Here she looked earnestly at the book as it lay on the table, and a tear again evidently trembled in her eye. Resuming, she went on :

"You talk, Mr. De Clifford, of leaving us to-morrow. My father cannot oppose it, if you think your duty elsewhere, or what has happened here, requires it; of which you alone are the judge. All I can say— and I do so most sincerely-is to hope that you may not travel before your strength is equal to it. If really, however, you feel strong enough, we cannot oppose your wish. But never can we forget our obligations to you, in coming so promptly and so kindly to support my sinking brother, and afterwards ourselves;— though that was too soon rendered powerless by the lamentable accident under which you have so much suffered. That it should have happened to you while my father's guest, enhances our concern; and coming, too, so close after the most unhappy of all calamities

Here her feelings got the better of her; and whatever formality had before appeared, from whatever cause, she forgot it all in this allusion, thus surprised from her, as to her brother's fate. A sort of convulsive sigh prevented her from going on, till at length she added:

"No: no one felt for us under this mournful event more than you, Mr. De Clifford; and yet your interest about us has produced calamity to yourself; wounds to your person, and unhappiness, it should seem, to your mind. Whatever you have fancied as to changes, which circumstances, I think, might account for, do

you think we can see this with indifference, or let you part from us, as you say you think it right to do, for ever, with coldness? No; as we never can forget whose friend you originally were in the family, or the sympathy you have shewn us on his loss, so we shall ever be interested in your prosperity, and ever happy to hear of it. More I cannot say."

At this she again took up the volume I had restored to her, looked at it with emotion, and turned from me, evidently to hide and recover from the effect of her feelings.

I was deeply affected; nevertheless, there were parts of this speech in which caution seemed so studiously united with kindness, that I was left without a hope to rest upon, that I ever had been or could be any thing to her, though she was still every thing to me. The little proofs of tenderness she shewed on taking back the book, proceeded evidently from her goodness, and the surprise occasioned by the sight and return of her present,—which, pleased as I was to observe her emotion, I did not fail to remark she accepted without remonstrance or opposition. Her reasoning, too, on the expression of my feelings, was cool and without any disturbance. She was sorry that in my weak state I should leave them, but took no pains, or, at least, was not desirous, to delay my departure. In fact, she took me at my word. Upon the whole, it was evident that I was nothing to her, and I felt accordingly.

I endeavoured to speak, but my heart was too full. Yet, after the interest she had expressed, I could not leave her coldly; and I had no other opportunity to

bid her farewell as I wished. I was already on the threshold, and had begun to retreat in silence, but turned and perceived she had thrown herself into a chair, and was leaning her cheek on her hand, as if reflecting on every thing that had passed, certainly not as if it had been indifferent, but with most entire acquiescence, and with no expectancy that the conversation should be renewed.

Though much moved, I had no wish to interrupt this state. I saw that with whatever friendly feeling Bertha might have regarded me, she could part, at least, with all the demonstration of it the moment a suspicion arose that I loved her; and that suspicion, spite of the excuses made for delirium, had now got possession of her mind. Hence her cool decision of purpose, though at the expense of no inconsiderable degree of that exquisite feeling which, though always united with firmness, was her characteristic.

Thoroughly impressed with these truths, I governed myself accordingly in the farewell I still wished to

take of her.

of me.

"I cannot leave you, Miss Hastings," said I, "after all the condescending things you have just uttered, without at least thanking you for them. Very sweet will their recollection be, whatever may become In struggle, in misfortune, in poverty, in obscurity, or in a prosperous career, should Heaven so will it, the remembrance of your virtues, of your sweetness-and may I not add, the hope of your goodwill-will cheer me on my road through the world, though I may never see you again. Ought I ever

indeed to wish to do so, even could I suppose myself welcome, or return to a spot, where I am a supposed object of pity? No; the golden_days of my life are over, never to return; nor would Miss Hastings herself wish me to regret leaving a place which, though I once thought it heaven, is heaven no longer. Alas ! it is too clear that Foljambe Park is now no place for a comparative outcast."

Bertha started at these words, and shewed evident distress in her countenance, waving her hand as if she wished me to desist from such a strain, so I only added, “It is, however, to you, a place of happiness. May you ever be, as you are, its ornament and its pride, the solace and support of your excellent parent, and the dispenser of blessings to all around you!"

I could go no farther; my unfeigned and unbounded respect, as well as love for her, quite unmanned me, in thus hopelessly leaving her; and I am ashamed to say, that while emulating the firmness of a philosopher, I shewed the weakness of a woman.

Bertha perceived it, though having covered her face with her hand, I had no power to observe what her own feelings were, except that a deep and hysterical sob, which fell on my ear as I left the summer-house, shewed that, though I was willingly allowed to depart, it was not without sympathy.

44

CHAPTER V.

I RETURN TO OXFORD.-ITS ALTERED ASPECT.

He's full of alteration and self-reproving.

SHAKSPEARE.-King Lear.

I HAVE SO little pleasure in commemorating the remaining hours which I spent at Foljambe Park previous to returning to Oxford, that I hastily pass them over. It is almost sufficient to say, that after my mournful parting with Bertha, I saw her no

more.

When two persons lay themselves out to avoid one another, the chances are strong that they do not meet. Hence, Bertha remaining all the rest of the day in her chamber, and I either in the lower rooms or out of doors, we pretty well provided against encountering again till dinner. For my own part, I marked this as another proof of her newly-assumed distant behaviour; and this was only confirmed when we assembled for dinner-I mean Granville and I, with Mr. Darling, the clergyman of the parish; for Mr. Hastings coming in, with an anxious countenance, and somewhat solemn step, observed, he was sorry we