“You are much too young to be a politician; besides, I hate women to

dabble in politics, so give me a better reason for being the first

reader of all the papers, or you shall not have them,” interposed Lord

St. Clair, keeping firm hold of the packet, which he had caught.

“On my honour, I never read a word of politics,” replied Annie, half

playfully, half eagerly, but blushing deeply as she met Lord St. Clair’s

penetrative glance. He relinquished them with a half sigh, and bent over

his despatches. Silence ensued for several minutes, each seemingly

engrossed with his occupation. Lady Emily was the first to move, and

after carefully sorting and arranging the flowers Annie had brought her,

was about to leave the room.

“Annie, my dear child! what is the matter?” she exclaimed, in a tone

which electrified her father and brother, so utterly was it unlike her

usually measured accents; and startled out of all stiffness and dignity,

she was at the poor girl’s side in an instant. Annie’s cheek, lips, and

brow were cold and colourless as marble, and there was such rigid agony

imprinted on every feature, that Lady Emily well-nigh shuddered as she

gazed. “Speak to me, Annie, love! What is it? Try and speak, dearest; do

not look at me with such a gaze,” she continued, as Annie slowly raised

her eyes, which were bloodshot and distended, and fixed them on her

face; she evidently tried to speak, but only a gasping cry escaped, and

that terrible agony was lost for a time in an unconsciousness so deep

that it almost seemed of death.

Lord St. Clair stood paralysed, but then he snatched up the fatal paper,

and one glance sufficed to tell him all, all that he had suspected, all

that for his own happiness he had feared; but he could only think of

Annie then, and perceiving how ineffectual were all the usual efforts to

restore animation, he threw himself on horseback, and never rested till

he had found and dragged back with him the medical attendant of the

family, whose skill was finally successful. Annie woke from that blessed

relief of insensibility to a consciousness of such fearful suffering,

that as she lay in the perfect stillness enjoined by the physician, she

felt as if her brain must reel, and fail beneath it. It was not alone

the death of him she loved, that the idol of her young affections was

lost to her for ever, but it was the horrid nature of his fate which had

so appalled her. In the gallant defence of a royal fort he had been left

almost alone, all his companions falling around him; severely wounded,

and overpowered by numbers, he was taken by the Carlists, dragged to

their camp, and twenty-four hours afterwards shot, with other ill-fated

men, literally murdered in cold blood. Three times Annie’s eyes had

glared on the paragraph, reading again and again the list of the

unfortunate men who had thus perished, as if Reginald’s name could not

be amongst them; alas! it was there, pre-eminent, from the courage, the

youth, and the official rank of the bearer. And in that dreadful

stillness the whole scene rose before her, vivid as reality—ghastly

figures flitted before her; and then she saw Reginald as they parted;

and then full of life and excitement in the field; and then covered with

blood and wounds. She seemed to see him bound and kneeling for the fatal

stroke, and the shot rung in her ears, clear, sharp, and strangely loud,

till she could have shrieked from the bewildering agony: she tried to

banish the vision, to escape its influence, but it gained strength, and

force, and colouring, and before midnight Lady Emily watched in grief

and awe beside the couch where her young cousin lay, and raved in the

fearful delirium of a brain fever.

Many weeks elapsed ere Annie could again take her place amongst her

family; alternate fever and exhaustion had so prostrated her that her

life was more than once despaired of. Had she been aware who it was so

constantly and gently tended her, teaching her voice to forget its

coldness, her manners its reserve, to soothe and comfort those hours of

agony, she would have felt that some simple “deeds indeed could never

die;” and that to her own sweetness of temper, and forbearing and active

kindness, she owed the blessings of a sympathy and tenderness almost

equalling a mother’s. But it was long before she was conscious of

anything, or even capable of rousing herself from the lethargic stupor

which still lingered even when sense and strength returned. That she

sought earnestly to appear the same as usual—to evince how gratefully

she felt the kindness lavished on her—to return to her employments, was

very evident; but it seemed as if bodily weakness prevented all mental

exertion. She shrunk in anguish from the thought that she had betrayed

her love, though by neither word nor hint did her companions ever allude

to the immediate occasion of her illness.

“Would she but shed tears—but speak her grief,” exclaimed Lord St. Clair

to his sister, one day, after vainly endeavouring to excite a smile,

“she would suffer less then; but she has never wept since; and before,

the most trifling emotion, even of pleasure, would draw tears. Could you

but draw forth her confidence—but make her weep. Is there no possible

way?”

“I fear none: she shrinks from the slightest approach to the subject. I

feel as if I dared not speak poor Reginald’s name.”

Chance, however, did that for which even Lady Emily’s courage failed.

Annie was reclining, one morning, in a favourite boudoir, her eyes

languidly wandering over the beautiful landscape, which stretched from

the window. When last she had noticed it, the trees were bending beneath

the weight of their glorious summer dress, and the gayest and brightest

flowers were flinging their lavish beauties on the banks of the small

but picturesque lake. The scene was still lovely, but it had changed;

the trees which still retained foliage were all in the “sere and yellow

leaf,” the ground was strewed with fallen leaves, the flowers were all

gone, and Nature herself seemed emblematical of the change in Annie’s

heart. Lady Emily watched her some time in silence, and then gently drew

her attention to some beautiful groups of flowers which she had lately

arranged. Annie turned from the window with a heavy sigh, and bent over

the flowers; while Lady Emily continued her employments without further

notice. She forgot that amongst those groups there was the plant, to

find which Annie had rambled over hill and dale that fatal morning. From

its extreme rarity and beauty she had placed it alone upon the page; and

as Annie gazed upon it, a rush of feeling of the bright, sweet memories

which had thronged her mind during that solitary ramble came back upon

her—the dreams of hope, and joy, and love—with the force, the intensity

of actual presence; as if they might still be realized, and the

intervening time had been but a dark and troubled blank. She pushed the

flower from her, and her head sunk on her clasped hands.

“My poor child, I forgot that flower was amongst them!” exclaimed Lady

Emily, in a tone at once of such self-reproach and earnest sympathy,

that Annie, with an uncontrollable impulse, suddenly sprung up, and

folding her arms round her neck, burst into a passion of tears. All her

cousin’s previous kindness she had attributed to pity for bodily

suffering. That she could sympathise in her mental affliction, she had

fancied—as the young are too prone to do of the colder and more

experienced—was impossible; but the tone, the allusion to that little

flower, betrayed that she, too, could believe in and understand the

association of the material with the immaterial world; and Annie now

wept upon her bosom, in the consoling consciousness that, cold as that

heart seemed, it could yet feel and weep for her.

Lady Emily trembled; for the deep emotion she beheld recalled passages

of equal suffering in her own life, which she had thought buried and at

rest for ever. She trembled, lest in this appeal to her inmost soul her

long striven-for calmness should fail, and her weakness should increase

rather than soothe Annie’s anguish. Her hand shook, and her lip so

quivered, that it was some minutes ere she could speak. We need not

linger on the words which followed. The ice, which had seemed to close

round Annie’s heart, dissolved—Reginald’s name was spoken—the fond

secret of her life revealed; and from that day she found more strength

to struggle with depression—to leave no effort untried to regain

serenity, and conquer that worse foe to happiness, indifference, which

the human heart contains. Once convinced, by the representations of

affection and experience, that it was her duty _actively to do_, as well

as passively to endure—to prove her resignation to the blow, which,

though heavy, was still dealt by a Father’s hand, she did not fail. A

yet more earnest desire to seek the happiness of others, and complete

disregard of self—a calm and still serenity of word and look, were now

her outward characteristics; while, within, though her spirit had gained

new strength in its upward flight—new clinging love for that world where

all is peace, the thought of the departed yet remained, gaining, it

seemed, increase of power with every passing month. It had lost its

absorbing anguish; but not its memories. Too truly did she feel, with

that sweet chronicler of woman’s heart—

“We dream not of Love’s might,

Till Death has robed, with soft and solemn light,

The image we enshrine. Before _that_ hour

We have but glimpses of the overmastering power

Within us laid.”

There were times when the thought would come, and so vividly, she could

scarcely believe it only a thought, that Reginald might yet live, the

public records be deceivers. But Lady Emily’s assurances that her father

and brothers had made every inquiry, but that all the information

obtained only confirmed the first statement, proved the utter fallacy of

the dream.

II.

“Ah! let the heart that worships thee

By ev’ry change be proved.”

L. E. L.

“I could forgive the miserable hours

His falsehood, and his only, taught my heart;

But I can not forgive that for his sake

My faith in good is shaken, and my hopes

Are pale and cold, for they have looked on death.

Why should I love him? he no longer is

That which I loved.”

L. E. L.

“Thou livest! thou livest!

I knew thou couldst not die!”

_De Chatillon_—MRS. HEMANS.

Nearly two years had elapsed since the death of Reginald De Vere ere any

event of sufficient importance occurred in Annie’s life for us to resume

the thread of our narrative. A shock like that, and on such a

disposition, could never be forgotten, though time, the softener of all

ills, had restored her to some degree of her wonted animation, and

though the elastic spirits of the young girl had given way, the woman

had become yet more attractive and lovable. The first London season

after Reginald’s death she had not accompanied her uncle’s family to the

great metropolis, but spent the period of their absence quietly in

Scotland. The second, she did not refuse to join them; but scenes of

festivity were so evidently distasteful, that her friends did not urge

her entering more into society than her own inclinations prompted. But

in her uncle’s house she was seen and known only to be admired and

loved, receiving, to her extreme astonishment, an unexceptionable offer

of marriage before she had been two months in London. It was declined

gratefully, but so decidedly as to give no hope. Some weeks afterwards,

Lord St. Clair one morning entered Annie’s room. She was alone, so

intently engaged in drawing as not to observe the very peculiar

expression of countenance with which he regarded her some minutes

without speaking.

“I would give something to read your thoughts, cousin mine,” she said,

playfully, at length raising her eyes to his face, which instantly

resumed its usual kind and open expression. “I could hardly believe you

were in the room, you were so silent.”

“I was thinking how very wise the world is, Annie. It knows and vouches

for so many things concerning individuals, of which they are utterly

ignorant themselves.”

“Why, what is the report now?”

“Only—” he paused for a second, then rallied so quickly, that the

huskiness of his first words was unperceived, “that you and I are

engaged in marriage, and that I only wait till you are of age, that the

disparity of years may seem less.”

“The world must think much too highly of me for such a report to gain

credence,” replied Annie, simply, yet gravely, though she did start at

the intelligence.

“What can you mean?”

“That they must hold me in much greater respect than I deserve to unite

my name, even in thought, with yours.”

“My dear Annie, can you mean that you are undeserving of the regard of

any man, however high his worth? How little do you know yourself!

Believe me, it is I who should feel proud that the world should believe

this so strongly that not even the disparity of years between us is

considered an objection.”

“Do not talk so, dear Henry, or I shall fear I am losing one of the

truest friends I have. You have always treated me with such regard as

never to flatter me; pray do not begin now.”

“Indeed you do me injustice, Annie; might I not return the charge, and

accuse you of flattering me?”

“No, dear cousin. How can I do otherwise than look up to, and venerate

your worth, associating with you at home, as I have done for nearly

three years, and receiving such constant kindness, that had I been your

own young sister you could not have shown more? Do I not see you as a

son and brother? and if I did not venerate you, should I not be the only

one, either at home or in the world, who did not do you the justice you

deserve?”

“And may I not equally have learnt to know and love you?”

“Yes, as a child, a sister, but not as the wife you need.”

“Is the disparity of years, then, in your mind so great an obstacle? Do

you think it quite impossible a man of eight-and-thirty can love a girl

of twenty?”

“No, not impossible.”

“But impossible that a girl of twenty could love a man of

eight-and-thirty; is that it?”

“Far less unlikely than the other case,” replied Annie, half smiling,

for her complete unconsciousness caused her to be amused at her

companion’s pertinacity.

“Then why should the world’s report be so utterly without foundation,

dearest Annie?” inquired Lord St. Clair, with such a sudden change of

countenance and tone that it startled her almost into consciousness. The

arch and playful look vanished, her cheek paled, and the tears started

to her eyes, and laying her hand confidingly on his arm, she said, with

quivering lip—

“Dearest Henry, do not let me lose the kind brother, the true friend I

have so long believed you.”

“You shall not, Annie,” he answered fervently, “even if to retain such

appellatives makes me more miserable than you imagine.”

“Do not, do not say so! my thoughts are all memories, and were the

world’s report indeed true, would be faithless every hour; could this

make your happiness?”

“But must this always be? Is devotion to the departed a higher duty than

giving happiness to the living? So purely unselfish as you are, would

you not in time better secure your own peace by giving inexpressible

happiness as the beloved and cherished wife of the living, who would

never expect you to love as you have loved, than by indulging in the

luxury of memory and devotedness to one who is in heaven? Is not this a

question worth considering, Annie?”

“Not now, not now! oh, do not urge me now!” she implored, bursting into

tears; and her companion on the instant banished every word and thought

of self to soothe and calm her.

A month or two afterwards Lord St. Clair, to the astonishment of his

friends, by whom he was regarded as a particularly quiet stay-at-home

sort of person, accepted a diplomatic embassy to the courts of Germany

and Russia, likely to detain him twelve or eighteen months. He had

besought and received Annie’s permission to correspond with her. Letters

from a mind and heart like his could not be otherwise than interesting.

His words returned repeatedly to her thoughts; she loved him

sufficiently to feel a degree of pleasure in the idea of adding to his

happiness, and six months after he had left England, her answer to a

letter from him, in which generalities had merged into personalities,

contained the following words:—

“If, dearest Henry, the gratitude and reverence of one whose best

affections still linger with the dead are indeed of sufficient worth to

give you the happiness which you tell me rests with me, I will not

refuse to become yours, if a twelvemonth hence you still desire it. Give

me that time. The painful feelings with which I now look to marriage, as

almost faithlessness to one who, though the actual words never passed

his lips, I do believe loved me most truly, will then perhaps, in some

degree at least, have subsided, and I may be able to give you all that

your wife should bestow. I know and feel that time is the comforter as

well as the destroyer, and that though it is actual agony to think that

my heart will ever so change as to feel less acutely the loss I have

sustained, I know it will and must, and that it is right and best it

should do so. Give me but time then, dearest Henry—let the memories of

the dead be so softened that I may do my duty lovingly as well as

faithfully to the living; and till that may be, let us continue as we

have been to the world and to each other.”

Lord St. Clair did not hesitate to accede to this request. Even his

letters did not change their tone; he was still the friend more than the

lover; but he contrived to shorten the period of his voluntary

banishment, and eleven months after he had quitted England beheld his

return.

There was a change in Annie, however, which alarmed and pained him; she

was pale and thin, and strangely and feverishly restless. Lady Emily,

from being constantly with her, had not remarked the great alteration,

but acknowledged, in answer to St. Clair’s anxious queries, that she had

seemed more unhappy the last four months, that the calm and tranquil

cheerfulness which had characterised her had given place to alternations

of fitful gaiety and more frequent depression; but what had occasioned

it she could not tell; she thought it might be physical, as she had had

a slight cough hanging about her for weeks, which nothing she took

seemed to remove. Four months previous! was it possible that she might

regret the promises she had so ingenuously given? Lord St. Clair more

than once caught her glance fixed with a degree of pleading earnestness

upon him, as if she failed in courage to speak; and as he was not one to

encourage painful doubts where a word might solve them, he took an

opportunity of kindly and affectionately inquiring why she was so

changed.

The cause was soon revealed. About ten days after she had written to

him, as we related, she had seen, amongst other despatches directed to

Lord St. Clair, which were lying on the library table waiting to be

arranged and forwarded, a single letter, the writing of the direction of

which had caused such a sudden thrill and subsequent faintness, that it

had been with difficulty she refrained from involuntarily tearing it

open, to know from whom it came. She said that she had endeavoured to

conquer the strange fancy; to reason with herself, that the resemblance

to a writing she but too well remembered was mere accident. Yet so

powerful had been its effect, that even when she recalled the

superscription, the same feelings of heart-sickness returned as had

overpowered her when it first met her eye. It had been put up with other

public despatches—the family having before its arrival closed and sent

more private letters; that as he had never alluded to it, she had

struggled to believe it could have been nothing of interest to her, and

yet the subject would not leave her mind, allowing her neither sleep at

night nor rest by day. She knew it folly, she said, but conquer it she

could not.

And that fearful state of internal restlessness was fated to continue;

for, most unfortunately, the packet of despatches in which that was had

been lost, in the overflow of a river which the messenger who bore it

had to ford, and Lord St. Clair had never alluded to it, for his letters

to Annie had been shorter than he liked, from the annoyance and increase

of trouble which the loss of this very packet had occasioned him in his

political employment. That the post-mark seemed Italian was all she

could tell him, and his anxiety became as great as hers, though that it

could really be what it was easy to discover Annie really imagined it,

he believed impossible.

Meanwhile, the poor girl’s health—under a suspicion which, however

imaginary, was very fearful—did not improve, and her relatives rested

not till a skilful physician had been consulted; his opinion instantly

decided them, and, despite of Annie’s resistance, a tour on the

Continent was resolved on, Lord Ennerdale desiring her not to let him

see her again, till she could bring back her own rosy smiling self.

The party consisted of only Lord St. Clair, Lady Emily, and Annie; and,

making only a brief stay at Paris, they proceeded in a south-easterly

direction, crossed the Jura, and fixed their residence for some weeks in

the vicinity of Geneva. The complete change of air and scene seemed so

to renovate Annie, that physical strength gradually returned, and with

it more apparent calm of mind. Congeniality of taste in our companions

is indispensable for the real enjoyment of travelling, and this Annie

fully possessed; those three years of intimate association with the

apparently cold and passionless Lady Emily had deepened Annie’s regard,

but not altered her cousin’s chilling manner. But this delicious commune

with nature, uninterrupted by intercourse with the world, caused her

more than once so to relax as to excite even Annie’s surprise, and

convince her more than ever that Lady Emily had not always been what she

then was.

They were sitting one evening under the projecting roof of a jutting

gallery belonging to a cottage in the beautiful valley of Chamouni; Lord

St. Clair had that day left them to join a party of excursionists, in an

expedition somewhat too fatiguing for his companions. The cottage,

situated on a projecting mount or cliff, commanded a more extensive view

than the parish of Prieuré itself permits. The rich luxuriance of the

vale stretched beneath them, intersected with cliffs covered with

foliage and large patches of emerald moss, and variously-tinted lichen

clothing the grey stones. Here and there a true Alpine cottage peeped

through dark woods of fir and larch, and the blue and sparkling Arve

glided noiselessly along, still more lovely in the evening hour, as the

glowing rays of sunset are contrasted with the deep shadows falling all

around. Above them towered mountains of every form, blending their

separate charms in a whole so sublime and extensive that height and

breadth were lost in distance; misty vapours, or light fleecy clouds,

were ever wreathing their snow-capped brows, while Mont Blanc itself

stood alone in its sublime grandeur, and in the unsullied purity of its

snowy robe. The sun itself was invisible, but its glowing rays were shed

upon the mountain, dyeing it with a deep, rosy flood of light peculiar

to that locality, and only to be described by its thrilling resemblance

to that fearfully brilliant flush sometimes traced on the countenance of

mortal beauty, when life is fading imperceptibly away, and the strange

yet perfect loveliness rivets not alone the eye but the imagination with

a species of fascination which we have no power to resist. The period of

its continuance might have been from fifteen to twenty minutes, when it

suddenly changed into a pale greyish tinge, of a shade and appearance so

peculiar that it affected the heart and mind with the same species of

awe as that with which we regard the sudden change from brilliant life

to the ashy hues of death.

An exclamation of admiration, even of delight, broke so naturally from

the lips of Lady Emily St. Clair, that her young companion looked up in

her face with astonishment.

“Have I not surprised you, Annie?” she said, with a quiet smile. “Are

you still amongst those who believe that one so cold and silent as I am

now can have no feeling for enjoyment, can see no beauty in nature, no

poetry in the universe?”

“No,” replied Annie, earnestly; “I know so much of you that mere

superficial observers can never know, that I can well believe there is

still more which my inexperienced eye can never reach. I wish,” she

added, after a short pause, and with some hesitation, “that I were

worthy to know you as you are, that you loved me sufficiently to unveil

sometimes that which is so studiously concealed.”

“Do not do me such wrong, dearest Annie, as to doubt that I love you,

because I am to you, in general, as to indifferent persons. I cannot

change the manner acquired by months, nay, whole years of suffering,

even to those whose affections I would do much to win. There is little

of interest and much of suffering in my past life; but you shall hear it

if you will.”

“Not if it give you pain, my kind friend,” said Annie; but she looked

inquiringly as she seated herself on a cushion at her companion’s feet,

and rested her arm on her knee. Lady Emily paused, as if collecting

firmness for the task, then briefly spoke as follows.

“Few, who have only known me the last fifteen or sixteen years, would

believe that I was once, Annie, far more enthusiastic and dreamy, and

what the world calls romantic, than you were when I first knew you. An

ardent love for the exalted and the beautiful, alike in man and nature;

a restless craving for the pure and spiritual; an almost loathing for

all that was mean and earthly: these were the elements of my romance,

but carried to an excess, that instead of being beneficial, as they

might have been, became indeed the height of folly, which is the world’s

meaning for such feelings. I was a poet, a visionary, an enthusiast,

feeding a naturally vivid imagination on the burning dreams of minds

whose wings soared even higher than my own. By my family I was regarded

with admiration and love, as one whose talents would raise me far higher

than my rank. I had the advantage of association with the genius and the

student; and their opinion of my powers, their sympathy, urged me on

till I was astonished at myself. But there was a blank in the midst of

pleasure; I soared too high in the moments of excitement. My mind,

unable to sustain itself in the airy realms of an ill-regulated

imagination, was fraught, on its return to earth, with a gloom and void

even more exquisitely painful than its precious mood had been joyful.

Yet had poetry been my only gift, its pains and pleasures might have

been confined to my own breast; but the powers of satire, mine in no

ordinary degree, were far more dangerous to myself in their baneful

influence upon others. I indulged in the most cutting irony, careless

whom I might wound, regardless of any feeling but my own pleasure; I

knew religion only as a name, whose every ordinance was fulfilled by

attending public service once a week. I heard and read that, to some

minds, poetry vitalizes religion, for every throb unanswered upon earth

lifted up the whole soul to that world where all was love and all was

joy. I laughed at such romance, as I termed it, for I could not

understand it. In the gloom and void occasionally felt, pride and

triumph at my own superiority to my fellows were the constant occupants

of my heart, urging me but too often to level the dart of venomed satire

on those whose more worldly sentiments and coarser minds excited my

contempt; even the young and gentle often bled beneath that cruel lash,

if in the merest trifle of word or manner they differed from my idea of

excellence. My own family loved me too indulgently to be aware of the

dreadful extent of this vice; Henry, the only one whose noble nature and

judicious feeling would have guided me aright, was a student in Germany,

and I had no one whose counsels might have spared me, in some measure at

least, the bitter self-reproach which heightened the chastisement

preparing for me.

“But I am lingering. Amongst the numerous guests at my father’s was one,

combining noble birth, genius, light and ready wit, with all the

fascination of sparkling features, graceful form, and a manner whose

elegance I have never yet seen equalled. He courted my society; he did

not _flatter_, for that I ever scorned, but he _appreciated_. His manner

always evinced respect for me, and pleasure at having found one to whom

he could converse on nobler subjects than the mere chit-chat of a

fashionable world. It needs not to enlarge upon our intimacy, or the

means he took to make me believe, without in the least committing

himself, that I was to him the object not of esteem or admiration alone.

“Why should I hesitate to speak that which is now as if it had never

been? I loved him, Annie, how deeply and passionately! till my whole

soul was wrapped in his image, and my very nature so changed, that I

looked on this world with gentler feelings, and believed that the earth

which contained him could not be as little worth as I had deemed it. All

this would be useless to repeat; the blank in my heart was filled up; my

woman’s soul, which neither fame nor talent could satisfy, was at rest;

the actual words had not passed his lips indeed, but yet I did not,

could not doubt him. That is not love in which a doubt can enter. I was

visiting a mutual friend, and daily in expectation of his arrival; to

relieve the yearning restlessness of anticipation, I had taken my

tablets to a concealed nook in the garden, and was pouring out my whole

soul in burning words, when his voice arrested me. The remark preceding

his words I had not heard, but all which followed is written on my

brain.

“‘Propose to Emily St. Clair!’ he said, in a tone which, while it

retained its beautiful harmony, was so changed in expression that I only

knew it his by the agony thrilling through my whole being at the words,

‘Percy, you are mocking me! Marry a blue—a wit! worse still, a poet.

Pray procure me an admission into a lunatic asylum the very hour I make

the proposal; for, at least, were I sufficiently mad to say, Will you

have me? certain as I am of being accepted, I should escape being

rendered more so. No, my good fellow, the lady is agreeable enough as

long as I am unchained; but once fettered, her folly and romance would

send me to heaven much sooner than I have the least inclination for.

Why, were I in such a predicament as marriage with her, how do you

suppose I could live for ever the actor I am now, when conversing with

her, drawing her out as it were, to afford me amusement afterwards? The

very idea is exhaustion!’”

“‘It is well her brothers have not seen the progress of your

attentions,’ was the reply. ‘You might have to answer for such species

of amusement.’”

“‘Nonsense, man! Were the Courts of Love in vogue as they were once, she

could allege nothing against me to make me her prisoner for life. Why,

it was the very effort to keep up the _liaison_, and yet not say one

word which her romantic fancy could construe into an offer, that was so

fatiguing. Her delight in my society was so evident, that I was obliged

to be on my guard; words meaningless to others would have

_misericordia_!’”

“‘Out upon your consummate self-conceit; she never forgot her

self-respect,’ was the reply, and the voices faded in the distance.”

“And you heard this!” exclaimed Annie, indignation compelling the

interruption. “Gracious heaven! can there be such men?”

“Be thankful you can still ask such a question, dearest Annie. I did

hear—and more, remained outwardly calm; at that moment I believe I was

conscious but of one feeling, not indignation; no, he might have spoken

yet more cruelly, more contemptuously. I heard but one, felt but one

truth—that he did not love me—that the deep whelming passion he had

excited was unreturned—that he scorned those gifts which I had lately

only valued as I believed them valued by him. My brain reeled for the

moment; but sense and energy returned, as gradually, but with fearful

distinctness, his every word and tone resounded in my ear. Anguish,

which had been the first feeling, was as nothing, literally nothing, to

that chaos of misery which followed—to disrobe the idol my heart had so

madly worshipped of the bright colouring of honour and worth, to teach

myself he was _unworthy_, had deceived, wilfully deceived. What was the

suffering of unrequited love compared with this? He had said, too, that

my preference was so evident, I would have grasped the faintest whisper

of an offer. I knew the charge was false as himself; but that he should

have believed it, added its bitter pang. How was I to act? My brow was

burning, my pulses throbbing, yet return to my own home I would not; I

would not feign illness, though God knows it would have been little

feigned. I would meet him, pass in his company the period I had promised

to my friend, and then I cared not.”

“And you did this?” asked Annie, clasping Lady Emily’s, hand in both

hers, and almost startled at its coldness—the only proof that the

narrator told not her tale unmoved.

“I did more, my child. Though poetry and satire were now to me but

fearful spectres, from which a tortured spirit shrank—though that very

hour I burned every fragment of composition once so precious, yet,

during three long weary weeks, I was to him and to all around me as I

had always been; perhaps even more sparkling, more animated, and far

more joyous. Without any visible effort, I so far changed in bearing

towards him, that instead of finding in his conversation as before an

echo to my own, I questioned, I doubted, and more than once I saw him

quail beneath my glance or tone, compelled, ere we parted, to doubt the

influence which he had boasted he possessed. But what availed all this?

It did not, could not quench the burning fever within; and when I

returned to the quiet of my father’s roof, the tight-strung cord was

snapped, and overwrought energies so gave way, that for months, nay,

years, the effects of that struggle were visible in a state of health so

precarious, so exhausted, that I have seen my poor father pace my

chamber hour by hour in silent agony, without the power to address him.

For many months all was to me a blank; yet I believe I was not wholly

insensible nor always under the influence of fever. Ere I recovered

sufficiently again to mingle with the world, he who had so deceived me

became the husband of another; and that other, one who had been my

dearest friend, and who has shunned me since as if she too had deceived,

and had courted me from policy, not love. I have had no proof that this

really was the case, but my faith in all that was good, and beautiful,

and true was so shaken, I believed it as a thing that must be, for such

was human nature. This marriage sufficiently accounted to my family for

my mysterious illness. Indignation was so generally felt, that had I

been awake to outward things, my mind might have been perfectly at rest

that I had given him no undue encouragement: and his manner had indeed

been such as to give, not alone to myself, but to all who had observed,

no doubt of his apparent meaning; but I knew nothing of all this. While

chained to my couch by bodily exhaustion, memories of my past life rose

to appal me, and to add the bitter agony of unmitigated self-reproach to

that of unrequited affection. Precious gifts had been intrusted to me,

and what account could I render of them at that awful throne, before

which daily, almost hourly, I expected to be summoned? They had

estranged me from my God, and from His creatures. I learned to feel His

words were true. Unguided by either religion or reason, what could I

have been but the idle follower of folly and romance. No throb of

kindness or of gentle feeling had interfered to check the contempt I

felt for, and breathed in cutting satire upon, others. I had wilfully

trampled on many a young kind heart, and it was but just that I should

have been thus trampled on myself. Presumption and self-conceit caused

me to smile, to scorn the censure of the world, and in all probability

my manner had been too unguarded. This bitter self-humiliation only

increased the struggle to forget that I had loved. In reproaching myself

I ceased to reproach him; the pride that had supported me was gone.

These thoughts continually pressing on heart and brain were, I am well

aware, the sole sources of my long and incurable disease, but I had no

power to shake them off; and, fearfully as I suffered, I have never

ceased to bless the gracious hand that sent the chastening and recalled

me, ere it was too late, unto Himself.”

Lady Emily paused; the quivering of her voice and lip betraying emotion

which she evidently struggled to suppress. Annie’s tears were falling on

her hand, and ere she spoke again, she bent down and kissed her

forehead.

“You now know, dearest Annie, more of me than I ever breathed to mortal

ear,” she resumed, in her usual calm and quiet tone, “more than I ever

thought could pass my lips. But do not weep for me, my child; I am

happier, safer now, than I could have been had the wild, misguided

feelings of earlier life continued. It was no small portion of my

suffering so to control myself as never to give vent to the satirical

bitterness that, when I rejoined the world, tinged my words and thoughts

more darkly than ever. The determination never to use that dangerous

gift, gave to my words and manner a stiffness and cold reserve which

have banished from me all those whose regard I would have done much to

win. Many young loving hearts have shrunk from me, perceiving no

sympathy in their warm imaginations and glowing feelings; and I dared

not undeceive them, for I felt no confidence in myself, and feared again

to avow sentiments I had buried so deeply in my own heart. Others again

shunned me, because terrified at a semblance of austerity, which they

could not know was exercised only towards myself; and frequently have I

wept in secret at the loneliness which seemed to characterise my path on

earth. Even you, my Annie, gentle and forbearing as you were, till I

could not but love you, have often checked your animated words beneath

the cold, withering influence of my glance or smile.”

“Do not call it cold and withering, my dear, kind friend,” replied

Annie, warmly. “I learned to love you long before I dared hope to win

your regard; but could I doubt you in my hour of anguish? Though even

then I did you wrong; for I thought I was alone in my misery—and you had

suffered doubly more.”

“You needed not such awful chastisement, my love; I brought it on

myself. But you are right; fearful as is the death of a beloved one, it

is happiness compared to the _death of love_, to the blasting of our

belief in the good and true; the disrobing an idol, till we ask what it

is we have loved. My dearest Annie, bless God that this you have been

spared.”

Annie was silent several minutes, and then raising her head, she

abruptly and strangely asked, “Aye, this; but there are other trials.

Oh, Lady Emily, what must be the agony of that heart, who, sacrificing

for the sake of the living the memories of the supposed dead, finds too

late, that circumstances, not death, have come between her and the

object of her first affections; that they love each other still, yet

must be strangers, parted more completely than by death. What must be

her duty then?”

“You ask me a difficult question, my dear child. If the heart clings to

such a thought, better never wed.”

A bright gleam, as of relief, flitted over Annie’s features; but,

changing the subject as abruptly as she had entered upon it, she asked,

with hesitation, “And that poetic talent to which you have alluded, do

you never exercise it now?”

“Never,” replied Lady Emily, taking her companion’s arm, and entering

the house. “On my first recovery I dared not, for my sinful abuse of the

power had been too recent; though I do believe, that as my taste had

completely changed in the poets which I read, so too would my writings

have done. But year after year passed; gradually I destroyed every

memorial of my passed life, and found peace and happiness in the

employment which you have seen and aided, until at length even the

inclination to write passed away; and I forgot, even as you must, dear

girl,” she added, with a smile, “that I had been a poet, and one of no

mean grade.”

The silent pressure of Annie’s hand was sufficient guarantee for Lady

Emily that her confidence had not been misplaced; and she was happier,

for she no longer feared that, misunderstanding, Annie would at length

shrink from her.

We will not linger with our travellers while _en route_. They visited

all of interest in Naples and Rome, and resolved on passing the winter

at Florence. Many weeks had passed in their delightful tour; Annie’s

health was decidedly renovated; but there were still times when her

spirits seemed to sink beneath a weight of depression for which neither

of her relatives could account. Each month that passed diminished the

time specified by Annie as the term of mourning, and yet Lord St. Clair

vainly tried to rejoice; he saw that, instead of decreasing, the memory

of Reginald became stronger—that the extraordinary impression made by

the superscription of the letter would remain—and ardently he wished

that Annie had followed her impulse, and opened it ere it was sent on.

He never spoke of love, he never recalled her promise, and Annie so

blessed him for his forbearance that, could she but have realized the

universal belief in the death of Reginald, she would at once have given

him her hand, glad to exchange the torturing doubts which engrossed her

for the tranquil calm which must, she thought, attend devotion to one

who so nobly proved the love he bore herself.

The many interesting works of ancient art in Florence, so riveted the

attention and occupied the time of our English travellers, that the one

subject engrossing the whole attention of the Florentines was for some

little time unheeded. The town was full of the unrivalled success of a

young sculptor, who had burst into fame, no one knew how or where. He

had been studying the last two years, amidst the superb specimens of

art, in the galleries of Florence, but so silently, so unassumingly,

that he was only known as famous. His copies of Canova and other

celebrated sculptors had been pronounced perfect by able judges; but it

was not till he had completed an original group that he at all seemed to

sue for notice, and when that did appear, the easily-excited Italians

received it with such universal admiration, that the unknown artist was

sought for on all sides, courted, flattered, and, better far,

appreciated by those whose opinions were of value. Italy is indeed the

country where talent may rise to eminence, fostered and cherished by the

encouragement for which it so thirsts. In this case, however, the

interest excited originally by genius was heightened by the reserved

manners of the young sculptor, who rather shrunk from than courted

notice, except from the Italians themselves. It was rarely an English

_soirée_ could obtain the favour of his presence. His appearance and

name declared him Spanish, a supposition which, as he never contradicted

it, gained universal belief. That he spoke English, French, and Italian

as fluently as Spanish, and was intimately acquainted with their

literature, only proved that his mental capabilities were not confined

merely to his art. How he found time to execute all the orders for

busts, ornamental groups, etc., which he received, was a mystery to the

idler, and a wonder even to the brethren of his craft, greatly

heightened when his first original group appeared. It was not alone the

execution, but the daring boldness of his subject which had occasioned

such universal notice. Boldly leaving the beaten path of classic

subjects, his group, though consisting only of three figures, embodied a

striking incident in the earliest stage of the French revolution. A

young and beautiful girl had flung herself before an aged parent,

clasping his neck with one hand, and by the attitude of the other,

combined with the expression of the face, was evidently imploring life

for him, even by the sacrifice of her own. On the touching and, to the

Italian eye, somewhat peculiar beauty of the face, the matchless grace

of the attitude, and exquisitely modelled limbs, the sculptor appeared

to have lingered till he had out-done himself. The countenance of the

father breathed but admiring love for the heroic being whom his arm

encircled, as if every thought centred in her, to the total exclusion of

all terror for himself. Before them, in a crouching attitude, as in the

act of filling a goblet with the loathsome fluid which deluged the

streets, was a half-naked form, whose ruffian features and muscular

limbs contrasted well with the graceful beauty and nobleness of form in

the other figures. The head was upraised, a withering sneer upon the

lips, a combination of triumph and barbarity on the whole countenance,

which so explained the tale it recorded, that, as an animated Italian

told Lord St. Clair, the heart of the gazers throbbed, and the cheek

paled, as if life itself were before them. It stood in an apartment of

the Palazzo Vecchio, where he entreated his English friends to go and

see it. “I will not only see this wonderful group, but make acquaintance

with its artist,” he replied; “for, after hearing all this, know him I

will.”

“That you will find some difficulty in doing,” was the rejoinder. “He

shrinks from all you English; besides, he is, I believe, now at Bologna,

and his return is uncertain.”

“Never mind, trust me for making acquaintance with this lion, shy though

he be.”

“There is but one fault in his female figure,” observed a gentleman who

had joined the group, and was greeted with much warmth by Lord St.

Clair, “a fault which we English ought to consider a virtue, but yet is

in contradiction to Signor Castellan’s apparent reserve towards our

countrymen. The beauty of the female is too English for a French

incident and purely French characters. It is very lovely, I grant, but

the loveliness is our own.”

The observation naturally produced a warm discussion, which ended as

most discussions do, in each party retaining his own opinion, and Lord

St. Clair taking his newly-found old friend home with him, introduced

him to Lady Emily and Annie.

“And are you settled down at last, Kenrich, tired of wanderings and

adventures? though last time I heard of you, you were actually enjoying

the wars and cabals of Madrid.”

“I am not very sober yet, St. Clair; but I was fool enough to join the

Carlists three or four years ago, and their barbarity to my own

countrymen so sickened me of war, that I threw up my commission, and

have never drawn sword since.”

“What barbarity?” asked Lord St. Clair, catching almost by instinct more

than look the expression of Annie’s face.

“Why, you must have heard—the English papers were full of it—that fine

fellow Captain De Vere was amongst them. He and eight or ten others were

taken prisoners, and were all murdered—for it was nothing else.”

“But are you sure he was amongst them? We all knew and loved De Vere,

and long hoped he might have escaped, and only been reported amongst the

killed.”

“Escaped, my dear fellow! how was that possible? Besides, he was so

terribly wounded, that he could not have survived, even had they not so

cruelly dealt with him. I could not save him, but I saw him decently

interred, and from that moment loathed military service, and left

Spain.”

“It was full time, I think,” quietly rejoined Lady Emily. “Annie, will

you try if you can match this shade for me among the chenilles in my

room? I cannot finish this leaf without it, and your eyes are better

than mine.”

Annie took the chenille designated from the frame, over which her cousin

was bending so intently in seeming, that she did not even look up as she

addressed her, and quietly left the room. The moment she did so, Edward

Kenrich burst into lavish praises of her beauty, declaring that was the

exact style of Castellan’s figure, and therefore he was right, and it

must be too English for perfect art, so running on in his usual wild

strain, that Lord St. Clair had great difficulty in bringing him back to

the point from which he had started, and gathering from him every

particular of the death of Reginald De Vere.

Annie did not reappear, and Lady Emily’s great desire to finish her leaf

seemed to have subsided with her absence, for she made no effort to

recall her. Just before dinner, however, Lord St. Clair, noticing the

flutter of her white dress between the orange trees, which almost

concealed the balcony leading from the drawing-room, hastily rejoined

her. She looked up in his face without a word, but he answered her

thoughts, tenderly and gently repeating all the information he had

gained. There could be no doubt, and for one brief minute the poor

girl’s head sunk on his arm, with a sudden burst of tears.

“I know it is all folly, Henry. I had no right to hope; forgive me, I do

but distress you; and yet that writing—that strange writing, whom could

it have been from?”

“Not from Reginald, dearest, or it would have been to you, not to me.

Has that never struck you, Annie?”

It had not till that moment, and it convinced her. She remained alone

that evening, in deep meditation and earnest prayer; and the result was

a firm conviction that nothing but a new and solemn duty would restore

her to the calm of mind for which she yearned—that devotion to another

well worthy of it must draw her from herself. A sleepless night

confirmed this resolution, and the very next day the promise passed her

lips to be the wife of Lord St. Clair, within a week of their return to

England. A few days afterwards they went to the celebrated church of

Santa Croce, during vesper service. The magnificent interior, heightened

in its effect by the light and shadow flung by huge waxen tapers, the

superb monuments, the white-stoled monks and dark dresses of the

officiating priests, the kneeling and standing groups, silent and

motionless as the marble monuments around—the deep-toned organ, and

swelling voices of the choristers, completely enchained the imagination

of our travellers. It was strange, excited almost to pain as she was,

that Annie at length found her whole attention unconsciously fixed on a

single figure, who was leaning against the tomb of Michael Angelo. His

face was turned from her, but there was something in his bearing and his

attitude which riveted her as by a spell, and the longing to look on his

face became strangely and indefinably intense. The soft light of a taper

burning over the tomb brought out in good relief the stranger’s

uncovered head, whose small and classic shape was shaded by clustering

hair of glossy black.

“There he is! there is our sculptor, Renaud Castellan!” whispered one of

the Italians who had accompanied them, directing Lord St. Clair’s

attention to the very figure on whom Annie’s gaze was so strangely

fixed; but even as he spoke, the young man moved his position, and

disappeared in one of the aisles, leaving Annie’s desire to see his face

ungratified, and only permitting Lord St. Clair to catch the outline of

his figure.

“Was not Mrs. De Vere’s maiden name Castellan?” St. Clair asked of

Annie, as they walked together from the church to the house of their

Italian friend, who had claimed them for a _petit souper_, and some

music. The answer was in the affirmative, and Lord St. Clair remarked it

would be strange if this young Spaniard proved to be of the same family.

“I must seek him out.”

“See his group first,” was the rejoinder of one of the party; while to

Annie the words seemed to disperse the miserable doubts again thronging

round her—being of the same family might account for a casual

resemblance.

It was with some little difficulty Annie was prevailed upon to sing; but

when once seated at her harp, timidity gave place to her real love of

the art, and the simple purity, the touching pathos of her style charmed

all who heard. The entrance of a guest had not interrupted her, nor

disturbed the listeners. Lord St. Clair was amused at the look of

admiring perplexity with which he regarded Annie, not himself perceiving

that, where the Italian stood, the light fell upon her countenance, so

as to give it a different appearance and expression to that which was

generally perceivable.

Approaching her, as soon as the buzz of admiration had somewhat

subsided, he engaged her in animated conversation; nor was Lord St.

Clair’s curiosity lessened by hearing him inquire “if the signorina were

not acquainted with the young sculptor, of whom all Florence raved?”

Much surprised, she answered in the negative.

“But surely you have been introduced to him, have you not?”

“No,” replied Annie, smiling at his earnestness. “I never even heard of

him till I came here; and he has been at Bologna, till this evening,

ever since.”

“Then he has seen you, signora, either in his sleeping or waking

dreams,” was the rejoinder, in so animated a tone that it arrested the

attention of the whole party; “for never did marble and life so resemble

each other as the beauty of your face and of his creation. Surely you

must all see it,” he continued, turning to his friends with the

sparkling vivacity peculiar to his countrymen when excited. “Why, it is

not feature alone, but the character, the grace, the similarity is

perfect!”

“I told you so, but you would not believe me,” bluntly answered Kenrich.

“I told you it was an English face and English character; but you all

denied it. I am glad my lovely countrywoman has opened your eyes.”

“Why this is better and better, Annie; do not blush so prettily about

it,” whispered Lord St. Clair, as, attention once aroused, the

similarity was universally acknowledged. “If the resemblance be chance,

it is something to marvel at; if intentional, why I shall be jealous of

the sculptor.”

“You need not, Henry,” was the reply, in a tone so sad that it pained

him.

“Well, well, we will go and see it at least, love, and judge of its

merit with our own eyes.”

The next day accordingly they went, and (the most convincing proof of

the perfection of the work) were not disappointed. Neither its beauty

nor its eloquence had been exaggerated, and the resemblance to Annie was

so extraordinary that the eyes of all the spectators within the room

were attracted towards her; but the expression of the countenance of the

father in the group riveted her attention far more than the female

figure. It was with a heavy sigh she turned from it, and was pale and

silent during their way home; but St. Clair was so engrossed by the

beauty of the work, the strange resemblance, and his resolution to leave

no stone unturned to gain the acquaintance of the young artist, that it

passed unnoticed even by him.

“Why, what ails you, Annie? are you not well, dear?” kindly inquired

Lady Emily, some hours later. Wondering why her young companion did not

join her as usual, she had sought her in her own room, and found her

with her face buried in her hands, and her whole attitude denoting

suffering. “Henry has gone to seek out this Signor Castellan, to find

out, if he can, in what this strange similarity originated, and who and

what he is.”

“Shall I tell you?” answered Annie, in a tone so strange that it

startled almost as much as the whiteness of her face. “Reginald

Castellan De Vere! Was not his mother’s name Castellan? and has he not

often and often boasted his descent from Spanish heroes, and from this

feeling fought for Spain in preference to any other country? Did he not

always love the art of sculpture? Can it be chance that has marked the

father and daughter of that group with the characteristics of the

revered friend and favourite companion of his youth? No, no, no! Oh!

Lady Emily, you bade me once thank God that I had never been deceived;

teach me how to bear this.”

“Bear what, my poor child?” replied her companion, soothingly, as Annie

threw herself on her neck in fearful agitation. “If this be indeed as

you say, what can there be but happiness for you? It is for another we

must feel.”

“Happiness for me! and he has never even so far thought of me as to tell

me the report of his death was false, and he still lived—never recalled

himself to one whom, when he departed, he so loved—loved! how know I

that? he never said it; why should I believe him different to others?”

“My dearest Annie, this is not like yourself. Why, if he have ceased to

love you, should the work of his hand—a work which must have employed

his mind and heart long days and nights—bear the impress of your face

and form?”

“Memory, association, mere casualty—the days of his boyhood may be dear

to his mind; but how can affection, even a brothers, have inspired that

group, when—when he has allowed me so long to believe him dead?”

“It is all a mystery, my dear child; but I feel convinced it will be

solved, if we can really prove his identity. May he not have written,

and the letter miscarried?” Annie wildly raised her head. “May he not

have been deceived? perhaps—for we can never trace rumours—but may he

not have heard that of you which, to a mind like his, would cause him to

shrink from recalling himself? He left you such a child, how might he

build on having so won your regard that you would remain single for his

sake? Dearest Annie, if this indeed be not all imagination, and Reginald

really lives, trust me you will be happy yet.”

How will a few judicious words change the whole current of thoughts and

feeling! Before Lady Emily ceased to speak, Annie was weeping such

blessed tears. The proud, cold mood which, had her companion spoken as

her own experience of man’s nature must have dictated, might have been

retained, and made her miserable for life, dissolved before returning

trust and hope. She dared not define what it was she hoped; but it was

not till she heard Lord St. Clair’s voice, and she tried to spring

forwards to meet him and know the truth, that a sudden revulsion of

feeling so completely overpowered her that she sunk back upon the couch.

How dared she rejoice, even if Reginald lived? what could he be to her

who was the promised bride of another?

“Emily!” exclaimed Lord St. Clair, in utter astonishment, as, on his

entering the drawing-room, his cold and dignified sister hastily met

him, and taking both his hands, tried to speak, but failed: and leaning

her head against him, he felt that she was in tears. “What is the

matter, love? something very dreadful for you to weep.”

She controlled herself with a strong effort, and entered at once into

the recital of the scene between her and Annie. “Could it possibly be as

she supposed?”

“It may be,” was the reply, in a calm firm tone; “there is nothing

impossible in it. I went to his lodgings, but, as I supposed, he was

either out or too much engaged to be seen; but I am to meet him to-night

at the Contessa Corsini’s, and this strange mystery will be unravelled.”

“And you, dear Henry—” she could say no more, so holy seemed his

feelings.

“And I, my dear sister, will act as that man should whose aim is not the

gratification of his own desires, but the happiness of one far dearer

than himself. I do not tell you I shall not feel, and deeply; but does

the warrior shrink from the battle before him because he may be wounded?

You may love me more, my Emily, if you will,” he continued, fondly

passing his arm round her, and kissing her cheek, “for affection is

always balm; but I will have no tears—they are only for the unworthy.

Where is Annie? poor child, she must be overwrought, from many causes;

let me see her, she will be calmer then.”

He was right. What passed between them it needs not to relate. Our

readers can little enter into the high character of Lord St. Clair, if

they cannot satisfy themselves as to the manner, as well the nature and

extent, of the sacrifice he made. He was not one to wring the gentle

heart he so unselfishly resigned, by the betrayal of personal suffering;

he coveted the continuance, nay, the increase of her regard, and nobly

he earned it.

It was a brilliant scene on which, a few hours later, he entered,

introduced by the same Italian, Signor Lanzi, who had been the first to

trace the resemblance between Annie and the female figure of the group.

But neither loveliness nor talent, both of which thronged the halls, had

at that moment attraction for Lord St. Clair; his glance had singled out

a tall, slight form, leaning against a marble pillar, and half shaded by

the drapery of a curtain. His head was bent down; he seemed in the act

of listening and replying to the smiling jests of the countess, who was

sitting near him; the cheek and brow were very pale, and the mouth, when

still, somewhat stern in expression; but it was a fine face, bearing the

stamp of genius too visibly ever to be passed unremarked.

“You may smile, and look incredulous, signor,” were the words that first

met the ears of the English nobleman, from the young countess, in

Italy’s sweetest tone; “but since you deserted us for Bologna, a living

likeness has appeared of your beautiful Améle.”

“Mademoiselle de Sombreuil herself, perhaps,” he replied, half smiling.

“Fancy would indeed have served me well, had such a chance occurred.”

“You are quite wrong. I doubt whether Mademoiselle de Sombreuil would

herself resemble your fancy statue, as much as la bella Inglese does.”

“La bella Inglese! who may she be?” inquired the young sculptor,

somewhat agitated.

“A lovely girl, who only appeared in Florence as you left it. Lanzi

informed me the resemblance was so perfect, he imagined she must know

you; but she had never even heard of you till she came here.”

“And what may be her name.”

“As you seem so interested, I regret that I cannot tell you. It is so

truly English that it will bear no Italian accent, therefore I cannot

remember it; but find Lanzi, I expect him here to-night, and he will

tell you all about her.”

The arrival of new guests, and the attention of the countess called for

from himself, the sculptor hastily turned, as in the act of seeking the

individual she had named. He had not advanced many yards when he started

violently, and with a sudden impulse retreated into a small withdrawing

room, near which he had stood.

“Why shun me, Signor Castellan?” inquired a frank kind voice in English;

and Lord St. Clair’s hand was extended, and, after a moment’s visible

hesitation, accepted and almost convulsively pressed. “Why this long,

mysterious concealment, my young friend? were there none, think you, to

rejoice that you were still amongst the living?”

“Was not your lordship aware of my existence, insignificant as it is,

more than a twelvemonth since? My own hand and signature were surely

sufficient guarantee,” he answered, in a cold proud tone.

“Then you did write, and Annie was not deceived! Little did I know the

precious intelligence contained in the packet, lost on its way to me in

Russia, and the want of which, in a political view, caused me such

annoyance. But why wait so long, my dear fellow, to give us tidings so

many would have rejoiced to hear?”

“So many! There were more, then, to mourn me dead, than to love me

living? But forgive me,” he continued, less bitterly; “Your family would

have been my friends, and therefore was it I wrote to tell you that I

lived.”

“But was there not one, Reginald, who deserved an earlier notice at your

hands? why leave her so long to mourn you as dead, and then to learn

such joyful tidings from others than yourself? The ties of early youth,

of fond associations, I should have thought sufficient of themselves

alone to prevent such wrong.”

Reginald’s very lip grew white as he replied, “Was not her husband the

fittest person to give Lady St. Clair such tidings?”

“Her husband, Reginald? You speak enigmas.”

“How!” gasped the young man, as he laid his cold and trembling hand on

his companion’s arm. “Is not Annie Grey your wife?”

“No!” replied Lord St. Clair, the peculiar expression clouding his noble

countenance for the moment passing unnoticed; “her heart was with the

dead!”

Reginald De Vere struggled with bursting emotion, but his trembling

limbs refused to support him; and sinking powerlessly on a sofa, he

covered his face with his hands, and wept such tears as only spring from

manhood’s unutterable joy.

* * * * *

It still wanted an hour to midnight, and Lady Emily was in vain

endeavouring to prevail on Annie to retire to rest.

“You are feverish and worn out already, Annie. How will you be able to

support the excitement of to-morrow without rest to-night?”

“It would be no rest if I lie down; I cannot sleep. Only let me know he

lives!” and she twined her arms round Lady Emily’s neck, and looked so

appealingly, so mournfully, no heart could have urged more.

There was a pause of several minutes, and then Annie started up.

“It is Henry’s step!” she exclaimed and would have sprung forward, but

her feet felt rooted to the ground; another moment Lord St. Clair was at

her side.

“Promise me to bear the shock of joy better than you did the shock of

grief, or I can tell you nothing,” he said, gently; but there was no

need for another word. Faint as she was, every object in the room

seeming to swim before her eyes, every word to be indistinct, yet one

figure was visible, one voice calling her his own, own Annie—beseeching

her to forgive and bless him! reached her heart, and loosed its icy

chains, till she could breathe again. She felt not that strength had

entirely deserted her, for she was clasped to the heart of Reginald De

Vere, and the deadly faintness passed in the gushing tears that fell

upon his bosom.

* * * * *

Mysterious as was Reginald de Vere’s silence, its causes may be summed

up in a few words. To his own generous deed, recorded in the early part

of our tale, he owed the preservation of his life. When bleeding and

exhausted he was led a prisoner to the Carlist camp, he was instantly

recognised by the poor woman whose child he had saved, and whom he had

sent on to her husband. The tale of his kindness, his generosity, his

bravery had been repeated again and again by the happy wife, and created

amongst the common soldiery a complete sensation in his favour; so that

very many were found eager and willing to aid Juan Pacheco in his

resolution to return the good conferred, and save his wife’s benefactor

at the hazard of his own life. He had already been disgusted with his

life in the camp; the beauty of his young wife had exposed him and her

to insults which, as he had no power to retaliate, urged him to seize

the first opportunity to desert. One by one the prisoners had been led

to execution, and one by one had fallen. Reginald, unable to support

himself from wounds and exhaustion, though quite conscious he was placed

there to die, was loosely bound to a post, as a better mark to the

soldiers who fronted him. They fired—the girthings which bound him gave

way, and a dead faint succeeded; but they had fired with harmless

weapons, and when Reginald awoke from what he fancied death, he found

himself in a covered cart, carefully watched and tended by the young

mother and her boy, whom he recognised at once; his captain’s uniform

placed on the body of a young Spaniard who had fallen in battle, and

whose features were not unlike those of De Vere, no doubt causing Edward

Kenrich’s belief in his being really Reginald, and his having been in

consequence honourably interred. Juan Pacheco’s knowledge of the wilds

and intricate windings of his native country enabled him ably to elude

the pursuit to which, as a deserter, he was liable; but De Vere suffered

so dreadfully from alternate fever and exhaustion, during the journey,

that many times his kind preservers feared their care would be in vain,

and death would release him ere earthly rest and shelter were obtained.

But at length the goal was gained—a small cottage belonging to a

monastery of Saint Iago, situated in so retired a pass of the Pyrenees

that none but mountaineers knew of its existence. Under the skilful

medical aid of one of the fathers Reginald slowly regained health; but

it was not till nearly a year after his supposed death that he regained

the elasticity and entire use of his limbs, such as he had previously

enjoyed. The severity of monastic discipline did not characterise the

monks of Saint Iago. They were but few in number; old and respectable

men, who had turned from the distracting turmoils of their unhappy

country, and sought peace in study and deeds of kindness. In one of

these aged men Reginald discovered an uncle of his mother—one who had

always mourned her departure to another land, and union with a heretic,

but who had loved her to the end, and was willing to receive with

affection any of her children. The fearful sufferings and deep

melancholy of the young Englishman had attracted him, even before the

picture of his mother, which Reginald constantly wore discovered the

relationship between them. For nearly two years De Vere remained in this

solitude; the fear of drawing down ruin and misery on his preservers

prevented his writing to his commanding officer, to state his

escape—Padre Felipo alleging the state of the country was such, that his

letter might not only be seized and himself retaken, but Pacheco exposed

to the danger of execution as a deserter and abettor of his escape.

After the first year he made many attempts to communicate with his

friends in England—Annie Grey amongst the number—but he never heard in

return; therefore concluded, and with justice, that his letters had

never reached a post.

But the two years of solitude, instead of being a mental blank, was the

hinge of circumstances on which his whole after-career turned. To amuse

his confinement and please the children, he resumed the favourite

amusement of his boyhood, carving in wood and stone, and with such

success as to astonish himself. He found an admirer and instructor where

he little expected it, in one of the monks; and under his guidance, and

emboldened by encouragement, made such rapid progress, that his whole

soul became wrapt in the desire to visit Italy, and study there. His

pantings for fame were now defined—a flash of light seemed to have

irradiated his whole being, and to burst the chains of destiny, which

still cramped energy and life. It was the consciousness of genius, the

proud conviction that he might indeed win the object of his love; win,

and be worthy of her, and give her a name proud as those of the men of

genius whose lives they had read and venerated together.

The days when all the fortunes of the monks were devoted to their abbeys

or to a patron saint were over, and Padre Felipo rejoiced at possessing

the means effectually to aid his young relative. He settled on him a sum

more than sufficient to gratify all his desires, and Reginald hesitated

no longer to concentrate all his energies on this one pursuit. He went

to Italy, adopting the name of his benefactor, which was also that of

his mother; and the wish not to be known in England, until he had

perfected himself in his art, caused him to retain it, even when no

danger was attached to the acknowledgment of his existence.

But once in Italy, the yearning to hear of his family and friends became

intense, while a strange feeling of dread withheld him from again

addressing Annie. It was two years and a half since they had parted, two

since he had been reported dead. What might not have occurred in that

interval? He had left her free, and so child-like, so simple in

character, that how could he, how dared he indulge the hope that she had

so returned his love, as to remain single for his sake? He had never

spoken of love to her; his affection was so pure and true, that it had

withheld him from linking, by a too impetuous avowal, her fate with one

so gloomy as his own. His genius seemed now to promise a fairer destiny,

but his heart, still darkened by the fearful creed of fatalism, believed

that his very promise would be dashed with gloom, and from the

ascendency of this unhappy feeling, failing in courage to address Annie

herself, he wrote to one of his sisters, beseeching a speedy reply, with

information of his father, and all she could learn of Miss Grey. The

reply was many weeks before it came, pleading the usual excuse for

unjustifiable silence—stress of occupation and dislike to

letter-writing. Basil De Vere was in America, and Miss Grey on the eve

of marriage with Lord St. Clair; the whole London world was full of it,

on account of the disparity of years between the parties, and because

Lord St. Clair had never seemed a marrying man; but that it was a

settled affair there was not the smallest doubt. She wrote as if it

could concern Reginald but little; but the pang was such as to confirm

his fearful creed of an inexorable fate, and plunge him into a

despondency, that genius itself seemed unable to remove. At first he

worked at his art mechanically, but gradually his mind became aroused,

and he tried to forget the heart’s anguish in such persevering labour,

that though to mere observers its effects were marvellous in so speedy a

perfection, it was, in fact, but the natural consequence of unceasing

mental and manucipal work. He constantly reproached himself for the

agony he felt; what right had he to suppose he had had any hold upon

her? Why could he not rejoice in her happy prospects, and write to tell

her so? But weeks merged into months ere he could do this, and then he

could not address herself, but wrote to Lord St. Clair, revealing his

escape, his concealment, and finally the promised success of his art,

with a calm, affectionate message to Annie. The letter cost him a bitter

struggle, and with feverish restlessness he awaited the reply; but when

none came, bitter thoughts possessed him. He believed himself entirely

forgotten and uncared for by his friends; and every energy cramped (save

for his art) by his spiritless belief, he determined to remain so, and

shun alike England and her sons. It was his fate, he inwardly declared,

and he must bend to it; and thus, as is ever the case with these dark

dreamers, he created for himself the lonely doom he imagined his destiny

marked out. The death of his aged relative, in the monastery of St.

Iago, placed a moderate fortune at his disposal, and enabled him still

more successfully and earnestly to pursue his art. For a time the

excitement attendant on the creation of his group roused him from

himself, but the reaction was plunging him still deeper into the dark

abyss of misanthropy and gloom when his discovery, through his own

beautiful work, the sudden and almost overwhelming happiness bursting

through the darkness of his spirit, in the consciousness that Annie was

free, that she had ever loved him, completely changed the current of his

thoughts, and permitted him a realization of joy, before which the dark

creed of destiny fled for ever.

It is in a cheerful sitting-room of a picturesque dwelling on the banks

of Keswick Lake that our readers may once more look on Annie Grey, ere

they bid her farewell—Annie Grey indeed she was not; but there was

little change visible, save that her fair cheek bore the rose, and her

beautiful form the roundness of more perfect health, than when we last

beheld her. The large French windows opened on a small but beautiful

garden, where the taste of England and Italy was so combined, as to

render its flowers and statues the admiration of every beholder. The

opposite window opened on a conservatory of beautiful exotics, and

exquisite specimens of painting and sculpture adorned the room itself.

An uncovered harp filled one corner, on which the evening sun, shining

full from the stained glass of the western window, flung tints as bright

and changing as those of the kaleidoscope. A _hortus siccus_, opened on

a group half arranged, was on a table, at which Lady Emily St. Clair was

seated, and Annie was standing at her side, with a volume of poems in

her hand.

“You idle girl! you would have found what I wanted in five minutes a few

years ago. What are you thinking about? Ah, Reginald, you are just in

time, or Annie’s restlessness would have invaded your sanctum, depend

upon it.”

“And had I not cause? A whole hour, nearly two, after your promised

time; and your cheek pale, and your brow burning! Dearest, do not let

your art be dearer than your wife!”

“What! jealous of all my marble figures, love? For shame!” replied her

husband, playfully, twining his arm round her, and kissing her cheek;

“but I will plead guilty to fatigue to-night, and you shall cure me by

my favourite song.”

Annie flew to her harp, and De Vere, flinging himself on an easy chair,

drank in the sounds with an intensity of delight which he never believed

_that_ song could have had the power to produce. “Yes!” he exclaimed, as

her sweet voice ceased, “what are palaces and their pleasures compared

to an hour like this? There is, indeed, ‘no place like home;’ what, oh!

what would the artist and the student be without it?”

“Why, how is this, Signor Rinaldo? what extraordinary spell has been

flung over you, so to change your opinion of a song that once you would

not even hear?” laughingly exclaimed Lord St. Clair, springing from the

balcony into the room. “Good evening, Mrs. De Vere; I have some

inclination to arrest you for using unlawful witchcraft on this

gentleman, even as I once thought of seizing him for allowing you to die

of grief for his loss, when he was all the time in life!”

“Guilty, guilty; we both plead guilty,” replied Reginald, in the same

tone; “but my guilt is of far deeper dye; my Annie’s witchery has but

thrown such a halo over my home, that all which speaks of its charm is

as sweet to my ear as to my heart. I am changed, St. Clair, and not

merely in loving a song I once despised,” he added, with much feeling,

“but in being enabled to trace a hand of love, where once I beheld but

remorseless fate; and my wife has done this, so gently, so silently,

that I guessed not her influence until I found myself joining her own

lowly prayers, and believing in the same sustaining faith.”

“And has she explained its mystery?” inquired Lady Emily, with earnest

interest.

“No, dear friend; nor do I need it now. The belief that a God of

infinite love and compassion ordains all things, yet leaves us the

perfect exercise of our free will, and in that freedom, and the acts

thence ensuing, works out His divine decrees, constraining no man, yet

bringing our most adverse wills to work out His heavenly rule—this is a

belief that must be _felt_, it cannot be explained, and thrice-blessed

are they on whom its unspeakable comfort is bestowed!”

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

_The Spirit of Night._

FOUNDED ON A HEBREW APOLOGUE.

“LET there be light!” the Omnific Word had spoken, and light was. Over

the newly-created world the pure element rushed from the spiritual

courts of the High Empyrean, where it had reigned from everlasting. In

its subtle essence, its ethereal exhalations, fit only for the

atmosphere of those angelic spirits, who, at the word of the Highest,

took their appointed stations in the new-formed world. Radiance too

glorious, too resplendent for mortal view, filled the illimitable space,

uniting earth with heaven as by a cloud of glory. Where had been Chaos,

circled with shapeless darkness, now revolved, in its vast flood of

irradiating lustre, the new work of the Eternal. Thousands of radiant

spirits floated to and fro on the refulgent flood. The dazzling iris of

their wings, the music of their movements, filling space with beauty and

with sound; while up from the lowest Heaven to the High Empyrean—from

the young seraph to the mighty spirits nighest the Invisible Throne,

whose resplendent presence dazzled even the purified orbs of their

angelic brethren—up, through every heaven and every rank, sounded the

glad hallelujahs of love and praise.

At every word of the Highest, creation sprung. Darkness, borne back by

the mighty torrent of effulgent light, would have passed annihilated

from the face of the new-born world, but, shielded by angelic ministers,

it lingered, in its new-appointed sphere, to do its destined bidding. A

firmament of sapphire, stretched between the waters and the waters,

veiling the glory of the spiritual heavens from the grosser earth. Land

rose from the liquid deep. The rolling waters rushed impetuously to

their destined boundaries, held there by the Omnific will. And over the

land the creating Word went forth; and, at once, the mountains raised

their stupendous forms, crowned with imperishable verdure; the valleys,

and woods, and glens rose and sunk in their appointed rest; and flowers,

and trees, and streams, and thousand other charms of sight, and sound,

and sense, burst forth into perfected being. Myriads of angels hovered

round, visible _then_ in their beauty; but _now_ heard only in the sweet

breath of the gentle flowers; in the varied sounds of the forest trees

as the wind floats by; in the summer breeze, or the wintry storm; in the

musical gush of the silvery rill; aye, and in the deep hush and calm of

the evening hour, when nature herself, as conscious of their ministering

presence, sinks into deep and spiritual repose.

But not for the abode of angelic spirits was this lovely world. A new

creation was to raise the voice of love and adoration! and for such, the

spiritual light enveloping the infant globe was too ethereal, too

resplendent. Nought but the purified orbs of the angelic and archangelic

hosts could gaze on its refined effulgence; and therefore, from the

council of the Eternal went forth the decree:—

“Let there be two great lights to rule the earth, the one by day, and

the one by night, and they shall rule times and seasons.” And as He

spake it was. Instantaneously the minute particles of the ethereal

essence formed into an orb of splendour, fraught with such power and

glory, that the lustrous flood rushed back into the Heavenly Fount—earth

needing it no more;—circled by a diadem of many-coloured light,

extending in resplendent rays over the new-born world, infusing its

golden glory over the azure heavens; clouds, dyed with the brilliant

tints of amethyst, and rose, and ruby, formed before him and faded into

glory as He passed. Earth, through her ministering spirits of mount, and

wood, and stream, and flower, sent up her thrilling song of

thanksgiving, echoed and re-echoed by the myriads and myriads of angels

peopling the spiritual courts. Heaven and Earth rejoiced. Increased and

dazzling beauty enveloped the new creation. Luscious fragrance issued

from the flowers; their petals, adorned by their guardian seraphs,

expanded to the glorious orb, and shone in his rays like gems. The

Spirit of Day, selected from the highest and purest order of angels, to

renew and tend the beauteous work, ascended his throne in the burning

centre, whence the effulgent rays emanate on earth, but on which no

mortal eye can look; and proudly and rejoicingly as a bridegroom coming

forth from his chamber, as a youthful hero from his victorious career,

he guided the glorious luminary on its resplendent course, joining his

voice to the hallelujahs pealing around.

And in varied but equal beauty rose the second light; but its guardian

spirit, selected from the same pure and exalted ranks, looked on the

effulgence of the Orb of Day, and beheld his brother spirit circled by

glory more dazzling than his own. His invisible throne was within the

silver radiance of his orb. Light, ethereal and pure as the heavenly

essence of which both sun and moon had been formed, enriched him; less

glittering but equally resplendent. But a deep shadow stole over the

exquisite colouring of the spirit’s wings. His voice of music refused to

join the pealing hallelujahs.

“Wherefore?” he exclaimed; and the troubled accents sounded through

space, strangely and darkly falling on the full tide of song. “Wherefore

do two monarchs occupy one throne? Wherefore to me is given less than to

my brother? I have loved, I have served as faithfully as he. Why, then,

should I be second, and he the first? Earth rejoices when he comes.

Heaven greets him with songs of love. What need is there for me, unless

to me the same is given?”

The hallelujahs ceased. A sudden silence, awful in its profoundness,

sunk on the rejoicing myriads. The pure founts of ever-living light

became obscured. Thunder rolled over the illimitable expanse. The superb

radiance of the effulgent moon vanished, and, spreading far into the

Empyrean, became the glorious host of stars, each with its attendant

spirit as it formed. Darkness clothed the complaining angel; the

beautiful luminary given to his charge, seemed quivering and fading into

space; while, still strong and rejoicing, the Orb of Day held on his

victorious career.

Prostrate and convulsed with remorseful anguish, the spirit sunk before

the celestial hosts. He who had been of that favoured class to whom the

ways as well as the works of the Highest were revealed, had fallen lower

in intellect and love than the youthful seraph, whose task was only to

worship and adore. Where could he hide himself from their searching

orbs? Where fly from the flashing light that, as the thunder rolled,

played round him, marking him disgraced and criminal? But Him whom he

had offended, he loved, as only angels love. And so he welcomed that

remorseful agony, and prayed, “Have mercy, Father of all Beings! My

Father, have mercy on me!” And out of that awful stillness issued a

thrilling strain of gushing music—low, soft, spiritual—the murmured

prayer, from countless myriads, for pardon for an erring brother. The

dimness fled from the founts of light. The thunder ceased; the scorching

lightnings blazed no longer. A mild effulgence circled the sorrowing

spirit as he lay, burying his refulgent brow in the darkened iris of his

wings.

From the invisible throne of the Highest, the mightiest, the best

beloved, most favoured messenger of the Eternal, the SPIRIT OF LOVE,

winged his downward flight, and on the instant, space became irradiated.

New lustre spread over the vast courts of Heaven; the richest harmonies

attended every movement of his wings. Angels and archangels, seraphs and

ministers, pressed forwards as he passed, to bask in the wondrous beauty

of his lustrous face, and raise anew the irrepressible burst of song.

“Spirit of Night, arise!” he said, and the repentant angel lifted up his

brow once more in returning hope, so thrillingly that voice of liquid

music fell; “arise, and list the irrevocable decree of the Eternal!

Because thou hast envied the resplendence of the Spirit of Day, the

radiance of thine orb will henceforth be borrowed from His lustre; and

when yonder earth passes thee thou wilt stand, as now thou dost,

deprived of thy glory, and eclipsed, either wholly or in part. Thou hast

dared arraign the wisdom and the goodness of the Highest; and though He

pardons, yet must He chastise, lest others sin yet more. Yet weep not,

repentant brother! thy repining is forgiven, and thou too shalt reign a

monarch in thy radiance! Queen of the lovely night will thine orb be

hailed; the tears of thy repentance shall be a reviving balm to all that

languish; imparting consolation to the mourner, rest to the weary,

soothing to the careworn, strength to the exhausted. Peace shall be thy

whisper, and in thy kingdom of stillness and repose, breathe thrillingly

the promise of Heaven, and its rest. Go forth, then, on thy mild and

vivifying career. The Orb of Day will do his work, and be hailed with

rejoicing mirth; but many a one shall turn to thee from him, and in the

radiance of thy tears find consolation.”

He spake: and behold! the pale but lovely lustre in which the Orb of

Night still shines flowed round her. The Spirit of Night resumed his

silvery throne, and in the profound submissiveness of most perfect love

entered upon his silent and beautiful career, circled by the glittering

radiance of the attendant stars. Soon was revealed the benignant mercy

of His sentence. Even ere sin darkened the lovely earth, His beauteous

orb was hailed by all creation with rejoicing; and when man fell, when

labour and weariness, sickness and woe, obtained dominion, how soothing

the consolation whispered by the Spirit of Night! Weeping oft at the

remembrance of his own fault, the Spirit commiserates the tears of

others. Floating over the earth, invisible, save through the exquisite

beauty of his orb, and the thrilling thoughts of Heaven and immortality

awakening in the soul, which, formed of kindred essence, becomes thus

conscious of his presence, the Spirit sends his soft rays, formed from

the liquid lustre of his tears, on all who need his pity and repose. By

the couch of the sufferer—the side of the sorrowing—by the kneeling

penitent—by the wakeful mourner—by the careworn and the weary—to the hut

of the beggar as the palace of the king—he sends pity, and peace, and

consolation. Nor does he sympathise with sorrow alone: the joy which, in

the sunshine and midst the turmoil of the world, has agitated the soul

even to pain, he softens into such deep calm, as to whisper of that

Heaven whence alone the full bliss comes. Love, shrinking from the

garish day, finds in his presence eloquence and voice. The poet,

oppressed and suffering in the rich blaze of day, at night pours out his

full soul in stirring words; for, conscious of a spirit’s presence, the

pressure of infinity is then less painful to be borne. The artist, does

he dream of giving life to the vacant canvas, the senseless marble, or

voice and sound to the rich harmonics for ever breathing in his

ear—labours in toil, often in despondency, during the day, for Earth

only is present then; but when alone with his own soul and the holy

night; when the Spirit, visible either through his silvery tears, or in

the rich beauty of his starry zone, penetrates his whole being with his

heavenly presence, then life is strong once more! The dream of

Immortality on Earth, even as in Heaven, dashes down all earthly fears.

The spark of the Deity in every soul is rekindled by the touch of its

kindred essence, and Hope, and Truth, and Beauty start into enduring

glory beneath the vivifying flash.

Beautiful Spirit! such hast been, and is, and will still be thy task.

Over the earth thou floatest, and man, be he in gloom or gladness,

aspiring or desponding, hails thee with rejoicing; and even as the pale

flowers drooping beneath the noontide heat, and the parched and

languishing earth, so does he turn to thee for coolness and repose.

Beautiful Spirit! thou hast sinned and been forgiven—therefore we rest

on thee!

[Illustration]

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

_Recollections of a Rambler._

IT was on a beautiful morning, in quite the beginning of May, that,

leaving the Globe Hotel, on the Beacon Hill, Exmouth, I strolled forth

at a very early hour, determining to ramble wherever chance might lead.

There was no fear of my missing any particularly lovely spot in

following this determination. The very watering-places combine all the

charms of sea and country to an extent peculiar to this lovely county.

Ten minutes suffice to bear the wanderer to such seeming solitude of

hill and dale, and glen and wood—will scatter around him such a

profusion of ever-varying yet ever beautiful scenery, that it is

difficult to believe that all those artificial luxuries and pleasures

necessary to the trifler and the fashionest, would we seek them, are

close at hand.

Every season has its own charm in England. Even winter, in its stern,

rude aspect, its brawling voice of winds and storms, has, in the deep,

still haunts of nature, its own peculiar beauty. Spring, with its young,

fresh joyousness, its sparkling glory of earth and sky—its gushing

atmosphere; for, as the breeze comes laughing and dancing along, we can

give it no other term. Summer, with its still and deeper feeling, as if

the dancing light and glittering love of the youthful year had sobered

into a being deeper, stronger, more fervid and intense. Then autumn,

decking decay with such bright beauty, shedding a parting halo on the

fading year; concentrating all of loveliness in that sweet, dreamy

pensiveness, which, while it lingers almost mournfully on earth’s

parting glories, looks through their passing light into their renovated

being, reading in the death and resurrection of nature the spirit’s

immortality.

One charm, indeed, spring possesses beyond those of the other seasons;

it is, that almost every hour of the day is equally delicious; in the

morning, noon, afternoon, or evening, we may come forth and make

acquaintance with her in every variety of aspect, each one as lovely as

the other. Evening indeed is the hour of that delicious musing which, in

the very blessedness of the PRESENT, unconsciously recalls the loveliest

images of the PAST, and adumbrates the FUTURE, by the thrilling whisper

of our immortal goal. It is then that, as Wordsworth says—

“We are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul.”

But these are not the sensations of the morning; then life is infused

with the PRESENT alone. We can neither recall, nor think, nor hope; we

do but believe, and love, and feel, conscious only of the blessing of

Existence, of the omnipotence of Love!

It was with all the elastic joyousness of such sensations I hastened up

the Beacon Hill, pausing involuntarily on the top to gaze beneath me.

There lay Old Ocean, slumbering in the early sunshine as a lake of

molten gold, tinged here and there with the shadow of overhanging rocks,

and ever and anon fringed with a snowy crest, as a passing breeze rocked

the waves into heavier swell. The broad and graceful river, rushing

boldly and proudly into its parent sea; its undulating course visible

for miles up the land; its shores skirted with towns half buried in

foliage; churches, towers, and villages coming forth in the glowing

light from their background of hills dark with verdure; headlands, bold,

rugged, and broken into every diversity of form; Powder-ham’s

castellated mansion glancing through magnificent plantations, with their

glades and lawns of emerald issuing from the deeper shadows as jewels of

the sunshine. Mamhead just visible through its dark, dense woods; and

farther still in the distance, woody uplands and barren rocks towering

above the broken summits of the headlands, taking every grotesque form

from the clouds lingering above them, and at length fading into ether,

changing like phantasmagoria beneath the magic influence of light and

shade, and mist and sun.

My path now lay across one or two fields, inlaid with a perfect mosaic

of gold, and white and green, formed by the patches of grass, kingcup,

and daisy, leading into those narrow, luxuriant lanes, with their

gurgling streamlets and clustering flowers which mark at once the county

of Devon.

The hedges rose high above my head, and from them sprung forth the oak,

and elm, and beech, and ash, bearing the weight of centuries on their

lofty trunks and far-spreading branches; the hawthorn, with its blossoms

just tipping its rich green as with a shower of snow; and the holly

standing forth, dark and stern, amid the more tender foliage of the

early spring. Every field-gate or occasional break in the hedge

disclosed a complete mass of hill, and wood, and orchard; on one side

bounded by sea and sky, on the other stretching farther and farther

inland, till hills met the sky, and seemed to close around the

landscape. Every shade of green, from the darkest to the lightest, was

visible in the tender foliage—some as if already clothed in the intenser

hues of summer; others so lightly, so delicately shaded, that their

exquisite tracery was distinctly marked against the clear blue sky. The

orchards already lay as patches of snow in their verdant dells, and

primroses and violets by thousands clustered on the banks of the clear,

trickling streamlet which skirted the deep green hedge as a fringe of

silver.

I do so love the primrose; there is something so sad and pensive in her

meek, pale flowers, gleaming forth as silent stars from their

darkly-closing leaves, and bending over the laughing waters, as if their

very mirth were sad to her. And the deep purple violet, shrouding itself

in silence, yet seeming in its very scent, to smile and whisper joy. And

the speedwell, with its full blue petals and delicate stems, which

literally bend beneath their weight of blossom, light and fragile as

they are; the deep-red campion, with its gorgeous clusters, looking

proudly down on its humbler brethren, rejoicing in its lofty home, that

it may fade unplucked upon its stem; these and countless other flowers

gemmed the hedge a very garniture of love.

There was no sound save the delicious music of the fresh springy breeze,

as it wantoned with the glistening leaves, or played with the gushing

waters, inciting them to break in tiny waves against the hedge; and the

rich thrilling melody of the happy birds, calling to each other from

tree to tree, or sending forth such a gush of song, such a trilling flow

of rapture, that their slender throats seemed quivering with the effort;

then would come silence, as startled and hushed by their own joy; and

then a low twittering, with perhaps the distant call of the lonely

cuckoo, and a burst of melody again.

After rambling amid such scenes and sounds for about two miles, a thick

grove of lofty trees, interspersed with thatched roofs, ivy-clad and

smoke-dyed walls, and chimneys of every architecture, marked its

termination. The lane narrowed, and hastening onwards, a rustic gate

opened into an old churchyard, surrounding a village church of such

extreme old age, and so picturesque, that it sent me back in fancy

centuries at once. There was the low, square belfry, indented and

fractured, with lichen and moss, and flowering weeds springing from

every crevice; the long and rambling choir, roofed with copper; the

slender buttresses; the small-paned windows, some of Saxon, some of

Tudor architecture; the large square porch or entrance, with its

grotesque carvings, that could only belong to the middle ages. The very

trees, massive alike in root, and trunk, and branch; yews so dark and

thick, they seemed in the distance more as solid masonry than

trees—looked as if they had stood there grim guardians of the holy dead

for centuries; and grassy graves and quaint old tombs, so battered with

age and atmosphere as wholly to obliterate their inscriptions—though

some bore date as far back as 1500—strewed the ground, so closely

congregated that there was no space for a foot between.

The very birds seemed imbued with the spirit of the place, for they were

silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves, or winging their way

to less sacred groves. A sudden sound awoke me from my musing, and

transported me at once from past to present; a joyous peal burst forth

from the old belfry, and a kindly voice accosted me with—“Maybe, you’d

like to walk in, sir, and see the old place? You’d ha’ time to look

round ye afore the wedding party comes; and if not, there’ll be time

enow during the service.”

The offer was accepted so eagerly as to delight my old guide; for if one

place in the country be more interesting to me than any other, it is an

old village church, so buried in its own beautiful site that the roar of

the railroad can never reach it; where we can stand still and breathe,

apart from the rush and the turmoil, and the haste, still pressing

onward—onward, in the vain strife for man’s intellect to keep pace with

the giant he has raised, which is now the constant accompaniment of the

neighbourhood of towns. The interior betrayed still greater age than the

exterior; the windows were painted rudely but gaudily, throwing streams

of coloured light where the early sunshine fell, and leaving the

remainder of the interior in that dim twilight so in unison with

holiness and age. An antique shrine, adorned with most grotesque, and to

me incomprehensible carvings, ran between the nave and chancel. The

nave, fitted up as a Protestant place of worship, with pews and seats,

looked more modern than the chancel; though the very black oak of its

furniture gave it a venerable appearance, and seemed to mark its date as

among the earliest of the reformed churches, while the dilapidated

pavement and crumbling seats of the chancel spoke of an age still

further back. The font was roughly hewn out of a single stone. I was

intently engaged in endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions and dates

on the stone flooring, which appeared entirely made up of graves, when

the entreaty of the old clerk that I would withdraw into a pew, as the

wedding party was approaching, most abruptly scared away all my

antiquarian lore, and transported me, very unwillingly, if the truth

must be told, to the contemplation of that common, every-day occurrence,

a modern wedding.

But one glance at the group, consisting of only six or seven persons,

riveted my interest. In my whole London career I had never seen such a

face of intellect, and soul, and beauty as that of the bride. Whether it

was the contrast of such youthful grace and loveliness with the stern

old shrine around, or the excessive agitation of the bridegroom, and the

almost extraordinary self-possession of the bride, I know not; but no

marriage ceremony ever affected me as this. Self-possessed as she was,

there was no absence of feeling; her cheek was perfectly colourless, and

at times there seemed a slight tremulous motion of the lips, as if the

effort to retain her composure was too painful to be continued, and only

persevered in for him. _His_ responses were wholly inaudible; _hers_ so

distinct and thrilling, they affected me almost to tears. The clergyman

himself, though young, and, by his gay careless face and manner, the

only one who did not well assimilate with the scene, became gradually

impressed with its unusual solemnity. The embrace with which, at the

conclusion of the ceremony, the bridegroom folded the bride to his

heart, was so full of passionate feeling, of such suppressed yet intense

emotion, even I could scarcely witness it unmoved, and it completely

checked the customary joyous greetings of their companions.

I followed them almost unconsciously from the church, saw them enter the

two carriages waiting for them outside the little gate, and remained

leaning on a tombstone overlooking the road, long after they had

disappeared. My reverie was interrupted by a courteous address from the

young clergyman who, having noticed my attendance in the church,

volunteered the information which I so much desired.

Pierre Laval, the only son of a very rich planter in Martinique, having

received the best education which an alternate residence in France and

England could bestow, returned to his father only to feel that a

residence in Martinique was about the most miserable thing that could

happen to him, and so again made his appearance in England. He sought no

profession, because he had no need to do so, his father’s possessions

being immense. Joining in the very best society, in which a handsome

face, elegant address, and highly cultivated mind gave him many

advantages, he became acquainted with the reigning beauty of the season,

Helen Campbell. Now Pierre had a decided aversion to cried-up beauties,

and so he resolved that, however she might conquer others, she should

never obtain any power over him. It is one thing to make a wise

resolution, and another to keep it. It so happened that Helen Campbell

possessed none of the repulsive attributes of an acknowledged beauty.

She was in truth, much more lovely than he had anticipated, but it was

the intellectuality of her sweet face which was its peculiar charm. She

was frank, truthful, gay—nay, almost wild in her joyousness; and,

moreover, possessed the spell of one of the sweetest voices, either in

speech or song, which he had ever heard. Pierre struggled a long time,

but it would not do; he was fairly conquered: and then for the first

time, he imagined himself wanting in every quality likely to make that

love reciprocal, and, by sudden silence and reserve, was in a fair way

of actually creating the evil he dreaded, had not a mutual friend opened

his eyes, and with sudden desperation he urged his suit, and discovered,

to his inexpressible happiness, that his love was returned.

For a brief period all was joy. Pierre had written to his father, and

did not harbour a single doubt as to his residence being permanently

fixed in England, although Helen had made no such condition to his

acceptance. Anxiously the arrival of the packet was anticipated; but

instead of the answer expected, it brought news so overwhelming, that

the unfortunate Pierre was at first verging on distraction.

Monsieur Laval was almost irretrievably ruined; a revolt in the slave

population of the island had taken place, and his extensive plantations

were burnt to ashes. Other heavy losses had congregated round him; and

what with these misfortunes, and having been severely wounded in the

revolt, his health appeared rapidly failing. Panic and confusion still

reigned; but the friend who wrote, expressed the hope that, when all was

quiet again, the Laval losses might not involve such utter ruin as at

present appeared. Nothing was so earnestly desired, in fact, so

indispensable, as the immediate presence of Pierre.

For some time the young man strove in vain to reduce his thoughts to

order; and at length, hardly knowing what he did, he sought his

betrothed, told her all, and with a desperate effort, offered to resign

all his pretensions to her hand; he was a ruined man—must labour for

years in Martinique; how could he ask his Helen to leave her luxurious

home, country, friends, all, to bear with poverty and misery in a

distant colony, for him? She heard him quietly to the end, and then

clasping his hand, vowed nothing should part them. She was his by the

most holy of all ties—mutual love and truth; and no persuasion, no

effort, could turn her from his side. In vain her mother and all her

friends seconded Laval’s appeal, urging the madness of the sacrifice.

Helen’s only reply was, “Had the voice of man united us, would you thus

persuade me? Would you not bid me follow my husband through weal and

through woe? And shall I do less now, because freedom is in my power? I

_could_ desert him if I chose. No, no, mother, you have other children,

who will be to you all I have been. Pierre has but me,” and no

subsequent persuasion had power to shake her resolution. It was,

however, thought advisable that Pierre should seek Martinique alone; and

that when affairs were a little quiet, he should either return for her,

or she should go to him. But how could she join him, an unprotected girl

in a strange land? She saw that he hesitated to speak the only means,

and so spoke them for him: “Give me the sanctity, the protection of your

name, my Pierre, and then what tongue dare cast aspersions on a wife who

joins her husband? If the day which unites us, must also bid us part,

let it be so; but save me, as your wife, from attentions and notice, and

persuasions which may be forced upon me.”

Pierre’s first answer was a wild and passionate embrace; his next, as

passionate a burst of sorrow, that it should be his doom to banish her

to a home so little congenial to her taste, as the burning climate would

be to her health. And it was long ere she could soothe or chide him into

composure; for the more brightly shone forth her unselfish love, the

more bitterly he felt the extent of sacrifice she made.

Helen had to endure a very tempest of opposition and upbraiding as to

her romantic far-fetched folly; but hers was not a mind to change or

waver, when feeling and principle had alike dictated her resolution.

Pierre was to join his ship at Falmouth; and yearning for the quiet only

found amid the repose of nature, Helen prevailed on her mother to reside

for the next few months in Devonshire. Their bridal I had witnessed; and

when I heard that the afternoon of that same day Pierre Laval was to

part from his Helen for an indefinite period, that when united by the

holiest of ties, made one for ever, but a few troubled hours were left

them together, I no longer wondered at the emotion I had beheld.

Often and often has the vision of that morning haunted me with the vain

longing to know if indeed that unworldly love had been blessed as it

deserved, and when those loving and aching hearts did meet again. For

years that olden shrine returned to me, as a dream of the far past in

itself, blended with all the griefs and hopes of human hearts in the

present; and never can I recall the old altar to my mind without

beholding in fancy the sweet shadowy form of Helen Campbell, and the

suppressed but terrible emotion of her Pierre.

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

“_Cast thy Bread upon the Waters; thou shalt find it after many days._”

“WHY, Willie, what is the matter?” inquired Edward Langley, entering his

father’s office one evening after business hours, and finding its sole

tenant, a boy of fourteen or fifteen, leaning both arms on one of the

high desks, and hiding his face within them, whilst his slight figure

shook with uncontrollable sobs. “And how came that drawer open?” he

continued, more sternly, perceiving a bureau drawer half open, so as to

display its glittering contents, which looked disturbed. “I hope you

have not been doing anything wrong, Willie.”

“Oh, sir, indeed—indeed I have not! Count the money, Mr. Edward; pray

count it; see that it is all right, or I can never hold up my head

again. The temptation was misery enough,” returned the boy, as well as

his sobs would permit, and displaying such a countenance of suffering,

as to enlist all Edward’s sympathy at once.

“But, my good boy, what could have tempted you? You seem so to feel the

enormity of the sin, that I cannot imagine what thought came into your

head.”

“I only thought of my poor father, sir. Oh, Mr. Edward, he is in prison,

and my mother is too ill to work; and she and my poor little sisters are

starving,” he replied, bursting again into tears. “I did not know what

to do to help them; I give them all I earn, but that is so very little

it only gives them a meal now and then; and then, when I saw that drawer

accidently left open, and remembered twelve pounds, only twelve pounds,

would get my father out of prison, and he could work for us again, the

horrid thought came into my head to take them: they would never be

missed out of so many; and I had them in my hand. But then I thought

what could I tell them at home? It would break my poor mother’s heart to

think her Willie was dishonest; she could better bear hunger and grief

than that, sir; and I knew I could not hide it from her; and so I dashed

them back! They seemed to scorch me! Oh, Mr. Edward, indeed, indeed I

speak the truth!”

Edward did believe him, and he told him so. There was little need to

speak harshly; the boy’s own conscience had been his judge. To satisfy

him, however, he counted the money, found it correct, and after talking

to him a little while, kindly yet impressively, promised to do what he

could for his father, and left him, indelibly impressing that evening

upon Willie’s mind, by never reverting to it again.