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"For his own, of course, my dear Jeannette. I thought you would understand that part of my regard, without its being expressed." And he smiled on her so teazingly and affectionately as he made this sacrifice of his candour, that Jeannette examined him no farther.

Hamond did not remain long at home; and on quitting it, he charged Matilda to discover, if possible, some ungratified wish of Jeannette, in order that his present to her on her marriage might be peculiarly agreeable. Matilda suggested a thousand useless and expensive trifles, and with no success. Jeannette thought Matilda sought this knowledge, to spend more money on her herself; and her constant reply to her sister's searching questions was, "I want nothing, Matilda,-my father's generosity, and your own, my dear sister, have more than anticipated my most covetous wishes." Matilda was in despair, and she atlength told Jeannette her commission was from Hamond.

"Dear, kind Hamond !—Yes, I have one request to make at his hands-and I think I should, without this kind remem brance, have ventured to make it,--But what an opportunity! Matilda, it is that he will get my mother's picture copied."

Jeannette's voice changed, and Matilda turned very pale. The source of her emotion was misunderstood by Jeannette; and she turned quickly from her, saying only that she would write to her brother. We insert her letter, which appears to have been written in a moment of exultation, her spirits soaring from the fulness of her happiness, and her heart vibrating with a remembrance that was a part of its life.

"My dear and generous brother!-Yes, so I must call you, though I ought rather to have said, my rash, my imprudent, my blameable brother!--how could you know that, like the Princess Parizade of blessed memory, I should not ask for a talking-bird or a singing-tree? And then, what would you have done ?--for Matilda tells me that you vowed to her, my wishes, whatever they might be, should be gratified. Oh, my dear brother! I have a wish, for the confrmation of which I can rely alone upon you. It is a boon, dear Hamond, far exceeding in value all the unattainable objects that spoiled children or foolish princesses ever dreamed of:-I think I may say that nothing else on this earth could increase my present great and boundless happiness. And yet, in

spite of those large terms, my heart is often oppressed even to sadness and a sense of misery, at the bare idea of quitting my loved, my beautiful home. I look around me, and cling more closely than ever to the ties that have made that home so inexpressibly--so everlastingly dear. The greater part of them, I humbly and gratefully thank my God, still exist : but one-one, Hamond, is broken! In other scenes, and in these again, I may reasonably hope to assemble all I lovesave my dear and affectionate mother-around me in joy and happiness. I have been told that I should strive to forget her. Forget!-Oh, my dear Hamond! I have listened--I have ceased to speak of her-but I never forget her. And now, on the point of forming the most indissoluble of cond nexions, I too often love to imagine all that her tender anxiety and love would have prompted her to do and say on parting with her child. This, then, my dear Hamond, is my boona picture of my adored mother. In my father's absence, a copy could, I should think, be easily taken; but all the needful precautionary arrangements I leave to you. God for ever bless you, my kind and beloved brother! Come to us soon."

Jeannette's marriage met with no delay. The news of its being about to take place, after the first few days of whispered and important secrecy, spread rapidly in all directions. Like all other similar events, it was much discussed, and proved the truth of Selden's observation, that though, "of all the actions of a man's life, his marriage does least concern other people; yet, of all the actions of our life, 'tis most meddled with by other people."

VOL. I.-13

CHAPTER XLII.

Ce que j'ai connu de la vie, de ses inconstances, de ses esperances trompées, de ses fugitives et chimeriques felicités me ferait craindre, si j'ajoutais une seule page à cette histoire d'être obligé d'y placer un malheur. ELIZABETH, OU LES EXILES DE SIBERIE.

THE admired writer from whom the quotation at the head of this chapter has been selected, after placing the hand of her heroine in that of her lover, and reuniting her to her parents, is silent concerning her. She is happy, and she leaves her so. It would be wise perhaps to follow her example, and to leave Jeannette at a moment of happiness as unalloyed as was ever granted to an inhabitant of the earth. Youth, beauty, riches, a noble mind, and a gentle heart,-all these were hers, and all promised a continuance of happiness, but could none of them secure it? Oh, perishable humanity! stamped as thy dearest and best possessions are with instability, how is it that we ever trust in thee?

But to return to the marriage. In the words of the daily journals upon such occasions :-"The happy pair, after partaking of an elegant breakfast at Langham Court, proceeded to Yagdale, the seat of the bridegroom in the north of England."

Jeannette's first feeling at the sight of her new abode was that of disappointment: she had never before seen any residence so utterly destitute of beauty. The country around was barren and desolate, and without sublimity. The house frowned in gloomy grandeur, and the grounds were as stiff and formal as straight walks and carved trees could render them. Nothing could be less promising, or more in contrast with the home she had left-but then, it was so delightful to be listened to as she suggested improvements :—to have every project approved by Bathurst:-yet to feel that he spoke truth when he said, that to him the place was now the brightest and most beautiful in the world,--that she soon forgot her first impression.

To Lindsay Bathurst, "Paradise" indeed "had opened in the wild," Esteem, respect, and veneration, blended with

his love for his sweet and interesting wife, and made it amount almost to idolatry. He found that she possessed more goodness, more graces, more talent, than even he imagined. He wondered how this could be, but could only ascertain that it was so. He had never been an admirer of what are called clever women; still he was delighted to find in Jeannette a latent power of mind that was readily called forth, and which made her, upon all subjects, an equal and delightful companion to him. He corrected many of his former notions with regard to women; and acknowledged that it was obtrusiveness and ignorance, not ability and information, that had ever been offensive to him. He saw, moreover, that the new society to which she was introduced admired his Jeannette, and that his most intimate friends liked her much. The words, "How very beautiful!"--" How young !”—“ What a sweet smile!" though falling from indifferent spectators, when he appeared with her in public, were music to him. He would even purposely, at times, linger a few steps behind her, in order to hear more of these casual remarks. Strange! that such a tribute could add value to a treasure so deeply enshrined in his own admiring heart; but it did such is the influence of opinion.

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Had Jeannette in this respect resembled her husband, the admiration she received might have been highly injurious to her; but she lived too entirely in the world of her affections for the idle compliments of strangers, or even of friends, to affect her: yet, if at any moment Lindsay said a word that could raise her in her own esteem, her bosom swelled with happiness, and she could with difficulty conceal from others the delight it gave her.

Henry Milman was their frequent guest, and it was during one of his visits that the first cloud rose above the horizon of their happiness. It was not a very dense one, it is true; but great happiness is a poor preparative for even small oppositions. Mr. and Mrs. Grant were visiting in their neighbourhood, and Jeannette spoke of inviting them to Yagdale, as a matter of course. To her surprise, Lindsay pronounced it to be wholly unnecessary, and, farther, most disagreeable to him. He disliked Mrs. Grant, and did not wish for any farther acquaintance with her or her family. Jeannette replied, that she had been received hospitably by Mrs. Grant as Miss Sherrard: she reminded him

too that it was her first request, the first, perhaps the only favour of the same kind he could ever grant her.

Lindsay saw that she was hurt, and was vexed with her for being so, and with himself for having given her pain. He yielded the point in question, but with so bad a grace, that Jeannette had no pleasure during the visit of her friends. She would possibly have been more unhappy if this sacrifice had not been made to her by her husband, yet she often wished that she had not accepted it. She could have borne, she thought, any disappointment better than the calm, cold tone in which her husband spoke to her, and to every body around him. There was no want of temper betrayed by him; but Jeannette could feel that his words and actions were influenced by displeasure towards herself, and that he meant she should perceive it. He at the same time paid the utmost attention to Mr. and Mrs. Grant, without, however, unbending in any degree from the dignity of manner he had formerly adopted to the latter, and which it suited his resent frame of mind to assume.

Jeannette often looked at him reproachfully, sometimes inquiringly, as if to say, "Is it you, Lindsay, that can thus torment me?" But whenever she succeeded in meeting his eye, he seemed to take a cruel pleasure in returning her glance, without replying to it. Jeannette became indignant: she thought him cruel, ungenerous, unkind; there were, indeed, no bounds to her condemnation of him, as she resolved that no concession should come from her, no explanation be sought by her. These rash and unwise resolutions were not made without pain; for, as she pronounced them to herself, a vague idea of the desolation of a woman's heart under unkindness from the being on whom the whole of her happiness depends, presented itself to her mind with sufficient force to make her feel timid and wretched. "Let sorrow come through any other channel," she said, “and he could comfort me. From him, all must be borne silently and alone."

It was before these new and unpleasant feelings had passed away, that her mother's picture was sent to her by her brother.

All perhaps have felt, at some period of their lives, the terrible burst of sorrow that a sudden reminiscence of former affection will occasion in moments of actual de

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