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CHAPTER XVII.

Oft in the Passions' wild rotation tost,
Our spring of action to ourselves is lost;
Tired, not determined, to the last we yield,
And what comes then is master of the field.

POPE.

EFORE a sufficient time had elapsed to verify

the several predictions that Miriam would pine to death, and Leonard be made reckless by his disappointment, the more immediate consequence of their engagement appeared in its effect on á third person. Mr. Merton had only waited until he was sure of his ground, to pay his addresses to Susan in form; and on the evening of Leonard's departure, that assurance was given by her submitting to be the object of his exclusive attentions, instead of discouraging them as formerly. Early on the morrow, Susan was called down to give her own answer to the declaration he had come to make, and when they appeared together, the happy agitation of her lover betrayed that the reply had not been unsatisfactory. Susan seemed to shrink from her mother's tearful caress, as well as from her father's half-rallying congratulation, and she escaped as soon as possible, not to her own room, but Ailie's, which had so often been her haven in trouble and perplexity.

Ailie fancied that it was trouble now, rather than an over-wrought joy, which fixed the scarlet colour in Susan's cheek, and made her voice break down in the attempt to announce her engagement. 'I am only nervous,' she said, trying to laugh away her tears: 'it is all so new and strange, and then I was overwhelmed by Mr. Merton's passionate earnestness. He would not listen to what I said of my not being good enough, nor able to love in the same way. I told him he might find me cold.' 'I have never found you cold, Susan.'

'No, but

you know me so well.'

'And Mr. Merton was satisfied ?'

'If he had been only satisfied, I should be less afraid, but he would hear and understand nothing, except that I said, Yes. He said that was happiness enough.'

6 And you are happy, Susan ?'

'Oh yes,' Susan answered, as she turned her face away; at least, I shall be. I am bewildered now, but already I feel glad to have it settled. I have been so restless lately, and now that I can look up, and lean on him, that must be all at an end.'

'It must be,' Ailie repeated to herself, feeling as if the resolved tone was scarcely prompted by the fluttering joy of requited love. But she did not feel justified in putting her misgivings into words, and she only asked whether Mrs. Mordaunt was pleased.

'Oh yes, you know she has wished it from the first, and Mr. Merton is so fond of Mamma. I believe it was only a rebound from his admiration

for her, which induced him to fall in love with me. And I want to know what you think, Ailie. I have been almost as much provoked by your discretion as by the allusions and hints of other people, for I thought you might have helped me to decide.'

'I am glad to be spared that responsibility,' rejoined Ailie, especially as I have scarcely exchanged words with Mr. Merton, and know nothing of him except his love for you. However, that says much in his favour, and now I shall know him better, and I must try to forgive him for taking you away from me, Susan, though I shall miss you very much.'

'And I you,' Susan answered, with a burst of tears, for which that expression of regret scarcely appeared a legitimate excuse. How happy we were in old schoolroom days, Ailie,―happier than I shall ever be again!'

'Not in the same way, perhaps,' said Ailie. 'But I wonder that you should repine, just as you have tasted of a deeper and fuller joy. You are nervous just now, dear, and I think I had better leave you in peace.'

'No, I do not want to be alone,' said Susan restlessly. Tell me about Miriam, for I have not heard of her today.'

'She is better,-well enough to go out with the rest, though she had no wish to share their holiday, and would have preferred working by herself in the schoolroom. I am very glad that Roger insisted on it, for it was his doing, since George, after the first careless invitation, was quite ready to leave her alone.'

'His energies were expended in persuading me

to join the party to Marly Hill,' said Susan, laughing. 'Mr. Merton would not have admired his pertinacity in inducing me to escape from this morning's audience.'

'I know one, Susan, who has greater cause than Mr. Merton to complain of your relations with George Leigh, and that is his sister.'

'Now, really,' exclaimed Susan, ‘it is too bad to wrest all my innocent amusements into an injury to Miriam. Surely I might be civil to her brother without being accused of any sinister motive, whatever may be said of my intercourse with Uncle Ralph and-and Leonard.' In pronouncing the last word, Susan faltered and changed colour, and that hesitation revealed to Ailie the truth to which she had attempted to shut her eyes. Now Miriam was forgotten in the welfare of one far dearer to her.

'We will not argue about it,' she said hastily. 'Perhaps I have wronged you in imagining that you have, even unconsciously, helped to estrange George still more from his sister, whose patient love is so ill repaid. I cannot think about Miriam to-day, nor about any one but you, dear Susan. You know that I have never pressed for confidence, yet I cannot be satisfied without hearing from your own lips that you are happy. And if only pique and restlessness have hurried you into this engagement, happy you cannot be.'

'I do not know why you should say such cruel words,' said Susan, as she hid her burning face.

'My words are only cruel in so far as they are untrue,' Ailie replied. 'Believe me, Susan, that any present suffering is better than a loveless marriage.'

You are unjust, unkind,' repeated Susan with increasing vehemence. I have not deceived Mr. Merton. I told him that our love was not equal, that it never might be, and he promised to be patient and not hurry me. It is to be a long engagement.'

'No engagement were better.'

'It was his doing, not mine. And I was glad to be bound, or I should have been glad if you had not come between us in this way. Ailie, it was not right to wrest my secret from me, to turn it against me, and shatter all my hopes of retrieving or blotting out the miserable past.'

'Can it be blotted out by a more unhappy future, for unhappy it must be, and by your own fault?' 'If this is your way of wishing me joy, I will go to Mamma,' said Susan.

'You must not think that I wish to come between you. If you would only confide in her, all will be well. Yet I cannot quite bear to think that our old and close tie is to be severed so suddenly.'

'Nor I,' said Susan, and just now, too, when I am so very very wretched.' She sat still, and Ailie made no attempt to disturb her reflections; but after awhile, Susan raised her head and spoke again: Then you give me up, Ailie?' 'No, dear child, I must always love you, and never more than now, when you will not suffer me

to help you.'

No one can help me. I have chosen my own lot and must abide by it, since I cannot unsay the words of this morning.'