A moment
afterwards her cousin entered the room, followed by Miss Dorothy and
Miss Dundas. Miss Beaufort hastily rose, to conceal what she could
not check. Kissing Sir Robert's hand, she asked permission to retire,
under the pretence of regaining those spirits which had been
dissipated by the fatigues of her journey.
In her own chamber she did indeed struggle to recover herself. She
shuddered at the impetuosity of her emotions when once abandoned of
their reins, and resolved from this hour to hold a stricter control
over such betrayals of her ill-fated, devoted heart.
She sat in the window of her apartment, and looking down the
extensive vale of Somerset, watched the romantic meanderings of its
shadowed river, winding its course through the domains of the castle,
and nourishing the roots of those immense oaks which for many a
century had waved their branches over its stream. She reflected on
the revolution which had take place in herself since she walked on
its banks the evening that preceded her visit to London. Then she was
free as the air, gay as the lark; each object was bright and lovely
in her eyes hope seemed to woo her from every green slope, every
remote dingle. All nature breathed of joy, because her own breast was
the abode of gladness. Now, all continued the same, but she was
changed. Surrounded by beauty, she acknowledged its presence; the
sweetness of the flowers bathed her senses in fragrance; the setting
sun, gilding the height, shed a yellow glory over the distant hills;
the birds were hailing the falling dew which spangled every leaf.
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