# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 98

CHAPTER XXII.
DISCOVERY.
Who, that had looked on her that morn, Could dream of all her heart had borne? Her cheek was red, but who could know 'Twas flushing with the strife below? Her eye was bright, but who could tell It shone with tears she strove to quell? Her voice was gay, her step was light, And beaming, beautiful, and bright: It was as if life could confer Nothing but happiness on her. Ah! who could think that all so fair Was semblance, and but misery there!
"I cannot understand the cause of Sir George Kingston's not calling this morning; he knows that I am returned to town:" and a flush of haughty anger coloured Lady Marchmont's brow; but the colour deepened when she looked at the time-piece, and had been ​expecting him for hours. How many changes had passed over her mind during that time! At first, there had been only that intense and passionate delight which fills the very soul at the thought of seeing a beloved object. Gradually came on the wonder of the loving heart, that any thing in the world could induce him to delay such happiness. Then thoughts, less entirely of eager and uncalculating affection, intervened:—the flattered and spoiled beauty was surprised that she should be kept waiting. But mortification was of short endurance. Henrietta felt too deeply for small vanity, she soon grew anxious; and if there be one torture which the demons, who delight in human misery, might rejoice to inflict, it is the anxious suspense of love acting upon an imaginative temperament. It is extraordinary the power of creation with which the mind seems suddenly endowed, and only to suppose the worst. Death, sickness, crime, misfortune,—these are the images which start upon the solitude made fearful with their presence. But there mingled among them, for Lady ​Marchmont, a spectre darker than the rest—remorse. Whatever sorrow might be hanging over her head, and her punishment might be greater than she could bear, she bitterly acknowledged that it would be just.
At this moment a note was brought in, its perfume reached her before itself. She knew it was from Sir George.
"Any answer?" asked she, with a careless coldness, belied by her flushed cheek and trembling hand.
"None," replied the servant; and Lady Marchmont was left alone; only then had she courage to open it. It contained a few hasty lines:—
"How have I offended you? Twice have I called this morning, and each time you have been peremptorily denied. What unknown crime, Henrietta—if I dare still call you so—have I committed? Shall you be at Lady Townshend's masked ball to-night? In the course of the evening I shall send you some flowers; I implore you to wear them. Not but ​what I should know you under any disguise; still wear them as a sign that I may hear my fate from your lips. Till then, as through life, Your devoted servant,
George Kingston."
Lady Marchmont read the note in mute astonishment. She clasped her hands for a moment tightly together, and the blood sprang from the bitten lip; she then slowly, but calmly, approached the table, and rang the hand bell. The servant immediately appeared.
"Did you misunderstand my orders?" said she. "I desired Mademoiselle Cecile to say, that I should be at home this morning."
The man appeared a little embarrassed, and replied with some hesitation:—"Lord Marchmont has, perhaps, forgotten to tell your ladyship that he gave the porter a list of names, including all those who were henceforth never to be admitted; and it so happens, your ladyship, that the list includes almost all who have called to-day."
"If such were Lord Marchmont's orders, ​of course they are also mine," replied Henrietta, with desperate calmness.
The man left the room, and she sank back, pale and cold, on the sofa; but her agony was too great for fainting. There could be but one motive for Lord Marchmont's conduct; and yet she felt almost grateful to him. He had not exposed her to general comment: Sir George Kingston was only excluded among others. She had not given him credit for so much delicacy; it touched her to the heart: she felt capable of any sacrifice to repay it.
At that moment she heard Lord Marchmont's step upon the stairs. A world of agony was in the next few moments; every slow and heavy step of her husband fell, like a death blow, upon Henrietta's ear. The door opened, and she cowered among the cushions of the couch. She had resolved to confess all, to implore his pardon, to submit never to see Sir George again; but now the words died upon her lips, and there she leant, pale and breathless, with what just seemed to herself ​strength to hear the worst, and then die upon the spot. She had not courage to look up. Lord Marchmont approached in his usual deliberate manner, seated himself in an arm-chair opposite,and said,—
"I have some more than usually pleasant intelligence this morning—intelligence I was not authorised to communicate till within the last hour."
Henrietta could scarcely believe her ears: there was any thing but anger or jealousy in the tones of his voice; and when, at last, she ventured to catch his eye, there was only his usual calm expression of self-complacency.
"I have just seen," continued he, "Sir Robert Walpole, who has honoured me with a long and confidential conversation. I now completely comprehend his views."
Bewildered as Henrietta felt, the quotation from the old ballad rose to her memory when she heard Lord Marchmont talk of comprehending Sir Robert's views,—
"But what's impossible cannot be, And never, never comes to pass;"
"Our admirable and patriotic minister has agreed with me in the necessity of drawing our party as much together as possible. An immense deal may be done by conciliation; and I have promised Sir Robert to give a series of splendid entertainments."
The fact was, that Walpole had been in utter despair what to do with their new acquisition, he was so useless in every way. At length Lord Norbourne started the brilliant idea of making him dinner-giver to their party. People forgive their host being a bore, when the fact is all but concealed by champagne and venison.
"It is fortunate," added Lord Marchmont, "that I am not jealous, or I should have been quite alarmed at Sir Robert's eulogiums on your beauty."
"I am much obliged," said the countess, coldly, who was turning in her mind the best way of introducing the interdicted list.
​ Lord Marchmont saved her the trouble. "I quite forgot to see you this morning before I went out. Let me tell you now, while I think of it, that I gave the porter a list, this morning, of every one of our acquaintance who had the least leaning to the other side, that, in future, they might not obtain admittance;" so saying, he gave his wife also a list of names. "I copied them out for you, that you might avoid them in public."
"Why," exclaimed Henrietta, "you have included all the pleasantest people that we know; many, too, of your oldest acquaintances."
"I cannot," said his lordship, with a solemn air, "allow my own feelings to interfere with my duty to my country: but I know that you do not understand these things. You must," said he, pausing on the threshold of the door, "be content to obey."
"Obey!" muttered Henrietta, with a scornful sneer, as she sank back on the sofa. Still she felt too sad for scorn long to be the ​predominant emotion; and she yielded to the sadness—it was an atonement. That night she resolved to see Sir George Kingston, and bid him farewell forever.