could, Catherine sought her chamber, there to indulge, not in the "luxury of woe,"-for in whatever department of misery that is to be found, it certainly does not exist in the precincts of jealousy-she, retired to be as completely and entirely wretched as the fact of her husband's visiting her mortal enemy, and the great probability of his being deeply fascinated and charmed by the attractions of that enemy, could possibly render her.

So vividly did her imagination place before her the scene in which he was engaged, that more than once she started up with a sudden resolution of dressing herself and following him to the house of Augusta, and alleging to her, as indifferently as she could, that she had changed her mind, and felt desirous of joining the party; thus preventing by her presence the attentions which St. Aubyn, in her absence, might not be indisposed to render to his host

ess.

She was sure that she should be less miserable there than at home, and she rung the bell for the maid to assist her toilette.

But by the time the summons was obeyed, the inconsistency and strange appearance of such a proceeding occurred to her, and she felt that she ought not to adopt it: and that, in fact, however she might attempt to disguise it, it would be nothing less than telling to Augusta all that was passing in her mind. "You may go," said she, turning to the servant who had obeyed her summons, and stood waiting to know her pleasure.

"I tell you that you may go," she repeated angrily, as the girl, perceiving her pale and agitated coun

tenance, and still more agitated manner, hesitated to quit her.

tears.

When, however, the command was so sternly repeated, she retired; and Catherine overwhelmed with a consciousness of terribly wrong conduct, burst into She was naturally kind and considerate to her servants, and beloved by them all: for her disposition, though hasty, was of too elevated a kind to feel any pleasure in the exercise of power over her dependents, except to make them comfortable, by the easy manner in which she required their services.

But now, as the mistress of a family as well as a wife, she was rapidly losing ground in the esteem she had inspired; and but too conscious that this was the case, she could but mourn with increasing anguish the fatal cause which had led to this subversion of all that was right.

She sobbed as if her heart would break; and while thus torn to pieces with passion contending with remorse, a voice struck upon her ear which came from a room adjoining her own, the door of which was

open.

It was a sweet, gentle voice softly repeating "mamma!" It was the voice of Edmund her only child, which, breaking upon her ear in accents so mild at such a moment as this, gave a check to her emotion as powerful as it was unexpected.

She hastened towards him, believing that he called for her but he was asleep, and in his slumbers had pronounced her name. He too seemed to be wrapt in his little visions; but they were apparently of a calmer, happier nature, than those which occupied the waking fancy of his poor mother; for as he slept he smiled, he murmured inarticulate sounds

again he smiled-he even laughed, so gay and pleasant were the images that passed before his dreaming spirit.

Though the tears were wet upon her cheeks, though the throb of anguish still heaved her bosom,

it was impossible for Catherine to withhold a sympathising smile as she gazed upon her sweet boy. She bent down and kissed his cheek; and, as if she had at last found a pillow of rest for her aching head, she laid it upon his bosom, and though she wept incessantly, it was with tears that now seemed to give her infinite relief.

Her grief gradually died away in heavy sighs. Images succeeded each other with less rapidity and distinctness; they became obscure and dull-till at length, exhausted and overpowered, she fell asleep by the side of her child.

In this situation she was discovered by St. Aubyn on his return home-painfully discovered! for had the most minute detail been given him of all she had endured in his absence, it would have less forcibly impressed him than what he beheld. He could trace it all: he could see indeed, in her pale and hollow cheek, strong vestiges of what had passed; and in his mind's eye he could well pourtray the despair of heart which had driven her to the couch of her child, as to the only asylum which her disordered imagination represented to be left for her, in her self-created

sorrow.

“Oh! how worse than childish is this!" he could not forbear from exclaiming ; for though affected by her uneasiness, it was not unnatural that an emotion of displeasure should prevail over compassion, when

he thought of the unreasonableness which prompted this indulgence of feeling.

Nevertheless he took her hand with the utmost tenderness, gently calling upon her to awake.

She was instantly roused at the sound of his voice, and fixed upon him her heavy eyes, with an expression so mournful, that, as if she had addressed to him the bitterest reproaches, he could not refrain from replying to it.

"You are unjust to me, Kate," he said; "you wrong me cruelly, and one day you will think so, if you do not now."

She sighed deeply, but attempted no answer, till, having struggled with the feelings which, as he spoke, almost impeded his words, he was going on to address her again.

Then rising, she laid her hand upon his arm: "If I do wrong you, St. Aubyn," she said, "I must beseech you to forgive me. I will try to believe that I am unjust, since you say that I am. But, whether I be so or not, I know that my heart is well nigh broken. Nay, do not look at me so impatiently," she continued, perceiving the irritation with which he listened to this, "but spare me at this moment any further discussion. Indeed I cannot bear it.”

"I am sure that I cannot," he replied, breaking away from her in fear that he should say any thing to exasperate her, so totally was his indignation excited by the wretched manner in which she appeared to him to be frittering away her peace.

CHAPTER VI.

FOR a short time St. Aubyn refrained from accepting the invitations of the Elliots; but, on such occasions, a consciousness of his sacrificing what she believed to be his wishes, threw a cloud over the satisfaction which Catherine would otherwise have received from this circumstance; and she painfully felt, in her incapacity to be cheerful, that her society but ill requited him for losing that of the sprightly Augusta.

A weight the most oppressive seemed to have been thrown over the whole of her mental frame. She was totally incapable of any exertion. All that she did was to go quietly about the house, with very few words and no smiles, occasionally occupying herself as it were mechanically with a book, or her work, or any thing that served to pass away the time, which evidently was tedious to her beyond all endurance.

Believing it impossible that this strange alteration could result from the mere operation of fancy, St. Aubyn began to think that her health was affected, and that bodily disease in some measure contributed to produce it.

But she declared herself to be perfectly well, and vehemently protested against receiving any medical advice.

Provoked beyond all measure at her conduct, he then, for the first time in his life, asserted his authority as a husband in a manner not be disputed; and VOL. I.-G