When all was settled after poor old Mrs Price's death, it was decided that Everard and Emily should go to Geneva, Emily's spirits and health having received a severe shock in her kind mother's death. Captain Dunstan had departed the first day, grumbling at the ill-timed decease of his friend's remaining parent. Alixe and her mother made their melancholy adieus and returned to the cottage. Here, Alixe speedily recovered her spirits. The bright side of the picture was constantly before her and with the sanguine disposition of youth she foresaw no obstacles now that Everard had explained himself. His impassioned tone rung in her ear when she was alone and she conjured up plans innumerable for the future for Everard's happiness and advantage. Sometimes indeed, the shriek which had interrupted their interview weighed on her spirit and appeared like an evil omen to secure her from dreams of happiness. But the cloud soon past away and left all sunny as before. It was at this juncture that Charles St Clair returned and our readers have already been informed of the events which followed. When made acquainted with the outline of Alixe's history since his departure, by means of her journal, he generously resolved never by word or look to remind his adopted sister that he had ever wished to be other to her than a fond visitor. His love was too pure, too perfect, to allow even in his solitary hours all the bitterness of his regret.

“After all,” would he say, “ought I not to prefer Alixe's happiness to my own? Is it possible I was selfish enough for a moment as to reproach her for a natural feeling? If she is happy, that is all I desire and I think. Nay, I am sure, I could rejoice with her and love those she loved.” Sometimes his heart would ache, in spite of his resolutions, when he thought of Everard Price, whom he endeavoured to clothe with perfection to make him worthy of Alixe. And as the day drew nearer for their departure for town, he almost wished himself at sea again.

The Miss Aimwells loudly accused Miss St Clair, when she had left the drawing room, of affectation and missiness.

“So actress-like, so disgusting, as if we did not all feel as much.”

“I am sure” (said their interesting mother), “I felt far, far more. I shall not be well for a week.” Miss Price had a brother, loved perhaps better than he deserved, and she instantly considered her own feelings with those of Alixe's and undertook her defence.

“I have heard Miss St Clair had a brother at sea. Perhaps she has lost him, and in that case…”

“Well, we will ask Lady Townley,” said Miss Aimwell. And skipping or tripping across the room, she said to Lady Townley, who was cutting the stalk of a geranium and at the same time viewing herself in the mirror opposite:

“Dear Lady Townley, I am afraid that story has affected Miss St Clair.”

“Yes, poor little thing. I saw something was the matter at dinner-time.”

“She has a brother at sea, has she not?”

“Yes.”

“I thought perhaps he had been drowned.”

“Drowned? Oh no, he is quite well, or was, when they last heard from him. Is not this a beautiful specimen of the Duchess of York geranium?”

“Yes, indeed. They seem to me to grow better than ever in your greenhouse. You are not a witch are you, dear Lady Townley?”

“No,” said the Lady smiling. “I leave all arts of witching to you young ladies, you and your sister in particular.”

“Yes, Lady Townley, you will quite spoil us, and what will Mamma say?”

And after this serious enquiry about Miss St Clair, Annette Aimwell returned to her seat.

“Well?” said her sister enquiringly, “what of her brother?”

“Oh, he was quite, quite well in their last letter, so you see it must be affectation after all,” said the amiable young lady, turning to Miss Price.

“No, I cannot say I am convinced. Even if he is not drowned, he was at risk every hour of losing his life. If war was to come on, you would feel very unhappy about your brother, and Mr St Clair's is quite as uncertain a profession as Captain Aimwell’s.”

“Yes, but if war was to come on” said the persevering Annette, “I would not go out at all rather than expose myself to strangers.”

“Oh!” in a half-satisfied tone was the only answer Charles made and the evening passed off as usual. Alixe took her guittar [sic] and sang her prettiest airs, Charles occasionally singing second to those he knew, or occupied in watching the beautiful laughing mouth and dark blue eyes of the fair songstress, while Lady St Clair, whose health was by no means good, reclined on the sofa.

In this happy manner some days and weeks past [sic] till the time drew near for the annual visit to town. Alixe prepared for this with great alacrity and Charles more than once caught her at the glass, balancing between two colours or hesitating whether a chaplet of pink or white roses became her best. This was a great matter of amusement and “Oh Alixe! fie how vain you grow” and “Yes, but dear Charles which shall I take?” were repeated I will not say how many times.

A few days before the departure Alixe, rising with her guittar in her hand, dropped some trinket which was suspended to a gold chain around her neck. Charles stepped hastily forward to prevent its fall, but it had reached the ground and his foot was on it before he was aware where it had fallen. Alixe clasped her hands as he drew his foot away. “Oh my harp, my poor little harp,” said she. And stooping, she picked it up, gazed on it a moment and to Charles's astonishment actually burst into tears.

He stood petrified, and at length, gently taking it out of her hand, said, – “I dare say it can be mended. Do not cry, pray do not dearest. Any jeweller can do it. I could do it myself. I am very sorry indeed, it was great awkwardness.”

“Oh no, dear,” said Alixe who had recovered and was apparently rather ashamed of having wept for a trinket. “You could not help it. It cannot be mended, it need not be mended. Indeed, I do not care about it.”

She extended her hand eagerly for the trinket, but Charles smiled and put it in his pocket. “No, no, as I did the mischief, I will endeavour to remedy it. And as you do not care for it, why the attempt, if it fail, can do no harm.” Alixe made no answer and they soon after separated for the night.

“Here is a pretty affair, Emily,” said Everard, after reading with bent brows those long pages of a letter closely and rather illegibly written, and he handed her the epistle in question. After spending some time and trouble in decyphering it, Emily collected that Lord Sunderland, the writer, had proved satisfactorily to himself and, as he hoped, equally satisfactorily to other people, that Dunstan's election had been carried entirely by bribery. And he had written to express his determination to Everard of petitioning his rival out of the house, as soon as he should take his seat.

“Well Emmy?” said Everard, who had been watching her countenance.

“Well love, I think if he has obtained his election by unfair means, he certainly ought not to sit. And I am glad Lord Sunderland has taken decided steps about it. For if Dunstan has wronged and injured you in so base a way, he is no longer worthy of the name of friend.”

Everard sighed, but he answered: –

“Why Emmy, it is done at all elections almost, and I am afraid it was more my affection for Harry Dunstan than my horror of bribery, that made me so conscientious at the election of M___. I felt I could not bear to take an unfair advantage of him.”

“And he has abused your generosity,” said Emily warmly. “Everard, he is not fit for a friend. He is dangerous, even as a companion. For if, the moment his interest clashes with yours, he is willing to betray you, what dependence can you place on such a man? Oh, shame upon him! Who could pretend to feel injured, when he knew that he was winning the victory by the Devil's own weapon of Subtlety? But he will fall, he must fall, and I shall see you, dear Everard, where your talents ought to place you.”

Emily's prophecy was realized. Lord Sunderland gained his point and Everard took his place in the House of Commons as member for M –. And did Harry Dunstan take his disappointment calmly? No, he vowed vengeance, deep unremitting, untried, unsatiated vengeance on the head of his rival friend. But the oath was inaudible, save to Heaven and Hell. And the smile with which he had greeted his victim was the same cold bright smile which he had worn for years before, the smile which had dazzled Prinny Dure, the smile which had deceived Colin Campbell.

On the fourteenth of April A__ D__ Lady St Clair and her interesting protégé reached London for the express purpose of producing Alixe, according to the absurd practice of the world. Mlle de Fleury was just eighteen, very beautiful on a very small scale, with a slight and almost childish figure and a face whose sparkling and varied expression struck all who saw her with admiration. Lady St Clair had proposed taking a house while in town. But she was induced to relinquish the plan by the pressing invitation of an old aunt, who had lost sight of her since her marriage and who having no children of her own, and being very fond of young people, thought it would be an agreeable society to have her niece and grandniece staying with her during a London Season. Lady Townley, widow of Sir Joshua Townley, Rear Admiral of the Red, was sitting in a magnificent drawing room in a superb house in Park Lane, when the expected visitors were announced. The dignified hostess took off a pair of gold spectacles and laid them down on the book she was reading, rose slowly and stately and walked forward (with a large green fan closed in one hand and a worked handkerchief in the other), with a step like a queen receiving her ambassadors, to her niece.

“Welcome my dear Lady St Clair, welcome to my house and home with your daughter. And double would your welcome be if Sir Joshua, poor man, was alive. He was a good friend to your father and a good husband and a good man, but we’ll not think of that just now. Won't you be seated?”

The invitation was complied with and Alixe, to whom the old Lady's attention was by no means directed, sat motionless, gazing at her with surprise. Accustomed to the simple appearance and subdued manner of her adopted mother and having always looked on her as a model of female excellence, the present object of her thoughts appeared to some disadvantage. Highly rouged and dressed, according to poor Alixe's taste, somewhat too young with false curls of the lightest flaxen, she sate [sic] upright, majestic and pompous, talking oratorically to her niece, who fatigued and exhausted, sate patiently waiting till some pause should allow her to request permission to retire and take off her hat and cloak.

It was in the dreamy twilight of an autumn evening, about a fortnight after the arrival [of] Everard and his sister at Lord Felix's seat, that Alixe, accompanied by her friend Emily, stepped lightly and hurriedly along a superb gallery which joined the library.

“Oh wait, Emily, wait one moment. I never, never shall have firmness enough to go through the scene I am preparing for myself.” And so saying, Alixe sunk on a low cushioned seat in the embrasure of an old fashioned gothic window and burst into tears.

“My dear Alixe, you agitate yourself needlessly,” said her friend, soothingly. “Have we not both agreed that it must be done, and the sooner the better. A little courage now and you will spare yourself and one whom, I am persuaded, is dearer than self, much future misery. Go dearest, and may the God of the fatherless be with you.”

Alixe accordingly rose and advanced to the library door. What would she have given to have doubted his presence in that dreaded apartment? But no, she knew he was there, she knew he was alone. She stole thro’ the end of the dim gallery and, trembling like a guilty thing, paused before the door. She listened. All was so still that she fancied the beating of her heart might be heard in the distance. At length, summoning all her strength and calling rapidly to mind the different arguments for the step she was taking, which but last night appeared so incontrovertible, she turned the lock and entered the room. Everard was at the other end of it. He turned, on hearing the door open, and Alixe felt there was no longer any chance of retreat.

“Ha, my pretty Alixe, I almost took you for a spirit. You came in so softly I had thought you, with all the rest of your gay companions, were at the archery meeting. However, it is a lucky accident that brings you, for I was growing quite melancholy.”

“Everard,” said Alixe, while the big tears stood in her eyes. “I knew you were not going to the archery meeting and I came here to – to speak with you. It is not accident that has brought me and I would beg of you to hear me patiently for a little, a very little while.”

Lady Townley embraced the first opportunity of giving a ball in honour, as she said, of Alixe's arrival, though the latter was rather surprised that she should think of gaieties when her favourites the Aimwells were in such distress. She had to learn that in the world, friendship is little more than a name; and that the same people who flatter and caress you one night, would if you were dead, reconsider the accident at the next ball, in the same breath, with a description of the week's amusements, and chassée [sic] forward with the utmost composure after they had finished. Alixe was reflecting painfully on this circumstance and wondering why all Pamela's professed friends danced so gaily, and seemed so merry, when she saw Everard standing in the middle of the room. He did not see her for a minute or two. He was talking eagerly and laughingly to someone she could not see. Charles St Clair, who was standing close by Alixe and had just begged her to dance the first dance with him, as he knew no one, saw her raised colour and open eye and an instinctive feeling told him that Everard, the dreaded Everard, was in the room with him, probably within a few yards of the place where he was standing.

In a moment after, that interesting individual came forward and greeted Alixe with great eagerness. He asked her to dance and offered his arm as if he knew there could be no refusal.

“Alixe, you are engaged to dance with me,” said Charles in a tone he intended should be playful. Everard started and fixed his eyes on the speaker and then turned to Alixe.

“I beg your pardon Charles. Mr Price, my brother, Charles.” Everard extended his hand with some slight compliment. Charles St Clair took it, and if his pulse was quick and his hand feverishly hot, Mr Price could not tell that a few moments before, those symptoms were not visible.

“Well,” said Everard, smiling, “I aim to resign you to Mr St Clair.” Charles, who was “himself again,” begged he could not consider it an engagement, adding that he believed it was not the fashion for brothers to make partners and that perhaps Alixe would give him some other dance in the course of the evening.

On her entrance, she found no one in the drawing room. Her picture was lying on the table, quite finished as it appeared to her. She took off her hat, looked in the glass, which young ladies do almost mechanically, then at a picture of Emily's mother, which hung on one side of the mantelpiece, and lastly at one unfortunately more interesting to her eyes: that of Everard himself. She looked at it for a long time and sighed. Young ladies always do sigh when they see interesting portraits. She wiped away a little dust with her cambric handkerchief and sat down. She thought Emily a long time coming. She thought it a great pity poor Emily's brother was going away and with these two thoughts in her little brain, she laid her arms crossed on the table and bent her head down on them, a very bad attitude for any young lady.

She was roused from this reverie by the entrance of Emily who, tapping her on the shoulder, said, “Why my dearest, after what has happened, what have you been saying to one another?”

“One another,” repeated Alixe in astonishment, as she started up and saw Everard sitting opposite.

He answered calmly, “Oh, I assure I have said nothing. I was in the back drawing room and Miss St Clare's step is so light that I dare say I did not discover her for some time. And since my entrance she has not vouchsafed me a word.”

“I did not know you were there,” said Alixe, laughing, though she felt extremely uncomfortable. “Why did you not speak?”

“I did not like to disturb your meditations, particularly since I discovered the subject of them.” Alixe grew crimson. “Are you not aware, Miss St Clair, that you have uttered a soliloquy since you began your reveil?”

“Oh no!” said she, half terrified, half incredulous. But Everard was gravity itself.

“It is but too true, Miss St Clair. I am sorry for you, very sorry.”

“Now pray Everard, don't be so foolish,” interrupted Emily. “Alixe, if you will come to the light, I will finish your picture in a quarter of an hour.”

“Dear me, it seemed quite finished. But I will come.” She seated herself accordingly, and Everard stood to watch the proceedings.

He descended into the breakfast room, where Alixe and his mother were waiting. “How lazy you are this morning Charles,” said Alixe laughingly, holding out her hand. Charles kissed her, sat down and watched intently the important operation of tea-making.

“Will you have some toast Charles?” said his fairy. “Charles will you have some toast? Charles will you have –?”

But the voice of the fairy and even the silver sound of her laugh were unheard and after a pause of some moments the abstracted youth gravely said, without raising his eyes from the bread he was buttering, “I have been examining your poor little harp, Alixe and I think it could be easily mended. Only,” added he, looking up, “the strings must be of gold wire I think, as they are almost all broken. So I will take it, if you like, to Mr Humphrey’s, shall I?” Alixe had dropped her knife (a thing that had never happened in her life before) and she had stooped for it. But Charles's sentence was so long that the precautions were wasted. For with a countenance flushed (by the heat of the tea) and [in] a voice almost inarticulate, she answered.

“I told you Charles, I did not want it mended and, – and, – and, –”

Said Lady St Clair, – “if you want it mended, perhaps it had better be done in town?”

This was no doubt intended as a relief, but from some cause not understood Alixe's confusion augmented visibly, and at length she rose, saying, – “I think I had better finish packing up, dear Mamma.” Lady St Clair nodded and smiled and the fairy glided out of the apartment. There was a long pause, during which Charles seemed struggling with some painful feeling. At last, just as Lady St Clair rose, he caught her arm:

“Mother, dear mother, is Alixe in love with him?”

“In love with who?”

“Oh you know, dearest. That man, that Everard Price.”

“My love, I cannot pretend to say. Alixe is very pretty and she has been out a great deal and been very much admired by many people.”

Emily Price watched with the untiring affection of woman by her brother. Naturally impatient, and at this moment suffering mental as well as bodily pain, Everard required all that gentleness and fond attention which his sister showed, to make him support with tolerable patience the irksomeness of his situation. Charles came often and Emily could not help admiring the sweetness with which he bore her brother's peevish gloomy answers or cold manner; the cheerful good-humour with which he strove to amuse by anecdotes he thought might be interesting to his companion; the eager manner in which he entered into, and encouraged, Everard's taste for politics; and above all his accounts of Alixe, so free from selfishness, so entirely forgetting all but the wishes and happiness of his adopted sister.

And deep indeed must have been the love that could have blinded Charles to the kind interest and admiration of that dark soft watchful eye and the blush that wavered on the pale and weary cheek, whenever the anecdote he told aroused the best of her pure and affectionate heart. He saw in Emily, Everard's sister, Alixe's friend, but for himself nothing. The anxious tones of that one dear voice in his home, rung in his ear even while talking to others. And his eyes, while they seemed to be perusing mournfully some strange fea-tures, gave him back the bright, laughter-loving glance of his fairy.

Meantime, Everard grew better. He was able to come downstairs and tho’ still forbidden to stir his arm, might at least see and converse with his friends and relieve the ennui that consumed him. Lady St Clair brought Alixe after his first few days of comparative liberty were announced. And the buoyant spirits of her adopted child rose in proportion as her fears had been great. Overjoyed to be once more with him who was her chief object in life, she saw no cloud in the brightness of her future, but laughed, talked, and looked gaily up at her lover, as she sat on a low ottoman by his sofa. But Everard was not in the mood for gaiety and in the midst of the low silver laugh of his companion, he turned his head away with a murmur that almost amounted to a groan.

Alixe had plaited a bracelet of old Mrs Price's hair for her friend Emily à son insęu and she had ornamented it with a small silver clasp and “Madre amata” in silver letters. She brought it with great joy and Emily, after thanking her and expressing extreme pleasure, said, –

“How very odd; I was just bringing you a little present (so speedy an interchange is really like a traffic). May the one I offer you be as precious to you, as that you have given, is to me.”

And Emily put into her friend's hand, a small trinket box containing a little gold harp, already known to the reader. Alixe was surprised, enchanted.

“How beautiful! Oh, how beautiful! The little crown of jewels at the top and the whole harp so exactly like a real one!”

“Promise me dear Alixe always to wear it – for my sake?”

“Oh, I promise faithfully. And the strings, they are made of your own hair, Emily, I know by the colour. What an ingenious way of giving a lock of hair,” said she, laughing.

“I am glad you admire it,” said her friend. “But I am sorry to say it is not my idea, nor is it my hair, though it is so like mine. The harp was made at Geneva under the direction of a person who is particularly clever at invention and has excellent taste. No doubt he chose the harp strings, as he knew it was to please you I ordered the trinket.” This was said half playfully, half seriously. The crimson blood rushed to Alixe's transparent skin. Everard was at Geneva! There was a pause.

Emily, laying her hand on Alixe's arm, said “you have promised to wear it?”

“Oh yes, pour toujours.” And she raised her bright expressive eyes to Emily's countenance with a look of affection which made the latter sigh for the chances against her having Alixe for a sister. I have before said that our heroine was romantic, but I hope readers will not misunderstand. Alixe could not have wept over a French romance or a bad English tragedy. Neither did she sigh over love poetry, or gaze on the moon out of her chamber window, that she might be the better enabled to think on Mr Price.

As our reader may perhaps like to know the substance of Dunstan's conversation with his friend Everard, we subjoin a letter from the latter containing apparently the substance of what had been started the night before:

My dear Dunstan,

I enclose the loan you requested, tho’ I assure you I can but ill spare it. I am afraid I shall soon be like the feverish patients who are bled till they can bleed no more. But were it the last drop in my veins, you are still welcome to call upon me for it. As to the other points you touched upon, for which the scene of yesterday was much too public a place, I wish I could answer them as readily. I do not think Emmy, poor girl, is in love with young St Clair and I am quite certain he is not in love with her. At the same time, my dear fellow, I must confess I see no chance for you there, that you wrong me if you persist in thinking I serve you feebly or privately assassinate your character. On the contrary, I do not think I ever allowed you in her presence to possess a single demerit. Nor do I believe you possess one that time and a good wife would not cure, particularly as you say your Uncle George is in such bad health, as his death would take away half your temptations to evil. On the whole, I advise you not to part with Chlöe, as you are pleased to call Peggy Tell. You say you are certain Madame de Valcone is in love with me. I thank you for your very flattering opinion of my irresistible qualities, but I must doubt the fact and even if it were so, all-charming as she is, beautiful in her lonely sorrow as she rises now before me, do you think me at once so mad, so base, as to relinquish Alixe for the hopes of what? Of gaining the heart, in other words of ruining, a beautiful being who had confided in me, from whose husband I have received nothing but kindness. No, I confess at times I am bewildered, intoxicated. I confess it to you my friend, tho’ till you spoke I would hardly have owned it to my own soul, I would fly till I was freed from the strange infatuation.