^'^H UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS L13R AT URL...N:A-CKA.ur^.\i.N B00KSIAGKC5 CENTRAL CIRCULATION BOOKSTACKS The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its renewal or its return to the library from which it was borrowed on or before the Latest Date stamped below. The Minimum Fee for each Lost Book is $50.00. Theft, mutilation/ and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from Hie University. TO RENEW CALL TELEPHONE CENTER, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN AUG 1 7 IBS'! APR 2 5 m:? JUNiiiggy AUG 2 8 19^7 When renewing by phone, write new due date below previous due date. L162 Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2009 witii funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/coquetteothertal01nort -tr> '■^ is-i! A W! THE COQUETTE, AND OTHER TALES AND SKETCHES, IN PROSE AND VERSE. THE HON. MRS. NORTON. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON: EDWARD CHURTON, 26, HOLLES-STREET. 1835. LONDON : BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. The papers contained in these volumes are reprinted from the Court Magazine. VOL. I. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. Page the coquette . . . . -1 the traitor ..... 4.j lament of the poet savage . . .57 summer's gone .... 69 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE . . .73 115 . 1-21 127 THE FAREWELL .... NIGHT ..... THE BROKEN VOW . . , . THE TWO HARPS .... LINES ...... THE TWO PICTURES SONG OF THE IRISH PEASANT WIFE . . 175 CURIOUS CUSTOMS IN THE COUNTY OF MIDDLESEX . 181 THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY 153 161 165 227 THE COQUETTE. VOL. THE COQUETTE. CHAPTER I. The ball was truly splendid: so was the supper. Three new beauties *' came out"" that night ; fourteen gentlemen, distinguished in the fashionable world, for various causes, fell in love with these " blossoms of the London spring," as the newspapers call them ; and Bessie Ashton's marriage with Lord B 2 4 THE COQUETTE. Glenallan was formally declared by her aunt. Lady Asliton, as fixed for the ensuing evening. One by one the lingering guests departed ; the chandeliers gave a fainter light as the gradual day-dawn overpowered them ; and the tired servants seemed only waiting finally to extinguish the lamps, till the departure of two figures should leave the room silent and de- serted. They waited however in vain. Mute and motionless as a statute, Bessie Ashton remained gazing, from the open window, on the empty park, and ever and anon the cool breeze of the morning lifted her glossy black hair from a cheek, whose haggard weariness and unsmiling expression, ill assorted with the situation of Glenallan's envied bride. Opposite, leaning against a marble table which supported one of the magnificent mirrors THE COQUETTE. 5 in the apartment, and gazing steadfastly on her averted figure, stood a young man of about six and twenty. His mouth was coarse — his eye harsh — yet his countenance was handsome. Miss Ashton turned from the window with a slight shudder, as if the wind had chilled her ; " Well, George ? '* said she, listlessly. " Well, Bessie. And so you have sold yourself for a coronet ! " " Ah ! George, do not begin in that harsh way ; you know I cannot bear it. — It is long since I spoke familiarly with any one, and I was so glad to see you back again." As she spoke the last words she clasped his hand in one of hers, and laying the other lightly and tremblingly on his shoulder, looked up in his face with a nervous and painful smile. Her companion did not shake her off, but he 6 THE COQUETTE. shrunk from that caressing hand, and ceased to lean against the marble slab. '' I do not wish to speak harshly to you, Bessie: on the contrary, I believe you will find me more kindly disposed to you, than many who are smoother spoken :. but I cannot, and will not, conceal from you, that your con- duct towards my friend, Claude Forester, has for ever destroyed my esteem for your cha- racter. It is impossible I should not feel this — and particularly at a time when I know him to be ill and heart-broken."" " / did not forsake him — he chose to distrust — to forget me," said Bessie, while she strug- gled in vain to choke back the tears that rose to her eyes. "And why? ivhy did he distrust and for- sake you? because that spirit of coquetry. THE COQUETTE. 7 which is the curse of your existence, prompted you to encourage every one around you — to traffic for compliments — to barter looks for words, and words for feelings — and to make him miserable for the gratification of your vanity. Yet you might, if you had tried, have won him back again : you might even now." " Win him back again ! " exclaimed Miss Ashton passionately, *' I have no need to make so vast a struggle to be loved; there are many who are thought Claude Forester's superiors, who like me in spite of those faults you and your friend are so quick in observing; and pray on what occasions have I played the coquette, my wise cousin ? '' " Bessie, Bessie, you need not be bitter with me ; for the time is gone by when you could 8 THE COQUETTE. provoke or sadden me. Have you forgotten young Mildmay, to whom you were forced to apologise for having led him to believe you would accept him? Have you forgotten Law- rence Gordon and his laboured gifts, which you returned when weary of the giver ? Have you forgotten Lord Courtown and his flowers? Mr. Montague and his blood-hounds, which you caressed for the sake of making a tableau ? Have you forgotten that at one time you even thought it worth your while '^ a peculiar and confused expression passed over his coun- tenance; — he stammered and paused. Miss Ashton raised her eyes, and a short quick smile of triumph lit every feature of her expressive face, as she gazed on his. " I do believe you are jealous," exclaimed she, " it is ill receiving advice from a lover, Mr Ashton." THE COQUETTE. 9 " I am not your lover, Bessie ; God forbid that my happiness should depend on you — and if I zvere your admirer, is the admiration which results solely from the power of personal attraction — without esteem, without respect — is it indeed worth that smile? Your beauty no one can be insensible to ; but your heart ! oh, very cold and selfish must that heart be, which could prize any triumph at a moment like this, when you have made the misery of one man, and are about, in all human pro- bability, to destroy the happiness of another. Beware, Bessie, beware ! the day shall come when the triumph of coquetry shall have no power to comfort your agony. Good night." He turned and left the room. ^lechanically, Miss Ashton followed ; and mechanically she b3 10 THE COQUETTE. sought her own room and flung herself into a chair. George Ashton*s words rung in her ear ; her heart beat violently; the choking which precedes weeping rose in her throat. Grief, pride, resentment, and mortification strove for mastery in her mind, and the triumphant beauty gave way to an hysterical burst of tears. Her passionate sobbing awoke the weary attendant, who had been sitting up for her. " Dear Miss," said she, " don't fret so ; we must all leave our homes some time or another, and I am sure Lord Glenallan ^ " Don't talk to me, Benson — I have no home — I have no one to grieve for. Home ! is it like home-friends to give a ball on my depar- THE COQUETTE. 11 ture, as if it were a thing to rejoice at ? Where is the quiet evening my mother used to describe long ago, which was to precede my wedding-day — where the sweet counsel from her lips which was to make the memory of that evening holy for evermore — where the quiet and the peace which should bless my heart ? They have made me what I am — they have made me what I am." " La, Miss," said the ^tonished maid, " I am sure you ought to be happy; and as to your poor mamma, it is in nature that parents should die before their children, and she was a very delicate lady always. So do, Miss," continued she, " dry your beautiful eyes, or they'll be as red as ferrets, and your voice is quite hoarse with crying; you will not be fit to be seen to-morrow." 12 THE COQUETTE. Nothing calms one like the consciousness of not being sympathised with : Bessie Ashton ceased to weep, and began to undress, after which she dismissed her maid, and burying her head in her hands, forgot all but the irre- vocable past. " Past four ! a fine morning." Bessie started, and raised her heavy eyes to the window — the monotonous words were repeated. She looked wistfully at the bed ; but no — she felt she could not sleep. Her head sank again on her hand ; vague feelings of wretchedness and self-reproach, weighed on her soul, and too weary even to weep, she remained listlessly dreaming, till a sudden beam of the morning sunshine lit on the ornaments she had worn the night before, and startled her into con- sciousness. Her clasped hands dropped on THE COQUETTE. 13 her knee as she gazed on the sweet sky which heralded in her wedding-day. The sun rose higher and brighter — the heavens grew bluer — the indistinct and rarely heard chirping of the earlier birds changed to a confused twittering, varied by loud cheerful notes, and the clear carol of the blackbird and thrush ; the fresh wind blew on her weary aching brow, as if seeking to soothe her misery; and Bessie Ashton sank on her knees and stretching out her arms to Heaven, murmured some passionate invocation, of which the only audible words were " Claude, dear Claude ! — Oh, God forgive me and help me ! that love is sinful now."" Few would have recognised the pale and weeping form which knelt in earnest agony then^ in the bride of the evening. Wedded 14 THE COQUETTE. by special licence to an Earl : covered with pearls and blonde : flushed with triumph and excitement: the Countess of Glenallan bent and imprinted a light cold kiss on the forehead of her beautiful bridesmaids ; bowed and smiled to the congratulating beings who pressed round her ; received the stiff and self-complacent parting speech of her aunt, Lady Ashton ; and descended the magnificent staircase with her happy bridegroom. One adieu alone disturbed her. George Ashton stood at the hall-door, and, as she passed, he took her hand and murmured " God bless you, Bessie ! " Involuntarily she wrung the hand he held ; involuntarily she returned the blessing; old memories crowded to her heart : — tears ga- thered in her eyes : — with a burst of weeping THE COQUETTE. 15 she sank back in the carriage, and when Lord Glenallan whispered caressingly, " Surely, my own, you have left nothing there for which my love cannot repay you,"— she drew her hand from his with a cold shudder; and a confused wish that she had never been born, or never lived to be married, (especially to the man to whom she had just sworn love and duty,) was the uppermost feeling in Bessie's heart, as the horses whirled her away to her new homC: Time past ; Bessie Ashton again appeared on the theatre of the gay world, as an admired bride. The restless love of conquest which embittered her girlhood, still remained — or rather (inasmuch as our feelings do not become more simple as we mix with society,) increased and grew upon her day by day. 16 THE COQUETTE. The positive necessity of sometimes con- cealing' what we do feel ; the policy of affect- ing what we do not; the defiance produced by the consciousness of being disliked without a cause, and abused as a topic for conversation ; the contempt excited by the cringing servility of those who flatter for services to be per- formed, and follow for notice to be obtained ; the repeated wreck of hopes that seemed reasonable ; the betrayal of confidence which appeared natural; the rivalry, disappointment, mortification, and feverish struggling, which beset us in the whirlpool of life, and carry us round whether we will or not, — these are causes which the noblest and the purest natures have difficulty in resisting, and which had their full effect on a mind like Bessie's, naturally vain and eager, and warped by circumstances to something worse. THE COQUETTE. 17 From her mother's home, where poverty and a broken heart had followed an imprudent marriage, Miss Ashton had been transported to add, by her transcendent beauty, one other feature of attraction to the gayest house in London. Xot quite a woman, yet but half a child, she was at that age when impressions are easiest made — and, when made, most durable. Among her rich relations the lessons taught by the pale lips of her departed parent were forgotten : the weeds which that parent would have rooted from her mind, grew up and choked her better feelings; and Bessie, the once simple and contented Bessie, who had been taught to thank God for the blessing of a humble Lome, and the common comforts of 18 THE COQUETTE. life, struggled for wealth and rank that should place her on a par with her new associates, and shrank from the idea of bestowing her hand on any man who could not give her in return — diamonds and an Opera-box. THE COQUETTE. 19 CHAPTER II. During the seclusion of an English honey- moon, Bessie had believed that (Claude Forester apart) she could love Glenallan better than any one. He was intelligent, kind, graceful, and noble. He was an Earl, he was popular with women, and respected by men. He had made two very creditable speeches in the House, and might make more. 20 THE COQUETTE. He rode inimitably well. He had shown more taste in laying out the grounds about Glenallan, than Nash did in the Regent's Park. In short, there was no reason why she could not love Glenallan ; — except that it would be so exceedingly ridiculous to fall in love with one's husband ; it would look as if nobody else thought it worth his while to pay her any attention ; Glenallan himself would think it so ridiculous, for Glenallan had none of Claude Forester's romance, and was quite accustomed to the ways of fashionable couples, and con- tented to pursue the same path. — Then Lady Ashton — ho*w Lady Ashton would laugh ! and it really would be laughable, after all. So Lady Glenallan's first coup d'essai^ after her marriage, was to encourage the violent admiration evinced for her by her Lord's cousin, THE COQUETTE. 21 Fitzroy Glenallan, who was twice as intelligent, twenty times as graceful, won all the plates at Ascot, Epsom, and Doncaster; was the idol of the women — and as to the men — pshaw ! the men were jealous of him. Now it is so happened, that one of the inimi- table Fitzroy's peculiarities was, that he never could be in love with the same woman for more than three months at a time. Upon this failing, therefore, the young Coun- tess undertook to lecture him, and succeeded so well, that he suddenly told her one morning, when she was gathering a geranium in her beautiful conservatory in Park Lane, that if there ever existed a being he could worship for ever, it was herself. Lady Glenallan let fall the flower she had gathered. She blushed a deep crimson. She 22 THE COQUETTE. felt — that she was a married woman, and ought to be excessively shocked — she thought of forbidding him the house, but then it would be so awkward to make a quarrel between Glenallan and his cousin ; so she only forbid him ever to mention the subject again : and to prove that she was in earnest in her wish to discourage his attentions, she gave two hours every morning, and a perpetual ticket to her opera-box, to young Lord Linton, who knew nobody in town, poor fellow, was only just two- and-twenty, and most touchingly attached to a pale pretty little sister of his, with whom he rode, walked, and talked unceasingly, and who, he assured Lady Glenallan, was the last of seven; that eating worm, consumption, being the inheritance of his family. Fitzroy Glenallan was not, however, a man THE COQUETTE. 23 to be slighted with impunity — he ceased to be Lady Glenallan's lover ^ but oh ! how infinitely more irksome and troublesome did he contrive to make the attentions of Lady Glenallan's ^riend. What unasked-for advice did he not pour into her ear ! — what gentle hints and laughing allusions did he not bestow on her husband ! what an unwearied watch did he not keep over the very curl of her lip, and the lifting of her eye- lash, when her smiles or her glance were directed to her new favourite. — A thousand times in a fit of irritation did she determine on freeing herself from the tyranny of the self- erected monitor ; and a thousand times did she shrink from the attempt, under the bitter con- sciousness that her own folly had in some measure placed her in his power. — He might 24 THE COQUETTE. incense Lord Glenallan, who was gradually becoming, not openly jealous — no, he was too fashionable a husband for that — but coldly dis- pleased, and distant at times, and sneeringly reproachful at others. He might ridicule her to his companions ; he might — in short she felt, without exactly knowing why, that it would be better to keep well with the person whose admiration had once been so grateful to her. Meanwhile, young Linton gradually became absorbed by his passion for his beautiful pro- tectress : — that a being so gifted, so worshipped, so divine, should devote her time, her talents, her affection, to one as unknown and insigni- ficant as himself, was as extraordinary as it was intoxicating. His mornings were spent in her boudoir — his afternoons in riding by her side — his evenings THE COgUETTE. 2o in wandering through the crowded assembly, restless, fevered, and dissatisfied, till her arm was linked in his, and then — all beyond was a blank — a void — a nullity that could scarce be deemed existence. His little fair consumptive sister was almost forgotten ; or, when remembered, the sudden pang of having neglected her would strike him, and he would hurry her here and there and everywhere, in search of amusement, and load her table with new books, and hothouse flowers; and kiss away the tears that trembled in her eyes; and murmur, between those light kisses, how willingly he would lay down his life to save her one hour's vexation ; and wonder she still looked fatigued and still seemed unhappy. But by degrees these fits of kindness grew more rare — the delirium which steeped his VOL. I, c 26 ' THE COQUETTE. senses sliut out all objects but one. Day after <;iay_clay after day — Lucy Linton sat alone in tlie dark, hot drawing-room, in South Audley- street, and with a weakness, which was more of the body than the mind, wept and prophesied to herself that she should die very soon ; while her brother persuaded himself that she was too ill — too tired to go out — too anything — rather than she should be in the way. It is true. Lady Glenallan could not be aware of all these solitary musings ; but it is equally true that she was jealous of Linton's love, even for his sister ; and in the early days of their acquaintance, when Lucy used some- times to accompany them to the opera, exacted the most undivided attention to her fair self. Occasionally, indeed, when some charitable dowager had taken Lucy to a ball or party, and THE COQUETTE. 27 that little, pale, wistful face passed Lady Glen- allan in the crowd, and gave one lingering look of fondness at the brother who was her natural protector, the heart of the admired Countess would smite her, and her arm would shrink from her companion, as she reflected that she did not even return the love she had taken so- much pains to secure to herself; but for the most part she forgot all but her own interests or amusements. At length a new actor appeared in the scenes we have described. Claude Forester returned to England ! Fitzroy Glenallan's eye rested on Bessie's face, when some careless tongue com- municated the news to her. For one moment he looked round, as if to assure himself there was no other obvious cause for the emotion wliicli crimsoned the brow, cheek, and bosom, c2 28 THE COQUETTE. of the being before lilm. Lady Glenallan lifted her conscious eyes to his, and turned deadly pale — he looked at her a moment more — bit his lip till the blood started, and moved away. A moments hesitation and she followed with a light quick step into the adjoining room. " Fitzroy," gasped she, as she laid her hand on his arm, " you know I knew him before I was married." " I did not know it," replied he, coldly, " neither I believe does Glenallan."" i'or a moment Bessie shrank angrily from the insinuation, which the tone rather than the words implied. She dreaded she scarcely knew what, from the manner of her compa- nion : and the consciousness that even that rapid moment, which had scarce allowed time for the crimson blood to rise and subside in THE COQUETTE. 2^ her cheek, had sufficed to flash the thought through her mind of how and where and when Claude woukl meet her ; and what woukl be the result of such a meeting*, be- wildered her and increased her agitation, as, with a nervous kugh she said, '• You will not jest before liim about it — will you? " *' It was the first time she had so directly- appealed to him — so directly endeavoured to propitiate him. A conscious and bitter smile of triumph played on his lip and larked in his eye. " You may depend on my never men- tioning the past,'^ said he; '-but tell me — " what he desired to knov>^ was left unasked, for at that moment Claude Forester himself walked through the room. He saw Lady Glenallan — paused — hesitated for a few seconds— crossed the room and stood 30 THE COQUETTE. beside her. A few words lie spoke, but wbat tliey were Bessie did not hear, though they were spoken in a clear firm tone. To her imagination it seemed as if there was contempt and reproof even in the sound of his voice — she murmured something inarticulate in return, and when she ventured to lift her eyes, Fitzroy Glenallan alone stood before her. Oppressed with the suddenness of the interview — overcome by previous agitation— and stung to the heart, Bessie Glenallan burst into tears. Fitzroy had taken her hand, and was en- deavouring to soothe her, when Lord Glenallan and George Ashton entered at the same moment. " Shall I call the carriage. Lady Glenallan ? Are you ill ? " asked the former, as he glanced with a surprised and discontented air from one to the other. THE COQUETTE. dl '• If you please," murmured Bessie, and he went, followed by his cousin. Not a word was spoken by the pair who remained ; but once, when Lady Glenallan looked up, she caught George Ashton's eyes fixed on her with earnest pity: how different from Fitzroy's smile ! thought she, and, as she stepped into the carriage, she asked him to call the next day and see her. The mDrrow came, and with it came George Ashton. Dispirited and weary. Lady Glen- allan complained of Claude Forester''s coldness — of Fitzroy Glenallan's friendship — of Lord Linton's attentions — of her husband's inatten- tion — of Lucy Linton's health — of the world's ill-nature — of everything, and everybody, in- cluding the person she addressed, and, having exhausted herself with passionate complaining, sank back to wait his answer. 32 THE COQUETTE. *' Bessie," said he, at length, " I have known you from childhood, and (I may say so now that all is over) I have loved yon as well or better than any of your admirers ; it is not, therefore, a harsh view of your character that prompts me to give the warning I beseech of you to hear patiently. You are listless and weary of the life you are leading, and mortified at Claude Forester's neglect ; but, gracious Heaven ! what is it you wish ? or when will the struggle for pernicious excitement cease in your mind, and leave you free to exert your reason? Suppose Claude Forester to have returned with the same deep, devoted love for you which filled his heart when he left Eng- land, and fled from a fascination which he M^as unable to resist. Suppose him to have urged that passion with all the vehemence of which his nature is capable — would you, indeed, as THE COQUETTE. 33 Lord Glenallan's wife, listen to the man for whom you would not sacrifice your vanity when both were free? or is there so much of the heartiessness of coquetry about you, that you would rather he were miserable, than that you should not appear irresistible ? Do you, Bessie, wish Claude were again your lover?" *' No," sobbed Lady Glenallan ; " but I wish him not to think ill of me.'"* " And if you could prove tliat you had no fault towards him, would it not seem hard that he had ever left you ? Would not explanations lead to regrets, and regrets to ? Bessie, struggle against this strange infatuation — this envious thirst for power over the hearts of men. Already you are entangled— already you ishrink from the tyranny of Fitzroy Glenallan, and dread the approaches of the cruelly de- c3 84 THE COQUETTE. ceived Linton — already you have begun to alienate the aflfections of a kind and generous heart for the miserable shadows of worldly admiration. Oh ! where is the pleasure — where the triumph — of conquests such as yours ? What avails it to your comfort at home, or your respectability abroad, that you are satis- fied to believe yourself virtuous, because you 'as from one who had been a witness of the horrors of the Barbadoes hurricane : whose heart had been riven, whose reason partially obscured by the events connected with that appalling visitation, that I collected the few facts which form the ground-work of this narra- gaiters,) where the stoning to death of iliss Rachel Smith's cat entirely overpowered the interest they felt, when the old ministry sat down to consider what they could do, if the new ministry were fairly turned out, and gave up the point in despair. 78 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. tive. " An ow'r true tale '** it is, and one in wliicli neither the obscure rank of its heroine, nor the ;?67f romanesrjiie crime and punishment of its hero, could prevent m}- taking the most lively and painful interest. It was in the July of 18 — , that the beau- tiful vessel. La Gloire, anchored off the coast of Barbadoes. She had on board her usual complement of men and sailors ; her captain Auguste Delmar; and passengers to different parts of the West Indian Islands. Among so many individuals, three particu- larly claim our attention ; Charles Louvel, the second mate; Henri Lafittc, midshipman; and M. Van Brockel, a Dutch planter, and pro- prietor of immense estates in Barbadoes. Charles Louvel was a general favourite on board La Gloire ; his frank, handsome face, THE SPIIIIT OF THE ill'RRICAyE. IJ shaded by tlie long ringlets sailors are so proud of; Lis gay laugh : his store of anecdotes, some- times witty, sometimes pathetic; his untiling goodnature; his activity and eagerness in what- ever mio-ht be his employment for the time : his recklessness of danger : all these pecnliarl}' sailor-like qualities had their due weight on the hearts and minds of his messmates. Onl}- with the captain, who was strict even to harsh- ness, Charles Louvel was not a favourite. Auguste Delmar was young, and proud of his command : educated himself in the strictest rules of subordination by the admiral his father; accustomed to hear day ])y day, from the lips of that revered parent, precepts and lessons inculcating order in the miiuitest things, as abso- lutely necessary to the quiet government of that little world, a man-of-war. he impressed 80 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. it rigorously on those under him. The kind- ness of LouvePs heart, his willingness to oblige his companions, did not excuse, in Captain Delmar's eyes, an occasional carelessness in the execution of his duty ; and LouvePs song, and LouvePs story, which counterbalanced in his messmates' opinions, the habit he had acquired of occasional intoxication, only incensed his stern superior the more, since the unchanging gaiety of his manner seemed to prove a reck- lessness of reproof, and contempt of authority. No serious fault, however, had as yet draw-n down on Louvel a marked punishment. Del- mar, though strict, was just; and though he certainly would rather the man had not belonged to his ship, he took no harsh and oppressive means of proving his dislike. But if the captain did not share in the THE SriRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 81 enthusiasm Louvel inspire dj ITenri Lafitte, the youngest sickliest and palest, of all boys who ever vrere sent to '-rou^li it " as midship- men, amply made up for Lis lack of love. Too feeble for the sports — too timid and tearful for the jests of his wilder companions — too simple and neglected to be able to con- verse with the more gentlemanlike and in- telligent of tlie little community ; his long days and wearisome evenings were spent in that worst of all solitude — loneliness in a crowd of busy creatures. Shrinking from some, avoided or overlooked by others, taunted by a few, and going by the appellation of "la petite blonde," or '• Mam'selle Fanny," the orphan boy scarcely ever moved his lips to speak or smile. He bore the lonely watch at night as he E 3 82 THE SPIRIT OF THE HUURICANF. best could, remembering, as lie looked across the cold waste of waters, the sweet face of his mother, shading the lamp with her hand, and bending over his bed to bless him ; and then crept to his hammock to shed unnoticed tears. For him the waves had no freshness, the winds no melod)-, till the day that Charles Louvel first noticed his slight figure, leaning anxiously forward to catch the thread of the story he was telling. JSo strnck was the seaman by the deep melancholy imprinted, on so young a face, that he paused to gaze on him, and followed up the tale by an account of the exploits of a certain Captain Lafitte, who was Henri's grandfather, and whose courage and kindness were scarcely surpassed by " the gallant, g-ood lliou." THE SPIIIIT OF THE HURRICANE. 83 At no age is tlie pride of ancestral fame more strong tlian in tlie dawn of our days. Henri's pale cheek flushed, his eye sparkled, as the sailor spoke. And his companions — they who had taunted him — looked from the narrator to the neglected boy, and honoured him for being Captain Lalitte"s grandson. In the excitement of the moment, Henri himself seemed something of a hero in their eyes ; and when the last battle was fought, and the death of Lafitte was described, waving his country's flag above his head ere his arm dropped powerless by his side, they unanimously gave three loud, hearty cheers. From that hour the boy's character seemed to change ; he vralked with a lighter step ; he laughed at little jests ; he listened to the 84« THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. wind singing tlirougli the shrouds, and mocked it ; wondering that its voice had ever sounded sad to his ear; he mingled with the other midshipmen, and all of them assured him he was an altered being. But most he loved to talk to Charles Louvel of his home in France, of his fair mother ; of his sister, la petite Fanchette ; of his buried father; and all those memories of the heart, which after years of folly or of crime may smother, but cannot extinguish; even as the pure stars are clouded over, and yet burn brightly behind the mass of murky vapour which hides them from our eyes. To all these tales of Henri's childhood, Charles Louvel listened attentively; and he, too, would talk of his sister, or rather half- THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 85 sister, since slie was the daughter, not of his mother, but of a woman of colour whom his father (who was also a sailor) had fallen in love with when he came to Barbadoes many- years ago. To this girl, according to Louvel's account, nothing could compare : not as he himself said, that she was very beautiful (except her eyes), but her voice was so soft, and her step so gentle, and she loved Charles better than any other created being. It was for Jier sake he was so glad to go to Barbadoes : he had not seen her since she was fifteen, and that was three years ago ; it was for hei' sake he was so anxious, so impatient, for leave to go ashore as soon as the ship had reached her destination. At length the happy moment arrived; with 86 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. a light heart Louvel sprang into the boat, sino-ing in the patois common among the French shives, a well-known Barbadian air : — " Toi aimcz moi, Maiie, Quand moi vais partir, ma cliere ! Toi aimez moi, Marie, Car moi vais mourir." Poor Louvel ! little did he or any of his messmates think that it was to be the last time his voice should ever take the tone of gaiety ; and that those simple but melancholy French lines, so carelessly repeated, contained a vague prophecy of his approaching fate. Surely it is a blessed gift from the mercifid Creator, our ignorance of what is to be ; and yet how often do we blindly seek to pene~ trate the future, though to know it were to THE SPIRIT OF THE HURKICANE. 87 double all our woes in the expectation of tlie blow, and make joy tasteless by the certainty of its fulfilment! Charles Louvel had gained, in one half hour, the humble dwellino^ of the freed slave who was mother to his beloved sister Pauline. Symptoms of neglect— of disorder— struck him as he rapidly approached the door. It was open ; he entered unperceivcd, and in the inner room he beheld his young sister, kneeling by the low matted bed, with a small crucifix in her hands, which she pressed to her bosom : — while low and stifled sobs from time to time escaped her. An exclamation of painful surprise broke from his lips; and Pauline, hastily rising, stood for an instant as if doubtful who she saw, then flinging herself on his bosom, she wept 68 THE SPir.IT OF THE HURRICANE. til ere with a weak wailing cry like tliat of a forsaken clillfl. Long' she wept ; and it was not till many a sorrowful kiss had been printed on her brow, and the plaits of her black and glossy haif stroked back with a brother's fondness, as if the caress might help to soothe her, that Charles ventured to ask the meaning of the misery he beheld, and what ailed her mother, who lay on the mat in a heavy stupor. Pauline explained, with many a rapid gesture, to which her graceful figure and wild dark eyes gave eloquence and beauty, that for the last year everything had gone wrong with them ; her mother had been not only unable to earn anything, but had required constant attend- ance, and was so much addicted to the use of spirituous liquors, that it had, she firmly THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 89 believed, brouglit on her death ; that to add to their misery, the overseer of the estate her mother had formerly belonged to, had been to persuade her that the best thing she could do was to surrender herself a slave, since she was starving where she was, and would, at her mother's death, be utterly alone in the M'orld. On her refusal to agree to this plan, Pauline said the overseer became furious, and swore he would have her claimed as one of the slave children belonofing: to the estate, and seized accordingly. " I kne^v there were none to defend me," said the poor girl. '• I have lived in hourly dread of being seized; I have been afraid to move, even if I had dared to leave my mother. 1 have not so much money as would buy a cake of bread ; and for the last three 90 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. days I have tasted nothing but a slice of water- melon which an old woman gave me in charity." Charles Louvel strained her to his heart, which throbbed with mingled feelings of agony, affection, and pride ; and at length hiding his face in his hands, the rongh sailor sat down and wept. Vv^hen he became calm, he took Pauline's hands in his, and stedfastly gazing into her face, he said, " No, my poor sister, you shall not starve ; you shall not be a prey to the cruelty of avaricious men. Captain Delmar will not hear our story unmoved; I will ask him for my pay in advance, and bring it you. You shall get the washing from our ship, and pay some one to help you ; and before I go, we will arrange some plan for your leav- ing this island for the country where there are no slaves." THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 91 Pauline smiled tliroiigli her tears, and waving lier hand to him as he disappeared, she sank down again by the side of the invalid, to recom- mence her patient and unwearied watch. \Vlien Charles Loiivel stood ao^ain on the deck of La Gloire, his disappointment was great at finding the captain was gone on shore. His was a case which admitted of no delay, and naturally impatient, as well as affectionate, his brain whirled almost to mad- ness when he figured his young desolate sister spending another night without food. He turned abruptly, and asked two or three of his companions for money, but none of them were able to assist him ; they all hoped and expected, but the present, the present was wliat he wished to brighten. The wild and almost impracticable plan of 92 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. following the captain on shore, and there urging his request for some loan or advance of money, flashed acro^^s his mind. Then rose the remembrance of Delmar's stern inflexibility; of his resentment of anvthino;' borderino* on disrespect. '' Even if I find him," murmured Louvel, '• can I follow him into a merchant's house, or stop him in the street and ask for my pay? No; and yet it is a matter of life and death. Pauline! my sister!" He paused irresolute. At this moment, M. Van Brockel, who was walking up and down the vessel, stopped and feeling in his pocket as if in search of some- thing, he turned to Louvel, and begged him to go down into his cabin and bring him a telescope, which he had left there when looking over some papers. The seaman, with instinc- THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 93 tive readiness to oblige, started from lils reverie, and went below. He entered the cabin, found the telescope, and was rapidly preparing- to go on deck, when his foot caught in the cloth which hung over the table ; part of the cloth slipped ; and a box which was near the edge, fell oiF, and opening in the fall, displayed a quantity of gold and silver coin, which rolled over the floor in all directions. A thought, rapid and electric, brought a crimson glow to LouveFs cheek. He knelt, and hastily picking up the money, flung it in, shut the box, (which he grasped as though he would have glued its fastenings together,) and stood at the cabin door. He paused — he thought of Pauline— he thought of her words — " for three days 1 have only eaten a piece of water-melon." He went 94' THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. back and opened the box, and gazed at the heap of coin which glittered before his eyes. " How little, how very little of this, would make her happy ! I could replace it when Captain Delmar paid me; — no one would know it. It would take an hour to tell this money over." And with the last idea came a vision of Van Brockel counting it — of his discovery and disgrace. He covered his face with his hands, and with a bitter execration rushed from the spot. His foot was on the last step but one of the cabin stair, the fresh cooling sea-breeze fanned his cheek, wdien he recollected that, in his con- fusion, he had left the telescope, for which he had been sent, on the table. Slowly he again descended — slo\v]y he entered the cabin, and stood lost in thought at THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 95 tlie fatal spot. Wild were his dreams — wild and quick: they chased one another through his mind like lightning flashes in a storm ; and in one lie saw his sister — his forsaken Pauline — seized by the ruffianly overseer, and dragged to a shameful and oppressive toil ; he saw the slave-driver raise his whip to strike her bended figure ; he started jBercely, to interpose his arm between that delicate and graceful form and her tyrant guide ; he struck a blow — the vision vanished, and the ringing coin vibrated below his heavy hand, as it rested, numbed with its own violence, on the lid of the treasure chest ! Oh, ye rich, when will the poor and wretched feel that they have no right to one atom of your superfluity, even though your gains shoukl be hoarded only for the pleasure of counting them? Louvel thrust his hand into the bcx ; he looke:l 96 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. not to see whether it was gold or silver ; he stayed not to count the stolen money, but he took a handful, thrust it into his pocket, and ran on deck with the telescope. Van Brockel saw not his agitation — his eyes were fixed on the skies ; he raised the telescope, and muttered a prophecy of a storm. Louvel turned away ; he felt sick and faint as a fright- ened woman, but it was not fear of the coming storm which blinched his cheek. 97 CHAPTER II. Again the boat bounded over the waters ; but Louvel sang not— spoke not : his head leaned on his clenched hand, while the surf drifted in his face ; and his three companions looked at each other and wondered. Suddenly he started. The surf near the shore was rough and violent. Each wave beat the boat back to the open sea. A vague and insane fear of being pursued and taken, crept into his heart : he had never before known what fear was ; he felt it- it was a strange and thrilling agony. VOL. I. P 98 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. He could no longer bear it; lie leapt into the Waters — tliey closed above his head. " Shall I then perish without saving her?'' thought he; and the thought sent a fresh vigour to every limb. With desperate energy he reached the shore, and rushed to the hut : he flung the money at her feet, and sank exhausted. A few moments passed away, and the girl spoke: " Pray with me, Charles, for my mother is just dead!" Her voice — her mournful voice smote on his soul. '• I cannot pray, Pauline; but there is money — money to save you — to bury her — to ruin me." His words were wild; but his young sister heeded not, for she was gazing on the face of the corpse. At length she turned : " I ought to thank you, I know I ought; dear gooi/ Charles," said she," but you have surely brought a great deal of THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 99 money ; and, oli ! Charles,'^ continued she, ^nth a look of surprise and disappointment, " I fear this will be of no use unless you can get it changed — it is not the coin of ifie count ry r A heavy blow from the hand of one we trusted — the sudden stab of the assassin's knife — the shock of an earthquake — are faint images of the stunning effect of this simple sentence on Charles Louvel. ^' Not the coin of the country !" He had tlicn committed a grievous sin — dis- graced his profession — risked his life — and wronged his neighbour, for a vain dream ! "Not the coin of the country ! ""' Pauline must then continue to suffer — perhaps perish of want. And yet they sat together with a heap of precious coin before them, as if to mock their misery ! He could not change it, F 2 100 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. even if he had known where to go for that pur- pose. What should a seaman do with a handful of gold coin, of which he did not even know the value ? He would be instantly discovered. He looked up at his innocent sister with an expres- sion of utter despair. " Here, here," said she, eagerly, " here is a little silver piece that will do— this one. This one r' Charles rose, and they proceeded together to purchase food, and with many a promise of returning the next day, and a fearful hope of being enabled to replace the stolen money, he departed. That night, that first night of guilt and wretchedness, Louvel never closed his eyes, or if he did, a feverish start woke him with vague terror, from his momentary forge tfulness ; the next morning was one of intense agony ; he THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 3 01 waited — lie watched. Van Brockel at length made his appearance upon deck. Charles Louvel breathed more freely, and at length, having watched his opportunity, he pre- pared to descend the cabin stairs, but suddenly the Captain, who had been conversing with Van Brockel, called to him sternly to remain. But why should we dwell on this painful scene ? Suffice it that in the view of his assembled ship- mates, Louvel was convicted of the theft : he produced the money, told his story, and was sentenced by Captain Delmar, who thought the present a fit opportunity for making an example of him, to receive one hundred and fifty lashes. This sentence was duly executed, and at length the tortured and exhausted man was left to the care of the surgeon, who commenced dressing his wounds; not a groan, not a sigh, escaped the ]02 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. seaman — the quivering flesh, raw with repeated stripes, was all which told of human life. Presently a timid hand undid the fastening of the door, and with an appealing look at the surgeon, Henri Lafitte entered. For a moment the dim eye brightened, and the sufferer faintly murmured, " Quoi, M. Henri, vous daignez*. " " Tenez," said the boy, while the tears rose to his eyes, " si la petite Fanchette mouroit de faim, que peut-etre moi — aussij'en aurai fait autantf .'* The sailor grasped the boy's hand, and his lips trembled with an effort to speak ; at length he gasped out, " you say that to console me, but nothing can comfort me — pain I can bear, but the shame ! the shame ! " * '' What, Mr. Henry, yoii condcscciKl." i" " If little Fanchette -was to die of hunger, perhaps I too should have done the same." THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 103 Henri hesitated a few moments, and then he laid some money on the table, and said, " We have subscribed that for Pauline, how shall we get it conveyed to her ? " An hysterical laugh was Louvel's only answer ; he sank back in his chair ; his lips parted with a ghastly smile, and the bubbling blood appeared on them. " lie's dying — he's dying — my o^^n kind Lonvel ! " shrieked the boy, as lie knelt by his side. " Hush, Monsieur Lafitte,"" said the surgeon, " he has broken a blood vessel, but he may recover."" In the hospital of Barbadoes. by the side of the wasted form of her adored brother, sat the dark-eyed Pauline ; her face was wan with watching, her eyes heavy with tears ; from time to time a low short cough startled her into agony, and then again there was a dead silence. 104 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. " I am SO thankful that I shall not survive this disgrace," said Charles Louvel feebly, as he half turned his head towards his patient nurse. She could have shrieked and knelt to him, and begged him to live for her, and her only, but she stifled back her agony, for she knew that vehement emotion would kill him. " Is La Gloire still at anchor in the bay ? " said he. " It is — it is— dear brother." " Well," said her brother, " I hope before she weighs anchor, my bark of life will have reached the port. I could not bear to think her sails were set, and she on her way to La belle France without me. I should feel deserted-— deserted ! " Pauline choked back her tears and was silent. The dying sailor closed his eyes, and faintly pressed the hand that held his. " Oh THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 105 God," thought she, as she gazed on his wasted but still handsome countenance, " is this justice, or is it murder?''' She looked again; the long black lashes lay on his sunken cheek, and his breathing was scarcely perceptible ; suddenly he opened his eyes. " Did you ever love ? " asked he. " I have never loved any but you, Charles.'' " Not me — not me," murmured he, with a faint smile; " Not your brother— some one when I am gone — to cherish you : you are so beautiful, so gentle.'' " Oh never, never,"' passionately exclaimed Pauline, " if I do not love you, then shall I never love. I have had no thought, no dream of anything but you, since we were children together, ff you live, I live ; if you die, I die. Why not you, brother, why not you ? " and she f3 106 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. repeatedly kissed the hand she held, while her tears floived without restraint. But suddenly she checked herself and rose. " See,*" said she, with a mournful smile, '' how I have wearied and agitated you. I will leave you— shall I leave you ? and you will rest while I get some fruit for you." She left the hospital, and slowly wound her way to the market-place. The air was hot and heavy ; so heavy that she could scarcely breathe. Presently she met a crowd of people hurry- ing from the town; " what has happened?" exclaimed she. " The hurricane ! the hurri- cane ! " shouted some of those she addressed. " My brother ! " said the wretched girl, " my brother ! let me go to my brother ! '^ But there was no returning ; the deiBI crowds of terrified people pressed round her; she was THE SPIRIT OF THK HURRICANE. 107 borne onward as Vjy the course of a torrent; onward and onward; some hurrying, others dropping and fainting by the way, disregarded by their companions, whose bereft reason left them the mere instinct of life. Still with a plaintive voice Pauline continued to mourn him whom she could not aid, and niio:ht not see. Suddenly the sound of a " rushing niighty wind '" swept over the bosom of the earth, and ruffled the face of the waters ; the multitude stood still like a frightened flock of sheep; they had no longer the heart to strive; they no longer knew which side to fly from the dark wings of the devouring hurricane spread above their heads. It came, and horrible desolation was spread in a mofflint through the island; they were scattered, that multitude — like autumn leaves ; 108 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. whirled here— clashed there — lifted up into the thick and choking atmosphere, or thrown to the earth by the fall of the palm trees which had shadowed them so long. The babe was crushed beneath the mother's breast; the bones of the strong man were broken like rotten wood ; the shrieks of the dying, the wail of the living, the screams of racking pain, mingled confusedly with the wild roar of the tempest wind, and the distant dashing and booming of the agitated ocean. Darkness was on the land and the sea — a horrid darkness which was not night ; it seemed as if the last awful day had overtaken the sinful earth, and that its destruction had commenced ; proud buildings, " the work of men's hands," fell crashing and thundering to theiijbundation, the solid earth. Temples dedicated to God, THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 109 and pillared houses for tlie rich man, shared one common ruin — all was laid waste and desolate. Pauline remained insensible after the first shock, for some time : when she recovered, she found herself beneath a shelving rock, which, by the quantity of sea-weed drifted into it, she thought must be near the sea. From time to time stones, branches, and other things, were whirled past her ; sometimes hitting her, sometimes leaving her uninjured; and all the while a horrible noise like the rao^ino^ of a thousand furnaces, mingled with occasional crashing sounds, continued to affright her ears. Bruised, stiff, and languid, as she was, she yet felt that none of her limbs were broken, and devoutly thanked Heaven ; she crept to the utmost verge of the cavern or rock, beneath which she had 110 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. been placed, and even amid the war of the elements, she slept. For two days the hurricane raged ; and then, having spent its fury, and performed the mys- terious will of the Creator, the giant wind was lulled to rest, and the sullen waves dashed to and fro with lower crests at each succeeding rise and fall. Pauline crept forth, and having eaten part of a broken cocoa-nut, numbers of which lay scattered about, she with difficulty climbed outside the rock which had afforded her shelter, and from its summit gazed around upon the island. Oh ! what a desolate scene was there ! Ruined towns ; villages swept away ; woods overthrown ; the ripe grain laid level with the earth, and the wrecks of vessels in the bay, where La Gloire had been so smoothly THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. Ill anchored ! As this last thought passed through her mind, her brother's image rose before her. " Alas, alas ! how shall I find strength to reach the hospital?" and she wept feebly. "Look ! look !" exclaimed a boy's voice near her ; " a woman is standing there, unhurt and alone." "Hush !" said his companion, " it cannot be a woman ; see how fearlessly she gazes round her over the ruined island : it is the Spirit of the Hurricane !" " Spirit of non- sense," said the boy again : " it is a young and pretty creature, who has been saved by some strange mercy like ourselves. Come and speak to her, we may perhaps assist her." " No, no : let us look for Captain Delmar; God knows what is become of him : and that poor fellow, Louvel ! I would give a great deal to know that he was safe." 112 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. Pauline heard not the last kind sentence : at the sound of Captain Delmar's name she fled, as if it contained in itself a power to kill. At length she reached the town : heaps of dead or dying wretches lay in its streets, crushed by the fall of their houses; in the principal street, underneath his horse, lay the lifeless body of young Delmar. Shuddering, Pauline past on, to meet a yet more horrible sight. The hospital — that goal of her wild and unreasonable hopes — lay partly level with the ground, partly unroofed; the principal beam in the building, which was a yard in thickness, had been shivered like a stick ; many of the sick had crawled outside the doors, and there died, too weak to creep further ; some had been crushed within. Pauline's eye wandered in search of Charles Louvel: and THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. 113 half she feared to meet a mangled corpse ; but as her glance rested on his pale, placid coun- tenance close at her feet she almost thought he still lived. She knelt and passed her hand across his brow — she felt his heart — all was stiff and cold : but in one hand a few flowers she had given him, were still clasped ; and from the other, which was raised above his head, her handkerchief floated on the ground. Pauline clapped her hands, and shrieked hysterically. " Yes ! " said she, *' he has died without pain — he has died waving me back, for he knew the storm was coming ! " As she spoke, she sank on his body, never to rise again. Nature's energies had been strained too far ; and there, by him for whom alone she lived, she died. Henri Lafitte and his shrinking companion, found their bodies, and buried them 114 THE SPIRIT OF THE HURRICANE. Side by side ; and many a year afterwards, their young brows saddened, and tlieir voices changed, when tliey talked of the spirit of the HURRICANE ! I THE FAREWELL, Jl THE FAREWELL. Thou'lt not remember me \^•hen we are parted, Through every moment of the sunny day ; Thou art too young, too careless, too light-hearted, To let sad thoughts within thy bosom stay. Thou'rt like a fountain which for ever strayeth In sparkling changes 'neaththe greenwood tree; Within thy heart eternal music playeth, And while no bitter thought thy spirit weigheth, Thou'lt not remember me / 118 THE FAREWELL. II. But thou wilt think of me at times, my dearest, With yearning- hope and wild impassioned love ; When in the star-lit heaven the moon shines clearest, And angels watch thy musings from ahove : And patiently my heart its exile beareth ; And all the prouder shall my triumph be. That thou, whose eager soul each pleasure weareth, Who lovest all so well thy spirit shareth, — Should, more than all, love me / III. Thou'lt not remember me, when gaily dancing-, Those fairy steps fly thro' the lighted hall ; Nor when a thousand merry eyes are glancing-, Bright with the laughter of their festival. But when the sweet and silent evening bring-eth, A holy quiet over land and lea. When the young violet in the darkness springeth, And the lone night bird in the dim wood singeth, Then, thou wilt think oi me ! THE FAREWELL. 119 IV. Thou'lt not remember me, when, crowdings round thee, The coxcomb flatterers bid thee touch thy lute, And those red restless lips, whose promise bound thee, With mocking smile command them to be mute : But when some lover, (while the cold moon winketh,) Whispers his vows, unwelcome though they be ; When through his eyes his soul thy beauty drinketh, And from his burning hand thine own hand shriukcth, Then, thou wilt think of mc ! V. And not for all the palest shadows stealing O'er maidens brow whom love hath taught to pine, Would I give up the sudden gush of feeling. That swells to tears that merry heart of thine ! Bright proof's that still thy memory is keeping, (Careless and glad although thy manner be,) The imaged form of one who watched thy sleeping — Smiled when thou srailedst — wept when thou wert weeping, And ever sighs for thee ! NIGHT, VOL. I. NIGHT. Night sinks upon the dim grey wave, Night clouds the spires that mark the town ; On living- rest, and grassy grave, The shadowy night comes slowly down. And now the good and happy rest, The wearied peasant calmly sleeps. And closer to its mother's breast, The rosy child in slumber creeps. g2 / 124 NIGHT. 11. But // — The sentry, musing lone — The sailor on the cold grey sea So sad a watch hath never known, As that which must be kept by me. I cannot rest, thou solemn night ! Thy very silence hath the power To conjure sounds and visions bright, Unseen — unheard — in daylight's hour. III. Kind words, whose echo will not stay, Memory of deep and bitter wrongs : Laughter, whose sound hath died away. And snatches of forgotten songs : TJiese haunt my soul ; — and as I gaze Up to the calm and quiet moon, I dream 'tis morning's breeze that plays, Or sunset Iiour, or sultry noon. NIGHT. 125 IV. I hear again the voice whose tone Is more to me than music's sound, And youthful forms for ever g-one, Come in their beauty crowding- round. I start — the mocking dreams depart, Thy loved words melt upon the air, And whether swells or sinks my heart. Thou dost not know — thou dost not care I Perchance while thus I w atch unseen. Thy languid eyelids slowly close. Without a thought of what hath been. To haunt thee in thy deep repose. Oh weary night, oh endless night, Blank pause between two feverish days. Roll back your shadows, give me light, Give me the sunshine's fiercest blaze ! 126 NIGHT. VI. Give rae the glorious noon ! alas ! What recks it by what light I pray, Since hopeless hours must dawn and pass, And sleepless night succeed to day ? Yet cold, and blue, and quiet sky. There is a night where all find rest, A long-, long- night : — with those ?i'ho die Sorrow hath ceased to be a guest ! THE BROKEN VOW. 129 THE BROKEN VOW. CHAPTER I. Harry Dunstan was the younger son of a younger son; a colonel in tlie army, who thought a man provided handsomely for his offspring when he bought a commission in the Guards. But Captain Dunstan was not of the same opinion ; expensive in his habits, thoughtless and extravagant in his ideas, the gaming table, tlie turf, and the dice-box supplied him with g3 130 THE BROKEN VOW. temporary resources. His father, after having paid his debts half a dozen times, refused to do anything more for him, and- soon after died, leaving him, according to the technical expres- sion, " without a farthing in the world," i. e. with about three hundred a year. Dunstan was advised to marry an heiress, which he was perfectly willing to do. After one or two disappointments in England, he received an invitation from a General Camp- bell, who had been a friend of his father, to spend the shooting season at Cumlln-Dhu, a beautiful romantic place in the Highlands. Thither Harry Dunstan proceeded, and was warmly welcomed on account of his great merit, in having possessed so amiable a father. Amongst the inmates of the General's hos- pitable house, was a nephew of his, Archie THE BROKEN VOW. 131 Campbell ; a gay, warm-hearted young Scotch- man, blnnt in his manner, but with acute feelings, kind to a fault, the idol of his circle, and the admiration even of the calculating and heartless Dunstan himself. A sort of friend- ship, or more properly companionship, was established between the two young men ; and in spite of the contrast between them, they became inseparable. Archie Campbell, who had scarcely ever been from the wikls in which he lived, was struck with the natural and acquired elegance of the English officer, for Harry Dunstan had no dandyism about him; gentle without effe- minacv, graceful without affectation, he won easily on the unsuspecting ; and a sort of tact, which was taught him partly by his dependent situation, partly by an innate thirst of vanity 132 THE BROKEN VOW. which led him to wish for universal praise, gave him that enviable power of adapting himself to different dispositions, and chameleon - like variety in the choice of the modes of making an impression, which would have baffled a keener-sighted man than his simple, happy- friend. From the old general, who found an apparently eager companion in his favourite sports, to the piper, whose account of St. Fillan's meeting, and its prize pipes, was so kindly listened to, all loved Dunstan. And ojie more loved him; one who should rather have allowed her young heart to wither in her bosom, for Archie Campbell had wooed her, and Archie's bride she was to be. It was a settled thing : and many of her privileged friends already laughingly addressed her by the title of Mrs. Campbell, of Cumlin-Dhu ; THE BROKEN YOW, 133 and Mrs. Campbell she might have been, but for Harry Dunstan. Archie himself introduced his friend to his betrothed ; it was he who expressed a wish that they should like one another; it was he who requested Harry to take care of Minny and her Highland pony, while he himself went to see a sick old man, or give directions about the General's farm ; it was he who informed Dun- stan that the only delay to the match was the return of Minny^s uncle, who was to give her a fortune hardly earned in India, and had wished to see his beloved child by adoption united to the man of her choice. The father was only a poor clergyman, and his brother's return was daily expected. Dunstan heard and pondered, and while he sat on the sunny bank, with the blue sky 134 THE BROKEN VOW. reflected in tlie uplifted eyes of his innocent companion, dark and treacliercus thoughts coursed one another through his mind. While he wove harebells for Margaret Dure's fair locks, and she smiled on him in confiding friendship, he was meditating how to cover the innocent victim with chains, v/hose links should be concealed among flowers, till they were bound round her heart ! It were vain and useless to recount Harry Dunstan's acts ; he was thirty — she seventeen ; he was a man of the world — she had never been beyond her native village. She admired him ; she liked to have him with her ; she looked forward to happy days at Cumlin-Dhu, with her husband Archie, and her new friend; then she wished that Archie was like Dun- Stan, in some thing.% till — till Harry Dunstan THE BROKEN VOW. 135 seemed to her the most perfect of human beings. And think not that this was mere fickle- ness, or admiration of outward show. Dunstan had laid his plot deeply ; he contrived by a thousand stratagems to weaken the bonds of affection between the two lovers ; and while he appeared to be earnestly wishing to recon- cile their quarrels, and to laugh at their childish differences, as he called them, he inwardly exulted as the barbed dart sunk deeper and deeper into the bosoms of those who unwit- tingly cherished a serpent. Archie Campbell was in the daily habit of riding to the manse, and taking what he laugh- ingly termed his "orders for the day," from the gentle lips of his betrothed. He rode out one morning while the grey mists still clung to J 36 THE BROKEN VOW. the tops of the hills, as if loth to leave them to the glory of the uprisen sun. The freshness and brightness of nature gave warmth to his heart and vigour to his limbs ; and a kindly and remorseful spirit stole over him as he reflected on some hasty and jealous words he had spoken to Minny the day previous. " What a weak thing is a man's soul ! " thought he ; " I struggle with doubts and fears which at one time wring my heart, while at another they seem as easily dispersed as the shadows and mists from the brow of yonder mountain. At this hour of quiet glory, — in the dewy silence of this delicious morning, — how feverish, how foolish, seem the feelings of yesterday ! My poor Minny, what could make me doubt you now?" What, indeed ! — As he approached the manse THE BROKEN VOW. 137 it appeared to liim that there was an unusual stir — an unusual number of people assembled on the little lawn from which Minny used to watch his coming : his heart beat, liis breath came quick, the old man must be ill, or the housekeeper had died suddenly, or the Indian uncle had arrived, or — anything but Minny ! Mr. Dure was standing on the lawn ; his white head uncovered, and his eyes wandering irre- solutely from one to another of the grieved and perplexed countenances of his little house- hold. When he perceived Archie he staggered forward, and Vvith a nervous laugh, which con- trasted thrillingly with the wild anxiety of his eye as he pressed young Campbell's hand, ex- claimed — "Weel, laddie, and isn't this a wild trick you've played us, so sober and discreet 138 THE BROKEN VOW. as you seemed ; weel, weel — and where ? ** The old man's tone suddenly altered ; the hag- gard smile vanished from his face, and as he leaned heavily on Archie's arm, he whispered in a hoarse voice — " Don't say it, don't say it ; don't tell me you don't know where she is, or may be ye'll see me die at your feet." Archie collected from the weeping domestics enough, and more than enough to satisfy him. The snowy coverlet of Minny's bed remained undis- turbed by the pressure of a human form. She had not slept at the manse that night ; she would never more rest her head in peace and innocence beneath its roof again ! He came back to Cumlin-Dhu, and asked for Dunstan ; he had departed suddenly on plea of urgent business in England. Archie Camp- bell gazed in his informant's face with a vacant THE BROKEN VOW. 139 stare, and then bowed Lis head on his hands. He did not weep or groan, or even sigh ; a slight shudder only passed over his frame. I anxiously watched him the few succeeding days we were together; he was just the same as usual ; he talked and lauo^hed, and thouo^h the laugh was less cheerful, it was wonderful how well he conquered his sorrow; only when he some- times stole a look at Dunstan's unfilled place, a wild and fearful expression lighted his coun- tenance, his lips moved, and his breath came thick and short. For a little while I thought he would either get over it, or that he retained some hope that Minny herself would repent before it was too late, and return. He rode out at the accustomed hour to the manse, where the lonely old father was mourning in silent and submissive sorrow. 140 THE BROKEN VOW. I accidentally encountered him one evening ; he was sitting on the favourite bank — the deep crimson sun lit the heath and harebell, the wide blue lake lay stretched beneath, and the per- fumed air echoed the confused murmur of dis- tant sounds and the hum of insects ; he looked at the empty seat by him, '' Minny, sweet Minny ! '' said he, in a low gentle voice, then suddenly rising, with startling energy he stretched his arms and bent forward with a straining effort to the distant mountains : ''Maro^aret! Maro-aret Dure!" and the hills returned in the same tone of unspeakable anguish " Margaret Dure !"" 1 feared he would fall and be dashed to pieces on the shingles below, yet I dared not speak, hardly breathe; he slowly drew himself back and sank down- that night he heard of Minny's marriage with THE BROKEN VOW. 14l Dunstan; that night he swore to me to leave Britain and travel for a while till his health should improve. He went abroad, and after a few months Mr. Dure received a letter from him, the hand- writing was feeble and the style incoherent ; it expressed a wish that, as he was dying in a foreign land without any probability of being able to return, Mr. Dure should have a small marble slab erected under the old cypress tree, with his name and age. and the year he died in. This was accordingly done. In little more than a year after her marriage, Margaret Dunstan was attacked by a complaint which had often threatened her — that canker-worm of the young and lovely, consumption. Dun- stan, disappointed in his hopes of money by Lis grieved and angry uncle, had latterly treated 142 THE BROKEN VOW. her coldly if not harslily ; yet it was impossible to see any thing- so young and so beautiful dying without some feelings of pity ; after a vain course of remedies had been gone through, he acceded to her sorrowful prayer, that he would take her back to die at Cumlin-Dhu, where her old father still lived. They arrived late in the evening, and, worn and exhausted, Margaret felt that she could not go to the manse that night ; she had not heard of Archie's death in the strano^er land and of his last request; and she stole into the churchyard where she was so soon to rest, and sat down in the still twilight, leaning her weary head against a tombstone.' She had not sat there many minutes before she heard the little gate open, and presently afterwards her own name was uttered in a low THE BROKEN VOW. 143 voice. *' Here I am, Duns tan," said she rising-. The speaker darted forward and then stood transfixed to the spot — " Margaret Dure ! " — she uttered a piercing shriek. " Minny,"" said the young man wildly, " do not fear me, it is only Archie Campbell; are you living, and is it only the moonlight that makes you so pale?" " Oh, Archie ! do not speak in that tone ; we are both altered, and I am dying now, but I deserved it, and I am contented to leave this world, and when I am buried in this lone place you will think of me sometimes, and forgive me." "Minny, I hope you will live many long years, and I will see you sometimes at night, for I must be dead to all but you. Tell me, is he, is Dunstan kind to you ?" 144 THE BROKEN VOW. '' Can the treacherous in friendship be faith- ful in love ? no, Archie, the red gold tempted him, not Minny's face ; he has chid me for smiling, and reproached me for leaving you, and said it was for a more splendid life I went with him; and — -and that if I changed once I might change again ; and he has chid me for weeping when I thought of my father and of you, Archie, and of the sweet banks of Cumlin-Dhu." " And did you think of me, my sweet Minny ? Did you think of me still amid all the temptations and pleasures of England ? " *^ Archie, after the dream that he loved me melted away, love went out of my heart ; but night and day, through the melancholy spring and the long weary summer, I wept for you — for your kind words and faithful promises; THE BROKEN VOW. 145 for the long happy days we spent together; and I felt that it was just that I who forsook should be forsaken." Archie Campbell rushed forward, and taking the unfortunate girl in his arms he strained her convulsively to his bosom. " What have I done?'' said Margaret, as she disengaged herself; "oh, Archie, pity me and let me go home;'" and the word brought a fresh torrent of bitter tears to her already dim and swoln eyes. " Fear nothing,"" said he, as his arm sank by his side ; *' I am no traitor — God Almighty and Allmerciful bless and protect you ; go, and, Minny, tell no one you have seen me : " he loosed her hand and walked quickly away, and his bewildered companion returned to her husband. VOL. I. H 146 THE BROKEN VOW. After a most distressing scene between Minny and lier poor father, it was agreed that they should live at the manse till something else should be settled, or till Minny should get better ; though Mr. Dure felt he never could like Dunstan, yet his first fears had not been realised, his daughter was married; and though it was a grievous thing to think on poor Archie, his old favourite, yet he was a man prone to forgive, and he left vengeance to Him who hath said " Vengeance is mine,''^ The minister gently told his daughter the fate of her betrothed and deserted lover; she listened intently, and remembering the scene of the night before, she said earnestly, '* Are you sure ? oh, I cannot believe he is dead/' She shuddered as she said this ; her father calmly drawing her arm within his, and walked THE BROKEN VOW. 147 through his little garden and entered the church- yard at the end of it." " There,'* said he mournfully, «* is the stone I raised to him." ]VIinny looked, though her head swam. THIS STONE IS ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OP ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE, AGED 24, May 6tii, 1825. It was the stone on which she had been leaning the night before; she gave a wild scream and fainted; her body, weakened as it was, was terribly shaken by this adventure, and though she still hoped some wild chance H 2 148 THE BROKEN VOW. might liave preserved Archie, and that it was indeed he that stood by her and spoke to her that evening, yet the awful words, " / will see you at NIGHT, for I must be dead to all hut you,'' rang in her ear, and his hand, she remembered, was very cold. A sick thrill passed over her as she remembered this, and she at length became persuaded she had seen the spirit of her lover. Meanwhile she grew weaker and weaker every day. One evening she expressed a wish to visit once more the moss bank which overhung the lake. Dunstan had gone out shooting, and it was on his way home. The old servant at the manse supported her, for she was now too feeble to walk without assistance ; she sat down in the accustomed spot, dark overhanging mountains behind her, and the quiet blue lake THE BROKEN VOW. 149 before her; towards sun-set she saw Dunstan coming over the hill, he waved his handker- chief to her and she answered the signal ; he leaped down the tufted side of the hill till he came to the most dangerous part, where it rose almost perpendicularly from the lake. " Come slowly, Dunstan, pray," said the alarmed wife; Harry Dunstan laughed at her fears : he made one step more and was arrested in his progress. A wild, gaunt form sprung upon him like an hungry wolf, and endeavoured to hurl him dovy-n the precipice ; Dunstan struggled as those struggle, and those only, who have death present to their eyes, but in vain; nearer he was dragged to the edge, till there was nothing between him and the lake below but a space of about four feet, by a sudden eflfort he flung himself on his back, ]50 THE BROKEN VOW. and fired his loaded gun, bis opponent bounded a few steps backward, the leaves over which he rolled rustled in the descent — a sick faint scream, from Margaret, and all was silent. Minny Dunstan walked feebly forward, her husband descended the hill, every fibre qui- vering with the struggle he had made ; they met beside the body of the wounded man. Margaret bent over him, he opened his eyes, gave a dim dreary glance round him, took. Dunstan's hand, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured some indistinct words; he then turned them once more to Minny, a film came over those orbs, and he lay a corse before them — the corse of Archie Campbell ! Worn and emaciated by suffering, and looking like a man who had passed many more years of sorrows, the noble-hearted youth lay cold and stiff THE BROKEN VOW. 151 before his treacherous friend. — And it seemed to Dunstan afterwards that his marriage, the death of Archie, the more lingering iUness of ^Nlinny, and the sorrow and misery he had brought on all, were but as a warning- dream. THE TWO HARPS. h3 155 THE TWO HARPS. I. And (lost thou say my heart is colrESOY. 239 A glance as sudden, swift, and shy, As wild bird's wing that glanceth by, Which cleaves the circle of the sky, Ere we can say '• Look there ! " " Oh, spare him ! spare him I brother dear, He hath not sinned 'gainst heaven or thee ; He owns no guilt — he feels no fear — But in his young heart's purity, (Unused to aught but love's caresses — The tone that soothes— the lip that presses — ) Shrinks not within thine iron hold, But deems thy grasp a rough embrace. And heedless of thy dagger cold Smiles, cruel brother, in thy face ! Oh, gaze upon him, harsh and stern ! His dimpled cheek — his shining hair — • And something of the softness learn. 240 THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY. Which tames the Hon in his lair I 'Tis thine own blood thy hand must spill, To make that breast thy poniard's sheath ; 'Tis thine own life that thou must kill, To stop that unoffending- breath : Oh, let him live — and never more Shall I or mine thy sight offend — Oh, let him live — and Heaven's best store Of blessings shall the deed attend. Or, if a victim must be slain, Brother, sweet brother, let me die ; And thou unclasp my boy again, In pity to his infancy : I, who have wildly sued for him Can, all unmurmuring-, bear my fate. And while mine eyes grow faint and dim. Will turn from death's eternal gate Without a sigh — without a groan — THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY. 241 To bless thee for the mercy shown. And when the one who sinned is gone, Thy buried love for me shall wake, And when my boy thou look'st upon, Thou'lt love him for his mother's sake; And then, perchance, his brow thou'lt kiss. And murmuring forth a sigh for me, Say, 'Just her doom who died — but this — This pledge preserves her memory ! ' " Heard'st thou that shriek prolonged and wild ? It woke the echoes slumbering round — And the dying moan of a little child Was mingled in its maddening sound ! Pale mother, hush ! thy wail give o'er — Life's spark extinguished, glows no more I And where was he without a name, Who bowed that fair young head with shame, VOL. I. M 242 THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY. And yet whose cold and coward heart Refused to do a father's part? Where was he when the strong- arms rose And brothers turned to deadliest foes ; And cool houghs waved, and blue skies smiled Upon the murder of his child ? Far away the salt sea over, Sails that false and faithless lover — Calmly smiles and calmly sleeps, While she deserted sits and weeps — Calmly views the sunset ray, That lines with light the glittering wave ; Nor deems that sunbeam far away, Shines full upon his infant's grave. Oh I man, how different is thy heart, From hers, the partner of thy lot ; Who in thy feelings hath no part, THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY. 243 When loves wild charm is once forgot. What, th' awakening spell shall be, Thy heart to melt, thy soul to warm. Or who shall dare appeal to thee To whom " old days " convey no charm ? When Adam turned from Eden's gate, His soul in sullen musings slept — He brooded o'er his future fate, While Eve — poor Eve— look'd back and wept I— So man, even while his eager arms Support some trembling fair one's charms, Looks forward to vague days beyond, When other eyes shall beam as fond, And other lips his own shall press. And meet his smile with mute caress : — And still as o'er life's path he goes Plucks first the lily — then the rose. And half forgets that e'er his heart •244 THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY. Owned for another sigh or smart ; Or deems, while bound in passion's thrall The last, the dearest loved of all — But woman, even while she bows Her veiled head to altar vows ; Along life's slow and devious track. For ever gazes fondly back. And woman, even while her eye " Is turned to give its meek reply To murmured words of praise. Deep in her heart remembers, still The tones that made her bosom thrill, In unforgotten days. Yea, even when on her lover's breast. She sinks, and leaves her hand to rest Within his clasping hold, The sigh she gives is not so much To prove the empire of that touch, THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY. 245 As for those days of old ; For long remembered hours, when first Love on her dawning senses burst — For all the wild impassioned truth That blest the visions of her youth ! And she, the lady of my lay, Through many a long and weary day, Had watched for him now far away. For he to her was all in all, Her soul's first thought — her being's thrall — A light without which earth was dim, — (And well her love that young heart proved), But she alas had been to him, One of the many bright things loved ! They flung her child in the fountain's wave- No ripple woke the bubbling breath, 246 THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY. The mother stretched no hand to save, She knew thy power — relentless Death ! But with a wild and mournful stare, She watched the bright hair's floating gleam. Which 'mid the willow branches there, Waved to and fro upon the stream. And once she faintly spoke his name. And on her heart her white hand pressed, As though the lost word when it came. Brought pain within her swelling breast. Those brothers three, they turned away, With hearts of steel and brows of gloom ; Nor lifted up their swords to slay Her who bewailed that infant's doom. But mothers feel she could not live, Tho* spared, to know that never more The echoes to her ear should give THE HAUNTED WOOD OF AMESOY. 247 The silvery tones so loved of yore : Those lisping^ tones whose meaning none Could hear and understand, save one ! Oh ! darkly silent now that wood, Where ring-doves made a pleasant moan, And through its haunted solitude The peasant will not roam alone ; — For ever, by that fountain's side, 'Tis said a weeping lady stands, A shaggy hound her only guide, She wanders on and wrings her hands ; And gazes from the snow white spray. To the blue waters underneath. Then turns her from the sight away With wandering eye and gasping breath : — 'Tis she — who hid her murdered boy. In the dark wood of Amesoy ! END OF VOL. I. LONDON : bRAUBl/RY AND KVANS, PRINTERS, WUITEFRIARS.