"'Did you ever see a wild gooseSailing on the ocean?'"
"'Did you ever see a wild gooseSailing on the ocean?'"
"'Did you ever see a wild gooseSailing on the ocean?'"
sang Charley.
"'The wild goose's motionWas a mighty funny notion.'"
"'The wild goose's motionWas a mighty funny notion.'"
"'The wild goose's motionWas a mighty funny notion.'"
he added, aside to Ida.
No forced spirits now! The innocent fun—the converse of the social circle, after the little ones had gone—the walk home,beneath the tremulous stars—the "good night" and pressure, whose thrill lingered in her fingers 'till sleep sealed her eyes—all were sources of unutterable pleasure—pleasures born from one influence—flowing from one presence.
A month later, Josephine returned from an evening concert, with a violent toothache, the consequence of the sudden transition from the steaming hall to the ice-cold air without. She tossed and groaned in agony through the night; by morning the pain abated, a relief for which she was wickedly ungrateful, when she beheld reflected in the mirror, a tumefaction of the cheek, nearly closing one eye, and otherwise marring the symmetry of her features. The pain came back at intervals during the day; and with fretfulness, threw her into a fever. Dr. Ballard was sent for. It was late in the evening when she awoke from the slumber, gained by the anodyne he administered. The rain was plashing against the window; there was no other sound except a subdued murmur of distant voices. There were visitors in the parlor—who had ventured through the storm? Her sharpened senses caught manly tones—tones she thought she recognised; and then Ida's rippling, joyous laugh smote her unwilling ear. The conversation became lower and more serious; and she could endure no more. Unmindful of health and prudence, she hurried on a dressing-gown, wrapped a shawl about her head, and glided down stairs, as stealthily as a cat. The front room only was warmed and lighted, but the folding-doors were ajar. Mr. Lacy stood by the mantel, hat in hand, yet in no hurry to depart. He was playing with a rosebud he had plucked from a vase near, but as unconscious of its beauty as of the lateness of the hour. The expression with which he regarded the earnest speaker before him was not to be mistaken. It even seemed that he would have it understood, for a proud smile trembled over his mouth, as her eye avoided his.
Josephine felt turned to stone. By a singular fatality, she had, up to this time, remained ignorant of the growing intimacy between these two. We have seen that many of their interviews were unknown to her, although some of them occurred in her very presence; and Ida, in obedience to Lynn's caution, had guarded against any appearance of rivalship. Now, jealousy and perception awoke together—at one sweeping glance backward,she saw herself slighted—foiled—duped! and she grew faint at the sight of the frightful results of her lack of vigilance, which rushed overwhelmingly upon her mind. Her native shrewdness soon came to her aid. Matters were not so desperate. There was no word of love;—she breathed more freely. "Not yet! not yet!" she hissed, under her breath;—and the small hands clenched in passionate resolve, as she added—"never!" The leave-taking was full of feeling, but friends parted as kindly. The outer door clanged to; and Ida sank into her chair. Buried in the cushions, she sat, looking into the blaze, a smile of ineffable tenderness illumining her face; her cheeks bright with unwonted scarlet. The patter of the rain upon the panes but lulled her into deeper reverie. And in contrast to a foreground so rich and warm, in its glowing colors and balmy air, and dreams of love and hope—was the dark, chill background, with its shape of evil, hideous in her distorted features and glowering hatred. Ida stooped suddenly. It was to pick up the bruised bud Morton had dropped. She looked around hurriedly, and with a more vivid blush, raised it to her lips, and hid it in her bosom.
"Rose-buds are not the only things which are played with for a time, then trampled under foot, as you shall learn ere long, my love-lorn damsel!" said the wily schemer, stealing back to her chamber.
"With us, now, it is war to the death!"
Nothing appeared less likely, at this period, than the fulfilment of Lynn's prognostications of his destiny. He collected encouragement and praise at every turn. A Bayard in society—a Raphael at the easel, he bore a distinguished part in the lionization of the day. He sped well, too, in his wooing. A quick fancy and impressible heart could hardly resist the attractions of his person and genius; and the spice of coquetry, generally predominant in Ellen's disposition, lay dormant, as she hearkened to the voice of love. She made but one reservation inpledging him her troth—that their engagement should be secret. He would have had it proclaimed through the land—he so joyed in the bliss he had won; but he bowed to the scarcely uttered wish, respecting the maiden modesty that dictated the request. To Ida and Charley it was divulged. He would not accept a happiness they wore forbidden to share. For a few brief weeks this knew no shade or diminution; but a change came. Ida discovered it; but he was silent, and she would not extort confidence. It was a trial to see his clouded countenance and fitful spirits; yet she knew his peculiarly sensitive organization, and hoped the evil was magnified by its medium. In this hope she finally persuaded him to speak.
They met at a Fancy Fair. Ida was in an embowered recess, Mr. Lacy for a companion, and Charley hanging around to play propriety. Lynn entered alone, and did not attach himself to any person or party. He marched from end to end of the room, with folded arms, and a dogged look, too foreign to him, not to impress one unpleasantly. He perceived Ida after awhile, and acknowledged her presence by touching his hat, with no loss of gloominess. Ida wasdistrait; even Mr. Lacy failed to charm; and he was aware of it He guessed, too, from the direction of her eyes, the working of her thoughts, and proposed a visit to the refreshment table, which stood in the path of the promenaders. Lynn could not brush by without speaking. The first tone of Ida's voice affected him. The dull black of his eyes became lustrous, and the long lashes fell over them to conceal the momentary weakness. She would not let him go. She asked him questions without number or meaning, not waiting for answers, until she had eaten her ice; when she gave her glass to Mr. Lacy, and with an apology, his eye said was unnecessary, took Lynn's arm. He confessed all, as she had determined he should. It was a common tale; the scrupulousness of a love, made up of delicacy and truth, and the thoughtless trifling of a girl who felt her power;—so she explained it, but the young lover mourned the death of his first-born hope.
"I would as soon speak lightly of my dead sister, as tamper withheraffection," said he. "Your excuse that she does these things to try mine—if you are right—proves that she never loved me."
"But why did I say she applied the test? In girlish caprice—foolish enough—but harmless as to intention. Have you forgotten what women are in their 'hour of ease?' if danger or sorrow menaced you, she would stand by you to the last. She loves you, Lynn,—I am assured of this."
"Not so am I. I called there this evening. She had promised to accompany me hither, but she was 'engaged with company!' Those addlepates, Pemberton and Talbot were there, doling out their senseless prattle; and she was gracious to them, repellant to me. If Pemberton were not a puppy, I would not sleep before I crossed swords with him. She waltzed with him last night. I had told her that I would not invite any lady, whom I respected, to engage in that most disgusting of dances. Conceive of my feelings, when, within the hour, I saw her whirling down the hall in his arms! And the coxcomb's insufferable impudence! if he thwarts me again, I will cane him!"
"You willnot! Go and see Ellen to-morrow, when there is no one to annoy you, by preventing a private interview. Set before her the unkindness, the want of generosity apparent in her conduct; assert your rights with dignity, and your resolution to uphold them."
"I would not pain her, Ida. She has chosen the easiest method of undeceiving me; better this, than a life-time of misery to both. She said, the other day, to a gentle reproach for an open slight, which would have offended a vainer man, mortally, that she did it to mislead others. 'A young lady,' she remarked, 'sinks into a cypher, if it is suspected that she is betrothed. I have not had my lawful amount of admiration yet.'
"'Ellen!' said I, 'I have loved you as man never loved woman before; have believed you pure and high-minded. If I thought that the despicable coquetry you insinuate, caused you to insist upon the concealment of our engagement, I would trumpet it to the world, and then break it myself!'"
"Lynn, remember where you are! You are too harsh; it was a jest."
"The manner displeased me most, and to-night, when I saw those fops—could I be patient?"
Their conversation and saunter were prolonged.
"Are you going home to-night?" asked Josephine, gaily, hailing them in one of their rounds. "They are extinguishing the lamps."
Ida changed color as she saw that she had Mr. Lacy's arm. Lynn observed it, and waited for her.
"You are fast walkers—go on," said Josephine, at the door. As they passed, Ida had a view of Mr. Lacy's features. They were so pale and rigid, that she started. He answered her look of apprehension with one that froze her blood.
What had she done to draw down that stern, yet sorrowful rebuke?
"The look you wearA heart may heal or break."
"The look you wearA heart may heal or break."
"The look you wearA heart may heal or break."
Her pillow was damp that night.
Mr. Thornton had obtained a signal victory in his first important cause. Already, his legal acumen and oratorical powers marked him in the public eye for usefulness and fame; and on the evening after the delivery of the verdict, he called together a band of select spirits to rejoice with him. The banquet was well ordered; comprising the rarities of the season, and a variety of wines, varied by the introduction of agreeable non-intoxicants, coffee, tea, iced sherbet, etc. These unwonted accompaniments of a bachelor supper were looked upon with an evil eye by some of the guests. They were jealous of innovations which might end in puritanical abstinence; and their fears were further excited that three of their small number preferred the less stimulating beverages. That Mr. Lacy's example should be copied by Mr. Compton, a fellow-student, was not surprising, as they were intimate, and known as members of the same church; but at Charles Dana's rejection of the social glass, there was a hum of exclamations and inquiries, which was calmed by his imperturbability, and the polite tact of the host. Morton could not unriddle the conduct of his friend, for he knew that his most trivial action was not meaningless. "Not a convert, Charley?" he said, when the rest were in full cry after some inspiring subject.
"Unfortunately, no. It is from a motive of expediency that I abstain to-night."
They sat together, and as he spoke, Mr. Lacy chanced to remark Lynn, who was opposite. He drank deeply, but hispotations had not had time to ignite the fire that burned in his eyes and checks. His talk was a volcanic eloquence, reckless as to course and consequence; and his laugh had the peal of a maniac's yell. In real alarm, Morton turned to his neighbor. Charley was on the alert; not outwardly—he might have been more grave and taciturn than common, but there were no evidences of anxiety. Morton divined his feelings, by a glance he saw exchanged between him and his heated friend; a look of warning and appeal on one side,—of anguish, scornful in its bitterness, on the other,—and the torrent rolled on as before.
During the giving of toasts, Mr. Lacy and Charley fell into a quiet chat, only pausing to lift their glasses in courtesy to the authors, ignorant, most of the time, of the sentiment proposed. Lynn was more sedate; from delirium he was relapsing into a comatose state, when he was brought to his feet by a toast to his art, coupled with a neatly turned compliment to himself, from Mr. Thornton. His unpremeditated reply was beautiful and touching. He was under the very spur of genius; rich metaphors, apt classical allusions, and delicate pathos poured from his lips, as thoughts from his brain; his rapt hearers scarcely conscious that he employed the machinery of words. The applause that succeeded the last musical echo was deafening. For a moment, the wild glare that had distressed Morton, disappeared, and with a happy, grateful smile, he bowed his thanks for this spontaneous tribute of approbation and regard.
"Egad!" said Pemberton, "you have mistaken your calling, Holmes—you had better burn up your canvass, and take to stump-speaking, you'd make more money by it."
Angry frowns and rebuking eyes were directed to the drunken speaker.
"If stumps and blockheads claim kindred, I shall not need to go far to exercise my vocation," said Lynn, hotly.
"Ha! ha!" laughed the other, with a violent affectation of derision.
"Don't be frightened, gentlemen! Mr. Holmes and myself have wrestled upon another battle-field, and I can afford to forgive him, from the soreness of his defeat. Your friend and instructress, that loud-tongued virago, Ida Ross, could not have uttered—"
Like a wounded panther, Lynn cleared the table at a bound, and grasped his throat. A general rush was made to the spot, and they were parted before either sustained serious injury. Pemberton had drawn a dirk at the attack, but it was wrested from him by Mr. Lacy. Reconciliation was impossible in the excited state of the combatants. Charley prudently withdrew his friend, relying upon time and reflection to prepare the mind of each for overtures and concessions. Lynn did not speak until they reached his room; then, extricating his arm from Charley's hold, he demanded in a high tone, what had been his object in terminating the conflict. "If not finished there, you know it must be somewhere."
"I do not see the necessity," was the reply. "It is a drunken broil, of which you will be ashamed to-morrow. No man in his senses would have noticed him as you did. He shall have a cow-hiding for his last speech; I would not disgrace a more honorable weapon by using it against him. I am mortified, Lynn—I hoped you were learning to control those childish fits of passion."
"Am I to be crossed and bullied forever by a meddling fool? Is it not enough that he has helped to wreck my peace, but he must taunt me with it?" cried Lynn passionately. "He ought not to live, and I do not care to!"
"You certainly are not fit to die." said Charley composedly, "or you would not rave so like a madman. Be sane for five minutes; by what means has your happiness been put in his power?"
Lynn was a humored, wayward child, and this cold severity did more to quiet him than an hour's rhetorical pleading. Charley listened with knitting brows, to a rehearsal of his story to Ida, and an account of that day's interview with Ellen. She was dressed for a ride with Mr. Pemberton, and exasperated by this new example of her disrespect to him in encouraging a man he despised—Lynn had spoke hastily—angrily. She retorted with equal warmth, and after a turbulent scene they parted. Pemberton arrived as he was leaving, and his malicious twinkle told that he comprehended and enjoyed the state of affairs. Like Ida, Charley had never heartily approved of this match; but his indignation towards Ellen was none the less on this account. Hesaw, in her behaviour, the most culpable flirting, and he said so to Lynn. He shook his head sadly.
"Convince me of that and you destroy my faith in woman. No! I believe she once fancied she loved me; but I have become obnoxious to her. It is my fate. The last dream of hope is over—I have nothing to live for now."
He covered his face with his hands. Charley remained with him all night, an uninvited visitor. His host neglected him entirely, never speaking, and seemingly unmindful of his presence. Whenever Charley awoke, he heard him pacing the floor, or saw the outline of his figure, dark and still, at the window, gazing into the black night.
"You will not do anything in the settlement of this nonsensical matter until you confer with me?" requested Charley, on saying "Good bye."
"I shall not move in the affair," was the laconic rejoinder.
"You will acquaint me with Pemberton's proposals?"
"If I think proper—yes—you shall know in good time."
Charley was going out, and did not catch the exact import of these words. He proceeded with the business of the day, comparatively at ease. Knowing Pemberton to be an arrant coward at heart, bully as he was, he did not fear a renewal of the subject from him.
Ida was alone that evening. Mr. Read was in the country; and Josephine, having waited until visiting hours were over, went off to bed. Ida liked to sit up late, but she usually preferred the snug comfort of her room to the parlors. To-night she lingered over a book, reading and musing, with a tincture of gloom in her thought-pictures. She was pondering upon the instability of earthly plans and hopes. "How true that the brightest light produces the deepest shadows!" The words arose unexpectedly to her lips. In the loosely-linked chain of reverie, she did not know that they had their origin in the memory of a slighter circumstance than a word—in a look.
Rachel was coming to see after her, and hearing a ring as she tripped by the front door, opened it. A man handed her a package saying, briefly, "For Miss Ross," and instantly vanished. Ida saw Lynn's hand in the superscription of the bulky parcel, and broke the seal. Two letters were within it;one directed to Ellen Morris; the other,—enclosing a miniature—to herself.
"My best, truest friend!" she read, "I cannot trust myself to speak the farewell my heart indites to one who has been a loving and faithful sister to me. It would unman me, and I have occasion for all my manliness at this juncture. I have no regret in the prospect of leaving a world where my horoscope was cast in clouds and storm;—I cannot undergo the pangs of seeing your grief. Destiny will be accomplished, Ida, however insignificant the instrument with which it works. Charley will inform you of the baseness of that which has severed the one shining thread of my existence. Heaven grant you may never know the hatefulness of life, when that for which you thought, toiled, lived, is torn from you! I have struck the reptile who trailed over my Eden-flowers, and reared his head insultingly amid the ruin he helped to effect, and in his unspent malice he would sting me to death. The sting of death is gone! there will be unintentional mercy in the stroke that releases me. I have been mad—I am calmer now. If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil; I shall not attempt his life—I will not imbrue my hands in the blood of the murdered."You will give the enclosed to my poor Ellen—'my Ellen!' she has forbidden me to call her by that name. It may be, she will pity, when no more, the wretch she could not love when living."My sister and friend! what can I say to you? Forgive my ingratitude in being willing to die before I have made some feeble return for your goodness! Will you wear or keep this image of him, by whom you were never forgotten—not in the death-agony? I have written to Charley, but he will not receive the letter until all is over. I was unwilling to risk this—its contents are too sacred. You are dreaming in your innocent slumbers, of years of peace and joy—I shall not close my eyes but in the sleep that knows no awakening to care and woe. 'The blessing of him who is ready to perish' be upon you!"Lynn."
"My best, truest friend!" she read, "I cannot trust myself to speak the farewell my heart indites to one who has been a loving and faithful sister to me. It would unman me, and I have occasion for all my manliness at this juncture. I have no regret in the prospect of leaving a world where my horoscope was cast in clouds and storm;—I cannot undergo the pangs of seeing your grief. Destiny will be accomplished, Ida, however insignificant the instrument with which it works. Charley will inform you of the baseness of that which has severed the one shining thread of my existence. Heaven grant you may never know the hatefulness of life, when that for which you thought, toiled, lived, is torn from you! I have struck the reptile who trailed over my Eden-flowers, and reared his head insultingly amid the ruin he helped to effect, and in his unspent malice he would sting me to death. The sting of death is gone! there will be unintentional mercy in the stroke that releases me. I have been mad—I am calmer now. If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil; I shall not attempt his life—I will not imbrue my hands in the blood of the murdered.
"You will give the enclosed to my poor Ellen—'my Ellen!' she has forbidden me to call her by that name. It may be, she will pity, when no more, the wretch she could not love when living.
"My sister and friend! what can I say to you? Forgive my ingratitude in being willing to die before I have made some feeble return for your goodness! Will you wear or keep this image of him, by whom you were never forgotten—not in the death-agony? I have written to Charley, but he will not receive the letter until all is over. I was unwilling to risk this—its contents are too sacred. You are dreaming in your innocent slumbers, of years of peace and joy—I shall not close my eyes but in the sleep that knows no awakening to care and woe. 'The blessing of him who is ready to perish' be upon you!
"Lynn."
Ida's impulse was to scream for help; but ere her palsied tongue did her bidding, the futility of all attempts to save himstared upon her; the hour—nearly midnight; the illness of their man-servant; Mr. Read's absence; her ignorance of Lynn's locality or plans beyond his suicidal intention—towered, frowning spectres, mountain-high, each with its sepulchral "Impossible!" Some women would have swooned—some sunk down to weep in impotent despair;—the shock over, her energetic spirit rallied to meet the emergency. He should be saved! at the peril of her life, if need be—what were personal convenience and safety?
Charley—the sagacious, collected friend—what mortal could do, he would—she must see him. Rachel had not spoken, terrified by her mistress' expression and manner. It was a relief to aid her in any way; she brought, without a second's parley, the cloak and hood Ida ordered, and equipped herself to attend her. "Take the key," said Ida, as they went out of the door; and they sped on their way. The night was dark, and for whole squares not a light was visible. Half of the distance to Mr. Dana's was traversed without encountering a single being, when they approached a lighted doorway, in which two gentlemen were standing. Fearing to attract their attention by her hurried gait, Ida slackened her pace, and pulled her hood over her face. She heard one say—"If the spasms do not return he may not want watchers to-morrow night;" and a feeling of security stole upon her. The friends of the suffering would not molest her, whose mission was one of mercy. A few squares further on, they were met by a watchman. Rachel made out his badge of office through the obscurity, and pressed to her mistress' side. The man stopped. His keen eye discerned her color.
"Your pass!" said he, confronting Rachel.
"Her mistress is with her," answered Ida, emboldened by the exigency.
He bowed respectfully, and pursued his beat. Ida's heart throbbed loudly, but she stifled her fears by a reconsideration of Lynn's extremity of danger,—"it was no time for nervous failings." Rachel did not possess such a tonic, and had seen every shadow, heard every rustle of the breeze.
Before their adventure with the dreaded "guard," she had known that one of the gentlemen above-mentioned had taken the same route with themselves; keeping, however, upon theother side of the street; and after Ida's ready response removed her apprehension of "the cage" and Mayor's court, she saw him still upon her track—worse! crossing towards them. Overcome with terror, she clutched her mistress' arm, and by a frantic gesture, directed her to the object of alarm. He was within six feet of them; and startled by his proximity, and the fright of her attendant, she stood still. A minute of breathless suspense, and the stranger was at her side.
"Miss Ross," he said, in a low but confident tone. "This is a strange hour for a lady to be in the street with such attendance!"
His stern, cold address could not repress her thrilling pleasure.
"Oh, Mr. Lacy!" she exclaimed, clinging to his arm, and giving way, for the first time, to tears. "Life and death depend upon my action—the life of one very dear to us both—you would not reproach me if you knew—"
"Ida!dearIda!" said he, mindful only of her sorrow. "Can there be reason for this excessive grief? Your fears have misled you. Of whom do you speak?"
She could not speak quite yet, but her sobs were subsiding under his soothing.
"Will you not trust yourself and our friend to me, Ida?"
She looked up. "Yes," she said, simply.
He put her hand within his arm. "First, tell me where you are going."
"To Mr. Dana's."
"For what purpose?"
"I have something to tell Charley."
"I will be the bearer of your message. Let me see you home;—you shall give it to me on the way."
She obeyed submissively as a child.
"Now!" said he, as they turned back.
"I had a note from Lynn to-night. It is worded so ambiguously,—contains so many allusions I do not understand, that I can glean but this—he has quarrelled, and been challenged;—they fight to-morrow, where or when I do not know, nor the name of his opponent. It is all a horrible mystery."
It was more clear to him. He related the incident of the altercation at supper, suppressing Pemberton's use of her name.
"Oh! can it be! he will not stoop so low! And he will die!he declares his solemn determination not to resist the attack. His life is thrown away!"
"Not if man can prevent it—I promise you this much. When did you get this letter?"
"Not an hour since."
"Why did you not send to Charley or me?"
"Mr. Read is away, and John sick."
"What is the tone of the note? revengeful?"
"Oh, no! he says expressly—'If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil.' He writes, weary of life, and relieved at the thought of getting rid of it."
"'Getting rid' of the life God has bestowed!" repeated he, indignantly. "Forgive me, Ida! yetyoucannot tolerate this sentiment! Does he believe in an hereafter? Does he allude to it?"
"No—but he does believe—I have thought, sometimes, with more than the intellect. Do not judge him hardly;—he has suffered much of late; more from morbid sensibility than actual troubles, but he imagined his woes too heavy to be borne. He is not fit to cope with sorrow."
"None of us are, 'till we have been taught the uses of affliction. This recklessness is, you think, more an impulse than a purpose?"
"I am sure of it."
"He will be more manageable then," he replied encouragingly.
The wind blew roughly, and he folded her cloak around her.
"I recognised you by this, and your walk, and fearing lest you might encounter rudeness in your nocturnal ramble, kept you in sight. I heard your voice at the watchman's challenge, and concluded to declare myself your protector. I have been sitting with a sick friend."
Ida did not know herself when they stopped at the door—her uneasiness all gone, and with it the unnatural strength that impelled her venturesome step—he had assumed the burden; and he was so strong and sanguine, it did not oppress him. With the mild authority which had checked her tears and reversed her design, he bade her "dismiss anxiety, and rest quietly until morning, when he would send her glad tidings." And with the same childlike docility she repaired to her chamber, and betook herself to slumber.
In the bosom of the forest, the tall oaks girdling it, like a band of mailed warriors, changed by the spell of beauty from assailants to a guard, lay a little glade, free from brush or sapling; its tender green carpet freshening in the March sun. The trees loved the dance of the shadows over that sylvan ball-room, and they revelled there all the day, and at evening, slept upon the turf in the moonlight. The clouds of the night had rolled away before a westerly breeze, and the forest was full of sweet and pleasant sounds. The oriole had come in advance of the season to look for his last year's nest; the woodpecker thrummed upon a hollow trunk; and the robins, too busy for more than an occasional note, flew about with sticks and mud in their bills. The teeming earth was quick with vitality; you could hear the unfurling of the grass-blades, the rustle of the leaf-buds as they broke ground.
An inharmonious sound interrupted the concert—the rattle of a carriage. It stopped; then another drove up; and six gentlemen, three from either side, entered the glade, saluting each other as they advanced. Lynn's friends were Mr. Thornton and Mr. Villet; Pemberton's Talbot and another of "the set," by the name of Watson. Without wasting time in irrelevant chat, the seconds walked apart for consultation. Pemberton, with a braggadocio air, offered his cigar-case to his companion; and nothing abashed by his dignified gesture of refusal, planted himself against a tree, and began to smoke. Lynn paced the little area in silence. He was haggard to ghastliness; the effect of a night of sleeplessness and racking thought. He was brave; his nerves did not tremble in the hour of peril; but the soul, forced, before its time, upon the verge of an unknown sea, shook with a nameless dread of the punishment of its temerity. Early teachings, and the convictions of later years weighed upon him. A tiny wild flower blossomed by his foot—he plucked it, and pressed its petals open with his finger. Whose hand had fashioned it? Whose sun kissed it into bloom? Whose goodness granted itthis lovely home? It owed its little life to the Father, from whom he had derived his poet-soul; it had fulfilled the end of its creation;—he was about to hurl his gifts, a million times more precious, into the face of the Giver. He would gladly have courted other thoughts, but these would come; and long-forgotten texts floated before him; apparently without a cause to call them forth. One met him, wherever he looked—"Despisest thou the riches of his forbearance, and love and long-suffering?" And as he repeated, "despisest thou"—another—"Behold, ye despisers, and wonder and perish!" These words were upon his tongue, as Mr. Villet put the pistol into his hand, and motioned him into his place.
Pemberton had sent the challenge, with no thought of its being accepted, counting upon the interference of Lynn's friends. Mr. Thornton had waited upon him with his principal's answer, settling time, place and weapons; driving him into a corner, from whence he could only escape by following out his own proposition. A strained sense of honour was Lynn's birth-right. His father had died upon the field; and repudiation of the duellist's code involved censure of him. Thus they stood, face to face, upon this unclouded, fragrant spring morning, to wash out in blood the memory of a trifle which would have perished of itself in this time, but for the pains they had taken to perpetuate it. Oh, Virginia! most fondly loved of mothers! how often has thy soil drank the blood of sons, the tears of daughters, whose lives and weal have been sacrificed to this pitiless Moloch!
Mr. Talbot explained that the signal was to be the dropping of a handkerchief, after he should have counted three slowly. Mr. Villet held the handkerchief "One—two—" said Talbot, deliberately. Lynn had only time to see the murder in his antagonist's eye, when a report rang through the forest, and he felt a sharp pain in his breast and arm.
"Treachery!" shouted Thornton, excitedly. "Shoot him down, Holmes! he deserves a dog's death!"
Lynn's hot blood was up—he raised his arm. The loaded and discharged pistols were whirling in the air—and Charley Dana and Morton Lacy threw themselves between the combatants.
"At whose instance was this meeting brought about, gentlemen?" questioned the former, peremptorily, scanning the group.
"The challenge came from my principal," answered Watson, with a brazen look.
"Will you honour me by a minute's private conversation, sir?" asked Charley, facing Pemberton, with a sneer seen by him alone. "You need not be afraid," he pursued, not receiving an immediate reply, "Ido not carry concealed weapons."
Pemberton went aside with him very reluctantly. He respected, because he feared Charley. Without a correct understanding of his character, he stood in awe of the keen ridicule and calm courage, for which his blustering was no match.
"You must be at a loss for something to do, that you covet such business as this;" began Charley. "I have no objection to your blowing your brains out—and any coroner in the country would decide that an inquest would be 'much-ado about nothing;' but it is another matter when you try, in cold blood, to take the life of one, who has some pretensions to the name of man. You are a cowardly poltroon! If you are on the look-out for insults, there is one, if truth can insult. Two policemen are at a little distance. The law will have a more serious job than I anticipated. There are five witnesses to the fact, that you fired in advance of the time. Join this to your provocation of the other night, and your having sent the challenge; and it will not require a Philadelphia lawyer to make out a case, which will put a stop to your murderous propensities for awhile. Now, sir, what do you propose to do?"
The bully shook visibly. "Really, Mr. Dana, this is an extraordinary procedure. You and I have no quarrel."
"I beg your pardon—men of honour do not pass over such remarks as I have indulged in. You did not hear me, perhaps; I said, and say now, you are a pitiful poltroon! shaking in your shoes, this minute, at the prospect of the penitentiary, and the loss of your soap-locks. But before I give you into the keeping of your lawful guardians, I have a proposal to make on my own account. I came here with the intention of giving you a castigation for your impertinent mention of a lady. I will not fight a duel with you, but if you resist, I will take care you do not shootme. I meant to horse-whip you, and I will—within an inch of your life, if you do not make an ample apology. You cannot bully or blarney me, Pemberton. We know each other."
In abject terms, he declared that he had the highest veneration for Mr. Dana's friend, Miss Ross; he was in wine at the time spoken of, and was unaware, until told of it, that he had mentioned her—
"That will do!" interposed Charley. "Are you ready to rejoin your friends?"
"You will not do me this great injury, Mr. Dana! think of the exposure—the disgrace! A duel is an honourable affair, if carried out; but when it takes a turn like this, you will admit it looks confoundedly mean."
Charley could not but smile at his ludicrously pathetic tone.
"Will you bind yourself to behave better to your superiors—Mr. Holmes included—if I help you out of the scrape?"
The pledge was eagerly given.
"Your best plan will be to state to the company that, in consequence of explanations made by me, you retract the challenge, and likewise the offensive remark that provoked Mr. Holmes to assault you. Offer your hand to him, with the best grace you can muster; jump into your carriage—and you shall not be pursued."
The seconds were huddled together, talking of the novel phase of the affair; Lynn and Morton walking to and fro; the latter speaking earnestly, while Lynn's averted face showed he was not unmoved. Pemberton obeyed instructions to the letter; and with a trepidation and hurry which nearly betrayed Charley into a disgrace of the dignity of the occasion. After a grasp at Lynn's hand, he bowed hastily, summoned his attendants, and disappeared among the trees. The crack of the driver's whip proclaimed his departure. Thornton and Villet were profuse in their inquiries, but they were little wiser for Charley's replies. An exclamation from Morton interrupted them.
"You are wounded!" said he, pointing to Lynn's arm, from which the blood was oozing.
"Only a scratch," replied he.
Charley ripped up his sleeve; uncovering a flesh wound of no great depth. The ball had passed between his side and arm, grazing both;—its aim was the heart.
"If I had seen this sooner!" said Charley, involuntarily.
"What if you had?" inquired Lynn.
He made no reply, but proceeded to bind up the wound. "Gentlemen!" said he, when he had done;—"your carriage and breakfast are waiting. I take it, you have nothing more on hand this morning."
Thornton and Villet bowed, half-offended; Lynn lingered. "How are you going back?" he asked of Morton, but looking at Charley.
"Our horses are not far off," answered the former, kindly. "We will see you again in an hour or two."
"Coming!" responded Lynn, to his friends' impatient call. He looked again to Charley's grave face, beseechingly and timidly; but could not summon courage to break the silence.
"Do not punish him too severely, Charley," said Morton. He turned from him without speaking. He had never seen him so affected before. They were alone in the glade; and the birds, silenced for a time by human voices, were heard again twittering in the boughs. Charley spoke at length.
"I have been deceived, Lacy. I thought I knew men, and was prepared for any inconsistency; but if I had been told that the man, cherished for years as a brother, would mislead me purposely in a matter of vital importance to us both, I would not have credited it. I had his promise, or what amounted to a promise, that he would not stir without consulting me. What weakness!" he continued, more agitated, "to abandon fame and friends and life, because of a fancied slight from a woman!"
"Yet are we guiltless of similar failings?" said Morton, impressively. "Have there not been times when we too were impatient—despairing—for no more weighty cause? My dear Charley, let us judge leniently errors into which we might have fallen, but for greater strength or less powerful temptation. Disapproval and forgiveness are not incompatible."
"You have witnessed the one—will you be the bearer of the other!" asked Charley, trying to smile. "I will not oblige him to ask it. He has had humiliation enough for one day."
Mr. Lacy's first care, upon their return to the city, was to dispatch a note to Ida. It merely announced the success of their expedition; the means adopted to secure it, she gathered from Charley. They had gone together, first to Lynn's then to Pemberton's lodgings, when Charley had been informed of theprojected meeting. They were reported "not at home." They then hit upon the unpromising expedient of going to every hackstand in the city, to ascertain, if possible, at what time the party was to start in the morning, and its route. They failed, in two or three cases to arouse the keepers; and from others received unimportant and early replies. Charley had just asked, "Do you mean to give it up?" and been answered by a firm "Never!" when a negro bustled by them. Morton seized him by the shoulder, and led him to an apothecary's lamp.
"I thought so!"
"I've got a pass. Let me go!" said the fellow, struggling.
"Not until I know where you have been. You are Mr. Talbot's servant—you may gain something, and shall not lose, by answering me civilly. What were you sent for!"
By smooth and harsh words, he was brought to acknowledge that his "young master" having had company all the evening, had forgotten, until late, to send him to a livery-stable to engage a carriage for five o'clock next morning.
"Who is with him, besides Mr. Pemberton?" inquired Mr. Lacy.
"Mr. Watson, sir."
"How far are they to go, after crossing the river?"
"Lor! Massa! how you reckon I know?"
"No trifling, sir! If I wanted to create mischief, you have said enough. Tell me everything, or I will go at once to your master!"
The man instantly named their destination, which his master had let slip in his hearing; and added that they were "fixing pistols." The information was corroborated by a call upon the liveryman, and they acted upon it. The delay, which was so near being fatal, arose from their ignorance of a newer and shorter road than they chose.
"How Lacy guessed their intentions, I cannot imagine," said Charley. "He would not entrust to me the name of his informant; and Lynn is as much in the dark. He brought your letter to the door after he was sure you had retired and mine was left upon his desk. But Lacy is discreet from principle, not from caprice."
"He is," said Ida with heightened color. "If any stigma attaches to the informer, it must rest upon me."
"Just like him, noble-hearted and faithful!" exclaimed Charley, when her story was ended. "Shall you tell Lynn?"
"Yes—if only to show him how his friends love him. He may view it as a breach of confidence, but I had rather he should reproach me, than suspect the innocent."
Whether he reproached her or not, the revelation did not diminish his regard for her. Except at their first agitating interview, he never adverted to the unfinished duel; but he seemed drawn to her by a new tie, in the recollection of her readiness to adventure so much in his behalf. Ellen Morris had left town for a visit to Petersburg, the day after the rupture:—left without a message or line of penitence or conciliation. Lynn did not complain, but his moodiness subsided into a pensiveness, illumined by the flashes of his former animation, like the sparkle of smouldering embers.
It was during one of these gleams that he spent the evening at the rendezvous of what Josephine styled the "Dana clique." John Dana and his amiable wife were great favorites of his and Mr. Lacy's. Their friendly calls may have been more frequent because it was Ida's chief visiting place. Mr. Dana was in New York, and she had dined and taken tea with her friend.
Lynn came in with Charley, and the latter, excusing himself for an hour after supper, left Ida and the young artist together.
"I have been thinking lately, how sublime a thing is philanthropy," said Lynn, throwing himself with boyish abandon, upon the rug at her feet. "I welcome this train of thought as a sign, that I am growing less selfish, for I have been sadly, sinfully selfish, Ida—madly intent upon my schemes, my happiness—forgetting that God placed me in the world to benefit others. Lacy was in my studio to-day, and we had a talk upon this subject. He says there is always a reflex tide of the happiness we send forth to those around us; a purer, truer joy than self-gratification. 'In this respect,' he observed, 'we can best imitate the example of our Supreme Benefactor.' Imitate our Creator, Ida! that is something worth living for."
"You have much besides, to make life precious, Lynn. I remember when it seemed worthless to me; when I thought I had tasted all the sweetness it possessed—I have changed my opinion since."
"Ah! but you have never bowed soul and spirit to an idol, and 'found it clay;' never realised in the dread hour that saw its demolition, that the fairest growth of heart and mind—the plants which you flattered yourself were climbing heavenward, had only twined themselves with strengthening tendrils about the altar of that one love! I know the meaning of the expression, 'broken cisterns, which can hold no water.' I have felt for some time past as if my heart were a stagnant marsh, flooded by wasted affections. To-day I have been happier, more hopeful. I will begin life anew, and strive for my art and for my kind."
"I have often told you that you have rare qualifications for usefulness," rejoined Ida. "Your besetting fault is unsteadiness of purpose; the best resolutions avail nothing if they are not adhered to."
"I know it. I dare not say now, that I will keep my present frame of mind until to-morrow; but I do feel as if a broad field were spread before me, and a bright, bright heaven over-arched it. I can think and speak of Ellen; I comfort myself by imagining that our separation is for our mutual good—our characters required discipline, and dimly in the future I see visions of reconciliation and re-union." Poor boy! the idol was not gone yet! He sat in an attitude of careless grace, his hand supporting his cheek, and the light falling upon his upturned face. "Yes," he continued, thoughtfully. "I am convinced that my life has been spared for some important end, and I will work it out, whenever Providence designates the ways and means of its accomplishment. I do not overlaud my ability; for youth, and health, and energy, are almost omnipotent, and I am young, and strong, and willing."
"You will not be offended if I aid you in the work?" asked Ida.
"No; and I anticipate your warning. You would say that self-conquest lies at the base of all other victories. Ah! you will yet be ashamed of your incredulity as to my regeneration. That is Charley's voice, he has brought Lacy, too! I am glad!"
Ida was more than glad. She had seen him since their midnight walk, but Josephine's presence had debarred her from even a look of acknowledgment.
Mrs. Dana came down stairs, and completed the fireside group.
"What have you two been prosing about?" asked Charley, presently.
"I have been talking—Miss Ida listening," said Lynn. "She has no faith in my determination to play 'good boy,' and as she knows me better than I do myself, I am uneasy for the durability of my excellent resolve. Do say something encouraging, Lacy."
"What is this reformation? of mind or manner?" inquired Morton.
"Mind, manner, heart and will. I have been a wilful troublesome child all my life; I mean, from this time forward, to be aman."
"And how are you setting about it?"
"Oh! I am theorising now. I have no distinct object, except to do the best I can; to mortify evil passions, to uproot selfish desires, to foster the germs of good in myself and others."
Mr. Lacy smiled, a little sadly. "You have undertaken a Sisyphus task, if you heave the stone up the hill in your own strength."
Lynn looked dismayed. "Yet it is our duty to do all this. The Scriptures, for whose infallibility you contend, set a higher standard of faith and practice than I have done."
"But they tell as in so many words, 'Ye can of yourselves do nothing.' Who can say, 'I have made my heart clean—I am pure from my sin?'"
"You do not agree with the fanatics who denounce morality, I hope," said Charley. "I heard one hold forth last Sabbath. He told us 'our righteousness was as filthy rags.' I had read my Bible, and knew that; but he heated Gehenna seven times hotter for 'ye miserable moralists' than for the vilest outcast that ever dishonored the image in which he was made. I make no pretensions to piety, but I endeavour to do my duty to my fellow-men; to hate none, and help all. I go to church because I think it right, if only for the example I set to others; I don't expect my good works to be a passport to heaven; but I thought, as I listened to him, that his orthodoxy and zeal, without charity, would profit him nothing."
"You were probably nearer right than he;" said Mr. Lacy. I do not decry morality. Reason teaches us that the benevolentcitizen, the honest tradesman, the kind parent and husband, find more favour in the eyes of a righteous judge than the rioter, the cheat, the debauchee and tyrant. Much injury is done to religion by the mistaken zeal of its advocates. This was not the spirit of its Founder. To me, the history of the young ruler, who came to Christ, is one of the most affecting in the New Testament. He was not driven away by disheartening rebukes; but 'Jesus, looking on him,lovedhim.' How tenderly must he have uttered—'But one thing thou lackest!'"
"But how unnatural is the finale!" said Lynn. "'And he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.' He let his lucre outweigh his soul!"
"Take care how you condemn!" said Charley. "There are 'possessions' besides silver and gold, which clog a man's steps. Love of pleasure has ruined more souls than love of gain."
"And procrastination more than both together;" added Morton.
Ida looked at Charley. "Do you remember our conversation after the protracted meeting, last summer?" asked she. "I felt, when you spoke of Death and Eternity, that I could never close my eyes again in peace; but the impression wore off; and we are here, to-night, it may be, no better prepared for our inevitable change than we were then."
"Yet we are content to hunt for the motives of this inconsistency of belief and action, instead of rectifying it!" said Mr. Lacy, seriously.
"You predestinarians may excuse us upon the ground that we are waiting the 'set time;'" remarked Charley.
"God's time is 'now;'" answered his friend. "'To-morrow' comes with a note of warning—'Boast not thyself of to-morrow;' 'To-day is—to-morrow is cast into the oven.'"
"You have battered my scaffolding, and not provided me with another;" cried Lynn. "You say I am helpless, yet cry, 'the night cometh!'"
Mr. Lacy took a Bible from the table, and handing it to Ida, requested her to read aloud the passages he pointed out.
"'Then said they unto him; What shall we do that we might work the works of God? Jesus answered, and said untothem: this is the work of God that ye believe on him whom he hath sent;' and 'Knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law, but by the faith of Jesus Christ, even we have believed in Jesus Christ, that we might be justified by the faith of Christ, and not by the works of the law.'"
"Thank you," said Lynn. "Then I am to do nothing?"
"Nothing as yet, but believe and trust. Having enlisted in the service, you will not be left idle. But I am overstaying my time; I engaged to meet a friend at half-past nine, and it is nearly ten. I had rather stay here, but good night, nevertheless."
"And I have not thanked him!" thought Ida, disappointed—but—
"Miss Ida!" called Charley, from the porch. "Come, see this cloud!"
A pile of snow-clouds was heaving up towards the moon, which fringed their jagged outlines with silver, unearthly bright from the blackness below.
"You would say, 'gloomily beautiful;'" said Mr. Lacy.
He was close beside her, and approachable as ever; and Charley held Mrs. Dana and Lynn in conversation. In one sentence, she expressed her sense of obligation, and her regret that he had had so much trouble in executing her commission. His face was in the shade, but shefelthis look.
"Nothing is a trouble to me, that promotes your happiness."
She went back to the parlor, with a tumultuous joy at heart. The full significance of his words she did not understand till long afterwards.
"Mr. Lacy should study for the ministry;" said Mrs. Dana.
"He does more good as he is;" replied Charley, stoutly. "If all Christians performed their duty as well, you and I would live to see the Millennium. He can reach men, who would fly at the glimpse of a white cravat. There is some charm about the man; his religion is a part of himself; and he carries it everywhere he goes. I have seen the wildest fellows I know, cluster around him, and introduce the subject, for the pleasure of hearing him talk. He knows when to begin, and when to leave off. He says plain things to me; I might knock down another man who took the liberty; I thank him, and am sincere in so doing."
"I love to listen to him; but he makes me very uncomfortable;" said Mrs. Dana.
"It is so with me;" responded Lynn. "Our conferences always leave me out of humour with myself, and envious of him."
"I think the secret of his influence lies in his humility and charity;" remarked Ida; "in his not holding himself so far above us 'deluded worldlings,' as certain of his brethren. He believes there is good in all; not that he is all-good."
"These all-good people are too apt to slam the door of Heaven, as soon as they are on the safe side, themselves;" answered Charley. "Lacy would be willing to see the whole human race saved."
"Who would not?" laughed Ida.
"'Who would not!' why, I honestly thought, before I knew him, that many professors of religion,—those of his denomination, especially—would be sorely chagrined at an event so opposite to their calculations."
"I wish I were as certainly 'predestinated' as he is;" said Lynn, with a smile and a sigh.
"I cannot quite subscribe to your 'election' principles; but if I were altogether such an one as he seems to be, I should consider my chance pretty safe;" returned Charley.
"You are not going, Ida!" remonstrated Mrs. Dana. "Stay all night with me."
"I cannot. We shall have a snow storm to-morrow, and I might be detained several days."
"No great harm if you are!" said Charley.
"Not if I have duties which call me home? I will come again shortly, but I must go now."
Charley, as host pro tempore, got his hat; and Lynn followed them into the street, with, "I hope I don't intrude!" The tempest was near at hand; the gust that buffeted them at the corners made them stagger. Lynn forced Ida to take his arm also, and in this style they breasted the storm, gaily. Ida looked out after them, before she closed the door. They hurried along, arm in arm, their merry voices borne back to her by the wind, after the darkness swallowed up their forms.
The snow fell steadily all the next day, and the next.
Josephine was "blue;" her name for ill-humor—"bad weather always made her blue," Mr. Read had a twinge of the rheumatism, and was amiable accordingly. Ida wrote a long letter to Carry; read Charley's last budget of books; and watched the snow-flakes; enjoying the perfect quiet, and freedom from interruption. Upon each evening, she sat by her window, until she could not distinguish the boundary between the leaden sky and the white earth; and the snow, she had been brushing off all day, banked up against the glass. "Heigho! we dreamers have some pleasures more sensible people know nothing about;" said she, as the tea-bell sounded the second night. "It will seem so dark and dreary below after the society that has cheered my sanctum!"
The ice was breaking up below, in a hail-storm, which had all the sharpness of a conjugal "difference," without the stinging politeness genteel people throw into their wrangles. Ida listened and sickened and sighed. A pealing ring checked the disputants. Ida's heart fluttered, and Josephine looked up anxiously at the footman's entrance.
"Mr. Dana, to see Miss Ross."
"Of course then, I shall not go out;" said Josephine, haughtily.
Ida ran into the drawing-room. "Oh! I am so glad to see you!"—but his look stopped her short. "You have bad news! Carry!" she articulated, sinking into a chair.
"No: Carry and Jenny are well; but I am come for you. Our poor friend Lynn, is very ill."
"Ill!" said she, incredulously.
His lips quivered. "Veryill!"
"Lynn! brother!" A mist fell over her sight—then cleared, as one long choking sob relieved her burdened breast. Charley raised her.
"There is no time to lose."
"I am ready."
Mr. Read and Josephine came into the hall at the bustle.
"Miss Ross! may I presume to ask whither you are going, on such a night?"
"To see a sick friend, sir!" returned Charley, as dictatorially.
"Whom sir, and where?"
"Myfriend, and she is undermyprotection;" said he, impatient at the detention. A carriage was waiting. Ida asked one question—"When was he attacked?"
"Within three hours after we parted from you. He stayed with me at John's that night; complained before retiring, of thirst and chilliness; and awoke with a raging fever. The doctors pronounce the disease inflammation of the lungs, of the most virulent nature. He had a lucid interval this evening, and asked for you."
She did not say, "Is there hope?" She knew there was none.
Charley exchanged a word with the servant who opened the door, and led the way directly to the sick-chamber. Mrs. Dana met her with a tearful embrace; she saw no one else, but the figure upon the bed. But for the dark circles about the eyes and mouth, the unmistakeable signet of Death, he might have seemed in perfect health. He appeared to be asleep, until she stood at his pillow; then opened his eyes upon her horror-stricken face, and made an effort to smile.
"Ida!"
"DearLynn!"
His breath was short "I am almost gone. Give my farewell to Ellen,—I forgave and loved her to the last. Bury her miniature with me. I have done with earth."
He closed his eyes. They brought a cordial. His wistful glance ran around the room, and returned to her.
"What is it, dear Lynn?"
Oh! the mournful intensity of that look! and the clammy fingers clasped hers. "I did not think I should die so soon!Is Lacy here?"
He came forward at her sign.
"I am dying—I have not time to search for myself—see if there is any promise for me!"
"Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out;'" repeated Mr. Lacy, instantly. "'He is able also, to save unto the uttermost all them, who come unto God by Him,—seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.'"
The fading eyes were re-lit with eagerness.
"Isthatthere? did He say so, or did you?"
"He said it, who declares, moreover, that He is not willing for 'any to perish but that all should turn and live.'"
His dying gaze was upward, and his lips moved in prayer.
"To the uttermost—the uttermost!" he whispered. "'Lord! remember—me,—when Thou comest—into—Thy—'"
He sank into a stupor; and the physician administered another stimulant. He had besought them not to permit him to sleep while reason lasted. One and another had come in, on hearing of his danger, and the room was nearly filled; but there was not a word or loud breath, to distract the meditations of the parting soul.
Charley and Mrs. Dana were nearest him on one side, Ida and Mr. Lacy, on the other. He looked at them fondly.
"Friends!dearfriends! 'There is a friend—'" to Lacy.
He finished the sentence—"That sticketh closer than a brother."
"Yes:—I remember—who is able to save—to—the—utter most—" his voice died away. When next his eyes moved, it was slowly and painfully; but their restless light was not extinct. The stiffening mouth contracted.
"He says 'Pray!'" said Ida to Morton.
Every head was bowed; and the opening sentence of the prayer brought a deeper quiet to every heart.
"'Lord! Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations!'"
The language was simple, scriptural and fervent,—the pleading of a son, in behalf of a brother, with an indulgent Parent. As he repeated the text, Lynn had dwelt upon, Ida felt the feeble pressure of his hand;—he was alive and conscious then. The rest arose at the "Amen." She had not knelt; but she did not raise her head from the pillow;—her soul had caught the farewell of his, as it flew away upon its long journey! There was a movement through the room—a breathless pause—a solemn voice said "He is gone!" and tears and sobbings broke forth.
His hand still held hers; and the other was folded over them in supplication;—the eyes still looked heavenward—but they were fixed.
Dead! dead! in his glorious beauty—in the flush of youth! deaf to the recall of mourning hearts—and the awakening echoes of the fame his genius had won! Ifhecould die, who was sure of an hour of life.