“ ‘Rejoice, thou troubled spirit! though in pain,If thou canst take, even here, so sweet a flight;What wilt thou in thy native seats again.’ ”
“ ‘Rejoice, thou troubled spirit! though in pain,If thou canst take, even here, so sweet a flight;What wilt thou in thy native seats again.’ ”
“ ‘Rejoice, thou troubled spirit! though in pain,If thou canst take, even here, so sweet a flight;What wilt thou in thy native seats again.’ ”
“ ‘Rejoice, thou troubled spirit! though in pain,If thou canst take, even here, so sweet a flight;What wilt thou in thy native seats again.’ ”
“ ‘Rejoice, thou troubled spirit! though in pain,
If thou canst take, even here, so sweet a flight;
What wilt thou in thy native seats again.’ ”
And so soothed by the cheering vision, the invalid sank again into a deep and peaceful slumber, which was again brightened, as the sleep of the departing often is, by glimpses of that fair spirit-land in which the sufferer is so soon to awaken.
Rosalie had just finished adjusting the bed-clothes around her father, when steps and voices were heard ascending the stairs. She glanced at the precious rose-tree, and with eager hand hastened to draw the curtain before the little recess where it stood, which she had scarcely time to do, before the door was suddenly opened, without even the ceremony of a rap, and a matronly lady, dressed in rich and fashionable costume, and attended by a female servant, entered the apartment. Rosalie instantly divined the cause of their appearance in her humble abode, for in the person of the latter she recognized one of the women who, a few days previous, had come there with a desire to purchase the cherished roses, whose bloom she watched with interest and solicitude.
For an instant she stood silent and embarrassed before the intruders, then recovering herself, with that graceful courtesy which ever distinguishes the well-bred and refined, she drew forward a chair and invited the lady to sit.
With a slight and condescending nod, Madame de Rochemont, for it was the mother of Alicia, took possession of the offered seat, at the same time casting a glance of eager inquiry around the apartment. As she did so, her eye was attracted by the lovely wax flowers which lay upon the table, and bending toward them,
“Bless me!” she exclaimed, “what exquisite flowers!” then, as a nearer view revealed to her their true quality, she added—“and of wax too, I declare! Are they for sale—and do you make them?” she asked, looking at Rosalie.
“I make them, Madame, but these are already disposed of,” replied Rosalie. “I shall gladly, however, make others if they are wished for, and as many as may be ordered.”
“Oh, it is your business, is it,” said the lady superciliously; “and pray, what may be your charge for a bunch like this?”
“Only a pound, Madame,” answered Rosalie, quietly.
“Onlya pound!” repeated Madame de Rochemont, with a sneering emphasis on the “only.” “Very moderate, truly! and here are two camelias with a bud, a Provence rose, and a sprig of myrtle—why you must be making your fortune at this rate, child!”
“Considering the labor and expense attending the preparation of the material, for I color and mould the wax myself, the profit is very trifling,” said Rosalie. “Besides,” she added, “I have received few orders for the flowers, as I am almost a stranger in the city, and have commenced making them for sale only since my father’s illness.” Her voice slightly trembled as she made this allusion, but her emotion passed unheeded.
“Were your prices more moderate you would have more orders than you could execute,” said Madame de Rochemont. “For instance, if you consent to charge but ten shillings, instead of twenty, for a bouquet like this, which is enough in all conscience, I will take one myself, and procure you at least a dozen purchasers among my own private friends.”
“It is impossible, Madame, for me to make them at so low a price,” said Rosalie; “it would not repay me for the cost of the materials—these should bring me one pound ten, in justice to myself, but necessity compels me to part with them just now at a lower rate than I can afford; but I am to take them to the lady who ordered them at three o’clock, and I shall decline making any more at that price.”
“Well, child, you cannot expect patronage, if you persist in such extravagant terms,” said the lady, turning with an air of indifference from the wax camelias, and adding, as she again sent her searching gaze round the room—“but it was not to purchase artificial flowers that I came here this morning. My daughter’s maid, and my own, whom (with a glance at Grayson) perhaps you may recognize, in their search after flowers for the fancy ball, found their way here a day or two since, and brought back to us a story of the beautiful rose-tree you have somewhere here, and of your refusal, owing to some sort of a whim, to part with any of the flowers, though, from appearances, one would think you might have been willing to exchange what must be useless to you, for a much less sum than she was bidden to offer.”
“The roses she wished to purchase, Madame,” said Rosalie, with emotion, “have a value to me, that, with all my pressing wants, gold fails to possess. They are,” she added, tears filling her soft eyes, “memorials of a beloved mother and sister—the tree was planted by the latter, and for her sake fondly cherished, amid the wreck of almost all else that we possessed—its first flowers were laid upon her grave, and now, yearly, I watch its bloom to strew them on my mother’s—nor can I let even my poverty tempt me to neglect this duty, which, on each anniversary of her death, I promised her faithfully to perform.”
A covert sneer lurked round the mouth of Madame de Rochemont, who wanted sensibility to appreciate a sentiment so tender and refined; but there was a gentle dignity, a touching truthfulness in Rosalie’s words and manner, that checked the sarcasm which else she might have uttered, and with an air of cold nonchalance, she only said—
“Ah, I see—a little bit of romance—but never mind. If not too precious to be seen, will you favor me with a sight of this wonderful rose-tree?”
Thus requested, Rosalie advanced to the window, and drawing aside the thin curtain which screened it from observation, displayed the lovely bush with its rich wreaths of spotless buds, now rapidly unfolding in the light and warmth of a bright January sun, which streamed from the brilliant azure of a Canadian sky full upon it. Madame de Rochemont gave audible expression to her admiration at sight of the beautiful plant, and renewed her request, at any price, to obtain its blossoms. But Rosalie, true to her filial idea of love and duty, would not be tempted to depart from it, even by the sight of the offered gold, one piece of which would have lightened the incessant toil to which she was now subjected.
The continued sound of voices in the apartment at length aroused the sick man from his slumbers; and with that confused feeling which, even in health, often accompanies the first moments of awaking from a sound sleep, he looked up around, unable to conjecture where he was, or from whom or whence the unusual hum of voices proceeded. At length, his ear traced them to the window, and listening more intently, he caught some words respecting the rose-tree—a thing not less sacred to him than to his daughter—which startled and interested him. With a preternatural strength he raised himself upon his elbow, and gazed at the speakers, striving to take into his confused mind the meaning of the scene before him, when he saw the woman Grayson, while her mistress held Rosalie’s attention engaged, glide quietly to the opposite side of the tree, and screened from their notice by its thick foliage, grasp a branch with one hand, while in the other she held a glittering pair of scissors, with which she was in the act of severing it from the main stalk.
Electrified by the sight, an unwonted energy nerved him, and he sent forth a loud, unearthly cry, a sudden out-burst of mingled agony and fear, which chilled the blood of those who heard it:
“The roses, the roses! Child, child, be not faithless to your mother’s wish!” he gasped, in thrilling accents, and then sunk back exhausted on his pillow. The scissors fell from the hand of Grayson in her momentary fright, and she dropped the branch she had only partially severed; but hardened and fearless, she would almost instantly have returned to complete her purpose, had not Madame de Rochemont, with a look of mingled terror and annoyance, beckoned her away.
“Let us be gone from this place,” she said; “all the roses in the world are not worth the shock my nerves have received from the shriek of that madman yonder. Let the girl keep her flowers, if she prizes them above bread, and reap the fruits of her folly, as she will doubtless do soon. Come, Grayson—I am in haste; for I cannot breathe in this horrid attic another moment;” and sweeping past the bed without turning a glance of pity or inquiry toward the apparently dying man, over whom the poor daughter was bending in love and terror, she disappeared through the door, followed by her reluctant waiting-woman.
Grayson, however—as determined a she-wolf as ever thirsted for the blood of an innocent lamb—had by no means relinquished her purpose. She was to receive a rich bribe from Alicia if she succeeded in it, and she was resolved not to give it up. Ferris was too conscientious and too tender-hearted to do any thing further in the matter, and she would have lost her place for declining, had not her services been too valuable to her selfish young mistress to be lightly dispensed with. But Grayson was troubled with no such scruples of conscience, and the moment she saw her mistress seated in her carriage, which waited at the end of the little street, and had received her dismission, she returned to a small Canadian house which stood just opposite the one she had recently quitted, the occupants of which, an old man and woman, were known to her.
Under the pretence of paying them a friendly visit, she sat down at the window to watch for Rosalie, who, she remembered to have said, that at three o’clock she was to take home the wax flowers she had made. She waited patiently till the hour arrived—but then, when minute after minute passed on, till a quarter sounded from the old clock of the French Seminary, she began to fear that the sick man was either dead, or so much worse as to prevent his daughter from leaving him. However, just as she was hesitating what course to pursue, the door of the opposite house was opened, and Rosalie appeared, with the gray capote of her little Canadian cloak drawn closely over her head—for it was snowing fast—and carrying a small basket in her hand. She tripped quickly down the narrow street, and when Grayson saw her turn the corner, she rose and said she must be going, but that she would first just step over the way and see how the sick man was, to whom her mistress sometimes sent jelly. The old woman nodded her approbation of the neighborly act, and Grayson departed on her wicked errand. She found the street-door opposite open, and softly ascending the stairs, she reached the attic without encountering any one.
Rosalie had left the door of her room slightly a-jar when she went out, as was her custom, that the woman who occupied the apartment below—a decent and quiet person—might hear her father’s bell, should he touch the small one beside him. She had left him in a tranquil sleep, and apparently recovered from the preceding excitement, and expecting to be absent a very short time, she felt no more anxiety than usual respecting him, nor hesitated to leave him alone as she was in the habit of doing when obliged to go out.
Grayson softly entered the room, and with the stealthy step of a cat glided swiftly across it, casting a furtive glance at the sleeper as she passed the bed to assure herself that all was safe—then flinging aside the curtain which concealed the rose-tree, she drew forth her sharp, bright scissors, and commenced the work of destruction. Wreaths and clusters of those bursting buds and full-blown roses she relentlessly severed from the parent tree, depositing them in a capacious handkerchief which she had spread upon the floor to receive them, till the beautiful plant—but just now crowned with living bloom and beauty—stood before her shorn and disfigured by her cruel theft.
In haste to be gone, she cast the last roses on her heap of spoils, and was carefully drawing the corners of the handkerchief together that she might not crush them, when a low sort of hissing sound from the bed startled her. She looked up, and at the sight which met her view, even her bold heart quailed with momentary fear and awe. Sitting upright, she beheld Mr. La Motte, his tall, erect form emaciated almost to a skeleton, one hand feebly grasping the pillow for support, the other, thin and shadowy, stretched with a menacing gesture toward her. His ghostly face, rendered still more so by the black hair, streaked with gray, which had grown long during his illness, and which hung round it, giving it the livid hue of death; but intense life seemed centered in his eyes, which—dark as night, deep sunk and large—glared upon her with a look of terrible rage and ferocity, while his skinny lips, drawn apart in a vain effort to give utterance to his wrath, disclosed two rows of teeth glittering with deathly whiteness, that lent a supernatural aspect to the countenance.
Quickly gathering up the stolen roses, Grayson darted toward the door; but when the sick man saw her actually escaping with the treasured flowers, his agony burst forth in burning words:
“Fiend! fiend!” he shouted; “you have robbed the dead! they are here—they call you to give back—give back—the—” and his speech failing by degrees, and his unnatural strength yielding before the violence of the effort he made, he fell over insensible on the edge of the bed, upsetting the little table, and causing the hand-bell—placed on it for his use—to roll on the floor, ringing out its loudest peal as it fell.
Without a moment’s pause, Grayson rushed down the two pair of shaking stairs to the lower lobby. She found the street-door closed, and while she was attempting to open it—which in her haste she did not quickly accomplish—she heard the woman who occupied the room below the attic, come out and ascend the stairs; and a moment after, her voice sounded from the upper landing, calling to some one below—“Pray come up, quick! I think the sick man is dead! Where is the girl? Can no one find her, to come to her father?”
Grayson waited to hear no more, but hastily quitting the house, ran as fast as her feet could move down the little street. Just as she turned the corner, she encountered Rosalie, who started and turned pale, and Grayson thought looked suspiciously at her; but she carried the bundle of roses hidden under her cloak, and so she passed on unquestioned. Rosalie, too—though with a heart filled with dark misgivings—went quickly on her homeward way, to find, alas! those misgivings more than realized in the new misfortunes which there awaited her.
——
As Rosalie ascended the stairs to the attic, she heard, through the half-open door of a room which she passed, the words—“He is dead, and the girl is away.” Every syllable fell like a bolt of ice upon her heart, for to whom could they refer except to her father and herself? She paused not to think or question; fear, agony—every terrible emotion had lent wings to her feet, she flew upward like a hunted bird, one dreadful thought impelling her onward till she reached the bedside of her father.
Around it stood two or three females, tenants of the house, gazing on the rigid, cold form, pale as marble, which, with closed eyes and motionless hands lay extended before them. With a cry of anguish that would have pierced the most stony heart, Rosalie sprang forward, and laying her now burning cheek on the cold one of her father’s, and casting her soft arms around his neck, she called to him in accents, whose tender pathos none could hear unmoved; she implored him to speak to his own Rosalie; to come back from death, and live for her who had none to live for but him. She mingled passionate and broken prayers with her adjurations, that God would restore her dear father again to her; and while she prayed, warm tears fell like summer rain upon the pale face against which her sweet one rested, and like the grateful dews upon the faded herbage, they did indeed recall the departing from the gates of death, to the consciousness of his daughter’s warm embrace and loving kiss.
She felt at last the beating of his heart beneath the pressure of her small hand, his respiration feebly fanned her cheek, his closed eyelids quivered; and while her soul bowed down in thankfulness, they were upraised with a beaming look of love, which sent its light and joy into her sinking heart.
“My dear Rosalie,” he said, striving to cast his feeble arms around her; “Still a dweller in the tearful valley of discipline and trial; but courage, courage, my own love—the veil of earthly life has been lifted from before me, and I have gazed into the unseen.” His voice sunk lower, and he paused. Rosalie pressed her cheek still closer to his, but sobs were her only utterance. “Peace, little one,” he said, with tenderness ineffable. “Peace, for they are with us! I have seen them, and soon we shall go home to them. Home! home!” he said exultingly—
“Where happy spirits dwell,There, where one loving wordAlone is never heard,That loving word,farewell!”
“Where happy spirits dwell,There, where one loving wordAlone is never heard,That loving word,farewell!”
“Where happy spirits dwell,There, where one loving wordAlone is never heard,That loving word,farewell!”
“Where happy spirits dwell,
There, where one loving word
Alone is never heard,
That loving word,farewell!”
Again his eyes closed; and with a smile of serenity upon his lips he slept, or seemed to sleep, tranquilly as an infant. Rosalie raised her head and gazed upon his placid face.
“The peace which passeth all understanding, the peace of heaven is within this breast,” she murmured, laying her head upon his bosom, while the breath of prayer went up like fragrant incense from her crushed and bleeding heart. The women had all withdrawn except one, and she, with pitying and kindly purpose, remained to comfort the young girl, and give aid, if need were, to the father; and so in silence a short interval passed, when again the sick man moved, and the watchful child raised her head to catch and interpret his first look; but, as she met his restless and troubled gaze, she saw that the clear intellect had become clouded, even before he spoke, and then, with his first word, her fear became certainty. Casting an anxious glance toward the window—
“Has she robbed us of themall?” he asked.
“What? dear papa,” inquired Rosalie, tenderly.
“The roses, child; your mother’s roses, and Adalia’s. They asked me for them just now; their bed, they said, was cold, and they wanted their life and bloom to warm the snow which covered it.”
“Dear papa, I will lay them there to-morrow. It brings round the day on which they left us,” said Rosalie, sadly.
“To-morrow, yes!” he responded; “but will there be any to shed them on us when we shall lie there with them, Rosalie?”
“Dear papa, we shall be cared for then as now,” she answered soothingly; “He who brightens our poor room with those sweet flowers, will then have received us where brighter ones bloom—never to decay.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured the invalid: then with an agitated look he asked again—“but has she taken them all? Look, Rosalie—see if there be one bud left and bring it to me, that I may know if it is like those I saw on Adalia’s brow, in the spirit-land. Go, child!” perceiving her still beside him; “Go, and bring me buds and roses fromhertree—their fragrance will soothe me like the whisper of her loving voice.”
Thus urged, Rosalie rose to obey him. The fading light of the short winter day was just deepening into twilight, but a bright ray from the still illuminated west shot through the small window and rested on the poor, shorn rose-tree, crowning it with a rosy smile, as if to comfort it for the loss of its flowers. As she approached it, Rosalie was struck with something strange in its appearance, but the day was waning, and her eyes were dimmed with tears, and so no wonder, she thought, that the objects around should seem distorted; nor was it till she stretched out her hand to pluck the roses that she perceived her lovely tree despoiled of its glorious bloom. Bare, mutilated, unsightly she beheld it; not a bud left to tell of what had been, not a single blossom for the hand of filial love to cast upon the sacred place of the dead.
Who could have done this cruel deed? She recollected her rencontre with the woman Grayson—she remembered her guilty look, and the quick, yet stealthy, pace with which she passed her, and to her mind the question was answered beyond a doubt. The coming day was the anniversary of her mother’s death, and must it pass unmarked by the only outward tribute it was in her power to render to her memory? Thought after thought passed through her mind as she stood silent before her desolated tree, but the misfortune was irreparable, and sadly she returned at last to the bedside of her father—he was sleeping calmly, his respiration was free and natural, and the kind neighbor who watched with her, composed her by the assurance that “the fit was over and the morning would find him mending;” still at short intervals he woke, and the same question, “Are theyallgone?” was constantly repeated, and then with an imploring tone he would ask for “but one bud, to speak to him of her.”
——
Alicia de Rochemont stood, as on the reader’s first introduction to her, before the tall mirror which reflected back her youthful and lovely figure, arrayed as when we before beheld her, yet with more care and precision, for this was the night of the long-expected fancy-ball, and as the Goddess of Flowers, her head was crowned with garlands of living and fragrant roses, her snowy arms were wreathed with them, and the artificial blossoms that had before filled her cornucopia, were replaced by the most delicious flowers of the conservatory, among which roses of snowy whiteness predominated, lending their pearly lustre and exquisite fragrance to the whole.
The toilette of the young beauty had been for some time completed, and a few admiring friends were now gathered to witness and approve itstout ensemble, among whom was Captain Clairville, the assiduous attendant, though not as yet the declared lover, of Miss De Rochemont. The dress of the young lady elicited the commendation of all—for who could censure what was in such perfect taste? But above all, the lovely profusion of roses, which lent to it such a chaste and elegant effect, were especially admired, and many inquiries arose as to where she could have procured them—“such unique roses as they were”—“so unlike any they had ever seen,” etc.; questions which an innate feeling of shame forbade Alicia to answer.
Her refusal to tell where she had obtained them, and indeed her evident desire to avoid the subject, a little excited the curiosity of Captain Clairville, and awakened some suspicion in his mind that the knowledge would not redound greatly to her credit. This doubt, however, he scarcely admitted to himself, but it determined him, before finally committing his happiness to the keeping of his fair Alicia, to study her character more closely, and as a key to it, discover if possible the story, for he was sure there was one, connected with the roses; but for this evening he would strive to dismiss distrust, and enjoy the beauty and vivacity which had almost completed their conquest over him.
With this resolution he was just preparing to depart for his lodgings and dress for the ball, when a violent ringing at the street-door, and then a bustle in the hall, attracted the attention of the little circle. The servants were heard endeavoring to prevent some one from entering, and then steps sounded on the stairs and the tones of a woman’s voice—such tones as issue from the broken chords of a crushed heart—came nearer and nearer, till they paused at the very door of the dressing-room.
Captain Clairville arose and threw it open, when a slight figure, wrapped in a gray Canadian cloak, crossed the threshold and stood within the lighted room—but when she saw herself reflected in the large mirror opposite the door she started and seemed for a moment on the point of retreating, then, as if suddenly taking courage, she threw back the hood which covered her head, revealing the delicate and spiritual face of Rosalie La Motte. Casting a quick, but earnest gaze round the room, her eye rested on Alicia, radiant as the goddess she personated, who stood watching with interest the motions of the intruder.
For an instant the girl’s gaze seemed fascinated by so bright a vision, then with an agitation visible in her whole frame, she rapidly crossed the floor and paused before thefauteuilin which sat Madame de Rochemont. That lady’s native boldness and hauteur seemed to desert her at the appearance of the young girl—her face grew scarlet through her rouge, and her manner exhibited the utmost disorder and embarrassment. Grayson, on the contrary, who stood behind her mistress, assumed a look of fierce defiance when the object she had so wantonly wronged unexpectedly presented herself. But Rosalie, regardless of every thing save the one purpose she had come hither to accomplish, addressed herself immediately with the utmost simplicity and directness to Madame de Rochemont.
“You remember, Madame,” she said, “the object of your visit to me this morning, but perhaps you are not aware that after your departure your servant, having informed herself of my absence, stole back and rifled my precious rose-tree! There are its flowers,” pointing to Alicia, “and I have come to ask that they may be restored to me. They did not bloom for the brow of beauty, but have been watered with tears and cherished for the departed.”
“Grayson,” said Madame de Rochemont, fanning herself violently, and without deigning a reply to Rosalie—“Grayson, she is a mad creature—ring the bell and bid Atkins take her away.”
“Pardon me, Madame, if I countermand your order,” said Captain Clairville. “Let us, at least, give this young girl a fair hearing before we judge and send her away.”
Rosalie raised her soft eyes, full of gratitude, toward him, and that speaking look strengthened his resolve to see that amends were made her for the injury of which she complained. Rosalie, without heeding this interruption, resumed her pleading.
“It is for my father’s sake, Madame, that I desire these flowers—they are associated in his mind with my mother, and now that his intellect is wandering—that he is dying—for oh, I fear it is so, he bids me bring them to him that he may have peace.”
“How absurd!” ejaculated Madame de Rochemont—“the girl is an impostor, and has some end to serve by such behavior.”
“Oh, Madame, the scene you witnessed this morning must assure you of my truth,” said Rosalie, tears which she could no longer restrain falling from her eyes—“I ask only for one cluster of those roses that I may lay them on my father’s pillow, and see him smile upon me in his last moments.”
“Here is money, girl,” said Madame de Rochemont, with the coarseness which characterized her, “but the flowers form an important part of my daughter’s dress and I will not consent to its being spoiled for such a whim.”
At this insult Rosalie could no longer command herself—a bright blush of wounded pride and shame overspread her face, and covering it with both hands she bowed down her head and wept.
Captain Clairville, indignant at the treatment she received, felt all his sympathies enlisted in her behalf, and as respectfully as he would have addressed a duchess he approached, and with a few soothing words endeavored to draw her toward a seat, for he saw that she was too much overcome to stand. She however resisted his effort, but the interest he thus expressed for her aroused the wrath of Madame de Rochemont, who loaded the poor girl with the most opprobrious epithets, while the sullen mood of Alicia changed to open resentment. Throwing down her cornucopia, and tearing from her arms and head the rose-wreaths that encircled them, she flung them scornfully upon the floor, darting, at the same time, such looks of anger at Captain Clairville, as forced him to the inward conviction that his bright mistress would better personate one of the Furies than any gentler deity.
When Grayson saw the roses she had taken such unworthy pains to obtain, cast angrily away, she quite forgot where she was, and rushing forward she caught them up, declaring that “her young lady should not be cheated out of her roses by the false tears and impudence of that beggarly girl.” Terrified by the evil passions which were producing such a scene of confusion around her, the gentle Rosalie began to look almost with indifference on the precious roses, which lay withering in the heated air of the apartment. Their pure leaves had been nurtured by tender tears and loving smiles, and now that the hot breath of envy and resentment had breathed on them, they seemed to her no longer the same, and all unworthy to shed fragrance on the couch of the dying, or lend beauty to the place of the dead.
“I must be gone,” she said to Captain Clairville, who still remained near her—“my father will miss me—but I care no longer for the flowers—let her wear them, they are fitter now for joy and beauty than for sorrow and death.”
She was fearfully agitated—her frame trembled—her face was deathly pale—unaccustomed to such outbursts of the lower passions, their exhibition, invoked by herself, filled her with terror; she betrayed a nervous anxiety to escape, like one in a den of ferocious animals, and shrank close to the side of Captain Clairville as she moved toward the door, seemingly afraid to go forward alone. When about to descend the stairs he saw her falter, and supported her to the hall, but before they reached it she had fainted. Ferris stood there with her bonnet and shawl on.
“There is a cariole at the door, sir,” she said, “I will go with her, I know the place.”
“I fear you will lose your situation, my good girl, if you take the part of this poor young thing,” said Captain Clairville.
“I shall not mind, sir; there are plenty more as good,” she answered.
“There are, Ferris,” he replied, “and you shall not suffer for your kindness.”
“I have snatched this for the poor child,” she said, when they were seated in the cariole, lifting the corner of her shawl and showing the garland of roses which had encircled Alicia’s head. “I felt sure her young heart was breaking to leave the flowers she loved trampled under foot, sir, and so I brought away this to comfort her.”
Captain Clairville smiled approval, but had not time to reply, as the driver stopped just then at the door of the old house in which Rosalie dwelt. The air had revived her, but in her pallid cheek and faltering step were visible the effects of the scene through which she had just passed—anxiety for her father seemed now to absorb every other thought, and with a rapidity which her companions could scarcely equal, she ascended the stairs, and pushing open the door of the still and darkened room, advanced with a noiseless step to the bed.
The woman she had left with him still remained at her post, but her look was solemn, and as she raised and then silently moistened the sick man’s lips with a drop of water, she shook her head with a significance which seemed to say there was no longer room for hope.
“You cannot mean that he is worse!” cried Rosalie, alarmed by her manner. “He is sleeping calmly, and I perceive no change since I left him.” And bending over him she pressed her lips fondly on his cheek. Its marble coldness startled her, and she raised her eyes with a glance of agony to the kind face of the woman.
“It is true child!” she said in reply to that look; “he will soon be gone, and may God comfort the fatherless!”
A wild burst of sorrow escaped the poor girl at this confirmation of her worst fears, and she laid her cheek on that of the dying, bathing it with her tears and kisses. That cry—the touch of those fond lips, arrested the departing spirit in its flight. The closing eyes opened and fastened themselves with a look of inexpressible tenderness on the face of his child—then they were raised upward with a radiant smile that spoke of peace and blessedness—but immediately a mysterious shadow passed over the countenance, and as it settled down upon it the spirit quitted its frail tenement, but left its heavenly impress in the smile which lingered long upon the pallid lips.
The dull, gray morning dawned slowly on that chamber of death shedding a cold light upon the forlorn rose-tree, and stealing, as with a muffled step, to the bed on which reposed, beside her dead father, the youthful form of the gentle, heart-broken daughter. Long after his departure she had seemed to sleep calmly on his bosom, but when they raised her up, to remove her from him, the seal of death was on her angel features—this last sorrow had been too mighty for her poor, tried heart, and in the bitter struggle its chords snapped, and its music was forever hushed on earth, to make glad melody in heaven.
Captain Clairville saw the last duties paid to the remains of the departed father and daughter, whose sad history had awakened his deepest interest, and whose prospects, had their lives been spared, it was his hope and purpose to brighten. The precious rose-tree he consigned to the charge of Ferris, who shortly afterward married an honest tradesman, exacting from her a promise to shed its flowers annually on the graves of those who so fondly cherished it—a promise which she faithfully fulfilled.
Disappointed in his estimate of Alicia’s character, Clairville never, after the affair of the roses, sought a renewal of his intercourse with her, and the few times they met in society, it was as strangers. As soon as the spring opened he obtained leave of absence and returned to England, and when he again rejoined his regiment, he was the husband of a lady, who, Ferris declared, was the very image of poor Rosalie La Motte.
Mortified and chagrined by his desertion, Alicia affected a gayety which she did not feel, and pursued her vain career of dissipation and vanity till the bloom of youth faded from her cheek, when she gave her hand to a man double her own age, who was supposed to be immensely rich. But he shortly transported her to an isolated seignory, which was his only possession, where, without any affection for her husband or any resources within herself, she lived a wretched and discontented being, and died unregretted and unwept.
THE NEW GARDEN.
———
BY EMILY HERRMANN.
———
He knows we love the flowers so well.And so they bloom His love to tell.Ewald
He knows we love the flowers so well.And so they bloom His love to tell.Ewald
He knows we love the flowers so well.
And so they bloom His love to tell.
Ewald
We are filling our new-fenced gardenWith fresh young vines and flowers,And here we are often busyIn the clear, long evening hours.The sun shines through the paling,And over the landscape green;Blue smoke-wreaths are lazily curlingO’er-arching the quiet scene;They rise from the woodman’s clearing,They rise from his chimney low,They bend to his tiny wheat-field,Then mount to yon hills of snow.A change has come o’er its seemingSince first when we knew the place,A change in the woody landscape,A change in a youthful face.And changes have moved the spiritThat muses above it now,Since the wild-berry clusters glitteredAt noon o’er my upturned brow.I stand in our pleasant gardenAnd gaze down the years’ long track,I cherish right well their guerdon,But I would not win them back!Our brook on its way is babbling,And hastes from the open space,It misses the great oak’s shading—It misses the wild-vine’s grace.Yet it patiently stops to listenThe wood-bird’s evening hymn,Then gushes a gurgling chorusEre the way grows cold and dim—Where glooms of the arching forestLie dark on its lowly breast,Yet it sings to the deep green mosses,And the bird in her cradled nest.Thanks, thanks for the changeless spirit,That lives in the hills and streams!Like goodness it aye grows dearerAs we fade from our life’s young dreams!As love to our hearts is precious,Are voices of leaves and flowers;Our God, in His wisdom, knew it,In kindness He made them ours!
We are filling our new-fenced gardenWith fresh young vines and flowers,And here we are often busyIn the clear, long evening hours.The sun shines through the paling,And over the landscape green;Blue smoke-wreaths are lazily curlingO’er-arching the quiet scene;They rise from the woodman’s clearing,They rise from his chimney low,They bend to his tiny wheat-field,Then mount to yon hills of snow.A change has come o’er its seemingSince first when we knew the place,A change in the woody landscape,A change in a youthful face.And changes have moved the spiritThat muses above it now,Since the wild-berry clusters glitteredAt noon o’er my upturned brow.I stand in our pleasant gardenAnd gaze down the years’ long track,I cherish right well their guerdon,But I would not win them back!Our brook on its way is babbling,And hastes from the open space,It misses the great oak’s shading—It misses the wild-vine’s grace.Yet it patiently stops to listenThe wood-bird’s evening hymn,Then gushes a gurgling chorusEre the way grows cold and dim—Where glooms of the arching forestLie dark on its lowly breast,Yet it sings to the deep green mosses,And the bird in her cradled nest.Thanks, thanks for the changeless spirit,That lives in the hills and streams!Like goodness it aye grows dearerAs we fade from our life’s young dreams!As love to our hearts is precious,Are voices of leaves and flowers;Our God, in His wisdom, knew it,In kindness He made them ours!
We are filling our new-fenced gardenWith fresh young vines and flowers,And here we are often busyIn the clear, long evening hours.
We are filling our new-fenced garden
With fresh young vines and flowers,
And here we are often busy
In the clear, long evening hours.
The sun shines through the paling,And over the landscape green;Blue smoke-wreaths are lazily curlingO’er-arching the quiet scene;
The sun shines through the paling,
And over the landscape green;
Blue smoke-wreaths are lazily curling
O’er-arching the quiet scene;
They rise from the woodman’s clearing,They rise from his chimney low,They bend to his tiny wheat-field,Then mount to yon hills of snow.
They rise from the woodman’s clearing,
They rise from his chimney low,
They bend to his tiny wheat-field,
Then mount to yon hills of snow.
A change has come o’er its seemingSince first when we knew the place,A change in the woody landscape,A change in a youthful face.
A change has come o’er its seeming
Since first when we knew the place,
A change in the woody landscape,
A change in a youthful face.
And changes have moved the spiritThat muses above it now,Since the wild-berry clusters glitteredAt noon o’er my upturned brow.
And changes have moved the spirit
That muses above it now,
Since the wild-berry clusters glittered
At noon o’er my upturned brow.
I stand in our pleasant gardenAnd gaze down the years’ long track,I cherish right well their guerdon,But I would not win them back!
I stand in our pleasant garden
And gaze down the years’ long track,
I cherish right well their guerdon,
But I would not win them back!
Our brook on its way is babbling,And hastes from the open space,It misses the great oak’s shading—It misses the wild-vine’s grace.
Our brook on its way is babbling,
And hastes from the open space,
It misses the great oak’s shading—
It misses the wild-vine’s grace.
Yet it patiently stops to listenThe wood-bird’s evening hymn,Then gushes a gurgling chorusEre the way grows cold and dim—
Yet it patiently stops to listen
The wood-bird’s evening hymn,
Then gushes a gurgling chorus
Ere the way grows cold and dim—
Where glooms of the arching forestLie dark on its lowly breast,Yet it sings to the deep green mosses,And the bird in her cradled nest.
Where glooms of the arching forest
Lie dark on its lowly breast,
Yet it sings to the deep green mosses,
And the bird in her cradled nest.
Thanks, thanks for the changeless spirit,That lives in the hills and streams!Like goodness it aye grows dearerAs we fade from our life’s young dreams!
Thanks, thanks for the changeless spirit,
That lives in the hills and streams!
Like goodness it aye grows dearer
As we fade from our life’s young dreams!
As love to our hearts is precious,Are voices of leaves and flowers;Our God, in His wisdom, knew it,In kindness He made them ours!
As love to our hearts is precious,
Are voices of leaves and flowers;
Our God, in His wisdom, knew it,
In kindness He made them ours!
SONNET.—AMOR.
Cui amor nunc est similis? Of oldPainted they thee like beauteous boy, with bowAnd quiver full of arrows tipped with gold,Wherewith his victims pierced, delights might know—Now, see we thee like to the fading flower,Which in the morning richest sweets disclose;Like to the queen of flowers, the mossy rose,Which sets herself to die at evening hour—Now see we thee when two fond hearts unite,For Joy or sorrow, weal or wo, felt here;And see we thee when woman sheds a tearOf sorrow over Him whose chief delightWas, erst, in tents of men He came to save—Love, Love for man lay also in the grave.W. A.
Cui amor nunc est similis? Of oldPainted they thee like beauteous boy, with bowAnd quiver full of arrows tipped with gold,Wherewith his victims pierced, delights might know—Now, see we thee like to the fading flower,Which in the morning richest sweets disclose;Like to the queen of flowers, the mossy rose,Which sets herself to die at evening hour—Now see we thee when two fond hearts unite,For Joy or sorrow, weal or wo, felt here;And see we thee when woman sheds a tearOf sorrow over Him whose chief delightWas, erst, in tents of men He came to save—Love, Love for man lay also in the grave.W. A.
Cui amor nunc est similis? Of oldPainted they thee like beauteous boy, with bowAnd quiver full of arrows tipped with gold,Wherewith his victims pierced, delights might know—Now, see we thee like to the fading flower,Which in the morning richest sweets disclose;Like to the queen of flowers, the mossy rose,Which sets herself to die at evening hour—Now see we thee when two fond hearts unite,For Joy or sorrow, weal or wo, felt here;And see we thee when woman sheds a tearOf sorrow over Him whose chief delightWas, erst, in tents of men He came to save—Love, Love for man lay also in the grave.
Cui amor nunc est similis? Of old
Painted they thee like beauteous boy, with bow
And quiver full of arrows tipped with gold,
Wherewith his victims pierced, delights might know—
Now, see we thee like to the fading flower,
Which in the morning richest sweets disclose;
Like to the queen of flowers, the mossy rose,
Which sets herself to die at evening hour—
Now see we thee when two fond hearts unite,
For Joy or sorrow, weal or wo, felt here;
And see we thee when woman sheds a tear
Of sorrow over Him whose chief delight
Was, erst, in tents of men He came to save—
Love, Love for man lay also in the grave.
W. A.
W. A.
THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE NUN.
———
BY J. POPHAM.
———
“Pooh! pooh!” says the ‘strong-minded lady,’ “who ever believes in legends now-a-days?” and she turns over our pages to look for a more interesting article.
“Legends! Fudge!” says the practical man, who may give a supercilious glance at the title, “I leave such nonsense for old women.”
“The Legend of the White Nun!” reads the sentimental young miss, or the Byronic gent with curly hair, and a turned-down shirt-collar—“ah! a story with a very heart-rending finale, no doubt!”
And then come the believers in Spirit-Knockings, and in Winking Madonnas—and they will observe, “Here again is, doubtless, something which will corroborate what the skeptical world is pleased to call superstitions!”
I am not going now to answer these remarks in the negative or affirmative. I will not anticipate thefinale, or inform you at once the character of the following tale.Thatis opposed to all precedent. I merely ask for a perusal before judgment; and then, perhaps, the strong-minded lady, and the practical gentleman, and the sentimental miss, will all find themselves wrong in their conjectures. A story is, now-a-days, no more to be judged by its title, than a hypocrite by his appearance.
With this preface, or apology, or left-handed explanation—or whatever else the reader is pleased to call it—I shall commence.
While a young man I was very fond of field sports, and in the part of England where I then resided, I had frequent opportunities for indulging in them. Not only around my immediate neighborhood did I often saunter with dog and gun, but oftentimes over the preserves of acquaintances in adjoining parishes. In the month of November, 1809, I made a visit, ostensibly for shooting, at the residence of Squire Primrose, of the village of Tremington, in Devonshire. I say the object of my visit was ostensibly to visit the Squire’s fields for pheasant and snipe, but the real object was to see one of the Squire’s daughters. I cared more, dear reader, for a smile from Jane Primrose than for a dozen brace of snipe; and I am sure I wouldthen(for I am old and married toanothernow!) have given fifty pheasants for a taste of her rosy lips. But matters were not then sufficiently far advanced to avow what is called, in such cases, “my intentions.” I was accompanied by an intimate friend, called Bob Turner, or, as one would now say, (as we style every man from a water-carrier to a millionaire,) Robert Turner, Esquire! Strange to relate, Bob was similarly situated toward Jane’s sister, Elizabeth; and, like me, made the Squire’s love for game a means for making love to his daughter.
On the evening of our arrival, we, and the family, assembled in their old-fashioned but comfortable parlor, before a blazing fire. Here we amused ourselves in various ways, as young people are wont to do. After the detail of all the gossip in the neighborhood—how that Dr. Balden’s wife was said to be a little too intimate with the parson—how that Miss Jenkings had been jilted—and that an old maid, named Smith, had offered herself to her coachman, and was about to marry him, and so forth; the Squire took up the newspaper, which weekly made its appearance, and commenced to read aloud a very extraordinary ghost story.
As soon as he had finished, and our expressions of surprise had subsided, an old lady in the company—Mrs. Scroggins—exclaimed, “Well, now, this reminds me that my man, William, saw the ‘White Nun’ in the convent grave-yard last night; and she so frightened him, that he declares he will never pass there again after dusk.”
The mention of this aroused Bob’s curiosity and mine. We begged her to give us the history, or the legend, if any, connected with this mysterious personage.
Reader, have you ever heard of a gentleman who was asked in company to sing, and who did not raise a thousand objections, although he was all the while dying to exhibit his vocal abilities? Have you ever seen the lady who was asked to play at a party, and who did not excuse herself in fifty ways, although she had been practicing the whole day previous for the occasion? Ifyouhave,Ihave not. Nor have I ever met with a person who, when called upon for an anecdote, did not declare it was not worth repeating, or that he or she was certain it had been heard before. So it was with Mrs. Scroggins; we had to beg of her for this legend for about a quarter of an hour, after which, like the vocalist and the pianist, under similar circumstances, she consented.
——
The convent of Hickle-path Hill, which two or three centuries since is said to have presented a very imposing appearance, is now represented by a few tottering remnants of walls, which all of you, I suppose, have often seen on a clear day from the front window. A little beyond them, to the right, are the ruins of a castle, which formerly belonged to the Bassett family.
About the latter half of the fifteenth century, Sir Hugh Bassett occupied the castle, which was then large and strong. He had a daughter called Agnes, an only child, and a beautiful girl. She was the admiration of every one who beheld her, and a standing toast at every feast in the neighborhood. Her hair was said to have been raven-black, her eyes dark, large and sparkling; her cheeks fresh as the leaves of a full-blown rose; her teeth like pearls; her form and figure, “stately, like a queen.” At least she was evidently very pretty; I wont say, for I can’t say, she realized this description, for it seems as if copied from the pages of a modern novel—and we know that there all heroines are alike, superior to any thing ever seen in this world.
She lost her mother at an early age—a loss to a child for which nothing can compensate. The want of maternal care and teaching was no doubt the cause of some little peculiarities in her disposition. Being left much to herself, having none but her father whom she recognized as her superior, she acquired a spirit of independence and of firmness of character which she would not likely have otherwise possessed. But notwithstanding this, she did not want many good and kind qualities; and she had a judgment and discrimination of character by no means common in those times. To the poor of the neighborhood she was always kind, and was much admired by them in return. With many of her own rank she was reserved, although with others she was cheerful and communicative. It was remarked that those whom she seemed to like most were generally more distinguished for character than rank. She seemed, to the wonderment of her father’s friends, to regard many an industrious peasant more than she did some far-famed baron, with “quarterings” on his shield. To her parent she always exhibited affection, and never withheld her respect, even when she reluctantly bestowed him her submission.
Sir Hugh had descended from one who had accompanied William the Conqueror to England. He was as proud as he was powerful. He measured merit by military prowess—virtue, by wealth—and character, by the length of ancestry; peculiarities which, we believe, are not altogether unknown at this day. He loved his daughter more because she washisdaughter, than for herself; and he estimated her claim to respect, not so much by her virtues, as by the Bassett blood which flowed in her veins.
The fame of the fair Agnes naturally brought her many admirers and suitors. For a long time her heart seemed untouched by their looks or addresses. But no woman’s heart is impregnable! She may skirmish a great deal, she may act as if about to make a powerful repulse, she may make seeming preparations for a terrible encounter, but, if her opponent has any knowledge of tactics in these matters, and is otherwise unobjectionable, she will sooner or later “give-up,” hang down her head, blush up to her eye-brows, and then, whisperingly utter, “take me, and be happy!” So Agnes drove off suitor after suitor. One she frightened by her freezing looks, which no one better than a woman can assume, when she chooses. Others she dismissed with a flat refusal; while some were driven back by her palpable contempt for their persons. But as time crept on, a close observer might remark a slight blush rising on her cheeks when young Rhoderick Wray made his appearance; and how, by some unaccountable accident, they would be both found, soon after his arrival, standing in close converse in some retired part of the room, or strolling together upon the balcony.
This young man was an adopted son of a neighboring baron and his lady, whose name he bore. His real parents were unknown. His adopted parents found him, while an infant, laid at the foot of an oak, in Anchor-Wood. Having no children, they brought him up as their own; and he never gave them cause to repent of their choice—which is more than many parents, I fear, can say of their offspring. At an early age he displayed unusual sagacity, and a generous disposition. An old friar, who taught him Latin, and the limited course of education then pursued, declared that Heaven intended him for the church; but the Baron thought otherwise, and intended him for arms. His appearance corresponded with his character. He had a manly and a graceful figure, natural and well developed, not manufactured with wadding, not braced up by stays, as I hear fashionable men now are. He had a noble, open forehead, which you always find in a good man, and a frank and kind expression upon a handsome face. At an early age he was sent to the Low Countries, from whence he returned, after the lapse of five years, bringing with him spurs of knighthood, wounds and scars. He had been from his earliest days a visitor at the castle, in company with his adopted parents, and always received by Sir Hugh with cordiality.
From his youth he was a secret admirer of Agnes. Before he had entered his teens—during that romance period of life—he often used to dream of her. He would at times picture a beautiful castle, situate in a romantic spot, surrounded by a lovely garden, interspersed with fountains and grottoes, where he roamed about by her side, with happiness within, and beauty above and around. He would then put eloquently loving language into his mouth, and listen to an imaginary but equally sweet reply. She occupied his thoughts when awake. In his studies, in his devotions, in his walks, she was always next his heart. But delusions, however sweet, are transitory. These beautiful fancies would quickly fade before the substance of reality. The uncertainty of his origin, the pride and prejudices of her father would rise to his remembrance, and tear away all hope of that union which he so ardently longed for. In moments of despondency he would even doubt the love of Agnes—for as yet it had not been asked for or avowed. He sometimes thought, when they walked together upon a hill opposite her residence, or rode together in a hawking party, that she had a feeling deeper than mere partiality toward him; but this cheering supposition was damped by the knowledge of the uselessness of her consent, unless accompanied with her father’s approval. Nevertheless, he continued to hope against hope. It requires a great deal to cause the heart to abandon an object which it has once cherished. He thought that by perfecting himself in his military exercises, by acquiring fame in his intended profession, he might hide the obscurity of his birth, and render himself, in the eyes of Sir Hugh, a fitting husband for his daughter. With this impulse to stimulate he was industrious and zealous in his duties, and obtained his departure for Flanders sooner than his adopted parents had intended.There, he fulfilled his expectations—he obtained fame for his prowess, and admiration for his character.
Upon his return from the Low Countries, he was pleased to find that no rival had apparently supplanted him in her affection. He was equally pleased in observing that her manner had lost none of its wonted cordiality toward him. Her father also treated him with more respect, and his own friends looked on him with pride. But these propitious appearances did not induce him to divulge his secret, but they encouraged him to renew his former intimacy, so that he might with greater safety formally offer himself as a suitor.
With a woman’s penetrating eye in these matters, Agnes early had suspicions of his feelings and his intentions. She liked him before she knew it herself, and she adroitly gave him opportunities for meeting her, as if by accident; and he (but much more clumsily) would, at other times, throw himself in her way, as if by inadvertence. These intercourses, in time, displayed each other’s feelings too plainly for concealment. He offered her his love—she returned him her heart!
This, the most solemn engagement that man or woman can make, (but, alas! how often made lightly and thoughtlessly—how often made in ignorance of its obligations, in the utter want of its requirements!) was no sooner completed, than she thought for the first time about the approval or disapproval of Sir Hugh. Like Rhoderick, she was afraid to have his consent demanded at once; and as her lover seemed growing in his estimation, she deemed delay desirable.
Among the numerous suitors for her hand, was one whom she disliked more than all the others. He was noble in rank, and illustrious by descent. He possessed broad lands and a numerous retinue. Apparently his manner was agreeable, and his disposition good. But cruelty seemed to lurk beneath his mildness, and pride beneath his affability. Such, however, was the impression he made upon Agnes, and such he was known to be, among those who were well acquainted with him.
From his first visit she endeavored to keep him at a distance; but the effort was fruitless. He would intrude himself whenever he saw her with Sir Rhoderick. A dark shade would pass over his countenance, whenever he saw them apparently enjoying themselves. About two months after her engagement, he repeated his former offer, and again received a refusal. He therefore waited upon her father, and attributed his disappointment to Sir Rhoderick.
Upon this information the old knight became highly enraged, not so much for her refusal of the one, as for her acceptance of the other. He stormed and swore, and then assured his lordship that she should accept his hand, or none.
After the departure of the latter, Agnes was sent for by her father. He very angrily communicated the news he had received, and, in an incredulous tone, asked her if it was true? She replied in the affirmative, and then attempted to justify her choice. She tried to urge whatever she could in favor of him to whom she was betrothed, and in disparagement of his rival. But this attempt only added fuel to the flame. He waxed more wroth than before—he heaped abuse upon her, for accepting one whom he called of base blood, and threatened him with death, if he was again found within his castle.
He then entreated for her acceptance of De Burgh. He brought forward, with all the eloquence he could master, his wealth, his rank, his ancestry, his influence—but all in vain. True love is strengthened by opposition. Every request was met with a determined refusal. At length he threatened to send her to a convent if she persisted in her choice, and as she saw no hope of a connection with her lover, she accepted the offer. She felt that “a living death” was preferable to an odious marriage.
The threat was eventually carried into execution. She was sent to a convent not far distant from her home, where she at once entered upon her noviciate. But even there she was not exempted from the disagreeable importunities of De Burgh. He was frequently allowed to visit her, in company with her father, and his entreaties increased with the number of his visits.
Poor Agnes thus led a very miserable life. She was shut up from her few friends, and from all sympathy. She dared not confide to the sisters, because she knew they were in the interest of Sir Hugh. She therefore looked forward to the period which would forever inclose her within her cell, with melancholy satisfaction, as a painful release. Her nights were occupied in tears and prayers; her thoughts were bound up with the object of her affection, and she thus gradually seemed to pine away, like a delicate flower when bereft of sunshine!
Rhoderick heard through a messenger which Agnes had privately sent him, that their betrothal had been disclosed to Sir Hugh, and of his consequent threat and displeasure. The grief this intelligence occasioned him was much aggravated when he also learned that she had been sent to a convent, and that his rival was De Burgh. His adopted parents now became acquainted with the cause of his melancholiness, but they felt that a personal remonstrance with her father was useless, and all they could do, was to try and soothe him for his loss. But sympathy is a poor doctor for sincere grief; she may help to bring hope to the patient, butthatonly aggravates disappointment when she disappears. The Bible, silence and seclusion are the best balms for an aching heart.
That the great and most cherished object of his life should be snatched away at a moment when he least expected, when all appearances seemed to warrant success, was indeed a terrible disappointment. But with a disinterestedness not oftentimes observable in men, he thought more ofhersuffering than ofhisloss. He felt that his life would be richly purchased by the securement of her happiness, and the removal of her suffering. With this object, after one short internal struggle, he induced his father to wait upon Sir Hugh, with a resignation of his claim on Agnes, and a pledge to reside in some foreign land, provided she was released from confinement and from the importunities of his rival. The offer was accordingly made and rejected.
The period of her noviciate was now about to terminate. She had either to become De Burgh’s wife or a nun. But as there was no hope of the former, De Burgh formed a plot to carry her away, and marry her by force.
On the night previous to the one appointed for its execution, one of the men whom he had engaged to assist him, communicated the design to his sweetheart, a former waiting-maid of Agnes, under a solemn promise of secrecy.
I have read, observed Mrs. Scroggins,par parenthesis, in a very interesting book, which has just appeared, entitled “Curiosities of Literature,” by a Mr. D’Israeli, that in looking over some old letters, written during the troublous times of Charles I., he found that those which the writers most strongly urged to beburnedwere mostcarefully preserved! And I must say of my own sex, added she, if you want them to spread any news faster than usual, you have only to tell them it is a secret, and beg themnotto divulge it. You may then be certain of hearing it in every direction in five minutes afterward. As a matter of course, the maid above referred to had no sooner pledged secrecy to her lover, than she flew to communicate the intelligence to her former mistress—Agnes.
But Agnes, unfortunately, treated the disclosure with disbelief. She said it was wholly improbable that he would attempt it, and he dared not, if he could. She thought it so undeserving of notice that she did not deem it necessary to communicate it to the Lady Abbess.
When night arrived, she departed to rest as usual, without taking any precautions. She had slept about two hours, when she was awakened by a noise on the balcony, and she was surprised by seeing a man open her window without any apparent difficulty, and cautiously approach her bed. It was dark, but she thought at once it was De Burgh. With fear, shame and indignation struggling in her bosom, she grasped a small dagger which hung by the bed, and as he advanced she plunged it into his breast. A cry of pain burst from his lips, and informed her that it was her lover, and not his rival, she had stabbed. She then sprang from her bed, and fell senseless on the floor!
The noise awoke the abbess and several of the nuns, and brought them running to her chamber. With horror they saw the spectacle before them. They then obtained assistance to carry Rhoderick to his home, and obtained a leech for Agnes.
It appears that De Burgh had employed a man to assassinate his rival also, while he enjoyed his customary evening walk on the banks of the beautiful little river Taw. By an accident which providence often interposes, he discovered himself at the moment he was about to strike, and thus enabled his intended victim to disarm and wound him. While writhing from agony, and in momentary expectation of death, he divulged to Sir Rhoderick that he was employed by De Burgh, who also intended to carry away Agnes that night to a distant castle, where she would be confined in a dungeon until she consented to become his wife.
Collecting a few men, he hastily departed for the convent, near which he met his opponent. A conflict ensued, in which De Burgh was killed, and several of his companions. Ascending the rope ladder which they had secured to the wall which supported the balcony leading to her window, he groped his way into her chamber, for the purpose of effecting her deliverance. In that endeavor the fatal mistake occurred.
Shortly after his removal Agnes became somewhat restored, but only to relapse into a worse state than before. In her delirium she would call upon her lover, in a similar way that any other young lady would be likely to do under such circumstances. Very pathetic, no doubt—but as I do not like tragic scenes, nor tragic descriptions, I must pass over this part of my story, and allow you to fancy what took place. However, on the third day of her illness, while relating portions of her history to a favorite nun, she suddenly stopped in the midst of her remarks and gazed intently toward the foot of her bed. She seemed also to be listening, and then, with the words, “Yes, I’m coming,” she suddenly but quietly expired.
The persons who attended Sir Rhoderick’s funeral declared that when his body was about to be lowered into the grave, in the church, a white shadow was suddenly seen to enter the building, and reflect itself upon the coffin. And the nun affirmed it was precisely at this moment that Agnes died!
This remarkable coincidence excited the wonderment of his friends, and they accordingly laid it before a friar who enjoyed a reputation for great learning. He gave it as a reply, that the white shadow was the spirit of Agnes, and that on each anniversary of her lover’s death she would be required, as a penance, to visit his grave, in a white dress!
Tradition says that this duty has been regularly performed—that on the night of the 7th of November—the day on which he died—she may be seen about midnight, walking in this garb toward his grave, with a rosary in her hand.
A silence of two or three minutes’ duration followed the recital of this legend, when Jane expressed her dissatisfaction with the punishment allotted to Agnes. She declared it was unjust, because Rhoderick’s death was the result of a mistake, and in this opinion she was supported by some others in the room.
I, however, boldly expressed my entire disbelief in ghosts, and in all their species, at the same time complimenting Mrs. Scroggins for the very eloquent manner (as the newspapers say) in which she had narrated her story; for although fearless of spirits, I had great terror of the old lady’s tongue, and was, therefore, careful not to draw down her wrath, by an indiscriminate censure.
Bob, who prided himself upon his enlightened opinions, pompously declared that a belief in such chimeras was the offspring of a weak or ignorant mind.
Mrs. Scroggins hereupon cast on him a very disdainful look, but did not deign to reply.
Mrs. Primrose shook her head, and very mysteriously declared she had seen too many of such scenes in her life, to disbelieve them.
Elizabeth said nothing, but she seemed very much afraid.
The Squire was sound asleep.
A lady named Baker, who had hitherto remained silent, here expressed her opinion that those who most ridiculed the belief in supernatural appearances, in daylight or in company, were the most afraid of meeting them, when alone in any place said to be haunted.
My comrade and myself took this as a challenge. In the presence of their sweethearts young men always feign to be brave. The most modest youth becomes the veriest Falstaff by the side of his lady-love. We therefore felt it to be our duty to reiterate our skepticism in the strongest terms, and to express ourselves ready, if need be, to encounter a whole army of witches, warlocks, hobgoblins, fairies and will-o’-the-wisps, if such things existed.
The offer seemed to spread terror among our listeners, and Elizabeth imploringly begged me to say no more.
We felt we had made a favorable impression of our courage, and as the hour was now far advanced, we made arrangements to rise early on the following morning for shooting, and then went to our respective places of rest, with a higher idea of our bravery than perhaps had Cæsar when he had vanquished Pompey.
We rose about five, and started with our guns, etc. for a noted sporting place, some five miles distant. It was a clear frosty morning, and in the lightness and activity of youth, we briskly paced over our path, and leaped over the gates and hedges which intercepted the way.
Our sport, however, did not equal our expectation. We therefore walked two or three miles farther, where we bagged a few pheasants. We then called upon an acquaintance, with whom we remained until 6P. M., and as dusk then began to make its appearance, we departed.
It happened that the places through which we had to pass in our return to the Primroses, were noted for their connection with witches, and other supernatural personages. Ruins of old castles, priories, convents and churches, were to be found in every direction, each of which was connected with many marvellous legends. In passing through a lonely spot, “Anchor Wood,” we found it very dark. We had no light to guide us, save a few faint rays of the moon, which glimmered between the trees. As Bob was best acquainted with the place, I followed on his trail, Indian fashion, each having our guns carelessly resting on our shoulders. On we so walked without saying a word. I, thinking upon the anticipated amusement of the party which the Primroses were to give on that evening; and building—like all young minds do—beautiful castles in the air, and imagining fame and fortune in the future. In the midst of these pleasing though delusive reveries, I was startled, all of a sudden, by a terrified exclamation from my companion.
“What is that?” cried he.
“What do you mean?” I replied.
“I mean that tall white object which is standing in front, directly in our path.”
I looked in the direction he pointed, and to my amazement I saw what he described. It seemed like a tall lady dressed in white, and she appeared to be awaiting our approach.
“This is surely the White Nun Mrs. Scroggins was telling us about last evening,” whispered Bob, with a face like a white-washed wall.
I pretended to poh! poh! the conjecture; but I must confess the attempt was rather a failure. My courage was rapidly giving way. At last I said, doubting whether to remain or run, “I’d rather I had not ridiculed that legend last evening;” and with an effort to become philosophical, I added, “that we ought in our present limited amount of knowledge to treat these things at least with respect.”
“Oh, I wish you had then!” stammered poor Bob, whose teeth rattled together like a negro-minstrel’s “bones.”
“Suppose we call out, and ask what she wants?” I suggested.
“Youdo it.”
“No, I’d rather not.”
It was then agreed that we should call together, which was done; but no reply was returned.
Bob now suggested that we should discharge a barrel of each of our double-barreled guns obliquely toward the object, which was likewise done; but it met no better success.
“There is no doubt it is a spirit, perhaps the Nun in question, who is thus going to upbraid us for our disbelief,” whispered my friend again.
“Ah! I see her move! She is advancing—run,” I cried, flinging away my gun, and setting the example.
Thatwas enough to make him follow. Away we ran over hedges, ditches, amid mud, and brambles, and water; a small river stretched in front, through which we could only now reach our destination. Cold and dark as it was, we did not hesitate a moment, but plunged in, clothes and all, and swam across. Ascending the opposite bank, we started off again, as fast as our legs could carry us, until we reached the Squire’s residence.
We entered, with our garments dripping with water, and our teeth chattering with cold, without our caps, guns, or game—with our eyes dilated from fright, and our faces pale with excitement. The family and guests had been waiting for us; and you may conjecture their astonishment when they saw our condition. Every mouth was accordingly opened with inquiries; but several minutes elapsed before we could reply.
At length I stammered that we had met a ghost, who looked like the nun Mrs. Scroggins had described. This only increased their curiosity, and with a little more delay I gave them a very incoherent narration of what had taken place.
Poor Jane! I saw a tear silently trickle from her eyes while I was pathetically describing our terror and our danger; and I fancied I saw Elizabeth at that moment giving Bob a secret but affectionate squeeze of the hand. All the others were, of course, amazed, and fully believed every word we said.
We then speedily changed our clothes, and (Father Matthew forgive me!) drank a tumbler of good brandy and water, which was considered an infallible remedy against cold. After which we made our re-appearance in the parlor, feeling like true-born heroes just escaped from danger.