PART V.

The convent-bell struck midnight, and there was a foot-fall in the

cloister. I was startled by it out of an entire forgetfulness of all

around me, for I was lying on my bed in the monastery cell, with my

hands clasped over my eyes, as I had thrown myself down on coming in;

and, with a strange contrariety, my mind, broken rudely from its hope,

had flown to my far away home, oblivious of the benumbed links that

lay between. A knock at my door completed the return to my despair,

for with a look at the walls of my little chamber, in the bright beam

of moonlight that streamed in at the narrow window, I was, by

recognition, again at Vallambrosa, and Stephania, with an accepted

lover's voice in her ear, was again near me, her moistened eyes

steeped with Palgray's in the same beam of the all-visiting and

unbetraying moon.

Father Ludovic entered. The gentle tone of his _benedicite_, told me

that he had come on an errand of sympathy. There was little need of

preliminary between two who read the inner countenance as habitually

as did both of us; and as briefly as the knowledge and present feeling

of each could be re-expressed in words, we confirmed the

spirit-mingling that had brought him there, and were presently as one.

He had read truly the drama of love, enacting in the party of visiters

to his convent, but his judgment of the possible termination of it was

different from mine.

* * * * *

Palgray's dormitory was at the extremity of the cloister, and we

presently heard him pass.

"She is alone, now," said Father Ludovic, "I will send you to her."

My mind had strained to Stephania's presence with the first footsteps

that told me of their separation; and it needed but a wave of his hand

to unlink the spirit-wings from my weary frame. I was present with

her.

I struggled for a moment, but in vain, to see her face. Its expression

was as visible as my hand in the sun, but no feature. The mind I had

read was close to me, in a presence of consciousness; and, in points,

here and there, brighter, bolder, and further-reaching than I had

altogether believed. She was unutterably pure--a spirit without a

spot--and I remained near her with a feeling as if my forehead were

pressed down to the palms of my hands, in homage mixed with sorrow,

for I should have more recognized this in my waking study of her

nature.

A moment more--a trembling effort, as if to read what were written to

record my companionship for eternity--and a vague image of myself came

out in shadow--clearer now, and still clearer, enlarging to the

fullness of her mind. She thought wholly and only of that image I then

saw, yet with a faint coloring playing to and from it, as influences

came in from the outer world. Her eyes were turned in upon it in lost

contemplation. But suddenly a new thought broke upon me. I saw my

image, but it was not I, as I looked to myself. The type of my

countenance was there; but, oh, transformed to an ideal, such as I

now, for the first time, saw possible--ennobled in every defective

line--purified of its taint from worldliness--inspired with high

aspirations--cleared of what it had become cankered with, in its

transmission through countless generations since first sent into the

world, and restored to a likeness of the angel of whose illuminated

lineaments it was first a copy. So thought Stephania of me. Thus did

she believe I truly was. Oh! blessed, and yet humiliating, trust of

woman! Oh! comparison of true and ideal, at which spirits must look

out of heaven, and of which they must long, with aching pity, to make

us thus rebukingly aware!

* * * * *

I felt myself withdrawing from Stephania's presence. There were tears

between us, which I could not see. I strove to remain, but a stronger

power than my will was at work within me. I felt my heart swell with a

gasp, as if death were bearing out of it the principle of life; and my

head dropped on the pillow of my bed.

"Good night, my son," said the low voice of Father Ludovic, "I have

willed that you should remember what you have seen. Be worthy of her

love, for there are few like her."

He closed the door, and as the glide of his sandals died away in the

echoing cloisters, I leaned forth to spread my expanding heart in the

upward and boundless light of the moon--for I seemed to wish never

again to lose in the wasteful forgetfulness of sleep, the

consciousness that I was loved by Stephania.

* * * * *

I was journeying the next day, alone, toward Venice. I had left

written adieux for the party at Vallambrosa, pleading to my friends an

unwillingness to bear the pain of a formal separation. Betwixt

midnight and morning, however, I had written a parting letter for

Stephania, which I had committed to the kind envoying of Father

Ludovic, and thus it ran:--

"When you read this, Stephania, I shall be alone

with the thought of you, traveling a reluctant

road, but still with a burthen in my heart which

will bring me to you again, and which even now

envelopes my pang of separation in a veil of

happiness. I have been blessed by Heaven's mercy

with the power to know that you love me. Were you

not what you are, I could not venture to startle

you thus with a truth which, perhaps, you have

hardly confessed in waking reality to yourself; but

you are one of those who are coy of no truth that

could be found to have lain without alarm in your

own bosom, and, with those beloved hands pressed

together with the earnestness of the clasp of

prayer, you will say, 'yes! I love him!'

"I leave you, now, not to put our love to trial,

and still less in the ordinary meaning of the

phrase, to prepare to wed you. The first is little

needed, angels in heaven well know. The second is a

thought which will be in time, when I have done the

work on which I am newly bent by the inspiration of

love--_the making myself what you think me to be_.

Oh, Stephania! to feel encouraged, as God has given

me strength to feel, that I may yet be this--that I

may yet bring you a soul brought up to the standard

you have raised, and achieve it by effort in

self-denial, and by the works of honor and goodness

that are as possible to a man in obscurity and

poverty as to his brother in wealth and

distinction--this is to me new life, boundless

enlargement of sphere, food for a love of which,

alas! I was not before worthy.

"I have told you unreservedly what my station in

life is--what my hopes are, and what career I had

marked out for struggle. I shall go on with the

career, though the prizes I then mentally saw have

since faded in value almost as much as my purpose

is strengthened. Fame and wealth, my pure,

Stephania, are to you as they now can only be to

me, larger trusts of service and duty; and if I

hope they will come while other aims are sought, it

is because they will confer happiness on parents

and friends who mistakenly suppose them necessary

to the winner of your heart. I hope to bring them

to you. I know that I shall come as welcome without

them.

"While I write--while my courage and hope throb

loud in the pulses of my bosom--I can think even

happily of separation. To leave you, the better to

return, is bearable--even pleasurable--to the

heart's noonday mood. But I have been steeped for a

summer, now, in a presence of visible and breathing

loveliness, (that you cannot forbid me to speak of,

since language is too poor to out-color truth,) and

there will come moments of depression--twilights of

deepening and undivided loneliness--hours of

illness, perhaps--and times of discouragement and

adverse cloudings over of Providence--when I shall

need to be remembered with sympathy, and to know

that I am so remembered. I do not ask you to write

to me. It would entail difficulties upon you, and

put between us an interchange of uncertainties and

possible misunderstandings. But I can communicate

with you by a surer medium, if you will grant a

request. The habits of your family are such that

you can, for the first hour after midnight, be

always alone. Waking or sleeping, there will then

be a thought of me occupying your heart, and--call

it a fancy if you will--I can come and read it on

the viewless wings of the soul.

"I commend your inexpressible earthly beauty, dear

Stephania, and your still brighter loveliness of

soul, to God's angel, who has never left you.

Farewell! You will see me when I am worthy of

you--if it be necessary that it should be first in

heaven, made so by forgiveness there.

* * * * *

_Cell of St. Eusebius, Vallambrosa--day-breaking_."

A BUTTERFLY IN THE CITY.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Dear transient spirit of the fields,

Thou com'st, without distrust,

To fan the sunshine of our streets

Among the noise and dust.

Thou leadest in thy wavering flight

My footsteps unaware,

Until I seem to walk the vales

And breathe thy native air.

And thou hast fed upon the flowers,

And drained their honied springs,

Till every tender hue they wore

Is blooming on thy wings.

I bless the fresh and flowery light

Thou bringest to the town,

But tremble lest the hot turmoil

Have power to weigh thee down;

For thou art like the poet's song,

Arrayed in holiest dyes,

Though it hath drained the honied wells

Of flowers of Paradise;

Though it hath brought celestial hues

To light the ways of life,

The dust shall weigh its pinions down

Amid the noisy strife.

And yet, perchance, some kindred soul

Shall see its glory shine,

And feel its wings within his heart

As bright as I do thine.

THE RIVAL SISTERS.

AN ENGLISH TRAGEDY OF REAL LIFE.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR,"

"MARMADUKE WYVIL," ETC.

(_Concluded from page 22_.)

PART II.

A lovely summer's evening in the year 168-, was drawing toward its

close, when many a gay and brilliant cavalcade of both sexes, many of

the huge gilded coaches of that day, and many a train of liveried

attendants, winding through the green lane, as they arrived, some in

this direction from Eton, some in that, across Datchet-mead, from

Windsor, and its royal castle, came thronging toward Ditton-in-the-Dale.

Lights were beginning to twinkle, as the shadows fell thick among the

arcades of the trim gardens, and the wilder forest-walks which

extended their circuitous course for many a mile along the stately

hall of the Fitz-Henries; loud bursts of festive or of martial music

came pealing down the wind, mixed with the hum of a gay and happy

concourse, causing the nightingales to hold their peace, not in

despair of rivaling the melody, but that the mirth jarred unpleasantly

on the souls of the melancholy birds.

The gates of Ditton-in-the-Dale were flung wide open, for it was gala

night, and never had the old hall put on a gayer or more sumptuous

show than it had donned that evening.

From far and near the gentry and the nobles of Buckingham and

Berkshire had gathered to the birth-day ball--for such was the occasion

of the festive meeting.

Yes! it was Blanche Fitz-Henry's birth-day; and on this gay and glad

anniversary was the fair heiress of that noble house to be introduced

to the great world as the future owner of those beautiful demesnes.

From the roof to the foundation the old manor-house--it was a stately

red brick mansion of the latter period of Elizabethan architecture,

with mullioned windows, and stacks of curiously wreathed chimneys--was

one blaze of light; and as group after group of gay and high-born

riders came caracoling up to the hospitable porch, and coach after

coach, with its running footmen, or mounted outriders lumbered slowly

in their train, the saloons and corridors began to fill up rapidly,

with a joyous and splendid company.

The entrance-hall, a vast square apartment, wainscoted with old

English oak, brighter and richer in its dark hues than mahogany,

received the entering guests; and what with the profusion of

wax-lights, pendant in gorgeous chandeliers from the carved roof, or

fixed in silver sconces to the walls, the gay festoons of green

wreaths and fresh summer flowers, mixed quaintly with old armor,

blazoned shields, and rustling banners, some of which had waved over

the thirsty plains of Syria, and been fanned by the shouts of triumph

that pealed so high at Cressy and Poitiers, it presented a not unapt

picture of that midway period--that halting-place, as it were, between

the old world and the new--when chivalry and feudalism had ceased

already to exist among the nations, but before the rudeness of reform

had banished the last remnants of courtesy, and the reverence for all

things that were high and noble--for all things that were fair and

graceful--for all things, in one word, except the golden calf, the

mob-worshiped mammon.

Within this stately hall was drawn up in glittering array, the

splendid band of the Life Guards, for royally himself was present, and

all the officers of that superb regiment, quartered at Windsor, had

followed in his train; and as an ordinary courtesy to their

well-proved and loyal host, the services of those chosen musicians had

been tendered and accepted.

Through many a dazzling corridor, glittering with lights, and redolent

of choicest perfumes, through many a fair saloon the guests were

marshaled to the great drawing-room, where, beneath a canopy of state,

the ill-advised and imbecile monarch, soon to be deserted by the very

princes and princesses who now clustered round his throne, sat, with

his host and his lovely daughters at his right hand, accepting the

homage of the fickle crowd, who were within a little year to bow

obsequiously to the cold-blooded Hollander.

That was a day of singular, and what would now be termed hideous

costumes--a day of hair-powder and patches, of hoops and trains, of

stiff brocades and tight-laced stomachers, and high-heeled shoes among

the ladies--of flowing periwigs, and coats with huge cuffs and no

collars, and voluminous skirts, of diamond-hilted rapiers, and diamond

buckles, ruffles of Valenciennes and Mecklin lace, among the ruder

sex. And though the individual might be metamorphosed strangely from

the fair form which nature gave him, it cannot be denied that the

concourse of highly-bred and graceful persons, when viewed as a whole,

was infinitely more picturesque, infinitely more like what the fancy

paints a meeting of the great and noble, than any assemblage

now-a-days, however courtly or refined, in which the stiff dress coats

and white neckcloths of the men are not to be redeemed by the Parisian

finery--how much more natural, let critics tell, than the hoop and

train--of the fair portion of the company.

The rich materials, the gay colors, the glittering jewelry, and waving

plumes, all contributed their part to the splendor of the show; and in

those days a gentleman possessed at least this advantage, lost to him

in these practical utilitarian times, that he could not by any

possibility be mistaken for his own _valet de chambre_--a misfortune

which has befallen many a one, the most aristocratic not excepted, of

modern nobility.

A truly graceful person will be graceful, and look well in every garb,

however strange or _outre_; and there is, moreover, undoubtedly

something, apart from any paltry love of finery, or mere vanity of

person, which elevates the thoughts, and stamps a statelier demeanor

on the man who is clad highly for some high occasion. The custom, too,

of wearing arms, peculiar to the gentleman of that day, had its

effect, and that not a slight one, as well on the character as on the

bearing of the individual so distinguished.

As for the ladies, loveliness will still be loveliness, disguise it as

you may; and if the beauties of King James's court lost much by the

travesty of their natural ringlets, they gained, perhaps, yet more

from the increased lustre of their complexions and brilliancy of their

eyes.

So that it is far from being the case, as is commonly supposed, that

it was owing to fashion alone, and the influence of all powerful

custom, that the costume of that day was not tolerated only, but

admired by its wearers.

At this time, however, the use of hair-powder, though general, was by

no means universal; and many beauties, who fancied that it did not

suit their complexions, dispensed with it altogether, or wore it in

some modified shape, and tinged with some coloring matter, which

assimilated it more closely to the natural tints of the hair.

At all events, it must have been a dull eye, and a cold heart, that

could have looked undelighted on the assemblage that night gathered in

the ball-room of Ditton-in-the-Dale.

But now the reception was finished; the royal party moved into the

ball-room, from which they shortly afterward retired, leaving the

company at liberty from the restraint which their presence had imposed

upon them. The concourse broke up into little groups; the stately

minuet was performed, and livelier dances followed it; and gentlemen

sighed tender sighs, and looked unutterable things; and ladies

listened to soft nonsense, and smiled gentle approbation; and melting

glances were exchanged, and warm hands were pressed warmly; and fans

were flirted angrily, and flippant jokes were interchanged--for human

nature, whether in the seventeeth or the nineteenth century, whether

arrayed in brocade, or simply dressed in broadcloth, is human nature

still; and, perhaps, not one feeling, or one passion, that actuated

man's or woman's heart five hundred years ago, but dwells within it

now, and shall dwell unchanged forever.

It needs not to say that, on such an occasion, in their own father's

mansion, and at the celebration of one sister's birth-day, Blanche and

Agnes, had their attractions been much smaller, their pretensions much

more lowly than they really were, would have received boundless

attention. But being as they were infinitely the finest girls in the

room, and being, moreover, new _debutantes_ on the stage of fashion,

there was no limit to the admiration, to the _furor_ which they

excited among the wits and lady-killers of the day.

Many an antiquated Miss, proud of past conquests, and unable yet to

believe that her career of triumph was, indeed, ended, would turn up

an envious nose, and utter a sharp sneer at the forwardness and hoyden

mirth of that pert Mistress Agnes, or at the coldness and inanimate

smile of the fair heiress; but the sneer, even were it the sneer of a

duke's or a minister's daughter, fell harmless, or yet worse, drew

forth a prompt defence of the unjustly assailed beauty.

No greater proof could be adduced, indeed, of the amazing success of

the sister beauties, than the unanimous decision of every lady in the

room numbering less than forty years, that they were by no means

uncommon; were pretty country hoppets, who, as soon as the novelty of

their first appearance should have worn out, would cease to be

admired, and sink back into their proper sphere of insignificance.

So thought not the gentle cavaliers; and there were many present

there, well qualified to judge of ladies' minds as of ladies' persons;

and not a few were heard to swear aloud, that the Fitz-Henries were as

far above the rest of their sex in wit, and graceful accomplishment,

as in beauty of form and face, and elegance of motion.

See! they are dancing now some gay, newly invented, Spanish dance,

each whirling through the voluptuous mazes of the courtly measure with

her own characteristic air and manner, each evidently pleased with her

partner, each evidently charming him in turn; and the two together

enchaining all eyes, and interesting all spectators, so that a gentle

hum of approbation is heard running through the crowd, as they pause,

blushing and panting from the exertion and excitement of the dance.

"Fore Gad! she is exquisite, George! I have seen nothing like her in

my time," lisped a superb coxcomb, attired in a splendid civilian's

suit of Pompadour and silver, to a young cornet of the Life Guard who

stood beside him.

"Which _she_, my lord?" inquired the standard-bearer, in reply.

"Methinks they both deserve your encomiums; but I would fain know

which of the two your lordship means, for fame speaks you a dangerous

rival against whom to enter the lists."

"What, George!" cried the other, gayly, "are you about to have a throw

for the heiress? Pshaw! it wont do, man--never think of it! Why,

though you are an earl's second son, and date your creation from the

days of Hump-backed Dickon, old Allan would vote you a _novus homo_,

as we used to say at Christ Church. Pshaw! George, go hang yourself!

No one has a chance of winning that fair loveliness, much less of

wearing her, unless he can quarter Sir Japhet's bearings on his coat

armorial."

"It _is_ the heiress, then, my lord," answered George Delawarr,

merrily. "I thought as much from the first. Well, I'll relieve your

lordship, as you have relieved me, from all fear of rivalry. I am

devoted to the dark beauty. Egad! there's life, there's fire for you!

Why, I should have thought the flash of that eye-glance would have

reduced Jack Greville to cinders in a moment, yet there he stands, as

calm and impassive a puppy as ever dangled a plumed hat, or played

with a sword-knot. Your fair beauty's cold, my lord. Give me that

Italian complexion, and that coal-black hair! Gad zooks! I honor the

girl's spirit for not disguising it with starch and pomatum. There's

more passion in her little finger, than in the whole soul of the

other."

"You're out there, George Delawarr," returned the peer. "Trust me, it

is not always the quickest flame that burns the strongest; nor the

liveliest girl that feels the most deeply. There's an old saying, and

a true one, that still water aye runs deep. And, trust me, if I know

any thing of the dear, delicious, devilish sex, as methinks I am not

altogether a novice at the trade, if ever Blanche Fitz-Henry love at

all, she will love with her whole soul and heart and spirit. That gay,

laughing brunette will love you with her tongue, her eyes, her head,

and perhaps her fancy--the other, if, as I say, she ever love at all,

will love with her whole being."

"The broad acres! my lord! all the broad acres!" replied the cornet,

laughing more merrily than before. "Fore Gad! I think it the very

thing for you. For the first Lord St. George was, I believe, in the

ark with Noah, so that you will pass current with the first gentleman

of England. I prithee, my lord, push your suit, and help me on a

little with my dark Dulcinea."

"Faith! George, I've no objection; and see, this dance is over. Let us

go up and ask their fair hands. You'll have no trouble in ousting that

shallow-pated puppy Jack, and I think I can put the pass on Mr.

privy-counsellor there, although he is simpering so prettily. But,

hold a moment, have you been duly and in form presented to your

black-eyed beauty?"

"Upon my soul! I hope so, my lord. It were very wrong else; for I have

danced with her three times to-night already."

"The devil! Well, come along, quick. I see that they are going to

announce supper, so soon as this next dance shall be ended; and if we

can engage them now, we shall have their fair company for an hour at

least."

"I am with you, my lord!"

And away they sauntered through the crowd, and ere long were coupled

for a little space each to the lady of his choice.

The dance was soon over, and then, as Lord St. George had surmised,

supper was announced, and the cavaliers led their ladies to the

sumptuous board, and there attended them with all that courtly and

respectful service, which, like many another good thing, has passed

away and been forgotten with the diamond-hilted sword, and the full

bottomed periwig.

George Delawarr was full as ever of gay quips and merry repartees; his

wit was as sparkling as the champagne which in some degree inspired

it, and as innocent. There was no touch of bitterness or satire in his

polished and gentle humor; no envy or dislike pointed his quick,

epigrammatic speech; but all was clear, light, and transparent, as the

sunny air at noonday. Nor was his conversation altogether light and

mirthful. There were at times bursts of high enthusiasm, at which he

would himself laugh heartily a moment afterward--there were touches of

passing romance and poetry blending in an under-current with his

fluent mirth; and, above all, there was an evident strain of right

feeling, of appreciation of all that was great and generous and good,

predominant above romance and wit, perceptible in every word he

uttered.

And Agnes listened, and laughed, and flung back skillfully and

cleverly the ball of conversation, as he tossed it to her. She was

pleased, it was evident, and amused. But she was pleased only as with

a clever actor, a brilliant performer on some new instrument now heard

for the first time. The gay, wild humor of the young man hit her

fancy; his mad wit struck a kindred chord in her mind; but the latent

poetry and romance passed unheeded, and the noblest point of all, the

good and gracious feelings, made no impression on the polished but

hard surface of the bright maiden's heart.

Meantime, how fared the peer with the calmer and gentler sister? Less

brilliant than George Delawarr, he had traveled much, had seen more of

men and things, had a more cultivated mind, was more of a scholar, and

no less of a gentleman, scarce less perhaps of a soldier; for he had

served a campaign or two in his early youth in the Low Countries.

He was a noble and honorable man, clever, and eloquent, and well

esteemed--a little, perhaps, spoiled by that good esteem, a little too

confident of himself, too conscious of his own good mien and good

parts, and a little hardened, if very much polished, by continual

contact with the world.

He was, however, an easy and agreeable talker, accustomed to the

society of ladies, in which he was held to shine, and fond of shining.

He exerted himself also that night, partly because he was really

struck with Blanche's grace and beauty, partly because Delawarr's

liveliness and wit excited him to a sort of playful rivalry.

Still, he was not successful; for though Blanche listened graciously,

and smiled in the right places, and spoke in answer pleasantly and

well, when she did speak, and evidently wished to appear and to be

amused; her mind was at times absent and distracted, and it could not

long escape the observation of so thorough a man of the world as Lord

St. George, that he had not made that impression on the young country

damsel which he was wont to make, with one half the effort, on what

might be supposed more difficult ladies.

But though he saw this plainly, he was too much of a gentleman to be

either piqued or annoyed; and if any thing he exerted himself the more

to please, when he believed exertion useless; and by degrees his

gentle partner laid aside her abstraction, and entered into the spirit

of the hour with something of her sister's mirth, though with a

quieter and more chastened tone.

It was a pleasant party, and a merry evening; but like all other

things, merry or sad, it had its end, and passed away, and by many was

forgotten; but there were two persons present there who never while

they lived forgot that evening--for there were other two, to whom it

was indeed the commencement of the end.

But the hour for parting had arrived, and with the ceremonious

greetings of those days, deep bows and stately courtesies, and kissing

of fair hands, and humble requests to be permitted to pay their duty

on the following day, the cavaliers and ladies parted.

When the two gallants stood together in the great hall, George

Delawarr turned suddenly to the peer--

"Where the deuce are you going to sleep to-night, St. George? You came

down hither all the way from London, did you not? You surely do not

mean to return to-night."

"I surely do not _wish_ it, you mean, George. No, truly. But I do mean

it. For my fellows tell me that there is not a bed to be had for love,

which does not at all surprise me, or for money, which I confess does

somewhat, in Eton, Slough, or Windsor. And if I must go back to

Brentford or to Hounslow, as well at once to London."

"Come with me! Come with me, St. George. I can give you quarters in

the barracks, and a good breakfast, and a game of tennis if you will;

and afterward, if you like, we'll ride over and see how these

bright-eyed beauties look by daylight, after all this night-work."

"A good offer, George, and I'll take it as it is offered."

"How are you here? In a great lumbering coach I suppose. Well, look

you, I have got two horses here; you shall take mine, and I'll ride on

my fellow's, who shall go with your people and pilot them on the road,

else they'll be getting that great gilded Noah's ark into

Datchet-ditch. Have you got any tools? Ay! ay! I see you travel well

equipped, if you do ride in your coach. Now your riding-cloak, the

nights are damp here, by the river-side, even in summer; oh! never

mind your pistols, you'll find a brace in my holsters, genuine

Kuchenreuters. I can hit a crown piece with them, for a hundred

guineas, at fifty paces."

"Heaven send that you never shoot at me with them, if that's the case,

George."

"Heaven send that I never shoot at any one, my lord, unless it be an

enemy of my king and country, and in open warfare; for so certainly as

I do shoot I shall kill."

"I do not doubt you, George. But let's be off. The lights are burning

low in the sockets, and these good fellows are evidently tired out

with their share of our festivity. Fore Gad! I believe we are the

last of the guests."

And with the word, the young men mounted joyously, and galloped away

at the top of their horses' speed to the quarters of the life-guard in

Windsor.

Half an hour after their departure, the two sisters sat above stairs

in a pleasant chamber, disrobing themselves, with the assistance of

their maidens, of the cumbrous and stiff costumes of the ball-room,

and jesting merrily over the events of the evening.

"Well, Blanche," said Agnes archly, "confess, siss, who is the lord

paramount, the beau _par excellence_, of the ball? I know, you demure

puss! After all, it is ever the quiet cat that licks the cream. But to

think that on your very first night you should have made such a

conquest. So difficult, too, to please, they say, and all the great

court ladies dying for him."

"Hush! madcap. I don't know who you mean. At all events, I have not

danced four dances in one evening with one cavalier. Ah! have I caught

you, pretty mistress?"

"Oh! that was only _poor_ George Delawarr. A paltry cornet in the

guards. He will do well enough to have dangling after one, to play

with, while he amuses one--but fancy, being proud of conquering poor

George! His namesake with the Saint before it were worth a score of

such."

"Fie, sister!" said Blanche, gravely. "I do not love to hear you talk

so. I am sure he's a very pretty gentleman, and has twice as much head

as my lord, if I'm not mistaken; and three times as much heart."

"Heart, indeed, siss! Much you know about hearts, I fancy. But, now

that you speak of it, I _will_ try if he has got a heart. If he has,

he will do well to pique some more eligible--"

"Oh! Agnes, Agnes! I cannot hear you--"

"Pshaw!" interrupted the younger sister, very bitterly, "this

affectation of sentiment and disinterestedness sits very prettily on

the heiress of Ditton-in-the-Dale, Long Netherby, and Waltham Ferrers,

three manors, and ten thousand pounds a year to buy a bridegroom! Poor

I, with my face for my fortune, must needs make my wit eke out my want

of dowry. And I'm not one, I promise you, siss, to choose love in a

cottage. No, no! Give me your Lord St. George, and I'll make over all

my right and title to poor George Delawarr this minute. Heigho! I

believe the fellow is smitten with me after all. Well, well! I'll have

some fun with him before I have done yet."

"Agnes," said Blanche, gravely, but reproachfully, "I have long seen

that you are light, and careless whom you wound with your wild words,

but I never thought before that you were bad-hearted."

"Bad-hearted, sister!"

"Yes! bad-hearted! To speak to me of manors, or of money, as if for

fifty wills, or five hundred fathers, I would ever profit by a

parent's whim to rob my sister of her portion. As if I would not

rather lie in the cold grave, than that my sister should have a wish

ungratified, which I had power to gratify, much less that she should

narrow down the standard of her choice--the holiest and most sacred

thing on earth--to the miserable scale of wealth and title. Out upon

it! out upon it! Never, while you live, speak so to me again!"

"Sister, I never will. I did not mean it, sister, dear," cried Agnes,

now much affected, as she saw how vehemently Blanche was moved. "You

should not heed me. You know my wild, rash way, and how I speak

whatever words come first."

"Those were very meaning words, Agnes--and very bitter, too. They cut

me to the heart," cried the fair girl, bursting into a flood of

passionate tears.

"Oh! do not--do not, Blanche. Forgive me, dearest! Indeed, indeed, I

meant nothing!"

"Forgive you, Agnes! I have nothing to forgive. I was not even angry,

but pained, but sorry for you, sister; for sure I am, that if you give

way to this bitter, jealous spirit, you will work much anguish to

yourself, and to all those who love you."

"Jealous, Blanche!"

"Yes, Agnes, jealous! But let us say no more. Let this pass, and be

forgotten; but never, dear girl, if you love me, as I think you do,

never _so_ speak to me again."

"I never, never will." And she fell upon her neck, and kissed her

fondly, as her heart relented, and she felt something of sincere

repentance for the harsh words which she had spoken, and the hard,

bitter feelings which suggested them.

Another hour, and, clasped in each others' arms, they were sleeping as

sweetly as though no breath of this world's bitterness had ever blown

upon their hearts, or stirred them into momentary strife.

Peace to their slumbers, and sweet dreams!

It was, perhaps, an hour or two after noon, and the early dinner of

the time was already over, when the two sisters strolled out into the

gardens, unaccompanied, except by a tall old greyhound, Blanche's

peculiar friend and guardian, and some two or three beautiful

silky-haired King Charles spaniels.

After loitering for a little while among the trim parterres, and

box-edged terraces, and gathering a few sweet summer flowers, they

turned to avoid the heat, which was excessive, into the dark elm

avenue, and wandered along between the tall black yew hedges, linked

arm-in-arm, indeed, but both silent and abstracted, and neither of

them conscious of the rich melancholy music of the nightingales, which

was ringing all around them in that pleasant solitude.

Both, indeed, were buried in deep thought; and each, perhaps, for the

first time in her life, felt that her thought was such that she could

not, dared not, communicate it to her sister.

For Blanche Fitz-Henry had, on the previous night, began, for the

first time in her life, to suspect that she was the owner, for the

time being, of a commodity called a heart, although it may be that the

very suspicion proved in some degree that the possession was about to

pass, if it were not already passing, from her.

In sober seriousness, it must be confessed that the young cornet of

the Life Guards, although he had made so little impression on her to

whom he had devoted his attentions, had produced an effect different

from any thing which she had ever fell before on the mind of the elder

sister. It was not his good mien, nor his noble air that had struck

her; for though he was a well-made, fine-looking man, of graceful

manners, and high-born carriage, there were twenty men in the room

with whom he could not for five minutes have sustained a comparison in

point of personal appearance.

His friend, the Viscount St. George, to whom she had lent but a cold

ear, was a far handsomer man. Nor was it his wit and gay humor, and

easy flow of conversation, that had captivated her fancy; although she

certainly did think him the most agreeable man she had ever listened

to. No, it was the under-current of delicate and poetical thought, the

glimpses of a high and noble spirit, which flashed out at times

through the light veil of reckless merriment, which, partly in

compliance with the spirit of the day, and partly because his was a

gay and mirthful nature, he had superinduced over the deeper and

grander points of his character. No; it was a certain originality of

mind, which assured her that, though he might talk lightly, he was one

to feel fervently and deeply--it was the impress of truth, and candor,

and high independence, which was stamped on his every word and action,

that first riveted her attention, and, in spite of her resistance,

half fascinated her imagination.

This it was that had held her abstracted and apparently indifferent,

while Lord St. George was exerting all his powers of entertainment in

her behalf; this it was that had roused her indignation at hearing her

sister speak so slightingly, and, as it seemed to her, so ungenerously

of one whom she felt intuitively to be good and noble.

This it was which now held her mute and thoughtful, and almost sad;

for she felt conscious that she was on the verge of loving--loving one

who, for aught that he had shown as yet, cared naught for her, perhaps

even preferred another--and that other her own sister.

Thereupon her maiden modesty rallied tumultuous to the rescue, and

suggested the shame of giving love unasked, giving it, perchance, to

be scorned--and almost she resolved to stifle the infant feeling in

its birth, and rise superior to the weakness. But when was ever love

vanquished by cold argument, or bound at the chariot-wheels of reason.

The thought would still rise up prominent, turn her mind to whatever

subject she would, coupled with something of pity at the treatment

which he was like to meet from Agnes, something of vague, unconfessed

pleasure that it was so, and something of secret hope that his eyes

would erelong be opened, and that she might prove, in the end, herself

his consoler.

And what, meanwhile, were the dreams of Agnes? Bitter--bitter, and

black, and hateful. Oh! it is a terrible consideration, how swiftly

evil thoughts, once admitted to the heart, take root and flourish, and

grow up into a rank and poisonous crop, choking the good grain

utterly, and corrupting the very soil of which they have taken hold.

There is but one hope--but one! To tear them from the root forcibly,

though the heart-strings crack, and the soul trembles, as with a

spiritual earthquake. To nerve the mind firmly and resolutely, yet

humbly withal, and contritely, and with prayer against temptation,

prayer for support from on high--to resist the Evil One with the whole

force of the intellect, the whole truth of the heart, and to stop the

ears steadfastly against the voice of the charmer, charm he never so

wisely.

But so did not Agnes Fitz-Henry. It is true that on the preceding

night her better feelings had been touched, her heart had relented,

and she had banished, as she thought, the evil counsellors, ambition,

envy, jealousy, and distrust, from her spirit.

But with the night the better influence passed away, and ere the

morning had well come, the evil spirit had returned to his dwelling

place, and brought with him other spirits, worse and more wicked than

himself.

The festive scene of the previous evening had, for the first time

opened her eyes fairly to her own position; she read it in the

demeanor of all present; she heard it in the whispers which

unintentionally reached her ears; she felt it intuitively in the

shade--it was not a shade, yet she observed it--of difference

perceptible in the degree of deference and courtesy paid to herself

and to her sister.

She felt, for the first time, that Blanche was every thing, herself a

mere cipher--that Blanche was the lady of the manor, the cynosure of

all eyes, the queen of all hearts, herself but the lady's poor

relation, the dependent on her bounty, and at the best a creature to

be played with, and petted for her beauty and her wit, without regard

to her feelings, or sympathy for her heart.

And prepared as she was at all times to resist even just authority

with insolent rebellion; ready as she was always to assume the

defensive, and from that the offensive against all whom she fancied

offenders, how angrily did her heart now boil up, how almost fiercely

did she muster her faculties to resist, to attack, to conquer, to

annihilate all whom she deemed her enemies--and that, for the moment,

was the world.

Conscious of her own beauty, of her own wit, of her own high and

powerful intellect, perhaps over-confident in her resources, she

determined on that instant that she would devote them all, all to one

purpose, to which she would bend every energy, direct every thought of

her mind--to her own aggrandizement, by means of some great and

splendid marriage, which should set her as far above the heiress of

Ditton-in-the-Dale, as the rich heiress now stood in the world's eye

above the portionless and dependent sister.

Nor was this all--there was a sterner, harder, and more wicked feeling

yet, springing up in her heart, and whispering the sweetness of

revenge--revenge on that amiable and gentle sister, who, so far from

wronging her, had loved her ever with the tenderest and most

affectionate love, who would have sacrificed her dearest wishes to her

welfare--but whom, in the hardness of her embittered spirit, she could

now see only as an intruder upon her own just rights, a rival on the

stage of fashion, perhaps in the interests of the heart--whom she

already envied, suspected, almost hated.

And Blanche, at that self-same moment, had resolved to keep watch on

her own heart narrowly, and to observe her sister's bearing toward

George Delawarr, that in case she should perceive her favoring his

suit, she might at once crush down the germ of rising passion, and

sacrifice her own to her dear sister's happiness.

Alas! Blanche! Alas! Agnes!

Thus they strolled onward, silently and slowly, until they reached the

little green before the summer-house, which was then the gayest and

most lightsome place that can be imagined, with its rare paintings

glowing in their undimmed hues, its gilding bright and burnished, its

furniture all sumptuous and new, and instead of the dark funereal ivy,

covered with woodbine and rich clustered roses. The windows were all

thrown wide open to the perfumed summer air, and the warm light poured

in through the gaps in the tree-tops, and above the summits of the

then carefully trimmed hedgerows, blithe and golden.

They entered and sat down, still pensive and abstracted; but erelong

the pleasant and happy influences of the time and place appeared to

operate in some degree on the feelings of both, but especially on the

tranquil and well-ordered mind of the elder sister. She raised her

head suddenly, and was about to speak, when the rapid sound of horses'

feet, unheard on the soft sand until they were hard by, turned her

attention to the window, and the next moment the two young cavaliers,

who were even then uppermost in her mind, came into view, cantering

along slowly on their well-managed chargers.

Her eye was not quicker than those of the gallant riders, who, seeing

the ladies, whom they had ridden over to visit, sitting by the windows

of the summer-house, checked their horses on the instant, and doffed

their plumed hats.

"Good faith, fair ladies, we are in fortune's graces to-day," said the

young peer, gracefully, "since having ridden thus far on our way to

pay you our humble devoirs, we meet you thus short of our journey's

end."

"But how are we to win our way to you," cried Delawarr, "as you sit

there bright _chatelaines_ of your enchanted bower--for I see neither

fairy skiff, piloted by grim-visaged dwarfs, to waft us over, nor even

a stray dragon, by aid of whose broad wings to fly across this mimic

moat, which seems to be something of the deepest?"

"Oh! gallop on, gay knights," said Agnes, smiling on Lord St. George,

but averting her face somewhat from the cornet, "gallop on to the

lodges, and leaving there your coursers, take the first path on the

left hand, and that will lead you to our presence; and should you

peradventure get entangled in the hornbeam maze, why, one of us two

will bring you the clue, like a second Ariadne. Ride on and we will

meet you. Come, sister, let us walk."

Blanche had as yet scarcely found words to reply to the greeting of

the gallants, for the coincidence of their arrival with her own

thoughts had embarrassed her a little, and she had blushed crimson as

she caught the eye of George Delawarr fixed on her with a marked

expression, beneath which her own dropped timidly. But now she arose,

and bowing with an easy smile, and a few pleasant words, expressed her

willingness to abide by her sister's plan.

In a few minutes the ladies met their gallants in the green labyrinth

of which Agnes had spoken, and falling into pairs, for the walk was

too narrow to allow them all four to walk abreast, they strolled in

company toward the Hall.

What words they said, I am not about to relate--for such

conversations, though infinitely pleasant to the parties, are for the

most part infinitely dull to third persons--but it so fell out, not

without something of forwardness and marked management, which did not

escape the young soldier's rapid eye, on the part of Agnes, that the

order of things which had been on the previous evening was reversed;

the gay, rattling girl attaching herself perforce to the viscount, not

without a sharp and half-sarcastic jest at the expense of her former

partner, and the mild heiress falling to his charge.

George Delawarr had been smitten, it is true, the night before by the

gayety and rapid intellect of Agnes, as well as by the wild and

peculiar style of her beauty; and it might well have been that the

temporary fascination might have ripened into love. But he was hurt,

and disgusted even more than hurt, by her manner, and observing her

with a watchful eye as she coquetted with his friend, he speedily came

to the conclusion that St. George was right in his estimate of _her_

character at least, although he now seemed to be flattered and amused

by her evident prepossession in his favor.

He had not, it is true, been deeply enough touched to feel either

pique or melancholy at this discovery, but was so far heart-whole as

to be rather inclined to laugh at the fickleness of the merry jilt,

than either to repine or to be angry.

He was by no means the man, however, to cast away the occasion of

pleasure; and walking with so beautiful and soft a creature as

Blanche, he naturally abandoned himself to the tide of the hour, and

in a little while found himself engaged in a conversation, which, if

less sparkling and brilliant, was a thousand times more charming than

that which he had yesterday held with her sister.

In a short time he had made the discovery that with regard to the

elder sister, too, his friend's penetration had exceeded his own; and

that beneath that calm and tranquil exterior there lay a deep and

powerful mind, stored with a treasury of the richest gems of thought

and feeling. He learned in that long woodland walk that she was,

indeed, a creature both to adore and to be adored; and he, too, like

St. George, was certain, that the happy man whom she should love,

would be loved for himself alone, with the whole fervor, the whole

truth, the whole concentrated passion of a heart, the flow of which

once unloosed, would be but the stronger for the restraint which had

hitherto confined it.

Erelong, as they reached the wider avenue, the two parties united, and

then, more than ever, he perceived the immense superiority in all

lovable, all feminine points, of the elder to the younger sister; for

Agnes, though brilliant and seemingly thoughtless and spirit-free as

ever, let fall full many a bitter word, many a covert taunt and hidden

sneer, which, with his eyes now opened as they were, he readily

detected, and which Blanche, as he could discover, even through her

graceful quietude, felt, and felt painfully.

They reached the Hall at length, and were duly welcomed by its master;

refreshments were offered and accepted--and the young men were invited

to return often, and a day was fixed on which they should partake the

hospitalities of Ditton, at least as temporary residents.

The night was already closing in when they mounted their horses and

withdrew, both well pleased with their visit--for the young lord was

in pursuit of amusement only, and seeing at a glance the coyness of

the heiress, and the somewhat forward coquetry of her sister, he had

accommodated himself to circumstances, and determined that a passing

flirtation with so pretty a girl, and a short _sejour_ at a house so

well-appointed as Ditton, would be no unpleasant substitute for London

in the dog-days; and George Delawarr, like Romeo, had discarded the

imaginary love the moment he found the true Juliet. If not in love, he

certainly was fascinated, charmed; he certainly thought Blanche the

sweetest, and most lovely girl he had ever met, and was well inclined

to believe that she was the best and most admirable. He trembled on

the verge of his fate.

And she--her destiny was fixed already, and forever! And when she saw

her sister delighted with the attentions of the youthful nobleman, she

smiled to herself, and dreamed a pleasant dream, and gave herself up

to the sweet delusion. She had already asked her own heart "does he

love me?" and though it fluttered sorely, and hesitated for a while,

it did not answer, "No!"

But as the gentlemen rode homeward, St. George turned shortly on his

companion, and said, gravely,

"You have changed your mind, Delawarr, and found out that I am right.

Nevertheless, beware! do not, for God's sake, fall in love with her,

or make her love you!"

The blood flushed fiery-red to the ingenuous brow of George Delawarr,

and he was embarrassed for a moment. Then he tried to turn off his

confusion with a jest.

"What, jealous, my lord! jealous of a poor cornet, with no other

fortune than an honorable name, and a bright sword! I thought you,

too, had changed your mind, when I saw you flirting so merrily with

that merry brunette."

"You did see me _flirting_, George--nothing more; and I _have_ changed

my mind, since the beginning, if not since the end of last

evening--for I thought at first that fair Blanche Fitz-Henry would

make me a charming wife; and now I am sure that she would _not_--"

"Why so, my lord? For God's sake! why say you so?"

"Because she never would love _me_, George; and _I_ would never marry

any woman, unless I were sure that she both could and did. So you see

that I am not the least jealous; but still I say, don't fall in love

with her--"

"Faith! St. George, but your admonition comes somewhat late--for I

believe I am half in love with her already."

"Then stop where you are, and go no deeper--for if I err not, she is

more than half in love with you, too."

"A strange reason, St. George, wherefore to bid me stop!"

"A most excellent good one!" replied the other, gravely, and almost

sadly, "for mutual love between you two can only lead to mutual

misery. Her father never would consent to her marrying you more than

he would to her marrying a peasant--the man is perfectly insane on the

subject of title-deeds and heraldry, and will accept no one for his

son-in-law who cannot show as many quarterings as a Spanish grandee,

or a German noble. But, of course, it is of no use talking about it.

Love never yet listened to reason; and, moreover, I suppose what is to

be is to be--come what may."

"And what will you do, St. George, about Agnes? I think you are

touched there a little!"

"Not a whit I--honor bright! And for what I will do--amuse myself,

George--amuse myself, and that pretty coquette, too; and if I find her

less of a coquette, with more of a heart than I fancy she has--" he

stopped short, and laughed.

"Well, what then--what then?" cried George Delawarr.

"It will be time enough to decide _then_."

"And so say I, St. George. Meanwhile, I too will amuse myself."

"Ay! but observe this special difference--what is fun to _you_ may be

death to _her_, for she _has_ a heart, and a fine, and true, and deep

one; may be death to yourself--for you, too, are honorable, and true,

and noble; and that is why I love you, George, and why I speak to you

thus, at the risk of being held meddlesome or impertinent."

"Oh, never, never!" exclaimed Delawarr, moving his horse closer up to

him, and grasping his hand warmly, "never! You meddlesome or

impertinent! Let me hear no man call you so. But I will think of this.

On my honor, I will think of this that you have said!"

And he did think of it. Thought of it often, deeply--and the more he

thought, the more he loved Blanche Fitz-Henry.

Days, weeks, and months rolled on, and still those two young cavaliers

were constant visiters, sometimes alone, sometimes with other gallants

in their company, at Ditton-in-the-Dale. And ever still, despite his

companion's warning, Delawarr lingered by the fair heiress' side,

until both were as deeply enamored as it is possible for two persons

to be, both single-hearted, both endowed with powerful intellect, and

powerful imagination; both of that strong and energetic temperament

which renders all impressions permanent, all strong passions immortal.

It was strange that there should have been two persons, and there were

but two, who discovered nothing of what was passing--suspected nothing

of the deep feelings which possessed the hearts of the young lovers;

while all else marked the growth of liking into love, of love into

that absolute and over-whelming idolatry, which but few souls can

comprehend, and which to those few is the mightiest of blessings or

the blackest of curses.

And those two, as is oftentimes the case, were the very two whom it

most concerned to perceive, and who imagined themselves the quickest

and the clearest sighted--Allan Fitz-Henry, and the envious Agnes.

But so true is it that the hope is oft parent to the thought, and the

thought again to security and conviction, that, having in the first

instance made up his mind that Lord St. George would be a most

suitable successor to the name of the family, and secondly, that he

was engaged in prosecuting his suit to the elder daughter, her father

gave himself no further trouble in the matter, but suffered things to

take their own course without interference.

He saw, indeed, that in public the viscount was more frequently the

companion of Agnes than of Blanche; that there seemed to be a better

and more rapid intelligence between them; and that Blanche appeared

better pleased with George Delawarr's than with the viscount's

company.

But, to a man blinded by his own wishes and prejudices, such evidences

went as nothing. He set it down at once to the score of timidity on

Blanche's part, and to the desire of avoiding unnecessary notoriety on

St. George's; and saw nothing but what was perfectly natural and

comprehensible, in the fact that the younger sister and the familiar

friend should be the mutual confidents, perhaps the go-betweens, of

the two acknowledged lovers.

He was in high good-humor, therefore; and as he fancied himself on the

high-road to the full fruition of his schemes, nothing could exceed

his courtesy and kindness to the young cornet, whom he almost

overpowered with those tokens of affection and regard which he did

not choose to lavish on the peer, lest he should be thought to be

courting his alliance.

Agnes, in the meantime, was so busy in the prosecution of her assault

on Lord St. George's heart, on which she began to believe that she had

made some permanent impression, that she was perfectly contented with

her own position, and was well-disposed to let other people enjoy

themselves, provided they did not interfere with her proceedings. It

is true that, at times, in the very spirit of coquetry, she would

resume her flirtation with George Delawarr, for the double purpose of

piquing the viscount, and playing with the cornet's affections, which,

blinded by self-love, she still believed to be devoted to her pretty

self.

But Delawarr was so happy in himself, that, without any intention of

playing with Agnes, or deceiving her, he joked and rattled with her

as he would with a sister, and believing that she must understand

their mutual situation, at times treated her with a sort of quiet

fondness, as a man naturally does the sister of his betrothed or his

bride, which effectually completed her hallucination.

The consequence of all this was, that, while they were unintentionally

deceiving others, they were fatally deceiving themselves likewise; and

of this, it is probable that no one was aware, with the exception of

St. George, who, seeing that his warnings were neglected, did not

choose to meddle further in the matter, although keeping himself ready

to aid the lovers to the utmost of his ability by any means that

should offer.

In the innocence of their hearts, and the purity of their young love,

they fancied that what was so clear to themselves, must be apparent to

the eyes of others; and they flattered themselves that the lady's

father not only saw, but approved their affection, and that, when the

fitting time should arrive, there would be no obstacle to the

accomplishment of their happiness.

It is true that Blanche spoke not of her love to her sister, for,

apart from the aversion which a refined and delicate girl must ever

feel to touching on that subject, unless the secret be teased or

coaxed out of her by some near and affectionate friend, there had

grown up a sort of distance, not coldness, nor dislike, nor distrust,

but simply distance, and lack of communication between the sisters

since the night of the birth-day ball. Still Blanche doubted not that

her sister saw and knew all that was passing in her mind, in the same

manner as she read her heart; and it was to her evident liking for

Lord St. George, and the engrossing claim of her own affections on all

her thoughts, and all her time, that she attributed her carelessness

of herself.

Deeply, however, did she err, and cruelly was she destined to be

undeceived.

The early days of autumn had arrived, and the woods had donned their

many-colored garments, when on a calm, sweet evening--one of those

quiet and delicious evenings peculiar to that season--Blanche and

George Delawarr had wandered away from the gay concourse which filled

the gardens, and unseen, as they believed, and unsuspected, had turned

into the old labyrinth where first they had begun to love, and were

wrapped in soft dreams of the near approach of more perfect happiness.

But a quick, hard eye was upon them--the eye of Agnes; for, by chance,

Lord St. George was absent, having been summoned to attend the king at

Windsor; and being left to herself, her busy mind, too busy to rest

for a moment idle, plunged into mischief and malevolence.

No sooner did she see them turn aside from the broad walk than the

cloud was withdrawn, as if by magic, from her eyes; and she saw almost

intuitively all that had previously escaped her.

Not a second did she lose, but stealing after the unsuspecting pair

with a noiseless and treacherous step, she followed them, foot by

foot, through the mazes of the clipped hornbeam labyrinth, divided

from them only by the verdant screen, listening to every

half-breathed word of love, and drinking in with greedy ears every

passionate sigh.

Delawarr's left arm was around Blanche's slender waist, and her right

hand rested on his shoulder; the fingers of their other hands were

entwined lovingly together, as they wandered onward, wrapped each in

the other, unconscious of wrong on their own part, and unsuspicious of

injury from any other.

Meanwhile, with rage in her eyes, with hell in her heart, Agnes

followed and listened.

So deadly was her hatred, at that moment, of her sister, so fierce and

overmastering her rage, that it was only by the utmost exertion of

self-control that she could refrain from rushing forward and loading

them with reproaches, with contumely, and with scorn.

But biting her lips till the blood sprang beneath her pearly teeth,

and clinching her hands so hard that the nails wounded their tender

palms, she did refrain, did subdue the swelling fury of her rebellious

heart, and awaited the hour of more deadly vengeance.

Vengeance for what? She had not loved George Delawarr--nay, she had

scorned him! Blanche had not robbed her of her lover--nay, in her own

thoughts, she had carried off the admirer, perhaps the future lover,

from the heiress.

She was the wronger, not the wronged! Then wherefore vengeance?

Even, _therefore_, reader, because she had wronged her, and knew it;

because her own conscience smote her, and she would fain avenge on the

innocent cause, the pangs which at times rent her own bosom.

Envious and bitter, she could not endure that Blanche should be loved,

as she felt she was not loved herself, purely, devotedly, forever, and

for herself alone.

Ambitious, and insatiate of admiration, she could not endure that

George Delawarr, once her captive, whom she still thought her slave,

should shake off his allegiance to herself, much less that he should

dare to love her sister.

Even while she listened, she suddenly heard Blanche reply to some

words of her lover, which had escaped her watchful ears.

"Never fear, dearest George; I am sure that he has seen and knows

all--he is the kindest and the best of fathers. I will tell him all

to-morrow, and will have good news for you when you come to see me in

the evening."

"Never!" exclaimed the fury, stamping upon the ground violently--"by

all my hopes of heaven, never!"

And with the words she darted away in the direction of the hall as

fast as her feet could carry her over the level greensward; rage

seeming literally to lend her wings, so rapidly did her fiery passions

spur her on the road to impotent revenge.

Ten minutes afterward, with his face inflamed with fury, his periwig

awry, his dress disordered by the haste with which he had come up,

Allan Fitz-Henry broke upon the unsuspecting lovers.

Snatching his daughter rudely from the young man's half embrace, he

broke out into a torrent of terrible and furious invective, far more

disgraceful to him who used it, than to those on whom it was vented.

There was no check to his violence, no moderation on his tongue.

Traitor, and knave, and low-born beggar, were the mildest epithets

which he applied to the high-bred and gallant soldier; while on his

sweet and shrinking child he heaped terms the most opprobrious, the

most unworthy of himself, whether as a father or as a man.

The blood rushed crimson to the brow of George Delawarr, and his hand

fell, as if by instinct, upon the hilt of his rapier; but the next

moment he withdrew it, and was cool by a mighty effort.

"From you, sir, any thing! You will be sorry for this to-morrow!"

"Never, sir! never! Get you gone! base domestic traitor! Get you gone,

lest I call my servants, and bid them spurn you from my premises!"

"I go, sir--" he began calmly; but at this moment St. George came upon

the scene, having just returned from Windsor, eager, but, alas! too

late, to anticipate the shameful scene--and to him did George Delawarr

turn with unutterable anguish in his eyes. "Bid my men bring my horses

after me, St. George," said he, firmly, but mournfully; "for me, this

is no place any longer. Farewell, sir! you will repent of this. Adieu,

Blanche, we shall meet again, sweet one."

"Never! dog, never! or with my own hands--"

"Hush! hush! for shame. Peace, Mister Fitz-Henry, these words are not

such as may pass between gentlemen. Go, George, for God's sake! Go,

and prevent worse scandal," cried the viscount.

And miserable beyond all comprehension, his dream of bliss thus

cruelly cut short, the young man went his way, leaving his mistress

hanging in a deep swoon, happy to be for a while unconscious of her

misery, upon her father's arm.

Three days had passed--three dark, dismal, hopeless days. Delawarr did

his duty with his regiment, nay, did it well--but he was utterly

unconscious, his mind was afar off, as of a man walking in a dream.

Late on the third night a small note was put into his hands, blistered

and soiled with tears. A wan smile crossed his face, he ordered his

horses at daybreak, drained a deep draught of wine, sauntered away to

his own chamber, stopping at every two or three paces in deep

meditation; threw himself on his bed, for the first time in his life

without praying, and slept, or seemed to sleep, till daybreak.

Three days had passed--three dark, dismal, hopeless days! Blanche was

half dead--for she now despaired. All methods had been tried with the

fierce and prejudiced old man, secretly prompted by that

demon-girl--and all tried in vain. Poor Blanche had implored him to

suffer her to resign her birthright in favor of her sister, who would

wed to suit his wishes, but in vain. The generous St. George had

offered to purchase for his friend, as speedily as possible, every

step to the very highest in the service; nay, he had obtained from the

easy monarch a promise to raise him to the peerage, but in vain.

And Blanche despaired; and St. George left the Hall in sorrow and

disgust that he could effect nothing.

That evening Blanche's maid, a true and honest girl, delivered to her

mistress a small note, brought by a peasant lad; and within an hour

the boy went thence, the bearer of a billet, blistered and wet with

tears.

And Blanche crept away unheeded to her chamber, and threw herself upon

her knees, and prayed fervently and long; and casting herself upon her

painful bed, at last wept herself to sleep.

The morning dawned, merry and clear, and lightsome; and all the face

of nature smiled gladly in the merry sunbeams.

At the first peep of dawn Blanche started from her restless slumbers,

dressed herself hastily, and creeping down the stairs with a cautious

step, unbarred a postern door, darted out into the free air, without

casting a glance behind her, and fled, with all the speed of mingled

love and terror, down the green avenue toward the gay pavilion--scene

of so many happy hours.

But again she was watched by an envious eye, and followed by a jealous

foot.

For scarce ten minutes had elapsed from the time when she issued from

the postern, before Agnes appeared on the threshold, with her dark

face livid and convulsed with passion; and after pausing a moment, as

if in hesitation, followed rapidly in the footsteps of her sister.

When Blanche reached the summer-house, it was closed and untenanted;

but scarcely had she entered and cast open the blinds of one window

toward the road, before a hard horse-tramp was heard coming up at full

gallop, and in an instant George Delawarr pulled up his panting

charger in the lane, leaped to the ground, swung himself up into the

branches of the great oak-tree, and climbing rapidly along its gnarled

limbs, sprang down on the other side, rushed into the building, and

cast himself at his mistress' feet.

Agnes was entering the far end of the elm-tree walk as he sprang down

into the little coplanade, but he was too dreadfully preoccupied with

hope and anguish, and almost despair, to observe any thing around him.

But she saw him, and fearful that she should be too late to arrest

what she supposed to be the lovers' flight, she ran like the wind.

She neared the doorway--loud voices reached her ears, but whether in

anger, or in supplication, or in sorrow, she could not distinguish.

Then came a sound that rooted her to the ground on which her flying

foot was planted, in mute terror.

The round ringing report of a pistol-shot! and ere its echo had begun

to die away, another!

No shriek, no wail, no word succeeded--all was as silent as the grave.

Then terror gave her courage, and she rushed madly forward a few

steps, then stood on the threshold horror-stricken.

Both those young souls, but a few days before so happy, so beloved,

and so loving, had taken their flight--whither?

Both lay there dead, as they had fallen, but unconvulsed, and graceful

even in death. Neither had groaned or struggled, but as they had

fallen, so they lay, a few feet asunder--her heart and his brain

pierced by the deadly bullets, sped with the accuracy of his

never-erring aim.

While she stood gazing, in the very stupor of dread, scarce conscious

yet of what had fallen out, a deep voice smote her ear.

"Base, base girl, this is all your doing!" Then, as if wakening from a

trance, she uttered a long, piercing shriek, darted into the pavilion

between the gory corpses, and flung herself headlong out of the open

window into the pool beneath.

But she was not fated so to die. A strong hand dragged her out--the

hand of St. George, who, learning that his friend had ridden forth

toward Ditton, had followed him, and arrived too late by scarce a

minute.

From that day forth Agnes Fitz-Henry was a dull, melancholy maniac.

Never one gleam of momentary light dispersed the shadows of her insane

horror--never one smile crossed her lip, one pleasant thought relieved

her life-long sorrow. Thus lived she; and when death at length came to

restore her spirit's light, she died, and made no sign.

Allan Fitz-Henry _lived_--a moody misanthropic man, shunning all men,

and shunned of all. In truth, the saddest and most wretched of the

sons of men.

How that catastrophe fell out none ever knew, and it were useless to

conjecture.

They were beautiful, they were young, they were happy. The evil days

arrived--and they were wretched, and lacked strength to bear their

wretchedness. They are gone where ONE alone must judge them--may HE

have pity on their weakness. REQUIESCANT!

THE LOST PLEIAD.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

Beautiful sisters! tell me, do you ever

Dream of the loved and lost one, she who fell

And faded, in love's turbid, crimson river--

The sacred secret tell?

Calmly the purple heavens reposed around her,

And, chanting harmonies, she danced along;

Ere Eros in his silken meshes bound her,

Her being passed in song.

Once on a day she lay in dreamy slumber;

Beside her slept her golden-tongued lyre;

And radiant visions--fancies without number--

Filled breast and brain with fire.

She dreamed; and, in her dreams, saw, bending o'er her,

A form her fervid fancy deified;

And, waking, viewed the noble one before her,

Who wooed her as his bride.

What words--what passionate words he breathed, beseeching,

Have long been lost in the descending years:

Nevertheless she listened to his teaching,

Smiling between her tears.

And ever since that hour the happy maiden

Wanders unknown of any one but Jove;

Regretting not the lost Olympian Aidenn

In the Elysium--Love!

SUNSET AFTER RAIN.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

All day, with humming and continuous sound,

Streaking the landscape, has the slant rain fall'n;

But now the mist is vanishing; in the west

The dull gray sheet, that shrouded from the sight

The sky, is rent in fragments, and rich streaks

Of tenderest blue are smiling through the clefts.

A dart of sunshine strikes upon the hills,

Then melts. The great clouds whiten, and roll off,

Until a steady blaze of golden light

Kindles the dripping scene. Within the east,

The delicate rainbow suddenly breaks out;

Soft air-breaths flutter round; each tree shakes down

A shower of glittering drops; the woodlands burst

Into a chorus of glad harmony;

And the rich landscape, full of loveliness,

Fades slowly, calmly, sweetly, into night.

Thus, sometimes, is the end of Human life.

In youth and manhood, sorrows may frown round;

But when the sun of Being lowly stoops,

The darkness breaks away--the tears are dried;

The Christian's hope--a rainbow--brightly glows,

And life glides sweet and tranquil to the tomb.

MONTEZUMA MOGGS.

THAT WAS TO BE.

BY THE LATE JOSEPH C. NEAL.

"Now, Moggs--you Moggs--good Moggs--dear Moggs," said his wife,

running through the chromatic scale of matrimonial address, and

modulating her words and her tones from irritation into

tenderness--"yes, Moggs--that's a good soul--I do wish for once you

would try to be a little useful to your family. Stay at home to-day,

Moggs, can't you, while I do the washing? It would be so pleasant,

Moggs--so like old times, to hear you whistling at your work, while I

am busy at mine."

And a smile of affection stole across the countenance of Mrs. Moggs,

like a stray sunbeam on a cloudy day, breaking up the sharp and fixed

lines of care into which her features had settled as a habitual

expression, and causing her also to look as she did in the "old

times," to which she now so kindly referred.

"Wont you, Moggs?" added she, laying her hand upon his shoulder, "it

would be so pleasant, dear--wouldn't it? I should not mind hard work,

Moggs, if you were at work near me."

There was a tear, perhaps, twinkling in the eye of the wife, giving

gentleness to the hard, stony look which she in general wore, caused

by those unceasing troubles of her existence that leave no time for

weeping. Perpetual struggle hardens the heart and dries up the source

of tears.

"Wont you, Moggs?"

The idea of combined effort was a pleasant family picture to Mrs.

Moggs, though it did involve not a little of toil. Still, to her

loneliness it was a pleasant picture, accustomed as she had been to

strive alone, and continually, to support existence. But it seems that

perceptions of the pleasant and of the picturesque in such matters,

differ essentially; and Moggs, glancing through the sentimental, and

beyond it, felt determined, as he always did, to avoid the trouble

which it threatened.

"Can't be," responded Moggs, slightly shrugging his shoulder, as a

hint to his wife that the weight of her hand was oppressive. "Can't

be," continued he, as he set himself industriously--for in this Moggs

was industrious--to the consumption of the best part of the breakfast

that was before him--a breakfast that had been, as usual, provided by

his wife, and prepared by her, while Montezuma Moggs was fast

asleep--an amusement to which, next to eating, Montezuma Moggs was

greatly addicted when at home, as demanding the least possible effort

and exertion on his part. Montezuma Moggs, you see, was in some

respects not a little of an economist; and, as a rule, never made his

appearance in the morning until firmly assured that breakfast was

quite ready--"'most ready," was too indefinite and vague for Montezuma

Moggs--he had been too often tricked from comfort in that way

before--people will so impose on one in this respect--envious people,

who covet your slumbers--such as those who drag the covering off, or

sprinkle water on the unguarded physiognomy. But Moggs took care, in

the excess of his caution, that no time should be lost by him in a

tedious interval of hungry expectation.

"Say ready--quite ready--and I'll come," muttered he, in that sleepy

debate between bed and breakfast which often consumes so much of time;

and his eyes remained shut and his mouth open until perfectly assured

that all the preliminary arrangements had been completed. "Because,"

as Moggs wisely observed, "that half hour before breakfast, reflecting

on sausages and speculating on coffee, if there is sausages and

coffee, frets a man dreadful, and does him more harm than all the rest

of the day put together."--Sagacious Moggs!

Besides, Moggs has a great respect for himself--much more, probably,

than he has for other people, being the respecter of a person, rather

than of persons, and that person being himself. Moggs, therefore,

disdains the kindling of fires, splitting wood, and all that,

especially of frosty mornings--and eschews the putting on of

kettles--well knowing that if an individual is in the way when the aid

of an individual is required, there is likely to be a requisition on

the individual's services. Montezuma Moggs understood how to "skulk;"

and we all comprehend the fact that to "skulk" judiciously is a fine

political feature, saving much of wear and tear to the body corporate.

"Mend boots--mind shop--tend baby!--can't be," repeated Moggs,

draining the last drop from his cup--"boots, shops and babies must

mend, mind and tend themselves--I'm going to do something better than

that;" and so Moggs rose leisurely, took his hat, and departed, to

stroll the streets, to talk at the corners, and to read the

bulletin-boards at the newspaper offices, which, as Moggs often

remarks, not only encourages literature, but is also one of the

cheapest of all amusements--vastly more agreeable than if you paid for

it.

It was a little shop, in one of the poorer sections of the city, where

Montezuma Moggs resided with his family--Mrs. Moggs and five juveniles

of that name and race--a shop of the miscellaneous order, in which was

offered for sale a little, but a very little, of any thing, and every

thing--one of those distressed looking shops which bring a sensation

of dreariness over the mind, and which cause a sinking of the heart

before you have time to ask why you are saddened--a frail and feeble

barrier it seems against penury and famine, to yield at the first

approach of the gaunt enemy--a shop that has no aspect of business

about it, but compels you to think of distraining for rent, of broken

hearts, of sickness, suffering and death.

It was a shop, moreover--we have all seen the like--with a bell to it,

which rings out an announcement as we open the door, that, few and far

between, there has been an arrival in the way of a customer, though it

may be, as sometimes happens, that the bell, with all its untuned

sharpness, fails to triumph over the din of domestic affairs in the

little back-room, which serves for parlor, and kitchen, and hall, and

proves unavailing to spread the news against the turbulent clamor of

noisy children and a vociferous wife.

But be patient to the last--even if the bell does prove insufficient

to attract due attention to your majestic presence, whether you come

to make purchases or to avail yourself of the additional proffer made

by the sign appertaining to Moggs exclusively, relative to "Boots and

shoes mended," collateral to which you observe a work-bench in the

corner; still, be patient, and cause the energies of your heel to hold

"wooden discourse" with the sanded floor, as emphatically you cry--

"Shop!" and beat with pennies on the counter.

Be patient; for, look ye, Mrs. Moggs will soon appear, with a flushed

countenance and a soiled garb--her youngest hope, if a young Moggs is

to be called a hope, sobbing loudly on its mother's shoulder, while

the unawed pratlers within, carry on the war with increasing violence.

"Shop!"

"Comin'!--what's wanten?" is the sharp and somewhat discourteous

reply, as Mrs. Moggs gives a shake of admonition to her peevish little

charge, and turns half back to the riotous assemblage in the rear.

Now, we ask it of you as a special favor, that you do not suffer any

shadow of offence to arise at the dash of acerbity that may manifest

itself in the tones of Mrs. Montezuma Moggs. According to our notion

of the world, as it goes, she, and such as she, deserve rather to be

honored than to provoke wrath by the defects of an unpolished and

unguarded manner. She has her troubles, poor woman--gnawing cares, to

which, in all likelihood, yours are but as the gossamer upon the wind,

or as the thistle-down floating upon the summer breeze; and if there

be cash in your pocket, do not, after having caused such a turmoil,

content yourself with simply asking where Jones resides, or Jenkins

lives. It would be cruel--indeed it would. True, Mrs. Moggs expects

little else from one of your dashing style and elegant appearance.

Such a call rarely comes to her but with some profitless query; yet

look around at the sparse candies, the withering apples, and the

forlorn groceries--specimens of which are affixed to the window-panes

in triangular patches of paste and paper--speak they not of poverty?

Purchase, then, if it be but a trifle.

Mrs. Moggs, unluckily for herself, is possessed of a husband.

Husbands, they say, are often regarded as desirable; and some of them

are spoken of as if they were a blessing. But if the opinion of Mrs.

Moggs were obtained on that score, it would probably be somewhat

different; for be it known that the husband of Mrs. Moggs is of the

kind that is neither useful nor ornamental. He belongs to that

division which addicts itself mainly to laziness--a species of the

biped called husband, which unfortunately is not so rare that we seek

for the specimen only in museums. We know not whether Montezuma Moggs

was or was not born lazy; nor shall we undertake to decide that

laziness is an inherent quality; but as Mrs. Moggs was herself a

thrifty, painstaking woman, as women, to their credit be it spoken,

are apt to be, her lazy husband, as lazy husbands will, in all such

cases, continued to grow and to increase in laziness, shifting every

care from his own broad shoulders to any other shoulders, whether

broad or narrow, strong or wreak, that had no craven shrinkings from

the load, Moggs contenting himself in an indolence which must be seen

to be appreciated by those--husbands or wives--who perform their tasks

in this great work-shop of human effort with becoming zeal and with

conscientious assiduity, regarding laziness as a sin against the great

purposes of their being. If this assumption be true, as we suspect it

is, Montezuma Moggs has much to answer for; though it is a common

occurrence, this falling back into imbecility, if there be any one at

hand willing to ply the oar, as too often shown in the fact that the

children of the industrious are willing to let their parents work,

while the energetic wife has a drag upon her in the shape of a

lounging husband.

Yes, Mrs. Moggs belongs to the numerous class of women who have what

is well called "a trying time of it." You may recognize them in the

street, by their look of premature age--anxious, hollow-eyed, and worn

to shadows. There is a whole history in every line of their faces,

which tells of unceasing trouble, and their hard, quick movement as

they press onward regardless of all that begirts the way, indicates

those who have no thought to spare from their own immediate

necessities, for comment upon the gay and flaunting world. Little does

ostentation know, as it flashes by in satined arrogance and jeweled

pride, of the sorrow it may jostle from its path; and perhaps it is

happy for us as we move along in smiles and pleasantness, not to

comprehend that the glance which meets our own comes from the

bleakness of a withered heart--withered by penury's unceasing

presence.

Moggs is in fault--ay, Montezuma Moggs--what, he "mend boots, mind

shop, tend baby," bringing down his lofty aspirations for the future

to be cabined within the miserable confines of the present!

"Hard work?" sneers Moggs--"yes, if a man sets himself down to hard

work, there he may set--nothing else but hard work will ever come to

him--but if he wont do hard work, then something easier will be sure to

come toddlin' along sooner or later. What can ever find you but hard

work if you are forever in the shop, a thumpin' and a hammerin'? Good

luck never ventures near lap-stones and straps. I never saw any of it

there in the whole course of my life; and I'm waitin' for good luck,

so as to be ready to catch it when it comes by."

Montezuma Moggs had a turn for politics; and for many a year he

exhibited great activity in that respect, believing confidently that

good luck to himself might grow from town-meetings and elections; and

you may have observed him on the platform when oratory addressed the

"masses," or on the election ground with a placard to his button, and

a whole handfull of tickets. But his luck did not seem to wear that

shape; and politically, Montezuma Moggs at last took his place in the

"innumerable caravan" of the disappointed. And thus, in turn, has he

courted fortune in all her phases, without a smile of recognition from

the blinded goddess. The world never knows its noblest sons; and

Montezuma Moggs was left to sorrow and despair.

Could he have been honored with a lofty commission, Montezuma Moggs

might have set forth to a revel in the halls of his namesake; but as

one of the rank and file, he could not think of it. And in private

conversation with his sneering friend Quiggens, to whose captiousness

and criticism Moggs submitted, on the score of the cigars occasionally

derivable from that source, he ventured the subjoined remarks relative

to his military dispositions: