dearly bought, as that of wounding my child's feelings by the knowledge that her mother was her rival." Whether or not, Lady Herbert could have fulfilled her determination, may be questioned; the sequel will show the close of this romantic story of a real life. Under the influence of this determination, Lady Herbert's countenance again became sad; and, in despite of her strenuous endeavours to conceal the gloom which took possession of her, it was too plain to those who did so dearly love her, as her child and Lord de Montmorenci loved her, that she was suffering anguish. So Sarah guessed, and Lord de Montmorenci caught the infection of her gloom; and when he tenderly questioned her as to the cause of this change, she denied that there was any truth in the supposition; and he would cease to urge her to be open with him, and become very grave, almost displeased. This would last for some days, and then again forgetting the past, she tried to act-she threw off the cold reserve of her manner towards him; her welcome was as warm when he came to pay his daily visits to the Maison Baryllis as formerly. She smiled fondly on him, and he knew not what to think; and he became seriously displeased, and thoroughly unhappy. At length, he asked her the reason of her strange unequal deportment towards him, and she burst into tears, and said, "Do not, I beseech you, press me upon the subject; let it suffice you to know, I have cause for miseryhopeless misery. Do not add to my distress by being angry with me.” 66 Angry with you, Mabel! that is not the word for what I feel; but allow me to say, you are unjust to me, to yourself, to have any secrets from me now. I am not of a humour to bear this long; I love you too well, too deeply; either I must be all to you, or nothing." He spoke with a grave serenity, which made her tremble, for she thought she perceived a determination to break from, and to forget her. "Wait," she said, "till we are in England, and that Sarah's marriage has taken place, before you pronounce irrevocably, what your determination respecting me may be. I implore of you, dearest De Montmorenci, by all our past trials, by all our past hopes, I implore of your goodness, your justice, to suspend all judgment of me, till the epoch I have named-that of Sarah's wedding-day." From the time of this conversation, there was no more brightness in the sunshine of Nice for them, nor in its flowery shores, and they took their departure to England, with the consciousness, "that brief's the joy of all that passeth here." CHAPTER XXIV. No longer mourn for me when I am dead, SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS, THE Herberts are once more in London, where, after necessary arrangements with lawyers, and other preliminaries attendant upon a marriage were settled, to the satisfaction of Lady Herbert, and Sarah's guardian, Lord de Montmorenci, she was united to Sir Edward Mowbray, From the time of her having informed Lady Herbert, that she had decided to accept him, she never wavered, but maintained the same composure of demeanour, and assured her mother, that she believed in time she should forget the past. "Sarah," replied the former, "I hope so; but I tremble for you. Remember, even at the altar's foot, should you repent, it is not too late to retract." "Dearest mamma, I have only one favour to implore of you; from this moment, let us never resume the subject." And they sealed the promise, that they would not, with a kiss. Miss Herbert had desired that her wedding should take place privately in St. George's church. As Sir Edward's mother was attending his sick sister, there was no opposition to this her wish; and, accompanied by Lady Herbert, her guardian, and attended by her old nurse, Martha, she took her way to the altar, without bridemaids, without orange-flowers, without any of the usual appendages, which accompany the marriage rites. During the service she was rigidly composed; but, at its close, and that the moment came when every child feels a natural pang at the thought that they are to leave their parent, and become another's, even under the brightest auspices, the most inebriating love at that parting moment, there is a pang of sorrow. Herbert could bear the mask no longer; she threw herself into her mother's arms, and asked her blessing, and wept long and with a bitterness which distressed Lady Herbert: in vain, the latter endeavoured to whisper peace and joy in her child's ear; in vain, she tried to think and to believe the words she spoke to sooth her. Sarah Sarah Herbert, now Sarah Mowbray, said, "For the last time I will not be controlled; I will weep without stint or measure, and then after this indulgence to my full heart, you shall not have to blush for your child, dearest mother you shall see that I am happy." By the time the bride had changed her apparel, she had again resumed her composure, and she walked to the carriage which was to convey her away, leaning on the arms of Lady Herbert and Lord de Montmorenci, another pressure to her mother's heart, another blessing, and then she said in an impressive manner, "Lord de Montmorenci, take care of mamma till we meet again." And, then accepting her husband's extended hand, she leaped into the carriage, which awaited to take them to the villa, where they were to pass the first months of their marriage, and where Lady Herbert was to follow them. When the latter found herself alone, after the excitement had passed away-alone with all her misery-she said, "There remains but one trial more. I cannot go through it to-day, but to-morrow I will, for the sooner it is over the better!" and she requested Lord de Montmorenci to come to her at an early hour. The long summer evening passed slowly away; Lady Herbert endeavoured to make a dispassionate review of her whole life, from its earliest epoch to the present. She wrote down what she felt and what she thought; for to her it was more natural to give out her thoughts in writing than by words, and perhaps, too, she imagined it would be more easy to give this transcript of herself in writing, than by spoken words. "Never to have remembered my parents, was the first misfortune I can note down in the records of my book of life. Fond and good as my aunt was, still I asked for papa and mamma, and never was weary of asking about them; the romance (since it is thus all feelings must be called, which overpass the measured space allotted to their exercise,) the romance of my affections first spent themselves on flowers and animals: the birth of the first violets, were for me an epoch of delight; my birds, my dogs, above all, lived with me as dear friends. I lisped in numbers for the numbers came,' the very look of poetry attracted my attention, and I devoured at first, with indiscriminate ardour, all that was placed within my reach. But soon my aunt's fine and correct judgment turned me away from this trash, to a better choice of literature; and, at a very early age, I knew great portions of the best poets by heart, reciting them to myself, as I walked, and peopling the very air with imagery. But this vague indefinite enchantment soon made me long to imbody my thoughts on some one dearer than the rest. I longed to love and then with what fictitious colouring I painted to myself the object to whom I should devote myself. My aunt soon brought me forward on the scene of life-I enjoyed the full tide of admiration, which flowed in upon me-but I was not vain of my beauty, still less envious of another's: it seemed to me an hereditary right. I wore it meekly as a garment that was mine, but not with any overweening pride, or any astonishment at my own superiority. I looked around all the gay throng, and still I was alone;-to be alone was the terrible doom pronounced against me. I am still alone-I must live and die alone the first pulses of my heart were awoke by beauty. Yes, it seems to me now, strange that it should have been so; but so it was my eyes betrayed my judgment. I loved as I alone can love; and I invested the object of my passion with all those qualities which I wished him to possess; in fine, I bestowed the love which I imagined I received; to give you one illustration, which may serve for all the rest: I was in the habit of writing in most of my books, given by H., by way of proving that he loved and understood lite |