CROSS PURPOSES;

OR,

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

A Nobel.

BY

MARGARET CASSON.

"Ah! Tempo passato, perché non ritorni!"

LONDON:

WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STREET.

1855.

249.3.349.

CROSS PURPOSES;

OR,

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

CHAPTER I.

"We are pressed by heavy laws,

And often glad no more;

We wear a face of joy,

Because we have been glad of yore."

WORDSWORTH.

How mechanically and half unconsciously did I continue repeating these words, over and over again to myself, recalled to my mind, as they were, one evening not long since, whilst I stood watching the graceful form of Lady Ravenscroft," stiller than chiselled marble standing there, a daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair." Beautiful Eleanor! "divinely fair" did you, indeed, appear that evening; but when was the time that Eleanor Ravenscroft ever looked otherwise? Once behold her, and never again could she be forgotten. It was such a proud beauty, bearing the impress of a will and a power stamped thereon. And yet withal, spite of the lofty brow and the brilliant eye, spite of the haughty carriage of that small head, and the scornful lip of the beautifully chiselled mouth, there was strangely mingled a meditative softness, there prevailed a dream-like charm of expression, which lent a sweet womanly enchant

ment to the whole, and no one could say her loveliness was harsh or unfeminine, though so commanding in its character. And though so indifferent and cold its usual light, there was at times a depth and a sadness in the large dark eye; and to one skilled in reading the intricacies and contradictions of the human heart, that look might suggest a thought, might speak a tale, that mournful glance reveal a past. He might therefrom argue that possibly Eleanor had not always been the calm statue she now seemed but to be, to the careless gaze of the unobservant. I had not seen Lady Ravenscroft until this night since her marriage-day, and it was with a strange interest I now beheld her. Her past history was so well known to me, with her real character I was so intimately acquainted; I was curious to learn how the changes of time had acted upon her since we last had met. And yet, personally, I had but rarely crossed her path-never to be anything to her but the very commonest acquaintance. Still, as the dear friend of one who once had loved her sincerely, of one whose every thought was in those days confided unto me, in listening to him as he spoke of her her shadow, as it were, though not herself, had fallen athwart my life, and the old remembrances of days gone by had indelibly impressed her idea upon the tablets of my memory. Very rarely does the opportunity present itself thus to watch and study a human being so nearly, and yet so abstractedly. When it can be so, great is the insight it gives into the mysteries of the heart and mind. When undazzled by the deceptive hues which personal feelings throw around the object, blinding with their light and shade the real and the true, you can coolly and yet interestedly stop to gaze and ponder with clear vision; the scope given to you is great. And I, ever a quiet spectator rather than an active participator in the great

ELEANOR RAVENSCROFT.

battle-field of life, loved to trace the phases of a heart, the mental changes of a character so varied and so complicated, in the fair creature now standing before me.

"How lovely Lady Ravenscroft looks to-night,” observed some one near me.

"Yet, I

"Yes, even unusually so," was the reply. confess, it is hardly a beauty which pleases me. I admire it, certainly, no one could do otherwise; but it is one which touches me not; it is so cold. Like the sculptor of old, I long to endue the beautiful image with a soul, that I might fall down and worship it. She is so marble to look upon; no heart, no feeling breathes there."

Eleanor Ravenscroft, and "no heart! no feeling!" And the world could deem her so! Cold and feelingless? Nay, why should it surprise me? Possibly, Eleanor now believes herself to be so likewise. She had in early life felt and suffered very deeply. Her youth had been one continued struggle between her own bright, natural character and the faults and marring of her education; from a brief dream of peaceful bliss, she had awakened to the cold reality of life; and more, she woke to feel that it was the work of her own hand, that the sweet vision had been dispelled, the tranquil slumber rudely broken; and when later she roused herself, by a strong effort of her vigorous spirit, from the heavy sleep of apathetic indifference which had succeeded her first calm, child-like slumber, was it wonderful that the very effort itself, if no other cause had combined, left her changed and spiritless, callous to all future trials? Those who, like her, have drawn so deeply from the wells of sorrow and of suffering, must find at length the spring from whence they took their rise exhausted, and so forget, or, rather, force themselves to remember no more, the intensity of feeling which