CHAPTER III.

It was no wonder that Florence should have been deceived by one so

artful and designing as Crayford. Her first introduction to him was

calculated to impress her strongly in his favor—a vantage ground which

he knew well how to maintain. His conversation so artfully fraught with

morality—the correct and refined taste he manifested for music, for

painting, and all those acquirements which were so delightful to

her—his well argued schemes of philanthropy, added to an elegant person

and insinuating address, might have deceived one less ingenuous and

confiding than Florence. In him all those delightful influences with

which the unknown had surrounded her seemed concentrated; in fact, as

one and the same she began gradually to blend them in her imagination.

Day after day, therefore, was the dangerous Crayford admitted to her

presence, and each day more securely planting himself in her favor. In

the meantime the seven nephews and cousins made common cause, and fought

bravely against this new aspirant, whom they saw plainly was fast

bearing off the prize from them, until alarmed by several very

unequivocal threats from Crayford, they vanished, leaving the field to

him.

But where, all this time, was the friend who had so ardently pledged

himself her protector, surely now was the time when his voice should not

be silent.

A small casket was one day placed in the hands of Florence, which, on

opening, she found to contain a brooch, representing a stem of the lily

of the valley, emblem of purity and innocence, composed of beautiful

pearls, but around which a small, glittering snake was entwined. The

head of the reptile, its forked tongue darting fire, was bent over the

sweet floweret as if with its noxious venom it would destroy it forever.

The snake was of emeralds—the eyes and tongue of small sparkling rubys.

On lifting the brooch, a folded paper dropped from it, on which was

traced in the same well known characters:

“Beware, pure and innocent lily—the charmer is near, but his breath is

poison!”

To Crayford alone she knew this singular warning could refer, and it

caused her at first both dismay and sorrow. Could it be, then, that he

was a villain! Could it be that under an exterior so pleasing vice and

deformity could hide itself; no, it was impossible! Florence had no room

in her heart for suspicions so cruel toward any one. Of friendship

abused—of confidence violated, or of the heart’s warm affection

betrayed, that most bitter lesson of life she had yet to learn. Ah,

happy those, who, on their journey through life, may never meet with its

truths!

And was it not unjust, she argued, to receive implicitly the words of

one unknown to the prejudice of one whom she did know, and who appeared

every way so estimable. Might she not also attribute to jealousy this

singular interference of one who had already declared himself to be her

lover. The more she dwelt upon this conclusion, the more reasonable it

appeared; and finally closing the casket, she prepared to fulfill an

engagement with Crayford to visit the Academy of Fine Arts.

In the drawing-room she found him already waiting for her, and

apologizing for her delay, they immediately set forth upon the intended

expedition.

Never had Crayford appeared more brilliant, more fascinating than this

morning; and was it strange that the warning of the unknown should have

passed from her thoughts as a dream. As they reached the corner of ——

Square, Florence suddenly observed a young woman, very pale, and meanly

attired, who, leaning against the iron railing, was fixedly gazing upon

her with a look of such utter despair and misery, as excited at once her

pity and curiosity. A miserable cloak closely enveloped her person, the

hood of which was held tightly around the lower part of her face by her

thin white hand, yet did not conceal the ghastly pallor of her

countenance. Her eyes were uncommonly large, and of a soft, lustrous

black; it even seemed to Florence they were filled with tears, and her

brow looked as cold and pure as the brow of the dead.

“What beautiful eyes!” said she, in a low voice to her companion; “pray

look!”

As Crayford sought the wretched object Florence pointed out, he started

as though an adder had stung him, and would have hurried on, but the

girl, with an impatient gesture, as if to address him, sprang a step or

two forward:

“Poor creature! let us hear what she has to say,” said Florence.

“Excuse me, my dear Mrs. May,” replied Crayford, with an effort at

calmness, “I cannot submit you to the importunities of that woman; is it

possible you have never seen her—it is Nell, the crazy fortune-teller!”

then throwing her a half dollar, accompanied by a look which Florence

did not observe, he passed on with his lovely companion.

“Poor creature! she should be taken care of!” exclaimed Florence.

Looking back, she saw the money still glittering upon the pavement,

while the girl, with her form slightly bent forward, her arms extended

before her, and her small, thin hands clasped together, seemed the very

personification of despair.

They soon reached the Academy. At the entrance they encountered several

persons, some entering, others leaving the building. As they were

ascending the steps, a voice close to the ear of Florence, whispered,

“_Beware of the serpent!_”

She started and looked quickly around, but saw no one to whom she could

attribute the remark. An old gentleman and lady were behind her, and

with the exception of a spruce, dandified individual, she could discover

no one else. It was sometime, however, ere she could recover from the

agitation into which this had thrown her; and Crayford, attributing her

abstraction entirely to her pity for the poor fortune-teller, exerted

all his skill as a connoisseur to draw her attention to the beautiful

creations of the painter and sculptor. He was successful, and the mind

of Florence soon engrossed alone by the pleasing objects around her.

Several times, in passing through the rooms, her eyes encountered those

of a gentleman dressed in deep mourning, who seemed to be regarding her

with a sad and mournful gaze. At first she thought nothing of it; but

when again and again she met the same sad expressive eyes, she could not

suppress a feeling of agitation.

They spent some hours here, and were about retiring, when, in one of the

galleries, Florence observed the same gentleman standing at a little

distance attentively regarding a fine group of statuary. His profile was

turned toward them, and struck with the intellectual cast of his

features, Florence pointed him out to Crayford.

“Heavens, he here!” he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon him, while a

mortal paleness overspread his features; then aware his agitation must

appear singular to his companion, he added, “I met that gentleman abroad

under circumstances of very strange interest; some other time I will

explain—if you please we will now pass on.”

As they reached the door Florence looked around, but the stranger had

disappeared. Once, as they threaded their way homeward through the busy

crowd, she thought she met the same mournful eyes, but ere she could

take a second look they had vanished.

Poor Florence! what conflicting thoughts distressed her when left to her

own reflections, for notwithstanding her resolution of the morning, her

confidence in Crayford began to be shaken, and that it was so pained

her. She longed for some kind, sympathizing friend to whom she could

confide her doubts, and who would counsel her how to act. Among her few

acquaintances she knew of none capable of advising her, and the good old

woman who acted as her housekeeper, although she loved her dear young

mistress, and would go to the ends of the earth to serve her, could be

of little assistance in a case like the present. She did not love

Crayford, yet she felt he was one who had interested her more than any

person she had ever met with, one whom, perhaps, she might learn to

love; and then, should he prove the villain, should she find that the

warnings of the unknown were but too true—what would be her fate! At

one moment she resolved to dismiss him forever from her presence, and

the next her heart accused her of prejudice and injustice. Poor girl!

never had she felt so unhappy as when that night she rested her aching

head upon her pillow. Hark! what sweet music floats around her, and

insensibly yielding to its soothing power, she sunk into a gentle,

refreshing slumber.

When she awoke the sun was already glinting bravely through the muslin

window-shades, and with a much lighter heart, she sprang from her couch.

Remembering she had invited Crayford to breakfast with her, she hastily

made her toilet. A small pleasure party, acquaintances of Florence, had

been formed for Cape May. They were to start at an early hour, and

Crayford had so earnestly pleaded to make one of the number, that

finally she had consented. They were to breakfast together, and then

proceed to the place of rendezvous.

Just as Florence was about descending to the breakfast-room, a note was

handed her. She turned pale as she took it, for she saw it was from the

unknown. With a trembling hand she broke the seal and read:

“Ere it may be too late, listen to the warning voice of your friend. Let

me arouse you from that pleasing repose, which, like the calm preceding

a tempest, lulls you in such fancied security, let me bid you shun

Crayford—shun _him_ whose breath would sully the purity of an

angel—shun him as you would the viper in your path!”

As Florence finished reading, she sunk into a chair, and covering her

face with her hands, burst into tears.

“Mr. Crayford is below, ma’am,” said a servant, entering.

Alas! how should she act! There was a truth and earnestness about the

note she dared not disregard, and a few moments’ reflection determined

her to avoid him until she could learn either the truth or falsehood of

these heavy accusations. She therefore bade the servant say that a

violent headache would preclude her from joining the intended

excursion—and she also sent a note of the same purport to the lady

manager of the party.

In a few moments she saw Crayford leave the house. Could she have read

the thoughts then passing through his mind, she would have found full

confirmation of her worst fears.

She now determined upon a bold step, and with trembling hand addressed a

note to her mysterious counsellor:

“If you are really my friend, why do you thus shun me; why, if honest,

thus clothe yourself in so much mystery? What proof have you to give me

of your sincerity? Alas! I fear, none; and yet I would not have it so,

for the thought of your friendship has been very pleasant to me! What

reliance can I place upon the assertions of one who thus shuns inquiry,

against the character of a person bearing the semblance of so much worth

as Crayford? I have a right to demand proofs of what you have stated;

and I now do so, which, if you withhold, I shall deem all your

accusations against that individual as base forgeries. God judge the

right!”

This note she sealed, and ordering the servants to inform her when the

usual messenger from the unknown should again appear, she sat down to

reflect upon the singular position in which she found herself placed.

It was not until the following morning that Florence had an opportunity

to forward her note. From her window she at length saw the lad coming

down the street with a basket of beautiful roses. She immediately ran

down, and as he rang the bell she opened the door quickly, and placing

the note in his hand, bade him deliver it to his master. The next

moment, how gladly she would have recalled him, so imprudent appeared to

her the course she was pursuing. It was too late, however—and in a

state of much agitation she now awaited the result. She had not to wait

long. In the course of an hour she received an answer couched as

follows:

“You demand proof, and you shall have it. Thank God that you are

sufficiently alarmed to ask it. Go, then, to No. 7 —— Lane, and

inquire for a Mrs. Belmont. Be not dismayed at what is before

you—shrink not from a step which may save you from wretchedness. Go,

then, pure and lovely one, and fear not. One will be near you who will

protect you with his life.”

[_Conclusion in our next_

* * * * *

ALICE.

BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

As in yonder woods I wandered,

By the river-side,

On the bitter past I pondered,

On the gladness I had squandered,

And upon my erring bride,

By her dying sanctified.

Pleasure from a crystal chalice

Once I gladly drained;

Lived we in a fairy palace,

Wildest passion, I and Alice;

Every object seemed attained,

Every joy my soul had gained.

While I trusted her, and thought her

Honest as she seemed;

While I fondest worship brought her,

And my glowing glances taught her

Of the love which from them gleamed,

I awoke—I had but dreamed.

After she became a mother,

Leaving me her child,

Fled she from me with another—

With a man I thought my brother.

Fate its mountain on me piled,

And my mind grew rapt and wild.

So it was, he treated vilely

One who trusted him;

Thus did she with action wily

Lull me, ere she left me slyly—

Left me for her passion’s whim,

With my life-lamp growing dim.

Sad I sat me by my lattice,

Where the faded flowers,

Withered poppies, seared clematis,

And the damp-mould which begat is

By the long-neglected hours,

Seemed in harmony with my powers.

Thus my life-lamp’s fitful shimmer

Faint and fainter shone;

Thus its fastly-fading glimmer,

Daily growing dim and dimmer,

As I brooded there alone,

Lit my happiness o’erthrown.

Day by day thus wrapt in sadness,

Sat I quiet there;

Desperately rejecting gladness,

Wooing the approach of madness,

Nursing wrongs with savage care,

Whose nurture would create despair.

Time at length it soothed me slightly,

Covering o’er my care;

Made me bear my woes more lightly,

Think my honor less unsightly;

But her absence made her fair,

Though criminal beyond compare.

Years had past, and in this Babel

Of continual din,

I had striven, as I was able,

Till the silver streaked the sable

Of my hair, which growing thin

Showed decay which must begin.

Years had past, but naught could fetter

Love I should have spurned;

Every day I loved her better—

Shame upon me! Then I met her,

In the wo that she had learned,

Under the blow which she had earned.

By her death-hour’s turbid river

Stood her trembling soul;

And she asked me to forgive her,

By her shame, which would outlive her,

By her anguish past control,

By the hell which was her goal.

Could I at such time refuse her

Such a sad request?

Could I then of crime accuse her—

At that moment harshly use her?

So I bade her pass to rest,

With forgiveness on her breast.

Smiled the Magdalen, and prayed me

With a feeble pride,

Prayed me by the God who made me,

That when in the earth they laid me

It should be her form beside—

Hers, my false and fallen bride.

As I stood in pity by her,

Looking in her face,

Could I this small boon deny her?

Pride revolted, but a higher,

Holier feeling took its place,

And I smiled the sought-for grace.

This thing won, another favor

From me she did pray;

That, forgetting her behavior,

Ere death’s rising waves would lave her,

I would bend and on that day

Kiss her chill lips as she lay.

This I did, and as she started

At my warm lip’s touch,

From her form the spirit parted,

Leaving me thus riven-hearted,

Held in Sorrow’s iron clutch,

Smiling never, suffering much.

In the dark-brown shade I wander—

Sadness at my side;

Growing of my sorrows fonder,

As upon the past I ponder,

And upon my erring bride,

Who, as I forgave her, died.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine._

THE ENGRAVER’S DAUGHTER.]

* * * * *

THE ENGRAVER’S DAUGHTER.

BY HARRY SUNDERLAND.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Little Dora Stilling was but six years old when her best friend went to

Heaven. She was a beautiful child, and her father, Mark Stilling, an old

engraver, loved her with a species of blind idolatry. Stilling was by

birth a German, and his reading had not gone much beyond the childish

romances peculiar to his country, which had left upon his mind an

indelible impression. At twelve years old he was apprenticed to an

engraver, and since that time had seen little of the world beyond the

room in which his noiseless occupation happened to be. His mind,

therefore, remained half asleep, and the dreams that passed through it

had little in common with the real life around him. He was an old man

when he married, and his wife, who passed with many, who did not know

better, as his daughter, died a few years after their only child, Dora,

was born.

Upon the death of his wife, the heart of Mark Stilling turned toward the

sweet child she had left him, with an affection made jealous and

intenser by his loss. For her he desired all good in the world’s power

to bestow; but as to what was the greatest good he had but vague

notions. As he grew older, and his mind drooped toward second childhood,

from the ideas and feelings of his earlier years the dust of time was

blown away, and all was as distinct and fresh as if the spring-time of

life were but yesterday. Images of beautiful maidens, wooed by princes

in disguise, floated before his imagination; and then his thoughts would

turn to Dora, who grew more and more lovely in his eyes every day.

Nothing short of some such consummation for his child, he felt, would

ever satisfy him.

It was little wonder that the old engraver loved Dora with an absorbing

affection; for, opening like a rose, she displayed to his eyes some new

feature of loveliness every day, as well in mind as in body. While he

sat at his work, tracing out upon the hard, polished steel forms of

beauty, Dora was ever present in his mind, more beautiful than any

creation of the painter’s pencil he had yet been commissioned to copy.

Swiftly the years glided on, and Dora became less and less a child. As

soon as she was able to go to school, she was placed under the care of

the best teachers in the city, and from that time every dollar earned by

Stilling, beyond what the simple wants of nature demanded, was spent

upon his daughter, that she might be thought accomplished in every

thing, and thus made a fit companion for the best in the land. He wished

her to be, in one word, a _lady_—and, in the engraver’s mind, a lady

was something more than the term conveys in its usual acceptation.

But as Dora grew up lovely and accomplished as her parent’s heart could

desire, she exhibited a simplicity of taste, and a love for useful

employments, that her father did not in the least approve. Fond old man!

Half insane, under the delusion himself had conjured up from among his

early fancies, he felt, whenever Dora’s hands were engaged in work, that

she was degrading herself, and ever sought to keep her above the

necessity of entering into any domestic occupation. Dora, as her mind

grew clearer, saw the weakness and folly of all this. She saw that her

father was old, and growing feebler and less able to work every day, and

that his income was steadily decreasing; and she felt that, before a

very long time, upon her would fall the burden of his as well as her own

support. One day she came to him and said—

“Dear father, you are getting old, and your strength is failing. Let me

go and learn a trade, and then I can work for you.”

The old man caught for breath two or three times, like one suddenly

deprived of air.

“A trade, did you say, child!” He spoke in a low whisper.

“Yes, father, a trade. Let me learn some trade, so that I can help you.

I am young, and you are old. You have worked for me since I was child;

now let me work for you.”

“No, no, Dora! You shall not learn a trade,” replied Stilling firmly.

Then he added, in a chiding voice, “How could you think of such a thing!

You must look higher, my child. You are as good as any lady in the land,

and may take the place of the best.” Here his voice grew animated.

“Don’t you remember the story of the light-haired maiden whom the king’s

son saw, and loved better than all the proud court ladies, because she

was beautiful and good; and how he came in a splendid chariot, and

carried her away and made her his bride? True, there are no kings

here”—the old man faintly sighed—“but there are many rich and great

people. No—no—Dora, you shall not learn a trade.”

Dora understood well what her father meant by these allusions, for he

had often talked so before, and sometimes more plainly; and she knew

that it would be of no use to argue against him. So she said no more

about learning a trade. But she engaged more diligently in every useful

thing that came to her hand, and sought, by every means in her power, to

add to her father’s comfort.

Almost alone as Mark Stilling was, and possessing none of those

cultivated tastes and accomplishments necessary for one who would

introduce a young girl like his daughter into society, the old man saw

weeks and months go by, after Dora had become a woman, and yet his

lovely flower remained hidden by the wayside. He looked upon her as she

came in and went out, and wondered that all the world was not captivated

by her beauty. And as he grew older, and his intellect became feebler

and feebler, this one idea took a still stronger hold upon his mind.

Dora, at the age of nineteen, began to feel great concern for her

father. Both body and mind it was plain to her were failing rapidly; and

orders for work were much less frequent than they had been. But even if

work had been as abundant as before, he had less ability to perform it;

and this was daily decreasing. Again she asked permission to learn a

trade; but it was met with as firm an opposition as before, and on the

same ground.

“I must have some means of supporting myself and father,” she said

thoughtfully to herself, “for it will not be long that he can keep at

work. What shall I do? He will not let me learn a trade.” She reflected

for a long time, and then, as if all had become clear to her, she

clapped her hands together and murmured—“Yes—yes. That shall be it. I

will devote myself to my music until I become proficient enough to

teach.”

Already much money had been expended on Dora’s musical education, and

she played and sang well. But she was not skilled enough to be able to

give instructions. So from that time she spent many hours each day at

her piano; and also practiced on the guitar. As the old man listened to

her warblings, how little dreamed he that all this was but the learning

of a trade, against which his mind had so revolted.

As we have said, the old man became less and less competent to perform

his work well and expeditiously, and it gradually left him and went into

other hands. His income thus reduced, it became necessary to abridge the

expenses of his household, or fall in debt, something for which Stilling

had a natural horror. The first step downward, and one that it hurt the

engraver much to take, was the giving up of the neat little house in

which he had lived, and taking apartments in a second story, at half the

rent formerly paid. Dora urged strongly, when this change was made, to

have their domestic sent away.

“I can do all the work, father. Let Ellen go, and then we will save

nearly half our living.”

But the old man would not listen a moment to this, and silenced his

daughter by an emphatic “No.”

Yet for all this care in keeping Dora above the sphere of usefulness,

her charms had not won for her a distinguished lover. Still Dora had a

lover, and this was less wonderful than it would have been had her sweet

face not pictured itself on some heart. But her lover was only a humble

clerk in a store where she had often been to make purchases. He was as

simple and earnest in all his tastes and feelings as Dora herself. Their

meetings were not frequent, for young Edwards had been told of the old

engraver’s weakness, and did not, therefore, venture to call upon his

sweetheart at her home.

At length so little work came that Stilling did not receive more than

sufficient money to buy food, and actual privation began to creep in

upon himself and daughter. Stern necessity required the dismissal of

their domestic, and then the old man busied himself in household

matters, in order to keep Dora as far as possible above such menial

employments. As age crept on, and his intellects grew still weaker, he

clasped his fond delusion more closely to his heart, and observed all of

Dora’s movements with a more jealous eye.

For as long a time as a year had the faith of Dora and her lover been

pledged. Their meetings were generally in the street, on a certain

appointed afternoon of each week. Then they walked together and talked

about the future, when there should be no barrier to their happiness.

But the young man, as time wore on, grew impatient; and his pride

occasionally awakened, telling him that he was as good as the old

engraver, and worthy, in every respect, to claim the hand of his

daughter. Sometimes this feeling showed itself to Dora, when the maiden

would be so hurt that Edwards always repented of his hasty words, and

resolved to be more guarded in future.

“Let me call and see you at your father’s,” said Edwards, one day as

they were walking together; “perhaps I may not be so unwelcome a visiter

as you think.”

“Oh, no, no! you must not think of it,” replied Dora quickly.

“But where is this to end?” inquired the young man. “If he will not

accept me as your lover, and you cannot become mine except with his

consent, the case seems hopeless.”

Dora did not reply at the moment, and they walked along for some time in

silence.

“There is a way. I have thought of it a great deal,” at length said the

young girl. She spoke with some hesitation in her manner.

“What is it?” inquired her lover.

Dora leaned toward him, and said something in a low voice.

“That’s not to be thought of,” was the quick reply of the young man.

Dora was silent, while her bosom, as it rose and fell quickly, showed

that her feelings were much disturbed.

The suggestion, whatever it was, appeared to hurt or offend the young

man, and when they separated, it was with a coldness on his part that

made tears dim the eyes of Dora the moment she turned from him.

On their next meeting both felt constrained; and their conversation was

not so free and tender as before. It took some weeks for the effect of

Dora’s proposition, whatever it was, to wear off. But after that time

the sunshine came back again, and was brighter and warmer than before.

One day, it was perhaps four or five months after the little

misunderstanding just mentioned, the old engraver was visited by a

stranger, whose whole appearance marked him as either a foreigner or one

who had lived abroad. He wanted him, he said, to copy on steel, in his

most finished style, the miniature of a lady. As he mentioned his errand

to the engraver, he drew from his pocket the miniature of a young and

exquisitely beautiful woman, set in a costly gold locket. Mark Stilling

took the picture, but the moment he looked at it his countenance

changed.

“Is it not a beautiful face?” said the stranger.

“I have seen it before,” remarked the engraver, with a thoughtful air.

“Have you?” was the quick inquiry.

“Yes. But of whom is it a likeness?” asked the old man.

“Of one,” said the stranger, “who has flitted before me, of late, the

impersonation of all that is lovely in her sex. As she passes me in the

street, I gaze after her as one would gaze at an angel. A skillful

painter, at my request, has sketched her face, taking feature after

feature, as he could fix them, until, at last, this image of beauty has

grown under his pencil. And now I want it transferred to steel, lest

some accident should deprive me of its possession.”

While the stranger thus spoke, Stilling sat gazing upon the miniature

with the air of one bound by a spell. And no wonder—for it was the

image of his own child! and it seemed, as he looked into the pictured

face intently, as if the lips would part and the voice of Dora fall upon

his ears. Then he turned his eyes upon the dignified, princely looking

stranger, and the thought came flashing through his mind that his dream

of years was about being realized. Dora was the lovely unknown of whom

he had spoken with so much enthusiasm; with whom he was so passionately

enamored.

“Will you do the work for me?” said the stranger, breaking in upon the

old man’s revery.

“Yes—yes,” answered Stilling.

“How long do you want?”

“Two months.”

“So long?”

“Yes, to do it well.”

“Take, then, your own time, and charge your own price. Here are fifty

dollars,” and the stranger handed the engraver some money. “I will call

every day while the work is progressing, that I may look at the sweet

picture upon which you are engaged.”

“How large shall it be?” inquired the engraver.

“Just the size of the miniature,” replied the stranger. Then rising, he

said, as he bowed to Stilling, “I will see you again to-morrow about

this hour.”

On the next day, when the stranger called, Dora was sitting by her

father. An exclamation of delight was checked upon his lips, as his eyes

fell upon the beautiful girl; but his noble face expressed surprise and

undisguised admiration.

“The lovely original!” dropped at length from his tongue.

“My daughter,” said the engraver.

Dora rose up and made a low courtesy.

“Your daughter! How strange! You did not tell me this yesterday.”

“No. But she is my child—my only child—and I love her better than I

love my life.”

Light kindled in the old man’s face, and a quiver of excitement was in

every nerve. It was only by an effort that he refrained from giving way

to the most extravagant praises of Dora, who sat, with her eyes meekly

cast upon the floor.

On the next day, the stranger called again, and found Dora, as at the

previous visit, with her father. This time he spoke to the maiden in a

familiar, yet respectful way. Every look he directed toward her was one

of admiration; yet not a glance of this character escaped the watchful

eyes of her father.

From the first Mark Stilling regarded the stranger with especial favor.

After the meeting with Dora it was settled in the old man’s mind that

fortune was at length to crown with joy his dearest wish in life. All

suspicion was lulled to rest in his mind. The fact that the stranger

withheld his name, but confirmed him in the belief that he was either a

nobleman in disguise, or connected with some wealthy and distinguished

family at home.

Week followed week, and the stranger came every day to mark the progress

of the plate, the execution of which he did not countermand. He never

staid over an hour at a time, and that was mostly spent with Dora, whose

musical abilities he highly praised, and whom he always asked to play

for him. The little parlor of the engraver was on a different floor from

that on which he worked, and so, while playing for the stranger, Dora

was always alone with him.

Stilling was in no way surprised when the stranger asked the hand of his

daughter in marriage. Dora was born to be a lady, and now had come the

fufillment of her destiny. The poor old man’s mind was so infirm that it

could not go beyond this simple idea. No doubt came to trouble him; no

suspicion disturbed his happy dream. More than the stranger told him he

believed; for as to who he was, or to what station Dora would be

elevated, he was silent. But Stilling asked nothing on this head. He

believed all he wished to believe. The offer for his child’s hand he

felt to be a noble offer, and he yielded his fullest consent.

And so Dora was married to the stranger. But not until five minutes

before the ceremony was performed, did Stilling know that his name was

_Edwards_. The marriage took place in Stilling’s little parlor. After

the rite was over, and the minister had retired, the bridegroom took the

old man’s hand, and said to him, as he pointed to the finished plate

containing the head of Dora.

“That, father, is your last work. You can rest now after so many years

of labor. Come, there is a carriage at the door; we will go to our new

home.”

Stilling was half bewildered, yet happy. Without a pause or objection,

he suffered his children to take him to another home. That home was

really a modest one; but in the eyes of the fond old man it was little

less than a palace.

On the morning after the marriage, the moustache of young Edwards

disappeared, and he went forth daily from that time and engaged in his

regular business. But the engraver, who now began to sink rapidly both

in mind and body, dreamed not that Dora’s husband was only a clerk,

whose yearly income fell below a thousand dollars.

In less than a year Mark Stilling slept with his fathers, deeply mourned

by the child he had loved with so strong and blind a passion. He was

ignorant to the last of the deceit that had been practiced upon him, and

as firmly believed that the kind and affectionate young husband of Dora

was of noble blood, and one of the great ones of the land, as that the

sun arose and set daily. And he was far happier in this belief than he

would have been with all as real as he imagined.

* * * * *

JASPER ST. AUBYN;

OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.

(_Continued from page 150._)

Thus passed the afternoon, until the evening meal was announced, and

Jasper was left alone, with nothing but his own wild and whirling

thoughts to entertain him. He was ill at ease in his own mind, ill at

ease with himself and with all around him. Vexed with Durzil

Bras-de-fer, for offering in the first instance to take him as a partner

in his adventure, and then for failing at the pinch to back his offer by

his stout opinion; vexed with his father for thwarting his will, and yet

more for rebuking him publicly, and in the presence of Theresa, too,

before whom, boy-like, he would fain have figured as a hero; and lastly,

vexed with Theresa herself, because, though kind and gentle, she had not

sat by his bedside all day, as she did yesterday, or devoted all her

attention to himself alone, he was in the very mood to torment himself,

and every one else, to the extent of his powers.

Then, as his thoughts wandered from one to another of those whom he

thought fit to look upon as having wronged him, they settled on the most

innocent of all, Theresa; and, at the same moment, the wild words, which

he had uttered without any ulterior meaning at the time, and with no

other intent than that of annoying his father, recurred to his mind,

concerning village maidens.

He started, as the idea recurred to him, and at first he wondered what

train of thought could have brought back those words in connection with

Theresa’s image. But, as he grew accustomed to his own thought, it

became, as it were, the father to the wish; and he began to consider how

pretty and gentle she was, and how delicate her slight, rounded figure,

and how soft and low her voice. Then he remembered that she had looked

at him twice or thrice during the day, with an expression which he had

never seen in a woman’s eye before, and which, though he understood it

not, did not bode ill to his success; and lastly, the worst, bitterest

thought of all arose in his mind, and retained possession of it. “I will

spite them all,” he thought, “that proud, insolent young sailor, who,

because he is a few years older than I, and has seen swords drawn once

or twice—for all, I doubt if he can fence or shoot any better than I,

or if he be a whit more active—affects to look down upon me as a

stripling. His young friend, truly! let him look out, whether he have

not cause to term me something else ere he die. By God! I believe he

loves the girl, too! he looked black as a thunder-cloud over Dartmoor,

when she smiled on me! And my father—by my soul! I think he’s doting;

and her dainty ladyship, too! I’ll see if I cannot have her more eager

to hear me, than she has shown herself to-day. I will do it—I will, by

all that’s holy! Heaven! how it will spite them!”

Then he laid his head down on the pillow, and began to reflect how he

should act, and what were his chances of success in the villainy which

he meditated; and he even asked himself, with something of the boy’s

diffidence in his first encounter with woman, “but can I, can I win her

affection?” and vanity and the peculiar audacity of his race, of his own

character, made answer instantly, “Ay, can I? Am I not handsomer, and

cleverer, and more courtly; am I not higher born and higher bred, and

higher mannered, not only than that seafaring lout, but than any one she

has ever met withal? Ay, can I, and ay, will I!”

And in obedience to this last and base resolve, the worst and barest

that ever had crossed the boy’s mind, no sooner had they returned from

the adjoining room, after the conclusion of the evening meal, than he

contrived entirely to monopolize Theresa.

First, he asked her to play at chess with him; and then, after spending

a couple of hours, under the pretence of playing, but in reality gazing

into her blue eyes, and talking all sorts of wild, enthusiastical,

poetical romance, half earnest and half affected, he declared that his

head ached, and asked her to read aloud to him; and when she did so,

sitting without a thought of ill beside his pillow, while their fathers

were conversing in a low tone over the hearth, and Durzil was absent

making his preparations for the next day’s journey, he let his hand

fall, as if unconsciously, on hers, and after a little while, emboldened

by her unsuspicious calmness, imprisoned it between his fingers.

It might have been that she was so much engrossed in reading, for it was

Shakspeare’s sweet Rosalind that the boy had chosen for her subject,

that she was not aware that her hand was clasped in his. It might have

been, that, accustomed to its pressure, from his involuntary retention

of it during his lethargic sleep on the preceding day, she let it pass

as a matter of no consequence. It might have been, that almost

unsuspected by herself, a feeling of interest and affection, which might

easily be ripened into love, was already awakened in her bosom, for the

high-spirited, handsome, fearless boy, who in some measure owed his life

to her assistance.

At all events, she made no effort to withdraw it, but let it lie in his,

passive, indeed, and motionless, save for its quivering pulse, but warm

and soft and sensitive. And the boy waxing bolder, and moved into

earnestness by the charms of the position, ventured to press it once or

twice, as she read some moving line, and murmured praises of the

author’s beauties, and of the sweet, low voice that lent to those

beauties a more thrilling loveliness, and still the fairy fingers were

not withdrawn from his hold, though her eye met not his, nor any word of

hers answered his whispered praises.

At length a quick, strong step came suddenly to the door of the room,

and almost before there was time for thought, the door was thrown open,

and Durzil Olifaunt entered.

Instantly Theresa started at the sound, and strove to withdraw her hand,

while a deep blush of shame and agitation crimsoned her cheeks and brow,

and even overspread her snowy neck and bosom.

It was not, as that bold boy fancied at the time, in the vanity and

insolence of his uncorrected heart, that she knew all the time, that she

was allowing what it was wrong, and immodest, and unmaidenly to endure,

and that now she was afraid and ashamed, not of the error, but of the

detection.

No. In the perfect purity of her heart, in the half pitiful, half

protecting spirit which she felt toward Jasper, first as an invalid, and

then as a mere boy—for although he was, perhaps, a year her senior, who

does not know that boys in their eighteenth year are a full lustre

younger than girls of the same age—she had thought nothing, dreamed

nothing of impropriety in yielding her hand to the boy’s affectionate

grasp, until the step of the man, whose proffered love she had that very

day declined, led her to think intuitively what would be _his_ feelings,

and thence what must be Jasper’s, concerning that permitted license.

But the wily boy, for, so young as he was, he lacked neither sagacity to

perceive, nor audacity to profit by occasion, saw his advantage, and

holding his prize with a gentle yet firm pressure, without so much as

turning his eyes to Durzil, or letting it be known that he was aware of

his presence, raised it to his lips, and kissed it, saying, in a low,

earnest tone,

“I thank you, from my very soul, for your gentleness and kind attention,

dearest lady; your sweet voice has soothed me more than words can

express; there must be a magic in it, for it has charmed my headache

quite away, and divested me, moreover, from the least desire to seek

glory, or the gallows, with your bold cousin.”

The eyes of Durzil Bras-de-fer flashed fire, as he saw, as he heard what

was passing; and he made two or three strides forward, with a good deal

of his old impetuosity, both of look and gesture. His brow was knitted,

his hands clinched, and his lip compressed over his teeth, so closely

that it was white and bloodless.

But happily—or perhaps, unhappily—before he had time to commit

himself, he saw Theresa withdraw her hand so decidedly, and with so

perfect a majesty of gentle yet indignant womanhood, gazing upon the

audacious offender, as she did so, with eyes so full of wonder and

rebuke, that he could not doubt the sincerity or genuineness of her

anger.

Acquitting her, therefore, of all blame or coquetry, and, looking upon

Jasper as a mere boy, and worthy to be treated as such only, reflecting,

moreover, that he was for the time being, shielded by his infirmity, he

controlled himself, though not without an effort, and with a lip now

curling scornfully, and an eye rather contemptuous than angry, advanced

to the fireside, and took his seat beside his uncle and Sir Miles,

without taking the slightest notice of the others.

In the meantime, Theresa, after she had disengaged her hand from Jasper,

and cast upon him that one look of serene indignation, turned her back

on him quietly, in spite of some attempt at apology or explanation which

he began to utter. Walking slowly and composedly to the table, she laid

down on it the volume of Shakspeare which she had been reading to him,

and selecting some implements of feminine industry, moved over to the

group assembled round the hearth, and sat down on a low footstool,

between Durzil and her father.

No one but the two young men and herself were aware what had passed; and

she, though annoyed by Jasper’s forwardness, having, as she thought,

effectually repelled it, had already dismissed it from her mind as a

thing worth no further consideration. Durzil, on the other hand, though

attaching far more importance to his action, saw plainly that this was

not the time or the place for making any comment on it, even if he had

been capable of adding to Theresa’s embarrassment; while Jasper,

mortified and frustrated by the lady’s scornful self-possession, and the

free-trader’s manifest contempt, had no better mode of concealing his

disappointment, than by sinking back upon his pillow, as if fatigued or

in pain, and feigning to fall gradually asleep—a feint which, as is

oftentimes the case, terminated at last in reality.

Meanwhile, the two old men continued to talk quietly, in rather a

subdued tone, of old times and the events of their youth, and thence of

the varied incidents which had checkered their lives, during the long

space of time since they had been friends and comrades, with many a

light and shadow. And as they, garrulous, as is the wont of the aged and

infirm, and “_laudatores temporis acti_,” found pleasure even in the

retrospect on things, which in their day were painful, the young man sat

beside them silent, oppressed with the burthen of present pain, and yet

more by the anticipation of worse suffering to be endured thereafter.

Nearly an hour passed thus, without a single word being exchanged

between Durzil and Theresa; he musing deeply, with his head buried in

his hands, as he bent over the embers of the wood fire, which the

vicinity of the cottage to the water’s edge rendered agreeable even on

summer evenings, and she plying her needle as assiduously as if she were

dependent on its exercise for her support.

Several times, indeed, she looked up at him with her candid, innocent

face, and her beautiful blue eye clear and unclouded, as if she wished

to catch his attention. But he was all unconscious of her movement, and

continued to ponder gloomily on many things that had, and yet more that

had not, any existence beyond the limits of his own fitful fancy.

At length tired of waiting for his notice, the rather that the night was

wearing onward, she arose from her seat, folding up her work as she did

so, and laid her hand lightly on her cousin’s shoulder—

“And are you really going to leave us to-morrow, Durzil?” she said,

softly.

“For a few days only,” he answered, raising his head, and meeting her

earnest eye with a cold, sad smile. “I am going to ride down to-morrow

afternoon as far as Hexwerthy, where I will sleep, and so get into

Plymouth betimes the following day.”

“And when shall you come back to us?”

“I shall not stay an hour longer than I can avoid, Theresa; and I think

that in three days I may be able to arrange all that I have to do; if

so, you may look for me within the week—at furthest, I shall be here in

ten days.”

“And how long may we count on keeping you here, then? It will be long, I

fear, before we shall meet again.”

“The ship cannot be fit for sea within three weeks, Theresa, or it may

be a month; and I shall stay here, be sure, until the last moment. But

as all mortal matters are uncertain to a proverb, and as none of us can

say when, or if ever, we shall meet again, and as I have much to say to

you before I go to sea this time, will you not walk in the garden with

me for an hour before breakfast to-morrow?”

“Surely I will. How can you doubt it, Durzil?”

“I do not doubt it. And then I can give you my opinion about the young

nightingales, which we forgot, after all, this morning. I dare say they

will turn out to be hedge sparrows.”

“I will be there soon after the sun is up, Durzil, and that I may be so,

good-night, all,” and with the word, kissing her father’s brow, and

giving her hand affectionately to Durzil, she courtesied to the old

cavalier, and left the room without so much as looking toward Jasper,

who was, however, already fast asleep, and unconscious of all sublunary

matters.

Her rising, though she had not joined in the conversation for the last

hour or more, broke up the company, and in a few minutes they had all

withdrawn, each to his own apartment; and Jasper was left alone, with

the brands dying out one by one on the hearth-stone, and an old tabby

cat dozing near the andirons; this night he had no other watchers, and

none were there to hear or see what befell him during the hours of

darkness.

But had there been any one present in that old apartment, he would have

seen that the sleep of the young man was strangely restless and

perturbed, that the sweat-drops stood in large cold beads upon his brow,

that his features were from time to time fearfully distorted, as if by

pain and horror, and that he tossed his arms to and fro, as if he were

wrestling with some powerful but intangible oppressor.

From time to time, moreover, he uttered groans and strangely murmured

sounds, and a few articulate words; but these so unconnected, and at so

long intervals asunder, that no human skill could have combined them

into any thing like intelligible sentences. At length with a wild,

shrill cry, he started up erect in his bed, his hair bristling with

terror, and the cold sweat flowing off his face like rain-drops.

“Oh, God!” he cried, “avert—defend! Horror! horror!” Then raising his

hands slowly to his brow, he felt himself, grasped his arm, and sought

for the pulsations of his heart, as if he were laboring to satisfy

himself that he was awake.

At length, he murmured, “It was a dream! The Lord be praised! it was but

a dream! and yet, how terrible, how vivid. Even now, I can scarce

believe that I was not awake and saw it.”

But as his eye ran over the objects to which it had become accustomed

during the last days, and which were now indistinctly visible in the

glimmering darkness of a fine summer night, he became fully satisfied

that he had been indeed asleep; and with a muttered prayer, he settled

himself down again on the pillow, and composed himself to sleep once

more.

He had not slept, however, above half an hour before the same painful

symptoms recurred; and after even a longer and more agonizing struggle

than the first, he again woke, panting, horror-stricken, pale and almost

paralyzed with superstitious terror.

“It was!” he gasped, “it was—it must have been reality. I saw her, as I

did last night, tangible, face to face; but, oh God! what a glare of

horror in those beautiful blue eyes—what a gory spot on that smooth,

white brow—what agony—what supplication in every lovely feature. And

he, he who dealt the blow—I could not see the face, but the dress, the

figure, nay, the seat on horseback—great God! they were all mine own!”

He paused for a long time, meditating deeply, and casting furtive

glances around the large old-fashioned room, as though he expected to

see some of the great heavy shadows which brooded in the dim angles and

irregular recesses of the walls, detach themselves from their lurking

places, in the guise of human forms disembodied, and come forth to

confront him.

After a while, however, his naturally strong intellect and

characteristic audacity led him to discard the idea of supernatural

influence in the appalling vision, which had now twice so cruelly

disturbed him. Still, so great had been the suffering and torture of his

mind during the conflict of the sleeping body and the sleepless

intellect, that he actually dreaded the return of slumber, lest that

dread phantom should return with it; and he therefore exerted himself to

keep awake, and to arm his mind against the insidious stealing on of

sleep, from very fear of what should follow.

But the very efforts which he made to banish the inclination, wearied

the mind, and induced what he would most avoid; and within an hour he

was again unconscious of all external sights and sounds, again terribly

alive to those inward sensations which had already terrified him almost

beyond endurance.

This time the trance was shorter, but from the symptoms which appeared

on his features, fiercer and stronger than before; nor, as before, when

he awoke, did the impression pass away which had been made on him before

his eyes were opened. No; as he started up erect, and gazed wildly,

scarce as yet half awake, around him, the first thing that met, or

seemed to meet, his staring eyes, was a gray, misty shadow, standing

relieved by a dark mass of gloom in the farthest angle of the chamber.

Gradually, as he stared at it with a fascinated gaze, which, had it been

to save his life, he could not have withdrawn, the shape, if shape it

were, drew nearer, nearer, with a slow, gliding, ghastly motion.

The moon had by this time arisen, and cast a feeble, ineffectual light

through the mass of tangled foliage which curtained the large

diamond-paned casements of the cottage, streaming in a dim, misty ray

across the centre of the chamber. Directly in the middle of this pallid

halo, as if it had been a silver glory, paused, or appeared to pause,

that thin transparent form—so bodiless, indeed, it seemed, that the

outlines of the things which stood beyond it, were visible, as if seen

through a gauzy curtain. A cloud passed over the moon’s face, and all

was gloom; yet still the boy’s eyes _felt_ the presence of that

disembodied visitant, which they could now no longer distinguish in the

darkness.

At this moment, as if to add a real terror to that which, even if

unreal, needed no addition, the cat, which hitherto had been sleeping

undisturbedly by the warm ashes on the hearth, uttered an unusual

plaintive cry, most unlike to the natural note of her species, whether

of pleasure or of anger, and rushed at two or three long bounds, to the

bed on which the boy was sitting up in voiceless horror. Her eyes glared

in the darkness, like coals of livid fire, her bristles were set up like

the quills of the porcupine, her tail was outspread, till it almost

resembled a fox’s brush.

The cloud drifted onward, and the moon shone out brighter than before;

and there he still saw, that tall white shape, clearer, distincter,

stronger than when he first beheld it. The cat cowered down upon the

pillow by his side, with a low wailing cry of terror, her back,

bristling in wrath but now, was humbly lowered, dread of something

unnatural had quelled all her savage instincts.

Clearer and clearer waxed the vision, and now he might mark the delicate

symmetrical proportions of the figure, and now the pale white outlines

of the lovely face. It _was_ Theresa Allan. Yet the fair features were

set in a sort of rigid cataleptic horror, full of dread, full of agony

and consternation; and the blue eyes glared, fixed and glassy, without

speculation; and right in the centre of the brow there glowed, like a

sanguine star, a great spot of gore.

The thing seemed to raise its arm, and point with a gesture of majestic

menace, right toward the terrified beholder. Then the white lips were

parted with a slow circular distortion, showing the pearly teeth within,

and——if a voice came forth from those ghastly lips, Jasper St. Aubyn

knew it not, for he had sunk back on his pillow—if, indeed, he had

ever, as he believed to the day of his death, raised himself up from

it—in a deep trance, from which he passed into a dead, heavy, dreamless

stupor, which continued undisturbed until the sun was high in the

heavens, and the whole household were afoot, and busied about their

usual avocations.

In the meantime, she whose image, whether in truth it was _an eidolon_,

or merely the idea of a diseased mind and preoccupied spirit, had been

so busy during the hours of darkness, had awakened all refreshed by

light and innocent slumbers, with the first peep of day, and arising

from her couch had descended into the garden, still half enveloped in

the dewy vapors of the summer night, half glimmering in the slant

radiance of the new-risen sun.

She was the first at her appointment, for Durzil had not yet made his

appearance, and she walked to and fro awaiting him, among the flowery

thickets and sweet scented shrubberies all bathed in the copious

night-dews, half wondering, half-guessing, what it could be that he

should so earnestly desire to communicate. And as she walked, she

considered with herself all that had occurred during the last three

days, and the more she considered, the less was she able to comprehend

the workings of her own mind, or to explain to herself wherefore it was

that she could not divest herself of the idea that the crisis of her

life, the fate of her heart was at hand.

That she had rejected Durzil’s proffered love, his honest, manly love,

she knew that she ought not to regret, for she felt surely that she

could not love him in return as he ought, as he deserved to be loved;

and yet she did almost regret it. Then she began to ask herself why she

did not, why she _could_ not love him, endowed eminently as he was with

many high and noble qualities; and she was soon answered, when she

considered how far he fell short of her standard, in mental and

intellectual culture, in all that pertained to the secret sympathies of

the heart, to the kindred tastes and sentiments, to that community of

hopes and wishes, which, under the head of _eadem velle atque nolle_,

the Roman philosophical historian has declared to be the sole base of

true friendship, might he not better have said of true love.

Thence by an easy and natural transition the girl’s thoughts turned to

the young stranger—to his magnificent person and striking intellectual

beauty—to his singular and original character, so audacious, so full of

fiery and rebellious self-will, so confident in his own powers, so

daring, almost insolent toward man, and yet, at the same time, so

fraught with gentle and romantic fancies, so rapt by romance or poetry,

so liable to all swift impressions of the senses, so humble, yet with so

proud and self-arrogating a humility toward woman.

She thought of the tones of his beautifully modulated voice, of the

expression of his deep, clear, gray eye; she remembered how the one had

melted, as it were, almost timorously in her ear, how the other had

dwelt almost boldly on her face, yet with a boldness which seemed meant

almost as homage.

She mused on these things; and then paused to reflect how helplessly and

deathfully he had lain at her feet, when he was drawn forth from that

deep red whirlpool; and how so sickly those fine eyes swam when she

first beheld them. How small a thing would have extinguished, and

forever, the faint spark of life which then feebly fluttered in his

bosom; how child-like he had yielded himself to her ministration, and

with how piteous yet grateful an expression he had acknowledged, when he

awoke from his first trance-like stupor, midway as it were between life

and death, the gentleness of her protection.

Most true it is, that pity is akin to love; where pity, as is seldom the

case from woman toward man, can exist apart from something approaching

to contempt; where it is called forth by the consequences neither of

physical nor mental weakness. Still more is it the province and the part

of woman to love whom they have protected.

With both sexes, I believe that to have conferred, rather than to have

received kindness—to be owed rather than to owe gratitude—is conducive

to the growth of kindly feeling, of friendship, of affection, love! But

with a true woman, to have been dependent on her for support, to have

looked up into her eyes for aid on the sick-bed, for sympathy in mortal

sorrow, to have revived by her nursing, to have been consoled by her

comforting—these are the truest and most direct key to her affections.

Theresa thought of all these things, and as she did so, her bosom heaved

almost unconsciously a sigh, and a tear rose unbidden to her eye. She

almost loved Jasper St. Aubyn.

Again, the recollection of his boldness on the previous evening, of his

half forcible seizure of her hand, of the kiss he had so daringly

imprinted on her soft fingers, of the too meaning words which he had

addressed to her, and of the tone, which conveyed even more of

consciousness and confidence than the words themselves, all rushed at

once upon her mind; and, though she was alone, she started, and her face

crimsoned at the mere memory of what she half felt as an indignity.

“And could he think me,” she murmured to herself, “so light, so vain, so

easy to be won, that he dare treat me thus at almost a first interview?

or was it but the rashness, the imprudence, the buoyancy of extreme

youth, inspired by sudden love, and encouraged by his own headstrong

character.” She paused a moment, and then said almost aloud, “Oh, no,

no, I will not believe it.”

“And what will you not believe, Theresa?” said a clear, firm voice,

close behind her, “what is it that you are so energetically determined

not to believe, my pretty cousin?”

She started, not well pleased that even Durzil should have thus, as it

were, stolen upon her privacy, and overheard what was intended for no

mortal ear. Theresa was as guileless as any being of mortal mould may

be; but even the most artless woman cannot be altogether free from some

touch of instinctive artifice—that innocent and gentle guile is to

woman what nature has bestowed on all, even the humblest of its

creatures, her true weapon of defence, her shield against the brute

tyranny of man. And Theresa was a woman. She replied, therefore, without

an instant’s hesitation, although her voice did falter somewhat, and her

cheeks burn, as she spoke—

“That you are angry with me, cousin Durzil.” But then, as she felt his

cold, clear, dark eye how piercingly it dwelt upon her features,

reading, or striving to read, her very soul, she continued, seeing at

once the necessity of placing him on the defensive, so as to turn the

tide of aggressive warfare, “but _I_ am angry with _you_, I assure you;

nor do I think it at all like you, Durzil, or at all like a true

cavalier, as you pretend to be, first to keep a lady waiting for you, I

don’t know how long, here alone, and then to creep upon her, like an

Indian, or a spy, and surprise what little secrets she might be turning

over in her own mind. You must have trodden lightly on purpose, or I

should have heard your step. I did not look for this at your hand,

cousin Durzil.”

He still gazed at her with the same dark, fixed, piercing glance,

without answering her a word; and, although conscious of no wrong, she

met his gaze with her calm, candid, truthful eye, she could not endure

his suspicious look, but was fluttered, and blushed deeply, and was so

much embarrassed, that had not pride and anger come to her aid, she

would have burst into tears. But they did come to her aid, and she cried

with a quivering voice and a flashing eye—

“For what do you look at me so, Durzil? I do not like it—I will not

bear it! You have no right to treat me thus! it is not kind, nor

courteous, nor even manly! If it be to brow-beat me, and tyrannize over

me, that you asked me to meet you here, I could have thanked you to

spare me the request. But I shall leave you to yourself, and return

home; and so, good-morrow to you, and better breeding, and a better

heart, too, cousin Durzil!”

But though she said she was going, she made no movement to do so, but

hesitated, waiting for his answer.

“You must be greatly changed, Theresa,” he said bitterly, “to take

offence at so slight a cause, or to speak to me in such a tone. But you

_are_ greatly changed, and there’s an end of it.”

“I am not changed at all,” replied the girl, still chafing at the

recollection of that scrutinizing eye, which she perhaps felt the more,

because conscious that her own reply had not been perfectly sincere.

“But I do not allow your right to pry meanly into my secret thoughts, or

to catechise me concerning my words, or to accuse me of falsehood, when

I answer you.”

“Accuse you of falsehood, Theresa! Who ever dreamed of doing so?”

“Your eye did so, sir,” she replied. “When I told you that I was

determined ‘not to believe that you were angry with me,’ you fixed your

glance upon me with the expression of a pedagogue, who having caught a

child lying would terrify it into truth. I am no child, I assure you,

Durzil, nor are you _yet_ my master. Think as you may about it.”

It was now Durzil’s turn to be confused, for he could not deny that she

had construed the meaning of his look aright; and would not, so proud

was he and so resolute, either deny or apologize for what was certainly

an act of rudeness.

After a moment’s pause, however, he looked up at her from under downcast

eyelids, with a look of defiance mingled with distrust, and answered

bluntly,

“I do not believe that _was_ your meaning, or that you were thinking

about me at all.”

“And what if it were not? Am I bound, I pray you, to be thinking of

nothing but you? I must have little enough to think of, if it were so.”

“You might at least have told me so much frankly.”

“I thank you, cousin Durzil,” she made answer, more proudly, more firmly

than ever he had heard her speak before. “I thank you, for teaching me a

lesson, though neither very kindly, nor exactly as a generous gentleman

should teach a lady. But you are perfectly correct in your surmises,

sir. I was _not_ thinking of you at all; no more, sir, than if you were

not in existence, and if I answered you, as I did, sir, _falsely_—yes!

_falsely_ is the word!—it is because, in the first place, you had no

right to ask me the question you did, and, in the second, because I did

not choose to answer it! Now, cousin, allow _me_ to teach you

something—for you have something yet to learn, wise as you are, about

us women. If you ask a lady unmannerly questions, hereafter, and she

turn them off by a flippant joke, or an unmeaning _falsehood_,

understand that _you_ have been very rude, and that she does not wish to

be so likewise, by rebuking your impertinence. Now, do you comprehend

me?”

“Perfectly, madam, perfectly. You have made marvelous strides of late,

upon my honor! Yesterday morning an unsophisticated country maiden—this

morning a courtly, quick-witted, manœuvring, fine lady! God send you,

much good of the change, though I doubt it. I can see all, read all,

plainly enough now—poor Durzil Bras-de-fer is not high enough, I trow,

for my dainty lady! Perchance, when he is farther off, he may be better

liked, and more needed. At all events, I did not look for this at your

hands, Theresa, on the last morning, too, that we shall spend together

for so long a time.”

Angry as she was, and indignant at the dictatorial manner he had assumed

toward her, these last words disarmed her in a moment. A tear rose to

her eyes, and she held out her hand to him kindly.

“You are right, Durzil,” she said, “and I was wrong to be so angry. But

you vexed me, and wounded me by your manner. I am sorry; I ought to have

remembered that you were going to leave us, and that you have some cause

to be grieved and irritable. Pardon me, Durzil, and forget what I said

hastily. We must not quarrel, for we have no friends save one another,

and my dear old father.”

But Durzil’s was no placable mind, nor one that could divest itself

readily of a preconceived idea. “Oh!” he replied, “for that, fair young

ladies never lack friends. For every old one they cast off they win two

new ones. See, if it be not so, Theresa. Is it not so with you?”

She looked at him reproachfully, but softly, and then burst into tears.

“You are ungenerous,” she said, “ungenerous. But all men, I suppose, are

alike in this—that they can feel no friendship for a woman. So long as

they hope for her love, all is submission on their part, and humility,

and gentleness, and lip-service—once they cannot win that, all is

bitterness and persecution. I did not look for this at _your_ hand! But

_I_ will not quarrel with you, Durzil. I dealt frankly with you yester

morning; I have dealt affectionately with you ever; I will deal tenderly

and forgivingly with you now. I only wish that you had not sought this

interview with me, the only object of which appears to have been the

embittering the last hours of our intercourse, and the endeavoring to

wring and wound my heart. But I—”

“If you had dealt frankly with me,” he interrupted her, very angrily,

“you would have told me honestly that you loved another.”

“Loved another! What do you mean? What other?”

So evident was the truth, the sincerity of her astonishment, that

jealousy itself was rebuked and put to silence in the young man’s bosom;

and he endeavored to avoid or change the subject. But the womanly

indignation of the fair girl was now awakened; her pride had been

touched; her delicacy wounded; her sensibilities availed in the

tenderest point.

“Leave me!” she said, after a little pause, during which she, in her

turn gazing upon him, now bewildered and abashed, with eyes of serene

wonder, not all unmingled with contempt—“Nay! not another word—leave

me—begone! You are not worthy of a woman’s love—you are not worthy to

be treated or regarded as a man. Leave me, I say, and trouble me no

more. Poor, weak, mean-spirited, vain, jealous, and ungenerous, begone!

You know—no man knows better—the falsehood of the last words you have

spoken. No man knows better their unfeelingness, their ungenerous

cruelty. But if I had—if I had loved another—in what does that concern

you? In what am I responsible to you for my likings or dislikings? Once

and for all be it said, I love you not—should not love you, were you

the only one of your sex on the face of God’s earth—and I pray God to

help and protect the woman who shall love you—if ever you be loved of

woman, which I for one believe not—for she shall love the veriest

tyrant that ever tortured a fond heart, under the plea of loving.”

“I go,” he replied. “I am answered, once and for all. I go, and may

_you_ never need my aid, my forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness!” she exclaimed, with a contemptuous glance. “Forgiveness!

I know not what _you_ have to forgive! But you should rather pray that I

_may_ have need of them; then may _you_ have the pleasure of refusing me

at my need.”

“Ah! it is thus you think of me. It is time, then, that I should leave

you. Fare you well, Theresa.”

“There is no need for farewells at present. The day is early yet; and I

trust still to see your temper changed before you set forth on your

journey. It would grieve my father sorely that you should leave us

thus.”

“He will not know how I leave you. He will see me no more for

years—perhaps never!”

“What do you mean?”

“That I shall mount my horse within this half hour, and return no more

until I shall have twice crossed the Atlantic. So fare you well,

Theresa.”

“Fare you well, Durzil, if it must be so. And God bless you, and send

you a better mind. You will be sorry for this one day. There is my hand,

fare you well; and rest assured of this, return when you may, you will

find me the same Theresa.”

He took her hand, and wrung it hard. “Farewell,” he said. “Farewell; and

God grant that when I do return, I find you the wife, and not the

mistress, of Jasper St. Aubyn.”

Ungenerous and bitter to the last, he winged the shaft at random, which

he hoped would pierce the deepest, which he trusted would prevent the

consummation he most dreaded—that she _should be_ the wife of the boy

whom he had saved, whom he now hated.

The other contingency, at which he had hinted basely, unmanly, brutally,

he knew to be impossible—but he knew also, that the surmise would gall

her beyond endurance. That, that was the cruel, the unworthy object of

the last words Durzil Bras-de-fer ever exchanged in this world with

Theresa Allan.

He turned on his heel, and, without looking back once, strode through

the garden, with all his better feelings lost and swallowed up in

bitterness and hatred; entered his own apartment, and there wrote a few

lines to his uncle, to the effect that in order to avoid the pain of a

parting, and the sorrows of a last adieu, he had judged it for the

wisest to depart suddenly and unawares; and that he should not return to

Widecomb until his voyage should be ended.

Then, leaving the house, where he had passed so many a happy hour, in

hot and passionate resentment, he mounted his horse and rode away at a

hard gallop across the hills toward Hexwerthy and Plymouth.

The last words he uttered had gone to Theresa’s heart like a death-shot.

She did not speak, or even sigh, as she heard them, but pressed her hand

hard on her breast, and fell speechless and motionless on the dewy

greensward.

He, engrossed by his selfish rage, and deafened to the sound of her fall

by the beatings of his own hard heart, stalked off unconscious what had

befallen her; and she lay there, insensible, until the servant girl,

missing her at the breakfast hour, found her there cold, and, as at

first she believed, lifeless.

She soon revived, indeed, from the swoon; but the excitement and

agitation of that scene brought on a slow, lingering fever; and weeks

elapsed ere she again left her chamber. When she did quit it, the fresh

green leaves of summer had put on their sere and yellow hue, the autumn

flowers were fast losing their last brilliancy, the hoar-frosts lay

white, in the early mornings, over the turf walks of her garden, ice had

been seen already on the great pool above the fords of Widecomb, and

every thing gave notice that the dreary days of winter were approaching,

and even now at hand.

The northwest winds howled long and hollow over the open hills and

heathery wolds around Widecomb Manor, and ever as their wild melancholy

wail fell on the ears of Theresa, as she sat by her now lonely hearth,

they awoke a thought of him, the playmate of her happy childhood, from

whom she had parted, not as friends and playmates should part, and who

was now ploughing the far Atlantic, perhaps never to return.

A shadow had fallen upon her brow; a gloom upon her young and happy

life.

And where was he who unconsciously, though not perhaps unintentionally,

had been the cause of the cloud which had arisen, and whence that

shadow, that gloom? Where was Jasper St. Aubyn?

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.

The lady of his love was wed with one

Who did not love her better.

BYRON.

Two years had passed away since Durzil Bras-de-fer set sail on the

Virginia voyage, and from that day no tidings had been heard of him in

England.

In the meantime, changes, dark melancholy changes, had altered every

thing at Widecomb. The two old men, whom we last saw conversing

cheerfully of times long gone, and past joys unforgotten, had both

fallen asleep, to wake no more but to immortality. Sir Miles St. Aubyn

slept with his fathers in the bannered and escutcheoned chapel adjoining

the Hall, wherein he had spent so many, and those the happiest, of his

days; while William Allan—he had preceded his ancient friend, his old

rival, but a few weeks on their last journey—lay in the quiet village

church-yard, beneath the shade of the great lime-trees, among the leaves

of which he had loved to hear the hum of the bees in his glad boyhood.

The leaves waved as of old, and twinkled in the sunshine, and the music

of the reveling bees was blithe as ever, but the eye that had rejoiced

at the calm scenery, the ear that had delighted in the rural sound, was

dim, and deaf forever.

Happy—happy they. Whom no more cares should reach, no more anxieties,

forever—who now no more had hopes to be blighted, joys to be tortured

into sorrows, and, worst of all, affections to breed the bitterest

griefs, and make calamity of so long life. Happy, indeed, thrice happy!

There was a pleasant parlor, with large oriel windows looking out upon

the terrace of Widecomb Hall, and over the beautiful green chase,

studded with grand old oaks, down to the deep ravine through which the

trout stream rushed, in which the present lord of that fair demesne had

so nearly perished at the opening of my tale.

And in that pleasant parlor, within the embrasure of one of the great

oriels, gazing out anxiously over the lovely park, now darkening with

the long shadows of a sweet summer evening, there stood as beautiful a

being as ever gladdened the eye of friend, husband, or lover, on his

return from brief absence home.

It was Theresa—Allan no longer, but St. Aubyn; and with the higher rank

which she had so deservedly acquired, she had acquired, too, a higher

and more striking style of beauty. Her slender, girlish stature had

increased in height, and expanded in fullness, roundness, symmetry,

until the delicate and somewhat fragile maiden had been matured into the

perfect, full-blown woman.

Her face also was lovelier than of old; it had a deeper, a more

spiritual meaning. Love had informed it, and experience. And the genius,

dormant before, and unsuspected save by the old fond father, sat

enthroned visibly on the pale, thoughtful brow, and looked out

gloriously from those serene, large eyes, filled as they were to

overflowing with a clear, lustrous, tranquil light, which revealed to

the most casual and thoughtless observers, the purity, the truth, the

whiteness of the soul within.

But if you gazed on her more closely,

You saw her at a nearer view

A spirit, yet a woman too.

You saw that how pure, how calm, how innocent so-ever, she was not yet

exempt from the hopes, the fears, the passions, and the pains of

womanhood.

The woman was more lovely than the girl, was wiser, greater, perhaps

better—alas! was she happier?

She had been now nearly two years a wife, though but within the last

twelve months acknowledged and installed as such in her husband’s house.

It had been a dark mystery, her love, the child of sorrow and

concealment, although she might thank her own true heart, guided by

principle, and lighted by a higher star than any earthly passion, even

the love of God, it had not been the source of shame.

Artfully, yet enthusiastically, had that bold, brilliant, fascinating

boy laid siege to her affections; and soon, by dint of kindred tastes,

and feelings, and pursuits, he had succeeded in winning the whole

perfect love of that pure, overflowing soul.

She loved him with that fervor, that devotion, of which women alone are

perhaps capable, and of women, only those who are gifted with that

extreme sensibility, that exquisite organization, which, rendering them

the most charming, the most fascinating, and the most susceptible of

their sex, too often renders them the least happy.

And he, too, loved her—as well, perhaps, as one of his character and

temperament could love any thing, except himself; he loved her

_passionately_; he admired her beauty, her grace, her delicacy, beyond

measure. He understood and appreciated her exquisite taste, her

brilliancy, her feminine and gentle genius. He was not happy when he was

absent from her side; he could not endure the idea that she should love,

or even smile upon another, he coveted the possession of a creature so

beautiful, a soul so powerful, and at the same time so loving. Above

all, he was proud to be loved by such a being.

But beyond this he no more loved her, than the child loves its toy. He

held her only in his selfishness of soul, even before his passion had

“Spent as yet its novel force,

Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.”

But he knew nothing, felt nothing, understood nothing of her higher,

better self; he saw nothing of her inner light—guessed nothing of what

a treasure he had won.

He would have sacrificed nothing of his pleasures, nothing of his

prejudices, nothing of his pride, had such a sacrifice been needed to

make her the happiest of women. While she would have laid down her life

for the mere delight of gaining him one moment’s joy—would have

sacrificed all that she had, or hoped to have, save honor, faith and

virtue. And to yield these he never asked her.

No! in the wildest dream of his reckless, unprincipled imagination, he

never fancied to himself the possibility of tempting her to lawless

love. In the very boldest of his audacious flights, he never would have

dared to whisper one loose thought, one questionable wish in the

maiden’s ear. It had, perhaps, been well he had done so—for on that

instant, as the night-mists melt away and leave the firmament pure and

transparent at the first glance of the great sun, the cloud of passion

which obscured her mental vision would have been scattered and dispersed

from her clear intellect by the first word that had flashed on her soul

conviction of his baseness.

But whether the wish ever crossed his mind or not, he never gave it

tongue, nor did she even once suspect it.

Still he had wooed her secretly—laying the blame on his father’s pride,

his father’s haughty and high ambition, which he insisted would revolt

at the bare idea of his wedding with any lady, who could not point to

the quarterings of a long, noble line of ancestry; he had prevailed on

her, first to conceal their love, and at length to consent to a secret

marriage.

It was long, indeed, ere he could bring her to agree even to that

clandestine step; nor, had her father lived but a few weeks longer,

would he have done so ever.

The old man died, however, suddenly, and at the very moment when, though

she knew it not, his life was most necessary to his daughter’s welfare.

He was found dead in his bed, after one of those strange, mysterious

seizures, to which he had for many years been subject, and during which

he had appeared to be endowed with something that approached nearly to a

knowledge of the future. Although, if such were, indeed, the case, it

was scarce less wonderful that on the passing away of the dark fit, he

seemed to have forgotten all that he had seen and enunciated of what

should be thereafter.

Be this, however, as it may, he was found by his unhappy child, dead,

and already cold; but with his limbs composed so naturally, and his fine

benevolent features wearing so calm and peaceful an expression, that it

was evident he had passed away from this world of sin and sorrow, during

his sleep, without a pang or a struggle. Never did face of mortal

sleeper give surer token of a happy and glorious awakening.

But he was gone, and she was alone, friendless, helpless and

unprotected.

How friendless, how utterly destitute and helpless, she knew not, nor

had even suspected, until the last poor relics of her only kinsman, save

he who was a thousand leagues aloof on the stormy ocean, had been

consigned to the earth, whence they had their birth and being. Then,

when his few papers were examined, and his affairs scrutinized by his

surviving, though now fast declining friend, St. Aubyn, it appeared that

he had been supported only by a life-annuity, which died with himself,

and that he had left nothing but the cottage at the fords, with the few

acres of garden-ground, and the slender personal property on the

premises, to his orphan child.

It was rendered probable by some memoranda and brief notes, found among

his papers, the greater part of which were occupied by abstruse

mathematical problems, and yet wilder astrological calculations, that he

had looked forward to the union of his daughter with the youth whom he

had brought up as his own son, and whose ample means, as well as his

affection for the lovely girl, left no doubt of his power and

willingness to become her protector.

What he had observed, during his sojourn at the cottage, led old Sir

Miles, however, who had assumed as an act of duty, no less than of

pleasure, the character of executor to his old friend, to suspect that

the simple-minded sage had in some sort reckoned without his host; and

that on one side, at least, there would be found insuperable objections

to his views for Theresa’s future life. And in this opinion he was

confirmed immediately by a conversation which he had with the poor girl,

so soon as the first poignant agony of grief had passed from her mind.

In this state of affairs, an asylum at the manor was offered by the old

cavalier, and accepted by the orphan with equal frankness, but with a

most unequal sense of obligation—Sir Miles regarding his part in the

transaction as a thing of course, Theresa looking on it as an action of

the most exalted and extraordinary generosity.

In truth, it had occurred already to the mind of the old knight, so soon

as he was satisfied within himself that Theresa’s affections were not

given to her wild and dangerous cousin, that he would gladly see her the

wife of his own almost idolized boy. For, though of no exalted or

ennobled lineage, she was of gentle blood, of an honorable parentage,

which had been long established in the county, and which, if fallen in

fortunes, had never lost caste, or been degraded, as he would assuredly

have deemed it, by participation in any mechanical or mercantile

pursuit. He had seen enough of courts and courtiers to learn their

hollowness, and all the empty falsehood of their gorgeous show—he had

mingled enough in the great world to be convinced that real happiness

was not to be sought in the hurly-burly of its perilous excitements, and

incessant strife; and that which would have rendered him the happiest,

would have been to see Jasper established, tranquilly, and at his ease,

with domestic bonds to ensure the permanency of his happiness, before

his own time should come, as the Lord of Widecomb.

And such were his views when he prevailed on Theresa to let the House in

the Woods be her home, until at least such time as news could be

received of her cousin; who, certainly, whatever might be the relative

state of their affections, would never suffer her to want a home or a

protector.

He had observed that Jasper was struck deeply by the charms of the sweet

girl; he knew, although he had affected not to know it, that, under the

pretence of fishing or shooting excursions, he had been in the almost

daily habit of visiting her, since the accident which had led to their

acquaintance; and he was, above all, well assured that the girl loved

him with all the deep, unfathomable devotion of which such hearts as

hers alone are capable.

Well pleased was he, therefore, to see the beautiful being established

in the halls of which he hoped to see her, ere long, the mistress; and

if he did not declare his wishes openly to either on the subject, it was

that he was so well aware of his son’s headstrong and willful temper,

that he knew him fully capable of refusing peremptorily the very thing

which he most desired, if proffered to him as a boon, much more urged

upon him as the desire of a third party—which he was certain to regard

as an interference with his free will and self-regulation—while, at the

same time he feared to alarm Theresa’s delicacy, by anticipating the

progress of events.

Thus, with a heart overflowing with affection for that wild, willful,

passionate boy, released from the only tie of obedience or restraint

that could have bound her, poor Theresa was delivered over, fettered as

it were, hand and foot, to the perilous influence of Jasper’s artifices,

and the scarce less dangerous suggestions of her own affections.

It was strange that, quick as she was and clever, even beyond her sex’s

wonted penetration, where matters of the heart are concerned, Theresa

never suspected that the old cavalier had long perceived and sanctioned

their growing affection. But idolizing Jasper as she did, and believing

him all that was high and generous and noble, seeing that all his

external errors tended to the side of rash, hasty impulse, never to

calculation or deceit, she saw every thing, as it were, through his

eyes, and was easily induced by him to believe that all his father’s

kindness and father-like attention to her slightest wish, arose only

from his love for her lost parent, and compassion for her sad

abandonment; nay, further, he insisted that the least suspicion of their

mutual passion would lead to their instant and eternal separation.

It was lamentable, that a being so bright, so excellent as she,

believing that such was the case, and bound as she was by the closest

obligations, the dearest gratitude to that good old man, should have

consented, even for a moment, to deceive him, much more to frustrate his

wishes in a point so vital.

But she was very young—she had been left without the training of a

mother’s watchful heart, without the supervision of a mother’s earnest

eye—she was endowed marvelously with those extreme sensibilities which

are invariably a part of that high nervous organization, ever connected

with poetical genius; she loved Jasper with a devotedness, a singleness,

and at the same time a consuming heat of passion, which scarcely could

be believed to exist in one so calm, so self-possessed, and so

innocently-minded—and, above all, she had none else in the wide world

on whom to fix her affections.

And the boy profited by this; and with the sharpness of an intellect,

which, if far inferior to hers in depth and real greatness, was as far

superior to it in worldly selfishness and instinctive shrewdness, played

upon her nervous temperament, till he could make each chord of her

secret soul thrill to his touch, as if they had been the keys of a

stringed instrument.

The hearts of the young who love, must ever, must naturally resent all

interference of the aged, who would moderate or oppose their love, as

cold, intrusive tyranny; and thus, with plausible and artful sophistry,

abetted by the softness of her treacherous heart, too willing to be

deceived, he first led her to regard his father as opposed to the wishes

of that true love, which, for all the great poet knew or had heard,

“never did run smooth,” and thence to resent that opposition as unkind,

unjust, tyrannical; and thence—alas! for Theresa!—to deceive the good

old man, her best friend on earth—ay, to deceive herself.

It is not mine to palliate, much less to justify her conduct. I have but

to relate a too true tale; and in relating it, to show, in so far as I

can, the mental operations, the self-deceptions, and the workings of

passion—from which not even the best and purest of mankind are

exempt—by which an innocent and wonderfully constituted creature was

betrayed into one fatal error.

She was persuaded—words can tell no more!

It was a grievous fault, and grievously _Theresa_ answered it.

When ill things are devised, and to be done, ill agents are soon found,

especially by the young, the wealthy, and the powerful.

The declining health of Sir Miles St. Aubyn was no secret in the

neighborhood—the near approach of his death was already a matter of

speculation; and already men almost looked on Jasper as the Lord, _in

esse_, of the estates of Widecomb Manor.

The old white-headed vicar had a son, poor like himself, and

unaspiring—like himself, in holy orders; and for him, when his own

humble career should be ended, he hoped the reversion of the vicarage,

which was in the gift of the proprietor of Widecomb. The old man had

known Jasper from his boyhood, had loved Theresa, whom he had, indeed,

baptized, from her cradle. He was very old and infirm, and some believed

that his intellect was failing. Between his affection for the parties,

and his interest in his son’s welfare, it was easy to frame a plausible

tale, which should work him to Jasper’s will; and with even less

difficulty than the boy looked for, he was prevailed upon to unite them

secretly, and at the dead of night, in the parish church at the small

village by the fords.

The sexton of the parish church was a low knave, with no thought beyond

his own interest, no wish but for the accumulation of gain. A

gamekeeper, devoted to the young master’s worst desires, a fellow who

had long ministered to his most evil habits, and had in no small degree

assisted to render him what he was, only too willingly consented to aid

in an affair which he saw clearly would put the young heir in his power

forever.

He was selected as one of the witnesses—for without witnesses, the good

but weak old vicar would not perform the ceremony; and he promised to

bring a second, in the person of his aged and doting mother, the

respectability of whose appearance should do away with any scruples of

Theresa’s, while her infirmity should render her a safe depository of

the most dangerous secret.

And why all this mystery—this tortuous and base deviation from the path

of right—this unnecessary concealment, and unmeaning deceit?

Wherefore, if the boy were, indeed, what he has been described, and no

more, impulsive, willful, rash, headlong, irresistible in his

impulses—if not a base traitor, full of dark plots, deep-laid

beforehand—wherefore, if he did love the girl, with all the love of

which his character was capable, if he had not predetermined to desert

her—wherefore did he not wed her openly in the light of day, amid

crowds of glad friends, and rejoicing dependents? Why did he not gladden

the heart of his aged father, and lead her to the home of his ancestors

a happy and honored bride, without that one blot on her conscience,

without that one shadow of deceit, which marred the perfect truthfulness

of her character, and in after days weighed on her mind heavily?

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

THE FOUNTAIN IN WINTER.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

The northern winds are raw and cold,

And crust with ice the frozen mould;

The gusty branches lash the wall

With icicles that snap and fall.

There is no light on earth to-day—

The very sky is blank and gray;

Yet still the fountain’s quivering shaft

Leaps upward, as when Spring-time laughed.

No diamonds glitter on its brink,

No red-lipped blossoms bend to drink,

And on the blast, its fluttering wing

Is spread above no kindred thing.

The drops that strike the frozen mould

Make all the garden doubly cold,

And with a chill and shivering pain

I hear the fall of sleety rain.

The music that, in beamy May,

Told of an endless holyday,

With surly Winter’s wailings blent,

Becomes his dreariest instrument.

The water’s blithe and sparkling voice,

That all the Summer said, “rejoice!”

Now pours upon the bitter air

The hollow laughter of despair.

So, when the flowers of Life lie dead

Beneath a darker Winter’s tread,

The songs that once gave Joy a soul

Bring to the heart its heaviest dole.

The fresh delight that leaped and sung

The sunny bowers of Bliss among,

But gives to Sorrow colder tears,

And laughs to mock our clouded years.

* * * * *

A PARTING SONG.

BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL.

Free—as the lonely eagle free—

A leaden sky is o’er me—

I’m out upon a leaden sea—

A wide, cold world before me.

Wait’st thou to woo a breeze, my bark?

The eager wave’s upheaving

Chideth thy stay—the little lark

Her upward way is cleaving.

Hymn-bird, how oft thy glorious note

Hath trumpeted the day,

When bark and I were both afloat

Upon our wandering way.

For I have wandered many an hour,

My trusty bark, with thee,

And culled full many a breathing flower

Of wildest Poesy.

In those bright hours, when gliding down

Each flower-reflecting stream,

When health, hope, fancy—all had thrown

Their light o’er boyhood’s dream—

Ah! little did I dream, my boat,

That thou and I should be

Alone upon the world, afloat

Upon the wide, wide sea.

Yet speed we forth—what care I now

That once those bright hours shone?

Is there a blight upon my brow?

No—’tis enough, they’re gone.

Then speed we forth—we leave behind

A home still passing fair,

Some spot to call a home to find—

I know not—care not where.

Be it but distant, distant far,

Across the billowy deep,

Where thought and passion cease to war—

Where misery may sleep.

Sleep! no—’tis but a foolish thought,

That may not, cannot be—

O’er the wide world there is no spot

Of sleep for misery.

Wherever winds the ocean fan,

To-morrow’s born and dies,

Wherever man deceiveth man,

And woman lisps and lies—

In city, or in solitude,

In banquet-hall, or cell—

The past—the past will still intrude—

Memory—the wretch’s hell.

Chance choose the clime—I only seek—

To what else tortures bound—

The spirit feel no vulture beak

Of pity in the wound.

Then speed we forth—ay, speed we forth—

I know not—care not where;

Thou’lt build on any spot of earth

Thy lone, proud home, Despair.

So leap, so leap, brave heart, brave will—

Misery hath taught to know

Still the fierce strength invincible,

That springs to meet the blow.

False friends—fond hopes—mad joys of old

May not forgotten be—

But room, and hurrah! for joys untold

Of brave heart’s victory.

This joy’s infectious—bounds my bark,

As prouder far to bear

Her master, now the heav’ns are dark,

Than when they smiled most fair.

The purpling waters, as they leap

Around her eager prow,

Laugh out in sympathy, and keep

Dark commune with me now.

On, on, my bark, thy gallant keel

Is bounding merrily—

Tossing the white foam, thou dost feel

That now we both are free.

And we are free—oh! we are free—

A sky of storms is o’er us—

A glorious strife, to end with life

And victory, before us.

* * * * *

THE LIGHT OF LIFE.

BY MRS O. M. P. LORD.

Thou can’st not dream of darkness now,

My child! so full of radiant light

Thy morning breaks, with song of birds;

That beaming eye no gloomy night

Discerns, when weary petals close,

And birds with folded wing repose.

Nor would I change this fair design;

As well the dew might fall at noon,

Or fierce December’s coming blast

Assail the shrinking flowers of June,

As fall o’er hearts in light arrayed,

From dim, prospective ill, a shade.

And yet, my darling child, the night,

With starless depths, may come, and day,

The sunniest e’en, hath gloomy hours;

What then will cheer the darkened way?

Lo here! where deepest shade appals,

The Saviour’s constant footstep falls.

Seek thou, my child, the record oft,

When faint thy weary heart, and dim

With tears thine eye; our varied life

Revealed in his appears; from him

A light doth pierce the shadows through,

Which fall on heaven’s long avenue.

* * * * *

THE RECREANT MISSIONARY,

JUDAS ISCARIOT:

“Who also betrayed Him.”

BY CAROLINE C——.

Thus always, the last mentioned among the holy Apostles, and with the

brand of shame attached to his name, is Judas Iscariot, the traitor,

brought before us. And inasmuch as from the lives of them, who in all

circumstances continued faithful to their Lord, lessons of the highest

benefit may be drawn by the teachable mind, I am constrained to think

there comes to us a lesson and a warning we may not lightly heed, from

him who “by transgression fell.” He, too, when the Voice was heard

crying in the wilderness gave willing heed; he, too, amid the eager

crowd was seen listening anxiously to the inspired word of John the

Baptist; he, too, when the meek Saviour came, attended on His preaching,

and his heart was stirred by the words of entreaty and condemnation that

he heard. He, too, would fain believe, and be forgiven, and be numbered

among the disciples of the new king.

When, as one of the twelve Apostles, he was chosen, and in a peculiar

manner recognized by the Saviour as one of his own household, Judas

rejoiced—for he doubtless conceived that if Christ’s kingdom was to be

of an earthly nature, it was certainly a great advancement, and a high

honor, to be chosen publicly as one of His chief ministers. How then

must he have listened to the words of Jesus, when, after he had selected

the Twelve, he charged them with their duty, and told them all that they

must bear and suffer for His sake. “In the world ye shall have

tribulation and sorrow—but, be of good cheer, I have overcome the

world.” One cannot but think that the latter part of this declaration

must have fallen with little weight on the disappointed heart of Judas.

The Saviour had consecrated them to their holy work—to the lives of

persecution, and sorrow, and pain, which He knew awaited them—he was

calling down the power of his spirit to rest and abide with each of

them, the power which should enable them to release guilty humanity from

its load of sin, wherever it should be felt in its oppressiveness—and

while in humility the eyes of some of those disciples were fixed upon

the ground, unto his majestic countenance others were raised, catching

from his fervid devotion the spark of heavenly fire that was to make

them indeed beacon lights on the mountain of Truth! By the words he

uttered, he bade them remember the difficulties which would beset

them—fully pointing out to them the thorny path which they must tread.

Not with the conviction that a life of ease was before them went they

forth. They had enlisted as soldiers in His service, it was therefore

meet that they should know the dangers of the hostile country through

which they were to pass. “Behold I send you forth as sheep amidst

wolves!” Danger, privation, and perchance a horrible death were the foes

they were to meet.

But, those dangers all revealed, He did not leave them struck down, as

it were, by the heavy weight of the cross they had chosen to bear—kind

words, encouraging promises, assurances of his fatherly protection and

guidance fell from his lips, and comforted and cheered them.

There was one heart on which the words of the Saviour fell with chilling

force—in his hearing, was now forever decided the question as to the

nature of Christ’s kingdom and service. When Judas heard that calm, deep

voice telling of the power of the enemy into whose hands they were

voluntarily placing themselves—when he became convinced of the danger

and wo which would encircle them on every side—that the prison might

prove their place of abode—that the scourge and instruments of torture

would be the welcoming extended to them in the world—that contumely,

shame and reproach, and despiteful treatment would inevitably meet them

in all their wanderings, he shrunk back—when he listened to the

promises Jesus made to them of rest in heaven, of the continued care of

God, which nevertheless might not preserve them from a death of torture

and ignominy—when he reflected that the rewards promised were none of

them of a temporal nature, and were to be made good only in the dim

future, in another existence that was called eternal, he shrunk from the

prospect of so much present misery, to be endured for a reward so

vague—he forgot the weight of glory that was to be revealed, or, if he

remembered it at all, the future of bliss was so far distant, and the

promises so obscure, that they fell like dust in the balance of that

scale where wo, vexation and privations innumerable were to be weighed.

Better, ah far better, he thought, that former life of labor and

obscurity he had led, than a life of such publicity and danger as he was

now to lead. None ever molested him _then_, quietly and peacefully he

had lived till that hour when he lent too willing an ear to the

compassionate words of Him who spoke, not as man, but as God and

Saviour.

And yet despite this irresoluteness, when the young man thought of his

companions who were setting forth so zealously on the path at whose very

threshold he faltered, he was almost constrained to rush boldly onward

with them. His pride shrunk from the thought of proving so soon recreant

to the cause which he had espoused so gladly and earnestly.

That first moment when he wavered in his zeal—when his determination

faltered—we may count as the moment of his downfall, of his fearful

ruin—that moment when the first bewildering thought rushed into his

brain, what shall I gain by this life of self-denial?—that moment when

the chilling conviction of the folly of his enthusiasm in the service of

Christ crept over him—that moment of unguarded temptation when Satan

obtained a hearing, that was his trial-time—then he was found

wanting—_then he fell_—then was he lost to the cause he had vowed to

support.

And yet in that moment of hesitation it is not to be supposed that Judas

had the courage, or even the wish, forever to reject and disown his

master, Jesus. We cannot believe that he had crept into the camp of

Salvation under false colors, merely to spy out its secrets, its most

vulnerable points, that so he might deliver the great chief of the army

into the hands of his enemy. Not so. It was impossible for the man to

harden in unbelief; for such convincing proof of the might and divinity

of Jesus had been given him, as it was not possible for him to reject.

And as he pondered on the gentle and touching loving kindness that

Master had shown toward him and his apostolic brethren, it may be that

the desire to aid and to serve him became for the time stronger even

than his natural cowardice and selfishness. And this may be the reason

why he resolved for a little time, at least, to be considered by the

people as one of the followers of Jesus. And in making this decision

there may possibly have revived in the man’s heart a little of that

fervor of spirit which he had once felt for the sacred cause.