Chapter IX: Part 9

“Excellently well, dear Franzchen. But it is time you dressed. The baroness has been here. She says that every one has come, and we must descend to the drawing-room as soon as we can. Come, I will arrange your hair myself, for I have set Lisette to altering a little your white gauze dress with the blue trimming.”

“But how will you get dressed, Magda?”

“Don’t you see that Lisette has already braided my hair? She can finish dressing me in a minute. Now, pray, don’t open your eyes so wide. I did not sleep quite as long as you, that is all.”

“But my white gauze dress with the blue trimming! Where did it come from? I never saw it before.”

“Why, I ordered it, to be sure, and plenty more beside. Did you think, you little ignoramus, that we were coming without any thing to wear? But now, let me do your hair.”

“How kind you always are, Magda! I never thought of it.”

“I know that. You never paid a visit to the Baroness of Radgardin before, and don’t know of what importance such things are in her eyes.”

“But, Magda, what are you putting those pearls in my hair for? They are the prettiest ornaments you have. You must wear them yourself.”

“Oh, no! I’m going to wear my little tiara, my golden crescent, that we used to call the crown. It is more suitable, you know.”

“Suitable! To what?”

“Why, to my exalted expectations, to be sure! You forget Count Hugo.”

“Has he come?” asked Franzchen, eagerly.

“Yes, some time ago; and I have seen and talked with him. There! Now, pray, don’t give such another start, for you have disarranged all the curls I had just finished brushing. Sit still, and I will tell you all about it. I did not feel at all inclined to sleep, and I went down the terrace, with the baroness, to see a new walk she is having made. We were in full discussion concerning it, when we heard a voice behind us and turning, saw Count Hugo, who had left his horse with a servant at the entrance of the park, that he might, as he told us, have the pleasure of walking slowly through it, and enjoying the fine views.”

“I like him for that!” cried Franzchen, who was growing quite excited. “That is just what I should have liked to have done! I hate those indifferent sort of persons, who pass every thing by without the least admiration, and would not walk a step out of their way to see the most beautiful scene in the world. But what next, Magda?”

“Only that we had a pleasant little conversation, and I like him better than ever. After paying his respects to the baroness, he hastened to claim my acquaintance, and stayed talking to me until my aunt, alarmed for my toilette, carried him off.”

“Oh, I am so glad! I’m sure he must like you very much, Magda! It seems like a dream. How stupid I was to sleep all the time.”

“Not at all,” said Magda, quietly, as she gave the last touch to Franzchen’s hair. “There comes Lisette with the dress.”

The toilette was at length completed, and Magdalene announced her intention of descending immediately.

Franzchen, who always delighted in seeing her friend handsomely dressed, could not refrain from a little innocent admiration, but danced around her, examining her from head to foot, and exclaiming, “You look like some great queen, Magda, in your white satin dress, and your little golden coronal.” Magda smiled quietly, and thought little Franzchen did not look at all amiss in the white gauze dress, her dark curls fastened back by the bandeau of pearls, and her eyes sparkling with delight.

As they were ushered into the brilliant saloon, the baroness came forward and introduced them to one and another, until Franzchen was almost bewildered. First they must curtsey to this stout lady in blue, and the noble margravine, then smile sweetly on that good-tempered old gentleman, and gratefully on this condescending great landgrave.

Then advanced from the crowd, a thin, elderly gentleman, with rather a vacant countenance, and stiff manner, accompanied by a younger one, with bright, brown eyes, and a lively, pleasant face. They welcomed Magda with much friendliness, and were introduced to Mademoiselle Deshalbens as Baron Radgardin and Count Hugo.

Franzchen’s eyes fairly danced. She felt as if she was in an enchanted land, and although, after the first introduction was over she was left almost unnoticed in the crowd, she was fully occupied in admiring the brilliancy of the lights, the gay appearance of the lamps, and above all, in watching Magda dancing with Count Hugo, who evidently admired her greatly, and seized every opportunity of conversing with her.

At length a sandy-haired young man, whose countenance left the impression of a perfect blank upon Franzchen’s mind, requested her to dance. She arose to join the set, but was so busy thinking and admiring, that she hardly knew what she was doing; but she danced with the unconscious grace that was natural to her.

“Mademoiselle Deshalbens moves like a zephyr,” remarked the count, who had been watching the new-comer with considerable satisfaction—and Magda smiled assent.

After the dancing and supper were over, a walk was proposed upon the terrace—and every gentleman hastened to escort some fair lady to the promenade.

As Franzchen stood waiting, she saw the count looking for Magda, who was already walking with Baron Logrum. As he turned away disappointed, he noticed her standing alone, and hastened to beg the honor of conducting her.

She desired nothing more than the opportunity of becoming acquainted with him; and although at first she stood a little in awe of him, she had a natural gift at making herself at home with every one, and inducing them to talk. But the count was no difficult subject. He spoke with the ease of an intelligent, well educated man, and the wit of a young and lively one.

He commenced at once about Magdalene, whom he rejoiced again to have met. Then they admired the pleasant walk, the fine view, and the bright moonlight; and at length they wandered off into a comparison of their favorite writers, whom they discussed with an animation that astonished a very prim and proper couple, who walked just behind them, alternately answering with yes and no’s, to questions asked at minute intervals.

By the time they returned to the saloon, Franzchen felt almost as if they were old friends, and thought how much better one free and earnest conversation was than a thousand silent meetings.

“I like the count very much,” she said, as she returned with Magda to their room, after the company had dispersed; “and he talks so much of you.”

“You do not wonder so much now, that I could forget Carl Engleford, while thinking of him?”

“No.” Franzchen was obliged to confess that she was no longer surprised at it.

It may easily be imagined that the two friends rose rather late upon the ensuing morning; but that was the custom in that noble house—and the midday sun was shining brightly when Lisette entered with the coffee.

Magdalene and Franzchen sat opposite each other in their loose morning-dresses, and entered into a regular gossip, as they sipped their coffee, on the events of the preceding day.

They talked over the kind though stiff baron, the ambitious baroness, the condescending landgrave, and last, but not least, the agreeable young count.

“I always had a high esteem for him,” said Magda, “from what I have heard of him. And I think he is more truly polite and polished than any one I have ever met with.”

“I think so, too,” said Franzchen; “he is so gentle and kind; and I like so much to see his eyes twinkle, when he says any thing merry.”

“Yes, he really has beautiful eyes, so full of life and intelligence.”

“And then, Magda, his manners are so simple and unaffected. I was afraid, because he was a count, and very rich, that he would be haughty and self-conceited; but he is not so at all—is he?”

“Not in the least,” responded Magda; and so they agreed that they were very well pleased to have met him.

“Good news! good news!” cried the baroness, when she next found Magda alone. “The count is going to stay with us awhile, for he is quite at leisure for some time to come. Ah! I know well enough to whom it is owing. He was delighted with the party last night, and expressed great pleasure at meeting you here, expressing at the same time the highest admiration of your appearance and manners—so dignified and lady-like!”

Magda smiled, blushed, and said he was really too complimentary.

“Oh, he admires you exceedingly; and he likes your little friend, too. He says there is something very bright and lovely in the expression of her face, and that the contrast between you is very becoming to you both. Was it not good-natured of him to take so much notice of her?”

“No, he only showed a due discernment, I think,” answered Magda.

“Oh, my dear, you are so fond of her! But to do her justice, she really dressed herself with good taste last night, which is a thing I like to see. And you did also, Magda; only I did not like your head-dress quite so well.”

“That is because nature has not bestowed upon me such fine dark curls, ma’am.”

“Well, she has pretty hair. But, my dear, we must make good use of the time while the count is with us.”

“I shall certainly endeavor to,” said Magda, as she went to join Franzchen and the count in the park.

One fine evening the two friends, accompanied by Count Hugo, who was now their constant companion, strolled down to the river. As they looked toward the blue distant mountains, Franzchen wished for wings that she might fly away to their dim summits; but Magda thought it would be far more agreeable to glide over the clear surface of the water.

The count seized upon the idea with alacrity. “Yes, that is the very thing,” he cried. “And, see! here is a little boat all ready. Will you not trust yourselves to my guidance? I am a good boat’s-man, I assure you.”

“Oh, delightful!” cried Franzchen. “You shall row us in the path that the moon has marked out for us; and we will glide down the stream like the fairies we hear of in old stories, in their little walnut-shell boats.”

“But what if we should tip over?” suggested the prudent Magda.

“Then we would float along like the sea-nymphs, with flowing locks spread out upon the water. I think, to bathe in this beautiful river would be quite pleasant.”

“And only think,” interposed the count, “what a fine opportunity I should have of displaying my gallantry in rescuing you by those flowing locks, and swimming with you to the land.”

“Oh, my poor head! It makes me shudder to think of it,” said Magda, clasping her hands above her. “That might do for water-nymphs, if they have hair of ropes, and skin like leather; but for poor human beings, me thinks, it would be more romantic than agreeable.”

“But there is really no danger,” replied the count; “and I shall consider it as an imputation upon my skill, if you do not try it.”

Franzchen jumped into the boat, Magda followed, and Count Hugo, placing himself at the helm, soon showed himself skillful in the use of the oar.

The moonlight shining like silver upon the still water, the dark trees and bushes casting deep, mysterious shadows upon the margin, the fresh evening air, and the showers of diamonds falling from the oars, all combined to carry Franzchen, keenly alive to every thing picturesque, into the seventh heaven. Unable to contain herself, she broke forth with her clear voice into a little river song, in which she was quickly joined by her companions. Then Count Hugo begged for another, and another—and so they floated on, making the echoes resound with sweet sounds until they came to a little island, where the count moored the boat to the shore, and springing out, offered them his hand.

They made the circuit of the island, and then sat down on the craggy roots of some old trees, looking toward the dark woods on the opposite side of the river.

“This little island reminds me of a story you were telling me the other day, Franzchen,” said Magda.

“Oh, tell it us! tell it us again!” said the count, seating himself opposite to them. “This is the very time and place for it; and that alone is needed to make the evening perfect!”

Franzchen thought it quite perfect already, but she readily consented, on condition that they also should relate something in their turn. She then commenced a little anecdote concerning a prince, who once possessed a large province, with a small island upon the coast, to which his predecessors had been so greatly attached, on account of its extreme beauty, that they had built a palace upon it, and held there their court during the fairest months of the year. There, one by one, his ancestors had been gathered to their rest—and tradition associated with that spot the fate of their line. Year by year the king grew more attached to his island heritage; and through many sorrows and misfortunes, he clung to it as a reminiscence of the past, and a safeguard for the future. At length a powerful and ambitious neighbor made war upon him, defeated him, and drove him to take refuge upon this one small island, the last of his possessions. As long as he could retain it he was not without hope; but when this also was taken from him, the unfortunate king wandered, exiled and broken-hearted, in a foreign land, and at length returned in disguise, old and friendless, to die upon the ground consecrated to his race.

Franzchen always entered with her whole heart into every thing she related, however insignificant; and she now described with great effect the loveliness of the island, and the despair of the exiled monarch. Her eyes beamed, and her voice rose as she told of the conflict, and fell again into sadness, as she spoke of the defeat, the exile, and the sad return.

Count Hugo moved nearer as she proceeded, and looked at her with increasing interest and pleasure; and Magda smiled, for she had often experienced the living interest which Franzchen threw, like a magic web, over all her recitals. Then she and Count Hugo must also relate something; and though they could not pretend to compete with Franzchen, yet the eager interest she took in all that was said, acted almost like inspiration; and the tales and traditions went round, until Magda, startled by the lateness of the hour, rose to return.

After that the count liked nothing better than to prevail upon Franzchen to draw upon her retentive memory for the stories and anecdotes in which she delighted; and then they would enter into airy and mystical conversations, and such abstract philosophical questions, that Magda declared she was fast taking leave of her seven senses, and running the risk of colds, chills, and all kinds of disasters, by sitting upon the grass, and walking through the park at all hours of the day.

So passed the time for days and for weeks; for Count Hugo prolonged his stay, and, indeed, he seemed very unwilling to take his departure at all; and the baroness, triumphant in the success of her plans, would not hear of Magda’s leaving.

Day after day Count Hugo walked out with them, read to them, and seemed to take increasing interest in their society.

After leaving Magda and the count alone, Franzchen often found them engaged in earnest conversation, when they would appear evidently embarrassed by her return. Then the count would jump up, offer her his seat, and enter at once into an animated discussion upon the first subject that entered his head. This Franzchen looked upon as a very natural proceeding, and a matter of course. Sometimes it struck her, that he talked too much to her, that he paid her more attention, and consulted her wishes even more than Magda’s; but that was only a little awkwardness, and Magda was not of a jealous disposition.

At length they came to the conclusion that the visit to Franzchen’s good cousin could be postponed no longer. So they reluctantly fixed upon the day for their departure, and the baroness could not prevail upon them to delay it.

On the last evening they went to take a farewell walk in the park. Magda was silent and thoughtful, Franzchen decidedly dismal, and Count Hugo seemed uneasy and absent-minded. Franzchen at length, to break the silence, doubled a large leaf into a cup, and pretending to be very thirsty, dipped up water from the river, and offered it to her companions, under the pretence that it was the choicer nectar. Count Hugo declared the river water was detestable, begged her not to taste it, and said he would bring her some from the spring. In vain she protested that she would wait until she returned, that she could not think of letting him go all the way back to the spring. He was only too happy to be of any service—and he darted away.

“And so we really must go to-morrow,” said Franzchen, sadly, after standing a moment looking after him. “What shall we do without Count Hugo, Magda?”

“But we need not part with him. He only waits for permission to accompany us to-morrow to your cousin’s.”

“Does he, indeed? Oh, Magda, surely you will grant it.”

“I have nothing to do with it, Franzchen. I shall never exert any influence over him but that of a friend.”

“Why, Magda, I always supposed—”

“But Carl Engleford,” interrupted Magda, archly. “What would become of poor Carl Engleford! And now,” she said, speaking more seriously, “let me assure you, dearest Franzchen, that I have never for a moment thought of the count for myself. It is for you I have sought his society; it is for your sake I have prolonged our stay; and it is for your sake alone that the count has remained with us. Forgive me a little innocent deception. The baroness manœuvered for me, and I must needs manœuvre a little for you. Now the count has fairly engaged me on his side. He loves you truly; and it has long been my most earnest wish to see you look favorably upon him.”

“Ah, yes!” cried Count Hugo, who at that moment appeared among the trees, bearing a pitcher of water, which he let fall hastily as he rushed forward to seize her hand. “Loveliest Franzchen! have you not long seen how I delight in your society, and how miserable I should be without you! It is, indeed, your permission I wait for! Will you not grant it?”

Magda quietly descended after the pitcher, which had been rolling down the sloping ground in a most perilous manner, while the count poured forth such a torrent of persuasion and beseeching looks, that before the bewildered little Franzchen well knew what she was about, she had granted the desired permission, and allowed him to cover her hand with kisses, in gratitude therefor. But although she had consented rather hastily, yet, on recovering her senses, and considering the matter, she did not feel inclined to retract; and her first thought on the following morning was, “How glad I am Count Hugo is going with us.”

* * * * *

Great was the triumph of the baroness, when she heard that the count was to accompany her guests; but immense was her astonishment and disappointment, when she discovered that it was as the declared suitor, not of Magdalene, but of Franzchen; and severe would have been the upbraidings which her niece would have had to bear, for not acquainting her sooner with the true state of things, had not Count Hugo, before their departure, earnestly thanked her for the great kindness and discretion with which she had discerned his feelings, and aided him in seeking the society of her young friends. Whereupon, she thought it best to conceal her dissatisfaction, under the pretence of great penetration. And, after all she thought, Baron Logrum is richer than the count, and evidently admires Magda greatly; and so—and so—

And so ended the visit to Radgardin.

* * * * *

THE POET’S CHOICE.

BY RICHARD COE.

“Standing now before thee, Colin,
Are my coz and I;
Tell me truly, now, dear Colin,
While we’re waiting by,
Which the prettier of the twain,
My sweet coz or I?

“See my locks so bright and golden,
Braided o’er my brow;
See mine eyes so blue and heavenly,
And my pretty mou’,
And my teeth of pearly whiteness,
Fairer none I vow?

“See my cousin’s locks of raven,
On her brow so white,
And her gentle features graven
With a calm delight!
Do not fear mine anger, Colin,
But decide aright.”

Colin stood awhile uncertain,
Then he made reply—
“Fair to me thy locks so golden,
Beautiful thine eye;
Pearly teeth so white and even
Ne’er before saw I!

“Locks of raven like thy cousin’s
Lovely are, I ween,
Features all so calm and holy
Seldom e’er are seen!
To decide which is the prettier,
Two such maids between,

“Is too nice a task, sweet maiden,
For such youth as I;
One is like the morning sunrise,
One the evening sky;
Both so beautiful and lovely
That they charm the eye!”

Now with hands enclasped together,
Sweetly to behold,
Light they bounded o’er the heather
Raven locks and gold:
While beside me, spell-entrancéd,
Stood young Colin bold!

Then, afar, I heard them singing
Colin’s sweet reply—
“One is like the morning sunrise,
One the evening sky,”
Till their voices in the distance
Sounded like a sigh!

Came the evening shadows o’er us,
As we lingering stood,
Clothing landscape all before us,
Mountain, vale and wood,
With a darkness like the spirit’s
Melancholy mood!

Then unto young Colin turning,
“Colin! sir,” said I,
“I will take the morning sunrise,
Thou the evening sky,
And, within our souls, forever
Wear them till we die!”

* * * * *

TRANSLATION.

ODES OF HORACE. BOOK I. ODE XXIII.

BY D. R. K.

Like frightened fawn, when on the mountain air
The crashing hunt comes sweeping near its lair,
Trembling it stands, uncertain which to fly,
The rustling leaves, or stag-hounds dreadful cry,
So thou, my Chloe, when thy swain appears,
Thy pallid checks disclose full well thy fears;
Thy trembling steps, thy downcast eyes, attest
The tumults that assail thy tender breast.

Wherefore this causeless fear? this false alarm?
Thou surely canst not think I’d do thee harm?
When thy fond swain with eager steps draws nigh,
With greater signs of fear, thou wouldst not fly
Gætulia’s lion, with its dreadful roar—
Helvetia’s wolf or Thracia’s savage boar.
Oh! calm thy fears and yield me up thy charms—
Forsake thy mother’s for thy lover’s arms.

* * * * *

CLAIRE NEVILLE.

BY H. L. JONES.

Death was in the house; in the room; in the small pallet where, side by side, lay the mother and her newly born child.

Poverty was there, too, hard-featured and repulsive always, but now hanging her head and hiding her face before the stern reality of the dark angel. What mattered it how the soul took its departure? whether in state, with many mourning eyes gazing, and white stoled priest with lifted hands at the bedside; or desolate and wholly forsaken of man as was Clara Neville’s on her straw-bed in her lonely hovel? It mattered not—and yet may our last moments be cheered by the silent and tearful love of friends—as we start on our dark voyage, may we hear the cheering tones and be buoyed up by the affectionate throbs of the beloved hearts around us!

Pestilence had come among the inmates of the hamlet. They were not barbarians, else, to leave the couch of death untended. But bereavement and selfishness and mortal fear had done its work. The few who remained were dying alone, and of this number was Clara Neville and her young daughter. Her husband in a distant land, her kindred estranged or dead, she met her fast coming fate alone, but with one all-absorbing anxiety. With that anxious will, she had kept herself, as it were, alive—that she might not leave her little one in the world behind her. While the death-damps hung on her own brow, her straining gaze yet rested on the form and face of the pale infant, whose fluttering breath grew shorter and shorter every instant. Still she clasped her baby close to her poor heart, with the energy that death itself could not subdue, and when at length the limbs straightened in what the mother knew was the last convulsion, Clara cast her eyes to heaven, and closing her speechless lips, in a glad smile passed away.

So it seemed at least. But help was nighest when it seemed farthest away. The door of the hovel was flung open—the serene air poured in; gentle hands ministered at the couch, and restoratives and cordials on lip and brow brought back the life that seemed to have left its dwelling. The disease had reached its crisis, and the eyes of both mother and child once more opened on the world.

Clara, weak and half insensible still from the deadly illness she had suffered, scarcely looked at the pure, white linen of her bed, the little comforts and luxuries about her, or the gentle and watchful Sister of Charity who bent over her, with the cool draught or the nourishing mixture. She looked only at the sleeping cherub at her bosom, without power to smooth, as she longed to, the brown curls on the forehead, or to kiss the gentle eyes in their pleasant sleep. Then she, too, sunk into such a sleep, long and refreshing, and hour after hour the Sister sat by the bed, till the night passed and the morning, and the sun came against the white curtain at the head of the silent bed. Nature was kindly dealing with Clara and her young baby; they slept and gathered strength to live. Stronger and deeper came the breath of both—more rapidly ran the rosy current over the calm faces of both, till Nature, drawing from her deep wells of love, moistened the thirsty lip of one, at the moment the glad throb of the other’s heart woke them both to happy existence. Clara nursed her child and had no words to express her joy. The watchful Sister saw the emotion that pervaded her frame, and placing her finger on her lip, prepared a composing draught for the young mother.

Many days passed of the kindest care and the most rapid recovery. Both mother and child were so well as no longer to need the constant aid of the Sister. But she sat with Clara the evening before her departure, her kind face lighted up with benevolence and interest in those she had saved from death.

“Holy Mary grant it may be best for both of you!” ejaculated she, as her fingers mechanically sought her rosary and moved rapidly over it.

“Amen!” said Clara, piously.

“You have tasted the bitterness of death once. You can never dread it so much again. I have attended many death-beds, I never saw any thing so nearly like it as yours was; but for a little warmth about the heart, I should have been quite discouraged; and then when I tore open your vest the crucifix lay there, and I was almost sure you were living. Our Blessed Mother would be loth that the pillow on which Jesus rested should be hard and cold; and sure enough it was not half an hour before your eyes opened.”

“Dear Sister Martha,” said Clara; “I had dreams in that half hour which I shall never forget to the last day of my life.”

“Tell me them if you may. The dreams of those who have passed from death back to life, must be foreshadowings and pictures of the life beyond. Holy St. Ignatius had many such, when exhausted with excessive fasts he lay in death-like swoons on the floor of his cell. Tell me, then, I pray you, in what form death came to you.”

“Like two vast dark wings, which grew darker and darker, and folded closer and closer over me, till at last they seemed to brood over me, as I have seen birds over their young. There was nothing strange or gloomy about them—nothing frightful. They seemed to have a right there, and I knew what it was; only I could not look at or attend to its approaches, because I waited and watched first for the soul of my darling to pass. I said it with my thought to the dark wings, and it replied—‘You shall pass away together.’ Then it came closer to me, like a watching mother to the bed, and I felt it come down on my eyes like a shadow, and then I seemed to sleep a long, long while. Such a sleep as one is half conscious of, and the refreshment of which he fully enjoys.

“When I awoke, I found or felt myself in the folds, as it were, of a cloud. It was rose-colored, and seemed made of music—but the music was not set harmony either, and seemed composed of all natural soothing sounds. The whisper and rush of the wave on the sea shore, the murmur of the brooklet, or the sighing of the wind among the trees or over the long grass; all sounds that are associated with peace and loveliness filled and seemed to compose this cloud, for there was a mingling of senses, so to speak, or rather all that was most lovely in sound and color and odor embathed and permeated my being without my perceiving, far less analyzing, the source of my pleasure. At length, as if the natural body were changed for a spiritual one, I began to ascend and descend on the pillowy clouds above and about me, I moved voluntarily, and was conscious of an independent existence. Slowly came back the memory of life and of its relations. But though I remembered my baby entirely, I was without that agonizing anxiety for her with which I had died. There were many soft female faces about me as I lay there, and presently I felt that the Blessed Mother herself was among them, for she leaned over me and smiled; and then, I knew without her telling me, that my own baby was the one she held in her arms and gave to me. I cannot express to you the home-feeling that this gave me. All about me grew more soft and lovely, the forms and features of all more and more distinct, as if they were careful not to oppress the new-born soul with excess of beauty.

“But when the rose-cloud floated away and the clear blue beyond of the very heavens, sprinkled with starry light, of which our firmament in a clear wintry night gives you but a feeble idea, I felt then the activity of a spirit. With the celerity of thought we traversed, in bands or alone, the infinite space, where we learned God in its beauty and vastness, and learning Him, adored Him. It was but a beginning, a moment of eternity that I had begun to taste, yet what years I seemed to myself to live! Once only I saw the Holy Jesus, and then He spoke so gently the words, ‘A little while, and where I am, you shall be also. Suffer your little one, also, to come unto me, and forbid her not; she will remember her first moments in heaven.’

“And then the next thing I remember was a dull, sluggish feeling, of almost pain, and a choking sensation; and then, your face, full of compassion, my kind Sister, beamed on me and consoled me. It had been a grievous change from heaven’s angels, but that I found one of mercy on earth.”

“Very little like an angel,” said Sister Martha, with a smile; “but tell me now, how the angels look.”

“That is just what I cannot do,” said Clara, “no more than I can tell how the soul looks that beams in your eye, but is not your eye,—how the tears well up from your tender heart, and soften but do not suffuse. Ah! with what body do they come? Something that without seeing, we love, and before which, body, and feature, and form, even in this life melt away. Even here we love what we never saw or can see, how much more in a world, where thought meets thought with purest eloquence, unimpeded by words or tones, where the glance of an eye speaks a clear reply to every question you ask, and gentle affections lapse your soul in perpetual joy. You love them, these angels, without knowing why, and without the need of sight to feed the feeling.”

“You have seen very much, Clara,” said the pious sister, “I would I might die, to learn thus, how to live.”

“Yes, life can never seem to me as it has done. I would that so it might have looked to my darling child. I would that she might have the memory of that fond embrace, and those touching words of the Divine Saviour.”

Sister Martha never forgot this incident in her monotonous and yet ever varied existence. In the varieties of pain and suffering which she witnessed and relieved, she constantly remembered the young Clara and her eventful entrance into a life which promised so little to innocence and poverty. From time to time she traced her path, and administered such consolations and assistance as were consistent with her own duties, and when ten years after, Mrs. Neville sunk into a sleep of death, Sister Martha closed the eyes of the parent, and bore the weeping child to the convent of Chaillot, where she would have at least a shelter, and the kind care she needed.

Since her birth, Clara, or as the Sisters of the French Convent called her, Claire Neville, had neither seen nor heard from her father, but her mother, who had received no intelligence of his death, had constantly looked forward, even to the day of her death, to a re-union with him upon earth, and not an hour before she died, she had told the beloved being, for whom alone she wished to live, that she was convinced that she should not depart, without once more being consoled by his presence.

A few moments before her final departure, her vivid fancy, acting on the hope that had so long filled her whole being, produced the resemblance for which she sighed. She raised her eyes to the door, and a glad expression of recognition, illumined them with more than mortal light; and while those about her in vain sought for the object of her mental sight, she was evidently in a state of happy conviction that the so long-lost was found, and that her child had, when most she needed it, found a friend and a father. Her lips moved, but uttered no sound—she gazed at her child, and smiled,—and, in that smile, passed into a world, where is no more death.

Claire remained at the convent, which was within a mile of the small town of Chaillot, on the French coast; and, by rendering such services as her tender age would permit—and by her unvarying sweetness and gentleness, endeared herself to the sisters, and as they said, amply repaid them for the slight expenses she incurred.

But, deprived of the society of children, and having no person about her, with whom she could precisely sympathize, the young girl grew up with an isolation of spirit, easy to foresee, and a prematurity of character, consequent on her position, which strangely contrasted with her childish face. Her eyes, which were of a clear blue, had a sweet seriousness in their depths, so far removed from the glad _insouciance_ of childhood, as to startle you as you gazed, and for the moment to fill you with awe, as if in the presence of a spirit—at least such was my own feeling the first time I saw her.

I had been ordered to the south of France for my health, and had been stopping for a week in the town, near which the convent of Chaillot was situated. Its white walls could be easily seen through the trees around it, and from its windows the far-reaching sea suggested images of lonely and solemn grandeur, in unison with the secluded character of the pious inmates. From this institution, of all the passive virtues, came forth alternately bands of those heroic spirits, the Sisters of Mercy, who relinquishing the life of quiet inaction, which the convent induced, went with their hearty sympathy, their cheerful aid, and their unshrinking labor, into every abode where poverty, sickness, or even pestilence cried out for a helping hand.

Often a victim to this open-handed charity, this sublime self-sacrifice would be brought home to the convent, to breathe her last. But never was there a gap in these heroic ranks. As fast as one brave spirit fell, the place was filled by another, animated by her example, and eager to take up her cross. It was to this place, that the little Claire, taught by the example of Sister Martha, looked forward as to the fulfillment of her destiny. For this purpose, her education had, at the early age of fourteen, fitted her for a nurse; and in the convent she was called on, in all the little cases of illness which needed a soother. Nobody could spread a plaster so smoothly as Claire—nobody could place a pillow so nicely under the head as Claire—no one stepped so softly, spoke so gently, bathed so coolly, as Claire—none murmured so monotonously the rosary, or sung in a low tone the Ave Maria, so as to bring sleep on the strained eyelids, as Claire—and her gentleness and assiduity had entirely won the hearts of the good Sisters.

One day, it was late in the afternoon, I had gone down on the beach to walk, as my habit was, for some hours. The character of the shore for miles, which was exceedingly bold and rocky contrasted with the smooth expanse and soothing murmurs of the sea; and debarred by my want of strength, from scaling the rocks, as I longed to do, I used to wander on the white, hard sand, with a free feeling of delight, and an animating glow, that was second only to the sense of power with which the strong, firm step of the mountaineer springs from one cliff to another.

On the afternoon I mention, this effervescence of the blood, which induced a corresponding elevation and sensitiveness to the spirit, kept me in a perpetual state of enjoyment, which I did not attempt to analyze, but was content to feel. The sun had set, and the brilliant hues over the water continually broke in little rainbows on the crested waves. The air, balmy and fresh, was full of life. The birds wheeled and circled in graceful joyousness over the lapsing, and seemingly conscious ocean, which swelled and whispered its mysterious replies. For the first time I felt my own spirit in harmony with nature in this aspect. Formerly, an undefinable terror took possession of me at being left alone with the ocean. It was the same with the sky. Many a time I have glanced timidly at the depths of the sky, and shrunk from it, as if it were from the presence of the Creative Power; and always when the whole breadth of the sea stretched out his leviathan length before me, it awed and oppressed me to such a degree that I did not like to walk alone on the beach. Every wave, as it dashed up the smooth “untrampled floor,” had come laden with sounds of lamentation. I had continually thought, as I looked at it, how deceitful it was, in its beauty, and how its magnificence and pomp covered sorrowing, and wrecks, and heart breakings. But now, for no reason, all was different. The ocean seemed like a great angel of God’s mercy, beautiful, vast, and conscious. It married with the sky, and reflected all hues of beauty and glory, and sang out songs of praise to the Power that made them both. My spirit rose and mingled with the simple majesty of the scenery. I too felt myself a child of God, and could understand and worship him. In my heart were echoed the dim soundings of the sea; in my thoughts sparkled the watching stars, and the still lingering sun-beams. The transcendant beauty, above all form, yet which reveled in creative forms; the vastness and vague splendor of nature, in this view, all spoke of the Infinite in my soul. Deep called unto deep to praise Him, and I paced hurriedly to and fro, with an excitement and elevation of soul that rendered me insensible to the passage of time.

The water was already dark with the reflection of night, when a light touch startled me, as if I had received an electric shock. I looked up and saw a sweet, serious figure at my side.

“Madame is not aware that the evening is chill,” said she, gently.

“Chilly is it?” I answered. “It seems very warm.”

“You have been walking a long time—hours. Will Madame permit me to go home with her?”

She mingled the formal politeness of a stranger with the familiar _tu_ that seemed induced by kindness and anxiety. I felt the feverish glow on my cheek, and replied, “that I had probably walked beyond my strength.” Already the re-action of lassitude and weakness crept over me, and I could hardly walk, as we turned toward the village.

“It is half a mile to the village. You are very weak. Permit me to attend you to the convent near. It wilt be no inconvenience. Lean on me, dear Madame.”

She spoke these words calmly and slowly, but, as if she were to be obeyed. I followed her mechanically, or rather tottered along by her side without question. I felt too much exhausted to talk, and also the need of immediate repose and care in my wearied condition.

A few minutes walk brought us to the convent gate. An old man, who was also the gardener, opened it, and two of the sisters hurried to the door to receive us. A slight gesture from my guide, produced profound silence, and I was at once taken to a room and a bed.

I awoke from an unconscious state, produced I supposed by the sedative I had drank immediately on my arrival, and looked languidly around me. I remember my first feeling was one of surprise at the comfortable appearance of every thing near and about me. I had never been in a convent before, and had supposed, with the vague notions of Protestantism about convents, that I should be put in a cell at least, with probably a death’s head and cross-bones for furniture, and a hair-cloth and thongs for entertainment. On the contrary, I felt myself lying on a down-bed—muslin curtains gathered in delicate folds above it—the windows shaded with the same material—waving lightly to and fro in the summer night air. The oaken floor so highly polished, and the neat table holding a nurse-lamp and some phials. Besides that, there was no look of a sick-room. The lamp shone on the mild face of the Madonna of Sassoferato, whose clasped hands and conventual garb seemed to make her the tutelar genius of such a scene; and below, was the never-failing crucifix of ivory on a bronze stand.

Not a sound, but the sighing of the leaves against the window, interrupted the midnight quiet of the scene. Refreshed and composed by the judicious treatment I had received, I lay calmly recalling the preceding evening, and wondering what my landlady at the village would think of my being out all night. I might have spared any anxiety on that account, as I afterward learned, as the good Sisters had at once dispatched a messenger to assure her of my safety. In that small place the arrival of a stranger is an event. The seclusion of a convent is favorable to curiosity, and my name, situation, health, and person, were perfectly well-known to all the good Sisters, though I had not chanced to meet one of them.

A distant strain of music broke the silence around me. I started, and raising myself in bed undrew the curtains. A figure clothed in white approached the bed, and I recognized at once the face of my yesterday’s companion.

“Do not be startled. It is only the Sisters.”

She bent her sweet face over me, like an angel watcher.

“You have been sitting by me all night, my dear,” said I.

“Oh! that is nothing,” she answered, cheerfully. “I like to keep awake in the night.”

“But what can you have to occupy yourself with? Surely, you cannot be satisfied with telling your beads over?”

“I have my netting by me, and then there are always one’s thoughts and memories.”

“And your memories, my dear,” said I, “what are they? What can you remember that is not so mingled with pain and deprivations, that the contemplation of it must be sad rather than pleasant?”

In reply, she told me in her own simple and touching manner the story of her mother’s death, and the almost revelation that preceded it.

“And how do you feel about it yourself?” said I.

“I fully believe, madam, that such an impression would not have been vouchsafed by the good God to my mother, unless it had been true, and important also that I should know it.”

“Then you still look for your father, my child?”

“As I look for the sunrise to-morrow,” she answered, raising her clear eyes to heaven. “Some day he will certainly come.”

“And meanwhile!”

“Meanwhile, I think of him continually. I imagine always how he would like to have me conduct myself, and in all my little troubles I look forward to the time when I shall feel no more sorrow. You will not think me superstitious, madam, when I tell you that my mother’s heart is very near to mine, and often I am conscious of heavenly thoughts that I am sure are of her whispering to my spirit.”

I would not for the world have disturbed fancies so sweet and holy as filled the breast of this lovely child with any doubts of their reality, even if I had not been more than half inclined to agree with her in the belief of spiritual intercourse with the departed.

“But, Claire,” said I, after a long pause, “it is a strange and terrible thought, one at which we instinctively revolt, that close to us, by night or by day, is a haunting spirit, even if it were our mother’s. It seems to me I should so dread the answer, that I could never gather courage to speak to such a spirit, if I believed it could and would answer me.”

“I suppose it would not answer. Ah! if it could do so, would it not long since have responded to the agonized cry of the bereaved! But, though it is not to sense that it speaks, the impression is not the less vivid or credible. It is not what you see with your mortal eye, dear lady, that you believe most fully and heartily. Even if we were to see the beloved form or hear the beloved tones, a something would whisper to us of doubt and incredulity. It would be ‘an optical illusion,’ or ‘a derangement of the auricular organs,’ and we should very soon come to believe ourselves entirely mistaken in the impressions we had received. It is only the mind itself that can take distinct cognizance of its own objects.”

“You speak like a philosopher, dear Claire. Where have you learned to consider the subject so deeply?”

“Of Father Angelo,” replied the young girl, simply.

“And he is your confessor, I suppose,” said I.

“Yes, madam; and my best friend. For dear Sister Martha, who has told me of my early life, could not resolve my doubts and fears, and the thousand anxieties that I should naturally feel, and I have been both relieved and enlightened by free conversation with Father Angelo. He must have suffered much himself, for his heart is so tender and his manner so soothing, and yet he always strengthens one’s spirit so much, with his calm views of another life, in this life of ours. Till he came to us I never knew fully what sympathy was. The Sisters but half understood me, and when I saw the excellence of their lives, when I watched their hardy activity and their daily devotion to duty, I used to feel sure that theirs must be the true thought that led directly to right action, and that my world of fancies and mysteries must be a morbid and unhealthy one. Still I felt constantly that ‘I heard a voice they could not hear,’ and never till last summer, when Father Angelo came to us, did I at all understand myself.”

“And now that you do understand yourself, you are happy, my child?” I asked.

“As happy as one with unoccupied affections can be, madam. I feel that I have much love that has never been called into action, and I fancy that my father when he comes will fill my heart. Meantime, I see why it is that there are depths in my soul that no plummet can sound, and where the voice of God alone calls forth an answer. Sometime or other, either in this world or a future one, these deep voices will find musical utterance, and the harmony of the affections, which alone is wanting to the harmony of nature, will make my being what God intended it to be.”

“You are happy, my dear child, to have such a confidence; it comes sometimes after suffering and sorrowful experiences, but seldom in the bloom of life.”

“And I should have wandered long and unhappily but for the guidance of Father Angelo,” said Claire, her eyes radiant with grateful affection whenever she spoke of this father of her best thoughts.

I became curious to see Father Angelo.

“When will he come here again?” I inquired.

“To-morrow at furthest,” said Claire.

“Then I hope I shall see him.”

“Assuredly, if madam desires it,” said Claire, with a pleased look. “But apparently, madam is a Protestant?”

“Oh, I do not want to confess to him,” said I, laughing.

“Pardon me, madam. But have you never felt that it would be a great pleasure and privilege to confess?”

“Assuredly not, Claire,” said I, more seriously.

“Madam has had dear friends then, to whom she could express every thought—confess every fault—and to whom she could apply in every difficulty?” inquired she.

“No—not always,” answered I, hesitatingly; “but, Claire, we believe that to God alone we should confess.”

“God alone can absolve,” said Claire, devoutly, “by the mouth of his minister, the repenting heart. But there are so many things we wish to say to an earthly friend, and to which we must receive an answer—”

“But we believe the Bible to be a sufficient guide to all our darkness and doubts.”

“Morally I know it is, madam. And I do not say that its precepts will not reach every variety of intellectual difficulty. But I have found that conference with a superior mind is a great relief and pleasure, as well as guide, in understanding the doubts that often weigh on the mind.”

“Unquestionably it is so, Claire; but we find those superior minds in the circle of our acquaintances, in our husbands, brothers, and the friends to whom we attach ourselves. We have not the need of confession that you feel, isolated as you are from any guiding mind.”

“Yes, madam, that is true. I can see that in such a case confession would not be so necessary; but with us it is a great need.”

She drew the curtains as she spoke, and sat silently at her netting. I lay revolving in my mind for a long time the conversation I had been holding with this strange girl. There was something in the maturity of her mind and the dignity of her manner, that contrasted greatly with the extreme youthfulness of her figure and face. Her eyes had a quiet serenity that seemed the result of having attained, at a bound, the goal to which humanity generally reaches after long and painful experiences and mental vicissitudes that leave their unmistakable marks on the face. But in Claire’s face, seen by the pale light of the room, was an angelic wisdom, pure and high. Yet she did not look satisfied; or rather, she was satisfied only in the thought of a future different from the calm present.