CHAPTER VI.

"I do not often talk much."

Henry VIII.

"Why weep ye by the tide, lady?

Why weep ye by the tide ?
I'll find ye anither luve,

And ye sall be his bride."

Scots Song.

"THE ancients referred melancholy to the mind, the moderns make it matter of digestion to either case my plan applies," said Lady Mandeville. "I am melancholy, or, in plain prose, have a headach, to-day; therefore I propose putting in execution our long-talked-of visit to the convent of St. Valerie: if of the mind, contemplation will be of service-if of the nerves, a ride will be equally beneficial."

"How charming is divine philosophy!

Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose," "

replied Mr. Spenser.

"You are improving," returned Lady Mandeville. "I dare-say by the time your cousin, Helen Morland, is able to appreciate compli

ments, you will be able to pay them in 'good set terms.'

How very unpleasant a few words can contrive to be! It was very disagreeable to be reminded of his cousin. Though Mr. Morland was the last man in the world to have acted on such a wish, Cecil was aware of his uncle's desire to see his favourite nephew and his daughter united. Now, for his very life could he picture Helen but as he last saw her-a very pretty child, whose canary was an important object. It was also very disagreeable to perceive that Lady Mandeville was not in his interests, aware as he was of her influence over Emily. For, what with a little absence-an absence passed in solitude and exaggeration —and a little opposition, enough to excite, but not enough to deter-an adventure romantic enough to make falling in love almost matter of necessity with all these together, young Spenser had progressed considerably in his attachment.

Emily was very pretty, with a quiet gentleness that left much to the imagination, and also a sweetness which was a good beginning for it to work upon. Besides, though attached to Lorraine with all the depth and earnestness

of first love—which, after all, is the only one that has those high ideal qualities ascribed to love-she could not be always "sadly thinking" of him. She thought of him whenever she saw any thing beautiful in art or nature-love links itself with the lovely: she thought of him when she sang the songs he had liked, or that she thought he would like: when they spoke of affection before her, it ever recalled her own: she turned the page of the poet as the mirror, which gave back her feelings in short, she thought of him when she was sick, sullen, or sorry. Still, there were times when the natural gladness of youth burst into mirthfulness, and

"Her brow belied her, if her heart was sad."

At such times Cecil was quite sure he was in love. Constancy is made up of a series of small inconstancies, which never come to any thing; and the heart takes credit for its loyalty, because in the long-run it ends where it began. I doubt whether the most devoted fidelity would bear strict examination as to the short reposes even the most entire fealty permits itself.

Lady Mandeville, if not the keeper of Emily's conscience, took some care of her constancy. She had quite made up her mind, that a mar

riage between Miss Arundel and Mr. Lorraine was the most eligible thing in the world for both parties; and when a mind is once made up, it is very tiresome to have to unmake it. No wonder Edward had hitherto escaped heartwhole. She even exaggerated the taste whose delicacy was refined almost to fastidiousness; but that very taste would be in favour of the great improvement which had taken place in Emily. Lady Mandeville did full justice to it, and a little more for it was her own work. Like most persons whose vivid imagination applies itself to actual things, instead of abstract creations, she gave a reality to her schemes that seemed to make failure an impossibility; and having once settled that Emily would be very happy with Lorraine, it was an absolute impossibility to allow her to be happy with any one else.

Lorraine was a great favourite-Spenser was not. The indolence which Cecil had rather permitted than indulged-for, Heaven knows, it was no indulgence at all—had at first prevented his offering that homage to which she was accustomed; and now, when he did offer it, it was marked, suspected. His admiration of Emily interfered with her arrangement; and the

very circumstance of Lord Mandeville's encouraging him was any thing but an advantage: a woman must be an angel to endure being worsted in domestic tactics. Not that Lady Mandeville enacted the part of confidant

"Cato's a proper person to intrust a love-tale with;"

besides Emily's feelings were quite deep enough for silence. But Lorraine's memory was kept alive by slight recurrences to his opinions, and frequent allusions to the chances of meeting him. However, bright sunshine and a rapid drive did a great deal for the good humour or spirits, whichever you like to consider it, of the party on their way to St. Valerie.

All convents built in what we call the dark ages, shew singular good taste in the selection of their various situations; if there was a fine view to be had, their site usually commanded it.

The convent of St. Valerie was on the very summit of a small hill, whose abruptness added to its height. A thick copsewood of dwarf oaks, intermixed with one or two slender chestnuts, covered the side even to the sea, from which it was separated by a narrow slip of smooth sand, over which, in a calm day, the