CHAPTER V.

"But when that flame has blazed into
A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew
That fell in its first warm hour,

""Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head, Whose task is to destroy;

"Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead,

Whose light is not of joy."

A FEW brief hours had worked much change in the worldly position of Julian Sinclair. From partial dependence on the will of an imperious and scheming mother, he at once became, by the death of Lord Clairville, his own master-the possessor of rank, riches, and elevated station in the world-with all the

subordinate advantages such possessions com

mand.

Lady Clairville saw with feelings of indescribable bitterness, rendered still more galling by the secret consciousness that she had in a measure hastened the catastrophe, that Julian was no longer in her power. A splendid jointure was secured to her, and the house in Grosvenor Square was hers during her lifetime; but affluence placed against dominion, weighed but as a rose-leaf in the balance with this haughty woman. She was no longer supreme.

Julian succeeded to the bulk of the Clairville possessions, and being of age, was therefore perfectly independent. Thus the child of her love and her ambition-estranged by former opposition, stood aloof in the world, free and unfettered from any influence of hers-at perfect liberty to follow the bent of his own wayward inclinations.

And what were Julian's feelings upon the

occasion? His father's death could only occasion a transient sorrow; for his sufferings

had made his life a burthen, and his death must appear to every one a timely release for him from pain and misery.

When the first gush of natural feeling had subsided, and the sorrow which, to a kind and affectionate heart, the death of friends or kindred must ever occasion, we might suppose that he would rejoice at the arrival of that moment to which his hopes had so long pointed -and avow openly the love which, in spite of a mother's opposition, had so long ruled paramount in his bosom. This was the time for which he had so long panted-when he might without fear or concealment cast himself at the feet of that sweet Evelyn who had been once considered the bright star of his destiny-the time was come when he was free! And was he now happy in the idea of his freedom? Alas! No. The chains which now

shackled him, were more heavy than those of parental authority; and although he lacked the strength to break them, still at times they weighed heavily and painfully upon his heart.

With the moment to which he had once looked forward, with young love and ardent hopes, came the recollection of her for whom they had been formed. Evelyn stood before him in all the freshness of her exquisite and innocent beauty; and memory would also force upon his mind the time when he was happy through all his troubles, in being able to hope for the future. That happiness was now fled. There was no future for him. Confusion and

misery were all that it presented. Could he desert the woman who had so repeatedly confessed to him that she could not exist without his love? Yet what would be the consequences of this infatuated passion? Ruin on every side. Still as he looked upon the beau

tiful Circe, as she sat weeping by his side, at the idea of merely losing his society for the brief space for which his presence was required upon the mournful occasion in Grosvenor Square-when he beheld her kneeling at his feet, imploring for the promise of his returnthe new Lord Clairville found there were vexations in this life, for which wealth and power offered no remedy; and that in the passionate devotion of a young and lovely female there were annoyances of which his philosophy dreamt

not.

What could he do? He felt the galling entanglement of his chains; but how was he to disentwine them? He felt already the sensations of a guilty creature; "and found or fancied every eye looked cold upon him; yet still he returned to the thraldom which beauty and passion were weaving around him.

In the demeanour of his cousin Blanche he thought that he discerned a marked change,