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sible that there dwelt on his mind no unpleasing recollection of their quarrel. He smiled kindly, and shook her hand in one of his; while, with the familiarity of one who had known her from childhood, he stroked down her long dark tresses with the other. She stooped her head, as if ashamed, and, at the same time, gratified with his caresses—and he was thus induced to continue them, until, under the veil of her rich and abundant locks he suddenly felt his other hand, which she still held fast in hers, slightly touched with her lips, and, at the same time, moistened with a tear.

At once, and for the first time in his life, the danger of being misinterpreted in his familiarity with a creature to whom the usual modes of explanation were a blank, occurred to Julian's mind; and hastily withdrawing his hand, and changing his posture, he asked of her, by a sign which custom had rendered familiar, whether she brought any message to him from the Countess. In an instant Fenella's whole deportment was changed. She started

up, and arranged herself in her seat with the rapidity of lightning; and at the same moment, with one turn of her hand, braided her length of locks into a natural head-dress of the most beautiful kind. There was, indeed, when she looked up, a blush still visible on her dark features; but their melancholy and languid expression had given place to that of wild and unsettled vivacity, which was most common to them. Her eyes glanced with more than their wonted fire, and her glances were more piercingly wild and unsettled than usual. To Julian's inquiry, she answered, by laying her hand on her heart-a motion by which she always indicated the Countess—and rising, and taking the direction of her apartment, she made a sign to Julian to follow her.

The distance was not great betwixt the dining



apartment and that to which Peveril now followed his mute guide; yet, in going thither, he had time enough to suffer cruelly from the sudden suspicion that this unhappy girl had misinterpreted the uniform kindness with which he had treated her, and hence come to regard him with feelings more tender than those which belong to friendship. The misery which such a passion was like to occasion to a creature in her helpless situation, and actuated by such lively feelings, was great enough to make him refuse credit to the suspicion which pressed itself

upon his mind; while, at the time, he formed the internal resolution só to conduct himself towards Fenella, as to check such misplaced sentiments, if indeed she unhappily entertained them towards him.

When they reached the Countess's apartment, they found her with writing implements, and many sealed letters, before her. She received Julian with her usual kindness; and having caused him to be seated, beckoned to the mute to resume her needle.

In an instant Fenella was seated at an embroidering-frame; where, but for the movement of her dexterous fingers, she might have seemed a statue, so little did she move from her work, either

As her infirmity rendered her presence no bar to the most confidential conversation, the Countess proceeded to address Peveril as if they had been literally alone together. “ Julian," she said, “ I am not now about to complain to you of the sentiments and conduct of Derby. He is your friend he is my son.

He has kindness of heart, and vivacity of talent; and yet“Dearest lady,” said Peveril,

,” said Peveril, “ why will you distress yourself with fixing your eye on deficiencies which arise rather from a change of times and manners, than any degeneracy of my noble friend? Let him be once engaged in his duty, whether in

head or eye.


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66 The

peace or war, and let me pay the penalty if he acquits not himself becoming his high station.”

“ Ay,” replied the Countess; but when will the call of duty prove superior to that of the most idle or trivial indulgence which can serve to drive over the lazy hour? His father was of another mould; and how often was it my lot to entreat that he would spare, from the rigid discharge of those duties which his high station imposed, the relaxation necessary to recruit his health and his spirits."

“ Still, my dearest lady,” said Peveril, “ you must allow that the duties to which the times summoned


late honoured lord were of a more stirring, as well as a more peremptory cast, than those which await your son.

" I know not that,” said the Countess. wheel appears to be again revolving; and the present period is not unlikely to bring back such scenes as my younger years witnessed. --Well, be it so; they will not find Charlotte, de la Tremouille broken in spirit, though depressed by years. It was even on this subject I would speak with you, my young friend. Since our first early acquaintance when I saw your gallant behaviour as I issued forth to your childish eye, like an apparition,

, from my place of concealment in your

father's tle—it has pleased me to think you a true son of Stanley and Peveril. I trust your nurture in this family has been ever suited to the esteem in which I hold you.-Nay, I desire no thanks--I have to require of you, in return, a piece of service, not perhaps entirely safe to yourself, but which, as times are circumstanced no person is so well able to render to my

house.' 66 You have been ever my good and noble lady, answered Peveril, “ as well as my kind, and I may say maternal, protectress. You have a right to command the blood of Stanley in the veins of every


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one-You have a thousand rights to command it in

“My advices from England," said the Countess, “ resemble more the dreams of a sick man, than the regular information which I might have expected from such correspondents as mine;—their expressions are like those of men who walk in their sleep, and speak by snatches of what passes in their dreams. It is said, a plot, real or fictitious, has been detected amongst the Catholics, which has spread far wider, and more uncontrollable terror, than that of the fifth of November. Its outlines seem utterly incredible, and are only supported by the evidence of wretches, the meanest and most worthless in the creation; yet it is received by the credulous people of England with the most undoubting credulity."

“This is a singular delusion, to rise without some real ground,” answered Julian.

“I am no bigot, cousin, though a Catholic,” replied the Countess. “ I have long feared that the well-meant zeal of our priests for increasing converts, would draw on them the suspicion of the English nation. These efforts have been renewed with double energy since the Duke of York conformed to the Catholic faith; and the same event has doubled the hate and jealousy of the Protestants. So far, I fear, there may be just cause for suspicion, that the Duke is a better Catholic than an Englishman, and that bigotry has involved him, as avarice, or the needy greed of a prodigal, has engaged his brother, in relations with France, whereof England may have too much reason to complain. But the gross, thick, and palpable falsehoods of conspiracy and murder, blood and firethe imaginary armies--the intended massacresform a collection of falsehoods, that one would have thought indigestible, even by the coarse ap

VOL. II. -4


petite of the vulgar for the marvellous and horrible; but which are nevertheless, received as truth by both Houses of Parliament, and questioned by no one who is desirous to escape the odious appellation of friend to the bloody Papist, and favourer of their infernal schemes of cruelty.

66 But what say those who are most likely to be affected by these wild reports?” said Julian. s What say the English Catholics themselves?-a numerous and wealthy body, comprising so many noble names?

66 Their hearts are dead within them,” said the Countess. 66 They are like sheep penned up in the shambles, that the butcher may take his choice among them. In the obseure and brief communications which I have had by a secure hand, they do but anticipate their own utter ruin, and ours so general is the depression, so universal the despair.”

“ But the King,” said Peveril," the King and the Protestant royalists—what say they to this growing tempest?"

66 Charles,” replied the Countess, “ with his usual selfish prudence, truckles to the storm; and will let cord and axe do their work on the most innocent men in his dominions, rather than lose an hour of pleasure in attempting their rescue. And, for the royalists, either they have caught the general delirium which has seized on Protestants in general, or they stand aloof and neutral, afraid to show any interest in the unhappy Catholics, lest they be judged altogether such as themselves, and abettors of the fearful conspiracy in which they are alleged to be engaged. In fact, I can not blame them. It is hard to expect that mere compassion for a persecuted sect-or, what is yet more rare, an abstract love of justice-should be powerful enough to engage men to expose themselves to the awakened


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