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CHAP. XLI.

To Lord St. Maur's great surprise, he found his wife still sitting up awaiting his return, and vidently feeling no inclination to retire to rest. Her eyes were heavy, but it was with tears. Ida, love, what has chanced?" he asked. "Is that poor girl worse? No? why, that's well then what's the matter? If you were a sentimental novel reader, I should fancy you had met with some delightful work of the kind, which had beguiled you of tears far too precious to be thus wasted."

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Would they had been so called, my dear husband. I scarcely know how to tell you all in a few words; and yet I could not retire to rest without doing so. Do not look so anxious: it is nothing concerning myself, but much for my poor Florence."

"Florence! why, what of her? Does she repent her caprice in rejecting Howard, and wish to call him back again? I am afraid, in that case, I cannot help her: she should have thought twice ere she decided," replied the Earl, smiling.

"Pray do not jest, dearest Edmund; my tale is but too serious and sad." And briefly she narrated her interview with Florence-its terrible

communication, and its confirmation by the manuscript still open beside her; but on the contents of which, at that moment, Lady St. Maur did not enter.

The Earl's open brow contracted. "I would not speak ill of the dead," he said, "but Mrs. Leslie has acted wrongly; she should never have permitted Florence to pass as her own child."

'So I felt at first; but I cannot feel it now. Think of the misery poor Florence must have endured from the moment she emerged from childhood, had the truth been known?"

"Better than such misery as is hers now. Measures should have been taken, instead of suppressing, to proclaim the truth-to call upon all who had been accessory to the marriage, real or pretended. Some clue must then have been found, and the child resigned to its natural guardian, or brought up by Mrs. Leslie under its own name."

"But, had all their efforts failed which, from the perusal of these papers I think most likely-poor Madeleine's tale would have been remoured all over Italy; and loving her as she did, could Mrs. Leslie have borne this?"

"Yes, if it had-which it might have doneproved the legality of the marriage. That proved, if she still wished to adopt the child, she might have done so; there would then have been no need to hide the truth, and Florence would have been so spared all the agony of this discovery."

"Agony indeed; but as it is—"

"As it is, I rejoice that she is now so rich an heiress as to be independent of your benevolence, further than the convenance of general society."

Lady St. Maur raised her eyes to his face, in bewildered inquiry. "What can you mean, my dear husband? How can this unfortunate circumstance affect my affection for, and interest in, Florence?"

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Easily, my dear Ida. Can a person of such doubtful birth and parentage continue a fit companion for the Countess St. Maur?”

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"And why not?" replied the Countess, laying her hand upon her husband's arm, while her beautiful eyes glistened with the energy of her appeal. My own husband, banish such a worldling's thought! It was not yourself who spoke. You could not bid me forsake one I have so long loved, and who has shewn herself so worthy of that love, because the merest chance, proceeding from the uncontrollable agony of the noblest act she has yet performed, has revealed a doubt-for it is nothing more upon the legitimacy of her birth. Read these papers, and you will feel as I do: you cannot bid me forsake my poor friend in her deep misery. Edmund, you cannot do this!"

such publicity be avoided? No, not even to Minie would I have it imparted. Your honour is my own; in pledging my word to secrecy, I undertook for you also, my husband. Read but these papers; do not decide upon my future treatment to Florence till that is done. I willingly wait your determination, for I know what it will be."

Lord St. Maur promised to do all she desired, on condition that she would take the rest she so much needed, and trust his zeal for Florence's welfare as truly as her own. He was as good as his word. When the Countess joined him in the library the following morning, the important papers had been already perused, and the Earl sat with his hand resting upon them, evidently in deep thought: he looked up as his wife entered, and spoke with some emotion. "You are right, dearest: it would indeed be unnecessary cruelty to make Florence pay the forfeit of that villain Neville's sin. You shall still be her friend, my Ida; we must do all we can to give back the peace she so much needs.”

"And Howard-is there a hope, a chance of bringing them again together? The blow has fallen heaviest there. Why, why did these fatal papers ever reach her eye? Can it be for good?"

"Ida, my beloved, it is, it must be, or it would not have been," replied her husband. "We must endeavour to persuade her, also, that so it is; that, in being thus revealed to her, the prayer of her adopted mother has been heard and granted."

"I ought to believe it, Edmund, but indeed it is difficult; and Howard-she would shrink in natural repugnance from telling him the truth: but cannot you or I? Surely her case does not come within the pale of those unfortunate attachments he so lately and so solemnly forswore?"

The Earl looked very thoughtful ere he replied. "I am not quite sure whether Howard, with his peculiar, perhaps over-scrupulous notions as to the purity of the woman he loves, would not shrink back from an union with one whose father is utterly unknown, save as a villain. No; Florence has decided not only nobly, but, as regards Frank, most wisely. Better he should never be undeceived, never know that he really had power over a heart like hers."

"But then, is not his happiness sacrificed as

always appeared to me, that his regard for her was more like a brother's than a lover's-too calm, too dispassionate, for love in a person like Frank, whose feelings are never of the quietest kind."

"But still currents run the deepest,"" replied his wife, with a faint smile.

"Yes, love, in all passions but that of Love. It may, indeed, be concealed, but then the outward man will suffer. Never tell me that Howard would not have visibly suffered, had Florence's dependent situation been the sole obstacle to the declaration of his affection. If he had really loved, and felt that love was hopeless as long as his father lived, he would either have fled from her, or been hurried into an avowal of his feelings. I know him well enough, to be quite certain that he could not have concealed them."

"But what has made him act as he has done now?" persisted Lady St. Maur. "There could be no occasion for him to make her an offer, if he really did not love."

"I do not say he does not fancy himself in love, or that he has not done so some time; but only that one of these days he will find himself mistaken, and that bona fide love will affect him in a very different manner. Till we return to England, he was so immersed in politics, in studying elocution, rhetoric, and such things, as to have little thought and less inclination for indiscriminate female society. Your interest in Florence, and the many trials she had undergone, affected him, and inclined him towards her. The last few months, her bereavement, and its sad effect upon her, of course excited his warmest sympathy; and this his fancy has magnified into a still warmer feeling. He has no belief in platonic affection subsisting between the sexes; and therefore, as no woman ever interested him as Florence has done, he fancies it must be love."

"For his sake I hope you may be right, but for my poor friend it matters little. Yet, should your suggestions prove incorrect, and Frank does really love her, will you not make some effort to bring them again together?"

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Wait till Frank returns from accompanying Lord Edgemere on his pleasure trip. If he can still associate with Florence calmly, and find pleasure in her society as before, take my for it he has never loved. Rejection may be cold water on love's flame, and incite pride, and all kinds of petty feelings, to case up the heart; but it never yet so conquered true affection as, by six months' absence, to permit untroubled association with its object. You smile-remember I only spoke of Frank when I said a few months will effect his cure."

"And you really think it is only as a brother

that he feels?"

"So much so that I was rather pleased than otherwise, to hear that Florence had rejected him; fearing that he might chance to discover that he had been labouring under a delusion when it was too late. But I have almost forgotten that I had something else to say to you

relative to, or rather recalled by these papers. Do you remember a strange circumstance mentioned to us just before we left home two years ago?" Lady St. Maur did not remember it. By-the-way, no; I do not think you were present, nor indeed has it ever crossed my mind again till this morning: but you remember Herbert Elford's love of exploring? Well, on one of these occasions he remained a day or two at a rustic village inn, near the source of the Arno. When there, the host, after many apologies, asked him, as an Englishman, to take charge of a small ebony casket containing some papers, which he understood were English, and endeavour to discover their rightful owner. He confessed that in his youth, when performing the part of ostler, waiter, and many others, to the late mistress of the inn, he had believed petty larceny no sin, and had purloined this casket or case from a poor woman who had come there in great distress, given birth to a dead child, and died. They had never known who or what she was, except that she spoke in a strange language. Some benevolent English, who had arrived there by chance, had her decently buried in the church, but put no name upon the tomb. From the great beauty of the casket he thought it must contain gems or coin, and had removed it as its owner lay in the stupor of death. Never hearing any inquiries made for it, he considered his prize secure. Instead, however, of finding gems, the casket contained nothing but papers. Thirteen years afterwards he became master of the inn; but for some time all went wrong with him, and he began to feel twinges of conscience for past misdemeanours. He betook himself to a priest, made full confession, and received absolution, coupled with an imperative command to deliver the casket and its contents to the first English traveller who would take them in charge. For seven years he had not seen such a person, but the prosperity following his confession had convinced him that he could not neglect the priest's charge now an opportunity offered, without calling down on him the wrath of the saints, and so he entreated Elford to release him of his burden. Damp and musty papers, however, had no charm for one so wild and volatile as Elford. Had the lady been living, the affair might have looked like an adventure, and been welcomed accordingly; but as she was dead, and the child too, there could be nothing in it, so he merely glanced his eye over them, fancied they looked like love-letters, and returned the casket to the landlord, advising him by all means to guard them safely still, for he had no doubt they would one day be claimed. It is strange how completely all this had faded from my memory, and equally strange is the vividness with which it has all been recalled by the perusal of these papers."

"And do you think there is a probability of their being connected?" exclaimed Lady St. Maur, who had listened to this recital with intense eagerness. Can we procure them? Could we but remove the mystery hanging

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over our poor Florence, there might be happiness in store for her yet."

"My dearest Ida, we must not permit the hope of such a chance too hastily. Even were we to obtain possession of these papers, they may not be those we so much desired. The outline of the tale alone I remember; there may have been other circumstances narrated, which may throw completely a different colouring over the whole. Where Herbert Elford is at present I do not know, nor have I much chance of tracing him. Do not look so disappointed, my dear love, I would not entirely check your hopes, but I would caution you against exciting any in Florence. All we must endeavour to do is to soothe her back into tranquillity, to convince her that the character evinced by her whole conduct, and if possible yet more nobly in her resolution with regard to Frank, is alone remembered. Do you do this, my love, and trust my vigilance for the rest; only give me time. Á year, perhaps more, may elapse before I can obtain these much-desired papers."

"I will try to be patient, Edmund; but it will be very difficult; however, I will follow your advice. But this Charles Neville, did you never hear of or meet with such a person?"

"Never, that I can recollect. I greatly fear the name was but assumed; and if so, I suspect the marriage, however duly performed, registered, and witnessed, will not hold good. However, I will make every inquiry that I can without exciting curiosity, and meanwhile we must hope and wait."

CHAP. XLII.

It would be equally needless and painful to linger on the long-continued sufferings of poor Florence, before the energy of life in any way returned.

Fever, which the terrible inward struggle of nearly three months' continuance had excited, was so long in being subdued, that Lord and Lady St. Maur, even Sir Charles Brashleigh himself, more than once trembled lest the loss of either life or reason should ensue; and when fever was overcome, it seemed as if she must sink under the utter exhaustion of mind and frame which followed.

Her constitution, however, though delicate was good; and all Lady St. Maur's kindness and attention were devoted to prove that she But the was dearer to her friend than ever. heart and frame had received too severe a shock for even affection to be, as yet, of much avail. After weeks of unconscious agony she did indeed appear sensible of the fond cares which she received, and as if she struggled to prove that she was grateful; but the expression of mournfulness on her sweet, shadowy face too painfully revealed the all-absorbing woe.

Lady St. Maur's principal care was to conceal Florence's illness, or at least its extent, from Minie; and to do so required no little skill, both from her own extreme truthfulness, which shrunk from all evasion, and that the corres