Chapter XVI: Part 16

I know not why this discovery should have given my mind such a painful shock. Why should the thought, that Lenore had married a man with whom I was acquainted, cause me a more bitter pain than any I had yet experienced?

Captain Nowell was a person, for whom I felt a sincere respect-- amounting almost to regard. Why then was I so disagreeably surprised, to discover that he was the man who had found the happiness, I had myself lost? I knew not; and I only sought an answer to this mental interrogatory--in the hope, that, by finding it, I might be able to correct some fault that existed in my own mind. I had accomplished the object of my journey; and yet I returned to London with a heart aching from disappointment. I had learnt where Lenore could be seen; and had gone all the way to Liverpool to obtain that information, which might have been mine at an earlier period--had I but hearkened to the request of Captain Nowell to visit him at his house.

My reasons for keeping away from Denbigh Street were now ten times stronger than ever. I no longer felt a desire to see Lenore; and never wished to see Captain Nowell again.

My desire to depart from London was greatly strengthened by the discovery I had made; and, much as I disliked Liverpool, I resolved to return to it--for the purpose of taking passage thence to Melbourne: as I had learnt that there were several Melbourne ships soon to sail from that port.

On conferring with my brother William, he expressed his determination to remain in London. He had bought shares in a brewery; and had every prospect of doing well. He endeavoured to persuade me against returning to the colonies--urging me to go into some business in London, get anchored to a wife, and live happily like himself! Little did William suspect how impossible it would have been for me to follow his counsels.

The arguments he used, only increased my desire to be gone; and I determined to start next day for Liverpool.

Common politeness would not allow me to leave, without writing Captain Nowell a note. It was necessary I should let him know, that I had changed my mind about returning to the colonies in his ship.

On the morning after this last duty had been fulfilled--before I had taken my departure for the train--Captain Nowell was announced; and I could not well avoid seeing him.

"I have come after you," said he, as soon as he entered the room. "I'm sent to take you prisoner; and bring you before two ladies, whom you should have called upon long ago. You cannot escape--so come along immediately!"

"It is impossible for me to go with you, Captain Nowell," protested I, "I start for Liverpool by the next train; and I shall have scant time to get to the station."

"I tell you," said the Captain, "that I can take no refusal. Why--do you know what I have just learnt? My wife, and her daughter, are old acquaintances of yours. Don't you remember Mrs Hyland, and little Lenore? I happened to mention the name of Rowland Stone this morning-- on reading your note of last night--and there was a row in the house instantly. My wife sent me off to bring you, as fast as a cab can carry us. Unless you go with me, we shall have a fight. I daren't go back, without you."

"Stop a minute!" I cried, or rather stammered out the words. "Let me ask you one question! What did you say about your wife?"

"I said that my wife, and her daughter, were old acquaintances of yours. I married the widow of Captain Hyland."

"Great heaven!" I exclaimed, "did you not marry his daughter?"

"No. What the devil makes you ask that? Marry Lenore Hyland! Why, Stone, I'm old enough to be the young lady's father; and I am that: since I married her mother."

"Come on!" I exclaimed, rushing towards the door. "Come on! I must see her immediately."

I hurried bare-headed into the street--followed by Captain Nowell, who brought my hat in his hand, and placed it on my head.

We hailed a cab; and ordered the driver to take us to Number --, Denbigh Street, Pimlico.

I thought that a horse had never moved so slow. I said everything I could, to induce cabby to drive faster. I did more than talk to him: I bribed him. I threatened, and cursed him--though the man seemed to make every endeavour to satisfy my impatience. The horse appeared to crawl. I thought of jumping out of the cab--in the belief that I could go faster afoot; but my companion prevented me.

We did reach Denbigh Street at last; but after a drive that seemed to me as long as any voyage I had ever made across the Atlantic Ocean.

I could not wait for the Captain to ring his own bell; but rang it myself.

On the instant that a servant girl answered the summons, I put the question:

"Where is Lenore?"

The girl's face assumed an expression of surprise; but, seeing me in the company of her master, she opened the door of a drawing-room; and I walked in.

Lenore Hyland was before me--more beautiful, if possible, than ever!

I was, no doubt, taking a great liberty, in the ardent demonstrations I at that moment made towards her; but my consciousness of this could not restrain me from doing as I did--though I may have acted like a madman.

"Lenore," I exclaimed, clasping her in my arms, "are you free? Is it true, that I have not lived and toiled in vain?"

The young lady made no answer--at least not in words; but there was something in her silence, that led me to think, she was not offended at my rudeness.

Gradually I recovered composure, sufficient to conduct myself in a more becoming manner, when the Captain called my attention to Mrs Nowell--in whom I recognised Mrs Hyland, the mother of Lenore.

My long continued misapprehension--so near leading to a life-long misery--was soon fully explained. Mason, whom I had met in Sydney--and with whom the error originated--had been himself the victim of a mistake.

He had called to see Captain Nowell on business; and the latter, not being at home, the old steward had asked to see his wife. Mrs Nowell being engaged at the time, her daughter had come out to receive him; and, as Mason had been formerly acquainted with Captain Hyland and his family, of course he recognised Lenore. This circumstance--along with something that had occurred in the short conversation between her and the steward--had led to the misapprehension; and Mason had left the house under the belief that Lenore Hyland was Captain Nowell's wife!

I never passed a more happy evening, than that upon which I again met Lenore--though my happiness did not spring, from the "disenchantment" promised by Cannon. I did not think of poor Jessie; and also forgot all about my intention of returning to the colonies, until reminded of it by Captain Nowell--as I was about to take leave of him and his family for the night.

"Stone," he said, "now that you have found your old friends, you must give them as much of your time as possible: for you know, in a few days, we are to sail for Australia."

This speech was accompanied by a glance, that told me the Captain did not expect my company upon his next voyage.

I proudly fancied that Lenore interpreted it, in the same sense as I had done: for the blush that broke over her beautiful cheeks, while adding bloom, at the same time led me to believe that my remaining in London would be consonant with her wishes.

Volume Three, Chapter XXXI.

A CHILD OF NATURE.

One morning as I sat in my room, impatiently waiting for the hour when I could call upon Lenore; and pondering over the events of my past life-- especially that latest one that had given such a happy turn to it--I was informed by Mrs Nagger that a lady was downstairs, who wished to see me.

"What is the ladylike?" I inquired, still thinking of Lenore.

"Like an angel in some great trouble," replied Mrs Nagger; "and more's the pity! sir, for she's a very nice young lady, I'm sure."

"Did she give any name?"

"No, sir; and more's the pity, for I should like to know it, but she seems very anxious to see you, and more's the pity, that she should be kept so long waiting."

I descended the stairs, entered the parlour, and stood face to face with Jessie H--.

She appeared to be suffering from some acute mental agony; and when I took her hand I could feel her fingers trembling in my grasp. A hectic flush overspread her cheeks; and her eyes looked as though she had been weeping. Her whole appearance was that of a person struggling to restrain the violent expression of some overwhelming sorrow.

"Jessie! What has happened?" I asked. "There is something wrong? You look as if there was--you look ill, Jessie."

"Yes," she made answer. "Something _has_ happened; something that has destroyed my happiness for ever."

"Tell me what it is, Jessie. Tell me all. You know that I will assist you, in any way that is in my power."

"I do not know that, Rowland. There was a time when you might have saved me; but now it is too late--too late to appease my aching heart. I have waited a long while in anxious doubt; and, perhaps, would have died with the secret in my breast, had I not met you again. It would have been better so. Oh! Rowland, after meeting you once more in this strange land, all the memories of the past came over me, only to fill my soul with sadness and despair. Then it was that my long pent-up grief gave way; and my heart felt shattered. Rowland! I have come to you in my misery, not to accuse you of being its cause; but to tell you that you alone could have prevented it. No mortal could live with more happiness than I, did I but know that you had the slightest love for me. Even should we never meet again, there would be joy in the thought that your love was, or had been mine."

"Jessie! Can you speak thus when--"

"Peace, Rowland! hear me out. I am nearly mad. I will tell you all-- all that I have suffered for you. For that reason have I come here. They want me to marry a man I do not love. Give me your counsel, Rowland! Is it not wrong for me to marry him, when I cannot love him-- when I love only you?"

"Jessie, I cannot hear you talk thus. I told you, when we parted in Australia that I loved another. I have met that other since; and I find that she is still true to me. I hope never to hear you speak so despondingly again. To all, life is sorrow; and we should pray for strength to bear it. Fulfil cheerfully the promises you have made. We can still be friends and you may yet be happy."

I could perceive, by the quick heaving of her bosom, that her soul was agitated by powerful emotions, that only became stronger as I continued.

At length this agitation seemed to reach a climax, her arms were thrown wildly outwards; and without a word escaping from her lips, she fell heavily upon the floor. She had fainted!

I rang the bell, and called loudly for assistance. Mrs Nagger came hurrying into the room. I raised the insensible form; and held it in my arms--while the old housekeeper rubbed her hands, and applied such restoratives as were near. It seemed as if Jessie H--was never again to be restored to life. She lay against my bosom like a piece of cold white marble with not a movement to betoken that she was breathing.

I gently placed her on a couch--resting her pale cheek upon the pillow. I then requested Mrs Nagger to summon a doctor.

"It's no use, sir," said the woman, her words causing me a painful apprehension: for I thought that she meant to say there was no hope of recovery.

"It's no use, sir," repeated Mrs Nagger, "she'll be over it before the doctor could get here. She's only fainting; and more's the pity, that such a dear pretty creetur should know the trouble that's causing it. More's the pity! that's all I can say."

Mrs Nagger's prognosis proved correct, for Jessie soon recovered, and as she did so, my composure became partially restored.

I began to breathe more freely: for not being used to scenes of this kind, I had felt not only excited, but very much alarmed.

"Jessie," said I, as I saw her fix her eyes upon me, "you are ill--you have been fainting?"

"No," she answered, "I have only been thinking--thinking of what you have said. It was something about--"

She interrupted herself at sight of Mrs Nagger--whom she now noticed for the first time. The presence of the housekeeper appeared to make her conscious of what had occurred; and for some moments she remained silent--pressing her hands against her forehead.

Mrs Nagger perceiving, that she was the cause of some embarrassment, silently retired from the room.

"Rowland," said Jessie, after the woman had gone, "I have but a few words more to say. To-morrow I am to be married to Mr Vane. It is my father's wish; and, as I have been told that his wishes should be my own, I have consented to obey him. I have tried to love this man but in vain: for I love another. I love you, Rowland. I cannot govern my feelings; and too well do I remember your own words, when you said, we could only love one. I will leave you now, Rowland: I have told you all."

"Jessie," said I, "I am truly sorry for you; but I trust that after your marriage you will think differently; and will not allow any memories of the past to affect your happiness."

"I thank you for your good wishes," she answered, "I will, try to bear my cruel fate with composure. Farewell, Rowland! I shall now leave you. I shall go as I have come--alone."

As I took her hand in mine--to speak that parting, which was to be our last--she fixed her eyes upon me in a glance I shall not forget till my dying hour.

In another instant she was gone.

To me there was something more than painful in this visit from Jessie. It surprised me--as did also her bearing and language. Had she been at all like any other girl, the singularity would have been still more apparent; but she was not. Her conduct was not to be judged by the same standard, as if she had been a young lady educated in the highly civilised society of Europe. She was a child of Nature; and believed that to conceal her thoughts and affections, was a sin against herself-- as well as against all whom they might regard. In all likelihood she fondly loved me; and regretted the promise she had given to become the wife of Vane. Such being the case, she may have deemed it her duty to make known to me the state of her mind, before she became irrevocably united to another; and this she had done regardless of consequences. In acting thus, Jessie H--might have been conscious of no wrong, nor could I see any, although had another behaved in a similar manner, my opinion would have been different.

A young lady, brought up in English society, that teaches her rigidly to conceal every warm affection and impulse of the heart, would have been acting wrong in doing as Jessie H--had done. In her betrothal to Vane, she had undoubtedly yielded to the wishes of her father, instead of following the dictates of her own mind; but such was not the case in her making that visit to me.

Her marriage was to take place the next day; and it may be supposed that she ought to have been engaged in making preparations for that important event. Such would the world decide to have been her duty. But her artless, pure, and confiding nature, rendered her independent of the opinions of the world; and she had made one last reckless effort to possess herself of the man she loved.

The effort had failed. Fate was against her.

I went to make my daily visit to Lenore; and Jessie, along with her grief, was for awhile forgotten.

Volume Three, Chapter XXXII.

MRS NAGGER.

Since meeting with Lenore, I had faithfully responded to the invitation of Captain Nowell. Most of my time had been devoted to his ladies; or rather, spent in the society of Lenore. Every day had witnessed the return of happy hours; and, strange to say, the happiest were experienced on the day of that sad parting with Jessie!

On that morning, Lenore had promised to be mine; and an early day had been appointed for our marriage.

In procuring her consent to our speedy union, I was aided by Captain Nowell, who wished to be present at the ceremony, and could not postpone the departure of his ship.

When Lenore and I came to compare notes, and make mutual confession, she expressed surprise that I should ever have thought her capable of marrying another!

"Did you not tell me, Rowland," said she, "to wait for your return, and you would then talk to me of love? I knew your motive for going away; and admired you for it. I firmly confided in what you told me. All the time of your absence, I believed you would come back to me; and I should have waited for many years longer. Ah! Rowland, I could never have loved another."

My journey to Liverpool--to ascertain the name and address of the man Lenore had _not_ married--I had hitherto kept a secret, but a letter had arrived the evening before, which frustrated my designs. Mrs Lanson had written to her old friend, Mrs Nowell--giving a full account of my visit that had ended so abruptly. I was compelled to listen to a little pleasant raillery from Captain Nowell, who did not fail to banter me about the trouble I had taken, to learn what I might have discovered much sooner and easier--by simply keeping faith with him, in the promise I had made to call upon him.

"I told you aboard the ship," said he, "that I had something to show you worth looking at; and that you couldn't do better than visit me, before throwing yourself away elsewhere. See what it has cost you, neglecting to listen to my request. Now, is it not wonderful, that the plan I had arranged for your happiness, when we were seven thousand miles from this place, should be the very one that fate herself had in store for you?"

I agreed with Captain Nowell, that there was something very strange in the whole thing; and something more agreeable than strange.

I returned home highly elated with the prospect of my future happiness. I informed my brother and his wife of a change in my intentions--merely telling them that I had given up the design of returning to Australia. They were much gratified at this bit of news, for they had both used every argument to dissuade me from going back to the colonies.

"What has caused this sudden, and I must say sensible, abandonment of your former plans?" asked my brother.

"I have at last found one," I answered, "that I intend making my wife."

"Ah!" exclaimed William, "the one that you had lost?"

"Yes, the one that I had lost; but what makes you think there was such an one?"

"Oh! that was easily seen. Ever since meeting you on the Victoria diggings, I noticed about you the appearance of a man who had lost something--the mother of his children, for instance. I have never asked many particulars of your past life; but, until within the last few days, you looked very like a man who had no other hope, than that of being able to die sometime. Why, Rowland, you look at this minute, ten years younger, than you did three days ago!"

I could believe this: for the change that had taken place in my soul was like passing from night to day.

I was, indeed, happy, supremely happy: since Lenore had promised to be mine.

That day I did not think of poor Jessie, until after my return home, when Mrs Nagger, while setting my tea before me, put the question:

"Please, sir, how is the poor young lady who was here this morning? She was such a nice creetur, I'm anxious to hear if she be well again."

This was the most reasonable remark I had heard the old housekeeper make, during all my acquaintance with her. She had given utterance to a long speech, without once using her favourite expression. The fact was something wonderful; and that is probably the reason why I have recorded it.

In answer to her interrogatory, I told her, that I had neither seen nor heard of the young lady since the morning.

"Then more's the pity!" rejoined Mrs Nagger. "If men have no regard for such a lovely creetur as her, it's no wonder _I_ have never found a husband. More's the pity, sir! That's all _I_ can say."

Mrs Nagger was a good servant; but my sister-in-law and her mother were often displeased with her; on account of a disposition she often displayed for meddling too much with what did not, or should not have concerned her. She seemed to consider herself one of the family; and entitled to know the affairs of every member of it, although I believe she was prompted to this, by a feeling of friendship and good will.

"Nagger," I once heard my brother's wife say to her, "I think you give yourself much more trouble, than is required from you."

"More's the pity, ma'am!" answered Nagger.

"You must not interfere with what does not concern you," continued Mrs Stone. "If you do, I shall have to dispense with your services."

"If you do, ma'am, more's the pity! That's all I can say."

"I wish it _was_ all you could say. Then, perhaps, we should agree very well."

"The more I don't trouble about your business," rejoined Mrs Nagger, "the more's the pity for us all!"

I believe that my sister-in-law knew this; or if not, she probably thought that a better servant would be difficult to obtain; and Nagger continued to keep her place.

I had promised to call again at Captain Nowell's, that same evening, and take my brother, his wife, and her mother, along with me.

The Captain wished to see them before setting sail; and had urged me to bring them to his house--a request with which I was but too ready to comply: as I was desirous to show Lenore to my relations. I communicated my intention to them; and asked if they had made any engagement for the evening.

"No, I think not. Have you, William?" asked Mrs Stone.

"Not that I know of," answered my brother, "unless it be to make ourselves happy at our own fireside."

"I am to be married in six days," said I, "and there is no time to lose in getting you acquainted with my intended. I have promised to take you all to see her this evening--if I can induce you to go. What say you? Will you accompany me?"

They looked at each other.

"I cannot tell," said Mrs Stone. "What do you say, mother? What do you think William. I am impatient to see Rowland's choice; but would it be etiquette for us to go to-night?"

"What do we care for etiquette?" said William. "I, for one, am above it. Let us go!"

An hour afterwards, we were all on the way to the residence of Captain Nowell.

On being ushered into the drawing-room, my relatives were surprised to meet an old acquaintance--the captain of the ship, on which they had voyaged some thousands of miles.

The Captain first introduced them to his wife; and then to his step-daughter. I had before mentioned her name to my brother--while giving him a brief history of the life I had led, after parting from him in Dublin.

On hearing the name, he gazed upon Lenore for a moment with evident admiration. Then turning to me, he inquired, "Is this the lost one, Rowland?"

I answered in the affirmative.

"I am reading a romance of real life," said William, as he grasped Lenore's hand, with a grasp no other but a true sailor could give.

Need I add that we passed that evening in the enjoyment of such happiness, as is only allowed to hearts that throb with innocence and honesty?

Volume Three, Chapter XXXIII.

A LETTER OF SAD SIGNIFICANCE.

Next morning, as I was on my way to Lenore, I thought of Jessie. I was reminded of her by the ringing of bells. It might not have been for her wedding; but no doubt at that same hour the bells of some church were tolling the announcement of the ceremony, that was to make her a wife.

Poor Jessie! I could not help feeling sorrow for her. That peal, that should have produced joy both to her and myself, fell upon my ear in tones of sadness! I fancied--nay, I knew it--that whatever might be her future fate, she was at that moment unhappy!

Engrossed as I was in my own happiness, it was not natural I should long dwell upon the misery of another; and I soon ceased to think of her.

"Jessie is not related to me, nor my family," thought I, by way of stifling my regrets, "she will soon forget her present griefs; and perhaps be as happy as myself."

I offered up a silent prayer, that such should be the event.

I saw Lenore; passed with her a pleasant hour or two; and then learnt that my company was on that day no longer required.

Great preparations were being made for the marriage. Every one in the house appeared to be busy--Lenore included--and as she could devote but little time to entertaining me, I took leave of her, and returned home.

On entering my room, I found a letter awaiting me. It lay upon the table; and, drawing near, I cast my eye over the superscription.

I saw that the writing was in a female hand, though not one familiar to me. From whom could the letter be? Something seemed to whisper in my ear the word "Jessie."

She could not have written to me--least of all at that hour--unless to communicate something of importance; and I hastily tore open the envelope.

I lay before my readers a copy of that ominous epistle:

"Rowland,

"The hour has arrived! The bells are ringing for the ceremony, yet I
am sitting here in my chamber--alone--alone in my anguish! I hear
hurried movements below, and the sounds of joyful voices--the voices
of those who come to celebrate my wedding-day; and yet I move not!

"I know that my sorrows will soon be at an end! Before another hour
has passed away, my soul will be wafted to another world! Yes,
Rowland! start not--but when those eyes, which have long haunted me in
my dreams shall be gazing on these lines, the poor, lone girl who
loved you, and sought your love in return, will have ceased to exist.
Her soul will be at rest from the agonies of this cruel world!

"Rowland! something tells me that I must not marry, that I must not
enter yonder sacred edifice, and pledge myself to one when I love
another. My conscience rebels against it. I will never do it! I
will die!

"You told me you had found the long-lost one you love. May _she_ know
all the happiness that is denied to me! May every blessing from
Heaven fall upon her head; and make her life one blissful dream--such
as I once hoped might be mine!

"I know that when you read this, the first impulse of your manly heart
will be to try to save me. But it will be too late! _Before you
could reach me, I shall have closed my eyes in the sleep of death_!
My last prayer shall be, that you may receive every earthly blessing;
and that you may long live in happiness to love her you have chosen as
your wife!

"Perhaps in your reveries, in solitude, or when your heart is sad--God
grant that may never be! you may bestow a thought on her whose heart
you won in a foreign land; and who, in her dying hour, breathed only
prayers for your welfare. In such a time, and when such thoughts may
wander through your mind, I would, that you may think my only sin in
life was in loving you too truly!

"Farewell, Rowland! Farewell for ever!

"Jessie."

I rushed out into the street; and hailed a cab.

"Put your horse to his greatest speed," cried I to the driver, "Reach the house, as soon as ever you can!"

"What house?" asked the cabby.

I gave the address; and sprang into the vehicle.

The driver and horse both seemed to sympathise with my impatience: for each appeared to exert himself to the utmost.

I reached the street; but, before arriving at the house, I could see a crowd of people collected about the door.

Their movements betokened great agitation. Something very unusual had certainly happened. It was not like the excitement caused by a wedding: for--

"Then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress;
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness."

My arrival was not noticed by any member of the family. They were up-stairs, and I saw none of them; but from one of their guests, I obtained the details of the sad story. I was indeed, as Jessie had said in her letter, _too late_!

A few minutes before my arrival, she had been found dead in her dressing-room--with a bottle of prussic acid by her side!

I rushed back into the cab; and ordered the driver to take me home again. I was too much unmanned, to remain a minute longer in that house of woe.

I had suffered great mental agony on many previous occasions. When alone, with the body of my companion Hiram--whom I had neglected when on the "prospecting" expedition in California--my thoughts had been far from pleasant. They were not agreeable when I saw my friend, Richard Guinane, by his own act fall a corpse before my face. Great was the pain I felt, when standing by the side of poor Stormy Jack, and looking upon his last agonies. So was it, when my mother left me; but all these--even the grief I felt when told that Lenore was married, were nothing to the anguish I experienced, while riding home through the crowded streets of London, and trying to realise the awful reality that Jessie H--had committed suicide. A heart that but an hour ago had been throbbing with warm love--and that love for me--was now cold and still. A pure spirit, altogether devoted to me, had passed suddenly away-- passed into eternity with a prayer upon her righteous lips; and that prayer for myself!

My anguish at her untimely end, was mingled with the fires of regret. I submitted my conscience to a strict self-examination. Had I ever deceived her, by pretending a love I did not feel? Was I, in any way, to blame for the sin she had committed? Did I, in any way, lead her to that act of self-destruction? Could her parents, in the agony of their grief, reproach me for anything?

These questions haunted me all that night; and I slept not. I even endeavoured to remember something in my conduct, which had been wrong. But I could not: for I had never talked to _her_ of love. In all, that had passed between us, I had been true to Lenore.

In the voyage of her life, her hopes, as well as her existence, had been wrecked upon me; but I was no more to blame than the rock, unmarked on map or chart, against which some noble ship has been dashed to pieces.

In that sad letter, Jessie had expressed a hope that I would think of her, and believe her only guilty of the crime of having loved me too well.

That wish died with her; but obedience to it, still lives with me.

When I returned home, on the day of her death, I locked myself in my chamber; and read that letter over and over again. No thoughts--not even of Lenore--could keep the rain of sorrow from dimming my eyes, and drowning my cheeks.

My life may be long; faith, hope, and even love for Lenore, may become weak within me; but never shall be effaced from my heart, the deep feeling of sorrow for the sad fate of Jessie H--.

May her spirit be ever blessed of God!

Her last act was not that of self-murder. It was simply that of dying; and if in the manner she acted wrong, it was a wrong of which we may all be guilty. Let her not be condemned then, among those whose souls are tainted and distorted by the vanities and hypocrisies of so-called civilised society!

To her family and friends, there was a mystery about the cause of her death, that they could not unravel. Her letter to me would have explained all; but that letter I did not produce. It would only have added fuel to the fire of their grief--causing it to burn with greater fierceness, and perhaps to endure longer. I did not wish to add to their unhappiness. I had too much respect for her memory to exhibit that epistle to any one, and see it printed, with the usual vulgar commentary, in the papers of the day.

The unfortunate ending of her life is now an event of the past; and her parents have gone to rejoin her in another and happier world, else that letter would still have remained in the secret drawer--from which it has now been taken.

Volume Three, Chapter XXXIV.

THE ROLLING STONE AT REST.

One bright May morning, from the turrets of two London churches pealed forth the sound of bells. Sadly discordant were they in tone, yet less so, than the causes for which they were being tolled. One was solemnly announcing the funeral of one, who had lived too long, or died too soon. Its mournful monotone proclaimed, that a spirit had departed from this world of woe, while the merry peals of the other betokened a ceremony of a far different character: that in which two souls were being united--to enjoy the supremest happiness upon earth.

It seemed a strange coincidence, that the very day chosen for my marriage with Lenore should be the one appointed for the funeral of Jessie H--. And yet such chanced to be the case.

I knew it; and the knowledge made me sad.

There was a time, when I would not have believed, that a cloud of sorrow could have cast its shadow over my soul, on the day I should be wedded to Lenore. But I did not then understand myself; or the circumstances in which Fate was capable of placing me.

Ten years have elapsed, since that day of mingled joy and sadness--ten years of, I may almost say, unalloyed happiness, in the companionship of a fond affectionate wife. During this time, I have made a few intimate friends; and there is not one of them would believe--from the quiet, contented manner in which I now pass my time that I had ever been a "Rolling Stone." Since becoming a "Benedict," I have not been altogether idle. Believing that no man can enjoy life, so well as he who takes a part in its affairs, I was not long settled in London, before entering into an occupation.

I am now in partnership with Captain Nowell, who has long since professionally forsaken the sea; and we are making a fair fortune, as ship agents and owners.

The only misunderstanding that has ever arisen between my brother William and myself, has been an occasional dispute: as to which of us is the happier.

We often hear from "the Elephant" and our sister Martha. The last letter received from them, informed us that we might soon expect to see them on a visit to the "old country."

After the melancholy event that deprived them of their daughter, Mr H-- and his family could no longer endure a residence in England; but returned to their colonial home. They lived to see little Rosa married, and happy--some compensation, perhaps, for the sorrow caused by her sister's sad fate.

Cannon and Vane I only knew afterwards as occasional acquaintances. I have just heard of their meeting in Paris, where a quarrel occurred between them--resulting in a duel, in which the latter was killed. I have also heard, that, since the affair, Cannon has been seen at Baden-Baden--earning his livelihood as the croupier of a gaming table!

Mrs Nagger and my brother's wife did not continue many months under the same roof; and the old housekeeper is now a member of my household--a circumstance of which I am sometimes inclined to say in her own words, "More's the pity;" but this reflection is subdued, every time it arises, by respect for her many good qualities, and a regard for the welfare of my children.

Her days will probably be ended in my house; and, when that time comes, I shall perhaps feel inclined to erect over her grave a stone, bearing the inscription:

"Jane Nagger,
Died
And more's the pity!"

Yet, I hope that many years may pass, ere I shall be called upon to incur any such expense on her account.

There was a time when roaming through the world, and toiling for Lenore, I thought I was happy. When riding over the broad plateaux of Mexico, amidst the scenes of lonely grandeur that there surrounded me--as also when toiling amidst the scenes of busier life in California--I believed my existence to be one of perfect happiness. I was travelling, and toiling, for Lenore.

But now that years have passed, and Lenore is mine--I find that what I then deemed happiness was but a prophetic dream. It is while seated by my own tranquil hearth, with my children around me, and she by my side-- that true happiness finds its home in my heart.

When I allow my thoughts to dwell solemnly on the gifts that God has bestowed upon me, I feel grateful to that Providence that has watched over my fortunes, and ruled my heart to love only one--_only_ "Lost Lenore."

THE END.

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