said Villeneuve to himself, at the close of his discourse. "If he is
an actor, he is the best one I ever saw. He is probably an enthusiast,
who, if he had lived in ancient days, would have worn the blazing
crown of martyrdom. I should like to see his daughter." The low notes
of the organ again rose, as if in response to his heart's desire. This
time there was the accompaniment of a new female voice. The
congregation rose as the words of the anthem began. It was a kind of
doxology, the chorus terminating with the solemn expression--"for ever
and ever." The hand of the organist no longer trembled. It swept over
the keys, as if the enthusiasm of an exalted spirit were communicated
to every pulse and sinew. The undulating strains rolled and
reverberated till the whole house was filled with the waves of
harmony. But high, and clear, and sweet above those waves of harmony
and the mingling voices of the choir, rose that single female voice,
uttering the burden of the anthem, "for ever and ever." Villeneuve
closed his eyes. He was oppressed by the novelty of his sensations.
Where was he? In a simple village church, listening to the minstrelsy
of a simple village maiden, and he had frequented the magnificent
cathedral of Notre Dame, been familiar there with the splendid ritual
of the national religion, and heard its sublime chantings from the
finest choirs in the Universe. Why did those few monotonous words so
thrill through every nerve of his being? That eternity which he
believed was the dream of fanaticism, seemed for a moment an awful
reality, as the last notes of the pæan echoed on his ear.
When the benediction was given, and the congregation was leaving the
church, he watched impatiently for the foldings of the red curtains to
part, and his heart palpitated when he saw a white-robed figure glide
through the opening and immediately disappear. The next minute she was
seen at the entrance of the church, evidently waiting the approach of
her father, who, surrounded by his people, pressing on each other to
catch a kindly greeting, always found it difficult to make his egress.
As she thus stood against a column which supported the entrance,
Villeneuve had a most favourable opportunity of scanning her figure,
which he did with a practised and scrutinizing glance. He was
accustomed to Parisian and English beauty, and comparing Grace
Blandford to the high-born and high-bred beauties of the old world,
she certainly lost in the comparison. She was very simply dressed, her
eyes were downcast, and her features were in complete repose. Still
there was a quiet grace about her that pleased him--a blending of
perfect simplicity and perfect refinement that was extraordinary. Mr.
Blandford paused as he came down the aisle. He had noticed the young
and interesting looking stranger, who listened with such devout
attention to all the exercises. He had heard, for in a country village
such things are rapidly communicated, that there was a traveller at
the inn, a foreigner and an invalid--two strong claims to sympathy and
kindness. The pallid complexion of the young man was a sufficient
indication of the latter, and the air of high breeding which
distinguished him was equal to a letter of recommendation in his
behalf. The minister accosted him with great benignity, and invited
him to accompany him home.
"You are a stranger," said he, "and I understand an invalid. Perhaps
you will find the quiet of our household more congenial this day than
the bustle of a public dwelling."
Villeneuve bowed his delighted acceptance of this most unexpected
invitation. He grasped the proffered hand of the minister with more
warmth than he was aware of, and followed him to the door where Grace
yet stood, with downcast eyes.
"My daughter," said Mr. Blandford, drawing her hand through his arm.
This simple introduction well befitted the place where it was made,
and was acknowledged by her with a gentle bending of the head and a
lifting of the eyes, and they walked in silence from the portals of
the church. What a change had the mere uplifting of those veiled lids
made in her countenance! Two lines of a noble bard flashed across his
memory--
"The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face."
Then another line instantaneously succeeded--
"And oh! that eye is in itself a soul."
There was one thing which disappointed him. He did not notice a single
blush flitting over her fair cheek. He feared she was deficient in
sensibility. It was so natural to blush at a stranger's greeting. He
did not understand the nature of her feelings. He could not know that
one so recently engaged in sublime worship of the Creator, must be
lifted above fear or confusion in the presence of the creature.
Villeneuve had seen much of the world, and understood the art of
adaptedness, in the best sense of the word. He could conform to the
circumstances in which he might be placed with grace and ease, and
though he was too sincere to express sentiments he did not feel, he
felt justified in concealing those he did feel, when he knew their
avowal would give pain or displeasure. It was a very singular way for
him to pass the Sabbath. The guest of a village pastor, breathing an
atmosphere redolent of the sweets of piety, spirituality, and holy
love. The language of levity and flattery, so current in society,
would be considered profanation here; and a conviction deeply
mortifying to his vanity forced itself upon him, that all those
accomplishments for which he had been so much admired, would gain him
no favour with the minister and his daughter. He could not forbear
expressing his surprise at the location Mr. Blandford had chosen.
"I would not insult you by flattery," said Villeneuve, ingenuously,
"but I am astonished you do not seek a wider sphere of usefulness. It
is impossible that the people here should appreciate your talents, or
estimate the sacrifices you make to enlighten and exalt them."
Mr. Blandford smiled as he answered--"You think my sphere too small,
while I tremble at the weight of responsibility I have assumed. If I
have the talents which you kindly ascribe to me, I find here an ample
field for their exercise. There are hundreds of minds around me that
mingle their aspirations with mine, and even assist me in the
heavenward journey. In a larger, more brilliant circle, I might
perhaps gain a more sounding name and exercise a wider influence, but
that influence would not be half as deep and heartfelt. I was born and
bred in a city, and know the advantages such a life can offer; but I
would not exchange the tranquillity of this rural residence, the
serenity of my pastoral life, the paternal influence I wield over this
secluded village, and the love and reverence of its upright and
pure-minded inhabitants, for the splendid sinecure of the Archbishops
of our motherland."
Villeneuve was astonished to see a man so nobly endowed, entirely
destitute of the principle of ambition. He wanted to ask him how he
had thus trampled under his feet the honours and distinctions of the
world. "You consider ambition a vice, then?" said he.
"You are mistaken," replied Mr. Blandford, "if you believe me
destitute of ambition. I am one of the most ambitious men in the
world. But I aspire after honours that can resist the mutations of
time, and partake of the imperishability of their Great Bestower."
There was a silence of some moments, during which Mr. Blandford looked
upward, and the eyes of Grace followed her father's with kindling ray.
"But, your daughter," continued Villeneuve, "can she find contentment
in a situation for which nature and education have so evidently
unfitted her?"
"Let Grace answer for herself," said Mr. Blandford, mildly; "I have
consulted her happiness as well as my own, in the choice I have made."
Villeneuve was delighted to see a bright blush suffuse the modest
cheek of Grace--but it was the blush of feeling, not of shame.
"I love the country rather than the town," said she, "for I prefer
nature to art, meditation to action, and the works of God to the works
of man; and in the constant companionship of my father I find more
than contentment--I find happiness, joy."
Villeneuve sighed--he felt the isolation of his own destiny. The last
of his family, a traveller in a strange land, in pursuit of health;
which had been sacrificed in the too eager pursuit of the pleasures of
this world, without one hope to link him to another. Affluent and
uncontrolled, yet sated and desponding, he envied the uncorrupted
taste of the minister's daughter. He would have bartered all his
wealth for the enthusiasm that warmed the character of her father.
That night he was awakened by a singular dream. He thought he was
alone in the horror of thick darkness. It seemed that he was in the
midst of infinity, and yet chained to one dark spot, an immovable
speck in the boundless ocean of space. "Must I remain here for ever?"
he cried in agony, such as is only known in dreams, when the spirit's
nerves are all unsheathed. "For ever and ever," answered a sweet,
seraphic voice, high above his head, and looking up he beheld Grace,
reclining on silver-bosomed clouds, so distant she appeared like a
star in the heavens, yet every lineament perfectly defined. "Am I then
parted from thee for ever?" exclaimed he, endeavouring to stretch out
his arms towards the luminous point. "For ever and ever," responded
the same heavenly accents, mournfully echoing till they died away, and
the vision fled. He was not superstitious, but he did not like the
impression of his dream. He rose feverish and unrefreshed, and felt
himself unable to continue his journey. Mr. Blandford came to see him.
He was deeply interested in the young stranger, and experienced the
pleasure which every sensitive and intellectual being feels in meeting
with kindred sensibility and intellect. The intimacy, thus commenced,
continued to increase, and week after week passed away, and Villeneuve
still lingered near the minister and his daughter. His health was
invigorated, his spirits excited by the novel yet powerful influences
that surrounded him. It was impossible, in the course of this
deepening intimacy, that the real sentiments of Villeneuve should
remain concealed, for hypocrisy formed no part of his character. Mr.
Blandford, relying on the reverence and affection Villeneuve evidently
felt for him, believed it would be an easy task to interest him in the
great truths of religion. And it was an easy task to interest him,
particularly when the father's arguments were backed by the daughter's
persuasive eloquence; but it was a most difficult one to convince. The
prejudices of education, the power of habit, the hardening influence
of a worldly life, presented an apparently impenetrable shield against
the arrows of divine truth.
"I respect, I revere the principles of your religion," Villeneuve was
accustomed to say at the close of their long and interesting
conversations. "I would willingly endure the pangs of death; yea, the
agonies of martyrdom, for the possession of a faith like yours. But it
is a gift denied to me. I cannot force my belief, nor give a cold
assent with my lips to what my reason and my conscience belie."
Mr. Blandford ceased not his efforts, notwithstanding the unexpected
resistance he encountered, but Grace gradually retired from the
conflict, and Villeneuve found to his sorrow and mortification that
she no longer appeared to rejoice in his society. There was a reserve
in her manners which would have excited his resentment, had not the
sadness of her countenance touched his heart. Sometimes when he met
her eye it had an earnest, reproachful, pitying expression, that
thrilled to his soul. One evening he came to the Parsonage at a later
hour than usual. He was agitated and pale. "I have received letters of
importance," said he; "I must leave you immediately. I did not know
that all my happiness was centered in the intercourse I have been
holding with your family, till this summons came." Grace, unable to
conceal her emotions, rose and left the apartment. Villeneuve's eyes
followed her with an expression which made her father tremble. He
anticipated the scene which followed. "Mr. Blandford," continued
Villeneuve, "I love your daughter. I cannot live without her--I cannot
depart without an assurance of her love and your approbation."
Mr. Blandford was too much agitated to reply--the blood rushed to his
temples, then retreating as suddenly, left his brow and cheek as
colourless as marble. "I should have foreseen this," at length he
said. "It would have spared us all much misery."
"Misery!" replied Villeneuve, in a startling tone.
"Yes," replied Mr. Blandford, "I have been greatly to blame--I have
suffered my feelings to triumph over my judgment. Villeneuve, I have
never met a young man who won upon my affections as you have done. The
ingenuousness, ardour, and generosity of your character impelled me to
love you. I still love you; but I pity you still more. I can never
trust my daughter's happiness in your hands. There is a gulf between
you--a wall of separation--high as the heavens and deeper than the
foundations of the earth." He paused, and bowed his face upon his
hands. The possibility that his daughter's happiness might be no
longer in her own keeping, completely overpowered him. Villeneuve
listened in astonishment and dismay. He, in all the pride of affluence
and rank (for noble blood ran in lineal streams through his veins), to
be rejected by an obscure village pastor, from mere religious
scruples. It was incredible--one moment his eye flashed haughtily on
the bending figure before him; the next it wavered, in the
apprehension that Grace might yield to her father's decision, and seal
their final separation. "Mr. Blandford," cried he, passionately, "I
can take my rejection only from your daughter--I have never sought her
love unsanctioned by your approbation--I have scorned the guise of a
hypocrite, and I have a right to claim this from you. You may destroy
_my_ happiness--it is in your power--but tremble lest you sacrifice a
daughter's peace."
Mr. Blandford recovered his self-command, as the passions of the young
man burst their bounds. He summoned Grace into his presence. "I yield
to your impetuous desire," said he, "but I would to Heaven you had
spared me a scene like this. Painful as it is, I must remain to be a
witness to it." He took his daughter's hand as she entered, and drew
her towards him. He watched her countenance while the first vows of
love to which she had ever listened were breathed into her ear with an
eloquence and a fervour which seemed irresistible, and these were
aided by the powerful auxiliary of a most handsome and engaging
person, and he trembled as he gazed. Her cheek kindled, her eye
lighted up with rapture, her heart panted with excessive emotion. She
leaned on her father's arm, unable to speak, but looked up in his face
with an expression that spoke volumes.
"You love him, then, Grace," said he mournfully. "Oh, my God! forgive
me the folly, the blindness, the madness of which I have been
guilty!"
Grace started, as if wakening from a dream. Her father's words
recalled her to herself--one brief moment of ecstasy had been hers--to
be followed, she knew, by hours of darkness and sorrow. The warm glow
faded from her cheek, and throwing her arms round her father's neck,
she wept unrestrainedly.
"She loves me," exclaimed Villeneuve; "you yourself witness her
emotions--you will not separate us--you will not suffer a cruel
fanaticism to destroy us both."
"Grace," said Mr. Blandford, in a firm voice, "look up. Let not the
feelings of a moment, but the principles of a life decide. Will you
hazard, for the enjoyment of a few fleeting years, the unutterable
interests of eternity? Will you forsake the Master _he_ abjures for
the bosom of a stranger? In one word, my daughter, will you wed an
Infidel?"
Grace lifted her head, and clasping her hands together, looked
fervently upward.
"Thou art answered," cried Mr. Blandford, with a repelling motion
towards Villeneuve. "The God she invokes will give her strength to
resist temptation. Go, then, most unhappy yet beloved young man--you
have chosen your destiny, and we have chosen ours. _You_ live for
time. _We_, for eternity. As I said before, there is a deep gulf
between us. Seek not to drag her down into the abyss into which you
would madly plunge. My soul hath wrestled with yours, and you have
resisted, though I fought with weapons drawn from Heaven's own armory.
Farewell--our prayers and our tears will follow you."
He extended his hand to grasp Villeneuve's for the last time, but
Villeneuve, with every passion excited beyond the power of control,
rejected the motion; and, snatching the hand of Grace, which hung
powerless over her father's shoulder, drew her impetuously towards
him. "She loves me," exclaimed he, "and I will never resign her; I
swear it by the inexorable Power you so blindly worship. Perish the
religion that would crush the dearest and holiest feelings of the
human heart! Perish the faith that exults in the sacrifice of nature
and of love!"
With one powerful arm Mr. Blandford separated his daughter from the
embrace of her lover, and holding him back with the other, commanded
him to depart. He was dreadfully agitated, the veins of his temples
started out like cords, and his eyes flashed with imprisoned fires.
Villeneuve writhed for a moment in his unrelaxing grasp, then, reeling
backward, sunk upon a sofa. He turned deadly pale, and held his
handkerchief to his face.
"Oh! father! you have killed him!" shrieked Grace, springing to his
side; "he faints! he bleeds, he dies!"
Even while Grace was speaking, the white handkerchief was crimsoned
with blood, the eyes of the young man closed, and he fell back
insensible.
"Just Heaven! spare me this curse!" cried Mr. Blandford. "Great God! I
have killed them both!"
They did indeed look like two murdered victims, for the blood which
oozed from the young man's lips not only dyed his own handkerchief and
neckcloth, but reddened the white dress of Grace and stiffened on her
fair locks, as her head drooped unconsciously on his breast. All was
horror and confusion in the household. The physician was immediately
summoned, who declared that a blood-vessel was ruptured, and that the
life of the young man was in the most imminent danger. Grace was borne
to her own apartment and consigned to the care of some kind
neighbours, but Mr. Blandford remained the whole night by Villeneuve's
side, holding his hand in his, with his eyes fixed on his pallid
countenance, trembling lest every fluttering breath should be his
last. About daybreak he opened his eyes, and seeing who was watching
so tenderly over him, pressed his hand and attempted to speak, but the
doctor commanded perfect silence, assuring him that the slightest
exertion would be at the hazard of his life. For two or three days he
hovered on the brink of the grave, during which time Mr. Blandford
scarcely left his side, and Grace lingered near the threshold of the
door, pale and sleepless, the image of despair. One night, when he
seemed to be in a deep sleep, Mr. Blandford knelt by his couch, and in
a low voice breathed out his soul in prayer. His vigil had been one
long prayer, but he felt that he must find vent in language for the
depth and strength of his emotions. He prayed in agony for the life of
the young man; for his soul's life. He pleaded, he supplicated; till,
language failing, sigh and tears alone bore witness to the strivings
of his spirit. "Yet, not my will, oh! God!" ejaculated he again, "but
thine be done."
"Amen!" uttered a faint voice. The minister started as if he had heard
a voice from the dead. It was Villeneuve who spoke, and whose eyes
fixed upon him had a most intense and thrilling expression. "Your
prayer is heard," continued he. "I feel that God is merciful. A ray
of divine light illumines my parting hour. Let me see Grace before I
die, that our souls may mingle once on earth, in earnest of their
union hereafter."
The minister led his daughter to the couch of Villeneuve. He joined
her hand in his. "My daughter," cried he, "rejoice. I asked for him
life. God giveth unto him long life; yea, life for evermore."
Grace bowed her head on the pale hand that clasped her own, and even
in that awful moment, a torrent of joy gushed into her soul. It was
the foretaste of an eternal wedlock, and death seemed indeed swallowed
up in victory. Mr. Blandford knelt by his kneeling daughter, and many
a time during that night they thought they saw the spirit of
Villeneuve about to take its upward flight; but he sunk at length into
a gentle slumber, and when the doctor again saw him, he perceived a
favourable change in his pulse, and told Mr. Blandford there was a
faint hope of his recovery. "With perfect quiet and tender nursing,"
said he, looking meaningly at Grace, "he may yet possibly be saved."
The predictions of the excellent physician were indeed fulfilled, for
in less than three weeks Villeneuve, though still weak and languid,
was able to take his seat in the family circle. Mr. Blandford saw with
joy that the faith which he had embraced in what he believed his dying
hour, was not abandoned with returning health. He had always relied on
the rectitude of his principles, and now, when religion strengthened
and sanctified them, he felt it his duty to sanction his union with
his daughter. The business which had summoned him so unexpectedly to
his native country still remained unsettled, and as the physician
prescribed a milder climate, he resolved to try the genial air of
France. It was no light sacrifice for Mr. Blandford to give up his
daughter, the sole treasury of his affections, and doom himself to a
solitary home; but he did it without murmuring, since he hoped the
blessing of heaven would hallow their nuptials. Villeneuve promised to
return the ensuing year, and restore Grace again to her beloved
parsonage.
The Sunday before their departure, Grace accompanied her father and
husband to the village church. Villeneuve saw the boy who had guided
him there the first time, standing at the portal. He returned his
respectful salutation with a warm grasp of the hand. "He led me to
the gate of heaven," thought he; "he shall not go unrewarded."
"She will be too proud to play on the organ any more," said the boy to
himself, "now that she has married a great man and a foreigner;" but
Grace ascended the steps as usual, and drew the red curtains closely
round her. What the feelings of the musician were, within that sacred
sanctuary, as she pressed the keys, probably for the last time, could
only be judged from a trembling touch; but at the close of the
services, when the same sublime anthem, with the burden "for ever and
ever," was sung by the choir, Villeneuve recognised the same clear,
adoring accents which first fell so thrillingly on his ear. He
remembered his dream. It no longer filled him with superstitious
horror. It was caused by the workings of his dark and troubled mind.
Now every thought flowed in a new channel; he seemed a new being to
himself.
"Are we indeed united?" said he, while his soul hung on the echoes of
that sweet strain, "and shall we be united for ever?"
"For ever and ever," returned the voice of the worshipper; and the
whole choir, joining in, in a full burst of harmony, repeated again
and again, "for ever and ever."
THE BOSOM SERPENT.
"I have something to tell you, Rosamond," said Cecil Dormer, taking
Rosamond Clifford on his knee and seating himself in a corner of her
mother's sofa--"Don't you want to hear a story to-night?"
"Is it a sure enough story?" asked Rosamond, "or a fairy tale, like
the Arabian Nights Entertainment?"
"Every word of it truth," answered Cecil--"though some portions of it
may 'freeze your young blood.' It is of a little girl, about your own
age, and a woman who I verily believe is Lucifer himself, dressed in
woman's clothes."
"You have excited my curiosity," said Mrs. Clifford closing her book,
and taking a seat on the sofa--"for as every story must have a hero, I
suspect you are the hero of your own."
"Please tell it," cried Rosamond, with the impatience of a petted
child--"I want to hear about the little girl."