CHAPTER VII. "Nay never droop, nor let thy lip's red rose. Phineas Webb. GENERAL GREVILLE was not accustomed to let a matter rest, on which he had once set his heart. He hurried from room to room, fretted and fevered. "This wayward girl shall hear my whole opinion; Courtney shall be the man ;" and as he pronounced these words, he opened the door of a small apartment, to which Catherine was in the habit of retiring, and in which she then was, deeply engaged in writing, and only stopping at intervals to wipe away her tears. Pained at the sight, he stood irresolute whether to proceed; but the consciousness, that too free an indulgence of this idle sorrow might render its consequences serious, he approached her. "Rouse yourself, my child, what, always in tears? Was it for this that I returned to England? It is possible to make me angry at last. Exert that spirit which so well becomes you-and strive to forget this Vaughan. Nay, no alarm, Catherine, your secret is no longer in your own power, and ought it, my dear girl, to have been so long a secret from me?" sur "I ought scarcely," said Catherine, looking up mournfully in his face, "to .be prised at this intimation. Amid such a host of eyes, I could hardly hope that my regrets should escape notice, or avoid condemnation. I was never intended by nature for a hypocrite. These tears are my witness, that I have not the art to conceal the sadness which oppresses and overwhelms me." "A truce to this language. Are you not aware that this is a sorrow which the world is apt to view with contempt, instead of compassion. My daughter must give no ground for private malice or public derision. You will be laughed at as a love-lorn damsel, and your cousins, of whom, to speak generally, I have no favourable idea, will be the first to tell the tale. You must appear again in their evening parties-join in their morning excursions. A little timely fortitude, and all will be well.” "Oh! sir, how hard is the task that you would impose. Give me but time. I cannot appear in the world with a contented countenance, whilst all within is desolate." And she placed her hand instinctively upon her heart, the throbbings of which might almost have been heard in the silence. "I have not come here to teach you artifice, Catherine; I ask you not to disguise but to subdue feelings which are no longer justifiable. Forget this Vaughan. I know that your sufferings are keen; but I know also, that griefs of this nature are not incurable. I have seen many who have wept like you, and who afterwards, in the protection of an honourable husband, have looked back with wonder at their own delusion." "That time, my father, will never come to me." "It will, it must," said the General, with a vehemence that alarmed the trembling girl. "Must I again warn you, that it is possible to awaken my resentment. I tell you that there are those at this hour anxious and worthy to dry your tears. To come nearer to the point, there is one who has my free consent to make the trial, and my hearty wishes for his success, and that one is Philip Courtney." "He!" said Catherine, with a look of mingled scorn and fear. "And why not?" cried the General, his voice rising to its former pitch; "an honourable, excellent, plaindealing young man. This is romance be yond belief, folly inconceivable; I had hoped better things. I saw there was no mild and gentle virtue which you did not practise. I thought there was none, however bright and heroic which you could not attain. Is it not enough to drive one mad to see you waste your life in pining after a thoughtless, selfish, unprincipled —; it is true, I speak only from report,—but report speaks strongly against him." "And I speak from experience,-long experience. I have shown that I hold him not free from error." "Can it be possible that you still feel any attachment to this fellow ?" "His unkindness fades from my mind. I can remember only that he was generous, noble, and kind." "I have done," said the General, receding; "I give up my task in despair; but recollect, girl, that this heart, old and insensible as you may deem it, may yet be broken by ingratitude." "Dearest father? hear me,-spare me. You are now all to me; hear but the natural and last excuse I have to offer. You shall hear Vaughan's name from me no more; but recollect under what circumstances we met, and how we parted. We were both children of misfortune, and myself an orphan even in prospect. I was alone in the world, or surrounded only by unkind relations. The first voice of kindness that had ever met my ear was from Francis Vaughan. My sole hope was in him. We met in a melan choly time; and, outcasts of fortune as we both were, something like a providence seemed to sanction the bond of two most unhappy and bitterly tried beings." She wept in silence. Then clasping her father's hand: "I never saw my mother. I knew not then a father's tenderness; and is it to be wondered at, that my thoughts, my esteem, should have been given to my only friend?" "You shall have time; and I do not despair of yet seeing you transformed into that happy being I had hoped to have found you." With these words he quitted her; and Catherine once more left to solitude, (and to the wretched even the freedom of solitude is an enjoyment,) resumed her occupation. It was to Vaughan that she was writing. "It is done," she exclaimed as she folded the letter;" on his reply hangs my destiny." Once or twice she stopped to consider, whether she should not submit it for perusal to some one, on whose advice she could rely; but to whom could she apply? "My father," she argued, "is unacquainted with him, and is besides strongly prejudiced. He would dictate a harsher style than I can bring myself to adopt. Mrs. Vaughan, indeed, knows, or imagines she knows him perfectly; but she may be blinded by her partiality,-she would deem circumstances trivial, which so |