SELF-DECEPTION;

OR,

THE HISTORY OF A HUMAN HEART.

CHAPTER XLIV.

LILLIE CAWTHORNE was one of those useful persons who are extremely fond of opening other people's eyes. Mrs. More liked very well to do a little in this way herself; but she, less bold by nature, usually chose to perform her part by proxy. Thus, if she wanted a painful truth to be disclosed, she was in the habit of putting it into a train, by telling it to the person who was most likely to tell it again, exactly where it would produce the greatest sensation; or, to use her own phraseology, where it "ought" to be told.

This word ought was a great word with Mrs. More. It was her highest appeal, the standard by which she tested everything that was either said or done. Hence arose her frequently painful, and always annoying, remark that she did not think "that young man Grahame ought to be encouraged as he was-that people had enough to do with their money, without harbouring idle fellows like him, who ought to be working for their own living"-with a great deal more to the same purpose, from which Ella shrunk as she would have done from the sting of a viper; but to which she seldom ventured a reply, fearing to bring upon herself what might be even worse to bear.

In this manner, a sort of coolness, or rather an incommunicable manner had gradually grown into a habit between Ella and her mother. In all the ordinary affairs of life, there was perfect civility, and good will, but never anything like confidence; and Mrs. More would at all times have willingly dispensed with a little politeness, though she liked politeness as well as any one, yet she would willingly have abated something of outward respect for the sake of being admitted to her

daughter's secrets. Had she been thus admitted, there is reason to believe she would have been true to the trust reposed in her, and as kind and forbearing, as, in such a case, could possibly have been expected; but shut out, as she considered herself, from her daughter's heart, and permitted only to share with her that outer life which was open to be shared with all, or any, she considered herself in no respect bound to keep what little incident might fall under her notice, locked within her own breast; nor yet was she bound, by any obligation that she recognised, not to seek a friend elsewhere to whom she might unburden her mind, and heart.

That the mind of this good woman required to be unburdened arose out of a discovery which she fancied she had lately made. There had long been a mystery at Lowbrooke Cottage. That was pretty evident. Some of the gossips of the place suggested one thing, some another. Mrs. More believed that she alone had arrived at the real truth. She had no objection in the world to welcome the truth as it now appeared before her. Indeed, it pleased her so much better than some of the aspects given to it by others, that she secretly rejoiced over the discovery, and only wanted a friend to share it with her, in order that her joy might be complete. Sometimes she was on the point of speaking of it to her daughter, in order that she might exult in her presence in the fact of having found out the secret by her own unaided powers of penetration; but as often her purpose was checked by the idea that in letting it go on, and on, for a considerable length of time, her triumph would be the greater in proportion to her certainty.

Thus Mrs. More sat silent, and looked on. There were times when, if Ella had observed her narrowly, she would have seen a knowing shake of the head, or a self-satisfied expression of countenance, or still more frequently a prying, watchful kind of look which it might have been difficult sufficiently to account for; but Ella had other claims on her attention, other objects to observe, and other thoughts to occupy her mind; and so let the moments glide by without thinking

much about her mother-scarcely so much, perhaps, as was consistent with the feelings of a dutiful daughter. Still, as her mother appeared pleased, comfortable, and satisfied, Ella had some reason for being satisfied, also; and concluding all to be right in that quarter, she scarcely paid any attention to the little hints which Mrs. More was in the habit of throwing out, in her ordinary conversation, first about one thing, and then another, as if talking to herself; for long habit had schooled her down into that condition of humility, in which an answer is not even anticipated.

Mrs. More, like all the rest of womankind, when laden with a great secret, wanted a friend in whom she could confide. Driven out, as she fancied herself, from confidence at home, she very naturally endeavoured to find it elsewhere; and having often met Miss Cawthorne in her casual visits amongst the poor, and having found her always exceedingly easy of access, on subjects relating to the affairs of the Cottage, she ventured, in process of time to go a little farther, and then a little farther still, until at last, led on by that charm which few people can resist, the charm of a willing listener, she touched upon the one theme of all others which Miss Cawthorne was most anxious to be informed upon; and the two ladies talked together and listened, ever after that, as if they had the most important affairs of the nation to discuss.

Miss Cawthorne had had her own suspicions; vague, it is true, but founded upon circumstances which seemed so easily and at once to account for all that otherwise appeared strange at the Cottage, that she caught at the idea suggested by Mrs. More, and entered as fully into the details of the case, as if it had been closely connected with herself, and consequently a legitimate subject for her interference.

"Your daughter of course knows all, and approves ?" said she to Mrs. More.

"Why, no," replied that lady, "I have reason to think she is in a manner blinded, and kept in the dark; and this it is which vexes me so much."

"But you will tell her?" said Miss Cawthorne, “now that you know it for a certainty."

"I am in some difficulty," replied Mrs. More. "Ella has lately set herself up in a very remarkable manner, and will not be advised by me. On this subject, in particular, she refuses even to listen to me. It has therefore been entirely unmentioned between us, for some time."

"But your duty to your daughter," suggested Miss Cawthorne.

Mrs. More shook her head, sighed, and said, she wished some duties were more gratefully received, they would then be more easy to discharge.

"But who can be so fit as yourself?" Miss Cawthorne went on-" who has so great a right to interfere when your daughter's honour is at stake-the respectability of her householdeverything?"

"That is what I say to myself," observed Mrs. More, "word for word; and yet, I do assure you, Ella is difficult to deal with sometimes. Perhaps the more so to me, because I am her mother. It's hard, Miss Cawthorne-it's very hard for a parent to bear, to be set at nought by a child."

"Do you suppose," asked Miss Cawthorne, "that she would bear it better from an indifferent person?"

"I should say," replied the mother, wiping her eyes, "I should say she would."

"Do you think," asked the younger lady again, "there would any good come of my telling her?"

"I should say," replied the mother, "you were exactly the person to deal with Ella; being, as I should suppose, able to bear a good deal without this foolish habit of mine, which you see makes a child of me, in no time. My nerves have been a good deal tried, Miss Cawthorne-there was my first husband's long illness, and death-poor dear man!"

But Miss Cawthorne darted back again directly to the point, and said, "I will speak to Ella myself, if you advise it."

"I do" replied Mrs. More, wiping her eyes; for it was of