CHAPTER XXII.

Four years passed rapidly and tranquilly at Fairlee. The waters of Lochleven flowed at the foot of its undulating grounds, and the mountains of Glencoe terminated the grandly-beautiful and distant prospect which Christobelle gazed upon with untired delight, from the different points where she loved to sit in meditation, or employed herself in painting its glowing and ever-changing tints. Often did the forms of Anna Maria and Isabel appear before her, as she lingered upon the mountain-tops which overhung the lake, and watched the golden sun sink below the horizon.

Often did the woods and smiling lands of Wetheral [2] appear to her mental view; and though its scenery, so flatly tame, sank into insignificance before the cloud-capped Cona, and the hills of many names which surrounded the rich and beautiful Lochleven—still, there was the remembrance of her first attachments; there were the forms she loved, and the hearts which loved her, fondly. There was the scene of her infancy, and there she had parted from her kind companion and friend, Sir John Spottiswoode.

Anna Maria's heart and eyes were given exclusively to her excellent husband, and Isabel was devoted to her child; but Sir John Spottiswoode had been for weeks her instructor, her only attendant, and the depository of her thoughts. She felt the loss of his society for months; and when she gazed upon the calm lake, or mused upon the rocky heights, each and all threw back her thoughts to Sir John Spottiswoode. Oh! what would he, the travelled one, the lover of grand scenery—what would he say to the bold and graceful scenery? What would he say to the combination of wood, and rock, and pleasant glens; the mountains, the water, and all the glorious views which decorated Lochleven? Surely he would love its repose, its agitations, its sublimity; surely he would love its groves, its [3] islands, and its storms. He would roam with her through the lovely glens; they would together visit the falls of Kinlochmore: they would meditate together on Eilan na Corak, and climb the highest points to watch the setting sun, and think upon absent ones. Why had she

not a brother to accompany her in her pleasant rambles, and why was he not Sir John Spottiswoode?

Lady Wetheral's health did not recover the shock of Lady Kerrison's death. She sank gradually into an invalid: and, though she rarely visited the beauteous scenes around her, and never admired their grandeur, yet her thoughts rested no longer upon England. She was content to remain at Fairlee, exhausted in body, and depressed in mind. Her temper lost every trace of its former playfulness, and she dwelt constantly and bitterly upon the idea of Clara's ingratitude in not seeing her at the time of her decease. She told Christobelle the voice of Clara came to her in the dead of the night, and thundered in the wind which roared from the mountains. She saw Clara in her dreams ever pointing towards her, and exclaiming, "Oh! hard-hearted mother!" She declared to Christobelle that if her death should prove the consequence [4] of such distressing visitations, she died by the hand of Lady Kerrison, and her ungrateful conduct would have been the means of destroying the author of her existence, and the contriver of her high and enviable establishment. She had indeed heard of ungrateful children;

but little could she imagine she was herself to fall a victim to the daughters whom she had reared so carefully. Clara had died, and she expected Julia would be equally undutiful. Not once had she been invited to Bedinfield, nor was she even apprized of their flight abroad!

Such were Lady Wetheral's feelings; and her irritable and disappointed mind vented its bitterness upon the innocent Christobelle. The leading thought of her heart and the aim of her actions had ever been the establishment of her children, and upon her youngest daughter, now in the midst of suffering and solitude, did her anxiety rest. Christobelle was to beware of the sun and of the dew. It was ruinous to the complexion to sit staring for hours in a hot sun upon nonsensical views, and still worse, to roam about with a plaid round her shoulders, and a hat swinging to her arm, like a low-lived Scotch girl. Lochleven produced much gaiety in the autumn, [5] as many families thronged to visit lake scenery; she would therefore feel obliged by Miss Chrystal paying a little more attention to her person, that she might not be recognized as Lady Wetheral's very vulgar daughter, or give occasion of remark to General Ponsonby's family. General Ponsonby, as a man of high connections, might probably have people staying at Clanmoray of some consideration; and she insisted upon her careful

attention to dress and manners. She might meet gentlemen unexpectedly, and a young lady should be upon her guard. No man could be struck with a girl whose tanned complexion gave her the appearance of having tended sheep and goats upon the hill-tops.

In spite of Lady Wetheral's precautions, Christobelle met no gentleman "unexpectedly," nor were her studies interrupted by any people of consideration from Clanmoray. Letters from England told of Mrs. Tom Pynsent's increasing family; and Isabel's visit was deferred, year after year, by the expected death of Miss Tabitha, whose illness had proved long and suffering. She could not bear to hear or think of her brother's departure from Shropshire while she still lingered, and Mr. Boscawen had promised to close her eyes ere he quitted Brierly. Isabel's visit,[6] therefore, must remain uncertain: she was the mother of three children, and her anxiety was very great to exhibit them all at Fairlee, and listen to the roar of the cataracts with Christobelle.

There was also news of Julia. The party had returned to Bedinfield, and Colonel Neville was still in the suite of the Countess-dowager; but few ever penetrated into the mysteries of Bedinfield. The Ennismores saw little company, and it was reported the establishment consisted chiefly of foreigners selected by the Countess mother. Colonel Neville remained desperately attached to Julia, and Lord Ennismore rarely quitted his apartments; his lordship was becoming extremely invalided, and Dr. Anstruther was superseded by a Florence physician.

Mrs. Pynsent wrote frequently to Christobelle, and from her chatty pen, Miss Wetheral received the home news of the south. "Every one," she wrote, "was pretty well except 'Bobby,' who looked very like a turkey with the pip, for his head was sinking between his shoulders, and his poor back got round. However, he played with the eldest boy, and left every thing to Tom, who—God bless him!—grew handsomer every day, and rattled over business much better than [7] his poor moonshine father. Sally Hancock sat with him now and then, and her company was getting rather amusing to him: altogether, they were tolerably well at Hatton. Sophy Spottiswoode was married, and they talked of visiting Scotland with Sir John Spottiswoode; perhaps they would visit Lochleven and Fairlee, and see what was acting there and thereabouts. Sir Jacky seemed to wish to peep about Lochleven, for reasons best known to himself." Mrs. Pynsent ended by hoping Christobelle was not obliged to be in love with some red-headed Scotchman, because he was rich.

Sir John Wetheral twice visited Shropshire during his seclusion at Fairlee, but his daughter could not accompany him. Lady Wetheral's health detained her; and, during his absence, the magnificence of the country, its quiet grandeur, and its beautiful variety, could not recompense her for the misery she endured under continual and unabated reproaches, or the language of useless complaint, unceasingly uttered in doleful tones. Her ladyship considered her daughter's singlehood at seventeen years of age a severe blow upon her matronly cares. Up to the moment of her seventeenth birthday, Christobelle had never received an offer of marriage, [8] or heard a comment upon her beauty, save in the somewhat coarse approbation which was bestowed by Mrs. Pynsent upon her growth at Hatton.

Christobelle had never listened to adulation, nor had she ever, in her walks, met a look or observation which could be construed into admiration, or even commendation. She bounded in health and freedom of heart over the mountains, and sailed on the lake with her attendant Janet, without a thought of care, or a wish to shine as her sisters had done, before her entrance into society. She wished her father alone to share in her rambles; if her fancy ever strayed beyond his presence, it was in a sigh to think how greatly she should enjoy the surprise and pleasure which Sir John Spottiswoode must feel, if he ever beheld the scenery of Lochleven. But it was not so with Lady Wetheral.

Every year brought newly-awakened annoyance to Christobelle, in the ironical tone of her mother's birthday congratulation: and it brought equal affliction to her ladyship, that she must still endure the society of a daughter unsought, and very probably destined to remain single. Her father was in England when she received congratulations upon attaining her seventeenth [9] year. Sir John promised to reach Fairlee, if possible, in time to spend that day with his daughter at the falls of Kinlochmore; but it was not to be so, and she entered the breakfast-room that morning depressed and without appetite. Lady Wetheral commenced her attack.

"I believe, Bell, you are now seventeen. I beg to offer my congratulations upon the effect you have created at Lochleven. Clara and Isabel were married at your age, and I am expecting every day to be consulted upon some affair of your own. You appear to have made no impression upon young Ponsonby, after all your walks and sails upon the water."

"Young Ponsonby, mamma!"

"Some people never care to understand what they do not wish to know," replied her mother. "In the precincts of Lochleven your want of power to please may pass unobserved, but I should have been pointed at in England, as a mother hopeless of her daughter's establishment."

"But young Ponsonby never walks and sails with me, mamma. I am only accompanied by Janet."

"I am perfectly aware that Janet is your only companion," replied her mother, drily.

[10]

"I never wished to be with Mr. Ponsonby, mamma. I declined Miss Ponsonby's invitation to join her party at Ballahuish."

"You did very unwisely. I wish you to join the Ponsonby parties. Have I not told you repeatedly that wish?"

"I thought you would be alone, mamma."

"I should be much obliged by your thinking to more purpose, Bell. I never wish to interfere with your engagements, when they tend to a proper end."

"But what end could be answered at Ballahuish, mamma?"

"You are growing extremely disagreeable and argumentative, Miss Wetheral. I will trouble you to withhold your rather imperious questionings, if you please."

Christobelle was silent, and Lady Wetheral proceeded with her breakfast; but nothing met her approbation. The coffee was cold, the eggs were not fresh, and the rolls were burnt. Every thing was most uncomfortable since she had quitted England—particularly uncomfortable, since no one was near her to make her wants a matter of the least consideration.

Christobelle offered to ring for hot coffee.

"I shall be obliged by your remaining where [11] you are, if you please. Ingratitude is nothing new to me: Clara taught me that parental misery—I can bear it now with patience. Clara has ruined my health by her ungrateful conduct. I, who sought her advancement in life, and who almost made the offer to establish her at Ripley, deserved a better fate than to be spurned from her dying bed, and see Mrs. Pynsent preferred before me. I cannot understand a coarse personage like Mrs. Pynsent being a proper attendant upon a deathbed. Her loud voice would disturb the dead."

"But she was so gentle and kind to Clara! She was so attentive, papa said!"

"I shall never believe it."

"But you remember how very kindly she assisted me, and how tenderly she nursed you, mamma."

"I was not on my deathbed. Close that window, Bell, the wind is rising; and do shut out the sound of those French horns."

Christobelle rose to obey. Two small vessels were traversing the loch, containing a party of pleasure, apparently intending to pass the morning in the island which was once the prison-house of Mary. A band of French horns woke the echoes as they rowed along, and the air of [12] "Auld lang syne," delightfully played in parts, riveted her attention. For a few moments she paused to listen, but the sounds affected Lady Wetheral beyond endurance: she trembled and wept. Christobelle closed the window.

"I cannot bear those sounds," she cried, clasping her hands. "I hear Clara's voice, and she persists in calling me her hard-hearted mother. Her voice is in every sound, and that tone kills me. I am not hard-hearted—I am an injured mother, worn down by that ungrateful voice. I hear it in the winds at night, and the breeze of the lake whispers it. I cannot bear to hear Clara's voice."

Christobelle endeavoured to calm her mother's nerves, but repeated attacks had destroyed their tone, and she could not rally at pleasure. Mrs. Bevan was summoned to attend her lady, and she was laid upon her bed to receive the usual remedies. Her ladyship was then left in quiet and in darkness for some hours. This scene was but the recurrence of a now constantly repeated attack of the nerves upon every sound which reached her ear from without. The storm, the breeze, the sighing of the winds, the soft and delicious music which occasionally rose on the air, all created the same terror—it was Clara reproaching [13] her for youth and happiness blasted, and constantly exclaiming, "Oh, hard-hearted mother!"

Time increased the disorder. Four years' residence in Scotland, far from the scene of Clara's tragic departure, and removed beyond all allusion to the events which had occurred, did not soften by distance the regrets of Lady Wetheral's heart. Year after year brought increased nervousness; and Sir John had endeavoured to lead his lady's thoughts again towards Wetheral, but in vain. "She had resolved never again to visit a country which had brought her so much disquietude. Clara was gone—gone from her for ever, tainted with bitter ingratitude, and the grandeur of Lady Ennismore's establishment was to her a blank—she had never witnessed it. All that she had most anxiously desired had become a source of misery to her feelings, and she only desired now to live far away from painful associations." Sir John pointed out the near neighbourhood of her two happily-married daughters, Pynsent and Boscawen; but it failed to create pleasing thoughts.

"No, I have no wish to see those objects which will remind me of Julia's banishment and Clara's death. If they are happy, why was not [14] Julia to be with me, and why was Clara ungrateful? Why was I to be defeated in my views? Why was Julia carried abroad without one interview with the mother who endured so much to secure her establishment, without even writing to me? No; I am miserable, but let me alone, and let me die here!"

Lady Wetheral would at such moments turn to Miss Wetheral with looks of reproach, and inveigh against her unattractive appearance or manner.

"If you wished to give me pleasure, Bell, you would not fly in my face, as Clara did. If you attended to your person, I might yet be gratified by hearing praises of your beauty, and receive pleasure in contemplating your future establishment; but I have no hopes for you. I have no inducement to quit this dreary Lochleven. I will not carry forth a daughter who is blind to her own advancement, or subject myself to ridicule, by the constant appendage of a young woman who is likely to pass single to her grave. If I could rouse you to exertion, I might rally too; but this determined indifference to future distinction destroys me. I am doomed to suffer every gradation of parental disappointment."

What hand could pluck from her ladyship's memory [15] "this rooted sorrow?" What hand could cleanse her bosom of this "perilous stuff?" Haman knew no peace while Mordecai sat at the king's gate, and Lady Wetheral would not be comforted, because the eye of admiration had not yet glanced upon Christobelle, or opened a channel for her energies to rise again under the exciting employment of speculating upon her future establishment. What a life was this! After Lady Wetheral's departure to her room, under the nervous effect produced by the lake music, Christobelle strolled along its banks, accompanied by Janet. The little band still poured their sounds upon the breeze, as they sat listening to the sprightly notes of "Will ye gang to the bourne, my Marion:" and at its conclusion Christobelle's eager fancy suggested the idea of sailing towards the Isle, to enjoy the softly-swelling sounds which now but faintly stole upon the ear. The boatmen were quickly summoned to their oars, and Christobelle ordered them to stretch and lie to, under the Isle, where the party were seated beneath

the trees, which once afforded shade to the royal Mary in her captivity.

A boat put out from the land as they approached, and Christobelle saw the figures of Miss Ponsonby and her brother Charles seated [16] in its stern. Miss Ponsonby waved her hand as the boat glided to her side, and hailed her "prisoner." A large party from Clanmoray were regaling in the "Douglas Isle," and her movements had been watched through many telescopes. Miss Wetheral had declined her party to Ballahuish; but her captivity was now as sure as that of the unfortunate Queen of Scots, unless a Douglas again rose to the rescue.

"It was a party," Miss Ponsonby said, "in honour of her eldest brother, who had left Ireland on a long furlough, and who had arrived at Clanmoray, after an absence of six years. She would allow no excuses to prevail. Miss Wetheral must and should do honour also to Edward's arrival." Christobelle was loth to obey the mandate: she was quite unprepared for the little incident, and felt alarmed at the idea of encountering a large company almost unknown to her. Miss Ponsonby, however, ordered the boats towards the landing-place, and the party disembarked. The Ponsonby family came forward to welcome Miss Wetheral's arrival, and they introduced her to the assembled group.

The Duke of Forfar, lately raised to the dukedom by the death of his aged father, was present; and there was also young Lord Farnborough, [17] once the Selgrave, whose name she trembled to hear from her mother's lips, when she spoke of him as a future suitor. Christobelle saw also Lady Anna Herbert, the imagined rival of Mrs. Charles Spottiswoode in her days of coquetry; and her mind glanced back to the time when she heard so much and so often of the Farnborough Stacy family. Lady Anna Herbert was still unmarried, and she could perceive the same lively manners, the same coquettish look, which had so formidably alarmed the fears of Miss Wycherly.

His Grace politely acknowledged his intimate acquaintance with her family, and his pleasure at being able to renew it with a daughter of Sir John Wetheral upon the distant Lochleven. He had no remembrance of Miss Wetheral, but young people sprung up around him into life. His Grace had heard of a beauteous scion, unseen at Wetheral Castle, but it was reserved to him to meet her for the first time, on poetical and historical ground—on the very spot where the beautiful Mary of Scotland landed in misfortune, a captive beauty, such as the vision which now met his eye.

"Well done, papa!" cried Lady Anna, "your imagination is awakened by this scene, and Miss [18] Wetheral has fortunately appeared to keep up the illusion. Miss Wetheral, you should reply in character, and papa will be charmed."

"If Miss Wetheral will personate the afflicted queen," said Lord Farnborough, "I must beg to enact the faithful Douglas, and aid her escape."