indeed, healeth them, but it is by taking them to himself. I have looked round me here," she continued, pointing to the graves by which they were surrounded," and envied those who have gone before me to that home where the weary are at rest." Some few words of comfort the good rector spoke, as he approached his own house, and opened the glass door that led into the little study where his daughter awaited him. The lady hesitated, and seemed half fearful of entering, but he led her in, and seated her beside the fire, while his daughter divested her of some of her damp garments, and insisted on wrapping her in her own cloak. There was something so humble in the lady's gratitude, something so sorrowful even in her extreme beauty, uncared for and neglected as she seemed, that the kind-hearted family at the rectory could not but feel a touching interest in her; and when at length her carriage, for which a messenger had been despatched, arrived to convey her home, many kind words were spoken, and none could have supposed that, till that day, the lady had been a stranger. The next Sunday was fine and bright, but the lady was not in her usual place. She was seen no more even in her garden; and the rector, who made several vain attempts to be admitted to her presence, heard that she was very ill. He doubted not, remembering her weakness and her wan looks, that the hour for which she longed was approaching, and gladly would he have endeavoured, as the minister of God, to smooth the way before her to the grave. We have seen that she, too, wished for the comfort of his presence, but even this was denied to her. Young (for she was only in her twenty-sixth year), innocent, beautiful, yet broken-hearted, she was left to meet her death alone. CHAPTER II. It is time that we say something of the cause of that grief which oppressed the lady of Elm-wood, and which the ignorant and unkind attributed to some error of her past life. For this purpose, it is necessary to turn to the history of her early years. Her mother died when she was an infant, and her father, a man of extravagant habits, married a second time within a year of his first wife's death. His marriage with a wealthy heiress freed him for a while from pecuniary embarrassments, but destroyed for ever the peace of his home. His bride was haughty, vain, and ill-tempered, and the indifference he had felt for her at first quickly deepened into positive dislike. For a time, he seemed to find in the caresses of his child a consolation for the disagreeables of his domestic life; but his weak mind soon thirsted for excitement, and he found it at the gaming-table. By degrees a passion for play absorbed every other feeling. The birth of an heir, though it appeared to give him pleasure, did not long keep him from his darling pursuit, and, as years passed by, he saw less and less of his family, and appeared to become totally in lifferent as to their welfare. Thus his daughter was left a victim to the caprice and ill-humour of her vain and frivolous step-mother. Few were the remembrances of her childhood, which she, even in the deeper trials of her after-life, could recall with any thing of pleasure. The spoiled and petted son of her stepmother, imitating the small tyranny of his parent, on every occasion asserted his superiority over the gentle girl, whose spirit was already learning its lesson of humility and submission. When she had grown to womanhood, her extraordinary beauty, though it did not increase the good-will of her step-mother, was yet looked upon by her father with something of selfish pride, and he already calculated the advantages which might accrue to himself from her making what is termed a good match. It was while these thoughts were maturing into plans for the accomplishment of his object, that he made acquaintance with the lordly owner of Elm-wood-a man in the prime of life, yet, like himself, an habitual gambler. In their frequent meetings, these two men became intimate, and frequently played together-up to a certain time, with about equal success. At length the younger gambler began to lose; one by one he pledged all his possessions, and, in the end, rose from the table a ruined man. He might raise the money to pay his debt, but only by injuring his property past the hope of recovery. His companion observed the struggle in his mind; he balanced the advantages and disadvantages of insisting on the payment of the debt; for, while he wanted money, he yet did not wish for the publicity which the present affair, if persevered in, must give to the nature of his re sources. The young man remained for awhile in a state of moody abstraction, and then exclaimed, “No, no! I don't want to see her. I'll marry her, if she is as ugly as Sin. There's my hand upon it!" the father bartered The future husband came, and was not slow to perceive the repugnance of his betrothed. His pride and selflove were interested at once; and he devoted his attentions to the hitherto neglected girl, filling her ear with the sweet voice of praise and seeming love, till he won not only her gratitude but her affection. In a very few weeks she became his bride, and went with him to his stately home, where, for awhile, she deemed herself happier than she had ever been before. But he soon slackened in his attentions, and sometimes betrayed the bitterness and violence of his temper even to her. One day, when he had spoken to her with cruel, and, as she felt, undeserved harshness, the feelings that had for some time been gathering strength in her heart found utterance, and she passionately entreated to know what she had done to forfeit his love. "My love!" he said, contemptuously, "did you never hear why I married you?" "I thought I hoped you loved me," she answered, in a low, timid voice. "You thought-you hoped! Did your father never tell you of our bargain? I gave you my hand in payment of a gambling debt to your excellent and respected father. Mighty innocent you are, no doubt, and never knew that you were forced upon me; and that now your every look reminds me of the most hateful hours of my life! There,-dry your eyes. Your revered parent has, no doubt, made you a capital actress; but we need not pretend to misunderstand each other. We have each won our reward in this blest union: you are mistress of Elm-wood, and I am saved from ruin, which would be bad enough, and exposure, which would be worse." They sat down again, called for writing-materials, and wrote, the one a promise of marriage to a woman he had never seen; the other, a discharge of three-fourths of the debt due to him, on condition of the fulfilment of the pledge agreed upon. The two papers were duly signed; and the parties separated. And thus thus the lord of Elm-wood obtained away his childhis bride! She was told to prepare to receive her future husband, and she obeyed; for she knew resistance would be in vain. Her father had become so entirely estranged from her, that she dared say nothing in opposition to his commands; and her step-mother shewed too openly the joy she felt in the prospect of being rid of one, whose very patience was a tacit reproach to her conscience for the poor girl to entertain a hope that she would intercede for her. "My father!" stammered the lady. "Yes. No doubt his conduct proceeded from the purest affection for yourself. He had, of course, every reason to believe I should make an excellent husband. There was nothing of self-interest in what he did -no desire to make use of my house and fortune, or to make a tool of myself. It matters not," he added, with increased bitterness, "I have made myself a promise that he shall never cross my threshold; and I never broke my word yet, as you know," bowing to her with mock civility. He left the room, and his bewildered hearer remained long standing in the same attitude, utterly confounded by the words he had spoken. "Was it true? Had he, indeed, said he did not love her? Was every Was hope gone from her for ever? her very presence hateful to him? Oh, that she had died in the blessed belief that he loved her! Where could she turn for help, for advice? Her dream of happiness was past; nothing could restore it." Such were the thoughts that passed across her mind again and again; and, in truth, it was a hard thing for a heart so young, and so loving, to feel itself desolate and forsaken. After a time, the hope of winning his affection rose within her, and long and patiently she strove to realise it; but alas, in vain! Months passed on, and the hour drew near in which she expected to become a mother. When a son was born to her, once more her hope revived. "Surely," she thought, "for the sake of his child he will love me." But again she was disappointed. He had returned to his old friends, and to his old amusements; and she felt at last, however unwillingly, that she could never fill a place in his heart. Eight years elapsed between the time of her marriage and the scene with which our tale opened. All that she had endured in that interval, none may know. Her eldest boy, as soon as he was able to talk, became his father's plaything, and quickly learned to laugh at his mother's authority. A second son, who was still dearer to her than the first, because she was still more unhappy at the time of his birth, lived only a few months; and she wept alone beside his grave. Her youngest darling, a bright, rosy girl, with dimpled smile, and eyes full of gladness, was little more than a year old at the time the lady of Elm-wood lay on her death-bed. We return to that death-bed, where we left the dying sufferer breathing aloud the sorrows that had weighed down her spirit for years. Exhausted at length, she had once more sunk into silence, when a light knock was heard at the door, and, in a few moments, the nurse admitted a woman carrying a lovely infant. The lady clasped the child in her arms, kissed again and again its cheeks and lips, and almost smiled when she felt the touch of its cool hand on her brow. "You must leave her with me tonight, Alice," she said, turning to the young woman who had carried the child. "I will undress her. Nurse, help me to get up." It was in vain that the old nurse remonstrated, the lady persisted; and, supported by pillows, she sat up in her bed, and tenderly loosened the baby's clothes, and wrapped it in its little night-dress. She even played with it as of old, and smiled to hear its merry laughter. She dismissed Alice, but, recalling her as she was leaving the room, said, earnestly,"Alice, you love this child: she will soon be motherless, there will be none to care for her. Oh, be faithful to your charge! Cherish her, do not desert her; and may the blessing of her dying mother be with you to your last hour!" Its The young woman left the room in tears, the nurse sighed as she turned away; and the lady lay down with her beautiful baby on her bosom. Her heart was full of prayer, though her voice was hushed, lest she should disturb the slumber that was stealing over the child. calm, regular breathing was music to her ear; the smiles that broke, like gleams of sunshine, on its sweet, sleeping face soothed her, and stole into her thoughts. Full of faith and hope, she commended that precious one to the care of her Saviour; and when some struggling wish would arise, that she might have lived to protect and cherish it, still she could say in sincerity, "In Him is my trust." Long past midnight, the old nurse was awakened from a deep sleep by a hasty step advancing across the apartment. It was the lord of Elmwood, who thus tardily-his evening's amusement being concludedanswered his wife's summons. "I am here, Eleanor," he said, withdrawing the curtain; "why did you send for me?" No voice replied; and he moved the lamp, so as to throw its light on the bed. The light that met his eyes touched even him. There lay his wife, dead; and, on her bosom, its rosy cheek touching her cold lips, its round arm thrown about her neck, lay her infant, in its calm, happy sleep. He bent over them-he gazed upon that faded form, now awful in its stillness, and on that joyful infant so full of life and happiness. He remembered, as he looked on the dead, her patience, her humility, her unfailing submission to his capricious will; he remembered to what a life of solitude he had condemned her, and then he thought of her as she was when he first saw her, and when those eyes looked lovingly upon him. Only a few hours ago, she was even as his slave, trembling at his word, obedient to his will. Now, perhaps, she was pleading her cause against him before the throne of God. Oh, if he had but come earlier! if he could only have heard one word of forgiveness from those lips, which, in their silence, seemed yet to whisper that he had been a murderer! He turned away: "Take the child," he said, hoarsely. "Take it away from her,--she is dead." He left the room. The nurse followed, and put a paper into his hand : My lady bade me give you this after she should be gone," she said. He thrust it into his bosom, and hurried into his study, where, having carefully closed the door, he again drew it forth, and began to read. It was a short letter, dated but two days back. passed since I was undeceived-years in which you have repulsed all my efforts to win your confidence, and to be to you even but a companion, when others failed you, yet now, all that long interval of grief is forgotten; and every kind word you spoke in that happier time seems sounding in my ear once more. Something I must say to you,"-so it was worded,-"something I must say, of all the thoughts that now, in my last hours, crowd upon my brain. I have no friend to sit beside my death-bed, and listen to my last words; no friend to go with me to the threshold of the grave, and uphold me when my faith falters. "But, why do I say this to you? Those kind words came not from your heart; and I am nothing to you now. I can appeal to you only as a dying woman, and pray you, by Heaven's mercy, to attend to my last wish. My baby, my fair, happy baby! Oh, look with pity upon her when she is motherless! Do not let her grow up among those who will not love her! It is a dreadful thing to live on year by year with a heart full of love, and yet to have that love despised and rejected. If I might dare ask of you compliance with my last wish, 1 would say, let her be placed with Mrs. Paterson, I am sure she will be happy in that home of peace. "Alone, and uncared for, I wait for death; sometimes full of fear, sometimes eagerly longing for its coming. For years I have had no friend but my God; He alone has heard the voice of my sorrows, and He alone is with me now. "Farewell! 1 linger over these last words. Would that I might lay my head on your bosom, and breathe away my life, dreaming once more that you loved me! My presence has been a burden to you. Even now you will not come to me. It is almost over! "Do not fear a word of reproach from me. My short life has been a sad one; but it is to you I owe the only dream of gladness that has cheered it. For those few months, during which I believed I was dear to you, I was perfectly happy. I know my belief was vain; but I do not blame you. Our love is not our own to give and take back as we will. "It is strange, that though years have "Once more, I commend to you my child. You surely will love her. There is nothing in her sunny face to remind you of me. I am weary, and can write no more; perhaps, even now, I have said too much; but my poor heart was full, and I had none to comfort me. May God bless you!" The letter fell from his hand, and he wept like a child. A change had come over his feelings towards his wife, but it was too late. Some days after the lady had been laid in her grave, a group of villagers gathered round the old nurse, questioning her as to all that had happened at Elm-wood. "You see he must have been very fond of her after all," said one. "He has asked Mrs. Paterson to take the baby, as my lady wished; and did you see how he cried at the funeral?" "Bah! don't talk to me of such love," said the old nurse, impatiently. "If he'd shewn but a quarter of the kindness towards her a year ago that he's shewn since she was dead, and could feel it no longer, she'd have been a happy living woman this day. Heaven preserve us all from love like his!" RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS. Quand vous serez bien vieille, le soir à la chandelle Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant SOME winter night, shut snugly in There's not a maiden in your hall, "Our lady's old and feeble now," They'll say," she once was fresh and fair, And heartless left him to despair; The lover lies in silent earth, No kindly mate the lady cheers; She sits beside a lonely hearth, With threescore and ten years!" Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those, MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH. |