an open letter from her bosom. She held it for some moments, as if dreading again to peruse it—but at length unfolded and read a portion of it. 'Twas full of fervent and at the same time delicate expressions of fondness; and after a short while, her hand dropped, with the letter, upon her lap, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears. After an interval of several minutes, she again took up the letter—read a little farther—still more and more moved by the generous and noble sentiments it contained—and at length, utterly overcome, she again dropped her hand, and sobbed aloud long and vehemently. "It cannot—cannot—no, it cannot be," she murmured; and, yielding to her feelings for a long while, her tears showered down her pallid, beautiful cheeks.
At length, having resumed her perusal of the letter, she came to the conclusion. In a kind of agony she pressed the signature to her lips; and then hastily folding up the letter, replaced it whence she had taken it, and continued sobbing bitterly. Alas, what additional poignancy did this give to the agonies of her last evening at Yatton! She had, however, become somewhat calmer by the time that she heard the door hastily, but gently tapped at, and then attempted to be opened. Miss Aubrey rose and unbolted it, and Mrs. Aubrey entered, her beautiful countenance as pale and sad as that of her sister-in-law. The former, however, was both wife and mother; and the various cares which these relations had entailed upon her, at a bitter moment like the present, served in some measure to occupy her thoughts, and prevent her from being absorbed by the heart-breaking circumstances which surrounded her. Suffering had, however, a little impaired her beauty; her cheek was very pale, and her eye and brow were laden with trouble.
"Kate, dear Kate," said she, rather quickly, closing the door after her, "what is to be done? Did you hear carriage-wheels a few moments ago? Who do you think have arrived? As I fancied would be the case, the De la Zouches!" Miss Aubrey trembled and turned pale. "You must see—you must see—Lady De la Zouch, Kate—they have driven from Fotheringham on purpose to take—once more—a last farewell! 'Tis very painful, but what can be done? You know what dear, dear, good friends they are!"
"Is Lord De la Zouch come, also?" inquired Miss Aubrey, apprehensively.
"I will not deceive you, dearest Kate, they are all come; but she, only, is in the house: they are gone out to look for Charles, who is walking in the park." Miss Aubrey trembled violently; and after evidently a severe struggle with her feelings, the color having entirely deserted her face, and left it of an ashy whiteness, "I cannot muster up resolution enough, Agnes," she whispered. "I know their errand!"
"Care not about their errand, love!" said Mrs. Aubrey, embracing her fondly. "You shall not be troubled—you shall not be persecuted." Miss Aubrey shook her head, and grasped Mrs. Aubrey's hand.
"They do not, Agnes, they cannot persecute me," replied Miss Aubrey, with energy. "It is a cruel and harsh word to use—and!—consider how noble, how disinterested is their conduct; that it is which subdues me!"
Mrs. Aubrey embraced still more closely her agitated sister-in-law, and tenderly kissed her forehead.
"Oh, Agnes!" faltered Miss Aubrey, pressing her hand upon her heart to relieve the intolerable oppression which she suffered—"would to Heaven that I had never seen—never thought of him!"
"Don't fear, Kate! that he will attempt to see you on so sad an occasion as this. Delamere is a man of infinite delicacy and generosity!"
"I know he is—I know he is," gasped Miss Aubrey, almost suffocated with her emotions.
"Stay, I'll tell you what to do; I'll go down and return with Lady De la Zouch: we can see her here, undisturbed and alone, for a few moments; and then, nothing painful can occur. Shall I bring her?" she inquired, rising. Miss Aubrey did not dissent; and, within a very few minutes' time, Mrs. Aubrey returned, accompanied by Lady De la Zouch. She was rather an elderly woman. Her countenance was still handsome; and she possessed a very dignified carriage. She was of an extremely affectionate disposition, and passionately fond of Miss Aubrey. Hastily drawing aside her veil as she entered the room, she stepped quickly up to Miss Aubrey, kissed her, and grasped her hands, for some moments, in silence.
"This is very sad work, Miss Aubrey," said she at length, hurriedly glancing at the luggage lying piled up at the other end of the room. Miss Aubrey made no answer, but shook her head. "It was useless attempting it, dear Kate—we could not stay at home; we have risked being charged with cruel intrusion; forgive me, dearest, will you? They," said Lady De la Zouch, pointedly, "will not come near you!" Miss Aubrey trembled. "I feel as if I were parting with an only daughter, Kate," said Lady De la Zouch, with sudden emotion. "How your mamma and I loved one another!" said she, fondly, and burst into tears.
"For mercy's sake, open the window; I feel suffocated," faltered Miss Aubrey. Mrs. Aubrey hastily drew up the window, and the cool refreshing breeze of evening quickly diffused itself through the apartment, and revived the drooping spirits of Miss Aubrey, who walked gently to and fro about the room, supported by Lady De la Zouch and Mrs. Aubrey, and soon recovered a tolerable degree of composure. The three ladies presently stood, arm-in-arm, gazing through the deep bay-window at the fine prospect which it commanded. The gloom of evening was beginning to steal over the landscape.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Miss Aubrey, faintly, with a deep sigh.
"The window in the northern tower of the Castle commands a still more extensive view," said Lady De la Zouch, looking earnestly at Miss Aubrey, who, as if conscious of some agitating allusion, burst into tears. After standing gazing through the window for some time longer, they stepped back into the room, and were soon engaged in deep and earnest conversation.
For the last three weeks Mr. Aubrey had addressed himself with calmness and energy to the painful duties which had devolved upon him, of setting his house in order. Immediately after quitting the dinner-table that day—a mere nominal meal to all of them—he had retired to the library, to complete the extensive and important arrangements consequent upon his abandonment of Yatton; and after about an hour thus occupied, he went forth to take a solitary walk—a melancholy—a last walk about the property. It was a moment which severely tried his fortitude; but that fortitude stood the trial. He was a man of lively sensibilities, and appreciated, to its utmost extent, the melancholy and alarming change which had come over his fortunes. Surely even the bluntest and coarsest feelings which ever tried to disguise and dignify themselves under the name of STOICISM—to convert into bravery, and fortitude, a stupid, sullen insensibility—must have been not a little shaken by such scenes as Mr. Aubrey had had to pass through during the last few weeks—scenes which I do not choose to distress the reader's feelings by dwelling upon in detail. Mr. Aubrey had no mean pretensions to real philosophy; but he had still juster pretensions to an infinitely higher character,—that of a Christian. He had a firm unwavering conviction that whatever befell him, either of good or evil, was by the ordination of the Almighty—infinitely Wise, infinitely Good;—and this was the source of his fortitude and resignation. He felt himself here standing upon ground which was immovable.
To avert the misfortune which menaced him, he had neglected no rational and conscientious means. To retain the advantages of fortune and station to which he had believed himself born, he had made the most strenuous exertions consistent with a rigid sense of honor. What, indeed, could he have done, that he had not done? He had caused the claims of his opponent to be subjected to as severe a scrutiny as the wit of man could suggest; and they had stood the test. Those claims, and his own, had been each of them placed in the scales of justice; those scales had been held up and poised by the pure and firm hands to which the laws of God, and of the country, had committed the administration of justice: on what ground could a just and reasonable man quarrel with or repine at the issue? And supposing that a perverse and subtle ingenuity in his legal advisers could have devised means for delaying his surrender of the property to the individual who had been solemnly declared its true owner, what real and ultimate advantage could have been obtained by such a dishonorable line of conduct? Could the spirit of the Christian religion tolerate the bare idea of it? Could such purposes or intentions consist for one instant with the consciousness that the awful eye of God was always upon every thought of his mind, every feeling of his heart, every purpose of his will? A thorough and lively conviction of God's moral government of the world secured Aubrey a happy composure—a