Chapter V (7)

“Ah! thou knowest not the weight of what I crave; nor will I speak it on thy simple word. Thou must pledge it me, my love; aye, by solemn oath—by hallowed vow—I claim it on thy love, thy fealty, and how mayst thou refuse me?”

Playfully he besought her to speak it first, and then, dreaming not her object, unconscious even that the offered conditions were known to her, he knelt at her feet, and placing his hands between both hers, which felt strangely and fearfully cold, he solemnly swore to do her bidding, whatever it might be. The words were said, and Constance sank upon his bosom.

“Saved! saved! oh, I have saved thee, Luigi; thou wilt live—be free—thou shalt not die!”

He started to his feet; the whole truth bursting on his mind, and yet, if so, why did she so cling to him, as if he were spared to _her_? no, no, it could not be. “Live! Constance, my blessed one, what canst thou mean? my life is forfeited!”

“No, no, no!” she reiterated, “it is granted thee, and on conditions easy to accept. Luigi! thou hast sworn to grant my boon—to do my bidding; and I bid thee live! live, to be happy, glorious, as I know thou wilt be! Speak not; hear me. Frederic is no longer a king; Naples no longer a kingdom; she is parcelled out to others; she hath no sons—no name—one hour acknowledging the rights of France, the next bowed to the arms of Spain. To one or other of these mighty potentates she must belong. My poor, poor father can never claim her more. Luigi, my own Luigi, banish the vain hope of her freedom—her future influence. Were Frederic here, thou knowest he would say to thee, as he did to all when he departed, ‘My children, ’tis vain to struggle; make peace with whom ye will; Frederic absolves you of your allegiance. No oath of fealty restrains you.’ Hast thou forgotten this? no, no; then wherefore shouldst thou pause; many have bowed to Louis, why not to Ferdinand?—Luigi, my own Luigi, thou shalt live!”

“Constance,” he answered, and he drew her closer to his bosom, while his own frame shook, “Constance, were this the sole condition, for thy sake, beloved, I had not paused—even thus I would have lived; for this poor, unhappy country, I feel, will never rise again; such oath reflects no shame upon her sons. Constance, was this all they told thee?”

“Luigi, no; there is another,—we must part—for ever! Yet—yet, I bid thee live.” Slowly every word fell; but so distinctly, so expressively, that despite that low gasping tone, he heard them all, and not he alone.

“Ha! thou knowest this. Part, Constance! and thou bidst me live! I choose death instead. I will not lose thee; I will not wed another.”

“Thou wilt—thou shalt! Luigi, Luigi, ’twill be but a brief, a brief pang, followed by years of bliss. Oh! do not think this moment’s agony will never, never pass away. The hero’s glory,—the warrior’s fame,—the statesman’s pride—all, all, shall be thine own. Ambition, with her hundred paths to immortality, shall lure thee to forgetfulness, and then to peace; and she—she, who will be thy bride,—oh, if she love thee as they say she does, even she at length will woo thee into joy. Luigi, my own, my own, why dost thou turn from me? Speak, oh, speak; tell me thou wilt live!” She sunk on her knees before him, as if that action should continue the entreaty for which voice for the moment had utterly failed.

“Constance, Constance! Dost thou urge me? Thou—wilt _thou_ give me to another? Is it _thou_ who bidst me thus be happy? No, no, thou knowest not how much I love thee!”

“Do I not love thee, Luigi?—Oh! it is only thus that I can save thee,—only thus they will grant thy life,—and what care I for my happiness? Luigi, if thou diest, how mayst thou love me,—guard me as thou wouldst? Oh, live, live!-in my lonely convent cell let me think of thee as I know thou wilt be,—honoured, loved—aye, and in time so blessed! Let the bright thought be mine,—that I, even I, poor simple Constance, have saved thee. Luigi, deny me not this, turn not away. Thou canst not refuse me,—thou DAREST not—thou art SWORN!”

The countenance of Vincenzio became more and more terribly agitated,—he struggled to break from her hold; but the grasp of agony was upon his cloak, and either held him with a giant strength, or his every limb had lost its power, and chained him there. He sought to speak; but only unintelligible murmurs came, and again that voice of impassioned appeal came upon his heart, crushing it almost to madness. It bade him live; she might need his friendship, though denied his love, when time permitted such intercourse innocently to both. That tall form bowed, as stricken by a mighty wind: a moment, and he had caught her to his bosom, had murmured some inarticulate words, and a burst of passionate weeping convulsed his frame. Ere the paroxysm passed, he was alone; soldiers, officers, Constance, all were gone.

V.

It was noon; the brilliant sun of Italy poured its golden flood through the high pointed casements of a small private chapel, in the citadel of Barletta, which had been set apart for the sole use of Gonzalvo de Cordova, his family, and personal attendants. It was lavishly decorated, seeming in all points well suited to the establishment of the great captain. Heavy brocades, worked in gold and silver, hung from the walls, shading many a shrine, of the same precious metals, where saints, Virgin, and Saviour were all blazing in gems. A cloth of gold covered the altar, which stood just beneath a gorgeously-painted window, that when lighted up, as now, with the sun of noon, flung down the most brilliant colouring on floor and wall. This day a rich carpet of superb Genoa velvet covered the mosaic pavement at the foot of the altar, and decorated cushions seemed to denote that some unusual ceremony was then to be performed; while the number of sumptuously-attired nobles, Spanish, French, and Neapolitan, already assembled, and the private chaplain of Gonzalvo, missal in hand, behind the altar, with his priestly attendants, proclaimed the hour at hand. The great captain himself was present, magnificently attired, leaning on his jewel-hilted sword, wrapt it seemed, by the fixed repose of his countenance, in deep meditation, which none present chose to interrupt.

The interest increased tenfold when, attended, or rather guarded—few could tell which—Luigi Vincenzio, attired with some care, but deadly pale, bearing an expression of fearful internal agony on his countenance, slowly advanced up the choir to the altar. The gaze of Gonzalvo moved not from him; serious it was, yet scarcely stern, and the tone was calm in which he said, “We have heard, Signor Vincenzio, you accept the conditions proposed!—have we heard aright?” Luigi simply bowed his head in answer, imagining the oath of fealty to Ferdinand, and denial of Frederic, would next be administered; but it came not, silence reigned again uninterrupted as before. Then came sounds along the corridor; the folding-doors at the base of the chapel were flung wide open, and the Lady Elvira, more than usually majestic in mien and carriage, entered, followed by several attendants; her resplendent beauty was heightened by an expression of countenance none could define, save that it affected the most indifferent spectator then present with a species of awe, of veneration, that could have bowed every knee in unfeigned homage. Stars of diamonds glittered in her raven hair, and sparkled down the bodice and front of her dark velvet robe. The first glance of all rested immovably, seemingly fascinated, on her; the next turned on the slight figure she led forward; but every curious effort to discover the stranger’s identity was rendered vain by the thick shrouding veil which completely enveloped her; permitting nothing but the tiny foot and exquisitely-turned ankle to be visible.

A strong shudder had convulsed the form of Vincenzio; he tried to step forward, to speak, but all power appeared to forsake him, till a voice, sweet, clear, and silvery, uttered the simple words “I will,” the customary rejoinder to the priest’s demand, “wilt thou accept this man as thy wedded lord,” and its attendant vows to “love, honour, and obey.” The voice thrilled through him, awakening him to consciousness, he knew not how or why; and he saw he was kneeling before the altar, beside that veiled and shrouded form by whom Gonzalvo and his daughter were both standing, as if from their hands he received her. Gradually everything became distinct; La Palice was at his side, his hand upon his shoulder, as if rousing him from that deadening stupor. He recognised his friends amidst the noble group standing around. Had the marriage vow been administered to him? If so, he must have replied, or the ceremony could not have continued, but he knew not he had spoken; and what had in fact aroused him?—a voice!—whose voice?—to whom was he irrevocably joined? Not that one whom his fevered fancy had so wildly pictured, for she stood there looking on the ceremony, as calm and motionless as the most indifferent spectator.

It was over. Vincenzio and his nameless bride rose from their knees, and then it was the hands of Gonzalvo removed the veil and led her forward, that the eyes of all might rest with admiration on the loveliness displayed. A cry of astonishment burst simultaneously from the French prisoners and Neapolitans around, and the latter rushed forward and prostrated themselves before her, clasping her robe, her feet, ’mid sobs and tears calling on heaven to bless the daughter of their king, the being whom from her cradle they had well-nigh worshipped—the Princess Constance! but one alone stood speechless; one alone had no power to go forward, for all seemed to him a dream, whose bewildering light and bliss would be for ever lost in darkness. But as those eyes turned on him, that radiant glance sought his, there was one sob, one choking cry, and Luigi had bounded forward, had clasped her to his heart. And then he would have flung himself at Gonzalvo’s feet, to pour out the burdening load of gratitude that almost crushed him with its magnitude, but Gonzalvo, grasping his hand in the friendly pressure of sympathy, forbade all speech till he had been heard.

“It has been said,” he exclaimed, “that to the King of Naples and his ill-fated family Gonzalvo de Cordova is incapable of generosity, or even of humanity; because the stern mandate of his sovereign demanded the sacrifice of his own private sentiments of generosity and honour, and compelled the captivity of Frederic’s heir. My friends, I plead no excuse, no offence for this dark deed; but now that nought but Gonzalvo’s own heart may dictate, I bid ye absolve me of all undue severity, all unjust dishonour. The Princess Constance offered her liberty for that of the Signor Vincenzio; but, nobles of Naples, Gonzalvo scorned it. She is free, as is her husband. His ransom, five thousand marks, is discharged from my private coffers, and settled as a marriage dowry on his bride. Both, then, are free, unshackled by condition, free as the winds of heaven to travel where they list. We heard of a noble of France hostile to this union, and on account of his birth approved of by King Frederic; and therefore it is we have been thus secret, and would counsel Signor Vincenzio to accept the vessel lying at anchor, ready for his use, and convey his gentle bride to the court of her father without delay. We will take all blame; for the union, as ye have all witnessed, hath been without consent of the bridegroom. For thee, Signor Vincenzio, thy fault is unconditionally pardoned, a grace won for thee by the truth and glorious heroism of thy gentle bride. No thanks—to us they are _not_ due; we had been terrible in wrath, resolute to demand the forfeit of rebellion, even to the last, save for one whose earnest pleadings we had no power to resist. In your love, your happiness, think on Gonzalvo’s daughter, for to _her_ ye owe it all.”

It needed not the name: ere that rich voice ceased, Vincenzio and his bride were kneeling at the feet of the Lady Elvira; the former pouring forth with passionate eloquence his gratitude, his veneration; in words burning, thrilling, known only to Italy’s impassioned clime. She heard, and a faint quivering smile was on those lips; one hand she yielded to his respectful homage, and laid the other caressingly, fondly, on the beautiful head of Constance, whose face was lifted up to hers beaming in all the blissful confidence of love, of joy, of devotion, conscious that to her she owed all that made life dear.

“Bid Constance tell thee how much Elvira owes to her, Signor Vincenzio, and thou wilt learn I have yet more cause of gratitude than thou hast,” she said, and not one word quivered. “To thee she hast given a life; to me—what is far more valuable—Elvira to herself, unstained, unscathed; her soul of honour cloudless, true, when all methought had failed. Farewell! be happy, and may good angels guard ye both!”

She raised the Princess, and folded her to her heart. “There was an eye thou knewest not upon thee in his prison,” she whispered, ’ere she released her. “Constance, hadst thou failed, we had both been lost, for I had seen no stronger spirit than my own. Thou hast saved us both, and must be blessed.” She printed a long kiss on that beautiful brow, and placed her in her husband’s arms. A brief interval of congratulation, of joyful conference followed, and then all within that chapel was silent and deserted. Hours passed. The chieftain of Spain had returned from accompanying Vincenzio and his bride to their vessel, though he had tarried to watch them weigh anchor and disappear in the distance. He inquired for his daughter, sought her in all her haunts, and lastly, with a strange foreboding, re-entered the chapel. No voice, and at first no figure met his eye or ear; he rushed forwards, a beautiful form lay either lifeless or in a deep swoon at the altar’s foot, her rich and luxuriant hair falling heavily and darkly around her. It was the Lady Elvira.

* * * * *

The remainder of the Lady Elvira’s career is a matter of history: with it the romancer interfereth no further.

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_The Authoress_.

I.

“YOU surely do not intend acting such a fool’s part, Dudley, as that our little world assigns you?” was the address of one friend to another, as they drew their chairs more cosily together, in the little _sanctum_ to which they had retreated, after a _tête-à-tête_ dinner.

“And what may that be, my good fellow?”

“Why, throw away yourself and your comfortable property on a person little likely to value either one or the other, and certainly worthy of neither—Clara Stanley.”

Granville Dudley coloured highly. “Oblige me, at least, by speaking of that young lady with respect,” he said; “however you and your companions may mistake my intentions concerning her.”

“Mistake, my good fellow; your face and tone are confirmation strong. I am sorry for it though, for I would rather see you happy than any man I know.”

“I believe you, Charles; but what is there so terribly opposed to my happiness in an union with Miss Stanley, granting for the moment that I desire it?” Charles Heyward sat silent, and stirred the fire. “Because she is not rich? nay, I believe, rather the contrary.”

“I did not think you worldly, Granville.”

“Thank you, for doing me but justice. I am perfectly indifferent as to wealth or poverty in a woman. But what is your objection then? She is not superlatively beautiful nor seemingly first-rate in accomplishment; but what then? She is pleasing, unaffected, full of feeling, very domestic, for I seldom meet her out.”

Again were the poker and the blazing coals at variance, and more noisily than before.

“My good friend, you have roused that fire and my curiosity to a most unbearable state of heat. Do speak out. What is the matter with Miss Stanley, that when I mention the words ‘feeling’ and ‘domestic,’ you look unbelieving as a heretic? Can you say ‘Nay’ to any one thing I have said?”

“Nay, to them all, Granville Dudley,” exclaimed Heyward, with vehemence. “It is because you need a most domestic woman for your happiness, I tell you do not marry Clara Stanley; she is a determined blue—light, dark, every imaginable shade—a poet, a philosopher, a preacher—writes for every periodical—lays down the law on all subjects of literature, from a fairy tale to a philosophical treatise or ministerial sermon. For heaven’s sake, have nothing to do with her. A literary woman is the very antipodes to domestic happiness. Fly, before your peace is seriously at stake.”

Granville Dudley looked, and evidently felt disturbed. At first, startled and incredulous, he compelled his friend to reiterate his charge and its proofs. Nothing loath, Charles Heyward brought forward so many particulars, so many facts, concerning the lady in question, which, from his near relationship to the family with whom she lived, he had been enabled easily to collect, that Granville, unable to disapprove or even contradict one of them, sank back on his chair, almost with a groan.

“Why, my dear sober-minded, philosophic friend, you cannot surely have permitted your heart to escape your wise keeping so effectually in so short a space of time, that you cannot call it back again with a word? Cheer up, and be a man. Thank the fates that such a melancholy truth was discovered before it was too late. I have heard you forswear literary women so often that I could not stand calmly by, and see you run your head blindfold into such a noose; she is a nice girl enough, and if she were not so confoundedly clever, might be very bearable.”

“But how is it I never discovered that she is so clever? If it be displayed so broadly, how can she hide it so completely before strangers?”

“She does not display it, Granville. No one would imagine she was a whit cleverer than other people; she has no pretension, nor airs of superiority; but she writes, she writes, ‘there’s the rub,’ and she loves it too—which is worse still—and a public literary character cannot be a domestic wife; one who is ever pining for and receiving fame can never be content with the praise of one; and one who is always creating imaginary feelings can have none for realities. To speak more plainly, those who love a thousand times in idea can never love once in reality; and so I say, Clara Stanley cannot value you sufficiently ever to possess the rich honour of being chosen as your wife. Do not be angry with my bluntness, Granville; I only speak because I love you.”

Granville Dudley was not angry; perhaps it had been better for his happiness if he had been, as then he would not have been so easily convinced by the specious reasoning of his friend. The conversation lasted all that evening, and when Dudley retired to rest, it was with a firm determination to watch Clara Stanley a few weeks longer, and if it really were as Heyward stated, to dismiss her from his thoughts at once, and even quit England for a time, rather than permit a momentary fancy to make him miserable for life.

Now, though Charles Heyward had spoken in the language of the world, he was not by any means a worldly man; nor Granville Dudley, though he had listened and been convinced, unjust or capricious. Unfortunately for Miss Stanley’s happiness, Granville’s mother had been one of those shallow pretenders of literature which throw such odium upon all its female professors. From his earliest childhood Dudley had been accustomed to regard literature and authorship as synonymous with domestic discord, conjugal disputes, and a complete neglect of all duties, social or domestic. As he grew older, the excessive weakness of his mother’s character, her want of judgment and common sense, and—it appeared to his ardent disposition—even of common feelings, struck him more and more; her descriptions of conjugal and maternal love were voted by her set of admirers as perfect; but he could never remember that the practice was equal to the theory. Nay, it did reach his ears, though he banished the thought with horror, that his father’s early death might have been averted, had he received more judicious care and tender watchfulness from his literary wife.

Mrs. Dudley, however, died before her son’s strong affections had been entirely blunted through her apparent indifference; and he therefore only permitted himself to remember her faults as being the necessary consequence of literature and genius encouraged in a woman. He was neither old nor experienced enough, at the time of her death, to distinguish between real genius and true literary aspirings, and their shallow representatives, superficial knowledge and overbearing conceit.

As this was the case, it was not in the least surprising that he should be so easily convinced of the truth and plausibility of Heyward’s reasoning, or that Charles Heyward, aware of all which Dudley’s youth had endured from literature and authorship in a mother, should be so very eager to save him from their repetition in the closer relationship of wife.

But Clara Stanley was no mere pretender to genius; the wise and judicious training of affectionate parents had saved her from all the irregularities of temper, indecision of purpose, and inconstancy of pursuit which, because they have characterised some wayward ones, are regarded as peculiar to genius. Her earliest childhood had displayed more than common intellect, and its constant companions, keen sensibility and thoughtfulness; a vivid imagination, an intuitive perception of the beautiful, the holy, and the good; an extraordinary memory, and rapid comprehension of every variety of literature, alike prose and poetry, unfolded with her youth, combined with most persevering efforts after improvement in every study which could assist her natural gifts. It was impossible for her parents not to regard her with pride, but it was pride mingled with trembling; for _they_ knew, though _she_ did not, that even as she was set apart in the capability of _mind_ from her fellows, so she was in the capability of _suffering_. Knowing this, their every wish, their every effort, was directed to providing her with a haven of refuge, where that ever-throbbing heart might find its only perfect rest. Taught to regard mental powers, however varied, as subordinate to her duties as a woman, and an English and religious woman, modesty, gentleness, and love marked every word and every action. Few there were, except her own immediate circle and friends, who knew the extent of her mental powers, or the real energy and strength of her character; but countless was the number of those that loved her.

It was not, however, till after her father’s death she saw and felt the necessity of making her talents a source of usefulness as well as of pleasure. She was then little more than seventeen, but under the fostering care of an influential literary friend, she was introduced to the periodicals of the day, her productions accepted, and more requested from the same hand.

Though a few years after Mr. Stanley’s death, however, their pecuniary affairs were so advantageously settled that Clara had no longer any necessity to make literature a profession. Their income was moderate, but it rendered them happily independent.

“Now, now,” was Clara’s ardent exclamation, as she clasped her arms about her mother’s neck, “I may concentrate my energies to a better and holier purpose than the mere literature of the day; now I may indulge the dream of effecting _good_, more than the mere amusement of the hour; now I am no longer _bound_. Oh, who in this world is happier or more blessed than I am?”

And as long as she resided under her mother’s roof, in the pretty little village which had so long been her home, she was truly happy. Encouraged by the popularity which, through her literary friend, she learned that she had acquired; satisfied that he thought her capable of the work she had attempted, and blessed with a mother for whose sake alone Clara valued fame; for she knew how sweet to maternal affection were the praises of a child.

But this might not last. Before she was one-and-twenty Clara was an orphan, and long, long it was ere she could resume the employments she had so loved, or look forward to anything but loneliness and misery. Every thought, every task was associated with the departed, and could filial love have preserved the vital spark the mother had yet been spared; and had Granville Dudley known Clara in that sad time, he would have been compelled to abjure his belief in the incompatibility of literature with woman’s duties and affections.

But of such a trial both Granville and Heyward knew nothing; nor, when the latter said that she _loved_ her profession, did he imagine the struggle it had been for her to resume it—how completely at first it had been the voice of duty, not of love. Fame had never been to her either incentive or further reward than the mere gratification of the moment, and as a source of pleasure to her mother; and how vain and hollow did fame seem now! But hers was not a spirit to be conquered by deep sorrow. She resumed her employments when health returned, with a bursting heart, indeed, but they brought reward. They drew her from herself for the time being, and energy in seeking to accomplish good gradually followed. The severity of her trial was, however, if possible, heightened by the great change in her mode of life. Her only near relation was an uncle, who lived and moved in one of those circles of high pretension and false merit with which the metropolis abounds. His wife, an ultra-fashionist, lived herself and educated her daughters for the world and its follies alone, inculcating the necessity of _attracting_ and _gaining_ husbands, but not of keeping them. Exterior accomplishment, superficial conversation, graceful carriage, and fashionable manners were all that were considered needful—and all of feeling or of sentiment rubbed off, as romance much too dreadful to be avowed.

To this family, at the request of her uncle, who actually made the exertion of fetching her himself, Clara removed eight months after her mother’s death. Yearning for affection, and knowing little of her relatives, Clara had given imagination vent, and hoped happiness might again be dawning for her. How greatly she was disappointed, our readers may judge by the sketch we have given. In their vocabulary, authorship and learning were synonymous with romance and folly; and worse still, as dooming their possessors, unavoidably, to a state of single blessedness, and therefore to be shunned as they would the plague itself. That Clara devoted to her literary pursuits but the same number of hours that one Miss Barclay did to music (that is its mechanical, not its mental part), another to oriental or mezzotinting, or another to the creation of wax-work, Berlin wool, etc., was not of the least consequence; their horror of blueism was such, that to prevent all supposition of their approval of Clara’s mode of life, they never lost an opportunity of bewailing her unfortunate propensity—and of so impressing all who visited at the house with the idea of her great learning and obtrusive wisdom, that the gentle, unpretending manners of the authoress could not weigh against it; and she found herself universally shunned as something too terrible to be defined.

“With all this, I write on, hope on,” she once wrote to an intimate friend; “struggling to feel that if indeed I accomplish _good_, I shall not live in vain; and my own personal loneliness and sorrow will be of little consequence. But, oh! how different it is to write merely for the good of others, to the same efforts, to the same goal, pursued under the influence of sympathy and affection! Because a woman has _mind_, she is supposed to have no _heart_, and has no occasion therefore for the sweet charities of life; when by her, if possible more than any other, they are imperatively needed. Others may find pleasure or satisfaction in foreign excitement; to her, home is all in all. If there be one to love her there—be it parent, husband, or friend—she needs no more; the yearnings of her heart are stilled, the mind provides her with unfading flowers, and her lot is as inexpressibly happy as without such domestic ties it is inexpressibly sad. Do not wish me, as you have sometimes done, dear Mary, to love, for it would be unreturned; simply, because it is the general belief that an authoress can have no time, no capability of any emotion save for the creations of her own mind.”

So wrote Clara; though, at the time, she knew not how soon her words would be verified. As soon as the term of mourning had expired, though little inclined for the exertion, she conquered her own shrinking repugnance to asserting and adopting her own rights; and, to the astonishment of Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, she accepted some of the invitations which courtesy had sent her. Though entered into merely as a duty, society gradually became a source of pleasure, in the discovery that all her aunt’s circle were not of the same frivolous kind; and then slowly, but surely, the pleasure deepened into intense enjoyment from the conversation and attentions of Granville Dudley, whom she met constantly, though he did not visit her uncle. Clara was so very unlike her cousins, whose endeavours to gain husbands were somewhat too broadly marked, that Dudley had been irresistibly attracted towards her; a fancy which every interview so strengthened, that he began very seriously to question his own heart as to whether he really was in love.

As Miss Stanley’s name was not generally known to the literary world, and the lady, at whose house Granville mostly met her, was herself scarcely aware that she was anything more than an amiable, sensible and strongly feeling girl, Granville Dudley knew nothing of her claims to literature and authorship till his conversation with Charles Heyward, near the close of the season, revealed them as we have said. The very next time they met, Dudley, half fearfully, half resolutely, led the subject to literature and literati, and drew from Clara’s own lips the avowal he dreaded. In the happy state of feeling which his presence always created, she at first imagined he thus spoke from interest and sympathy in all she did; and enthusiastic, as was her wont in conversation with those who she thought understood her, she said more on the subject, its enjoyment and resources, than she had ever done in London. Granville said nothing, in reply, which could have chilled her at the time. Yet, when the evening was over, Clara’s heart sunk within her; she knew not wherefore, save that a secret foreboding whispered within her _that_ conversation had sealed her fate. Dudley would not trust his happiness with her.

At one other party she was to meet him, ere the season closed, and the veriest devotee to balls and _soirées_ could not have longed for it more than poor Clara; who looked forward to it as the confirmer or dispenser of her fears. The morning of the day on which it was to take place, little Emily, the youngest of the family, was seized with a violent attack of fever, which increased as evening advanced. It so happened that all the Barclay family who were “out” were engaged that evening; Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, and their two elder daughters, at a card and musical _soirée_; the other two, and their brothers, under the _chaperonage_ of Mrs. Smith, the _gouvernante_, at the ball to which Clara looked forward with so much eagerness. What was to be done? The child could not be left; and without Mrs. Smith, what was to become of her sisters? It was impossible for them to go alone, and equally impossible for mother, father, or either sister of the little sufferer, to give up a fashionable party for the dreadful doom of sitting by a sick bed.

Looks and hints of every variety were levelled at Clara; who, with her usual benevolence, had stationed herself close by her little cousin, ever ready to administer kindness or relief. At any other time, she would not have hesitated a moment; but with the restless craving to see Granville Dudley again, the giving up her only chance, for a time at least, was so exquisitely painful, she could not offer to remain. Mrs. Barclay, however, seeing hints of no avail, at length directly entreated that, as she was less fond of going out than any one else, she might be glad of the excuse, to give the time to her books and writing, and it would really be doing her (Mrs. Barclay) an especial favour if she would stay and nurse Emily. Clara’s high spirit, and strong sense of selfish indulgence, obtained such unusual dominion, that she had well-nigh proudly refused; but the little sufferer looked in her face so piteously, and entreated her so pleadingly to remain, that, ever awake to the impulse of affection, Miss Stanley consented.

The disappointment was a bitter one, though Clara’s strong sense of rectitude caused her to reproach herself for its keenness, as uncalled for. What did Granville Dudley care for her, that she should so think of him? but vain the question. Every backward glance on their intercourse convinced her that he had thought of her, had singled her out, to pay her those attentions, that gentle and winning deference, which, from a man of honour, such as the world designated him, could not be misconstrued. There was one comfort, however, in her not meeting him; if he knew what kept her at home, he would scarcely continue to believe that her only thoughts were of literature and authorship.

Little did she know that, before they departed on their several ways, it was settled in the Barclay parliament that nothing whatever was to be said of little Emily’s illness, lest people should fancy it contagious, and send them no more invitations, so closing their chances of matrimony for that season, before it was quite time.

“If Clara is asked for, my dears—which is not at all likely—you can say you know that she could not leave her writing, or correcting a proof, or some such literary business. I leave it to you, Matilda; you are sharp enough, particularly in framing excuses for a rival, whom I know you are glad to get out of your way. Folks say Granville Dudley had a literary mother; he is not likely to wish for a literary wife.”

The young lady answered with a knowing nod; and performed her mission so admirably, that after that evening Granville Dudley disappeared. Power she certainly had to separate him from Clara, but to attach him to herself was not quite so easy. The answer she had given to Granville’s inquiries after her cousin was so carelessly natural—that Clara, as an authoress, a literary character, had so many superior claims, that parties and everything else must be secondary, and this followed up by a high encomium on her great talent, she should say genius; but it was, she thought, almost a pity to be so gifted, as it incapacitated her from common sympathies and duties—that it confirmed Granville’s previous fears. And while it made him almost turn sick with disappointment and anguish, for it seemed only then he felt how completely she had become a part of himself, he vowed to tear himself from her influence ere it was too late, and the very next morning left London.

“You were right, Heyward. I suppose I shall be a happy man again some day or other, but not now; so do not try to philosophise me into being so.”

“But, my good fellow, perhaps after all we have been frightened at shadows; and, hang it! but I am sorry I said so much at first. That Emily Barclay has been very ill, and was so that eventful night, are facts; and, in my opinion, Clara stayed to nurse her, because the others were all too selfish.”

“A sentimental excuse to obtain time for dear, delightful, solitary musings, or some such thing. It is too late, Heyward; she _is_ literary, and so she cannot be domestic. I will not think of her any more.”

This was not quite so easy to do as to say; but Granville Dudley was a man of the world, far too proud and resolute to bow, or seem to bow, beneath feeling, particularly when he believed himself on the point of loving one who was utterly incapacitated from giving him any heart in return. He went abroad, travelled during the remainder of the summer, joined the first Parisian circles in the autumn, and before the year closed was a married man.

II.

Eight years have passed, and Clara Stanley is still unmarried; yet she is happy and contented, for she is once more amid the scenes of her childhood; once more the centre of a domestic circle, who vie with each other who can love her best. Two years after she heard of Granville Dudley’s marriage, finding a London life less and less suited to her tastes, and not conceiving any actual duty bound her to reside with her uncle’s family, she resolved on making her home with an intimate friend of her mother’s, who was associated with all the happy memories of her own childhood and youth. Reduced circumstances had lately compelled Mrs. Langley to take pupils; a fact which had instantly determined Clara’s plans. She was the more desirous for retirement and domestic ties, from the very notoriety which the constant success of her literary efforts had flung around her. She did not disdain or undervalue fame; but all of expressed admiration, all public homage, was so very much more pain than pleasure, that she shrunk from it; longing yet more for some kindly heart on which to rest her own. Let us not be mistaken: it was not for love, in the world’s adaptation of the word, she needed; it was a parent’s fostering care—a brother’s supporting friendship—a sister’s sympathy, or one friend to love her for herself, for the qualities of _heart_, not for the labours and capabilities of _mind_. From the time she heard of Dudley’s marriage, all thought of individual happiness as a wife faded from her imagination. Her only efforts were to rouse every energy to supply objects of interest and affection, and so prevent the listlessness and despondency too often the fate of disappointed women. This had, at first, been indeed a painfully difficult task; for her heart had whispered it was because she was different from her fellows, because she was what the world termed literary and learned, Granville had shunned her; and a few words, undesignedly and carelessly spoken by Charles Heyward, relative to Dudley’s dislike to female literature, from its effects on his mother, confirmed the idea, and made her shrink from her former favourite pursuits. But she, too, had a character to sustain; and once more she compelled herself to work, believing that her talents were lent her to be instruments of good, not to lie unused. And yet, to a character of strong affections and active energies, mental resources, however varied, were not quite sufficient for happiness; and therefore was it she formed and executed the plan we have named.

So seven years had sped, and there was little variation in the life of our heroine for her biographer to record. Her constant prayer was heard. Her name had become a household word, coupled with love, from the pure high feelings and ennobling sympathies which her writings had called forth. Her works had made her beloved and revered, though her person, nay, her very place of residence and all concerning her were, as she desired, utterly unknown. This in itself was happiness, inexpressibly heightened by her present domestic duties, lightening Mrs. Langley’s household cares; giving part of every day to that lady’s pupils; teaching them not only to be accomplished and domestic, but to be _thinkers_; training the _heart_, even more than the mind; making nature alike a temple and a school: all the sweet charities of home were now hers, and her heart was indeed happy and once more at rest.

And was Granville Dudley, then, forgotten? When we say that Clara might have married more than once, and most happily, but that she had refused, simply because she could not permit an unloved reality to usurp the place of a still loved shadow—all doubts, we think, are answered.

Of Granville Dudley she could never hear; all trace of him seemed lost. Within the last few years the newspapers had indeed often teemed with the praises and speeches of a Sir Dudley Granville; but, though the conjunction of names had at first riveted her eye and made her heart turn strangely sick, she banished the thought as folly. It was a Granville Dudley, not a Dudley Granville, whom she had too fondly loved.

Miss Stanley had resided about seven years with Mrs. Langley, when application was made to the latter lady to receive the only child of Sir Dudley Granville as her pupil. The child was motherless, and in such very precarious health, that the milder climate of Devonshire had been advised, as, combined with extreme care, the only chance of rearing her to womanhood. Mrs. Langley’s establishment was full, six being her allotted number, which no persuasion had as yet ever induced her to increase. There was something, however, in the appearance of the little Laura which so unconsciously won upon Clara, that she could not resist pleading in the child’s behalf; and as one of the pupils was to leave the next half year, Mrs. Langley acceded. Clara’s name, however, had not been mentioned in this transaction. The lady who had the charge of Laura had indeed conversed with her, and had been charmed with her manner; but little imagined she was enjoying the often-coveted honour of conversing with an authoress, and one so popular as Clara Stanley. She said that Laura, though eight years old, literally knew nothing. Lady Granville had been the belle of her time, but one who had the greatest horror of all learning in woman, and in consequence possessing nothing of herself but showy accomplishment, which told in society. She had neglected the poor child, wasted alike her own health and her husband’s income in the sole pursuit of pleasure, and hurried herself to an early grave. Laura’s health had been so delicate since then, that her father feared to commence her studies, even while he was most anxious she should become a sensible and accomplished woman, with resources for happiness within herself.

“And she shall be, if I can make her so,” was Clara’s inward thought, as she looked on the sweet face of the child, and a new chord in her heart was touched she knew not wherefore. It was impossible to analyse the feeling, even to one long accustomed to analysing hearts, and Clara gave it up in despair; but affection and interest alike clung round the child, who gave back all she received. Her weak health prevented her entering into all the routine of the schoolroom, and she became Clara’s constant companion and pupil. Repeatedly the artless letters of the child to her doting father teemed with the goodness, the gentleness, the tenderness of Miss Stanley; soon convincing Sir Dudley how quick and ready were her powers of comprehension, and filling his heart with gratitude towards that kind friend, whom he knew not, guessed not was the authoress of the same name whose gentle eloquence in her sex’s cause had even now his admiration.

Laura Granville had been with Mrs. Langley about eight months, when she became extremely ill, from an epidemic that had suddenly broken out in the village; all Mrs. Langley’s household were attacked by it in a greater or less degree, but in Laura alone did it threaten to be fatal. Careless of her own fatigue, Clara devoted herself, day and night, to the young sufferer. Her affections had never before been so warmly enlisted; not one of her young friends had ever become so completely part of herself, and as she watched and tended her morning prayers for her recovery, it seemed as if the child must be something nearer to her than in reality she was.

An express had been sent off for Sir Dudley Granville; but, from his having gone unexpectedly to visit a friend in Germany, it was unavoidably delayed on its way, and nearly three weeks elapsed ere the baronet reached Ashford. From the haste with which he had travelled, no account of her progress could reach him; and it was in a state of agony and suspense no words can describe that the father flung himself from his carriage at Mrs. Langley’s gate, and rushed into her presence.

“Your child lives; is rapidly recovering—may be stronger than she has been yet,” were the first words he heard, for his look and manner were all-sufficient introduction; and the benevolent physician, who had that instant quitted his little patient, grasped Sir Dudley’s hand with reassuring pressure. The baronet tried to return it with a smile, but his quivering lip could only gasp forth an ejaculation of thankfulness, and sinking on a chair, he covered his face with his hand.

“Let me see this incomparable young woman, the preserver of my child!” he passionately exclaimed, as Dr. Bernard and Mrs. Langley, after describing the progress and crisis of Laura’s illness, attributed her unexpected recovery, under Providence, to the incessant care and watchfulness of Miss Stanley, the physician declaring his utmost skill had been, without it, of no avail whatever. Being assured his appearance would not injure Laura, who was, in truth, daily expecting him, he eagerly followed Mrs. Langley to the room, and paused a moment on the threshold unobserved.

Laura was sitting up in her little bed, supported by pillows, looking pale and delicate, indeed, but smiling with that joyous animation which, in childhood, is so sure a sign of returning health; and dressing, with the greatest zest, a beautiful doll, which, with its plentifully-supplied wardrobe, lay beside her. Near the bed, and seated by a small table, covered with books and writings, was Clara, who, by the rapid movement of her pen, and her immovable attention, was evidently deeply engrossed in her employment. Sir Dudley could not see her face, for it was bent down, and even its profile turned from him, but a strange thrill shot through him as he gazed.

“Oh! look, Miss Stanley, how beautiful your work shows, now she is dressed. How kind you were to make her all these pretty things. I can do it all but these buttons, will you do them for me?”

Clara laid down her pen with a smile, to comply with the child’s request; and as she did so, Laura laid her little head caressingly on her bosom, saying, fondly, “Dear, dear, Miss Stanley, I wish papa would come; he would thank you for all your goodness much better than I can.”

“I wish he would come, for your sake and his own, dearest—not to thank me, though I shall not love you the less for being so grateful, Laura,” was the reply, in a voice, whose low, musical tones brought back, as by a flash of light to Sir Dudley’s heart, feelings, thoughts, memories, of past years, which he thought were hushed for ever.

“Miss Stanley! Clara! inscrutable Providence!—is it to you I owe my child?” he exclaimed, springing suddenly forward, and clasping his little child to his heart—one moment covering Laura’s upturned face with kisses, the next turning his earnest, grateful gaze on the astonished Clara.

For an instant her heart grew faint, for the fatigue of long-continued nursing had weakened her; nor could she realize in that agitating moment the lapse of ten years, since she had last looked on his face, or listened to its richly expressive voice. Time had passed over her heart, leaving its early dream unchanged, and vainly she strove to feel how long a period had flown. All seemed a thick and traceless mist; but when she succeeded in shaking off that prostrating weakness, forcing herself to remember it was Sir Dudley Granville, not Granville Dudley, who had thus addressed her, still one fact was certain, the object of her first, her only affection was at her side once more—it was his child her care had saved.

Day after day did Clara Stanley and Sir Dudley Granville pass hours together by the couch of Laura. Though conscious her secret was still her own, and grateful that, after the first burst of natural feeling, Granville’s manner to her was only that of an obliged and appreciating friend, Clara’s peculiarly delicate feelings would have kept her from Laura’s room during the visits of her father; but the child was restless and uncomfortable whenever she was absent, and Granville so evidently entreated her continued presence, that to keep away was impossible. It was during these pleasant interviews Sir Dudley related the cause of his change of name. He had become, most unexpectedly, the heir to his godfather, Sir William Granville, who had left him all his estates, on the sole condition of his adopting, for himself and his heirs, the name of Granville—Sir Granville Granville, he added, with a smile, was not sufficiently euphonious, and so he had placed the Dudley first instead of last. He alluded in terms of the warmest admiration to her works, and wondered at his own stupidity in never connecting the Miss Stanley of his Laura’s letters with the authoress he had once known. A very peculiar smile beamed on the lips of Clara as he thus spoke, but she did not say its meaning.

One day, some six or seven weeks after Granville’s appearance at Ashford, Clara had just comfortably seated herself at her desk, after seeing Laura ensconced in her little pony chaise, when she was startled by hearing Sir Dudley’s voice, in accents of unusual seriousness, close beside her.

“Will you tell me, Miss Stanley, how you can possibly contrive to unite so perfectly the literary with the domestic characters? I have watched, but cannot find you fail in either—how is this?”

“Simply, Sir Dudley, because, in my opinion, it is impossible to divide them. Perfect in them, indeed, I am not; but though I know it _is_ possible for woman to be domestic without being literary—as we are all not equally endowed by Providence—to my feelings, it is _not_ possible to be more than usually gifted without being domestic. The appeal to the heart must come from the heart; and the quick sensibility of the imaginative woman must make her _feel_ for others, and _act_ for them, more particularly for the loved of home. To _write_, we must _think_, and if we think of duty, we, of all others, must not fail in its performance, or our own words are bitter with reproach. It is from want of thought most failings spring, alike in duty as in feeling. From this want the literary and imaginative woman must be free.”

Granville’s eyes never moved from the fair, expressive face of the gentle woman who thus spoke, till she ceased, and then he paced the room in silence; till, seating himself beside her, he besought her to listen to him, and pity and forgive him, and _prove_ that she forgave him; and, ere she could reply, he poured forth the tale of his earlier love—how truly he loved her, even when his idle prejudices against literary women caused him to fly from her influence, and enter into a hurried engagement with one, beautiful indeed, but, from having no resources within herself, the mere votaress of pleasure and outward excitement. How bitterly he had repented through seven weary years the misery he had brought upon himself—how constantly he had yearned for a companion of his home and of his mind—and how repeatedly, as he glanced over her pages, where pure fresh feeling breathed in every line, and the love of home and its sacred ties were so forcibly inculcated, he had cursed his own folly. How he had sought to drown thought in a public career, but had still felt desolate; and now that he looked on her again, not only in her own character, but as the preserver of his child, how completely he felt that happiness was gone from him for ever, unless she would give it in herself!

Clara’s face was turned from him as he spoke, but, ere he concluded, the quick, bright tears were falling in her lap; and when she tried to meet his glance and speak, her lip so quivered that no words came. It was an effort ere she could tell her tale; but it was told at length, though Granville’s ardent gratitude was for the moment checked by her serious rejoinder.