Chapter VI (4)

“Do you know,” said Father Bonneville, suddenly darting away from the subject, “that it has once or twice struck me, Louis, that there is a great deal of likeness between your friend Captain Westover and yourself?”

I smiled; for I could not conceive two men more different in appearance—in complexion—in eyes, in height; for I was much taller, and dark, while he was fair; but still the good Father’s words lingered in my mind, and I determined the next time I saw my friend to learn, if possible, something more of his history.

It was with great satisfaction then that, on the Friday morning, I received a note from Westover, asking me to dine with him, either on the Tuesday or the Wednesday following, and to name which day.

“Do come, De Lacy, on the one day or the other; for there are some people, who will come on either day, to whom I much wish to introduce you. My leave will soon expire, and I may not have another opportunity.”

I immediately answered his note, fixing the first named day, and then, as it was a beautiful morning in the spring, I went out to fish in a river which ran at some miles distant from my cottage, and where I had hired a right—for the English are as tenacious of the right of stream and wood as any old feudal lord that ever lived.

I had been engaged in the sport for about an hour, wandering along through the beautiful meadows, and had done tolerably well, when I saw a gentleman, of the middle age, walk slowly across from the other side, and pause upon a little wooden bridge, observing my proceedings. He was a tall, handsome man, about fifty, but thin and pale, dressed in a sort of military blue coat, richly braided, but not very new; and his air was exceedingly gentlemanly and prepossessing, though his riches were evidently of Nature’s giving, not the world’s. After watching me a few minutes, he came up with easy grace, and asked, with a strong foreign accent, “If I had had good sport.”

I replied that it had been pretty well, adding a French proverb of no particular significance.

“Ha!” he said, “have I the pleasure of speaking to a countryman?”

I replied in the affirmative; and he soon began to ask all sorts of questions, in that courteous manner which renders inquisitiveness not impertinent in a Frenchman. I told him I had quitted France very early, and recollected but little of my native land; to which he replied, that was a “_malheur_,” asking the year of my emigration.

I told him, and he replied, with a smile, that it was the same in which he had left France; but added, that he had returned there since, and fought in La Vendee. He then asked me if I knew many of my countrymen. I replied in the negative, saying with a smile—for the opportunity seemed too good to be missed—that there were only two, whom I had known so well in my boyhood as to make me very anxious to hear of them again.

“May I be permitted to ask their names?” he said, quietly. “I am acquainted with several, though, indeed, not very many; for my means are too limited to allow of my mingling much in society.”

I at once named Madame de Salins and her daughter.

My new acquaintance paused and mused, as if he were trying to recollect some circumstance, such as where he had heard of them, and I began to entertain some hopes of information.

“Perhaps,” he said, at length, “I may be able to assist in your search in some degree, although I am not sure. May I ask how old you were when you quitted France?” and his eye ran over my person, which perhaps showed signs of age beyond what my years warranted.

“Between twelve and thirteen,” I replied.

“Ay! and you have remembered them so long,” he said, in a tone of interest. “Well, I will do my best to give you news of them. But I know not where to send it to you, if I should prove fortunate enough to be able to do so.”

I immediately gave him my card, which he examined, repeating the name, and then turned the conversation in another course. I found him exceedingly agreeable, mild and dignified in his manners, and full of general information, though probably not a very learned man. He asked me if I had been to pay my respects, while on the continent, to his majesty the king—afterward known as Louis the Eighteenth—and expressed himself sorry when he heard I had not.

“I think it would have been advisable in many respects,” he added. “This madness will not last forever in France. Nor can the other powers of Europe ever consent as a body to the existence of a state of things in that country antagonistic to all their interests and all their principles. Napoleon Bonaparte, in making himself emperor, has performed an act which places France in a false position that she cannot maintain. As long as he was merely the head of the republican party—the incarnation of the spirit of revolution—he was certain of support at home, and under no absolute necessity to protract the war with foreign powers, one moment after they chose to make peace with the republic. As emperor, however, he has taken upon himself an obligation to wage eternal warfare; for by war alone can he maintain himself as emperor. He may have gained a little with other monarchs by recognizing the monarchical principle, but he has lost more with the French people. France was divided into two. He has now divided it into three, and put two parts against him. The one that he wields, the military part, may be the most powerful for the present, but its adherence to himself depends upon two conditions—war and success. Thus his dynasty can never stand; for no civilized nation can ever be entirely military; and he who attempts to make it so, will always fall as soon as the military part cannot command success; and unless the whole nation be military, success can never be ensured. My belief is that in a few years our old race of kings will be upon the throne again.”

He talked with me for more than an hour, while I continued my sport; and I then returned to my little cottage, very well satisfied with my interview.

Father Bonneville seemed very well satisfied too, when I told him my hopes of discovering the abode of Madame de Salins. He asked me many questions about the gentleman I had met with, and made me describe him accurately. When I had done, he said, nodding his head slowly with a smile, “I think we shall find them now, Louis. I think we shall find them now, and I am almost as glad of it as you are; although I trust they have not been suffering so much from poverty as you imagine.”

A day or two passed on, however, without any intelligence, and the Tuesday came on which I was to dine with Westover, in London. I dressed myself with some care; for I knew that my friend was moving in the most fashionable circles of the capital, and I drove in with the groom in the little phæton, so as to be at his door at the very moment named. He was lodging in a very handsome house in Brook street, and I found him dressed for dinner, but alone.

“My other friends will not be as punctual as you are, De Lacy,” he said, shaking me warmly by the hand; “and I dare say you will have to wait half an hour for your dinner; but in the meantime I can introduce you to them as they come in.”

In about ten minutes, two young and dashing men made their appearance, and I was made acquainted with them in form. Then, five minutes after, came an old peer, stout, beetle-browed, heavy in look but not in intellect, and exceedingly loose in his apparel, which seemed to have been thrown on with a pitchfork, but which did not at all detract from the indefineable something which marks the gentleman. He had not been there two minutes when the door again opened, and the Earl of N—— was announced.

“Ah! your grandfather,” said the last comer. “That is an honor for a grandson, Captain Westover.”

“I consider it as such, I assure you,” said my friend, as he advanced to meet his relation, and I need not say that my eyes fixed eagerly upon the father of Lady Catharine.

He was a tall, thin old man, of very distinguished appearance. I learned afterward that he must have been a good deal over seventy; but he certainly did not look more than sixty. He was perfectly straight and upright, though not stiff in appearance, and was dressed entirely in black, which was not usual in England at that period. Every article of his apparel fitted exactly. His shoes, in which he still wore buckles, were as polished as a looking-glass, and his gloves fitted him as if they had been made upon his hands. His linen was marvelously fine, and as white as snow; and his hair probably would have been as white as his linen, even had it not been filled with powder. His face was very fine, and his complexion peculiarly delicate; but there was no effeminacy about him. There sat a world of resolution on his broad, towering brow, and his teeth, of which he did not seem to have lost one, were always pressed firm together when he was not speaking. His step was slow and deliberate, but still there was none of the feebleness of age in it, and there was a strong composure, if I may so express myself, which never varied but for one moment.

Between the two peers there was no need of an introduction; and they shook hands with each other cordially. One of the other gentlemen, Lord N—— knew also; and the third was introduced to him. Westover then turned, and presented me as Monsieur De Lacy. For a single instant, as he spoke, the earl seemed moved. A slight change came over his face, a twitch of the muscles about the mouth, evidently involuntary, and passing away in one moment. He forgot not his courtesy, however, in the least, did not shake hands with me, but bowed gracefully, and said a few words about France and England, not at all depreciatory of my own country, although he expressed a hope that I would not find my enforced residence in Great Britain altogether without compensation.

He then turned to speak with his grandson and the other gentlemen. Two others were added to the party, and shortly after we moved in to dinner.

By Westover’s arrangement I was seated next to his grandfather; but at first he did not seem inclined to take much notice of me, and, to say the truth, I was very busy with my own thoughts, and inclined to be somewhat silent. After a time, however, a gentleman opposite engaged me in conversation, and something I said seemed to please or strike the old earl, for he joined in with a good deal of tact and wit. That conversation dropped, but the earl continued to talk with me, with his heart a little opened, perhaps, by good wine and good food, which I have remarked have a great effect in producing urbanity—especially with Englishmen. His lordship asked me how I liked the country, whether I had seen much of it, and where I intended to pass the summer. I answered briefly that I had seen very little of the land, and that my plans were all unsettled.

“It is a pity that Charles must so soon rejoin his regiment,” said the earl, “otherwise he might have shown you a good deal that is worth seeing in England, and what is more, you could not be in safer hands. I need not tell you, Monsieur De Lacy, that, for a young man, and a stranger in this country, it is highly necessary that he should choose his acquaintances well.”

“I am quite aware of the fact, my lord,” I replied, “and I consider myself highly fortunate in having been early introduced to Captain Westover. I have few if any acquaintances but those to whom he has introduced me, and the banker to whom I had letters.”

“Ha!” replied the earl, thoughtfully, and after meditating for a moment, as if something puzzled him, he said, “I think I heard you called the Count De Lacy, in society—have you dropped the title?”

“I never took it willingly, my lord,” I replied, “although it is mine, I believe, by right. I was driven out of France very early, and probably never should have known of my countship; but it so happened that I formed some connections in the city of Hamburgh, which led to a considerable bequest from an old friend there, and that caused a communication, in regard to myself, to take place between Hamburgh and England.”

“But how did they know that you were a count, in Hamburgh, if you did not know it yourself?” asked the earl.

“By a letter from England,” I answered, perhaps a little dryly. “It referred to some money matters, of which, to say the truth, I understand nothing; but it was addressed to some of the authorities at Hamburgh, and in it I was designated by the title of count. The same title was repeated in after correspondence, and thus it happened to be given to me here, much to my annoyance; for I would fain drop the countship altogether, not having the means to maintain any distinguished position.”

“Ha! I see, I see,” said the earl, “you speak English remarkably well, Mr. De Lacy. You must have learned it very young.”

“I do not remember the time when I did not speak it,” I replied.

“That is singular in France,” rejoined the old nobleman. “Did your father speak English?”

I could feel a cloud come over my face, and I replied with very painful feelings, “I never knew my father, my lord, and am not aware of who or what he was. I have heard that he was murdered—but that is all I know.”

“I beg pardon—I beg pardon,” said the old earl; “I did not intend to wound you. There are painful subjects in all families—may I drink wine with you?”

During the rest of the evening his tone toward me became a little less stiff and more kindly. He asked no more questions, however, but conversed entirely upon indifferent subjects, and seemed well pleased with my remarks. He retired early, indeed, and I remained for some time longer, in the hope of being able to draw something more from Westover, regarding his aunt, Lady Catharine. I had lost the opportunity of the favorable ten minutes during which I was alone with him before dinner, and no other presented itself for any private conversation. I could only venture to express a hope before others, that his aunt, Lady Catharine, had not suffered seriously from the fatigues of the review. He said she had not been at all well since; and I remarked that I thought her very beautiful.

“She was once the loveliest creature in all England, I am told,” was my friend’s reply; “but that is past, and she can hardly, I think, be called beautiful now—except, indeed, as a beautiful ruin.”

He spoke very gravely—nay, very sadly, and I did not like to press the subject further. I remained some time longer to see if the other guests would go, but they showed no intention of doing any thing of the kind, and as I had a long drive before me, I took my departure, Westover promising to ride down in a day or two, and take me upon some expedition.

THE LONGED FOR MEETING.

Habitual reverence is a curious thing—more strong than most other habits. I was certainly of a somewhat impetuous disposition, eager and impatient of delay, notwithstanding all the drilling I had had in long wanderings and many difficulties and distresses; but yet the habitual reverence which I entertained for good Father Bonneville was not to be mastered. It was one of those impressions received in youth, which, like the foot-prints of certain animals that we discover in the rock, had been pressed down there when the substance was soft, but had been rendered indelible as it hardened. I returned from London disappointed in one of my expectations, and I would fain have had a long conversation with good Father Bonneville, in regard to all the doubts and mysteries surrounding my own peculiar fate. The promise he had given of knowledge at a future time did not satisfy me, and I thought that if he would but touch upon the subject again, I would press him hard for further explanation. Nay, more, I judged that the very party at Westover’s would open the way, and resolved that I would not fail to take advantage of the very first opportunity.

When the good Father came down to breakfast, however, with his calm, placid countenance, and his usual quiet taciturnity, although there was nothing in the least repulsive, none of that impenetrability which sometimes characterizes the Roman Catholic priest, yet I felt a repugnance to the idea of urging upon him a subject which he had shown so much anxiety to avoid, and he certainly gave me no direct encouragement. He merely asked if I had met a pleasant party at Captain Westover’s; and when I in return told him of whom that party consisted, and dwelt somewhat particularly upon the appearance and demeanor of the Earl of N——, he seemed, I thought, a little surprised, and I could not help fancying that a shade from some strong, and not pleasant emotion, passed over his countenance: yet he asked not a question, and made no observation of any kind. I then suffered the subject to drop, notwithstanding all my resolutions.

Some days passed quietly and dully enough. English people are not fond of making new acquaintances. None of our neighbors had yet called upon us, and the gentleman whom I had met by the side of the brook, did not make his appearance. Quiet tranquillity is the most burdensome of all things to an impatient spirit; and I confess I fretted myself a good deal during those dull three or four days. It seemed to me as if all the world had forgotten us; and I felt much more solitary there, with every comfort around me, than I had done in my long wandering from Switzerland to Hamburgh, when I might very well have believed myself almost alone upon the earth.

It rained, too, incessantly; and I began to feel very English, and to abuse the climate heartily—though, by the way, it is the best I ever saw, except, perhaps, in the central parts of France. I could not ride out. I got tired of reading. I had nobody to write to. I was weary of myself and the whole world—even Father Bonneville’s calm, sweet placidity, his tranquil employments, and patience under the load of dullness, half vexed me.

It was on the Saturday morning early, however, that a change took place; the sky became clearer; light clouds, like enormous flakes of snow, succeeded the dull, gray, pouring banks of rain; blue sky appeared here and there; and, to complete all, as I looked out of the window, after breakfast, I saw Westover riding up toward the house, with a servant behind him, and a little valise behind the servant.

There was no horse or carriage-way up to the house, which was approached by a path through a pretty little garden; and as he dismounted at the gate, I heard my friend desire his groom to bring in the valise, to take the horses to the inn, and to give Miss Kitty a feed and a half. He then walked slowly up to the house, nodding to me as he came; and I could not help remarking that he seemed pale and ill.

He was in his usual good spirits, however, and shook hands with me and Father Bonneville heartily, saying, “Did you hear my order, De Lacy; to bring in my valise? An unlucky thing for you, my friend, that I was at the taking of your house, and know that you have a spare room; for I come to beg quarters of you till Monday.”

I welcomed him gladly, and seating himself somewhat languidly, he said—

“I have been unwell for the last few days, and they tell me I should leave that bustling, tiresome town of London; so I have come to see if you will give me quiet lodging here, just as a trial—not that I think it will do me any good.”

“Why—what is the matter, Westover?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing but that tiresome ball,” he replied, laying his hand upon his chest. “It has taken another move I suppose, and set me spitting blood again.”

“What, has it not been extracted?” I asked.

He shook his head mournfully, answering—

“No, no, it is there for life, they say, be life long or short; and it is the strangest thing in the world, how a trifle like this—having an ounce of lead in one, without knowing where to find it—will weigh upon a man’s spirits, how it is ever present to his thoughts—a something he cannot get rid of—the sword hung by a single hair over his head, during the whole of the great festival of life.”

“Well, we will keep you here quietly,” I answered; “which we can do with the most marvelous perfection.”

“If you had been here during these last three days,” said Father Bonneville, with a quiet smile at me; “you would have had quiet enough, Captain Westover—more quiet than our friend Louis likes, I believe; for, as you may remark, he has literally worn the carpet by walking from that table to the window. I always think we may gain good lessons from the brute creation. God teaches them what is best under all circumstances; and I copy the cocks and hens, and the great dog, all of which, I remark, invariably sit quite still, and take every thing quietly during rainy weather, knowing, that walk as fast as they would, or as much, they cannot change the wind, or make the clouds withhold a drop.”

Westover smiled, but replied—

“It is not exactly quiet I am seeking, my reverend friend, but to be out of the air, and the parties, and the smoke of cities, and the impertinent chattering, which is the smoke of society. No, no—no quiet for me. If I am soon to ride with my troop, I may as well ride here, and so I intend to make De Lacy mount his horse, and gallop away with me to Eltham or Esher, or some of those places memorable in the past, where we can sit down, and play the part of Volney for an hour, amongst the ruins of empires. Then to-morrow, I intend to go with you to Mass; for all Protestant as I am, I cannot help admitting that you sing a great deal better in your worst chapels than we do in our best.”

Father Bonneville looked at me with a faint smile, and I informed Westover that we had both of us, in the course of the last two years, abandoned the church of Rome.

“It was not from any motives of interest, Captain Westover,” said Father Bonneville, “neither from fear nor for favor, but from pure conviction. The fact is, that in a time of great distress and anxiety, I found so much consolation in the Bible, that I could not remain attached to a church which denied it to my fellow men, and, moreover—without being uncharitable—I thought I could see the reason of its being withheld from men in general, in its manifest condemnation of the practices of those who withhold it. Louis came to the same conclusion while we were far apart; and parting as Roman Catholics we met as Protestants.”

Westover seemed much more surprised, and even moved by this intelligence than I could have expected. He shook me warmly by the hand, congratulating me, and saying—

“I am glad of it, De Lacy, I am glad of it. That makes a very great difference—I am sincerely glad of it. We will talk no more of going to Mass; though I do like to hear a good Mass well sung—so much so, indeed, that my noble grandfather is every now and then in terror of his life, for fear I should turn Papist, in which case, as he is the most ultra Protestant that ever lived, he would, doubtless, cut me off with a shilling, and be very sorry that he could not deprive me of the fortune my Uncle Westover left me, lest I should spend it in favor of the Propaganda—but come, De Lacy, let us take a walk to the inn, mount our horses, and ride.”

We were soon upon our way, and as we passed slowly along through the little village of Lewisham, Westover, who was looking round him, exclaimed, “Good heaven, what a beautiful face!”

I turned my head sharply, but could see no one. The road was vacant, except where a laboring man was wheeling a barrow, and a carrier was taking a trunk out of a cart. At the side of the road, indeed, was one of those little picturesque cottages, only to be seen in England, where fine taste and love for the beautiful, has decorated with a thousand charms the very lowliest of dwellings. It was only one story in height. The windows were mere lattices, with diamond-shaped panes of glass, rattling in leaden frames. The roof was thatched, and the door seemed hardly tall enough for the entrance of a man, but the thatch was covered with the rich green house-leek, and the whole front of the house was in a glow with roses, trained beautifully between the little windows, and every here and there holding out a long blossom-bearing arm, as if to invite the passing stranger.

“She’s gone,” said Westover, “run away at the sight of two men on horseback, as if it were the first time in life she had seen that sort of Centaur. But I certainly never did see a more lovely creature.”

I made him describe her to me; but what description can ever give an idea of a face? His was incomplete enough, but he said she had the most lovely eyes in the world, and that was quite sufficient to set my foolish fancy filling up the outline with the features of Mariette. I caught myself in the midst of this portrait-painting, a new sort of castle-building, and could not help smiling at my vain imaginations.

“What are you laughing at, De Lacy?” asked my companion.

“At myself, Westover,” I replied. “The truth is, your description is so like some one I have been long seeking, and would give both my hands to find, that, for a moment, you set my fancy wild with the idea that she and your cottage-girl might have been the same.”

“O, ho,” said Westover, with a laugh; “but if your love affair has been of long duration, this cannot be the same, for she seemed quite young—not more than seventeen or eighteen.”

“That might well be,” I answered; “and yet my love affair, as you call it, might date from twelve years ago. The person I seek is the companion of my youth, one who is now an emigrant like myself, and I much fear that she and her mother both, may be in some distress, while I have the power of relieving it, and know not where to find them.”

“Yours must be a strange, curious history,” said Captain Westover. “I wish, some dull evening, when you have nothing better to do, you would tell it me, point by point. I am fond of a dreamy talk with a man over his past times.”

“I should have thought there were attractions enough in the metropolis,” I answered, “to occupy all the time of you men of fashion, in other ways than that.”

“Attractions,” replied Captain Westover, “which either leave no remembrance, or a sting. Take my word for it, De Lacy, there are multitudes of us who would gladly leave wax candles to blaze, and champagne to sparkle, and bright eyes—with no heart behind them—to shine, in order to sit beneath a shaded lamp with a man of real action, who has seen something of different countries, and a different world, and a different life from ourselves, and listen to tales of the heart’s realities, while all else around us is but the tinseled pageantry of a dream. Come, when shall it be, De Lacy?”

“To-night, if you will,” I answered; “we are certain of being uninterrupted.”

“But the old man,” he said. “Young men can never talk with open hearts before old ones. There is a power in age which controls us even when there is no real authority.”

“O, he goes to bed always at nine,” I said; and so we arranged it should be, and so it was.

When we returned after our ride, Father Bonneville informed me that there were some persons in the neighborhood, upon whom he wished me to call with him on the Monday following; and Westover and I went up to dress for dinner—a much more important operation than it has since become, even within my own knowledge. We had the usual English dinner, a small turbot, some boiled chickens and ham, preceded by soup after the French fashion, (which I knew Father Bonneville could not do without,) and followed by the inevitable apple-tart. After his coffee, the good Father remained for an hour or so, then lighted his candle, and having apologized, with the grace of an old courtier, for his early habits, retired to rest. My story was then told much as I am now telling it, only with more brevity, and I must say that Westover not only listened with the fortitude of a martyr, but showed a deep interest, if I may judge by his questions, in many parts of my narrative. Once or twice he rose, and walked up and down the little room, sitting down when I paused, and saying, “Go on, De Lacy, I am listening.”

I could not finish the whole in one night; but on the Sunday evening the tale was concluded, and on the Monday, in spite of remonstrance, he set out, saying he was going back to London. Why, I know not, but I watched him from the window, across the heath, meditating on the state of his health, and the risk he ran in joining his regiment again, with an unextracted ball still in his chest.

Suddenly, to my surprise, I saw him pull in his horse, at the distance of some five hundred yards from the house, beckon up his servant, and speak to him for a moment. The master then took the left-hand road, which led toward Lewisham, and the groom rode upon the way to London.

It is utterly impossible to describe the sensations which I experienced at that moment. There was a mixture of anger, and suspicion, and jealousy, which I can hardly characterize even to my mind at present. Fancy was as busy as a fiend; and I felt quite sure that he was going back toward the cottage, in order, if possible, to form some acquaintance with the beautiful girl he had seen. I persuaded myself in a moment—although I had unpersuaded myself before—that she must be Mariette; and I pictured to myself, Westover, with his handsome person and winning address, making instant love to her, and banishing poor Louis de Lacy for ever from her heart.

It took me an hour’s struggle to overcome such feelings, and when I had done my best I was still dissatisfied.

Toward twelve o’clock, Father Bonneville proposed that we should go out for our visit, and for the first time, I asked where that visit was to be.

“Why, Louis,” he replied, “you seemed so indifferent when I spoke of it on Saturday, that I did not tell you the acquaintance you made while fishing, came to call upon us during your ride with Captain Westover. He is a gentleman of good family, and we must of course return his visit, even were it not that I believe he can now inform us where to find Madame de Salins.”

“Is Mariette not with her?” I asked eagerly.

“I believe so,” replied Father Bonneville, with a smile; “but let us go, I said we should be there before one.”

I did not delay him, but I must confess, I thought he walked marvelously slow, and wished from the bottom of my heart, that I had ordered the pony carriage for our excursion. He took his way straight toward Lewisham, turned to the left in the village, keeping on the left-hand side, directly to the cottage with its roses. I do not know what had got into my heart; but it brought to my remembrance a trick which I had seen a charlatan play with an egg, which, by some contrivance, he made to jump out of a pot the moment it was put in. He stopped at the door—at the very door, and then suddenly said:

“Why, what is the matter with you, Louis? You are as pale as death.”

“O, nothing, nothing,” I replied, and knocked hard for admittance. I was red enough then. A small servant-girl opened the door, and Father Bonneville asked—“Whether Monsieur Le Comte was at home?”

My hopes about Mariette began to fail, and diminished to a very small point when, on entering a little room, containing a good number of books, I found my acquaintance of the brook-side alone, and without a vestige of woman’s occupation any where visible.

He shook hands with us both, welcomed us heartily, and in common civility I was obliged to repress my curiosity for a time.

“This is my little study,” he said, after some preliminary conversation, “where I teach a few young pupils French, in order to eke out the small means of subsistence I have left. But I thank God for all things, and only regret that I have not enough to aid those of my countrymen who have even less than myself.”

“That is what I fear,” I answered, “that there are many, and amongst them some I deeply love, who may be suffering great distress, while I have a superabundance.”

“There are, indeed, many, Monsieur De Lacy,” he said; but as the words were upon his lips the door opened, and a voice of music said, “May I come in?”

“Certainly, my child,” he replied; but she had taken it for granted, and was in the room. There were the same eyes, the same look, the same beautiful face which I had seen in the carriage, but with a figure, how full of exquisite grace, how perfect in all its symmetry!

If my heart had not told me, at once, that it was Mariette, the glad spring forward with which she flew to the arms of Father Bonneville would have shown me the fact at once.

What possessed me I cannot tell, but I could not speak a word, and stood like a fool, the more confounded from feeling that the eyes of a stranger were upon me—yes, he gazed at me, earnestly, inquiringly. I must, somehow, have betrayed myself.

“Do you not know me, Louis?” asked Mariette, holding out her hands to me.

“Know you!” I cried, and if the whole world had been present, I could not have refrained from taking her in my arms and kissing her cheek.

“Know you!” I repeated, “O, yes, I knew you the very first moment I saw you in the carriage on Blackheath.”

“And I did not know you,” said Mariette, artlessly; “but how should I, Louis? Here, you are a great tall man, six feet high; and yet you’re still the same—the same eyes, and the same mouth, only your hair is darker and not so curly.”

“I rode after you all through Greenwich,” I replied, apropos to nothing; for my whole head was in a whirl, and she had left her hand in mine, which did not tend to stay the beating of my heart, “but I could find no trace of you.”

“Sit down, sit down, my children,” said the master of the house, “you are both agitated with your young memories. I will go and call your mother.”

“Let me—let me,” said Mariette, and running to the foot of the little stairs, she exclaimed, “Mamma, mamma, here are Louis and Monsieur De Bonneville.”

Madame de Salins ran down lightly and eagerly, and indeed she was very little altered—looking, perhaps, better than when I had last seen her. It was clear she was sincerely glad to meet us again; and seated round the table, a thousand questions were asked, and about half the number answered. All old feelings and memories revived. We talked of our little cottage on the Rhine, of our meeting in Paris, and our adventures by the way. The stranger joined in frankly and familiarly, evidently knowing all that had befallen us. We formed again, as it were, one family, and at length, emboldened by this renewal of old associations, I turned smiling from the gentleman of the house to Madame de Salins, saying, perhaps abruptly—

“Who is this? May I not be formally introduced to him?”

“Do you not know him, Louis?” she exclaimed, with a look of surprise. “It is my husband—The Count de Salins. How else should I be here?”

“You forget, mamma, you forget,” said Mariette. “Louis always thought that he was dead,” and casting herself upon her father’s neck, she shed a few tears over the memory of the terrible days when first we met.

I looked surprised and bewildered, as well I might; and looking round at Madame de Salins, I murmured—

“You told me he was dead.”

“I thought so when I told you so, Louis,” she replied, “I saw him fall before my eyes, wounded in several places, and to all appearance dead. But a glimmering of hope, springing from what source, I know not, led me to trust my child to you and hurry back to the court of the château where he had fallen. The assassins were gone; my husband’s blood was still reeking from the ground; but his body was not there, and after a long period of terrible suspense—it was but two hours, but it seemed an eternity to me—I found that one of our good farmers had carried him away, and was nursing in his own house a feeble spark of life which he had found yet remaining. I flew to him; I tended him many weeks in secret; I saw him recover consciousness and hope. None who beheld him then, however, would have recognized the gay and handsome De Salins; and it was agreed that he should be carried some ten or twelve leagues by night, and thence removed to Paris in a litter as a dropsical patient going to seek the aid of our good friend Doctor L——. All the peasantry were in our favor. It was but the people of the cities who were infected with the epidemic madness of the times. Every one aided—every one was as secret as death. The very dogs of the farm-houses seemed to comprehend and enter into our purposes. They barked not when the litter entered the yard, but moved round us watchfully, as if to defend, rather than betray us. It was necessary that I should part with him, however; for my presence would have discovered all; and I hurried back to seek my child, and meet him in Paris. Monsieur L—— was already prepared for his coming; but he did more than could have been expected or even hoped. He took him into his own house, and kept him there in profound secrecy for some months. During that time I lay concealed under the appearance of abject poverty. Mariette visited him every day, upon the pretence of carrying little articles of food to the good Doctor’s house; and neither by word or look, did she betray the secret—even to you, Louis. Do you forgive us?”

I put my hand in my bosom, and drew out the ring which Madame de Salins had given me, and which still remained suspended round my neck by the little gold chain. I pressed it to my lips for my only reply; and gently bending her head with a sweet smile, she proceeded, saying, “I could see him but seldom—I dared rarely venture; but at length Dr. L—— formed the scheme for us of making our escape from Paris, crossing the Rhine, and waiting there for my husband’s coming. He was to follow as speedily as possible, in the character of an officer of the Republican army, who had been wounded at the battle of Jemappes. A thousand obstacles intervened, however, and I remained in terrible anxiety, till at length a letter informed me that he whom I had well-nigh given up for lost, had crossed the Rhine in safety, and was then at Dusseldorf waiting my coming. It was still necessary to maintain the most profound secrecy; for emigrants were surrounded by spies and traitors, and one indiscreet word might have brought the head of good Doctor L. to the block. I joined my husband in safety with Mariette, however, and our good farmers had gathered together a sum of money sufficient to enable us to cross the sea to this island, and to live for some time obscurely here. That sum would have been exhausted long ago, had we not by a fortunate chance been driven from our small lodging in Swallow street by a brutal man, whom I believe to be a spy, but who had once received great favors from our family when a poor apothecary in Paris. He, a sensual, horrible patron, the Marquis de Carcassonne, had no mercy upon us; but having purchased the house, turned us out in the street four years ago. We heard of this little cottage and took it; and a blessing it was; for Monsieur de Salins has obtained a little class of pupils, by which our small means have been somewhat saved.”

“We sought you in that house in Swallow street,” said Father Bonneville, “Louis was impressed with the idea that you must be in want, and he has been hunting for you far and wide ever since we came to England.”

“Real want, we have never known,” said Monsieur de Salins, “though we have been poor enough—ay, so poor, as to induce me to let my child go on a long visit to some rich and vulgar people, in order to economize our little pittance. They thought that Mariette de Salins was reduced so low as to accept the hand of their coarse son, and think it an honor and a favor; but they have learned better now.”

“And did you visit that house in Swallow street?” asked Madame de Salins, looking at me with an anxious and inquiring glance. “Who did you see there?”

I told her all the particulars, Father Bonneville adding a word here and there, and the account seemed to strike both Monsieur de Salins and his wife with much surprise.

“He does not know,” said Madame de Salins, in a low and thoughtful tone, turning her eyes upon her husband, “he does not know.”

“And so you found Monsieur de Carcassonne in poverty and distress?” said Monsieur de Salins, “the one viper, I suppose, has stung the other. God of heaven, my dear wife, how thankful we should be to Him on high, that we sit here, and eat the daily bread of his mercy, with consciences clear of offense, and hearts unloaded by a weight of guilt. Let them take all from us, but our innocence and our honor, and we shall be rich compared with these men, even were they wealthy and powerful as in days of old.”

“And is it possible, Monsieur de Salins,” I asked, following the line of thought in which my mind had been principally running, though there were many other subjects eagerly appealing for attention, “Is it possible that you, and dear Mariette, and Madame de Salins, have been living here in comparative poverty, while I have been enjoying wealth and all that wealth can give? This must be no longer——”

I saw a slight shade come over his countenance, and I added, “Madame de Salins has been a mother to me; Mariette has been a sister. I have sought them eagerly, daily since I have been in England, in order to perform toward them the duties of a son and a brother. Surely Monsieur de Salins,” I continued, taking his hand in mine, “you will not suffer my having the good fortune to find you with them, to deprive me of my right of adoption?”

“Dear, noble, generous Louis,” said Mariette, throwing her beautiful arm round my neck, as if I had been indeed her brother.

“Why, I taught her to read and write,” I said, drawing her gently toward her father. “She was my first and dearest pupil—I have all her little books now, in which she spelt her early lessons.”

“And the pictures, and the pictures you drew, Louis,” cried Mariette.

“All, all safe through all my wanderings,” I replied. “Come, Monsieur de Salins, I have a beautiful little place hard-by—ample means for all of us. Every thing shall be soon prepared for you, and Madame de Salins, and dear Mariette. We will share house and fortune and all, and be one family again, as we were in our sweet cottage by the Rhine.”

I knew not what it was I urged—all the objections that a father’s eye might see—all the difficulties in regard to the world, and the world’s opinion; and I was not aware, till I found that even Father Bonneville remained silent, and did not second me, that I was asking too much.

Monsieur de Salins, for his part, smiled at my enthusiasm, while Madame de Salins wept at it; but he answered kindly and affectionately, putting quietly aside all points difficult to deal with, and saying jestingly, “Why, you would not have us quit this little, rosy dwelling where we have been so happy; but be assured, my dear young friend, that no guest will be more loved and honored within its walls than the Count De Lacy.”

I felt from his tone, that it would be in vain to press my request further that day; but I knew the effect of perseverance, and I had hope for the future. At all events Mariette and I had met again. I was resolved that nothing should make me lose sight of her thenceforth, and like all young hearts, I gave myself up to the present joy with trustful confidence in the happiness of to-morrow.

Several hours glided sweetly by, and it was late in the day when Father Bonneville and I retrod our steps to our own dwelling, each full of thought.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

I WOO THEE, SPRING.

BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE.

I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,
To a kindly-thoughted lay,
And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,
Through the lee-lang sunny day!
When young loves bud and old loves bloom—
When the warm earth bans all shade of gloom,
And bees hum summerly.

I woo thine ears to a kindly tale,
And what shall the story be?
I will tell thee dearest bonds are frail,
And that stars and flowers flee.
I will tell thee a tale of woful wings
That rive from the soul its precious things,
And shadow sweet fantasy.

I will tell thee of some that have fled away
Since last we saw thy face;
And some that are gone from the sheeny day
To the lonesome burial-place.
And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung—
Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung,
That sleep with the buried grace.

O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,
To a sadly-thoughted lay,
And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,
Through the lee-lang cloudy day!
For the lone day dies through purple bars—
And a misty grief enwraps the stars,
And our hopes are ashen-gray.

But the flowers bud and the flowers blow
And the mossy streams are sheen,
And the downy clouds to the Norland go,
While the blue sky laughs between;
And the light without, to the dark within,
Would seem to say—“Will ye up and win
While the paths of life are green?”

But the outer joy on the soul’s annoy
Looks in and laughs in vain—
For the inner chains of the spirit’s pains
May ne’er be reft in twain;
And the song that erst in joy begun
Sinks into wail ere the setting sun,
A sad and deathful strain.

So I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,
To a dreary-thoughted lay,
And I sing thee, Spring, in thy blossoming,
Through the lee-lang weary day!
Through the lee-lang day and the plodding night—
When no golden star’s in the lift alight,
To brighten a weary way.

* * * * *

SONG.

BY L. L. M.

When morn’s soft light is o’er us shed,
When pearl drops bow each taper leaf,
And e’en the lily’s queenly head
Pays homage to the glory brief—
Who ever recks of coming night,
Or grieves that such an hour must be—
Who ever weeps o’er winter’s blight
While summer decks the dewy lea.

The forest leaf now pale and sere
Once bent to roving breezes’ kiss;
The faded flower on Autumn’s bier
Once seemed too gayly bright for this,
Nor did they droop and whisper all
Of mildew dank, of frost and blight;
But ever rang the wild-wood hall
With joyous song and murmur light.

And grievest _thou_, dear one, that life
Is but a dream that soon is past?
Fear’st thou the briefly bitter strife,
The shadows on thy pathway cast?
Nay, ’tis not well—though day’s soon gone;
The flowers soon pale that bind thy brow;
Though night and death are stealing on,
Forget not, love, ’tis morning _now_!

* * * * *

TWO WAYS TO MANAGE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CLOVERNOOK.”

It was night, black night all over the world, and denser night within the dwelling of Margery Starveling. Now and then, the half-moon broke through the clouds that obscured the face of heaven, and some straggling and uncertain beams slanting through the narrow south window, gave to the low, homely apartment a ghostly sort of glow that was gloomier to see than the dark. Yet the night was one to make timid hearts beat quick, especially in a dismal old house, where there was no light save occasional glimpses of the half-moon. But Margery was not afraid—she was used to darkness and solitude, and needed not the interchange of humanities for her comfort, else she would have aroused from the sleep which had fallen upon her, the child, who—with cheek leaned against the rough stone jam—was alike unconscious of the dark, and the rats gnawing hungrily at the floor, or loosening the hearth beneath her feet. It may be that bright dreams came to her, even there, for what shall stay them from innocence? and the rough jam may have seemed a pillow of down, and the chill moonlight, as it fell against her, the golden curtaining of a pleasant couch.

All was quiet within doors, save the digging and the gnawing I have mentioned, but in the woods that partly encircled the place, and darkened close against the western gables, the winds went blindly moaning up and down, and the dead boughs creaked against each other, filling the time with music when the ill-boding owls muffled themselves away.

It was very still in the house, I said, for though Margery was busy, her work made no noise, till laying aside the great fleece of wool from her knees, which her skinny fingers had been picking apart, she spoke aloud, and on this wise—