MARGARET CAPEL. A NOVEL. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE." IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 1846. LONDON: Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street. MARGARET CAPEL. CHAPTER I. For not to think of what I need's must feel, But to be still and patient all I can, And haply, by abstruse research, to steal From my own nature all the natural man: This was my sole resource, my only plan. COLERIDGE. And time, that mirrors on its stream aye flowing Hope's starry beam, despondency's dark shade; Green early leaves, flowers in warm sunshine blowing, Boughs by sharp winter's breath all leafless made. ANON. Margaret remained for more than a year in the most perfect retirement. The solitude of Ashdale was nothing to that of Mrs. Fitzpatrick's cottage. This tranquillity was well adapted to her state of feeling: she never experienced a wish to interrupt it. She was sincerely attached to her hostess. Although reserved, Mrs. Fitzpatrick was even-tempered; and she became very fond of Margaret, whose society filled up such a painful blank in her home. Both had suffered much, though neither ever alluded to her sufferings: and sorrow is always a bond of union. When first she came to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's, her health was so delicate, that the poor lady feared she was to go through a second ordeal, similar to the one she had lately submitted to with her own child. Margaret had a terrible cough and frequent pain in the side, and whenever Mrs. Fitzpatrick saw her pause on her way down stairs with her hand pressed on her heart, or heard the well-known and distressing sound of the cough, the memory of her daughter was almost too painfully renewed. But Mr. Lindsay pronounced the cough to be nervous, and the pain in the side nothing of any consequence; and though winter was stealing on, his opinion was borne out by Margaret's rapid amendment. Circumstances had long taught Margaret to suffer in silence: she found then no difficulty in assuming a composure of manner that she did not always feel; and soon the healing effects of repose and time were visible in her demeanour. The loss of her uncle was become a softened grief--for her other sorrow, she never named it even to herself. Yet still if any accident suggested to her heart the name of Mr. Haveloc, it would be followed by a sudden shock, as though a dagger had been plunged into it. She could not bear to think of him, and it was a comfort to be in a place where she was never likely to hear him named.