Case Tractor CVX1135 to CVX1195

Service Manual
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DescriptionCase Tractor CVX1135 to CVX1195 Service ManualSize: 174
MBFormat: PDFLanguage: EnglishBrand: CaseType of Machine: TractorType of
Manual: Service ManualModel: CVX 1135 CVX 1145 CVX 1155 CVX 1170 CVX
1190 CVX 1195 TractorsSerial Number:Part Number:Number of Pages: 2396
PageContents:Engine– Workshop Manual– Workshop Manual (CVX 1195)Fuel
System– Functional description Injection System– Functional description Injection
System – Common Rail System (CVX 1195)Electrical– Functional description CAN
Bus (Basics)– Functional description and Troubleshooting – ADIC– Function
diagrams – Electrics– Function diagrams – Electrics (CVX 1195)– Connectors,
Wiring Harnesses, Electrical and Electronic Components– Connectors, Wiring
Harnesses, Electrical and Electronic Components (CVX 1195)4009A– Circuit
diagram– Circuit diagram (CVX 1195)– Electrical– Fault codesSteering System–
Functional description, Troubleshooting and Settings– Front Axle with Independent
Suspension 20.25S– Functional description, Troubleshooting and Settings– Front
Axle with Independent Suspension 20.29S– Workshop Manual – Front Axle –
Carraro 20.25, 20.25 FR– Workshop Manual – Independently Suspended Front
Axle 20.25S and 20.25SI FR5006– Workshop Manual – Independently Suspended
Front Axle 20.29SI / FRTransmission– Functional description Transmission–
Troubleshooting – System hydraulics– Cartridge – Removing and Fitting–
Cartridge – Disassembling and Assembling– Rear Axle – Removing and Fitting–
Rear Axle – Disassembling and Assembling– Parking Interlock, 4-wheel Drive
Clutch and Bevel Pinion (Rear Module)Hydraulic System– Functional description
CC-LS Hydraulic System (Closed Center-Load Sensing)– Functional description
and troubleshooting– High Pressure Hydraulic Circuit– Functional description and
troubleshooting– (Electronic 3-point hitch control system EDC)– Fault codes and
fault description, EHS Auxiliary Control UnitsCabin– Functional description and
troubleshooting Air ConditioningFanpageMore Product
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inclosing it to her, and requesting her to put it herself into Henry's
hands, I should attain my object, and expose myself to no risk of
discovery, as I could rely upon her discretion, and was certain that
she would put only the most benevolent construction on my strange
request. I accordingly wrote to her these few lines:—

"My dear Mrs. Hatton,

"As you are the kindest person in the world, I am sure you will not
be angry with me for giving you a little trouble. Do me the kindness
to take this letter yourself to Henry Lovell, and give it into his own
hands; and do not mention to any one that I have entrusted you
with this commission, as it would defeat my purpose if it was known
that I had written to him, or heard from him, in reply. He will
probably entrust you with his answer; and I cannot say how much
obliged to you I shall be for undertaking this little commission.

"Yours, dear Mrs. Hatton, very truly,

"E.M."

As I sealed these two letters and directed the cover to Mrs.

Hatton, I felt that for the first time I was stooping to positive artifice,
and that, too, at the very moment when Edward's words were still
ringing in my ears. Disgusted with myself, I threw down my pen;
and, turning my flushed cheeks and aching head to the window, I
tried to catch the night breeze, which was gently rustling among the
leaves of the catalpas. When I went to sleep that night, it was to
dream over and over again that I was reading Henry's answer to my
letter; sometimes it was such as to drive me to despair; sometimes it
exceeded my most sanguine hopes; each time that I awoke I
glanced at the table on which mine was lying to convince myself that
nothing real had hitherto justified these alternations of fear and
hope—that made me feel in the morning as if I had gone through a
life of agitation, instead of a few hours of restless sleep.

When my maid came in to call me I told her to put my letter into

the post-bag, and sent her to inquire how Edward had passed the
night. The answer which she brought me was, that the fever still
continued strong, but that Mr. Middleton seemed calmer and more
composed than the day before; "more comfortable like," was her
expression.

I dressed myself hastily, and finding that my aunt was not yet
awake, I went down into the garden, and walked to the spot where
my fate had been sealed, for good or for evil I know not yet. As I
looked upon the bank where Edward had placed me out of reach of
so appalling a danger—as I stood again on that spot where I had
seen his blood on the ground—as I knelt against the bench where
we had sat together, and hastily murmured over the form of prayer,
which I was accustomed to utter more as a sort of charm than as a
direct address to God—I felt then that to part with him would be,
after all, the worst misfortune that could befall me, and a kind of
fierce resolution came over me to struggle to the last—to marry him
in spite of all dangers; and even the devil whispered to me at that
moment that if denounced and accused I might still deny the
charge; accuse my accuser in her turn; charge her with having
invented a calumnious lie, and with Henry's aid (which one look, one
kind word, from me could command) ride off triumphantly, and defy
them all. But as the thought passed through my mind, I shuddered
at the rapid strides I was making in falsehood, and felt a horror of
myself which I can hardly describe. There was I, kneeling in mock
homage before God (that God who had saved both Edward and
myself from a fate worse than death), while bad passions were
raging in my soul, and thoughts of evil working in my mind.

The posture of prayer, the words which I had mechanically

uttered, brought on one of those sudden and unaccountable
revulsions of feeling which sometimes succeed the fiercest assaults
of the tempter, as if our guardian angel had wrestled with the spirit
of evil, and driven him away for the time. I remembered her to
whom much was forgiven because she had loved much; and as I
thought of that Saviour—that man of sorrows and acquainted with
grief, at whose feet she knelt—ay, even while seven foul fiends were
struggling in her heart, I longed to kneel before Him too in deep
prostration of spirit, and lay all my sorrows, all my sins, all my
difficulties, at His sacred feet, bathing them as she did with tears,
and wiping them with the hairs of her head. Oh! if in that moment of
emotion, in that hour of penitence, I could have gone to one of
those, who, ministering at God's altar, and endowed with His
commission, have authority from Him to pronounce words of pardon
in His name; if the fatal barrier which habit and prejudice so often
raise between the priest of God and the erring and overburthened
souls committed to his charge, had not in my case existed; if from
his lips I could have heard the injunction to forsake all and follow
Jesus, and he had added, "Do this and be forgiven," it might have
changed my fate. But, as it was, my penitence spent itself in
unavailing tears, and my yearnings towards a better course ended in
the same bewildering and oft-repeated question, which I could not,
dared not, answer to myself, or for myself: "Where lies the path of
duty through the intricate maze in which guilt, misfortune, and
weakness have so hopelessly entangled me?" Once more I rose from
my knees, without any fixed purpose, without any steady resolution;
the creature of circumstance, and the sport of events.

As I was walking back to the house, I met Mr. Escourt, who joined
me, much to my annoyance. After a trifling remark or two, he,
apparently as if by accident, mentioned Henry Lovell; I answered
coldly, but was conscious that I coloured; more, however, from the
recollection of the part which he himself had acted towards him than
from any other reason. He fixed his scrutinising eyes upon me, and
evidently remarked that something had moved me.

"He is married, is not he, and to a very beautiful woman?"

"Yes, Mrs. Lovell is very pretty."

"I had heard of his marriage," he continued, "but had doubted the
truth of the report, from seeing him so constantly about in the world
unaccompanied by a wife."

He looked at me inquiringly; but as I said nothing in answer, he

went on:—

"I met them walking one day; and by Jove, if he is of a jealous

turn of mind, he does well to shut her up. A more beautiful creature
I never set eyes upon. Is she clever?"

This was one of those trifling questions which it is particularly

disagreeable to answer, especially when put by a person with whom
one wishes to converse as little as possible. Alice was not clever
according to the common acceptation of the word; and to explain to
a hardened man of the world in what consisted the superiority of her
understanding, seemed to me like throwing pearls before swine; but
in this I was mistaken; for when I answered, "I cannot exactly say
whether she is or not," he immediately replied,

"I think I can guess at your meaning. She has no doubt a mind as
fair as her face, but none of the tinsel which we so often take for
gold. Is it not so?"

I nodded assent and he continued—

"Is she a saint, that she thus forswears the pomps and vanities of
this world?"

"She is, no doubt," I replied, "one of those to whom the world is

in the habit of giving the appellation of saints, whatever sense
impiety on the one hand, or cant on the other, may attach to that
designation."

"In that case," returned Mr. Escourt, "I will e'en take her for my
patron saint; hang up her picture in my room, if I can get it; and
say, like Romeo, I'll turn, fair saint, idolater to thee!"

As he said these words, I gave this hateful man a look of mingled

scorn and disgust. He returned it with a steady gaze of insulting
pertinacity, and said—

"Kill me not with a look, fair lady; for though lovely is the light of a
dark eye in woman, it is also wondrous strong, and can deal wounds
which time may not heal."

"It speaks," I replied, "what time cannot change, nor flattery

avert."
"Indeed," he rejoined, "are its decrees so unchangeable?"
 After a pause he continued—

"Mr. Lovell is an excellent husband, is not he? and amiable in all

the relations of life? He is your uncle by marriage, I believe? It is
touching to see his devotion to you in that character."

The calm insolence with which this was said stung me to the
quick, and I answered with vehemence—

"He is at least neither a liar nor a hypocrite; and it would have

been well for him had he never fallen in with either."

Not a muscle of Mr. Escourt's face moved; and, with a bland smile,
he said—

"Your remark is just, fair depositary of your adopted uncle's

secrets. Your descriptions of character are admirable, refined in their
conception, and bold in their execution—very bold indeed. This last
specimen shall remain engraved in my memory. It fully deserves it."
 We had now reached the house; and I entered it with the
consciousness, that, in addition to my other difficulties and dangers,
I had made myself that morning a deadly enemy.

CHAPTER XVI.

"Do you not fear, I will stand between you and danger."

SHAKESPEARE.

The tedious hours of the two next days dragged on their weary
length through the ordinary course of meals, walks, idle occupation,
and unprofitable talk. Everything jarred upon my nerves and irritated
my temper during this trying time of suspense. Edward's fever still
continued, and though there was nothing positively alarming in it,
yet it kept us in a state of anxiety. He was not allowed to get up,
and I did not see him; but almost all my time was spent in watching
for Mrs. Middleton, who was indefatigable in her attention to him,
and who, from hour to hour, brought me messages from him, and
accounts of the various fluctuations in his state. When I went into
the drawing-room, Rosa's liveliness, Mr. Escourt's mute attitude of
defiance, Mr. Manby's tediousness, and Mr. and Mrs. Moore's over-
solicitude about everything, in turns worried and bored me.

At the end of the second day, as the time drew near when I might
expect to receive Henry's answer, this feverish impatience increased
to such a degree that I could hardly bear to be spoken to, or noticed
in any way. Each time the house-bell rang I gave a start and a rapid
glance towards the door; and each time a servant came in, my heart
beat with intense excitement, which each time subsided into that
moody heaviness which disappointment brings on. On the third
evening since the one I had spent with Edward, I was allowed to go
to him for a few minutes; he was much better, but forbidden to exert
himself. I found him pale but very calm; he seemed touched with the
alternation in my countenance, and implored me not to worry
myself, assuring me that he now felt almost quite well, and the day
after to-morrow he hoped we should all return to London, announce
our marriage, and begin all the preparations for its celebration. This
assurance drove me almost frantic, for if, during the next twenty-
four hours, I did not hear from Henry, such a proceeding was like
plunging blindfold down a precipice. The only resource I could think
of was to persuade Mr. Middleton to go to London ourselves on the
next day, and as it would be natural that after this week's absence I
should visit Alice, thus to contrive to speak to Henry. When I went
back into the drawing-room I was assailed by pressing entreaties to
sing; and Mr. Middleton's "Come, Ellen, nonsense!" rendered all
excuses or refusals on my part quite unavailing. I went to the
pianoforte, envying the woman who said to the King of Prussia,
when he had put her in prison for breach of engagement, "You can
make me cry, but you can't make me sing;" for I was assuredly
made to sing, while my heart was quivering with anxiety, and my
mind haunted with fears, which would have made solitude and tears
bliss in comparison to what I had to go through. I had just begun, at
Rosa's request, a French romance, in fourteen stanzas, when the
door opened and a servant walked in with a letter in his hand, which
he put down on a little table where I had laid my work. To this letter
my eyes and all my thoughts were directed; but the excess of
impatience made me afraid of interrupting myself and asking for it. I
sang on, and each time that I attempted to skip a verse and arrive
at the conclusion, Mr. Manby, civilly and assiduously, reminded me of
the omission. At last I arrived at the fourteenth stanza, and then
positively refusing to sing any more, I gave up my place to Rosa. At
that moment Mr. Middleton, who was walking up and down the
room, went up to the table where my letter was laid, took it up,
looked at the seal, then at the handwriting; after turning it on all
sides for a minute or two, while I stood by straining every nerve to
appear indifferent, he held it out to me and said, "Who on earth can
this be from, Ellen?"

I took it and glanced at the direction—"From Mrs. Hatton," I said;

and slipping it carelessly into the inside of my gown, I sat on and
worked in silence, listening to the singing till I could find an
opportunity of leaving the room unobserved. I flew rather than
walked to mine, locked the door, and tearing open the letter read the
enclosure it contained with that breathless eagerness which makes
us feel as if our eyes were too slow in conveying the sense to our
minds.

HENRY'S LETTER.

"I will not attempt to describe to you the state of mind into which
your letter threw me. It was no doubt carefully worded, and I give
you credit for the pains which you evidently took not to wound my
feelings. You have at last learnt to know the nature you have to deal
with, and you have not, perhaps, bought that knowledge too dearly,
by all you have suffered at my hands. Your power over me is a
strange one: when I submit to it, I despise myself; when I resist it, I
hate myself. I can never now be happy by you, or without you; and
in the wreck of all that once was happiness, I cling to some
unsubstantial shadows, which, when I grasp them, only mock my
utter desolation. Such are those held out by the last lines of your
letter. You never wrote truer or more artful words; true as the arrow
which strikes to the heart—artful as the skill of the archer who aims
it. You are right—I alone know you; I alone can read every turn of
your countenance, every emotion of your soul. I know 'your eye's
quick flash through its troubled shroud.' I see the dark shade that
passes over your spirit, the clouds which sweep over your soul,
rising in anger, and melting into tenderness. I alone know the secret
of your wild beauty, of your fierce humility, of your transient joys,
and of your lasting sorrows. This knowledge, this power is mine,
Ellen, and shall be mine to the last day of our lives; and as long as
your eyes shall meet mine, as long as your hand shall press mine, in
the spirit which dictated those lines of your letter, I shall not be
utterly miserable, or altogether without consolation. I shall have one
share in your soul which not even Edward can rob me of. And now
what shall I say? You foresee it, do you not? Your cheek is flushed
with joy, and your breast heaves with triumph. Go, then, and
proclaim your marriage. Marry Edward; and when the priest says at
the altar, 'Who gives this woman to be married to this man?' think of
him who, 'loving you not wisely, but too well,' at the price of his own
jealous tortures, of his pride, and of his conscience, opened the way
before you. At the price of my conscience I have done this; and now
listen to me, Ellen,—I will tell you how. After I had received your
letter, and reflected on its contents, till anxiety for you and for your
happiness superseded every selfish thought which passion and
jealousy awoke, I went to Bromley, where Mrs. Tracy took up her
abode again a few months ago. I had hardly had any communication
with her since my marriage; and our meeting, as you may well
imagine, was anything but cordial. When I opened to her the subject
of my visit, she gave way to a burst of anger, in which she vented
the long-compressed violence, jealousy, and hatred of her soul. I
shudder when I think how often you have been on the brink of what
we most have dreaded; twice she had written to Mr. Middleton, and
only kept back her letters at the very moment of putting them into
the post. She has kept up, by means of her relations, and of her
relations' friends, a constant system of espionnage upon me, and
had been worked up into a state of violent irritation, by exaggerated
reports of my neglect of Alice, and of my devotion to you. Far from
listening to me, or giving me the least hope that she would yield to
my entreaties, she pronounced the most vehement denunciations
against you, and vowed that nothing now should prevent her from
exposing you—the murderer of Julia, the hateful rival of Alice.
Forgive me, dearest Ellen, that my hand can write such horrible
words; but it is necessary that you should know what that terrible
woman, as you rightly call her, is capable of saying and of doing, and
also to account for the line of conduct which I took in consequence.
I suddenly changed my tone, and said to her in the coldest and most
determined manner, 'Very well; I leave you to write your letter—to
ruin the whole existence of a person who I declare to you is as
innocent as yourself of the crime which you impute to her,—to throw
into agitation and despair my sister, whom you profess to love,—and
to break your promise to me in the most shameful manner. But mark
me! while you do this, I go home also, to break a promise not more
sacred than yours,—to reveal to Alice, from beginning to end, the
whole history of our engagement, and of our marriage; to tell her
that you have unjustly accused Ellen Middleton of murder, and
irretrievably ruined and destroyed her happiness; to tell her that I
once loved Ellen Middleton, that I love her still, and that if such is to
be her fate, mine shall be to leave England to-morrow, alone, and
for ever.'

"It was frightful to see the look of rage that convulsed the features
of that intractable woman as I pronounced these words. She
absolutely writhed with anger, and it was deadly anger, for her cheek
was pale and her lips white. She gasped for breath, and then
murmured: 'Villain! she is with child.'

"God forgive me, I was indeed a villain! For, although not even to
save you would I have endangered Alice's safety, yet my first
thought was of the new power which this circumstance gave me
over her fierce grandmother; and, without giving a sign of emotion, I
begged to know her final decision.

"Then began a fearful contest between us; one of those struggles

on which more than life is staked. I conquered at last, and that
indomitable will was forced to bend before mine. You are safe, as
long as Alice remains in ignorance of the dark parts of our histories;
as long as I live with her, and by kindness and respect ensure her
comfort and peace of mind, so long will her grandmother adhere to
the promise, which she has renewed on these conditions. But you
must help me to fulfil them, Ellen. You must not leave me to myself,
for then my strength would fail me. It must be under your eyes, and
in constant association with you, that I must learn to treat Alice as I
now feel myself bound to treat her. One of the principal complaints
which her, grandmother made, was of the seclusion in which she
lived; and on this point I must give way, though, as I once said to
you, I tremble for the consequences; but you must be near us—with
us. Though scarcely older than her, you know where the dangers of
the world lie, and you will watch over one who, in her childish
ignorance, stands like a guardian angel between you and your
persecutor. There is something sacred in the feelings with which we
must both regard and cherish her. Hook at her now with emotion, as
the mother of my child. I bless her in my heart for having saved you
from misery and exposure. If you will allow no common prejudices,
no vulgar scruples to stand in the way of the good you may effect,
then, Ellen, there may be better days in store for us all.

"Remember to announce your marriage in form to us, as soon as

it is declared; and remember also, that I will be guarded, prudent,
and considerate, as long as you show me unlimited confidence. I
cannot answer for my self if caprice, or unjust apprehensions, should
estrange you from me.

"Once more, farewell,

"And God bless you!

"Your devoted

"Henry Lovell."

This letter dropt from my hands as I read the last words, and a
tumultuous rush of feelings made my heart throb with indefinable
emotion. In my most sanguine moments I had not perhaps
anticipated so favourable an answer, nor hoped that Henry would
have exerted himself so earnestly in my behalf; and yet I felt more
afraid of him and of his power than ever, as I saw his determination
in some manner or other to link his fate with mine, and to make his
conduct to me to depend upon mine. There was something fearful in
the conditions in the frail tenure under which alone I was to escape
the threatened vengeance of Mrs. Tracy. There was something
horribly humiliating in the terms (however veiled in plausible
language) which Henry was evidently prescribing to me as the price
of his protection. I was never a self-deceiver, and I saw clearly
through the shallow pretence of better hopes for the future—of
kindness to Alice—of help to pursue the better course—his
unswerving determination never to give up those habits of intimacy,
which would give full scope for the exercise of his secret power. I did
not charge him with hypocrisy, nor with malice; no, he was only
selfish, selfish to the very heart's core. I read his letter again, and
when he bade me think of him, even at the altar, even when
pledging my faith to Edward, I murmured to myself, "Ever between
him and me, in thought if not in deed; ever with thy smooth tongue,
thy determination strong as iron, and thy character pliant as steel;
ever claiming thy share in my heart, and thy place in my thoughts;
ever toiling for thine own ends, and hinting at revenge, even while
boasting of thy love, and of the sacrifices it makes."

As this mental accusation passed through my mind, I felt its

harshness, its ingratitude, and as usual, having begun by
condemning him, I ended by hating myself. I could not but
acknowledge that all he said of Alice was touching and true, and I
religiously resolved to undertake the part he pointed out to me in
the spirit of expiation, and while in one sense I gave her my weak
and unworthy support, on the other to cling to her, as to my refuge
and my shield, from a love and from a hatred which made me
equally tremble. The self-reproach which had immediately followed
my harsh condemnation of Henry, at the very moment when he had
made a great sacrifice in my behalf, however incomplete its
generosity might have been, brought on as usual a reaction, and
something of tenderness stole into my heart at the thought of so
deep, so unconquerable an attachment as his. In Henry there always
seemed to me to be two different natures, one harsh, selfish,
sneering and heartless, the other tender almost as a woman's is
tender, and gentle even to a fault. Notwithstanding all that I so often
suffered from the first, I could not help being at times strangely
subdued and touched by the last. His letter, too, like himself,
appeared to have a two-fold character, and as I considered it under
each in turn, my heart was alternately softened and hardened
towards the writer.

Soon I experienced one of those changes of mood, one of those

abrupt transitions of feeling, which seem to transform us for the
time into a different sort of being from that with which we are
usually conscious of identity. A kind of feverish determination to be
happy took possession of me, a careless disregard of the future, a
sort of impassioned levity, of reckless childishness. I walked up and
down my room with restless excitement; I longed now to return to
London, to have my marriage declared, to be congratulated, to be
talked to, to enter on a new state of things, and efface as much as
possible, from my life and from my mind, the traces of the past.

When the next morning I got up and dressed, threw open my

window, looked upon the bright summer sky, and saw Edward
standing on the gravel walk before the house, my heart beat with
that hurried pulse of joy, that tumult of emotion which drowns all
thought and all care, as a whirlpool sucks in the straws that float
near it.

Edward beckoned to me to join him; he received me with a smile

of tenderness, and, pushing back the curls from my face, whispered,
"My dark-eyed Ellen!" His words of love sunk into my heart, like the
rain of Heaven on the scorched and burning sands of the desert, as I
gave utterance to the long-subdued and deeply-tried passion of my
soul, prostrate in spirit before him, living in the light of his eyes, and
almost longing to die in his presence, and by his hand, ere aught in
earth, or in Heaven, should divide us. The wilful, terrified
abstraction, that made me repulse every thought connected with the
future, and cling with frantic intensity to my happiness while it
lasted, gave it a character difficult to describe; and Edward, in the
very height of his love, and while carried out of himself by its
resistless influence, would sometimes ask me, why there was no
peace in my happiness, no repose in my love;—why, when his hand
held mine, and my head was resting on his shoulder, I sometimes
murmured in a tone of thrilling and passionate emotion, "Let me die
here."

"Ask not," I would then reply. "Ask not why some flowers shut
their leaves beneath the full blaze of the sun. Ask not why the walls
of the Abbey Church tremble, as the full peal of the organ vibrates
through the aisles. Ask not why the majesty of a starry night makes
me weep, or why the intensity of bliss makes me shudder."

"But I love you, my Ellen," Edward would answer; "I, too, love you
with all the powers of my soul. My happiness is intense as yours;
and yet, in the very excess of both, there is trust and peace."

"Because," I replied, "because no two characters were ever more

dissimilar than ours. A calm and mighty river is not more unlike the
torrent which swells with the rain, and ebbs the next day, than your
nature is to mine. Do not try to understand me, Edward: I say it in
the deepest humility, you cannot fathom the folly and the weakness
of my soul; but thus much you may believe, that as the mountain
stream, chafe and foam as it may, has but one object and one end,
so, the varied impulses and the restless fluctuations of my uneasy
spirit tend but to one result—its unlimited love, its boundless
devotion, to you."

Edward always seemed touched by the expression of my ardent

affection, and responded to it in the tenderest and kindest manner;
but it did not always efface from his countenance something of
perplexity and regret, which the inequality of my spirits, and of my
temper, raised in his mind.

Before we left Hampstead, Mrs. Middleton told the Moores of my

engagement; and Rosa, who had for some days past guessed at the
state of things, wished me joy, with the greatest warmth and
animation; but she unconsciously threw a bitter ingredient into her
congratulations, by adding to them with a smile, "It is strange how
disobedient you have ventured to be to the invisible men of
Brandon. I hope you do not reckon on being punished, as well as
threatened, by proxy?"

CHAPTER XVII.

"Too high, too grave, too largo, too deep,

Her love could neither laugh nor sleep,
And thus it tired him: his desire
Was for a less consuming fire.
He wished that she should love him well.
Not wildly; wished her passion's spell
To charm her heart, but leave her fancy free;
To quicken converse, not to quell.
 He granted her to sigh, for so could he;
But when she wept, why should it be?
'T was irksome, for it stole away
The joy of his love holiday."

PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.

During our drive to London, Edward asked Mr. Middleton how long
he intended to remain in town, and where he meant our marriage to
take place.

"Why that must depend on you both," said my uncle. "What do

you say to being married at Elmsley?"

The proposal struck me so painfully, that I looked at Edward with

the anxious wish that he might make some objection to it, though I
could scarcely hope so. As I feared, he only turned to me, and asked
what my wishes were; before I could answer, however, Mrs.
Middleton said, that considering all that was to be done about
getting my trousseau, and making various preparations for the
wedding, she thought it would be better to remain in London.
Edward then added that it would be his interest to keep us there, as
the settlements would often require his presence in town, but that
we might go to Elmsley to be married, if my uncle wished it. To my
inexpressible relief, Mrs. Middleton again objected; and urged, that
as my uncle and herself would go abroad soon after my marriage, it
was useless to add a journey to Elmsley, and back again, to the one
they would subsequently undertake. I looked at my aunt with
surprise, but she made me a sign not to pursue the subject any
further for the present. I gladly acquiesced; but the idea of this
journey abroad weighed on my spirits, and made me silent during
the rest of our drive.

As we came into London, and arrived in Brook-street, it seemed to

me that months instead of days had elapsed since I had left it; and
when I entered the drawing-room, I sat down on a chair near the
window, and leaning my head on my hand, I tried to realise to
myself all that had occurred during the last eventful week. The busy
tide of life was at its height in the streets, the noise was stunning,
and the air close and disagreeable, after what we had been used to
at Hampstead. Nobody had followed me into the drawing-room, and
I sat there for an hour or two absorbed in thought, and reviewing in
my mind the principal events of my past life. One by one they
passed before me; my aunt's first arrival at Elmsley, the day of
Julia's birth, when I was called from my drawing-lesson to come and
kiss my little cousin in her cradle; the happy time of childhood and of
early youth; my hours of study with Mrs. Middleton; my walks and
rides through the beautiful scenery that surrounds Elmsley,
sometimes with Edward and with Henry, or only with old James
behind me; my favourite chesnut wood, where I used to throw the
bridle over Selim's neck, and leave him to follow his own fancy,
unguided and unchecked, through the winding paths and bushy
dells; the sound of his hoofs on the crushed leaves, and the murmur
of the little waterfall, were in my ears, as when I took Edward there
on my fourteenth birth-day, and as we were coming home, after
much hesitation, and with a beating heart, asked him if I might take
care of his Newfoundland dog, Hector, when he went back to town;
and I did not remember the events of the last week more distinctly
than I did his nod of acquiescence, and the gush of delight with
which I received that permission.
 Then came in succession the recollections of Julia's illness—of her
recovery—of her death; of the acute and then protracted anguish
that followed it; of the delirious agony that seized me on the day of
her funeral. I lived over again the time of Edward's departure, the
feverish dream of excitement which followed it; I visited again in
fancy the cottage at Bridman, and the cavern at the sea-side in
Dorsetshire. I thought of the day of Edward's return to Elmsley, and
of the Ash-Wednesday service in the village church—that same
church where Julia was buried, and where Edward's lips had said
Amen! to the curse which had seemed to light on my guilty and
shrinking head; and there they had proposed that I should be
married to him I—there, in sight of the vault where she lay! within
the walls which had rung with that curse!

"O, no—no," I exclaimed; "not at Elmsley—not at Elmsley!"

A hand was gently laid on my shoulder, and Edward said—

"Why not at Elmsley?"

As I turned suddenly towards him, and then away from him, to

hide the tears which were streaming down my cheeks, he said,
coldly—

"Are you weeping now over the excess of your happiness?"

I did not answer immediately, for in truth I could not; and, taking
a book, Edward walked away, and sat down by the chimney. Other
people came in—I had to dress for dinner, and it was not till late in
the evening that, by alluding artfully, though not altogether untruly,
to the pain with which I had heard of my aunt's probable departure
from England (for it had, indeed, been the original cause of my deep