CHAPTER XII.

"I stood here in my happy days,
And everything was fair;

I stand now in my altered mood,

And marvel what they were.

There is a change come o'er the hills,

A shadow o'er the sky :

The shadow is from my own heart,
The change in my own eye."

THE young Lord Clairville, after a rapid journey, taken as much to escape from himself, as from the presence of those whose society was now so irksome to him, found himself at length at Oakwood, the place which henceforth ought to form his sphere of usefulness and of happiness. But how truly desolate did this lovely spot appear to him!-how fraught with associations which filled his mind with

sadness and distraction. And as he roamed listlessly, and with the restlessness of one dissatisfied with himself, through the desolate apartments, each spot told a tale connected with those scenes of past happiness, contrasting painfully with the feelings which now filled his heart. The happy days of his youth all appeared before his imagination, as if in mockery of his present state, and busy cruel memory conjured up scenes and forms which agitated him to a fearful extent.

He saw Evelyn as she was before misfortune had blighted her bloom; he remembered her happy joyous countenance, her Hebe-like form as she glided through these very rooms, no thought of care obscuring for a moment her felicity, with trustful love beaming from her bright eyes, all confidence, all happiness. And then her image as he had last seen it, fell like a dark cloud upon his imagination; so pale was she then, so dejected, so altered, but still so lovely! Yet he had even then

deserted her. And now that he was free, when he could lay at her feet fortune, rank, and happiness, he was fettered, chained by a vow made in a moment of fatal passion, and had indeed rendered himself unworthy of her. The next in succession of these grim spectres of memory, he saw Herbert and his father, but not in love and friendship did they smile upon him; frowns were upon their brows, scorn and contempt were depicted upon their countenances, and he felt that he must be despised as weak and perjured. His steps

were next directed to his father's rooms, and they presented images which softened and unmanned him. As his eyes rested upon objects which had been long so familiar to him, he could almost fancy that he saw the form of the venerable invalid still pressing the cushions of the sofa on which he used to recline. There stood his easy chair and footstool, and close to it was the low seat by its side, on which the kind Blanche was wont to sit and

read to him for hours. The books from which he had derived so much solace were all scattered on the table; and the crutches upon which he essayed sometimes to walk rested against the wall. The latter years of the poor sufferer had been passed in misery and pain; but he had submitted patiently to the trial, and was now at rest. At this moment of darkness, Julian envied his dead father; and with all the world before him, felt at this period that there was no happiness left for him on earth. Inconstant in virtue, variable in his resolutions, soft and yielding in his nature, yet perverse and stubborn against opposition, he had been unable to guide himself through the slippery paths of a dangerous world; led by false lights to a precipice threatening ruin and destruction, life which should have offered him every joy, now appeared an insupportable calamity.

In vain did the attentive domestics strive to rouse their dear young Lord from the dejec

The game

tion into which he had fallen. keeper talked of the preserves-the stud groom displayed the newly-broken colts— but all in vain; Julian seemed to have forgotten old tastes and pleasures, and only lived for sorrow and gloom.

The days passed heavily and wretchedly; but still he remained at Oakwood, waiting with nervous anxiety for the arrival of every post.

The newspapers had announced the death of Lady Florence's poor child; but still he heard not from her. At times he felt inclined to reproach her with neglect and indifference; and had he sacrificed all his best hopes for this? Her love her loveliness could alone repay him for all that he had renounced; and were they, too, to be withheld from him? At times he felt disposed to visit her at Marston, and demand the reason of this forgetfulness of his hopes and claims. But he quickly recollected that the captivating woman, whose charms and many thousand tendernesses had