"'Tis an old-fashioned place," said Frederic; "but it will not be without interest to you. In that chamber to the right, your grandfather and your mother were born."

"They were both children of misfortune," replied Anthony. "But the fate of my grandfather, although he died upon the scaffold, beneath the cruel gaze of an insulting mob, was a merciful dispensation, to the death by inches which awaited his unhappy child."

"That room," resumed Frederic, "contains the portraits in oil of your grandfather and your mother. The one in the prime of life, the other a gay blooming girl of fifteen. From the happy countenances of both you would never augur aught of their miserable doom."

"You must let me occupy that chamber, cousin Wildegrave. If I may judge by my present prospects, I am likely to inherit the same evil destiny."

"These things sometimes run in families. It is the 'visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children, until the third and fourth generation,'"

said Frederic, pulling up his horse at the front gate. "The mantle of the Wildegrave, Anthony, has not descended upon you alone."

On the steps of the house they were welcomed by a very fair interesting-looking girl of sixteen; but so fragile and childlike that she scarcely seemed to have entered upon her teens. She blushed deeply as she received the stranger and her brother.

"Anthony, permit me to introduce you to another cousin. This is my sister Clarissa."

"You did not inform me that you had a sister. This is indeed an unexpected and happy surprise," said Anthony, shaking hands with the young lady.

"I thought it best to introduce all my pets together," returned Wildegrave, patting his sister's meek head. "Clary is a shy, timid, little creature, very unlike your sparkling Juliet, with whom I happen to be personally acquainted; but she is a dear good girl, and the darling of her brother's heart. Her orphan state seems to press painfully upon her young mind. She seldom smiles, and I can never induce her to go into company. But we must try and break her of these monastic habits, for she is not so young as she looks, and by this time she should know her position in society."

"I do not love the world, nor the world's ways, Frederic," said his sister, gravely. "It contains but one happy spot, my own dear tranquil home, and I love it so well, that I never wish to leave it."

"But you must not expect to live at home for ever, Clary," said her brother, as he took his place at the tea-table. "Suppose I was to take it into my head to marry, what would you do then? Perhaps you would not love my wife so well as you do me."

"It is time to prepare for that when she comes," said Clary. "I think I shall live along with you, dear Fred, as long as I require an earthly home."

Something like a sad smile pa.s.sed over the pensive face of the fair child, for a child she still was, in stature and simplicity.

"And so you shall, my darling. I have no idea of bringing home a new mistress to Millbank; and long may you live to enjoy your birds, and lambs, and dogs, and cats, and all the numerous pets that you have taken upon yourself to adopt and cherish."

"Ah! Fred, that reminds me of a pair of lovely Barbary doves I got to-day from some unknown friend. They came from London by the coach, in a pretty green cage, with no note or message; but simply directed to 'Miss Wildegrave.' I must bring them to show you; they are such loves."

Away ran Clary to fetch her new pets. Frederic looked after her, and laughed. "I sent for the doves, Anthony, as a little surprise. How delighted she is. She is a fragile creature, Cousin Hurdlestone; and I much fear that she will not require my care long. My mother died in giving her birth; and, since the death of my sister Lucy, who was a mother to Clary, the child has drooped sadly. She was always consumptive, and during the last two months I can perceive a great change in her for the worse."

"I do not wonder at your anxiety. Oh, that I had such a sister to love!"

"Love! she was made to love. So gentle, affectionate, and confiding. It would break my heart to lose her."

"You must not antic.i.p.ate evil. And, after all, Cousin Wildegrave, is death such a dreadful evil to a fair young creature, too good and amiable to struggle with the ills of life? If I were in her place, I think I could exclaim, 'that it was a good and blessed thing to die!'"

"You are right," whispered the sweet low voice of Clarissa Wildegrave.

"Death is our best friend. I see, Mr. Hurdlestone, that you and I are related--that we shall love each other, for we think alike."

This would have been a strange speech, could it have been taken in any other sense than the one in which it was meant; and Anthony, as he took the dove, the emblem of purity, from the fair hand of Clary, thought that a beautiful harmony existed between the bird and its mistress.

"I am sure we shall love each other, Miss Wildegrave. Will you accept me as a second brother?"

"I don't want two brothers, Mr. Hurdlestone. I love Frederic so well that I never mean him to have a rival. No; you shall remain my cousin.

Cousins often love as well as sisters and brothers."

"And sometimes a great deal better," said Frederic, laughing. "But since you have made up your mind to love Anthony, sit down and give us another cup of tea."

"There is some one below-stairs, Mr. Anthony, who loves you at any rate," continued Clary, after handing the gentlemen their replenished cups. "One who is quite impatient to see you, who is never tired of talking about you, and calls you her dear boy, and says that she never loved any of her own sons better than you."

"Ruth! is she here? Let me see her directly," said Anthony, rising from the table.

"Sit down, Mr. Hurdlestone. I will ring the bell for her. She can speak to you here."

In a few minutes, a plainly-dressed, middle-aged woman entered the room.

"My dear foster-mother! Is that you?" said Anthony, springing to meet her.

"Why yees, Muster Anthony," said the honest creature, flinging her arms round his neck, and imprinting on either cheek a kiss that rang through the room; while she laughed and cried in the same breath. "The Lord love you! How you bees grown. Is this here fine young gentleman the poor half-starved little chap that used to come begging to Ruth Candler for a sup o' milk and a morsel o' bread? Well, yer bees a man now, and able to shift for yoursel, whiles I be a poor old woman, half killed by poverty and hard work. When you come in for your great fortin, don't forget old Ruth."

"Indeed I will not, my good mother; if ever that day arrives, I shall know how to reward my old friends. But you make a strange mistake, Ruth, when you call yourself old. You look as young as ever. And how are all my old play-fellows?"

"Some dead; some in service; and my eldest gal, Mr. Anthony, is married to a Methody parson, only think, my Sally, the wife of a Methody parson."

"She was a good girl."

"Oh, about as good as the rest on us. And, pray, how do old Shock come along? Is the old dog dead?"

"Of old age, Ruth. He got so fat and sleek in my uncle's house, you never would have known the poor starved brute."

"In truth, you were a poverty pair--jist a bag o' bones the twain o' ye.

I wonder the old Squire warn't ashamed to see you walk the earth. An'

they do tell me, Measter Anthony, that he be jist as stingy as ever."

"Age seldom improves avarice."

"Why, nothing gets the better for being older, but strong beer. An' that sometimes gets a little sourish with keeping."

Anthony took the hint. "Ah, I remember. Your husband was very fond of ale--particularly in harvest-time You must give him this, to drink my health." And he slipped a guinea into her hand. "And to-morrow, when I come over the hill, I shall expect him to halloo largess."

"The Lord love you, for a dear handsome young gentleman. An' my d.i.c.k will do that with the greatest of pleasure." And, with an awkward attempt at a curtsey, the good woman withdrew.

After chatting some little time with Frederic and Clary, Anthony retired to the room appropriated to his use.

The quiet, un.o.btrusive kindness of his young relatives had done much to soothe and tranquillize his mind; and he almost wished, as he paced to and fro the narrow limits of his airy little chamber, that he could forget that he had ever known and loved the beautiful and fascinating Juliet Whitmore.

"Why should mere beauty possess such an influence over the capricious wandering heart of man?" he thought; "yet it is not beauty alone that makes me prefer Juliet to the rest of her s.e.x. Her talents, her deep enthusiasm, captivate me more than her handsome face and graceful form.

Oh, Juliet! Juliet! why did we ever meet? or is G.o.dfrey destined to enact the same tragedy that ruined my uncle's peace, and consigned my mother to an early grave?"

As these thoughts pa.s.sed rapidly through his mind, his eyes rested upon his mother's picture. It was the first time that he had ever beheld her but in dreams. Radiant in all its girlish beauty, the angelic face smiled down upon him with life-like fidelity. The rose that decked her dark floating locks, less vividly bright than the glowing cheeks and lips of happy youth; the large black eyes, "half languor and half fire,"

that had wept tears of unmitigated anguish over his forlorn infancy--rested upon his own, as if they were conscious of his presence.

Anthony continued to gaze upon the portrait till the blinding tears hid it from his sight.

"Oh, my mother!" he exclaimed, "better had it been for thee to have died in the bloom of youth and innocence, than to have fallen the victim of an insidious--villain," he would have added, but that villain was his father; and he paused without giving utterance to the word, shocked at himself that his heart had dared to frame the impious word his conscience forbade him to speak.

What a host of melancholy thoughts crowded into his mind while looking on that picture. The grief and degradation of his early days: his dependent situation while with his uncle: the unkind taunts of his ungenerous cousin; his blighted affections and dreary prospects for the future. How bitterly did he ponder over these!