Rome, February10th, 1831.My Dearest Mary:As many miles lie between us there is no alternative but the hastily written and imperfect scribble which will shortly be presented you, if the elements have not conspired against us.In order to relieve your uneasiness I beg to state that Gerald's health is daily improving. He has much faith in Rome. Scarcely a day passes without his enjoying the benefit of the delightful atmosphere and the lovely drives out into the open country, of which I must tell you afterwards. The large number of acquaintances formed since our arrival have contributed much to our enjoyment. We frequently meet many of our old friends. Imagine our delightful surprise on seeing Captain Crofton, his wife and daughter. Of course you remember the latter—a lovely girl of purely blonde style, whom we meet at Lady Berkeley's, and who created such sensations in London circles on her first appearance in society. Gerald declares that the face of an old friend is better than medicine. What do you think he would say were you to enter rather suddenly upon us? My dearest, I know what I would say if such an overwhelming happiness were in store. These thoughts call up feelings which are inimical to peace and content. I am almost tempted to wish for the quiet of our English home and the sight of your dear face. But this must not be. I shall forget to give you some sights of Rome if I indulge in vain and foolish regrets. Really I am at a loss how to convey any idea of such scenes as we are almost daily witnessing. In the present instance I feel my inability to appreciate what is lofty and inspiring to every cultivated mind. Often I am inclined to envy those of brilliant intellectual perceptions like yourself. When the day arrives that you visit the Eternal City will it not be viewed in a different sense than in the present under the ordinary gaze of your short-sighted Rosamond?Gerald says: "Tell Mary something of the churches," without thinking of the arduous task therein devolved. Poor fellow! He seems anxious to make amends for so much self-sacrifice. In compliance to his wishes your friend reaps twofold pleasure, therefore Mary shall hear "of the churches."About three weeks ago a party of tourists, including the Croftons and ourselves; visited several of the grand old churches, so important in the history of Roman architecture of classic ages. The first we entered was the church of the Ara Coeli, said to occupy the site of the ancient temple of Jupiter Feretrius. It was a gloomy old structure with long rows of pillars of Etruscan design. On ascending the long flight of steep stairs on one side the impressive gloom increased. The situation awoke old associations of the sybilline and vague predictions of the time-honored soothsayers—their power—their greatness—their fall. We were more than impressed with the churches of St. Giovanni and St. Paolo, beneath which lay in awful depths the subterranean caverns said to be connected with the Coliseum. Gerald remained above while I followed the explorers through these dismal yawning gulfs seemingly ready to open and shut their victims in a living tomb. Streets ran in various directions; the mouldy, damp walls emitted a disagreeable watery vapor that rendered the air unbearable; stagnant pools lay on all sides. Is it not an appalling thought that these successive ranges of caverns were constructed for the human victims to be eaten by the beasts at the Coliseum, yet such is the legend. Doubtless you already weary of churches, but having first attempted them at the suggestion of Gerald, now I am deeply interested in the matter myself. But you will only listen to one more very short account. The church of San Sebastiano, which next received us, is situated on the Appian Way, and perhaps the most remarkable of any we have hitherto visited. The site is truly beyond description. The stupendous masses of rocks piled on every side appeared to give it an interest more than common. The endless rows of decaying columns, pillars, stained windows, and paintings, added one more link to the chain of daily events which form such an important part in our visit.As I intend very soon to write you something of a livelier description, I now conclude this hastily-written scribble. Dearest, I expect to hear from you all immediately. Gerald is rapidly improving, and is sanguine of ultimate recovery. Adieu. FromYour Rosamond.
Rome, February10th, 1831.
My Dearest Mary:
As many miles lie between us there is no alternative but the hastily written and imperfect scribble which will shortly be presented you, if the elements have not conspired against us.
In order to relieve your uneasiness I beg to state that Gerald's health is daily improving. He has much faith in Rome. Scarcely a day passes without his enjoying the benefit of the delightful atmosphere and the lovely drives out into the open country, of which I must tell you afterwards. The large number of acquaintances formed since our arrival have contributed much to our enjoyment. We frequently meet many of our old friends. Imagine our delightful surprise on seeing Captain Crofton, his wife and daughter. Of course you remember the latter—a lovely girl of purely blonde style, whom we meet at Lady Berkeley's, and who created such sensations in London circles on her first appearance in society. Gerald declares that the face of an old friend is better than medicine. What do you think he would say were you to enter rather suddenly upon us? My dearest, I know what I would say if such an overwhelming happiness were in store. These thoughts call up feelings which are inimical to peace and content. I am almost tempted to wish for the quiet of our English home and the sight of your dear face. But this must not be. I shall forget to give you some sights of Rome if I indulge in vain and foolish regrets. Really I am at a loss how to convey any idea of such scenes as we are almost daily witnessing. In the present instance I feel my inability to appreciate what is lofty and inspiring to every cultivated mind. Often I am inclined to envy those of brilliant intellectual perceptions like yourself. When the day arrives that you visit the Eternal City will it not be viewed in a different sense than in the present under the ordinary gaze of your short-sighted Rosamond?
Gerald says: "Tell Mary something of the churches," without thinking of the arduous task therein devolved. Poor fellow! He seems anxious to make amends for so much self-sacrifice. In compliance to his wishes your friend reaps twofold pleasure, therefore Mary shall hear "of the churches."
About three weeks ago a party of tourists, including the Croftons and ourselves; visited several of the grand old churches, so important in the history of Roman architecture of classic ages. The first we entered was the church of the Ara Coeli, said to occupy the site of the ancient temple of Jupiter Feretrius. It was a gloomy old structure with long rows of pillars of Etruscan design. On ascending the long flight of steep stairs on one side the impressive gloom increased. The situation awoke old associations of the sybilline and vague predictions of the time-honored soothsayers—their power—their greatness—their fall. We were more than impressed with the churches of St. Giovanni and St. Paolo, beneath which lay in awful depths the subterranean caverns said to be connected with the Coliseum. Gerald remained above while I followed the explorers through these dismal yawning gulfs seemingly ready to open and shut their victims in a living tomb. Streets ran in various directions; the mouldy, damp walls emitted a disagreeable watery vapor that rendered the air unbearable; stagnant pools lay on all sides. Is it not an appalling thought that these successive ranges of caverns were constructed for the human victims to be eaten by the beasts at the Coliseum, yet such is the legend. Doubtless you already weary of churches, but having first attempted them at the suggestion of Gerald, now I am deeply interested in the matter myself. But you will only listen to one more very short account. The church of San Sebastiano, which next received us, is situated on the Appian Way, and perhaps the most remarkable of any we have hitherto visited. The site is truly beyond description. The stupendous masses of rocks piled on every side appeared to give it an interest more than common. The endless rows of decaying columns, pillars, stained windows, and paintings, added one more link to the chain of daily events which form such an important part in our visit.
As I intend very soon to write you something of a livelier description, I now conclude this hastily-written scribble. Dearest, I expect to hear from you all immediately. Gerald is rapidly improving, and is sanguine of ultimate recovery. Adieu. From
Your Rosamond.
Lady Rosamond now entertained hopes of her husband's recovery. He seemed much stronger and took a deeper interest in their explorations. In the company of English friends he visited all the accessible spots of historic ground. Lady Rosamond was always ready to encourage him by her hopeful remarks and winning smile. She had formed an attachment to the lovely Mabel Crofton, who indeed repaid her in a fond return.
Nothing gave Gerald Bereford more anxiety than the pale face of his wife. In his feeble health he strove to draw her ladyship's attention towards the social circle with a view to raise her occasional drooping spirits.
In the young English maiden Lady Rosamond found much company. They conversed much and enjoyed the sights together with united regard and interest.
In answer to a lengthy letter received shortly afterwards from Mary Douglas, the following was penned by Lady Rosamond:
Rome, April15th, 1831.My Darling Mary:Truly did you respond to my wishes. How can I ever repay so much devotion? You have indeed granted my requests in mentioning all my friends, and giving all the matter which interests Gerald so much. He is indeed truly grateful and is going to write you by next mail. His health has not been improving so rapidly of late, yet we have every hope of his recovery. Will it not be a happy moment when we meet again on the shores of dear old England? The very dust and fog will have a charm hitherto unknown.As we are in Rome you will expect something from Rome, therefore I will tell you of what has recently been going on. Last week was the Carnival. Gerald complained of weakness and fatigue, having exerted himself too much during the previous week. He was much disappointed in not being able to participate in the amusement, but had to be satisfied by remaining on the balcony of our residence, overlooking the Corso, which, as you know, is the principal street paraded on those occasions. Gerald interrupts me by requesting a long letter and full description, therefore on him alone rests the blame if I exceed the length usually devoted to letter writing.Now for the Carnival. At an early hour on Monday morning the usual bustle and active preparations commenced. Carriages rolled along laden with confectionaries and flowers. In fact the street, houses, and passing vehicles of every description, appeared as though the heavens had literally rained flowers—flowers showered in every direction. Evidently we were certain that flowers were to be one of the prominent features witnessed in the grand demonstration. Every house opening on the Corso was covered with bright streamers, pennons, and flags of every size, shape, color, and hue—red, blue, white, green, gold, purple, yellow, and pink. Every window was festooned with flowers, banners, and like array. Every shop was converted into gorgeous saloons, decorated with trees, garlands, evergreens, resplendent in silver, crimson, and gold, filled with hundreds of anxious spectators. Every nook and corner was made bright by the sparkle of beautiful eyes, merry smiles and happy faces. Thousands jostled on every side in representation of monkeys, lions, tigers, soldiers, clowns, maniacs. Satanic deities and every other deity credited to countless ages, helped to swell the crowd wedging themselves between line upon line of carriages four abreast. The general bombardment commenced on all sides was truly an exciting scene. Grand assaults were made upon houses and carriage with alike furious resistance; missiles of bonbons rose in the air, volley upon volley; storms of flowers. Those seated in windows and balconies made desperate onsets upon the passing carriages. Hand to hand encounters now became general; monkeys assailed lions; mamelukes returned the fire of gipsies; a grand hurly-burly arose from every point in sight. Clouds fell from upper balconies upon each side of the street as the crowds poured on in incessant streams which became at intervals one moving mass of dust, white as snow. Beautiful ladies, maidens and children, mingled in the gay scene—all intent upon the same enjoyment. It is impossible to convey the faintest idea of this grand display which is kept up from early morning until half-past four o'clock, when the street is cleared as by magic. How such a concourse of carriages and people get into the adjoining nooks and piazzas in such a short time is astonishing, while thousands still cling to the sidewalks of the Corso. A chariot race is the next proceeding, when, within the space of a few moments, the horses are in their places—the signal given—the distance of the Corso gained—the race won.This is the first day's outline of sport, which is followed in successive order until the end of the season. Having already lengthened this letter in twofold proportion, I must take room to say that the festive scene instantly ceases as the solemn notes of Ave Maria rises from the hundreds of steeples—the requiem for the departing carnival.I will not distract your attention with the palaces of the Cæsars, the Cenci, St. Angelo, and the remains of antiquity still to be seen here, but trust that when we meet again every wish that you formerly expressed regarding our stay in Rome will be realized a thousandfold.Looking at the volume of this letter I feel quite ashamed, but trust that absence and distance will help to plead my cause. Gerald seems quite confident that his suggestion will also speak loudly in my favor, and perhaps he is right. At least I hope so. Remember me kindly to every one of the family, I shall mention none particularly. Gerald expresses a wish not to be forgotten by you. Now, dearest Mary, if this truly formidable missive weary you, please deal gently with Gerald andYour Loving Rosamond.
Rome, April15th, 1831.
My Darling Mary:
Truly did you respond to my wishes. How can I ever repay so much devotion? You have indeed granted my requests in mentioning all my friends, and giving all the matter which interests Gerald so much. He is indeed truly grateful and is going to write you by next mail. His health has not been improving so rapidly of late, yet we have every hope of his recovery. Will it not be a happy moment when we meet again on the shores of dear old England? The very dust and fog will have a charm hitherto unknown.
As we are in Rome you will expect something from Rome, therefore I will tell you of what has recently been going on. Last week was the Carnival. Gerald complained of weakness and fatigue, having exerted himself too much during the previous week. He was much disappointed in not being able to participate in the amusement, but had to be satisfied by remaining on the balcony of our residence, overlooking the Corso, which, as you know, is the principal street paraded on those occasions. Gerald interrupts me by requesting a long letter and full description, therefore on him alone rests the blame if I exceed the length usually devoted to letter writing.
Now for the Carnival. At an early hour on Monday morning the usual bustle and active preparations commenced. Carriages rolled along laden with confectionaries and flowers. In fact the street, houses, and passing vehicles of every description, appeared as though the heavens had literally rained flowers—flowers showered in every direction. Evidently we were certain that flowers were to be one of the prominent features witnessed in the grand demonstration. Every house opening on the Corso was covered with bright streamers, pennons, and flags of every size, shape, color, and hue—red, blue, white, green, gold, purple, yellow, and pink. Every window was festooned with flowers, banners, and like array. Every shop was converted into gorgeous saloons, decorated with trees, garlands, evergreens, resplendent in silver, crimson, and gold, filled with hundreds of anxious spectators. Every nook and corner was made bright by the sparkle of beautiful eyes, merry smiles and happy faces. Thousands jostled on every side in representation of monkeys, lions, tigers, soldiers, clowns, maniacs. Satanic deities and every other deity credited to countless ages, helped to swell the crowd wedging themselves between line upon line of carriages four abreast. The general bombardment commenced on all sides was truly an exciting scene. Grand assaults were made upon houses and carriage with alike furious resistance; missiles of bonbons rose in the air, volley upon volley; storms of flowers. Those seated in windows and balconies made desperate onsets upon the passing carriages. Hand to hand encounters now became general; monkeys assailed lions; mamelukes returned the fire of gipsies; a grand hurly-burly arose from every point in sight. Clouds fell from upper balconies upon each side of the street as the crowds poured on in incessant streams which became at intervals one moving mass of dust, white as snow. Beautiful ladies, maidens and children, mingled in the gay scene—all intent upon the same enjoyment. It is impossible to convey the faintest idea of this grand display which is kept up from early morning until half-past four o'clock, when the street is cleared as by magic. How such a concourse of carriages and people get into the adjoining nooks and piazzas in such a short time is astonishing, while thousands still cling to the sidewalks of the Corso. A chariot race is the next proceeding, when, within the space of a few moments, the horses are in their places—the signal given—the distance of the Corso gained—the race won.
This is the first day's outline of sport, which is followed in successive order until the end of the season. Having already lengthened this letter in twofold proportion, I must take room to say that the festive scene instantly ceases as the solemn notes of Ave Maria rises from the hundreds of steeples—the requiem for the departing carnival.
I will not distract your attention with the palaces of the Cæsars, the Cenci, St. Angelo, and the remains of antiquity still to be seen here, but trust that when we meet again every wish that you formerly expressed regarding our stay in Rome will be realized a thousandfold.
Looking at the volume of this letter I feel quite ashamed, but trust that absence and distance will help to plead my cause. Gerald seems quite confident that his suggestion will also speak loudly in my favor, and perhaps he is right. At least I hope so. Remember me kindly to every one of the family, I shall mention none particularly. Gerald expresses a wish not to be forgotten by you. Now, dearest Mary, if this truly formidable missive weary you, please deal gently with Gerald and
Your Loving Rosamond.
Lady Rosamond had given her friend some of the glimpses of her experience in Rome, yet she had much more to relate on her arrival. Some months would elapse before her husband would consider his health sufficiently restored to return to his native land. At intervals he seemed almost restored when a sudden relapse would cause a renewed return of the symptoms attending his flattering disease. Still they were hopeful that with the returning spring health would be restored the patient invalid. Throughout the severe dispensation Gerald Bereford manifested no irritation, no fretfulness, no complaining. He seemed to be happy in appreciating the labors of his beautiful wife. On one occasion, when she asked if he did not weary of his sickness, he quietly replied:
"Darling Rosamond, it has shown that you are willing to sacrifice every pleasure in devotion to one who can never fully repay such a debt of gratitude. Do you think that I can try, my Rosamond?" exclaimed he, pressing a fond kiss upon the lips of the pale but lovely woman, as she sat beside him.
Ah! Gerald Bereford knew not that in these words there lay a hidden meaning. Surely, and in a way unknown to both, will the debt be paid.
The guests at Trevelyan Hall had departed, Maude Bereford alone remaining. Captain Trevelyan applied himself to the duties devolving upon him with a will. His hospitality was the comment of many. He had begun life aright. His honest heart and upright principles were a sure passport to prosperity and popularity. "The Hall" was a scene of much gaiety and resort. Large gatherings were of frequent occurrence, to which the families of the surrounding neighbourhood were cordially invited. Fanny Trevelyan was idolized among her youthful companions and associates. Her sweet face was welcomed as a delightful acquisition on every occasion. Many sought to show their fond appreciation of her retiring manners and graceful elegance. Flattery had no power over her. She possessed a character of too much depth and penetration to harbor the least feeling akin to vanity. Lady Trevelyan had guarded her daughter's education and trained her with a view to set a proper estimate upon those qualities which ennoble and elevate the soul. Maude Bereford was a proper companion for Fanny Trevelyan. Their minds were in harmony, while the latter acted as a propelling power to force the aspirations of the other above their common flight. Lady Trevelyan was pleased with this companionship. Though she could not discern the brilliant genius and powers which characterized the beautiful Mary Douglas, there was much to admire in Maude Bereford. Captain Trevelyan was kind, amiable and attentive. He paid every mark of respect towards his gentle and loveable guest. Frequently they walked, chatted and rode together. Maude was pleased with the gentlemanly attentions of the engaging officer, and showed her appreciation in many ways. He enjoyed the society of those two girls much as those of playful children. Fanny was truly happy in her brother's company.
"Dear Guy, you must never love any one more than me," was a frequent rejoinder as she received his many tender caresses.
One day, when seated upon the lower end of the balcony, Fanny laid her hand lovingly upon her brother's shoulder and looking into his face, exclaimed:
"Guy, I have often wondered about you."
"About me, pet," returned the latter, "what can it be about me that is really worthy of so much attention from a young lady fair? Already I feel as of some importance."
Guy Trevelyan was now a handsome man of twenty-seven. The effeminate blush of youth had given place to an open and engaging animation that made him doubly attractive. Turning his gaze upon his sister, he added:
"Come, little one, tell me this great wonder. I must not be kept in suspense. Cannot Maude assist you? If so, I rely upon her in the present dilemma," said Guy, turning in playful appeal to Maude Bereford.
"Your surmise is groundless,mon frere," returned Fanny, in childish glee, "Maude is entirely in the dark, (pardon the vulgarism.)"
"I will pardon you in everything, provided you gratify my curiosity," said the other.
"Fanny, it is unjust to treat Guy in this way," said Maude, by way of intercession.
"Two against one," cried Fanny, with a demure smile upon her face. "The majority has it. I am placed in a difficult position," said she, turning to her friend, adding, "Maude only for your suggestion I might have been able to extricate myself. Well, I shall try my best to maintain peace by compliance to your united wishes."
"By telling us one of the seven wonders," interrupted Maude.
"Yes," said Fanny, "I have often wondered why it was that Guy could remain so long in the companionship of Mary Douglas or Lady Rosamond and come back heart whole to Trevelyan Hall."
Captain Trevelyan had received a home thrust, yet he betrayed no feeling and showed no reason for suspicion, at least in the eyes of his sister and her companion. A quiet laugh greeted the remark. Guy Trevelyan had not the keen glances of the secretary levelled at him now, else the puzzling expression that rested awhile upon his face would instantly have been detected.
"That is the great wonder," said the brother, drawing his sister nearer to his side, adding: "Well, my little sister, untilyouhave become weary of your brother's keeping he is anxious to claim the gracious liberty of possessing the love of one devoted heart. What saysla belleFanny?"
"Oh, Guy," cried Maude, "she was afraid that you may possibly have charitable intentions towards some fair one and wishes to make the test."
"Why, Maude," exclaimed Fanny, "you are really in earnest; I shall begin to think, from the stand you have taken in the matter, that Guy had better beware, else ere long he will not be able to make such avowals to his sister."
"Come, come, little mischief-maker, no jealousy," cried Captain Trevelyan, hastily drawing an arm of each within his own, and then they joined her ladyship in the shrubbery.
Fanny Trevelyan was truly in jest. She had found that no real attachment was to be formed between her brother and friend. There had arisen instead a tender familiarity, a friendship that is rare to be seen. Maude Bereford had grown to treat Guy Trevelyan with brotherly kindness. It pleased him to witness this feeling arising from disinterested friendship and motives of genuine purity. Were it otherwise he would feel an embarrassment that might affect his honest nature. When left to himself he could not dismiss from his thoughts the remark made by his sister. He knew she was ignorant of his affairs in New Brunswick, yet he felt sorely puzzled.
Not long after the following conversation took place, Maude Bereford was preparing to hasten homeward. Lady Rosamond sent cheerful accounts of her husband's rapid improvement. They were still visiting amid the ruins in hopes of speedily returning to England.
Every fortnight brought to Trevelyan Hall a lengthy epistle from Mary Douglas—lengthy from the fact of its being addressed to each member of the family—bearing remembrance to Lady Trevelyan, many choice bits of gossip to Guy, and charming effusions to Fanny, full of love and tenderness. Her last contained a glowing allusion to Lady Rosamond—an eager desire to meet her loving friend; also fervent gratitude for the hopeful restoration of Gerald's health.
"I am almost inclined to feel a pang of jealousy," exclaimed Fanny, as she read and re-read the contents of the precious missive. "Mary loves Lady Rosamond better than any other friends on earth."
"Why not, my child?" questioned Lady Trevelyan; "they are old friends—friends in childhood, girlhood, and womanhood. Lady Rosamond is worthy of the truest and purest love. She is beautiful, good, and lovable. Who could see her ladyship but to admire and love?"
"Dear Mamma," returned Fanny, "you share my sentiments towards Lady Rosamond. Guy seemed surprised when I ventured to wonder why he could remain so long in the daily society of two such gifted and lovely beings as her ladyship and Mary Douglas, without forming stronger ties than those of friendship."
"Both are lovely," exclaimed Lady Trevelyan. "It would indeed be a difficult matter for a lover to decide between two so much alike in beauty, grace, and loveliness."
"Strange that I did not think of this before, mamma," said the childlike Fanny with an air of much wisdom. "The poet must certainly have experienced the same predicament when he wrote:
"How happy could I be with either,Were t'other dear charmer away."
"How happy could I be with either,Were t'other dear charmer away."
A week had elapsed after Maude had arrived at the castle when a hastily written note was received by Fanny Trevelyan from the former, containing sad news from Rome. Gerald Bereford had apparently recovered, and was on the eve of returning home when he was suddenly seized with hemorrhage of the lungs, which rapidly reduced him and brought on prostration. Medical assistance had been obtained, but he now lay in a critical state, every means being used to prevent another attack, in which case there could be no hope.
Maude Bereford had penned those lines in bitter anguish. She loved her brother from the depths of her heart. His life must be spared. Heaven could not deprive her of such a blessing. Ah, no, he will live! In this hour of trial the sorrowing girl sought comfort in those rebellious and sinful thoughts. She had not the sustaining faith to say, "Thy will be done." It is needless to say that Maude's letter met much sympathy at "The Hall." Fanny cried heartily. She could not think of any thing but the sadness that had fallen upon the inmates of the Castle.
"Poor Lady Rosamond," exclaimed she, in tones of undisguised sadness, "how she will lament her sad fate if Gerald should die? Oh, mamma, I cannot think it possible that he must die."
"Tempt not Heaven, my child, for 'with God all things are possible,'" said Lady Trevelyan, who was a truly Christian woman. "Everything is ordered aright," continued her ladyship, "there are no afflictions or trials in life but what are considered for our good. It is indeed a heavy blow upon the young wife to lose the husband of her choice, but how many have borne up when deprived of father, mother, husband and child."
"Oh, mamma," exclaimed Fanny, "if I could only look upon the ways of Providence in the same manner as you. I know it is sinful, but I cannot help thinking that it is too hard for Gerald to be taken away from Lady Rosamond. How I pity her. Poor dear Maude too. How badly she must feel."
The physician's worst fears were realized. Spite of every care and precaution a second attack of hemorrhage made its fatal ravages upon the fast sinking body of the sufferer. Gerald Bereford must die. All hopes are at an end. Death has set its seal upon his broad, fair forehead. Soon the eyes that still fondly linger upon the form of his beautiful wife shall close to open upon the scenes of another world.
This was a bitter trial to Lady Rosamond! Her husband was to die in a foreign land. He was to be deprived of a last farewell to the dear friends at home. Such thoughts, bore heavily upon the susceptible nature of this faithful woman. Could she then have gathered those loved ones around the dying bed of her husband, she would have sacrificed every earthly desire; yes, her life. Then did she think of her friend, Mary Douglas; then did she need the consolation of a true Christian friend. Like a ministering angel, she strove to soothe the last hours of her dying husband. Never was woman more devoted, heroic and patient. Not a murmur escaped her lips as she sat for hours watching the quickening breath in death-like struggle, convulsing the almost lifeless form of one who had ever been kind, dutiful, loving, and true to his vow.
On his death-bed, Gerald Bereford felt no pangs of remorse devouring his latest thoughts. He could die in the belief of having been ever devoted to her whom he had promised to love, cherish and protect. Keenly did Lady Rosamond feel this reflection. Had her husband been less kind, generous and true, she could have borne the present with a firmness worthy of her spirit. But the thoughts that now filled her breast were maddening, merciless and torturing.
"What have I done to suffer so much through life," was the mental question ever uppermost.
Gerald Bereford had fought the battle of life bravely. He had taken part in its conflicts and struggles, never flinching from his post when duty called. Ambition had dazzlingly tempted him on—on—further on. He must be victorious in gaining the cause for which so many had fought with firm determination. Could he have lived to see the result of such political warfare—its blessings and its privileges—its freedom—he might exclaim with the brave general, "I die happy." But hediddie happy. Heliveda happy life—hedieda happy death.
Lady Rosamond had many kind friends amidst this sad bereavement. Her pale face had power to move the most stoical—more powerful than the loudest outbursts of grief, or the paroxysms of a passionate and unsubdued sorrow.
What she suffered in those hours of silent anguish Heaven alone can ever know. Thoughts forced themselves upon her almost too hard to bear. Truly did she need the strength for which she had prayed on a former occasion. It seems a sacrilegious intrusion to unveil the heart of this truly devoted woman, who had sacrificed her entire being to the wishes and welfare of one whom she had calmly laid to rest. Fain would we stop here. But the sequel must be told.
Lady Rosamond had married Gerald Bereford with a firm resolve to be a dutiful and yielding wife, yet her heart had refused to follow. She never loved the man who lived upon her smiles. Still he knew it not. She was to him kind, loving, and pure. She was indeedkind. In every action shone kindness in characters of bold relief. Everyone who knew her found naught but true kindness.Loving? Yes, loving; though Gerald Bereford stirred not the depths of Lady Rosamond's heart, she was capable of a love as undying as the soul that gave it birth. It was her life—her being. In pity for her faithful husband she had guarded every secret passage of the heart which might lead to the betrayal of bitter and desolate feelings.Pure? Yes; purity was the guiding star which marked the daily course of this woman's existence. Her acts were pure—her mind was pure—her heart was pure—every thought was pure. There was purity in her sorrow, leading to pure and holy thoughts—speaking to the soul—giving comfort—giving hope.
In deep sincerity did Lady Rosamond mourn for her husband. She mourned his loss as that of a loved brother—a dear friend—one in whom she confided. She found much comfort in the thought of having done her best. She had fulfilled her duty—she had struggled bravely. She had cheered her husband's path through life—she had kept her secret—made one being happy. Surely such thoughts must have offered some relief. She had committed no wrong, having gone forth at the summon of duty, she had taken upon her frail, trembling form, a cross overpowering in its weight, yet she murmured not.
As she is sitting beside the lifeless remains of one who had filled such an important part in her history—a striking illustration of life in its varied forms of existence—its joys—its sorrows—its longings—its aspirations—its dreams—let us look upon her as one of the many purified through much suffering—whose faith will meet its recompense.
Reader, we will ask you to follow us as we pass over a period of two years—two long years. The task imposed is an arduous one, yet, we shrink not. All former friends must be searched out, and once more introduced. Be not impatient if we do not succeed in the direct order of your wishes. In the uncertain distance faint echoes are already heard between intervals of solemn thoughts, while the name of Rosamond strikes upon our ear and vibrates within us as though the influence of myriads of spirits had woven around a deep subtle spell from which we cannot force ourselves. In truth, you have won us—your point is gained.
Now to your relief. Bereford Castle stands in its grandeur and beauty with not an object near to mar the effect. Its stoical exterior bears no impress of the loss sustained in the heir and son. Menacingly it frowns upon those scenes which recall the realities of life. Amid storm, sunshine, sickness and death, its aspect is unchanged—true type of its age, order and design. On entrance, the interior is calm, quiet and inviting. Daily contact with the inmates has had a soothing effect. Look around. In the spacious drawing room, opening upon the garden, is the family occupied in different ways. Lord Bereford is seated beside the familiar form of a beautiful woman dressed in robes of mourning. A second glance is not necessary to aid recognition. The sweet pensive smile is sufficient. Lady Rosamond has lost none of her charms. Time has no grudge against her for personal wrongs, no retributive justice to be meted out—instead, the quiet happiness of a contented mind is lavished with true delight. A fond light beams in the lovely eyes as they turn towards Maude Bereford—ever the same Maude that strolled around Trevelyan Hall some time in the past. The same simplicity is attached to every movement, action and speech—Maude still.
But a stranger is engrossing her attention. A tall, handsome and gallant gentleman occupies a seat at her side, devoting his attentions to her, occasionally addressing Lady Rosamond in terms of endearing familiarity. There is not much difficulty in ascertaining the relationship. Geoffrey Seymour had become a frequent visitor at the Castle. The blushes that greeted him told the tale upon Maude Bereford. Yet, she cared not for the eyes of the world. She had given her heart to a true, honorable and affectionate lover. Already she has woven bright dreams wherein are clearly portrayed outlines of two fond beings living in the sunshine of each other's love, surrounded by the comforts and ease of a bright and happy fireside. Lady Bereford is within the privacy of her own apartments. Grief and anxiety have left heavy marks upon her hitherto well preserved face. The furrowed forehead, wrinkles and grey hairs, show full well the heavy blow which had been dealt her ladyship in the death of her first-born. Time cannot eradicate the inroads made upon this high-minded woman. Her failing health speaks of dissolution. The mother's heart that beat so wildly as she dreamt of the glorious future of her son, now feebly responded to the sluggish torpor of faded hopes.
Other friends are awaited at the Castle. Ere we have time to turn aside, light steps are flying across the hall and a girlish figure is at our elbow, and the next instant in the arms of Lady Rosamond and Maude. The childish face of Fanny Trevelyan once seen is not soon to be forgotten. Oh no, Fanny, you occupy an important niche within our memory! Two years were only a myth—a dream to the young mistress of Trevelyan Hall, save when some other's troubles aroused her sympathy and called forth the fine feelings of her nature. The former playful glee is still alive in Fanny's buoyant and lively manner. Her gaiety at times subsides to gaze upon Lady Rosamond's thoughtful face. The heart of this maiden is still fancy free. Guy Trevelyan is not disappointed in his sister, he being yet the dearest object of her heart.
"Dearest Maude," cried Fanny, in rapturous delight, "will we not form a happy family when Mary joins us."
"One would consider you a happy family already if happiness bears comparison by merriment," ventured a well-known voice from the outside apartment—a voice that had power to stir the soul of Lady Rosamond to its lowest depths, and kindle the smouldering passion time had vainly tried to smother into a fierce and steady flame. Strange that her ladyship must pass another fiery ordeal—that she must add more sorrow to her hitherto sad, eventful life.
No quivering lip or trembling form gave hope to Guy Trevelyan as he pressed the small white hand of one whom he loved tenderly and passionately—one whose image had been engraven upon his memory since he had given his boyish affections to the lovely, high-born, gentle girl, when a guest at Government House in Fredericton. Like the last moments of a drowning man, scenes he had almost forgotten flashed before him in countless array—scenes, varied and infinite, in which Lady Rosamond formed the pleasing foreground.
Face to face with this beautiful woman Guy Trevelyan was ready to fall down in adoration and pour out the tale of his sorrow with the ardor of undying love. What is the tenor of his thoughts while engaged in quiet and easy conversation with her ladyship and the other occupants of the drawing-room? Guy Trevelyan is wondering if he dare avow his love—if by any means he can find hope to approach Lady Rosamond on a subject which engrosses his waking thoughts.
Mary Douglas completed the family circle. With her came love, joy, hope, and happiness. Her lovely presence gave fresh impulse to every one greeting her arrival. Lady Rosamond felt a ray of light shed upon her as she caressed her true and constant friend. Maude was happier, if possible, in the love of Geoffrey Seymour when listening to the sweet silvery voice of this peerless woman. Fanny was overjoyed on the arrival of Mary Douglas. She alone could open her heart before the gaze of a companion. Her affections were untrammelled by false hopes or unrequited love. She sought the society of the former with a feeling bordering on idolatry. Together they spent much of their time, while Captain Trevelyan was thrown upon the resources of Lady Rosamond. The constant companionship of the man whom she loved cost many a bitter struggle to her ladyship. The earnest gaze of Guy Trevelyan's soft eyes were indeed hard to bear. If he only knew the power thus exercised upon the fair being beside him. But Lady Rosamond had kept her secret from the eye of any living creature save herself. Captain Trevelyan must not discover the fatal knowledge. He must never know. Still they conversed together, talked together, and spent many hours together, having much opportunity to fathom the depths of each other's heart. Lady Rosamond seemed cheerful, content, and happy. Captain Trevelyan was apparently light-hearted, pleasing, agreeable, and attentive. Each guest endeavored to make the most of this friendly meeting. Even Lady Bereford strove to forget her feelings and rally her former spirits and dignified stateliness. Bereford Castle enjoyed a season of delight.
One lovely evening afterwards several voices mingled in the shrubbery adjoining the garden. Maude was conversing in animated tones with Fanny Trevelyan. Geoffrey Seymour had played truant to his lady love by gallant attention to Mary Douglas.
In a remote corner, almost beyond hearing of these, and scarcely visible through the foliage, were the forms of a lady and gentleman seated beneath the sheltering branches of a stately elm. A nearer approach shows the rising color of the rose-tinted cheeks—the glorious light in those lovely eyes—the bewitching and irresistible smile. A manly voice is heard exclaiming in the tones of a rapturous lover, "Rosamond, my own darling, I never expected to realize such happiness. In the possession of such love I am a thousandfold rewarded for a lifetime of misery. Yes, my peerless Rosamond, the last half hour has amply repaid the torturing pangs of a forlorn and hopeless love which I have suffered since first beholding you." At this avowal the speaker leaned towards Lady Rosamond Bereford, revealing the features of Captain Trevelyan. In a moment of passionate fervor he had confessed his undying attachment to the lovely Rosamond, and had received the blissful assurance of reciprocated love. He was in possession of a happiness beyond description as he told the oft repeated tale to his betrothed wife, listening to her voice as it fell like music upon his ear. The fond kiss which sealed their vows was more precious than the mines of Golconda. Truly did Guy Trevelyan idolize the beautiful woman who had now surrendered her heart to his keeping.
Did Lady Rosamond tellhersecret to her accepted lover? Did she also confess the love which had been cherished towards the boyish lieutenant when he became almost a daily visitor at Government House—the maddening thoughts, that almost crushed her out of existence—the spirit of rebellion against the designs of her loved parents—her resolution made to Lady Douglas—her bitter struggle between duty and feeling—strength of character—victory over self—devotion to her husband?
This isoursecret, and we will never reveal it. The reader must be content to know that Captain Trevelyan was made happy beyond expectation by whatever revelation or by what answer. Truly they were
"Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one."
"Two souls with but a single thought,Two hearts that beat as one."
Let us assume the garb of the seer and step stealthily over the distance dividing the future, and gently draw aside the veil! What meets our gaze? A beautiful picture. The scene is now in Trevelyan Hall, where a reception is being held to welcome the beautiful bride of Captain Trevelyan—Lady Rosamond Trevelyan. Truly the peerless Rosamond. The beauty of the latter never shone so resplendent. Love has brought its unsurpassing charms. Love imparted life, brilliancy and soul to the face of the bride. Captain Trevelyan gazed upon her as though such radiance could scarcely be of earth. In the train of guests foremost stands Mary Douglas, whose happiness is indeed great. She is certain of the love existing between the newly-wedded pair, therefore reflects happiness from the thought. Next in order follows Maude Bereford, whose smiling face shows plainly the impress stamped upon her heart as she returns the gaze of her handsome betrothed, whose love is entirely devoted to her, save the tender attachment borne towards his sister Lady Rosamond Trevelyan. And our little favorite Fanny? Yes. Fanny Trevelyan is there in all her sweetness, engaging as ever, winning friends by every smile. Her joy is great. Lady Trevelyan's matronly grace and beauty appears to great advantage as she cast benign glances towards her daughter elect. Lady Rosamond in her eyes is a woman worthy to be loved—worthy of a mother's love. A group seated near, evidently in merry conversation, attracts our attention. One is entertaining them with something of a humorous character. The lively gestures and satirical smiles are certainly those of Captain Douglas. Doubtless he is telling of some sport which he enjoyed at the expense of Mr. Howe and Lieutenant Trevelyan in the field, barracks, or drawing-room, when in Fredericton. Charles Douglas, the handsome, brave, and generous son of Sir Howard, still proudly wears his former reputation unsullied and undimmed. His heart is ever ready to do an act of kindness for a fellow creature. Beloved, honored, and respected, he is worthy of his distinguished sire. Ah! we see another familiar form and face. Leaning beside an open window is that of a dear old friend, apparently occupied in studying the varied expressions of the happy bridegroom, and vainly trying to discover that puzzled one which had given so much concern on former occasions. The faithful friend of the young lieutenant of the 52nd has not forgotten to pay his respects to the retired captain of the 81st and his lovely bride. He had made a sacrifice to be present at an event which brought such happiness to one in whom he had always taken such a deep interest. Mr. Howe was indeed a happy, honored, and welcome guest. Many more are to be observed standing, sitting, reclining, in groups and companies; but as strange faces have no peculiar charm when feasting upon those of our old acquaintances, we make no effort to introduce them. In our great joy we had almost forgotten to recognize one of Lady Rosamond's warmest adherents—one always in attendance upon her ladyship, ready to engage in any fun, frolic, or excursion, in the direction of fields or woods—no less a personage than John Douglas; no longer important Johnnie, but a well-bred gentleman, hearty, jovial, merry, with bravery stamped upon every lineament of his face. Some are missing. Sir Thomas Seymour has not lived to see this. Lady Bereford is also among the number. She has paid her last debt.
Having brought before you most of those in whom you have no doubt became interested, we now bid them all a tender adieu. It is hard to part with friends who have shared our sorrow, our sympathy, and our joy, but in so doing may our prayers follow each throughout time, hallowed by fond memories of the past.
A second thought to Lady Rosamond before turning forever from the light of her lovely smile. In her great happiness there are moments when holy thoughts arise, having a purifying influence upon her life. She never can forget the past, while the present begets the consciousness of having trodden the paths of duty and right with firm, unfaltering steps, never looking back until the goal was reached—the reward gained.
"When life looks lone and drearyWhat light can dispel the gloom?When Time's swift wing grows wearyWhat charm can refresh his plume?'Tis woman, whose sweetness beamethO'er all that we feel or see;And if man of heaven e'er dreameth'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,O woman!"
"When life looks lone and drearyWhat light can dispel the gloom?When Time's swift wing grows wearyWhat charm can refresh his plume?'Tis woman, whose sweetness beamethO'er all that we feel or see;And if man of heaven e'er dreameth'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,O woman!"
THE END.
[1]Leicester's description taken from Sir Walter Scott.
[1]Leicester's description taken from Sir Walter Scott.
[2]The house at present occupied by Chief Justice Allen.
[2]The house at present occupied by Chief Justice Allen.
[3]Long before the Canadian Rebellion.
[3]Long before the Canadian Rebellion.