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CHAPTER XXXIX.

What a bridge

Of glass I walk upon, over a river

Of certain ruin, mine own weighty fears
Cracking what should support me! and those helps
Which confidence lends to others are from me

Ravish'd by doubts and wilful jealousy.

By what name should we designate that feeling which enables us to say to grief,-not now, in a little while I shall be all yours? Is it pride, or magnanimity, or a temporary aberration of mind, that empowers us to deceive ourselves with fallacies that would not deceive others? and which makes us, after a momentary struggle, in imagination so triumphant,-in reality so feeble and overthrown?

But

Jeannette's mind, on arriving at home, was almost as much bewildered as her heart was distressed, and she experienced all that wretched desire for the relief of tears which the incapacity to shed them so much increases. she said to herself," why, oh! why?" and burying her blushing face in her hands, she tried to force the answer to her own inquiry unlistened to back upon her heart. She strove to veil her feelings from her own knowledge, and to persuade, nay, to convince herself that it was not, that it could not be because she loved. She accused herself of folly, of vanity, of presumption and self-indulgence, and she vowed never more to think of Lindsay Bathurst,―never again to cherish one idle hope, one futile expectation. Her emotions had heightened the glow of her cheeks; and Matilda, when first she looked at her, recommended that she should go out no more that night. But Jeannette's deceptive feelings on this occasion blinded her judgment of her bodily strength. She assured Matilda she was equal to any exertion; but that, if it would gratify her, she would promise not to dance. She ascribed the agitation of her spirits to her disappointment in not having met with Mrs. Crosbie, and her imprudence in going to the Opera alone;

and she was now glad of that circumstance as a subject of lamentation, because it was tangible, and because she could speak of it to Matilda. But Matilda was not deceived: she saw her sister's wretchedness, and her determination not to speak of its cause. She could however do nothing. Her father's dinner-guests were departing, and it was necessary, if they went, that they should accompany him immediately to House.

They were long in arriving, and poor Jeannette's exaltation had time to lower. The fever of her mind abated, and as she entered the saloon of one of the most elegant and splendid mansions in England, the whole world was becoming the blank to her that it had before once been.

But she did not yet sink. The glare and glitter were distasteful and oppressive to her in the extreme, and the people that flitted around her seemed like the creatures of a pageant whom she was condemned to look at for a time. Friends and strangers were of equal value in her eyes, and the greetings and recognitions of the former, but for Matilda's vigilance in rousing her, would have passed unperceived and unacknowledged.

A very celebrated singer sang that night for the first time in a private party, and every thing that this talented individual looked, said, or did, was of course freely and fully talked of. Her features, figure, complexion, and dress were each as separately and carefully criticised as if the fate of Europe had depended upon her beauty and attire. Few moral truths have been so universally admitted as the perfection of her foot; and perhaps no abstract question, however interesting to humanity at large, was ever half so patiently investigated, or half so generally discussed, as her positive and comparative merits. It was not till Jeannette was appealed to for her opinion that she was sensible of her presence, and she was a little shocked to find how absent she had been. But, happily for society, there are a few conventional phrases, which, if introduced at the proper moment, will hide a multitude of ignorances and inadvertencies of an equally heinous nature.

Matilda watched her sister with anxiety, for she saw that her mind was nearly in a state of stupor. She had asked her if she would like to return home; but Jeannette had refused, and Matilda then proposed that they should en

deavour to find seats in an adjoining room. It was in their way thither that they encountered Lindsay Bathurst, who sprang eagerly forward to meet them. "I heard you were here," he said, " and have been stationed near this doorway for an hour, in order not to miss you." These words were addressed to Matilda, but he looked towards Jeannette, and with so much affection, that had she looked again they might even then have understood each other. But Jeannette's thoughts and feelings were at that moment all turned inward, all gathered together into one painful focus: she had seen him; he was beside her, and it was nothing to her. The interview she had hoped for, prayed for, had been granted her, but had involved her in greater misery than she had ever before known. His presence was an oppression to her she could have borne any thing, she thought, better than having him near her, and hearing him speak on commonplace subjects, and in a commonplace manner. It was strange with what unreasonable swiftness she strove to set a seal on her heart against all hope, or with how fixed a purpose she avoided once looking towards him. At one moment she was left alone with him, and their mutual silence was embarrassing to both. He wished so anxiously to say something to her, but was intimidated by her coldness. He was anxious and agitated, and looked around him, as if to find in external objects relief from the awkwardness of his position. Jeannette interpreted this slight movement into weariness of being near her; and she said to him gently but firmly," Do not let me keep you, Mr. Bathurst; Matilda will soon return."

The blood rushed to his brow, and he said "Good God, Jeannette!" with a depth of emotion that spoke to her soul.

If

She would have spoken, but it was too late. He had removed from her side, and she was left to the miserable reflection that she had been in error-that Lindsay Bathurst was not changed towards her,-that her destiny had been in her own hands-and that she had offended him for ever. she could have viewed the case with calmness she might have seen more to rejoice at than be sorry for; but her soul had been called too strongly into action for any one feeling or passion to visit it in moderation. Her hope, her exaltation, her pride, had all been extreme, and so was her

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despair. She sat the image of wo; and by the time Matilda returned to her, the conflict of her mind had produced so great an effect upon her, that her sister exclaimed aloud"You are ill, my dear Jeannette-what is the matter?"

"Home-home," was her indistinct reply.

Matilda looked around in search of her father, and in so doing she encountered the eye of Lindsay Bathurst. She would have beckoned him towards her, but the thought which at that moment crossed her mind was particularly unfavourable to him, and, all unresentful as was her disposition, her glance was reproachful, and even angry. It said as plainly as words could have done, “I know that it is you who have in some manner distressed my poor sister."

And, strange to say, the reproach was gladness to him, and drew him instantly towards the sisters; for he said to himself" then I am at least suspected of possessing influence-and it is perhaps true;—if it be, what a barbarian have I seemed and been this night!" But the voice of selfreproach, amid the tumult of his revived and delightful hopes, was but as the sound of a low-breathed flute when accompanied by louder and more spirit-stirring instruments.

All this was instantaneous: he had only approached and offered his services so amiably, so kindly, as to reconcile Matilda to him, when Mr. Langham joined them.

"Will you take us home, papa ?" said Matilda.

"Most willingly, I have long been tired," and her father instantly offering his arm to his eldest daughter, made an inclination to Lindsay Bathurst, who was advancing also to Miss Langham, to intimate that he would leave Jeannette to his charge.

In a tone and manner which he meant should be playful, conciliatory, and repentant, he said as he drew near her,"You see, Jeannette, there is really no avoiding me."

But Jeannette, who heard the words, did not mark the difference of tone. Her father had stopped to speak to some person immediately before her, and she could therefore, without difficulty, take possession of his disengaged arm.

Matilda, whose eye was resting on her, saw the action, and the effect it immediately had on Bathurst. She could only imperfectly guess at what was passing in the heart of either, but it appeared to her that Jeannette was trifling with her own happiness.

She therefore immediately retreated, and taking the arm her sister had rejected, said quietly,--" Then if you go with papa, Jeannette, I will take Mr. Bathurst's arm.

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He did not speak until he was on the point of parting with her he then proved that the kindness of her action had been felt by him.

"I shall ever be grateful to you for your one act of kindness to me this night. Good night, and farewell, dear Miss Langham !"

"Good night, Mr. Bathurst, but not farewell-Jeannette is in the carriage-say good night also to her."

Mr. Langham was already on the barouche seat, and was urging Matilda to be quick; but she held back to afford Bathurst an opportunity of following her advice; he could not help advancing, but he made no attempt to speak. Jeannette passively yielded him her hand; but as he tenderly took it, a warm tear fell upon his own, and a low, stifled sob met his ear. Mr. Langham repeated his admonition to Matilda to be quick,—and Lindsay Bathurst, at a moment when he would have sacrificed ten years of his life for five minutes' conversation with Jeannette, was compelled to hand her sister into the carriage-and as it rolled rapidly away, it seemed to him that he was separated for ever from the object of his affections.

How many useless and distressing questions are uttered by affection to the sick at heart!

My loved Jeannette," said Matilda, "speak to me!" Jeannette's tears flowed too fast for utterance. "Why do you weep?-My dear Jeannette, be calm!" "I am-I am-but, Matilda, do not speak to me, for I cannot bear it."

Matilda knew by experience how useless any farther effort of hers would be to sooth, console, or animate. She crept, however, several times to the door of Jeannette's apartment that night, and hoped, because she heard no sound, that her sister slept.

But Jeannette this night experienced the wretched truth, that slumber comes not readily to the unhappy. She wished to weep, but no tear came to her eyes; she knelt, but no prayer came to her lips,-she could not even, utter some oft-repeated form of words. Her heart was filled with vague and unutterable wo; she felt the want of support, but all she could articulate was-" Hear me, hear me !"

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