CHAPTER V.

It had been a gala day in New York—a day of feasting and rejoicing—a

day of triumphal processions and martial pageantry—one of America’s

most honored sons, one whose days had been spent in the service of his

country, and whose blood had flown more than once upon the battle-field,

was the guest of the city, and its inhabitants laying aside for awhile

their accustomed avocations, had assembled _en masse_ to welcome him.

The old Park theatre had been converted, for that one night, into a

splendid ball-room, and as darkness came on, in hundreds of

dressing-rooms, the young and the lovely, ay, and many who were neither,

were decking themselves for the festive scene. At a later hour

innumerable carriages were rolling through the streets, bearing their

precious freight to the appointed place; and hosts of tiny,

satin-slippered feet tripped lightly up the broad stone steps and were

lost in the crowd within. It was a splendid pageant. There were dancing

plumes and sparkling gems—flashing eyes and flower-wreathed curls—the

waving of banners—and over all and surrounding all, a dazzling

radiance, shed from the massive chandeliers that were suspended, at no

distant intervals, from the lofty ceiling. Two young men—one of them,

from his foreign dress and ignorance of those around him, evidently a

stranger—were leaning against one of the large pillars, engaged in

earnest conversation. They used their opera-glasses quite freely, and

were apparently commenting on the beauties around them. At length their

attention was drawn toward the door by the hum of voices and murmurs of

admiration that greeted the entrance of a young lady, who appeared

leaning on the arm of a fine-looking man, old enough to be her father.

She was, indeed, surpassingly beautiful, but it was the swan-like grace

and elegance of her movements, the soul that breathed from her features,

the depth of feeling in her violet eyes, that involuntarily fixed the

attention of the observer, and awoke in his breast an interest for which

he could scarcely account. She was magnificently attired in a tunic

dress of light-blue satin, with a rich embroidery of silver—and costly

pearls were clasped about her throat, her rounded arms, and gleamed amid

the heavy masses of her braided hair.

The young men did not speak until she had crossed the room and was

hidden from their sight by the intervening crowd; then drawing a long

breath, the stranger asked of his companion—“Frank, in the name of all

that’s beautiful, who is that lovely creature?”

“That,” said Frank Stanley, “that is Miss Munro, our belle and heiress.”

“Miss Munro!” exclaimed the other, while his color was considerably

heightened, “is that Miss Munro?”

“Why yes. What is there so surprising about it? Do you know her?”

“No,” was the reply, “but I have often heard of her.” Then after a

pause, he added, “Can you present me?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” rejoined his friend, and they crossed the

apartment.

“Miss Munro, permit me to present to you my friend, Mr. Gordon.” There

was a low bow on the part of the gentleman, a courteous salutation on

that of the lady, and after a few commonplace remarks, Elizabeth Munro

was led to the dance by Frederick Gordon.

“The handsomest couple in the room by all odds,” said Frank Stanley. “I

should not wonder if that should be a match yet. Gordon is half in love

already, and if he undertakes to win her and does not succeed, I don’t

know who can.” And with these words he turned away to join a group of

friends who were chatting merrily at a little distance.

Arthur Talmadge, the young artist addressed, gazed upon the dancers

sadly and earnestly for a few moments, and then murmuring—“Stanley is

right—if he cannot win her who can?” he hurried from the ball-room.

Nobly gifted, but poor and proud, he felt that he had nothing in common

with that gay throng, and he bent his steps toward his own cheerless

room.

And Frank Stanley and Arthur Talmadge were not the only ones who arrived

at the same conclusion. One by one the admirers of Miss Munro—and their

name was legion—dropped off until the field was left entirely to

Frederick Gordon.

As may be supposed, he was not negligent in improving the advantage thus

given him. Yet at the end of six months he felt no more secure of her

favor than at the time of their first acquaintance. Her demeanor toward

him was always courteous, and such as became a lady; she received his

attentions frankly, but yet so calmly and quietly, that it was evident

she felt none of the timidity of dawning love. Her cheek never

brightened at his approach; her voice never faltered as she addressed

him; her eye never wandered in search of him, neither did she repulse

him, and so he hovered round her hoping that success would yet be his.

She listened with a pleased ear to his glowing descriptions of other

lands; her fine eyes were lit up with enthusiasm as he spoke of Italy,

with her sunny skies, her gems of art, and her oppressed and degraded

children; of Greece, with her temples, beautiful even in their decay; of

Egypt, that land of fable and mystery, and of the East, thronging as it

does with memories and associations that stir the heart to its innermost

depths. He was a fine reader, his voice was deep and thrilling, and when

he read or recited the finest passages from Shakspeare, Milton or

Wordsworth,

“Lending the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of his voice,”

Her cheek would glow, and her heart beat quickly. But all this might be

without one throb of love for him, and he felt it. He could but observe,

too, that she carefully avoided every thing like intimacy, and there was

no heart communion between them—she never spoke of themselves; there

was interchange of thought, but none of feeling, and strive as he might,

he could not lift the veil that seemed imperviously drawn between their

souls.

And when Frederick Gordon became aware of this, a shadow deeper and

darker than any that he had ever before known, rested upon his pathway.

He had returned from Europe fully determined to woo and win her for the

sake of her wealth. Love, or any congeniality of feeling that might

exist between them was but a secondary consideration. When he saw her

that night in the ball-room, more beautiful almost than his wildest

dream of beauty, emphatically “the star of the goodly companie;” when he

learned that the proudest in the land had sued humbly yet vainly for her

favor, pride came to the aid of his mercenary motives, and he resolved

to bear off triumphantly the prize for which so many were contending.

But when he was thrown almost daily into her presence the atmosphere of

purity and goodness which surrounded her, made him feel much as we may

suppose a fallen spirit might feel in the presence of an angel of light.

He could not meet the glance of her clear eyes, that glance so holy, so

unworldly, without a pang of remorse for the unworthy incentives that

had first led him to seek her. And he learned to love her

deeply—devotedly. His heart thrilled at the sound of her voice, the

lightest echo of her footsteps, the mere touch of her fair hand. He

would have taken her to his bosom, and called her his own sweet wife,

with no other dowry than the love of her pure, trusting heart. Yes, at

last even Frederick Gordon loved _disinterestedly_.

Alas, poor Lily Grey! While thy false lover was thus bowing at the

shrine of another, did thy image never haunt him? Did no thought of thee

ever awaken a sigh or a regret? Did he never drop a tear over thy

memory?

In the large and elegant drawing-room of one of the most splendid

mansions in Waverley Place, a fair girl had just listened to an

impassioned declaration of love from one who stood before her, waiting

breathlessly the faintest motion of her lips. But the lady spoke not;

her rapidly varying color was the only evidence that she had even heard

the eloquent words that had just fallen upon her ear. The young man

spoke again, and this time his voice was more low and tremulous than

before, for his heart was heavy with doubt and apprehension.

“Elizabeth—Miss Munro—this suspense is very, very terrible—will you

not speak to me?”

A strange expression, like a sudden spasm of pain, passed over the face

of the lady for a moment, and then she replied, calmly—“Did I hear you

aright, Mr. Gordon? Did I understand you to say that you had never

breathed words of love in the ear of another?”

The eyes of Elizabeth Munro were bent upon those of Frederick Gordon

with a steady, searching gaze, and his own drooped before them. At

length he said, falteringly—“Yes—no—that is, I was young—it was

nothing more than a passing fancy—a mere flirtation with a pretty girl

I met in the country.”

The red blood mounted to the lady’s brow, and her eye flashed as she

took a small shell-comb from her hair, and the long, brown curls that it

had confined fell over her neck and shoulders. Then pushing back the

ringlets from her forehead, and placing her finger upon a small scar

upon her temple, she said slowly—“Frederick Gordon—do you know me

now?”

The young man had not moved since he had last spoken, but remained with

his eyes fixed upon the carpet. At the lady’s words, however, he looked

up suddenly, and brow, cheek and lip grew white—white as those of the

dead. Then covering his face with his hand, as if to shut out some

hateful vision, he exclaimed—“Lily Grey—Lily Grey—have you come even

here to torment me?”

“She is even here,” was the quiet reply, “and I presume it is

unnecessary for me to say that the man whose pretended love for Lily

Grey was a ‘passing fancy,’ a ‘mere flirtation’—the man who for the

sake of paltry gold so cruelly deserted the young being he had won,

without a farewell word or line, can never claim the hand of Elizabeth

Munro. Nay, hear me, Mr. Gordon,” she added, as he would have

interrupted her, “entreaties are useless, I can never be your wife, but

I wish to explain some things which are probably mysteries to you. My

name is Elizabeth Grey Munro. My father always called me his Lily, and

by that pet name, too, I was called by Mr. and Mrs. Mason. When I went

into the country to visit them it was a childish freak of mine to be

called by my middle name, and be known as simple Lily Grey, rather than

as the heiress Elizabeth Munro. Had you called to see me before your

sudden departure, all would have been explained; but you chose to do

otherwise, and of course I could put but one construction upon your

conduct—that you were merely trifling with one whom you supposed your

inferior in point of wealth, and that, finding you had gone rather

farther than you intended, you wished to get rid of the affair as

speedily as possible. I do not hesitate now to say that I once loved

you, Frederick Gordon, as you did not deserve to be loved, but that

passed—passed with the knowledge of your unworthiness. When we met in

the ball-room I saw at once that you did not recognize me—five years

had changed the young and timid girl who blushed at your approach into

the woman, calm and self-possessed as yourself. You were blinded, too,

by the fashion and glitter around me, and, in short, you looked not for

Lily Grey in Elizabeth Munro.”

“Oh, Lily, forgive, forgive,” implored Frederick, throwing himself at

her feet. “For sweet mercy’s sake forgive and love me again as in other

days, I have erred deeply—deeply—but I have repented also.”

Tears rolled down the fair girl’s cheeks as she replied, at the same

time kindly extending her hand, “I do, I do forgive, for the sake of the

love I once bore you—but that love I can never give you again. The

chord is broken and will never vibrate more.”

The young man rose and gazed wildly upon her face, but he read nothing

there to give him hope, and clasping her hand for an instant, he rushed

from her presence.

* * * * *

Reader, upon one of those beautiful islands that, not far from Mackinaw,

lie on the breast of Lake Huron, like the purest of emeralds in a

setting of silver, there is a little, picturesque village where the

magnificent steamers, that plow the lakes from Buffalo to Chicago, stop

to take in wood and water. But a short distance from the village, and

yet half-concealed by overshadowing trees, there stands a plain but

strongly built house. There is nothing peculiar in its general

appearance, and you would pass it almost unheeded, unless you chanced to

perceive that the windows of the chamber in the south-east corner of the

building were guarded by strong iron bars. If you looked yet more

closely, you would see the form of a man, still in the prime of life,

with fetters upon his wrists, his hair closely shaven, and the wild

gleam of the maniac in his eye, pacing the apartment, or gazing between

the bars upon the broad expanse of waters. That face, once seen, will

haunt you forever! In the yard, slowly walking back and forth, with his

white hair streaming in the wind and his hands folded behind him, is

often seen an old man, whose bowed form and trembling limbs speak of

suffering even more plainly than of age. Anguish and remorse are stamped

in legible characters upon his brow, and as he moves to and fro, the

words come forth slowly and mournfully from his white lips—“Oh, Amy,

Amy, thy prophecy is fulfilled!”

* * * * *

One more scene—a more cheerful one we trust—and our story is ended. In

a small, pleasant room, furnished with exquisite taste, half-buried in

the crimson cushions of a luxurious chair, sat a young mother, and upon

her lap lay her first born, a fair and delicate babe, whose tiny face

seemed the miniature of the one that bent over it, save that the little

rings that lay upon its forehead were of a darker hue. Very lovely was

that young mother—more lovely than in the brightest days of her girlish

beauty, as she reclined there in the simple, yet tasteful robe of a

convalescent, her pale cheek half-shaded by the rich, brown curls that

escaped from beneath her cap. Her eyes wandered often from the face of

her babe to the door, and at length a glad smile sprang to her parted

lips as she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. The door opened,

and a fine-looking man, whose intellectual face bore the unmistakable

seal of genius, entered, and exclaiming joyously—“What—you here,

Elizabeth? I have no words to tell you how glad I am to see you in our

little sanctum again, my own sweet wife.” He bent to kiss the lips that

were raised lovingly to his. “And our precious little daughter, too—she

is six weeks old to-day, is she not?”

“Yes, Arthur—and it is about time she had a name, I think. What shall

we call her?”

The young husband paused for a moment, and tears gathered in his proud,

dark eyes as he replied—“Let her name be Lily Grey, dearest. Had you

never borne that name perhaps I could not call you mine now.” And Arthur

Talmadge—no longer poor and unappreciated, toiling for his daily

bread—but Arthur Talmadge, the courted and honored artist, whose fame

was in all the land, pressed his wife fondly to his bosom!

* * * * *

=“SETTLING TO A JEMIMA.”=

=SUGGESTED BY “MY NOVEL.”=

=BY ALICE B. NEAL.=

Yet it was with a deep groan that I settled myself to a—Jemima.

_Letter from Riccobocca to Lord L’Estrange._

“And how do you like ‘My Novel,’ Frank?”

It was a very natural question under the circumstances. We had just

finished two excellent cigars. St. Julian had an exquisite choice in the

article, which I could fully appreciate. The fire was shining glowing

red through the polished bars of the grate—the curtains were down, and

the gas lighted. The library-table was strewn with papers, and new

publications, and among the rest “Blackwood,” in its unpretending brown

cover, laid half open, and the paper-cutter thrust between the leaves.

That knife was a great favorite with my friend, who had brought it from

Switzerland. The blade was of burnished silver, the handle the delicate

foot of a chamois, preserved most perfectly. _I_ might have hunted from

Paris to Berne without lighting upon it; but these things always seemed

to fall in the way of St. Julian, as if by the magnetic attraction of

his refined taste.

The library could scarcely have been dignified by that title. It was a

small room, suited to my friend’s not over ample means, and fitted up

with more of the bachelor air than the lounging-rooms of most Benedicts

contrive to retain. Book-cases and tables of black walnut, the books

being more valuable as rare editions, than from the extent of the

collection, a few excellent engravings, and one beautiful head in oil,

completed the appointments. We had dined, and nuts and wine were on the

table before us. Mrs. St. Julian had absented herself on the plea of

nursery engagements, possibly she thought we might like to chat without

even her gentle restraint, of our old bachelor days. Considerate woman!

Would that more of my married friends had possessed themselves of such a

household treasure!

“How do I like Bulwer’s last? Just the question you asked years ago, St.

Julian, in the days of Pelham and Earnest Maltravers, when maiden aunts

held up their hands in pious horror at the mere mention of his name, and

young ladies doted on the “dear wicked books,” just because they were

proscribed.”

“Exactly,” nodded St. Julian, knocking the silvery ashes from the tip of

his Figaro.

“Bulwer is older now—and so are we, eh! and may be said to have sown

the wild oats of authorship. I was bored to death by Harold.”

“And so was I. When I saw the announcement on the cover that Bulwer was

about to take leave of fiction, I thought it was quite time.”

“Harold being ‘the last of the Saxons,’ a new era commenced. The

Caxton’s took me by surprise—at first I did not like it. The opening

chapter was a cross of Tristrim Shandy and ‘The Doctor’—the coarseness

of the one, and metaphysics of the other being a little

tempered—‘weakened,’ I called it, and threw the book aside. I heard

everybody talking of it, and wondered how they could praise such trash.”

“Trash! the Caxton’s trash!”

“Hold—I read it afterward; it was the only thing I could find on the

counter of a country bookseller to solace and support me through a long

journey, otherwise, I candidly confess, I should not have chosen it. You

know the route, the winter of my Floridian jaunt. Shut up in the cars

passing through those North Carolina pine-lands, without interest or

variety, with not a soul that I knew, or any physiognomy that I liked

well enough to make acquaintance with—how I blessed the dogged

obstinacy that had hitherto made it a sealed book to me. I read till the

twilight deepened, and then I borrowed the conductor’s lantern, and read

again.”

“And liked it as much as I do, no doubt.”

“More than I can tell you. You know I never was given to enthusiastic

criticism. It was so new, so varied—the sentiment more than the

incident, I mean. When ‘Alice’ was written, I should not have fancied

the Caxton’s. I could not have understood the author’s reasonings—for

you know it is, after all, more a philosophy than a romance.”

“Sound philosophy, too—nothing harsh or cynical in it, as one might

naturally have expected from the domestic life of the author.”

“And that is the charm of ‘My Novel,’ it is the same subject continued;

a homily against worldliness and selfishness, in the most charming

guise, example as well as precept—and that so naturally drawn. Who does

not pity Audley Egerton—giving life and soul to political ambition, or

despise his sycophant Leslie, with his scheming, plotting brain.”

“Outwitted at last, of course. ‘Honesty the best policy,’ is the burden

of the tale. Yet I pity Randall more than his dupe, your namesake,

Frank; the one has _mens conscia recti_ to support him in all his

difficulties. I can fancy Leslie’s situation exactly. Ambitious by

descent, as it were, and for the honor of his ancestors, as well as for

personal ease and distinction, stung by the destitution and utter

neglect of his home, refined in taste, one scarcely wonders that he

becomes unscrupulous of means to the end.”

“And there is Frank, as you say, so honest and honorable, so generous—I

have heard many objections to the possibility of his attractions to the

brilliant Marchesa. But I can understand that, too. The world-wearied

woman, longing for the honorable, generous love, for the repose of just

such a heart, won most of all by the _genuineness_ of the proffered

love, accustomed as she had been so long to constant but unmeaning

adulation.”

“Yes, I don’t think it at all unnatural; there is another thing some

might think inconsistent, the union of the accomplished and elegant

Riccobocca and his Jemima.”

“I confess, _I_ cannot quite understand that. There is the same doctrine

in the Caxtons—Mrs. Caxton, you know; and yet Pissistratus found

sympathy in a mind attuned to his own; and L’Estrange must have his

Violante, after all. In this, I think, our author contradicts himself a

little.”

“I do not think so,” St. Julian said, more warmly. “Bulwer’s theory

seems to me, that in the close friendship of domestic life, some natures

need restraint, some repose, while others, on the contrary, would be

ruined without stimulus. Harley’s was one of these—Riccobocca, on the

contrary, _needed_ his Jemima.”

“I see the theory, and I see it carried out in daily life. For my part,

if ever I marry”—and here I involuntarily touched the rapidly thinning

locks on my temples—“if ever I marry, it must be a brilliant,

cultivated woman, one that would command general admiration—I hate your

jealous, selfish men—one that would force me to keep up to her mark. I

must confess, I wonder at half the marriages now-a-days—men of talent

united to women who do not look as if they had ever opened a book in

their lives, or would have the courage to criticise it if they had—good

enough—amiable enough—but lacking spirit—originality.”

Here I paused in my energetic disclaimer—it was getting a little

awkward; our acquaintances had often remarked the same of St. Julian,

and he must know it; indeed, I had often wondered at his choice

mentally; I found his eyes fixed on mine, as I faltered, with a

peculiar, penetrating expression, and I fancied I saw his color

heighten.

He was the first to relieve the embarrassing silence; with one of his

own fine smiles he said,

“Yes, just such a wife would suit you—I know it, and you have not found

her. I thought so once of myself. I am wiser now. Acknowledge”—and here

the smile came and went again—“that you were thinking of my Minny that

moment. Come, tell the truth, Frank—you wont offend me by doing so, I

assure you.”

“Well, on oath then, I was; though I never should have said so if you

had not asked me. Even intimate friendship has no right to touch on such

points. Every one must decide for themselves, is my theory; and no one

has a right to question the choice. I confess, I have often thought I

should like to know all about it though—how, with all your fire and

imagination, you could have been content with simple amiability.”

“Minny has more than that,” St. Julian said, warmly. “She has great

depth of feeling, cultivation, and correct judgment. I grant she is not

what the world calls brilliant—a brilliant woman never would have

suited me for a wife.”

“Your opinion has changed since our college days,” I could not help

saying.

“Many of my opinions,” said Frank. “But in this I was aided by one of

the most brilliant women I have ever met.”

“She rejected you, I suppose, and taught you wisdom through wounded

self-love.”

“No—yes—if it can be called rejection when I never offered any thing

but admiration. But you shall hear all about it, if you would like it.”

“Of all things.”

“Well, then, you must not interrupt me, or ever mention it again. I

believe it is a little pride in the support of my theory that urges me

to the confession. Sometimes I like to bring her before me, however—but

I always turn to the thought of Minny with _such_ satisfaction.”

I believed him as he said it. His face was lighted by an honest heart; I

did not believe Mrs. St. Julian herself would have been

wounded—tenacious as all women are of predecessors—could she have

heard the conclusion.

“Beatrice—that was her name,” said St. Julian, stretching his slippered

feet more comfortably toward the fire; “and I always thought no other

would have suited her. She came to pass the winter in St. Louis, the

first year I commenced practice there. Such an arrival, of course, made

some stir in our circle; society was not as good, or as large there then

as it is now. She was a widow—don’t look alarmed, Frank, you never

would have believed she had been married, but for a certain ease and

assured manner, not the bold, pushing way, assigned to widows

generally—and vulgarly, too, let me say. They told me she was about

twenty-four, with a small but comfortable income, and had married a man

she could not love. He proved to be dishonorable in business

transactions, though a man of fascinating manner and cultivated mind. I

know a dozen such men, and could see that while she had gained much

intellectually by the association, her heart must have been starved.

“I remember distinctly the first time I saw her. Anthon, my partner,

visited her, and from him I had taken a dislike to her. I fancied she

was in the old style, a cautious, calculating coquette, expecting

general homage. I was determined she should receive none from me.

“So I rather avoided her—and we met quite by accident at the house of a

mutual acquaintance. The introduction startled me—she was so unlike

what I imagined—a small, coquettish figure, and face marked by

vivacity; on the contrary, she was tall and stately, a superb head, well

set, curved red lips, a fine quivering nostril, excuse the expression,

and eyes—that haunted me for years. Those are her eyes”—and he pointed

to the picture I had before remarked over the mantle—“except that no

painter could ever give their changeful, thrilling light. The picture is

an Italian head—I saw it in Florence, and could not resist the

purchase.

“She was quiet, and rather reserved in manner. Afterward her face

changed when the conversation turned upon something that interested her.

I controverted some opinion she had advanced. I was a little piqued at

her total neglect of me, when I had expected a display of attractions

for my benefit. I shall never forget the first brilliant flash of those

eyes, as they turned full upon me.

“‘You have thought much upon this subject, then,’ she said, quietly, but

I fancied with a covert sarcasm.

“My comment must have betrayed my utter ignorance of the matter—but I

had not expected such quick detection. I spoke at random, as I often did

in those days, more to draw her attention upon myself than for any

interest I had in the conversation. But I rallied, and tried to sustain

my ground with all the sophistry I could command; the rest listened, and

I saw all my powers of argument and wit called forth by her close and

simple reasoning. She was naturally sarcastic. I saw she controlled the

spirit in a measure, still her repartee humbled me not a little; pride

as well as vanity was roused at the encounter. Yet she held out her hand

to me in parting, with a beautiful smile, intended to be conciliating, I

saw, as she said,

“‘When we meet again, I hope we shall agree more readily.’

“Anthon had often asked me to call with him at her house, for she had

decided to remain with us, and her late husband’s aunt superintended her

household. After this encounter, I was more determined than ever not to

go, but an indescribable fascination impelled me. Her face haunted

me—in business, in leisure; her eyes rose up before me; I found myself

trying to recall the tones of her voice. I wished so much to hear her

sing—I had been told she was an accomplished musician—I was sure she

must sing enchantingly. Even in conversation, her low, clear voice

thrilled you.

“She welcomed me pleasantly; almost with marked warmth, at least Anthon

thought so, and rallied me afterward upon my conquest. She proposed

music herself in the pauses of conversation, and sung—not with any

apparent desire to win admiration, but because it was a pleasure to

herself, and to us. At least, I was obliged to confess this to myself,

and I felt my prejudice giving way, with every bar of her delicious

music. Perhaps she counted on the power the harp possessed of old to

exorcise evil spirits.

“I could but think of Lady Geraldine—the poem had just appeared then,

and had been the subject of our discussion.

‘Ah! to see or hear her singing, scarce I know which is divinest.

For her looks sing too—she modulates her gestures on the tune,

And her mouth stirs with the song-like song: And where the notes

are finest—

’Tis the eyes that shoot out oreal light, and seem to swell them

on.’

“I could go on with the next stanza,” St. Julian added, taking up the

volume he had referred to again.

‘Then we talked—O, how we talked! Her voice so cadenced in the

talking,

Made another singing of the soul—a music without bars.’

“And so for many and many an evening, for there never was moth more

fascinated than I became, and yet she had never shown me any decided

preference. She was a great favorite in society, and always surrounded

by admirers. I wondered she could have endured half their fulsome

flatteries. I used to turn from the circle in perfect disgust, mentally

accusing her of coquetry and vanity. Yet, after all, it was perhaps but

jealousy in me.

“So the winter passed—meeting her constantly, and we became what is

called good friends.

“Sometimes she claimed my services as her escort in walks or rides. I

was only too glad to be near her. I knew that those around her did not

understand her as I did. That she often turned from them all to her

books and music for companionship. The pride and ambition of my nature

found a response in hers—the vague dissatisfaction with tame

reality—the thirst for change and variety—the search for sympathy with

these wild visions—all that made up my inner life.

“Every one passes through this mood in early life. With some, it is

scarcely more than depression or dissatisfaction; with me, it had long

been a wild unrest. This was often her mood—I was sure of it when the

chords of her music deepened, or that tremulous quivering of the lip,

betrayed the inward strife.

“Once we were riding—the active exercise suited her spirit, she needed

the rapid excitement of a bounding steed. So we came dashing homeward,

our horses covered with mud and foam, for she was more than usually

self-absorbed, and seemed to forget how rapidly we rode. It was a dreary

November afternoon, the sky closed in with chill, gray clouds, the

fading sunlight sickly and uncertain. We were passing a recent clearing

for a new bye-road to some little town. Many noble trees lay felled

beside our path, and, at a little distance, we noticed a flickering

flame. Some freak had prompted the woodman to fire a tall ash, that

stood relieved in graceful outline. One half of the trunk was completely

consumed, the fire burning upward steadily from the roots, had hollowed

out a channel for itself, and, while the tree stood up bare and tall,

was eating out its very heart and life. It startled me for a moment; but

Beatrice reined in her horse suddenly, and pointing to it with her

riding-whip, said—

“‘There—do you know what that is? Have you ever felt it?’

“Her tone—her glance conveyed all her meaning. I, too, had thought the

emblem truthful. I was sure now that I understood her. But we neither of

us spoke again until we reached home.

“Yet I would not tell her that I loved her—I had no right to think it

was returned. Sometimes I thought so, when she turned to me with more

than her usual confidence, or welcomed me with one of her loving smiles.

I would have given worlds for the power to ask her, but something always

repelled me. So I thought of her alone—I sought her society day after

day, and from the very intensity of my feelings came a coldness and

reserve that I did not feel.

“One night, she had been asked in a small circle of intimate friends to

read ‘Lady Geraldine,’ aloud. Miss Barret then was almost an unknown

name, even in literary circles, and Beatrice was her warm admirer.

Already familiar with every line of the poem, it received new grace and

power from her lips. It suited her spirit, and her presence. She lost

herself in the heroine, and I hung near her, carried away by the poet’s

expression of all I felt for the beautiful creature before me.

“I suppose ‘my heart was in my eyes.’ Once, she looked up; and, for an

instant, her glance met my own.

“Here is the passage—

‘But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with

thunder,

Which my soul had used. The silence drew her face up like a

caul.

Could you guess what word she uttered? She looked up, as if in

wonder,

With tears beaded on her lashes, and said—‘Bertram!’ it was

all.’

“Yes—that instant glance ‘was all;’ and yet it thrilled me with love

and hope. Its yearning—almost agonized—tenderness, I cannot describe

to you. I never saw such a glance from woman before or since.”

St. Julian rose, and began pacing the carpet before me, as he spoke,

more rapidly.

“Yet, that very night, we spoke coldly and proudly to each other. She,

perhaps—well I cannot tell for what reason; but it stung me, and I

answered bitterly and hastily, and said to myself I would never see her

again.

“We did not meet again for more than a year, strange as it seems, moving

in the same small orbit. I passed her now and then with a beating heart,

as I recognized her face or form upon the side-walk: she—with the same

calm smile of recognition; I—with a cold and hasty bow. I grew almost

to hate her—yet I could not: in the depth of my heart, I yearned to

speak to her again; though I called her selfish and a coquette, most of

all, in memory of that look.

“But, at last, we met; as unexpectedly as at first, and in the same

house. There was every thing to remind me of the past. She was

unchanged, save a softened manner, and that her dark dress was relieved

by crimson ornaments, which suited her wonderfully well.

“She came toward me with extended hand, and as if we had just met from a

journey.

“‘Will you come and see me?’ she said: ‘we shall find a great deal to

talk about, and I have some new songs I am sure you will like:’ and I

was surprised into acquiescence. All that evening I watched her—as she

moved, the centre of admiration, when she smiled, or spoke; she was so

very, very beautiful!—the eloquent color, the constant play of

features. Once, I _fancied_ her eyes turned toward me, with something of

that remembered glance.

“I went home like one in a delirium; all my love rushed back—the

stronger, that the current had been so long checked. I murmured her

name—with the fondest intonations—the silence echoed ‘Beatrice!

Beatrice! My arms seemed to clasp her to my heart! I seemed to shower

kisses on those loving eyes! It was a mad, intoxicating dream!

“Every fibre of my frame thrilled to the welcoming pressure of her hand.

She was alone, in the little winter parlor I remembered so well. A warm,

crimson carpet muffled the tread, the glass doors of the conservatory

stood slightly ajar, filling the atmosphere with the odorous breath of

the heliotrope and sweet-scented daphne. Crimson curtains fell in heavy

folds to the floor, her piano and harp stood in the accustomed places,

the fire burned low, and wax lights, in massive silver candlesticks,

stood at one end of the room. It was all so familiar, the gleaming of

the single bust in the corner, upon its marble pedestal, the Magdalen,

her favorite picture—which I wondered at at first—hung near it, and

there was her own portrait, faithful to the life, with _those eyes_

looking down upon me. Perhaps she thought me sad, for she proposed

music, and I leaned on the mantle and listened. At first it was a gay

song; but that was not suited to her mood, and gradually she glided into

those mournful strains of Schubert and Mendelssohn, which she knew to be

my favorites of old.

“When she ceased—the last chords of voice and instrument still

vibrating in the silence—she rose, and came slowly toward me. It was in

my heart to tell her all; but she said—

“‘You have often told me I was unlike other women. It is a dangerous

compliment. No woman can be happy who is unlike her sex: I have come to

that conclusion at last. But, to show you that you were not mistaken in

the past, I am going to tell you something about myself.’

“Here she held out her hand to me—oh! how impressive that touch, yet

how kind!—and raised her eyes to mine, with a calm, searching look as a

sister might have done.

“‘I understood you when we first met. We were so much alike—skeptic

perhaps in heart and creed. Restless, wandering, seeking rest and

finding none. It was not strange that I turned toward you—that I

thought I loved you—close sympathy was the element of love I longed

for. I was unhappy away from you; your words, and tone, and glance had

more power over me than you ever dreamed of. I longed sometimes—in my

loneliness and solitude—to hear you tell me that my love was returned,

to feel your arm about me, your kiss upon my forehead, your eyes fixed

on mine—as once I saw them—above all, to hear your voice murmur

Beatrice, dearest! all wild passionate words—that my heart yearned for.

Had you sought me then, I, no doubt, should now have been your wife!’

“Beatrice, my wife! My head swam, she must have seen my frame tremble

with the thought.

“‘But we were separated,’ she said, still calmly; I wondered at her

calmness, when I was so shaken, ‘and since then I am changed. Life has

assumed a different hue: I am calmer’—yes, I could see that and almost

curse her calmness—‘I can be thankful that you did not ask me to be

your wife; we shall both be happier; and, as friends, we may still be of

much use to each other.’

“‘Last night was the test of all my resolutions—at first, when I met

your hand, your glance, they wavered: the old time rose before me—the

old yearning for sympathy with my mad moods; but I fortified them by new

purposes, and I was thankful for the trial. Shall we be friends?’

“‘But why, O, why, Beatrice,’ I said for the first time—‘why not more?’

“‘Because our natures are _too much_ alike. Both too impulsive—too

sensitive—too imaginative. Life, and its trials, and associations are

real. I need something to oppose the blast—we should both bend one way.

The fire that raged so fiercely could but soon die out, or consume all

that fed it. Do you not see this?’

“Yes, I knew, she was true, she was right; I have felt it a hundred

times since, but then I only felt all I had lost—all I was so near

possessing—that all hope was past. I knew it by her tone, her manner,

the gentle pressure of her hand. I knew her self-control must be the

effect of an irrevocable judgment—it was a mood foreign to her, and

could not be long sustained.

“What more wild words I said, I can easily imagine, and her flushed

cheek told me the struggle that they caused within; but I had no right

thus to act upon her generous confession, and at length I listened to

her gentle reasoning.

“‘If I ever marry,’ she said, ‘it must be one whose judgment is not

controlled by his feelings, who can understand, yet not share, in these

wild moods you would only encourage. It must be strength of will and

tenderness combined that can control me. You need repose as much as I.

We are friends you know—I read your heart better than you can

yourself—your wife must also be firm and gentle. I should in the end

only make you miserable.’”

“Well,” I said, as St. Julian paused in apparent forgetfulness of my

presence.

“Well, as you say—I did not cease to hope from her impulsive moods

until I knew that she was to be married. When she found it was so, she

avoided me; it _was_ base to presume on her generous frankness.”

“So she is married?”

“To a man others say the very reverse of herself—but I understand it,

and believe her to be happy—and I took her advice, at length, and

sought out a Jemima! no, my Minny is more like Mrs. Caxton of the two,

and is far too good a wife for me. Beatrice would have made me

miserable, I believe.”

I smiled as he settled himself complacently in the lounging chair from

which he had risen, and returned to a quiet contemplation of the fire,

the very picture of the contented husband, after all that utterance of

enthusiastic feeling—but when Mrs. St. Julian came quietly into the

room, a few moments after, with her pretty basket of needle-work, and

her cheerful, household face, I could not but think that my friend was

right after all in his choice, and that I, too, after a few more

hesitating years, might be glad to find myself settled to _such_ a

Jemima.

* * * * *

=SNOW FLAKES.=

=BY MRS. L. G. ABELL.=

They fall, as one by one they come

A silent gift of starry light,

Concealing every spot and stain

With robe of purest white—

As Charity, with words of peace,

Her downy mantle covers o’er

The little faults of those we love—

So fall the snow flakes evermore.

* * * * *

=A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.=

=BY G. P. R. JAMES.=

[Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1852, by

George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the

District Court of the United States for the District of

Massachusetts.]

(_Concluded from page 618._)

THE DREAMS FULFILLED.

I slept not one wink that night. I can compare the state of my mind to

nothing but a still, deep piece of water, suddenly stirred by a strong

wind. Thought was a confused mass of waves, flowing one into the other,

and hurrying away into some new form, ere they could be measured or

defined. Toward morning, however, one of the memories the most prominent

became that of the surprise which had been shown by the Count and

Countess de Salins at my having seen and conversed with the Marquis de

Carcassonne. I dwelt upon it. I pondered. I scrutinized it. “The

murderer of my father!” I thought; “how did he murder him? Was it in a

duel: by an act which good Father Bonneville, with his strong

principles, might look upon as murder?” No—there must have been

something more. What the count had said in regard to the other’s guilt

showed that it was by no common occurrence my father fell. There must

have been something more; and what that was I determined to ascertain.

Not that I thought of taking vengeance on the pitiful dying worm I had

seen—he was not worthy of it. The extinction of his few short hours of

life would offer but poor satisfaction. “Better leave him in the hand of

God,” I thought, “who knows all and sees all, and is just as well as

merciful.” Nevertheless, I was determined to know how my father fell,

and that without any long delay. I knew that where there is a strong

will, means are rarely wanting to accomplish even the most improbable

ends: but, after long meditation, I saw but one way of arriving at my

object: “I will go to the old man,” I thought, “and drive him to tell me

all. I will strengthen my mind, and harden my heart, and compel him to

divulge the dark secret within his breast.”

Such was my first resolution, and it was that to which I recurred; but,

in the mean time, another plan suggested itself, which I tried, but

which failed. I thought that, very probably, the Count de Salins himself

would give me information; and as the mind—especially of youth—is

always fond of accomplishing more than one object at a time, I resolved

to go down the very next day, and pass an hour or two with Mariette, at

the same time I sought the information I required. There was one thing,

however, which embarrassed me a good deal—not that it presented itself

to my mind in any definite shape; but it had crossed my thoughts like a

vague, unpleasant shadow more than once during the night. I do not know

that I can very well explain myself distinctly—that I can make any one

else, even those for whom these pages are written, and who understand me

best, comprehend fully the state of my mind at that moment. I should

perhaps have said, in common parlance, the state of my heart, but mind

had something to do with it likewise. Let me try, however.

The Mariette of the past, the Mariette of the present, seemed to me, as

it were, two beings in one. The long interval which had occurred between

our parting and meeting again, rendered them, as it were, distinct—a

child and a woman. But yet that interval had been bridged over by

constant remembrance. I had never forgotten her. I had never ceased to

think of her. She had taken such a hold of my young affections, that

nothing had ever been able to remove them from her, and thin, filmy

lines of thought had been carried backward and forward, between the past

and the present, like the threads of a spider’s web. When we had been

boy and girl, I had often looked forward to the period when we should be

man and woman, and I had again and again fancied that Mariette would be

my wife—my own for ever. Now we were man and woman, the process was

reversed; and fancy ran back to childhood. I saw in her the sister of my

early days, my dearly loved play-fellow and plaything. I began to think,

indeed, that I loved her better now—not that the least particle of the

former love was lost: it was the foundation of all, but another love was

being built up upon it. I did not know, indeed, how far that edifice was

completed. I would not examine, I would not inquire, I would not scan my

own heart and its feelings, although I was conscious that all the

thought and anxiety I had lately bestowed upon her could hardly arise

without deeper feelings than those of boyhood, or exist without

increasing them. I must not say that I _resolved_ or that I _intended_

any thing; for where Mariette was concerned, I did not pause to resolve

or to intend. All I desired or looked for was, to make her happy by any

means, to remove her for ever from poverty, and to share with her all I

had to share. But there was one difficulty, and it was this: I knew not

how to explain to her the source of my present affluence—to tell her,

or her father, or her mother, that even for a short few days I had been

wedded to another. In my present feelings toward her, it seemed as if I

had been unfaithful to her—as if I had robbed her of a part of the

affection which was her due, in giving any share of my love to poor

Louise.

If I felt so, what—I asked myself, might she not feel? How might she

bear the thought of being the second in my love? I knew well myself that

she was not the second. That she was the first, the best beloved; but

could I persuade her of that? And even if I did—would she not think my

conduct the more base and wrong in having wedded another? If—by any

chance—such early visions as I had indulged, had produced in her the

same sort of indefinite impression—that we were bound to each other

from very childhood—from which I could not divest my own mind, what

would she think of my having forgot the bond, for even so short a

period?

I did not know woman’s heart. I was not aware of how much less selfish,

how much less exacting is woman’s love.

But let me go on with my story. These thoughts embarrassed me as I

walked along toward her father’s cottage. That my previous marriage must

be told, sooner or later, I well knew; but how to do it puzzled me, and

the probable effect alarmed me.

As I was thus meditating, just at the turn of the lane from Lee, I came

suddenly full upon Westover. He was on foot, and gazing very

thoughtfully down upon the ground. I will not pause to dwell upon my

feelings; for though they were bitter and bad, ungenerous and unkind,

they were very transitory. So deep was his revery that he did not see me

till we were close together, but then he held out his hand frankly, and

I am afraid I gave mine very coldly, hardly pausing in my walk.

“Why, De Lacy!” he exclaimed, “you seem in great haste?”

“I have found out the friends I have been so long seeking, Captain

Westover,” I answered, “and am now going to see them.”

“Captain Westover!” he replied. “Well: so you have found them out; and,

therefore, I have had my trouble for nothing.”

His tone, more than his words, made me feel a little ashamed.

“What trouble do you allude to?” I asked.

“Two journeys to Lewisham,” he answered, laughing. “A long conversation

with an old woman in a chandler’s shop, and the cross-examination of a

tax-gatherer.”

“Indeed!” I said. “And why did you take all this trouble?”

“Merely to ascertain,” replied Westover, “if the lady of the rose

cottage, with the beautiful eyes, was in reality your long-lost love,

Marietta de Salins. My chandleress could only inform me on Saturday,

that it was a French gentleman who inhabited the cottage, with his wife

and daughter: that they called him the count; but count or no count, he

taught French for two shillings a lesson. The tax-gatherer, she said,

could tell me more about them: but the tax-gatherer happened to be

absent, dunning some poor devils, I dare say, and so I came down again

to-day, and discovered that it is, indeed, a Count de Salins who lives

there with his wife and daughter, though how that can be, I cannot make

out, for you told me that the count was dead. However, I was just now

coming up to tell you what I have found out, and to force a piece of

advice upon you.”

I was now heartily ashamed of the feelings with which I had met him, but

I explained that I had been deceived with regard to the death of

Monsieur de Salins, and then asked in our old friendly tone, what was

the advice he intended to give me.

He put his arm through mine, and walked on with me.

“The fact is, De Lacy,” he said, in a meditative way, “you are furiously

in love, my dear fellow—far enough gone to be as jealous as a

spaniel-dog. Now do not suppose that I am angry with this—for it is

very natural; nor even that I should be so, if I found out that, in your

innermost thoughts, you fancied just now that I came down here upon some

blackguard errand—for there are so many of us in London who care not,

so long as they hold their honor fair toward men, how dishonorably they

act toward women, that such a supposition might be very natural, too. I

see the suspicions have vanished, however, and so now to business. Let

me, however, premise one thing. It is perfectly unnatural, and out of

the ordinary course of events, that one young man should take a strong

and affectionate interest in another, and endeavor to serve him upon

perfectly unselfish principles. This postulate is granted. As in what I

am going to say, I wish to serve you, I must either be an unnatural

monster of generosity, or I must have some selfish motive. That is a

fair inference, I think? Well, then, I admit the selfish motives. I do

wish to serve you upon principles purely personal. My motives I cannot

tell you at present, but I will tell you before I return to my

regiment—perhaps, at the very last minute. All this I have said, to

convince you of my sincerity, in order that you may take my advice as

that of a sincere friend. Now, this love of yours will hurry you on very

rapidly, and, without a little prudence, we shall have nothing but

marryings and givings in marriage. My advice is, be discreet and

patient. Make love as much as ever you like, but do not marry in a great

hurry. If you do, you may injure yourself irreparably. Things are, I

trust, looking fair for you. You are young, and your fair lady must be a

good deal younger. You can both afford to wait a little, and it will be

much better for you to do so.”

“Very good advice, Westover,” I replied; “but could you follow it

yourself in my case?”

“I have waited two years myself,” he answered, “and shall probably have

to wait two years more, exactly upon the same principles—but without

half the strong motives which should induce you to wait, if you knew

all.”

I paused for an instant, looking down thoughtfully and somewhat

bitterly.

“I do not know all, Westover,” I replied, “but I am determined that I

soon will. You, indeed, seem to know more of me than I do myself; at

least, if I may judge from your words at present, and I do not see why a

stranger should have such information when it is denied to me.”

“No stranger,” replied Westover, shaking my hand, as we were now near

the cottage door, “but however that may be, De Lacy, take my advice: be

patient—be prudent; engage yourself by any ties you like; but do not

hurry your marriage, at least, till I am able to speak further, and to

tell you more—and now, good bye; come and see me in London; to-morrow,

if you can, but come and see me often; for I do not feel very sure

whether it is the living or the dead part of my regiment I am going to

join in a few weeks.”

I paused for a few moments before I went up to the house; but, on

knocking at the door, I was told by the little servant-girl that the

count had got his class with him. I then asked for Madame de Salins. She

was out, the girl said, but _Miss_ de Salins was at home. O, how

horrible that frightful epithet of Miss struck me, when applied to my

Mariette. I asked to see her, however, and was shown into a little room

just opposite that in which I had been the day before. Mariette was

sitting reading, and bright and beautiful she looked in her homely

attire. She was evidently very glad to see me; and I was glad to see she

was a little agitated, too; for she had been so much calmer than I was

at our first meeting, that I had teazed myself with the thought ever

since of her loving me less than I loved her. She told me that her

father would not be free for two or three hours, but that her mother

would soon be back, and would be very glad to see me. I said I would

wait to see Madame de Salins, though I feared I could not remain till

her father was at liberty. O, how artful I had become! By this manœuvre

I gained nearly an hour of sweet conversation with Mariette, a short

interview with Madame de Salins, and a good excuse for coming again on

the following day.

I do not remember distinctly one word of the conversation between

Mariette and myself; but I do know that, to me, it was very delightful:

that we dwell much upon former times, every thought of which was full of

young affection; that Mariette had forgot nothing any more than myself,

and that the memories of those days seemed as dear to her as they were

to me. We carried our minds so completely back to the past: we plunged

into childhood again so deeply, that I almost expected she would come

and sit down upon my knee, and put her arms round my neck, and coax me

to give her some trifle, or to gather her some flower beyond her reach.

Then again, we talked of our wanderings and all the vicissitudes we had

seen; and, once or twice, we came very near the subject of my journey to

Hamburgh. When we did so, I fancied that I could see a peculiarly grave

and almost sorrowful expression come into her beautiful eyes, and I

remarked that she seemed quite as willing to turn the conversation in

another direction as myself. However, nothing painful of any kind

occurred in that short interview—short, O, how short it seemed, and how

very speedy the return of Madame de Salins.

When she did come, she was very, very happy to see me. Time had made no

difference in her feelings toward me. I was still to her the boy she had

known and loved in France and Germany; and I felt, between Mariette and

her mother, at least, there would be no need of ceremony: that with or

without excuse, I should always be to them a welcome guest—nay, not a

guest, a friend, a son, a brother. With Monsieur de Salins, however, it

might be different, and, therefore, to make sure of another day, I

forced myself to depart before he appeared.

On the following day I was there half an hour earlier than that at which

I knew he would be free from his class, and that half-hour was spent

with Mariette and Madame de Salins as happily as it could be.

My interview with Monsieur de Salins was not quite so satisfactory. He

was as kind indeed as I could expect, and spoke of, what he called, my

services to his wife and daughter with more gratitude than any little

thing I had done for them could deserve. But in regard to that which was

nominally the principal object of my visit, he maintained a reserve

which I could not vanquish. He made use of no evasions, used no

subterfuges, but met my inquiries at once with a refusal to comply. I

referred to what he had said regarding the Marquis de Carcassonne, and

pointed out to him that his words were calculated to excite surprise and

curiosity, even if I had not previously received intimations which had

equally astonished me.

“I was incautious,” replied Monsieur de Salins; “but it will be better

for you, my young friend, to wait for further explanations till the time

when they can be given to you by persons much better qualified to enter

into all the details than I am. In fact, I deeply regret that I came

near so painful a subject at all, and beg you to pardon my having done

so, when taken by surprise.”

I could gain no further information from him; but I lingered yet for an

hour or two in conversation with himself, Mariette, and her mother,

walked with them in the little garden behind the cottage, talked of

shrubs and flowers, and every thing the furthest removed from the

subjects which really occupied my mind, and at length returned home,

resolving to visit London, and see the Marquis de Carcassonne the next

day.

I made the attempt accordingly, but was disappointed. I saw the old

French apothecary in his shop, and learned from him that his lodger was

out. The man seemed to have no recollection of me, and was somewhat more

civil than at our previous meeting. His answer to my question was prompt

and unhesitating, and I judged that he was not deceiving me. I was

therefore obliged, unwillingly, to wait for another opportunity, and

turned my steps toward the lodging of Westover, in Brook street. It was

one of those days, however, when every one is out, and merely leaving my

card, I returned to Blackheath, having accomplished nothing.

My next task was to get the Count de Salins to bring Mariette and her

mother to spend a day at our cottage; and I quietly prompted Father

Bonneville to ask the whole party, in his own name, for the Monday

following, when the count’s class did not meet.

Etiquette, and ceremonies, and conventionalities, were very much laid

aside at this time amongst the poor French emigrants. We had so much

need of all the comforts and sympathies of social life, such scanty

means of keeping up the stately reserves which had previously existed in

France—covering, it must be confessed, a multitude of glaring

vices—that we were glad to seize upon any occasion of enjoying a little

friendly intercourse in a land where we were generally poor, and

strangers, and by the great mass of the vulgar utterly despised.

The invitation was accepted frankly, and I set to work to devise how the

day might be made to pass pleasantly for all parties. I had a very

beautiful garden, now rich in flowers, and a gate at the back opened

into some pleasant fields. There was nothing very striking in the

scenery around, but there was a soft rural beauty rarely to be met with,

so near a great capital. I planned walks in directions which we were not

destined to take. I decorated our two sitting-rooms with nosegays of the

flowers which Mariette had loved in childhood. I laid her little book of

reading-lessons on the table, and a withered violet beside it, which she

had given to me in its beauty, and which I had kept ever after between

the leaves of the book. I arranged every thing, in short, as far as

possible, to carry her mind back to the past, and, in my own eagerness,

I felt very much like a child again myself.

One thing, however, I avoided. Neither in the dinner I had ordered, nor

in any of the arrangements did I suffer any thing like great expense, or

an attempt at display, to appear. Every thing was simple, though every

thing was comfortable and good. As I went about early in the morning,

busying myself with a thousand trifles, I could see Father Bonneville’s

eyes following me, while a quiet smile played about his lips. I saw that

he comprehended, in some degree at least, what was going on in my heart,

and that he did not even care to conceal his amusement at the eagerness

which, if he had ever known, he knew no longer.

The morning was as bright and beautiful as could be. Nature seemed to

smile upon me. There might be a few clouds, but they were only such as

fancy sometimes brings over a happy heart. There had been a light

shower, indeed, in the night, but it had only sufficed to lay the dust

and soften the ground, and render the rich unequalled verdure of England

the more brilliant.

Our friends were to come to breakfast, and they appeared punctually at

the hour. O, how warmly did I welcome them, and how happy did Mariette’s

presence make me there. The very memory of that day is so sweet that I

could dwell—even now—upon all the details with childish fondness.

Fancy one of your own dreams of early delight, and spread it through a

bright, glorious summer-day, and you will comprehend the passing of the

next twelve hours to me.

But I must pass over much of what we did. Monsieur de Salins was

suffering a good deal—as I found was still frequently the case—from

the effect of his old wounds; but he sat out in the garden with Father

Bonneville, while I, and Madame de Salins and Mariette, wandered about

amongst the shrubs and flowers. Dinner had been ordered early, that we

might not lose the cool of the evening for any ramble we might choose to

take, and I suggested two or three little expeditions, all of which were

determined upon in turn, but ultimately abandoned. To my surprise,

however, I found, at length, that Mariette—though residing so long in

the neighborhood—had never visited a spot celebrated in history, and

exquisitely beautiful in itself, but which has long since lost one of

its best charms from the multitudes which throng thither on a summer’s

day. I speak of Greenwich park. Madame de Salins said that she had often

thought of going thither with her daughter, but it was too far from

their house for them to walk, and they could not afford a carriage. I

pressed them both to go that evening; they were a mile nearer: we had

but to cross the heath—and then I proposed to send for the

pony-phaeton, and drive them over. That Madame de Salins would not hear

of, and she feared the fatigue of a walk. Mariette looked a little

disappointed, perhaps; and her father—who watched every look of his

child’s face with earnest affection—exclaimed:

“You two go, my children. Never mind us, we will enjoy ourselves

here—there can be no objection, I suppose?” he added, turning to his

wife.

“Oh! none,” replied Madame de Salins, at once. “She is as safe with

Louis as with a brother.”

It is but fair that fortune—who so often amuses herself with putting

out of joint our best devised schemes—should, at rare intervals, make

us compensation thus, by bringing about, through little accidents, that

which we desire, but dare not hope for.

With Mariette’s arm drawn through mine, we set out upon our walk across

the heath. I fancied that I felt a tremor in her hand, and I was glad of

it—although, after all, I am not sure that it did not increase my own.

It seemed as if the crisis of my fate was approaching, and I knew—I

felt now, for the first time, what it is to love passionately,

earnestly. When I remembered my sensations in all the events which

occurred at my marriage with poor Louise—deep, strong, earnest as they

were—my anxiety to spare her any pain—my ardent longing to give her

any happiness—the tender, heartfelt desire to save, to cherish and to

comfort her—and compared them, by one of those brief, rapid, but

comprehensive glances of the mind, with all I experienced at present, I

comprehended, at once, that I had never really loved till now, and that,

whatever she might think, I could give to Mariette the first true

offering of my heart. I had never known what it was to feel the sort of

trepidation that now seized upon me. It was like a gambler’s last throw.

Every thing seemed staked—hope, happiness, life itself, upon the

decision of that hour. Wait? That was impossible. In the fiery eagerness

that possessed my heart—in the passionate desire to know my fate, I

would sooner have plunged into the sea, than wait till the dawn of

another day.

There are certainly means of communication between heart and heart—call

them by what name you will—sympathies—instincts, any thing you

please—which go far beyond words—run before them—indicate without

audible sounds, or tangible signs, or even looks, that which is passing

within one bosom to another in harmony with itself. I had said nothing

that I know of to make Mariette believe I loved her. My conduct toward

her had been unchanged since first we met. I had been afraid to display,

in any way, the feelings that were busy at my heart. But, yet I am right

certain that ere we passed the garden-gate, she was conscious that her

fate and mine depended on the words to be spoken during that walk. Yes,

yes, yes, dear girl! Her hand trembled as it rested on my arm, and she

kept a little farther from me than our early affection might have

justified, as if there were some awe within her bosom at the decision

which was to bring us so close to one another.

For a quarter of a mile we did not say a word; and then I began any

how—sure to bring the conversation round, before I had done, to the one

sole subject of my thoughts. I believe I talked great nonsense. I felt

it at the time. I almost feared she would think I had drank too much

wine; for I could not keep my ideas fixed upon that of which I was

speaking. I soon found that utterly indifferent subjects would not do. I

knew the worst part of the task that was before me, and I determined to

approach it at once. Yet I did not succeed in my first attempt. I

thought if I spoke of her father’s situation, of my anxious, longing

desire that he and his should share in all I possessed, and if I tried

to enlist her on my side in persuading him to yield any pride and

prejudice which opposed my schemes, that it would naturally lead her to

some inquiry as to the source of the means I possessed. I was mistaken,

however. This sort of abstract consideration seemed completely to

restore her calmness. She raised her beautiful eyes to mine, and said,

“I need not tell you, Louis, that if it depended upon me, there would

need not another word. I could be content to be dependent on your

kindness—ay, and feel a sister’s claim to it likewise—without doubt or

hesitation or shame; and I believe my mother, too, would have few

scruples. But I know my father; and I am certain he would rather dig as

a common gardener than be indebted for assistance to any one.”

She asked no questions. It seemed enough for her that I had the means of

aiding her father, and that her father would not accept my aid. I saw

that I must try another course, and I changed the subject somewhat

abruptly. I began to talk to her of my wanderings through Switzerland,

of my sports in the mountains, of the battle of Zurich, of the danger of

Father Bonneville, of my being trodden down by the Austrian soldiers,

and lying for long weeks in the hospital. She grew deeply interested in

the details. Her color came and went. Her eyes were now raised up and

sparkling, and now cast down and swimming in tears. I told her of my

journey to the north, of my seeking employment in vain, of my begging my

way to the gates of Hamburgh. Her hand trembled again upon my arm, and

her steps wavered.

We were now within the gates of the park, and entering a long, solitary

chestnut walk, near the top of the steep hill, and I felt that with the

agitation which pervaded my whole frame, and her shaking limbs, we could

not go much further. There was a bench near, beneath the wide spreading

branches of one of the old trees, and I said, “Come, let us sit down

here, dear Mariette, and I will tell you the rest.”

“Will you, Louis—will you?” she asked, with an earnestness I shall

never forget.

My spirit rose and strengthened itself with the deep sense of what I

owed to her, to myself, and to the dead. “I will, Mariette,” I answered,

“I will tell you every thing—every thought, every feeling, as if I were

reading out of the book where they are all recorded.”

She bent down her head very low, and, seated beside her, I went on. My

conscience tells me that I concealed nothing, that I laid my whole heart

before her. But that which seemed to strike her most, was the gentle,

tender love of poor Louise.

When I ended the tale with the dear girl’s death, she seemed to have

forgotten herself altogether, and gazing up in my face, with the look of

a pitying angel, she said, “Poor, poor Louise! How you must have loved

her!”

The blood rushed up into my cheeks, and I bent down my face as if to

avoid her gaze, murmuring what was perhaps too true, “Not as much as she

deserved!”

Mariette started, and I added rapidly, “Do not mistake me, dear girl, I

loved her well, very well—I never loved but one better. But I loved her

not with that passionate earnestness—with that deep, intense, all

absorbing affection which such devotion as hers well merited. I could

have seen Louise wedded to another without despair, or agony, or death.

I bore her father’s rejection of me with easy, patient fortitude; and I

could have put my hand to any act that would have made her happy. Oh,

Mariette, let poets, and fiction-writers say what they will, to render

mortal love as intense as it may be, there must be a grain of mortal

selfishness in it. Passion must be blended with affection; and I have

learned—learned from another, that in true love there can be no

happiness, no peace, no tranquillity, no life without the loved one.”

She shook like an aspen; but her lips murmured, “From whom?”

“You,” I answered.

“Oh, Louis, Louis,” she said, “are we not both wronging her who is

gone?”

“Both!” that word was sufficient; but I would not hurt her feelings by

catching at it as eagerly as my heart prompted. I took her hand gently,

and quietly in mine, and said in a low lone, “No, Mariette—no, dearest

girl. I can never wrong her by telling you the truth. I have concealed

nothing from you, my Mariette—I have not concealed from you my deep

affection for her, my tenderness—my care of her— my bitter sorrow for

her death. Why should I conceal any thing else from you?—why should I

not tell the truth in all as well as in a part? Why should I hide from

you, that though for a few short days I have been the husband of

another, that though she had my esteem, my strong regard, my tenderest

pity, my warm affection in a certain sense, I have never truly, really

loved but you, from boyhood up to manhood—from my earliest memories to

this present hour? Why should I not say to you, that I have always

thought of you, dreamed of you, looked for you, longed for you? Believe

me, dear Mariette, believe me! If you do not, how can I prove it to

you?”

She laid her hand gently upon mine, and looking up at me with a

spring-day face, with bright tears and saddened smiles, she said, “The

book and the violet—do not, do not, dear Louis, think me so selfish as

to be jealous in the least degree of your love for poor Louise. We will

often talk of her, and when we are very, very happy ourselves, as I am

sure we shall be, we will think of her, and mourning for her sad and

early fate, will feel our spirits chastened, and not drain the cup of

happiness too eagerly.”

I would have given worlds to have been in some dim, secluded place,

where I might have thrown my arms around her, and pressed her to my

heart, and told her all I felt; but I dared do no more than clasp her

hand in mine in mute confirmation of the pledge her words implied. She

was mine: I was hers forever. But we were very silent for nearly a

quarter of an hour, and then, with our senses somewhat more collected,

and our hearts more still, we began to speak of all that was to follow.

I told her that on the ensuing day I should tell her father what had

passed between us, and I asked, somewhat anxiously, if she thought his

consent would be easily obtained.

She entertained not a doubt, she said; but yet the very suggestion

seemed to startle her, and more than once, as we walked homeward, she

fell into a fit of musing.

THE CONSENT.

When I went on the following day, not without some trepidation, I must

own, to the little cottage inhabited by the Count de Salins, the servant

girl informed me that he was far from well. It was said in a tone of

denial; but I begged her to tell him that I was there, and wished much

to speak with him for a few minutes. I was immediately admitted, and

found him seated in his robe de chambre by a fire, though it was summer

time. There were strong traces of suffering in his face, but he welcomed

me kindly, saying, that the denial he directed the servant to give was

not intended for me. Not knowing what effect the communication I had to

make might have upon him, I hesitated whether to say all I had intended;

but he led the way to it in some degree himself, saying, “I have sent

dear Mariette out with her mother; for she seemed dull and not quite

well, and I am not very cheerful company to-day.”

“Perhaps I can account, Monsieur de Salins,” I replied, “for Mariette’s

being a little thoughtful;” and without giving myself time to pause or

hesitate, I went on and told him all at once, adding, as I saw he was a

good deal agitated, “I would not have intruded this subject upon you

to-day, but that I promised Mariette last night I would not lose a

moment in making you acquainted with every thing that had been said

between us.”

For three or four minutes he sat gazing steadfastly and sternly into the

fire. Then starting up, he walked several times backward and forward in

the room, gnawing his lip, and gazing, as it were, at vacancy.

I was sadly alarmed; for I evidently saw that Mariette had been mistaken

in counting upon his ready consent, and I feared the result of the

struggle which was evidently going on within him. His silence lasted so

long as to be quite terrible to me, and I watched him with an expression

of eager apprehension, which he saw at once as soon as he turned his

eyes upon me. When he did so, he advanced directly to me, took my hand,

and wrung it hard.

“I feel like a scoundrel,” he said, to my great surprise, “I feel like a

scoundrel. But never mind, Monsieur de Lacy, never mind. She shall be

yours, if you will answer me one or two questions sincerely, and as I

could wish. I feel like a scoundrel, but those feelings shall not weigh

with me.”

“I will answer any questions, Monsieur de Salins,” I replied, “without

the slightest reserve.”

“‘Twas but a day or two ago,” said Monsieur de Salins, “that you wished

and proposed to share your fortune with us. I readily understood your

feelings, and comprehended how the generosity of youth should wish, at

any worldly sacrifice, to save from poverty and distress the friends and

companions of childhood. Now, you tell me you love my daughter, and

propose to marry her. Tell me, Count de Lacy—before God and your

conscience—are not the motives of your first proposal mingling with

your second?—in a word,” he continued, vehemently, “is not

charity—charity, I say, at the bottom of the desire you now express?”

and his eye ran haggardly over the scanty furniture of his little room.

“Charity! Monsieur de Salins,” I exclaimed. “Charity, between me and

Mariette! Is there any thing I have on earth that is not hers? Oh, no,

no; for heaven’s sake, do not entertain for one moment such very painful

thoughts. Believe me,” I added, “that I am moved by one feeling

alone—the deepest, strongest affection; the warmest, the most

passionate love toward that dear girl, who, as you say, was the friend

and companion of my childhood; whom I loved then, and only love better,

more warmly now. Surely, Monsieur de Salins, you forget what Mariette

is, to suppose for an instant that I could seek her with any feeling but

one.”

A faint smile came upon his lip. “She is, indeed, very beautiful, and

very sweet,” he said, “but Father Bonneville tells me, Monsieur de Lacy,

that you have been married before.”

“True,” I answered; “and yet I have never loved any one as I love

Mariette.”

“Then she shall be yours,” he said, thoughtfully, “then she shall be

yours.”

But I saw that there was still a reluctance, and I said, “Listen to me

for five minutes, and clear away all doubts, regarding my former

marriage, from your mind.”

He seated himself again in the chair before the fire, and I related to

him succinctly, and simply, all that had occurred at the time of my

marriage with poor Louise. He listened attentively, and drew a deep sigh

when I had done, repeating the words, “She shall be yours,” but adding,

“notwithstanding every foolish prejudice.”

“I do not understand you,” I said, “although I am quite sure that no

prejudice will weigh with the Count de Salins. Nor do I comprehend how

he could accuse himself at any moment of feeling like a scoundrel.”

“My young friend,” he said, slowly and impressively, “I look upon every

man as a scoundrel, who does not act upon the principles he

professes—upon the principles he knows to be just—I mean, of course,

when he has time for deliberation; for every man, in human weakness, may

commit in a moment of passion, acts which his heart disavows, and which

his conscience afterward condemns. But the man who hesitates to do what

he knows to be right, from any motives which he cannot justify, feels

like a scoundrel, and such was my case just now. I believed you to be

well fitted to make Mariette happy. I felt that I ought to give my

consent; and yet, there was in my breast a struggle in which I could

hardly conquer. Old prejudices, absurd habitual feelings rose up against

my reason and my sense of justice, and they nearly overcame me.”

“But why?” I asked, in a sorrowful tone. “Is there any thing I have ever

done—is there any act in my whole life, that should exclude me from

your good opinion?”

“None, none,” he said, warmly. “Do not ask me for explanations; for all

I can reply, is, that there is a history attached to your family,

regarding which you have been brought up in ignorance, both for your own

happiness, and the happiness of others. You will learn it some day; but

not from me. However, Monsieur de Lacy, the struggle is at an end;

Mariette shall be yours; but not just yet. She is very young, and it

will be better to wait awhile. I feel my health failing me, it is true,

and I have lately been very anxious for her mother and herself. She must

be yours before I die, and then such anxiety will be at an end; but I

hope to linger on yet some time longer.”

“Let me ask one question, Monsieur de Salins,” I said. “Has the history

attached to my family, which you mention, any reference to that Marquis

de Carcassonne, whom I saw in London?”

He bowed his head quietly, and setting my teeth hard, I said, in a

resolute tone, “That shall be explained, if he and I live many days

longer. The blood that flows in my veins, Monsieur de Salins—every

feeling that animates my heart, tells me that I have nothing to fear

from opening out all the acts of my father’s life to the eyes of the

whole world. I will endure this mystery no longer. If my father has been

wronged—murdered, as I am told, it is for his son to do him right. If

he has been traduced, it is for his son to justify his memory.”

“I cannot deny it,” said Monsieur de Salins, “and I think they have

acted wrong, and are acting wrong toward you. They think they are doing

it for your good, I dare say—they think it is for your interests—for

your future pecuniary advantage; but there is nothing should be so dear

to any one, as the memory of a parent, except, indeed, it be his own

unspotted name. You have enough. I do not covet more for Mariette than I

am told you possess. Strange as it may seem, I have learned from

poverty, to value wealth less than I used to do—but here comes my

wife,” he added, laying his hand kindly on my arm, “and our Mariette. I

know their steps upon the little path. Oh, what music it is, the step of

the loved, to the ear of sorrow and sickness!”

It was music to my ear, too; and the moment after, Mariette and her

mother were in the room.

The instant she saw me, the dear girl’s cheek flushed, and then turned

pale, but she was not kept in suspense; for her father immediately threw

his arm around her, and drawing her gently toward me, put her hand in

mine.

“Bless them, my dear wife,” he said, turning to Madame de Salins, “bless

them; for they are united.”

Madame de Salins embraced us both with eager joy, and then threw her

arms round her husband’s neck, saying, “This is all I have most desired,

my husband; for I am sure Louis will be to her, all you have been to

me.”

THE DROP OF GALL.

Having told Father Bonneville that I should spend two or three days in

London, and directed my portmanteau to be sent to a small but

comfortable hotel at the end of Brooke street, I rode straight to a

livery stable, near Charing Cross, where I was accustomed to put up my

horse, and left him there. I then walked on along Pall Mall, meditating

my future course, with more calmness and consideration than I had

hitherto given to the subject. In regard to one point, my heart was now

at rest. Mariette was found—was to be mine, and I had but one great

object for thought and endeavor. I had not reached the end of St.

James’s street, when I saw before me, a tall, fine, stately figure,

which seemed somewhat familiar to me, walking slowly, and deliberately

onward, and I turned my head to look at the face as I passed.

“Good morning, Monsieur de Lacy,” said the Earl of N——, in a frank and

easy tone. “Whither away so fast, this morning?”

I paused, and took the two fingers he extended to me, saying, “I am

going to Brooke street, my lord.”

“Ah, to see Charles,” he answered; “well, I will walk with you part of

the way,” and he put his arm through mine, leaning on me somewhat

heavily.

I did not wish my thoughts interrupted, and would have gladly got rid of

him, had he been any other man; but there were various vague feelings in

my bosom, which made that old nobleman’s society not unpleasant to me,

even then; and at his slow pace we proceeded. He was silent for a

moment, and then, looking round toward me, he said, “Why you are as tall

as I am, Monsieur de Lacy.”

“As nearly the same height, I suppose, as possible,” I answered. “I had

thought your lordship the taller man, from your carrying yourself so

upright, I imagine.”

“And from my white hair, perhaps,” replied the old nobleman. “When we

see mountains capped with snow, we are often inclined to think them

higher than they are. But how is this, Monsieur de Lacy, Charles tells

me you are a Protestant?”

“I am so, my lord,” I replied, “and have been so for some years.”

“Keep to that, keep to that,” rejoined the Earl, with an approving nod

of the head. “You will find it better for your temporal and your eternal

interests.”

“There is no chance, I believe, of my changing any more, my lord,” I

answered, “as my conversion from the church of Rome, was the work of

patient examination and sincere conviction, I am not likely to re-tread

my steps.”

“I am glad to hear it, I am very glad to hear it,” he answered, and then

seemed as if he were about to say something more, but stopped short, and

turned the conversation to other subjects.

“Have you heard,” he asked, “that your king, Louis the Eighteenth, is

now in England? Our wise governors have refused to recognize him under

that title. They wish to leave themselves a loop-hole for recognizing

the usurper, and so make him call himself the Count de Lille. They will

soon find the folly of such feeble and wavering policy. It is my maxim,

when I draw the sword, to throw away the scabbard; but, heaven help us,

we are sadly ruled.”

I inquired where the king had taken up his residence, and then said,

that I should certainly go down and pay my respects to him.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the earl, with some signs of surprise. “Are you sure

of a good reception? Consult Charles—you had better consult Charles. He

is a very good counsellor in all such circumstances. Withdrawing as much

as I can from public life, I am not the best authority in matters of

this kind—and now I must leave you—good bye. Tell Charles to let me

know how he is.”

Thus saying, he turned into one of the club houses in St. James’s

street, and I walked on.

When I had reached the end of Brook street, and was approaching the door

of the hotel, I saw two persons coming toward me, who attracted my

attention by the loudness and vivacity with which they were talking

French. One was a tall, thin, elderly man, dressed in black, with black

silk stockings, and knee breeches. He was very well dressed: but had

more the air of a dancing-master than a gentleman.

The other was a little old woman, brisk and active in all her movements,

and jabbering away to her companion in her native tongue, with vast

volubility. The face was very peculiar, and had it been possible for me

to conceive, that a silk gown would ever cover the back, or a velvet

bonnet ornament the head of my old friend Jeanette, I should have

claimed acquaintance with her at once. She recognized me better,

notwithstanding all the changes that had come over my personal

appearance, since we parted in Switzerland.

“Bon Dieu!” she cried, stopping in the midst of the pavement, somewhat

to the surprise and admiration of the passengers. “Is it

possible?—yes—it must be. My dear Louis, do you not recollect

Jeanette?”

“Very well, indeed, Jeanette,” I replied, taking both her hands; but the

good old woman was in a state of ecstasy that defied all restraint. She

cried, she laughed, and I verily believe she would have danced, too, in

the middle of Brooke street, had I not held her tight by both the hands,

while her companion endeavored to soothe her, by repeating a dozen

times, “Mais, Jeanette, mais Mademoiselle!” There was something so

indescribably ludicrous in her expression of satisfaction, that I

believe that I should soon have laughed too, as well as the passengers;

and as my only resource, I took her and her companion into the hotel, to

which I had written to have rooms prepared for me. When she was safely

seated there, and somewhat quieted, she told me in a very mysterious

manner, that she had just been talking about me to “somebody,” but

somebody had never told her that I was in England. Her words, and more

still, her mysterious manner, raised expectations which were not

fulfilled. After a good deal of pressing, I obtained from her the fact

that this somebody of whom she spoke was no other than Charles Westover;

and I found that the man who accompanied her was an old valet de chambre

of the Earl of N——. This was not altogether satisfactory to me; but

yet it was another link in the evidence, showing—to my mind beyond a

doubt—that there was some connection between my own fate and the earl’s

family.

I soon sent away the valet de chambre, telling him that I would take

care Jeanette should return in safety; and I felt half inclined to go

with her, and demand explanations of the earl himself. A very brief

reflection, however, determined me to forbear; but I questioned Jeanette

closely concerning my own history and that of my family. She was very

unwilling to speak, evaded my questions, gave me ambiguous replies, and

when pressed very hard, sought woman’s usual refuge with tears, sobbing

forth, “I must not break my vow, my dear boy. I must not break my vow.”

I could not bring myself to ask her more; but I turned to another point,

saying, “Well, Jeanette, if you are bound by a vow not to speak on those

subjects, tell me at least, do you know any thing of the Marquis de

Carcassonne?”

The poor woman’s face assumed an expression of horror not easily to be

forgotten. “Know him!” she exclaimed, “know that terrible man! Oh, yes,

Louis, I know him too well. He ruined as happy a family as ever lived,

and destroyed as noble a gentleman as was in all the world.”

Her words seemed to change my blood to fire; but I asked as coolly as I

could, “Can you tell me how it was done, Jeanette?”

“Oh no,” she answered. “I was but a poor, ignorant servant, and did not

hear any of his ways and arts, at least to understand them. All I know

is, what it came to. I can’t tell you any more; but he is a dreadful

man. It makes me tremble even to think of him.”

“Then I will go to him, and wring it from his heart,” I answered,

fiercely; “for know the whole, and expose the whole, I will.”

“Oh don’t go near him, Louis; don’t go near him,” she cried, almost in a

scream; joining her hands together as if she were praying to a saint.

“He is the destruction of every one who approaches him, and he will find

means to destroy you, too.”

“I have seen him once,” I answered, “since I have been in England, and I

will most certainly go to him again, Jeanette, and force him to confess

all he has done. I have no fear of him,” I added, almost with a scoff,

remembering the miserable object I had seen in Swallow street. “He

cannot harm me, Jeanette.”

“Stay, stay, Louis,” she said, eagerly. “Good Father Noailles tells me

he is sick, and that he must die—perhaps we could find a way without

your going near him. He will be terribly afraid of death when it comes

close to him. All the frightful things he has done will rise up before

his eyes, when he feels that he is going to answer for them. He has sent

for Father Noailles twice already, and the good man says that his mind

is in a perilous state—let me try, Louis; let me try. Perhaps I can

manage it.”

“Whatever you do, you must do quickly, Jeanette,” I answered; “for I can

and will bear this suspense no longer.”

“Well, well, I will go this moment,” she said; “but where can I find

you, Louis, to tell you what I have done?”

“Here, for the next three days,” I replied, “and after that at

Blackheath. I will give you the address.”

I wrote it down for her, and then ordered a hackney coach to be called;

but she did not direct it to drive to the house of the Earl of N——,

which was in Berkeley Square, but to a small street in Soho.

After she was gone, I paused again to think for a short time, and I

resolved, notwithstanding the hopes she held out, to see the Marquis de

Carcassonne myself. There was more than one piece of information to be

obtained from him, and I fancied that I could wring out of him the whole

of that history which I was so anxious to learn. It would be better in

the first place, I thought, to see Westover; and I hurried away to his

rooms, which were somewhat farther up the street.

I found him lying on a sofa, reading; and my errand was soon told. “I

come to you for advice, Westover,” I said, “advice such as none but a

friend—a sincere friend, can give.” I then went on to tell him the

state of cruel anxiety and agitation I was in, and expressed my

intention of seeing the Marquis de Carcassonne myself. I mentioned my

meeting with Jeanette, too, and that I found she had been talking with

him of me and mine.

He heard the first part of what I said, gravely, and somewhat gloomily,

but smiled when I mentioned Jeanette, and replied frankly, “I sent for

her for the very purpose, De Lacy. It would not do for me, you know, to

hold long conferences with pretty young maid-servants in my

grandfather’s house, and so I thought it better to have her here. So she

told you nothing?”

“Nothing,” I replied; “she asserted that she was under a vow of

secrecy.”

“That is very likely,” he said; “but as to this Marquis de Carcassonne,

I think you had better trust him to her. I see very well what she

intends to do. She will go to the old priest Noailles, and get him to

work upon the scoundrel’s mind, under the fear of death and judgment.

Such men almost always become cowards at the brink of the grave; and old

Noailles is his confessor, I suppose. If he confesses all, Noailles,

well prompted, may, perhaps, refuse him absolution, unless he does

justice, however tardy, and thus we may get at the truth at length. It

is no bad scheme of the old lady.”

“Then do you not know the truth, yourself?” I asked in some surprise.

He shook his head, answering, “I have moral conviction, De Lacy, but no

proof, and therefore cannot say I know the truth.”

“I will go to him myself,” I said, after thinking for a minute or two.

“Well, I do not see that it can do any harm,” replied Westover,

thoughtfully; “but you had better go to him after dark, or probably you

will not see him. Men suspect that both he and his apothecary carry on

the lucrative occupation of spies, or at least that of conveying

information and gold to France, where both are somewhat scarce just now.

Then there is another thing, De Lacy. I ask you as a personal favor, if

you can contrive to make this obdurate man speak, to let me know all

that he has said before you communicate it to any one else—I bind you

by no other engagement. Will you promise me this?”

“Willingly,” I answered; “as soon as I know the truth, I shall be glad

that all the world knows it also.”

“That as we shall judge hereafter,” said Westover, with a significant

smile, “and now will you stay and dine with me. We have time for a ride,

or a walk, before the dinner hour.”

I declined, however, for I felt myself in no state of mind to enjoy

society, and returning to the hotel, I sat there in uneasy pondering,

till the sky began to turn gray. I then walked out and passed down

Swallow street; but it was not yet dark enough for my purpose. I

proceeded therefore to the end of the street, took a turn through those

long forgotten alleys which led to St. James’s market, and walked back

again, while a dingy man, with a red-flaming and stench-emitting link,

ran up and down a ladder at every lamp-post before me, lighting the dim

lamps, which were the only illumination of London before the modern

improvement of gas. Just as I approached the door of the apothecary, I

saw that worthy gentleman issue forth, with coat tightly buttoned up,

and hat pressed down upon his brows, and not wishing to call him back to

his shop, I passed by a few steps and then returned. When I entered I

found no one but a small servant boy or apprentice at the counter, and

simply saying, I wished to speak to Monsieur de Carcassonne, I

approached the foot of the stairs by which I had mounted before. The boy

seemed to hesitate as to whether he should try to stop me or not; but at

length when I had the door leading to the staircase in my hand, he said,

“You’d better take a light,” and handed me a lamp. As I mounted the

steps, in a foul, close atmosphere, which below, had the odor of drugs,

and above, that of confined and deteriorated air, I heard a frequent,

rattling cough, sounding from the upper rooms, and I judged by the

peculiar noise it made, that the life of the cougher was not worth many

day’s purchase. I knocked at the door of the Marquis de Carcassonne, as

a mere matter of ceremony, but without waiting, opened it and went in. I

found him seated in nearly the same position as when I previously saw

him, before the fire of his little stove grate; but though the room

smelt of food there was no cooking going on.

He was greatly altered. His face was white and blue, and become

exceedingly thin and meagre: His whole person shrunk, and his eyes full

of a vivacious anxiety which I have often since remarked in the last

stages of organic diseases. He had got a newspaper in his hand, which in

the true French spirit he was reading eagerly, by the light of a single,

sweaty, tallow candle, that required incessant snuffing; but he

instantly raised his eyes above the edge of the paper, looking toward

the door, with a somewhat perturbed expression of countenance. At first

he gazed at me without the slightest trace of recognition on his face,

but I was not in a frame of mind to be abashed or daunted by the look of

any man. There was a stern, earnest determination in my heart, which

could meet a sneer, or an insult, or a threat, with equal indifference.

He rose up from his chair, with habitual politeness, went through the

customary bow with the customary grace, and then sank down again into

his seat, unable to stand long upon his feet. I walked calmly and

deliberately up to the side of the table, and without being invited,

seated myself exactly before him.

I must not stay to scrutinize my feelings at that moment. It is enough

to say that they were sufficiently fiendish. There he sat, the murderer

of my father, the persecutor of my race—a worm—a snake—which wanted

but one crush of my heel, as it seemed to me, to lie a mass of rotting

corruption before me. Pity! I could feel no pity at that moment. All

human charities seemed extinguished within me, and although I would not

have injured the frail body for the world, yet I felt if I could have

got at his spirit I would have torn it to pieces.

He looked at me in surprise and dismay, as in dull silence I drew a

chair to the table and sat down, gazing fixedly at him, as if I would

have looked into his very soul. He said not a word, and after a pause, I

asked, “Do you know me, Marquis de Carcassonne?”

“No,” he said, in the shrill treble of age, and with a look of fear and

agitation, shrinking back in his chair as far as he could. “No. The dead

do not come back here below—That is a superstition—No, I do not know

you, though you are like—very like.”

“I am Louis De Lacy,” I said, sternly.

“Ah!” he cried “ah!” and he put out his hand as if to push me off from

him.

I could see him shiver and quake, and I went on repeating the same

words: “I am Louis De Lacy, the son of him you murdered. He is before

you in my person. He speaks to you by my voice. He demands that you do

justice to his memory, even now, when you are trembling on the brink of

that grave beyond which you will soon meet face to face. Answer me,

Marquis de Carcassonne. Will you at length tell the truth? Will you do

justice to the dead? Will you make the only atonement you can make to

the murdered, before God puts his seal upon your obduracy, and you go to

judgment for your crimes unconfessed and unrepented of?”

The old man quivered in every limb and his face was as pale as death;

but he answered not a word, and I went on with a hardness of heart for

which I have hardly forgiven myself yet. “You were once wealthy,” I

said, “and you are now poor. You were once the inhabitant of gilded

halls, and soft, luxurious apartments: You are now in a miserable

garret, wretched, and dark, and gloomy. Your crimes have led not to

greater wealth and opulence; not to comfort and indulgence; not to the

objects of ambition and desire; but to penury, distress, and want. There

is a further step before you—a deep abyss, into which you seem inclined

to plunge. The grave is a colder dwelling than this, the tribunal of an

all-seeing God more terrible than any you can appeal to here, the hell

which you have dug for yourself, more agonizing than even your

conscience at this moment.”

The very vehemence with which I spoke seemed to frustrate my own

purpose, and to rouse in his decaying frame, and sinking mind, a spirit

of resistance which had formerly been strong within him. He grasped the

arm of his chair. He sat upright. He moved his jaw almost convulsively,

and then said, with serpent bitterness, “So, so—son of a traitor. You

would have me lie, would you, to recover for you your father’s estates,

to clear your name from the infamy that hangs upon it, and shall hang

upon it to all eternity. You would have me unsay all I have said, recant

all I have sworn? But mark me, boy, I will put upon record before I die

the confirmation of every charge against your treacherous father. I will

leave it more deeply branded on his name than ever, that he deceived his

king, betrayed his country, renounced his honor, falsified his word, and

sold himself to the enemy, and his name shall stand in the annals of the

world, as the blackest of traitors, and the basest of men—Ha, ha! What

are your threats now, fool?”

I started up, and it was with great pain I kept my hands from him; but I

mastered my first rash impulse, and I said, “Then I summon you to meet

him whom you have belied and murdered, whom you still, unrepenting, and

unatoning, calumniate and accuse, before the throne of Almighty God, and

to answer, where falsehood is vain and cunning is of no resource, where

the truth is written on tables of light, and falsehood is blotted out in

everlasting darkness, where hell and eternal damnation await remorseless

crime, for every word you have uttered this night! As your heart judges

you, so feel, and so act. Die in peace and calm assurance, or in horror,

and terror, and despair.”

He shrank back, and back, and back, into his chair, and at the last

words, he pressed his trembling hands upon his eyes, as if he would have

shut out the fearful images I had presented to him. His face grew livid,

and his whole frame heaved, as if the torture of the eternal flame had

already seized upon him.

I know not whether I should have said more or not; but a moment after I

had ceased speaking, and while I still stood gazing at him, writhing

before me, the door opened and a venerable looking old man, dressed in

black, entered the room. He gazed an instant in surprise, at the pale

and trembling wretch, and at me; and then he asked in a stern and solemn

tone, “Who are you?—What have you done, young man?”

“I am Louis de Lacy,” I answered coldly. “That is the Marquis de

Carcassonne, the murderer of my father. What I have done is what, if you

are a priest, you should do—made a dark criminal tremble, before the

way to atonement, and the gates of mercy are shut against him forever;”

and without waiting for any further question, I hurried away from the

room, down the dark staircase, and out into the crowded street.

LIGHT FROM THE PAST.

My thoughts were in such a state of tumult and confusion, that I cannot

say I considered any thing for many minutes after I quitted the den of

that old snake; but I took my way, at once, toward Westover’s lodgings,

and told him all that had occurred.

“You had better have left it to Jeanette, I believe,” he replied, with

that mixture of worldly knowledge and pure, high feeling which I had

often remarked in him. “You do not know how often, De Lacy, things can

be accomplished by inferior agents and dirty tools, which all the skill

and vigor of the clear-headed and high-minded are unable to effect. You

see, this good woman, and this good priest, would have no scruple

whatever in employing means which you would not condescend to use. I

trust you have not done much mischief—perhaps some good; but at all

events, now take my advice and leave the matter in the hands of Jeanette

and her revered coadjutor.”

“There is no hope; there is no chance,” I said. “The man is as hard as

the nether mill-stone.”

“We cannot tell what may be done,” replied Westover. “At all events one

thing is very clear—you can do nothing; so if I were you, I would take

myself out of town, and not fret my spirit with thinking of it any more.

By the way, how go on your affairs with the beauty amongst the roses?”

“As well as I could wish,” I replied, with a smile, for he dexterously

enough brought up happier images before my eyes. “She is to be mine, but

not just yet. However, I forgot to tell you, Westover, that I met your

grandfather to-day, and he walked up St. James’s street with me.”

“Ha! indeed!” said Westover, with a look of pleased surprise. “What did

he say? How did he act?”

“Very kindly,” I answered.

“Walked up St. James’s street with you?” repeated Westover. I nodded my

head, and he asked, “Did he invite you to his house?”

“No,” I replied, “nor gave any hint of such an intention.”

A shade came over my friend’s face again, and he inquired, “What did he

say?”

“Nothing very particular,” I answered. “He told me that his majesty, my

king, had arrived at Yarmouth, and advised me to consult you as to

whether I should go to pay my respects to him.”

“By all means,” replied Westover, eagerly, “by all means. Lose not a

moment. Be one of the first. Let us set off by the stage to-morrow

morning.”

“Do you propose to go with me, then?” I asked.

“Oh yes, I had better,” he replied, “I can introduce you to the king. I

saw him some time ago in Livonia, and dined with him twice.”

“Perhaps that may obviate your grandfather’s objections,” I said; “for

he seemed to doubt whether I should be well received.”