"Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one."—INGOMAR.
"Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one."—INGOMAR.
"Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one."—INGOMAR.
"Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one."—INGOMAR.
ATthe end of the long, gloomy day following the conclusion of the carnival, Zanotti accompanied his father to a midnight mass, and there for the first time saw Leonora D'Alvarez, the daughter of Spain's ambassador to the court of the winged Lion of St. Mark's. She was one of those beautiful creations that we so often dream of, and sigh for, and sometimes, but very seldom, see.Soulthere shed its spiritual attributes over one from whose features even the bloom of youth seemed to catch a brighter hue. Like all Italians, Zanotti had dreamed of love—the love of the poet and the dreamer; and now he felt it in its strength—the love of a pure, unselfish, yet deep and ardent nature!
To shorten a long story (for we must leave much to be divined in this history), he felt the inspiration growing out of love impelling him to give him his feelings to the world in immortal song. He wrote, and he became famous! Then,when a nation bowed before his genius—when a world re-echoed his name with reverence—he sought the woman who had roused his soul to exertion; he told her that he loved her; he told her that all the bright thoughts and sparkling fancies theuniversehad claimed as its own were hers—all hers; that she, and she alone, had made his name as deathless as the ethereal essence the Almighty had endowed his body with—and that unless she gave still another gift—her heart—fame, fortune, name, genius—were but empty, and hollow, and useless!
The whispered reply was no denying one, and he seemed to have attained all of happiness the world can offer. Months flew by—months in which life seemed born, like Venus, "of a rosy sea and a drop from heaven;" months when each to-morrow hung an "arch of promise," a ladder of sunlight, each round of which seemed made to lead the feet through Ivan gardens—up—up towards the sky! The glorious sun, warming like a lover's glance the beautiful bosom of the "Doge's bride"—the swelling "Adriatic"—the churches, the palaces, the prisons, whose gloom was hallowed by romantic memories, the legends attached to the palatial home of his own proud sires—these were subjects upon which, all the livelong day, he could expatiate, and she delightedly listen; and when night stole like a dream through the soft atmosphere, the stars, with their Chaldaic interpretations, furnished a new page from whence he could cull prophecies of their fate! Then would he weave old superstitions with the fancies of the poet and the lover, till he grew amazed at his own strange eloquence!
She, too, on her part, had an exhaustless theme in telling how, by degrees,hissoul had, as it were, become a part of hers; how every emotion in his own mind, by an imperceptible and view-less magnetism, awakened hers to action. The simplest speech had a charm for him; there was music in her voice; her thoughts were dimless mirrors reflecting the spirituality of her soul; to use his own language, "each word was the spray of her heart, which mirrored in its sparkling globule all the beauty and none of the defects of the world around it!" The days glided by upon the swift pinions lent by unclouded happiness.
They lived in an atmosphere where all was of the past, save their love and their hopes; the multitude of traffickers and idlers that crossed their daily path were as unheeded shadows; they mingled only with beings of other times. Their friends—for the friends of the scholar became those of the maiden—were Homer and Virgil, Tasso and Marino, the graceful Catullus, and the rough, but noble-tongued Lucretius! They strolled in imagination through Ilion's Scæn gate, along the luxuriant banks of her winding rivers, and lay down to repose beneath her wild and broad-leaved fig-tree. And then, when they had gathered around them the heroes and the poets of past and buried ages, unlike Alaric, they would weigh the myrtle crown against the laurel wreath, and see glory kick the beam!
Could year after year of their lives have rolled away with such feelings and amid such employments, they would have indeed been blessed! But no! Alas! that could not be! Love, and youth, and hope, are but the sun-fringe of the cloud of life, the flame that gilds the bark it consumes, the lightning flashes that foretell a rent and shattered heart! For love, if no outward influences assail (or assailing, are conquered and driven back), there is custom, that slow, insidious lullaby, singing in Morphean tones unceasingly, till, wearied and overcome,thatpassion, that would have repelled a visible foe, sinks at his post in quietness—asleep!
It came! It burst upon them without a warning! Fate had suspended a sword above their heads; but, unlike the tyrant's envious favorite, they saw it not ere it fell! It came—crushing and blighting the flowers that had blossomed for them, and, tearing their young hearts from the beautiful dream-world in which they revelled, brought them back to the harsh and dull and cold realities of this! The father of the lover was suddenly arrested by the myrmidons of the terrible Council of Ten. It was discovered he was the head of a wide-spread conspiracy against the state, and the expiration of the month of his arrest saw the noble and powerful family of Zanotti exiles—its lord sent forth with the boon of life, but with ruined fortunes and a tarnished name—its heir an outcast, though spotless of a single crime.
The parting of the lovers was brief and terrible.Sheswore to him that death only should take the bloom from her love, that, ruined in name and fortune as he was, he was, as ever, the high priest of her heart's temple, and that no other could everapproachits altar.Heofferedno vows, but said to her, that if five years sped by without his presence, to deem him dead, and know he had died in striving to win laurels worthy to lay before her father's daughter!
YEARSpassed, and in a foreign land Alfieri sought to win wealth and a new name to offer the idol of his heart. He succeeded beyond his wildest hopes, and with an impatience that would have been unsatisfied with the swiftness of the lightning, sped over the waters, in a richly freighted argosy of his own, back to his native city of the "Siren Sea."
Trusty adherents of his house had, in the mean time, procured the reversion of the attainder as far as it touched him, and, as his father was no longer alive, there was a strong prospect of his estate being restored to him.
Arrived at Venice, he learned that the Duke D'Alvarez had been recalled, and in the course of conversation the new ambassador mentioned that there was talk in Madrid of a projected nuptial between the Donna Leonora and the Prince Carlos of the blood royal of Spain.
Zanotti's lip quivered, and his eye flashed fiercely as he heard the rumor, but not a word escaped to betray the hot feelings that were pressing at his heart. Ere the sun sank into his bed of rosy clouds that night, his gallant ship, with straining masts and every stitch of canvas set, was speeding, like a gull, over the waters, and Zanotti paced the deck through that night and the next with a stride that betokened troubled thoughts. He reached Madrid in safety, and lost no time in finding the residence of the ambassador. There were bright lights flitting from window to window, and the sound of music was borne upon the night-wind, betokening revelry within. He stopped to question a lackey who was lounging at the entrance.
"The Donna Leonora was married this night three weeks ago, and Monseignor gives a feast to-night to his son-in-law, the prince!"
Zanotti clutched one of the pillars that supported the massive doorway, and kept his hold for a moment convulsively, for he felt his limbs failing him. This movement brought his face beneath the jet of a lighted chandelier, and the servant shrank with affright—it was like the countenance of the dead! Terrible as was the struggle in his breast; fearful as was the sudden contest of passion and despair; lost as he was to aught but a blighting sense of the wreck and desolation of his hopes, he still could not be oblivious to the significantly curious glance of the affrighted servant. By an almost superhuman effort he repressed further show of feeling, and his voice was without a particle of tremulousness, although very hollow, as he told the menial to announce "General di Romano." Such was his new rank and name! Many a fair dame started as that tall, majestic figure, with its proud head and features, pale and rigid as if hewn from the quarries of Pentelicus, passed her, as straight he proceeded to the extremity of the apartment, where, in a group conversing with smiling looks, stood the Duke de la Darca, his daughter, and the Prince Carlos of Spain. The count (or, as we should now call him, the general), unobserved by the group, placed himself near one of the large Gothic windows, opposite to which was a group of statuary that effectually concealed him from view. Here he paused to gaze upon the woman who had wrecked his happiness! Four years had passed without robbing her of a single grace, and she stood there sparkling with diamonds, radiant with beauty, and with a regality of bearing that well became her new and princely station.
An hour had elapsed, and he had watched her through many a stately measure in the pompous dances of her country, and heard her light jest and her gay laugh, and saw the same haughty fire in her magnificent black eyes, through all! Jealousy has often been described, and the burning words of the poet have wrought out an appalling picture; but if, during that hour, each wild throb of his bursting heart, if each shooting fire of his seething brain, if the madness and the agony and the fierce black promptings that fashioned each thought into shape, and called itmurder! could have been conveyed in words or upon canvas to the minds of less volcanic natures, they would have laughed to scorn the artist or the author, and accused him of conjuring up the Titan agonies of hell to confine them in the contracted space afforded by the heart of a mere mortal man!
He turned from the revellers, sick and dizzy, and gazed out upon the night. The scene was as fair a one as God's smile ever lighted into beauty. The moon—floating in a sea of blue, cloudless, with the exception of one fleecy-looking mass of vapor that covered a small space like a veil of silver tissue—poured a flood of radiance upon a garden (surrounding the house on three sides) filled with rare exotics, and in the distance the steeples of the city rose up towards the sky, as if formed of luminous mist. The stars, too, were scattered round night's queen in rich profusion, and the air was fragrant with the breath of orange-blossoms. The Venetian, even in that land of sunshine and of flowers—his native Italy—had never looked upon as beautiful a scene. But it suggested no soothing fancies! It only revived the memory of hours of which it was now madness to think! Hours that werefreighted with dreams and aspirations as lovely as itself! Hours that were passed—and forever; and aspirations that were coffined and dead! His brain seemed bursting with the heat of the room, and, as the window was a casement but a few feet from the ground, he sprang out, and walked with a hasty step in a direction in which, from a plashing sound that smote his ear, he hoped to find a spring or fountain. He found his conjecture a correct one, and, stooping down, laved his fevered temples in the liquid, which was as cold as ice, but seemed ineffectual when applied to the terrible fever that consumed him! He threw himself upon a richly sculptured seat that was supported by two marble Dryads on the edge of the fountain, and, in spite of every restraining effort, groaned aloud. He had remained thus for some time, regardless of time, place, everything but a dull leaden weight of misery, when a light footfall on the hard gravel roused him, and, springing from his recumbent position, he was about to conceal himself amid the foliage of the adjoining shrubbery, for he was in no mood for society just then. He also had been heard, however, and a rich, musical voice exclaimed—
"Dear father, are you there?"
Good heaven! it washervoice! He stood spell-bound—volition was suspended. The next moment they were face to face! With a low thrilling cry, she cast herself upon his breast. There was a gleam half of terror—partly of surprise and partly of joy—within her eyes. There were the two again! ay, even as of yore! Leonora and Carlo! The ruined noble and his betrothed bride—the princess and the soldier!
The heart hath whispered in its bliss,Who could be sad in scenes like this?But, hist, a sound the night-wind bears,A voice of love and sighs and tears!MS. Poem.
The heart hath whispered in its bliss,Who could be sad in scenes like this?But, hist, a sound the night-wind bears,A voice of love and sighs and tears!MS. Poem.
The heart hath whispered in its bliss,Who could be sad in scenes like this?But, hist, a sound the night-wind bears,A voice of love and sighs and tears!MS. Poem.
The heart hath whispered in its bliss,
Who could be sad in scenes like this?
But, hist, a sound the night-wind bears,
A voice of love and sighs and tears!
MS. Poem.
ANinstant, but a single instant, the lady remained upon his breast, and then Zanotti, removing her clinging arms, placed her upon the seat which he had himself just occupied. She looked upon him, her full dark eyes flowing with tears, and seemed struggling for utterance, but no words came! At length, with an averted face, he spoke—
"Your highness forgets our relative positions, and"—
"Forgets!" said she wildly, interrupting him; "forgets! Ay! I did indeed for a moment forget all but you; and you, Oh Carlo, is yours the voice to bring back reality? Is it for you to whom every pulsation of my heart has been dedicated; for whom in the long hours of night I have wept tears that seemed of blood—is it for you to restore me to a reality which contains no elements but those of despair, those that break hearts, those that frenzy the exhausted brain?"
Alfieri's voice was sepulchrally hollow when he replied, and the quivering of his manly frame showed the violence of the emotion within.
"Leonora," said he, "Leonora, four years ago we parted in Venice. I vowed never to see you more till I had won a name you could not shame to wear; andyouswore never to betray my deep devotion. I was then unacquainted with life; I was young and trusting; I looked upon the flower and inhaled its perfume, nor sought to analyze what hidden poisons lurked within it; I looked not for a serpent or a viper in its folded leaves! I gazed upon the diamond-sheeted waters, nor thought upon the noxious elements that, uniting in malaria, might rise from their bosom to desolate many a neighboring home. I turned my eyes upon the moonlit sky without a thought of a possible hour when the same azure face of heaven would frown and the live thunder launch its bolts to ruin and destroy! Ay! Ithenlooked but at the fairoutsideof all created things, and heeded not the motive or the soul within! Leonora, I looked onyou, and I believed you! I went forth cheerfully to the hard fight I had before me; I kept my vow—I am a field-marshal of Austria. Have you kept yours?"
She cast upon him an imploring, a piteous glance. The moon was beaming through an interstice in the foliage and shone full upon his features, making their paleness ghastly, but showing noviolentemotion—nothing but a hushed, cold, haughty sorrow.
She trembled perceptibly as she replied to his concluding question.
"Yes, as truly as I have my faith in God; Alfieri, they told me you were dead. Circumstances too complicated to explain placed my father in a position with the government that involved his life. Prince Carlos saved him, and, for the priceless service, asked but the poor repayment of my hand. I told him my heart could not accompany the gift. He still urged his suit. Could I refuse?"
"Ay, madam, the tale sounds well," was the bitter reply; "but your grief seemed of a strangely merry sort; but now your laugh was as light as any in the room, your jest as gay!"
"Zanotti!" said the lady, and there was somethingof indignation in her tone, "I am not what the world in its cold carelessness deems me, andyoujudge me as the greatest stranger of them all would do! The face may be wreathed in smiles, the lips may be musical with laughing jests, and yet, in its unrevealed depths, the heart may writhe in anguish, the soul sink with despair! But this recrimination is vain, all vain!"
She clasped her forehead as if in pain, and hot tears forced themselves through the tightly pressed fingers. Her lover maintained a cold and scornful silence. All the pride of his race had combined with a deep sense of injury in a trusting and betrayed nature to make him stern and apparently heartless in his resentment. Suddenly Leonora started to her feet, the woman's pride within her revolted at what seemed thesilent sarcasmof his look. Her eyes, with the tears checked suddenly within them, emitted a wild, singular, startling light; there was something of the Medusa in her aspect. She gazed at him with a strange mingling of supplication and haughtiness in her look; her glance penetrated his soul and softened it; he heard the panting throb of her heart, and knew there could be no acting in that. Her breath came warm upon his cheek; he trembled at the recollections that were crowding upon him. And then, too, she spoke—
"You use metoocruelly," she said; "I do not deserve this silent scorn! I have wronged myself by giving way to emotions for which you but mock and despise me!"
He started—were not her words true? Had he not been unjust in his grief?
"Leonora," said he, abruptly, "hear me! From my earliest youth—ever since remembrance avails me to recall events—rash, impetuous feeling (my inheritance from a long line of hot-headed ancestors) made me in every feeling extreme and violent. I rushed to my studies as to a conflict with a foe, and rested not till I had conquered every difficulty. The same in pleasure, obstacles were but the stones that made the stream of life sparkle brightly in its sun, and I leaped over them, or cast them aside with an exulting sense of power. My love foryouconcentrated all this vagrant impetuosity into one earnest and undying passion. It subdued and soothed the sinuosities of my outward nature; it checked the headlong restlessness that was before apparent in all I did, and turned all the various bubbling springs within me into one noiseless, but deep, resistless stream. It made an ocean of the rivers of my being; that ocean rose and fell, tinted with the sun's glorious beams for a brief space! Oh! how brief! and then storms arose; and now, when I know the tempest is to last forever, is it strange if I am indignant when I look on her who wrought all this misery, this fearful misery?"
He had spoken without looking up at her. He now raised his eyes, and found her again weeping bitterly.
"And do I not share that misery, with all the aggravation of a fruitless remorse? Oh, you know not," she added, her voice assuming a tone of beseeching earnestness, "the days and nights of intense anguish that dragged their slow length along, when thinking you lay beneath the deep sea (for they said your grave was there). When tears would flow, I wept for you, and mourned in silent anguish when they were refused me! You know not how stronger than a woman's that heart must be that can resist the appeal, continued day after day, when it comes from the lips of 'all, whom we believe to be in the wide world, whom we would bless.'Wordsmay be met and combated; but the mute lip and imploring eye—theycannot be resisted; the tenderness thatveilsits dearest wish for fear of grieving us; the grief unspoken, and the more bitter from concealment! Who can see this,and in a father, every day, every hour, every minute, and nerve their hearts to deny the relief they can bestow? But all this avails nothing; the tie is irrevocable that binds me to misery and severs us forever. For you, Zanotti, you will go forth into the world; excitement is an antidote provided for the grief of man. You will win admiration and applause; your fame as a scholar and a poet, your renown as a soldier, will secure you a high position among men, higher than your rank alone would give. You will be loved, you will love again, andourhours of rapture will linger in your mind but as the recollection of a dream! I ask but a kindly remembrance and forgiveness of my unintentional sin. Farewell!"
"And is it thus we part!" There was a proud repelling sorrow in the lover's tone as he thus replied: "Is this, then, the end of our golden dream!" He paused, and, suddenly advancing, bent his head close to her ear, "Leonora, do you love me still?" The question was in a whisper. She started, a singular, a terrified expression mounting into her face. She was about to speak, but even as the words seemed on the eve of utterance, a crashing sound, as of some one forcing his way through the thickly intertwined branches of the neighboring vines, caught the attention of both herself and her companion, and, with a stifled shriek, she looked round as if seeking an opposite path by which to escape. Herintention was frustrated, however, for in an instant after the intruder made his appearance.
"My husband!"
Leonora said but these two simple words, but there was a desperate impassibility in the tone in which they were spoken, that told of a heart whose terror was frozen into despair.
Zanotti, whose face had flushed crimson on the first appearance of the prince, was again as pale as death. The moon looked calmly down upon all, and God knows she had seldom shone on three persons whose hearts, in their agony, came nearer epitomes of hell than the group assembled there. Leonora seemed rooted to the spot, bound by a spell, a charm. Her small, beautiful hands were clenched convulsively together; her breath came with quick and labored gasps; her form seemed convulsed with a terrible and racking agony! She looked from her lover to her husband—a look beseeching their mutual forbearance—made a step forward, seemed struggling to articulate, and fell heavily to the earth.
"Ah, 'mid this sceneOf loveliness and deep serenity,The traces of despair, and woe, and deathWere darkly visible!"
"Ah, 'mid this sceneOf loveliness and deep serenity,The traces of despair, and woe, and deathWere darkly visible!"
"Ah, 'mid this sceneOf loveliness and deep serenity,The traces of despair, and woe, and deathWere darkly visible!"
"Ah, 'mid this scene
Of loveliness and deep serenity,
The traces of despair, and woe, and death
Were darkly visible!"
SHEfell at the very feet of her husband, and he looked down with a smile that was sardonic in its bitterness. Zanotti, under an impulse that paused not to reflect that under the circumstances the action was an insult to the man who deemed himself already foully wronged, advanced with the intention of raising her, but Prince Carlos waved him back. Not a syllable had either of these men uttered. Their glances were sufficiently intelligible without speech. They seemed mutually fascinated; a kind of magnetism seemed to draw upon each the other's eyes. At length, the terrible silence was broken. It was the prince that spoke, and, as he did so, his look was terribly significant.
"Come, senor! You wear a sword!"
"What would your highness have?" said Zanotti, in the low, hoarse tone of a man struggling to subdue irrepressible emotion.
"I have said it. Draw!" was the short reply.
"What, here?" The remark escaped Zanotti unconsciously, as his eye sought the extended body of the insensible Leonora.
"Ay, sir!" said the prince. "She'll heed it not. In these little plays, you know, a tragic scene is indispensable to keep up the interest. Why should not the heroine witness it?"
Zanotti shuddered beneath the maniac look that accompanied this affected jocularity.
"As you will, sir," said he, sternly, repressing all show of feeling. "But," he ventured to add, "the lady, prince. It were unnecessary cruelty to leave her thus."
"Rather say kindness," said the other, solemnly. "It were a mercy if she never recovered."
The prince drew his sword as he spoke, and motioned to Zanotti to do the same. He did so, and, even in the momentary period occupied by the action, what a world of thoughts thronged upon him! He thought of his old cloister life, when books were at once his mistresses and his friends; he thought of his first meeting with Leonora d'Alvarez; of their parting, mitigated by a hope of reunion under happier auspices; of the miserable disappointment of that hope; and of the fearful future that was before Leonora, whether he lived or died, unless—and how weak the chance!—her husband could be convinced of her innocence.
"Prince Carlos," said he, abruptly, as the other placed himself on guard, "before we enter upon a struggle beside that inanimate body—a struggle in which death may seal my lips forever—I must crave a moment's attention. Your wife"—the word seemed almost to choke him—"is innocent of any wrong at which your suspicions would point."
The prince smiled—a smile of bitter, disdainful incredulity.
"It is true, and it were useless to deny it, I love her."
The prince started as if stung by an adder, the first departure he had made from his courtly immobility. Zanotti observed the gesture, and it gave him confidence; it showed this icy statue had human passions. He added, in a firmer tone than he had been capable of using before—
"Yes, Prince Carlos, the only being my heart worships lies there at your feet; but that love is of an earlier birth than her knowledge of your highness, and therefore the acknowledgment cannot be insulting. To-night I met her for the first time in the space of four years, and the meeting was accidental. With scarcely the hope of its finding faith, I make this asseveration. It is necessary for the reputation of that much injured lady. Her virtue—her purity is as untarnished as yonder sky!"
"Of herreputation," said the other, haughtily, "Iknow how to guard it. For her VIRTUE". A cold, venomous look of unbelief said the rest.
"Prince," said Zanotti, and his face showedsome indignation, mixed with a haughty assumption of calmness—"prince, my words are probably those of a man about to solve the mighty secret of futurity, and I swear to you she is innocent! I pledge you all my hopes of eternal salvation, and trust that God may spurn me from his throne of mercy if my words contain an element of falsehood!"
"Oaths, on such an occasion," said the other, coldly, "are worthless. This is a superfluous waste of words. Leaveherdefence to herself. The question is now between you and me. Your presence here, with the avowal of passion you have made, is in itself an insult demanding reparation.Iconsent to forget the difference of rank between a hireling soldier and a prince of Spain, and you can hardly refuse to meet my vengeance."
"Enough, sir!" said Zanotti; "that slight was unnecessary. I am ready."
Their blades crossed, and, at first, every movement was studied and cautious, as if each sought to measure the other's skill, and hesitated to risk consequences that, in the situation in which they were placed, involved life or death. Many a feint passed between them, and each found in the other a much more formidable antagonist than he had anticipated. The Italian, the moment his sword touched that of his adversary, regained at once the calm, resolute bearing of one accustomed to rely upon those qualities for existence; and the Spaniard, at first, exhibited an equal degree of coolness. Gradually, however, he grew more excited, and made one or two lunges, which were quickly parried, but no effort made to return them. This indicated, on the part of Zanotti, an intention either to confine his action to defence, or murderously wait an opportunity of ending the struggle by a single, fatal stroke. Either supposition, as be-speaking a consciousness of superiority, was sufficiently galling to add to his excitement, and his thrusts increased in number, leaving him at each more and more exposed. But, suddenly, Zanotti altered his tactics. He brought his "forte" in contact with his opponent's "foible," and the next instant the prince's weapon, twirled from his grasp, was spinning through the air and fell upon the ground at some distance from where they stood.
For one moment, one single moment, the Spaniard glared upon him, his face bearing a look of concentrated venomous hate, then, snatching from its jewelled sheath a short stiletto, he sprang with the bound of an enraged panther upon his foe. Taken unprepared—for, the moment his adversary was disarmed, he had dropped the point of his own weapon—Zanotti staggered and fell, and the next instant the dagger was, as it seemed, plunged up to the very hilt in his heart.
Drawing the weapon from its still palpitating sheath, he wiped the blade, and then, with hands wet with her lover's blood, took the form of Leonora, yet happily insensible, and bore it to the palazzo. There was still revelry and mirth within.
Years have passed; it is night, and the stars are scattered over the broad, clear face of heaven, an archipelago of worlds. There has been a thunder storm during the afternoon, and large rain-drops still burden the foliage and the grass, sparkling like a maiden's bridal tears. The sky hangs, as it were, in quiet fondness over the earth, and the night-wind is sighing love tales to the flowers.
In a garden, situated a few miles from Cordova, which incloses within its high walls a lightly, but tastefully built edifice of considerable size, are assembled some six or eight persons of both sexes. Their attitudes and occupations are various. One young girl reclines negligently, but gracefully, on the still damp grass, and touches the chords of a guitar with no unskilful hand; a fine-looking man, in the prime of life, paces up and down a long avenue, and seems to be absorbed in meditation; and another, a lady, is weaving flowers into garlands. She is a splendid-looking woman, of perhaps five-and-thirty years of age, with those large, liquid black eyes that seem to absorb and reflect back to you a portion of your own soul. Her look, however, is sad and hopeless, even her smile giving but a pale, wintry gleam. Ever and anon she sighs, too, and talks to herself in a tone unintelligible to the ear, but breathing a sad, Æolian strain to the heart. Her eye wanders in bewilderment, seeking imagined forms. Her emotions seem to be all mute, expressionless, without a language, and translatable only by signs.It is Leonora; she is crazed!
"And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,My springs of life were poisoned—'tis too late:Yet am I changed; though still enough the sameIn strength to bear what time cannot abate,And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate."BYRON.
"And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,My springs of life were poisoned—'tis too late:Yet am I changed; though still enough the sameIn strength to bear what time cannot abate,And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate."BYRON.
"And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,My springs of life were poisoned—'tis too late:Yet am I changed; though still enough the sameIn strength to bear what time cannot abate,And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate."BYRON.
"And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poisoned—'tis too late:
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing fate."
BYRON.
AGAIN'twas night; but this time deepening into morn. In a spacious chamber, furnishedwith all the appliances of opulent luxury, sat a man, upon whose massive brow forty winters had traced many a deep and rugged line. He seemed one who had not been slighted by fortune, for the insignia of several illustrious orders hung upon his breast. A small cabinet table, upon which were strewed gorgeously bound books and written papers of various kinds, was drawn up beside him. The materials for writing were also there; but he heeded them not, but sat with his head leaning upon his hands apparently in abstracted meditation.
He remained in this position for full an hour, not moving a single muscle, and more like a dead than a living thing. Then he arose suddenly, and paced the apartment with a vigorous and hasty step. His limbs were firm and his form athletic; it was hisheadonly that looked old. This also lasted some time, and then he sat down once more, and, unlocking a concealed drawer, drew forth a letter and a miniature. Upon the letter he gazed long and earnestly, his look assuming an expression of mingled terror and dejection piteous to behold. Laying down the picture with a sigh, he then opened the billet and began to read, his countenance becoming each moment more careworn and haggard. And it was not strange it should be so; for it is a mournful thing to look upon the letters that once told of the throbbing affection of some friend or loved one, when the friendship is dead or merged in a deeper feeling for another, or the love is banished forever from its chosen temple. To recall the words that dropped on the page; archangels proclaiming with trumpet notes that we were the idol of one beating heart at least; to bring up again our old smile, and find it gleams, and with no Promethean power, upon affection's corse. Ah me, 'tis sad, indeed! The reader muttered to himself ever and anon, but his words were disjointed and unintelligible. He sighed, too, frequently and deeply, and even groaned aloud as he read the following passage:—
"Oh, believe me, your highness, it is fate, and not my own will, that makes me seem ungrateful! The gratitude your priceless favor has engendered in my breast is so warm, so fervid, thatmy lifewould be cheerfully given in requital; but when you askmy heart, alas! I can only say, I have it not to give. Years ago, ere I had seen your highness, or dreamed of the possibility of our ever meeting, Love had in my heart a Minerva birth, and, though the object of it lies in a bloody grave in a stranger's land, it will live in my own weary soul while it remains on earth, and accompany it when it flees to join him. You say, 'Perhaps I have not yet been fortunate enough to win your love or attract your regard but let me beseech you at least to receive and weigh the depth, the purity, the strength of my devotion against that of other men ere you decide.' Monseignor, youcompel, even wereI not willing to accord, my 'esteem;' my worthless 'regard,' and all the love my father and the dead do not claim, you also have; but were I to consent to your request, and become your wife, at his own altar should I send up a perjured vow to God."
Carefully, he placed both letter and picture in the drawer from whence he had taken them; but, instead of locking it, drew forth another "billet." It was much shorter, a mere note, in fact, but seemed to contain matter as pregnant with agitation as its predecessor. He paused some time over the following postscript:—
"You tell me that the grave, in closing over the object of my love, severed the tie between him and me forever—that death pronounced a divorce which gave me liberty to form another attachment. You know not woman's love to say so. It is impossible, when once ignited, to quench it entirely. It may be unseen, the ashes may be cold; but a spark certainly slumbers beneath them, and will never, never die! Oh, your highness, let me entreat you to select some worthier object than myself upon which to lavish your affections! I can never be yours!"
The man read this to the end. When he had finished, there was a smile of mockery upon his face; but a spasmodic shudder which convulsed his frame evinced the pain which it was meant to hide. How we learn to cheatourselvesby playing the hypocrite to others! The letter fell from his grasp to the floor. His head assumed its old position on his hand, and he gazed on vacancy. He remained in this posture so long that the candles one by one flickered and went out, not even perceiving, so great was his abstraction, the glare they gave just before they expired. The large gothic window immediately opposite to where he sat was open, and the air grew cooler and cooler each moment. It seemed, however, as if there were no stars in the sky—all was darkness. Suddenly, a terrific flash of lightning illumined earth and heaven, and cast a strong ruddy glare upon every object in the apartment. A tremendous peal of thunder followed, and the man started to his feet and advanced to the window. The rain was now coming down in large drops, and flash after flash of lightning, and peal after peal of thunder followed each other with astounding rapidity. The wind, which had lain motionless and dead previous to the beginning of the storm, now at one momentwent rushing by with extreme violence, and the next sank into a low moan that was awful enough to blanch the cheek and palsy the heart of the stoutest. It was like the wailing voice of a God sorrowing over the sins of man, or the spirit of earth singing a dirge over vanished time.
The tenant of the chamber stood with folded arms, regardless of the fierce gusts that ever and anon dashed the heavy rain-drops in his face, and the ghastly blue tint cast upon his countenance by the lightning made him look unearthly enough to be the arbiter of the dreadful contest then raging between the shrieking storm fiends. His eye grew brighter and more glistening. There seemed a sympathy between the unchained elements in their rage and his own proud spirit. His form dilated, and he seemed to look with a strange delight upon the swaying trees bending beneath the terrific blasts of wind, and to list to the crashing thunder with a fierce joy. A magnificent oak, which had resisted every attempt of the tempest to more than shake its smaller limbs, was suddenly torn up by the very roots, and, with a rushing noise, fell to the ground. The very earth seemed to groan as it fell.
"Thus wouldIdie," exclaimed the looker on, exultingly—"thus would I die! Amid a world's agonizing throes, when the mountains seem to bend their scathed tops, and the ocean roars its submission to the storm."
As he spoke, he advanced, heedless of the elements, through the casement, and stood upon the extreme edge of the battlemented parapet. A shrill, mocking laugh greeted his concluding words, and a voice, that seemed to his excited imagination preternaturally hollow, exclaimed—
"And die thus you shall!"
For a moment he stood perfectly paralyzed; but a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he turned to meet the glare of two eyes that shone as if lit with fire from hell. The person from whom the glance proceeded held in a threatening position a long, keen-looking dagger, and the blade gleamed brightly in the electric light with which a sudden flash of lightning illumined the scene. The man who had a moment before looked defiantly upon the wrathy heavens shrank from the danger which now threatened him from a human foe. It was, however, but for a moment. He saw in the implacable countenance of the man who had so strangely come upon him, sufficient evidence of some dark and evil purpose to make him look for mischief. He suspected the existence of a danger that would tax his every energy. He turned upon the intruder a look of inquiry, firm and proud, and somewhat rebuking in its aspect. The next moment, however, recollecting that, in the intervals between the flashes, all was invisible, he put the question audibly, which before he had mutely expressed. A tremendous peal of thunder drowned the words in its frightful reverberations, and the lightning that followed showed him the arm of his foe raised to strike. Even as the blade touched his breast he caught his adversary's wrist and threw himself upon him. Powerful he found him beyond all expectations, and his cheek turned ghastly pale, for he felt hope deserting him.
The struggle was terrible; a look of vengeful despair sat on the beaded brow of one, and deep, dark, unmitigable hate gleamed in the strained eyeballs of the other. The assailed man chafed like a maimed lion in the hunter's toils, and his efforts bore that character of ruthless savageness which is the consequence of hopeless fear—of rayless despair. The other, in the proud consciousness of tried strength, dashed his dagger into the bosom of the clouded chaos that formed the atmosphere in which they fought, and, by the exertion of resistless bodily power, bore his victim back towards the verge of the parapet.Toopale to seem human, like the animated statues of two contending gladiators, they rocked to and fro on its extremity. A momentary strife ensued, in which the muscles of each seemed cracking with the might of their exertions. For a single instant, the assailant seemed to give way, and the heart of his victim beat with a hope that intensity made an agony; but the relaxation was but the prelude to a more violent effort. Again they were upon the verge of the battlement—they balanced upon the edge—and then sank into the darkness. A wild, sardonic laugh, and a cry of agony that seemed to freeze the very elements and hush their destructive howl into silence, went up to heaven, succeeded by a dull, heavy sound that announced the departure of two souls to judgment.
The next day the patrol discovered, beneath the postern that opened upon the castle fosse, two mangled bodies, quite dead. The one was the Prince Carlos, Regent of Spain, and the other the Count Carlo Zanotti.
BY MARGARET FLOYD.
(See Plate.)
THEearly years of few have been so carefully guarded and protected as were those of Edith Frazier. Her father was the rector of a church in a beautiful but secluded country village in the south of England. In addition to his sincere piety and high-toned moral character, Mr. Frazier possessed a well-cultivated mind. His wife was also a superior woman, and as Edith was their only child, her early training was the object of their most careful attention. In a lovely and sequestered home, surrounded not only by the comforts and luxuries, but the elegances of life, and in close association with persons of high refinement and elevated goodness, the young girl grew slowly up to womanhood. There was no undue excitement of vanity or the passions to force her, like some hothouse plant, into an early maturity; and no unseasonable call upon her for self-reliance or exertion, which entirely blots out of some lives the sweet carelessness of girlhood. At sixteen, she was still almost a child, when the death of her mother, her first great sorrow, made her sensible for the first time that this world is not the place for that uninterrupted happiness which had, until then, been her portion.
Edith was almost heart-broken at the loss of her mother. They had been constant companions, and she missed her every moment more and more. Mr. Frazier tried to supply to his daughter the place both of father and mother, but he was a studious, reserved man, and himself suffering deeply from his bereavement, so that they did little else but remind each other constantly of their great sorrow.
About a year after Mrs. Frazier's death, finding that his daughter did not rally from the depression so foreign to her nature, Mr. Frazier proposed a tour through the northern part of England and Scotland. It was just at the beginning of the pleasant summer weather, and, arranging matters in his parish so that his absence for two or three months would not be felt, he decided to leave immediately.
On the Sunday before his departure, a stranger was seen in the little parish church. He was a man who would have been noticed in any place, and who, in a quiet country village, was an object of general attention. Tall, handsome, and with a strikingly high-bred and gentlemanlike appearance, he would have been singled out anywhere as one of nature's nobility. Edith was struck and gratified by the stranger's evident interest in the sermon her father preached that day. It was one with which he had taken especial pains, and the daughter, proud as well as fond of her father, was glad to see that he had at least one appreciative listener.
A few days after, Mr. Frazier and Edith set out on their journey. London was their first stopping-place, and several very busy days were spent there, while Edith, with the vivid interest of one to whom almost everything in that vast and crowded city was strange and new, visited the many places of interest and note within it. While they were standing in St. Paul's, the stranger who had attracted their attention in Hillcomb, their own village, a few days before, passed them with a look of evident recognition. They met again while going over Westminster Abbey; and it so happened that they were at the same time paying to the genius of Shakspeare the homage of a visit to his grave at Stratford, and that they passed each other again while strolling over the grounds around Newstead Abbey.
By this time they had advanced so far on the way to acquaintanceship, that, when they again encountered each other near the lakes in Westmoreland, the home of so many of the poets of England, a bow was the almost involuntary mark of recognition. English reserve and shyness might have prevented any more intimate intercourse, but for an accident that happened to Edith in Scotland.
Mr. Frazier, finding that the cool and bracing air of that country had as favorable an effect on his daughter's health as the wild and romantic scenery had on her mind, and being pleased with a quiet country inn which he had found, proposed that they should make it their home for two or three weeks. They could not have found a pleasanter resting-place, for Lock Lomond was spread out in its calm serenity at their feet, and Ben Lomond towered in savage grandeur above their heads.
The first person whom they recognized on taking their seats at the table of the inn was the stranger whom they had met so frequently. Edith could not repress a smile as she shyly returned the stranger's salutation, at the chance that seemed to take such a whimsical pleasure in thus bringing them together. A few days after, while walking with her father in the rude paths on the side of the mountain, she strayed a little way from him when he stopped to admire the scene from some particularly favorable point of view; and when she attempted to return, she found herself, to her dismay, so perplexed by the intricate windings of the paths that she was at a loss which to take. She called to her father and heard his voice in reply, but it grew fainter and fainter, until, at last, it could no longer be discerned. Becoming aware that every step she took only led her farther from home, she stopped to see if she could not in some way distinguish the right path. But she was so utterly bewildered that she found it to be impossible. She thought that the only thing that was left for her to do was to remain stationary; in that way she would, at least, avoid the danger of falling into the mountain streams around, or down any of the precipices.
Night closed around Edith as she sat alone under the shelter of a gray rock that jutted out from the side of the mountain. She had around her only the light shawl she had thrown on for an afternoon's walk, and it was but a slight protection from the chilling night-air. In her hurried and toilsome search after her father, she had bruised her feet and wearied herself so that she could no longer stand. She called at intervals, in the faint hope that some wanderer might hear her and come to her assistance; but her voice died away from exhaustion, and she was still alone.
It was not so much a feeling of fear that weighed upon her, for the perfect trust in her all-seeing Father, which her mother had taught her from her childhood, was a tower of strength to her in this her hour of need; and the physical discomfort she could bear; but the thought of her father's anxiety and distress on her account almost overcame her.
The stars were going out one by one, when Edith heard in the distance a faint shout. She could not answer it, but, almost as if led by some unseen spirit, it came nearer and nearer. At last she gathered voice to reply, and she had evidently been heard. She could distinguish the sound of footsteps, and at last dimly discern a man's figure as it stopped before her.
"Is this Miss Frazier?" said the man in a voice that revealed its owner to be a person of refinement and tenderness.
"Yes," said Edith, rising with difficulty.
"I am Mr. Hildreth, the gentleman whom you have met so frequently lately. I heard of your disappearance from your father, and have been seeking for some hours. Could you walk a little way with me? He is not far from here; we can soon find him."
Edith tried to walk, but found it impossible. Taking her in his arms, Mr. Hildreth carried her a little way; then meeting her father, he resigned her to him while he went before to act as a guide. With some difficulty they reached the bottom of the mountain, and obtaining a rude vehicle from some of the country people near, conveyed Edith to the inn.
The acquaintance thus begun soon ripened into a friendship. Mr. Frazier and Edith learned that Mr. Hildreth was an American from the city of New York. The letters of introduction that he had with him proved that he had a right to the best society in England, for which his polished manners and uncommon conversational powers showed that he was well fitted. He had been taking an invalid aunt to the south of France for the benefit of the climate, he told them, and after seeing her comfortably established there, he had taken advantage of a few months' leisure to travel wherever his fancy led him. He readily accepted Mr. Frazier's invitation to join him and his daughter in their tour. The similarity of taste they had shown so singularly was a sufficient evidence, he said, that any course they might take would be equally agreeable to both parties.
The next six weeks, Edith thought, were the most delightful she had ever spent. Nowhere does the society of an agreeable and intellectual person add more to the enjoyment of the company than in travelling. Although grave and quiet, Mr. Hildreth was full of thoughtfulness and observant care for the comfort of his fellow-travellers. Whenever he spoke to Edith, there was a gentle deference in his manner that, from one of his superior abilities, was irresistibly attractive.
On his side, Mr. Hildreth was no less charmed by those with whom he had been so strangely thrown. On the Sunday in which he had first seen them, he had been pleased and impressed by Mr. Frazier's sermon, and thought that he had never seen a face of more artless and attractive loveliness than Edith Frazier's. She reminded him of Chaucer's beauties, of a rose half opened and still wet with the morning dews, and of all that was most fresh and delicate innature. Her mind answered to the promise of her countenance. Ignorant of the world and uncontaminated by it, she walked in almost unconscious innocence the simple path of duty. Her disposition, naturally cheerful and bright, had already begun to recover its buoyancy, and her happiness reacted on her graver companions, who seemed to vie with each other as to which should add most to her pleasure.
Seasons of unshaded happiness are generally as brief as bright. By the end of the six weeks, Mr. Hildreth received a letter from his aunt, who wrote urgently for his immediate presence. He took a reluctant leave of his companions, but not before he had had a long conversation with Mr. Frazier, in which he asked his permission to reveal to Edith the love that had already become a strong feeling in his heart.
Heretofore he had been thrown, he said, among a set of worldly and fashionable women, and had come to look upon simplicity and unworldliness as traits no longer to be met with among the educated and polished members of society, and Edith Frazier exhibited a character as new as attractive to him. She was the only woman that he had ever met, whose society and conversation never wearied or lost their interest to him.
Mr. Frazier's paternal pride was gratified at the tribute thus paid to Edith by a man like Mr. Hildreth, but he could not bear to think of giving up the only object of affection left to him, nor contemplate without pain the idea that his daughter's home might be in a distant land. He did all that he felt justified in doing to avert the day of separation, and pleading Edith's youth, requested Mr. Hildreth to postpone for a year his declaration. To this delay Mr. Hildreth was unwilling to consent; but at last was obliged unwillingly to yield to a probation of six months.
He left Edith, in accordance with the promise he had made Mr. Frazier, entirely unconscious of his feelings towards her, and for some time almost equally unaware of her own. She knew that the loss of his society had deprived her of the greater part of the pleasure she had taken in the new scenes through which she was journeying, but it was not until she was again settled in her own home at Hillcomb that she began to feel that Mr. Hildreth had been far more to her than a mere agreeable casual acquaintance.
This discovery mortified her extremely. She felt as though it was both wrong and humiliating, that one whom she had known so short a time, and who had shown no proof of regarding her as anything but a very young and rather pleasing girl, should engross so much of her thoughts. She resolved to use every means to crush the feelings that, new as they were, seemed to have struck their roots so deeply in her heart. But first she could not resist asking her father one question.
"Do you think we shall ever see Mr. Hildreth again, father?" said she one day, with affected indifference.
"Perhaps so," said he, quietly; "we can never tell what may happen."
"He can never have spoken to my father about coming here," thought Edith, "or he would not have seemed so uncertain about it;" and, with true feminine pride, the young girl forbore any farther mention of the one whom yet she found it impossible to forget.
Two months of the six had passed away, when Edith was called to bear another heavy trial. Her father died suddenly, leaving her unprovided for and alone in the world. Such an event was apparently the last in the world to be expected, as Mr. Frazier had always seemed to be a man in vigorous health, and with a fair prospect of long life. To a long life he had evidently looked forward, for he had made no arrangements for his cherished daughter, and had left no directions by which she might guide her future course.
In her desolation, Edith could think of but one person from whom she might expect protection; a half-sister of her father's, who resided in London. She had seen her aunt, Mrs. Burnleigh, but seldom, but knew that she was a widow in easy circumstances, with a large family of children. To her she accordingly applied, and received in return an invitation to come to her until she had decided on her future course.
With a sorrowful heart, Edith left the home where so many bright and happy years had been passed. As she sat alone waiting for the coach to pass that was to convey her to London, with no attendant but the gardener's boy, and no companion but her canary, a parting gift from Mr. Hildreth, sent to Hillcomb by him from Dover just before he embarked for France, the contrast between her present desolation and the warm, sheltering love in which she had so long lived, almost overcame her. But the lonely soon acquire the power of self-control, and Edith had already begun to learn the hard lesson of self-reliance. With an outward composure that hid the painful throbbings of her heart from her travelling companions, she took her seat in the coach, and in a few hours arrived safely at Mrs. Burnleigh's.
Edith found her aunt an apparently well-meaning, proper kind of a woman, kind andsympathizing in her manners, but who evidently had not the slightest intention of denying herself or her children the smallest luxury for the sake of her brother's orphaned daughter. For a few weeks Edith was left to the quiet indulgence of her grief, and then Mrs. Burnleigh, thinking that she had done all that society could possibly demand of her in the way of respect to her brother's memory or kindness to his child, began to sound Edith as to her intentions for the future.
The young girl, thrown so suddenly upon her own resources, had not yet begun to think for herself, and the idea of seeking a home among strangers made her heart sink within her. She begged her aunt to take upon herself the task of finding for her some position that she could fill creditably, but she hoped, she said, timidly, that it might be somewhere near her aunt, her only remaining relative.
This did not suit Mrs. Burnleigh exactly, who, being of that turn of mind that always foresees the possible evil in all cases, was not pleased with the idea that she might at any time be called upon to offer a home to her friendless relative. Like a prudent woman, however, she forbore saying anything that might reveal her true feelings, but was none the less resolved that, if two equally favorable situations offered themselves, it would be wiser for her to advise Edith to accept the one at the greatest distance.
She succeeded beyond her hopes. Coming in one day, she said to Edith, with unusual animation—
"My dear, I have found a most delightful situation for you. Two hundred pounds a year for teaching one little girl. You can speak French, can you not?"
"Yes, I have spent a year in France."
"And you play unusually well, and draw and paint beautifully, so that I think the parents of the child may consider themselves quite fortunate."
"Who are they?" asked Edith
"They are Americans—a Mr. and Mrs. Blake, from South Carolina."
Edith's heart had bounded at the mention of the country, but it sank when the state was named to which Mrs. Burnleigh wished to send her. Unlike most English girls, she knew enough of the geography of the United States to remember that a wide distance separated South Carolina from New York, so that, even if Mr. Hildreth had returned to his own country, which was unlikely, she would be almost as distant from him there as if she remained in England. The idea of going so far away from all on whom her relationship or early association gave her any claim, was exceedingly painful to her.
"Don't you think, dear aunt," said she, hesitatingly, "that I might find something to do nearer home?"
"It would be impossible for me to find you another situation so advantageous in every respect; but, if you think you could succeed, you had better make the attempt," replied Mrs. Burnleigh, coldly, while a displeased expression settled upon her face.
There were a few moments' silence, and then Edith said—
"How soon will Mr. and Mrs. Blake expect me?"
"They are now here. I have just met them at one of my friends, who had been speaking to them about you. They told me that they intended to sail for America in about two weeks, and that, if you were ready by that time, they would like you to accompany them."
"Very well," said Edith; "you can tell them that I shall be ready to go with them."
"They are charming people," said her aunt, caressingly; "I am sure, my dear, you will like them very much, and be very happy with them. Of course, I would not wish my brother's child to go where she would not be with those who are likely to take some interest in her."
Edith could not help perceiving that her aunt was relieved by the prospect of her departure; and this thought, while it strengthened her in her resolve, made her feel her isolation still more deeply.
On board the same steamer with Mr. and Mrs. Blake and Edith was a little girl, an invalid, who interested the young English girl extremely. Edith had brought her bird with her. It was the only thing she had to remind her of happier days, and she could not bear to part with it. At little Ellen's earnest request, she hung the cage in her state-room, and, before the end of the voyage, the little sick girl had become so attached to the pretty bird, whose sweet song was almost the only cheering sound she heard during the long and weary days at sea, that she could not speak of parting with it without showing by her tearful eyes the pain it gave her. Edith felt that she ought not to deprive the little sufferer of so great a pleasure, and, concealing her reluctance to give up a souvenir she had cherished so long, she told little Ellen that the bird was to be hers. The child's evident delight was some compensation to Edith for her self-denial, yet it was with a sharp pang that she watched the cage as it was put in the carriage,after the arrival of the steamer at New York, to be conveyed to the upper part of the city, while Edith, with her new friends, went on board another steamer about to sail for Charleston.
Mr. Blake's residence was among the pine forests of the State; a region healthful, it is true, but peculiarly desolate, especially to one accustomed to the soft verdure and smiling landscape of England. The tall dark trees; unceasingly sighing forth their low and mournful murmurs, seemed to Edith a fit emblem of the griefs that were henceforward to darken her life.
There was but little in her new home to call her thoughts from the sad recollections to which they were constantly recurring. Mr. Blake and his wife were very kind to her, treating her rather as a guest than one to whose services they were entitled; but they lived in a part of the country very thinly settled, their nearest neighbor being at a distance of seven or eight miles, and there was a wearying monotony in Edith's daily life that weighed upon her spirits. Gratitude for the unvarying and thoughtful kindness shown to her by Mrs. Blake induced Edith to make every exertion to regain her accustomed cheerfulness, and she had, in some measure, succeeded, when the Christmas holidays came to remind her, by the contrast between her own position and that of the persons by whom she was surrounded, more painfully of her isolation. The little family gatherings, from which she could hardly absent herself without appearing unmindful of Mrs. Blake's gentle yet urgent requests, and yet where she felt herself among them, but not of them, recalled to her so forcibly the former seasons, when her happiness and pleasure were to all around her the one thing of the greatest importance, that, for the first time since her departure from England, Edith yielded to her feelings of loneliness, and every night wet her pillow with her tears. The reply of the Shunamite woman to the prophet's inquiry about her wants, "I dwell among mine own people," came with a new and touching significance to her mind, now that she began to feel that never again would she feel the sweet security and protection implied in such a position.
On New Year's eve, Edith slipped away from the merry group assembled in Mr. Blake's parlors to indulge her sad meditations for a little while without interruption. As she stood on the porch listening to the mournful music of the pines, whose aromatic incense filled the air with its healthful fragrance, and watching the moon as it slowly waded through the clouded sky, now shining out in full brilliancy, and then almost entirely darkened as it passed behind the thick masses of vapor that were hanging in the vast concave, she thought that just such sudden alternations of darkness and light had been her lot in this life.
"The clouds hang heavily over me now," thought she; "but there will be brightness soon."
Almost at the same moment there came the sound of an approaching arrival, and Edith hastily retreated to the house. She had hardly time to mingle with the gay family party, when, hearing her name called, she turned suddenly, while a thrill of amazed delight passed over her at the familiar tone, and saw before her Mr. Hildreth, whose smile shed a light and warmth upon her heart to which it had long been a stranger.
The clouds were at once lifted off from her soul, and she was once more the light-hearted girl she had been in her English home. In the midst of her happiness there was a feeling of insecurity, a doubt as to its continuance. But that Edith would not allow herself to dwell upon. It was happiness enough for the present to think that one whom she so highly esteemed still cared enough for her to seek her out in her secluded home.
But before the last hours of the old year had passed away, walking in the serene moonlight under those pine-trees to whose mournful murmur her thoughts had been so long attuned, Edith listened with a beating heart to the avowal of the same feelings which Mr. Hildreth had confessed to her father more than a year before. What had become of all the sadness that had brooded over Edith's heart so many months? It was gone like the clouds from the sky, but not to return, like them, in a few short hours.
"How did you find me out?" asked Edith, after many more important questions had been asked and answered.
"Ah, a little bird told me where I should find the runaway."
"A bird?" said Edith, wonderingly.
"Perhaps it was the cage rather than the bird," replied Mr. Hildreth. "I had been for some two or three months in search of you, or rather your aunt, with whom I was told you were staying. But she seemed to be possessed by some perverse and wandering spirit; for, when I went to London to find her, she had just left with her family on a tour through Germany, and, when I followed her there, I learned she had gone into Italy. Into Italy I went post haste, and reached Naples just in time to learn that Mrs. Burnleigh had left the week before for Egypt and the Pyramids. No whit daunted, Iwas about to seek you, even if I had to go to the heart of Ethiopia, when the sudden illness of my aunt recalled me to Marseilles. Her death obliged me to return to New York; but I arranged my business there as soon as possible, and had already engaged my passage in the next steamer to Liverpool, when, walking through Fifth Avenue, my eye was attracted by a cage that I recognized instantly, by certain peculiarities, as one that I had sent you just before I left England after our pleasant tour. A sudden hope seized me that some happy impulse had led your travel-loving aunt to my very hearthstone, and I lost no time in making inquiries of the lady of the house, from whom I learned all about the little Edith for whom I had been seeking in such far away places.
"And now, dearest," he continued, after a pause, "have you any objection to a tour through Europe? I went in such haste before that, far from satisfying my curiosity, I only increased the desire to see everything more at my leisure."
"None at all," said Edith, with a smile and blush.
"Well, then, I will see how soon Mrs. Blake can spare you, and we will set off on our travels. I hope she will be very obliging about it."
She was very obliging, and gave Edith, to whom she had become strongly attached, a grand wedding in the southern fashion, which lasted two days, and she hung the pine grove with colored lamps, so that the dark woods took, for that occasion only, quite a festal appearance.