without a word, she jumped in, and hastily pulled down her veil. 66 My dear Isabel, Lord Vernon has spoken to you twice," said Mrs. Denison. She leaned forward, with a murmured apology. "I only said I was afraid you were very hot," said the unfortunate youth, thus compelled to repeat his civility a third time. He might well say so, her very brow was flushed with emotion. They drove home in silence. Mrs. Denison was the kindest of women, the kindest of chaperons. She never intruded her advice, never sought a confidence that was not willingly given; never spoke if silence was preferred, but was always willing either to speak, or to listen, or to advise. She did not, perhaps, thoroughly understand Isabel's character, but they had never had a moment's discomfort, and this was no light praise, for there were times when Mr. Denison's admiration for his daughter, and apparent preference for her society, gave her many a secret pang. They drove along in silence. Isabel was in a trance. Not one thought, yet, of Herbert. But when they reached the house, and she had flown up to her room, the holy eyes of Clarence's picture fell upon her, and at once Herbert stood before her, with his sad, reproachful gaze. Joy was passed sorrow and remorse had begun. Oh! how this spring of love resembleth And by and by a cloud takes all away! CHAPTER XIV. The star of the unconquered will, And stern, and self-possessed. LONGFELLOW. To describe the feelings of that hour were impossible. From the revelation of her own heart in sickening anguish Isabel turned away. She, who had so admired all that was great and noble; she, who had so often and so loudly condemned falsehood and inconstancy, who had so remembered, so mourned over her father's sin; she it was who had prepared this bitter cup for him who loved her so devotedly! There was no mistake-all now was as clear as day-she loved Clarence, and Clarence only. Every thought that could aggravate her guilt now presented itself to her awakened conscience. She thought how it was in absence, when none was there to plead for him, that her faithless memory had forgotten Herbert. She remembered how she had chosen one bright, and rich, and gay, and noble, while he was far away in his humble, but most holy duties. She remembered how she was poisoning anew the life which before now a woman's falsehood had embittered-and then she thought of his care for her, of his providing for her against this very temptation! Thought upon thought arose, till she seemed to herself a creature dyed with the blackest guilt, and in cold and silent despair she laid her aching head upon the table. In vain Annie endeavoured to arouse her young mistress, when the dressing-hour came. She merely shook her head, and remained immoveable. At last, the At last, the appearance of Mrs. Denison, whom Annie, alarmed at Isabel's pale cheek, had summoned, recalled her to the necessity of self-command; and, pleading a violent headache and her temples throbbed indeed almost to bursting-she begged to be allowed to go to bed, instead of dining out. In the quietness of the hours thus gained, she revolved the whole of the last year of her excited life. Every scene lived again; almost every word spoken by Herbert or Clarence came again to her memory, and in shame and anguish she found, that for many, many weeks, Clarence had filled every thought and feeling of her heart. The hours of that long night passed at length; the stern self-examination was concluded; and the morning found her pale, calm, sad, and resolved. She went down to breakfast, as usual. If Mr. and Mrs. Denison suspected anything from the agitation of the previous day, they left it to its own course. They were too anxious for an event which they thought must ensure Isabel's perfect happiness, to disturb, or, as is perhaps often the case, destroy it, by any premature remark or inquiry. To her answer of "Much better-almost quite well," Mrs. Denison replied by shaking her head. |