Chapter XXXIX: "a Sorrowful Parting." (5)

In regard to this emperor's political career, full of ambition and stratagem, we can only re-echo his dying words to his confessor: "God must be merciful to kings!" His career, however, varied by losses on the field, or humiliated by treaties, ended triumphantly with the laurels of war and the olives of peace; and he bore to his far northern empire the keys of Paris as a trophy of his arms. His moderation demands the praise of posterity, and excited the admiration of the French nation at large. His immoral conduct as a man and a husband was afterward effaced by his sincere repentance, and he died in the arms of the most faithful and affectionate of wives, who could not long survive her irreparable loss. His death was deeply lamented by his subjects, who, if they did not enroll his name among the greatest of their rulers, never have hesitated to denote him as the best and most merciful sovereign who ever sat upon the Russian throne.

AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF JOHN RAYNER.

I.

It was the strangest and most beautiful sight in the world--certainly the most beautiful they had ever seen or dreamt of; and the party, after surmounting the perils of the ascent, stood gazing in astonished amazement. "The Falls of Niagara may be very grand," observed they; not that they could speak from experience, never having crossed the Atlantic to view them; the sight of the Pyramids of Egypt, worth a pilgrimage thither, and all the other known wonders of the earth, natural and artificial, equally imposing and sublime, but it was scarcely to be conceived that any one of them could vie in beauty with the Glaciers of Switzerland.

The party, some half-dozen in number, and of the English nation, had arrived at Chamouny in the night, later by some hours than they ought to have done, owing to the break-down of their nondescript vehicle, called a char-a-banc, just after they had quitted St. Martin, a quiet little village, whence the view of Mont Blanc is splendid in the extreme.

They were weary with traveling, and sought their beds at once, the earliest riser among them--and he not until the sun was up--rushing to his window, before his eyes were half open, to see if any view was to be obtained.

He pulled aside the curtain, and stood transfixed; utterly regardless of the bipeds, male and female, human and animal, whose attention might be attracted upward by the unusual apparition of a gentleman exhibiting himself at the open window in his costume _de nuit_, his tasseled nightcap stretching a yard into the air. But John Rayner was a man much more accustomed to act from impulse than from reflection, and it is possible that in this instance the scene he beheld excused it.

The Glacier de Bosson was before him--the large, unbroken Glacier de Bosson--with its color of bright azure, and its shining peaks of gold, rising to a sky more deeply blue than we ever see it in England, glittering along as far as the eye could reach. A glimpse of the Mer de Glace was caught in the distance, its white surface presenting a contrast to the blue of the glaciers.

John Rayner soon summoned his party; and, after a hasty breakfast, they commenced preparations for a visit to the Mer de Glace. They were soon ready--considering that some of the party were ladies, and one a staid damsel of five-and-forty, methodical and slow: another, a fair young bride, indulged in every wish and whim. The usual appendage of mules and guides accompanied them, and they were a long while ascending the mountain--five hours at the least--but the road was sufficiently exciting, and to some minds sufficiently dangerous, to keep away ennui. The young girl, too, and indeed she was little more, was perpetually throwing them into a state of agitation with her sudden screams of terror, although the guides, with their Alpenstocks, seeing her fears, were more attentive to her than to all the rest of them put together. Once they thought she had certainly gone over, mule and all: it was when a descending party appeared almost right above their heads, advancing toward them, and she was just at a broken and rugged corner, where there was scarcely room for one mule to step, without being precipitated into the depths below. But the danger was surmounted, and on they went, the mules nearly on end; for it is scarcely possible to conceive a more perpendicular ascent. Part of the way lay through groves of tall pine-trees, and flowers and wild strawberries were growing around.

But now they gained the height, and how strangely beautiful was the scene that broke upon them! it certainly, as the gazers observed, could have no rival in nature. It was one of the sunniest days, too, that ever rose on that picturesque land: had it been less fine, the greater part of the scene's beauty would probably have been lost.

The azure-tinted plains of ice, in their rugged sublimity, were stretched out broad and large, their surface glittering as if all sorts of precious stones were thrown there. The bright-green emerald, the pale sapphire, the gay amber, the purer topaz, the sweet-tinted amethyst, the richer garnet, the blue turquoise, the darker lapis lazuli, the rare jacinth, the elegant onyx, the delicate opal, the gaudy gold, and the brilliant diamond. All gay and glittering colors were there, presenting a dazzling profusion of tints such as the eye had never yet rested on. Pinnacles of snow rose up to the heavens, and frozen torrents, arrested midway in their course, hung over the waves of ice below. Plains, plains of ice, were extended there, clear and transparent; masses of white, shining snow, in all fanciful shapes, were crowded, as if they were rocks, one above another, and magnificent pinnacles, or aiguilles, as they are appropriately termed, raised their golden tops to the dark blue sky, numbers of them upon numbers, as far away in the distance as the eye could reach. It is impossible to do justice in description to the exquisite coloring of these heaps or rocks of ice, between each of which yawned a fissure or abyss, fearful to look down upon. You may have witnessed the blue of a Southern sky, and the rich blue of the Rhone's waters--wondrously dark and rich as they roll on from Geneva's lake; you may have seen the bright plumage of rare birds, rivaling the exquisite tint that is known as "ultramarine," but never, never have you imagined any thing so lovely as the transparent azure of portions of these masses of ice.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Hamlet tells us, than are dreamt of in our philosophy. It is very probable; and there are certainly more places. When John Rayner's geographical master at school expounded to him the dreamy, repellant attributes of the Icy Sea, making him shiver as he listened, he little thought there was _another_ icy sea nearer home, one that he might some time visit, and whose strangely magnificent beauty would cling to his recollections for all his future years.

The guides began pointing out to him some of the glistening peaks by name: the Aiguilles Rouges, the Col de Baume, the Grands Periades, the Grands Mulets, the Egralets, and others. And--strange, strange scene! in the midst of this region of petrifaction, this enduring ice of ages, the green banks, verdant as our plains in the spring-time, lay on the edge of the white waters; causing them to think of the blending of climes that they would never see blended--the smiling pastures of Arcadia in the midst of the desolation of the North Pole.

They were gathered in a group close to the little chalet, as it is called, partaking of the refreshments they had brought with them, all save that pretty plaything the young bride, who, her terrors subsided, sat twisting some wood-strawberries round her straw-bonnet, much to the staining and detriment of its white ribbons, as John Rayner's staid aunt kept assuring her, when some fresh comers appeared upon the scene. They consisted of a lady and gentleman, a man servant, in undress livery, and some guides. He, the gentleman, was young and remarkably handsome, aristocratic to the last degree, and there was an air of reserve and hauteur about him, conspicuous at the first glance. But he was forgotten when his companion, whom he had assisted from her mule and placed upon his arm, turned her countenance to their view. Seldom has a human face been formed so classically faultless, and though there was not the slightest coloring in her features, the delicate beauty of their form was such, that could a painter have transferred them to canvas, he would need to toil for fame no more. Her hair was of the deepest shade, next to black, and her eyes were blue, but such a blue--dark and lovely as were the edges of the masses of ice she was looking at. They did not advance toward our party, preferring, no doubt, to shroud themselves in their habits of aristocratic reserve, and keep themselves aloof from promiscuous travelers. Once she withdrew her arm from his, and began slipping about on the waves of ice, trying hard to climb them; and, as she thus amused herself, he strolled away and approached nearer the other party. But he took no notice of it, save one or two involuntary glances of admiration which shot from his eyes as they fell upon the fair young wife before mentioned, who still sat weaving her strawberries, not quite consistent, as John Rayner's maiden aunt stiffly observed, with his devotion to _his_ young wife down there.

"I wonder if they are English?" quoth Miss Rayner--the first "wonder" an Englishwoman expresses, and that invariably, when strangers appear in sight in a foreign land.

"English! of course not!" retorted her young lady-relative, pushing up the wreath to see how many stains she could count upon her bonnet, and who, since she crossed the channel, had been pleased to express a mania for every body and every thing that was foreign.

But the day at length wore away, with its pleasure, toil, and excitement; and not sorry were they, after their perpendicular descent, to find themselves safe in the inn at Chamouny.

Early the next morning they went out to visit the source of the Arveyron; but it calls for little notice here, and its description would scarcely be read after that of the Icy Sea. They were standing by the grove of pines that skirts the rivulet, bargaining with some little children for the minerals they so anxiously displayed, when the same couple they had seen the day before, amid the glaciers, advanced toward them, but this time quite unattended. The gentleman was attired in a sort of shooting-coat, his tall slender form appearing to advantage in this mode of dress; and the young lady was enveloped in a Cashmere, her lovely features colorless as ever; but she hastily shook her vail over them as she neared the strangers.

They had scarcely passed, when the gentleman, in drawing something from his pocket--a sketch-book it looked like--let fall a gold pencil-case, probably out of the book. It was unperceived by him, and he continued his way, the pencil-case rolling to the feet of John Rayner. He picked it up, and stepping after the stranger, returned it into his hand.

He proffered his thanks politely and very courteously. There was something extremely prepossessing in his manner when he spoke, and in his smile also, in spite of the hauteur visible in his features when they were at rest.

"He is an Englishman, then!" cried John's good aunt, who had been watching and listening.

"And a nobleman to boot," added John.

On the blood-red stone of the chased pencil-case was engraved an elaborate coat-of-arms, surmounted by a viscount's coronet.

During their quiet journey back to St. Martin, in the char-a-banc, they, having nothing better to do, began discussing the episode, as John Rayner himself named it. Miss Rayner, who, many years before, had owned a real countess for a godmother, and still boasted of a cousin--she did not say how many removes--in an embassador's lady, had, as a matter of course, all the peerage at her fingers' ends, and knew the names and ages of every body in it, as well as she did the Church Catechism. So she began speculating upon which of the peers' sons it was, and trying to recollect who among them had recently wedded.

"I have it!" she cried at last, "It is Lord L----. He was married just before we left England--to that old admiral's daughter, you know, John, with the wooden leg: he is something at the Admiralty. An exceedingly fine young man is Viscount L----, but so was his father before him, though I dare say he is altered now. He stood for our county in early life, and I saw him ride round the town the day of his election."

"My good madam," interrupted a gentleman, leaning down from his seat by the driver to speak, "the party we saw this morning is just as much like Lord L---- as you are like me. He is a regular dwarf, is L----; stands five feet one in his boots."

"How do _you_ know Viscount L----?" snappishly demanded the lady, vexed at finding herself, with all her aristocratic lore, at fault.

"I was at college with him," was the reply, as the speaker threw away the end of his cigar.

"It is useless to discuss the matter further," observed John Rayner. "We have seen the last of them, and the prospect here is worth all the coronets in Europe."

They were leaving the Glacier de Bosson, with its form of grace, and its color of brilliant blue shading itself off above to snowy whiteness; but shining cataracts, silvery and beautiful, were rushing down from the heights, amid the trees, the rocks, and the green, green banks. And further on, as the char-a-banc continued its way out of the valley, the snowy range of mountains appeared, their outline sharply cut against the clear summer sky, and the pinnacles, domes, and obelisks, as they might be fancied, shooting up to it; with Mont Blanc--Mont Blanc so splendidly radiant--seen from thence, standing forth in all its glory.

II.

It may have been several months prior to the date of the events recorded above, that a family-party were gathered one evening in the drawing-room of a handsome house, situated near to one of those parts of London much frequented by lawyers. A lady of advancing years sat in an easy-chair; the worsted-work with which she had been occupied was thrown aside, and she had placed her hand fondly upon the head of a young girl, who knelt before the recently-lighted fire, enjoying its blaze, for the autumn evenings were growing chilly. A stranger would have been struck at once with the girl's beauty. Had a masterly hand sculptured out her features from marble, they could not have been more exquisitely moulded, and they were pale as the purest ivory. She seemed to be about eighteen, and a cherished, petted child.

Two ladies, each more than thirty years of age, sat also in the apartment. They were quiet-looking women, dressed with a plainness which formed a contrast to the elegant attire of the younger lady. One sat before her desk, the other--having drawn close to the window, for she was near-sighted--sat reading attentively.

"Louisa, my dear," observed the mother, removing her hand from her youngest daughter's head, "I think you should put your writing aside: it is getting too late to see."

"In a few minutes, mother: my epistle is just finished, and I want to send it by to-night's post."

"Is it for the convent?" inquired the youngest girl.

"It is."

"As a matter of certainty," she rejoined; a saucy smile--in which might be traced a dash of derision--illuminating her features.

The expression was observed, and a deep sigh broke from the two elder sisters; the one looking up from her book, which was a Roman-Catholic edition of the "Lives of the Saints," to give vent to it.

At the same moment a servant entered, and presented a salver to his mistress. She took a note from it, and broke the seal. The man quitted the room, and Frances, like a spoiled child, leaned her head upon her mother's lap to look at the handwriting.

"It is from your papa, my dearest, written from the office; but a couple of lines. He says he shall bring home a client to dinner--a nobleman, who will probably take a bed at our house. It may be as well, perhaps, that I order some trifling additions to the table."

"The dinner is very well, madam," meekly observed one of her elder daughters. "It is handsome and good: will not the enlarging of it savor much of worldly vanity?"

"Additions! to be sure, mamma!" cried Frances. "What are you dreaming of, Mary? it is a nobleman who is coming, did you not hear?" And bending forward, she pulled hastily the bell, that Mrs. Hildyard might issue her orders.

But while they are up-stairs dressing, it may be as well to give a short intimation of who the parties are.

Mr. Hildyard was an eminent lawyer, ranking high in his profession, of unblemished character, and of great wealth. He was of the Roman Catholic persuasion. His family consisted but of the three daughters we have already seen. The two elder ones, Louisa and Mary, had been placed in early childhood at a convent in one of the midland counties. Merry-hearted girls they were when they entered it; but at their departure, after a sojourn there of several years, their joyous spirits had been subdued to gloom. The world and all its concerns was to them a sin; and they decidedly deemed that no person was worthy to live in it, save those who were continually out of it "in the spirit," and whose time was passed in the offices of religion, and in ecclesiastical acerbities. They returned home young women, while their little sister, the willful child, Frances, was but eight years of age. Most passionately fond of this child, coming to them so many years after the birth of the others, were Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard; and, like too many fond parents, they merged her future well-being in present indulgence. Oh! better had it been for Frances Hildyard to have turned into stone her heart's best feelings, and to have lived a life of contented gloom as her sisters did, than to have grown up the vain, self-willed girl which she had done, reveling in the world and its vanities as if it were to be her resting-place forever.

It is impossible to tell you how Frances Hildyard was idolized--how indulged. This is no ideal story, and I speak but of things as they were. When only seven years of age, she dined at table with her parents, at their late dinner-hour. Her will was law in the house; the very servants, taking their tone from their superiors, made her their idol, or professed to do so. The most insidious flatteries were poured into her ear, and every hour in the day, one eagerly drank-in theme was whispered there--the beauty of Miss Frances. This indulgence, coupled with that fostered vanity, brought forth its fruits--and can you wonder at it? Good seeds were in her heart--good, holy seeds, planted in it by God, as they are in the heart of all; but in lieu of being carefully fostered and pruned, they were let run to waste, and the baneful weeds overgrew them.

A governess was provided for her, a kind, judicious Catholic woman. Send Frances to the convent, indeed! What object would Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard have had to doat upon had their precious child been removed from their sight? Mrs. Mainwaring was anxious for the welfare of her charge, and to do her duty; but Frances was the most rebellious pupil. The governess appealed to the mother, and Mrs. Hildyard, with showers of kisses and presents, implored Frances to be more attentive; but Frances heard her whisper to the governess not to be harsh with her darling child. It was a continued scene of struggle for mastery, and Mrs. Mainwaring threw up her engagement. A French lady was procured in her place, who had the accommodation, to use no more reprehensible term, to assimilate her views to those of Miss Frances. And so she grew up; her extreme beauty palliating to the household all her little willful faults, and the admiration she excited filling the very crevices of her heart. To hear the echo of the word "beautiful" coupled with Frances Hildyard, was of itself, to her, worth living for. But soon one was to come, for whose admiration she would alone care, one for whose step she would learn to listen, and in whose absence existence would be irksome.

She was the first, on the evening which has been mentioned, to enter the drawing-room, after dressing for dinner. Her attire proved she had not forgotten that a noble stranger was to partake of their hospitality. Mr. Hildyard was standing before the fire with a gentleman. They both moved as she advanced, and her father, taking her hand, said, "My love, allow me to introduce Lord Winchester. Your lordship sees my youngest daughter, Miss Frances Hildyard."

She saw that he was young and handsome--she saw that he was noble and courteous beyond any that she had hitherto formed acquaintance with, but she saw not the whole of his fascinations then.

He led Mrs. Hildyard in to dinner, and sat next to her; Frances was on his other hand. The two elder sisters, in their quiet gray silk dresses, sat opposite, and Mr. Hildyard occupied his customary place at the foot of the table.

Vain girl! She was looking her very best, and she tried to look it. She was conscious that he regarded her with no common admiration. She was used to that; but she was _not_ used to this homage from a nobleman.

The secret of his visit was made known to the family--to no one else. Viscount Winchester, but following the example set him by many another noble viscount, had got himself into a scrape: plainly speaking, he had run headlong into debt, and was in the hands of the Jews. The respectable old earl, his father, shocked and astonished, had, in the first flush of anger, refused to assist him, and the viscount, threatened with arrest, and not daring to apply to the family-solicitor, had flown to Mr. Hildyard, of whom he had a slight knowledge. So here he was located, _en famille_, in the lawyer's house; it may be said, secreted, for the servants were left in ignorance of his name and rank, and the family were denied to visitors.

Upon Frances chiefly devolved the care of entertaining him. Louisa and Mary--even had the necessity of any task so vain and useless as that of amusing a handsome young gentleman occurred to their minds--possessed not the time to attend to it, what with their voluminous correspondence kept up with the convent, and their multifarious religious duties at home, and its ceremonies abroad; and Mrs. Hildyard was in delicate health, and rarely descended from her apartments until late in the day.

It was nearly a week before he left the house. For four days the earl had continued obstinate; and after he relented, it took two more to arrange matters, so that Lord Winchester might be free again. He and Frances had become very friendly with each other; it is too early yet to say, attached--but the seeds for that were sown. He quitted the house, but not to remain absent from it forever--now a morning visit, now a friendly dinner with them. Neither did it seem any thing but a natural occurrence that he should frequently return to his friends from whom he had received so much kindness. But it needed not his whisperings to Frances, to convince her that she was the magnet that drew him thither, for she saw it in every look, and traced it in every action.

III.

The winter had come. Frost and snow lay chillingly upon the ground, when one afternoon the visiting-carriage of Mrs. Hildyard drew up to her house, and Frances, followed by her mother, leaped lightly out of it. A radiant smile of happiness was on her beautiful face, for a well-known cab, elegant in all its appurtenances, was in waiting at the door, giving sure token that its owner was within.

Lord Winchester's visits had been frequent and constant; and oh, the change that had come over the feelings of Frances Hildyard--over her whole life! She had learned to love; but few could imagine how wildly and passionately.

There he was, as she entered the morning-room, striding up and down it impatiently. A hasty embrace, while they were yet uninterrupted, and Lord Winchester walked forward to shake hands with Mrs. Hildyard.

"So, Frances," he whispered, when an opportunity, offered and others were in the room to draw off attention from them, "you are tiring already of your conquest?"

Tiring of him! A faint blush upon her pure cheek, and a look of inquiry, formed her only answer.

"It was unkind not to reply to my note, when I so earnestly urged it."

"What note?" she asked.

"The one I sent you yesterday."

"I had no letter from you yesterday."

"Think again, my love. James tells me he delivered it as usual into the hands of your own maid."

"Then she never gave it me," answered Frances, earnestly.

"Some negligence!" ejaculated Lord Winchester.

But the visitors who had been present were leaving, and their conversation was interrupted.

As soon as she was at liberty, Frances hastened to her room, and ringing for her maid, a chattering French girl, demanded if she had not received a note for her on the previous day.

"Most certainly," answered the girl, jabbering on with her false accent, and occasionally introducing a word of her native language. "It came when you were out, mademoiselle, and I placed it here on your toilet-table."

"Then where is it?" inquired Frances.

"Mais--I supposed you took it," replied the attendant, looking puzzled; and she was beginning to scan the ground, as if thinking it might have fallen there, when Miss Louisa Hildyard entered the apartment, and the servant was dismissed.

"I--I took the liberty, Frances," began Miss Hildyard, clearing her throat, and speaking in the mild, monotonous manner which distinguished her and her sister, "to open a letter yesterday which was addressed to you."

The thoughts of Frances reverted to the lost note, and the impetuous flush of anger rose to her brow. Her answer was delivered in a tone of the utmost astonishment:

"You--opened--a--letter--addressed--to--me!" was her exclamation, with a pause between every word.

"I did," meekly replied Miss Louisa.

"And you presumed--was it from here? Did you find it here?" reiterated Frances, pointing to the dressing-table.

"It was--- I did," responded the elder lady, scarcely above a whisper, "and I am now come to converse--"

But Frances, with a perfect torrent of passion, overwhelmed her words. "And how could you--how dared you break the seal of a letter which bore my address? how dare you presume to stand in my presence and assert it?"

"The superscription was in Viscount Winchester's handwriting, and the seal bore his arms," was the placid reply. "A sufficient warranty for my proceeding, for I had suspected there was a private understanding going on between you, and deemed it my duty to look into it."

"And don't you know," exclaimed Frances, stamping her foot in her passion, "that the act you have been guilty of is so vile, that, but recently, one committing it was deemed worthy of a felon's death upon the scaffold? That degradation so utter can have been committed by my father's child!"

"This storm of passion and violence is very bad," deplored Miss Louisia Hildyard, crossing her hands upon her chest. "May the Virgin bring your mind to habitual meekness!"

"May the Virgin bring you to a sense of the shameful act you have stooped to, and keep you out of my apartments for the future!" retorted the exasperated girl, who, in truth to say, was looked upon as little better than a heathen, in religious matters, by her pious sisters.

Miss Louisa took a small ivory crucifix from her bosom, kissed it, and crossed herself, while ejaculating audible aspirations for patience.

"Retire from my presence," resumed Frances, haughtily, "and return to my maid, whom I will send after you, the letter you have robbed me of."

"It is no longer in my possession," sighed Miss Louisa, coolly taking a seat as if in open defiance of her sister's imperious command. "I am in the habit of consulting Sister Mildred, my dear old preceptress at the convent, upon all points, and I submitted Lord Winchester's communication to her by last night's post, requesting her advice as to what course we ought to pursue with you upon this deplorable matter."

Frances turned quite wild. "You eavesdropper--you impersonation of all jealousy--- how dared you do so? This is worse and worse! Consult the nuns about yourselves and your own concerns; go and live with them and stop with them if you like; but who gave you right or power over mine?

"The right and the power that one soul has to concern itself for the well-being of another. Had Viscount Winchester--"

"Had Viscount Winchester come with his coronet in hand, and laid it at _your_ feet," interrupted Frances, vehemently, "you would have grasped at the offer--unsuitable to him as you would be in years. We should have had no saintly appeals to the convent then."

Miss Louisa gave a faint scream, and nearly fainted. To do her justice, it was not so much her sister's ill-judged words that affected her--not even the irreverent allusion to her age--as the coupling her holy and catholic person, though only in idea, in union with one who was a sworn enemy to the true faith.

"Oh, that you had been reared among our pious sisterhood!" she aspirated, looking on Frances with compassion, "you would then know the terrible sin you have been guilty of in encouraging the addresses of this lost man."

"I wish the pious sisterhood had been in the sea before they had taught you these disgraceful tricks," retorted the young lady. "Why don't you attend to your priests, and your visitings, and your week-day masses, and your holy robes, and leave rational people to pursue their way unmolested?"

This last was a hint at her sister's embroidery; they never were without a "holy robe" in hand, intended for the decoration of some priest or another.

"Thanks be to the saints and to their blessed servants who tutored me, you can not provoke me to anger, Frances. What I have done, I have done for your good. It is incumbent on us to stop this affair in the bud, rather than suffer you to become deeply attached to this young nobleman. Alas! that hearts still dead to the spirit, _should_ be guilty of passion so reprehensible for a fellow-creature!"

"Whatever attachment there may be between me and Lord Winchester, it does not concern you."

"You can never marry him."

"I shall not ask your consent."

Miss Louisa Hildyard fell upon one knee when she heard these words, and prayed for reformation to the sinful heart of her young sister.

"You might as well marry the--the--" she seemed to hesitate for a mild expression, "the person down below who is not an angel," she continued, tapping the floor with her foot, lest Frances should mistake her meaning; "you might as well marry _him_, as a man professing the religion they call Protestant."

The pale face of Frances bore a tinge of red--always a sign in her of deep emotion. She liked not the turn the discussion was taking, for she had been nurtured in the doctrines of the Romish faith, and even she, careless as she was of fulfilling the duties of her religion, owned to prejudices against those of an opposite creed, though her all-potent love for Lord Winchester willingly buried in his case these prejudices in oblivion.

"Oh, Frances! think of your soul! How can that be saved if you willfully ally yourself with one who can never enter into the fold of Christ?"

"Have you increased my obligations to you," interrupted Frances, trying to smother her sister's words, "by informing papa that you are a breaker-open of other people's letters?"

"My lips are sealed upon the subject until the arrival of the answer of Sister Mildred," replied Miss Hildyard. "I shall be guided, as I ever am, by her advice."

IV.

The answer of "Sister Mildred" was not long in coming. It was a voluminous epistle, partly consisting of pathetic lamentations over the "stray lamb who seemed prone to wonder;" and earnestly urging, nay, commanding her dear daughter Louisa to consult at once with her confessor, and to let him see and explain the danger to Mr. Hildyard.

Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard were sufficiently confounded when the unwelcome news was made known to them. That they were taken with Lord Winchester as a fascinating man and pleasing companion, could not be denied; but that their greatly-beloved daughter should have become attached to one lying under the ban of their faith, was an overwhelming blow. The first time that Mr. Hildyard entered his drawing-room, after hearing the tale, appearances seemed to confirm it, for there sat Frances at the piano, playing ever and anon a few bars with one hand, and his lordship was leaning over her and speaking in whispers. Mrs. Hildyard had dozed asleep upon the sofa, her frequent habit after dinner, and Miss Mary Hildyard sat at the table underneath the light of the great chandelier, forming a wreath of flowers, intended, when worked, to ornament a vail for the profession of a young friend, who was about to become a nun. Altogether, what with the old lady's doze, and the younger one's preoccupation, they had it pretty much to themselves, and Mr. Hildyard walked across the well-carpeted room without being perceived, in time to see the viscount toying with his daughter's ringlets. Frances started up when she saw her father.

"What do you do, Frances, so far from the fire?" he cried with asperity, the first time in her life she ever remembered harsh tones used to her.

"Is it so cold a night?" inquired the young man.

"Very cold, my lord," was the short reply.

"This room is warm any where," observed Frances, as she slowly approached the table where her sister was sitting.

"Shall I sing you your favorite songs to-night, papa?" she inquired.

"No. I am in no mood for singing?"

"Will you give me my revenge at chess?" asked the viscount of Mr. Hildyard.

"If your lordship will excuse me, I shall feel obliged."

So with this chilling reception of course his lordship soon walked himself off, and then Mr. Hildyard spoke to Frances.

Kindly and cautiously he pointed out to her how impossible it was that she could ever marry Lord Winchester, or any one save a professor of her own creed. He told her to choose from the whole world--that he and her mother had but her happiness at heart, but she must choose a Roman Catholic. "I hope," he continued, "that a mistake has arisen upon this point, and that you do not love Lord Winchester--that it will be no pain to you not to see him again."

Her heart beat tumultuously, and a film gathered before her eyes; but she turned her face, with its agitation, away from their view, and gave an evasive answer.

"Because to-morrow I shall write to him," proceeded Mr. Hildyard, "that a stop may be put to this at once, and forever."

V.

Astonished as Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard may have been, that was nothing compared with the indignant amazement of the earl when the affair broke upon him. For Mr. Hildyard, not contented with writing fully to Lord Winchester, had dropped an explanatory note to the earl, intimating his hope that the latter would urge upon his son the futility of the expectation that Miss Frances Hildyard could ever become Viscountess Winchester.

That the viscount admired Frances was beyond a doubt; nay, that he loved her; but that he had entertained any serious thoughts of making her his wife, was a mistake. He was not so ready to give up the attractions of bachelorship. He had passed his leisure hours most agreeably by the side of Frances, without any ultimate end in view, and without giving a thought to one.

What commotion there was in the house when the supercilious letter of the haughty old peer arrived at Mr. Hildyard's. A lawyer's daughter a fit mate for the heir to one of the most ancient earldoms! Had Mr. Hildyard and his wife ever entertained so aspiring a thought, they were now plainly undeceived.

Lord Winchester was forbidden the house; all intercourse with him, even but a passing nod, should they meet in public, was denied to Frances; and she who had never been chidden or crossed, who did not know what control was, had her mother and sisters constantly peeping and peering over her, night and day.

But their vigilance was sometimes eluded. There were servants in the house, who, devoted to Frances's interests or to the viscount's bribery, frequently passed letters from one to the other, and even contrived to bring about interviews between them. One unlucky evening, however, that Frances was missing from the sitting-room, her eldest sister bethought herself to go in search of her--a suspicion, it may have been, rife in her heart.

Reception-rooms and other chambers were searched in vain, and the lady stealthily made her way to the apartments of the servants, scaring one that she met on the road by her unusual appearance there. The housekeeper's parlor was at the end of a passage, and Miss Hildyard advanced to it, and turned the handle of the door, and--she did not faint, but sank down upon a chair with a succession of groans so loud, that they might have been heard at any given place within three miles--Lord Winchester stood there, clasping her sister in his arms, and, to use poor Miss Louisa's expression to her mother afterward, actually KISSING her!--kissing her cheek as fast as he could kiss.

The retiring Miss Louisa had never in all her life received such a shock. It was enough to turn her hair gray. Such a thing had never been heard of in the convent. And that she should witness a young sister of hers, almost an infant it might be said, quietly suffering herself to be upon such dreadfully familiar terms with one of the other sex--and he _not_ a holy priest, or even a Catholic! What a humiliating confession she should have for her spiritual director the next day!--what an octavo budget for Sister Mildred and the nuns!

Lord Winchester, instead of sinking through the floor with contrition, appeared little daunted. He raised his head proudly up, and placing Frances's hand within his arm, demanded of Miss Louisa if she had any commands for him.

This hardihood put the finishing stroke upon Miss Louisa's agitation. She fell into hysterics, and screamed so loud, that the housekeeper, followed by the servants, came rushing in.

But the scene next day was terrible. Mr. Hildyard had been at a political meeting, but the next morning he assembled the whole of the family in conclave.

"Will you," he cried to Frances, after an hour spent in fruitless discussion and recrimination, "will you, or will you not, give up this man?"

"I will not," she murmured.

"Frances, do you remember how I and your mother--there she stands--have cherished you? Do you know that you are entwined round our hearts as never child was yet entwined? Will you outrage this affection of years for the sake of a stranger--and he an apostate?"

Ah! Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard, you now see the effects of your woefully indulgent training. What response does Frances make? Why, she turns away her head, and makes none.

"Frances, for the last time," continued her father, "will you undertake to renounce all friendship with Viscount Winchester--that he shall be to you henceforth as if you had never met? It must be sworn upon the crucifix."

The faint crimson shone in her cheek, and her voice and hands trembled as she replied, in a low tone,

"I will never promise it."

VI.

"If any thing can recall her to a sense of her duty," remarked Miss Louisa Hildyard, as she consulted that night alone with her father and mother, the family priest being alike present, "it will be a prolonged residence in that blessed convent. There her mind may be led to peace. Oh, that she had been brought up in it!"

"You say right, my daughter," acquiesced the priest. "I see no other way to reclaim her; for here, alas! the temptations of worldly life must ever interfere, and counteract all good effects that might be wrought. Place her in the convent. I myself will be her conductor thither, and will offer up my prayers that the step may conduce to her spiritual welfare."

Mr. and Mrs. Hildyard started, and the former smoothed his hand across his brow, as if pain had settled there.

"Your inclinations may be at variance with this counsel," continued the holy father, breaking the silence which had followed, "but will you oppose them to the salvation of her immortal soul? _I see no other way to save it._"

And so it was decided; but not until the night hours had grown into morning.

"Oh, the holy work that will have been wrought, should the heart of this erring lamb be won over to a peaceful life, and embrace the vail!" uttered the priest in the ear of Miss Louisa, as he bestowed upon her the night benediction, ere retiring from the council. "We shall say then that that carnal-minded apostate was sent to this house in mercy."

VII.

But three days had elapsed, when a traveling-carriage drove into the outer yard of the convent of the Nuns of the Visitation in ---- shire. A young lady descended from it, and those in attendance gently led her forward, now through one court-yard, now through another, until the interior of the convent was gained. Then the great gates closed with a bang that almost shook the building, and Frances Hildyard was shut out from the world she had so idolized.

JOYS AND PERILS OF LUMBERING.

[From "Forest Life and Forest Trees," by J.S. SPRINGER--a unique and truly American work, in the press of Harper and Brothers.]

Lumbermen not only cut and haul from clumps and communities, but reconnoitre the forest, hill, vale, and mountain side for scattering trees; and when they are deemed _worth_ an _effort_, no location in which they may be found, however wild or daring, can oppose the skill and enterprise of our men.

For taking logs down mountain sides, we adopt various methods, according to the circumstances. Sometimes we construct what are termed dry sluice-ways, which reach from the upper edge of a precipice down to the base of the hill. This is made by laying large poles or trunks of straight trees together the whole distance, which is so constructed as to keep the log from running off at the sides. Logs are rolled into the upper end, the descent or dip often being very steep; the log passes on with lightning-like velocity, quite burying itself in the snow and leaves below. From the roughness of the surfaces, the friction is very great, causing the bark and smoke to fly plentifully.

At other times, when the descent is more gradual, and not too steep, and when there is not a sufficient quantity to pay the expense of a sluice-way, we fell a large tree, sometimes the Hemlock, trim out the top, and cut the largest limbs off a foot, more or less, from the trunk. This is attached to the end of the log by strong chains, and as the oxen draw the load, this drag thrusts its stumpy limbs into the snow and frozen earth, and thus prevents the load from forcing the team forward too rapidly. Should the chain give way which attaches the hold-back to the load, nothing could save the team from sudden destruction.

There is a mountain on the "west branch" of the Penobscot where Pine-trees of excellent quality stand far up its sides, whose tops appear to sweep the very clouds. The side which furnishes timber rises in terraces of gigantic proportions, forming a succession of abrupt precipices and shelving table-land. There are three of these giant mountain steps, each of which produces lumber which challenges the admiration and enterprise of the log-men. The ascent to these Alpine groves is too abrupt to allow the team to ascend in harness; we therefore unyoke and drive the oxen up winding pathways. The yokes and chains are carried up by the workmen, and also the bob-sled in pieces, after taking it apart. Ascending to the uppermost terrace, the oxen are re-yoked and the sled adjusted. The logs being cut and prepared as usual, are loaded, and hauled to the edge of the first precipice, unloaded, and rolled off to the table of the second terrace, where they are again loaded, hauled, and tumbled off as before, to the top of the first rise, from which they are again pitched down to the base of the mountain, where for the last time they are loaded, and hauled to the landing.

To obtain logs in such romantic locations was really as hazardous as it was laborious, varying sufficiently from the usual routine of labor to invest the occasion with no ordinary interest. It was, indeed, an exhibition well calculated to awaken thrilling emotions to witness the descent of those massive logs, breaking and shivering whatever might obstruct their giddy plunge down the steep mountain side, making the valleys reverberate and ring merrily with the concussion.

In other instances loads are eased down hill sides by the use of "tackle and fall," or by a strong "warp," taking a "bight" round a tree, and hitching-to one yoke of the oxen. In this manner the load is "tailed down" steeps where it would be impossible for the "tongue oxen" to resist the pressure of the load. Sometimes the warp parts under the test to which it is thus subjected, when the whole load plunges onward like an avalanche, subjecting the poor oxen to a shocking death.

But the circumstance which calls forth the most interest and exertion is the "rival load." When teams are located with sufficient proximity to admit of convenient intercourse, a spirit of rivalry is often rife between the different crews on various points. The "largest tree," the "smartest chopper," the "best cook," the "greatest day's work," and a score of other superlatives, all invested with attractions the greater from the isolated circumstances of swamp life.

The "crack" load is preceded by all needful preliminaries. All defective places in the road are repaired. New "skids" are nicely peeled by hewing off the bark smoothly, and plentifully as well as calculatingly laid along the road. All needful repairs are made on the bob-sled, and the team put in contending plight. The trees intended for the "big load" are carefully prepared, and hauled to some convenient place on the main road singly, where they are reloaded, putting on two and sometimes three large trees. All things in readiness, the men follow up with handspikes and long levers. Then comes the "tug of war;" rod by rod, or foot by foot, the whole is moved forward, demanding every ounce of strength, both of men and oxen united, to perform the feat of getting it to the landing. Were life and fortune at stake, more could not be done under the circumstances. The surveyor applies the rule, and the result gives either the one or the other party "whereof to glory." If not "teetotalers," the vanquished "pay the bitters" when they get down river. Men love and will have excitement; with spirits never more buoyant, every thing, however trifling, adds to the stock of "fun alive" in the woods. Every crew has its "Jack," who, in the absence of other material, either from his store of "mother-wit" or "greenness," contributes to the merry shaking of sides, or allows himself to be the butt of good-natured ridicule.

But while the greater part of swamp life is more or less merry, there are occasional interruptions to the joyousness that abounds. Logging roads are generally laid out with due regard to the conveniences of level or gently descending ground. But in some instances the unevenness of the country admits only of unfavorable alternatives. Sometimes there are moderate rises to ascend or descend on the way to the landing; the former are hard, the latter dangerous to the team. I knew a teamster to lose his life in the following shocking manner: On one section of the main road there was quite a "smart pitch" of considerable length, on which the load invariably "drove" the team along on a forced trot. Down this slope our teamster had often passed without sustaining any injury to himself or oxen. One day, having, as usual, taken his load from the stump, he proceeded toward the landing, soon passing out of sight and hearing. Not making his appearance at the expiration of the usual time, it was suspected that something more than usual had detained him. Obeying the impulses of a proper solicitude on his behalf, some of the hands started to render service if it were needed. Coming to the head of the hill down which the road ran, they saw the team at the foot of it, standing with the forward oxen faced about up the road, but no teamster. On reaching the spot, a most distressing spectacle presented itself; there lay the teamster on the hard road, with one of the sled-runners directly across his bowels, which, under the weight of several tons of timber, were pressed down to the thickness of a man's hand. He was still alive, and when they called out to him, just before reaching the sled, he spoke up as promptly as usual, "Here am I," as if nothing had been the matter. These were the only and last words he ever uttered. A "pry" was immediately set, which raised the deadfall from his crushed body, enabling them to extricate it from its dreadful position. Shortly after, his consciousness left him, and never more returned. He could give no explanation; but we inferred, from the position of the forward oxen, that the load had forced the team into a run, by which the tongue cattle, pressed by the leaders, turning them round, which probably threw the teamster under the runner, and the whole load stopped when about to poise over his body.

He was taken to the camp, where all was done that could be done under the circumstances to save him but to no purpose. His work was finished. He still lingered, in an apparently unconscious state, until midnight, when his spirit, forsaking its bruised and crushed tenement, ascended above the sighing pines, and entered the eternal state. The only words he uttered were those in reply to the calling of his name. As near as we could judge, he had lain two hours in the position in which he was found. It was astonishing to see how he had gnawed the rave[4] of the sled. It was between three and four inches through. In his agony he had bitten it nearly half off. To do this, he must have pulled himself up with his hands, gnawed a while, then fallen back again through exhaustion and despair. He was taken out to the nearest settlement, and buried.

At a later period, we lost our teamster by an accident not altogether dissimilar. It was at the winding up our winter's work in hauling. Late in the afternoon we had felled and prepared our final tree, which was to finish the last of the numerous loads which had been taken to the well-stowed landing. Wearied with the frequency of his travels on the same road for the same purpose, this last load was anticipated with no ordinary interest; and when the tree was loaded, he seemed to contemplate it with profound satisfaction. "This," said he, "is my last load." For the last time the team was placed in order, to drag from its bed the tree of a hundred summers. Onward it moved at the signal given, and he was soon lost to view in the frequent windings of the forest road. It was nearly sundown, and, had it not been for closing up the winter's work that day, the hauling would have been deferred until next morning.