The signal was given, and with a shock and sound as of thunder the

knights met in the centre of the course. The lances of both shivered. A

loud and ringing shout echoed far and wide, forming a deep bass to the

military music bursting forth at the same moment; but then the sound

changed, and so suddenly, that the shout of triumph seemed turned, by

the very breeze which bore it along, to the cries of wailing and

despair. The horses of both combatants were seen careering wildly, and

with empty saddles, round the lists. Princes, nobles, and knights

crowded so swiftly and in such numbers to the spot where the combatants

had met, that the eager populace could trace nothing but that one

warrior was down and seemingly senseless, the which no one could assert.

Order and restraint gave place to the wildest tumult; the people, _en

masse_, rushed indiscriminately into the lists, heedless of the efforts

of the men-at-arms to keep them back, and scarcely restrained even by

the rapid and agitated approach of the queen consort and the princesses

towards the principal group. Words of terrific import were whispered one

to another, till the whisper grew loud and rumour became certainty. The

music ceased, save the solitary flourish of trumpets proclaiming the

warlike sports concluded. As if by magic, the lists were cleared, the

tents struck, and every trace of the tournament removed. But even then

the popular ferment continued; there were men hurrying to and fro,

little knots of persons assembling in the street, speaking in anxious

whispers, or hastening in silence to their homes. Ever and anon the

muffled tone of heavy bells came borne on the air, and then the dead

silence, ever the shapeless herald of some dread calamity. Ere night all

trace of the morning’s glittering splendour and animated life had

disappeared, and Paris seemed changed into a very desert of solitude and

gloom.

II.

Eleven days had passed since the sudden termination of the fatal

tournament, and Henri of France still lay speechless and insensible as

he had fallen in the lists, when, from the insecure fastening of his

helmet, it had given way before the lance of Montgomeri, and caused him

to receive the full force of the blow on his eyebrow, thence fatally

injuring the brain. Still life was not extinct, and, though against all

reason, hopes were still entertained by many for his eventual recovery.

In one of the apartments of the Louvre, forming the suite of the queen

dauphine, sat the unfortunate Comte de Montgomeri and his betrothed

bride. Sometimes sanguine that Henri would, nay, must recover; at others

plunged in the depth of despair—had been the alternate moods of the

count during these eleven days. His friends conjured him to lose no time

in retiring from France, at least for a time; and Idalie herself, though

she shrunk from the idea of parting, with an indefinable feeling of

foreboding dread, yet so trembled for his safety if he remained, as to

add her solicitations to those of others. Still the count lingered. The

very thought of his having been the ill-fated hand to give the

death-blow to the monarch he revered, and the friend he loved, was too

horrible to be realized. He could not believe that such would be; yet so

dark was his despair, so agonizing his self-accusations, that even his

interviews with Idalie had lost their soothing sweetness, and he did but

deplore that her pure love had been given to one so darkly fated as

himself.

It was after one of these bursts of misery that the Comte de Montemar,

who had been engaged with papers at the further end of the apartment,

approached and sought to comfort him by an appeal to those holier

feelings, which Montgomeri possessed in a much higher degree than most

of his countrymen.

“It is not well, my friend,” De Montemar said, “to poison thus the brief

moments we may yet pass together. Remember, thou wert no willing agent

of that higher power, by whose mandate alone it was that our monarch

fell. All may seem dark, yet even out of darkness He brought forth

light—out of a very chaos the most unwavering order; and does He not do

so still? Abide by the advice of those who urge thee to quit France till

order is restored, and our gracious sovereign’s last words remembered

and acted upon. Italian blood is hot and eager to avenge; but fear not,

we shall meet again in happier days, and, oh, embitter not thus the few

moments still left my poor child!”

Softened and subdued more than he had been yet, Montgomeri folded his

arm round the weeping Idalie, kissed the tears from her pale cheek,

conjured her forgiveness, and promised to battle with the despondency

that almost crushed him.

“And wilt thou indeed do this?” she rejoined, imploringly. “Oh, bless

thee for such promise! Yet I fear thee, Montgomeri. And when apart from

me, and these troubled thoughts regain ascendency, thou wilt rush on

danger, on death, to escape them. Think, then, dearest, that it is not

your own life alone which you risk; that one is bound up in it which

cannot rest alone. Will the ivy blossom and smile when the oak has

fallen? And as the oak is to the lowly yet clinging ivy, so art thou to

me.”

Folding her still closer, Montgomeri in his turn sought to reassure and

soothe, but with less success than usual. Every look and tone of Idalie

betrayed that heavy weight which had increased with each day that

brought the hour of parting nearer. Breathed to none, and battled with

as it had been, still it seemed to hold every faculty chained, and at

length caused her head to sink on the bosom of De Lorges with such a

burst of irrepressible anguish as to excite his alarm, and tenderly he

conjured her to reveal its cause.

“I know it is a weakness, a folly, Gabriel, unworthy of the woman whom

thou lovest; but scorn it not, upbraid it not, bid it go from me! Is

there not woe enough in parting, that before the hope of meeting ever

rises a dim and shapeless darkness impossible to be defined, yet so

folding round my future as to bury all of hope, of trust, of every

feeling, save that _we shall not meet as we have parted_?”

“Is it change in me thou fearest, love? No. Then heed it not; ’tis but a

baseless fancy, which will come when the frame is weakened by the

anguish of the mind. Believe me—”

He was interrupted. The hangings over the door leading by a private

passage to the dauphine’s own rooms were suddenly drawn aside, and,

closely muffled, Mary of Scotland stood before them, with anxiety and

haste visibly imprinted on her features.

“This is no time for ceremony, my lord, or we would apologize for our

intrusion,” she said, turning towards the Count de Montemar; “our

business is too weighty for an indifferent messenger. Count de Lorges,”

she added, addressing him abruptly, and pausing not for Montemar’s

courtly words, “tarry not another night in Paris; you have been unwise

to loiter here so long. Pause for no thought, no marvel. Fly at once;

put the broad seas between you and France, and there may be happiness in

store for you yet. Dearest Idalie, for thy sake, even as for

Montgomeri’s, I am here: do not look upon me thus.”

“_Now_ must we part—now? Your highness means not now!” exclaimed Idalie,

as her cold hands convulsively closed round the count’s arm. “What has

he done that he should fly?”

“Nothing to call the blush of shame to his cheek or thine, dear child.

The words I have heard may mean nothing, may be but wrung from woman’s

agony, for the grief of Catherine de Medicis is of no softening nature;

yet ought Montgomeri to leave Paris without delay, for there may be some

to act on broken words, even as on an imperial mandate. Detain him not,

Idalie; we shall visit Scotland perchance ere long, and there no grief

shall damp a bridal.”

“Stay but one moment more, royal lady,” entreated De Lorges, as the

dauphine turned to go; “one word, for mercy. How fares the king? Is

there no more hope? Does he still lay as he has done ever since that

fatal stroke?”

Mary looked at him somewhat surprised, and very sorrowfully.

“No, Montgomeri, no!” she said, after a pause of much feeling; “the soul

has escaped the shattered prison, and Henri is at rest.”

Montgomeri staggered back with a heavy, almost convulsive groan. He knew

not till that moment how powerfully hope had sustained him. The shock

was almost as fearful as if he had never thought of death; and yet the

horrible conviction that he was a regicide had scarcely for one instant

left his mind.

“Montemar, let not this be, for the sake of thy poor child, of both.

Part them ere long,” whispered the queen (dauphine no more), as the

count knelt before her in involuntary homage; “think not of us now.

Would to God we were still Dauphine of France and not her queen.

Montgomeri’s danger, I fear, is imminent; let him not linger, and may

our Lady guard him still.”

She departed as she spoke; and Montemar, infected with her evident

anxiety, hesitated not to obey.

“Rouse thee, Montgomeri,” he said, earnestly; “fly, for the sake of this

poor, drooping flower; let not our Idalie weep for a darker doom than

even this sad parting. Come to thy father’s heart awhile, my child. Have

I no claim upon thy love?”

Gently he drew her from Montgomeri’s still detaining arm, almost

relieved to find her insensible to any further suffering. His beseeching

words to fly ere Idalie again awoke to consciousness, moved the count to

action. Still he lingered to kiss again and again the pale cheek and

lips of his beloved; then convulsively wringing the count’s hand, rushed

from the room and from the palace at the very moment that voices shouted

“Long live Francis the Second, God preserve the King!”

III.

Eighteen months had passed, and still was the Count de Montgomeri an

exile from his country; and so virulent was Catherine against him, so

determinately forgetful of Henri’s last words, absolving the count of

all intentional evil, whatever might ensue, that even his best friends

dared not wish him back. For Idalie, this interval was indeed heavy with

anxiety and sorrow, and all the bitter sickness of hope deferred. No

doubt of his affection ever entered her heart; she knew him fond and

faithful as herself; but there seemed no end, no term to the long, long

interval of absence. Her future was bounded by the hour of meeting, and

a very void of interest, and hope, and pleasure seemed the space which

stretched between. Yet, for her father’s sake, her ever unselfish nature

struggled with the stagnating gloom. The court was loathsome to them

both, for even the friendship of the young queen could not remove from

Idalie the horror which Catherine de Medicis inspired. In the Chateau de

Montemar, then, these eighteen months had mostly been passed, and Idalie

compelled herself to seek and feel interest in the families of her

father’s vassals, and in the many lessons of feudal government and

policy which, as the heiress of all his large estates and of his proud,

unsullied name, her father delighted to pour into her heart.

One other subject engrossed the Count de Montemar, and of which he spoke

so often and so solemnly to his daughter, that his feelings on the

subject became hers; it was the wide-spreading over France of the new

religion, deemed by all orthodox Catholics as a heresy, which, if not

checked, would entirely subvert and destroy their ancient faith, and in

consequence bring incalculable mischief to the country, both temporally

and spiritually. De Montemar was no bigot, looking only to violent

measures for the extermination of this far-spreading evil; but it

grieved and affected him in no common degree. He spent hours and hours

with his confessor and his daughter in commune on this one engrossing

subject; and from the sincere and earnest lessons of the priest, a true

and zealous though humble follower of his own church, he became more and

more convinced of the truth of the olden creed, and what he deemed the

foul and awful apostasy of the new.

Yet no violence of party spirit mingled in these discussions, and

therefore it was that Idalie felt the conviction of the truth and beauty

of her long-cherished religion sink into her soul like balm. Saddened by

her individual sorrow, shrinking in consequence from all the exciting

amusements then reigning in France, her fathers favourite subject became

equally a resource and comfort to her, thus unconsciously fitting her

for the martyr part which she was only too soon called upon to play.

The Count de Montemar had been a soldier from his youth, and was still

suffering from the serious wounds received in his last campaign. Within

the last three months he had gradually become weaker and weaker, till at

length Idalie watched beside the couch, from which she had been told

that her beloved and loving parent would never rise again. She had heard

it with an agony of sorrow, which it was long ere the kindly sympathy of

the benevolent priest and of her cousin Louis could in any degree

assuage. Motherless from early childhood, a more than common tie bound

her to her father; and so deep was the darkness which those cruel

tidings seemed to gather round her, that even love itself succumbed

beneath it, and the strange, wild yearning rose, that she, too, might

“flee away, and be at rest.”

Unable to endure any longer these sad thoughts, Idalie arose from the

seat where she had kept vigil for many weary nights and days, and looked

forth upon the night. The moon was at the full, and shed such clear and

silvery light around, that even the rugged crags and stunted pines

seemed softened into beauty. The vale beneath slumbered in shadow, save

where, here and there, a solitary tree stood forth, seemingly bathed in

liquid silver. Sweet odours from the flowers of the night lingered on

the breeze, and the rippling gush of a streamlet, reflecting every star

and ray upon its bosom, was the only sound that broke the silence. The

holy calm of Nature touched a responding chord in the heart of the

watcher, and even grief felt for the moment stilled. A few minutes

afterwards the voice of the count recalled her to his side.

“Is it a fancy, or was Louis here but now, my child?” he asked, feebly.

“Is he from the court? and did he not bring news? Wherefore came he?”

“Because he heard that I was in sorrow, my dear father; and he sought,

as he ever does, to soothe, or at least to share it.”

“Bless him for his faithful love! He has in truth been to me a son, and

will be to thee a brother, mine own love; but tell me, is it indeed

truth, or have my thoughts again wandered, has my young sovereign gone

before me to the grave?”

“Alas! my father, ’tis even so.”

An expression of deep sorrow escaped the lips of the dying man, and for

several minutes he was silent. When again he spoke, his voice was

firmer.

“Idalie, my child, I shall soon follow my royal master; and it is well,

for the regency of Catherine de Medicis can bring with it but misery.

Listen to me, beloved one! I leave thee sole heiress of our olden

heritage, of a glorious name, which from age to age hath descended in a

line so pure, so stainless, that the name of De Montemar hath become a

very proverb for all honourable and knightly deeds. There have been

times when daughters, not sons, succeeded; and yet did its lustre not

diminish nor its power decrease. Thou knowest this, my child. I know not

wherefore I recall it now.”

“Dost thou doubt me, father?” replied Idalie, sadly, and somewhat

reproachfully. “Thinkest thou my heart is so engrossed with selfish

sorrows that I feel no pride, no love for mine ancient race, that its

glory and its power shall decrease with me?”

“No, no, my noble child. Forgive me, I have pained thee, yet I meant it

not.” Pausing a moment, he continued hurriedly, “Idalie, our faith, our

blessed faith is tottering, falling in this land. Each month, each week

the heretics gain ground; nor will all the bloody acts of Catherine and

the princes of Guise arrest their progress. Were health and life

renewed, I would neither raise sword nor kindle brand for their

destruction; but my whole soul trembles for my native land. Idalie, my

child, I know thy heart beats true as mine to our ancient creed. I know

thou wilt never turn aside thyself from the one true path; but oh, for

thy dead father’s sake, let not a heretic be master of these fair lands,

and tempt thy vassals to embrace his soul-destroying creed. Thou wilt

not wed with heresy, my child?”

“Never, my father! I can pity and pray for these misguided ones; but

never shall my hand be given to one unfaithful to his God. Yet wherefore

this fear? Am I not the plighted bride of one who would rather die than

lead me astray, or turn aside himself?”

The fading eyes of the dying lit suddenly up with feverish radiance, his

cheek burned, and his mind evidently so far wandered as to prevent

either his hearing or understanding his daughter’s last words.

“And thou wilt promise this?” he said, in a voice at once alarmingly

hollow, yet strangely excited; “thou wilt solemnly promise never to give

thyself and thy fair heritage to the heretic; thou wilt not let the foul

spot blacken our noble line? Promise me this, my child.”

Alarmed at the change in his appearance, and convinced that Montgomeri,

who, when he left her, had been as true and zealous a Catholic as

herself, was not of a nature to change, Idalie knelt down beside the

couch, and in distinct and solemn accents made the vow required.

The Count de Montemar raised himself with sudden strength, and laid both

his hands on the bent head of his child. “Now blessings, blessings on

thee for this, my sainted one!” he said, distinctly; “thou hast removed

all doubt, all fear; death has no terror now, no sting. God’s blessing

be upon thee, love, and give—”

His voice sunk, but his lips still warmly pressed her brow, and minutes

thus passed. A cloud had come before the moon, and when her light broke

forth again, Idalie knelt by the couch of the dead.

IV.

Idalie de Montemar was not long permitted to indulge her grief in

solitude. Scarcely two months after her loss, an express arrived from

Paris, and she was compelled to prepare her chateau and vassals for the

reception of the young king, the queen mother, and court, who in their

progress to the south passed through Auvergne. Idalie roused herself

from the sorrow which weighed so heavily on her spirits. Although

chivalry had lost much of the enthusiasm and warmth which had

characterised it not half a century previous, its memory still lingered

in the minds of men; and something of this feeling actuated the men of

Montemar as they looked on their youthful countess. Shrinking and timid

as she had been while her parent lived, a new spirit now seemed her own;

and it was with all the proud consciousness that she was now sole

representative of one of the most ancient and most noble families of

France that Idalie de Montemar, at the head of her loyal vassals,

received her royal guests, and knelt in homage to the youthful Charles.

But amid all that royal group only one had power over the heart of

Idalie, and she grieved to see the saddened brow and anxious glance,

which had usurped the place of the radiant smiles and sparkling eye,

which had never before failed to beam forth from the lovely countenance

of Mary Queen of Scots. Robed so completely in white (the costume of

royal widows) as to receive the designation of La Reine blanche, her

beauty rather increased than diminished by its softened tone; she was to

many an object of still deeper interest now than she had been hitherto;

but it was very soon evident to Idalie that the petty mortifications

springing from rooted envy and dislike, to which she was daily, almost

hourly subjected by Catherine, were poisoning all youthful enjoyment,

and that even while she clave with her whole soul to France, she felt it

must not be her home much longer.

Feeling deeply, as she did, that it was to Mary’s faithful friendship

her betrothed husband owed his life, Idalie’s high spirit rose indignant

at this treatment. That the marked respect with which she treated her,

the constant deference to her wishes, during the royal sojourn, exposed

her to Catherine’s fatal malice, she cared not for. Soothed by her

affection, roused to a sense of her own dignity as sovereign of

Scotland, if no longer of France, it was during her sojourn at the

Chateau de Montemar, Mary resolved on her return to her native land, and

by earnest persuasions prevailed on the young countess to sue for the

royal permission to accompany her. It was granted, ungraciously enough;

for her engagement with the Count de Montgomeri was known, and the

hatred borne by Catherine de Medicis towards that unfortunate nobleman

had in no way diminished by time.

“Will the good Count Gabriel de Lorges accompany his young bride on her

return? Know ye, my lords, if so, we will give him welcome,” the queen

mother soon after inquired, in the hearing of Idalie, and in a voice so

peculiarly sweet and gracious as to cause the countess’s heart, for the

moment, to bound up with sudden hope of his permitted, even welcomed

return, and then as suddenly sink down, she knew not wherefore, save

that Catherine’s deadliest purposes ever breathed through smiles.

A few months after her visit to the chateau, Mary quitted France,

attended by Idalie de Montemar, and some other youthful friends, to whom

she clung, as the sole memories left her of that beautiful and happy

land, which her foreboding spirit whispered she should never look on

more. Intent on soothing the grief of her royal friend, Idalie had but

little time to think of her own feelings; but when she did seek to

define them, she became conscious that they were not all joy. Again did

the same dim shadow envelope every thought, every hope directed towards

the hour of meeting. Every day that brought it nearer seemed to throw a

chilling weight on her heart’s ecstatic bound. Her very love felt too

intense, too twined with her being, to find rest, even in the thought of

looking on him, listening to him again. She strove with the baseless

shadow, but it clung pertinaciously to every mental image, and weighed

upon her spirits like lead.

Scotland was reached at last; the heavy pomp and ceremony attending the

sovereign’s landing and progress to Holyrood at length at an end, and

Idalie had retired to the chamber appointed for the use of herself and

suite, seeking calmness and rest from the opposing emotions at one and

the same time engrossing her.

Why should she not be joyful? the morrow Montgomeri would be at her side

once more, and all unchanged to her; not a doubt had stolen on the

bright vision of his love, not a shade darkened the pure thoughts of his

constancy—what, then, did she dread?

A summons to the chamber of the queen startled her, for she had been

dismissed, she thought, for the night. Hastily obeying, she ran lightly

along the private gallery pointed out as her nearest way, and without

pausing drew aside the arras and entered. A cry of astonishment, of

bliss at the same moment escaped her lips, and, clasped to the heart of

the Count de Montgomeri, all darkness and dread faded for the time in a

burst of happy tears upon his bosom.

V.

“Nay, chide me not, that my cheek is paler than when we parted,

dearest,” said Idalie, after long and earnest commune, as they sat

together the following day in an olden chamber of Holyrood, far removed

from the sovereign and the court. “Thou too art changed; and if in thee,

a soldier and a man, absence can have wrought furrows on thy brow,

pallor on thy cheek, and even touched thy hair with grey, is it strange

that I, a poor, weak girl, should suffer too? I scarce had loved thee,

Gabriel, had there been no change.”

“I would not have taxed thy love, even had it left less touching impress

on thy cheek,” replied the count; “but for me, harsh storms and ruffled

thoughts have joined with the yearning thoughts for thee to make me as

thou seest. Why look upon me thus? canst doubt me, dearest?”

“Oh, no, no! thy love is not changed, save that it may be dearer still;

but thine eyes looked not thus the day we parted. There are deeper

sterner feelings in thy soul than heretofore; the change is _there_. The

storms of which thou speakest have not been outward only—glory,

ambition, love, are not the sole occupants of thy spirit now.”

“And what if thou hast read aright, sweet one, wilt thou not love thy

soldier still?”

“Oh, yes! for nought could enter the heart of De Lorges his Idalie may

not revere. But tell me these inward storms—why is thy look, save when

it is turned on me, so strangely stern? It was not always thus?”

“Call it not stern my love: ’tis but the shadow of my spirit’s change. I

did not think thou wouldst so soon have marked it; yet ’tis not

sternness, or if it be, ’tis only towards myself. When we parted,

dearest, I lived for earth and earthly things; but with sorrow came

thoughts of that higher world, which must banish the idle smile and

idler jest; ’tis thus that I am changed.”

“And is this all?” faltered Idalie, looking fearfully in his face; “is

this enough to cause the struggle, of which thy cheek and brow bear such

true witness? The thought of heaven brings with it but balm and rest—not

strife and pain. Gabriel, this is _not_ all.”

“It _is_ not all, my own! I would not have a thought concealed from

thee; and yet I pause, fearing to give thee pain. Listen to me beloved

one; and oh, believe, Montgomeri would not lightly turn aside from the

path his fathers trod; yet hadst thou seen, as I have, the gross crimes,

the awful passions, which have crept into the bosom of our holy church;

the fearful darkness of ignorance and bigotry over-spreading the pure

light marking the path of Jesus, thou wouldst feel with me, and

acknowledge that I could not think of God and heaven, and yet be other

than I am. Idalie, speak to me! wherefore art thou thus?”

He ceased in terror; her features had become contracted, her lip and

check blanched almost as death. Her large eyes distended in their

terrible gaze upon himself, and the hands which had convulsively closed

on his, were cold and rigid as stone.

“It cannot, _cannot_ be,” she murmured, in a low shuddering tone.

“Montgomeri could not be other than true: no, no. Why will you speak

thus, love?” she added, somewhat less unnaturally. “What can such

strange words mean, save that thy sword, like my father’s, will never be

unsheathed in persecuting wars—answer me, Gabriel, is it not so?”

“Alas! my love, I may not rest in quiet when the weapon of every true

man is needed to protect the creed which conviction has embraced. In

these dark times this badge of Protestantism and the sword of defence

must ever be raised together. Idalie, the world may term me heretic; but

thou—”

“Thou art _no_ heretic; no, no—it cannot be!” burst from the wrung heart

of Idalie, as she wildly sprang from his embrace, “Montgomeri, thou art

deceiving me—thou wouldst try the love I bear thee! Oh, not thus, not

thus! Say thou art no heretic; thou art still the man my father loved,

trusted, blessed; him to whom he gave his child. Speak to me; answer

me—but one word!”

“I will, I will, mine own! let me but see thee calm. Am I not thine own?

Art thou not mine? Come to my heart, sweet one; thou wilt find no change

towards thee!”

“Answer me,” she reiterated; “Gabriel, thou hast not answered! By the

love thou bearest me, by the vow unto my father—to love and cherish me

till death—by thine own truth—I charge thee answer me, thou art no

heretic?”

“If to raise my voice against the gross abuses fostered by the Pope and

his pampered minions in every land, to deny to them all allegiance, to

refuse all belief in the intervention of saints and martyrs, or that

absolution, bought and sold, can bring pardon and peace; if to read and

believe the Holy Scriptures, and follow as they teach—if this is to be a

heretic, Idalie, even for thy dear sake, I may not deny it. Yes,

dearest, I am a heretic in all, save love for thee!”

A low, despairing cry broke from those blanched lips, and Idalie fell

forward at his feet. It seemed long ere Montgomeri could restore her to

life, though he used a tenderness and skill strange in a rough warrior

like himself; but no fond look returned his anxious gaze. She struggled

to withdraw herself from his embrace, but the tone of reproachful agony

with which he pronounced her name rendered the struggle vain; and,

clinging to him, she sobbed. “I thought not of this, dreamed not of

this; even in the dark foreboding haze clinging round the hour of

meeting. Gabriel, in mercy leave me, or I shall forget my vow, and hurl

down on me the wrath of the dead.”

“Leave thee!—vow!—wrath of the dead!” he repeated. “Oh, do not talk so

wildly, love; reproach, upbraid me, as thou wilt; but tell me not to

leave thee. Wherefore should we part?”

“Gabriel, it _must_ be! I have no strength when I gaze on thee. Let not

perjury darken this deep misery: leave me!”

“Perjury! what hast thou sworn?” demanded Montgomeri, hoarse, and choked

with strong emotion.

“Never to wed with heresy! To retain the faith of my ancestors pure and

unsullied as I received it. My father, from his bed of death, demanded

this vow, and I pledged it unhesitatingly; for could I doubt _thee_?”

She had spoken with unnatural composure, but there was such a sudden and

agonized change on the features of the count, that it not only banished

calmness, but reawakened hope.

“Oh, say thou wert deceiving me, Gabriel. Dearest Gabriel, have I not

judged thee wrongly, that still we may pray together as we have prayed?

Thou hast not turned aside from our old and sainted creed. Say but this

grief is causeless; that I may still love thee without sin; that there

is no need to part!”

“Part!” he passionately exclaimed, “and from thee? Oh, no, no!”

“Then thou art, in truth, no heretic? It has all been a dark and

terrible dream, and we shall be happy yet love!” she answered, in a

voice of such trusting joyance, that Montgomeri started from her side,

and hurriedly paced the room.

She laid her hand gently on his arm, and looked up confidingly in his

face; but its expression was enough. Shrinking from him, she implored,

“Gabriel, Gabriel, look not on me thus, or that fearful dream will come

again!”

“Would, would to God it were a dream!” he exclaimed, and his hands

clasped both hers with convulsive pressure. “Idalie, I am no Catholic; I

dare not again kneel as I have knelt, or pray as I have prayed. No, not

even to retain thy precious love, to claim thee mine—thee, dearer than

life, than happiness, than all, save eternity—I dare not deny my faith.

But, oh, is there no other way? Can it be, that for this, a firm

conviction of truth, an honest avowal of that which my soul believes,

for this that we must part? Idalie, canst thou sentence me to _this_?”

“I have sworn,” she said, her white lips quivering with the effort. “My

vow is registered in heaven—sworn unto the dead; by death only to be

absolved.”

“To retain the line of Montemar unsullied in its ancient faith. Idalie,

oh, hear me; let me plead now! Give to Louis de Montemar the government

of thine ancestral lands, the control of thy vassals. Thou shalt seek

them when thou wilt, unaccompanied by thy husband, unshackled by his

counsels. I ask but for thee; and here, far removed from the blood and

misery deluging unhappy France, we may live for each other still. May

not this be, love, and yet thy vow remain unbroken?”

“Montgomeri, it may not be,” she said, in a low yet collected tone, for

it seemed as if the noble spirit of her race returned to give her

strength for that harrowing hour.

“Tempt me not by such words as these—the love I bear thee is trial

all-sufficient. My oath was pledged that I would never wed with

heresy—never give my hand to one unfaithful to our old and sainted

creed. Perchance that oath alone may save me from a like perdition, and

if so, then is it well.”

“And doth thou scorn me for this—despise and loathe me? Oh, Idalie, thou

knowest not all I have endured. In mercy add not to the anguish of this

hour, by scorn of the change which imperious conscience alone had power

to impel.”

“Scorn thee, Montgomeri! No; if thou, the good, the wise, can thus

decide, and so find peace, is it for me to judge thee harshly? No,

Idalie can never _blame_ thee, Gabriel.”

He caught her to his heart, and she resisted not the impassionate kisses

he pressed on check and brow. She felt his hot tears fall fast upon her

face, for in that suffering hour it was the iron-souled warrior that

wept, not the pale, slight girl he held.

“This must not be, beloved,” she whispered, in low soothing tones.

“Montgomeri, my noble love—for in this last hour I may still call thee

so—oh, rouse thee from this woman’s weakness; this is no mood for thee.

Thou must forget me, Gabriel; or so think of me as to be once again the

brave, the high-souled warrior thou hast ever been. For my sake, rouse

thee, love! The God we part to serve will hear my prayers, and bless

thee.”

“And thou!” burst passionately from the lips of the count. “Oh, what

shall comfort thee, and fill for thee the void of everlasting absence?

In the rush of battle the warrior may find forgetfulness in death; but—”

“No, no, not death; Gabriel, for my sake, live, though not for me: add

not this pang to a heart already tried enough. Promise me to live, and

for me! Leave me to my God, Montgomeri, and He will give me peace.”

He could not answer, and minutes—many minutes—rolled away, and neither

moved from the detaining arms of the other. Fortunately perhaps for

both, a page entered with a summons to the count from the queen. Idalie

lifted up her head, and while her very blood seemed turned to ice, a

smile circled that pale lip.

“Thou must leave me, dearest. Mary loves not to wait, indulgent as she

is.”

“But we shall meet again, sweet love?”

There was no answer; but Montgomeri would not understand that silence.

He strained her once more to his heart, and turned away: another minute

the arras fell, and he was gone. Idalie made one bound forward, as if to

detain him, and, with a low shuddering cry, dropped senseless on the

ground.

VI.

It was in a lordly chamber of the Chateau de Montemar, about three

months after the event narrated in our last chapter, that the only

remaining scions of that noble house were seated in earnest and

evidently sorrowful converse. The beams of the sun, rendered gorgeous by

the richly-stained glass of the antique windows through which they

passed, fantastically tinged the oaken floor and walls. The furniture

was of ebony, inlaid with silver, interspersed with couches and cushions

of tapestry, ancient as the days of Matilda of Flanders, which, though

somewhat heavy in themselves, accorded well with the aspect of solemn

grandeur pervading the whole apartment.

“Do not refuse me, Louis,” pleaded Idalie, after a long and painful

discussion relative to her papers and parchments, which strewed the

table, had passed between them; “do not thus entreat me to retain my

heritage. Is a broken heart, a sinking frame fit chief for Montemar? I

have borne much, suffered much, sought even the court of Charles, which

my whole soul loathes, to obtain the transferment to thee of all my

earthly possessions, and now do not refuse to relieve me of their heavy

charge.”

“But only wait awhile, sweet cousin,” he replied; “sorrow has had as yet

no time to expend its force. Do not act so soon on the resolution of a

moment’s agony; wait but one brief year, and think well on all you would

resign. Has earth no spell to fright away thy purpose?”

“None; it is but the casket, whence the jewel has departed. Nay more, it

is filled with hopes I dare not hope, and thoughts I dare not think. I

would fly from these.”

“And will a convent aid thee so to do?”

“I know not; yet there at least temptation, which I have no strength to

meet, will not assail me more.”

“No strength to meet! Dearest Idalie, the martyr at the stake might envy

thee thy strength.”

“Not now, Louis, it has all gone from me,” and for the first time her

voice quivered, and she buried her face in her clasped hands. A fierce

malediction on Montgomeri was bursting from the lips of Louis, as he

looked on the faded form, and seemed to feel for the first time the full

extent of his cousin’s agony. Young, buoyant, and ever joyous himself,

Idalie’s perfect calmness since her return had deceived him; but the

tone in which those few words were said strangely and suddenly revealed

the whole, and the young man’s whole heart spoke in his half-uttered

curse.

“No, no; curse him not, Louis!” passionately implored Idalie. “Promise

me, by the sweet memories of our childhood, still to be his friend. In

these awful times, when the poisoned draught and midnight dagger are

ever near these persecuted men, be near him to warn, shield, save.”

“I will, I will, for thy sweet sake,” he replied, earnestly. “Yet why

fear such danger for him? he never will be rash enough to return to

France.”

“Louis, he is even now in France, and therefore is it I so conjure you

to be his friend. He is here, may be near me still, even as he hovered

close beside me in my passage home. He thought to be unknown, even to

me; me, whom he was there to guard, protect to the last, speaking not

one word to betray himself, or give me again the torture of farewell. I

knew him close beside me; I heard the disguised accents of his voice,

and yet we were as if the grave had parted us. Oh, Louis, Louis! the

strength which then upheld me has departed from me; I dare not look upon

his face and listen to his voice again. Only the convent walls can

shield me from a broken vow, a dead father’s curse; and wilt thou keep

me from their refuge? No, no; relieve me from this fearful heritage,

_and let me be at peace_.”

* * * * *

One week after Louis de Montemar had been acknowledged by all the

vassals of his cousin as their suzerain or feudal lord, to whom and to

his heirs they had sworn undying allegiance, Idalie stood within the

convent church of our Lady of Montemar, preparing to take those awful

vows which severed her from earth, and all its cares and joys, and hopes

and woes, for ever. It was midnight, but the large waxen tapers burning

on the high altar and many shrines completely illuminated the main body

of the church, while the deep shadows of the aisles and more distant

arches of the nave heightened the effect of light, and rendered the

building larger in appearance than in reality. Clouds of incense floated

on the air, from the rich silver censers held by six beautiful boys,

clothed in white, standing on either side the altar. Behind, and

exquisitely illuminated by a peculiarly softened light falling full upon

it, hung a picture of the Saviour kneeling in the garden of Gethsemane,

his countenance powerfully expressive of the words, “Nevertheless, not

what I will, but what Thou wilt.”

The church was crowded in the nave and aisles, the choir and chancel

being left for the relations of the novice and those of higher rank. As

Idalie had but few of the former, and had particularly wished the

ceremony to be as private as possible, these parts of the building were

comparatively unoccupied, except by monks and priests.

Clothed with unwonted gorgeousness, Idalie stood beside the altar. A

rich robe of grey Genoa velvet descended to her feet, sweeping the

marble ground in heavy folds, girded round the waist with a broad belt

of large rubies and opals; glittering stars of the same clasped down the

stomacher, and looped the wide sleeve of richest lace, and braids of

diamonds glistened in the dark tresses of her hair, and sparkled on the

high, pure brow, which, marble pale, seemed all unfitted for their

weight. Her eyes were raised, her lips slightly parted, her thin white

hands crossed upon her bosom, as in the heartfelt utterance of voiceless

prayer. Silence, deep as the grave, had succeeded the priest’s prayer,

lasting but a moment, for Idalie sinking noiselessly on the ground, the

black pall was thrown over her, and the distant discharge of cannon,

mingled with the muffled toll of the convent bell, proclaimed far and

near that Idalie de Montemar was now an inmate of the tomb. A groan so

deep and hollow at that instant reverberated through the building, that

all present started, and shudderingly drew nearer each other, unable to

trace whence or from whom it came, until a tall shrouded figure was

discovered leaning against one of the pillars supporting the arched roof

of the choir; his face was buried in his cloak, but he was seen to

shiver, as by some rudely-passing wind. The organ swelled forth in

thrilling tones the requiem for the dead, sweet childish voices

prolonged the solemn strain, till it faded softer and softer in the

distance, swelling, falling, then dying all away. Removing the pall, the

priests waited for Idalie to rise and kneel before the altar, that the

ceremony might continue. They waited, but there was no movement. She lay

even as she had fallen. A cry of terror burst from the aged priest, and

at the same instant, heedless of the personal danger inseparable from

discovery, bareheaded and unshrouded—heedless of all save one agonizing

fear—Gabriel de Lorges rushed forward, and knelt beside her.

“Idalie! loveliest! dearest! speak to me, answer me; say that I have not

murdered thee! Answer me, in mercy, but one word!”

He spoke in vain. Louis de Montemar, priests, and many others crowded

round him. They sought to withdraw her from Montgomeri’s convulsive

hold, to wake her from the seeming trance. But all was useless; she had

passed to heaven in that music swell. The broken-hearted was at rest.[4]

-----

Footnote 4:

The after-fate of the unfortunate but guiltless regicide belongs to

history.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Lady Gresham’s Fête._

A TALE OF THE DAY.

IT was near the end of May, beautiful May, that month of strange

contrarieties in our lovely land. In the haunts of Nature, robed with

such gorgeous beauty, bringing such a lavish garniture of tree and

shrub, and flowers; such fresh and dewy mornings; such glorious sunsets;

and those soft sweet hours of twilight, so fraught with spiritual

musings; and those lovely nights, when the mind loses itself in the

infinitude of thought, in the vain yearning to grasp something beyond

our present being, in itself evidence of Immortality! In the city, in

the proud metropolis, seat of empire and wealth, fashion and beauty,

luxury and pleasure, crime and famine, misery and desolation, clothed as

May still is with her natural beauty, we know her not, save as the

“Season!” and in that word what a host of thoughts spring up—enjoyment,

luxury, fêtes, balls, dinners! These were _once_, and but a few years

back, its sole association; but now a mighty spirit is abroad, and over

the festal halls a dim cloud is hovering, breathing of oppression born

in that very thoughtless joyance. Through the gay music, the silvery

laugh, the murmur of glad voices—aye, through every tone that tells of

luxurious pleasure only—a thrilling cry is sounding! the voice of

suffering thousands, claiming brotherhood with Joy; demanding a portion

of that which a beneficent Father ordained for ALL—rest, recreation,

homes.

In the drawing-room of one of the smaller mansions of the aristocratic

west, a young lady was sitting near an open window, inhaling the

delicious scent of the beautiful flowers, which filled the balcony in

such profusion that, shaded in the background as they were by the

magnificent trees of the park, they looked as if the goddess May had

brought a garden from her most sylvan haunts, to mark her presence even

there.

Lucy Neville, the sole inmate of this pleasant room, was neither very

young nor very beautiful, yet she had charms enough to occasion some

degree of wonderment that she should have passed through four London

seasons and attained the venerable age of three-and-twenty, and was Lucy

Neville still. She had the advantage of mingling with some of the most

highly gifted and most learned patriots of the age; for her brother,

Lord Valery, of whose house she was sole mistress, was one of the most

influential men of his day. She went into society also continually; and,

altogether, it was a constant marvel to all those who had nothing to do

but to talk of their neighbours, why she had never married. Lucy Neville

might not have had regular beauty, but she had something better—she had

MIND, and a heart so full of good and kindly feeling that she was an

exception to the general idea, that we must know sorrow ourselves before

we can feel for others. She was indeed, only just putting off mourning

for a young and darling brother; but she had begun to think years before

that, and the six months of quietude had only deepened, not created, the

principles on which she acted.

“Visitors so late! why it is just six o’clock!” passed through her mind,

as a loud impetuous ring announced a carriage; and a party of young

ladies, of ultra-fashionable exterior, hurried into the drawing-room,

all talking at once, and of something so very delightful, that Miss

Neville had great difficulty in comprehending their meaning.

“Now, Lucy, don’t look so bewildered. You are quick enough at

comprehension sometimes, and I really want you to understand me with a

word now, for I am in a terrible hurry. I ought to have come to you by

eleven this morning, but really this short invitation has given me so

many things to think about, I could not.”

“But what am I to understand, Charlotte?” replied Miss Neville, laughing

so good-humouredly, that it was difficult to discover why those of her

own age and standing so often kept aloof from her, as having so little

in common. “Laura—Mary—have pity on my obtuseness.”

“Why, Lady Gresham’s long-talked-of fête is fixed at last; and of course

you will go. Your invitation was enclosed in mamma’s last night.

Absolutely her ladyship condescends to entreat her to introduce you. I

cannot imagine the reason of this sudden _empressement_—she could have

visited you long ago, had she wished it.”

“She did wish it individually, I believe; but an unfortunate

misunderstanding between her brother and mine prevented it. Edward has

long wished the estrangement to cease, so I shall be very happy to meet

her half-way, and accept the invitation. When is it?”

“Next Monday.”

“Monday! Why, to-day is Friday! You must mean Monday week.”

“Indeed I do not. How she will manage I cannot tell, except that when

people have more wealth than they know what to do with, they can do what

they please. Her villa at Richmond, too, is just the place for a _fête

champétre_; and the novel shortness of the invitation, and being the day

before a drawing-room, will crowd her rooms, depend upon it. It is

something unusually exciting, the very bustle of the thing.”

“But I thought it was not to be until—”

“Until Herbert Gresham returned. Nor will it. He arrives to-morrow

night, or some time on Sunday, quite suddenly, not having been expected

for several weeks yet. What with his foreign honours, his promised

baronetcy, and last, not least, his distinguished appearance, he will be

sought and fêted by all the money-loving mammas and husband-seeking

daughters for the remainder of the season.”

“The worst of its being a _fête champétre_ is, that we must have

complete new dresses,” rejoined Laura. “And how to coax papa for the

necessary help, I know not; my last quarter was all gone before I

received it, and my debts actually frighten me. But what is to be done?

go I must.”

“And then the shortness of the notice!” continued Mary; “really Lady

Gresham might have given us more time. Who can decide what to wear, or

even what colour, in three days?”

“Come, Lucy, decide! But of course you will go!” exclaimed Charlotte,

impatiently. “It will be your first appearance in public this season,

and so you can have nothing to think about in the way of expense.

Nothing but the trouble of seeing about a new dress.”

“Which will prevent my going, much as I might wish it,” replied Miss

Neville, very quietly, though the faint tinge rising to her cheek, and

the quiver of the lip, might have betrayed some degree of internal

emotion.

“Prevent your going! What can you possibly mean?” exclaimed her guests

together.

“That as it is now six o’clock on Friday, and you tell me Lady Gresham’s

fête is three o’clock on Monday, I have not sufficient time to procure

all I want (for having been so long in mourning, I have literally

nothing that will do), without breaking a resolution, and sacrificing a

principle, which I do not feel at all inclined to do.”

“Sacrificing a principle! Lucy, you are perfectly ridiculous! What has

principle to do with a _fête champétre_? Your head is turned with the

stupid cant of oppressing, and the people, as if we had not annoyances,

and vexations, and pressure too, when we want more money than we happen

to have! And as for time, what is to prevent your sending to Mrs. Smith

to-night, (by-the-bye, how _can_ you employ an English _artiste_?) and

get all you want by ten o’clock on Monday morning? Why, I cannot even

give, an order till after the post comes in to-morrow. I must wait to

know what was worn at the Duchesse de Nemours’ _fête champétre_ the

other day. One feels just out of the ark, in England.”

“And I am sure I cannot decide what to wear till then,” languidly

remarked Mary.

“And as for me, I am in a worse predicament than either of you,” laughed

Laura, but her laugh was not a gay one. “Raise the wind I must, but it

requires time to think how.”

We have no space to follow this conversation further. Persuasions,

reproaches, and taunts assailed Miss Neville on all sides, but she did

not waver. Charlotte left her in high dudgeon; Mary marvelled at her

unfortunate delusion, quite convinced that she was on the verge of

insanity; and Laura wishing that she could be but as firm. Not that she

comprehended or allowed the necessity of the principle on which she

acted, but only as it would save her the disagreeable task of thinking

how to get the necessary costume when both _modiste_ and jeweller had

refused to trust her any more.

For nearly half an hour Lucy remained sitting where her visitors had

left her, her hands pressed on her eyes, and her whole posture denoting

a painful intensity of thought. Herbert Gresham returning! His mother’s

unexpected and pressing invitation! Could it be that the bar between the

families was indeed so entirely removed, that she might hope as she had

never dared hope before? Sir Sydney’s hatred to her brother, from some

political opposition, had been such, it was whispered at the time, that

he had obtained his nephew some honourable appointment abroad, only

because he feared that he not only loved Lucy, but leaned towards Lord

Valery’s political opinions. Four years had passed since then, and

Herbert Gresham was no longer a cipher in another’s hands. He had formed

his own principles, marked out his own course; and Lucy heard his name

so often and so admiringly from her brother’s lips, that the dream of

her first season could not pass away, strive against it as she might,

for she knew not whether she claimed more than a passing thought from

him who held her being so enchained. And now he was returning; and to

the fête to welcome him she was invited, with such an evident desire for

her presence, that her heart bounded beneath the thronging fancies that

would come, seeming to whisper it was at _his_ instigation. And why

could she not go? Was it not, indeed, a quixotic and uncalled-for

sacrifice? How could the resolution of one feeble individual aid in

removing the heavy pressure of over-work from the thousands of her

fellow-creatures? There was time, full time, for all she required, if

she saw about it at once. It was but adding an atom to the weight of

oppression, which, whether added or withheld, could be of no moment; and

surely, surely, for such a temptation there was enough excuse. How would

Herbert construe her absence, if, indeed, it was at his wish the

invitation came? Why might she not——

“Lucy, seven o’clock and not ready for dinner! Why, what are you so

engrossed about?” exclaimed her brother, half-jestingly, half-anxiously,

the latter feeling prevailing, as she hastily looked up. A few, a very

few words, and he understood it all.

“And yet I know, even under such circumstances, you will not fail,” he

said; and how powerful is the voice of affectionate confidence in the

dangerous moment of hesitation between right and wrong? “You may,

indeed, be but one where there needs the aid of hundreds; but if all

hold back because they are but one, how shall we gain the necessary

muster? To check this thoughtless waste of human life, this (in many)

unconscious crushing of all that makes existence, is WOMAN’S work. Man

may legislate, may theorise, but he looks to his female relatives for

its _practical_ fulfilment. Dearest, do you choose the right, and trust

me, useless as the sacrifice now seems, you will yet thank God that it

was made.”

* * * * *

Lady Gresham’s fête was brilliant, _recherché_—crowded as anticipated.

The weather was lovely, the gardens magnificent, the arrangements in the

best taste that an ultra-fashionist of some thirty years’ experience

could devise. Youth, beauty, rank, wealth, all were there, and the

female portion set off to the best advantage by an elegance of costume

and an extreme carefulness of attire, without which all knew an entrance

into Lady Gresham’s select coterie could never be obtained. A despot in

the empire of dress and appearance, she little knew, and still less

cared, for all the petty miseries (alas, that such a word should be

spoken in the same breath with dress!) which her invitations usually

excited. The resolve to outvie—the utter carelessness of expenditure

while the excitement lasted—the depression, almost despair, at the

accumulated debts which followed—the rivalry of a first fashion—the

petty manœuvres not to give a hint of the intended costume, and the

equally petty manœuvres to discover it—the mortification when, after all

the lavish expense, all the mysteries, others appeared more fashionable,

more _recherché_—the disgust with which, in consequence, the previously

considered perfect dress was henceforth regarded—these, and a hundred

other similar emotions had been, during the “season,” called forth again

and again; and in beings destined for immortality! was it marvel they

had no thought for other than themselves?

That this fête was in commemoration of Herbert Gresham’s return, and

that he was present, the hero of the day, not a little increased its

excitement and importance. But he moved amongst his mother’s guests with

native and winning courtesy indeed, but as if his mind were engrossed

with other and deeper things. In the four years of his absence many

changes, powerful in themselves, but still only invisibly working, had

taken place in the political aspect of his country. By means of private

correspondence with the most influential men of the day, and through the

public journals, he had felt the deepest interest in these changes; and

from the very fact of his looking on from a distance, and not mingling

with the contending waves of party, he had formed clearer views

concerning them than many on the spot. He had returned, determined to

devote the whole energies of his powerful mind to removing _invisible_

oppression, so lessening labour that MIND might resume her supremacy,

and create for every position its own immortal joys. He was no leveller

of ranks; no believer in that vain dream, equality. He had travelled and

thought much, and felt to his heart’s core the superiority of England as

a nation, both for constitution and morality; but this conviction,

instead of blinding him to her faults, quickened his perceptions, not

only regarding the evils, but their causes, and increased the intensity

of his desire to remove them.

It was not, however, only the habitude of thought which, on this

occasion, had given him a look of abstraction. He was disappointed. His

mother had told him that, in compliance with his desire, all foolish

coolness between his family and that of Lord Valery should cease—she had

condescended to make advances to Miss Neville, which were coldly

rejected. She did not tell him that these advances had been merely an

invitation to her fête (of whose sudden arrangement Herbert was himself

unconscious), and did not know herself, and certainly would never have

imagined the real reason of Lucy’s refusal. Before the day closed,

however, her son was destined to be enlightened.

He was standing near a group of very gay young ladies and gentlemen,

conversing at first on grave topics with a friend, when his quick ear

was irresistibly attracted by the mention of Miss Neville’s name,

coupled with much satirical laughter.

“She will become a second Mrs. Fry, depend upon it,” was the observation

of one. “I should not be at all surprised that at last we shall find her

making pilgrimages through the streets of London, to see if all the

shops are closed at a certain hour, and the released apprentices

properly employed. She should set up an evening school for drapers’

assistants and milliners’ apprentices. Why don’t you propose it to her,

Miss Balfour?”

Charlotte, whose superb Parisian costume gave her the triumph of being

almost universally envied, laughed, and declared it was too much

trouble.

“You stand in rather too much awe of both her and Lord Valery,” was her

brother’s rejoinder. “It is a pity, though, that Miss Neville has

imbibed such _outré_ notions, otherwise she would be a nice girl

enough.”

“And did she really refuse to come only because the notice was too short

for her to get a proper costume without injuring or oppressing—as the

cant of the day has it—the poor milliners? How perfectly ridiculous! I

am sure the _artistes_ who come for our orders are in the finest

condition both as to health and wealth.”

“And the shopmen—they are sleek, gay, care-nothing looking fellows. As

for their needing greater rest, more recreation, opportunities to

cultivate the mind, one has only to look at them to feel the pure

romance of the thing. What are some people born for but to work?”

“And just imagine how dull London would be if all the shops were closed

by seven or eight o’clock! I should lose half my enjoyment in walking to

my club.”

“I should like to know what good Miss Neville and her party of

philanthropists think they will accomplish by giving so much liberty and

leisure. We shall have to build double the number of taverns, for such

will be their only resort. What can such people know of intellectual

amusement!”

“And if they did, what do they want with it? We should have a cessation

of all labour, and then what is to become of us, or the country either?”

“It is pure folly. Some people must have a hobby to make a noise about;

and so now nothing is heard but oppression, internal slavery,

broken-hearted milliners’ apprentices, and maimed drapers’ assistants!

Really, for so much eloquence, it is a pity they do not choose a higher

subject!”

[Illustration]

“And I wish the present _subject_ may never drop till the _work_ is

done,” interposed Herbert Gresham, joining the conversation with a

suddenness, and speaking with such startling eloquence, that it caused a

_general_ retreat of _individual_ opinion. He would have been amused had

he felt less interested, to see the effect on both sexes of his

unexpected interference. He spoke very briefly, for he was too disgusted

with the littleness, the selfishness, of all he had heard to attempt

anything like argument. And the effort to excuse former sentiments—to

dare say he was right, but they had not reflected much about it—thought

it a pity to alter things which had been going on so long—could not

understand, even granting there was a good deal of misery, how could it

be helped, but if Herbert Gresham thought it might be, no doubt there

was more in it than they believed, and very many other similar speeches,

only excited his contempt.

We must change the scene, for our space will not allow us more than a

slight sketch: a momentary glance, as it were, on things passing daily,

hourly around, and yet seen, known of, by how few! Four or five days

after Lady Gresham’s fête, Miss Neville might have been seen entering

one of those small, close, back streets, found even in the aristocratic

west, and whose dilapidated dwellings present almost as great a contrast

with the proud mansions which surround and conceal them as the

inhabitants themselves.

It was a poor old needlewoman whom Lucy was visiting, and, surprised at

finding her usual sitting-room empty, and fearing she was ill—for there

was no sign of work about, and Mrs. Miller was infirm and ailing—she

gently entered her sleeping apartment. The rough bed was occupied

indeed, but not by its usual inmate, who was sitting by its side, tears

rolling down her withered cheeks, and her attention so fixed that she

did not perceive Miss Neville’s entrance. She was watching the painful,

restless movements of a girl, who, in a high state of delirium and

fever, was lying on the pallet; she was very young, and had been

beautiful, but suffering had scarcely left any trace but its own.

Earnestly and pityingly, Lucy entered into the sad, but only too common

tale, her inquiries elicited; but the old woman’s narration being

garrulous and unfinished, we will give it in our own words.

Fanny Roberts and Harry Merton, born and nurtured in the same village,

had been playmates, schoolfellows, friends, and at last lovers—not only

faithful and affectionate, but prudent and thoughtful. The parents of

both were poor, even in their humble village, but the wishes and

interests of their children were their first object, and to see them

somewhat higher in the world than themselves their sole ambition. To set

up an establishment in the neighbouring town, combining linen-draper,

dressmaker, and milliner, had been their day-dream from the time they

had conned their school lessons and taken long walks together, instead

of joining their playmates on the green; and to fulfil this earnest

wish, their parents, by many sacrifices, which, measured by their love,

seemed absolutely nothing, gathered together sufficient to send them to

London, and apprentice them there. Harry was then nineteen and Fanny two

years younger. Hope was bright for both. Their only drawback seemed the

impossibility of meeting more than once a week; and six days of entire

separation was a weary interval to those accustomed to exchange

affection’s kindly words and looks each day. Only too soon, however, did

the oppressive reality of the present absorb the rosy hues of the

future. On the daily routine of unmitigated work, the exhausting labour,

the deadened energies, the absorption of every faculty in the depressing

weariness, we need not touch. It was no distaste for work, for both had

set to their respective duties with hearts burning to conquer every

difficulty—to do even more than was required of them, the sooner to gain

the longed-for goal; and had it not been for the fearful burden of

over-work, the absence of sufficient rest, of all wholesome recreation,

how brightly and nobly might these young loving beings have walked the

path of life, by mutual exertion creating a home, and all the joys,

which, in England that one word speaks! Alas! ere eighteen months

elapsed, every thought of buoyancy and joy seemed strangely to have

deserted Fanny. She could not tell why, for outward things seemed

exactly the same as they had been at first. Harry was still faithful,

still fond. Her heart intuitively felt that he was altered. Why, she

would often ask herself, could she no longer feel happy? Why should

every thought of her own dear home cause such a sickly longing for fresh

air and green fields, that the hysteric sob would often rise choking in

her throat, and more than once, nothing but a timely burst of

incomprehensible tears had saved her from fainting as she sat. She could

not satisfy herself; but in reality it was the silent workings of

insidious disease, seeming mental, because impossible to be traced as

physical, save by the constant sensation of weariness, which she

attributed merely to sitting so long in close and crowded rooms; but

though happiness seemed gone, she retained the power of _endurance_;

woman can and will endure, but in nine cases out of ten, men cannot. In

the one, suffering often purifies; in the other, it but too often

deteriorates.

Harry Merton had entered on his work joyfully and buoyantly, determined

to make the best of everything, and be good friends with everybody.

Naturally lively, with the power of very quick acquirement, and a

restless activity of mind as well as body, a very few months’ trial

convinced him that if he had not entirely mistaken his vocation, he

certainly must do something to make it more endurable. He had heard of

institutions for the people in London, of amusements open even to the

most economical; he had pictured enjoying them with his Fanny, and

gaining improvement likewise. He found it all a dream. There were,

indeed, such things, but not for him or her. The hour of his release

found not only every wholesome amusement closed, but himself so weary,

that mental recreation was impossible, and yet with the yearning for

some pleasure, some relief from wearisome work, so natural in youth,

stronger than ever. His convivial, unsuspecting disposition led him to

join the most seemingly attractive, but in reality the most dangerous,

of his companions. The consequences need scarcely be narrated. He became

intemperate, gay, reckless, looking back on the pure, fresh feelings of

his early youth with wonder, and retaining but one of their memories,

his love for Fanny; but even that was no longer the glad, hopeful

feeling which it had been. He was constantly told, and he saw, that it

must be years before they could marry. He was laughed at for imagining

that either he or she would retain their early feelings. He heard her

beauty admired, and then pitied as a most dangerous gift, which must

eventually and most fearfully separate her from him; and the most

furious but most unfounded jealousy took possession of him, and so

darkened every hour of meeting, that poor Fanny at length anticipated

them with more dread than pleasure. It was long, indeed, nearly three

years, before things came to such a crisis; but the gradual conviction

of the deterioration of her lover’s character was to Fanny the heaviest

suffering of all: that she still loved him, surely we need not say. She

saw the _circumstances_ of this miserable change, not the change itself.

Her woman’s heart clung to him the more, from the very anxiety he

inspired. So intensely did she mourn for his long, wearisome hours of

joyless toil, that she scarcely felt her own; though, when he was

released at ten or eleven, she was often working unceasingly till two in

the morning. The choking cough, the shortened breath, the aching spine,

she scarcely felt, in the one absorbing thought of him.

Whenever she could be spared, which in the “season” was very seldom, it

was Fanny’s custom to go to Mrs. Miller (her only friend in London)

Saturday night and remain till Sunday evening. Two or three days before

the invitations were out for Lady Gresham’s fête, a note was given to

her from Harry, the perusal of which occasioned deeper suffering than

anything she had yet endured. Snatching half an hour from the scanty

time allowed for sleep, the following was her reply:—

“Harry! Harry! this from you! when you so fondly promised you would

never doubt me more! Yes, he did seek me that Saturday night, or rather

Sunday morning, for it was one o’clock; and I would not have gone there,

had you not made me promise that I would not disappoint you, and that

you would take me home. Why were you not there? Why did you leave me to

the chance of such a meeting? And then upbraid me with putting myself in

that bad man’s way! Oh, Harry! Harry! by the memories of our early home,

our early love, spare me such unjust suspicion! You tell me writing will

not satisfy you, you must see me, hear from my own lips my version of

this cruel and most false tale. How can I see you till Saturday night,

the earliest, if then? Sunday if I can only crawl to Mrs. Miller’s,

indeed I will come, pain as it is now to move. Only trust me till then,

dearest, dearest Harry. Do not add to your burden and mine by thoughts

like these. You know that I am innocent; that I never have loved, never

can love, any one but you.”

The Sunday came, but Fanny was unable to keep her engagement. Madame

Malin was so overwhelmed with orders for Lady Gresham’s fête, that even

the Sabbath day was compelled to be sacrificed. The peculiar trimmings

which it was absolutely necessary for Miss Balfour to have to complete

the Parisian costume (the details of which never arrived till eleven

o’clock, Saturday, and then all the materials had to be purchased) were

Fanny’s work; and, from her delicate taste, she, of all the assistants,

could the least be spared. In fact, extra hands were hired; for to

complete twenty or thirty full dresses from the noon of Saturday to ten

o’clock Monday, in addition to those already in hand for the

drawing-room the following day, was an unusual undertaking, even for the

indefatigable Madame Malin. Hour after hour those poor girls

worked,—through Saturday night, the yearned-for Sabbath, again late into

the night, till many fainted on their seats, and the miserable toil was

continued in a recumbent posture by those unable to sit upright. A dead

weight was on poor Fanny’s heart, a foreboding misery; but the

sufferings of the _frame_ were such as almost to deaden the agony of

mind. The hour of release came at length, inasmuch that, ill as she was,

she craved permission to take home some of the dresses, that she might

call at Mrs. Miller’s on her way back, and learn some news of Harry, and

beseech her old friend to seek him, and tell him the reason of her

forced absence. Exhausted and most wretched as she was, she had to wait

till the dresses were tried on—the capricious humour of the young ladies

proved, by altering, realtering, and final arrangement as they were

originally—to bear with petty fault-finding—until her whole frame seemed

one mass of nerve; and so detained, that she only entered the street

leading to her old friend’s abode, as the carriages whirled off their

elegantly-attired inmates to Lady Gresham’s fête.

What a tale awaited her! Harry, restless, miserable,—almost maddened by

the false reports against her,—and from the great pressure of business

in his master’s shop, from the innumerable visits of _modistes’_

assistants to procure the necessary materials so needed for the costumes

of Mrs. Gresham’s fête, not released till past one o’clock Sunday

morning, had perambulated the streets all night, in the vain hope of

meeting Fanny, encountering one of his jovial companions, who, half

intoxicated, swore he had seen her entering a coach with—Merton knew

whom—and when collared and shaken by the infuriated lover till he

recovered his more sober senses, declared he could not tell exactly, but

he thought it was her: at all events, Harry would know to-morrow, if she

had gone as usual to Mrs. Miller’s.

There she was not. Never before had six o’clock on Sunday evening come

without her presence; and really anxious, Mrs. Miller (though not

believing a syllable against her) conjured the unhappy young man to call

himself at Madame Malin’s, and inquire if she were ill or detained. He

did so. The well-instructed lacquey declared the family were all at

evening service, and if the apprentices were not with their friends, he

supposed they were there also; he knew nothing about them; but he was

quite sure his mistress never permitted them to work on Sundays. Harry

was in no state coolly to consider his words. He rushed back like a

madman to Mrs. Miller, uttered a few incoherent sentences, and darted

away before she had time or thought even to reply. That very evening he

enlisted, and the Monday found him marching to Southampton with other

troops about to embark for India. A few lines to Mrs. Miller told her

this, and accompanied a parcel directed to Fanny, in case she should

ever see or hear of her again. The poor girl had just strength to tear

it open, to discover all her letters and formerly treasured gifts, even

to some withered flowers, returned, with a few words of stinging

reproach, bidding her farewell for ever, and dropped lifeless at the old

woman’s feet. One or two intervals of coherency enabled her, by a few

broken phrases, to explain the reason of her absence; but brain fever

followed, and even when Miss Neville saw her, all hope was over. Vain

was the skill of the gifted and benevolent physician Lucy called in.

Disease had been too long and too deeply rooted for resistance to a

shock which, in its agony, would have prostrated even a healthy

constitution. A few, a very few days of intense suffering, and the

crushed heart ceased to beat, the blighted frame to feel, and misery for

her was over. But for poor Harry—for the parents of both—what might

comfort them? We have seen the deterioration of Harry’s character. There

were many to mark and condemn the _faults_, but none to perceive their

_cause_. And when he absconded from his apprenticeship, it did but bring

conviction as to his determined depravity. Who may tell the agony of

those two humble English homes, when the post brought the miserable news

of death to the one, and of sin and utter separation to the other? They

had not even the poor comfort of knowing the cause of their son’s

change; their own bold, free, happy, loving Harry,—how could his parents

associate him with sin?—or Fanny, the healthy, rosy, graceful Fanny,

with suffering and death? And what caused these fearful evils, amongst

which our tale is but one amongst ten thousand? Lucy Neville buried her

face in her hands as she sat by the lowly pallet, where lay the faded

form whence life had only half an hour before departed, and thanked God

that the temptation had been indeed resisted, and that she had not made

one at Lady Gresham’s fête. It had not, indeed, been the primary, or

even the secondary cause. It did but strike the last blow and shiver to

atoms the last lingering dream of hope and joy which, despite of

oppression, misery, despair, _will_ rest invisibly in the youthful

heart, till driven thence by death.

* * * * *

“Lucy!” exclaimed Lord Valery that same day, stopping the carriage

unexpectedly as it was about to drive off from that part of St. James’s

where it usually waited for her (she shrunk from the notice which a

nobleman’s carriage, seen in such localities as Mrs. Miller’s, would

inevitably produce),—“Lucy, an old friend wishes to recall himself to

your memory; will you give him a seat in your carriage, and take me on

the box? We both pine for fresh air, and a drive in the Park will revive

us for dinner, which, whether he will or no, I intend this gentleman to

partake.”

The words were the lightest, but the tone which spoke them betrayed the

truth at once. It was Herbert Gresham by his side. Herbert Gresham,

whose earnest eyes were fixed on hers, with an expression in their dark

depths needing no words to tell her that his early dream, even as her

own, was unchanged—that the first action of his now unshackled will was

to seek her, requiring no renewal of acquaintance, again to love and

trust her. And though the suddenness of the meeting, the rapid

transition from sorrowing sympathy to individual joy, did so flush and

pale her cheek, that her brother looked at her with some alarm, there

was neither hesitation nor idle reserve. Her hand was extended at once,

and the pressure which clasped it was sufficient response. Whether they

continued so silent, when Herbert did spring into the carriage, and took

his seat by her side, indeed we know not. Certain it is that, had it not

been for Lord Valery, the footman might have waited long enough for

orders to drive “home;” and equally certain that no day had ever seemed

so short to Lucy,—short in its fullness of _present_ enjoyment; in its

_retrospect_, could it have been but one brief day?

“And that poor girl is really gone?” inquired Lord Valery, just as

Herbert Gresham was about taking his departure, most reluctantly warned

to do so by a neighbouring clock striking midnight. “Another victim to

that hateful system, desecrating our lovely and most noble land!”

“Dear Edward, hush!” interposed Lucy, gently, as her eye rested on her

lover.

“Do not check him, dearest, though I prize that fond thought for me. I

know the whole tale—that the fête welcoming my return, by misdirected

zeal and thoughtless folly, has added incalculably to the _general_

burden, and to _individuals_ brought death and a life-long despair. The

past, alas! we cannot remedy—the future——” and his arm was fondly thrown

round Lucy, and his lip pressed her brow—“dearest, let us hope next

season there will be another Lady Gresham’s fête fraught with happiness

for all.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_The Group of Sculpture._

I.

“I have no hope in loving thee,

I only ask to love;

I brood upon my silent heart,

As on its nest the dove;

“But little have I been beloved—

Sad, silent, and alone;

And yet I feel, in loving thee,

The wide world is my own.

“Thine is the name I breathe to heaven—

Thy face is on my sleep;

I only ask that love like this

May pray for thee and weep.”

L. E. L.

“We know not love till those we love depart.”

L. E. L.

“WHY will you sing that old-fashioned song, dear Annie, when you have so

many much better suited to your voice?” expostulated Reginald de Vere,

as he led the young songstress from her harp to a more retired seat. “I

do not like your throwing away so much power and sweetness on a song

which, of all others, I hate the most.”

“Do not say so, Reginald. You are not usually fastidious, or I would

say, had that sweet melody Italian words instead of English, you would

acknowledge its beauty, and feel it too.”

“Perhaps so, as it is not the melody, but the words I quarrel

with—‘Home, sweet home.’ What charm has home ever had for me? Change the

words, dear Annie, English or Italian, I care not, only remove all

association of home, and I will learn to love it more.”

“Nay, Reginald; to banish such association would be to banish its

greatest charm. One day you, too, may feel its truth.”

“Never, never!” he answered, passionately; “there is a blighting curse

around me, which it were worse than folly to resist. I must toil on,

lonely, and unblessed by one sweet tie of home—seeking for no love, and

receiving none—isolated in a world! There are many others whose destiny

is the same. Bound by the iron chain of fate, he is but a madman who

would seek to break it.”

“Destiny—fate! I thought you had long ere this banished their baneful

influence,” said Annie, in a tone of mild reproach.

“From your ear, my gentle friend, because I saw you loved not their

expression; but not from my own heart. Yet you, too, believe all things

to be pre-ordained; that not a sparrow falls to the ground unmarked.

Then, why so start at me—is not our creed the same?”

“It cannot be, Reginald. I am not wise enough to know wherein the

difference lies, I can only judge from effects; and when they are so

opposed, I fancy the cause must be so also. I do believe that all things

are ordained, but yet I am no fatalist.”

“Will you try and explain the distinction, for your words seem somewhat

contradictory.”

“I fear they do,” she replied, simply; “and I am over bold to speak on

this weighty subject at all. Your creed appears to me to consist in

this: that before your birth, your path was laid down—your destiny

fixed; that you are, in consequence, bound in chains, enclosed in walls,

from which no effort of your own will can enable you to escape; that you

must stand the bursting of the thunder-cloud—for you have no force or

energy to seek shelter, no free will to choose—swayed by an irresistible

impulse, and, consequently, not a responsible being. Such seems to me

the creed of a fatalist.”

“And you are right. Now, then, for yours; less difficult, I should

imagine, to explain, than that in which you have no interest.”

“I differ from you, Reginald. It is comparatively easy to define the

subject of a passing thought or an hour’s study; but that which we feel,

feel to our inmost soul, is not so easily clothed in words. I believe

that an eye of love is ever watching over me—a guiding arm is ever round

me; that nothing can happen to me, unless willed for my good by my

Father in heaven; but I do _not_ believe my lot in life marked out

before I saw the light. Such a creed at once changes the law of love

into a dark and iron-bound necessity, from which my whole soul revolts.

Where would be the comfort of prayer in such a case—the blessedness of

pouring forth one’s whole soul in the hour of affliction? for how could

prayer avail us were our lot marked out?”

“And do you think prayer ever does? Do you believe that you are

answered?”

“I do, indeed, dear Reginald; not always as our own will would dictate,

but as a loving Father knows it best. I was not answered as my heart

implored when my only parent was taken from me; but I was answered in

the strength that was granted me to feel that he was happy, and God’s

will kinder and better than my own. I am not here because it is my

destiny, but because it is better for me than the calm and quiet life I

have hitherto enjoyed.”

“Your creed is indeed that of a gentle, loving woman, Annie,” said her

companion, more playfully; but he smiled not, for he knew how chillingly

a smile will fall on young enthusiasm. “But it is too visionary, too

ethereal, for cold-hearted man; perhaps not for some, but for me there

are no such dreams. My heart was once full of hope and faith, and all

things bright, and fond, and beautiful; but now crushed, blighted,

trampled on, how may it dream again? but this is folly,” and with a

strong effort he subdued emotion, and spoke more calmly. “Let us talk of

something else. You alluded but now to your change of life, and I

thought, sadly. Are you not happy?”

“I shall be in time, Reginald,” answered Annie, on whose fair sweet face

a shade had flitted at her companion’s bitter words. “All are kind to

me. My mother was Lord Ennerdale’s favourite niece, and he loves me for

her sake, and so pets me that I cannot but love him most dearly.”

“And Lady Emily?”

“I shall learn to love as soon as she will let me. I fancy she thinks me

but a simple romantic girl and I have not courage to undeceive her—that

I can love and reverence other things besides poetry; but it is the

change of circumstances that sometimes makes me sad. Clair Abbey is so

far removed from Luscombe Cottage, that time has not yet reconciled me

to the great change.”

“Time is slow in effecting changes in you, Annie; yet ere we meet again,

trust me, you will have learned to love Clair Abbey, or changed it for

another home as high in sounding, and yet more dear.”

“Changed it ere we meet again? What can you mean, Reginald?” said Annie,

startled yet more by his tone than by his words, but she was not

answered; for Reginald turned away directly he had spoken, his attention

called by Lord Ennerdale; and another quadrille being formed, her hand

was claimed, and she was led off almost unconsciously—so strangely was

she preoccupied—to join it.

There had been nothing in the quiet yet earnest conversation of Reginald

de Vere and Annie Grey to cause remark amongst the light-hearted group

who were that night assembled in Lord Ennerdale’s hospitable halls. They

had been intimate from childhood, and as Annie was almost a stranger to

all present, and merely regarded as a simple country girl hardly emerged

from childhood, no one was surprised that she should prefer Reginald’s

society; though there were some young men who, attracted by the timid

yet intelligent style of her beauty, half envied De Vere the privileges

of intimacy which he so evidently enjoyed. Annie’s place seemed not

amidst the followers of fashion; the long, rich, chesnut hair owned no

law but that of nature, and flowed at will from her pale, high brow over

a neck and shoulders, whose exquisite form and whiteness were displayed

to advantage by the simple fashion of her plain black dress; the eye so

“darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,” the fair soft cheek ever varying in

colour, revealed every thought and feeling that stirred within. The

world’s lesson of concealment and reserve she had not yet learned, for

living in perfect retirement with a kind and judicious father, of whom

she was the idol, her enthusiasm had been regulated, not chilled, and

every high and poetic sentiment raised up to and purified in the only

rest for such minds—the religion of the Bible and of Nature. Her life

had passed in a small cottage on the banks of Windermere, diversified

only by occasional visits to an old relation in Scotland; where, in

fact, the first six months of her mourning had been passed. And there,

had it not been for one cogent reason, she would have preferred

remaining, as more congenial to her taste and feelings, than the form

and grandeur which she imagined must surround the dwelling of an Earl.

Lord Ennerdale and his family had often sought to draw Sir Edward Grey

from his seclusion, anxious to notice his child; but fearing to disturb

Annie’s tranquil happiness by an introduction to a mode of life and

pleasures which her very limited fortune must prohibit her enjoying, he

had invariably declined these solicitations. Yet when Lord Ennerdale,

notwithstanding his age and infirmities, made a rapid journey from

London to Luscombe Cottage, purposely to soothe his dying hours by the

assurance that his Annie was amply, even richly provided for, and

therefore there could be no objection to her making Clair Abbey her

future home, Sir Edward placed his weeping child in the arms of her aged

uncle, and died with a prayer for both upon his lips.

But much as Annie loved and venerated her father, it was scarcely so

much his last wish as the restlessness of her own heart, which, even

while she preferred the simple mode of living at Kelmuir, yet reconciled

her to a residence at Clair Abbey. She was restless because her quondam

playmate and chosen friend, Reginald de Vere, was far away in his own

most wretched home, with none to sing or smile him into peace, or

cautiously and gently argue away his fits of morbid sensitiveness or

overwhelming gloom. That Lord Ennerdale not only sympathised in the

young man’s causes of depression, but loved his better qualities,

admired his talents, and regretted his failings, was sufficient to

excite the warm affections of his great-niece towards him. No spell is

so powerful in opening the heart as sympathy, with regard to the

character of those we love.

Clair Abbey’s great attraction, then, to Annie Grey was, that there she

should constantly see Reginald; his concluding words, therefore, had

both startled and pained her; but she vainly waited for their solution.

She looked earnestly for Reginald to return to her; but he was

constantly engaged in apparently earnest conversation with one or other

of Lord Ennerdale’s guests. She was too guileless to believe he shunned

her merely because he failed in courage to tell her more.

The evening closed at length; and passing along the corridor leading

from the library to the stairs, a well-known step suddenly sounded

behind her, and the voice of Reginald de Vere called her by name.

“I thought you intended to retire without even wishing me good night,”

she said, playfully, her spirit rallying with his appearance. “What do

you mean, sir, by such treatment? Be better behaved to-morrow, and I

will be merciful, and forgive.”

“You must forgive me to-night, dearest Annie; for to-morrow will see me

many miles on my road to Portsmouth, thence speedily to embark for

Spain.”

“Portsmouth—Spain!” repeated the bewildered girl; and her hand so

trembled, that the lamp she held dropped from it, and was instantly

extinguished.

“Yes, Annie, to Spain!” he answered, struggling for calmness. “I am of

age now; poor, but not so utterly dependent as I have been. My father’s

house I will never enter more. You start, Annie, but do not—do not

condemn me. Judge me by no reasoning but that of your own kind gentle

heart. I can bear no more than that which I have borne. Boyhood must

submit to a parent’s tyranny; but manhood owns no such law. You know how

I would have loved my father, and how he has spurned me. Still I

lingered, vainly striving to elicit one softer feeling, hoping—idiot

that I was—that he would yet love me. But the dream is over! He drew the

reins still tighter, and so snapped them; there is a measure to

endurance even in a son. Do not weep thus, Annie,” he continued,

conquering his own emotion to soothe hers, and passing his arm round

her, as he had so often done in earlier years, when as a brother he had

soothed her griefs and shared her joys. “I will not burden you with the

final cause of my present resolution. I have neither means nor influence

to tread the path to which my inmost soul aspires; and to toil for

lingering years behind a merchant’s desk or tradesman’s counter my

spirit will not bear. I have obtained a commission amongst the brave

fellows now about to join General Mina in his gallant defence of the

young queen; and with him these restless yearnings may be stilled in the

activity of martial service, or the quiet of the grave. And who will

mourn for me?” he continued, rapidly and bitterly; “who, in the wide

world, will think of me, or shed one tear for me, save thine own sweet

self? Oh, Annie, speak to me! Tell me you will think of me sometimes. I

know there will be many, very many, to supply my place to you; but, oh,

who will ever be to me as you have been?”

“And yet you have decided on this plan, endured more than ever, and told

me not a word. Reginald, was this kind?” she said, struggling with the

tears that nearly suffocated her.

“You were in grief already, Annie; how might I ask your sympathy in

mine? I know it never was refused me. I know it would not be, even in

your own sorrow; but oh, Annie, I felt if I waited to look on you again,

I should fail in courage to leave England. Yet why should I linger?

Changed as your prospects are, loved as you will be by those so much

more deserving, what could I be to you?”

“Reginald!” murmured poor Annie, wholly unconscious of the nature of her

own feelings, yet unable to utter another word.

“I know you will not forget me, Annie, dearest Annie, your nature is too

good, too kind, too truthful for such change; but, fated as I am, how

dare I ask for, hope for more than a sister’s love? Say you will

sometimes think of me, love me as—as a brother, Annie, darling! and life

will not be so wholly desolate.”

Her reply was almost inarticulate, and passionate words rose to

Reginald’s lips, but they were not spoken. He led her to the door of her

apartment without another word, wrung both her hands in his, bade “God

bless her!” and was gone. Annie stood for a few minutes as if stunned;

mechanically she loosed the wreath of white rosebuds from her hair, the

fastening of her dress, which seemed to stifle her very breath, and then

she sunk on her knees beside the bed, and the hot tears gushed forth;

and long, long she wept, as that young guileless girl had never wept

before.

Reginald de Vere was the youngest son of a private gentleman of moderate

fortune, residing in a populous city in the north of Yorkshire. It is

not necessary to dilate on feelings which Reginald’s own words but too

painfully portrayed; the “iron rule” of tyranny is best described in the

effect which it produces. The Calvinistic principles of the elder De

Vere found no softening of their natural austerity in the acidity and

moroseness of his temper; the evil had been increased by his union with

a young Spaniard—lively, frivolous, and a Roman Catholic. How this

marriage had ever come about, nobody succeeded in discovering. Strange

unions there are, but seldom between such antipodes in character and

feeling as were Mr. and Mrs. De Vere. Their large family grew up amidst

all the evils of domestic dissension, and its subsequent misery—a

father’s unjustifiable tyranny, and a mother’s as blamable weakness.

Basil de Vere sought to instil his peculiarly stern doctrines in the

minds of his children; his wife prayed, in their hearing, that they

might be saved from such cold, comfortless belief; they shrunk from the

one, and learned no religion from the other. To shield them from the

father’s tyranny, the mother taught them deceit, lavished on them weak

indulgences, which were to be forfeited if ever revealed. Ever

witnessing and suffering the effects of dissension, what affection, what

harmony could exist between themselves? The ill effects of this training

were more discernible in some of their matured characters than in

others; some pursued an honest course, as soon as their departure from

their father’s house permitted the influence of their better qualities,

but these were mostly dwelling in foreign lands; some had married with,

some without his consent; and in his old age Basil de Vere found himself

master of a deserted hearth, with none of his once blooming family

beside him but one, and that one was Reginald. The weak indulgence of

his mother had never softened for Reginald the tyranny of his father.

She died in giving him birth, and he had to battle through his unhappy

childhood alone. Shrinking almost in agony from his father’s voice,

yearning, with all the clinging confidence of childhood, for love, but

finding none, he turned in loathing from the continued scenes of discord

which characterised his home. He spurned with contemptuous indignation

offers of indulgence and concealment, to act as he saw others do, and

thus constantly drew upon himself the enmity of his more wily brothers

and sisters. He shrunk, in consequence, more and more within himself,

striving to keep peace with his father, but in vain; for De Vere often

raged at his children without knowing wherefore, and the calm, dignified

bearing of his youngest son would chafe him into greater fury than

palpable offence. But there were seeds of virtue, aye, of the “nobility

of genius,” in the disposition of Reginald, that bloomed and flourished

despite the unhealthy soil and blighting atmosphere in which he moved;

perhaps the kindly notice of Sir Edward Grey assisted their development.

The pale, silent, suffering boy had appealed irresistibly to his kind

heart, and for Reginald’s sake he condescended to make acquaintance with

his father.

As long as they remained in Yorkshire, Sir Edward permitted Reginald to

share much of the instruction which he himself bestowed upon his Annie;

a kindness so delicately and feelingly bestowed, that Reginald by slow

degrees permitted his whole character to display itself to Sir Edward,

and allowed himself to feel that, with so kind a friend and so sweet a

companion, he was not utterly alone. Even when Sir Edward removed to

Windermere their intercourse continued; for there was ever a room

prepared and a warm welcome for Reginald, who turned to that cottage as

a very Eden of peace and love.

As Reginald increased in years, felt more fully his own powers, and

through Sir Edward’s friendly introductions associated with other

families, his morbid feelings did not, as the baronet had fondly hoped,

decrease, but rather strengthened, in the supposition that his fate

alone was desolate. He saw happy homes and kindly hearts; no exertion,

no effort, no sacrifice could make such his, and he believed an iron

chain of fate was round him, dooming him to misery. The kindness of Sir

Edward, of Lord Ennerdale, and others, only deepened the vain, wild

yearnings for home affections—the peace, the confidence of home. A

peculiarly fine organization of mind and an acute perception of

character caused him to shrink with pain from general notice. The

talented and gifted he admired at a distance, feeling intuitively that

such would be his chosen friends; yet, from a sense of inferiority,

refusing to come forward and permit his fine talents to be known; at the

same time shrinking from the common herd, convinced that amongst them he

should meet with neither sympathy nor appreciation. A happy home would

have been all in all for Reginald; there the incipient stirrings of

genius would have been fostered into bloom, and the morbid feelings too

often their accompaniment regulated into peace.

The death of Sir Edward Grey and the future destination of his daughter

were, however, the final cause of his determination to leave England. He

knew it not himself; and if a light did flash upon the darkness, it only

deepened the gloom around him, by the conviction that his doom was ever

to love alone. More and more earnestly he sought to soften his father’s

temper, even to conquer his own repugnance to the path of life his

parent might assign him; but in vain. To enumerate all the petty

miseries this struggle cost him would be impossible. The mind rises

purified and spiritualized from great sorrows; but there is no relief

from the trial of an unhappy home, no cure for the _wounds of words_. If

domestic love and peace be ours, we can go forth with a firm heart and

serene mind to meet the trials of the world; alas! alas! for those who

have no such haven, no such stay!

Never did Reginald De Vere make a greater mistake than in the

supposition that a military life would bring him the happiness for which

his parched soul so thirsted. He could not associate the favourite

pastime of his childhood, carving in wood, stone, or whatever material

came first to hand, with the feverish yearning for exertion and

excitement, which possessed his whole being. He could not feel that the

one sprang from the other, or rather that the power which urged the

former was secretly working in his mind, and causing an utter distaste

for all mechanical employment. He was too unhappy to examine the source

of his restlessness, and knew no one who could explain it for him.

Lord Ennerdale and his sons were all men of worth and talent, and firm

encouragers of art and literature; but not themselves children of

genius, they failed in the subtle penetration which could discover its

embryo existence. Had Sir Edward lived he would have seen further; but

still all his friends had dissuaded Reginald from entering on a military

career, but he was firm; and in less than a week after his agitated

parting with Annie, a fair wind was rapidly bearing him to the shores of

Spain.

Days and weeks passed, and Annie Grey sought with persevering effort to

regain her former calm and happy temperament; and she succeeded so far

as to conceal from her relatives the secret of her heart. The agony of

that parting moment had transformed her, as by some incomprehensible

spell, from the child to the woman; and so sudden had been the

transition, that she felt for days a stranger to herself. Reginald had

always been dear to her, but she knew not, imagined not how dear, until

that never-to-be-forgotten evening; his words returned to her again and

again, and sad, desponding as they were, she would not have lost one of

them. She who had been so constantly active, flitting like a spirit from

one favourite employment to another, now seemed to live but on one

feeling; but her mind was too well regulated to permit its unrestrained

indulgence. Young as she was, dependent on herself alone for guidance in

this new and absorbing state of being, thrown in quite a new position

for luxury and wealth, as a cherished member of her uncle’s family, yet

her character, instead of deteriorating, matured, uniting all the

outward playfulness of the child with the inward graces of the woman.

Lord Ennerdale’s domestic circle formed a happy contrast to that of the

ascetic Basil De Vere. His children were all married except his eldest

son, Lord St. Clair, and eldest daughter, Lady Emily; but the ties of

family had never been broken, and happy youth and blooming childhood

were almost always round the earl. With all these Annie was speedily a

favourite; and easily susceptible of kindness and affection, Clair Abbey

soon became endeared to her as home.

By a strange contradiction, Annie’s interest and affection were,

however, excited the strongest towards the only member of Lord

Ennerdale’s family who retained reserve towards her. What there was in

Lady Emily St. Clair to attract a young and lively girl, Annie herself

might have found it difficult to define; for not only her appearance,

but her manners were against her. Stiff, cold, even severe, she usually

appeared; and when she would at times relax, and seem about to enter

with warmth and kindness into Annie’s studies or pursuits, she would

suddenly relapse into coldness and reserve. Sometimes, when eagerly

conversing with Lord St. Clair, on the exquisite beauty of nature, or of

some favourite poem, when the spirit of poetry breathed alike from her

eyes and from her lips, Annie would catch the eye of Lady Emily fixed

upon her sadly and pityingly; or if she smiled, the smile was peculiar,

it might be even satirical; yet she was never satirical in words, nor

did it seem in character—too feelingly alive to the dictates of kindness

ever willingly to inflict a wound. To discover her real character was

difficult; Annie judged more by her habits than her words. Lady Emily

never said that her love of flowers amounted to a passion, that to have

them around her in their freshness, to seek them alike from the garden

and the wild, to collect, dry, and arrange them in such tasteful groups

and such brilliancy of colouring, that the choicest paintings looked dim

beside them, was her favourite pleasure, but Annie was ever ready with

some newly discovered plant, or the moss and weed she needed—ever the

first to remove the dying buds, and supply their place around her

boudoir with the freshest and fairest she could select. Lady Emily never

spoke of poetry, never acknowledged that she could either admire or

enter into it; but there were extracts in her writing, attached

sometimes to drawings, sometimes to her books of flowers, that betrayed

such a refinement of taste, and acute perception of the pure, the

beautiful, and the spiritual, in nature and in man, that Annie suspected

she was herself a poet; but yet how could she reconcile the

unimpassioned coldness of her usual mood with the light and life of

poetry? Yet though fairly puzzled, Annie so judiciously assisted her

researches, that Lady Emily often wondered how a mark could come so

exactly in the place she wished, when the thought, for whose echo she

looked, had been breathed to none; but even had these attentions escaped

her notice, it must indeed have been an icy heart to withstand the

sweetness of Annie’s manner; whenever her cousin’s mood was irritable,

her temper somewhat ruffled, there seemed a magic around Annie not only

to bear with irritation, but to reconcile the subject of that irritation

to herself and all around her; and when so languid and weak as really to

be ill, though she would never allow it, who so active as Annie to

prevent all annoyance to the invalid, or interfere with the only

pursuits she could enjoy? Yet no show of affection acknowledged these

attentions; but by very slow degrees the Miss Grey changed into Anne,

and finally into the pretty denomination by which she was always

addressed; and the smile and tone with which she spoke to her, satisfied

the orphan that she had not worked in vain.

Even if Annie’s conduct had failed to rivet the notice of Lady Emily, it

had gained for her the interest and sincere affection of another. Lord

St. Clair was devotedly attached to his sister, and all who had the good

sense to appreciate her were sure to obtain his esteem; then in the

prime of life, he foresaw no danger in his intimate association with and

admiration of his young cousin, a girl but just seventeen; and it was a

pleasure to him to draw her out, and repay by every kindness on his part

her attention to his sister. A disappointment when very young had caused

him to remain single. “I do not say I shall never marry,” he often said,

in answer to his father’s solicitations on the subject; “for then I

should consider myself bound not to do so, however my heart might

dictate; but it is unlikely.”

Annie Grey had not, however, been domiciled many months in Clair Abbey,

before Lord St. Clair’s sentiments on this subject underwent some

change.

From the time of Reginald’s departure the public journals became

suddenly endowed with an interest to Annie, equal to that of the most

ardent politician. The disturbed state of Spain, the constant marchings

and counter-marchings of General Mina’s army, prevented any regular

communication from Reginald; once or twice she had heard from him

direct, and treasured indeed were those letters, honourably as the young

man kept to his resolution, never by one word to draw Annie into an

engagement, or even an avowal that she returned his love. In the papers

she often read his name among the bravest and most daring of the British

soldiers. One anecdote, officially reported and communicated to Lord

Ennerdale, afforded her still dearer food for fancy. The service in

which he was engaged was exposed to all the horrors of civil warfare;

slaughter and desolation followed in the train of both armies. Young De

Vere, at the head of a picked band, had thrown himself in the very midst

of a _mêlée_, determined on saving the unoffending women and children,

and aged peasants of the opposing party, all of whom were about to be

sacrificed to the misguided rage of the royal troops; the village was in

flames, and the peasants, neutral before, swore to be avenged. The

exertions of the young Englishman, however, worked on both parties; he

calmed the excited spirits of his own men, and promised protection and

safety to the oppressed. One group particularly attracted him; a young

mother, clasping an infant tightly to her breast, and two fine boys,

twining their arms round her, as to protect her with their own lives.

Reginald did not know that it was her infant he had saved from a brutal

death, but his look was arrested by the intense feeling glistening in

her large dark eyes, and by the impotent passion of her eldest boy, who,

clenching a huge stick, vowed he would join his father, who was a

Carlist soldier, and revenge the insults offered to his mother. De Vere

jestingly laid his hand on the stripling’s shoulder, declaring he was a

young rebel and his prisoner. The agonized scream of the poor mother

changing on the instant into the wildest accents of gratitude, as she

recognised in Reginald her baby’s preserver, and to the earnest

supplication that he would send them on in safety, removed all feelings

of mere jest. Reginald soothed her fears, and selecting a guard of his

own countrymen, on whom he could depend, sent her and her children under

their care to the outposts of the Carlist camp. General Mina smiled

sadly when this anecdote was told him. “The age of chivalry is over, my

young friend,” he said, mournfully. “Your act was kind and generous, but

I fear of little service. The Carlists are not likely to check their

career of devastating warfare because we have spared one insignificant

village; nor will you have any demand upon their favour should you

unfortunately fall into their hands.”

“Chivalry and its romance may be over,” thought Annie, as again and

again her mind reverted to its one fond theme. “But my father once told

me ‘a deed can never die;’ and, even if indeed it were to do no good,

surely his motives will meet with the appreciation and admiration they

deserve; there must be some among the good and noble to do him justice.”

How the young heart revels in every proof, however trifling, on the

worth of him it loves. The restlessness of a scarcely acknowledged

passion merged into a species of glowing happiness, the basis of which

Annie might have found it difficult to define. In its indulgence she

forgot the distance between them, the darkening aspect of his future,

the despondency breathing in his last farewell—forgot all but the

passionate words, “Who will be to me as you have been?” And what will so

elevate the character and purify the heart, and shed such sweet rosy

flowers over every thought, and act, and feeling, as the first fresh

feelings of all-hoping, all-believing love? Annie’s beauty, matured

beneath the magic of such dreams, excited universal admiration; but the

young girl knew it not.

“No breakfast for loiterers!” exclaimed Lord St. Clair, playfully

holding up his hand, as Annie sprang through an open French window into

the breakfast-room one lovely summer morning, her cottage bonnet thrown

back, her luxuriant hair somewhat disordered, her cheek and eye bright

with health and animation, and laughing gaily at Lord St. Clair’s

threat.

“Here has Emily been looking starch and prim for the last half-hour,

thinking unutterable things of the folly and romance which can be the

only reason of young ladies’ early wanderings in the lonely districts

about Keswick Lake. Ah, you little fox, prepared with a bribe to ward

off the weight of her displeasure,” he said, as Annie laid the fruit of

her researches, a rare and exquisite plant, on the table by her cousin,

and Lady Emily half smiled.

“And there’s my father in a complete fever fearing that his blooming

little niece had been carried off, or eaten up by one of the wild men or

monsters of the mountains, and threatening to search for her himself,

directly after breakfast.”

“Thank you, my dear, kind uncle,” replied Annie, gaily, bending over

Lord Ennerdale to kiss his forehead. “Never be anxious about me. I have

suffered no further inconvenience than extreme hunger, which I satisfied

at Nanny’s cottage, by a slice of her brown bread and a cup of warm

milk. No romance in that, Lord St. Clair, at least.”

“A fortunate occurrence for you, as it may save you from a lecture on

the impropriety of indulging love-lorn dreams in solitude. Why, Annie,

you are actually blushing; if it were not an utter impossibility for

romantic young ladies to feel hungry, I should say your very looks

pleaded guilty. Look at her, Emily—you had better begin.”

“No, I thank you, Henry; I never give lectures, even when deserved, in

public,” was his sister’s quiet reply.

“Well, the offence brings with it its own punishment, for here come the

contents of the postman’s bag, and so a truce to our sage converse; and

you, Miss Annie, must eat your breakfast in meditative silence.”

“Or in perusing what she likes better. Here, my little politician; your

eyes are pleading, though your lips are silent,” said Lord Ennerdale,

gaily throwing to her a packet of newspapers without opening them.