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the spot where the accident she had As the summer advanced, Emmeline been describing had occurred. Eve- began to ride on horseback with her rard wished to ask her some further father and brothers, and the Page. questions concerning it : but she did It was this last who raised her upon not understand his signs, and she could her horse, and who assisted her in not, for the same reason, convey to alighting from it. She had ridden a him what she wished to say. After very few times when she perceived some fruitless attempts—she made a that a circumstance, which had at first gesture that it was all in vain-and struck her as casual, continued and went, at the request of one of her even increased. Everard's hand, with brothers, to play to them on the spin- which he grasped her's, as he placed net. “ It is, indeed, in vain," the other beneath her foot to list her thought Everard, as his eyes followed to the saddle, trembled in a manner her glancing figure down the room, which could not but attract her atten“I cannot interchange one thought tion: the attention once attracted with her!” and he bit his under lip could not but perceive, though unconvulsively, to check the tears which doubtedly she had no idea of its exhe felt springing to his eyes. “ And tent, a certain portion of the truth. there,” he continued, “she is delight- For, in Everard, whose thoughts, being them all with delicious music-and ing debarred their natural vent, lived I know not even what it means." in his face, it was impossible that

From this evening, the Page's feelings such as those which now were thoughts became almost constantly dawning within him, should not be fixed upon Emmeline. She had be- distinctly visible to those who sought come, indeed, so completely the per- them. Emmeline looked in his face vading spirit at Arlescot Hall, that it to gather knowledge—and what she was no wonder if, as he almost began saw there caused her eyes to be avertto think, he was fated to meet her at ed speedily. every turn; to say nothing of the fact, “ Is it possible ?—a boy, a mere which he did not yet know—that at boy—but fifteen last week. Tut!every turn he sought her. Still they the thought is too ridiculous—I am were not much together. His first allowing my good opinion of my sweet difficulties in making himself under- self to run me into this absurdity. stood by her had so chilled him that And the poor boy never has, three times he avoided all occasions of conversing in his life, exchanged thoughts with me! with her (I believe that is a word I we scarcely understand each other in may use) almost as much as he sought the least, and yet I am fancying this those of seeing her. To gaze upon

nonsense.”—She looked again more her—to catch the expression of her boldly—“ Pray Heaven it may not be smile, and watch the shifting glance so, after all !” was the result of that of her eye-to look for her light form second glance. bounding along with the most graceful These constant rides brought Emand elastic step—and to receive the meline and the Page into more frenod, the smile, the kind wave of the quent and closer contact. hand, as she chanced to pass him; it dually acquired the power possessed was upon such things—I was going to by her brothers and sisters of conwrite such trifling things, but. as re- versing with him with considerable garded him, they were anything but facility—and she was, surprised at that-it was upon such things as these finding, under all his disadvantages, that the soul of Everard fed for the degree to which his mind was months; and he did not yet know that cultivated. Indeed, the very fact of he was imbjbing poison.

his infirmity debarring him from geHe was, indeed, so single-hearted neral and easy intercourse, had thrown in these matters that she was the first him, in a great degree, upon books as to have a vague suspicion of the truth. a resource, and he had profited by

She gra

them to the utmost ; and this Emme- at it—at others, it very nearly makes me line, who had been far more educated cry—and, at all, now that I really bethan her sisters, had herself sufficient lieve it seriously to be the case, it knowledge to appreciate.

perplexes me beyond measure. Know, The effect of such intercourse upon then, that my father has bred up in the unhappy boy was first to dissipate his house a distant kinsman, whose the degree of dread which still remain- father was killed by his side at Naseed when he approached her-and next, by—who is deaf and dumb. This to condense, to strengthen, and to ren- boy, for he is no more, is at present der fervent the admiration he had al- somewhat under sixteen-and bears ways felt for her, till he could no the sobriquet of the Page, which my longer mistake the name it more pro- father somewhat fantastically invested perly deserved to bear. But yet, him with in his childhood. But you according to one axiom on the subject must not, from this title, take your of love, it did not deserve the name- idea of Everard Delaval (such is his for, if love cannot exist without hope, name) from the gay court-pages then this was not love. Hope there whom the King has brought with was none : he loved, indeed, as the him from abroad;' he-though I must Indian worships the sun, without the say it, he is handsome enough to shine remotest idea of participation. This amongst them, be they what they may gave him a startling frankness of man -has none of the gaillardise of such ner towards the object of his passion gentry. I am told that he was wont, which could not have existed under notwithstanding his fearful infirmity, any other circumstances—and which to be gay and playful enough—and first bewildered and afterwards still truly I remember me that, when I first amazed Emmeline herself. But what came hither, he seemed to be so toher ideas and feelings on the subject wards all but me, whom he rather at this period were, will be best ex- shunned than otherwise. If so, it plained by a letter which she address- probably is the effect of the beautiful ed to a friend, some three years older eyes you say are so powerful that has than herself, with whom, at ber aunt's, wrought a change—for now, undoubtshe had been in habits of the closestedly, he is as melancholy as any deintimacy. This lady had written to scription of a lover in all Shakspeare. her a long and glowing account of the Poor fellow !-it is cruel to speak thus ceremonies and sights attending the lightly of him and his passion-for I Restoration, which had just taken believe it is sad earnest with him afplace—and it was in answer to this ter all ! that Emmeline now wrote. After “ You, who never saw him, will, I commenting upon some of the accounts doubt not, laugh much at my speaking given by her friend, she proceeded seriously, even for a moment, of a thus :

lover of sixteen, who cannot even “ You tell me that I ought to be speak to me. But I do not, mark with you in London, were it only for me, speak in the least seriously of it, the swarm of gay gallants the King as regards myself—but merely from has brought with him from abroad, its effects upon the unhappy boy, some of whom would not fail to be- which I cannot but see daily-and come the votaries of mes beaux yeux. that, I believe, even more plainly than Alas! dear Mary, this expression he does himself. He speaks to me made me think of one, most different, so plainly of some instances of these indeed, from these gay gallants, who effects, without in the least alluding is, here, exactly that votary of which to their cause, that I know not wheyou speak—for suitor, in any degree, ther to laugh, to blush, or to be anhe is not. It is altogether the strang- gry. I will tell you one of them, as est thing in the world—sometimes I he told it to me--and you will am inclined most exceedingly to laugh judge how curiously I am placed with

regard to him. The extraordinary her superior sharp-sightedness. I must simplicity, both of the facts and of his confess I think the letter bespeaks real mode of telling them, may appear to knowledge of the esteemed science of you childish, but to me they are the which she treats :most puzzling part of the whole. The Tell you what I think of it ?-Aye, other day, I was out riding with him truly will I ; and I regret my having and my brother Frederick, when hav- been with the court at Tunbridge has ing gone farther than we intended, we kept your letter so long from coming thought we should be late for dinner. to hand. For I think a great deal When we were going to push forward, more of all this' than, from the manI signified to Everard, who, as usual, ner of your letter, you expected, I will was at my side, that we were about to not say you intended, I should. You do so, and our reason-when Frede are somewhat like your dumb friend, rick said to me- Oh! he will not you write to me what it is quite imhurry the more for that—of late Eve- possible to mistake, and yet are not rard never eats any dinner at all.' I in the least aware that you have turned to question him about this made a declaration of love.' I do not whether it were true, and why it was mean that you love as he does ; or, 80. At the instant my brother can- indeed, that the passion has yet got tered forward to open a gate, and the firmly hold upon your heart at all. If Page, speaking as he does by his fin- I thought so, I might, and would, gers, said these words, for I remember spare myself the trouble of speaking them distinctly—I had asked him why on the subject, altogether; for iny rehe did not eat-his answer was—'You monstrances would have about the are at table; if I ate, I must bend my same effect as Canute's commands had eyes upon my plate, and then I could upon the waves : and that I know full not look on you.' For the nonce, at well. But you are just on the slope of this I did blush; the way he looked the descent, and, perhaps, a good on me at the moment was enough to hearty pull may place you back again make one of your court countesses upon even ground, yet. blush ; and all the time he seemed as “ Now inark me. If your

affections quiet and unconcerned as if bis an were already given to any one else, or swer had been the most indifferent if, (though of this last I am not quite thing in the world. I was glad, I so sure,) in addition to his infirmity, confess, that we came to the gate al- your page possessed a fair degree of demost instantly, and all three cantered forinity also,-in either of these cases on together.

I should have no fear for you. But it is “And thus we go on-I cannot but not so: you have never loved—and your see that 'mes beaux yeux' have here, heart, giddy and inconséquente as your indeed, obtained a votary-and one poor aunt used to call you, is as capable, whose homage perplexes me greatly. iy dear, of feeling the passion as that If I were to descend from my shrine, of any one I have ever known. Inand hold parley with him on the sub- deed, to tell you the full truth, I have ject, it might bring to ripeness ideas for some time past been conceiving a which may, otherwise, never pass considerable contempt for the cavaliers their bud ; and if I do not, I have of —shire, from not hearing any constantly before me a worshipper whispers of this kind, either from you who, as it is said of the new sect of

or about you. With regard to my people they call Quakers, has no form second if,' I am convinced that the of worship save silence. Prithee, Page’ is cruelly handsome; and that, tell me what you think of all this.” if bis tongue cannot speak, his eyes

The following is the answer of Em- make up for it. It is clear to me, almeline's friend : probably, the differ- so, that his passions, were it only from ence of the three or four years in age, their concentration, are of the strongof which I have spoken, accounts for est kind : your little anecdotes, which

23 ATHENEUM, vol. I, 3d scries.

by it.

appear to me the very reverse of months will do an infinity. Accord.

childish,' prove sufficiently how much ingly, when Emmeline read ber they are condensed and profound. I friend's answer, she blushed, then understand you also to say that he has wept, to find how truly her forebodtalents and cultivation little common. ings had been accomplished. Yes, Now, in despite of his being only six- she wept; for, though her feelings teen while you are three years older were now fondly, and, perhaps, warm-in despite of his melancholy infir- ly, interested towards Everard, she mity—in despite of his moderate posi- still felt not anxiety only, but in some tion in life,-I am convinced that it is degree shame also, for the position in impossible for you constantly to be- which she stood. In the first place, hold an unbounded and overwhelming he was a boy, much younger than herpassion for you devouring the very vi- self; occasionally she felt this unpleatals of such a person as this, without santly : moreover, he was far beneath your becoming most sensibly touched her in station, and a daughter of the

And, by degrees, from the un- Meynells could not be supposed to be interrupted contemplation of all that quite indifferent to this ; and, lastly, he uninterruptedly feels, your pity will she looked back to the time when she warm into that love to which it is so had laughed to herself at the idea of near akin.

Of all this I am, from the possibility of such an attachment, some little experience, fully con and this sometimes gave her a twinge vinced ; and, therefore, I very seri- of shame at her having so speedily ously wish that you would come and falsified her predictions. But, on the pass some time with me. All that other hand, there was, first and foreyou will see here will speedily drive most, what had undoubtedly given from your head any childish ideas rise to the feeling on her part, the you may have imbibed at Arlescot; spectacle of the deep, strong, intense, and really your absence, before worse all-engrossing passion, which he felt comes of it, is the most charitable for her. This, beyond question, had thing for the poor lad himself. Be- been the cause of her affection, and it fore you have been absent many now continued to feed it. Then, there weeks, he will eat his dinner, and go was sympathy for his terrible misforto his bed regularly enough, take my tune, borne so nobly till his love for word for it.”

her had made him feel its full misery ; Those were days long before Mr. there was admiration of his person, Palmer's invention : mail-coaches did talents, and acquirements; there were, not whirl along at the rate of eleven at once, respect and fondness for his

excellent heart. miles and a half an hour, to convey, claimed, as she sat, thinking, with

“ Yes !” she exthe epistolary correspondence,' whether of minister or merchant-of

Lady Faulkner's letter open in her

hand; “ Yes! Mary is quite rightSome banish'd lover, or some captive maid.

I do love him, there is no denying it Indeed, such letters as those I have even to myself. Love him !-yescopied above, were ordinarily sent by and he knows it now—and, oh! the private hand, or by some trustworthy joy, the ecstacy, the confession gave carrier, equally slow and uncertain ; him !-If Mary had seen him at that accordingly, what from their delays, moment, she would have forgiven me and what from some others of the all—she would have felt that no hunature indicated in Lady Faulk man heart could resist such affection ner's letter, the said letter did not

as that."

And she pondered with reach Emmeline till upwards of two deep pleasure upon the picture her months after hers was written. Start- memory had placed before her. “And ing from the point at which the reader yet," she continued after a pause, must (as well as Lady Faulkner) have « what is all this to lead to ? my faperceived her to be at that period, two ther would never listen for a moment

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to such a marriage—and besides, he the scenes he beheld crowded upon is so young-it is impossible !"-And his mind, the first, the last object to she sank into one of those reveries of which every thing, in some shape or perplexity and pain under whịch she other, was referred—the standard by now suffered so often.

which the value of every thing was And what did he feel—the boy, who measured—was Emmeline Meynell. had thus forestalled, as it were, the What she would think of such a piccourse of time, and called forth the first ture—how their hearts would draw affections of a woman like this? The closer to each other under the influstrong intensity of his joy was almost ence of such a noble prospect—how too keen—I had nearly said too severe infinitely more he should enjoy any -for it not to be long before it subsid- contemplation that delighted him, if ed into happiness. The constant repe- she were there to share and reflect tition of the fact that she loved him back his thoughts and feelings,—such scarcely sufficed to feed the burning was the manner in which the novelconsciousness that so indeed it was. ties, beauties, and wonders, whether And oh! how his heart would swell, of Art or Nature, throughout his traas he thought of the thousand feelings vels, affected the mind of Everard. which he longed to pour forth to her, They were not able to have much and could not—when he felt the check communication—a kind, yet open meswhich stopped the passionate words sage from her in a letter to her browhich sprang in myriads from his ther-some indirect allusion which he heart, and chilled and thinned them knew well Emmeline alone would reby the circuitous modes of communi- ally understand, in his letters to Sir cation to which he was obliged to Richard, -such was the limited exhave recourse. “ But still she loves tent to which their correspondence me”-that was the comfort with which

was confined. Yet no shadow of he always re-assured bis soul-he felt doubt ever crossed Everard's imagithat, in despite of all else, that made nation—he felt, however, how little him worthy of envy.

absence altered him, or rather how toTime passed on, and carried with tally it left his affections the sameit very little sensible alteration in the and he judged by himself of Emmecondition and feelings of our lovers. line. He painted her, in his mind, as They felt the impossibility of yet, for frequenting their favorite haunts at a considerable time, taking any steps Arlescot, and recalling all that they to bring about their union; and they, had felt as they had been in them toat present, contented themselves with gether. He knew that thus he should letting matters take their course, only have felt, and he fancied her feelings being especially careful that no suspi- as his own. cion of their attachment should arise. And so, in fact, they were. She At length extraneous causes brought did love him fondly, ardently—and if about their separation for a time. she saw more clearly than he the diffiSir Richard's eldest son was sent to culties which lay in their path, this travel, and it was determined that served only to add to her anxiety, and Everard should accompany him. The to cause her pain—not to diminish her pain of parting was extreme-but the love. His admiration of her was, necessity of the parting was obvious doubtless, of an unbounded nature, and inevitable—and each trusted the which she could not fully reciprocate other so fully that the regret was, in —but the deep and fond pity which some degree, diminished by the cer- his misfortune caused, probably drew tainty they both felt of their affection her heart towards him with more real continuing unimpaired by absence. tenderness than she would have felt in

Two years had elapsed, and Eve- any other event. The unceasing inrard still remained abroad. In all he tercourse, also, in which they had livsawamid all the new ideas which ed so long, caused a blank and dismal

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