CHAPTER V. EXCITEMENT is not the natural food of the human mind. It may for a while, give life to imagination, and quicken sensibility; but like other stimulants, it is destructive both to the health of the body, and to the soundness of the mind; and like other stimulants, it leaves behind an aching void. Anna Clare lived, moved, and had her being, in this deceitful element. Her beauty was the glow of animated feeling, and her genius more resembled the vivid, and uncer-| tain sparkling of electric fluid, than the steady light of a fixed star. Disturbed with the suspicion now almost amounting to certainty, that the short-lived friendship of Miss Julia was exhausted, she suffered herself to dwell perpetually upon the kindness of her brother, as her only source of consolation; while inwardly harassed and perplexed, by thoughts which it was impossible to communicate, she rushed with redoubled ardour into new enjoyment, in the vain hope of extinguishing every painful recollection of the past, and quieting every apprehension for the future. This state of feeling was not calculated to last long; and a new evil, hitherto unthought of, began to steal rapidly upon the rest. Days of hurry and fatigue, and nights of sleepless anxiety, had followed each other in such rapid succession, that in spite of all her efforts, first, to be well, and then to appear so, she found her health and strength were rapidly declining. A violent cold, the consequence of keeping on wet clothes, was probably the immediate cause; for now a total loss of appetite with frequent cold shiverings, and other fervish symptoms, gave alarming intimations of approaching illness. They were travelling through a wild and inhospitable looking country; and ah! how did Anna think of her own home, of all its slighted comforts, but most of all, of Mary Newton. The thoughts of returning while she had yet the power, was perpetually upon her mind. But then the means !-Once or twice it was upon her lips to ask Frederick Langly-No! she could ask any thing of him but money; and money of any one, rather than him. And yet, he was the only one of the whole party who had hitherto noticed her indisposition; which soon, however, became sufficiently obvious to all; and a consultation was held one night after she had retired to bed, upon the best manner of proceeding either with or without her. "We can never exist in this horrid place until she pleases to recover," said Lord B-, "that's a dead certainty. Why you might expect better accommodation if you were travelling post to the. The hostess looks as if she were planning where to bury us; and that great Highland lass, her daughter, sharpening knives to cut our throats!" Julia, perplexed beyond measure, at last thought of appealing to medical advice; and a lad half asleep was dragged out of the chimney corner, and mounted on a blind pony, to make what speed he could to the nearest doctor, who lived at the distance of seven miles. In the mean time the party amused themselves with such fare as their quarters afforded, and all but Frederick forgot the cause of their anxiety. He was absent and thoughtful; and neither the witticisms of Lord B—, nor the raillery of the ladies, could induce him to assume a gaiety which it was impossible for him to feel, while fully aware of the awful and critical situation of Anna Clare. Not merely awful and critical as regarded her life, but there were other considerations that weighed heavily upon him, now that she seemed likely to be so lightly shaken off by his sister. The doctor came and pronounced it impossible for Anna to be removed without endangering her life. "Julia," said Frederick, as he led his sister into an outer room, "you will not think of leaving this poor creature alone?" "No, certainly not alone, but what would you advise me to do?" "If I was my kind hearted sister," said he, laying his hand upon hers, "I would stay with her myself.” "Who, I?—you know that I am the worst nurse in the world. Besides, it may turn out some shocking fever, most probably infectious; and then I might be dead and buried in this horrid country, before any one in England knew." tread of bustling feet, and other signs of preparation which she could not understand. Whenever she looked up, too, there was an old woman seated at the foot of the bed, whose cold glassy eyes were fixed upon her face, but the weariness of exhausted nature overcome her curiosity, and she slept again. Once she hardly knew whether it was a dream or a reality) a gentle voice asked if "I would not leave you, Julia," said her she were awake; the old woman's finger brother, still hoping he might prevail. "No no," said she, resigning his hand, it is too much to ask of me; but I will speak to Nevil; perhaps she might be induced to stay, and yet I hardly know what I shall do without her." Nevil was spoken to and resolutely rerefused, adding, that she must really be compelled to resign her situation, if such a thing were required of her. "Then what on earth can I do?" exclaimed Julia, returning to her friends, who unanimously protested against remaining another day at such a place; and yet, when the comfort of the poor cottager was the subject of consideration, they looked round and protested it was a vastly comfortable sort of inn for that part of Scotland, and just the thing for those who wanted to be quiet; the landlady, a very decent sort of woman, and the Highland girl the best creature in the world; until, encouraged by these assurances, Julia at length determined upon doing what her better feelings refused to sanction,-leaving this young and helpless creature, alone, and ill, in a strange land. But she would speak to the doctor herself; she would engage a nurse, and do all things considerate and kind, and then surely Frederick could not blame her. Frederick did blame her, however, and severely too, though silently; for he said to himself, "if my sister has really the heart to leave her, that heart is not worth appealing to." Anna slept little that night; but in the morning the fever abated, and she fell into a dreamy sort of slumber, not deep enough to prevent her hearing occasionally the was lifted up, and the reply was, "Then I won't disturb her, but see that you take care of her ;" and soon after the carriage wheels rolled away from the door, and Anna slept quietly till near mid-day, when she awoke to the full possession of her senses, and the consciousness of her forlorn and deserted situation. She was left, alone, at a little village, in the north of Scotland, with neither strength nor money to take her home. Appalling as was this conviction, the poor invalid determined to risc, and endeavor to shake off her weakness; and in order to rid herself of the unwelcome attentions of her stranger nurse, she descended, with feeble and tottering steps, to the little parlour below, which the merry party had so lately deserted. Every thing here was cold and dreary: the fire had not been lighted, and a north wind was blowing through the open window, that looked out upon the side of a bleak hill, round which wound the road, where the marks of the carriage wheels were still visible. All was now so still, that Anna could distinctly hear the cry of a fretful child, and the chiding of an angry mother, from a house on the opposite side of the street, if street it might be called; the bleating of some wild sheep amongst the heath; and the rustling of the wind through the branches of some old firs that grew beside the window, and creaked, and moaned in the blast, as if complaining of their lonely and melancholy fate. Anna's feelings, peculiarly alive at this time, to sights and sounds of wretchedness, gathered around her a host of images too painful for endurance, and she burst into rapidly stealing upon her. For a short time her spirits rallied, for the presence of Frederick was a great stimulus ; but it need tears exclaiming, in true bitterness of soul, "Mary, my friend, my only friend, surely there will need no lesson after this to teach me that I am poor, and blind, and miser-ed both his support, and that of the nurse, to able!" The pressure of a gentle hand upon her arm called back her wandering thoughts; called back the colour to her pale cheeks, and to her heart the warm glow of life and hope; for it was Frederic Langley who stood beside her. "I thought you were all gone," said the poor girl, as soon as the hurry and confusion of her feelings allowed her to speak. "Why did you not leave me?" "I answer in the words of your favourite poet, 'Why, all have left thee:' and though he has wisely and justly given this simple and touching expression to the lips of woman, yet, trust me, there are men, who can be faithful, and kind, when women are heartless and cruel." "I do trust you," said Anna, with warmth. "I was just saying, I had but one friend in the world; but you have been more to me than a friend.” "Say a brother, if you please Anna, and then we shall be at ease with each other; but let us have a fire, and shut out this cold wind, and make our prison as comfortable as we can. You are not so very ill, I hope and trust, but that we shall be able to meet our party at Edinburgh in the course of a few days." He then explained how he had taken his horse early in the morning, and ridden out under pretence of calling upon a college acquaintance who was then shooting in the Highlands, leaving a message for his sister, that if he found his friend at home, he should probably not join them again before they reached the city, which he hoped they would do by the end of the following week. How vain are the struggles of the most determined will against the encroachment of disease! Anna Clare would at this time have given worlds, had she possessed them, to shake off the weariness, the langour, and all other symptoms of approaching illness, that were enable her to regain her little comfortless chamber, where she was doomed to spend many wearisome days of sickness and sorrow, varied only by intervals of stupor and delirium,-days that were counted by Frederick with the anxiety, if not exactly with the affection of a brother. The fever at length abated; and Anna, feeble as a child, once more looked out upon the hills, and the purple heath, now bright in the sunshine of a cloudless autumn day. The time was fast approaching for Julia and her party to be at Edinburgh on their way home. The time was fast approaching, and yet Anna was so weak, it would have been madness to attempt the journey. No expence or trouble would have been spared by Frederick which might enable him to attain his object, and place his poor friend again under the protection of his sister before they reached home; for, pleasant as it might be to linger amongst the hills, with this beautiful young creature, he felt that upon this crisis depended her good name with his family at least, if not with her own. Could they join their party in time, she might be helped forward by easy stages, and her own appearance would sufficiently justify the story of her illness; but if she remained alone with him, what story could he make sufficiently plausible to satisfy the enquiries of the uncharitable, and the scruples of the envious? At this juncture a letter arrived from Julia. Frederick was alone, and eagerly tore open the seal. It had been detained upon the road, and now told the sad tidings, that the fair writer and her friends would leave Edinburgh on that very day, having waited for Frederick as long as their patience would allow. "It is all over," said he, throwing the open letter upon the table. "It is all over, and we must make the best of it." It was past midnight when he awoke from self, "Your Christian Friend, his reverie. He was sitting with his feet transgressions, I venture to subscribe myupon the bars of a little grate that contained the expiring embers of a turf fire. "No, no," said he, starting from his seat, and snatching up the candle, now burnt down into the socket. "Her protector I must be, but no more; and for this reason I will see her as little as possible." So saying he retired to rest, with that solid satisfaction of heart, which the applause of the world cannot give, nor the venom of its envious tongue destroy. His time was now spent chiefly in shooting, and Anna being unable to amuse herself with her usual pursuits, felt hers hang heavily upon her hands. CHAPTER VI. It was on one of these long and lonely days, that a letter was brought to the invalid, sealed with the crest of the Langleys, and directed by a female hand. Her own trembled as she opened it, and read as follows. "Miss Clare will probably be surprised that I should have taken the trouble to address a person in her situation; but regard to myself, and my family will no longer permit me to be silent. From my sister and her friends I have learned all the particulars of your strange conduct; and can only wonder that we have not been more sensible of the deep and wicked artifice by which you endeavoured to seduce the affections of our beloved brother;-too prone, alas! to fall into the snares of Satan. With regard to the future, my object in writing, is to request or rather to insist, that you will never make any other claim upon our family, of any kind whatsoever, resting assured, that such claims would be rejected with contempt, if not punished by the law. "Wishing you may experience a sincere and heartfelt repentance for all your "P.S. My sister does not know of my writing. She is extremely sorry on your account, and can with difficulty be persuaded that you have been so very artful and depraved. Lord B.-alone has had the good sense to discover, and the sincerity to speak the truth. "You will do well to burn this, and say nothing to my infatuated brother." Poor Anna! she read the letter again, and again, turning it backwards and forwards, and looking alternately at the direction, and the contents, to assure herself of the reality. Her senses had been stupified by long illness; and it seemed almost impossible for her to comprehend the whole truth. No tears came to her relief. A single kind word would have brought them in torrents. One exclamation at last burst from her lips. "Oh! Mary, you warned me of insult and neglect, but you never warned me of any thing half so horrible as this!" When Frederick Langley returned that night, the invalid was still sitting in the little parlour, her cheeks flushed with burning crimson, and her eye bright and wandering. Shocked by the wildness of her looks, and her unconnected and hurried answers to his simple questions, he asked the nurse if any thing particular had occurred during his absence; and she told him that a letter had arrived about noon, and that since then she had not been able to persuade the young lady to take the least thing, nor even to move from her chair. Frederick returned, and seating himself beside Anna, took her feverish and burning hand, while, in a firm and determined manner, he began to question her about what had passed. "Circumstances," said he, แ over which we have no controul, have placed us in a strange and difficult situation. To be your protector has become my duty, as it would at any time have been my pleasure; but in order that I may serve you entirely, it is necessary, that with me you should have no reserve. I therefore call upon you as a friend, and one who is entitled to make such a demand, to tell me what has distressed you." Anna made no reply; but the quivering of her pale lips gave sufficient evidence of her internal struggle. At last she drew forth the letter, and opening it with trembling fingers, placed it in Frederick's hand. Rage and indignation gathered on his brow, while his eye glanced rapidly over its contents. His mind had been prepared for such an attack, and he had no need to read it twice; but tearing the letter into a thousand pieces, he thrust them through the bars of the grate, and spoke not till every atom was consumed. "There," said he, "is an end to this specimen of my sister's hypocrisy and malice, and I wish we could say the same of all the mischief it has done. But do not mind it, my good girl; you have done nothing that is wrong in the sight of heaven. Your heart is as pure as the snows of these mountains; and they shall be compelled to acknowledge it." With the consciousness of her own innocence, Anna tried to comfort herself, and in some measure she was comforted; but how to return was the question that perplexed them both. It was strange, that in this critical juncture, the principle of evil, ever ready to furnish ways and means, did not suggest to Frederick, that now, when Anna's reputation had received so severe a blow, it would be requiring comparatively but a small sacrifice, to ask her to remain with him, or to consent to seek with him, some more genial climate, where her health and happiness might be restored. To say that he did not think of it, would be much to venture upon any of his sex, in a similar situation; but Frederick Langley was an honourable man, and spurned the idea of taking an unfair advantage, especially of a woman. Be sides, he did not yet know the strong impression made upon his own affections; nor how often, after his return to college, the fair image of Anna Clare would present itself; first, animated, brilliant, and gay, as he had seen her at her father's house; then, feeble, helpless, but still beautiful, as she now sat before him, writing at intervals, as she could bear the fatigue of writing to her friend, Mary Newton. And wonder not, gentle reader, that the short and incoherent letter which follows, should have cost the poor writer the greatest possible fatigue, both of body and mind; so humbling are the consequences of illness;-so incomprehensible the construction of the human frame. "DEAR MARY, "When I last wrote to you, I was happy. Happy in the contemplation of all that could delight me,-the clear skies, the mountains, and the streams; and now, if I write of mountains, it will be of the mountains of grief that are upon my heart; if of streams, it will be the streams that flow from my eyes. I have fallen into great trouble since my illness. I am still very weak, and my hand trembles so, that you will not believe this to be my writing; but indeed Mary, it is the writing of your own friend-your friend, who is now humbled in the dust. Yet do not mistake me, I am guiltless in the sight of heaven; and only wish I could feel my innocence to be a greater consolation. Frederick Langley has been to me--but I will tell you when we meet, how kind, how delicate, how generous his whole conduct has been: and you, I know, will believe it; for whatever my faults may have been, I never was guilty of deceiving you. In the mean time, I entreat you to think kindly of me, and to try to make my father and yours think so too; for indeed Mary it was illness, and not inclination, that kept me here. Pray for me, dear Mary, for I am weak, both in body and mind; and these cruel Langleys will trample me into the grave." Before Anna's letter reached its destina |