“Silence reigned in the streets—Rose no smoke from the roofs—gleamed no lights from the windows.”
“Silence reigned in the streets—Rose no smoke from the roofs—gleamed no lights from the windows.”
“Silence reigned in the streets—Rose no smoke from the roofs—gleamed no lights from the windows.”
“Silence reigned in the streets—Rose no smoke from the roofs—gleamed no lights from the windows.”
“Silence reigned in the streets—
Rose no smoke from the roofs—gleamed no lights from the windows.”
save the dim midnight lamp which from almost every house betokened the plague within.
None had shut themselves up closer from fear of infection than Deacon Humphreys. His gates grew rusty, and the grass sprang up in the paths about his dwelling. And yet the Destroyer found him out, and like a hound long scenting its prey, sprang upon the household with terrible violence.
First the pure and gentle Naomi sank beneath the stroke, and ere the setting of the same day’s sun, Mrs. Humphreys herself was brought nigh the grave.
Like one demented, pale with agony and terror, the deacon rushed forth into the deserted streets to seek for aid. His dear ones—his wife and child were perhaps dying; where, where should he look for relief—where find some kind hand to administer to their necessities.
At every house he learned a tale of wo equal to his own. Some wept while they told of dear ones now languishing upon the bed of pain, or bade him look upon the marble brow of their dead. Others grown callous, and worn-out with sorrow and fatigue, refused all aid, while some, through excess of fear, hurriedly closed their doors against him.
Thus he reached the end of the village, and then the small, neat cottage of Mrs. Norton met his view, nestling down amid the overshadowing branches of two venerable elm. From the day he had almost thrust her from his gate, with cold looks and unflinching extortion, Mrs. Norton and the deacon had not met, and now the time had come when he was about to ask from her a favor upon which perhaps his wholeearthly happiness might rest—a favor from her, whom inhisstrength andherdependence he had scorned. Would she grant it? He hesitated; would she not rather, rejoicing in her power now, revenge the slights he felt he had so often and so undeservedly cast upon her. But he remembered the sweet, calm look which beamed from her eyes, and his courage grew with the thought.
Putting away the luxuriant creeper which wound itself from the still green turf to the roof of the cottage, hanging in graceful festoons, and tinged with the brilliant dyes of autumn, seemed like wreaths of magnificent flowers thus suspended, the deacon knocked hesitatingly at the door.
It opened, and Mrs. Norton stood before him, pale with watching—for, like an angel of mercy had she passed from house to house, since the first breaking out of the scourge. In faltering accents he told his errand; and, O, how like a dagger did it pierce his heart, when, with a countenance beaming with pity and kindness, and speaking words of comfort, the widow put on her bonnet and followed him with fleet footsteps to his stricken home.
All night, like a ministering angel, did she pass from one sick couch to the other, tenderly soothing the ravings of fever, moistening their parched lips with cool, refreshing drinks, fanning their fevered brows, and smoothing the couch made uneasy by their restless motions.
Unable to bear the scene, the deacon betook him in his hour of sorrow to his closet, where all through the dreary watches of the night he prayed this cup of affliction might pass from him. His heart was subdued. He saw that like the proud Pharisee he had exalted himself, thanking Godhe was not as other men.
At early dawn came Grace also to inquire after her suffering Naomi, and finding her so very ill, earnestly besought her mother that she might be allowed to share the task of nursing her. Mrs. Norton had no fears for herself, yet when she looked at her only and beautiful child, she trembled; but her eyes fell upon the bed where poor Naomi lay moaning in all the delirium of high fever, and her heart reproached her for her momentary selfishness. Removing the bonnet of Grace, she tenderly kissed her pure brow, and then kneeling down, with folded hands she prayed, “Thy will, O Lord, not mine be done! Take her in thy holy keeping, and do with her as thou seest best!”
From that day Grace left not the bedside of her friend.
On the third day Mrs. Humphreys died. Her last sigh was breathed out on the bosom of the woman whom she had taught her daughter to shun. For many days it seemed as if Death would claim another victim; yet God mercifully spared Naomi to her bereaved father; very slowly she recovered, but neither Mrs. Norton nor Grace left her until she was able to quit her bed.
With the death of Mrs. Humphreys, the pestilence staid its ravages, while, as a winding-sheet, the snows of winter now enshrouded the fresh-turned clods in the late busy grave-yard.
The eyes of Deacon Humphreys were opened. He became an altered man. He saw how mistaken had been his views, and that it is not theprofessionof any sect or creed which makes the true Christian, and that if all are alikesincere in love to God, all may be alike received.
I have said this was no love tale, therefore, by merely stating that in the course of a twelvemonth Hubert Fairlie and Grace were united, I close my simple story.
WATOUSKA.
A LEGEND OF THE ONEIDAS.
———
BY KATE ST. CLAIR.
———
Away, in a forest’s gloom,Where the shadowy branches waveO’er a rude and moss-grown tomb,Is an Indian maiden’s grave:None knoweth that music-haunted spot—Save a far-off one, who forgets it not.He dreams of that silent shore—’Tis a holy spot to him,A solemn stillness broodeth o’erThose forest-aisles so dim;Bird-music, and wave-melody,Blend with the murmurings of the bee.He knows when the wild-rose showersIts blossoms o’er her breast;When the summer-winds, ’mid flowers,Whisper above her rest:And he deems he hears, on his far-off shore,The music of the cataract’s roarFrom that Island of the Blest!She passed from earth away—The young, the beautiful,In the long dreamy dayWhen golden shadows fellO’er wave and vine, and moons had sped,Yetthere, while that brief season fled,He’d kept Love’s vigil well.He comes, that warrior-chief,Once more, in the pale moon’s wane,When the dews weep o’er each leaf,To that haunted spot again—But morn with its glorious beauty wokeHim not—the warrior’s heart had broke.
Away, in a forest’s gloom,Where the shadowy branches waveO’er a rude and moss-grown tomb,Is an Indian maiden’s grave:None knoweth that music-haunted spot—Save a far-off one, who forgets it not.He dreams of that silent shore—’Tis a holy spot to him,A solemn stillness broodeth o’erThose forest-aisles so dim;Bird-music, and wave-melody,Blend with the murmurings of the bee.He knows when the wild-rose showersIts blossoms o’er her breast;When the summer-winds, ’mid flowers,Whisper above her rest:And he deems he hears, on his far-off shore,The music of the cataract’s roarFrom that Island of the Blest!She passed from earth away—The young, the beautiful,In the long dreamy dayWhen golden shadows fellO’er wave and vine, and moons had sped,Yetthere, while that brief season fled,He’d kept Love’s vigil well.He comes, that warrior-chief,Once more, in the pale moon’s wane,When the dews weep o’er each leaf,To that haunted spot again—But morn with its glorious beauty wokeHim not—the warrior’s heart had broke.
Away, in a forest’s gloom,Where the shadowy branches waveO’er a rude and moss-grown tomb,Is an Indian maiden’s grave:None knoweth that music-haunted spot—Save a far-off one, who forgets it not.
Away, in a forest’s gloom,
Where the shadowy branches wave
O’er a rude and moss-grown tomb,
Is an Indian maiden’s grave:
None knoweth that music-haunted spot—
Save a far-off one, who forgets it not.
He dreams of that silent shore—’Tis a holy spot to him,A solemn stillness broodeth o’erThose forest-aisles so dim;Bird-music, and wave-melody,Blend with the murmurings of the bee.
He dreams of that silent shore—
’Tis a holy spot to him,
A solemn stillness broodeth o’er
Those forest-aisles so dim;
Bird-music, and wave-melody,
Blend with the murmurings of the bee.
He knows when the wild-rose showersIts blossoms o’er her breast;When the summer-winds, ’mid flowers,Whisper above her rest:And he deems he hears, on his far-off shore,The music of the cataract’s roarFrom that Island of the Blest!
He knows when the wild-rose showers
Its blossoms o’er her breast;
When the summer-winds, ’mid flowers,
Whisper above her rest:
And he deems he hears, on his far-off shore,
The music of the cataract’s roar
From that Island of the Blest!
She passed from earth away—The young, the beautiful,In the long dreamy dayWhen golden shadows fellO’er wave and vine, and moons had sped,Yetthere, while that brief season fled,He’d kept Love’s vigil well.
She passed from earth away—
The young, the beautiful,
In the long dreamy day
When golden shadows fell
O’er wave and vine, and moons had sped,
Yetthere, while that brief season fled,
He’d kept Love’s vigil well.
He comes, that warrior-chief,Once more, in the pale moon’s wane,When the dews weep o’er each leaf,To that haunted spot again—But morn with its glorious beauty wokeHim not—the warrior’s heart had broke.
He comes, that warrior-chief,
Once more, in the pale moon’s wane,
When the dews weep o’er each leaf,
To that haunted spot again—
But morn with its glorious beauty woke
Him not—the warrior’s heart had broke.
INDIAN LEGEND OF THE STAR AND LILY.
———
BY KAH-GE-GA-GAH-BOWH.
———
In the wigwam of the Indian during the evenings of spring, that season when nature, loosed from the bondage of winter, awakes to new life, and begins to deck itself with beauties, the old sage gathers around him the young men of the tribe, and relates the stories of days long since departed.
I have seen these youths sit in breathless silence, listening to the old man’s narrative. Now and then the tear-drops would course down their cheeks, and fall to the ground, witnesses of the interest they felt in the words of their teacher.
To induce the sire to narrate a tradition, the Indian boys would contrive some ingenious plan by which to get some tobacco, which, when offered with a request for a story, would be sure of a favorable answer. Frequently it happens that from sunset to its rise these clubs are entertained, and they do not separate till daylight calls them to the chase.
One of the most interesting traditionary stories I ever heard related, was told by an elderly Indian, one evening in spring. The winter was just leaving, the snow and ice were fast disappearing, and the streams were swollen with the unusual quantity of water from the mountains.
“There was once a time,” said he, “when this world was filled with happy people, when all nations were as one, and the crimson tide of war had not begun to roll. Plenty of game were in the forests and on the plains. None were in want, for a full supply was at hand. Sickness was unknown. The beasts of the field were tame, and came and went at the bidding of man. One unending spring gave no place for winter, for its cold blasts or its chills. Every tree and bush yielded fruit. Flowers carpeted the earth; the air was filled with their fragrance, and redolent with the songs of myriad warblers that flew from branch to branch, fearing none, for there were none to harm them. There were birds then of more beautiful plumage than now.
“It was then, when earth was a paradise, and man worthy to be its possessor, that Indians were the lone inhabitants of the American wilderness. They numbered millions, and living as nature designed them to live, enjoyed its many blessings. Instead of amusement in close rooms the sports of the fields were theirs.
“At night they met on the wide, green fields. They watched the stars; they loved to gaze at them, for they believed them to be the residences of the good who had been taken home by the Great Spirit. One night they saw one star that shone brighter than all others. Its location was far away in the south, near a mountain peak. For many nights it was seen, till at length it was doubted by many that this star was as far off in the southern skies as it seemed to be. This doubt led to an examination, which proved the star to be only a short distance, and near the tops of some trees. A number of warriors were deputed to go and see what it was. They went and returned, saying that it appeared strange and somewhat like a bird. A council of the wise men was called to inquire into and, if possible, ascertain the meaning of the phenomenon.
“They feared that it was an omen of some disaster. Some thought it a precursor of good, others of evil. Some supposed it to be the star spoken of by their forefathers, as a forerunner of a dreadful war.
“One moon had nearly gone by, and yet the mystery remained unsolved.
“One night a young warrior had a dream, in which a beautiful maiden came and stood at his side, and thus addressed him:
“ ‘Young brave! charmed with the land of thy forefathers, its flowers, its birds, its rivers, its beautiful lakes and its mountains clothed with green, I have left my sister in yonder world to dwell among you.
“ ‘Young brave! ask your wise and your great men where I can live and see the happy race continually; ask them what form I shall assume, in order to be loved and cherished among the people.’
“Thus discoursed the bright stranger. The young man awoke. On stepping out of his lodge, he saw the star yet blazing in its accustomed place.
“At early dawn the chief’s crier was sent round the camp to call every warrior to the Council Lodge. When they had met, the young warrior related his dream. They concluded that the star they had seen in the south had fallen in love with mankind and that it was desirous to dwell with them.
“The next night five tall, noble-looking adventurous braves were sent to welcome the stranger to earth.
“They went and presenting to it a pipe of peace, filled with sweet-scented herbs, were rejoiced to find that it took it from them. As they returned to the village, the star, with expanded wings followed, and hovered over their homes till the dawn of day.
“Again it came to the young man in a dream and desired to know where it should live, and what form it should take. Places were named. On the tops of giant trees or in flowers. At length it was told to choose a place itself—and it did so. At first it dwelt in the wild rose of the mountains, but there it was so buried it could not be seen. It went to the prairie, but it feared the hoof of the buffaloe. It next went to the rocky cliff, but it was there so high that the children, whom it loved most, could not see it.
“ ‘I know where I shall live,’ said the bright fugitive, ‘where I can see the gliding canoe of the race I most admire. Children, yes, they shall be my playmates, and I will kiss their brows when they slumber at the side of the cool lakes. The nations shall love me wherever I am.’
“These words having been uttered, she alighted on the waters where she saw herself reflected.
“The next morning thousands of white flowers were seen on the surface of all the lakes and the Indians gave them this name;Wah-be-gwon-nee—(White Lily.)
“Now,” continued the old man, “this star lived in the southern skies. Its brethren can be seen far off in the cold north, hunting the great bear, while its sisters watch her in the east and west.
“Children, when you see the lily on the waters, take it in your hands and hold it to the skies, that it may be happy on earth, as its two sisters (the morning and evening stars) are happy in heaven.”
While tears fell fast from the eyes of all, the old man lay him down and was soon silent in sleep.
Since then I have often plucked the white lily and garlanded around my head; have dipped it in its watery bed, but never have I seen it without remembering theLegend of the Descending Star.
THE GOLDEN AGE.
THE GOLDEN AGE.
THE IMPROVISATRICE.
———
BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.
———
Go bear the voiceless harp away!Its latest note is spoken,And like the heart that beats within,Its last frail chord is broken.This soul of mine was never madeFor glad or peaceful life,But cast in rude, imperfect mould,For bitterness and strife.I never was a careless child,For in my early yearsThe founts within were gathering,Of anguish and of tears:And when I looked upon the starsIn all their golden sheen,The presage of a broken heart—It always came between.And then the Voice of Song awokeWithin my wayward soul,And bade the wearing tide of thoughtForever o’er it roll.And dreams of words that should go forthTo bless and elevate,Ambition’s charmed and serpent lure,The passion to create;Were mingled in my spirit’s depths,Till with displacing powerCame Love with gorgeous diadem,The phantom of an hour!And soon the mockeries of HopeFled smiling from my breast,And left a dark and fearful curse,The cravings of unrest.And Life became a weary load,And Nature’s face a pall,And each red drop that passed my heartWas turned to seething gall.From day to day the lyre withinWaxed passionate and frail;It trembled at the zephyr’s breath,How could it brook the gale?Now Death has o’er my pillow bent,I’ve seen his glancing eye,And watched the silvery gleaming ofHis pinion passing by.Go bring me back my harp again!I feel a strength for prayer,And o’er the shattered chords withinCreeps an unearthly air.Go bring me back my harp again,I may not now restoreThe sounding strings I loved so well,Or tune it as before;But I would lay my hand uponThe trembling chords and riven;I feel mine own are healing fastBeneath the eye of Heaven.
Go bear the voiceless harp away!Its latest note is spoken,And like the heart that beats within,Its last frail chord is broken.This soul of mine was never madeFor glad or peaceful life,But cast in rude, imperfect mould,For bitterness and strife.I never was a careless child,For in my early yearsThe founts within were gathering,Of anguish and of tears:And when I looked upon the starsIn all their golden sheen,The presage of a broken heart—It always came between.And then the Voice of Song awokeWithin my wayward soul,And bade the wearing tide of thoughtForever o’er it roll.And dreams of words that should go forthTo bless and elevate,Ambition’s charmed and serpent lure,The passion to create;Were mingled in my spirit’s depths,Till with displacing powerCame Love with gorgeous diadem,The phantom of an hour!And soon the mockeries of HopeFled smiling from my breast,And left a dark and fearful curse,The cravings of unrest.And Life became a weary load,And Nature’s face a pall,And each red drop that passed my heartWas turned to seething gall.From day to day the lyre withinWaxed passionate and frail;It trembled at the zephyr’s breath,How could it brook the gale?Now Death has o’er my pillow bent,I’ve seen his glancing eye,And watched the silvery gleaming ofHis pinion passing by.Go bring me back my harp again!I feel a strength for prayer,And o’er the shattered chords withinCreeps an unearthly air.Go bring me back my harp again,I may not now restoreThe sounding strings I loved so well,Or tune it as before;But I would lay my hand uponThe trembling chords and riven;I feel mine own are healing fastBeneath the eye of Heaven.
Go bear the voiceless harp away!Its latest note is spoken,And like the heart that beats within,Its last frail chord is broken.
Go bear the voiceless harp away!
Its latest note is spoken,
And like the heart that beats within,
Its last frail chord is broken.
This soul of mine was never madeFor glad or peaceful life,But cast in rude, imperfect mould,For bitterness and strife.
This soul of mine was never made
For glad or peaceful life,
But cast in rude, imperfect mould,
For bitterness and strife.
I never was a careless child,For in my early yearsThe founts within were gathering,Of anguish and of tears:
I never was a careless child,
For in my early years
The founts within were gathering,
Of anguish and of tears:
And when I looked upon the starsIn all their golden sheen,The presage of a broken heart—It always came between.
And when I looked upon the stars
In all their golden sheen,
The presage of a broken heart—
It always came between.
And then the Voice of Song awokeWithin my wayward soul,And bade the wearing tide of thoughtForever o’er it roll.
And then the Voice of Song awoke
Within my wayward soul,
And bade the wearing tide of thought
Forever o’er it roll.
And dreams of words that should go forthTo bless and elevate,Ambition’s charmed and serpent lure,The passion to create;
And dreams of words that should go forth
To bless and elevate,
Ambition’s charmed and serpent lure,
The passion to create;
Were mingled in my spirit’s depths,Till with displacing powerCame Love with gorgeous diadem,The phantom of an hour!
Were mingled in my spirit’s depths,
Till with displacing power
Came Love with gorgeous diadem,
The phantom of an hour!
And soon the mockeries of HopeFled smiling from my breast,And left a dark and fearful curse,The cravings of unrest.
And soon the mockeries of Hope
Fled smiling from my breast,
And left a dark and fearful curse,
The cravings of unrest.
And Life became a weary load,And Nature’s face a pall,And each red drop that passed my heartWas turned to seething gall.
And Life became a weary load,
And Nature’s face a pall,
And each red drop that passed my heart
Was turned to seething gall.
From day to day the lyre withinWaxed passionate and frail;It trembled at the zephyr’s breath,How could it brook the gale?
From day to day the lyre within
Waxed passionate and frail;
It trembled at the zephyr’s breath,
How could it brook the gale?
Now Death has o’er my pillow bent,I’ve seen his glancing eye,And watched the silvery gleaming ofHis pinion passing by.
Now Death has o’er my pillow bent,
I’ve seen his glancing eye,
And watched the silvery gleaming of
His pinion passing by.
Go bring me back my harp again!I feel a strength for prayer,And o’er the shattered chords withinCreeps an unearthly air.
Go bring me back my harp again!
I feel a strength for prayer,
And o’er the shattered chords within
Creeps an unearthly air.
Go bring me back my harp again,I may not now restoreThe sounding strings I loved so well,Or tune it as before;
Go bring me back my harp again,
I may not now restore
The sounding strings I loved so well,
Or tune it as before;
But I would lay my hand uponThe trembling chords and riven;I feel mine own are healing fastBeneath the eye of Heaven.
But I would lay my hand upon
The trembling chords and riven;
I feel mine own are healing fast
Beneath the eye of Heaven.
THE EIGHTEENTH SONNET OF PETRARCA.
———
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.
———
Had I but waited patient in the cellWhere great Apollo erst became divine,One bard might call himself a Florentine,Like those who once in other lands did dwell.But here the holy ichor doth not swell,And fate hath willed another lot be mine.’Tis meet that I relinquish high designAnd drink the waters of life’s turbid well.Sear are the olive branches now, the streamNear which they grew and looked toward the skyHath sunken deep beneath the rock again.Fate or my fault hath aye dispelled the dreamThat made me fix my early hopes so high,Unless God will their height I should attain.
Had I but waited patient in the cellWhere great Apollo erst became divine,One bard might call himself a Florentine,Like those who once in other lands did dwell.But here the holy ichor doth not swell,And fate hath willed another lot be mine.’Tis meet that I relinquish high designAnd drink the waters of life’s turbid well.Sear are the olive branches now, the streamNear which they grew and looked toward the skyHath sunken deep beneath the rock again.Fate or my fault hath aye dispelled the dreamThat made me fix my early hopes so high,Unless God will their height I should attain.
Had I but waited patient in the cellWhere great Apollo erst became divine,One bard might call himself a Florentine,Like those who once in other lands did dwell.But here the holy ichor doth not swell,And fate hath willed another lot be mine.’Tis meet that I relinquish high designAnd drink the waters of life’s turbid well.Sear are the olive branches now, the streamNear which they grew and looked toward the skyHath sunken deep beneath the rock again.Fate or my fault hath aye dispelled the dreamThat made me fix my early hopes so high,Unless God will their height I should attain.
Had I but waited patient in the cell
Where great Apollo erst became divine,
One bard might call himself a Florentine,
Like those who once in other lands did dwell.
But here the holy ichor doth not swell,
And fate hath willed another lot be mine.
’Tis meet that I relinquish high design
And drink the waters of life’s turbid well.
Sear are the olive branches now, the stream
Near which they grew and looked toward the sky
Hath sunken deep beneath the rock again.
Fate or my fault hath aye dispelled the dream
That made me fix my early hopes so high,
Unless God will their height I should attain.
JASPER ST. AUBYN;
OR THE COURSE OF PASSION.
———
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT.
———
(Continued from page 15.)
The Wakening.
He saw her, at a nearer view,A spirit, yet a woman too.Wordsworth.
He saw her, at a nearer view,A spirit, yet a woman too.Wordsworth.
He saw her, at a nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too.
Wordsworth.
When Jasper St. Aubyn opened his eyes, dim with the struggle of returning consciousness and life, they met a pair of eyes fixed with an expression of the most earnest anxiety on his own—a pair of eyes, the loveliest into which he ever had yet gazed, large, dark, unfathomably deep, and soft withal and tender, as the day-dream of a love-sick poet. He could not mark their color; he scarce knew whether they were mortal eyes, whether they were realities at all, so sickly did his brain reel, and so confused and wandering were his fancies.
Then a sweet low voice fell upon his ear, in tones the gentlest, yet the gladdest, that ever he had heard, exclaiming—
“Oh! father, father, he lives—he is saved!”
But he heard, saw, no more; for again he relapsed into unconsciousness, and felt nothing further, until he became sensible of a balmy coolness on his brow, a pleasant flavor on his parched lips, and a kindly glow creeping as it were through all his limbs, and gradually expanding into life.
Again his eyes were unclosed, and again they met the earnest, hopeful gaze of those other eyes, which he now might perceive belonging to a face so exquisite, and a form so lovely, as to be worthy of those great glorious wells of lustrous tenderness.
It was a young girl who bent over him, perhaps a few months older than himself, so beautiful that had she appeared suddenly, even in her simple garb, which seemed to announce her but one degree above the peasants of the neighborhood, in the midst of the noblest and most aristocratical assembly, she would have become on the instant the cynosure of all eyes, and the magnet of all hearts.
Of that age when the heart, yet unsunned by passion, and unused to strong emotion, thrills sensibly to every feeling awakened for the first time within it, and bounds at every appeal to its sympathies; when the ingenuous countenance, unhardened by the sad knowledge of the world, and untaught to conceal one emotion, reflects like a perfect mirror every gleam of sunshine that illuminates, every passing cloud that over-shadows its pure and spotless surface, the maiden sought not to hide her delight, as she witnessed the hue of life return to his pale cheeks, and the spark of intelligence relume his handsome features.
A bright mirthful glance, which told how radiant they might be in moments of unmingled bliss, laughed for an instant in those deep blue eyes, and a soft, sunny smile played over her warm lips; but the next minute, she dropped the young man’s hand, which she had been chafing between both her own, buried her face in her palms, and wept those sweet and happy tears which flow only from innocent hearts, at the call of gratitude and sympathy.
“Bless God, young sir,” said a deep, solemn voice at the other side of the bed on which he was lying, “that your life is spared. May it be unto good ends! Yours was a daring venture, and for a trivial object against which to stake an immortal soul. But, thanks to Him! you are preserved, snatched as it were from the gates of death; and, though you feel faint now, I doubt not, and your soul trembles as if on the verge of another world, you will be well anon, and in a little while as strong as ever in that youthful strength on which you have so prided you. Drink this, and sleep awhile, and you shall wake refreshed, and as a new man, from the dreamless slumber which the draught shall give you. And you, silly child,” he continued, turning toward the lovely girl, who had sunk forward on the bed, so that her fair tresses rested on the same pillow which supported Jasper’s head, with the big tears trickling silently between her slender fingers, “dry up your tears; for the youth shall live, and not die.”
The boy’s eyes had turned immediately to the sound of the speaker’s accents, and in his weak state remained fixed on his face so long as the sound continued, although his senses followed the meaning but imperfectly.
It was a tall, venerable looking old man who spoke, with long locks, as white as snow, falling down over the straight cut collar of his plain black doublet, and an expression of the highest intellect, combined with something which was not melancholy, much less sadness, but which told volumes of hardships borne, and sorrows endured, the fruits of which were piety, and gentleness, and that wisdom which cometh not of this world.
He smiled thoughtfully, as he saw that his words were hardly comprehended, and his mild glance wandered from the pale face of the handsome boy to the fair head of the young girl bending over him, like a white lily overcharged with rain.
“Poor things,” he whispered softly, as if speaking to himself, “to both it is the first experience of the mixed pain and pleasure of this world’s daily trials. God save them scathless to the end!”
Then, recovering himself, as if by a little effort, from his brief fit of musing, he held forth a large glassgoblet, which was in his right hand, full of some bright ruby-colored liquid, to the lips of Jasper, saying—
“Drink, youth, it will give thee strength. Drink, and fear nothing.”
The young man grasped the bright bowl with both hands, but even then he had lacked strength to guide it to his lips, had not his host still supported it.
The flavor was agreeable, and the coolness of the draught was so delicious to the feverish palate and parched tongue of Jasper, that he drained it to the very bottom, and then, as if exhausted by the effort, relaxed his hold, and sunk back on his pillow in a state of conscious languor, exquisitely soft and entrancing.
More and more that voluptuous dream-like trance overcame him, and though his eyes were still open he saw not the things that were around him, but a multitude of radiant and lovely visions, which came and went, and returned again, in mystic evolutions.
With a last effort of his failing senses, half conscious of the interest which she took in him, yet wholly ignorant who or what was that gentleshe, he stretched out his hand and mastered one of hers with gentle violence, and holding it imprisoned in his burning fingers, closed his swimming eyes, and sunk into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The old man, who had watched every symptom that appeared in succession on his expressive face, saw that the potion had taken the desired effect, and drawing a short sigh, which seemed to indicate a sense of relief from apprehension, looked toward the maiden, and addressed her in a low voice, not so much from fear of wakening the sleeper, as that the voice of affection is ever low and gentle.
“He sleeps, Theresa, and will sleep until the sun has sunk far toward the west, and then he will waken restored to all his youthful power and spirits. Come, my child, we may leave him to his slumbers, he shall no longer need a watcher. I will go to my study, and would have you turn to your household duties. Scenes such as this which you have passed will call up soft and pitiful fancies in the mind, but it behooves us not overmuch to yield to them. This life has too much of stern and dark reality, that we should give the reins to truant imagination. Come, Theresa.”
The young girl raised her head from the pillows, and shook away the long fair curls from her smooth forehead. Her tears had ceased to flow, and there was a smile on her lip, as she replied, pointing to her hand which he held fast grasped, in his unconscious slumber.
“See, father, I am a prisoner. I fear me I cannot withdraw my hand without arousing him.”
“Do not so, then, Theresa; to arouse him now, ere the effects of the potion have passed away, would be dangerous, might be fatal. Perchance, however, he will release you when he sleeps quite soundly. If he do so, I pray you, come to me. Meantime, I leave you to your own good thoughts, my own little girl.”
And with the words, he leaned across the narrow bed, over the form of the sleeping youth, and kissed her fair white brow.
“Bless thee, my gentle child. May God in his goodness bless and be about thee.”
“Amen! dear father,” said the little girl, as he ended; and in her turn she pressed her soft and balmy lips to his withered cheek.
A tear, rare visitant, rose all unbidden to the parent’s eye as he turned to leave her, but ere he reached the door her low tones arrested him, and he came back to her.
“Will you not put my books within reach of me, dear father?” she said. “I cannot work, since the poor youth has made my left hand his sure captive, but I would not be altogether idle, and I can read while I watch him. Pardon my troubling you, who should wait on you, not be waited on.”
“And do you not wait on me ever, and most neat-handedly, dear child?” returned her father, moving toward a small round table, on which were scattered a few books, and many implements of feminine industry. “Which of these will you have, Theresa?”
“All of them, if you please, dear father. The table is not heavy, for I can carry it about where I will myself, and if you will lift it to me, I can help myself, and cull the gems of each in turn. I am a poor student, I fear, and love better, like a little bee, to flit from flower to flower, drinking from every chalice its particular honey, than to sit down, like the sloth, and surfeit me on one tree, how green soever.”
“There is but little industry, I am afraid, Theresa, if there be little sloth in your mode of reading. Such desultory studies are wont to leave small traces on the memory. I doubt me much if you long keep these gems you speak of, which you cull so lightly.”
“Oh! but you are mistaken, father dear, for all you are so wise,” she replied, laughing softly. “Every thing grand or noble, of which I read, every thing high or holy, finds a sort of echo in my little heart, and lies there forever. Your grave, heavy, moral teachings speak to my reason, it is true, but when I read of brave deeds done, of noble self-sacrifices made, of great sufferings endured, in high causes, those things teach my heart, those things speak to my soul, father. Then I reason no longer, but feel—feel how much virtue there is, after all, and generosity, and nobleness, and charity, and love, in poor frail human nature. Then I learn, not to judge mildly of myself, nor harshly of my brothers. Then I feel happy, father, yet in my happiness I wish to weep. For I think noble sentiments and generous emotions sooner bring tears to the eye than mere pity, or mere sorrow.”
And, even as she spoke, her own bright orbs were suffused with drops, like dew in the violet’s cups, and she shook her head with its profusion of long fair ringlets archly, as if she would have made light of her own sentiment, and gazed up into his face with a tearful smile.
“You are a good child, Theresa, and good children are very dear to the Lord,” said the old man. “But of a truth I would I could see you more practically minded; less given to these singular romantic dreamings. I say not that they are hurtful, or unwise, or untrue, but in a mere child, as you are, Theresa, they are strange and out of place, if not unnatural. I would I could see you more merry, my little girl, and more given to the company of your equals in age, even if I were to be loser thereby of something of yourgentle company. But you love not, I think, the young girls of the village.”
“Oh! yes, I love them—I love them dearly, father. I would do any thing for any one of them; I would give up any thing I have got to make them happy. Oh yes, I love Anna Harlande, and Rose Merrivale, and Mary Mitford, dearly, but—but—”
“But you love not their company, you would say, would you not, my child?”
“That is not what I was about to say; but I know not how it is, their merriment is so loud, and their glee so very joyous, that it seems to me that I cannot sympathize with them in their joy, as I can in their sorrow; and they view things with eyes so different from mine, and laugh at thoughts that go nigh to make me weep, and see or feel so little of the loveliness of Nature, and care so little for what I care most of all, soft, sad poetry, or heart-stirring romance, or inspired music, that when I am among them, Idoalmost long to be away from them all, in the calm of this pleasant chamber, or in the fragrance of my bower beside the stream. And I do feel my spirit jangled and perplexed by their light-hearted, thoughtless mirth, as one feels at hearing a false note struck in the midst of a sweet symphony. What is this? what means this, my father?”
“It is a gift, Theresa,” replied the old man, half mournfully. “It means that you are endowed rarely, by God himself, with powers the most unusual, the most wondrous, the most beautiful, most high and godlike of any which are allowed to mortals. I have seen this long, long ago—I have mused over it; hoped, prayed, that it might not be so; nay, striven to repress the germs of it in your young spirit, yet never have I spoken of it until now; for I knew not that you were conscious, and would not be he that should awaken you to the consciousness of the grand but perilous possession which you hold, delegated to you direct from Omnipotence.”
He paused, and she gazed at him with lips apart, and eyes wide in wonder. The color died away in a sort of mysterious awe from her warm cheek. The blood rushed tumultuously to her heart. She listened breathless and amazed. Never had she heard him speak thus, never imagined that he felt thus, before—yet now that she did hear, she felt as though she were but listening again to that which she had heard many times before; and though she understood not his words altogether, they had struck a kindred chord in her inmost soul, and while its vibration was almost too much for her powers of endurance, it yet told her that his words were true.
She could not for her life have bid him go on, but for worlds she would not have failed to hear him out.
He watched the changed expression of her features, and half struck with a feeling of self-reproach that he should have created doubts, perhaps fears, in that ingenuous soul, smiled on her kindly, and asked in a confident tone—
“You have felt this already, have you not, my child?”
“Not as you put it to me, father; no, I have never dreamed or hoped that I had any such particular gift of God, such glorious and preëminent possession as this of which you speak. I may, indeed, have fancied at times that there was something within me, in which I differed from others around me—something which made me feel more joy, deeper, and fuller, and more soul-fraught joy, than they feel; and sorrow, softer, and moved more easily, if not more piercing or more permanent—which made me love the world, and its inhabitants, and above all its Maker, with a far different love from theirs—something which evermore seems struggling within me, as if it would forth and find tongue, but cannot. But now, that you have spoken, I know that it indeed must be as you say, and that this unknown something is a gift, is a possession from on high. What is this thing, my father?”
“My child, this thing is genius,” replied the old man solemnly.
The bright blood rushed back to her cheeks in a flood of crimson glory; a strange, clear light, which never had enkindled them before, sprang from her soft dark eyes; she leaned forward eagerly—
“Genius!” she cried. “Genius, and I! Father, you dream, dear father.”
“Would that I did; but I do not, Theresa.”
“And wherefore, if it be so, indeed, that I am so gifted, wherefore would you alter it, my father?”
“I would not alter it,” he replied, “my little girl. Far be it from my thoughts, weak worm that I am, to alter, even if I could alter, the least of the gifts of the great Giver. And this, whether it be for good, or unto evil, is one of the greatest and most glorious. I would not alter it, Theresa. But I would guide, would direct, would moderate it. I would accustom you to know and comprehend the vast power of which you, all unconsciously, are the possessor. For, as I said, it is a fearful and a perilous power. God forbid that I should pronounce the most marvelous and godlike of the gifts which he vouchsafes to man, a curse and not a blessing; God forbid that, even while I see how oft it is turned into bitterness and blight by the coldness of the world, and the check of its heaven-soaring aspirations, I should doubt that it has within itself a sovereign balm against its own diseases, a rapture mightier than any of its woes, an inborn and eternal consciousness which bears it up, as on immortal pinions, above the cares of the world and the poor consciousness of self. Nevertheless it is a perilous gift, and too often, to your sex, a fatal one. Yet I would not alarm you, my own child, for you have gentleness of soul, which may well temper the coruscations of a spirit which waxes oftentimes too strong to be womanly, and piety which shall, I trust, preserve you, should any aspiration of your heart wax over vigorous and daring to be contented with the limitations of humanity. In the meantime, my child, fear nothing, follow the dictates of your own pure heart, and pray for His aid, who neither giveth aught, nor taketh away, without reason. Hark!” he interrupted himself, starting slightly, “there is a sound of horses’ hoofs without; your brother has returned, and it may be Sir Miles is with him. We will speak more of this hereafter.”
And with the word he turned and left the room.
When he was gone she raised her eyes to heaven,and with a strange rapt expression on her fair features rose to her feet, exclaiming—
“Genius! Genius! Great God, Great God, I thank thee.”
Then, in the fervor of the moment, which led her naturally to clasp her hands together, she made a movement to withdraw her fingers from Jasper’s deathlike grasp, unconscious, for the time, of every thing around her.
But, as she did so, a tightened pressure of his hand, and some inarticulate sounds which proceeded from his lips, recalled her with a start to herself.
She dropped into her seat, as if conscience-stricken, gazed fixedly in his face, then stooped and pressed her lips on his inanimate brow; started again, looked about the room with a half guilty glance, bowed her head on his pillow, and wept bitterly.
——
The Recognition.
They had been friends in youth.Byron.
They had been friends in youth.Byron.
They had been friends in youth.
Byron.
The evening had advanced far into night before the effects of the potion he had swallowed passed away, and left the mind of Jasper clear, and his pulse regular and steady. When he awoke from his long stupor, and turned his eyes around him, it seemed as if he had dreamed of what he saw before him; for the inanimate objects of the room, nay, the very faces which met his eye, had something in them that was not altogether unfamiliar, yet for his life he could not have recalled when, or if ever he had seen them before.
The old dark-wainscoted walls of the irregular, many-recessed apartment, adorned with a few watercolor drawings, and specimens of needle-work, the huge black and gold Indian cabinet in one corner, the tall clock-stand of some foreign wood in another, the slab above the yawning hearth covered with tropical shells and rare foreign curiosities, the quaint and grotesque chairs and tables, with strangely contorted legs and arms, and wild satyr-like faces grinning from their bosses, the very bed on which he lay, with its carved head-board, and groined canopy of oak, and dark green damask curtains, were all things which he felt he must have seen, though where and how he knew not.
So was the face of the slight fair-haired girl who sat a little way removed from his bed’s head, by a small round work-table, on which stood a waxen taper, bending over some one of those light tasks of embroidery or knitting which women love, and are wont to dignify by the name of work.
On her he fixed his eyes long and wistfully, gazing at her, as he would have done at a fair picture, without any desire to address her, or to do aught that should induce her to move from the graceful attitude in which she sat, giving no sign of life save in the twinkling of her long, downcast eyelashes, in the calm rise and fall of her gentle bosom, and the quick motion of her busy fingers.
Jasper St. Aubyn was still weak, but he was unconscious of any pain or ailment, though he now began gradually to remember all that had passed before he lost his consciousness in the deep pool above the fords of Widecomb.
So weak was he, indeed, that it was almost too great an effort for him to consider where he was, or how he had been saved, much more to move his body, or ask any question of that fair watcher. He felt indeed that he should be perfectly contented to lie there all his life, in that painless tranquil mood, gazing upon that fair picture.
But while he lay there, with his large eyes wide open and fixed upon her, as if by their influence he would have charmed her soul out of its graceful habitation, a word or two spoken in a louder voice than had yet struck his ear, for persons had been speaking in the room all the time, although he had not observed them, attracted his notice to the other side of his bed.
It was not so much the words, for he scarce heard, and did not heed their import, as the tone of voice which struck him; for though well-known and most familiar, he could in no wise connect it with the other things around him.
With the desire to ascertain what this might mean, there came into his mind, he knew not wherefore, a wish to do so unobserved; and he proceeded forthwith to turn himself over on his pillow so noiselessly as to excite no attention in the watchers, whoever they might be.
He had not made two efforts, however, to do this, before he became aware of what, while he lay still, he did not suspect, that several of his limbs had received severe contusions, and could not as yet be moved with impunity.
He was a singular youth, however, and an almost Spartan endurance of physical pain, with a strangepersistence in whatever he undertook, had been from very early boyhood two of his strongest characteristics.
In spite, therefore, of his weakness, in spite of the pain every motion gave him, he persevered, and turning himself inch by inch, at length gained a position which enabled him clearly to discern the speakers.
They were two in number, the one facing him, the other having his back turned so completely that all he could see was a head covered with long-curled locks of snow-white hair, a dark velvet cloak, and the velvet scabbard of a long rapier protruding far beyond the legs of the oak chair on which he sat. The lower limbs of this person were almost lost in darkness as they lay carelessly crossed under the table, so that he divined rather than saw that they were cased in heavy riding-boots, on the heels of which a faint golden glimmer gave token of the wearer’s rank, by the knightly spurs he wore.
The lamp which stood upon the table by which they were conversing was set between the two, so that it was quite invisible to Jasper, and its light, which to his eyes barely touched the edges of the figure he had first observed, fell full upon the pale high brow and serene lineaments of the other person, who was in fact no other than the old man who had spoken to the youth in the intervals of his trance, and administered the potion from the effects of which he was but now recovering.
Of this, however, Jasper had no recollection, althoughhe wondered, as he had done concerning the girl, where he had before seen that fine countenance and benevolent expression, and how once seen he ever should have forgotten it.
There was yet a third person in the group, though he took no part in the conversation, and appeared to be, like Jasper, rather an interested and observant witness of what was going on, than an actor in the scene.
He was a tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed man, in the first years of manhood, not perhaps above five or six years Jasper’s senior; but his bronzed and sunburnt cheeks curiously contrasted with the fairness of his forehead, where it had not been exposed to the sun, and an indescribable blending of boldness, it might have almost been called audacity, with calm self-confidence and cold composure, which made up the expression of his face, seemed to indicate that he had seen much of the world, and learned many of its secrets, perhaps by the stern lessoning of the great teachers, suffering and sorrow.
The figure of this young man was but imperfectly visible, as he stood behind the high-backed chair, on which the old man, whom from the similarity in their features, if not in their expression, Jasper took to be his father, was seated. But his face, his muscular neck, his well-developed chest and broad shoulders, displayed by a close-fitting jerkin of some dark stuff, were all in strong light; and as the features and expression of the countenance gave token of a powerful character and energetic will, so did the frame give promise of ability to carry out the workings of the mind.
The dialogue, which had been interrupted by a silence of some seconds following on the words that had attracted Jasper’s notice, was now continued by the old man who sat facing him.
“That question,” he said, in a firm yet somewhat mournful tone, “is not an easy one to answer. The difficulty of subduing prejudices on my own part, the fear of wounding pride on yours—these might have had their share in influencing my conduct. Beside, you must remember that years have elapsed—the very years which most form the character of men—since we parted; that they have elapsed under circumstances the most widely different for you and for me; that we are not, in short, in any thing the same men we then were—that the gnarled, weather-beaten, earth-fast oak of centuries differs not so much from the green pliant sapling of half a dozen summers, as the old man, with his heart chilled and hardened into living steel by contact with the world, from the youth full of generous impulses and lofty aspirations, loving all men, and doubting naught either in heaven above, or in the earth beneath. You must remember, moreover, that although, as you have truly said, we were friends in youth, our swords, our purses, and our hearts in common, we had even then many points of serious difference; and lastly, and most of all, you must remember that if we had been friends, we were not friends when we last parted—”
“What! what!” exclaimed a voice, which Jasper instantly recognized for his father’s, though for years he had not heard him speak in tones of the like animation. “What, William Allan, do you mean to say that you imagined that any enmity could have dwelt in my mind, for so slight a cause—”
“Slight a cause!” interrupted the other. “Do you call thatslightwhich made my heart drop blood, and my brain boil with agony for years—which changed my course of life, altered my fortunes, character, heart, soul, forever; which made me, in a word, what I now am? Do you call that aslightcause, Miles St. Aubyn? Show me, then, what you call a grave one.”
“I had forgotten, William, I had forgotten,” replied Sir Miles, gently, and perhaps self-reproachfully. “I mean, I had forgotten that the rivaling in a strife which to the winner seems a little thing, may to the loser be death, or worse than death! Forgive me, William Allan, I had forgotten in my selfish thoughtlessness, and galled you unawares. But let us say no more of this—let the past be forgotten—let wrongs done, if wrongs were done, be buried in her grave, who was the most innocent cause of them; and let us now remember only that we were friends in youth, and that after long years of separation, we are thus wonderfully brought together in old age; let me hope to be friends henceforth unto the grave.”
“Amen, I say to that. Miles St. Aubyn, amen!”
And the two old men clasped their withered hands across the table, and Jasper might see the big drops trickling slowly down the face of him who was called William Allan, while from the agitation of his father’s frame he judged that he was not free from the like agitation.
There was a little pause, during which, as he fancied the young man looked somewhat frowningly on the scene of reconciliation; but the frown, if frown it were, passed speedily away, and left the bold, dark face as calm and impassive as the surface of a deep unruffled water.
A moment or two afterward, Sir Miles raised his head, which he had bowed a little, perhaps to conceal the feelings which might have agitated it, and again clasping the hand of the other, said eagerly,
“It is you, William, who have saved my boy, my Jasper; and this is not the first time that a scion of your house has preserved one of mine from death, or yet worse, ruin!”
William Allan started, as if a sharp weapon had pierced him,
“And how,” he cried, “Miles St. Aubyn, how was the debt repaid? I tell you it is written in the books that cannot err, that our houses were ordained for mutual destruction!”
“What, man,” exclaimed Sir Miles, half jestingly, “do you still cling to the black art? Do you still read the dark book of fate? Methought that fancy would have taken wing with other youthful follies.”
The old man shook his head sadly, but made no reply.
“And what has it taughtthee, William, unless it be that this life is short, and this world’s treasures worthless; andthatI have learned from a better book, a book of wider margin. What, I say, has it taught thee, William Allan?”
“All things,” replied the old man, sorrowfully.“Even unto this meeting—every action, every event of my own life, past or to come, happy or miserable, virtuous or evil, it has taught me.”
“But has it taught thee, William, whereby to win the good and eschew the evil; whereby to hold fast to the virtuous, and say unto the evil, ‘get behind me?’ Has it taught thee, I say not to be wiser, but to be happier or better?”
“What is, is! What shall be, shall be! What is written, shall be done! We may flap, or flutter, or even fight, like fish or birds, or, if you will, like lions in the toil; but we are netted, and may not escape, from the beginning! The man may learn the workings of the God, but how shall he control them?”
“And this is thy philosophy—this all that thine art teaches?”
“It is. No more.”
“A sad philosophy—a vain art,” replied the other. “I’ll none of them.”
“I tell thee, Miles St. Aubyn, that years ago, years ere Ihad heard of Widecomb or its water, I saw yon deep, red-whirling pool; I saw that drowning youth; I saw the ready rescue, and the gentle nursing; and now,” he cried, stretching his hands out widely, and gazing into vacancy, “I see a wilder and a sadder sight—a deeper pool, a stronger cataract, a fierce storm thundering on the hills, and torrents thundering down every gorge and gully to swell the flooded rivers. A young man and a maiden—yet no! no! not a maiden! mounted on gallant horses, are struggling in the whelming eddies. Great God! avert—hold! hold! He lifts his arm, he smites her with his loaded whip—smites her between the eyes that smile upon him; she falls, she is down, down in the whirling waters—rider and horse swept over the mad cataract; but who—who?—ha!” and with a wild shriek he started to his feet, and fell back into the arms of the young man, who from the beginning of the paroxysm evidently had expected its catastrophe, and who, with the assistance of the girl, supported him, now quite inanimate and powerless, from the room, merely saying to Sir Miles, “Be not alarmed, I will return forthwith.”
“My father!” exclaimed Jasper, in a faint voice, as the door closed upon them.
The old man turned hastily to the well-known accents, and hurried to the bed-side. “My boy, my own boy, Jasper. Now, may God’s name be praised forever!”
And falling into a chair by his pillow, the same chair on which that sweet girl had sat a few hours before, he bent over him, and asked him a thousand questions, waiting for no reply, but bathing his face with his tears, and covering his brow with kisses.
When he had at length satisfied the old man that he was well and free from pain, except a few slight bruises, he asked his father eagerly where he was, and who was that strange old man.
“You are in the cottage, my dear boy,” replied the old knight, “above Widecomb pool, tended by those who, by the grace of God and his exceeding mercy, saved you from the consequences of the frantic act which so nearly left me childless. Oh! Jasper, Jasper, ’twas a fearful risk, and had well-nigh been fatal.”
“It was but one misstep, father,” replied the youth, who, as he rapidly recovered his strength, recovered also his bold speech and daring courage. “Had there been but foot-hold at the tunnel’s end, I had landed my fish bravely; and, on my honor, I believe had I such another on my line’s end, I should risk it again. Why, father, he was at least a thirty pounder.”
“Never do so—never do so again, Jasper. Remember that to risk life heedlessly, and for no purpose save an empty gratification, a mere momentary pleasure, is a great crime toward God, and a gross act of selfishness toward men, as much so as to peril or to lose it in a high cause, or for a noble object, is great and good, and self-devoted. Think! had you perished here, all for a paltry fish, which you might purchase for a silver crown, you had left to me years—nay, a life of misery.”
“Nay, father, I never thought of that,” answered the young man, not unmoved by the remonstrance of his father, “but it was not the value of the fish. I should have given him away ten to one, had I taken him. It was that I do not like to be beaten.”
“A good feeling, Jasper; and one that leads to many good things, and without which nothing great can be attained; but to do good, like all other feelings, it must be moderated and controled by reason. But you must learn to think ever before acting, Jasper.”
“I will—I will, indeed, sir; but you have not told me who is this strange old man?”
“An old friend of mine, Jasper—an old friend whom I have not seen for years, and who is now doubly a friend, since he has saved your life.”
At this moment the door opened, and the young man entered bearing a candle.
“He is at ease now,” he said. “It is a painful and a searching malady to which at seasons he is subject. We know well how to treat him; when he awakes tomorrow, he will remember nothing of what passed to-day, though at the next attack he will remember every circumstance of this. I pray you, therefore, Sir Miles, take no note in the morning, nor appear to observe it, if he be somewhat silent and reserved. Ha! young sir,” he continued, seeing that Jasper was awake, and taking him kindly by the hand, “I am glad to see that you have recovered.”
“And I am glad to have an opportunity to thank you, that you have saved my life, which I know you must have done right gallantly, seeing the peril of the deed.”
“About as gallantly as you did, when you came so near losing it,” he answered. “But come, Sir Miles, night wears apace, and if you will allow me to show you to your humble chamber, the best our lowly house can offer, I will wish you good repose, and return to watch over my young friend here.”
“My age must excuse me, that I accept your offer, whose place it should be to watch over him myself.”
“I need no watcher, sir,” replied Jasper, boldly. “I am quite well now, and shall sleep, I warrant you, unto cock-crow without awakening.”
“Good-night, then, boy!” cried Sir Miles, stooping over him and again kissing his brow, “and God send thee better in health and wiser in condition.”
“Good-night, sir; and God send me stronger and braver, and more like my father,” said the youth, with a light laugh.
“I will return anon, young friend—for friends, I hope, we shall be,” said the other, as he left the room lighting Sir Miles respectfully across the threshold.
“I hope we shall—and I thank you. But I shall be fast asleep ere then.”
And so he was; but not the less for that did the stalwart young man watch over him, sitting erect in one of the high-backed chairs, until the first pale light of dawn came stealing in through the latticed casement, and the shrill cry of the early cock announced the morning of another day.
——
The Lovesuit.