 courage to obey — trembling with forebodings that new evils 
 were impending, which she should have no power to resist. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MRS. RUSSELL. — HASTY CONCLUSION. — INJUSTICE. — DISMISSAL. — 
 GRIEF. — A mother’s LOVE. 
 
 Mrs. Russell was sitting with more than her usual stiffness 
 in her old-fashioned chair, her visage grim and frowning, with 
 an expression round the mouth, plainly indicating that she 
 had formed some resolution which no power on earth could 
 change. A slight, scarcely perceptible movement of the head 
 acknowledged the entrance and meek obedience of Florence ; 
 but no sign or word authorized her to be seated. There was a 
 short, dry cough on the part of the lady, followed by a hum 
 and ha, and then : 
 
 ''Miss Leslie,” she demanded, shortly; "pray are you 
 acquainted with Mrs. Rivers, of Woodlands, near Winchester?” 
 
 " Yes, madam, she is a connection of the family, and has 
 been — ” 
 
 " Miss Leslie, I asked an answer, not a commentary ; you 
 resided with her, I presume ? joined in society at Winchester?” 
 
 " Yes, madam,” replied Florence, briefly. 
 
 " Then, Miss Leslie, I must inform you that your services 
 henceforth are dispensed with. My daughters are much too 
 young and inexperienced to be left to your charge. You have 
 deceived me egregiously, by daring to obtain a footing in my 
 family as a respectable person, when you must be quite aware 
 you can lay no claim to such a character. Here is the sum 
 total of my debt for your services, and a trifle in addition, as 
 I wish to do nothing unhandsomely : we part to-morrow, and 
 as there is no occasion for any further rejoinder, you may 
 retire.” 
 
 Stunned, yet bewildered, Florence had listened to this most 
 extraordinary harangue ; she could not comprehend to^ what 
 Mrs. Russell could refer. At any other time, natural indig- 
 nation would have given her not only voice but eloquence ; 
 
woman's fbiendship. 
 
 117 
 
 but now, depressed, almost exhausted by the emotions of the 
 day, she felt as if she had not energy enough to articulate a 
 single word. At that moment she thought of Walter ; how 
 could she aid him if thus sent away, not only deprived of em- 
 ployment, but of character ? The colour returned to her pale 
 cheek, and to any other than Mrs. Kussell, the modest firm- 
 ness, alike of her voice and manner, would have been sufficient 
 proof of innocence. 
 
 ‘‘If, madatn,'’ she said, “you have lost all confidence in 
 me, you are right to decline my services ; but you must pardon 
 me, if I refuse to retire, until you have informed me of what 
 you accuse me. I deny all deception towards you, nor am I 
 in the very least aware how I have forfeited my claim to 
 respectability, as you are pleased to assert. My conscience is 
 free from all intentional offence from any conduct that would 
 unfit me for the guidance of youth.’’ 
 
 “ Of your conduct, whilst under my roof, I have nothing to 
 complain,” replied Mrs. Eussell, unmoved by the suppressed 
 but visible emotion with which Florence spoke ; “ but, Miss 
 Leslie, you must be aware, however you may now repent of 
 former follies, and resolve to amend them, that a young person 
 whose conduct in Winchester was such as to make her name a 
 term of opprobrium to all its inhabitants, can be no fit com- 
 panion for young people. My son is returning from the Conti- 
 nent, and I wish to have no person with my daughters whose 
 character for flirtation and coquetry would render his visits to 
 his sister s study equally unsafe and unpleasant. Your varying 
 colour. Miss Leslie, is suf&cient answer ; you have compelled 
 me to speak plainly, and now I hope you are perfectly satisfied 
 as to the justice of my decision.” 
 
 Florence’s colour did, indeed, vary ; for gradually, but 
 slowly, the conviction dawned upon her, that Mrs. Eussell was 
 confounding her with her cousin Flora. Eallying every 
 energy, she forced herself to relate the real facts, and solemnly 
 assert that at the time Flora Leslie’s conduct had been most 
 reprehensible, she had been residing in London with her 
 newly- widowed mother. No change, however, took place in 
 the sour visage of Mrs. Eussell. 
 
 “ She had heard,” she said, “ but of one Miss Leslie, whose 
 name was, people reported, Florence ; and if there were two 
 Miss Leslies residing at Woodlands, of names so exactly 
 similar, it was strange no one had ever heard of it.” 
 
118 
 
 VfOMAN'S PRIEKDSHIP. 
 
 Pardon me, madam, it was scarcely strange ; I very 
 seldom entered into society, and latterly, indeed, not at all, 
 for I was then in mourning for my dear father/’ 
 
 '‘You may he speaking truth. Miss Leslie, I will not take 
 upon myself to contradict,” replied the lady, who, by the way, 
 prided herself on her rigid love of justice ; "but you must 
 permit me to ask you what proof, except your own family, 
 who, of course, will repeat the same tale, can you bring 
 forward to convince me I am wrong, and you are right ? ” 
 "Proofs, madam, indeed, I have none,” was Florence’s mild 
 reply, the indignant blood had dyed her cheeks ; " for of 
 Mrs. Rivers I have, unhappily, lost all trace, and Flora, now 
 Mrs. Major Hardwicke, even if I knew her address, would 
 scarcely do me justice by implicating herself” 
 
 " That is to say, you have lost all traces of Mrs. Rivers 
 through your own misconduct, an inference tallying exactly 
 with the reports I have heard, and of course you cannot know 
 Miss Flora Leslie’s address, as, in my opinion, no such person 
 exists. Oh, for shame ! for shame ! young as you are, to be 
 so hardened in guilt ! Well, well, I desire you to retire, for 
 you must perceive your improbable tale weighs little against 
 the reports and warnings I have received.” 
 
 " I will obey you, madam,” replied Florence, struggling 
 with the indignant pride, which the cruel belief that she had 
 spoken falsely even at that moment called. " Thank God, I 
 have yet a mother’s faithful love, and sinless home, to which I 
 may return, and may that God who knows my perfect inuo- 
 cence forgive you the injustice you have shown me !” 
 
 And with a proud step, but bursting heart, Florence turned 
 from the parlour. She paused not till she reached her own 
 apartment ; but then sinking on a chair, she buried her 
 aching temples in her hands ; she could not weep, though her 
 eyes felt starting from her head ; her character taken from 
 her, without the possibility of proving hoAV falsely ; how could 
 she obtain employment — how assist her brother ? the future 
 was all dark, she could not penetrate its folds, save to look on 
 sorrow. 
 
 Great, indeed, was the surprise and pleasure of Mrs. Leslie’s 
 little family, when about noon the following day Florence 
 made her appearance. 
 
 "Florence, my own sister, this is kind indeed,” exclaimed 
 Walter, half rising from his recumbent posture, to fold her in 
 
woman’s miENBSIIIP. 
 
 119 
 
 his arms ; “ I hardly dared hope a personal answer to my 
 murmuring letter ; but I am better, much better. Mother, 
 am I not ? why, I am sure you look paler and more suffering 
 than I do. Florence, there is something more the matter than 
 my illness — what is it ?” 
 
 ‘‘ Nay, was not that enough, dearest Walter, to make me 
 anxious ?” she replied, struggling to smile ; but the effort 
 only increased her brother’s alarm, the more so, as he perceived 
 that her lip so quivered, that she could only cling closer to 
 him, and cover his pale brow with kisses. 
 
 ‘‘ Florence, my child, speak to me — what has chanced ? you 
 are ill, unhappy, and would hide it ; but you camnot. Come 
 to me, love, come to your mother’s- heart, you will find rest 
 there.” 
 
 Mother,” gasped poor Florence^, throwing herself on her 
 knees beside her mother, and laying her throbbing head on 
 her bosom, I have come to you, discarded, accused, con- 
 demned, sent from the house where I have striven night and 
 day to do my duty, as one wholly unfitted by previous conduct 
 for my charge, my word disbelieved, my whole family impli- 
 cated in the charge of deception : oh, mother — mother — teach 
 me how to bear this heavy trial ! I have no strength — no — ” 
 
 Her sobs impeded further speech, and she saw not the effect 
 of her words on her mother, whose cheeks and lips became of 
 a livid whiteness, while the large beads of moisture gathered 
 on her brow. 
 
 Who has dared to malign you?” exclaimed Walter, 
 springing from his couch with the strength of sudden excite- 
 ment ; Florence, my stainless Florence, who has dared to 
 charge you with aught of shame ? tell me, only tell me ; I 
 have strength enough to defend you.” 
 
 But even as he spoke he sank back exhausted ; and fearing 
 to agitate him still more, Florence briefly but clearly related 
 the interview between her and Mrs. Bussell, adding her own 
 suppositions as to the origin of the charge against her. 
 
 ‘‘ God of mercy, I thank thee, and this is all !” ejaculated 
 Mrs. Leslie, in a voice of such fervent thanksgiving, it sounded 
 almost strangely to her children ; and rising with recovered 
 power, she folded Florence to her bosom. Heed it not, my 
 beloved girl ; heed not the false accusations of the unjust and 
 prejudiced ; we know — God knows — that you are innocent : 
 ':be comforted, my child.” 
 
120 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 How may I be comforted, mother, when slander is abroad, 
 and busy with my name ? how dare I seek another situation 
 till my innocence is proved, and yet how can I rest in idleness 
 at home ?” 
 
 Alow suppressed groan from Walter filled up the momentary 
 pause. 
 
 “ My child. He who feedeth the sparrow and clotheth the 
 lilies of the field will protect and provide for us ; oh, trust 
 Him, dearest, and He will not forsake us. Tell me, only tell 
 me there is comfort in your mother’s home, my child ; that 
 there, at least, your innocence shall be your strength, and 
 trust our heavenly Father for the rest.” 
 
 Florence did not reply, but her tears flowed less bitterly, 
 and gradually composure returned. When partially recovered 
 from her own sorrow, Florence became conscious of the great 
 change in Walter ; reduced almost to a skeleton, his cheeks 
 sunken, and only too often dyed with appalling crimson ; his 
 beautiful eyes, lustrous as they were wont to be, but seemingly 
 larger, from the attenuation of his other features ; the blue 
 veins on his clear brow so distinctly visible, that almost might 
 be traced the languid current beneath ; the parched lip, the 
 prostrating weakness, each day confirmed, all revealed the 
 insidious disease which had already claimed him. 
 
 Great as was Mrs. Leslie’s trust in a merciful, over-ruling 
 Providence, she neglected nothing that could prove that 
 Florence and Flora Leslie were two persons, by making every 
 inquiry for Mrs. Eivers ; but unhappily all her efforts failed. 
 Woodlands was let ; the steward and those of Mrs. Kivers’s 
 old retainers, who had lingered on the estate while he was 
 there, had all disappeared ; and Mrs. Leslie, with an aching 
 but still faithful heart, was compelled to dismiss all hopes of 
 earthly justice, and strive to rest her own hope and that of 
 her child on that heavenly Judge, who would not for ever 
 leave them wronged. 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 GENIUS. — THE MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 The winter passed with little change to the Leslie family. 
 Florence, at length, obtained engagements as daily governess 
 in two or three families, an employment infinitely more 
 arduous than her former undertaking ; but all weariness and 
 anxiety were soothed by the privilege of returning to her own 
 home, at six o’clock every evening. How often, as she walked 
 to her different pupils, in all the miseries of a London winter, 
 the rain splashing in pools around her, saturating her dress, or 
 the sleet, and snow, and wind driving so full against her, as to 
 demand the exertion of all her little strength to struggle 
 against them, did her thoughts revert to the happy past, and 
 the friends there associated ! 
 
 How little did I then dream of my present life,” thought 
 Florence, sadly; ‘‘better that I did not, for I should have 
 shrunk from its anticipation with even deeper suffering than I 
 do from its performance. I am more worthy of Lady Ida’s 
 afiections now than then, and yet she cannot value, for she 
 will not meet me now.” 
 
 It was strange how often the form and face of Francis 
 Howard mingled in these reminiscences of Lady St. Maur ; 
 how stealthily, and often unconsciously she found the wish 
 arising, that in her daily walks she might chance to meet him, 
 speak with him again, and the wish would often return, in 
 spite of her fixed resolve to banish it whenever it arose. But 
 with all their economy, all the labour of these two devoted 
 girls, for Minie worked at home, perseveringly as Florence 
 taught abroad, they could but clear their way, and provide 
 Walter with the luxuries, the delicacies, his state of bodily suf- 
 fering so painfully demanded. The winter, too, was always 
 peculiarly trying to Mrs. Leslie, and 'all seemed to devolve on 
 
122 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 tlie sisters, wlio cared not for any personal labour, so that 
 smiles brightened the countenance of those beloved ones for 
 whom they toiled ; and, in spite of the gnawing care expe- 
 rienced by both mother and son, those smiles did await them still. 
 
 To Minie, even the decided ills of poverty were never felt 
 as such; her light sjurits rebounded from every casual trial, 
 as if it had no more power to darken the bright heaven of her 
 joy than the snow-flake can sully the grass which receives it. 
 And truly she was the angel of that lowly home ; her mother 
 forgot increasing infirmity and desponding hopes ; her sister, 
 her heavy burden of care, even her consuming anxiety for 
 Walter, when Minie smiled, or carolled, or gave vent in glee- 
 some words to the bursting joyousness of her little lieart. It 
 was scarcely strange that Minie felt no painful anticipations 
 with regard to Walter; but it certainly was, that Mrs. Leslie 
 should have been so completely unconscious of his danger. 
 Yet so it was.; he suffered apparently so little, his mind was so 
 bright, so strong, so unfailing, that though he regained no 
 strength, his mother could not believe the near vicinity of 
 death. She had been so many years hovering herself on the 
 threshold of that awful bourne, and still she passed it not, 
 that she could not realize it with regard to her cherished, her 
 gifted boy. 
 
 To Florence alone the whole extent of calamity hanging 
 over them appeared revealed ; she could not shake off the 
 conviction that her beloved brother was in truth ‘^passing 
 away,” that the summer would return with all lovely things, 
 but find not the poet there. 
 
 One day, about the middle of February, Florence, returning 
 some hours earlier from her daily avocations than usual, 
 prevailed on her mother and Minie to accept the invitation of 
 a friend residing further in the country, and remained alone 
 with her brother ; several manuscripts were lying on a table 
 near him, but, as was sometimes the case, he had sunk into a 
 sort of dose, and fearing to disturb him, she sat down to 
 continue Minie’s work, which lay on a table in the recess of a 
 window, half hidden by the curtains ; for nearly an hour she 
 heard no movement, but then aroused by the rustling paper, 
 she turned towards the couch. Walter was glancing over his 
 manuscripts, and there was a deep flush on his cheek, a 
 sparkle in his eye, giving eloquent answer to the thoughts he 
 read. 
 
WOMANS FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 123 
 
 And will ye, too, perish ? ” she heard him murmur, as if 
 wholly unconscious of her presence ; will ye, too, fade away 
 ^nd be forgotten, when the mind that has framed, the hand 
 that has traced ye, shall lie mouldering in the grave ? will no 
 kindly spirit throb and bound beneath your spell ; no gentle 
 heart find in ye an answer ? Oh, blessed indeed, is that poet’s 
 lot, who wins the applause of a world, the love, the reverence, 
 the blessing of the gifted and the good ! who feels he has 
 not lived, nor loved, nor sorrowed in vain ! But the poet, to 
 whom these things are all denied ; who passeth from this 
 beauteous earth, unknown, unloved, his name with his body 
 buried in the cold, shrouding folds of death — father ! oh, my 
 father, have mercy on thy child ! ” and covering his face with 
 his spread hands, Florence beheld him give way to a burst of 
 such irrepressible agony, that the hot tears made their way 
 between his transparent hands, and the attenuated frame 
 shook with sobs. 
 
 Trembling with sympathising emotion, Florence sank back 
 in the chair she had quitted ; she longed to throw herself on 
 his neck, to beseech him to be comforted, to breathe of hope, 
 but she felt she dared not ; at length, and unable to resist the 
 impulse, she glided forward and knelt beside him. 
 
 Florence, my beloved sister ! oh, I have terrified 3^11. I 
 forgot your presence, imagined myself alone ; dearest, heed it 
 not, I am better now, it was bodily weakness, only weakness, 
 which will overpower me sometimes ; you must not mind 
 me.” 
 
 It was several minutes ere Florence could reply ; but as 
 quickly as she could, she reverted to those treasured manu- 
 scripts, beseeching him to let her read them, it was so long 
 since she had done so. With a faint smile he acceded. 
 Florence herself was surprised ; never had it seemed to her 
 that such beautiful imagery, such glowing thought, such 
 touching pathos had breathed so powerfully in his composi- 
 tions before. A new spirit appeared to have lighted on them ; 
 they were mostly detached pieces, forming, indeed, a treasured 
 volume. He showed her, too, the beautiful designs with which 
 it was to be illustrated ; and Florence no longer marvelled at 
 the burst of agony wrung from him by the thought, that 
 these emanations, of no common genius, must pass away and 
 be forgotten ; but even she guessed not the real reason of his 
 longing, and the poet betrayed it not. 
 
124 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 I dreamed,” he said, mournfully, when in all the glow and 
 heat of composition, that I was bequeathing a glorious gift to my 
 country, wreathing my name with immortality. I seemed to 
 forget all the difficulties, the impossibilities, wffiich prevented 
 the attainment of my darling wish ; but now, dearest, now I 
 feel it is a shadow that I have sought, a vain, shapeless 
 shadow ; it needs influence, wealth, to say the least, a namey 
 and I have neither ; no, no, they must die with me.” 
 
 '' Die ! ” murmured Florence, almost inaudibly, and she 
 paused in deep and mournful thought ; ‘"but if you were strong 
 and well, Walter, would you not make some effort yourself? at 
 least ask the opinion of some good publisher ; it might not 
 then be so impossible as it now seems.” 
 
 “ If I were well, oh ! Florence, I should do many things, and 
 this would be one of them, I own ; but I dare not think of 
 this,” he added, hurriedly and evidently with pain, “ the 
 struggle for submission has been mine only too lately. I 
 know not how to trace, to love the mandate that chaineth me, 
 a useless burden, to my couch, when every exertion is needed 
 to support my beloved mother and my helpless sisters ; and 
 yet, oh, Florence ! morning, noon, and night, I pray to see and 
 feel this ; for my better spirit tells me that good it must be, 
 or it would not come from an all-loving God.” 
 
 “ And He will grant us both this blessed trust, in His own 
 good time, my brother ; but in this case, dearest Walter, let 
 me act for you, trust the MS. to me, and let me endeavour to 
 do with it as you would yourself.” 
 
 Her brother looked at her with affection and astonishment. 
 
 “ You know not the difficulties you undertake, my Florence,” 
 he said ; “ how many hopes will be raised, only to be dis- 
 appointed ; how much fatigue encountered — ” 
 
 “ I care not,” was her instant answer ; “I am so accustomed 
 now to independent wanderings, that even the crowded streets 
 of London have lost their terrors : do not fear for me ; and if 
 I should succeed, Walter, dear Walter, what would previous 
 disappointments, previous anxiety, be then ? ” 
 
 The beaming countenance of the young poet was her truest 
 answer, and once the precious MS. deposited in her hands, 
 Florence permitted no difficulty to deter her ; weary, and often 
 exhausted as she felt from seven, sometimes eight successive 
 hours passed in teaching, she would not return home, till she 
 had accomplished something in the furtherance of her trust. 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 125 
 
 Conquering even her extreme repugnance to walking about 
 the metropolis after the lamps were lighted, it was often near 
 eight in the evening before she returned home. Even there 
 every nerve was tightly strung, that she might not evince the 
 least fatigue, or appear desponding ; for the anxious glance of 
 her brother awaited her ; the hope she had excited lighting up 
 his pale cheek and beautiful eye with the seeming glow of 
 health. Yet both mutually avoided the subject. Florence 
 dreading to impart all the disappointments which she did, in 
 truth, encounter ; and Walter, from ph5^sical weakness, ab- 
 solutely failing in courage to ask a single question, well 
 knowing that were there hope to give, Florence would not 
 continue silent. 
 
 It would be useless to linger on the disheartening task which 
 the devoted sister so cheerfully undertook ; but at length her 
 perseverance seemed about to be rewarded. 
 
CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 A Ki™ FSIEND. — THE PUBLISHER. — THE PHYSICIAN. 
 
 As Florence W'Ould not have any of the letters concerning the 
 poems directed at home, it so chanced that she received one of 
 the numerous rejections in the hours of teaching. The dis- 
 appointment imprinted on her countenance attracted the 
 attention of a benevolent old relation of her pupils, wha 
 frequently visited the schoolroom. Fie inquired the cause sa 
 feelingly, that the poor girl’s overburdened heart instantly 
 opened, and she timidly and briefly imparted some particulars. 
 
 Mr. Wilson listened with much interest ; then asking for 
 pen and paper, he wrote very intently for a few minutes, and then 
 placed a note, directed to one of the first publishers of the day^ 
 in her hand. Take this, my good girl,” he said, kindly ; ''it 
 will at least gain you attention. I wish I could do more ; but 
 you know w^e must be just before we are generous; and if I did 
 all I might wish, I should be wronging my own. Do not look 
 so speechlessly grateful, my child ; use the note and God speed 
 you.” 
 
 And, pressing her hand, he instantly departed ; but his kind 
 offices did not stop there. The day was unusually fine, and 
 Mr. Wilson begged a holiday for his young relatives, ostensibly 
 that he might give them a drive, but really that Florence might 
 have the leisure to prosecute her mission at once ; and she felt 
 it such, for her heart swelled in asking a blessing on the kind old 
 man, though he would not return to her schoolroom to hear it. 
 
 Anxiously, yet hopefully, Florence threaded her way through 
 the huge labyrinth of streets, to the parks in the vicinity of 
 which the publisher resided. The note gained her instant at- 
 tention, and one glance sufficed for her to perceive that Mr. 
 Morton w^as very different from many of his calling ; entering 
 at once into business, he candidly stated that poetry, unless of 
 the very first kind, was the most unsaleable sort of composition, 
 but added, kindly, "But of this you know^ we cannot judge 
 till we have perused the MS. ; have you it with you ? ” 
 
 She answered in the affirmative, placing as she did so the 
 work before him. Fie saw tliat her hand trembled and her 
 
'W'OMAN’s rr^IENDSHIP. 
 
 127 
 
 clieelv paled, and said, with a smile, '"Why, were it not for my 
 friend’s note, I should say. Miss Leslie, that you yourself were 
 the author ; we seldom see a third person so deeply interested. 
 You have not been playing us false, have you, and passing off 
 as j^our brother’s that which is your own ? ” 
 
 Indeed, sir, I have not ; but when I know and feel how 
 completely the being of a beloved and suffering brother is- 
 bound up in his glorious talent, I cannot be otherwise than 
 agitated ; a very casual glance over those poems will convince 
 you that no woman’s w^ork is there.” 
 
 Surprised, yet prepossessed by her unaffected earnestness, 
 Mr. Morton, after some further conversation, gave his whole' 
 attention for nearly half an hour to the MS. Florence tried 
 to look at some beautiful prints which he had kindly placed 
 before her, but a mist was before her eyes, she could not trace 
 a figure. 
 
 '‘You are right,” he said, at length; "this is no common 
 work. There is decided genius, not alone in the poems, but in 
 the illustrations ; still, in the present state of literature, even 
 real genius has much to contend with. Can you call again in a few 
 days? Be assured,” he added, kindly, "I do not give you that 
 trouble because I will not say No at once. I wish to think how 
 I can best serve your brother, and to do so requires a little time.”^ 
 
 With every limb trembling, every accent of her voice 
 quivering, Florence poured forth her acknowledgements, and 
 assuring him the trouble was nothing, the following Saturday 
 was the day fixed. The intervening time seemed long, for 
 Florence breathed to none the hope that would arise in her 
 own breast. When she again sought Mr. Morton he told her 
 that his opinion of her brother’s genius had increased with 
 every page he read ; that there was not the smallest doubt as 
 to its ultimate success. He candidly stated that the volume 
 was intrinsically vrorth much more than he could well afford 
 to pay, and he thought it would be better for the author to 
 incur a little risk at first than do himself such injustice as to 
 part witli the copyright. To bring the work out as its merits 
 demanded would cost one hundred and fifty pounds. He him- 
 self would risk the hundred, if Mr. Leslie w^ould risk the fifty 
 pounds ; the profits of the first edition should be equally 
 divided between them. 
 
 We will not linger on the emotion of poor Florence at this 
 generous offer. Morton, indeed, needed little in reply ; his 
 
128 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 benevolent nature was more gratified by her simple yet heart- 
 felt acknowledgements than by the most eloquent words. He 
 would call on her brother, he said, that their agreement might 
 be fixed in black and white, smiling at her observation that 
 surely such a step could not be necessary. 
 
 We men of business must have something more palpable 
 than honour, my young friend ; besides, I wish to know this glo- 
 rious minded fellow. You tell me he is ill, so ill that he cannot 
 leave his couch. What is the matter with him ? ’’ Florence’s 
 voice quivered painfully as she replied, but Mr. Morton’s 
 evident sympathy led her not only to relate Walter’s sufferings, 
 but her own secret and long-entertained wish, that he should 
 have better medical advice. A gentleman had entered some 
 little time before, and perceiving Morton was engaged, had 
 begged him to continue his business with the young lady ; and 
 apparently on very intimate terms with the family, threw him- 
 self on an easy chair and took up a book, to which, however, 
 he did not give much attention. 
 
 And this young man is a poet, and by your account, 
 Morton, no common one. I am sorry for it,” was the quaint 
 observation which recalled his presence ; and Florence timidly 
 looked the question, '' Why ? ” 
 
 Because, young lady, too often the mind wears out the 
 frame. The ph3^sician’s skill is less effectual with poets than 
 with any other race ; they are like the pelican feeding their 
 offspring with their own blood, and are then surprised that we 
 can do nothing for them.” 
 
 Perhaps you will go with me. Sir Charles, and see if this 
 young poet be as wilful as others of his craft,” rejoined Mr. 
 Morton, knowing well the character of his visitor, and en- 
 couraged by his nod of assent. 
 
 Florence listened bewildered ; she could scarcely believe that 
 her wildest wishes might be realized, and that the object of her 
 secret longings, the great physician, who, she almost believed, 
 had, under Providence, power to avert death itself, w^ould in- 
 deed visit her brother, and might perhaps restore him to health, 
 as he had so mercifully been permitted to restore others : and 
 Mr. Morton had led her down stairs, had advised her not to 
 tell her brother that a physician would accompany him, fearing 
 to excite him, and had parted from her with the greatest kind- 
 ness, ere she could collect her scattered thoughts sufficiently 
 to arrange and define them. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE CROSS AND CHAIN. — IS THERE NO HOPE? 
 
 It so happened that just at this time Mrs. Leslie was staying 
 with a very aged relation in the country ; and, for one reason, 
 Florence rejoiced that she was absent. As soon as collected 
 thought returned, she began to consider how the necessary 
 fifty pounds could be raised with the least inconvenience, 
 and without calling on her mother. She recollected that from 
 teaching and work, she and Minie had laid aside fifteen pounds 
 for chance demands — debts they had none — and they expected 
 in a few days a good price for some delicate fancy work ; still 
 this would not make up half the sum. The only valuable 
 trinkets she possessed were Lady St. Maur's gifts, the cross 
 and chain, the emeralds in which, she had often been told, 
 were exceedingly rare and valuable ; but how could she part 
 with them? 
 
 She saw, after his first feelings of delight, that Walter, 
 though he said nothing, shrunk painfully from the idea that it 
 might be months before the small sum required from him 
 could be paid. Had he been in health, and so enabled to 
 work himself, these thoughts would have had no power ; but 
 with all the torturing weakness of disease, they haunted him 
 night and day. Florence saw this, and acted accordingly. 
 
 About a week after this arrangement with Mr. Morton, and 
 before he called, she placed a pocket-book containing bank- 
 notes to the specified amount in her brother s hands. 
 
 ‘‘Florence,’' he exclaimed, starting up, the languor of 
 suffering for the moment banished, “ Florence, dearest, how 
 have you done this ? Oh ! do not tell me you have sacrificed 
 Rught of comfort or of personal necessities — weak, selfish, 
 tormenting as disease has made me, I could not bear such a 
 thought — how have you obtained this ? ” 
 
 “ S^uppose I refuse to tell you, Walter ; I think I have some 
 right to enjoy my secret ; will you be satisfied if I solemnly 
 assure you I have sacrificed nothing that was either of use or 
 comfort ? some useless trinkets.” 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 woman’s feiendship. 
 
 Trinkets ! useless trinkets ! Ah, Florence, dearest, how 
 can I bear the thought that you have parted with your few 
 valuables for me ! ” 
 
 You shall give me handsomer, Walter ; I shall expect a 
 casket of gems from the earnings of your first brilliant 
 successful work ; what need of them have I now ? When you 
 raise me to a higher grade, where ornaments are worn, you 
 shall return them to me.” 
 
 She spoke with a smile so fond, that her brother guessed 
 not how, in parting with her only jewel of value, she felt as if 
 even memory had become as powerless as hope, and every link 
 between the past and present snapped for ever. 
 
 My work may give you them, my darling sister, but not 
 Walter,” he answered, faintly ; ‘‘I shall have gone to my long 
 home ere these things may be.” 
 
 Oh, do not, do not say so, Walter ; the reviving spring 
 will soon be here, and relieved as your mind is of this en- 
 grossing wish — oh, you wull live — you will be spared to bless 
 us all.” 
 
 He shook his head mournfully, but kissed her fondly, and 
 changed the subject. 
 
 In a few days Mr. Morton and his friend came. The flush 
 of excitement burned on Walters cheek; his thin hand so 
 trembled, he could hardly sign his name, and the perspiration 
 streamed with the effort from his forehead. Florence had 
 lingered to try and read Sir Charles’s opinion on his counte- 
 nance ; but it would not change, and, unable to bear the 
 deadly faintness of suspense, she glided from the apartment;, 
 satisfied that Minie would supply her place. 
 
 ‘‘You are really premature, my good friend,” Mr. Morton 
 said, as after a lengthened conversation full of the deepest 
 interest and comfort to Walter, he gave the pocket-book, and 
 Morton looked on its contents with surprise. “ There would 
 have been time enough for this, when the book was in print, 
 and circulating. You had better keep this money for little 
 luxuries which an invalid like yourself must need.” 
 
 Walter paused a moment, then saying, “Minie, dear, I 
 wish you would look in my room for the book I wanted to 
 show Mr. Morton. Florence will tell you where it is.” He 
 waited till she left the room, then laying his hand on 
 Mr. Morton’s arm, said expressively, “ Mr. Morton, that hour 
 I shall never see ; let me, then, have the happiness, the relief 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 131 
 
 of feeling that I die leaving no debt as a burden on my poor 
 family ; do not refuse it My own, in truth, it is not, for my 
 devoted sisters have compelled me to accept it for this purpose, 
 simply to relieve my mind of the load that weighed upon it : 
 take it, and I shall feel that I have not an individual care. 
 Your assurance, that in time it must succeed, removes all fear 
 for my sisters ; their generous love will be repaid.” 
 
 Much affected, Morton pressed his hand, and entreated him 
 to set his mind at rest, and not to dwell on such gloomy 
 fancies — he was sure they had no foundation. If Florence 
 had still been in the room, she would not have watched 
 Sir Charles’s expressive countenance in vain : a mournful 
 interest first removed the unimpassioned calm : then strong 
 emotion, and finally he rose from his seat and strode to the 
 window. Kecalled by Morton s question if he could not 
 prescribe for Mr. Leslie, to prevent such a constant recur- 
 rence of excitement ; he asked no question, but hastily wrote 
 a prescription, saying as he did so — 
 
 ‘^This will calm, I wish I could say cure, young man; 
 change your ardent temperament, your throbbing brain, for 
 the matter of fact, the unimpassioned, and health may 
 return.” 
 
 Change ! ” responded Walter, clasping his hands with 
 strong emotion — '^change! — become like the crowd — the 
 hireling herd — that know no emotion but interest, no love but 
 for gold — with no vision of beauty, of truth, of good. No, 
 no; better twenty years of suffering body with mental joy, 
 than seventy of such health and such existence. I would not 
 change ! ” 
 
 But though Florence could not summon sufficient courage 
 to remain while the interview lasted, suspense became so 
 intolerable that she felt as if the most dreaded reality could 
 be better borne. Hardly knowing her own intentions, she 
 waited in a little sitting-room below, till they descended ; 
 then springing forward, she caught hold of Sir Charles’s hand, 
 and looked up in his faee with cheeks and lips perfectly 
 blanched, and every effort to speak died away in indistinct 
 murmurs. Only too well accustomed to such painful scenes, 
 the physician gently led her within the parlour and closed the 
 door ; the action recalled voice, and she gasped forth — 
 
 Oh 1 is there not hope ? will you not save him ? Tell me 
 he will not die ! ” 
 
132 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 My good young lady, life and death are not in the hands 
 of man ; yet it were cruel, unwisely cruel, to give you hope. 
 Your brother’s mind has been his poison — I dare not tell you 
 — he may live.” 
 
 ‘‘ But he will linger — he may be spared us many years yet,” 
 persisted Florence, in the wild accents of one determined 
 against belief. ‘‘It cannot be that he will go now — so young — 
 
 so ^but forgive me,” she added, when the hysterical sobs 
 
 gave way, “ tell me, I am better now — I can bear it — I ought 
 to know, for my poor mother s sake, how long we may call 
 him ours ?” 
 
 The reply was given kindly and carefully ; but what lan- 
 guage, what gentleness may soften the bitter anguish of such 
 words ? Florence heard, and yet she sank not. She bade 
 farewell to those kind friends ; she saw them go, but still she 
 stood as if thought, sense, life itself were frozen ; and then 
 she rushed up stairs into her own room, secured the door, and 
 sinking on her knees, buried her face in the bedclothes, and 
 her slight frame shook beneath its agony. 
 
 Another hour, and that suffering girl was seated by her 
 brother’s couch, holding his hand in hers, and with a marble 
 cheek, but faint, sweet smile, listening to, and sympathising 
 in his lovely dreams of fame. And such is woman, — her tears 
 are with her God, her smile with man ; the heart may break, 
 and who shall know it ? 
 
 Mr. Morton had suggested a frontispiece as an improvement 
 to his book, and Walter’s every energy now turned to the 
 composition of a picture from which the print might be 
 engraven. He had resolved not to put his name to the 
 publication, and therefore felt that a group entitled “ The 
 Poet’s Home” could convey no identity ; and he com- 
 menced his task with an ardour and enjoyment, strangely 
 at variance with the prostrating languor of disease. Who 
 that has watched the workings of the mind and spirit, as the 
 human frame decays, can doubt our immortality ? How can 
 the awful creed of materialism exist with the view of that 
 bright light of mind shining purer and brighter with every 
 hour that brings death nearer ? Life may afford matter for 
 the sceptic and the materialist to weave their fearful theories 
 upon, though we know not how it can ; but let such look on 
 the approach of sure yet lingering death, and how will they 
 retain them then ? 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE poet’s home. — HE DIES. 
 
 News, joyful news, Florence ! I am so glad that you have 
 come at length,” was Minie Leslie’s gleesome greeting to her 
 sister, on her return from her daily duty, about the middle of 
 the month of April. How tired you look ! I do wish you 
 would let me go for you sometimes and she insisted on re- 
 moving Florence’s bonnet and shawl, and forced her to sit 
 down. Florence was indeed weary and dispirited, weighed 
 down by the thought that every morning she left home might 
 be her last look upon her brother. How little did her em- 
 ployers know the burden that she bore, looking on her as an 
 inanimate, harmless girl, well suited for her daily toil, and 
 nothing more ! But weary as she was, she met Minie’s fond 
 kiss with one as fond, and a smile as sweet. 
 
 ‘^And what is this joyous news, Minie dear? Do not play 
 with my curiosity too long.” 
 
 “ Listen, Flory, you shall have it in all the pompous language 
 of the aristocratic Morning Post,” and taking up the paper, 
 she read in mock heroic tones — 
 
 We are truly rejoiced to state that the Right Hon. Edmund 
 Baron St. Maur, and his beautiful and accomplished lady, with 
 their suite, are confidently expected to arrive m England the 
 first week in May : the noble lord’s health, we understand, is 
 so perfectly re-established, that no danger is apprehended from 
 his permanent residence in his native country. We have heard 
 it whispered that for his beneficial exertions in the courts of 
 Italy and Paris, and other diplomatic services, an earldom will 
 be granted him, a dignity seldom so well deserved. For his 
 lady we have only to state, that the extraordinary beauty of 
 the Lady Ida Villiers has not yet faded from the minds of her 
 countrymen, and that the united testimony of the Italian and 
 
134 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 French courts would inform us, if she have lost the charms of 
 girlhood, she has acquired others more dazzling still.” 
 
 “ Now, I should very much like to know who put that puff 
 in. How Lady St. Maur would laugh at it herself ! But is 
 it not delightful she is coming home ? ” 
 
 Florence did not answer, she was leaning over her brother’s 
 couch, and thinking ; oh, what a bright stream of thought 
 came leaping and sparkling over her mind, carrying it back 
 with tlie visions it brought. She felt her brother’s arm thrown 
 round her, and that simple action deprived her of all self- 
 control ; her head sunk on his bosom, and she burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Minie was bewildered, her simple guilelessness could not 
 enter into her sister’s feelings, nor did Mrs. Leslie’s gentle 
 explanation succeed in convincing her that anything like the 
 loss of fortune and a lower station could or ought to affect 
 friendship. In vain were all her mother’s representations of 
 the customs of society — its convenances^ we should say, if a 
 French word may be permitted ; she persisted that in this case 
 they had no weight, and ended by declaring, that if she wxre 
 mistaken, and Lady St. Maur made no exertion to renew her 
 kindness, she would take care how she loved or trusted beyond 
 the hallowed circle of her own home. 
 
 Walter continued to work at his cherished picture as perse- 
 veringly as his waning strength allowed. It represented the 
 interior of a cottage-room, well remembered by Florence as 
 that of her dearly-loved home in Devonshire : a glow, as from 
 a brilliantly setting sun, streamed through the large French 
 window which opened on a view of hill and wood, and distant 
 ocean ; a couch, the draperies of which well harmonized with 
 the lights and shadows of the background, stood as drawn 
 forward, that the breeze of evening might play upon its occu- 
 pant, in whose languid frame and attenuated but most striking 
 features Walter had thrown the characteristic likeness of him- 
 self ; close at his side, employed in arranging flowers in a vase 
 upon a table near them, he had placed Florence ; near them, 
 on her own arm-chair, with one hand laid fondly on the rich 
 golden hair of her younger girl, was his mother — a beautiful 
 likeness — for the son knew so well the character of his mother, 
 no marvel the artist could not fail. Minie’s guitar was in her 
 lap, one hand carelessly sweeping its strings, while her head 
 was thrown back, and her beaming countenance looked up in 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 135 
 
 lier motlier’s face with her own arch mischief-loving smile. 
 The pencil of the artist lingered on these lovely forms, as if 
 each day that whispered his own departure nearer, bound them 
 closer to his heart, and he sought indelibly to join his form and 
 face wdth theirs, leaving them one fond enduring trace, ere he 
 passed away for ever. 
 
 May came with her sweet flowers and reviving breath ; even 
 the environs of the huge metropolis looked smiling in summer, 
 and the air came heated with the flood of warmth and light 
 from the cloudless sun. The season was unusually hot, and 
 Florence, almost to her surprise, felt her daily walks far more 
 w^earisome and exhausting than they had been in the winter. 
 With the heat, Walter’s feverish restlessness increased, often 
 bringing temporary delirium ; but his fancies even then were 
 full of poetry, and love, and hope ; and in those hours of 
 suffering, the presence of Florence seemed so to soothe him 
 that even when his fancy wandered, he was still conscious of 
 her presence. It was not very remarkable that her health 
 began visibly to fail, though so great was her meek endurance; 
 her silent energy, that still uncomplainingly she struggled on, 
 only praying that while Walter needed her care she might not 
 fail. 
 
 And those nights, though exhausting to the frame, were 
 often thrice blessed in their communings with a spirit so soon 
 about to seek that blissful bourne from whence no traveller 
 returns ; when not disabled by fever, his converse was all of 
 heaven, as if its glory and its blessedness were already fully 
 revealed, and as she listened to him, Florence felt as if those 
 words were inspired to be her comfort hereafter. 
 
 There was a time I feared to die for your sakes, my beloved 
 ones,” he said, in one of these communings ; but my God 
 hath been so merciful, my Florence. His spirit hath come to 
 remove these doubts, and lead me to put my whole trust in 
 Him, who my mother first taught mo would provide. Oh ! 
 what a blessing has her religion been to me in this trial ! Tell 
 her this when I am gone ; she cannot bear it now, but it will 
 soothe her then ; tell her, the prayers she taught my infant 
 lips, return when fever prevents all other, and I know that 
 they are heard, they bring such peace.” 
 
 ‘"And have you no wish, my Walter?” 
 
 “ I have no earthly wish, my Florence ; my soul departs, my 
 frame wiU crumble to its parent dust, but the aspirations of 
 
136 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 mind remain; my longing for the good, the beautiful, the 
 infinite, will all be filled in heaven ; and I have no wish, save 
 to linger till my last fond task is done, and perhaps another — 
 but it is such folly — ” 
 
 ‘"Tell it me, dear Walter.” 
 
 “ Let them lay me where grass and flowers may grow above 
 me, Florence ; do not let them cover my grave with the cold 
 flagstones that mark the city tombs — 'tis an idle wish, yet it 
 haunts me. I would rather that children s feet should press 
 the turf, and tiny hands pluck the flowers, than stony walls 
 surround me ; and let them stamp upon the headstone simple 
 words, no laboured epitaph, only that I felt my Father loved 
 me, and so He called me to his throne.” 
 
 And Florence promised ; and though her heart was full of 
 tears, she could not weep. Many scenes of life are holy — the 
 early morn, the twilight hour, the starry night, the rolling 
 storm, the hymn of thousands from the sacred fane, the 
 marriage rite, or funeral dirge ; but none more holy than the 
 chamber of the dying, lingering beside a departing spirit, 
 seeming as if already the angel shone above the mortal, waiting 
 but the eternal summons to wing his flight on high. 
 
 One evening Walter’s couch had been drawn near the open 
 casement, which looked into the garden at the back of the 
 house ; and even the dusty green and scentless flowers, peculiar 
 to the environs of London, were grateful to the poet. He was 
 propped up with pillows, and his hand was yet busy on the 
 canvas, giving the last touches to his picture. 
 
 All was completed but the figure of Minie, Avho was sitting 
 in the required attitude ; but it was well he had not 
 waited till that moment to give the joyous expression he so 
 much loved. 
 
 An hour passed, and no movement, no sound disturbed 
 that little party : the hand of the artist moved languidly, 
 but still it moved, and the concluding touches started into life 
 beneath it. Sometimes his eyes would close, and then, after 
 a brief interval of rest, reopen to look upon his task. 
 
 Florence had not yet returned, having gone out of her way 
 to purchase some fresh flowers, as was her custom every third 
 day, in spite of Walter s remonstrances : the intense delight 
 which they always gave him was too visible to permit any 
 cessation of the indulgence ; that she deprived herself of many 
 little necessaries, and, exhausted and weary, never rode to her 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 137 
 
 pupils, that she might save to purchase luxuries for him, he 
 never knew. She often recalled Emily Melford s horror of exer- 
 tion, and half smiled at the widely different meanings that 
 word bore in their respective vocabularies ; but a bitter feeling 
 mingled with the smile at her own credulity in Emily’s pro- 
 fession of interest and regard : from the day she had sought 
 her to the present moment, a full year, she had rested as silent 
 and indifferent as before. 
 
 As Florence came within sight of the bay-windows of her 
 house, she fancied that she could distinguish the figure of 
 Walter, looking down the road, as if watching her return. 
 She was surprised, because, since his increasing illness, they 
 had changed their apartments from the front to the back 
 sitting-room, in order to give him more quiet and fresh air 
 than the dusty road afforded. What he could be doing there 
 she could not conceive, for even if he were anxious for her 
 return, and wished to watch for her, he surely had not suffi- 
 cient strength to walk from one room to another, and there 
 remain standing so that she could distinguish his full figure. 
 Hope flashed on her heart that he was better. Some extra- 
 ordinary change must have taken place, and he might yet 
 live ! Oh, what a sudden thrill came with that fond 
 thought ! and she hurried, almost ran the intervening space. 
 Breathless she entered the house, and sprang up the 
 staircase. 
 
 ‘^What, settled again so soon at your drawing, dearest 
 Walter, and only a minute ago I saw you beckoning me from 
 the next room — how could you stand there so long ?” 
 
 Mrs. Leslie put her finger on her lips. '^You have been 
 strangely deceived, my love; Walter has not quitted this room 
 nor this posture for some hours. Come softly, I think he 
 sleeps.” 
 
 No word, no cry passed the lips of Florence, although a 
 pang, sharp as if every drop of blood was turned to ice, 
 curdled through her frame. She knew she was not deceived. 
 As surely as she now looked on him, she felt she had seen him 
 smile, as if to bid her hasten home, not ten minutes before, 
 and with a fleet and noiseless step she stood beside him. The 
 pencil was still within his hand, but it moved no longer on the 
 canvas — the eyes were closed, the lips were parted ; she bent 
 down her head and pressed her lips upon his brow — it was 
 marbly cold. 
 
138 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 ‘^Walter!” she shrieked, for in that dread moment she knew 
 not what she did. ‘‘Walter — my brother — speak to me — look 
 on me again !” 
 
 For a moment she stood as if waiting for the look, the voice 
 she called ; then, pressing her hands wildly to her brow, sought 
 to collect thought, energy, control, for her poor mother’s 
 sake — but all, all failed — and for the first time in her life, she 
 sunk down in a deep and death-like swoon. 
 
Daqe 138 . 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE EETUEH TO ENGLAND. — A HAPPY WIPE. — THE FAMILY 
 MEETING. 
 
 That same evening, nay, the same hour, which shook from its 
 mourning pinions such heavy sorrow on that lowly home, came 
 radiant with sunshine and glee, and the voice of mirth and 
 song and welcome, to Lord Edgemere’s stately mansion in St. 
 James’s. 
 
 Lord and Lady St. Maur had that day arrived in England, 
 and Lord Edgemere, with his usual hospitality, had invited 
 every relative or connection on either side, to give them 
 welcome. There were very many to whom Lord and Lady St. 
 Maur had to be introduced, for births and marriages had 
 multiplied the circle ; nor were their own three lovely children 
 less objects of attraction than themselves. 
 
 Surely if there be real joy on earth, it is found in the hour 
 of meeting — alloy, indeed, it must have, for few are the hearts 
 on whom five years may pass and leave no trace ; but to Lady 
 St. Maur it was perfect as earth can make it. She had left 
 England anxious and sorrowing ; not knowing even if the 
 beloved one, to whom she had pledged her maiden heart, 
 might even then be spared to claim her as his own. 
 
 She returned a happy wife, a doting mother — not a death 
 had snatched away one whom she had left behind, and the 
 hour of meeting was not one to call up the cold doubt and 
 dark mistrust as to the permanence and truth of the profes- 
 sions which it elicited. Single-hearted, truthful, the very 
 child of nature herself. Lady St. Maur felt only happiness, 
 rejoicing in seeing again around her familiar faces, and yet 
 more familiar things. The very pride, the very coldness for 
 which she had been so often blamed, when her engagement 
 had been the theme of every tongue, were now no longer 
 visible ; and some there were who could scarcely have recog- 
 nised in the Baroness St. Maur the Lady Ida Viliiers of former 
 years. 
 
140 
 
 WOMANS FKIENDSHIP. 
 
 So, I am to be one of the family, though claiming not tho 
 tenth part of a Scotch cousinship with any one here present,’' 
 was the bluff greeting of Sir Charles Brashleigh, as he entered 
 ^^Lord Edgemere, you are always kind, but to-night kinder 
 than ever. Where’s the rebel whom I exiled five years ago ? 
 Baron St. Maur, stand forth ! Hey, what, do you mean to 
 impose yourself on me for my patient, young man ? Pshaw I 
 you are in far too good condition for me to claim acquaintance 
 with you,” he continued, laughing, as Lord St. Maur, his mother, 
 and wife hastened from their respective circles and crowded 
 round him. 
 
 Indeed, Sir Charles, instead of rebellious, I claim a reward 
 for submission, patience, and a whole host of saintly virtues,” 
 was the joyous reply. '^Here have I been perfectly well for 
 three full years, and yet in simple obedience to your command 
 remained in Italy, when my whole heart was in my own 
 country.” 
 
 Ida is extremely obliged to you, Edmund,” mischievously 
 interposed Alfred Melford. 
 
 So much so,” said Lady Ida, that I will expose him. Sir 
 Charles, give him no particle of credit for obedience ; he has 
 been quite as impatient, and rebellious, and disloyal as you 
 can possibly fancy; it is only to me and Lady Helen that your 
 praise is in any way due.” 
 
 ^'Is it so, fair lady? Your lord does look somewhat guilty, 
 I must confess. However, as he has brought me back some 
 pound or two more of flesh, and a proper shade of colour, we 
 will be merciful, and pronounce that, voluntarily or not, he 
 has kept the term of exile well. Lady Helen, Italy has been 
 the elixir of life to you. If I want to grow young, I will go 
 there too. Lady St. Maur, by the way, I believe six or seven 
 years ago you and I were sworn foes ; are we friends now ? 
 Now, do not look so prettily bewildered ; there w^as a time 
 when a fair girl w^anted to marry a dying man, and sacrifice 
 her bloom and her joy in nursing him, and I, like a monster of 
 cruelty, placed my ban upon it^ and, under Providence, saved 
 both. Am I forgiven ? I do not think we ever shook hands 
 at parting.” 
 
 Now I will return good for evil. Sir Charles, and pray you 
 to forgive her,” answered her husband fondly, as Lady St. 
 Maur placed both hands in those of Sir Charles, and looked up 
 in his face without speaking, save through her glistening eyes. 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 141 
 
 “ If you knew how often she has repented her injustice, and 
 spoken of your skill, as, under Heaven, the author of her joy.’’ 
 
 “There, then, is the kiss of peace,” replied Sir Charles, 
 suiting the action to the word, and bending his lips to her 
 brow, adding joyously, “You are a happy fellow, Edmund! 
 but where are your children ? Ah ! Lady Helen is bringing 
 them. How strange their grandmammas think of those things 
 more than mammas ! ” and after playfully caressing them, he 
 <3ontinued, “Lady St. Maur, as your husband left his heart in 
 England, though you were by his side, has the dolce far niente 
 of Italy retained any part of yours ? ” 
 
 “ Not the hundredth part of a particle, Sir Charles. I have 
 been too happy not to love Italy ; but give me England for a 
 home.” 
 
 “Well, if I could be transported to Italy without any 
 trouble, its dolce far niente must be heaven upon earth,” said 
 Emily Melford, so gravely, and with so deep a sigh, as to cause 
 a burst of laughter round her. Sir Charles Brashleigh singled 
 her out on the instant, and greeted her by a mock heroic bow. 
 
 “ The Honourable Miss Emily Melford absolutely trans- 
 planted from the blue and buff chaise longue of Belgrave- 
 square ! Young lady, I give you all the joy you will take the 
 trouble to receive. What miracle has wrought this change ? ” 
 
 Lady St. Maur looked at him, surprised, and going to the 
 sofa where her cousin sat, put her arm affectionately round her. 
 
 “Not very wonderful. Sir Charles, considering Emily has 
 not seen me so long. I find nothing very remarkable about 
 her, except — ” 
 
 “ Except that she is looking better and stouter than when 
 you left,” interrupted the physician, slily. 
 
 “ Sir Charles, good looks are not always the criterion of 
 good health,” answered Emily, pettishly. “ That you do not 
 consider me worthy of your' attention, is no proof I do not 
 require medical care — you will do nothing for me.” 
 
 “ Because, my good young lady, you can do more for your- 
 self, and I never take fees where I cannot cure. As for the 
 dolce far niente of Italy, you need not go so far to find it, for 
 I rather believe it is discoverable in a certain boudoir in 
 Bclgrave-square. ” 
 
 “ Emily, how can you let Sir Charles laugh at you in this 
 manner ?” exclaimed her brother; “I would rather go to work 
 >six hours in every twelve.” 
 
142 
 
 ■woman’s friendship. 
 
 Do you not know, Frederick, Emily is proverbially good- 
 natured, and would not interrupt anybody’s amusement, even 
 at her own expense ? ” 
 
 You should rather admire than blame me, Mary.” 
 
 So I do, my dear ! I like everybody to be happy in their 
 own way.” 
 
 Happy ! Do you mean to tell me I am happy, Mary ? ” 
 
 Indeed, I know no person who ought to be happier than 
 yourself, Emily. My dear Ida, you look as if you did not 
 understand this at all, you will learn all in time.” 
 
 I hope I shall, Mary,” she replied, laughing ; ^^but what is 
 the matter with Emily, and why is she the universal object of 
 attack ? ” 
 
 ‘"Because nobody chooses to believe I am ill, Ida; but never 
 mind me for the present ! ” 
 
 Lady St. Maur looked earnestly at her cousin ; and that 
 look recalled the former years, when, in spite of many follies, 
 Emily would have shrunk with horror from the selfishness, the 
 indolence, of which she had now become the unresisting victim. 
 
 “What can keep Frank Howard so late?” observed Lord 
 Edgemere, as a pause in the conversation around him joermitted 
 the remark. “ Henry, did you tell him we expected him ? ” 
 
 His son replied in the affirmative, and Lord St. Maur 
 inquired — 
 
 “By the way, Frank is in the House, is he not? Has he 
 distinguished himself ? ” 
 
 “ Truly, yes ; an eloquent impassioned youngster, I under- 
 stand, who carries all along with him.” 
 
 “ I am glad of it ; he is so peculiarly situated, from the 
 misanthropy and cold selfishness of his father, that I have 
 quite felt for him. It is hard upon a young man to have no 
 friend, no relative in his public career.” 
 
 “ Friends, St. Maur ! why he has gained as many as Lord 
 Glenvylle’s strange conduct lost.” 
 
 “ Is Glenvylle still as complete a cynic as he was in Paris ?” 
 
 “ If possible, more so ; he seems to hold converse with none 
 but his steward, except when he takes the fancy of holding a 
 solemn dinner, which defend me from ever attending again.” 
 
 “And can anvone explain the mystery about him — who was 
 he?” ^ ^ ^ 
 
 “ In his youth, I believe, merely a private gentleman’s son, 
 and a great spendthrift, squandering money, and I fancy repu- 
 
woman’s friendship. 143 
 
 tation, on the Continent, till he became a disgrace to his name, 
 and his father nearly ruined himself in changing it.” 
 
 ‘‘ How does he treat his son — kindly ?” 
 
 I really cannot tell, but I fancy, capriciously ; sometimes 
 a father, sometimes a tyrant, according to his mood. Frank 
 does not want for money, or any of the appurtenances of his 
 station, though Glenvylle is mean and miserly to himself ; and 
 as for uttering one word regarding his father, except in terms 
 of the deepest respect, I believe he would rather die. Where 
 Frank’s warmth of heart and ingenuousness sprang from, I 
 cannot fancy.” 
 
 Perhaps from his mother — who was she ? ” 
 
 One of the Duke of Beaumont’s daughters ; she died soon 
 after Frank’s birth. People have whispered of a broken heart, 
 from discoveries made by her husband when he was under the 
 temporary delirium of fever.” 
 
 Unwilling to make this conversation general. Lord St. Maur 
 turned it into a more desultory channel ; and not long after- 
 wards, young Howard made his appearance, even more ani- 
 mated than usual. 
 
 I suppose, Master Frank, as you saw us two years ago in 
 Eome, you have made no manner of exertion to welcome us to 
 England? I am half inclined not to speak to you,” said 
 Lady St. Maur, sportively, as, after warmly greeting her hus- 
 band, he eagerly advanced towards her. You have not the 
 shadow of an excuse : the House does not meet to-night ; and 
 even if it did, we arrived here early enough for you to have 
 greeted us five hours ago. Do you deserve my mercy ? ” 
 
 “ I will bear any sentence your ladyship may pronounce,” 
 replied the young man, gaily, if on hearing my tale you still 
 deem it deserved. I would not gratify myself by seeing you, 
 till I could bring my sovereign’s greetings in addition to my 
 own. I have been in and out the herald’s office the whole day, 
 to the no small annoyance of its worthy functionaries ; and 
 only now obtained what I wanted. Here, Melford, read out 
 for the good of the public,” he added joyously, throwing the 
 Gazette into Alfred Melford’s outstretched hand; ‘"and to you, 
 my lord,” he said, giving a large sealed packet to Lord St. 
 Maur, '‘my office is to present this. Never say that her 
 Majesty knows not how to discern merit and reward it, but 
 cry God bless the Queen, and long life to the Earl and Countess 
 St. Maur.” 
 
CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 EXCUSES FOR INDOLENCE. — THE FRIEND SEEKS HER FRIEND. 
 
 For several weeks a complete whirl of gaiety absorbed the 
 time of the newly-created Earl and Countess. It was not only 
 the very height of the London season, when levees and 
 drawing-rooms continually recurring compelled their atten- 
 dance, but their long absence from England occasioned a wider 
 round of visiting than was customary even to the gayest of 
 the aristocracy. Friends, relatives, family connections, all 
 poured in upon them with hospitality and proffered kindness ; 
 and yet with all this the Earl found time to attend not only 
 to his new office in the royal cabinet, but to literary pursuits, 
 and yet have his children with him for two or three hours in 
 the day as usual ; and Lady St. Maur found leisure to read, 
 as was her invariable custom, with her husband, that is to say, 
 to read what he read, to make extracts from black-lettered 
 folios, if he had not time, and withal attend to her children ; 
 delighting in giving her little girls those first instructions 
 which many mothers leave to hirelings. She had time, too, 
 to enter into the interests of all her friends; to perceive with 
 real regret the state of nervous irritability into which Emily 
 Melford had fallen ; and more, still to think of and long to 
 know something certain concerning the young girl who had so 
 interested her just before she had quitted England. The 
 belief that Florence did not write that extraordinary letter, 
 and that in consequence she had some secret enemy, had 
 gained such powerful influence over Lady St. Maur’s mind, 
 that, though never spoken, she could not shake it off. But 
 how to obtain this information ? In the midst of her gaieties, 
 her domestic pleasures, her many claims, still she found herself 
 repeatedly thinking of Florence, and turning over every 
 scheme, practicable or impracticable, for discovering her, 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 145 
 
 without, however, any prospect of success ; till one morning, 
 about two months after her arrival in England, Alfred Melford 
 casually mentioned his having seen her former favourite, 
 Florence Leslie, the year previously, but so altered ! 
 
 Altered repeated Lady St. Maur ; if you could only 
 find her for me, Alfred, I should be very grateful.’’ 
 
 I wish I could, cousin mine ; but I do not know how. I 
 am sure she needed friends, poor girl ! and Emily might have 
 served her, if she had not thought so much of trouble.” 
 
 I really do not know what you mean, Alfred,” replied his 
 his sister, languidly. '' Would you have had me go about in- 
 quiring who among my friends wanted a governess, for one of 
 whom, after all, I know so little 
 
 ‘‘ A governess ?” repeated the Countess in painful surprise. 
 
 Emily, why did you not tell me this ? I have more than 
 once asked you lately if you knew anything of her, and you 
 have always answered in the negative.” 
 
 Because I do not know anything of her now ; it is ages 
 ago since she called at our house to know if we would recom- 
 mend her, as she was obliged to teach; and of course I thought 
 that you must know that.” 
 
 Know it ! how ?” 
 
 Why, did she not correspond with you ?” 
 
 “ I told you I had not heard from her for some time ; she 
 never answered my letter to her on her father s death.” 
 
 "‘Because she never received it,” interposed Alfred. “Emily 
 carelessly mislaid it for so long, that when it was found she 
 destroyed it as useless. I advised her to tell you, which of 
 course she never did. And would you believe it ? she heard 
 of a situation which would exactly have suited poor Florence, 
 and which the simple exertion of taking a ten minutes’ drive 
 would have secured her, and yet she would not make the 
 exertion to obtain it.” 
 
 “Well, what can it signify ; she has a situation, and what 
 more could I have done for her ? I told her I should be glad 
 to see her whenever she liked to come ; and as she never has 
 come, I suppose she does not care enough about us.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Emily ! very likely a girl of Miss Leslie’s sensi- 
 tiveness should come forward to seek our acquaintance, with 
 such an indefinite invitation 1” angrily responded Melford. 
 
 “You have a wonderful knowledge of Miss Leslie’s character, 
 Alfred,” retorted Emily, maliciously. “ Any one would sup- 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 pose her pale face and pensive smile had made an extraordinary 
 impression.” 
 
 ‘‘Emily, you are a fool!” he began, but, softened by the 
 Countess’s beseeching “ Alfred 1” added, more quietly, “ A face 
 paled by evident anxiety and suffering, and a smile so changed 
 from its joyousness, could not fail of making an impression.” 
 
 “Is she indeed so altered?” inquired Lady St. Maur. 
 “ But do you know why she was obliged to go out ? I knew 
 Mr. Leslie was not rich, but I fancied his children provided for.” 
 
 “ So perhaps they might have been, but I believe some 
 unfortunate lawsuit, which Mr. Leslie did not live to complete, 
 ruined them ; but I must go. I wish you could convince 
 Emily that, however she may think indolence no sin in itself, 
 it occasions the commission of too many to be disregarded ; 
 and there is the first moral axiom my giddy brain ever threw 
 into words. Fearing my next speech should counteract it, 
 good-bye.” 
 
 “ He is exceedingly annoying ; I wonder what has come 
 over him?” observed his sister, on his departure. “Anyone 
 would think he was turning saint.” 
 
 “ Why ? because he happened to say the truth ? Alfred 
 has excellent feelings and high religious principles, though 
 happily for himself, he can conceal them from those who would 
 laugh him out of them.” 
 
 “ Do you mean to say that he is right, then ? I often 
 console myself with the idea, that by not going out I escape 
 from those fashionable follies which so many make the sum of 
 their existence.” 
 
 “You have tried the school of comparative solitude for the 
 last two years, my dear Emily ; but tell me, are you the same 
 happy, mirthful being you were when I left England ?” 
 
 For a few minutes Emily paused, touched by Ida’s affec- 
 tionate tone, and then, with a sudden burst of natural feeling, 
 she exclaimed — 
 
 “ Ida, I will answer you, for I believe you are my truest 
 friend; and perhaps if you had never left me, I should scarcely 
 have sunk so low as I am now. I am miserable. I feel 
 chained down by a dead weight which I cannot cast aside. I 
 have no energy, no power, and must remain a useless burden 
 for tlie remainder of my days.” 
 
 “Do not say so, Emily ; but tell me, what first induced you 
 to fly the world ?” 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 147 
 
 “ Oh ! it is not worth yonr hearing. Do you remember my 
 telling you I meant to throw off all restraint, from having had 
 thirteen years of school discipline, and seek only my own 
 pleasure ? I see you do, and also your own prophetic answer 
 — for literally I am one of the most disagreeable selfish beings 
 in the universe. Well, I adhered to my words — I read nothing 
 but the lightest and most frivolous novels ; did nothing but 
 make and receive visits. I thought the weeks horribly long, 
 and insufferably dull, if one night passed without a party. I 
 danced, flirted, waltzed, with little cessation through the 
 season. I had many disagreeable entanglements, but still 
 there was excitement in getting out of them; and then I 
 fancied that I loved three or four times — and one, the last, 
 heigho ! if he had but been rich, I might have been a different 
 being ; for the poor fellow did love me, and I did not treat 
 him well — but that has little to do with my story. I mingled 
 only with the heartless, the cold, the worldly; all that appeared 
 good I believed to be hypocrisy. I do not know now what 
 stopped me in this headlong career ; perhaps it was hearing 
 that the — the — young man, to whom I referred just now, and 
 whom my coquetry and ill-usage had compelled to exchange 
 his regiment for one going to India, was drowned on his 
 passage ; but I awoke as from a hideous dream — all my past 
 excitement looked like grinning shadows. I seemed to be 
 standing on a precipice, overhanging a gulf of perdition, into 
 which but one step more would plunge me everlastingly, and I 
 shuddered and turned back ! but with a shock so violent that 
 I inwardly vowed never to enter such scenes again. Of course, 
 the fever of excitement ended in bodily exhaustion, and its 
 horrible void ; for I was never very strong, and then I imagined 
 myself ill, and it was a good excuse for changing my mode of 
 life, and so I encouraged it till I really had no power to do 
 otherwise. And now you know my whole story, and you must 
 see that I have more excuse for indolence and solitude than 
 most people have.” 
 
 '' You have indeed told me a sad story, Emily ; but I 
 cannot come to the same conclusion. Why, to escape from 
 faults of commission, do you run headlong into those of 
 omission and neglect ? Why not rather seek better and 
 nobler sources of enjoyment and exertion ?” 
 
 Where can I find them ? I do think unmarried women 
 
 L 2 
 
148 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 tlie most useless, miserable beings in existence ! they have no 
 call for exertion, nothing to interest them.” 
 
 ‘^Have you lost all the power of affection, Emily?” 
 
 ‘‘My dear Ida, surely now you do not speak with your 
 usual wisdom. What can mamma or papa want with me ? 
 what can I do for them, or even feel for them, to fill up this 
 craving void ? And as for Georgiana, really she would laugh 
 at the idea of my requiring her affection, or feeling any for 
 her. Friend ! there is no such thing in the London world.” 
 
 “For heaven’s sake, my dear Emily, do not make such 
 sweeping assertions ! If you are bereft of common feeling, of 
 course my arguments can have little weight ; but you might 
 have made a friend — Florence.” 
 
 “ Do not speak of Florence, Ida : I would not have Alfred 
 know it, because he torments me quite enough ; but I will tell 
 you that her note, though it simply thanked my intended 
 kindness, and said she no longer needed it, caused such painful 
 feelings that I destroyed it, for I could not bear to think of or 
 look at it.” 
 
 “And you have no remembrance at all of her address ?” 
 
 “ No ; but I think I kept the name and address of the lady 
 with whom she said she was going to reside ; for while tha 
 stinging self-reproach lasted, I thought if I heard of anything 
 more advantageous, I would write to her ; but that idea, of 
 course, only lasted till conscience was silenced, two days 
 afterwards. How you, with all your new interests and 
 affections, can have still time and inclination to bestow a 
 thought on one whom you knew so short a time, I cannot 
 understand ; you certainly are an extraordinary person. I 
 wish I were more like you, but I was not so constituted ; I 
 cannot help my nature.” 
 
 How many there are in the world like Emily Melford, who 
 never fail to drown the still small voice of conscience by the 
 consoling reflection, it is not themselves but their constitution 
 at fault ; that they cannot help themselves, and therefore 
 make no exertion so to do. 
 
 For a wonder, Emily kept her promise. The following 
 morning came Mrs. EusselFs direction, and the Countess 
 wrote immediately, requesting to know if a young lady of the 
 name of Florence Leslie still resided with Mrs. Russell, as 
 governess ; or, if she had left, she would feel really obliged for 
 any information concerning her which Mrs. RusseU could 
 bestow* 
 
CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 TO PROVE INNOCENCE AND RELIEVE SUFPERING IS NOT A 
 NEEDLESS EXERTION. 
 
 Several days elapsed before Lady St. Maur received any 
 answer to her note, and when the reply did come, it contained 
 little satisfactory. 
 
 “ Mrs. RusselFs compliments to the Countess St. Maur, and 
 begs to inform her ladyship that a young person of the name 
 of Florence Leslie did reside with her a few months, as 
 governess ; but having discovered she had been grossly de- 
 oeived, and that the person in question was very unfit for 
 such a responsible situation, Mrs. Russell was compelled to 
 dismiss her directly, and knows nothing more concerning her 
 or her family.” 
 
 This was such strong confirmation of previous reports, that 
 Lady St. Maur’s secret hopes fell ; yet still she was not 
 satisfied, and while sitting in painful perplexity, Lady Mary 
 Villiers and Alfred Melford chanced to call in. What is the 
 matter, Ida ? Anxiety in the upper house, yclept the nursery? 
 Any of the ladies or lords there not as well as their mamma 
 thinks they ought to be ?” was the former’s lively greeting, 
 which the Countess answered by putting Mrs. Russell’s note 
 into her hand, adding, with a smile, am not at all the 
 fanciful mamma you would make me, Mary ; my children are 
 all well, and I value the blessing rather too thankfully to alloy 
 it by imagining them otherwise without just cause.” 
 
 ‘"And yet you worry yourself about such a trifle as this. 
 My dear Ida, I shall hate the very name of Florence Leslie, if 
 
150 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 it is to annoy you in this manner ! What can she be to you^ 
 that you cannot dismiss her from your mind, believing her, as 
 everybody else does, no longer worthy of your regard ? This 
 note does but confirm what you already know. 
 
 ‘^What can you possibly mean?” exclaimed Melford, in- 
 dignantly. Florence Leslie unworthy of Ida’s regard ? She 
 is no more unworthy of it than I am, if as much. What can 
 you mean ?” 
 
 They told him, but he was only the more indignant. It 
 is all some specious lie — I beg your pardon, Ida, for the word ; 
 I have seen Miss Leslie later than either of you, and I would 
 stake my reputation that no more sin or shame lies on that 
 heart than on either of those I have the honour of now 
 addressing. Go yourself to this Mrs. Eussell, Ida; I dare say' 
 she has invented this tale to excuse her dismissal of poor 
 Florence, because she was too good for her.” 
 
 Strange then it should so exactly agree with the previous 
 rumours,” replied Lady Mary, who, without any malice or 
 envy, had yet some secret jealousy that such an unknown 
 person should have any part of her friend’s interest or regard. 
 
 What can Ida’s taking so much trouble do, except to annoy 
 her yet more ! ” 
 
 ‘‘Lady Mary, you are too prejudiced for me. My cousin 
 Ida will not give up this poor girl without sufficient cause. Go 
 to Mrs. Russell, Ida, make her tell you more particulars ; or if 
 you do not like to do so, authorize me, and I will get out the 
 truth, you may depend.” 
 
 “ Thank you, my good cousin, but I will go myself. My 
 dear Mary, do not look so much annoyed ; you know I told 
 you, years ago, if I found Florence worthy of my regard she 
 should have it still.” 
 
 “ But she is not worthy, and that is what annoys me.” 
 
 “ How do I know that she is not ? Rumour never weighs 
 a breath with me ; I must have positive proofs of guilt before 
 I will believe it, and I care not what trouble it costs to dis- 
 cover the truth. Still not satisfied, Mary ? You cannot be 
 so altered as to envy that poor friendless girl the trifling 
 happiness of my unchanged regard.” 
 
 “ I know I am very selfish, dearest Ida, but you must forgive 
 me ; I value your love so highly than I cannot bear to see it 
 unworthily bestowed,” said Lady Mary, frankly kissing the 
 
•woman's friendship. 151 
 
 Countess affectionately as she spoke ; and, after hearing what 
 we have heard, I think — " 
 
 ‘‘You think I might just as well be satisfied with the 
 friends I have, and not seek others ; is it not so ? And so 
 leave poor Florence to her fate, guilty or not guilty. Such is 
 not quite my idea of woman's friendship. No, Mary, to prove' 
 innocence and relieve sufiering can never be the needless 
 exertion you wish me to suppose it." 
 
 Still Lady Mary was not quite convinced. In fact, Alfred 
 Melford was the only one who gave the Countess encourage- 
 ment ill her benevolence. The Earl himself, and Lady Helen, 
 though generally the last to entertain anything approaching 
 to prejudice, still imagined the fancy of two persons having 
 names so exactly similar, and moving in the same scenes, much 
 too romantic to be entertained a moment. They did not 
 indeed say much ; but what is there more painfully chilling 
 than to read doubt and want of sympathy in those whose 
 approval we long for, as robing our cherished plans with an 
 importance which of themselves they never can obtain. It so 
 happened, just about this time that, in inquiring amongst 
 various jewellers for a rare stone, to replace one which had 
 fallen from Lady St. Maur's bracelet, Alice had perceived, and 
 instantly recognised, the identical cross and chain which her 
 lady had presented to Miss Leslie. Knowing how anxious the 
 Countess was to discover some trace of Florence, she asked 
 many questions as to how and where that trinket had been 
 obtained. Mr. Danvers could tell her little, except that he 
 had purchased it some months ago of a young lady who was 
 in mourning, and wore so thick a veil that he could not even 
 discern her countenance ; but by the tone of her voice, he was 
 sure she was a lady. Lady St. Maur, without hesitation, re- 
 purchased it, satisfying herself it was the identical jewel by 
 touching the spring (of whose existence the jeweller was 
 unconscious), and the letters 1. V. to F. L. were still distinctly 
 visible, but the braid of hair was gone. 
 
 Lady Mary was indignant that Florence could ever have 
 sold the trinket ; she could not imagine any distress so great 
 as to demand such a sacrifice, and if she really were so 
 distressed, why did she not do as Ida had desired her, write 
 and ask her promised influence ; that she did not w^as a still 
 stronger proof of her unworthiness ; besides, how could they 
 be sure that it was not individual imprudence instead of 
 
152 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 family distress which had compelled its sale ? The Earl and 
 Lady Helen said nothing ; but Ida felt that their opinions 
 sided with Lady Mary’s, and though her own heart still 
 defended Florence, she half shrunk from pursuing her 
 inquiries, lest the truth should indeed he such as to demand 
 the relinquishing of all her generous plans and kindly feelings. 
 Alfred Melford, however, persisted in his assertion of Florence’s 
 entire innocence, and the visit to Mrs. Russell, which he so 
 urgently advised, was, in consequence, no longer deferred. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 ALFRED MELFORD EXERTS HIMSELF. — LADY MARY ALTERS HER 
 OPmOK. — THE UNKHOWH MUSICIAN. 
 
 Well, what news, fair cousin ? ” exclaimed young Melford, 
 galloping up to Lady St. Maur s carriage, half-way between 
 Norwood and London, and checking his horse to a speaking 
 pace. 
 
 ‘‘ Bad ! ’’ replied Lady Mary, mischievously. Ida has only 
 had reports confirmed.’’ 
 
 Of course, that I expected from Mrs. Russell’s note ; but 
 are you satisfied, Ida ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Not at all, I am as far from the truth as ever ; except 
 that Florence positively denied the charge.” 
 
 “ Hurrah then, victory ! ” exclaimed Melford, joyously. 
 
 And Mrs. Russell — ” 
 
 “ Is much too prejudiced a person for assertions to have any 
 weight, even I acknowledge,” said Lady Mary, frankly. 
 
 “ But what did she say ? ” 
 
 “ Only what we already know,” replied the Countess ; “ she 
 went on a visit to her friends in Hampshire, was of course 
 questioned as to her new governess, heard all the reports, and 
 without deigning a single question as to whether or not 
 Florence was the person supposed, dismissed her on the 
 instant. Of course, her story to me was very precise, and very 
 plausible : but I give you its interpretation.” 
 
 “ Have you any clue to Miss Leslie’s present residence ? ” 
 
 “ I fear none. Mrs. Ptussell thought she lived at Peckham 
 or Camberwell, but could not pretend to say ; the less she had 
 to do with such a person, she thought, the better.” 
 
 “ I will find her, if I call at every house in both these 
 places,” muttered Melford. 
 
154 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 prove her innocence, or deny my penetration a 
 triumph, Mr. Melford ? ” demanded Lady Mary, archly. 
 
 f<To prove,” he replied, so gravely, almost reproachfully, 
 that Lady Mary felt unconsciously rebuked, how much more 
 kindly and justly woman is judged by man than by her o\vn 
 sex.” 
 
 ‘^You forget Ida and the Earl,” replied Lady Mary, 
 rallying. 
 
 Ida is incapable of so petty a feeling as prejudice. Even 
 if she had not known Florence, her judgment would be the 
 same as it is now. The Earl never knew Miss Leslie, and is 
 annoyed that the very shadow of a doubt should rest on any 
 one in whom his wife is interested.” 
 
 You are a barrister, Mr. Melford, and will of course make 
 your cause good,” answered Lady Mary, jestingly ; but if the 
 truth must be written, she was not quite pleased, having just 
 that sort of lurking inclination towards young Melford which 
 made her feel annoyed that any other w^oman should so occupy 
 his thoughts. 
 
 Melford kept his word. Every hour he could snatch from 
 his studies he devoted to his cousin’s service, and at length 
 succeeded in discovering the lodging at Camberwell which Mrs. 
 Leslie had occupied, but to his great disappointment, it was 
 then untenanted. From the landlady, however, he heard 
 much to deepen his interest in the search, Mrs. Everett had 
 become so attached to her lodgers that, with the garrulity 
 of her class, she poured forth all they had encountered from 
 sickness and privation ; and how the young ladies had w’orked 
 to pay her rent, and prevent bills running on ; and how the 
 young gentleman had painted the beatifullest pictures, and 
 wrote such fine poetry, that she used to listen and listen, and 
 the words were so grand-like, yet so simple, they made her feel 
 as her Bible did. Poor young gentleman,” she continued, 
 ^‘he was almost an angel before he died; and I am sure he i& 
 one now!” and she put up her apron to her eyes. 
 
 Died ! ” repeated young Melford. ‘‘ Has there been a 
 death lately in the family, then ? ” 
 
 Bless your kind heart, yes, sir; and that was for why the 
 poor lady, his mother, and her daughters left me. Natural 
 like, they could not bear to remain where everything reminded 
 them of him ; for I never saw such love as existed between 
 ^em all. I am sure the poor young man killed himself. Why, 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 155 
 
 bless you, he used at one time to sit up half the night writing 
 those fine poems ; and then he got ill. Miss Leslie was out as 
 a governess then, and never knew how ill her poor brother was 
 till he was a little better, and she came home suddenly, and 
 when she got a little over her own misfortunes — for between 
 you and me, sir, I think that good-for-nothing hard woman 
 with whom she had lived had said something very shameful 
 about her character, almost taking it from her, when, bless 
 you, she was innocent as a lamb, so good and religious, and 
 devoted to her family. She could no more have acted as they 
 said she did than I could, and it was so cruel to say she was 
 a bad girl, and so deprive her of bread.’’ 
 
 I knew it was a lie ! ” Melford burst forth at this point, to 
 Mrs. Everett’s great surprise. 
 
 La, sir ! your startle me. Howsomdever, perhaps it was 
 all the happier for her to be at home, when her poor brother 
 was so weak and ill ; but she used to go and teach every day 
 nearly two miles off, trudged through hail and rain, cold and 
 snow, when she would shake again from weakness, and perhaps 
 sitting up the greater part of the night ; and when I begged 
 her not, she used to say, with such a sweet smile, it made my 
 heart ache, ‘ Who is to pay your rent, dear Mrs. Everett, if I 
 do not work ; and how can we be unjust to you, when you are 
 so kind ? ’ ” 
 
 ‘‘ But she had a sister, had she not ? ” here interposed 
 Melford ; Did she do nothing ? ” 
 
 Nothing ! bless you, sir, she worked at her needle as hard 
 as any of them ; but she was too young, too pretty to go out 
 as Miss Florence did ; she wanted to do it, and cried often 
 enough that she was not like other girls. Ah, sir, Mr. Leslie 
 was quite right ; though she was too pretty to go out alone, or 
 be dependent, you never saw such a lovely face, or heard such 
 a voice — it was like an angel’s. I have come and listened to 
 her singing on a Sunday night, and felt myself in heaven ; for 
 then she only sung words from the Bible, but such beautiful 
 solemn tunes ; and to have seen how her mother and sister 
 and Mr. Walter listened and looked at her, it would have been 
 a good lesson to some families who don’t know what family 
 love is. Ah, sir, it is very, very hard when gentlefolks like 
 them become so poor, and obliged to work like slaves, much 
 harder than for folks in my station. We are born to it, and 
 can work without feeling it. Well, sir, the poor young gentle- 
 
156 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 man wrote and wrote, and painted even when he could not 
 walk, and at last finished a book, which, natural like, he 
 wanted printed. Oh, sir, how his poor sister worked to gratify 
 him ; up earlier than ever, often out almost before the light and 
 not home till so late, and at last she got a gentleman to a^ee, 
 and pay nearly all expenses; and what do you think she did to 
 make up the money ? why, without telling him, sold all her 
 jewels. She had not many ; but one she loved so much, a 
 beautiful cross and chain some dear friend had given her, and 
 oh ! how cut up she was in parting with it ; but she did not 
 hesitate, for she never thought of herself or her own sufferings, 
 and so it was sold ; and after all, her poor brother is gone to a 
 better world, and what will the book be to him ? ” 
 
 And how long ago was this ? ” inquired Melford. 
 
 Some time last May, sir ; but poor Miss Leslie knew he 
 must die weeks before. Oh ! what an hour that was ! but she 
 bore up for her brother’s sake, and her poor mother’s, and only 
 sank when he did not need her any more. I thought she w^ould 
 have never recovered from the swoon she had when she came 
 home, and found he was dead — had died, sir, in the very act 
 of finishing a beautiful picture. She was very, very ill, and I 
 think that kept poor Mrs. Leslie up; but I fear me she will not 
 last long, and those two poor young ladies will be left without 
 a single friend.” And the good woman actually sobbed. 
 
 Melford respected the feeling, and so kindly assured her that 
 they had friends, that he had, in fact, come on the part of one 
 most anxious to discover them, that she soon recovered 
 herself. 
 
 '' Bless you, sir, for such good news ! Well, as soon as poor 
 Miss Leslie could be moved, they went to an old relation some- 
 where in Berkshire ; and Miss Minie, sweet soul, wrote to me 
 often to tell me how her poor sister w^as, and grieving that they 
 must change their lodgings. I havn’t heard where they are 
 now ; for Miss Minie wrote the last time all in the bustle of 
 moving and settling, and forgot to put the direction, but said 
 she would come and see me very soon, and bless your heart, 
 sir, she will be sure to come, for she is a true lady, as they all 
 are ; not a bit of pride about ’em.” 
 
 Alfred Melford was an eloquent narrator; and so simply and 
 touchingly did he repeat Mrs. Everett’s communications, that 
 not one of his auditors, even the prejudiced Lady Mary, 
 or the stagnant Emily, could listen to him unmoved. 
 
WOMAN S ERIENDSHIP. 
 
 157 
 
 Ida, dearest Ida ! I have indeed been too prejudiced ; but 
 I know if you find this poor girl you will forgive me, and let 
 me aid your labour of kindness, ' exclaimed Lady Mary, 
 warmly, as she knelt down playfully on he cushion at the 
 Countess s feet. ‘"What are you thinking about so sorrowfully? 
 We shall find her, depend upon it 
 
 I was thinking, Mary, why she should never have written 
 to me in her brother’s behalf ; her own sufferings I know she 
 would never have revealed. But why she should never have 
 appealed to my promised influence, for him whom it might 
 have so beneficially served, perplexes me more than ever.” 
 
 “ Her letter may have been lost, miscarried, or even 
 changed.” 
 
 Changed ! ” repeated Lady St. Maur, eagerly interrupting 
 him. ‘‘ Alfred, if such a thing were really possible, you have 
 given me the clue to all the apparent mystery of Florence’s 
 conduct. You not only aid me by active service, but by your 
 ready judgment ; how can I thank you ? ” 
 
 "'Do not thank me at all, cousin mine,” he answered, laugh- 
 ing; "thank your own persevering benevolence, without which, 
 this poor girl must ever have remained a victim to these lying 
 reports. Frank Howard, most honourable member ! I hope 
 your exertions last night have not robbed you of eloquence 
 this morning,” he continued, gaily, as young Howard and Sir 
 Charles Brashleigh at that moment entered. "‘What senatorial 
 mission can bring you here ? ” 
 
 "" Surely I may pay my homage to the Countess St. Maur as 
 well as yourself ? ” replied the young man, in the same tone. 
 
 ""I did not know that you had time to spare for such 
 frivolity, my eloquent friend ; and now I believe, in spite of 
 that chivalric speech, your business is more with the Earl than 
 with Ida.” 
 
 ""You are quite mistaken, for I parted with the Earl not 
 half an hour ago, at Morton’s, the publisher, where you should 
 have been with me, Melford.” 
 
 ""To look over some musty pamphlets of parliamentary 
 debates, of the time of Caractacus ? Not I ; I have enough 
 to do with Blackstone.” 
 
 ""No,” replied Howard, laughing. ""I was waiting in Morton’s 
 private parlour till he should be disengaged, when I heard some 
 one singing in the adjoining room ; I never heard anything so 
 beautiful in my life ! It was that sublime air of Handel’s — 
 
158 
 
 •woman’s fbiendship. 
 
 * Comfort ye, my people,’ poured forth with such liquid sweet- 
 ness, such thrilling power, it held me entranced as if my very 
 breath were chained. It ceased at length, to my great grief, 
 and was followed by one of Morton’s daughters taking her 
 lesson, filling me with astonishment who this gifted instructress 
 could be. Morton came at length, full of apology at the delay; 
 and looking more mysteriously annoyed when I told him if 
 that delicious music had continued, I would willingly have 
 waited all day. At last he owned the cause of his vexation. 
 It appears that the singer is a very young and most beautiful 
 girl, compelled thus to seek her livelihood ; that her mother 
 and sister have done all they could to prevent her going out, 
 but the necessity becoming imperative, Morton obtained her 
 pupils in a few quiet families, on whom he thought he could 
 depend. She has, however, already excited notice and adula- 
 tion ; some frivolous idlers watch her in and out, aiid beset 
 her with heartless and cruel attentions. Morton has stopped 
 this as much as he can; but he cannot always be near her, and 
 she has unhappily neither father nor brother to protect her.” 
 
 Poor girl! and who is she?” inquired Lady St. Maur, who 
 had been conversing with Sir Charles, but attracted by 
 Howard’s tale, had paused to listen. 
 
 I cannot tell you 1 for Morton seemed so annoyed that I 
 promised him I would not ask anything more about her, or 
 even mention what had I heard, except to those likely to assist 
 him in his benevolence rather than to annoy its object.” 
 
 And you refused to see her, satisfied only to hear ? Frank, 
 you have more forbearance than I have,” exclaimed Melford ; 
 ‘^and not even to ask her name 1 Have you heard this paragon. 
 Sir Charles ? Morton is patronised by you ; perhaps you can 
 tell us who she is ? ” 
 
 I have a very bad memory for names, Melford, as you 
 know,” replied the old physician, musingly ; but I believe 
 this beautiful girl is the sister of a young poet in whom 
 Morton has been deeply interested lately. Poor fellow ! I was 
 quite shocked to hear that he died two or three months ago. 
 I knew he could not live, for his heart was broken ; but I did 
 not think it would have been so soon.” 
 
 This is worse and worse. Sir Charles,” said Lady Mary ; 
 here you are giving a most interesting addition to Frank’s 
 adventure, and mystifying us as much as he did. Did you 
 attend him ? ” 
 
•woman’s friendship. 
 
 159 
 
 '' I saw liim but once, for I could do him no good. Poverty 
 md compelled a drudgery wholly at variance with either 
 health or inclination ; and his rich gifts lay upon his mind 
 and crushed him. In all my practice I never saw such devoted 
 attachment to each other in the members of one family 
 as in — ” 
 
 Was his name Leslie ? ” asked Melford, bounding over 
 chairs and tables till he reached Sir Charles’s side, and speaking 
 in a tone that completely electrified his hearers. It must 
 be, I am sure it is — a poet 1 — a thrilling voice ! — why here is 
 the very commentary of Mrs. Everett’s tale. How blind and 
 deaf I was not to trace it before 1 Sir Charles, in pity speak ! 
 was not the name Leslie ? and did you not go to Camberwell ? 
 and was not one of the poet’s sisters named Florence ? and — ” 
 
 ‘‘My good fellow, if you take away my breath in this 
 manner, you will get no answer at all. I recollect now, it was 
 Leslie, and there was a Florence too. Why, Lady St. Maur, 
 you look as relieved as this mad boy ; do explain.” 
 
 But till Melford’s nois}^ joy was over, all attempt at ex- 
 planation was vain. And before the conversation could be 
 connectedly resumed. Lord St. Maur entered the room. 
 
 “ I have news for you, Ida,” he said. “ Morton has been 
 telling me such a tale of affliction, and genius, and worth, that 
 I only wish we had known it before. You are right, as in 
 matters of feeling you always are, and we have all been harsh 
 and wrong ; but you know it already,” he added, half-disap- 
 pointed, as he met her animated glance. 
 
 “Not all, dearest Edmund; only tell me, will you blame my 
 anxiety now ? ” 
 
 “No, my own kind love ; but let me eat my luncheon, for, 
 unromantic as it is, I am very hungry ; and we will compare 
 notes meanwhile. On one point you may be quite easy, I have 
 Mrs. Leslie’s address, and you can go to her or send for 
 Florence whenever you please.” 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 FOUND AT LAST. 
 
 Mrs. Everett’s garrulous detail was more exact than usual. 
 Florence had been extremely ill : the succession of fainting fits> 
 which had followed the awful discovery that the loved one had 
 departed, only too plainly demonstrated the exhaustion to 
 which she was reduced ; and the stupifying lethargy of a. 
 nervous fever which ensued spared her the agony attending 
 her brother’s funeral. Nor was it till Mr. Morton’s kindness 
 had installed them in small but comfortable apartments at 
 Brompton, that she could in any way rouse herself from the 
 stupor of still overpowering languor, and endeavour to resume 
 her duties. Her former pupils she had of course been com- 
 pelled to give up, both from her illness and change of residence ; 
 and now, though scarcely strong enough to walk the length of 
 the street, she was tormented with the anxious desire to regain 
 employment. In vain Mrs. Leslie sought to convince her of 
 the impossibility, and to persuade her it was not needed. 
 Florence knew that the continued illness of her beloved 
 Walter had fearfully drained their little finances. She looked 
 on her mother, and shuddered at the very thought of want for 
 her. But how could she proceed ? And in this emergency she 
 applied to their friend, Mr. Morton. He heard her with a 
 paternal smile, but told her she was too late ; Minie had been 
 before her, and he had procured her pupils for singing in five 
 highly respectable families, in addition to his own. And 
 Minie, clasping her arms about her sister’s neck, implored her 
 in bitter tears not to disapprove of the plan ; she was in 
 perfect health, and had never known what illness was. 
 
 Florence looked on that sweet face, and the thought ()f 
 Walter, of his love, his care, his terrors for that lovely girl, 
 mingled with the agonized conviction that his protection could 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 IGl 
 
 never more surround her, that temptation and trial must 
 henceforth be endured alone ; and she could only fold Minie 
 closer and closer to her bosom, and weep ; but she did not 
 deny her wishes. Perhaps she felt her own utter incapacity 
 for exertion; but her consent was only given for a limited 
 time, till she was strong enough again to work. Mr. Morton 
 promised that Minie should receive all the care he could 
 bestow ; but even in the few weeks of her new occupation the 
 poor girl learned to know the truth of Walter’s fears. 
 
 Nor did the task Florence imposed on herself, of arranging 
 Walter’s papers, tend to aid the recovery of mental calm. 
 Morton, indeed, offered to do this for her ; but mournfully 
 she refused : painful as it would be, there was yet a sort of 
 melancholy consolation in guarding from a stranger’s eye 
 repositories of thought which Walter had perhaps conveyed 
 to no human ear; and ere her task was completed she 
 rejoiced in her decision. Amongst fugitive papers, containing 
 alike original and selected poetry, manuscript volumes of 
 prose sketches, and often the private journal of his thoughts 
 and feelings, over which his sister’s tears fell thick and 
 unrestrainedly, there was one secret revealed that had never 
 passed those lips, not even to his treasured Florence — a 
 portrait of a fair and lovely girl, which he had sketched from 
 memory, and which a few subjoined lines declared the object 
 of his love. Yes, wedded as he had seemed to his glorious 
 gifts, Walter had loved ; and innumerable lines of his latter 
 poems returned to his sister’s recollection to confirm this, and 
 reveal the secret magic which had kindled his wondrous gift 
 to life. But whom that portrait represented, Florence knew 
 not ; the simple word Lucy” was all it bore, and never, to 
 her recollection, had Walter breathed the name. And there 
 were passages alike in prose and verse, in which, as if for 
 relief, he had thrown his own burdened soul ; and by them it 
 seemed to Florence that his love was as unknown to its object 
 as to every other. Poverty, station, appeared the impassable 
 barriers, and then she understood the wild yearnings to see his 
 work in print, that it might reach Tier hand, and caj^l forth 
 responses from her heart. 
 
 “Yes,” one paper ran, “yes, beloved and lovely one, thine 
 eyes may glisten with sweet tears as thou lookest on my page, 
 and thou wilt not know how deeply, how indivisibly thine 
 image inspired the poem thou readest. Will any sweet spirit 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 WOMAI^ S FEIEITDSHIP. 
 
 Tvhisper, ’tis the voice of one that loved thee, would have died- 
 for thee ? Thou wilt mingle with the wealthy and the gay 
 thy smile will beam on some dearer one. Thou wilt, thou 
 must be loved — and I — oh ! to pass away from the world that 
 holds thee, without one regretting tear, one sigh — ^better, 
 better this, than live on, and know I can be nought to thee ? 
 Why does poverty fling his links of ice around my soul — * 
 chaining me down to earth ? Why is wealth so unequally 
 divided, that some must droop and die in penury and woe^ 
 and others — God — God of mercy ! pardon thou my murmuring: 
 — lift up this bruised soul to thee.’’ 
 
 And the paper was stained and blotted as by burning tears. 
 And then again she read — 
 
 '' Death ! is it so ? Yes. I know that I must die — and 
 wherefore do I shudder and quail ? Can it be that I have 
 hoped that talent might do its work, and make me in time 
 even worthy to be loved by her — that poesy should bring tho 
 poet forward, and even the rich, the noble would court 
 Walter ? Down with the delusive hope ! I may not live — 
 oh ! why does submission fly me, when I thought myself 
 resigned — thought that I loved my God ! Earth, earth, when 
 thou boldest love, how may we turn from thee — without 
 grief ?” 
 
 Another paper, of a later date, bore words such as these — 
 
 ‘‘It is over — day by day draws me nearer the final goal — - 
 and, blessed be my Father, I can die without a pang. She 
 will look upon my work, and love perchance its author — ay, 
 even drop a tear that he hath gone so soon. I shall be with 
 her in her private hours, none other shall divide her thoughts 
 with me. Perchance her lip may give new music to my words, 
 her voice breathe them in song, her heart retain and love 
 them. Oh ! that the freed spirit might hover round thee, 
 beloved one, in those moments, till poetry may have more 
 than earthly power. Perchance it will. Oh, the deep, voice- 
 less bliss, if such may be I” 
 
 There were many other similar papers, and Florence felt till 
 that moment she had never before known the fulness of his 
 woe. At all times it needs composure to look over the records 
 of the dead ; they seem to speak in spiritual tones, to print 
 themselves upon the heart. Every paper is sanctified, every 
 line is holy ; and often and often they tell of suffering and of 
 worth, which we knew not until then ; and w^e mourn, that 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 163 
 
 tlie feelings they excite must lie 'withering on onr ow^n hearts, 
 for those round whom they yearn to twdne have passed away 
 for ever. 
 
 Florence trusted neither her own nor Mrs. Leslie’s composure 
 sufficiently to impart the secret of those papers; she could 
 only throw herself on her mother’s neck, and sob forth, 
 ‘^Walter — some future time — his papers are in the chest.” 
 And Mrs. Leslie grasped her hand convulsively without the 
 utterance of a single word. She had never shed a tear from 
 the hour her boy departed. 
 
 Nor did Minie’s buoyant spirit rally ; she seemed oppressed 
 as by some heavy gloom, even more than by her brother’s 
 death ; her child-like trust in Lady St. Maur’s continued 
 regard was failing ; she had seen the Countess’s arrival an- 
 nounced, the new honours bestowed ; read day after day her 
 name at some fete or drawing-room, and at length her guileless 
 spirit began to incline to her sister and brother’s belief, that 
 all was indeed at an end between them. Oh ! how bitterly 
 painful is the first clouding over of youth’s sweet visions, the 
 first crushing blight of confidence and love, the first conscious- 
 ness that life is not so fair and bright, nor friends so true as 
 we have pictured ! 
 
 Many thoughts were busy in the heart of Florence, though 
 she spoke them not ; strength was gradually returning, but 
 the disinclination for all exertion, the almost loathing with 
 which, in her weakened frame and aching heart, she thought 
 of resuming the tasteless toil of teaching, it seemed as if she 
 could not overcome. How was she, where was she to seek 
 employment ? The voice of duty, so peculiarly powerful in 
 her heart, repeatedly prompted, Write to Lady St. Maur ; 
 she has influence, and will aid you.” But she felt as if to do 
 so was impossible ; she shrunk in agony from appealing for 
 herself, where the appeal for her brother had been so utterly 
 disregarded ; yet she thought it pride, and condemned it 
 severely. In the state of physical suffering to wdiich she was 
 reduced, she felt as if the very support of self-esteem had 
 departed from her ; that to meet or have any intercourse with 
 Lady St. Maur, now that their social position was so widely 
 severed, she could not endure ; shrinking more and more into 
 herself, affliction might have painfully tarnished the beautiful 
 character of Florence, had she not been once more roused bj 
 the call of affection — a call never heard by her in vain. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Notwithstanding all Morton’s benevolent care and exertion, 
 it became more and more evident that Minie’s beauty and 
 extraordinary voice were exposing her to increased annoyance, 
 the more widely she became known : that she was poor and 
 unprotected only gave license to the gay, frivolous idlers, who 
 thronged her path to the houses she visited. Address her 
 they did not, but even her guileless nature could not remain 
 insensible to their openly avowed admiration ; and she was too 
 painfully annoyed to conceal it as effectually as she wished 
 from her sister. 
 
 It was one lovely afternoon in the beginning of August that 
 Florence sat watching her mother’s couch, wrapt in thought 
 too painful, too intense, to admit of her reading as she had 
 intended. Mrs. Leslie had been more than usually unwell, 
 and, to satisfy her daughters, had promised to remain quietly 
 in her room. How long Florence thus sat she knew not ; but, 
 fearful lest her resolution should fail, she rose, and moving 
 softly and lightly so as not to disturb her mother, procured 
 writing materials, and sat down to her task. But she could 
 go no farther ; the pen rested on the paper, and her brain felt 
 dull and heavy with its press of thought. How even to 
 address the Countess St. Maur she knew not ; every term she 
 thought of was too familiar or too formal. Her vivid fancy 
 transported her back to days when the very thought of com- 
 municating to Lady Ida all her girlish joys and feelings was 
 such happiness — why, why was she so changed ? And dropping 
 the pen, she leaned her brow on her hands, and wept bitterly. 
 At that moment she felt Minie’s arm thrown round, en- 
 deavouring to unclasp her hands with such a joyous whisper, 
 that she looked up, startled. 
 
 ‘‘ Go down stairs, Florence ; you are wanted in the parlour. 
 Hush ! not a question, or we shall disturb mamma — you must go 
 — indeed you are wanted. I will stay here. Go, there’s a good girl.” 
 
 In vain Florence looked the entreaties why she was wanted; 
 Minie was inexorable, and hastily bathing her eyes, she 
 descended to their little sitting-room. A lady was looking 
 intently on poor Walter’s last work, ‘‘The Poet’s Home,” 
 which was framed and hung up opposite the door, so that her 
 face, as Florence entered, was turned from her. She knew not 
 why, but power deserted her for the moment, and a gust of 
 wind impelled the door from her trembling hold, and closed it 
 with sufficient noise to make the stranger turn. 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 165 
 
 Florence ! my dear Florence ! I am so glad that I have 
 found you,” were the kindly words that greeted her ; but she 
 scarcely knew their sense, she only heard the voicBy which even 
 more than features has power to stir the inmost soul with 
 memory ; and felt that the arm of Lady St. Maur was thrown, 
 as in former days, caressingly around her — her kiss was on 
 her cheek. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 MISCONCEPTIONS EXPLAINED. — FLORENCE AND IDA FRIENDS 
 ONCE MORE. 
 
 It was several minutes before Florence could regain composure. 
 Pale, attenuated, and careworn. Lady St. Maur could barely 
 recognise the laughing, animated girl whom she had last seen ; 
 and well could she understand how her unexpected appearance 
 would recall the magic of the past, and so render the present 
 still more sad. As Florence sought to excuse her emotion, by 
 allusion to her late illness and the wealmess it had left, there 
 was a slight constraint in her manner, almost unknown to 
 herself, but perceptible to the Countess, whose ready mind at 
 once suspected the cause. Do not apologize for natural 
 feeling, dearest Florence,'' she replied ; I am not so changed 
 as to shrink from its display, or to wish for more restraint 
 from you than when we parted : you had then only joy to 
 feel and impart ; believe me, I can feel for and sympathize 
 with you equally in sorrow." Florence looked up eagerly, but 
 the words she sought to speak died on her lips. Florence 1" 
 continued the Countess, taking both her hands, and spealdng 
 very earnestly, there is something wrong between us — some 
 mystery — some misconception, which I am here solely to 
 remove. You are changed, for you are doubting me ; I am 
 not ; for though appearances have been strong against you, I 
 will not believe them till confirmed by your own lips." 
 
 ‘‘Appearances against me!" gasped Florence, her cheek 
 blanching and her lip quivering ; “ what can you mean ? " 
 
 “ Why have you not written to me, Florence, in the heavy 
 cares and sorrows which you have been enduring the last 
 eighteen months? Why did you not obey my last often- 
 repeated injunction — that if my influence could ever serve 
 you, to write to me directly ? I know enough of your sad 
 history to be convinced that you have needed that influence 
 
woman’s priendship. 
 
 167 
 
 more painfully than when I desired you to claim it I imagined 
 possible ; yet you have never written. Was this just to me or 
 to yourself ? Have you not permitted sensitiveness and pride 
 to come between your heart and my friendship ? Even though 
 you did not receive my letter to you on your heavy loss, was 
 that enough for you to lose all confidence, as never to write 
 in still increasing sorrow ? Surely, surely affection must have 
 been failing as w^ell as confidence : you did not love me well 
 enough to asic my sympathy I ” 
 
 Vainly did Florence endeavour to reply ; a mist seemed to 
 have so folded round her faculties, that both past suffering 
 and present sensation were like the distorted imagination of a 
 fever dream. Had she not written — had she not appealed to 
 that friendship and influence — had she not endured not only 
 the misery of hope deferred, but of unanswered confidence? 
 And then, with these reproachful but still kindly words, came 
 the thought that she had indeed failed in affection ; for why 
 had she not so trusted as to write again ? She pressed her 
 hands on her burning forehead, as in sudden pain. 
 
 ‘‘ Florence, dearest Florence ! I did not mean to pain you 
 thus,” exclaimed Lady St. Maur, anxiously. “ I have been 
 annoyed at your silence ; but perhaps, after all, you have had 
 equal cause to be pained with me. Have you ever written 
 to me ? Your answer may remove all this misconception ; for 
 if you have asked my influence and friendship, and received 
 no answer, I can no longer wonder at either your silence or 
 constraint. Am I right now, dearest? Only speak, for I 
 cannot bear to see you thus.” 
 
 And Florence did speak ; for the mist seemed melting from 
 her brain ; and she told her she had thought and thought, and 
 at length written, and trusted and hoped ; even wLen weeks 
 dwindled into months, and months into a year, how she had 
 felt that she could not write again ; but now it did indeed 
 seem all pride and doubt which had withheld her. Why, why 
 did she not write again ? 
 
 ‘‘ Because you could not believe that important letter 
 should be the only one to miscarry, and imagined that I had 
 changed. I was wrong to reproach you, dearest Florence ; you 
 had not known or proved me long enough, to dismiss such too 
 natural suspicion then, as I hope you will henceforward. Do 
 not grieve thus love, nor think, as I know you do, that had 
 that letter been received, or you had written again, that your 
 
168 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 heaviest trial might have been averted. Let us only rejoice* 
 that we may love each other still.” The voice of sympathy 
 and consolation so long unheard, had its effect, and after a 
 brief pause Lady St. Maur continued — I am going to ask 
 you some strange questions, Florence, but you will forgive 
 them when you know their reason. Is there or was there ever 
 a person bearing your own name ? ” 
 
 Florence looked surprised, and answered in the negative. 
 
 Not a Flora or Florence Leslie ? ” 
 
 Flora Leslie ? — yes.” 
 
 A relation of Mrs. Rivers, and an inmate of Woodlands? 
 
 Yes,” replied Florence, more and more surprised. 
 
 Did you know her ? ” 
 
 ^Mntimately. My visits to Woodlands were nominally as^ 
 her companion.” 
 
 And why, in your letters to me from Woodlands, did you 
 never mention her ? ” 
 
 Because we had so very little in common, nor was she at 
 all a person I thought likely to interest you.” 
 
 Why, what sort of person was she, then ? ” Florence 
 hesitated. Tell me her whole story, my dear Florence ; I 
 wish most particularly to know it. Have no scruples ; you 
 will do her no injury with me.” 
 
 Thus entreated, Florence obeyed, avoiding as much as- 
 she could any censorious observations, but revealing concisely 
 the whole system of deceit, coquetry, and intrigue formerly 
 carried on by Flora — her elopement, and the effect it had on 
 Mrs. Rivers, and her own consequent detention at Woodlands. 
 
 ^‘Had you any reason to believe that she bore you any 
 personal ill-will ? ” inquired Lady St. Maur, who had listened. 
 to the recital with an interest Florence could not define. 
 
 ‘^Only from my compelled agency in the circumstance I 
 have related to you. She professed the contrary, though then 
 I could not believe in such professions ; but I did her wrong, 
 I believe, for I have not experienced any unkindness from 
 her.” 
 
 Lady St. Maur put her arm involuntarily round her young^ 
 companion at these words, her eyes glistening as she thought 
 how that gentle, unsuspicious nature had been deceived. 
 
 ^‘She has done you injury, my Florence, by her very simi- 
 larity of name.” 
 
 But that she could not help,” replied Florence simply. 
 
WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 169 
 
 She could help the shameful falsehood of signing Florence 
 instead of Flora Leslie, as I know she has done to more than 
 one individual — a deceit which no doubt originated the annoy- 
 ance and pain of your unjust expulsion from Mrs. Kussell’s 
 family.” 
 
 Mrs. Russell ! ” repeated Florence, in extreme astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 ‘‘ Mrs. Russell, dearest. How do you think I could have 
 found you, if I had not made inquiries ? One more question 
 — are there any other points of resemblance between Mrs. 
 Major Hardwicke (thank heaven, she can do you no more 
 injury as Flora Leslie) and yourself besides name ? ” 
 
 We are very unlike,” answered Florence, simply. 
 
 I have not the smallest doubt of it, my love. And it will 
 be a direct contradiction to the theory of handwriting disclos- 
 ing character, if w^hat I suspect be true. Is your handwriting 
 alike ? ” 
 
 So much so, with a very trifling effort on either her part 
 or mine, that even mamma has scarcely recognised the one 
 from the other; nay, I have been puzzled once or twice myself. 
 Why do you ask, dearest Lady St. Maur ? tell me, pray tell 
 me ! It cannot be that she has sought to injure me with you,” 
 exclaimed Florence, a light flashing on her mind; and she 
 looked up in the Countess’s face pale with terror. 
 
 She has not injured you with me, love ; I am still your 
 friend, as I trust you will find me ; but that she has done you 
 a cruel injury is, I fear, too true. Painful as the discovery 
 will be to you, my Florence, I believe it had better be revealed. 
 You tell me you wrote to me from Woodlands on the 24th of 
 July, and could not imagine why that most important letter 
 should be the only one to miscarry ; it would not have mis- 
 carried (Florence started and gasped for breath), for its sub- 
 stitute reached me in perfect safety. Thi^ was the letter I 
 received. I will not do you such injustice as even to ask you 
 if it be yours.” 
 
 Almost choked with strong emotion, Florence grasped the 
 offered letter, opened it, and read ; and dropping it, gazed 
 wildly into the face of Lady St. Maur, faintly murmuring — 
 ‘‘ Walter ! Walter ! you were the victim ! ” threw herself on 
 the Countess’s neck and burst into passionate tears. 
 
 Lady St. Maur permitted her to weep, even while she sought 
 with earnest tenderness to remove the agonized impression that 
 
170 
 
 woman’s feienbship. 
 
 had her own letter been received, Walter’s fate might have 
 been averted. It was no difficulty for her to use the language 
 of that spiritual consolation which alone can soothe ; for 
 religion was to her the very breath of her existence — not in 
 word, but in deed ; not in form, but in thought; impossible to 
 be described, but so infusing her simplest word and most 
 trifling action, that the most heedless its influence, though 
 its origin was invisible. It was easy for such a mind and heart 
 truly to console, and lead the bruised spirit to its only resting- 
 place. And as Florence gradually recovered, Lady St. Maur 
 entered more particularly into the reason of her questionings ; 
 narrating all that had passed, both in Italy and England, to 
 mislead and mystify her ; avoiding all which could give un- 
 necessary pain, by exalting her own merits in not doubting her 
 when every one else did, but simply stating facts — the combi- 
 nation of circumstances which had prevented her applying by 
 letter for the meaning of an epistle which from the first she 
 had doubted as coming from Florence. So that even while 
 deeply wounded, as she could not fail to be, at the discovery 
 of such cruel injury, she was inexpressibly soothed by the 
 conviction of the confidence and affection felt towards her by 
 the friend she had so long loved. 
 
 Lady St. Maur did not leave without seeing Mrs. Leslie, 
 and she was shocked and grieved at the change she beheld, too 
 forcibly impressing the conviction, that all of sorrow for the 
 sisters was not yet past. The widow was painfully agitated. 
 
 The strong man and the beautiful alike are gone,” she said, 
 after a pause, and in a tone that thrilled through her hearers ; 
 
 and I the weak, the suffering, the useless, am still spared. 
 Yet who may question the decrees of the Eternal? My 
 husband and my child are with Him, and He will take me to 
 them when He deems it best.” 
 
 The young Countess listened reverentially, her whole manner 
 betraying how completely she felt that sorrow and suffering 
 had sanctified and raised the widow much higher in the scale 
 of immortal being than rank or wealth. And hundreds might 
 have envied the feelings of pure and blissful satisfaction with 
 which, after a very lengthened visit. Lady St. Maur returned 
 to her own lordly home, finding an increase of individual 
 happiness in her unceasing thoughts and care for the happiness 
 of others. 
 
CHAPTER XXXL 
 
 THE SCENE IS CHANGED— LADY IDA’s PLANS. — THE SECRET 
 STILL. 
 
 In less than three months, the position of the Leslie family, 
 both domestic and social, was so changed, that had it not been 
 for one sad thought, their past sufferings would have seemed 
 a passing dream. But who, however sanctified and spiritual- 
 ized by true piety, can yet entirely subdue the anguish of 
 bereavement, or realize what they at some time most deeply 
 feel, that the fate of the beloved departed in such undying 
 felicity, it would indeed be selfish love to call them back once 
 more. But Mrs. Leslie was not one to undervalue present 
 blessings, because they had come too late for him to whom they 
 would indeed have mmistered such joy. Minie had no more 
 need to leave the safety of her lowly home ; and Florence, her 
 noble Florence, was sought for, loved, cherished, as her gentle 
 virtues claimed. 
 
 The Countess St. Maur’s friendship, like her benevolence, 
 was of no passive nature. Convinced herself that not a shadow 
 of suspicion could attach itself to the conduct of Florence, she 
 proved her innocence to Lady Mary, the Earl, and his mother, 
 by bringing her and Captain Camden (who had returned from 
 Malta with his regiment) unexpectedly together, a manoeuvre 
 insisted upon by Alfred Melford, who introduced the captain 
 for the purpose, and declared that the manner of their meeting 
 must confirm or deny Miss Leslie’s identity with the coquette 
 of Winchester far more completely than anything else. The 
 gallant captain certainly started and coloured at the name, 
 but recovered himself the instant that he glanced at its un- 
 known bearer; and Florence’s calm and unconcerned bow when 
 
172 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 he was presented to her, with some degree of empressement by 
 Melford, must have convinced the most suspicious that she 
 had never seen him before, much less carried on the correspon- 
 dence of which she was accused. 
 
 Lady Mary was highly indignant that the Countess should 
 have thought any such proof necessary ; she had already met 
 Florence with extended hand and cordial smile, her prejudice 
 having completely vanished from the time Melford had so 
 eloquently repeated Mrs. Everett’s narrative. Whether his 
 eloquence had anything to do with it, we will not pretend to 
 say ; completely a creature of impulse, she was now as warm 
 in the cause as she had before been cool. Minie’s excessive 
 loveliness had irresistibly attracted her, and innumerable plans 
 for her making a proper use of that beauty and splendid voice, 
 by an introduction to the highest circles, which she would take 
 care to bring about, and so making a match of such eclat as 
 to excite the envy of the whole fashionable world ; plans, we 
 need scarcely say, completely shattered by the positive disap- 
 proval of the Countess St. Maur, who insisted that her mother’s 
 roof was the best place for one so lovely. It required no small 
 portion of dispassionate arguments on the part of the Countess 
 to bring her friend to reason, and convince her that she could 
 materially add to the happiness of her beautiful favourite, 
 without bringing her so unduly forward. It was strange, 
 perhaps, that with her secret feelings towards Melford, she did 
 not fear to bring Minie so forward ; but Lady Mary had not 
 such an unworthy emotion in her nature. She w’as becoming 
 more and more conscious of very strong regard, and a most 
 earnest longing, in the very midst of her badinage and constant 
 quarrellings, that Alfred Melford would find something in her 
 to approve and respect, as much as he did in his cousin Ida ; 
 whether he did or not, she could not feel quite sure, yet she 
 would no more have descended to the petty meanness of de- 
 crying or concealing the beauty and worth of another, than 
 she could have betrayed, by the faintest sign or word, her 
 secret love. 
 
 To very many persons, situated as was Lady St. Maur, 
 the means of effectually serving Florence would have been 
 sufficiently difficult as to prevent the exertion required. To 
 provide employment in their own establishment would be im- 
 possible, because it would be very disagreeable to treat as an 
 inferior one with whom they had once associated almost upon 
 
woman’s fbiendship. 
 
 173 
 
 equality ; yet if they occupied the position of companion or 
 governess, it would be difficult to do otherwise. 
 
 The Lady St. Maur s notions were, by a certain set, con- 
 sidered very nearly akin to insanity, and only endured because 
 of that indescribable something which, when in her presence, 
 none could resist, was a matter of very little importance either 
 to herself or her family ; but never did she value her rank and 
 influence so much as when she felt how completely they raised 
 her above such opinions, leading others often to do good deeds, 
 not for their own worth, but because so did the Countess St. 
 Maur. 
 
 Her first care was to endeavour to restore the elasticity of 
 health, which Florence had not felt for many long months, and 
 in some of the pleasant drives, tete-a-tete, which, combining 
 pure air and mental recreation, were gTatefully beneficial, she 
 drew from Florence her own wishes and plans. 
 
 ‘‘ But, my dear girl, Minie appears much more fitted than 
 yourself for the arduous toil of instruction,” the Countess one 
 day said; ‘^she has stronger health and better spirits, and 
 may be sure of a sufficiency of pupils ; why not change your 
 respective duties ? ” 
 
 ‘'Because, Lady St. Maur, I pledged my&elf years ago never 
 to let Minie leave her mother.” 
 
 “ But are you not making an unnecessary sacrifice, Florence? 
 Minie does not dislike the life she leads.” 
 
 “ Only because it allows me to remain at home. But when 
 I remember how Walter shrunk in agony from such a life for 
 Minie, how my father’s heart would have broken, could he 
 have seen his darling exposed to the rude world as she is now, 
 I cannot let her continue. Besides, it is unjust ; when I found 
 myself, in conjunction with my brother, as representatives of 
 our lamented father, I knew that all our own little fortune must 
 be sacrificed; but Minie and my mother were spared this. How 
 then can I remain idle, when I, in fact, am the only one called 
 upon to work ?” 
 
 “And can nothing change this resolution, Florence ? Do 
 duty and inclination both point the same way ? ” 
 
 “They will, I hope, in time. I dare not answer that they 
 do now ; many, many feelings must rise up to cause a strife 
 between them.” 
 
 “Amongst which not the least painful is, that as dependent, 
 chained to one employment day after day, how can the 
 
174 
 
 woman’s triendship. 
 
 Countess St. Maur be to Florence Leslie as she is now ? and 
 it is hard that circumstances should again throw a barrier 
 between her and the little unselfish heart which, through 
 years of apparent unldndness and neglect, has loved her so 
 truly. Am I very conceited, Florence, or do I read aright?” 
 
 Florence looked up, her eyes swelling in large tears, but she 
 did not attempt reply. 
 
 ‘^Now, suppose independence could be made your own, re- 
 moving all necessity for you to leave 3mur mother, would you 
 accept it?” 
 
 '‘Not while I have health and power to^ labour,” replied 
 Florence, firmly; "unless it came from a near and dear 
 relative. Such a one I have not in the wide world. No — 
 however I might love the friend who would do this, that love 
 would become a weight instead of joy. I should be depressed 
 and burdened, lowered in my own estimation, and surely in 
 that of others. I would retain my own integrity and inde- 
 pendence, and I should feel as if both were compromised in 
 accepting such an obligation. If this be too much pride, 
 forgive it, dear Lady St. Maur. I could not retain your 
 esteem and regard, did I feel otherwise.” 
 
 " It is I who must ask forgiveness, dearest Florence ; I have 
 been trying you too severely, but I washed to convince my 
 reason before I acted on my feelings. Now listen to my plans, 
 and perhaps duty and inclination may be more closely con- 
 nected than you fancy.” 
 
 And she proceeded to state her wishes that Florence should 
 become an inmate of her family. Not as a useless member, 
 she added, with a smile, for that she saw Florence was much 
 too proud to be ; but to be useful in a multitude of ways, 
 partly as Lady Helen’s companion ; for since their arrival in 
 London, that lady, not wishing to enter into the vortex of 
 fashionable life, so incumbent on her son and daughter, was in 
 consequence obliged at times to be left alone ; and partly to 
 superintend the education of Constance St. Maur, the little 
 girl, it may be remembered, left by the last Baron St. Maur, 
 under the guardianship of his heir and Lady Ida. From 
 what she had seen of this child, the Countess said she was 
 being completely ruined by the foolish fondness of an old 
 relative, and the superficial education of a professed fashionable 
 establishment, that she had not intended to have taken her so 
 young from school, but on consideration had determined on 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 175 
 
 performing lier promise to the child’s father to the utmost, by 
 giving her at once the advantages of a residence under her own 
 roof. The mere drudgery of teaching she had resolved should 
 not devolve on Florence, wdio, she was convinced, had not 
 physical strength for it ; but she wished her to superintend 
 her education, to instruct the heart more than the head, to 
 train the will and temper yet more than the mind ; to do this 
 for Constance now, and in one or two years more for her own 
 darlings, Helen and Ida, whom she and the Earl would trust 
 with Florence as confidently and securely as with herself ; and 
 in addition to all this, she laughingly pursued, resolved on 
 checking the strong emotion with which her companion sought 
 to reply, to be still the Countess’s friend, and in that character, 
 to be called upon for services in her large establishment far too 
 numerous to name. Would these momentous duties render 
 her a sufficiently useful member of the family, to receive what- 
 ever salary the Countess might choose, without compromise of 
 her own proud independence. 
 
 That depends,” replied Florence, with a smile almost as 
 arch as those of former years. 
 
 Indeed ! well then. Miss Leslie, you are to please to re- 
 member that, firstly, I have engaged you, not for one, but for 
 a variety of duties. Secondly, that in my establishment you 
 will incur personal expenses, which you would not incur at 
 home ; and, lastly, wdiich combines all the rest, my will is law^ 
 and being in these matters incomparably Vv^iser than yourself, 
 you will abide by my decision. Flave you not yet found out, 
 Florence,” she continued, in her own tone, that I have a will 
 of my own, and, in consequence, hold the world’s supremo 
 authority on some things in most supreme contempt, on 
 nothing more than the manner in which it regards those in- 
 valuable friends to whom we intrust the moral and mental 
 training of our children.” 
 
 Lady St. Maur was not, however, content with securing 
 Florence’s personal comfort alone. At her recjuest. Sir Charles 
 Brashleigh visited Mrs. Leslie, and on giving his opinion that 
 though fearfully shattered by anxiety and trial, and the victim 
 of a disease in itself quite incurable, the pure air and repose of 
 the country would be far more beneficial than a residence in 
 London, a lieautiful little cottage on their estate in Warwick- 
 shire was offered to Mrs. Leslie by the Earl, to occupy either 
 as a yearly tenant, or on lease, whichever slie might prefer. 
 
176 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Its greatest attraction, he declared, being its close vicinity to 
 Florence, who, for at least six or eight months in the year, 
 would be living at Amersley Hall, not ten minutes’ walk from 
 the cottage. 
 
 The tie which has bound you so closely in years of suffer- 
 ing must not be severed in joy,” he said, with feeling. ‘'There 
 is to me an actual sanctity in family love, which I wish my 
 children taught by example as well as precept ; and I know 
 not where they would see it more forcibly before them than in 
 your family.” 
 
 Lord and Lady St. Maur knew well how to secure gratitude, 
 for Mrs. Leslie and her daughters felt raised, not lowered, by 
 the appreciating kindness they received. 
 
 On the night after their taking possession of their little 
 cottage (Minie’s delight not a little increased by the plentiful 
 supply of ancient and modern music sent down expressly for 
 her use), Mrs. Leslie thought long and painfully before she 
 retired to rest. Again her fearful secret weighed upon her, 
 filling her with reproach and dread. “Associated with the 
 noblest and the best — weave round her yet more strongly Lady 
 St. Maur’s regard. It is indeed wrong to permit this, and still 
 be silent?” so ran her mysterious communings. “Yet is not my 
 child worthy ? — oh, how nobly worthy ! — and shall the dark 
 truth blight all of returning happiness ? But why not to the 
 Countess alone? — would she, too, look on my poor child as the 
 outcast, the victim ? How may I risk it ? Why did I teach 
 those infant lips to call me by so sweet a name, which is in 
 truth not mine ? It is vain — vain ! I cannot recall it now. 
 If concealment be sin — oh, let its punishment fall on me ; but 
 spare. Father of Mercy ! spare my child ! ” 
 
CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 THE heart’s awakening. 
 
 ‘^All women love, have loved, or are capable of loving,” 
 wrote an elegant delineator of the female heart ; and though 
 Florence had arrived at the age of two-and-twenty, and we 
 have not once written the magic word in conjunction with 
 herself, it was not that she was incapable of the emotion, but 
 that she had never associated with any one at all likely to call 
 it forth. Her life, as we have seen, had passed in comparative 
 obscurity. The precarious health of her mother and brother, 
 and many anxieties and cares, had prevented all society. Day 
 after day, often from ten till six, passed in the mechanical act 
 of teaching, could be little productive of any feeling save that 
 of exhausting weariness, which yearns only jfor rest and quiet- 
 ness, seeming to shrink even from the idea of happiness, if to 
 obtain it demanded exertion. No reality, therefore, could take 
 possession of her heart ; but fancy had not been idle. 
 
 Minie had very often wondered what there could be in long 
 political details to interest her sister, and, perhaps, Florence 
 sometimes wondered herself ; but there was a spell in the youth- 
 ful eloquence of Francis Howard, even in its tame repetition 
 by the press, that was acknowledged by all England. Was it 
 wonder, then, that Florence, with a heart and mind so pecu- 
 liarly awake to beauty and truth, should find pleasure in its 
 perusal ? It had been only the last session that young 
 Howard had actually been in the House, and even then, by a 
 most unprecedented triumph of public favour, for he had 
 barely completed his twenty-first year ; but his great talents, 
 his truth-seeking and truth-proclaiming mind, had through 
 various striking pamphlets already made him known, and it 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 was long extracts from these which had so often riveted the 
 attention and admiration of Florence. 
 
 In the happy memories of Lady Ida’s ball, Francis Howard 
 had always stood forth conspicuous. Florence’s intuitive 
 perception of mental nobility had even then distinguished him 
 as different to any other of her partners ; and delighting in his 
 conversation and in the zest with which, like herself, he 
 entered into the enjoyments of the evening, had danced with 
 him more often than with any one else, not thinking a moment 
 of his attention to herself, but simply that it was a pleasure 
 to talk to so intelligent a person. 
 
 During his week’s sojourn at St. John’s she had met him 
 often, but had regarded him with no softer feeling than that 
 of pleasant companionship. The many cares and sorrows 
 which afterwards ensued had, as it were, riveted these memo- 
 ries with a sweetness, which might not have been the case had 
 she been more happily situated in after life. The name of 
 Francis Howard had attracted her, and she read the various 
 notices about him simply from the memory of the past. The 
 more she read, the more she felt how congenial would be his 
 mind and Walter’s ; that Howard would indeed have given 
 her brother's glorious gift its due ; and perhaps this longing 
 had added to the bitterness of disappointment at Lady St. 
 Maur’s silence. 
 
 Our readers will perhaps remember that young Howard had 
 been with Melford the day that Florence had called on the 
 Viscountess, when anxious to obtain her influence in procur- 
 ing a situation, and that they had accompanied her to the 
 stage on her way home. Melford had indeed been the prin- 
 cipal spokesman on that occasion, but the countenance of 
 Howard, the few words, but most respectful manner, filling up 
 the image which his eloquence h‘ad created even more than the 
 memory of the past, had lingered strangely, and at first 
 almost engrossingly, on the vivid imagination of Florence, 
 adding increase of eagerness to read in his writings the reflec- 
 tion of his mind. How many, many hours of solitude at Mrs. 
 Kussell’s heightened this illusion in exact conformity with the 
 truth-breathing sentence which we quoted at the commence- 
 ment of this chapter. Florence neither loved nor had loved, 
 but the vast capabilities in her heart for that emotion occa- 
 sioned the creation of an image to satisfy its yearnings. The 
 trials which followed her departure from Mrs. Kussell’s, though 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 179 
 
 they rendered such thoughts less engrossing, could not banish 
 them entirely. She was herself perfectly unconscious of their 
 nature or their power : rather rejoicing that circumstances had 
 prevented her from ever experiencing that emotion, whose 
 power and intensity she had so instinctively dreaded in her 
 youth. 
 
 We are no believers in what is termed love at first sight, 
 but we do believe that some faces have the power of attrac- 
 tion, and are the magnet, as it were, to the needle of the 
 mind, so holding the fancy chained. For this infatuation, 
 intimate association is as. often the cure as the confirmer. 
 Still, even when the latter is not love, but simply a species of 
 animal magnetism, chaining the mind to one object, love itself 
 never comes till the yearning is swallowed up in the truth, the 
 worth, the affection of the being with whom the invisible 
 chain hath bound us, making two one ere either was aware. 
 
 The months of September and October were pleasant 
 months at Amersley. The intimate friends of Lord and Lady 
 St. Maur were constantly staying with them, occasioning a 
 series of domestic enjoyments, peculiarly pleasurable to 
 Florence. From actual gaiety, her heart, still filled with the 
 memories of Walter, would painfully have shrunk ; but this 
 was not gaiety, it was enjoyment. That her young charge 
 often occasioned her disappointment, demanding extreme 
 forbearance and control, to obtain dominion over a proud, 
 sullen spirit and uncomplying temper, were difficulties in her 
 task which Florence not only determined to overcome, but 
 met willingly, satisfied that in patiently seeking to subdue the 
 faults of Constance, she was really forwarding the wishes of 
 her friends, and proving also her own earnest desire to evince 
 herself worthy of the important trust she held. Mornings of 
 even ungrateful employment would have been more than 
 recompensed by the enjoyment of the afternoon and evening. 
 Neither pomp nor fashion found entrance within the hospi- 
 table halls of Amersley. It was truly an English Home, like 
 which, seek the world over, there is no other. Affection, 
 intellect, refinement, inspired and guided employment and 
 recreation. From Lady Helen to little Cecil (Lord St. Maur’s 
 youngest child), from the Earl himself to his lowliest retainer, 
 all seemed infused with a spirit of happiness, as innocent as it 
 was reviving, and overflowing in uncounted channels of 
 benevolence for many miles around. In this home enjoyment 
 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 woman’s priendship. 
 
 of the Earl and Countess, of course, none hut congenial spirits^ 
 found admission, and by all these was Florence universally 
 regarded with that cordial and heartfelt appreciation so 
 reviving to one whom trial and care had so long claimed, that 
 she often felt as if she had not one lovable quality remaining. 
 Lady Helen, who was never easily pleased, soon learned to love 
 her dearly, and no longer wonder at the friendship towards 
 her which her daughter-in-law had so unchangeably retained. 
 
 And what was the secret of this universal kindness ? The 
 utter absence of pretension, which so characterised her 
 conduct that she never for one moment forgot her real position,, 
 or presumed in the smallest degree on the notice she received. 
 Her own self-respect had always taught her the respect due to 
 others ; and perhaps it was this part of her character which 
 had so strongly attracted the regard and approbation of the 
 Earl, who in his heart of hearts had once perhaps feared that 
 his wife, energetic as she was, would scarcely be able to carry 
 out her plans, and that the footing on which she resolved on 
 placing Florence in her establishment would engender too 
 much familiarity between them. He did not know the cha- 
 racter of Florence, — Lady St. Maur had told him, and she 
 did, and that made all the difference. 
 
 Emily and Alfred Melford were often amongst the visitors 
 at Amersley. The exertions of Lady St. Maur had all failed 
 with regard to the former. She had been too long the victim 
 of inertness with fancied ill-health, to overcome it ; but still 
 at Amersley she was conscious of more happiness, or rather 
 less ennui than anywhere else. Alfred had found out that he 
 was not quite as indifferent to a certain Lady Mary, as he 
 fancied himself, and therefore when she was at Amersley, 
 there too was he. 
 
 Frank How^ard’s political duties never allowed him a very 
 long sojourn at the Hall, but he made up by the number for 
 the shortness of his visits. Peculiarly and painfully situated 
 by the morose character and anchorite habits of his father, he 
 had endeavoured to forget the gloomy sadness of his domestic 
 roof by embarking all his energies in following a brilliant public 
 career. His heart, however, was naturally much too full of all 
 the kindly home affections for such a life entirely to satisfy 
 him ; and he turned to Lord St. Maur s happy circle with an 
 earnest longing for such a home himself. Feeling deeply for 
 his isolated domestic position, and greatly admiring his talents,. 
 
woman’s fbiendship. 
 
 181 
 
 more particularly as she saw that her husband was his model 
 of manly worth, Frank was an especial favourite of the Countess, 
 who often spoke of him to Florence, revealing many little traits 
 of his boyhood, which increased the interest he had uncon- 
 sciously inspired. 
 
 The reported riches of his strange father, all of which he 
 would inherit, had made him so courted and flattered by 
 match-making mothers, that his manner towards women 
 became as reserved and cold as to be almost a proverb, and 
 oven at Amersley this peculiarity did not quite leave him ; 
 but to Florence no one could be kinder or more respectful ; 
 nothing, indeed, to cause remark, but seeming to make her 
 feel how truly he respected her as Florence Leslie, how fully 
 he could appreciate her domestic worth and unpretending 
 usefulness. 
 
 Minie Leslie’s susceptibility of enjoyment was actually in- 
 fectious. Constituted superintendent of Lady St. Maur’s 
 village schools — the right hand of the venerable clergyman 
 amongst his poor — as happy the sole companion of her mother 
 as in the halls of Amersley, Minie’s life was one flood of sun- 
 shine. Even the fond recollection of Walter could not cloud 
 this light ; for if she were so happy on earth, she felt, what 
 must he be in heaven ? 
 
 Florence had often longed to introduce her sister to Howard, 
 but by a curious combination of circumstances, it appeared as 
 if fate had determined that they should not meet. It seemed 
 as if the happiness of both sisters needed little of increase ; 
 but yet another of the seeds sown in sorrow was now to burst 
 forth in joy. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIIL 
 
 FRANK HOWARD.— YEARNINGS FOR AFFECTION. — THE GIFT 
 RESTORED. 
 
 Why, Florence, what correspondent can have the power of 
 making you look so disappointed?’' asked the Countess one 
 evening, as they retired to the drawing-room after dinner. It 
 was late in the autumn, and only the family were at the Hall. 
 
 Why you look as guilty and confused as if there were some 
 love business in the case. I am curious.” 
 
 No such grave business, I assure you,” was her reply. 
 
 I was foolish enough to hope that a jewel I parted with, 
 nearly a twelvemonth ago, might be recovered, and Mr. Danvers*^ 
 reply that he had long ago lost all trace of it, caused a 
 painful feeling of disappointment.” 
 
 And how do I know but that it is not an affaire de coetir^ 
 after all ? Such a precious jewel can surely only be a love 
 token.” 
 
 "'No, dear Lady St. Maur, it was no token of love, but of 
 friendship. Forgive me, if I seemed to hold your gift in little 
 value ; only to fulfil what I felt were the wishes of the dying 
 could it thus have gone.” 
 
 " And do not regret it, Florence ; I know you too well to 
 think you parted with it lightly. Besides, there is a spell in 
 those emeralds,” she added, laughingly ; " know you not they 
 are the emblems of constancy, and not only lose all their 
 brilliancy if touched by a faithless hand, but are dim and dull 
 till they return to the hand that gave, or to the true heart 
 that resigns them. Now, if Danvers sold them to any but 
 the right person, they will be useless, lacking all light and 
 lustre ; but if — ” 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 183 
 
 She was interrupted by the entrance of Lord St. Maur and 
 Frank Howard, talking so earnestly, that the latter did not 
 even salute the Countess till she spoke. 
 
 Frank ! here again so soon, when you declared Amersley 
 should not see you for two months, you were going to study so 
 deeply. I wish you joy of your perseverance ; it is just one 
 wxek since we bade you farewell. What are you so earnest 
 about ? Politics again, those hateful politics, only tolerated 
 for my husband’s sake, though the wise world does choose to 
 dub me his prompter and adviser.” 
 
 But this is not politics. Lady St. Maur ; it is poetry, the 
 finest, purest, truest, which this prose-loving world has seen 
 for many a long day. It has created a greater sensation than 
 has been felt this age ; the more perhaps that it is a posthu- 
 mous work. The glorious genius who has poured out his 
 whole soul on these pages may give us no more. I am here 
 fairly from curiosity, for Morton refused to answer any in- 
 quiries, referring me for all information to the Earl or Miss 
 Leslie, to whom I am the bearer of a large parcel from him. 
 But how pale you look. Miss Leslie ! you are ill.” 
 
 Florence had indeed sunk back on her chair, pale as death ; 
 but she gazed on the book which Howard almost instinctively 
 gave her ; her eyes glanced on words which seemed breathed 
 in her ear once more by the very voice of Walter. The book 
 fell from her powerless hold, and dropping her face on her 
 hands, she burst into tears. 
 
 A few words explained the apparent mystery to Frank, 
 whose sympathy, instantly excited at first, was enraged at his 
 own precipitancy, and then launched into such an eloquent 
 narration of the work’s extraordinary success, of the interest 
 felt for the young and nameless poet, from the touching 
 memoir annexed to it by the self-constituted editor, Morton ; 
 of the speedy demand which he was sure there would be for 
 a second edition, when he hoped the poet’s name would not 
 be withheld ; that those who had neglected him in life, onl}^ 
 because success had not crowned his genius, might know what 
 a being they had scorned — that Florence was enabled to rally 
 from her natural emotion, and listen, with melancholy pleasure, 
 to Howard’s words. Morton’s letter to herself, and the several 
 reviews he had forwarded, confirmed all the young man said 
 even to his desire and intention, with Mrs. Leslie’s permission, 
 of publishing the next edition with the author’s name. The 
 
184 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 beauty and taste with which the work had been got up could 
 not fail to strike Florence, and she almost feared that Morton’s 
 generous appreciation had outstripped his judgment. She did 
 not know, nor did she ever know, that it was to the Earl’s 
 admiration of the poems, when first told their tale by Morton, 
 that the work owed its present attractions of type and illus- 
 trations, that full justice to the beautiful designs of the young 
 artist might be done. Eagerly, when Florence retired, did 
 Frank listen to Lady St. Maur’s narrative of Walter’s suffer- 
 ings, and his family’s devotion. Reverence for genius was a 
 strong feature in Howard’s character ; and that Florence had 
 attended the sufferings, soothed the sorrows, and sympathised 
 with every spiritual dream, endowed her, in his eyes, with a 
 portion of the sacredness encircling the poet’s self. 
 
 We will leave to the imagination of our readers the mother’s 
 feelings, as from the quivering lips of Florence on the following 
 day she heard that a world had acknowledged the mighty 
 genius of her angel boy ; a world was paying homage to his 
 name in death — his name, who in life had scarcely found a 
 friend. 
 
 It was a lovely autumn morning that Florence returned to 
 the Hall from her mother’s cottage, welcoming the sunshine, 
 as enabling her to join her pupils by their usual breakfast 
 hour. The trees were almost all bare of leaves, but to her eye 
 there was a charm in their delicate tracery against the clear 
 blue sky, in the rich dark green of the holly, and here and 
 there in the red and yellow leaves still lingering on the spray. 
 A slight hoar frost had woven its network on some of the 
 trees, and lay in beautiful tracery on the fresh green grass, 
 and a clear stream, swollen by some heavy rains, laughed and 
 gurgled in the sunshine, bearing many a jagged branch and 
 yellow leaf along with it. The air was fresh and exhilarating, 
 and Florence walked on briskly, thinking on, she herself would 
 have said, so many things, that we may not disbelieve her, 
 though if there be a mesmeric power, as some say, to bring 
 those on whom we are pondering palpably before us, a voice at 
 her side would certainly betray who it was that occupied at 
 least a portion of her thoughts. 
 
 "'You are an early riser. Miss Leslie. Why, most people are 
 still in their chambers, if not on their couches. The sun has 
 only just peeped out himself” 
 
 "Do you not know the old adage, Mr. Howard, "An hour 
 
WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 185 
 
 lost in the morning is never found all day.’ My pupils and I 
 must not abuse Lady St. Maur s indulgence yesterday by 
 wasting our best hours to-day. Now you have no such weighty 
 incentive, yet I find you enjoying this beautiful morning 
 too.” 
 
 '' I do enjoy it. The mornings of the fall of the year are 
 sometimes so lovely as to make amends for the gloomy dusk. 
 November is no month for suicides in the country, whatever it 
 may be in London. Do you share your brother s feelings 
 on the subject of ^autumn?’” And he repeated, with real 
 pathos and rich intonation, one of Walter’s most beautiful 
 poems. A conversation of much interest naturally followed, 
 and Florence was surprised, and almost alarmed at the pas- 
 sionate earnestness with which, in allusion to the love she and 
 Walter had borne each other, he exclaimed, ‘'Yes ! in spite of 
 all his sufferings, privations, cares, Walter Leslie was a being 
 to be envied. Oh ! Miss Leslie, you cannot know how I yearn 
 for the ties of blood, how my heart envies all who bend to feel 
 a mother’s kiss or clasp a sister’s hand. How strange it seems 
 to me, that any one who possesses such sweet ties should heed, 
 them not, and never think them blessings. I never knew a 
 mother’s love ; strangers nursed me, hirelings only loved me ; 
 in childhood I scarcely knew that I had a father — in boyhood 
 he was not one to win my love, and even had he been, could 
 not have filled my soul’s deep yearnings for the gentler, dearer 
 fondness of a mother, or a sister, to love, protect, be proud of, 
 and to give me back all the love I felt. Your brother knew 
 such love. In the midst of woe, and bodily and mental ill, it 
 shone around him like an angel’s smile; and, oh! I. would 
 bear his burden, heavy as it was, to be so cherished, so beloved.” 
 
 Florence had never heard Frank revert to himself before, 
 even in his most unguarded moments ; but she did recollect 
 once, when called upon by the children to settle some trifling 
 dispute, when caressing the little pouting Cecil into good 
 humour, and bidding him kiss his sister, his saying, with much 
 deeper emotion than the occasion warranted, “ Kiss her, love 
 her, Cecil ; you do not know yet what a sister will be to you ; 
 perhaps you will never know, for you may never feel the void 
 which life is without one.” And this, though it passed little 
 heeded at the time, confirmed his present passionate words. 
 To reply was rather difficult ; but Howard, as if half-ashamed 
 of his own emotion, talked on other things, and so entertain- 
 
186 woman’s friendship. 
 
 ingly, that the walk to the Hall seemed marvellously shorter 
 than usual. 
 
 “ Miss Leslie, Miss Leslie ! ” exclaimed a sweet childish 
 voice, as Florence was dressing for dinner that day, and the 
 little Ida bounded through the readily-opened door, mamma 
 says I am to give you this, and to tell you that if you ever 
 part with it mw^ these beautiful stones must grow dim and 
 dull, and can never return to you again.” And to Florence’s 
 extreme surprise she received from the eager child her own 
 identical cross and chain. 
 
 I know not if the legend be a true one, after all,” said the 
 Countess, as Florence, on joining her, entreated her only to tell 
 her if that too had been one of the many witnesses against 
 her. ‘^It told me indeed that you loved me still, but had 
 ceased to trust me ; yet how can the one truth be perfect 
 without the other.” 
 
Ta(je 186 . 
 
I 
 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE POETRAIT AND ITS COUHTEEPART. 
 
 Feahk JIowaed’s deep interest in Walter naturally led him to 
 Mrs. Leslie’s cottage, and so much pleasure did he find in his 
 first visit that he repeated it whenever he came to the Hall. 
 By one of those curious coincidences which we sometimes find, 
 he never once met Minie, even at her mother’s cottage, though 
 not a little anxious to do so ; not only from the admiration 
 with which he always lingered on her picture, both in Walter’s 
 own painting and in the frontispiece to his book, but from dis- 
 covering that hers was the exquisite voice which had so charmed 
 him at Morton’s. The curious chances which always seemed to 
 prevent the best-laid plans for their introduction to each other, 
 became quite a jest between the persons concerned ; Minie 
 declared that if she ever should meet Mr. How^ard, she should 
 certainly think something extraordinary was impending, and 
 Florence feeling almost vexed that the time had come for their 
 leaving Amersley without this desired introduction having 
 taken place. 
 
 The respectful deference which Frank ever manifested 
 towards Mrs. Leslie, his unfeigned admiration of Walter’s 
 genius, rendered still dearer by the strong feeling with which 
 he alluded to his character and trials, naturally won Mrs. 
 Leslie’s heart, and she looked forward to the young man’s 
 visits as periods of enjoyment. But the train of thought 
 which they left behind them was as indefinable as it was en- 
 grossing. Something in his countenance seemed to rest upon 
 her memory as having been seen before, yet indistinctly, as 
 the vision of a dream. Just before Lord St. Maur and his 
 family’s departure for London, Howard had come as usual, 
 staying perhaps the longer, as he thought it would be several 
 
188 
 
 woman’s fhiendship. 
 
 months before he should be in that part of England again, 
 when he hoped, he said, with a smile, that the spell upon his 
 meeting Minie would be broken, and they would be personally 
 us intimate as he felt they were in all else already. He con- 
 versed for some time with even more than wonted animation, 
 und when he left her, Mrs. Leslie remained buried in thought, 
 which thronged upon her most mysteriously, yet more incon- 
 gruous than usual. Suddenly a flash seemed to illumine their 
 darkness, but with a light too painful to be borne. 
 
 It cannot be,” she involuntarily exclaimed aloud, cannot 
 be, or if there be indeed similarity, it must be only accidental. 
 The expression is so different, as unlike as an angel to a fiend, 
 und yet the outline of the face, the features themselves, these 
 ure alike, it is vain to deny it ; but the name, the title, they 
 were not his, even in perspective. No, no, the thought is 
 folly ; there can be no danger to the child — the very likeness 
 is unlike.” 
 
 But the thought would return, perhaps more perseveringly 
 from the depression occasioned by the parting from Florence, 
 for some months’ residence in London. 
 
 The political duties of the Earl took him up to town rather 
 before what is called the season ; but for the first time in her 
 life the great city appeared almost as agreeable a residence to 
 Florence as the country. The Countess seemed determined 
 she should see it in other colouring than that of care and 
 sorrow ; and its magazines of art and science, its galleries, 
 where painting and sculpture marked the , progress of British 
 genius — its various avenues to literature and music — its in- 
 teresting antiquities, and associations with men of genius of 
 the past, and as well as of the present — all were revealed to 
 the eyes and mind of Florence, and found her willing and 
 rejoicing to acknowledge that there was much indeed in the 
 capital of her country to call for admiration and reverence 
 from the hearts of her sons. She saw, too, that influence and 
 benevolence were not to be confined to life in the country, 
 that to do good was not, as Emily Melford had once solemnly 
 assured her, incompatible with a London life. In her youth 
 the Lady Ida Villiers had been taught by a judicious father 
 those fearful abuses which are now made the subject of so 
 many able pens, but which, twenty years ago, were scarcely 
 known beyond the range of the sufferers themselves. An en- 
 lightened politician, because a true patriot himself, the late 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 18 » 
 
 Lord Edgemere had made it his business to become thoroughly 
 acquainted with the sufferings of the working-poor, had asso- 
 ciated his daughter with his practical benevolence, which was 
 extending widely even at the very time that his theory was 
 considered by his compeers as but the delusions of a fever 
 dream. Edmund St. Maur had imbibed these visionary pro- 
 jects, and now he and his Countess worked hand-in-hand for 
 the amelioration of those over-tasked and suffering classes, of 
 whose very existence Emily Melford, and very many besides 
 herself, were wholly ignorant. At the period of our tale, seven 
 years ago, such benevolence was confined to some few en- 
 lightened and noble-minded individuals. How rejoicingly 
 must the philanthropist regard the march of time, as associated 
 with the amelioration of his species, when he reflects on tho 
 spirit working now, that the social evils, invisible and im- 
 palpable before, are now rising before men’s eyes and minds, 
 rendered strong and mighty, far-spreading in their appeal for 
 redress and removal, alike by the pen of genius and the ex- 
 ertions of the good. In these views, and in their practice, as- 
 in everything else, the Countess St. Maur associated Florence 
 as a friend capable not only of assisting, but of understanding 
 and sympathising in them. Innumerable little things proved 
 to her grateful heart that the Countess indeed spoke as she 
 felt, when she assured her that she could leave home with a 
 heart as light again as the last season, for she knew her place 
 was so faithfully supplied, both to her mother and her children; 
 often concluding, with a very mischievous smile, If you 
 should ever marry, Florence, what shall I do ? If the gentle- 
 man be not exactly what I approve, I shall refuse my consent, 
 depend upon it.” And Florence would declare she need be 
 under no fear, for she was much too happy as she was ever to 
 think of marrying. Nor did she think of it ; the idea of love, 
 she believed, had never entered her mind ; not dreaming that 
 the peculiar pleasure she felt in the society of one individual 
 could proceed from such a source. Love ! she smiled at the 
 bare idea. How could she, a portionless, unattractive girl, 
 ever dream of being loved ? and unless love were offered, how 
 could she return it ? And so she mingled amongst the select 
 circle of Lady St. Maur s intimate friends, who always proffered 
 her the gratification of attention and appreciation, which the 
 Countess insisted on her accepting ; mingled with them, as she 
 believed, love-proof, pleasing and willing to be pleased ; but. 
 
190 woman’s friendship. 
 
 as she imagined, neither attracting nor feeling any stronger 
 emotion. 
 
 Meanwhile a second edition had been called for of Walter’s 
 poems, and his name being now universally known, Florence 
 had often the melancholy gratification of receiviD.g kindness 
 and attention for his sake, from those whose mind and heart 
 could appreciate the genius gone. More than once she found 
 herself unconsciously searching for the original of that lovely 
 portrait, which revealed the object of his secret, but all- 
 engrossing love. His fragments of thought had disclosed that 
 he loved one so far above him that they could never be united, 
 and that he had loved unknown, unsuspected by its object. 
 The portrait had riveted the face upon her memory, but she 
 searched for its living counterpart in vain. 
 
 Can it be that the theory of the ancients has some faint 
 shadowing of truth — that souls are sent on the earth in pairs, 
 and wander lonely and sorrowing on their diverse paths, till 
 their kindred essence again is found, and their union on earth 
 is the faint shadow of the bliss awaiting them in heaven ? 
 That therefore is it there are sorrow and anguish in unrequited, 
 aye, and often in requited love, for seldom is it the souls paired 
 in heaven are joined on earth. Love may be felt, but 
 oceans and deserts, or the yet wider barriers of poverty and 
 wealth, may stretch between the two souls yearning for each 
 other, and thus they clothe another with the unanswered 
 light gleaming for their own, and therefore is it that some 
 unions, seeming of love, fade into indifference and neglect ; 
 but when wedded life is such joy that the love felt before 
 marriage is as nothing, compared to the deep affection after- 
 wards, brightening more and more into the perfect day, through 
 lingering years and their varying ordeals, each soul has found 
 its kindred soul, and they are one again for ever. Can this be ? 
 Who on earth may answer ? 
 
 Miss Leslie,” said Sir Charles Brashleigh, one day, as he 
 was partaking the Earl’s family dinner, have made a promise 
 in your name which I depend on your goodness to fulfil. It is 
 to accompany me on a visit to a young patient, who, I greatly 
 fear, is fast sinking from decline, the primary cause of which is 
 hidden in mystery. Your brother’s poems are never out of 
 her hands, often occasioning such emotion, that I have threat- 
 ened to refuse her the luxury of reading them ; but it is only 
 a threat, and she knows it, for no earthly emotion can harm 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 191 
 
 her now, poor girl ! I cannot help believing there has been 
 some ill-fated love at work, undermining her health ; but her 
 family declare it to be utterly impossible. She was scarcely 
 introduced into society before she became ill. I asked her one 
 day if she felt any wish to know the family of the poet, whose 
 genius she admired so much. Her cheek quite flushed with 
 the eagerness of her assent ; and turning to the frontispiece, I 
 told her all I knew about it, and how fondly the poet had been 
 loved by his family, asking her which of his sisters she most 
 wished to see. Her face had been turned from me, and when 
 she looked up again, I was terrified at its ghastly whiteness, 
 and the strange quivering of her lips before she could speak ; 
 she pointed on the figure I had said was yours, and faintly 
 articulated, 'The one you say is Florence — she was older, could 
 love him best, and he so loved her.’ And so I promised — was 
 I right T 
 
 " Oh yes. Sir Charles, I will go with you with pleasure ; if 
 she can so love my Walter in his poems, I need no more to 
 love and feel for her.” 
 
 Sir Charles thanked her with a kindly nod, and the 
 Countess inquired who his patient was. 
 
 " The youngest daughter of Sir William Lennox, the 
 head, although the passive one, of some large mercantile 
 house connected with the India House, incalculably rich, and 
 a man much sought after ; his wife was some lady of rank, 
 and he looks to his daughters making, what is called, capital 
 matches. It will be a sad visit. Miss Leslie ; but I know your 
 land heart will not regret it, if it can give her any 
 satisfaction.” 
 
 Florence assured him she should not, and the Earl 
 added — 
 
 " By the way, Florence, was it not in some such office that 
 your poor brother laboured so incessantly? Have I not 
 heard you say it had to do with the India trade ?” 
 
 "Yes; but I never heard him mention Sir William 
 Lennox ; I rather think Meynard was the name of his 
 principal employer.” 
 
 " That may be, and yet it may be the same concern, as Sir 
 William is seldom or never known or seen by his junior 
 clerks.” 
 
 Interested in Sir Charles’s narrative, Florence did not 
 notice this remark. The admiration excited by her brother’s 
 
192 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 poems was so general, that there was nothing remarkable in a 
 young and suffering girl lingering on their pages till she felt 
 her own soul reflected in them ; and her belief that Walter’s 
 love was as unreturned as it was unknown, prevented any 
 association of the portrait and Sir Charles’s tale. 
 
 The following day Sir Charles called for her. She was 
 received kindly by the family, and after a brief delay, con- 
 ducted to the chamber of the young invalid. Could it be ? 
 Florence started in undisguised astonishment ; that face — that 
 lovely face, with its faint, beautiful rose, its waving curls of 
 paly gold, through w^hich the brow gleamed forth like ivory, 
 as pure and stainless, she knew it at a glance. Strange — 
 mysterious as it seemed, here lay the lovely idol of the poet’s 
 dreams ; and those impassioned dreams were in her hand, 
 were treasured next her heart. The deep violet orbs, almost 
 black, from their long dark fringes, fixed their full earnest 
 gaze on Florence, as she entered, and the hectic deepened on 
 her cheek, but she eagerly extended her hand, and faintly 
 murmured — 
 
 '' This was kind, kind indeed, to come to me so promptly ; 
 Sir Charles, will you add to your kindness, and permit me to 
 be alone with Miss Leslie ? You know I cannot bear many 
 around me, and they spoil me by indulging me in everything. 
 
 And so I suppose I must in this. Miss Lucy. Well, well, 
 be it so. I will call for Miss Leslie in an hour.’’ 
 
 And so saying, he departed. Florence had spoken some 
 kindly words ; but for several minutes after Sir Charles had 
 disappeared, the poor invalid kept her hand on Florence’s arm, 
 looking sadly and inquiringly in her face; at length she 
 murmured — 
 
 You are not like him ; I hoped you would be. Yet he 
 loved you, and Sir Charles has told me how you loved him. 
 Oh, Miss Leslie ! bear with me ; do not scorn me as a poor, 
 weak, degraded girl. You are his sister, and he is gone ; 
 there can be no shame, no sin; I could not whisper it to 
 others, they could not understand me ; perhaps they would 
 upbraid me, or think ill of him ; and, oh ! death were better 
 than that. You think I am raving, delirious ; oh, no ! no ! 
 I am not. They call it decline, mere bodily disease, but it is 
 not ; my heart is broken, and all — all for love of him !” 
 
 Whispered as the words were, their agonised tone thrilled to 
 the heart of Florence, who had thrown herself on her knees 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 193 
 
 ‘beside the couch, and was pressing tearful kisses on the damp 
 brow, which had sought its resting-place on her bosom, as if 
 the words had burst forth involuntarily, and left her ex- 
 hausted from their violence. 
 
 You weep,’’ she said, at length, as she felt the hot tears 
 of Florence fall fast upon her cheek; bless, bless you for 
 those tears ; I thought my heart would wear its iron chain 
 of secrecy to the grave ; but when Sir Charles spoke of you 
 and all that you had borne and felt for love of him, my whole 
 soul yearned to pour forth its tale to you. Did he never tell 
 you theie was a time when, from the high character his 
 employers gave him, my father had him, day after day, in our 
 house in London to transact some private business ? and daily 
 I saw him, for I was privileged, and wherever my father was, 
 his petted Lucy was at his side, and I looked on his face, 
 I listened to his thrilling voice, and I felt and knew his hidden 
 genius; he haunted me night and day, but I knew not, guessed 
 not how powerfully, till months passed, and I saw him not 
 again, and the longing grew stronger and stronger, till my soul 
 was sick, and my strength failed ; and yet I dared not speak 
 it, for neither look nor word betrayed that he had ever 
 thought of me ; and then they told me he was ill, ill almost 
 unto death, and never came to his office again. And whom 
 could I ask of him ? And months waned, and no one guessed 
 why both my health and spirits sunk till they laid me here. 
 Yet still it seemed I hoped, and then they placed this volume 
 in my hand, and I traced his form ! Aye, indistinct as to 
 others that sketch may be, to me it was clear, vivid, 
 expressive as life ; and I knew that the poems were his work. 
 But that preface — did it tell his fate I dared not think it ; 
 yet it froze my very life-blood. And there was no rest, no 
 sleep, till my father prevailed on Morton to tell the poet’s name, 
 and it was his. Oh, God ! the death-stroke of that hour 1” 
 
 She broke effi abruptly, and Florence felt her slight frame 
 quiver, as if convulsed with inward agony ; for several minutes 
 she found not words to answer ; at length — 
 
 ‘‘Would it be joy to think that love returned?” she said, 
 with soothing tenderness ; “ alas, sweet one ! he loved thee, 
 too well.” 
 
 Lucy sprang from her recumbent posture, gazing on that 
 gentle, pitying face, as if to penetrate its truth, and almost 
 inarticulately exclaimed — 
 
 0 
 
194 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Could I think so ! dared I think so ! oh, what unutterable 
 joy ! But say it, say it again ; it is not only to soothe, to 
 console, say that he loved me !” 
 
 And briefly and tenderly Florence told all she knew, and 
 how she had traced the original of his treasured portrait, the 
 moment she beheld her. The poor girl heard, and a burst of 
 passionate tears succeeded, and then a calm so deep, so still,, 
 it was as if the soul were already separating from the body. 
 
 Joy, joy for me !” were her parting words to Florence, and 
 though the voice was one of utter exhaustion, her eyes seemed 
 to dance in the light of rapture ; joy, such joy ! there are no 
 cold barriers to love in heaven. ^ Walter will be mine there,. 
 all mine — oh, joy !” 
 
 And from that hour, though she sank rapidly, the depression 
 of spirits, the irritability of disease entirely subsided. There 
 was ever a bright smile on her fading lip, a glittering joyousness 
 in her deep blue eye ; and so after a few, a very few weeks, she 
 passed away from earth, and none knew the wherefore of that 
 early death, none knew the secret of her love, for Florence felt 
 it a theme too hallowed for mortal ear. Death had consecrated 
 its memory in her own heart, but its knowledge seemed to 
 remove every wish that Walter could return to earth. If there 
 be such love in this cold perishable world, where bliss has no 
 foundation but the receding sand, and love is born but to die, 
 oh, what must be love in heaven ! Is there one longing within 
 us for the good, the pure, the infinite, that is implanted, not 
 to be fulfilled ? Has He made all things for good, yet left to 
 dust and ashes the purest, noblest feelings in the heart of man ? 
 No, no. Every silent whisper in the heart breathes of immor- 
 tality, and dearer, more durable than all others is the voice 
 of LOVE. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 PPtIBE OF BIRTH. — THE SUMMONS. — DEATH OF MRS. LESLIE. 
 
 What is the matter, Frank ? you look perfectly egare',' in- 
 quired Lady St. Maur, as that gentleman joined them one 
 morning in the library. Florence chanced that day to be one 
 of the reading party. Any shock between your idols — State 
 and Senate ? If so, the more play for your powers of eloquent 
 oratory.” 
 
 ‘^No, no. Lady St. Maur; no public mischance, or your 
 husband would have been the first to tell you. I wonder 
 you have not heard of the domestic tragedy wLich has so 
 startled me.” 
 
 ‘‘ Tragedy !” repeated the Earl ; ‘^my good fellow, what do 
 you mean?” 
 
 Something very dreadful, by his looks. Come, Frank, 
 have pity on our curiosity ; what is it — suicide for love, or a 
 duel — an elopement, or something more startling still ?” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, Lady St. Maur, it has fairly choked me out of all 
 jesting. Have you heard nothing of the expose in the Belmont 
 family ?” 
 
 “Not I ; I have not seen Mary or Emily for the last week, 
 and I only hear anything of gossip from them. What of Lady 
 Belmont ? I always imagined her one of the happiest persons 
 in this great aristocratic world, and just now particularly ; one 
 of her daughters is engaged to such an excellent young man !” 
 
 “ Do speak out, Frank,” urged the Earl. “ What can you 
 have to say about her, which seems so loath to leave your lips ? 
 Is she less happy than Ida thinks ?” 
 
 “ Happy 1 good heavens, my lord ! how she can ever have 
 seemed happy, I know not : she is not Lord Belmont s wife !” 
 
 0 2 
 
196 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Not his wife ! then who in the world is she exclaimed 
 the Countess, quite unconscious of the real meaning of his 
 words ; but in an instant, cheek, brow, even all that was visible 
 of her delicate throat, became dyed with glowing crimson, and 
 she continued, indignantly, It must be all scandal, Frank 
 — the basest, most unfounded.” 
 
 I wish it were ; but, unhappily, it is a confessed fact now. 
 Some one whispered it to Arlington, and of course he denied 
 it ; vowed that it was false, and went straight to Belmont him- 
 'self, declaring he must relinquish all claim to Miss Belmont’s 
 hand, unless her father gave him some positive assurance of 
 the falsity of the charge. Lord Belmont equivocated, and 
 tried hard to throw him off the scent, when, to the utter 
 horror of both parties, the Baroness threw herself at Arlington’s 
 feet, as if to implore his mercy — tried to speak, and fell to the 
 ground in strong convulsions. The whole was of course dis- 
 covered, and Gerald, in a state of desperation, is gone to the 
 Continent, resigning all his pretensions, and his union with 
 such a family is at an end for ever 1” 
 
 ‘^The poor unhappy girl!” ejaculated Florence, with the 
 most unfeigned commiseration. 
 
 “ But what could he do. Miss Leslie ?” Frank spoke with 
 even more than his usual energy. ‘'Could a man of honour, of 
 reputation, unite himself with one of such dishonourable birth ? 
 Could he, with the least particle of feeling either for himself 
 or his children, have acted otherwise ?” 
 
 “ It is too dreadful either to argue or think upon,” replied 
 Florence ; “ but it seems so hard, so cruel, that the innocent 
 should thus suffer for the guilty.” 
 
 “ It is so, yet it is only right,” replied Lord St. Maur. 
 “Were it otherwise, remorse might for ever sleep, and guilt 
 itself receive no check. Miss Belmont, indeed, demands our 
 commiseration, but poor Arlington not less so.” 
 
 “ He is much less to be pitied, than had this denouement 
 taken place after his marriage,” rejoined Howard. “ I call him 
 a fortunate fellow, in spite of all.” 
 
 “ My dear Frank, you speak as if you had no sympathy 
 whatever with his feelings towards his betrothed : can they be 
 conquered in an hour, think you ?” 
 
 “ Perhaps not. Were I in his place, I should be too grate- 
 ful for my escape from such ignominy to retain any other 
 emotion.” 
 
woman’s friendship. 197 
 
 “ ‘ He jests at scars who never felt a wound/ ” replied Lord 
 St. Maur, half smiling. Frank became more earnest. 
 
 Indeed, my lord, I mean what I say ; the more I loved, 
 the more determined should I be upon an everlasting sepa- 
 ration in such a case. Could I bear one stigma to fling the 
 faintest shadow on the being I had chosen, or on any one 
 belonging to her ? The veriest torture of unconquered love 
 would be preferable to such continued fear ; so heaven preserve 
 me from such an ill-fated attachment ! ” 
 
 ^‘Amen! for notwithstanding the harsh sound of your 
 words, they have but too much truth in them/’ replied the 
 Countess. 
 
 I will not argue on their justice or injustice, for the sub- 
 ject is too painful : dismiss it, pray, and tell us something 
 more w^orth hearing; I hate the very whisper of such 
 themes.” 
 
 And so do we, gentle reader ; and had not this conversa- 
 tion, trifling as it seems, been absolutely necessary for the 
 clear elucidation of some future portions of our tale, we 
 should have dismissed it altogether. 
 
 Who amongst us has not felt at one period or another of 
 our mortal career the truth of Moore’s beautiful lines ? — 
 
 “ There is a dread in all delight, 
 
 A shadow near each ray, 
 
 That bids us then to fear their flight 
 When most we wish their stay.” 
 
 A sort of quivering happiness, which carries us for the time 
 out of ourselves, sheds a sudden glow of joy over the simplest 
 things — bids us tread the earth as if it had no care nor shade 
 — fills the heart with a kind of elastic buoyancy — makes the 
 eye dance in its light, the voice become song in its childlike 
 glee ; and yet in the midst of this, an under-current of 
 sadness makes itself heard for a brief moment, whispering, 
 ‘'This cannot last; banish it ere it bring woe,” and then, 
 again, it is lost in the voice of joy ; nor is it recalled, till some 
 sudden grief quenches the brilliant light, and we feel that 
 intense happiness has but cradled sorrow. 
 
 For the comparatively long period of one month, Florence 
 was under the influence of this strange joyousness : even 
 during its continuance she felt it unnatural ; but, in spite of 
 all her efforts, she could not dim the sparkling current in 
 
198 
 
 woman’s FPtlENDSHIP. 
 
 which life flowed by : she could not define its source ; perhaps 
 she did not ask herself, content alone to feel. Every day 
 seemed in itself a little age of joy. Her pleasures of the 
 evening were enhanced by the recollection of duties satisfac- 
 torily accomplished in the morning ; the duties of the morning 
 sweetened by the memory of some kindness, some appreciation, 
 or some intellectual improvement of the previous evening ; 
 and even a dance could be enjoyed with the elasticity and 
 zest of former years. Her letters from home heightened this 
 enjoyment. Mrs. Leslie had been more than unusually suf- 
 fering, but the last six weeks had seemed so wonderfully well, 
 that she could even walk to the Hall to superintend some new 
 arrangements which Lady St. Maur wished completed. Her 
 very precarious health, the consciousness that the disease 
 under which she laboured was indeed incurable, had always 
 been present to the imagination of Florence, ever preventing 
 happiness from being perfect ; but now even this seemed to 
 have lost its dread. She could not realize anxiety, though 
 she actually sought it, so fully convinced did she feel that 
 this unnatural happiness could not last, and actually longing 
 for some slight “ shadow near the ray ” to prevent some 
 greater woe. It was, perhaps, a superstitious feeling, but who 
 has not known its influence ? 
 
 On reporting Mrs. Leslie’s wonderfully improved health to 
 Sir Charles Brashleigh, he looked so grave that the Countess 
 became alarmed ; and when Florence had left them, he avowed 
 that he did not like the accounts. In a disease like Mrs. 
 Leslie’s, such sudden improvements but too often predicted 
 either a fearful increase of suffering, or its termination. 
 Cautiously and tenderly Lady St. Maur, in consequence, 
 entreated Florence not to build too much on the continuance 
 of Mrs. Leslie’s present health, proposing that she should go 
 down and spend a week with her mother, that she might judge 
 of her herself, and advise her from Sir Charles not to tax her 
 new-found strength too much. Florence eagerly assented, 
 promising, however, to wait quietly till the morrow’s post. 
 
 Anxiety thus aroused no longer eluded her grasp, and she 
 counted the hours till the morning’s post should come in, 
 turning almost sick with suspense ; yet failing in strength to 
 make any inquiry, even w^hen she knew the hour had come and 
 past, and no letter had been brought to her as usual. Npt 
 ten minutes afterwards the Countess entered, and one glance 
 
woman’s friendship. 199 
 
 on her face sufficed for Florence to sink back powerless on her 
 chair. 
 
 ''You shall set off directly, dearest. Do not look so 
 alarmed. Your mother has had a return of her old attacks, 
 and rather more violently than usual; but it may pass off 
 again, as it has often done. My dear Florence, do not let 
 strength fail you now.” 
 
 " But why has not Minie written to me as usual ? Some- 
 thing dreadful has occurred. Oh ! Lady St. Maur, in pity do 
 not hide it from me ; I can better bear it than suspense.” 
 
 " Minie was too anxious, my love. You know she is very 
 young to endure anything like care. Will you promise me to 
 try and be calm, and not magnify evil if I let you read this 
 letter ? Ferrers feared to alarm you, and so very wisely wrote 
 to me.” 
 
 Florence grasped the letter, struggling to suppress the 
 hysterical emotion which almost choked her as she read. Her 
 mother, it appeared, had not only exerted herself more than 
 usual, in walking to and from the Hall, but had also employed 
 several hours in writing ; an exercise generally painful. The 
 night before, Ferrers stated that she had left her mistress at 
 her desk, and retired to her own room adjoining. How long 
 she slept she did not know, but it seemed some hours, when 
 she was awakened by a heavy fall. Startled and terrified, she 
 rushed into Mrs. Leslie’s room, and found her extended 
 motionless and perfectly insensible, on the floor. Several 
 papers were scattered on the table, and the pen was still wet 
 with ink. The fit had lasted several hours ; and though she 
 had rallied a little, and appeared sensible of surrounding 
 objects, and Minie’s intense grief, every effort to speak had 
 been unavailing, or merely produced unintelligible murmurs. 
 Ferrers concluded by expressing her own fears that she was 
 sinking rapidly. 
 
 Florence indeed took in the sense of this hurried letter, but 
 all seemed enveloped in mist, she afterwards said, until she 
 found herself standing by her mother’s bedside : but when 
 there, the sight of that dear face, so wan, so altered, seeming 
 as if already fixed in death, the sudden change overspreading 
 her features, as her dim eye caught sight of her child, the 
 convulsive effort for speech, all fixed themselves indelibly on 
 her memory ; though at the time Florence could only sink on 
 her knees beside her, and bury her face in the bedclothes. 
 
200 
 
 woman’s feiendship. 
 
 There was still motion in that death-like form, one hand 
 moved languidly, as if to rest on her child’s lowly bent head, 
 and it seemed to the sisters as if that treasured voice breathed 
 articulately, Florence, my beloved, bless — ” Florence started 
 to her feet, and bending over the dying, imprinted kiss after 
 kiss on her lip, brow, and cheek, compelling herself to com- 
 posure, even while her limbs shook as if they must fail beneath 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie evidently strove to speak, but her voice was so 
 changed as scarcely to be intelligible. '' My child, burn — 
 forget — my own, my own — oh God ! bless, bless both my 
 children ! ” she murmured, with other words, meaningless and 
 strange to those that heard them. But why should we linger 
 on this scene of suffering ? Life appeared struggling with 
 death to permit the utterance of something, that would not 
 leave those lips, and death was conqueror ; for ere morning 
 dawned all was awful stillness in that heart and frame. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVL 
 
 THE PAPERS. — THE BEQUEST. 
 
 The first month of their sad bereavement was spent by the 
 sisters in mournful seclusion, endeavouring to obtain resignation 
 and strength. Theirs had been a more than common trial ; 
 for death had come darkly and terribly. Florence could not 
 conquer the fancy that her poor mother had sulfered not alone 
 physically, but from the agonizing wish to say something, for 
 which she had not power. The dying look haunted her, the 
 expression of those dear eyes, which even in death remained 
 open, till her own hand closed them, seemed to linger on her 
 full of pity, of love, and yet beseechingly, as if they asked 
 that which her lips were powerless to do. Oh ! how she 
 longed that that voice had addressed them in its own loved 
 tone once, but once, ere it w^as hushed for ever. 
 
 To Minie the horror of that death was such, she could not 
 rally from its recollection. Nervous tremors continually dis- 
 turbed her night and day. She tried to conquer her feelings, 
 and Florence did all that soothing love could dictate ; but for 
 some time all in vain. Lady St. Maur left all the gaieties of 
 London to go down to the Hall, and remaining there a fort- 
 night, spent day after day with the young mourners ; seeking, 
 by the truest sympathy and warmest kindness, to alleviate 
 their grief, and even in such a trial it was some consolation to 
 feel they were not utterly friendless and alone. 
 
 On examination of Mrs. Leslie’s will, her little property, 
 which the success of Walter’s work had much increased, was 
 found to be equally divided between her daughters, as were 
 her few trinkets and other personal possessions. It was at first 
 considered by Lord and Lady St. Maur, that it would perhaps 
 be happier for the sisters to live, as they now could do, in- 
 
202 
 
 WOMAN S FEIENDSHIP. 
 
 dependently together ; but that if Florence still preferred 
 remaining with them, her home should be Minie s also. 
 Meanwhile Lady Mary Villiers, who had found time and feeling 
 in the midst of her own happiness to sympathise with her 
 favourite, travelled down to the sisters’ cottage, expressly to 
 persuade Minie to accompany her on a projected tour through 
 Wales and Scotland, assuring her that the change of air and 
 scene would do her more good than anything. She should be 
 quite quiet, join in no unseemly gaiety, as their own family 
 and Mr. Melford composed the whole of the travelling party. 
 Minie felt as if the exertion would be far too painful ; believing, 
 as the young are prone to do under sorrov/, that nothing could 
 ever make her happy or mirthful again. The earnest persua- 
 sions of her sister, the representations of the Countess, the 
 pleadings of Lady Mary, whom she really loved, at length, 
 however prevailed, and she accepted with gratitude the kind- 
 ness proffered. 
 
 Nearly two months after Mrs. Leslie’s death, Minie joined 
 her friend. Florence was to return to Lady St. Maur the 
 following week, having still some affairs to settle ere she could 
 leave the cottage ; particularly the arrangement of her mother’s 
 papers, which task, from a peculiarly painful repugnance, she 
 had postponed from day to day, and at last resolved not to 
 attempt till after Minie’s departure. Ferrers had told her it 
 had been evidently in the very act of waiting that Mrs. Leslie’s 
 fatal attack had seized her ; and there was something on poor 
 Florence’s heart which made her turn giddy with emotion 
 whenever she thought of those papers, traced by the hand of 
 the dying, containing perhaps those very words which her 
 voice had not power to pronounce. It was strange, perhaps, 
 that this very circumstance had not urged her to examine them 
 long ere this; but she shrank from the task, vainly endeavour- 
 ing to define why. Was it presentiment? We firmly believe 
 in the existence of such a feeling, a dim shadow, undefinable 
 and vague, and utterly shapeless, yet impossible to be with- 
 stood. Florence, however, had too strong a mind to give way 
 to such repugnance. It was the first time she had entered the 
 chamber since her mother’s death, and for several minutes she 
 stood upon the threshold, as if she could not pass it, as if 
 death were still there, and hand in hand with desolation, smote 
 upon her heart. It was about ten o’clock in the morning, and 
 the sun shone with mocking brilliance within the rose-trellised 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 203 
 
 casements, and the song of the birds seemed so discordantly 
 gay, that a feeling almost of irritation came upon her. The 
 consciousness of its sinfulness instantly followed, and flinging 
 herself on her knees by the bed, she prayed fervently for sub- 
 missiveness and strength. Unlocking the escritoire, she 
 drew a table near her, and prepared to look over the papers 
 and arrange them. The first page which struck her was 
 evidently that on which her mother s pen had last rested ; it 
 was blotted as if the pen had fallen on it, and the last few 
 words were almost illegible. Yet her eye was arrested on them 
 instantly; she read her own name : her mother was addressing 
 her. With a sudden and convulsive movement, she caught up 
 other closely-written papers, and looked for their commence- 
 ment; words seemed to catch her strained gaze, and absolutely 
 rivet it upon them, but still as in desperation she sought the 
 beginning, arranging the sheets consecutively as she did so ; 
 and then she read, and her cheek gradually grew blanched, 
 and then her lip, but still there was no movement. Hour after 
 hour passed, and found her in the same occupation on the 
 same spot. 
 
 Ferrers was out for the day, and only one other servant, a 
 simple country girl, was in the house. About three o’clock 
 the girl knocked at the door, to say dinner was waiting in the 
 parlour. Florence replied composedly in words, but her voice 
 sounded in her own ears so strangely altered that she looked 
 round in terror, thinking some one else had spoken. Then she 
 deliberately folded up those papers one by one, tied them to- 
 gether, and with them still in her hand, rose from her seat ; 
 she made a few steps forward, as if to reach the door, but a 
 strange mist was before her eyes, the room reeled ; and when 
 Fanny returned, wondering she did not come, she found her 
 fallen forwards on the ground, to all appearance lifeless. 
 Though much terrified, the girl did all she could think of to 
 restore animation. Sense returned at length, but so slowly, 
 and with so little semblance of life in the marble stillness of 
 Florence’s features, that Fanny entreated her to let her run to 
 the Hall, and get them to send for medical advice. Life itself 
 seemed to return with her violent effort for speech to negative 
 this proposal. 
 
 '' No, no, no,” she wildly cried, as she struggled to rise ; 
 send for no one ; I shall be well ; I am well. Tell no one of 
 
204 
 
 WOMANS miENDSHIP. 
 
 She sank back exhausted, but after a few minutes again 
 waved her hand impatiently, and Fanny was obliged to leave 
 her. She returned at intervals, satisfied at length that after 
 a lapse of nearly two hours Florence spoke more like herself. 
 But still, hour after hour passed, and she made no effort to 
 quit the chamber or the couch on which she lay. Her hands 
 were tightly clasped together, her eyes gazed on vacancy ; her 
 lip and eyelid sometimes moving convulsively, as if tears were 
 near, but none came. All was cold, rigid, motionless as stone. 
 
 Evening came, and with it the postman, bringing a large 
 packet, directed by the Earl. She opened it mechanically ; 
 there was a strange-looking, seemingly a lawyer s paper, and a 
 long kind note from Lady St. Maur. Yet even this last she 
 read many times ere she could understand a single line. At 
 last she became conscious the Countess w^as alluding to the 
 paper inclosed. 
 
 Do examine it, dearest Florence, and let me know what it 
 even before you come. The Earl is so very curious, that 
 were it not for punctilio, I believe he would have been tempted 
 to open and examine it, neither he nor I can imagine what you 
 can have to do with lawyers’ papers. But I really am uncon- 
 scionable to ask you to write ; I forgot that you will not 
 receive this till Monday evening, and you come on Wednesday. 
 I shall long for you more than ever. Constance is very good ; 
 I look at her with astonishment, and think you a worker of 
 wonders. All my darlings are well ; there are many inquiries 
 as to when Miss Leslie will come back. I will not say how 
 much Lady Helen and I miss you, but we all look forward to 
 Wednesday. If that should prove a settlement of marriage 
 from some invisible bridegroom, what shall we do ? ” 
 
 Florence mechanically took up the papers, and broke the 
 seal ; but in vain she tried to understand the contents. The 
 very writing seemed illegible, though in reality it was clear 
 enough. Paper and pens were near her, and after having read 
 the closely-written letter through three times without compre- 
 hending a single word, she wrote a few lines to Lady St. Maur 
 begging her to excuse the hasty scrawl, as she had been very 
 unwell all day, and she felt confused, which perhaps was her 
 best excuse for entreating Lord St. Maur to examine the 
 papers for her, as she found it impossible to understand them. 
 It was either a mistake, or she was labouring under some 
 strange delusion. She read her note carefully over, it seemed 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 205 
 
 correct, but she dared not assure herself it was, for a weight 
 of lead seemed crushing all consciousness from her brain. 
 
 Night came, and Florence mechanically retired to bed, but 
 there was neither rest nor sleep for her. If for a few minutes 
 she dozed from utter exhaustion, it was to start up again from 
 the most frightful images, to press her hands on her aching 
 temples, and pray that madness might not be her portion, for 
 she felt as if it already were ; and the very prayers seemed 
 mockery, for her heart rebelled, and the question, why was she 
 doomed to all this misery ? was mentally reiterated till her 
 brain burned and reeled. So passed the night, and so the 
 following day, yet she did all she had power to do. She was 
 so calm, so collected in out\Yard seeming, that Ferrers, though 
 she did think her strangely pale, neither made nor felt the 
 inclination to make any remark. 
 
 The evening of Wednesday found her at St. James’s, 
 welcomed with, if possible, more than usual kindness by her 
 friends. Lady St. Maur looked unusually arch, as if she had 
 something very delightful to communicate, but Florence scarcely 
 saw it. She had trembled so excessively on first entering the 
 house, that all her energy was roused to control herself, and 
 hide from every eye the anguish which was consuming heart 
 and mind. 
 
 '' So you actually read that important letter, my dear 
 Florence, without understanding its contents ; you really must 
 be more of a simpleton than I have yet believed you,” said the 
 Countess, laughing ; ‘‘ what could have possessed you ? I do 
 believe you never even read it.” 
 
 Indeed, I did, no less than three times, but I had a 
 stupifying headache all day, and so vainly tried to understand 
 a line,” replied Florence, with a slight shudder, which made 
 the Countess look at her more attentively. 
 
 And I think the headache has not left yon yet. Why, 
 my dear girl, you are looking much worse than when I left 
 you six weeks ago. Florence, I fear your time has been more 
 weakly than wisely employed since you have been alone. 
 Must I chide instead of congratulate you ?” 
 
 “ Congratulate !” repeated Florence, in a tone so hollow, it 
 startled even herself. Lady St. Maur put her arm round 
 her. 
 
 “ You are ill, exhausted, dearest ; so I must be merciful ; 
 perhaps jesting is ill-timed, but your letters made me hope that 
 
206 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 you were recovering the effects of your sad trial. I am so 
 rejoiced at the contents of that letter, that I fancy you must 
 be equally so ; forgeting that independence, even riches may, 
 at such a moment, seem of little worth/’ 
 
 Independence ! riches !” repeated Florence, turning her 
 pale face towards the Countess, with a gaze of bewilderment. 
 ‘‘ What can you mean ?” 
 
 Simply, my dear Miss Leslie,” replied the Earl, coming 
 forward, and taking her hand kindly, that the letter so perfectly 
 incomprehensible to you, is as perfectly clear to us, and gives 
 me the happiness of informing you, that as the acknowledged 
 heiress of Mrs. Susan liivers, of Woodlands, lately deceased, 
 you are now the sole possessor of a large estate, and all its ap- 
 purtenances, with the not inconsiderable addition of seven 
 thousand a year. Will you now try and read Mr. Carlton s 
 letter, with the assistance of my notes and annotations, or 
 believe this truth on my simple word ?” 
 
 Florence looked almost wildly at the speaker. The words 
 had indeed reached her ear ; but the expression of her features 
 was far more of suffering than joy. 
 
 ‘‘Mrs. Susan Rivers! Woodlands! It must be a mistake. 
 She means Flora, Mrs. Hardwicke. I can have no claim,” she 
 said at intervals ; “ dead ! when and where, and how is this ? 
 Forgive me, my lord ; but indeed I can scarcely understand it 
 now.” 
 
 “ Then let me try if I can make it clearer,” replied the Earl, 
 sitting down by her, and producing the papers. “ It appears, 
 from Carlton’s letter, that Mrs. Pvivers has been living for the 
 last three years in an obscure village in Wales ; the honesty of 
 her steward, however, preserved her estate in such good con- 
 dition, that combined with her own miserly method of living, 
 her income has materially increased. About a year ago, her 
 steward, at her request, did all he could to find you out, and 
 through her bankers in London learned at length your des- 
 tination with us. Your claims upon her seem to have consisted 
 in her vivid remembrances of your unchanging regard and 
 respect towards herself, so long as she permitted you to show 
 it ; and another very extraordinary clause, that as you were 
 the only person she had ever known who had loved and trusted 
 a friend, and yet not been deceived, you must possess some 
 unusual qualities over and above those which had so attracted 
 her regard ; and were therefore likely to make good use of 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 207 
 
 and enjoy the wealth which to her had so long been a worth- 
 less toy. She therefore bequeaths to Florence Leslie, eldest 
 daughter of Edward and Mary Leslie, the whole of her large 
 possessions, both in land and money, with the exception of a 
 few legacies. These are the heads of the lawyer’s letter ; and 
 having seen him to-day, I have further to tell you, that you 
 are not only an heiress, but an undisputed one. No costs ; 
 no lawyer’s long bills ; nor even any relation of Mrs. Livers 
 who would be wronged by such a will. Now, then, do you 
 understand, and can you wonder at Ida’s astonishment at 
 your non-comprehension of this very important letter ?” 
 
 ^^And will you not accept my w^armest congratulations, 
 dearest Florence ? We know the little worth of mere riches ; 
 but you will not abuse them, when they come as now% 
 enabling you to do the good your inclination prompts, and 
 take that station which your birth, talents, and virtues all 
 demand.” 
 
 Birth demands ! No, no, no ; I have no right, no claim ; 
 it cannot, cannot be !” exclaimed Florence, so wildly, so 
 incoherently, that both the Earl and Countess looked at her 
 with alarm. I have no right to these riches ; they are not 
 mine. I can have no legal claim.” 
 
 My dear Florence, you are bewildered still ; and this 
 sudden surprise is too much for you. Try and think calmly • 
 are you not Florence Leslie, the eldest daughter of Edward 
 and Mary Leslie ? nay, even your birth in Italy is so clearly 
 specified, that there can be no mistake as to your identity. 
 Are you not this very Florence? Do you not love the very 
 name of Italy, rejoicing that it was your birth-place ? How I 
 used to smile at your enthusiasm, when I first knew you. 
 Florence, my dear Florence — you are ill, faint ; your journey 
 has been too much for you,” she continued, abruptly, as she 
 noticed Florence’s very lip become white, while her whole 
 frame shivered convulsively; and she only saved her by 
 a quick movement from falling to the ground. Alarmed 
 as they were, still they only considered it the effects of 
 physical weakness produced from contending feelings. She 
 recovered but slowly, and Lady St. Maur, as she bent down to 
 kiss her, merely whispered soothingly — 
 
 “ Forget everything that can agitate or disturb you now, 
 dearest. Only think of our dear Minie, of what you may 
 have the power of doing for her ; and even if this unexpected 
 
208 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 wealth be of little value to 3^0Hrself, for her sake, I know you 
 will soon acknowledge its importance, not alone with gratitude 
 font joy.’’ 
 
 ‘‘ Minie ! ” repeated Florence, and that name seemed en- 
 dowed with power to restore her to perfect consciousness; 
 
 yes, yes, I have still her to love and cherish, to give back in 
 part all that has been given. Oh God ! oh God ! forgive me; 
 this mercy has not been sent in vain.” 
 
 Lady St. Maur alone heard those murmured words, and to 
 her they were intelligible enough, as confirming her idea that 
 Florence’s emotion was occasioned by the thought that wealth 
 had come too late ; those for whose dear sakes it would have 
 been so valuable had passed away, and what then could it be 
 to her ? Little could she dream of the cause of that deadly 
 sickness, the wild yearning on that aching heart to flee away 
 and be at rest. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIL 
 
 INJURY FORGIVEN. 
 
 That night Florence sat alone in her own room, hours, long 
 hours after all other eyes were closed in peaceful slumber; her 
 hair loosed, and pushed from her throbbing brow, as if its 
 weight were insupportable. One thought shone out, clear^ 
 distinct, and at such a moment almost maddening in its 
 intensity, from the dead weight of misery which seemed to 
 have fallen on her. She knew she loved, and one whose own 
 words had thrown an insuperable barrier between them. Why 
 had those words come now, as if written in fire on her brain ? 
 What, what could they be to her ? He did not love her — it 
 was not his happiness she wrecked ; and her bruised heart 
 struggled for quietness, for strength in that one reviving 
 thought. Alas ! she overtasked herself. She could not,, 
 indeed, recall a word, or tone, or murmur, which could reveal 
 that he felt more than simple kindness towards her ; and yet, 
 in all the incongruity of mental torture, she lingered on the 
 idea that she was beloved, and her doom was to wreck his 
 happiness even as her own. And midst these thoughts never 
 once did the recollection of her unexpected inheritance arise, 
 save instantly to be repelled with a loathing shudder, as if, 
 coming at such a moment it was associated only with misery ; 
 while, by an indefinable contradiction, those days of privation 
 and suffering encountered before Lady St. Maur’s return, were 
 suddenly transformed to actual joy. Yet all was inward ; her 
 whole being rose up against the betrayal of her woe, even in 
 those moments when the burden of that fatal secret seemed 
 too heavy to be borne. 
 
 So days passed on. Florence had earnestly entreated the 
 Countess to permit her continuing her former occupations in 
 
 p 
 
210 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 the family, at least till the year of mourning was at an end ; 
 not indeed, as a salaried governess, but simply because she 
 preferred instructing Constance in her retirement to absolute 
 idleness. In vain the Earl and Countess combated this 
 resolution. Florence shrunk from the idea of rest and 
 quietness as from appalling spectres, knowing well that 
 nothing but continued occupation could in any degree chain 
 thought. She had been so happy in that employment that, 
 by a strange pertinacity, her mind clung to it, as if, in giving 
 it up, she loosed another link from the past, and sank yet 
 deeper into the dark abyss of the present. Let me, only let 
 me still feel myself of use to you,’’ was her reiterated cry ; '' I 
 cannot live without being of service to any one, as if I were 
 alone upon the earth. Do not, do not in mercy, give me 
 time to think ! ” 
 
 The Countess looked at her with astonishment. You are 
 not speaking like yourself, Florence,” she said : I am sure 
 you are enduring more than you will permit me to know ; for 
 such semblance of impatience under trial is not at all natural 
 to you. Granted that I accede to your request, what am I to 
 do next year ? I shall only miss your usefulness the more.” 
 
 Then seek for some one to supply my place, and let me 
 feel that I am still of real use to you in imparting to her your 
 plans and wishes,” replied Florence ; and it was strange how 
 clearly, in the midst of this fiery ordeal, her mind retained its 
 energies, as if more effectually to prevent her secret*' "being 
 revealed. Partly to soothe her, and partly to enable her at 
 any time to give up her present determination. Lady St. Maur 
 acceded to her wishes. She further requested the Earl to act 
 for her, in seeing that ail Mrs. Eivers’s behests were fulfilled. 
 She had an interview with Mr. Carlton ; and during the whole 
 dry, business-like details upon v/hich she was compelled to 
 enter, neither intellect nor composure failed. The lawyer was 
 pleased with her acuteness and ready comprehension of all his 
 lengthy particulars. One very important question he urged 
 upon her — would she or would she not continue Mrs. Major 
 Hardwicke’s annuity? It was entirely at her option: Mrs. 
 Eivers, having heard rumours of injuries which Miss Leslie 
 had received from that quarter, and wishing her to act with 
 perfect freedom, had expressed no desire herself on the subject. 
 
 You will then have the kindness to treble that annuity,” 
 was her instant and unhesitating reply. ‘'And should you 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 211 
 
 •ever discover that Mrs. Hardwicke requires more, you will 
 oblige me by instantly making application to me. Above all, 
 let this annuity be made a settlement on her and on her heirs. 
 I do not wish her to feel herself under any obligation to me 
 personall}^', or give any one the power of withdrawing it.” 
 
 Mr. Carlton understood her perfectly, and promised com- 
 pliance. Woodlands was still inhabited ; the term, however, 
 of her present tenant would expire within the year of mourning 
 for her mother, and she rather rejoiced that it would not be 
 vacant for the next few months, as giving her time to think of 
 her future plans. The steward she also saw ; and prevailing 
 on him to accept the gift of a rich farm on the Woodlands 
 estate, entreated him to be to her all he had been to his 
 former mistress. The old man was rejoiced at seeing her 
 again, and from him she heard many particulars concerning 
 Mrs. Rivers. He told her that she had gradually become 
 more and more infirm, but had rejected every persuasion of 
 himself and her housekeeper (the only two persons she per- 
 mitted to be about her) to recall herself to her former acquaint- 
 ances, till, about a twelvemonth previously, she had consented 
 to inquiries being made about Mrs: Leslie’s family, but, 
 secretly, as she wished nothing to be said of herself until her 
 mind was quite made up as to her future proceedings. After 
 many disappointments Watson learned all particulars, which, 
 when imparted to his mistress, distressed her exceedingly. She 
 reproached herself painfully for her selfish shrinking from the 
 world, and the useless hoarding of wealth, which, judiciously 
 applied, might have shielded Mrs. Leslie and her family from 
 many sorrows. She never rested, after Watson’s return, until 
 her will was made in Miss Leslie’s favour, speaking of her with 
 more real affection than she had ever been heard to speak of 
 any one, but still persisting in refusing to write and say how 
 ill she was, and how much she really wished for Florence. 
 
 No, no,” she repeated ; '^she has found a real friend, and I 
 will not take her from her. She suffered enough from coming 
 to me before : I will not risk her happiness again.” Atone 
 for her total neglect of her relatives she said she could not, 
 for she could not bring the dead to life ; but she would leave 
 all she possessed to Florence, and her warmest blessing with it. 
 
 Watson’s every word revealed that Mrs. Rivers’s heart had 
 dictated the will, and Florence could have no remaining scruple. 
 The Earl and Watson consented to further the young heiress’s 
 
 P 2 
 
212 
 
 woman’s friendship 
 
 inclinations on all points, and Lady St. Maur jestingly assured 
 her that, with two such agents, she ought not to permit a 
 single care to sully her unexpected good fortune, prophesying 
 that, little as Florence seemed to rejoice in it now, there would 
 come a day when she would discover that nearly nine thousand 
 a year was something worth. 
 
 Minie’s affectionate and artless letters of congratulations^ 
 would, at any other time, have been sources of unalloyed 
 pleasure ; but now, though she spoke and acted as usual, sho 
 was, in reality, conscious of but one all-absorbing woe. The 
 mind bore up, but the frame dwindled, notwithstanding all 
 Lady St. Maur’s affectionate care ; she became paler, thinner, 
 more drooping every week; still the Countess imagined nothing 
 beyond what she saw. If, indeed, she sometimes thought Florence 
 was not quite so fancy free” as when she first came to her, she 
 also thought and hoped, too, that even there joy was dawning 
 for her. But here Florence puzzled her ; her manner had be- 
 come cold, reserved, if it might be, even proud to young 
 Howard ; while his became, each time they met, more respect- 
 fully eager, and his attention more decidedly marked. Lady 
 St. Maur would have seriously remonstrated with Florence, 
 but her husband entreated her not. I have a particular 
 objection both to making and marring matches, my dear Ida,” 
 he said ; ‘'and I always find the very best way is to let lovers 
 alone ; they always come round at last.” 
 
 " But though I want them to be lovers, I begin to fear I 
 have built my hopes on air instead of solid earth,” she replied. 
 " I set my heart on this match long ago, and was wicked 
 enough to wish Lord Glenvylle out of the way ; for I know 
 Frank himself would never object to marrying a portionless 
 bride. I am certain it was only the idea of his father’s re- 
 fusing his consent which deterred him from coming forward 
 before ; and now that Florence is independent as himself, and 
 there is nothing against it, she becomes cold, distant, and all 
 unlike herself.” 
 
 " But perhaps she really does not like him ; and if so, she 
 acts very properly.” 
 
 " I am very certain that she does love him, as only a girl 
 likes that can love.” 
 
 " And who made you so wise, love ? ” asked her husband, 
 smiling. 
 
 “Woman’s wit, and woman’s intuitive perception of all 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 213 
 
 relating to her own sex, my dear husband. I have known 
 Florence too many years not to discover this, although not a 
 word on the subject has ever passed between us. Now, in 
 truth, she puzzles me ; for what can make her act so contra- 
 dictorily ? ” 
 
 Perhaps she does not like his only coming forward now. 
 She cannot know that he only kept aloof, fearing to expose her 
 to the capricious refusal of his father. It is not at all unlikely, 
 for she has some pride.” 
 
 Pride ! she has, indeed ; and if this should be the case, it 
 would be a real kindness to give Frank a hint, and let him tell 
 the truth. I am half-inclined : I do so dislike misunder- 
 standings.” 
 
 “ Take care, my fair diplomatist,” was the Earl’s laughing 
 reply ; do not spoil all : better let them go their own way.” 
 
 Whether the Countess followed his advice, or her own incli- 
 nations on this important subject, we know not; but certain it 
 is, that not long afterwards, Florence did receive a letter from 
 young Howard, the contents of which were very much as if 
 Lady St. Maur had really given him an explanatory hint. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 IS IT LOVE? — THE LIBEAEY. — THE DECISION. — TELL ME THIS 
 WEIGHTY GEIEF. 
 
 Frank wrote as he always spoke — to the point, and with feeling. 
 Still, though Florence felt it not, passionate love was wanting. 
 An offer of his hand it certainly was ; and a warm allusion to 
 those gentle domestic virtues which, he said, had so riveted his 
 regard, that he felt her acceptance of his love would make him 
 far happier than he had ever yet been. Still, with all this, it 
 was much more an eloquent vindication of what might have 
 appeared interested in his conduct, only coming forward then, 
 than the letter of a lover. He spoke of his father’s prejudices; 
 that knowing his consent to their union would never be 
 obtained while she had been in what Lord Glenvylle termed a 
 dependent position, he having vowed that he would never 
 permit his son’s marriage with any but an heiress, he had 
 feared to wreck his own peace and hers ; if, indeed, he might 
 hope that she was not wholly indifferent to his suit. He con- 
 jured her not tolbelieve him the money-loving, fortune-hunt- 
 ing, worldling which he certainly appeared, to put his sincerity 
 to any proof she pleased, but not to judge him thus; conclud- 
 ing by entreating her to show by her manner that evening, 
 whether he had pleaded indeed successfully or in vain. 
 
 Meet him that evening ! and it depended on herself, herself 
 alone to seal her happiness or misery ! The cheek grew paler, 
 more ghastly still ; the lip more sternly rigid, and the storm 
 within seemed to crush her as she sat. 
 
 Love me — why, why does he love me ? ” were her mental 
 words. Is it not enough to bear my own misery, but I must 
 have his also to endure ? But why must this be ? Why may 
 I not be his ? Who is to know the truth that he has called 
 down upon himself the very evil he forswore ? Why should I 
 
WOMAN S FEIENDSHIP. 
 
 215 
 
 doom myself to misery ? He need never know it/’ And for 
 one brief minute her features were lit up with the sudden 
 irradiation of joy, yet it was but mocking brilliance. Pressing 
 both hands on her throbbing temples, she called aloud for 
 help and strength. ‘‘ No, no, I cannot wed him falsely. If I 
 speak, it shall be the truth ; and then, will he woo me then ? 
 No, no, he cannot, will not; it would but be increase of misery 
 for him and myself. He can better conquer love, if he believe 
 that he loves alone. Pride will rise up to quell it ; he will in 
 time be happy — may forget me. Yes, yes, I will be silent, cost 
 what it may. I care not for myself. Let him be happy, let 
 him forget me, aye, even love another, better, far better than 
 link his fate with mine.” 
 
 Florence herself knew not the inward fervour of her prayer. 
 She was only conscious that her happiness was in her own 
 hands, and she had decided to cast it from her. She wished 
 to write to him ; to tell him how gratefully she felt his un- 
 called-for explanations, though she could not accept his offer. 
 But in vain she tried to write these simple words. Sheet after 
 sheet she spoiled and burnt, and gave up the task in despair ; 
 and then she thought, could she indeed meet him, and let her 
 manner speak ? She dared not trust herself. If she did not 
 appear, would not that be an all-sufficient answer? Hour after 
 hour passed, and she could come to no decision. Again and 
 again the question rose, why did she make this sacrifice? Was 
 it in truth needed, or was she dooming herself to misery un- 
 called for ? Oh ! had she but one friend to whom she could 
 appeal ; and then the childlike trust and faith of her girlhood 
 seemed to steal over her, leading her to that only Friend who 
 could aid and guide. The power of prayer had of late seemed 
 denied to her, but now an inward voice called her to her 
 Father’s throne, and she knelt and prayed almost calmly for 
 guidance, help to do that which His wisdom deemed the best, 
 that which would tend most to future happiness and peace, 
 however dark and troubled seemed her portion now. In after 
 years, she looked back on that hour of prayer almost in awe, 
 for she felt that words had been put into her mouth; she could 
 not of herself have framed them, and with them strength had 
 been infused to preserve her from a doom compared with 
 which her present grief was joy. When she rose, there was 
 stren^h in her spirit, decision in her heart. She would not 
 see him, and she did not. Resisting all Lady St. Maur’s 
 
216 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 persuasions, even her reproaches, and several messages from 
 the Earl, she remained that evening in her own room. 
 
 But her trial was not over. The following morning a 
 message was brought her that Mr. Howard was in the library, 
 and wished particularly to see her, but that he would not 
 detain her long. A sickness so deadly crept over Florence, 
 that the effort either to speak or rise seemed for the moment 
 impossible ; but after a few minutes, the prayer of the evening 
 rose in her heart, and seemed to give it strength. She de- 
 scended the staircase, and entered the library ; cheek, lip, and 
 brow vied with the marble in their whiteness, yet not a limb 
 trembled, not a quiver in the voice with which she calmly 
 bade him good morning, as she entered, betrayed what w^as 
 passing within. 
 
 Howard was in appearance the much more agitated of the 
 two. He tried to say something indifferent, but it would not 
 do, and he plunged at once into the subject which had brought 
 him there. 
 
 I thought,” he said, hurriedly, that I could have waited 
 calmly the answer which I requested, but I over-rated my 
 own powers. Lady St. Maur spoke of indisposition as con- 
 fining you to your chamber last night, yet seemed to think 
 inclination more than indisposition was the cause. That 
 should have been enough, but I could not feel it so, and I 
 came to hear my doom from your own lips, to conjure you to 
 tell me that you will at least acquit me of that mean and 
 petty interestedness which may appear to mark my conduct. 
 Speak to me. Miss Leslie ; tell me, in mercy, that of this at 
 least you believe my motives free. Presumptuous I may be, 
 but interested! seeking worth only when set in gold!” He 
 spoke passionately, hurrying on as if he dreaded the answer. 
 At length it came. 
 
 Believe me,” she said, earnestly, ^^that no thought of such 
 unworthiness could enter my mind, as coupled with one true, 
 kind, honourable as yourself. I grieve that my manner should 
 have caused you to feel one moment’s suffering from a thought 
 so groundless. Perhaps it is better that we have thus 
 met, clearly to understand each other. Though wishing to 
 spare myself the pain of apparent coldness to one I esteem so 
 highly (her voice faltered), I refused last night to meet you, 
 trusting that absence and silence would speak for me.”. 
 
 '' Then why, if on this point you so generously and justly 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 217 
 
 acquit me, oil ! wliy has your manner so changed towards me ? 
 Once I dared to hope tliat the regard I felt was not wholly 
 unreturned, that you looked on me with a preference to some 
 others around you. Miss Leslie — Florence, dearest Florence 1 
 what have I done to change that feeling, or was I indeed too 
 presumptuous, believing that which never was ? ” 
 
 '' Pardon me, Mr. Howard, but perhaps had there been no 
 ohange in your manner, mine would still have been the same. 
 As a friend, whose every act and word towards me w^as dictated 
 and offered by the most heartfelt kindness, could I feel other 
 than regard, esteem, as much above that which I gave to 
 others, as your high character was superior to theirs ? Your 
 manner changed, speaking, as it seemed, of other feelings than 
 those which had at first actuated you. Should I have been 
 right to encourage those feelings when I knew that I might 
 give nothing in return, except the sincere regard and high 
 esteem which I trust, under all circumstances, I may be per- 
 mitted to retain ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ And with this high esteem. Miss Leslie, have you, can you 
 give me nothing more ? Must I teach my heart to forego all 
 its hopes of happiness, all those blissful domestic feelings of 
 which, till I knew you, I was unconscious ? May I not look 
 to time to gain me that blessing which I crave ; to turn those 
 cold words 'regard, esteem,’ to some kinder feeling? Oh, do 
 not condemn me at once to disappointment ! Give me at 
 least hope ! ” 
 
 He spoke with emotion, and his was a voice when in per- 
 suasion difficult to resist ; but now it was resisted, and by one 
 whose sinking heart and fragile frame seemed scarcely able to 
 support her many minutes longer. 
 
 " Mr. Howard,” she said, distinctly but slowly, "you must 
 not hope this. I should be guilty of deceit, should I bid you 
 to encourage feelings to which I may never give return. I am 
 grateful, most deeply grateful, for the high regard you must 
 feel towards me, to select me from others so much more 
 worthy. Let me retain a portion of that regard, even while I 
 beseech you to conquer every feeling towards me, which can 
 only create distress. Let us be friends as we have been, 
 Mr. Howard ; indeed, indeed it is better for us both, to be — 
 to feel no more.” 
 
 Frank Howard looked at her with wondering admiration ; a 
 strange feeling for a rejected man. Yet if truth must be 
 
218 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 spoken, he could not understand himself. If, indeed, he was 
 under the influence of passionate love, as he fancied, how 
 came it that disappointment, that unpleasant lowering of self- 
 esteem generally attendant on rejection, did not so oppress 
 him, as to banish all feeling save for himself ? It seemed as if 
 the very respect he felt for Florence restrained all inclination 
 to urge his suit. Yet these were incomprehensible emotions 
 to a man who felt that all his hopes were at an end ; he tried 
 to define them, but felt it was impossible. He lingered gazing 
 on her sadly and silently, for several minutes; then raising 
 her hand to his lips, pressed it strongly between both his own, 
 and said fervently — 
 
 God bless you, Florence ; 5^ou have spoken kindly, openly, 
 like yourself. I will conquer, if I can, all that can throw a 
 barrier between our continued intimacy. Let us be friends, 
 as you say, and grant me this one proof of your regard. 
 Should you ever need a faithful friend — a brother — let me be 
 that one ; trust me without scruple, for no personal disappoint- 
 ment, no individual feelings shall ever interfere to check 
 my interest in your welfare. Once more, God bless you ! ” 
 
 He was gone ere she could reply, and Florence was alone. 
 She made no efi*ort to recall him, but her intense gaze re- 
 mained fixed on the door through which he passed. She was 
 not conscious of the wild, agonized torrent of thought rushing 
 over heart and brain, save that it felt like waves of molten 
 fire ; and then there came a low gasping cry, and her burning 
 forehead dropped on her pale hands, her whole frame shook as 
 if with convulsion. Time passed, but Florence knew it not ; 
 all outward emotion had given way to a stillness as of death * 
 her very figure seemed contracted with the soul’s agony. A 
 voice at length aroused her ; and though it was colder, severer 
 far than its wont, it recalled her scattered senses, and as Lady 
 St. Maur pronounced her name, she looked up. 
 
 Florence, what is the meaning of all this?” she said^ 
 impatiently. ‘'What can have made you act as you have 
 done ? You know, of all things, I abhor mystery and caprice. 
 You have told me, or rather your general actions have, that 
 you consider me as your friend ; prove that you do so now, 
 and tell me the reason of this extraordinary decision.” 
 
 Florence endeavoured to obey, but though her lips moved, 
 no sound came from them. Lady St Maur was touched in 
 the midst of her unwonted impatience, and sitting down hj 
 her, she said, more kindly — 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 215 
 
 Now do be the same candid, ingenuous Florence you have 
 always been. You know all I mean, for there is only one 
 subject on which you can feel guilty of a proper want of 
 candour. Make up for it now, and tell me why you have 
 chosen misery, when happiness was offered to you. Frank 
 has just been to bid me farewell, intending to join Lord Edge- 
 mere’s family in Scotland, instead of telling me that you and 
 he were two of the happiest people in the world. I have 
 wrung the truth from him, that you have refused to accept 
 his love, on plea that you have none to give in return, nothing 
 but cold regard. Florence, I never read woman’s countenance 
 rightly if you have not told him falsely ! ” 
 
 A cry of intense though smothered anguish burst from poor 
 Florence, as she bowed her head on her clasped hands, as if she 
 shrunk in suffering from the Countess’s searching look. Lady 
 St. Maur gazed at her with increased astonishment. 
 
 What is this dreadful mystery, Florence ? for dreadful it 
 must be to occasion this decision, and your overwhelming 
 wretchedness. I will not believe that you have grown so sud- 
 denly ambitious as to reject one like Frank, because you do 
 not think him good enough for your present prospects.” 
 
 No, no, no,” gasped Florence, the effort to speak causing 
 her very brain to reel; "'believe anything, everything but 
 that ! I am not worthy of him, not fit to be his wife, when 
 not the very lowest would wed with me.” 
 
 "Florence!” exclaimed the Countess, "you cannot know 
 what you say. Not worthy, not fit ? When dependent and 
 portionless your pride might have suggested this, but not now. 
 Even then it would have been absurd, but now it is incompre- 
 hensible, quite unlike yourself. I am certain that you love 
 him. You neither can, nor dare deny it.” 
 
 " It is because of this ; because I love him, that I would 
 not link his fate with mine. I care not for myself ; it seems 
 easy to die ; but for him, — no, no I I love him all too well.” 
 
 " Will you gratify me by speaking comprehensibly, my dear 
 Florence, because you certainly do mystify me more and more. 
 If you wish me to retain my good opinion of you, and desire 
 our mutual confidence to continue, speak out. I cannot con- 
 tinue regard towards one who, professing friendship, fails in its 
 most important duties — sincerity and confidence.” 
 
 Lady St. Maur’s temper and patience very seldom failed her, 
 except in cases like this. She could not feel for Florence, 
 
‘220 
 
 ^VOMAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 because tbe real truth was so completely unsuspected, that she 
 could not frame any reason for Florence’s mysterious conduct, 
 and still more mysterious words. It appeared to her that she 
 had chosen misery instead of happiness, for some very un- 
 founded cause, some fancied injury to her proper pride by 
 Frank’s holding back so long, that she had worked herself into 
 the idea of a necessity for self-sacrifice, to which the Countess 
 fancied her exceedingly prone, and was now suffering the con- 
 sequences of her own delusion. Florence withdrew her hands 
 from her brow, and looked up in Lady St. Maur’s face. 
 
 Cannot continue regard without sincerity and confidence,” 
 .she murmured, more to herself than to the Countess. I did 
 not dream of this. But perhaps it is better ; I have no right 
 to conceal the truth from her, but yet, to lose all at once — 
 love, friendship ; to find myself an object of scorn, instead of 
 love, oh ! how may I bear it ? ” and again a strong convulsion 
 bowed her frame. 
 
 Some sudden revulsion of thought brought before Lady St. 
 Maur at that moment several trifling circumstances, unnoticed 
 at the time, which now congregated to convince her, as with a 
 flash of intelligence, that there was more real meaning in 
 Florence’s wild words and agonized manner than her first irri- 
 tation had supposed. In an instant she remembered also that 
 all this had been since Mrs. Leslie’s death, and Florence had, 
 in fact, been unlike herself ever since. What the mystery 
 could be, in truth, she guessed not ; but her words rushed back 
 upon her as cruel and unjust, and throwing her arm caressingly 
 round the unhappy girl, she drew her closer to her, saying, in 
 her own natural voice — 
 
 Forgive me, my own Florence, I have been very cruel, 
 feeling more for Frank than for you. Even if I think you 
 wrong, or at least unwise to continue this strange mystery, I 
 have not tried the kindest way to solve it. Will you forgive 
 me and trust me too ? It must be some terrible secret to move 
 you thus,” she continued, becoming really alarmed, as the sofa 
 actually shook beneath Florence’s tearless sobs. Yet give it 
 words, dearest ; do not let it lie on your heart and break it. 
 You can have nothing to tell which will change my love. 
 Sorrow and evil are always magnified unless revealed. Come, 
 tell me this weighty grief, my Florence, and try if I have not 
 power to dissolve it into air.” 
 
 No, no, not this ! no one on earth can remedy this ! ” she 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 221 
 
 wildly reiterated, starting from Lady St. Maur’s detaining 
 hold, and standing erect before her. Fit wife for him whose 
 own lips vowed that he would rather bear the anguish of un- 
 conquered love than wed with infamy; that his wife must have 
 no stain, no, not even a mother’s 1 and knowing this, might I 
 wed him, when the truth seemed revealed but to save him from 
 misery. No, no, I have prayed to die ere the words were 
 spoken ! but I live, breathe, feel still, and they must be said.. 
 Fit wife for him ! I, who have no name, no rank ; who know 
 not what I am, save that I am not Florence Leslie ! not Mary 
 Leslie’s child ! Nought — nought — but a child of — of — ” 
 Sense, motion, strength, all failed with the convulsive effort;, 
 and she fell forward powerless at Lady St. Maur’s feet. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 DESPAIR. — THE ERIEND TRUSTED. 
 
 When Florence recovered, she found herself laid on her own 
 bed partially undressed; Alice holding some strong essence 
 which had evidently been used, and the Countess plentifully 
 bathing her temples and hands with cold water. For nearly 
 a quarter of an hour Florence seemed hovering between sense 
 and unconsciousness, aware that Lady St. Maur and Alice 
 were near her, but unable to define the cause of her sudden 
 illness. She had often fainted before, but it seemed to her 
 never so painfully as then ; and the difficulty to regain sense, 
 power, and thought never was so overwhelming. Her head 
 felt as if bound to the pillow by weights of lead ; with an in- 
 cessant throb, and burning of the temples, accompanied by 
 sharp pain. Still the mind would work ; the efforts to think 
 never relaxed ; and amidst the dark, formless mist which 
 enveloped her l3rain, there felt one indefinable but unconquer- 
 able sense of pain. Her eyes closed upon the light, as if it 
 wrung the mind to deeper torture, till Lady St. Maur bending 
 over, said, in accents of the deepest feeling — 
 
 My poor girl, my own Florence, do you not know me ? 
 Will you not speak to me ? '' 
 
 The voice recalled her terribly to life, and all — all which 
 had passed ; the cause of that faintness, the misery which was 
 not alone upon her now, but hemmed her in as by a wall, 
 whence there was no escaping, no retreat. Her eyes opened, 
 and her lips moved ; but only a strong convulsion contracted 
 her features. The Countess made a sign to Alice to leave 
 them, and Florence seemed partially reheved by her departure, 
 but still she did not speak ; it was only the despairing yet im- 
 ploring gaze, which betrayed thought had regained its sway. 
 For several minutes Lady St. Maur felt as if she could not 
 address her. Every usual suggestion of comfort seemed 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 223 
 
 irrelevant to grief such as this. She could only press her lips 
 caressingly on her burning brow, and chafe her hands within 
 both her own. 
 
 ‘‘Florence ! dearest Florence! Do not look upon me thus,” 
 she said, at length, her own tears falling fast as she spoke. 
 “ Speak to me ; surely there must be some mistake, and you 
 are labouring under some strange delusion. What foundation, 
 what proof can you have, after so many years ? ’’ 
 
 “It is truth,” murmured Florence, and though her voice 
 was hollow, it was perfectly distinct; “a mother’s dying words, 
 a mother’s dying hand affirmed it. A mother ; oh God ! she 
 was not my mother 1 I was not so blessed.” 
 
 “She was your mother in affection — in all which makes 
 that precious tie, my Florence 1 Do not add to the agony 
 of this moment by darker thoughts than need be. Think how 
 she loved, cherished you.” 
 
 “Would — would that she had not thus loved me, but left 
 me to die with her who gave me birth, I had been spared this 
 moment 1 ” wildly and despairingly burst from Florence’s 
 parched lips. 
 
 “Do not say so, my sweet girl; it is wrong, it is sinful, 
 even in agony such as this, to give way to despair. Think on 
 the blessing you have been — ay, and may still be.” 
 
 “Still be 1” reiterated Florence; “to whom? Who is 
 there will love me, associate with me now ? An outcast, 
 abandoned ; with a stain that who can bear ?” 
 
 “ I will,” replied the Countess, frankly and unhesitatingly. 
 “ Florence ! can you think this unlooked-for misfortune is to 
 throw a barrier between you and me ? It shall not, even if 
 all must be proclaimed. But can there be any cause for you 
 to abandon a name which you have so long and nobly borne ? 
 You are not well enough to tell me all, or I would entreat you 
 to confide in my friendship, and let me think for you.” 
 
 “ I will — I will, if I can ; but, oh 1 forgive me,” she ex- 
 claimed, half rising and clasping Lady St. Maur’s arm with 
 passionate eagerness, “check me, stop me, if I say aught 
 madly ; I do not mean it. I would not say it, but there have 
 been times Avhen I felt as if I were going mad — and now it is 
 -stronger than ever !” and she sunk back almost exhausted ; 
 but, after a few minutes, faintly resumed — 
 
 “ In the private drawer of my desk is the MS. Read it ; 
 do what you will. But, oh ! do not let it — ” 
 
224 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 “ Hush, dearest ! I will not hear such words. Your con- 
 fidence, indeed, I accept ; and, trust me, it shall not he 
 misplaced. But my husband — ” She paused, evidently 
 anxious, and Florence became again fearfully agitated. 
 
 ‘‘ Yes — yes, it must be ; I will not burden you with any- 
 thing that must be kept from him. Tell him all you will, I 
 will risk even the agony of being forbidden to associate with 
 you ; for I know he will not think as you do.” 
 
 ‘‘ I know^ him better, Florence. Try and banish such 
 miserable thoughts. For my sake, for Minie’s, endeavour to 
 be calm ; to hope that all may not be as wretched as it seems. 
 I know that at this moment all I say seems vain, worse than 
 vain, almost cruel ; but, oh ! trust to a God of love, my 
 Florence ! You shall be happy yet.” 
 
 '‘Happy!” repeated poor Florence, with an irrepressible 
 shudder. " Not in this world. God forgive me, and bles& 
 you for all you would do ! ay, and for all you feel ! If I am 
 ill, if I cannot tell you then, do not let Minie know ; keep it 
 from her. Let her still believe me the sister she has so long 
 loved. I cannot break every link at once.” 
 
 Her voice became fainter, and utter exhaustion followed. 
 Lady St. Maur promised all. But vainly Florence struggled 
 to be calm. Agony such as hers mocks at will, and hour 
 after hour of that dreadful day passed, leaving her with 
 alternate fever and exhaustion. 
 
 Every precaution was taken, but before night Lady St. Maur 
 watched over her, as she struggled in all the paroxysms of 
 delirium. 
 
 The Earl and Countess had been engaged that day both for 
 dinner and the evening. No one enjoyed such things more, 
 when happiness was around her, for there was that in her own 
 noble heart and happy temper which reflected itself on all 
 around, and ever enabled her to cull flowers when others saw 
 but weeds. But when aught of suffering appealed to her for 
 sympathy, scenes of revelry were relinquished, not only 
 without a sigh, but simply because she could not jqjn them. 
 This day finding it even more than usually impossible, she 
 succeeded in persuading her husband to go without her ; 
 entreating him to wait the solution of Florence’s sudden 
 illness and its effect on her till he returned. 
 
 Finding that Florence had sunk into the heavy slumber of 
 a powerful opiate, and that even when awake she could do- 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 225 
 
 nothing for her — for the poor girl was now unconscious of her 
 presence — Lady St. Maur left her to the united care of Alice 
 and Ferrers, and retreated with the important manuscript to 
 her own boudoir. It was near midnight, but she had deter- 
 mined not to retire to rest till her husband s return, and took 
 advantage of that hour of quiet to become acquainted with 
 the real cause of Florence’s deep agony, still hoping that all 
 was not so dark as it seemed. At first she had felt half 
 indignant at the long concealment on the part of Mrs. Leslie ; 
 but the feeling did not last. She could well understand how, 
 loving her as she did, she should shrink in anguish from 
 inflicting a shock so terrible. But why then reveal it at all ? 
 It surely could not be needed, and she thought the act of 
 doing so misguided and cruel. Many things in Florence, 
 since her mother’s death, returned to her mind, and Lady St. 
 Maur felt that while she had that terrible secret to conceal 
 she might bear up ; but once revealed, she should sink power- 
 less beneath it. And Frank Howard, too ! Lady St. Maur 
 actually shuddered as she pictured the interview between 
 them. Yet she could not blame the sacrifice ; she could not 
 believe it under the circumstances uncalled for. Howard’s 
 sentiments had been too lately, too powerfully expressed to 
 admit a doubt as to his course of acting, if the truth were 
 known ; and as such it was far better that Florence’s ill-fated 
 love should never be revealed. But Florence ! even if she 
 had only this with which to contend, what misery must be 
 her portion ; and, oh 1 how nobly, how admirably, she had 
 acted up to the promise of her girlhood ! The happiness of 
 those she loved was dearer than her own. 
 
 It was with tearful eyes the Countess took up the manu- 
 script. The hand had evidently trembled in its task ; for 
 here and there words were illegible, but as a whole, the sense 
 was clear and continued. The mind of the writer had 
 evidently never failed. We might give a brief sketch of the 
 contents, but our readers may better enter into Florence’s 
 feelings by following Mrs. Leslie’s words. 
 
 Q 
 
CHAPTER XL. 
 
 MRS. Leslie’s manuscript. — the mystery solted. 
 
 Florence^ my beloved one ! ” — so that important lettei 
 began — I know not when, or indeed if ever, your eyes will 
 rest upon these words ; yet there is that upon my heart urging, 
 impelling, liay, commanding liie to write that secret which has 
 dwelt with me for nearly three-and-twenty years, sternly forbid- 
 ding me to bear it with me, as my love would dictate, to the 
 grave. I have sought to disobey that in'ward voice ! but it 
 haunts me still, like tones from another world, and as if sin, 
 and suffering, and horror would rest on its disobedience. I 
 liiust. obey. I have prayed that our God would, in his great 
 mercy, keep this dread secret unrevealed, unless its conceal- 
 ment threatened deeper agony than its betrayal ; and still, oh 
 still. He may grant my prayer ! I will write the truth ; and 
 if His wisdom bids it be revealed, Florence, my child, believe 
 He wills it for some secret yet important good, to spare yet 
 deeper woe. But I must be calm. I thought to have con- 
 quered all of earth, to have buried its wild, passionate 
 yearnings in my Walter’s grave ; but when I think of you, 
 Florence, I know that feeling is unconquered still. The years 
 of devoted love you have lavished on me, and on my children, 
 the lisping endearments of infancy, the willing obedience, the 
 fond affection of your youth, the t)lessings you lavished upon 
 our home in the hours of trial — when I recall these things, my 
 Florence, what right have I to break the sweet delusion which 
 I myself have fostered in your heart ? How dare I breathe 
 one word, which would whisper that no tie of nature bound 
 
■woman’s friendship. 
 
 227 
 
 ■US ? God of mercy, spare me tins ! I cannot, cannot inflict" 
 such misery on my child ! 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 '' I was very ill after writing the above, my Florence ; and 
 it seemed as if, indeed, this dreaded trial would be spared 
 me ; but once more I have rallied, and again I hear that 
 spiritual voice urging me on. Let me write then, ere strength 
 Siud calmness again fail. You know I was very young when I 
 lost my mother ; my father then placed me at school, thinking 
 he better ensured my comfort and happiness than his taking me 
 with him abroad. I never saw him again for five years after- 
 vrards ; he died abroad. A distant relation, but our only 
 family connection, who had been with him in his last moments, 
 came to England, and took me to live with her, making no 
 difference between me and her own child. From that hour I 
 should have been perfectly happy, had not my friend had 
 griefs and trials, which I could not witness without sympathy. 
 She was an Englishwoman by descent, but Italian by birth, 
 and had also married an Italian, and had lived the greater 
 portion of her life in Italy, long enough to regard it, indeed, as 
 her own country, more particularly as it had been the birth- 
 place of her only child — a daughter — and the scene of an un- 
 usually happy wedded life. It would be a long and tedious task, 
 my Florence, to dilate on all she did for me; suffice it that she 
 bound me to her with such strong ties of veneration, gratitude 
 and love, that I felt as if even the devotion of a life could 
 never adequately repay her. For her I felt I could do little, 
 but I made a secret and solemn promise, that to her daughter 
 I would endeavour to return in part all I owed herself : and 
 this seemed an easy task ; for Madeleine, in spite of faults 
 which wrung her mother’s heart with foreboding misery, was, 
 in truth, one to cherish and caress, to feel that her very 
 failings excited no common love. She was my senior by two 
 years ; endowed with a vivacity, an intelligence, and beauty, 
 that would have made me feel almost painfully her inferior, 
 had she not loved me as fondly as I loved her — nay, she 
 would listen to my representations : my influence would often 
 lead her repenting and sorrowing to her mother’s neck, when 
 all the good advice of our worthy governess had been without 
 effect. Essentially Italian, a very child of impulse, she could 
 not be indifferent — she either loved or hated. Few could 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 understand her, even amongst those she would have loved 
 and therefore she was continually disappointed, continually 
 mortified, till haughtiness and pride at length kept her aloof 
 from all except ourselves. Lovely she was, but it was not the 
 loveliness of our more northern clime. The large, dark, soul- 
 beaming eye — the clear, olive complexion — the luxuriant 
 tresses of raven hair — the lip, so full of sentiment and love, 
 that even when her eyes were closed, the face retained its 
 exquisite expression — such she was, in feature as in character 
 a daughter of that land in which the blood cannot fiow as 
 calmly as in less sunny shores. 
 
 ‘^Florence, my child, is there none to whom these traits 
 of feature (not of character) seem applicable, even as to 
 Madeleine ? Know you of none whom they might with equal 
 force describe ? Alas ! my child, my pen still shrinks from its 
 task, and lingers on these minute particulars as if it would 
 not pass to those so much more important to us both. 
 ****** 
 
 ‘‘When Madeleine was about nineteen, some affairs re- 
 specting her late husband’s Italian property recalled Madame 
 Montoni to Italy. I was of course to accompany them ; but 
 my quiet taste was peculiarly English, and I shrunk almost 
 in pain from residing in other lands. Not so Madeleine. 
 Though only thirteen at the period of her quitting Italy, her 
 love for her native land amounted almost to a passion. Sho 
 was never weary of expatiating on its varied charms, alike of 
 nature and of art — the warm feelings of its inhabitants, the 
 glow of poetry and of love, which (girl as she was) she 
 described as existing there in contradistinction to what she 
 termed the coldness, the worldliness, the heartlessness of 
 England. I could not understand the wild flights of her vivid 
 imagination, but my own quieter love for my English home 
 enabled me to bear with her, and give her the sympathy she 
 craved. With these associations, loving her and her angel 
 mother as I did, do you wonder any longer, my beloved child, 
 at the sadness which your passionate longings to look on Italy 
 once occasioned ? Alas ! I knew it was nature that spoke, and 
 I have looked upon you, at such times, till the agony of re- 
 collection seemed too heavy to be borne. 
 
 “ We went to Italy. The Montoni estates lay in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Eome, and that city alternately with Florence 
 
WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 229 
 
 became our residence. Madeleine had not been introduced in 
 England, but now entered with avidity into the delights of 
 society, which was, indeed, fascinating, including all the 
 highest Italian families, with many English visitants of first* 
 Tate rank and talent. It was at this time that Madame 
 Montoni’s anxieties for Madeleine redoubled. Surrounded by 
 adulation and gallantry, by all that has power to shake even 
 the steadiest — and she loved these things — she laughed at her 
 mother s fears, declaring that not one of those whose devotion 
 she permitted — nay, enjoyed — had power over her heart — that 
 the pleasures of her present life were far too agreeable, to 
 permit a thought of her changing them for the quieter enjoy- 
 ments of a wife. In vain her mother remonstrated that she 
 was acting wrongfully, cruelly, in permitting, as she did, the 
 attentions of one for a time, and then remorselessly forsaking 
 him for others who pleased her more. It was her pleasure, she 
 said, and could do no harm, for every one must be accustomed 
 to her now. I could perceive the anxiety of my beloved friend, 
 and she made me the confidant of many fears. My heart 
 was often wrung by the tears I have seen her shed, under 
 the painful belief that her child’s very affection for and confi- 
 dence in herself were lost in the wild turbulence of spirit 
 which these exciting pleasures caused. Her impulse was to 
 return to England ; but affairs of importance still detained 
 her in Italy, and Madeleine had petulantly declared — and we 
 knew her too well to doubt her — that, rather than return to 
 England, she would give herself away to the first who offered, 
 and dare all the miseries of an union without love. Still we 
 loved her ; she riveted our affections as by a spell, and we 
 -could but pray that true affection might, in time, be excited, 
 and tame those restless spirits, and that love of universal 
 sway, into devotedness to one. She did really love at length, 
 and madly, passionately, as was her nature. It was strange, 
 with her avowed hatred to everything English, that it should 
 have been by an Englishman that all the deep, fervid feelings 
 of her character were called forth ! But Charles Neville pos- 
 sessed few of the quiet unpretending marks of a genuine 
 English gentleman. Eminently handsome, fascinating in 
 manner, and combining all the attractions of a solid educa- 
 tion with elegant accomplishments, he became the leading 
 star of every circle at the capital, obtaining, with neither the 
 rank of birth nor of decided talent, the suffrages of all. 
 
230 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Unlike any other who had before bowed down to her,, 
 Madeleine’s curiosity was first excited towards the stranger ; 
 and then quick, impetuous, as every other impulse, the rushing 
 torrent of her love. She believed it returned, and so did all 
 those who saw them together. But Madame Montoni herself 
 w^as not aware of the extent of Neville’s admiration and de- 
 votion. She was at that time in declining health, and 
 Madeleine joined society under the care of a female friend. I 
 was also to have been introduced, but I preferred remaining 
 with my benefactress — a resolution she permitted the more 
 willingly, as Edward Leslie, afterwards my beloved husband, 
 was almost always with us, and our affections mutually 
 engaged. 
 
 '^Madeleine was strangely silent at home upon the attrac- 
 tions of her new admirer. It was this fact which first made 
 me believe she really loved him, and I tried to obtain her con- 
 fidence, but, for the first time, it was refused me. ^ You can- 
 not understand me,’ was her reiterated answer. ‘Your feelings, 
 even in love, are all too calmly happy — too unimpassioned, for 
 the comprehension of mine. Be satisfied, that I can never again 
 be the girl I was.’ 
 
 “ I imparted my thoughts on the subject to my friend ; but 
 she did not think much of them, believing it scarcely likely,, 
 with Madeleine’s peculiar feelings, that an Englishman would 
 eventually be her choice. 
 
 “About this time, I know not how they first arose, but 
 rumours were afloat greatly to the discredit of Mr. Neville. 
 At first they were unheeded : his influence, his many fasci- 
 nations retained the more powerful ascendency. But at length 
 reports became certainties ; positive proofs were collected (at 
 least so it was alleged) that Charles Neville was not his real 
 name — that he had been traced through many of the Italian 
 cities as a man of the most dishonourable practices — that 
 many a domestic circle had been plunged into misery by his 
 means ; with other charges equally base, and perhaps equally 
 unfounded ; for, terrible as were the consequences of his in- 
 troduction to our family, we have learned little of him even to 
 this day. Several of Madame Montoni’s confidential friends 
 informed her of these rumours ; but Madame Montoni did not 
 credit all she heard. She knew the malignant influence of 
 envy towards all who had ever been made the star of fashion ; 
 still she did her duty : she refused to permit her daughter to 
 
WOMAN S FKIENDSHIP. 
 
 231 
 
 meet or associate with him, unless he came forward with 
 decided proofs of innocence. Never can I forget poor 
 Madeleine’s look when this command was given ; but she 
 uttered no word of either assent or refusal. I saw that she 
 rejected, without the smallest reservation, all the reports 
 against him; and every kindly feeling towards those who 
 dared to mention them turned into contempt and hate. Once, 
 only, I ventured to speak on the subject, but she silenced 
 me at once. ‘ Mary, if you would not have me hate and 
 despise you, as I do others, breathe not this fool’s tale. I 
 could better doubt my own life than his worth and honour. 
 Do not attempt to read my heart : you cannot. I would love 
 you still ; then, oh ! do not you, too, seek to reason with me.’ 
 And for one brief minute she threw herself on my neck, in a 
 convulsive passion of tears ; but there was never again any 
 visible interruption to her extraordinary calmness : her whole 
 character, indeed, was changed. From being impetuous and 
 self-willed, even in trifles, she became cold and calm. She no 
 longer sought the scenes of pleasure, once enjoyed with so 
 much avidity. To indifferent persons she was haughtier than 
 ever ; to her mother and myself more softly and gently 
 affectionate. To me it was so evident that she was under the 
 influence of some one overwhelming passion, that even now it 
 appears strange that by her mother the real fact was un- 
 suspected. 
 
 Neville quitted Rome ; at least so it was supposed, for by 
 none but our poor Madeleine was he ever seen within the city 
 again, and soon afterwards Madame Montoni removed her 
 establishment to Florence. We had not been there long before 
 an Italian of high character, attracted by Madeleine’s sur- 
 passing beauty, paid her attentions too marked to be mistaken. 
 She did not perhaps encourage, but certainly did not repulse 
 him. Her poor mother rejoiced, but I could only feel uneasy; 
 convinced that Madeleine still loved Neville, I feared, oh, how 
 forebodingly, that her present conduct was but a veil, conceal- 
 ing other and far different resolutions. After a reasonable 
 time the Count made his proposals for her to her mother, 
 conjuring her to plead his cause ; she did so, and Madeleine, 
 with the same unfaltering composure, signified her acceptance, 
 throwing an impassable barrier between her own feelings and 
 her mother’s affectionate sympathy, checking the one effectu- 
 ally by her determined concealment of the other. Not a 
 
232 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 fortnight afterwards, Madeleine disappeared, leaving no trace 
 of her path, no clue by which she might be followed ; nothing 
 but a note, undiscovered in the confusion, and not found till 
 some days afterwards. I have preserved it : it was simply 
 this : — 
 
 ^ Mother, it is over. Before you receive this I shall be the 
 wife of Charles Neville ; and without one doubt, one fear, do 
 I become so ; I believe not one tittle of the charges brought 
 against him ; he holds my fate, and I must be his alone. All 
 existence, save his love for me and mine for him, is burnt up 
 within me. I would weep for the grief this decision will cause 
 you, my mother, but I cannot; I would ask you to forgive me, 
 but I cannot feel that I have done aught to need forgiveness. 
 You laid a positive command on me never to speak with him 
 again, a command impossible to be obeyed, and therefore I 
 have spared all needless altercation, deeming it better tacitly 
 to acquiesce than to excite arguments which could easier shake 
 the ocean rock than Madeleine. For him who sought my hand 
 I told him I had no heart to give ; yet he persisted, and he is 
 fooled according to his folly ; I can spare no farther thought 
 for him ; all, all are concentrated in my husband ; his fate is 
 mine ; be it ignominy or honour, I glory thus to share it. I 
 know not our home. He is a wanderer, and long years must 
 pass ere we meet again. Forget me ; I was never, could 
 never be, the friend, the comforter to you that Mary is ; let 
 her be now your only child ; give her the love you lavished 
 but too fondly upon me. God bless you, mother, too good, 
 too fond for one like me. " Madeleine.’ 
 
 ‘Ht was enough; Madame Montoni sank beneath it. Every 
 inquiry, every effort was made to discover some traces of the 
 fugitives ; but all was vain. My wedding-day had been 
 originally fixed in the very week of Madeleine s flight, but of 
 course it was postponed. After three months, however, Madame 
 Montoni would not permit a longer delay ; she said she had no 
 wish in life but to see us united, to feel that I was happy, and 
 would be loved and cared for when she was gone. And we 
 were married according to her wish ; she bore up a few weeks 
 longer, and then sank, her child’s name (coupled with forgive- 
 ness and with blessing) the last word upon her lips. Her 
 death and the lingering anxieties for Madeleine, whom I still 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 233 
 
 loved with unchanging affection, were heavy clouds on the 
 dawn of our wedded life. 
 
 ‘'We were anxious for the calm, quiet joys of England, yet 
 neither regretted that my husband was unavoidably detained 
 in Italy, still hoping that we might yet receive tidings of 
 Madeleine. I saw that Edward feared more even than he 
 expressed, and the sweet promise of an addition to our 
 domestic happiness, in the birth of a child, could not make 
 me happy or at rest. At length the longed-for tidings came. 
 It would have been difficult for any one less intimately 
 acquainted with my poor friend’s writing to have recognised 
 it, in the almost illegible scrawl, but for me the wording alone 
 was sufficient. And oh ! even now the agony that brief note 
 caused returns in all its force. 
 
 “ ‘ Mary,’ it ran, for I have it now before me, ‘ Mary, he has 
 betrayed me ! It was all true the tale they told. Oh God ! 
 oh God ! that I should live to say it. Yet still I loved him, 
 ay, so loved him, that though I knew him guilty, miserably, 
 unredeemingiy guilty, I clung to him, worshipped him still ; I 
 would have done so yet ; I would have followed him wherever 
 his wild will led ; I would have been faithful, loving, to the 
 end ; but he has trampled on me, scorned, betrayed, forsaken 
 me, laughed at my mad folly in so loving him ; sneered at the 
 weak credulity which believed in his truth and worth ; and 
 more, he has dared assert that our marriage was null and void, 
 a mere mockery of form ; that I have no claim on him ; that 
 he has done by me as by many others, deceived, betrayed, and 
 left to die. Die ; I will not die till my unborn babe is 
 righted, till I have 'proofs that the marriage was not false. I 
 know it was not, and he knows it also ; for he has quailed 
 before me in the utterance of his foul lie. I will traverse 
 Italy till I have discovered the priest who united us, till I 
 have proofs that I am not the foul thing he, even he, the 
 merciless betrayer, has dared to term me. Mary, I will do 
 this ; you know me ; I shall not fail. And when it is done, 
 when my child is cleared from aught of stain, I will come to 
 my mother’s grave {lie told me I had killed her), come to her 
 grave and die ! ’ 
 
 “ Florence, my child, will 'you read this unmoved ? Has it 
 no deeper voice than the mere narrative of one now gone ? 
 
234 
 
 woman's friendship. 
 
 Alas, alas ! I dare not hope it. Nature will have voice. My 
 child, my blessed child, believe those words, believe them as I 
 do, as I have ever done, that she was not deceived, but the 
 villain foiled himself. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 ‘^Again I have been ill, my Florence, but am once more 
 
 permitted to resume my task ; I would not end it as above ; I 
 would conclude. Conceal these papers where nought but a 
 special Providence can bring them to your eye. I am not 
 weakly superstitious ; I believe in neither fate nor chance, but 
 I do believe that a Father's arm is round us ; that a Father’s^ 
 love will spare my child all needless woe ; and if it be not for 
 special good, will permit these papers to remain unseen for 
 ever. 
 
 The emotions caused by that dreadful letter occasioned 
 premature confinement. I was very ill some weeks; but my 
 child, a girl, though weakly, promised to survive. But for 
 Madeleine what could we do ? The letter bore no date, no 
 place of residence ; the post- mark was obliterated — all seemed 
 a dark, shapeless mystery, which no effort could solve. We 
 were then at Koine, and the wisest plan appeared to be to 
 return to Florence, and there wait (making every possible 
 inquiry meanwhile) my poor friend s appearance ; I never 
 doubted she would come. Though her intentions with regard 
 to the curd who had married them were vague and undefined, 
 I knew her so well that I felt convinced she would persevere 
 in finding him, and hoped she had more perfect intelligence of 
 his abode than her letter revealed. 
 
 “ To Florence, then, we determined on returning, as soon as 
 my strength would permit ; but so greatly had my health 
 been shaken, that it was full ten weeks after hearing from her 
 ere we set off. My child, of course, accompanied us, and one 
 female attendant, who had long been in Madame Montoni's 
 service, and was faithfully attached to us all. About the 
 middle of the second day's journey my poor babe was suddenly 
 taken ill. No house or village being near, we proceeded as 
 rapidly as possible, hoping to reach some town where medical 
 aid might be procured. Speed, however, for my infant was of 
 no avail ; she expired in my arms before evening fell, and just 
 as we reached a miserable-looking house near the source of tho 
 Arno. My husband saw that assistance for our child was 
 indeed vain; but being greatly alarmed for me, he determined,. 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 235 ’ 
 
 if lie could but procure a comfortable room, to remain there 
 that night instead of going farther. 
 
 The hostess received us kindly and hospitably, but de- 
 clared she hardly knew how to accommodate us, as the only 
 good room she had was occupied by a lady who had only been 
 confined three days, and was very ill indeed ; adding, that the- 
 poor lady was quite alone, and she thought something was 
 wrong in her mind, she looked and talked so strangely. Much 
 more she might have said, but I heard her not ; a new and 
 terrible emotion roused me from the stupor which had fallen 
 on me; strength, mental and bodily, seemed suddenly restored 
 in the thought that Madeleine, my poor Madeleine was found, 
 and needed me. I flew to the apartment pointed out as hers. 
 I stood beside the miserable couch, and one glance sufficed 
 me. Notwithstanding the awful change from blooming health 
 to the hues of death — for at first I thought she was gone for 
 ever — I recognised my beloved and suffering friend. She lay 
 as if unconscious, save that her arm clasped her child, who 
 was sleeping in all the peace of infant slumber, its little head 
 cradled on her bosom, which had nought but love to give. 
 
 ‘'^Madeleine,’ I shrieked, as I threw myself on my knees 
 beside her, and pressed the thin cold hand again and again to 
 my lips, ‘ Madeleine, friend, sister, speak to me but one word 
 — tell me you know me — love me.’ 
 
 My wild words recalled the departing soul : her eyes 
 opened, fixed themselves on my face with such a glare of 
 inquiry, of hope struggling with doubt, that I could scarcely 
 sustain the gaze; and then she sprang up ; she threw one arm 
 convulsively round my neck, and the wild, sharp, agonized 
 accents of her voice thrill on me now. 
 
 ‘ Mary — Mary — Mary,’ she reiterated ; ^ God has brought 
 you — none but He, to save, love — my child, my child — no 
 stain, no shame. I have — ’ and her voice was lost in a 
 gurgling rush of blood, streaming from mouth and ear and 
 nostril ; her head dropped, her arm sank powerless — a few 
 minutes, the rushing torrent ceased, and all vras still. 
 
 I know not how long I remained kneeling motionless 
 beside the couch, gazing as if fascinated on the countenance 
 of the dead, gleaming forth in such ghastly whiteness from 
 the dark lurid stains which had dyed the linen all around her. 
 I heard not my husband’s voice, nor knew that he stood 
 beside me. It was the feeble w^ail of an infant which aroused 
 
:236 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 me ; bewildered and feverish, I imagined it the voice of my 
 own child, and snatched it to my bosom ; its little face and 
 hands and dress were dyed with its mother’s blood. Fearfully, 
 hurriedly, I removed those unseemly stains, clothed it in clean, 
 refreshing garments, and then I gave it food, its natural food ; 
 and as it eagerly and helplessly clung to my breast, as I felt 
 its little head nestling against me as my own poor babe had 
 done, sense and energy returned in a passionate burst of tears. 
 
 Night came. They had removed all that was horrible from 
 the chamber of death ; and side by side they had laid the dead, 
 my infant and my friend. All but my own maid believed 
 them mother and child ; and there was no need to dispel the 
 illusion. That night, as I looked upon the innocent babe so 
 strangely, so providentially thrown upon my care, the sole re- 
 cord of those I had loved with a daughter’s and sister’s tender- 
 ness, who appeared made mine to fill up the void which my 
 poor babe’s death had wrought ; as I felt how utterly it was 
 dependent upon me, nay, mine in all save life itself, I knelt 
 before my husband, I conjured him to let me call it ours, to 
 fold it to our hearts in lieu of the infant taken from us ; like 
 her it was a girl, and whoever its father might be, we robbed it, 
 by adoption, of no legal heritage. It was indeed a iveighty 
 boon, though at the moment I knew not its extent; I only 
 saw the struggle in my husband ere he could grant it. He 
 bade me reflect on all I might draw down upon myself — we knew 
 nothing of its father, but that he was a man of sin ; we knew 
 not even if its birth were legitimate. He bade me ponder 
 well, if, should we have other children, I could still bestow on 
 our adopted one the same love. It needs not to repeat all 
 that passed between us. It was evident his only objection 
 was its doubtful birth, and the evil passions it might inherit 
 from both its parents. Even after a long struggle, and he had 
 granted my boon, and granted it in such a manner as tenfold 
 to increase the love and esteem I bore him, he still wished me 
 to bring up the child as an adopted one, not as my own, fear- 
 ing the effect of concealment and deception on my own heart. 
 But at such a moment I could not realize this fear — I could 
 not believe that aught of misery or remorse could spring from 
 u deception only acted to secure the happiness of an innocent 
 being committed to my care. And even to this my generous 
 Edward at length acceded. And in after years, when in your 
 deep yearnings for Italy, your love for all that was high and 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 237 
 
 noble in art and poetry, there I traced your mother’s nature,, 
 and trembled lest similar sufferings should be yours ; when I 
 saw you quitting the child for the high-souled loving girl, and 
 I thought on all woman’s trials, and dark forebodings and 
 remorseful fears crept over me, bidding me dread I knew not 
 what. Never once did my beloved husband upbraid me for 
 having acted contrary to his advice ; nay, he could not share 
 my fears ; for when I was tortured by the feeling that, even 
 to secure your happiness, I had done wrong — that there was 
 actual sin in forfeiting the straight line of truth, he soothed 
 me by the assurance, which I could see he felt himself, that I 
 had done right — I had secured the happiness of our adopted, 
 and given him a treasure blessed and blessing as his own 
 children. And so we both felt, my Florence. Every year 
 that passed bringing forth new virtues, new qualities to endear. 
 We blessed God for you, my child, as for our others ; aye, 
 and bless Him now, for what have you not been to us ? how 
 blessedly have you repaid our cares ! Are you not ours still ? 
 Mine has been the breast to nourish, the hand to guide, the 
 lips to train. Florence, my beloved, my own, oh 1 think of 
 me, call me your mother still. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 My strength is waning, my sweet child. With increase 
 of difficulty my pen resumes its task. 
 
 ‘^By my poor Madeleine’s dying words, it seemed to us that 
 she must have obtained some positive proof of the legality of 
 her marriage, and was in possession of papers to that effect. 
 Greatly to our disappointment, however, not any such could 
 be found. The hostess reiterated her assurances that the poor 
 lady had brought nothing with her, and as there could be 
 nothing in a bundle of papers to tempt cupidity or falsehood, 
 we were compelled to believe her. My husband, I saw', imag- 
 ined poor Madeleine’s words the mere excitement of her own 
 belief. I could not think this, and still believe she had foun- 
 dation for her assertion. There was no need of a bribe to 
 persuade our hostess to declare, if any inquiries should be 
 made, that the poor infant had died with its mother ; for she 
 herself believed it was so. I know not if such inquiries were 
 ever made, for we never saw the Vale of Arno nor its inmates 
 again. Our own maid, the only participator of our treasured 
 secret, was too faithfully attached to us and to the poor child 
 
238 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 ever to divulge it. Even in her marriage (for she married soon 
 afterwards and went to France), to the hour of her death, it 
 never passed her lips. We stayed another year in Italy, and 
 then returned to England. Walter and Minie were succes- 
 sively granted us, and the love you bore them, the constant 
 sacrifices of your own childish pleasures to enhance theirs, 
 only strengthened the links between us, and instead of lessen- 
 ing the love we bore you, incalculably increased it. All was 
 forgotten, save that you were indeed our own. 
 
 '' Nearly three-and-twenty years have passed since the 
 day which made you ours ; yet never have we heard the name 
 of Charles Neville, or traced his course. His countenance, his 
 figure, were too remarkable ever to be forgotten or mistaken, 
 and notwithstanding the lapse of years, both my husband and 
 myself would have recognised him on the instant, had he ever 
 crossed our path. Every inquiry we could make without excit- 
 ing suspicion was made both in Italy and England, but all 
 have been without effect ; and if he still lives, it must be 
 under some other name. I have seen none like him, none who 
 ever recalled his features — I am wrong, I have seen one, but 
 the image was faint and shadowy; yet it brought back thoughts 
 of the past strangely and undefinably. My hand fails me — 
 what is this sudden mist ? Florence — my child — 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 The last line was almost wholly illegible, the words ^‘Florence, 
 my child,’’ were blotted, as if the pen had there fallen ; and 
 the desire to conclude and to conceal those momentous records 
 was frustrated by the stroke of unconsciousness, and of death. 
 
CHAPTER XLL 
 
 THINKING WHAT THE WORLD WILL SAY. — A STRANGE 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 To Lord St. Maur’s great surprise, lie found his wife still sitting 
 up awaiting his return, and evidently feeling no inclination to 
 retire to rest. Her eyes w^ere heavy, but it was with tears. 
 
 Ida, love, what has chanced ? ’’ he asked. '' Is that poor 
 girl worse ? No : wLy, that’s w’-ell ; tlien what’s the matter ? 
 If 3mu w^ere a sentimental novel-reader, I should fancy you had 
 met with some delightful w^ork of the kind, which has beguiled 
 you of tears far too precious to be thus wasted. ” 
 
 ‘' Would they had been so called, my dear husband. I 
 scarcely know how to tell you all in a few words ; and j^et I 
 could not retire to rest without doing so. Do not look so 
 anxious ; it is nothing concerning myself, but much for my 
 poor Florence.” 
 
 “ Florence I why, what of her ? Does she repent her caprice 
 in rejecting Howard, and wish to call him back again ? I am 
 afraid, in that case, I cannot help her : she should have thought 
 twice ere she decided,” replied the Earl, smiling. 
 
 “ Pray do not jest, dearest Edmund ; my tale is but too 
 serious and sad.” And briefly she narrated her interview with 
 Florence — its terrible communication, and its confirmation by 
 the manuscript still open beside her, but on the contents of 
 which at that moment Lady St Maur did not enter. 
 
 The Earl’s open brow contracted. “I would not speak ill of 
 the dead,” he said, “but Mrs. Leslie has acted wrongly ; she 
 should never have permitted Florence to pass as her own 
 child.” 
 
240 
 
 woman’s rmENDSHIP. 
 
 So I felt at first ; but I cannot feel it now. Think of the 
 misery poor Florence must have endured from the moment she 
 emerged from childhood, had the truth been known.” 
 
 Better than such misery as is hers now. Measures should 
 have been taken, instead of suppressing, to proclaim the truth 
 — to call upon all who had been accessory to the marriage, 
 real or pretended. Some clue must then have been found, and 
 the child resigned to its natural guardian, or brought up by 
 Mrs. Leslie under its own name.” 
 
 But had all their efforts failed, which, from the perusal of 
 these papers, I think most likely — ^poor Madeleine’s tale would 
 have been rumoured all over Italy ; and loving her as she did^ 
 could Mrs. Leslie have borne this ? ” 
 
 Yes, if it had — which it might have done — proved the 
 legality of the marriage. That proved, if she still wished to 
 adopt the child, she might have done so ; there would then 
 have been no need to hide the truth, and Florence would have 
 been so spared all the agony of this discovery.” 
 
 Agony indeed ; but as it is — ” 
 
 ^^As it is, I rejoice that she is now so rich an heiress as to be 
 independent of your benevolence, further than the convenance 
 of general society.” 
 
 Lady St. Maur raised her eyes to his face, in bewildered 
 inquiry. What can you mean, my dear husband ? How can 
 this unfortunate circumstance affect my affection for and 
 interest in Florence ? ” 
 
 ‘^Easily, my dear Ida. Can a person of such doubtful birth 
 and parentage continue a fit companion for the Countess St. 
 Maur?” 
 
 And why not ? ” replied the Countess, laying her hand 
 upon her husband’s arm, while her beautiful eyes glistened with 
 the energy of her appeal. My own husband, banish such a 
 worldling’s thought ! It was not yourself who spoke. You 
 could not bid me forsake one I have so long loved, and who 
 has shown herself so worthy of that love, because the merest 
 chance, proceeding from the uncontrollable agony of the 
 noblest act she has yet performed, has revealed a doubt — for 
 it is nothing more — upon the legitimacy of her birth. Bead 
 these papers, and you will feel as I do : you cannot bid me 
 forsake my poor friend in her deep misery. Edmund, you 
 cannot do this ? ” 
 
 Thanks to your sweet eloquence, my Ida, it has recalled 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 241 
 
 my better nature ; it was, indeed, ivitli a worldling s tongue I 
 spoke, thinking what the world would say.” 
 
 The world ! God forbid the world should ever know it ! 
 Yet, did I forsake her, how could such publicity be avoided ? 
 No, not even to Minie would I have it imparted. Your 
 honour is my own ; in pledging my word to secrecy, I under- 
 took for you also, my husband. Eead but these papers ; do 
 not decide upon my future treatment to Florence, till that is 
 /done I willingly wait your determination, for I know what it 
 will be.” 
 
 Lord St. Maur promised to do all she desired, on condition 
 that she would take the rest she so much needed, and trust his 
 ^eal for Florence’s welfare as truly as her own. He was as 
 good as his word. When the Countess joined him in the 
 library the following morning, the important papers had been 
 already perused, and the Earl sat with his hand resting upon 
 them, evidently in deep thought : he looked up as his wife 
 ‘entered, and spoke with some emotion. ‘^You are right, 
 dearest : it would indeed be unnecessary cruelty to make 
 Elorence pay the forfeit of that villain Neville’s sin. You 
 .shall still be her friend, my Ida ; we must do all we can to give 
 back the peace she so much needs.” 
 
 ‘‘ And Howard — is there a hope, a chance of bringing them 
 again together ? The blow has fallen heaviest there. Why, 
 why did these fatal papers ever reach her eye ? Can it be for 
 good ? ” 
 
 ‘Hda, my beloved, it is, must be, or it would not have been,” 
 replied her husband. We must endeavour to persuade her, 
 also, that so it is ; that, in being thus revealed to her, the 
 prayer of her adopted mother has been heard and 
 granted.” 
 
 I ought to believe it, Edmund, but indeed it is difficult ; 
 .and Howard — she would shrink in natural repugnance from 
 telling him the truth : but cannot you or I ? Surely her case 
 does not come within the pale of those unfortunate attach- 
 ments he SQ lately and so solemnly forswore ? ” 
 
 The Earl looked very thoughtful ere he replied. ‘H am not 
 quite sure whether Howard, with his peculiar, perhaps over- 
 scrupula^is, notions as to the purity of the woman he loves, 
 would not shrink back from an union with one whose father is 
 utterly unknown, save as a villain. No; Florence has decided 
 not only nobly, but as regards Frank, most wisely. Better he 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 should never be undeceived, never know that he really had 
 power over a heart like hers.” 
 
 But then is not his happiness sacrificed as well as hers ? ” 
 
 Only for a short time ; whereas, if the truth be revealed, 
 he will be tortured by various contending feelings, likely to 
 ruin his peace for ever. As it is, believing as he does that he 
 has been rejected, and decisively, a few months will effect his 
 cure.” 
 
 A few months, my dear Edmund ! Does man’s love, even 
 gTanting he believes it unreturned, last only that period ? ” 
 
 “ Not always ; but in Howard s case I feel assured it will 
 last no longer. You will be shocked and disappointed, my 
 dear Ida, but I confess that I never shared your sanguine 
 expectations with regard to this union. It has always ap- 
 peared to me, that his regard for her was more like a brothers 
 than a lovers — too calm, too dispassionate, for love in a person 
 like Frank, whose feelings are never of the quietest kind.” 
 
 ‘'But 'still currents run the deepest,”’ replied his wife, wdth 
 a faint smile. 
 
 "Yes, love, in all passions but that of Love. It may, 
 indeed, be concealed, but then the outward man will suffer. 
 Never tell me that Howard would not have visibly suffered, 
 had Florence’s dependent situation been the sole obstacle to 
 the declaration of his affection. If he had really loved, and 
 felt that love was hopeless as long as his father lived, he would 
 either have fled from her, or been hurried into an avowal of 
 his feelings. I know him well enough to be quite certain that 
 he could not have concealed them.” 
 
 "But what has made him act as he has done now?” per- 
 sisted Lady St. Maur. " There could be no occasion for him 
 to make her an offer, if he really did not love.” 
 
 " I do not say he does not fancy himself in love, or that he 
 has not done so some time ; but only that one of these days 
 he will find himself mistaken, and that bond fide love will 
 affect him. in a very different manner. Till we returned to 
 England, he was so immersed in politics, in studying elocution, 
 rhetoric, and such things, as to have little thought and less 
 inclination for indiscriminate female society. Your interest in 
 Florence, and the many trials she had undergone, affected 
 him, and inclined him towards her. The last few months, her 
 bereavement, and its sad effect upon her, of course, excited 
 his warmest sympathy ; and this his fancy has magnified into 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 243 
 
 a still warmer feeling. He has no belief in platonic affection 
 subsisting between the sexes ; and therefore, as no woman 
 ever interested him as Florence has done, he fancies it must 
 be love.” 
 
 ^‘For his sake, I hope you may be right, but for my poor 
 friend it matters little. Yet, should your suggestions prove 
 incorrect, and Frank does really love her, will you not make 
 some effort to bring them again together ?” 
 
 Wait till Frank returns from accompanying Lord Edgemmre 
 on his pleasure trip. If he can still associate with Florence 
 calmly, and find pleasure in her society as before, take my 
 word for it he has never loved. Eejection may be cold water 
 on love s flame, and incite pride, and all kinds of petty 
 feelings, to case up the heart, but it never yet so conquered 
 true affection as, by six months’ absence, to permit untroubled 
 association with its object. You smile — remember I only 
 spoke of Frank when I said a few months wdll effect his cure.” 
 
 ‘‘And you really think it is only as a brother that he feels?” 
 
 “ So much so that I was rather pleased than otherwise, to 
 hear that Florence had rejected him ; fearing that he might 
 chance to discover that he had been labouring under a delusion 
 when it was too late. But I have almost forgotten that I had 
 something else to say to you relative to or rather recalled by 
 these papers. Do you remember a strange circumstance 
 mentioned to us just before we returned home tw^o years 
 ago ?” Lady St. Maur did not remember it. “By the way, 
 no ; I do not think you were present, nor indeed has it ever 
 crossed my mind again till this morning : but you remember 
 Herbert Elford’s love of exploring ! Well, on one of these 
 occasions he remained a day or two at a rustic village inn, 
 near the source of the Arno. When there, the host, after 
 many apologies, asked him, as an Englishman, to take charge 
 of a small ebony casket containing some papers, which he 
 understood were English, and endeavour to discover their 
 rightful owner. He confessed that in his youth, when per- 
 forming the part of ostler, waiter, and many others, to the 
 late mistress of the inn, he had believed petty larceny no sin, 
 and had purloined this casket or case from a poor woman who 
 had come there in great distress, given birth to a dead child, 
 and died. They had never known who or w4iat she w^as, 
 except that she spoke in a strange language. Some benevolent 
 English, who had arrived there by chance, had her decently 
 
 R 2 
 
244 
 
 woman’s priendship. 
 
 buried in the church, but put no name upon the tomb. From 
 the great beauty of the casket, he thought it must contain 
 gems or coin, and had removed it as its owner lay in the 
 stupor of death. Never hearing any inquiries made for it, he 
 considered his prize secure. Instead, however, of finding gems, 
 the casket contained nothing but papers. Thirteen years 
 afterwards he became master of the inn ; but for some time 
 all went wrong with him, and he began to feel twinges of 
 conscience for past misdemeanours. He betook himself to a 
 priest, made full confession, and received absolution, coupled 
 with an imperative command to deliver the casket and its 
 contents to the first English traveller who would take them in 
 charge. For seven years he had not seen such a person, but 
 the prosperity following his confession had convinced him that 
 he could not neglect the priest’s charge, now an opportunity 
 offered, without calling down on him the wrath of the saints, 
 and so he entreated Elford to release him of his burden. 
 Damp and musty papers, however, had no charm for one so 
 wild and volatile as Elford. Had the lady been living, the 
 affair might have looked like an adventure, and been welcomed 
 accordingly ; but as she was dead, and the child too, there 
 could be nothing in it, so he merely glanced his eye over 
 them, fancied they looked like love-letters, and returned the 
 casket to the landlord, advising him by all means to guard 
 them safely still, for he had no doubt they would one day be 
 claimed. It is strange how completely all this had faded from 
 my memory, and equally strange is the vividness with which 
 it has all been recalled- by the perusal of these papers.” 
 
 ‘‘And do you think there is a probability of their being 
 connected ?” exclaimed Lady St. Maur, who had listened to 
 this recital with intense eagerness. “ Can we procure them ? 
 Could we but remove the mystery hanging over our poor 
 Florence, there might be happiness in store for her yet.” 
 
 “ My dearest Ida, we must not permit the hope of such a 
 chance too hastily. Even were we to obtain possession of 
 these papers, they may not be those we so much desire. 
 The outline of the tale alone I remember ; there may have 
 been other circumstances narrated, which may throw completely 
 a different colouring over the whole. Where Herbert Elford 
 is at present I do not know, nor have I much chance of 
 tracing him. Do not look so disappointed, my dear love, I 
 would not entirely check your hopes, but I would caution you 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 245 
 
 against exciting any in Florence. All we must endeavour to 
 do is to soothe her back into tranquillity, to convince her that 
 the character evinced by her whole conduct, and if possible 
 yet more nobly in her resolution with regard to Frank, is alone 
 remembered. Do you do this, my love, and trust my vigilance 
 for the rest ; only give me time. A year, perhaps more, may 
 elapse before I can obtain these much-desired papers.” 
 
 ‘'I will try to be patient, Edmund; but it will be very 
 difficult ; however, I will follow your advice. But this Charles 
 Neville, did you never hear of or meet with such a person ?” 
 
 '' Never, that I can recollect. I greatly fear the name was 
 but assumed ; and if so, I suspect the marriage, however duly 
 performed, registered, and witnessed, will not hold good. 
 However, I will make every inquiry that I can without 
 exciting curiosity, and meanwhile we must hope and wait. 
 
CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 NOT ALONE — CONSOLATION IN miENDSHI?. 
 
 It would be equally needless and painful to linger on the 
 long-continued sufferings of poor Florence, before the energy 
 of life in any way returned. Fever, which the terrible inward 
 struggle of nearly three months’ continuance had excited, was 
 so long in being subdued, that Lord and Lady St. Maur, even 
 Sir Charles Brashleigh himself, more than once trembled less 
 the loss of either life or reason should ensue ; and when fever 
 was overcome, it seemed as if she must sink under the utter 
 exhaustion of mind and frame which followed. 
 
 Her constitution, however, though delicate, was good ; and 
 all Lady St. Maur s kindness and attention were devoted to 
 prove that she was dearer to her friend than ever. But the 
 heart and frame had received too severe a shock for even 
 affection to be as yet of much avail. After weeks of uncon- 
 scious agony, she did indeed appear sensible of the fond cares 
 which she received, and as if she struggled to prove that she 
 was grateful ; but the expression of mournfulness on her 
 sweet, shadowy face, too painfully revealed the all-absorbing 
 woe. 
 
 Lady St. Maur’s principal care was to conceal Florence’s 
 illness, or at least its extent, from Minie ; and to do so re- 
 quired no little skill, both from her own extreme truthfulness, 
 which shrunk from all evasion, and that the correspondence 
 between the sisters never, under any circumstances, flaggede 
 She so far succeeded, however, as to satisfy Minie, who wrotf 
 a playful reproach to Florence for not taking more care or 
 herself, and commanding her not to think of writing to he. 
 
woman's friendship. 
 
 247 
 
 till Sir Charles gave her permission so to do. Perhaps, had 
 the mind of the young girl been as free and unoccupied as 
 when she had first joined Lady Mary, she would have been 
 less easily satisfied ; but new thoughts, new feelings, whose 
 ecstatic enjoyment had never even been dreamed of before, had 
 stolen over mind and heart ; and when Florence again awoke 
 to outward things, she became aware of a deeper, fuller tone 
 in her sister s letters, irradiating the simplest incident or 
 sentiment as by a glow of summer sunshine. Whence 
 emanated that irradiation she knew not, nor did Minie reveal 
 it. The young girl knew she felt ; but it was a sensation too 
 sweet, too ethereal for aught so gross as words. 
 
 As soon as Sir Charles believed that his patient might be 
 removed in safety. Lord St. Maur and his family gladly left 
 London for Amersley, and there it was that Florence gradually 
 and painfully became conscious that life, not death, was her 
 allotted portion ; that for some wise though inscrutable pur- 
 pose she was doomed to drag on existence, when her every 
 prayer had been for death. She felt marked out for suffering ; 
 not a gleam might descend on her blighted heart to vivify and 
 bring forth hope. Why was this her doom ? Why must she 
 bear it ? Alas ! who has not felt at some period of our life, 
 that when most needed, the powder of prayer, of faith, has 
 departed from us, and even by our God we are forsaken ; that 
 we can no longer trace the love in which, till that moment, we 
 thought we had believed ? 
 
 In the prostration of bodily and mental energy, Florence 
 felt that she had wilfully and needlessly cast happiness from 
 her ; that she had weaved her own fate, and therefore must 
 despair. What or whom had she to live for now ? The 
 brightest links of life were snapped asunder, and love she had 
 thrown from her; her heart seemed scorched and dried 
 up within her ; every feeling, every thought, merged in 
 the one sickly longing to fold Minie to her heart and die. 
 Physical weakness had, of course, much to do with this 
 morbid state of feeling. Lady St. Maur, sympathising deeply 
 with her, knew not in what way to rouse or give her comfort. 
 Of Howard she felt as if she could not speak, for she had no 
 hope to give : his name never passed the lips of Florence; but 
 the convulsive contraction of her features whenever Minie's 
 artless effusions spoke of him, which they did very often, was 
 all-sufficient evidence of the power he still retained. 
 
248 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Nothing in life is so terrible as the reaction after an extra- 
 ordinary self-sacrifice. The mind almost always feels as if it 
 had done what was in reality needless, and might have been 
 evaded. Very often friends, falsely so named in such cases, 
 add to this pain by agreeing with us, and declaring that tho 
 sacrifice was little removed from folly, instead of doing all 
 they can to support and strengthen the feeble and sinking' 
 spirit, by upholding its integrity, and affirming their convic- 
 tion that the sacrifice was as imperatively demanded as nobly 
 made. There are so few, unhappily, in the present prosaic 
 state of things, who can thus abnegate self, that they imagine 
 all who can and do to be under the influence of romantic 
 delusion — a species of enthusiasm, which is in fact to such 
 minds but another word for madness. Fortunately for Florence,, 
 the Earl and Countess St. Maur were not of these. 
 
 Florence had been sitting, one afternoon, some hours at 
 work — the most natural but the worst occupation for a mind 
 diseased, permitting as it does, thought to run on as swiftly 
 and engrossingly as absolute idleness. She worked on me- 
 chanically till twilight, when, believing herself alone, sho 
 started up, and paced the room. 
 
 Alone ! alone ! ” she unconsciously repeated aloud. Had 
 I but one tie amongst the living or the dead, but one to call 
 my own ; but there is none — none ; an outcast — nameless 
 — from the hour of my birth ! Oh, what a miserable ingrate 
 to speak thus, when love — love, such deep love has been 
 lavished on me ; but it was only love — not nature ; and now 
 — now even that is gone ; the very dead I may not call my 
 own. Alone ! Oh, the unutterable anguish of that word ; 
 without one link, one friend — ” 
 
 Florence ! ” said a voice of mild reproach ; “ have you, 
 indeed, no friend ? ” 
 
 Florence started, and flinging herself passionately on the 
 ottoman at the Countess’s feet, she hid her face on her lap, 
 and sobbed forth, ‘‘ Forgive me, oh, forgive me ; I knew not 
 what I said ! Miserable, ungrateful as I am, oh, do not throw 
 me off, as I deserve. What would be my wretched fate 
 without you ? ” 
 
 Hardly worse than, by your own words, it is now, Florence,”" 
 replied Lady St. Maur. “ I would indeed be your friend, but 
 you wull not permit me ; and wrapping yourself in your 
 affliction, heightening it by imaginary ills, you feel and act as 
 if indeed you had no friend.” 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 24 » 
 
 Imaginary ! ” repeated Florence, and she loosed her hold 
 of Lady St. Maur’s hands, clasped her own tightly together, 
 and turned from her. 
 
 Yes, dearest, in some degree. Now, do not turn from me, 
 as if I could feel no sympathy in your deep sorrow. I do not- 
 ■ say you have nothing for which to grieve, but why increase 
 your trials by dwelling upon fanciful evils, till your mind 
 becomes enervated instead of strengthened ? Why linger on 
 the idea that every link is snapped between you and those you 
 loved so well? Can the love of three-and-twenty years be 
 snapped asunder by a word ? Do not dwell upon such 
 thoughts as you gave words to just now, my Florence ; they 
 are wrong, sinful, rebelling, by increasing grief.” 
 
 ‘‘ But she is gone — gone. I can never return the weight 
 of love she has borne for me ; never, never repay the debt I 
 owe her,” answered Florence, with a burst of passionate yet 
 softening tears. 
 
 Do not say so, dearest. If you can recall any one time 
 when you refused to sacrifice yourself for her, these thoughts 
 may be permitted, but not otherwise ; but this you cannot do. 
 You cannot tell me one period of your existence in which you 
 failed in duty to your supposed parents, or in love for their 
 children ; and therefore do not weep because you cannot show 
 it farther now. Look back, and bless God that he gave you 
 strength to act as you have done ; that as Mrs. Leslie indeed 
 filled a mother’s part towards you, so did you perform a child’s 
 towards her.” 
 
 Yes, yes ; could I think only of this ; but the one dark 
 thought will come, and poison all the rest. I could bear the 
 being not her child, but — ” and the softening mood was con- 
 quered by that of bitter agony, and the relieving tears were 
 frozen, as she wildy clasped Lady St. Maurs knees. ‘‘Tell 
 me, only tell me there is no stain upon my birth, and I can 
 bear all else, even — even to lose — ” Her voice was choked. 
 
 And indeed there is no positive proof, my Florence,” 
 replied the Countess, with a voice of more conviction than she 
 felt; ‘^all must be conjecture; yet do not wholly despair. 
 All now is dark, and seemingly hopeless ; yet, if God wills, 
 dearest, how soon all may be made light, and happiness be 
 again your own ; not as it has been, perhaps, but more en- 
 during? Pvead those papers again. You shudder, as if the 
 task were too painful ; yet I think were you to re-peruse them. 
 
*250 
 
 womah’s friendship. 
 
 you would believe, as your adopted mother conjures you to 
 believe, that there is no stain upon your birth ; that poor 
 Madeleine’s dying words convinced her that she had acquired 
 some positive proof that her child was legitimate ; and though 
 no such proofs were found, it is not impossible such may exist. 
 And — ” She paused, remembering her husband’s warning. 
 But Florence could not hope ; she sank back on her low seat, 
 saying, less wildly, but with heartrending despondency — 
 
 ‘‘You speak but to comfort me. There can be no proof 
 now. It would have come to light long ere this, w'ere it 
 possible. But no, no, it cannot be.” 
 
 “ All things are possible with God, my Florence ; His Provi- 
 dence willed that instead of being concealed, as intended, the 
 papers should fall into your hands, unfinished as they .were* 
 and do not doubt His power now.” 
 
 “ And why was it thus revealed ? Why at such a moment 
 was the truth made known ? Oh ! better far that I had never 
 known myself other than I am.” 
 
 “Do not say so, Florence. Had you always knowm the 
 truth, fancy would have been ever at work to make your life 
 wretched. Do not throw such reproach upon the dead, by 
 whom you were so entirely beloved, that she burdened herself 
 with this fatal secret to preserve your joys unsullied ; and she 
 would have borne it with her to the grave, had not an un- 
 conquerable impulse urged her to its disclosure. Your adopted 
 mother’s prayer w^as, that it might never be known unless the 
 concealment threatened deeper misery than the revelation. 
 She believed her prayer wmuld be granted ; try and believe it 
 too, my Florence, and be comforted.” 
 
 “Could I but forget the mystery around my birth!” ex- 
 claimed Florence, after some minutes’ tearful silence. “ But 
 I cannot — cannot. My very name sounds strange and false ; 
 I have no right to it. They hail me as the loved and cherished 
 sister of the poet Walter ; him whom I so loved to feel, to 
 glory in as brother 1 And Minie, my happy Minie 1 how may 
 I bear to hear her call me sister, to cling to me as such 
 again?” 
 
 “ These are the imaginary ills against which I would warn 
 you, my own Florence,” replied the Countess, soothingly. 
 “Natural as they are, strive, pray against them, till they are in 
 part at least subdued. Your noble deed — the sacrifice of 
 woman’s dearest, most precious hopes — must for the time give 
 you all enough to bear.” 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 251 
 
 Florence had dropped her head on her hands, and tears 
 were streaming faster than before; and though her slight frame 
 shook with the paroxysm, Lady St. Maur felt, and with justice, 
 that they gave relief. 
 
 “ You do not regret this decision, my Florence,’^ she said, 
 after a brief pause. ''You do not heigliten your present 
 sufferings by the belief that the sacrifice was unneeded ? You 
 would not recall your words ? Much as you are now enduring, 
 believe me, oh, believe me, it is slight compared to what it 
 would have been, had you thrown yourself on his generosity, 
 and revealed the truth ; or had you concealed it and accepted 
 him, you would have failed at the altar’s foot.” 
 
 " But if to you, to Lord St. Maur, my agony at the — the 
 stain upon my birth be more imaginary than real ; if I am not, 
 as I believed, an outcast from the sympathy, the feelings of 
 my fellow-men ; if, whatever be my birth, I can never be other 
 than I have been to those who love me, oh ! why might not 
 the truth have been revealed to him, and yet our happiness 
 secured?” 
 
 It was difficult to look on that pleading face, to listen to 
 those tremulous words unmoved ; they told a tale even then 
 of hope, which the Countess, after her late conversation with 
 her husband, felt that she dared not encourage. 
 
 "Were Francis Howard other than he is, my Florence, this 
 might be ; but not, not with him ; he might not draw back, 
 believing he had gone too far ; but trust me, dearest, you have 
 better secured his happiness by concealing than by revealing 
 the truth. He loves not as you do, Florence ; if he do, time 
 will not change him ; there may be happiness still in store for 
 you both.” 
 
 " May he be happy !” murmured Florence, in a tone of such 
 submissive resignation that the Countess involuntary drew her 
 closer to her, and fondly kissed her pallid brow. 
 
 "Yet still have you ties to bind you to life, my Florence,” 
 she said ; " still have you memories of the past, to prove you 
 were not saved in vain ; and what were Minie’s lot without 
 you ? Now, too, that you have competence, nay, wealth per- 
 mitting your every ambitious wish for her to be fulfilled. You 
 have still friends, dearest, friends to whom your happiness is 
 dearer than ever. You have the recollection of a life of virtue 
 and of love ; and in securing the happiness of others, as you 
 have ever done, you may be laying up stores for your own, 
 
252 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 which, when the present darkness is mercifully removed, will 
 shine the lovelier for the past gloom. Think but of this, en- 
 deavour but to believe that some good must arise from this 
 deep woe, or it would not have been permitted ; and endure it 
 nobly, as you can and will. Your secret is known but to Lord 
 St. Maur and myself ; and you knov\^ that with us it is as if 
 it were not. You are the Florence Leslie, our Florence, which 
 you have ever been.” 
 
 Florence did not reply, but all her wildness and impatience 
 had passed away ; and Lady St. Maur felt that her tears were 
 falling fast. 
 
 At that moment Lord St. Maur bounded into the room^ 
 from the balcony on which the window opened, exclaiming, 
 ‘Mda, love ! I have brought you a visitor — a truant, yet one 
 you will be glad to see. Come in, Elliott, man ; what do you 
 stay there for ? ” 
 
 But his companion hesitated ; his glance fixed on the figure 
 so gracefully and almost spiritually brought forward in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 ‘^What! Eonald Elliott — my own sailor-cousin ; how glad 
 I am !” exclaimed the Countess, springing up with the joyous- 
 ness and elasticity of a girl. And Florence, startled and 
 terrified at the idea of a stranger, hastily withdrew. 
 
CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 RONALD ELLIOTT. — THE TRUE REFUGE. 
 
 Our readers will perhaps be less incliued to welcome a stranger 
 than was the Countess St. Maur. To her, however, the new 
 comer was no stranger, but a near relative ; and as such we 
 trust a kinder greeting will be allowed him than were he an 
 interloper in our narrative, merely dragged in, at the con- 
 clusion, to serve our own purposes. 
 
 ‘'Yes, Ronald, dearest Ida. How can I thank you for this 
 most kind welcome ? Happiness, adulation, and a long list of 
 honours have not changed you : the sound of your dear voice 
 tells me that, though I can scarcely see you,’’ replied the 
 young sailor, pressing his lips to the fair cheek which was 
 yielded to him as freely as a sister’s, and grasping her hands 
 in both his. 
 
 “Changed? not a whit!” replied her husband, laughing. 
 ■“ Ida St. Maur is as glad to see you as ever Ida Villiers was ; 
 and what is more, I am not jealous ; so drop your anchor here 
 as long as you please, if the harbourage be good enough for so 
 renowned a personage as Captain Sir Ronald Elliott, which we 
 must dub you in future.” 
 
 “ Captain, and Sir Ronald ! Why, you have made rapid 
 strides indeed, cousin sailor ; you were but third lieutenant, I 
 think, when we last met.” 
 
 “ Hardly that. It is full nine years since I saw you ; but 
 my kind uncle’s influence helped me even after we had lost 
 him, Ida. So I passed my examination gloriously, as I think 
 you know, and then to rise was easy.” 
 
 “ What ! even to be captain ? I think your own abilities 
 
254 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 must have helped you still more than my dear father’s in- 
 fluence ; but I am very angry with you, Ronald. You have 
 not written me a single line the last three years.” 
 
 I know it, my kind cousin, and deserve to lose an epaulette 
 for it. But we have been from one end of the world almost 
 to the other in that time ; nearly murdered by some barbarous 
 islanders ; then wrecked, and for a full month thrown about 
 on the wide ocean in a little cockle-shell of a boat, which I 
 expected every hour would go to pieces; nearly starved,, 
 and made such objects by the sun and wind and spray, 
 that you never would have known me. Then we hailed land, 
 and imagined anchorage secure ; when, behold, it was but a 
 desert island. And though I was not quite Robinson Crusoe, 
 having still some faithful comrades with me, I assure you 
 Crusoe himself could not have yearned more for the sight of 
 a ship than w^e did. I set all hands to work to make a craft 
 fit for sea ; but wdth neither tools nor proper wood nor canvas, 
 imagine the difficulties of our task. Still we would not be 
 thrown aback, and the fourteen months we were there passed 
 quicker in their vain attempts, than had we made none at all. 
 At length w^e succeeded ; our craft was actually seaworthy. 
 We launched her, loaded her with the roots, grain, and fruit 
 which had been our sole mess daring our solitude, and so 
 tempted old ocean again. She took us safely to a Spanish 
 trader, who received us on board, took our craft and tackle in 
 tow as curious specimens of nautical ingenuity, and conveyed 
 us to Brazil. Thence we crowded sail for old England, and 
 after storms and dangers innumerable, here we are ! The 
 Lords of the Admiralty were pleased to have us before them, 
 examined my log, which I have contrived to keep throughout 
 all, gave all my brave fellows a lift (I had lost only two), made 
 me a captain, and I suppose, from their report, her Majesty 
 was pleased to make me a baronet : why, I cannot imagine. I 
 did nothing more than every British sailor would have done, 
 under the same circumstances.” 
 
 ‘‘ But, with all your toils and dangers, you are as handsome 
 as ever, Ronald ; somewhat browner, and perhaps thinner and 
 taller. But I should have known you anywhere.” 
 
 Now you. would, Ida ; for our primitive liie in the island 
 gave us all back our good looks,” replied the young officer, 
 who, as lights had been brought in, now appeared a frank, 
 pleasant-looking man of some six or seven-and-twenty years ; 
 
woman’s rHIENDSHIP. 255 ’ 
 
 sunburnt, certainl}^ but as his eyes and hair were very dark, 
 such marks of hard service proved no disfigurement. 
 
 “ But why did you not write us as soon as you reached 
 Plymouth ? ” inquired Lord St. Maur. 
 
 ‘‘ Because I did not know that you were in England. You 
 were in Italy when Ida last wrote.” 
 
 And how did you find us out at last ? ” 
 
 Why, first I crowded sail for Lord Edgemere’s, but found 
 he was in W^ales, or Scotland, or on some such tack ; than I 
 bethought me of Lord Melford. And as I was no longer the' 
 rough middy, P^onald Elliott, whose mother did such a foolish 
 thing as to marry a poor lieutenant, and her brother Lord 
 Edgemere a still more shocking thing, as to forgive the runaway 
 match, and receive her and her fatherless boy into favour, but 
 a captain and a baronet, why I thought they might deign to 
 speak to me : so I took them by surprise, was received most 
 graciously, heard you were here, and was off again in a twink- 
 ling; for no harbourage was ever so safe and happy for Bonald 
 Elliott as where his cousin Ida is to be found.” 
 
 I thought sailors were too honest ever to flatter,” replied 
 the Countess, laughing. 
 
 ^‘Ida, you know it to be truth! It was all through you my 
 poor wfidowed mother ^vas forgiven, though you were but a girl 
 of fourteen. You attended her long illness and death, wdth 
 all the devotedness and care of a daughter — gave me the love 
 of an elder sister — made every one treat me as your brother. 
 Oh, how proud and cold you looked and spoke if any one 
 dared look dov/n on me ; nor rested till my ardent wishes were 
 fulfilled and I was a sailor. And was this all ? No, Ida, no ; 
 if I have indeed attained to steadiness, and manliness, and 
 wmrth, to you I owe it all ; your affection, your example, your 
 counsels, have made me what I am.” 
 
 It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of those blunt and 
 rapid wmrds. His hands trembled, his lip quivered, and then, 
 as if to banish every trace of emotion, he laughingly inquired. 
 Who was that graceful figure I saw sitting (like Niobe, all 
 tears) at your feet, when St. Maur hurried me so irreverently 
 through the wundow ? She could not have thrown herself 
 into a more becoming attitude for effect, particularly as the 
 moonlight streamed upon her.” 
 
 ''Eflect! poor girl, the last thing in her mind at that 
 moment. She is a young friend of mine, and just at present 
 
256 
 
 •^YOMAN’s FllIENDSHIP. 
 
 in great affliction. You will probably see her to-morrow ; but 
 I warn you, you will be disappointed if you expect anything 
 Temarkable. She is ill and in sorrow, and not at all likely to 
 attract such a laughter-loving person as yourself.’’ 
 
 The return of young Elliott was a source of real rejoicing 
 both to the Countess and her husband. They had lost all 
 trace of him so long, that both had feared more than either 
 liked to express. Florence had often heard Lady St. Maur 
 allude to her cousin, even during their first intimacy at St. 
 John’s, as wishing she could see him before she left England ; 
 and she could therefore well sympathise in the joy with which 
 her friend sought her before retiring to rest, to communicate 
 the happy tidings of his unexpected return. 
 
 Suffering as their long conversation had been to Florence, it 
 was yet, as Lord St. Maur had predicted, productive of good. 
 Her mind gradually resumed a more healthy tone. Happy 
 indeed, how could she be ? But the morbid anguish, which 
 turned every memory into suffering, subsided. Although at 
 first shrinking from the task as increase of misery, she followed 
 Lady St. Maur’s advice, and re-read the MS. And though 
 her tears fell fast and unrestrainedly, the heavy weight on mind 
 and heart gave way. She could now feel the full extent of 
 love borne towards her by her adopted mother. In her first 
 perusal the truth had burst upon her with a shock and agony 
 which bewildered every faculty. She was only sensible that 
 she was the child of misery and shame. Now she read 
 differently. Her adopted mother’s fond appeal seemed to sink 
 upon her heart, bidding her trust in God, and believe that 
 those papers were indeed revealed but for good. She guessed 
 not wherefore, and she asked not. The struggle was dark and 
 terrible, known only to the Leader of all hearts ; but at length 
 that gentle spirit was enabled to merge every individual feeling 
 in the one deep, earnest prayer for the happiness of one ! 
 
 Let him be happy, even if to be so he must forget me and 
 love another.” Could those voiceless orisons have found vent 
 in wwds such would they have been. ‘‘ I ask but to be the 
 unknown instrument working his happier fate ; but if even 
 this be denied me — if our paths must indeed be severed, and 
 for ever — still, still, let him be happy. And for me — oh ! 
 Father of Mercy, lift up this yearning heart to Thee ! ” 
 
 There was no wild enthusiasm in her prayer. Days, nights, 
 aye, wrecks had passed, ere her seared heart could frame it in 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 257 
 
 sincerity and truth, and even in secret prayer dash down all 
 individual hope. It was not that she had loved him with 
 unreturned affection. She was not likely, at such a moment, 
 to think with Lord St. Maur, had she known his suspicions, 
 that Howard felt but a brother’s love. But she never wavered 
 in her unselfish prayer. She roused every energy, by the con- 
 quest of self, through constant and beneficial employment, to 
 assist in its fulfilment. She was not one of those who think 
 that prayer, even for the subjection of feeling, is sufficient 
 without deed. She knew she must help herself as well as 
 pray, and trust on the help that to all who seek it is given 
 from on high. She found support, too, in the consciousness of 
 her own integrity, a support which, had Lady St. Maur sought 
 to persuade her that her mighty sacrifice had been uncalled for, 
 must have been denied her; and when even the sweet dream of 
 his love was loosed by his own words from the fibres of her 
 heart, she found that strength had indeed been given to act 
 as she had prayed. 
 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE FAMILY TOUH. 
 
 Francis Howard did not linger long in London after liis 
 rejection by Florence ; he joined Lord Edgemere s family, who 
 were then at the Isle of Anglesea, in a much shorter time than 
 gentlemen in his forlorn situation generally take to recover 
 their equilibrium. He pondered again and again over the 
 conduct of Florence, and also over his own. He certainly 
 never had given her any right to suppose his attentions devoted 
 until lately, and, therefore, could have no reason to imagine 
 she had ever shown such preference for his society as to cause 
 any present belief that she had treated him ill. He thought 
 that she certainly had not seemed to dislike his society and 
 conversation. Dislike? No! But,’’ mentally argued the 
 young politician, ^Hhere is a wide space between not disliking 
 and love. Now I could not go hang or drown myself, as I hear 
 some despairing lovers talk of doing. Nay, if it were not for 
 very awkwardness, I should have much preferred still lingering 
 in her mild, rational society, than seeking others. I wish she 
 could have loved me : mine may not have been the wild, 
 passionate emotion of some that I know ; but it was one I 
 think which would have made us both happy, could she but 
 have loved me. I never knew what female companionship and 
 society were till I knew her, and I could have wished to secure 
 them mine, could I have made her happy as I hoped ; but 
 may I not still do so ? or is her rejection final? Yes — and I 
 am much mistaken if she do not love another; but who — who 
 has gained her affections ? It is all mystery ; but there was 
 more in her manner than met my eye. Well, well, be it so ; 
 I trust when we next meet, it will be still as the friends which 
 we have been.” 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 259 
 
 Could Lord St. Maur have heard this mental soliloquy, he 
 'Certainly would have had his suspicions confirmed. Francis 
 Howard was much too unselfish and noble a person to entertain 
 any petty and unworthy feelings, even had he considered 
 himself injured by his rejection. But the above quiet, un- 
 impassioned train of thought was not that of a man ardent in 
 his suit. His belief, too, that Florence loved another, ably 
 aided him to conquer the delusion which had engrossed him, 
 and before he had been a month with Lord Edgemere, he felt 
 himself once more a free man. 
 
 Now, let us not be accused of making our hero a very un- 
 interesting and most capricious personage. Frank did love 
 Florence with mo^t unselfish love ; esteemed, admired her ; 
 felt that had Heaven blessed him with such a sister, his lot 
 xrould have been happy as earth could make it ; and as woman 
 had never so arrested a fleeting thought before, he imagined 
 the feeling deeper than in reality it was ; cherished it, dwelt 
 upon it, till he began to think why should he repine that 
 Heaven had denied him such a sister, when love might give 
 him such a bride ? His rejection removed the delusive glow 
 of fancy, and his feelings gradually subsided into their 
 original repose. 
 
 It was a merry, though a small party that he joined ; 
 although it so happened that himself and Alfred Melford were 
 the only single men amongst them. Melford was, of course, 
 always the attache of his fair betrothed. Minie Leslie sported 
 gaily from one to the other of the party ; sometimes the charge 
 of the Earl himself, who was very fond of her ; at others the 
 chosen companion of Lord Henry Villiers, whose wife was not 
 quite strong enough for the long exploring rambles which he 
 preferred, and which Minie was only too happy to join; at 
 others sharing joyously the lively excursions of Viscount 
 Villiers, Lord Edgemere’s grandson and heir, a fine boy of 
 fourteen, the pet of the family. Except in her tete-a-tete 
 rambles with Melford, however. Lady Mary always considered 
 and treated Minie as her own especial charge, and under her 
 fostering care and kindness the young girl had overcome the 
 shock of her mother’s death, and though more often shadowed 
 than formerly, her natural liveliness had almost entirely 
 returned, and with renovated health, yet more dazzling beauty. 
 Not the most callous could have looked at her at any time 
 with indifference, and more particularly when returning, 
 
 S 2 
 
260 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 glowing with health and enjoyment, from a ramble, or 
 springing up the rocky heights of Wales, leaving all her com- 
 panions, even the young Lord Villiers himself, far behind her ; 
 pausing but to look back with laughing triumph, and seeming^ 
 from her light, exquisitely graceful figure, her sunny ringlets^ 
 and lovely face, the very spirit of the scenes she loved. 
 
 It was not a very unlikely state of things, therefore, that 
 when How^ard joined them, Minie should fall to his especial 
 care, particularly in those excursions taken by all the party ; 
 or that being mutually pleased, they should come together 
 tete-a-tete. Minie was scarcely eighteen, and so completely a 
 child, that no awkwardness ever marked her manner. She 
 had not learned ever to suppress a feeling or a sentiment. 
 Full of grateful devotion towards her friends, though she 
 never forgot to evince respect, she mingled with and caressed 
 them as a loving child, winning the affections of all, almost 
 unconsciously, in return. 
 
 At first she was delighted that Frank had joined them,, 
 because she could talk to him, and he could tell her of 
 Florence — her own dear Florence ! And then her rambles sud- 
 denly became more delightful than they had ever been ; and next,, 
 she felt strangely disinclined for any other companion, or, at 
 least, they fell far short in agreeableness to Mr. Howard ; and 
 then, her solitary walks became endowed with a sort of delicious 
 dreamy trance, which she had never experienced before ; and 
 still the simple girl guessed not, dreamed not, the nature of 
 the emotion which was engrossing her ; she only knew that 
 happy as she had been before, she was infinitely happier now ; 
 innocent as she was, she could no more have concealed the 
 sudden glittering of the dark blue eye, the flushing of the 
 delicate cheek, which greeted Frank whenever he appeared, 
 how^ever often in the day, than she could have defined why 
 this should be. Lady Mary, too, happy in her own engage- 
 ment, and finding sufficient employment in being with or 
 thinking of Melford, did not notice these little equivocal 
 signs, or if she did, perhaps secretly enjoyed the idea of her 
 lovely protegees captivating one of the handsomest and most 
 engaging young men of the day. However this might be, she 
 resolved not to breathe one word to awake Minie to the true 
 state of her feelings : it would either create foolish ideas in 
 the child’s head, or make her restless and unhappy by striving 
 to conceal, if she could not conquer, her feelings. No \ things 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 261 
 
 should take their own course, and she only hoped Prank would 
 finally be caught ; it would be such rare diversion to see so 
 reserved a sort of personage, when women were in the question, 
 fairly in love. The other members of the family, accustomed 
 to regard Minie as quite a child, either did not observe or 
 thought nothing of her evident pleasure in his society and 
 conversation. So small a share of kindness and notice could 
 delight her, that it was no wonder she found pleasure in 
 receiving it from him. She was considered too young, too 
 innocent to form any deeper feeling. 
 
 For Francis himself, he at first supposed it was on account 
 of his regard for Florence that he felt so perfectly satisfied 
 with the beautiful charge assigned him, that he was never 
 weary of listening to Minie’s conversation of her cherished 
 sister, and many a tale of Florence’s devotedness in their days 
 of privation and suffering did those young lips pour forth with 
 a natural eloquence which reached the inmost heart. He 
 listened enraptured, believing it all for Florence’s sake ; yet 
 in his solitary hours it was the sylph-like form, the lovely 
 face, the silver-toned voice of Minie which haunted him 
 sleeping or waking, not the subject of her tale ; and then he 
 met again the beaming eye and flushed cheek, and his heart 
 Avhispered, were not these signs proofs of no indifference on 
 her part ? He watched her closely ; he could not define it, 
 but there certainly was a slight difference between her manner 
 to him and that to others. Once he had come upon her 
 suddenly, as she was attempting to sketch an old tree before 
 the party set off, and her hand so trembled as quite to prevent 
 the completion of her task, and they were called to the 
 carriage with it still unfinished. And yet she looked so 
 happy. Then during the anxious period of Florence’s illness, 
 though neither Minie nor Frank knew its extent, or imagined 
 its cause, it was a common source of interest to both ; and 
 Minie seemed to look up to him so confidingly not only for 
 the first intelligence from the post, but for sympathy also. And 
 whereas she was at first so anxious on account of her sister, 
 that even her beloved music lost its balm, it was Howard’s 
 persuasion which again called it forth, making that sweet 
 voice once more lose itself in the gushing song, as he hung 
 over her entranced. Was it the illness of poor Florence or 
 Minie’s tearful eye and pale cheek which so engrossed him ? 
 If the first, it was strange that he did not think more of 
 
262 
 
 woman’s feiendsiiip. 
 
 alleviating Florence’s malady, and how to soothe and comfort 
 her sister’s sorrow on account of it. Strange that he could 
 rest so easily satisfied of her well-doing under the care of 
 Sir Charles Brashleigh and Lady St. Maur, and linger so 
 continually by the side of Minie, using all the eloquence of 
 words and manner, and bringing out all the treasures of his 
 mind to while her into cheerfulness again. 
 
 There is no balm so effectual for the lingering soreness of 
 rejection as the consciousness of being beloved by another. 
 Men are sometimes accused of marrying in pique, and not 
 for love : yet, perhaps, all such unions are not unhappy. The 
 heart cannot rest desolate, and the faintest sign of interest, 
 of undesignedly revealed affection, is hailed at such moments 
 as filling up the void within, exciting another sympathy, and 
 recalling the self-esteem which sinks for the moment beneath 
 the pang of unreturned affection. Now, we know Frank did 
 not really and passionately love Florence, though he fancied 
 he did; but yet he was disappointed, and his whole soul pined 
 and yearned for female sympathy and love ; and once, when 
 the thought did cross his mind that Minie was not indifferent 
 to him, that she could, if she did not already, love him, the 
 idea was fraught with such ecstasy that he absolutely started. 
 Had he so soon forgotten Florence ? he asked himself, angry 
 at his own fickleness. No ; his regard for her seemed not a 
 whit abated ; yet if it were love he now felt, he had never 
 loved Florence, for the emotions were as distinct as possible. 
 He was perplexed and annoyed at himself ; yet to behold 
 Minie s exquisite beauty, so to revel in her thrilling voice as 
 to feel its echo in his inmost soul, to look in those soft eyes 
 when they glanced up so timidly yet so innocently in his, ever 
 to feel that she clung to him for support and guidance in 
 some of their precarious rambles — all this created such new 
 yet such exquisite sensations, that by the time they reached 
 Scotland he had come to the conclusion that he must bo in 
 love ; and if he were, he certainly had never been in love 
 before; 
 
 He satisfied himself at length that the difference must have 
 originated in the fact, that by Minie he was beloved, and by 
 Florence he was not. How little did he imagine, that the 
 controlled and subdued exterior of the latter was but the 
 proof of her love for him ; that all deep emotions with her 
 were under such powerful restraint, that they could not break 
 
tvoman’s peiendship. 
 
 263 
 
 their bonds* Hers was woman’s love, deep, still, omnipotent ; 
 Minie’s was the first fresh-spring of girlhood, as true, per- 
 chance as fond, hut spurning alike restraint and concealment, 
 because its source was hidden from herself. Florence could 
 resign that love, if to do so might secure the happiness of its 
 object, better than to manifest it ; she could resign it and yet 
 live, feeling that 
 
 The heart may break, yet brokenly live on.” 
 
 Millie, had her love been severed from its object, might 
 perhaps have buried it in her heart awhile ; but then she 
 would have drooped and died. 
 
 Still Howard watched well ; still was the idea that he was 
 beloved too precious, too consoling to be risked by an avowal. 
 Perhaps, after all, he was deceived, and Minie’s engaging 
 artlessness and innocent confidence were only fancied love. 
 It was strange that in all these incongruities of feeling, the 
 thought of his father never intruded. Minie was very nearly 
 the same in point of fortune as her sister had been when he 
 first knew her, and Lord Glenvylle’s consent just as unlikely 
 to be gained ; yet Frank never thought about that, thus 
 confirming Lord St. Maur’s belief, that had he really loved 
 Florence, he woulcj never have been so long quiet on the 
 subject. 
 
CHAPTEE XLV. 
 
 AN ACCIDENT AND ITS EEEECT. 
 
 Four, five months had passed since Lord Edgemere’s family 
 commenced their tour. Wales, the Lakes, the Borders — by 
 Scott’s immortalizing pen made famous — Melrose, Abbotsford, 
 and Auld Reekie herself, had all been visited ; and never, 
 certainly, had tourist been more alive to the beauties of 
 nature, or more inclined to enjoy the delights and love the 
 disagreeables of travelling, than this happy party. An un- 
 looked-for rencontre greatly heightened Lady Mary’s and 
 Melford’s enjoyment. At the house of a friend in Edinburgh 
 they happened to meet the identical Mrs. Major Hardwicke, 
 who, when Flora Leslie, had occasioned Florence so much 
 misery. That her marriage had been productive of as much 
 happiness as is generally found in elopements (^. e., none at 
 all) was not sufficient for Melford. He had resolved that she 
 should know that her nefarious plans had all failed in their 
 intended effect of estranging Florence from Lady St. Maur, 
 and smart under the knowledge. He succeeded to his heart’s 
 content : although fairly puzzled as to whether or not he had 
 identified her with the Flora Leslie of whom he spoke, she 
 winced under his words. He had commenced the subject so 
 naturally, and led her to listen with such professional skill (be 
 it remembered he was a barrister), that there was no retreat, 
 no possibility of changing the subject. And both Melford 
 and Lady Mary, with pardonable satisfaction, rejoiced in the 
 pain and terror lest she should betray her own identity, 
 which the former’s quiet conversation caused. She never met 
 them again ; but Florence was fully avenged ; far more so, 
 
woman’s miENDSIIIP. 
 
 265 
 
 indeed, than her own forgiving spirit would have either 
 permitted or approved. 
 
 The middle of December was to find Lord Edgemere’s party 
 at home again, in their fine old baronial mansion, within a 
 seven-mile ride of Amersley ; and it was about the com- 
 mencement of November that they were comfortably ensconced 
 for a week or ten days in a picturesque little hotel on the 
 banks of Loch Lomond, enjoying the full beauty of the 
 autumnal tints in the magnificent scenery around them. 
 
 “What has become of Frank this morning?” inquired Lady 
 Mary, entering the luncheon-room one day, followed by her 
 faithful cavalier, Alfred Melford, with whom the morning had 
 been passed in a tete-a-tete ramble. 
 
 “ Nobody seems to know. Minie, you are generally 
 acquainted with his movements. What has become of him — 
 can you tell ?” 
 
 “ Indeed, you make me a person of infinitely more impor- 
 tance than I am, my dear Lady Mary,” she innocently replied, 
 perfectly unconscious that the question was so marked ; “I 
 only know he said something last night about exploring some 
 rocky fall or other, too dangerous for the soberly inclined, and 
 even for me ; and too adventurous for you and Mr. Melford, 
 as it needed rather more caution than you would just at 
 present be inclined to take,” she added, with a mischievous 
 smile. 
 
 “ He is very impertinent — and so are you. Miss Minie, for 
 repeating and enjoying his pertness,” replied Lady Mary, 
 threateningly holding up her hand. 
 
 “ By the way, so he did ; I remember it now,” exclaimed 
 Melford, at the same moment. 
 
 “ How came you to be so wonderfully oblivious, my learned 
 oounsellor ? ” said Lord Edgemere, laughing. 
 
 “ Eyes, ears, and mind were all so pleasurably employed in 
 the present tense, that memory had no space for the past, my 
 lord, though it only extended to last night,” replied the young 
 man, laughing also. “ But he ought to be at home now, for 
 ^he promised not to be later than two.” 
 
 “I only hope his love of adventure will not end in an acci- 
 dent. Those brakes and hollows which he resolved to explore 
 are full of hidden dangers. If either his horse s or his own 
 foot slip, I would not answer for the consequences,” quietly 
 observed Lord Henry Villiers. 
 
266 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Oh, never fear for him,” answered Melford, he has more 
 lives than a cat, or he would have been dead long ago. I 
 warned him how dreadfully slippery the heavy rains had made 
 the unfrequented roads, but he only laughed at me.” 
 
 ''Minie! have you been out this morning? You have either 
 taken too long a walk, or not been out at all, for you are as 
 white as your collar. Mamma, why did you not keep her in 
 better order ? ” said Lady Mary, fixing a very meaning look 
 on the young girl’s face, whose paleness was instantly lost in a 
 glowing blush ; and she answered, hurriedly, Indeed, I have 
 been out. Algernon took me a lovely walk, though not as 
 long a one as usual.” 
 
 ^'It might have been much longer,” gaily rejoined the young 
 Viscount ; but the keen air from the lake had created in me 
 such a giant appetite, that Minie took pity on me, and returned 
 sooner than we otherwise should have done. Aunt Mary, have 
 the kindness to give me some of that fine Scotch dish, name 
 unpronounceable, which you have near you. You and Mr. 
 Melford may contrive to keep your hunger within bounds ; as 
 I have heard, love never thinks of eating. Now I have no such 
 pleasant succedaneum, so must e’en look to solids for recreation. 
 Grandmamma, is there any chance of my dying of decline 
 produced from starvation ! You were sadly afraid for me 
 before we began to travel. What do you say now ? ” 
 
 ‘'Thank God, my fears are groundless, my dear boy,” replied 
 Lady Edgemere, with emotion, for the early death of her 
 eldest son ever made her tremble for his heir. 
 
 “Why, what in the world has come to William?” continued 
 the boy, springing up from his substantial repast ; “ look how 
 he is fiying down the garden, as if a set of hounds were at his 
 heels. Well, what is it. Will? Scared by all the bogies of 
 the lake?” he added, laughing, as the parlour-door burst open, 
 and the person of whom he spoke appeared, looking white 
 with terror. 
 
 “ My master — my poor master ! ” were the first words intel- 
 ligible. “ They say his horse w^as seen to leap the precipice 
 yonder — dashed to pieces with the fall. Oh ! what has become 
 of my dear, dear master ? ” 
 
 “He is here, you faithful idiot!” replied a well-known voice, 
 some yards behind him ; and before the exclamations of horror 
 the sudden start occasioned by WTlliam’s terrible information 
 had subsided, Frank Howard stood in the midst of the group. 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 267 
 
 without a soil or stain, or any visible mark of danger. ^'Before 
 you frighten all my friends another time, my good fellow, be 
 sure that your master is dashed to pieces, as well as his horse. 
 Poor fellow, that is loss enough for me, but not quite sufficient 
 to terrify every one thus. Do not shake so, man, and stare at 
 me as if you saw my ghost instead of flesh and blood. I tell 
 you I am safe and well, even unhurt ; in just sufficient danger 
 to bid me thank God it was no worse. Now go ; there’s a 
 good fellow. I am afraid you have frightened others as much 
 as yourself,” he added, turning away to hide his emotion, as 
 his servant caught his hand and sobbed over it like a child, 
 and then hastily retired, trying to beg pardon. The relief was 
 as sudden as the shock, and the nerves of the luncheon-party 
 had in consequence, for the most part, recovered their equilib- 
 rium before Howard had done speaking ; but on one amongst 
 them the effect of the shock was rather more severe. Minie 
 Leslie had sprung up, with a faint suppressed cry, on William’s 
 first words, which, on the sudden sound of his master’s voice, 
 was followed by what, in such a child as herself, appeared most 
 strange and incomprehensible. She dropped down where she 
 stood, so perfecty lifeless, that she might have been seriously 
 hurt, had not her head fallen on the ample folds of Lady 
 Edgemere’s velvet dress. Nor was any member of the party 
 aware of the occurrence, so entirely were their faculties 
 absorbed in Frank’s appearance ; until an exclamation, in 
 which the words, Minie ! good heaven — is this for me ? my 
 precious Minie ! ” unheard by the greater number, but remem- 
 bered some hours after with peculiar pleasure by Lady Mary, 
 recalled the attention of all to the fainting girl. 
 
 A scene of confusion of course followed. Disregarding all 
 the questions, whether ejaculated or expressed, wffiich were 
 poured upon him, Frank bounded from one side of the room 
 to the other, and in a second had raised Minie in his arms. 
 
 Bring her into this room, Frank : there is more air ; and 
 she will recover the sooner out of all this confusion,” was Lady 
 Mary’s wise direction, leading the way into an adjoining apart- 
 ment which was vacant, and pointing to a couch, on which he 
 placed his still senseless charge; hanging over her, however, as 
 very loath to leave her. 
 
 Now go, my very good friend; you have been the means 
 of frightening her to death. Let that satisfy you, and do not 
 attempt more. I can better restore her to life than you can.” 
 
268 
 
 woman's friendship. 
 
 I cannot be so unfeeling as to leave her in this state, Lady 
 Mary/' he exclaimed. 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, you can, very easily. You will have enough to do to 
 answer all the multitudinous questions as to the cause of 
 William's incomprehensible fright. Do go, and keep all the 
 folks away. This poor child will recover sooner when alone 
 with me ; there is a streak of colour coming into her face 
 already. After all, it may have nothing to do with the fright. 
 She was looking very pale before, and the room was very close, 
 and the luncheon over savoury," she added, looking in 
 Howard’s anxious face, with the most provoking expression 
 imaginable. But if she wished thus to lower his amour propre^ 
 she most certainly did not succeed : however presumptuous 
 the idea, that fainting confirmed the long-indulged hope that 
 he was beloved ; and the thought was so entrancing that he 
 could scarcely restrain himself from folding the senseless Minie 
 closer and closer to him, and being actually daring enough to 
 press his lips to her pale cheek. But Lady Mary, provoking 
 Lady Mary, was present, and he would not make himself such 
 a fool ; so after lingering till quite satisfied that she really was 
 recovering, he was obliged to obey the impatient command to 
 go, and keep every one away, as Minie must be left quiet. 
 
 He w^ent, and Lady Mary, carefully closing the door, 
 returned, with some peculiarly pleasant feelings, to her task 
 of restoring the now quickly reviving animation. After a few 
 minutes, Minie started up, looked round her bewildered, and 
 then exclaimed, '' What has happened. Lady Mary ? Who 
 brought me here ? and why does my head feel so light and 
 strange ? " 
 
 To your first and last question, my dear, one answer will 
 suffice. You have been silly enough to faint ; and such being 
 the case, it is no very great wonder you should feel somewhat 
 light-headed. To your second query, who brought you here, 
 I answer even that honourable gentleman, Francis Howard, as 
 you were somewhat too heavy, in your senseless state, for my 
 arms to support." 
 
 Mr. Howard ! " repeated Minie, her cheek flushing crimson ; 
 
 faint ! I never did such a thing in my life." 
 
 Very likely not, my dear," replied Lady Mary, laughing ; 
 ^'but that is no reason that you never should. Why you 
 did such a silly thing, indeed, I cannot tell ; it could scarcely 
 have been the fright about Frank, for the other day you saw 
 
"woman’s friendship. 
 
 261 > 
 
 a man thrown off his horse and nearly killed, and you scarcely 
 even changed colour, but sprang out of the carriage to give all 
 the help you could.” 
 
 '' But Frank — Mr. Howard, I mean — is not — not — hurt ? — 
 has not been — ” 
 
 ‘‘ Killed ? No, my dear ; being in very substantial preser- 
 vation, as I told you, he conveyed you here himself. That 
 he has lost his horse, dashed over some precipice, is all I can 
 understand of the strange tale. Now don’t faint again for 
 the fate of a horse ; that would be too ridiculous. I do not 
 mean to scold you, silly Min ; you could not help fainting, so 
 you need not cry about it, like a simpleton. Come, try and 
 go to sleep. Fainting fits always punish those who really have 
 them, by compelling them to silence and solitude for some 
 hours.” 
 
 Minie had sunk back when Lady Mary mentioned the fate 
 of the horse, pale as before, the large tears slowly oozing from 
 her closed eyelids, and it was with difficulty she restrained a 
 strong shudder, as she pictured what might have been the fate 
 of its master. Lady Mary affectionately kissed her, told her 
 to be a good child, and she would stay by her. 
 
 ‘'But Mr. Melford, Lady Mary, why should I keep you 
 from him.” 
 
 “ He must do without me, my dear : I have honoured him 
 all the morning. Unless you like Frank’s nursing better than 
 mine ; if so, I will go away, and send him.” 
 
 “ No, no, pray do not, dearest Lady Mary ; what would he 
 think of me ? what must he think of me now ; and he used 
 to praise my strong nerves. How could I be so foolish as to 
 be so frightened ! ” 
 
 “ Never mind what anybody thinks, my dear, but obey me, 
 and lie still. Depend upon it, as Frank caused the fright, he 
 will not quarrel with your want of nerve.” 
 
 Minie did not reappear till dinner, and then, pitying her 
 confusion and shyness. Lady Mary had made it a point of 
 entreating that no notice might be taken of her lingering 
 paleness. Howard led her in to dinner, placed himself beside 
 her, and paid her all sorts of little attentions, so as quite to 
 remove the idea that she had sunk in his estimation from her 
 unusual weakness. The accident was freely discussed, but the 
 feeling eloquence wdth v/hich Howard alluded to his almost 
 miraculous preservation brought tlie bright drops anew into 
 
270 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 her eyes. However, it was no heaviness of spirits which 
 produced them, for before the evening closed she was as lively 
 as usual, seated at Lord Edgemere’s feet, singing song after 
 song in her own rich, thrilling voice ; thus proving, Lady 
 Mary laughingly declared, that though her fainting looked 
 very like it, she was no fine lady, after all ; she had not been 
 languishing and sentimental half long enough. 
 
# 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 A MOUSING WALK. — TKUE LOVE. — DIFEIGULTIES. 
 
 Francis PIoward slept very little tliat night. Dreams of 
 Scotch precipices and dying horses, bine lakes and fairy-like 
 nymphs, mingled very incongruously in his slumbers, until at 
 last they all gave place to one fair image and one resolute 
 thought, which outlived his sleeping visions, and so actuated 
 his waking, that he started from his couch, determined to be 
 undecided no longer, but in actual words demand if he might 
 be blessed or not ; and an opportunity offered itself so in- 
 vitingly, that it seemed sent by his good angel, on purpose to 
 bring him to the point. Lord Edgemere’s party were all fond 
 of walking before breakfast ; so that meal generally took 
 place at a very late hour : and just as Howard had completed 
 his toilette — rather a longer task than usual, from his pacings 
 to and fro in his chamber — he saw Minie Leslie and Algernon 
 Villiers bound along the garden, arm in arm. 
 
 Now, then,’’ he thought. '^But what can I do with 
 Algernon ?” followed instantly. Oh ! my fowling-piece ; he 
 will be off to try its metal directly he sees it ; ” and he set 
 forth, gun in hand. The young Viscount hailed him with a 
 shout of delight. 
 
 ‘^Whatl going to shoot so early, Mr. Howard? Oh! do 
 let me have one shot before you go.” 
 
 “And destroy Miss Leslie’s recovered nerves on the instant ? 
 No, my good fellow, if you want my gun, leave me the care 
 of your fair companion ; that is, if she will accept the 
 exchange.” 
 
 “Oh ! you will take much better care of her. Now I have 
 smelt gunpowder, you had better let me go.” 
 
272 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 You may shoot here if you like ; I am not at all afraid/^ 
 she answered, laughing. I am not so silly as to be frightened 
 at a gun.” 
 
 No, no ! I will not hear of it,” hastily interposed Frank, 
 keeping firm hold of his gun. ^‘An accident may happen in a 
 moment. Promise me to find William, and tell him to go 
 with you, and you shall have the gun, but not otherwise.” 
 
 I promise faithfully, most inexorable mentor. Why, 
 grandmamma herself could not take more care of me. I am 
 off ; a pleasant walk to you both,” and he bounded away. 
 
 Howard watched till his servant joined him, then satisfied 
 as to his safety. A pretty cavalier, so to desert his lady 
 fair,” he began, and he put her arm in his, according to 
 custom, and they turned in the direction of the lake. Does 
 he deserve mercy ? He ought to be expunged from the list of 
 all good knights and true.” 
 
 ‘‘Nay, Mr. Howard, you ought not to be so severe upon 
 him ; for were not you the tempter ?” she replied, archly. 
 
 “ Indeed I was, and more so than you imagine. I turned 
 tempter on purpose to get rid of him, and become sole 
 guardian of your ramble. My egregious folly yesterday lost 
 me the pleasure of your society almost all day ; so I deter- 
 mined to make up for it this morning. Will you forgive my 
 sending off Algernon ? and can you trust me with your safety 
 for an hour or so — tete-a-tete ?” 
 
 “ I will do both, very willingly,” she answered, with perfect 
 artlessness. “ For the one needs no forgiveness at all ; and 
 for the other, you have always been so very careful of my 
 safety, I cannot think why I should not trust you now.” 
 
 “ But will you do more, Minie ? I cannot call you Miss 
 Leslie, for the life of me.” 
 
 “And why should you, Mr. Howard ? You never have ; 
 and, indeed, I am not Miss Leslie. I do not like to be so 
 titled ; it sounds so formal, or else as if you were displeased 
 with me.” 
 
 “Displeased!” exclaimed Frank, with most extraordinary 
 impetuosity ; “who could ever be displeased with you ?” 
 
 “Not many have been, Mr. Howard ; for I was always the 
 petted child of my own family. But those who so loved and 
 cared for me are all gone but one, and I must not expect to 
 go through life so fondly cared for now.” The bright smile 
 vanished, and her beautiful eyes swelled with large tears. She 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 273 
 
 bent down her head, but the sudden quivering of her voice 
 betrayed them, and Frank found it impossible to resist 
 pressing the hand which rested on his arm closer to him. A 
 very brief interval, and she looked up with a smile radiant 
 as before. ‘‘But it seems as if I were always to be spoilt 
 and fondled ; for my friends are still so kind. Lady Mary, 
 and Lord and Lady Edgemere, and even you, Mr. Howard, 
 do all you can to make me, oh, so happy ! ” 
 
 “ I, Minie ! would to heaven that 1 could make you happy, 
 happier than any person else ! ” She looked at him, actually 
 startled at his violence, and met in return a glance which, 
 though she could not understand it, made her withdraw hers 
 on the instant, and blush deeply. “ But why not call me 
 Frank, if I may call you Minie?” he said, striving to make 
 his heart beat less quickly, for the nearer he approached the 
 words he most desired to say, the more difficulty there seemed 
 in saying them. “ I dislike formality as much as you do.” 
 
 “ Oh, but it is so different ; I am simple Minie Leslie to 
 every one, but I could not call Lady Mary, ‘Mary,’ or 
 Mr. Melford, ‘ Alfred ; ’ and I have known you less time than 
 either, and I suppose that is the reason why I feel as if I 
 could never call you Frank.” 
 
 But timidly as it was pronounced, the name had never 
 sounded so thrillingly sweet in Howard’s ears as at that 
 moment. 
 
 “ Never ! nay, nay, you shall not say so, Minie ; indeed you 
 must call me Frank, and very often. But I frighten you with 
 my violence. You are still weak from yesterday’s alarm, 
 unhappy as I was to cause it.” 
 
 “Indeed, I am not, Mr. Howard. You must not let me 
 lose my character for courage because I was so foolish. I do 
 not know how it was, but I could not help it.” 
 
 “ And I would not have had it otherwise, for the universe, 
 if — if I may hope from it what would make me the happiest 
 man alive. Minie, dearest Minie, I wanted to tell you a long 
 tale, to beseech you to listen, to bear with me, but I can only 
 ask you one thing now. You said just now that I too made 
 you happy ; tell me, I implore you, can you, will you trust 
 me always to make you happy ? Will you let me be to you 
 all you have lost, and let me love, cherish, bless you, even 
 more than they did ? dearest, will you, can you love me ? ” 
 
 It was no fancy now, for Minie did tremble so violently 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 that Howard was compelled to put his arm round her, or she 
 must have fallen; but never did a more genuine look of 
 bewilderment, struggling with happiness, meet his earnest 
 gaze than hers at that moment. 
 
 Me ! you cannot mean it. Oh ! no, no ! ” were the only 
 •words he heard ; and though her face had been covered with 
 her hands directly after that one bewildered gaze, either the 
 power or the will failed her to break from his support. 
 
 Mean it ? indeed, indeed I do ! I would not, I dared not 
 play with such a heart as yours. My own Minie ! listen to 
 me, for you shall know the truth, even though it lose me the 
 happiness I crave. I joined Lord Edgemere’s party, wounded, 
 depressed, miserable. I had thought I loved, and that the 
 object of my fancied love was not indifferent to me; I had 
 associated with her so long on terms of friendly intimacy, felt 
 for her such strong regard, that when I saw her in distress I 
 fancied that regard stronger than it was, dwelt upon it, en- 
 couraged it, thought upon it, the more perhaps because her 
 manner became colder as mine warmed. I proposed, and was 
 rejected ; feelingly, kindly, most kindly, but so decidedly, 
 that I believe the heart I then wished to gain had been 
 already given to another; and the delusion thus broken 
 convinced me I had been deceived, not in her, but in 
 myself. How completely deceived I knew not, till I associated 
 in all the happiness of a home with you ; and I felt I had 
 never known love till then, that it was but a brother’s love, 
 heightened by imagination, which I had felt before. Yet I lot 
 weeks, months pass, to be sure of myself, to feel that I could 
 offer you a heart so entirely your own that it conteined not 
 even a memory to alloy its truth. I sought you first, because 
 it seemed a sad pleasure to speak of Florence ; then gradually 
 I felt it was your voice, your smile, your gentleness which 
 bound me to your side — that you were rapidly filling up the 
 void which the fancy that I was never to be beloved had 
 opened in my heart — you were spreading such joy around my 
 path, and in my soul, that I felt could I but win your love,^ I 
 should never feel despondency or loneliness again. Minie, 
 dearest Llinie, will you return this love, the first, in truth, though 
 it appears the see-ond ? Will you trust, believe that no passion 
 lingers for other than your gentle self ? Can you ^ trust 
 your happiness with me, and believe me that, dear as it has 
 been to father, mother, brother, all who have loved you, it will 
 be more precious still to me ? ” 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 275 
 
 He had spoken rapidly, and with strong emotion ; hut his arm 
 was still encircling Minie, and she had not removed it. There 
 were large tears coursing down her cheek, but her eyes had 
 been gradually raised to his, first in wonderment, and then in 
 such artless confidence, that he scarcely needed words. 
 
 ‘‘And can you, who have once loved Florence, sought 
 Florence for your own, in very truth, so love me ? ” she 
 asked so pleadingly, so simply, that her lover was irresistibly 
 compelled to press his lips to hers ; and frightened as she was 
 at the action, the fear only made her unconsciously to cling 
 closer to him. “ Oh ! Mr. Howard, how can I be to you what 
 Siie would have been — the companion, the friend, all that your 
 wife should be ? Simple as I am, child as they still say I am, 
 how is it, how can it be possible you should love me ? ” 
 
 “ Minie, you are no child ! Truth, guilelessness, sweetness ; 
 you have all these, all that makes your sex worthy of love, and 
 fitted to retain it. If I were to leave you for years, and go 
 mingle with hundreds of fashion’s daughters, I should turn to 
 you still for all that would make me happy, all that would 
 make my home. Dearest, loveliest; you are lonely only in 
 your own artless mind, simple only in your too humble opinion 
 of yourself ; child-like, aye, in all that can make childhood 
 lovely, and rivet love so strongly that not even death could 
 tear it from me. The proudest noble in the land might envy 
 me your love, if indeed, indeed, I may hope that I plead not 
 in vain. You will accept a heart, though it w^as once offered 
 to another — you will love me? Speak, dearest; but one little 
 word— you will, you do love me ! ” 
 
 She could not speak that word, little as it was ; but she 
 lifted up her sweet face, fixed its clear, truthful orbs for one 
 brief minute fully upon his, and that lovely head w^as bent 
 dowm, and the rich mantling blushes hidden on his bosom. 
 
 “ I am satisfied ! Bless you, my own beloved,” whispered 
 the enraptured Howard; and then he added, “and you can 
 trust me Minie ? you will trust me that I have loved, and do 
 love but you ? ” 
 
 “ That you do love but me — yes ; or you would not thus 
 speak,” she answered, unhesitatingly. “ That you have never 
 loved before — I know not how you could associate intimately 
 with Florence, and yet not love her. But even if you had, 
 and her rejection caused you to conquer that affection, do 
 you, can you think, because you had once loved her, I — I 
 
 T' 2 
 
276 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 could — I must love you less ? Oh ! Mr. Howard, you do not 
 know how I love and reverence my sister, or you would not 
 think thus. Would — w^ould that I were as worthy to be your 
 wife as she is ! ’’ 
 
 And will she not tell me that you are, sweet one?” replied 
 her lover ; that there never was or will be one more de- 
 serving of love than Minie ; I have heard her say it often, 
 though neither she nor I knew what that loved being would 
 become to me. But you have twice called me Mr. Howard, 
 dearest. Will you not say Frank now ! ” 
 
 ‘^Indeed, indeed, I do not know that I can, even now,” 
 she said, playfully ; but I will try to feel that you have been 
 and still will be Frank to me,” she added, after a brief pause, 
 and with an artless timidity, perfectly irresistible to her 
 betrothed, who in this interview certainly proved that Lord 
 St. Maur knew him better than he did himself; for not a 
 thought, not a shadow found entrance to dim that one sweet 
 hour of love first told. A character peculiarly alive to 
 domestic ties, to be clung to, to feel that one being in the 
 whole world was dependent upon him : it was no common 
 bliss to find all these in one, truthful, innocent, and lovely as 
 Minie Leslie ; and Howard was fairly carried out of himself. 
 Do not blame him, reader ; Lord St. Maur was right — he had 
 never loved before. 
 
 Great was the astonishment of both Frank and Minie, 
 when, at length remembering they had not breakfasted, they 
 returned to the house, and found the breakfast-parlour de- 
 serted by all but Lady Mary and Alfred Melford, who had 
 waited for the loiterers. Much amusement their conscious 
 confusion of course elicited, but Frank cleverly contrived to 
 turn the stream of ridicule upon himself so as to permit 
 Minie to eat what breakfast she could in comparative comfort; 
 the laughing light in her deep blue eyes, the varying flushes 
 on her cheek, betraying a tale of happiness, however, which no 
 satire could alloy. She retreated to her own room after 
 breakfast, and there Lady Mary followed her. 
 
 '^You will never do for a fine lady, Minie,” she said, on 
 entering. '' Here have you been up early, and have taken a 
 walk, fasting, long enough to tire an elephant. You naughty 
 child; jokes apart, you ought to have had more care of 
 yourself after your illness yesterday ; and, in serious earnest, 
 as you have been intrusted to my care, I must ask you where 
 you have been ?” 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 277 
 
 In serious earnest, dear Lady Mary, I can read in your 
 eyes, Idnd though they look, that you think I have forgotten 
 propriety in remaining out so long ; and indeed, indeed, 
 it would have been very wrong if I had known how long it 
 was, if — ^but why speak so now,” she added, breaking off 
 abruptly, and throwing herself into her friend s arms. “ Oh, 
 Lady Mary, I am so happy, so very, very happy, and it is all 
 owing to you ; for had I not been with you, I should never 
 have known him, and he would never have known me. Oh, 
 tell me it is no dream 1 ” 
 
 And Lady Mary, truly and thoroughly delighted, did assure 
 her that it was not only very possible, but perfectly true ; that 
 she had seen it a very long time ; and that nothing in the 
 world could please her more than he should come to the point, 
 and that Minie was happy. Time flew in such discussion, and 
 Lady Mary only left her to the delightful task of writing to 
 Florence. Florence ! could it be possible, she who had associ- 
 ated so long and intimately with Howard, who had received 
 his attentions, even the offer of his hand, and yet rejected 
 him ? Minie could not understand it. Had the sisters been 
 together during the time of Howard’s delusion, Florence could 
 scarcely have concealed from Minie that her fancy, if not her 
 feelings, had been captivated ; but in the brief intervals that 
 Florence was at home, his name was seldom more than casually 
 mentioned. The more Minie thought on this subject, the 
 more puzzled she became, until the mystery seemed solved by 
 tke recollections of Frank’s fancy that Florence loved another. 
 Whom she could have loved in preference to Howard, Minie 
 could not imagine ; her only wish was, that her sister could be 
 as happy as herself, and she poured forth her whole heart in 
 glowing words. 
 
 Howard, meanwhile, had made his engagement known to 
 Lord Edgemere and his family, receiving their warmest con- 
 gratulations in return. The Earl alone looked grave. You 
 have acted with your usual honour, Frank,” he said; ‘‘but one 
 person you seem to have forgotten — your father.” 
 
 The young man started. He had forgotten, if not quite 
 the existence of his father, certainly his peculiar pre- 
 judices. 
 
 “ He surely cannot, will not condemn his only son to misery 
 for paltry gold!” he exclaimed. “He has been kind in his 
 own way to me. Surely he will not deny me this, when I shall 
 
278 
 
 woman's friendship. 
 
 one day have thousands ; and my present allowance Would, 
 with a very little increase, support us both." 
 
 Not quite in the style which is due to your wife, Frank ; 
 though it might perhaps more than satisfy yourself and Minie. 
 Remember, you are still very young; little more than two-and 
 twenty, I believe. Do not make your engagement public till 
 you have spoken with your father." 
 
 And depend upon his caprice for my happiness, and that 
 of Minie, which is infinitely dearer! Lord Edgemere, how can 
 I do this ? " 
 
 What do you mean to do, my young friend ? Marry 
 without even the compliment of telling him your intentions?" 
 
 No, no ; of course, not ; but if I ask consent, I must 
 abide by the decision ? " 
 
 Which you fear will be against your wishes, by your 
 hesitation to ask. Depend upon it, Frank, Minie Leslie has 
 too fine a spirit, gentle as she seems, to wed you, if she is to 
 be any cause of contention between you and your only parent. 
 I wish you happy from my very heart, but I fear you have at 
 present some difficulties in the way of being so. I tell you 
 honestly, had I even thought of your joining us, Minie, sweet 
 girl as she is, should not have been of our party. I love her 
 too well to expose her wilfully to danger; but when you came, 
 I could not send her away, or bid you decamp, though I have 
 been in no little anxiety ever since." 
 
 Never mind it, my dear lord," replied Howard, stopping 
 his hasty walk across the room to face his friend, and laugh 
 heartily at the perplexity marked in the Earl's features. I 
 am not a man to be daunted with difficulties, and such as these 
 I will overcome. There is a boundary to filial duty as . well as 
 to parental authority ; and when the only objection to Minie 
 Leslie is, that she has no portion, I will not let that come 
 between us and our happiness. My father has surely not lost 
 all sense of honour, of feeling, and of generosity ; he will not 
 be deaf to my appeal, and we shall be happy, after all. So, 
 for heaven’s sake, my lord, banish that grave face ; it does not 
 accord with my light heart at all." 
 
 hope you may be happy, Frank, but I wish you had been 
 charmed with the heiress, Florence, instead of her portionless 
 though lovely sister," answered the Earl, half laughing, in spite 
 of himself ; for Frank's gaiety was infectious. 
 
 For shame, my lord ; you have grown money-loving and 
 
T\^0]\LO S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 279 
 
 calculating as a worldling : I will disown your friendship/' he 
 rejoined, adding, as the Earl left the room, '' Florence ! no ; I 
 could never, never have loved Florence, that is quite clear. 
 Now, had she accepted me, I might have found it out too late, 
 and tieen either an unhappy, or, by drawing back, a dishonoured 
 man. I ivish she were my sister ; and she shall be, and then I 
 may love and reverence her still. Engagement secret ! Per- 
 Iiaps he is right — to all but Lord and Lady St. Maur ; for the 
 first is Minie's guardian, and the latter will think me a — a 
 capricious fool, not knowing my own mind — so the sooner she 
 knows it the better." 
 
CHAPTER XLVIL 
 
 ALL FOR THE BEST, AS THE EJTD AVILL PROVE. 
 
 ^^Well, Ida, what say you now? Penetrative as you are, I 
 have the triumph in this instance,’’ said Lord St. Maur, two 
 or three days after the event of our last chapter, and holding 
 up a letter triumphantly before her. 'H sent Frank’s letter to 
 you, that I might not witness your defeat.” 
 
 ‘‘ And yet you cannot restrain your triumph, Edmund ! a 
 novel mode of sparing my feelings. However, I am too pro- 
 voked and disappointed to resent it. If I had but Frank near 
 us, what a lecture would I give him for his caprice and incon- 
 stancy ! He writes as if he knew it too, yet ventures to 
 excuse himself.” 
 
 I wonder he did that, for men in love seldom think of 
 excusing themselves. After all, you are very severe, to charge 
 him with caprice. What could the poor fellow do, rejected as 
 he was so decidedly ? ” 
 
 He ought to have seen there was something more in 
 Florence than she revealed.” 
 
 '^And so he did, for he conquered his feelings at first, under 
 the impression that Florence rejected him because she loved 
 another.” 
 
 Impossible.” 
 
 Yet perfectly true. Read what he says,” and he gave her 
 his own letter. 
 
 She read it, then said, sorrowfully, ‘^My poor, poor Florence,, 
 would there had been the same delusion on your part as on his. 
 Yet, if she had accepted him, I wonder if this would have 
 been.” 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 281 
 
 Rather a difficult question. I imagine not ; for I believe 
 it is the consciousness of being loved which has so worked on 
 Frank ; and had he known that this was also the case with 
 Florence, his delusion might have continued, till it became 
 too truly love to waver or to change. Yet, perhaps, of the 
 two, Minie is more suited to him.” 
 
 Do not say so, Edmund ; I will not hear it. She is a 
 fascinating creature, doubtless, but has not the high character 
 of Florence.” 
 
 And. that is the very reason. Were Howard five or six 
 years older, Florence would be better suited for his wife ; but 
 as it is, I still say he reverences more than he loves her. Sorrow 
 and heavy cares have made her older than her years. Howard’s 
 peculiar disposition will be happier with a wife full of life, 
 animation, and child-like simplicity, like Minie, than with her 
 sister’s higher tone of character. Minie’s influence will remove 
 the precocious gravity which his uncomfortable home has 
 engendered, and make him some years younger.” 
 
 And would not Florence ? ” 
 
 Hardly. Have you seen Florence since post-time ? She 
 has letters, and of course one from Minie : how will she bear 
 it?” 
 
 Nobly. I do believe that the idea of his happiness will, 
 after a brief period of bitterness, enable her to meet it 
 calmly ; she is so persuaded now that it was right to act as 
 she did, that I trust and pray that her unselfish devotedness 
 will bear her up, and be its own reward. I confess I shrink 
 from seeing her; I dread the anguish of that pale face 
 infinitely more than words.” 
 
 The Countess was spared the interview. On approaching 
 her friend’s room she encountered Ferrers, with a packet in 
 her hand ; it consisted of two letters, the envelope containing 
 a few tremulous, scarcely legible lines from Florence. 
 
 You are no doubt aware of the contents of these letters, 
 my dear friend,” she wrote ; but if you are not, and indeed 
 at all events, read them, and give me permission to spend 
 this one day alone. I can see no one, not even you ; for 
 kindness and sympathy would utterly unnerve me for the task 
 before me. Do not fear for me : I have prayed for this, that 
 he might be happy; that I might have the power of 
 furthering that happiness ; and both are granted me. Ought 
 
282 woman's friendship. 
 
 I not to be content ? I will be with you as usual to-morrow.- 
 Pray for me. 
 
 '' Florence." 
 
 Lady St. Manr did grant her request ; for though her 
 heart yearned towards her, she felt it was wiser as she had 
 herself decided. She opened the letters sent for her perusal. 
 Frank's was eloquent and manly : he alluded slightly to his 
 feelings on quitting her, then to those which had led to his 
 choosing the society of Minie ; the gradual effect of that 
 exquisite beauty, both of face and character, which Florence 
 had so often described, upon his heart, yearning as it was to 
 be beloved ; and how, when he found that he was in truth the 
 object of that young heart's first preference, he had felt that 
 with her he might be happy. 
 
 You refused me that which I craved," he continued ; 
 ^'that which, had it been granted, hallowed by your love, 
 must have made me happy even as I am now, refused it so 
 decidedly that I might not even hope ; for I felt, suffering as 
 it was then so to feel, that the heart I sought was the property 
 of another. Florence ! I appeal to you now for the gentle 
 being who possesses all your traits of excellence in addition 
 to her own ; and, joy of all joys, she loves me ! Give me the 
 happiness of calling you my sister ; for as such, like my own 
 Minie, I shall reverence and love you. Grant me the gift of 
 your sweet sister, the blessing of your sympathy, and would, 
 oh, would to heaven, that our united love could give you the 
 happiness which you will bestow on us !" 
 
 Had Florence rejected Howard simply because she did not 
 love him, this letter would only have excited pleasurable 
 sensations. Frank wrote solely because his regard for 
 Florence was such that he felt it would increase his happiness 
 to receive it so far from her hand. He had never suspected, 
 even for a single minute, that there existed any other cause 
 for his rejection than that her affections were pre-engaged ; 
 and he feared, from her manner, unhappily. Florence read 
 this belief in the whole tone and spirit of his letter : and the 
 poor girl blessed God for his delusion. 
 
 From that day's agony we shall not attempt to lift the veil. 
 No doubt there will be many who will think that Florence 
 had no need to make the sacrifice, and therefore deserved all 
 she suffered f but to those who have no belief in the sacred 
 
woman's friendship. 
 
 283 
 
 nattif^ of ttiose impulses that the voice of Grod SOluetimes 
 speaks within us, we do not write. Minie's letter was indeed 
 the very embodying of joy ; had it alluded but to her own 
 feelings, Florence might have read it calmly ; but there were 
 passages such as these : — 
 
 And this noble being had not the power to rivet your 
 affections, dearest Florence, though he sought them ; and I 
 feel, as if with your higher, nobler qualities, you would, you 
 must have suited him. better than your simple sister ; yet he 
 loves me, I hnow he does, all undeserving as lam. He tells 
 me my affection soothed the pain which your rejection caused, 
 and that I can make his happiness. Oh, what unutterable 
 joy ! How could you have associated with him so long, 
 so intimately, and yet not love him? It can only be 
 that, from your manner he fancies that you love another. 
 Oh, if it should be so — and, unhappily, my own darling sister, 
 my very joy seems to reproach me — how can I be happy when 
 you are in sorrow ? And yet, yet there is a glowing light 
 around me, a strange elasticity upon me which I cannot define. 
 I can only know, only feel that this is deeper, dearer bliss 
 than I have ever felt before !” 
 
 Could such passages be read unmoved ? She looked back 
 on her interview with Howard, and wondered how it had been 
 — how she could possibly so have spoken, so appeared as 
 completely to delude. It seemed as if some fate or destiny, 
 (why should we use such words ?) some divine power had been 
 at work around them all, making circumstances as they then 
 were. To her, all the period, from her discovery of the secret 
 papers to her illness, w^as a blank, peopled only by undefined 
 spectres of embodied pain. What she had said to Howard 
 was so completely obliterated that not even a word would 
 return. Had he really even loved her, or was it all a dream ? 
 But why should she feel bitterness ? Could she regret aught 
 which could assure his happiness, even at the cost of deeper 
 suffering to herself? No! and in those hours of agonized 
 struggle, she thought of things which the excited Howard had 
 forgotten, and before that day closed, the high-minded woman 
 had resolved on a plan which would remove all those ob- 
 jections to their union, that she too truly anticipated, from 
 Lord Glenvylle's character, must arise. 
 
 Florence appeared in the parlour, and officiated at the 
 breakfast-table as usual the next morning, though her whole 
 
284 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 countenanee bore such vivid traces of suffering, that Sir 
 Ronald Elliott could do nothing but gaze and commiserate, 
 imagining it a return of the bodily ailing to which his cousin 
 had told him she was then subject ; she joined in the general 
 conversation, and smiled away all Sir Ronald’s fears and 
 regrets, and seemed resolved by neither word, sign, nor look 
 to betray what she had endured. Of the two. Lady St. Maiir 
 was much more silent than Florence ; she regarded her with 
 astonishment so mingled with veneration, that she could not 
 speak on indifferent subjects ; she recalled the lively, happy 
 being of St. John’s, whose very nature appeared as if it must 
 be crushed by the first heavy blow, that her spirits were too 
 elastic to endure, and that the bow would map, not hend. 
 Yet what had she become? To give her sympathy, words 
 w^ere impossible ; but when alone with Florence, she could not 
 resist clasping those cold hands in both hers, and pressing a 
 long, long kiss upon that colourless cheek, whispering in 
 intense emotion, ‘‘ My noble Florence, God in mercy give you 
 peace ! you have my prayers.” And Florence’s aching head 
 sank for a brief interval on her bosom, as if to thank her for 
 that blessed meed of sorrow — silent sympathy ; but composure 
 soon returned. 
 
 Two or three days afterwards, Florence mentioned that her 
 estate of Woodlands being now vacant, she should like to 
 visit it, and see if it could be made a desirable residence ; as 
 she wished her sister to have a home suited to her future 
 prospects. Her consent and sympathy had, of course, been 
 written to Minie, including a message to Howard ; for write 
 to him she could not. 
 
 Lady St. Maur thought the exertion too much for her, but 
 yielded at length to Florence’s assurance that exertion was 
 much more likely to do her good than harm. She hoped not 
 to be absent more than a month or six weeks at farthest. 
 Ferrers received orders for the necessary preparations, and 
 within the week Lord St. Maur himself accompanied her to 
 her estate. He was just the kind but unobtrusive friend she 
 needed ; feeling deeply for her, yet never in any jarring 
 manner proving that he did so. He gave her the advantage 
 of his advice and taste, and when he left her, which he did 
 after ten days’ sojouro, assured his wife she need feel no 
 uneasiness for Florence ; he was certain that her spirit would 
 carry her through it all. 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 285 
 
 "‘Till Millie and Frank are happy,” was the reply; “and 
 then God in his infinite mercy alone can save her from sinking 
 to the grave. She is under excitement now ; wait till that is 
 over ere we can pronounce upon her strength.” 
 
 Lady St. Maur was right ; Florence was under excitement ; 
 she herself knew not how powerfully. She knew her indivi- 
 dual lot was and must he for some time, that of suffering ; 
 and, therefore, steadfastly turning from all weakening re- 
 flection, gave up her whole being to the hope and endeavour 
 to secure the happiness of those she loved. She entered into 
 the minutest particular of furnishing, arranging, and house- 
 keeping, which needed to begin from the very beginning. She 
 interested herself in all those little things which some women, 
 enduring her heavy trial, would have shrunk from, as 
 heightening beyond all endurance the one absorbing agony, 
 by pricks as of pins and thorns. 
 
 Neither Watson nor Ferrers, nor the old housekeeper of 
 Woodlands, ever spoke of their young lady but with praise 
 and admiration. Ferrers indeed, from the fact of her sudden 
 illness, and the words which escaped from its delirium, miglit 
 have suspected there was more to cause her delicate health 
 than met the eye ; but she was not one to speak her surmises ; 
 and when a sweetly-toned voice and gentle smile ever marked 
 the smallest intercourse with her domestics ; when she 
 suggested, or thankfully accepted suggestion, for improve- 
 ments both in the house and grounds, and so cheerfully 
 entered into every minute detail, how could even more pene- 
 trating persons than old Watson and Mrs. Bulling imagine 
 more than they saw ? Ill in health, hov/ could that be, when 
 she could make any exertion, if it were needed, and endure 
 such fatigue ? Pale she was indeed ; her very lips were seen 
 to lose their ruby tint, and her dark eyes to grow strangely 
 dim ; but the Hampshire air would bring back the bonny rose, 
 and they must look out for some one, a right noble gentleman, 
 for her to w^ed ; and then her smiles would not sink upon the 
 heart, as they sometimes did, making them feel sad, they 
 knew not why, but be glad and cheerful as her voice. So, 
 often gossiped those who delighted in calling Miss Leslie 
 mistress ; and when Sir Eonald Elliott made his appearance 
 at Woodlands, laden, he declared, with commissions from the 
 Countess — else he had not dared intrude on Miss Leslie s 
 privacy — they fixed upon him at once as the cavalier they 
 wanted. 
 
286 
 
 woman’s feiendship. 
 
 That the gallant young sailor should make himself friends 
 amongst all the tenantry at Woodlands was not very won- 
 derful, as British sailors are generally gveeted with joy,, 
 wherever they come ; but that he should choose to quit 
 Amersley in such a dull, damp, uninviting season as Novem- 
 ber, and make a pilgrimage to Woodlands, for literally 
 nothing but his own pleasure, v/ould have been much more 
 extraordinary to Florence, had not her mind been too much 
 preoccupied to think about it. That her pale face, from 
 which she imagined every trace of any previous attraction 
 must have departed, joined as it was to a manner so spiritless, 
 a form so faded, could have any fascination for one so buoyant, 
 so life-loving as the young Captain, was a circumstance in 
 itself so wholly improbable, as never for one moment to have 
 entered her thoughts. Yet that face and form had haunted 
 Sir Eonald from the first evening he had seen her ; he saw — 
 nay. Lady St. Maur had told him, that she vras in deep 
 affliction ; and he felt an interest rising towards her in a most 
 incomprehensible manner, and became restless and weary. 
 To the amusement of his relatives, he declared he would take 
 a run down to old London, and call at Woodlands, in case he 
 could do anything for Miss Leslie, on his way. Take Wood- 
 lands in his way? He might know his road across the 
 Atlantic, Lady St. Maur told him, but certainly not over 
 England, if he talked of going through Hampshire in the 
 straight road from Warwick to London. He did not care, ge 
 he would ; Miss Leslie must be sick of her loneliness, and he 
 would go and cheer her, and bring her back, vowing that 
 Constance, though she had a governess all to herself, was 
 unbearable Avithout the influence of Florence. 
 
 ‘'Bring her back if you can, I give you free permission; but 
 whether your company, most gallant Captain, will cheer her 
 loneliness, or whether it would be quite proper that it should, 
 I Avill not pretend to say. However, if you bring her back, 
 you are quite w^elcome to go,” was Lady St. Maur’s parting 
 address, and Sir Eonald forthAvith Avent. 
 
 Florence Avas not quite ready to return to Amersley, and 
 Sir Eonald declared he Avould go to Portsmouth ineanAvhile ; 
 but, somehoAV or other, there Avere several things for which 
 Florence Avas Avaiting, and Avhich ought long before to havo 
 arrived from London, and Florence’s movements AA^ere retarded 
 by their non-arrival ; so to London the Captain Avent, and by 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 2S7 
 
 his sailor-lihe bustle and activity, all that was needed came 
 down to Hampshire in a marvellously short space of time 
 and, this accomplished, he hovered about the neighbourhood 
 of Woodlands, his vicinity perfectly unknown to Florence, 
 and, just before Christmas, escorted her back to Amersley, 
 with the paost brother-like cordiality imaginable. 
 
CHAPTEK XLVIIL 
 
 THE HOUR OF TRIAL. 
 
 Lord Edgemere’s family, including Frank Howard, and Minie 
 Leslie, had arrived in Warwickshire before Florence returned, 
 and Lady St. Maur had driven over to see them. Nothing as 
 yet had alloyed the happiness of Minie, for Frank had found 
 it impossible to impart to her his fears regarding his father. 
 Florence had heard repeatedly from her sister, and answered 
 her letters while at Woodlands. She had nerved her mind to 
 read those letters, radiant as they were with love and joy, 
 again and yet again, till the bitter pangs which they caused 
 were so entirely conquered that she could peruse them from 
 beginning to end without any visible emotion. She compelled 
 herself to think of meeting them, of looking once more on 
 Howard, and as the betrothed husband of another ; she 
 thought of it till every feeling of her own was conquered, and 
 she fclieved herself nerved to meet them so calmly, so col- 
 lectedly, that not a change of colour or quivering of voice 
 should be betrayed. But suspense, or rather the anticipation 
 of trial, was intolerable, and she therefore wisely resolved to 
 meet it at once. 
 
 '' Florence, you know not what you undertake ; be advised, 
 there can be no need for it so soon,’’ urged Lady St. Maur ; 
 but Florence’s determination was not to be shaken. 
 
 ‘^We must meet,” she answered, sadly, yet firmly; ‘^why 
 should I defer it ? Am I so weak that I cannot see the fulfil- 
 ment of my earnest prayers without evincing emotion ? No, 
 let me try my strength, and then I can better judge myself, 
 and know how to proceed.” 
 
 And accordingly, as soon as the weather permitted, they 
 
•woman’s friendship 
 
 289 
 
 went to Beech Vale. Florence was received with the warmest 
 cordiality by all the family ; the change which they supposed 
 her severe illness had occasioned was sincerely regretted, and 
 warm congratulations on her own legacy and her sister’s happy 
 prospects followed. 
 
 ‘'Minie and Frank are in the east room; pray make no 
 compliments, dear Florence, but join them when you like. 
 Minie is all impatience to see you, and wondered what you 
 could find to detain you so long at Woodlands, in this 
 miserable season,” Lady Mary said, after some little time 
 had elapsed in ordinary conversation. Frank only returned 
 from London last night ; I have seen him but a few minutes 
 this morning, and I fear that all is not as right as it should be 
 —his face was somewhat overshadowed.” 
 
 It was well she said this, for now the hour of trial had come. 
 Florence had felt for the moment as if she could not meet it ; 
 but recalled by Lady Mary’s unconscious intimation of what 
 she herself had long anticipated, her strength of mind and 
 purpose triumphed, and with unfaltering steps she quitted the 
 apartment. 
 
 In the east room, as directed, she found them, but the voice, 
 not of joy, but of sorrow, met her ear ; and so engrossed were 
 those she sought in their own thoughts, that she stood for 
 some time unobserved. Frank was pacing the chamber with 
 most uneven steps, his cheek highly coloured, and his eye 
 flashing. Minie’s arms were resting on the table, her head 
 laid upon them, in an attitude of complete despondency, while 
 her whole frame shook with sobs. Her beautiful hair hanging 
 loosely over her, concealed her face from her sister; but 
 Florence knew that gentle nature too well to need further 
 proof of suffering than what she beheld. 
 
 Cruel, unjust, capricious !” were the first words she heard, 
 in Frank’s most agitated voice. ‘‘With his hoards of un- 
 touched gold, why should he want more ? Why is my happi- 
 ness to be blighted simply because an unjust parent refuses 
 his consent to my wedding a portionless bride ? Minie, come 
 what will, you must, you shall be mine ! With or without 
 his consent, I will claim the promise you have made me. Are 
 we to suppress our united happiness for no cause ? for this 
 refusal assigns none. My father has no right to gall me thus ! 
 I will not bear it. What can money or title give me more 
 than I possess already? I seek happiness and love, not 
 
 u 
 
290 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENSBHIP. 
 
 ambition. Minie, my own sweet love ! do not weep thus ; we- 
 shall be happy in each other yet.'’ 
 
 No, Frank, no ! " replied Minie, pushing back her long 
 hair, which was wet wdth tears, and looking up in his face, as 
 he bent over her and clasped his arm around him. ^'No, 
 precious as your love is, I will not come between you and your 
 parent. If he cannot receive me as a daughter, if he thinks 
 reverence and love — for I would give him both — are nothing 
 worth, compared to gold, how can I, how’' dare I burden you 
 with me ? No, no ! I love you too well to expose you to your 
 father's wrath. We must wait; perhaps — " but her sweet 
 voice faltered as she spoke — he will relent after a time, and 
 then—" 
 
 Relent ! " muttered Frank, even while he passionately 
 kissed the upturned brow, as if to thank her for the half- 
 whispered hope ; I never knew him relent when once he 
 had so spoken. Why did I not marry the heiress, forsooth, 
 he asked me ; as if his son had power to woo and wed whoso- 
 ever he pleased. Florence ! " he abruptly exclaimed, as, 
 lifting her head at the moment, he met her meek and gentle 
 gaze ; good God, how changed, how ill you must have been ! " 
 
 ‘^But I am well now, Mr. Howard, perfectly well; therefore 
 pray do not judge me by my looks," she replied, meeting his 
 glance with one as ready, if not more free from agitation than 
 his own ; and then she bent dowm to imprint repeated kisses 
 on the cheek of her sister, who, at Frank's first exclamation, 
 had sprung into her arms. Minie, darling, I did not expect 
 a greeting of tears ; come, smile. We have not met for a 
 long time, and I have been ill, and you have been happy ; 
 ought you not to welcome me like your own sweet self ? 
 What is this weighty grief? Mr. Howard, treat me as the 
 sister you have called me, and tell me the particulars of what 
 I so imperfectly heard. Lord Glenvylle objects to my sister 
 as your bride because she has no portion ; is that it ? An evil 
 easily remedied, since, thanks to Mrs. Rivers's generosity, my 
 sister is not portionless. I should have looked to this long 
 ago had not illness prevented me ; but now let me know all." 
 
 Frank seized her hand, and pressed it energetically to his 
 lips. If it trembled, and was somewhat hastily withdrawn, 
 he was too much excited to notice it. We will give the 
 substance of this tale in our own words, as there were some- 
 points which, in his relation, he purposely omitted. 
 
woman’s fkiendship. 
 
 291 
 
 His father had insisted he should break off his engagement, 
 for that his consent to his union with any but an heiress, and 
 one who could give him either name and title, or the means 
 of purchasing them, should never be obtained. In vain 
 Frank urged that he had already a name, and a proud one ; 
 that his father’s title was sufhcient to content him. He was 
 not ambitious, and should abhor owing more to his wife than 
 domestic happiness and love. Why should Lord Glenvylle 
 dwell so much on a pecuniary portion for his son’s bride, when 
 his wealth was already so enormous, and he, Frank, wished not 
 for a shilling more than his present handsome allowance ? Lord 
 Glenvylle was too cold and dignified a person to give any 
 violent sign of anger ; but he grew prouder and prouder, 
 colder and colder, till his son felt as if he were addressing a 
 statue, and his excited spirits sunk back so chilled, that it was 
 an effort to urge more. Yet still he spoke, for his love was 
 too deep to be banished by a parent’s word. He said that he 
 was convinced Minie would not be portionless ; her sister 
 was not one to hoard her lavish wealth : and then it was 
 (though Howard did not repeat it to Florence) that the 
 Viscount scornfully bade him woo the heiress instead of her 
 sister ! The possessor of Woodlands, its rich pasture lands 
 and woody enclosures, might be a fit wife for his son. A 
 portion ! Lord Glenvylle laughed at the idea. Miss Leslie 
 had been too lately made an heiress to give away any part of 
 her possessions ; and even if she did, nothing that she could 
 settle on her sister, short of the inheritance itself would endow 
 her sufficiently to be Frank Howard’s bride. There was alike 
 scorn and satire in every word : perhaps there was more; but icy 
 pride was aveil too invulnerable for his agitated son to penetrate. 
 He used all his eloquence, yet never forgetting the respect he 
 always paid his father ; but his kindly feelings felt withered 
 within him, and when that interview ended, by a solemn declara- 
 tion on the part of Lord Glenvylle, that if Mr. Francis Howard 
 persisted in wedding a portionless girl, his allowance would be 
 stopped on the instant, and he would find himself without a 
 shilling wherewithal to support liimself or bride, so let him 
 ponder ere he decided, Frank left his presence without 
 uttering a word, for speak he could not. The hot blood had 
 mounted to his very brow, and he bit his nether lip in the 
 effort to restrain the bursting passion, till the blood came ; 
 but he conquered himself. Lord Glenvylle, in the solitary 
 
 u 2 
 
292 
 
 woman’s fkiendship. 
 
 moments of remorse which followed Frank’s departure, could 
 not recall one word in which his son had forgotten their 
 relative positions of child and parent. 
 
 ‘‘ Love ? pooh ; he will soon get over it,” so his lordship 
 thought, as he sat alone ; but why should I thwart him 
 thus ? Why ! merciful heavens ! if he knew what is con- 
 suming me — that I require an heiress for him because wealth, 
 gold, another title, may enable him to rise up against the 
 blow which one day I know will fall, and on him, to punish 
 his miserable, guilty father. How know I that he will inherit 
 the rank to which he now looks forward? I dare not call 
 them his, for I know not who may come to claim them ; and 
 yet he believes I do not feel for him, I do not love him — the 
 only being who saved me from seeking death by my own hand. 
 Frank, my boy, my poor, poor boy ! the truth would be his 
 death.” 
 
 And could Frank have heard the groans and sobs which 
 followed this soliloquy, he w^ould have been spared one bitter 
 feeling ; for he must have been convinced that he was an 
 object of love, however strangely and mysteriously that love 
 was proved. But he could not know this, and while more and 
 more painfully the conviction pressed upon him that even the 
 small portion of affection which he believed his father had 
 once borne him, must have dwindled away beneath what 
 appeared only an increasing love of gold, his heart, wounded 
 and suffering, clung yet more fondly to the only being on earth 
 by whom he could believe himself beloved. Break from her 
 now ! dissolve his engagement ! bid her, like himself, languish 
 in all the lingering torture of hope deferred ! he could not, he 
 would not ! No, did he even forget his birth, and seek some 
 honest business which could support them both. 
 
 In this mood he remained in London about four-and-twenty 
 hours, and then galloped back to Beech Vale. It was easy, 
 even for indifferent persons, to discover that all was not right; 
 and Minie, unsuspicious of all evil as she generally was, found 
 some difficulty in preserving her joyous spirits until their 
 being alone permitted her to draw from him the cause. Frank 
 had intended to conceal, or at least to soften the facts, but 
 his nature was much too impetuous. Miserable himself, and 
 therefore longing for sympathy and affection, he poured out 
 his whole soul to his betrothed. Minie was not one to bear 
 up against an unexpected blow with fortitude. She did not 
 
WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 293 
 
 utter a syllable of complaint, but slie clung to him, and wept 
 unrestrainedly. Her grief of course heightened Frank’s more 
 tumultuary feelings, and occasioned the passionate burst 
 which Florence had overheard. 
 
 Although Howard did not enter into all these particulars, 
 he related enough for Florence perfectly to comprehend the 
 fact. Perhaps her own previous cogitations on this subject 
 rendered her more than usually clear-sighted. Be that as it 
 may, though she did not betray her intentions, the time passed 
 with the lovers was not without its fruit. She left them soothed 
 and hopeful ; they scarcely knew wherefore, and their every 
 feeling of love and veneration heightened towards herself. 
 
 To the astonishment of Lord and Lady St. Maur, the 
 following morning Florence announced an intention of visiting 
 London for a week or two. 
 
 At this season, with every appearance of snow setting in 
 for weeks, and blocking up the roads ! My dear Florence, 
 you are certainly mad to think of it,” exclaimed the Countess, 
 half jesting and half in earnest. What business can you 
 have so important as not to wait a more favourable season ? 
 Do be advised. Strong as you think yourself, and are mentally, 
 physically you certainly are not, and I feel inclined to lay a 
 positive command on you to stay at home.” 
 
 Pray do^ not, dearest Lady St. Maur, for indeed in this 
 case I cannot obey you. Affairs of consequence to Minie’s 
 happiness call me to London, and must not be delayed.” 
 
 Minie !” repeated the Countess, and her tone was most 
 unusually impatient. Florence understood it. 
 
 Yes, Minie, my dear friend. Her happiness is now mine, 
 all that at present, at least, is left to me. Do not grudge my 
 securing that, even though the manner of doing so may seem 
 unwise. I cannot now explain my meaning, only trust me till 
 my return, and you shall know all.” 
 
 There was an earnestness in her manner impossible to be 
 gainsayed ; and accepting only the escort of the faithful 
 Ferrers, Florence set off for London, to Sir Ronald Elliott’s 
 great disappointment, scarcely ten days after her return from 
 Woodlands. 
 
CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 LOED GLENVYLLE. — THE SACEIFICE. 
 
 It was one of those dull, cheerless mornings of January, the 
 snow falling at intervals, and the wind so cold and cutting 
 that few, except those unhappy pedestrian teachers who are 
 compelled to bear all weathers, would have ventured out. 
 There had been a heavy fall of snow, and then a thaw, and 
 then as rapid a frost, so that the thoroughfare had the sem- 
 blance of dirty glass. Folks could not walk fast for fear of 
 falling, and so they shuffled and fretted along, shivering with 
 the nipping wind, and looking, from their purple cheeks, red 
 noses, and watery eyes, the very caricatures of misery; for 
 cold, though one of the worst evils to encounter, is the most 
 ludicrous to witness, and the unfortunate sufferers receive 
 little sympathy from their warmly-clad and warmly-sheltered 
 observers. 
 
 From a small morning room in one of the mansions in 
 Belgrave Square, however, the cold was so effectually excluded 
 that it had almost the atmosphere of summer. The sole 
 inmate of this comfortable retreat was a man very little more 
 than fifty, if years could be counted by the figure, which even 
 in a sitting posture was unusually erect and dignified; his 
 face told another tale, not so much perhaps of years, but of 
 passions and their consequences, making him old before his 
 time. The countenance had been unusually handsome, but it 
 was indented by those strong lines about the brow and mouth 
 — the sure indexes of strong passions, held under forcible 
 restraint by some feeling yet stronger than themselves. His 
 eyes were large, dark, and piercing ; but so seldom now 
 permitted to become expressive, that their natural brightness 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 295 
 
 cnever destroyed the stony calmness of the other features. His 
 whole appearance was that of a solemn statue, to whom the 
 feelings and passions of mankind were now as things unknown, 
 and never, to the recollection of any of his domestics, had 
 this solemn rigidity been disturbed. Hays, weeks, years, left 
 him untouched in outward appearance, except by mingling his 
 raven hair more profusely with grey, and deepening the lines 
 upon his brow. He seldom encountered the eyes of his 
 fellows, for he lived absolutely alone, isolated at first by his 
 own choice, and next by the dislike of those whom he had 
 scorned. He was dressed with care, but plainly, and there 
 was an absence of all pretension about the room, which 
 seemed to denote that he cared little for outward things : his 
 whole world was within, and terrible, indeed, at times, were 
 the tempests and convulsions of that world. That though 
 devoid of pretension, his apartment was almost luxurious in 
 comfort, was little owing to himself : his housekeeper, incited 
 by her much-loved young master, had so cautiously and 
 gradually rendered it thus, that it grew upon him unconsciously. 
 
 He was accused of parsimony, perhaps with justice ; but a 
 miser he was not. Hoard wealth he did, strangely and 
 engrossingly, and none could guess wherefore : but we must 
 check this long digression, for though without Lord Glenvylle 
 our tale would have no connection, he is too little known to 
 our readers for more particular notice, especially as our fast 
 diminishing space warns us loudly to conclude. 
 
 It was near three o’clock, when a footman entered, his face 
 so expressive of astonishment, that any one but Lord Glenvylle 
 must have demanded its cause. 
 
 My lord ; a lady, my lord, wishes to speak with your 
 lordship. She will take no denial.” 
 
 Lord Glenvylle’s face was always pale, or it might have 
 appeared to become yet more so ; but to the man’s increasing 
 wonder his master stared him in the face without attempting 
 reply. 
 
 “ Shall I show her in here, my lord, or into the drawing- 
 room ; she is close behind me ; ” and the lady, whoever she 
 might be, entered, supposing she had been sufficiently an- 
 nounced ere one syllable of reply had passed Lord Glenvylle’s 
 lips. 
 
 He rose involuntarily; for no seclusion, no eccentricity 
 could conquer the habits of the English gentleman, still so 
 
29G 
 
 woman's priendship. 
 
 strong within. He fixed a glance on his visitor, with au 
 emotion which, could it be possible, seemed like alarm. She 
 was standing in the shade, for the room was thickly curtained ; 
 and three o'clock in January is little more than twilight : 
 her veil of black crape — for she was in mourning — was raised 
 indeed,' but still hu-ng so much over her face, as almost to 
 conceal it ; and however little satisfaction his penetrative 
 glance could afford him, it permitted Lord Glenvylle to 
 recover his voice and his cold repelling manner. 
 
 '^1 am honoured," he said, sarcastically, as his domestic 
 quitted the room : '' it is seldom that a lady deigns to enliven 
 my apartments with her presence. May I crave the reason of 
 this unusual honour, and the name of my fair visitant ?" 
 
 I am come to answer both, my lord," replied a voice of 
 such soul-subduing gentleness, that he winced beneath it. 
 fear I intrude, but a very brief interval of attention will 
 suffice me ; my name is Florence Leslie, and it is on account 
 of your son, though not sent by him, that I am here." 
 
 His face, which had appeared about to relax, became stone 
 again, but he motioned her to a chair, and sat down again 
 himself 
 
 '' Leslie ? Florence Leslie ? My son’s betrothed bride, per- 
 chance, for such I believe was the name, come to plead her 
 own cause with the iron-hearted father. Madam, you should 
 have tried some other method ; I am not one to melt at 
 woman's tears." 
 
 Nor am I one to shed them, my lord,” she answered, with 
 a dignity which involuntarily commanded respect ; nor would 
 the chosen bride of your noble son demean herself in the 
 manner which you are pleased to believe. No, Lord Glenvylle, 
 I am not Frank Howard's chosen bride, but the sister of that 
 bride ; come hither not to plead, but simply to know if indeed 
 the decree you have pronounced be irrevocable, as they 
 believe it ; or, if by any exertion, any sacrifice on my part, it 
 can be changed. My lord, I am perchance too bold ; this 
 intrusion upon one so retired, so removed from the world — 
 perhaps from the feelings of the world — as yourself, may well 
 be regarded as unmaidenly, or, to say the least, unwise ; but 
 when the whole heart is intent on the furtherance of one 
 object, idle forms are wont to be rejected, and we think only 
 of that which we so earnestly wish to gain.” 
 
 Lord Glenvylle looked at her wifi surprise, and his tone was 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 297 
 
 somewhat less sarcastic as lie answered, In this instance, 
 madam, it is a subject of regret that so much enthusiasm 
 should be wasted. My decision is, as my son justly believes, 
 irrevocable.” 
 
 And wherefore, my lord ? Pardon me, but as your 
 affection for your son has never been doubted, I cannot 
 believe that a mere prejudice should obtain such an ascen- 
 dency. You would not condemn Mr. Howard to unhappiness, 
 without some very powerful reason. My sister’s birth is, 
 indeed, not noble ; but for aught else, my lord, she may vie 
 with the highest and the noblest of the land. See her, know 
 her, and let her gentle virtues, and your son’s affection, plead 
 for both.” 
 
 '‘You are eloquent. Miss Leslie ; I doubt not but that the 
 object of your interest is deserving of all praise. Prejudice 
 against herself I have none. My son must marry; I care little 
 whom, so he be happy. His wife will be as little worth to me 
 as others of her sex. I am not what men term ambitious, for 
 did a prince’s daughter win his love, without the power of 
 making him, if need be, other than he is, my refusal to such 
 an union w^ere unchangeable as now.” 
 
 " Forgive me, my lord ; but seeking, as I do, the happiness 
 of one so dear, this mysterious answer cannot satisfy me. You 
 own that no prejudice actuates you against my sister; you say 
 that you are not ambitious, that you seek but your son’s 
 happiness, and yet you refuse to permit it. A prince’s 
 daughter can scarcely cause the same objection as my sister — 
 she would have both birth and fortune — and yet your refusal 
 would extend to her. How, then, can I obviate objections 
 which seem so contradictory ? I am rich, my lord, and can 
 well afford to make my sister rich. Name that portion which 
 wdll endow her sufficiently to be the bride of your son, and if 
 it be within my income, it is hers.” 
 
 " Ptiches have not long been yours, they tell me, yet you 
 would part with them. Strange, most strange !” replied Lord 
 Glenvylle, musingly ; " yet, perhaps, not so ; they have not 
 been long enough your own for you to know their value. 
 Madam, take advice, ponder on their worth ere you offer to 
 part with them.” 
 
 " Value — worth ! talk you of the value of gold, compared 
 with the value of haj^piness, the enjoyment of bestowing it? 
 My lord, my lord, how little you have read the human heart!” 
 
298 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 I have read too much of it,” he exclaimed, starting up 
 with sudden emotion, and pacing the chamber ; too much of 
 it ; I have read its annals in my own, and they are black — 
 black as the thoughts that torture ! PshaW; this is folly, what 
 can have moved me thus ? a voice, a woman’s voice. Can I 
 not hear it yet in peace ? away with the weak folly ! Human 
 heart ! Aye, I have read it — read but its dark page.” 
 
 ‘‘ Then read another now, my lord,” replied Florence, meekly, 
 subduing with an effort the alarm which his manner, almost 
 that of madness, caused. Look beyond the black veil you 
 have cast before you. Surely, surely, in the heart of your son 
 may be read whole pages of nobleness, virtue, truth, which 
 might give a fairer, lovelier face to humanity. Did you look 
 but there, the glow of that heart would dissolve the clouds 
 you deem so black within your own.” 
 
 Lord Glenvylle paused abruptly before her. Why did he 
 not love you ? ” he muttered, it is strange that any one but 
 those deluded by love should so read a human heart. Why 
 not trust his happiness to one so capable, it would seem, of 
 appreciating and securing it ? If he had, there would have 
 been no need of all this ; I had consented without a word.” 
 
 And why so honour me, my lord, and yet refuse my sister 
 — younger, fairer, in all things more fitted to be his bride ? I 
 do beseech you alter this decision. Say but what portion will 
 make my sister in your eyes worthy as you are pleased to 
 deem myself, and again I say it shall be hers.” 
 
 Madam, I know not how it can be; you are an heiress, she 
 is nothing; and an heiress only, with my consent shall Francis 
 Howard wed.” 
 
 And were Minie Leslie heiress in the stead of Florence 
 Leslie, would all objection be removed? I conjure you to 
 reply. Is it but this, to become an heiress, and your consent 
 to your son’s choice is gained ? ” 
 
 Madam, I repeat it is only this.” Florence clasped her 
 hands with sudden joy. "‘Aye,” he added, sarcastically, for 
 his nature imagined not her meaning, “ transfer your newly- 
 acquired inheritance to the sister you so profess to love, and 
 she shall be Frank Howard’s bride ; will romantic enthusiasm 
 permit so great a sacrifice? The world must change its nature 
 first.” 
 
 “Do you speak in earnest, my lord, or is xt but sarcastic 
 jest ? Oh ! do not trifle with feelings such as these,” she 
 
299 
 
 woman’s feiendship. 
 
 'entreated, gazing on him with eyes which riveted his upon 
 hers. Her veil and bonnet had fallen back, and, for the first 
 time, her pale face was fully revealed. Tell me, I beseech 
 you, promise me, that if I do this, there shall be no more 
 objection nor denial, and that Minie Leslie shall be your son’s 
 bride.” 
 
 Engrossed in her own emotion, she saw not that damp drops 
 had started to Lord Glenvylle’s brow, and that he had sunk 
 back in his chair as if faint with some sudden pain, and pass- 
 ing his hand across his brow, had muttered, '‘Fool, fool ! what 
 right have I to parley thus with women ? I have forsworn 
 them ; they are all spectres of the past ; like or unlike the 
 same ! ” and again he started up, and strode across the room. 
 Florence repeated her words, for it seemed as if he had not 
 naught their sense ; and then he paused, when every feature 
 which had been a moment since convulsed and working, 
 became rigid as its wont. 
 
 " I have said it, madam ; were my son’s choice an heiress, 
 my consent had never been withheld.” 
 
 " You will promise this, my lord.” 
 
 "Aye, in black and white, if it so please you.” She turned 
 hastily to the table, as if eagerly accepting the proposal, then 
 paused. " No ; not yet. I will not claim it now. My lord, 
 I ask but your word, and your honour is sufficient for my 
 trust. Promise me, as a gentleman, whose simple word should 
 be far more sacred than the mere stroke of pen, that if I bring 
 earnest of my sincerity in this matter, strange as it may seem 
 to you, you will not fail in yours. You will grant freely and 
 fully the consent I claim, and by no word or sign embitter the 
 blessing which you give. Promise me this ; grant me one 
 more interview, it shall be briefer than this has been, and wfith 
 my presence I will trouble you no more.” 
 
 " Miss Leslie, mysterious and incomprehensible being, I do 
 give you this promise, and it shall be sacredly, solemnly ob- 
 served ; you may trust me ; your words and manner are too 
 solemn for the jest I deemed them. Yet it cannot be : there 
 never yet was human nature disinterested as this. Pause, 
 ponder, weigh, ere romance becomes reality ; you will not be 
 enabled to retrace this step when once taken. Think that 
 there will be no return, no gratitude ; build no delusive hope 
 on the belief that generosity, devotedness, have power to pur- 
 chase love. Those you seek to serve are too much wrapt in 
 
300 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 each other to spare one grain of love for 5^ou ; hope it not ; 
 look not for it ; you will reap but ashes. I am not ambitious. 
 No, no.” He grasped her arm, and his face became livid. 
 
 Miss Leslie, there is a cause for this seeming tyranny ; my 
 boy knows it not, may never know it ; but he may need 
 change of name, change of heritage. You think me mad — be 
 it so ; let his wife give him these, and whoever she be I care 
 not. Go — go, make him happy ! My boy ! — my Frank, and 
 — and God bless you.” 
 
 His grasp upon her arm became literally convulsed ; he 
 glared in her face, and rushed from the room. 
 
 Florence looked after him, bewildered, terrified, for she felt 
 convinced that words, look, and manner were all madness. 
 Was she right in trusting to a promise from one seeming so 
 little capable of keeping it ? Surely it was something more 
 than the mere eccentricity for which he was noted. His words 
 had chilled her heart, but not her purpose. But though the 
 glow of enthusiasm had been darkened, the sustaining impulse 
 remained. What was the sacrifice of riches to that of heart, 
 which she had already made ? There was neither pause nor 
 doubting in her purpose. Strangely as he had spoken, she yet 
 firmly believed that Lord Glenvylle would not deceive her. In 
 her hands, as she had prayed, was the happiness or misery of 
 him she loved. 
 
CHAPTER L. 
 
 PRANK AND MINIE HAPPY. 
 
 Ten days sufficed for Florence effectually to conclude the 
 business which had brought her to London ; and on her return 
 she found a merry party assembled at Amersley Hall. Lord 
 Edgemere’s family had at length accepted Lord St. Maur s 
 often-proffered invitation, and Frank Howard and Minie Leslie 
 were of course of the party. The joyous face of the latter 
 was already dimmed by anxiety; duty suggested the propriety 
 of separating herself from Howard, till his father’s objections 
 could be surmounted ; but this was an act of heroism for 
 which her nature was too simple, and her love too powerful, 
 for her to carry into effect ; opposed, too, as it was by Lady 
 Mary, who violently protested against Lord Glenvylle’s tyranny, 
 ind vowed that it should not be regarded. Frank, she said, 
 vas old and wise enough to choose and decide for himself. 
 
 Lady St. Maur had half wished, for Florence’s sake, that 
 Lord Edgemere’s visit had been concluded before she returned, 
 or, at least, that Frank should have left the party. , Something 
 in her expressive features must have betrayed this, as she 
 affectionately greeted her, for Florence answered her thoughts. 
 
 “Do not fear for me, my kind friend,” she said, as they 
 sat alone in the Countess’s boudoir ; “I feel as if I were 
 strengthened to see him, speak with him, even with pleasure, 
 for I have made him happy : he will not, shall not know how, 
 until — ” she paused a moment, as if gathering firmness — 
 “ until he is my sister’s husband, and cannot impose upon me 
 the suffering of any resistance to my wishes. Oh ! Lady St. 
 Maur, you said once, I should rejoice in Mrs. Rivers’s unex- 
 pected generosity. Rejoice ! my wildest dream had not 
 pictured its bringing me happiness like this/' 
 
302 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 ‘^Florence! what have you done ?” inquired the Countess, 
 startled almost into consciousness ; you cannot have been so- 
 foolish as to — ” Florence’s hand was gently laid on her 
 mouth. 
 
 ^'Do not you call it foolish, Lady St. Maur, or you will 
 forswear yourself, for you have said, there may be such a 
 thing as making our own happiness by securing that of others. 
 Oh ! do not — do not chide your poor Florence for this. What 
 can I look to for personal happiness ? What can my thousands 
 bring to me but increase of care ? I have known only misery 
 since they became mine ; not indeed through them, but they 
 have become so associated with suffering, that I loathe their 
 very name. Why should it be folly then to act as I have 
 done, to go back to that station in which I was so happy ? 
 Dependent, indeed, Lam not. No, no ! Had I not reserved 
 that which I felt was sufficient for my need, aye, for doing 
 what little good I can, they would have pressed it on me ; I 
 should have been compelled to look one day for return, for 
 gratitude from those whom I had served, and that, that I 
 could not do. Dearest Lady St. Maur,” she exclaimed, with 
 increasing agitation, do not refuse me this : let me still 
 retain the station I have occupied in your family — the best, 
 oh ! how much the best for me. How could I have mingled 
 with the world, or performed what is naturally expected from 
 Mrs. Rivers’s heiress, with the bitter consciousness of what I 
 am ? Should I not feel more and more painfully that I was 
 imposing myself upon the world for what I am not ? But in 
 your household, still your chosen friend. Lady Helen’s com- 
 panion, aiding you in rearing your sweet children to be like 
 yourself. There may be happiness in store for me yet, or at 
 least calmness, cheerfulness, peace. Oh ! do not say I have 
 acted unwisely; I have made no sacrifice; done nothing I 
 could wish undone ; indeed, indeed I have not. Let me live 
 with you, be your lowly Florence still;” and a burst of 
 passionate tears choked that eloquent appeal. 
 
 Lady St. Maur could not condemn, could not say one word 
 against a resolution which, formed as some cold-hearted people 
 might deem it, on mere romantic enthusiasm, had yet been 
 acted upon with a forethought and deliberation which pre- 
 cluded all idea of after regret. She endeavoured only to 
 soothe her friend’s unwonted excitement. She promised that 
 all should be as she wished. She would not condemn ; would 
 

 
 Js-r;! i 
 
 
 -fv4'’ 
 
 i - '.SS>>.- 
 
 ^■iA, 
 
 
 
 k^. 
 
 icilc.. 
 
 M: 
 
 
 
woman’s friendsiiip. 
 
 303 
 
 not refuse lier sanction to it, however such decision, on the 
 part of Florence, might occasion her regret. 
 
 Before the dressing-bell sounded. Lord St. Maur and Lord 
 Edgemere were summoned to the Countess’s boudoir, and 
 Florence answered so calmly, so decisively, all their prudent 
 arguments, to prove that her course of acting was neither wise 
 nor positively demanded, and therefore she might still repent 
 it, that they found it was useless to persist, and acquiesced, 
 though with regret, in all she desired ; promising to take all 
 further law business out of her hands, and so contrive it 
 that the bridegroom elect should, as she particularly wished, 
 be ignorant of his bride’s fortune till his wedding-day. 
 
 To Lord Edgemere this resolution was a subject alike of 
 astonishment and mystery. To Lord St. Maur it was neither. 
 He could understand the feeling which dictated this line of 
 conduct, and how painfully she would shrink from anything 
 of publicity or notoriety attending it ; and while he regretted 
 the decision, he honoured her with a larger portion of reverence 
 and esteem than he believed any woman could have had power 
 to excite, except his wife ; and he inwardly blushed at the 
 idle prejudice which, even for an hour, could have suggested 
 the idea of banishing such a being from the friendship of his 
 Ida. 
 
 ‘‘1 bring you news, joyous news, my gentle sister,” exclaimed 
 Florence, after completing the business of the toilette, and 
 finding her sister in a favourite sitting-room, opening into the 
 greenhouse ; give that to Mr. How^ard — to Frank,” she added, 
 determined to pronounce his name, and see if its mystic 
 characters have not power to change that anxious look into 
 your former sweet smiles.” 
 
 Frank was not far off ; and overhearing Florence’s words, 
 bounded into the room again just as Minie, with a cry of joy, 
 called upon his name. My father’s hand and seal !” he 
 ejaculated, almost breathless. ''Can he have relented — 
 granted my request ? Oh, it is impossible !” The letter was 
 torn open as he stood, Minie clinging to his arm, devouring 
 with him its contents. For a full minute Florence calmly 
 looked on them both ; but when Frank suddenly caught Minie 
 to his bosom, bursting forth into a wild passionate cry of joy, 
 her heart turned sick, and every pulse stood still. A minute, 
 and the pang passed ; and well it was, for the next moment 
 Frank was ad her side, clasping her hand, and pouring forth 
 
Ti'OMAN’s FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 504 
 
 thanks, blessings, inquiries, all in a breath ; while Minie 
 could only throw herself on her neck, and weep for very joy. 
 
 Be satisfied, my dear friend,” she said, when he permitted 
 her to speak, and her voice was quite calm ; I have gained 
 Lord Glenvylles unconditional consent. Nothing can now 
 interfere with your happiness — indulge it without alloy ; and 
 let me enjoy the thought that I have gained it, without 
 farther question. Best satisfied that to procure this consent 
 I have done nothing that I can ever regret ; nothing that has 
 occasioned or can occasion me one moment’s feeling which you, 
 as a brother, could have wished otherwise. That my journey 
 to London, and brief detention there, was on your account, 
 I will not deny ; but do not ask me more, for indeed I wdll 
 not answer.” 
 
 Frank looked at her doubtingly, almost sorrowfully ; but 
 playful as was her manner, it was too decided to be evaded. 
 
 Tell me but one thing,” he said earnestly, dearest Florence; 
 only tell me that to obtain this consent so unexpected, from 
 one like my father, you have made no sacrifice to whigji 
 your friends can object ; tell me,” he rejoined, taking both 
 her hands, and looking her full in the face. Florence, I 
 must have an answer, if you would not destroy my new found 
 happiness at once.” 
 
 ‘‘ Be answered, then,” she said ; I have both the consent 
 and assistance of my friends in all that I have done. And 
 for your father, judge him not too harshly ; I am sure he 
 loves you — seeks but your happiness. Now will you be satis- 
 fied,” she added, smiling, or must I name the portion I have 
 settled on your bride ?” 
 
 Perish the thought !” indignantly burst from Howard. I 
 would that she had none, none but her own lovely face and 
 lovelier mind ; that the world might know there is one 
 heart that can enshrine affection without a thought of that 
 hated framework — ^gold ! ” 
 
 The first dinner-bell sounding at that moment, saved 
 Florence all reply. Many of Lady St. Maur’s guests being 
 eager to welcome and converse with her, it was no very ^eat 
 matter of surprise that she should leave Frank and Minie to 
 their own happiness, and find a seat during the remainder of 
 the evening elsewhere. 
 
 It was a joyous evening in the halls of Amersley. Frank 
 was so universally beloved, that the ban being removed from 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 305 
 
 his happiness was a source of real rejoicing. The hours sped 
 in the dance and song ; though both grated somewhat harshly 
 on the feelings of the noble hostess, for she knew how they 
 must fall on the heart of one in that lordly room. She looked 
 towards her friend, often tremblingly; but there was still a 
 smile on her pale lip, and her eye was radiant. Was it but 
 excitement? or would indeed her noble spirit carry her 
 throughout, and create its own reward ? She did not dance ; 
 but for that her late illness was sufficient excuse, and it 
 elicited no remark. Sir Eonald Elliott preferred remaining by 
 her side, defending himself against all the raillery of his com- 
 panions by declaring the dance was too landsman and too 
 savage an exercise for him ; and Florence alternately conversed 
 with him and others of the elder guests, with all her wonted 
 calm and earnest manner, on various subjects, the whole 
 evening. 
 
 The 25th of March had been fixed for Lady Mary’s wedding- 
 day, and Frank was eloquent in his entreaties that Minie 
 would consent to become his on the same morning. Lord 
 Glenvylle (to whom Frank had flown on the wings of gratitude 
 the day following Florence’s return) was anxious for the 
 speedy solemnization of his son’s happiness. Lady Mary and 
 Melford seconded his entreaties, laughingly desiring the eclat 
 of a double marriage ; and Florence, when appealed to by 
 her blushing and trembling sister, advised the granting her 
 lover’s request. It was not quite a year after their mother’s 
 death, but so near it that the pleading another month of 
 mourning had little effect on Frank’s impatience. The 25tli 
 of March, then, was the day fixed ; and, as Lady Mary was 
 to be married from her father’s house in London, whither they 
 adjourned after leaving Amersley, Florence determined on 
 taking a house in town for the two following months, that her 
 sister’s elegant trousseau might be prepared together with 
 Lady Mary’s, and all things relative to her marriage be 
 conducted with the refined taste natural to Florence, and 
 demanded by Minie’s future prospects. 
 
 Lord and Lady St. Maur expected to be in London about 
 the middle of February, and directly after her sister’s marriage 
 Florence was to return to them. More than this Minie did 
 not require, satisfied with her sister’s assurance that she 
 should ' not be lonely — that in all she had done she liad 
 secured her individual happiness, as far as it lay in her own 
 
 X 
 
306 
 
 WOMAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 power. Vainly Minie remonstrated that the rich materials 
 selected for her trousseau — the elegant though simple ornaments 
 which Florence presented to her — were unsuited to her station. 
 
 Unsuited, and you the sister of an heiress ! about to be 
 the bride of the heir to a viscountcy. Shame on you, dearest. 
 I will not permit you to dispute my taste. As long as you 
 are under my roof, you must submit to my authority. When 
 you leave that for the home of your husband, my beloved girl, 
 spare me but your affection ; let no circumstance, no accident 
 come between my memory and your heart, and I will ask no 
 more.” 
 
 “ Spare you my affection ! Florence, dearest, kindest ! can 
 you think that aught of individual joy can lesson the ties, or 
 diminish the affection of nearly nineteen years ? Oh, have 
 we not grown from childhood to youth together ? together 
 struggled against the ills of life ? wept at each other’s sorrows, 
 shared all returning joys ? Have I not ever looked up to you 
 as even more than a sister, and you on me as combining child 
 and sister both ? Love ! oh, until death ! no image, not even 
 of husband or child, can come between us, Florence I ” and 
 overpowered with unusual emotion, Minie flung herself im- 
 petuously into her sister s arms, and wept. 
 
CHAPTER LI. 
 
 THE DEED OF GIFT. 
 
 It was over ; that day of smiles and tears, too full of feeling 
 for entire joy, too twined with hope to be all sadness. We 
 leave to others, more experienced in such matters, the task 
 of dilating on the brilliant coup d'oeil which St. Margaret’s 
 Chapel, Westminster, presented on the occasion of the double 
 marriage of the Right Honorable Alfred Melford to the Lady 
 Mary Villiers, second daughter of the Earl of Edgemere ; and 
 that of the Honourable Francis Howard, M.P., son and heir 
 to Viscount Lord Glenvylle, with Minie Leslie, younger 
 daughter — so Lord St. Maur expressly inserted in the 
 Morning Post — of Edward Leslie, Esquire, deceased. We 
 have neither time nor inclination to enter into detail on the 
 splendour of the dresses, the noble company, most of which 
 were of the highest and loveliest of the aristocracy ; the 
 demeanour of the brides, and of their respective bridegrooms; 
 the refined and highborn elegance of the elder bride, the 
 resplendent loveliness of the younger ; all of which might 
 occupy some half-dozen pages. Suffice it that the Morning 
 Post and Court Journal were compelled to banish columns of 
 irrelevant matter, and disappoint some dozen eager correspon- 
 dents, to find room to do justice to the exciting subject. 
 
 From the hands of Lord St. Maur the enraptured Howard 
 received his bride ; and close by the side of Minie, to whom 
 she had acted the part alike of mother and sister, knelt one 
 on whom alone, midst all that brilliant assemblage, the 
 Countess St. Maur’s thoughts were fixed ; she saw, felt but 
 for her ; yet there was no expression in those gentle features, 
 no movement in that graceful form, which could account for 
 
 X 2 
 
308 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 such anxious thoughts. Grave she was, and pale ; but the 
 impressive service in which her young sister bore a part so 
 important was sufficient to account for this ; her whole soul 
 was wrapt in prayer for Minie. If Howard’s name mingled in 
 those fervent orisons, if his happiness were besought, together 
 with his sister’s, was it marvel ? Had they not become one, 
 and could the bliss of one henceforth be perfect, distinct from 
 the other ? No ! she looked upon the two, kneeling in their 
 first and loveliest prime beside the altar ; it was her work, 
 and she was strengthened to endure it. 
 
 The wedding-breakfast, which might rather have been 
 termed a banquet, from its splendour, was at Lord Edgemere’s ; 
 his wife’s persuasions having overruled Florence’s desire that 
 Minie should return to her house ; the wedding-party would 
 by such arrangement. Lady Edgemere urged, be so divided. 
 
 Woodlands had been prepared for Minie and Frank, 
 Florence had so earnestly entreated them to make that their 
 home, at least for a time after their marriage, that they had 
 willingly acceded. At four they prepared to set off ; and 
 then it was, after changing her sister’s bridal robe for her 
 travelling costume (the young bridesmaids having feelingly 
 retired, to leave the sisters together ere they parted), that 
 Florence placed in the hand of Minie a sealed packet 
 Keep it, or give it to Frank’s care, dearest,” she said ; 
 ‘^and a day or two hence it may afford you some little interest 
 to examine it. Only remember this : believe not, for a single 
 instant, that its contents have afforded me a moment’s regret, 
 still less a moment’s pain. Solemnly and sacredly I assure 
 you that no circumstance in my whole life ever afforded me 
 the satisfaction, the happiness which were comprised in the 
 signing of that packet. Tell this to Frank, and conjure him 
 from me to believe this attestation, as if it had been given 
 upon oath.” 
 
 Minie had no time to answer, save by the tears, half of joy, 
 half of timidity, which still kept her clinging to Florence, 
 even after her toilette was concluded. Frank had come to 
 seek her ; gently he detached her from her sister’s fond 
 embrace, bore her through their thronging friends, and placed 
 her in his carriage ; but then for a brief minute he returned ; 
 he was alone with Florence, and he clasped her cold hand in 
 his: — '^Farewell!” he said, with emotion. Florence, we 
 shall think of you in our happiness, and bless you for its 
 
woman’s feiendship. 
 
 309 
 
 bestowal. My sister now, God bless yon, you will not refuse a 
 brother s kiss.” He held her to him, and printed a long kis5 
 upon her cheek ; the next moment he was gone. Sister ! 
 brother ! the words thrilled through her, as spoken by some 
 other voice than man’s ; the room began to reel round. Buf 
 not then might she unloose the iron chain of self-control ; sk^ 
 heard Lady Mary and young Melford calling on her name, as 
 W’aiting to bid her farewell ; and she obeyed the summons : 
 she mingled with the world again, and not till eleven o’clock 
 that night was she alone — alone. 
 
 * -jf * * -jf -jf 
 
 ''By the way, Minie, love, have you ever examined that 
 mysterious packet, which you told me Florence gave you just 
 before you parted?” inquired Howard, the fourth morning 
 after their marriage. Minie was looking, if possible, lovelier 
 than ever, and superintending, with newly-acquired dignity, 
 the breakfast-table. 
 
 "Indeed I never thought of it again,” was the reply. 
 "And yet I ought not to have forgotten it, for Florence 
 seemed so anxious that we should not blame her for its 
 contents. What can it be ? All deeds and settlements, and 
 those disagreeable things, were concluded before we were 
 married, Avere they not ?” 
 
 " Yes, love ; so I hope and believe ; but as to this packet 
 our curiosity may easily be satisfied ? Where is it ? ” 
 
 "In my dressing-case ; Jane knows. Shall I ring, and tell 
 her.” 
 
 "No, Mrs. Howard,” replied her husband, laughing; and 
 putting his arm caressingly round her, as she half sprung up ; 
 " certainly not, while I am by to ring it for you. Will you 
 never learn that you are a very important personage now — 
 oven a wife ; and husbands, young ones more especially, are 
 bound to perform such little offices. When I am old and 
 gouty, you shall do them for me.” 
 
 " I am afraid that I shall be much in the same predicament, 
 Frank ; and then what will become of us ? ” she said, laughing. 
 "I will tell you,” she added, a moment afterwards; and 
 leaning her head on his shoulder, she warbled forth with 
 inexpressible sweetness two or three verses of that exquisite 
 ballad, "John Anderson, my Jo; ” so entrancing Frank, that 
 the packet might again have been forgotten, had not the 
 servant entered in answer to the bell. 
 
310 
 
 WOMAJt^’S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 At length the important papers made their appearance, and 
 Frank carelessly broke the seal, Minie leaning over him as he 
 did so. 
 
 Why, what in the world is this ; a lawyer’s paper ? I 
 thought I had done with all those annoyances,” was his first 
 exclamation. It had scarcely, however, escaped his lips, ere 
 it gave way to another, in which wonder and regret were so 
 intimately blended, that it was impossible to distinguish one 
 from the other. 
 
 ‘"What, after all, is it,” simply asked Minie, ‘Hhat can 
 cause you so much agitation ? ” 
 
 What is it, dearest ? ” he replied, much moved, ''what but 
 a deed of gift, making you heiress of Woodlands, and all its 
 extensive possessions, with the sole exception of a paltry five 
 hundred a year, instead of your noble sister, from whom it 
 comes. AH, all is made over to you, without a single reserva- 
 tion or clause, except that which I have named.” 
 
 " Made over to me ! Making me heiress instead of Florence I 
 No, no. Oh! do not, pray do not let her do so,” answered 
 Minie, entreatingly, when astonishment permitted her to com- 
 prehend the truth. " Pray, make her take it back ; what can 
 I want more than I have ? If I had but you alone, with not 
 a luxury of life, with only the home I had when my poor 
 brother lived, I should be happier, richer, more to be envied 
 than a crowned queen ! What can I want more, my own 
 dear, generous Florence ? Do not let her make this sacrifice. 
 Why should she have done it ? ” 
 
 " Why, my beloved ? Alas ! it is too clear now. This is 
 the sacrifice which won my father’s consent. You were made 
 an heiress, and of course his prejudices were all removed. 
 Fool that I was, not to suspect something of the truth ! 
 Even if I were so mistaken in my father, as to believe for a 
 moment he could have relented without some more powerful 
 incentive than mere eloquence, there was something strange 
 about the manner of Lord St. Maur and Lord Edgemere, 
 which, had I not been a dolt, an idiot, must have awakened 
 my suspicions. Noble, generous Florence ! what do we not 
 owe to her 1 ” 
 
 " But can it not in part, be recalled ; must we permit the 
 sacrifice, dearest Frank ? How can I bear to feel the wrong 
 she has done herself for me ? Is there no way of eluding this 
 deed of gift, of compelling her to recall it ? ” 
 
woman's friendship. 
 
 311 
 
 None, dearest : it is much too late now. See how long 
 ago the deed was drawn up, and the signature affixed — ever 
 since she made that hasty visit to London ! Little did I 
 imagine wherefore. And that Lord St. Maur and Lord 
 Edgemere could consent, nay, encourage this by becoming 
 your trustees ! What could have made them do so ? " 
 
 My sister’s persuasions,” replied Minie, sorrowfully ; 
 ^Hheir belief in her assertion that they more efiectually 
 secured her happiness by doing than by preventing this. Oh, 
 
 I Imow her so well ! She never thought a moment of herself, 
 except in encouraging the belief that every sacrifice, even in 
 little things, was greater happiness than the doing of justice 
 to herself. And she believes, feels all she professes : the 
 message she gave me for you when you read this packet 
 proves it.” 
 
 What message ? ” ♦ 
 
 She repeated it as it had been given. Frank was deeply 
 affected, and compelled to be convinced. The manner in 
 which it had been accomplished, the absence of all display, all 
 assumption in the sacrifice, the secresy in which it had been 
 carried on, did but enhance its value ; although to generous 
 natures, every individual benefit received at so heavy a price, 
 must be intimately mingled with alloy. 
 
 We need not linger on the conversation which followed — 
 how Frank longed to travel post to London, and speak with 
 Florence, but was dissuaded by Minie, who intuitively felt 
 that to her sister’s sensitive feelings, such a visit would give 
 more pain than pleasure — how he at that very moment made 
 the resolution that the first hour it was in his power, should 
 he ever become Lord Glenvylle, he would restore Florence the 
 heritage she had resigned. Both then wrote, pouring out all 
 their heart’s eloquence to Florence : and Howard giving vent 
 to something very like indignation to both the trustees of his 
 wife, for permitting- such a sacrifice. With regard to Lord 
 Glenvylle, Frank’s emotions were almost all full of bitterness. 
 We may here state, that in the very next interview he had 
 with his father, Frank did speak much more reproachfully 
 than his wont, but received very little satisfaction from the 
 doing so, except the conviction that if the deed of gift had 
 not been made, Minie could not, in his father’s lifetime at 
 least, have become his wife. That this truth did much 
 towards reconciling him to the acceptance of the sacrifice may 
 
312 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 be believed ; but while it increased his veneration and regard 
 for the bestower, it certainly could not soften his feelings 
 towards the demander, or enable him more clearly to under- 
 stand the latter’s ever incomprehensible character. 
 
 It so happened that Florence’s unexpressed but most earnest 
 wishes were gratified. She did not see Howard and his young 
 bride in the first excitement of their ardent gratitude. Frank 
 had been appointed envoy- extraordinary to the Court of 
 Hanover, on a mission likely to detain him there till autumn ; 
 permission for his bride to accompany him had been gTaciously 
 accorded, but so sudden was the nomination, and its attendant 
 removal, that notwithstanding all their exertion, to Minie’s 
 great grief, they wxre compelled to embark without visiting 
 Amersley, where Florence then was with Lady Helen : she had 
 preferred returning to the country to remaining in London 
 with the Ehrl and Countess, both being then much engaged, 
 and before Frank and Minie had returned from Germany, 
 Florence had left England. 
 
CHAPTER LIL 
 
 ON THE SEA.r— TO ITALY. — RESIGNATION. — A CHEERING RAY. 
 
 Gorgeously and majestically an August sun was sinking 
 within the blue waters of the placid Mediterranean, the 
 evening on which we resume the fast decreasing thread of our 
 narrative; blue waters in such an hour, indeed, they were not; 
 for their unruffled, tideless expanse gave back with fidelity, 
 magnificent as the original, every glowing tint of the sunset 
 sky. There was a stillness in the atmosphere, unconsciously 
 whispering peace ; and even when broken by the sounds of 
 music floating from yacht or frigate — for it seemed to unite 
 the characteristics of the two — the calm was rather deepened 
 than disturbed. The little breeze there was, filled the snow- 
 white sails, and the gallant vessel scudded over the waves, 
 leaving behind her a line as of silver, to mark her onward 
 track. She was evidently English built and English manned, 
 and from the excessive neatness of her decks, the beauty and 
 order of her rigging, and those many nameless little things 
 observable only in well-appointed ships, appeared the pride 
 and glory alike of her captain and her crew. There was a 
 gay, striped awning over the quarter-deck, where couches and 
 chairs were scattered. A band of wind-instruments occupied 
 the forecastle, ever and anon sending forth strains which 
 called back dear old England, and the musical novelties of 
 the past season. A group of young midshipmen, variously 
 employed, now assembled midway, near the band ; while other 
 of the officers, and gentlemen of Lord St. Maur s suite, were 
 indiscriminately scattered on the quarter-deck, and, arm-in- 
 arm, earnestly conversing as they paced up and down, were 
 the Earl himself and the captain of the gallant little frigate, 
 Sir Ronald Elliott. 
 
314 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 On one of the couches lay Florence Leslie, pale, attenuated, 
 yet with an expression of such deep repose upon her features, 
 that it seemed as if, indeed, the inward tempest had been 
 stilled, and all was once more peace. No visible illness had 
 attacked her since her sister’s marriage, but strength and flesh 
 had so dwindled, that she had been compelled to give up one 
 employment after another, until at length she could not leave 
 the drawing-room, save for her own apartment ; yet so far was 
 she from feeling ill, that she had striven long with Lady St. 
 Maur’s desire to have advice, and only consented in order to 
 please her friend. Sir Charles had recommended very easy 
 travelling to another more genial climate, and a sea-voyage, 
 could they but ensure one of even temperature and without 
 storms. Every one laughed at Sir Konald Elliott, who in- 
 stantly proposed fitting out a sort of frigate-yacht, which he 
 would convey round to the south of France, where they might 
 join him by very easy stages through tliat country ; and a 
 cruise in the Mediterranean, touching at those ports where 
 there was anything worth seeing ; this excursion combining a 
 residence for a short period in Italy, and, if still necessary, a 
 farther cruise in the Adriatic, would be, he was certain, more 
 beneficial than any other change. Sir Charles warmly 
 approved the plan, declaring it would be almost as good for 
 Lord St. Maur as for Florence herself ; for, however brave and 
 strong the former might consider himself, he would be all the 
 better for leaving England and her politics, and revelling for a 
 time in all the dolce far niente of lair Italy. 
 
 It so chanced that Lord St. Maur could at that time easily 
 obtain leave of absence, and, to the astonishment of all his 
 friends, he was most particularly anxious to revisit Italy for a 
 short interval. 
 
 Italy ! would Florence indeed visit Italy ? her birth-place^ 
 the land associated with so many day-dreams of her happiest 
 youth ; but now subject to almost of horror, associated as it 
 was with the fatal secret of fier birth. She knew not if the 
 proposal were one of pain or pleasure ; but the conviction that 
 she had friends so anxious to restore her to health, so eager to 
 welcome Sir Eonald’s proposal, could not but weigh powerfully 
 with a disposition such as hers, and incline her to whatever 
 their will might be. That there were times when she felt she 
 was leaving England to die, was only natural to her state of 
 health ; but even in this thought there was no bitterness. 
 
WOMA^^’S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 315 
 
 Her countenance told no false tale ; her mind, yes, and her 
 heart were both at rest. If it were her Father’s will that life, 
 not death, should be her portion, she felt no longer as she had 
 done, that earth was but a bleak, cold desert. No, that life 
 could never be to her what it had been, she did think, but yet 
 it might be one of doing, if not of receiving good, of loving 
 if not of being loved. She had not prayed in vain. She 
 could think of Howard, as the husband of Minie, calmly, 
 even thankfully. She had been permitted to conquer that 
 passion which had been once so powerful ; she felt, indeed, 
 that her heart had been too scorched and seared for the flower 
 of a second love ever to find resting-place. She was at peace, 
 willing to live or die, whichever a wiser, kinder Power willed ; 
 praying but that the mystery of her birth might be dispelled, 
 that that birth might be legitimate, and not another blessing 
 could she find need to seek. And smiles were on her lip as 
 she lay conversing on many mutual topics of interest with 
 the Countess St. Maur, sometimes pausing to share by her 
 caresses, and notice the unalloyed enjoyment of the lovely 
 children, who were alternately lingering by their mother, or 
 circled around the young lady, w^ho, as Constance’s instructress, 
 had made her way to the hearts of all. And who was that 
 tall, fair, gentle girl, who seemed ever on the alert to add to 
 Miss Leslie’s comfort, to read to her, talk to her, embroider 
 for her, bring her everything she needed, and linger by her, 
 even when her younger and merrier companions called on her 
 to join their dance and noisy play ; seeming, too, to find 
 such real pleasure in those little attentions, that Lady St. 
 Maur’s warm smile of approbation, though often bestowed, 
 was no longer needed to incite them ? Could this be the 
 proud, the overbearing Constance St. Maur, who had once 
 looked on Florence with such scorn and dislike because she 
 had been her governess ? It was even so. Example even 
 more than precept had wrought this change. She had never 
 been a stupid child, and since her residence with Lady St. 
 Maur, circumstances had passed before her, which, although 
 not entirely understood, had yet brought much to her com- 
 prehension, which mere precept had required a longer period 
 to effect. 
 
 Lady Helen St. Maur had hesitated some little time between 
 accompanying her children or accepting Lady Edgemere’s 
 eagerly-pressed invitation to reside with them tiU the Earl’s 
 
31G 
 
 woman’s rHIENDSHIP. 
 
 return, and at last acceded to the latter — her advancing age 
 rendering travelling and a voyage less agreeable than they had 
 been a few years previously. 
 
 I really do regret you could not succeed in persuading 
 Emily to join us,” observed Florence, after a pause, and 
 perceiving the Countess had laid down her book ; she must 
 have enjoyed this. Why would she not come ? ” 
 
 She was too w^eak, too ill, could not bear the water. 
 Wondered how anybody could think of venturing, and felt quite 
 sure that she could not endure the excitement, and fatigue, 
 and all the nameless dangers of Italian travelling. Now, do 
 not look at me half-frightened that I am going to turn 
 serious,” she added, laughing; ‘'Emily has grieved and 
 disappointed me too much for any such amusement. Do not, 
 however, waste any regrets on her; her mind has been too 
 long warped by frivolity and vacuity to enjoy such pleasures 
 as these. For Mary and Alfred I do wish ; and he w^as 
 excessively provoking for being so much engaged just at the 
 time we wanted them.” 
 
 “ But they are so happy in each other ; so actively em- 
 ployed, it would have been but exchange of pleasure for them. 
 Now Emily really might have derived more than mere tem- 
 porary advantage. The change must have done her good.” 
 
 “ Only while it lasted. When I first returned to England, 
 I did indulge the hope of rousing her into exertion. I could 
 not believe that five years had so completely ruined all which 
 I thought would have led to good. It makes me almost 
 tremble when I think how she wastes existence. At first she 
 read to please me, but to what purpose ? Her eye glanced 
 over the page, but her mind retained nothing; and as for 
 bringing any sentiment or reflection home, I soon found it 
 w^as worse than idle to attempt it. No ; I have done what I 
 can, and I despair of effecting any alteration now. She 
 will pass through life like too many others, reading novels and 
 working Berlin wool.” 
 
 “ Unless she marries. If she could but come out of herself 
 for another — in other words, really love.” 
 
 “ Love, my dear Florence ! In your meaning of the word, 
 Emily could never love. Had she been united earlier to some 
 really worthy man, her character might have altered ; now, 
 even marriage would fail. She would never come out of 
 herself, as you express it ; and, unless she did so, as a married 
 
■woman’s friendship. 
 
 317 
 
 woman she might exist as she does now ; but live happily and 
 beneficially for herself and others, I very much doubt.” 
 
 And yet she seems to me to have had so little of real 
 misfortune ; it is strange that her life should be so cheerless.” 
 
 '' Hardly strange. It is almost a pity she has never had 
 anything like trial to encounter. Her education made her 
 artificial ; but I did once think she possessed the germ of 
 higher qualities and powers ; which, had they been called 
 forth, might have made her a very different being. A single 
 woman must often make objects of interest to prevent the too 
 great ascendency of self, and that requires intellect, and yet 
 more energy. With her sist^^rs she has little in common ; but 
 her brothers are both superior young men, and their families 
 might have been real sources of interest to her. It is not 
 those who have endured misfortune, and endured it nobly, 
 who are the most miserable themselves, or by whom the world 
 is most darkly judged ; it is those who vegetate like Emily, 
 whose greatest solace is a novel, whose highest ambition is to 
 be the first possessor of a new pattern for embroidery ; who 
 look on this beautiful earth a^ dark and sinful, and disbelieve, 
 as romantic folly, all the tales of self-denial, high enterprise, 
 and moral good, which they hear. Oh, believe me, dearest 
 Florence — to you I may saj^ it, for you must feel its truth — 
 that real trials, nobly borne, are no subjects for pity ; it is for 
 those who fritter life away, as if it had no end, no goal, 
 nought but the present pleasure, w^hich flies ere it is clasped.” 
 
 While such conversation was passing between the Countess 
 and Florence — recorded only that our readers may not accuse 
 us of entirely forgetting Emily Melford — another of more real 
 importance to our heroine was engrossing the two gentlemen 
 already noticed. Sir Eonald Elliott and Lord St. Maur. 
 
 ‘‘You do wrong, my good friend, indeed you do,” the latter 
 was urging, at the moment when we take it up, “to encourage 
 such feelings, after all I have told you ; they can bring but 
 misery.” 
 
 “ Misery ! to love such a being, St. Maur ? ” was the sailor’s 
 impetuous reply. “ Granted, that I do love alone as yet, that 
 I am resolved she shall never know, never dream how I have 
 dared to love, till she is in health and happiness ; till there is 
 a chance, however faint, of a return. What misery, what 
 harm can there be in loving, when every thought devoted to 
 her makes me a better and a nobler man ? I feel a new crea- 
 
818 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 ture since my wild dreams of woman’s loveliness and gentleness 
 and magnanimity, and a host of household virtues, have all 
 found embodiment in her. Leave me to my heart’s beautiful 
 image, my good lord ; to love such a being can never do me 
 harm.” 
 
 '' All very fine and heroic, Eonald, no doubt ; but yet I 
 uphold that to encourage a feeling which I more than fear 
 must be utterly hopeless, is more unwise than I gave you 
 credit for being. Think you that you will always be satisfied 
 to gaze and worship as you do now ? Never long for more, 
 and despair that more is not given, but always be content to 
 worship, though to your divinity herself your worship is un- 
 known ? ” 
 
 '' St. Maur ! I would not lose my present emotions, were 
 they to be paid for by years of torment. I am no romantic 
 idiot, though you look very much as if you thought me one ; 
 yet, believe me, I would not have that glorious creature 
 suspect that I dare love her now — no ! not for w^orlds. I 
 could not meet her look of sorrowing regret, for, presumptuous 
 as I am, she would give me nothing more severe. I should 
 deserve to lose her, did I dare bring myself forward at such a 
 moment, wrapt as she is in her own sorrows.” 
 
 ''You are a strange fellow, Eonald; have you learnt all these 
 highflown notions on the high seas ? If so, I will send my 
 Cecil there directly he is old enough. Now don’t look re- 
 proachfully! I would not jest with you on such a topic for the 
 world ; but do you remember all ? I have told you much 
 which would withhold many another man.” 
 
 " What have you told me ? — that there is mystery on her 
 birth; and it may be that which the world brands with shame; 
 and you believe that can weigh with me,^ can fling a dark 
 shadow on the beautiful mind which that gentle form en- 
 shrines ? — that I can think one moment on aught of mystery 
 when I look on her, and see truth, purity, honour, gleaming up 
 through the crystal of her heart as clearly as I have seen the 
 rich coral reef and golden sands shining through the still blue 
 ocean, though they lay full many a fathom deep ? You hint 
 that she has loved unhappily, and therefore I never can obtain 
 the heart’s first freshness, which my love deserves. Let her 
 give me its regard, its confidence ; I ask not passion, only 
 affection. I will wait years, long years, I care not how long, 
 so she be mine at last ! That she is no heiress now, has 
 
WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 319 
 
 resigned all but a mere pittance. Aye, it was that very deed 
 which first awoke me into consciousness, telling me I reverenced 
 — I worshipped her ! ” 
 
 ‘"All very likely, and most eloquently expressed, friend 
 Ronald ; but it says nothing as to the wisdom of the thing. 
 Your every word betrays that you do hope ; and when I warn 
 you that it must end in misery, you tell me it cannot, as you 
 are content to worship as you do now without hope — to love 
 unsuspected and unknown ; something rather contradictory, 
 my good friend. However, lovers’ feelings are always 
 mysteries ; mine were once, I suppose, though I found to my 
 cost that loving without hope was not a thing to thrive on. I 
 wonder if those madcaps yonder are fighting for love.” 
 
 Fighting ! and in my presence ! ” exclaimed Sir Ronald, 
 and still arm-in-arm with the Earl, he hastened to that part 
 of the deck which we have mentioned as occupied by some 
 young midshipmen, two of whom from a storm of words had 
 come to a yet thicker storm of blows. 
 
 Sir Ronald’s imperative voice parted them, and one, the 
 taller and evidently the more incensed of the two, slunk aside, 
 as conscious of the weakness of his own cause ; while the 
 other, a sturdy handsome boy, much his junior, stood boldly 
 forward, crossing his arms on his chest, casting a contemptuous 
 glance on his adversary, and meeting his commander’s half 
 reproving look with a good-tempered yet respectful smile. He 
 was silent, however, until Sir Ronald, finding it impossible to 
 obtain a comprehensible answer from the elder, who stood 
 twirling his hands together and shifting his feet in every 
 position but that of a man, turned to him and demanded the 
 cause of such unusual disrespect. 
 
 ''Why, if you please, sir, Mr. Stanley there, chose to 
 insult me, as not fit company for such as he, being you see a 
 sprig of nobility, and I a poor lieutenant’s son ; and I, not 
 quite comprehending such distinctions, gave him a good bit of 
 my mind, which you see he did not like, and so it came to 
 blows.” 
 
 " And what did you tell him, my boy ?” asked Lord St. 
 Maur, laughing. 
 
 " Only, my lord, that I saw nothing in a nobleman more 
 than in a gentleman except according to his conduct ; that if 
 relationship to nobility make the man, why I might claim the 
 like, being connected witli some lord or other of whom I 
 
320 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 know not even the name — so much good his being a lord has 
 done our family ; and what’s more, my grandfather disclaimed 
 the relationship years ago, because of something or other 
 wrong, which caused a change of name ; and I would not give 
 up mine of centuries standing for his new-fangled one and the 
 title too.” 
 
 Most clearly, comprehensively explained, young man,”^ 
 replied the Earl, still laughing. One thing only I can com- 
 prehend, that you are a fine high-spirited fellow, looking on 
 nobility in its proper light — man making nobility, not nobility 
 the man. You have the best of it in argument, and I rather 
 think the force of it in blows.” 
 
 The lad bowed respectfully, looking very much as if, however 
 low his opinion of nobility in general. Lord St. Maur was an 
 exception. 
 
 Who is that fine youngster, Elliott ?” inquired the Earl, 
 as he resumed his walk with his friend. 
 
 The grandson of as noble and free-spirited an old man as 
 ever chanced to cross my path; he is a clergyman of Yorkshire, 
 whose only daughter married a poor lieutenant, a messmate of 
 mine, now disabled and retired, and living on half-pay with 
 his wife and her father. He wrote to me, hearing of my 
 return and promotion, entreating me to use my infiuence in 
 getting a berth for his son, who was absolutely pining for the 
 sea. To his father’s great delight, I placed him under my own 
 eye ; he is a spirited fellow like his father.” 
 
 But his name ?” 
 
 "^Philip Neville Hamilton.” 
 
 Neville !” repeated the Earl. 
 
 Yes ; after his grandfather, who proud of his old family 
 name, and always disappointed that he had not a son to carry 
 it on, gave it to his grandson, who you have seen is equally 
 proud of it. What he means by a lord and a new-fangled 
 title, I cannot comprehend.” 
 
 Do you think he does himself ?” 
 
 I really cannot tell. But you seem agitated, my good 
 friend ! ^ What’s in a name ?’ ” 
 
 Maybe more in this instance than appears, Ronald. I am 
 under a vow not to let any one who bears the name of Neville 
 pass unquestioned.” 
 
 Lord St. Maur’s attention, once aroused, permitted no delay. 
 Early the following morning Mr. Hamilton was summoned ta 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 321 
 
 his cabin, and a long private interview followed. Though apt 
 and quick enough, the boy could not give all the particulars 
 which were asked. He only knew that when he was longing 
 to go to sea, his father had spoken to his grandfather ab^out 
 seeking the interest of some lord, with whom they were con- 
 nected, but that Mr. Neville had solemnly declared he would 
 not ; he would rather see his family starve than have anything 
 to do with one whose conduct had been such that the very 
 name had been dropped. That he (Philip) had been so excited 
 by this conversation, he had appealed to his mother for farther 
 information, but she had told him little more. The very title 
 he did not know; it had come into the family only some 
 twenty or thirty years. That when there was a chance of the 
 succession, some near relation of his grandfather, uncle or 
 cousin, ashamed of the stigma attached to the name by the 
 conduct of his son, the present lord, had expended an immense 
 sum of money in changing it, and so all trace of the family 
 connection was lost. So much his mother had imparted, with 
 an earnest injunction that he would never allude to this 
 nobleman again. 
 
 Lord St. Maur listened as one in a trance, feeling convinced 
 that he had either actually heard, or vividly dreamed a tale 
 like this before ; he racked his memory till his brain ached, to 
 discover where, by whom related, or to whom applied. Still, 
 not to depend alone on his own reminiscences, he wrote to Mr. 
 Neville, entreating him as he valued the chance of doing good, 
 and restoring peace, to write to him all particulars of this little 
 connection, if, as from Philip’s words he suspected, he had 
 once borne the name of Neville, who and what he had been, 
 and what were his present name and title. This he placed 
 within a letter from Philip, who told of his own accord how 
 deeply, almost painfully Lord St. Maur had been interested in 
 the name, and then enclosed them both in a packet about to 
 be despatched to Lord Edgemere. In writing that nobleman’s 
 name a flash of light darted through the Earl’s mind, illumi- 
 nating like electricity every link of memory. It was from Lord 
 Edgemere he had heard a similar tale on the night of his return 
 to England ; and of whom had they been speaking ? Lord 
 St. Maur absolutely started from his chair in the strong agita- 
 tion which the mental answer excited. Could it be ? Was it 
 possible ? If so, with what infinite mercy had Providence in- 
 terposed. It required an effort, even to his strong mind, while 
 
 y 
 
322 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 labouring under these thoughts, to retain his usual calm ex- 
 terior before his wife and Florence. Yet he kept his secret 
 even from the countess, fearing to excite hopes which, after all, 
 might not be realized. In his own mind, however, he felt 
 convinced that, as very often happens (though the sceptic 
 world denies it, as visionary folly), the simplest chance, in this 
 case the quarrel of two boys, would unravel the painful web of 
 mystery, which it had appeared only a miracle could solve. 
 
 We are wrong to say chance. In a government of love there 
 is no chance ; a Father’s hand rules our destiny, and turns even 
 the most adverse circumstances (in seeming) to the furthering 
 of his own immortal will. 
 
CHAPTER LIIL 
 
 EETURNING HEALTH. — THE CASKET POUND. 
 
 The business with which Sir Ronald Elliott was intrusted by 
 government (for he combined two things in this trip of plea- 
 sure) led him to Constantinople ; and as he could not persuade 
 his guests that Turkey would be infinitely more interesting 
 than Italy, for a brief residence, he permitted them, after a 
 month’s delicious cruise, to embark at the nearest port to 
 Florence, to which fair city they were bound, for thither, 
 though she said but little, Florence’s wishes turned. 
 
 Strength, as Sir Charles Brashleigh predicted, had partially 
 returned ; and the great benefit which she had derived from 
 the sea breezes, and continually changing scene, argued well 
 for the hopes of her friends. Lady St. Maur, indeed, still in 
 secret trembled ; for to her affection it seemed that the re- 
 turning elasticity was merely temporary, and that Florence 
 would at length sink, not from the terrible trials she had 
 undergone, but from that dark and fatal secret, which, with 
 all a woman’s sympathy, she felt was crushing life beneath its 
 weight. Lord St. Maur could not feel this, because hope was 
 so strongly at work within him ; young Elliott so entirely 
 forgot it, except as rendering her in his eyes a being still more 
 demanding love and cherishing, that he could not believe that 
 it could weigh so heavily on her. Still, by neither word nor 
 sign did he betray the devoted love which in reality he felt ; 
 though to a mind less preoccupied, his almost reverential 
 manner of addressing her, of superintending all the little 
 kindnesses which could tend to her comfort, might have be- 
 trayed something deeper than mere regard. 
 
 The little party broke up with regret, only softened by the 
 idea of their very shortly meeting again — on Captain Elliott’a 
 Y 2 
 
324 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 return from the Sublime Porte, when it would be decided 
 whether they were to accompany him again to the South of 
 France, or return to England overland. However he might 
 believe that to worship as an unknown devotee would content 
 him. Sir Konald found that this worship, ajpart from its idol, 
 was something very different to paying it in her presence. 
 Yet he persevered in his resolution, that she should never know 
 how she was beloved, till she was happy enough to be awake 
 to the consciousness that she had yet the power of charming 
 one in unselfish reverence to her side. She seemed to him as 
 one too pure, too unearthly in her high and beautiful excel- 
 lence, to be approached with aught of worldly passion, and so, 
 though his limbs trembled with suppressed emotion, as he 
 came to bid her farewell, every feeling was effectually concealed. 
 
 And at last Florence was in Italy ! Was it the spirit of her 
 own ill-fated mother at work, which caused her whole being to 
 thrill with such a mingled sense of pain and pleasure that her 
 feeble frame could scarcely sustain it, as she gazed on those 
 scenes of nature, those exquisite models of art, which had 
 been so long her day dream ? Who might answer? There 
 are mysteries in the human heart, depths and capabilities of 
 suffering and of enjoyment, which even their possessor can 
 scarcely define, and how, then, may they be described to 
 others ? The Countess often wondered if the wish to visit the 
 scene of her mother s last sufferings ever crossed her mind, 
 but she never alluded to it, nor did Florence. 
 
 Lord St. Maur had departed on a private expedition, a 
 week or ten days after their arrival at Florence, and on his 
 return he found several despatches awaiting him from England. 
 It was easy for his wife to read in his features that his search 
 had not been in vain, and that Elford s tale really had 
 foundation ; but the peculiar expression which attended the 
 perusal of an enclosure from Lord Edgemere, was even to her 
 penetration incomprehensible. It was speedily explained. 
 
 Florence, I have news for you. Are you strong enough to 
 hear them ?” inquired Lady St. Maur, entering her friend s 
 boudoir the following morning, and finding her reclining on a 
 sofa, resting from the fatigue of inditing a long letter to 
 Millie. 
 
 News requiring strength to hear, dearest Ida ! ” Lady 
 St. Maur had long since insisted that Florence should drop 
 her title. What can you mean ? I can imagine no news of 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 225 
 
 such importance, unless,” she started np, alarmed, ‘^unless 
 you have heard more of Minie than I have. What of her?” 
 
 ‘'Nothing of her, you apprehensive being; besides, if it 
 were, my news are of joy, not of sorrow !” 
 
 “Joy ! — and for me !” 
 
 “ Why, are there no news which can be fraught with joy for 
 you, Florence ? Think, is there nothing — nothing in the 
 Avhole range of thought and wish, which you have lingered on, 
 which, if discovered, would bring joy?” 
 
 “ Nothing, but that which is impossible,” replied Florence, 
 despondingly. 
 
 “ Do not say so, dearest ; it is unlike your trusting faith, to 
 imagine there is any one thing impossible to Him who watches 
 over us, till all things meet together for our good. Have you 
 never thought, never believed, that your own poor mother had 
 grounds for her assertion that her child’s birth was as legal as 
 her own marriage ?” ^ 
 
 “Yes, that she had gTounds, perhaps proofs to satisfy 
 herself — ^but not the world, for even she might have been 
 deceived.” 
 
 “ Do you remember in Mrs. Leslie’s MS. that she alludes to 
 a search for papers, which she imagined her poor friend had 
 really obtained, but that none were found ?” 
 
 “ Perfectly ; but I believe, with my dear father, that it was 
 merely the excitement of fever which made her thus speak — 
 not actual possession.” 
 
 “And suppose there really had been such papers, and by a 
 most providential concatenation of circumstances they had 
 been traced and found, and all mystery respecting your birth 
 dispelled. Florence, dearest, I must be silent, if you give way 
 to agitation such as this.” 
 
 “ No ! no ! no !” gasped poor Florence, struggling with the 
 excitement which nearly overpowered her, “tell me all that 
 you have learned. I am strong enough to bear it. Can it be 
 that, after such a lapse of years, they can be discovered ; that 
 nil may yet be revealed ?” 
 
 “1 bade you hope, my Florence, when I had little hope 
 myself,” replied Lady St. Maur ; “ little to build on, but the 
 words of my husband, narrating a curious tale which had met 
 his ears in Italy, disregarded at the time, but recalled by the 
 perusal of Mrs. Leslie’s MS.” She here related briefly that 
 with which our readers are already acquainted, and continued. 
 
326 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 Lord St. Maur did all he could to obtain farther information, 
 of these young men. Elford he did not know personally ; 
 George Lacy, Elford’s particular friend, was seized with a 
 mania to travel all over the world : for my husband could not 
 get a letter to reach him until, I think, full eight months after 
 his first attempt. Lacy’s information only consisted in stating, 
 that Elford was with his regiment in India, and not expected 
 to return for four or five years. As this was the case, my 
 husband felt there was but little chance of his obtaining the 
 papers, except by going to Italy himself. It was just about 
 the time of Minie’s marriage, and then there was little 
 appearance of his accomplishing it. When, however, you 
 became ill, and Sir Charles mentioned Italy and a voyage as 
 likely to restore you, he was quite as anxious to try it as 
 Ronald himself, still hoping — a hope, I candidly own, I could 
 not share — that the papers did exist, and would be found. 
 You sacrificed your own desire, to keep yOur fatal secret hid 
 from all, in my favour, dearest Florence, that I might not be 
 burdened with a secret which I might not impart to my 
 husband ; and to this sacrifice of self you owe a discovery, 
 which, I trust, you will eventually own is fraught with joy. 
 To tell youi all in a few words — the Earl’s secret expedition 
 was to the source of the Arno, and there, true both to Mrs. 
 lieslie’s manuscript and Elford’s narrative, he found the village 
 curd, the superstitious host, and the long-desired casket. So 
 easily had every difficulty at length been overcome, that my 
 husband had scarcely courage to examine the papers, fearing, 
 now he really had them, that they were not those he sought.” 
 
 “ But they were — ^they were !” burst passionately from the 
 parched lips of Florence. 
 
 ‘‘ Dearest, they were even those very papers to which your 
 unhappy mother’s dying words alluded. It is clear that 
 Madeleine, ill and suffering as she was, must have sought for 
 and found the abbd who had united them, obtained from him 
 the certificate of their marriage, and also a written document, 
 proving, on oath, not only the truth and sanctity of his cloth, 
 which in the wildness of her agony she appears to have 
 doubted ; but that a notorious fact concerning this Charles 
 Neville having met his ear, he had positively refused to marry 
 them, unless Mr. Neville would take the most solemn oath, 
 and bring papers to testify, that he was uniting himself to 
 Madeleine Montoni under his real name. This was done ; 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 327 
 
 papers signed to that effect were given to the reverend priest’s 
 care, who, in his simplicity, inferred the repentance of the 
 bridegroom, and his pure love for his beautiful bride, by the 
 little resistance he made to this proposal. Alas ! ere the year 
 was passed the cause for this seeming submission was explained. 
 jMeville wrote to the old man, tauntingly and triumphantly, 
 alluding to the compact he had made, but that it was idle and 
 useless all ; did he believe him such a dolt as to forge chains 
 for himself which he could not break at his will ? At the very 
 time the abbd had united him as Charles Neville to the 
 deceived Madeleine, he said his father was using every effort 
 and expending large sums of money in changing the name, 
 and that he had succeeded. Not alone was the name of 
 Neville banished for ever, but a title was in prospect, and 
 when obtained, what search, what claim could ever identify 
 him as the husband of Madeleine, the father of her child ?” 
 
 ‘‘But he acknowledged he knew she was his wife!” ex- 
 claimed Florence, strongly agitated. ‘‘Alas, alas, my mother ! 
 Yet this satisfaction was at least her own.” 
 
 “ It was. Her search for the Abb6 Gramont was at least 
 not entirely in vain. Convinced that she possessed these 
 important papers, and unconscious that they had been stolen, 
 she died, in all probability so far happy, that she believed the 
 friend whom Providence had brought to adopt her child, 
 would have proofs of the legality of its birth.” 
 
 “And you have the papers 1 You really have them 1” 
 
 “ Yes, dearest, close at hand. You can examine them when 
 you will.” 
 
 “ And you and Lord St. Maur are convinced by them that 
 there is no stain upon my birth ? I may, indeed, go forth 
 again like others ? His name was Neville when he married? ” 
 
 To us there is not the smallest doubt remaining ; there can 
 be none ! Other and (though trifling) most convincing cir- 
 cumstances confirm this. 
 
 ^ Florence sunk back, with such a fervent burst of thanks- 
 giving, that the Countess could not hear it unmoved. Every 
 feature became irradiated ; her clasped hands, her parted lip, 
 her swimming eye, betrayed the full tide of joyous gratitude 
 which was swelling in her heart, though, after the first ex- 
 clamation, words she had none. 
 
 “ You have more to tell me,” she said, at length, when her 
 agitation subsided sufficiently to perceive that Lady St. Maur’s 
 
328 
 
 woman's friendship. 
 
 countenance was still somewhat anxious. What can it he, 
 that it will not permit you to sympathise in the blessedness of 
 this moment, as you did in former sorrow ? Ida, dearest Ida, 
 do you fear that because it has been revealed only now, that I 
 cannot be as grateful as I ought ? Do you wish it had come 
 earlier ? Oh I wish it not ; it must be better so, or it would 
 not have been.'^ 
 
 And can you, in truth, feel this, my Florence ? Can you 
 still realize a Hand of Love in the eventful tenor of your life ? 
 Can you still believe that your adopted mother's prayer was 
 granted, and that the misery you have endured was its reply ? 
 Florence, I ask not idly. Answer me only as you feel." 
 
 And as I feel, I answer, my kind friend. Had not the 
 fiery ordeal, through which it has pleased a God of Love to 
 bring me, been for good, it would have been averted. Had it 
 been for our happiness, I mean for Frank's and mine, that we 
 should have become one, this discovery would not have been 
 so long delayed. No ! it is better thus. God in mercy heard 
 my prayer. I can look upon my sister’s husband only as my 
 brother now ; can feel that with her he must be happier than 
 he would have been with me, or he could not so easily have 
 loved again. I do not say I could always realize this, but that 
 I can now^ freely and thankfully. Love is past and gone- — I 
 will not say as if it had never been, because my heart has lost 
 its freshness, but the object of its illusion is as completely 
 banished as if he were one amongst the dead — perhaps still 
 more so, for it would be no sin to retain his image then as it 
 is now. Did I not give him to another ? did I not level the 
 barriers between him and his happiness ? I say it not in 
 ostentation, but only to convince you that if I could do this, 
 if I could thus resign him, I should feel it sin to cease to 
 struggle till I had conquered all of love." 
 
 And you have done this ?" 
 
 Yes ! If Frank were free to-morrow, and could feel again 
 that which he once professed for me — make me anew an offer, 
 I would not be his wife ; perhaps the weaning myself from old 
 thoughts, old feelings, was too deep suffering to permit the 
 idea of their return, without the fervent cry for help, that such 
 might never be — I could not bear it.” 
 
 ‘'And no regret, then, mingles with this hour ? Florence, 
 my noble Florence, can human nature attain faith like this ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes! believe it, dearest Ida. God tries us not beyond 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 32 ^' 
 
 our strength, beyond that which He will give ns help to bear. 
 I know that the wherefore He has tried me will be revealed in 
 heaven ; on earth I ask it not, hope it not. It is enough that 
 His love permits my feeling that He has willed it, therefore 
 it is good.” 
 
 And if the ivJierefore should be indeed revealed to us on 
 earth, Florence — my own Florence — think you you could bear 
 to know the truth ?” 
 
 '^Bear it?” exclaimed Florence, once more springing up, and 
 laying both hands on her friend’s arm. What can you 
 mean ? What have I more to bear T 
 
 Little of suffering, now, my Florence, but much to call 
 for thanksgiving. Tell me, are you satisfied that your poor 
 mother’s death was happier than you thought ; that no spot 
 of shame can attach itself to you ?” 
 
 '' What more is needed ? Is not that in itself sufficient 
 mercy ?” replied Florence. 
 
 ‘'You would not, then, proclaim yourself his child, did you 
 know that your father lived ?” 
 
 “ No, no ! Oh ! call him not my father ; spare me that 
 further agony,” entreated Florence, pain suddenly contracting 
 every feature which had beamed with such holy, such beautiful 
 submission. “What can he be to me, or I to him, save as 
 mutual objects of dread? And even if he owned me, my legal 
 right might perhaps interpose between him and other offspring, 
 believed legal now. No, no, let me be Florence Leslie still ! 
 No other name could be to me like that ; no father like him 
 who took me to his hearth and heart, when I knew no other, 
 and no other would know me. It is enough we know the 
 truth, why should the world know more ?” 
 
 “ Be calm, be comforted, then, my Florence ; it shall be as 
 you will,” replied the Countess, fondly. “ Nay, if it be such 
 suffering, his very name you need not know.” 
 
 “ His name 1” repeated Florence, wildly. “ Gracious 
 heavens ! is that, too, brought to light ? And was it this you 
 feared to tell me ! Feared ! Yet why ? What can it be to 
 me ?” 
 
 “Nothing now to fear, my Florence. What might have 
 been, had those papers been a little longer concealed, or had 
 you failed in that dread moment of trial, I shudder to think 
 on. Is it possible you do not understand me ?” she added, as 
 Florence’s large eyes moved not from her face, yet evinced no 
 emotion but inquiry. 
 
330 
 
 woman’s feiendship. 
 
 ‘^IJDderstand you? Yes — that Charles Neville is dis- 
 covered ; but you have not said in whom ?’’ 
 
 Lady St. Maur did not reply in words, but she placed an 
 open letter in her hand. Florence glanced rapidly over it. 
 Her cheek and lips gradually became blanched to the colour 
 of her robe as she proceeded. Her breath became impeded, 
 till at length she felt as if every pulse suddenly stood still. 
 Her brow contracted, her eyes distended, and though the paper 
 dropped from her hands, they remained convulsively clenched, 
 as if they held it still. 
 
 Florence !” exclaimed Lady St. Maur, throwing her arms 
 around her, you are saved this intolerable misery. Dearest, 
 wdll you not thank God ?” 
 
 Florence heard, and understood her. A grasp of ice seemed 
 loosed from her heart and brain, and, throwing herself 
 passionately on the Countess’s neck, sense, and with it thank- 
 fulness, too deep, too intense for words, returned, in a con- 
 vulsive burst of tears. 
 
CHAPTER LIV, 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 Lord St. Maur and his family remained in Italy nearly a 
 twelvemonth ; and though Sir Ronald Elliott could not pre- 
 vail on them to return in his frigate to England, he did succeed 
 in persuading them, before he left the southern shores, to take 
 a cruise in the Adriatic, touching at all the far-famed Grecian 
 isles. The excursion happily confirmed the hoped-for improve- 
 ment in the health and spirits of Florence. The Captain of 
 course declared it was his much-loved ocean which had accom- 
 plished this good^ although Lord St. Maur compelled him to 
 acknowledge that she was materially better before the last 
 cruise, and consequently that Italy had been as beneficial as 
 the sea. 
 
 Be that as it may, the Florence Leslie who returned to 
 England after an eighteen months’ absence was very different 
 from the Florence Leslie who had left it. To the unspeakable 
 happiness of Minie and Frank, there was no farther appearance 
 of gradual decay, and whatever might have been the sorrow 
 which they had feared was consuming her, its every trace had 
 passed away. The quiet happiness, the unrufiled cheerfulness 
 of former days had returned. She no longer shrunk, as Minie 
 had feared she would, from witnessing the happiness she had 
 done so much to heighten, but seemed to delight now in the 
 society of those she had served ; needing no other proof of 
 gratitude than the continuance of their nurture, confidence, 
 and love, and their unwavering respect and affection towards 
 herself. She promised them, as she could not quite grant 
 their reiterated request to live with them entirely, that her 
 home should be alternately with them and the Countess St. 
 Maur. Minie and Frank assured her they wanted but this 
 to complete their happiness. 
 
332 
 
 WOMAN S rRIENBSHIP. 
 
 ‘'You have not seen Emily, then, since her engagement with 
 Louis Camden V inquired Lady Mary Melford of the Countess 
 St. Maur, as they sat together one morning, some months after 
 the latter’s return to England. Lord Melford’s family were 
 still in Scotland, where they had been staying six or seven 
 weeks. 
 
 “ No, we missed each other completely, and I knew nothing 
 of this engagement till quite by chance : Emily did not even 
 write to tell me of it. Is it the same Camden she met at our 
 liouse some two or three years ago, when we were so anxious to 
 discover the truth about Florence?” 
 
 “ The very same : you know he became intimate with our 
 families from that circumstance. Alfred rather liked him, but 
 never dreamt of his being Emily’s choice.” 
 
 “Nor should I : some years ago he would have been the 
 least likely person to attract her. Indeed, when we left Eng- 
 land, I thought she would never marry ; does she love him ?” 
 
 Lady Mary laughed. “How can you ask such a simple 
 question, Ida ? Did I not tell you some years ago, that love 
 v;as out of fashion, though you and I were silly enough to 
 fall into its trammels ? Emily is now urged by the amiable 
 desire of proving that she has a will of her own in opposition 
 to that of her parents, who did not approve of the match.” 
 
 “Why not? he is of good family, is he not? and I hear 
 nothing alleged against him in the way of character.” 
 
 “ Character 1 he has none to allege anything against. They 
 will be happy after their own fashion, I dare say. Nothing in 
 common, certainly, except indolence, which delightful quality 
 will save them from the trouble of quarrelling. Louis will 
 lounge away his mornings at the Horse Guards, Tattersall’s, 
 etc., as he does now. Emily will furnish her drawing-room and 
 boudoir with the most elegant Berlin work, which will occupy 
 her some delightful years; perhaps for a change, she may 
 indite a fashionable novel, if writing be not too much trouble. 
 She has read so many, that she might concoct one quite origi- 
 nal in appearance, however borrowed in reality. Now, have I 
 not sketched you a picture of true felicity, Ida? Do not 
 laugh, it is true to life.” 
 
 “ Indeed, it is much too sad for laughter, but your comic 
 look provoked it. How can you talk so coolly of two persons 
 entering into the solemn ceremony of marriage, taking a sacred 
 oath to be as one, when they have no more idea of being so 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 33a 
 
 than they were before they married ; going their own ways, 
 seeking their own pleasures ; in a word, living but for them- 
 selves, when they have sworn so to love one another, that self 
 must be annihilated. It is dreadful !” 
 
 ‘'My dear Ida, hundreds do the same ; for ten that marry 
 for love in this worldly age, I will find you fifty that do so 
 without an atom of such romance.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so : but numbers, in my opinion, do not constitute 
 either strength or wisdom. Better Emily should vegetate 
 through life, as she does now, than marry with such feelings.” 
 
 “ Indeed, I do not think so. Matrimony may bring some 
 cares and annoyances with it, and that will do her good. Their 
 novelty will make them pleasures.” 
 
 “A novel kind, undoubtedly ; but how do you know that 
 she really does not love him as much at least as she can love?” 
 
 “ Only by her telling me so herself. You may start and 
 look disbelieving ; but it is perfectly true, she condemns all 
 love as the height of folly.” 
 
 “ Then why marry at all ? particularly as, by your account, 
 she is to work worsted and read novels just the same after 
 marriage as before, so it cannot be for change of employment.” 
 
 “ Oh ! but there is more eclat in what the Honourable Mrs, 
 Camden does, than in the sayings and doings of Emily Melford. 
 She says herself that she marries for a change, to prove to her 
 father that she likes her own will better than his, and to take 
 precedence of her sister at all the dinners and balls where they 
 may chance to meet.” 
 
 “Mary, you are uncharitable !” 
 
 “On my honour, I repeat but her own words. Imagine, 
 should she have children, in what a capital school they will be 
 trained.” 
 
 “ Children ! Emily a mother, and of girls ? unless she 
 change very materially, of which I fear there is little chance. 
 Heaven avert such a misfortune both to herself and them.” 
 
 “Amen ; if you speak so seriously, Ida, I must be serious 
 too. You say -'of girls;’ do you think a mother’s influence 
 is less felt with boys ?” 
 
 “ Only so far that they are removed sooner from her care ; 
 an indolent mother will dispatch her boj^s to school, almost 
 before she has power to work them good or evil. Her girls 
 remain with her, under a governess perhaps, but that will 
 hardly save them from the effects of example ; and believe 
 
334 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 me, a mother influences the tender years of her children yet 
 more by example than by precept. In your case, dear Mary, 
 I feel assured that your influence will follow your boy through 
 life, babe as he is now, and little as you think you can do for 
 him. You see I have read the thoughts which dictated your 
 question, and I answer them in the words of Madame Campan 
 — ' Mothers more than schools are wanted to give us a nobler 
 race of men.’ ” 
 
 ‘"I ask but to make my boy like his father/’ was the instant 
 reply. 
 
 Lady St. Maur smiled. ‘^Conjugal love is not out of 
 fashion, then, Mary, though every other is.” 
 
 '' I told you we were exceptions, Ida.” 
 
 I am glad of it, Mary ; but for your boy, if you do not 
 wish him better than his father, you can make him happier, 
 for Alfred had little of maternal influence to make him what 
 he is.” 
 
 '^Parlez dJ un due et V on wit ses oreilles'' said Lady Mary, 
 laughing mischievously, as her husband and Lord St. Maur 
 entered at that moment. 
 
 Which of us must look for his oreilles, Lady Mary?” 
 demanded the Earl, in the same tone. 
 
 Oh, not you; though Ida was speaking, do not flatter 
 yourself it was about you. Alfred, as you were the dne, have 
 you no curiosity?” 
 
 ‘^None at this moment. I have just learned tidings which 
 have startled me. Lord Glenvylle has been thrown out of his 
 carriage, and so seriously injured that there is little hope of 
 his recovery.” 
 
 A general start and exclamation followed his words. 
 
 '^How unfortunate,” remarked Lady Mary; ^^Minie has 
 scarcely recovered the severe illness which followed her con- 
 finement, and I am sure is not well enough for Frank to leave 
 her ; she has been so attentive and kind to that strange man, 
 and he has grown so fond of her, that the news of his danger 
 will, I am sure, do her harm.” 
 
 ‘^The more so, as Lord Glenvylle had just left Woodlands 
 in perfect health,” rejoined the Earl. 
 
 '' Woodlands ! had he been there ?” 
 
 ''Yes, absolutely to see his grandson, to whom you know he 
 insisted on giving the name of Leslie. His eccentricity 
 showed itself even then. I w’onder he left his retirement at 
 all.” 
 
woman’s miENDSHIP. 
 
 335 
 
 Florence, how is he with her asked Melford ; ^^has 
 she seen much of him 
 
 Only since his visit to Woodlands. Cordial to women, 
 yon know he never is, and Florence rather shrinks from than 
 invites his notice. He would, however, I have heard, dis- 
 tinguish her, as he has never forgotten what he terms her 
 courage in seeking him, and her generosity towards his son.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ida, how strangely silent you have become ; what are you 
 thinking about?” inquired Lady Mary; but the Countess — a 
 very unusual circumstance with her — could not at that moment 
 ^reveal her thoughts, and evaded the question. 
 
 Melford’s intelligence was correct. When nearing the metro- 
 polis, Lord Glenvylle’s horses had taken fright, and, overturning 
 the carriage, their master was so seriously hurt as to be con- 
 veyed insensible to his own house. Medical men had been 
 instantly summoned, and pronounced him injured internally, 
 and so severely as to baffle their skill. He might linger, nay, 
 might recover ; but it was doubtful, they would not advise 
 any delay in sending for his family. 
 
 As Lady Mary had anticipated, the news caused Frank the 
 greatest uneasiness. Delicate as she was, Minie could not 
 accompany him, and yet she was most urgent to do so, 
 declaring that his father ought not to be left alone, and so 
 entirely dependent on his domestics. Frank felt the truth of 
 her words ; but he could not consent, her health was much 
 too precious to be risked, and he would have departed alone, 
 had not Florence conjured him with earnestness to permit her 
 supplying Minie’s place. She would go to his father, tarry 
 wdth him till his recovery ; and thus if the illness were 
 lingering, permit Frank’s occasional visits home, without any 
 increased anxiety. If he thought Minie well enough to be 
 left, her resolution was taken, she would go with him to 
 London. 
 
 Minie’s anxiety calmed on the instant of this proposal, and 
 Frank, with real gratitude, acceded. All idea of Lord 
 Glenvylle’s dislike to her attendance was banished on their 
 arrival, for a prey to incessant fever and delirium only varied 
 by lethargic stupors, he knew none of those around him. Full 
 of affection for his father, notwithstanding his capricious 
 conduct towards himself, Frank’s feelings were harrowed to a 
 pitch almost of agony ; not so much at the bodily sufferings 
 which he could not alleviate, but from the unintelligible yet 
 
336 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 seemingly connected ravings of delirium. In vain Florence 
 would conjure him to leave the apartment, or assure him there 
 could be no meaning in the dark words he heard. He would 
 linger spell-bound, and then rush from the room to pace his 
 own, longing to disbelieve, yet feeling that he could not. 
 
 He had never dreamed of remorse and its attendant fears 
 actuating his father. His nature was too high, too pure to 
 permit such thought as touching any one so nearly related to 
 himself. He know not of what he raved, save that it was 
 evil ; yet there were words which froze his very life within 
 him, seeming, in spite of their madness, to explain much of 
 what had been mysterious in his parent s life before, and he 
 pondered on them till his brain reeled. 
 
 Meanwhile, day and night did Florence devote herself to 
 the suffering man. He knew her not ; yet her presence, her 
 gentle tending often appeared to soothe him when all else 
 failed. When Frank had power to think, he implored her to 
 take more care of herself. What claim had his father upon 
 her that she should do all this for him ? 
 
 The claim of the suffering and the repentant upon the 
 healthful and the innocent,” was her instant reply. Frank, 
 there is satisfaction in what I do. Do not care for me ; only 
 for Millie’s sake, for your child’s, calm this frightful excite- 
 ment ; trust me, all will yet be well.” 
 
 ‘‘Well! If there should be cause for what I hear. 
 Florence, does not he rave that I — I, though his son, was not 
 his heir ? That there was a previous marriage, that then 
 another may claim the name and the title, that it was for this 
 I might Aved with none but one who could bestow them. 
 Title ! what care I for that ? But that I, who so gloried in a 
 pure line of ancestry, in noble birth, to add to the freedom 
 and beauty of life, should find myself a nameless outcast. 
 Florence, can this be well ? ” 
 
 She tried to soothe him, to argue that the ravings of 
 delirium ought not thus to disturb him ; but though for a 
 time her efforts succeeded, whenever those fearful wanderings 
 were renewed, Frank lost all power of reasoning; the very 
 obscurity in which his parent spoke but increased the torture 
 of his mind. 
 
 It was nearly morning. Florence had dismissed the watchers 
 one by one, and as Lord Glenvylle seemed to sleep more 
 calmly, remained at last alone beside him, unconscious that 
 
^VOMA]Ji'lS rKIEKDJSHIP. 
 
 337 
 
 Frank, refreshed by some hours’ sleep, had returned softly to 
 the apartment, and shared her vigil, hidden from her by the 
 curtain of the bed. 
 
 For nearly an hour all was perfect stillness, and she was 
 just sinking into slumber, when those low terrible mutterings 
 which were always the forerunners of the wildest delirium, 
 startled her into wakefulness anew. 
 
 Madeleine ! Madeleine ! come you again? Have you not 
 tortured me enough ? Yes ! yes ! I know it. You need not 
 repeat it so wildly. You married Charles Neville, and he 
 deserted you. How dare you call yourself my wife ? Am I 
 not a Howard ? Am I not Viscount Glenvylle ? What has 
 Charles Neville to do with me ? I know you not ! begone ! 
 
 I have no child but my poor Frank. You shall not rob him 
 of his heritage. I have hoarded gold ; take it, and go ! go ! 
 
 I will have no son but Frank ! Son — have you a son ? Why 
 not come before ? Why stay so long ? Frank is too old now 
 to give up his rights. He shall not, he shall not. It will 
 break his heart. My boy ! my own boy ! Go ! go, I tell you ! 
 I am not Charles Neville now. I sought you, and you would 
 not come. Why are you here now ? Love me 1 Ay, ay, 
 Vvho ever loved like thee ? My own poor Madeleine, and yet 
 I scorned thee, trampled on thee. Where have you been this 
 long long while ? I did not murder — murder ? what fiend’s 
 voice spoke ? Madeleine ! Madeleine I come back to me ; tell 
 me I have no child, no son but Frank. You will not ! you will 
 not! Off! off! Fiends! devils! Ye hold me with a grasp 
 of fire — off ! I will not go with ye ! Off ! off ! ” 
 
 The unhappy man had sprung up in his bed, his convulsive 
 struggles demanding the whole strength of his son to restrain 
 him on his couch. But though actually trembling lest the 
 violence of his madness might do injury to himself or Frank, 
 Florence called for no other aid. 
 
 For several minutes the paroxysm lasted, then gradually 
 subsided as if life had indeed departed. Frank moved not ; 
 once only he spoke, and it was to entreat Florence to leave 
 them ; it was no scene for her. 
 
 Florence !” gasped the dying man ; who spoke of 
 Florence ? They took Madeleine there to evade me, but she 
 loved me too well for that, and she came to me, spite of all 
 they said, and how did I reward her ? Fiend, fiend ! yet 1 
 did love her as I have loved none other — and her child — has 
 
 z 
 
338 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 she a child ? No, no, no ! Frank, Frank ! I will have no 
 son but him. No, no, none but you,” he added suddenly, 
 fixing his dim eyes on his son’s face, unconscious of his 
 identity. Frank, boy ! good, kind boy, forgive me ; I have 
 wronged you. If another come to claim your heritage, let 
 him have it ! there is wealth enough for you ; I have hoarded 
 it, prized it, that I might leave it all to you. They cannot 
 rob you of that, and you can take another name and purchase 
 another title, Frank, and forget that you had such a guilty 
 father. Let the world talk as it will, what care you for them? 
 My boy, my boy ! do not curse me, I have loved you, spite of 
 all ! ” 
 
 Father!” exclaimed the unhappy young man; ‘^father, 
 in mercy cease, or speak more clearly. What have I to 
 forgive ? What have I to resign ? If I have an elder brother, 
 he is welcome to it all. Let him but come forward and leave 
 only a father. Say but that I am your own son, that I have 
 an equal right to bear your name, and for aught else — father, 
 father, tell me but the truth ! ” 
 
 ‘‘You may, you may ! perhaps, perhaps, she died before 
 your mother was my wife.” And Lord Glen vy lie sprang up 
 again, the wild glare of his sunken eyes contradicting the 
 apparent sanity of his words. “ Frank, Frank ! if, after all, 
 I should have no other child, and they have tortured me for 
 nothing, will you forgive me then ? Yes, yes — you were 
 always good and kind, and so, so they will punish me through 
 you — see, she glares on me still ? Madeleine 1 what do you 
 there? Why do you kneel by my couch as if you would 
 forgive ? You cannot, you cannot : only tell me that you 
 have no child 1 ” 
 
 Shuddering, and scarcely able to support himself, Frank’s 
 glance followed the wild gaze of his father, as if in the excite- 
 ment of the moment he almost expected to see the being so 
 apostrophised. He saw nothing but the kneeling form of 
 Florence, on whose pale countenance the dim light of morning 
 fell, giving it an unusual expression of languor and illness ; 
 her black hair was loosened, and falling thickly round her, 
 increased the illusion. It was on her Lord Glenvylle’s eyes 
 were fixed, distending in their fevered gaze till they seemed 
 about to burst their sockets. The convulsions of his frame 
 ceased, liis whole figure stiffened in his son’s arms, his features 
 grew rigid as stone. 
 
339 . 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 339 
 
 Madeleine,” again he said, in a faint and hollow voice, 
 this is no dream ; no fever. Frank, Frank, does her child 
 live ? Is it a son ? No, no, no, she is my wife — but you, my 
 boy — ” the jaw dropped, then came a gurgling sound, an 
 appalling struggle, and all was over. They watched beside 
 the dead. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 From dawn till past noon had Francis Howard, now Lord 
 Glenvylle, remained in his own apartment, refusing ingress to 
 all, and leaving to the faithful steward of his father all the 
 duties both to the living and the dead. There was something 
 pervading his whole aspect as he disappeared from amongst 
 them, which effectually secured him from intrusion. It was 
 not till nearly two hours after noon that his own servant 
 found courage to knock at his door, entreating admission on 
 the part of Miss Leslie, and when Frank did fling it im- 
 patiently open, the man started back appalled at the change 
 which a few brief hours had wrought. His brow was indented, 
 his cheek haggard, his lip white and compressed, and the voice 
 in which he demanded w^hat he wanted, totally unlike himself. 
 
 The man was the bearer of a note and a packet of papers, 
 which Miss Leslie had a few minutes before conjured him to 
 deliver into Howard’s own hand. Frank took it, but carelessly 
 threw the packet aside. The note was from Florence, con- 
 taining a very few brief lines, but they had the power of 
 making him impatiently motion the man aw-ay, and then seize 
 the packet ; hour after hour passed and found him engrossed 
 with it still. The papers were of various sizes, and in different 
 hands ; yet one after another was perused with the same 
 avidity, as if notwithstanding their different appearance, they 
 told but one continued tale. Frank’s very breath seemed 
 hushed ; but could any one have witnessed the constant 
 changes of his countenance, no more was needed to betray how 
 deeply he was moved or how nearly that which he perused 
 concerned^ him. Again and yet again his eye returned to 
 some particular passages, as if to believe from a first perusal 
 was impossible ; and it was not till twilight had gradually 
 closed around him, that he looked up from the deep trance 
 which his task had caused. The haggard look had faded from 
 his features, the brow was unknit, the lip relaxed ; the eyes 
 were full and moist, as he raised them in the direction of the 
 
 z S 
 
340 
 
 WOMANS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 calm beautiful heavens ; and his clasped hands, his parted lip 
 spoke inward thanksgiving and prayer. 
 
 Frank Gleiivylle ! Brother,’' murmured a well-known 
 voice beside him; ‘‘we may love each other still!” He caught 
 her to his heart, and manly as he was, eschewing weakness 
 almost as a crime, his varied emotions were calmed in a flood 
 of tears. 
 
 ****** 
 
 ****** 
 
 “Yes, we will to Woodlands, vdth our dear Minie, as soon 
 as may be,” exclaimed Howard, after above an hour’s quiet 
 converse had calmed his excited spirit, and the elasticity of 
 the young Viscount had returned, the more buoyant it seemed 
 from its late stagnation. “ A few days ago I felt as if I could 
 not, ought not to burden her with the sight of such a wretched 
 being as myself. Tangible evil or suffering, I trust, I could 
 meet as a man ; but the bewildering doubt, the heavy appre- 
 hension of misery always hanging over me, which my poor 
 father’s words created, I could not bear. I felt as if I dared 
 not meet my beloved wife, or my innocent babe again. But 
 now, now, Florence, my own sister — how blessed the word 
 sounds! — again you have been the fountain of our joy. What 
 had we been without you ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, not me, dearest Frank ; our destiny, our happiness 
 depended not on a weak mortal like myself for its fulfilment. 
 What had we been without that merciful Providence, who out 
 of such overwhelming evil, for so it seemed, could bring forth 
 good ? ” 
 
 “ But Minie, think you, we should tell her this wondrous 
 tale ? You shrank from the idea of imparting it, you tell me, 
 as loosening every tie which you so much loved. Do not 
 think of us, but answer as you wish yourself, my sister. It 
 shall be still, if you will, and for ever kept a secret from 
 Minie.” 
 
 “ No, Frank, no,” was her instant answer ; “let there be no 
 secret between us, brother and sister , as we are, which must be 
 kept from one whom you have made my sister still. No, I 
 can bear it now. We will tell it all as soon as she has strength 
 for the excitement. No tie will be loosened now ; nothing 
 which can bring one thought of pain. Had there been no 
 cause for you to hear it, then indeed I had never breathed the 
 truth to mortal ear ; for remember I am Florence Leslie still. 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 341 
 
 I acknowledge no other parents than those whose name I bear. 
 Keep these strange and painful records from the world, dear 
 Frank. None live save ourselves whom they can in aught 
 interest or avail, and therefore no injustice can be done by 
 their concealment. Let Minie indeed know all, but tell it to 
 none else. Oh ! wondrously indeed has my adopted mother’s 
 prayer been answered. Dearest Frank, how may we sufficiently 
 bless God ! ” 
 
CHAPTER LV. 
 
 A PEOVIDENCE IN ALL. 
 
 Had we listened to onr own wishes, gentle reader, our task 
 had ended with the concluding words of the previous chapter, 
 even though the fortunes of our heroine might have appeared 
 unfinished — marriage or death being the general climax with 
 which biography of all kinds, be it historical or imaginary, 
 concludes. 
 
 It was our own earnest wish to have proved that a heroine 
 might be happily disposed of without either one of these 
 alternatives. But facts disposed themselves otherwise. That 
 to a character like Florence, the life of a single woman would 
 have been as happy, and as worthy of respect, admiration, and 
 love, as the very warmest of her well-wishers could desire, we 
 well believe ; for we are not of the number of those who think 
 that marriage, even a very happy one, affords the only chance 
 of ensuring felicity and the proper station to woman. We 
 believe that it depends mostly on women themselves to secure 
 their own happiness, and the respect and love of others, and 
 that they can do this as single women as well as by becoming 
 wives. 
 
 We do not deny that the task is difficult. To conquer the 
 pain of loneliness and desolation, to subdue the natural 
 yearnings for some nearer and dearer ties than merely those of 
 blood, which, alas ! but too often cool as years roll on, and 
 our homes are severed like our interests ; and those on whom 
 the single woman would pour forth her warmest affections give 
 back but little in return, for they have dearer ties ; that to be 
 content with this, to make objects of affection and interest, 
 requires an energy — a strength of purpose, and, above all, a 
 
woman's friendship. 
 
 343 
 
 deep clinging sense of His cherishing love, whom we cannot 
 love too Avell, which feelings, perhaps, are not often perfectly 
 attained ; and therefore it is that we see single women but too 
 commonly frittering away existence. Still hoping, still seeking 
 for that eventful change in life — marriage ! — when all change 
 has long been passed ; and their endeavours to be youthful, to 
 neglect the duties of one station, in the hope of attracting for 
 the other, loses them the esteem which a higher respect for 
 themselves, and contentment with their lot, would unavoidably 
 command. We hold all single women, who so know themselves 
 and their duties, as to be revered and loved by all who call 
 them relative and friend, in yet higher esteem and admiration 
 than those happier ones, who have passed through life hand- 
 in-hand with a beloved partner, fostered and fostering, blessing 
 and blessed. For the wife, in all her struggles, all her pains, 
 all her failings, all her virtues, has she not love to heal, to 
 soothe, to shield, to encourage, to reward ? For the single 
 woman, where may she look, save to herself and to her God ! 
 How glorious the energy that snatches her from listlessness 
 and trifling. How sainted the principle that, shielding her 
 from self, and its host of petty miseries and ills, bids her live 
 for others, in whom she has no wife nor mother's claim. 
 
 Yet to make a heroine sink into this, to endow her with no 
 brighter destiny, would call down on the writer the charge of 
 incompleteness and injustice. In vain have we urged that to 
 one like Florence Leslie, the good performed, the misery 
 averted, the happiness created by her acts of self-denial and 
 devotedness, would be sufficient recompense. 
 
 But why would you have had Florence suffer thus, and 
 meet with no reward ? " we think we hear some readers ask. 
 1^0 reward ! Oh ! is there none in the privileges just 
 enumerated? None, in a life of virtue and its attendant 
 faith, in a lovelier life above ? And even if there were none, 
 we would not inculcate the false doctrine that suffering must 
 be followed by temporal recompense. It is a wrong, a mis- 
 leading belief to look to this world for the reward of good ; a 
 mistaken moral to insist that the adherence to the good, the 
 sacrifice of self, the endeavour to realize the perfectibility of 
 virtue, must find its recompense here below, or the economy 
 of Divine justice is imperfect. Becompense there is, as in- 
 comparably above the deserts of even the most perfect upon 
 •earth, as the Gracious Bestower is above those on whom it is 
 
344 
 
 woman’s friendship. 
 
 bestowed. But it comes not wholly in this world ; we must 
 look upwards to receive it ; and therefore do we urge that the 
 moral of that tale is false which would crown a life of trial 
 with the dazzling lustre of earthly joy. Not that our mortal 
 course is desolate. If our readers have felt with Florence, 
 they have traced love gleaming up through all, and must 
 acknowledge with her, that she had her reward even in this 
 world. The silver lining ” was beneath the thunder-cloud, 
 and the darkest misery brought forth joy. 
 
 Yet loving as she did, how was it possible that she could 
 ever be happy or associate with the object of that love, dis- 
 covering him to be her brother ? The most probable thing was 
 that she should go mad. 
 
 Not so, captious critic ! We are not of the tornado school, 
 and can quite believe, though a woman can never love twice 
 as she has loved once, there is no occasion for death or mad- 
 ness to be her cure. Nay, we are sufficiently unromantic to 
 believe, that passion may actually be conquered, and that by 
 securing the happiness of those she loved, Florence went the 
 surest way to work, and absolutely did conquer it, although at 
 the cost of her own health and happiness, before the truth 
 was known. We further allege, that as nearty two years 
 elapsed between the discovery of the misery she had so 
 narrowly escaped and her seeing Frank again, it was quite 
 possible for her, when they did meet, to regard him only as 
 the brother, which, by his marriage with Minie, she had before 
 tutored her mind and heart to consider him. The horror 
 which had seized her when the truth was first revealed, had 
 indeed been such as to terrify Lady St. Maur for her returning 
 health, but her strong mind had conquered ; and some time 
 before they left Italy, every painful leeling had merged into 
 quietness and confidence, gratitude and joy. She no longer 
 shunned his image or his memory. Her very horror of wffiat 
 might have been, and her constant gratitude that the deep 
 misery had been turned aside, ever prevented the recurrence of 
 any thought which could disturb her peace. 
 
 But did Frank himself ever know at what cost to Florence 
 he had been saved from a doom, at the very thought of which 
 he shuddered? Not from the lips of Florence. Neither lie 
 nor Minie, while they blessed her as — humanly speaking — not 
 alone the creator but the preserver of their joy, ever knew how 
 painfully the first had been purchased. If a thought of the 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 345 
 
 truth did ever flash across tlie mind of Frank, as, when he 
 recollected former suspicions of unhappiness, it might naturally 
 have done, it was suppressed so quickly that it could never 
 take defined form, much less expressed word ; and he believed 
 with his wife, that Florence’s injured health and drooping 
 spirits originated in her fatal secret alone. Minie’s varied 
 emotions at the tale she heard, we leave to the imagination of 
 our readers. Suffice it that Florence never had reason to 
 regret that it had been imparted. Sisters, bound by no com- 
 mon affection, they had been from infancy, and such even, 
 through long years of marriage and maternity, they change- 
 lessly remained. 
 
 It is the fashion, we believe, in the concluding chapters of 
 a tale, as in the last scene of a drama, to bring all the dramatis 
 personce on the boards together. As, however, our characters 
 are almost all disposed of, either in narrative or conversation, 
 we must eschew the common mode, and briefly as may be 
 dismiss those that remain. 
 
 To the 'world, the tale we have related was never known, 
 never even rumoured. That the young Viscount insisted on 
 settling half of his father’s long-hoarded wealth on Miss Leslie, 
 was, from his character, no very great matter of surprise. 
 The sacrifice she had made for him was cause sufficient, and 
 so, after the subject had been gossiped, exaggerated, and 
 treated in every variety of light, it was dismissed to make 
 room for those other matters of moment to the great, scandal- 
 loving, busy-body world. 
 
 To one other person alone, in addition to those whom we 
 have named, was the eventful tenor of Miss Leslie’s life 
 revealed. 
 
 It was a lovely summer evening, rather more than two years 
 after Lord Glenvylle’s death, that two persons were sitting in 
 one of the pretty little parlours of Amersley, opening on a 
 retired part of the park. They had, it appeared by the lady’s 
 attire, been walking, but as their conversation deepened in 
 interest, the repose and solitude of that little boudoir had 
 been unconsciously sought, as less liable to interruption than 
 either garden or park. The lady had thrown aside her bonnet, 
 and as she sat, her face upturned to the gentleman, he 
 standing beside her, though the features disclosed no positive 
 beauty, they were such as arrest irresistibly, particularly when 
 beaming as they were at that moment. Though the period of 
 
346 
 
 WOMAN S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 girlhood had merged into the epoch of woman's loveliest 
 maturity, when one degree nearer thirty than twenty, she 
 unites all the truth and freshness of early youth, with those 
 calmer, more finished graces which have come not to pass 
 away, but to deepen and endure. One glance on that open 
 brow, that full dark eye, that finely chiselled mouth, will 
 suffice for her recognition by all those whose interest in 
 Florence Leslie had sketched her image in their minds. 
 
 To the Florence of our first chapter she bore indeed little 
 outward resemblance, save such as the opening flower does to 
 the early rose-bud. But even as the full-blown rose reveals 
 the luscious scent and glowing beauty which the bud contained, 
 although in part concealed, so did her character, as it now 
 shone forth, confirm and perfect the promise of its bud. The 
 timid, shrinking girl was now the dignified though still retiring 
 woman. The high and truthful sentiments which had formerly 
 been spoken tremblingly, as scarcely daring to find expression, 
 lest scorners should mock, or the more experienced should 
 pity, were now avowed calmly, unostentatiously, as they had 
 been acted upon in the many trials of her life. The heart 
 which had throbbed and quivered at the faintest word of 
 kindness, and which a silken thread had led, if held by a 
 loving hand, now rested on itself meekly and truthfully, 
 contented with the love it gave, and the love it received. 
 Living for others indeed still ; but feeling to the full that 
 such existence was only living for her purer self. 
 
 Her companion appeared some two or three years her 
 senior, tall and finely formed. A high polish and elegance of 
 tone and manner marked at once the English gentleman, and 
 there was, too, an honest frankness in all he said, which 
 rendered it impossible to mistake his profession; but both 
 their characters — as he stood leaning over the arm of the 
 couch where Florence sat — had so evidently merged into the 
 anxious lover, that they may be passed over with very lil^tle 
 notice. Florence had been speaking long and earnestly, 
 evidently narrating circumstances or feelings, to which Sir 
 Ronald Elliott listened, scarcely breathing lest he should lose 
 a word, though much of what she told him he already knew. 
 
 “ You know all now,” she said, in conclusion, ‘"more than 
 any being on earth knows except Lord and Lady St. Maur, 
 more than I ever believed could pass my lips again. Yet 
 acting nobly, generously, as you have done by me, it is your 
 
woman’s friendship. 
 
 347 
 
 due. I neither could nor would have become your wife, with 
 any one circumstance untold. Of course, had not all love 
 been previously subdued, the very fact of discovering who it 
 was with whom in perfect ignorance and innocence my affections 
 had become twined, must have banished the passion for ever, 
 even if to do so had caused my death, which, perhaps, had it 
 not been conquered, must inevitably have ensued. But 
 though five years have elapsed since then, and all love has 
 passed away as entirely as if it had never been, save that I 
 now shrink from its thought with such shuddering that I dare 
 not, if I could feel such emotion again, how may I hope or 
 believe that a heart which has lost the sunny freshness of 
 youth’s first feelings will bestow on you the happiness, which 
 you tell me can exist but with its possession ? Do not hesitate 
 to speak those sentiments which my unvarnished narration 
 may have excited. You cannot have known the facts before, 
 and therefore have I so hesitated to accept the attentions you 
 have lavished on me during the last few months. I longed for 
 you to know the truth, believing that if known you must cease 
 to value a heart which can give so poor a return for all the 
 devotedness of yours.” 
 
 ‘'So poor a return !” he answered, passionately. “Florence, 
 call you truth, confidence, esteem, affection, however calm and 
 unimpassioned from a heart like yours, but poor return ? Oh ! 
 dearer, more precious to me thus revealed than the first and 
 freshest love of the loveliest on earth. You know not how for 
 the last five years, aye, from the first evening I beheld you 
 sitting in your deep sorrow, in this very room, at Ida s feet, I 
 have borne your image with me, wherever you have been — 
 though how might I annoy you with attentions, with words of 
 love, when your thoughts were all fixed on other things. No, 
 Florence, no. Lord St. Maur penetrated my secret, and, to 
 save me from the danger of unrequited love, he told me 
 almost all you have revealed, save the name of him you 
 loved ; and yet I loved, aye, hopeless as it seemed.” 
 
 “ All ! you knew all — even the doubt iipon my birth ! and 
 yet you would have made me yours 1” 
 
 “ Yes, dearest ! and those things they told me to diminish 
 love increased it tenfold. What was to me the doubt upon 
 your birth ? Yourself alone I loved, aye, worshipped ; for 
 the deep sanctity your uncomplaining sorrow flung around 
 you, permitted little of mere earthly passion to mingle with 
 
348 
 
 ^voman’s friendship. 
 
 my love. What to me that you had resigned your heritage 
 for the happiness of others, save that the very deed first woke 
 me to the consciousness how unchangeably I loved ! In the 
 brief visit I paid to England, eighteen months ago, I looked 
 on you again, and hope grew stronger, yet still I feared to 
 commit my fate to words. I dared not aslc you to be mine, 
 lest even hope should be for ever banished by your refusal. 
 Again we met, I know not what bolder feeling awoke within 
 me. You did not entirely reject attention; you did not refuse 
 my companionship and sympathy. You spoke to me more 
 than once as to one whose character was not wholly beneath 
 your confidence and regard. Florence, my beloved, it was 
 from these little things I gathered hope, for I knew, I felt such 
 conduct could not proceed from one who is truth itself, did 
 she intend me to speak in vain. Forgive me that I did not 
 interrupt you when you spoke, by avowing I knew all before. 
 Your confidence, your truth, were too precious to be so 
 checked. They told me that the esteem, the affection I pined 
 for were my own, or you had not thus spoken ; that as a friend, 
 a husband, dearest Florence, that confidence, that affection 
 would bless me still. One thing only you told me that I did 
 not know before ; till this very day, nay, this very hour, I 
 knew not that the mystery of your birth had been dispersed, 
 your real parentage made known. I can guess wherefore St. 
 Maur withheld the truth, and I owe him the sincerest grati- 
 tude for so doing. I could almost wish it had not been so, 
 that I might prove how little such thoughts could weigh with 
 me.” 
 
 I do not need such proof, dear Eonald, or rather you have 
 proved it,” replied Florence, with one of those bright glistening 
 smiles that sometimes returned to her lip like the reflection of 
 other days, and she made no resistance to the change in 
 Elliott s position from standing to sitting by her side, with one 
 arm most daringly thrown round her waist. 
 
 And you will be mine, mine ! in very truth my own,” 
 whispered the enraptured lover, looking upon the sweet face 
 till it blushed beneath his gaze. ‘^Mine, spite of all Edmund’s 
 long sermons as to the pure romance of what I felt — can it 
 indeed be ? I have dreamed of such bliss so long, it feels like 
 a dream still. Speak to me but once, love ! say but one little 
 word, that it is no illusion : you will be mine ?” 
 
 Yes, dearest Ronald !” she replied, simply and frankly, and 
 
woman’s miENDSIIIP. 
 
 349 
 
 her clear, truthful eyes sunk not beneath his. ''Six months 
 ngo I thought my destiny fixed, and thanked God for its calm 
 and quiet joys ; but with you, shielded by a love like yours, I 
 feel, and have felt, perhaps, for the last month, that had I a 
 heart worthy of the love you gave, I might be happier still. 
 But there is one person to be consulted,” she added, with a gay 
 smile, perceiving, though Elliott was too much engrossed to do 
 so. Lord and Lady St. Maur coming up the path to the glass 
 door. "Not Minie, because she will be too happy to think I 
 have a chance of being happy as herself ; nor Frank, for the 
 same reason ; and I believe, could he choose a brother, he 
 would have chosen you ; not Lord St. Maur, but his and our 
 Ida, who has vowed vengeance on any man who would rob her 
 of one whom she flatteringly terms so useful a friend as my- 
 self. Go and use your eloquence with her, dear Konald, for 
 wed without her consent I cannot.” 
 
 " I have no fear,” was his joyous reply, springing from the 
 side of Florence to that of the Countess, almost with a bound, 
 and in a very few minutes they wxre all within the room ; the 
 Earl, grasping the Captain’s hand with a most sympathising 
 pressure, and Lady St. Maur holding Florence in a w^arm 
 embrace, whispering such affectionate congratulation that it 
 almost brought forth tears. 
 
 "Yes, I will give her to you, Konald,” she said, "for your 
 love does deserve her ; and as your wife, I shall not only keep 
 a friend but gain a relative. If any one had prophesied this 
 years ago, that my lowly flower of St. John’s w'as to become 
 cousin and dearest friend to that same Lady Ida Villiers, from 
 whom the simple girl then almost shrunk in aw-e because she 
 was an Earl’s daughter, and who afterwards suffered all kinds 
 of sorrow rather than claim a friend in one she so foolishly 
 loved, because rank and fortune came between us — if any one 
 had prophesied this, I say, who would have believed it?” 
 
 "And if any one were to read my tale, dearest Ida, would 
 they not scoff and say that to friendship like yours the world 
 affords no parallel ; that it is pretty to read of, but is never 
 found ? That one of your rank must have neglected, if she 
 did not forget, one lowly as myself ; that in the world, fashion 
 not feeling must guide, and therefore none of your rank and 
 .station could be as you have been. Oh ! you know not how 
 your friendship aided in making me as I am. The world sees 
 but the surface of life ; it knows not wdiat little things may 
 
350 
 
 WOMANS PRIENDSHIP. 
 
 influence and guide, and how much female friendship — in 
 general so scorned and scoffed at — may be the invisible means 
 of strengthening in virtue, comforting in sorrow, and, without 
 once interfering with any nearer or dearer tie, may heighten 
 inexpressibly the happiness and well-doing of each/’