CHAP. III.

Sweet Juliet, that with angels dost remain, Accept this latest favour at my hands, That living honour'd thee, and being dead, With funeral praises do adorn thy tomb.

ROMEO AND JULIET.

The day was now fixed at the distance of a week for the removal of the St. Aubyns to London. Ellen lamented much the impossibility of having Laura Cecil with her, who would have been such a support to her in a situation so new; but nothing could be urged on that point, as it was impossible she could leave Juliet, who appeared sometimes better sometimes worse, but always patient, gentle, and pious to a degree that was really angelic.

Ellen felt sincerely grieved to leave her, and proposed that she should be removed to London for better advice, but found this expedient had been before resorted to, and Doctor B----'s advice frequently renewed by letters since, and that it was thought the air of London did not agree with her. The weather now, for the time of year, the second week in March, was remarkably mild; and the medical man in attendance on Juliet, who had now been for some days tolerably free from the low fever which generally hung about her, permitted her to go out once or twice in a garden chair, for the benefit of the air: the returning verdure of spring seemed, for a time, to revive her: but whether the exertion was too much, or some un.o.bserved change in the atmosphere affected her delicate frame, could not be known; but she was suddenly seized with one of those attacks of fever which had so frequently brought her to the brink of the grave; and on the day before that fixed for Ellen's leaving Northamptonshire, a note from Laura announced that the life of this admirable young creature was despaired of.

"She is perfectly sensible," added the afflicted sister; "the dear angel retains all her usual pious composure; she wishes to see you. Could you, dear Lady St. Aubyn, without being too much affected, come to her?"

Ellen, bursting into tears, put the note into St. Aubyn's hand, saying, "Oh, my dear Lord; let me go--pray let me go directly!"

"Be less alarmed, be more composed, my dearest love," replied he, after glancing over the contents, "or I cannot consent to your going. I wish it had not been asked."

"Oh, indeed, dear St. Aubyn, I am quite composed, quite easy; but I shall suffer much more in not seeing the dear, dear creature once again, than even by witnessing this sudden and most unexpected change."

"Well, my love, we will go together; but do not be too much alarmed; she may yet recover: Laura's fears may outrun the occasion: Juliet has often been very ill before; but we will go: they will both, I know, be pleased at your coming."

He then ordered the carriage, which was soon ready; and half an hour brought them to Rose-hill. Ellen was immediately shewn to Juliet's room: by the bed-side sat Laura: her cheeks, lips, and whole countenance, were the colour of monumental marble; not a tear fell from her eyes; not a sigh heaved her bosom; but the woe, the deep expressive woe which marked every feature, no language could describe: she rose, and advanced a few steps to meet Ellen, grasping her hand with one which the touch of death could alone have rendered colder; her lips moved, but no articulate word broke the mournful silence.

Ellen turned pale, shuddered, and looked ready to faint; Miss Cecil made a sign to an attendant, who, bathed in tears, stood near her: she placed a chair for Lady St. Aubyn, and brought her a few drops in some water; she wept, and was relieved.

"Oh, why did I send for you!" said Laura, in a low tone, and speaking with difficulty; "I fear it is too much."

"Don't be frightened, my Lady," said the nurse: "Miss Juliet is a little easier; she is dozing."

In a few minutes Juliet moved and spoke, but so faintly, her voice could hardly be distinguished. In an instant Laura was on her knees beside her, and catching the imperfect sounds, replied in a voice which betrayed not the anguish of her soul, "Yes, my love, she is here--will you see her?"

Then turning to Ellen, she motioned her to approach. Ellen rose, and went to the bed-side; she looked on Juliet, and saw that sweet angelic countenance, slightly flushed, and looking as composed as ever; and ignorant of the appearances of disease, fancied her better, and was, in some measure, comforted. Juliet faintly articulated a few words, expressive of the pleasure she felt in seeing Ellen, and would have said more, but the nurse, for the sake of all, interposed, and requested that Miss Juliet might not be allowed to speak much. With difficulty she held out her feeble emaciated arms to Ellen, who tenderly embraced her, and half dissolved in tears, retired to the window, whither she drew Miss Cecil. Still the wretched Laura shed no tear; and the deep grief, impressed on her fine countenance, was much more painful to the beholder than the loudest expressions of sorrow could have been.

"Give sorrow vent: the grief which does not speak Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break!"

"For heaven's sake, my dearest Laura," said Ellen, "endeavour to take comfort; surely she is better--she will recover!"

Laura only shook her head; and the nurse approaching, said, "Indeed, Madam, Miss Cecil will kill herself; she has not had her clothes off these two nights, nor has the slightest refreshment pa.s.sed her lips this day."

"Oh! talk not to me of rest or food," cried Laura, "I can partake of neither."

Ellen most tenderly urged her to take something; but pressing her hands upon her heart, she replied, "Oh no, oh no--I could not; indeed I could not. Go," she added, "my dear friend--go, this is no place for you; nothing but the request of ----; nothing but _her_ request should have induced me to send for you."

"But now I _am_ here," said Ellen, "surely you will allow me to stay; I may be of use to you; of comfort to dear dear Juliet."

In vain she urged. Laura sacrificed all selfish considerations, and insisted on her returning home, promising to send to her should Juliet wish to see her again; and St. Aubyn, anxious for her, now sent to request his wife would come: she therefore embraced her friend, and looking once more on the departing saint, who now again lay heavily dozing, she lifted up her hands and eyes to heaven, and, with another shower of tears, left the room.

St. Aubyn was rejoiced to find her disposed to accompany him home, though she complained bitterly that Laura would not let her stay.

"Laura," said he, "judges as she always does, wisely, and acts kindly: you could be of no real service, and your being here would be highly improper; you must not think of it."

Two days of the greatest anxiety now pa.s.sed, and at the end of that time the fair and lovely Juliet breathed no more: her last moments were attended by consolation so powerful, and hopes so celestial, as might well have taught the worldly "how a Christian could die!"

For many days Laura was confined to her bed, and it was feared she would follow her sister to the grave; but by degrees she shook off the excess of her sorrow, and for her father's sake endeavoured to recover from the dreadful shock she had received.

Sir William Cecil, who had long been convinced that Juliet would not live many months, was more easily consoled. The St. Aubyns of course had delayed their journey to London on this event; and finding that Sir William Cecil was disposed to make an excursion to Bath, which his gouty habit indeed rendered almost necessary, they endeavoured to prevail on Laura to come to them at St. Aubyn Castle for a short time, and then go with them to London. From this proposal, especially the latter part, she for some time shrunk, and wished to be allowed to remain at Rose-hill alone: but that her friends would not permit: and Sir William having arranged to go to Bath at the same time with a neighbouring family, and to be in the same house with them, Laura was at length prevailed on to remove to the Castle, and from thence, after a short stay, to accompany her friends to London, where they promised her an apartment exclusively her own, and that she should see no other till she herself wished it.

"Yet why," said she, "my dearest Lady St. Aubyn, why should I burden you with one so powerless to add to your comforts, or partake your pleasures?"

"Is not that an unkind question?" said Ellen; "or do you really believe me insensible to the gratification of soothing your mind, and supporting your spirits? Whenever you will permit me, I will be your visitor in your apartment; whenever my company would be irksome, I will leave you to yourself, provided I do not find you the worse for the indulgence."

All was therefore thus arranged, and Miss Cecil, Lord and Lady St. Aubyn in one carriage, and Miss Cecil's maid, and Ellen's talkative but faithful Jane, in another, with out riders, &c. in great style left Northamptonshire, and arrived the next evening at the Earl's magnificent house in Cavendish-square.--Lady St. Aubyn's first care was to select such an apartment for the mournful Laura as would make her easy, and free from restraint; and having conducted her to it, she told her she was entirely mistress there, and never should be interrupted unless she chose it.

Ellen, who had made several little attempts in verse since she had seen those of Miss Cecil, now soothed her sorrow for the loss of the sweet Juliet by a few stanzas, which, when she thought her able to bear them, she gave to Laura, who was gratified by this little tribute to her loved, lamented sister's memory.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

How mourns the heart, when early fades away The opening promise of a riper bloom; When youth and beauty, innocently gay, Sink in the silent ruin of the tomb!

Oh, thou pure spirit! which in life's fair dawn, Arose superior to that childish frame, (Fair tho' it was) from which thou art withdrawn, To that bright Heaven from whence thy beauty came.

Sweet Juliet! happily releas'd from care, Which future years perhaps had bade the prove; A heart so tender, and a form so fair, Ill with the perils of the world had strove!

Thy heart expanding at affection's voice, How had it borne in native kindness warm, To check the rapid fire of youthful choice, And dread deceit beneath the loveliest form!

To thee were graces so benignly given, A soul so tender, and a wit so rare; A love of harmony, as if kind Heaven Had bade thee for an early bliss prepare.

Long shall the heart which lov'd thy dawning grace, The pensive mem'ry of each charm retain; Thy winning manners studiously retrace, And dwell anew on each harmonious strain.

Nor shall that heart to present scenes confine Its views and wishes; but with worthier care, Seek to preserve an innocence like thine, And humbly hope thy happiness to share.

CHAP. IV.

To such how fair appears each grain of sand, Or humblest weed as wrought by nature's hand!

A sh.e.l.l, or stone, he can with pleasure view.-- ----See with what art each curious sh.e.l.l is made: Here carved in fret-work, there with pearl inlaid!

What vivid th' enamel'd stones adorn, Fair as the paintings of the purple morn!

S. JENYNS.

The arrival of the St. Aubyns in London opened a wide field for conjecture and conversation in the fashionable world. It was known, for St. Aubyn's haughty relations had not failed to publish it, that he had married a young woman far inferior to him in rank, and absolutely without fortune. It was also known that she was uncommonly beautiful; and great anxiety, mixed with no small share of ridicule, was excited by her expected _debut_; but the modest Ellen was in no haste to afford the starers and sneerers so rich a treat: she merely went to a few morning exhibitions, attended only by her Lord, for the first fortnight of her stay in town; and indeed St. Aubyn hoped, notwithstanding her present distance and displeasure, to induce his aunt, Lady Juliana Mordaunt, to chaperon Ellen to some of the public places, being fully sensible what an advantage it would be to her to be so supported: he therefore acquiesced in her wishes, till he could bring about this desirable arrangement, and allowed his wife to spend most of her evenings at home.