I mounted fast, and Father Bonneville followed me; the chemist shouting

after me to go up to the third floor. There, in a wretched garret, we

found one of the most miserable objects I ever beheld. Seated by a

little fire, in a room hardly habitable, was an old man of upward of

seventy, shrunk in body and limbs, but with his face bloated and heavy.

He had got on an old, tattered dressing-gown, and a thick, black

night-cap, and one of his legs was swathed in flannel. He held a little

sauce-pan in his hand, over the fire, cooking a _ragout_ for himself,

and an empty plate, with a knife and fork, stood upon the table, on

which also lay a broad ribbon and a star. When we entered, he started

up, and seeing two well-dressed strangers, set down the sauce-pan,

wrapped his gown a little closer round him, and then drawing his two

heels together, made us the bow of a dancing-master. He forgot not his

_politesse_ for a moment, and besought us to be seated, with a

simpering, half-fatuous smile, pointing to one whole and one half-chair,

and then begged to know to what he might attribute the felicity of our

visit—perhaps we were mistaken, he added, as he had not the pleasure of

knowing us. We might be in search of some other person, but his poor

name was Le Marquis d’ Carcassonne. I felt Father Bonneville, who was

behind me, catch my arm suddenly, as if to check me for some reason; but

I was anxious to obtain intelligence of Madame de Salins, and I asked

the old gentleman if he could give us any news of her. He was profoundly

grieved, he said in answer, that it was out or his power. He knew the

family, by repute, well, and had heard of them even in London; but it

was his inexpressible misfortune not to know where they were or what

they were doing. He bowed as he spoke, as if he sought to signify that

our audience was at its close, but before we retired, he added—

“May I inquire, monsieurs, if it be not indiscreet, whom I have the

honor of seeing? I only ask, that I may tell Madame de Salins that you

have done her the honor of calling upon her, in case I should meet with

her in society.”

I replied briefly that my name was “Monsieur De Lacy,” but those words

produced in an instant the most extraordinary effect. The bloated face

of the old man, red and carbuncled as it was, turned deadly pale. He

stood for a moment, and I could see him shake. I thought he was going to

faint, but the next instant he walked to the chair, seated himself

slowly, and waved his hand, saying—“Go, go.” At the same moment, Father

Bonneville pulled me by the arm, exclaiming more vehemently than was

usual with him:

“Come away, Louis, come away!”

I followed him down the stairs, and out into the street, and then

asked—with a heart beating strangely—what was the meaning of all that

had occurred, and who that old man was.

“The bitterest enemy of your family,” replied Father Bonneville; “the

murderer of your father. And is this the end of all his pride, ruthless

ambition and blood-thirsty persecution of the innocent! Ask me no

questions, Louis, but avoid that man. The venom may be extinct, but he

is a serpent still.”

BANKING MATTERS.

I walked home from the house in Swallow street exceedingly melancholy.

That there was some dark mystery about my fate, was clear, and it

presented itself in a more painful and tangible shape to my mind now,

than it had ever done before; but, in truth, I must own that this was

neither the sole nor the principal cause of the gloom that now fell upon

me. I had looked forward to the meeting with Madame de Salins and

Mariette, with a sort of childish, delighted expectation, which had

given a relief to darker and more sorrowful thoughts. A thousand sweet

memories of childhood had risen up like flowers to cover the grave of

more mature affection; and now they had withered also. A sensation of

despondency came upon me; an impression: a feeling that I was never to

be happy in affection; and this sort of sombre prepossession seemed to

connect itself somehow with the fate of my family and my race.

It must not be thought, indeed, that I gave myself up to such dreary

feelings without struggling against them, and even on the way back, I

strove to speak cheerfully, and to answer Father Bonneville’s hopeful

assertion, that we should find Madame de Salins yet, not quite as

confidently, but without any display of the doubts which had possession

of my own mind. At heart, however, I had given up all hope. I had never

been one of those sanguine people, who believed their fortunes to be

written in the chapter of accidents; and what but accident could produce

a meeting between us and those we sought for, now that all clue was

lost. Where, in that vast world of London—where in that thickly-peopled

country, were we ever to hear of two unknown, and probably poor, exiles,

such as Madame de Salins and her daughter. The very crowds that passed

us in the street, hurrying eagerly and rapidly along, each one thinking

of himself with eager face, and hardly noticing the others who passed,

seemed to forbid such expectations.

“No, no,” I said to myself. “They are lost to us now, probably forever.”

I would not transact any business that day, although several hours of

daylight still remained, and it would have been much better probably to

have plunged into dry details at once; but there is generally an apathy

about disappointment, at least there was with myself, and obtaining some

books from a library, I sat reading somewhat listlessly during the whole

evening, for many hours after Father Bonneville had retired to rest.

From time to time I laid down the book, indeed, and thought of myself

and of my future, and cross-examined myself in regard to the past. The

book I had been reading was a sentimental one of the day, but not

without considerable power. It treated of Love, amongst other things,

and painted that passion with a fire and vehemence rarely seen in the

works of English writers. I tried to test my love for my poor Louise, by

the sentiments there expressed, and I felt sorry and angry with myself

to find that my own feelings had never come up to the standard before

me. That I had loved her with a deep, sincere, and strong attachment, I

knew.—I was sure; and her gentle sweetness during her last hours, and

her early fate, had only endeared her to me more, and made her memory

precious to me. But yet I felt disappointed, grieved that I had not

experienced that strong, vehement passion which the book before me

depicted. It seemed almost to me as if I wronged her—as if she had been

worthy of better, more earnest love than mine.

Upon the whole, the reading of that night, and the reflections which

came with it, served not at all to cheer me; and I determined the next

day to do what I had better have done at once—plunge into business,

arrange my affairs, and ascertain precisely what my future means were to

be. My first visit, of course, was to be made to the banker who had

received the remittances from Germany, and I asked Father Bonneville to

go with me. He declined, however, saying that he had some little affairs

to transact himself, and would meet me at dinner in the evening. At this

time, by an easy transition, he and I seemed to have in some degree

changed places. I was anxious about him, careful of him, and hardly

fancied that in that vast strange place he was capable of taking care of

himself. I made him promise, therefore, that he would take a

hackney-coach, and went away, not wishing to seem inquisitive as to his

errand, although I could not help believing that I had personally

something to do with the business he was about to transact.

At the bankers it was soon perceived by the clerks that I was utterly

ignorant of business; but on giving my name, and stating what I wanted,

I was introduced into a small, dingy room at the back of the building,

where candles were lighted, and were necessary. By their light I

perceived a fine-looking old gentleman, with a square face, and a large

bald head, glossy as a mirror. My name had been announced to him before

I entered, and he rose and shook me warmly by the hand, congratulating

me on my safe arrival in England.

“We have had a little trouble,” he said, “about this business, for our

friends at Hamburgh have a strange way of remitting money, by mercantile

bills, for all sorts of sums, and at very various dates—none of them

very long, it is true, but it gives our clerks a great deal of pains in

collecting; and if you had arrived a month ago, you would have found

that part of the business not concluded, Count.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, with a smile, “I believe I have no right to

the title you give me, although my recollections of France do not go

further back than a period when all titles had been abolished. Citizen

was the ordinary name in those days, and if strangers gave me any title

at all at my age, it was ‘Gamin.’”

The banker seemed surprised, and for a moment looked a little

suspicious, as if he thought it might be a case of personation. “But you

are the gentleman,” he said, “who married the daughter of

Professor—Professor—”

“Of Professor Haas,” I said, in a grave tone.

“Ay, exactly, exactly—Professor Haas,” rejoined the banker. “But you

have, of course, the letter announcing this remittance to our hands?”

“Oh, yes,” I answered, now seeing in which way his suspicions turned; “I

have both the letter from Hamburgh, and the marriage contract, which I

shall always keep. There is the letter;” and taking out my pocket-book,

I handed it to him. The banker himself could make nothing of the

contents, for it was written it German, of which he did not understand a

word; but he sent for a clerk who did, and in the meanwhile pointed out

something I had never remarked before in the address, which was written

in a good, round, text hand. At the top was written as usual, “à

monsieur,” and underneath appeared, somewhat run together, the words “Le

comte,” which I had read Louis.

“You see he gives you the ‘Count’ at all events,” said the banker,

rubbing his hands.

“I did not remark it before,” I answered; “and I shall certainly never

take the title here.”

“By the way, by the way,” said the banker, “if I recollect right, there

is a letter for you here;” and handing the one I had given him to the

Clerk who had now entered, he said to him, “Be so good as to read that,

and let me know what it says.”

The clerk read off fluently, and translated with ease the contents of

the notary’s letter, and then said, pointing to me, “This must be the

Count de Lacy, sir.”

“He wont have the count—he wont have the count,” cried the banker,

laughing.

“Well, sir, I suppose that is as he pleases,” said the grave clerk; “but

had I not better get the letter that is here for him?”

It was soon brought, and I found it was from my good friend the notary,

containing two documents of much but very different interest. The one

was an inscription for the tomb of my poor Louise, drawn up by his

fellow executor, in which she was styled Countess de Lacy; and the other

was a letter from London, which had been received by one of the

principal authorities of Hamburgh, informing him that a rumor had

reached persons in England, interested in the welfare of a young

gentleman named Louis Count de Lacy, to the effect that he and his tutor

Father Bonneville, having emigrated from France, and been driven out of

Switzerland, were directing their steps toward the North of Germany, or

to Russia; and requesting the authorities of Hamburgh, if they should

appear in that city, to notify to Father Bonneville that the allowance

previously made would be continued; but that the banking-house at which

it was paid was changed to one which had been mentioned in a previous

letter.

“This will be good news for Father Bonneville,” I said, handing the

letter to the banker, who could make that out very well. He seemed now

perfectly satisfied, but still inquired where Father Bonneville was to

be found. I replied that he was with me in London, which seemed to

satisfy him still more; and the clerk nodded his head, and said in a

significant tone, “It’s all right, sir.”

Wonderful it is, how many men who transact a great deal of very

important business, are mere machines, guided by their subordinates.

They are but the hands of the clock, moved by wheels below them.

Probably but for the clerk’s saying, “It’s all right, sir,” I should

have got through very little business that day.

Now, however, every thing went on smoothly. Accounts were produced;

calculations rapidly made; various particulars, which might as well have

been written in Sanscrit, were explained to me in terms which might as

well have been Arabic; and in the end I found myself possessed of

property which the banker informed me would produce, if rightly

invested, an income of about eight hundred pounds a year. As I had never

been accustomed to calculate in pounds sterling, I found it somewhat

difficult to get the idea thereof disconnected from that of dollars, and

the banker had to explain to me, that eight hundred pounds a year made

so many _marks banco_, before I perceived that I was what might be

considered a very wealthy man—at least in Germany. I knew that the good

professor had possessed the reputation of being so; but I was not before

aware to what extent his accumulations had gone. My good friend the

banker advised me to have the amount invested for the time in public

funds, offered his assistance and advice as to its future employment,

and ended by inviting both myself and Father Bonneville to dine with him

on that day week.

I accepted for myself, but expressed a fear that my old companion would

not be well enough to go into society, and then took my leave, for it

was by this time late, and the banking-house was at the far end of that

dingy, busy, industrious ant-hill called “the city.”

When I got home to our little lodging, I found that Father Bonneville

had returned, and was waiting dinner for me; and I could see by his face

in a moment, that whatever had been the object of his expedition in the

morning, he had been disappointed. I gave him a general account of what

had occurred, told him the amount which we might annually count upon,

and in the end gave him the letter which had been sent to the

authorities at Hamburgh, which seemed to afford him some satisfaction,

but not so much as I had anticipated. He made very few comments upon the

letter itself, but pointed to the title of Count which had been given to

me with a melancholy smile, saying, “You have a right to it, Louis, but

if you take my advice, you will not assume it in this country.”

“I do not intend, my dear friend,” I replied; “but really all these

mysteries are painful to me. The time must come when all these things

should be explained, and I would fain know when that will be.”

“Yet a little, yet a little, Louis,” replied the good father, with a

deprecating look. “It may be one or two years, but not more, I

think—not more.”

“But, good father,” I answered, “you ought, at all events, to give me

the means of tracing out my own history, even though I use them not for

the time you mention. Life is uncertain, and were you taken from me, I

have not the slightest clue.”

“You will find it amongst my papers, whenever death calls me hence,”

replied Father Bonneville. “Every information and proof I collected long

ago; and in all the passages which we have lately undergone—in

exile—in poverty, and in peril, I have preserved them safely. But I

really would not take this name of Count—I would call myself merely Mr.

De Lacy. That is a common name in England; and you may very well pass

for an Englishman—the other title might do harm.”

I again assured him that I had no intention of assuming any title at

all. But however strong might be my resolution, I found it difficult to

keep. The banker’s clerks knew me by that title; and the banker himself,

when I went to dine with him, used it in introducing me to several

people. I declined it, however, wherever I could do so without

affectation, and made it sufficiently apparent that it was no assumption

of my own.

The party was large; the house in the west end of the town, most

magnificent; and a great number of persons were present, some of whom I

found were of the _élite_ of London society. It was very much the same

sort of party as all others in great capitals; and most of my readers

must have seen a thousand such. There were several insignificant

puppies, several equally insignificant, but very pretty young women, a

majority, however, of highly respectable, well-informed, gentleman-like,

but not very interesting people, and two or three of higher qualities,

polished, but not worn down in the polishing, with hearts as well as

minds, and not only with information, but with the will and the power to

apply it. It fortunately happened for me that some of these sat near me

at the table. One was a lady of the middle age, who was called Lady

Maria, and whose husband, a Commoner, and an eminent lawyer, sat higher

up the table; and another was a young man, dressed in the very height of

the fashion, and having a somewhat foppish air, which at first

prejudiced me a little against him. I soon found occasion to change my

opinion however; for, though he did not talk much, whatever he did say

was to the point; and allusion having been made to one of those very

common cases in great cities, where a man of high rank had behaved very

ill to a lady somewhat inferior in station, my friend with mustaches, on

the right, burst suddenly forth in a strain of indignant reprobation,

which made some of the other guests smile, and one of the ladies say,

laughingly, “You have been so long away, Charley, following your

uncivilized trade of fighting, that you have forgotten how delicately

such civilized vices require to be treated.”

“They shall never be treated delicately by me, my dear aunt,” replied

the young gentleman; “and at all events, I haven’t forgotten one thing

in my trade of fighting, that there is such a thing as honor, which must

be remembered as much in our conduct toward a woman, as in our conduct

toward a man.”

When the ladies had retired, he remained next to me, and we had a good

deal of conversation. I found he was a cavalry officer, who had seen

some service, notwithstanding his youth; and was in London for a few

months on leave of absence, in order to recover completely from a severe

wound in the chest. He once or twice called me Count; but as we grew

better acquainted over the wine, I begged him to drop the title, as it

was not my intention to assume it at all, while in England at least.

“It is my right, I believe,” I said; “but I quitted France at a very

early period, and have never been so called.”

“Well, I think you are right,” he replied. “Since England has become the

exile’s home, as we are proud to call it, we have had such a crowd of

Counts and Marquises of different kinds, that we have a difficulty in

distinguishing the genuine from the false. You would, of course, pass

muster, both from your appearance, and from the fact, which our good

friend the banker here has taken care to communicate to tongues that

will spread it, that you are that phœnix amongst Counts and Marquises—a

rich _émigré_. But the title of Count would do you no good amongst our

best people, who will like you quite as well as plain Mr. De Lacy; and

as such, if you will permit me, I will ask for you to-morrow.”

I expressed the great pleasure I should have to see him, giving him my

address. But I will not dwell longer on this dinner-party, as the few

incidents I have related were the only ones which occurred that had any

effect upon my fate.

GLIMPSES OF THE LOST.

New circumstances justified many new arrangements, upon which I will

only dwell for a moment. The morning after the dinner-party at the

banker’s, Father Bonneville and I had a long conversation in regard to

our future proceedings. The sum I now possessed seemed almost as large

to the good Father’s notions as to my own; for, to say truth, he had not

much more experience in money matters than myself. It was agreed that we

should set up house-keeping together, I insisted that he should have a

little vehicle—one of those neat one horse equipages, in producing

which England excels the whole world—and he hinted that I had better

have a saddle-horse, when one man would do for both. Between twelve and

one o’clock my new friend, Captain Westover, came to see me, and was

taken into our councils. He somewhat clouded our sanguine views of

wealth, by explaining to us the expenses of English living: but still

with all allowances made, we found that we had ample means for any thing

within our ambition, and in the course of the explanations which took

place, I learned that, in addition to what I had myself, Father

Bonneville counted on receiving from some source or another, the sum of

three hundred pounds per annum. After half an hour’s chat, Captain

Westover proposed to drive me out in search of horses and houses, in a

machine of his, then very fashionable in London, called a tilbury, which

had brought him to the door. His servant was turned out, and I took the

vacant place. He advised me strongly, for a time at least, to take a

furnished cottage at some little distance from London. “You can come in

when you like,” he said, “and there you will be more out of harm’s way.

Excuse me, De Lacy,” he continued with a laugh, “but every man entering

a great town like this, must be a little green at first, whatever may be

his experience of other places. It would be better for you to come to a

knowledge of London by degrees, and that can only be done by living a

little way out of it. With all its vices, its knavery, and its

abomination, there is no place like this great capital of ours in the

world for the comfort of having every thing that one can want, or

desire, or dream of, ready for one in an instant. Each man can choose

according to his means or his ambition. From the St. Giles cellar of the

thief or the professional beggar, to the princely palace of the nobleman

or the great merchant, every thing is at hand, and two or three taps of

an enchanter’s wand bring it into presence in a moment. So I will answer

for it, that we shall find what you want in the way of a house, in two

or three hours; but don’t have it too big: otherwise people will be

coming to dine with you and stay all night, a most harmonious and

agreeable way of being eaten out of house and home.”

Though brisk, active, generous and dashing, Captain Westover was a good

man of business, knew whatever he did know, well, was aware of the right

price of every thing, and I believe in the course of the next two or

three weeks, saved me several hundred pounds, besides putting me

completely in the way of doing the same for myself at an after period. I

will not dwell upon all our perquisitions. Let me come to the result.

Behold me, in the spring of the year, possessed of an exceedingly neat,

detached cottage, close upon Blackheath, with a beautiful garden filled

with shrubs and flowers, furniture excellent and abundant, two horses in

the stable, as pretty a little pony carriage as it was possible to

imagine, and a middle-aged groom, who though an active, honest and

excellent servant, had just been dismissed by a noble lord, because he

had got the asthma, and puffed like a grampus. He did his duty well,

however, and I did not mind his puffing. His name, moreover, was Lucas

Jones, or Jones Lucas—which, I never could make out, and I do not think

he knew well himself.

All the world was at that time volunteering.

Napoleon Bonaparte threatened an invasion of England, and fondly fancied

he could swallow up that stubborn little island as easily as he had

gulped down half the kingdoms of the continent; but little did he know

the spirit that he roused in the people of the land by the very threat.

All Great Britain was bristling in arms, and instead of men being

dragged away from their homes by forced conscriptions, people of all

ranks, classes and degrees, of all ages and characters, of all parties

and sects, were rushing in to enroll their names among the defenders of

their country, and submitting day after day, to toilsome drills, and

unaccustomed modes of life, to the loss of time and money and

convenience. But not a lip murmured, not a heart was depressed.

Blackheath was the great training-ground in the neighborhood of London

for this military race; and every day in my rides, I met with large

bodies of men, in red, and green, and blue, marching and

counter-marching, going through the manual, and expending great

quantities of powder and perspiration. Magistrates, lawyers, clerks,

shopkeepers, and draymen, were all jostling side by side in the charge;

and the first battle in England, would have left upon the ground, the

most motley assemblage of professions that ever was found in one place.

By pausing often to watch the manœuvres of the volunteers, I accustomed

my horse to stand fire very well, and it was with great delight I heard

from Captain Westover, that in order to try the skill and precision of

the volunteers, a great sham-fight was to be given on Blackheath itself,

in which were to be enacted all the operations that might be supposed

likely to take place, if a French force were to sail up the Thames, and

effect a landing near the little town of Greenwich. I told my gallant

informant, that although I had been in the middle of a great battle, and

had crossed a considerable portion of the field between the two lines, I

had not the most distant idea of what it all meant.

“No, nor have half the men who were in the battle,” said Captain

Westover. “We do what we are told; we fight; we succeed, or are beaten

off; but all that we know about it is, that there’s a great deal of

smoke, a great deal of dust, and a great number of men tumbling down

round about us, with a very awkward expression of countenance; and two

or three weeks after, when the newspapers come from England, we hear all

about the glorious victory we have obtained from the dispatches of the

general in command. This is generally what a subaltern knows of the

matter; but somehow or another, more comprehensive views are beaten into

our heads after awhile, and I will try, if possible, to give you some

notion of what is going on on Wednesday. But there is some talk of

making me an aid-de-camp for the nonce, which will be a great bore; for

I have a whole troop of lady friends coming down to see, without peril,

a battle without bullets.”

The day came; and good Father Bonneville, who had a great objection to

noise and bustle of any kind, and whose recollections of the battle of

Zurich were not the most agreeable, retreated for a couple of days to an

inn, at a place called Bromley, while I remained to enjoy the sight.

I must dwell with some detail upon the events of that morning, as they

were more important to me than those of any engagement I ever was in.

At an early hour I was out, walking round the scene where the mimic

fight was to take place. All was already in a state of bustle and

preparation. Cannon were planted: troops were taking up their position:

long lines of what were called fencibles, armed with pikes, were

stationed on the river bank, and a number of persons were arriving every

moment from London to witness the gay scene.

Expecting that the hospitalities of my cottage might be called upon, I

had laid in ample provisions, and soon after my return about nine

o’clock, Westover was there, mounted on a splendid horse, and dressed in

brilliant uniform. He came hurrying in, would not sit down to eat any

breakfast, but stood by the table, and dispatched a roll and a cup of

coffee while my horse was being saddled.

“We must be quick,” he said. “We must be quick; for I expect the whole

staff on the ground by ten, and I wish to introduce you to some good

people first.”

We were soon upon horseback, and cantering over the field. My companion

led me to the head of several regiments, and introduced me to their

colonels, who were generally old soldiers retired from the service, who

had sprung into arms again at the first news of danger. One I

particularly remember, a Colonel C——, as the finest looking man I

almost ever beheld. He could not have been much less than seventy, but

he was as upright as a pike-staff, his face blooming like a boy’s, and

his hair loaded with a red sort of powder, called I believe, marechal

powder, common in his youth. He swore a good deal; but in every other

respect, he demeaned himself with an easy, dignified courtesy which I

have never seen surpassed.

He was surrounded by a great number of very pretty women, who seemed to

adore him, and rather inconvenienced him by their presence; for after

giving one or two gentle hints that they had better betake themselves to

spots appointed for spectators, he exclaimed, with a wave of his sword,

which somewhat frightened them, “Damn it, my dear girls, you had better

get out of the way, or by —— we shall have some of the soldiers’

bayonets in your eyes, which would be to my loss, your loss, and all the

world’s loss. I’m going to order the charge in five minutes, and though

no gallant gentleman will doubt your powers of resistance, we shall

carry you at the point of the bayonet, I’ll answer for it. Captain

Westover, will you and your friend take my niece Kitty, and these

darlings, up to the mill there, where the carriages have been stationed?

You had better get on your horses, and drive them before you like a

flock of geese.”

We accomplished the service, however, more easily; and I learned from

Westover that the gallant old colonel had been one of Wolfe’s officers

at the taking of Quebec.

Not long after, the fight began; and by my companion’s management, I

remained with the staff during the greater part of the day. I need not

pause to describe the roaring of cannon, the firing of musketry, the

charging of lines of troops, the taking and retaking of different

positions; but I must notice one little event, which occurred about the

middle of the day. There had been a sort of lull in the noise and

confusion, when suddenly a carriage and four came dashing over the

ground toward the mill, just as a battery horse-artillery was galloping

like lightning across in a different direction to take up a new

position, while at the same moment a cavalry regiment was dashing up to

support a party on the right. The gayly dressed post-boys tried to pull

in their horses, but men, horses, and ladies in the carriage, were all

equally scared, and before they knew what they were doing, were

enveloped on every side by the troops. The commander-in-chief spoke a

word to Captain Westover; for it was a great object to all that the day

should pass over without serious accident, and one seemed now very

likely to take place. Away went Westover. Away went I after him, and

just arrived in time to turn the horses off the road before the guns

were upon them.

“Oh, good Heaven, what shall we do?” exclaimed a lady in the carriage,

with her head covered with ostrich feathers.

“Drive across to that little road, and off the ground as fast as you can

go,” shouted Westover to the post-boys. “You will get these ladies

killed if you do not mind.”

“But where can we see?” screamed the lady from the window.

“You cannot see at all, madam,” answered Westover, impatiently. “If you

wanted to see, you should have come earlier—Drive on and clear the

ground, boys.”

Away the postillions went. The lady drew back her head from the window

with an indignant air, and I saw just opposite to her, in the carriage,

the loveliest face I ever beheld. Delicately and beautifully chiseled,

every feature seemed to me perfect, in the brief glance I had. But that

was not the great charm; for there before me, for that single instant,

were those beautiful, liquid, hazel eyes, with the long fringe of dark

lashes, which I had never seen any thing like since I had last beheld

Mariette.

My first impulse was to gallop after the carriage as fast as possible;

but the troops swept round, the carriage dashed away, and all I could do

was to ask my companion if he knew who were its denizens.

“Not I,” he answered, hurriedly—“Some vulgar people they must be—none

but vulgar people get themselves into such situations as that—a

devilish pretty girl in the back of the carriage though, De Lacy—Why,

what’s the matter with you, man?”

“Why, I think I know her,” I replied, “and have been looking for her and

her mother for a long time.”

“Well, then, ride away after her,” answered Westover; “the post-boys

will insist upon feeding their horses, depend upon it; and you will find

them either at the Green-Man, or at some of the inns down below. Join me

again at the mill after it’s all over; for I intend you to give me some

dinner; and I must see all my aunts, and cousins, and mothers, who are

congregated there, if it be but for a moment, before they go back to

London. They have thought me rude enough already, I dare say.”

I followed his advice, and I believe that I would very willingly, at

that moment, have given at least half of all I had in the world to catch

that carriage; but I sought in vain. Not a trace of it was to be found,

and though there were post-boys enough at all the inns, I could not see

one in the same colored jacket as those I was in search of.

“Could it be Mariette?” I asked myself. The features were very

different; much more beautiful than those of my little companion. The

face was no longer round, but beautifully oval. The hair seemed somewhat

darker, too, but the eyes were Mariette’s; and I asked myself again,

“Could it be Mariette, or had some other person stolen her eyes?”

Sad, thoughtful, disappointed, I rode slowly back up Blackheath hill,

little caring what I should find going on above. But I had been absent

nearly two hours; the sham-fight was now over; drums and fifes,

trumpets, and all manner of instruments, were playing gay and triumphant

airs, friends and enemies were sitting down on the dry grass, eating the

plentiful viands prepared for them, and post-boys were leading up

strings of horses to draw back the gay parties who had come to witness

the scene, to dinners and festivities afar.

I directed my course at once toward the mill, from which several

carriages were already driving away; but as I approached, I saw Westover

still there, on horseback, at the side of an open vehicle to which the

horses had just been attached. He was talking to some ladies inside, one

of whom I had seen on the night when he and I first met, and who noticed

me by a gentle inclination of the head. Another was a much handsomer and

somewhat younger woman, but still past her youth. She seemed to be

taking little notice of any thing, and there was a deep, grave

melancholy upon her face, not harmonizing well with the gay and exciting

scene around. I did not go very near; for the drivers had their feet in

the stirrups, ready to mount, two servants in livery were already on the

box, and there was no time for conversation. Westover’s aunt, however,

beckoned me up, saying, “How have you been pleased, count?” and at the

same moment, the other lady fixed her eyes full upon me, and I could see

her turn deadly pale. She said a few words to her companion, however, in

a hurried and eager manner, although I was replying with some

commonplace answer at the moment.

My acquaintance turned her head, saying, loud enough for me to hear,

“The young Count de Lacy. Shall I introduce you to him, Catherine?”

There was no reply. The other lady whom she called Catherine, had sunk

back in the carriage, and her eyes were closed. She looked to me very

much as if she had fainted. I saw her face, but Westover did not; for I

was upon his left hand, and his aunt was between him and her companion.

“Shall I tell them to drive on?” he asked.

The other nodded her head, and the word was given; but as they dashed

away, I said in a tone of some anxiety, “Do you know, I think that lady

has fainted.”

“Which, which?” he cried. “Lady Catherine?”

“Not your aunt,” I said.

“They are both my aunts,” he answered, turning his horse sharply. “You

ride on to your hut, De Lacy; I’ll join you in a minute, when I see what

has befallen dear Aunt Catherine. She is never well, and rarely goes

out. This has been too much for her.”

Away he darted, and I, less pleased with the events of the day, I

suppose, than most others there present, took my way slowly over the

least incumbered parts of the heath, toward my cottage on the other

side, threading my way amongst groups of soldiers, and large masses of

gorse. At the pace I went, and by the course I pursued, it took me

nearly half an hour to reach my own gate; but I had already dismounted,

before Westover overtook me, although he came at a quick trot, with an

orderly following him.

I remarked that he was very grave, but his only comment on what had just

passed, was, “You were right, De Lacy. My aunt had fainted. Poor thing,

she has not strength for such scenes. And now, my friend, I have taken a

great liberty with you by inviting in your name, two foreign gentlemen,

who could get no dinner anywhere else—for Greenwich is as completely

eaten out as an overkept cheese—to come and dine with you. In revenge,

you shall come and dine with me next week, and eat and drink enough for

three if you can.” I told him I was very glad to see his friends, and

the rest of the day passed pleasantly enough, although I must say, I

never saw Westover so dull and thoughtful, notwithstanding all his

efforts to be gay. The two gentlemen, who followed him soon to my house,

I need not notice particularly, as I never saw them afterward, and never

cared about them at all. They were the sort of things that do very well

to fill a seat at a dinner table, or to be shot at in a line of battle,

behaving creditably in both situations, but doing very little else.

OLD FEELINGS AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

I did not go to bed till nearly two o’clock in the morning, not that my

guests stayed late—far from it. They all took their departure about ten

o’clock; but the events of the day, trifling as they may seem, had

produced upon my mind an effect difficult to be conceived, or even

accounted for. I felt convinced that it was Mariette I beheld, and I

reasoned upon her state and condition at the time, without guide it is

true, but with more accuracy than might have been expected. I by this

time knew the situation of emigrants in general in Great Britain. They

had been treated with great kindness by the people of the country;

subscriptions had been opened for them, aid had been afforded them; but

most of them had fled from France in a state of destitution, and were

actually in extreme poverty at that moment. Some were eking out the

means of subsistence by teaching, others by mere handicraft employments.

I had no reason to believe that Madame de Salins had carried much away

with her, and on the contrary, I had much reason to believe, from the

wretchedness of the lodging in which she must have dwelt in Swallow

street, that she was at one time, at least, in actual distress. The

beautiful girl I had seen in the carriage was exceedingly simply

dressed, and I asked myself whether my pretty Mariette, as so many had

done, might not have engaged herself as a governess in some family, and

might not, even now, be undergoing all the miseries and scorns of that

most painful situation.

But this was not all. In regard to Mariette I had been guided in my

conclusions—to some extent at all events—by plain, simple reason.

There were other impressions, however, upon my mind—other matters for

cogitation, with which reason had far less to do, and which gained their

importance, perhaps from the active embellishment of imagination,

perhaps from some of those deeper and more mysterious operations of the

mind, or of the heart, which leave reason far behind in their rapidity,

and surpass imagination by their truth. The face of that lady, whom they

called Lady Catherine, haunted me. The manner in which she had gazed at

me—the eager, keen, almost wild glance which she had given me, the

paleness which had overspread her face so suddenly, and the fainting fit

into which she had fallen immediately my name was mentioned, were not

matters of marvel to me, but of deep thought and consideration. It was

very natural, where such a mystery hung over my birth and early fate,

that I should feel inclined to connect it with every thing strange and

unexplained which I saw. But there was something more than all

this—something that I cannot explain or describe; which seemed to bear

down all thought and argument against it, and which made me feel a

conviction, stronger than any reason could have supplied, that there was

some tie between that lady’s fate and my own. I did not recollect her in

the least—not one feature in her face was familiar to me; but yet the

very moment I beheld her—before she even turned her eyes upon me, the

sight seemed to waken in an instant, dreams of happy early days—sweet

thoughts and feelings, which had slumbered for years unawakened by the

careless storekeeper, Memory.

It was therefore over these thoughts and feelings that I paused and

reflected, for so many hours.

I have often remarked in the course of life—in others as well as

myself—a somewhat curious phenomenon: namely, that when some great and

important—shall I call it change? No, not change. There are no changes

in human fate. They are all steps—steps toward a certain goal—That

when some great and important step, then, in human fate, is to be taken,

we feel an impression of the coming fact—we see, as it were, with the

eyes of the spirit, without the interference of the cold, hard,

short-sighted intellect, the awful magnitude of that which is before us;

and we are impelled to mark what at other times would seem the merest

trifles with anxious acuteness—to scan, as it were, the very pebbles in

our path, lest a rolling stone should make us lose our footing, and hurl

us over the precipice which we feel to be near at hand, though the mists

and darkness of our earthly being may hide the actual presence of the

yawning gulf.

What was to me a lady fainting in a carriage? What was there

extraordinary in a delicate woman giving way after an exciting scene,

and long and unusual fatigue? What was there in all that I had seen,

which could not be explained by a multitude of ordinary

circumstances—which I should not have left, at any other time, to rest

unthought of amongst the common, insignificant events of a day? And yet

I sat and pondered for four long hours, and even after I retired to bed

I could not sleep, but was kept awake with the same anxious thoughts.

Father Bonneville returned about two o’clock on the following day; but

with a lack of confidence which I rarely showed toward him—for he was

so gentle and so good, who could want confidence in him—I did not

mention at all, the little incident which had occurred at the mill. I

told him, however, all about the supposed sight I had caught of

Mariette, but the good Father only smiled at me.

“You are always thinking of Mariette, Louis,” he said, “and if you go on

so, I shall really fancy you are in love with her memory.”

“And so I am,” I answered frankly, “I can imagine a father would so love

a child, as I love Mariette; and I shall always love her so.”

“My dear boy,” replied Father Bonneville, laying his hand impressively

upon my arm, “that is impossible. You and Mariette are no longer

children; you might love her as a brother when you last saw her; but if

you love her at all, you must love her otherwise now.”

I fell into thought, and I felt that he was right. He gave me but little

time to ponder, however, asking me who else I had seen, and I mentioned

several names, Colonel C——, the commander-in-chief, a number of young

officers, the two strangers who had dined with me, and lastly, in as

easy a tone as I could assume, Westover’s two aunts.

Father Bonneville asked their names, and I replied, “Lady Winslow, and a

lady they called Lady Catherine—I suppose Lady Catherine Westover; for

he said, in the course of the evening, that she was his father’s

sister.”

I looked somewhat keenly at Father Bonneville as I spoke; but my words

did not seem to produce the slightest effect worth noticing.

“It is droll,” he said. “I do not remember the name of Westover in the

English peerage. It must be some new creation, I suppose.”

“I should think not,” I replied, “for there is a calm quietness about

them—a want of all arrogance and presumption—an easy, self-possessed

tranquillity, which I have always remarked, in this country, accompanies

ancient rights, and well assured position.”

“Do you know,” said Father Bonneville, suddenly darting away from the

subject, “that it has once or twice struck me, Louis, that there is a

great deal of likeness between your friend Captain Westover and

yourself?”

I smiled; for I could not conceive two men more different in

appearance—in complexion—in eyes, in height; for I was much taller,

and dark, while he was fair; but still the good Father’s words lingered

in my mind, and I determined the next time I saw my friend to learn, if

possible, something more of his history.

It was with great satisfaction then that, on the Friday morning, I

received a note from Westover, asking me to dine with him, either on the

Tuesday or the Wednesday following, and to name which day.

“Do come, De Lacy, on the one day or the other; for there are some

people, who will come on either day, to whom I much wish to introduce

you. My leave will soon expire, and I may not have another opportunity.”

I immediately answered his note, fixing the first named day, and then,

as it was a beautiful morning in the spring, I went out to fish in a

river which ran at some miles distant from my cottage, and where I had

hired a right—for the English are as tenacious of the right of stream

and wood as any old feudal lord that ever lived.

I had been engaged in the sport for about an hour, wandering along

through the beautiful meadows, and had done tolerably well, when I saw a

gentleman, of the middle age, walk slowly across from the other side,

and pause upon a little wooden bridge, observing my proceedings. He was

a tall, handsome man, about fifty, but thin and pale, dressed in a sort

of military blue coat, richly braided, but not very new; and his air was

exceedingly gentlemanly and prepossessing, though his riches were

evidently of Nature’s giving, not the world’s. After watching me a few

minutes, he came up with easy grace, and asked, with a strong foreign

accent, “If I had had good sport.”

I replied that it had been pretty well, adding a French proverb of no

particular significance.

“Ha!” he said, “have I the pleasure of speaking to a countryman?”

I replied in the affirmative; and he soon began to ask all sorts of

questions, in that courteous manner which renders inquisitiveness not

impertinent in a Frenchman. I told him I had quitted France very early,

and recollected but little of my native land; to which he replied, that

was a “_malheur_,” asking the year of my emigration.

I told him, and he replied, with a smile, that it was the same in which

he had left France; but added, that he had returned there since, and

fought in La Vendee. He then asked me if I knew many of my countrymen. I

replied in the negative, saying with a smile—for the opportunity seemed

too good to be missed—that there were only two, whom I had known so

well in my boyhood as to make me very anxious to hear of them again.

“May I be permitted to ask their names?” he said, quietly. “I am

acquainted with several, though, indeed, not very many; for my means are

too limited to allow of my mingling much in society.”

I at once named Madame de Salins and her daughter.

My new acquaintance paused and mused, as if he were trying to recollect

some circumstance, such as where he had heard of them, and I began to

entertain some hopes of information.

“Perhaps,” he said, at length, “I may be able to assist in your search

in some degree, although I am not sure. May I ask how old you were when

you quitted France?” and his eye ran over my person, which perhaps

showed signs of age beyond what my years warranted.

“Between twelve and thirteen,” I replied.

“Ay! and you have remembered them so long,” he said, in a tone of

interest. “Well, I will do my best to give you news of them. But I know

not where to send it to you, if I should prove fortunate enough to be

able to do so.”

I immediately gave him my card, which he examined, repeating the name,

and then turned the conversation in another course. I found him

exceedingly agreeable, mild and dignified in his manners, and full of

general information, though probably not a very learned man. He asked me

if I had been to pay my respects, while on the continent, to his majesty

the king—afterward known as Louis the Eighteenth—and expressed himself

sorry when he heard I had not.

“I think it would have been advisable in many respects,” he added. “This

madness will not last forever in France. Nor can the other powers of

Europe ever consent as a body to the existence of a state of things in

that country antagonistic to all their interests and all their

principles. Napoleon Bonaparte, in making himself emperor, has performed

an act which places France in a false position that she cannot maintain.

As long as he was merely the head of the republican party—the

incarnation of the spirit of revolution—he was certain of support at

home, and under no absolute necessity to protract the war with foreign

powers, one moment after they chose to make peace with the republic. As

emperor, however, he has taken upon himself an obligation to wage

eternal warfare; for by war alone can he maintain himself as emperor. He

may have gained a little with other monarchs by recognizing the

monarchical principle, but he has lost more with the French people.

France was divided into two. He has now divided it into three, and put

two parts against him. The one that he wields, the military part, may be

the most powerful for the present, but its adherence to himself depends

upon two conditions—war and success. Thus his dynasty can never stand;

for no civilized nation can ever be entirely military; and he who

attempts to make it so, will always fall as soon as the military part

cannot command success; and unless the whole nation be military, success

can never be ensured. My belief is that in a few years our old race of

kings will be upon the throne again.”

He talked with me for more than an hour, while I continued my sport; and

I then returned to my little cottage, very well satisfied with my

interview.

Father Bonneville seemed very well satisfied too, when I told him my

hopes of discovering the abode of Madame de Salins. He asked me many

questions about the gentleman I had met with, and made me describe him

accurately. When I had done, he said, nodding his head slowly with a

smile, “I think we shall find them now, Louis. I think we shall find

them now, and I am almost as glad of it as you are; although I trust

they have not been suffering so much from poverty as you imagine.”

A day or two passed on, however, without any intelligence, and the

Tuesday came on which I was to dine with Westover, in London. I dressed

myself with some care; for I knew that my friend was moving in the most

fashionable circles of the capital, and I drove in with the groom in the

little phæton, so as to be at his door at the very moment named. He was

lodging in a very handsome house in Brook street, and I found him

dressed for dinner, but alone.

“My other friends will not be as punctual as you are, De Lacy,” he said,

shaking me warmly by the hand; “and I dare say you will have to wait

half an hour for your dinner; but in the meantime I can introduce you to

them as they come in.”

In about ten minutes, two young and dashing men made their appearance,

and I was made acquainted with them in form. Then, five minutes after,

came an old peer, stout, beetle-browed, heavy in look but not in

intellect, and exceedingly loose in his apparel, which seemed to have

been thrown on with a pitchfork, but which did not at all detract from

the indefineable something which marks the gentleman. He had not been

there two minutes when the door again opened, and the Earl of N—— was

announced.

“Ah! your grandfather,” said the last comer. “That is an honor for a

grandson, Captain Westover.”

“I consider it as such, I assure you,” said my friend, as he advanced to

meet his relation, and I need not say that my eyes fixed eagerly upon

the father of Lady Catharine.

He was a tall, thin old man, of very distinguished appearance. I learned

afterward that he must have been a good deal over seventy; but he

certainly did not look more than sixty. He was perfectly straight and

upright, though not stiff in appearance, and was dressed entirely in

black, which was not usual in England at that period. Every article of

his apparel fitted exactly. His shoes, in which he still wore buckles,

were as polished as a looking-glass, and his gloves fitted him as if

they had been made upon his hands. His linen was marvelously fine, and

as white as snow; and his hair probably would have been as white as his

linen, even had it not been filled with powder. His face was very fine,

and his complexion peculiarly delicate; but there was no effeminacy

about him. There sat a world of resolution on his broad, towering brow,

and his teeth, of which he did not seem to have lost one, were always

pressed firm together when he was not speaking. His step was slow and

deliberate, but still there was none of the feebleness of age in it, and

there was a strong composure, if I may so express myself, which never

varied but for one moment.

Between the two peers there was no need of an introduction; and they

shook hands with each other cordially. One of the other gentlemen, Lord

N—— knew also; and the third was introduced to him. Westover then

turned, and presented me as Monsieur De Lacy. For a single instant, as

he spoke, the earl seemed moved. A slight change came over his face, a

twitch of the muscles about the mouth, evidently involuntary, and

passing away in one moment. He forgot not his courtesy, however, in the

least, did not shake hands with me, but bowed gracefully, and said a few

words about France and England, not at all depreciatory of my own

country, although he expressed a hope that I would not find my enforced

residence in Great Britain altogether without compensation.

He then turned to speak with his grandson and the other gentlemen. Two

others were added to the party, and shortly after we moved in to dinner.

By Westover’s arrangement I was seated next to his grandfather; but at

first he did not seem inclined to take much notice of me, and, to say

the truth, I was very busy with my own thoughts, and inclined to be

somewhat silent. After a time, however, a gentleman opposite engaged me

in conversation, and something I said seemed to please or strike the old

earl, for he joined in with a good deal of tact and wit. That

conversation dropped, but the earl continued to talk with me, with his

heart a little opened, perhaps, by good wine and good food, which I have

remarked have a great effect in producing urbanity—especially with

Englishmen. His lordship asked me how I liked the country, whether I had

seen much of it, and where I intended to pass the summer. I answered

briefly that I had seen very little of the land, and that my plans were

all unsettled.

“It is a pity that Charles must so soon rejoin his regiment,” said the

earl, “otherwise he might have shown you a good deal that is worth

seeing in England, and what is more, you could not be in safer hands. I

need not tell you, Monsieur De Lacy, that, for a young man, and a

stranger in this country, it is highly necessary that he should choose

his acquaintances well.”

“I am quite aware of the fact, my lord,” I replied, “and I consider

myself highly fortunate in having been early introduced to Captain

Westover. I have few if any acquaintances but those to whom he has

introduced me, and the banker to whom I had letters.”

“Ha!” replied the earl, thoughtfully, and after meditating for a moment,

as if something puzzled him, he said, “I think I heard you called the

Count De Lacy, in society—have you dropped the title?”

“I never took it willingly, my lord,” I replied, “although it is mine, I

believe, by right. I was driven out of France very early, and probably

never should have known of my countship; but it so happened that I

formed some connections in the city of Hamburgh, which led to a

considerable bequest from an old friend there, and that caused a

communication, in regard to myself, to take place between Hamburgh and

England.”

“But how did they know that you were a count, in Hamburgh, if you did

not know it yourself?” asked the earl.

“By a letter from England,” I answered, perhaps a little dryly. “It

referred to some money matters, of which, to say the truth, I understand

nothing; but it was addressed to some of the authorities at Hamburgh,

and in it I was designated by the title of count. The same title was

repeated in after correspondence, and thus it happened to be given to me

here, much to my annoyance; for I would fain drop the countship

altogether, not having the means to maintain any distinguished

position.”

“Ha! I see, I see,” said the earl, “you speak English remarkably well,

Mr. De Lacy. You must have learned it very young.”

“I do not remember the time when I did not speak it,” I replied.

“That is singular in France,” rejoined the old nobleman. “Did your

father speak English?”

I could feel a cloud come over my face, and I replied with very painful

feelings, “I never knew my father, my lord, and am not aware of who or

what he was. I have heard that he was murdered—but that is all I know.”

“I beg pardon—I beg pardon,” said the old earl; “I did not intend to

wound you. There are painful subjects in all families—may I drink wine

with you?”

During the rest of the evening his tone toward me became a little less

stiff and more kindly. He asked no more questions, however, but

conversed entirely upon indifferent subjects, and seemed well pleased

with my remarks. He retired early, indeed, and I remained for some time

longer, in the hope of being able to draw something more from Westover,

regarding his aunt, Lady Catharine. I had lost the opportunity of the

favorable ten minutes during which I was alone with him before dinner,

and no other presented itself for any private conversation. I could only

venture to express a hope before others, that his aunt, Lady Catharine,

had not suffered seriously from the fatigues of the review. He said she

had not been at all well since; and I remarked that I thought her very

beautiful.

“She was once the loveliest creature in all England, I am told,” was my

friend’s reply; “but that is past, and she can hardly, I think, be

called beautiful now—except, indeed, as a beautiful ruin.”

He spoke very gravely—nay, very sadly, and I did not like to press the

subject further. I remained some time longer to see if the other guests

would go, but they showed no intention of doing any thing of the kind,

and as I had a long drive before me, I took my departure, Westover

promising to ride down in a day or two, and take me upon some

expedition.

THE LONGED FOR MEETING.

Habitual reverence is a curious thing—more strong than most other

habits. I was certainly of a somewhat impetuous disposition, eager and

impatient of delay, notwithstanding all the drilling I had had in long

wanderings and many difficulties and distresses; but yet the habitual

reverence which I entertained for good Father Bonneville was not to be

mastered. It was one of those impressions received in youth, which, like

the foot-prints of certain animals that we discover in the rock, had

been pressed down there when the substance was soft, but had been

rendered indelible as it hardened. I returned from London disappointed

in one of my expectations, and I would fain have had a long conversation

with good Father Bonneville, in regard to all the doubts and mysteries

surrounding my own peculiar fate. The promise he had given of knowledge

at a future time did not satisfy me, and I thought that if he would but

touch upon the subject again, I would press him hard for further

explanation. Nay, more, I judged that the very party at Westover’s would

open the way, and resolved that I would not fail to take advantage of

the very first opportunity.

When the good Father came down to breakfast, however, with his calm,

placid countenance, and his usual quiet taciturnity, although there was

nothing in the least repulsive, none of that impenetrability which

sometimes characterizes the Roman Catholic priest, yet I felt a

repugnance to the idea of urging upon him a subject which he had shown

so much anxiety to avoid, and he certainly gave me no direct

encouragement. He merely asked if I had met a pleasant party at Captain

Westover’s; and when I in return told him of whom that party consisted,

and dwelt somewhat particularly upon the appearance and demeanor of the

Earl of N——, he seemed, I thought, a little surprised, and I could not

help fancying that a shade from some strong, and not pleasant emotion,

passed over his countenance: yet he asked not a question, and made no

observation of any kind. I then suffered the subject to drop,

notwithstanding all my resolutions.

Some days passed quietly and dully enough. English people are not fond

of making new acquaintances. None of our neighbors had yet called upon

us, and the gentleman whom I had met by the side of the brook, did not

make his appearance. Quiet tranquillity is the most burdensome of all

things to an impatient spirit; and I confess I fretted myself a good

deal during those dull three or four days. It seemed to me as if all the

world had forgotten us; and I felt much more solitary there, with every

comfort around me, than I had done in my long wandering from Switzerland

to Hamburgh, when I might very well have believed myself almost alone

upon the earth.

It rained, too, incessantly; and I began to feel very English, and to

abuse the climate heartily—though, by the way, it is the best I ever

saw, except, perhaps, in the central parts of France. I could not ride

out. I got tired of reading. I had nobody to write to. I was weary of

myself and the whole world—even Father Bonneville’s calm, sweet

placidity, his tranquil employments, and patience under the load of

dullness, half vexed me.

It was on the Saturday morning early, however, that a change took place;

the sky became clearer; light clouds, like enormous flakes of snow,

succeeded the dull, gray, pouring banks of rain; blue sky appeared here

and there; and, to complete all, as I looked out of the window, after

breakfast, I saw Westover riding up toward the house, with a servant

behind him, and a little valise behind the servant.

There was no horse or carriage-way up to the house, which was approached

by a path through a pretty little garden; and as he dismounted at the

gate, I heard my friend desire his groom to bring in the valise, to take

the horses to the inn, and to give Miss Kitty a feed and a half. He then

walked slowly up to the house, nodding to me as he came; and I could not

help remarking that he seemed pale and ill.

He was in his usual good spirits, however, and shook hands with me and

Father Bonneville heartily, saying, “Did you hear my order, De Lacy; to

bring in my valise? An unlucky thing for you, my friend, that I was at

the taking of your house, and know that you have a spare room; for I

come to beg quarters of you till Monday.”

I welcomed him gladly, and seating himself somewhat languidly, he said—

“I have been unwell for the last few days, and they tell me I should

leave that bustling, tiresome town of London; so I have come to see if

you will give me quiet lodging here, just as a trial—not that I think

it will do me any good.”

“Why—what is the matter, Westover?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing but that tiresome ball,” he replied, laying his hand upon

his chest. “It has taken another move I suppose, and set me spitting

blood again.”

“What, has it not been extracted?” I asked.

He shook his head mournfully, answering—

“No, no, it is there for life, they say, be life long or short; and it

is the strangest thing in the world, how a trifle like this—having an

ounce of lead in one, without knowing where to find it—will weigh upon

a man’s spirits, how it is ever present to his thoughts—a something he

cannot get rid of—the sword hung by a single hair over his head, during

the whole of the great festival of life.”

“Well, we will keep you here quietly,” I answered; “which we can do with

the most marvelous perfection.”

“If you had been here during these last three days,” said Father

Bonneville, with a quiet smile at me; “you would have had quiet enough,

Captain Westover—more quiet than our friend Louis likes, I believe;

for, as you may remark, he has literally worn the carpet by walking from

that table to the window. I always think we may gain good lessons from

the brute creation. God teaches them what is best under all

circumstances; and I copy the cocks and hens, and the great dog, all of

which, I remark, invariably sit quite still, and take every thing

quietly during rainy weather, knowing, that walk as fast as they would,

or as much, they cannot change the wind, or make the clouds withhold a

drop.”

Westover smiled, but replied—

“It is not exactly quiet I am seeking, my reverend friend, but to be out

of the air, and the parties, and the smoke of cities, and the

impertinent chattering, which is the smoke of society. No, no—no quiet

for me. If I am soon to ride with my troop, I may as well ride here, and

so I intend to make De Lacy mount his horse, and gallop away with me to

Eltham or Esher, or some of those places memorable in the past, where we

can sit down, and play the part of Volney for an hour, amongst the ruins

of empires. Then to-morrow, I intend to go with you to Mass; for all

Protestant as I am, I cannot help admitting that you sing a great deal

better in your worst chapels than we do in our best.”

Father Bonneville looked at me with a faint smile, and I informed

Westover that we had both of us, in the course of the last two years,

abandoned the church of Rome.

“It was not from any motives of interest, Captain Westover,” said Father

Bonneville, “neither from fear nor for favor, but from pure conviction.

The fact is, that in a time of great distress and anxiety, I found so

much consolation in the Bible, that I could not remain attached to a

church which denied it to my fellow men, and, moreover—without being

uncharitable—I thought I could see the reason of its being withheld

from men in general, in its manifest condemnation of the practices of

those who withhold it. Louis came to the same conclusion while we were

far apart; and parting as Roman Catholics we met as Protestants.”

Westover seemed much more surprised, and even moved by this intelligence

than I could have expected. He shook me warmly by the hand,

congratulating me, and saying—

“I am glad of it, De Lacy, I am glad of it. That makes a very great

difference—I am sincerely glad of it. We will talk no more of going to

Mass; though I do like to hear a good Mass well sung—so much so,

indeed, that my noble grandfather is every now and then in terror of his

life, for fear I should turn Papist, in which case, as he is the most

ultra Protestant that ever lived, he would, doubtless, cut me off with a

shilling, and be very sorry that he could not deprive me of the fortune

my Uncle Westover left me, lest I should spend it in favor of the

Propaganda—but come, De Lacy, let us take a walk to the inn, mount our

horses, and ride.”

We were soon upon our way, and as we passed slowly along through the

little village of Lewisham, Westover, who was looking round him,

exclaimed, “Good heaven, what a beautiful face!”

I turned my head sharply, but could see no one. The road was vacant,

except where a laboring man was wheeling a barrow, and a carrier was

taking a trunk out of a cart. At the side of the road, indeed, was one

of those little picturesque cottages, only to be seen in England, where

fine taste and love for the beautiful, has decorated with a thousand

charms the very lowliest of dwellings. It was only one story in height.

The windows were mere lattices, with diamond-shaped panes of glass,

rattling in leaden frames. The roof was thatched, and the door seemed

hardly tall enough for the entrance of a man, but the thatch was covered

with the rich green house-leek, and the whole front of the house was in

a glow with roses, trained beautifully between the little windows, and

every here and there holding out a long blossom-bearing arm, as if to

invite the passing stranger.

“She’s gone,” said Westover, “run away at the sight of two men on

horseback, as if it were the first time in life she had seen that sort

of Centaur. But I certainly never did see a more lovely creature.”

I made him describe her to me; but what description can ever give an

idea of a face? His was incomplete enough, but he said she had the most

lovely eyes in the world, and that was quite sufficient to set my

foolish fancy filling up the outline with the features of Mariette. I

caught myself in the midst of this portrait-painting, a new sort of

castle-building, and could not help smiling at my vain imaginations.

“What are you laughing at, De Lacy?” asked my companion.

“At myself, Westover,” I replied. “The truth is, your description is so

like some one I have been long seeking, and would give both my hands to

find, that, for a moment, you set my fancy wild with the idea that she

and your cottage-girl might have been the same.”

“O, ho,” said Westover, with a laugh; “but if your love affair has been

of long duration, this cannot be the same, for she seemed quite

young—not more than seventeen or eighteen.”

“That might well be,” I answered; “and yet my love affair, as you call

it, might date from twelve years ago. The person I seek is the companion

of my youth, one who is now an emigrant like myself, and I much fear

that she and her mother both, may be in some distress, while I have the

power of relieving it, and know not where to find them.”

“Yours must be a strange, curious history,” said Captain Westover. “I

wish, some dull evening, when you have nothing better to do, you would

tell it me, point by point. I am fond of a dreamy talk with a man over

his past times.”

“I should have thought there were attractions enough in the metropolis,”

I answered, “to occupy all the time of you men of fashion, in other ways

than that.”

“Attractions,” replied Captain Westover, “which either leave no

remembrance, or a sting. Take my word for it, De Lacy, there are

multitudes of us who would gladly leave wax candles to blaze, and

champagne to sparkle, and bright eyes—with no heart behind them—to

shine, in order to sit beneath a shaded lamp with a man of real action,

who has seen something of different countries, and a different world,

and a different life from ourselves, and listen to tales of the heart’s

realities, while all else around us is but the tinseled pageantry of a

dream. Come, when shall it be, De Lacy?”

“To-night, if you will,” I answered; “we are certain of being

uninterrupted.”

“But the old man,” he said. “Young men can never talk with open hearts

before old ones. There is a power in age which controls us even when

there is no real authority.”

“O, he goes to bed always at nine,” I said; and so we arranged it should

be, and so it was.

When we returned after our ride, Father Bonneville informed me that

there were some persons in the neighborhood, upon whom he wished me to

call with him on the Monday following; and Westover and I went up to

dress for dinner—a much more important operation than it has since

become, even within my own knowledge. We had the usual English dinner, a

small turbot, some boiled chickens and ham, preceded by soup after the

French fashion, (which I knew Father Bonneville could not do without,)

and followed by the inevitable apple-tart. After his coffee, the good

Father remained for an hour or so, then lighted his candle, and having

apologized, with the grace of an old courtier, for his early habits,

retired to rest. My story was then told much as I am now telling it,

only with more brevity, and I must say that Westover not only listened

with the fortitude of a martyr, but showed a deep interest, if I may

judge by his questions, in many parts of my narrative. Once or twice he

rose, and walked up and down the little room, sitting down when I

paused, and saying, “Go on, De Lacy, I am listening.”

I could not finish the whole in one night; but on the Sunday evening the

tale was concluded, and on the Monday, in spite of remonstrance, he set

out, saying he was going back to London. Why, I know not, but I watched

him from the window, across the heath, meditating on the state of his

health, and the risk he ran in joining his regiment again, with an

unextracted ball still in his chest.

Suddenly, to my surprise, I saw him pull in his horse, at the distance

of some five hundred yards from the house, beckon up his servant, and

speak to him for a moment. The master then took the left-hand road,

which led toward Lewisham, and the groom rode upon the way to London.

It is utterly impossible to describe the sensations which I experienced

at that moment. There was a mixture of anger, and suspicion, and

jealousy, which I can hardly characterize even to my mind at present.

Fancy was as busy as a fiend; and I felt quite sure that he was going

back toward the cottage, in order, if possible, to form some

acquaintance with the beautiful girl he had seen. I persuaded myself in

a moment—although I had unpersuaded myself before—that she must be

Mariette; and I pictured to myself, Westover, with his handsome person

and winning address, making instant love to her, and banishing poor

Louis de Lacy for ever from her heart.

It took me an hour’s struggle to overcome such feelings, and when I had

done my best I was still dissatisfied.

Toward twelve o’clock, Father Bonneville proposed that we should go out

for our visit, and for the first time, I asked where that visit was to

be.

“Why, Louis,” he replied, “you seemed so indifferent when I spoke of it

on Saturday, that I did not tell you the acquaintance you made while

fishing, came to call upon us during your ride with Captain Westover. He

is a gentleman of good family, and we must of course return his visit,

even were it not that I believe he can now inform us where to find

Madame de Salins.”

“Is Mariette not with her?” I asked eagerly.

“I believe so,” replied Father Bonneville, with a smile; “but let us go,

I said we should be there before one.”

I did not delay him, but I must confess, I thought he walked marvelously

slow, and wished from the bottom of my heart, that I had ordered the

pony carriage for our excursion. He took his way straight toward

Lewisham, turned to the left in the village, keeping on the left-hand

side, directly to the cottage with its roses. I do not know what had got

into my heart; but it brought to my remembrance a trick which I had seen

a charlatan play with an egg, which, by some contrivance, he made to

jump out of a pot the moment it was put in. He stopped at the door—at

the very door, and then suddenly said:

“Why, what is the matter with you, Louis? You are as pale as death.”

“O, nothing, nothing,” I replied, and knocked hard for admittance. I was

red enough then. A small servant-girl opened the door, and Father

Bonneville asked—“Whether Monsieur Le Comte was at home?”

My hopes about Mariette began to fail, and diminished to a very small

point when, on entering a little room, containing a good number of

books, I found my acquaintance of the brook-side alone, and without a

vestige of woman’s occupation any where visible.

He shook hands with us both, welcomed us heartily, and in common

civility I was obliged to repress my curiosity for a time.

“This is my little study,” he said, after some preliminary conversation,

“where I teach a few young pupils French, in order to eke out the small

means of subsistence I have left. But I thank God for all things, and

only regret that I have not enough to aid those of my countrymen who

have even less than myself.”

“That is what I fear,” I answered, “that there are many, and amongst

them some I deeply love, who may be suffering great distress, while I

have a superabundance.”

“There are, indeed, many, Monsieur De Lacy,” he said; but as the words

were upon his lips the door opened, and a voice of music said, “May I

come in?”

“Certainly, my child,” he replied; but she had taken it for granted, and

was in the room. There were the same eyes, the same look, the same

beautiful face which I had seen in the carriage, but with a figure, how

full of exquisite grace, how perfect in all its symmetry!

If my heart had not told me, at once, that it was Mariette, the glad

spring forward with which she flew to the arms of Father Bonneville

would have shown me the fact at once.

What possessed me I cannot tell, but I could not speak a word, and stood

like a fool, the more confounded from feeling that the eyes of a

stranger were upon me—yes, he gazed at me, earnestly, inquiringly. I

must, somehow, have betrayed myself.

“Do you not know me, Louis?” asked Mariette, holding out her hands to

me.

“Know you!” I cried, and if the whole world had been present, I could

not have refrained from taking her in my arms and kissing her cheek.

“Know you!” I repeated, “O, yes, I knew you the very first moment I saw

you in the carriage on Blackheath.”

“And I did not know you,” said Mariette, artlessly; “but how should I,

Louis? Here, you are a great tall man, six feet high; and yet you’re

still the same—the same eyes, and the same mouth, only your hair is

darker and not so curly.”

“I rode after you all through Greenwich,” I replied, apropos to nothing;

for my whole head was in a whirl, and she had left her hand in mine,

which did not tend to stay the beating of my heart, “but I could find no

trace of you.”

“Sit down, sit down, my children,” said the master of the house, “you

are both agitated with your young memories. I will go and call your

mother.”

“Let me—let me,” said Mariette, and running to the foot of the little

stairs, she exclaimed, “Mamma, mamma, here are Louis and Monsieur De

Bonneville.”

Madame de Salins ran down lightly and eagerly, and indeed she was very

little altered—looking, perhaps, better than when I had last seen her.

It was clear she was sincerely glad to meet us again; and seated round

the table, a thousand questions were asked, and about half the number

answered. All old feelings and memories revived. We talked of our little

cottage on the Rhine, of our meeting in Paris, and our adventures by the

way. The stranger joined in frankly and familiarly, evidently knowing

all that had befallen us. We formed again, as it were, one family, and

at length, emboldened by this renewal of old associations, I turned

smiling from the gentleman of the house to Madame de Salins, saying,

perhaps abruptly—

“Who is this? May I not be formally introduced to him?”

“Do you not know him, Louis?” she exclaimed, with a look of surprise.

“It is my husband—The Count de Salins. How else should I be here?”

“You forget, mamma, you forget,” said Mariette. “Louis always thought

that he was dead,” and casting herself upon her father’s neck, she shed

a few tears over the memory of the terrible days when first we met.

I looked surprised and bewildered, as well I might; and looking round at

Madame de Salins, I murmured—

“You told me he was dead.”

“I thought so when I told you so, Louis,” she replied, “I saw him fall

before my eyes, wounded in several places, and to all appearance dead.

But a glimmering of hope, springing from what source, I know not, led me

to trust my child to you and hurry back to the court of the château

where he had fallen. The assassins were gone; my husband’s blood was

still reeking from the ground; but his body was not there, and after a

long period of terrible suspense—it was but two hours, but it seemed an

eternity to me—I found that one of our good farmers had carried him

away, and was nursing in his own house a feeble spark of life which he

had found yet remaining. I flew to him; I tended him many weeks in

secret; I saw him recover consciousness and hope. None who beheld him

then, however, would have recognized the gay and handsome De Salins; and

it was agreed that he should be carried some ten or twelve leagues by

night, and thence removed to Paris in a litter as a dropsical patient

going to seek the aid of our good friend Doctor L——. All the peasantry

were in our favor. It was but the people of the cities who were infected

with the epidemic madness of the times. Every one aided—every one was

as secret as death. The very dogs of the farm-houses seemed to

comprehend and enter into our purposes. They barked not when the litter

entered the yard, but moved round us watchfully, as if to defend, rather

than betray us. It was necessary that I should part with him, however;

for my presence would have discovered all; and I hurried back to seek my

child, and meet him in Paris. Monsieur L—— was already prepared for

his coming; but he did more than could have been expected or even hoped.

He took him into his own house, and kept him there in profound secrecy

for some months. During that time I lay concealed under the appearance

of abject poverty. Mariette visited him every day, upon the pretence of

carrying little articles of food to the good Doctor’s house; and neither

by word or look, did she betray the secret—even to you, Louis. Do you

forgive us?”

I put my hand in my bosom, and drew out the ring which Madame de Salins

had given me, and which still remained suspended round my neck by the

little gold chain. I pressed it to my lips for my only reply; and gently

bending her head with a sweet smile, she proceeded, saying, “I could see

him but seldom—I dared rarely venture; but at length Dr. L—— formed

the scheme for us of making our escape from Paris, crossing the Rhine,

and waiting there for my husband’s coming. He was to follow as speedily

as possible, in the character of an officer of the Republican army, who

had been wounded at the battle of Jemappes. A thousand obstacles

intervened, however, and I remained in terrible anxiety, till at length

a letter informed me that he whom I had well-nigh given up for lost, had

crossed the Rhine in safety, and was then at Dusseldorf waiting my

coming. It was still necessary to maintain the most profound secrecy;

for emigrants were surrounded by spies and traitors, and one indiscreet

word might have brought the head of good Doctor L. to the block. I

joined my husband in safety with Mariette, however, and our good farmers

had gathered together a sum of money sufficient to enable us to cross

the sea to this island, and to live for some time obscurely here. That

sum would have been exhausted long ago, had we not by a fortunate chance

been driven from our small lodging in Swallow street by a brutal man,

whom I believe to be a spy, but who had once received great favors from

our family when a poor apothecary in Paris. He, a sensual, horrible

patron, the Marquis de Carcassonne, had no mercy upon us; but having

purchased the house, turned us out in the street four years ago. We

heard of this little cottage and took it; and a blessing it was; for

Monsieur de Salins has obtained a little class of pupils, by which our

small means have been somewhat saved.”

“We sought you in that house in Swallow street,” said Father Bonneville,

“Louis was impressed with the idea that you must be in want, and he has

been hunting for you far and wide ever since we came to England.”

“Real want, we have never known,” said Monsieur de Salins, “though we

have been poor enough—ay, so poor, as to induce me to let my child go

on a long visit to some rich and vulgar people, in order to economize

our little pittance. They thought that Mariette de Salins was reduced so

low as to accept the hand of their coarse son, and think it an honor and

a favor; but they have learned better now.”

“And did you visit that house in Swallow street?” asked Madame de

Salins, looking at me with an anxious and inquiring glance. “Who did you

see there?”

I told her all the particulars, Father Bonneville adding a word here and

there, and the account seemed to strike both Monsieur de Salins and his

wife with much surprise.

“He does not know,” said Madame de Salins, in a low and thoughtful tone,

turning her eyes upon her husband, “he does not know.”

“And so you found Monsieur de Carcassonne in poverty and distress?” said

Monsieur de Salins, “the one viper, I suppose, has stung the other. God

of heaven, my dear wife, how thankful we should be to Him on high, that

we sit here, and eat the daily bread of his mercy, with consciences

clear of offense, and hearts unloaded by a weight of guilt. Let them

take all from us, but our innocence and our honor, and we shall be rich

compared with these men, even were they wealthy and powerful as in days

of old.”

“And is it possible, Monsieur de Salins,” I asked, following the line of

thought in which my mind had been principally running, though there were

many other subjects eagerly appealing for attention, “Is it possible

that you, and dear Mariette, and Madame de Salins, have been living here

in comparative poverty, while I have been enjoying wealth and all that

wealth can give? This must be no longer——”

I saw a slight shade come over his countenance, and I added, “Madame de

Salins has been a mother to me; Mariette has been a sister. I have

sought them eagerly, daily since I have been in England, in order to

perform toward them the duties of a son and a brother. Surely Monsieur

de Salins,” I continued, taking his hand in mine, “you will not suffer

my having the good fortune to find you with them, to deprive me of my

right of adoption?”

“Dear, noble, generous Louis,” said Mariette, throwing her beautiful arm

round my neck, as if I had been indeed her brother.

“Why, I taught her to read and write,” I said, drawing her gently toward

her father. “She was my first and dearest pupil—I have all her little

books now, in which she spelt her early lessons.”

“And the pictures, and the pictures you drew, Louis,” cried Mariette.

“All, all safe through all my wanderings,” I replied. “Come, Monsieur de

Salins, I have a beautiful little place hard-by—ample means for all of

us. Every thing shall be soon prepared for you, and Madame de Salins,

and dear Mariette. We will share house and fortune and all, and be one

family again, as we were in our sweet cottage by the Rhine.”

I knew not what it was I urged—all the objections that a father’s eye

might see—all the difficulties in regard to the world, and the world’s

opinion; and I was not aware, till I found that even Father Bonneville

remained silent, and did not second me, that I was asking too much.

Monsieur de Salins, for his part, smiled at my enthusiasm, while Madame

de Salins wept at it; but he answered kindly and affectionately, putting

quietly aside all points difficult to deal with, and saying jestingly,

“Why, you would not have us quit this little, rosy dwelling where we

have been so happy; but be assured, my dear young friend, that no guest

will be more loved and honored within its walls than the Count De Lacy.”

I felt from his tone, that it would be in vain to press my request

further that day; but I knew the effect of perseverance, and I had hope

for the future. At all events Mariette and I had met again. I was

resolved that nothing should make me lose sight of her thenceforth, and

like all young hearts, I gave myself up to the present joy with trustful

confidence in the happiness of to-morrow.

Several hours glided sweetly by, and it was late in the day when Father

Bonneville and I retrod our steps to our own dwelling, each full of

thought.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

I WOO THEE, SPRING.

BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE.

I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,

To a kindly-thoughted lay,

And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,

Through the lee-lang sunny day!

When young loves bud and old loves bloom—

When the warm earth bans all shade of gloom,

And bees hum summerly.

I woo thine ears to a kindly tale,

And what shall the story be?

I will tell thee dearest bonds are frail,

And that stars and flowers flee.

I will tell thee a tale of woful wings

That rive from the soul its precious things,

And shadow sweet fantasy.

I will tell thee of some that have fled away

Since last we saw thy face;

And some that are gone from the sheeny day

To the lonesome burial-place.

And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung—

Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung,

That sleep with the buried grace.

O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,

To a sadly-thoughted lay,

And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,

Through the lee-lang cloudy day!

For the lone day dies through purple bars—

And a misty grief enwraps the stars,

And our hopes are ashen-gray.

But the flowers bud and the flowers blow

And the mossy streams are sheen,

And the downy clouds to the Norland go,

While the blue sky laughs between;

And the light without, to the dark within,

Would seem to say—“Will ye up and win

While the paths of life are green?”

But the outer joy on the soul’s annoy

Looks in and laughs in vain—

For the inner chains of the spirit’s pains

May ne’er be reft in twain;

And the song that erst in joy begun

Sinks into wail ere the setting sun,

A sad and deathful strain.

So I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,

To a dreary-thoughted lay,

And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,

Through the lee-lang weary day!

Through the lee-lang day and the plodding night—

When no golden star’s in the lift alight,

To brighten a weary way.

* * * * *

SONG.

BY L. L. M.

When morn’s soft light is o’er us shed,

When pearl drops bow each taper leaf,

And e’en the lily’s queenly head

Pays homage to the glory brief—

Who ever recks of coming night,

Or grieves that such an hour must be—

Who ever weeps o’er winter’s blight

While summer decks the dewy lea.

The forest leaf now pale and sere

Once bent to roving breezes’ kiss;

The faded flower on Autumn’s bier

Once seemed too gayly bright for this,

Nor did they droop and whisper all

Of mildew dank, of frost and blight;

But ever rang the wild-wood hall

With joyous song and murmur light.

And grievest _thou_, dear one, that life

Is but a dream that soon is past?

Fear’st thou the briefly bitter strife,

The shadows on thy pathway cast?

Nay, ’tis not well—though day’s soon gone;

The flowers soon pale that bind thy brow;

Though night and death are stealing on,

Forget not, love, ’tis morning _now_!

* * * * *

TWO WAYS TO MANAGE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CLOVERNOOK.”

It was night, black night all over the world, and denser night within

the dwelling of Margery Starveling. Now and then, the half-moon broke

through the clouds that obscured the face of heaven, and some straggling

and uncertain beams slanting through the narrow south window, gave to

the low, homely apartment a ghostly sort of glow that was gloomier to

see than the dark. Yet the night was one to make timid hearts beat

quick, especially in a dismal old house, where there was no light save

occasional glimpses of the half-moon. But Margery was not afraid—she

was used to darkness and solitude, and needed not the interchange of

humanities for her comfort, else she would have aroused from the sleep

which had fallen upon her, the child, who—with cheek leaned against the

rough stone jam—was alike unconscious of the dark, and the rats gnawing

hungrily at the floor, or loosening the hearth beneath her feet. It may

be that bright dreams came to her, even there, for what shall stay them

from innocence? and the rough jam may have seemed a pillow of down, and

the chill moonlight, as it fell against her, the golden curtaining of a

pleasant couch.

All was quiet within doors, save the digging and the gnawing I have

mentioned, but in the woods that partly encircled the place, and

darkened close against the western gables, the winds went blindly

moaning up and down, and the dead boughs creaked against each other,

filling the time with music when the ill-boding owls muffled themselves

away.

It was very still in the house, I said, for though Margery was busy, her

work made no noise, till laying aside the great fleece of wool from her

knees, which her skinny fingers had been picking apart, she spoke aloud,

and on this wise—

“I will stir with my staff the embers from which the glow is well-nigh

perished, that my child may feel in her sleep its comfortable influence,

for evil dreams may come of unrest, and evil dreams make evil thoughts,

and when they have once taken possession of the heart, how hardly are

they charmed away.” So, having taken the fleece from her knees and laid

it over a wooden stool at her feet, she arose, and fumbling in the

chimney-corner opposite to that where the child slept, produced a great

knotty staff, the lower end of which was blackened and charred. With

this she stirred the gray ashes from the fiery log that lay beneath, and

beating and breaking it into coals, gathered the dry cinders together

that were scattered about, and having spread them over the

freshly-broken coals, a blaze sprung up, slight and blue at first, but

reddening and deepening till the rafters over-head, and the oak slabs

below, the walnut bedstead in the corner, with its antique carving, and

elaborately wrought tester, and the huge chest with its iron padlock,

the wrinkled visage of the old woman, and the pale hair and plump, naked

feet of the child, were all distinctly visible.

“Charity, my pretty darling,” called the old woman, as she resumed her

seat and the fleece of wool, “Wake, and betake thee to thy wheel for an

hour, and I will tell thee of the plan I have made to keep our house

full of cheer and music all the while, even when thou weariest of the

wheel, and thy tongue prattlest not.”

The child rubbed her eyes, lifted her head from the stone jam, saying in

a voice sweet and plaintive, as we sometimes hear a bird’s—

“I have spun my task, grandam—six wisps of flax into as many hanks of

thread, and thou seest my distaff is naked—but I will wind it with

another wisp and spin, at least till thy task is done.”

Her naked feet pattered across the slab floor, and climbing on a ladder,

she took from a peg in the rafter a fresh wisp, and as she wound the

distaff peered through the south window at the half-moon, or rather at

the yellowish color in the clouds behind which the half-moon was

concealed.

“It wears near the midnight, good grandam,” she said, shoving her wheel

aside: “I will pick on the fleece, and so thy voice will not be drowned

as thou tellest the plan thou hast mused of.”

“As thou sayest,” answered Margery, “it wears near the midnight, as is

told by the shrill cry of the cricket, to say nothing of the aching in

my bones, and the dizzy feeling that creeps along my forehead now and

then;” and laying her skinny fingers over the wrinkles on her brow, she

bowed her head forward for a minute, looking more like a witch making

some unholy incantation, than a live human being, and a woman as she

was. Her dress, summer and winter, was composed of cow-hide shoes,

clasped over the ankles with buckles of brass, a gown of dark woolen

stuff, made in a straight, stiff fashion peculiar to herself, and she

wore over her shoulders a small circular cape, that had once been part

of a tiger’s hide. On her head she wore no cap or other covering, and

her gray hair was parted on the crown and combed either way, one half

being cut in a straight line above her forehead, and the other on her

neck.

She seemed seventy, or thereabout—nevertheless, her hair was neither

thin nor very white.

“Thou hast wrought too hardly, grandam, mayhap,” said the child. “Fold

up thy hands now, and the portion of the fleece that remaineth be mine

to do;” as she spoke, she wound her arm about the neck of Margery, for

she loved her, albeit she looked so repelling.

“Nay, child,” answered the dame, “it is not often we have so pleasant a

light, and pity ’twere to lose it. We must improve the advantages we

have, little one, else want will be staring us in the face, and

reproaching us with negligence when it is too late. I cannot work as I

could with forty years less weighing me down, so I must do what I may.”

“I saw,” said the child, “when I went to Farmer Jocelin’s, for the

measure of meal thou wottest of, three good tallow-candles alight in one

room. The noonday sun were scarce brighter,” she continued in amazement,

both at the wondrous light and the prodigality. “He must have great

estates, grandam, to maintain such indolent and luxurious life. True,

Mistress Jocelin was at work with some knitting, but not heedfully nor

diligently, but more attentive to the reading of a book, which, indeed,

to look upon was very beautiful, for as Farmer Jocelin held it near the

light, the edges of the leaves glittered like gold, and the leathern

cover was bright as the bosom of the bird that sings in the peach-tree,

here, in summer. But Master Lawrence—what, think you, he did by all

that flood of light? Why, nothing for thrift; for he sat on the matting

of the floor, cutting pieces of smooth brown paper into a kite. Yet he

had a sweet smile, and seemed to have a good heart withal,” added

Charity, and her fingers flew more nimbly through the wool, “for as he

served round a salver of apples, at his mother’s bidding, he urged me to

take one so earnestly, yet kindly, that I might scarce refuse, and when

I did—for that I might not rob Farmer Jocelin of his substance, giving

him nothing in turn—he forced one into my lap and ran laughingly aside,

so that I might not return it.”

“Alas! alas!” said Margery, “have I reared thee thus carefully in vain,

that when thou escapest from my sight, but for a moment, thou yieldest

to sinful temptation, eating the fruit thou hast not earned.”

“Nay, grandam, thy conclusion is over-hasty. I kept the fruit unbruised

and untasted, though its sweet fragrance made it hard to resist, and

when the maid brought in the measure of meal, I gave it to her hand, and

she restored it to the salver; but when Master Lawrence saw it, he

looked as though he would have cried, even in such beautiful light, and

with so much fair brown paper, to fashion as he would.”

“I am glad thou hast wit to serve thee upon occasion,” spoke Margery,

her fingers flying nimbly as the child’s; “and if Farmer Jocelin burns

three good tallow-candles at one time, and that at no merry-making or

gala-night, his children will be the likelier to sit in the light of

fagots—and Master Lawrence was wastefully cutting smooth brown paper. I

am glad thou hadst wit to refuse the apple, but thou shouldst have

frowned smartly the while. If I see the young scapegrace this way, as

belike he may come, with further temptations, I will make my tongue as a

chisel, cutting such a lesson of wisdom and reproof upon his heart, as

he hath never heard, mayhap.”

“But Master Lawrence meant kindly,” said Charity, and casting down her

eyes, she continued, “if we cannot burn tallow-candles, we, at least,

may have the light of dry sticks—shall I not gather more to keep light

as thou tellest the plan thou hast? I would it could make our home

cheery as good candle-light, and a salver of apples, with rinds all

russet and red and yellow.”

“It were good thou hadst not seen the apples,” spoke the dame,

querulously; “better still thou hadst not seen the boy.”

“But the plan, grandam—thou forgettest the plan. Is it that the famous

chopper, Patrick Malony, is to come and fell one of the great hickory or

maple trees of which the wood is full; and are we to have a huge log,

and big, smoothly split sticks to fill the great empty fire-place every

night with light and warmth; or meanest thou once more to saddle

Lily-lace, the mare, and ride to the mill with a full bag of wheat; and

am I to go to the market-town once more, in my black kirtle and straw

hat, and bring home in exchange, for my basket of eggs, butcher’s meat

to broil on the coals, and fragrant tea to fill the little china cups,

with tobacco for thy long empty pipe—in faith, grandam, have I not

guessed shrewdly?”

“My pretty darling, I see thou hast thy head filled with the wildest

extravagance; thou wilt be teasing next for a farthingale of dimity,

ruffles of lace, and blue ribbons for thy hat, or other such like gear.

Thy guesses tally not with prudence, Charity; thou mayest guess again.”

“Ay, then,” said the girl, sorrowfully, “I was wrong from the saddling

of Lily-face to the full pipe of tobacco;” and casting her eyes about

the cold, empty room, she continued, with greater energy—“I have the

very pith of thy thought. Thou wilt unlock the great chest, and take

thence the dainty linen sheets and the thick wool blankets thy hands

have wrought from fleece and flax, and make the bed—wherein we now

shiver the night through, ridden with nightmares and plagued with ugly

dreams—into beauty and comfort. Surely I have guessed thy plan, for the

moth is more wasting than the wear.”

“Foolish child, thy extravagance would be the ruin of me, though I gave

thee management of my affairs but for a day. Were the sheets of linen

and blankets of wool to be used as thou sayest, the chest would soon be

empty, and then how should we fare?”

“As well as now,” thought Charity, but she spoke not, save to say—“that

she should guess no more.”

“Once more, little one,” and Margery patted the child on the head with

one hand, and taking the great staff in the other, she stirred open the

coals vigorously, and as the light flashed upon the girl’s cheek, tears,

large and bright, were seen to stand there, like drops of dew on a lily.

But the old woman urged her to renew her guess with such earnestness and

tenderness that, brushing away the tears, she essayed once again; but

the fervor was gone from her tone, and the light from her glance, as she

said—

“Thou hast planned the mending of the door and window, that the snow may

not drive to great ridges across the floor, and the wind and the rain

beat against us as we sleep.”

“Not so,” answered Margery. “While the winter blows the larger crevices

may be stopped with straw, and the smaller ones with clay, both of which

may be easily removed when the May Queen is dancing on the hills, and

our house be the pleasanter for free air and streaks of sunshine.”

“It may all do very well,” said Charity, “but to-night I can see nothing

so pleasant as great log-fires, tallow-candles, and a salver of red

apples; and, mayhap, it would take Master Lawrence to complete the

picture.”

“Burned not thy cheek to speak it?” continued Margery, peevishly: and

the two wrought at the fleece for a time in silence.

“Thou knowest Lily-face?” said the ancient dame, at length, “that she

groweth old and stiff of limb; thou canst not remember the time when she

nibbled not in my pastures; I think belike, also, she fadeth in the

sight of her right eye, for when, at the last Christmas time, I rode her

to the mill, my old bones were jeopardized by her stumbling, and often

turning of her head to one side, betrayed her defect of vision. But

though she were sound as the silver coin that lieth in the bottom of the

chest, yonder, I must needs barter her away, for that she eateth more

than she earneth, since I may no more buckle round her the girth.

“Thou requirest much exercise in thy growing, Charity, to keep supple

thy joints—thou canst sometimes walk to the market-town for our

absolute wants, which are not many, and as for the wheat-grist, thou

shalt have a mortar and beat it into flour; so Lily-face would but

burden us now, and the corn and the oat-sheaves, and the hay that have

been heaped in her manger, may be sold.

“One beast is enough for a poor body like me, and thou knowest I will

neither barter nor sell Wolf-slayer till the time cometh for the nailing

of the boards to my coffin. And forget not, Charity, that they lie in

the loft, well-seasoned for the using, and for thy life, let them not

buy others in their stead.”

“Far away be the time, good grandam,” sighed the girl. “But the young

die, too; and should I need them first, wilt thou not keep a light, at

least of fagots, the whiles I am dead in the house?”

Foolish child! though it were darker than tempest may make it, and I the

while slept never so sound, no harm could come to thy white corse, if

Wolf-slayer lay by thy coffin.

At the sound of her name, a great black beast, with eyes burning like

coals, and lean and shaggy, crept from the darkest corner of the room,

and laying her head in the lap of Margery, licked her jaws and whined

piteously. “Away with thee, saucy image,” growled the mistress, “thou

hadst the third part of a corn-ear at the sunset, and thinkest thou,

black wench, I will give thee more?” and crouching and whining the

hungry beast slunk back to the corner, and curling herself together,

filled the room presently with her snore.