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                               MARGARET CAPEL.



                                   A NOVEL.



                                BY THE AUTHOR OF

                          "THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE."




                               IN THREE VOLUMES.

                                    VOL. III.




                                    LONDON:

                     RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

                                    1846.





                                    LONDON:
                 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.





                                MARGARET CAPEL.




CHAPTER I.

    For not to think of what I need's must feel,
    But to be still and patient all I can,
    And haply, by abstruse research, to steal
    From my own nature all the natural man:
    This was my sole resource, my only plan.

    COLERIDGE.

    And time, that mirrors on its stream aye flowing
    Hope's starry beam, despondency's dark shade;
    Green early leaves, flowers in warm sunshine blowing,
    Boughs by sharp winter's breath all leafless made.

    ANON.


Margaret remained for more than a year in the most perfect retirement.
The solitude of Ashdale was nothing to that of Mrs. Fitzpatrick's
cottage. This tranquillity was well adapted to her state of feeling:
she never experienced a wish to interrupt it. She was sincerely attached
to her hostess. Although reserved, Mrs. Fitzpatrick was even-tempered;
and she became very fond of Margaret, whose society filled up such a
painful blank in her home. Both had suffered much, though neither ever
alluded to her sufferings: and sorrow is always a bond of union. When
first she came to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's, her health was so delicate, that
the poor lady feared she was to go through a second ordeal, similar to
the one she had lately submitted to with her own child. Margaret had a
terrible cough and frequent pain in the side, and whenever Mrs.
Fitzpatrick saw her pause on her way down stairs with her hand pressed
on her heart, or heard the well-known and distressing sound of the
cough, the memory of her daughter was almost too painfully renewed. But
Mr. Lindsay pronounced the cough to be nervous, and the pain in the side
nothing of any consequence; and though winter was stealing on, his
opinion was borne out by Margaret's rapid amendment.

Circumstances had long taught Margaret to suffer in silence: she found
then no difficulty in assuming a composure of manner that she did not
always feel; and soon the healing effects of repose and time were
visible in her demeanour. The loss of her uncle was become a softened
grief--for her other sorrow, she never named it even to herself. Yet
still if any accident suggested to her heart the name of Mr. Haveloc, it
would be followed by a sudden shock, as though a dagger had been plunged
into it. She could not bear to think of him, and it was a comfort to be
in a place where she was never likely to hear him named.

And in the beautiful country, among those fading woods, on that
irregular and romantic shore, was to be found the surest antidote for
all that she had endured--for all she might still suffer. In the soft,
yet boisterous autumn wind--in the swell of the mighty waves--in the
fresh breath, ever wafted over their foam, there was health for the
body, there was peace to the mind. The scenery was so delightful that
she was never tired of rambling--and so secluded, that there was no harm
in rambling alone. And though a beauty, and by no means a portionless
one, she found means to pass her time without an adventure, unless the
vague admiration entertained for her by a young coxcomb who was reading
for college with the clergyman, might deserve that name.

This youth, not being very skilful in shooting the sea-gulls, had
nothing on earth to do except to make love to the first pretty woman he
might encounter. He had literally no choice; for Margaret was the only
young lady in the parish. She was waylaid, stared at--was molested in
church by nosegays laid on the desk of her pew, and annoyed at home by
verses that came in with the breakfast things. She was reduced to walk
out only with Mrs. Fitzpatrick; she was debarred from sitting on the
beach--gathering nuts in the woods--even from wandering in the garden,
unless she could submit to be stared at from the other side of the
hedge. Trained, as she was, in the school of adversity, (a capital
school, by the way, to make people indifferent to minor evils), she
could not help crying with vexation when the butler coolly brought her
up the fiftieth copy of wretched verses, setting forth her charms and
her cruelty in no measured terms.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick had smiled to see the contempt with which Margaret
brushed down the first bouquet among the hassocks, and left the second
unnoticed upon the desk; even the sweet scent of the Russian violets had
not softened her resolution, and the verses wrapped round their stems
became the property of the beadle. But Mrs. Fitzpatrick, really sorry
for the annoyance of her young charge, spoke confidently to the good Mr.
Fletcher; and she had the pleasure to assure Margaret that the Hon. Mr.
Florestan was going away at Christmas. Still she had felt some surprise
and more curiosity at the conduct of so very young a girl, under such
circumstances--there had appeared no vanity, no agitation, none of the
natural emotion resulting from the novelty of inspiring a passion.

Mr. Florestan was a boy of good family; some people would have called
him a man, for he was seventeen and a half; he wrote rhymes and bought
hot-house flowers; so many girls would have been delighted at his
homage. Margaret seemed merely bored: she cried, as she said, from
absolute weariness of him and his scented paper; from the perpetual
chafing of a small annoyance. His love was too contemptible to cause a
stronger feeling; for herself she had never looked at him, and did not
know whether he was tall or short. Once or twice when Mrs. Fitzpatrick
had called to her, 'Look, Margaret, there goes your devoted swain!' she
had been so long in putting down her work, and coming to the window,
that he had turned the rocks, or the corner of the road, and the
opportunity was lost. And he actually left the place, without her ever
having seen more of him than a green coat and brass buttons, with which
he was wont to enliven their parish church every Sunday, and which being
on an exact level with her eye, she could not without affectation avoid.
Such entire indifference to a conquest, Mrs. Fitzpatrick could not
understand, and she told Margaret with a smile, that some day she would
be more indulgent to the feelings of a lover than she seemed at present.
The well-known sharp pain went through Margaret's heart as she spoke;
but she smiled too, and said she had a great respect for lovers, but she
saw no cause to enrol the Hon. Mr. Florestan in their ranks. And so the
subject dropped.

After this, many months passed in such stillness, that Margaret hardly
knew how they flew. Her only regular correspondent was Lady d'Eyncourt.
Her letters formed the one excitement of her life. It was so delightful
to trace her from place to place; to hear the little anecdotes of her
travels--even the name of Captain Gage, mentioned casually, brought back
vividly to her remembrance, the many happy days she had passed at Chirke
Weston. And in the few allusions to her husband that her letters
contained, it was evident that the devotion she felt for him before
marriage, had increased, and was still gathering strength in a degree
that it was perilous to indulge. She said, herself, that the unclouded
sunshine of her life could hardly last. To say that she adored Sir
Philip, was no figure of speech in her case. The more intimately she
became acquainted with his character, the more she found to love and to
respect. He had no _little_ faults. The reserve which repelled others,
vanished entirely with her; and the most exacting of an exacting sex,
must have been content with the measure of his fondness. She was not so
much his first, as his only object. Captain Gage often said that they
were made for each other, and neither party seemed inclined to dispute
the opinion. At last, the storm came. After an unusual silence on the
part of Elizabeth, Margaret received a letter--a few lines from Captain
Gage, announcing the terrible news of Sir Philip's death. He had been
carried off in a few weeks by a fever, at Marseilles. Elizabeth was
expecting to become a mother; and the next hurried intelligence from her
father announced the disappointment of her hopes,--and spoke of his
intention of taking her on to Italy as soon as her health would permit.
These few lines had been sent to her at the desire of Elizabeth, and she
could not but feel them a proof of her unaltered friendship.

Margaret felt, after this shock