CHAPTER XIII.

The web of our life is of a

Mingled yarn, good and ill together.

All’s Well that Ends Well.

“El Diamente,” to avoid the bad weather, usually met with in the Gulf

Stream, had taken the eastern passage, and, after clearing the Bahamas,

had held her course about east north-east, and getting far to the

eastward, was rapidly ploughing toward her destination.

She had been fortunate in having fair winds and good weather, and the

voyage to Don Manuel and his family had been a very pleasant one. In the

security and calmness of this passage, Clara had nearly forgotten the

dreadful horrors and mischances that can take place at sea, and which

she had experienced on her former voyage.

It was after sundown, the day had been intensely warm, and Clara and

Francisca were sitting on the ship’s high poop-deck, enjoying the

pleasant, and now cool air, and admiring the placid beauty of the smooth

sea.

“What is that dark object, sister?” asked Francisca, pointing to a

large, black-looking substance, floating to leeward.

“Indeed, I don’t know, Niñetta! It looks like a whale.”

“Oh! I want to see one so much; call Captain De Vere, and tell him to

bring the telescope, so that we can have a good look at it,” said

Francisca.

Clara called her husband, who came laughingly upon the poop, with a

telescope; and adjusting the glass, he looked through it to see that the

focus was right, before giving it to the ladies.

But as he looked his countenance changed, and taking the glass from his

eye, in a voice of pity, he said, “that is not a whale, ladies; but two

poor men on a floating mast.” Both the ladies expressed the greatest

pity, and begged De Vere to have the poor men picked up: this he

intended to do; and calling to his side the captain of the ship, pointed

out to him the floating wreck.

The captain was a kind-hearted man, and there is nothing that excites

the sympathy of a sailor quicker than a wreck, for it is a peril to

which they are all and always exposed, and he at once ordered the man at

the wheel to keep away. Soon the figures of the men on the spar were

visible from the deck, and they looked as if they were both dead.

Getting near them, the Diamente’s top-sail was hove aback, and a boat

lowered, to bring the sufferers on board. When she brought them, both

men were insensible, though their faint breathing gave evidence that

life had not yet departed.

All the crew and passengers were gathered around the gangway, to see the

rescued ones as they were passed on board. As Willis came over,

Francisca, with the quick eye of love, recognized him, and, shocked at

his dreadful appearance, fainted.

None else recognized the handsome slaver, in the begrimed, sunburnt,

blood-stained, and skeleton figure before them. And attributing

Francisca’s swoon to pity, for a sight so horrible, carried her below.

Mateo and Willis were laid on deck, for the purpose of being

resuscitated before they were carried below. Willis, who was much the

most debilitated of the two, from the loss of blood he had sustained,

for a long time resisted all efforts to restore animation. But Mateo,

who had swooned but a short time before they were discovered, more

easily recovered his faculties. But only partially and confusedly had

his mind been restored, for, startled by the noise and bustle around

him, bewildered, and remembering the desperate fight before the schooner

was blown up, and seeing bending over him the face of De Vere, whom he

had always known as an enemy, he thought he was again in the hot and

heady fight, and staggering to his feet, before any one could stop his

movements, he had drawn his sheath-knife, and shouting feebly, in

Spanish, “Give it to the English dogs!” he plunged his knife to the hilt

in the breast of De Vere; and overcome by the exertion, sunk again

senseless on deck; falling across the body of the English captain, who

had dropped dead.

Clara sprung forward, and pitching off Mateo, took her husband on her

lap, and eagerly tried to staunch the fast welling blood, but it was

useless.

The spirit had already fled; in her arms she held but an inanimate

corse! She fainted, and fell by the side of her husband, and looked as

if her soul had also taken its departure. So cold and deathlike did she

look, that it was impossible to tell in which the principle of life

still existed, the husband or the wife.

The crew, ignorant of all former acquaintance between the murderer and

the murdered, were exasperated that he had met his death from the hand

of the man he was trying to aid, and would have thrown both Willis and

Mateo again into the sea, from whence they had just taken them, had not

Francisca, whose anxiety to learn the fate of Willis had brought her on

deck again, told her father who the men were; and the old Don, getting

between the crew of the Diamond and the objects of their fury, explained

to them their obligations to one of the party, and begged them to pause.

He promised to be responsible for Willis himself, and persuaded them to

put Mateo in irons, and carry him into port to be tried, instead of

executing him themselves.

By the next day both Clara and Willis sufficiently recovered to attend

the solemn commitment of De Vere to his last resting-place. Solemn it

is, and heart-touching at any time, to see a man committed to a sailor’s

grave, but on this occasion the feelings of the lookers-on were

peculiarly harrowing—and a gloom, dark and drear, was cast over the

rest of the voyage, that had commenced so pleasantly.

Clara was deeply affected by the fate of her young husband, thus cut off

in the prime of his manhood, without a moment’s warning. Her character

was changed; no longer proud and haughty, she determined to devote the

rest of her life to the service of God.

Francisca and Don Manuel were serious and sad at the thought of De

Vere’s sudden death and Clara’s distress, though a feeling of joy, like

a spring rill, trickled along the bottom of Francisca’s heart, at the

sight of Willis’s daily improvement in health, and from knowing he was

near her.

Even the crew looked glum and sulky, for there is a superstition amongst

sailors, that a murder on board gives a ship bad luck—and they feared a

fatal termination to their voyage.

Mateo, the cause of all this suffering and mental commotion, was the

only one on board who was totally unaffected by it. He was placed under

the break of the forecastle, heavily ironed, and was perfectly calm; and

when Willis asked him how he came to kill De Vere, and told him he would

certainly be hung when they arrived at Cadiz, he said that he was sorry

he had knifed De Vere when he did, but it was no more than he had

intended to do some time; and as for being hung, it was what he had

always expected—and he would grace a rope as well as another.

Willis, who liked the man for his faithfulness and dogged courage, had

all his physical wants attended to; but no change took place in Mateo’s

hardened mind.

Don Manuel took an opportunity, before the ship got in, to tell Willis

how grateful he felt, and how much he respected him for his conduct in

saving the lives of Clara and De Vere; and that though the captain,

unfortunately, had not lived long enough to express his feelings

otherwise than in words, he hoped Willis would permit him to be his

friend, and told him that he had left a hundred thousand dollars for

him, in the hands of his agent in Havana, in case Willis returned there

before he saw him again; but as he had been fortunate enough to meet

him, he insisted upon being Willis’s banker, and begged him to go to

Madrid, and then return to Havana with him.

Willis thanked Don Manuel for the high opinion he was pleased to

entertain of him, and for the kindness he had shown by leaving the large

amount of money for him in Havana, but begged Don Velasquez to excuse

him from accepting it; and told him he would have returned the box of

doubloons he had sent him, had not the loss of his schooner put it out

of his power, and expressed his intention of proceeding to the Chinese

seas, after their arrival in Cadiz, to prosecute his fortunes in a new

field.

Don Manuel listened until Willis had finished speaking, and then, taking

his hand, he said,—

“Excuse me for what I am about to say, Captain Willis, but I am an old

man, and mean nothing but kindness toward you. Pride, Captain Willis, I

know, prevents your acceptance of my offer; but lay it aside as a favor

to me, and believe that it is you who will be conferring the favor. The

money to me is nothing, I have plenty of it, and have lived long enough

to appreciate it at its just value; and I mean not to offend, but I must

speak plainly. You are doing wrong to waste the fine feelings and mind

that I know you to possess, in an occupation so much beneath you as that

in which you have been engaged, or will be likely to get into without

money or friends, so at the least promise me that you accompany us to

Madrid, and give me a favorable answer to my request when we return.”

Willis was much affected by the kindness of the old Spaniard, and

promised to stay with them until they were ready to return to Cuba.

Notwithstanding the fears of her crew the Diamente arrived safely in

port, and Mateo was given up to the civil authorities to be tried. The

evidence against him was clear and conclusive; and he was condemned to

be hung the day after his trial.

Willis accompanied him to the foot of the gallows; but Mateo gave no

evidence either of fear or repentance, and remarked to the hangman, as

he reached the platform, that the knot on the end of the noose was made

in a d—d unseamanlike manner, and he was afraid it would jam—but it

did not; and the sailor died as he had lived, in the midst of sin.

It gave Willis a sharp and disagreeable pang to think of the narrow

escape he had in Havana from finishing his career in the same

dishonorable manner; and he felt thankful he had been able to avoid it.

Giving a priest a handful of doubloons to say masses for the soul’s rest

of his departed shipmate, he returned to the hotel to report to Don

Manuel the fate of Mateo.

The next day they all departed for Madrid; but though the season was

unusually gay, none of the party experienced much pleasure from the

gayeties of the city.

Don Manuel was treated with much attention; but every thing had changed

since he had been there before. The friends of his youth had died, or

were now all old men, and immersed in the cares of business or ambition,

were vastly different from the youths he remembered, and his heart

yearned to be back in Cuba, amongst the more familiar scenes and friends

of his latter years.

Clara was too sad to be happy any where; and Francisca, finding pleasure

in nothing but the society of Willis, liked not the flirtations and

compliments of the Madrid gallants.

The death of De Vere did away the necessity of going to England; and

Clara now had no desire to outshine the English belles—and the trip was

given up. All were glad when Don Manuel told them, if they were willing,

he would return to Cuba in the same ship in which they came out, as she

would return to Havana.

They all expressed their satisfaction; and Willis was now so much

enamored with Francisca, that the Don had but little difficulty in

persuading him to accompany them.

Again was Don Manuel and his family on board the good ship Diamante; and

with a fresh breeze, and with more pleasure than they had experienced

for some time, they bade farewell to the shores of Spain, and were

heading for home. Home! in that name there is something that excites

pleasant feelings in the breast, no matter how torn by sorrow. Even

Clara felt more happiness than she had known since the death of her

husband.

It was a bright, star-light evening; the ship was slowly moving through

the water, that rippled in small waves around her bows. All was still,

silent, and beautiful; and Willis and Francisca were walking up and down

the poop quarter-deck, which was untenanted, save by themselves; every

thing seemed fitted for love and sentiment, and Willis—but I will not

repeat what he said—sufficient is it that he confessed to Francisca the

deep, deep love he entertained toward her; and she, happy girl,

blushingly, acknowledged that it was reciprocated.

Happy, indeed, was Francisca that night; her day-dream and her

night-vision of the last eight months had at last come to pass. Willis

loved her, and had acknowledged his passion.

Willis had not intended to mention his feelings to Francisca until after

he had spoken to her father. But the stillness of the evening, the fine

opportunity, and a something in his heart, he knew not what, had

overpowered his resolution, and he yielded to circumstances. He now

sought Don Manuel to tell him, feeling as if he had been guilty of a

crime; but the kindness with which the old Spaniard listened to him,

soothed his agitation; and the cup of his happiness was running over

when the old man gave his consent to his marriage.

The rest of the voyage passed away, to Willis and Francisca, like magic;

and when the cry of “land ho!” resounded from the mast-head, they could

not believe that it was Cuba; but the light-house ere long was visible,

and they could doubt the evidence of their senses no longer. For the

first time Willis felt really glad to enter the harbor; and the

remembrance of his situation, and the manner in which he had left, when

last there, added to the pleasantness of his present feelings.

A fortnight after the arrival of the Diamente in port, there was a gay

bridal party before the high-altar of the Cathedral, and in the same

church he had witnessed the nuptials of Clara and De Vere, now stood

Willis, happy and proud, with his heart overflowing with gratitude,

waiting to receive the benediction that would make the beauteous, the

lovely, the pure, and virtuous being at his side, his own forever; and

even as that benediction was being pronounced, he remembered the misery

he had felt, when he stood behind the pillar at his right, and witnessed

the ceremony of De Vere’s marriage, and felt that he was an outcast,

branded, desperate, poor. But his fortune now was changed, the

benediction was given, and Francisca, in the sight of God and man, was

his for evermore.

Stooping over, he imprinted on her ruby lips the first warm kiss of love

he had ever given her; for he respected her so much, and so keenly

remembered what he had been, that he avoided every thing he thought

could possibly shock her delicacy; and, overwhelmed by the

congratulations of his friends, amongst whom none were as loud as the

old duenna, the party left the church.

A gay and brilliant assembly there was that night at the mansion of Don

Velasquez, crowded by the _élite_, the young, the fashionable of Havana;

but prominent above all the couples in the mazy dance, or stately

promenade, for grace and beauty, shone the new bride and bridegroom; and

the appearance of perfect contentment and joy that lighted their

countenances, added a charm the most lovely, and without which the most

perfect features lack beauty.

Shortly after the marriage of Francisca, Clara retired to the convent of

our Lady of Mercy, and devoting the rest of her life to deeds of charity

and acts of self-denial, endeavored to expiate the sins she thought her

pride and haughtiness had made her commit in her earlier years.

At Francisca’s request, Don Manuel presented Willis with his plantation

and the country-house on the bay, where, with his loved and lovely

bride, he settled. And no one who had looked upon them four years

afterward, would have recognized in the loving father playing with a

little boy about three years old, and laughing as heartily as the child,

Willis, the Slaver, had they not looked around and espied the beautiful

Francisca, now a settled matron, with an infant on her knee, but as

lovely as ever; and a little further off, through an open window that

led to the piazza, was seen the cheerful face of Don Manuel. And

glimpses might be caught of the old duenna, as she bustled about the

house, in all the pride of chief manager.

In all that vicinity, no one has a higher character for kindness,

charity, or benevolence, than Don Carlos Willis; and no one is more

ready to relieve the wants of his fellow man, either moral or physical;

but none know that the good man, whose name they all unite in praising,

was formerly the notorious slaver! the outlaw! the desperado of the

“Maraposa!”

* * * * *

TO A CENTURY PLANT.

BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

An hundred summers, and the sun

Hath poured on thee his light;

An hundred winters, and the storm

Hath swept the earth in night.

Yet thou, unhurt by sun or storm,

Art standing firm and green

As when by bright eyes long ago

Thy broad dark leaves were seen.

Art standing stately in thy pride,

While fragrant flowers unfold

From every branch of thy tall stem,

As if thou wert not old.

Not old! an hundred years has time

Borne silently away;

Of all who saw thee first, not one

May look on thee to-day.

I would that every flower of thine

Were gifted with a spell,

Which, whispering to this heart of mine,

Of all the past might tell.

For much I love the olden time,

And many an olden theme;

Their pleasant memories haunt my heart

Like shadows in a dream.

And I from thee a tale would hear

Ere thou dost fade away,

For thou, with all thy thousand years,

Art hasting to decay!

A true, true tale of human hearts,

Of human hopes and fears,

And I will give to joys a smile,

To griefs will give my tears.

And yet, mayhap, the wish is vain,

To wake the solemn past,

Or break the darkly-woven chain

By silence round it cast.

Mayhap ’tis but a foolish wish,

And yet the thoughtful mind

Will love the lore of human hearts,

That links it to its kind.

Thou of the hundred years! what change

Hast seen around thee wrought?

Hast thou no voice, no truthful voice,

To tell of buried thought?

Still silent—but thy rustling leaves

Whisper in spirit-tone,

“Wouldst learn the tale of other hearts,

Look, then, into thine own.

“Think of the warm, bright hopes that sprung

Within thy youthful breast,

Oh think what pangs thy heart have wrung

For dear ones laid at rest.

Think what a mighty lore remains

Still to be read by thee;

The past—the present—future—all

Blended in one Eternity!”

* * * * *

THE RING.

OR FIBBERS AND FIBBING.

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “AARON’S ROD,” “PRIZE STORIES,” ETC.

CHAPTER I.

“I hope no one will come in this morning,” said Alice Livingston to her

cousin, Emma Percival. “I am tired after last night’s dancing, are not

you Emma?”

“Yes,” replied her cousin, yawning, “and sleepy too.”

“I love a long, quiet morning now and then,” continued Alice; “and it

looks so like rain that I think we are pretty safe to-day.”

“Don’t think it, my dear,” replied Emma. “This is just the kind of

weather that people you don’t want to see are sure to call. I hate these

cloudy mornings for that reason. You can’t say you are out such a day as

this, and yet it don’t rain positively, so that others are obliged to

stay at home, whether they will or no. Now there’s Mrs. Gardiner

regularly chooses these days for her inflictions. I’ve no doubt, by the

way, she will be here this very morning, for I met her yesterday, and

she stopped to say she had not seen any of us for a long time, and all

that. Beside she is sure to call in disagreeable weather.”

“What a strange fancy,” said Alice.

“Oh, she’s one of those restless gossips who cannot stay at home a day

for her life,” replied Emma. “And then, beside, she’s a bore, and loves

to pin you for half the morning; and, moreover, she’s only sure of

getting in when you cannot possibly say you are out. Depend upon it

she’ll be here this morning—I am sure she will. ‘By the pricking of my

thumbs, I _feel_ that something evil this way comes.’”

“I hope your mesmeric thumbs are mistaken this once,” said Alice,

laughing.

“I’ve no doubt but that’s her ring now,” replied Emma; and, sure enough,

as the door opened, Mrs. Gardiner entered.

“Ah! Mrs. Gardiner,” said Emma, going forward in the most gracious,

pleasant manner, “I thought I knew your ring. We were just speaking of

you, and I told Alice that I was sure it was you.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked pleased as she replied, “How came you to expect me

just now?”

“I don’t know. It’s a mesmeric sympathy, I suppose,” replied Emma,

smiling, “with which I am endowed. Alice was laughing at me just as you

came in, for putting so much faith in my feelings. But you see, Alice,”

she said looking at her cousin, “that my impressions are quite worth

your anticipations. Alice,” she continued, addressing Mrs. Gardiner,

“has been watching the clouds, thinking no one would take pity on us

this morning; but I knew better.” And Emma again looked at her cousin

with an expression of amusement that Alice, knowing what she meant,

could not respond to. Being embarrassed between truth and civility, she

made a slight and rather cold reply, which added considerably to Emma’s

mirth.

“Is Mrs. Percival at home?” inquired Mrs. Gardiner, presently; and as

she spoke, she rather turned to Alice, who replied,—

“Yes, I believe so.”

“No,” said Emma. “Alice, she went out some time ago.”

“It’s an unpleasant day for her to be out,” remarked Mrs. Gardiner,

fixing her piercing eyes upon Emma with a very incredulous stare.

“She has gone to see old Mrs. Haight,” replied Emma. “She is quite ill,

you know.”

“If she does not return soon, she will be caught in the rain,” pursued

Mrs. Gardiner, who had heard the story of “mamma’s having gone to Mrs.

Haight’s” too often, to put implicit faith in it; “it was sprinkling as

I came in.”

“Is it?” said Emma. “She will probably stay and dine there, then. Mamma

has not been there for some time, and so she will probably now ‘make a

day on’t.’”

Mrs. Gardiner had nothing more to say on the subject; so the

conversation turned to other things.

“By the way, Emma,” she said, presently, “did you get a hat the other

morning? I left you, I believe, at Dudevant’s.”

“Oh, yes, I have one,” replied Emma.

“Do let me see it,” said Mrs. Gardiner, who took an intense interest in

the subject of dress. Emma rung, and had her bandbox brought down.

Mrs. Gardiner eyed the bonnet suspiciously, as Emma presented it to her,

and said,—

“Who made it, Emma?”

“It’s a French one,” replied Emma, promptly.

“Where did you get it?” pursued Mrs. Gardiner.

“At Dudevant’s,” said Emma, in the same decided manner.

“At Dudevant’s?” repeated Mrs. Gardiner, looking full at Emma. “Why I

was there at the opening—I did not see this hat there.”

“It was in one of the cases,” replied Emma.

“Oh—!” said Mrs. Gardiner. The manner was as if ‘that may be.’ “I did

not look in the cases,” she added. “And what did Dudevant ask you for

that hat, Emma?”

“That’s between me and my conscience,” replied Emma, laughing. “I never

tell Dudevant’s prices.”

“She is an extortionate creature,” said Mrs. Gardiner; and there the

subject dropped.

“Well, Emma,” said she, after some time, “if you think your mother will

not be at home to dinner, there’s no use in my waiting for her, I

suppose.”

“I do not think there is any chance of your seeing mamma this morning,

Mrs. Gardiner, for I’ve no doubt she’ll stay and dine at Mrs. Haight’s.

But won’t you stay with Alice and myself?”

“Thank you, my dear,” replied the lady. “I wanted to see your mother,

but since she is out, I believe I must be going. Good morning.”

“Good morning;” and the door had hardly closed upon her, ere Emma

exclaimed,—

“She’s gone at last, thank heaven! She came to spend the day, I expect.

I was so afraid that mother might come in. I thought I actually heard

her at one time on the stairs.”

“Why, is not your mother out?” inquired Alice, opening her eyes very

wide.

“Lord, no, my dear,” said Emma, laughing. “Did you think she was?”

“Certainly,” replied Alice, “when you said so. And all that about Mrs.

Haight’s illness is not true either? Oh, Emma!”

“Oh, that’s true enough, Alice. You need not look so shocked. The poor

old soul has been ill ever so long; so I always send mamma there when I

want to make an excuse for her. She does go, in fact, pretty often; but

_I_ make her the most attentive, devoted friend that ever was.” And Emma

laughed heartily at her own cleverness, and seemed to enjoy the idea

excessively; but Alice looked grave, as she said,—

“How can you, Emma?”

“How can I what, Alice?”

“Why, tell so many—what shall I call them—fibs, for nothing.”

“I never ‘fib for nothing,’ Alice,” replied Emma. “That would be

downright extravagance and waste. My fibs always have a reason. I knew

mamma did not want to see Mrs. Gardiner—so I said she was out.”

“Why, then, did you not say she was engaged?” pursued Alice,

reproachfully.

“Because, my dear, that would have been quite as much of a fib as the

other, and not near as effectual. Mamma was not dressed to see company,

and was only reading a novel. I could not very well say that, you know.

I presume even your penchant for truth would not have carried you so

far. Beside, every body is said to be ‘out’ when they don’t mean to see

company. They are words, of course, to which no one attaches any ideas

of either falsehood or truth.”

“I am not certain of that,” said Alice, “even as a general thing; but

when a person enters into such particulars as you do, Emma, I am sure of

the contrary. You not only sent your mother to Mrs. Haight’s, but kept

her there to dinner. It really does seem to me that that was most

gratuitous fibbing.”

“No such thing,” said Emma, laughing. “It was a very bright idea, that;

for I saw she thought of waiting till mamma came home, and wanted,

moreover, to dine here—and I had no idea of that, I assure you. I was

tired to death of her as it was.”

“And yet you received her as if she were the very person you were

wishing for,” continued Alice.

“I am sure,” said Emma, laughing, “I repeated, verbatim, what we had

been saying.”

“Yes—but with such a different inference,” said Alice.

“Oh, if I keep to facts,” said Emma, gayly, “I do not feel responsible

for other people’s inferences.”

“And about your hat,” continued Alice, reproachfully, “why, Emma, should

you not have told the truth?”

“Because,” replied Emma, indignantly, “she would just have sent for

Henrietta, and had hats made for both her girls precisely after mine,

which, by the way, she would probably have sent to borrow as a pattern,

if I had let her know she made it in the house. Mrs. Gardiner has no

conscience, no decency about those things. She don’t scruple imitating

any thing you have, if she can.”

Alice could not but smile in her turn at Emma’s ideas of ‘conscience,’

and ‘scruples,’ but she said,

“Do you think she believed you, Emma?”

“I don’t know whether she did or not, and I don’t care. She did not find

out the truth, and that’s all I care about,” replied Emma, still quite

indignant with Mrs. Gardiner. “No, I don’t suppose she did,” she

continued, carelessly. “Nobody who saw the hat, and has eyes in their

head, can mistake a home-made hat for a French one. But she could not

tell me so, you know; and I don’t care what she thinks. I could not help

laughing, Alice,” continued Emma, more in her usual gay manner, “to see

you look so confounded when Mrs. Gardiner came in. You certainly have

the most tell-tale face in the world. But it wont do, Alice. Now, as you

have been lecturing me, I am going to return the compliment. Something

_is_ due to the _bienséances_ of society, and you, with your truth, are

really sometimes downright rude. Now last night, after Fanny Elton sung,

you never said a word to Mrs. Elton, who sat beside you. Your coldness

cost me a double dose of civility. I had to say all I could to make up

for you. Do, pray, Alice, do your own civilities in future, for I have

quite enough fibbing to do on my own account, without undertaking

yours.”

“What could I say?” said Alice. “You _would_ ask the girl to sing, and

you know she has no voice, and is so dreadfully false, too. I really

felt pained for her mother.”

“The more reason, my dear, why you should have said something civil to

her,” replied Emma.

“But I could not, Emma. It was out of the question to say any thing

complimentary; and so I thought it best to say nothing. How you could go

on as you did, amazed me, for you gave me such a funny look, which, by

the way, I was so afraid Mrs. Elton would see, when she came out with

those horrid false notes.”

“It was dreadful, to be sure,” said Emma. “But I think it not only

uncivil, but really unamiable, Alice, not to stretch the truth

sometimes. I declare I was quite delighted with myself for making the

old lady so happy as I did, by praising Fanny’s music; and as for not

asking her, that would never have done. They think at home she is the

greatest musician in the city. One has _got_ to fib sometimes.”

“Oh, don’t say so,” said Alice, earnestly. “I do love the truth—it’s

a—”

“A jewel, no doubt,” said Emma, interrupting her. “I agree with you; but

it’s in bad taste to be in jewels always. If you persist in telling the

truth in season and out of season, you’ll be as _outré_ as poor Mrs.

Thatcher, with those eternal diamonds of hers. And then it’s so

tiresome,” pursued Emma, “always to stick to facts so. You must

embellish a little if you want to make a thing amusing.”

“There I entirely differ from you,” said Alice, decidedly. “The truth

may not always be polite, but it’s always refreshing. I think there is

nothing that is not only so beautiful, but so _agreeable_ as the truth.

It really sometimes has the effect of wit. There’s Mrs. Kemp, for

instance, who everybody calls so agreeable; and I do think the great

charm is in her being so perfectly true. She always gives you her real

opinions and sentiments, and tells you things just as she sees them; and

it gives a freshness to her conversation that very few people have. Most

persons just repeat what others say, because they think it wont do to

differ from the majority. Now truth gives life, freshness,

individuality, every thing that is to me delightful, in both people and

conversation.”

“Mrs. Kemp has an odd way of coming out with all that comes into her

head,” replied Emma, “and I agree with you that it is amusing; but,

really, I think it would hardly be put up with if she were not so rich,

and a person of so much consequence as she is. I think people would call

it right down impudence; and, moreover, she is a woman of a good deal of

wit. If she were as dull as old Mrs. Elton, she might be as true as the

sun, and she would never by any accident make you laugh. So, you see, my

dear, it’s wit, and not truth, that is the refreshing quality. There’s

Miss Ellis, who is not famous for her accuracy, and yet is one of the

most amusing persons I know.”

“She would be, if one could place any reliance on her narratives,”

replied Alice. “But the feeling of doubt and uncertainty that I have in

listening to her anecdotes, dashes, if it does not destroy, the pleasure

her conversation would otherwise give me.” Emma laughed as she

answered,—

“Your dissatisfied look always amuses me when Miss Ellis is talking. But

what difference does it make, after all, whether the thing is true or

false, as long as it amuses? Half the time you don’t even know the

people discussed. Where is the use of being so particular in trifles?”

“Oh, Emma,” said Alice, seriously, “don’t talk so. It’s a shocking

habit. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness,’ is one of God’s own

commandments.”

“Who is talking of ‘bearing false witness,’ Alice?” said Emma, quite

angrily. “You good people are so civil! I do hate such exaggeration. One

would really think that to fulfill the courtesies of society and to

commit perjury, were equal crimes. Because I am good-natured enough to

say a civil thing to an old woman, you are pleased to imply that I may

‘bear false witness against my neighbors.’”

“No, I do not, Emma,” replied Alice, firmly, “but the habit of trifling

with the truth, is a fearful one; and you may depend upon it, that no

one who ever was careful of it in little points, was ever led to swerve

aside in great things. Those who are in the habit of yielding to small

temptations are those who most readily fall under great ones.”

“May be,” said Emma, weary of the discussion, “but I think you had

better cultivate the habit of not looking so tired when you are bored,

and I’ll try and be rude the first opportunity that offers, if that will

suit you; so now go and put on your bonnet, for the carriage is at the

door.” And so the conversation ended.

CHAPTER II.

“Is it not too bad,” said Emma, one day to Alice, “in Charles Cooper to

wear that ring of mine; and before Mr. Dashwood, too?”

“You did give it to him, then?” said Alice, quickly. “I thought so; and

yet you looked so unconscious, and joined in so carelessly when Mr.

Dashwood was talking about it, that I supposed I must be mistaken.”

“Did I?” said Emma, evidently relieved. “I was so afraid I colored, or

looked guilty; for I was so startled and frightened, that it was as much

as I could do to command myself.”

“Oh, Emma,” said Alice, earnestly, “since you had given the ring, why

did you not say so frankly?”

“How could I?” exclaimed Emma, looking aghast at the idea, “when Mr.

Dashwood spoke of such things as being _vulgar_. If he had not made use

of that horrible word, ‘vulgar,’ may be I might; but I could not

acknowledge it after that, you know.”

“What did he say?” inquired Alice. “I did not hear the commencement of

the conversation. How came he to speak of it?”

“Oh, he happened to say he did not like Charles Cooper, (another reason,

by the way, for my saying nothing of my old flirtation,) that he was so

full of little vanities; and mentioned, as an instance, that he wore a

lady’s ring, which he was very fond of displaying and having noticed,

which Mr. Dashwood said was ‘very contemptible;’ but the dreadful part

of it was, that he added, ‘To be sure he did not suppose the lady could

be very fastidious, or she would not have given a ring to such a man as

Charles Cooper; and, indeed, for his part, he thought such flirtations

vulgar things always.’ Ah! I almost gasped for breath; and I was so

thankful I had not said the ring was mine, which I was on the point of

doing, when he began the story.”

“Oh, how I wish you had!” exclaimed Alice, fervently.

“Heavens, Alice!” said Emma, reproachfully; “how can you? Do you really

wish to see me lowered in his eyes?” and the tears gushed into hers at

the bare suggestion.

“No, Emma,” said Alice, affectionately. “But that would have been far

from the case. If you had said frankly, and in your playful way, ‘Ah,

take care, for _I_ gave him that ring,’ Mr. Dashwood would have thought

nothing of it, or only admired you the more for your sincerity.”

“Do you think so?” said Emma, doubtingly. “If I thought that—yes—I

believe you are right I wish I had; but I was so frightened at the

time—and it’s too late now.”

“Oh, no, it is not, Emma,” said Alice, earnestly. “Do tell him this

evening.”

“What, tell him I did a ‘vulgar’ thing, in the first instance, and told

a fib about it afterward! Why, what can you be thinking of, Alice?” and

Emma actually turned pale at the idea. “You know how scrupulous he is in

such matters. You really seem anxious that I should make him despise

me,” she added, reproachfully.

“No, indeed, Emma; but he is so noble and upright, that I cannot bear

that you should deceive him in any thing; and I am sure you may trust

his admiration and affection to any extent, Emma. Why should you be

afraid of him? If you begin so now, what will it be after you are

married?”

“Oh,” replied Emma, laughing, “when we are once married, he takes me

‘for better or worse,’ and so must put up with me, faults and all; so I

shall not be afraid to tell him any thing.”

“Better begin now,” urged Alice.

“Well, I will next time,” said Emma, impatiently. “But there’s no use in

bringing this up again. It has passed off now, and he’ll never think of

it again; so let the matter rest—it is ended now.”

But here Emma was mistaken. She met Mr. Cooper at a small party in the

evening; and to her annoyance, the ring was on his little finger. Some

one said, “Cooper, what ring is that you are flourishing?” and the young

man smiled in reply, and looked at his little finger caressingly, and

said it was “a ring he valued very highly.” Whereupon some badinage

followed; all of which Mr. Cooper took very kindly. Emma was excessively

vexed and annoyed, although she commanded herself to look calm and

indifferent; but afterward she took an opportunity to say to him, in a

low voice, “You must return me that ring.”

“You surely are not in earnest. You will not be so cruel,” he replied in

a tone equally low.

Just then she caught Mr. Dashwood’s eye, who looked surprised at the

sort of intimacy with which they seemed to be talking, and she hastily

turned away. Mr. Cooper caught the look at the same time; and the idea

instantly occurred to him that Dashwood was jealous. The idea both

gratified and amused him; and in a spirit of fun, which often animates

young men under such circumstances, he determined to add to his

uneasiness. Beside, he saw that Emma was decidedly annoyed; and as she

had treated him with some caprice, he thought this a good opportunity

for ‘paying her off;’ and so he took particular pleasure in displaying

the ring whenever he could. Emma could bear it no longer; and the first

time he was by her, and no one else in the group, she said,

“I wish you would give me that ring.”

“What, now?” said the young man, glancing his eye toward Mr. Dashwood,

who was just then approaching.

“No,” she replied, almost with a shiver, feeling at once how that would

betray her. “Not now; send it to me to-morrow.” And then, as Mr.

Dashwood joined them, she continued, in the same tone, to talk of other

things.

Cooper saw his power over her, and determined to use it, partly in the

spirit of fun, and yet not without a dash of malice in it either. So the

next morning he wrote her a few lines, enclosing another ring of more

value than hers, and “begging that it might be substituted in the place

of one he treasured so highly, he could not readily bring himself to

part with it.”

Emma was exceedingly angry. “Did you ever know any thing so impudent?”

she said to Alice, with tears in her eyes. “Hateful creature! how could

I be such a fool as ever to have let him take it at all!” And she opened

her writing-desk to take out some note paper, when Alice said,

“What are you going to do, Emma?”

“Why, return it to him, of course,” she replied, indignantly, “and

insist upon having my own again.”

“Oh, don’t write to him, Emma,” said Alice; “pray don’t. Depend upon it,

he will take advantage of it if you do.”

“What shall I do, then?” said Emma, despairingly.

“He will probably be here this evening,” replied Alice, “and if you take

my advice, you will give it back to him before Mr. Dashwood, and ask for

your own at the same time. He’s only trying now to annoy you, because he

sees that you are afraid of Mr. Dashwood’s knowing the truth.”

“Well, so I am,” replied Emma. “That’s just the thing. If it was not for

Mr. Dashwood, there would be no difficulty about it.”

“Ah, Emma, if you would——”

“But I wont, Alice,” said Emma, interrupting her impatiently. “I know

what you are going to say—but I wont—I can’t tell Mr. Dashwood. If you

can suggest nothing better than that, leave me to take my own way.”

“Don’t write, then,” said Alice, imploringly.

“Why, Alice, what else can I do!” replied Emma, much vexed. “You make

objections to every thing, and yet don’t suggest anything better.” And

so she wrote a few rapid lines, enclosing the ring, and dispatched a

servant with it to Mr. Cooper’s. He was out. The note was left; and she

received no answer that day.

The next morning, however, brought a reply, apologizing, in the first

place, for not answering her immediately; but he had been absent from

home; then, half expostulatingly, and half playfully, protesting against

her exactions—in short, a very _flirty_ note, and without the ring.

Emma was very angry, and foolishly wrote a spirited reply, which, of

course, brought a rejoinder; and thus, in spite of Alice’s entreaties,

several notes passed between them, and Emma was no nearer her object

than before. When they met, he sometimes promised to give up the ring,

sometimes playfully evaded the point; but still always kept her in hopes

and suspense. Mr. Dashwood noticed the kind of growing intimacy that

seemed to subsist between them, and noticed it, too, with displeasure;

not that he was jealous at all—for he was of a noble, confiding temper;

but he was a proud, reserved man, and did not like the peculiar manner

in which Emma allowed Mr. Cooper to address her; and was still less

pleased with the low, earnest tones in which he sometimes heard her

speaking to him.

Mr. Dashwood was the soul of truth and honor himself, but was of a

reserved and even stern temper, too; and in spite of the witchery Emma’s

playfulness exercised over him, he would occasionally bend his eyes upon

her with a stern look, that frightened the soul almost out of her

body—for Emma, like all fibbers, was a coward. She was desperately in

love with him, but at the same time desperately afraid of him.

“Oh, if I only get out of this scrape safely,” she said to Alice, “I’ll

take care how I get into another.”

“Well,” said Alice, cheerfully, “that is the best thing I’ve heard you

say yet, Emma. Pray tell him the truth always in future.”

“It was a pity I did not in the beginning,” said Emma; “for I do believe

with you, that he would have thought nothing of it then. He does not

suspect any thing now; but still it is unlucky.”

Emma had no feeling about deceiving one who trusted her so fully, but

only thought that she was very ‘unlucky’ and in a ‘scrape.’

The next time she met Mr. Cooper, the subject of the ring was resumed.

He protested he had it not with him, or he would give it to her. “Will

you allow me to call this evening,” he said, “and I will bring it?”

She immediately remembered that Mr. Dashwood would be at her house in

the evening, and she said,

“No, I shall not be at home. I am going to spend the evening with Miss

Pearsall. Will you not be there?”

“If you are, certainly,” he replied, in a manner implying that it was an

appointment, which was the fact, though Emma was vexed at his letting it

appear.

Mr. Dashwood said to her afterward, “I will bring the book you wish this

evening,” but she answered, to Alice’s surprise, “No, don’t, for I am

going with mamma to old Mrs. Haight’s to drink tea; so you must pass the

evening at the club for this once,” but, she added, holding out her

hand, “come to-morrow; until when, good-by.”

“Why, Emma, what on earth takes you to Mrs. Haight’s to tea?” said

Alice, afterward.

“I am not going to Mrs. Haight’s,” she coolly replied. “I am going to

Ellen Pearsall’s. Mr. Cooper has promised at last to give me that

tiresome ring, and my notes, too.”

Alice looked quite shocked.

“Emma, Emma!” she said. “How can you?”

“How can I what, Alice?” said Emma, impatiently. “You know I can’t let

him come here, for Mr. Dashwood is always here.”

“But why say you are going to Mrs. Haight’s?”

“Oh, Alice, how tiresome you are? Because, if I had said I was going to

Ellen’s, of course, Mr. Dashwood would have offered to go, or call for

me. Now, he knows Mrs. Haight never receives any one but our family; so

that matter is settled.”

“But suppose he finds it out?” persisted Alice.

“Oh, he wont find it out,” returned Emma, who was always confident in

any expedient that saved her for the time being.

In the evening, it so happened, that one or two gentlemen called also at

Miss Pearsall’s; and the circle was so small, that the conversation

being general, as they sat round Miss Pearsall’s tea-table, Emma had no

opportunity of effecting the object she came for; and she returned home

quite provoked, and out of spirits. But it so happened, that one of the

young men who had chanced to be there, on his way home, went into the

very club-room where Mr. Dashwood was sitting.

“You are a very pretty fellow, are you not!” exclaimed the young man,

gayly, as he saw Dashwood. “And this is your engagement, is it? ’Pon my

word, I think Miss Percival is very good to make your apologies in this

way, and let you come off to a club-room.”

“What are you talking of?” said Dashwood, looking up surprised.

“Why, of your letting Miss Percival go alone to Miss Pearsall, saying

you were engaged. She has just gone home with her brother, while her

most devoted of lovers sits smoking his cigar in a club-room.”

Mr. Dashwood could scarcely believe his senses. He doubted, for the

moment, whether he was smoking—whether he was in a club-room—whether

he was sitting or standing. But, too proud and reserved to betray his

emotions to a casual acquaintance, he asked no questions; and observing

that the room was cold, buttoned up his coat, and left the house.

The next day he said to Emma,

“Did not you tell me you were going last evening to Mrs. Haight’s with

your mother?”

“Yes,” she replied, “mamma and I went early to an old-fashioned cup of

tea.”

“Hawthorn told me,” he said, bending his eyes upon her with an

expression that brought her heart to her lips in an instant, “that he

met you at Mrs. Pearsall’s.”

“Yes,” she replied, with a presence of mind worthy of a better

cause—for she felt it was what is vulgarly called “neck or

nothing”—“yes, it was so dull, that I could not bear it long. All my

humanity and kindness for poor old Mrs. Haight could not stand her

prosing; so I left mamma there, and went into Ellen’s—they live next

door, you know.”

“Hawthorn said you apologized for me, saying I was engaged,” he

continued, not yet quite satisfied.

“I said nothing of the kind,” she said, feeling that her only resource

was to deny this _in toto_. “What could Mr. Hawthorn be thinking of? I

said you were going to the club.”

His countenance cleared immediately; indeed, he was angry, and despised

himself that he could have been uneasy, or doubted her for a moment. He

grew animated and cheerful, and asked so pleasantly who she had met

there, that, excited by her success, or “escape,” as she would have

called it, she mentioned the gentlemen, among whom she even boldly named

Mr. Cooper, who had been Miss Pearsall’s guests.

“Emma,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “perfect confidence must exist

where there is perfect affection; so I will be frank with you at once. I

do not like that gentleman’s manner toward you. It seems to me as if

there were some secret between you;” and he fixed his searching eyes

upon her with an inquiring expression.

She felt now that he had seen too much to be satisfied of the contrary,

even if she denied it; so she said,

“Well, to be frank with you, there is something between us; but as it is

not a secret of mine—I do not know that I am authorized to tell even

you of it.”

He looked grave, as he replied,

“Certainly, if it is the secret of another, I have no right, nor wish,

even, to inquire further. But I hope in future, Emma, you may have no

secrets, even of others, from which I am excluded.”

It was half affectionately, half gravely said; and Emma promised most

fully to have no reserves from him henceforth.

“Do you know,” continued he, smiling, though still not looking quite

satisfied, “that I imagined it was something concerning that ring that

Cooper sports?”

Emma felt again that she was treading on ice, that might give way the

next instant, and that denial was unsafe, so she answered boldly,

“You are right again. And, upon the whole, I don’t know why I should not

tell you the truth just as it is. I do not suppose Ellen will care about

your knowing it, particularly as you, of course, will not repeat it. She

gave him that ring, and wanted me to get it back for her.”

“Why did she not ask for it herself?” he said, somewhat sternly.

“She was afraid of her mother’s knowing it,” replied Emma. “You know

what a prim, particular old lady Mrs. Pearsall is.”

“Foolish girl,” he said, contemptuously, “and worse than foolish, to be

deceiving those she should most trust.”

Emma felt her heart die within her; but there was no help for her—so

she agreed to all his animadversions on Miss Pearsall, and only said,

“Yes, so she is; but say nothing about it. Make no allusion to her, or

to any one else.”

“Of course not,” he replied; and the subject dropped.

To Emma’s great relief she heard, a few days afterward, that Mr. Cooper

was going to Europe very soon. Expected to sail, indeed, in the course

of a fortnight.

“I have a little package for you,” he said; “when can I call,” he added,

smiling, “when Mr. Dashwood is not at your house?”

Emma saw that he thought she was afraid of Mr. Dashwood, and supposed,

too, that he was jealous; and the idea that he should presume to think

Dashwood jealous, and of him, too, roused her temper; and she said with

spirit,

“You may call whenever it suits you. Mr. Dashwood’s visits need not

interfere with yours.”

“Indeed!” he said, looking at her inquiringly.

“Why,” said she, scornfully, provoked with his impudence, “do you

imagine that Mr. Dashwood cares about that ring?”

“Does he know it to be yours?” he asked, with surprise.

“To be sure he does,” she boldly replied; and, to her great

satisfaction, she saw at once that all the peculiar pleasure and

interest in possessing the ring was dispelled.

“I will send you the package to-morrow,” he said, quietly, “if I have

not time to call myself before I sail.”

He was very much occupied, however, during the day, and forgot it; but

the evening prior to his departure, Dashwood called at his rooms to

entrust him with some European letters. He found him making a few last

arrangements, and a couple of gentlemen were with him. After some

general conversation, just as Cooper was closing his writing-desk, where

he had deposited Dashwood’s letters, his eye happened to fall upon

Emma’s package, which he had forgotten in his hurry until then.

Supposing that Dashwood knew all about it, and not wishing to mention

names before the strangers, who were with him, he said, handing it to

Dashwood, “I wish you would hand this to its fair owner; and tell Miss

Percival,” he said, “that I should have called to make my adieux, if I

had not been so pressed for time.”

It was a small package addressed to “Miss E. P.” which Dashwood,

remembering his conversation with Emma, supposed he was to hand to Miss

Ellen Pearsall; so, asking no questions, he put it in his pocket, and

after bidding Cooper farewell, left him to go to a large party where he

expected to meet Emma, and probably Ellen.

In the course of the evening he said,

“I have a small package for you, Miss Pearsall, which I will give you

when you leave.”

“A package for me!” she exclaimed, with surprise. “What can it be! Oh,

give it to me now.”

As Mrs. Pearsall, the “prim, particular old lady,” was not near, he

handed Ellen the package, who instantly broke the seal of the envelope,

from which fell two or three notes, while the young lady exclaimed,

“Why this is Emma’s ring. What were you thinking of, Mr. Dashwood?” she

added, laughing. “You must be an absent gentleman, to be sure, to

mistake me for Emma. Is not that a good joke?” and she laughed heartily,

as he stooped to pick up the notes, which to his amazement he saw were

directed, in Emma’s handwriting, to “Charles Cooper, Esq.”

“That Miss Percival’s ring?” he said, bewildered, and not knowing what

to think.

“Yes, certainly!” she replied. “See, there is her name engraved

inside”—and so it was. “Is not that amusing, mamma?” she continued,

turning to her mother, and explaining what she seemed to think an

excellent joke. Dashwood saw the truth at once in her tones and whole

manner.

“What is that,” said Emma, crossing the room to join them, “that seems

to be amusing you all so?”

“Only, my dear,” said Ellen, laughing, “that Mr. Dashwood has mistaken

me for you. Very complimentary to me, certainly; though I don’t know

what you’ll say to such compliments.”

“This package,” said Mr. Dashwood, gravely, without raising his eyes to

Emma’s face, “is, it seems, addressed to you. Miss Pearsall broke the

seal under a mistake. But there is no mistake now, I believe,” he added,

with an emphasis that sent Emma’s blood tingling to the tips of her

fingers. He handed her the package, slightly bowed and passed on.

Emma saw him no more that evening. Startled and terrified by the facts,

which she felt even her powers of dissimulation were unequal to cover,

she was yet more alarmed by the manner in which he had received them.

Had he seemed angry, though frightened, she still would have had hope.

Had he reproached her, she might have wept and apologized. But his

manner had been cold and stern; he had merely bowed, he had not even

looked at her, and left her.

She passed an agonized night of doubt and suspense.

He suffered no less than herself, but not from doubt and suspense.

Unhappily, there was no room for that. He was a man of firm mind, and

decided character. His sense of honor was fine, almost romantic; and he

was the soul of truth and integrity. He was not angry, but worse than

that, he was shocked; and, shall we say it, disgusted. He had been

easily blinded, because he fully confided. He was too upright, too

high-minded, readily to suspect others. But his eyes once opened, and

his rapid, clear mind saw the whole at once. The falsehoods that Emma

had told him, much as they pained him, were not to him the worst part of

the affair. He remembered her innocent looks, her unconscious air, her

apparently frank and careless manner; and his soul sickened—for he

felt, in the emphatic language of the ritual, that “the truth was not in

her.”

Confidence was destroyed forever. Happiness between them was out of the

question. He wrote to her, “freeing her from an engagement with one whom

she evidently not only did not trust, but feared.”

The letter was a manly, feeling letter; short, but breathing the anguish

of a deeply wounded spirit.

Emma wept passionately over it; mourned, and mourned again, that she had

not told him the truth in the beginning. “It was so unlucky,” as she

kept repeating—for beyond that her sense of right did not go, even yet.

But Mr. Dashwood was on his way to New Orleans. He left the Percivals to

tell what story they pleased; and it was soon announced by her friends

that “Emma had dismissed him.”

When the reason was asked, Emma said “she felt she never could be happy

with him;” and her mother intimated that his temper was a stern,

unpleasant one.

“And I always should have been afraid of him,” said Emma to Alice,

beginning to draw consolation as soon as she could from the first source

that occurred to her. “He thought so much of trifles that I know that I

should always have been in trouble, and horribly afraid of him.”

Alice sighed, for she believed so too. She had once hoped much from the

influence of Dashwood’s superior character over her; but she now saw how

fallacious those hopes would have been. Emma, she felt, was

incorrigible, for she had no perception even yet of her fault. Dashwood

had been right—“the truth was not in her.”

* * * * *

ELVA.

BY EDWARD POLLOCK.

Old Elva’s walls are leveled with the earth,

And weeds are green where glowed the blazing hearth;

The stately trees that once the roof topped o’er,

Now shed their brown leaves on the broken floor:

Where bloomed the rose and lily, browse the deer;

And springs the oak the cherished fruit tree near;

Where once were arbors, now, through thickest brake,

Slow winds, in many a fold, the glancing snake.

Time, tempest, violence, and dull decay,

Have worn at length the latest marks away;

One tower alone stands grimly where it stood,

Gray, torn, dismantled, frowning o’er the flood,

The dreariest mark those mournful ruins bear,

That human forms have been—but are not there.

Yet, Elva! once with thee it was not so:

Ere ruthless hearts and hands had wrought thee wo,

Thy long dim halls with happiness were rife,

And glad hearts to thy solitudes gave life.

And though nor gladsome voice, nor glancing oar,

Now stir the echoes on thy lake’s green shore,

That lake hath borne full oft the bark where sate

Forms warm with love, and hearts with hope elate,

And young bright eyes have bent with starry gleam

Above the mazy windings of thy stream.

From the dark turret, where the sweet bells swung,

All winged with joy the wedding peals have rung,

While Mirth, with kindling glance and rosy smile,

Kissed each young cheek and blessed each heart the while,

And Song sat, silver-tongued, and filled with sound

Those echoing walls, now sadly scattered round!

Oh list the lowly and the simple lay

The minstrel sings of Elva’s earlier day.

I.

Old Elva’s halls have many a guest to-night,

Yet the lamps shed not their accustomed light,

Nor music’s strain, nor garnished feast is there,

But all is sentineled by anxious care.

For they who rest within, in act and word,

Are leagued in hostile guise against their lord;

And much they dare who aid with kindly hand

The attainted members of that patriot band:

Men who had cast with daring hands aside

The cankering chains of feudal pomp and pride,

And roused by wrongs, long suffered, long forgiven,

Will now be free, if not on earth—in heaven.

Worn by long marching, wearied, dark with soil—

But not one fiery bosom tamed by toil—

On the hard floor their limbs they careless lay,

And wait their arms beside th’ approaching day—

Small thought have they of aught of daintier fare—

Few nights, I ween, for them such couch prepare.

II.

As one who watched his slumbering band to guard,

Their chieftain, Gilbert, slowly paced the sward.

His ebon locks thrown back to catch the breeze,

Cooled by the lake and scented by the trees,

His small hand resting on his dagger’s hilt,

Whose blade may yet retain its last red gilt,

With careful gaze he scans the darkening scene,

Marks each faint motion of the foliage green,

Or turns at times his flashing full gray eye,

To where the stars hang brightening o’er the sky.

Why waits he here when all the rest are deep

In the void realms of weird, mysterious sleep?

What thought—what scene doth hope or memory trace,

Which gilds and glooms alternately his face?

Dreams he of glory?—of revenge?—or love?

Or seek his eyes those silent suns above,

With strange, deep yearnings for the mystic lore

The eastern Magi proudly held of yore?

When stars were gods, and he who bent the knee

To their far thrones, the future there might see—

Or why hath power so soon her mantle flung,

On one so fair, so slender, and so young?

III.

Vain questions all! But ask the bold of deed

Who scarce can follow where he dares to lead,

Whose form is foremost in the reeling fight?

Whose arm is last to stay and first to smite?

Whose voice still rings the wavering ranks to cheer?

Whose counsel still partakes of aught but fear?

Whose face, when all was chill with blank despair,

Ne’er yet has worn one shade that looked like care?

Or whose the hand, when some well-won success

Might sure have named revenge a just redress,

Was still most prompt the conquered foe to save?

All his—the young—the beautiful—the brave!

He who had lightly held that slender hand,

Would scarce have scorned it when it grasped the brand;

And he who marked at rest that eye and cheek,

In war so wild, in peace so soft and meek,

Might well have wondered whence the spirit rose,

So dear to friends—so terrible to foes!

IV.

He came—they knew not whence—nor much they cared;

Yet seemed he one in luxury lapped and reared:

Some hideous wrong, perchance, they thought, had stung

Into rebellion one so soft and young.

A home laid desolate—a father slain—

Or else redress for injury, asked in vain;

But all was wild surmise—they questioned not,

But in the present soon the past forgot.

So mild his face, serene and calmly bright,

Like a sweet landscape in the morning light,

You might not guess what passions lurked apart

In the dim caverns of his hidden heart;

And in his eye gleamed such uncertain ray,

Full rarely sad, and still more rarely gay,

You ne’er could tell if joy or rage would speak

In the next moment from his changing cheek.

If wreathed in smiles, his beaming features shone

Like a breeze-dimpled streamlet in the sun;

But when the glance of anger fired his eye,

It struck like lightning from a cloudless sky.

Still in his glance, and in his lifted hand,

Was that which showed the soul that would command;

It might be art, or nature—none could tell—

But if a mask, he wore it rarely well.

V.

The western clouds have lost their purple dye,

A silver radiance tints the eastern sky—

That dream-like glory tells the eye, that soon

Above the hills shall sail the summer moon.

And Gilbert passed within that silent hall,

Lit by a dim lamp trembling from the wall,

His steps he turned by that uncertain ray,

Where stretched along his sleeping warriors lay.

’Twas a strange sight! each swart and stalwart form,

So scarred and seared by warfare and by storm,

There seemingly lay lapped in such sweet rest,

As lulls the infant on its mother’s breast.

But when the form in deepest trance lies still

Most wildly wakes the fancy and the will,

And much of tumult hushed, and passion stern,

Who watched the unconscious sleepers might discern.

Here one, whose quivering eyelids shunned the light,

Seemed struggling with some phantom child of night;

Yon grimly smiling form we well may guess

In dreams anticipates revenge—redress!

And there be fingers wandering to the brand,

And the sheathed dagger meets the unconscious hand;

And some there be whose quick convulsive clasp

The long brown rifle strains with iron grasp.

VI.

Where through the window, opening o’er the glade,

The shivering winds of night an entrance made,

There was an old man—old in years and care—

With wrinkled brow and scant and frosty hair,

Stretched out in sleep; the earliest moonbeams played

On the hard pillow where his cheek was laid,

And, with her spirit hand, the wind of night

Lifted the thin locks from his temples white.

Such ghastly pallor o’er the features spread,

So marble cold appeared the silent head,

That one might start, despite the deep drawn breath,

At life that looked so fearfully like death.

And Gilbert gazed, and as he gazed, a change

Passed o’er those features—beautiful but strange—

Such magic change as one might guess would be

When bursts the morning o’er a moonlit sea;

His brow relaxed, his thin lips dropped apart,

More boldly heaved his breast and leaped his heart,

And a faint smile, the ghost of gladness gone,

Played round his mouth like radiance round the sun.

Now sinks his breathing indistinct and low—

Hark! from his lips unmeaning murmurs flow—

He speaks: “_Dear father—mother—_” Heaven above!

That old man dreams of childhood’s guiltless love.

The daylight shines not on a fiercer brow,

A fiercer eye, a haughtier lip, and now,

Serenely, sweetly, there, a sinless boy,

He smiles in slumber o’er a childish joy.

To Gilbert’s eyes those words recalled a scene,

That ah! no more for Gilbert shall be green;

And at those syllables so lightly spoke,

Long channeled fountains in his bosom broke;

Along his cheek faint flushes went and came,

As o’er an evening cloud the lightning’s flame;

And his frame thrilled and trembled as the trees

All quivering bend them to the autumn breeze.

Hell has no fiend like memory, when she brings

Repentance without hope, remorse’s stings,

And a long file of days, in sable weeds,

Mourning and weeping over past misdeeds.

Like a pale ghost that shuns the rising day,

Strode Gilbert fast, but stealthily, away;

Nor paused he till again the dewy sod

With lighter heart and firmer step he trod.

VII.

Like warriors of the knightly times of old,

All sheathed in armor rough with fretted gold,

So seem the trees round Elva’s mansion white,

So glance their wet leaves in the silver light.

Still Gilbert watches—still his eyelids keep

At bay the approaches of deceitful sleep;

The sun was sinking when his watch begun,

Now far beneath him rolls the unwearied sun;

The moon, whose glory woke a fainter day,

When on the hill-tops died the gold away,

Now from mid-heaven, with face serene, looks down

On lake and stream and Elva’s forest brown.

He leaned against a tree, whose trunk around

With hoary moss and ivy green was bound,

His flashing eyes were turned upon a scroll

Whose pictured words drew echoes from his soul:

As the Æolian harp, by night winds stirred,

By turns is silent, or by snatches heard,

So wildly sweet, in fitful fragments rung

The syllables unconscious from his tongue.

THE LETTER.

Sweet land of shadows—dear, delightful shore—

Oh could I seek thee to return no more!

What dreams of joy each misty valley fills,

What scented blossoms fringe the sparkling rills,

What angel visions float through rainbow skies,

Where rich and warm a sunless glory lies!

There, ’mid the blossoms, love lies stretched along,

And fills the air with passion and with song,

And dancing waves below, and winds above,

Seem warm with kisses from the lips we love.

Ah! Gilbert, shall our spirits haunt no more

Those bowers of love on fancy’s airy shore?

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

Fierce as the waves of ocean lashed to strife,

Wild as the winds that wake them into life,

Through my sore heart the crimson billows roll,

And rush the thoughts tumultuous o’er my soul,

When to my memory’s eye returns that day

They tore thee bleeding from my heart away.

O cursed, yet blessed, all wild with joy and pain,

How cling those moments to my tortured brain—

That last embrace my bosom answers still,

Still to that kiss my lips responsive thrill.

Again mine arms are wildly round thee flung—

I drink each accent falling from thy tongue—

Again—again—O God!—the steel gleams bright—

As speeds the deadly blow before my sight,

I see the warm blood gushing from thy breast—

But grim despair and darkness hold the rest.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

High hangs that blade above my chamber-door—

The fiend that from my heart its idol tore,

Before my gaze displays the unwiped steel,

And feeds his vengeance on the pangs I feel.

There must I see, each morning’s life begun,

Thy best blood rusting in the rising sun;

By night—by night, whene’er the moonbeams pale

Have wreathed the chamber in their mystic veil,

Through the dim haze, like spectral lamp, it gleams,

Or fills with baleful light my midnight dreams.

From hideous sleep with quivering limbs I start—

That blade seems rusting in my throbbing heart;

Like a red cloud it shuts the light away,

And glooms with horror all the joys of day.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

I know thou didst not die—this much I know

From him who wert thou dead were still thy foe;

I know thy dwelling, in the deep recess

Of the greenwood’s remotest wilderness,

And he can tell, who bears this scroll from me,

How my heart bounded at the thought of thee.

Fame speaks thee fierce of heart, of deadly hand,

The outlawed leader of an outlawed band;

I heed not that, I only joy to hear

Thy name as one the boldest hearts must fear;

Would only pray, that fate would kindly twine.

In life or death, my destiny with thine.

Alas, how vain! my love, my spirit’s pride,

A hunted lion, roves the mountain-side.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

There is a fairy spot, thou knowest it well,

By Elva’s stream, in Elva’s deepest dell,

Where oaks and larches bend their heads above,

And flowering shrubs beneath are thickly wove,

While through the boughs, in many a broken beam,

Dances the sunlight on the sparkling stream;

There, when my guardian’s eyes I can elude,

I sometimes steal and sit with solitude;

But all too dreadful is the contrast there,

Where hope lies tombed and guarded by despair,

To the dear joys, all passionate and wild,

With which we once the passing hours beguiled.

Oh there be times when nature’s every voice,

All tuned in one sweet descant, sing, “rejoice!”

When rolls the sun refulgently away,

And strives the red moon with the dying day,

When golden tints and misty gleams of snow

Have met and mingled in the vale below,

When winds and waters, sweetly toned and clear,

In melting murmurs strike the raptured ear;

The rippling sound by waving branches made,

The varying cadence of the far cascade,

Now high, now low, as sweeps the breeze along,

Now calmly faint, now tremulously strong;

There is a spirit thrills the sense, the soul,

Till the full heart spurns reason’s cold control,

Steeps anxious care and coward fear in sleep,

And melts the bosom into raptures deep!

Such have we known full oft in that lone dell,

How dear—how dear—the thought—our hearts can tell!

. . . . . . . . . . .

Like a green island, poised on ocean’s brim,

Seem these last scenes in distance faint and dim;

The swift, deep gulf my helmless bark floats o’er

Still bears me further from that lovely shore;

I stretch my arms, I shriek, but dark and strong

Rolls the wild flood of destiny along—

Oh, there are hours of rapture buried there

That envying angels might have longed to share!

Dear hours of love! delusive if thou wilt,

But wild with passion—stained perchance with guilt;

Yet would I peril for such joys again,

Life—time—eternity—but all is vain!

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

Farewell! I ask thee not if day by day

Thy heart hath cast its young romance away;

I could not doubt thy truth—I ask thee not

If Clara’s image be at last forgot;

O! love like ours, impetuous, wild and high,

Drinks at one draught the spirit’s fountains dry!

Farewell!—it chills my blood that lonely word;

My heart is sinking like a wounded bird;

The sky that once with gladness lit my life

Is dull with gloom and desolate with strife,

Yet still, methinks, there dimly shines afar,

Through the rent clouds, one little lonely star—

The star of Hope. I suffer not in vain

If life return thee to my arms again.

——

He pauses—starts—what sees he in the brake?

What stealthy steps the slumbering echoes wake?

“Stand, on thy life!” His knife hath left its sheath,

And the poised pistol grimly threatens death.

No answer comes—but light as forest fawn

Glides a slight female o’er the dewy lawn.

Why tempts that tender form the midnight air?

What makes she here so fragile and so fair?

Had the earth yawned, and from the shades below

A demon sprung, it had not moved him so.

To earth the deadly weapons wild he dashed;

With a strange light his eyes dilated—flashed.

“Great God, ’tis she!” the accents trembling rung

On his pale lips, when to his breast she sprung;

Oh, to that moment what were years of pain,

For young life’s glory has returned again!

Nor words nor murmur break the night’s profound—

Thus still the full heart robs the lips of sound;

And save the glances from their eyes that shoot

There is no sign—for happiness is mute.

VIII.

Oh she was beautiful, that lady fair,

Though pale her seeming in the midnight air;

The slenderest tendrils of the clasping vine

Less rarely than her raven ringlets twine;

The snowiest that e’er the moon looked on

Than her white forehead less serenely shone;

The wavy billows in the morning light,

Now tinged with red, now melting back to white,

Have less of heaven’s serenest dyes than wore

That cheek, the tresses dankly clustered o’er.

With trembling hand she dashed the locks away,

And from her damp brow swept the glittering spray,

“And have we met, and most we part—alas!

Must this long looked for bliss so quickly pass?

Patience, my heart—” and then the accents broke

In calmer tones, though hurriedly she spoke;

“Gilbert, within Gleneden’s halls to-night

Are armed forms that counsel hold of fight;

In ruthless hands are weapons bared for strife,

I scarce need tell thee what they seek—thy life.

’Tis known to-night in Elva camps thy host,

Few, worn, asleep—unarmed and weak the post—

Thus ran their words, and much they talked of gold,

And chieftains by repentant rebels sold;

Unseen myself, I heard their counsel; fear

Has winged my steps to warn thee—I am here.”

Kindly he smiled—“And didst thou dare, dear maid,

For one like me, the midnight forest’s shade?

Thy robes are torn and wet, thy parched lips dry.

And a wild fire is glancing in thine eye—

Poor trembling heart—” and closer still he pressed

The exhausted maiden to his throbbing breast.

“Ten thousand curses strike the onward hind

Who haunts thee thus with cruelty refined!

Alas, my Clara! I could weep for thee,

But tears have long been strangers unto me.

But let him come—” a scornful tone he took,

Darkened his brow and deadly grew his look—

“’Tis time this hand had wreaked its treasured wrong,

And vengeance has delayed her sweets too long;

Twice have I crossed him when the fight was red,

But fate befriended still his guilty head.

Ay, let him come—my band, in one short hour,

Shall equal his, whate’er may be his power,

For long before these hills shall hail the dawn,

Five hundred blades shall glance on Elva’s lawn;

Even now, methinks, the bugles faint I hear,

Which warn their leader that his troops draw near.

But thou, my gentle love, thou ill may’st brook

On scenes of battle and of blood to look!

Small refuge can these feeble walls afford

From war’s rude shocks, the musket and the sword.”

Fierce flashed her eye, and proudly rose her head—

“Think not my woman’s heart so weak,” she said—

“No, from this hour, whatever fate betide,

My post is ever by my Gilbert’s side.

Mine were thy wrongs, my vengeance shall be thine,

Through danger or success, thy path be mine!”

“A thousand thanks, my Clara, for that word!

Thy voice has nerved my heart—has edged my sword!

Nor deem thy lover weak—this peril past,

On different scenes thine eyes thou soon shall cast,

For in these wars my hand shall carve a name

Whose sheen shall dim my sires’ ancestral fame—

Enduring as the stars—and thou shall be,

First in a land where every heart is free—”

Quick he breaks off—for glancing through the trees,

Rank after rank of bayonets bright he sees.

“Clara! they come—the blood-hounds would not wait

The morning light, so eager burns their hate;

’Tis fearful odds, my Clara, but away,

Awhile at least we’ll hold their ranks at bay.”

Around her slender waist his arm he flung,

And lightly through the opened door he sprung,

Noiseless behind the heavy portal turns,

Before him still that glimmering taper burns;

He reached the centre of that chamber wide,

Where slumber still his warriors side by side—

“Now to your chamber haste, my Clara, haste,

For life hangs on each moment that we waste!

How goes the battle, soon myself shall tell;

One kiss—one more—now, Clara, fare thee well!”

IX.

He watched her glide reluctant from the hall,

Then snatched an unsheathed sabre from the wall,

One instant’s glance around the chamber cast,

Where sleep so many that have slept their last;

“Rouse ye, my mates!” Upspringing at the sound,

From their rough couch the startled warriors bound,

Noiseless they start, and all prepared they stand,

Glances the knife and shines the ready brand,

Nor sign nor motion show they of surprise,

But mutely turn on Gilbert their bright eyes.

He stands their centre; round his form they wheel,

A dusky phalanx, lit by gleams of steel,

Serene, but pale as sculptured marble stone

His cheeks—while in his eye there coldly shone

A wintry starlight—well ’tis understood,

That freezing glance prophetic speaks of blood.

Proud he looked round, yet struggling with his pride

Was something of regret he strove to hide,

And low, though resolute, those accents clear,

That fired the listener’s heart and thrilled his ear.

“Comrades and friends—my trusty, fearless few,

Still to yourselves and injured freedom true,

Our foes are here—we are at last beset—

Be calm, be firm, and we shall foil them yet.

They think us helpless, hopeless, all undone,

And scorn their conquest as too easy won;

But can we hold our post—ere morn be gray

We’ll change their triumph into blank dismay.

Yet—for I scorn the hope one hour may blast,

Nor speak through fear—this fight may prove our last;

If one half hour unmastered we hold our post,

All shall be well—if broken, all is lost.

So friends, dear friends, ere yet this cast we dare,

This closing game twixt triumph and despair,

One friendly grasp, not one regretful sigh,

We have been true, and as we lived we’ll die.

Now then, all’s well—be resolute—be dumb,

Let your good rifles speak—ah, hark! they come!”

X.

Flew from its massive hinge the shattered door,

The splintered fragments strewed the marble floor;

Wild through the breach like flashing waves they rolled,

All plumed and armed, and glittering o’er with gold;

Up to the aim rose Gilbert’s rifles all,

Rung the report and sped the deadly ball.

Th’ exulting shout that swelled the foeman’s breath,

Is quenched in yells of anguish and of death—

Once more they crowd—once more the volley came,

They sink like withered grass that feels the flame,

A ghastly pile of quivering limbs and gore

Bars up the way and chokes the narrow door,

But fast and thick, on numbers numbers press,

And death that thins seems scarce to leave them less,

Till in one mass, confused and fierce they close;

Shot answers shot, and blows are met by blows,

Useless the rifle now in that red strife,

Swings the short sword and speeds the gory knife,

The sulphurous smoke hangs o’er them like a pall,

While reeling round they struggle, strike and fall.

Foremost of all, conspicuous, Gilbert stood,

His whirling sabre dripping red with blood;

Gleamed his gray eye, his lordly brow was bare,

In tangled masses fell his raven hair,

Like weeds they fall where’er his weapon swept,

Still round his form a vacant ring he kept,

Where his blade gleams they sink with quivering cry,

And still through all one plume attracts his eye.

As through wild waves the vessel hold her course

Straight for the port, so through the serried force

He cleaves his way—as winds and waves will turn

The bark aside, that struggles to her bourne,

So still opposing numbers bar his way,

And rush between the avenger and his prey.

XI.

Borne back—repulsed—defeated—conquered—no!

Not while one wearied arm can strike a blow—

Stand the lorn few, and deeply draw their breath

For one last stroke, one struggle more with death

As sometimes, when the tempest wildest raves,

Comes a short lull along the flashing waves,

So seemed that pause in havoc’s mad career,

So deep you almost might their breathing hear.

Then, too, oh contrast strange! who looked might see

The moonlight sleeping on the hill’s green lea,

The trees where ’mid the boughs the wild bird swings,

And rocked in slumber folds her wearied wings,

The jeweled grass, the flower whose sun-parched lip

Fresh health and beauty from the night may sip,

The rippling streams that feed with ceaseless flow

The pulseless bosom of the lake below,

Where, glassed between long shadows dusk and brown,

In lines of light the mirrored skies sweep down.

Oh, gazing on such scene, how sweetly come

O’er the full soul dear memories of home!

And were but griefs forgot, and faults forgiven,

The heart might dream this earth should yet be heaven;

All this the long wide window could disclose,

With frame festooned by many a folded rose—

But not for eyes like theirs that gentle sight,

So calm, so sweet, so beautiful, so bright.

XII.

Gilbert looked round—oh now no more they turn,

With answering glances, to his looks that burn.

Wounded and bleeding, scarce the nerveless hand

Can now sustain the deeply reddened brand,

Yet, half unconscious, round his form they close—

Alas! weak fence are they from savage foes.

Around the room his gaze uncertain strayed,

Till on the chamber-door where Clara staid

It rested for a moment—in his heart

Some half-forbidden purpose seemed to start;

But in that moment, when suspended strife

Gave time for thoughts to rise of death and life,

Stepped from the opposing ranks Gleneden’s chief,

And thus in haughty tones demanded brief:

“Now, Gilbert, yield; thy short success is past,

Thy king compels thy rebel knee at last.

Justice or mercy, choose thee which we deal,

Thy monarch’s pardon or his vengeful steel!”

Flashed Gilbert’s eye, and curled his lip with scorn—

“Remorseless caitiff, to thy land forsworn,

False to all ties, in every treason dyed,

Here with thy country’s fellest foes allied,

Darest thou to brand me rebel? Thank thy fear,

And thy less guilty tools that guard thee here,

That long ere now my hand has not repaid

My wrongs—and hers—and my poor land betrayed!

Thy mercies too—ay, prate of such to me!

I know them well—the halter and the tree!

Thou, loathed by all—by every heart accurst—

But words are idle—do thy best—or worst!

Dear friends, once more, one closing stroke with me,

For home, for Liberty—we will be free!”

Hark! was’t a wandering echo that brought back

That shout returning on its airy track?

Do my ears mock me—heard I not the sound

Of trampling hoofs that shake the solid ground?

Wildly they meet—that final strife shall close

On none but victors and their silent foes.

XIII.

And where was Clara? In that chamber dark

She might by sounds the battle’s progress mark;

She heard when Gilbert woke them to the fray,

And when the door to angry blows gave way;

The volleyed crash that sped the deadly hail,

And the long shout that quivered to a wail,

She heard—but still as wilder grew the din,

And crept the sulphurous smoke the room within,

One maddening thought—_her Gilbert_—torture grew,

His single form her frenzied fancy drew,

Each blade was bent at Gilbert’s heart alone,

In every cry rung Gilbert’s dying moan,

Till a dull sense—like slumber or like death—

Unnerved her limbs and quenched her struggling breath,

Seemed the wild strife in distance far to die.

And gleamed with rainbow tints her closing eye.

She wakes—how dark and chill! Confused she hears—

She scarce knows what—her cheek is drench’d with tears,

And forms and scenes distorted cross her mind,

Like images on water, swept by wind.

She starts—ah, now all’s known—that voice—for well

Each tone of that loved voice her ear can tell!

’Twas then that Gilbert strove, with voice and hand,

To that last charge to cheer his drooping band;

She hears and flies—flings wide the door, and all

Is there revealed within that gory hall.

XIV.

Low lay Gleneden’s chief—his crimson vest

Dark with the blood warm springing from his breast;

O’er him stood Gilbert—still his sabre kept

At bay the circling host that round him swept,

When, with a long, wild shout, and bursting shock,

The ranks are riven, the reeling masses rock,

And piercing through the midst fresh troops are seen,

With weapons bared and clad in robes of green.

“Oh welcome, welcome!” burst from Gilbert’s tongue,

As proudly to that column’s head he sprung;

Not long the foe that sweeping charge may bide,

Wildly they fly, or fall on every side.

XV.

And the last blow has fallen—all is still!

Hark to the murmur of the gentle rill—

List to the breezy song the night wind sings—

How the leaves shiver when the long bough swings—

And this is nature—beautiful by night!

Most beautiful, most heavenly in such light

As now sleeps on her. Mighty God! how mean

Seems the poor reptile man in such a scene!

But where are they—the forms who lately stood

On that wide floor, so slippery now with blood?

Oh many stay there still, around they sleep

In tortured attitudes of anguish deep,

And some, but few, are fugitives; far down

In the deep gorges of the forest brown,

Are forms that struggle through the long rank grass,

And pause, and start, and tremble as they pass.

And Gilbert—the triumphant—where is he?

Lo! ’neath the shadow of yon ivied tree

A group of sorrowing, sobbing warriors bend

O’er him they bled for, but could not defend.

Oh destiny inscrutable! through all

Unharmed to pass—the bayonet and the ball—

And in the moment of success to fall!

His life bleeds slowly from him; and beside

Kneels she who was—or should have been—his bride;

Mutely she kneels, nor moves, nor weeps, nor sighs,

But only gazes on his glazing eyes,

And presses his cold temples. Time rolls past,

Each moment an eternity—they cast

Inquiring glances on her; and they see

At last his dauntless spirit is set free,

Yet in her see no motion. But when gray

In the far east appeared the rising day,

They strove to raise the little arms that bound

His silent head and stony temples round,

They found her gentle spirit, too, had gone—

She was a corpse, like him she rested on!

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool

I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but

Travelers must be content. As You Like It.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”

“MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by

J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court

of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 96._)

PART XI.

I might have pass’d that lovely cheek,

Nor, perchance, my heart have left me;

But the sensitive blush that came trembling there,

Of my heart it forever bereft me.

Who could blame had I loved that face,

Ere my eyes could twice explore her;

Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there,

And her warm, warm heart I adore her.

Wolfe.

The stories of the respective parties who had thus so strangely met on

that barren and isolated rock, were soon told. Harry confirmed all of

Jack’s statements as to his own proceedings, and Rose had little more to

say than to add how much her own affections had led her to risk in his

behalf. In a word, ten minutes made each fully acquainted with the

other’s movements. Then Tier considerately retired to the boat, under

the pretence of winding it, and seeing every thing ready for a

departure, but as much to allow the lovers the ten or fifteen minutes of

uninterrupted discourse that they now enjoyed, as for any other reason.

It was a strange scene that now offered on the rock. By this time the

fire was burning not only brightly, but fiercely, shedding its bright

light far and near. Under its most brilliant rays stood Harry and Rose,

both smiling and happy, delighted in their meeting, and, for the moment,

forgetful of all but their present felicity. Never, indeed, had Rose

appeared more lovely than under these circumstances. Her face was

radiant with those feelings which had so recently changed from despair

to delight—a condition that is ever most propitious to beauty, and

charms that always appeared feminine and soft, now seemed elevated to a

bright benignancy that might best be likened to our fancied images of

angels. The mild, beaming, serene and intelligent blue eyes, the cheeks

flushed with happiness, the smiles that came so easily, and were so

replete with tenderness, and the rich hair, deranged by the breeze, and

moistened by the air of the sea, each and all, perhaps, borrowed some

additional lustre from the peculiar light under which they were

exhibited. As for Harry, happiness had thrown all the disadvantages of

exposure, want of dress, and a face that had not felt the razor for

six-and-thirty hours, into the back-ground. When he left the wreck, he

had cast aside his cap and his light summer jacket, in order that they

might not encumber him in swimming, but both had been recovered when he

returned with the boat to take off his friends. In his ordinary sea

attire, then, he now stood, holding Rose’s two hands, in front of the

fire, every garment clean and white as the waters of the ocean could

make them, but all betraying some of the signs of his recent trials. His

fine countenance was full of the love he bore for the intrepid and

devoted girl who had risked so much in his behalf; and a painter might

have wished to preserve the expressions of ardent, manly admiration

which glowed in his face, answering to the gentle sympathy and womanly

tenderness it met in that of Rose.

The back-ground of this picture was the wide, even surface of the coral

reef, with its exterior setting of the dark and gloomy sea. On the side

of the channel, however, appeared the boat, already winded, with Biddy

still on the rock, looking kindly at the lovers by the fire, while Jack

was holding the painter, beginning to manifest a little impatience at

the delay.

“They’ll stay there an hour, holding each other’s hands, and looking

into each other’s faces,” half grumbled the little, rotund,

assistant-steward, anxious to be on his way back to the brig, “unless a

body gives ’em a call. Capt. Spike will be in no very good humor to

receive you and me on board ag’in, if he should find out what sort of a

trip we’ve been making hereaway.”

“Let ’em alone—let ’em alone, Jacky,” answered the good-natured and

kind-hearted Irish woman. “It’s happy they bees, just now, and it does

my eyes good to look at ’em.”

“Ay, they’re happy enough, _now_; I only hope it may last.”

“Last! what should help its lasting? Miss Rose is so good, and so

handsome—and she’s a fortin’, too; and the mate so nice a young man.

Think of the likes of them, Jack, wanting the blessed gift of wather,

and all within one day and two nights. Sure, it’s Providence that takes

care of, and not we ourselves! Kings on their thrones isn’t as happy as

_them_ at this moment.”

“Men’s willians!” growled Jack; “and more fools women for trustin’ ’em.”

“Not sich a nice young man as our mate, Jacky; no, not he. Now the mate

of the ship I came from Liverpool in, this time ten years agone, he was

a villain. He grudged us our potaties, and our own bread; and he grudged

us every dhrap of swate wather that went into our mouths. Call him a

villain, if you will, Jack; but niver call the likes of Mr. Mulford by

so hard a name.”

“I wish him well, and nothing else; and for that very reason must put a

stop to his looking so fondly into that young woman’s face. Time wont

stand still, Biddy, to suit the wishes of lovers; and Stephen Spike is a

man not to be trifled with. Halloo, there, maty! It’s high time to think

of getting under way.”

At this summons both Harry and Rose started, becoming aware of the

precious moments they were losing. Carrying a large portion of the

turtle, the former moved toward the craft, in which all were seated in

less than three minutes, with the sail loose, and the boat in motion.

For a few moments the mate was so much occupied with Rose, that he did

not advert to the course, but one of his experience could not long be

misled on such a point, and he turned suddenly to Tier, who was

steering, to remonstrate.

“How’s this, Jack!” cried Mulford; “you’ve got the boat’s head the wrong

way.”

“Not I, sir. She’s heading for the brig as straight as she can go. This

wind favors us on both legs; and it’s lucky it does, for ’twill be hard

on upon daylight afore we are alongside of her. You’ll want half an hour

of dark, at the very least, to get a good start of the Swash, in case

she makes sail a’ter you.”

“Straight for the brig!—what have we to do with the brig? Our course is

for Key West, unless it might be better to run down before the wind to

the Dry Tortugas again, and look for the sloop-of-war. Duty, and perhaps

my own safety, tells me to let Capt. Mull know what Spike is about with

the Swash; and I shall not hesitate a moment about doing it, after all

that has passed. Give me the helm, Jack, and let us ware short round on

our heel.”

“Never, master maty—never. I must go back to the brig. Miss Rose,

there, knows that my business is with Stephen Spike, and with him only.”

“And I must return to my aunt, Harry,” put in Rose, herself. “It would

never do for me to desert my aunt, you know.”

“And I have been taken from that rock, to be given up to the tender

mercies of Spike again?”

This was said rather in surprise, than in a complaining way; and it at

once induced Rose to tell the young man the whole of their project.

“Never, Harry, never,” she said firmly. “It is our intention to return

to the brig ourselves, and let you escape in the boat afterwards. Jack

Tier is of opinion this can be done without much risk, if we use proper

caution, and do not lose too much time. On no account would I consent to

place you in the hands of Spike again—death would be preferable to

that, Harry!”

“And on no account can or will I consent to place _you_ again in the

hands of Spike, Rose,” answered the young man. “Now that we know his

intentions, such an act would be almost impious.”

“Remember my aunt, dear Harry. What would be her situation in the

morning, when she found herself deserted by her niece and Biddy—by me,

whom she has nursed and watched from childhood, and whom she loves so

well?”

“I shall not deny your obligations to your aunt, Rose, and your duty to

her under ordinary circumstances. But these are not ordinary

circumstances; and it would be courting the direst misfortunes, nay,

almost braving Providence, to place yourself in the hands of that

scoundrel again, now that you are clear of them.”

“Spike’s a willian!” muttered Jack.

“And my desartin’ the missus would be a sin that no praste would

overlook ’asily,” put in Biddy. “When Miss Rose told me of this v’y’ge

that she meant to make in the boat wid Jack Tier, I asked to come along,

that I might take care of her, and see that there was plenty of wather;

but ill-luck befall me if I would have t’ought of sich a thing, and the

missus desarted.”

“We can then run alongside of the brig, and put Biddy and Jack on board

of her,” said Mulford, reflecting a moment on what had just been said,

“when you and I can make the best of our way to Key West, where the

means of sending government vessels out after the Swash will soon offer.

In this way we can not only get our friends out of the lion’s jaws, but

keep out of them ourselves.”

“Reflect a moment, Harry,” said Rose, in a low voice, but not without

tenderness in its tones; “it would not do for me to go off alone with

you in this boat.”

“Not when you have confessed your willingness to go over the wide world

with me, Rose—with me, and with me only?”

“Not even then, Harry. I know you will think better of this, when your

generous nature has time to reason with your heart, on my account.”

“I can only answer in your own words, Rose—never. If you return to the

Swash, I shall go on board with you, and throw defiance into the very

teeth of Spike. I know the men do not dislike me, and, perhaps, assisted

by Señor Montefalderon, and a few friends among the people, I can muster

a force that will prevent my being thrown into the sea.”

Rose burst into tears, and then succeeded many minutes, during which

Mulford was endeavoring, with manly tenderness, to soothe her. As soon

as our heroine recovered her self-command, she began to discuss the

matter at issue between them more coolly. For half an hour every thing

was urged by each that feeling, affection, delicacy, or distrust of

Spike could well urge, and Mulford was slowly getting the best of the

argument, as well he might, the truth being mostly of his side. Rose was

bewildered, really feeling a strong reluctance to quit her aunt, even

with so justifiable a motive, but principally shrinking from the

appearance of going off alone in a boat, and almost in the open sea,

with Mulford. Had she loved Harry less, her scruples might not have been

so active, but the consciousness of the strength of her attachment, as

well as her fixed intention to become his wife the moment it was in her

power to give him her hand with the decencies of her sex, contributed

strangely to prevent her yielding to the young man’s reasoning. On the

subject of the aunt, the mate made out so good a case, that it was

apparent to all in the boat Rose would have to abandon that ground of

refusal. Spike had no object to gain by ill-treating Mrs. Budd; and the

probability certainly was that he would get rid of her as soon as he

could, and in the most easy manner. This was so apparent to all, that

Harry had little difficulty in getting Rose to assent to its

probability. But there remained the reluctance to go off alone with the

mate in a boat. This part of the subject was more difficult to manage

than the other; and Mulford betrayed as much by the awkwardness with

which he managed it. At length the discussion was brought to a close by

Jack Tier suddenly saying,—

“Yonder is the brig; and we are heading for her as straight as if she

was the pole, and the keel of this boat was a compass. I see how it is,

Miss Rose, and a’ter all, I must give in. I suppose some other

opportunity will offer for me to get on board the brig ag’in, and I’ll

trust to that. If you won’t go off with the mate alone, I suppose you’ll

not refuse to go off in my company.”

“Will you accompany us, Jack? This is more than I had hoped for! Yes,

Harry, if Jack Tier will be of the party, I will trust my aunt to Biddy,

and go with you to Key West, in order to escape from Spike.”

This was said so rapidly, and so unexpectedly, as to take Mulford

completely by surprise. Scarce believing what he heard, the young man

was disposed, at first, to feel hurt, though a moment’s reflection

showed him that he ought to rejoice in the result, let the cause be what

it might.

“More than I had hoped for!” he could not refrain from repeating a

little bitterly; “is Jack Tier, then, of so much importance, that _his_

company is thought preferable to mine!”

“Hush, Harry!” said Rose, laying her hand on Mulford’s arm, by way of

strengthening her appeal. “Do not say _that_. You are ignorant of

circumstances; at another time you shall know them, but not now. Let it

be enough for the present, that I promise to accompany you if Jack will

be of our party.”

“Ay, ay, Miss Rose, I will be of the party, seeing there is no other way

of getting the lamb out of the jaws of the wolf. A’ter all, it may be

the wisest thing I can do, though back to the Swash I must and _will_

come, powder or no powder, treason or no treason, at the first

opportunity. Yes, _my_ business is with the Molly, and to the Molly I

shall return. It’s lucky, Miss Rose, since you have made up your mind to

ship for this new cruise, that I bethought me of telling Biddy to make

up a bundle of duds for you. This carpet-bag has a change or two in it,

and all owing to my forethought. Your woman said ‘Miss Rose will come

back wid us, Jack, and what’s the use of rumpling the clothes for a few

hours’ sail in the boat;’ but I knew womankind better, and foreseed that

if master mate fell in alongside of you ag’in, you would not be apt to

part company very soon.”

“I thank you, Jack, for the provision made for my comfort; though a

little money would have added to it materially. My purse has a little

gold in it, but a very little, and I fear you are not much better off,

Harry. It will be awkward to find ourselves in Key West penniless.”

“We shall not be quite that. I left the brig absolutely without a cent,

but forseeing that necessity might make them of use, I borrowed half a

dozen of the doubloons from the bag of Señor Montefalderon, and,

fortunately, they are still in my pocket. All I am worth in the world is

in a bag of half eagles, rather more than a hundred altogether, which I

left in my chest, in my own state-room, aboard the brig.”

“You’ll find that in the carpet-bag too, master mate,” said Jack,

coolly.

“Find what, man—not my money, surely?”

“Ay, every piece of it. Spike broke into your chest this a’ternoon, and

made me hold the tools while he was doing it. He found the bag, and

overhauled it—a hundred and seven half, eleven quarter, and one

full-grown eagle, was the count. When he had done the job, he put all

back ag’in, a’ter giving me the full-grown eagle for my share of the

plunder, and told me to say nothing of what I had seen. I did say

nothing, but I did a good bit of work, for, while he was at supper, I

confiserated that bag, as they call it—and you will find it there among

Miss Rose’s clothes, with the full-grown gentleman back in his nest

ag’in.”