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. sented 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 forsworn all gaiety such as visiting engenders, till she has made a pilgrimage to St. Peter's, and has returned thence miraculously cured. Pray smoothe all the plumes my reserve may have ruffled, by the true information, that for the last eighteen months I have withdrawn myself almost entirely from London society; that I mean not the very slightest affront; and if my word be not sufficient, I will give them references to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, &c., as vouchers of my truth." 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 "How can you be so ridiculous, Ida? You impossible, though all the while her conversation make yourself the laughing-stock of the country by upon indifferent subjects would continue without this perverseness. I shall tell them no such thing. hesitation or pause. Once she had been present Surely, when you are the wife of Edmund St. when one of these precious letters was unexpect-Maur, it will be time enough to make such a edly 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. Not so 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. Florence Leslie. She glided from the apartment as 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. sacrifice; there is no occasion for it beforehand." "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, 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 No persuasion, no authority, could prevail on her happiness, Lady Ida, ever the most unselfish Lady Ida to join Lady Melford and her daughters of mortals, could forget her own anxieties, and rein their visitings, balls, concerts, and other Christ-joice that even in her present depression she had mas 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 repre the power of bestowing so much joy. "Florence, you are really 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 Teigu, seeming to be divided from the river only by the high, luxuriant 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. 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." "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. "You certainly ought to give some weighty proof of gratitude, Ida; for either Florence or Devonshire has made you a different being. You are more like yourself than I ever see you in Lon-We may gather around us the poet, the philosopher, don," 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 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, rather 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 every body." "Thanks for the compliment, most noble cousin." "It is no compliment, Emily; but sad, sober truth. I cannot bear such sentiments in one so young; for what injustice 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 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 acknowledge 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 Rome, 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 you 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! CHAP. V. That Florence Leslie's simple and unselfish nature was uncorrupted 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 malancholy style? If it be such trash, why read it?" "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." 66 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 high-flown 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, 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 66 There, Emily!" exclaimed Florence, triumplantly. "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, O, 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, the 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 : “No, tempt me not, I will not love! Too full of joy for earth to know, Too wild to look above; I could not bear the doubt, the dread- "No, tempt me not-love's sweetest flower Love only woos with dazzling power, I will not wear its rosy chain, Nor e'en its fragrance prove; I fear too much love's silent pain- "Bravo, Florence !" exclaimed Alfred Melford, bounding through the open window, with a pink note in his hand; "I never heard you sing so well; | Edmund is better, you are going to Italy next 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," replied Lady Ida. “Thank you, I had rather not, even if I stood no chance of being recognized by Mr. and Mrs. Oakland themselves, and the greater number of their guests; I will never go where my own proper person is despised." "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 affectors 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 exceptation 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 vivans, 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 his, I detest. Now, do be kind, sweet Ida; | 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." be a rational being. Florence, what do you say"Alfred, you are perfectly absurd; get up, and 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." "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 ?" cally; you shall not dance at the ball, if you will "Oh, admirable!" interposed Melford, cominot 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. as you call them," replied Lady Ida, laughing. "And not remember one word of my wise books, "Well, wait till my next letters from Italy, and I promise you a decided answer then." CHAP. VI. from Italy was so natural, that her cousins did Lady Ida's only condition of waiting for news themselves by anticipating all the delights they not utter one word of entreaty more, but amused were pre-determined to enjoy. Alfred waylaid reading Scott's Life of Napoleon: whether balls, the postman every evening. Emily commenced tableaux, and charades, fashionable costume, and a Ida for Mrs. Oakland's grand assembly, ever new set of jewels presented to her by her cousin 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 which might accrue from it. Florence evinced no new study appeared to doubt the good effects unusual excitement, but there was a bright glitter in her dark eye, a laughter on her lip, whenever 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. 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 off 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 contempt 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 by him as her second guardian, was a very different character from Lord Melford. Disapprove of the match Lord Edgemere decidedly did, but 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 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 overwhen 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 Edgemere'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 prospects, since she felt sometimes as if her spirit must bend beneath 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 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 every thing for the furtherance of their wishes, that the ball might be in truth the recherché, 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 in her preparations, as greatly to annoy and torment her sister Georgiana, who imagined 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 herself 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 |