CHAPTER I.

CHRISTIAN MELVILLE.

CHRISTIAN MELVILLE.

BY THE

AUTHOR OF “MATTHEW PAXTON.”

“There he stands in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,

Crown’d with wild flowers and with heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,

A King--a King!”--LONGFELLOW.

LONDON:

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,

BROADWAY, LUDGATE.

NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.

1873.

CONTENTS.

EPOCH I.

PAGE

CHAPTER I. 9

CHAPTER II. 22

CHAPTER III. 29

EPOCH II.

CHAPTER I. 43

CHAPTER II. 58

EPOCH III.

CHAPTER I. 79

CHAPTER II. 96

EPOCH IV.

CHAPTER I. 117

CHAPTER II. 129

CHAPTER III. 142

CHAPTER IV. 163

EPOCH V.

CHAPTER I. 187

CHAPTER II. 210

CHAPTER III. 234

CHRISTIAN MELVILLE.

EPOCH I.

’Tis beautiful to see the holy might

Of a strong spirit, dedicate to God,

’Tis beautiful to mark the uplifted light,

In vigorous hands pointing the heavenward road,

Continuing steadfast in the noble strife,

Through the world’s dimness shining strong and free;

But fairer still, ’mid quiet household life,

A calm sad chastened spirit praising Thee!

Thee! oh, our Father! from whose hands its thread

Of fate hath run in darkness. Grief’s wide veil

Mantling its youthful days--and o’er its head,

The weeping cloud of fear, while yet its pale

And gentle face is radiant with the faith,

That clings although thou smite, nor quits its hold with Death.

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CHAPTER I.

But deep this truth impress’d my mind--

Thro’ all his works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles God.--BURNS.

The sun had set upon the last evening of a cold and bleak December, and

from the frosty sky, a few stars looked down upon the crowded streets of

one of the largest towns in England; a motley scene, in which the

actors, both gay and sorrowful, went whirling and winding onwards,

altogether unconscious of other scrutiny than from the busy eyes of

their fellows. It was still early, and the whole scrambling restless

world of the great town was astir, pouring out its many-tongued din over

the cheerful pavements, bright with the light from its open shops and

warehouses, and throwing its wide stream, in ceaseless and

ever-spreading volumes, through street and lane and alley. Working men

were hastening homewards, with baskets of tools slung over their

stalwart shoulders, and empty pitchers dangling “at the cold finger’s

end.” Dignified merchants, lean men of arts and letters, spruce

commercial gentlemen, blended among each other like ripples in a river.

Here there was an eddy, where the stream, branching out, swept off in

another direction; there a whirlpool, where the flood pouring in, from a

world of converging ways, involved itself for a moment in mazy

bewilderment, before it found its purposed channel once more: but

everywhere there was the same full and incessant flow, bearing in its

broad bosom the unfailing concomitants of loud-voiced mirth and secret

misery, of anger and of peacefulness, poverty and wealth, apathy and

ambition, which marked its stream for human.

It is not with these many-voiced brilliant streets we have to do

to-night, but with a household in one of them. A very quiet house you

may see it is, though not a gloomy one, for light is shining from the

yet uncurtained windows, pleasant thoughtful cheering fire-light, and

the room has about it the indefinable comfort and brightness of home. It

has at present but one occupant, and she--there is nothing about her

appearance at all extraordinary--she is not very young--not less than

thirty summers have past over those grave and thoughtful features, and

given experience to the quiet intelligence of those clear eyes--nor

beautiful, though those who knew it, loved to look upon her face, and

thought there was there something higher than beauty. You would not

think, to see her now, how blithe her nature was, and how unusual this

sadness; but she _is_ sorrowful to-night. It may be, that in her

cheerful out-goings and in-comings, she has not time to indulge in any

sad recollections, but that they have overcome her, in such a quiet

evening hour as this. The shadows are gathering thicker and deeper, and

the windows of neighbouring houses are all bright, but this room retains

its twilight still. Its solitary tenant leans her head upon her hand,

and gazes into the vacant air, as though she sought for some retiring

figure and found it not. And why may she not be sad? She is a Christian

thoughtful and pure-minded, and the last hours of another year are

wearing themselves away, and is there no food for sadness here?

But there are voices that breathe no sorrow nor sadness coming in

through the half-open door. There is one, a sweet indefinite tone, which

speaks half of childhood, and half of graver years; there is boisterous

rejoicing and obstreperous boyishness in another, and there is a grave

voice, as joyful, but deep and quiet; and, here they come, each one more

mirthful than the other. There is a sprightly girl of some fifteen

summers, a youth her proud superior by two undoubted twelvemonths, and

an elder brother, whose maturer features bear a yet more striking

resemblance to the silent sister, the eldest of them all, about whose

ears a storm of fun and reproof comes rattling down.

“Christian had no time!” says the sage wisdom of seventeen; “yet here is

grave Christian dreaming away her hours in the dim fire-light.”

“You were too busy, Christian, to go out with me,” remonstrates little

Mary--for the endearing caressing epithet “little,” though often

protested against, was still in use in the household--“and you are doing

nothing now.”

But Christian only smiles: strange it seems, that Christian should smile

so sadly!

Now the youthful tongues are loosed. They have been on an important

visit: to-morrow is to see that grave and blushing brother the master of

another house, and that house has this night been subjected to the

admiration and criticism of the younger members of the family, and all

they have seen and wondered at must needs be told now for Christian’s

information; but the elder sister listens with vacant inattentive ear,

and irresponsive eye, until Robert grows indignant, and protests with

boyish fervour, that “It’s a shame for her to be so grave and sad, and

James going to be married to-morrow!” James, the bridegroom, does not

however seem to think so, for he checks his youthful brother, and bends

over Christian tenderly, and Christian’s eyes grow full, and tears hang

on the long lashes. What can make Christian so sad? Let us go with her

to her chamber, and we shall see.

It is a quiet airy pleasant room, rich enough to please even an Oxford

scholar of the olden time, for there are more than “twenty books clothed

in black and red” within its restricted space. There is one windowed

corner, at which, in the summer time, the setting sun streams in, and

for this cause Christian has chosen it, as the depository of her

treasures. There is a portrait hanging on the wall; a mild apostolic

face, with rare benignity in its pensive smile, and genius stamped upon

its pale and spiritual forehead: too pale, alas! and spiritual; for the

first glance tells you, that the original can no longer be in the land

of the living. A little table stands below it, covered with books--a few

old volumes worthy to be laid beneath the word of truth--and there too

lies a Bible. It has a name upon it, and a far-past date, and its pages

tell of careful perusal, and its margin is rich with written comments,

and brief, yet clear, and forcible remarks. Below the name, a trembling

hand has marked another date--you can see it is this day five years--and

a text, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they have entered

into their rest, and their works do follow them.” The faltering hand was

that of Christian Melville, and thus you have the story of her sadness.

This place is the favourite sanctuary of that subdued and chastened

spirit; a holy trysting-place, that has been filled often with a

presence greater than that of earthly king or lord, and Christian is

always happy here, even though--yea, verily, because--she does sit among

these relics of a bygone time, of youthful hopes and expectations which

long ago have come to an end and passed away for ever.

But Christian has other duties now. A heavier step has entered the

dwelling, and she goes calm and cheerful again, and hastens to take her

seat at the merry table, where the father of the family now sits; their

only parent, for they are motherless. Mr. Melville is a good man. There

are none more regular, more exemplary, in the whole ranks of the town’s

respectability; his pew has never been vacant in the memory of

church-going men; his neighbours have not the shadow of an accusation to

bring against him; his character is as upright as his bearing; his

conscience as pure as his own linen. It has been whispered, that his

heart has more affinity to stone than is befitting the heart of a living

man; but Mr. Melville is a gentleman of the highest respectability, and

doubtless that is a slander. He is of good means, he is just in all his

relations, he is courteous, and if he be not pitiful withal, how can so

small an omission detract from a character otherwise so unexceptionable?

His wife has been dead for two or three years, and he speaks of her, as

“his excellent deceased partner.” Christian says, her mother had the

spirit of an angel, and her memory is yet adored by all the household;

but Mr. Melville is a calm person, and does not like raptures. His

family consists of five children. Christian--whose history we have

already glanced at, summed up in her precious relics--is the eldest;

then, there is the bridegroom, James, an excellent well-disposed young

man, just about to form a connection after his father’s own heart; next

in order comes the genius of the family, gay, talented, excitable,

generous Halbert, over whose exuberance of heart his correct parent

shakes his head ominously. This Halbert is a student, and absent from

home at present, so we cannot present him to our readers just now.

Robert is the next in order, a blithe careless youth, having beneath his

boyish gaiety, however, a good deal of the worldly prudence and

calculating foresight of his father and eldest brother; and little

Mary, the flower of all, finishes the list. Mary is the feminine and

softened counterpart of her genius-brother; there is light flashing and

sparkling in her eyes that owns no kindred with the dull settled gleam

of the paternal orbs. There is a generous fire and strength in her

spirit which shoots far beyond the coolness and discretion of prudent

calculating James, and in her school attainments she has already far

surpassed Robert--much to the latter’s chagrin and annoyance at being

beaten by a girl--and these two, Halbert and Mary, are Christian’s

special care.

It is quite true, that her watchful attention hovers about her cold

father in a thousand different ways. It is quite true, that there cannot

be a more affectionate sister than Christian to her elder and younger

brothers; but little anxiety mingles with her affection for, and care

of, them. Their names are not forgotten in her frequent prayers, and

her voice is earnest and fervent, and her heart loving, when she craves

for them the promised blessings and mercies of the Almighty; but her

accents tremble in her supplications when those other names are on her

lips, for visions of snares and pitfalls laid for their beloved feet

have darkened her foreboding fancy with visions of shipwrecked faith and

failing virtue, of ruined hopes and perverted talents, until the very

agony of apprehensive love has invested its objects with a higher

interest than even that of closest kindred. It is hers to watch over, to

lead, to direct, to preserve the purity, to restrain the exuberance of

these gifted spirits, and therefore is there a dignity in Christian’s

eye when she looks on these children of her affections, that beams not

from its clear depths at any other time, and an unconscious solemnity in

her pleasant voice when her kind and gentle counsel falls upon their

ears, that strangers wonder at--for Christian is young--to be so like a

mother.

Such is the family of Mr. Melville, of the prosperous firm of Rutherford

and Melville, merchants, in the great English town, to whom we beg to

introduce our readers.

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CHAPTER II.

Yes, the year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and blear’d!

Death, with frosty hand and cold,

Plucks the old man by the beard

Sorely,--sorely!--LONGFELLOW.

It is New Year’s Eve. There is no twilight now in Mr. Melville’s cheery

parlour, the light is glimmering in the polished furniture, leaping and

dancing in the merry eyes that surround it, and even the grave features

of the head of the house have relaxed into an unwonted smile. The young

people have not forgotten the old Scottish celebration of “Hogmanay,” in

all its observances, and Christian’s stores have been plundered, and

James has fled blushing from their raillery, pursued by the glad echo

of their ringing laughter. How pleasantly it sounds! the passengers

without on the cold pavement linger at the bright window, arrested by

its spell; involuntary smiles steal over grave sober faces, as it rings

out in its frank youthfulness challenging their sympathy, and younger

passers-by echo it with interest in a chorus of their own, and send it

on, louder and louder, through the cold brisk air. How merrily it

sounds!

And Christian is smiling too, but her smile is like the first April

sunbeam, whose fleeting brightness tells of tears at hand. Her thoughts

are solemn; this evening is sacred to the dead, whose image floats

before her pensive eyes, and whose cherished memory hangs about her

inmost heart. She sees the worn and weary frame, so long since laid down

in peace, to sleep and be at rest within the bosom of its mother earth.

She holds communion with the immortal nature so long since perfected.

She is alone amid that mirth, surrounded by mournful remembrances; among

_them_, but united to the dead.

But “James is to be married to-morrow!” and there are household

preparations to make, and when these are finished the hour has come for

their usual evening worship; a pleasant hour at all times to Christian

Melville. Her father has chosen his Psalm appropriately this night, and

the solemn and simple melody swells up, full and clear, through their

quiet habitation.

“Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place

In generations all,

Before thou ever hadst brought forth

The mountains great or small;

Ere ever thou hadst form’d the earth

And all the world abroad,

Ev’n thou from everlasting art

To everlasting, God.”

How vivid is the realisation of Christian, as she sings the words of

that solemn acknowledgment of God’s power and man’s dependence, and, in

true heartfelt appreciation of the Lord’s providential loving-kindness

on the closing night of the year, recognises and gives thanks for His

great goodness. And there is a quivering aged voice blending with the

sweet youthful accents in the song of gratitude; Christian knows right

well that it comes from a heart, a very babe’s in godly simplicity,

which, in the meek confidence of faith, is enabled and privileged to

take the inspired words of the Psalmist for its own. It is old Ailie,

her dead mother’s faithful and trusted servant, and her own humble

friend and counsellor. The reading of the Word is past, the voice of

supplication has ceased, and, gathering round the warm fireside, they

wait the advent of the new year; happily and with cheerfulness wait for

it,--_for it_, for the breath of praise and prayer has driven away the

gloom from the calm horizon of Christian’s gentle spirit, like a cloud

before the freshening gale, and the young faces that know no sorrow are

shining with the very sunlight of happiness. Robert’s eye is on the

time-piece, watching its slow fingers as they creep along to midnight,

and Mary has clasped Christian’s hand in her own, that none may be

before her in her joyful greeting, and the father lingers in his seat

half disposed to melt into momentary kindness, and half ashamed of the

inclination. Twelve! Listen how it peals from a hundred noisy monitors,

filling the quiet midnight air with clamour, and followed by a storm of

gratulation and good wishes in this cheerful room, and out of doors from

so many human tongues, and so often insincere. There is no feigned

affection, however, in this little circle; hand clasps hand warmly, and

voice responds to voice with genuine heartiness. Even Mr. Melville has

foregone his frost, and hurries away that nobody may see him in his

molten state, and Christian calls in Ailie and her younger assistants to

give and receive the “happy new year.” Christian is no niggard in her

annual dainties, and she has risen now with her eyes sparkling:

“A happy new year to Halbert!”

There is a glistening look about those cheerful eyes--for they are

cheerful now--which shows that their brightness is all the brighter for

a tear hovering under the long lashes; and cordially does every voice in

the room echo her wish, “A happy new year to Halbert!” if he were only

here to give it back!

But the blithe ceremonial is over, the embers are dying on the hearth,

and the young eyelids are closed in sleep; why does Christian linger

here? The room is dark, save when some expiring flame leaps up in dying

energy before it passes away, yet there she bends in silent

contemplation, as the dusky red grows darker and darker, and the ashes

fall noiselessly upon the hearth. Is she dreaming over the extinguished

hopes which she has hid in mournful solitude within her steadfast heart?

Is she comparing, in grief’s pathetic power of imagery, these decaying

embers with the happy prospects, the abundant promise, which Death’s

cold fingers have quenched? Ah! Christian has gone far back through the

dim vistas of memory to a chamber of sorrow; a darkened room, where lies

in its unconscious majesty the garment of mortality which a saint has

laid aside. In imagination she weeps her tears all over again, but they

are sweet and gentle now, for Time’s hand is kind, and there is healing

in the touch of his rapid fingers; and now that bitterness worse than

death has passed away, and Christian rejoices even in the midst of her

sadness, for the one she mourns derived his lineage from the highest

blood on earth--the household of faith--and Death has carried him home.

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CHAPTER III.

Kind messages, that pass from land to land;

Kind letters, that betray the heart’s deep history,

In which we feel the pressure of a hand--

One touch of fire,--and all the rest is mystery!

LONGFELLOW.

The morning of the new year is dawning as brightly as winter morning

may, and Christian is up again among her household, preparing for the

great event of the day. Mary and Robert are still employed in their

personal adornments, and James, waiting for his graver sister, watches

the door in terror for their entry; but Christian at last leads the

bridegroom away, and bids the merry youthful couple follow, and James

will not forget, for many a year of the new life on which he is about

to enter, the gentle sisterly counsel which he now receives: how

unselfish, how generous she is! His future wife may be a sister in name,

but she can never be so in spirit; Christian knows that well, but how

sweetly she speaks of her, how warmly she encourages her brother’s

affection, how gently she leads his thoughts to his new duties, and

urges upon him, in admonitory yet tender kindness, their lasting

obligation. His home will be a happy one, if he becomes what Christian

wishes and presses him to be.

Mr. Melville fancies that there could not, by any chance, be a better

arrangement than James’s marriage with Elizabeth Rutherford, the only

daughter of his wealthy partner; so natural at once, and business-like,

for James of course, will just step into the place vacated by his worthy

seniors, when their time comes to depart from Exchange and

counting-house: a most excellent arrangement; Elizabeth is a pretty

girl too, a little gay perhaps, but time will remedy and quiet that.

Christian said some foolish thing about the Rutherfords being vain

worldly people, but Christian always spoke foolishly on such subjects.

There could not have been a better arrangement, and armed with this

deliverance of paternal wisdom, James had been a successful wooer and

suitor, and gay Elizabeth Rutherford will be Christian’s sister to-day.

We leave the wedding, with all its vows, and pomps, and ceremony, to the

imagination of the gentle reader. It will suffice to say, that James was

married, and that all went off as well and as merrily as is usually the

case. But it is now the new year’s night and Christian is at home, and

there, lying on her own table, at her own corner of the cheerful

fireside, lies a prize; “a letter from Halbert!” Christian has thrown

herself into a chair, and is busy unfolding the precious document, and

little Mary’s bright eyes are sparkling over her shoulder; but we must

not describe Halbert’s epistle, we shall rather give it _in extenso_.

“MY DEAR CHRISTIAN,

“I have been congratulating myself, that amidst all your

multitudinous avocations at this eventful time, the reading of my

periodical epistle will be some relief to you, and in benevolent

consideration of your overwhelming cares, intend--in spite of your

late reproof on my levity, which natheless, dear Christian, is not

levity, but _fun_--to fill this, at present unsullied sheet, with

as much nonsense as possible. However, I will so far subdue my

propensities, as to make my second sentence--concerning, as it

does, so very important an event in the family--a serious enough

one. I have a feeling about this marriage of James’s which I can

hardly explain, even to myself; I suppose, because it is the first

break in the family, the first introduction of change; and it seems

so extraordinary a thing at first, that we, who have lived all our

lives together, should be able to form connections nearer and

dearer with others, than those which exist among ourselves. I could

almost be glad, Christian, that _your_ loss--forgive me for

speaking of it--will preserve you to us all; and James’s choice too

rather surprises me! I was not wont to have a very high idea of

Elizabeth Rutherford’s qualities; I hope, however, for James’s

sake, that I have been greatly mistaken: I have written him a

congratulatory letter. I must confess to you though, that my

congratulations would have been much more cordial, had our new

sister-in-law come nearer my ideal. You know that I have a very

high standard.

“We are enjoying our moment of breathing time very much--we

students--in our classical and poetical retreats in the attics of

Edinburgh, putting the stores of mental _plenishing_, which have

been accumulating on our hands or lying in disorder in our heads

for the past months, into their fitting places and order, and

preparing the still unfurnished apartments for the reception of

more. I suppose you will be thinking, that in one suite at least of

these same empty inner rooms, there will be a vast quantity of

clearing out required, before the formerly unmolested heterogeneous

literary rubbish give place to the fair array of philosophical and

theological lore, which must needs supplant it--and so there is. I

do assure you, that at this present moment, the clearing out and

scouring goes on vigorously. You should see how I turn my old

friends out of doors to make way for the flowing full-robed dignity

of their stately successors. The toil of study has, however, so

much real pleasure mixed with it, after the first drudgery is over,

that I don’t long very anxiously for its conclusion, though that is

drawing near very rapidly. I suppose, if I am spared, I shall be

ready to enter upon the work, to which we have so often looked

forward, in little more than eighteen months. Well, time is not

wont to be a laggard, and I hope when he runs round that length, he

will find me better prepared for the duties and labours of my high

vocation than I am now. Do you know, Christian, I have had lately a

kind of fearful feeling, whenever I think of the future; what is

the cause I cannot tell, unless it be one of those presentiments

that sometimes--at least so we have heard--overshadow the minds of

people who are, or who are about to be, exposed to danger. I am

not, you know, in the least; nevertheless, I have not the same

pleasure in looking forward that I used to have. I wish you would

try and explain this enigma for me.

“I told you lately, you will remember, that I had made a very

agreeable acquaintance, in a Mr. Walter Forsyth. I like him better

the more I see of him, for he has great natural ability and

extraordinary cultivation, united to the most captivating manners.

I know you are very impassive to our masculine attractions, yet I

hardly think, Christian, you could help being much pleased with

him. He is a good deal older than I am, and is moreover of

considerably higher station in the world than a student, and

therefore I feel his attention to me the more gratifying. I have

been at his house several times, and have met a good many of our

Edinburgh _savans_ there: none of them of the kind though that you

would expect me to be associating with; for Forsyth’s friends are

not exactly of the same character as my future position would

require mine to be. Don’t think from this that I have got into bad

company--just the reverse, I assure you, Christian--they are almost

all very accomplished agreeable men, and I like them exceedingly.

Forsyth is very liberal in his ways of thinking, perhaps you might

think too much so; but he has mixed much with the world, and

travelled a great deal, and so has come to look upon all kinds of

opinions with indulgence, however much they may differ from his

own: altogether, I cannot sum up his good qualities better than by

saying, that he is a most fascinating man. I am afraid you will

think I am getting very suddenly attached to my friend, but I feel

quite sure he deserves it.

“I charge you to remember me, with all fraternal kindness, to our

new sister-in-law. I suppose I shall have to beg pardon personally

for various bygone affrays, of which I was the provoker long ago,

‘when we were bairns.’ Tell Mary I am very much afraid she will be

following James’s example, and that she must positively let me be

first, and for yourself, dear Christian, believe me always

“Your very affectionate brother,

“HALBERT MELVILLE.”

The first night of the year fell on a happy household. The senior of

all, its head, satisfied and self-complacent; his grave and gentle

daughter, full of such hopeful and pleasant thoughts as stifled the

strange misgivings and forebodings that had sprung up within her when

she had read the character of that much esteemed friend, who already

seemed to have secured so large a portion of her brother’s affection--in

Halbert’s letter; and the younger pair, as became the evening of so

great a holiday, tired out with their rejoicing. The evening closed

cheerily around them, and threw its slumberous curtain about every

separate resting-place, as though it had a charge over them in their

peaceful sleep, and predicted many a sweet awakening and many a

prosperous day.

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CHRISTIAN MELVILLE.

EPOCH II.

Behold the tempter!--to the expectant air

The hoarse-voiced wind whispers its coming dread,

And ancient Ocean from his mighty head

Shakes back the foaming tangles of his hair,

Gathering his strength that giant power to dare,

That chafes to fury all his thousand waves,

And digs in his deep sand unlooked for graves,

Whelming the hapless barks that voyage there.

Fierce is the rage of elemental strife;

Yet who may tell how far exceeds that war

That rends the inner seat of mental life,

Veils the soul’s sky--shuts out each guiding star.

The fiercest tempest raging o’er the sea,

But pictures what the might of mental storms may be.

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CHAPTER I.

That there is not a God, the fool

Doth in his heart conclude:

They are corrupt, their works are vile;

Not one of them doth good.

* * * * *

There feared they much; for God is with

The whole race of the just.--PSALM xiv.

Another December has begun to lower in the dim skies with wintry

wildness, to bind the earth with iron fetters, and to cover its surface

with its snowy mantle, as we enter for the first time another town, far

from that English borough in which we lingered a year ago. An ancient

city is this, within whose time-honoured walls the flower and pride of

whatever was greatest and noblest in Scotland, has ever been found

through long descending ages. Elevated rank, mighty mental ability,

eminent piety, the soundest of all theology, the most thorough of all

philosophy, and the truest patriotism, have ever been concentrated

within its gates. Here men are common, who elsewhere would be great, and

the few who do stand out from amid that mass of intellect stand out as

towers, and above that vast aggregate of genius and goodness are seen

from every mountain in Christendom, from every Pisgah of intellectual

vision, whereon thoughtful men do take their stations, as suns amid the

stars. And alas that we should have to say it, where vice also erects

its head and stalks abroad with an unblushing front, and a fierce

hardihood, lamentable to behold. We cannot, to-night, tread its

far-famed halls of learning, we may not thread our way through the busy,

seething multitudes of its old traditionary streets; but there is one

chamber, from whose high windows a solitary light streams out into the

murky air, into which we must pass.

It is a plain room, not large, and rich in nothing but books; books

which tell the prevalent pursuits, tastes, and studies of its owner,

filling the shelves of the little bookcase, covering the table, and

piled in heaps on floor and chairs: massive old folios, ponderous

quartos, and thick, dumpy little volumes, of the seventeenth century, in

faded vellum, seem most to prevail, but there are others with the fresh

glitter of modern times without, and perhaps with the false polish of

modern philosophies within. With each of its two occupants we have yet

to make acquaintance; one is a tall, handsome man, already beyond the

freshness of his youth, well-dressed and gentleman-like, but having a

disagreeable expression on his finely formed features, and a glittering

look in his eye--a look at once exulting and malicious, such as you

could fancy of a demon assured of his prey. The other, with whom he is

engaged in earnest conversation, is at least ten years his junior;

young, sensitive, enthusiastic, he appears to be, with an ample forehead

and a brilliant eye, as different as possible in its expression from the

shining orb of the other. There is no malice to be seen here, no sneer

on those lips, no deceit in that face, open, manly, eloquent and

sincere. Famed in his bygone career, he is covered with academic

honours, is full of vigour, of promise, of hopefulness, with eloquence

on his lips, and logic in his brain, and his mind cultured thoroughly,

the favoured of his teachers, the beloved of his companions, the brother

of our gentle Christian, our acquaintance of last year in his letter to

Christian--Halbert Melville.

But what is this we see to-night! How changed does he seem, then so

beautiful, so gallant; there is a fire in his eyes, a wild fire that

used not to be there, and the veins are swollen on his forehead, and

stand out like whipcord. His face is like the sea, beneath the sudden

squall that heralds the coming hurricane, now wild and tossed in its

stormy agitation, now lulled into a desperate and deceitful calmness.

His lips are severed one moment with a laugh of reckless mirth, and the

next, are firmly compressed as if in mortal agony, and he casts a look

around as if inquiring who dared to laugh. His arm rests on the table,

and his finger is inserted between the pages of a book--one of the

glittering ones we can see, resplendent in green and gold--to which he

often refers, as the conversation becomes more and more animated; again

and again he searches its pages, and after each reference he reiterates

that terrible laugh, so wild, so desperate, so mad, while his

companion’s glittering serpent eye, and sneering lip, send it back

again in triumph. What, and why is this?

Look at the book, which Halbert’s trembling hand holds open. Look at

this little pile laid by themselves in one corner of the room, the gift

every one of them of the friend who sits sneering beside him, the

Apostle of so-called spiritualism, but in reality, rank materialism, and

infidelity, and you will see good cause for the internal struggle, which

chases the boiling blood through his youthful veins, and moistens his

lofty brow with drops of anguish. The tempter has wrought long and

warily; Halbert’s mind has been besieged in regular form; mines have

been sprung, batteries silenced, bastions destroyed--at least, to

Halbert’s apprehension, rendered no longer tenable; point by point has

he surrendered, stone by stone the walls of the citadel have been

undermined, and the overthrowal is complete. Halbert Melville is an

unbeliever, an infidel, for the time. Alas! that fair and beauteous

structure, one short twelvemonth since so grand, so imposing, so seeming

strong and impregnable, lies now a heap of ruins. No worse sight did

ever captured fortress offer, after shot and shell, mine and

counter-mine, storm and rapine had done their worst, than this, that

that noble enthusiastic mind should become so shattered and confused and

ruinous.

There is a pause in the conversation. Halbert has shut his book, and is

bending over it in silence. Oh, that some ray of light may penetrate his

soul, transfix these subtle sophisms, and win him back to truth and

right again; for what has he instead of truth and right? only dead

negations and privations; a series of Noes--no God, no Saviour, no Devil

even, though they are his children; no immortality, no hereafter--a

perfect wilderness of Noes. But his tempter sees the danger.

“Come, Melville,” he says rising, “you have been studying too long

to-day; come man, you are not a boy to become melancholy, because you

have found out at last, what I could have told you long ago, that these

nonsensical dreams and figments, that puzzled you a month or two since,

are but bubbles and absurdities after all--marvellously coherent we must

confess in some things, and very poetical and pretty in others--but so

very irrational that they most surely are far beneath the consideration

of men in these days of progress and enlightenment. Come, you must go

with me to-night, I have some friends to sup with me, to whom I would

like to introduce you. See, here is your hat; put away Gregg, and

Newman, just now, the Nemesis can stand till another time--by-the-by,

what a struggle that fellow must have had, before he got to light. Come

away.”

Poor Halbert yielded unresistingly, rose mechanically, put away the

books so often opened, and as if in a dream, his mind wandering and

unsettled so that he hardly knew what he was about, he listened to his

companion’s persuasions, placed his arm within his “friend” Forsyth’s,

and suffered himself to be led away, the prey in the hands of the

fowler, the tempted by the tempter. Poor fallen, forsaken Halbert

Melville!

The quiet moments of the winter evening steal along, the charmed hour of

midnight has passed over the hoary city, slumbering among its mountains.

Through the thick frosty air of that terrible night no moonbeam has

poured its stream of blessed light; no solitary star stood out on the

clouded firmament to tell of hope which faileth never, and life that

endures for evermore, far and long beyond this narrow circuit of joys

and sorrows. Dark, as was one soul beneath its gloomy covering, lowered

the wide wild sky above, and blinding frost mist, and squalls laden

with sleet, which fell on the face like pointed needles, had driven

every passenger who had a home to go to, or could find a shelter, or a

refuge, from the desolate and quiet streets. In entries, and the mouths

of closes, and at the foot of common stairs, little heaps of miserable

unfortunates were to be seen huddled together, seeking warmth from

numbers, and ease of mind from companionship, even in their vice and

wretchedness. Hour after hour has gone steadily, slowly on, and still

that chamber is empty, still it lacks its nightly tenant, and the faint

gleam of the fire smouldering, shining fitfully, now on the little pile

of poison, now on the goodly heaps of what men call dry books and

rubbish, but which a year ago Halbert considered as the very triumphs of

sanctified genius. Hither and thither goes the dull gleam, but still he

comes not.

But hark, there is a step upon the stair, a hurried, feverish,

uncertain step, and Halbert Melville rushes into his deserted room, wan,

haggard, weary, with despair stamped upon his usually firm, but now

quivering lip, and anguish, anguish of the most terrible kind, in his

burning eye. He has been doubting, fearing, questioning, falling away

from his pure faith--falling away from his devout worship, losing

himself and his uprightness of thought, because questioning the

soundness of his ancient principles and laying them aside one by one,

like effete and worthless things. He has been led forward to doubt by

the most specious sophistry--not the rigid unflinching inquiry of a

truth-seeker, whose whole mind is directed to use every aid that

learning, philosophy, history, and experience can furnish, to find, or

to establish what is true and of good repute, but the captious search

for seeming flaws and incongruities, the desire to find some link so

weak that the whole chain might be broken and cast off. In such spirit

has Halbert Melville been led to question, to doubt, to mock, at length,

and to laugh, at what before was the very source of his strength and

vigour, and the cause of his academical success. And he has fallen--but

to-night--to-night he has gone with open eyes into the haunts of

undisguised wickedness--to-night he has seen and borne fellowship with

men unprincipled, not alone sinning against God, whose existence they

have taught Halbert to deny, whose laws they have encouraged him, by

their practice and example, to despise, contemn, and set aside, but also

against their neighbours in the world and in society. To-night, while

his young heart was beating with generous impulses,--while he still

loathed the very idea of impurity and iniquity, he has seen the friends

of his “friend,” he has seen his favoured companion and immaculate guide

himself, whose professions of purity and uprightness have often charmed

him, who scorned God’s laws, because there was that innate dignity in

man that needed not an extraneous monitor, whose lofty, pure nature has

been to Halbert that long twelvemonth something to reverence and admire;

him has he seen entering with manifest delight into all the vile

foulness of unrestrained and unconcealed sin, into all the unhallowed

orgies of that midnight meeting and debauch. Unhappy Halbert! The veil

has been torn from his eyes, he sees the deep, black fathomless abyss

into which he has been plunged, the hateful character of those who have

dragged him over its perilous brink, who have tempted him to wallow in

the mire of its pollutions and to content himself with its flowing wine,

its hollow heartless laughter, its dire and loathsome pleasures.

The threatenings of the Scriptures, so long forgotten and neglected,

ring now in his terrified ears, like peals of thunder, so loud and

stern their dread denunciations. His conscience adopts so fearfully that

awful expression, “The fool hath said in his heart there is no God,”

that the secret tones of mercy, whispering ever of grace and pardon, are

all unheard and unheeded, and he was in great fear, for the Lord is in

the generation of the righteous. He leans his burning brow upon the

table, but starts back as if stung by an adder, for he has touched one

of those fatal books, whose deadly contents, so cunningly used by his

crafty tempter, overthrew and made shipwreck of his lingering faith, and

has become now a very Nemesis to him. With a shudder of abhorrence and

almost fear, he seizes the volume and casts it from him as an unclean

thing, and then starts up and paces the room with wild and unsteady

steps for a time, then throws himself down again and groans in agony.

See! he is trying with his white and quivering lips to articulate the

name of that great Being whom he has denied and dishonoured, but the

accents die on his faltering tongue. He cannot pray, he fancies that he

is guilty of that sin unpardonable of which he has often read and

thought with horror. Is he then lost? Is there no hope for this

struggling and already sore-tired spirit? Is there no succour in Heaven?

The gloom of night gathering thicker and closer round about him, the

dying sparkle of the fire, the last faint fitful gleam of the expiring

candle leaping from its socket, and as it seems to him soaring away to

heaven, cannot answer. Surely there will yet be a morrow.

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[Illustration: text decoration]

CHAPTER II.

Alone walkyng. In thought plainyng,

And sore sighying. All desolate

My remembrying Of my livying.

My death wishying Bothe erly and late.

Infortunate, Is so my fate

That wote ye what, Out of mesure

My life I hate; Thus desperate

In such pore estate, Doe I endure.--CHAUCER.

A few weeks have passed away since that terrible night, and we are again

in Christian Melville’s quiet home. It is on the eve of the new year,

but how different is the appearance of those assembled within this still

cheerful room from the mirth and happiness which made their faces shine

one short twelvemonth since. Our Christian is here, sitting with her

head bent down, and her hands clasped together with convulsive

firmness. _Here_ is little Mary drooping by her side like a stricken

flower, while the only other person in the apartment sits sulkily beside

them with a discontented, ill-humoured look upon her pretty features,

which contrasts strangely, and not at all agreeably, with the pale and

anxious faces of her companions--her sisters--for this unhappy looking,

discontented woman is James Melville’s wife. Strange and terrifying news

of Halbert have reached them, “that he has fallen into errors most fatal

and hazardous to his future prospects, and all unlike as of his proposed

vocation so of his former character, that he had become acquainted and

been seen publicly with most unfit and dangerous companions,” writes a

kind and prudent Professor, who has from the first seen and appreciated

the opening promise of Halbert’s mind. Two or three days ago James, his

brother, has set off to see if these things be true or no, and to

bring, if possible and if needful, the wandering erring spirit--we

cannot call him prodigal yet--home. The spirit of Christian, the

guardian sister, had sunk within her at these terrible tidings; was she

not to blame--had she done her part as she ought to have done--had she

not been careless--is she guiltless of this sad catastrophe? She

remembered Halbert’s letter of the past new year--she remembered how

studiously he had kept from home all this weary year--she remembered

how, save for one hurried visit, he had stayed at a distance from them

all, pleading engagements with his friend, that friend that had now

proved so deadly a foe. A thousand things, unheeded at the time, sprung

up in Christian’s memory in lines of fire. The friend of Halbert,

free-thinking at the first, what was he? the unwonted restraint of the

young brother’s correspondence, the studied omission of all reference to

sacred things, or to his own prospective avocations in his letters,

which in former times used to be the chief subjects of his glowing and

hopeful anticipations, the bitterness of tone which had crept into his

once playful irony, all these which had only caused a momentary

uneasiness, because of her dependence on Halbert’s steadfast settled

principles, flashed back with almost intolerable distinctness now. Alas!

for Christian’s recollections--“I am to blame; yes, I ought to have

warned him, even gone to him,” she thinks; “was he not left me as a

precious treasure, to be guarded, to be warned, to be shielded from ill?

Oh! that he was home once more.” Alas! for Christian’s recollections, we

say again; the iron fingers of Time measure out the moments of that last

lingering hour; again light hearts wait breathless for its pealing

signal, as they did of old, but these silent watchers here have no ear

for any sounds within their own sorrowful dwelling, though there is not

a passing footstep on the street without that does not ring upon their

anxious ears in echoing agony; there is not a sound of distant wheels

bearing, mayhap, some reveller to and fro, which does not bring an

alternate throb and chill to their painful beating hearts. This

stillness is past all bearing, it is painfully unendurable, and

Christian springs to the door and gazes out upon the cold and cheerless

street, and as she does so a thoughtless passenger wishes her a “happy

new year.” Alas! to speak of happiness, a happy new year to her in such

a moment as this!

Mrs. James Melville is astonished at all this grief; she cannot

understand nor fathom it. Suppose Halbert _has_ been foolish, and

behaved ill, what then? Why should her husband have gone off so

suddenly, and her sister-in-law be in such a state? She was sure she

could not comprehend it, and would have been very foolish to have done

such foolish things for all the brothers in the universe. Young men will

be young men, and they should be left to come to themselves, instead of

all this to-do being made about them; it was preposterous and absurd,

and put her in a very ridiculous position; and so Mrs. James pouted and

sulked and played with her chains and her rings, stopping now and then

in her agreeable relaxation to cast a glance of contemptuous scorn at

restless, excited, anxious Christian, and drooping, fragile Mary. A nice

way this to bring in the new year, the first anniversary of her married

life, the first return of the day of her wedding; a nice state James

would be in for her party of to-morrow evening; and Mrs. James, by way

of venting her ill-humour, shoved away with her slippered foot, a little

dog which was sleeping before the cheerful fire. How Christian starts as

it cries and creeps to her feet: it is Halbert’s dog, and as her eye

falls on it, its youthful owner seems to stand before her, so young, so

frank, so innocent! now gay as a child, making the walls echo with his

overflowing mirth; now grave and serious, like the dead mother whose

latest breath had committed him as a precious jewel to her, and bidden

her watch over him and guard him with her life. Oh, had she neglected

her charge! Was this fault, this apparent wreck _hers_?

The passing footsteps grew less and less frequent; what can detain them?

Old Mr. Melville and his son Robert have gone to meet James

and--Halbert--if Halbert be only with him, and Christian trembles as she

repeats that pregnant _if_. Her heart will break if they come not soon:

she cannot bear this burden of anxiety much longer. Hush! there are

footsteps, and they pause at the door. Sick at heart, Christian rushes

to it again with little Mary by her side; there at the threshold are

her father, James, Robert; she counts them painfully, one by one; but

where is Halbert? where is her boy? The long-cherished expectation is at

once put to flight; the artificial strength of excitement has gone, and

Christian would have fallen to the ground, but for James’s supporting

arm.

“Christian,” he whispered, as he led her back to her seat in the parlour

again, “I know you can command yourself, and you must try to do so now,

for you will need all your strength to-night.”

James’s voice was hoarse, and his eyes bloodshot. Where is--what has

become of Halbert? The story is soon told. When James reached Edinburgh,

he had gone straight to Halbert’s lodging, and found when he arrived at

it, that his brother had disappeared, gone away, whither the people knew

not; his fellow-students and professors were equally ignorant; and all

that he could clearly ascertain was, that the reports they had been

grieved so much with were too true; that one night some weeks before the

day that James went to the lodgings, Halbert had gone out, been seen in

several places of the worst character, with men known as profligates,

and abandoned, and had come home very late. That since then he had been

like a man in despair--mad--his simple landlady said; and she pointed to

the books he had left, crowding the shelves and littering the floor of

her little room; that two nights before James had arrived--having been

shut up all the day--he had gone suddenly out, telling her to send a

parcel lying on his table as directed, the next morning. On his

mantel-piece was a letter, apparently forgotten, for Christian. “Here it

is,” said James in conclusion, handing it to her, “would that it could

comfort you!”

Christian broke the seal with eager, trembling fingers; perhaps, after

all, there might be some comfort here:

“CHRISTIAN,

“Do not hate me! do not forsake me!” (thus did it begin; and it

seemed as if the paper was blistered with tears, so that the words

were almost illegible; and thus went on the trembling words of poor

Halbert’s almost incoherent letter). “I am still your brother; but

they will tell you how I have fallen; they will tell you of my

guilt--but none--none can tell, can comprehend my misery. I dare

not come near you. I dare not return home to pollute the air you

breathe with my presence. I feel myself a Cain or a Judas, branded

and marked, that all men may shrink from me as from a pestilence;

and I must rush out from their sight afar, and from their contact.

It is enough that I feel the eye of God upon me--of that God whom I

have denied and contemned, whose throne I strove to overturn with

my single arm, feeble and frail as it is--continually upon me, on

my secret heart burning in on the quivering spirit, my sentence of

hopeless, helpless condemnation! They will tell you that I am mad.

Oh, that I were, and had been so for these last months, that now I

might lose the sense of my sin and of the hopeless despair which

haunts me night and day! Christian, I am no infidel, or as the

tempters called it, spiritualist now. I shrink and tremble just the

same while alone, and when among the crowd, from that terrible

Spirit that pursues and searches me out everywhere--terrible in

holiness; inexorable in justice, and I cannot pray, ‘Be merciful, O

thou holy and eternal One.’

“Christian, do you remember that fearful word of Scripture, ‘It is

impossible to renew them again unto repentance, seeing they crucify

to themselves the Son of God afresh, and put him to an open

shame?’ _I_ have entered into the unspeakable bitterness of its

doom; it rings in my ears without intermission; ‘it is impossible

to be renewed again.’ But you can pray, Christian; _you_ have not

cast all hope behind you; and if it is not sin to pray for one

accursed, pray for me. It may be I shall never see you again; I

know not where I go; I know not what I shall do! There is no peace

left for me on earth; and no peace, no hope, no refuge beyond it,

that I can see.

“Your brother,

“HALBERT MELVILLE.”

And where is Christian now? She is lying with rigid marble face and

closed eyes, insensible to all the care bestowed upon her, in a dead

faint. They are chafing her cold hands and bathing her temples, and

using all the readiest means at hand for her recovery. Is Christian

gone?--can this letter have killed her?--has she passed away under the

pressure of this last great calamity. No: God has happier days in store

for his patient servant yet; and by-and-by she is raised from her

deathlike faint, and sits up once more; but it seems as if despair had

claimed a second prey, so pitiful and mournful is that face, and its

expression so changed, that they are all afraid; and little Mary clasps

her hand in an agony, and lifts up her tear-stained face to her sister,

and whispers--

“Christian! Christian!” in broken, tearful accents.

“We will make every inquiry possible to be made,” said James,

soothingly; “we may yet bring him back, Christian.”

“I don’t know what this frenzy means!” says Mr. Melville. “Depend upon

it Halbert will come back, and he’ll soon see the folly of this outburst

of feeling; and you see, Christian, he says he’s no infidel or atheist

now, so you need not be so put out of the way by his letter.”

Mary says nothing more but “Christian! Christian!” and her arm glides

round her sister, and her graceful head rests on Christian’s bosom. It

is enough: she may not--must not sink down in despair; she has duties to

all those around her; she must not give way, but be up and doing.

And there are words of better comfort spoken in her ear to-night ere

sleep comes near her; the hand that rocked her cradle in infancy, that

tended her so carefully in childhood, draws the curtain gently round

her.

“Dinna misdoubt, or lose hope, Miss Christian,” sobs old Ailie, her own

tears falling thick and fast the while she speaks; “the bairn of sae

mony supplications will never be a castaway; he may gang astray for a

while, he may be misled, puir lad, or left to himself and fall, and

have a heavy weird to dree or a’ be done, but he’ll no be a lost ane.

No, Miss Christian, no, dinna think sae, and distress yoursel’ as you’re

doing--take my word, ye’ll baith hear and see guid o’ Mr. Halbert yet.”

Oh, holy and sublime philosophy, what sure consolation flows in your

simple words!

So closes that dawn of the new year on this sorrowing household. Alas,

how strange the contrast! A year ago, all, masters and servants, with

fervour and enthusiasm, and with heartfelt prayers, wished a “Good, a

happy New Year to Halbert” far away; but there is none of that now,

Halbert’s first year has been a year of trial, mental struggle, and

failure so far, and though the same deep love--or even deeper, for these

loving hearts cling even more closely to him now, in his time of

distress and despair--animates them still, they dare not wish each

other, far less openly propose for him, the “happy new year” so usual.

Poor household, it may be rich in world’s gear, and world’s comforts,

but the chaplet has lost a rose, and he, so precious to them all, is

lost to their ken, vanished from their sight, as it were, and all the

remembrance of him that remains is that of a “broken man.”

But where is Halbert? Away, in a struggling ship, tossing on the stormy

bosom of the wide Atlantic, alone upon the storm-swept deck, whence

everything, not fastened with wood and iron, has been driven by these

wintry seas; boats, bulwarks, deck load and lumber, are all gone into

the raging deep, and yet he stands on the deck, drenched by every sea,

watching the giant billows, before which all but he are trembling,

uncovered, while the lightning gleams athwart the seething waters, and

the thunder peals out in incessant volleys overhead; unsheltered, while

the big raindrops pour down in torrents from the heavy cloud-laden sky.

There is no rest for him; in vain does he stretch himself in his uneasy

cot; in vain forces the hot eyelid to close upon the tearless eye; since

he wrote Christian, all weeping and tears have been denied him. Sleep,

which comes in healing quietness to all his shipmates, does not visit

him; or, if for a moment wrapped in restless slumbers, dreams of fearful

import rise up before him, far surpassing in their dread imagery the

gloomiest and most horrible conceptions of his waking thoughts or fancy,

too horrible to bear; and the wretched dreamer starts out into the

dreary air, thinking himself a veritable Jonah, to whom this tempest and

these stormy seas are sent as plagues, and he stands a fit spectator of

that external elemental warfare, which is but a type and emblem, fierce

though it be, of the raging war within.

See, how he stands, invulnerable in his despair, the strong masts

quivering like wands in the furious tempest, the yards naked, and not a

rag of sail that would stand before it for an instant; the decks swept

by the sea at every moment, and nothing looked for now, by the

staunchest seaman on board, but utter and speedy destruction. “The ship

cannot stand this much longer,” whispers the captain to his chief mate;

“she’ll founder in an hour, or become water-logged, which would be as

bad, or worse, at this season and in this latitude. Stand by for

whatever may happen.” And yet, all this time, there is not an eye in

that strained and struggling ship but Halbert’s, that does not shrink

from looking upon the boiling sea; there is not a heart but his, however

hardened or obdurate it be, which does not breathe some inward prayer,

though it be but some half-forgotten infant’s rhyme. But Halbert

Melville stands alone, uncompanioned, and uncomplaining in his secret

grief; no blessed tear of sorrow hangs on the dark lash of his fevered

eye; no syllable of supplication severs his parched lips; the liberal

heavens, which drop grace upon all, are shut, in his agonised belief, to

him alone. He cannot weep; he dare not pray.

[Illustration: text decoration]

CHRISTIAN MELVILLE.

EPOCH III.

There’s joy and mourning wondrously entwined

In all that’s mortal: sometimes the same breeze

That bringeth rest into one weary mind

Heralds another’s sorer agonies;

Sometimes the hour that sees one battle end

Beholds as sad a time of strife begin;

And sometimes, hearts rejoicing as they win

Themselves the victory, tremble for a friend.

Ah me! how vain to think that mortal ken

Can ever, with love-cleared vision, judge aright.

Doth danger dwell alone ’mong stranger men,

Or safety aye ’neath home’s protecting light?

Shield us, our Father! in our every lot

Thou blendest joy and grief that we forget thee not.

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CHAPTER I.

Then followed that beautiful season,

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the summer of All Saints!

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape

Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean

Was for a moment consoled.--LONGFELLOW’S _Evangeline_.

Two years have worn on their slow course, two tedious, weary years, and

the first days of December have again arrived. We are now under a

sunnier sky than that of England, and on the outskirts of an old,

wide-spreading, perhaps, primeval forest, full of giant pines and

hemlocks, and the monarch oak, beside which the axe of the back-woodsman

has never yet been lifted. It is morning, and the sun gleams on the

brilliant, dewy leaves of trees, in detached and scattered groups, each

clad like the beloved of Jacob in his coat of many colours. The Indian

summer, pleasant and evanescent, is on the wane, and there is a soft

murmur of falling leaves, as the morning breeze steals through the

rustling foliage, and save for that, and the usual sounds of the

forest--the diapason of that natural organ--all is still, and hushed,

and silent. We are on the eve of winter, we witness the russet leaves

falling before every breath of wind, but yet the grass is as green as

ever, and wild flowers and creepers, luxuriant among the tangled

under-brush, festoon the branches with their hanging blossoms. Here is

one leafy arcade, where sunshine and shadow dance in tremulous

alternation on the soft velvety turf beneath; and hark! the silence is

broken; there are the sounds of footsteps on the green sward, the

crackling of dried twigs which have fallen, and the sounds of some

approaching creature. The charm is broken, into this natural temple some

one has entered; who can it be, and for what end does he come?

Down this arcade comes the intruder, deeper and deeper into the forest;

he seems to have no settled purpose here, but wanders below the drooping

branches in meditative silence, communing with his heart, and inhaling

as it seems the melancholy tenderness which floats in the shadowy

air--melancholy because anticipating the departure of those bright

lingerers in summer’s lengthened train; and tender, because remembering

how Nature, the universal mother, gathers in beneath her wintry mantle

those children of her care, and nourishes them in her genial bosom till

spring robes her anew with their verdure and their flowers. He seems no

stranger to these gentle sympathies, this solitary wayfarer, but looks

upon the gay foliage and clinging flowers as if they were ancient

friends. He is young, but there is a shadow on his face which tells of

mental suffering and grief, though it seems of grief whose agony and

bitterness has past away. His face is thin, worn, and thoughtful, there

are deep furrows on his cheek and brow, the traces of some great and

long-enduring struggle; his eyes are cast down, and his lips move from

time to time, as though they were repeating words of comfort, with which

he was striving to strengthen himself, and ever and anon he anxiously

raises his earnest eyes to heaven, as if he sought for light to his soul

and assurance there; and then again his head is bent down towards the

greensward as if in sudden humility, and a sigh of conscious guilt or

unworthiness breaks from his labouring breast, and he writhes as if he

felt a sudden agonising pang. It is evident that this lonely man seeks

for something which he has not, of the lack of which he is fully

conscious, and which he desires with all the intensity of a soul’s most

ardent and earnest longing to obtain; wealth it cannot be, nor fame, nor

honour, for this wild wilderness, this place so solitary and far from

the abodes of men, is not where these are either sought or found. On the

trunk of a giant pine which lies across the green arcade, a trophy of

the last winter’s storms, he seats himself; the gentle gale breathes

through the wood in long low sighings, which come to the ear like a

prolonged moan; the leaves fall softly with a pleasant plaintive cadence

to their mossy grave; the sun looks down from the heavens, veiling his

glory with a cloud, as though he feared to gaze too keenly on a scene so

fair and solemn; the heart of the lonely meditative man is fairly melted

within him; the object he has been searching for, which he has so longed

to possess, which has shone upon him hitherto so distant, so far off,

beyond the reach of his extended hand, and never been seen save in such

transient glimpses of his straining eyes that again and again, and yet

again, his doubts and fears have returned in almost their original

force, and the despair, which almost engulfed him in the old sad time,

seems near at hand to enshroud him once again, is suddenly brought to

nearest neighbourhood. A holy presence fills that quiet air; a voice of

love, and grace, and mercy steals into that long bereaved and mourning

heart; he throws himself down on the dewy grass, and its blades bend

beneath heavier and warmer drops than the soft tears of morn and even.

Listen! for his voice breaks through the stillness with a tone of

unspeakable joy, thrilling in its accents, and its words are “all

things;” hark how the wind echoes them among the trees, as though so

worthy of diffusion, so full of hopeful confidence, that even it loved

to linger on and prolong the sound. “All things are possible--with

God.” His trembling form is bent in the hallowed stillness of unuttered

prayer; his frame quivers with an emotion for years unfelt. Oh! how

different from all his past shakings and tremblings, how different from

all that has gone before is this! But who dare lift the veil which

covers the deep humility of that supplicating spirit, or break in upon

the holy confidence with which it approaches, in this its first

communion, its God and Father. It is enough that there is joy in heaven,

this blessed morning, over the returned prodigal, the lost and wandering

child, “he that was dead is alive again, he that was lost is found,” and

Halbert Melville at length is at rest.

Long and fearfully has he struggled since that fearful night in hoary

Edinburgh; been tossed in Atlantic storms, seen the wonders of the Lord

on the great deep, in the thunder, and the lightning, and the tempest,

and experienced His goodness in being brought to land in safety once

again. For years since then, on every wall, his tearless eyes have seen,

as though written by an unseen hand, those terrible words, “It is

impossible,” and a voice heard by no mortal but himself, has rung again

and again in sad reiteration into his despairing ears, “It is

impossible,” like an “anathema maranatha,” ever binding and

irreversible. But to-day the whole has changed, the cloud has been

dissipated and the sun shines forth once more; another voice sweeter

than that harp of sweetest sound has brought to him joy for mourning,

and blotted out from his mental horizon his fancied doom, with that one

word of gracious omnipotence, “All things are possible with God.” It has

told him of the might that can save to the uttermost, of the grace that

casts away no contrite heart, and of the love to sinners which passeth

all knowledge; and in the day of recovered hope, and in faith which has

already the highest seal, the spirit’s testimony ennobling its meek

humility, Halbert Melville arises from beneath these witness trees, from

that altar in a cathedral of Nature’s own fashioning for its Maker’s

worship, more grand and noble than the highest conception of man could

conceive or his highest art embellish, with a change wrought upon his

enfranchised spirit, which makes him truly blessed. In his despair and

hopelessness he had pronounced this “impossible,” and he stands now

rejoicing in the glorious words of one of old, “Return unto thy rest,

oh, my soul! for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” The summer

was nearly past, the winter had nearly come, but Halbert Melville was

saved.

But Halbert must go home; alas, he has no home in this wide continent.

In all the multitude of breathing mortals here, there is not one whose

eye grows brighter or heart warmer at his approach. He is, on the

contrary, regarded curiously and with wonder; sometimes indeed with

pity, but he is still the stranger, though nearly two years have passed

since first he received that name. His home, such as it is, is in a

great bustling town, at a distance from this quiet solitude, to which

long ago--there are places near it famed in the catalogue of vulgar

wonders,--a sudden impulse drew him, a yearning to look on nature’s

sunny face again, as he had done of old in his days of peace and

happiness, or a desire, it might be, to attain even a deeper solitude

than he, stranger though he was, could find amid the haunts of men. But

now he must return to his distasteful toil, and solitary room. Ah!

Halbert, how different from the solitary room in old Edinburgh, the

books, congenial studies, and pleasant recreations before the tempter

came! but it is with a light step and a contented heart for all that,

that Halbert Melville retraces his steps along the lonely way. Now there

is hope in the sparkle of his brightened eye, and a glow of his own old

home affections at his heart, as he catches the wide sweep of the

distant sea, and the white sails swelling already in the pleasant

breeze, that will bear them home. Home! what magic in the word! it has

regained all its gladdening power, that hallowed syllable, and Halbert

is dreaming already of Christian’s tearful welcome, and little Mary’s

joy; when a chill strikes to his heart. Is he sure that the letter of

the prodigal, who has brought such agony and grief upon them, will be

received so warmly? No, he is not, he doubts and fears still, for all

the peace that is in his heart, and Halbert’s first resolution is

changed; he dare not write; but his fare shall be plain, his lodging

mean, his apparel scanty, till he has the means of going home, of

seeking pardon with his own lips, of looking on their reconciled faces

with his own rejoicing eye; or of bidding them an adieu for evermore.

Halbert has reached the noisy town again, and is threading his way

through its busy streets, among as it seems the self-same crowd he

traversed on his departure; but how differently he looks on it now; then

he noticed none but the poor, the aged, the diseased; and thought in the

selfishness of engrossing care, that the burdens which they bore were

light in comparison with that which weighed him down. Now he embraces

them all in the wide arms of his new-born and sympathetic philanthropy,

and is as ready in the fulness of his heart to rejoice with them that do

rejoice, as to weep with those that weep. His was a true, an early love,

which flies to make its master’s presence known to those who are out of

the way; who see him not, or seeing understand not; and laden with its

own exceeding joy, yearns to share it with all who stand in need of such

peace and rest as he himself has found.

But now he has entered his own dwelling, just as the sudden gloom of

the American night, unsoftened by gentle twilight, falls thick and dark

around. It is a place where many like himself in years, station, and

occupations, engaged in the counting-houses of that great commercial

city, have their abode. Young men gay and careless, with little thought

among them for anything beyond the business or amusement of the passing

hour. A knot of such are gathered together in the common sitting-room

when Halbert enters; but they scarcely interrupt their conversation to

greet him: he has kept apart from all of them, and almost eschewed their

society or companionship. The night is cold, it has grown chilly with

the lengthening shadows, and a glowing fire of logs burns brightly and

cheerfully upon the hearth, and Halbert, wearied and cold, seats himself

beside it. The conversation goes on, it flags not because the stranger

is an auditor; one young man there is in this company, a merry scoffer,

whose witty sallies are received with bursts of laughter, the rather

because just now, and indeed usually, they are directed against

Scripture and holy things. There is another who inveighs against the

fanaticism and bigotry of some portion of the Church, which is,

according to his foolish notion, righteous over much, and therefore, in

his clear and conclusive logic, the Church universal is only a piece of

humbug; and there is a third whom Halbert has long marked, a cold

argumentative heartless sceptic, who, emboldened by the profane mirth of

the other young men around him, has begun to broach his infidel

opinions, and for them finds a favourable auditory. Look at Halbert’s

face now, how it beams in the fire-light, as he hears the cold-blooded

insinuations, and words of blasphemy, the dead negations, the poison of

his own heedless youth, from which he has suffered so sorely, again

propounded in the identical guise and semblance which bewitched himself

of old. See him! how his dark eyes sparkle with righteous fire; how his

bent form grows erect and stately, and his features expand in

unconscious nobility, as though there was inspiration within his heart,

because of which he must interfere, must speak to these youths, should

he perish.

The solitary man bends over the cheerful blaze no longer. See him among

these wondering youths, with the light of earnest truth beaming from

every noble line of his prophet face. Listen to his solemn tone, his

words of weighty import. Hear what he says to them, amazed and

confounded that the stranger has at last found a voice. What does he

say? he tells the story of his own grievous shipwreck; he tells them how

he was tempted and how he fell; tells them of all the wiles and

stratagems by which he was overcome, and how he found out only at the

very last, how hollow, false, and vain they were; bids them remember

the miserable man bowed down by secret sorrow, that they have all along

known him, and his voice trembles with solemn earnestness, as he warns

them as they love their lives--as they love the gladness which God has

given them, the heritage of their youth--to refuse and reject the

insinuations of the tempter, and to oppose themselves to the

serpent-cunning of the blasphemer, refusing even to listen to his

specious arguments and hollow one-sided logic, if they wish it to be

well with them. The air of the room has grown suddenly too hot for the

discomfited sceptic, the scoffer has forgotten his gibe, the grumbler

his grievance, and their companions their responsive laughter. Halbert’s

words of sad and stern experience, spoken in solemn warning, sink into

their hearts with much effect, at least for the time. Perhaps the

impression will not last, but at this moment, these thoughtless youths

are startled into seriousness, and whatever the effect may be

ultimately, the recollection of that thrilling appeal will linger, and

that for long, in their memories.

Sweet slumber and pleasant dreams has Halbert Melville this night. He

lies in that fair chamber, whose windows open to the rising sun, where

rested after his great fight of afflictions that happy dreamer of old,

where peace is, and no visions of terror can enter, and Halbert

Melville, whatever his future fate may be, whether calm or tempest, fair

or foul weather, has like the pilgrim found rest.

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[Illustration: text decoration]

CHAPTER II.

Maiden! with the meek brown eyes,

In whose orb a shadow lies,

Like the dusk in evening skies!

* * * * *

O, thou child of many prayers!

Life hath quicksands--Life hath snares!

Care and age comes unawares!--LONGFELLOW.

It is well that there are swifter ways of mental travel, than even the

very quickest means of transit for the heavier material part, or we

should be too late, even though we crossed the Atlantic in the speediest

steamer of these modern days, and with the fairest winds and weather,

for Mrs. James Melville’s new year’s party. Mrs. James looks none the

worse for these two years that have glided away since we saw her last;

she is dressed in all her holiday smiles to-night, though, as you pass

up the lighted staircase to her drawing-room, you can hear a shrill tone

of complaint coming from some far-off nursery, which shows that James’s

pretty house has got another tenant; and, truly, his paternal honours

sit well on our old friend. The street without is illuminated by the

lights which gleam through the bright windows, and are alive with the

mirth and music that is going on within. There is a large company

assembled; and, amid the crowded faces, all so individual and

dissimilar, beaming on each other, here is one we should know--pale,

subdued, and holy, like the Mary of some old master. It seems out of

place, that grave, sweet countenance in this full room, and among this

gay youthful company. It is our old friend Christian, hardly, if at all,

changed since last we saw her, save for her deepened, yet still not

melancholy sadness; it is said that her smiles, since that terrible

time of Halbert’s disappearance, have been more sad than other people’s

tears, but she does smile sweetly and cheerfully still; there is too

little of the gall of humanity about her, too little selfishness in her

gentle spirit to permit the cloud, which hovers over her own mind, to

darken with its spectre presence the enjoyment of others. Christian

likes--as may be well believed--the quietness of her own fireside better

than any other place; but James would have been grieved had she stayed

away, and therefore is she here amid this crowd to-night. But there is a

graceful figure near her that we shall not recognise so easily, though

coming from a contemplation of that thin, worn face, inspired as we saw

it last in yonder American city, and looking as we do on Christian there

before us, we see that the features of her brilliant countenance are as

like as brothers and sisters may be--like, and yet unlike, for the

pressure of that great sorrow has fallen lightly on little Mary’s

buoyant spirit. She is still “little Mary,” though her head is higher

now than Christian’s, who calls her so. Those two years have added no

less to her inner growth than to her stature, and Mary Melville, with

all the mirth and joyousness of her earlier girlhood, has the cultivated

mind of a woman now. There are many bright young faces shining in this

gay room, but there is not one like little Mary’s; not one eye in this

assembly can boast such a sunny glance as hers, graver than her peers

when it is called to look on serious things, and beaming then with a

youthful wisdom, which tells of holy thoughts and pure intents within,

and anon illumined with such a flash of genuine mirthfulness and

innocent gaiety, so fresh and unconscious in its happy light, as would

startle the sternest countenance into an answering smile. She is much

loved, our sprightly Mary, and is the very sun and light of the circle

she moves in; and friends who have known her from her childhood, tell

one another how like she is to Halbert, and shake their heads, and are

thankful that she can never be exposed to similar temptations. Do they

think that Mary, like her brother, would have fallen, that she must

succumb too, before the adversary’s power, if tried as hardly? Ah, it is

not well that the innocent lamb, so tender, so guileless and gentle,

should be exposed to the power of the wolf, and who can tell but that

there may be deadly danger lurking about her even now.

Christian’s smile grows brighter as it falls on Mary, “little Mary’s”

sparkling face, and her voice is happier and more musical in its

modulation as she answers her affectionate inquiries. They speak truly

who say that Christian has no thought of herself: at this hour Christian

would fain be on her knees in her solitary room, pleading for her lost

brother; not lost, deaf Christian, say not lost--is there not a

lingering tone of sweet assurance in thy mournful heart, which, if thou

would’st but hear it, speaks to thee out of the unknown secret stillness

and says, Not lost, not lost, dear Christian, though thou yet knowest

not how the faithful One has answered thy weeping prayers.

But, hush! little Mary is singing; a simple plaintive melody, as natural

in its pleasant notes, as the dropping of the withered leaves around her

absent brother, in yon far American forest. There is a charm in these

old songs which far surpasses more artistic music, for scarce is there a

single ear on which they fall that has not many remembrances and

associations awakened, or recalled, it may be joyful, it may be

sorrowful, connected with their simple measure and well-known words, and

in such, and in no other, does Mary Melville delight. There is one

sitting by Mary’s side who seems to comprehend what few of the

listeners do, or care to do, the singer’s delicate and sweet expression

of the feeling of her well-chosen song. He has never seen her before

to-night, but he seems to have made wonderfully good use of the short

time he has spent beside her; and Mary has already discovered that the

gentleman-like stranger, who devoted himself to her all through the

evening, is a remarkably well-informed, agreeable man, and quite

superior to the frivolous youths who generally buzz about in Elizabeth’s

drawing-room, and form the majority of her guests. He has brilliant

conversational powers, this stranger, and the still more remarkable art

of drawing out the latent faculty in others, and Mary is half-ashamed,

as she sees herself led on to display her hoards of hidden knowledge,

adorned with her own clear perceptions of the true and beautiful, which,

unknown to herself, she has acquired. It is a strange, an unusual thing

with Mary to meet with any mind, save Christian’s, which can at all

appreciate her own, and she is rejoicing in her new companion’s

congenial temperament, and, in a little while, there is a group of

listeners collected round them, attracted by something more interesting

than the vapid conversations which are going on in this large room. Mr.

Forsyth’s accomplishments are universally acknowledged, and he shines

resplendent to night; and one after another, dazzled by his sparkling

wit and still more engaging seriousness, join the circle, of which Mary

is still the centre.

“Who would have thought,” say we, with Mrs. James, as she gazes

wonderingly over the heads of her guests on the animated face of her

young sister-in-law,--“who would have thought that Mary knew so much, or

could show it so well!”

Is Christian’s care asleep to-night; what is she doing that she is not

now watching over her precious charge? No, it is not; her eyes, which

have strayed for a moment, are now resting fixed on Mary. See! how her

cheek flushes at that man’s graceful deference. Listen to the laugh that

rings from the merry circle at some sally of his polished wit. Mary

looks grave and anxious for a moment, for his jest has just touched

something which she will not laugh at, and he perceives it, and at once

changes his tone, and turns with polished ease the conversation into a

new channel. Is it well that Christian should be ignorant of one who is

engrossing so much of her sister’s attention? No, it is not; and she

feels that it is not; so she calls James, and is even now, while Mary’s

joyousness is returning, anxiously inquiring of her brother who this

stranger is. James does not even know his name. A cousin of Elizabeth’s

brought him to-night, and introduced him as a friend who had been of

great service to him; then Elizabeth herself is appealed to; Mrs. James

is quite sure that Mr. Forsyth is a very respectable, as well as a very

agreeable man; he could never have found his way into her drawing-room

had he been other than that; her cousin never would have brought him had

he not been quite certain and satisfied on that point. He is very rich,

she believes, and very accomplished, she is sure, and, being unmarried,

she is extremely pleased to see him paying so much attention to Mary.

Christian shudders--why, she does not know; but she feels that this is

not well, there is a something in his look--such nonsense! But Christian

has always such strange, such peculiar notions, and is so jealous of all

that approach Mary.

The gay young people that are around Mary make room for Christian, as

she glides in to sit down by her sisters’s side. She is very grave now,

as always; but some of them have heard her story, and all the nature in

their hearts speaks for her in tones of sympathy, and their voices are

quieter always when beside her. Over most of them she has some other

power besides this of sympathetic feeling; there is hardly one there to

whom she has not done some deed of quiet kindness, which would not even

bear acknowledgment; thus they all love Christian. She sits down by

Mary’s side, and her heart grows calmer, and more assured again; for

Mary bends over her, and seeks forgiveness for her momentary

forgetfulness. Pardon from Christian is easily obtained; yet, gentle as

she is, it seems not so easy to win her favour. Mr. Forsyth’s

fascinating powers, displayed and exerted to the full, are all thrown

away. See how coldly she listens to and answers him; nay, how impatient

she is of his courteous attentions. What has he done wrong? what can ail

Christian?

Mr. James Melville’s party has been a very brilliant one; but it is all

over now: the street grows suddenly sombre and silent opposite the

darkened windows, and Mrs. James is not in the sweetest of moods: the

baby, now that all the other music has ceased, is exercising his

vigorous lungs for the amusement of the tired household; his weary mamma

is aggravated into very ill-humour, and unfortunately can find no better

way of relieving herself, nor any better object, than by railing at

Christian’s folly. Mrs. James is sure, if Mr. Forsyth were to think of

Mary Melville, they might all of them be both proud and pleased, for he

would be an excellent match for her. She could not think what Christian

expected for her--some unheard-of prodigy she fancied, that nobody but

herself ever dreamt of--thus did the lady murmur on to the great

annoyance of James.

But we must leave Mrs. James and her indignation to themselves, that we

may follow the sisters home. They had little conversation on the way.

Christian was silent and absorbed in her own thoughts, and Mary

wondered, but did not disturb her; for Mary, too, has thoughts unusual,

which she cares not to communicate; and soon, again, we are in the old

room, no way changed since we saw it first, three years ago; and Mr.

Melville--how shall we excuse ourselves for passing him over so lightly

and so long--is here unaltered, as much a fixture in his wide, soft

chair, as any piece of furniture in the well-filled room; and Robert, we

lost him amid the belles of Mrs. James’s party! but here he is again,

distinct, full grown and manly, and still retaining the blithe look of

old. Christian alone has yet a disturbed apprehensive expression on her

usually calm and placid face, and she wonders,

“How can James like such parties? it is so different from his wont.”

“Yes,” says Mary innocently, “I wonder that Elizabeth likes them. If

there were just two or three intelligent people like Mr. Forsyth, it

would be so much better.”

Poor Christian!

The protection of the Almighty has been implored “through the silent

watches of the night,” and Mr. Melville’s household is hushed in

sleep--all but Christian; for this quiet hour when all are at rest, is

Christian’s usual hour of thoughtful relaxation and enjoyment. But she

had a clouded brow and an uneasy look when she entered her room

to-night--that room of many memories. At length there is no mist of

disquietude to be seen upon her peaceful face; no doubt in her loving

heart: she has gone to the footstool of the Lord, and borne with her

there that child of her tenderness and affection, over whose dawning

fate she has trembled, and has committed her into the keeping of the

Father of all; and she has poured forth, with weeping earnestness, the

longings of her soul for that lost brother, whom even yet she knows not

to be within the reach of prayer. Often has she thought that Halbert may

be dead, since day after day these years have come and gone, and no

tidings from, or of him, have gladdened her heart. Her spirit has been

sick with deferred hope, as month after month went by and brought no

message. But she is calmer to-night; the load is off her soul; she has

entrusted the guardianship of the twain into His hands who doeth all

things well, and with whom all things are possible; and wherefore should

she fear!

The light in her chamber is extinguished, and the moonbeams are

streaming in through the window. A few hours since she watched their

silvery radiance stealing, unheeded and unseen, into yon crowded room,

drowned in the flood of artificial light which filled it, and

then she had thought these rays an emblem of Heaven’s

Viceroy--conscience--unknown and unnoticed, perchance, by those gay

people round about her, but even then marking with silent finger upon

its everlasting tablets, the hidden things of that unseen and inner life

in long detail, moment, and hour, and day, for each one of them. But

now, in the silence of her own room, these beams have another similitude

to Christian, as they pour in unconfined, filling the quiet chamber.

They tell her of peace, peace full, sweet, and unmeasured,--not the

peace of a rejoicing and triumphant spirit,--the sunbeams are liker

it,--but of one borne down with trial and sorrow, with a sore fight of

affliction, with a fear and anguish in times past, yet now at rest. Oh,

happy contradiction! distracted with cares and anxieties, yet calm amid

them all, full of the memories of bygone sorrow, of forebodings of

sorrows yet to come, but peaceful withal, how blessed the possession!

It falls upon her form, that gentle moonshine, and her features are lit

up as with a twilight ray of heaven: it lingers over her treasures as

though it loved them for her sake. It streams upon that portrait on the

wall, and illuminates its pensive and unchanging face, as with the

shadow of a living smile; and Christian’s heart grows calm and still

within her beating breast, like an infant’s, and holy scenes of old come

up before her liquid eyes, like ancient pictures, with that steadfast

face upon the wall shining upon her in every one; not so constant in its

sad expression, but varying with every varying scene, till the gathering

tears hang on her cheeks like dewdrops, and she may not look again.

And there is peace in that household this night, peace and sweet

serenity, and gentle hopefulness; for a blessing is on its

prayer-hallowed roof and humble threshold, and angels stand about its

quiet doorway, guarding the children of their King--the King of Kings.

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CHRISTIAN MELVILLE.

EPOCH IV.

There is no emblem of our lives so fit

As the brief days of April, when we sit

Folding our arms in sorrow, our sad eyes

Dimmed with long weeping; lo! a wondrous ray,

Unhoped-for sunshine bursting from the skies

To chase the shadow of our gloom away.

And lest the dazzling gladness blind us, lo!

An hour of twilight quiet followeth slow,

Moistening our eyelids with its grateful tears,

Strengthening our vision for the radiant beam

That yet shall light these unknown future years,--

Each joy, each grief, in its appointed room,

Ripening the precious fruit for heaven’s high harvest home.

[Illustration: text decoration]

CHAPTER I.

_Benedict_. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well

at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

* * * * *

Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?

_Much ado about Nothing._

We are half inclined to lament that the incidents of our story confine

us to one short month, nay, oftener to one little day of every passing

year, but nevertheless so it is, and we may not murmur. Doubtless could

we have sketched the glories of some midsummer morning or autumnal

night, or wandered by our heroine’s side through the gowan-spotted braes

in the verdant springtime, we should have had pleasanter objects to

describe, and a pleasanter task in describing them, and our readers a

less wearisome one in following us; but seeing that we must, perforce,

abide by “the chamber and the dusky hearth,” even so, let it be. The

hearth of our present sketch is in nowise dusky, however; there is

nothing about it that is not bright as the blazing fire itself. If you

look from the window you may see that everything without is chained down

hard and fast in the iron fetters of the frost, and covered with a

mantle of dazzling whiteness. With tenacious grasp the wintry king fixes

the less obdurate snow to the heavy housetops, decking them as with hood

and mantle; with malicious glee it rivets each drop of spilt water on

the slippery pavement, bringing sudden humiliation, downfall and woe, to

the heedless passengers; and from the southern eaves where the sun has

for some short time exerted a feeble power, hang long icicles in curious

spirals, like the curls of youthful beauty. Keen and cold, it revels in

the piercing wind, which coming from the bleak north in full gush round

the chill street corner, aggravates the wintry red and blue which battle

for the mastery in the faces of the shivering passengers, and screams

out its chill laughter in the gale, when some sturdy man who has but now

chased its little glowing votaries from their icy play is suddenly

overthrown himself by one incautious step, and with prostration lower

than Eastern does homage to its power, to the great and loudly expressed

satisfaction of the urchins aforesaid, who have resumed again their

merry game with renewed zeal and vigour.

It is just the kind of morning to make dwellers at home hug themselves

on their comfortable superiority over those whom necessity calls abroad,

to dare the dangerous passage of these treacherous streets and meet the

rough encounters of the biting wind. The room we stand in is the very

picture of neatness and comfort; a beautiful infant of two years old is

roaming with unsteady step about the bright fireside and over the

carpet, a wide world to him, intently making voyages of discovery hither

and thither, among the chairs and tables, the continents and islands of

his navigation; and beside a pretty work-table, with her delicate

fingers employed in still more delicate work, sits Mrs. James Melville,

her brow furrowed and curved in deliberative wisdom, giving earnest heed

to schemes which are being poured into her attentive ear, and ever and

anon responding with oracular gravity. Who is this that seeks and has

obtained the infinite benefit of Mrs. James’s counsel, and that now with

deferential courtesy lays before her the inexpressible advantages he

will derive from her advice and assistance, and insinuates the unending

gratitude of which he has already given earnest in delicate and

well-timed presents, such as delight a lady’s heart? He is speaking of

a brilliant establishment to be offered to some one whom he seeks to

win, and shall win all the more easily through his kind friend Mrs.

James’s advice and co-operation. He is speaking of wealth which hitherto

he laments,--and here the petitioner sighs and looks, or tries to look

pathetic,--he has not properly employed, wherewith that as yet nameless

third party shall be endowed, and he winds up all with an eulogium upon

the extraordinary ability, and undeserved, but not unappreciated

kindness of the lady who smiles so graciously at his well-timed

compliments. Mrs. James is completely won over, and her full assistance

and co-operation pledged, for the pleader is skilled in his craft, and

wont to be successful. Who can resist Mr. Forsyth’s eloquence and

special reasonings? The work of consultation goes on, the toils are laid

for Mary, sweet Mary Melville’s unwitting feet, and Forsyth, on the

strength of his ally’s assurances, has already brightened in

anticipatory triumph, and if all things be as Mrs. James says they are,

and all Forsyth’s promises be realised, is not Mary’s lot a bright one?

Nay, but is this a man to hold in his hands the happiness of Christian’s

sister?

Mrs. James is determined to signalise herself as a match-maker, and

there are a thousand captivating circumstances which conspire to make

her eager in the furtherance of Forsyth’s suit. She reckons up some of

them: First, it will really be an excellent settlement for Mary; where

among her father’s hum-drum acquaintance could she ever have found one

anything at all like so good; secondly, Mrs. Forsyth’s wealth and style

will bring even her, Mrs. James Melville, into a more brilliant sphere;

and above all, there will be the crowning delight of overcoming, or

rather being able to set at nought, all Christian’s opposition. Mrs.

James, self-confident as she is, very bold, and even impertinent as she

can be at some times, and strong in the might of superior elegance and

beauty, has always been awed in the presence of Christian’s quiet

dignity, and this had annoyed and galled her greatly. There is something

in that grave dignity which she cannot comprehend, and still more

aggravating is the fact, that do what she will, she cannot quarrel with

her gentle sister-in-law, and that all her innuendoes fall pointless and

harmless. Christian will not hear Mrs. James’s petulance, be it ever so

loud, for with one calm word she shows her its insignificance; she

smiles at her sarcasms against old maids, as she might smile at some

nick-name of childish sport; nay, sometimes, and it is the nearest

approach to mirth which Christian is ever known to make _now_, she will

turn round in defence of the maligned sisterhood, and chase with

lightfooted raillery, which savours of days of old, the heavy wit of

her opponent off the field. Mrs. James never saw Christian ruffled or

disturbed by any speech of hers, save on that occasion which introduced

Forsyth to Mary, and she was too watchful and too much delighted to let

the opportunity of prolonging her annoyance cease; and Mary, a frequent

visitor at her brother’s house, has since that time, nearly a year now,

met her sister-in-law’s accomplished acquaintance so often, that people

begin to whisper about Forsyth’s devotion, and to look forward to a

bridal; and when he is spoken of before Mary, they smile and look in her

face, and the colour on her soft cheek deepens, and the blood flushes on

her forehead, and then when they wonder at his versatile talents, as

they often do, for he is intellectually in that society a giant among

dwarfs, Mary’s downcast eyelids grow wet with pleasant moisture, and her

heart thrills with pleasure, so that she, loving Christian as she does,

is unconsciously furthering Mrs. James in her plan of annoyance. Our

poor Mary!

But we are neglecting the conversation which is still going on between

Mrs. James and her visitor. Forsyth is preparing to go, his visit has

been already prolonged beyond all usual bounds, yet he lingers still,

endeavouring with his persuasive eloquence to bring about one other

arrangement.

“You will bring Mary here to meet me, on new year’s day morning, my dear

madam?” he says softly, and in the most insinuating tone, “will you

not?”

“New year’s morning,” interrupted Mrs. James, “that will never do. You

know I have always a party on the new year’s night, I shall not be able

to give you that morning.”

“Well,” answered Forsyth, as smoothly and persuasively as he could, “but

if you could give us your presence for a few minutes, Mary and I, I

hope, will be able to manage the rest ourselves, and you know, my dear

Mrs. Melville,” he added still more blandly, “I am anxious to come to an

understanding with Mary as soon as possible. Come, you must add this to

the many kindnesses you have done me already. You will consent, I see.”

Mrs. James could not resist. “Well then, on new year’s morning be here,

and Mary shall meet you,” she said, and her gratified friend bows over

her extended hand. “You may come, Mr. Forsyth, on new year’s morning.”

Mr. Forsyth can never sufficiently express his obligation; and having

succeeded in all things according to his wish with Mrs. James Melville,

he takes his leave at last, and rejoices as he hurries through the

streets, so cold and bitter to other passengers, but so bright and

cheerful to him in his present mood, that soon now he will be assured of

Mary. He has no doubt about it, none at all, and he is certain that all

that he wants is just this opportunity which Mrs. James is to secure

him, and then Mary Melville will be his own, plighted and pledged his

own.

It is but a few days, yet new year’s morning is as tardy in approach as

if, so big with fate to that young, ingenious, and unfearful spirit, it

lingered on its way willing to prolong her state of happy

unconsciousness. The elegant Mr. Forsyth yawns through the long weary

days; though it is the time of his own appointing he is impatient and

restless, and his yawning and irksomeness is redoubled on that dull,

cold, cheerless evening before its dawn, and he gets really nervous as

the time draws near. Strange that one so practised in the world, whose

heart has been so long a very superfluous piece of matter, should have

his dead affections so powerfully awakened by the simple grace and

girlish beauty of guileless Mary Melville. Strange, indeed, and if he

is successful in winning her--as who can doubt he will--what hope is

there for our sweet Mary when his sudden vehement liking passes into

indifference. Poor Mary’s constant heart should be mated only with one

as warm and as full of affection and tenderness as itself; but who shall

have the choosing of their own future--alas, who! or who, if the choice

was given them, would determine aright?--not Mary. But there is a power,

the bridegroom in anticipation wots not of, ordering the very words

which shall fall from his lips to-morrow, overruling the craftiness of

his crafty and subtle spirit, and guarding the innocent simplicity of

the prayer-protected girl, defending her from all ill.

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