niA"^ m MS/A, :^m J S — riV n. m\i rrl SC I I ^OfC 4^ CI i J/ -I ISJil-S^iUS -r. ^^/sm t, "•/ani/Mnlrin*- '<- v/umQan t^- c^ ; S ,.v^ ^v '0/-, t. .lNn-3ViV'' '^fi ^*9/, ,^ iXl^Ci / /V ^^^' ^ ^^ ^ /?irl I Now I could swear it, her Lantling- '• Has his lip and eyes. All of us know what his lordship, •• In his quiet way, said, on the morning- the rector "' Kode his lazy roan in such a foam to the mansion. " 'He is gone,' he said : 'he came to us with a letter : " ' Was my first wife's cousin : I, I saw him but little.' •• I know what I know ; the man, I say, was a scoundrel. ' .So the landlord fill'd his pipe anew, and another Would tell how they found the little chamber so empty. Where she slept ; and how the rector bridled and saddled, All himself, his roan ; and how a woman at Dover, Whom he knew, a tramp, had seen them sail in the vessel: Tlien discuss the stranger, who, a friend of the rector. Kept the village straight, Avhen he was ill with a fever : How his face was thinner, and all his manner more gentle. When, at last, he mended: and all the tales and the gossip; Till the clock struck midnight, in the corner, to warn them. ^^'inter thaw'd to spring, and autumn faded to winter. Still again, and again ; and still the story was fondled With the same old love; but nothing heard of tlie lost one. PART II. FOUND. 1. BBUTEOLD. Seven loug years, and winter : — the planet jom-neys for ever, Wreathed with snow and summer, down, the silent abysses ; Yet to man come siu'ely newer cares and siu'prises. Add, then, yet a spring: it is the time of the Passion. Much is changed and unchanged in the hamlet of Orton. New-cut names, new mounds, beside the tower or the chancel. Some, long sad, are happy ; some are sad, who were merry. Bells of joy, of dole, have thrill'd the air of the valley. Feet, now many a day tired of the stones and the plodding, Eest at last, and ache not, beneath the green of the hillocks ; Feet of small new-comers roam in the* green of the meadows. Come, and let us see the little house of the curate. Is it hard to find ? Nay, you, in bloom of the morning, See the church-tower shadow softly falling across it. 44 Through the holly hedge, into the garden before it, From the garden of Grod, you slip at once by a wicket. Fair it fronts the road, and looks on all that is jjassing. It is quaint, old-fashion'd : the roof is low ; and the swallows Now are hard at work, beneath the eaves, by the windows ; Windows, old, once latticed, deep in gloom of the ivy. Framed in square-cut stones, the sombre stone of the quarries. Half the benches fill the rustic porch, and about it Shine the green new leaves the roses hide in the summer. jNIark the tiny lawn, all in a flame with the crocus : — Four trim little beds, with box edged round ; and the hollies, Carved to shapes fantastic, in defiance of nature, Quaint as antique prints made of the Grarden of Eden. Broad and flagg'd, the path between the door and the gateway ; Fringed with London-pride, and white and red of the daisies. Many a passer-by will linger, eyeing the pleasance. O'er the white wood railing painted fair for the summer. Now the sun is setting and longer growing the shadows. Look again ; you see him ; in the porch he is sitting : It is Berthold Trevor, the curate, idol of Orton. Here he lives alone in his little bachelor cottage. Do you deem him happy ? Even now, as he muses, He, with lifelong grief, so all absorbing, so bitter, Bends beneath his load, and he is weary to bear it. Even as one, unsound, and in the springs of existence 45 Hurt, past cure, — wlio knows not, — little heeds or regards it, Feeling pain sometimes ; and then is well, and forgets it ; Deems life strong in liim, and lays his plans, and is merry ; Then some keener pang reveals the whole of the danger, Speaks the truth too clearly, dashing all his endeavour; So love gnaw'd the heart, and vex'd the Lrain, of the scholar. Thus in thoughts bewilder'd giving rein to his trouble. He arose and lean'd on the little rail of his garden. *' ' Be unhearten'd for ever : ' it was the word of the letter. " Is it true ? I think it. All my spirit is broken. " All my life is void, and fruitless all its ambition. " Life, how fair, with promise I How will it be, in the future ? " As a tree, men plant, brought from a clime that is sunny, '• Pining, dwarf'd, regretting the congenial region. " If she were but dead I or if I knew she were happy ! " Then the noiseless voice of reason pleaded within liim. " I am mad," he mutter'd, " giving way to the folly " Of this love, this frenzy, this unreasoning passion. " What I again I sick fancies ! after all the resistance I "' He heard not the daws, that hover'd nigh in the chm-ch- yard. Building nests all day, and wrangling over the plunder. Gentle Eolf, his dog, the tawny friend of the children. Squeezing through the doorway, patter'd silently to him; Rubb'd his curly coat against the knee of his master. Looking up in vain, with longing tender and human. 4^ Hurt, he slunk away, to grieve alone in his kennel. Then, again, the master mutter'd low, in his anguish : — " Does she give me a thought, there, in her home o'er the water ? " Is she well ? Is she happy ? It is strange she has written, " Yet, no line, no word. Still all the change of the seasons, " Winter, springtide, summer ; still the bountiful autumn, " Adding fruit to blossom ; yet no sign of my sister. "It is strange! it is strange! for she was ahvays good- hearted ; " Sparing needless pain to us who tenderly loved her. " Yea, Grod, how we loved her ! Can we be wholly for- gotten ? " u When," he said, " at Oxford, often, morning or even, " Shone her face in glory, gieam'd her eyes in their beauty, " All the page grew dim, the winged words of the masters, " Honey-mouth'd by Ilissus, hoarded grain of the ages, " Were as chaff winds drive. Yet soft as breezes of August " Came love's breath, as airs blow to you over the roses. " Did I yield ? Nay, never ! Still I cried, ' it is folly.' " Swallow," said he, " flying from the home of the summer, " Did she greet you kindly, in the land of the poplars, " With a little sigh to see the eyes of her people ? " " Now," he said, " I feel it : all in vain is the struggle. " Work ? Nay, love, I sicken. Love, I can bear it no longer. 47 " Once I cried, ' soul, I give my all to the mission " ' Of the Love Eternal : I will arise, and be girded " ' With the zeal of the Lord, and I will go on His errand, " 'Nor he slack ; and then, how will this joy of a mortal, " ' This weak human passion, be a grain in the balance ? ' '• Ah, can two brief years so quench the zeal of the spirit ? " Frail is man, at his best ; gross is the soul of the people. " In the name of the Lord I issued forth to the battle. '• Then I seem'd as he, whose lips an angel of heaven " Touch'd with coal from the altar ; all the fire and the wonder " Of His Truth seem'd, then, to cleave its way, as the flashes " From the cloud, ere thunder rends the air with its terror. " * Yea,' I cried, ' they listen : they will turn, and be holy. " ' See ! the beautiful Christ ! Now they will cling, in a rapture, " ' To His skirts, and follow, as blind of old in Judasa.' '' Yet they hear, and heed not : me they praise, in their folly : " But the Lord, the Master ? — they have harden'd their faces. " All is as before, — the sin, the greed, and the meanness. " Lord, their hearts Thou knowest. When, to the cry of Hosanna, " Thou didst ride of old to the celestial city, " Over garments strewn, and with the palms of tlie people " Making fair the day, as with the joy of a triumph, — " What a triumph then, to Thee, who heardest, as e\er, " From the dawn of time, another cry they would utter ! 48 " Work ? " he sigh'd, " I sicken : work is no longer a passion. " The old dream comes back : now weak I grow to resist it." Little children three, who wander'd home to the village, Bearing osier wands crown'd with the spoil of the wood- lands, Dropp'd a curtsey quaint, to win the smile of the curate. Fondly reason stray'd in magic sandals of dreaming. " What," he said, " have we to match the eyes of tlie children ? " What were our sad days without their musical voices, " Sweeter far to me than songs of birds in the copses ? " Touch of tiny hands, I think the power of the Master " Lives on still in you, and mystic wonder of healing. " You are hillside dew, and as the flowers in the chamber " Of the sick, children ! You again to the aged " Bring their youth, long lost. You are the verdant oases " Where the pilgrim rests, who journeys on in the desert " Of this bitter world unto the home everlasting. " Children ? — Where are mine ? Where do you hide in the darkness ? " Will you never sit upon my knee in the even ? *' Will you never listen to the Avonderful stories " I so long to tell you, amid the gleam of the embers ? " Thus, anew, love's pain, a fever raging within him. Beat in trembling lip, and breast that heaved as a woman's. " I am ill," he mutter'd, " and I can bear it no longer. 49 " I will go away : — a little change : — there is healing " In new scenes, new faces : I will go on a ramble, " On tlirougli grass and gorse, and heal the wound of the spirit. " Nature's toiicli and looJi have skill to charm, as a motlier's, " Evil demons hiding within the souls of her offspring. " Whither, then ? — no matter. But I will gu : it is better." " Once to see her," he sigh'd, " and but to know she is happy ! " With a subtle smile, as one who harbours a secret None can e"er read clear, he pass'd the homes of the sleepers. Greenly gleam'd the graves in level ray of the sunset. In good heart he gain'd the little room of the rector ; Caird his study, still : yet seldom now would he ponder Baxter, Taylor, Hall, the gilded tomes of the learned. By the fire, burnt low, the two were dreaming together. Dimly show'd the room in twilight's lingering glamour. Dim had grown their eyes with age and many a sorrow*. She had laid her work a little while in the basket. He had closed his book- The curate paused, as he enter'd ; What he came to say his heart misgave him to utter. " They are growing older : " — thus he mused, as the faces Turn'd to greet him, lighted with a halo of welcome : — " She has changed of late ; her face is paler and sadder. " He has grown more childlike : one sees seldom or never, K 50 " Xow, the old stem look, which used to frighten the people. " Xow they love him, all, and children gather about him. " He is twice as gentle as in the days of the trouble." Thus he mused ; then spake, half of his journey re- penting : — " Widow JoUifife call'd : her son is ill, and the doctor " Thinks his end is come : and she has no one to look to." But with kindly talk, and helpful plans for the widow, He regain'd his ease, and soon unfolded his project. " I am not so well : — there, aunt, not ill : it is nothino^ : " Only tired a little. It is with reading, I fancy, " Eather too much, lately. Yes, I know I am foolish. " I get out of spirits. I have not had, since the summer, " Any change, you know ; I mean to go on a ramble, '• On through grass and gorse, and breathe the balm of the heather. " Greene has ask'd me, often, to come and see him in Hampshire. " With new scenes, new faces, with the sound of the billows, " I shall soon grow gay : a chat of times that are vanish'd, '• What could I have better ?— dear old days, by the Isis ! " I may even try a little sail in the Channel ; " Touch the coast of France ; and come back strong as a lion." At the word they started, looking hard at each other : Then the rector rose, and would have tried to dissuade him. Bat his sister spake, " Yes, I believe it is better 51 " He should go. Yes, Ediuund. You have thought he was looking " Scarce so strong of late." " When do you go ? " said the rector. " I had thought, to-morrow," he. Again at each other Look'd the two, but spoke^not : in his soul he was troubled. " I must do," he said, "some little things in the village." Sad and slow he left them, and of his journey repenting. " What mad scheme is this ? " the rector said ; and she answer'd. Softly, sighing inly, " Do not seem to observe him. " Edmund, do not check him : it would only confoimd him, " If he deem'd we knew the hidden cause of his sadness. " Xow he thinks us blind ; he uses guile, as the ostrich " Puts its head in the sand, and thinks, the while, it is hidden. '• Love must have its wav. Xow he is full of a longing " But to set his feet within the land of his cousin. " Once again to flame bursts up his smouldering passion." She read all, felt all ; and thus advised, in her wisdom. But, to hide his tears, the old man tum'd to the window. Mary Trevor watch'd him, grieving over her brother. " Fast his hair grows grey, his limbs," she murmur'd, " are weaker : " He begins to stoop, — I have observed it, — a little." When, as morn grew bright^ they stood and saw, on the doorstep, B 2 52 Him they loved depart, his knapsack over his shoulder, Tears were on their faces, yet in words they were silent : Silent not in heart, as each in fervour to heaven Breathed a prayer, Grod heard, that He would guide him and heal him. I I II. OVEE SEA. Who is this who roams the peaceful shore of Xewhaven, Mid the white chalk boulders, wreck and wear of the winter ; Casting wistful looks across the sea, as it whispers, Creeping toward his feet, and seems to lure and invite him ? It is Berthold Trevor. " Shall I go ? " he is saying. " Go not : it is frenzy," is the chiding of reason. Yet, when midnight sounds, he is away on his journey ; Leaning o'er the prow, to watch the shadowy water. Soon Dieppe's grey cliffs, in lifting haze of the morning ; Soon the jingling bells, and busy quays, and the shipping. But he did not tarry to wander down by the shingle. Still, no rest : still onward, heart, so nigh to be broken. It is eve. It is Kouen. Stars are clouded in heaven. Dark the moonless night ; no placid silvery glimmer On the broad Seine river, as it flows in the darkness. Him no Kouennais sees, as he roams, as a phantom, Past the ships, moor'd black, amid the dreams of the sleepers ; 54 Past the lamp-lit quays, or reedy marge, where the poplars Whisper, sad for day, along the gloom of the valley. Then the night brought dreams, and bitter shame for his weakness. Then, when dawn broke fair, and he arose from his slumber, " Fool ! " he cried, " forget her ? " " Yea," he sighed, "I will follow, " For awhile, for pleasure, hill and vale, and the sweetness " Of this Norman land ; then will return, and for ever " Banish dreams too empty, and this idiot folly." Through the sunny morning, making show to be happy. In the tiny steamer, on, away, on his journey, Went the curate up the smoothly-wandering river. And, if nature could make well the wounds of a lover, Slie had done it then, with soft aerial distance. With white inland cliff, and willow fringe, and the quiet Of the green Seine isles, and sweetly-hovering beauty. By and bye they gain'd a little town, on the margin Of the stream, and landed. Then he strolls in the market. In among the mills he goes, with curious glances : But the wheels are still ; it is the morning of Easter. Well he liked to note the workmen's serious faces, Lined with thought, and quiet. " Work," he murmur'd, " is noble. " I, why am I idle ? Work is holiest duty. " Yea, and bliss comes with it ; so we learn, if we try it. " Comes oblivion, too : De Balzac, wisely you figure " Toil a demi-god dipp'd in the water of Lethe. " Yea," again he asked, as if in anger, impatient, " Why am I here idle ? " Nought he murmur'd in answer. 55 And, ere noon, lie wanderVl, restless, far from the river. Over wooded hills ; until he gain'd, in the silence Of the vales, a hillside, where the graves, with their crosses, Look'd to South, but caught the fading glow of the sunset. Near is Louviers, and here awhile he will linger. In the even roaming, — it was the day, when the ^Master Rose, and angels clianted, looking down from the crystal. — On the air he heard the sweet Gregorian music. Through the street he went, and into gloom of the ^Minster Pass'd, by saints in stone, that stood in guard in the portal. Dim and old, the place : it seem'd a dream and a relic Of the years long dead. But living forms of the people. — Snow-white Xorman caps, bare heads, and many a b(jn- net, — Fiird each bench and aisle. And soon the holy procession Moved with lingering tread among the shadowy pillar.-. Worn and grey with time, and looking strange with the season. White-robed children pass'd, with childish wandering glances ; Wreathed with roses, singing : in the light of the tapers, As they moved, or paused by shrine of saint or apostle, Flash'd as brandish'd sword the silver gleam of the crosses. Rose and died the chorus ; and the refrain of the voices, All the antique hymn, the tender lingering cadence, Moved his soul to tears. What dreams he ? Why is he melted ? What strange echo wakes amid the gloom of his fancy ? Nay, he must away : he cannot bear it : he wanders, Restless, through the night, to cool the fire of his yearning. 56 So he gain'd a city, and, past the shivering poplars, Through the noiseless streets, crept on, footsore, to the hostel. IMorning streak'd the east behind the silent cathedral, Like the gleam of truth behind the forms of religion. Long he heard in dreams the sweet bewildering music. He awoke, ere noon, and bat-wing'd care on his eyelids Hung ; and daylight frown'd. To him, in joy of the morning. Hither, thither, now, was little spirit to wander, Pleased with cap and kirtle, and with the cries of the hawkers. He, ere long, sore-footed, in the yard of the hostel. Slung his knapsack on. What does he say? Do you hear him ? He is muttering low, unheeding eyes of the damsels : — " Tired are grown my feet ; I will away to the cities -• Which the sea-breeze freshens, built on hills of the • granite." Self-deceived, he yearns to reach the gcal of his longing. Fast the wheels speed o'er the iron road of the moderns. On, by lingering stream, by hill and dell, and the blossom Of the orchards, hinting all the guerdon of autumn : Past the fields made rich with easy toil of the oxen ; Many a nestling town, and rill, and many a ruin : Past Eernay, Lisieux ; and, mid your willowy meadows, You, grey spires of Caen, which catch the brine of the ocean. 57 Now, the red-ribb'd rock, and old 8t. L6, and the Minster, Pointing heavenward still, above the cry of the valleys. Will he linfrer ? — See I he stands, in wane of the snnset, On the hill, and watches mists that rise in. the hollow. There the people cower, in houses huddled together, — Grim, lean fiices, pallid,— wlien the daylight is over. Still in misery true, as one they toil and they suffer ; Souls brim-full of curses, but ever kind to each other. Denser coils the mist with smoke of many a cottage, . Stretch'd from hill to hill ; until the shadowy valley Seems a storm-spread sea. The sunset draws, for an omen. Wild weird blood-red streaks above the gloom of the hill- side. Strange it seems, unreal, as be beholds in the silence ; Like a dream of hell. And still he gazes, and voices Come, at times, forlorn, as of the souls in perdition. All the misery, then, of this world rose in his vision : Phantom dreams of bliss, that are despair, and the crying Of the souls, unheard by rulers hiding their faces : . Sadness, none can utter : all man bears of his fellow : All the waste of toil, the sweat and grime of the foreheads Of the poor, held down, as with a stone, by the masters : All the needless woe, in eyes too sad to be lifted Upward toward the sun, in hearts o'erburden'd and broken. Then within him trembled sudden pain and a passion To behold the sea, and hide away from his kindred. Nay, not here will peace come to his soul, that is wounded. Morning. Jingling bells. Is it for bells he is happy ? Crack the whip: away! Awake the horn, with its echoes. 58 See, the beauteous spires of Coutances, calm on the summit Of the granite hill ! Awake the horn, with its echoes. Crack the whip : away ! And, now, the silvery glitter Of that rock-strewn sea, and busy noise of the seaport. Lingering, 'mid the shells. The lisp of waves that are quiet. Sea-beat rocks, fantastic, with the wear of the ages. Sunset. Glamour. Stars. The mystic murmurs of nature. Unresolved resolve, and nigh-won goal of his wishes. Morning. Jingling bells. Is it for bells he is happy ? Crack the whip : away ! It is a wild fascination. Little bells, ring gaily ! ring, bells of the horses ! Eing, o'er long-back'd hills, and ring in many a hollow : Bells, to him too sweet ! The heart beats loud in his bosom. Noon : they climb the steep. It is the hill of the doctor, Oft so well recall'd in friendly bar of the Heron. He is here : yea, me ! Thus reason panders to folly. They, — but folly's foils ; sea-longing, smile of the land- scape ; Misery's haunted eyes, the music's lingering sadness. He is here : yea, me ! Thus folly parleys with reason. Fool I if he should meet her ! — what is it then he is seeking ? Does he know ? does he ask ? His look is fever'd and restless. 59 On, thruuoh square and street, he wanders hither and thither. Every woman's face strikes through his soul, as he wanders. Indefinable hope and indefinable terror. Is she changed? Will tears rise in her eyes to behold him? Will she be alone ? Will she go by as a stranger ? Will the ancient wrong flush up again in her forehead ? Will she, looking sad, with looks that crave his forgiveness, Press his hand, and ask him "how are all in the village?" Is she dead ? — What dreams ! Avhat dreams in dreams ! but she comes not. Daylight wanes apace ; he stands alone on tlie terrace Of the people's garden, anigh the boughs of the lindens. Far beneath the tide is dropping low in the river. Sounds of hoofs, far off, come up to him from the valley : Or some damsel's song, or vesper bell ; or the whistle Of a bird. More still, more sweet for all, is the silence. Clear and calm the air ; and o'er the stream and the ocean, Dazzling eyes too sad, the light, of many a colour, Gleams and burns and dies. You seem to hear in the stillness Waves lap Mount St. Michel, but that is only a fancy. Look again, all changes : thick are falling the shadows O'er the new-leaved woods, that stretch away, in their beauty. Far as eye can wander, hiding many a chateau. ' One shows yet, aflame with gold in every window : Strange his eye should note it : even now it is darken'd. 6o Near the gardener stole : — " Saw you, Sir, now, in your journeys, " Many a scene like tliat ? " Then, he, — "Not many a sweeter *' Have I seen : scarce one." A little smile, at the answer, Lit the old man's mouth : he said, " Not many a sweeter " Would you see, young man, if you should journey for ever." Eound his eye roved still : " Who lives," he said, " in the chateau, " Where the sunset flames ? " And then he carelessly noted Women down below, who spread the nets of the boatmen On the small stream's marge, and scarce remember'd his question. But his face grew hot, his lips were pallid, and quiver'd, As he heard once more the hated name of the Frenchman. " Leastways, his the chateau," said the gardener, eyeing But the dense dew falling : " though I say that he lives there, " That he scarcely does. They stay awhile, in the summer, " Wife and he, sometimes, to make a change for the children. " He is southern blood. He lives away by the Graronne ; " Like a prince, they tell." The old man, ready to chatter Till the stars grew bright, stared in amaze, when the stranger Forced a cold "good-even," and slunk away from the garden. " Is the well ? Is she happy? " She is well : she is happy. What then, now ? — Nay, weeping ? Is there more, in the future, He would fain unravel ? While the stars in the heavens 6i Moved in mystic dance to the celestial music, He, witli love-led feet, about the sliadowy mansion Moved ; and saw the blinds drawn as for death, and the faces Of shy phantom children peer, and round by the laurels While skirts glance and flee ; and still at times, in the darkness, Kang and died away the mocking semblance of laughter. Morn ; lie will be gone. Why linger more ? It is over. Nay, return ! No more his feet are eager to wander In the pleasant land. And nothing, now, that he looks on, Will to him bring joy. Has he a thouglit ? it is only But to gain once more the little house of the curate, Where his dog will miss him. Hill and wandering river. Tinkling rill and wood. He leans, forlorn, in the twilight. By the blasted keep, that dreams of glittering battle, Wliile the Vire, impatient, roars below in the valley. By its mills, as when, beside it, many a chorus Eoar'd, more loud, for you, and died in many an echo, Jolly Basselin. Night, with its wildering phantoms : Fleckless morn, again. All as before : and the falling Of the dark : and Caen ; and spires, and bells ; and the Of the thronging folk : but he forlorn. And the breaking. Like tale told too often, of golden day : and the steamer Down the Orne : and nets; and sunny sea; and the head- lands. So the Seine-mouth bar, and peaceful harbour of Honfleur. III. LITTLE ETHEL. It is nigh flood tide : fresh comes the breeze from the river : Bright the sun looks down on the little harbour of Hon- fleur. Now it yields to Berthold a bitter pleasure to linger Still awhile in her land, before he leave it for ever. All the morn he wander'd, — and it is pleasant to wander In that peaceful region, — along the shore or the hillsides. There are winding vales, the wind lulls in, by the orchards White with apple bloom, around the homes of the peasant. There are shady lanes, the chaffinch loves, and the linnet. There are wooded hollows, you may find, and be lost in. Where the birds sing best, and wood-doves marmur con- tented ; Where, through some blue gap, as blue as wing of the swallow, Ships go by, to bear their freight o'er many a billow. There are wind-swept heights, with whin in bloom, and the heather, Where you dream, and hear the grey gull's cry o'er the water. 63 Thus awhile there stole a softer liumour upon liiin. Nature tomliM his heart ; as suuheams, falling in winter, Touch the ice, and melt it into tears for a season. Seem'd his love, a moment, but as the dream of a dreamer. He, but half unblest, and pleased, returning, to linger, Sat content awhile, a little tired with his ramble. Not a sweeter spot could he have chosen to rest in. From the town you climlj, beneatli the frown of tlie houses, Till at last they end : then you must toil in ascending. ]^ut fair elm-trees keep the heat away, and the hill-side On the left hand shields you, as you climb to the summit. You are glad to gain the pleasant goal, and be quiet, Cool with elm and beech, and dim in glare of the noonday. All is fair green sward, half wood, half lawn, and the benches, Placed by many a bole, are cut and carved by the pilgrims. Many pilgrims seek the little shrine of the Chapel Of our Lady of Grace, you' see mid green of the branches. Women sit here, knitting, by their wares, — for the pious, Crosses, rosaries, books, and shells and toys for the chil- dren. On the steep slope edge, to catch the eye of the seamen, As they drop down tide, to fish, or fare o'er tlie ocean. Stands the Calvaire : hither mothers come, with the loved ones ; Teach the little hands to make the sign of reliofion : Teach the little knees to kneel, awhile, in devotion To the Lord, the Son, and Mary, Israel's Lily. Here you sit, and watch the sails go by, and the water 64 Murmurs far below, and blae and calm is the river ; And the sunshine gleams on white cliffs over the channel, And Le Havre, dimly, meets the eye in the distance ; While to left away, and smooth'd of every ripple. Spreads the fair pale light and dim horizon of ocean. Here he sat, and dream'd of dim-grown days, and the chano-es Time will bring about ; and, now and then, in his dreaming, Mark'd a cliild of seven, a little girl, by the beeches, Peerinof round for flowers : and she was clad in the home- spun Which the poor folk wear, but had an air that was gentle. By and bye, as taking little heed of his presence. To tlie bench she stole ; and soon spread o'er it her plunder, — Violets, windflowers, and primroses, and the treasure Which the spring-tide hoards in woods and shadowy places. She began to sort them, neatly binding together Those not soil'd or broken, and laid them where he was seated : Then, with voice as sweet as birds that sadden at even. Spake, not looking up, as if she knew tliat he watch'd her : — " These are for mamma : I am so glad : what a number ! " Violets, of all things ! for you must know that she loves them " Best of all. How lucky ! Now mamma will be happy."' 65 AVitli a <>liid surprise he bent an ear to the music Of his Englisli tongue, lieard in the land of tli(! straufjer. So lie took tlic flowers, and, leaning;- uY-r them, he an- swer'd, — *'Does she? so do I." " yes," she said, "and I wonder " Who does not ! what scent I " then with her delicate fing'ers PluckVl the heads off many laid beside her, rejected ; Shaping letters with them. " There ! " she said, " do you know it ? " Do you know my name ? you must be quiet a minute : " I will make it for you. Letter E, — that begins it : " T, H, E, then L. But, yes, I know you can spell it. « That is all : now read it : there it is: LITTLE ETIiEL."' Then she left the flowers, and came and lean'd with her elbows On his knees, and scann'd his pale face o'er, and was silent. Deep her thoughts, awhile ; and he was charm'd with the strangeness Of the large brown eyes, so sad and dreamy and absent ; All too sad and a,bsent, for a child, for the summers She had known, so few. Soon, with her survey con- tented, Little Ethel smiled : she said, — " I knew you were English. " So are we. !Mamma is. I am, too. — Did I tell you ? " ]My papa is dead. Is yours ? " He tenderly kiss'd her: *' Yes," he said; and, thinking, scarcely seem'd ;o re- member 66 When lie knew her first, he seem'cl so long to have known her. " That is why you are sad," with look of sorrow she whisper'd. Berthold did not answer, but with his hand, that was gentle As a woman's, softly smooth'd away from the forehead Of his new-found friend the loose brown hair, for it wander'd "Wild, and seldom heeded. " Yes," he thought, " you are pretty, " Care-worn little face ; " and mused awhile to remember Such a face, but could not. Then, because she was silent. He began to chatter, asking many a question, For he lov'd to hear the sweet low voice, as it murmur'd This and that, confiding. " Do you know how I like it, " Talking here ? " she said. " We are so dull. You have never " Come before up here, or I should surely have seen you ; " For I come here often. And, yes, indeed, it is lovel3^ " And it makes me well, mamma says. Now, I must tell you, " I am not so strong, and ill sometimes in the winter. " I come all myself : she sits at home with her knitting, " All day long. She paints. you should look at the pictures " Which she does : such dear ones ; fidl of roses and lilies ! " He awhile was happy with the smiles and the prattle Of his tiny friend. The bitter load of his burden 67 Still a child coiiM lessen. He was not wholly forsaken Of the God who keeps His dear ones tender and simple. Thus the noon wore on ; and by and bye little Ethel Thought of home. She said, " I must go, now. Are you sorry ? " I believe you are. And I am, too. — Are you going ? " Which way ? This ? Come, then." She took the hand of the curate ; And, beside him skipping, never silent a moment. Led him down the hill. And when they came to the houses, Down the street she pointed : — '• that is where we are living," Ethel said, " three steps, and such a crazy old window. " It is poor, you know ; but we shall live in a better, " When mamma grows ricli. I wonder, when." So he kiss'd her On the thin small lips, and made as thougli he would leave her. " Good-bye, then," she said, " l)ut come again in the morning. " Will you ? " " Yes," he promised, and yet the promise was broken. Why ? Well, hear. He follow'd. It was a whim or a fancy ; Idle. Yet he follow'd. She disappear'd through the doorway. He was sadder, then ; yet but as one who is sadder When the sunshine hides too soon in rainy November. 68 Not a thought had he of Hearing change, of the blossom Of his fate, to open into flower in a moment. Not a pulse beat faster, not a stir or a tremor Of the soul, fore-hinting. All was cloud in liis future ; Not a touch of colour relieved the grey of existence. As he saw by chance the sidelong face through the window. Yet he knew it, — well. How many changes of seasons, Pass'd o'er it ! what care ! what unread pain ! Yet he knew it. White his lips as ashes, as fast he fled, with the terror Of a strange new fear, — lest she should flee, and escape him. But she did not see him. And now he knew little Ethel, — All the mournful story. It flash'd on him as the lightning. Yea, perchance he wrong'd her, who in soul was as spotless As the Maiden Mother. But in his heart he forgave her All things, done and undone. Love is a god in forgive- ness. So this letter sped, neath moon and stars, o'er the billows. Like a flame, to thrill the weary silence of Orton : — *' She is here. Come quickly. She does not know I have seen her." Thus it was the curate broke the word of his promise. Much he long'd to go ; he long'd to see little Ethel ; Long'd to hear her prattle, and in its sound to remember Sounds of other days ; to. see again, in the glitter Of her sweet sad eyes, a light now faded for ever. But he dared not ; thinking, " it may be that the mother " May rome, too, to look at this mysterious stranger." So all day, till dusk, along the shore of the river, 69 IvoainM lie, southwiird, shunning' uny chance of a meetinly beach he sat, and phiy'd with tlie pebbles, Like a chikl, content, and watch'd the curve of the ripple, Dreaming- happy dreams of better days in tlie future. Rut at night, wlien darkness screen'd him well, — as a lover Is more happy, knowing- he is near to his mistress, — Paced he, breathing- quicker, to and fro by the window : Yet in soul was loyal, never pausing a moment By the ill-drawn blind, bright with the flare of the lamp- light. What would he have seen ? He would have seen little Ethel, Watching- woodlogs blaze upon the hearth, with her elbows On her knees, her face between her hands, and her forehead Hid with' dark brown hair : there, on her stool in the corner. Deeply pondering why he did not hold to his promise ; Sad for love so wrong'd, and hardly learning- endurance : And the mother sitting, with a tear on her eyelid. As she work'd, with thinking of the Spring in the village, Making glad tlie woods around the home of her girlhood. Morn once more, and noon, and sailors' cries, and the vessel From Le Havre, bringing all the curious faces : So, wayworn, sad-heavted, the rector landed in Honfleur. Till the dark they stay'd : but when the tide in the harbour J^app'd the piers, fast-rising, when the lights of the vessel, Mix'd with moonlight, shone,and made a show of departure, Then the rector, qidckly, pass'd alone by the houses ; 70 Found the one, and enter'd ; at the door of the lodger Paused, and held his breath ; then, gently turning the handle. Unannounced, pass'd in : he stood there, smiling, and looking Like some heavenly saint, with mild wide eyes, in a picture ; Stood there, saying only, softly murmuring, " Edith." Starting up to her feet, as if a moment she doubted. One wild look she gave him, full of strangeness and terror. Then a sudden change pass'd o'er her face, as she saw him jMoving towards her, smiling, very silent, and holding Both hands wide, to clasp her as a child to his bosom. She, with joyful cry, fell on her knees by the father ; Hid her face in her hands, and sobb'd, " I pray you, forgive me!" And the deep sobs shook her, and she trembled and shiver'd. As one out of whom goes forth a demon of evil. Gently then he raised her ; he kiss'd her, tenderly saying, — " I am come for you. The steamer stays in the harbour. " Come, the tide is full. You must not linger a minute." Edith did not speak ; she calm'd herself with an effort. Now once more she put a little bundle together ; Drew some money forth, and, from a niche by the curtain Of the bed, a brooch, and folded all in a letter ; Then, with pencil, quickly, wrote the name of the woman Of the house, who loved her, and left it there on the table ; 7^ Quickly clad herself, and clad the child, and was readv-. 8oftly forth they stole, and crept along through the shadows. -Aloonliglit on the sea : the stars are fair, and a softness In the air broods liglit and full of promise of summer. Eerthold leans, and dreams, and still beside him, in silence. Little Ethel wonders at the roll of the water. Edith sleeps below ; the rector silently watches. Berthold has not seen her, and yet she knows he is witlr them. " Speak now,'' Ethel whisperd, " tell me, where are we going •?">•> Eerthold said, " To England." In a moment she answer'd, "01 am so glad I for I have wanted so often " To see England. Shall we, — do you know ? will you tell me?- " Shall we see the chm-ch, and pretty g-raves, and the lady, " In the little village where mamma was so happy ? " " Yes," he said. Then, Ethel, — " Shall we see uncle Berthold ? " What a sweet surprise ran through his veins as he listen'd Weeping fast, he answer'd, with a quiver of pleasure, " I am uncle Berthold : " — sobbing low. in the darkness. She, in France, unfriended, had thought of him as a brother PART III. BACK TO THE NEST. ^ I. WAITING AND WATCHING. Weeks go by, and May : and June is near : and the singing Of the birds grows still, in leafy lanes and the woodlands. Fair with morning smiles the peaceful hamlet of Orton, White with apple-blossom : but Edith lies in her chamber. 'Tis the selfsame room where, in the magical season Of her youth, she caroll'd at the morning s awaking : Where, at night, — bare feet, — she, in a tremor of wonder, Watch'd the pole-star's gleam, and mystic splendour of heaven : Now she scarcely thinks if it be morning or even. When, in France, so long, through bitter 3'ears of her trial. All seem'd lost, — when, often, even craving of hunger Gnaw'd her, — it was hard : there was a struggle within her: Yet her heart bore up, and she was harden'd to bear it ; As one, wreck'd, swims on, and battles slow with the breakers. But as that one, hurt, and overstrain'd with his effort, Grasps the land at last, and, senseless, falls on the shingle, 76 So, nigh crazed, outworn, she touch'cl the shore of her country. Then, when home, again, with hands enfolded about her, Thaw'd the ice-cold breast, her blood ran wild into fever. Week by week she lay, and toss'd, a waif, on the billow Of bewildering dreams, and terror fell on the household. Death, with listening ear, stood by the door of the chamber. But not all in vain the wind had blown in her tresses, On the hills, long since ; and life was hardy within her. Now the worst is past, and she begins to recover. Dreamy, vague, sad eyes, what is it hides in the strange- ness Of the light that floats beneath the gloom of her lashes ? Would she rather die ? What is it saddens the pallor Of the pain-blanch'd cheek, that rests forlorn on the pillow ? Sunshine falls in vain, and songs of birds, and the music Of the winsome tongue, that speaks, sometimes, in a whisper. Do we need to tell you who is there by the curtain ? But she seems to listen, when at times, through the window. Bark or laugh betrays Eolf at his gambols with Ethel ; While her eye will rove, perplex'd a moment, and linger On the fair wild flowers on the little table beside her. Leave the sick room : come ; and let us find little Ethel. Here she sits, beside the cross so dear to the rector. On the step, content, her feet in flowers of the daisies. Change and freedom make lier cheeks like roses already : Now the old sad look has quicken'd into a brighter. She has wreathed Kolf's neck with chains of flowers for a collar. ( )n one tiny shoe he rests his nose, as he watches Every whim and look and sudden smile of his mistress ; Knows the flowers for him, and wags his tail, acquiescing. See, she drops the flowers : slie lifts a finger, and listens ; While the clock begins its sleepy tale in the steeple. " One : two : three : " — she counts : and up she springs, and is eager ; Grives the dog a hug, as if to rouse him to action. " Rolf, yes, that is ten : we must be there in a second. " Come, quick ! do you hear ? " She gives the flowers, in the ribbon Of her neat straw hat, — tlie while slic turns it, coquette- like, — Just a glance, a touch, to have it all that is perfect: 'Xeatli pert little cliiu she ties the strings like a woman : Then they run, and gain tiic curate's garden together. " Hush ! " she says : " Now, stop I " and, creeping round to the window. Taps, though it is open. Then she cowers, and is quiet. Next, she stands on tip-toe, peering in through the case- ment ; Pulls her slim self up, and puts her head througli tlie lattice. " It is ten, you know. We cannot stay. Are you ready ? " It has struck. Where are you ? You are under the table. " Come from under, there. I see yom- coat, uncle Ber- thold. " I will take yom- hat." But quick he sprang to the rescue : Seized it first, and laugh'd, and soon was round in the garden. So the two together, through the wall of the holly, Gro, and by the gTaves, and o'er the la-svn, to the orchard ; Hand in hand run down the green incline of the meadows. Edith heard their feet, she heard them pause neath the window, Whispering who lay there, in soften'd tones of compassion. Xow she lifts her head a little while from the pillow, Bends her ear to catch the voice of one unforgotten : Shuddering, knows it well : and, as it dies in the distance. With lost look sinks back, and shuts her eyes, and is silent. Weary dreams she has, like ghosts that roam o'er a water. Seem her thoughts like those who, setting sail from the harbour. In some ship well-built, to cross tlie curve of the ocean. Come no more to land, but bleach in vales that are sunless. Strange ! — Xow he is calm ; his work is all that he wishes. Life a new lease takes : — is she not here in the village ? He has faith to trust the unread scroll of the future. On the bridge they paused, and, looking down at the minnows, Soon the cm-ate's stick drops, as a challenge, among them. Fast the scared things hide, neath roots and leaves of the cresses. 79 Rolf is in : lie has it : now he is scouring the inoadow.s ]^afflin<( all their craft, and still retaining the trophy. Wlien, the long fields pass'd, they'reach'd the wood and the copses, Up the hill they clirah'd, and hid from Kolf in the thickets. Still they took the way that Edith chose, on the morning- Wlien the dull-eyed care first set his sign on her forehead ; Wlien life's angel first join'd with the angel of sorrow. In a league, to make her spirit strong l>y endurance. Now the curate strove to jDlease his friend, little Ethel ; Pleased himself, witlial ; for he was childlike and simple. "Whom the dewdrops please has double chance to be noble : He that weighs a star may still be charm'd with a pebble. These a blackbird's nest made glad awhile on the hillside ; Nestling primrose root, as good as gold to the children ; Wind-flowers, past their best, and pungent leaves of the sorrel, With its shy pale flowers, by elm-tree bole, mid the mosses. When the failing wood left bare hill-sward to the summit, — Save the tangling fern, — they raced to climb to the beacon : 'Twas a merry morn : they, breathless, gain'd it together ; Saw the far blue hills, and the meandering river : So, at last, descended, scrambling down through the bracken. Now their mirth and laugh ring in the gloom of the quarry. While the rabbit, chased, flees in alarm to his burrow ; While the magpie makes the wood alive with his chatter. 8o Now, the pine-gTOve's night, they linger fondly within it : Find the dripping well, and call aloud through the cavern ; Break, with dipping lips, their mirror'd forms in the water. So, the road, the bridge, the busy stir of the village ; So the lane, the limes, the little wall, and the laurels. At the rectory gate the curate emptied his pockets Of the green pine-cones, and kiss'd the child, and departed. Then the child, half wild, ran up the stairs, to the • chamber ; But she check'd her foot, when, at the door, she re- member'd. " Dear mamma is ill," she thought, " and I shall awake her : " Now she sleeps, perhaps : " — and softly stole, like a sun- beam. To the white bed foot, and met the smile of the mother. So she moved more near, and sjDake, and lean'd on her elbows. While the mother smooth'd the soft brown hair from the forehead. " See, mamma, what flowers ! " she said, and show'd, in her basket, Gems the hill-top loves : and Editli smiled to behold them. As one will, wlio finds some lost thing, wholly forgotten : — " Yellow mountain pansies I You have been to the beacon ! " These I know so well ! they only grow by the beacon. Si "Who lias Leen with yon?" And Ktliol said, "Uncle Berthold. " Tliey are all for you, because he knows that you love them." Edith bent her cheek to Ethel's brow, for the colour P'lush'd up in it, strange, at simple words of her prattle. " He is good," she said : " you must do all that he bids you. " You are growTi great friends, but do not teaze or annoy him." "No, indeed'."' she laugh'd : "he likes to run in the meadows. " Rolf, he goes with us ; and you shall go with us, also ; *' Uncle Berthold says. Make haste, mamma, to be better : *' Now you are so weak, you could not climb to the beacon." Edith closed her eyes, and thoughts grew burning within her. Mary Trevor watch'd each fitful change of expression ; Saw the pain, and lured the little seer from her presence. In the glass she set the drooping gems of the hill -top. " Aunt," at last she said, " why did he gather the pansies ? " Look'd the sweet face up, but only smiled, for an answer. Now, give ear, awhile ; now, let us try if the scalpel Of a singer's wit can touch the cause of her trouble. Fell a time, long since, when, yet unlearn'd to distinguish Love that flaunts in light from love that hides in the shadow ; G 82 When, ungentle grown, — with wounded pride, and tlie ' folly ^ Of a damsel's dreams, — to childhood's tenderer passion ; Still her heart was ripe for love, and words of a lover. Then, to reason blind, by skilful hand of tlie spoiler, As a bird, new-fledged, — with love and anger together, — She was snared, ah, me I she, grasping only the sem- blance, Seem'd to seize love's bliss, and slip the doom that awaited. Sweet illusion, strange ! So one, neath blaze of the tropic. When the gom'd is dry, pricks on, apine for the water ; Finds the fair-spread lake is but the sand of the desert. Ere a week grew old she knew the gold from the glitter. Then her heart fled back, on wings of yearning and pity. Beating 'gainst the past, as frighten'd bird at a window. Then she felt his worth ; she knew she tenderly loved him ; Weigh'd, with blank despair, the loss and gain of her madness. But, since sighs were vain, she bent her mind to the present ; Strove to love her lord, and look but on to the future. Best love comes by use : she might have grown to be happy. Yet love's bud was nipp'd ; for he grew tired of the sweet- ness Of the wayside flower, he wore awhile, for his pleasure : Ere a month no more his foot was heard on the threshold. Soon, too soon, she learn'd she was betray'd and forsaken. Then she fled : — what hate ! what bitter scorn ! and a passion, S3 Which the angels wept to see recorded in heaven. Now the old lost love, with double power, was upon lier : Now she check'd it not, and this iqjhtld lier in weakness. So the montlis went by, and then was born little Ethel. So the years went by, and still slie toil'd and endured them. Ne'er she dream'd again to see the fi'iend of her chilil- hood, Ne'er again to gain the peaceful hamlet of Orton : Yet, in lonely liours,— fliers all were so, — and in sorrow, — Had she, then, auglit else ? — she loved and brooded upon him. She recalFd his love, his winning ways, and his kindness. She forgave what seem'd a little cold in his manner ; Even that deep slight, — for it she tender'd excuses. And, as all this love was but a dream, it was sweeter ; So she never tried to live it down, or subdue it : Kept it, as one keeps a lock of hair, for a relic Of some loved one, dead, who will not claim it or miss it. This was all her bliss, amid the toil and endiuance : As, in Alpine liills, some little spur of the granite Shines with laughing flowers, mid sidlen flow of the ice- stream. Found, — brought home, — all chang'd : then slie could hold him no longer For her love, her own, though but in dreams in the mid- night. Now she dared not fan the hidden flame of her passion. Dared to keep no more her tender memories of him. All her bliss became a bitter pain, in a moment. In her inmost heart olad, even now, that she loved him 84 More than all the world, she fed despair with his pre- sence. As a weird light plays, in fitful gleams, on the fringes Of some ink-black storm, that blots the day with its passing, Gleams of feverish hope play 'd on the cloud of her sorrow ; When he loved the child, or pluck'd the flowers of the woodside, Or the sister spake in stealthy praise of his goodness. Then she seem'd a fool, and would not harbour the solace. So, with blank despair, with bitter gall of the hoping, fShe grew well-nigh mad ; and, tossing there on the pillow, "Wished for Honfleur back, wliere she could dream and be happy. Now, she long'd, — she dreaded : yet she long'd, — to behold him ; Shrank to breathe his name, yet never tired of his praises. So it was she said, " why did he gather the pansies ? " Feeling blindly out, as one who, whirl'd in the eddy. When some ship goes down, spreads out his arms for a rescue. •Tlien, when Mary Trevor only smiled for an answer, " Why not come ? " she thought. Then she recall'd how he found her ; How she went away. A sudden tremor of horror Thrill'd her soul with fear : her lips grew white, and con- tracted. " Aunt, how good you are ! You do not care to remember " All I did," she said. " What thinks he now ? Is it only " Good you deem of me, or somcthinfj luirder to pardon ? " God forbid your thoughts have added shame to tlie folly ! "' Edith wrong'd them now, for not of shame, for a minute. Had the true hearts dream'd a touch had fallen upon her : Though they guess'd, too well, the wrong that made her a mother. " Aunt, come near," she said, " and hear the tale, and have pity. " I, why did I go ? Is it a dream, which the illness " Leaves, to vex the brain, or did it really happen ? " Nay, I think, no dream ; for we were wedded in Calais ; '• Then liy Avranches dwelt, by winding See, in the chateau. " Anger cool'd, betimes, and passion cool'd, with the anger. " Disillusion, then : remorse, and tenderer fancies " Of the friends, left sad. But he, he silently liated " Me, to see me weep, and hard I strove to be happy ; " Strove to love him well, and think him all that was noble. "But I fail'd, — was glad, wlienleft alone for a season. " Day by day went by, but not a word or a letter, " Sent he me : I said, ' My lord is grown to be cruel.' " Weary weeks I had, and, going hither and thither, " Heard the house-folk laugh, and whisper strangely to- gether. " Then my wit grew sharp, a nameless fear was upon me. " One I made my friend, who seem'd more kind than the others : " Thus a bribe did all ; I quickly learn'd he was wedded. 86 " Then, what hate ! ah, me ! I could have slain him, believe me ; " Bitten through his throat : but never more would I see him. " Tears ? I shed no tears : I fled away in the midnight : " Lived, obscure, unknown, in Honfleur, dreaming of England. " When the ships would sail my heart would burn with a longing "For the white chalk cliffs, but dream'd no more to behold them. " Aunt, all this is true : now tell him all, for you know it. " Not that he may love, but may not hold to be wicked " One he once loved well. Now rest for me, it is only " Neath the churchyard grass : would I were laid by the others ! " Then, the smile, — so strange ! and, for the tender exjjres- sion. You might well have deem'd her thoughts were all that is pleasant : As on Orinoco, rolling down through the forests, Kafts of uptorn trees float gay, with flowers, as a garden. Mary Trevor stoop'd, and kiss'd her brow, as she ended. " Child, be still," she said: "now, sleep: I know that he loves you ; " Better, yea, than wdien the days were fair, ere the sorrow." " Nay, aunt, nay," she said, " it cannot be : it is foolish." Then she hid her face, and like a child, broken-hearted, Sobb'd ; and tears oozed fast ; and in awhile she was sleeping. 11. UP THE BROOK. Sleep brings dreams. Sucli dreams, as she would chide, on awaking, Found her then. Thence, often. Touch of kindlier colour In her cheek at morn, a softer smile in the even. Eest the vague sad thoughts, that drifted vainly, for ever, Ivound the dim Avanhope. Xow there is more in the future. So the shifting denes, if held and boiuid by the marram, Grow to green sea- cliffs, and bear the spires and the houses. But she knew not this, or woidd not own that she knew it. Now the days went by, and she began to be stronger. So, one day, she sat, to catch the warmth of the morning. In the little loom she loved in days that were happy. Here she used to dream, or softly sing at her knitting. Here she used to sit, and draw the flowers, for her pleasm-e, Which she drew, heart sore, when Ethel praised them, in Honfleiu". In the well-kno-\ra room was nothinc; chanoed in her absence. 88 Glass, for flowers, work-basket, cusbion'd chair by the window. Books, long- shut, — she laugb'd : she checked the tears with an effort: Thinking how so long their hearts had silently waited, Thinking all so long they should liave yearn'd, and been hopeful. Then she lean'd, again, a little Avhile, by the lattice. Looking toward the brook, or looking down at the garden ; Till it seem'd as if she had but been, for a moment, Down the village street. Could it be all a delusion ? Childhood's guileless hours, the bridge, the pines, and the beacon, >Seem'd so fresh, it seem'd but yestermorn that she dallied On the bridge, to weep. Then she remember'd the woman. Whom she found ; the child. And she remember'd the meeting. By the gate ; and blush'd, to think of all that had hap- pen'd. So, the dreams came back, that once she dream'd in the orchard : So, the book she read. She, looking round for the vohune, — Writ by her wlio sleeps beneath the soil of the stranger, Who, with Adonais, and him who sang Adonais, Makes the Southland wind come as a sigh o'er the water, — Found the page, where one, with love re-born, in a rapture Sings love's mystic chrism. And 'twixt the leaves was a letter. 89 Edith's licart beat fast. She knew the liaiid that liad writ it : Kead witli feverish haste tlic lovc-wing'd words of her cousin. Still she read, through tears, and all the words, in con- fusion, Mix'd and ran together, till she could read them no longer. Then she heard a foot, and hid away, in her bosom. Even from Mary Trevor, the pleading fervid and tender. " What I have you been weeping ? what, again ? " said the sister. Taking Edith's hand: " wliat is it, now, that has happen'd? " Come, now you are well : you must begin to be cheer- ful." " Aunt, he wrote a letter," Edith dreamily answer'd. Half she drew it forth, and trusted her, that, in sorrow Or in joy, had ever been as a friend to be trusted : Yet conceal'd it still :— " See, it was here that I found it ; " Here, between these leaves. Too late ! too late I it is only " Silly dreams, no doubt ; and he will hardly remember. " But I wi-ong'd him, aunt, and I can only be happy, " When I hear him say the foolish wrong is forgiven. " He would come, you think ? Would it were now I for to-morrow " Seems, indeed, too long, to wisli and pine for his pardon." Then, as one who wins, and vastly pleased with her mission, Mary Trevor smiled : said, " It is easy to find him. "You'll stay here? you will?" So Edith made her a promise, 90 Bold, with sweet desire, to meet the doom of his glances. Then the strength of youth stirrVl in the limbs of the elder : Then she almost ran ; for she had yearn'd, as a mother. O'er the two, so long. Slie found him laid in the orchard ; On the wide-spread rug stretch'd with his friend little Ethel ; Stringing gall-nuts black, and green pine-cones, for a basket. " She has askxl for you," the sister said ; and he answer'd With a look, and rose. His look was calm ; but a flutter, Half love, half dismay, moved in the soul of the curate. So, with hearts too full to speak a word of the matter. Side by side they reach'd the house in silence together. " You'll not stay too long," she whisj)er'dJow, "nor excite her." " No," he said, " no, aunt." What thoughts have all, as they enter ? . Now the twain once more look in the eyes of Qach other. He, his look w^as firm : it did not waver a moment ; Soft, with sweet content. She did not rise at his coming. Half the old wild self came back to her, with the cousin. One quick glance she shot, beneath the fringe of her lashes. Like the lightning's gleam, on sultry eve, in the summer : Then she dropp'd her eyes. He stood in silence before her. But she stretch'd to him her thin white hand, and he took it, jNIuttering, " all too long you have delay'd to be better." 91 " Yes," she said. Then, he, — "Now June is here, and the iris, "In the mill-sluuc, ])rii;ht. Will you delay? And the crocus, " Dead, lon<>- since I Come, liaste ; and pluck the Ijloom of the season. " Scarce the flowers shoidd miss your feet to wander among tliem." '^' No," she said, grown sad : "twas then he saw where the letter On lier lap lay spread : she caught the change of expres- sion. " Yes, how long," she said, "the letter stay'd for the owner! " Yes, 'tis found, though late : how grieved am I that I wrong'd you I " All the wrung I did I meekly pray jou to pardon." " Yours tlio wrong," he said : " but now let wrongs be forgotten. " We forget the night, when day breaks foir with his splendour. " All the past is lived : now let us live in the future. " Now I thiuk it is day, for us, wdth joy of your presence. So he spake, heart-full, a little pleased with the figure. But in her bright eyes flash'd up a glimmer of miscliief. As she laugh'd, and said, with lifted finger, to warn him, — " You are courtier grown : now I shall hold you a stranger, " If you use the arts you so mucli scorn in the letter." So they talk'd, content, as will, half strange to each other, Friends, well-pleased to meet; recalling all tliat was pleasant In the old lost days, the old familiar places ; 92 Scanning-, eacli, in stealth, the other's bearing and manner; Noting every change, each look and tone that was alter'd ; Wondering time could touch a thing so dear as a lover : Till the sister said, " now it is time I should part you : " I am truly grieved to have so painful an office ; " Parting such good friends, so long estranged and divided." Edith seem'd as one round whom a chamber is darken'd, Listening, till she heard his foot no more on the gravel. Now we near the goal, and we to gain it are eager. Now our little ship is soon to ride in the harbour. Make the fire-side bright, to welcome those that we bring- you. With fresh hope, fresh life. Then she would stroll in the garden ; Half for love, half aid, would take the arm of the father. Had there been, then, blame, and bitter pain, and division ? These, they made no sign, but clung, for silence, the closer. Day by day wore on, to yield a change for the better. When the morn look'd in, with laughing eyes, through the lattice. He would come to talk, and tell the tales of the village : In the room she loved sit, oftentimes, in the even ; Eead some singer's lay, and plead his cause, in another's ; Till the dusk would fall, and each could see, in the dark- ness. Eyes grow bright as stars. But yet he wisely avoided On his love to touch. And she was shy. But his presence Grew so dear, the note, the cuckoo-note of her sighing, — That " can never," — ceased to be a knell to her passion. 93 Listen. All goes well. Now it is well witli the curate. Days wore on : she ceased to feel ashamed at his coming. She would chat, and sit among them all, as of old time. Half she seem'd, once more, the Edith childish and happy, Who would jump tlie brook, or sing her songs in the meadow. She became more like. A little silent and c[uiet, Now her wit would flash, and break, at times, into laughter. Now she fill'd again, with gleam and charm of her nature. All the dull old house, so long forlorn with her absence. Morn by morn knit fast a closer league and a friendship. Now the two grow old, and, with tlie will to be busy,- Keep but half the strength that once they spent for the Master. On the yoimg man fell the trust and toil of the parish, For the damsel still increased the cares of the household. Love was knit more strong with sense and labour of office. Now the past grew dim : a tender glamour of distance Took the lines, too hard, and soften'd all with its colom'. Now the three, good friends, — the curate, Edith, and Ethel, Roam'd the woodlands through, as children vow'd to be happy. Now the meads, the brook, the breezy haunts of the beacon, Knew their wandering feet, and winding lanes of the village. Now 'twas sweet to haunt the old familiar places ; In the schools to look, and praise the care of the master. Now they found old friends ; but some were hard to re- member. 94 " When will they be wed," the people said in a whisper. So the landlord's face flamed into kind recognition ; So the smith, again, stood still, and bow'd, at his shutter. Love was knit more strong than on the morn of tlie promise. Now it fell, on a morn, they went a ramble together. Past the limes they went, and by the doors of the houses: Till tliey reach'd the bridge, the pride and glory of Orton, Built by Hugh de Vaux, for use and gain of the village. It they did not cross, but went along by the glitter Of the treeless brook, that flash'd with sheen of the morning. They the mill-bridge gain'd, and lean'd awhile, for their pleasure. By the quaint old mill, above the noise of the water ; Heard the grumbling wheel, and watch'd the foam, and the eddies ; While around lay cool the dusty gloom of the gables. Built, half brick, half elm, grotesque, a relic of Cheshire ; Painted white and black, and huddled strangely together. With their ears half deaf they left the murmur, reluctant ; Pass'd the bridge, and cross'd the whiten'd yard of the miller. Doves' red pattering feet had wander'd hither and thither, Crack'd old mill-stones lean'd against the wall, by the en- trance. By tlie still mill-sluice they paused again for the lilies, — Mid their broad green leaves, — the water-reeds, and the iris : Then, by poplar trees, along the green of the margin, 95 Still went wandering on. And so tliey cain(3 where tlie rover Has its own wild will ; now running noisy and shallow ; Now smooth-ling-ering- by in still deep pools by the alders. By and bye they found a little weir, where the water, — Smooth above, damm'd up, — runs down in foam and in music ; G-urgling its sweet tune o'er rough-cut stones, and the hurdles. Staked with rude green wood, and twisted firmly together. But the brook, at foot, makes many streams in the hollow. Tiny streams, that wind round little islands of gravel ; While the islands gleam with yellow wands of the willow : Haunt the blue bird loves, that cleaves the air as an arrow. Here, by ash-tree root, made soft and In-own with the mosses, Edith sat, to hear the pleasant roar of the water. At her feet he lay ; — and Ethel roam'd in the meadow : — But when friendly talk began to languish a little. Rose, and laugh'd, and pluck'd a sprig of leaves from the ash -tree : Then lay down, and propp'd his head on knees of his cousin. " Look I " he said, " look here I now count the leaves : they are even. " Yes, a sign ! a sign I why dally more ? Shall it be, then ? " You'll accept the sign, the Cheshire quaint divination?'' " Y"es," she said, so low ; and smooth'd the hair from his forehe ad With her soft small hand: and met his eyes, and was silent. " When ? say, when." " Nay, when you will," she said ; and she trembled : 96 But slie took his face between her hands, and she kiss'd him. No word more. Her tears were near to fall, as they wan- der'd By the brook-side back, and seem'd upborne into heaven. in. VILLAGE BELLS. It is late September, and fresh and clear is the morning- , Soft and clear and still, as ever morning- in uiituran. Dew hangs on the grass : you see the day will be sunny. Many a leaf is sere, and through the boughs of the chest- nut Eustling- falls, at times, the fruit that shines as the jasper. Can it be so early ? There is a stir and a bustle In the little hamlet, wont to be always so quiet. Where ? The village street is still as when, ere the day- break. Sleepy milkmaids call the cattle home to the shippen. Not a sound at the forge, no beat of flail in the farmyard. Even the old mill-wheel a little while, for a wonder. Lets the brook reflect the dusty sheds of the miller. Only here and there a passing ^'illag-er quickens Steps, unwilling- laggard ; and here and there in a cottage, In the chimney nook, or on the straw of a jDallet, Stay the weary feet, no more to wander, for ever. All save these are gone, and hearth and home are deserted. Track these hob-nail'd shoes, tliat clatter loud on the pavement. n 98 Scarce so many gather to hear the word of the Grospel, Drawn by Sabbath bell. Yes, here are all, by the church- yard. All along the wall, lit with a vague expectation, Shine the country faces, as thick as ears in the harvest. Graffer's rustic wit now you can hear, if you listen ; Sweet old-fashion'd gossip of Cheshire marketing women. Here they lean and read the solemn words on the tomb- stones ; Here they cluster round the little porch and the gateway. G-roups of mothers move among the graves of the lost ones. Who, in words well-meant, speak often, low, to each other. Yes, they all are here ; — ^it is a scene to remember ; — Glad or gruesome faces ; the strong, the hale, and the sickly : Children at the breast, or holding hard by an apron : Troops of wandering dogs, and every rogue in the village. There are shepherd lads, with ribbons gay on the button : There are milkmaids, laughing, with a flower in the bo-nnet : Little cripples hobbling : old folk, worn and decrepit, Propp'd with stick, or crutch, or on the arm of a grand- child. Close the ringers stand, and chatter gravely together : Beat their feet, or whistle, with their hands in their pockets. Mark their look of office. A Inisy man is the sexton. "Who would all these greet ? You shall beliold in a niinute. Stand aside : make room. They come the v/ay of the garden. 99 Now they reach the porch. The village murmurs a wel- come. Every hat is off, and quick drops many a curtsey. With a buzz of pleasure the people crowd through the doorway. Silence ! All is ready I and if a word, or a whisper, Stir, the sexton frowns, and lifts, in warning, a finger. Who are there ? We note them, as they stand by the altar. First, the white-robed priest: he is the friend of the rector. Who, — do you remember ? — took the care of the parish, When the rector sicken'd, in the hour of his sorrow. Xow the rector gives the blushing bride to her lover. For his heart would fail him to read a word of the service. Bridesmaids ? — if you will. Then you must say little Ethel. She is all in white, and looks as fair as a spirit. Children touch'd her, softly, for a charm, as she enter'd. It is IMary Trevor who is standing beside her. She is like some saint, that down the ladder of heaven Orlides, with willing feet, to breathe around us a blessing. Ivead in that still face the runes of care, the endurance ; Scars of Grod upon her, won for her Lord, in His battles. Grroomsman ? — Viot Paid : he, who is lord of the manor: Eveiy inch a lord ; one we may own, and be manly. 'Tis his own free act, and gracious deed of atonement. These are all. No other may touch the ark that is holy. So ' I will ' and ' I will,' and words of Isaac and Jacob, And the mystic language of him who rode to Damascus. They are gone. The children have scatter'd roses before them. H 2 lOO In the little porch, upon the air of the morning, Kose the deep ' Grod bless you,' with a fervour of meaning; Every rustic throat well-pleased to join in the chorus. They are gone : the landlord, standing now by the gate- way. Smiling, flush'd, excited, accosts his neighbours around him : — " What a sight ! Lord bless me ! What a sight for the village I " Many a merry day we had, when I was a youngster, " Many a gay time since ; but once to see such a vision, " Such a dream as this, it puts them all into shadow. " You've an honest heart : come, John, shake hands, and I bless you. *' Would my Jane had lived to see this day in the village. " Eeach me, there, that rose, her foot trod on, as she pass'd us: *' Stick it in my coat: would it would never grow wither'd. " Come, now, fellows, all : this is a time of rejoicing : *' Come, and drink a glass, to those we love and we honour. " Come, come all : I care not : drink away, and be jolly ; " Till you cannot squeeze another drop in the cellar. *' What a day ! God bless me ! Who will see such an- other ! " So, a cheer for the landlord, and you will say that he earn'd it. Then the crowd moved, hustling, on its way to the Heron ; Troops of children, dogs, the young and old, in a hubbub ; While the bells rang out their merry peal for the wedding. But, when stars came forth, the lovers, silent and happy, Linger'd by the shore, and heard the roar of the ocean. PART IV, ALL WELL. ALL WELL. Seven long- lingering years, and winter-time, and a sum- mer. Will you come to Orton, and look again on tlie faces Of old friends, we loved ; since you have followed tlieir fortimes, Grieved -svitli them in their grief, and laugh'd with them in their laughter ? Dare you ? Tilings change so : you must be hardy to hazard ^Memories, true and tender, but for the gaze of a minute. These are scarce the loved ones you have known in the old time. Think what days, gone over : leaves have faded and fallen ; Year by year have budded fresh again ; and the spirit Of a man knows cliange, as sapling grows in the forest. Have you faith these friends have still grown Avorthier loving ? " What ! " I hear you say, " do you believe, for a moment, " If a friend, long absent, come again from his travel, " We should meanly fear to clasp his hand as a brother ? " Come, then : you shall see these friends of old, you remember ; Changed, as bloom to fruit, which lived l)efore in the blossom. I04 Evensong is over : the people, wandering homeward, Two or tliree together, have chatted over the sermon. Some have turn'd aside, to roam awhile in the meadows, For the day grows cooler, and the coolness is pleasant. There are bigots, still, who look askance at the custom, Though the Lord of old would lead the Twelve through the cornfields. Worthy of all honour, Master, Lord, for the greatness Of a spirit fearless, and humble only to heaven. Tliese, with small misgiving, keep to tlie guidance of natui'e. Children pluck the flowers that 'scaped the scythe of the mower ; Search the hedgerows keenly, with an eye to the berries : Sauntering lovers, shyly, court the lanes that are quiet : They were babes in arms when first we came to the village. Yes, it is the sabbath : hush'cl is the murmur of labour : Toil lifts up its head, and Ijreathes a moment, forgetful. It is summer, too, when it is hard to be wretched ; Which makes sad things gay, and heals the wounds of the winter. Now the sun is low : elves of the twilig-ht are makino- All things sweet and gracious, to greet the moon of the harvest. Come, then : see the orchard. And have you wholly for- gotten What a group we show'd you, seated here, in the twilight ? 'Tis the selfsame seat, well-season'd now, with the sun- beams. I05 With rude ^larcli winds' l)luster, witli tin- rain, and the snowflake. Now the <^roup is other, and in tlie room of the elders, Bertie, Eddie, Paul, and queen of all, little Ethel. Tiny Paid, contented, laughing- over his pictures, (Sits on Ethel's lap, in mischief only a novice ; But the two arc Lusy with their plans for the moiTOW. Rolf lies at their feet : now he grows tired of the gambols. Did we say " little Ethel ? " .She is as tall as her mother. Yes, she will be taller. She is no more little Ethel. Is it Edith still, as on the morn of the promise, Vivid fancy limning, in the silence, a phantom ? It is strangely like her : the eyes, the hair, and the sweet- ness ; All the ease of manner, the gracious bearing of Edith ; All her love of fun ; but somewhat more of sedateness. Still she stirs the old to fresh surprise, as she passes : Rustics doff the hat : and women, surly to others, Greet the Rectory ^liss with softer word, or a curtsey. Landlord's pet : — you hear him, as he stands by the door- step, Letting business pine, to have a word w4th the doctor. " See that girl I Grod bless me I How she grows to a beauty ! " I can see her mother for all the world such another. " Lord, how fast one ages ! and yet how w^ell I recall it ! ." When I think, I shiver, and hear them nailing my coffin. " Yes, our rectors wife had just the eyes of her daughter. " What I you smile ; eli, doctor ? You remember the scoundrel ? " io6 Then the doctor laughs, and off he goes at a gallop. See, the youngsters like lier. They hug her rather too roughly. Which will prove the scholar ? It would be hard to dis- cover. They are boys, — such romps. How they will harry the meadows ! Break the farmer's fence, and be the plague of the village ! Leave them now, to find the seat that stands by the window, On the close-cut grass. It fronts the lawn and the valley. Now the sunbeams redden among the pines on the hilltoiJ. Here the four are chatting after labour is over, •For the parson's sabbath is. truly hardest of labour. Little leisure brings it to the wife or the daughter. Who must go to the school, and sing, and play on the organ. Who are these who linger, in the cool of the even ? Who are these, whose voices with the twilight are soften'd ? This is Edmund Trevor, and this is Mary, his sister : This is Edith, leaning on the arm of her husband. These, what do they say ? 'Twould little please you to listen. You would little care to hear the praise of the treble ; How the landlord nodded through the whole of the sermon ; Hear how Ethel laugh'd, tlien blush'd, ashamed of her folly. At the nursery song of little Paul on a hassock ; I07 Hear the men discuss some knotty point of the preacher, Thou MV ^ UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY EACILITY I AA 000 364 686 6 VS :S s ^- .^' AW •■ Ci- r-x = 3V > JJ^v:iUl o ,4V ^Ad ^^..OFCAllFOfi^v. ^, o 1 ^ )v^ ^(?Aavaani^'^ > T 9 ^^ylOSANCElij-^ B ^ ^' %a3AiNniwv CO so > \\iE UNlv tKi/./^, ^lOS A-^Cf Ifj^ o 13 -3 i1>i^ '^/Sil3AIN(]3U^i V :y