.dt Home Scenes and Heart Studies, by Grace Aguilar-A Project Gutenberg eBook
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HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES
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[Illustration: Frontispiece]
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<xl>HOME SCENES</xl>


AND


<l>HEART STUDIES</l>

By
<I>Grace Aguilar</I>
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<l>London:</l>
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<sc>Groombridge and Sons</sc>.
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<xl>HOME SCENES</xl>

<s>AND</s>

<l>HEART STUDIES.</l>



<s>BY</s>
<l>GRACE AGUILAR,</l>

<s>AUTHOR OF “WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP;”
“THE DAYS OF BRUCE;” “THE VALE OF CEDARS;” ETC., ETC.</s>
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<s><I>Thirteenth Edition.</I></s>
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WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
<s>BY</s>
HYDE W. BRISCOE.
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LONDON:
GROOMBRIDGE AND SONS
1876.
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HERTFORD:
SIMSON AND GROOMBRIDGE,
PRINTERS.
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CONTENTS.
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.ta h:30 r:5
<sc>The Perez Family</sc> | #1:p001#
<sc>The Stone-cutter’s Boy of Possagno</sc> | #95:p095#
<sc>Amête and Yaféh</sc> | #104:p104#
<sc>The Fugitive</sc> | #109:p109#
<sc>The Edict: a Tale of 1492</sc> | #122:p122#
<sc>The Escape: a Tale of 1755</sc> | #162:p162#
<sc>Red Rose Villa</sc> | #186:p186#
<sc>Gonzalvo’s Daughter</sc> | #205:p205#
<sc>The Authoress</sc> | #227:p227#
<sc>Helon</sc> | #245:p245#
<sc>Lucy</sc> | #253:p253#
<sc>The Spirit’s Entreaty</sc> | #273:p273#
<sc>Idalie</sc> | #277:p277#
<sc>Lady Gresham’s Fête</sc> | #303:p303#
<sc>The Group of Sculpture</sc> | #319:p319#
<sc>The Spirit of Night</sc> | #369:p369#
<sc>The Recollections of a Rambler</sc> | #375:p375#
“<sc>Cast Thy Bread Upon the Waters</sc>” | #383:p383#
<sc>The Triumph of Love</sc> | #400:p400#
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<xl>HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES.</xl>
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<i>The Perez Family.</i>
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CHAPTER I.
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<sc>Leading</sc> out of one of those close, melancholy alleys in the
environs of Liverpool, was a small cottage, possessing little
of comfort or beauty in outward appearance, but much in
the interior in favour of its inhabitants; cleanliness and
neatness were clearly visible, greatly in contradistinction to
the neighbouring dwellings. There were no heaps of dirt
and half-burnt ashes, no broken or even cracked panes in
the brightly shining windows, not a grain of unseemly dust
or stains either on door or ledge,—so that even poverty
itself looked respectable. The cottage stood apart from the
others, with a good piece of ground for a garden, which,
stretching from the back, led through a narrow lane, to the
banks of the Mersey, and thus permitted a fresher current
of air. The garden was carefully and prettily laid out, and
planted with the sweetest flowers; the small parlour and
kitchen of the cottage opened into it, and so, greatly to the
disappointment and vexation of the gossips of the alley,
nothing could be gleaned of the sayings and doings of its
inmates. Within the cottage the same refinement was
visible; the furniture, though old and poor, was always
clean and neatly arranged. The <I>Mezzuzot</i> (Deut. vi. 9,
20) were carefully secured to every door-post, and altogether
there was an indescribable something pervading the
dwelling, that in the very midst of present poverty seemed
to tell of former and more prosperous days.
.pi
Simeon and Rachel Perez had married with every prospect
of getting on well in the world. Neither were very young;
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for though they had been many years truly devoted to each
other, they were prudent, and had waited till mutual industry
had removed many of the difficulties and obstacles to their
union. All which might have been irksome was persevered
in through the strength of this honest, unchanging affection;
and when the goal was gained, and they were married, all
the period of their mutual labour seemed but as a watch in
the night, compared to the happiness they then enjoyed.

Simeon had been for several years foreman to a watchmaker,
and was remarkably skilful in the business. Rachel
had been principal assistant to a mantua-maker, and all her
leisure hours were employed in plaiting straw and various
fancy works, which greatly increased her little store. Never
forgetting the end they had in view, their mutual savings
had so accumulated, that on their marriage, Perez was
enabled to set up a small shop, which, conducted with
honesty and economy, soon flourished, and every year
brought in something to lay aside, besides amply providing
for their fast-increasing family.

The precepts of their God were obeyed by this worthy
couple, not only in word but in deed. They proved their
love for their heavenly Father, not only in their social and
domestic conduct, but in such acts of charity and kindness,
that many wondered how they could do so much for others
without wronging their own. Perez and his wife were,
however, if possible, yet more industrious and economical
after their marriage than before, and many a time preferred
to sacrifice a personal indulgence for the purer pleasure of
doing good to others; and never did they do so without
feeling that God blessed them in the deed.

A painful event calling Perez to London was the first
alloy to their happiness. A younger sister of his wife,
less prudent because, perhaps, possessed of somewhat more
personal attraction, had won the attentions of a young man
who had come down to Liverpool, he said, for a week’s
pleasure. No one knew anything about Isaac Levison.
As a companion, Perez himself owned he was very entertaining,
but that was not quite sufficient to make him a good
husband. Assurances that he was well able to support a
wife and family, with Perez and Rachel (they were not then
married), went for nothing; they wanted proofs, and these
he either could not or would not bring; but in vain they
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remonstrated. Leah had never liked their authority or good
example, and in this point determined to have her own
way.

They were married, and left Liverpool to reside in London,
and Leah’s communications were too few and far between to
betray much concerning their circumstances. At length
came a letter, stating that Leah was a mother, but telling
also that poverty and privation had stolen upon them.
Their substance in a few troubled years had made itself
wings, and flown away when most needed, and Leah now
applied for assistance to those very friends whose kindness
and virtues she had so often treated with contempt. The
fact was, Levison had embarked all his little capital (collected
no one knew how) in an establishment dashing in
appearance, but wanting the basis of honesty and religion.
After seeming to flourish for a few years, it, of course, failed
at last, exposing its proprietors to deserved odium and distrust,
and their families to irretrievable distress.

For seven years Perez and his wife almost supported Leah
and her child (secretly indeed, for no one in Liverpool
imagined they had need to do so). Leah was still too dear,
for the faults and follies of her husband, and perhaps her
own imprudences, to form any subject of conversation with
her relatives.

At length Leah wrote that she was ill, very ill. She
thought the hand of death was on her; and she feared it
for her child, her darling Sarah, whom she had striven to
preserve pure amidst the scenes of misery and sin which she
now confessed but too often neared her dwelling. What
would become of her? Who would protect her? How
dared she appeal to the God of the orphan, when her earthly
father yet lived, seeming to forget there was a God? Perez
and his wife perused that sad letter together; but ere it was
completed, Rachel had sunk in bitter tears upon his bosom,
seeking to speak the boon which was in her heart; but,
though it found no words, Perez answered—

“You are right, dear wife; one more will make little
difference in our household. Providence blessed us with
four children, and has been pleased to deprive us of one.
Sarah shall take her place: and in snatching her from the
infection of vice and shame, may we not ask and hope a
blessing? Do not weep then, my Rachel; Leah may not
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be so ill as she thinks. I will go and bring her and her
child; and there may be happy days in store for them yet.”

Perez departed that same night by the mail to London;
but, prompt as he was, poor Leah’s sufferings were terminated
before his arrival. Her death, though in itself a
painful shock, was less a subject of misery and depression
to a mind almost rigid in its notions of integrity and honour
as that of Perez, than the fearful state of wretchedness and
shame into which Isaac Levison had fallen. Perez soon
perceived that all hope of effecting a reformation was absolute
folly. His poor child had been so repeatedly prevented
attending school, by his intemperate or violent conduct, that
she was at length excluded. Levison could give no good
reason for depriving his little girl of these advantages, except
that he hated the elders who were in office; that he did not
see why some should be rich and some should be poor, and
why the former should lord it over the latter. He was as
good as they were any day, and his daughter should not be
browbeaten or governed by any one, however she might
call herself a lady. To reason with folly, Perez felt was
foolishness, and so he contented himself with entreating
Levison to permit his taking the little Sarah, at least for a
time, into his family. Levison imagined Perez was the
same rank as himself, and, therefore, that his pride could
not be injured by his consenting. Equal in <i>birth</i> perhaps
they were, but as far removed in their present ranks as vice
from virtue, dishonesty from truth.

Perez, however, glad and grateful for having gained his
point, made no comment on the many muttered remarks of
his brother-in-law, as to his <i>conferring</i>, not <i>receiving</i> an
obligation, by giving his child to the care of her aunt, but
hastened home, longing to offer the best comfort to his wife’s
sorrow by placing the rescued Sarah in her arms. And it
was a comfort, for gradually Rachel traced a hand of love
even in this affliction; the loss of her mother, under such
circumstances, proving perhaps, in the end, a blessing to
the child, if her father would but leave her with them. She
feared that he would not at first; but Perez smiled at the
fear as foolishness, and it gradually dwindled away; for
years passed, and the little Sarah grew from childhood into
womanhood, still an inmate of her uncle’s family, almost
forgetting she had any father but himself.
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But it is not to the unrighteous or the irreligious only that
misfortunes come. Nay, <i>they</i> may flourish for a time, and
give no evidence that there is a just and merciful God who
ruleth. But even those who have loved and served Him
through long years of probity and justice, and who, according
to frail human perceptions, would look for nothing but favour
at His hand, are yet afflicted with many sorrows; and our
feeble and insufficient wisdom would complain that such
things are. If this world were all, then indeed we might
murmur and rebel; but our God himself has assured us,
“There will come a day when He will discern between the
righteous and the wicked; between those who serve God
and those who serve Him not.” And it is our part to wait
patiently for that day, and that better world where that word
will be fulfilled.

Perez had now five children. Reuben, his eldest son, was
full five years older than the rest, a circumstance of rejoicing
to Perez, as he hoped his son would supply his place to his
family, should he be called away before the threescore and
ten years allotted as the age of man.

To do all he could towards obtaining this end, Perez early
associated his son with him in his own business of watch-making;
but too soon, unhappily, the parents discovered that
a heavy grief awaited them, from him to whom they had
most fondly looked for joy. They had indeed striven and
prayed to train up their child in the way he should go, but it
seemed as if his after years would not confirm the sage
monarch’s concluding words. Wild, thoughtless, and headstrong,
Reuben, after a very brief trial, determined that his
father’s business was not according to his taste, and he could
not follow it. His father’s authority indeed kept him steady
for a few years, but it was continued rebellion and reproof:
and often and often the father’s hard-earned savings were
sacrificed for the wild freaks and extravagance of the son.
Perez trembled lest the other members of his family, equally
dear, should suffer eventual loss; but there is something in
the hearts of Jewish parents towards an eldest son, which
calls imperatively for indulgence towards, and concealment
of his failings. Again and again Perez expended sums much
larger than he could conveniently afford, in endeavouring to
fix his son in business according to his inclinations; but no
sooner was he apparently settled and comfortable, and his
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really excellent abilities fairly drawn forth, than, by negligence
or inattention, or some graver misdemeanour, he disgusted
his employers, and, after a little longer trial, was returned
on his father’s hands.

Deeply and bitterly his parents grieved, using every affectionate
argument to convince him of the evil of his ways, and
bring him back again to the paths of joy. They did not
desist, however their efforts and prayers seemed alike unanswered;
they did not fail in faith, though often it was
trembling and faint within them. One hope they had;
Reuben was not hardened. Often he would repent in tears
and agony of spirit and deplore his own ill fate, that he was
destined to bring misery to parents he so dearly loved. But
he refused to believe that it only needed energy to rouse
himself from his folly, for as yet it was scarcely more. He
said he could not help himself, could not effect any change,
and therefore made no effort to do so. But that which
grieved his parents far more than all else, was his total indifference
to the religion of his forefathers. His ears, even as
his heart and mind, were closed to those divine truths his
parents had so carefully inculcated. He knew his duty too
well to betray infidelity and indifference in their presence,
but they loved him too well to be blind to their existence.

“What is it to be a Jew,” they heard him once say to a
companion, “but to be cut off from every honourable and
manly employment? To be bound, fettered to an obsolete
belief, which does but cramp our energies, and bind us to
detestable trade. No wonder we are looked upon with contempt,
believed to be bowed, crushed to the very earth, as
void of all spirit or energy, only because we have no opportunity
of showing them.”

Little did he know the bitter tears these words wrung
from his poor mother, that no sleep visited his father’s eyes
that night. Was this an answer to their anxious prayer?
Yet they trusted still.

Anxiety and grief did not prevent Perez attending to his
business; but either from the many drains upon his little
capital, or that trade was just at that time in a very low state,
his prosperity had begun visibly to decrease. And not long
afterwards a misfortune occurred productive of much more
painful affliction than even the loss of property which it so
seriously involved. A dreadful fire broke out in the neighbourhood,
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gaining such an alarming height ere it was discovered,
that assistance was almost useless. Amongst the
greatest sufferers were Perez and his family. Their happy
home was entirely consumed, and all the little valuables it
had contained completely destroyed. Perez gazed on ruin.
For one brief moment he stood as thunderstricken, but then
a terrible shriek aroused him. He looked around. He
thought he had seen all whom he loved in safety, but at one
glance he saw his little Ruth was not there. His wife had
caught a glimpse of the child in a part of the building which
the flames had not yet reached, and with that wild shriek had
flown to save her. He saw her as she made her way through
falling rafters and blazing walls; he made a rush forward to
join and rescue or die with her; but his children clung
round him in speechless terror; his friends and neighbours
seconded them, and before he could effectually break from
them, a loud congratulatory shout proclaimed that the daring
mother had reached her child. A dozen ladders were hurried
forward, their bearers all eager to be the first to plant the
means of effectual escape; and clasping her Ruth closely to
her breast, regardless of her increasing weight (for terror
had rendered the poor child utterly powerless), the mother’s
step was on the ladder, and a hush fell upon the assembled
hundreds. There was no sound save the roar of the devouring
element and the play of the engines. The flames were
just nearing the beam on which the ladder leaned, but hope
was strong that Rachel would reach the ground ere this frail
support gave way; and numbers pressed round, regardless
of the suffocating smoke and heat, in the vain hope of speeding
her descent.

Perez had ceased his struggles the moment his wife
appeared. With clasped hands, and cheeks and lips so
blanched, as even in that lurid light to startle by their
ghastliness, he remained, his eyes starting from their sockets
in their intense and agonized gaze. He saw only his wife
and child; but his children, with horror which froze their very
blood, could only look on the fast-approaching flames. A
wild cry of terror was bursting from young Joseph, Ruth’s
twin brother, but Sarah, with instinctive feeling, dreading
lest that cry should reach his mother’s ears and awaken her
to her danger, caught him in her arms, and soothed him
into silence.
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Carefully and slowly Rachel descended. She gave no look
around her. No one knew if she were conscious of her
danger, which was becoming more and more imminent.
Then came a smothered groan from all, all save the husband
and the father. The flame had reached the beam,—it
cracked—caught—the top of the ladder was wreathed with
smoke and fire. Was there faltering in her step, or did the
frail support fail beneath her weight? The half was past,
but one-third to the ground remained; fiercer and fiercer the
flames roared and rose above her, but yet there was hope.
It failed, the beam gave way, the ladder fell, and Rachel and
her child were precipitated to the ground. A heavy groan
mingled with the wild shriek of horror which burst around.
Perez rushed like a maniac forward; but louder, shriller
above it all a cry resounded “Mother! mother! oh God, my
mother! why was I not beside you, to save Ruth in your
stead? Mother, speak; oh speak to me again!” And the
father and son, each unconscious of the others presence,
met beside what seemed the lifeless body of one to both so
dear.

But Rachel was not dead, though fearfully injured; and it
was in the long serious illness that followed, Reuben proved
that despite his many faults and follies, affection was not
all extinguished; love for his mother remained in its full
force, and in his devotion to her, his almost woman’s tenderness,
not only towards her, but towards his little sister Ruth,
whose eyes had been so injured by the heat and smoke as to
occasion total blindness, he demonstrated qualities only too
likely so to gain a woman’s heart, as to shut her eyes to all
other points of character save them.

A subscription had indeed been made for the sufferers by
the fire, but they were so numerous, that the portion of individuals
was of course but small; and even this Perez’ honest
nature shrunk in suffering from accepting. Religious and
energetic as he was, determined not to evince by word or
sign how completely his spirit was crushed, and thus give the
prejudiced of other faiths room to say, “the Jew has no resource,
no comfort,” he yet felt that he himself would never
be enabled to hold up his head again, felt it at the very
moment friends and neighbours were congratulating him on
the equanimity, the cheerfulness with which he met and bore
up against affliction.
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Yet even now, when the sceptic and unbeliever would have
said, surely the God he has so faithfully served had deserted
him, Perez felt he was not deserted, that he had not laboured
honestly and religiously so long in vain. The wild and wayward
conduct of the son could not, in candid and liberal
minds, tarnish the character of the father; and thus he was
enabled easily and pleasantly to obtain advantageous situations
for his two elder children.

The dwelling to which we originally introduced our reader
was then to let; and from its miserably dilapidated condition
(for when Perez first saw it, it was not as we described), at a
remarkably low rent. An influential friend made it habitable,
and thither, some three months after the fire, the family
removed.

And where was Sarah Levison in the midst of these changes
and affliction? In their heavy trial, did Rachel and Perez
never regret they had made her as their own? nor permit the
murmuring thought to enter that, as the girl had a father, they
had surely no need to support an additional burden? To
such questions we think our readers will scarcely need an
answer. As their own daughter Leah, they loved and
cherished their niece, whose affection and gratitude towards
them was yet stronger and more devoted than that of their
own child, affectionate as she was. Leah had never known
other than kind untiring parents, never, even in dreams,
imagined the misery in which her cousin’s early years had
passed. To Sarah, life had been a strange dark stream of
grief and wrath, until she became an inmate of her uncle’s
house. Though only just seventeen when these heavy
sorrows took place, her peculiarly quiet and reflective character
and strong affections endowed her with the experience
of more advanced age. She not only felt, but acted. Entering
into the feelings alike of her uncle and aunt, she unconsciously
soothed and strengthened both. She taught Leah’s
young and, from its high and joyous temperament, somewhat
rebellious spirit, submission and self-control. She strengthened
in the young Simeon the ardent desire to work, and not
only assist his father now, but to raise him again to his
former station in life. She found time to impart to the little
Joseph such instruction as she thought might aid in gaining
him employment. Untiringly, caressingly, she nursed both
her aunt and the poor little patient sufferer Ruth, telling such
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sweet tales of heaven and its beautiful angels, and earth and
its pleasant places, and kind deeds, that the child would
forget her sorrow as she listened, and fancy the sweet music
of that gentle voice had never seemed so sweet before; and
while it spoke she could forget to wish to look once more
on the flowers and trees and sky. And Reuben, what was
his cousin Sarah not to him in these months of remorseful
agony, when he felt as if he could never more displease or
grieve his parents; when again and again he cursed himself
as the real cause of his father’s ruin; for had not such large
sums been wasted upon him, there might have been still
capital enough to have set him afloat again? For several
days and nights Sarah and Reuben had been joint-watchers
beside the beds of suffering; and the gentle voice of the
former consoled, even while to the divine comfort and hope
which she proffered Reuben felt his heart was closed. He
bade her speak on; he seemed, in those still silent hours, to
feel that without her gentle influence his very senses must
have wandered; and that heart must have been colder and
harsher than Sarah’s which could have done other than
believe she was not indifferent to him. Sarah did not think
of many little proofs of affection at the time; she was only
conscious that, at the very period heavy affliction had visited
her uncle’s family, a new feeling, a new energy had awakened
within her heart, and she was happy—oh, so happy!

It was to Sarah’s exertions their new dwelling owed the
comfort, cleanliness, and almost luxury of its interior arrangements;
her example inspired Leah to throw aside the proud
disdain with which she at first regarded their new home—to
conquer the rebellious feeling which prompted her to entreat
her father to apprentice her anywhere, so she need not live
so differently at home, and not only to conquer that sinful
pride, but use her every energy to rouse her natural spirits,
and make her parents forget how their lot was changed: and
the girl did so; for, in spite of youthful follies, there was
good solid sense and warm feelings on which to work.

Sarah and Leah, then, worked in the interior, and Perez
and Simeon improved the exterior of the house, so that when
the little family assembled, there was comfort and peace around
them, and thus their song of praise and thanksgiving mingled
with and hallowed the customary prayer, with which the son
of Israel ever sanctifies his newly-appointed dwelling.
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Rachel could no longer work as she had done; her right
arm had been so severely injured as to be nearly useless, but
Sarah supplied her place so actively, so happily, that Rachel
felt she had no right to murmur at her own uselessness: the
poor motherless girl she had taken to her heart and home
returned tenfold all that had been bestowed. She could
have entered into more than one lucrative situation, but she
would not hear of leaving that home which she knew needed
her presence and her services; and this was not the mere
impulse of the moment—week after week, month after
month, found her active, affectionate, persevering as at first.

The most painful circumstance in their present dwelling
was its low neighbourhood; and partially to remedy this evil,
Sarah prevailed on her uncle to employ his leisure in cultivating
the little garden behind the house, making their
sitting-room and kitchen open into it, and contriving an
entrance through them, so as scarcely to use the front,
except for ingress and egress which necessity compelled.
This arrangement was productive of a twofold good; it
prevented all gossiping intercourse, which their neighbours
had done all they could to introduce, and gave Perez an
occupation which interested him, although he might never
have thought of it himself. Both local and national disadvantages
often unite to debar the Jews from agriculture,
and therefore it is a branch in which they are seldom, if
ever, employed. Their scattered state among the nations,
the occupations which misery and persecution compel them
to adopt, are alone to blame for those peculiar characteristics
which cause them to herd in the most miserable alleys of
crowded cities, rather than the pure air and cheaper living
of the country. Perez found pleasure and a degree of health
in his new employment; the delight which it was to his poor
little blind Ruth to sit by his side while he worked, and
inhale the reviving scent of the newly-turned earth or
budding flowers, would of itself have inspired him, but his
wife too shared the enjoyment. It was a pleasure to her to
take the twins by her side, and teach them their God was a
God of love, alike through His inspired word and through
His works; and Joseph and Ruth learned to love their new
house better than their last, because it had a garden and
flowers, and they learned from that much more than they
had ever learned before.
// 022.png
.bn 022.png

For nine months all was cheerfulness and joy in that lowly
dwelling. The heavy sorrow and disquiet had partially subsided.
Reuben was more often at home, and seemed more
steadily and honourably employed. Twice in six months he
had poured his earnings in his mothers lap, and while he
lingered caressingly by her side, how might she doubt or
fear for him? though when absent, his non-attendance at the
synagogue, his too evident indifference to his faith, his visible
impatience at all its enjoyments, caused many an anxious
hour. Simeon and Leah gave satisfaction to their employers,
and Sarah earned sufficient to make her aunt’s compelled
idleness of little consequence. Perez himself had been gladly
received by his former master, as his principal journeyman,
at excellent wages; and could he have felt less painfully
the bitter change in his lot, all might have been well.
Pride, however, was unhappily his heirloom, as well as that
of Levison. With Perez it had always acted as a good
spirit—with Levison as a bad; inciting the former to all
honourable deeds and thoughts, and acting as religion’s best
agent in guarding him from wrong. Now, however, it was
to enact a different part. In vain his solid good sense
argued misfortune was no shame, and that he was as high,
in a moral point of view, as he had ever been. Equally vain
was the milder, more consoling voice of religion, in assuring
him a Father’s hand had sent the affliction, and therefore it
was love; that he failed in submission if he could not bear
up against it. In vain conscience told him, while she was
at rest and glad, all outward things should be the same;
that while his wife and children had been so mercifully
preserved, thankfulness, not grief, should be his portion.
Pride, that dark failing which will cling to Judaism, bore all
other argument away, and crushed him. Had he complained
or given way to temper, his health perhaps would not have
been injured; but he was silent on his own griefs, even to
his wife, for he knew their encouragement was wrong.
There was no outward change in his appearance or physical
power, and had he not been attacked by a cold and fever,
occasioned by a very inclement winter, the wreck of his constitution
might never have been discovered. But trifling as
his ailments at first appeared, it was but too soon evident
that he had no strength to rally from them. Gradually, yet
surely, he sunk, and with a grief which, demonstrating itself
// 023.png
.bn 023.png
in each according to their different characters, was equally
violent in all, his afflicted family felt they dared not hope,
the husband and the father was passing to his home above,
and they would soon indeed be desolate.

It was verging towards the early spring, when one evening
Perez lay on his lowly pallet surrounded by his family;
his hand was clasped in that of his wife, whose eyes were
fixed on him with a look of such deep love, it was scarcely
possible to gaze on her without tears; the other rested lightly
on the beautiful curls of his little Ruth, who, resting on a
wooden stool close beside his bed, sometimes lifted up her
sightless orbs, as if, in listening to the dear though now,
alas! but too faint voice, she could see his beloved face once
more. One alone was absent—one for whom the father
yearned as the patriarch Jacob for his Joseph. Reuben had
been sent by his employer to Manchester, and though it was
more than time for him to return, and tidings of his father’s
illness had been faithfully transmitted, he was still away.
No one spoke of him, yet he was thought of by all; so little
had his conduct alienated the affections of his family, that
no one would utter aloud the wish for his presence, lest it
should seem reproach; but the eyes of his mother, when they
could turn from her husband, ever sought the door, and
once, as an eager step seemed to approach, she had risen
hastily and descended breathlessly, but it passed on, and
she returned to her husband’s pallet with large tears stealing
down her cheeks.

“Rachel, my own dear wife, do not weep thus; he will
come yet,” whispered Perez, clasping her hands in both his;
“and if he do not, oh, may God bless him still! Tell him
there was no thought of anger or reproach within me. My
firstborn, first beloved, beloved through all—for wayward,
indifferent as he is, he is still my son—perhaps if he tarry
till too late, remorse may work upon him for good, may
awaken him to better thoughts, and if our God in His mercy
detain him for this, we must not grieve that he is absent.”

For a moment he paused; then he added, mournfully,
“I had hoped he would have supplied my place—would
have been to you, my Rachel, to his brothers and sisters, all
that a firstborn should; but it may not be. God’s will be
done!”

“Oh, no, no; do not say it may not be, dear uncle!
// 024.png
.bn 024.png
Think how young he is! Is there not hope still?” interposed
Sarah, so earnestly, that the colour rose to her cheeks.
“He will be here, I know he will, or the letter has not
reached him. You cannot doubt his love; and whilst there
is love, is there not, must there not be hope?”

The dying man looked on her with a faint, sad smile.
“I do not doubt his love, my child; but oh, if he love not
his God, his love for a mortal will not keep him from the
evil path. His youth is but a vain plea, my Sarah; if he
see not his duty as a son and brother in Israel now, when
may we hope he will? but you are right in bidding me not
despond. He is my heaviest care in death; but my God
can lighten even that.”

“Death,” sobbed Leah, suddenly flinging herself on her
knees beside the bed and covering her father’s hand with
tears and kisses, “death! Father, dear, dear father, do
not say that dreadful word! You will live, you must live—God
will not take you from us!”

“My child, call not death a dreadful word, it is only such
to the evil doers, to the proud and wicked men, of whom
David tells us, ‘They shall not stand in the judgment, nor
enter the congregation of the righteous, but shall be as chaff
which the wind driveth away.’ For them death is fearful,
for it is an end of all things; but not to me is it thus, my beloved
ones. I have sought to love and serve my God in
health and life, and His deep love and fathomless mercy
is guiding me now, holding me up here through the dark
shadows of death. His compassion is upon my soul whispering
my sins are all forgiven, that he has called me unto Him
in love, and not in wrath. There was a time I feared and
trembled at the bare dream of death; but now, oh, it seems
but as the herald of joy, of bliss which will never, never
change. My children, think that I go to God, and do not
grieve for me.”

“If not for you, my father, chide us not that we weep for
ourselves,” answered Simeon, struggling with the rising sob;
“what have you not been to all of us? and how may we bear
to feel that to us you are lost for ever, that the voice whose
accents of love never failed to thrill our hearts with joy, and
when in reproach ever brought the most obdurate in repentant
sorrow to your feet, that dear, dear voice we may
never—” he could not go on for his own voice was choked.
// 025.png
.bn 025.png

“My boy, we shall all meet again; follow on in that path
of good in which I have humbly sought to lead you; forget
not your God, and the duties of your faith; obey those commands
and behests which to Israel are enjoined; never forget
that, as children of Israel, ye are the firstborn and beloved of
the Lord; serve Him, trust Him, wait for Him, and oh,
believe the words of the dying! We shall meet again never
more to part. I do but go before you, my beloved ones, and
you will come to me; there are many homes in heaven where
the loved of the Lord shall meet.”

“And I and Ruth—father, dear father, how may we so
love the Lord, as to be so loved by him?” tearfully inquired
the young Joseph, drawing back the curtain at the head of the
bed, which had before concealed him, for he did not like his
father to see his tears. “Does he look upon us with the
same love as upon you, who have served him so faithfully
and well? Oh, what would I not do, that I may look upon
death as you do, and feel that I may come to you in heaven,
written amongst those He loves.”

“And our God does love you, my little Joseph, child as
you are, or you would not think and wish this; my works
are not more in His sight than yours. Miserable indeed
should I now be, if I had trusted in them alone for my salvation
and comfort now. No, my sweet boy, you must not look
to deeds alone; study the word of your God to know and love
Him, and then will you obey His commandments and statutes
with rejoicing, and glory that He has given you tests by
which you may prove the love you bear Him: and in death,
though the imperfection and insufficiency of your best deeds
be then revealed, you will feel and know you have not
loved your God in vain. His infinite mercy will purify and
pardon.”

His voice sunk from exhaustion; and Rachel, bending over
him to wipe the moisture from his brow, tenderly entreated
him not to speak any more then, despite the comfort of his
simplest word.

“It will not hurt me, love,” he answered, fondly, after a
pause. “I bless God that He permits me thus to speak, before
I pass from earth for ever. When we meet again, there
will be no need for me to bid my children to know and love
the Lord; for we shall all know Him, from the smallest to
the greatest of us. But to you, my own faithful wife, oh, what
// 026.png
.bn 026.png
shall I say to you in this sad moment? I can but give you
to His care, the God of the widow and the fatherless, and
feel and know He will not leave you nor forsake you, but
bless you with exceeding blessing. And in that heavy care—which,
alas! I must leave you to bear alone—care for our
precious Reuben, oh, my beloved wife, remember those
treasured words, which were our mutual strength and comfort,
when we laboured in our youth. How well do I remember
that blessed evening, when we first spoke our love,
and in our momentary despondence that long years must
pass ere we could hope for our union, we opened the hallowed
word of God, and could only see this verse: ‘Commit thy
ways unto the Lord, trust also in him and he will bring it
to pass.’ And did He not bring it to pass, dear wife? Did
He not bless our efforts, and oh, will He not still? Yes,
trust in Him; commit our Reuben unto Him, and all shall
yet be well!”

“Yes, yes, I know it will; but oh, my husband, pray for
me, that I may realize this blessed trust when you are gone.
You have been my support, my aid, till now, cheering my
despondence, soothing my fears; and now—”

“Rachel, my own wife, I have not been to you more than
you have to me; it is our God who has been to us more—oh,
how much more!—than we have been to each other, and He
is with you still. He will heal the wound His love inflicts.
But for our erring, yet our much-loved boy, I need not bid
you love him, forgive him to the end—and his brothers and
sisters. Oh, listen to me, my children.” He half-raised himself
in the energy of his supplication. “Promise me but
this, throw him not off from your love, your kindness, however
he may turn aside, however he may fall; even if that
fearful indifference increase, and in faith he scarcely seems
your brother, my children, my blessed children, oh, love him
still. Seek by kindness and affection to bring him back to
his deserted fold. Promise me to love him, to bear with
him; forget not that he is your brother, even to the last.
Many a wanderer would return if love welcomed him back,
many a one who will not bear reproach. Do not cast
him from your hearts, my children, for your dead father’s
sake.”

“Father, father, can you doubt us?” burst at once from all,
and rising from their varied postures, they joined hands around
// 027.png
.bn 027.png
him. “Love him! yes. However he may forget and desert
us, he is still our brother and your son. We will love him,
bear with him. Oh, do not fear us, father. There needed not
this promise, but we will give it. We will never cease to
love him.”

“Bless you, my children,” murmured the exhausted man,
as he sunk back. “Sarah, you have not spoken. Are you
not our child?”

She flung down her work and darted to his side. She
struggled to speak, but no words came, and throwing her
arms round his neck, she fixed on his face one long, piercing
look, and burst into passionate tears.

“It is enough, my child. I need not bid you love him,”
whispered Perez, so as to be heard only by her. “Would you
were indeed our own; there would be less grief in store.”

“And am I not your own?” she answered, disregarding
his last words, which seemed, however, to have restored her
to calmness. “Have you not been to me a true and tender
father, and my aunt as kind a mother? Whose am I if I am
not yours? Where shall I find another such home?”

“Yet you have a father, my gentle girl; one whom I have
lately feared would claim you, because they told me he was
once more a wealthy man. And if he should, if he would
offer you the rest and comfort of competence, why should
you labour throughout your young years for us? If he be
rich, he surely will not forget he has a child, and therefore
claim you.”

“He has done so,” replied Sarah, calmly, regardless of the
various intonations of surprise in which her words were repeated.
“My father did write for me to join him. He told
me he was rich; would make me cease entirely from labour,
and many similar kind offers.”

“And you refused them! Sarah, my dear child, why have
you done this?”

“Why,” she repeated, pressing the trembling hand her
aunt held out to her between both hers; “why, because
now, only now, can I even in part return all you have done
for me; because I cannot live apart from all whom I so love.
I cannot exchange for short-lived riches all that makes life
dear. Had my father sent for me in sickness or in woe, I
should fly to him without an hour’s pause. But it is he who
is in affluence, in peace; and you, my best, kindest friends,
// 028.png
.bn 028.png
in sorrow. No, no; my duty was to stay with you, to work
for you, to love you; and I wrote to beseech his permission
to remain, even if it were still to labour. I did not feel it
labour when with you; and I have permission. I am still
your child; he will not take me from you.”

“God’s blessing be upon him!” murmured Rachel, as she
folded the weeping girl to her bosom.

A pause of deep emotion fell upon the group. Perez
drew her faintly to him, and kissed her cheek; then saying
he felt exhausted, and should wish to be left alone a brief
while, Sarah led the twins away, and, followed by Leah,
softly left the apartment. Simeon and his mother still
remained beside his couch.

The night passed quietly. Sarah put the twins to bed, and
persuaded Leah to follow their example, and, exhausted by
sorrow, she was soon asleep, leaving Sarah to watch and pray
alone; and the poor girl did pray, and think and weep, till
it seemed strange the night could so soon pass, and morning
smile again. She had not told that permission to remain
with her aunt had been scornfully and painfully given; that
her father had derided her, as mean-spirited and degraded;
that as she had chosen to remain with her poor relations, she
was no longer his daughter. Nor did she pray and weep for
the dying, or for those around him. One alone was in that
heart! Why was he not there at such a moment? and she
shuddered as she pictured the violence of the self-accusing
agony which would be upon him when he discovered he had
lingered until too late. Hour after hour passed, and there
was no footstep. She thought the chimes must have rung
too near each other; for as one struck, she believed he must
be at home ere it struck another, and yet he came not: she
watched in vain.

Day dawned, and as light gleamed in upon the dying,
there was a change upon his face. He had not suffered
throughout the night, seeming to sleep at intervals, and then
lay calmly without speaking; but as the day gradually
brightened, he reopened his eyes and looked towards the
richly glowing east.

“Another sun!” he said, in a changed and hollow voice.
“Blessed be the God who sets him in the heavens, strong
and rejoicing as a young man to run a race: my race is over—my
light will pass before his. I prayed one night’s
// 029.png
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delay, but still he does not come; and now it will soon be
over. Rachel, my true wife, call the children; let me bless
them each once more.”

They were called, and, awestruck even to silence at the
fearful change in that loved face, they one by one drew near
and bowed down their bright heads before him. Faintly
yet distinctly, he spoke a blessing upon each; then murmured,
“The God of my Fathers bless you all, all as you
love Him and each other. Never deny him: acknowledge
Him as One! Hear, O Israel! the Lord our God, the Lord
is one!”

The words were repeated in tears and sobs by all; he fell
back, and they thought his spirit gone. Minutes rolled by,
and then there was a rapid step without; it neared the door,
one moment paused, and entered.

“My son, my son! O God, I thank thee! Reuben, my
firstborn, in time, I bless, bless—” the words were lost in
a fearful gurgling sound, but the father’s arms were flung
wildly, strongly round the son, who, with bitter tears, had
thrown himself upon his neck—and there was silence.

“Father! oh, my father, speak—bless, forgive me!” at
length Reuben wildly exclaimed, breaking from that convulsive
hold to sink as a penitent upon the earth. He spoke
in vain; the spirit had lingered to gaze once more upon the
firstborn of his love, then fled from earth for ever.
.sp 2
.hr 20%
.sp 2
.h3
CHAPTER II.
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>It</sc> is two years after the mournful event recorded in our last
chapter that we recommence our simple narrative. When
time and prayer had softened the first deep affliction, the
widow and her family indeed proved the fulfilment of that
blessed promise, “Leave thy fatherless children to me, and
I will keep them alive, and let thy widows trust in me;” for
they prospered and were happy. Affliction, either of failing
health in those compelled to labour, or in want of employment,
was kept far from them. The widow, indeed, herself
often suffered; but she thanked God, in the midst even of
pain, as she compared the blessings of her lot with those of
others. Little Ruth, too, from her affliction and very delicate
// 030.png
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health, was often an object of anxiety; but so tenderly was
she beloved, that anxiety was scarcely pain in the delight
her presence ever caused. Sweet-tempered, loving, and
joyous, with a voice of song like a bird’s, and a laugh of
child-like glee, and yet such strong affections, such deep
reverence for all things holy, that who might grieve for her
afflictions when she was so happy, so gratified herself? She
was the star of that lowly little dwelling, for sorrow, or discord,
or care could not come near her.
.pi
Joseph, her twin brother, had attracted the notice of a
respectable jeweller, who, though he could not take the boy
into his house as a regular apprentice till he was thirteen,
not only employed him several hours in the day in cleaning
jewels, etc., but allowed him small wages—an act of real
benevolence, felt by the widow as an especial blessing,
rendered perhaps the dearer from the fact that it was
the high character her husband had borne which gave his
youngest son so responsible an office, intrusted as it was to
none but the strictly honest.

Simeon, now nearly seventeen, was with the same watchmaker
who had formerly brought forward his father. It was
not a trade he liked; nay, the delicate machinery required
was peculiarly annoying to him, but it was the only opening
for him, and he conquered his disinclination. He had long
since made a vow to use his every effort to restore his parents
to the comfortable estate from which they had unfortunately
fallen, and no thought of himself or his own wishes should
interfere with its accomplishment. Persevering and resolute,
he took a good heart with him to the business; and though
his first attempts were awkward, and the laughter of his
companions most discouraging, the praise of his master and
his own conscience urged him on, and before the two years
which we have passed over had elapsed, he had conquered
every difficulty, and promised in time to be quite as good a
workman as his father.

The extent of suffering which his father’s death had been
to him no one knew, but he had felt at first as if he could
not rouse himself again. It was useless to struggle on; for
the beloved parent, for whose sake he had made this solemn
vow, was gone for ever. His mother indeed was spared
him; but much as he loved and reverenced her, his father
had been, if possible, first in his affections. Perhaps it was
// 031.png
.bn 031.png
that his own feelings, his own character, gave him a clue to
all that his father had done and endured. He had all his
honesty and honour, all his energy, and love for his ancient
faith. One difference there was: Perez could bear with,
nay, love all mankind—could find excuse for the erring, even
for the apostate, much as he abhorred the deed; could believe
in the sincerity and piety of others, though their faith differed
from his own; but Simeon could not feel this. Often, even
in his childhood, his father had to reprove him for prejudice;
and as he grew older, his hatred against all those who left
the faith, or united themselves in any way with other than
Israelites, continued violent. Prejudice is almost the only
feeling which reason cannot conquer—religion may, and
Simeon was truly and sincerely religious; but he <i>loved his
faith</i> better than he <i>loved his God</i>. He would have started
and denied it, had any one told him so, and declared it was
impossible—one feeling could not be distinct or divided from
the other; yet so it was. An earnest and heartfelt love of
God can never permit an emotion so violent as hatred to any
of God’s creatures. It is no test of our own sincerity to
condemn or disbelieve in that of others; and those who do—who
prejudiced and violent against all who differ from
them—may be, no doubt are, sincerely religious and well
intentioned, but they love their faith better than they love
their God.

These peculiar feelings occasioned a degree of coldness in
Simeon’s sentiments towards his brother Reuben, of whom
we have little more to say than we know already.

The death of his father was indeed a fearful shock; yet,
from a few words which fell from him during some of his
interviews with Sarah, she fancied that he almost rejoiced
that he was bound by no promise to the dying. In the midst
of repentant agony that he had arrived too late for his
parent’s blessing, he would break off with a half shudder,
and mutter, “If he had spoken that, he might have spoken
more, and I could not have disobeyed him on his death-bed.
Whatever he bade me promise I must have promised; and
then, then, after a few brief months, been perjured. Oh, my
father, my father! why is it my fate to be the wretch I
am?”

This grief was violent, but it did not produce the good
effect which his parents had so fondly hoped. Even in the
// 032.png
.bn 032.png
days of mourning, it was evident that the peculiar forms
which his faith enjoined, as the son of the deceased, chafed
and irritated him; and had it not been for the deep, silent
suffering of his mother, which he could not bear to increase,
he would have neglected them altogether. When he mixed
with the world again, he followed his own course and his
own will, scarcely ever mixing with those of his own race,
but seeking, and at last finding employment with the
stranger. He had excellent abilities; and from his having
received a better education than most youths of his race,
obtained at length a lucrative situation in an establishment
which, trading to many different parts of the British Isles,
often required an active agent to travel for them. His
peculiar creed had been at first against him; but when his
abilities were put to the proof, and it was discovered he was
in truth only <i>nominally</i> a Jew, that he cared not to sacrifice
the Sabbath, and that no part of his religion was permitted
to interfere with his employments, his services were accepted
and well paid.

Had then Reuben Perez, the beloved and cherished son
of such good and pious parents, indeed deserted the religion
of his forefathers? Not in semblance, for there were times
when he still visited the synagogue; and as he did so, he
was by many still conceived a good Jew. The flagrant
follies of his youth had subsided; he was no longer wild,
wavering, and extravagant. Not a word could be spoken
against his moral principles; his public, even his domestic
conduct was unexceptionable, and therefore he bore a high
character in the estimation alike of the Jewish and Christian
world. What cause had his mother, then, for the grief and
pain which swelled her heart almost to bursting, when she
thought upon her firstborn? Alas! it was because she felt
there was One who saw deeper than the world—One,
between whom and himself Reuben had raised up a dark
barrier of wrath—One who loved him, erring and sinful as
he was, with an immeasurable love, but whose deep love was
rejected and abused—even his God, that God who had been
the Saviour of his forefathers through so many thousand
ages. The mother would have preferred seeing him poor,
dependent, obtaining but his daily bread, yet faithful to his
faith and to his God, than prosperous, courted, and an
alien.
// 033.png
.bn 033.png

The brothers seldom met, and therefore Simeon was
ignorant how powerfully coldness was creeping over his
affections for Reuben; how, in violently condemning his
indifference and union with the stranger, he was rendering
the observance of his promise to his dying father (to bear
with and love his brother) a matter of difficulty and pain.
Faithful and earnest himself, he could not understand a
want of earnestness and fidelity in others. But, however
the world might flatter and appear to honour his exemplary
moral conduct, one truth it is our duty to record—Reuben
was not happy. It was not the mere fancy of his mother
and cousin, it was truth; they knew not wherefore—for if
he neglected and contemned his religion, he could scarcely
feel the want of it—but that he was unhappy, perhaps was
the secret cause which held the love of his mother and Sarah
so immovably enchained, bidding them hope sometimes in
the very midst of gloom.

Of the female members of Perez’ family we have little to
remark. Leah’s good conduct had not only made her the
favourite of her mistress, but her liveliness and happy
temper had actually triumphed over the sometimes harsh
disposition she had at first to encounter. There was no
withstanding her good humour. She had the happy knack
of making people good friends with themselves, as well as
with each other, and was so happy herself, that, except when
she thought of her dear father, and wished that he could but
see her and hear her sing over her work, sorrow was unknown.
Every Friday evening she went home to remain till
the Sunday morning, and that was superlative enjoyment,
not only to herself, for her mother looked to the visit of her
merry, affectionate daughter as a source of pure feeling,
delight, and recreation.

In Sarah there was no change. Still pensive, modest, and
industrious, she continued quietly to retain the most devoted
affections of her relatives, and the goodwill and respect of
her employers. Of her own individual feelings we must not
now speak, save to say that few even of her domestic circle
imagined how strong and deep was the under-current of character
which her quiet mien concealed.

It was the evening of the Sabbath, and the widow and her
daughters were assembled in their pretty little parlour.
Simeon and Joseph were not yet returned from synagogue.
// 034.png
.bn 034.png
Reuben, alas! was seldom there on the Sabbath eve. The
table was covered with a cloth, which, though not of the
finest description, was white as the driven snow; and the
Sabbath lamp was lighted, for in their greatest poverty this
ceremony had never been omitted. When they had no
lamp, and could not have afforded oil, they burnt a wax
candle, frequently depriving themselves of some week-day
necessary to procure this indulgence. The first earnings of
Sarah, Leah, and Simeon had been used to repurchase the
ancient Sabbath lamp, the heirloom in their family for many
generations. It was silver and very antique, and by a
strange chance had escaped the fire, which rendered perhaps
the sale of it the more painful to Perez. His gratification
on beholding it again had amply repaid his affectionate
children. Never being used but on Sabbaths, it
seemed to partake of the sanctity of that holy day.

Bread and salt were also upon the table, and the large
Bible and its attendant prayer-books there also, open, as if
they had just been used. Ruth had plucked some sweet
flowers just before Sabbath, and arranged them tastefully in
a china cup, and Leah had playfully removed a sprig of rosebuds
and wreathed it in the long glossy curls which hung
round Ruth’s sweet face and over her shoulders. The
dresses of all were neat and clean, for they loved to make a
distinction between the seventh day and the six days of
labour.

“If we were about to pass a day in the presence of an
earthly sovereign, my dear children,” the widow had often
been wont to say, “should we not deserve to be excluded if
we appeared rudely and slovenly and dirtily attired? You
think we could not possibly do so; it would not only be such
marked disrespect, but we should not be admitted. How,
then, dare we seek the presence of our heavenly sovereign in
such rude and sinful disarray? The seventh day is His day.
He calls upon us to throw aside all worldly thoughts and
cares, and come to Him, and give our thoughts and hearts to
His holy service. If an earthly king so called us, how
anxious should we be to accept the invitation—shall we do
less for God?”

“But, dear mother,” Leah would answer, “will God regard
that? Is He not too holy, too far removed from us, too
pure to mark such little things?”
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“Nothing is too small for Him to remark, if done in love
and faith, my child. The heart anxious to mark the Sabbath
by increase of cleanliness and neatness in personal attire, as
well as household arrangements, must conceive it God’s own
day, and observing it as such will receive His blessing. It is
not the <i>act</i> of dressing or the dress He observes. He only
marks it as a proof His holy day is welcomed with love and
rejoicing, as He commanded; and the smallest offering of
<sc>OBEDIENCE</sc> is acceptable to Him.”

“But I have heard you remark with regret, mother, that
some of our neighbours are dressed so very smart on Sabbath.
If it be to mark the holy difference between that day and the
others, why should you regret it?”

“Because, love, there ought to be moderation in all things,
and when I see very smart showy dresses, which, if not in
material, in appearance are much too fine and smart for our
station, I fear it is less a religious than a worldly feeling
which dictates them. Have you not noticed that those who
dress so gaily generally spend their Sabbath in walking
about the streets and exchanging visits, conversing, of course,
on the most frivolous topics? I do not think this the proper
method of spending our Sabbath day, and therefore I regret to
see them devote so much time and thought on mere outward
decoration, which is so widely different from obedience to
their God.”

Leah thought of this little conversation many times. From
thoughtlessness and dislike to trouble, she had hitherto been
rather negligent than otherwise in her dress; then going to
a contrary extreme, felt very much inclined to imitate some
young companions in their finery. Her mother’s word saved her
from the one, and their subsequent misfortunes effectually from
the other, as all her earnings were hoarded for one holy purpose,
simply to assist her parents; and she would have thought it
sacrilege to have spent any portion on herself, except on
things which she absolutely needed. But so neat and clean
was she invariably in her dress, that her mistress always sent
her to receive orders, and, trifling as appearance may seem, it
repeatedly gained customers.

“They are coming—I hear their footsteps,” said the little
Ruth, springing up to open the parlour door. “Oh! I do so
love the Sabbath eve, for it brings us all together again so
happily.”
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“Is it only Simeon and Joseph, my child?” inquired the
widow, mournfully; for there was one expectation on her heart
and that of Sarah, which, alas! was seldom to be fulfilled.

Ruth listened attentively.

“Only they, mother!” she said, checking her voice of glee,
and returning to her mother’s side, for she knew the cause of
that saddened tone, and she laid her little head caressingly on
her mother’s breast.

Simeon and Joseph at that moment entered, and each advancing,
bent lowly before their mother, who, laying her
hand upon each dear head, blessed them in a voice faltering
from its emotion, and kissed them both. The kiss of love
and peace went round, and gaily the brothers and sisters
drew round the table, which Sarah’s provident love speedily
covered with the welcome evening meal. The happy laugh
and affectionate interchange of the individual cares and
pleasures, vexations and enjoyments of the past week, occupied
them delightfully during tea. Sarah had to tell of a
new kind of work which had diversified her usual employment,
and been most successful; a kind of wadded slipper,
which, after many trials, she had completed to her satisfaction,
in the intervals of other work; and which not only sold well,
but gave her dear aunt an occupation which she could accomplish
without pain, in wadding and binding the silk. Leah
told of a pretty dress and bonnet which her mistress had presented
to her, in token of her approbation of her steadiness
in refusing to accompany her companions to some place of
amusement, which, from its respectability being doubted, she
knew her mother would not approve; and, by staying at
home, enabled Mrs. Magnus to finish an expensive order a
day sooner than had been expected, and so gained her a new
and wealthy customer.

“Dearest mother, you told me how to resist temptation
even in trifles,” continued the affectionate girl, with tears of
feeling in her bright dark eyes. “You taught me from my
earliest childhood there was purer and more lasting pleasure
in conquering my own wishes than any doubtful recreation
could bestow; and that in that inward pleasure our
heavenly Father’s approval was made manifest. And so, you
see, though you were not near me and I could not, as I wished,
ask your advice and permission, it was you who enabled me
to conquer myself, and resist this temptation. I did want
// 037.png
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to go, and felt very, very lonely when all went; but when
Mrs. Magnus thanked me for enabling her to give so much
satisfaction, and said I had gained her a new customer, oh,
no <i>circus</i> or <i>play</i> could have given me such happiness as that;
and it was all through you, mother, and so I told her.”

The happy mother smiled on her animated girl; but her
heart did not glorify itself, it thanked God that her early
efforts had been so blessed. “And Ruth!” some of our
readers may exclaim, “poor blind Ruth, what can she have
to say?” And we answer, happy little Ruth had much of
industry and enjoyment to dilate on. The straw she had
plaited, the hymns she had learnt through Sarah’s kindly
teaching, the dead leaves she had plucked from the shrubs
and flowers, for so delicate had her sense of touch become,
she could follow this occupation in perfect security to the
plants, distinguishing the dead and dying from the perfect
leaves at a touch. Then she told of a poor little orphan
beggar girl, whom Sarah had one day brought in cold and
crying, because she had been begging all day and had received
nothing, and she knew she should be beaten when she
went home; and how she had said she hated begging; but
she could do nothing else; and little Ruth had asked her if
she would like to sell flowers; and poor Mary had told her she
should like it very very much, but she could not get any. She
knew no one who would let her take them from the garden.
How she (Ruth) had promised to make her some little nosegays,
and Sarah and her mother said they would make her
some little nick-nacks, pincushions, and housewives to put
with her flowers.

“Ah, we made her so happy!” continued the child, clasping
her little hands in delight. “Mother gave her some of my
old things, which were quite good to her, and it is quite a
pleasure to me to make her nosegays, and feel they give her
a few pence better than begging; and Sarah is going to try if
I can make her some little fancy things when winter comes.
You know I am quite rich to her, for God has given me a
home, and such a kind mother, and dear brothers and sisters,
and she has neither home nor mother, nor any one to love
her. Poor, poor Mary! and then, too, some say the
Christians do not like the Jews, and I know she will and
does like us, and she may make others of her people like us
too.”
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“Ruth,” said her brother Simeon, in a very strange husky
voice, “Ruth, darling, come here and kiss me. I wish you
would make me as good as you.”

“As good!” exclaimed the child, springing on his knee,
and throwing her arms round his neck; “dear naughty
Simeon, to say such a thing. How much more you can do
than I. Do you not work so very much, that dear mother
sometimes fears for your health? and it is all for us, to help
to support us, mother and me, because we cannot work for
ourselves. Ah, I am blind, and can only do little things, and
try to make every one happy, that they may love me; but I
am only a little girl; I cannot be as good as you.”

“Ruth, darling, I could not do as you have done. I cannot
love and serve those who hate and persecute us as Israelites.”

“They do not persecute us now, brother. Sarah told me
sad tales of what we suffered once; but God was angry with
us then, and he made the nations punish us. But now, if
they still dislike us we ought not to dislike them, but do all
we can to make them love us.”

Simeon bent his head upon his sister’s; her artless words
had rebuked and shamed him. But prejudice might not even
then be overcome. He knew she was right and he was
wrong, so he would not answer, glad to hear Leah gaily demand
a history of his weekly proceedings, as he had not yet
spoken. He had little to relate, except that he was now
beginning really to understand his business. His master had
said that he should soon be obliged to raise his salary; and,
what was a real source of happiness, from the care and quickness
with which he now accomplished his tasks, he found
time for his favourite amusement of modelling, which circumstances
had compelled him so long to neglect. Joseph had
to tell of similar kindness on the part of his master and industry
on his own. He told, too, with great glee, that Mr. Bennet
had promised to give him some lessons in the evenings, in
the language which of all others he wished most particularly
to understand. He knew many were satisfied merely to read
their prayers in Hebrew, whether they understood them or
not, but he wished to understand it thoroughly, and all the
time he was cleaning jewels, for he was now quite expert, he
thought over what his master had so kindly taught him;
perhaps one day he might be able to know Hebrew
thoroughly himself, and oh, what a delight that would be!
// 039.png
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By the time Joseph had finished his tale, the table had
been cleared; and then the widow opened the large Bible,
and after fervently blessing God for His mercy in permitting
them all to see the close of another week in health and
peace, read aloud a chapter and psalm. Varied as were the
characters and wishes of all present, every heart united in
reverence and love towards this weekly service—in, if possible,
increased devotion towards that beloved parent, who
so faithfully endeavoured to support not alone her own
duties towards her offspring, but those of their departed
father. She had not lost those hours and days, aye, and
sometimes long weeks of suffering, with which it had pleased
God to afflict her. When confined to her bed, the Bible
had been her sole companion, and she so communed with it
and her own heart, that many passages, which had before
been veiled, were now made clear and light, and her constant
prayer for wisdom and religion to lead her offspring in its
paths of pleasantness and peace granted to the full. Yet
Rachel was no great scholar. Let it not be imagined
amongst those who read this little tale, that she was unusually
gifted. She was indeed so far gifted that she had a
<i>trusting spirit and a most humble and child-like mind</i>, and of
worldly ways was most entirely ignorant; and it was these
feelings which kept her so persevering in the path of duty,
and, leading her to the footstool of her God, gave her the
strength of wisdom that she needed; and to every mother in
Israel these powers are given.

“Well, my dear children, to whom must I look for the
text which is to occupy us this evening?” said the widow,
glancing affectionately round as she ceased to read.

“To me and Ruth, mother; for you know we always
think together,” answered Joseph, eagerly. “And you
don’t know how we have both been longing for this evening,
for the verse we have chosen has made us think so much,
and with all our thinking, we cannot quite satisfy ourselves.”

“But what is it, my boy?”

“It is the one our dear father repeated on his death-bed,
mother. I have often thought of it since, but feared it would
make you sorrowful, if we spoke of it for the first year or two;
but as I found Ruth had thought of it and wished it explained
also, we said we would ask you to talk about it to-night. You
repeat it, Ruth; you pronounce the Hebrew so prettily!”
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And timidly, but sweetly, Ruth said, first in Hebrew and
then in English, “‘Commit your ways unto the Lord; trust
also in him, and he will bring it to pass.’ <i>Ways</i>,” continued
the child, “was the word which first puzzled us, but Sarah
has explained it to me so plainly, I understand it better
now.”

“Tell us then, Sarah dear,” said her aunt.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that the word <i>ways</i> has
many meanings. In the verse, ‘Show me thy ways, O
Lord,’ I think it means actions. In another verse, ‘The
Lord made known his <i>ways</i> unto Moses, his acts unto the
children of Israel,’ I think ways mean <i>thoughts</i>!”

“And there are several in Proverbs,” interposed Simeon,
“which would make us regard <i>ways</i> as the path we are to
tread; as for instance, ‘Who leaveth the <i>path</i> of righteousness,
to <i>walk</i> in the <i>ways</i> of darkness.’”

“But Ruth and I want to know in which of these ways
we are to regard it in our verse,” persisted Joseph.

“As meaning both <i>outward actions</i> and <i>inward thoughts</i>,
my dear children,” replied his mother. “I have thought
long on this verse, and I am glad you have chosen it for
discussion. Perhaps you do not know, my little Joseph, that
we <i>must think to act</i>; that it is very seldom any good or bad
action is performed without previous thought; and, consequently,
if we would be pure in act, we must commit our
thoughts unto the Lord.”

“But how are we to do this, mother?” asked Leah.

“By constant prayer, my love; by endeavouring, wherever
we are, or whatever we may be doing, to remember God
knows our every thought before it has words, and long
before it becomes action. We are apt, perhaps, to indulge
in the wildest thoughts, simply because we imagine ourselves
secure from all observation. From <i>human</i> observation we
are secure, but not from our Father who is in heaven; and
therefore we should endeavour so to train our thoughts as to
banish all which we dare not commit unto our God.”

“But are there not some things, dear aunt, too trivial, too
much mingled with earthly feelings, to bring before a Being
of such ineffable holiness and purity?” inquired Sarah, in a
voice which, notwithstanding all her efforts, audibly faltered.

“Ah, that is what I want so much to know,” added
Joseph.
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“You must not forget, my dear Sarah,” resumed Mrs.
Perez, “that our God is a God of love and compassion, as
infinite as His holiness; that every throb of pain or joy in
the creature His love has formed, is <i>felt</i> as well as <i>ordained</i>
by Him. No nation has a God so near to them as Israel;
and we, of all others, ought to derive and realize comfort
from the belief that He knows our nature in its strivings
after righteousness, as well as in its sin. He knows all our
temptations, all our struggles, far better than our dearest
earthly friends, and His loving mercy towards us is infinitely
stronger. Therefore we can better commit our secret
thoughts and feelings unto His keeping, than to that of our
nearest friends on earth.”

“And may children do this, mother?”

“Yes, dear boy; our Father has children in His tender
care and guiding, even as those of more experienced age.
Accustom yourselves, while engaged in thought, to ask, ‘Can
I ask my Father’s blessing on these thoughts, and on the
actions they lead to?’ and rest assured conscience will give
you a true answer. If it say, ‘No,’ dismiss the trifling or
sinful meditations on the instant; send up a brief prayer to
God for help, and He will hear you. If, on the contrary,
conscience approve your thought, encourage it, as leading
you nearer, closer, and more lovingly to God.”

“But is not this close communion more necessary for
women than for men, mother?” inquired Simeon.

“Women may need it more, my dear boy; but, believe
me, it is equally, if not more necessary for man. Think of
the many temptations to evil which men have in their intercourse
with the world; the daily, almost hourly call for the
conquest of inclination and passion, which, without some
very strong incentive, can never be subdued. One unguarded
moment, and the labour of years after righteousness
may be annihilated. Man may not need the <i>comfort</i> of this
close communion so much as women, but he yet more requires
its <i>strength</i>. Nothing is so likely to keep him from
sin, as committing his thoughts even as his actions unto the
Lord.”

“Thank you, my dear mother; that first bit is clear,”
said Joseph. “Now I want the second: the third is the
most puzzling of all, but we shall come to that by and
bye.”
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“You surely know what it means by to ‘trust in Him,’
Joseph?” said Leah.

“I think I do, sister mine, for it was mother’s humble
trust in the Lord that supported her in her sorrows: <i>that</i> I
saw, I felt, though I was a child; but—” he hesitated.

“Well, my boy?”

“To <i>trust</i>, I think, means to have faith. Now, Henry
Stevens said the other day, Jews have no faith—and how can
we trust, then?”

“My dearest Joseph, do not let your companions so mislead
you,” answered his mother, earnestly. “I know that
is a charge often brought against us; but it is always from
those who do not know our religion, and who judge us only
from those who, by their words and actions, condemn it
themselves. The Jew must have faith, not only in the
existence of God, but in the sacred history our God inspired,
or he is <i>no</i> Jew. He must feel faith—believe God hears and
will answer, or his prayers, however fervent, are of no avail.
Without faith, his very existence must be an enigma, and
his whole life misery. Oh, believe me, my dear children, as
no nation has God so near them, so no nation has so much
need of faith, and no nation has so experienced the strength,
and peace, and fulness which it brings.”

“But how does our verse mean that we are to trust in the
Lord, mother?” asked Ruth.

“It belongs both to the first and last division of the verse,
my love. If we commit our ways unto the Lord, and <i>trust
also in Him</i> (remember one is of no avail without the other),
then He will bring it to pass.”

“Ah! that is it. I am so glad we have come to that,”
eagerly exclaimed Joseph. “Mother, does it mean, <i>can</i> it
mean that our Father will grant our prayers, will give us
what we most wish?”

“If it be for our good, my boy; if our wishes be acceptable
in His sight; if they will tend to our eternal as well as
our temporal welfare; and we bring them before Him in
unfailing confidence, believing firmly that He will answer in
His own good time—we may rest assured that He will
answer us, that He will grant our prayers.”

“But that which is for our good may not be what we most
wish for,” resumed Joseph, despondingly.

“But, my boy, if what we wish for is <i>not</i> for our good, is
// 043.png
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it not more merciful and kind to deny than to grant it?
Remember, God knows us better than we know ourselves;
and we may ask what would lead us to evil temporally and
eternally. If, for a wise and merciful purpose, even our good
desires are not granted, be assured that peace, strength, and
healing will be given in their stead.”

The little circle looked very thoughtful as the impressive
voice of the widow ceased.

Sarah seemed more than usually moved; for, as she bent
over her little Bible, which she had opened at the verse,
tears one by one fell silently upon the page. Whether Ruth
heard them drop, or from her seat close by her cousin felt
that the hand she caressingly held trembled, we know not,
but the child rose and threw her little arms around her neck.

“Do you remember who it was wrote the verse we are
considering?” said the widow, after a pause.

“King David,” answered Joseph and Simeon together.

“Then you see it was no prosperous monarch, no peaceful
lawgiver, but one whose life had passed in trials, compared to
which our severest misfortunes must seem trifling. Hunted
from place to place, in daily danger of his life, compelled
even to feign madness, separated from all whom he loved,
from all of happiness or peace, even debarred from the public
exercise of his faith, his very prayers at times seemingly unheeded—yet
it is this faithful servant of God who exclaims,
‘Commit your ways unto the Lord; trust also in him, and he
will bring it to pass.’ We know not the exact time he wrote
these words; but we know he wrote from experience, for did
not God indeed bring happiness to pass for him? If we
think of the <i>life</i> of him who wrote these blessed words, as
well as the words themselves, we must derive strength and
comfort from the reflection.”

“Yes, yes; I see and feel it all now,” exclaimed Joseph,
eagerly as before. “Oh, mother, I can think about it now
without any puzzling at all. I am so glad. Cannot you,
Ruth?”

“Hush!” answered the child, as she suddenly started up
in an attitude of attentive listening. “Hush! I am sure
that is Reuben’s step: he is coming, he is coming. Oh,
what joy for me!”

“You are wrong, dear; and it only disappoints mother,”
said Leah, gently.
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“No, no! I know I am not. There listen; do you not
hear steps now?”

“Yes: but how can you be sure they are his?” answered
Simeon. “It is so very unlikely, I should have thought of
everybody else first?”

Ruth made no answer; but she bounded from the room,
and had opened the street-door, regardless of Leah’s
entreaties to wait at least till the steps came nearer. A
very few minutes more, and all doubts were solved by the
entrance of Ruth, not walking, but clinging round her brother
Reuben’s neck and almost stifling him with kisses, only interrupting
herself to say, “Who was right, Miss Leah and
Master Simeon? Ah, you did not have Reuben for long
weeks to attend and nurse, as I had, or you would have
known his step too.”

“You can love me still, then?” murmured her brother, as
only to be heard by her; then added aloud, “my mother
should have had the first kiss, dearest; let me ask her blessing,
Ruth?”

She released him, though she still held his hand; and
hastening to his mother, he bent his head before her.

“Is it too late to ask my mother’s Sabbath blessing?” he
said, and his voice was strangely choked. “Bless me,
dearest mother, as you used to do.”

The widow rose and, laying her hands upon his head, repeated
the customary Hebrew blessing, and then folded him
to her heart.

“It is never, never too late for a mother’s blessing—a
mother’s love, my Reuben,” she said, her voice quivering with
the efforts she made to restrain her emotion. “I could have
wished it oftener and earlier asked on the Sabbath eve; but
it is yours, my boy, each night and morning, though you hear
it not.”

“And will it always be? Mother! mother! will you
never withdraw it from me? No, no, you will not. You
love me only too, too well,” and abruptly breaking from
her, after kissing her passionately, he turned to greet his
brothers and sisters.

All met him cordially and affectionately, except perhaps
that there was a stern look of inquiry in Simeon’s eyes,
which Reuben, from some unexpressed feeling, could not
meet; and, looking from him, he exclaimed—
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“Sarah! where is my kind cousin Sarah? will she not
give me welcome?”

“She was here this moment,” said Leah; “where can she
have vanished?”

“Not very far, dear cousin: I am here. Reuben, can you
believe one moment that I do not rejoice to see you once
again at home?” said Sarah, advancing from the farther side
of the room and placing her hand frankly in her cousin’s,
looking up in his face with her clear, pensive eyes, but cheeks
as pale as marble.

Reuben pressed her hand within his own, tried to meet
smilingly her glance and speak as usual, but both efforts
failed, and again he turned away.

“And he has come to stay with us—he will not leave
us in a hurry again,” said the affectionate little Ruth, keeping
her seat on his knee, and nestling her head in his
bosom. “I wanted but you to make this evening quite, quite
happy.”

Reuben kissed her to conceal a sigh, and controlling himself,
he entered cheerfully and caressingly into all Ruth and
Joseph had to tell, called for all interesting conversation from
the other members of his family, and imparted many particulars
of himself. He was rising high in the world, had been
the fortunate means of preventing a great loss to the firm of
which he was a servant, and so raised his salary, and himself
in the estimation of his employers. Fortune smiled on
him, he said, in many ways, and he had had the happiness
of securing a trifling fund for his mother, which though
small was sure, and would provide her yearly with a
moderate sum. He had something else to propose, but there
would be time enough for that. His mother blessed and
thanked him; but her heart was not at rest. Cheerful as the
conversation was, happy as the last hour ought to have been,
there was a dim foreboding on her spirit which she could not
conquer. Something was yet to be told, Reuben was not at
peace, and when indeed he did speak that something, it was
with a confused more than a joyous tone.

“I do not know why I should delay telling you of my intention,
mother,” he said at length; “I have had too many
proofs of your affection to doubt of your rejoicing in anything
that will make my happiness—I am going to be
married.”
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There was a general start and exclamation from all but two
in the group—his mother and cousin.

“If it will make your happiness, my son, I do indeed rejoice,”
the former said very calmly. “Whom do you give me
for another daughter?”

“You do not know her yet, mother; but I am sure you
will learn to love her dearly: it is Jeanie Wilson, the only
child of my fellow-clerk.”

“Jeanie Wilson!—a Christian! Reuben, Reuben, how have
you fallen!” burst angrily, almost fiercely, from Simeon;
“but it is folly to be surprised—I knew it would be so.”

“Indeed! wonderfully clear-sighted as you were then, if
you consider such a union humiliation, it would have been
more brotherly, perhaps, to have warned me of the precipice
on which I stood,” answered Reuben, sarcastically.

“Yes! you gave me so fair an opportunity to act a
brother’s part; never seeking me, or permitting me to seek
you, for weeks together; herding with strangers alone—following
them alike in the store and in the mart—loving what
they love, doing as they do—and, like them, scorning, despising,
and persecuting that holy people who once called you
son—forgetting your birthright, your sainted heritage—throwing
dishonour on the dead as on the living, to link
yourself with those who assuredly will, if they do not now,
despise you. Shame, foul shame upon you!”

“Have you done?” calmly inquired Reuben, though the
red spot was on his cheek. “It is something for the elder to
be bearded thus by the younger. Yet be it so. I have done
nothing for which to feel shame—nothing to dishonour those
with whom I am related. If they feel themselves dishonoured,
let them leave me; I can meet the world alone.”

“Aye, so far alone, that you will rejoice that others have
cast aside the chains of nature, and given you freedom to
follow your own apostate path unquestioned and unrebuked.”

“Peace, I command you!” exclaimed the widow, with a
tone and gesture of authority which awed Simeon into silence,
and checked the wrathful reply on Reuben’s lips. “My
sons, profane not the Sabbath of your God with this wild and
wicked contention. Simeon, however you may lament what
Reuben has disclosed, it is not your part to forget he is your
brother—yes, an elder brother—still.”
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“I will own no apostate for my brother!” muttered the
still irritated young man. “Others may regard him as
they list; if he have given up his faith, I will not call him
brother.”

“I have neither the will nor occasion to forswear my faith,”
replied Reuben calmly. “Mr. Wilson has made no condition
in giving me his daughter, except that she may follow
her own faith, which I were indeed prejudiced and foolish to
deny. He believes as I do; to believe in God is enough—all
religions are the same before Him.”

“That is to say, he is, like yourself, of no religion at all,”
rejoined Simeon, bitterly. “Better he had been prejudiced,
rigid, even despising us as others do; then this misfortune
would not have befallen us.”

“Is it a misfortune to you, mother? Leah—Ruth—Joseph,
will you all refuse to love my wife? You will not,
cannot, when you see and know her.”

“As your wife, Reuben, we cannot feel indifference towards
her,” replied Leah, tears standing in her eyes; “yet if
you had brought us one of our own people, oh, how much happier
it would have made us!”

“And why should it, my dear sister? Mother why should
it be such a source of grief? I do not turn from the faith of
my fathers: I may neglect, disregard those forms and ordinances
which I do not feel at all incumbent on me to obey, but
I must be a Jew—I cannot believe with the Christian, and I
cannot feel how my marriage with a gentle, loving, and most
amiable girl can make me other than I am. We are in no
way commanded to marry only amongst ourselves.”

“You are mistaken; we <i>are</i> so commanded, my dear son.
In very many parts of our Holy Law we are positively forbidden
to intermarry with the stranger; and, as a proof that
so to wed was considered criminal, one of the first and most
important points on which Ezra and Nehemiah insisted, was
the putting away of strange wives.”

“But they were idolaters, mother. Jeanie and I worship
the same God.”

“But you do not believe in the same creed, and therefore
is the belief in one God more dangerous. We ought to keep
ourselves yet more distinct, now that we are mingled up
amongst those who know God and serve Him, though not as
we do. You do not think thus, my dear son; and therefore
// 048.png
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all we may do is but to pray that the happiness you
expect may be realized.”

“And in praying for it, of course you doubt it, though I
still cannot imagine why. Sarah, you have not spoken: do
you believe me so terrible a reprobate that there is no chance
for my happiness, temporally and eternally?”

He spoke bitterly, perhaps harshly, for he had longed for
her to speak, and her silence strangely, painfully reproached
him. He did not choose to know why, and so he vented in
bitter words to her the anger he felt towards himself.

“My opinion can be of little value after my aunt’s,” she
answered, meekly; “but this believe, dear cousin, if you
and Jeanie are only as blessed and happy together as I wish
you, you will be one of the happiest couples on earth.”

“I do believe it!” he said, passionately springing towards
her, and seizing both her hands. “Sarah, dear Sarah, forgive
me. I was harsh and bitter to you, who were always
my better angel; say <i>you forgive</i> me!” He repeated the
word, with a strong emphasis upon it.

“I did not know that you had given me anything to forgive,
Reuben,” she replied, struggling to smile; “but if you
think you have, I do forgive you from my very heart.”

“Bless you for the word!” he said, still gazing fixedly in
her face, which calmly met his look.

“Thank God, one misery is spared me,” he muttered to
himself; then added, “and you think I may be happy?”

“I trust you will; and if it please God to bless you with
prosperity, I think you may.”

“How do you mean?”

“That while all things go smoothly, you will not feel the
division, the barrier which your opposing creeds must silently
erect between you. But if affliction, if death should happen,
Reuben, dearest Reuben, may you never repent this engagement
then.”

The young man actually trembled at the startling earnestness
of her words.

“And will you, surely you will not, marry in church,
brother?” timidly inquired Joseph.

“He must, he cannot help himself!” hoarsely interposed
Simeon, who had remained sitting in moody silence for some
time; “and yet he would say he is no apostate, no deserter
from our faith.”
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“You said you had something to ask mother, Reuben,”
said Ruth, pressing close to his side, for she feared the
painful altercation between her brothers might recommence.

“I had,” he answered, “but I fear it is useless now.
Mother, Jeanie and I hoped to have offered you a home—to
have entreated you to live with us, and return to the comforts
which were yours; we should seek but to give you joy. But
after what has passed this evening, I fear we have hoped in
vain.”

“I wonder you dared hope it,” muttered Simeon. “Would
our mother live with any one who lives not as a Jew, whose
dearest pride is to seem in all points like the stranger with
whom he lives?”

“Thank you for the kind will, my dear son,” replied the
widow, affectionately, though sorrowfully; “but you are
right in thinking it cannot be. I am too old and too ailing
to mingle now with strangers. I cannot leave my own lowly
dwelling; I cannot give up these forms and ordinances
which I have learned to love, and believe obligatory upon
me. Bring your wife to me, if indeed she does not scorn
your poor Jewish mother; she will meet but love from me
and mine.”

Reuben flung himself impetuously on her neck, and she
felt his whole frame tremble as with choking sobs. His
sister, Sarah, and Joseph reiterated their mothers words;
Simeon alone was silent. Another half-hour passed—an interval
painful to all parties, despite the exertions of Sarah
and the widow to make it cheerful, and then Reuben rose to
depart. His affectionate embrace, his warm “Good night,
God bless you,” was welcomed and returned as warmly by
all, and then he looked for Simeon. The youth was standing
at the farther end of the apartment, in the deepest shadow,
his arms folded on his breast, his lip compressed, and eyes
fixed sternly on the ground.

“Simeon!” exclaimed Reuben, as he approached him
with frankly extended hand, “Simeon! we are brothers;
let us part friends.”

“Give up this intended marriage, come back to the faith
you have deserted, and we <i>are</i> brothers,” answered Simeon,
sternly. “If not, we are severed, and for ever.”

“Be it as you will, then,” answered Reuben, controlling
anger with a violent effort. “Should you need a brother or
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a friend, you will find them both in me: the God of our
fathers demands not violence like this.”

“He does not—He does not. Simeon, I beseech, <sc>COMMAND</sc>
you, do not part thus with your brother; on your
love, your duty to me, as your only remaining parent, I command
this,” his mother said, mildly, but imperatively; but
for once she spoke in vain. Leah, Sarah, Joseph, all according
to their different characters, sought to soften him; but
the dark cloud only thickened on his brow. At that moment
a light form pressed through them all, and clasping his
knees, looked up in that agitated face, as if those sightless
orbs had more than common power—and Ruth it was that
spoke.

“Brother,” she said, in her clear, sweet voice, “brother,
our father bade us love our brother, even if he turned aside
from all we hold most sacred and most dear. We stood
around his death-bed, and we promised this—to love him to
the end. Brother, you will not break this vow? No, no:
our father looks upon us, hears us still!”

There was a strong and terrible struggle on the part of
Simeon, and a heavy groan of repentant anguish broke from
the very heart of Reuben.

“My father, my poor father! did he so love me? And
will you still hate me, Simeon?” he gasped forth.

Another moment, and the brothers were clasped in each
others arms.
.sp 2
.hr 20%
.sp 2
.h3
CHAPTER III.
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>It</sc> had been with the most simple and heartfelt prayer, that
the widow Perez had sought to instil the beautiful spirit
breathing in the verse forming the subject of their Sabbath
conversation in the hearts of her children. Yet ere the
evening closed, how sadly and painfully had her faith been
tried, and how bitterly did she feel that to her prayers there
seemed indeed no answer. It was her firstborn whom she
had daily, almost hourly “committed to the Lord;” for him
she sought with her whole heart, “to trust” that He would,
in His deep mercy, awaken her boy to the error of his ways;
but did it appear as if indeed the gracious promise would be
// 051.png
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fulfilled, and the Lord would indeed “bring it to pass?”
Alas! farther and farther did it now seem removed from
fulfilment. By his marriage with a Gentile what must
ensue?—a yet more complete estrangement from his father’s
faith.
.pi
The mother’s heart indeed felt breaking; but quiet and
ever gentle, who but her loving children might trace this
bitter grief? And there were not wanting very many to give
the mother all the blame of the son’s course of acting.
“What else could she expect by her weak indulgence?”
was almost universally said. “Why did she not threaten
to cast him off, if he persisted in this sinful connection,
instead of encouraging such things in her other children,
which of course she did, by receiving Reuben as usual?
Why had she not commanded him, on peril of a parent’s
curse, to break off the intended match? Then she would
have done her duty; as it was, it would be something very
extraordinary if all her other children did not follow their
elder brother’s example.”

The widow might have heard their unkind remarks, but
she heeded them little; for she had long learned that the
spirit guiding the blessed religion which she and her husband
had felt and practised was too often misunderstood and undervalued
by many of her co-religionists; the idea of love
bringing back a wanderer was, by the many, thought too
perfectly ridiculous ever to be counted upon. But her conscience
was at rest. None but her own heart and her God
knew how she had striven to bring up her firstborn as he
should go, or how agonizing she had ever felt this failure of
her struggles and prayers in the conduct of her son, and this
last act more agonizing than all. She knew, aye, felt secure,
that neither of her other children needed severity towards
Reuben to prevent their following his example. In them
she saw the fruits of her efforts in their education, and she
knew that they felt their brother’s wanderings from their
beloved faith too sorrowfully ever to walk in his ways. They
saw enough of their poor mother’s silent, uncomplaining
grief, to suppose for a moment that her absence of all harshness
towards Reuben proceeded from her <i>approval</i> of his
marriage; and each and all lifted up the fervent cry for
strength always to resist such fearful temptation, and to
adhere to the faith of their fathers, even until death.
// 052.png
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We are quite aware that, by far the greater number of our
readers, widow Perez will be either violently condemned or
contemptuously scorned as a weak, mean-spirited, foolish
woman. We can only say that if so, we are sorry so few
have the power of understanding her, and that the loving
piety, the spiritual religion of her character should find so
faint an echo in the Jewish heart. The <i>consequences</i> of her
forbearance will be too clearly traced in our simple tale, to
demand any further notice on our own part. We would only
ask, with all humility, our readers of every class and grade,
to recall any one single instance in which parental violence
and severity, even coupled with malediction, have ever succeeded
in bringing back a wanderer to his fold; if so, we
will grant that our idea of love and forbearance effecting
more than hate and violence is both dangerous and false.
But to return to our tale:—

There was another in that little household bowed like the
mother in grief. Sarah had believed that it was her care for
Reuben’s spiritual welfare which had engrossed her so much—that
it was as distinct from him temporally as from herself.
A rude shock awakened her from this dream, and oh, so
fearfully! The wild tumult of thought pressing on her heart
and brain needs no description. From the first year of her
residence with her aunt, Reuben had been dear to her;
affection so strengthening, increasing with her growth, so
mingled with her being, that she was unconscious of its
power. And now that consciousness had come—the prayers,
the wishes of a lifetime were dashed down unheard and unregarded—could
she believe in the soothing comfort of that
inspired promise? Had she not committed her ways?
had she not trusted? and had it not proved in vain?
Sarah was young, had all the inexperience, the elasticity,
and consequent impatience of early life; and so it was, that
while the mother trusted and believed, despite of all, aye,
trusted her boy would yet be saved, to Sarah life was one
cheerless blank; her heart so chilled and stagnant, it seemed
as it were, the power of prayer was gone—there could be no
darker woes in store. Perhaps her very determination to
conceal these feelings from every eye increased the difficulties
of self-conquest.

Day after day passed, and her aunt and cousins saw
nothing different from her usually quiet, cheerful ways. It
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might be that they suspected nothing—that even the widow
knew not Sarah’s trial was yet greater than her own. But
at night it was that the effects of the day’s control were felt;
and weeks passed, and time seemed to bring no respite.

“You can trust, if you cannot pray,” the clear still voice
of conscience one night breathed in the ear of the poor sufferer,
so strangely distinct it seemed as if some spiritual
voice had spoken. “Come back to the Father, the God,
who has love and tenderness for all—who loves, despite of
indifference and neglect—who has balm for every wound,
even such as thine. Doth He not say, ‘Cast your burden on
Him, and he will sustain you; trust in His word, and sin no
more?’” It was strange, almost awful in the dead stillness
of night, that low piercing whisper; but it had effect, for
the hot tears streamed down like rain upon the deathlike
cheek; the words of prayer, faint, broken, yet still trustful,
burst from that sorrowing heart, and brought their balm:
from that hour the stagnant misery was at an end. Sarah
awoke to duty, alike to her God as to herself; and then it
was she felt to the full how unutterably precious was the
close commune with the Father in heaven, which her aunt’s
counsels had infused. Where could she have turned for
comfort had she been taught to regard Him as too far
removed from earth and earthly things to love and be
approached?

Time passed. Reuben’s marriage took place at the time
appointed, and still with him all seemed prosperity. It was
impossible to see and not to love his gentle wife. Still
in seeming a mere child, so delicate in appearance, one could
scarcely believe her healthy, as she said she was. It was,
however, only with his mother and sisters that Reuben permitted
her to associate.

He called himself, at least to his mother, a son of Israel;
but all real feeling of nationality was dead within him—yet
he was not a Christian, nor was his wife, except in name.
They believed there was a God, at least they said they did;
but life smiled on them. He was not needed, and so they
lived without Him.

Simeon, true to his prejudices, would not meet his brother’s
wife, nor did his mother demand such from him. It was
enough that with Reuben himself, when they chanced to
meet, he was on kindly terms. Ruth’s appeal had touched
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his heart, for the remembrance of his father was as omnipotent
as his wishes had been during his lifetime. The
interests of the brothers, alike temporal as eternal, were,
however, too widely severed to permit confidence between
them, and so they passed on their separate ways; loving
perhaps in their inward hearts, but each year apparently
more and more divided.

About six months after Reuben’s wedding, Sarah received
a letter which caused her great uneasiness. Our readers
may remember, at the conclusion of our first chapter, we mentioned
Isaac Levison having written to his daughter, stating
he was again well to do in the world, and offering her
affluence and a cessation from all labour, if she liked to join
him. We know also that Sarah refused those offers, feeling
that both inclination and duty bade her remain with the
benefactors of her youth, when they were in affliction and
needed her; and that, irritated at her reply, her father had
cast her off, and from that time to the present, nearly three
years, she had never heard anything of him. The letter she
now received told her that Levison was in the greatest distress,
and seriously ill. His suspiciously-amassed riches had
been, like his former, partly squandered away in unnecessary
luxuries for house and palate, and partly sunk in large
speculations, which had all failed; that he was now too ill to
do anything, or even to write to her himself, but that he
desired his daughter to come to him at once. She had been
ready enough to labour for others, and therefore she could
not hesitate for him, who was the only one who had any real
claim upon her.

“The only one who can claim my labour,” thought the
poor girl, as she read the harsh epistle, again and again.
“What should I have been without the beloved friends
whom he thus commands me to leave? Yet he is my father;
he sent for me in prosperity—I could, I did refuse him then,
but not now. No, no, I must go to him now, and leave all,
all I so dearly love;” and letting the paper fall, she covered
her face with her hands, and wept bitterly.

“Yet perhaps it is better,” she thought, after a brief
interval of bitter sorrow; “I can never conquer this
one consuming grief while I am here, and so constantly
liable to see its cause. My heavenly Father may have
ordained this in love; and even if it brings new trials, I
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can look up to Him, trust in Him still. I do not leave Him
behind me—He will not leave me, nor forsake me, whatever
I may be called upon to bear,” and inexpressibly
strengthened by this thought, she was enabled, without
much emotion, to seek her much-loved aunt, to show her
the letter and its mandate. The widow saw at a glance the
duty of her adopted child, and though to part with her
was a real source of grief, she loved her too well to increase
the difficulty of her trial by endeavouring to dissuade
her from it.

“You must go, my beloved girl,” she said, folding her to
her heart; “but I trust it will be but for a short time. My
<i>home</i> is yours, remember—always your <i>home</i>, wherever else
you may be, as only a passing sojourn. Your duty is indeed
trying, but fear not, you will be strengthened to perform it.”

Yet however determined were the widow and her family
to control all weakening sorrow and regret, there was not one
who did not feel the unexpected departure of Sarah as an
individual misfortune. Each was in some way or other so
connected with her, that separation caused a blank in their
affections; and what then must have been her own feelings?
They parted with but <i>one</i> dear friend; she from them all, to
go amongst those with whom she had not one thought or
feeling in common.

But she who had worked so perseveringly for them, who
had felt herself a child in blood as well in heart of the
widow’s, that she had never thought of making a distinct provision
for herself, this unselfish one was not to leave them
portionless; and with so much attention to her feelings did
her aunt and cousins proffer their gifts, it was impossible,
pained as she was, to refuse. They said, it would be long
perhaps before she could find employment in her new home,
and she might need it: besides, it was not a gift, it was her
due; her earnings had all gone for them, and they offered
but her rightful share. Reuben and his wife were not at
Liverpool when Sarah was compelled to leave it; and she
rejoiced that it was so.

We will not linger either on the day of parting or the
poor girl’s sad and solitary journey. Simeon went with her
as far as Birmingham, and when he left her, the scene of
loneliness, of foreboding sorrow, pressed so heavily upon her
that her tears fell unrestrainedly; but though her heart did
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feel desolate, she knew she was not forsaken. Her God was
with her still, and He would in His own good time bring
peace. She was obeying His call, by discharging her
duty, and He would lead her through her dreary path.

“Fear not, Abraham, I am thy shield and exceeding great
reward,” were the words in her little Bible, on which her
eyes had that morning glanced, dim with tears—they could
see but those; again and yet again she read them, till they
seemed to fix themselves upon her heart, as peculiarly and
strangely appropriate to herself. Like Abraham, she was
leaving home and friends, to dwell in what was to her a
strange land, and the same God who had been with him the
God of Abraham and Israel, was her God also. “His arm
was not shortened, nor his ear heavy, that he could not save.”
And oh, what unspeakable comfort came in such thoughts.
Century on century had passed; but the descendants of
Abraham were still the favoured of the Lord, having, in the
simple fact of their existence, evidence of the Bible truth.
Sarah had often gloried in being a daughter of Israel, but
never felt so truly, so gratefully thankful for that holy privilege
as she did when thinking over the history of Abraham,
and the promise made to him and his descendants, in her
lonely journey, and feeling to the full the comfort of the conviction
that Abraham’s God was hers.

It was a dull and dreary evening when Sarah entered the
great city of London. The stage put her down about half
an hour’s walk from her destination, and she proceeded on
foot, followed by a boy conveying her little luggage. She
struggled hard to subdue the despondency again creeping
over her, as she traversed the crowded streets, in which there
was not one to extend the hand of kindly greeting. She felt
almost ashamed, though she could not define why, that the
boy should see the low dark alleys which she was obliged to
tread before she could discover where her father now lived,
and when she did reach it, she stood and hesitated before the
door, as if the house she sought could scarcely be there, it
was such a wretched-looking place.

Her timid knock was unheard, and the impatient porter
volunteered a tap, loud enough to bring many a curious head
to the other doors in the alley, and hastily to open the one
wanted. A long curious stare greeted Sarah, from an old
woman, repulsive in feature and slovenly and dirty in dress,
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who to Sarah’s faltering question if Mr. Levison lived there,
somewhat harshly replied—

“Yes, to be sure he does; and who may you be that wants
him? He is not at home, whatever your business is.”

“Did he not expect me, then? I wrote to say I should be
with him to-night,” answered Sarah, trying to conquer the
painful choking in her throat. “I thought he was too ill to
go out.”

“Why, sure now, you cannot be his daughter!” was the
reply, in a softened tone, and the woman looked at her with
something very like pity. “Come in with you, then, if you
really are Sarah Levison; send the boy away and come in.”

Trembling from a variety of feelings, Sarah mechanically
obeyed, giving the boy the customary fee ere she discharged
him; a proceeding which caused the woman to look at her
with increasing astonishment, and to exclaim, when Sarah
was fairly in the dirty miserable room called a parlour, “She
can do that too, and yet she comes here. Sarah Levison, are
you not a great fool?”

The poor girl started, fairly bewildered by the question,
and looked at her companion very much as if she thought
she had lost her wits. “A fool!” she repeated.

“My good girl, yes. What have you left a comfortable
house and kind friends, and perhaps a good business, for?”

“To obey my father,” replied Sarah, simply. “Did he
not send to tell me he was ill, and wanted me; that he was no
longer the wealthy, prosperous man that he was, and I must
labour for him now? or have I been deceived, and is it all
false,” she added, in accents of terror, as she grasped old
Esther’s arm, “and has some one only decoyed me here?”

“No, child, no; folks about here are bad enough, but not
as bad as that. Levison is poor enough, both in health and
pocket, and wrote as you say; but for all that, I say you are
a fool for coming.”

“Was it not my duty?” asked Sarah. “Oh, it was sad
enough to leave all I love!”

“I dare say it was, dear, I dare say it was,” and the old
woman’s face actually lost its repulsiveness, in such a strong
expression of pity, that the desolate girl drew closer to her,
and clasped her hand. “And more’s the pity you should
have left them at all. Duty—it is a fine sounding word; but I
don’t know what duty Levison can claim—he has never
// 058.png
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acted like a father, never done anything for you; how can he
expect you should for him?”

“Still he is my father,” repeated Sarah. “He sent for me
when he was prosperous; and though I did not come, his
kind wish was the same, and proved he did not forget me.
Besides, even if he had, God’s plain command is, to honour
your father and mother. We can scarcely imagine any case
when this command is not to be obeyed; and surely not
when a parent is in distress.”

“You have learned fine feelings, my poor child. I hope
you will be able to keep them; but I don’t know, I tried to
do my duty, God knows, when I was young and hearty, but
now poverty and old age have come upon me, and I have
left off caring for anybody or anything. It is better to take
life as we find it, and hard enough it is.”

“Not if we believe and feel that God is with us, and will
lead us in the end to joy and peace,” rejoined Sarah,
timidly.

“Why, you cannot be so silly, child, as to believe that
God,” her voice deepened into awe, “cares for such miserable
worms as we are, and would lead us as you say?”

“We are taught so, and I do believe and feel it,” replied
Sarah, earnestly.

“Taught so; where, child, where?” reiterated old Esther
eagerly.

“In God’s own book, the Bible,” answered Sarah. The old
woman’s countenance fell.

“The Bible, child! now that must be your own fancy. I
never found it there, and I think I must have read it more
than you have.”

“Have you looked for it?” inquired Sarah, timidly, for
she feared to be thought presumptuous.

“Looked for it—I don’t know what you mean. I read it
every Saturday, the parts they tell us to read; and I do not
find much comfort in them, for they seem to tell me God is
too far off to care for such as us.”

“Oh, do not, do not say so,” replied Sarah, with unaffected
earnestness. “Every word of that blessed book brings our
God near us as a tender and loving father—tells us we
are His children. He loves us, cares for us, bears all our
sorrow, feels for us more deeply than any earthly friend. I
am not very old, but I have learned this from His holy book;
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and so, I am sure, will you. Forgive me,” she added, meekly,
taking the old woman’s withered hand, “I am too young
perhaps to speak so to one old and experienced as you
are.”

“Forgive you—you are a sweet angel!” hastily replied
Esther, suddenly rising and pressing Sarah in her arms.
“Too good, too good to come to such a house as this. God
forbid you should have such trials as to make you doubt
what you now so steadfastly believe; the more you talk the
more I wish you had not come.”

“But why do you regret it? What is it I must expect?
Pray tell me; be my friend, I have none on earth near me to
love me now.”

“I wish I could be a friend to you, poor child, but I
am of little service now, and you can better tutor me than I
can you. It is a hard thing to say to a child of her own
father, but you are too good for such as he.”

“Oh no, no; pray do not say so. Tell me, only tell me
I may love my father!” entreated Sarah.

“You cannot, child; you have been used to kindness and
love, you will find harshness and anger; you have only associated
with religion and virtue, you have come to misery
and vice. As the niece of the worthy widow Perez you
have been respected, and always found employment; as the
daughter of Isaac Levison you will be shunned, and may be
left to starve. It is hard enough to find employment for
children of respectable parents amongst us poor Jews; and
so how can we expect it for others? Don’t cry, dear; it is
sad enough, but it is only too true; and so I grieve you have
given up even your character to come here.”

“But what can I do—what can I do?” repeated Sarah,
lifting up her streaming eyes with an expression which
almost brought tears to those of Esther. “Could I desert
my own father, and I heard he needed me? Is he not in
poverty and distress? And is his own child to forsake him
because others do?”

“Poor he is, child, and so are most of us. But how can
you help him?”

“Can I not work for him as I did for my aunt?”

“Yes; if you can get employment, which will not be
very easy. You are known in Liverpool, and you are not in
London; and the few trades in which we poor Jews can work
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are overstocked. Take old Esther’s advice—return as you
came; your father will never know you have been here, and
you may be sure I will not betray you. Go back to your
happy home and kind friends, it cannot be your duty to give
up happiness for misery; and as he forsook you, your conscience
can be quite at rest in your leaving him. Do not
hesitate, my good child, go at once; he has no claim upon
you.”

There are some who doubt the necessity of daily prayer;
that we need not pray against temptation, there being so
few times in which any great temptation is likely to assail
us. Great temptations to sin perhaps we seldom have, but
small—oh, of what hour can we be secure? Little did
poor Sarah imagine when she entered that lowly roof, the
almost overpowering temptation which was to assail her.
The home of peace, cleanliness, and comfort which she had
deserted; the beloved friends of her youth; the happy hours
that were gone; all rose so vividly before her, conjuring her
to return to them, not to devote herself to misery—which,
after all, was but a doubtful duty—that her first impulse was
indeed to fly from a scene where everything around her confirmed
old Esther’s ominous words. But Sarah was no weak,
wavering child of impulse; her principles were steady, her
faith was fixed, and the inward petition arose, with a <i>fervour</i>
and <i>faith</i> which gave it power to penetrate the skies—

“Save me from myself, O God? Do not forsake me now.
Teach me my duty, the one straight path, and whatever may
befall, let me abide by it.”

The brief orison was heard, for the God of Israel has love
and mercy for the lowest of his creatures, and strength was
given.

“No, Esther, no,” she answered mildly, yet firmly; “I
will not turn aside, whatever may await me. God sees my
heart, knows that I am here to do my duty, even if I be mistaken
in the means. He will strengthen me for its performance.
Do not try to frighten me away,” she added,
trying to smile. “I dare say all you tell me may be very true,
and it will be difficult to bear, but a good heart and a firm
faith may make it lighter, you know. I want a friend sadly,
and I feel as if you would be a kind one; your experience
may smooth my way.”

“Blessings on your sweet face for such words, my
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darling!” murmured the old woman; “it is long since old
Esther has heard anything but abuse and unkindness. I
wish I could do for you all my heart tells me, but, deary me,
that is a vain wish; for I would take away all sorrow
from you, and how can a poor creature like me do
that?”

Esther would have run on much more in the same strain,
and Sarah felt much too grateful for the kind feeling, however
rudely expressed, to check her, had not the old woman
suddenly recollected the poor traveller might like some tea,
which she hastened to prepare. It was, indeed, a different
meal, both in quality and comfort, to that which, even in her
uncle’s poorest days, she had been accustomed to; but Sarah
was too much engrossed in anxiety for her father to heed it,
and only made the effort to partake of it, in gratitude to her
companion. She had time to conclude her meal and hear
much concerning her father, before he appeared. Esther
said he had been ill, but never seriously so; that he could
often have procured employment in various humble ways;
but for some of them he was too proud, and in others behaved
so as to disgust those who would have befriended him,
and that now he literally had not a friend in the world,
either amongst his superiors or his equals. It was a sad,
sad tale, and Sarah’s feelings, as she listened, may easily be
imagined. But how could he live? Old Esther really did
not know. She lodged in the same house with him, but she
knew little of his private concerns; she only knew he
was a wretched temper, which, of course, daily grew worse
and worse. He went to the synagogue regularly, that he
did, but it did not seem to benefit him much. How could it,
when his actions denied his prayers?

It was late before Levison returned. He was still a good
looking man, but miserably attired, and pale from recent
illness. He greeted his daughter with affection, for in the
lowest and most debased amongst Israel that redeeming
virtue is seldom found wanting; and Sarah felt, as she looked
on him, all the daughter glowing in her heart: that she
could love, work for, do anything for him. Little sleep had
she that night; not because her bed was hard, its covering
coarse and unseemly, but from the many thoughts pressing
on her mind. Her path was all dark; nothing but the unexpected
warmth of her father’s welcome and old Esther’s
// 062.png
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kindness to make it light. She could but trust and pray
not only for strength to meet her trials, but that she might
so be blessed as to erase from her heart the pang which lingered
in it still.

Weary days passed; often and often did Sarah’s spirit so
sink within her, that she felt as if it could never rise again.
Her father’s moroseness returned; affection, in a character
like his could not obtain effective power over the evil habits
of long years. Sarah could not realize that he loved her,
and had it not been for her firm confidence in the love which
was unending, pitying, strengthening, as the gracious Lord
from whom it comes, her every energy must have failed. She
exerted herself to effect a reformation in their dwelling and
in her father’s slender wardrobe. To look on him, any one
would have believed him a very mendicant; yet there were
some few articles of clothing easily to be repaired, and so
made decent, and this Sarah did. Struck by her method,
her perseverance, and the quiet easy way in which she did
everything, Esther Cardoza, old, and often ailing as she was,
did not disdain to profit by her example; she became more
tidy, more careful, and was surprised to find that it was just
as easy to be clean and neat, however poor her apparel, as
the contrary, and for comfort the one could not be mentioned
with the other. One sweet source of pleasure Sarah
indeed had. She had excited an ardent desire in the old
woman’s mind to become thoroughly acquainted with God’s
holy volume, and many an evening did they sit together,
and Esther listened to the sweet pleading voice of her young
companion, till she felt with her whole heart that God must
be with Sarah; she could not be the good, gentle, yet strong-minded
creature she was without His help: and then came
the thought and belief, that if she sought Him, He would
be found too of her, unworthy and lowly as she was. Such
a rich treasury of promises did Sarah open to her longing
heart and eyes, that she often wondered how she could have
been blind so long; and she would thank and bless her with
such strong feeling, that Sarah would feel with thankfulness,
and chastened joy, in the midst of her own sorrows, that she
had not left her own dear home in vain.

“I begin to think, dearie,” Esther one day said, “that I
must have been cross and harsh myself, which made
folks abuse me as they did; since you have been here,
// 063.png
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I feel an altered creature, and now meet with kindness
instead of wrong.”

“Perhaps you are more inclined to think it kindness,” said
Sarah, smiling.

“Perhaps so, dear; but that is all your doing. Since you
have read to me, and proved to me that God, even Abraham’s
God, cares for and loves me, I am as happy again, and I
think if <i>He</i> can love me, why, surely some of my fellow-creatures
can too. They cannot be as unjust and harsh as I
once thought them. What would have become of me if you
had taken my advice, and gone home again?”

“Then you see, Esther, I was not sent here for nothing;
humble as I am, I have made one fellow-creature happy.”

“You must make every one happy who talks with you,
darling; but I want you to be happy yourself, and you have
not come here to be that, I’m thinking.”

“It is better for me that I should not be happy yet,
Esther, or our Father would make me so. You know He
could, with a word, and He will in His own good time.
I did not think I should find one friend, but His love provided
you.” Her voice quivered, and she threw her arms round
old Esther’s neck, to hide and subdue her emotion, which
kindness alone had power to excite.

But though for Esther she had been permitted to do so
much, her father seemed neither to understand nor appreciate
her; and to change the opinions to which he so often
gave vent, and which, from their strangeness and laxity, often
actually appalled her, seemed to her utterly impossible. The
sacred name of God was with him a common interjection,
introduced in every phrase; it mattered not whether called
for by anger or vexation, or any other feeling. Sarah shuddered
with agony as she heard it—that awful name, which
she never dared pronounce save with reverence and love,
which should be kept far from all moods and tempers of sin—that
name, the holiness of which was enjoined as strictly, as
solemnly, as “thou shalt not kill,” and “thou shalt not
steal.” She could not conquer the feeling which its constant
and sinful use excited, and once so horror-struck was her
countenance, that her father marked it and demanded its
cause. Tremblingly she told him, and a rude laugh was his
reply, coupled with an injunction not to preach to him—words
which ever checked her when, in his moments of
// 064.png
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irritation against the whole world and his own fate, she
sought to comfort him by the religion of her own pure mind;
she gave up the effort at length, but she did not give up
prayer. She would not listen to the agonized supposition that
for such as he even the long suffering of an infinitely compassionate
God would be of no avail. She prayed and wept
for those who prayed not for themselves, and there was comfort
in her prayer.

But to pass her life in idleness was impossible. From the
first week of her residence in London, she had sought for
employment. Her father would not hear of her living out,
and so she endeavoured to find daily occupation, or to work
at home. In both of these wishes, as old Esther had foreboded,
she failed.

In the low neighbourhood where her father dwelt there was
no one to employ her, and she had no friend to speak for
her in the higher classes. In vain she had at first urged she
must seek for a situation in a private family, as upper housemaid,
lady’s maid, or nurse. Levison so raged and stormed
at the first mention of the plan, that Sarah felt as if she
never dared resume it. Yet as weeks passed and the little
fund she had brought from Liverpool would very soon be
exhausted, something must be done. Our readers, perhaps,
think that her idea of the duty she owed her father went so
far as even in this to obey him; they are wrong if they do.
Sarah’s mind was not of that weak cast which could not
discern right from wrong. She knew it was a false and sinful
pride which actuated Levison’s refusal. “Jews were Jews,”
he declared, “and one class should not serve the other; his
daughter was as good as any in the land, and she should not
call any one mistress.” Mildly, yet firmly, Sarah resisted his
arguments. We have not space to repeat all she said, but
her father at length yielded, with an ill grace indeed, and
vowing she should go nowhere unless they would let her
come to him when he wanted her. But still he yielded,
and Sarah thankfully pursued her plan. But, alas! she
encountered only disappointment; there were no Jewesses
established as milliners, dressmakers, or similar trades in
London, and therefore no possibility of her getting occupation
with them as she wished. She would not heed old
Esther’s assurances that no one would take Jewish servants.
Unsophisticated and guileless herself, she could not believe
// 065.png
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that her nation would refuse their aid and patronage to those
of their own faith; and she strained every energy, she conquered
her own shrinking diffidence, but all without effect.
Again and again the fact of her being a Jewess completed the
conference at once. One said that Jewish servants were more
plague than enough, they should never enter her house.
Another, that their pride and ignorance were beyond all
bounds, and as for a proper deference towards their superiors,
a willingness to be taught or guided, it was not in their
nature. Another, that a Jewish cook might be all very well,
but for anything else it was quite out of the question; they
knew the low habits, the laziness and insolence that characterised
such kind of people, and they certainly would not
expose themselves to it with their eyes open. In vain Sarah
pleaded for a trial—that she was willing, most willing to be
taught her duty; that she was not wholly ignorant, and
humbly yet earnestly trusted she was not proud. Her duty
to her God had, she hoped, taught her proper deference
towards her superiors on earth. Some there were who, only
her superiors in point of fortune, stared at her with stupid
surprise, and utterly unable to understand such pure and
truthful feelings, sharply terminated their conference at
once. Others would not even hear her. Some there were
really superior in something more than fortune, and anxiously
desirous to alleviate distress and aid their poorer brethren,
but they shrank from being the <i>first</i> to engage a Jewess as
lady’s maid or nurse. Some, touched by her respectful, and
gentle manner, would have waived this, but when the
question who was her father, was asked and answered, the
most kindly intentioned shrank back—it could not be. In
vain she told them she had never been under his care, and
offered references to many respectable families in Liverpool.
A daughter of Levison was no fit servant for any respectable
family; they were sorry, but they could do nothing for
her.

Day after day, week after week thus passed, till even
months had elapsed, and, despite her unwavering faith,
Sarah’s weary spirit flagged.

“But why should it be?” she asked one day, as she sat
by the rude bed to which poor old Esther was confined, and
in answer to her observation, it was only what she had
feared; “but why should it be? there must be some reason for
// 066.png
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our being so shunned. Those of the stranger faith, of course,
could not employ us; but our own?—how much better and
happier we might be if they would take us into their families,
and unite us by kindness on the one hand, and obedience and
faithfulness on the other.”

“It certainly would make us happier, but we must be better
fitted for it, Sarah, dear, before it can be accomplished,” replied
the old woman. “You don’t know anything of the
majority of us here; how many of us hate the very idea of
going into service. What a dreadful deal of pride is amongst
us, and such false pride; we very often throw away those
that would be our friends, and repay sometimes with abuse
any kindness. Then, again, we want to be taught our proper
duties. It is not enough to read our Bibles and prayer-books,
because a great many are blinded to what they tell us. We
want some one to explain them, and tell us plainly what we
ought to do, and may do, without breaking our religion.
Because you see, dear, when we were in Jerusalem, some
things must have been different to what they can be now;
and, as servants, we might be called upon to do some things
which we think we ought not. Then, it is all very true about
being lazy and sometimes insolent. We must set about
doing all we can to be <i>kinder to ourselves</i>, before we can
expect anybody to be kinder to us. I see that now quite
clearly, though I did not once; but for you, darling, you are
good enough for anybody to find a treasure in you. I wish I
could help you; there is one good, kind, charitable lady that
I would send you to, but a sister of mine behaved so ungratefully
to her, that I do not like intruding on her again. She
nearly clothed my sister’s little girl, and, would you believe
it, Becky went to her house and abused her. What right,
forsooth, had she to know that her child wanted clothes.”

Sarah uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Indeed, and yes, dear; and so you see, though I had
nothing to do with it, I don’t much like to go to Miss Leon
again; but you might, though. I am sure she would do
what she could for you.”

Sarah eagerly inquired who this Miss Leon was.

“None of your very rich carriage people, dear; indeed I
don’t know how she contrives to do all the good she does,
for she is not half as rich as many who think themselves
poor. She finds out those who want help; she employs all
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she possibly can; she gets us work from others; makes our
interests hers; teaches our girls all sorts of useful knowledge;
gives many a poor family the meal on which they
break their fast, and all such good acts; comes amongst us,
and, somehow or other, always does us good. I don’t know
how many people she cured of rheumatism last winter, by
supplying them with some doctor’s stuff and warm clothing.
Then, as for the girl’s schools, I don’t know what would become
of them without her; she gets them work, cuts out all
they want, and teaches them often herself. She is a good
creature, God bless her! I lost a kind friend by Becky’s behaving
as she did, for I never had the face to go to her
again, and I would not have her come to this low place; but
that she would not mind, as she does not care for the world
in doing good.”

Sarah listened eagerly; had she indeed found a friend? yet
she checked her rising hopes. Miss Leon might do her
service, but might not have the power. Before she could
make up her mind to seek her, she received, as was her
custom every month at least, a long letter from the dear
home she had left; she had stated her many disappointments
to her aunt, and that beloved relative entreated her to
return.

“Tell your father,” she wrote, “two-thirds you earn shall
be honestly sent to him; and you can better, much better,
support him here than in London. Entreat him to let you
return to us—all our happiness is damped when we think of
your heavy trials. Come to us, my love; it can scarcely be
your duty to remain any longer where you are.”

Sarah read this letter to her father, hoping more than she
dared acknowledge to herself, that he would see how much
better it would be for her to return. But for this he was far
too selfish. Sarah had so rivetted all the affection which he
was capable of feeling, that he would not let her leave him.
He was jealous and angry that she should so love her absent
friends, and swore that they should not take any more of
her heart from him; he would rather remain as he was, than
she should work for him at Liverpool; he did not want her
labour, he wanted her love, and that she would not give him.
Sarah submitted with a strange feeling of consolation amidst
her sorrow—did he indeed want her love? Oh, if she could
but believe it, she might have some influence over him yet.
// 068.png
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Not long after this, as she was sitting reading one morning
to poor old Esther that holy book, which was now as great a
comfort to Esther as to herself, a lady unexpectedly entered,
and before even she heard her name, Sarah guessed who she
was. There was the decided manner and kind speech of
which Esther had spoken; the plain attire with which, to
avert notice, she ever went her rounds of charity; and even
had there been none of these peculiarities, the very fact of
her coming to that poor place at all proclaimed Miss Leon.
She gently upbraided the poor old woman for not letting her
know she was ill and needed kindness; would not accept
her plea that after her sister’s ungrateful conduct she could
have no right to appeal to her, and by a very few judicious
words set Esther’s heart at rest. She inquired what her
ailing was, seemed to understand it at once, and promised
soon to get her about again.

“God bless you, lady dear!” exclaimed the grateful
creature, fervently; “only the other day was I talking
about you and all you did; not that I wanted you—for you
see my threescore and ten years are almost run out, and it
signifies little now if I suffer more or less—but for this poor
girl, bless you, lady, you could do so much for her. I
ought not to call her poor though, for in one sense God has
made her rich enough, and she has been a good angel to
me.”

With a vivid blush of true modest feeling, that attracted
Miss Leon’s penetrative eye at once, Sarah tried to check the
old woman’s garrulity, but in vain. She would pour out all
that Sarah had done for her, and wanted and suffered for
herself, and who she was, and how brought up, and where
she came from. Miss Leon meanwhile had quietly taken a
seat, and without the smallest symptom of impatience or
failing interest, listened to the tale. When it was concluded,
she put some questions to Sarah, the answers to which
appeared much to please and satisfy her. She promised to
do what she could, making, however, no professions that
could excite delusive hopes, yet somehow leaving such comfort
behind her, that on her departure Sarah sought her own
room to pour forth her swelling thanksgiving to God.

Miss Leon never made professions, but she always acted.
When it was known amongst her friends where she had
been, and whose daughter she intended, if possible, to
// 069.png
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befriend, a complete storm of advice and warning and censure
had to be encountered, but Adelaide Leon was not to be
daunted; for advice she was grateful, but timidity and selfish
consideration never entered her code of charity. She felt no
fear of consequences whatever; even had she to come in
contact with Levison himself, she saw nothing very dreadful
in it, and as for the censure, she smiled very quietly at the
idea; but when her conscience told her she was right, it
mattered little what other people said. In a word, she did
as most strong-minded, right people do—finally carried her
point. She went to see Esther three times that week, and
before a month had passed the old woman was able to sit
up, doing a little knitting, which Miss Leon herself had
taught her; and Sarah went sometimes four days in the week
to work at the Square.

A very brief period of intercourse convinced Miss Leon
that Sarah certainly was a superior person, and her benevolent
intentions did not terminate in merely getting her daily work.
She had not enough in her own family to occupy her sufficiently,
and many in her circle were too prejudiced to follow
her good example.

Now it so happened Miss Leon had a widowed sister, a
Mrs. Corea, who had four little girls, and was in want of a
young woman to attend on and work for them, and take care
of them when they were not with her or their governess.
Genteel and modest in her manners, without a portion of
pride or insolence, truly and unostentatiously pious, and
withal better informed on many subjects than very many
who profess a great deal, Sarah was just the very person
whom Miss Leon could desire to be with her nieces; but the
difficulties she had to contend with, before she accomplished
the end, we have no space to dilate on. Mrs. Corea was
about as weak-minded, prejudiced, and foolish, as Miss Leon
was the contrary. First she had a horror of all low-born
people, however they might be brought up; and no one
could say but that, if Sarah was Levison’s child, she was the
very lowest of the low. Secondly she could not have a
Jewess; she would give the children all sorts of superstitious
ignorant ideas, and was as helpless and exacting as
any fine lady. And thirdly, and most convincing of all, in
her own ideas, she did not like the plan, and would not have
her; what would people say too—doing what no one else did?
// 070.png
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Fortunately for our poor Sarah, Miss Leon never desponded
when determined to do good; the more difficulties she had
to contend with, the more determined was she to carry her
point, and, to the surprise of everybody, even in this she
succeeded. Mrs. Corea yielded to perseverance. It was too
much trouble to say “no” any longer. She had seen no
one that would do, and Adelaide had promised she would
take all the blame, and answer everybody who meddled and
found fault; and if Sarah did not suit, why Adelaide would
take the blame for that too, and never torment her to take a
Jewess again.

Sarah did not know all that Miss Leon had encountered
in her cause, but she knew it was to her she owed the comfortable
situation in which she was at length installed; and
the grateful girl not only prayed God to bless her benefactress,
but to bless her own efforts, that she might do her
duty to her young charge, and, in serving them, prove her
gratitude to their aunt.

With her father she had at first a difficult part to play.
He, of course, could not be allowed to come to the house to
see her, and he had sworn she should go nowhere, where he
might not be admitted. A voiceless prayer that his heart
might be changed rose from Sarah’s heart, as she attempted
to tell him of her plans; and the prayer was heard, for, to
her own astonishment, her gentle arguments and meek persuasions
were successful. His anger subsided at first into
sullenness, then he seemed endeavouring to conceal some
strong emotion, and at last, as she drew closer to him,
trembling and fearful, conjuring his reply, he caught her in
his arms, kissed her again and again, bade God bless her
and spare her till he was a better man, when she would
love him more. He knew she could not as he was; but
for her sake there was nothing she could not persuade
him to do; she did not know how much he loved her, and,
as Sarah sobbed from many varied feelings on his bosom,
she thanked God that He had called her to her father, and
permitted her even in the midst of sorrow and sin to cling to
him still.
// 071.png
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.sp 2
.hr 20%
.sp 2
.h3
CHAPTER IV.
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>Our</sc> readers must imagine a period of eighteen months since
we bade them farewell. But few changes had taken place,
Leah, Simeon, and Joseph continued in their respective
situations, every year increasing their wages, and riveting
the esteem and goodwill of their employers.
.pi
The widow might have had another home in a gayer part
of the town, but she refused to leave the lowly dwelling she
had so dearly loved, until Leah or one of her sons had a
home, to keep which she was needed. One change in the
widow’s household had indeed taken place, for Ruth was in
London. Sarah’s excellent conduct had interested Miss
Leon not only in herself, but in her family. As they were
all comfortably providing for themselves, Miss Leon could
find no object for her active benevolence but the little Ruth.
The poor child had not indeed so many resources as many
similarly afflicted, for though all were desirous, none knew
how to teach her. It so happened Miss Leon was peculiarly
interested in Ruth, because she had once had a sister who
was blind; one whom she had so dearly loved, that she had
learned the whole method of tuition for the blind simply for
that sister’s sake. She died just when she was of an age to
know all that affection had done for her; and Miss Leon
now offered to impart all she knew to Ruth, to give her
board and lodging at her house till she was enabled to earn
something for herself, when she herself would send her to
her mother.

It was a hard struggle before the widow could consent to
part with her darling; but the representations of Leah and
Simeon, and Ruth’s own yearnings to be able to do something
for herself, overcame all selfish considerations. She could
not feel Miss Leon a stranger, for her kindness to Sarah had
made her name never spoken without a blessing, and Sarah
would always be near Ruth to watch over and write of her;
and so with tears of thankfulness the widow consented.
Leah was often permitted to take her work to the widow’s
cottage and pursue it there; and the little Christian girl, to
whom Ruth and Sarah had been so kind, was delighted to
come and do any cleaning or scouring in the house, or sit
// 072.png
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with the widow and work and read for her, to prove how
grateful she was.

And where was Reuben Perez all this while? Were his
mother’s prayers for him still unanswered? Alas! farther
and farther did they seem from fulfilment. He had left
Liverpool to accept, in conjunction with his father-in-law,
the management of a bank, in one of the smaller towns of
Yorkshire, and, of course, even his casual visits were discontinued.
Not that they were of much avail, going as he
did; but still his mother had hoped, against her better
reason, that while near her he would never entirely take
himself away. Now that hope was at an end. He was
thrown entirely amongst Gentiles, and Sabbaths and holidays
seemed wholly given up. He did not often write home,
but when he did, always affectionately; and his mother’s
allowance was regularly paid. She yearned to see and bless
him once again, but months, above a year passed, and his
foot had never passed her threshold.

With regard to Sarah, a very few months’ association with
her, though only in the relative positions of mistress and servant,
had completely conquered Mrs. Corea’s prejudices; and
the very indolence and foolishness, which had originally been
so difficult to overcome, was now as likely to ruin as they
formerly had been to oppose. But fortunately Sarah was not
one for indulgence and confidence to spoil; indeed she
often regretted her mistress’s indolence, from the responsibility
it devolved on her. Mrs. Corea had repeatedly allowed
herself to be cheated and deceived, because it was too much
trouble to find fault. She often permitted the most serious
annoyances in her establishment—keys and even money
repeatedly lying about, her children neglected, their clothes
often thrown aside long before they were worn out. In a
very few months Sarah’s ready mind discovered this state of
things. One only she had the power of herself to remedy—the
neglect of her charge; and so admirably did she do her
duty by them, that Miss Leon felt herself amply rewarded.
Finding it was of no use to entreat Mrs. Corea to have more
regard to her own interest, and not allow herself so repeatedly
to be deceived, Sarah in distress appealed to Miss Leon,
who quietly smiled, and assured her she would soon settle
matters entirely to Mrs. Corea’s satisfaction. She did so, by
giving to Sarah’s care almost the entire charge of the housekeeping,
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with strict injunctions to take care of her mistress’s
keys and purse, whenever she saw them lying about. Sarah
at first painfully shrunk from the responsibility, knowing well
it would expose her yet more to the dislike of her fellow-servants,
who, as a Jewess, already regarded her with prejudice.
Mrs. Corea was charmed that such a vast amount of
trouble was spared her; telling everybody Sarah was a
treasure, and she only wondered there were not more Jewish
servants.

But our readers must not imagine that Sarah’s situation
was all delightful. She had many painful prejudices to bear
with, many slights and unkindness in her fellow-servants to
forgive and forget, many jests at her peculiar religion, and
ridicule at its forms—much that, to a character less gently
firm and forbearing, would have led to such domestic bickering
and misery, that she would have been compelled to leave
her place, or perhaps have been induced weakly to hide, if
it did not shake her reverence for, the observance of her
ancient faith. But Sarah had not read her Bible in vain.
She had not now to learn that such prejudice and scorn were
of God, not of man. That He permitted these things, in His
wisdom, to teach His people, though they were still His
own, still His beloved, their sins had demanded chastisement,
and thus received it. That the very prejudice in which by
the ignorant they were held, was proof of the Bible’s truth—proof
that they were His chosen and His firstborn; and more
consolatory still, that as the <i>threatenings</i> were thus fulfilled,
so, in His own good time, would be His <i>promises</i>. Sarah
never wavered in the line of duty which she had marked out
for herself—to make manifest that her faith was of God by
<i>actions</i>, not by <i>words</i>; and she so far succeeded, that after a
while peace was established between her and her fellow-servants.
They began to think, even if she were a heathen, she
was a very harmless and often a very kind one, and there
was not so much difference between them as at first they had
fancied.

These are but trifling things to mention; but we most particularly
wish our readers to understand that though good
conduct will inevitably find reward even on earth, it is not to
be expected that it will have no trials. Virtue and religion
will <i>not</i> exempt us from suffering, but they teach us so to
bear them, that we can derive consolation and unfailing hope
// 074.png
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even in the darkest hours; and, instead of raising a barrier
between us and our God, they draw us nearer and nearer to
Him, till we can realize His immeasurable love towards us;
and tracing every suffering from His hand sent for our good,
to love Him more and more, and in that very love find comfort.
Do not then let us practise religion and virtue because
we think they have power to shield us from all trial and
sorrow, but simply for the love of Him who bids us practise
them, and who has promised, if we seek Him, He will heal
our sorrows and heighten our joys.

One unspeakable source of comfort Sarah had: it was that
her influence with her father rather increased than lessened
with him. Once every month she spent the Sabbath evening
with him, and she felt that indeed he loved her. Old Esther
told her, even that when she was absent he was an altered
man. He sought employment, and after some difficulty
found it, though it was of a kind so humble, that before Sarah
came to town he would have spurned it as so derogatory to
his pride, he would rather starve than have it; but now it
was welcome, because he would not be a burden on his Sarah.
His Sarah!—every dormant virtue seemed to spring into life
with those dear precious words. The very interjections of
that sacred name of God, which had been once ever on his
lips, were now constantly checked. “She does not like it,
my angel Sarah, and I <i>will</i> not say it,” Esther heard him
mutter when the accustomed phrase broke from him; and
many other evil habits, that thought—“my angel Sarah”—had
equal power to remove. The bad man seemed fast
breaking from his sins, and it was from the influence of his
gentle pious child. The father was at work within him, and
God blessed him through that feeling, and through his
daughter’s unceasing prayers. Every time Sarah visited
him she saw more to hope, more for which with grateful
tears to bless her God; and each time to love him more, and
feel she was yet more beloved.

On Sarah’s returning home one afternoon, after a brief
visit to old Esther, who was not quite well, she was informed
a young man had called to see her, and stayed some time;
but as she did not come as soon as they expected, he had
gone away, promising to return in the course of the evening.
He had not left his name, they added; but he seemed a
gentleman, quite a gentleman, though one of her own nation,
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and was in the deepest mourning. Sarah was not one given to
speculation or curiosity, though she did wonder who this
gentleman could be, but quietly continued her usual employments.
She had just finished dressing her young ladies to
go with their mother to the theatre, and ran down to see
them safely in the carriage, when the footman called out—

“Sarah, the gentleman has come again; he is waiting for
you in the housekeeper’s room.”

She went accordingly; but her self-possession almost
deserted her when, on looking up in the face of the stranger
as she entered, she recognised at once her cousin Reuben—pale,
thin, and worn indeed, but still himself, and it required
a powerful effort, even in that strong and simple mind, to
evince no feeling but surprise and welcome.

Few words, however, at the first moment passed between
them. Reuben sprang forward as she entered, and clasped
both her hands in his, which were cold and trembling; and
she saw his lip quiver painfully, and, to her grief and almost
terror, as she spoke to him he gradually let go her hands,
and, sinking on the nearest chair, covered his face with his
handkerchief, and wept like a child.

“I terrify you, dear cousin, do forgive me,” he said at
length, as he heard the gentle voice which sought to soothe
him falter in spite of herself. “Sarah, dear Sarah, I do not
know why your kind voice should affect me thus. I cannot
tell you why I have come to grieve you with my grief, except
that when I least desired it, you were always kind and good
and feeling, and gave me comfort when I could not console
myself; and my heart has so yearned to you now—now,
when your own word has come to pass, to tell you you were
right. In prosperity I might be happy, though God knows
it was but a strange unnatural happiness; but in affliction—Sarah,
do you remember your own words?”

She did remember them; but she had no voice to repeat
them then, and her quivering lip alone gave answer. Her
cousin continued, almost choked with many emotions—

“‘If affliction, if death—may you never repent your engagement
then,’ These were the words you said; and oh,
how often the last few months have they returned to me.
Affliction has come, my own cousin; affliction, oh, such
affliction that God alone could send—death, even death!”
The word was almost inaudible.
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“Death!” repeated Sarah, startled at once into perfect
consciousness. She looked at his dress—the deepest
mourning—and the words more fell from her than were
spoken. “Not Jeanie, your own Jeanie—tell me, it
is not she?” Then, as she read his answer in the tighter
pressure of his hand, the convulsive movement of his lips,
she threw her arms round him, and faintly exclaiming,
“Reuben, my poor Reuben, may God grant you His comfort!”
burst into tears.

Nothing is so true a balm to the afflicted as unaffected
sympathy; and Reuben roused himself from his own sorrow,
to bless his cousin for her tears, yet bid her not weep for
him.

“It is better thus, my gentle cousin. The God of my
parents has revealed Himself to their sinful offspring, even
in His chastening. I cannot tell you all now, dear Sarah;
how, even when life seemed all prosperous around me, there
was still a void within—I was not happy. I had returned to
virtue, turned aside from all irregular and sinful pursuits,
kept steady to business, and in doing kind acts towards men;
and more still, I had a gentle being who so loved me, that
she forced me into loving her more than when I first sought
her; for then, then—Sarah, do not hate me—I did but seek
her, because I thought a union with a Christian would put a
final barrier between me and the race I had taught myself to
hate—would mark me no more a Jew; and so for this, this
dreadful sin, I banished feelings which had once been mine.
Sarah, do not ask me what they were. Yet still, still, even
when I did love my fair and gentle wife, when she lavished
on me such affection it ought to have brought but joy, I was
not happy. I was away from all who knew my birth and
race; the once hated name, a Jew, no longer hurt my ears;
courted, flattered, admired, Sarah, Sarah, was it not strange
there was still that gnawing void?”

She looked up with streaming eyes. “It was a void no
man could fill, dear cousin. You thought its cause was of
earth, and sought with earth to fill it; but now, oh, let us
thank God, His image fills it now.”

“You have guessed aright, my Sarah, as you always do;
but, oh, you know not all I endured before it was so filled.
I tried to believe with my Jeanie and her father, but I could
not. I attended their church at times, I listened to their
// 077.png
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doctrines, I read their books; but no, no, God’s finger was
upon me. I could not believe in any Saviour, any Redeemer,
but Himself; and then that holy name, that sacred subject,
which should be the dearest link between those that love,
never found voice. We dared not read each other’s thoughts.
When we married, you know Jeanie thought little of those
things; but she became acquainted with a good and holy
man, a pious minister of her own faith, and he made her
think more seriously: and what followed? She loved me
more and more, but she knew I did not believe in that
Saviour whose recognition she deemed necessary for my
salvation, and so she drooped and drooped at the very time
when nature demanded greater sustenance and support. In
a few months I was a father. O God, the agony of that
hour which should have been all bliss! Then I felt in all
its fulness there was a God, and I had neglected Him. My
innocent babe might be snatched from me, as David’s was,
for its father’s sin; and how was I to avert this misery—how
devote it to its God, as its mother believed? I shuddered.
From that hour my Jeanie sunk, even though they
said she had recovered all effects of her confinement. Month
after month I watched over her. I heard her clinging to a
faith, a Saviour, which to me was mockery. I heard her call
aloud for help and mercy from Jesus, not from God. Sarah,
it is in vain, I cannot tell you what those hours were. You
can tell their anguish, for you warned me such might be.”
He paused, every limb trembling with his emotion; and
Sarah, almost as much affected, entreated him not to harrow
his feelings by such recollections any more.

“Bear with me, dear cousin; I shall be better, happier
when all is told. I saw her look on our infant (thank God,
it was a girl!), with the big tear stealing down her pale face,
and I knew of what she thought; yet I could not, I dared
not give her the only promise that might be her comfort, and
her love for me was so strong, so intense, she had no voice
to ask it. At length, one evening, after Mr. Vaughan, the
clergyman, had been urging on her the necessity of her child
receiving baptism, she called me to her, and, laying her head
on my bosom, conjured me to grant her last request, the
only one, she said, she had ever feared to ask me. Her voice
was faint from weakness, yet it thrilled so on my heart, that
it was a struggle to reply, and conjure her not to say more.
// 078.png
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I knew what she would ask, but she interrupted me by sinking
on her knees before me, and wildly reiterating her prayer,
‘My child, my child! let her be made pure—let me feel I
shall look upon her again. Reuben, my husband, have
mercy on us all!’ Sarah, had that moment been all my
punishment, it would have been enough. Why could I not
feel then, as I had so often declared before, that all faiths
were the same in the sight of God? Why could I not make
this promise to the dying and beloved? I know not, I know
not now, save that I felt myself a father, and the immortal
spirit of my child was of more value than my own had ever
been. I raised her: I solemnly vowed that I would study
both faiths—I would read with and listen to Mr. Vaughan,
and <i>if I could believe</i>, my child should be reared a Christian,
and be baptized with myself. She raised her sweet face to
mine with such a smile. ‘Bless you, bless you, my own
husband! we shall all meet again, then. Oh, you have made
me so happy! Jesus will save—will bring us all to—’
Her sweet voice sunk, and her head drooped down on my
bosom; and thinking she was exhausted, I clasped her closer
to me, and kissed her again and again. Nearly half an hour
passed, and I felt no movement, heard no breath. It was
quite dark, and with sudden terror I called aloud for lights.
They were brought: I lifted the bright curls from her dear
face, and raised her head. It was vain, vain.”

He ceased abruptly, and there was silence, for Sarah could
not speak. Reuben hastily paced the room; then, reseating
himself by his cousin, continued more calmly; but, limited
as we are for space, we are forbidden to continue the conversation,
though it deepened in interest, even as it subsided
in emotion. Reuben told how he had faithfully kept his
promise—how, for two months, he had remained with his
father-in-law, studying the word of God, and listening to all
the instructions of Mr. Vaughan, whose very kindness and
true piety in spirit made his arguments more difficult to
resist, than had they been harshly and determinately enforced.
A year was the period Reuben had promised to devote to the
fulfilment of his vow; and if, at the end of that time, he
could believe in Jesus, he and his child would, of course, be
made Christians; but if his studies had a contrary effect, no
more, either by Mr. Wilson or the clergyman, would be said
to him on the subject.
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“Sarah, my dear cousin, do not fear for me. My God did
not forsake me, even when I forsook Him. He will not then
forsake me now that I seek Him, and night and day implore
Him to reveal that path, that faith, which is most acceptable
to Him. I have already read and felt enough to glory in
the faith I once despised—to feel it is a privilege, aye, and a
proud one, to be a Jew: for the rest, let us trust in Him.”

“And your child, dear Reuben—where is she?”

“With Mrs. Vaughan at present. At the conclusion of
the year, God willing, and my mother is spared, she shall be
cared for by the same tender love which her erring father
only now knows how to value and return.”

“And does my aunt know this?”

“No, Sarah, no. I cannot tell her. I feel as if I had no
right to go to her again, until I have indeed returned with
heart and soul to the faith in which all her gentle counsels
had not power to retain me. No, no, no; I cannot, cannot
claim the solace of her love till I am worthy to be called her
son in faith as well as love.”

The cousins were long together, and much, much was
spoken between them, which we would fain repeat as likely
to be useful to our readers, but we are warned to desist:
enough to know that Sarah prevailed on Reuben to write to
his mother and tell her all, even if the story of his inward
life were otherwise kept secret.

Reuben said he had given up his place in the bank, and
intended, for the remainder of the year, to endeavour to obtain
a situation in some Jewish counting-house as clerk, for some
hours in the day, and thus allow him evenings, Sabbaths,
and holidays for his sacred purpose. It was with this intention
he had come up to London, as, though he might have
procured employment in Liverpool or Manchester, he shrunk
from all remark, even kindness, from his own nation, until he
had in truth returned to them. He had brought with him
letters of high recommendation, which had obtained a capital
situation in a thriving house of his own nation; a branch of
which resided in Birmingham, to which place it was likely he
should go.

“It is not that I fear the temptations of this large city,
dearest Sarah, that I would rather live elsewhere. No, I
shrink from all scenes of pleasure now with sensation of
loathing; but I feel as if it would be better for me to be
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alone, even away from those I most love, till this one year
is passed. Sarah, will you think of me, pray for me?” he
took both her hands, and looked pleadingly in her face. “It
would be a comfort, such a comfort to come to you for
sympathy, for counsel; for you it was, when we watched
together by my sick mother’s bed, who first made me feel
that were all like you, the name ‘a Jew’ would cease to
be reproached; but no, no, it is better for me—perhaps too,
for your character, dear girl—that we should not meet yet
awhile. I threw away happiness once when it might perchance
have been mine; and now—but it is better thus.”

He had spoken incoherently, and he broke off abruptly.
Sarah only answered by the simple assurance that she never
ceased to pray for his happiness, nor would she now;
and soon after they separated affectionately, confidingly, as
in long past years, perchance yet more so; for then a barrier
was between them, now there was none; their rock of
refuge, the shield of their salvation, was the same.

To define Sarah’s feelings, as she prostrated herself before
her God in prayer that night, is indeed impossible; nor is
there need—surely the coldest, the most callous, can imagine
them, and give her sympathy. Not indeed that hope was
dawning for her long-tried, long-hidden affection; for Reuben
never dreamed he was so loved. It was simply thanksgiving,
the purest, most heartfelt, that her prayers were heard—the
beloved one of her heart brought back to his God.

Yet many were the secret tears she shed, as she pictured
her cousin’s anguish. She gave not one single thought to
those words, which a less guileless heart might have
believed related to herself. She never thought of the consequences
which Reuben’s return to his faith might bring to
her individually. It was enough of happiness to feel he had
sought her in his sorrow, had felt her as his friend.

But sorrow was at hand, as unexpected as terrible. About
four or five months after her interview with Reuben, old
Esther came to her one day in such extremity of grief and
horror, that even her little share of discretion vanished before
it, and she imparted her tidings to Sarah so suddenly, that the
poor girl stood stunned and paralyzed, preserved only by a
strong though almost unconscious effort from fainting.
Levison had been taken up and carried to Newgate as an
accomplice in an act of burglary and robbery, which, attended
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by circumstances of unusual notoriety, had been lately committed
in the neighbourhood of Epping. Levison had loudly
and fiercely asserted his innocence; but of course his asseverations
had been disregarded.

“But he has said it—he has said it! He has declared he
is innocent, and he is—he is!” reiterated poor Sarah, with a
violent burst of tears, which restored sense and energy. Esther,
however, seemed to derive no comfort from the assertion.

“Yes, dear, yes; I do believe he is not guilty—bad as
some of us are, we do not do such things. Who ever heard
of a Jew being a housebreaker or a thief? But who will
believe him? Who will take his word, his oath? Oh, what
will become of us?” and the old woman rocked herself to and
fro, in the misery of the thought. Sarah was in no state to
offer the usual comfort; but stunned, bewildered as she was,
her thought formed itself into unconscious prayer for help
and strength. Her plan of action was decided on the
instant; she would, she must go to him. In vain Esther
bade her think of the consequences; what would her mistress
say, if she knew that Sarah was any way related to Levison,
the reputed housebreaker, much less that she was his
daughter.

“Would you then advise me, if this misery come to her
knowledge, deny my father, now that he may need me more
than ever? Oh, Esther, I cannot do this,” replied Sarah
mournfully, though firmly. “My mistress need not know
my errand now perhaps, and this terrible trial may be permitted
to pass away before it comes to the worst. But
should it indeed reach her ears, I cannot deny him;
he has only me, and if it cause me the loss of my situation,
of my character in the opinion of my fellow-creatures,
my God will love me, care for me still. I cannot
desert my father.”

And while she seeks him we must inform our readers,
briefly as may be, how the matter really stood. Levison had
been seen and recognised talking to a party of men the
evening previous to the night’s robbery. No one could
swear to his person as accessory to the act by having seen
him in the house, but in such earnest conversation with
those who were taken in the fact, that he was, in consequence,
committed as one of the gang, for the apprehension of whom a
large reward had been offered. It was true none of the
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stolen property had been found on his person, or in his
dwelling; but these facts were little heeded in his favour.

He was a Jew—a man who had been noted for his dishonest
practices in business, and consequently there was
no one to come forward with such report of his former
character as could be taken in his favour.

He persisted that he was innocent; that though he had
been talking to the men as was alleged, he knew nothing of
their real character or intentions; that he had been acquainted
with them formerly, but only in the way of
business; that they knew he had separated from them, at
seven o’clock that evening, to proceed several miles in a
contrary direction, to the burial-ground of his people,
where he had been engaged to watch beside the grave of one
that day interred; the person who had been engaged to do
so having been suddenly taken ill, and asked him, Levison,
to watch in his stead. How could he prove this? he was
asked.

The unhappy man groaned aloud for answer—he had no
proof. Some one, a gentleman, had indeed visited the grave
at break of day, had demanded who he was, and why he was
there instead of the person engaged; and he answered, giving
his full name. The gentleman had thrown him money, and
hastily departed; but who or what he was, except a Jew, as
himself, Levison did not know.

Of course, such a tale, and from such a person, was not to
be believed, and he was committed to Newgate, with his
supposed accomplices, to take his trial.

It was with great difficulty Sarah gained admittance to his
cell; but it was not till in his presence, till the door was
closed upon her for a specified time, that the energy which
supported her throughout gave way.

She could but throw herself on her knees before him, but
fling her arms round him, and sob forth, “Father!” the
convulsions of agony and fear which shook her every limb
depriving her at once of power and of voice.

The effect of her presence on Levison was terrible. He
gave vent to a wild, shrill cry, then catching her to his
bosom, gasped forth, “My daughter! oh, my daughter!
the God of wrath and justice will withdraw His hand, if you
are near,” and then sunk back in a strong convulsive fit.
Perhaps it was as well that the poor girl was thus compelled
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to exertion. Terrified as she was, she knew to call for help
was useless, for who could hear her? But by unloosening
his collar, and the application of cold water, which happened
to be in the room, after a few minutes of intense terror, she
saw the convulsive struggles gradually give way, and he lay
sensible but exhausted. It was then she saw the ravages
either illness or imprisonment had made; it seemed as if
even death itself was upon him. He had never quite
recovered the illness which had originally called her to
London, and the last few days seemed to have brought it
back with increase of suffering and complete prostration of
physical power. His black hair had whitened, and his form
was bent, as if a burden of many years had descended upon
him; his features were contracted, and wan as death.

“Sarah, Sarah, I thought God had forsaken me; but I see
you, and I know He has not. Miserable and guilty as I am—guilty
of many sins, as I know, I feel now—but not of
this: no, no, no; my child, my child, I am innocent of this.
I turned away from vice and sin for your sake. I made a
vow to try and become worthy of such an angel child; and
see, see what has come upon me! I have been deceiving
and dishonest in former days, but even then I never, never
turned aside to steal—to join a gang of thieves. Sarah,
Sarah, I thought to make you happy at last; and I shall be
but your curse, your misery. Perhaps you too will not
believe me, but I am innocent of this crime; my child, my
child, I am indeed!”

It was long ere Sarah’s gentle soothings and earnest
assurances of her firm belief in his perfect innocence could
calm the fearful agitation of her unhappy father. Still her
presence, the pressure of her hand was such comfort, that a
light appeared to have gleamed on the darkness of his despair,
and he poured forth his agonizing thoughts, his terrors, alike
of life and death and eternity, as if his child were indeed the
ministering angel of hope and faith and comfort which his
deep love believed her.

“Had I not you, my daughter, oh, there would be no
hope, no mercy for one like me. I have disobeyed and profaned
my God, and taken His holy name in vain, and called
down on me His wrath, His vengeance; and how can I, how
dare I hope for mercy? I cannot repent—I cannot seek
righteousness now; it is too late, too late! Yet God has
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given me you; and is He then all wrath, all punishment?
Tell me, tell me, there is mercy for the sinner, even now.”

“Father, dear father, there is! Has He not said it?
Yes, and reiterated it in His holy book, till the most doubting
of us must believe. ‘He hath no pleasure in the death of
the wicked, but rather that he should turn from his wickedness
and live;’ bidding us repent and believe, and that in
the day we did so our guilt should not be remembered—should
not appear against us; telling us but to confess our
sin, to throw ourselves on His mercy, that mercy all perfect
to purify, redeem, and save—that He is merciful and gracious,
long-suffering, abundant in mercy and love—showing mercy
unto thousands! My father, oh, my father, there is no sin
so infinite as His mercy—no sin for which repentance and
love and faith in Him will not in His sight atone.”

“But I can make no atonement, my child. I can do
nothing to prove repentance—that I would serve and love
Him now—nothing to make reparation for past sin: too late,
too late!” and he groaned aloud.

“He does not ask works, my father, when He knows they
cannot be performed. Have you not sought Him this last
year, in penitence and prayer, and amendment of your ways?
and does not He record this, though man may not? and now,
oh, do but believe in Him, in His will and power to forgive
and save—do but call upon Him with the faith and repentance
of a sorrowing child. Oh, my father, God asks no
more than we can do. His sacrifices are a broken heart and
a contrite spirit, which we all have power to bestow. He
has told us this blessed truth, through the lips of one who
had the power to do and give much more in atonement for
his sin, that we, who can do nothing but believe and repent,
may be comforted. Father, my own dear father, if indeed
you repent, and love, and believe, oh, God is near you, will
save you still!”

Much, much more did Sarah say, as she sat on the straw
pallet where her unhappy father half reclined, her dark,
truthful eyes, often swelling in large tears, fixed on his face
as she spoke. It was impossible for one whom her influence
the last twelvemonth had already, through God’s mercy,
changed in heart, to listen to her healing words, and look on
her sweet pleading face, and yet retain the doubts and terrors
of despair. It seemed to Levison that if such a being could
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love and pity him, and cling to him thus even in a prison
cell, he could not be cut off from all of heavenly hope—the
all-pitying love and consoling promises of God appeared to
him through her as if by a voice from heaven. They could
not deceive, and even in the depth of repentant agony—for
it was true repentance—there was comfort. Sarah was summoned
away only too soon, but she promised to visit him
often again. The piece of gold which she had slid into the
turnkey’s hand, she knew, would be her passport; but to do
this unknown to her mistress was an act of injustice towards
her, which her pure mind rejected.

Yet how to tell her? The determination was made, but
on the manner of fulfilling it poor Sarah thought some time.
Perhaps it was fortunate she was roused to exertion. On
entering the kitchen for something she wanted, she saw her
fellow-servants congregated in a knot together, the footman
reading aloud the account of the robbery, and the committal
of the gang, from the newspapers. He stopped as she
entered, and every eye turned on her. Her cheek grew
white as ashes, and her lip quivered, so as to be remarked
by all. The footman seemed about to speak, but the housemaid
laid her hand on his arm, with an imploring look to
forbear. It was enough. Sarah felt she could better leave
her mistress than encounter the questions or suspicions of
her fellow-servants, and that instant she sought the parlour.
Miss Leon was with her sister. The ghastly paleness and
agonized expression of the poor girl’s face struck her at once,
and with accents of earnest kindness she inquired what was
the matter. Bursting into tears, Sarah almost inarticulately
related the heavy trial which had befallen her, and her intention
to give up her situation. Confidential, happy as it
was to devote herself to her unfortunate father, feeling that
the child of one suspected as he was could bring but disreputableness
to a respectable family, Sarah felt her story was
incoherent; but that it was understood was visible in its
effects. Mrs. Corea, selfish and weak as her wont, thought
only of the trouble and annoyance Sarah’s resignation of her
situation would bring her; and overwhelmed her with reproaches,
as ungrateful and capricious. Miss Leon spoke
calmly and reasonably. There was no need for any decisive
parting. Sarah might leave them for a time, if she were
desirous of doing so, though she did not think it wise; that
// 086.png
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if Mrs. Corea valued her so much, she could have no objection
to her returning. “What! the daughter of a pickpocket,
a housebreaker! No, no, if Sarah were fool enough to say
she were the daughter of such a person, she would have
nothing more to do with her; but there was no need for her
to do so. What was to prevent her disclaiming all relationship;
and what good could she do him or herself by going
to him? It was all folly. There were plenty of Levisons in
the world. Nobody need know this Levison was Sarah’s
father, if the girl herself were not such a fool as to betray
it.”

“And can you advise this, Miss Leon?” implored Sarah,
turning towards her. “Oh, do not, do not say so. I would
not displease one so kind and good as you are. I would do
anything, everything to show you I am grateful; but I cannot,
oh, I cannot deny my father! I should never know a
happy day again.”

Miss Leon was not at all a person to evince useless emotion,
but there was certainly something rising in her throat,
which made her voice husky ere she replied. Reasonable
and feeling, however, as her arguments were, that, without
actually denying or deserting her father, she need not ruin
her own reputation for ever, by proclaiming it was to visit
him in person, she left her place. Sarah could at that moment
only <i>feel</i>; her future was bound up in her father’s.

We have not, however, space to dilate on all Miss Leon
urged or Sarah felt. Suffice it, that the next morning Sarah
turned away from the house which for nearly two years had
been a happy home. She knew not if she should ever be
welcome there again. Miss Leon was indeed still her friend;
but how could even she aid her now? She returned to that
dilapidated dwelling where old Esther still lived, feeling that
heavy as she had thought her trial when she had first
entered those doors, it was light, it was joy to that which was
hers now.

Day after day, in the brief period intervening before Levison’s
final trial, did his devoted daughter visit his cell, and
not in vain. The terror, the anguish which had possessed
him were passing from his soul. He did believe in the
saving power of his God. He did approach his throne with
a broken and contrite heart; and it was the prayers, the
faith, the forbearing devotion of his child, which brought him
// 087.png
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there. Sarah had told all his story to Miss Leon, who had
listened attentively, though she herself feared that to remedy
this and prove him innocent was, even to her energetic
benevolence, impossible.

The morning of the trial came, the court was crowded;
for the extensive robberies traced home to this gang occasioned
unusual excitement. The trembling heart of the
daughter felt that to wait to hear of its termination, and her
father’s sentence, was impossible, the very effort would drive
her mad. In vain old Esther remonstrated; offered, infirm as
she was, to go herself, if Sarah would but remain quietly at
home. Sarah insisted on accompanying her, muffled up so
as not to be recognised. They mingled with the thronging
crowds, were jostled, pushed, and otherwise annoyed, yet Sarah
knew it not—seemed conscious of nothing till her eyes rested
on her misguided father. What was it she hoped? She
knew not, except a strange undefined belief that even now,
in the eleventh hour, his innocence would be made evident.
Alas, poor girl! the summary proceedings of a court of
justice on a gang of noted criminals allowed no saving clause.
He was sworn to as having been seen with them, and that
was sufficient. All he said was unheeded, perhaps unheard;
and sentence of transportation for life was pronounced on
every man by name, Isaac Levison included.

Sarah did not scream; she thought she did not faint, for
the words rung in her ears as repeated by a hundred echoes,
each one louder than the other; but, except this power of
hearing, every other sense seemed suddenly stilled. She did
not know whose arm led her from that terrible scene—who
was conducting her hastily yet tenderly towards home. She
walked on quick, quicker still, as if the rapidity of movement
should hush that mocking sound. It would not, it could not;
and when she was at home, she sunk down powerless, conscious
only of misery that even faith might not remove.

“Sarah, my own Sarah! look up, speak to me, this silence
is terrible!” exclaimed a voice which roused her as with an
electric shock. Reuben Perez was beside her, his arm
around her; the ice of misery, the restraint of long-hidden
feelings, were broken by the power of that voice, and laying
her head on his shoulder, she sobbed in uncontrollable agony.
He told her how he had seen the name of Levison in the
papers, and his defence, and how he had trembled lest it should
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be her father; how anxiously he had wished to come up at
once to London, but was unavoidably prevented leaving
Birmingham till the previous night. How he had proceeded
to the court; at once recognised Levison, and at the same
moment, guided by some strange instinct, looked for and
found Sarah, muffled as she was.

He had gradually and with difficulty made his way through
the crowd towards her, and reached her just as the sentence
was pronounced. Old Esther had begged him to take care
of Sarah home, as she could follow more slowly. He tried
to speak comfort respecting her father; but in this he failed.
Shudderingly, she reiterated the sentence. “Transportation,
and for life—to be sent away to work, to die, untended, unloved,”
and then, as with sudden thought, she started up—

“No, no, no!” she exclaimed, a hectic glow tinging her
pallid cheek. “Why cannot I go too? not with him, they will
not let me do that; but there are ships enough taking out emigrants,
and I can meet him there—be with him again. They
shall not separate the father from his child; and he is innocent!
My father, my poor father, your Sarah will not forsake
you even now!” and she wept again, but less painfully than
before. Startled as he was, Reuben could yet feel this was
scarcely a resolution to be kept, and with argument and persuasion
sought to turn her from her purpose. Her father
could not need such sacrifice; how could she aid him in his
far distant dwelling.

“He has but me—he has but me!” she reiterated; “who
is there that has claim enough to keep me from him? I have
thought a former trial heavy to be borne; but had it not been
for that, my poor father might have died in sin, for perhaps I
could not have come to him as I did when free. No, no, I
was destined to be the instrument, in the hands of mercy, in
bringing him back to the God he had offended, and I may do
so still. Reuben, Reuben, who is there has such claim upon
me, as my poor, poor father? Others love me, and oh, God
only knows how I love them! but they are happy and prosperous,
they do not need me.”

“Sarah,” answered Reuben, his voice choked with emotion,
“Sarah, you spoke of a former heavy trial, one hard to
bear. Oh, answer me, speak to me! Was not I its cause?
I deceived myself when I thought I had not injured your
peace when I wrecked my own.”
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“It matters little now,” replied Sarah, turning from his
look, while her cheek again blanched to marble; “my path
is marked out for me. I may not leave it, even to think
of what has been or might be: it cannot, must not matter
now.”

“It must—it shall!” exclaimed Reuben, with more than
wonted impetuosity. “Sarah, Sarah, you ask me who needs
you as your father does—to whom you can be as you are to
him? I answer, there is one, one to whom, as to your father,
you have been a guardian angel, winning him back even by
your memory, when far separated, to the God he had forsaken.
I trampled on the love I bore you—my own feelings as well
as yours—to unite myself with a strange race, to bid all who
knew me cease to regard me as a Jew. I sought to believe I
had nothing to reproach myself with, as I had not caused you
grief, and yet—conscience, conscience! Oh, Sarah, my poor
Jeanie’s very love was constant agony, for I could not return
it. I never loved her as I loved you, even though she
wound herself about my very heart, and her death seemed
misery. I looked to the end of this twelvemonth to feel
myself worthy to tell you all my sin, my misery, and, if you
could forgive me, to conjure you to become mine. Oh, do
not sentence me to increase of trial! I looked to you to
train up my motherless Jeanie, as indeed a child of God, according
to your own pure belief; and to bind me to Him by
links I could never, even in the strongest temptation, turn
aside. And now, now, when my heart tells me I was deceived,
and I had injured you—for you did love me, you do love me—oh,
will you leave me—for a doubtful duty, part from me for
ever? I care not how long I serve to win you. Sarah, Sarah,
only tell me you can still love me, you will be mine.”

“Too late, too late, oh, it is all too late!” replied Sarah,
firmly, though her voice was choked with tears.

“Reuben, dear Reuben, why have you spoken thus, and
at this moment? It were a weak and idle folly to deny that
to be your wife would be the dearest happiness which could
be mine; that I have loved you, long before I knew what
love could mean; and prayed for you, wept for you—but I
must not think of these things now. Months ago, such
words from you would have been all joy; but now—do not
speak them, dearest Reuben—they increase my trial, but
cannot change my purpose. My poor father is innocent, condemned
// 090.png
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unjustly. Were he guilty, I might decide otherwise;
for perhaps it were then less a positive duty to tend him to
the last.”

And in vain did Reuben combat this determination. In
vain, rendered more eloquent from his conviction that he was
beloved, did he speak and urge, and speak again. He desisted
at length; not from lack of argument, but because he saw
it only increased the anguish of her feelings.

“If it must be so, dearest—yet indeed, indeed, it is a mistaken
duty; do not look on me so beseechingly, I will urge
no more. For myself I know I did not merit the joy I had
dared to picture; yet still, still to resign it thus, to know
you love me spite of all—Sarah, how may I struggle on, with
every hope and promise blighted?”

“Do not say so, Reuben. Our Father will not leave you
lonely. Seek Him, love Him, and He will fill up all the
void which my absence may create; and do not think we part
for ever. Oh, Reuben, the love borne in my heart so long
can know no cloud or change, and though years may pass on—my
first duty be accomplished—yet when it is, and my poor
father’s weary course is ended, if you be still free, may I not
return to you, all, all your own?”

She lifted up her pale face to his with such a look of confidence
and love, that Reuben’s only answer was to fold her
to his heart and bid God bless her for such words.

Days passed on, and though all who heard her resolution
were against it, though she had to encounter even Miss
Leon’s arguments and entreaties that she would forego a
purpose as uncalled for as misguided, Sarah never for one
moment wavered. Vainly Miss Leon sketched the miseries
that would await her in a foreign land; the little chance
there was of her even being permitted to be near her father;
the little she could do for him, even if they were together.
She reasoned well and strongly and even feelingly, but there
are times and duties when the heart hears only its own
impulses, its own feelings, and must follow them. Had she
wavered before she again met her father after his condemnation,
which, however, she did not, her first interview would
have strengthened her yet more. There was a wild and haggard
look about him, a hollow tone and wandering words,
that made her at the first moment tremble for his reason.

“Sarah, my daughter! they have banished me from my
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God! they have sentenced me to return to sin. Better,
better had they said I was to die, for then I should have
gone direct from you to judgment, and your prayers, your
angel words, had turned me from my sin; but they will send
me from you, and I shall sin again. I shall fall away from all
the good you taught me. With you, with you only I am safe—my
daughter, oh, my daughter!”

“And I will not leave you, father—I go with you, not in
the same ship, but I will meet you in a strange land. We
shall be together there as here. I will not leave you while
you need me. Do not look so, father, I have sworn it to my
God.”

She threw herself upon his neck, and the sinful but repentant
man wept as an infant on her shoulder; and from
that hour her dread that his reason was departing never
tormented her again.

The evening before Levison’s removal with his fellow-convicts
to Portsmouth—the ship awaiting them there—the
influence of a larger bribe than usual from Reuben to the
turnkey had secured to Sarah a few uninterrupted hours
with her father in a separate cell. There was something
strange in Levison’s countenance which rather alarmed him
when he joined them; it was flushed and excited, and
as he walked across the cell his limbs seemed to totter
beneath him.

They had not much longer to be together, when an unusual
number of footsteps crowded along the passage; and, soon
after, the turnkey, a sheriff, and a gentleman whom neither
Sarah nor Reuben knew, though he was evidently of their
own nation, entered the cell. There was still quite daylight
sufficient to distinguish persons and features, and the very
instant Levison’s eye caught the stranger, he started with a
shrill cry to his feet, endeavoured to spring forward, but
failed, and would have fallen had not Reuben caught him in
his arms, where he remained in a fit of trembling, which
almost seemed convulsion. “Now be quiet, my good
fellow, you will do well enough,” whispered the turnkey, as
he stepped forward to assist in supporting Levison upon his
feet. “Here is this here gemman come to swear to your
person, as having seen you in the burial-ground, just as how
you said, that there night; proving an alibi, d’ye see. They’ll
let you go even now—who’d ha’ thought it?”
// 092.png
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“You, said, sir, that you saw and spoke to a man named
Isaac Levison, of the Jewish nation, in the burial-ground of
your people, on the morning of Wednesday, the 14th of May,
exactly as the clock of Mile End Church chimed three,”
deliberately began the pompous sheriff, on whose blunted
sensibilities the various attitudes of agonized suspense, hope
and terror delineated in the group before him excited no
emotion whatever. “I have troubled you to come here to
see this man, who calls himself by that name, and tells the
same tale, seeing, that if you can swear to his person, he
must be detained from accompanying the rest of the gang,
and undergo a second trial, that your assertion in the court
may publicly prove it.”

“I do not see much use in that,” interrupted the gentleman,
who, no lawyer, did not quite comprehend technicalities;
“I should think my oath as to his person quite enough to
free him. I did not appear on his trial, simply because I was
abroad, and only heard of it through a friend sending me a
newspaper and the particulars of the case—a friend of his
wishing the man’s innocence to be proved. He wrote to me,
knowing that either I or some one belonging to me had employed
a watcher that night, and vague as the tale was, I
might help to clear it; this, however, is nothing to the purpose.
If the robbery you speak of was committed at Epping
on the 14th of May, just about three o’clock in the morning,
that man, Isaac Levison, is as innocent as I am; for I can
take my oath as to seeing and speaking with him that very
morning, at that very hour, in the burial-ground of our people
at Mile End. I particularly remarked him, as he was not
the person I had engaged. There is no justice in England if
you do not let him go—he is innocent!”

“Innocent—innocent—innocent! My child, you are right;
there is a God, and a God of love! Blessed—blessed—forgiven!”
He bounded from the detaining arms of Reuben
and the turnkey, clasped Sarah to his heart with strange unnatural
strength, and fell back a corpse!
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.sp 2
.hr 20%
.sp 2
.h3
CHAPTER V.
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>A small</sc>, but most comfortably-furnished parlour of a new,
respectable-looking dwelling, in one of the best streets of
Liverpool, is the scene to which we must conduct our readers
about two years after the conclusion of our last chapter.
The furniture all looked new, except a kind of antique silver
lamp, which stood on an oaken bracket opposite the window.
It was a room thrown out from the usual back of the house,
opening by a large French window and one or two steps into
a small but beautifully laid-out flower garden, divided by a
passage and another parlour from the handsome shop which
opened on the street. It was a silversmith and watchmaker’s,
with the words “Perez Brothers,” in large but not showy
characters, over the door. The shop seemed much frequented,
there was a constant ingress and egress of respectable
people; but there was no bustle, nothing going wrong,
all seemed quietness and regularity; orders received and
questions answered, and often articles of particularly skilful
workmanship displayed with that gentle courtesy and good
feeling which can spring but from the heart.
.pi
But we are forgetting—it is the parlour and not the shop
with which we have to do. The room and its furniture may
be strangers to us—perhaps one of the inmates—but not the
other. The still infirm and aged, but the thrice-blessed,
thrice-happy mother was still spared to bless God for the
prosperity, the well-doing, and the unchanging faith and piety
of her beloved children. Simeon’s wish was fulfilled—his
mother was restored to her former station, nay, raised
higher in the scale of society than she had ever been;
but meek in prosperity as faithful in adversity, there
was no change in that widowed heart, save, if possible,
yet deeper love and gratitude to God. And a beautiful
picture might that gentle face have made, bending down
with such a smile of caressing love on the lovely infant of
nearly three years, who had clambered on her knee, and was
folding its little round arms about her neck. It was a
touching contrast of age and infancy, for Rachel looked
much older than she really was, but there was nothing sad
in it. The unusual loveliness of the child cannot be passed
unnoticed: the snowy skin, the rich golden curls, just
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touched with that chesnut which takes away all insipidity
from fairness, might have proclaimed her not a child of
Israel; but then there was the large, lustrous black eye and
its long fringe, the subdued, soul-speaking beauty of the
other features—that was Israel’s, and Israel’s alone! Full
of life and joyousness, her infant prattle amused her grandmother,
till at the closing, about six in the evening, her
son Simeon joined her. We should perhaps have said that
an elderly Jewess, remarkably clean and tidy in her person,
had very often entered the parlour to see, she said, if the
dear widow were comfortable or wanted anything, or little
Jeanie were troublesome, etc. It was old Esther, who fulfilling
all sorts of offices in the family, acting companion and
nurse to the widow and Jeanie, cleaning silver—in which she
was very expert—seeing to the cooking of the dinner, and
taking care of the lad’s clothes, delighted herself, and more
than satisfied those with whom she lived.

To satisfy our readers’ curiosity, as to how this great change
in the widow’s condition had been brought about, we will
briefly narrate its origin. When Reuben’s year of probation
was over, and he felt he was a Jew in heart and soul and
reason, as well as name, he returned to Liverpool, to delight
his mother with the change. He was met with love and with
rejoicing, no reference was made to the past, and between
himself and Simeon not a shadow of estrangement remained.
The latter had at first hung back, feeling self-reproached that
he had wronged his brother; but Reuben’s truly noble nature
conquered these feelings, and soon after bound him to him
with the ties of gratitude as well as love. Simeon’s talent
for modelling in silver was now as marked as his dislike to
that trade, which despite of disinclination, he had perseveringly
followed. Reuben, on the contrary, retained all his
father’s instructions in watch-making, and had determined,
when he returned to Liverpool, to set up that business which,
from the excellent capital he had amassed and laid by, was
not difficult to accomplish. He had determined on this plan,
feeling as if he thus tacitly acknowledged and followed his
lamented father’s wishes, and atoned to him, even in death,
for former disregard. He, of course, wished to associate
Simeon in the business; but as the young man’s desires
and talents seemed pointed otherwise, he placed him for a
year with a first-rate silversmith in London. Morris,
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Simeon’s late master, had given up business, and this in itself
was a capital opening for Reuben. He made use of it, and
flourished. In less than eighteen months after his return to
Liverpool, “Perez Brothers” opened their new shop as
silversmiths and watchmakers, and from the careful, economical,
and strictly honourable way in which the business was
carried on—the name, too, with the associations of the honest
hard-working man of whom these were the sons, adding
golden weight—a very few months trial proved that
industry, economy, and honesty must carry their own
reward.

But why was the widow alone? Was not Reuben married,
and should not Sarah have been with her? Gentle reader,
Reuben is not yet married; he has now gone to fetch his
Sarah, for the term of probation for both is over. The
morrow is the thirteenth birthday of the twins; and the
widow is expecting the return of Reuben and Sarah and
Ruth, as she sits with her darling Jeanie in her little parlour,
the evening we meet her again.

Levison’s innocence and his sudden death had, of course,
been made public, not only in an official way, but through
the eagerness of Reuben that not a shadow of shame should
ever approach his Sarah. When the first month of mourning
had expired, Sarah returned to her situation; her mistress
quite forgetting former anger, and ready to declare
Sarah had only done just as she ought towards her poor
innocent father; that she was a pattern of Jewish daughters,
and poured forth a volume of praises, all in the joy of getting
her back.

Reuben had been anxious for their marriage as soon as he
had completed two years from poor Jeanie Wilson’s early
death. Sarah fully sympathised in his feelings towards
Jeanie, and they would often talk of her as a being dear to
and cherished by them both. When the two years were
completed, the marriage was still delayed, Mrs. Corea entreating
Sarah to remain with her till she went on the Continent
with her daughters, which she intended to do in about
six or eight months. She had been too indulgent a mistress,
and Miss Leon too sincere a friend, for Sarah to hesitate a
moment in postponing her own happiness. Besides, the
delay, though Reuben did not like it, might be beneficial to
him in allowing him time to get settled in his business.
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Before the period elapsed, Sarah and Reuben too were
rejoiced that she was still in London, for Ruth needed her;
the wherefore we shall find presently.

“Are they not late, mother?” inquired Simeon, as he
joined his mother in her own parlour. “Troublesome
loiterers! I wish they would arrive—I want my tea.”

“And is that all you want, Simeon?” said the widow,
smiling; “because that may easily be satisfied.”

“No, no; not quite so voracious as that comes to. I
want the loiterers themselves, though I have seen them later
than you have, you know. You won’t find Sarah a whit
altered; she is just the gentle yet energetic creature she
always was, only more animated, more happy, I think.
Then Ruth, darling Ruth—oh, how much I owe to her! I
never shall forget her reminding me of my promise to my
poor father—her compelling me as it were, to love my
brother; and now what is not that brother to me? Mother,
is it not strange how completely prejudice has gone?”

“No, my dear son; your heart was too truly and faithfully
pious, too desirous really to love its God, for prejudice
long to obtain the ascendant. It comes sometimes in very
early youth, when we are apt to think we alone are quite
right, but, unless encouraged, cannot long stand the light of
strengthening reason and real spiritual love.”

“But does it not seem strange, mother, that I alone of my
family, should have been the one selected to receive such
extreme kindness from a Christian—one of those whom, in
former days, I was more prejudiced against than I dared
acknowledge? I was very ill on my way home from
London, and as you know, Mr. Morton had me conveyed
to his house, instead of leaving me to the care of heartless
strangers at the public inn—had a physician to attend me,
nursed me as his own son—would read and talk to me, even
after he knew I was a Jew, on the <i>spirit</i> of religion, which
we both felt. Never shall I forget the impressive tone and
manner with which he said, when parting with me, ‘Young
man, never forget this important truth—<i>that heart alone in
sincerity loves God, who can see, in every pious man, a brother,
despite of difference of creed. That difference lies between man
and his God: to do good and love one another is man’s duty
unto man</i>, and can, under no circumstances and in no places,
be evaded. Learn this lesson, and all the kindness I have
// 097.png
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shown you is amply rewarded.’ Is it not strange this should
have occurred to me?”

“I do not think it strange, my dear son,” replied Mrs.
Perez affectionately, though seriously. “I believe so firmly
that God’s eye is ever on us, that He so loves us, that He
guides every event of our lives as will be most for our eternal
good. He saw you sought to love and serve Him—that the
very prejudice borne towards others had its origin in the
ardent love you bore your faith, and His infinite mercy permitted
you to receive kindness from a Gentile and a stranger,
that this one dark cloud should be removed, and your love
for Him be increased in the love you bear your fellow-creatures.”

“May I believe this, mother? It would be such a comfort,
such a redoubled excitement to love and worship,”
answered Simeon, fixing his large dark eyes beseechingly
on his mother’s face. “But can I do so without profaneness,
without robbing our gracious God of the sanctity which
is so imperatively His due?”

“Surely you may, my dear boy. We have the whole
word of God to prove and tell us that we are each individually
and peculiarly His care—that he demands the <i>heart</i>;
for dearer even than a mother’s love for her infant child is
His love towards us. How may we give Him our heart, if
we never think of Him but as a being too inexpressibly
awful to approach? How feel the thanksgiving and gratitude
He loves to receive, if we do not perceive His guiding
hand, even in the simplest events of our individual lives?
How seek Him in sorrow, if we do not think He has power
and will to hear and to relieve?—in daily prayer, if we were
not each of us especially His own? My boy, if the hairs of
our head are numbered, can we doubt the events of our life
are guided as will be but for our eternal good, and draw us
closer to our God? Think but of one dear to us both: did
it not seem, to our imperfect wisdom, that Reuben’s marriage
must for ever have divided him from his nation? Yet that
very circumstance brought him back. Our Father in mercy
permitted him to follow his own will, to be prosperous, to
lose even the hated badge of Israel, that his own heart
might be his judge. Affliction also, sent from that same
gracious hand, deepened the peculiar feelings which becoming
a parent had already excited. Then the year of research
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put the final seal on his return to us. His mind could
never have believed without calm, unimpassioned, steady
examination. He has examined not alone his own faith.
Mr. Vaughan, from being the explainer, was forced to
become the defender of his own creed. He drew back,
avowing, with a candour and charity which proved how
truly of God was the <i>spirit</i> of religion within him, spite of
the mistaken faith, that Reuben never could become a
convert. And we know what true friends they are, notwithstanding
Mr. Vaughan’s disappointment. They have
strengthened themselves in their own peculiar doctrines,
without in the least shaking each other’s.”

“Yes, yes; you are quite right, mother dear, as you
always are,” replied Simeon, putting his arm round her, and
affectionately kissing her. “What a blessing it has been
for me to have such a mother. Why, how now, master
Joseph, what has happened? have you lost your wits?”

“If I have, it is for very joy!” exclaimed the boy, springing
into the parlour, flinging his cap up to the ceiling, and
so stifling his mother with kisses, as obliged her to call for
mercy. “Mother, mother, how can I tell you the good
news? I must scamper about before I can give them vent.”

“Not another jump, not another step, till you have told
us,” exclaimed Simeon, laughing heartily at the boy’s
grotesque movements, and catching him midway in a jump
that would not have disgraced a harlequin. “Now what is
it, you overgrown baby? Are you not ashamed not to meet
joy like a man?”

“No baby ever felt such joy, Simeon; and though I am
a man to-morrow, I am not ashamed to act the madcap
to-night. Mother, have I not told you the notice Mr.
Morales has always taken of me, and the books he has lent
me? Well, my master must have said such kind things of
me; for what, what do you think he has offered?—that is,
if you will consent; and I know, oh, I know you love me
too well to refuse. He will call on you himself to-morrow
about it.”

“About what?” reiterated Simeon. “My good fellow, it
is of no use his calling. You are gone distracted, mad, fit
for nothing!”

“What does he offer, my love?” anxiously rejoined the
widow.
// 099.png
.bn 099.png

“To take me home with him, as companion and friend to
his own son, a boy just about my age—and such a fellow!
He has often come to talk with me about the books we have
both read. And Mr. Morales said I shall learn all that
Conrad does. That I shall go abroad with them, and receive
such an education, that years to come, if I still wish it, I may
be fitted to be, what of all others I long to be, the <i>Hazan</i> of
our people. Hebrew, the Bible and the Talmud, and Latin,
and Greek, and everything that can help me for such an
office; besides the lighter literature and studies, which will
make me an enlightened friend for his son. Oh, mother!
Simeon! is it not enough to make me lose my wits? But I
must not though, for I shall want them more than ever.
You do not speak, my own dear mother; but you will not,
oh, I know you will not refuse.”

“Refuse!” repeated the grateful widow, whose voice returned.
“No, no; I would deserve to lose all the friends
and blessings my God has given me, could I be so selfish to
refuse, because for a few years, my beloved child, I must
part with you. I do not fear for you; you will never
forget to love your mother, or to remember and obey her
precepts!”

“Give you joy, brother mine! though, by my honour, I
had better not wish you any more joy, for this has well-nigh
done for you,” laughingly rejoined Simeon; for he saw that
both Joseph and his mother’s eyes were wet with grateful
tears, and he did not wish emotion to become pain.

“Yes, one more joy, but one: it is almost sinful to wish
more, when so much has been granted me,” replied Joseph,
almost sorrowfully. “Would that Ruth, my own Ruth,
could but <i>look on</i> me once more; could but have sight restored,
that I might think of her as happy, independent, not
needing me to supply her sight. Oh, I should not have one
wish remaining; but sometimes I think, afflicted as she is,
and bound so closely as we are, I ought not to leave her.”

“Then don’t think any more silliness, my boy. Reuben
and your humble servant are much obliged to you for
imagining, because we do not happen to be her twin
brothers, we cannot be to her what you are—out on your conceit!
Make haste, and be a <i>Hazan</i>, and give her a home,
and then you shall have her all to yourself; till then we will
take care of her!”
// 100.png
.bn 100.png

Joseph’s laughing reply was checked by the entrance of
Leah, attended by a young man of very prepossessing appearance.
It was Maurice Carvalho, the son and heir of a
thriving bookseller and fancy stationer, of Liverpool, noted
for a devoted attendance on the pretty young milliner.

“Not arrived yet! why, I feared they would have been
here before me, and thought me so unkind,” said Leah,
after affectionately greeting her mother. “Are we not
late?”

“Dreadfully!” replied Simeon, mischievously. “Mrs.
Valentine said you were at liberty after five; what have you
been doing with yourselves?”

“Taking a walk, and went further than we thought,” said
Maurice, with affected carelessness, while Leah turned away
with a blush.

“A walk! whew,” and Simon gave a prolonged whistle;
“were you not cold?”

“Cold, you stupid fellow! why it is scarce autumn yet—the
evenings are delightful.”

“Particularly when the subject of conversation is of a
remarkably summer warmth; with doves billing and cooing
in the trees, and nightingales singing to the rose—there, am
I not poetical? Leah, my girl, you used to like poetry; you
ought to like it better now.”

“Better—why?”

“Oh, because—because poetry and love are twin brothers,
you know!”

“Simeon!” remonstrated Leah; but the pleased expression
of young Carvalho’s face and the satisfaction beaming on the
widow’s betrayed at once that the bachelor was quite at
liberty to talk and amuse himself at their expense; their
love was acknowledged to each other, and hallowed by a
parent’s blessing and consent.

Joseph had scarcely had time to tell his joyful tale to his
sister, before a loud shout from Simeon, who had gone to the
front to watch, proclaimed the anxiously-desired arrivals.
Joseph and Maurice darted out, and in less than a minute
Reuben and Sarah entered the parlour.

“Mother, dearest mother, she is here—never, never, with
God’s blessing, to leave us again!” exclaimed Reuben, as
Sarah threw herself alternately in the arms of the widow and
Leah, and then again sought the embrace of the former, to
// 101.png
.bn 101.png
hide the gushing tears of joy and feeling on her bosom,
without the power of uttering a single word.

“My child, my own darling child! oh, what a blessing it
is to look on your dear face again! Still my own Sarah, spite of
all the cares and trials you have borne since we parted!” exclaimed
the widow, fondly putting back the braids of beautiful
hair, to look intently on that sweet gentle face.

“And your blessing, mother, dearest mother; oh, say as
you have so often told me, you could wish and ask no dearer,
better wife for your Reuben; and such blessing may give
my Sarah voice!” He threw his arm round her as he spoke,
and both bent reverently before the widow, whose voice
trembled audibly as she gave the desired blessing, and told
how she had prayed and yearned that this might be, and
Sarah’s voice returned, with a tone so glad, so bird-like in its
joy, it needed but few words.

“My Ruth, where is my Ruth? and where are Joseph and
Simeon gone?” asked the widow, when one joy was sufficiently
relieved to permit her thinking of another.

“She will be here almost directly, mother. She was
rather tired with the journey, and so I persuaded her to rest
quiet at the inn close by, till I sent Simeon and Joseph with
a coach for her and our luggage; they will not be long before
they return. But tell me, where is my Jeanie? not in bed I
hope, though we are late?”

“No; Esther took her away about half an hour ago, to
amuse and keep her awake—not very difficult to do, as she is
as lively as ever.” Reuben was off in a moment.

“And Esther, dear Reuben, bid her come and see me,”
rejoined Sarah; and then clasping her aunt’s hand, “oh, my
dear aunt, what have I not felt, since we last met, that I owe
you! I thought I was grateful, felt it to the full before; but
not till I was tried, not till I learned the value of strong principles,
steady conduct, and firm control, did I know all
you had done for me. My God, indeed, was with me
throughout; but this would not have been, had not your
care and your affection taught me how to seek and love Him.
Oh, will a life of devotion to our Reuben, and to you,
and to his offspring, in part repay your kindness, dearest
aunt?”

The widow’s answer we leave our readers to imagine;
fearing they should accuse us of again becoming sentimental.
// 102.png
.bn 102.png
Old Esther speedily made her appearance, and her greeting
was second only in affection to the widow’s own.

“Father, dear father, come home, come home!” was the
next sweet lisping voice that met the delighted ears of Sarah,
and in another moment Reuben appeared with the child in
his arms, her little rosy fingers twisted in his hair, and her
round soft cheek resting against his.

“This is my poor motherless babe, for whom I have
bespoken your love, your protection, your guiding hand, my
Sarah,” he whispered, in a low, earnest voice. “Will you
love her for my sake?”

“And for her own and for her mother’s; do not doubt
me, Reuben. If she is yours, is she not, then, mine?” she
answered, in the same voice. The child looked at her as if
half inclined to spring into the caressing, extended arms, but
then, with sudden shyness, hid her face on her father’s
shoulder.

“Jeanie, darling, what was the word I taught you to say?
Look at her and say it, and kiss her as you do me.”

The child still hesitated; but then, as if emboldened by
Sarah’s sweet voice calling her name, she looked full in her
face and lisped out “Mother,” held up her little face to kiss
her, and was quite contented to be transferred from Reuben’s
arms to those of Sarah.

“Ruth, Ruth—I think I hear her coming?” joyfully exclaimed
Leah, a few minutes afterwards.

“Go to her then, dear—detain her one minute,” hastily
whispered Reuben, in a tone and manner that made his
sister start. “Do not ask me why now—you will know the
moment you see her—only go. I must prepare my mother.
I did not think she would have been here so soon.”

Leah obeyed him, her heart beating, she did not know
why, and Reuben turned to his mother. Sarah had given
little Jeanie to Esther’s care, and was kneeling by her as if
to intercept her starting up.

“What is it—what is it? Why do you keep my child
from me? why send her brothers and sisters to her, instead
of letting her come to me? Reuben, Sarah! what new
affliction has befallen my angel child?”

“Affliction? None, none!” repeated Sarah and Reuben
together. “It is joy, dearest aunt, all joy. Oh, bear but
joy as you have borne sorrow, and all will be well.”
// 103.png
.bn 103.png

“Joy?” she repeated, almost wildly; “what greater joy
can there be than to have my children all once again around
me? I have heard my Ruth has been ill, but that she was
quite well, quite strong again, and have blessed God for that
great mercy.”

“But there may be more, my mother, yet more for which
to bless Him. Oh, are not all things possible with Him?
He who in His wisdom once deprived of sight, can He not
restore it?”

“Reuben, Sarah! what can you mean? My child, my
Ruth!” but voice and almost power failed, for such a
trembling seized her limbs that Reuben was compelled to
support her as she sat. It was but for a moment, for the
next a light figure had bounded into the room, followed by
Simeon and Joseph, Maurice and Leah.

“Mother! mother! mother! They need not tell me where
you are. You need not come to your poor blind Ruth. I
can see your dear face—see it once again.”

The widow had sprung up from her chair; but ere she
had made one step forward her child was in her arms—was
fixing those long-closed eyes upon her face as if they would take
in every feature with one delighted gaze. One look was
sufficient. A deadly faintness, from over-excited feelings,
passed over the widow’s heart; but as she felt Ruth’s passionate
kisses on her lips and cheeks, life returned in a wild
burst of thanksgiving, and the widow folded her child
closer and yet closer to her heart, and, overpowered by joy as
she had never been by sorrow, “she lifted up her voice and
wept.”

.tb

Reader, our task is done—for need we say it was the benevolent
exertion of Miss Leon, under a merciful Providence,
which procured the last most unlooked-for blessing to the
widow and her family. She had remarked there was a
slight change in the appearance of the child’s eyes, had taken
her without delay to the most eminent oculist of the day, and
received his opinion that sight might be restored. The rest,
to a character such as hers, was easy; and thus twice was
she the means of materially brightening the happiness of the
Perez family; for, though we had not space in our last
chapter to dilate on it, it had been actually through her
// 104.png
.bn 104.png
means the innocence of Levison had been discovered, though
she herself was at the time scarcely conscious how. She had
mentioned it to everybody she thought likely to be useful in
discovering it, had been laughed at for her folly in believing
such a tale, warned against taking up the guilt or innocence
of such a person’s character, and, in short, almost every one
dissuaded her from mentioning the subject; it really would
do her harm. But she had persevered against even her
own hope of effecting good, and was, as we have seen,
successful.

Before we quite say farewell, we would ask our readers if
we have indeed been happy enough in this simple narration
to make one solemn and most important truth clear as our
own heart would wish—that, however dark may be our horizon,
however our prayers and trust may for a while seem
unheeded, our eager wishes denied us, our dearest feelings
the mere means of woe, yet there is an answering and pitying
God above us still, who, when He bids us “commit our
ways unto Him, and trust also in Him,” has not alone the
power, but the will, the loving-kindness, the infinite mercy,
to “bring it to pass.” My friends, that God is still our God;
and though the events of our simple tale may have no origin
in real life, is there one amongst us who can look back upon
his life, and prayers, and thoughts, and yet say that overruling
Providence is but fiction, for we feel it, know it not?
Oh, if so, it is his own heart, not the love and word of his
God, at fault. All may not be blessed so visibly as the
widow and her family, but all who wait on and trust in the
Lord will have their reward, if not on earth, yet dearer, more
gloriously in heaven.
// 105.png
.bn 105.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p095
<i>The Stone-Cutter’s Boy of Possagno.</i>
.nf c
 A SKETCH FROM HIS LIFE.
.nf-
.sp 2
.h4
I.
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>It</sc> was evening in Venice. The queen of the Adriatic, her
marble palaces and princely halls, her stately bridges and
her dreary prisons, lay sleeping in gorgeous beauty, flushed
by the glowing splendour of the setting sun, lingering as
loth to fade away and be lost in the more sombre hues of
twilight, which, rising, from the east, was softly and balmily
stealing over the expanse of heaven, bearing silence, and
repose, and quiet loveliness on her meekly pensive brow. It
was an hour of deep calm—the pause of life and nature,
when the business of the day was done, the gay festivities of
night not yet begun. Now and then the sound of a guitar,
or the thrill of melody from music-gushing voices, echoed
from the water; or whispered accents, in the passioned tones
of Italy, betraying some tale of happy love; and then, again,
might be traced a muffled figure, with shadowed brow and
stern-closed lip, holding himself aloof, as if his world were
contained in the mighty passions, the deep secrets of his own
heart; and thus, from hate, or guile, or scorn, contemning
all his fellows. And then would come by, with measured
oar and evening hymn, the fisher’s humble skiff; and then,
in strange contrast, the decorated bark of patrician pride,
with noble freight and liveried attendants. Presently, light
after light gleamed up from palace, and hall, and bridge,
rivalling the stars of heaven, spangling earth and water.
Sunset faded into twilight; and twilight, resting a brief
interval on the bosom of night, gave up to her the care of
earth, and disappeared. But not with the marble palaces
and their princely honours—not with the midnight intrigue,
the lover’s meeting—not with the pirate of the seas, the
brigand of the land; all of which seem springing up, more
vivid than memory, more tangible than fancy, in that one
magic word, Venice—not with these have we to treat.
.pi
In a small, rudely-furnished apartment, scattered round
with implements of sculpture, half-finished models in clay
// 106.png
.bn 106.png
and stone, sketches, both in chalk and colouring, and some
few volumes of miscellaneous lore, sat one, a boy in years,
but bearing on his brow and in his eye somewhat far—oh!
far beyond his age. Clothed as he was in the simplest, most
homely attire, his peculiarly graceful and well-proportioned
figure marked him noble; his intelligent, nay more, his soul-breathing
features, the light of <sc>MIND</sc> illumining his full, dark
eye, and resting on the broad, high forehead, even the beautiful
hair of glossy black, curling so carelessly round the
peculiarly well-shaped head:—could these characteristics
belong to the stone-cutter’s boy of Possagno, whose first
twelve years had been passed in the mud-walled cabin of his
poor and hard-working grandfather? It was even so; but
the lowliness of birth was, even at this early period of his
life, lost in the nobility of Genius. Her voice had breathed
its thrilling whisper within him; and he heard, but as yet
understood it not—was unconscious of the deep meanings,
the glorious prophecy, the mighty shadows of an unborn
future, of which those thrilling whispers spoke. He only
knew there was a spirit within him, urging, impelling, he
scarce knew what: and longing for the Infinite which pressed
so heavily upon him, that he felt, to use his own impressive
words, “He could have started on foot with a velocity to
outstrip the wind, but without knowing whither to direct his
steps; and when activity could no longer be supported, he
would have desired to lie down and die.” He would hurry
to the haunts of Nature—the wildest, most boundless scenes,
gazing on the distant mountain, the rushing torrent, the dark,
mysterious forest; and then up to the gorgeous masses of
cloud, sailing over the transparent heaven of his own bright
land, watch intently each light, each shade, each fleeting
change, longing to soar to them, to penetrate the mysteries
of Nature. At such moments he was happy; for the
sense of Infinity seemed taken from his own overcharged
heart to be impressed on Nature, to linger around, below,
above him, to breathe its tale aloud, from the voice of the
torrent to the glistening star reflected in its depths—from
the radiant star to the lowly flower, trembling beneath its
burning gaze; and the voice was less painfully oppressive
then than when it came, in the still, the lonely hour, to the
deep recesses of his own young heart. And from these
scenes he would turn again to the work of his own hand;
// 107.png
.bn 107.png
and despondency and darkness, at times, clouded up his
spirit, for they gave not back the impress of the beauty, the
infinity, with which his soul was filled. He knew not the
wherefore of this deep-seated joy and woe; and had there
been one to whisper it did but prophesy immortal fame, the
boy would have smiled in disbelief.

But on this fair eve neither the hurrying impulse nor
desponding sadness was upon him. The boy sat beside the
open casement, looking forth on the gradual approach of
night and her starry train, on the still waters slumbering
beneath, or flashing in passing light from illuminated skiffs;
but his thoughts were not on these. An open volume lay
upon his knee, which had so absorbed alike heart, mind, and
fancy, that darkness had stolen around him unconsciously;
and when compelled to cease reading, there was a charm in
the thoughts created, too entrancing, too irresistible, to
permit their interruption, even by a movement.

“Why, Antonio, lad, what holds thee so tranced, even
thine own Guiseppe stands beside thee, rudely and inhospitably
unnoticed? Shame on thee! The Falieri had not
welcomed Tonin thus.”

With a start of joyful surprise, the boy turned to grasp
the extended hands of his noble friend, to welcome him
again and again, and then to ask and answer so many questions
interesting to none but themselves, that some time
passed ere Guiseppe Falieri found leisure to ask what had so
engrossed his friend when he entered.

“Up in the skies again, Tonin, lad—riding on a star, or
reposing on a cloud—yonder one, perchance, so exquisitely
silvered by the moon?”

“No, Guiseppe mio, I was more on earth than in heaven
that moment.”

“Thou on earth! and with such a sky, such a moon,
above us! Marvellous! Ah, a book!” And, attracted by
Antonio’s smile to the volume, he took it up, and read by
the clear moonlight, “‘Life of Dante.’ Only his life! Nay,
had it been his Divina Commedia, his soul-thrilling poesy, I
could better have forgiven thy neglect.”

“Yet, perchance, had his life no Beatrice, Guiseppe, Italy
had had no poet.”

“It was Beatrice, then, that so enchanted thee! Come,
that’s some comfort for my pride. I give thee permission
// 108.png
.bn 108.png
to neglect me for her. Yet,” he added, after a brief pause,
“how know we it was not all illusion—a vision of the poet—a
fancy—a beautiful creation? I have often thought it
too shadowy, too much of the ideal, for dull, dark reality.”

“Illusion or reality, oh! it was blessed for Italy, thrice-blessed
for the poet!” answered Antonio, with such unaffected
fervour, that it extended to his companion. “Without
Beatrice, what had Dante been? A poet, perchance,
but wanting the glow, the life, the thrilling beauty, now
gushing so eloquently from every line. Beauty, and such as
hers, ethereal from first to last, till nought but his own heart
and heaven retained her. Oh, Guiseppe, the glance of her
eye, the touch of her hand, was all-sufficient to ignite the
electric lamp of genius, which, without such influence, perchance,
had been buried in its own smouldering gloom, and
never flung its rays upon a world.”

“Thinkest thou, then, Tonin, that the influence of beauty
could, indeed, be so experienced, by one who, though so
mighty in intellect, was still only a boy in years?”

“Do I think so, Guiseppe?—yes, oh yes! It filled up
all the yearning void so dark before; it threw a sunshine
and a glory over all of life and earth; it gave a semblance
and a shape to all the glowing images of mind; and as the
countless rays down-gushing from one sun, it poured into
the poet’s breast infinity from one!”

Guiseppe Falieri looked on the enthusiast, feeling far more
than Antonio himself the glorious gifts that boyish heart
enshrined; and loved, aye, reverenced him—him, the
peasant boy, though he himself was noble, the younger son
of an illustrious Venetian house. But what, he felt, was
rank of birth compared to rank of intellect? and with that
peasant boy the youthful noble remained for hours, only
leaving that lowly room to wander forth with him, as their
souls had freer, more delicious communion, under the blue
vaults of heaven than in confining walls. To enjoy the
society of his humble friend in their brief visits to Venice,
Guiseppe Falieri ever relinquished the more exciting pleasures
of the boon companions of his rank and station; and
ere the mantle of age descended upon him, how did he glory
in the penetration of his boyhood!
// 109.png
.bn 109.png
.sp 2
.h4
II.
.sp 2
It was morn in Venice: her seventy islets were lighted up
with a flood of sunshine of transparent brilliance known
only to fair Italy, but falling with soft and mellowed rays
within the gallery of the proud Farsetti Palace. Thrown
open to the youth of both sexes studying the fine arts, private
munificence had gathered together the most perfect
specimens of ancient and modern art—all that could forward
the eager student in his darling pursuit, ensuring priceless
advantages even to the poorest and the humblest, fostering
in every individual breast the gift peculiarly his own. Oh,
truly is that country where such things are the nurse of
Genius! Truly may her children decorate her with the
fruits of those resplendent gifts with which Heaven has
endowed them! Truly may her poets breathe forth lays to
mark her as themselves—immortal! Italy, beautiful Italy,
how does the heart burn, the spirit love, when we write
of thee!

To this gallery the young Antonio was a constant visitor,
and he was so persevering in his studies as to attract the
attention and rivet the friendship of its noble owner, at whose
order he executed the first specimen of that sculpture which
was to enrol his lowly name amid the mighty spirits of his
native land, and bear to distant shores the echoes of his
fame. Morning after morning found him in the Farsetti
gallery, engaged either in drawing, modelling, or painting
from antique casts, or from those modern ones to which the
possessors of the establishment directed his notice. No difficulty
could deter, no more tempting model could allure.
Severely, faithfully true to the path marked out, every other
student shrunk from competition with him, as pigmies from
a giant.

Wrapt as Antonio ever was in his task, however severe or
little interesting, generally so absorbed as to be unconscious
of all outward things, it was strange that a voice had power
to rouse him from such preoccupation, and bid him, half-unconsciously
yet inquiringly, look round. Soft, low, silvery,
it thrilled to the boy’s soul, as a voice that had haunted
his dreams, and was yet to reality unknown. And the being
// 110.png
.bn 110.png
from whom it came? Had he ever seen one like to her, or
was it the mere embodying of all those visions of beauty,
which, sleeping or waking, haunted his soul? He knew
not. He only knew he sat entranced, breathless, awestruck,
as though some angelic being had stood before him, demanding
adoration. Young, very young, she seemed yet older
than himself; and pale, but oh! so exquisitely lovely—with
all of heaven, nought of earth! E’en the deep feeling resting
on that full bright lip; the dark, lustrous, deep-souled
eye; the rich, the glorious intellect sitting throned upon
that beauteous brow; the smile flitting round that chiselled
mouth, as an emanation from the soul; nay, every movement
of the sylph-like form, too light, too spirit-like, for
coarser earth—all whispered to the boy’s full heart with
power, eloquence, unfelt though often dreamed before. And
matter of astonishment it was to him, that the other students
so calmly continued their labours, content with one glance of
admiration on the stranger.

Leaning on the arm of a friend or attendant, she advanced
up the gallery, and took her seat as one of the students.
The model was selected, her drawing materials arranged, and
silently she pursued her task.

Little more did Antonio do that day; for the strange,
tumultuous emotions of his bosom seemed from that time to
paralyse his hand. He worked on, indeed, mechanically till
the hour of closing, and then, oh! how grateful was the
fresh breeze of heaven, the free, active movement of a rapid
walk. Yet even then—strange incongruity of feeling—he
yearned for the morrow to find himself anew by her side;
and then a trembling was upon him, that it was all illusion,
all a sweet, bright vision, which would fade as it had come.
.sp 2
.if h
.il fn=illus_fp100.jpg w=378px
.if-

.if t
.ti +8
[Illustration]
.if-
.sp 2

But such it was not. The hours of study came and
passed, and each morning found that frail, ethereal being in
the Farsetti gallery, attended on her entrance and departure,
but left to pursue her studies, as was the custom, alone; and,
irresistibly, the young sculptor chose those casts which drew
him closer to her side, that even as he worked he might
glance on that surpassing beauty, might watch each graceful
movement; and this was happiness, inexpressible happiness,
although he knew not wherefore. He could not speak it,
even to his dearest friend. He felt it all too sacred, too
deeply shrined for voice, as if the first breath that gave it
// 111.png
.bn 111.png
// 112.png
.bn 112.png
// 113.png
.bn 113.png
utterance would bid it fly for ever. He shrunk deeper and
deeper within himself; not moodily, not sadly, but only
sensible that “with such a being he should be for ever
happy;” for even her silent presence shed a glow around
him, fading not even when she was no longer near. He
was feeling what his own lips had so vividly described as
Beauty’s influence on Dante; but the guileless, unsophisticated
boy knew not that such it was.

Silently he felt, and silently he worked; for those new,
strange, yet delicious feelings weakened not his mighty
powers; nay, new light suffused them, even to his own
impartial, often desponding eye. Once she stood by his
side, leaning on the arm of her attendant. He felt the
glance of those lovely eyes was fixed admiringly on the
work of <i>his</i> hand; and that hand trembled for the first time.
Her voice reached his ear in its sweet music, and though it
simply praised his work as “<i>assai bello</i>,” it lingered on his
heart as a never-forgotten melody, thrilling through the
deeper, louder, mightier voice of Fame, of monarchs’ praise,
of world’s applause, as an angel’s whispering amidst the crashing
storm. He only bowed his head in low acknowledgment, in
voiceless answer. He could not summon strength to breathe
one word, or meet that gentle glance; but, oh! the deep,
full, gushing joy which was upon him from that hour, inspiring
more air of beauty in his labours, for her eye might
rest on them again.

Days, weeks, thus passed, and still, as by magnetic influence,
those youthful students were ever side by side; but
ere the second moon had wholly waned, Antonio sat alone;
that lovely one had vanished from her usual haunt, and
mournfully, darkly, the hours, once so joyous, passed—for
the sunlight had departed from them.

Day after day, hope returned to the boy’s heart, but not
its beauteous object to his eye, and heavily this silent
adoration lay upon his soul. Another and another day, and
still she came not; a week, another, and how might he
inquire her fate, when, even could he speak that yearning
sorrow, he had no trace—no clue to her identity? She had
come with nought but her own loveliness to steal upon his
heart, and he could not violate the sanctuary her image filled
by one word of question. He shrunk from every eye, as if
he feared his treasure were discovered, and the notice of his
// 114.png
.bn 114.png
fellows would sully its ethereal purity by mingling it with
earth.

Still he laboured indefatigably as before; for her voice
was sounding in the still depths of his own soul, and perhaps
it might sound again—her praise might hallow the work,
even of his impotent hand, and mark it blessed?

A ray of sunshine had fallen upon the work of the young
sculptor, giving it that peculiar light and shadow which it
had worn that never-to-be-forgotten day, when his eye first
marked the loveliness his soul had visioned. Such as the
ray had reached him from its fount, flashed back every feeling,
every pulsation of that hour, till, in its magic, the very
form of the beloved, the worshipped one, stood, or seemed to
stand, before him, tangible, palpable as life, save that the
smile, the shadowy form, were as if all of earth had gone.
Breathless, pale, motionless, Antonio’s trembling hand refused
to guide the pencil—his fixed and starting eye to
move, lest all should fade away, and leave him desolate. A
noise among the students aroused him, and with a sudden
start and heavy sigh he awoke to consciousness. It was but
vacancy on which he gazed, or his spirit held commune with
beings not seen of earth.

Another week, and Antonio looked on the faithful attendant
of his spirit’s idol; but she was alone, and pale and sad, and
robed in all the sable draperies of woe. His heart throbbed,
his voice failed, a sickness as of death crept over him; yet,
as she passed to seek and remove the portfolio of the missing
one, he struggled to subdue that inward trembling, and
speak, but only a few brief, faltering accents came.

“The Signora—her friend—was she well?—had she
quitted Venice?”

A burst of agonizing tears answered him, and then the
mournful confirmation: “The Signora Julia had gone to
that heaven whose child she was; earth would see her sweet
face, list her glad laugh, feel her light step, no more.” And
the mourner passed on: and Antonio leaned his head upon
his hands, as if some invisible stroke had crushed him.
Gone! and for ever! Oh, the unutterable agony to the
young, the loving, contained in those brief words!

And never more did the young sculptor hear that name.
Never did he know the birth, the rank, the story of her
who so like a spirit had crossed his path! Men knew not,
// 115.png
.bn 115.png
dreamed not, the tide of feeling on that young boy’s soul.
Now in him were working the silent influences of beauty, of
hopeless love. They saw him engaged each day, studying
his art, laboriously working under his master, Ferrari, on
some still, cold, soulless statues, still to be seen in the Villa
of Trepoli; and how could they imagine the glowing visions
of beauty, of poetry, at work within? No! It was in after
years, when such forms of unrivalled loveliness, of immortal
beauty, sprung in almost breathing life beneath the magic
chisel of <sc>Antonio Canova</sc>, that the vision of early boyhood
might be traced; and even now, in the perfection to which
his art attained, man may behold the realization of those
vague yet impelling yearnings after Beauty, Infinity, all that
Genius craves, which had started into life and being from
the lovely vision of his first and only love.
// 116.png
.bn 116.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p104
<i>Amête and Yaféh</i>.[#]
.sp 2
.pm fn-start
Two Hebrew words, whose translations will be found in the concluding
paragraph.
.pm fn-end
.sp 2
.nf c
AN ALLEGORY.
.nf-
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>Far</sc> in the illimitable space, seeming to earth as one of those
bright yet tiny stars, which even the most powerful telescope
will not increase in size, so immeasurable is the distance
between them and us, two Spirits sate enthroned, each intrusted
with an attribute of the Creator, with which to renew
His image in man and vivify the earth. Their work was one,
each so aiding each that, though in outward form distinct,
their inward being was the same. The one, known in the
language of heaven as Amête—and who, were there measurement
of Time in the children of Eternity, might seem the
elder—was in aspect grave, almost stern, but those who could
steadily gaze upon him, and receive his image within their
hearts (and man did so a thousand and a thousand times,
though the Spirit’s visible form was unrevealed), loved him,
with such deep, earnest love, as to forget the seeming sternness
in the deep calm and still security his recognition ever
brought. A coronet of light circled his brow, his wings
were of living sapphire, and in his hand he held a transparent
spear. Wherever he moved, darkness and mist fled from
before him; and error sunk annihilated, before one touch of
that crystal lance. Change and mutability touched him not;
coeval with Creation, he endured to Everlasting—ever presenting
the same exquisite aspect, producing on earth the
same effect, and through every age aiding to mould man for
Immortality. Distinct from his companion, yet the same;
reflecting his every changeful hue of loveliness, yet retaining
undisturbed his own.
.pi
Not such was the outward appearance of Yaféh. Less
majestic, less grave, Earth and Heaven ever hailed him with
rejoicing. The latter, indeed, knew him not apart from
Amête; and the former, in her darkness, sometimes greeted
his semblance, not himself. Robed in light, drawn not from
// 117.png
.bn 117.png
the ethereal fount which circled Amête, but from those
dazzling iris-coloured rays, the reflection of which we sometimes
catch when the sun shines upon a prism, the various
changes of his exquisite loveliness were impossible to be
defined. But it was only when in close unity with Amête he
was seen to full perfection, and his glittering garb endowed
with vitality and glory; apart those iris rays shone forth
resplendent and most dazzling, but without the light
glistening on the brow of his companion were too soon
merged in gloom.

But this Yaféh himself knew not, and in his young ambition
besought permission to work alone. His revealed form
was more visible on earth than that of Amête. As he looked
down, and around, and above him, the attribute of which he
was the guardian seemed so powerfully and palpably impressed,
that he could not trace the invisible workings of his
companion, and in his presumption he deemed it all his own,
and chafed and spurned the bond which, since their creation,
had entwined and marked them one. Mournfully and
earnestly Amête conjured him to check the impious prayer;
that which the All-Wise had assigned them was surely best
and safest. But Yaféh would not heed, and ceased not his
murmuring supplication till it was granted. With the
work already done, the work of Creation, he might not
interfere; but the archangelic minister bade him “Go
down to earth, and in the workshop of man, be his creation
of hand or brain, display thy power; thou art free to
work alone,” and with a glad burst of triumphant song,
and the brilliant velocity of a fallen star, the Spirit darted
down to earth.

“Follow him not!” commanded the archangel, answering
Amête’s imploring gaze; “once convinced of his nothingness
alone, he will never leave thee more. That lesson learned,
thou mayest rejoin him; meanwhile, look down upon his
course,” and sorrowingly Amête obeyed.

He beheld him, arrayed in even more than his wonted loveliness,
enter the several habitations of man; his invisible but
felt presence greeted with wild joy, and his inspirings
followed in the new creative genius of all whom he touched.
In the lowly homes of the mechanic and the artizan he
lingered, and their work grew beneath their hand; and at
first it seemed most lovely, but still something was wanting,
// 118.png
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and they toiled and toiled to find it, but in vain; and despair
and ruin usurped the place of glad rejoicing.

“They are of too low a grade, too dull a mind,” murmured
the Spirit, and he flew to the easel of the painter;
the workshop of the sculptor; and new conceptions of loveliness
floated so vividly in their minds, that day and night
unceasingly they toiled to give them embodied form, and
sweet dreams of fame mingled with their creation, till life
itself seemed brighter than before. And Yaféh rejoiced, for
surely now he was triumphant; here at least perfection would
vitalize his presence, and prove how little needed he Amête.
He mingled invisibly with the judges of the works, and he
beheld them scorned—contemned as dreams of madmen; and
the artists fled, disgraced and miserable, to their homes,
with difficulty restrained from shivering their work to
atoms.

Terrified, yet still not humbled, Yaféh winged his flight
to the studio of the musician, and harmonies of heaven
floated in his ear, entrancing him with their exquisite perfection,
and hour after hour he laboured to bring them from
their impalpable essence to the bondage of note and phrase,
but in vain—in vain! The sounds he did produce were
wild, discordant, unconnected, and in passionate agony he
refused to listen more.

The poet, the philosopher, the historian—wherever genius
lay—Yaféh touched with his quivering breath, and to all
came the same dream of marvellous loveliness—the same
ideal perfection. On all burst the torrent of inspiration,
compelling toil and work, to give words to the pressing
thought, and all for awhile believed it perfect; and their
burning souls throbbed high in the fond hope that each
glorious lay, each novel discovery, each startling hypothesis—clothed
in such glowing imagery and thrilling words—must
last for ever. And Yaféh triumphed, for surely here he was
secure, and in these prove that he could work alone, and
needed the aid of none.

A brief, brief while, and the burning lays of the poet were
forgotten and unread. The theory of the philosopher, lovely
as it had seemed, quivered into darkness before the test of
usefulness and reason. The new discoveries, new thoughts
of the historian met with scorn and laughter in the vain
search for their foundation. And, in their deep despair, Yaféh
// 119.png
.bn 119.png
heard the names by which he was known to earth accursed
and scorned; his presence banished; his inspirations rudely
checked, as bringing not loveliness and joy, but misery and
ruin, and the Spirit fled, in his wild agony, far, far from the
homes of earth and the hearts of men; and shrinking from
his starry home and light-clad brother, sought to pierce
through and through the vast realms of unfathomable space,
and lose himself in darkness. His iris rays seemed fading
from his lovely form, lost in denser and denser gloom.
Above, below, and around him thunder rolled, and the
glittering Hosts of Heaven trembled, lest his proud wish
were to be chastised still further. But soon the majestic
form of the Spirit Amête stood beside his brother, and before
the touch of his glittering spear, Error and Despair, about to
claim Yaféh, fled howling.

“Yaféh, beloved! we will descend together,” he said, in
tones clear, distinct, and liquid, impossible to be withstood.
“Thy work shall yet live and be immortal.”

“Nay, ’twill be thine,” murmured the repentant Spirit, his
darkened loveliness resuming light and glory from the effulgent
brow so pityingly bent down on his. “What need hast
thou for me? Go forth and work alone; I have no part on
earth.”

“Thou hast; for without thee I have no power. Man
trembles at my form when at the Eternal’s mandate, I must
go forth alone; but with thee, perchance because my sterner
self is hidden, he loves and hails me, and permits my work
ascendency. Without thee I could but bind to earth;
with thee I lead to heaven. Brother, we are <sc>One</sc>, though
earth may deem us twain. We cannot work for Immortality
apart.”

Side by side, so closely twined that even their brother
spirits could with difficulty distinguish their individuality,
Amête and Yaféh stood within the dwellings of man. The
mechanic and the artizan started from their desponding
trance; the neglected work was resumed. The form, the
inspiration was the same; but as if a flash of light had
touched it, it gave back that perfect image of the mind for
which before they had so toiled and toiled in vain. On to
the artist, the sculptor, the musician, and one touch from that
crystal spear, and the misty cloud dispersed, and the senseless
canvas gave back the perfected thought; the cold
// 120.png
.bn 120.png
marble sprung into the warmth of actual being; the impalpable
but exquisite harmonies, the ethereal essence of sound, at
the word of Amête, resolved itself into the necessary bondage
of note and form, and breathed forth to admiring thousands
the music lent to one. Hovering over the poet, again the
thrilling words burst forth, and fraught with such mighty
meanings every heart responded, as to the voice of the
Immortal; folding his azure pinion round the panting soul of
the philosopher, the shrouding cloud dispersed, and science,
deep, stern, lasting, took the place of the mere lovely dream;
and on the page of the historian, light from the brow of
Amête so flashed as to make him a gifted reader of the Future,
by the wondrous record his spirit-thought unfolded of the
Past. Wherever the Spirits lingered, man worked for immortality;
it mattered not under what guise, or in what rank.
From the highest to the lowest, each creative impulse,
fashioned by Yaféh, received perfection from Amête. The
former, indeed, alone was <i>visible</i>, but never more he sought to
work alone. Within his outward work was the vital essence
breathed by Amête, without which the most exquisite form
was incomplete—the most lovely thought imperfect—the
fairest theory a dream.

And so it is even now. Up, up in yon distant star, gleaming
so brightly through the immeasurable space, as may be
their throne, still does their glorious and united Presence
walk the earth. Their semblance may be found apart, but
not themselves. Twain as they are in name and aspect, in
essence they are <sc>One</sc>. <sc>Truth</sc> is the vital breath of
<sc>Beauty</sc>; <sc>Beauty</sc> the outward form of <sc>Truth</sc>; the <sc>Real</sc>
the sole foundation of the <sc>Ideal</sc>; the <sc>Ideal</sc> but the spiritualized
essence of the <sc>Real</sc>.

.fm rend=th lz=th
// 121.png
.bn 121.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p109
<i>The Fugitive.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
A TRUE TALE.
.nf-
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>Judah Azavédo</sc> was the only son of a rich Jewish merchant,
settled in London. His grandfather, a native and
resident of Portugal, having witnessed the fearful proceedings
of the Inquisition on some of his relations and friends,
secretly followers of Israel, as himself, fled to Holland, bearing
with him no inconsiderable property. This, through
successful commerce, swelled into wealth; and when, on his
death, his son, with his wife and child, removed to England,
and settled in the metropolis, they were considered, alike in
birth, education and riches, one of the very highest families
of the proud and aristocratic Portuguese.
.pi
But the situation of the Jews in England, some eighty or
ninety years ago, was very different to their situation now.
Riches, nay, even moral and mental dignity, were not then
the passport to society and friendliness. Lingering prejudice,
still predominant in the hearts of the English, and pride
and nationality equally strong in the Hebrew, kept both
parties aloof, so that no advance could be made on either
side, and each remained profoundly ignorant of the other,
not alone on the subject of opposing creeds, but of actual
character.

This, though certainly a social evil, was, in some respects,
as concerned the Israelites, a national good. It drew them
more closely, more kindly together; aliens and strangers to
the children of other lands, the true followers of their persecuted
creed were as brothers. Rich or poor, it mattered not.
Hebrews and Portuguese were the ties in common, and the
joy or grief of one family was the joy or grief of all.
Fashion was little thought of. Heartlessness and that false
pride which forswears relation to or connection with poverty
were unknown. Faults, no doubt they had; but a more
kindly, noble-hearted set of men, in their own sphere, than
the Spanish and Portuguese Jews, nearly a hundred years
ago, never had existence.
// 122.png
.bn 122.png

The restlessness and over-sensitiveness of Judah Azavédo was
a subject of as much surprise to his nation as of regret to his
father. Sole heir to immense wealth—unencumbered with
business—nothing to occupy him but his own pleasure—gifted
with unusual mental powers—dignified in figure—a
kindly and most winning manner, when he chose to exert it;
yet was his whole life embittered by the morbid sensitiveness
with which he regarded his most unfortunate lack of all
attraction in face and feature. He was absolutely and disagreeably
plain; we would say ugly, did we not so exceedingly
dislike the word. Yet there were times when the glow
of mind, or still more warmth of heart, would throw such a
soft and gentle expression over the almost deformed features,
that their natural disfigurement ceased to be remembered.
Those who knew him never felt any difference between him
and his fellow-men, save in his superior heart and mind; but
Azavédo himself always imagined that, wherever he went he
must be an object of derision or dislike. He shrunk from
all society, particularly from that of females, who, he was
convinced, would be terrified even to look at him. Entreaties,
commands, and remonstrances were vain. Could he have
known more, mingled more with the world at large, these
morbid feelings would, in time, have been rubbed off; but in
his very limited circle of familiar friends this was impossible,
and the evil, in consequence, each year increased.

To the Israelites of ninety years ago, the idea of travelling
for pleasure was incomprehensible; they were too happy, too
grateful to the land which gave them rest and peace, to think
of quitting it for any other. That Judah Azavédo should
restlessly desire to leave England, and seek excitement in
foreign lands, was in accordance with all his other extraordinary
feelings; but that his father, the wise, sedate, contented
old man, whose every hope and affection were centred
in this son, should give his consent, was more extraordinary
still; and many, in kindness, sought to dissuade him from it.
But Azavédo loved his son too well to permit old habits and
prejudices to interfere with the only indulgence Judah had
ever asked: he gave him his blessing and <i>carte blanche</i>
with regard to gold, and the young man forthwith departed.

He was absent three years, having travelled as far as the
East, and visited every scene endeared to him as one of that
favoured race for whom the sea itself had been divided. He
// 123.png
.bn 123.png
had looked on misery, in so many varied forms, as the portion
of his nation, that he felt reproached and ashamed at his own
repinings. He learnt that only sin and crime could authorize
the misery he had endured; that he was an immortal being,
and one whose earthly lot was blessed so much above
thousands of his brethren, that he only marvelled his sin of
discontent had not called down on him the wrath of God.
His soul seemed suddenly free from fetters, and he moved
among his fellow-men fearless and unabashed.

Notwithstanding the danger of such a route—for, if known,
or even suspected as a Hebrew, he would inevitably have
perished—Judah chose to return home through Spain and
Portugal, making himself known to some friends of his family
still dwelling in the latter kingdom. With them he remained
some few months, and then it was that a new emotion awoke
within him, chaining him effectually, ere aware of its existence.
From his earliest youth Judah had dreaded, and so
forsworn love, feeling it next to impossible for him ever to
be loved in return; but Love laughs at such forswearers.
Before he could analyse why that bitterness against his unhappy
ugliness should return, when he had thought it so successfully
conquered, he loved with the full passionate fervour
of his race and his own peculiar disposition, and loved one of
whom he could learn nothing, trace nothing, know nothing,
save that she was so surpassingly lovely, that though he had
seen her but three times, never near, and only once without
her veil, her beauty both of face and form lingered on his
memory as indelibly engraved as if it had lain there for years,
and then had been called into existence by some strangely
awakening flash. She was as unknown to his friends as to
himself; only at the Opera had she been visible; no inquiry,
no search could elicit information. Once only he had heard
the sound of her voice, and it breathed music as thrilling and
transporting as the beauty of her face. Yet was she neither
saintlike nor angelic; it was an arch witchery, a shadowless
glee, infused with the nameless, descriptionless, but convincing
charm of mind.

Judah Azavédo returned home an altered man, yet still no
one could understand him. He no longer morbidly shunned
society, nor even cared to eschew the company of females,
seeming as wholly careless and insensible to the effects of
his presence as he had before thought too much about it.
// 124.png
.bn 124.png
Some said he was scornfully proud; others, that it was impenetrable
reserve: all agreed that he was changed, but only
his most intimate friends could perceive that he was unhappy,
and from some deep-seated sorrow essentially distinct from
the feelings engrossing him when he left England, and that
this one feeling it was which rendered him so totally indifferent
to everything else.

Three, nearly four years elapsed, and Azavédo, in character
and habits, remained the same. His father was dead, leaving
him immense wealth, which he used nobly and generously,
winning “golden opinions” from every class and condition of
men, who, at the same time, wished that they could quite
understand him; and so we must leave him to waft our
readers over the salt seas, and introduce them to a more
southern land and a very different person.

In a luxuriously furnished apartment of a beautiful little
villa, a few miles from Lisbon, was seated a lady of that extraordinary
beauty which ever fastens on the memory as by
some strange spell. Not more than three or four and twenty,
all the freshness of girlhood was so united to the more mature
graces of woman, that it was often difficult to say to which of
these two periods of life she belonged. Her large, lustrous,
jet-black eye, and the small, pouting mouth, alike expressed
at will either the mischievous glee of a mirth-loving girl or
the high-souled intellectuality of maturer woman. Hair of
that deep, dark brown, only to be distinguished from black
when the sunshine falls upon it, lay in rich masses and braids
around the beautifully shaped head, and giving, from the contrast,
yet more dazzling fairness to the pure complexion of face
and throat which it shaded; the brow, so “thought-thronged”
when at rest, yet lit up, when eye and mouth so willed, with
such arch, laughter-loving glee; but we must pause, for the
pen can never do beauty justice, and even if it did, would be
accused of exaggeration, although there yet remains those
who, from personal acquaintance, can still bear witness to its
truth.

A gentleman was standing near her as she sat on her sofa,
in the busy idleness of embroidery; and as part of their conversation
may elucidate our tale, we will record it briefly as
may be.

“Then you refused him?”

“Can you ask?” and the lightning flash of the lady’s dark
// 125.png
.bn 125.png
eye betrayed unwonted indignation. “He who would have
so tempted a helpless girl of seventeen—I was then no more,
though I had been married nearly a year—under such specious
reasoning, that I dreamed not his drift till the words of
actual insult came; sought to sow suspicion and distrust in
my heart against my husband, his own brother, to serve his
vile purposes: and you ask me if I refused him, when, being
once more free to wed, he dared pollute me with his abhorred
addresses! Julian, my fair cousin, have you so forgotten
Inez?”

“If I had, that indignant burst would have recalled her;
but of insult, remember, I knew nothing. You were married
when so young, to a man so much older than yourself, that
when I heard of his death, three years ago, I fancied, as you
know is often the case with us, you would have married his
younger brother, so much more suitable in point of qualities
and years.”

“More suitable! Wrong again, cousin mine. If I did
not love my husband, I respected, honoured him—yes, loved
him too as a father; but as for Don Pedro, as men call him,
Julian, I would rather have trusted the tender mercies
of the Inquisition than I would him, and so I told him.”

“You could not have been so mad!”

“In sober truth, I was feeling too thoroughly indignant to
weigh my words. It matters not, he dare not work me harm,
for the secret on which alone he can, involves his safety as
well as mine.”

“I wish I could think so; there are many to say that he
is in truth what he appears to be, and therefore one most
dangerous to offend.”

“I fear him as little as I scorn him much. I have heard
this report before, but heed it not at all. Our holy cause
loses little in the apostasy of such a member.”

“It may be so, Inez; but he holds the lives of others in
his keeping, and therefore revenge is easily obtained.”

“You will not frighten me, Julian, try as you may. They
say Pedro Benito is ill, almost to death—I am sorry for him,
for I know no one more unfit to die; but I have far too much
pride to fear him, believe me. Better he should injure me,
than I my own soul in uniting it with his. See,” she continued,
laughing, as she pointed to the portly figure of a
Dominican priest pushing his mule up the steep ascent leading
// 126.png
.bn 126.png
to the villa, in such evident haste and trepidation as to
occasion some amusement to his beholders; “there is more
fear there than I shall ever feel. What can the poor priest
need? Do you know him, Julian? comes he to you or
me?”

“I trust to neither, Inez, for such hot haste bodes little
good.”

“Why, now, what a craven you have grown! I will
disown you for my cousin if you pluck not up more spirit,
man!”

Julian Alvarez tried to give as jesting a reply, but succeeded
badly, his spirits feeling strangely anxious and oppressed.
He was spared further rallying on the part of Inez, by the
sudden reappearance of the priest (whom they had lost sight
of by a curve in the ascent), without his mule, at the private
entrance of Inez’s own garden, and without ceremony or
question neared the window. Inez addressed him courteously,
though with evident surprise; the priest seemed not
to heed her words, but laying his hand on her arm, said, in a
deep, low tone—

“Donna Inez, this is no time for courtesy or form.
Daughter, fly! even now the bloodhounds are on the track.
The scent has been given; a dying man proclaimed you
a Jewess in hearing of others besides his confessor, else had
you been still safe and free. Ere two hours, nay, in less time,
they will be here. Away! pause not for thought; seek to
save nothing but life, too precious for such sacrifice. A
vessel lies moored below, which a brisk hour’s walk will reach.
She sails for England the moment the wind shifts; secure a
passage in her, and trust in the God of Israel for the rest.”

“And who are you who thus can care for me, knowing that
which I am?” answered the lady, in accents low as the supposed
priest’s, but far less faltering, and only evincing the
shock she had sustained by the sudden whiteness of cheek
and lip.

“Men call me—think me, Padre José, my child; but were
I such you had not seen me here. <i>That which you are am I</i>,
and because I thought Pedro Benito the same, I stood beside
his death-bed. Vengeance and apostasy went hand in hand.
Ask no more, but hence at once; how may those fragile
limbs bear the rack—the flames? Senor Alvarez, shake off
this stupor, or it will be too late!”
// 127.png
.bn 127.png

Julian did indeed stand as paralysed, so suddenly and
fearfully were his worst fears confirmed. Fly! and from all,
home, friends, luxury, to be poor and dependent in a strange
land! It was even so; the voice of vengeance had betrayed
the fatal secret of race and faith, the very first whisper of
which consigned to the Inquisition—but another word for
torture and death. In two short hours, part of which had
already gone, Inez had to find the vessel, be received on
board, and leave no trace whatever of her way. Her very
domestics must suspect nothing, or discovery would inevitably
ensue. And yet, in the midst of all this sudden accumulation
of misfortune, Inez but once betrayed emotion.

“Julian, Julian, my boy!” she exclaimed, her sole answer
to the reiterated entreaties of her companions for her to depart
at once; “what will they not do to him?”

“Nothing, lady; he shall be with me till he can rejoin
you. Who will suspect Padre José of harbouring an
Israelite save to convert him to the Holy Faith?”

Inez caught the old man’s hand, her lip and eyelids quivering
convulsively; but even the passion of choking tears was
conquered by the power of mind. In less than half an hour
she was walking, at a brisk pace, through the shrubberies, in
the direction of the river, enveloped in mantilla and veil, and
Julian Alvarez carrying a small parcel, containing the few
jewels which she could collect, and one or two articles of
clothing, the all that the mistress of thousands could
save from the rapacious hands which, under the garb
of religion, were ever stretched out to confiscate and to
destroy.

Scarcely had they quitted the shrubberies, after nearly an
hour’s brisk walking, and entered the high road, their only
path, when about a dozen men, in the full livery of the Holy
Office, were clearly discernible on a slight rising not half a
mile beyond them, pushing their horses so as directly to face
them, and advancing at full speed. To turn back was to excite
suspicion, to meet them, tempt discovery. Fortunately
a small enclosure of tall larches and thick firs lay forward, a
little to the left, and there Inez impelled her bewildered companion,
walking as carelessly, to all appearance, as taking a
saunter for amusement. They saw the troop rapidly advance,
pause exactly in front of their hiding-place, look round inquiringly;
one or two spurred forwards, as to beat the bushes;
// 128.png
.bn 128.png
a man’s step at the same time sounded in their rear—his
dress fanned them as he passed: it was one of Donna Inez’s
own labourers. They heard him hailed as he appeared, and
questions asked, of which they heard nothing, but that wordless
sound of voices so torturing to those who deem that
life or death are hanging on the words. A few minutes—feeling
hours—the conference lasted; some direction, loudly
repeated along the file, betrayed that their questions only related
to their further route to the Villa Benito, and the horses
galloped on.

Without exchanging a syllable, Inez and her companion
hurried forward. It was still full half-an-hour’s walk to the
river, the sun was declining, and the wind had risen fresh
and balmy; but while Julian rejoiced in its reviving power,
he trembled lest it should be bearing his cousin’s only chance
of safety farther from them. Their pace was brisk as could
be, yet every step seemed clogged with lead, and weary felt
the way, till the river’s brink was gained. Bathed in the
lingering glow of a magnificent sunset, the bright waters lay
before them, and every sail spread, gliding softly yet swiftly
on her course, they beheld the longed-for vessel receding from
their sight.

For one minute they stood, gazing on the departing ship,
as mute, as feelingless as stone, save to the horrible consciousness
that flight was over, all hope of escape must be vain.
But great emergencies prevent the continuance of despair.
Ere Julian had recovered the stupor of alike disappointment
and dread, Inez had hailed the boatman, and drawing a
diamond ring of immense value from her hand, bade him
place her in safety on board the English vessel, and it
should be his. The man hesitated, then swore it was worth
the trial, and very speedily a boat was ready, manned by
four stout rowers impatient as herself.

“And now farewell, dear Julian!” she said, calmly, taking
the parcel from his hand, and looking in his astonished face
with her own sweet smile. “You go no farther; I will not
risk your life, so precious to your wife and children, because
I weakly fear to meet my destiny alone. Do not attempt to
argue with me, it will be useless, as you ought to know.
Look to my poor boy, he needs you more than I do.” Her
voice sunk to a thrilling whisper: “The God we <i>both</i> serve
bless you, and keep you from a similar fate.”
// 129.png
.bn 129.png

She wrung his hand, and lightly springing into the boat,
it was pushed off, and rapidly cutting the yielding waters,
ere Julian Alvarez recovered sufficiently from his emotion to
speak even a farewell word. And now, with feelings wrought
almost to agony, he watched a chase seemingly so utterly
vain. For some time the vessel still kept ahead, but the
efforts of the rowers in no degree relaxed. He heard their
stentorian hail repeated by the innumerable echoes on the
shore, but still there seemed no answer. Again, and yet again!
It is fancy. No, the sails are lowered, the vessel’s speed is
diminished, till the boat appears almost alongside. Julian
strained his gaze, while his very heart felt to have ceased
beating, in the sickening fear that even now her flight
might be prevented by a refusal to receive her. He could
discern no more, for twilight had gathered round him, and
interminable seemed the interval till the boat returned with
the blessed assurance that the Senora was safe on board.

Night fell; the lovely southern night, with its silvery
moonshine on the gleaming waters, its glistening stars,
appearing suspended in the upper air as globes of liquid
light, with its fresh, soft breezes, bearing such sweet scents
from the odoriferous shores, that a poet might have fancied
angelic spirits were abroad, making the atmosphere luminous
with their pure presence, and every breeze fragrant with
their luscious breath.

Inez sat upon the deck, a fugitive, and alone. She who,
only the evening previous, had been the centre of a brilliant
group, whose halls had sounded with the voice of revelry,
the blithesome dance, whence aught of sorrow seemed so far
away as to be but a name, not a reality. To us, looking back
on the extraordinary fact of the most Catholic kingdoms
being literally peopled with secret Jews, whose property
and life might be sacrificed from one hour to another, it
appears incomprehensible that security or happiness could
ever have existed, and still more difficult to understand what
secret feeling it was which thus bound them to a country
where, acknowledged or discovered, Judaism was death,
when there were other parts of the globe where they could
be protected and received. Yet so it was, and there are still
families in England to trace their descent from those who,
like the Senora Benito, were compelled to fly at an hour’s
warning, saving little else than life.
// 130.png
.bn 130.png

Some spirits would have sunk under a misfortune so
sudden, so overwhelming in its details, but Inez rose above
it. She had nothing to look to but her own resources; the
few valuables she had secreted would, she knew, soon be
exhausted, did she depend on them alone. She was going to
a land where she knew not one, her only credentials being a
letter hurriedly written by her cousin to one of his friends
in London. Loneliness, privation, care, and even manual
toil, all awaited her, child as she had been of luxury and
wealth, lavish as it was believed exhaustless; yet, as she
looked forth on the glorious night with her star-lit dome, as
she inhaled the sweet breath of a thousand flowers floating
on the breeze, she knew she was not forsaken. He who
cared for all nature would still more care for her, and,
when the spirit is at peace, how lightly is all of sorrow
borne.

The unusual stir in the harbour, which they reached about
midnight, attracted the attention not only of Inez but of the
captain and crew. On stopping at the quay for passengers
and freight, he was told that the vessel must remain at
anchor, no English ship being allowed to leave the harbour
until it had received a visit from the officers of the Inquisition,
in search of a female fugitive suspected of Judaism,
who, having effectually disappeared from her home, was supposed
to have taken refuge in some English vessel, the
general receivers of heretics and unbelievers.

“I halt not at any man’s beck or bidding!” was the proud
reply. “England owns no Inquisitional supremacy. Had
any such fugitive taken refuge in my ship, no power of the
Inquisition, backed by the whole kingdom, should force me
to give her up.”

Time for reply or seizure there was none. Every sail
spread at the word of command, and almost bending beneath
her weight of canvas, the gallant ship, with her right
English-hearted crew, sped on to sea.

Inez had seen all, felt all—but though her heart beat
quicker, no word or sign betrayed it. She saw the captain
look hastily on her, and for a terrible moment she knew
not whether the glance of discovery, for such it was, would
be followed by her surrender or her safety. His words
speedily reassured her, and sent her to the berth provided
for her comfort, with more care than for any other passenger,
// 131.png
.bn 131.png
with the grateful feeling that all of danger was indeed at
end. She was in England’s keeping, and no Inquisition
could work her harm.

Nor was it the mere excitement of misfortune which so
endowed her with courage to endure. She retained not
only firmness but liveliness during the voyage, and when
received in England with the most hospitable kindness by
Julian’s friends, gaily consulted them on the best means of
subsistence—whether to take in plain work or enter upon the
business of fancy confectionary, for both of which her convent
education had well fitted her. And what with her brilliant
beauty, her sparkling wit, and readiness of repartee, ere two
days had passed she had completely fascinated old and young.

The evening of the third day, Mr. Nunez’s family had
been engaged to spend with a friend living a few miles from
London. On sending to state that a Portuguese lady
staying with them would prevent their going, an entreaty
was instantly forwarded that she would accompany
them.

“What, go! and my whole wardrobe consists of this one
dress?” was her laughing reply. “I shall bring shame on
your fashionable reputation, my kind friends.”

They assured her that dress was of little consequence, and
even if it were, she need not be alarmed, being more likely
to bring them fame by the fashion of her face than shame by
the plainness of her robe; which, by the way, a rich
black velvet, set off the dazzling clearness of her complexion
more becomingly than the most carefully assorted garb.

To the house of their friend, in consequence, they went;
and the beautiful stranger, with her broken English, sweetly
spoken Portuguese, and most romantic story, soon commanded
universal attention.

Towards the middle of the evening a rapidly approaching
carriage, followed by a thundering rap, announced the arrival
of some new guest.

“That is Azavédo,” observed one, “I know him by the
sound of his four horses. A strange fancy that, always
sporting a carriage and four, when in everything else he has
no pretension whatever. Did you expect him, Cordoza?” he
asked of his host.

“He said he might look in on his way to Epping,” was
the reply.
// 132.png
.bn 132.png

“What a changed man he is,” said another; “I remember
when he literally loathed society, and shrunk from
beauty, male or female, as if it stung him by the contrast
with himself.”

“I have never heard him admire a woman yet though,”
rejoined the first speaker. “I wonder if he will notice the
beauty of to-night?”

Azavédo entered as he spoke, and, after addressing his
host and hostess, began an earnest conversation with a friend
near them.

A low, musical laugh from the centre of a merry group at
the opposite end of the large drawing-room caused Azavédo
suddenly so to start, with such an indescribable change of
countenance, as to impel the anxious query whether he were
ill. He answered hurriedly in the negative, but his friend
perceiving his eye fixed on the group, eagerly entered on the
story of the stranger, from whom the laugh had come,
inviting him to join the circle round her. Somewhat hesitatingly
he did so. Inez, in compliance with the customs of
her own country, still wore her veil, which, in answer to the
inquiry of some one near her as to the different fashions of
wearing it in Portugal, she had drawn so closely round her
as to hide every feature.

“Tell her that it is not the custom of English ladies to
wear veils,” whispered Azavédo to his hostess, in tones of
such strong and most unusual excitement, that she looked at
him as if in doubt of his identity. His hint was acted upon,
however, and Inez, with winning courtesy, soon after laid
aside her veil.

Azavédo had become in some degree a man of the world,
and it was well he was, or he might have found it difficult so
to suppress inward emotion as to conceal it from those
around him. He looked once more on the being who for
four long years had in secret so occupied his heart, as never
to permit the entrance of another image, or the faintest
thought of another love. She was there, not only yet more
radiant in finished loveliness than when he had first beheld
her, but free, and of his own race and creed. And so exquisite
were the feelings of the moment, that he feared to
be introduced, lest her first glance upon his face, if it revealed
the horror that he believed it would, should sentence
him to misery.
// 133.png
.bn 133.png

That he had trembled needlessly was proved by his never
leaving her side that evening. The lively spirits of the
young stranger appeared, by some extraordinary species of
mesmerism, to call forth the same from him; and lie conversed
more brilliantly, more unreservedly, than he had ever
before been known to do.

Judah Azavédo pursued his journey to his country-house,
and Inez quietly fixed her residence with a Jewish family in
London, and pursued her intention of taking in plain work;
giving no more thought of her former affluence, save to wish
that part had been spared for her boy, who, through the
efforts of Padre José and Julian Alvarez, joined her about
three weeks after her flight, bringing the information that
every article belonging to her had been seized and confiscated.

Twice a week, then three times, and at length every day,
did Azavédo, on some pretence or other, visit the fair fugitive.
Folks talked and wondered, but for once he heeded
neither. But why prolong our tale, claimed as it is by truth,
however it may read like fiction? Not six weeks after Inez
left Portugal, a fugitive for her very life, she became the
wife of Judah Azavédo, the richest Hebrew in London, and
the possessor of a love as warm and unwavering as was ever
felt by man. But did she—could she—return it? Reader,
we will not blazon the simplicity of truth with the false
colouring of romance. <i>She did not</i> love him, in the general
acceptation of the term, and she told him so, beseeching him
to withdraw his offer, if his heart could not rest satisfied with
the respect and gratitude which alone she felt. He thanked
her for her candour, but the hand was not withdrawn, and
they were married. Some biographers stop here, bidding
the curious reader probe not too deeply into the history of
wedded life. As regards our heroine, however, we shrink
not from the probe. The <i>romance</i> of love <i>before</i> marriage
she might not have known, but its <i>reality afterwards</i> she
made so manifest, even when disease, joined to other infirmities,
so tried her husband as to render him fretful and
irritable, that there are still living some to assert that never
was wife more tenderly affectionate, more devotedly faithful
than was Inez Azavédo. Her extraordinary beauty seemed
invulnerable to age, for I have heard it said that even in
her coffin, and she lived to the full age of mortality, she
retained it still.
// 134.png
.bn 134.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p122
<i>The Edict.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
A TALE OF 1492.
.nf-
.sp 2
.pm verse-start
“The love that bids the patriot rise to guard his country’s rest,
  With deeper mightier fulness thrills in woman’s gentle breast.”—MS.
.pm verse-end
.sp 1
.pm verse-start
“And we must wander, witheringly,
  In other lands to die;
And where our father’s ashes be,
  Our own may never lie.”—<sc>Byron.</sc>
.pm verse-end
.sp 1
.ni
“<sc>Then</sc> thou wouldst not leave this beautiful valley even
with me, Josephine?”
.pi
“Nay, thou knowest thou dost but jest, Imri; thou
wouldst not give me such a painful alternative?”

“How knowest thou that, love? Perchance I may grow
jealous even of thy country, an it hold so dear a place in thy
gentle breast, and seek a home elsewhere—to prove if thy
love of Imri be dearer than thy love of land.”

“I know thou wouldst do no such thing, my Imri; so
play the threatening tyrant as thou mayest, I’ll not believe
thee, or lessen by one throb the love of my land, which
shares my heart with thee. I know too well, thy heart
beats true as mine; thou wouldst not take me hence.”

“Never, my best beloved. Our children shall rove where
we have roved, and learn their father’s faith uninjured by
closer commune with its foes. Here, where the exiles of
Israel for centuries have found a peaceful home, will we rest,
my Josephine, filling the little hearts of our children with
thanksgiving that there is one spot of earth where the
wandering and the persecuted may repose in peace.”

“And surely it is for this cause the love we bear our
country is so strong, so deep, that the thought of death is
less bitter than the dream of other homes. We stand alone
in our peculiar and most sainted creed, alone in our law,
alone in our lives on earth, in our hopes for heaven. Our
doom is to wander accursed and houseless over the broad
earth, exposed to all the misery which man may inflict,
without the power to retaliate or shun. Surely, oh, surely
// 135.png
.bn 135.png
then, the home that is granted must be doubly dear—so
sheltered from outward ill, so blessed with inward peace
that it might seem we alone were the inhabitants of Spain.
Oh! it is not only memory that hallows every shrub and
stream and tree—it is the consciousness of safety, of peace,
of joy, which this vale enshrines, while all around us
seemeth strife and gloom. Dearest Imri, is it marvel that I
love it thus?”

The speaker was a beautiful woman of some two- or three-and-twenty
summers. There was a lovely finished roundness
of form, a deep steady lustre in her large black eye, a full
red ripe on her beautiful lip, a rose soft yet glowing as the last
tinge of sunset beaming, in the energy of her words, upon a
cheek usually more pale—all bespeaking a stage of life somewhat
past that generally denominated girlhood, but only
pressing the threshold of the era which follows. Life was
still bright and fresh, and buoyant as youth would paint it;
but in the heart there were depths and feelings revealed that
were never known to girlhood. Her companion, some three
or four years her senior, presented a manly form, and features
more striking from their frankness and animation than any
regular beauty. But there was one other individual, seated at
some little distance from the lovers (for such they were),
whose peculiar and affecting beauty would rivet the attention
to the exclusion of all else. He was a slight boy, who had
evidently not seen more than ten years, though the light in
the dark blue eye, so deep, so concentrated in its expression,
that it seemed to breathe forth the soul; the expression ever
lingering round his small delicately pencilled mouth appeared
to denote a strength and formation of character beyond his
years. His rich chesnut hair, long and gracefully curling,
fell over his light blue vest nearly to his waist, and, parted
in the centre, exposed a brow of such transparent fairness,
so arched and high, that it scarce appeared natural to his
Eastern origin and Spanish birth. Long lashes, much
darker than his hair, almost concealed the colour of the eye,
save when it was fixed full on those who spoke to him, and
shaded softly, yet with a mournful expression, the pale and
delicate cheek, to which exertion or emotion alone had
power to bring the frail and fleeting rose. An indescribable
plaintiveness pervaded the countenance; none could define
wherefore, or why his very smile would gush on the heart
// 136.png
.bn 136.png
like tears. He was seated on the green sward, weaving
some beautiful flowers into a garland or wreath, in perfect
silence, although he was not so far removed from his companions
as to be excluded from their conversation, could he
have joined in it. Alas! those lips had never framed a
word; no sound had ever reached his ear.

An animated response from Imri followed his Josephine’s
last eager words; and the boy, as if desirous of partaking
their emotion, whatever it might be, bounded towards them,
placing his glowing wreath on the brow of Josephine with a
fond admiring glance, calling on Imri by a sign to admire it
with him; then nestling closer to her bosom, inquired in the
same manner the subject of their conversation: and when
told, there was no need of language to speak the boy’s reply.
He glanced eagerly, almost passionately, around him; he
stretched forth his arms, as if embracing every long-loved
object, and then he laid his hand on his heart, as if the image
of each were reflected there, and stretching himself on the
mossy earth, as if there should be his last long sleep. He
pointed to distant mountains, made a movement with his
hands, to denote the world beyond them, then turned
shudderingly away, and laid his head on the bosom of his
nearest and dearest relative on earth.

The situation of the valley of Eshcol was in truth such as
to inspire enthusiasm in colder hearts than Josephine’s.
Formed by one of the many breaks in the Sierra Morena,
and sharing abundantly the rich vegetation which crowns
this ridge of mountains nine months in the year, it appeared
set apart by Nature as a guarded and blessed haven of peace
for the weary wanderers of Israel; who, when the Roman
spoiler desolated their holy land, tradition said there found a
resting-place. Lofty rocks and mountains hemmed it
round, throwing as it were a natural barrier between the
valley and the world beyond. The heath, the rosemary, the
myrtle, and the cistus grew in rich profusion amidst
the cliffs; while below, the palm, the olive, the lemon,
orange and almond, interspersed with flowering shrubs of
every variety, marked the site of the hamlet, and might
mournfully remind the poor fugitives of the yet richer and
holier land their fathers’ sins had forfeited. To the east, a
thick grove of palm, cedar, and olive surrounded the lowly
temple, where for ages the simple villagers worshipped the
// 137.png
.bn 137.png
God of Israel as their fathers did. Its plain and solid architecture
resisted alike the power of storm and time; and it
was the pride of every generation to preserve it in the
primitive simplicity of the past. Innumerable streams,
issuing from the mountains, watered the vale; some flowing
with a silvery murmur and sparkling light, others rushing
and leaping over crags, their prominences hid in the snowy
foam, creating alike variety and fertility. The brilliant
scarlet flower of the fig-marigold mingled with the snowy
blossoms of the myrtle, peeping forth from its dark glossy
leaves, formed a rich garland around the trunks of many a
stalwart tree; and often at the sunset hour the perfume of
the orange and almond, the balsamic fragrance of the cistus,
mingling with, yet apart from the others, would float by on
the balmy pinions of the summer breeze, adding indescribably
to the soothing repose and natural magic of the
scene.

But it was not the mere beauty of nature which sunk so
deeply on the hearts of the Eshcolites, as to create that
species of <i>amor patriæ</i>, of which Josephine’s ardent words
were but a faint reflection; it was the fact that it was, had
been, and they fondly hoped ever would be, to them a second
Judea. Its very name had been bestowed by the unhappy
fugitives from the destruction of Jerusalem, who hailed its
natural loveliness as their ancestors did the first-fruits of the
land of promise. Throughout the whole of Spain, indeed,
the sons of Israel were scattered, far more numerously and
prosperously than in any other country. Despite her repeated
revolutions, her internal wars, her constant change
of masters, the Hebrews so continued to flourish that the
whole commerce of the kingdom became engrossed by them;
and occupying stations of eminence and trust—the heads
of all seminaries of physic and literature—they commanded
veneration even from the enemies and persecutors of their
creed.

With the nation at large, however, our simple narrative
does not pretend to treat. Century after century found the
little colony of Eshcol flourishing and happy; acknowledging
no law but that of Moses, no God but Him that law revealed.
It mattered not to them whether Mahommedan or Nazarene
claimed supremacy in Spain. Schism and division were unknown
amongst them; the same temple received their simple
// 138.png
.bn 138.png
worship from age to age; for if it chanced that the more
eager, the more ambitious spirits sought more stirring
scenes, they returned to the simplicity of their fathers,
conscious they had no power to alter, and satisfied that they
could not improve.

Varying in population from three to five hundred families,
actuated by the same interests, grief and joy became as it
were the common property of all—the one inexpressibly
soothed, the other heightened by sympathy—the vale of
Eshcol seemed marked out as the haven of peace. The
poet, the minstrel, the architect, the agriculturist, even the
sculptor, were often found amongst its inmates, flourishing,
and venerated as men more peculiarly distinguished by their
merciful Creator than their fellows. The sins that convulse
kingdoms and agitate a multitude to them were unknown;
for the seditious, the restless, the ambitious sought a wider
field, bidding an eternal farewell to the vale, whose peaceful
insipidity they spurned. Crimes were punished by banishment,
perpetual or for a specified time, according to the guilt;
liable indeed to death, if the criminal returned, but of this
the records of Eshcol present no example.

Situated in the southern ridge of the Sierra Morena, on
the eastern extremity of Andalusia, and consequently at the
very entrance of the Moorish dominions, yet Nature’s care
had so fortified the vale, that it had remained both uninjured
and undiscovered by the immense armies of Ferdinand and
Isabella, who for ten years had overrun the beautiful province
of Grenada, and now, at the commencement of our narrative,
had completed its reduction, and compelled the last
of the Caliphs to acknowledge their supremacy in Spain.
Misery and death were busy within ten miles of the Hebrew
colony, but there they entered not. Some aspiring youths
had in truth departed to join the contending hosts; but by
far the greater number, more indifferent to the fate of war,
cared not on which side the banner of victory might wave—their
affections centred so strongly on the spot of earth at
once their birthplace and their tomb, that to depart from it
seemed the very bitterness of death.

Tedious as this digression may seem, it is necessary for
the clear comprehension of our narrative; for the appreciation
of that feeling of <i>amor patriæ</i> which is its basis; an
emotion experienced in various degrees by every nation, but
// 139.png
.bn 139.png
by the Jew in Spain with a strength and intensity equalled
by none and understood but by a few.

Josephine Castello, in whom this feeling was resting yet
more powerfully than in her compeers, was regarded as an
orphan, and as such peculiarly beloved; yet an orphan she
was not. The youth of her father, Simeon Castello, had
been marked by such ungovernable passions, as to render him
an object of doubt and dread to all; with the sole exception
of one—the meekest, gentlest, most timid girl of Eshcol.
Perhaps it was the contrast with herself—the generous
temper, the frank and winning smile, the bold character of
his striking beauty, or the voiceless magic which we may
spend whole lives in endeavouring to define, and which only
laughs at our wisdom—but Rachel Asher loved him, so
faithfully, so unchangeably, that it stood the test of many
months, nay years, of wandering on the part of Simeon, who
on each return to the vale appeared more restless, more wayward
than before.

Men said he was incapable of loving, and augured sorrow
and neglect for the gentle Rachel, even when, seemingly
touched by her meek and timid loveliness, he bent his proud
spirit to woo her love, and was accepted. They were married;
and some few years of quiet felicity appeared to belie the
prognostics of the crowd. But, soon after the birth of a
daughter, the wandering propensities of her father again
obtained ascendency; and for months, and then years, he
would be absent from his home.

Uncomplainingly Rachel bore this desertion, for he was
ever fond when he returned; and even when she once ventured
to entreat permission to accompany him, it was with
soothing affection, not harsh repulse, he refused, assuring
her, though honoured and trusted by the Nazarene, he was
seldom more than a month at one place; and he could not
offer delicate females the quiet settled home they needed.
Rachel could have told him that privation and hardship with
him would be hailed as blessings, but she knew her husband’s
temper, and acquiescing, sought comfort in the increasing
intelligence and beauty of her child.

Ten years thus passed, and then Simeon, as if involuntarily
yielding to the love of his wife and child, declared his
intention of never again seeking the Nazarene world, and
for two years he adhered to his resolution; at the end of that
// 140.png
.bn 140.png
time hailing with pleasure the promise of another little one,
to share with Josephine the affection he lavished upon her.
This sudden change of character could not pass unnoticed
by his fellows; and no man being more tenacious of his
honour than Simeon Castello, it was of course exposed to
many aspersions, which his passionate temper could not
brook.

It happened, in a jovial meeting of youngsters when
somewhat heated by excitement and wine, that the character
and actions of Castello were canvassed somewhat more
freely than sobriety would have ventured. One of them at
length remarked, that in all probability he was glad to avail
himself of the retreat of Eshcol, to eschew the hundred eyes
of justice or revenge.

“Then die in thy falsehood, liar!” were the words that,
uttered in thunder, startled the assembly. “The man lives
not who dares impugn the honour of Castello!” and the
hapless youth sunk to the earth before them, stricken unto
death. The speechless horror of all around might easily
have permitted flight, but Castello scorned it. He knew his
doom, and met it in stern unflinching silence;—to wander
forth alone, with the thoughts of blood clinging to his conscience,
till the mandate of his God summoned him to answer
for his crime;—death, if he ever ventured to insult the
sacred precincts of his native vale by seeking to return.

The voice of his father faltered not as from his seat of
judgment, amid the elders of his people, he pronounced this
sentence. His cheek blanched not as the wife and child of
the murderer flung themselves at his feet, beseeching permission
to accompany the exile. It could not be. Nay
more, did he return, the law was such, that his own wife or
child must deliver him up to justice, or share the penalty of
his crime. Hour by hour beheld the wretched suppliants
pleading for mercy, but in vain.

Nor did this more than Roman firmness (for it was based
on love, not stoicism) desert him when, in agonized remorse,
his son besought his forgiveness and his blessing. He confessed
his sin, for he felt it such. No provocation could call
for blood. And headstrong and violent as were the passions
of Simeon Castello, his father believed in his remorse, his
penitence; for he knew deeds of blood were foreign to his
nature. He raised his clasped hands to heaven, he prayed
// 141.png
.bn 141.png
that the penitence of the sinner might be accepted, he spoke
his forgiveness and his blessing, and then flinging his arms
around his son, his head sunk upon his shoulder. Minutes
passed and there was no sound—the Hebrew father had done
his duty: but his heart had broken—he was dead!

From the moment she was released from the parting embrace
of her doubly-wretched husband, and her strained eyes
might no longer distinguish his retreating figure, no word
escaped the lips of Rachel. For the first time, she looked
on the sorrow of her poor child, without any attempt to
soothe or console. She resumed her usual duties, but it was
as if a statue had been endowed with movement. Nor could
the entreaties of her aged grandfather, her sole remaining
relative, nor the caresses of Josephine, wring even one word
of suffering from her lips.

A week passed, and Josephine held a little brother in her
arms; the looks of her mother appeared imploring her to
cherish and protect him, and kneeling, she solemnly swore
to make him the first object of her life; belief beamed in
the eyes of the dying—her look seemed beseeching the
blessing of heaven on them both; but Josephine yearned in
vain for the sweet accents of her voice—she never spoke
again.

From that hour the gay and sprightly child seemed
changed into premature and sorrowing womanhood. She
stood alone of her race. Alone, with the sole exception of
that aged relative, who had seen his children and children’s
children fall around him, and her infant brother. She
shrunk, in her sensitiveness, from the young companions
who would have soothed her grief. She did not fear that
the crime of her father would be visited upon her innocent
head, for such feelings were unknown to the simple government
of Eshcol; but her loneliness, the shock which had crushed
every hope and joy of youth, caused her to cling closer to
her aged relative, and direct every energy to the welfare of her
young and—as, alas! she too soon discovered—afflicted brother.
She watched his increase in strength, intelligence, and loveliness,
and pictured in vivid colouring the delight which
would attend his instruction; she longed intensely for the
moment when her ear should be blessed by the sweet accents
of his voice. That moment came not! the affliction of her
mother had descended to the child she bore, and Josephine,
// 142.png
.bn 142.png
in irrepressible anguish, became conscious that not only was
his voice withheld from her, but hers might never reach his
ear.

Her deep affection for him, however, roused her from this
mournful conviction; and energetically she sought to render
his affliction less painful than it had appeared, and she succeeded.
She led him into the fields of nature—every spot
became to the child a fruitful source of intelligence and love,
providing him with language, even in inanimate objects; by
his mother’s grave she instilled the thoughts of God and
heaven, of their peculiar race and history; of the God of
Israel’s deep love and long-suffering; and she was understood—though
to what extent she knew not, imagined not,
till the hour of trial came. That she was inexpressibly
assisted by the child’s rapid conception of the good and
evil, of the sublime and beautiful—by its extraordinary
intellect and truly poet’s soul, is true, but the lowly spirit of
Josephine felt as if a special blessing had attended her task,
and urged yet further efforts for his improvement.

By means of waxen tablets, formed by the hand of Imri
Benalmar, she taught him to read and write. Leading his
attention to familiar objects, she would write down their
appropriate names, and familiarising his eye to the writing,
he gradually associated the written word with the visible
object. The rest was easy to a mind like his. The flushed
cheek and sparkling eye denoted the intense delight with
which he perused the manuscripts collected, and often
adapted for his use by Imri, and poesy became his passion;
breathing in the simplest words, on his waxen tablets, the
love he bore his devoted sister, and the pure, beautiful sentiments
which filled his soul.

The kindness of Imri to her Aréli, passed not unfelt by
the heart of Josephine. Tremblingly she became conscious
that an emotion towards him was obtaining ascendency,
which she deemed it her duty to conquer, or at least profoundly
to hide. She could not forget the stigma on her
name, and believed none could seek her love. The daughter
of a murderer (for though the crime was involuntary, such
he was) was lonely upon earth. Dignified and reserved,
they would have thought her proud, had not her constant
kindness, her total forgetfulness of self, in continually serving
others, belied the thought; but this they did think (and
// 143.png
.bn 143.png
Imri Benalmar himself, so well did she hide her heart) that
her affections were centred in her aged relative and her young
brother.

But when the magic words were spoken, when Imri
Benalmar, whose unwavering piety and steady virtue had
caused him to stand highest and dearest in the estimation of
his fellows, young and old, conjured her with a respectful
deference, which vainly sought to calm the passionate
affection of his soul, to bless him with her love, her trust—the
long-hidden feelings of Josephine were betrayed, their
inmost depths revealed. Blessed, indeed, was that moment
to them both. Fondly did Imri combat her arguments,
that she had no right to burden him with the aged Asher
and her helpless Aréli, yet from them she could never consent
to part.

“Had not Aréli ever been dear to him as a brother—had
he not always intended to prove himself such?” he asked,
with many other arguments of love; and how might
Josephine reply, save with tears of strong emotion to consent
to become his bride?

Josef Asher heard of their engagement with delight; but
he would not consent to burden them with his continued
company. True, he was old, but neither infirm nor ailing.
He would retain possession of his own dwelling, which had
descended to him from many generations; but the nearer his
children resided, the greater happiness for him.

Imri understood the hint, and, as if by magic, a picturesque
little cottage, not two hundred yards from her native home,
rose before the wondering eyes of Josephine; and Aréli, as
he watched its progress, clapped his hands in childish joy,
and sought to aid the workmen in their tasks. Presents from
all, as is the custom of the Hebrew nation, were showered on
the youthful couple, to enable them to commence housekeeping
with comfort, or add some little ornament or useful article of
furniture to the house or its adjoining lands. The more the
<i>fiancées</i> were beloved, the greater source of public joy was
a wedding in Eshcol.

The conversation which the commencement of our tale in
part records took place a few evenings previous to the day
fixed for the nuptials.

On leaving his sister and her betrothed, Aréli betook
himself, as was his custom, ere he joined the evening meal,
// 144.png
.bn 144.png
to his mother’s grave, to water the flowers around it, and
peruse, in his simple and innocent devotion, the little Bible
which Josephine and Imri’s love had rendered into the
simplest Spanish, from the Hebrew Scriptures of their race.
The shades of evening had already fallen around the leafy
shadowed place of tombs, but there was sufficient light remaining
for the boy to discern a cloaked and muffled figure
prostrate before his mother’s grave, the head resting in a
posture of inexpressible anguish on the cold marble of the
tomb. The stranger’s form moved convulsively, and though
Aréli could distinguish no sound, he knew that it was grief
on which he gazed. Softly he approached and laid his little
hand on that of the stranger, who started in evident alarm,
looking upon that angelic face with a strange mixture of bewilderment
and love. He spoke, but Aréli shook his head
mournfully, putting his arm around his neck caressingly, as
if beseeching him to take comfort; then, as if failing in his
desired object, he hastily drew his tablets from his vest, and
wrote rapidly—

“Poor Aréli cannot speak nor hear, but he can feel; do
not weep, it is so sad to see tears in eyes like thine!”

“And why is it sad, sweet boy?” the stranger wrote in
answer, straining him as he did so involuntarily closer to his
bosom.

“Oh, man should not weep, and man like thee, who can
list the sweet voice of nature, and the tones of all he loves;
who can breathe forth all he thinks, and feels, and likes.
Tears are for poor Aréli, and yet they do not come now as
they did once, for I have a father who loves, and who can
hear me too, though none else can.”

“A father?” wrote the stranger. “Who is thy father,
gentle boy? Thou bearest a name I know not. Tell me
who thou art.”

“Oh, I have no father that I may see and hear—none,
that is, on earth; but I love Him, for He smiles on me,
through the sweet flowers, and sparkling brooks, and
beautiful trees; and I know He loves me and cares for me,
deaf and dumb and afflicted as I am, and he hears me when
I ask him to bless me and my sweet sister, and reward her
for all she does for me. He is up—up there, and all around.”
He stretched out his arms, pointing to the star-lit heavens
and beautiful earth. “My Father’s house is everywhere;
// 145.png
.bn 145.png
and when my body lies here, as my mother’s does, my
breath will go up to Him, and Aréli will be so happy—so
happy!”

“Thy mother!” burst from the stranger’s lips, as though
the child could hear him; and his hand so trembled that he
could hardly guide the steel pencil which traced the word
“Who is thy mother—where does she lie?”

Aréli laid his hand on the tomb, pointing to the name of
Rachel Castello, there simply engraved. The effect almost
terrified him. The stranger caught him in his arms—he
pressed repeated kisses on his cheek, his brow, his lips—clasping
him, as if to release him were death. The child returned
his caresses without either impatience or dissatisfaction.
After a while the stranger again wrote—

“Thy sister, sweet boy—is it she who hath taught thee
these things—doth she live—is she happy?”

“Oh, so happy! and Imri, kind Imri, will make her happier
still. Aréli loves him next to Josephine, and grandfather
and I am to live with them, and we are all happy. Oh, how
I love Josephine! I should have been so sad—so sad, had
she not loved me, taught me all; but come to her—she will
make thee happy too, and thou wilt weep no more. The
evening meal waits for us both—wilt thou not come?
Josephine will love thee, for thou lovest Aréli.”

A deep agonized groan escaped from the stranger, vibrating
through his whole frame. Several minutes passed ere he
could make reply, and then he merely wrote, in almost
illegible characters—

“I am not good enough to go with you, my child. Pray
for me—love me; I shall remember thee.”

And then again he folded him in his arms, kissed him passionately,
and disappeared in the gloom, ere Aréli could
detain him or perceive his path, though he sprang forward to
do so.

The child watered his flowers more hastily than usual,
evidently preoccupied by some new train of thought, which
was shown by a rapid return to his grandfather’s cottage,
and an animated recital, through signs and his tablets, of
all that had occurred, adding an earnest entreaty to Imri to
seek and find him.

Josephine started from the table—the rich glow of her
cheek faded into a deathlike paleness, and, without uttering a
// 146.png
.bn 146.png
syllable, she threw her mantle around her and hastily advanced
to the door. Imri and even the aged Josef threw
themselves before her.

“Whither wouldst thou go, Josephine, dearest Josephine?
this is not well—whom wouldst thou seek?”

“My <i>father</i>,” she replied, in a voice whose low deep tone
betrayed her emotion. “Shall he be lingering near, unheeded,
uncared for by his child? Imri, stay me not; I <i>must</i>
see him once again.”

“Thou must not, thou shalt not!” was Imri’s agonized
reply, clasping her in his arms to prevent her progress.
“Josephine, thy life is no longer thine own, to fling from
thee thus as a worthless thing; it is mine—mine by thine
own free gift; thou shalt not wrest it from me thus.”

“My child, seek not this stranger; draw not the veil aside
which he has wisely flung around him. The penalty to both
may not be waived—thou mayest not see <i>him</i>, save to proclaim—or
die. My child, my child, leave me not in my old
age alone.”

The mournful accents of the aged man completed what the
passionate appeal had begun. Josephine sunk on a seat near
him, and burst into an agony of tears. Aréli clung round
her, terrified at the effect of his simple tale; and for him
she roused herself, warning him to repeat the tale to none,
but indeed to grant the stranger’s boon, and remember him
in lowly prayers. Fearfully both Imri and Asher waited
the morning, dreading lest its light should betray the stranger;
and thankfully did they welcome the close of that day and
the next without his reappearance. A very different feeling
actuated the afflicted Aréli; he sought him with the longing
wish to look on his face again, for it haunted his fancy, lingered
on his love—and a yet more hallowed spot became his
mother’s tomb.

The intervening days had passed, the affection of Imri
bearing from the heart of Josephine its last lingering sadness,
and enabling her to feel the anguish her impetuosity
might have brought not only on her father and herself, but on
all whom she loved. The first of May, her bridal morn,
found her composed and smiling like herself. She had
placed her future fate, without one doubt or fear, in the
keeping of Imri Benalmar, for the tremors and emotions of
modern brides were unknown to the maidens of Eshcol;
// 147.png
.bn 147.png
once only her calmness had been disturbed, when her young
brother had approached her, had clasped his arms about
her neck, and with glistening eyes had written his boyish
love.

“Look at the sun, sweet sister; how brightly and beautifully
he shines, how soft and blue the sky, and the sweet
flowers, and the little birds! Oh, they all love thee, and
can smile and sing their joy! and gentle friends throng
round thee, and speak loving words. Oh, why is poor
Aréli alone silent, when his heart is so full? But he can
pray, sweet sister; pray as thou hast taught him; and he
will pray his Father to give back to thee all which thou hast
done for him.”

Was it marvel that Josephine’s tears should fall over those
fond words? But the boy’s caresses turned that dewy joy
to softer smiles, as surrounded by her youthful companions
she waited the entrance of her aged relative to conduct her
to the temple.

Three hours after noon the nuptial party there assembled,
marriages among the Hebrews seldom being performed at an
earlier hour. Twenty young girls dressed alike, and half
that number of matrons, attended the bride; and proudly
did old Josef gaze upon her, as she leaned on his arm in all
the grace and loveliness of beautiful womanhood, unconscious
how well it contrasted with his sinewy and athletic
form; his silvery beard and hair alone betrayed his four
score and fourteen years. There was no shadow of age
upon his features, beaming as they were, in his quick sympathy,
with all around him. The path was strewed with the
fairest flowers, and the freshest moss, of varied hues, while
rich garlands, interwoven with the blushing fruits, festooned
the trees. The whole village wore the aspect of rejoicing,
and every shade passed from the brow of the young Aréli;
the flush deepened on his fair cheek, the intense blue of his
beautiful eye so sparkled in light, that the eyes of all were
upon him, till they glistened in strange tears.

The bridegroom awaited the bride and her companions in
the temple, attended by an equal number. The little edifice
was filled, for marriages in Eshcol were ever solemnized in
public; the number that attended evincing the feelings with
which the betrothed were regarded. The ceremony commenced,
and, save the voice of the officiating priest, there
// 148.png
.bn 148.png
was silence so profound, that the faintest sound could have
been distinguished.

As Josephine flung back her veil, at once to taste the
sacred wine, and prove to Imri that no Leah had been substituted
for his Rachel, a distant trampling fell clearly on
the still air. The service continued, but many looked up to
the high casements as if in wonder. The sun still poured
down his golden flood of light; no passing cloud announced
an approaching storm, so to explain the unwonted sounds as
distant thunder. They came nearer and nearer still; the
trampling of many feet seemed echoing from the mountain
ground; and at the moment Imri flung down the crystal
goblet on the marble at his feet, as the conclusion of the
solemn rites, the shrill blast of many trumpets and the long
roll of the pealing drum were borne on the wings of a
hundred echoes, far and near. Wild birds, whose rest had
never before been so disturbed, rose screaming from their
haunts, darkening the air with their flapping wings. Again
and again, at irregular intervals, this unusual music was repeated;
but though alarm blanched many a maiden’s cheek,
and the brows of the sterner sex became knit with indefinable
emotion, the afternoon service, which ever follows the Jewish
nuptials, continued undisturbed.

The eyes of Josephine were fixed on Imri more in wonder
than alarm, and Benalmar had folded his arm round her
and whispered, “Mine, mine in woe or in weal; mine
thou art, and wilt be, love! whatever ill these martial sounds
forbode.”

A smile so bright, so confiding, was the answer, that even
had he not felt her cling closer to his heart, Imri would have
been satisfied. A sudden paleness banished the rich flush
from the cheek of the deaf and dumb; he relinquished his
station under the canopy which had been held over the bride
and bridegroom during the ceremony, and drew closer to
them. He had <i>heard</i> indeed no sound; but so keen are the
other senses of the deaf and dumb, that many have been
known to <i>feel</i> what they cannot hear. Aréli could read, in
a moment’s glance, the countenances of those around him,
and at the same instant he became conscious of a thrilling
sensation creeping through his every vein. He took the
hand of Imri and looked up inquiringly in his face. The
answer was given, and the child resumed the posture
// 149.png
.bn 149.png
of devotion, which his strange feelings had disturbed.

The last words of the presiding priest were spoken, and
there was silence; even the sounds without were hushed,
and a voiceless dread appeared to withhold those within from
seeking the cause. There was evidently a struggle ere the
usual congratulations could be offered to the young couple;
and so preoccupied was the attention of all, that the absence
of Aréli was unnoticed, till, as trumpet and drum again
pierced the thin air, he darted back, and with hasty and
agitated signs related what he had beheld.

“Soldiers, many soldiers! It may be so; yet wherefore
this alarm, my children?” exclaimed the aged Asher, stepping
firmly forward, and speaking in an accent of mild reproof.
“What can ye fear? Nazarene and Mahommedan have oft-times
found a shelter in this peaceful valley: fearlessly they
came, uninjured they departed. Wrong we have never done
to man: peace and goodwill have been our watchword;
wherefore, then, should we tremble to meet these strangers?
My children, the God of Israel is with us still.”

The cloud passed from the brows of his hearers. The
young maidens emulated the calm firmness of the bride, and
gathering round her, followed their male companions from
the temple. The spot on which the sacred edifice stood
commanded a view of the village market-place, which, from
its occupying the only level ground half a mile square, was
surrounded by all the low dwellings of the artizans, and was
often the place of public meeting, when any point was discussed
requiring the suffrages of all the male population.
This space was now filled with Spanish soldiers, some on
horseback, others on foot; while far behind, scattered in
groups amongst the rocks, many a steel morion flung back
the sun’s glistening rays. The villagers, startled and amazed,
had assembled on all sides, and even Josef Asher for a
moment paused, astonished.

“Let us on, my children,” he said, “and learn the meaning
of this unusual muster. Yet stay,” he added, as several
young men hastened forward to obey him; “they are about
to speak; we will hear first what they proclaim.”

Another flourish of drums and trumpets sounded as he
spoke, and then one of the foremost cavaliers, attired as a
herald, drew from his bosom a parchment roll. The officers
// 150.png
.bn 150.png
around doffed their helmets, and he read words to the following
import:—

.pm letter-start
“From the most high and mighty sovereigns, Ferdinand
and Isabella, joint-sovereigns of Arragon and Castile, to
whose puissant arms the grace of God hath given dominion
over all heretics and unbelievers, before whose banner of the
Holy Cross the Moorish abominations have crumbled into
dust—to our loyal subjects of every principality and province,
of every rank, and stage, and calling, of every grade
and every state, these—to which we charge you all in charity
give good heed.

“Whereas we have heard and seen that the Jews of our
states induce many Christians to embrace Judaism, particularly
the nobles of Andalusia; for <sc>THIS</sc> they are <sc>BANISHED</sc>
from our domains. Four months from this day, we
grant them to forswear their abominations and embrace
Christianity, or to depart; pronouncing <sc>DEATH</sc> on every
Jew found in our kingdom after that allotted time.
.ti +12
<i>(Signed)</i>   <sc>Ferdinand and Isabella.</sc>
.ti +2
“<i>Given at our palace of Segovia this thirtieth day of March,
of the year of grace one thousand four hundred and ninety-two.</i>”
.pm letter-end

As a thunderbolt falling from the blue and cloudless sky—as
the green and fertile earth yawning in fathomless chasms
beneath their feet, so, but more terribly, more vividly still,
did this edict fall on the faithful hearts who heard. A
sudden pause, and then a cry, an agonized cry of horror and
despair, burst simultaneously from young and old, woman
and child; and then, as awakened from that stupor of woe,
wilder shouts arose, and the fiery youth of Eshcol gathered
tumultuously together, and shrill cries of “Vengeance, vengeance!
cut them down—rend the lying parchment into
shreds, and scatter it to the four winds of heaven—thus will
we defend our rights!” found voice amid groans and hisses
of execration and assault. A volley of stones fell among the
Spaniards, who, standing firmly to their arms, appeared in
the act of charging, when both parties were arrested by the
aged patriarch of Eshcol rushing in their very centre, heeding
not, nay, unconscious of personal danger, calling on them to
forbear.

“Are ye all mad?” he cried. “Would ye draw down
further ruin on your devoted heads! Think ye to cope with
// 151.png
.bn 151.png
those armed by a sovereign mandate, backed by a mighty
kingdom? Oh, for the love of your wives, your children,
your aged, helpless parents, keep the peace and let your
elders speak!”

Even at that moment their natural veneration for old age
had influence. Reproved and sorrowful, they shrunk back—the
angry gesture calmed, the muttered execration silenced.
Surrounded by his brother elders, Asher drew near the
Spaniards, who struck by his venerable age and commanding
manner, consented to accompany him to the council-room
near at hand, desiring their men on the severest penalties to
create no disturbance. The edict was laid before them, its
purport explained, enforced emphatically, yet kindly; for the
Spaniards felt awed, in spite of themselves. But vainly the
old men urged that the given cause of their banishment
could not extend to them. They had had no dealing with
the Nazarene; they lived to themselves alone; they interfered
not with the civil or religious government of the
country, which had sheltered them from age to age; they
warred with none, offended none; their very existence was
often unsuspected; they asked but liberty to live on as they
had lived; and would the sovereigns of Spain deny them
this? It could not be. The Spaniards listened mildly; but
the edict had gone forth, they said, unto all and every class
of Jews within the kingdom, and not one individual was
exempt from its sentence, save on the one condition—their
embracing Christianity. It was true that many of their
nation might be faithful subjects; but even did their banishment
involve loss to Spain, her sovereigns, impressed with
religious zeal, welcomed the temporal loss as spiritual gain.
If, indeed, they could not comply with the very simple condition,
they urged the old men instantly to depart, for one
month out of the four had already elapsed, the edict bearing
date the last day but one of the month of March. They
added, the secluded situation of the valley had caused the
delay, and might have delayed its proclamation yet longer,
had not chance led them to these mountains in search of an
officer of rank, who had wandered from them, and they
feared had perished in the hollows.

Even at that moment a chilling dread shot through the
heart of the aged Asher. Could that officer be he whom
Aréli had seen but seven days previous? He dared not
// 152.png
.bn 152.png
listen to his heart’s reply, and gave his whole attention to
that which followed. A second edict, the Spaniards continued
to state, had been issued prohibiting all Christians to
supply the fugitives with bread or wine, water or meat,
after the month of April.

The old men heard: there was little to answer, though
much to feel; and sorrowing council occupied some time
after the officers had retired. They wished to learn the condition
of their wretched countrymen, and the real effects of
this most cruel edict. The blow had descended so unexpectedly,
it seemed as if they could not, unless from the lips
of an eye-witness, believe it true, and they decided on sending
twenty of their young men to learn tidings, under the
control of one, calm, firm, and dispassionate enough to
restrain those acts of violence to which they had already
shown such inclination. But who was this one? How
might they ask <i>him</i>?

The old men together sought the various groups, and, expressing
their wishes, all were eager to obey. Josef Asher
alone approached his children, who sat apart from their companions.
He related all that had passed between them and
the Spaniards, and then awhile he paused.

“Imri,” he said at length, “my son, thou hast seen the
misguided passion of our youth; they must not go forth on
this mission of unimpassioned observation alone. Our
elders, the wise and moderate, must husband their little
strength for their weary pilgrimage. Thou, my son, hast
their wisdom, with all the activity and energy of youth.
We would that thou shouldst head this band; but a very
brief absence is needed. Canst thou consent?”

A low cry of suffering broke from the pale lips of Josephine,
and she threw her arms round Imri, as thus to chain
him to her side. “In such an hour wilt thou leave me,
Imri?” His lip quivered, his cheek paled, and the few
words he uttered were heard by her alone. “Yes, yes, thou
shalt go, my beloved; heed not my woman’s weakness.
Thou wilt return; and then—then we will <i>depart</i> together.”
Oh, what a world of agony did that one word speak!

The instant departure of the younger villagers occasioned
some surprise, but without further interference. The
Spaniards began to pitch their tents amongst the rocky
eminences, as preparing for some months’ encampment.
// 153.png
.bn 153.png
Had not the inhabitants of Eshcol felt that their cup of
bitterness was already full to the brim, the appearance of an
armed force in the very centre of their peaceful dwellings
would have added gall; but every thought, feeling, and
energy were merged in one engrossing subject of anguish.
Some there were who rejected all belief in the edict’s truth.
They could not be banished from scenes in which they and
their fathers had dwelt, from age to age, in peace and bliss.
Others felt their minds a void; they asked no question of
their elders, spoke not to each other, but in strange and
moody silence awaited the return of Imri and his companions.
Nor could the obnoxious sight of a huge wooden
crucifix, which the next morning greeted the eyes of every
villager, rouse them effectually from the lethargy of despair.

And Josephine, did she weep and moan, now that the fate
she so instinctively dreaded had fallen? Her tears were on
her heart, lying there like lead, slowly yet surely undermining
strength, and poisoning the gushing spring of life.
In sobs and tears her young companions gathered round her,
and she spoke of comfort and resignation, her gentle kindness
soothing many, and rousing them to hope, on the return
of the young men, things might not be found so despairing
as they now seemed. But when twilight had descended and
all was hushed, Josephine led her young brother to her
mother’s grave. She looked on his sweet face, paled with
sympathetic sorrow, though as yet he knew not why he
wept; and she sought to speak and tell him all, but the
thought that his young joys, yet more than her own, were
blighted—that, weakly and afflicted as he was, he too must
be torn from familiar scenes and objects which formed his
innocent pleasures, and encounter hardships and privation
that stood in dread perspective before her—oh, was it strange
that that noble spirit lost its firmness for the moment, and
that, sinking on the green sward, she buried her face in her
hands, and sobbed in an intensity of suffering which found
not its equal even midst the deep woe around her? Aréli
knelt beside her; he clasped her cold hands within his
own; he hid his head in her lap—seeking by all these mute
caresses, which had never before appealed in vain, to restore
her to composure. For his sake she roused herself; she
raised her tearful eyes to the star-lit heavens in silent prayer,
and drawing him closer to her, commenced her painful task.
// 154.png
.bn 154.png
Too well his ready mind conceived her meaning. His beautiful
lip grew white and quivering—the dew of suffering
stood upon his brow; but he shed no tear—nay, he sought
to smile, as thus to lessen his sister’s care. But when she
told him the condition which was granted, and bade him
choose between the land of his love or the faith of his
fathers—a change came over his features: he started from
her side, the red flush rushing to his cheek; he drew his
little Bible from his bosom, pressed it fervently to his lips
and heart, shook his clenched fist in direction of the Spanish
encampment, and then laid down beside the grave. “My
boy, my boy, there spoke the blessed spirit of our race!” and
tears of inexpressible emotion coursed down the cheek of
Josephine, as she clasped him convulsively to her aching
heart. “Death and exile, aye, torture, thou wilt brave
rather than desert thy faith. My God, my God, thou wilt be
with us still!”

It was not till the ninth day from their departure that
Imri Benalmar and his companions returned. One glance
sufficed to read their mournful tale. On all sides, they
said, they had beheld but cruelty and ruin, perjury or
despair. From every town, from every province, their
wretched brethren were flocking to the sea-coast—their
homes, their lands left to the ruthless spoiler, or sold for
one-tenth of their value. They told of a vineyard exchanged
for a suit of clothes—a house with all its valuables, for a
mule. Their gold, silver, and jewels, prohibited either to
be exchanged or carried away with them, became the prey of
their cruel persecutors. Famine and horror on every side
assailed them; many they had seen famishing on the roads,
for none dared give them a bit of bread or a draught of
water; and even mothers were known to slay their own
children, husbands their wives, to escape the agony of watching
their lingering deaths. Their illustrious countryman,
Isaac Abarbanel, Imri said, had offered an immense sum to
refill the coffers of Spain, emptied as they were by the
Moorish war, would his sovereigns recall the fatal edict.
They had appeared to hesitate, when Thomas de Torquemada,
advancing boldly into the royal presence, raised high
before them a crucifix, and bade them beware how they sold
for a higher price Him whom Judas betrayed for thirty
pieces of silver—to think how they would render an account
// 155.png
.bn 155.png
of their bargain before God. He had prevailed, and the
edict continued in full force.

On a towering rock, in the centre of the mourning populace,
the aged Asher stood. He stretched forth his hands
in an attitude of supplication, and tears and groans were
hushed to a voiceless pause. There was a deep-red spot on
the old man’s either cheek, but his voice was still firm, his
attitude commanding.

“My children,” he said, “we have heard our doom, and
even as our brethren we must go forth. Let us not in our
misery blaspheme the God who so long hath blessed us with
prosperity and peace, and pour down idle curses on our foes.
My children, cruel as they seem, they are but His tools;
and therefore, as to His decree, let us bow without a
murmur. Have we forgotten that on earth the exiles of
Jerusalem have no resting—that for the sins of our fathers
the God of Justice is not yet appeased? Oh, if we have,
this fearful sentence may be promulgated to recall us to
Himself, ere prosperity be to us, as to our misguided ancestors,
the curse, hurling us into eternal misery. We bow
not to man; it is the God of Israel we obey! We must
hence; for who amongst us will deny Him? Tarry not,
then, my children; we are but few days’ journey from the
sea, and in this are blest above our fellows. Waste not,
then, the precious time allowed us in fruitless sorrow.
There are some among ye who speak of weakness and
timidity, in thus yielding to our foes without one blow in
defence of our rights. Rights! unhappy men, ye have no
rights! Sons of Judah, have ye yet to learn we are wanderers
on the face of the earth, without a country, a king, a
judge in Israel? My children, we have but one treasure,
which, if called upon, we can <sc>DIE</sc> to defend—the glorious
faith our God himself hath given. To Him, then, let us
unite in solemn prayer, beseeching His guidance in our
weary pilgrimage—His forgiveness on our cruel foes; and
fearless and faithful we will go forth where His will may
lead.”

The old man knelt, and all followed his example; and
silence, deep as if that wild scene were desolate, succeeded
those emphatic words. A fervent blessing was then
pronounced by the patriarch, and all departed to their
homes.
// 156.png
.bn 156.png

And now day after day beheld the departure of one or two
families from the village. We may dwell no longer on their
feelings, nor on those of their brethren in other parts of
Spain. We envy not those who feel no sympathy in that
devotedness to a persecuted faith, which could bid men go
forth from their homes, their temples, the graves of their
fathers, the schools where for centuries they had presided,
honoured even by their foes, and welcome exile, privation,
misery of every kind, woes far worse than death, rather than
depart from it. If they think we have exaggerated, let the
sceptic look to the histories of every nation in the middle
ages, and they will acknowledge this simple narrative is but
a faint outline of the sufferings endured by the persecuted
Hebrews, and inflicted by those who boast their religion to
be peace on earth and goodwill to all men.

Reduced from affluence to poverty, from every comfort to
the dim vista of every privation, without the faintest consciousness
where to seek a home, or how to cross the ocean,
did Imri Benalmar regret that he had now a wife and a
young, helpless boy for whom to provide? Nay; that Josephine
was his, ere this dread edict was proclaimed, was even
at this moment a source of unalloyed rejoicing. He knew
her noble spirit, and that, had not the solemn service been
actually performed, she would have refused his protection,
his love, and, rather than burden him with such increase of
care, have lingered in that vale to die. That she was inviolably
his own, endowed him, however, with an energy to
bear, which, had he been alone, would have failed him. He
thought but of her sufferings; for, though from her lips they
had never found a voice, he knew what she endured. He
told her there were some of their unhappy countrymen, who,
rather than lose the honourable situations they enjoyed, the
riches they possessed, had made a <i>public</i> profession of
Christianity, and received baptism at the very moment they
made a solemn vow, in secret, to act up to the tenets of their
fathers’ faith.

“Alas! are there indeed such amongst us, thus doubly
perjured?” was the sole observation of Josephine, looking
up sorrowfully in his face.

“They do not think it perjury, my beloved: they say the
God of Israel will pardon the public falsehood, in consideration
of their secret allegiance to Himself.”
// 157.png
.bn 157.png

“But thou, Imri, canst thou approve this course of acting?
Couldst thou rest in such fatal security?”

“Were I alone, my Josephine, with none to love or care
for, death itself were preferable; but oh, when I look on
thee, and remember thy deep love for this fair soil—when I
think on Aréli, on all that he must suffer—the misery we
must all endure—I could wish my mind would reconcile
itself to act as others do; that to serve my God in secret,
and those of wood and stone in public, were no perjury.”

“Oh, do not say so, Imri; think not of me, my beloved:
I love not my home better than my God—I would not accept
peace and prosperity at such a price! Had I been alone,
death, even by the sword of slaughter, would have been
welcome, would have found me here, for I could not have
gone forth. But now I am thine, Imri, thine, and whither
thou goest I will go; and thou shalt make me another home
than this, my husband, where we may worship our God in
peace and joy, and there shall be blessing for us yet.”

She had spoken with a smile so inexpressibly affecting in
its plaintive sweetness, that her husband could only press
her to his heart in silence, and inwardly pray it might be as
she said. Of Aréli she had not spoken, and he guessed too
truly wherefore. From the hour of their banishment, a
change had come over the spirit of the boy; his smiles still
greeted those he loved, but he was longer away than was his
wont, and Imri, following him at a distance, could see him
ever lingering amid his favourite haunts; and when far removed,
as he believed, from the sight of man, he would fling
himself on the grass, and weep, till sometimes, from very
exhaustion, sleep would steal over him, and then, starting
up, he would make hasty sketches of some much-loved
scenes, to prove to his sister how well he had been employed.

These painful proofs of the poor boy’s sorrow Imri could
conceal, but not the decay of bodily strength; or deny, when
Josephine appealed to him, that his frame became yet more
shadowy in its beautiful proportions,—that the rose which
had spread itself on either cheek, the unwonted lustre of the
eye, the increased transparency of his complexion, told of
the loveliness of another world; yet for him how might they
grieve?

It happened that one of the Spanish soldiers, a father
// 158.png
.bn 158.png
himself, and less violently prejudiced than his fellows, had
taken a fancy to the beautiful and afflicted boy always wandering
about alone; and he thought it would be doing a kind
action to prevent his accompanying the fugitives, by adopting
him as his own; believing it would be easy to rear him to
the Catholic church, as one so young, and moreover, deaf
and dumb, could have imbibed little of the Jewish misbelief.
Kindly and tenderly he sought and won the child’s
affection, and found means to converse with him intelligibly.

Incapable of thinking evil, Aréli doubted not his companion’s
kindness, and though aware he was a Spaniard and a
Catholic, artlessly betrayed the deep suffering his banishment
engendered. Fadrique worked on this; he told him he
should not leave them, that he would bring his family and
live there, and Aréli should be loved by all. He worked
on the boy’s fancy till he felt he had gained his point,
then erecting a small crucifix, bade him kneel and worship.

The film passed from the eyes of the child, indignation
flashed from every feature, and springing up, he tore the
cross to the earth, and trampled it into the dust. Ten or
twelve soldiers who had been carelessly watching Fadrique’s
proceedings from a distance, enraged beyond measure at this
insult from a puny boy, darted towards him, flung him
violently to the earth, and pointed their weapons at his
throat. At that instant Josephine stood before them; for
she too had watched, with the anxious eye of affection, the
designs of Fadrique.

“Are ye men!” she exclaimed, and the rude soldiers
shrunk abashed from her glance, “that thus ye would take
the blood of an innocent helpless child—one whose very
affliction should appeal to mercy, denied as it may be to
others? On yourselves ye called this insult to your faith.
How else could he tell ye he refused your offers? You bade
him acknowledge that which his soul abhors; and was it
strange his hand should prove that which he hath no voice to
speak? And for this would ye take his life? Oh, shame,
shame on your coward hearts!”

Sullenly the men withdrew, at once awed by her mien,
and remembering that in assaulting any Hebrew before the
time specified in the edict was over, they were liable to
military severity. Fadrique lingered.
// 159.png
.bn 159.png

“This was not my seeking,” he said respectfully; “I
sought but the happiness of that poor child: I would save
him from the doom of suffering chosen by the elders of his
race. Leave him with me, and I pledge my sacred word his
life shall be a happy one.”

“I thank thee for thy offer, soldier,” replied Josephine,
mildly, “but my brother has chosen his own fate; I have
used neither entreaties nor commands.”

The boy, who had betrayed no fear even when the deadly
weapons were at his throat, now took the hand of Fadrique,
and by a few expressive signs craved pardon for the insult
he had been led to commit, and firmly and expressively refused
his every offer.

“Thou hast yet to learn the deep love borne to our faith
by her persecuted children, my good friend,” said Josephine,
perceiving the man’s surprise was mingled with some softer
feeling; “that even the youngest Jewish child will prefer
slavery, exile, or death, to forswearing his father’s God.
May the God of Israel bless thee for the kindness thou
hast shown this poor afflicted boy, but seek him not
again.”

She drew him closer to her, and they disappeared together.
A tear rose to the Spaniard’s eye, but he hastily
brushed it away, and then telling his rosary, as if it
were sin thus to care for an unbeliever, rejoined his comrades.

The family of Imri Benalmar was the last to quit the vale.
Each was mounted on a mule, and there were two led or
sumpter mules, on which was strapped as much clothing as
they could conveniently stow away, and provisions which
they hoped would last them till they reached the vessel,
knowing well they could procure no more. Some few
valuables Imri contrived to secrete, but his fortune, principally
consisting in land and its produce, was of necessity
irretrievably ruined.

Josef Asher accompanied them; he had been active in
consoling, encouraging, and assisting his weaker brethren.
Not a family departed without receiving some token of his
sympathy and love; and young and old crowded round him,
ere they went, imploring his blessings and his prayers.

It was, however, observed that of his own departure, his
own plans, Asher never spoke. That he would accompany
// 160.png
.bn 160.png
his children, all believed, and so did Josephine herself; but
all were mistaken.

On the evening of their first day’s journey, as they halted
for rest and refreshment, some unusual emotion was observable
in the mien and features of the old man. He asked
them to join him in prayer, and as he concluded, he spread
his hands upon their heads, and blessed each by name, emphatically,
unfalteringly, as in his days of youth.

“And now,” he said, as they arose, “farewell, my beloved
children. The God of Israel go with ye, and lead ye, even
as our ancestors of old, with the daily cloud and nightly
pillar. I go no further with ye.”

“No further! what means our father?” exclaimed Imri and
Josephine together.

“That I am too old to go forth to another land, my
children. The God of Judah demands not this from his old
and weary servant. Fourscore and fifteen years I have
served Him in the dwelling-place of mine own people, and
there shall His Angel find me. My sand is well-nigh run
out, my strength must fail ere I reach the shore. Wherefore,
then, should I go forth, and by my infirmities bring down
danger and suffering on my children? Oppose me not, beloved
ones; refuse not your aged father the blessing of dying
beside his own hearth.”

“Alone, untended, and perchance by the sword of
slaughter? Oh, my father, ask us not this!” exclaimed Josephine,
with passionate agony throwing herself at his feet
and clinging to his knees.

“My child, the Spirit of my God will tend me: I shall
not be alone, for His ministering angels will hover round me
ere He takes me to Himself; and if it be by the sword of
slaughter, ’twill be perchance an easier passage for this sorrowing
soul than the lingering death of age.”

“Then let me return and die with you!”

“Not so, my child! thy life hath barely passed its spring;
’twould be sin thus to sport with death. The God who calls
me to death, bids thee go forth to serve Him—to proclaim
His great name in other lands. Thy husband, thy poor
Aréli, both call on thee to live for them; thou wouldst not
turn from the path of duty, my beloved child, dark and
dreary as it may seem. See, thine Imri weeps; and thou, who
shouldst cheer, hast caused these unmanly tears.”
// 161.png
.bn 161.png

She turned towards her husband, and with a painful sob,
sunk into his extended arms. Asher gave one long lingering
look of love, folded the weeping Aréli to his bosom, and ere
Imri could sufficiently recover his emotion to speak, the old
man was gone.

The death he sought was speedily obtained. The Spanish
officers and several of the men had quitted Eshcol, leaving
only the lowest rank of soldiery to keep watch lest any of
the fugitives should return, and, taking advantage of the
secluded situation of the vale, set the edict at defiance.
Effectually to prevent this, the men were commanded to turn
the little temple to a place of worship for true believers.
Workmen, with images, shrines, and pictures, were sent
to assist them, and a pension promised to every Catholic
family who would reside there, thus to exterminate utterly
all trace of heresy and its abominations.

The men thus employed, ignorant and bigoted, exulted in
the task assigned them, and only lamented that no human
blood had been shed to render their holocausts to their patron
saints more efficacious still. The return of Asher excited
some surprise, but believing he would depart ere the allotted
period had expired, they took little heed of his movements.
The work continued, crosses were affixed to every side,
images decked the interior, and all promised fair completion,
when one night a wild cry of fire resounded, and hurrying to
the spot, they beheld their work in flames. It was an awful
picture. The night was pitchy dark, but far and near the
thick woods and blackened heavens suddenly blazed up with
lurid hue. There were dusky forms hurrying to and fro;
oaths and execrations mingled with the stormy gusts which
fanned the flames into greater fury; and, amidst them all,
calmly looking on the work his hand had wrought, there
stood an aged man, whose figure, in that glow of light, appeared
gigantically proportioned, his silvery hair streamed
back from his broad unwrinkled brow, and stern, unalterable
resolution was impressed upon his features. He was seen,
recognised, and with a yelling shout the murderers darted on
their prey.

“Come on!” he cried, waving his arms triumphantly
above his head. “Come on, and wreak your vengeance on
these aged limbs; ’tis I have done this! Better flames
should hurl it to the dust, than the temple of God be profaned
// 162.png
.bn 162.png
by the abominations He abhors. Come on, I glory in
the deed!”

He spoke, and fell pierced with a hundred wounds. A
smile of peculiar beauty lighted up his features. “Blessed
be the God of Israel, the sole One, the Holy One!” he cried,
and his spirit fled rejoicing to the God he served.

Slowly and painfully did Imri’s little family pursue their
way. They chose the most secluded paths, but even there
traces of misery and death awaited them, and they shrank
from suffering they could not alleviate. There might be seen
a group dragging along their failing limbs, their provisions
exhausted, and the pangs of hunger swallowing up all other
thoughts. There lay the blackening bodies of those who had
sunk and died, scarcely missed, and often envied by the survivors.
Often did the sound of their footsteps scare away
large flocks of carrion birds, who, screaming and flapping
their heavy wings, left to the travellers the loathsome sight of
their half-devoured prey. And they saw, too, the fearful
fascinated gaze of those in whom life was not utterly extinct,
as they watched the progress of these horrible birds, dreading
lest they should dart upon them ere death had rendered
them insensible. Josephine looked on these things, and then
on her young brother, whose strength each day too evidently
declined.

Aréli’s too sensitive spirit shrank in shuddering anguish
from every fresh scene of human suffering. He, whose
young life had been so full of peace and bliss, knowing but
love and goodwill passing from man to man, how might he
sustain the change? He had no voice to speak those feelings,
no time to give them vent in the sweet language of
poesy, which, in happier hours, had been the tablet of his
soul. As the invisible worm at the root of a blooming
flower, secretly destroying its sap, its nourishment, and the
flower falls ere one of its leaves hath lost its beauty, so it
was with the orphan boy. Each day was Imri compelled to
shorten more and more their journey, for often would Aréli
drop fainting from his mule, though the cheek retained its
exquisite bloom, his eye its lustre. Imri became fearfully
anxious; from the comparative vicinity of the sea-shore, he
had believed their provisions would be more than sufficient
to last them on their way, but from these unlooked-for delays,
the horrors of famine, thirst, that most horrible death,
// 163.png
.bn 163.png
stood darkly before him. Josephine, his own, his loved,
would she encounter horrors such as they had witnessed?
Imri shuddered.

One evening, Aréli lay calmly on the soft bed of moss and
heath his sister’s love had framed; his hand clasped hers;
his eyes seemed to speak the unutterable love and gratitude
he felt. They were in the wildest part of a thick forest in
the Sierra Nevada; and Imri, unable to look on the sufferings
of his beloved ones, had wandered forth alone. Distant
sounds of the chase fell at intervals on the ears of Josephine;
but they were far away, and her soul was too enwrapt to heed
them. Suddenly, however, her attention was effectually
roused by the large crashing of the bushes near them, accompanied
by low yet angry growls. Aréli marked the sudden
change in her features, his eye too had caught an object by
her still unseen. He sprang up with that strength which
energy of feeling so often gives when bodily force has gone,
and grasped tightly the hunting spear he held; scarcely had
he done so, when a huge boar sprung through the thicket,
his flanks streaming with blood, his tusks upraised, his mouth
gaping, covered with foam, and uttering growls, denoting
pain and fury yet more clearly than his appearance. He
stood for a second motionless, then, as if startled by the agonized
scream of terror bursting from Josephine, he sprung
upon the daring boy. Undauntedly Aréli met his approach.
His spear, aimed by an eye that never failed, pierced him for
a second to the earth, but, alas! the strength of the boy was
not equal to his skill. The boar, yet more enraged, tore the
weapon from the ground, which it had not pierced above an
inch. Once more he fell, struck down by a huge stick,
which Aréli, with the speed of lightning, had snatched up.
Again he rose, and fastened on the child. A blow from
behind forced him to relax his stifling hold; furious, he
turned on the slight girl who had dared attack him, and
Josephine herself would have shared her brothers fate,
when the spear of Imri whizzed through the air, true to its
mark, and the huge animal, with a cry of pain and fury,
rolled lifeless on the ground.

The voice of his beloved had startled Imri from his
mournful trance; the roar which followed explained its
source, and winged by terror, he arrived in time. Josephine
was saved indeed, but no word of thankfulness broke
// 164.png
.bn 164.png
from that heart, which, in grateful devotion, had never
been dumb before. She knelt beside the seemingly lifeless
body of her Aréli, scarcely conscious of the presence of
her husband; his hands, his neck, his brow, were deluged
in blood; she bathed him plentifully with cold water.
Could she remember at such a moment that no springs
were near, and that, if overwhelmed with thirst, the
pure element would be denied them? Oh, no, no; she
saw only the helpless sufferer, to whom her spirit clung
with a love that, in their affliction, had with each hour
grown stronger.

But death was still a brief while deferred, though so
fearfully had Aréli been injured, they could not move
him thence. His wounds were numerous and painful, and
strength to support himself, even in a sitting position, never
again returned. Yet never was that sweet face sad; his
smiles, his signs were ever to implore his sister not to weep
for him—to take comfort and be happy in another land;
that the blissfulness of heaven was already on his soul—that
if it might be, he would pray for her before his God, and
hover like a guardian spirit over her weary wanderings, till
he led her to a joyous home. For him, indeed, Josephine
might not grieve, but for Imri she felt the deepest anxiety.
The horrors to which this unlooked-for delay exposed him
had startled her into consciousness, and on her knees she
besought him to seek his own safety; she would not weakly
shrink, but when all was over she would follow him, and, in
all probability, they would meet again in another land; not
to risk his precious life and strength by lingering with her
beside the dying boy. She pleaded with all a woman’s unselfish
love, but, need we say, in vain?—that Imri’s sole
answer was to lift his right hand to heaven and swear, by all
they both held most sacred, <sc>NEVER</sc> to leave her—they would
meet their fate together? Days passed; their small portion
of food and water, economised as it was, dwindled more and
more away, and so did the strength of Aréli. It was a night
of unclouded beauty; millions and millions of stars spangled
the deep blue heavens; the moon in her full glory walked
forth to silver many a dark tree, and dart her most
refulgent rays on that little group of human suffering.
Yet all was not suffering; the purest happiness beamed on
the features of the dying, and an unconscious calm pervaded
// 165.png
.bn 165.png
the weary spirit of these lonely watchers. Nature
was so still, they spoke almost in whispers, as fearing to
disturb her.

A sudden change spread on the features of the dying boy.
Imri started: “Josephine, the chains are rent—he <sc>HEARS</sc>
us!” he cried; and Josephine, raising him in her arms,
almost involuntarily spoke in uttered words, “Aréli, my
own, my beautiful!”

He <sc>HEARD</sc>; the film was removed one brief moment from
his ear; her voice, sweet as thrilling music, fell upon his
soul: his lips moved, and one articulate word then came,
unearthly in its sweetness, “<sc>Josephine</sc>!” He raised his
clasped hands to heaven, and sunk back upon her bosom:
his soul had hovered on the earth one moment <sc>FREE</sc>, then
fled for ever.

Imri and Josephine joined in prayer beside the loved.
They neither mourned nor wept, and calmly Josephine
wrapped the fadeless flower in the last garment of mortality,
while Imri formed his resting-place. They laid him in that
humble grave, strewed flowers and moss upon it, prayed that
their God would in mercy guard his body from the ravening
beasts, then turned from that hallowed spot, and silently
pursued their journey.

It wanted but two days to the completion of the allotted
period, when, faint, weak, and well-nigh exhausted, Imri and
his Josephine stood on the sea-shore, and there horrible
indeed was the sight that presented itself. Hundreds
of the wretched fugitives lay famishing on the scorching
sands. Many who had dragged on their failing limbs
through all the horrors of famine, of thirst, of miseries in a
thousand shapes, which the very pen shrinks from delineating,
arrived there but to die; for there were but few vessels to
bear them to other lands, and these often sailed with half
their number, either because the bribes they demanded were
refused (for the wretched victims had nought to give), or
that their captains swore so many heretics would sink their
ships, and they would take no more. Then it was that, with
a crucifix in one hand, and bread and wine in the other, the
Catholic priests advanced to the half senseless sufferers, and
offered the one, if they acknowledged the other. Was it
marvel that at such a moment there were some who yielded?
Oh, there is a glory and a triumph in the martyr’s death!
// 166.png
.bn 166.png
Men look with admiring awe on those who smile when at
the stake; but the faith that inspired courage and firmness
and constancy ’mid suffering which we have but faintly outlined—’mid
lingering torments ’neath which the <i>heart</i>, yet
more than the frame, was crushed—that <sc>FAITH</sc> is regarded
with scorn as a blinded, wilful misbelief. Could man endow
his own spirit with this devotedness? Pride might lead
him to the stake, but not to bear what Israel had borne,
aye, and will bear till the wrath of his God is turned
aside. No; the same God who strengthened Abraham to
offer up his son, enables His wretched people to give up all
for Him. Would He do this, had they denied and mocked
Him?

Imri saw the cold shuddering creeping over the blighted
form of his beloved, and he led her to a sheltering rock,
whose projecting cliffs partly concealed the wretched objects
on the beach. There was one vessel on the broad ocean, and
in her he determined at once to secure a passage, if to do so
cost the forfeit of the few valuables he had been enabled to
secrete. He lingered awhile by the side of his Josephine,
for he saw, with anguish, the noble spirit, which had so long
sustained and consoled her, now for the first time appear to
droop. The sudden appearance of a Spanish officer, and his
apparent advance towards them, arrested him as he was
about to depart. He was attired richly, his whole bearing
seeming to denote a person of some rank and consequence.
Josephine’s gaze became almost unconsciously riveted upon
him. He came nearer, nearer still; they could trace his
features, on which sorrow or care had fixed its stamp. A
moment he removed the plumed cap from his head, and
passed his hand across his brow. An exclamation of recognition
escaped the lips of Imri, and in another moment
Josephine had bounded forward and was kneeling at his
feet. “My father! my father!” she sobbed forth. “O
God, I thank Thee for this unlooked-for mercy. I have
seen him once again.”

“Thou—art thou my child, my Josephine, whom I left in
such bright, blooming beauty—whom I have sought in such
trembling anguish from the moment I might reach these
shores? Child of my Rachel, art thou, canst thou be? Oh,
yes, yes, yes! ’Twas thus she looked when I departed.
Could I hope to see thee as I left thee, when blight and
// 167.png
.bn 167.png
misery fell upon thy native vale, as on all the dwellings of
thy wretched race? And I—O God!—my child, my child,
curse me, hate me—I hurled down destruction on thy
house.”

But even as he spoke in those wild accents of ungovernable
passion, but too familiar to the ears that heard, he had
raised and strained her convulsively to his breast, covering
her cheeks and lips with kisses, till his burning tears of
agonized remorse mingled with those of softer feeling on
the cheeks of Josephine. But not long might she indulge in
the blessed luxury of tears; shuddering, she repeated his
last words, gazing up in his face with eyes of horrified
inquiry.

“Yes, I, even I, my child. I was not sufficiently wretched—the
bitter cup of remorse was not yet full. The edict was
proclaimed. On all sides there was but wretchedness and
unutterable misery, beyond all this woe-built world hath
known. Then came a wild yearning to look again upon my
native vale—to know if in truth its concealed and sheltered
caves had escaped uninjured by the wide-spreading, devastating
scourge that edict brought—to look on thee, my child,
if I might without endangering that precious life—to know
the fate of my unborn babe. I dared not dream my wife yet
lived. Josephine, I looked upon her tomb, and by its side
beheld my own, my beautiful, my unknown boy. O God!
O God! my crime was visited upon his innocent head; and
where—oh, where is he? Why may I not look upon his
sweet face again?”

He ceased, choked by overwhelming emotion, and some
minutes passed ere either of his agitated listeners could
summon sufficient composure to reply. But the anguish of
Castello seemed incapable of increase. For several minutes,
indeed, he was silent; the convulsive workings of his
features denoting how deeply that simple narrative had sunk.

When he spoke, it was briefly and hurriedly to relate how he
had lingered in the vicinity of Eshcol, till at length discovered
by a party of Spaniards sent to seek him, with a message from
the sovereigns. His wanderings had been tracked, and that
which he had most desired to avert he had been the means of
accomplishing—the discovery of the vale. And then convulsively
clasping the hands of Josephine and Imri in
his own, he besought them to remove in part the load
// 168.png
.bn 168.png
of misery from his heart—to say they would not leave him
more.

“Goest thou then forth, my father? Hast thou indeed
tarried for us, that we may seek a home together?” The
father’s eyes shrunk beneath those mild inquiring eyes.

“My child, I go not forth,” he said at length, and his voice
trembled. Josephine gently withdrew herself from his arms,
and laid her hand on her husband’s.

“My child! my noble child,” he said, in smothered accents,
“I am not perjured. I am still a son of Israel, though to
the world a Catholic. Oh, do not turn from me. Come with
me to my home, and thou shall see how the exiled and the
persecuted can defy the power of their destroyers. Life, with
every luxury, shall be thy portion; thine Imri shall have
every dream of ambition and joy fulfilled. The children of
Sigismund Castello will be courted, cherished, and loved.
’Tis but to kneel in public before the cross of the Nazarene—in
private, we are sons of Israel still.”

“Father, urge me not; it cannot be,” was her calm and
firm reply.

“Hast thought on all that must befall thee in other, perchance
equally hostile, lands? My child, thou knowest not
all thou mayest have to endure.”

“It is welcome,” she answered; “the more rugged
the path to heaven, the more blessed will seem my final
rest.”

“And thou wilt leave me to all the agonies of remorse;
to struggle on with the blackening thought, that not only
have I murdered those I love best on earth—my wife, my
boy—but sent ye forth to poverty, privation, and misery.
Josephine, Josephine, have mercy!” and the father threw
himself before his child, grovelling in the sand, and clasping
his hands in the wild energy of supplication.

“Father, father, drive me not mad! I cannot, cannot
bear this. Imri, my husband, if thou wouldst save
my heart from treachery, raise him—in mercy raise him.
I cannot answer with him there! God, God of Israel!
leave me not now. My brain is reeling—save me from
myself.”

She staggered back, and terrified at those accents of almost
madness, her father sprang from the ground, he caught her
again in his arms, while Imri, kneeling beside her, chafed
// 169.png
.bn 169.png
her cold hands in his, imploring her to speak, to look on him
again.

“My child, my child, wake, wake! I will not grieve
thee thus again. But oh, thy husband’s look would
pray thee not to go forth! The God of love, of pity,
demands not this self-sacrifice. Imri, one word from thee
would be sufficient. Look on her. Think to what thou
bearest her, when peace, comfort, and luxuries await ye,
with but one word. Speak, speak! Thou canst not, wilt
not take her hence.”

Though well-nigh senseless, well-nigh so exhausted alike in
body and mind that further exertion seemed impossible,
Josephine roused herself from that trance of faintness to gaze
wildly and fearfully on the face of her husband. It was
terribly agitated. She threw herself on his neck, and gasped
forth, “Canst thou bid me do this thing, my husband?”
He struggled to answer, but there came no word. Strength,
the mighty strength of virtue, returned to that sinking frame.
She stood erect, and spoke without one quivering accent or
one failing word.

“Imri, my husband! by the love thou bearest me, by all
we both hold sacred, by that great and ineffable name we
are forbidden to pronounce, I charge thee answer me truly.
Didst thou stand alone—were Josephine no more—how
wouldst thou decide? The eye of God is upon thee—deceive
me not!”

He turned from that searching glance, his strong frame
shook with emotion; his voice was scarcely audible, yet these
words came—

“I <sc>NEVER</sc> could deny my God! Exile and death were
welcome—but for thee!”

“Enough, my husband!” she exclaimed, and throwing
her arms around him, she turned again to her father, a glow
of holy triumph tinging her pallid cheek. “And wouldst
thou tempt him to perjury for my sake? On, no, no! father,
beloved, revered, from the first hour I could lisp thy name,
oh, pardon me this first disobedience to thy will! Did I
linger, how might I save thee from remorse; when each day,
each hour, thou wouldst see me fade beneath the whelming
weight of perjury and falsity? No, no! Bless me, oh,
bless me, ere I go, and the prayers of thy child shall rise
each hour for thee!”
// 170.png
.bn 170.png

Again she knelt before him, and Castello, inexpressibly
affected, felt he dared urge no more. How might he agonize
that heart; when in neither word, nor hint, nor sign did she
utter reproach on him? Again and again he reiterated
blessings on her sainted head; and when he could release
her from his embrace, it was to secure their speedy
passage in the vessel, which his command had detained
in her moorings; though the hope that he should once
more look upon his child had well-nigh faded ere she
came.

The exiles stood upon the deck. A hundred other of the
miserable fugitives had found a refuge in this same vessel,
whose captain, somewhat more humane than many of his
fellows, and richly bribed by Castello, set food before the
famishing wanderers directly they had weighed anchor. But
even the cravings of nature were lost in the one feeling, that
they gazed for the last time on the land they loved. There
were dark thunder-clouds sweeping over the sky, mingled
with others of brilliant colouring, that proclaimed the hour of
sunset. The ocean-horizon seemed buried in murky gloom;
but the shores of Spain stood forth bathed in a glow of warm
red light, as if to bid the unhappy wanderers farewell in unrivalled
brilliance. For awhile there was silence on the
vessel, so deep, so unbroken, that the flapping of the sails
against the masts was alone distinguishable. It was then a
wild and wailing strain burst simultaneously from the fugitives;
the young and the old, the strong man and exhausted
female, joined almost unconsciously. In the language of
Jerusalem they chanted forth their wild farewell, which may
thus be rendered in English verse.

.pm verse-start
Farewell! farewell! we wander forth,
Doom’d by th’ Eternal’s awful wrath;
With nought to bless our lonely path,
    Across the stormy wave.
Cast forth as wanderers on the earth;
Torn from the land that hailed our birth,
From childhood’s cot, from manhood’s hearth,
    From temple and from grave.

Farewell! farewell! thou beauteous sod,
Which Israel has for ages trod;
We leave thee to the oppressor’s rod,
    Weeping the exiles’ doom.
// 171.png
.bn 171.png
// 172.png
.bn 172.png
// 173.png
.bn 173.png
We go! no more thy turf we press;
No more thy fruits and vineyards bless;
No land to love—no home possess,
    Save earth’s cold breast—the tomb.

Where we have roamed the strangers roam;
The stranger claims each cherished home;
And we must ride on ocean’s foam,
    Accursed and alone.
False gods pollute our holy fane,
False hearts its sacred precincts stain;
False tongues our fathers’ God profane;
    But <sc>WE</sc> are still <sc>His own</sc>.

Farewell! farewell! o’er land and sea,
Where’er we roam, our soul shall be,
Land we have loved so long, with thee,
    Though sad and lone we dwell.
Thou land, where happy childhood played;
Where youth in love’s sweet fancies strayed;
Where long our fathers’ bones have laid;
    Our own bright land—farewell!
.pm verse-end

.if h
.il fn=illus_fp159.jpg w=367px
.if-
.if t
.ti +8
[Illustration]
.if-

Wilder and louder thrilled the strain until the last verse,
when mournfully the voices for a few seconds swelled, and then
gradually died away to silence, broken only by sobs and tears.
Imri and Josephine alone sat apart; they had not joined the
melody, but their souls in silence echoed back its mournful
wailing. Josephine half sat, half reclined on a pile of
cushions, where she might command the last view of Spain.
Imri leaned against a mast, close beside her; but few words
passed between them, for each felt the effort to speak
was made only for the other, and they ceased to war thus
with nature.

A sudden gloom darkened the heavens. The glow passed
from the beautiful shores. A heavy fall of dense clouds hung
over them, and concealed them from the eyes which in that
direction lingered still. The last gleam of light disclosed to
Imri his Josephine in the attitude of calm and happy
slumber. Her head reclined upon her arm, and the long
dark curls had fallen over her face and neck. He rejoiced;
for he thought nature had at length found the repose she so
much needed. His own eyelids felt heavy, and his limbs
much exhausted; but he remained watching, untired, the
sleep of his beloved. Heavy gusts now at intervals swept
along the ocean. The blackened waves rolled higher and
// 174.png
.bn 174.png
higher at the call, now crested by the snowy foam. The
vessel rocked and heaved, and speedily driven from her course,
mocked every effort to guide her southward, one moment
riding proudly on the topmost wave, the next sinking in a
deep valley, as about to be whelmed by huge mountains of
roaring water. Distant thunder, mingled with the moaning
gust, coming nearer and nearer, till it burst above their
heads, louder and longer than the discharge of a hundred
cannons. The foiled lightning streamed through the ebon
sky, illumining all around for above a minute by that blue
and vivid glare, and then vanishing in darkness yet more
terrible.

The elements were at war around them, cries of human
terror joined with the roar of the ocean, the rolling thunder,
the groaning blasts; but there was no movement in the form
of Josephine. Could she still sleep? Could exhaustion
render her insensible to sounds like these? Imri knelt
beside her and called her by name:—“Josephine, my
beloved! Oh, waken!”

There was no answer. At that moment a bright flash
darted through the gloom, and sea and sky appeared on fire.
A strange and crashing sound succeeded, followed by a cry
of agony, which, bursting from a hundred throats, echoed far
and near, drowning even the noise of the raging storm, for it
was the deep tone of human terror and despair. The topmast
fell, shivered by the lightning, in the very centre of the
deck; flames burst forth where it fell, and on went the devoted
vessel, a blazing pile on the booming waters.

Imri Benalmar moved not from his knee—he heard not the
cries of suffering echoing round—he knew not the cause of
that livid glare, which had so suddenly illumined every
object—he knew nothing, felt nothing, save that he gazed on
the face of the <sc>DEAD</sc>.

.tb

A fearful sound, seeming distinct from the warring
elements, called forth many of the hardy inhabitants of
Malaga from their homes. They hurried to the beach, and
appalled and startled, beheld one part of the horizon completely
bathed in living fire; sea and sky united by a sheet of
flame. Presently it appeared to divide, and borne onwards
// 175.png
.bn 175.png
by the winds and waves, a ball of fire floated on the water.
It came nearer—and horror and sympathy usurped the place
of superstition, as a burning vessel rose and fell with every
heaving wave. The storm was abated, though the sea yet
raged, and many a hardy fisherman pushed out his boat in
the pious hope of saving some of the unfortunate crew.
Their efforts were in vain; ere half the distance was accomplished,
there came a hissing sound; the flames for one brief
moment blazed with appalling brilliance—then sunk, and
there was a void on the wide waste of waters.
// 176.png
.bn 176.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p162
<i>The Escape.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
A TALE OF 1755.
.nf-
.sp 1
.pm verse-start
          “Dark lowers our fate,
And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us;
But nothing, till that latest agony
Which severs thee from nature shall unloose
This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house;
In the terrific force of armed law;
Yea! on the scaffold, if it needs must be,
I never will forsake thee.”—<sc>Joanna Baillie.</sc>
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>About</sc> the middle of the eighteenth century, the little town
of Montes, situated some forty or fifty miles from Lisbon,
was thrown into most unusual excitement by the magnificence
attending the nuptials of Alvar Rodriguez and Almah
Diaz; an excitement which the extraordinary beauty of the
bride, who, though the betrothed of Alvar from her childhood,
had never been seen in Montes before, of course not a
little increased. The little church of Montes looked gay and
glittering, for the large sums lavished by Alvar on the
officiating priests, and in presents to their patron saints, had
occasioned every picture, shrine, and image to blaze in uncovered
gold and jewels, and the altar to be fed with the
richest incense, and lighted with tapers of the finest wax, to
do him honour.
.pi
The church was full; for, although the bridal party did
not exceed twenty, the village appeared to have emptied
itself there; Alvar’s munificence to all classes, on all occasions,
having rendered him the universal idol, and
caused the fame of that day’s rejoicing to extend many
miles around.

There was nothing remarkable in the behaviour of either
bride or bridegroom, except that both were decidedly more
calm than such occasions usually warrant. Nay, in the fine,
manly countenance of Alvar, ever and anon an expression
seemed to flit, that in any but so true a son of the church
would have been accounted scorn. In such a one, of course,
it was neither seen nor regarded, except by his bride; for at
// 177.png
.bn 177.png
such times her eyes met his with an earnest and entreating
glance, that the peculiar look was changed into a quiet,
tender seriousness which reassured her.

From the church they adjourned to the lordly mansion of
Rodriguez, which, in the midst of the flowering orange and
citron trees, stood about two miles from the town.

The remainder of the day passed in festivity. The banquet
and dance and song, both within and around the
house, diversified the scene and increased hilarity in all. By
sunset, all but the immediate friends and relatives of the
newly wedded had departed. Some splendid and novel fireworks
from the heights having attracted universal attention,
Alvar, with his usual indulgence, gave his servants and
retainers permission to join the festive crowds; liberty, to
all who wished it, was given for the next two hours.

In a very brief interval the house was cleared, with the
exception of a young Moor, the secretary or book-keeper of
Alvar, and four or five middle-aged domestics of both sexes.

Gradually, and it appeared undesignedly, the bride and
her female companions were left alone, and for the first time
the beautiful face of Almah was shadowed by emotion.

“Shall I, oh, shall I indeed be his?” she said, half-aloud.
“There are moments when our dread secrets are so terrible; it
seems to forbode discovery at the very moment it would be
most agonizing to bear.”

“Hush, silly one!” was the reply of an older friend;
“discovery is not so easily or readily accomplished. The
persecuted and the nameless have acquired wisdom and
caution at the price of blood—learned to deceive, that they
may triumph—to conceal, that they may flourish still.
Almah, we are not to fall!”

“I know it, Inez. A superhuman agency upholds us;
we had been cast off, rooted out, plucked from the very face
of the earth long since else. But there are times when
human nature will shrink and tremble—when the path of
deception and concealment allotted for us to tread seems
fraught with danger at every turn. I know it is all folly,
yet there is a dim foreboding, shadowing our fair horizon of
joy as a hovering thunder-cloud. There has been suspicion,
torture, death. Oh, if my Alvar—”

“Nay, Almah; this is childish. It is only because you
are too happy, and happiness, in its extent is ever pain. In
// 178.png
.bn 178.png
good time comes your venerable guardian, to chide and
silence all such foolish fancies. How many weddings have
there been, and will there still be, like this? Come, smile,
love, while I re-arrange your veil.”

Almah obeyed, though the smile was faint, as if the soul
yet trembled in its joy. On the entrance of Gonzolas, her
guardian (she was an orphan and an heiress), her veil was
thrown around her, so as completely to envelope face and
form. Taking his arm, and followed by all her female companions,
she was hastily and silently led to a sort of ante-room
or cabinet, opening, by a massive door concealed with
tapestry, from the suite of rooms appropriated to the private
use of the merchant and his family. There Alvar and his
friends awaited her. A canopy, supported by four of the
youngest males present, was held over the bride and bridegroom
as they stood facing the east. A silver salver lay at
their feet, and opposite stood an aged man, with a small
richly-bound volume in his hand. It was open and displayed
letters and words of unusual form and sound. Another
of Alvar’s friends stood near, holding a goblet of
sacred wine; and to a third was given a slight and thin
Venetian glass. After a brief and solemn pause, the old
man read or rather chanted from the book he held, joined
in parts by those around; and then he tasted the sacred
wine, and passed it to the bride and bridegroom. Almah’s
veil was upraised, for her to touch the goblet with her lips,
now quivering with emotion, and not permitted to fall again.
And Alvar, where now was the expression of scorn and contempt
that had been stamped on his bold brow and curling
lip before? Gone—lost before the powerful emotion which
scarcely permitted his lifting the goblet a second time to his
lips. Then, taking the Venetian glass, he broke it on the
salver at his feet, and the strange rites were completed.

Yet no words of congratulation came. Drawn together in
a closer knot, while Alvar folded the now almost fainting
Almah to his bosom, and said, in the deep, low tones of
intense feeling, “Mine, mine for ever now—mine in the
sight of our God, the God of the exile and the faithful; our
fate, whatever it be, henceforth is one;” the old man lifted
up his clasped hands, and prayed.

“God of the nameless and homeless,” he said, and it was
in the same strange yet solemn-sounding language as before,
// 179.png
.bn 179.png
“have mercy on these Thy servants, joined together in Thy
Holy name, to share the lot on earth Thy will assigns them,
with one heart and mind. Strengthen Thou them to keep
the secret of their faith and race—to teach it to their offspring
as they received it from their fathers. Pardon Thou,
them and us, the deceit we do to keep holy Thy law and
Thine inheritance. In the land of the persecutor, the exterminator,
be Thou their shield, and save them for Thy Holy
name. But if discovery and its horrible consequences—imprisonment,
torture, death—await them, strengthen Thou
them for their endurance—to die as they would live for
Thee. Father, hear us! homeless and nameless upon earth,
we are Thine own!”

“Aye, strengthen me for him, my husband; turn my
woman weakness into Thy strength for him, Almighty
Father,” was the voiceless prayer with which Almah lifted
up her pale face from her husband’s bosom, where it had
rested during the whole of that strange and terrible prayer;
and in the calmness stealing on her throbbing heart, she
read her answer.

It was some few minutes ere the excited spirits of the
devoted few then present, male or female, master or servant,
could subside into their wonted control. But such scenes,
such feelings were not of rare occurrence; and ere the
domestics of Rodriguez returned, there was nothing either
in the mansion or its inmates to denote that anything uncommon
had taken place during their absence.

The Portuguese are not fond of society at any time, so
that Alvar and his young bride should, after one week of
festivity, live in comparative retirement, elicited no surprise.
The former attended his house of business at Montes as
usual; and whoever chanced to visit him at his beautiful
estate, returned delighted with his entertainment and his
hosts; so that, far and near, the merchant Alvar became
noted alike for his munificence and the strict orthodox
Catholicism in which he conducted his establishment.

And was Alvar Rodriguez indeed what he seemed? If
so, what were those strange mysterious rites with which in
secret he celebrated his marriage? For what were those
many contrivances in his mansion, secret receptacles even
from his own sitting-rooms, into which all kinds of forbidden
food were conveyed from his very table, that his soul might
// 180.png
.bn 180.png
not be polluted by disobedience? How did it so happen
that one day in every year Alvar gave a general holiday—leave
of absence for four and twenty hours, under some
well-arranged pretence, to all save those who entreated permission
to remain with him? And that on that day, Alvar,
his wife, his Moorish secretary, and all those domestics who
had witnessed his marriage, spent in holy fast and prayer—permitting
no particle of food or drink to pass their lips from
eve unto eve; or if, by any chance, the holiday could not be
given, their several meals to be laid and served, yet so contriving
that, while the food looked as if it had been partaken
of, not a portion had they touched? That the Saturday
should be passed in seeming preparation for the Sunday, in
cessation from work of any kind, and in frequent prayer, was
perhaps of trivial importance; but for the previous mysteries—mysteries
known to Alvar, his wife, and five or six of his
establishment, yet never by word or sign betrayed; how
may we account for them? There may be some to whom
the memory of such things, as common to their ancestors,
may be yet familiar; but to by far the greater number of
English readers, they are, in all probability, as incomprehensible
as uncommon.

Alvar Rodriguez was a Jew. One of the many who, in
Portugal and Spain, fulfilled the awful prophecy of their
great lawgiver Moses, and bowed before the imaged saints
and martyrs of the Catholic, to shrine the religion of their
fathers yet closer in their hearts and homes. From father
to son the secret of their faith and race descended, so early
and so mysteriously taught, that little children imbibed it—not
alone the faith, but so effectually to conceal it, as to
avert and mystify all inquisitorial questioning, long before
they knew the meaning or necessity of what they learned.

How this was accomplished, how the religion of God was
thus preserved in the very midst of persecution and intolerance,
must ever remain a mystery, as, happily for Israel
such fearful training is no longer needed. But that it did
exist, that Jewish children, in the very midst of monastic
and convent tuition, yet adhered to the religion of their
fathers, never by word or sign betrayed the secret with which
they were intrusted; and, in their turn, became husbands
and fathers, conveying their solemn and dangerous inheritance
to their posterity—that such things were, there
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are those still amongst the Hebrews of England to affirm and
recall, claiming among their own ancestry, but one generation
removed, those who have thus concealed and thus adhered.
It was the power of God, not the power of man. Human
strength had been utterly inefficient. Torture and death
would long before have annihilated every remnant of Israel’s
devoted race. But it might not be; for God had spoken.
And, as a living miracle, a lasting record of His truth, His
justice, aye, and mercy, Israel was preserved in the midst of
danger, in the very face of death, and will be preserved for
ever.

It was no mere rejoicing ceremony, that of marriage,
amongst the disguised and hidden Israelites of Portugal and
Spain. They were binding themselves to preserve and propagate
a persecuted faith. They were no longer its sole repositors.
Did the strength of one waver, all was at end.
They were united in the sweet links of love—framing for
themselves new ties, new hopes, new blessings in a rising
family—all of which, at one blow, might be destroyed.
They existed in an atmosphere of death, yet they lived and
flourished. But so situated, it was not strange that human
emotion, both in Alvar and his bride, should, on their
wedding-day, have gained ascendency; and the solemn hour
which made them one in the sight of the God they worshipped,
should have been fraught with a terror and a shuddering,
of which Jewish lovers in free and happy England
can have no knowledge.

Alvar Rodriguez was one of those high and noble spirits,
on whom the chain of deceit and concealment weighed
heavily; and there were times when it had been difficult to suppress
and conceal his scorn of those outward observances which
his apparent Catholicism compelled. When united to Almah,
however, he had a stronger incentive than his own safety;
and as time passed on, and he became a father, caution and
circumspection, if possible, increased with the deep passionate
feelings of tenderness towards the mother and child.
As the boy grew and flourished, the first feelings of dread,
which the very love he excited called forth at his birth, subsided
into a kind of tranquil calm, which even Almah’s
foreboding spirit trusted would last, as the happiness of
others of her race.

Though Alvar’s business was carried on both at Montes
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and at Lisbon, the bulk of both his own and his wife’s
property was, by a strange chance, invested at Badajoz, a
frontier town of Spain, and whence he had often intended
to remove it, but had always been prevented. It happened
that early in the month of June, some affairs calling him to
Lisbon, he resolved to delay removing it no longer, smiling at
his young wife’s half solicitation to let it remain where it was,
and playfully accusing her of superstition, a charge she cared
not to deny. The night before his intended departure his young
Moorish secretary, in other words, an Israelite of Barbary
extraction, entered his private closet, with a countenance of
entreaty and alarm, earnestly conjuring his master to give up
his Lisbon expedition, and retire with his wife and son to
Badajoz or Oporto, or some distant city, at least for a while.
Anxiously Rodriguez inquired wherefore.

“You remember the Senor Leyva, your worship’s guest a
week or two ago?”

“Perfectly. What of him?”

“Master, I like him not. If danger befall us it will
come through him. I watched him closely, and every
hour of his stay shrunk from him the more. He was a
stranger?”

“Yes; benighted, and had lost his way. It was impossible
to refuse him hospitality. That he stayed longer
than he had need, I grant; but there is no cause of alarm in
that—he liked his quarters.”

“Master,” replied the Moor, earnestly, “I do not believe
his tale. He was no casual traveller. I cannot trust
him.”

“You are not called upon to do so, man,” said Alvar,
laughing. “What do you believe him to be that you would
inoculate me with your own baseless alarm?”

Hassan Ben Ahmed’s answer, whatever it might be, for it
was whispered fearfully in his master’s ear, had the effect of
sending every drop of blood from Alvar’s face to his very
heart. But he shook off the stagnating dread. He combated
the prejudices of his follower as unreasonable and unfounded.
Hassan’s alarm, however, could only be soothed
by the fact, that so suddenly to change his plans would but
excite suspicion. If Leyva were what he feared, his visit
must already have been followed by the usual terrific
effects.
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Alvar promised, however, to settle his affairs at Lisbon as
speedily as he could, and return for Almah and his son, and
convey them to some place of greater security until the
imagined danger was passed.

In spite of his assumed indifference, however, Rodriguez
could not bid his wife and child farewell without a pang of
dread, which it was difficult to conceal. The step between
life and death—security and destruction—was so small, it
might be passed unconsciously, and then the strongest nerve
might shudder at the dark abyss before him. Again and
again he turned to go, and yet again returned; and it was with
a feeling literally of desperation he at length tore himself
away.

A fearful trembling was on Almah’s heart as she gazed
after him, but she would not listen to its voice.

“It is folly,” she said, self-upbraidingly. “My Alvar is
ever chiding this too doubting heart. I will not disobey him,
by fear and foreboding in his absence. The God of the
nameless is with him and me,” and she raised her
eyes to the blue arch above her, with an expression that
needed not voice to mark it prayer.

About a week after Alvar’s departure, Almah was sitting
by the cradle of her boy, watching his soft and rosy slumbers,
with a calm, sweet thankfulness that such a treasure was her
own. The season had been unusually hot and dry, but the
apartment in which the young mother sat opened on a
pleasant spot, thickly shaded with orange, lemon, and almond
trees, and decked with a hundred other richly-hued and richly-scented
plants; in the centre of which a fountain sent up
its heavy showers, which fell back on the marble bed, with a
splash and coolness peculiarly refreshing, and sparkled in the
sun as glittering gems.

A fleet yet heavy step resounded from the garden, which
seemed suddenly and forcibly restrained into a less agitated
movement. A shadow fell between her and the sunshine,
and, starting, Almah looked hastily up. Hassan Ben Ahmed
stood before her, a paleness on his swarthy cheek, and a compression
on his nether lip, betraying strong emotion painfully
restrained.

“My husband! Hassan. What news bring you of him?
Why are you alone?”

He laid his hand on her arm, and answered in a voice which
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so quivered that only ears eager as her own could have distinguished
his meaning.

“Lady, dear, dear lady, you have a firm and faithful heart.
Oh! for the love of Him who calls on you to suffer, awake
its strength and firmness. My dear, my honoured lady, sink
not, fail not! O God of mercy support her now!” he
added, flinging himself on his knees before her, as Almah
one moment sprang up with a smothered shriek, and the next
sank back on her seat rigid as marble.

Not another word she needed. Hassan thought to have
prepared, gradually to have told his dread intelligence; but
he had said enough. Called upon to suffer, and for Him,
her God—her doom was revealed in those brief words. One
minute of such agonized struggle, that her soul and body
seemed about to part beneath it; and the wife and mother
roused herself to do. Lip, cheek, and brow vied in their
ashen whiteness with her robe; the blue veins rose distended
as cords; and the voice—had not Hassan gazed upon her, he
had not known it as her own.

She commanded him to tell her briefly all, and even while
he spoke, seemed revolving in her own mind the decision
which not four and twenty hours after Hassan’s intelligence
she put into execution.

It was as Ben Ahmed had feared. The known popularity
and rumoured riches of Alvar Rodriguez had excited the
jealousy of that secret and awful tribunal, the Inquisition, one
of whose innumerable spies, under the feigned name of
Leyva, had obtained entrance within Alvar’s hospitable walls.
One unguarded word or movement, the faintest semblance
of secrecy or caution, were all-sufficient; nay, without
these, more than a common share of wealth or felicity
was enough for the unconscious victims to be marked,
tracked, and seized, without preparation or suspicion of their
fate. Alvar had chanced to mention his intended visit to
Lisbon; and the better to conceal the agent of his arrest, as
also to make it more secure, they waited till his arrival there,
watched their opportunity, and seized and conveyed him to
those cells whence few returned in life, propagating the
charge of relapsed Judaism as the cause of his arrest. It
was a charge too common for remark, and the power which
interfered too mighty for resistance. The confusion of the
arrest soon subsided; but it lasted long enough for the faithful
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Hassan to escape, and, by dint of very rapid travelling,
he reached Montes not four hours after his master’s seizure.
The day was in consequence before them, and he ceased not
to conjure his lady to fly at once; the officers of the Inquisition
could scarcely be there before nightfall.

“You must take advantage of it, Hassan, and all of you
who love me. For my child, my boy,” she had clasped him
to her bosom, and a convulsion contracted her beautiful
features as she spoke, “you must take care of him; convey
him to Holland or England. Take jewels and gold sufficient;
and—and make him love his parents—he may never see either
of them more. Hassan, Hassan, swear to protect my child!”
she added, with a burst of such sudden and passionate agony,
it seemed as if life or reason must bend beneath it. Bewildered
by her words, as terrified by her emotion, Ben Ahmed
gently removed the trembling child from the fond arms that
for the first time failed to support him, gave him hastily to
the care of his nurse, who was also a Jewess, said a few
words in Hebrew, detailing what had passed, beseeching
her to prepare for flight, and then returned to his mistress.
The effects of that prostrating agony remained, but she had
so far conquered, as to seem outwardly calm; and in answer
to his respectful and anxious looks, besought him not to fear
for her, nor to dissuade her from her purpose, but to aid her
in its accomplishment. She summoned her household around
her, detailed what had befallen, and bade them seek their
own safety in flight; and when in tears and grief they left
her, and but those of her own faith remained, she solemnly
committed her child to their care, and informed them of her
own determination to proceed directly to Lisbon. In vain
Hassan Ben Ahmed conjured her to give up the idea; it was
little short of madness. How could she aid his master? why
not secure her own safety, that if indeed he should escape,
the blessing of her love would be yet preserved him?

“Do not fear for your master, Hassan,” was the calm reply;
“ask not of my plans, for at this moment they seem but
chaos, but of this be assured, we shall live or die together.”

More she revealed not; but when the officers of the Inquisition
arrived, near nightfall, they found nothing but deserted
walls. The magnificent furniture and splendid paintings
which alone remained, of course were seized by the Holy
Office, by whom Alvar’s property was also confiscated. Had
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his arrest been deferred three months longer, all would have
gone—swept off by the same rapacious power, to whom great
wealth was ever proof of great guilt—but as it was, the
greater part, secured in Spain, remained untouched; a circumstance
peculiarly fortunate, as Almah’s plans needed the
aid of gold.

We have no space to linger on the mother’s feelings, as
she parted from her boy; gazing on him, perhaps, for the
last time. Yet she neither wept nor sighed. There was but
one other feeling strong in that gentle bosom—a wife’s
devotion—and to that alone she might listen now.

Great was old Gonzalos’ terror and astonishment when
Almah, attended only by Hassan Ben Ahmed, and both
attired in the Moorish costume, entered his dwelling and
implored his concealment and aid. The arrest of Alvar
Rodriguez had, of course, thrown every secret Hebrew into
the greatest alarm, though none dared be evinced. Gonzalos’
only hope and consolation was that Almah and her
child had escaped; and to see her in the very centre of
danger, even to listen to her calmly proposed plans, seemed
so like madness, that he used every effort to alarm her into
their relinquishment. But this could not be; and with the
darkest forebodings, the old man at length yielded to the
stronger, more devoted spirit with whom he had to deal.

His mistress once safely under Gonzalos’ roof, Ben Ahmed
departed, under cover of night, in compliance with her
earnest entreaties, to rejoin her child, and to convey him
and his nurse to England, that blessed land, where the veil
of secrecy could be removed.

About a week after the incarceration of Alvar, a young
Moor sought and obtained admission to the presence of Juan
Pacheco, the secretary of the Inquisition, as informer against
Alvar Rodriguez. He stated that he had taken service with
him as clerk or secretary, on condition that he would give
him baptism and instruction in the holy Catholic faith; that
Alvar had not yet done so; that many things in his establishment
proclaimed a looseness of orthodox principles,
which the Holy Office would do well to notice. Meanwhile
he humbly offered a purse containing seventy pieces of gold,
to obtain masses for his salvation.

This last argument carried more weight than all the rest.
The young Moor, who boldly gave his name as Hassan Ben
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Ahmed (which was confirmation strong of his previous statement,
as in Leyva’s information of Alvar and his household
the Moorish secretary was particularly specified), was listened
to with attention, and finally received in Pacheco’s own
household, as junior clerk and servant to the Holy Office.

Despite his extreme youthfulness and delicacy of figure,
face, and voice, Hassan’s activity and zeal to oblige every
member of the Holy Office, superiors and inferiors, gradually
gained him the favour and goodwill of all. There was no
end to his resources for serving others; and thus he had
more opportunities of seeing the prisoners in a few weeks,
than others of the same rank as himself had had in years.
But the prisoner he most longed to see was still unfound,
and it was not till summoned before his judges, in the grand
hall of inquisition and of torture, Hassan Ben Ahmed gazed
once more upon his former master. He had attended
Pacheco in his situation of junior clerk, but had seated
himself so deeply in the shade that, though every movement
in both the face and form of Alvar was distinguishable to
him, Hassan himself was invisible.

The trial, if trial such iniquitous proceedings may be
called, proceeded; but in nought did Alvar Rodriguez fail in
his bearing or defence. Marvellous and superhuman must
that power have been which, in such a scene and hour, prevented
all betrayal of the true faith the victims bore. Once
Judaism confessed, the doom was death; and again and
again have the sons of Israel remained in the terrible dungeons
of the Inquisition—endured every species of torture
during a space of seven, ten, or twelve years, and then been
released, because no proof could be brought of their being
indeed that accursed thing—a Jew. And then it was that
they fled from scenes of such fearful trial to lands of toleration
and freedom, and there embrace openly and rejoicingly
that blessed faith, for which in secret they had borne so
much.

Alvar Rodriguez was one of these—prepared to suffer, but
not reveal. They applied the torture, but neither word nor
groan was extracted from him. Engrossed with the prisoner,
for it was his task to write down whatever disjointed
words might escape his lips, Pacheco neither noticed not
even remembered the presence of the young Moor. No
unusual paleness could be visible on his embrowned cheek,
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but his whole frame felt to himself to have become rigid as
stone; a deadly sickness had crept over him, and the terrible
conviction of all which rested with him to do alone prevented
his sinking senseless on the earth.

The terrible struggle was at length at an end. Alvar was
released for the time being, and remanded to his dungeon.
Availing himself of the liberty he enjoyed in the little notice
now taken of his movements, Hassan reached the prison
before either Alvar or his guards. A rapid glance told him
its situation, overlooking a retired part of the court, cultivated
as a garden. The height of the wall seemed about forty feet,
and there were no windows of observation on either side.
This was fortunate, the more so as Hassan had before made
friends with the old gardener, and pretending excessive love
of gardening, had worked just under the window, little
dreaming its vicinity to him he sought.

A well-known Hebrew air, with its plaintive Hebrew words,
sung tremblingly and softly under his window, first roused
Alvar to the sense that a friend was near. He started, almost
in superstitious terror, for the voice seemed an echo to that
which was ever sounding in his heart. That loved one it
could not be, nay, he dared not even wish it; but still the
words were Hebrew, and, for the first time, memory flashed
back a figure in Moorish garb who had flitted by him on his
return to his prison, after his examination.

Hassan, the faithful Hassan! Alvar felt certain it could
be none but he; though, in the moment of sudden excitement,
the voice had seemed another’s. He looked from the
window; the Moor was bending over the flowers, but Alvar
felt confirmed in his suspicions, and his heart throbbed with
the sudden hope of liberty. He whistled, and a movement in
the figure below convinced him he was heard.

One point was gained; the next was more fraught with
danger, yet it was accomplished. In a bunch of flowers,
drawn up by a thin string which Alvar chanced to possess,
Ben Ahmed had concealed a file; and as he watched it ascend,
and beheld the flowers scattered to the winds, in token that
they had done their work, for Alvar dared not retain them in
his prison, Hassan felt again the prostration of bodily power
which had before assailed him for such a different cause,
and it was an almost convulsive effort to retain his faculties;
but a merciful Providence watched over him and Alvar,
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making the feeblest and the weakest, instruments of His all-sustaining
love.

We are not permitted space to linger on the various ingenious
methods adopted by Hassan Ben Ahmed to forward and
mature his plans. Suffice it that all seemed to smile upon
him. The termination of the garden wall led, by a concealed
door, to a subterranean passage running to the banks of the
Tagus. This fact, as also the secret spring of the trap, the
old gardener in a moment of unwise conviviality imparted to
Ben Ahmed, little imagining the special blessing which such
unexpected information secured.

An alcayde and about twenty guards did sometimes patrol
the garden within sight of Alvar’s window; but this did not
occur often, such caution seeming unnecessary.

It had been an evening of unwonted festivity among the
soldiers and servants of the Holy Office, which had at length
subsided into the heavy slumbers of general intoxication.
Hassan had supped with the gardener, and plying him well
with wine, soon produced the desired effect. Four months
had the Moor spent within the dreaded walls, and the moment
had now come when delay need be no more. At midnight
all was hushed into profound silence, not a leaf stirred, and
the night was so unusually still that the faintest sound would
have been distinguished. Hassan stealthily crept round the
outposts. Many of the guards were slumbering in various
attitudes upon their posts, and others, dependent on his
promised watchfulness, were literally deserted. He stood
beneath the window. One moment he clasped his hands
and bowed his head in one mighty, piercing, though silent
prayer, and then dug hastily in the flower-bed at his feet,
removing from thence a ladder of ropes, which had lain there
some days concealed, and flung a pebble with correct aim
against the bars of Alvar’s window. The sound, though
scarcely loud enough to disturb a bird, reverberated on the
trembling heart which heard, as if a thousand cannons had
been discharged.

A moment of agonized suspense, and Alvar Rodriguez
stood at the window, the bar he had removed, in his hand.
He let down the string, to which Hassan’s now trembling
hands secured the ladder and drew it to the wall. His descent
could not have occupied two minutes, at the extent;
but to that solitary watcher what eternity of suffering did
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they seem! Alvar was at his side, had clasped his hands,
had called him “Hassan! brother!” in tones of intense
feeling, but no word replied. He sought to fly, to point to
the desired haven, but his feet seemed suddenly rooted to
the earth. Alvar threw his arm around him, and drew him
forwards. A sudden and unnatural strength returned.
Noiselessly and fleetly as their feet could go, they sped beneath
the shadow of the wall. A hundred yards alone
divided them from the secret door. A sudden sound broke
the oppressive stillness. It was the tramp of heavy feet and
the clash of arms; the light of many torches flashed upon
the darkness. They darted forward in the fearful excitement
of despair; but the effort was void and vain. A wild shout
of challenge—of alarm—and they were surrounded, captured,
so suddenly, so rapidly, Alvar’s very senses seemed to reel;
but frightfully they were recalled. A shriek, so piercing, it
seemed to rend the very heavens, burst through the still air.
The figure of the Moor rushed from the detaining grasp of
the soldiery, regardless of bared steel and pointed guns, and
flung himself at the feet of Alvar.

“O God, my husband—I have murdered him!” were the
strange appalling words which burst upon his ear, and the
lights flashing upon his face, as he sank prostrate and lifeless
on the earth, revealed to Alvar’s tortured senses the features
of his wife.

How long that dead faint continued Almah knew not, but
when sense returned she found herself in a dark and dismal
cell, her upper garment and turban removed, while the
plentiful supply of water, which had partially restored life, had
removed in a great degree the dye which had given her countenance
its Moorish hue. Had she wished to continue concealment,
one glance around her would have proved the effort
vain. Her sex was already known, and the stern dark countenances
near her breathed but ruthlessness and rage. Some
brief questions were asked relative to her name, intent, and
faith, which she answered calmly.

“In revealing my name,” she said, “my intention must
also be disclosed. The wife of Alvar Rodriguez had not
sought these realms of torture and death, had not undergone
all the miseries of disguise and servitude, but for one hope,
one intent—the liberty of her husband.”

“Thus proving his guilt,” was the rejoinder. “Had you
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known him innocent, you would have waited the justice of
the Holy Office to give him freedom.”

“Justice!” she repeated, bitterly. “Had the innocent
never suffered, I might have trusted. But I knew accusation
was synonymous with death, and therefore came I here. For
my faith, mine is my husband’s.”

“And know you the doom of all who attempt or abet
escape? Death—death by burning! and this you have
hurled upon him and yourself. It is not the Holy Office, but
his wife who has condemned him,” and with gibing laugh
they left her, securing with heavy bolt and bar the iron door.
She darted forwards, beseeching them, as they hoped for
mercy, to take her to her husband, to confine them underground
a thousand fathoms deep, so that they might but be
together; but only the hollow echo of her own voice replied,
and the wretched girl sunk back upon the ground, relieved
from present suffering by long hours of utter insensibility.

It was not till brought from their respective prisons to hear
pronounced on them the sentence of death, that Alvar
Rodriguez and his heroic wife once more gazed upon each
other.

They had provided Almah, at her own entreaty, with
female habiliments; for, in the bewildering agony of her spirit,
she attributed the failure of her scheme for the rescue of her
husband to her having disobeyed the positive command of
God, and adopted a male disguise, which in His eyes was
abomination, but which in her wild desire to save Alvar she
had completely overlooked, and she now in consequence
shrunk from the fatal garb with agony and loathing. Yet
despite the haggard look of intense mental and bodily suffering,
the loss of her lovely hair, which she had cut close to
her head, lest by the merest chance its length and luxuriance
should discover her, so exquisite, so touching, was her delicate
loveliness, that her very judges, stern, unbending as was
their nature, looked on her with an admiration almost softening
them to mercy.

And now, for the first time, Alvar’s manly composure
seemed about to desert him. He, too, had suffered almost
as herself, save that her devotedness, her love, appeared to
give him strength, to endow him with courage, even to look
upon her fate, blended as it now was with his own, with calmness
in that merciful God who called him thus early to Himself.
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Almah could not realize such thoughts. But one
image was ever present, seeming to mock her very misery to
madness. Her effort had failed; had she not so wildly
sought her husband’s escape—had she but waited—they
might have released him; and now, what was she but his
murderess?

Little passed between the prisoners and their judges.
Their guilt was all-sufficiently proved by their endeavours to
escape, which in itself was a crime always visited by death;
and for these manifold sins and misdemeanours they were
sentenced to be burnt alive, on All Saints’ day, in the grand
square of the Inquisition, at nine o’clock in the morning,
and proclamation commanded to be made throughout Lisbon,
that all who sought to witness and assist at the ceremony
should receive remission of sins, and be accounted worthy
servants of Jesus Christ. The lesser severity of strangling
the victims before burning was denied them, as they neither
repented nor had trusted to the justice and clemency of the
Holy Office, but had attempted to avert a deserved fate by
flight.

Not a muscle of Alvar’s fine countenance moved during
this awful sentence. He stood proudly and loftily erect,
regarding those that spake with an eye, bright, stern, unflinching
as their own; but a change passed over it as, breaking
from the guard around, Almah flung herself on her
knees at his feet.

“Alvar! Alvar! I have murdered—my husband, oh, my
husband, say you forgive—forgive—”

“Hush, hush, beloved! mine own heroic Almah, fail not
now!” he answered, with a calm and tender seriousness,
which seeming to still that crushing agony, strengthened her
to bear; and raising her, he pressed her to his breast.

“We have but to die as we have lived, my own! true to that
God whose chosen and whose firstborn we are, have been, and
shall be unto death, aye, and <i>beyond</i> it. He will protect our
poor orphan, for He has promised the fatherless shall be His
care. Look up, my beloved, and say you can face death with
Alvar, calmly, faithfully, as you sought to live for him. God
has chosen for us a better heritage than one of earth.”

She raised her head from his bosom; the terror and the
agony had passed from that sweet face—it was tranquil as
his own.
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“It was not my own death I feared,” she said, unfalteringly,
“it was but the weakness of human love; but it is
over now. Love is mightier than death; there is only love
in heaven.”

“Aye!” answered Alvar, and proudly and sternly he
waved back the soldiers who had hurried forward to divide
them. “Men of a mistaken and bloody creed, behold how
the scorned and persecuted Israelites can love and die.
While there was a hope that we could serve our God, the
Holy and the only One, better in life than in death, it was
our duty to preserve that life, and endure torture for His
sake, rather than reveal the precious secret of our sainted
faith and heavenly heritage. But now that hope is at an end,
now that no human means can save us from the doom pronounced,
know ye have judged rightly of our creed. We
are those chosen children of God, by you deemed blasphemous
and heretic. Do what ye will, men of blood and
guile, ye cannot rob us of our faith.”

The impassioned tones of natural eloquence awed even the
rude crowd around; but more was not permitted. Rudely
severed, and committed to their own guards, the prisoners
were borne to their respective dungeons. To Almah, those
earnest words had been as the voice of an angel, hushing
every former pang to rest; and in the solitude and darkness
of the intervening hours, even the thought of her child could
not rob her soul of its calm, or prayer of its strength.

The first of November, 1755, dawned cloudless and lovely,
as it had been the last forty days. Never had there been a
season more gorgeous in its sunny splendour, more brilliant
in the intense azure of its arching heaven than the present.
Scarcely any rain had fallen for many months, and the heat
had at first been intolerable, but within the last six weeks a
freshness and coolness had infused the atmosphere and
revived the earth.

As it was not a regular <i>auto da fé</i> (Alvar and his wife being
the only victims), the awful ceremony of burning was to
take place in the square, of which the buildings of the Inquisition
formed one side. Mass had been performed before
daybreak, in the chapel of the Inquisition, at which the
victims were compelled to be present, and about half-past
seven the dread procession left the Inquisition gates. The
soldiers and minor servitors marched first, forming a hollow
// 194.png
.bn 194.png
square, in the centre of which were the stakes and huge
faggots piled around. Then came the sacred cross, covered
with a black veil, and its body-guard of priests. The victims,
each surrounded by monks, appeared next, closely followed
by the higher officers and inquisitors, and a band of fifty
men, in rich dresses of black satin and silver, closed the procession.

We have no space to linger on the ceremonies always
attendant on the burning of Inquisitorial prisoners. Although,
from the more private nature of the rites, these ceremonies
were greatly curtailed, it was rather more than half an hour
after nine when the victims were bound to their respective
stakes, and the executioners approached with their blazing
brands.

There was no change in the countenance of either prisoner.
Pale they were, yet calm and firm; all of human feeling
had been merged in the martyr’s courage, and the martyr’s
faith.

One look had been exchanged between them—of love
spiritualized to look beyond the grave—of encouragement to
endure for their God, even to the end. The sky was still
cloudless, the sun still looked down on that scene of horror;
and then was a hush—a pause—for so it felt in nature, that
stilled the very breathing of those around.

.if h
.il fn=illus_fp181.jpg w=373px
.if-

.if t
.ti +8
[Illustration]
.if-

“Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is <sc>One</sc>—the
Sole and Holy <sc>One</sc>; there is no unity like His unity!”
were the words which broke that awful pause, in a voice
distinct, unfaltering, and musical as its wont; and it was
echoed by the sweet tones from woman’s lips, so thrilling in
their melody, the rudest nature started. It was the signal of
their fate. The executioners hastened forward, the brands
were applied to the turf of the piles, the flames burst up beneath
their hand—when at that moment there came a shock
as if the very earth were cloven asunder, the heavens rent in
twain. A crash so loud, so fearful, so appalling, as if the whole
of Lisbon had been shivered to its foundations, and a shriek,
or rather thousands and thousands of human voices, blended
in one wild-piercing cry of agony and terror, seeming to
burst from every quarter at the self-same instant, and fraught
with universal woe. The buildings around shook, as impelled
by a mighty whirlwind, though no sound of such was
heard. The earth heaved, yawned, closed, and rocked
// 195.png
.bn 195.png
// 196.png
.bn 196.png
// 197.png
.bn 197.png
again, as the billows of the ocean were lashed to fury. It was
a moment of untold horror. The crowd assembled to witness
the martyr’s death fled, wildly shrieking, on every side.
Scattered to the heaving ground, the blazing piles lay powerless
to injure; their bonds were shivered, their guards were
fled. One bound brought Alvar to his wife, and he clasped
her in his arms. “God, God of Mercy, save us yet again!
Be with us to the end!” he exclaimed, and faith winged the
prayer. On, on he sped; up, up, in direction of the heights,
where he knew comparative safety lay; but ere he reached
them, the innumerable sights and sounds of horror that
yawned upon his way! Every street, and square, and avenue
was choked with shattered ruins, rent from top to bottom;
houses, convents, and churches presented the most fearful
aspect of ruin; while every second minute a new impetus
seemed to be given to the convulsed earth, causing those
that remained still perfect to rock and rend. Huge stones,
falling from every crack, were crushing the miserable fugitives
as they rushed on, seeking safety they knew not where.
The rafters of every roof, wrenched from their fastenings,
stood upright a brief while, and then fell in hundreds together,
with a crash perfectly appalling. The very ties of
nature were severed in the wild search for safety. Individual
life alone appeared worth preserving. None dared seek the
fate of friends—none dared ask, “Who lives?” in that one
scene of universal death.

On, on sped Alvar and his precious burden, on, over the
piles of ruins; on, unhurt amidst the shower of stones,
which, hurled in the air as easily as a ball cast from an infant’s
hand, fell back again laden with a hundred deaths;
on, amid the rocking and yawning earth, beholding thousands
swallowed up, crushed and maimed, worse than death
itself, for they were left to a lingering torture—to die a thousand
deaths in anticipating one; on, over the disfigured
heaps of dead, and the unrecognised masses of what had
once been magnificent and gorgeous buildings. His eye was
well-nigh blinded with the shaking and tottering movement
of all things animate and inanimate before him; and his
path obscured by the sudden and awful darkness, which had
changed that bright glowing blue of the sunny sky into a
pall of dense and terrible blackness, becoming thicker and
denser with every succeeding minute, till a darkness which
// 198.png
.bn 198.png
might be felt, enveloped that devoted city as with the grim
shadow of death. His ear was deafened by the appalling
sounds of human agony and Nature’s wrath; for now, sounds
as of a hundred water-spouts, the dull continued roar of
subterranean thunder, becoming at times loud as the discharge
of a thousand cannons; at others, resembling the sharp
grating sound of hundreds and hundreds of chariots driven
full speed over the stones; and this, mingled with the piercing
shrieks of women, the hoarser cries and shouts of men,
the deep terrible groans of mental agony, and the shriller
screams of instantaneous death, had usurped the place of
the previous awful stillness, till every sense of those who yet
survived seemed distorted and maddened. And Nature herself,
convulsed and freed from restraining bonds, appeared
about to return to that chaos whence she had leaped at the
word of God.

Still, still Alvar rushed forwards, preserved amidst it all,
as if the arm of a merciful Providence was indeed around
him and his Almah, marking them for life in the very midst
of death. Making his rapid way across the ruins of St.
Paul’s, which magnificent church had fallen in the first
shock, crushing the vast congregation assembled within its
walls, Alvar paused one moment, undecided whether to seek
the banks of the river or still to make for the western
heights. There was a moment’s hush and pause in the
convulsion of nature, but Alvar dared not hope for its continuance.
Ever and anon the earth still heaved, and houses
opened from base to roof and closed without further damage.
With a brief fervid cry for continued guidance and protection,
scarcely conscious which way in reality he took,
and still holding Almah to his bosom—so supernaturally
strengthened that the weakness of humanity seemed far
from him, Rodriguez hurried on, taking the most open path
to the Estrella Hill. An open space was gained, half-way
to the summit, commanding a view of the banks of the
river and the ruins around. Panting, almost breathless, yet
still struggling with his own exhaustion to encourage Almah,
Alvar an instant rested, ere he plunged anew into the
narrower streets. A shock, violent, destructive, convulsive
as the first, flung them prostrate; while the renewed and
increased sounds of wailing, the tremendous and repeated
crashes on every side, the disappearance of the towers,
// 199.png
.bn 199.png
steeples, and turrets which yet remained, revealed the further
destructiveness which had befallen. A new and terrible cry
added to the universal horror.

“The sea! the sea!” Alvar sprung to his feet, and,
clasped in each other’s arms, he and Almah gazed beneath.
Not a breath of wind stirred, yet the river (which being at
that point four miles wide appeared like the element they
had termed it) tossed and heaved as impelled by a mighty
storm—and on it came, roaring, foaming tumbling, as if every
bound were loosed; on, over the land to the very heart of the
devoted city, sweeping off hundreds in its course, and retiring
with such velocity, and so far beyond its natural
banks, that vessels were left dry which had five minutes
before ridden in water seven fathoms deep. Again and
again this phenomenon took place; the vessels in the river,
at the same instant, whirled round and round with frightful
rapidity, and smaller boats dashed upwards, falling back to
disappear beneath the booming waters. As if chained to the
spot where they stood, fascinated by this very horror, Alvar
and his wife yet gazed; their glance fixed on the new marble
quay, where thousands and thousands of the fugitives had
congregated, fixed, as if unconsciously foreboding what was
to befall. Again the tide rushed in—on, on, over the
massive ruins, heaving, raging, swelling, as a living thing;
and at the same instant the quay and its vast burthen of
humanity sunk within an abyss of boiling waters, into which
the innumerable boats around were alike impelled, leaving not
a trace, even when the angry waters returned to their
channel, suddenly as they had left it, to mark what had
been.

“’Twas the voice of God impelled me hither, rather than
pausing beside those fatal banks. Almah, my best beloved,
bear up yet a brief while more—He will spare and save us
as He hath done now. Merciful Providence! Behold
another wrathful element threatens to swallow up all of
life and property which yet remains. Great God, this is
terrible!”

And terrible it was: from three several parts of the ruined
city huge fires suddenly blazed up, hissing, crackling,
ascending as clear columns of liquid flame; up against the
pitchy darkness, infusing it with tenfold horror—spreading
on every side—consuming all of wood and wall which the
// 200.png
.bn 200.png
earth and water had left unscathed; wreathing its serpent-like
folds in and out the ruins, forming strange and terribly
beautiful shapes of glowing colouring; fascinating the eye
with admiration, yet bidding the blood chill and the flesh
creep. Fresh cries and shouts had marked its rise and
progress; but, aghast and stupefied, those who yet survived
made no effort to check its way, and on every side it spread,
forming lanes and squares of glowing red, flinging its lurid
glare so vividly around, that even those on the distant
heights could see to read by it; and fearful was the scene
that awful light revealed. Now, for the first time, could
Alvar trace the full extent of destruction which had befallen.
That glorious city, which a few brief hours previous lay
reposing in its gorgeous sunlight—mighty in its palaces
and towers—in its churches, convents, theatres, magazines,
and dwellings—rich in its numberless artizans and
stores—lay perished and prostrate as the grim spectre of
long ages past, save that the fearful groups yet passing
to and fro, or huddled in kneeling and standing masses,
some bathed in the red glare of the increasing fires, others
black and shapeless—save when a sudden flame flashed on
them, disclosing what they were—revealed a strange and
horrible <sc>PRESENT</sc>, yet lingering amid what seemed the
shadows of a fearful <sc>PAST</sc>. Nor was the convulsion of
nature yet at an end;—the earth still rocked and heaved
at intervals, often impelling the hissing flames more strongly
and devouringly forward, and by tossing the masses of
burning ruin to and fro, gave them the semblance of a
sea of flame. The ocean itself, too, yet rose and sunk, and
rose again; vessels were torn from their cables, anchors
wrenched from their soundings and hurled in the air—while
the warring waters, the muttering thunders, the crackling
flames, formed a combination of sounds which, even without
their dread adjuncts of human agony and terror, were all-sufficient
to freeze the very life-blood, and banish every sense
and feeling, save that of stupefying dread.

But human love, and superhuman faith, saved from the
stagnating horror. The conviction that the God of his
fathers was present with him, and would save him and
Almah to the end, never left him for an instant, but urged
him to exertions which, had he not had this all-supporting
faith, he would himself have deemed impossible. And his
// 201.png
.bn 201.png
faith spake truth. The God of infinite mercy, who had
stretched out His own right hand to save, and marked the
impotence of the wrath and cruelty of man, was with
him still, and, despite of the horrors yet lingering round
them, despite of the varied trials, fatigues, and privations
attendant on their rapid flight, led them to life and joy,
and bade them stand forth the witnesses and proclaimers of
His unfailing love, His everlasting providence!

With the great earthquake of Lisbon, the commencement
of which our preceding pages have faintly endeavoured to
portray, and its terrible effects on four millions of square
miles, our tale has no further connection. The third day
brought our poor fugitives to Badajoz, where Alvar’s property
had been secured. They tarried there only long
enough to learn the blessed tidings of Hassan Ben Ahmed’s
safe arrival in England with their child; that his faithfulness,
in conjunction with that of their agent in Spain, had already
safely transmitted the bulk of their property to the English
funds; and to obtain Ben Ahmed’s address, forward tidings of
their providential escape to him, and proceed on their journey.

An anxious but not a prolonged interval enabled them to
accomplish it safely, and once more did the doubly-rescued
press their precious boy to their yearning hearts, and feel
that conjugal and parental love burned, if it could be, the
dearer, brighter, more unspeakably precious, from the dangers
they had passed; and not human love alone. The veil of
secrecy was removed, they were in a land whose merciful
and liberal government granted to the exile and the wanderer
a home of peace and rest, where they might worship the
God of Israel according to the law he gave; and in hearts
like those of Alvar and his Almah, prosperity could have no
power to extinguish or deaden the religion of love and faith
which adversity had engendered.

The appearance of old Gonzalos and his family in England,
a short time after Alvar’s arrival there, removed their last
remaining anxiety, and gave them increased cause for thankfulness.
Not a member of the merchant’s family, and more
wonderful still, not a portion of his property, had been lost
amid the universal ruin; and to this very day, his descendants
recall his providential preservation by giving, on every
returning anniversary of that awful day, certain articles of
clothing to a limited number of male and female poor.[#]

.pm fn-start
A fact.
.pm fn-end
// 202.png
.bn 202.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p186
<i>Red Rose Villa, and its Inhabitants.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
A SKETCH.
.nf-
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>On</sc> the outskirts of a certain country town, which for euphony
we will call Briarstone, from its being situated in one of
the most picturesque but least known parts of old England,
and almost imbedded in hills and lanes, where the wood or
briar-rose grew redundantly, was a certain castellated-looking
mansion, glowing with red bricks and bright blue slates,
storied with large-paned windows, framed with such fresh
green, that it would seem as if the painter’s brush could
never have been absent above a month together. The
entrance-door, of most aristocratic dimensions, was of bright
glazed yellow, never sullied by dust or dimness. Below the
portentous-looking circular knocker (Briarstone was yet in
happy ignorance of the <i>un</i>-aristocracy of knockers) was a
large brass plate, glittering in the sunshine like burning gold,
and bearing thereon, in large and dignified letters, as if the
name was of such importance in itself that it required no
engraver’s ornament, the monosyllables—portentous in their
very brevity—<sc>Miss Brown</sc>. The gravel walk which led up
to the imposing flight of steps (white as the most scrupulous
care could make them) that the yellow door surmounted, was
kept so particularly neat, that the very birds feared to alight
upon it, lest they should be swept off for some intrusive leaf
or twig, quicker even than their voluntary flight. It was
impossible to look upon the exterior of the mansion without
being impressed with a grand idea of its as yet invisible
interior.
.pi
Standing, as Red Rose Villa did, in a spacious garden, full
ten minutes’ walk out of the town, it was marvellous how the
daily events of this said town became known within its walls,
as if a train had been laid—a sort of electrical conductor—to
the interior of every dwelling which conveyed back to its
starting-place all the information required. However invisible
the <i>means</i> of communication, the <i>effects</i> were certain: for
Miss Brown knew everything, even before the persons
affected knew it themselves.
// 203.png
.bn 203.png

Now, Miss Brown, though her dignified name appeared on
the brass plate solus, was not the sole inmate of this stately
mansion by any means. She was, in fact, one of a multitude;
for there were times when the capacious walls of Red Rose
Villa enshrined no fewer than fifty living souls. The truth
must out on our paper, though Miss Brown would have been
shocked almost to annihilation had any one suggested the
propriety of permitting it to speak on her cherished brass
plate—Miss Brown kept a first-rate finishing academy for
young ladies of the first families, and a boarding house for
all who needed kind friends, cheerful lodgings, and comfortable
board. Then she had an English, and a French,
and an Italian, and of course a German teacher—all exemplary
young women. Masters were rarely admitted, it being
a gross impropriety in Miss Brown’s educational code to
accustom young ladies to male tuition.

One indeed there was, a Mr. Gilbert Givevoice; but then
Miss Brown and his lamented mother had been such friends,
that at one time they had thought of becoming another Miss
Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler, and causing a sensation
by retiring to live on friendship; but, unfortunately, before
this could be carried into effect, a Mr. Givevoice appeared,
and Miss Brown was left to mourn the inconsistency of those
professions which had declared friendship all-sufficient for
life. The offence was not forgiven for many years; but when
Mrs. Givevoice was left a widow, Miss Brown generously
relented, and Gilbert showing some musical talent (magnified
by the Briarstonians into marvellous genius), he was gradually
installed as music-master general, and aid extraordinary
in all the concerns of Red Rose Villa.

Besides five-and-twenty pupils, a dozen boarders, four
teachers, and half a dozen servants, Miss Brown was blessed
with two brothers and two sisters, to all of whom she had
performed most inimitably a mother’s part. Many marvelled
that such grown men as Mr. Gustavus and Mr. Adolphus
Brown should so contentedly succumb to female domination,
and not seek homes for themselves; but petticoat government
was so supreme in Red Rose Villa, that even the hint
of such a thing would have been far too great a stretch of
masculine audacity; and, in fact, they were very well contented
where they were. Mr. Adolphus was a banker’s
clerk, and was only known at home as going to sleep upon
// 204.png
.bn 204.png
the sofa. Mr. Gustavus had been (according to his own
account), at one time, a land-surveyor, at another, an architect,
and then an engraver; but he was, he declared, one of
the unlucky ones, and so quietly sunk down in his sister’s
establishment, as merely a domestic man, who could set his
hand to anything. He taught writing and arithmetic, and
oriental tinting, and lead tinting, and a variety of finishing
accomplishments; and copied music, and invented patterns
for all the young lady-boarders who were worth something
more than smiles. Mr. Adolphus was always asleep. Mr.
Gustavus never seemed to sleep at all; thin as a lath, he
was here, there, and everywhere, busying himself in everybody’s
concerns, but never succeeding in forwarding his own.

Miss Brown, portly and majestic in carriage as of imperturbable
gravity in look, possessed a fund of high-sounding,
choice-worded, conversational powers—that is to say, her
speech, once entered upon, flowed on in such a continuous
gently-murmuring stream, that to break or interrupt it by a
rejoinder was utterly impossible. The voice was as imperturbable
and unvarying as the face. She was wondrously
learned; schooled in the lore of the ancient, and wise in the
ways of the modern world. No scheme could be set afloat
at Briarstone unless Miss Brown had been consulted; no
shop was the fashion unless Miss Brown had patronised; no
case of distress worth relieving, unless forwarded by Miss
Brown; and, in sober truth, Miss Brown was benevolent—was
generous—did the kindest deeds imaginable; but as she
never left her pinnacle of ice to look into human hearts, lest
their warmth should thaw hers, she received neither the
regard nor esteem which her sterling qualities in reality
merited. Miss Wilhelmina Brown was her antipodes—all
sweetness—all graciousness—all fascination! Miss Brown
was learned, and not accomplished; Miss Wilhelmina accomplished,
and not learned. Miss Brown was all sobriety, Miss
Wilhelmina all smiles. At thirty, she learnt the harp; at
five-and-thirty the guitar; at forty, she discovered she had a
voice, and could sing inimitably—all the Briarstone <i>soirées</i>
said so, and of course it must be true. Whole scenes from
the French tragedians—stanzas from Dante—long lines from
Schiller—Miss Wilhelmina would recite with such pathos,
such expression, there was no occasion to understand the
languages to enter into such charming recitations. English
// 205.png
.bn 205.png
poetry was not ventured upon: Byron and Moore <i>were</i>
charming, certainly; but then her sister’s responsible position—she
dared not admit them upon the drawing-room
tables of Red Rose Villa—she could only indulge herself
strictly in private.

Miss Angelica, the youngest of the family by some years,
was different to either sister. Nature had not been very
bountiful in the powers of the brain, but, in their stead, had
endowed her with powers of housewifery in no common
degree. She managed all the domestic concerns of this
human Noah’s ark as no one else could. From morning till
night she was moving; so overlooking every department,
that at the farthest sound of her footsteps (none of the
lightest, for Miss Angelica was as short and stout as Miss
Wilhelmina was tall and languidly slim) every brush and
broom seemed endowed with double velocity. Jingle, jingle,
went a huge bunch of keys—pat, pat, her substantial feet,
from kitchen to attic—scullery to roof. Even if she sat down,
her fingers continued the same perpetual motion, in the
creation of sundry caps, bonnets, head-dresses—all the paraphernalia
of female elegancies. No one dressed so becomingly
as the Misses Brown; and Miss Angelica was considered
the originator and inventor of fashions which all Briarstone
followed.

The pupils were like most misses in their teens. Originality
of character always succumbed to system in Red Rose
Villa. Miss Brown’s was a finishing academy for manners
as well as morals; and so in the weekly <i>soirées</i> of her mansion,
the young ladies, by alternate eights, appeared in the
drawing-room, dressed very becomingly, to sit down and
smile, and answer in monosyllables; to play their last specimen
of Herz or Thalberg, or sing their last bravura, or make
one in a quadrille; but in all they did to bear witness to the
admirable code of tuition and government carried out in Red
Rose Villa.

The boarders presented a variety of characters; but as our
sketch only extends over one evening, we can merely mention
them generally. Officers’ widows, on half-pay, who, by a
residence in Miss Brown’s establishment, combined first-rate
education for their daughters, and society for themselves;
ancient spinsters, who had not given up the idea of becoming
middle-aged matrons, well knowing that Miss Brown’s
// 206.png
.bn 206.png
philanthropic disposition gave them opportunities for the
cultivation of the tender passion, when any one else would
have imagined the time for such juvenilities was over. In
the fortnightly <i>soirées</i>, one, two, or three pairs of lovers were
always found among Miss Brown’s guests—unfortunates,
whose interminable engagements, from pecuniary difficulties,
or the stern dissent of cruel guardians, would have seemed
hopeless to all, but for the energetic encouragement of the
benevolent Miss Brown, who always acted on the idea

.nf c
“Passion, I see, is catching.”
.nf-

And, still more urgent reason, never did a wedding party
issue from the well-glazed portals of Red Rose Villa (and
such events did really occur) but an accession of pupils and
boarders immediately followed.

Amongst the boarders were two young ladies, sisters’
children, and both orphans, but the similitude went no further.
Isabel Morland, the eldest by two years, was a
sparkling brunette—satirical—clever; eccentric in habits,
uneven in temper, and capricious as the wind. But what
did all this signify? She was an heiress; and, reckoning
according to the estimation of Briarstone, a rich one. She
had been a pupil, and her love of display, and coquetry, and
determination to get a husband, had occasioned her resolve
to remain with a family whom in heart she detested, rather
than reside with the only relations she possessed, old respectable
folks in the country. She had sense enough to know
that her fortune, inexhaustible as it seemed in Briarstone,
would not endow her with the smallest consequence elsewhere.
And though so highly gifted by nature as, had she
selected the society of superior minds, to have become both
estimable and happy; yet her love of power—of feeling
herself superior to any one with whom she associated—made
her voluntarily become a member of a family whom she lost
no opportunity of turning into objects of satire and abuse;
receiving the marked attentions of Mr. Gustavus Brown so
graciously, when no better offered, as to give him every
hope of ultimate success; but cold, distant, and disdainful,
at the remotest chance of achieving a more desirable conquest.

Very different was Laura Gascoigne. Unusually retiring
in manner, the peculiar charm hovering around her could
// 207.png
.bn 207.png
better be felt than described. Possessing neither the wit nor
the cleverness, or, as Coleridge so happily expresses it, “the
brain in the hand,” which characterised her cousin, she had
judgment, feeling, thought—the rare power of <i>concentration</i>,
which enabled her to succeed in all she attempted—the quiet,
persevering energy which leads to completion, even in the
simplest trifles, and prevents all mere superficial acquirement.
Perhaps early sorrow had deepened natural characteristics.
From the time her mother became widowed, no pen can
describe the devotedness which was the tie between them.
The failing health of Mrs. Gascoigne had, during the last
year of her life, compelled a residence in the south of England;
and, when in the neighbourhood of Briarstone, the
real kindness to the mother and daughter received from the
Misses Brown induced Laura, after Mrs. Gascoigne’s death,
to make their house her home, till she could decide on her
future plans. She was indeed lonely upon earth; and the
straitened means which had urged her to teach many
hours in the day, to supply her mother with luxuries and
comforts, by stamping them as poor, prevented her being
known in those circles where her gentle virtues would have
gained her real appreciating friends.

All that she had sacrificed in her filial devotion even her
mother never knew, though that mighty sacrifice had been
made full two years before her death. An invalid, whose
life might pass from night till morning with none on earth
to love and tend her but her child, Laura could not leave her.
And when she had said this, her lover, in all the jealous
irritation of an angry, passionate nature, reproached her that
she did not, could not love him, else every other consideration
would be waived—that the reports of her affections
having been transferred to another were true, and therefore
it was better they should part. She had meekly left him to
resume her sad duties by her mother’s side, and they had
never met again. She knew he had been on the eve of
leaving England for an honourable appointment in the West
Indies, to which he had been nominated. But the wish
would rise that he would write; he could not continue in
anger towards her; time must show the purity, the justice,
of her motive in her refusal, at such a moment, to leave
England. And gladly would she have remained in one spot,
hoping, believing on; but her mother needed constant
// 208.png
.bn 208.png
change, and they had gone from place to place, that perhaps,
even if he had written, no letter could have reached her.
Three years had passed; and if the <i>hope</i> to prove her truth
still lingered, the <i>expectation</i> had indeed long gone. And
so Laura’s early youth had passed, with not one flower cast
upon it save those her own sweet disposition gave. Miss
Brown’s establishment was not, indeed, a congenial home;
but she had her own room, her own pursuits; and though
often yearning—how intensely!—for sympathy and intellectual
companionship, could be thankful and contented. She could
not love the Miss Browns, but she respected their sterling
qualities, and regretted their eccentricities; and so found
some good point to dilate on when others quizzed and
laughed at them, that her presence always checked ill-nature.

“What is the cause of all this unusual confusion and excitement,
Isabel?” inquired Laura one morning, entering
her cousin’s apartment; “do enlighten me. You always
know everything as thoroughly as Miss Brown herself.”

“And you always know nothing, my most rustic cousin.
Fortunate for you, you have so superior a person as myself
to come to. There is to be a grand assembly in the lower
regions to-night, and so of course sweet Wilhelmina is practising
and tuning enough to terrify away all harmony, and
Angelica is buried in all the mysteries of supper craft. Don’t
look unbelieving, it is true.”

“And it is Wednesday, not Saturday, Isabel.”

“Granted, Laura; but such a grand event as receiving a
baronet and his sister demands everything uncommon, even
to a change of night. It would be doing him no honour to
receive him on a usual <lang='fr'><i>soirée</i></lang> night. Learned
Lucretia is
deep in the last novel and this month’s most fashionable
magazine. Folks report that Sir Sydney Harcourt likes
literary conversation. I mean to try if Isabel Morland will
not have more effect in captivating than the three graces,
Lucretia, Wilhelmina, and Angelica altogether, backed by
their whole corps of spinsters and schoolgirls. What has
seized you, Laura, that you do not scold me, as usual, for
my self-conceit? Do you begin to feel it is breath wasted?
My dear, you shall see me in perfection to-night. Sir
Sydney shall not depart heart-whole from Briarstone, though
// 209.png
.bn 209.png
he does look as if nobody within it could be worth speaking
to.”

Isabel was standing before a large mirror, much too
engrossed in admiring her own face and studying various
attitudes, and the best mode of arranging her glossy black
hair, to notice how strangely and fitfully Laura’s colour
varied, and the voice in which she said, “Sir Sydney Harcourt,
is he a new resident at Briarstone?” was not sufficiently
agitated to cause remark, save to a much quicker
perception than Isabel’s.

“Yes, within the last few days; such a sensation has his
arrival made, you must have heard of it even in your sanctum.”

“My dear Isabel, have I not been staying out the last
fortnight, and only returned last night?”

“Oh, by-the-bye, so you have.”

“How much you must have missed me!”

“I did the first few days; but, my good child, how could
I think of anything but the new lion, splendid as he is, too?
He is only here for a month. Will you dare me to the field,
Laura, to make that month two, or six, or something more
into the bargain?”

“No, Isabel, you need no daring. Only remember your
own peace may be endangered too.”

“My peace! my dear foolish child. I shall see Sir Sydney
at my feet long before any such catastrophe. Lady Harcourt!
how well it sounds!”

“And Mr. Brown, Isabel?”

“The wretch! we have quarrelled irretrievably.”

“And when I left you were giving him every encouragement
you could.”

“Nonsense, Laura. You are always preaching of my
giving encouragement. The poor wretch would die in
despair if I did not relent sometimes.”

“Better, as I have always told you, put an end to his
attentions at once. I am certain he would cease to persecute,
if you did not encourage him, as you know you do.”

“I know I do. Poor dear Gussy—he is very well, when
I can get no one else.”

“But indeed, Isabel, you are very wrong; your manner to
him is the talk of every one.”

“I do not care for what every one thinks, as I have told
// 210.png
.bn 210.png
you hundreds of times. I will just pursue my own inclination,
whether the world approve of it or not. What is the world
to me? You cannot possibly imagine I mean ever to become
Mrs. Brown. Why, the very name is enough to make me
drown myself first. No, I am free to receive all Sir Sydney’s
attentions, which I fully mean to win. You know I have
some power, Laura.”

“To attract, but not to keep, Isabel.”

“Laura, if you were not a thorough simpleton, I should
say you had designs on Sir Sydney yourself. Come, will
you run a tilt with me for him? I will be generous, and
keep back some of my fascinations, that we may try as equals,
if you will.”

“Thank you for the proposal, but it would hardly be fair.
You will burst upon Sir Sydney in the freshness and brilliancy
of novelty, in addition to all your other attractions. I
have not even novelty to befriend me, for I rather think I
have met him before.”

“Sir Sydney Harcourt! How sly of you not to tell me
all this time. When?—how?—where?”

“How could I tell you before, Isabel, when you have
scarcely given me breathing space?”

“But do you know anything of his former life? Report
says he was jilted by a poor insignificant girl, and has
been a professed woman-hater ever since. I do believe
there he is in his curricle. What a splendid set-out!—do
look, Laura. Stay—I shall see him better in the next
room.”

And to the next room she flew, so engrossed with Sir
Sydney’s splendid driving that she did not perceive that
Laura had not accepted the invitation, but had quietly retired
to her own room.

“Miss Gascoigne, I trust you will join us to-night. I
expect the honour of Sir Sydney Harcourt’s and his accomplished
sister’s company. Your manners and appearance
are so completely <lang='fr'><i>comme il faut</i></lang> that they will,
no doubt, be
glad to meet you. I do not approve of young ladies hunting
after gaiety and dissipation; but it is a great advantage to
mix in such society as I can offer you to-night. I shall
expect to see you, of course,” and without waiting for a
reply—for such a thing as dissent to Miss Brown’s commands
was not to be thought of—Miss Brown, or learned
// 211.png
.bn 211.png
Lucretia, in Isabel Morland’s phraseology, majestically floated
onwards.

“Laura, my sweet Laura, play over the accompaniment
to this luscious ‘Ah te o cara.’ Mr. Givevoice will be here
to-night, so I shall not want you; but now, if you will assist
me, you will do me such a favour. The music is so mellifluous,
it will quite repay you for the trouble.” And Laura
complied, regretting most sincerely that a person possessing
such real sense and goodness as Miss Wilhelmina should so
expose herself to ridicule, but feeling that, young as she
was, it was more her duty to bear with folly than reprove it.

“Laura, dear, put the finishing bows to Lucretia’s cap for
me, there’s a love. I have such innumerable things to see
after and get done before seven o’clock to-night, that I have
no time to breathe.”

“You are always busy, my dear Miss Angelica. I wish
you would make me of use. I shall finish this in ten
minutes; so you had better give me something else to do.”

“You are the best girl in the world, Laura, my dear; but
you can’t assist me in household concerns. No one can;
they worry me to death—but I don’t grow thin upon them,
that’s one comfort. Come, I am glad you are smiling, Laura,
my dear. What a pity you are not more merry. By-the-bye,
you may help me very much—I shall never get through the
tea-making all by myself.”

“Let me take it off your hands entirely. I will with
pleasure.”

“Thank you—thank you, my dear; but nothing would
go right if I were not there too, depend upon it. If there
is not Molly only going now to dust the rooms—the lazy
huzzy!” and off trotted Miss Angelica, to scold and dust by
turns.

The evening at length arrived. Confusion and noise,
and sundry domestic jars, had subsided into silence and
solemnity actually portentous. The pupils, with the exception
of six most highly favoured, had been dismissed to their
dormitories, and the schoolroom fitted up for the supper,
which, under Miss Angelica’s auspices in the culinary department,
Miss Wilhelmina’s in the elegant arrangement of
fruit and flowers, and Miss Lucretia’s in the selection of
sweets and solids least hurtful to the gastronomic and digestive
powers, was to be unequalled.
// 212.png
.bn 212.png

In the front drawing-room the Misses and Messrs. Brown
and their train of boarders sat in imposing state. The covers
had all been removed from the couches, <i>chairs-lounges</i>, ottomans,
etc., displaying a variety of embroidery by the fair
fingers of Miss Wilhelmina, and the splendid designs of Mr.
Gustavus. The harp was uncovered; the guitar, with its
broad blue ribbon, laid carelessly on the grand piano-forte,
which was open; and at his post on the music-stool sat
Mr. Gilbert Givevoice, fair and famous, smiling very sweetly
on his tall pupil, Miss Wilhelmina, who was in earnest conversation
by his side. Miss Brown was on the sofa, looking
wiser and grander than ever. A vacant place was left beside
her, which no one thought of taking, for that it was designed
for Miss Harcourt being as well known as if the
name had been chalked up on the wall behind. Presently
all the presentable inhabitants of Briarstone flocked in,
attired in their very best, and satisfying Miss Brown as to
the imposing appearance of her saloon. The back drawing-room,
somewhat less brilliantly lighted, was occupied, as
usual, by three or four sets of lovers. The blue room opened
from it, and Laura was there ensconced as Miss Angelica’s
aid extraordinary. The door being thrown open permitted a
full view of the two drawing-rooms and all their proceedings,
though from the blue room occupying a sort of angular
corner, its inmates could not even be observed. Isabel
Morland, looking actually dazzling from her becoming dress
and indescribable <i>tournure</i>, had chosen to settle down into a
regular flirtation with a Mr. Manby, a young man she sometimes
deigned to notice, at others deemed too little even to
be visible. Mr. Gustavus looked black as a thunder-cloud;
his thin form moving in and out the circle, but always hovering
nearest Isabel, who took no more notice of him than of
his vacant chair.

At length the magic words, “Sir Sydney and Miss Harcourt,”
were pronounced, and the door flung back as if its
very hinges should suffer martyrdom to do them honour;
and the whole roomful rose, as by one movement, except
Isabel, who carelessly remained seated. Then came sundry
flourishes and introductions, and mutual bows and curtseys,
till Miss Harcourt fairly sank down on her seat of honour,
casting a rueful glance at her brother, who returned it with
one so irresistibly comic, that Isabel, to whom alone the look
// 213.png
.bn 213.png
was visible, was compelled to smile too. Sir Sydney, whose
eye was wandering round the room, caught the look, eagerly
bowed recognition, and in another minute was at her side,
leaving Mr. Gustavus with half his tale untold.

That Sir Sydney was handsome, and had all the ease and
elegance of a polished gentleman, there could not be two
opinions about; but there was something more about him,
no one could exactly define what. He was too well bred to
be haughty or repulsive when he had quite willingly accepted
Miss Brown’s invitation; yet he certainly did not seem in his
element. He did smile and talk well; but Miss Wilhelmina
whispered to an intimate friend to observe how very melancholy
his countenance was when at rest; she was certain he
was not a happy man, and what could be the reason? Miss
Harcourt was pronounced, after a trial of ten minutes, a
most charming, accomplished, elegant girl; she was in
reality merely an unaffected, genteel, quiet, little personage,
without any pretension whatever, and somewhat past what
she deemed girlhood.

The evening proceeded most harmoniously. Tea was
accomplished elegantly, under Miss Angelica’s active surveillance.
She was in the blue room, back and front drawing-rooms,
so quickly, one after the other, that she seemed
gifted with ubiquity for the evening. Then Miss Brown proposed
music and dancing; she thought they were such
delectable adjuncts to young people’s amusement—such
social pleasure, etc.; to all of which Miss Harcourt gracefully
assented. She would be happy to perform her part;
her brother seldom danced. A general lamentation followed.
What a loss to the dancers: perhaps he would prefer music;
they could offer him some very passable; and a concert commenced,
in appearance very naturally given, but, in reality
performed in exact accordance with well-cogitated arrangements
beforehand.

Whether Sir Sydney benefited by the succession of “sweet
sounds,” or not, remained a problem; as Isabel, to Miss
Brown, and Mr. Gustavus’s excessive annoyance, kept him
so exclusively her attendant, that it required all his acquaintance
with worldy tact to save him from rudeness to his
hostesses, at the same time that he fully encouraged his companion.
The only thought Isabel could spare from Sir
Sydney, was for Laura to witness her triumph; but Laura
// 214.png
.bn 214.png
was nowhere to be seen. If Isabel could have known that
her cousin saw her and Sir Sydney too, and the sickness of
heart that vision gave, she might have triumphed more.

Dancing was at length accomplished, and Sir Sydney
actually joined in it, dancing two quadrilles successively
with Isabel, and then remaining standing with her, leaning
against the piano, in such apparent earnest conversation as
allowed attention to nothing else. Mr. Manby and several
other beaux of Briarstone, whom Isabel never disdained at
the public balls, when none superior were to be had, came
in humble adoration entreating the honour of her hand.
The toss of the head and curl of the lip with which they
were refused elicited an expression in Sir Sydney’s eye and
very handsome mouth which must have startled Isabel, had
she not been too engrossed with her own apparent conquest
to perceive it.

“Sydney, you are wrong,” whispered Miss Harcourt, as
Isabel, for an instant, disappeared to find a musical album
on which she very much prided herself.

“Mary, I am right,” was the reply. “If young ladies
choose to play the coquette, it is but fair in us to pay them
back in their own coin. How ungracious I should be to let
all these graceful arts be wasted.”

Miss Harcourt still looked disapproval, but further rejoinder
was impossible; for Isabel, flushed with conquest,
had returned, more animated and engrossing than before.

“Of course you sing, Miss Morland?”

“No, Sir Sydney; I abhor all pretension; and as I knew
I could never sing like a professor, I never attempted it.”

“Pardon me, but I think you are wrong. There can be
no necessity for private performers to equal professors;
indeed I would banish all Italian bravuras from private
rooms.”

“You will think my brother a sad Goth, Miss Morland;
but he prefers a simple English ballad to anything else.”

“I admire his taste; but you surely do not think ballad-singing
an easily-accomplished matter?”

“Easy enough for any one with natural feeling,” replied
Sir Sydney, somewhat hastily, “and with boldness sufficient
to express it. I would rather hear ‘Go, forget me,’ as I
have heard it, than the finest Italian scena by a prima
donna.”
// 215.png
.bn 215.png

“I am delighted, Sir Sydney, that we have it in our power
to afford you that gratification,” energetically interposed Miss
Wilhelmina. The baronet made her a graceful bow, looking
at his sister, however, with eyes that plainly said, “Save me
from this.”

“Laura!” (Sir Sydney actually started, but recovered
himself so rapidly that the sudden flushing of his brow was
unremarked even by Isabel.) “Dear me, where can the
dear girl have hid herself? I assure you, Sir Sydney, though
she sings very seldom, she is considered first-rate in English
ballads,” and away gracefully glided Miss Wilhelmina in
search of her.

“Who is this ‘dear girl,’ Miss Morland? Can she really
sing that song? I would rather she chose any other,” said
Sir Sydney in a tone almost of irritation.

Isabel looked up with one of her most mischievous smiles,
which recalled him instantly to his artificial self; but before
he could rally sufficiently to speak again, Miss Wilhelmina’s
voice, in its most dulcet tones of encouragement, was close
beside him.

“Come, Laura, my dear; we are all friends, you know—no
one to be afraid of. Sir Sydney is so particularly partial
to ‘Go, forget me:’ I am sure you will favour him.”

“Or any other song the young lady likes. I would not
be so arbitrary as to select for her,” he exclaimed, springing
up, with gentlemanly politeness, to relieve Miss Wilhelmina
of the music-book she carried, and, as he took it from her,
coming in close contact with the fair girl behind her, whom
her flowing drapery had till then completely concealed.

“Laura! Miss Gascoigne! Is it possible?” he articulated,
in a tone which, though suppressed, must, to any perception
less obtuse than the Misses Brown’s, have betrayed intense
emotion; but Miss Wilhelmina only read casual acquaintanceship,
and supposed an introduction had taken place in
the early part of the evening. Laura bowed, Sir Sydney
thought, coldly, and quietly passed on to the piano. The
song was selected and sung. She had often been heard
before, but her voice had never seemed the same as at that
moment. It might have been that what a baronet and his
sister listened to with such interest, that the former had
moved himself some distance from Miss Morland’s fascinations
to look at and listen to the singer unobserved, must be of
// 216.png
.bn 216.png
greater value than it had ever before been supposed, or that
there really was some spell in the song which Laura had
never been heard to sing before (Miss Wilhelmina, seeing it
amongst her music, had spoken on supposition merely); but
it fell upon the most thoughtless, the most obtuse, with such
unaccountable power, that even when the strain ceased, the
sudden and unusual hush continued, until rudely broken by
Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mr. Gilbert Givevoice clapping
their hands most vehemently, exciting an uproar of applause,
under which Laura tried to make her escape, but she was
prevented by the friendly advance of Miss Harcourt, who,
with both hands extended, exclaimed, so as to be heard by
all, “Miss Gascoigne, will you permit me to thank you for
your beautiful song and claim your acquaintance in the same
breath? We have, in truth, never met before; but if you
knew me as well as I know you from report, we should be
friends—nay more, allies—already. You need not look so
very terrified,” she added, with laughing earnestness; “I am
not a very formidable person, though my want of ceremony
may really be rather startling; but I am so glad to have
found you, that I must entreat Miss Brown’s kind permission
to excuse me, if I do forget everybody but you for a little
while.”

Her ready tact met with the rejoinder she desired: she
was entreated by all the sisters to make herself quite at
home; they were delighted she should know their dear
Laura. The blue room was quite deserted, and they could
chat there quite comfortably; and to the blue room Miss
Harcourt eagerly led her companion, who so trembled that
she feared for the continuance of her composure. The door
was not closed; to do so would have occasioned remark;
but, as we said before, the room was so situated for its inmates
to be completely retired from all observation.

Isabel Morland was furious. She had seen Sir Sydney’s
suppressed emotion, and, with the quickness of thought,
connected that and Miss Harcourt’s eager address with the
floating rumours of Sir Sydney’s early life; but that her
insignificant, unfashionable cousin, could be the heroine of
the tale, and retain such hold of his recollection as to drive
all her present fascinations from his mind, was a degradation
not to be passively endured; in fact, it was impossible—she
would not think about it—Sir Sydney should be caught yet;
// 217.png
.bn 217.png
but at present there certainly was little hope of it. He had
deserted her, and was in earnest, if not agitated, conversation
with Miss Lucretia and Miss Wilhelmina Brown, who were
listening and answering, and then gradually entering into
detail, with so much interest, that all superficial folly gave
way, for the time, before the real goodness of heart which
they in general so strenuously contrived to conceal.

“Disagreeable, designing old women!” Isabel thought,
“what can he see in them to hold his attention so chained?
He shall not listen any longer,” and she glided close to the
sofa where the two were seated. Sir Sydney rose, and
offered her his seat. No; she would rather stand. Sir
Sydney bowed, and quietly sat down again. Something
seemed the matter with Isabel’s bracelet; she clasped and
unclasped it vehemently, but the movement did not disturb
the earnest conversation, which Sir Sydney, in a low voice,
still continued. The trinket broke, and fell at his feet. He
gracefully raised and presented it, regretting the accident,
and turned again to the Misses Brown. An exclamation of
“What could have become of her beautiful bouquet?” was
the young lady’s next effort to recall the deserter to his allegiance;
but Sir Sydney did not even seem to hear it, or, if
he did, before he could make a move to seek it, it was presented
to her by the officious Gussy, with a most malicious
bow. Isabel did not quite throw it at his head, as inclination
prompted, but in a very few seconds every flower lay in
fragments at her feet; one beautiful exotic fell, uninjured, so
close to Miss Wilhelmina, that she raised it with an expression
of lamentation; but Isabel snatched it from her,
and hastily stamped her pretty little foot upon it, with such
a very unequivocal expression of temper, that Sir Sydney
almost unconsciously fixed an astonished gaze upon her. It
was too much to be borne quietly; she turned angrily away,
sauntering through the rooms, deigning to hold converse
with none, and would have so far sacrificed all propriety, as
to enter the blue room to solve the mystery at once, had not
Laura and Miss Harcourt at that instant reappeared. The
countenance of the latter bore such evident traces of emotion,
spite of the strong control she was practising, that Isabel
was on the point of making some bitterly satirical remark,
but those dark reproving eyes were again upon her, and Sir
Sydney spoke before she did; but it was to Laura, not to her.
// 218.png
.bn 218.png

“Has my sister pleaded in vain, or may I indeed claim an
old friend—and forgiveness?” he added, speaking the last
word in so low a tone as only to be heard by his sister,
Laura, and Isabel. Laura’s lip so quivered, that no word
would come; but her hand was unhesitatingly placed in that
which Sir Sydney so eagerly extended, and her eyes met his.
He drew her arm in his, and led her, to all appearance, so
easily and naturally to a quadrille that was forming, that few
suspected more than that they had been old friends; and
how strange it was they should meet there and then; and, if
he should talk to her, and make her sing twice again, during
the short remainder of the evening, it was nothing remarkable!

Isabel had thrown herself moodily on one of the sofas in
the blue room, half concealed by the curtains of the window,
trying, in vain, to connect Sir Sydney’s conduct and the
report of his former life. It seemed clear enough, but she
would not believe it. There was nothing in his manner but
old acquaintanceship; she would conquer him yet. How
could Laura vie with her? Alas, for the delusion! Miss
Harcourt’s shawl, by the provident care of Miss Angelica,
had been brought to the blue room, and there, with Laura,
she repaired; the Misses Brown, in trio, assembled to do
them great honour; and Isabel remained wholly unperceived.
After being well shawled, Miss Harcourt disappeared with
her body-guard of Browns. Sir Sydney, who had come
ostensibly to hurry her, lingered—

“Laura! my own beloved! forgiven—loved through all!
How could I doubt—how could I make myself and you so
miserable? Can I ever repay you, even by a long life of
love? If you but knew the remorse, the wretchedness I
have endured, you would forgive still more,” were the somewhat
incoherent sentences that fell distinctly on Isabel’s ear;
and, though there was no answer, no words, she could see
Sir Sydney’s arm thrown round her cousin, and that she
shrunk not from his parting kiss. Another moment, and
both had disappeared; Sir Sydney to take such farewell of
the really worthy women who had befriended his Laura, that
he left them in perfect raptures; and Laura to fly to the
security of her own room, where, burying her face in her
hands, the tears burst forth like a torrent, giving relief, vent,
calm to a heart which, though so sustained in grief, had been
// 219.png
.bn 219.png
so unused to joy, that its presence had well-nigh prevented
its realization.

Our readers must imagine all the various crosses and
vexatious <i>contretemps</i> which had prevented Sir Sydney Harcourt
from discovering Laura, as he had so ardently desired
to do; for ours is a mere sketch, not a tale. They must
recollect he had, only the last six months, returned from the
West Indies, a residence in which had entirely frustrated his
wishes for a reconciliation, even by a letter; for, as we have
said before, Mrs. Gascoigne’s constant removals had prevented
the possibility of any letter from such a distance finding
them. When he had first loved her he was dependent
on a coarse-minded worldly relation, to whom an affection
for a poor girl dared not be breathed. He had sought an
appointment abroad, to escape a matrimonial connection
which was being forced upon him, and he had wished Laura
to consent to a private marriage, and accompany him abroad
as the companion of his sister, who preferred daring the
miseries of the West Indies with her brother, to remaining
in England without him. Sir Sydney (then plain Sydney
Harcourt, with little hope of the baronetcy and independence
for many years), naturally of a fiery and somewhat jealous
temper, materially increased from the privations and checks
he was constantly enduring, chose to believe Laura’s calm,
reasoning indifference, and her refusal to leave her ailing
mother, only a cover to reject his affection for that of some
richer lover. Time, his sister’s representations, and the bitter
pain of separation cooled these unjust suspicions, and he
only recollected Laura’s look of suffering and tone of suppressed
agony, with which she had bade him farewell.

The unexpected demise of his relation, the baronetcy, and
a moderate independency recalling him to England much
sooner than he had dreamed of, every effort was put in force
to find Laura, but in vain, till chance led him to Briarstone,
and some magnetic instinct urged him to accept an invitation
which it was more in his nature to have travelled some miles
to avoid. He always declared his belief in mesmeric influences
henceforward.

Isabel’s schemes to prevent the course of true love from
running smooth were fruitless. The old adage had already
had its more than quantum of fulfilment, and Laura Gascoigne
became Lady Harcourt before she was two months
// 220.png
.bn 220.png
older. The delight and self-complacency of the Misses
Brown were beyond description; Miss Lucretia looked
grander, Miss Wilhelmina more gracious, and Miss Angelica
more bustling than ever. An accession of pupils and
boarders was almost the immediate consequence of Laura’s
marriage, and the fair fame of Red Rose Villa was so well
established, as fortunately to receive no diminution from an
affair which so scandalized Miss Brown, that she herself
could not rally from it for months. After alternately encouraging
Mr. Gustavus Brown and Mr. Gilbert Givevoice, till
each gentleman so believed himself the favoured individual
as to be ready to call his rival out, if he dared to deny it,
Isabel Morland, one fine summer morning, eloped with an
Italian emigrant count, who, much against Miss Brown’s
ideas of propriety, she would have to teach her Italian,
leaving both lovers in the somewhat disagreeable predicament
of having been most egregiously deceived and laughed
at, at the very moment they were anticipating the <i>gold</i>, far
more than the hand, of an heiress; and as such was the
origin of their dreams and the source of their disappointment,
we can better forgive Isabel’s conduct to them, than
we can her conduct to herself. Alas, indeed, for those
whom Nature has so gifted, and over whom principle has
no sway!

.fm rend=th lz=th
// 221.png
.bn 221.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p205
<i>Gonzalvo’s Daughter.</i>
.sp 2
.h4
I.
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>Constance</sc>, my child! take comfort; all is not lost to
thee, though I must leave thee sooner than I expected,”
were the almost inarticulate words of a dying warrior, as,
supported in the arms of an attendant, he bent over a
beautiful girl who had flung herself on her knees beside his
rude pallet, burying her face in his hand in all the abandonment
of grief. It was a low-roofed, rudely-furnished
chamber in the olden castle of Ruvo, supporting on its
panelled walls and divisions of the ceiling many specimens
of the warlike implements of the time. Shields of massive
workmanship, with the overhanging helmet, the long sword,
and <i>misericorde</i> or dagger, interspersed with spears and
iron caps, were suspended on all sides; while jars and flasks,
a bugle horn, an unsheathed sword and belt, and such like
gear, were scattered on the floor. The dying man was
stretched on the only couch the room afforded; a wooden
pallet serving alike for bed and chair, one part of which
was occupied by two of the warrior’s men-at-arms, their
eyes fixed alternately on their beloved commander and the
fair being on whom his last thoughts seemed centred. On
their left stood two venerable monks; the one holding aloft
the cross, the other bearing on a silver salver the consecrated
bread and wine, which the warrior had received in lowly
faith, convinced his last moment was at hand. Two other
armed figures, sturdy cavaliers, finished the group. Individual
sorrow was deepened by the thought, that with Duke
Manfred died the last lingering hopes of Naples. He had
refused to follow his brother, the voluntarily-exiled monarch
Frederic, to the court of France, hoping still to preserve his
ill-fated country from being trampled on, even if its liberty
were gone;—struggling against Spain, and her great captain,
simply because he thought France less likely to look on
Naples as a slave, though for him individually life had
lost all joy—for he felt his country would never again rise,
beautiful and free, as she had been. Mortally wounded in an
// 222.png
.bn 222.png
unexpected skirmish with the Spaniards, Manfred would
yet have met death calmly, if not willingly, had not the
deep grief of the fair girl who had clung to him as to a
second father—preferring to linger by his side in the roughest
part of Naples, to accompanying her own royal parent to
the luxurious court of Louis—distracted him to the forgetfulness
of all, save how to comfort her. He knew it was no
small loss she mourned,—the young, impoverished, yet noble
Luigi Vincenzio, to whom the first freshness of her young
affections had been given, with all the fervid warmth of an
Italian heart, was as dear to Manfred as his own son, and he
had promised to plead for Vincenzio with her father, in lieu
of the gay Duke de Nemours, whom Frederic favoured, but
whom Constance instinctively abhorred. No marvel the
words of the dying man fell vainly and discordantly upon
her ear,—that she clung to him as if that wild embrace
should fetter life within;—he should not, must not leave
her! Fainter and fainter became the voice of Manfred,—and
then all was silent, save the convulsive sobs of the
kneeling girl, whose tears had so bedewed the rough hand
she clasped that she knew not how cold it grew, and the
deep yet suppressed breathings of those around. A quick
step made its way through the groups of mourning Neapolitans,
who thronged the chamber, and a tall manly form stood
reverentially and mournfully beside the pallet.
.pi
“Alas! alas! too late,—he has gone! his look, his voice
of kindly blessing—all denied me! Constance! my beloved!”

The voice aroused her; she started to her feet, looked
shudderingly on the face of the dead, and then sinking in
the arms of Vincenzio, wept less painfully upon his bosom.
But, brief as was that upward glance, it displayed a face so
youthful, and of such touching loveliness, that tears should
have been strangers there; child-like as it was, yet there was
something in its sweet expression which told the threshold
of life was past; she had looked beyond, and tasted the
magic draught whose first drop transforms the being, and
influences the whole of after life. Her rich golden hair
hung loose and dishevelled over her pale cheek, and her
deep blue beautifully-formed eye was swollen with weeping,
yet was she lovely despite of all.

But short communion was allowed the youthful pair, for the
// 223.png
.bn 223.png
last wish of the dying warrior had been that his niece should
seek the convent of St. Alice, twenty miles distant, there to
remain till happier hours dawned for Naples, or she could
more securely rejoin her father.

“Yes, better there than lingering here, where Nemours
may deem himself privileged to seek thee when he lists,”
resumed the young Neapolitan when his words of gentle
soothing had had effect, and Constance was comforted.
“Sweetest! it shall be but a very brief farewell; the thought
that thou art in safety shall soothe the hours of absence, and
thou wilt promise to think of me—my own!”

“Think of thee!” she repeated, and a smile lit up that
sweet face, till to say in which it looked more lovely, smiles
or tears, would have been difficult. “There is no need to
make me promise that, my Luigi; I could not, if I would,
think aught of other save” (her voice faltered) “of the kind
heart gone!” She paused a moment, then added, sorrowfully,
“My father, my poor father! I should wish to join him—yet
I cannot. Luigi, dearest Luigi, ’tis my turn to chide
now, if thou lookest doubtingly and sad; our best friend
has gone! Oh, we cannot weep too long for him! yet, canst
thou think if Frederic knew whom his Constance loved he
would still deny her? No! no! smile on me, love, and
trust me, Constance of Naples will have none other lord but
thee.”

He did trust her; and the brief period left them passed
in such sweet, and hopeful converse, that sorrow itself
was soothed, and both were strengthened for the parting
hour.

Luigi himself headed the gallant little troop of native
warriors, collected to convey her with all honour to the
convent. He dreaded that Nemours, obtaining notice of the
intended movement, would attempt the capture of the
princess by force, and otherwise annoy them; but to his
surprise not a trace of the French army awaited them.

Quartered as they were almost all over Calabria, generally
presenting their steel fronts as strong lines of defence
for the towns and castles round, this desertion appeared
extraordinary; particularly as their aim had been to incapacitate
the Spaniards from leaving their entrenchments
within the fortified city of Barletta, twelve miles to the south
of Ruvo, where they were at present quartered.
// 224.png
.bn 224.png

Night was falling when Vincenzio returned to Ruvo; but
there was still light enough for him to distinguish more than
usual military bustle within the walls; soldiers were hurrying
to and fro; arms were burnishing; lances and swords
sharpening; large fires blazing up; bands of armed men
assembling; the heavy harness and unsheathed weapons
forming in heaps and lines to be donned and grasped at a
moment’s warning. Anxious and curious, Vincenzio hastened
to the quarters of the Sire de La Palice, governor of the
town, and found him, though joyous and laughter-loving as
was his wont, alternately giving orders to several officers,
who seemed to appear and disappear with a glance, and
muttering oaths and execrations on some extraordinary act
of folly, the nature of which, or by whom committed Luigi
found some difficulty in comprehending.

Our limits will not permit our becoming personally acquainted
with La Palice, which a conversation might accomplish.
We must confine ourselves to a brief relation of
historical facts. It appeared that the inhabitants of Castellanata,
enraged beyond all measure at the licentious and
insulting conduct of the French troops quartered in their
vicinity, had risen in sudden revolt, and finally betrayed the
town into the hands of the Spaniards. Nemours, thinking more
of his own dignity, which he imagined had been outraged in
this revolt, than of the real interests of his sovereign, swore the
most signal vengeance, and marched his whole force north-ward,
disregarding the representations of more experienced
officers, that it would be the height of folly to leave all
Calabria unguarded, for the reduction of one paltry town.
The character of Gonzalvo was too well known to admit a
thought of his neglecting this opportunity of attack; and
La Palice therefore, on his part, determined to be on the
alert, though he guessed not how soon or whence the attack
would come.

There were many sad thoughts on the young Neapolitan’s
heart as he returned to his own chamber. Alas! it little
signified to Naples who were her masters, French or
Spaniards; but he recalled that period of his country’s
brief prosperity, when the celebrated Captain Gonzalvo had
been his monarch’s guest and honoured friend, and grieved
that Frederic had chosen France, instead of Spain, for
refuge: perhaps his instinctive hatred to Nemours, as the
// 225.png
.bn 225.png
encouraged aspirant to the hand of his Constance, increased
these regrets; but still to La Palice he was bound by all
the chivalric ties of military companionship, and he determined,
if danger threatened, to forget his nationality awhile,
and fight in his friend’s defence.

The night was peculiarly mild and lovely; the soft silvery
halo flung down from the full moon on the clustering olives
and vineyards, stretching beneath the young Italian’s window,
over some miles of fertile country, seemed to whisper tranquillity
and peace, that war had not yet disturbed; and Luigi
looked forth lingeringly till the calm sank into his own soul,
and Constance alone stood forth amid those troubled visions
like a star gleaming through clouds on the trembling
waves.

It was near daybreak ere he sought his couch and slept;
but not for long. One pale streak of dawn alone was visible;
but there were sounds on the still air little in accordance with
the lingering night. A dull, heavy, monotonous roar, as of
a continued cannonade close at hand, was accompanied by
sharp, vivid flashes of light playing athwart the casement;
then followed the roll of many drums,—the shout “to arms,”
“the foe! the foe!”—the clash of the alarum bell—the
heavy trampling of a hundred feet—the shrill shrieks of
woman’s terror, and other sounds of tumult and war. Vincenzio
listened a moment as one still dreaming: but then
La Palice’s warning flashing on his mind, he sprang to
his feet and glanced beneath him. Far, far as his eye could
reach, trampling down that fair scene of fertility and
peace, there came band after band of armed men, rolling
onward in such dense masses, that he felt at a glance
resistance was in vain. Marvellous as it seemed, Gonzalvo
de Cordova himself was upon them; and that name in
its mighty eloquence was paralysing terror! A very brief
interval sufficed to banish every thought from Luigi’s mind
but fears for La Palice, by whose side he speedily was. The
noise waxed louder, closer, but there was no trace of disturbance,
or even anxiety, on the governor’s open brow, as
he gaily marshalled his little band of three hundred lances,
to throw themselves into the first breach which Gonzalvo’s
unceasing cannonade was rapidly making in the walls.

“Ha! welcome, comrade mine!” he cried, grasping
Vincenzio’s hand. “Mark La Palice as a true prophet,
// 226.png
.bn 226.png
and Nemours the most egregious blockhead that ever wrote
himself a man. Ha! all compact there; ready! that’s well—to
the right, forward!” and on they rushed through the
town. Already every wall was manned, and showers of
arrows and stones galled the Spaniards at every turn, but
had no power on the immense mass at work against the
ramparts. Already the walls were tottering, falling, borne
down by the heavy cannonade. On the opposite side the
walls had been scaled, and Spanish and French fought hand
to hand on the summit. A yell of triumph soon after proclaimed
the formation of an immense breach, into which
Gonzalvo himself and his choicest troops poured like a
mountain torrent, increasing, swelling, as it came, as if
utterly to overwhelm the compact little phalanx which La
Palice threw forward to oppose him. A very brief struggle
sufficed to show how fruitless was every effort of the French;
the immense odds speedily forced the breach; but still,
hemmed in on all sides so closely that their swords had
scarcely room for full play, there was no word of surrender
or defeat; struggling only to preserve their honour in their
death, man after man fell, without yielding an inch, around
his leader. Presently wilder and more deafening sounds
arose; mingling indiscriminately the roar of artillery, the
clang of steel, the rush of a hundred chargers, the shrill
shrieks of women, so that not one could be distinguished
from another. The town was forced, and every street, for a
brief interval, became the scene of combat. Another hour,
and the strife was at an end. La Palice, who had striven as
if his individual efforts could avert defeat, had been overwhelmed
with numbers, and brought to the ground with the
crushing blow of a battle-axe; yet even then, with his own
gay laugh, he flung his sword over the heads of his captors,
that none should claim him as an individual prize. Vincenzio
shared his fate, the capture of his friend removing
from him all inclination to prolong the fruitless combat, and
yet more exasperate the Spaniards against his ill-fated
countrymen.

The close of that day beheld Ruvo deserted; the heavy
banner of Spain waving above the ruined ramparts alone
marked what had been; for the riches of Ruvo,—gold,
treasure, horses and arms, the French prisoners, almost all
of whom were badly wounded, and the principal Neapolitan
// 227.png
.bn 227.png
citizens, were conveyed under strong detachments to Barletta,
the head-quarters of the great captain and his troops.
.sp 2
.h4
II.
.sp 2
Twenty-four hours after his daring reduction of Ruvo,
Gonzalvo de Cordova was seated in one of the best furnished
apartments of Barletta, bearing little trace either of the
eager warrior or sagacious general; all other emotions merged
in that one which, even in his glorious campaigns, reigned
uppermost—love for the lovely, the transcendent being, who,
in woman’s freshest, most beautiful prime, was seated at his
feet, her arm reclining caressingly on his knee, and her dark,
splendid orbs, all their flashing passion stilled in filial love,
fixed on his face as he narrated his last triumph. It was his
daughter Elvira, for whom so deep was the hero’s love that
even in his foreign wars she was never known to be parted
from his side.

“Trust me, they shall be seen to, my father,” she said, in
answer to his entreaty that her woman’s tenderness and care
would look to the comfort of his wounded prisoners, whom
he had already luxuriously installed, with his own surgeon to
attend them. “La Palice is in truth a champion to gain
guerdon of woman’s care.”

“But not of woman’s heart, my gentle one; thine must
not pass to the wardence of our foes.”

“Nor shall it, father; it is thine, all thine!” and the rich
burning flush resting on her cheek, as she spoke, was
deemed by her father but the glow of sunset which played
around her. He kissed her fondly, vowing he would accept
such devotedness only till another and a dearer sought it.
“Find but one deserving of thy love, my child, and no
selfish pangs shall bid me keep thee by my side; yet,
methinks, thou as myself art difficult to please; the noblest
and the best have bowed to thee in vain—thy heart was ice
to all, and selfish as I am, I have rejoiced it was so.”

Her face was buried in his hand, and he saw not how painfully
its colour varied. He did not feel the full, quick throb
of that maiden heart: if her fond father penetrated not its
secret, how may we?

In obedience to Gonzalvo’s command (in those days no
strange one), Elvira, attended by her women, herself visited
// 228.png
.bn 228.png
the apartments of the wounded prisoners, administered to
their wants, superintended the healing of their wounds,
speaking words of comfort and of hope, till—veiled as she
was, her rank, even her name often unknown—the sound of
her voice, the touch of her gentle hand, were hailed by each
sufferer with such feeling of devotion and gratitude, as
might have marked her indeed the angel visitant their fevered
fancies deemed her.

“And I have seen all?—thou art sure none other needs my
tending?” she asked of an attendant. “Methinks those
rooms we have not visited.”

“There are no prisoners of moment there, lady; but one
room tenanted;—a poor Italian—Neapolitan, I should say—who,
as he may bring little honour and less ransom to our
leader’s coffers, scarce needs your gracious care; he will do
well enough.”

“Peace, slave! it is well Gonzalvo hears you not;” he
crouched beneath her flashing scorn. “Poor—friendless;
the more he needs his captor’s care: lead on!”

She was obeyed, and the apartment gained. A young man
was reclining on a rude couch—his limbs stretched out, his
head bent forward, resting on his arm in all the abandonment
of complete repose; his long jetty hair had fallen as
partly to shade his face, but there was just enough visible of
his cheek and brow to startle by their ghastly whiteness,
gleaming out in fearful contrast with the crimson cloak he
had drawn around him. The opening of the door had not
aroused him, and a moment the intruders paused; there was
a start, a quick and choking breath, as if respiration had
been suddenly impeded; and the Lady Elvira stood beside the
slumberer, and lifted the damp curls from his brow. Why
did she so pause, so stand, pale, rigid, breathless?—feared
she to break those peaceful slumbers?—if so, her caution
was in vain: the young man started, looked wildly round,
then heavily and painfully arose, as if conscious he was in
the presence of rank and beauty, and struggled to give them
homage.

“Nay, fair sir, we come to thee as leech, not queen,
and must refuse all homage but obedience,” the lady said,
calmly. “We must condemn thee to thy couch, not to thy
knee.”

“Who is it that speaks? Lady, that voice comes to my
// 229.png
.bn 229.png
ear laden with happy memories, bringing a vision of one
whose faintest smile was chivalry’s best fame—aye, e’en to
Naples’ sons.”

“And is it marvel, Signor Vincenzio, the daughter of
Gonzalvo should be with her father still, though Naples no
longer calls him friend? Nay, we have refused thine homage,
as little suited to thy weakness, gentle sir. Resign thee for
a brief while to the leech’s art, and take comfort; Gonzalvo
wars with France, not Naples. We will visit thee again.”

Luigi Vincenzio rose from his knee, where he had sunk
simply in greeting to one whose resplendent gifts in happier
days had excited his young imagination in no ordinary degree;
and the calm unimpassioned posture in which he stood till she
departed, betrayed no warmer feelings than reverence and
admiration. Days passed, merging into weeks; but long
before that period, Luigi Vincenzio was not only convalescent,
but permitted and enabled to roam at large about Barletta
and its environs; unguarded, even by his parole. Whence
came this extraordinary indulgence none knew; but all
supposed, that as the great captain had repeatedly declared
he warred not with the Neapolitans—not at least with those
who chose to accept his friendship—and own the supremacy
of his sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella—the young nobleman
had accepted these conditions, and had been thus received
into favour. Again, as had been the case before the
capture of Ruvo, chivalric games agreeably diversified the
dull routine of military duty. Nemours, overcome with
shame, at the consequences of his own folly, had retired to
Canosa; and as Gonzalvo had not received the expected
reinforcements, enabling him to change his mode of attack
to the offensive, his officers, and many of the Neapolitans
friendly to his interests, entered with spirit into all their
general’s plans for military recreation, while the Lady Elvira
resumed her station, as queen of the revels, crowning the
victor with her own fair hand. Her influence had led
Vincenzio there; she rallied him on his deep gloom, playfully
demanding why he alone should scorn the prize she
gave; he had professed such deep gratitude for the tender
care she had so silently lavished on his sufferings, soothing
him by the charm of her voice to health, more powerfully
than the leech’s art, and yet he refused such trifling boon.
And he obeyed; he joined the combatants, received bright
// 230.png
.bn 230.png
wreaths of glory from her hand, and lingered by her side, but
the smile she sought was not upon his lips; her step, her
voice, however unexpected, had no power to flush his cheek,
or light his eye with joy; but his to her!—the <i>echo</i> of <i>his</i>
footstep, the faintest whisper of <i>his</i> voice, as the smouldering
fire in the bosom of the volcano, seeming so still, so
silent, till, roused to whelming might, they lay upon her heart.

Fiercely and terribly the thunder-cloud of wrath had
gathered on the brow of Gonzalvo de Cordova, as with heavy
strides he paced his private cabinet about a month after
Ruvo’s capture. He chafed not at fair and open fight, nay,
gloried in the heat, the toil, the press of war; but conspiracy,
treachery, or that which in the present excited state of his
mind he deemed as such, he could not brook. A plot had
been discovered—ill formed, ill digested, but if correct in its
details, in the names of its principals, involving many of
those whom Gonzalvo had treated and trusted as friends—amid
the Neapolitans to throw off the yoke of the Spaniards,
to be free, and preserve their liberty at the sword’s point,
till seconded by other cities, and encouraged by Nemours’
inactivity, Frederic himself might be recalled; this seemed
their object, pledged to by the most solemn oaths. Gonzalvo’s
name was found upon their lists of victims, but all was dark
and little tangible. Still warrants had been issued; those
supposed the principal conspirators arrested and secured;
and the great captain now chafed and fumed, unwilling to
believe the whole tale true, from the heavy judgment it demanded,
yet feeling to the full the tremendous responsibility
devolved upon himself.

“My father! God in heaven! the tale is not false, then—yet—yet,
they have dared to connect the innocent! Luigi—Vincenzio—he
is not, he cannot be, of these! speak—speak,
in mercy!” and the proud, the majestic daughter of Spain,
whom it hath seemed no human power, no human emotion
could bow, sunk in powerless agony on the earth, grasping
the robe of her father, and gazing on his face, as if her life
depended on his answer. Startled, amazed, Gonzalvo, who
had been unconscious that for several minutes she had been
in his presence reading his brow, ere she found words, vainly
sought to raise and soothe her; she reiterated but those
words, her tone becoming wilder and shriller in its agony,
as the reply was evidently evaded.
// 231.png
.bn 231.png

“Aye, even he!” at length it came, and Gonzalvo sternly
pointed to the young nobleman’s name upon the list.
“Elvira, Gonzalvo’s daughter! away with this engrossing
weakness; well is it for thee, none but thy father marks it.
I have heard, and in return for that kind confidence would,
had the fates decreed, have sought, fixed, gloried in thy happiness,
though the choice had been other than mine own! but
now—with this damning proof. My child! my child! away
with the unworthy weakness; it shall not so debase
thee!”

“Weak! debased! who dares to say these words to me—to
me? Am I not still Elvira?” she sprang to her feet, standing
erect in all her majesty, but with cheeks of marble whiteness,
gleaming out from that night-black hair, as if their rich
current had rushed back to her heart. “What is it they
said—that he was guilty?—false! ’tis false! yet if ’tis not—misled—misguided—father,
is there no pardon?—there must—there
<sc>SHALL</sc> be. What is his doom? speak! there is no
weakness now!”

“Death, or the galleys!—what else befits the ingrate
traitors?” in a deep concentrated voice the answer came.
“Ha! Holy Virgin! my child! my child!” She had
tottered—fallen—and lay without voice or motion at his
feet.
.sp 2
.h4
III.
.sp 2
Luigi Vincenzio denied none of the charges brought
against him, save that of the intended murder of the principal
Spaniards in Italy. Such baseness he strenuously
denied; they had decoyed him into the conspiracy, working
on all his peculiar feelings of love of land and of his exiled
king, who was not alone regally, but personally dear to him.
The conspiracy appeared to him but a noble effort of some few
bold hearts to throw off the hated yoke of the foreigner; and
therefore he had joined it, and even now, in danger of death,
of worse than death—the galleys, he persisted in the glory,
the virtue of his cause. It was rumoured that Gonzalvo, in
his still continued desire to conciliate the Neapolitan nobles,
had offered to Vincenzio, not alone pardon but riches, and
connection by marriage with one of the most powerful and
// 232.png
.bn 232.png
noble families of Castile, though its name never transpired, if
he would take a solemn oath to be true to the interests of
Ferdinand of Arragon, and never seek Naples again, save
in pursuance of that monarch’s interests; and these offers,
more than usually magnanimous even for Gonzalvo, were, to
the utter bewilderment of all, refused.

Scarcely a week after Vincenzio’s arrest, the unusually strict
retirement of the Lady Elvira was disturbed by an earnest
petition for a private interview, on the part of a Neapolitan
boy, who, the attendant said, had been so urgent, and appeared
so exhausted, that he could not refuse him entrance. He
would not tell his business to any save the Lady Elvira.
Permission was given, and he was conducted to her presence,
clothed in a coarse folding cloak of Neapolitan cloth, with
the red picturesque cap of the country slouched upon his
brow. He stood at the threshold of the apartment, his arms
folded in his mantle, his head bent on his breast, as if either
physical or mental strength had for the moment utterly failed
him. “Retire,” was the first word that met his ear; and
he perceived the Lady Elvira addressed her attendants, who
still lingered. “Retire, all of you. The boy asked a private
audience, and I have promised it. Treachery! danger!—I
fear them not!—begone!” and they obeyed. One searching
glance the boy cast around, and ere the lady could address
him, he had darted across the room, and flung himself at her
feet, clasping her knees with the convulsive grasp of agony,
struggling for words, but so ineffectually that nought but
quivering anguish convulsed those parched lips, nought but
agonized sobs found vent. Mantle and cap had both fallen in
the quickness of the movement, and though the inner dress
was still the boy’s, that exquisite face, that swelling bosom
told a different tale.

“Ha! who art thou? What wouldst thou?—speak, silly
trembler,” and even at the moment that an indescribable
thrill passed through the heart of Gonzalvo’s daughter, she
struggled to speak playfully. “In sooth, thou art too lovely
to wander forth alone, save in this strange guise; speak—what
is thy boon?”

“A life! a life they say is forfeited! Lady, kind, generous
lady, oh, have mercy! I thought I had words to plead
his cause, to beseech, implore, adjure thee, but I have none—none!
Mercy, oh, have mercy!”
// 233.png
.bn 233.png

“Mercy! I am no sovereign to give life or death, poor
child! How may I serve thee, and whom is it thou wouldst
save?”

“Art thou not Elvira?—art thou not Gonzalvo’s daughter?—and
will he not pardon at thy word? Oh, seek him!
Tell him Constance, princess of Naples, is in his power!
yields herself his prisoner, to be dealt with as he lists, let him
but spare Luigi—Luigi, my own noble love! Give him but
pardon, life, liberty! Lady, lady! plead for him! let them
hold me prisoner in his stead. Wherefore lookest thou thus?
Mercy, oh, have mercy—save him!”

“<sc>Whom</sc> saidst thou, girl? <sc>Whom</sc> wouldst thou save?—speak,
I command thee!” exclaimed Elvira, in a voice so
changed, so unnatural, that Constance shuddered, vainly endeavouring
to shrink from the heavy hand that grasped her
shoulders, the eyes that flashed upon her, as if fire had dwelt
within their depths. “As thou hopest for mercy, speak!”

“Save! whom but my own, my plighted lord! Is there
one in the wide world to love me now as Luigi—Luigi
Vincenzio, he who hath honoured Constance with his troth?
Oh, save—”

“Love! thou <sc>DAREST</sc> not tell me that he loves thee!—false—false—he
does <i>not</i> love thee!” She sprang up, cheek,
lip, brow, flushing for a single instant crimson, then fading
into a white so ghastly, it seemed as if life itself must
have passed, save for the mighty passion which held it
chained.

“Thee! one like thee, poor foolish child! art thou one to
bid Luigi Vincenzio love, to hold his heart enchained? Yet
thou art lovely, good God of Heaven, how exquisitely lovely!
Poor child, poor child, I have appalled thee!—does he so
love thee?” She had sunk back on the cushion, her hands
convulsively pressed together, as to conceal their trembling,
but the wild light of those eyes, now still movelessly fixed
on Constance, who had risen from that posture of entreaty, as
if the deep emotion of another had stilled her into composure.

“Love me! yes, as none but Luigi can love; daughter of
a ruined, a persecuted house, with little to make me worthy
of such love, yet doth he love me, as I in truth were all in all
to him, as he is all to me—love me! Oh! did they bid me
die, or wander forth an exile, an outcast, like all of my
// 234.png
.bn 234.png
race, yet queens might envy Constance for Luigi Vincenzio’s
love!”

“And thou wouldst save him?”

“Aye, with my life—with all that they may deem precious,
Constance of Naples is no common prize; ’tis said, Ferdinand
would give a jewel from his coronet for all of Frederic’s unhappy
offspring placed within his power; I am here; bid
Gonzalvo send me a state prisoner, as he so nobly did my
brother. Ha! lady, noble lady, forgive the word; ’tis not
for the captive, the suppliant, to arraign the captor and the
judge. Grief makes the speech unwary—heed it not, heed it
not; take my life, my liberty for his!”

“Constance of Naples, thou mayst save both! Gonzalvo
wars not with women!” The princess threw herself at her
feet, with a wild cry of gratitude: the strangeness of that
voice, the rigid expression of that face, she heeded not, knew
not, she only dreamed of hope.

“Aye, but I have not said <i>how</i>, girl; pardon, life, liberty,
all have been offered to him for whom thou pleadest, on the
sole condition of swearing allegiance to Ferdinand, fealty to
Spain.”

“And he hath refused,” she interrupted; “oh! give me
entrance to him—I will plead, kneel, move not from his feet
till he hath done this; he will submit for me, he will hear
me, live for Constance—let me but plead.”

“Peace! there is more; he must be naturalized in Spain,
<sc>WED</sc> one of her noblest daughters, aye, one that <sc>LOVES</sc> him;
let him do this, and he shall have life, riches, honour, all that
can make life glad. Ha! dost thou fail! bid him do this,
and he shall live.”

“Yes, even this!” was the reply, after one single moment’s
pause; and the quivering lip, the ashy cheek, the trembling
frame, alone betrayed that young heart’s agony. “Let Luigi
Vincenzio be free, be happy—for if she whom he must wed in
truth thus love him, the dream of his youth will fade beneath
the glory of his manhood, and he shall, he must be blessed—if
such things be, what recks it that Constance droops alone?
I shall have saved him, have given him back to life, to his
fellows, to honour, to glory, and my death will be happy, oh!
so happy! Lady, I will do this.”

“Death! who spoke of death for thee? bid Luigi thus accept
his life, and thine is secured, is free.”
// 235.png
.bn 235.png

“Free! speakest thou of love, yet dreamest thou life could
exist apart from him—peace, peace—let me but save him, let
him but live, give me but admission to his presence, let me
but speak with him. Lady, lady, wherefore tarry? I will
do this, take me but to him.”

“Thou wilt <sc>SWEAR</sc>!” That low terrible whisper was a
more fearful index of passionate agony in the speaker than
even that which crushed her who stood in such meek, mournful,
yet heroic suffering before her; one only feeling prompted
Constance, but in Elvira it was the fierce contest of the evil
and the good; one whelming passion straggling for dominion
over all that had been so fair, so bright, so beautiful before.

“Swear to sacrifice my all of selfish bliss for him? aye,
without one moment’s pause! Oh! lady, thou knowest not
love, if thou deemest it needs oath to hallow that which I have
said. If thou doubtest me, bid one thou mayst trust, be
witness of my truth; but oh! keep me no longer from him;
let me save his life!”

Without a word or notice in reply, the Lady Elvira sat a
moment in deep thought, then rose, and signed to the
princess to follow her.
.ce
IV.

The prison of Luigi Vincenzio had been changed from the
dark loathsome dungeon, in which he had first been cast, to
a low-roofed, rambling apartment, in that wing of the citadel
of Barletta which generally served as a barrack for infantry.
An iron grating, however running in the centre from roof to
floor, cut the chamber in two, one portion generally serving
as a guardroom, when any important prisoner demanded unusual
care. This annoyance had been spared Vincenzio;
although the evening following the interview above described
about ten soldiers were then assembled, occupying the
farthest corner of the chamber, grouped in a circle, enjoying
their pipes and cups, seasoned by many a jest, which
effectually turned their attention alike from their own officer
and their prisoner. The former, closely muffled in a military
cloak, and cap, with a heavy plume of black feathers, stood
leaning against the stone pillar to which the grating was
affixed by thick iron rings, parted only by that open railing
// 236.png
.bn 236.png
from the prisoner, and consequently enabled not alone to hear
all that passed between him and the lovely being whom he
was holding convulsively to his breast, but to mark every
change in the countenance of each.

What had already passed between those loving ones it is
needless to record; nor the deep suffocating emotion which
had for several minutes utterly deprived Vincenzio
of voice, when his Constance so strangely, so unexpectedly
sprang into his arms. What cared he now that his guards
were present; that she was not permitted to see him alone,
save to smile at Gonzalvo’s idle fear that she could bring him
means to escape? He felt nothing but her presence, drinking
in for the first few moments the sweet faint accents of her
beloved voice, as if nothing of ill or misery could touch him
more. But soon, oh! how much too soon, the sweet dream
fled, and but one truth remained—that he was doomed to
death, to close his eyes on that beloved one, and for ever! A
shudder had convulsed his frame, a deep groan had been
wrung from him by that thought, and Constance had heard
and guessed its import. She knew not at first what she said,
but one thought, one feeling, one stern necessity was distinct
upon her mind; all else was confused and painful, as if a
dark cloud had folded up her brain, leaving nought clear but
the letters of fire in which that one stern necessity was written.

“And dost thou indeed, in very deed, so love me, Luigi?
Oh! then thou will grant my boon; thou wilt not let
thy Constance plead to thee in vain,” said she, after many,
many minutes had rolled by, unheeded in that sad commune,
and she lifted up her pale and mournful face, as the white
rose that, beat by some heavy storm, droops its lovely head
to earth, ere one leaf had lost its freshness.

“Boon—in vain. Constance, mine own sweet love, is there
aught thou canst ask Luigi will deny?”

“Ah! thou knowest not the weight of what I crave; nor
will I speak it on thy simple word. Thou must pledge it
me, my love; aye, by solemn oath—by hallowed vow—I
claim it on thy love, thy fealty, and how mayst thou refuse
me?”

Playfully he besought her to speak it first, and then,
dreaming not her object, unconscious even that the offered
conditions were known to her, he knelt at her feet, and placing
his hands between both hers, which felt strangely and fearfully
// 237.png
.bn 237.png
cold, he solemnly swore to do her bidding, whatever
it might be. The words were said, and Constance sank upon
his bosom.

“Saved! saved! oh, I have saved thee, Luigi; thou wilt
live—be free—thou shalt not die!”

He started to his feet; the whole truth bursting on his
mind, and yet, if so, why did she so cling to him, as if he
were spared to <i>her</i>? no, no, it could not be. “Live! Constance,
my blessed one, what canst thou mean? my life is
forfeited!”

“No, no, no!” she reiterated, “it is granted thee, and on
conditions easy to accept. Luigi! thou hast sworn to grant
my boon—to do my bidding; and I bid thee live! live, to
be happy, glorious, as I know thou wilt be! Speak not;
hear me. Frederic is no longer a king; Naples no longer a
kingdom; she is parcelled out to others; she hath no sons—no
name—one hour acknowledging the rights of France, the
next bowed to the arms of Spain. To one or other of these
mighty potentates she must belong. My poor, poor father
can never claim her more. Luigi, my own Luigi, banish the
vain hope of her freedom—her future influence. Were
Frederic here, thou knowest he would say to thee, as he did
to all when he departed, ‘My children, ’tis vain to struggle;
make peace with whom ye will; Frederic absolves you of
your allegiance. No oath of fealty restrains you.’ Hast
thou forgotten this? no, no; then wherefore shouldst thou
pause; many have bowed to Louis, why not to Ferdinand?—Luigi,
my own Luigi, thou shalt live!”

“Constance,” he answered, and he drew her closer to his
bosom, while his own frame shook, “Constance, were
this the sole condition, for thy sake, beloved, I had not
paused—even thus I would have lived; for this poor, unhappy
country, I feel, will never rise again; such oath reflects
no shame upon her sons. Constance, was this all they told
thee?”

“Luigi, no; there is another,—we must part—for ever!
Yet—yet, I bid thee live.” Slowly every word fell; but so
distinctly, so expressively, that despite that low gasping tone,
he heard them all, and not he alone.

“Ha! thou knowest this. Part, Constance! and thou
bidst me live! I choose death instead. I will not lose thee;
I will not wed another.”
// 238.png
.bn 238.png

“Thou wilt—thou shalt! Luigi, Luigi, ’twill be but
a brief, a brief pang, followed by years of bliss. Oh! do
not think this moment’s agony will never, never pass
away. The hero’s glory,—the warrior’s fame,—the statesman’s
pride—all, all, shall be thine own. Ambition, with
her hundred paths to immortality, shall lure thee to forgetfulness,
and then to peace; and she—she, who will be thy
bride,—oh, if she love thee as they say she does, even
she at length will woo thee into joy. Luigi, my own, my
own, why dost thou turn from me? Speak, oh, speak;
tell me thou wilt live!” She sunk on her knees before him,
as if that action should continue the entreaty for which voice
for the moment had utterly failed.

“Constance, Constance! Dost thou urge me? Thou—wilt
<i>thou</i> give me to another? Is it <i>thou</i> who bidst me thus
be happy? No, no, thou knowest not how much I love
thee!”

“Do I not love thee, Luigi?—Oh! it is only thus that I
can save thee,—only thus they will grant thy life,—and what
care I for my happiness? Luigi, if thou diest, how mayst
thou love me,—guard me as thou wouldst? Oh, live, live!-in
my lonely convent cell let me think of thee as I know
thou wilt be,—honoured, loved—aye, and in time so blessed!
Let the bright thought be mine,—that I, even I, poor simple
Constance, have saved thee. Luigi, deny me not this, turn
not away. Thou canst not refuse me,—thou <sc>DAREST</sc> not—thou
art <sc>SWORN</sc>!”

The countenance of Vincenzio became more and more
terribly agitated,—he struggled to break from her hold; but
the grasp of agony was upon his cloak, and either held him
with a giant strength, or his every limb had lost its power,
and chained him there. He sought to speak; but only unintelligible
murmurs came, and again that voice of impassioned
appeal came upon his heart, crushing it almost to
madness. It bade him live; she might need his friendship,
though denied his love, when time permitted such intercourse
innocently to both. That tall form bowed, as stricken by a
mighty wind: a moment, and he had caught her to his
bosom, had murmured some inarticulate words, and a burst
of passionate weeping convulsed his frame. Ere the paroxysm
passed, he was alone; soldiers, officers, Constance,
all were gone.
// 239.png
.bn 239.png
.ce
V.

It was noon; the brilliant sun of Italy poured its golden
flood through the high pointed casements of a small private
chapel, in the citadel of Barletta, which had been set apart
for the sole use of Gonzalvo de Cordova, his family, and
personal attendants. It was lavishly decorated, seeming in
all points well suited to the establishment of the great
captain. Heavy brocades, worked in gold and silver, hung
from the walls, shading many a shrine, of the same precious
metals, where saints, Virgin, and Saviour were all blazing in
gems. A cloth of gold covered the altar, which stood just
beneath a gorgeously-painted window, that when lighted up,
as now, with the sun of noon, flung down the most brilliant
colouring on floor and wall. This day a rich carpet of superb
Genoa velvet covered the mosaic pavement at the foot of
the altar, and decorated cushions seemed to denote that some
unusual ceremony was then to be performed; while the
number of sumptuously-attired nobles, Spanish, French, and
Neapolitan, already assembled, and the private chaplain of
Gonzalvo, missal in hand, behind the altar, with his priestly
attendants, proclaimed the hour at hand. The great captain
himself was present, magnificently attired, leaning on his
jewel-hilted sword, wrapt it seemed, by the fixed repose of his
countenance, in deep meditation, which none present chose
to interrupt.

The interest increased tenfold when, attended, or rather
guarded—few could tell which—Luigi Vincenzio, attired
with some care, but deadly pale, bearing an expression of
fearful internal agony on his countenance, slowly advanced
up the choir to the altar. The gaze of Gonzalvo moved not
from him; serious it was, yet scarcely stern, and the tone
was calm in which he said, “We have heard, Signor Vincenzio,
you accept the conditions proposed!—have we heard
aright?” Luigi simply bowed his head in answer, imagining
the oath of fealty to Ferdinand, and denial of Frederic, would
next be administered; but it came not, silence reigned again
uninterrupted as before. Then came sounds along the
corridor; the folding-doors at the base of the chapel were
flung wide open, and the Lady Elvira, more than usually
majestic in mien and carriage, entered, followed by several
// 240.png
.bn 240.png
attendants; her resplendent beauty was heightened by an
expression of countenance none could define, save that it
affected the most indifferent spectator then present with a
species of awe, of veneration, that could have bowed every
knee in unfeigned homage. Stars of diamonds glittered
in her raven hair, and sparkled down the bodice and front
of her dark velvet robe. The first glance of all rested immovably,
seemingly fascinated, on her; the next turned on
the slight figure she led forward; but every curious effort to
discover the stranger’s identity was rendered vain by the
thick shrouding veil which completely enveloped her; permitting
nothing but the tiny foot and exquisitely-turned ankle
to be visible.

A strong shudder had convulsed the form of Vincenzio;
he tried to step forward, to speak, but all power appeared to
forsake him, till a voice, sweet, clear, and silvery, uttered the
simple words “I will,” the customary rejoinder to the priest’s
demand, “wilt thou accept this man as thy wedded lord,”
and its attendant vows to “love, honour, and obey.” The
voice thrilled through him, awakening him to consciousness,
he knew not how or why; and he saw he was kneeling before
the altar, beside that veiled and shrouded form by whom Gonzalvo
and his daughter were both standing, as if from their
hands he received her. Gradually everything became distinct;
La Palice was at his side, his hand upon his shoulder,
as if rousing him from that deadening stupor. He recognised
his friends amidst the noble group standing around.
Had the marriage vow been administered to him? If so, he
must have replied, or the ceremony could not have continued,
but he knew not he had spoken; and what had in fact aroused
him?—a voice!—whose voice?—to whom was he irrevocably
joined? Not that one whom his fevered fancy had so wildly
pictured, for she stood there looking on the ceremony, as calm
and motionless as the most indifferent spectator.

It was over. Vincenzio and his nameless bride rose from
their knees, and then it was the hands of Gonzalvo removed
the veil and led her forward, that the eyes of all might
rest with admiration on the loveliness displayed. A cry of
astonishment burst simultaneously from the French prisoners
and Neapolitans around, and the latter rushed forward and
prostrated themselves before her, clasping her robe, her feet,
’mid sobs and tears calling on heaven to bless the daughter
// 241.png
.bn 241.png
of their king, the being whom from her cradle they had well-nigh
worshipped—the Princess Constance! but one alone
stood speechless; one alone had no power to go forward, for
all seemed to him a dream, whose bewildering light and bliss
would be for ever lost in darkness. But as those eyes turned
on him, that radiant glance sought his, there was one sob, one
choking cry, and Luigi had bounded forward, had clasped her
to his heart. And then he would have flung himself at Gonzalvo’s
feet, to pour out the burdening load of gratitude that
almost crushed him with its magnitude, but Gonzalvo, grasping
his hand in the friendly pressure of sympathy, forbade all
speech till he had been heard.

“It has been said,” he exclaimed, “that to the King of
Naples and his ill-fated family Gonzalvo de Cordova is incapable
of generosity, or even of humanity; because the
stern mandate of his sovereign demanded the sacrifice of his
own private sentiments of generosity and honour, and
compelled the captivity of Frederic’s heir. My friends, I
plead no excuse, no offence for this dark deed; but
now that nought but Gonzalvo’s own heart may dictate, I bid
ye absolve me of all undue severity, all unjust dishonour.
The Princess Constance offered her liberty for that of the
Signor Vincenzio; but, nobles of Naples, Gonzalvo scorned
it. She is free, as is her husband. His ransom, five thousand
marks, is discharged from my private coffers, and settled
as a marriage dowry on his bride. Both, then, are free, unshackled
by condition, free as the winds of heaven to travel
where they list. We heard of a noble of France hostile to
this union, and on account of his birth approved of by King
Frederic; and therefore it is we have been thus secret, and
would counsel Signor Vincenzio to accept the vessel lying at
anchor, ready for his use, and convey his gentle bride to the
court of her father without delay. We will take all blame;
for the union, as ye have all witnessed, hath been without
consent of the bridegroom. For thee, Signor Vincenzio,
thy fault is unconditionally pardoned, a grace won for thee
by the truth and glorious heroism of thy gentle bride. No
thanks—to us they are <i>not</i> due; we had been terrible in
wrath, resolute to demand the forfeit of rebellion, even to the
last, save for one whose earnest pleadings we had no power to
resist. In your love, your happiness, think on Gonzalvo’s
daughter, for to <i>her</i> ye owe it all.”
// 242.png
.bn 242.png

It needed not the name: ere that rich voice ceased, Vincenzio
and his bride were kneeling at the feet of the Lady
Elvira; the former pouring forth with passionate eloquence
his gratitude, his veneration; in words burning, thrilling,
known only to Italy’s impassioned clime. She heard, and a
faint quivering smile was on those lips; one hand she yielded
to his respectful homage, and laid the other caressingly, fondly,
on the beautiful head of Constance, whose face was lifted up to
hers beaming in all the blissful confidence of love, of joy,
of devotion, conscious that to her she owed all that made life
dear.

“Bid Constance tell thee how much Elvira owes to her,
Signor Vincenzio, and thou wilt learn I have yet more cause
of gratitude than thou hast,” she said, and not one word
quivered. “To thee she hast given a life; to me—what is
far more valuable—Elvira to herself, unstained, unscathed;
her soul of honour cloudless, true, when all methought had
failed. Farewell! be happy, and may good angels guard ye
both!”

She raised the Princess, and folded her to her heart.
“There was an eye thou knewest not upon thee in his prison,”
she whispered, ’ere she released her. “Constance, hadst
thou failed, we had both been lost, for I had seen no stronger
spirit than my own. Thou hast saved us both, and must be
blessed.” She printed a long kiss on that beautiful brow, and
placed her in her husband’s arms. A brief interval of congratulation,
of joyful conference followed, and then all within
that chapel was silent and deserted. Hours passed. The
chieftain of Spain had returned from accompanying Vincenzio
and his bride to their vessel, though he had tarried to
watch them weigh anchor and disappear in the distance. He
inquired for his daughter, sought her in all her haunts, and
lastly, with a strange foreboding, re-entered the chapel. No
voice, and at first no figure met his eye or ear; he rushed
forwards, a beautiful form lay either lifeless or in a deep
swoon at the altar’s foot, her rich and luxuriant hair falling
heavily and darkly around her. It was the Lady Elvira.

.tb

The remainder of the Lady Elvira’s career is a matter of
history: with it the romancer interfereth no further.
// 243.png
.bn 243.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p227
<i>The Authoress</i>.
.sp 2
.h4
I.
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>You</sc> surely do not intend acting such a fool’s part, Dudley,
as that our little world assigns you?” was the address of
one friend to another, as they drew their chairs more cosily
together, in the little <i>sanctum</i> to which they had retreated,
after a <lang='fr'><i>tête-à-tête</i></lang> dinner.
.pi
“And what may that be, my good fellow?”

“Why, throw away yourself and your comfortable property
on a person little likely to value either one or the other, and
certainly worthy of neither—Clara Stanley.”

Granville Dudley coloured highly. “Oblige me, at least,
by speaking of that young lady with respect,” he said;
“however you and your companions may mistake my intentions
concerning her.”

“Mistake, my good fellow; your face and tone are confirmation
strong. I am sorry for it though, for I would
rather see you happy than any man I know.”

“I believe you, Charles; but what is there so terribly
opposed to my happiness in an union with Miss Stanley,
granting for the moment that I desire it?” Charles Heyward
sat silent, and stirred the fire. “Because she is not rich?
nay, I believe, rather the contrary.”

“I did not think you worldly, Granville.”

“Thank you, for doing me but justice. I am perfectly
indifferent as to wealth or poverty in a woman. But what is
your objection then? She is not superlatively beautiful nor
seemingly first-rate in accomplishment; but what then?
She is pleasing, unaffected, full of feeling, very domestic, for
I seldom meet her out.”

Again were the poker and the blazing coals at variance,
and more noisily than before.

“My good friend, you have roused that fire and my
curiosity to a most unbearable state of heat. Do speak out.
What is the matter with Miss Stanley, that when I mention
the words ‘feeling’ and ‘domestic,’ you look unbelieving as
a heretic? Can you say ‘Nay’ to any one thing I have said?”
// 244.png
.bn 244.png

“Nay, to them all, Granville Dudley,” exclaimed Heyward,
with vehemence. “It is because you need a most
domestic woman for your happiness, I tell you do not marry
Clara Stanley; she is a determined blue—light, dark, every
imaginable shade—a poet, a philosopher, a preacher—writes
for every periodical—lays down the law on all subjects of
literature, from a fairy tale to a philosophical treatise or
ministerial sermon. For heaven’s sake, have nothing to do
with her. A literary woman is the very antipodes to
domestic happiness. Fly, before your peace is seriously at
stake.”

Granville Dudley looked, and evidently felt disturbed.
At first, startled and incredulous, he compelled his friend to
reiterate his charge and its proofs. Nothing loath, Charles
Heyward brought forward so many particulars, so many
facts, concerning the lady in question, which, from his near
relationship to the family with whom she lived, he had been
enabled easily to collect, that Granville, unable to disapprove
or even contradict one of them, sank back on his chair,
almost with a groan.

“Why, my dear sober-minded, philosophic friend, you
cannot surely have permitted your heart to escape your wise
keeping so effectually in so short a space of time, that you
cannot call it back again with a word? Cheer up, and be a
man. Thank the fates that such a melancholy truth was
discovered before it was too late. I have heard you forswear
literary women so often that I could not stand calmly by, and
see you run your head blindfold into such a noose; she is a
nice girl enough, and if she were not so confoundedly clever,
might be very bearable.”

“But how is it I never discovered that she is so clever?
If it be displayed so broadly, how can she hide it so completely
before strangers?”

“She does not display it, Granville. No one would
imagine she was a whit cleverer than other people; she has
no pretension, nor airs of superiority; but she writes, she
writes, ‘there’s the rub,’ and she loves it too—which is
worse still—and a public literary character cannot be a
domestic wife; one who is ever pining for and receiving
fame can never be content with the praise of one; and one
who is always creating imaginary feelings can have none for
realities. To speak more plainly, those who love a thousand
// 245.png
.bn 245.png
times in idea can never love once in reality; and so I say,
Clara Stanley cannot value you sufficiently ever to possess the
rich honour of being chosen as your wife. Do not be angry with
my bluntness, Granville; I only speak because I love you.”

Granville Dudley was not angry; perhaps it had been better
for his happiness if he had been, as then he would not have been
so easily convinced by the specious reasoning of his friend.
The conversation lasted all that evening, and when Dudley
retired to rest, it was with a firm determination to watch
Clara Stanley a few weeks longer, and if it really were as
Heyward stated, to dismiss her from his thoughts at once, and
even quit England for a time, rather than permit a momentary
fancy to make him miserable for life.

Now, though Charles Heyward had spoken in the language
of the world, he was not by any means a worldly man; nor
Granville Dudley, though he had listened and been convinced,
unjust or capricious. Unfortunately for Miss Stanley’s
happiness, Granville’s mother had been one of those shallow
pretenders of literature which throw such odium upon all its
female professors. From his earliest childhood Dudley had
been accustomed to regard literature and authorship as
synonymous with domestic discord, conjugal disputes, and a
complete neglect of all duties, social or domestic. As he
grew older, the excessive weakness of his mother’s character,
her want of judgment and common sense, and—it appeared
to his ardent disposition—even of common feelings, struck
him more and more; her descriptions of conjugal and maternal
love were voted by her set of admirers as perfect; but he
could never remember that the practice was equal to the
theory. Nay, it did reach his ears, though he banished the
thought with horror, that his father’s early death might have
been averted, had he received more judicious care and tender
watchfulness from his literary wife.

Mrs. Dudley, however, died before her son’s strong
affections had been entirely blunted through her apparent
indifference; and he therefore only permitted himself to
remember her faults as being the necessary consequence of
literature and genius encouraged in a woman. He was
neither old nor experienced enough, at the time of her death,
to distinguish between real genius and true literary aspirings,
and their shallow representatives, superficial knowledge and
overbearing conceit.
// 246.png
.bn 246.png

As this was the case, it was not in the least surprising that
he should be so easily convinced of the truth and plausibility
of Heyward’s reasoning, or that Charles Heyward, aware of
all which Dudley’s youth had endured from literature and
authorship in a mother, should be so very eager to save him
from their repetition in the closer relationship of wife.

But Clara Stanley was no mere pretender to genius; the
wise and judicious training of affectionate parents had saved
her from all the irregularities of temper, indecision of purpose,
and inconstancy of pursuit which, because they have
characterised some wayward ones, are regarded as peculiar to
genius. Her earliest childhood had displayed more than
common intellect, and its constant companions, keen sensibility
and thoughtfulness; a vivid imagination, an intuitive
perception of the beautiful, the holy, and the good; an
extraordinary memory, and rapid comprehension of every
variety of literature, alike prose and poetry, unfolded with
her youth, combined with most persevering efforts after
improvement in every study which could assist her natural
gifts. It was impossible for her parents not to regard her
with pride, but it was pride mingled with trembling; for <i>they</i>
knew, though <i>she</i> did not, that even as she was set apart in
the capability of <i>mind</i> from her fellows, so she was in the
capability of <i>suffering</i>. Knowing this, their every wish,
their every effort, was directed to providing her with a haven
of refuge, where that ever-throbbing heart might find its
only perfect rest. Taught to regard mental powers, however
varied, as subordinate to her duties as a woman, and an
English and religious woman, modesty, gentleness, and
love marked every word and every action. Few there were,
except her own immediate circle and friends, who knew the
extent of her mental powers, or the real energy and strength
of her character; but countless was the number of those
that loved her.

It was not, however, till after her father’s death she saw
and felt the necessity of making her talents a source of
usefulness as well as of pleasure. She was then little more
than seventeen, but under the fostering care of an influential
literary friend, she was introduced to the periodicals of the
day, her productions accepted, and more requested from the
same hand.

Though a few years after Mr. Stanley’s death, however,
// 247.png
.bn 247.png
their pecuniary affairs were so advantageously settled that
Clara had no longer any necessity to make literature a profession.
Their income was moderate, but it rendered them
happily independent.

“Now, now,” was Clara’s ardent exclamation, as she
clasped her arms about her mother’s neck, “I may concentrate
my energies to a better and holier purpose than the
mere literature of the day; now I may indulge the dream of
effecting <i>good</i>, more than the mere amusement of the hour;
now I am no longer <i>bound</i>. Oh, who in this world is happier
or more blessed than I am?”

And as long as she resided under her mother’s roof, in the
pretty little village which had so long been her home, she
was truly happy. Encouraged by the popularity which,
through her literary friend, she learned that she had acquired;
satisfied that he thought her capable of the work she had
attempted, and blessed with a mother for whose sake alone
Clara valued fame; for she knew how sweet to maternal
affection were the praises of a child.

But this might not last. Before she was one-and-twenty
Clara was an orphan, and long, long it was ere she could
resume the employments she had so loved, or look forward to
anything but loneliness and misery. Every thought, every
task was associated with the departed, and could filial love
have preserved the vital spark the mother had yet been
spared; and had Granville Dudley known Clara in that sad
time, he would have been compelled to abjure his belief in the
incompatibility of literature with woman’s duties and affections.

But of such a trial both Granville and Heyward knew
nothing; nor, when the latter said that she <i>loved</i> her profession,
did he imagine the struggle it had been for her to
resume it—how completely at first it had been the voice of
duty, not of love. Fame had never been to her either
incentive or further reward than the mere gratification of the
moment, and as a source of pleasure to her mother; and how
vain and hollow did fame seem now! But hers was not a
spirit to be conquered by deep sorrow. She resumed her
employments when health returned, with a bursting heart,
indeed, but they brought reward. They drew her from herself
for the time being, and energy in seeking to accomplish
good gradually followed. The severity of her trial was,
// 248.png
.bn 248.png
however, if possible, heightened by the great change in her
mode of life. Her only near relation was an uncle, who
lived and moved in one of those circles of high pretension
and false merit with which the metropolis abounds. His
wife, an ultra-fashionist, lived herself and educated her
daughters for the world and its follies alone, inculcating the
necessity of <i>attracting</i> and <i>gaining</i> husbands, but not of
keeping them. Exterior accomplishment, superficial conversation,
graceful carriage, and fashionable manners were
all that were considered needful—and all of feeling or of
sentiment rubbed off, as romance much too dreadful to be
avowed.

To this family, at the request of her uncle, who actually
made the exertion of fetching her himself, Clara removed
eight months after her mother’s death. Yearning for affection,
and knowing little of her relatives, Clara had given
imagination vent, and hoped happiness might again be
dawning for her. How greatly she was disappointed, our
readers may judge by the sketch we have given. In their
vocabulary, authorship and learning were synonymous with
romance and folly; and worse still, as dooming their possessors,
unavoidably, to a state of single blessedness, and
therefore to be shunned as they would the plague itself.
That Clara devoted to her literary pursuits but the same
number of hours that one Miss Barclay did to music (that is its
mechanical, not its mental part), another to oriental or mezzotinting,
or another to the creation of wax-work, Berlin wool,
etc., was not of the least consequence; their horror of blueism
was such, that to prevent all supposition of their approval of
Clara’s mode of life, they never lost an opportunity of bewailing
her unfortunate propensity—and of so impressing all
who visited at the house with the idea of her great learning
and obtrusive wisdom, that the gentle, unpretending manners
of the authoress could not weigh against it; and she found
herself universally shunned as something too terrible to be
defined.

“With all this, I write on, hope on,” she once wrote to an
intimate friend; “struggling to feel that if indeed I accomplish
<i>good</i>, I shall not live in vain; and my own personal
loneliness and sorrow will be of little consequence. But,
oh! how different it is to write merely for the good of others,
to the same efforts, to the same goal, pursued under the influence
// 249.png
.bn 249.png
of sympathy and affection! Because a woman has
<i>mind</i>, she is supposed to have no <i>heart</i>, and has no occasion
therefore for the sweet charities of life; when by her, if
possible more than any other, they are imperatively needed.
Others may find pleasure or satisfaction in foreign excitement;
to her, home is all in all. If there be one to love her
there—be it parent, husband, or friend—she needs no more;
the yearnings of her heart are stilled, the mind provides her
with unfading flowers, and her lot is as inexpressibly happy
as without such domestic ties it is inexpressibly sad. Do not
wish me, as you have sometimes done, dear Mary, to love,
for it would be unreturned; simply, because it is the general
belief that an authoress can have no time, no capability of
any emotion save for the creations of her own mind.”

So wrote Clara; though, at the time, she knew not how
soon her words would be verified. As soon as the term of
mourning had expired, though little inclined for the exertion,
she conquered her own shrinking repugnance to asserting
and adopting her own rights; and, to the astonishment of
Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, she accepted some of the invitations
which courtesy had sent her. Though entered into merely
as a duty, society gradually became a source of pleasure, in
the discovery that all her aunt’s circle were not of the
same frivolous kind; and then slowly, but surely, the pleasure
deepened into intense enjoyment from the conversation
and attentions of Granville Dudley, whom she met constantly,
though he did not visit her uncle. Clara was so very unlike
her cousins, whose endeavours to gain husbands were somewhat
too broadly marked, that Dudley had been irresistibly
attracted towards her; a fancy which every interview so
strengthened, that he began very seriously to question his
own heart as to whether he really was in love.

As Miss Stanley’s name was not generally known to the
literary world, and the lady, at whose house Granville mostly
met her, was herself scarcely aware that she was anything
more than an amiable, sensible and strongly feeling girl,
Granville Dudley knew nothing of her claims to literature
and authorship till his conversation with Charles Heyward,
near the close of the season, revealed them as we have said.
The very next time they met, Dudley, half fearfully, half
resolutely, led the subject to literature and literati, and drew
from Clara’s own lips the avowal he dreaded. In the happy
// 250.png
.bn 250.png
state of feeling which his presence always created, she at
first imagined he thus spoke from interest and sympathy in
all she did; and enthusiastic, as was her wont in conversation
with those who she thought understood her, she said
more on the subject, its enjoyment and resources, than she
had ever done in London. Granville said nothing, in reply,
which could have chilled her at the time. Yet, when the
evening was over, Clara’s heart sunk within her; she knew
not wherefore, save that a secret foreboding whispered within
her <i>that</i> conversation had sealed her fate. Dudley would not
trust his happiness with her.

At one other party she was to meet him, ere the season
closed, and the veriest devotee to balls and <i>soirées</i> could not
have longed for it more than poor Clara; who looked forward
to it as the confirmer or dispenser of her fears. The morning
of the day on which it was to take place, little Emily, the
youngest of the family, was seized with a violent attack of
fever, which increased as evening advanced. It so happened
that all the Barclay family who were “out” were engaged
that evening; Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, and their two elder
daughters, at a card and musical <i>soirée</i>; the other two, and
their brothers, under the <i>chaperonage</i> of Mrs. Smith, the
<lang='fr'><i>gouvernante</i></lang>, at the ball to which Clara looked
forward with
so much eagerness. What was to be done? The child
could not be left; and without Mrs. Smith, what was to
become of her sisters? It was impossible for them to go
alone, and equally impossible for mother, father, or either
sister of the little sufferer, to give up a fashionable party for
the dreadful doom of sitting by a sick bed.

Looks and hints of every variety were levelled at Clara;
who, with her usual benevolence, had stationed herself close
by her little cousin, ever ready to administer kindness or
relief. At any other time, she would not have hesitated a
moment; but with the restless craving to see Granville
Dudley again, the giving up her only chance, for a time at
least, was so exquisitely painful, she could not offer to remain.
Mrs. Barclay, however, seeing hints of no avail, at length
directly entreated that, as she was less fond of going out
than any one else, she might be glad of the excuse, to give
the time to her books and writing, and it would really be
doing her (Mrs. Barclay) an especial favour if she would
stay and nurse Emily. Clara’s high spirit, and strong sense
// 251.png
.bn 251.png
of selfish indulgence, obtained such unusual dominion, that she
had well-nigh proudly refused; but the little sufferer looked
in her face so piteously, and entreated her so pleadingly to
remain, that, ever awake to the impulse of affection, Miss
Stanley consented.

The disappointment was a bitter one, though Clara’s
strong sense of rectitude caused her to reproach herself for
its keenness, as uncalled for. What did Granville Dudley
care for her, that she should so think of him? but vain the
question. Every backward glance on their intercourse convinced
her that he had thought of her, had singled her out,
to pay her those attentions, that gentle and winning deference,
which, from a man of honour, such as the world
designated him, could not be misconstrued. There was one
comfort, however, in her not meeting him; if he knew what
kept her at home, he would scarcely continue to believe that
her only thoughts were of literature and authorship.

Little did she know that, before they departed on their
several ways, it was settled in the Barclay parliament that
nothing whatever was to be said of little Emily’s illness,
lest people should fancy it contagious, and send them no
more invitations, so closing their chances of matrimony for
that season, before it was quite time.

“If Clara is asked for, my dears—which is not at all likely—you
can say you know that she could not leave her writing,
or correcting a proof, or some such literary business. I
leave it to you, Matilda; you are sharp enough, particularly
in framing excuses for a rival, whom I know you are glad to
get out of your way. Folks say Granville Dudley had
a literary mother; he is not likely to wish for a literary
wife.”

The young lady answered with a knowing nod; and performed
her mission so admirably, that after that evening
Granville Dudley disappeared. Power she certainly had to
separate him from Clara, but to attach him to herself was
not quite so easy. The answer she had given to Granville’s
inquiries after her cousin was so carelessly natural—that
Clara, as an authoress, a literary character, had so many
superior claims, that parties and everything else must be
secondary, and this followed up by a high encomium on her
great talent, she should say genius; but it was, she thought,
almost a pity to be so gifted, as it incapacitated her from
// 252.png
.bn 252.png
common sympathies and duties—that it confirmed Granville’s
previous fears. And while it made him almost turn sick
with disappointment and anguish, for it seemed only then he
felt how completely she had become a part of himself, he
vowed to tear himself from her influence ere it was too late,
and the very next morning left London.

“You were right, Heyward. I suppose I shall be a happy
man again some day or other, but not now; so do not try to
philosophise me into being so.”

“But, my good fellow, perhaps after all we have been
frightened at shadows; and, hang it! but I am sorry I said
so much at first. That Emily Barclay has been very ill, and
was so that eventful night, are facts; and, in my opinion,
Clara stayed to nurse her, because the others were all too
selfish.”

“A sentimental excuse to obtain time for dear, delightful,
solitary musings, or some such thing. It is too late,
Heyward; she <i>is</i> literary, and so she cannot be domestic. I
will not think of her any more.”

This was not quite so easy to do as to say; but Granville
Dudley was a man of the world, far too proud and resolute
to bow, or seem to bow, beneath feeling, particularly when
he believed himself on the point of loving one who was
utterly incapacitated from giving him any heart in return.
He went abroad, travelled during the remainder of the
summer, joined the first Parisian circles in the autumn, and
before the year closed was a married man.
.sp 2
.h4
II.
.sp 2
Eight years have passed, and Clara Stanley is still unmarried;
yet she is happy and contented, for she is once more
amid the scenes of her childhood; once more the centre of a
domestic circle, who vie with each other who can love her
best. Two years after she heard of Granville Dudley’s marriage,
finding a London life less and less suited to her tastes,
and not conceiving any actual duty bound her to reside with
her uncle’s family, she resolved on making her home with an
intimate friend of her mother’s, who was associated with all
the happy memories of her own childhood and youth. Reduced
circumstances had lately compelled Mrs. Langley to
take pupils; a fact which had instantly determined Clara’s
// 253.png
.bn 253.png
plans. She was the more desirous for retirement and
domestic ties, from the very notoriety which the constant
success of her literary efforts had flung around her. She did
not disdain or undervalue fame; but all of expressed admiration,
all public homage, was so very much more pain than
pleasure, that she shrunk from it; longing yet more for some
kindly heart on which to rest her own. Let us not be mistaken:
it was not for love, in the world’s adaptation of the
word, she needed; it was a parent’s fostering care—a
brother’s supporting friendship—a sister’s sympathy, or one
friend to love her for herself, for the qualities of <i>heart</i>, not
for the labours and capabilities of <i>mind</i>. From the time she
heard of Dudley’s marriage, all thought of individual happiness
as a wife faded from her imagination. Her only efforts
were to rouse every energy to supply objects of interest and
affection, and so prevent the listlessness and despondency too
often the fate of disappointed women. This had, at first,
been indeed a painfully difficult task; for her heart had
whispered it was because she was different from her fellows,
because she was what the world termed literary and learned,
Granville had shunned her; and a few words, undesignedly
and carelessly spoken by Charles Heyward, relative to Dudley’s
dislike to female literature, from its effects on his mother,
confirmed the idea, and made her shrink from her former
favourite pursuits. But she, too, had a character to sustain;
and once more she compelled herself to work, believing that
her talents were lent her to be instruments of good, not to
lie unused. And yet, to a character of strong affections and
active energies, mental resources, however varied, were not
quite sufficient for happiness; and therefore was it she formed
and executed the plan we have named.

So seven years had sped, and there was little variation in
the life of our heroine for her biographer to record. Her
constant prayer was heard. Her name had become a household
word, coupled with love, from the pure high feelings
and ennobling sympathies which her writings had called
forth. Her works had made her beloved and revered,
though her person, nay, her very place of residence and all
concerning her were, as she desired, utterly unknown. This
in itself was happiness, inexpressibly heightened by her
present domestic duties, lightening Mrs. Langley’s household
cares; giving part of every day to that lady’s pupils; teaching
// 254.png
.bn 254.png
them not only to be accomplished and domestic, but to
be <i>thinkers</i>; training the <i>heart</i>, even more than the mind;
making nature alike a temple and a school: all the sweet
charities of home were now hers, and her heart was indeed
happy and once more at rest.

And was Granville Dudley, then, forgotten? When we
say that Clara might have married more than once, and most
happily, but that she had refused, simply because she could
not permit an unloved reality to usurp the place of a still
loved shadow—all doubts, we think, are answered.

Of Granville Dudley she could never hear; all trace of
him seemed lost. Within the last few years the newspapers
had indeed often teemed with the praises and speeches of a
Sir Dudley Granville; but, though the conjunction of names
had at first riveted her eye and made her heart turn strangely
sick, she banished the thought as folly. It was a Granville
Dudley, not a Dudley Granville, whom she had too fondly
loved.

Miss Stanley had resided about seven years with Mrs.
Langley, when application was made to the latter lady to
receive the only child of Sir Dudley Granville as her pupil.
The child was motherless, and in such very precarious health,
that the milder climate of Devonshire had been advised, as,
combined with extreme care, the only chance of rearing her
to womanhood. Mrs. Langley’s establishment was full, six
being her allotted number, which no persuasion had as yet
ever induced her to increase. There was something, however,
in the appearance of the little Laura which so unconsciously
won upon Clara, that she could not resist pleading
in the child’s behalf; and as one of the pupils was to leave
the next half year, Mrs. Langley acceded. Clara’s name,
however, had not been mentioned in this transaction. The
lady who had the charge of Laura had indeed conversed with
her, and had been charmed with her manner; but little
imagined she was enjoying the often-coveted honour of conversing
with an authoress, and one so popular as Clara
Stanley. She said that Laura, though eight years old,
literally knew nothing. Lady Granville had been the belle of
her time, but one who had the greatest horror of all learning
in woman, and in consequence possessing nothing of herself
but showy accomplishment, which told in society. She had
neglected the poor child, wasted alike her own health and
// 255.png
.bn 255.png
her husband’s income in the sole pursuit of pleasure, and
hurried herself to an early grave. Laura’s health had been
so delicate since then, that her father feared to commence her
studies, even while he was most anxious she should become
a sensible and accomplished woman, with resources for happiness
within herself.

“And she shall be, if I can make her so,” was Clara’s
inward thought, as she looked on the sweet face of the
child, and a new chord in her heart was touched she knew
not wherefore. It was impossible to analyse the feeling,
even to one long accustomed to analysing hearts, and Clara
gave it up in despair; but affection and interest alike clung
round the child, who gave back all she received. Her weak
health prevented her entering into all the routine of the
schoolroom, and she became Clara’s constant companion and
pupil. Repeatedly the artless letters of the child to her
doting father teemed with the goodness, the gentleness, the
tenderness of Miss Stanley; soon convincing Sir Dudley
how quick and ready were her powers of comprehension,
and filling his heart with gratitude towards that kind friend,
whom he knew not, guessed not was the authoress of the
same name whose gentle eloquence in her sex’s cause had
even now his admiration.

Laura Granville had been with Mrs. Langley about eight
months, when she became extremely ill, from an epidemic
that had suddenly broken out in the village; all Mrs.
Langley’s household were attacked by it in a greater
or less degree, but in Laura alone did it threaten to be fatal.
Careless of her own fatigue, Clara devoted herself, day and
night, to the young sufferer. Her affections had never
before been so warmly enlisted; not one of her young
friends had ever become so completely part of herself, and
as she watched and tended her morning prayers for her
recovery, it seemed as if the child must be something nearer
to her than in reality she was.

An express had been sent off for Sir Dudley Granville;
but, from his having gone unexpectedly to visit a friend in
Germany, it was unavoidably delayed on its way, and nearly
three weeks elapsed ere the baronet reached Ashford. From
the haste with which he had travelled, no account of her
progress could reach him; and it was in a state of agony
and suspense no words can describe that the father flung
// 256.png
.bn 256.png
himself from his carriage at Mrs. Langley’s gate, and rushed
into her presence.

“Your child lives; is rapidly recovering—may be stronger
than she has been yet,” were the first words he heard, for
his look and manner were all-sufficient introduction; and the
benevolent physician, who had that instant quitted his little
patient, grasped Sir Dudley’s hand with reassuring pressure.
The baronet tried to return it with a smile, but his quivering
lip could only gasp forth an ejaculation of thankfulness,
and sinking on a chair, he covered his face with his
hand.

“Let me see this incomparable young woman, the preserver
of my child!” he passionately exclaimed, as Dr. Bernard
and Mrs. Langley, after describing the progress and crisis of
Laura’s illness, attributed her unexpected recovery, under
Providence, to the incessant care and watchfulness of Miss
Stanley, the physician declaring his utmost skill had been,
without it, of no avail whatever. Being assured his appearance
would not injure Laura, who was, in truth, daily
expecting him, he eagerly followed Mrs. Langley to the
room, and paused a moment on the threshold unobserved.

Laura was sitting up in her little bed, supported by pillows,
looking pale and delicate, indeed, but smiling with that
joyous animation which, in childhood, is so sure a sign of
returning health; and dressing, with the greatest zest, a
beautiful doll, which, with its plentifully-supplied wardrobe,
lay beside her. Near the bed, and seated by a small table,
covered with books and writings, was Clara, who, by the
rapid movement of her pen, and her immovable attention,
was evidently deeply engrossed in her employment. Sir
Dudley could not see her face, for it was bent down, and
even its profile turned from him, but a strange thrill shot
through him as he gazed.

“Oh! look, Miss Stanley, how beautiful your work shows,
now she is dressed. How kind you were to make her all these
pretty things. I can do it all but these buttons, will you
do them for me?”

Clara laid down her pen with a smile, to comply with the
child’s request; and as she did so, Laura laid her little head
caressingly on her bosom, saying, fondly, “Dear, dear, Miss
Stanley, I wish papa would come; he would thank you for
all your goodness much better than I can.”
// 257.png
.bn 257.png

“I wish he would come, for your sake and his own,
dearest—not to thank me, though I shall not love you the
less for being so grateful, Laura,” was the reply, in a voice,
whose low, musical tones brought back, as by a flash of
light to Sir Dudley’s heart, feelings, thoughts, memories,
of past years, which he thought were hushed for ever.

“Miss Stanley! Clara! inscrutable Providence!—is it to
you I owe my child?” he exclaimed, springing suddenly
forward, and clasping his little child to his heart—one
moment covering Laura’s upturned face with kisses, the next
turning his earnest, grateful gaze on the astonished Clara.

For an instant her heart grew faint, for the fatigue of long-continued
nursing had weakened her; nor could she realize
in that agitating moment the lapse of ten years, since she had
last looked on his face, or listened to its richly expressive
voice. Time had passed over her heart, leaving its early
dream unchanged, and vainly she strove to feel how long a
period had flown. All seemed a thick and traceless mist;
but when she succeeded in shaking off that prostrating
weakness, forcing herself to remember it was Sir Dudley
Granville, not Granville Dudley, who had thus addressed
her, still one fact was certain, the object of her first, her
only affection was at her side once more—it was his child her
care had saved.

Day after day did Clara Stanley and Sir Dudley Granville
pass hours together by the couch of Laura. Though conscious
her secret was still her own, and grateful that, after
the first burst of natural feeling, Granville’s manner to her
was only that of an obliged and appreciating friend, Clara’s
peculiarly delicate feelings would have kept her from Laura’s
room during the visits of her father; but the child was
restless and uncomfortable whenever she was absent, and
Granville so evidently entreated her continued presence, that
to keep away was impossible. It was during these pleasant
interviews Sir Dudley related the cause of his change of
name. He had become, most unexpectedly, the heir to his
godfather, Sir William Granville, who had left him all his
estates, on the sole condition of his adopting, for himself and
his heirs, the name of Granville—Sir Granville Granville, he
added, with a smile, was not sufficiently euphonious, and so
he had placed the Dudley first instead of last. He alluded
// 258.png
.bn 258.png
in terms of the warmest admiration to her works, and
wondered at his own stupidity in never connecting the Miss
Stanley of his Laura’s letters with the authoress he had
once known. A very peculiar smile beamed on the lips
of Clara as he thus spoke, but she did not say its
meaning.

One day, some six or seven weeks after Granville’s appearance
at Ashford, Clara had just comfortably seated
herself at her desk, after seeing Laura ensconced in her
little pony chaise, when she was startled by hearing Sir
Dudley’s voice, in accents of unusual seriousness, close
beside her.

“Will you tell me, Miss Stanley, how you can possibly
contrive to unite so perfectly the literary with the domestic
characters? I have watched, but cannot find you fail in
either—how is this?”

“Simply, Sir Dudley, because, in my opinion, it is impossible
to divide them. Perfect in them, indeed, I am not;
but though I know it <i>is</i> possible for woman to be domestic
without being literary—as we are all not equally endowed by
Providence—to my feelings, it is <i>not</i> possible to be more than
usually gifted without being domestic. The appeal to the
heart must come from the heart; and the quick sensibility
of the imaginative woman must make her <i>feel</i> for others, and
<i>act</i> for them, more particularly for the loved of home. To
<i>write</i>, we must <i>think</i>, and if we think of duty, we, of all
others, must not fail in its performance, or our own words
are bitter with reproach. It is from want of thought most
failings spring, alike in duty as in feeling. From this want
the literary and imaginative woman must be free.”

Granville’s eyes never moved from the fair, expressive face
of the gentle woman who thus spoke, till she ceased, and
then he paced the room in silence; till, seating himself beside
her, he besought her to listen to him, and pity and forgive
him, and <i>prove</i> that she forgave him; and, ere she could
reply, he poured forth the tale of his earlier love—how truly
he loved her, even when his idle prejudices against literary
women caused him to fly from her influence, and enter into
a hurried engagement with one, beautiful indeed, but, from
having no resources within herself, the mere votaress of
pleasure and outward excitement. How bitterly he had
repented through seven weary years the misery he had
// 259.png
.bn 259.png
brought upon himself—how constantly he had yearned for
a companion of his home and of his mind—and how repeatedly,
as he glanced over her pages, where pure fresh
feeling breathed in every line, and the love of home and its
sacred ties were so forcibly inculcated, he had cursed his
own folly. How he had sought to drown thought in a public
career, but had still felt desolate; and now that he looked
on her again, not only in her own character, but as the preserver
of his child, how completely he felt that happiness
was gone from him for ever, unless she would give it in
herself!

Clara’s face was turned from him as he spoke, but, ere he
concluded, the quick, bright tears were falling in her lap;
and when she tried to meet his glance and speak, her lip so
quivered that no words came. It was an effort ere she could
tell her tale; but it was told at length, though Granville’s
ardent gratitude was for the moment checked by her serious
rejoinder.

“It is no shame now, dear Granville, to confess how deeply
and constantly I have returned your affection; but listen to me
ere you proceed further. I do not doubt what you say, that your
prejudices are all removed; but are you certain, quite certain,
that a woman who has <i>resources of mind</i> as well as of heart
can make you happy, as you believe? At one-and-twenty
you could have moulded me to what you pleased. I doubt
whether I should have written another line, had you not
approved of my doing it. At one-and-thirty this cannot be.
My character—my habits are formed. I cannot draw back
from my literary path, for I feel it accomplishes good. Can
I indeed make your happiness as I am? Dearest Granville,
do not let feeling alone decide.”

“Feeling! sense! reason! Clara—my own Clara—all
speak and have spoken long. Make my child but like yourself,
and with two such blessings I dare not picture what life
would be—too, too much joy.”

.tb

And joy it was. Joy as it seemed. Granville has felt
that for once imagination fell short of reality, for his path
is indeed one of sunshine; and as Lady Granville, the
authoress, continues her path of literary and domestic usefulness,
proving to the full how very possible it is for woman
// 260.png
.bn 260.png
to unite the two, and that our great poet[#] is right when, in
contradiction to Moore’s shallow theory of the unfitness of
genius to domestic happiness, he answered—“It is not
because they possess genius that they make unhappy homes,
but because they do not possess genius enough. A higher
order of mind would enable them to see and feel all the
beauty of domestic ties.”

.pm fn-start
Wordsworth.
.pm fn-end

.fm rend=th lz=th

// 261.png
.bn 261.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p245
<i>Helon.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
A FRAGMENT FROM JEWISH HISTORY.
.nf-
.sp 2
.pm verse-start
“Joy! joy! Spring hath come!
   Bounding o’er the earth,
 Laughing in the insect’s hum,
   In the flow’ret’s birth.
 Ere his spirit springs above,
   Summer’s wreath to twine,
 Oh, what joy for me, my love!
   Then thou wilt be mine!

“Joy! joy! though awhile,
   Dearest, we must part,
 Warmly will thy sunny smile
   Rest upon my heart.
 Spring the earth is greeting, love,
   With a crown of flowers;
 For the hour of meeting, love,
   Sweeter hopes are ours.”
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>So</sc> sung, in a rich, mellow, though somewhat subdued voice,
a young man, as he stood beneath the window of a grim old
mansion. The sun had but just risen, and sky and earth
seemed still bathed in his soft rosy glow. Flowers of delicate
form and many a brilliant tint were gemming the greensward,
which looked fresh and bright as emerald. Fringed with
hoary rocks and thick dark woods, lay the deep blue waters
of the lovely Rhine, seeming as if the spirits of the early
morning had flung on them a rich robe of golden sheen.
Even the black forest in the far distance, and the old, apparently
half-ruinous mansion itself, all but laughed in the
glowing light; hailing, as they did, the new birth of nature,
as well as that of the day. Spring had, within the last few
days, leaped from the arms of winter; and flowers and birds,
and earth and sky, welcomed his birth, as with a very jubilee
of gladness.
.pi
The deep seclusion of the scene, however, was remarkable:
castles and towns, convents and monasteries, generally
// 262.png
.bn 262.png
studded the banks of the Rhine, even as early as the close of
the eleventh century, the period of our narrative; but here
there was not a habitation of any kind visible, save this one
old house and its out-door offices.

It was a Hebrew school or college, the origin of which was
so far removed into the past as to be involved in mystery.
From its extreme seclusion it had remained undisturbed,
when elsewhere every trace of Israels locality had been
washed out in blood. Century after century beheld it occupied
by a succession of venerable teachers, learned in all the
mysteries of their law, and faithful to its every ordinance; by
some few Hebrew families who, from being pupils, loved its
peaceful seclusion too well to exchange it for the dangers of
towns; and by some youths, brought there by anxious
parents, or there own will, to learn such lessons as would bid
them live to glorify their faith, or die to seal its truth with
blood.

The young minstrel, whose song we have given, had been
one of these pupils since the age of ten, and was about returning
to Worms, his native city, to see his widowed mother,
from whom he had been parted fourteen years, obtain her
blessing on his choice (the daughter of one of his teachers),
and then return for his betrothed, either to dwell in this safe
retreat or elsewhere, as circumstances might be.

A knapsack was on his shoulder, and in his eager look upward
as he sung, his cap had fallen off, and one of those
countenances which, once seen, rivet themselves upon the
heart, was fully displayed. It was purely spiritually noble;
expressive of every emotion which can elevate and rejoice,
and utterly devoid of that abject mien and fearful glance,
the brand which persecution laid on the Israelites of
towns.

A sweet face appeared for a minute at the window as the
song ceased; a smile whose sunny warmth the poet had,
not too glowingly described, a fond wave of the hand, and
then the window was tenantless again, and the young man
turned away, still humming—

.pm verse-start
“For the hour of meeting, love,
  Sweeter hopes are ours;”
.pm verse-end
.ni
when he was joined by the companion for whom he had
waited: a man some ten years his senior, dark and stern in
// 263.png
.bn 263.png
aspect, as if every human emotion had been battled with and
conquered.
.pi
“Joy—hope! Have such words meaning for an Israelite?”
he said, bitterly. “Art thou of the doomed and outcast race,
and canst yet sing in the vain dream of joy? Knowest thou
not the fate of Israel, when once looked on by man? The
rack, cord, death! Hast thou not heard, that in this new
war of the accursed Nazarene, their holy war, the signal for
marching is the death-shriek of the slaughtered Jews?
Spires, Metz, Cologne, Treves, Presbourg, Prague, ask them
the fate of Israel, and sing if thou canst. Ask yonder river,
from whose kindly waters those who had sought their calm
repose, rather than wait the cruelty of man, were drawn forth
and butchered on the blood-reeking land. Ask yon river the
fate of the hundreds who threw themselves within it—and
then sing of joy!”

“I do know these things, Arodi,” was the calm reply,
though the flushed cheek denoted some feeling of pain. “I
know that for Israel there is only such joy as may be resigned
at a moment’s call; only such hope as looks beyond this
world for perfection and fulfilment. Think you because, with
a grateful heart and joyful song, I breathed forth a dream
of earthly happiness, that I am less fitted than yourself to give
up all of joy, hope, and love, if such be the will of God?”

“It cannot be. You love, you are joyful. You have woven
sweet dreams, whose destruction will bow you to the dust.
Human affections fetter your soul to earth. How can it
give itself to God?”

“Through the blessings He has given; blessings which so
fill my heart with love for Him, that without one murmur I
would resign them at His call.”

“You think so now; beware lest this, too, prove a dream.
For me, hope and joy are as far from me as yon blue arch
from the cold earth on which I see but my brethren’s
blood.”

“Look beyond it, then,” answered Helon, fervently.
“Why should there not be joy for Israel? Dark as is his
present, so bright will be his future. As both have been
prophesied, so both will be fulfilled.”

He spoke in vain; as well might he have striven to pour
forth sunshine on the dark bosom of night, as infuse his
spirit in the heart of his companion.
// 264.png
.bn 264.png

Their way being long, and travelling tedious, from the
trackless forests and mountain torrents which they were repeatedly
compelled to cross, they found they had miscalculated
their time, and that the solemn festival of the Passover,
which they had hoped to celebrate in Worms, would fall some
few days before they reached it. Remembering that a kind
of hostelry, kept by one of their brethren, lay but a few
roods out of their way, they determined on abiding there till
the festival was over.

It was on the fourth day that a man rushed into the court,
covered with dust and mud, and so exhausted as barely to be
able to tell his horrible tale. Massacre and outrage again
menaced the hapless Jews. He stated that, on the first day
of Passover, as the procession of the Host had passed down
the Jewish quarter of Worms, a cry arose that it had been
insulted by two Jews, who had vanished directly afterwards.
That, were not the real criminals given up, the whole Jewish
population should be exterminated, without regard to age, sex,
or rank. Seven days were allowed them to determine their
own fate; a useless delay, for when all were innocent, who could
avow guilt? The city gates were closed; not a Jew allowed
egress from the town, and, at the imminent risk of his own
life, the bearer of these horrible tidings had alone escaped.

Darker and sterner grew the countenance of Arodi, as he
heard. He had neither relative nor friend amid the
doomed, but once more the curse had fallen on his people,
and he burst forth in fearful execration.

“Ye sang of joy,” he exclaimed, turning fiercely towards
Helon, on whose face, though pale as marble, a strange yet
beautiful light had fallen. “Sing on! a joyous song to greet
a mouldering home and murdered parent. Ye dared hope—ye
dared be joyful—’tis the wrathful voice of the avenger!”

“Peace, Arodi; they shall yet be saved.”

“Saved! bid the ravening wolf release the lamb, the
hungry lion his fought-for prey.” Helon’s sole answer was
so thrilling in its low brief words, that Arodi started several
paces back, gazing on him, as if he had doubted or understood
not the meaning of his words. “Canst thou—wouldst thou—what!
resign all?” he rather permitted to fall from his lips
than said.

“I do not resign them—’tis but their exchange for bliss
which is unfading.”
// 265.png
.bn 265.png

“And Admah—Helon, hast thou thought of <i>her</i>?”

“Thought of her!” and the strong convulsion passing over
Helon’s face and frame was indeed sufficient answer. Yet
he added calmly, after some minutes’ pause, “For this she,
too, would resign me. Her spirit speaks within me, bidding
me do what my full soul prompts. What is the happiness
of one compared with the lives of hundreds?”

The soul of the dark, stern man shook within him. He
battled with emotion for the first time in vain. Falling on
Helon’s neck, these words broke forth in sobs: “Forgive
me, oh, forgive me, brother! I despised, contemned thee;
yet from thee I learn my duty. ‘Whither thou goest, I will
go,’ What thou doest, I will do. Brother, make me as
thyself.”

But one night intervened, and the wretched Jews of
Worms, in the stern stillness of utter despair, awaited their
fearful doom. The festive rejoicing which, even in the
darkest era of persecution, ever attended the Passover, was
changed into deepest mourning. Not one ray of human hope
illumined this horrible darkness. The similar fate of hundreds,
aye, thousands, even millions, yet rung in their ears.
He who alone could save had turned His face in wrath from
his afflicted people. They had but one consolation, and
mothers clasped closer their unconscious babes, and husbands
their trembling wives, in the one glad thought that none
would be left to lament the other—they should die together.

Night fell, calmly and softly; oh who that looked up on
those radiant heavens, losing all of earth in the thoughts of
the hundreds and hundreds of unknown worlds filling the vast
courts of trackless space, can imagine without a shudder, the
mighty mass of human passion and human suffering which
one little corner of the globe contains? Who that feels for
one brief minute the pressure of infinity upon his soul,
speaking, as it will, in the solemn stillness of spiritual night,
can come back to earthly things, without shuddering at the
awful amount of countless cruelties worked by insect man,
without feeling that we have indeed

.pm verse-start
            “Need of patient faith below
To clear away the mysteries of such woe?”
.pm verse-end

There was one lone watcher of the silent night, but he
thought not of these things. For above an hour a tall
// 266.png
.bn 266.png
muffled figure had been standing without the window of a
lowly Jewish dwelling, gazing within, and wrapt up in the
strong emotions which the gaze called forth. A lamp was
burning on a table, round which a mother and her children
sat. Years had passed, long years, since the lone watcher
had been among those loved ones, save in dreams; and now,
while his whole heart yearned to fling himself upon that
mother’s neck, and feel her kiss, and claim her blessing—to
clasp hands once more with those loved companions of his
childhood, now sprung into sweet blooming youth—he dared
not follow feeling’s impulse. Better his own heartsick
yearning, the agonized throb of human love and human fear,
than the momentary bliss of meeting, to part again for
ever.

He had seen the burst of terror, of the wild clinging to
life, even such life as theirs, natural to youth, soothed by a
mother’s prayer. He had seen them twine hand in hand with
hers, and lift their bright heads to heaven in that meek, enduring
constancy, the undying attribute of persecuted Israel;
and then the mother was alone, and the watcher beheld the
calm a brief while give way, and natural anguish take its
place.

“My God! thou wilt spare one,” fell on the hushed air,
“my firstborn, first-loved, my beautiful Helon! I had
thought to look on him again, but I bless thee that thou hast
refused my prayer. Bless him, oh, bless him, Father! my
own bright boy!”

Was it her own low sob she heard, or its echo, that she so
started even from so much grief and looked fearfully round?
There seemed a shadow between the window and the faint
moonlight, but ere she could trace it to a human form it had
gone.

The morning was clothed in dull, leaden clouds; and,
flocking from their dwellings, as was their wont, on the
seventh day of Passover, in holiday attire, and with composed
appearance, every Jewish family sought the synagogue.
Divine service commenced, proceeded, and was concluded
without interruption. Scarcely, however, had they reached
the outer court to return to their homes, than fearful shouts
smote the ear, waxing louder, hoarser, more terrible with
every passing moment. On came the infuriated crowd, a dark
impenetrable phalanx, increasing in every street, and fearfully
// 267.png
.bn 267.png
illumined with blazing torches held aloft; blades gleaming
in the red flame; clubs, axes, pitchforks, every weapon that
first came to hand. On they came, wrought into yet wilder
frenzy, yet deeper thirst for human blood, by their own
mad shouts, and the lurid flames that, as they rushed down
the Jewish quarter, marked their progress. And how stood
their victims? So firm, so motionless in the shadow of their
house of prayer, that even the wild mob, when they first
beheld them, fell back a moment powerless. Formed in a
compact square, woman, children, and tottering age in the
centre, youth and manhood stood around, with arms folded
and head erect; not a limb, not a muscle moved; not a sound
broke forth, even when their fiendish foes poured down and
faced them. It was an awful pause; lasting not a minute,
yet seeming to be hours; and then, with brandished arms
and wilder cries, they rushed on to the work of death.

“Back!” exclaimed a voice not loud nor stern, but so
thrillingly distinct and sweet, that it was heard by every
individual of both parties, and involuntarily compelled
obedience. “Back!—touch not the innocent. Ye have
demanded the criminals, <sc>BEHOLD THEM</sc>! Ye have sworn
their lives shall suffice—take them, torture them as ye
list; but touch not, on your peril, touch not these!”

Two strangers stood suddenly between the murderers and
the victims, as the unknown voice spake, the one in the
loveliest bloom of youth, the other in manhood’s prime.
With an appalling yell of disappointed malice, hate, and
aggravated wrath, the fierce crowd rushed forwards, and
closed round the voluntary martyrs. And here we pause,
for how may the pen linger on the horrible tortures, the
agonizing death inflicted on these noble men; or the horror
of the stunned yet liberated Israelites, in being forced by
their tormentors to witness the fate of their preservers? Yet
no groan escaped the victims, to glut the long pent-up fury of
their foes; no word to reveal to their brethren whence they
came or who they were, or that they had spoken but to save.

The poet’s prophecy was fulfilled: “Ere spring had
changed to summer,” Helon and his faithful Admah had
met again, where hope was lost in fulfilment, temporal joy in
an eternity of bliss. The summer flowers had twined their
clinging tendrils round a lowly tomb of pure white marble
in the grave-yard of that old mansion, Helon’s home so long,
// 268.png
.bn 268.png
and half hiding the single word “Admah” with their
radiant clusters, whispered in sweet breath to the passing
breeze the bliss of a pure spirit, so early freed from the
detaining fetters of a broken heart.

To this day the names of the martyrs rest unknown; but
the two lamps still kept burning to their memory, in the
synagogue of Worms, testify the truth of this fearful tale, and
bear witness to a faith, a self-devotedness in scorned and
hated Israel, unsurpassed in the annals of the world!
// 269.png
.bn 269.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p253
<i>Lucy.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
AN AUTUMN WALK
.nf-
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>It</sc> was a lovely afternoon, in the fall of the year; that
season by many deemed the most melancholy of them all.
The fallen leaves, the decay of vegetation, the absence of
flowers, the trees shorn of their summer glory, are to some
such painful emblems of man’s estate, that they shrink in
strange and melancholy trembling from the calm and pensive
aspect of autumn, as if the death of nature whispered of their
own. Yet it is not so. Autumn, even in its sadness, looks
beyond the grave, and breathes of immortality. The shorn
tree will put on its gala dress again; the withered hedge
will send forth the loveliest flowers. Earth, burdened now
in seeming with its emblems of decay, in reality derives
thence her nourishment and strength, and will spring up
again, bright and beautiful, strong and smiling in her reawakened
joy. And shall man alone, amid the creation of
Omnific love, pass hence for ever? No, oh, no! As a flower
to bloom and be cut down, so as a flower will he burst forth
again in a lovelier world and never-ending spring.
.pi
The day was well suited for such consoling musing; there
was a balmy freshness in the air, a clearness in the atmosphere,
in the cloudless expanse of azure, stretching above
and around; a warmth and glow in the sun, even as he
approached the west, unusual to the season. And there was
beauty, too, in the landscape; or the fountain of enjoyment
which Nature had unsealed in our hearts, bathed the scene
in its own bright colouring, as in those exquisite lines of
Coleridge:—

.pm verse-start
* * * “We receive but what we give,
And in our hearts alone does Nature live;
Ours her wedding garment, and ours her shroud,
And would we ought receive of higher worth
Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd?
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud,
Enveloping the earth.”
.pm verse-end
// 270.png
.bn 270.png

The trees lifted up their graceful heads to the circling
heaven; every branch and every spray clearly defined against
the blue; so still, so moveless, they looked like pencil-sketches
of exquisite delicacy and softness. Then often, as
in beautiful relief, started up a gigantic holly, every leaf
green and glossy as in the richness of summer, with clusters
of its bright scarlet berries standing out against the dark
leaf, like sprays of coral. Ever and anon, a break in the
hedge displayed towering hills and far-stretching meadows,
green and glistening from the late rains; while bold crags,
chained by the grey lichen and golden stonecrop, and
patches of gloomy firs, frowning like grim shadows in the
sunshine, proclaimed the mountainous district to which we
were approaching, and heightened, by contrast, the beauty
all around. There was something in the whole aspect of
Nature so calm, so cheerful, bereft as she was of every
flower and leaf, and all her rich summer hoards, that made
us compare her to one on whom affliction has fallen with a
heavy hand, whose flowers of life are withered, but who can
yet lift up heart and brow, with serene and placid faith, to
that heaven where the vanished flowers wait her smile again.

The very sounds, too, were in unison with the scene.
The sweet note of many an English bird, not in full chorus
of melody, as in the warmth and luxury of summer, but one
or two together, answered by others as they floated to and fro
in the field of azure, or paused a moment on the quivering
spray. Then came the twinkling gush of a silvery stream,
seeming, by its blithesome voice, to rejoice in its increase
of waters from previous heavy rains. Then, sparkling and
leaping in the glittering rays, like a shower of silver, a rustic
watermill became visible through the trees; the music of its
splash and foam bringing forth the voice of memory yet
more thrillingly than before, for it was a sound of home.
We paused; when suddenly another sound floated on the
air, of more mournful meaning. It was the solemn toll of
a church bell, distinct though distant, possessing all that
simple sanctity peculiar to the country—that voice of wailing
which comes upon the heart as if the departed, whom it
mourns, had had its dwelling there, claiming kindred alike
with our sorrows and our joys. We hurried on, and just as
we neared the ivy-mantled church, the solemn chanting of a
psalm by several young and most sweet voices sounded in
// 271.png
.bn 271.png
the dim distance, and becoming nearer and more near, proclaimed
the approach of the funeral train. The peculiar
mode of tolling the bell, as is customary in those primitive
districts of the north of England, had already betrayed the
sex of the departed, and with foreboding spirits we listened
for the age. We counted twenty-one of those mournful
chimes, and then they sunk in silence solemn as their sound.

The church was situated midway on the ascent of a hill,
or rather mount, guarded by a thick grove of yews and firs,
their sad and pensive foliage assimilating well with the olden
shrine. The ivy had clambered over the slender buttress,
clustering round the old square belfry, decking age with
beauty, and moss and lichen pressed forth in fantastic patches
on the roof. The green earth was filled with lowly graves,
thickly twined with evergreen shrubs and hardy flowering
plants. Headstones and marble tombs there were; some so
crusted over by the cold finger of Time, that even the briefest
record of those who slept beneath was lost for ever; and
others gleaming pure and white in the declining sun, seeming
to whisper hope and faith in the very midst of desolation and
death.

The clergyman stood at the churchyard gate, waiting the
arrival of the corpse. He was leaning against the stone
pillar which held the hinges of the gate, his head buried in
his hands, and his bowed and drooping aspect breathing a
more than common love. His figure was so peculiarly
youthful, we wondered at his full canonical costume.

The psalm continued; now low, as mourning the departed—now
in solemn rejoicing that a ransomed soul was free.
The snow-white pall which covered the coffin, the white
dresses and hoods of the bearers and the young girls, who,
to the number of eight or ten, headed the train, confirmed
the mournful tale which the bell had already told. A young
girl of one-and-twenty summers was passing to her last long
home. There were but few chief mourners, and these
seemed struggling to subdue their grief to the composed and
holy stillness meet for such an hour. As the train entered
the last winding path of the ascent, the bell began again to
toll, and the sound seemed to rouse the young minister from
his all-absorbing grief. He started, with a visible shudder,
and the expression of agony that his face revealed haunted
us for many a long day. There was a strong effort at control;
// 272.png
.bn 272.png
and he turned to meet the corpse, repeating, as he did
so, in low impressive tones, part of the burial service. He
walked at the head of the train to the place appointed—the
centre of a little cluster of yews; and there, in silent awe,
we watched the ceremony of the interment.

An aged minister had been among the train of mourners,
and, as they entered the churchyard, had approached the
officiating clergyman, evidently entreating to perform the
melancholy office in his stead. The reply was merely a
strong grasp of the hand and a mournful shake of the head;
and the old man fell back to his place, his eyes still fixed on
his young brother, and gradually they filled with large tears,
which fell unconsciously, and seemed more for the living
than the dead. Once only the service was wholly inarticulate,
and the old man drew near hurriedly, as fearing the
calm of mental torture must at length give way; but still he
struggled on, though the tone in which the awful words—“earth
to earth, and dust to dust,” now at length pronounced,
was as if the very spirit had been wrung to give them voice.
Never did the sound of filling in the grave fall with such cold
and heavy weight on our hearts as at that moment; yet still,
spell-bound, we lingered.

The early twilight of autumn had deepened the beautiful
blue of the heavens, as the service concluded, and with low,
subdued chant the mourning train departed. The slender
forms of the young girls, in their snowy robes, gleaming
strangely and fitfully through the darkening shadows of the
winding paths; their sweet, young voices sounding almost
like spirit music, as they faded, fainter and more faint in the
far distance.

Still the young clergyman remained, pale, rigid, moveless,
gazing on the newly-turned earth, till he fancied he was alone
with the homes of the dead; and then, with a low, smothered
groan of anguish, he flung himself on the damp grave, clasping
it with his outstretched arms, pressing his cold lips upon
it, his whole frame quivering with the effort to restrain his
bursting sobs. The old man hurried forwards and laid his
trembling hand on his arm, the tears streaming down his
furrowed face the while, and with faltering accents conjured
him to take comfort, for his poor mother’s sake.

“I will, I will,” was the agonized reply. “Leave me,
leave me to my God. He will bring peace. I see but the
// 273.png
.bn 273.png
cold grave now; but faith will come again. She is free,
rejoicing. She will know now how much, how faithfully—but
leave me, leave me now.” And the old man turned
sorrowingly away; and softly and sadly, for such grief might
not bear a witness, we departed also—our last lingering
glance revealing the youthful mourner kneeling in voiceless
supplication on the sod.

To the aged minister so often mentioned we were indebted
for that true English hospitality, still so warmly proffered in
these “nooks of the world,” and in listening to the following
sad and simple story, the evening hours sped on.

Lucy Lethvyn was the daughter of a rich merchant, in one
of our large commercial cities of the north of England. The
village of Elmsford had been the site alike of her childhood
and happy school-days; and so associated was it with hours
of peace and joyance, far removed from the strife and confusion
around her city home, that her wonted summer visit
to its shades and flowers was ever welcomed with delight.

At the Vicarage of Elmsford, then occupied by our venerable
host, Mr. Evelyn, Mrs. Lethvyn and her daughters
were constant visitors; and there it was that Nevil Herbert,
the young clergyman who had so deeply interested us, again
met Lucy after a lapse of seven years. Formerly they had
been frequent companions, from the near relationship of
their parents; and Nevil had been accustomed to think of
Lucy as the gentle, artless, affectionate little girl of ten
summers, he had last beheld her. Her occasional letters,
breathing the same fresh, child-like spirit, increased this
illusion. She had called him brother, and often wished he
had indeed been such; and he had laughingly acknowledged
and promised to value the relationship. In those seven
years of separation, however, Nevil’s lot had changed. At
eighteen he lost his father, and the same stroke cast him and
his mother penniless on the cold world. A rich relation
promised to give him a collegiate education, preparatory to
his taking orders, a living being in his gift. The offer,
benevolently made as it was, might not be rejected; though
to Nevil, the parting with his mother, for her also to endure
the miseries of dependence, was fraught with such anguish,
that he would willingly have worked for her in the meanest
capacity, so that she might still feel free.

Mrs. Herbert was, however, much too unselfish to permit
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this; she soothed, urged, and in part comforted him, by the
anticipation of the time when they might be once again
together, assuring him that to contribute to that joyful end,
much more painful alternatives could be borne than the one
that she had chosen.

On all that Nevil Herbert had to endure in college, we
have no space to linger. Suffice it he was poor—he was
dependent; and however lavish may be the kindness and
benevolence bestowed, it will not take away the sting contained
in these two words, or permit the taking that station
in the world for which such spirits pine. It is strange how
often poverty will change to reserve, and bitterness, and
pride, dispositions which in affluence would have been
humble, and loving, and open as the day. And sad, oh!
how bitterly sad it is that the cold, heartless world should
fling such scorn and contempt upon that word, and shrink
from the children of poverty, noble-gifted though they be, as
they would from crime, and, by a thousand nameless slights
and petty provocations, add a hundred-fold to the misery
already theirs. Philosophy may preach, and religion soothe;
but while such things are, poverty must ever be regarded as
a doom of horror and of dread.

Nevil Herbert’s peculiarly sensitive nature caused him to
feel these evils even more keenly than the multitude so
situated; and therefore the rest and peace of the vicarage
of Elmsford was, indeed, to him almost heaven upon earth.
There nothing ever galled him, but all around breathed the
balm of that true sympathy and appreciation, which, raising
the drooping spirit to its proper level, restores its self-esteem,
and consequently its happiness.

Nevil was just two-and-twenty when his ideal of female
loveliness and innocence burst upon him in most exquisite
reality, through the child-like loveliness and artlessness of
Lucy. Alike the favourites of the vicar, he rejoiced to see
them together, and never dreamed that to his petted Nevil
danger might thence accrue. To him Lucy was still a child,
as so she was to herself and all around her, but to one,
and that one, unhappily, was Nevil. He guessed not her
influence till he returned to his solitary studies, and then he
felt, too keenly, that, despite his every resolution, he loved—and
loved in vain; not only from their different stations, but
that it was still only as a brother she regarded him.
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The next recess found them again together, more closely
than before, for Lucy was the old man’s guest equally with
himself; but a change had come upon her—not towards
Nevil, but in herself. The child had sprung into the woman—the
incipient germs of thought and feeling burst into the
full-blossomed flowers. There was a deeper tone in her
sweet voice, a more intense light in her radiant eye, a fuller
sentiment in her bright smile. Yet to Nevil’s eye alone
these things were visible. None other, even of those who
loved her best, saw the change; but Nevil read by the light
of his own feelings, and they told him she, too, loved—and
loved another.

It was even so, and from her own lips the artless tale was
poured into his ear. She called and felt him brother, and
claimed his sympathy as such; feeling that, did she conceal
anything which concerned her happiness from one so true,
and kind, and good as Nevil Herbert, she wronged him,
and deserved to lose his friendship altogether; and even at
such a moment Nevil’s martyr spirit did not forsake him.
The hand, indeed, was cold and damp which pressed the
fairy one held out to him, as she spoke, but the lip did not
quiver, nor the voice falter, in which he assured her that her
confidence was not misplaced—that her happiness and interest
were dear to him as his own.

A few weeks brought Mr. and Mrs. Lethvyn and Mordaunt
Lyndsey to the vicarage. Handsome, intelligent, and animated,
there was much in the latter to possess and win.
He had been Lucy’s partner at her first ball, and by the
magic charm of his varied conversation, the magnetic power
which fascinates at a first interview, and calling forth the
yearning to know more, gradually changes into earnest and
lasting love, fixed that evening indelibly on her mind and
heart.

It is in vain to argue either on the birth, the nature or
the duration of love. It may spring into existence unconsciously;
becoming so completely part of our being, that it
remains unknown until some sudden shock of joy or grief
awakens us from our rest, and dooms us to an almost overpowering
sense of joy or an equal intensity of grief; or one
little hour may reveal depths within the human heart, whose
existence was never known before—will awaken restless,
baseless imaginings, that linger, strengthening with every
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interview, till the earthly fate is fixed for ever. And how
may we argue on this, how seek its explanation? Yet who,
that hath once opened the wide, mysterious volume of the
human heart, will deny that so it is?

It was so with Lucy. She who had remained free and
child-like in her intercourse with Nevil Herbert (though her
character assimilated with his far more than with Lyndsey’s),
was chained and bound for ever beneath the magic of Mordaunt
Lyndsey’s voice and smile. The spell of their first
interview lingered to the second, and each day, each week
strengthened Lucy’s love.

Mordaunt Lyndsey was an orphan, and not rich enough
to wed a portionless bride; but, unlike Nevil, as he knew
not the privation and bitterness of dependence, so was he
utterly ignorant of those finely organized feelings which could
debar his association with the wealthier than himself. He
made his way in the world, for he had good connections,
well-sounding friends, and so was courted and received. It
was some little time before Mr. Lethvyn could give his consent
to their union, his ambition looking higher for his Lucy,
but his paternal affection was stronger than his ambition;
and perceiving how completely her happiness was bound up
with Mordaunt’s, for whom he himself felt prepossessed, he
not only gave unqualified approval, but settled on his darling
a portion almost startling in its profuseness, and promised
his influence to get Mordaunt entered as partner in the
firm. Lucy was still so young, that her parents prevailed on
Lyndsey, though very much against his inclination, to wait
six months, and celebrate their nuptials with the completion
of her eighteenth year.

It had been with perfect sincerity that Nevil Herbert had
promised Lucy to comply with her artless entreaty; and, like
Mordaunt, not only for her dear sake, but from the same
honourable and religious principles which actuated all his
conduct. Why, he asked himself, should he hate and shun
a fellow-creature because he was happier than himself? and
could he have esteemed as he wished, and hoped to do,
young Lyndsey, this principle would have been followed by
a friendship as disinterested as was felt by man.

But this could not be. Rendered watchful and penetrative
by his pure and most unselfish affection, a very, very brief
interval of intimate association convinced him that Mordaunt
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was not a character worthy of one like Lucy. She would
need, as a wife, tenderness as unvarying as it was exclusive,
sympathy in all her high, pure feelings, as in detestation of
all worldliness and art; encouragement in her simple duties
and tastes; in a word, love as faithful, as clinging, as constant
as her own, and this Nevil saw Mordaunt could not
give. Even now, Lucy was not the world to him as he was
to her, and Herbert could not argue that such difference was
but in nature, that man could not love as woman; for his
own aching spirit told him the creed was false.

Time passed. The Lethvyns and Mordaunt returned to
their city homes, and Nevil to his solitary studies. Weeks
sped on to months, the eventful day was near at hand, and
Lucy’s bridal attire nearing its completion. The nuptials
were to be on a scale almost princely; for as princes did
Lethvyn’s ambitious spirit regard the merchants of England,
forgetting, in his vast schemes and golden visions, that the
wealth of yesterday may be poverty the morrow. The
expected bridal was the talk of the city; anxiety for her
child’s happiness the only thought of the mother; love for
Mordaunt the sole existence of Lucy; and therefore it was
not very strange that by these severally interested parties
Lethvyn’s unusually harassed countenance and excited
manner were unnoticed. Ten days before that appointed
for the bridal, however, the blow fell—the firm failed.
Lethvyn was utterly and irretrievably ruined, unable, by the
dishonest conduct of one of the partners, even to pay one
shilling in the pound.

The usual excitement which such events in provincial
cities always create, was heightened by the universal sympathy
for the principal sufferers. Lethvyn’s profuse benevolence
and affability having made him generally beloved,
many pressed forward eager to prove what they felt; but the
unfortunate man turned from them with a heart-sickness, a
loathing of himself and the whole world, which no human
consolation could remove.

That her father should be so prostrated by his failure was
a matter of grief, but scarcely of surprise, to Lucy; but that
it could in any way affect Mordaunt, was a mystery she could
not solve. Loving him, and him alone, with such love that
she cared not how lowly was their dwelling—nay, rejoicing
that she could now prove her love in a hundred little caressing
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ways, which in a wealthier and more influential station
would be denied her—how could the thought enter her pure
mind, that in <i>his</i> affection her wealth had equal resting with
herself?—that his ardent desire for the speedy celebration of
their marriage originated as much to possess her dowry as
herself? the insecure tenure of merchants’ wealth never
having for one instant faded from his mind.

To Elmsford, at the earnest entreaty of Mr. Evelyn, the
ruined family retired; but vain were all exertions of his
friends to rouse Mr. Lethvyn from his despondency; he
drooped and drooped, and there were times when he would
fix his eyes on his Lucy with such an expression of intense
suffering, of foreboding misery, that she would fly to him,
fold her arms about his neck, and weep, and then conjure
him to tell her what he feared; and then he would fold her
closer and closer, the big tears rolling down cheeks on which
the furrows of age had been hollowed in a single week, but
the cause of such emotion never found a voice.

Too soon, however, did the cause reveal itself. With every
manifestation of strong feeling and real affection, Mordaunt
Lyndsey confessed that to give Lucy the home and comforts
which he felt she so deserved and needed, he had not the
adequate means. They were both still young, and he would
go abroad, seek his fortune in India, where a lucrative situation
had been offered him; and if, indeed, his Lucy would
love him still, through absence, and distance, and time, he
would in a few brief years either send for her to join him, or
return for her himself, as circumstances would permit.

Pale, rigid, almost breathless, Lucy sat while her lover
spoke, her hands pressed tightly one over the other, and
every feature still almost to sternness; but as he fixed the
full glance of his eyes on hers—and they seemed to glisten
in tears as he called her name in that accent of love which
ever thrilled through her heart and frame—she fell upon his
bosom, and, with a passionate burst of weeping, besought
him not to leave her. Were there not some sweet spots in
England—oh! surely there were—where they might live,
even with his moderate means, in comparative affluence?
Solitude, privation—all more welcome, rather than part with
him.

“And so sacrifice your first bloom, your glowing youth
my Lucy, and struggle on through life, wasting your best
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years, buried in a wild, amid rude boors, who could neither
understand nor love you.”

“What care I for others? Have I not you, dearest Mordaunt?
Do I seek, ask for, need aught else?”

“For that very love I would not so sacrifice you, sweet
one; and—and—oh! Lucy, forgive me—man is different to
woman. My spirit is restless and ambitious. I could not
live in the retirement of an English cottage, and restlessness
might seem like irritability; and then—then, Lucy, you
would—you must cease to love me!”

She lifted up her sweet face, and, oh! the expression of
unutterable sadness upon it. A chill had fallen on her
yearning heart, stagnating its every bounding pulse—a sickness
and dread, more agonizing than parting’s self; for, for
the first time, she felt “he does not love as I love;” but
she spoke no word, she uttered no sigh—it was but the
shadow on that lovely face which betrayed the cloud that
had buried the sunshine of her heart; and when with words
of repentant agony, almost in tears, Mordaunt flung himself
on his knees before her, covering her cold hand with kisses,
and imploring her not to doubt his love, his truth, because
he had thus spoken, she tried to smile, to forget herself for
him, drawing from him with such sweet gentleness his plans
and wishes, that his spirits returned, and he forgot even the
fancy that he had given her pain, or that the word of a
moment could break the fond dream of months.

Mordaunt Lyndsey went to India. We may not linger on
that bitter parting, or on the feelings of either save to say,
that with Mordaunt sorrow was so transient, that ere the
long voyage was completed, new scenes, new hopes, new
wishes had obtained such dominion there was scarcely a void
remaining. With Lucy could this be? Alas! she was a
young and loving woman; and in those words we have our
answer. Nor was she one who had ever so sought outward
excitement and enjoyments, as to find in them relief from
anxiety, or rest from sorrow. The simple, trusting religion
of her own heart—the refreshing and soothing influences of
nature—the calm repose of seeking the happiness of others,
of devotion to all who gave her the sweet meed of affection;
these were her consolations, and enabled her to meet her
heart’s deep loneliness with cheerfulness and smiles. And
when Mr. Lethvyn sunk gradually away, it seemed not only
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with individual and present sorrows, but with dim forebodings
of his child’s future, it was Lucy who soothed and
comforted her mother, and, by her meek and gentle influence,
restored peace and serenity to their lowly cottage, and robbed
even the memory of death of its lingering sting.

And towards Mordaunt, what were her feelings? Though
the conviction that his love was not as hers never left her
mind, her affection was too pure and true to know the shadow
of a change. She thought it was but the diverse nature
of man and woman; that the varied pursuits, the very
strength of the one prevented the exclusiveness, the devotedness
of the other, and her gentle spirit turned longingly
to the time when she should be all his own; and, when,
perhaps, tired of excitement and ambition, his heart would
turn to his home and to herself for rest and peace, and she
would be to him, indeed, almost as he had ever been to
her.

His truth she never doubted. Deception, fickleness, or
caprice, unkindness or neglect, were things unknown to her;
and how then could she associate them with the earthly idol
her soul enshrined? She had carried the guilelessness, the
innocence, the freshness of the child into the deeper feelings,
the clinging devotedness of the woman. Her being was
wrapt in the beautiful halo her fancy had flung round another,
and did a storm disperse that halo, it would have crushed
her in the same destroying blast.

It was this child-like confiding spirit, the rays of her own
heart, which shed such warmth and glow over Mordaunt’s
letters; for by spirits more exacting and suspicious, the
vital spark from the heart, giving life to the words of the
head, would have been found wanting.

In the second year of their separation, Mr. Evelyn was
raised to a deanery in one of the adjoining counties, and his
former living became the property of Nevil Herbert, who had
just received his ordination. Again, therefore, was this noble-hearted
young man thrown into the closest intimacy with the
gentle object of his ill-fated attachment, and in circumstances
which could not fail to strengthen its endurance and its force.
The barrier between wealth and poverty had been shivered—Lucy
was now but his equal; nay, circumstances had rather
placed him above her. An unexpected legacy, and some
recovered debts of his late father, had given him not only
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independence, but competence; and he could now have
offered her the home, the simple comforts and enjoyments
which the more he knew her, the more he felt were all she
needed for her happiness. Her friendship, the regard of
her poor widowed mother, the delight with which ever the
young Margaret welcomed his visits, the consciousness that
he was of use to them, all prevented his keeping aloof, as
perhaps would have been better for his peace: besides, how
could he do so without some cause?—he, whose adversity
their prosperity had soothed and blessed! No, better the
torture of lingering in her presence, feeling she was the
property of another, and that other, one who loved not,
valued not as he did, than be, even in seeming, one of the
butterfly crowd, who sport in the sunshine to fly from the
storm. And though repeatedly alone together, though thrown
in constant association, intimate and affectionate, in very
truth as a brother with a sister, never once in those eighteen
months did Nevil Herbert, by sign or word, betray to Lucy
or to any other, even to his much-loved mother, the dread
secret which bowed his heart and paled his cheek, and
dashed his youth with the calm seriousness—the quiet hush
of age.

It was three years after Mordaunt Lyndsey’s departure
that the longed-for summons came. He could not return for
her himself, his situation would not permit his absence for so
long a time; but if, indeed, she loved him still sufficiently
to encounter the miseries of a long voyage, of a life in India,
the banishment from mother, sister, friends—all for him
alone, the sooner their term of suffering and separation closed,
the happier for them both; but if time had cooled the
enthusiasm of her love—if one feeling of regret, however
faint, bound her to England—one emotion of dread accompanied
the idea of the voyage, or the thought of dwelling
in a strange and dangerous land—he released her from her
engagement. She was free. He besought her to think well
ere she decided; that he could not, dared not, urge her to
make such a weighty sacrifice for him. He did not dilate
on his own feelings, but if Lucy marked the omission, she
believed he had done so purposely, that no thought of him
should bias her decision. Yet even what appeared to her
guileless spirit his unselfish resignation of personal happiness
for her sake, could not remove the bitter anguish it was to
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feel, that even now, tried as she had been through absence
and time, he did not, could not, understand the might, the
devotedness of her love.

“I will go to him—he shall learn how much I love him,
if he know it not now,” was her inward ejaculation; and
at that moment Nevil Herbert entered the room. She
welcomed him gladly, for she needed him even more than
usual; and in agitated accents entered at once on the subject
which engrossed her, pausing, in sudden fear, as she beheld
Nevil’s very lips grow white, and the damp drops standing
like beads on his high forehead.

“Nevil, dear—dear Nevil, you are ill; and I, selfish as I
am, prevent your going home to rest. You are more than
tired. Pray let me get something for you.”

She laid both hands on his arms as she spoke, looking up
in his agitated face with an expression of such anxious affection,
that it was with difficulty Nevil could restrain himself
from snatching her to his bosom, and pouring forth the agony
which at that moment well-nigh prostrated mind and frame;
but he did not. Even at that moment religion and virtue
were triumphant; he conquered the wild impulse of passion,
assured her it was but passing faintness, which a glass of
water would remove; and when she flew to fetch it, he bowed
his head upon his hands in prayer, and, on her return, received
it with his own meek, soul-felt smile.

With all the artless confidence of her nature, Lucy imparted
every feeling which that letter caused, except its pain,
for that would seem reproach on Mordaunt. She would
depart herself for answer—to write first would be but waste
of time. The term of parting known, it was better for her
mother as for herself to be spared the suffering of anticipation;
besides, her uncle only waited for her to set sail for
India;—his wife went with him, and such an opportunity
might not occur again.

And what could Nevil Herbert answer? Could he reiterate
Mordaunt’s own counsel, and beseech her to ponder
well ere her final decision? A chill for her had fallen on his
heart. He bade her repeat again and again that part of
Lyndsey’s letter which she had confided to him; and each
time confirmed the dread conviction, that it was in no spirit
of self-sacrifice Mordaunt had written, but that the engagement
hung upon him as a weight and chain, from which he
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longed to be released, yet shrunk from the dishonour of
breaking it himself. In vain Nevil struggled with the idea;
it would force itself upon his mind, regard it which way he
would. Could he but have believed she was going to happiness,
he would not have paused till all in his power was
done to forward it; but, as it was, the chaos of that fond and
faithful heart no words are adequate to describe. He felt
she was going to misery, which he was denied all power, all
possibility of averting—nay, which he was compelled, by a
stern peremptory destiny, to advise and forward.

A few words must suffice to narrate Lucy’s departure from
her native shores, and uneventful voyage. Doting as she
did upon her mother, yet so strong, so omnipotent, was that
young girl’s love for her betrothed, that even this pang was
assuaged by the intense delight which even to think of
gazing on his face, of listening to his voice again, never,
never more on earth to be divided, emanated over her whole
being. The long weary months of the voyage were beguiled
by such fond visions; they told of dangers, of hovering
storms, and she smiled, as if love could guard her even
from these; and the fond fancy was realized, for she reached
India in safety.

To Mrs. Lethvyn and Margaret, Lucy’s departure was
indeed desolation; and as Nevil tried to soothe and comfort
by the anticipation of her happiness—oh! what a storm of
contending feelings crushed his very heart. He heard her
mother bewail that love had not sprung up between her
Lucy and himself; that two beings, each so fitted to form
the happiness of the other, fate had so divided; and, though
his very spirit trembled, he smiled, and with gentle monition,
soothed the momentary irritability by a reference to that
wiser, kinder Providence, from whom all things, even the
darkest, have their source in love.

From a return ship, which had met the Syren about two
hundred miles from her destined port, the anxious friends of
Lucy received intelligence of her safety thus far; and Nevil
nerved his heart and frame to receive, without any visible
emotion, the intelligence expected in her next—her arrival
and her marriage.

The time seemed unusually long before the Indian mail
came in; and when he saw by the papers that it had, and
the postman passed the vicarage, evidently on his way to the
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widow’s cottage, Nevil felt as if all physical power had
departed from him. How long he thus sat he knew not;—the
papers on which he had been writing notes for his next
sermon were before him, and his mother fancied he was
still busied with them. A hurried step aroused him, and
Margaret Lethvyn rushed into the parlour, every feature
betraying agitation.

“Oh! Mr. Herbert, come—pray come with me to poor
mamma. Lucy, our own dear, injured Lucy! That wretch—that
villain Mordaunt! Oh! that I were but a man, that
I could but seek revenge!”

“Margaret!” exclaimed Nevil, springing from his seat,
and convulsively grasping her arm, his face livid as death,
while that of the young, high-spirited Margaret glowed like
crimson; “revenge! for what? on whom?—what of—of—speak,
for God’s sake!”

“He has deceived, has dealt falsely and foully with her—our
own Lucy; who left friends, home—all, all for him;
and loved him with such love! Oh! Mr. Herbert, do not
chide me for the sinful feelings, but I must hate him—must
pray for vengeance on him. He has deceived her. Even
when he sent for her, he was <sc>MARRIED—MARRIED</sc> to
another!”

Nevil Herbert sunk back on his seat with a groan so deep,
a shudder so convulsive, that his mother and Margaret flew
to his side in terror. It was long ere he could rouse himself;
his forebodings all were realized; the blow had fallen; and
for Lucy—who may tell the agony of Nevil’s heart, when he
thought of its effect on her?

It was but too true. Incapable of any strong or enduring
emotion, still seeking and loving worldly aggrandizement
above all other consideration, Mordaunt Lyndsey had not
been a year in India before he felt his engagement with Lucy
as a heavy chain, which he longed to cast aside. He found
himself courted and followed; and could he but have stifled
the voice of conscience, would have married before the termination
of eighteen months. A nature heartless as his own
could neither appreciate nor understand the depth of Lucy’s.
He purposely became colder and colder in his letters, but the
warmth and trust of her own heart prevented her perceiving
it. He magnified the miseries, the dangers of an Indian life,
particularly to a female so thoroughly English as Lucy; but
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all was in vain;—every post brought him letters full of love
and confidence, as at first. His feeble affections had been
transferred to a wealthy heiress, caught by the diamonds
which had sparkled in her ball costume. Dazzled into forgetfulness
of all the past, conscience became drowned in the
mad excitement and hilarity with which he pursued his advantage,
and not till he was irretrievably engaged, did he
remember he was the betrothed of another.

In one part of her statement Margaret was wrong. Mordaunt
was not actually married when he last wrote to Lucy.
In vain even his heartless nature struggled to write those
words which could separate her from him for ever. For the
first time the full extent of her love seemed to rush upon him,
and he started up, and cursed his evil stars for making him
such a wretch. For a moment, the idea of dissolving his
present engagement entered his mind; but ere he reached
the door, a vision of gold and gems, of untold wealth, came
upon him, and the demon triumphed. His better angel fled;
and he wrote to Lucy, as we have seen, believing, with pertinacious
self-delusion, that his meaning would be so evident
that she would break off the engagement herself—she <i>must</i>
read that he was changed. At least she would write again
ere she decided on leaving England, and then it would be
easy for him to prevent it; and confiding in this, not a
month after his letter had been despatched, the heiress became
Mordaunt Lyndsey’s wife.

Our tale is well-nigh done, for to breathe one word of
Lucy’s feelings would be profanation. In vain her aunt and
uncle conjured her to remain with them in India, and prove
how little Mordaunt’s baseness had affected her, by a speedy
marriage with another, above him alike in birth, wealth, and
station; for such unions in India were easily accomplished.
By some, perhaps, the proposal would have been seized with
avidity, and a broken heart effectually concealed beneath an
outward show of prosperity and pride. With Lucy this could
not be. The storm had burst, the halo was dissipated; its
beauty and its sunshine, its purity and truth, vanished like
falling stars in the dark abyss of fathomless space; and the
gentle spirit, folded in the glowing halo, lay shrined ’neath
the shock. Her yearnings were now for home, for a mother’s
tenderness, a sister’s caressing love, a brother’s supporting
friendship, which would lead her failing heart up to the only
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fount of peace. And, after a long and weary interval—a
voyage, whose many dangers, delays, and all but shipwreck,
were, it seemed, as unfelt as unnoticed—those yearnings
were at length fulfilled.

Again was Lucy Lethvyn an inmate of her mother’s lowly
roof; but oh! how unspeakably changed, yet still so exquisitely,
so radiantly lovely, that the eye turned again and
again upon her, first in delight, and then with such a strange
quivering of the lip and eyelid, betraying that tears were
nigh. The smile—oh! what a history gleamed from it, of
a woman’s heart broken, yet even from its every shivered
fragment reflecting the quickness and confidence—aye, and
deep heavenly love, which had descended on it from above.
Not a bitter word, not an unkind reflection, not a selfish
murmur ever escaped those lips. Those who loved and
tended her alone occupied her thoughts and deeds. There
were times, indeed, when a paroxysm of mental agony came
upon her, bowing her fragile frame even to the dust; but of
these intervals no earthly eye was witness. They were only
marked by a rapid increase of exhaustion, and all the fatal
evidences of decline and death; and so months passed.
And Nevil, may we write of him, as day by day he watched
over the fading form of one so long, so secretly, so unchangeably
beloved. Alas! for him, even as for Lucy,
silence is the most eloquent. We do not give such feelings
words.

Autumn had come with a mildness and beauty unusual and
most soothing. Lucy’s couch had been drawn to the window
at her own request, and her eyes wandered over the landscape
with a pleased and quiet smile. Nevil Herbert was alone
beside her; he had been reading from that blessed book
which had given comfort and strength to both, but had
paused, seeing her inclined to speak.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, the fervour of her spirit flushing
her cheek with sudden crimson, “yes! His words and works
alike proclaim Him Love! Oh, Nevil! God has heard my
prayer. He has spared me till I could realize the beauty
and goodness, and the glory of this world. There was a
time when, outward and inward—all was dark. Not a ray
illumined the sluggish depths of misery and despair. Beauty
had vanished with truth. I prayed for death; and once, as
I stood alone upon the deck, the dread temptation was upon
// 287.png
.bn 287.png
me to end misery and life together. It was but one plunge,
one little moment’s resolution, and all would be over. All!
Oh, what a flash of bewildering and awful light burst upon
my mental darkness, sent as an angel of mercy to my soul!
I had loved a mortal, and not God! The world was beautiful
with human love—not with His, from whom it sprang;—and
the light of human love was quenched, to teach me other
things: and then it was I prayed, in the deep agony of
remorse, my God would spare me, even in suffering, till even
this world were lovely to my heart once more; till I could
feel His love more deep, more precious, than the love of man.
And he has done this, Nevil, dearest Nevil. A few, a very
few hours, and I shall be with Him whose all is joy, and
loveliness, and love, for ever and ever.”

There was no answer, and Lucy turned with difficulty
towards him. His face was buried in his hands, and his
whole frame shaken as with convulsion.

“Nevil,” she said, softly, “dearest Nevil, you are in
sorrow, and I can do nothing to relieve it; I—to whom you
have been such a true consoling friend. I have long feared
you had some secret grief; not in the selfishness of my joy,
but since—since I have returned. Oh, that I could be to
you what you have been to me!”

It was too much for Nevil. In the passionate emotion of
that moment, he flung himself on his knees beside the couch,
poured forth the torrent of that overwhelming love—how it
had lingered with him through years of hopelessness and
misery; and he besought her, in agony, to say that she would
live—live to bless him yet; and, as he spoke, the pious, the
strong-hearted Nevil Herbert wept, till, as an infant, his very
soul seemed powerless within him.

“And you have loved me thus!—you, the good, the noble,
the exalted! Oh! I thought human love was all an idle
dream—a vain delusion; but it is not—it is not. Even this
may be beautiful and true,” murmured Lucy, raising herself
with difficulty till her head rested on the bosom of Nevil.
“Do not—do not weep, Nevil! Our Father will bring peace
and love. And, oh! if the pure and ransomed spirits may
hover beside those still lingering on this earth, be it mine the
blessed task of bringing you the comfort I would give you
now. I was never worthy of such love—and from you,
dearest Nevil!—how much less worthy now, that even, were
// 288.png
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life granted, I could give but a broken heart, whose all of
life and energy had been devoted to another. You must not
weep for me, Nevil! You must not let my memory blight
your path of holiness and good. Think of all you have been
to me, have done for me; and—and if that will comfort you,
oh! believe all—all of love this aching heart may yet give to
earth, Nevil, dearest Nevil! is your own!”

She raised that sweet face, which had become suddenly
pale and dim, as if a shadow had stolen over it. Nevil
clasped her convulsively to his heart, and struggled vainly to
speak; his white and quivering lips pressed hers with a long,
lingering kiss, and she shrunk not from them. It was his
first and last; for sleep stole upon her, and bowed her head
more heavily, more caressingly upon his bosom. And Nevil
stilled his heart’s full beating, and hushed his very breath, lest
that calm slumber should be broken. He yearned to look
once more in those lovely eyes, to drink in once, but once
again, the gushing music of that thrilling voice; but vain
those mortal yearnings. Human love, the purest, mightiest,
has no power to chain the heaven-born spirit from its soaring
flight. She never woke again!

.tb

And Mordaunt Lyndsey—was there no vengeance, no
retribution for him? Did justice indeed so slumber? Long
years rolled on ere aught could be distinguished to mark his
prosperous path from that of his fellows; but some twenty
years after our “Autumn Walk” in the lovely vales of Westmoreland,
we learned that the hand of Heaven had dashed
his lot with poison. A blooming family had sprung up
around him; but each more or less touched by the malady of
their mother. He had wedded madness!
// 289.png
.bn 289.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p273
<i>The Spirit’s Entreaty.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
FOUNDED ON A HEBREW APOLOGUE.
.nf-
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>There</sc> was a pause in the courts of heaven. Seven times
had the voice of the Eternal resounded through the vast
realms of space, and from the very centre of chaotic darkness
a world of beauty had sprung forth. Thousands of
angelic spirits floated round and round the new-born globe,
tending the innumerable sources of loveliness and life, which
had burst at once into perfected being at the all-creating
word. With every new creation, an increased effulgence
flashed over the angelic hosts; and richer tones of mighty
harmony proclaimed the power, and the glory, and the mercy
of their God.
.pi
Deep in the unfathomable abyss of formless space hung
the new-formed world, suspended from its parent heaven by
chains of diamond light, visible only to the pure spirits, who
on them ascended and descended, in performance of their
newly-assigned employments.

Myriads of celestial beings stood in dazzling files without
the veil, which in unapproachable and indescribable splendour
concealed the throne of the Creator; whence issued that
Eternal voice which spake, and creation was! None, not
even the highest and the purest, the most etherealized amidst
those spiritual ranks, could gaze on the ineffable glory piercing
through the effulgent veil; nor dared approach it, without
covering his face with his glittering pinions, and falling
low in prostrate adoration. In their several ranks they stood,
the glorious archangels to whom the ways, clearly as the
works of the Eternal, were revealed. Hierarchs, who had
penetrated deeper and deeper the mysteries of infinity, and
by longed-tried obedience, and faithfulness, and love had won
the glorious privilege of commune with the Ineffable Majesty
of the Supreme. Even to the young seraph, commencing his
heavenly career, satisfied to labour and to love, till he should
pass through the intermediate ranks, and rising higher and
higher in angelic intellect, and the beatified nature of his tasks
at length attain the archangelic goal.
// 290.png
.bn 290.png

Seven times had gone forth the Omnific Word, and seven
times had the Eternal pronounced it good; and each time of
that approving Word, had the resplendent pinions of the
hosts of heaven fluttered in irrepressible rejoicing, till space
itself seemed lost in one vast flood of glistening and iris-coloured
light, and music, soft, spiritual, and thrilling, marked
every movement of the radiant wings, and filled up each
pause of song.

And then, midst the deep stillness which succeeded, again
spake the Eternal voice: “Let us make man!” and the
mandate with the velocity of light rushed through the angelic-peopled
courts; and every spirit of every rank, and every
host, caught up the Omnific Word, and, in the full song of
adoration, testified their joy. But suddenly a hush sunk on
the rejoicing myriads; for, darting at the same instant from
their respective ranks nearest the Eternal’s throne, three
glorious spirits met together before the resplendent veil, and
prostrated themselves in supplication.

They were of the highest order of the archangels, each
intrusted with an attribute of his Creator to uphold its glory
and its beauty amidst the celestial and spiritual worlds. And
one spake, and his wings of sapphire, his dazzling brow, his
radiant eye, before whose single look the mists of error
passed; his crystal spear, before whose slightest touch,
falsehood fled trembling and self-abhorred; alike proclaimed
the gift of which he was the guardian. The Spirit of <sc>Truth</sc>
implored—

“Father, create him not—life will be overshadowed by
deceit!” and the spirit bowed his effulgent brow upon his
wings in grief.

And then the second spirit spake,—akin to Truth, but
sterner. His glorious brow was shaded by a glittering helm,
and his right hand grasped an unsheathed sword; a raiment,
resembling an hauberk of golden light, clothed his graceful
limbs, and the rich full voice, in its entreaty, breathed his
name.

“Father and Lord, create him not! He will destroy yon
beautiful world by his unrighteousness; and I, unto whom
thou hast entrusted thine attribute of <sc>Justice</sc>, will seem to
him, in his darkened light, as the avenger. Father, create
him not!”

And then spake the third archangel,—his pure white
// 291.png
.bn 291.png
pinions fluttered tremulously around him, and the exquisite
beauty of his youthful face seemed disturbed by the intense
ardour of his supplication; a wreath of amaranths bound back
his flowing hair from a brow of such transcendent loveliness,
that one look upon it filled the soul with balm; he held a
bough of emerald, resembling the olive-leaf, but radiant with
a liquid lustre unknown to the plants of earth.

“Create him not, oh, Father!” implored the spirit, and
the brightness of his meekly expressive orbs was dimmed;
“create him not! he will chase me from the earth. Peace
will be but a name amidst the awful scenes of internal and
external war, with which man’s passions will devastate yon
beautiful world. Father, create him not!”

The spirit ceased; and, hushed to a solemn stillness, the
listening myriads waited the answering Word. The effulgence
piercing through the veil, appeared slightly shadowed,
as if the Almighty presence had withdrawn his immediate
glory, and the entreaty of his favoured angels would be
granted. But far, far, in the unfathomable distance, a resplendent
star seemed floating towards the veil, and faint yet
thrilling melody proclaimed the rapid advance of angel wings.
On, on—and the semblance of a star gave place to the form
of a beatified spirit, whose dazzling loveliness irradiated
space itself, and heightened the glory all around; and every
rank he passed hailed him, even in that awful hour, with an
irrepressible burst of song, and drew closer and closer round;
and watched him with such love as only angels feel; and he
smiled on them, but paused not in his rapid course, and the
smile kindled hope anew, and confidence and joy banished
the momentary shade.

It was the Spirit of <sc>Love</sc>; the best beloved of the Eternal;
the guardian essence of the whole angelic hosts; angels and
archangels, heirarchs and seraphs, alike acknowledged him,
and bowed before his sway, as the representative of the
Supreme. And on he floated in his indescribable beauty,
and every court of heaven sent forth increased effulgence as
he passed. He neared the veil, and bowed down before it,
and then he spake, and his low soft tone penetrated the
farthest limit of that immeasurable space.

“Create him, oh, Father!” he prayed; “create him to
love, and be beloved! What if he err? what if he sin?
Thou wilt pardon him; for thy love is greater than his sin!”
// 292.png
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A burst of bewildering glory flashed through the veil
upon him, as he knelt, and darted its dazzling rays through
the thousand ranks of heaven at the same moment. It was
the assenting sign of the Eternal; and again the Omnific
Word went forth: “Let us make man!” and millions and
millions of voices swelled the glad chorus, that another and
yet mightier creation should bear witness to the loving mercy
of their God. And <sc>Truth</sc>, and <sc>Justice</sc>, and <sc>Peace</sc> joined
in the thrilling strain, for the Spirit of <sc>Love</sc> had touched
them with his quivering breath, and they felt his words were
true. Man might still err, but created in love, the immortal
spirit breathed into the shell of clay; the angelic hosts
gave vent to the full song of rejoicing; for the Spirit of <sc>Love</sc>
hovered over the new-born world, as over theirs, endowed by
the measureless compassion of the Eternal to purify and
pardon.
// 293.png
.bn 293.png
// 294.png
.bn 294.png

.if h
.il fn=illus_fp277.jpg w=372px
.if-

.if t
.ti +8
[Illustration]
.if-

// 295.png
.bn 295.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p277
<i>Idalie.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
THE STORY OF A PICTURE.
.nf-
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>No</sc> place is more calculated to call forth all the vagaries of
the imagination than an old half-ruined castle, surrounded
by wood and mount, hoar from many centuries, and lying in
such deep seclusion, as to be unseen by the mere casual
traveller. On such a spot, completely circled by a branch of
the Cevennes, in the ancient district of Auvergne, it was once
my hap to light. Trees of such gigantic growth, that they
appeared bending beneath the weight of ages, frowning
rocks, and overgrown brushwood formed so close a fortification,
that the building might have been passed and repassed
within a mile of its vicinity undiscovered.
.pi
It was a gothic chateau of the olden time, just sufficiently
ruinous to give it the interest of age, yet containing costly
tapestried chambers, panelled halls, long rambling galleries,
secret rooms, and those deep dark dungeons, where many a
brave man has languished and died unknown, save by his
ruthless captor, all still in sufficient preservation to fill the
mind with visions of the past as with the breathing
realities of the present. There was a small chapel in the
building, which had once been evidently richly adorned, but
whose shrines and hangings were now all crumbling to
decay. It was a melancholy visionary place, yet infused
with a charm impossible to be resisted, and day after day
my wanderings turned to the chateau; contented at first
with rambling over chamber, hall, and gallery, imagination
feasting on the thoughts of what had been the life, the stir,
the pageantry, where all was now the solitude of silence and
neglect. There were still some pictures hanging from the
walls, but seemingly so resigned to the cobweb and the
dust, that I had heeded them little, till one day the sun
gleaming upon an antique frame, unobserved before, attracted
me to the picture it enshrined, and in a moment heart, mind,
and fancy were irresistibly enchained.

To attempt description of that face, to say why it haunted
me for days and nights, as something almost unearthly, would
// 296.png
.bn 296.png
be a hopeless task; yet turn from it as I would, or seek
amusement in other objects, still it rose before me, pale,
shadowy, yet so lovely, baffling every effort to dismiss it
from my mind. Stars and braids of diamonds seemed still
literally to glisten in the long jetty tresses, falling as a veil
around her. Hands small, thin, and delicately white were
crossed upon her bosom; the large dark eyes were raised,
and the pale lips parted as in prayer; she seemed standing
near an ancient altar; but every other object in the picture
time had rendered wholly indistinct.

That I could obtain any information from the half-blind,
wholly deaf guardian of the chateau was little probable;
but the old man, to my astonishment, volunteered the tradition
of the portrait, even before I had sufficiently rallied from
its effect to look into its past. This tale, when separated
from the garrulous annotations of his age and office, was simple
and brief enough, yet to resist its spell was impossible. The
beings of whom I heard seemed to breathe and move around
me, the old castle to resume the state and order which had
characterised it nearly three centuries ago, the very woods to
lose their wild appearance, and blending in beautiful keeping
with mount and rock, and richly-cultured lands, seemed to
teem with the innumerable retainers of the proud nobles to
whom they had once belonged. Under the influence of such
dreamy visions the following papers were hastily written.
Pretensions to a connected romance they have none; they
tell but the story of a picture, which I would fain bring
before the mind’s eye of the reader, even as its remembrance
still so vividly lingers on my own.
.sp 2
.h4
I.
.sp 2
It was the third day of the brilliant show, yet was there no
relaxation of chivalric ardour, nor semblance that lords and
gentles were wearied with martial sports, or that the galaxy
of beauty which the ornamented galleries presented had in
aught diminished of loveliness and grace. Never had the
fair sun of Paris looked down on a scene of more spirit-stirring
interest, never had the blue arch of heaven re-echoed
more martial sounds than on the day which witnessed
the last tournament of France. The lists extending through
the most central parts of Paris, flanked on one side by the
// 297.png
.bn 297.png
terrific towers of the Bastile, were adorned by pavilions and
tents of every variety of colouring and material. Heavy
brocades, velvets, and silks, adorned with the devices of
their owners, betrayed the names and bearings of well-nigh
all the nobility of France. Over one, whose silver covering
glittered so resplendently in the July sun that the aching
eye turned from its lustre, hung the heavy folds of France’s
banner, the <lang='fr'><i>fleur de lis</i></lang>, which, combined with
the splendid
accoutrements of esquires and pages lingering around, proved
that majesty itself was amongst the combatants. The light
breeze sporting with the many standards, at times gave their
devices to view, at others, laid them idly by their staves.
Streamers and pennons in gay relief stood forth against the
clear blue sky; while the brilliant armour, the glittering
spears, and stainless blades so multiplied the dazzling rays,
there seemed a hundred suns.

France and Scotland, Spain and Savoy, in the honour of
which last these jousts were given, were all marshalled in
the lists, for none chose to remain mere spectators of games
in which their chivalric spirits so heartily sympathised. The
princes of the lordly house of Guise vying, in richness of
apparel and number of retinue, with royalty itself. Montmorenci,
Coligny, Andelot, Condé, Nemours—names bearing
with them such undying memories, their mention is sufficient—all
were this day present; for the blood-red standard
of intolerance and persecution as yet remained unfurled. The
very sounds that stirred the air added to the excitement of
the scene. There were the proud neighings, the hurried
snort of eager chargers impatient for the onset; the pealing
shouts of welcome as each knight was recognised, marching
at the head of well-trained bands to his pavilion; the answering
cheers of the men-at-arms; the trampling of many
steeds; the frequent clash of steel, as the knights passed
and repassed in the lists ere they formed into bands; now
and then the loud voice of the herald, or the shrill prolonged
blast of the trumpet, and ever and anon a thrilling
burst of martial music, lingering awhile in its own rude
tones, then subsiding gently into the softer song of minstrelsy
and love, more fitted to the ears of beauty than the
wilder notes of war.

And beauty was indeed assembled in the many galleries
erected round the lists. Even had there been no Catherine
// 298.png
.bn 298.png
de Medicis, whose character was not yet fully known, and
who now, as the queen consort, claimed and received universal
homage; no fair and gentle Elizabeth, the youthful
bride of Spain, whose child-like form and diminutive though
most expressive features accorded little with the heavy gorgeousness
of her jewelled robes; no retiring yet much-loved
Margaret, the sister of Henri and bride of Savoy;
no Anne of Este, whose regal beauty and majestic mien
would have done honour to a diadem—had there been none
of these, there was yet one in the royal group who, though
girlhood had barely reached its prime, fascinated the gaze of
every eye and fixed the homage of every heart. The diamond
coronet of <lang='fr'><i>fleur de lis</i></lang> entwining the sterner
thistle, that
lightly wreathed her noble brow, betrayed her rank; and
the simple mention of Mary of Scotland, the queen dauphine,
is all-sufficient to bring before the reader a fair,
bright vision of loveliness and grace, that imagination only
can portray. She sate the centre of a fair bevy of young girls,
indiscriminately of France and Scotland, all bearing on the
smooth brow, the smiling lip, the unpaled cheek true tokens
of those fresh unsullied feelings found only in early youth.

The trumpets breathed forth a prolonged flourish, echoed
on every side by the silver clarion and rolling drum, and
Henri himself entered the lists. Clothed in the richest
armour, mounted on a beautiful Arabian, and still wearing
across his breast the black and white scarf in homage to
Diana, the chivalric monarch challenged one by one the
bravest warriors and the first nobles of his kingdom. Excited
by the presence of his distinguished guests, he appeared
this day urged on by an ardour and impetuosity which, while
it endeared him to his subjects, caused many a female heart
to tremble.

“Has thy knight turned truant, Idalie, or is he so wearied
from the exertions of the last two days he has no strength or
will for more?” asked the queen dauphine of one beside her,
whose large dark eye and soul-speaking beauty betrayed a
birth more southern than Scotia’s colder shores.

“He enters not the lists, royal madam,” she answered,
in a lowered voice, “for, he fears the challenge of the
king—fears not defeat, but conquest. The king has skill as
yet unrivalled, courage none dare question; but the practice
of a soldier brings these things to greater perfection than
// 299.png
.bn 299.png
monarchs ever may obtain. Our gracious sovereign challenges
the bravest knights to-day, and therefore does the
count avoid the lists.”

“Perhaps he does well. But see how gallantly thy father
bears himself; disease hath worked him but little, or rusted
his sword within its scabbard. I would trust myself to the
men of Montemar, Idalie, with better faith than to many of
those more courtly-seeming bands. And who is yon gallant,
bearing thy colours? Is the young esquire of thy father a
rival to the goodly count?”

“Not so, gracious lady. Louis de Montemar and I are
cousins in kindred, friends in affection, and playfellows from
infancy. I broidered him the scarf he wears as token of my
love, when he doffed the page’s garb and donned the squire’s.
When he hath won his spur, perchance my scarf will be of
little value.”

“Thinkest thou so? Methought the lowly homage that
he tendered spoke humbler greeting than that of a brother.
But there is some stir below; the trumpets sound the king
again as challenger.”

A long flourish of trumpets again riveted the attention of
the spectators, and the heralds in set phrase, challenged, on
the part of their liege lord and gracious sovereign Henri of
France, Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, to run
three courses with the lance or spear, and do battle with the
same. Thrice was the count challenged according to form,
but there was no answer.

A deadly pallor spread over the flushed cheek of Idalie de
Montemar, and, clinging to the dauphine’s seat, she exclaimed,
“Lady, dearest lady, oh, do not let this be! in mercy speak
to her grace the queen, implore her to avert this combat!”

“Thou silly trembler, what evil can accrue? Nay, an
thou lookest thus, I must do thy bidding,” and Mary hastily
approached the seat of Catherine de Medicis, whom, however,
she found already agitated and alarmed, and in the very
act of despatching an esquire to implore the king to leave
the lists. Somewhat infected with the terror she witnessed,
yet unable to define it, the dauphine returned to her seat,
seeking to reassure the trembling Idalie, and watch with her
the effect of the queen’s solicitation.

At the moment of the esquire’s joining the knightly ring,
the Comte de Montgomeri, unarmed and bareheaded, had
// 300.png
.bn 300.png
flung himself at the king’s feet, imploring him in earnest
accents to withdraw his challenge, and not expose him to
the misery and danger of meeting his sovereign even in a
friendly joust. It was no common fear, no casual emotion
impressed on the striking countenance of Montgomeri; he
was not one to bend his knee in entreaty, even to his sovereign,
for a mere trivial cause. The princes and nobles
round were themselves struck by his earnestness, knowing too
well his great valour and extraordinary skill in every martial
deed to doubt them now. The king alone remained unmoved.

“Tush, man!” he said, joyously; “what more harm will
your good lance do our sacred person, than those whose blows
yet tingle on our flesh? we have run many a gallant course
to-day, and how shall we be the worse for a tilt with thee?
Marry, thou art over bold, sir knight, we will not do thy
courage such dishonour as to tax it now; yet, by our Lady,
such presumption needs a check. Come, rouse thee from
this folly, and don thine armour, as thou wouldst were our
foes in Paris; my chaplet is not perfect till it hath a leaf
from thee.”

“It may not be, my liege. I do beseech your grace to
pardon me, and seek some opponent more worthy of this
honour.”

“I know of none,” replied the king, so frankly and feelingly,
that the warrior’s head bent even to the ground; “and
Montgomeri will obey his sovereign, if he will not oblige his
friend. Sir Count, we <sc>COMMAND</sc> your acceptance of our
challenge.”

Sadly and slowly the count rose from his knee, and was
reluctantly withdrawing, when the king again spoke—

“We would not, good my lord, that you should prepare
to accept our challenge even as a criminal for execution;
therefore, mark you lords and gentles, and bear witness to
our words—whatever ill or scathe may chance to us in our
intended course, we hold and pronounce Gabriel de Lorges,
Comte de Montgomeri, guiltless of all malice, absolving him
from all intentional evil, even if he work us harm. How
now, sir squire, what would our royal consort, that ye seek us
thus rudely?”

The esquire bent his knee, and delivered his message.

The king laughed loud and lightly.

“By our Lady, this is good,” he said. “Heard ye ever
// 301.png
.bn 301.png
the like of this, my lords? What spell doth our brave
Montgomeri bear about him, that we may not meet him even
as others in friendly combat? Back to your royal mistress,
Conrad; commend us in all love and duty to her grace, and
say we will break this lance unto her honour. Would she
have our noble guests proclaim Montgomeri so brave and
skilful that Henri dared not meet him even after his challenge
had gone forth? Shame, shame, on such advisers!”

The esquire withdrew, and the king taking a new lance,
and mounting a fresh charger, slowly proceeded round the
lists, attended by pages and esquires, and managing his fiery
steed so gracefully as to rivet on him many admiring glances.
He paused beneath the queen’s gallery, doffing his deep-plumed
helmet a moment in the respectful greeting of a
faithful chevalier; then looking up, he smiled proudly and
undauntedly. At that moment the trumpets proclaimed the
entrance of the challenged, and the king hastily replacing
his helmet, clasped it but slightly, and galloped to his post.

A loud shout of welcome greeted the appearance of
Montgomeri, and as the spectators marked the pink and
white scarf across his shoulder, and the opal clasp that
secured the deep plumes of his helmet, all eyes involuntarily
turned to see the fair being to whom those colours
proclaimed him vowed; nor when they traced the bandeau of
opals on the pale high brow of Idalie de Montemar, her
flowing robes secured by a girdle of the same precious stones,
and discovered it was to her service the knight was pledged,
did they marvel that at length the cold, stern, unbending
Gabriel de Lorges had bowed beneath the spell of love.

The lists were cleared, and deep silence reigned amidst the
assembled thousands. The combatants, ere the signal
sounded, slowly traversed the lists, meeting at both extremities,
and greeting each other in all solemn and chivalric
fashion. Montgomeri’s lance sank as he saluted the queen’s
pavilion, but it was to Idalie his lowest homage was tendered.
She sought to smile in answer; but her lip only quivered, for
her eye, awakened by love, could trace his deep reluctance to
accept the challenge.

The signal was given, and with a shock and sound as of
thunder the knights met in the centre of the course. The
lances of both shivered. A loud and ringing shout echoed
far and wide, forming a deep bass to the military music
// 302.png
.bn 302.png
bursting forth at the same moment; but then the sound
changed, and so suddenly, that the shout of triumph seemed
turned, by the very breeze which bore it along, to the cries of
wailing and despair. The horses of both combatants were
seen careering wildly, and with empty saddles, round the
lists. Princes, nobles, and knights crowded so swiftly and
in such numbers to the spot where the combatants had met,
that the eager populace could trace nothing but that one
warrior was down and seemingly senseless, the which no one
could assert. Order and restraint gave place to the wildest
tumult; the people, <i>en masse</i>, rushed indiscriminately into
the lists, heedless of the efforts of the men-at-arms to keep
them back, and scarcely restrained even by the rapid and
agitated approach of the queen consort and the princesses
towards the principal group. Words of terrific import were
whispered one to another, till the whisper grew loud and
rumour became certainty. The music ceased, save the
solitary flourish of trumpets proclaiming the warlike sports
concluded. As if by magic, the lists were cleared, the tents
struck, and every trace of the tournament removed. But
even then the popular ferment continued; there were men
hurrying to and fro, little knots of persons assembling in the
street, speaking in anxious whispers, or hastening in silence
to their homes. Ever and anon the muffled tone of heavy
bells came borne on the air, and then the dead silence, ever
the shapeless herald of some dread calamity. Ere night all
trace of the morning’s glittering splendour and animated life
had disappeared, and Paris seemed changed into a very
desert of solitude and gloom.
.sp 2
.h4
II.
.sp 2
Eleven days had passed since the sudden termination of the
fatal tournament, and Henri of France still lay speechless
and insensible as he had fallen in the lists, when, from the
insecure fastening of his helmet, it had given way before the
lance of Montgomeri, and caused him to receive the full force
of the blow on his eyebrow, thence fatally injuring the brain.
Still life was not extinct, and, though against all reason,
hopes were still entertained by many for his eventual recovery.
In one of the apartments of the Louvre, forming
the suite of the queen dauphine, sat the unfortunate Comte
// 303.png
.bn 303.png
de Montgomeri and his betrothed bride. Sometimes sanguine
that Henri would, nay, must recover; at others plunged in
the depth of despair—had been the alternate moods of the
count during these eleven days. His friends conjured him
to lose no time in retiring from France, at least for a time;
and Idalie herself, though she shrunk from the idea of parting,
with an indefinable feeling of foreboding dread, yet so
trembled for his safety if he remained, as to add her solicitations
to those of others. Still the count lingered. The
very thought of his having been the ill-fated hand to give
the death-blow to the monarch he revered, and the friend he
loved, was too horrible to be realized. He could not believe
that such would be; yet so dark was his despair, so agonizing
his self-accusations, that even his interviews with Idalie
had lost their soothing sweetness, and he did but deplore
that her pure love had been given to one so darkly fated as
himself.

It was after one of these bursts of misery that the Comte
de Montemar, who had been engaged with papers at the
further end of the apartment, approached and sought to
comfort him by an appeal to those holier feelings, which
Montgomeri possessed in a much higher degree than most of
his countrymen.

“It is not well, my friend,” De Montemar said, “to poison
thus the brief moments we may yet pass together. Remember,
thou wert no willing agent of that higher power, by whose
mandate alone it was that our monarch fell. All may seem
dark, yet even out of darkness He brought forth light—out
of a very chaos the most unwavering order; and does He
not do so still? Abide by the advice of those who urge
thee to quit France till order is restored, and our gracious
sovereign’s last words remembered and acted upon. Italian
blood is hot and eager to avenge; but fear not, we shall
meet again in happier days, and, oh, embitter not thus the
few moments still left my poor child!”

Softened and subdued more than he had been yet, Montgomeri
folded his arm round the weeping Idalie, kissed the
tears from her pale cheek, conjured her forgiveness, and
promised to battle with the despondency that almost crushed
him.

“And wilt thou indeed do this?” she rejoined, imploringly.
“Oh, bless thee for such promise! Yet I fear thee,
// 304.png
.bn 304.png
Montgomeri. And when apart from me, and these troubled
thoughts regain ascendency, thou wilt rush on danger, on
death, to escape them. Think, then, dearest, that it is not
your own life alone which you risk; that one is bound up in
it which cannot rest alone. Will the ivy blossom and smile
when the oak has fallen? And as the oak is to the lowly
yet clinging ivy, so art thou to me.”

Folding her still closer, Montgomeri in his turn sought to
reassure and soothe, but with less success than usual. Every
look and tone of Idalie betrayed that heavy weight which
had increased with each day that brought the hour of parting
nearer. Breathed to none, and battled with as it had been,
still it seemed to hold every faculty chained, and at length
caused her head to sink on the bosom of De Lorges with
such a burst of irrepressible anguish as to excite his alarm,
and tenderly he conjured her to reveal its cause.

“I know it is a weakness, a folly, Gabriel, unworthy of
the woman whom thou lovest; but scorn it not, upbraid it
not, bid it go from me! Is there not woe enough in parting,
that before the hope of meeting ever rises a dim and shapeless
darkness impossible to be defined, yet so folding round
my future as to bury all of hope, of trust, of every feeling,
save that <i>we shall not meet as we have parted</i>?”

“Is it change in me thou fearest, love? No. Then heed it
not; ’tis but a baseless fancy, which will come when the frame
is weakened by the anguish of the mind. Believe me—”

He was interrupted. The hangings over the door leading
by a private passage to the dauphine’s own rooms were suddenly
drawn aside, and, closely muffled, Mary of Scotland
stood before them, with anxiety and haste visibly imprinted
on her features.

“This is no time for ceremony, my lord, or we would
apologize for our intrusion,” she said, turning towards the
Count de Montemar; “our business is too weighty for an
indifferent messenger. Count de Lorges,” she added, addressing
him abruptly, and pausing not for Montemar’s
courtly words, “tarry not another night in Paris; you have
been unwise to loiter here so long. Pause for no thought,
no marvel. Fly at once; put the broad seas between you and
France, and there may be happiness in store for you yet.
Dearest Idalie, for thy sake, even as for Montgomeri’s, I am
here: do not look upon me thus.”
// 305.png
.bn 305.png

“<i>Now</i> must we part—now? Your highness means not now!”
exclaimed Idalie, as her cold hands convulsively closed round
the count’s arm. “What has he done that he should fly?”

“Nothing to call the blush of shame to his cheek or thine,
dear child. The words I have heard may mean nothing, may
be but wrung from woman’s agony, for the grief of Catherine
de Medicis is of no softening nature; yet ought Montgomeri
to leave Paris without delay, for there may be some
to act on broken words, even as on an imperial mandate.
Detain him not, Idalie; we shall visit Scotland perchance
ere long, and there no grief shall damp a bridal.”

“Stay but one moment more, royal lady,” entreated De
Lorges, as the dauphine turned to go; “one word, for mercy.
How fares the king? Is there no more hope? Does he
still lay as he has done ever since that fatal stroke?”

Mary looked at him somewhat surprised, and very sorrowfully.

“No, Montgomeri, no!” she said, after a pause of much
feeling; “the soul has escaped the shattered prison, and
Henri is at rest.”

Montgomeri staggered back with a heavy, almost convulsive
groan. He knew not till that moment how powerfully
hope had sustained him. The shock was almost as fearful as
if he had never thought of death; and yet the horrible conviction
that he was a regicide had scarcely for one instant
left his mind.

“Montemar, let not this be, for the sake of thy poor child,
of both. Part them ere long,” whispered the queen (dauphine
no more), as the count knelt before her in involuntary
homage; “think not of us now. Would to God we were
still Dauphine of France and not her queen. Montgomeri’s
danger, I fear, is imminent; let him not linger, and may our
Lady guard him still.”

She departed as she spoke; and Montemar, infected with
her evident anxiety, hesitated not to obey.

“Rouse thee, Montgomeri,” he said, earnestly; “fly, for
the sake of this poor, drooping flower; let not our Idalie
weep for a darker doom than even this sad parting. Come
to thy father’s heart awhile, my child. Have I no claim
upon thy love?”

Gently he drew her from Montgomeri’s still detaining
arm, almost relieved to find her insensible to any further
// 306.png
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suffering. His beseeching words to fly ere Idalie again
awoke to consciousness, moved the count to action. Still
he lingered to kiss again and again the pale cheek and lips
of his beloved; then convulsively wringing the count’s
hand, rushed from the room and from the palace at the very
moment that voices shouted “Long live Francis the Second,
God preserve the King!”
.sp 2
.h4
III.
.sp 2
Eighteen months had passed, and still was the Count de
Montgomeri an exile from his country; and so virulent was
Catherine against him, so determinately forgetful of Henri’s
last words, absolving the count of all intentional evil, whatever
might ensue, that even his best friends dared not wish
him back. For Idalie, this interval was indeed heavy with
anxiety and sorrow, and all the bitter sickness of hope deferred.
No doubt of his affection ever entered her heart;
she knew him fond and faithful as herself; but there seemed
no end, no term to the long, long interval of absence. Her
future was bounded by the hour of meeting, and a very void
of interest, and hope, and pleasure seemed the space which
stretched between. Yet, for her father’s sake, her ever unselfish
nature struggled with the stagnating gloom. The
court was loathsome to them both, for even the friendship of
the young queen could not remove from Idalie the horror
which Catherine de Medicis inspired. In the Chateau de
Montemar, then, these eighteen months had mostly been
passed, and Idalie compelled herself to seek and feel interest
in the families of her father’s vassals, and in the many lessons
of feudal government and policy which, as the heiress of all
his large estates and of his proud, unsullied name, her
father delighted to pour into her heart.

One other subject engrossed the Count de Montemar, and
of which he spoke so often and so solemnly to his daughter,
that his feelings on the subject became hers; it was the wide-spreading
over France of the new religion, deemed by all
orthodox Catholics as a heresy, which, if not checked, would
entirely subvert and destroy their ancient faith, and in consequence
bring incalculable mischief to the country, both
temporally and spiritually. De Montemar was no bigot,
looking only to violent measures for the extermination of this
// 307.png
.bn 307.png
far-spreading evil; but it grieved and affected him in no
common degree. He spent hours and hours with his confessor
and his daughter in commune on this one engrossing
subject; and from the sincere and earnest lessons of the
priest, a true and zealous though humble follower of his own
church, he became more and more convinced of the truth of
the olden creed, and what he deemed the foul and awful
apostasy of the new.

Yet no violence of party spirit mingled in these discussions,
and therefore it was that Idalie felt the conviction
of the truth and beauty of her long-cherished religion sink
into her soul like balm. Saddened by her individual sorrow,
shrinking in consequence from all the exciting amusements
then reigning in France, her fathers favourite subject became
equally a resource and comfort to her, thus unconsciously
fitting her for the martyr part which she was only
too soon called upon to play.

The Count de Montemar had been a soldier from his youth,
and was still suffering from the serious wounds received in
his last campaign. Within the last three months he had
gradually become weaker and weaker, till at length Idalie
watched beside the couch, from which she had been told that
her beloved and loving parent would never rise again. She
had heard it with an agony of sorrow, which it was long ere
the kindly sympathy of the benevolent priest and of her cousin
Louis could in any degree assuage. Motherless from early
childhood, a more than common tie bound her to her father;
and so deep was the darkness which those cruel tidings
seemed to gather round her, that even love itself succumbed
beneath it, and the strange, wild yearning rose, that she, too,
might “flee away, and be at rest.”

Unable to endure any longer these sad thoughts, Idalie
arose from the seat where she had kept vigil for many weary
nights and days, and looked forth upon the night. The
moon was at the full, and shed such clear and silvery light
around, that even the rugged crags and stunted pines seemed
softened into beauty. The vale beneath slumbered in
shadow, save where, here and there, a solitary tree stood forth,
seemingly bathed in liquid silver. Sweet odours from the
flowers of the night lingered on the breeze, and the rippling
gush of a streamlet, reflecting every star and ray upon its
bosom, was the only sound that broke the silence. The holy
// 308.png
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calm of Nature touched a responding chord in the heart of
the watcher, and even grief felt for the moment stilled. A
few minutes afterwards the voice of the count recalled her
to his side.

“Is it a fancy, or was Louis here but now, my child?” he
asked, feebly. “Is he from the court? and did he not
bring news? Wherefore came he?”

“Because he heard that I was in sorrow, my dear father;
and he sought, as he ever does, to soothe, or at least to share
it.”

“Bless him for his faithful love! He has in truth been to
me a son, and will be to thee a brother, mine own love; but
tell me, is it indeed truth, or have my thoughts again wandered,
has my young sovereign gone before me to the
grave?”

“Alas! my father, ’tis even so.”

An expression of deep sorrow escaped the lips of the dying
man, and for several minutes he was silent. When again he
spoke, his voice was firmer.

“Idalie, my child, I shall soon follow my royal master;
and it is well, for the regency of Catherine de Medicis can
bring with it but misery. Listen to me, beloved one! I
leave thee sole heiress of our olden heritage, of a glorious
name, which from age to age hath descended in a line so pure,
so stainless, that the name of De Montemar hath become a
very proverb for all honourable and knightly deeds. There
have been times when daughters, not sons, succeeded; and
yet did its lustre not diminish nor its power decrease. Thou
knowest this, my child. I know not wherefore I recall it
now.”

“Dost thou doubt me, father?” replied Idalie, sadly, and
somewhat reproachfully. “Thinkest thou my heart is so
engrossed with selfish sorrows that I feel no pride, no love
for mine ancient race, that its glory and its power shall decrease
with me?”

“No, no, my noble child. Forgive me, I have pained
thee, yet I meant it not.” Pausing a moment, he continued
hurriedly, “Idalie, our faith, our blessed faith is tottering,
falling in this land. Each month, each week the heretics
gain ground; nor will all the bloody acts of Catherine and
the princes of Guise arrest their progress. Were health and
life renewed, I would neither raise sword nor kindle brand
// 309.png
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for their destruction; but my whole soul trembles for my
native land. Idalie, my child, I know thy heart beats true
as mine to our ancient creed. I know thou wilt never turn
aside thyself from the one true path; but oh, for thy dead
father’s sake, let not a heretic be master of these fair lands,
and tempt thy vassals to embrace his soul-destroying creed.
Thou wilt not wed with heresy, my child?”

“Never, my father! I can pity and pray for these misguided
ones; but never shall my hand be given to one unfaithful
to his God. Yet wherefore this fear? Am I not
the plighted bride of one who would rather die than lead me
astray, or turn aside himself?”

The fading eyes of the dying lit suddenly up with feverish
radiance, his cheek burned, and his mind evidently so far
wandered as to prevent either his hearing or understanding
his daughter’s last words.

“And thou wilt promise this?” he said, in a voice at
once alarmingly hollow, yet strangely excited; “thou wilt
solemnly promise never to give thyself and thy fair heritage
to the heretic; thou wilt not let the foul spot blacken our
noble line? Promise me this, my child.”

Alarmed at the change in his appearance, and convinced
that Montgomeri, who, when he left her, had been as true and
zealous a Catholic as herself, was not of a nature to change,
Idalie knelt down beside the couch, and in distinct and
solemn accents made the vow required.

The Count de Montemar raised himself with sudden
strength, and laid both his hands on the bent head of his
child. “Now blessings, blessings on thee for this, my sainted
one!” he said, distinctly; “thou hast removed all doubt, all
fear; death has no terror now, no sting. God’s blessing be
upon thee, love, and give—”

His voice sunk, but his lips still warmly pressed her brow,
and minutes thus passed. A cloud had come before the
moon, and when her light broke forth again, Idalie knelt by
the couch of the dead.
.ce
IV.

Idalie de Montemar was not long permitted to indulge her
grief in solitude. Scarcely two months after her loss, an express
// 310.png
.bn 310.png
arrived from Paris, and she was compelled to prepare
her chateau and vassals for the reception of the young king,
the queen mother, and court, who in their progress to the
south passed through Auvergne. Idalie roused herself from
the sorrow which weighed so heavily on her spirits.
Although chivalry had lost much of the enthusiasm and
warmth which had characterised it not half a century previous,
its memory still lingered in the minds of men; and
something of this feeling actuated the men of Montemar as
they looked on their youthful countess. Shrinking and timid
as she had been while her parent lived, a new spirit now
seemed her own; and it was with all the proud consciousness
that she was now sole representative of one of the most
ancient and most noble families of France that Idalie de
Montemar, at the head of her loyal vassals, received her
royal guests, and knelt in homage to the youthful Charles.

But amid all that royal group only one had power over the
heart of Idalie, and she grieved to see the saddened brow
and anxious glance, which had usurped the place of the
radiant smiles and sparkling eye, which had never before
failed to beam forth from the lovely countenance of Mary
Queen of Scots. Robed so completely in white (the costume
of royal widows) as to receive the designation of La Reine
blanche, her beauty rather increased than diminished by its
softened tone; she was to many an object of still deeper
interest now than she had been hitherto; but it was very
soon evident to Idalie that the petty mortifications springing
from rooted envy and dislike, to which she was daily, almost
hourly subjected by Catherine, were poisoning all youthful
enjoyment, and that even while she clave with her whole
soul to France, she felt it must not be her home much
longer.

Feeling deeply, as she did, that it was to Mary’s faithful
friendship her betrothed husband owed his life, Idalie’s high
spirit rose indignant at this treatment. That the marked
respect with which she treated her, the constant deference to
her wishes, during the royal sojourn, exposed her to Catherine’s
fatal malice, she cared not for. Soothed by her affection,
roused to a sense of her own dignity as sovereign of
Scotland, if no longer of France, it was during her sojourn
at the Chateau de Montemar, Mary resolved on her return to
her native land, and by earnest persuasions prevailed on the
// 311.png
.bn 311.png
young countess to sue for the royal permission to accompany
her. It was granted, ungraciously enough; for her engagement
with the Count de Montgomeri was known, and the
hatred borne by Catherine de Medicis towards that unfortunate
nobleman had in no way diminished by time.

“Will the good Count Gabriel de Lorges accompany his
young bride on her return? Know ye, my lords, if so, we
will give him welcome,” the queen mother soon after inquired,
in the hearing of Idalie, and in a voice so peculiarly sweet
and gracious as to cause the countess’s heart, for the moment,
to bound up with sudden hope of his permitted, even welcomed
return, and then as suddenly sink down, she knew
not wherefore, save that Catherine’s deadliest purposes ever
breathed through smiles.

A few months after her visit to the chateau, Mary quitted
France, attended by Idalie de Montemar, and some other
youthful friends, to whom she clung, as the sole memories left
her of that beautiful and happy land, which her foreboding
spirit whispered she should never look on more. Intent on
soothing the grief of her royal friend, Idalie had but little
time to think of her own feelings; but when she did seek to
define them, she became conscious that they were not all joy.
Again did the same dim shadow envelope every thought,
every hope directed towards the hour of meeting. Every
day that brought it nearer seemed to throw a chilling weight
on her heart’s ecstatic bound. Her very love felt too intense,
too twined with her being, to find rest, even in the thought
of looking on him, listening to him again. She strove with
the baseless shadow, but it clung pertinaciously to every
mental image, and weighed upon her spirits like lead.

Scotland was reached at last; the heavy pomp and
ceremony attending the sovereign’s landing and progress to
Holyrood at length at an end, and Idalie had retired to the
chamber appointed for the use of herself and suite, seeking
calmness and rest from the opposing emotions at one and
the same time engrossing her.

Why should she not be joyful? the morrow Montgomeri
would be at her side once more, and all unchanged to her;
not a doubt had stolen on the bright vision of his love, not a
shade darkened the pure thoughts of his constancy—what,
then, did she dread?

A summons to the chamber of the queen startled her, for
// 312.png
.bn 312.png
she had been dismissed, she thought, for the night.
Hastily obeying, she ran lightly along the private gallery
pointed out as her nearest way, and without pausing drew
aside the arras and entered. A cry of astonishment, of bliss
at the same moment escaped her lips, and, clasped to the
heart of the Count de Montgomeri, all darkness and dread
faded for the time in a burst of happy tears upon his bosom.
.ce
V.

“Nay, chide me not, that my cheek is paler than when we
parted, dearest,” said Idalie, after long and earnest commune,
as they sat together the following day in an olden chamber
of Holyrood, far removed from the sovereign and the court.
“Thou too art changed; and if in thee, a soldier and a man,
absence can have wrought furrows on thy brow, pallor on
thy cheek, and even touched thy hair with grey, is it strange
that I, a poor, weak girl, should suffer too? I scarce had
loved thee, Gabriel, had there been no change.”

“I would not have taxed thy love, even had it left less
touching impress on thy cheek,” replied the count; “but for
me, harsh storms and ruffled thoughts have joined with the
yearning thoughts for thee to make me as thou seest. Why
look upon me thus? canst doubt me, dearest?”

“Oh, no, no! thy love is not changed, save that it may be
dearer still; but thine eyes looked not thus the day we
parted. There are deeper sterner feelings in thy soul than
heretofore; the change is <i>there</i>. The storms of which thou
speakest have not been outward only—glory, ambition, love,
are not the sole occupants of thy spirit now.”

“And what if thou hast read aright, sweet one, wilt thou
not love thy soldier still?”

“Oh, yes! for nought could enter the heart of De Lorges
his Idalie may not revere. But tell me these inward storms—why
is thy look, save when it is turned on me, so strangely
stern? It was not always thus?”

“Call it not stern my love: ’tis but the shadow of my
spirit’s change. I did not think thou wouldst so soon have
marked it; yet ’tis not sternness, or if it be, ’tis only towards
myself. When we parted, dearest, I lived for earth and
earthly things; but with sorrow came thoughts of that higher
// 313.png
.bn 313.png
world, which must banish the idle smile and idler jest; ’tis
thus that I am changed.”

“And is this all?” faltered Idalie, looking fearfully in his
face; “is this enough to cause the struggle, of which thy
cheek and brow bear such true witness? The thought of
heaven brings with it but balm and rest—not strife and pain.
Gabriel, this is <i>not</i> all.”

“It <i>is</i> not all, my own! I would not have a thought concealed
from thee; and yet I pause, fearing to give thee pain.
Listen to me beloved one; and oh, believe, Montgomeri
would not lightly turn aside from the path his fathers trod;
yet hadst thou seen, as I have, the gross crimes, the awful
passions, which have crept into the bosom of our holy
church; the fearful darkness of ignorance and bigotry over-spreading
the pure light marking the path of Jesus, thou
wouldst feel with me, and acknowledge that I could not
think of God and heaven, and yet be other than I am. Idalie,
speak to me! wherefore art thou thus?”

He ceased in terror; her features had become contracted,
her lip and check blanched almost as death. Her large eyes
distended in their terrible gaze upon himself, and the hands
which had convulsively closed on his, were cold and rigid as
stone.

“It cannot, <i>cannot</i> be,” she murmured, in a low shuddering
tone. “Montgomeri could not be other than true: no,
no. Why will you speak thus, love?” she added, somewhat
less unnaturally. “What can such strange words
mean, save that thy sword, like my father’s, will never be
unsheathed in persecuting wars—answer me, Gabriel, is it
not so?”

“Alas! my love, I may not rest in quiet when the weapon
of every true man is needed to protect the creed which conviction
has embraced. In these dark times this badge of
Protestantism and the sword of defence must ever be raised
together. Idalie, the world may term me heretic; but thou—”

“Thou art <i>no</i> heretic; no, no—it cannot be!” burst from
the wrung heart of Idalie, as she wildly sprang from his
embrace, “Montgomeri, thou art deceiving me—thou
wouldst try the love I bear thee! Oh, not thus, not thus!
Say thou art no heretic; thou art still the man my father
loved, trusted, blessed; him to whom he gave his child.
Speak to me; answer me—but one word!”
// 314.png
.bn 314.png

“I will, I will, mine own! let me but see thee calm. Am
I not thine own? Art thou not mine? Come to my
heart, sweet one; thou wilt find no change towards
thee!”

“Answer me,” she reiterated; “Gabriel, thou hast not
answered! By the love thou bearest me, by the vow unto
my father—to love and cherish me till death—by thine own
truth—I charge thee answer me, thou art no heretic?”

“If to raise my voice against the gross abuses fostered by
the Pope and his pampered minions in every land, to deny to
them all allegiance, to refuse all belief in the intervention of
saints and martyrs, or that absolution, bought and sold, can
bring pardon and peace; if to read and believe the Holy
Scriptures, and follow as they teach—if this is to be a
heretic, Idalie, even for thy dear sake, I may not deny it.
Yes, dearest, I am a heretic in all, save love for thee!”

A low, despairing cry broke from those blanched lips, and
Idalie fell forward at his feet. It seemed long ere Montgomeri
could restore her to life, though he used a tenderness
and skill strange in a rough warrior like himself; but
no fond look returned his anxious gaze. She struggled to
withdraw herself from his embrace, but the tone of reproachful
agony with which he pronounced her name rendered
the struggle vain; and, clinging to him, she sobbed. “I
thought not of this, dreamed not of this; even in the dark
foreboding haze clinging round the hour of meeting. Gabriel,
in mercy leave me, or I shall forget my vow, and hurl down
on me the wrath of the dead.”

“Leave thee!—vow!—wrath of the dead!” he repeated.
“Oh, do not talk so wildly, love; reproach, upbraid me, as
thou wilt; but tell me not to leave thee. Wherefore should
we part?”

“Gabriel, it <i>must</i> be! I have no strength when I gaze on
thee. Let not perjury darken this deep misery: leave
me!”

“Perjury! what hast thou sworn?” demanded Montgomeri,
hoarse, and choked with strong emotion.

“Never to wed with heresy! To retain the faith of my
ancestors pure and unsullied as I received it. My father,
from his bed of death, demanded this vow, and I pledged it
unhesitatingly; for could I doubt <i>thee</i>?”

She had spoken with unnatural composure, but there was
// 315.png
.bn 315.png
such a sudden and agonized change on the features of the
count, that it not only banished calmness, but reawakened
hope.

“Oh, say thou wert deceiving me, Gabriel. Dearest
Gabriel, have I not judged thee wrongly, that still we may
pray together as we have prayed? Thou hast not turned
aside from our old and sainted creed. Say but this grief is
causeless; that I may still love thee without sin; that there
is no need to part!”

“Part!” he passionately exclaimed, “and from thee?
Oh, no, no!”

“Then thou art, in truth, no heretic? It has all been a
dark and terrible dream, and we shall be happy yet love!”
she answered, in a voice of such trusting joyance, that Montgomeri
started from her side, and hurriedly paced the room.

She laid her hand gently on his arm, and looked up confidingly
in his face; but its expression was enough. Shrinking
from him, she implored, “Gabriel, Gabriel, look not on
me thus, or that fearful dream will come again!”

“Would, would to God it were a dream!” he exclaimed,
and his hands clasped both hers with convulsive pressure.
“Idalie, I am no Catholic; I dare not again kneel as I have
knelt, or pray as I have prayed. No, not even to retain
thy precious love, to claim thee mine—thee, dearer than life,
than happiness, than all, save eternity—I dare not deny my
faith. But, oh, is there no other way? Can it be, that for
this, a firm conviction of truth, an honest avowal of that
which my soul believes, for this that we must part? Idalie,
canst thou sentence me to <i>this</i>?”

“I have sworn,” she said, her white lips quivering with
the effort. “My vow is registered in heaven—sworn unto
the dead; by death only to be absolved.”

“To retain the line of Montemar unsullied in its ancient
faith. Idalie, oh, hear me; let me plead now! Give to Louis
de Montemar the government of thine ancestral lands, the control
of thy vassals. Thou shalt seek them when thou wilt,
unaccompanied by thy husband, unshackled by his counsels.
I ask but for thee; and here, far removed from the blood
and misery deluging unhappy France, we may live for each
other still. May not this be, love, and yet thy vow remain
unbroken?”

“Montgomeri, it may not be,” she said, in a low yet collected
// 316.png
.bn 316.png
tone, for it seemed as if the noble spirit of her race
returned to give her strength for that harrowing hour.

“Tempt me not by such words as these—the love I bear
thee is trial all-sufficient. My oath was pledged that I
would never wed with heresy—never give my hand to one
unfaithful to our old and sainted creed. Perchance that oath
alone may save me from a like perdition, and if so, then is
it well.”

“And doth thou scorn me for this—despise and loathe
me? Oh, Idalie, thou knowest not all I have endured.
In mercy add not to the anguish of this hour, by scorn of
the change which imperious conscience alone had power to
impel.”

“Scorn thee, Montgomeri! No; if thou, the good, the
wise, can thus decide, and so find peace, is it for me to
judge thee harshly? No, Idalie can never <i>blame</i> thee,
Gabriel.”

He caught her to his heart, and she resisted not the impassionate
kisses he pressed on check and brow. She felt
his hot tears fall fast upon her face, for in that suffering
hour it was the iron-souled warrior that wept, not the pale,
slight girl he held.

“This must not be, beloved,” she whispered, in low
soothing tones. “Montgomeri, my noble love—for in this
last hour I may still call thee so—oh, rouse thee from this
woman’s weakness; this is no mood for thee. Thou must
forget me, Gabriel; or so think of me as to be once again
the brave, the high-souled warrior thou hast ever been. For
my sake, rouse thee, love! The God we part to serve will
hear my prayers, and bless thee.”

“And thou!” burst passionately from the lips of the
count. “Oh, what shall comfort thee, and fill for thee the
void of everlasting absence? In the rush of battle the
warrior may find forgetfulness in death; but—”

“No, no, not death; Gabriel, for my sake, live, though
not for me: add not this pang to a heart already tried
enough. Promise me to live, and for me! Leave me to my
God, Montgomeri, and He will give me peace.”

He could not answer, and minutes—many minutes—rolled
away, and neither moved from the detaining arms of the
other. Fortunately perhaps for both, a page entered with
a summons to the count from the queen. Idalie lifted up
// 317.png
.bn 317.png
her head, and while her very blood seemed turned to ice, a
smile circled that pale lip.

“Thou must leave me, dearest. Mary loves not to wait,
indulgent as she is.”

“But we shall meet again, sweet love?”

There was no answer; but Montgomeri would not understand
that silence. He strained her once more to his heart,
and turned away: another minute the arras fell, and he was
gone. Idalie made one bound forward, as if to detain him,
and, with a low shuddering cry, dropped senseless on the
ground.
.sp 2
.h4
VI.
.sp 2
It was in a lordly chamber of the Chateau de Montemar,
about three months after the event narrated in our last
chapter, that the only remaining scions of that noble house
were seated in earnest and evidently sorrowful converse.
The beams of the sun, rendered gorgeous by the richly-stained
glass of the antique windows through which they
passed, fantastically tinged the oaken floor and walls. The
furniture was of ebony, inlaid with silver, interspersed with
couches and cushions of tapestry, ancient as the days of
Matilda of Flanders, which, though somewhat heavy in themselves,
accorded well with the aspect of solemn grandeur
pervading the whole apartment.

“Do not refuse me, Louis,” pleaded Idalie, after a long
and painful discussion relative to her papers and parchments,
which strewed the table, had passed between them; “do not
thus entreat me to retain my heritage. Is a broken heart, a
sinking frame fit chief for Montemar? I have borne much,
suffered much, sought even the court of Charles, which my
whole soul loathes, to obtain the transferment to thee of all
my earthly possessions, and now do not refuse to relieve me
of their heavy charge.”

“But only wait awhile, sweet cousin,” he replied; “sorrow
has had as yet no time to expend its force. Do not act so
soon on the resolution of a moment’s agony; wait but one
brief year, and think well on all you would resign. Has
earth no spell to fright away thy purpose?”

“None; it is but the casket, whence the jewel has departed.
Nay more, it is filled with hopes I dare not
// 318.png
.bn 318.png
hope, and thoughts I dare not think. I would fly from
these.”

“And will a convent aid thee so to do?”

“I know not; yet there at least temptation, which I have
no strength to meet, will not assail me more.”

“No strength to meet! Dearest Idalie, the martyr at the
stake might envy thee thy strength.”

“Not now, Louis, it has all gone from me,” and for the
first time her voice quivered, and she buried her face in her
clasped hands. A fierce malediction on Montgomeri was
bursting from the lips of Louis, as he looked on the faded
form, and seemed to feel for the first time the full extent of
his cousin’s agony. Young, buoyant, and ever joyous himself,
Idalie’s perfect calmness since her return had deceived
him; but the tone in which those few words were said
strangely and suddenly revealed the whole, and the young
man’s whole heart spoke in his half-uttered curse.

“No, no; curse him not, Louis!” passionately implored
Idalie. “Promise me, by the sweet memories of our childhood,
still to be his friend. In these awful times, when the
poisoned draught and midnight dagger are ever near these
persecuted men, be near him to warn, shield, save.”

“I will, I will, for thy sweet sake,” he replied, earnestly.
“Yet why fear such danger for him? he never will be rash
enough to return to France.”

“Louis, he is even now in France, and therefore is it I so
conjure you to be his friend. He is here, may be near me
still, even as he hovered close beside me in my passage
home. He thought to be unknown, even to me; me, whom
he was there to guard, protect to the last, speaking not one
word to betray himself, or give me again the torture of farewell.
I knew him close beside me; I heard the disguised
accents of his voice, and yet we were as if the grave had
parted us. Oh, Louis, Louis! the strength which then
upheld me has departed from me; I dare not look upon his
face and listen to his voice again. Only the convent walls
can shield me from a broken vow, a dead father’s curse; and
wilt thou keep me from their refuge? No, no; relieve
me from this fearful heritage, <i>and let me be at peace</i>.”

.tb

One week after Louis de Montemar had been acknowledged
// 319.png
.bn 319.png
by all the vassals of his cousin as their suzerain or
feudal lord, to whom and to his heirs they had sworn undying
allegiance, Idalie stood within the convent church of our
Lady of Montemar, preparing to take those awful vows
which severed her from earth, and all its cares and joys, and
hopes and woes, for ever. It was midnight, but the large
waxen tapers burning on the high altar and many shrines
completely illuminated the main body of the church, while
the deep shadows of the aisles and more distant arches of
the nave heightened the effect of light, and rendered the
building larger in appearance than in reality. Clouds of incense
floated on the air, from the rich silver censers held by
six beautiful boys, clothed in white, standing on either side
the altar. Behind, and exquisitely illuminated by a peculiarly
softened light falling full upon it, hung a picture of
the Saviour kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane, his
countenance powerfully expressive of the words, “Nevertheless,
not what I will, but what Thou wilt.”

The church was crowded in the nave and aisles, the choir
and chancel being left for the relations of the novice and those
of higher rank. As Idalie had but few of the former, and
had particularly wished the ceremony to be as private as
possible, these parts of the building were comparatively unoccupied,
except by monks and priests.

Clothed with unwonted gorgeousness, Idalie stood beside
the altar. A rich robe of grey Genoa velvet descended to
her feet, sweeping the marble ground in heavy folds, girded
round the waist with a broad belt of large rubies and opals;
glittering stars of the same clasped down the stomacher,
and looped the wide sleeve of richest lace, and braids of
diamonds glistened in the dark tresses of her hair, and
sparkled on the high, pure brow, which, marble pale, seemed
all unfitted for their weight. Her eyes were raised, her
lips slightly parted, her thin white hands crossed upon her
bosom, as in the heartfelt utterance of voiceless prayer.
Silence, deep as the grave, had succeeded the priest’s prayer,
lasting but a moment, for Idalie sinking noiselessly on the
ground, the black pall was thrown over her, and the distant
discharge of cannon, mingled with the muffled toll of the
convent bell, proclaimed far and near that Idalie de Montemar
was now an inmate of the tomb. A groan so deep and
hollow at that instant reverberated through the building, that
// 320.png
.bn 320.png
all present started, and shudderingly drew nearer each other,
unable to trace whence or from whom it came, until a tall
shrouded figure was discovered leaning against one of the
pillars supporting the arched roof of the choir; his face was
buried in his cloak, but he was seen to shiver, as by some
rudely-passing wind. The organ swelled forth in thrilling
tones the requiem for the dead, sweet childish voices prolonged
the solemn strain, till it faded softer and softer in the
distance, swelling, falling, then dying all away. Removing
the pall, the priests waited for Idalie to rise and kneel before
the altar, that the ceremony might continue. They waited,
but there was no movement. She lay even as she had fallen.
A cry of terror burst from the aged priest, and at the same
instant, heedless of the personal danger inseparable from
discovery, bareheaded and unshrouded—heedless of all save
one agonizing fear—Gabriel de Lorges rushed forward, and
knelt beside her.

“Idalie! loveliest! dearest! speak to me, answer me;
say that I have not murdered thee! Answer me, in mercy,
but one word!”

He spoke in vain. Louis de Montemar, priests, and many
others crowded round him. They sought to withdraw her
from Montgomeri’s convulsive hold, to wake her from the
seeming trance. But all was useless; she had passed to
heaven in that music swell. The broken-hearted was at
rest.[#]

.pm fn-start
The after-fate of the unfortunate but guiltless regicide belongs to
history.
.pm fn-end

.fm rend=th lz=th

// 321.png
.bn 321.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p303
<i>Lady Gresham’s Fête.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
A TALE OF THE DAY.
.nf-
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>It</sc> was near the end of May, beautiful May, that month of
strange contrarieties in our lovely land. In the haunts of
Nature, robed with such gorgeous beauty, bringing such a
lavish garniture of tree and shrub, and flowers; such fresh
and dewy mornings; such glorious sunsets; and those soft
sweet hours of twilight, so fraught with spiritual musings;
and those lovely nights, when the mind loses itself in the
infinitude of thought, in the vain yearning to grasp something
beyond our present being, in itself evidence of Immortality!
In the city, in the proud metropolis, seat of
empire and wealth, fashion and beauty, luxury and pleasure,
crime and famine, misery and desolation, clothed as May
still is with her natural beauty, we know her not, save as the
“Season!” and in that word what a host of thoughts spring
up—enjoyment, luxury, fêtes, balls, dinners! These were
<i>once</i>, and but a few years back, its sole association; but now a
mighty spirit is abroad, and over the festal halls a dim cloud
is hovering, breathing of oppression born in that very
thoughtless joyance. Through the gay music, the silvery
laugh, the murmur of glad voices—aye, through every tone
that tells of luxurious pleasure only—a thrilling cry is
sounding! the voice of suffering thousands, claiming brotherhood
with Joy; demanding a portion of that which a beneficent
Father ordained for <sc>ALL</sc>—rest, recreation, homes.
.pi
In the drawing-room of one of the smaller mansions of the
aristocratic west, a young lady was sitting near an open
window, inhaling the delicious scent of the beautiful flowers,
which filled the balcony in such profusion that, shaded in
the background as they were by the magnificent trees of
the park, they looked as if the goddess May had brought a
garden from her most sylvan haunts, to mark her presence
even there.

Lucy Neville, the sole inmate of this pleasant room, was
neither very young nor very beautiful, yet she had charms
enough to occasion some degree of wonderment that she
// 322.png
.bn 322.png
should have passed through four London seasons and
attained the venerable age of three-and-twenty, and was
Lucy Neville still. She had the advantage of mingling
with some of the most highly gifted and most learned
patriots of the age; for her brother, Lord Valery, of whose
house she was sole mistress, was one of the most influential
men of his day. She went into society also continually;
and, altogether, it was a constant marvel to all those who
had nothing to do but to talk of their neighbours, why she
had never married. Lucy Neville might not have had
regular beauty, but she had something better—she had
<sc>MIND</sc>, and a heart so full of good and kindly feeling that
she was an exception to the general idea, that we must know
sorrow ourselves before we can feel for others. She was
indeed, only just putting off mourning for a young and
darling brother; but she had begun to think years before
that, and the six months of quietude had only deepened, not
created, the principles on which she acted.

“Visitors so late! why it is just six o’clock!” passed
through her mind, as a loud impetuous ring announced
a carriage; and a party of young ladies, of ultra-fashionable
exterior, hurried into the drawing-room, all talking at once,
and of something so very delightful, that Miss Neville had
great difficulty in comprehending their meaning.

“Now, Lucy, don’t look so bewildered. You are quick
enough at comprehension sometimes, and I really want you
to understand me with a word now, for I am in a terrible
hurry. I ought to have come to you by eleven this morning,
but really this short invitation has given me so many things
to think about, I could not.”

“But what am I to understand, Charlotte?” replied Miss
Neville, laughing so good-humouredly, that it was difficult to
discover why those of her own age and standing so often
kept aloof from her, as having so little in common. “Laura—Mary—have
pity on my obtuseness.”

“Why, Lady Gresham’s long-talked-of fête is fixed at
last; and of course you will go. Your invitation was enclosed
in mamma’s last night. Absolutely her ladyship condescends
to entreat her to introduce you. I cannot imagine
the reason of this sudden <i>empressement</i>—she could have
visited you long ago, had she wished it.”

“She did wish it individually, I believe; but an unfortunate
// 323.png
.bn 323.png
misunderstanding between her brother and mine prevented
it. Edward has long wished the estrangement to
cease, so I shall be very happy to meet her half-way, and
accept the invitation. When is it?”

“Next Monday.”

“Monday! Why, to-day is Friday! You must mean
Monday week.”

“Indeed I do not. How she will manage I cannot tell,
except that when people have more wealth than they know
what to do with, they can do what they please. Her villa at
Richmond, too, is just the place for a <lang='fr'><i>fête
champétre</i></lang>; and the
novel shortness of the invitation, and being the day before a
drawing-room, will crowd her rooms, depend upon it. It
is something unusually exciting, the very bustle of the
thing.”

“But I thought it was not to be until—”

“Until Herbert Gresham returned. Nor will it. He
arrives to-morrow night, or some time on Sunday, quite
suddenly, not having been expected for several weeks yet.
What with his foreign honours, his promised baronetcy,
and last, not least, his distinguished appearance, he will
be sought and fêted by all the money-loving mammas
and husband-seeking daughters for the remainder of the
season.”

“The worst of its being a <lang='fr'><i>fête champétre</i></lang> is,
that we must
have complete new dresses,” rejoined Laura. “And how to
coax papa for the necessary help, I know not; my last
quarter was all gone before I received it, and my debts
actually frighten me. But what is to be done? go I must.”

“And then the shortness of the notice!” continued Mary;
“really Lady Gresham might have given us more time.
Who can decide what to wear, or even what colour, in three
days?”

“Come, Lucy, decide! But of course you will go!” exclaimed
Charlotte, impatiently. “It will be your first appearance
in public this season, and so you can have nothing
to think about in the way of expense. Nothing but the
trouble of seeing about a new dress.”

“Which will prevent my going, much as I might wish it,”
replied Miss Neville, very quietly, though the faint tinge rising
to her cheek, and the quiver of the lip, might have betrayed
some degree of internal emotion.
// 324.png
.bn 324.png

“Prevent your going! What can you possibly mean?”
exclaimed her guests together.

“That as it is now six o’clock on Friday, and you tell me
Lady Gresham’s fête is three o’clock on Monday, I have not
sufficient time to procure all I want (for having been so long
in mourning, I have literally nothing that will do), without
breaking a resolution, and sacrificing a principle, which I do
not feel at all inclined to do.”

“Sacrificing a principle! Lucy, you are perfectly ridiculous!
What has principle to do with a <lang='fr'><i>fête champétre</i></lang>?
Your head is turned with the stupid cant of oppressing, and
the people, as if we had not annoyances, and vexations, and
pressure too, when we want more money than we happen to
have! And as for time, what is to prevent your sending to
Mrs. Smith to-night, (by-the-bye, how <i>can</i> you employ an
English <lang='fr'><i>artiste</i></lang>?) and get all you want by ten o’clock on
Monday morning? Why, I cannot even give, an order till
after the post comes in to-morrow. I must wait to know
what was worn at the <lang='fr'>Duchesse de Nemours’ <i>fête
champétre</i></lang>
the other day. One feels just out of the ark, in England.”

“And I am sure I cannot decide what to wear till then,”
languidly remarked Mary.

“And as for me, I am in a worse predicament than either
of you,” laughed Laura, but her laugh was not a gay one.
“Raise the wind I must, but it requires time to think
how.”

We have no space to follow this conversation further.
Persuasions, reproaches, and taunts assailed Miss Neville on
all sides, but she did not waver. Charlotte left her in high
dudgeon; Mary marvelled at her unfortunate delusion, quite
convinced that she was on the verge of insanity; and Laura
wishing that she could be but as firm. Not that she comprehended
or allowed the necessity of the principle on which
she acted, but only as it would save her the disagreeable
task of thinking how to get the necessary costume when
both <i>modiste</i> and jeweller had refused to trust her any
more.

For nearly half an hour Lucy remained sitting where her
visitors had left her, her hands pressed on her eyes, and her
whole posture denoting a painful intensity of thought.
Herbert Gresham returning! His mother’s unexpected and
pressing invitation! Could it be that the bar between the
// 325.png
.bn 325.png
families was indeed so entirely removed, that she might hope
as she had never dared hope before? Sir Sydney’s hatred
to her brother, from some political opposition, had been such,
it was whispered at the time, that he had obtained his nephew
some honourable appointment abroad, only because he feared
that he not only loved Lucy, but leaned towards Lord
Valery’s political opinions. Four years had passed since
then, and Herbert Gresham was no longer a cipher in
another’s hands. He had formed his own principles, marked
out his own course; and Lucy heard his name so often and
so admiringly from her brother’s lips, that the dream of her
first season could not pass away, strive against it as she
might, for she knew not whether she claimed more than a
passing thought from him who held her being so enchained.
And now he was returning; and to the fête to welcome him
she was invited, with such an evident desire for her presence,
that her heart bounded beneath the thronging fancies that
would come, seeming to whisper it was at <i>his</i> instigation.
And why could she not go? Was it not, indeed, a quixotic
and uncalled-for sacrifice? How could the resolution of one
feeble individual aid in removing the heavy pressure of
over-work from the thousands of her fellow-creatures?
There was time, full time, for all she required, if she saw
about it at once. It was but adding an atom to the weight of
oppression, which, whether added or withheld, could be of
no moment; and surely, surely, for such a temptation there
was enough excuse. How would Herbert construe her
absence, if, indeed, it was at his wish the invitation came?
Why might she not——

“Lucy, seven o’clock and not ready for dinner! Why,
what are you so engrossed about?” exclaimed her brother,
half-jestingly, half-anxiously, the latter feeling prevailing, as
she hastily looked up. A few, a very few words, and he
understood it all.

“And yet I know, even under such circumstances, you will
not fail,” he said; and how powerful is the voice of affectionate
confidence in the dangerous moment of hesitation
between right and wrong? “You may, indeed, be but one
where there needs the aid of hundreds; but if all hold back
because they are but one, how shall we gain the necessary
muster? To check this thoughtless waste of human life,
this (in many) unconscious crushing of all that makes
// 326.png
.bn 326.png
existence, is <sc>WOMAN’S</sc> work. Man may legislate, may
theorise, but he looks to his female relatives for its <i>practical</i>
fulfilment. Dearest, do you choose the right, and trust me,
useless as the sacrifice now seems, you will yet thank God
that it was made.”

.tb

Lady Gresham’s fête was brilliant,
<lang='fr'><i>recherché</i></lang>—crowded as
anticipated. The weather was lovely, the gardens magnificent,
the arrangements in the best taste that an ultra-fashionist
of some thirty years’ experience could devise.
Youth, beauty, rank, wealth, all were there, and the female
portion set off to the best advantage by an elegance of
costume and an extreme carefulness of attire, without which
all knew an entrance into Lady Gresham’s select coterie
could never be obtained. A despot in the empire of dress
and appearance, she little knew, and still less cared, for all
the petty miseries (alas, that such a word should be spoken
in the same breath with dress!) which her invitations usually
excited. The resolve to outvie—the utter carelessness of
expenditure while the excitement lasted—the depression,
almost despair, at the accumulated debts which followed—the
rivalry of a first fashion—the petty manœuvres not to
give a hint of the intended costume, and the equally petty
manœuvres to discover it—the mortification when, after all the
lavish expense, all the mysteries, others appeared more
fashionable, more <lang='fr'><i>recherché</i></lang>—the disgust with
which, in
consequence, the previously considered perfect dress was
henceforth regarded—these, and a hundred other similar
emotions had been, during the “season,” called forth again
and again; and in beings destined for immortality! was
it marvel they had no thought for other than themselves?

That this fête was in commemoration of Herbert Gresham’s
return, and that he was present, the hero of the day, not a
little increased its excitement and importance. But he
moved amongst his mother’s guests with native and winning
courtesy indeed, but as if his mind were engrossed with
other and deeper things. In the four years of his absence
many changes, powerful in themselves, but still only invisibly
working, had taken place in the political aspect of
his country. By means of private correspondence with the
most influential men of the day, and through the public
// 327.png
.bn 327.png
journals, he had felt the deepest interest in these changes;
and from the very fact of his looking on from a distance,
and not mingling with the contending waves of party, he had
formed clearer views concerning them than many on the
spot. He had returned, determined to devote the whole
energies of his powerful mind to removing <i>invisible</i> oppression,
so lessening labour that <sc>MIND</sc> might resume her
supremacy, and create for every position its own immortal
joys. He was no leveller of ranks; no believer in that vain
dream, equality. He had travelled and thought much, and
felt to his heart’s core the superiority of England as a
nation, both for constitution and morality; but this conviction,
instead of blinding him to her faults, quickened
his perceptions, not only regarding the evils, but their
causes, and increased the intensity of his desire to remove
them.

It was not, however, only the habitude of thought which,
on this occasion, had given him a look of abstraction. He
was disappointed. His mother had told him that, in compliance
with his desire, all foolish coolness between his
family and that of Lord Valery should cease—she had condescended
to make advances to Miss Neville, which were
coldly rejected. She did not tell him that these advances
had been merely an invitation to her fête (of whose sudden
arrangement Herbert was himself unconscious), and did not
know herself, and certainly would never have imagined the
real reason of Lucy’s refusal. Before the day closed, however,
her son was destined to be enlightened.

He was standing near a group of very gay young ladies
and gentlemen, conversing at first on grave topics with a
friend, when his quick ear was irresistibly attracted by the
mention of Miss Neville’s name, coupled with much satirical
laughter.

“She will become a second Mrs. Fry, depend upon it,”
was the observation of one. “I should not be at all surprised
that at last we shall find her making pilgrimages
through the streets of London, to see if all the shops are
closed at a certain hour, and the released apprentices properly
employed. She should set up an evening school for drapers’
assistants and milliners’ apprentices. Why don’t you propose
it to her, Miss Balfour?”

Charlotte, whose superb Parisian costume gave her the
// 328.png
.bn 328.png
triumph of being almost universally envied, laughed, and
declared it was too much trouble.

“You stand in rather too much awe of both her and
Lord Valery,” was her brother’s rejoinder. “It is a pity,
though, that Miss Neville has imbibed such <lang='fr'><i>outré</i></lang> notions,
otherwise she would be a nice girl enough.”

“And did she really refuse to come only because the notice was too short
for her to get a proper costume without injuring or oppressing—as the
cant of the day has it—the poor milliners? How perfectly ridiculous! I
am sure the <lang='fr'><i>artistes</i></lang> who come for our orders
are in the finest condition both as to health and wealth.”

“And the shopmen—they are sleek, gay, care-nothing
looking fellows. As for their needing greater rest, more
recreation, opportunities to cultivate the mind, one has only
to look at them to feel the pure romance of the thing. What
are some people born for but to work?”

“And just imagine how dull London would be if all the
shops were closed by seven or eight o’clock! I should lose
half my enjoyment in walking to my club.”

“I should like to know what good Miss Neville and her
party of philanthropists think they will accomplish by giving
so much liberty and leisure. We shall have to build double
the number of taverns, for such will be their only resort.
What can such people know of intellectual amusement!”

“And if they did, what do they want with it? We should
have a cessation of all labour, and then what is to become of
us, or the country either?”

“It is pure folly. Some people must have a hobby to
make a noise about; and so now nothing is heard but
oppression, internal slavery, broken-hearted milliners’ apprentices,
and maimed drapers’ assistants! Really, for
so much eloquence, it is a pity they do not choose a higher
subject!”

.if h
.il fn=illus_fp311.jpg w=372px
.if-

.if t
.ti +8
[Illustration]
.if-

“And I wish the present <i>subject</i> may never drop till the
<i>work</i> is done,” interposed Herbert Gresham, joining the conversation
with a suddenness, and speaking with such startling
eloquence, that it caused a <i>general</i> retreat of <i>individual</i>
opinion. He would have been amused had he felt less
interested, to see the effect on both sexes of his unexpected
interference. He spoke very briefly, for he was too disgusted
with the littleness, the selfishness, of all he had
// 329.png
.bn 329.png
// 330.png
.bn 330.png
// 331.png
.bn 331.png
heard to attempt anything like argument. And the effort
to excuse former sentiments—to dare say he was right,
but they had not reflected much about it—thought it
a pity to alter things which had been going on so long—could
not understand, even granting there was a good deal of
misery, how could it be helped, but if Herbert Gresham
thought it might be, no doubt there was more in it than they
believed, and very many other similar speeches, only excited
his contempt.

We must change the scene, for our space will not allow us
more than a slight sketch: a momentary glance, as it were,
on things passing daily, hourly around, and yet seen, known
of, by how few! Four or five days after Lady Gresham’s
fête, Miss Neville might have been seen entering one of
those small, close, back streets, found even in the aristocratic
west, and whose dilapidated dwellings present almost as
great a contrast with the proud mansions which surround and
conceal them as the inhabitants themselves.

It was a poor old needlewoman whom Lucy was visiting,
and, surprised at finding her usual sitting-room empty, and
fearing she was ill—for there was no sign of work about, and
Mrs. Miller was infirm and ailing—she gently entered her
sleeping apartment. The rough bed was occupied indeed,
but not by its usual inmate, who was sitting by its side, tears
rolling down her withered cheeks, and her attention so fixed
that she did not perceive Miss Neville’s entrance. She was
watching the painful, restless movements of a girl, who,
in a high state of delirium and fever, was lying on the pallet;
she was very young, and had been beautiful, but suffering had
scarcely left any trace but its own. Earnestly and pityingly,
Lucy entered into the sad, but only too common tale, her
inquiries elicited; but the old woman’s narration being
garrulous and unfinished, we will give it in our own words.

Fanny Roberts and Harry Merton, born and nurtured in
the same village, had been playmates, schoolfellows, friends,
and at last lovers—not only faithful and affectionate, but
prudent and thoughtful. The parents of both were poor,
even in their humble village, but the wishes and interests of
their children were their first object, and to see them somewhat
higher in the world than themselves their sole ambition.
To set up an establishment in the neighbouring town, combining
linen-draper, dressmaker, and milliner, had been their
// 332.png
.bn 332.png
day-dream from the time they had conned their school lessons
and taken long walks together, instead of joining their playmates
on the green; and to fulfil this earnest wish, their
parents, by many sacrifices, which, measured by their love,
seemed absolutely nothing, gathered together sufficient to
send them to London, and apprentice them there. Harry
was then nineteen and Fanny two years younger. Hope was
bright for both. Their only drawback seemed the impossibility
of meeting more than once a week; and six days of
entire separation was a weary interval to those accustomed to
exchange affection’s kindly words and looks each day. Only
too soon, however, did the oppressive reality of the present
absorb the rosy hues of the future. On the daily routine of
unmitigated work, the exhausting labour, the deadened
energies, the absorption of every faculty in the depressing
weariness, we need not touch. It was no distaste for work,
for both had set to their respective duties with hearts burning
to conquer every difficulty—to do even more than was required
of them, the sooner to gain the longed-for goal; and
had it not been for the fearful burden of over-work, the
absence of sufficient rest, of all wholesome recreation, how
brightly and nobly might these young loving beings have
walked the path of life, by mutual exertion creating a home,
and all the joys, which, in England that one word speaks! Alas!
ere eighteen months elapsed, every thought of buoyancy and
joy seemed strangely to have deserted Fanny. She could
not tell why, for outward things seemed exactly the same as
they had been at first. Harry was still faithful, still fond.
Her heart intuitively felt that he was altered. Why, she
would often ask herself, could she no longer feel happy?
Why should every thought of her own dear home cause
such a sickly longing for fresh air and green fields, that the
hysteric sob would often rise choking in her throat, and more
than once, nothing but a timely burst of incomprehensible
tears had saved her from fainting as she sat. She could not
satisfy herself; but in reality it was the silent workings of
insidious disease, seeming mental, because impossible to be
traced as physical, save by the constant sensation of weariness,
which she attributed merely to sitting so long in close
and crowded rooms; but though happiness seemed gone, she
retained the power of <i>endurance</i>; woman can and will endure,
but in nine cases out of ten, men cannot. In the one,
// 333.png
.bn 333.png
suffering often purifies; in the other, it but too often
deteriorates.

Harry Merton had entered on his work joyfully and
buoyantly, determined to make the best of everything, and
be good friends with everybody. Naturally lively, with the
power of very quick acquirement, and a restless activity of
mind as well as body, a very few months’ trial convinced him
that if he had not entirely mistaken his vocation, he certainly
must do something to make it more endurable. He had
heard of institutions for the people in London, of amusements
open even to the most economical; he had pictured
enjoying them with his Fanny, and gaining improvement likewise.
He found it all a dream. There were, indeed, such things,
but not for him or her. The hour of his release found not
only every wholesome amusement closed, but himself so weary,
that mental recreation was impossible, and yet with the
yearning for some pleasure, some relief from wearisome
work, so natural in youth, stronger than ever. His convivial,
unsuspecting disposition led him to join the most
seemingly attractive, but in reality the most dangerous,
of his companions. The consequences need scarcely be
narrated. He became intemperate, gay, reckless, looking
back on the pure, fresh feelings of his early youth with
wonder, and retaining but one of their memories, his love
for Fanny; but even that was no longer the glad, hopeful
feeling which it had been. He was constantly told, and he
saw, that it must be years before they could marry. He was
laughed at for imagining that either he or she would retain
their early feelings. He heard her beauty admired, and
then pitied as a most dangerous gift, which must eventually
and most fearfully separate her from him; and the most
furious but most unfounded jealousy took possession of him,
and so darkened every hour of meeting, that poor Fanny at
length anticipated them with more dread than pleasure. It was
long, indeed, nearly three years, before things came to such a
crisis; but the gradual conviction of the deterioration of her
lover’s character was to Fanny the heaviest suffering of all:
that she still loved him, surely we need not say. She saw the
<i>circumstances</i> of this miserable change, not the change itself.
Her woman’s heart clung to him the more, from the very
anxiety he inspired. So intensely did she mourn for his
long, wearisome hours of joyless toil, that she scarcely felt
// 334.png
.bn 334.png
her own; though, when he was released at ten or eleven,
she was often working unceasingly till two in the morning.
The choking cough, the shortened breath, the aching
spine, she scarcely felt, in the one absorbing thought of
him.

Whenever she could be spared, which in the “season” was
very seldom, it was Fanny’s custom to go to Mrs. Miller (her
only friend in London) Saturday night and remain till Sunday
evening. Two or three days before the invitations were out
for Lady Gresham’s fête, a note was given to her from Harry,
the perusal of which occasioned deeper suffering than anything
she had yet endured. Snatching half an hour from
the scanty time allowed for sleep, the following was her
reply:—

“Harry! Harry! this from you! when you so fondly
promised you would never doubt me more! Yes, he did
seek me that Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, for
it was one o’clock; and I would not have gone there, had
you not made me promise that I would not disappoint you,
and that you would take me home. Why were you not
there? Why did you leave me to the chance of such a
meeting? And then upbraid me with putting myself in that
bad man’s way! Oh, Harry! Harry! by the memories of
our early home, our early love, spare me such unjust suspicion!
You tell me writing will not satisfy you, you must
see me, hear from my own lips my version of this cruel and
most false tale. How can I see you till Saturday night, the
earliest, if then? Sunday if I can only crawl to Mrs.
Miller’s, indeed I will come, pain as it is now to move.
Only trust me till then, dearest, dearest Harry. Do not add
to your burden and mine by thoughts like these. You know
that I am innocent; that I never have loved, never can love,
any one but you.”

The Sunday came, but Fanny was unable to keep her engagement.
Madame Malin was so overwhelmed with orders
for Lady Gresham’s fête, that even the Sabbath day was
compelled to be sacrificed. The peculiar trimmings which it
was absolutely necessary for Miss Balfour to have to complete
the Parisian costume (the details of which never arrived till
eleven o’clock, Saturday, and then all the materials had to be
purchased) were Fanny’s work; and, from her delicate taste,
she, of all the assistants, could the least be spared. In fact,
// 335.png
.bn 335.png
extra hands were hired; for to complete twenty or thirty full
dresses from the noon of Saturday to ten o’clock Monday, in
addition to those already in hand for the drawing-room the
following day, was an unusual undertaking, even for the indefatigable
Madame Malin. Hour after hour those poor
girls worked,—through Saturday night, the yearned-for
Sabbath, again late into the night, till many fainted on
their seats, and the miserable toil was continued in a recumbent
posture by those unable to sit upright. A dead weight
was on poor Fanny’s heart, a foreboding misery; but the sufferings
of the <i>frame</i> were such as almost to deaden the agony of
mind. The hour of release came at length, inasmuch that, ill
as she was, she craved permission to take home some of the
dresses, that she might call at Mrs. Miller’s on her way back,
and learn some news of Harry, and beseech her old friend
to seek him, and tell him the reason of her forced absence.
Exhausted and most wretched as she was, she had to wait till
the dresses were tried on—the capricious humour of the
young ladies proved, by altering, realtering, and final arrangement
as they were originally—to bear with petty fault-finding—until
her whole frame seemed one mass of nerve; and so
detained, that she only entered the street leading to her old
friend’s abode, as the carriages whirled off their elegantly-attired
inmates to Lady Gresham’s fête.

What a tale awaited her! Harry, restless, miserable,—almost
maddened by the false reports against her,—and from
the great pressure of business in his master’s shop, from the
innumerable visits of <i>modistes’</i> assistants to procure the
necessary materials so needed for the costumes of Mrs.
Gresham’s fête, not released till past one o’clock Sunday
morning, had perambulated the streets all night, in the vain
hope of meeting Fanny, encountering one of his jovial companions,
who, half intoxicated, swore he had seen her entering
a coach with—Merton knew whom—and when collared
and shaken by the infuriated lover till he recovered his more
sober senses, declared he could not tell exactly, but he
thought it was her: at all events, Harry would know to-morrow,
if she had gone as usual to Mrs. Miller’s.

There she was not. Never before had six o’clock on
Sunday evening come without her presence; and really
anxious, Mrs. Miller (though not believing a syllable against
her) conjured the unhappy young man to call himself at
// 336.png
.bn 336.png
Madame Malin’s, and inquire if she were ill or detained. He
did so. The well-instructed lacquey declared the family were
all at evening service, and if the apprentices were not with
their friends, he supposed they were there also; he knew
nothing about them; but he was quite sure his mistress
never permitted them to work on Sundays. Harry was in
no state coolly to consider his words. He rushed back like
a madman to Mrs. Miller, uttered a few incoherent sentences,
and darted away before she had time or thought even to
reply. That very evening he enlisted, and the Monday
found him marching to Southampton with other troops about
to embark for India. A few lines to Mrs. Miller told her
this, and accompanied a parcel directed to Fanny, in case
she should ever see or hear of her again. The poor girl had
just strength to tear it open, to discover all her letters and
formerly treasured gifts, even to some withered flowers, returned,
with a few words of stinging reproach, bidding her
farewell for ever, and dropped lifeless at the old woman’s feet.
One or two intervals of coherency enabled her, by a few
broken phrases, to explain the reason of her absence; but
brain fever followed, and even when Miss Neville saw her, all
hope was over. Vain was the skill of the gifted and benevolent
physician Lucy called in. Disease had been too long
and too deeply rooted for resistance to a shock which, in its
agony, would have prostrated even a healthy constitution. A
few, a very few days of intense suffering, and the crushed
heart ceased to beat, the blighted frame to feel, and misery
for her was over. But for poor Harry—for the parents of
both—what might comfort them? We have seen the deterioration
of Harry’s character. There were many to mark and
condemn the <i>faults</i>, but none to perceive their <i>cause</i>. And
when he absconded from his apprenticeship, it did but bring
conviction as to his determined depravity. Who may tell the
agony of those two humble English homes, when the post
brought the miserable news of death to the one, and of sin and
utter separation to the other? They had not even the poor
comfort of knowing the cause of their son’s change; their
own bold, free, happy, loving Harry,—how could his parents
associate him with sin?—or Fanny, the healthy, rosy, graceful
Fanny, with suffering and death? And what caused these
fearful evils, amongst which our tale is but one amongst ten
thousand? Lucy Neville buried her face in her hands as
// 337.png
.bn 337.png
she sat by the lowly pallet, where lay the faded form whence
life had only half an hour before departed, and thanked God
that the temptation had been indeed resisted, and that she
had not made one at Lady Gresham’s fête. It had not,
indeed, been the primary, or even the secondary cause. It
did but strike the last blow and shiver to atoms the last lingering
dream of hope and joy which, despite of oppression,
misery, despair, <i>will</i> rest invisibly in the youthful heart, till
driven thence by death.

.tb

“Lucy!” exclaimed Lord Valery that same day, stopping
the carriage unexpectedly as it was about to drive off from
that part of St. James’s where it usually waited for her (she
shrunk from the notice which a nobleman’s carriage, seen in
such localities as Mrs. Miller’s, would inevitably produce),—“Lucy,
an old friend wishes to recall himself to your memory;
will you give him a seat in your carriage, and take me on the
box? We both pine for fresh air, and a drive in the Park
will revive us for dinner, which, whether he will or no, I intend
this gentleman to partake.”

The words were the lightest, but the tone which spoke
them betrayed the truth at once. It was Herbert Gresham
by his side. Herbert Gresham, whose earnest eyes were fixed
on hers, with an expression in their dark depths needing no
words to tell her that his early dream, even as her own, was
unchanged—that the first action of his now unshackled will
was to seek her, requiring no renewal of acquaintance, again
to love and trust her. And though the suddenness of the
meeting, the rapid transition from sorrowing sympathy to
individual joy, did so flush and pale her cheek, that her brother
looked at her with some alarm, there was neither hesitation
nor idle reserve. Her hand was extended at once, and the
pressure which clasped it was sufficient response. Whether
they continued so silent, when Herbert did spring into the
carriage, and took his seat by her side, indeed we know not.
Certain it is that, had it not been for Lord Valery, the footman
might have waited long enough for orders to drive
“home;” and equally certain that no day had ever seemed
so short to Lucy,—short in its fullness of <i>present</i> enjoyment;
in its <i>retrospect</i>, could it have been but one brief day?

“And that poor girl is really gone?” inquired Lord Valery,
just as Herbert Gresham was about taking his departure,
// 338.png
.bn 338.png
most reluctantly warned to do so by a neighbouring clock
striking midnight. “Another victim to that hateful system,
desecrating our lovely and most noble land!”

“Dear Edward, hush!” interposed Lucy, gently, as her
eye rested on her lover.

“Do not check him, dearest, though I prize that fond
thought for me. I know the whole tale—that the fête welcoming
my return, by misdirected zeal and thoughtless folly,
has added incalculably to the <i>general</i> burden, and to <i>individuals</i>
brought death and a life-long despair. The past, alas!
we cannot remedy—the future——” and his arm was fondly
thrown round Lucy, and his lip pressed her brow—“dearest,
let us hope next season there will be another Lady Gresham’s
fête fraught with happiness for all.”
// 339.png
.bn 339.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p319
<i>The Group of Sculpture.</i>
.sp 2
.h4
I.
.sp 1
.pm verse-start
“I have no hope in loving thee,
   I only ask to love;
 I brood upon my silent heart,
   As on its nest the dove;

“But little have I been beloved—
   Sad, silent, and alone;
 And yet I feel, in loving thee,
   The wide world is my own.

“Thine is the name I breathe to heaven—
   Thy face is on my sleep;
 I only ask that love like this
   May pray for thee and weep.”
          L. E. L.

“We know not love till those we love depart.”
          L. E. L.
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>Why</sc> will you sing that old-fashioned song, dear Annie,
when you have so many much better suited to your voice?”
expostulated Reginald de Vere, as he led the young songstress
from her harp to a more retired seat. “I do not like
your throwing away so much power and sweetness on a song
which, of all others, I hate the most.”
.pi
“Do not say so, Reginald. You are not usually fastidious,
or I would say, had that sweet melody Italian words instead
of English, you would acknowledge its beauty, and feel it
too.”

“Perhaps so, as it is not the melody, but the words I
quarrel with—‘Home, sweet home.’ What charm has home
ever had for me? Change the words, dear Annie, English
or Italian, I care not, only remove all association of home,
and I will learn to love it more.”

“Nay, Reginald; to banish such association would be to
banish its greatest charm. One day you, too, may feel its
truth.”

“Never, never!” he answered, passionately; “there is a
blighting curse around me, which it were worse than folly to
resist. I must toil on, lonely, and unblessed by one sweet
// 340.png
.bn 340.png
tie of home—seeking for no love, and receiving none—isolated
in a world! There are many others whose destiny is
the same. Bound by the iron chain of fate, he is but a
madman who would seek to break it.”

“Destiny—fate! I thought you had long ere this banished
their baneful influence,” said Annie, in a tone of mild reproach.

“From your ear, my gentle friend, because I saw you loved
not their expression; but not from my own heart. Yet you,
too, believe all things to be pre-ordained; that not a sparrow
falls to the ground unmarked. Then, why so start at me—is
not our creed the same?”

“It cannot be, Reginald. I am not wise enough to know
wherein the difference lies, I can only judge from effects;
and when they are so opposed, I fancy the cause must be so
also. I do believe that all things are ordained, but yet I am
no fatalist.”

“Will you try and explain the distinction, for your words
seem somewhat contradictory.”

“I fear they do,” she replied, simply; “and I am over
bold to speak on this weighty subject at all. Your creed
appears to me to consist in this: that before your birth, your
path was laid down—your destiny fixed; that you are, in
consequence, bound in chains, enclosed in walls, from which
no effort of your own will can enable you to escape; that
you must stand the bursting of the thunder-cloud—for you
have no force or energy to seek shelter, no free will to
choose—swayed by an irresistible impulse, and, consequently,
not a responsible being. Such seems to me the creed of a
fatalist.”

“And you are right. Now, then, for yours; less difficult,
I should imagine, to explain, than that in which you have no
interest.”

“I differ from you, Reginald. It is comparatively easy to
define the subject of a passing thought or an hour’s study;
but that which we feel, feel to our inmost soul, is not so
easily clothed in words. I believe that an eye of love is ever
watching over me—a guiding arm is ever round me; that
nothing can happen to me, unless willed for my good by my
Father in heaven; but I do <i>not</i> believe my lot in life marked
out before I saw the light. Such a creed at once changes
the law of love into a dark and iron-bound necessity, from
// 341.png
.bn 341.png
which my whole soul revolts. Where would be the comfort
of prayer in such a case—the blessedness of pouring forth
one’s whole soul in the hour of affliction? for how could
prayer avail us were our lot marked out?”

“And do you think prayer ever does? Do you believe
that you are answered?”

“I do, indeed, dear Reginald; not always as our own
will would dictate, but as a loving Father knows it best. I
was not answered as my heart implored when my only parent
was taken from me; but I was answered in the strength
that was granted me to feel that he was happy, and God’s
will kinder and better than my own. I am not here because
it is my destiny, but because it is better for me than the calm
and quiet life I have hitherto enjoyed.”

“Your creed is indeed that of a gentle, loving woman,
Annie,” said her companion, more playfully; but he smiled
not, for he knew how chillingly a smile will fall on young
enthusiasm. “But it is too visionary, too ethereal, for cold-hearted
man; perhaps not for some, but for me there are no
such dreams. My heart was once full of hope and faith, and
all things bright, and fond, and beautiful; but now crushed,
blighted, trampled on, how may it dream again? but this is
folly,” and with a strong effort he subdued emotion, and
spoke more calmly. “Let us talk of something else. You
alluded but now to your change of life, and I thought, sadly.
Are you not happy?”

“I shall be in time, Reginald,” answered Annie, on
whose fair sweet face a shade had flitted at her companion’s
bitter words. “All are kind to me. My mother was Lord
Ennerdale’s favourite niece, and he loves me for her
sake, and so pets me that I cannot but love him most
dearly.”

“And Lady Emily?”

“I shall learn to love as soon as she will let me. I fancy
she thinks me but a simple romantic girl and I have not
courage to undeceive her—that I can love and reverence
other things besides poetry; but it is the change of circumstances
that sometimes makes me sad. Clair Abbey is so
far removed from Luscombe Cottage, that time has not yet
reconciled me to the great change.”

“Time is slow in effecting changes in you, Annie; yet ere
we meet again, trust me, you will have learned to love Clair
// 342.png
.bn 342.png
Abbey, or changed it for another home as high in sounding,
and yet more dear.”

“Changed it ere we meet again? What can you mean,
Reginald?” said Annie, startled yet more by his tone than
by his words, but she was not answered; for Reginald turned
away directly he had spoken, his attention called by Lord
Ennerdale; and another quadrille being formed, her hand
was claimed, and she was led off almost unconsciously—so
strangely was she preoccupied—to join it.

There had been nothing in the quiet yet earnest conversation
of Reginald de Vere and Annie Grey to cause remark
amongst the light-hearted group who were that night
assembled in Lord Ennerdale’s hospitable halls. They had
been intimate from childhood, and as Annie was almost a
stranger to all present, and merely regarded as a simple
country girl hardly emerged from childhood, no one was surprised
that she should prefer Reginald’s society; though
there were some young men who, attracted by the timid yet
intelligent style of her beauty, half envied De Vere the privileges
of intimacy which he so evidently enjoyed. Annie’s
place seemed not amidst the followers of fashion; the long,
rich, chesnut hair owned no law but that of nature, and flowed
at will from her pale, high brow over a neck and shoulders,
whose exquisite form and whiteness were displayed to
advantage by the simple fashion of her plain black dress;
the eye so “darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,” the fair soft
cheek ever varying in colour, revealed every thought and
feeling that stirred within. The world’s lesson of concealment
and reserve she had not yet learned, for living in perfect
retirement with a kind and judicious father, of whom
she was the idol, her enthusiasm had been regulated, not
chilled, and every high and poetic sentiment raised up to
and purified in the only rest for such minds—the religion of
the Bible and of Nature. Her life had passed in a small
cottage on the banks of Windermere, diversified only by
occasional visits to an old relation in Scotland; where, in
fact, the first six months of her mourning had been passed.
And there, had it not been for one cogent reason, she would
have preferred remaining, as more congenial to her taste and
feelings, than the form and grandeur which she imagined
must surround the dwelling of an Earl.

Lord Ennerdale and his family had often sought to draw
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Sir Edward Grey from his seclusion, anxious to notice his
child; but fearing to disturb Annie’s tranquil happiness
by an introduction to a mode of life and pleasures which
her very limited fortune must prohibit her enjoying, he had
invariably declined these solicitations. Yet when Lord
Ennerdale, notwithstanding his age and infirmities, made a
rapid journey from London to Luscombe Cottage, purposely
to soothe his dying hours by the assurance that his Annie
was amply, even richly provided for, and therefore there
could be no objection to her making Clair Abbey her future
home, Sir Edward placed his weeping child in the arms of
her aged uncle, and died with a prayer for both upon his
lips.

But much as Annie loved and venerated her father, it was
scarcely so much his last wish as the restlessness of her own
heart, which, even while she preferred the simple mode of
living at Kelmuir, yet reconciled her to a residence at Clair
Abbey. She was restless because her quondam playmate
and chosen friend, Reginald de Vere, was far away in his
own most wretched home, with none to sing or smile him
into peace, or cautiously and gently argue away his fits of
morbid sensitiveness or overwhelming gloom. That Lord
Ennerdale not only sympathised in the young man’s causes
of depression, but loved his better qualities, admired his
talents, and regretted his failings, was sufficient to excite the
warm affections of his great-niece towards him. No spell is
so powerful in opening the heart as sympathy, with regard to
the character of those we love.

Clair Abbey’s great attraction, then, to Annie Grey was,
that there she should constantly see Reginald; his concluding
words, therefore, had both startled and pained her; but she
vainly waited for their solution. She looked earnestly for
Reginald to return to her; but he was constantly engaged in
apparently earnest conversation with one or other of Lord
Ennerdale’s guests. She was too guileless to believe he
shunned her merely because he failed in courage to tell her
more.

The evening closed at length; and passing along the
corridor leading from the library to the stairs, a well-known
step suddenly sounded behind her, and the voice of Reginald
de Vere called her by name.

“I thought you intended to retire without even wishing
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me good night,” she said, playfully, her spirit rallying
with his appearance. “What do you mean, sir, by such
treatment? Be better behaved to-morrow, and I will be
merciful, and forgive.”

“You must forgive me to-night, dearest Annie; for to-morrow
will see me many miles on my road to Portsmouth,
thence speedily to embark for Spain.”

“Portsmouth—Spain!” repeated the bewildered girl; and
her hand so trembled, that the lamp she held dropped from
it, and was instantly extinguished.

“Yes, Annie, to Spain!” he answered, struggling for calmness.
“I am of age now; poor, but not so utterly dependent
as I have been. My father’s house I will never enter more.
You start, Annie, but do not—do not condemn me. Judge
me by no reasoning but that of your own kind gentle heart.
I can bear no more than that which I have borne. Boyhood
must submit to a parent’s tyranny; but manhood owns no such
law. You know how I would have loved my father, and how
he has spurned me. Still I lingered, vainly striving to elicit
one softer feeling, hoping—idiot that I was—that he would
yet love me. But the dream is over! He drew the reins
still tighter, and so snapped them; there is a measure to
endurance even in a son. Do not weep thus, Annie,” he
continued, conquering his own emotion to soothe hers, and
passing his arm round her, as he had so often done in earlier
years, when as a brother he had soothed her griefs and
shared her joys. “I will not burden you with the final cause
of my present resolution. I have neither means nor influence
to tread the path to which my inmost soul aspires; and to
toil for lingering years behind a merchant’s desk or tradesman’s
counter my spirit will not bear. I have obtained a
commission amongst the brave fellows now about to join
General Mina in his gallant defence of the young queen; and
with him these restless yearnings may be stilled in the activity
of martial service, or the quiet of the grave. And who
will mourn for me?” he continued, rapidly and bitterly;
“who, in the wide world, will think of me, or shed one tear
for me, save thine own sweet self? Oh, Annie, speak to me!
Tell me you will think of me sometimes. I know there will
be many, very many, to supply my place to you; but, oh,
who will ever be to me as you have been?”

“And yet you have decided on this plan, endured more
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.bn 345.png
than ever, and told me not a word. Reginald, was this
kind?” she said, struggling with the tears that nearly suffocated
her.

“You were in grief already, Annie; how might I ask
your sympathy in mine? I know it never was refused me.
I know it would not be, even in your own sorrow; but oh,
Annie, I felt if I waited to look on you again, I should fail
in courage to leave England. Yet why should I linger?
Changed as your prospects are, loved as you will be by those
so much more deserving, what could I be to you?”

“Reginald!” murmured poor Annie, wholly unconscious
of the nature of her own feelings, yet unable to utter another
word.

“I know you will not forget me, Annie, dearest Annie,
your nature is too good, too kind, too truthful for such
change; but, fated as I am, how dare I ask for, hope for
more than a sister’s love? Say you will sometimes think of
me, love me as—as a brother, Annie, darling! and life will not
be so wholly desolate.”

Her reply was almost inarticulate, and passionate words
rose to Reginald’s lips, but they were not spoken. He led
her to the door of her apartment without another word,
wrung both her hands in his, bade “God bless her!” and
was gone. Annie stood for a few minutes as if stunned;
mechanically she loosed the wreath of white rosebuds from
her hair, the fastening of her dress, which seemed to stifle
her very breath, and then she sunk on her knees beside the
bed, and the hot tears gushed forth; and long, long
she wept, as that young guileless girl had never wept
before.

Reginald de Vere was the youngest son of a private gentleman
of moderate fortune, residing in a populous city in
the north of Yorkshire. It is not necessary to dilate on feelings
which Reginald’s own words but too painfully portrayed;
the “iron rule” of tyranny is best described in the
effect which it produces. The Calvinistic principles of the
elder De Vere found no softening of their natural austerity in
the acidity and moroseness of his temper; the evil had been
increased by his union with a young Spaniard—lively, frivolous,
and a Roman Catholic. How this marriage had ever
come about, nobody succeeded in discovering. Strange
unions there are, but seldom between such antipodes in
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.bn 346.png
character and feeling as were Mr. and Mrs. De Vere. Their
large family grew up amidst all the evils of domestic dissension,
and its subsequent misery—a father’s unjustifiable
tyranny, and a mother’s as blamable weakness. Basil de
Vere sought to instil his peculiarly stern doctrines in the
minds of his children; his wife prayed, in their hearing,
that they might be saved from such cold, comfortless belief;
they shrunk from the one, and learned no religion from the
other. To shield them from the father’s tyranny, the mother
taught them deceit, lavished on them weak indulgences,
which were to be forfeited if ever revealed. Ever witnessing
and suffering the effects of dissension, what affection, what
harmony could exist between themselves? The ill effects of
this training were more discernible in some of their matured
characters than in others; some pursued an honest course, as
soon as their departure from their father’s house permitted
the influence of their better qualities, but these were mostly
dwelling in foreign lands; some had married with, some
without his consent; and in his old age Basil de Vere found
himself master of a deserted hearth, with none of his once
blooming family beside him but one, and that one was
Reginald. The weak indulgence of his mother had never
softened for Reginald the tyranny of his father. She died in
giving him birth, and he had to battle through his unhappy
childhood alone. Shrinking almost in agony from his father’s
voice, yearning, with all the clinging confidence of childhood,
for love, but finding none, he turned in loathing from
the continued scenes of discord which characterised his
home. He spurned with contemptuous indignation offers of
indulgence and concealment, to act as he saw others do, and
thus constantly drew upon himself the enmity of his
more wily brothers and sisters. He shrunk, in consequence,
more and more within himself, striving to keep peace with
his father, but in vain; for De Vere often raged at his
children without knowing wherefore, and the calm, dignified
bearing of his youngest son would chafe him into greater
fury than palpable offence. But there were seeds of virtue,
aye, of the “nobility of genius,” in the disposition of Reginald,
that bloomed and flourished despite the unhealthy soil and
blighting atmosphere in which he moved; perhaps the kindly
notice of Sir Edward Grey assisted their development. The
pale, silent, suffering boy had appealed irresistibly to his
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.bn 347.png
kind heart, and for Reginald’s sake he condescended to make
acquaintance with his father.

As long as they remained in Yorkshire, Sir Edward permitted
Reginald to share much of the instruction which he
himself bestowed upon his Annie; a kindness so delicately
and feelingly bestowed, that Reginald by slow degrees permitted
his whole character to display itself to Sir Edward,
and allowed himself to feel that, with so kind a friend and
so sweet a companion, he was not utterly alone. Even when
Sir Edward removed to Windermere their intercourse continued;
for there was ever a room prepared and a warm
welcome for Reginald, who turned to that cottage as a very
Eden of peace and love.

As Reginald increased in years, felt more fully his own
powers, and through Sir Edward’s friendly introductions
associated with other families, his morbid feelings did not,
as the baronet had fondly hoped, decrease, but rather
strengthened, in the supposition that his fate alone was
desolate. He saw happy homes and kindly hearts; no
exertion, no effort, no sacrifice could make such his, and
he believed an iron chain of fate was round him, dooming
him to misery. The kindness of Sir Edward, of Lord
Ennerdale, and others, only deepened the vain, wild yearnings
for home affections—the peace, the confidence of home.
A peculiarly fine organization of mind and an acute perception
of character caused him to shrink with pain from
general notice. The talented and gifted he admired at a
distance, feeling intuitively that such would be his chosen
friends; yet, from a sense of inferiority, refusing to come
forward and permit his fine talents to be known; at the same
time shrinking from the common herd, convinced that
amongst them he should meet with neither sympathy nor
appreciation. A happy home would have been all in all for
Reginald; there the incipient stirrings of genius would have
been fostered into bloom, and the morbid feelings too often
their accompaniment regulated into peace.

The death of Sir Edward Grey and the future destination
of his daughter were, however, the final cause of his determination
to leave England. He knew it not himself; and if
a light did flash upon the darkness, it only deepened the
gloom around him, by the conviction that his doom was ever
to love alone. More and more earnestly he sought to soften
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.bn 348.png
his father’s temper, even to conquer his own repugnance to
the path of life his parent might assign him; but in vain.
To enumerate all the petty miseries this struggle cost him
would be impossible. The mind rises purified and spiritualized
from great sorrows; but there is no relief from the
trial of an unhappy home, no cure for the <i>wounds of words</i>.
If domestic love and peace be ours, we can go forth with a
firm heart and serene mind to meet the trials of the world;
alas! alas! for those who have no such haven, no such
stay!

Never did Reginald De Vere make a greater mistake
than in the supposition that a military life would bring him
the happiness for which his parched soul so thirsted. He
could not associate the favourite pastime of his childhood,
carving in wood, stone, or whatever material came first to
hand, with the feverish yearning for exertion and excitement,
which possessed his whole being. He could not feel that
the one sprang from the other, or rather that the power which
urged the former was secretly working in his mind, and
causing an utter distaste for all mechanical employment.
He was too unhappy to examine the source of his restlessness,
and knew no one who could explain it for him.

Lord Ennerdale and his sons were all men of worth and
talent, and firm encouragers of art and literature; but not
themselves children of genius, they failed in the subtle penetration
which could discover its embryo existence. Had Sir
Edward lived he would have seen further; but still all his
friends had dissuaded Reginald from entering on a military
career, but he was firm; and in less than a week after his
agitated parting with Annie, a fair wind was rapidly bearing
him to the shores of Spain.

Days and weeks passed, and Annie Grey sought with persevering
effort to regain her former calm and happy temperament;
and she succeeded so far as to conceal from her
relatives the secret of her heart. The agony of that parting
moment had transformed her, as by some incomprehensible
spell, from the child to the woman; and so sudden had been
the transition, that she felt for days a stranger to herself.
Reginald had always been dear to her, but she knew not, imagined
not how dear, until that never-to-be-forgotten evening;
his words returned to her again and again, and sad, desponding
as they were, she would not have lost one of them. She
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.bn 349.png
who had been so constantly active, flitting like a spirit from
one favourite employment to another, now seemed to live
but on one feeling; but her mind was too well regulated to
permit its unrestrained indulgence. Young as she was,
dependent on herself alone for guidance in this new and
absorbing state of being, thrown in quite a new position for
luxury and wealth, as a cherished member of her uncle’s
family, yet her character, instead of deteriorating, matured,
uniting all the outward playfulness of the child with the
inward graces of the woman.

Lord Ennerdale’s domestic circle formed a happy contrast
to that of the ascetic Basil De Vere. His children were all
married except his eldest son, Lord St. Clair, and eldest
daughter, Lady Emily; but the ties of family had never been
broken, and happy youth and blooming childhood were
almost always round the earl. With all these Annie was
speedily a favourite; and easily susceptible of kindness and
affection, Clair Abbey soon became endeared to her as
home.

By a strange contradiction, Annie’s interest and affection
were, however, excited the strongest towards the only member
of Lord Ennerdale’s family who retained reserve towards her.
What there was in Lady Emily St. Clair to attract a young
and lively girl, Annie herself might have found it difficult to
define; for not only her appearance, but her manners were
against her. Stiff, cold, even severe, she usually appeared;
and when she would at times relax, and seem about to enter
with warmth and kindness into Annie’s studies or pursuits,
she would suddenly relapse into coldness and reserve. Sometimes,
when eagerly conversing with Lord St. Clair, on the
exquisite beauty of nature, or of some favourite poem, when
the spirit of poetry breathed alike from her eyes and from
her lips, Annie would catch the eye of Lady Emily fixed
upon her sadly and pityingly; or if she smiled, the smile
was peculiar, it might be even satirical; yet she was never
satirical in words, nor did it seem in character—too feelingly
alive to the dictates of kindness ever willingly to inflict a
wound. To discover her real character was difficult; Annie
judged more by her habits than her words. Lady Emily
never said that her love of flowers amounted to a passion,
that to have them around her in their freshness, to seek them
alike from the garden and the wild, to collect, dry, and
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.bn 350.png
arrange them in such tasteful groups and such brilliancy of
colouring, that the choicest paintings looked dim beside
them, was her favourite pleasure, but Annie was ever ready
with some newly discovered plant, or the moss and weed she
needed—ever the first to remove the dying buds, and supply
their place around her boudoir with the freshest and fairest
she could select. Lady Emily never spoke of poetry, never
acknowledged that she could either admire or enter into it;
but there were extracts in her writing, attached sometimes to
drawings, sometimes to her books of flowers, that betrayed
such a refinement of taste, and acute perception of the pure,
the beautiful, and the spiritual, in nature and in man, that
Annie suspected she was herself a poet; but yet how could
she reconcile the unimpassioned coldness of her usual mood
with the light and life of poetry? Yet though fairly puzzled,
Annie so judiciously assisted her researches, that Lady Emily
often wondered how a mark could come so exactly in the
place she wished, when the thought, for whose echo she
looked, had been breathed to none; but even had these
attentions escaped her notice, it must indeed have been an
icy heart to withstand the sweetness of Annie’s manner;
whenever her cousin’s mood was irritable, her temper somewhat
ruffled, there seemed a magic around Annie not only
to bear with irritation, but to reconcile the subject of that
irritation to herself and all around her; and when so languid
and weak as really to be ill, though she would never allow it,
who so active as Annie to prevent all annoyance to the invalid,
or interfere with the only pursuits she could enjoy? Yet no
show of affection acknowledged these attentions; but by
very slow degrees the Miss Grey changed into Anne, and
finally into the pretty denomination by which she was always
addressed; and the smile and tone with which she spoke
to her, satisfied the orphan that she had not worked in
vain.

Even if Annie’s conduct had failed to rivet the notice of
Lady Emily, it had gained for her the interest and sincere
affection of another. Lord St. Clair was devotedly attached
to his sister, and all who had the good sense to appreciate
her were sure to obtain his esteem; then in the prime of
life, he foresaw no danger in his intimate association with and
admiration of his young cousin, a girl but just seventeen;
and it was a pleasure to him to draw her out, and repay by
// 351.png
.bn 351.png
every kindness on his part her attention to his sister. A disappointment
when very young had caused him to remain
single. “I do not say I shall never marry,” he often said, in
answer to his father’s solicitations on the subject; “for then
I should consider myself bound not to do so, however my
heart might dictate; but it is unlikely.”

Annie Grey had not, however, been domiciled many months
in Clair Abbey, before Lord St. Clair’s sentiments on this
subject underwent some change.

From the time of Reginald’s departure the public journals
became suddenly endowed with an interest to Annie, equal
to that of the most ardent politician. The disturbed state of
Spain, the constant marchings and counter-marchings of
General Mina’s army, prevented any regular communication
from Reginald; once or twice she had heard from him direct,
and treasured indeed were those letters, honourably as the
young man kept to his resolution, never by one word to draw
Annie into an engagement, or even an avowal that she returned
his love. In the papers she often read his name
among the bravest and most daring of the British soldiers.
One anecdote, officially reported and communicated to Lord
Ennerdale, afforded her still dearer food for fancy. The
service in which he was engaged was exposed to all the
horrors of civil warfare; slaughter and desolation followed
in the train of both armies. Young De Vere, at the head of
a picked band, had thrown himself in the very midst of a
<i>mêlée</i>, determined on saving the unoffending women and
children, and aged peasants of the opposing party, all of
whom were about to be sacrificed to the misguided rage of
the royal troops; the village was in flames, and the peasants,
neutral before, swore to be avenged. The exertions of the
young Englishman, however, worked on both parties; he
calmed the excited spirits of his own men, and promised protection
and safety to the oppressed. One group particularly
attracted him; a young mother, clasping an infant tightly to
her breast, and two fine boys, twining their arms round her,
as to protect her with their own lives. Reginald did not
know that it was her infant he had saved from a brutal death,
but his look was arrested by the intense feeling glistening in
her large dark eyes, and by the impotent passion of her eldest
boy, who, clenching a huge stick, vowed he would join his
father, who was a Carlist soldier, and revenge the insults
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offered to his mother. De Vere jestingly laid his hand on
the stripling’s shoulder, declaring he was a young rebel and
his prisoner. The agonized scream of the poor mother
changing on the instant into the wildest accents of gratitude,
as she recognised in Reginald her baby’s preserver, and to
the earnest supplication that he would send them on in safety,
removed all feelings of mere jest. Reginald soothed her
fears, and selecting a guard of his own countrymen, on whom
he could depend, sent her and her children under their care
to the outposts of the Carlist camp. General Mina smiled
sadly when this anecdote was told him. “The age of chivalry
is over, my young friend,” he said, mournfully. “Your act
was kind and generous, but I fear of little service. The
Carlists are not likely to check their career of devastating
warfare because we have spared one insignificant village;
nor will you have any demand upon their favour should you
unfortunately fall into their hands.”

“Chivalry and its romance may be over,” thought Annie,
as again and again her mind reverted to its one fond theme.
“But my father once told me ‘a deed can never die;’ and,
even if indeed it were to do no good, surely his motives will
meet with the appreciation and admiration they deserve;
there must be some among the good and noble to do him
justice.”

How the young heart revels in every proof, however
trifling, on the worth of him it loves. The restlessness of a
scarcely acknowledged passion merged into a species of
glowing happiness, the basis of which Annie might have
found it difficult to define. In its indulgence she forgot the
distance between them, the darkening aspect of his future,
the despondency breathing in his last farewell—forgot all
but the passionate words, “Who will be to me as you have
been?” And what will so elevate the character and purify
the heart, and shed such sweet rosy flowers over every
thought, and act, and feeling, as the first fresh feelings of
all-hoping, all-believing love? Annie’s beauty, matured
beneath the magic of such dreams, excited universal admiration;
but the young girl knew it not.

“No breakfast for loiterers!” exclaimed Lord St. Clair,
playfully holding up his hand, as Annie sprang through an
open French window into the breakfast-room one lovely
summer morning, her cottage bonnet thrown back, her
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luxuriant hair somewhat disordered, her cheek and eye
bright with health and animation, and laughing gaily at
Lord St. Clair’s threat.

“Here has Emily been looking starch and prim for the
last half-hour, thinking unutterable things of the folly and
romance which can be the only reason of young ladies’ early
wanderings in the lonely districts about Keswick Lake.
Ah, you little fox, prepared with a bribe to ward off the
weight of her displeasure,” he said, as Annie laid the fruit
of her researches, a rare and exquisite plant, on the table by
her cousin, and Lady Emily half smiled.

“And there’s my father in a complete fever fearing that his
blooming little niece had been carried off, or eaten up by one
of the wild men or monsters of the mountains, and threatening
to search for her himself, directly after breakfast.”

“Thank you, my dear, kind uncle,” replied Annie, gaily,
bending over Lord Ennerdale to kiss his forehead. “Never
be anxious about me. I have suffered no further inconvenience
than extreme hunger, which I satisfied at Nanny’s
cottage, by a slice of her brown bread and a cup of warm
milk. No romance in that, Lord St. Clair, at least.”

“A fortunate occurrence for you, as it may save you from
a lecture on the impropriety of indulging love-lorn dreams in
solitude. Why, Annie, you are actually blushing; if it
were not an utter impossibility for romantic young ladies to
feel hungry, I should say your very looks pleaded guilty.
Look at her, Emily—you had better begin.”

“No, I thank you, Henry; I never give lectures, even
when deserved, in public,” was his sister’s quiet reply.

“Well, the offence brings with it its own punishment, for
here come the contents of the postman’s bag, and so a truce
to our sage converse; and you, Miss Annie, must eat your
breakfast in meditative silence.”

“Or in perusing what she likes better. Here, my little
politician; your eyes are pleading, though your lips are silent,”
said Lord Ennerdale, gaily throwing to her a packet of newspapers
without opening them.

“You are much too young to be a politician; besides, I
hate women to dabble in politics, so give me a better reason
for being the first reader of all the papers, or you shall not
have them,” interposed Lord St. Clair, keeping firm hold of
the packet, which he had caught.
// 354.png
.bn 354.png

“On my honour, I never read a word of politics,” replied
Annie, half playfully, half eagerly, but blushing deeply as
she met Lord St. Clair’s penetrative glance. He relinquished
them with a half sigh, and bent over his despatches. Silence
ensued for several minutes, each seemingly engrossed with
his occupation. Lady Emily was the first to move, and after
carefully sorting and arranging the flowers Annie had brought
her, was about to leave the room.

“Annie, my dear child! what is the matter?” she exclaimed,
in a tone which electrified her father and brother, so
utterly was it unlike her usually measured accents; and
startled out of all stiffness and dignity, she was at the poor
girl’s side in an instant. Annie’s cheek, lips, and brow were
cold and colourless as marble, and there was such rigid agony
imprinted on every feature, that Lady Emily well-nigh shuddered
as she gazed. “Speak to me, Annie, love! What is
it? Try and speak, dearest; do not look at me with such a
gaze,” she continued, as Annie slowly raised her eyes, which
were bloodshot and distended, and fixed them on her face;
she evidently tried to speak, but only a gasping cry escaped,
and that terrible agony was lost for a time in an unconsciousness
so deep that it almost seemed of death.

Lord St. Clair stood paralysed, but then he snatched up
the fatal paper, and one glance sufficed to tell him all, all
that he had suspected, all that for his own happiness he had
feared; but he could only think of Annie then, and perceiving
how ineffectual were all the usual efforts to restore animation,
he threw himself on horseback, and never rested till he
had found and dragged back with him the medical attendant
of the family, whose skill was finally successful. Annie woke
from that blessed relief of insensibility to a consciousness of
such fearful suffering, that as she lay in the perfect stillness
enjoined by the physician, she felt as if her brain must reel,
and fail beneath it. It was not alone the death of him she
loved, that the idol of her young affections was lost to her
for ever, but it was the horrid nature of his fate which had
so appalled her. In the gallant defence of a royal fort he had
been left almost alone, all his companions falling around
him; severely wounded, and overpowered by numbers, he
was taken by the Carlists, dragged to their camp, and twenty-four
hours afterwards shot, with other ill-fated men, literally
murdered in cold blood. Three times Annie’s eyes had glared
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.bn 355.png
on the paragraph, reading again and again the list of the unfortunate
men who had thus perished, as if Reginald’s name
could not be amongst them; alas! it was there, pre-eminent,
from the courage, the youth, and the official rank of
the bearer. And in that dreadful stillness the whole scene
rose before her, vivid as reality—ghastly figures flitted before
her; and then she saw Reginald as they parted; and then
full of life and excitement in the field; and then covered with
blood and wounds. She seemed to see him bound and kneeling
for the fatal stroke, and the shot rung in her ears, clear,
sharp, and strangely loud, till she could have shrieked from
the bewildering agony: she tried to banish the vision, to
escape its influence, but it gained strength, and force, and
colouring, and before midnight Lady Emily watched in
grief and awe beside the couch where her young cousin lay,
and raved in the fearful delirium of a brain fever.

Many weeks elapsed ere Annie could again take her place
amongst her family; alternate fever and exhaustion had so
prostrated her that her life was more than once despaired of.
Had she been aware who it was so constantly and gently
tended her, teaching her voice to forget its coldness, her
manners its reserve, to soothe and comfort those hours of agony,
she would have felt that some simple “deeds indeed could
never die;” and that to her own sweetness of temper, and
forbearing and active kindness, she owed the blessings of a
sympathy and tenderness almost equalling a mother’s. But
it was long before she was conscious of anything, or even
capable of rousing herself from the lethargic stupor which
still lingered even when sense and strength returned. That
she sought earnestly to appear the same as usual—to evince
how gratefully she felt the kindness lavished on her—to
return to her employments, was very evident; but
it seemed as if bodily weakness prevented all mental
exertion. She shrunk in anguish from the thought that
she had betrayed her love, though by neither word nor hint
did her companions ever allude to the immediate occasion
of her illness.

“Would she but shed tears—but speak her grief,” exclaimed
Lord St. Clair to his sister, one day, after vainly endeavouring
to excite a smile, “she would suffer less then;
but she has never wept since; and before, the most trifling
emotion, even of pleasure, would draw tears. Could you but
// 356.png
.bn 356.png
draw forth her confidence—but make her weep. Is there no
possible way?”

“I fear none: she shrinks from the slightest approach to
the subject. I feel as if I dared not speak poor Reginald’s
name.”

Chance, however, did that for which even Lady Emily’s
courage failed. Annie was reclining, one morning, in a
favourite boudoir, her eyes languidly wandering over the beautiful
landscape, which stretched from the window. When
last she had noticed it, the trees were bending beneath the
weight of their glorious summer dress, and the gayest and
brightest flowers were flinging their lavish beauties on the
banks of the small but picturesque lake. The scene was
still lovely, but it had changed; the trees which still retained
foliage were all in the “sere and yellow leaf,” the ground
was strewed with fallen leaves, the flowers were all gone, and
Nature herself seemed emblematical of the change in Annie’s
heart. Lady Emily watched her some time in silence, and
then gently drew her attention to some beautiful groups of
flowers which she had lately arranged. Annie turned from
the window with a heavy sigh, and bent over the flowers;
while Lady Emily continued her employments without further
notice. She forgot that amongst those groups there was the
plant, to find which Annie had rambled over hill and dale
that fatal morning. From its extreme rarity and beauty she
had placed it alone upon the page; and as Annie gazed upon
it, a rush of feeling of the bright, sweet memories which had
thronged her mind during that solitary ramble came back
upon her—the dreams of hope, and joy, and love—with the
force, the intensity of actual presence; as if they might still
be realized, and the intervening time had been but a dark and
troubled blank. She pushed the flower from her, and her
head sunk on her clasped hands.

“My poor child, I forgot that flower was amongst them!”
exclaimed Lady Emily, in a tone at once of such self-reproach
and earnest sympathy, that Annie, with an uncontrollable impulse,
suddenly sprung up, and folding her arms round her
neck, burst into a passion of tears. All her cousin’s previous
kindness she had attributed to pity for bodily suffering. That
she could sympathise in her mental affliction, she had fancied—as
the young are too prone to do of the colder and more experienced—was
impossible; but the tone, the allusion to that
// 357.png
.bn 357.png
little flower, betrayed that she, too, could believe in and understand
the association of the material with the immaterial
world; and Annie now wept upon her bosom, in the consoling
consciousness that, cold as that heart seemed, it could
yet feel and weep for her.

Lady Emily trembled; for the deep emotion she beheld
recalled passages of equal suffering in her own life, which
she had thought buried and at rest for ever. She trembled,
lest in this appeal to her inmost soul her long striven-for
calmness should fail, and her weakness should increase rather
than soothe Annie’s anguish. Her hand shook, and her lip
so quivered, that it was some minutes ere she could speak.
We need not linger on the words which followed. The ice,
which had seemed to close round Annie’s heart, dissolved—Reginald’s
name was spoken—the fond secret of her life revealed;
and from that day she found more strength to
struggle with depression—to leave no effort untried to regain
serenity, and conquer that worse foe to happiness, indifference,
which the human heart contains. Once convinced, by the
representations of affection and experience, that it was her
duty <i>actively to do</i>, as well as passively to endure—to prove
her resignation to the blow, which, though heavy, was still
dealt by a Father’s hand, she did not fail. A yet more earnest
desire to seek the happiness of others, and complete disregard
of self—a calm and still serenity of word and look, were now
her outward characteristics; while, within, though her spirit
had gained new strength in its upward flight—new clinging
love for that world where all is peace, the thought of the departed
yet remained, gaining, it seemed, increase of power
with every passing month. It had lost its absorbing anguish;
but not its memories. Too truly did she feel, with that sweet
chronicler of woman’s heart—

.pm verse-start
“We dream not of Love’s might,
Till Death has robed, with soft and solemn light,
The image we enshrine. Before <i>that</i> hour
We have but glimpses of the overmastering power
Within us laid.”
.pm verse-end

There were times when the thought would come, and so
vividly, she could scarcely believe it only a thought, that
Reginald might yet live, the public records be deceivers.
But Lady Emily’s assurances that her father and brothers
had made every inquiry, but that all the information obtained
// 358.png
.bn 358.png
only confirmed the first statement, proved the utter fallacy of
the dream.
.sp 2
.h4
II.
.sp 2
.pm verse-start
“Ah! let the heart that worships thee
By ev’ry change be proved.”
                               L. E. L.
.pm verse-end
.sp 1
.pm verse-start
“I could forgive the miserable hours
His falsehood, and his only, taught my heart;
But I can not forgive that for his sake
My faith in good is shaken, and my hopes
Are pale and cold, for they have looked on death.
Why should I love him? he no longer is
That which I loved.”
                               L. E. L.
.pm verse-end
.sp 1
.pm verse-start
    “Thou livest! thou livest!
I knew thou couldst not die!”
          <lang='fr'><i>De Chatillon</i></lang>—<sc>Mrs. Hemans</sc>.
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
Nearly two years had elapsed since the death of Reginald
De Vere ere any event of sufficient importance occurred in
Annie’s life for us to resume the thread of our narrative. A
shock like that, and on such a disposition, could never be forgotten,
though time, the softener of all ills, had restored her to
some degree of her wonted animation, and though the elastic
spirits of the young girl had given way, the woman had become
yet more attractive and lovable. The first London
season after Reginald’s death she had not accompanied her
uncle’s family to the great metropolis, but spent the period of
their absence quietly in Scotland. The second, she did not
refuse to join them; but scenes of festivity were so evidently
distasteful, that her friends did not urge her entering more
into society than her own inclinations prompted. But in her
uncle’s house she was seen and known only to be admired
and loved, receiving, to her extreme astonishment, an
unexceptionable offer of marriage before she had been two
months in London. It was declined gratefully, but so
decidedly as to give no hope. Some weeks afterwards, Lord
St. Clair one morning entered Annie’s room. She was alone,
so intently engaged in drawing as not to observe the very
peculiar expression of countenance with which he regarded
her some minutes without speaking.
// 359.png
.bn 359.png

“I would give something to read your thoughts, cousin
mine,” she said, playfully, at length raising her eyes to his
face, which instantly resumed its usual kind and open expression.
“I could hardly believe you were in the room, you
were so silent.”

“I was thinking how very wise the world is, Annie. It
knows and vouches for so many things concerning individuals,
of which they are utterly ignorant themselves.”

“Why, what is the report now?”

“Only—” he paused for a second, then rallied so quickly,
that the huskiness of his first words was unperceived, “that
you and I are engaged in marriage, and that I only wait till
you are of age, that the disparity of years may seem
less.”

“The world must think much too highly of me for such a
report to gain credence,” replied Annie, simply, yet gravely,
though she did start at the intelligence.

“What can you mean?”

“That they must hold me in much greater respect than
I deserve to unite my name, even in thought, with yours.”

“My dear Annie, can you mean that you are undeserving
of the regard of any man, however high his worth? How
little do you know yourself! Believe me, it is I who should
feel proud that the world should believe this so strongly that
not even the disparity of years between us is considered an
objection.”

“Do not talk so, dear Henry, or I shall fear I am losing
one of the truest friends I have. You have always treated
me with such regard as never to flatter me; pray do not
begin now.”

“Indeed you do me injustice, Annie; might I not return
the charge, and accuse you of flattering me?”

“No, dear cousin. How can I do otherwise than look up
to, and venerate your worth, associating with you at home, as
I have done for nearly three years, and receiving such constant
kindness, that had I been your own young sister you
could not have shown more? Do I not see you as a son and
brother? and if I did not venerate you, should I not be
the only one, either at home or in the world, who did not do
you the justice you deserve?”

“And may I not equally have learnt to know and love
you?”
// 360.png
.bn 360.png

“Yes, as a child, a sister, but not as the wife you need.”

“Is the disparity of years, then, in your mind so great an
obstacle? Do you think it quite impossible a man of eight-and-thirty
can love a girl of twenty?”

“No, not impossible.”

“But impossible that a girl of twenty could love a man of
eight-and-thirty; is that it?”

“Far less unlikely than the other case,” replied Annie,
half smiling, for her complete unconsciousness caused her to
be amused at her companion’s pertinacity.

“Then why should the world’s report be so utterly without
foundation, dearest Annie?” inquired Lord St. Clair,
with such a sudden change of countenance and tone that it
startled her almost into consciousness. The arch and playful
look vanished, her cheek paled, and the tears started to her
eyes, and laying her hand confidingly on his arm, she said,
with quivering lip—

“Dearest Henry, do not let me lose the kind brother, the
true friend I have so long believed you.”

“You shall not, Annie,” he answered fervently, “even if
to retain such appellatives makes me more miserable than
you imagine.”

“Do not, do not say so! my thoughts are all memories,
and were the world’s report indeed true, would be faithless
every hour; could this make your happiness?”

“But must this always be? Is devotion to the departed
a higher duty than giving happiness to the living? So purely
unselfish as you are, would you not in time better secure
your own peace by giving inexpressible happiness as the
beloved and cherished wife of the living, who would never
expect you to love as you have loved, than by indulging in
the luxury of memory and devotedness to one who is in
heaven? Is not this a question worth considering, Annie?”

“Not now, not now! oh, do not urge me now!” she implored,
bursting into tears; and her companion on the instant
banished every word and thought of self to soothe and
calm her.

A month or two afterwards Lord St. Clair, to the astonishment
of his friends, by whom he was regarded as a particularly
quiet stay-at-home sort of person, accepted a diplomatic embassy
to the courts of Germany and Russia, likely to detain
him twelve or eighteen months. He had besought and received
// 361.png
.bn 361.png
Annie’s permission to correspond with her. Letters
from a mind and heart like his could not be otherwise than
interesting. His words returned repeatedly to her thoughts;
she loved him sufficiently to feel a degree of pleasure in the
idea of adding to his happiness, and six months after he had
left England, her answer to a letter from him, in which generalities
had merged into personalities, contained the following
words:—

“If, dearest Henry, the gratitude and reverence of one
whose best affections still linger with the dead are indeed of
sufficient worth to give you the happiness which you tell me
rests with me, I will not refuse to become yours, if a
twelvemonth hence you still desire it. Give me that time.
The painful feelings with which I now look to marriage, as
almost faithlessness to one who, though the actual words
never passed his lips, I do believe loved me most truly, will
then perhaps, in some degree at least, have subsided, and I
may be able to give you all that your wife should bestow. I
know and feel that time is the comforter as well as the destroyer,
and that though it is actual agony to think that my
heart will ever so change as to feel less acutely the loss I have
sustained, I know it will and must, and that it is right and best
it should do so. Give me but time then, dearest Henry—let
the memories of the dead be so softened that I may do
my duty lovingly as well as faithfully to the living; and till
that may be, let us continue as we have been to the world
and to each other.”

Lord St. Clair did not hesitate to accede to this request.
Even his letters did not change their tone; he was still the
friend more than the lover; but he contrived to shorten the
period of his voluntary banishment, and eleven months after
he had quitted England beheld his return.

There was a change in Annie, however, which alarmed and
pained him; she was pale and thin, and strangely and feverishly
restless. Lady Emily, from being constantly with her,
had not remarked the great alteration, but acknowledged, in
answer to St. Clair’s anxious queries, that she had seemed
more unhappy the last four months, that the calm and
tranquil cheerfulness which had characterised her had given
place to alternations of fitful gaiety and more frequent depression;
but what had occasioned it she could not tell;
she thought it might be physical, as she had had a slight
// 362.png
.bn 362.png
cough hanging about her for weeks, which nothing she took
seemed to remove. Four months previous! was it possible
that she might regret the promises she had so ingenuously
given? Lord St. Clair more than once caught her glance
fixed with a degree of pleading earnestness upon him, as if
she failed in courage to speak; and as he was not one to encourage
painful doubts where a word might solve them, he
took an opportunity of kindly and affectionately inquiring
why she was so changed.

The cause was soon revealed. About ten days after she
had written to him, as we related, she had seen, amongst
other despatches directed to Lord St. Clair, which were lying
on the library table waiting to be arranged and forwarded, a
single letter, the writing of the direction of which had caused
such a sudden thrill and subsequent faintness, that it had
been with difficulty she refrained from involuntarily tearing
it open, to know from whom it came. She said that she had
endeavoured to conquer the strange fancy; to reason with herself,
that the resemblance to a writing she but too well remembered
was mere accident. Yet so powerful had been
its effect, that even when she recalled the superscription,
the same feelings of heart-sickness returned as had overpowered
her when it first met her eye. It had been put up
with other public despatches—the family having before its
arrival closed and sent more private letters; that as he had
never alluded to it, she had struggled to believe it could have
been nothing of interest to her, and yet the subject would not
leave her mind, allowing her neither sleep at night nor rest by
day. She knew it folly, she said, but conquer it she could not.

And that fearful state of internal restlessness was fated to
continue; for, most unfortunately, the packet of despatches in
which that was had been lost, in the overflow of a river which
the messenger who bore it had to ford, and Lord St. Clair
had never alluded to it, for his letters to Annie had been
shorter than he liked, from the annoyance and increase of
trouble which the loss of this very packet had occasioned him
in his political employment. That the post-mark seemed
Italian was all she could tell him, and his anxiety became as
great as hers, though that it could really be what it was
easy to discover Annie really imagined it, he believed impossible.

Meanwhile, the poor girl’s health—under a suspicion which,
// 363.png
.bn 363.png
however imaginary, was very fearful—did not improve, and
her relatives rested not till a skilful physician had been
consulted; his opinion instantly decided them, and, despite of
Annie’s resistance, a tour on the Continent was resolved on,
Lord Ennerdale desiring her not to let him see her again, till
she could bring back her own rosy smiling self.

The party consisted of only Lord St. Clair, Lady Emily,
and Annie; and, making only a brief stay at Paris, they
proceeded in a south-easterly direction, crossed the Jura, and
fixed their residence for some weeks in the vicinity of Geneva.
The complete change of air and scene seemed so to renovate
Annie, that physical strength gradually returned, and with it
more apparent calm of mind. Congeniality of taste in our
companions is indispensable for the real enjoyment of travelling,
and this Annie fully possessed; those three years of
intimate association with the apparently cold and passionless
Lady Emily had deepened Annie’s regard, but not altered
her cousin’s chilling manner. But this delicious commune
with nature, uninterrupted by intercourse with the world,
caused her more than once so to relax as to excite even
Annie’s surprise, and convince her more than ever that Lady
Emily had not always been what she then was.

They were sitting one evening under the projecting roof of
a jutting gallery belonging to a cottage in the beautiful valley
of Chamouni; Lord St. Clair had that day left them to join
a party of excursionists, in an expedition somewhat too
fatiguing for his companions. The cottage, situated on a
projecting mount or cliff, commanded a more extensive view
than the parish of Prieuré itself permits. The rich luxuriance
of the vale stretched beneath them, intersected with cliffs
covered with foliage and large patches of emerald moss, and
variously-tinted lichen clothing the grey stones. Here
and there a true Alpine cottage peeped through dark woods
of fir and larch, and the blue and sparkling Arve glided
noiselessly along, still more lovely in the evening hour, as
the glowing rays of sunset are contrasted with the deep
shadows falling all around. Above them towered mountains
of every form, blending their separate charms in a whole so
sublime and extensive that height and breadth were lost in
distance; misty vapours, or light fleecy clouds, were ever
wreathing their snow-capped brows, while Mont Blanc itself
stood alone in its sublime grandeur, and in the unsullied
// 364.png
.bn 364.png
purity of its snowy robe. The sun itself was invisible, but
its glowing rays were shed upon the mountain, dyeing it
with a deep, rosy flood of light peculiar to that locality, and
only to be described by its thrilling resemblance to that fearfully
brilliant flush sometimes traced on the countenance of
mortal beauty, when life is fading imperceptibly away, and
the strange yet perfect loveliness rivets not alone the eye
but the imagination with a species of fascination which we
have no power to resist. The period of its continuance might
have been from fifteen to twenty minutes, when it suddenly
changed into a pale greyish tinge, of a shade and appearance
so peculiar that it affected the heart and mind with the same
species of awe as that with which we regard the sudden
change from brilliant life to the ashy hues of death.

An exclamation of admiration, even of delight, broke so
naturally from the lips of Lady Emily St. Clair, that
her young companion looked up in her face with astonishment.

“Have I not surprised you, Annie?” she said, with a quiet
smile. “Are you still amongst those who believe that one
so cold and silent as I am now can have no feeling for enjoyment,
can see no beauty in nature, no poetry in the
universe?”

“No,” replied Annie, earnestly; “I know so much of you
that mere superficial observers can never know, that I can
well believe there is still more which my inexperienced eye
can never reach. I wish,” she added, after a short pause,
and with some hesitation, “that I were worthy to know you
as you are, that you loved me sufficiently to unveil sometimes
that which is so studiously concealed.”

“Do not do me such wrong, dearest Annie, as to doubt
that I love you, because I am to you, in general, as to indifferent
persons. I cannot change the manner acquired by
months, nay, whole years of suffering, even to those whose
affections I would do much to win. There is little of interest
and much of suffering in my past life; but you shall hear it
if you will.”

“Not if it give you pain, my kind friend,” said Annie;
but she looked inquiringly as she seated herself on a cushion
at her companion’s feet, and rested her arm on her knee.
Lady Emily paused, as if collecting firmness for the task,
then briefly spoke as follows.
// 365.png
.bn 365.png

“Few, who have only known me the last fifteen or sixteen
years, would believe that I was once, Annie, far more enthusiastic
and dreamy, and what the world calls romantic, than
you were when I first knew you. An ardent love for the exalted
and the beautiful, alike in man and nature; a restless
craving for the pure and spiritual; an almost loathing for all
that was mean and earthly: these were the elements of my
romance, but carried to an excess, that instead of being
beneficial, as they might have been, became indeed the height
of folly, which is the world’s meaning for such feelings. I
was a poet, a visionary, an enthusiast, feeding a naturally vivid
imagination on the burning dreams of minds whose wings
soared even higher than my own. By my family I was regarded
with admiration and love, as one whose talents would
raise me far higher than my rank. I had the advantage of
association with the genius and the student; and their opinion
of my powers, their sympathy, urged me on till I was astonished
at myself. But there was a blank in the midst of pleasure;
I soared too high in the moments of excitement. My mind,
unable to sustain itself in the airy realms of an ill-regulated
imagination, was fraught, on its return to earth, with a gloom
and void even more exquisitely painful than its precious
mood had been joyful. Yet had poetry been my only gift,
its pains and pleasures might have been confined to my own
breast; but the powers of satire, mine in no ordinary degree,
were far more dangerous to myself in their baneful influence
upon others. I indulged in the most cutting irony, careless
whom I might wound, regardless of any feeling but my own
pleasure; I knew religion only as a name, whose every ordinance
was fulfilled by attending public service once a week. I
heard and read that, to some minds, poetry vitalizes religion,
for every throb unanswered upon earth lifted up the whole
soul to that world where all was love and all was joy. I
laughed at such romance, as I termed it, for I could not understand
it. In the gloom and void occasionally felt, pride and
triumph at my own superiority to my fellows were the constant
occupants of my heart, urging me but too often to level the dart
of venomed satire on those whose more worldly sentiments and
coarser minds excited my contempt; even the young and gentle
often bled beneath that cruel lash, if in the merest trifle of word
or manner they differed from my idea of excellence. My own
family loved me too indulgently to be aware of the dreadful
// 366.png
.bn 366.png
extent of this vice; Henry, the only one whose noble nature
and judicious feeling would have guided me aright, was a student
in Germany, and I had no one whose counsels might have
spared me, in some measure at least, the bitter self-reproach
which heightened the chastisement preparing for me.

“But I am lingering. Amongst the numerous guests at
my father’s was one, combining noble birth, genius, light and
ready wit, with all the fascination of sparkling features, graceful
form, and a manner whose elegance I have never yet seen
equalled. He courted my society; he did not <i>flatter</i>, for
that I ever scorned, but he <i>appreciated</i>. His manner always
evinced respect for me, and pleasure at having found one to
whom he could converse on nobler subjects than the mere
chit-chat of a fashionable world. It needs not to enlarge
upon our intimacy, or the means he took to make me believe,
without in the least committing himself, that I was to him
the object not of esteem or admiration alone.

“Why should I hesitate to speak that which is now as if
it had never been? I loved him, Annie, how deeply and
passionately! till my whole soul was wrapped in his image,
and my very nature so changed, that I looked on this world
with gentler feelings, and believed that the earth which contained
him could not be as little worth as I had deemed it. All this
would be useless to repeat; the blank in my heart was filled
up; my woman’s soul, which neither fame nor talent could
satisfy, was at rest; the actual words had not passed his lips
indeed, but yet I did not, could not doubt him. That is not
love in which a doubt can enter. I was visiting a mutual
friend, and daily in expectation of his arrival; to relieve the
yearning restlessness of anticipation, I had taken my tablets
to a concealed nook in the garden, and was pouring out my
whole soul in burning words, when his voice arrested me.
The remark preceding his words I had not heard, but all
which followed is written on my brain.

“‘Propose to Emily St. Clair!’ he said, in a tone which,
while it retained its beautiful harmony, was so changed in
expression that I only knew it his by the agony thrilling
through my whole being at the words, ‘Percy, you are
mocking me! Marry a blue—a wit! worse still, a poet.
Pray procure me an admission into a lunatic asylum the very
hour I make the proposal; for, at least, were I sufficiently
mad to say, Will you have me? certain as I am of being accepted,
// 367.png
.bn 367.png
I should escape being rendered more so. No, my
good fellow, the lady is agreeable enough as long as I am unchained;
but once fettered, her folly and romance would send
me to heaven much sooner than I have the least inclination
for. Why, were I in such a predicament as marriage with her,
how do you suppose I could live for ever the actor I am now,
when conversing with her, drawing her out as it were, to
afford me amusement afterwards? The very idea is exhaustion!’”

“‘It is well her brothers have not seen the progress of
your attentions,’ was the reply. ‘You might have to answer
for such species of amusement.’”

“‘Nonsense, man! Were the Courts of Love in vogue
as they were once, she could allege nothing against me to
make me her prisoner for life. Why, it was the very effort to
keep up the <i>liaison</i>, and yet not say one word which her
romantic fancy could construe into an offer, that was so
fatiguing. Her delight in my society was so evident, that I
was obliged to be on my guard; words meaningless to others would have
<lang='la'><i>misericordia</i></lang>!’”

“‘Out upon your consummate self-conceit; she never
forgot her self-respect,’ was the reply, and the voices faded
in the distance.”

“And you heard this!” exclaimed Annie, indignation
compelling the interruption. “Gracious heaven! can there
be such men?”

“Be thankful you can still ask such a question, dearest
Annie. I did hear—and more, remained outwardly calm;
at that moment I believe I was conscious but of one feeling,
not indignation; no, he might have spoken yet more cruelly,
more contemptuously. I heard but one, felt but one truth—that
he did not love me—that the deep whelming passion he
had excited was unreturned—that he scorned those gifts
which I had lately only valued as I believed them valued by
him. My brain reeled for the moment; but sense and energy
returned, as gradually, but with fearful distinctness, his
every word and tone resounded in my ear. Anguish, which
had been the first feeling, was as nothing, literally nothing,
to that chaos of misery which followed—to disrobe the idol
my heart had so madly worshipped of the bright colouring of
honour and worth, to teach myself he was <i>unworthy</i>, had
// 368.png
.bn 368.png
deceived, wilfully deceived. What was the suffering of unrequited
love compared with this? He had said, too, that my
preference was so evident, I would have grasped the faintest
whisper of an offer. I knew the charge was false as himself;
but that he should have believed it, added its bitter pang. How
was I to act? My brow was burning, my pulses throbbing,
yet return to my own home I would not; I would not feign
illness, though God knows it would have been little feigned.
I would meet him, pass in his company the period I had
promised to my friend, and then I cared not.”

“And you did this?” asked Annie, clasping Lady Emily’s,
hand in both hers, and almost startled at its coldness—the
only proof that the narrator told not her tale unmoved.

“I did more, my child. Though poetry and satire were
now to me but fearful spectres, from which a tortured spirit
shrank—though that very hour I burned every fragment of
composition once so precious, yet, during three long weary
weeks, I was to him and to all around me as I had always
been; perhaps even more sparkling, more animated, and far
more joyous. Without any visible effort, I so far changed
in bearing towards him, that instead of finding in his conversation
as before an echo to my own, I questioned, I
doubted, and more than once I saw him quail beneath my
glance or tone, compelled, ere we parted, to doubt the influence
which he had boasted he possessed. But what
availed all this? It did not, could not quench the burning
fever within; and when I returned to the quiet of my father’s
roof, the tight-strung cord was snapped, and overwrought
energies so gave way, that for months, nay, years, the effects
of that struggle were visible in a state of health so precarious,
so exhausted, that I have seen my poor father pace
my chamber hour by hour in silent agony, without the power
to address him. For many months all was to me a blank; yet
I believe I was not wholly insensible nor always under the influence
of fever. Ere I recovered sufficiently again to mingle
with the world, he who had so deceived me became the husband
of another; and that other, one who had been my dearest
friend, and who has shunned me since as if she too had deceived,
and had courted me from policy, not love. I have
had no proof that this really was the case, but my faith in
all that was good, and beautiful, and true was so shaken, I
// 369.png
.bn 369.png
believed it as a thing that must be, for such was human
nature. This marriage sufficiently accounted to my family
for my mysterious illness. Indignation was so generally felt,
that had I been awake to outward things, my mind might
have been perfectly at rest that I had given him no undue
encouragement: and his manner had indeed been such as to
give, not alone to myself, but to all who had observed, no
doubt of his apparent meaning; but I knew nothing of all this.
While chained to my couch by bodily exhaustion, memories of
my past life rose to appal me, and to add the bitter agony of
unmitigated self-reproach to that of unrequited affection.
Precious gifts had been intrusted to me, and what account
could I render of them at that awful throne, before which
daily, almost hourly, I expected to be summoned? They
had estranged me from my God, and from His creatures. I
learned to feel His words were true. Unguided by either religion
or reason, what could I have been but the idle follower of
folly and romance. No throb of kindness or of gentle
feeling had interfered to check the contempt I felt for, and
breathed in cutting satire upon, others. I had wilfully
trampled on many a young kind heart, and it was but just
that I should have been thus trampled on myself. Presumption
and self-conceit caused me to smile, to scorn the
censure of the world, and in all probability my manner had
been too unguarded. This bitter self-humiliation only increased
the struggle to forget that I had loved. In reproaching
myself I ceased to reproach him; the pride that had
supported me was gone. These thoughts continually pressing
on heart and brain were, I am well aware, the sole
sources of my long and incurable disease, but I had no
power to shake them off; and, fearfully as I suffered, I have
never ceased to bless the gracious hand that sent the
chastening and recalled me, ere it was too late, unto Himself.”

Lady Emily paused; the quivering of her voice and lip
betraying emotion which she evidently struggled to suppress.
Annie’s tears were falling on her hand, and ere she spoke
again, she bent down and kissed her forehead.

“You now know, dearest Annie, more of me than I ever
breathed to mortal ear,” she resumed, in her usual calm and quiet
tone, “more than I ever thought could pass my lips. But
do not weep for me, my child; I am happier, safer now, than
// 370.png
.bn 370.png
I could have been had the wild, misguided feelings of earlier
life continued. It was no small portion of my suffering so to
control myself as never to give vent to the satirical bitterness
that, when I rejoined the world, tinged my words and
thoughts more darkly than ever. The determination never to
use that dangerous gift, gave to my words and manner a stiffness
and cold reserve which have banished from me all those
whose regard I would have done much to win. Many young
loving hearts have shrunk from me, perceiving no sympathy
in their warm imaginations and glowing feelings; and I
dared not undeceive them, for I felt no confidence in myself,
and feared again to avow sentiments I had buried so deeply
in my own heart. Others again shunned me, because terrified
at a semblance of austerity, which they could not know
was exercised only towards myself; and frequently have I
wept in secret at the loneliness which seemed to characterise
my path on earth. Even you, my Annie, gentle and forbearing
as you were, till I could not but love you, have often
checked your animated words beneath the cold, withering
influence of my glance or smile.”

“Do not call it cold and withering, my dear, kind friend,”
replied Annie, warmly. “I learned to love you long before
I dared hope to win your regard; but could I doubt you in
my hour of anguish? Though even then I did you wrong;
for I thought I was alone in my misery—and you had suffered
doubly more.”

“You needed not such awful chastisement, my love; I
brought it on myself. But you are right; fearful as is
the death of a beloved one, it is happiness compared to the
<i>death of love</i>, to the blasting of our belief in the good and
true; the disrobing an idol, till we ask what it is we have
loved. My dearest Annie, bless God that this you have been
spared.”

Annie was silent several minutes, and then raising her
head, she abruptly and strangely asked, “Aye, this; but
there are other trials. Oh, Lady Emily, what must be the
agony of that heart, who, sacrificing for the sake of the
living the memories of the supposed dead, finds too late,
that circumstances, not death, have come between her and
the object of her first affections; that they love each other
still, yet must be strangers, parted more completely than
by death. What must be her duty then?”
// 371.png
.bn 371.png

“You ask me a difficult question, my dear child. If the
heart clings to such a thought, better never wed.”

A bright gleam, as of relief, flitted over Annie’s features;
but, changing the subject as abruptly as she had entered
upon it, she asked, with hesitation, “And that poetic talent
to which you have alluded, do you never exercise it now?”

“Never,” replied Lady Emily, taking her companion’s
arm, and entering the house. “On my first recovery I dared
not, for my sinful abuse of the power had been too recent;
though I do believe, that as my taste had completely changed
in the poets which I read, so too would my writings have
done. But year after year passed; gradually I destroyed
every memorial of my passed life, and found peace and happiness
in the employment which you have seen and aided, until
at length even the inclination to write passed away; and
I forgot, even as you must, dear girl,” she added, with a
smile, “that I had been a poet, and one of no mean grade.”

The silent pressure of Annie’s hand was sufficient guarantee
for Lady Emily that her confidence had not been misplaced;
and she was happier, for she no longer feared that,
misunderstanding, Annie would at length shrink from her.

We will not linger with our travellers while <lang='fr'><i>en
route</i></lang>. They
visited all of interest in Naples and Rome, and resolved on
passing the winter at Florence. Many weeks had passed in
their delightful tour; Annie’s health was decidedly renovated;
but there were still times when her spirits seemed to
sink beneath a weight of depression for which neither of her
relatives could account. Each month that passed diminished
the time specified by Annie as the term of mourning, and yet
Lord St. Clair vainly tried to rejoice; he saw that, instead of
decreasing, the memory of Reginald became stronger—that
the extraordinary impression made by the superscription of
the letter would remain—and ardently he wished that Annie
had followed her impulse, and opened it ere it was sent on.
He never spoke of love, he never recalled her promise, and
Annie so blessed him for his forbearance that, could she but
have realized the universal belief in the death of Reginald,
she would at once have given him her hand, glad to exchange
the torturing doubts which engrossed her for the
tranquil calm which must, she thought, attend devotion to
one who so nobly proved the love he bore herself.

The many interesting works of ancient art in Florence, so
// 372.png
.bn 372.png
riveted the attention and occupied the time of our English
travellers, that the one subject engrossing the whole attention
of the Florentines was for some little time unheeded. The
town was full of the unrivalled success of a young sculptor,
who had burst into fame, no one knew how or where. He had
been studying the last two years, amidst the superb specimens
of art, in the galleries of Florence, but so silently, so unassumingly,
that he was only known as famous. His copies of
Canova and other celebrated sculptors had been pronounced
perfect by able judges; but it was not till he had completed
an original group that he at all seemed to sue for notice, and
when that did appear, the easily-excited Italians received it
with such universal admiration, that the unknown artist was
sought for on all sides, courted, flattered, and, better far,
appreciated by those whose opinions were of value. Italy is
indeed the country where talent may rise to eminence,
fostered and cherished by the encouragement for which it so
thirsts. In this case, however, the interest excited originally
by genius was heightened by the reserved manners
of the young sculptor, who rather shrunk from than courted
notice, except from the Italians themselves. It was rarely an
English <lang='fr'><i>soirée</i></lang> could obtain the favour of his
presence. His
appearance and name declared him Spanish, a supposition
which, as he never contradicted it, gained universal belief.
That he spoke English, French, and Italian as fluently as
Spanish, and was intimately acquainted with their literature,
only proved that his mental capabilities were not confined
merely to his art. How he found time to execute all the
orders for busts, ornamental groups, etc., which he received,
was a mystery to the idler, and a wonder even to the
brethren of his craft, greatly heightened when his first
original group appeared. It was not alone the execution, but
the daring boldness of his subject which had occasioned
such universal notice. Boldly leaving the beaten path of
classic subjects, his group, though consisting only of three
figures, embodied a striking incident in the earliest stage of
the French revolution. A young and beautiful girl had flung
herself before an aged parent, clasping his neck with one
hand, and by the attitude of the other, combined with the expression
of the face, was evidently imploring life for him,
even by the sacrifice of her own. On the touching and, to
the Italian eye, somewhat peculiar beauty of the face, the
// 373.png
.bn 373.png
matchless grace of the attitude, and exquisitely modelled
limbs, the sculptor appeared to have lingered till he had out-done
himself. The countenance of the father breathed but
admiring love for the heroic being whom his arm encircled,
as if every thought centred in her, to the total exclusion of
all terror for himself. Before them, in a crouching attitude,
as in the act of filling a goblet with the loathsome fluid which
deluged the streets, was a half-naked form, whose ruffian
features and muscular limbs contrasted well with the graceful
beauty and nobleness of form in the other figures. The head
was upraised, a withering sneer upon the lips, a combination
of triumph and barbarity on the whole countenance, which
so explained the tale it recorded, that, as an animated
Italian told Lord St. Clair, the heart of the gazers throbbed,
and the cheek paled, as if life itself were before them. It
stood in an apartment of the Palazzo Vecchio, where he entreated
his English friends to go and see it. “I will not only
see this wonderful group, but make acquaintance with its
artist,” he replied; “for, after hearing all this, know him I
will.”

“That you will find some difficulty in doing,” was the rejoinder.
“He shrinks from all you English; besides, he is,
I believe, now at Bologna, and his return is uncertain.”

“Never mind, trust me for making acquaintance with this
lion, shy though he be.”

“There is but one fault in his female figure,” observed a
gentleman who had joined the group, and was greeted with
much warmth by Lord St. Clair, “a fault which we English
ought to consider a virtue, but yet is in contradiction to
Signor Castellan’s apparent reserve towards our countrymen.
The beauty of the female is too English for a French incident
and purely French characters. It is very lovely, I grant, but
the loveliness is our own.”

The observation naturally produced a warm discussion,
which ended as most discussions do, in each party retaining
his own opinion, and Lord St. Clair taking his newly-found
old friend home with him, introduced him to Lady Emily and
Annie.

“And are you settled down at last, Kenrich, tired of wanderings
and adventures? though last time I heard of you,
you were actually enjoying the wars and cabals of Madrid.”

“I am not very sober yet, St. Clair; but I was fool
// 374.png
.bn 374.png
enough to join the Carlists three or four years ago, and their
barbarity to my own countrymen so sickened me of war, that
I threw up my commission, and have never drawn sword
since.”

“What barbarity?” asked Lord St. Clair, catching
almost by instinct more than look the expression of Annie’s
face.

“Why, you must have heard—the English papers were
full of it—that fine fellow Captain De Vere was amongst
them. He and eight or ten others were taken prisoners, and
were all murdered—for it was nothing else.”

“But are you sure he was amongst them? We all knew
and loved De Vere, and long hoped he might have escaped,
and only been reported amongst the killed.”

“Escaped, my dear fellow! how was that possible?
Besides, he was so terribly wounded, that he could not have
survived, even had they not so cruelly dealt with him. I
could not save him, but I saw him decently interred, and
from that moment loathed military service, and left
Spain.”

“It was full time, I think,” quietly rejoined Lady Emily.
“Annie, will you try if you can match this shade for me
among the chenilles in my room? I cannot finish this leaf
without it, and your eyes are better than mine.”

Annie took the chenille designated from the frame, over
which her cousin was bending so intently in seeming, that
she did not even look up as she addressed her, and quietly
left the room. The moment she did so, Edward Kenrich
burst into lavish praises of her beauty, declaring that was the
exact style of Castellan’s figure, and therefore he was right,
and it must be too English for perfect art, so running on in
his usual wild strain, that Lord St. Clair had great difficulty
in bringing him back to the point from which he had started,
and gathering from him every particular of the death of
Reginald De Vere.

Annie did not reappear, and Lady Emily’s great desire to
finish her leaf seemed to have subsided with her absence, for
she made no effort to recall her. Just before dinner, however,
Lord St. Clair, noticing the flutter of her white dress
between the orange trees, which almost concealed the balcony
leading from the drawing-room, hastily rejoined her. She
looked up in his face without a word, but he answered her
// 375.png
.bn 375.png
thoughts, tenderly and gently repeating all the information
he had gained. There could be no doubt, and for one brief
minute the poor girl’s head sunk on his arm, with a sudden
burst of tears.

“I know it is all folly, Henry. I had no right to hope;
forgive me, I do but distress you; and yet that writing—that
strange writing, whom could it have been from?”

“Not from Reginald, dearest, or it would have been to you,
not to me. Has that never struck you, Annie?”

It had not till that moment, and it convinced her. She
remained alone that evening, in deep meditation and earnest
prayer; and the result was a firm conviction that nothing but
a new and solemn duty would restore her to the calm of mind
for which she yearned—that devotion to another well worthy
of it must draw her from herself. A sleepless night confirmed
this resolution, and the very next day the promise
passed her lips to be the wife of Lord St. Clair, within a week
of their return to England. A few days afterwards they
went to the celebrated church of Santa Croce, during vesper
service. The magnificent interior, heightened in its effect
by the light and shadow flung by huge waxen tapers, the
superb monuments, the white-stoled monks and dark dresses
of the officiating priests, the kneeling and standing groups,
silent and motionless as the marble monuments around—the
deep-toned organ, and swelling voices of the choristers, completely
enchained the imagination of our travellers. It was
strange, excited almost to pain as she was, that Annie at
length found her whole attention unconsciously fixed on a
single figure, who was leaning against the tomb of Michael
Angelo. His face was turned from her, but there was something
in his bearing and his attitude which riveted her as by
a spell, and the longing to look on his face became strangely
and indefinably intense. The soft light of a taper burning
over the tomb brought out in good relief the stranger’s uncovered
head, whose small and classic shape was shaded by
clustering hair of glossy black.

“There he is! there is our sculptor, Renaud Castellan!”
whispered one of the Italians who had accompanied them,
directing Lord St. Clair’s attention to the very figure on
whom Annie’s gaze was so strangely fixed; but even as he
spoke, the young man moved his position, and disappeared in
one of the aisles, leaving Annie’s desire to see his face ungratified,
// 376.png
.bn 376.png
and only permitting Lord St. Clair to catch the outline
of his figure.

“Was not Mrs. De Vere’s maiden name Castellan?” St. Clair asked of
Annie, as they walked together from the church to the house of their
Italian friend, who had claimed them for a <lang='fr'><i>petit
souper</i></lang>, and some music. The answer was in the affirmative,
and Lord St. Clair remarked it would be strange if this young Spaniard
proved to be of the same family. “I must seek him out.”

“See his group first,” was the rejoinder of one of
the party; while to Annie the words seemed to disperse
the miserable doubts again thronging round her—being
of the same family might account for a casual resemblance.

It was with some little difficulty Annie was prevailed upon to
sing; but when once seated at her harp, timidity gave place
to her real love of the art, and the simple purity, the touching
pathos of her style charmed all who heard. The entrance
of a guest had not interrupted her, nor disturbed the listeners.
Lord St. Clair was amused at the look of admiring perplexity
with which he regarded Annie, not himself perceiving that,
where the Italian stood, the light fell upon her countenance,
so as to give it a different appearance and expression to that
which was generally perceivable.

Approaching her, as soon as the buzz of admiration had
somewhat subsided, he engaged her in animated conversation;
nor was Lord St. Clair’s curiosity lessened by hearing
him inquire “if the signorina were not acquainted with the
young sculptor, of whom all Florence raved?” Much surprised,
she answered in the negative.

“But surely you have been introduced to him, have you
not?”

“No,” replied Annie, smiling at his earnestness. “I
never even heard of him till I came here; and he has been at
Bologna, till this evening, ever since.”

“Then he has seen you, signora, either in his sleeping or
waking dreams,” was the rejoinder, in so animated a tone
that it arrested the attention of the whole party; “for never
did marble and life so resemble each other as the beauty of
your face and of his creation. Surely you must all see it,”
he continued, turning to his friends with the sparkling vivacity
peculiar to his countrymen when excited. “Why, it is
// 377.png
.bn 377.png
not feature alone, but the character, the grace, the similarity
is perfect!”

“I told you so, but you would not believe me,” bluntly
answered Kenrich. “I told you it was an English face and
English character; but you all denied it. I am glad my
lovely countrywoman has opened your eyes.”

“Why this is better and better, Annie; do not blush so
prettily about it,” whispered Lord St. Clair, as, attention once
aroused, the similarity was universally acknowledged. “If
the resemblance be chance, it is something to marvel at; if
intentional, why I shall be jealous of the sculptor.”

“You need not, Henry,” was the reply, in a tone so sad
that it pained him.

“Well, well, we will go and see it at least, love, and judge
of its merit with our own eyes.”

The next day accordingly they went, and (the most convincing
proof of the perfection of the work) were not disappointed.
Neither its beauty nor its eloquence had been
exaggerated, and the resemblance to Annie was so extraordinary
that the eyes of all the spectators within the room
were attracted towards her; but the expression of the countenance
of the father in the group riveted her attention far
more than the female figure. It was with a heavy sigh she
turned from it, and was pale and silent during their way
home; but St. Clair was so engrossed by the beauty of the
work, the strange resemblance, and his resolution to leave no
stone unturned to gain the acquaintance of the young artist,
that it passed unnoticed even by him.

“Why, what ails you, Annie? are you not well, dear?”
kindly inquired Lady Emily, some hours later. Wondering
why her young companion did not join her as usual, she had
sought her in her own room, and found her with her face
buried in her hands, and her whole attitude denoting suffering.
“Henry has gone to seek out this Signor Castellan, to
find out, if he can, in what this strange similarity originated,
and who and what he is.”

“Shall I tell you?” answered Annie, in a tone so strange
that it startled almost as much as the whiteness of her face.
“Reginald Castellan De Vere! Was not his mother’s name
Castellan? and has he not often and often boasted his descent
from Spanish heroes, and from this feeling fought for Spain in
preference to any other country? Did he not always love the
// 378.png
.bn 378.png
art of sculpture? Can it be chance that has marked the
father and daughter of that group with the characteristics of
the revered friend and favourite companion of his youth?
No, no, no! Oh! Lady Emily, you bade me once thank God
that I had never been deceived; teach me how to bear
this.”

“Bear what, my poor child?” replied her companion,
soothingly, as Annie threw herself on her neck in fearful
agitation. “If this be indeed as you say, what can there be
but happiness for you? It is for another we must
feel.”

“Happiness for me! and he has never even so far thought
of me as to tell me the report of his death was false, and he
still lived—never recalled himself to one whom, when he departed,
he so loved—loved! how know I that? he never
said it; why should I believe him different to others?”

“My dearest Annie, this is not like yourself. Why, if he
have ceased to love you, should the work of his hand—a work
which must have employed his mind and heart long days and
nights—bear the impress of your face and form?”

“Memory, association, mere casualty—the days of his boyhood
may be dear to his mind; but how can affection, even
a brothers, have inspired that group, when—when he has
allowed me so long to believe him dead?”

“It is all a mystery, my dear child; but I feel convinced
it will be solved, if we can really prove his identity. May
he not have written, and the letter miscarried?” Annie
wildly raised her head. “May he not have been deceived?
perhaps—for we can never trace rumours—but may he not
have heard that of you which, to a mind like his, would cause
him to shrink from recalling himself? He left you such a
child, how might he build on having so won your regard that
you would remain single for his sake? Dearest Annie, if
this indeed be not all imagination, and Reginald really lives,
trust me you will be happy yet.”

How will a few judicious words change the whole current
of thoughts and feeling! Before Lady Emily ceased to speak,
Annie was weeping such blessed tears. The proud, cold mood
which, had her companion spoken as her own experience of
man’s nature must have dictated, might have been retained, and
made her miserable for life, dissolved before returning trust and
hope. She dared not define what it was she hoped; but it
// 379.png
.bn 379.png
was not till she heard Lord St. Clair’s voice, and she tried to
spring forwards to meet him and know the truth, that a sudden
revulsion of feeling so completely overpowered her that she
sunk back upon the couch. How dared she rejoice, even if
Reginald lived? what could he be to her who was the promised
bride of another?

“Emily!” exclaimed Lord St. Clair, in utter astonishment,
as, on his entering the drawing-room, his cold and dignified
sister hastily met him, and taking both his hands, tried to
speak, but failed: and leaning her head against him, he felt
that she was in tears. “What is the matter, love? something
very dreadful for you to weep.”

She controlled herself with a strong effort, and entered at
once into the recital of the scene between her and Annie.
“Could it possibly be as she supposed?”

“It may be,” was the reply, in a calm firm tone; “there
is nothing impossible in it. I went to his lodgings, but, as I
supposed, he was either out or too much engaged to be seen;
but I am to meet him to-night at the Contessa Corsini’s, and
this strange mystery will be unravelled.”

“And you, dear Henry—” she could say no more, so holy
seemed his feelings.

“And I, my dear sister, will act as that man should whose
aim is not the gratification of his own desires, but the happiness
of one far dearer than himself. I do not tell you I
shall not feel, and deeply; but does the warrior shrink from
the battle before him because he may be wounded? You
may love me more, my Emily, if you will,” he continued,
fondly passing his arm round her, and kissing her cheek, “for
affection is always balm; but I will have no tears—they are
only for the unworthy. Where is Annie? poor child, she
must be overwrought, from many causes; let me see her, she
will be calmer then.”

He was right. What passed between them it needs not
to relate. Our readers can little enter into the high character
of Lord St. Clair, if they cannot satisfy themselves as to the
manner, as well the nature and extent, of the sacrifice he
made. He was not one to wring the gentle heart he so unselfishly
resigned, by the betrayal of personal suffering; he
coveted the continuance, nay, the increase of her regard, and
nobly he earned it.

It was a brilliant scene on which, a few hours later, he
// 380.png
.bn 380.png
entered, introduced by the same Italian, Signor Lanzi, who
had been the first to trace the resemblance between Annie and
the female figure of the group. But neither loveliness nor
talent, both of which thronged the halls, had at that moment
attraction for Lord St. Clair; his glance had singled out a
tall, slight form, leaning against a marble pillar, and half
shaded by the drapery of a curtain. His head was bent down;
he seemed in the act of listening and replying to the smiling
jests of the countess, who was sitting near him; the cheek
and brow were very pale, and the mouth, when still, somewhat
stern in expression; but it was a fine face, bearing the
stamp of genius too visibly ever to be passed unremarked.

“You may smile, and look incredulous, signor,” were the
words that first met the ears of the English nobleman, from
the young countess, in Italy’s sweetest tone; “but since you
deserted us for Bologna, a living likeness has appeared of
your beautiful Améle.”

“Mademoiselle de Sombreuil herself, perhaps,” he replied,
half smiling. “Fancy would indeed have served me well,
had such a chance occurred.”

“You are quite wrong. I doubt whether Mademoiselle
de Sombreuil would herself resemble your fancy statue, as
much as la bella Inglese does.”

“La bella Inglese! who may she be?” inquired the young
sculptor, somewhat agitated.

“A lovely girl, who only appeared in Florence as you left
it. Lanzi informed me the resemblance was so perfect, he
imagined she must know you; but she had never even heard
of you till she came here.”

“And what may be her name.”

“As you seem so interested, I regret that I cannot tell
you. It is so truly English that it will bear no Italian
accent, therefore I cannot remember it; but find Lanzi, I
expect him here to-night, and he will tell you all about
her.”

The arrival of new guests, and the attention of the countess
called for from himself, the sculptor hastily turned, as in the
act of seeking the individual she had named. He had not
advanced many yards when he started violently, and with a
sudden impulse retreated into a small withdrawing room,
near which he had stood.

“Why shun me, Signor Castellan?” inquired a frank
// 381.png
.bn 381.png
kind voice in English; and Lord St. Clair’s hand was extended,
and, after a moment’s visible hesitation, accepted and
almost convulsively pressed. “Why this long, mysterious
concealment, my young friend? were there none, think you,
to rejoice that you were still amongst the living?”

“Was not your lordship aware of my existence, insignificant
as it is, more than a twelvemonth since? My own
hand and signature were surely sufficient guarantee,” he
answered, in a cold proud tone.

“Then you did write, and Annie was not deceived! Little
did I know the precious intelligence contained in the packet,
lost on its way to me in Russia, and the want of which, in a
political view, caused me such annoyance. But why wait so
long, my dear fellow, to give us tidings so many would have
rejoiced to hear?”

“So many! There were more, then, to mourn me dead,
than to love me living? But forgive me,” he continued,
less bitterly; “Your family would have been my friends,
and therefore was it I wrote to tell you that I lived.”

“But was there not one, Reginald, who deserved an earlier
notice at your hands? why leave her so long to mourn you
as dead, and then to learn such joyful tidings from others than
yourself? The ties of early youth, of fond associations, I
should have thought sufficient of themselves alone to prevent
such wrong.”

Reginald’s very lip grew white as he replied, “Was not
her husband the fittest person to give Lady St. Clair such
tidings?”

“Her husband, Reginald? You speak enigmas.”

“How!” gasped the young man, as he laid his cold and
trembling hand on his companion’s arm. “Is not Annie Grey
your wife?”

“No!” replied Lord St. Clair, the peculiar expression
clouding his noble countenance for the moment passing unnoticed;
“her heart was with the dead!”

Reginald De Vere struggled with bursting emotion, but
his trembling limbs refused to support him; and sinking
powerlessly on a sofa, he covered his face with his hands,
and wept such tears as only spring from manhood’s unutterable
joy.

.tb

It still wanted an hour to midnight, and Lady Emily was
// 382.png
.bn 382.png
in vain endeavouring to prevail on Annie to retire to
rest.

“You are feverish and worn out already, Annie. How will
you be able to support the excitement of to-morrow without
rest to-night?”

“It would be no rest if I lie down; I cannot sleep. Only
let me know he lives!” and she twined her arms round Lady
Emily’s neck, and looked so appealingly, so mournfully, no
heart could have urged more.

There was a pause of several minutes, and then Annie
started up.

“It is Henry’s step!” she exclaimed and would have sprung
forward, but her feet felt rooted to the ground; another
moment Lord St. Clair was at her side.

“Promise me to bear the shock of joy better than you did
the shock of grief, or I can tell you nothing,” he said, gently;
but there was no need for another word. Faint as she was,
every object in the room seeming to swim before her eyes,
every word to be indistinct, yet one figure was visible, one
voice calling her his own, own Annie—beseeching her to
forgive and bless him! reached her heart, and loosed its icy
chains, till she could breathe again. She felt not that
strength had entirely deserted her, for she was clasped
to the heart of Reginald De Vere, and the deadly faintness
passed in the gushing tears that fell upon his bosom.

.tb

Mysterious as was Reginald de Vere’s silence, its causes
may be summed up in a few words. To his own generous
deed, recorded in the early part of our tale, he owed the
preservation of his life. When bleeding and exhausted he
was led a prisoner to the Carlist camp, he was instantly
recognised by the poor woman whose child he had saved,
and whom he had sent on to her husband. The tale of his
kindness, his generosity, his bravery had been repeated
again and again by the happy wife, and created amongst the
common soldiery a complete sensation in his favour; so that
very many were found eager and willing to aid Juan
Pacheco in his resolution to return the good conferred,
and save his wife’s benefactor at the hazard of his own life.
He had already been disgusted with his life in the camp;
the beauty of his young wife had exposed him and her to
// 383.png
.bn 383.png
insults which, as he had no power to retaliate, urged him to
seize the first opportunity to desert. One by one the prisoners
had been led to execution, and one by one had fallen.
Reginald, unable to support himself from wounds and exhaustion,
though quite conscious he was placed there to die,
was loosely bound to a post, as a better mark to the soldiers
who fronted him. They fired—the girthings which bound
him gave way, and a dead faint succeeded; but they had
fired with harmless weapons, and when Reginald awoke from
what he fancied death, he found himself in a covered cart,
carefully watched and tended by the young mother and her
boy, whom he recognised at once; his captain’s uniform
placed on the body of a young Spaniard who had fallen in
battle, and whose features were not unlike those of De Vere,
no doubt causing Edward Kenrich’s belief in his being really
Reginald, and his having been in consequence honourably
interred. Juan Pacheco’s knowledge of the wilds and intricate
windings of his native country enabled him ably to
elude the pursuit to which, as a deserter, he was liable; but
De Vere suffered so dreadfully from alternate fever and exhaustion,
during the journey, that many times his kind preservers
feared their care would be in vain, and death would
release him ere earthly rest and shelter were obtained. But
at length the goal was gained—a small cottage belonging to
a monastery of Saint Iago, situated in so retired a pass of
the Pyrenees that none but mountaineers knew of its existence.
Under the skilful medical aid of one of the fathers
Reginald slowly regained health; but it was not till nearly
a year after his supposed death that he regained the elasticity
and entire use of his limbs, such as he had previously
enjoyed. The severity of monastic discipline did not characterise
the monks of Saint Iago. They were but few in
number; old and respectable men, who had turned from the
distracting turmoils of their unhappy country, and sought
peace in study and deeds of kindness. In one of these aged
men Reginald discovered an uncle of his mother—one who
had always mourned her departure to another land, and
union with a heretic, but who had loved her to the end, and
was willing to receive with affection any of her children.
The fearful sufferings and deep melancholy of the young
Englishman had attracted him, even before the picture of his
mother, which Reginald constantly wore discovered the relationship
// 384.png
.bn 384.png
between them. For nearly two years De Vere
remained in this solitude; the fear of drawing down ruin
and misery on his preservers prevented his writing to his
commanding officer, to state his escape—Padre Felipo alleging
the state of the country was such, that his letter might not
only be seized and himself retaken, but Pacheco exposed
to the danger of execution as a deserter and abettor of his
escape. After the first year he made many attempts to communicate
with his friends in England—Annie Grey amongst
the number—but he never heard in return; therefore concluded,
and with justice, that his letters had never reached a
post.

But the two years of solitude, instead of being a mental
blank, was the hinge of circumstances on which his whole
after-career turned. To amuse his confinement and please
the children, he resumed the favourite amusement of his boyhood,
carving in wood and stone, and with such success as
to astonish himself. He found an admirer and instructor
where he little expected it, in one of the monks; and under
his guidance, and emboldened by encouragement, made such
rapid progress, that his whole soul became wrapt in the
desire to visit Italy, and study there. His pantings for fame
were now defined—a flash of light seemed to have irradiated
his whole being, and to burst the chains of destiny, which
still cramped energy and life. It was the consciousness of
genius, the proud conviction that he might indeed win the
object of his love; win, and be worthy of her, and give her
a name proud as those of the men of genius whose lives they
had read and venerated together.

The days when all the fortunes of the monks were devoted
to their abbeys or to a patron saint were over, and Padre
Felipo rejoiced at possessing the means effectually to aid his
young relative. He settled on him a sum more than sufficient
to gratify all his desires, and Reginald hesitated no
longer to concentrate all his energies on this one pursuit.
He went to Italy, adopting the name of his benefactor, which
was also that of his mother; and the wish not to be known
in England, until he had perfected himself in his art, caused
him to retain it, even when no danger was attached to the
acknowledgment of his existence.

But once in Italy, the yearning to hear of his family and
friends became intense, while a strange feeling of dread withheld
// 385.png
.bn 385.png
him from again addressing Annie. It was two years
and a half since they had parted, two since he had been reported
dead. What might not have occurred in that interval?
He had left her free, and so child-like, so simple in character,
that how could he, how dared he indulge the hope that she
had so returned his love, as to remain single for his sake?
He had never spoken of love to her; his affection was so
pure and true, that it had withheld him from linking, by a
too impetuous avowal, her fate with one so gloomy as his
own. His genius seemed now to promise a fairer destiny,
but his heart, still darkened by the fearful creed of fatalism,
believed that his very promise would be dashed with gloom,
and from the ascendency of this unhappy feeling, failing in
courage to address Annie herself, he wrote to one of his
sisters, beseeching a speedy reply, with information of his
father, and all she could learn of Miss Grey. The reply was
many weeks before it came, pleading the usual excuse for
unjustifiable silence—stress of occupation and dislike to
letter-writing. Basil De Vere was in America, and Miss
Grey on the eve of marriage with Lord St. Clair; the whole
London world was full of it, on account of the disparity of
years between the parties, and because Lord St. Clair had
never seemed a marrying man; but that it was a settled
affair there was not the smallest doubt. She wrote as if it
could concern Reginald but little; but the pang was such as
to confirm his fearful creed of an inexorable fate, and plunge
him into a despondency, that genius itself seemed unable to
remove. At first he worked at his art mechanically, but
gradually his mind became aroused, and he tried to forget the
heart’s anguish in such persevering labour, that though to
mere observers its effects were marvellous in so speedy a perfection,
it was, in fact, but the natural consequence of unceasing
mental and manucipal work. He constantly reproached
himself for the agony he felt; what right had he
to suppose he had had any hold upon her? Why could he
not rejoice in her happy prospects, and write to tell her so?
But weeks merged into months ere he could do this, and
then he could not address herself, but wrote to Lord St.
Clair, revealing his escape, his concealment, and finally the
promised success of his art, with a calm, affectionate message
to Annie. The letter cost him a bitter struggle, and with
feverish restlessness he awaited the reply; but when none
// 386.png
.bn 386.png
came, bitter thoughts possessed him. He believed himself
entirely forgotten and uncared for by his friends; and every
energy cramped (save for his art) by his spiritless belief, he
determined to remain so, and shun alike England and her
sons. It was his fate, he inwardly declared, and he must
bend to it; and thus, as is ever the case with these dark
dreamers, he created for himself the lonely doom he imagined
his destiny marked out. The death of his aged
relative, in the monastery of St. Iago, placed a moderate
fortune at his disposal, and enabled him still more successfully
and earnestly to pursue his art. For a time the excitement
attendant on the creation of his group roused him
from himself, but the reaction was plunging him still deeper
into the dark abyss of misanthropy and gloom when his discovery,
through his own beautiful work, the sudden and
almost overwhelming happiness bursting through the darkness
of his spirit, in the consciousness that Annie was
free, that she had ever loved him, completely changed the
current of his thoughts, and permitted him a realization of
joy, before which the dark creed of destiny fled for
ever.

It is in a cheerful sitting-room of a picturesque dwelling
on the banks of Keswick Lake that our readers may once
more look on Annie Grey, ere they bid her farewell—Annie
Grey indeed she was not; but there was little change visible,
save that her fair cheek bore the rose, and her beautiful form
the roundness of more perfect health, than when we last
beheld her. The large French windows opened on a small
but beautiful garden, where the taste of England and Italy
was so combined, as to render its flowers and statues the
admiration of every beholder. The opposite window opened
on a conservatory of beautiful exotics, and exquisite specimens
of painting and sculpture adorned the room itself. An uncovered
harp filled one corner, on which the evening sun,
shining full from the stained glass of the western window,
flung tints as bright and changing as those of the kaleidoscope. A
<lang='la'><i>hortus siccus</i></lang>, opened on a group half arranged,
was on a table, at which Lady Emily St. Clair was seated, and Annie was
standing at her side, with a volume of poems in her hand.

“You idle girl! you would have found what I wanted in
five minutes a few years ago. What are you thinking about?
// 387.png
.bn 387.png
Ah, Reginald, you are just in time, or Annie’s restlessness
would have invaded your sanctum, depend upon
it.”

“And had I not cause? A whole hour, nearly two, after
your promised time; and your cheek pale, and your brow
burning! Dearest, do not let your art be dearer than your
wife!”

“What! jealous of all my marble figures, love? For
shame!” replied her husband, playfully, twining his arm
round her, and kissing her cheek; “but I will plead guilty
to fatigue to-night, and you shall cure me by my favourite
song.”

Annie flew to her harp, and De Vere, flinging himself on
an easy chair, drank in the sounds with an intensity of delight
which he never believed <i>that</i> song could have had the power
to produce. “Yes!” he exclaimed, as her sweet voice ceased,
“what are palaces and their pleasures compared to an hour
like this? There is, indeed, ‘no place like home;’ what,
oh! what would the artist and the student be without
it?”

“Why, how is this, Signor Rinaldo? what extraordinary
spell has been flung over you, so to change your opinion of
a song that once you would not even hear?” laughingly exclaimed
Lord St. Clair, springing from the balcony into the
room. “Good evening, Mrs. De Vere; I have some inclination
to arrest you for using unlawful witchcraft on this gentleman,
even as I once thought of seizing him for allowing you
to die of grief for his loss, when he was all the time in
life!”

“Guilty, guilty; we both plead guilty,” replied Reginald,
in the same tone; “but my guilt is of far deeper dye; my
Annie’s witchery has but thrown such a halo over my home,
that all which speaks of its charm is as sweet to my ear as
to my heart. I am changed, St. Clair, and not merely in
loving a song I once despised,” he added, with much feeling,
“but in being enabled to trace a hand of love, where once I
beheld but remorseless fate; and my wife has done this, so
gently, so silently, that I guessed not her influence until I
found myself joining her own lowly prayers, and believing in
the same sustaining faith.”

“And has she explained its mystery?” inquired Lady
Emily, with earnest interest.
// 388.png
.bn 388.png

“No, dear friend; nor do I need it now. The belief that
a God of infinite love and compassion ordains all things, yet
leaves us the perfect exercise of our free will, and in that
freedom, and the acts thence ensuing, works out His divine
decrees, constraining no man, yet bringing our most adverse
wills to work out His heavenly rule—this is a belief that
must be <i>felt</i>, it cannot be explained, and thrice-blessed are
they on whom its unspeakable comfort is bestowed!”
// 389.png
.bn 389.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p369
<i>The Spirit of Night.</i>
.sp 2
.nf c
FOUNDED ON A HEBREW APOLOGUE.
.nf-
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>Let</sc> there be light!” the Omnific Word had spoken, and
light was. Over the newly-created world the pure element
rushed from the spiritual courts of the High Empyrean,
where it had reigned from everlasting. In its subtle essence,
its ethereal exhalations, fit only for the atmosphere of those
angelic spirits, who, at the word of the Highest, took their
appointed stations in the new-formed world. Radiance too
glorious, too resplendent for mortal view, filled the illimitable
space, uniting earth with heaven as by a cloud of glory.
Where had been Chaos, circled with shapeless darkness, now
revolved, in its vast flood of irradiating lustre, the new work
of the Eternal. Thousands of radiant spirits floated to and
fro on the refulgent flood. The dazzling iris of their wings,
the music of their movements, filling space with beauty and
with sound; while up from the lowest Heaven to the
High Empyrean—from the young seraph to the mighty spirits
nighest the Invisible Throne, whose resplendent presence
dazzled even the purified orbs of their angelic brethren—up,
through every heaven and every rank, sounded the glad
hallelujahs of love and praise.
.pi
At every word of the Highest, creation sprung. Darkness,
borne back by the mighty torrent of effulgent light,
would have passed annihilated from the face of the new-born
world, but, shielded by angelic ministers, it lingered, in its
new-appointed sphere, to do its destined bidding. A firmament
of sapphire, stretched between the waters and the
waters, veiling the glory of the spiritual heavens from the
grosser earth. Land rose from the liquid deep. The rolling
waters rushed impetuously to their destined boundaries, held
there by the Omnific will. And over the land the creating
Word went forth; and, at once, the mountains raised their
stupendous forms, crowned with imperishable verdure; the
valleys, and woods, and glens rose and sunk in their appointed
rest; and flowers, and trees, and streams, and
thousand other charms of sight, and sound, and sense, burst
// 390.png
.bn 390.png
forth into perfected being. Myriads of angels hovered
round, visible <i>then</i> in their beauty; but <i>now</i> heard only in
the sweet breath of the gentle flowers; in the varied sounds
of the forest trees as the wind floats by; in the summer
breeze, or the wintry storm; in the musical gush of the
silvery rill; aye, and in the deep hush and calm of the
evening hour, when nature herself, as conscious of their
ministering presence, sinks into deep and spiritual repose.

But not for the abode of angelic spirits was this lovely
world. A new creation was to raise the voice of love and
adoration! and for such, the spiritual light enveloping the
infant globe was too ethereal, too resplendent. Nought but
the purified orbs of the angelic and archangelic hosts could gaze
on its refined effulgence; and therefore, from the council
of the Eternal went forth the decree:—

“Let there be two great lights to rule the earth, the one
by day, and the one by night, and they shall rule times and
seasons.” And as He spake it was. Instantaneously the
minute particles of the ethereal essence formed into an orb
of splendour, fraught with such power and glory, that the
lustrous flood rushed back into the Heavenly Fount—earth
needing it no more;—circled by a diadem of many-coloured
light, extending in resplendent rays over the new-born
world, infusing its golden glory over the azure heavens;
clouds, dyed with the brilliant tints of amethyst, and rose,
and ruby, formed before him and faded into glory as He
passed. Earth, through her ministering spirits of mount,
and wood, and stream, and flower, sent up her thrilling song
of thanksgiving, echoed and re-echoed by the myriads and
myriads of angels peopling the spiritual courts. Heaven
and Earth rejoiced. Increased and dazzling beauty enveloped
the new creation. Luscious fragrance issued from the
flowers; their petals, adorned by their guardian seraphs,
expanded to the glorious orb, and shone in his rays like
gems. The Spirit of Day, selected from the highest and
purest order of angels, to renew and tend the beauteous
work, ascended his throne in the burning centre, whence the
effulgent rays emanate on earth, but on which no mortal eye
can look; and proudly and rejoicingly as a bridegroom
coming forth from his chamber, as a youthful hero from his
victorious career, he guided the glorious luminary on its
// 391.png
.bn 391.png
resplendent course, joining his voice to the hallelujahs
pealing around.

And in varied but equal beauty rose the second light; but
its guardian spirit, selected from the same pure and exalted
ranks, looked on the effulgence of the Orb of Day, and
beheld his brother spirit circled by glory more dazzling than
his own. His invisible throne was within the silver radiance
of his orb. Light, ethereal and pure as the heavenly essence
of which both sun and moon had been formed, enriched
him; less glittering but equally resplendent. But a deep
shadow stole over the exquisite colouring of the spirit’s
wings. His voice of music refused to join the pealing
hallelujahs.

“Wherefore?” he exclaimed; and the troubled accents
sounded through space, strangely and darkly falling on the
full tide of song. “Wherefore do two monarchs occupy one
throne? Wherefore to me is given less than to my brother?
I have loved, I have served as faithfully as he. Why,
then, should I be second, and he the first? Earth rejoices
when he comes. Heaven greets him with songs of love.
What need is there for me, unless to me the same is
given?”

The hallelujahs ceased. A sudden silence, awful in its
profoundness, sunk on the rejoicing myriads. The pure
founts of ever-living light became obscured. Thunder
rolled over the illimitable expanse. The superb radiance of
the effulgent moon vanished, and, spreading far into the
Empyrean, became the glorious host of stars, each with its
attendant spirit as it formed. Darkness clothed the complaining
angel; the beautiful luminary given to his charge,
seemed quivering and fading into space; while, still strong
and rejoicing, the Orb of Day held on his victorious
career.

Prostrate and convulsed with remorseful anguish, the spirit
sunk before the celestial hosts. He who had been of that
favoured class to whom the ways as well as the works of the
Highest were revealed, had fallen lower in intellect and love
than the youthful seraph, whose task was only to worship
and adore. Where could he hide himself from their
searching orbs? Where fly from the flashing light that,
as the thunder rolled, played round him, marking him disgraced
and criminal? But Him whom he had offended,
// 392.png
.bn 392.png
he loved, as only angels love. And so he welcomed that
remorseful agony, and prayed, “Have mercy, Father of all
Beings! My Father, have mercy on me!” And out of that
awful stillness issued a thrilling strain of gushing music—low,
soft, spiritual—the murmured prayer, from countless
myriads, for pardon for an erring brother. The dimness
fled from the founts of light. The thunder ceased; the
scorching lightnings blazed no longer. A mild effulgence
circled the sorrowing spirit as he lay, burying his refulgent
brow in the darkened iris of his wings.

From the invisible throne of the Highest, the mightiest,
the best beloved, most favoured messenger of the Eternal,
the <sc>Spirit of Love</sc>, winged his downward flight, and on
the instant, space became irradiated. New lustre spread over
the vast courts of Heaven; the richest harmonies attended
every movement of his wings. Angels and archangels,
seraphs and ministers, pressed forwards as he passed, to
bask in the wondrous beauty of his lustrous face, and raise
anew the irrepressible burst of song.

“Spirit of Night, arise!” he said, and the repentant angel
lifted up his brow once more in returning hope, so thrillingly
that voice of liquid music fell; “arise, and list the irrevocable
decree of the Eternal! Because thou hast envied the resplendence
of the Spirit of Day, the radiance of thine orb
will henceforth be borrowed from His lustre; and when
yonder earth passes thee thou wilt stand, as now thou dost,
deprived of thy glory, and eclipsed, either wholly or in part.
Thou hast dared arraign the wisdom and the goodness of the
Highest; and though He pardons, yet must He chastise, lest
others sin yet more. Yet weep not, repentant brother! thy
repining is forgiven, and thou too shalt reign a monarch in
thy radiance! Queen of the lovely night will thine orb be
hailed; the tears of thy repentance shall be a reviving balm
to all that languish; imparting consolation to the mourner,
rest to the weary, soothing to the careworn, strength to the
exhausted. Peace shall be thy whisper, and in thy kingdom
of stillness and repose, breathe thrillingly the promise of
Heaven, and its rest. Go forth, then, on thy mild and vivifying
career. The Orb of Day will do his work, and be hailed
with rejoicing mirth; but many a one shall turn to thee
from him, and in the radiance of thy tears find consolation.”
// 393.png
.bn 393.png

He spake: and behold! the pale but lovely lustre in
which the Orb of Night still shines flowed round her. The
Spirit of Night resumed his silvery throne, and in the profound
submissiveness of most perfect love entered upon his
silent and beautiful career, circled by the glittering radiance
of the attendant stars. Soon was revealed the benignant
mercy of His sentence. Even ere sin darkened the lovely
earth, His beauteous orb was hailed by all creation with rejoicing;
and when man fell, when labour and weariness,
sickness and woe, obtained dominion, how soothing the
consolation whispered by the Spirit of Night! Weeping
oft at the remembrance of his own fault, the Spirit commiserates
the tears of others. Floating over the earth,
invisible, save through the exquisite beauty of his orb, and
the thrilling thoughts of Heaven and immortality awakening
in the soul, which, formed of kindred essence, becomes thus
conscious of his presence, the Spirit sends his soft rays,
formed from the liquid lustre of his tears, on all who need
his pity and repose. By the couch of the sufferer—the side
of the sorrowing—by the kneeling penitent—by the wakeful
mourner—by the careworn and the weary—to the hut of the
beggar as the palace of the king—he sends pity, and peace,
and consolation. Nor does he sympathise with sorrow alone:
the joy which, in the sunshine and midst the turmoil of the
world, has agitated the soul even to pain, he softens into
such deep calm, as to whisper of that Heaven whence alone
the full bliss comes. Love, shrinking from the garish day,
finds in his presence eloquence and voice. The poet, oppressed
and suffering in the rich blaze of day, at night pours
out his full soul in stirring words; for, conscious of a spirit’s
presence, the pressure of infinity is then less painful to be
borne. The artist, does he dream of giving life to the vacant
canvas, the senseless marble, or voice and sound to the rich
harmonics for ever breathing in his ear—labours in toil, often
in despondency, during the day, for Earth only is present
then; but when alone with his own soul and the holy night;
when the Spirit, visible either through his silvery tears, or in
the rich beauty of his starry zone, penetrates his whole
being with his heavenly presence, then life is strong once
more! The dream of Immortality on Earth, even as in
Heaven, dashes down all earthly fears. The spark of the
Deity in every soul is rekindled by the touch of its kindred
// 394.png
.bn 394.png
essence, and Hope, and Truth, and Beauty start into enduring
glory beneath the vivifying flash.

Beautiful Spirit! such hast been, and is, and will still be
thy task. Over the earth thou floatest, and man, be he in
gloom or gladness, aspiring or desponding, hails thee with
rejoicing; and even as the pale flowers drooping beneath the
noontide heat, and the parched and languishing earth, so
does he turn to thee for coolness and repose. Beautiful
Spirit! thou hast sinned and been forgiven—therefore we
rest on thee!
// 395.png
.bn 395.png
// 396.png
.bn 396.png

.if h
.il fn=illus_fp375.jpg w=600px
.if-
.if t
.ti +8
[Illustration]
.if-

// 397.png
.bn 397.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p375
<i>Recollections of a Rambler.</i>
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>It</sc> was on a beautiful morning, in quite the beginning of May,
that, leaving the Globe Hotel, on the Beacon Hill, Exmouth,
I strolled forth at a very early hour, determining to ramble
wherever chance might lead.  There was no fear of my
missing any particularly lovely spot in following this
determination. The very watering-places combine all
the charms of sea and country to an extent peculiar to
this lovely county. Ten minutes suffice to bear the wanderer
to such seeming solitude of hill and dale, and glen and
wood—will scatter around him such a profusion of ever-varying
yet ever beautiful scenery, that it is difficult to believe
that all those artificial luxuries and pleasures necessary to
the trifler and the fashionest, would we seek them, are close
at hand.
.pi
Every season has its own charm in England. Even
winter, in its stern, rude aspect, its brawling voice of winds
and storms, has, in the deep, still haunts of nature, its own
peculiar beauty. Spring, with its young, fresh joyousness,
its sparkling glory of earth and sky—its gushing atmosphere;
for, as the breeze comes laughing and dancing along, we can
give it no other term. Summer, with its still and deeper
feeling, as if the dancing light and glittering love of the
youthful year had sobered into a being deeper, stronger,
more fervid and intense. Then autumn, decking decay with
such bright beauty, shedding a parting halo on the fading
year; concentrating all of loveliness in that sweet, dreamy
pensiveness, which, while it lingers almost mournfully on
earth’s parting glories, looks through their passing light into
their renovated being, reading in the death and resurrection of
nature the spirit’s immortality.

One charm, indeed, spring possesses beyond those of the
other seasons; it is, that almost every hour of the day is
equally delicious; in the morning, noon, afternoon, or
evening, we may come forth and make acquaintance with
her in every variety of aspect, each one as lovely as the other.
Evening indeed is the hour of that delicious musing which,
// 398.png
.bn 398.png
in the very blessedness of the <sc>PRESENT</sc>, unconsciously recalls
the loveliest images of the <sc>PAST</sc>, and adumbrates the <sc>FUTURE</sc>,
by the thrilling whisper of our immortal goal. It is then
that, as Wordsworth says—

.pm verse-start
            “We are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul.”
.pm verse-end

But these are not the sensations of the morning; then
life is infused with the <sc>PRESENT</sc> alone. We can neither
recall, nor think, nor hope; we do but believe, and love, and
feel, conscious only of the blessing of Existence, of the omnipotence
of Love!

It was with all the elastic joyousness of such sensations I
hastened up the Beacon Hill, pausing involuntarily on the
top to gaze beneath me. There lay Old Ocean, slumbering
in the early sunshine as a lake of molten gold, tinged here
and there with the shadow of overhanging rocks, and ever
and anon fringed with a snowy crest, as a passing breeze
rocked the waves into heavier swell. The broad and graceful
river, rushing boldly and proudly into its parent sea; its
undulating course visible for miles up the land; its shores
skirted with towns half buried in foliage; churches, towers,
and villages coming forth in the glowing light from their
background of hills dark with verdure; headlands, bold,
rugged, and broken into every diversity of form; Powder-ham’s
castellated mansion glancing through magnificent
plantations, with their glades and lawns of emerald issuing
from the deeper shadows as jewels of the sunshine. Mamhead
just visible through its dark, dense woods; and farther
still in the distance, woody uplands and barren rocks towering
above the broken summits of the headlands, taking
every grotesque form from the clouds lingering above them,
and at length fading into ether, changing like phantasmagoria
beneath the magic influence of light and shade, and mist
and sun.

My path now lay across one or two fields, inlaid with a
perfect mosaic of gold, and white and green, formed by the
patches of grass, kingcup, and daisy, leading into those
narrow, luxuriant lanes, with their gurgling streamlets and
clustering flowers which mark at once the county of Devon.

The hedges rose high above my head, and from them
sprung forth the oak, and elm, and beech, and ash, bearing
the weight of centuries on their lofty trunks and far-spreading
// 399.png
.bn 399.png
branches; the hawthorn, with its blossoms just tipping
its rich green as with a shower of snow; and the holly
standing forth, dark and stern, amid the more tender foliage
of the early spring. Every field-gate or occasional break in
the hedge disclosed a complete mass of hill, and wood, and
orchard; on one side bounded by sea and sky, on the other
stretching farther and farther inland, till hills met the sky,
and seemed to close around the landscape. Every shade of
green, from the darkest to the lightest, was visible in the
tender foliage—some as if already clothed in the intenser
hues of summer; others so lightly, so delicately shaded, that
their exquisite tracery was distinctly marked against the
clear blue sky. The orchards already lay as patches of snow
in their verdant dells, and primroses and violets by thousands
clustered on the banks of the clear, trickling streamlet
which skirted the deep green hedge as a fringe of silver.

I do so love the primrose; there is something so sad and
pensive in her meek, pale flowers, gleaming forth as silent
stars from their darkly-closing leaves, and bending over the
laughing waters, as if their very mirth were sad to her. And
the deep purple violet, shrouding itself in silence, yet seeming
in its very scent, to smile and whisper joy. And the
speedwell, with its full blue petals and delicate stems, which
literally bend beneath their weight of blossom, light and
fragile as they are; the deep-red campion, with its gorgeous
clusters, looking proudly down on its humbler brethren,
rejoicing in its lofty home, that it may fade unplucked upon
its stem; these and countless other flowers gemmed the
hedge a very garniture of love.

There was no sound save the delicious music of the fresh
springy breeze, as it wantoned with the glistening leaves,
or played with the gushing waters, inciting them to break in
tiny waves against the hedge; and the rich thrilling melody
of the happy birds, calling to each other from tree to tree,
or sending forth such a gush of song, such a trilling flow of
rapture, that their slender throats seemed quivering with the
effort; then would come silence, as startled and hushed by
their own joy; and then a low twittering, with perhaps the
distant call of the lonely cuckoo, and a burst of melody again.

After rambling amid such scenes and sounds for about
two miles, a thick grove of lofty trees, interspersed with
thatched roofs, ivy-clad and smoke-dyed walls, and chimneys
// 400.png
.bn 400.png
of every architecture, marked its termination. The lane
narrowed, and hastening onwards, a rustic gate opened into
an old churchyard, surrounding a village church of such
extreme old age, and so picturesque, that it sent me back in
fancy centuries at once. There was the low, square belfry,
indented and fractured, with lichen and moss, and flowering
weeds springing from every crevice; the long and rambling
choir, roofed with copper; the slender buttresses; the small-paned
windows, some of Saxon, some of Tudor architecture;
the large square porch or entrance, with its grotesque
carvings, that could only belong to the middle ages. The
very trees, massive alike in root, and trunk, and branch;
yews so dark and thick, they seemed in the distance more as
solid masonry than trees—looked as if they had stood there
grim guardians of the holy dead for centuries; and grassy
graves and quaint old tombs, so battered with age and
atmosphere as wholly to obliterate their inscriptions—though
some bore date as far back as 1500—strewed the ground, so
closely congregated that there was no space for a foot between.

The very birds seemed imbued with the spirit of the place,
for they were silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves,
or winging their way to less sacred groves. A sudden sound
awoke me from my musing, and transported me at once from
past to present; a joyous peal burst forth from the old
belfry, and a kindly voice accosted me with—“Maybe, you’d
like to walk in, sir, and see the old place? You’d ha’ time
to look round ye afore the wedding party comes; and if not,
there’ll be time enow during the service.”

The offer was accepted so eagerly as to delight my old
guide; for if one place in the country be more interesting
to me than any other, it is an old village church, so buried
in its own beautiful site that the roar of the railroad can
never reach it; where we can stand still and breathe, apart
from the rush and the turmoil, and the haste, still pressing
onward—onward, in the vain strife for man’s intellect to
keep pace with the giant he has raised, which is now the
constant accompaniment of the neighbourhood of towns.
The interior betrayed still greater age than the exterior; the
windows were painted rudely but gaudily, throwing streams
of coloured light where the early sunshine fell, and leaving
the remainder of the interior in that dim twilight so in
unison with holiness and age. An antique shrine, adorned
// 401.png
.bn 401.png
with most grotesque, and to me incomprehensible carvings,
ran between the nave and chancel. The nave, fitted up as a
Protestant place of worship, with pews and seats, looked
more modern than the chancel; though the very black oak
of its furniture gave it a venerable appearance, and seemed
to mark its date as among the earliest of the reformed
churches, while the dilapidated pavement and crumbling
seats of the chancel spoke of an age still further back. The
font was roughly hewn out of a single stone. I was intently
engaged in endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions and
dates on the stone flooring, which appeared entirely made
up of graves, when the entreaty of the old clerk that I would
withdraw into a pew, as the wedding party was approaching,
most abruptly scared away all my antiquarian lore, and
transported me, very unwillingly, if the truth must be told,
to the contemplation of that common, every-day occurrence,
a modern wedding.

But one glance at the group, consisting of only six or
seven persons, riveted my interest. In my whole London
career I had never seen such a face of intellect, and soul,
and beauty as that of the bride. Whether it was the contrast
of such youthful grace and loveliness with the stern
old shrine around, or the excessive agitation of the bridegroom,
and the almost extraordinary self-possession of the
bride, I know not; but no marriage ceremony ever affected
me as this. Self-possessed as she was, there was no absence
of feeling; her cheek was perfectly colourless, and at times
there seemed a slight tremulous motion of the lips, as if the
effort to retain her composure was too painful to be continued,
and only persevered in for him. <i>His</i> responses were
wholly inaudible; <i>hers</i> so distinct and thrilling, they affected
me almost to tears. The clergyman himself, though young,
and, by his gay careless face and manner, the only one who
did not well assimilate with the scene, became gradually
impressed with its unusual solemnity. The embrace with
which, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the bridegroom
folded the bride to his heart, was so full of passionate feeling,
of such suppressed yet intense emotion, even I could
scarcely witness it unmoved, and it completely checked the
customary joyous greetings of their companions.

I followed them almost unconsciously from the church,
saw them enter the two carriages waiting for them outside
// 402.png
.bn 402.png
the little gate, and remained leaning on a tombstone overlooking
the road, long after they had disappeared. My
reverie was interrupted by a courteous address from the
young clergyman who, having noticed my attendance in
the church, volunteered the information which I so much
desired.

Pierre Laval, the only son of a very rich planter in Martinique,
having received the best education which an alternate
residence in France and England could bestow, returned
to his father only to feel that a residence in Martinique was
about the most miserable thing that could happen to him,
and so again made his appearance in England. He sought
no profession, because he had no need to do so, his father’s
possessions being immense. Joining in the very best society,
in which a handsome face, elegant address, and highly cultivated
mind gave him many advantages, he became
acquainted with the reigning beauty of the season, Helen
Campbell. Now Pierre had a decided aversion to cried-up
beauties, and so he resolved that, however she might conquer
others, she should never obtain any power over him. It
is one thing to make a wise resolution, and another to keep
it. It so happened that Helen Campbell possessed none of
the repulsive attributes of an acknowledged beauty. She was
in truth, much more lovely than he had anticipated, but it was
the intellectuality of her sweet face which was its peculiar
charm. She was frank, truthful, gay—nay, almost wild in
her joyousness; and, moreover, possessed the spell of one
of the sweetest voices, either in speech or song, which he
had ever heard. Pierre struggled a long time, but it would
not do; he was fairly conquered: and then for the first time,
he imagined himself wanting in every quality likely to make
that love reciprocal, and, by sudden silence and reserve, was
in a fair way of actually creating the evil he dreaded, had
not a mutual friend opened his eyes, and with sudden desperation
he urged his suit, and discovered, to his inexpressible
happiness, that his love was returned.

For a brief period all was joy. Pierre had written to his
father, and did not harbour a single doubt as to his residence
being permanently fixed in England, although Helen
had made no such condition to his acceptance. Anxiously
the arrival of the packet was anticipated; but instead
of the answer expected, it brought news so overwhelming,
// 403.png
.bn 403.png
that the unfortunate Pierre was at first verging on distraction.

Monsieur Laval was almost irretrievably ruined; a revolt
in the slave population of the island had taken place, and
his extensive plantations were burnt to ashes. Other heavy
losses had congregated round him; and what with these
misfortunes, and having been severely wounded in the revolt,
his health appeared rapidly failing. Panic and confusion
still reigned; but the friend who wrote, expressed the hope
that, when all was quiet again, the Laval losses might not
involve such utter ruin as at present appeared. Nothing
was so earnestly desired, in fact, so indispensable, as the
immediate presence of Pierre.

For some time the young man strove in vain to reduce his
thoughts to order; and at length, hardly knowing what he
did, he sought his betrothed, told her all, and with a desperate
effort, offered to resign all his pretensions to her hand;
he was a ruined man—must labour for years in Martinique;
how could he ask his Helen to leave her luxurious
home, country, friends, all, to bear with poverty and misery
in a distant colony, for him? She heard him quietly to the
end, and then clasping his hand, vowed nothing should part
them. She was his by the most holy of all ties—mutual
love and truth; and no persuasion, no effort, could turn her
from his side. In vain her mother and all her friends
seconded Laval’s appeal, urging the madness of the sacrifice.
Helen’s only reply was, “Had the voice of man united
us, would you thus persuade me? Would you not bid me
follow my husband through weal and through woe? And
shall I do less now, because freedom is in my power? I
<i>could</i> desert him if I chose. No, no, mother, you have other
children, who will be to you all I have been. Pierre has
but me,” and no subsequent persuasion had power to
shake her resolution. It was, however, thought advisable
that Pierre should seek Martinique alone; and that when
affairs were a little quiet, he should either return for her,
or she should go to him. But how could she join him, an
unprotected girl in a strange land? She saw that he hesitated
to speak the only means, and so spoke them for him:
“Give me the sanctity, the protection of your name, my
Pierre, and then what tongue dare cast aspersions on a wife
who joins her husband? If the day which unites us, must
// 404.png
.bn 404.png
also bid us part, let it be so; but save me, as your wife,
from attentions and notice, and persuasions which may be
forced upon me.”

Pierre’s first answer was a wild and passionate embrace; his
next, as passionate a burst of sorrow, that it should be his
doom to banish her to a home so little congenial to her taste,
as the burning climate would be to her health. And it was
long ere she could soothe or chide him into composure; for
the more brightly shone forth her unselfish love, the more
bitterly he felt the extent of sacrifice she made.

Helen had to endure a very tempest of opposition and
upbraiding as to her romantic far-fetched folly; but hers was
not a mind to change or waver, when feeling and principle
had alike dictated her resolution.

Pierre was to join his ship at Falmouth; and yearning
for the quiet only found amid the repose of nature, Helen
prevailed on her mother to reside for the next few months in
Devonshire. Their bridal I had witnessed; and when I
heard that the afternoon of that same day Pierre Laval was
to part from his Helen for an indefinite period, that when
united by the holiest of ties, made one for ever, but a few
troubled hours were left them together, I no longer wondered
at the emotion I had beheld.

Often and often has the vision of that morning haunted
me with the vain longing to know if indeed that unworldly
love had been blessed as it deserved, and when those loving
and aching hearts did meet again. For years that olden
shrine returned to me, as a dream of the far past in itself,
blended with all the griefs and hopes of human hearts in
the present; and never can I recall the old altar to my mind
without beholding in fancy the sweet shadowy form of
Helen Campbell, and the suppressed but terrible emotion of
her Pierre.
// 405.png
.bn 405.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p383
“<i>Cast thy Bread upon the Waters; thou shalt find it after many\
days.</i>”
.sp 2
.ni
“<sc>Why</sc>, Willie, what is the matter?” inquired Edward
Langley, entering his father’s office one evening after business
hours, and finding its sole tenant, a boy of fourteen or
fifteen, leaning both arms on one of the high desks, and hiding
his face within them, whilst his slight figure shook with uncontrollable
sobs. “And how came that drawer open?” he continued,
more sternly, perceiving a bureau drawer half open,
so as to display its glittering contents, which looked disturbed.
“I hope you have not been doing anything wrong, Willie.”
.pi
“Oh, sir, indeed—indeed I have not! Count the money,
Mr. Edward; pray count it; see that it is all right, or I can
never hold up my head again. The temptation was misery
enough,” returned the boy, as well as his sobs would permit,
and displaying such a countenance of suffering, as to enlist
all Edward’s sympathy at once.

“But, my good boy, what could have tempted you? You
seem so to feel the enormity of the sin, that I cannot imagine
what thought came into your head.”

“I only thought of my poor father, sir. Oh, Mr. Edward,
he is in prison, and my mother is too ill to work; and
she and my poor little sisters are starving,” he replied,
bursting again into tears. “I did not know what to do to
help them; I give them all I earn, but that is so very little
it only gives them a meal now and then; and then, when I
saw that drawer accidently left open, and remembered
twelve pounds, only twelve pounds, would get my father
out of prison, and he could work for us again, the horrid
thought came into my head to take them: they would never
be missed out of so many; and I had them in my hand.
But then I thought what could I tell them at home? It
would break my poor mother’s heart to think her Willie was
dishonest; she could better bear hunger and grief than that,
sir; and I knew I could not hide it from her; and so I
dashed them back! They seemed to scorch me! Oh, Mr.
Edward, indeed, indeed I speak the truth!”
// 406.png
.bn 406.png

Edward did believe him, and he told him so. There was
little need to speak harshly; the boy’s own conscience had
been his judge. To satisfy him, however, he counted the
money, found it correct, and after talking to him a little while,
kindly yet impressively, promised to do what he could for his
father, and left him, indelibly impressing that evening upon
Willie’s mind, by never reverting to it again.

The tale, which his inquiries elicited, was a very common
one. Willie’s father had been an artificer in one of the
manufacturing towns; but too eager for advancement, he
imprudently threw up his situation and tried independent
business. Matters grew worse and worse; his family increased
and his means diminished. Hearing of an excellent
opening at New York, for an artificer like himself, he
worked day and night to obtain sufficient means to transport
himself and family across the Atlantic, and support them till
a business could be established. His wife ably aided him,
when unhappily he was tempted to embark all his little savings
in one of the bubbles of the day, which he was confidently
assured would be so successful as to permit his embarking
for America at once, and so seize the opening offered. Few
speculators had, perhaps, a better excuse; but fortune did
not favour him more than others; it failed, and he was ruined.
Three months afterwards he was thrown into prison for the
only debt he had ever incurred, and though he had friends
to persuade him to his ruin, he had none to liquidate his
debt. His wife’s health, already overworked, sunk under
privation and sorrow; and though she toiled even from her
fevered pallet, her feeble earnings were not sufficient to give
her children bread.

Edward Langley was a creature of impulse; but in him
impulse was the offspring of high principle, and, therefore,
though the following it often caused him unlooked-for annoyance,
it never led him wrong; and Willie’s tale called forth
sympathies impossible to be withstood.

“Edward,” said one of his numerous sisters one evening,
about three weeks afterwards, as they were sitting at tea—a
meal which, bringing them all together, was universally
enjoyed, “what have you done with grandpapa’s birthday
present? You were to do so many things with that money;
and I have not heard you speak of it since my return.”

“Because wonderful things have occurred since you left,
// 407.png
.bn 407.png
Fanny,” said another slily. “He is going to accompany
Mr. Morison’s family to Italy and Paris; and bring us such
splendid presents. His fair Julia cannot go without him,
and he has promised to join them.”

“Wrong, Miss Ellen, I am not going,” was the reply, with
rather more <lang='fr'><i>brusquerie</i></lang> than usual.

“Why, have you quarrelled?”

“Not exactly.”

“But she will be offended, Ned; I am sure I should be.”

“No, you would not, Annie, if you knew my reasons.”

“What are they, Edward, dear? Do tell me, I am so
curious.”

“Of course, or you would not be a woman!”

Against this all his sisters expostulated at once; and even
his mother expressed curiosity, adding, that he had talked of
this continental trip so long, and with so much glee, it must
be a disappointment to give it up.

“It is; but I do not regret it.”

“But you must have a reason.”

“The very best of all reasons; I cannot afford it.”

“Come to me for the needful, Edward,” said his father.
“I cannot give you luxuries; but this is for your improvement.”

“Thank you most heartily, my dear father, but I am, rather
I was, richer than any of you know. I earned so much for
my last engraving.”

“And you never told us,” said his mother and sisters, reproachfully.

“I did not, because it was already appropriated. I wanted
exactly that sum to add to my grandfather’s gift; and that
was what I worked so hard for.”

“To purchase some bridal gift,” said Fanny, archly.

“No, Fan, I never mean to purchase love.”

“But if the lady requires to be so conciliated?”

“Then she is not worth having.”

“Of course not,” rejoined Annie. “But come, Edward,
you have never kept anything from us before. What is this
mystery?”

“Out with it,” laughingly pursued Ellen. “Julia Morison
will not thank you for preferring anything to accompanying
her, I can tell you; so, as Annie says, what is this
mystery?”
// 408.png
.bn 408.png

“No mystery at all, girls. You will all be disappointed
when I tell you; so you had better let it alone.”

But beset on all sides, even by his father and mother,
Edward told the simple truth, which our readers no doubt
have already guessed. His money had been applied in releasing
Willie’s father from prison; restoring his mother to
health, by giving her and her children nourishing food,
securing a passage for them all to New York, and investing
the trifling surplus for their use on their arrival. He told his
tale hurriedly, as if he feared to be accused of folly, and his
father did somewhat blame him. He was provoked that the
little scheme of pleasure and improvement, which Edward
had anticipated so many weeks, should be frustrated; and
annoyed that he should be disappointed, though the disappointment
was perfectly voluntary. How could he tell that
the man’s story was true? How was he sure the money
would produce the good effect he hoped? He must say he
thought it a pity, a very great pity; a visit to Paris would
be so improving; Mr. Morison’s family such a desirable
connection—and other regrets, which, without being a very
worldly parent, were not perhaps unnatural.

“My dear father,” was Edward’s earnest and affectionate
rejoinder, “do not be vexed for my sake. A visit to the
Continent would no doubt have been improving; but I will
work doubly hard in dear old England, and that, though it
may not be as much pleasure, will be just as serviceable.
With regard to Miss Morison,” his cheek slightly flushed,
“if her affections are only to be secured by being constantly
at her side, and always playing the lover, there could be no
happiness in a nearer connection for either. A separation for
three or four months can surely have no effect on real regard,
and I am quite willing to subject both myself and Julia to
the ordeal. As to not being sure of doing the good I hope—who
can be? I do believe that poor fellow’s story, I confess,
and strongly believe he will do well; but I do not mean
to give the subject another thought, except to work the
harder. The money is as much gone as freely given, and I
expect as little reward as if I had thrown it on the
waters—”

“Where thou shall find it after many days,” continued his
mother, so affectionately and approvingly, that Edward threw
his arm round her and kissed her tenderly. “You have
// 409.png
.bn 409.png
done right, my dear boy; and if Julia Morison does not
think so, she is not worthy of your love.”

How quick is woman’s, above all, a mother’s penetration.
From the first allusion to Miss Morison in the preceding conversation,
she knew that something had occurred between
them to annoy, if it did not wound her son; and the moment
she heard the story she guessed the actual fact. Perhaps
her penetration in this instance was aided by previous observation.
She had never liked Miss Morison, desirable as
from worldly motives the connection might be. Edward,
youth-like, had been captivated by her beauty and vivacity,
and gratified by her very marked preference for himself.
His complete unconsciousness that he really was the handsomest
and most engaging young man of the town of L——,
by depriving him of all conceit, increased Miss Julia’s fascination.
Mr. Morison was member for the county, and had
made himself universally popular; and certainly took marked
notice of Edward. The good people of L—— were too
simple-minded to discover that their member’s attractions were
merely graces of manner; and that he noticed Edward only
because he was perfectly secure that his daughter would
never do such a foolish thing as to promise her hand to the
son of a country attorney, however agreeable he might be.

Edward’s wish to accompany them to the Continent met
with decided approval. Mr. Morison thought the young
man would save him a great deal of trouble, as a kind of
gentleman valet, without a salary; and Miss Julia was delighted
at this unequivocal proof of his devotion, and at the
amusement she promised herself in playing off her country
beau on the Continent, his simplicity being the shield to cover
her manœuvres; besides, he would be such an excellent
<lang='fr'><i>pis aller</i></lang>, that she need never be without a worshipper.

That such a person could appreciate Edward’s real character,
or enter into his motives for, and his disappointment
in, not accompanying her, was impossible. For regret, even
for anger, he had prepared himself, nay, might have been
disappointed had she evinced no emotion; but for the cold
sneer, first of doubt, then of unequivocal contempt, which
was her sole rejoinder to his agitated confession, he was not
prepared, and it chilled his very heart. Still he tried to deceive
himself, and believe that all she said of benevolence, disinterestedness,
and a long et-cetera, was the sympathy he yearned
// 410.png
.bn 410.png
for; but the tone and manner with which she informed her
father in his presence of his change of purpose, and its
praiseworthy cause, could not, even by a lover more infatuated
than Edward, have been misunderstood; his spirit rose,
and with it his self-respect. He said very little, but that little
convinced both Julia and her father that he was not quite the
simpleton which they had supposed him.

He left them, wounded to the core; to his warm, generous
nature, worldliness was abhorrent even in a man, and in a woman
it seemed to him something so unnatural, so revolting, that it
dispersed at once the bright creation of his enthusiastic fancy,
and displayed Miss Morison almost in her true character.

Still, notwithstanding all this pain and disappointment,
Edward never once regretted the impulse he had followed;
and when, about six or seven months afterwards, he received
the most grateful letters from Willie and his father, informing
him that the opening offered, though attended with many
difficulties, promised fair, he felt the sacrifice was more than
recompensed, and from that hour never thought of it himself
again. But his assertion, that he would work the harder
to make up for those continental advantages which he had
lost, was no idle boast; he did so well, that even his father
forgot his vexation; and his industry united with great personal
economy, enabled him to give his sisters richer and more
useful presents than the <lang='fr'><i>bijouterie</i></lang> which he had laughingly
promised to bring them from France.

The marriage of Miss Julia Morison with some foreign
Count, before six months elapsed, had happily no effect
on Edward’s equanimity; it might, nay, it did cause a
transient pang, but he recovered it much sooner than his
father did the loss of so desirable a connection.

“Never mind it, sir,” was Edward’s laughing entreaty; “I
would rather earn my own independence, and make a connection
through my own exertions than by the richest
marriage I could make.”

“That’s just like your mother, boy,” said his father, somewhat
pettishly, “as if all depended on one’s self.”

“Thank you for the likeness, father. When I can bring
you a daughter to be to me what my mother is to you, I
shall have formed a desirable connection, though my wife be
not set in gold.”

And this even his father acknowledged, when, two years
// 411.png
.bn 411.png
afterwards, Edward married the daughter of their vicar, who
proved in his own person that influence is not always inseparable
from wealth, but may be found with worth as well.
Time rolled on; twenty, thirty years. In the multitude of
great and trifling events, which make up the sum of human
life, during those years Edward Langley had so entirely forgotten
the generous deed of his early youth, that he would
have found it difficult to recall even the name of Willie’s
parents. His perseverance and talent had been crowned with
such success, that when only eight-and-twenty he was taken
into partnership by one of the first engravers of the metropolis.
For twenty more years the business so flourished as to
make all the principals very wealthy men; and Edward looked
forward in two or three more years to resign in favour of his
son and retire himself from active business. He had never
been ambitious, and a series of domestic trials in the loss of
six children out of nine, all of that most interesting age when
childhood is giving place to youth, caused him to turn with
clinging love to those who remained, longing more to enjoy
an Englishman’s home than to continue amassing wealth.

Greatly against his wishes and advice, engagements and
speculations had been entered into by the firm to an immense
extent, more especially with establishments abroad. The
dishonesty of distant agents, and the careless supineness, if not
equal dishonour, of one of the principals at home, occasioned
ruin to all, of course including Langley, though he had been
most unjustifiably kept in ignorance of the real extent of
their speculating schemes. Yet his high integrity enabled
him to bear up against this sudden change of circumstances
with more fortitude than any of his companions.

His wife’s little property had never been touched, and he
was therefore enabled to retire to a very small cottage in
Cheshire, which soon displayed the refined taste and artistic
skill of its gentle-minded inmates, to an extent that completely
concealed their very humble means. Not that they
were ashamed of their poverty; but the same self-respect that
prompted their horror of all pretension, and resolution to live
strictly within their means, threw a comfort and refinement
around and within their lowly home, which the wealthiest
might have envied.

For himself, Edward Langley would have been as happy as
in the height of his prosperity; but he could not help feeling
// 412.png
.bn 412.png
a very pardonable pang at this sad change in the prospects of
his children. His son, emulating his firmness, sought and
obtained an excellent situation in a thriving engraving establishment
in Edinburgh, where his father’s name and character
spoke for him more forcibly than the highest premium. It
was on Helen Langley the blow had fallen heaviest; the only
one of his daughters who had reached the age of nineteen
(for Fanny was still a child), frail, delicate in seeming as a
beautiful flower. She had been nursed in luxury and affection,
and guarded from even the approach of a storm; the
deserved darling of all who knew her, rich and poor, her
parents’ love for her amounted almost to idolatry. Engaged
to the son of one of her father’s partners, then studying as a
physician, a bright and happy future shone before them,
when the thunderbolt fell before either had seen a cloud.
George Ashley was summoned from Paris just as his diploma
was obtained, and he was weaving fairy dreams of a speedy
union with his Helen; recalled, not as he believed, still to
study and gradually attain eminence, but to give up all
ambitious dreams, and work as a general practitioner for
actual subsistence. To marry before he had even the prospect
of a connection and employment was absolute madness;
to live any distance from Helen he felt was quite as impossible;
so he settled himself in the old town of Chester, about
three miles from her home, and for her sake exerted himself
more than he had once believed was in his nature. At first,
youth and excitement beheld only the brighter side; but after
six months’ trial, so endless and little remunerating seemed
his toil, that he sunk into the deepest despondency, which
neither Mr. and Mrs. Langley’s kind advice, nor Helen’s sweet
counsels could remove.

Fearfully would Mr. Langley look on his darling, dreading
that this constant pressure of anxiety and suspense would be
as fatal to her as disease had been to her sisters; but though
more serious than had been her disposition before, it was not
the seriousness of gloom, but rather of a firm yet gentle
spirit, forming internally some resolution which required
thought and time for development. Her smile was as
joyous, her voice as gleeful, as in happier years; her pursuits
continued with the same zeal, if not with deeper
earnestness. To persuade her to annul her engagement
never entered either parent’s mind, but the long vista of
// 413.png
.bn 413.png
dreary years which they believed must intervene ere it could
be fulfilled, was literally their only thought of anxious and
unmitigated gloom.

“Give me up, Helen! I have no right to fetter your
young life with an engagement which heaven only knows
when we shall fulfil,” passionately exclaimed young Ashley,
about seven months after their misfortunes. “Your sweet
face, and sweeter temper, and lovely mind must win you a position
in life far higher than I can ever offer. You were only
seen at the ball the other night to be admired.”

“That unfortunate ball! I only went to gratify papa;
and you are jealous, George, that your poor Helen was admired.”

“No, Helen, no! I gloried in it; for I knew you were
mine, mine in heart, faith, all but name. But then I thought
how selfish, how utterly selfish I was still to claim you; to
behold you wearing out your young life in all the sickness of
hope deferred; when, by resigning you, you might be rich,
admired, followed, occupy the station you deserve, and—”

“Be very happy, dearest George? This is a strange
mood,” she said, half reproachfully, half playfully. “Come,
send it away, for it is not like you. I am very sorry I cannot
oblige you; but as I consider myself as much yours as if
the sacred words had actually been said, <i>you</i> may divorce me
if you will, but <i>I</i> will never give you up.”

“Helen, darling Helen! forgive me,” he replied, his repentance
as impetuous as all his other feelings. “Oh! if
you would but be mine at once, I am sure I should succeed;
with such a comforter, such a cheerer, work would be welcome.
I would never despond again, dearest; loving
as we do, why should we not wed at once? We must then
do well.”

“Must do well because we love, George? Yes, and so we
shall, but not if we wed now. Ah, now you look reproachfully
again. Dearest, you know I would not shrink from
any hardship shared with you. I will work with you, work
for you, if needed; but, young as we both are, is it not
better to work apart a few years, that we may rest together?
Think what five years may do for both, it may be less; I
put it only to the extent. You are succeeding, and will
succeed still more, the more you are known; but had you a
wife and an establishment to support now, even with my very
// 414.png
.bn 414.png
hardest exertions, we could not keep free from debt; and
love, potent as it is, could not then guard sorrow from our
dwelling. When wedded, if unlooked-for misfortunes come,
we will bear them, and comfort and strengthen each other;
but would it be right, would it be wise to invite them by a
too early marriage? My own dear George, let us work
while we have youth and hope, and trust me we shall be
very happy yet.”

It was scarcely possible to remain unconvinced by such
fond reasoning; but still Ashley referred with deep despondency
to the long, long interval which must elapse ere
that happiness could be obtained.

“Not so long as you fancy, George. I never mean to be
a rich man’s wife, though you invited me to be so just now.
I do not even intend to wait for comforts, but only just for
that competency which will prevent those evil spirits, care
and irritation, from entering our home; and to forward this,
listen to my plan, dearest George.” And with some little
tremour, for she dreaded his disapproval, she told him that
she had accepted an engagement as governess, in a family at
Manchester; a Dr. Murray, who was a widower, with four
or five children: she had been mentioned by a mutual friend,
and the Doctor was so pleased with Mrs. Norton’s account,
that he agreed even to give the high salary Helen required,
without seeing her. He had said that his mother, who lived
with him, was too infirm to bear his children much with her,
and he therefore wanted more from his governess than merely
to teach; he was quite willing to pay for it, but a lady he
must have.

“To bear with all his whims and fancies; to be tormented
with spoiled children; put up with the old woman’s infirmities;
be insulted by pampered servants. Helen, you shall
not go!” exclaimed George.

“Now, George, don’t be foolish. I do not expect one of
these evils; and if I meet with them I can bear them, with
such a hope before me,” she continued, fondly looking in his
face.

“But governesses are so insulted, so degraded.”

“Not insulted, if they respect themselves; not degraded,
if those they love do not think so. But perhaps, George,
you are too proud to marry a governess.”

A passionate reproach was his reply.
// 415.png
.bn 415.png

“Well then, love, listen to me a little longer. Mamma
still means to allow me enough for my quiet dress, so that I
can put by every shilling that I earn; and only think what
that may come to in a few years. Then I have a reason for
choosing Manchester as a temporary home; you know I can
draw, but do you not know that I can design—William took
so much pleasure in teaching me—and, in a manufacturing
town like Manchester, I may not only be able to use this
knowledge, but perhaps gradually get introductions which
will allow my successful pursuit of the art even as—as your
wife, dearest George; and then, what with our mutual economy
and mutual savings beforehand, and mutual work afterwards—oh,
our future will shine as bright as it did before
this storm!”

“God for ever bless you, Helen, my own darling! you are
indeed my best hope, my best comforter already,” murmured
George, half choked with strong emotion, which he tried to
conceal by pressing her to his bosom, and kissing her
cheek. “How can your parents part with you, and what
will drive away my fits of gloom, when I cannot come to you
for comfort?”

“Hope!” was her instant reply, in a tone so glad, so
thrilling, that it pervaded his whole being ever afterwards
like a spell. “Think, dearest George, of the hundreds who
have to labour on, through lonely years, uncheered by either
love or hope; who must work, wearily and unceasingly, only
for means of existence. We have health and youth and love,
and, above all, mutual faith to sustain us; and therefore we
must be happy. You do not know how powerful is a
woman’s will.”

“Not more so than man’s,” replied Ashley, more cheerfully
than he had yet spoken. “Helen, you have shamed
me. I will become more worthy of such love.”

Helen looked very much as if she thought that was impossible,
but she did not say so.

It was no light task this gentle girl had undertaken.
Hopefully as she had spoken and felt, her resolution had
neither been formed nor matured without suffering, nor had
it been the least portion of the trial to win over her parents
to her wishes; but the wisdom of her plan was so evident,
that they conquered all selfish feeling for their child’s sake,
and tried to be comforted by Mrs. Norton’s assurance, that
// 416.png
.bn 416.png
in Dr. Murray’s family Helen would be as comfortable as
she could be away from home.

And so she was. In fact, so kindly was she welcomed and
treated, that she could scarcely understand it. Dr. Murray
was a man in reality under fifty, but looking much older,
from a life of some hardship and much labour, the fruits of
which he now enjoyed in the possession of a comfortable
income. His manner, in general blunt and rough, always
softened towards Helen, whom he ever addressed with such
respect, as well as kindness, that all George’s terror of her
encountering insolence very speedily dispersed. Mrs.
Murray had evidently not been born a lady, but her regard
for Helen was shown in such a multiplicity of little kindnesses,
that no feeling could be excited towards her but
gratitude and love. Constantly as she was occupied with
her pupils, Helen’s careful economy of time yet enabled her
actually to accomplish the purpose she had in her mind when
she chose Manchester for her residence. The idle, nay even
the less energetic, would have declared it was impossible for
any one person to do what she did; but not even the Doctor
or his mother knew how her moments of made leisure were
employed.

So nearly three years glided by; Helen’s health, instead
of failing, as her friends had feared, actually improved; and
George declared there must have been some spell in her
words or her example, for his prospects were brightening
every year. Helen only smiled, and told him that the
spell was simply in his own more hopeful exertions.

Dr. Murray’s house was the frequent resort not only
of men of talent from the higher ranks, but frequently of
clever manufacturers and artificers, in whose works the
Doctor and his mother were always particularly interested.
It happened that Helen was present one evening when one of
these gentlemen was regretting his inability to procure an
appropriate design for some window curtains, of a new
material, which he had invented; being no artist himself, he
could not perhaps define his wishes with sufficient technicality,
but all which he had seen were either so small as to
have no effect, or so large as to look coarse and common.
Before he departed the conversation changed, and Dr. Murray
thought no more about it, until at a very early hour the next
morning Helen entered his study with a roll of paper, which
// 417.png
.bn 417.png
she asked him to examine, and tell her if he thought it the
kind of thing Mr. Grey required. His astonishment that
she should remember any thing about it was only equalled by
his admiration of her work. So great was his delight, that
he declared he would convey it to Mr. Grey himself, and get
her something handsome for it. He was not disappointed.
Mr. Grey seized it with rapture, declared it was the very
thing he meant; offered to pay any sum for it, and was
struck dumb with astonishment, when told it was designed
by the elegant young lady to whom he had been introduced
the previous night, and whom he had scarcely deigned to
notice, believing her the same as most young ladies—a very
pretty but a very useless piece of goods. One of his young
men, who had been eagerly examining it, said he was sure
it was by the same hand as several other elegant designs
which they had been in the habit of purchasing the last two
years, but the name of whose inventor they had never been
able to discover. He brought some, and compared them,
and even the Doctor’s unpractised eye could discern the
same hand throughout. But how could Miss Langley have
accomplished all this, and yet so done her duty to his
children? It was incomprehensible; and the good Doctor
hurried home to have the mystery solved. Helen speedily
explained it, adding ingenuously, that she had worked in
secret, only because she feared the Doctor or his friends
might think she must neglect her duty to her charge to
pursue this employment; but since he had expressed such
perfect satisfaction, she had resolved on taking the first
opportunity to tell him all.

“But my good young lady, you must have some very
strong incentive for all this exertion.” Blushing deeply,
Helen acknowledged that she had. “Is it a secret, my dear
child?”

For a minute she hesitated, then frankly told her story.
The Doctor was so much affected by it as to surprise her,
and expressed the most unfeigned regret that he had not
known it before.

Not a fortnight afterwards, Mr. Grey sought an interview
with Miss Langley: he wished, he said, to monopolize her
talents, and offered, in consequence, with sufficient liberality
as to tempt her to adhere to his employment, instead of
taking the chance of larger remuneration for occasional
// 418.png
.bn 418.png
designs. It was for this Helen had worked and prayed and
hoped—this which she had looked to, to follow even as a
wife, and in her husband’s house; and therefore we leave to
our reader’s imagination the gratitude with which it was
accepted, the joy with which she wrote to her parents, to
George, to whom her woman’s heart so yearned in that
moment of rejoicing, that for the first time since she had
loved him she could scarcely write for tears. But the letters
she received in reply sadly alloyed this dawning happiness.
Her sister Fanny was dangerously ill; the same age, the same
disease which had been so fatal to her family. All George’s
skill, and it was great, had been ineffectual; nothing could
save her, the distracted father wrote; she was doomed like
all the rest. But to Helen there was no such word as doom.
She flew to the Doctor, repeated to him as well as she could
the symptoms, and the remedies applied, conjuring him to
think of something which would alleviate, if it could not
cure. What could she write?

“Write, my dear child! that will be of little use; we
will go together.” And though there were no railroads in
that direction, man’s omnipotent will carried Helen and the
Doctor to Mr. Langley’s cottage in so short a space, that it
seemed to Helen like the transfigurations of a dream.

For four days fearful were the alternations of hope and
dread; the fifth, hope predominated, and by the end of the
week, promptness and skill in the adoption of an entirely
new mode of treatment were so successful, that Dr. Murray
was blessed again and again by the enraptured parents as,
under heaven, the preserver of their child. But, though all
danger was over, the Doctor did not offer to quit the cottage
for another week, which time he spent mostly in his patient’s
room, and in earnest conversation with young Ashley.
Helen had intended to remain in his family till he could meet
with some one to supply her place; but this he now declared
should not be. She must be wanted at home, at least till
she could finish her preparations for entering another; for, if
he were George, he would not wait another month; she had
had her own will too long already, and the future was bright
enough now to permit him to have his. Helen’s hand was
clasped in her young sister’s as the good Doctor spoke, but
George’s arm was round her, and her reply seemed to satisfy
all parties.
// 419.png
.bn 419.png

All Mr. Langley’s attempts to obtain a private interview
with his guest were ineffectual until the day of his intended
departure, when, with trembling hands and swimming eyes,
he tried to press a pocket-book into the Doctor’s hand. “It
is inadequate, wholly inadequate,” he said, with emotion.
“You have saved my child; so restored her, that she is better
than she has been since her birth. You have given us your
time, your skill, and you shrink even from my thanks.
Were I a rich man, I should feel as I do now, that a fortune
could not repay you; but, as a poor man, do not insult me by
refusing the fee I can bestow.”

“Mr. Langley,” was the reply, “I tell you truth, when I
assure you that you owe me nothing. I am in your debt far
more, far more than my professional skill ever could repay.”

“In my debt, Doctor? Ah, you mean my Helen’s services;
but those you have so liberally remunerated, and treated
her with such kindness, that you have made me your debtor
even there. No, no, I cannot allow Helen, precious as she is,
to come between me and justice.”

“I do not allude to Miss Langley, sir,” and the Doctor
spoke as if addressing a superior. “Her inestimable services
to me and mine, indeed nothing can repay; but it was not
for her sake I came to you. The debt I allude to is of more
than thirty years’ standing, and is due to you alone. On my
first return to England, your position was higher, your fortune
far superior to mine; and had I then sought you, it might
still have been to receive benefits at your hand. In your
noble endurance of misfortune, it would have been an insult
to have discharged my debt, and therefore I waited and
prayed for some opportunity not only to do justice, but to
evince gratitude. If I have made your child happy, and
shortened the term of her heroic exertions, you owe it to
yourself. I could not take from you even the full amount of
this visit, regarding it merely as professional, for I owe you
in actual money more than that.” Mr. Langley looked and
expressed bewilderment; the Doctor’s manner was too earnest
to permit a doubt; but he tried in vain to recall to what he
could allude.

“Have you so completely forgotten Willie Murray,
Mr. Edward?” continued his companion, much agitated.
“Willie Murray, the poor boy you not only saved from sin,
but made so happy by your generous kindness to his family.
// 420.png
.bn 420.png
Mr. Langley, I am that boy; my character, my success I owe
to you. How can such a debt ever be repaid?”

Mr. Langley’s astonishment was so great, as literally to
deprive him for the moment of words. He only remembered
Willie Murray as a pale, thin, intellectual boy of fifteen.
To recognise him in the tall, stout, somewhat aged-looking
man before him, required more imagination than he chanced
to possess; but to doubt the identity was impossible. He
grasped his hand warmly, and insisted on his giving him that
very hour the history of his life. Our readers, however, must
be contented with a very brief sketch of these details. Suffice
it, that neither Willie nor his father rose to independence
without constant toil and unwearying perseverance.
Profiting by the trials of earlier years, the elder Murray
laboured with an energy and skill which, until his timely release
from prison, had appeared foreign to his character.
Many difficulties he had to encounter; but once the manufactory
established, competence was secured; and as his labour
rather increased than slackened, fortune followed. His son’s
marked preference for the medical profession grieved him at
first, but he lived long enough to see that he had chosen
wisely, and at his death left all his children comfortably provided
for, each possessing a share in the manufactory which
his energy had established. Willie had always yearned to return
to England, and did so directly he became a widower,
his mother gladly accompanying him. He had finished his
medical education in France, had a large practice in America,
and, from his general intelligence, proved skill, and wide-handed
benevolence, very speedily became popular in
England. But amid all the chances and changes of his busy
life, neither the fearful temptation of his boyhood nor Edward
Langley’s generous kindness had ever been forgotten.

Joyous indeed, and full of hope, was Helen Langley’s bridal
morn, though neither pomp nor fashion attended it, such as
might have been the case some few years before. On retiring
to change her dress, Helen found a heavy packet, directed to
Mrs. George Ashley, on her table. It was a purse, containing
three hundred sovereigns, with the following brief lines:—

.pm letter-start
“This is your father’s gift, though it comes through me. I do but
return a sum lent by him to me and mine, with the accumulated interest
of three-and-thirty years. It is now added to the store earned by Helen
Langley’s meritorious exertions.”
.ti +10
“<sc>William Murray.</sc>”
.pm letter-end

// 421.png
.bn 421.png

“Mother!” exclaimed Mr. Langley, after perusing this
note, and turning to his now aged parent with some emotion,
“do you remember your words, when I told you the money
was as freely given, and I expected as little reward as if I
had thrown it on the waters, ‘that I should find it after
many days?’ You were right, I have found it indeed!”
// 422.png
.bn 422.png
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=p400
<i>The Triumph of Love.</i>
.sp 2
.pm verse-start
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth,
Unseen, both when we sleep, and when we wake.
                                      <sc>Milton.</sc>
.pm verse-end
.sp 2
.h4
I.
.sp 2
.ni
<sc>It</sc> was a scene of unrivalled beauty; yet might some marvel
wherefore it was thus created, so far removed from mortal
ken, so severed from the habitations of sin and death, that
foot of man had never sullied the pure fresh green of the
velvet grass; mortal hand had never culled the brilliant
flowers, gemming each silvery stream; corporeal sense had
never been regaled by their fragrant breath, or lulled by the
sweet music of the waters. The leafy branches of the
ancient trees stretched forth their deep green shadows, and
hill, and stream, and valley, each clothed in its own peculiar
beauty, derived fresh charms, as the seasons softly and
silently sped by, leaving bright tokens as they sped. The
stars still smiled at their own sparkling rays gleaming up
from the gushing water; the pensive moon still touched the
glossy leaves with her diamond pencil, still lingered on the
verdant mount, leaving rich shadows on the luxuriant vales;
the sun still sent forth its bright beams, to revive and cherish
the glistening flowers, to whisper of his unfailing love; still
did he bid them drink up the dewdrops, which, trembling
beneath his earnest gaze, yet sprung up from their homes at
his first call, eager to lose themselves in him. Day, in his
mirth and light, gave place to silent and shadowy night; and
night again to-day. Yet man was not there, and wherefore
had such loveliness birth?—wherefore was it so continually
renewed?
.pi
Man would joy in the contemplation of beauty, such as
this scene presented; yet his imperfect vision would see no
further than mount and vale, and trees and shrubs, and
streams and flowers; he would hear nought but the rustle of
the leaf, the murmur of the breeze, the music of the brook,
the luscious scents floating on the breeze, would be but indistinctly
distinguished, and his fancy perchance yearn towards
// 423.png
.bn 423.png
them, and long for perfume more defined, even as we sometimes
seek to unite into sweet melody the thrilling notes,
which, one by one, at dreamy intervals, linger on the distant
air; and these things he would hear, and feel, and see, and
dream not there were sights and sounds hovering around him
too pure, too spiritual for earthly sense.

There were glorious spirits—angelic beings floating on
the ambient air, and lingering beside the waters, and
sporting with the jewelled buds. There were rich tones
lingering on the breeze—sweet thrilling voices mingling
with golden harps and silvery flutes; there were luscious
scents ascending to the arching heaven; even as if, guided
by ministering spirits, each floweret sent up her grateful
incense to the throne of her Creator. As the dazzling flash
of the diamond, the softer gleam of the emerald, the radiant
beam of the sapphire, the intense rays of the ruby, so shone
these beautiful beings, as they fleeted to and fro on their
respective tasks. Some replenishing the brooks with living
waters from vases which seemed moulded from precious
gems. Some tending the flowers, inhaling and bestowing
fragrance, or whispering those sweet memories, with which
man ever finds the flowers of the desert filled. Some lingering
in groups upon the mount, crowning its flowery brow as
with a circlet of living rays. Some flying downwards,
agitating the valley with soft delicious winds, and others
freshening the rich tints of the far-spreading foliage; and
far and near their voices sounded in one rich hymn of praise,
whose theme was love; and the golden harps prolonged the
hallelujahs, sounding up through the blue realms of space,
till they mingled with the deeper, mightier harmonies around
the Eternal’s throne, bearing along its thrilling echo, joined
by innumerable voices till the whole air seemed filled with
song, and still that song was Love!

Beautiful as were these celestial spirits—beautiful and
blessed above all conception of finite man—yet they were not
of the highest class of angels.

Incapable of sin, unconscious of pain or sorrow, but not
yet admitted to hover over the dwelling of man, to minister
unto the afflicted, to tend the couch of the dying, to whisper
of rest to the weary, hope to the desponding, joy to the
mourner.

Sensible of the Eternal’s presence, their bliss made perfect
// 424.png
.bn 424.png
in His glory, their task was to watch and tend inanimate
creation;—to sing His praises amidst the glorious shrines of
nature, till His works proclaimed Him unto man.

Activity and obedience were the sole virtues demanded of
these celestial beings in the tasks above enumerated, and
when these had been sufficiently exercised, they graduated
to a higher order of angels, nearer the Eternal’s throne, who
were permitted to receive His will and make it known to
man. The desire to obtain this privilege was lively in all,
but far removed from that grosser passion known to man as
ambition. In them it did but add zest to enjoyment; give
energy to love, inspiration to obedience. Faith they needed
not; for to them the Eternal was revealed. Anticipation was
lost in fulfilment—hope in completion. Their nature was
not susceptible of a deeper sense of bliss; but as they
ascended higher and higher in the scale of angels, the
deeper, fuller, more glorious blessedness was met by a nature
yet more purified, spiritualized, exalted, fitted for its reception,
and strengthened to retain it.
.sp 2
.h4
II.
.sp 2
Reposing on a sunbeam lingering on the brow of a hill, a
spirit lay, apart from his fellows. His brow was wreathed
with the opal, emerald, and ruby; so blending their several
rays that they seemed but as a circlet of ever-changing
light. His long flowing hair shone as if each clustering
ringlet had been bathed in the liquid diamond. His downy
wings, woven of every shade, gently waved in air, wafting
the richest perfume, and dyeing the sunbeam on which he
lay in every brilliant tint. A light mist enveloped his
angelic form—softening, not lessening, his resplendent loveliness.
His eye shone as the midnight star; a bloom,
softer, lovelier, purer than the earliest rose, played on his
cheek; sparkling smiles wreathed his lips. He spoke, and
his voice was music, though his golden harp lay silent by his
side.

“Love! love;” he murmured. “Hallelujah to the Lord
of love! Let the full choirs of heaven chant forth the
immortal theme; proclaim, proclaim Him Love! Earth!
air! ocean! shout with your hundred tongues, send up your
echo to the voice of heaven! Man, art thou insensible?—Hearest
// 425.png
.bn 425.png
thou not these living tones?—Can doubt be thine,
as I have heard whispered in the celestial courts? Created
by Love—placed in a world of Love—distant as thou art, yet
cherished and beloved by Love, destined for immortal union
with the Love that gave thee being!—canst thou be faithless,
canst thou be senseless?—when above, below, around,
within, soundeth the deep eternal voice of Love! Oh, insensates,
if such things be! Immortal glory, bliss unfading,
can it be for ye!”

Awhile he paused. A slight shadow passed athwart the
brilliant rays with which he was encircled. He folded his
wings around him, and laid his brow upon them.

“My thought has been rebuked,” he said; “I have done
ill. Enough for me the consciousness of love. Wherefore
should I condemn, as yet unworthy to look on man? Let
the hallelujahs sound forth again. Glory to the Eternal!—His
works are wisdom, His thoughts are love!”

He swept his hand across his harp—the shadow had
departed from his wings;—his chaplet shot forth again its
living light. Celestial music flowed forth from his voice and
hand:—the spirit smiled once more. Suddenly the hallelujahs
ceased. To the eye of man twilight had descended;
the stars began to light up the dark blue heavens. Mortal
vision might trace the semblance of a falling meteor of unwonted
brilliance, dropping into space. The purified orbs of
the seraph crowd knew that one of the highest class of
angels was departing from his resplendent seat, and winging
his flight towards them. Instantly they rose up from their
several resting-places, forming in files of unutterable brilliance.
Increased happiness shed a new lustre on their brows, and
heightened the glowing iris of their wings. One alone felt
penetrated with an awe, which slightly lessened the feelings
of joy which the visit of an angel ever caused. He feared
it was to him the celestial mission came: that his condemnation
of beings, whose nature and whose trials he knew
not, had exposed him to censure, perhaps to a longer banishment
from the higher spheres of glory; and while his
brother spirits thronged round the favoured minister, to bask
in the resplendent brightness of his smiles, to list to the
words of melody flowing from his lips, to gaze on the mild
yet thrilling softness of his celestial features, Zephon stood
aloof, for the first time shrinking from the glance and voice
// 426.png
.bn 426.png
he loved. He saw not that the glittering helm and dazzling
sword were laid aside, that his brow was wreathed with the
softly gleaming pearl, his shining wings glistening through
silvery radiance, bespeaking tenderness and mercy, and not
now the wrath and chastisement of which, at his Maker’s
will, he was at times the minister.

His voice, melodious and thrilling as the silver trumpets
of the empyreal heavens, sounded through space, as it called
“Zephon!” The seraph paused not a moment, but darting
through the incensed air, prostrated himself at the archangel’s
feet.

“Arise! and fear not, youthful brother,” spake the messenger
of the Eternal, departing not from the grave majesty
of his demeanour, but smiling with such ineffable sweetness,
the seraph felt its reviving influence, and spread forth his
silken pinions rejoicingly again. “I come, the harbinger of
peace and love. Thine impassioned zeal was checked ere it
became a fault—checked ere it led thee to desire forbidden
knowledge. Charged with a message of love and mercy
from the Most High, I have besought and obtained permission
to take thee as my companion. To thine imperfect
vision it seemeth strange that man, so especially the beloved,
the cherished of the Eternal, framed to display, to uphold
His stupendous power, to proclaim His might—His love—should
ever fail either in obedience or adoration. Thou hast
heard that such has been; for where sin hath so fearfully
prevailed that an immortal spirit has been excluded from
these glorious realms, a dim shadow hath spread over
Heaven’s resplendent courts, and the celestial spirits of
every rank have prostrated themselves before the invisible
yet terrible Presence, adoring justice, while they supplicated
mercy. Zephon! not yet may be revealed to thee the
glorious mystery of the Eternal’s secret ways. Thou mayst
gaze with me on the earthly beings I have charge to tend;
but it is forbidden thee to ask or seek the wherefore of what
thou seest. Thou wilt behold, even in this limited glance,
enough to prove, that even if the human heart refuseth to
send up its thrilling echo to the theme of Love, which thy
zeal demandeth, the unfathomable love of its benignant
Creator will receive and bless its faintest sigh; for to Him,
and to Him alone is known the <i>extent</i> of its trial—the
bitterness of its grief—the difficulty of its belief in an ever-acting
// 427.png
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love. Zephon! if still thou wilt, thou shalt look on
the human heart: yet pause awhile;—is thy love sufficiently
strong to uphold thee in the contemplation of decrees, whose
motives thou art not yet permitted to conceive? In thy
blissful dwelling, thou hast no need of Faith; thou knowest
not even its name; but if with me thou goest, Faith must
be thy safeguard. Here thine eye seeth, thine ear heareth
nought but love; there it may be darkly hidden from thee.
Yet if thy faith or thy love should fail, if thou demandest the
wherefore of what thou seest, it is of our Father’s will, that
thou shalt be banished unto earth—banished from this
glorious abode, condemned to struggle with the ills and
sorrows of mortality, till pure and perfect faith shine forth,
and fit thee once again for heaven. Speak then, my brother;
wilt thou depart with me, or still linger here? The choice
is now thine own.”

Awhile the seraph paused; the face of the archangel
beamed on him with compassionating tenderness and redoubled
love. The looks of his brother spirits, the soft
fluttering of their wings, seemed to woo him to remain, to
entreat him not to tempt the fate threatened if his love should
fail, and therefore did he pause.

“No, no! wherefore should I fear?” he cried; “I will go
with thee, minister of love. I will look upon my Father’s
dearest work, and despite of mystery and gloom—of sorrow—of
pain, I will love and bless Him still!”

A fuller, richer burst of melody filled the realms of air;
thousands and thousands of voices swelled forth in triumphant
harmony. A starry cloud descended, and, folded
in its spangled robe, the departing spirits vanished into
space.
.sp 2
.h4
III.
.sp 2
“Thy wish is fulfilled; the peculiar treasure of our Father
is revealed. Zephon, behold!” the angel spake, as the
shrouding cloud rolled away towards the fields of ether, and
the celestial spirits hovered over the abode of man. A
sudden, an indescribable consciousness of increased powers,
of heightened intellect, shot from the starry eyes of the
youthful seraph. Man in his majesty, his beauty—bearing
in his every movement, his exquisitely-formed frame, his
// 428.png
.bn 428.png
complicated economy of being, yet more impressive, more
startling evidence of the might, the wisdom, the benevolence
of his glorious Maker, than even the source of the river,
the structure of the flower, the growth of the tree, over
which the seraph had presided, finding even in such things
ample scope for the soaring intellect which characterised his
race. Man, proceeding from, destined for, immortality—the
beloved, the peculiar care and treasure of the Eternal—man,
beautiful man, stood revealed before him. Yet amidst the
thronging multitude on which he gazed, but <i>one</i> <sc>HEART</sc>, in
all its varied impulses, its hidden throbs and incongruous
thoughts and ever-changing fancies—but one beautiful intellect,
in all its secret powers and extent, was open to his
inspection; and lovely, even to the eyes of a spirit, was the
being in whom such glorious things were shrined.

She was a young and noble maiden, perfect in form and
face; her virtues scarce sullied by a stain of earth, although,
from the spirit of Poetry, the living fount of Genius, dwelling
within, open to grief and trial, even from the faintest breath
too rudely jarring on the heavenly-strung chords with which
her heart was filled. A deep, lowly, clinging piety was ever
ready to check the first impulse of impatience, to turn to the
sweet joys of sympathy and universal love the too vivid
sense of sorrow either for herself or others. Humility was
there, to lift up that young spirit in thankfulness to its
Creator, and to devote that powerful intellect, ever seeming
to bear all difficulties before it, to His service in the good of
her fellow-creatures.

Zephon saw that the praise of man was a source of pure,
inspiring pleasure; but instead of filling her soul with pride,
it ever bore it up in increased devotion to its God. He marked
her graceful form, sporting to and fro amid the stately
domains of her lordly ancestors. He marked the love of
parents, brothers, friends, that ever thronged around her, and
the fulness of joy that love bestowed. He saw, too, the impassionate
longings for yet stronger love, the yearnings for
fame; appreciation, not alone from the noble and the gay, but
from the gifted and the good: the desire to awake, by the
magic touch of genius, the same thrilling chords in other
hearts, as the spell of others had revealed in hers.

The seraph looked long and earnestly. Suddenly he
saw her standing in the centre of a lordly room, and
// 429.png
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loving and admiring friends around her; her lip, her eye,
her heart breathed joy, well-nigh as full and shadowless
as the blessedness of heaven. After awhile the angel
spake.

“There is nought here to call for Faith,” he said. “Yon
favourite child of genius but awakens deeper yet more
adoring love. Her lot <i>is</i> blessedness; her heart so pure,
earth hath scarce power to stain that bliss. But now look
yonder, Zephon. Seest thou amidst the multitude a being
equally, though differently lovely—equally powerful in intellect,
equally the child of genius, as richly gifted, alike in
wisdom as in virtue, as fully susceptible of joy and sorrow;
the same feelings, the same desires, the same deep yearnings
for love on which to rest, for appreciation, fame; the same
strung heart, thrilling to melody as keenly as to neglect.
Mark well, young brother, and thou wilt trace these
things.”

Anxiously the seraph gazed, and again he was conscious
of sufficient power to read the human heart. Again, amidst
the multitude, one gentle being stood unveiled before him;
and, save for the difference in form and face, he had thought
perchance it was the same on whom he had gazed before, so
similar were their virtues, powers, temperament, and genius;—similar
in all things, save that the sense of bliss in the one
already appeared more chastened, more timid than in the
other. He looked, then turned inquiringly towards his companion.

“The will of the Eternal,” he said, in answer, “produced
at the same instant these lovely beings, and breathed into
both the spirit which thou seest. Their souls are twin-born—<sc>TWIN-BORN</sc>
in sensation, in power, in beauty, formed
of the highest, most ethereal essence, and thus creating that
which earth terms genius; destined at the same moment to
animate the beautiful habitation formed for each, and at the
same moment depart from it. Until now, their fate hath been,
with little variation, the same, differing only according to
their station; the one standing amidst the highest and
noblest of her land, findeth fit companions for that nobleness
and refinement indivisible from genius; the other
already feeleth there is that within her incomprehensible
to those around her; yet is the consciousness of little
moment, for freely and joyously she roams amid the varied
// 430.png
.bn 430.png
scenes of nature. She mingles but with those eager and
anxious to enhance her innocent pleasures—to give to her
exalted mind and gentle virtues the homage naturally their
due. She looks on the world from a distance, and hath
peopled it with all things fond, and bright, and beautiful,
which take their exquisite colouring from her own lovely and
loving mind. She yearns for appreciation, as thou seest—for
the praise of the multitude won by her talents, but she
asks not to mingle with them. She seeks but the love of
one, and the proud consciousness of doing good to many.
She demands not a statelier home, a prouder station. Thus,
then, thou seest the earthly fate of these twin-born spirits
hath rolled on the same; but now it is the will of the All-wise,
All-merciful, All-just, that a shadowy change should pass
over the one, and bliss, fuller, dearer, perfect as earth may feel,
be dawning for the other. Thou hast marked the quick throb of
joy now playing on the heart of the noble child of genius. She
beholds her first triumph in the book she clasps. The
thoughts that breathe, the words that burn, have found their
echo in the multitude, and loving friends throng around to
proclaim her dawning fame. There are tears in those lovely
eyes; but ’tis a mother’s voice of love, of tenderness, that
calls them there. See, clasped to a parent’s bosom, the
swelling fulness of the spirit finds vent in tears, for joy, that
pure, stainless joy, which is sent as the dim whisperings of
heaven, ever turns to pain on earth, and had it not relief in
tears, would bear the soul away to that world of which it
speaks. She hath flown from the detaining throng, and
hark!—hearest thou not the hymn of thanksgiving ascending
upon high, till the tumultuous joy subsides, and peace is
gained once more?”

He ceased; a brighter radiance passed over his benignant
brow, and the voice of the seraph spontaneously flowed forth
in kindred harmony with the hymn of earth, bearing it on
the wings of melody to the realms of song. ’Twas hushed,
and the Hierarch again spake.

“Behold!” he said, the music of his voice subdued and
softened, “behold, yet murmur not! It is the will of the
Eternal, and therefore it is well.”

The seraph gazed on a changed and darkened scene.—As
deep, as full as was the bliss from which his eye had that
moment turned, so deep, so intense was the anguish he now
// 431.png
.bn 431.png
beheld. The gentle being in whom that twin-born spirit
breathed, knelt beside the couch of the dead. He marked
the wrung and bleeding heart; he read its utter loneliness,
its agonized despair; he read it was a mother’s loss she
mourned—a more than mother, for by her, by her alone,
her child’s ethereal soul, her fond imaginings, her strong
affections had been known, and loved, and fostered; to her,
her beautiful had ever come, to seek and find that sympathy
which she found not in another—and she was gone, and the
dark troubled strivings of that desolate heart not yet could
deem it love.

“She weeps, and shall we condemn, young brother, that
not yet her voice may join in the universal hymn? She
weeps, yet knows not all her woe. The stability, the honour,
the strength of her father were derived from the mild
counsels, the gentle unobtrusive virtues of her mother; in
him they have no stay. That moral evil, too darkly prevalent
on earth, once more will gain dominion, and the joys of
the innocent, the helpless, are blighted ’neath its poison. On
earth she stands alone—yet hark! What means that burst
of triumph in the skies?”

Ineffably brilliant was the smile on the countenance of the
angel; and Zephon, startled, yet entranced, looked again on
that bleeding heart. The dark and troubled waves within
were stilled; there was no voice—no sign; but the lamp of
faith was lit; her soul had murmured Love! and bowed,
adoring and resigned.
.ce
IV.

Again did the youthful spirit gaze down on earthly joy,
chastened in its fulness, yet ecstatic in its nature. Love,
pure, perfect, faithful love, had twined around that fair and
gifted child of earth, and filled the blank which yet remained;
though fame, appreciation, triumph, sympathy, affection, all
were hers. She had found a kindred soul, round which to
weave the clinging tendrils of her own; virtues to revere,
piety to support, uphold, and cherish the soarings of her
own. She had found one whose praise might still those
passionate yearnings, the which to satisfy she had vainly
looked to fame;—one, from whose lips how sweet became
the praise of the world;—one to give new zest to her exalted
// 432.png
.bn 432.png
genius; for by him it was most valued, most beloved;
Zephon looked on the beautiful blossoming of genius, the
expansion of intellect, the flowering of every budding hope;
and he saw, too, the chastened humility, the unwavering love,
which traced these rich gifts to their source, and lifted up her
heart in universal love and grateful adoration; and again his
voice joined hers in thanksgiving.

Once more, at the voice of the archangel, he sought and
found the kindred essence, and love was on that heart, deep
mighty, whelming love, bearing before it for awhile even the
sere and withered leaves, with which its depths were
strewed. He looked on the wreck of that which he had
seen so lovely—the wreck of all save the gentle virtues, the
meek submission which had characterised her youth; the
rosy dreams, the glowing visions presented but a crushed and
broken mass; their bright fragments seeking ever to unite,
but ever rudely severed. Genius, in its deep, wild burnings,
its impassioned breathing, feeding as a smothered fire upon
her own young heart, seeking ever to find a vent, an echo—to
be known, acknowledged, loved; but falling back with
every effort, till even genius seemed increase of sorrow—and
hope yet glimmered there, pale, sickly, shadowy, in its faint
rays emitting but increase of light, to be immersed in deeper
gloom. And love was there, intense, all-mighty, yet it
brought no joy.

“She loves—she was beloved,” again spake the angelic
voice; “but the sin of the father is visited upon the child.
A little while he appeared devoted unto her, and to the
memory of the departed; and though he led her from the
scenes she loved, to mingle more closely with the world, his
affection soothed, his hopes inspired; but he knew not the
ethereal nature of that soul, and the scenes which earth terms
gay and joyous touched no answering chord in <i>her</i>, and led
<i>him</i> once again astray. Yet, for a brief while, happiness was
hers, banishing those vain yearnings, ever proceeding from a
soul too sensitive for earth; but the same hour which awoke
her to a consciousness of love, given and returned, turned
back that fountain of bliss upon her seared and withered
heart, and changed it into gall. The child of a dishonoured
parent was no fit mate for nobleness and honour, and earth
is lone once more.”

Tears, the sweet bright tears that angels weep, bedewed
// 433.png
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the eyes of the seraph; yet riveted their gaze on that one sad
child of earth, as if in its dark and troubled chaos there
was yet more to read. He saw, too, the slight and beautiful
shell in which that spirit was enshrined quivering beneath
the tempest till at length it lay prostrate and unhinged, and
intense bodily suffering heightened mental ill.

“’Tis the struggle for submission and resignation that
hath done this,” continued the angel. “Seest thou no
dream of unbelief, no murmur of complaint hath entered
that heart; anguish may wither up the swelling hymn, may
check the voice of love, but faith is <i>there</i>! And mark!
though, in His unquestionable wisdom, the Eternal’s will is
to afflict, though in impenetrable darkness, save to those
beside His throne, He hideth the secret wherefore of that
will, invisibly His ministers are charged to hover round
His favoured child, to comfort and sustain, though lone and
desolate on earth. Behold?”

Bright, beautiful spirits, robed in light and glory, hovered
round the couch of sorrow; yet earth hid them from their
kindred essence. She saw them not; felt not the mild
reviving influence of their spiritual presence, save that
gradually and slowly the chains which bound those beautiful
limbs were loosed. The whirlwind sweeping over that
heart subsided into partial calm; and strength was given
her to struggle on and live.

Zephon looked on the child of sorrow, and a faint shadow
stole over the brilliant iris of his wings; the living rays on
his brow grew dim.
.ce
V.

Again did the seraph look down on earth, again did he
gaze on the favoured child of joy. The ecstatic sense of
bliss he had marked before had subsided into happiness as
full, as pure, as thrilling, yet chastened in its fulness. There
were young and lovely forms around her; a mothers love
has added its unutterable sweetness to her lot. He looked
on her heart, and marked how sweetly and beautifully its
every dream, its every hope, had bloomed to full maturity.
How softly its light cares were soothed by sympathy and
love on earth, and trust and hope in heaven; how earnestly
it sought to pour back its every gift into the gracious hand
// 434.png
.bn 434.png
from which it sprung, and lead her children as herself, to
the threshold of Eternal joy. He looked on that unveiled
heart, as, wandering with those she loved amid the glorious
shrines of nature, she found in every leaf, and stream, and
bird, and flower somewhat to bid her children love, and add
to the inexhaustible spring of poesie and genius which rested
still within, and gave new zest, new brightness to her
simplest joy.

He gazed on her alone, amidst the books she loved, the
studies her genius craved; he read the deep, pure, shadowless
joy it was to feel that gift had done its work, and sent
its pure and lucid flame amidst the unthinking crowd, and
carried blessings with it; that its rich music had left its impression
on many a thoughtless heart; had shed sweet balm
over hours of sad, lonely sickness; had spoken its soft sympathy
to the diseased and sorrowing mind, and sent new,
brighter, purer joyance to the young, eager, and imaginative
soul. It had done these things, and was it marvel she rejoiced?

Zephon gazed; but the shadow passed not from his wings,
and hastily and silently he turned once more to seek the
kindred essence. The whelming woe had given place to a
strangely complicated mass of cross and twisted strings,
which tightly fettered down each glorious gift, each cherished
hope, each fond aspiring, yet gave them space to throb, and
live, and whisper still. The bright undying flame of genius
never seemed to burn with mere o’er-sweeping power; yet
the flashes that it sent but scorched the heart that held them.
Hope still was there, sending forth her lovely blossoms; but
to be nipped and blighted ’neath the close and icy strings
that stretched above them. There were chains upon that
spirit, binding it to earth, when most it longed to spring on
high; and the shell, the lovely shell which held it was
dwindling ’neath its withering spell. The seraph marked
the tension of each vein and nerve, and pulse, till it seemed
as if the very next breath of emotion, however faint, would
snap them in twain; the painful effort to restrain the irritation
of bodily and mental suffering, the agony of remorse
which the slightest ebullition of impatience caused.

He beheld her hour by hour, the centre of a noisy group
of children, possessing not one attribute to call forth that
torrent of love and tenderness with which her soul was filled.
// 435.png
.bn 435.png
He marked the starting of each nerve, the hounding of each
pulse, at every shout of rude and noisy revelry, the inward
fever attending every effort to restrain and instruct. He saw
her, when midnight enwrapped the earth, alone for a brief
space, in a poor and comfortless room; the bright visions of
genius thronging tumultuously on mind and brain; incongruous
and wild, from there having been so long pent up in
darkness and woe. He beheld the effort to give the burning
fancies vent; the utter failing of the mortal frame; the
prostration of all power, save that which yet would lift up
heart and hands in the low cry: “Father, it is thy will; I
know not wherefore; yet, oh! yet, if Thou willest it, it is, it
must be well!” and he heard unnumbered harps bear up
that voice of Faith, in melody overpowering in its deep rich
tones. He marked the spirits of light and loveliness still
hovering around, moulding those burning tears into precious
gems, changing each quivering sigh to songs of glory; yet
still his sight seemed strangely dim, the shadow passed not
from his wings.

“And man, her brother man, hath he no love, no tenderness,
no thoughts for sorrow such as hers?” the seraph
asked; “knows he not of the precious gifts, the gentle
virtues that frail shell enfolds? Wherefore is she thus
lone?—hath man no answering chord?”

“Man sees not the interior of that heart, as thou dost,”
rejoined the Hierarch. “When through disobedience sin
entered yon beautiful world, man’s eyes became darkened
towards his fellows, and but too often his rebellious and perverted
mind wilfully refuses knowledge of his brother, lest
sympathy should bid him share the griefs of others. In some
envy, foul envy, the base passions which first darkened earth
with death, wilfully blinds, lest the genius and the virtue of the
poor should be exalted above the rich; in others it is ignorance,
contempt, neglect, spring from that rank poison
selfishness, or the loathsome weed indifference, which flings
a thick veil over others’ woe, and so confines the gaze—it sees
no farther than itself. To mortal vision yon gentle being is
composed and calm. Man marks but the outward frame;
love alone might trace the decline of strength, the failing of
bodily power; but there is none near to love. Poverty hath
flung those chains upon the heart, confining the ethereal
spirit, dragging it down to earth, yet deadening not its
// 436.png
.bn 436.png
power. Poverty, privation, have thrown her amongst those
whose grosser, more material natures are incapable of appreciating
the heavenly rays of genius; of comprehending
its effect upon the temperament and the frame. They deem
her lot a happy one, for they cannot know how much more
she needs—what cause she has for sorrow. They would
laugh in bitter scorn at those griefs which have their birth
in <i>feeling</i>, whose intensity, whose depth of suffering are to
them utterly unknown. No! man may not alleviate woes
like hers. In the dark circle her fate is fixed; earth, mortal
fading earth, is all; they have no time for dreams and thoughts
of heaven. A spirit like to hers, bearing on its brow a
stamp of glory not its own. Alas! my brother, man
will not mark such things. Sin, foul sin, hath dimmed its
gaze.”

The seraph folded his beautiful wings around him. There
was a strange dim sense of pain upon him, undefined yet
sad, as the first clouding of mortal visions unto man, ere sight
departs for ever. When he looked forth again, the scene
was changed, and it was bright and beautiful, though death
was there.

The blessed, the loved, the cherished!—she lay there, calm,
yet rejoicing,—though the loved around her wept. Recalled
to its native home, ere age or sorrow dimmed the spirit’s glory,
joyfully, willingly, she heard the call, for death had no pang
for her. She knew she parted from her beloved to meet
again, “where never sounds farewell.” She knew she was
departing to that blissful bourne, whose glorious light had
beamed so softly and beautifully on her earthly course,
gilding <sc>MORTAL</sc> happiness with <sc>IMMORTAL</sc> glory; to that
goal, where each bright gift would be made perfect, her finite
wisdom find completion in infinity. Still, still the comfort of
her voice consoled the hearts that wept around; her lip yet
sent forth gentle words to soothe and bless when she was
gone; the mind, the beautiful mind, yet shone in all
its living light—death had no power to dim its lustre.
Brighter and brighter gleamed the departing soul; and
thoughts, sweet thoughts, came thronging on that heart, of
duties done, of life that sought but good, of universal love,
benevolence, and peace; and blessings of the poor, the needy,
and the sorrowing hovered round her as angels robed in
light. Joy! joy! oh, still was that gentle spirit wreathed
// 437.png
.bn 437.png
in joy,—the grave had lost its sting, and death was swallowed
up in victory!

Irresistibly and rapidly the seraph sought the twin-born
spirit,—which, at the same hour, was to wing her flight from
earth. There were none to weep around her couch of loneliness
and pain; but one, a kind and lowly hireling, was near
to mark that spirit’s parting pang,—to smooth the pillow,
and whisper of repose. No sign of luxury was there, no
gentle hand, with luscious fruit or cooling draught, to tempt
the fevered lip, the parched and tasteless tongue. Dark,
close, confined, the chamber of the dying—but a few pale
flowers, children of field and brook, alone stood beside her, to
whisper ’twas a poet’s dying home. Save that, perchance,
the treasured volumes still around, disclosed that the mind
was bright, and strong, and lovely still. Her thin hand still
clasped a book, her eyes lit up as they gazed upon the page,
and for a brief space her cheek shone with a bloom that
scarce could seem of death. Zephon looked within the
heart and started. Hope gleamed up amidst its crushed and
broken chords; hope, aye, and one bright flash of joy, darting
forth as a sunbeam midst the shrouding mass of clouds,
and momentary, coeval with that joy, the wish, fond wish to
live.

“Start not, my brother!” the thrilling accents of the
angel once more spake. “She gazes on her own fond
dreams, her own pure visions; she clasps their record in the
volume that she holds. Acknowledged, sought, appreciated;
her genius hast burst through the veil of obscurity and woe,
and fame, undying fame, hath wreathed his laurels to adorn
the dead. Man will weep upon her grave, will wreath her
name with glory, will reverence too late the genius that hath
gone, and therefore would she live. It is the last struggle,
the last pang,—the spirit is too pure, too free, to fold too
long the chain which earth holds forth, even though its links
are joy. Behold!”

The seraph looked once more. There had been a struggle—a
brief and anguished pang; joy and hope lay crushed
for ever, beneath the sickening consciousness; ’twas all
too late, and she must die! There came one murmuring
doubt, one painful question—wherefore she was thus
called away, when earth gave promise of such sweet reviving
flowers? And darkness spread forth her pall, and
// 438.png
.bn 438.png
shrouded up that heart, but speedily it passed; a soft
and mellowed light gleamed up; the blackened shade
rolled up and fled; the ruin and its chains were gone,
and <sc>PEACE</sc>, and <sc>FAITH</sc>, and <sc>JOY</sc> twined hand in hand
together.
.sp 2
.h4
VI.
.sp 2
Zephon looked not on the abodes of man. The Hierarch
alone stood before him, surrounded by a blaze of glory.
Ineffable brilliance shone forth from his brow and wings,
yet softened into compassionating tenderness was his
radiant look, his thrilling voice. A trembling awe
spread over the seraph, and involuntarily he bowed before
him.

“Thy will is accomplished, youthful brother, thou hast
glanced on man,” spake the angelic voice; “yet know, that
which thou hast seen is but as a single grain amid the
spreading sands of the boundless desert; as a single spark
of earthly fire amid the countless stars and blazing suns of
heaven, compared with the scenes of woe yon world of beauty
holds. When Sin entered, Joy fled trembling up to the
heaven whence he came. Twined as he was with purity
and innocence, without them earth could have for him no
stay, no resting;—man reaps the fruit he sows,—for not in a
guilty world may the Eternal mark the distinction between
the righteous and the wicked. In that which thou hast seen
there was no guilt, no sin. Twin-born in purity, as in their
high ethereal essence, yet, from the imperfection of earth, so
widely severed their mortal fates, so strangely parted, if such
things are, is’t marvel that the hymn of love, of praise, from
lips of man should be so faint and weak? Zephon, thou
hast looked on earth; thou hast marked the dealings
of our Father with His children. Speak then, my
brother, oh, speak! will the song of joy, of adoration,
still flow from thy lips—still, still canst thou proclaim Him
Love?”

The harps of heaven were stilled. The invisible choirs
hushed their full tide of song. Darker and darker, for a
brief space, became the shadow around the youthful seraph,
and his radiant brow was buried in its shrouding folds.
Deep, awful was that momentary pause, for it seemed as if
// 439.png
.bn 439.png
the hosts of heaven themselves were hushed in sympathy and
dread.

A sudden flood of dazzling effulgence burst through the
gloomy shade, dispersing it as a thin vapour on either side.
Beams of living lustre illumined that glorious brow, and in
liquid music his voice flowed forth.

“Shall I be less than mortal—I, who serve my Father
amidst His chosen choirs, who knew Him, unobstructed by
the veil of earth? Let the full song burst forth; let the bright
seraphim strike the bold harps again; let the rich hymn swell
out in deeper glory; hallelujah to our Father and our King!
His ways are dark, but His will is love! Praise Him, ye
myriads of angels; praise Him, ye Heaven of Heavens; proclaim,
proclaim Him Love! His ways are pleasantness, His
paths are peace.—Praise Him, ye glorious hosts—hallelujah,
He is Love!”
.sp 2
.h4
VII.
.sp 2
There was rejoicing amidst the heavenly choirs, rejoicing
amidst the seraph band; for a bright and beautiful spirit,
whose lot, even on earth, was joy, released from mortal
chains, had joined their glittering files. Wafted from earth
amidst strains of glory, lifting up her voice with theirs in
thanksgiving, and consummating, in the centre of that
glorious band, the hymn of beauty and of love commenced
on earth.

There was rejoicing amid the angelic choirs, beside the
shrouding veil, which softened even from their purified orbs
the transcendent glory of their Father’s throne—rejoicing
amidst the archangelic choirs; for a bright and beautiful
spirit, whose earthly doom had been shrouded in the impenetrable
mists of darkness and woe, was wafted towards
them on a golden cloud, amid a rich burst of glad triumphant
harmony, rejoicing!—for mystery and gloom were removed
from a child of God, and unsealed for her the secret of his
ways.

There was rejoicing in the angelic hosts,—rejoicing
through the central choirs,—for a youthful seraph, springing
up on the bright wings of faith and love, had joined their
glittering files, and songs of joy and melody encircled him,
rejoicing!—above, below, within, till each resplendent court
// 440.png
.bn 440.png
of heaven darted forth rays of inexpressible brilliance, and
the whole universe of space, peopled with its myriads of
angelic and archangelic spirits, sent forth its mighty depths
of harmony, its thrilling voice of song; and still, oh still,
its theme was Love!—Eternal, changeless, unfathomable
Love!
.sp 4
.ce
THE END.
.sp 4
// 441.png
.bn 441.png
.pb
.sp 4
.nf c
<l>NEW EDITION OF THE WORKS</l>

OF

<xl>GRACE AGUILAR.</xl>
.nf-
.hr 10%
This elegant Edition, large crown 8vo, is printed from new type, on
paper made especially for the series, handsomely bound, and illustrated
by the leading Artists of the day.
.hr 10%
.ce
<l><I>HOME INFLUENCE.</I></l>
.ce
A Tale for Mothers and Daughters. Crown 8vo, Illustrated,\
cloth gilt, 5<I>s.</I>
.ce
<l><I>THE MOTHER’S RECOMPENSE.</I></l>
.ce
A Sequel to Home Influence. With Illustrations, Crown 8vo,\
cloth gilt, 6<I>s.</I>
.ce
<l><I>WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP.</I></l>
.ce
A Story of Domestic Life. Crown 8vo, Illustrated,\
cloth gilt, 5<I>s.</I>
.ce
<l><I>THE VALE OF CEDARS; OR, THE MARTYR.</I></l>
.ce
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<l><I>THE DAYS OF BRUCE.</I></l>
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<l><I>HOME SCENES AND HEART STUDIES.</I></l>
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Crown 8vo, Illustrated, cloth gilt, 5<I>s.</I>
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<l><I>THE WOMEN OF ISRAEL.</I></l>
.nf c
Characters and Sketches from the Holy Scriptures. Illustrated.
Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6<I>s.</I>
.nf-
.hr 20%
.ce
<sc>Criticisms on Grace Aguilar’s Works.</sc>
.in 6
.ti -4
<B>HOME INFLUENCE.</B>—“To those who really knew Grace Aguilar, all
eulogium falls short of her deserts, and she has left a blank in her
particular walk of literature, which we never expect to see filled
up.”—<I>Pilgrimages to English Shrines, by Mrs. S. C. Hall.</I>
.ti -4
<B>MOTHER’S RECOMPENSE.</B>—“‘The Mother’s Recompense’ forms a fitting
close to its predecessor, ‘Home Influence.’ The results of maternal care
are fully developed, its rich rewards are set forth, and its lesson and
its moral are powerfully enforced.”—<I>Morning Post.</I>
.ti -4
<B>WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP.</B>—“We congratulate Miss Aguilar on the spirit,
motive, and composition of this story. Her aims are eminently moral, and
her cause comes recommended by the most beautiful associations. These,
connected with the skill here evinced in their development, ensure the
success of her labours.”—<I>Illustrated News.</I>
.ti -4
<B>VALE OF CEDARS.</B>—“The Authoress of this most fascinating volume
has selected for her field one of the most remarkable eras in modern
history—the reigns of Ferdinand and Isabella.... It is marked by much
power of description, and by a woman’s delicacy of touch, and it will
add to its writer’s well-earned reputation.”—<I>Eclectic Review.</I>
.ti -4
<B>DAYS OF BRUCE.</B>—“The tale is well told, the interest warmly
sustained throughout, and the delineation of female character is marked
by a delicate sense of moral beauty. It is a work that may be confided
to the hands of a daughter by her parent.”—<I>Court Journal.</I>
.ti -4
<B>HOME SCENES.</B>—“Grace Aguilar knew the female heart better than any
writer of our day, and in every fiction from her pen we trace the same
masterly analysis and development of the motives and feelings of woman’s
nature.”—<I>Critic.</I>
.ti -4
<B>WOMEN OF ISRAEL.</B>—“A work that is sufficient of itself to create
and crown a reputation.”—<I>Mrs. S. C. Hall.</I>
.in 0
// 442.png
.bn 442.png
.hr 100%
<I>Large Crown 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, with a
Coloured Frontispiece and Six Full-page Plates by eminent artists,
price 5s.</I>

.ce
<B><xl>THE WANDERING MASON</xl></B>
.ce
AND
.ce
<l>OTHER STORIES.</l>
.ce
<sc>By</sc> W. T.
.hr 20%
.pi
<sc>Contents</sc>: The Wandering Mason—The Golden Ram—Milton’s
Golden Lane—One New Year’s Eve—A Night of Tortures—Going
Hopping—Loitering by the Way—The Abbot’s Garden—The Elixir
of Life—An Englishman’s Castle.
.hr 100%
.nf c
<I>Large Crown 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, with a
Coloured Frontispiece and eight Full-page Plates by Dalziel Brothers,
price 5s.</I>

<xl>FOOTSTEPS TO FAME</xl>

A BOOK

<l>TO OPEN OTHER BOOKS.</l>

<l><sc>By</sc> HAIN FRISWELL</l>.

Author of “The Gentle Life,” “Out and About,” etc.
.nf-
.hr 20%

<sc>Contents</sc>: The Uses of Fame—Great Thinkers—Heroes—Rulers of
Mankind—Leaders of Men—Lovers of their Country—Votaries of
Science—Ploughers of the Deep—Pioneers of Science—Great Workers—Lovers
of Nature—Searchers of the Skies—Watchers on the
Shore—Patriots—Benefactors of their Kind—Workers and Thinkers.
.hr 10%
“Written not only to instruct and amuse, but also with the purpose of
inculcating good and honourable principles. Its style is terse and
elegant. The book betokens extensive reading, and the advice given is
always kindly, often noble, and mostly shrewd and
clever.”—<I>Illustrated London News.</I>

“The title-page intimates that it is ‘a book to open other books.’ It
will do that and perhaps more, for it may be the means of making other
books, by inciting its younger readers to follow the examples of its
heroes, and thereby making themselves famous enough to have their lives
recorded in a book. ‘Footsteps to Fame’ is a book worth the reading and
remembering.”—<I>City Press.</I>
.hr 100%
.nf c
<I>Crown 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth, gilt edges, Illustrated with
Frontispiece, price 3s. 6d.</I>
.nf-
.ce
<xl>CLIMBING THE HILL</xl>
.ce
A STORY
.ce
<l>FOR THE HOUSEHOLD.</l>
.ce
<sc>By the Author of “A Trap to Catch a Sunbeam.”</sc>
.hr 20%
// 443.png
.bn 443.png
.ce
<l><I>NEW EDITION OF THE WORKS</I></l>
.ce
OF
.ce
<l><B>ANNA LISLE.</B></l>

This elegant edition, large Crown 8vo, is handsomely bound in
cloth, gilt edges, suitable for presentation, and Illustrated by the
leading artists of the day.
.hr 20%
.ce
<I>In One Volume, Large Crown 8vo, Illustrated, price 5s.</I>
.ce
<xl>SELF AND SELF-SACRIFICE</xl>
.ce
OR,
.ce
<l>NELLY’S STORY.</l>
.ce
BY ANNA LISLE.
.hr 20%
“A very beautiful story, with characters well drawn, scenery vividly
described, and interest admirably sustained. The tendency of the volume
is not only unexceptionable, but excellent in a Christian point of view.
We have seldom seen a book in which the best and highest aim is so
manifest without the attractiveness of the tale being at all lessened by
the embodiment of religious principles.”—<I>Eclectic Review.</I>

“The story is so delightful, and the whole spirit of the book so pure,
that it compels our admiration.”—<I>Daily News.</I>

“Since ‘Currer Bell’ we have read nothing more genuine, nor more
touching. ‘Nelly’s Story’ has power to carry the reader right through
with it, and can hardly fail to impress a moral of inestimable
importance.”—<I>Carlisle Journal.</I>
.hr 100%
.ce
<I>In One Volume, Large Crown 8vo, Illustrated, price 5s.</I>
.ce
<xl>QUICKSANDS:</xl>
.ce
<I>A Tale.</I>
.ce
<l>BY ANNA LISLE.</l>

“It is a thoroughly woman’s book. We can fairly say that we have seldom
met with a graver or more striking warning against the consequences of
over eagerness about worldly position and advantages, more forcibly and,
at the same time, gracefully conveyed.”—<I>Literary Gazette.</I>

“Contains a great deal of quiet and powerful writing. Marty, the maid of
Mrs. Grey, might pass for a creation of Dickens. The moral of ‘Quicksands’
is at once comprehensive and striking.”—<I>Weekly Mail.</I>
.hr 100%
// 444.png
.bn 444.png
.ce
<l>MR. SHIRLEY HIBBERD’S BOOK ON THE IVY.</l>
.nf c
<I>Fcap. 4to, cloth elegant, Illustrated with Coloured
Plates and numerous Wood Engravings, price 10s. 6d.</I>
.nf-
.ce
<xl>THE IVY:</xl>
.nf c
<B>A Monograph. Comprising the History, Uses, Characteristics, and\
Affinities of the Plant, and a Descriptive List of all the Garden Ivies\
in Cultivation.</B>

<sc>By</sc> SHIRLEY HIBBERD.
.nf-

<sc>Contents.</sc>—I. Preparatory Observations.—II. Historical and
Literary Memoranda.—III. The Characteristics of the Plant.—IV. Uses of
the Ivy.—V. The Cultivation of the Ivy.—VI. The Species and Varieties of
the Ivy.—VII. Descriptive List of Garden Ivies:—1. Green-leaved climbing
forms of Hedera helix. 2. Variegated climbing forms of H. helix. 3.
Green-leaved arborescent forms of H. helix. 4. Variegated arborescent
forms of H. helix. 5. Green-leaved climbing forms of H. grandifolia
(canariensis). 6. Variegated climbing forms of H. grandifolia. 7.
Green-leaved arborescent forms of H. grandifolia. 8. Variegated
arborescent forms of H. grandifolia. 9. Green-leaved climbing forms of
H. coriacea (colchica). 10. Green-leaved arborescent forms of H.
coriacea.—VIII. Selections of Ivies, comprising the most Distinct and
Beautiful in the several Sections.
.hr 20%
“Mr. Shirley Hibberd has performed an acceptable task in laying before
the public, in this pretty volume, the results of his experience. The
writer evidently found his task a pleasant one, and he has executed it
pleasantly. He descants on the characteristics of the plant, the uses to
which it may be put, and gives a long descriptive catalogue of the
several varieties. Numerous illustrations are given which appear to us
to be very faithful representations.”—<I>Athenæum.</I>

“Among the numerous gift-books of the season there is not one more truly
elegant or more fitted, by its very beautiful coloured plates, and other
well-engraved illustrations, to constitute a dainty present than Shirley
Hibberd’s ‘Monograph of the Ivy.’ Until we read this charming book,
enriched as it is with vignettes of old castles ivy-covered, we had no
idea how much the ivy could be rendered permanently useful in the
decoration of a room, or add to the beauty of a garden in winter. We
would heartily recommend the purchase of the volume for its real value,
as well as for its beauty.”—<I>The Treasury of Literature.</I>

“In the charmingly attractive and lavishly, as well as beautifully
illustrated, book before us, the subject has been so dealt with as to be
exhausted. Everything that we desire to know, all indeed, that we can
know, concerning the ivy, has been supplied to us by a most
conscientious and intelligent guide. The best authorities are quoted;
science and art have been valuable contributors; the aid of a hundred
poets is evoked; and the result is one of the most pleasant and
instructive books of the season.”—<I>Art Journal.</I>

“The volume is charmingly got up, and the wood engravings, in addition
to the coloured plates, are profuse.”—<I>Standard.</I>

“A gracefully conceived, and well wrought out work, with excellent and
faithful illustrations.”—<I>Daily Telegraph.</I>

“Mr. Shirley Hibberd’s ‘Monograph of the Ivy’ is a fine work, and forms
an enduring monument of his literary research, original inquiry, breadth
of generalization, and patient and successful cultural skill; should the
work become as popular as it deserves to be, ivy-hunting will become as
favourite a pastime as fern-gathering.”—<I>Scotsman.</I>

“This is a charming monograph. Throughout, Mr. Hibberd is a delightful
companion, and even his hardest description is picturesquely written,
and the eye is relieved and satisfied with abundant illustrations.
Anyone who has a bit of dead wall to cover, a screen to make, or a
window or trellis to adorn, can learn all he wants from it.”—<I>Glasgow
Herald.</I>

“It might be thought difficult if not impossible to fill a portly volume
with a scientific and practical account of a single plant. This,
however, Mr. Hibberd has done; and what is more, he has contrived to
make a very captivating book, and to do good scientific work. His book
is beautifully got up, and the illustrations, both coloured and plain,
are simply admirable.”—<I>Manchester Courier.</I>
.hr 100%
// 445.png
.bn 445.png
.nf c
<I>Crown 8vo, cloth, price 6s. Illustrated with Coloured Plates and
numerous Wood Engravings.</I>
.nf-
.sp 2
.nf c
<l>THE AMATEUR’S</l>

<xl>GREENHOUSE</xl>

AND

<xl>CONSERVATORY:</xl>

A COMPLETE GUIDE TO THE

<I>Construction, Heating, and Management of Greenhouses
and Conservatories.</I>

And the Selection, Propagation, Cultivation, and Improvement of
Ornamental Greenhouse and Conservatory Plants.
.nf-
.hr 20%
“The approach of winter naturally turns the thoughts of the owner of a
greenhouse or conservatory to the putting their houses in order, and Mr.
Hibberd’s manual, brimful as it is of practical information, will be
found a most useful guide, not only to the furnishing of the house and
the treatment of its contents, but also to the construction of the
building, and to all the appliances needful for the preservation and
proper cultivation of the plants. It is a work which no amateur, at
least, should fail to consult.”—<I>Art Journal.</I>

“This book is well adapted for amateurs, being plain and not prolix. It
points out, in its earlier chapters, the main considerations which
affect the construction and heating of conservatories and greenhouses,
this part of the volume containing many illustrations. In the fourth
chapter the amateur is initiated in the routine of greenhouse
work—potting, composts, propagation, &c., being discussed. Then follows
a series of chapters in which the treatment of the different groups and
families is explained. Greenhouse Herbaceous Plants, in alphabetical
order, leading the way, followed by the Chrysanthemum, to which a
chapter is given; Greenhouse Soft-wooded Plants; Pelargoniums; Fuchsias;
Greenhouse Hard-wooded Plants; Ericas and Epacrises; Camellias, Azaleas,
and Rhododendrons; Greenhouse and Conservatory Climbers; Oranges, &c.
Hard-leaved Plants, as Agaves, Dracænas, &c.; Succulent-leaved Plants;
Orchid and Pitcher Plants; Greenhouse Roses, &c. One chapter is devoted
to naming a general selection of Greenhouse Plants; another to summer
Cucumbers and Seedling Pelargoniums; while others treat of Hardy Plants
in a greenhouse, or afford reminders of monthly work. The volume is
nicely printed and elegantly bound; and, so far as we have had the
opportunity of testing it, seems to be sound as to its practical
recommendations.”—<I>Gardeners’ Chronicle.</I>

“Mr. Hibberd has put together a series of hints on greenhouses and
conservatories and the fittest tenants for them, which we do not
hesitate to pronounce more practical and practicable than those of his
bulkier contemporaries. The value of this volume to amateurs of moderate
means and appliances, cannot fail to be great.”—<I>Saturday Review.</I>
.hr 100%
// 446.png
.bn 446.png
Cr. 8vo, cl. gilt, price 6s., Illustrated with Coloured Plates and
Wood Engravings.
.sp 2
.nf c
 <l>The Amateur’s</l>

 <xl>ROSE BOOK,</xl>

 COMPRISING THE

<l>Cultivation of the Rose</l>
.nf-
In the Open Ground and under Glass: the Formation of the Rosarium:
the Characters of Wild and Garden Roses: the Preparation of the Flowers
for Exhibition: the Raising of New Varieties: and the Work of the
Rose Garden in every Season of the Year.
.ce
<sc>By</sc> SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S.
.hr 10%
<sc>Contents</sc>: Wild Roses—Forming a Rosarium—Dwarf Roses—The
Propagation of Roses by Buds and Grafts—Stocks for Roses—Garden
Roses—Exhibition Roses—The Characters of Roses—Climbing Roses—Pillar
Roses—Roses under Glass—Seedling Roses—Roses in Town
Gardens—The Fairy Rose—Yellow Roses—Hedgerow and Wilderness
Roses—Roses for Decorations—The Enemies of the Rose—Sending
Roses by Rail and Post—On Buying New Roses—Curiosities of Rose
Growing—Reminders of Monthly Work—The Rose Show—Selections
of Roses—Roses and their Raisers.

“We have great pleasure in thoroughly recommending to our readers Mr.
Hibberd’s ‘Rose Book.’ It is written by one who has fully mastered the
subject, and the directions he gives are of that practical utility so
much needed.”—<I>Journal of Horticulture.</I>

“Mr. Hibberd writes in such a clear, practical, common sense way, that
we do not hesitate to affirm that it is the amateur’s own fault if he
fail to profit largely by his study of the rose book. Every rose grower
should possess it. It is an elegant volume. The coloured illustrations
are beautiful.”—<I>Literary World.</I>

“The work is eminently clear, earnest, and instructive. Every idea,
plan, and notion of propagation and growing roses appears to be touched
upon. A perusal of Mr. Hibberd’s pages will not only assist the amateur
grower, but will also prevent many disappointments.”—<I>Lloyd’s Weekly
News.</I>

“It is a sound practical work, brimful of excellent advice, and
possesses the merit of being as useful to the amateur of small as of
large means.”—<I>Leeds Mercury.</I>
.hr 100%
.nf c
Cr. 8vo, cl. gilt, price 3<I>s.</I> 6<I>d.</I>, Illustrated with Woodcuts and\
Coloured Plates.

<xl>The FERN GARDEN</xl>

HOW TO MAKE, KEEP, AND ENJOY IT;

OR,

<l>Fern Culture Made Easy.</l>

<sc>By</sc> SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S.
.nf-
.hr 10%
<sc>Contents</sc>: Ferns in General—Fern Collecting—How to Form an
Out-door Fernery—Rock Ferns—Marsh Ferns—Ferns in Pots—The
Fern House—Fern Cases—The Art of Multiplying Ferns—British
Ferns—Greenhouse and Stove Ferns—Tree Ferns—Fern Allies.

“Mr. Hibberd’s books are always worth possessing, and this one is an
excellent specimen of his work. All who love ferns, or who start a glass
case or a rockery, should buy it.”—<I>Publishers’ Circular.</I>

“A charming treatise. Ladies interested in the beautiful art of fern
culture will find Mr. Hibberd’s book a pleasant and useful
companion.”—<I>Daily News.</I>
.sp 2
// 447.png
.bn 447.png
.hr 100%
.sp 2
Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, Illustrated with Coloured Plates and
numerous Wood Engravings, price 6s.
.nf c
<xl>THE AMATEUR’S FLOWER GARDEN</xl>

<I>A Practical Guide to the Management of the Garden and the
Cultivation of Popular Flowers.</I>

<l><sc>By</sc> SHIRLEY HIBBERD, F.R.H.S.,</l>

Author of “Rustic Adornments for Homes of Taste,” “The Rose Book,”
“Profitable Gardening,” “The Fern Garden,” “Field Flowers,” “The Town
Garden,” etc., etc.
.nf-
.hr 20%
.nf c
CONTENTS:
.nf-
.in 2

.ta r:8 h:35
<sc>Chap.</sc> |
      I. | Forming the Flower Garden.
     II. | The Parterre.
     III. | The Bedding System, and the Plants required for it.
     IV. | Cultivation of Bedding Plants.
      V. | A Selection of Bedding Plants.
      VI. | Hardy Border Flowers.
      VII. | A Selection of Hardy Herbaceous Plants.
      VIII. | Tender Border Flowers.
      IX. | Hardy Annuals and Biennials.
      X. | The Rose Garden.
      XI. | The American Garden.
      XII. | The Subtropical Garden.
      XIII. | The Perpetual Flower Garden.
      XIV. | The Rockery and Alpine Garden.
      XV. | Flowers for Winter Bouquets.
      XVI. | The Making and Management of the Lawn.
      XVII. | Garden Vermin.
      XVIII. | Additional Selection.
      XIX. | Reminders of Monthly Work.
.ta-
.in 0
.hr 40%
.ce
<I>The following Critical Notices have appeared of this Book.</I>

“It is practical throughout; the book will be useful and
acceptable.”—<I>Gardeners’ Chronicle.</I>

“For any one with tastes and opportunities for gardening, it may be
recommended as of more enduring value than books of greater interest for
the superficial reader.”—<I>Standard.</I>

“An elegant and charmingly illustrated volume. It is intended for those
who possess what may be called ‘homely’ gardens as distinguished from
great and grand gardens; and it is wonderful to find under the author’s
guidance how much may be made of ever so small a piece of garden
ground.”—<I>Leeds Mercury.</I>

“Ladies fond of gardening will find an immense amount of useful
information in this handy and reliable work.”—<I>Treasury of
Literature.</I>

“No amateur should be without a copy. In fact he had better have two;
one for use, and one for the drawing-room table.”—<I>Fun.</I>

“No amateur can be at a loss, whatever exigency may arise, with Mr.
Hibberd’s book at hand.”—<I>Scotsman.</I>

“We have here one of the most useful works to the amateur that has ever
been published.”—<I>Sunday Times.</I>

“‘<sc>The Amateur’s Flower Garden</sc>’ will be hailed with delight by
the multitudes who find intense delight in their flower gardens. The
beautiful illustrations enhance immensely the value of the
book.”—<I>John Bull.</I>

“A first-rate present for all who, of any age or either sex, take
pleasure in gardening.”—<I>Daily News.</I>

“A charming gift-book for a lady, full of sound practical information,
and liberally illustrated with beautifully coloured plates.”—<I>Lady’s
Own Paper.</I>
.hr 100%
// 448.png
.bn 448.png
.nf c
<l>GROOMBRIDGE & SONS’</l>

SERIES OF

<xl>COLOURED PRINTS</xl>

SUITABLE FOR

<I>Screens, Scrap-Books, and General Decorative Purposes,</I>

EMBRACING

BIRDS, FIGURES, FLOWERS, FERNS, FRUITS, ANIMALS, INSECTS,\
SCENES, AND ARTICLES OF VERTU.
.nf-
.hr 10%
.in 6
.ti -4
<I>Price 3d. each, or 2s. 6d. per Dozen. Post-Free for Stamps to
amount of Order. Or may be procured by order of any Bookseller.</I>
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<B>A PRINTED LIST WILL BE FORWARDED POST-FREE UPON APPLICATION.</B>

In ordering from this List, it is only necessary to state the numbers
prefixed to the Prints, and the quantities of each required.
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<l>This large and unique Collection of Prints at present
comprises:—</l>
.in 2
.ta r:4 c:15 h:35
91 | Separate<br>Prints of | FLOWERS, FERNS, ORCHIDS, and  LEAVES.
10 | Ditto        | FRUITS and VEGETABLES.
48 | Ditto        | BIRDS (some of them groups of several).
18 | Ditto        | FIGURE SCENES.
27 | Ditto        | INSECTS (some of them groups of several).
38 | Ditto        | SCENES and LANDSCAPES.
 8 | Ditto        | ASTRONOMY.
48 | Ditto        | NATURAL HISTORY (embracing Animals,\
Fishes, Reptiles, Seaweed, etc.).
14 | Ditto        | ARTICLES OF VERTU, etc.
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<I>Complete List Post-free.</I>
.hr 20%
.ce
GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, 5, Paternoster Row, London.
.pb
.sp 4
\_
.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistently-accented characters were regularized.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only\
when a predominant form was found in this book.
.if t
.it Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
.if-
.ul-
.ul-