Chapter V (4)

“The prohibition was not well kept toward me at all events,” replied Westover; “my father told me the whole story long ago. My Aunt Maude, whom you have seen, talked of it frequently. My grandfather himself, even, of late years—when he found out that I knew it—mentioned the matter once or twice himself. I am a great favorite of his, and when I discovered that you were in England, and perceived what sort of a person you were, I used to dash at the subject with him often; for with these stern old gentlemen, Louis, there is nothing like a little careless, rattling independence. Never do any thing that is wrong toward them—never be insolent or impertinent, but go gayly on your own way, and they learn very soon to take it as a matter of course. Every one helped me, too, I must say; for we would have done any thing in the world to comfort dear Aunt Kate. It was with this purpose that I persuaded her to go down to Blackheath on the day of the review, not intending that she should know who you were till afterward, but just that she might see you, and learn that she had seen her son; but I even persuaded the earl himself to come meet you at dinner; and he was very much pleased with you there, especially when he found that you were perfectly ignorant of your own history. The fact of your having become a Protestant, increased his good feeling toward you, and he began to take a good deal of interest in you, so that I doubt not in the least, we should have got round his lordship in the end, even if we had not obtained this important proof of your father’s innocence. As soon as he heard the facts, however, and I assured him that there could be no possible doubt, he consented at once to my bringing you here, said that his objections were at an end, that the conditions were fulfilled, and he was quite ready to acknowledge you as his grandson. In fact, Louis, he only wished for a good excuse to abandon his stern determination—and he caught at it eagerly enough.”

“Shall I not see him?” I asked.

“Not to-night, I think,” replied Westover. “He was obliged to go to the House, he said, and was gone before you arrived. The fact is, he hates what he calls scenes, and fearing there might be one here, he went away. Take my advice, therefore, and when you see him to-morrow, just shake him by the hand, as quietly as if you had been his grandson all your life, and had just come back from Buxton. He will then take the initiative himself, and make all the arrangements that are necessary.”

“But your father, Westover,” I said.

“Alas! we have lost him,” replied my mother, “but we have no second title in our family, Louis, and therefore Charles is merely Captain Westover; but you have some explanations to give, I think he told me.”

“They will be better given to-morrow, dear aunt,” said Westover. “Let us finish one volume of the book first. Jeanette has just been telling me, Louis, that you have got the precious document signed by the Marquis de Carcassonne’s own hand—show it to her, show it to her—it will do her good to see it.” My mother read it with eyes blinded by tears, and then pressed it to her lips. “Thank God, thank God!” she said. “I cannot help sometimes thinking, Louis, that the dead can see us, and if so, it must give even greater joy to the spirit of your father in glory, to see his name thus justified by the efforts of his son.”

I disclaimed much of the credit she attributed to me, and acknowledged that the principal honor was due to good Jeanette.

Jeanette was then called in and embraced us all round, kissed Charles Westover on each side of the face, and me twice on each side, called him an _excellent garçon_, and me her _chèr Louis_, and then danced for a minute for very joy, and then ran out of the room to weep, from the same cause.

We protracted our sitting till nearly midnight, and I retired with a heart lightened of its heaviest load. The next morning, I went, as had been arranged by Westover, to call upon my grandfather at his breakfast hour. I found him alone—for my mother had not come down to breakfast for years—but he received me very kindly, gave me his whole hand, and made me sit down to breakfast with him. For the first five minutes he called me Monsieur de Lacy, but it very soon got to Louis, and he talked of the news of the day, and of Charles Westover, and of the state of his health, and of his own anxiety to prevent him from joining his regiment again, while that ball was in his chest.

I followed his lead, and replied, “I dare say, sir, you might find a means, if you wished it.”

He shook his head, saying, “I don’t think it. Boys and girls are all obstinate—what means?”

“If you were to persuade some fair lady to ask him, sir,” I said, “he would never refuse her.”

“Ha—what do you mean, Miss ——?”

“I really do not know who the lady is,” I answered; “but I dare say your lordship is well aware.”

“Oh yes, I know quite well. He has been engaged to Miss —— two years; I wonder why they have not married before now.”

“I really cannot tell,” I answered; “but perhaps they do not know that you would approve—or Westover may think that he has not sufficient to keep his position as your grandson.”

“Ay, that old uncle of his, Westover,” he said, “left his fortune charged with such a jointure that nothing will come in from that till the old lady dies—”

He thought for a moment, and then added, “But all that will be speedily arranged. Why did he not speak to me about it himself?”

“I only speak myself by guess, my lord,” I answered, “and am conscious I am taking an unwarrantable liberty in mentioning the subject to you at all.”

“Not at all, not at all,” said the earl, “I’m obliged to you; but I cannot be expected to think of all these things for everybody. He only told me that he intended to marry Miss ——; and I said, very well, I had no objection; for she is a very good girl, and of a very old family, though poor, desperate poor. Go and tell him, Louis, that if he likes to stay here and marry, I will make every arrangement to render him comfortable. Don’t let fortune stand in the way a moment. He shall be put at ease.”

I had a great inclination to say a good word for myself; but I forbore, and as I rose to go, the earl asked, in an ordinary tone, “Have you seen your mother this morning?”

I replied as nearly as I could in the same manner, that I had not yet; and he rejoined, “Well, go and see her before you go to Charles. You will find her in her dressing-room—you know where it is.”

I had not the most distant idea; but I did not tell him so, and merely bade him good morning.

Thus ended my first interview with the Earl of N—— as his acknowledged grandson.

Very few words more will suffice to close my little history. Charles Westover was delighted with the news I brought him, and readily agreed to retire upon half pay, and to remain in England. He insisted upon knowing how it had been brought about that I was sent with this message to him, and I gave him, half jestingly, half seriously, an account of my interview with the earl.

“I understand you, Louis, I understand you,” he said, wringing my hand hard, “and I thank you from my very heart. Nothing on earth would have induced me to ask the earl for a penny. My mother’s jointure, of course, diminishes greatly the income that descended to me from my father, and perhaps some youthful imprudences may have diminished it still more; but the earl, I dare say, did not think of either. Now all will go well; for there is not a more generous man living, when he acts spontaneously. And so you really did not speak one word about your own engagement? Well, that must be managed for you.”

“No, no,” I replied, “I will do it myself. I begin to understand his character, I think, and trust I can manage it.”

However, when I came to talk with my mother on the subject, she was terrified at the very idea—a Frenchwoman—a Roman Catholic—the daughter of a poor emigrant—she thought it would drive the earl mad.

I went down to see Mariette, nevertheless, that same day, rejoiced the heart of the Count de Salins with the news of my father’s complete exculpation, and returned the next morning to London, taking Father Bonneville with me; but I took especial care not to say one word to any one, of there being even a chance that the earl would disapprove of my choice. Some five or six days after, the earl wrote me a note to come with Westover and breakfast with him. We found him in the best humor; for some changes had taken place in the ministry which satisfied him, and toward the close of breakfast, a servant announced that Mr. Holland was in the library.

“I will be with him directly,” said the earl; and when he had finished his cup of coffee, and read a paragraph in the newspaper, to show that he was in no hurry, he rose, saying, “Now, young men, come with me.”

We followed him to the library, where we found a tall, thin lawyer, with a shaggy head of hair, and two parchments spread out upon the table. A few words passed between the earl and his man of business, and then the former took up a pen, and signed the parchment at a spot pointed out.

“This, Charles,” he said, turning to my cousin, “is a deed settling the sum of five thousand per annum upon you, till my death puts you in possession of the family estates.”

“This, Louis,” he continued, turning to me with the pen still in his hand, “is a deed, settling two thousand per annum upon you for life, and you will find yourself further remembered in my will.”

He stooped to sign the parchment, but I laid my hand upon it saying, boldly, but in a commonplace tone, “Stop, my lord, if you please.”

“Why?” he exclaimed, looking up.

“First,” I answered, “because it is quite an honor, and pleasure enough for me to be your acknowledged grandson; and secondly, because I think it right to inform you, before you do what I could in no degree expect, that I am about to be married. The engagement was formed before I had the slightest idea that I was in any way related to you, otherwise I should certainly have consulted you before I entered into it.”

I could see by Westover’s face that he thought I was going wrong, but I was not. The old man laughed, and said, “Well, boy, I have no objection to your marrying.”

“And any one I like?” I asked.

“And any one you like,” he answered. “I do not carry my superintendence beyond one generation. That is more than enough for any one.”

“Then, my dear and noble lord,” I replied, “let me add, that the one I like, is I am sure, one you will like, too, for she is as generous and as noble-minded as yourself—noble, by birth and by character—a lady in every respect—and well fitted to be admitted into your family.”

“A French-woman!” he said—“a French-woman?”

I think it was a sort of instinct dictated my reply, “One of my own countrywomen, my lord,” I answered, “the companion of my childhood, the friend of my youth. I know that you judge it best for every one to marry one of his own country—she is the daughter of the Comte de Salins, and a nobler or a purer name is not to be found for five hundred years—is not to be found in the pages of French history.”

“Well, well,” said the old earl, “I shall be very happy to see her;” and he signed the parchment, adding, “Bring her here, my good boy, bring her here. You will soon know if I like her. If I do I shall kiss her, and don’t you be jealous; if I do not I shall give her three fingers, and call her Mademoiselle;” and he laughed gayly.

Two days afterward, my mother and I brought up Mariette to visit the old earl. She was looking exquisitely lovely, her eyes full of the light of hope and happiness, her face glowing with sweet emotions, and her frame tremulous with feelings which added grace to all her graces. She leaned upon my mother’s arm, as we entered the room where the old earl received us, and I could perceive as he gazed at her, that he was surprised and struck with her extraordinary beauty. It was impossible to look upon that face and form and not be captivated. He rose from his chair at once, advanced and took her in his arms, and kissing her with more tenderness than I ever saw him display, he said, “Welcome, welcome, my dear child. If Louis does not make you a good husband, I will strike him out of my will, so see that you keep him in order.”

Westover and I were married on the same day. I have no reason to doubt that he was happy, and of my own fate I am very sure.

* * * * *

By a decree of the Cour de Cassation in the first year of the reign of Louis XVIII., by the grace of God King of France, the sentence passed upon Louis, Comte de Lacy, was, after a great many _vus_, and _interrogés_ broken, and annulled, the memory of the said count _rehabilitee_, and his family, restored to all their estates and honors. Nevertheless, we find a Count and Countess De Lacy still living in England in 1830, and there are strong and cogent reasons to believe that the very numerous family bearing that name, had by some means or another, sprung up around them.

* * * * *

=MY FOREFATHERS.=

=BY J. HUNT, JR.=

When soft falls the moonlight, and tranquil the hour,
Which holds by a spell the dear scenes of the Past,
How touchingly tender that mystical power
Which throws o’er existence its love to the last.
On the wings of Remembrance, forgetting, forgot
Are the dreams of the Present, as onward we fly,
To place our affections on that hallowed spot
Where the bones of our forefathers mouldering lie.

Deep, pure, in the bosom’s bright innermost shrine,
Are treasured the loves we inherit in Youth;
E’en Age, with its weakness, serves but to refine
Our early impressions of Virtue and Truth.
Those silent Instructors—God grant them a Rest
In mansions prepared for the holy in heart—
For oft do they come from the Land of the Blest,
And to us their kindly monitions impart.

* * * * *

=CLEOPATRA.=

=BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT,=
=TRANSLATOR OF=
=THE PROMETHEUS AND AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLUS, ETC. ETC.=

Deliberatâ morte ferveior
Lævis liburnis scilicet invideus
Prevata deduci superbo,
Non humilis mulier, triumpho.
Horace, _Lib. I. Ode 37_.

Away! away! I would not live,
Proud arbiter of life and death,
Although the proffered boon of breath,
Which fain thou wouldst, but canst not, give,
Were Immortality.
Though all, that poets love to dream,
Of bright and beautiful were blent
To flow in one delicious stream,
Till time itself were spent;
Though glories, such as never met
In mortal monarch’s coronet,
Were poured in one unclouded blaze
On Cleopatra’s deathless days,
I would not bear the wretched strife,
The feverish agony of life,
The little aims, the ends yet less,
The hopes bud-blighted era they bloom,
The joys that end in bitterness,
The race that rests but in the tomb,
These, these, not death, are misery.
Nay! tell not me of pomp or pleasure,
Of empire, or renown, or treasure,
Of friendship’s faith or love’s devotion—
Things treacherous as the wind-rocked ocean—
For I have proved them all.
Away! If there be ought to bless
In rapture’s goblet, I have drained
That draught misnamed of happiness,
Till not a lurking drop remained
Of honey-mantled gall.
Oh! who would live, that once hath seen
The Lamia Pleasure’s mask removed;
That once hath learned how false the sheen
Of all he erst so madly loved?
And I have seen, have learned, the whole;
Till, for the passions fierce and wild
That torrent-like defied control,
A wretched apathy of soul,
Exhausted rapture’s gloomy child,
Hath crept into my very blood,
Chilling the tides that wont to flow
Like lava in their scorching flood—
An apathy more dull than care,
More sad than pain, more still than wo—
Twin sister to despair.
And thinkest thou I would stoop to live
On mercy such as Rome might give—
Or what is Rome, and what am I,
That I should bend a servile knee,
The free-born daughter of the free,
To her, whose victor lords have thrown
Their sceptre-swords before my throne,
And lost their empires at my frown?
Or deemest thou, impotent and base,
That I, of eldest earthly race,
Will thread in slow procession pace
Rome’s proud triumphal way—
A crownless queen, a shameless slave,
Beside thy golden chariot’s nave,
With fettered heads supine to crave
Plebeian pity—Roman ruth—
And with unroyal tears, forsooth!
“To make a Roman Holyday?”
An emperor thou! and I—no more!
My foot is on life’s latest shore.
Away! even now I die.
I feel it coursing through my veins,
The peace that soon shall still my pains,
And calm my ceaseless wo.
Away, proud chief! I would not yield
My empire for the conquered world
O’er which thine eagle wing is furled—
My empire in the grave.
Hades shall rise my steps to greet,
Ancestral kings my advent meet,
Sesostris, of the man-drawn car,
And Rhamses, thunderbolt of war,
Amenophis, of giant frame,
And Tathrak, of immortal name.
The mighty Ptolemies shall rise
With greeting in their glorious eyes,
And cry from lips no longer dumb—
“Hail, sister queen, for thou hast come
Right royally thy feres among.
Our thousand thrones have tarried long,
Till thou shouldst mount thine own.
Last, loveliest, frailest of our line,
By this immortal death of thine
Thou hast outdared all daring—thou
Art first among us. Lo! we bow—
We kneel—before thee! Sister queen,
The end of fortune here is seen,
Ascend thy fated throne.”
And now my woman-heart is steeled;
Call forth the bravest of the brave,
Your reapers of the crimson field,
To whom the battle-cry is breath,
To look upon a woman’s death.
I have outlived my love, my power,
My country’s freedom, people’s name,
My flush of youth, my beauty’s flower,
But not, oh not! my thirst of fame.
The Pyramids before me lie,
Piercing the deep Egyptian sky,
Memorials of the nameless dead,
To build whose glory thousands bled—
And I, the latest of their race,
A captive in their dwelling place,
Die, yet survive them all.
I tell thee, when no trophies shine
Upon the proud Capitoline,
When Julius’ fame is all forgot,
Even where his honored relics rot,
Ages shall sing my fall.
Proud Roman, thou hast won. But I,
More gladly than thou winnest, die.
Away! when crowns were on my brow,
And nations did my rising greet,
And Cæsar groveled at my feet,
I lived not—never lived till now.

* * * * *

=REMINISCENCE.=

Not every man, I believe, takes the trouble to look back occasionally to his very earliest recollections, recalling what he may, with a view to learn how much of his character was formed by the trivial incidents of his spring-time, how much, and what, is of later origin. It would surprise one to see accurately the proportion of his habit of thought, his sensibility, his ideas of right and wrong, his reverence and his affections, how much of the underlying sympathies and poetry of his nature is associated with this early period.

Some book I was reading, or some friend I was talking with the other day, suggested the matter and left me in a revery of reminiscence.

There came back to me the memory of pleasant dreams which I was perplexed to divorce from dream-like reality, of presents and promises, of nursery tales and melodies, of first disappointments, punishments, and altercations, of all the scenery between babyhood and boyhood, and of the constant wonder amid which my mind wrought its first essays.

The quiet village street between my father’s house and place of business, was the only one I was in the custom of seeing, and at such times generally in charge of an attendant, unless, with soiled face and apron full of toys, I adventured alone to run the hazard of the occasional carriages, and finally to be found asleep beside the fence and carried home to my anxious mother. When taken to another street, I seemed to pass to another realm. I roamed admiringly through the _terra incognita_; “the Bank,” with its brick walls and slated roof, I believed the castle of Giant Despair; the huge, white, fast-closed meeting-house seemed like a desolate prison; the drivers shouted to their teams in unknown tongues; the confectioners’ windows recognized me with smiles of dazzling invitation, and sometimes a benign old man would pat my head and ask me how old I was. The bustle and business, the shops and sign-boards, all I saw and met were wondrous discoveries, identified with histories of men and things which I had spelled out from my story-books, or had heard my father read at morning-prayer.

Once or twice I wandered off there alone. But to turn the corner of Mill street was like rounding the Cape of Storms. Men in a hurry tumbled over me, rude boys threatened to swallow me, dirty-faced and ragged children of my own age eyed me in mute surprise, that almost equaled mine, or with precocious malignity and a jealousy that, I trust, did not ripen in them, plucked my clothes or my hair, or threw mud on me. And one boy—and a twinge of my sometime indignation now comes across me—I remember took away the ten-cent piece which hung on a red ribbon around my neck, and spent it for India crackers.

There was a stump fence opposite our house, where I sometimes stood for long together, looking at the great, spangling roots and dead fibres twisted in fantastic shapes, to conjure up dragons, hydras, and all grotesque and horrible creations. And the old swamp of rank, slim hemlocks, that I used to shudder at passing, with their gnarled, naked trunks, dry limbs and mossy beards. And the tangled, dark thickets and unpathed woods with cawing rooks; these all filled my mind with shapeless shadows of strange myths. How I remember the first time I clambered up the hill and looked out upon the miles of forest, like a great, green, waving ocean, while the winds strode over it, as then my heart knew its first unutterable grasping, and swelled with vague emotions that I could not fit with words.

My reverence was sincere for “big boys twelve years old,” of intrepid courage, who talked slightingly of the maternal authority, owned jack-knives, and emulated the “mouth-filling oaths” of larger men. I considered it great condescension in them to let me go with them after their cows, or when they made journeys to the pine groves after “sliver,” or the alder swamps for whistles. These were the delightful music of this period, and from such excursions I returned inflated with the consciousness of travel, my torn shoes and clayey garments telling how dear I paid for the instrument in whose possession I exulted as those whom Jubal taught erewhile. Particularly I remember my paragon of chivalry, and the Mr. Great Heart of my erudition—Bill Thayer. How I hung upon his words of daring; how I admired the gasconade with which he threatened the “Shad-Laners,” between whom and the urchins at our end of the town fierce feud existed; and how he fell from the pinnacle of my veneration when I saw him return vanquished and limping from a foray upon the Shad-Lane district.

There were two or three places about the premises which I used to love to steal into and ransack. One of these was the garret of the house. We went up through a trap-door into a space just under the roof, its bare rafters within my touch at the sides, and through which the chimneys passed. Here were white hats and faded or unfashionable garments. Here were boxes with bedding in them; barrels of feathers, both boxes and barrels of old pamphlets and newspapers—behind a chimney leaned an old “king’s arms” musket, which at length familiarity encouraged me to lay hands upon, and near it hung a cartridge-box, a knapsack, and a bayonet in its sheath. These told me all sorts of tales. I shuddered and dropped the steel when I thought of its purpose and what might have been its deeds, and of all the Bible stories of Goliath with his sword and spear, and Samson slaying Philistines. I inquired strangely of myself what war was, and the mystery of conflict and enmity enveloped my young thought, as it has many an older. To tumble those old books and papers was delightful. Sometimes a rare waif came to hand, a print or a toy-book, or something equally valuable.

Thus do I rummage the neglected attics of my own memory; thus trace the concretion of that character which I must bear forever, and the gradual development of my reason and volition in the sunlight of home and innocence.

“God help thee, Elia,” said Charles Lamb, “how art thou changed!”

B. B.

* * * * *

=TO THE PICTURE OF MY CHILD.[1]=

=BY META LANDER.=

Oh! is it not a dream, my child?
Is not my yearning heart beguiled?
And have not then my longings wild
Disturbed my wildered brain?
Ah, no! the wish that night and day
Hath never, never passed away—
It stirred me not in vain.

Full many a dreary month has passed,
Since o’er me swept that chilling blast,
When on thee, child, I looked my last.
Oh! since that mournful hour,
How have I longed for some charmed art
To trace thine image from my heart
With thy rich beauty’s dower.

I see thee once again, my dove!
Thy face all radiant with love—
Thy parted rose-bud lips—they _move_—
Oh! will they _never speak_?
I list in vain, my warbling bird;
There gushes forth no loving word,
And tears steal down my cheek.

Thou puttest up thy month to kiss;
My heart is thrilled with wildest bliss—
And yet—and yet—_something_ I miss—
Thought’s ever changeful play—
The variant, passing moods of life—
Its lights and shades in pleasant strife—
A dash of Sorrow’s spray.

I look upon thy morning face,
Enrapt with its sun-lighted grace—
But seek in vain the faintest trace
Of some o’ershadowing cloud.
Alas! dear child! _it is not thou_—
Sunshine laughed never on thy brow
When grief did mine enshroud.

I miss thy winsome tenderness—
Thy music-tones, so charmed to bless;
I miss thy soothing, fond caress—
Thy sweet lips on mine own.
Carrie, my child! _thou_ wouldst not be
Thus mute in my keen agony.
_Again I am alone!_

Then hide that face from out my sight!
Its radiant smile and eyes of light
But mock me in my sorrow’s night—
I cannot bid it stay.
Too like it is, sweet one, to thee—
And oh! I cannot bear to see
That smile’s unbroken ray.

But hush, my heart! And would I, then,
Make thee a child of grief again,
And shroud thy boundless, starry ken
In Time’s bewildering night.
Ah, no! I would rejoice that now
Ray ever round thy cherub-brow
Beams of celestial light.

Freed from the cankering cares of life,
Its tears—its bitterness—its strife—
From all the ills with which is rife
This changing, mortal coil;
Oh! sweet forever be thy rest
In that Elysium of the blest—
Fair Eden’s genial soil.

How could I bear that thou shouldst weep?
That the sad angel, Grief, should keep
The key to thy dear heart, or sweep
O’er thee her storm-clouds wild!
Oh! let me weep my tears alone!
Ne’er shall thy lips breathe sorrow’s moan,
My own, my angel child!

Then while my aching heart is riven,
I lift it weeping up to heaven,
Exulting that to thee is given
Eternal sunlight sweet!
A sunlight imaged on thy brow,
Which doth not mock my misery now,
As thy love-glance I meet.

I look into thy moonlit eyes,
Wherein thy soul clear mirrored lies,
As heaven looks through the star-lit skies,
The wintry night to bless.
In their deep light is earnest thought—
Visions with inward beauty fraught
No language can express.

I gaze upon thy forehead fair,
Shadowed by thy brown, clustering hair,
And joy that is not written there
One line of grief or pain.
From that clear brow there beams a smile,
Which sweetly utters all the while
_Mother, we meet again!_

Oh! blest forever be that art
Which hath reversed the words—_to part_,
And back unto my yearning heart
My darling child hath given.
Around that face, in radiance bright,
Circleth an aureole of light—
Adumbrant sweet of heaven.

-----

[1] By the poet-painter, T. Buchanan Read.

* * * * *

=PAQUETA.=

=BY. H. DIDIMUS.=