account. How could this be-the contract broken, and the prince departed-if, spite of the rupture, he had not carried that jewel, her heart, away with him?"

"Do not be ingenious," said Granville, “in tormenting yourself; for though I know not more of Bertha's feelings than I have told you, certainly I can depose that it was not a conviction of her attachment to her cousin that prompted Lady Hungerford's advice to you. It arose purely and sheerly from the fear that the warm description of Bertha's gratitude, which truth drew from her, should not operate upon your too sanguine temper to bring you into danger; danger, if Bertha, who never had (indeed from her engagement never could have) indicated a return of your affection, should not be favourable. I saw Lady Hungerford's letter, and was even consulted upon it, and can assure you the reason I have assigned was the only one that prompted that part of it which terrifies you. Still I am in no condition to unveil the real heart of Bertha in regard to her cousin, which, if even known to Honora, is locked up in the letters I have mentioned, as if hermetically sealed."

I was bewildered with this sort of half-information, but with which, such was my love, I was willing to be content until I might gather fuller intelligence from these interesting letters; and as I afterwards was favoured with them without any breach of confidence, that my reader may not feel

trifled with, but understand the action of my story with more satisfaction, I think it better to present them to him at once;-promising to explain, in its proper place, how they came into my possession.

They consist of a series of epistles to her darling friend, and almost mother, describing her situation with the prince on his arrival at the Park, in the capacity of her betrothed, which had, it seems, belonged to them both ever since the dying request of her mother, the princess, and a consequent arrangement with the duke, his father, bad invested them, almost unknown to themselves, with that character.

All but one of these letters had been written just about the time of my last conversation with Lady Hungerford, which, as may be remembered, so puzzled me, when she protested against being entangled by words growing out of the difficulties of an embarrassing situation.* The last, however, containing an interesting narrative by the prince himself, was received after that conversation ; indeed it was only delivered to Lady Hungerford on her return to the Park, a day sooner than was expected. This I mention, because, had she seen the narrative before the conversation alluded to, her language to me had possibly been different. With these explanations I set forth the letters in the following chapters.

* See Vol. III.

CHAPTER XII.

LETTERS OF BERTHA TO LADY HUNGERFORD.

How like you the young German,

The duke of Saxony's nephew?

SHAKSPEARE.-
-Merchant of Venice.

LETTER I.

"Foljambe Park.

"I WRITE to you, as you desire me, without concealing a thought. Was it necessary to desire me to do so, who never yet concealed one from you? And yet, if ever I could be tempted to be silent towards my best friend, it would be on an occasion where all seems mystery and secret pressure, amounting to almost sadness.

"Far from that ardour and rush of pleasure you supposed, his first address was formality itself. His really fine features, which you know I allowed they were when you admired them in his picture, seemed quite altered, and the sparkle of cheerful frankness which you used to praise, and I tried to think of with more than a cousin's regard, seemed changed into gloom, fearfulness, and suspicion.

"How different this from what I was told to expect, when at sixteen years of age my father announced to me that, at the request of my dying mother, he had betrothed me to my cousin Adolphus, the son, as you know, of Prince Frederick of Saxony, who, my father assured me, was devoted to the alliance.

"I will own, at the time, this cost me bitter pangs, as I had no idea of marriage where there had been no opportunity for mutual knowledge. But my good father assuring me that his honour was pledged, and that if, on acquaintance, I should object, it should not be pursued, I agreed to keep myself disengaged, and, as you know, strictly fulfilled that agreement.

"How long has the acquaintance been deferred? Why, I know not; yet now that it has taken place, what have I to notice? The most obsequious duty to my father, and the most correct politeness to me: no more. These characterize every moment of our meetings; yet there seems little soul in them; not that soul which I look for and adore in those I am told I ought to love, and which I do so adore in you, my dear adviser, sweet pattern, and darling friend. Oh, how differently does his countenance and manner impress me from yours! And when I reflect that he may be my husband-awful, and sacred name!—all my fears of the disappointment and misery which may attend

the dedication of myself to the dying commands of one parent, and the urgent wishes of the other, revive, and I fear I am not more cheerful than himself.

"And yet he is certainly handsome, and has the air distingué which belongs to his rank and profession, and, could he banish the sort of mournfulness which hangs about him, he probably might be all we used to think him in his picture. Then his manner, however cold, is to me most respectful; surely I ought not to complain, because in a first interview there is some stiffness. A German, too!

"He addressed me in French, which he speaks fluently, and English, but not so well. My father tried to remember his German, and for a moment there was a smile-not unbecoming; but all soon relapsed into solemnity, and almost sadness: and though, by degrees, he began to look at me (for at first he seemed afraid of doing so), it did not enliven him, and what much struck me, several sighs escaped him.

“What all this means, or what he thinks of me, I know not, and what I think of him becomes a more serious question than ever. But I am resigned, and firm in my resolution, if possible, to conform to my dearest father's engagement for me to my mother, made, indeed, when I had no power of choice, and was unable even to be consulted, but confirmed afterwards when I had that power, from