THE 
 
 MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER 
 
 A TALE 
 
 By a. M. GOODRICH 
 
 ATJTHOB OP 'GWEN' ' CLAUDIA* 
 SIO 
 
 IN TWO YOLTJMES 
 
 VOL. I 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN W. PARKER AND SON WEST STRAND 
 
 1857 
 
 [The Author reserves the right of Translation]
 
 LONDON : 
 
 SAVtLL AND EDWARDS, PaiNTEKS, CHAN-vOS STREET, 
 COVKNT GARDEN.
 
 6S^ 
 
 V.I 
 
 TO 
 
 THE LADY CAROLINE LEGGE, 
 THIS TALE 
 
 IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 ^ WITH SENTIMENTS OF ESTEEM AND REGARD, 
 
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 THE 
 
 MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Fast life's sands are going, 
 Sparkling as they run, 
 And for ever showing 
 That ere set of sun, 
 Much he hath to do, and much to be undone. 
 
 Love on earth that grieveth, 
 Tears of pain and shame, 
 God in Heaven receiveth, 
 Covering it from blame, 
 With the enfolding mantle of the Almighty Name. 
 
 The Baptisteky. 
 
 ONE of the mild and lovely days of a jSTeapolitan 
 winter was drawing to its close. In the highest 
 chamber of a lodging-house on the Chiaja lay a 
 young man stretched on his bed, opposite to 
 a window which commanded a full view of the 
 bay. The invalid was very restless ; it was the 
 hour at which he became so ; daily at sunset did 
 the fever return, which was fast consuming his 
 vitality ; a fact perceptible to the few who watched 
 the hectic glow on his cheek, and the fire in his 
 eye. He surveyed the gorgeous scene before him, 
 
 TOL. I. B
 
 2 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 but not with any appearance of the interest and 
 admiration it was quahfied to inspire ; he was 
 impatient to see the hues of glory fade away. The 
 chief object of his attention was a child of nine years 
 old, seated in the recess of the window, and wholly 
 absorbed in the spectacle before her. 
 
 While the first glance at the dying man pro- 
 nounced him to be an Englishman, with much of 
 English beauty even now discernible on his high 
 brow, aquiline nose, and in his sunken blue eye, 
 the child on whom he gazed too fondly for her to 
 be other than his own, had every characteristic 
 of an Italian. Her features were strikingly sym- 
 metrical, her clear skin was tinged with the richest 
 dye ; her dark hair, glistening in the sunshine like 
 threads of gold, was bound round her slight head 
 in profuse braids. With parted lips, and attitude 
 and look of deep devotion, she sat watching the 
 beauties of the sky rapidly varying before her sight. 
 A painter might well have seized the rapturous 
 expression of her countenance to denote the childish 
 meditations of one destined in after life to be singu- 
 larly visited of God. Her father regarded her in 
 silence with a reverent love ; tears gathered in his 
 eyes; he covered them with his thin, clasped fingers; 
 a stifled sob filled his throat ; the sound caught the 
 quick ear of his little nurse, and darting down from 
 her seat, she was at his side. 
 
 ' Dearest father !' she said, kneeling by him. 
 
 * You were rejoicing in the beauty of the evening, 
 my child. The glorious spectacle is almost over 
 now. Spare me the few moments for which you 
 would have lingered still — '
 
 THE MYKTLE AND THE HEATHER. 3 
 
 ' Oh, father, were you in want of anything, yet 
 failed to call me ?' asked the girl, reproachfully. 
 
 ' I do wish to have a few minutes' conversation 
 with you, before your grandfather returns, Beatrice. 
 I have often deferred it, but I would not let this 
 opportunity pass.' There was a feverish disquietude 
 in his manner. ' You love your grandfather, my 
 child ?' he continued, drawing her towards him, 
 and pressing her convulsively to his bosom. 
 
 'Yes,' replied the girl, as Cordelia might have 
 uttered the word. 
 
 ' You must cherish him when I am gone.' 
 
 Beatrice was accustomed to hear her father speak 
 of departure, and yet to bridle all emotion. 
 
 ' Bring me your Bible — quick !' 
 
 She had not far to seek. 
 
 ' Can you find the parable of the Prodigal Son ?' 
 he said, turning over the leaves with trembling 
 fingers. The girl opened them at once at the 
 fifteenth chapter of St. Luke. 
 
 ' Read it to me.' 
 
 Beatrice obe3^ed. Her father, while she read, 
 threw himself back on his pillow ; tears ran down 
 his cheek in silence, then groans escaped his 
 labouring breast. The child on her knees, her clasped 
 hands on her book, gazed on him earnestly, but 
 without comprehending the meaning of the scene. 
 He raised himself, placed his finger on the page, 
 and with tremulous energy, he said — 
 
 ' Beatrice, remember in future never to read that 
 parable without reflecting that such a prodigal was 
 the wretched man who calls you his child ; ay, and 
 worse, for he left his father in plenty, and with a 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 more dutiful son to minister to liim ; but I have 
 cost mine his hearth and his home. — exiled him 
 from his native land. Eemember, also, that such a 
 parent was mine. He has come into a distant 
 country to seek his son ; he has fallen on my neck, 
 and supplies my necessities with his small remain- 
 ing substance. And I — what can I do to make 
 amends for the past, Beatrice ? What have I, save 
 one little ewe lamb, that lies in my bosom, to give 
 him ? Yes, my child, I entreat you, with this my 
 latest breath, promise me to show towards him that 
 dutifulness and that love which I can never express 
 again but in words. Be to him in all things as 
 nearly what I ought to have been, as the helpless- 
 ness of your age and your sex will permit. Neither 
 the one nor the other lessens your power to comfort 
 and to gladden. When most we need consolation 
 and hope, it is the woman and the child who can 
 best bring them home to us. Of the trials and 
 temptations of life you as yet know nothing; sorrows 
 you believe there are, because you see the faces 
 you love sorrowful.' 
 
 ' Oh ! father, sorrow I feel^ because I see you 
 suffer, and because I grieve with him when you say 
 that the time di-aws near when you will be with us 
 no more !' 
 
 The child sobbed ; she had refrained from tears 
 with that strange quietness which in the sick 
 chamber she was accustomed to practise, but nature 
 now would have its way. A bright and beautiful 
 beam of hope broke over her father's countenance ; 
 he bent over her, and whispered in her ear : 
 
 ' Weep not for me, for my earthly parent tells me 
 that his love is but the feeble image of the love of
 
 THE MYIITLE AND THE HEATHER. 5 
 
 One on High ; that my Heavenly Father will for- 
 give, will welcome me even as he has forgiven and 
 welcomed — ' 
 
 The girl raised her head, saying, suddenly : 
 
 ' The last night that we were at Lawley, when I 
 was sad at the thought of going I knew not whither, 
 my grandfather called me to him, and took me on 
 his knee ; his Bible lay open before him, his cheek 
 was wet with tears when he kissed me. He said : 
 ' My Beatrice must be glad, not sorrowful, for her 
 father was lost and is found, and we go hence to 
 meet him,' But I did not know — ' She paused. 
 
 ' The meaning I have this hour unfolded to you. 
 He would conceal it in his fond and perfect forgive- 
 ness, but I declare it in order that you may promise 
 me to make him all the amends in your power for 
 the evil I have done.' 
 
 • I do promise,' replied Beatrice, solemnly, and 
 she said no more. She looked at her father's flushed 
 cheek and glittering eye, and did not dare to ask 
 him, as her whole heart yearned to do, to speak to 
 her of her mother. Must she never hear of her 
 from his lips ? The child smothered her passionate 
 feelings, and sat motionless as a statue, till a feeble 
 step was heard on the stairs. 
 
 ' That he should have to mount here !' groaned 
 her father. Beatrice sprang forward to throw open 
 the outer door, and led in the old man (old and 
 broken-down rather by present care than by years, 
 for he was not more than fifty- five), refreshing his 
 languor by her smile of welcome. He kissed her, 
 approached his son, took his hand, and sighed deeply 
 as he felt the burning heat of his skin. 
 
 ' I am better, father — better than I have been for
 
 6 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 many evenings,' cried his son, with that feeling of 
 elation which an accomplished purpose excites. 
 
 ' Are you, my boy ?' and his eye glanced at the 
 Bible. ' Has Beatrice been reading to you ?' 
 
 'Yes — words of peace and joy.' 
 
 ' That is well,' said his father ; ' but, Gerald, you 
 need repose.' 
 
 From that hour Gerald could less than ever bear 
 that his father should be absent from his sight. It 
 seemed as if the prodigal's hope of heaven grew dim 
 when he did not see it reflected on the serene coun- 
 tenance of the parent who had come to seek him, 
 and to lead him into paths of penitence and peace. 
 
 Five years before the period of which we have 
 been speaking, on a clear frosty night in the 
 Christmas season, when the moon, shining brightly 
 down on the little village of Lawley and on the 
 Grove, (an humble yet the most important residence 
 it contained,) pierced through the leafless trees, 
 chequered the ground with the shadow of every 
 branch and stem, and slept more quietly on the turf 
 bank and smooth lawn which lay round the house, 
 in the shadow of the porch stood Gerald Courtenay, 
 on the threshold of his father's home, uncrossed by 
 him for many a day. A large cloak enveloped the 
 young man's form; he shook himself free from it 
 for a moment before putting his hand on the lock of 
 the door, in order that he might look on the burden 
 which lay concealed from view, and protected from 
 cold beneath it. The face of a sleeping child met 
 his gaze. 
 
 ' How pure, how serene are yon silver moon, and 
 thy blessed face, my darling !' he exclaimed. ' They
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 7 
 
 cannot cast tliee out. All here looks in unison with 
 thee, and proclaims me an alien.' His young and 
 handsome features appeared haggard in the bright 
 rays which fell upon them. He struck on the door 
 with his hand : ' 1 would not summon the servant if 
 I could gain admission otherwise,' he thought. 
 
 He heard a low growl within. He struck again. 
 A step he knew, but slower, feebler than it was of 
 yore, approached. The door opened, a dog bounded 
 forth. 
 
 * Down, Pompey, down !' cried his master. The 
 dog had seized a piece of the stranger's cloak, but 
 the wearer of it let fall his hand on the head of the 
 animal, who immediately relinquished his hold to 
 lick it, and to fawn upon him. This arrested the 
 attention of his master, but no time for speculation 
 was allowed. 
 
 ' Father,' said the stranger, in the deep hoarse 
 voice of emotion, ' shall I enter ?' 
 
 ' My son !' cried the elder Courtenay, and led him 
 in. The little hall was crossed almost at a step ; 
 the door of the sitting-room was open, and in front 
 of the cheerful fire stood a lady, who had been dis- 
 turbed by Gerald's knock, desirous to know b}^ whom 
 the interruption had been given which had called 
 forth her husband and Pompey. A cat, stretching 
 itself, shared the rug with her. 
 
 ' It is my son ! it is Gerald !' exclaimed Courtenay, 
 joyfully. 
 
 The countenance of his wife reflected all the sur- 
 prise and none of the pleasure which beamed on his 
 own. 
 
 She was not Gerald's mother.
 
 
 
 W:' 
 
 
 
 :^-':^-" 
 
 • 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The tear down cliildhoocl's cheek that flows, 
 Is like the dewdrop on the rose. 
 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 I DO not come alone,' said Gerald, slightly re- 
 sisting his father's fond attempt to unfasten 
 his cloak ; then casting the garment from him, he 
 laid the child which slept beneath it on the sofa, the 
 seat which Mrs. Conrtenay had occupied. Pompey 
 began to examine the little girl closely, smelling 
 her dress, and finally licking her hands and arms. 
 Courtenay gazed down on her as only those who 
 enshrine children in their inmost hearts do gaze, 
 and laid his hand on his son's arm. Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay stood erect, in increasing astonishment. 
 
 ' She is mine !' exclaimed Gerald, passionately, 
 ' utterly unworthy as I am of her or of the sainted 
 creature who bore her. She is mine ! all I have left 
 of the best, the most beautiful and beloved. She is 
 mine ! and I resolved that I would lay her once on 
 your bosom, father, hear her call you by your name, 
 see her little hand caress you ; and then you may 
 repulse us both from your home and heart, if you 
 will!'
 
 THE MYHTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 9 
 
 The child awoke, and, startled by the blazing 
 light, the various fornis, and above all by the huge 
 dog at her side, uttered a cry of terror. Gerald 
 snatched her up to reassure her by his kisses and his 
 words, which were uttered in a foreign tongue. At 
 the sound of them, Mrs. Courtenay gave a slight 
 gesture of horror. The child left off crying, and 
 nestled close to her father's bosom ; then at length, 
 in obedience to his whispers, still averting and con- 
 cealing her face, held out her little hand, and imper- 
 fectly uttered the word ' Grandpapa.' Courtenay 
 threw his arms round them both, and they wept 
 aloud. Mrs. Courtenay, full as her heart was of 
 doubt, could not refrain from mingling her tears 
 with those of the father and the son ; and at length 
 receiving the little stranger into her charge, bore 
 her to the chamber of an old servant, Dorcas, more 
 motherly than herself, and fonder far of Master 
 Gerald, scapegrace as he was. Here the child sank 
 again to sleep, holding fast by her father's hand — a 
 measure which it was necessary to resort to before 
 any prospect of peace could be enjoyed. Disengaging 
 himself gently from her grasp, kissing her crimsoned 
 cheek, Gerald returned to the seat and the repast 
 which his father had meanwhile prepared for him. 
 It was with a sensation of exquisite delight that he 
 found himself at the fireside which in other lands 
 had often crossed his memory-, an image of quiet 
 comfort, rather than of the monotonous dulness 
 which he had refused to tolerate. To his father's 
 patient ear he told the history of the interval which 
 had elapsed since last he sat there. 
 
 Gerald permitted himself to pass over the fact
 
 lO THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 that since the fear of being arrested for debt had 
 driven him from his native land, instead of turning 
 with energy to any honest course of exertion, he had 
 lived on the Continent on means derived from un- 
 certain and little creditable sources, sometimes with 
 prodigality, sometimes with penury. He went on 
 to relate how he had become acquainted with a 
 Neapolitan actor, who was acting the liveliest parts 
 of comedy with exquisite humour, while a mortal 
 disease was preying hourly on him ; and this for the 
 sake of an only child — a daughter whom he guarded 
 with the most jealous affection, scarcely letting the 
 sun shine on her, and rushing from the theatre to 
 the top of one of the half-ruined palaces of his native 
 city (the former abodes of princes), to see whether 
 his treasure was safe as he had left it. His last 
 object in life was to secure a small dote for his 
 Beatrice, wherewith to place her in a convent. The 
 young Englishman, observing the peculiarities of his 
 behaviour, tracked him to his home, moved by mo- 
 tives of benevolence. There he beheld the beautiful 
 girl the uncertainty of whose fate agonised her 
 parent's breast. There he wooed and won her, 
 wringing a somewhat reluctant assent to their mar- 
 riage from a parent who, dying himself, allowed his 
 daughter to choose between the convent and the 
 suitor who had possessed himself of her love and of 
 her confidence, unmolested by misgivings. Of the 
 purity and excellence of Beatrice, Grerald spoke in 
 accents which enforced belief. 
 
 ' The only treasure I ever won ! — the only real 
 happiness I have tasted since I left England ! And 
 now it is past. She was too good to continue mine.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. II 
 
 Her child is too good to be in my keeping. Father 
 — will you take her into yours ? I must be gone 
 with the dawn.' 
 
 Courtenay's sole reply was a mute pressure of his 
 son's hand, and he left him to seek his wife. Gerald 
 continued to gaze in gloomy abstraction on the fire; 
 in a few minutes an uneasy slumber closed his eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay, meanwhile, before she retired to 
 her own chamber, had time closeh^ to scrutinize the 
 child. Dorcas, unfastening her white frock that she 
 might rest more comfortably, had drawn from the 
 little creature's bosom a cross, hanging to a chain 
 of beads. Though unaccustomed to such sights, 
 Mrs. Courtenay nevertheless pronounced this to be 
 a rosary. 
 
 ' The child of a foreigner, and a papist, no doubt ; 
 one who thought her sins were washed away if she 
 knelt at the feet of a priest, and then murmured as 
 many prayers as he bid her count on these foolish 
 beads, I suppose.' 
 
 This conclusion inclined Mrs. Courtenay to lend 
 a favourable hearing to her husband, when, after re- 
 lating to her what he believed to be the infant's 
 true history, he paused, and, with a pale and earnest 
 countenance, asked : 
 
 ' Sarah, will you receive my grandchild as your 
 own ?' 
 
 ' It is a most lovely babe !' had been Dorcas's oft- 
 repeated exclamation ; but this Mrs. Courtenay con- 
 demned as weakness. 
 
 ' She will never have a Christian training if we 
 give her back into Gerald's hands. She has come 
 out of worse than heathen darkness, and 1 dare not
 
 1(2, THE MYRTLE AI\'D THE HEATHER. 
 
 refuse such a trust when committed to me. For- 
 tunate for her that her poor mother is gone, and 
 not less fortunate that her father yields her up.' 
 
 Such was Mrs. Courtenay's mode of considering 
 the matter, and the result was this decree — ' Let 
 her stay. I shall do my duty by her.' The lady 
 was subject to few misgivings as to her power to 
 discern and to discharge her duty. Her patient 
 husband returned to Gerald's side. He started with 
 grief and horror as he beheld the haggard features 
 of his son ; then seated himself near, bent down his 
 head on his hands, tightly pressing his aching tem- 
 ples, and mutely prayed. Sleep never closed his 
 eyes, till the grey light of dawn made Grerald look 
 more ghastly than ever. 
 
 ' Shall I rouse him ?' he reluctantly deliberated ; 
 but the sleeper started up, and gazed wildly round, 
 till his eye fell on his father. 
 
 ' And you have been watching ?' he exclaimed, 
 with half-reproachful accents. 
 
 ' And praying,' was Courtenay's solemn reply, as 
 he placed his hand on his son's head. 
 
 Not a word of more direct counsel or entreaty 
 passed his lips. Gerald's looks sank abashed before 
 his father's steadfast eye. 
 
 The sun had risen above the hill, and Gerald was 
 gone. He had not dared even to approach the couch 
 of his sleeping infant. He looked back from the 
 furthest spot whence he could discern the curling 
 smoke ascending from the Grove, and said : 
 
 'She is safe. And I — have I broken the last 
 link which bound me to Beatrice and to virtue ?' 
 
 The child awoke to ask for her father, with a
 
 THE 3IYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 3 
 
 passion of grief which, even at this early age, 
 seemed to distinguish her from an English child. 
 She reiterated without intermission, at first with a 
 rapidity which amazed her hearers, then with a 
 slower pathos which wrung their hearts, — 'Papa 
 — papa — papa.' This was the only word she woidd 
 utter ; and although Gerald had declared that he 
 had familiarised her with the sound of English, she 
 gave no present indication that she understood or 
 heeded anything addressed to her. At length she 
 sank utterly exhausted, only to repeat the same vio- 
 lence when refreshed by sleep and food. Her grand- 
 father was the sole person who possessed an}^ power 
 of soothing her. Mrs. Courtenay, by turns, was 
 disposed to repent of her acceptance of the wayward 
 charge, or, reflecting on the manifest ill-training the 
 child had already received, to dwell with satisfaction 
 on the triumph of subduing such a temper. And 
 she did subdue it ; though not for several days was 
 little Beatrice pacified. Her health was endangered 
 by her excessive emotion, which, however, gradually 
 subsided, and a fondness for her grandfather and 
 for Pompey developed itself, which bid fair to restore 
 her to happiness. But from the first there appeared 
 to exist some antipathy between her and Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay's cat. 

 
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 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The winning guileless fantasies 
 
 Of little children round our feet ; 
 
 The thoughts of age by suffering wise, 
 
 Listening to sounds by distance sweet; — 
 
 And things divine that hidden lie 
 
 In silver shrines of poesy ; 
 
 Glad meetings after tearful woes, 
 
 Like dews of night with rays of morn, 
 
 And all the joys of suffering bom. 
 
 Thoughts in Past Yeaks. 
 
 SUCCESSIVE years were passed by Beatrice in 
 the seclusion of the Grove. Her grandfather, 
 the chief object of her affection, hved almost wholly 
 in his library, surrounded by books to which he was 
 constantly referring, and which accumulated around 
 him till not a seat was left unoccupied by them, and 
 Mrs. Courtenay was eifectually discouraged from 
 attempting to enter the apartment. 
 
 The only thing that was known to ruffle Courte- 
 nay 's temper was, the endeavour of Dorcas to set 
 his books in order. The misdemeanour of the cat, 
 in upsetting the ink-bottle over some manuscript 
 sheets laboriously compiled, and -of which no notes 
 were preserved, he met as a misfortune which called 
 for the exertion of the higher Christian virtues, and 
 emulated Sir Isaac Newton's heroic forgiveness of
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. l^ 
 
 his dog. But love of his books, of his writings, 
 was not the sole passion of E-eginald Courtenay's 
 heart, than which a warmer, a tenderer, never ex- 
 isted. Often did he lean back in his chair, close his 
 eyes, and appear lost in thought, till a tear quietly 
 stealing through the eyelashes betrayed that the 
 heart, not the brain, was at work. His musings 
 were of his son — the wanderer. He was contem- 
 plating the time when a certain erudite composition 
 should be completed, should have won the world's 
 notice, and the reward which it might honestly de- 
 mand ; and thus he should be enabled to recal that 
 exile to his native land, to place him in a position 
 more favourable than any he had yet occupied, to 
 wipe away dishonour from his name. At these 
 (nay, at all) hours, the sight of the little Beatrice 
 was delightful to him, as quietly she would make 
 her way through all obstructions, to seat herself on 
 a folio at his side, with a child's quickness of per- 
 ception that, if she would retain the post, she 
 must not be troublesome. Some very attractive 
 volumes became, as it were, her own ;-— red-leaved 
 quartos, which contained the Legends of the Hed 
 Crosse Knight, of Sir Guy on, and the other books 
 of the Faerie Queens, illustrated with engravings 
 which folded in the centre, and required to be 
 turned over with much care. It was a pretty trait 
 of truthfulness in the child which occurred in con- 
 nexion with them. One day, proceeding too has- 
 tily, she made a terrible fracture through Pride's 
 procession, and separated that evil guide, Idlenesse, 
 from the car. There she sat patiently waiting to 
 attract. her grandfather's attention, resolved not to
 
 1 6 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 go on until she had revealed the mischief she had 
 been guilty of. Once or twice she pulled his coat ; 
 once or twice she touched his hand. ' Stay, my 
 dear !' was all she gained from him ; and stay she did, ^ 
 in wonderful patience and silence, for a time to her 
 incalculable ; tormented, too, as she w^as by a fer- 
 vent desire to arrive at a picture she especially 
 loved (a desire which had probably occasioned her 
 over-haste) of Sir Guyon, watched over by his 
 guardian angel. 
 
 Courtenay dearly loved his grandchild. He 
 often, though not now, found leisure to attend to 
 her, and would suit his discourse to her capacity, 
 charming her by many a tale, or by the explanation 
 of these her favourite prints. It had happened 
 that, one day when explaining that of Sir Guyon, 
 as he pointed to the angel seated by the out- 
 stretched figure of the knight, and told her that 
 in weakness and weariness there are such bright 
 beings watching round us, unseen by human eyes, 
 but not the less present, he spoke of the father 
 whom he was especially careful to keep fresh in the 
 child's remembrance. 'He is travelling far away, 
 but not without his guardian,' he said, with a sigh. 
 In the faithful Palmda*, the fond parent beheld him- 
 self, and trusted that a day would soon come when 
 his son would be consigned to his care. 
 
 Thus was the picture endeared to Beatrice, and 
 she would sit and muse over it, with musings too 
 deep for childhood to explain, but the existence of 
 which is frequently testified by its thoughtful mien. 
 Now she felt as if it were forbidden to her to pro- 
 ceed until she had confessed her fault, and she could
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATPIER. 17 
 
 not gain a hearing. Tea-time arrived. Mrs. Courte- 
 nay opened the door, and called her ; stupefied by 
 her long waiting, and her perplexity and distress, 
 she did not attempt to obey. Mrs. Courtenay made 
 her way towards her, and took her by the arm. The 
 child still clung to the book, and the fracture con- 
 sequently became greater. 
 
 ' See what you have done,' said Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 ' I had done it already,' sobbed Beatrice ; ' and I 
 wanted grandpapa to see it.' 
 
 ' I forbid you to have the book again for a week,' 
 was Mrs. Courtenay's stern rejoinder, as she bore it 
 away to paste and repair the injury. Nor was this 
 all. Days afterwards, when Mr. Courtenay was suf- 
 ficiently disengaged to attend to his darling, he took 
 the volume from the shelf. 
 
 ' Not that book,' whispered Beatrice, in a tone of 
 awe. 
 
 ' What ! is it not your favourite ?' 
 
 * Oh, yes ! but not till next week.' 
 
 'Why not, my child?' asked Courtenay, looking 
 in the troubled little face. 
 
 ' Grandmama said not till next week, because I 
 tore it.' 
 
 ' Tore it ! Why did you not tell me, Beatrice ?' 
 said her grandfather, thinking that he should have 
 passed a more lenient sentence, had the confession 
 been made to him. 
 
 ' I did, but you did not hear me.' 
 
 Courtenay replaced the book on the shelf, and 
 took down Bewick instead. It was his habit to 
 acquiesce in his wife's decisions. 
 
 So much for the conscientiousness of Beatrice at 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 l8 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 seven years old. Surely, if this were the produce of 
 Mrs, Courtenay's training, there cannot be much 
 objection to it, although it has not been placed in 
 a very pleasing guise to the reader as yet. But 
 might it be fairly claimed as its natural and proper 
 resulb ? Certainly not ; even though it be allowed 
 that her principles were not wholly erroneous, nor her 
 system wholly ill directed, and that, even in their most 
 mischievous features, they were far less injurious to 
 the little gentle girl than they had proved to the 
 rebellious Gerald, who in early life had been equally 
 subjected to their rule and governance. It was part 
 of her code to banish from his home everything 
 attractive to his age, and enjoyments which those 
 who should have been his companions were indulged 
 in, he frequently heard stigmatized as sinful. The 
 chosen friends gathered round the family hearth 
 were such as could scarcely be otherwise than re- 
 pulsive to youth. Grerald, possessed of a keen sense 
 of the ridiculous, soon laughed at their absurdities ; 
 qlear-sighted, clever, and wanting in reverence, as he 
 grew older he suspected and convicted them of false 
 pretensions. His father he loved from first to last, 
 esteeming him only too good, too guileless, too in- 
 dulgent for this world. Escaped from his ungenial 
 home, where he had been subjected to a number of 
 galling and unmeaning restrictions — denied the 
 opportunity of learning self-control practically, and 
 destitute of a necessary acquaintance with life and 
 manners — in his college career he felt that he could 
 not rush far enough into extremes of riot to indem- 
 nify himself for past constraint, nor seek companions 
 too unhke those he had been obliged to endure.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 9 
 
 Euin overtook him, and, by his means, his father, 
 a man of slender fortune, though of high birth. 
 The one fled the country ; the other resigned the 
 home he had occupied in a town which afforded 
 Mrs. Courtenay every facility for drawing round her 
 a society after her own heart. To her credit be it 
 said, that she yielded without a murmur everything 
 that was required of her, and removed with her 
 husband to an unpretending abode in a retired 
 village, where Courtenay justified to himself his 
 absorbing devotion to his books, under the plea 
 that it was finally to be the source of wealth. 
 To this home, after years of absence and long 
 periods of total silence, Gerald brought his child, 
 drawn thither by the cords of love, and by an 
 earnest yearning to lay his infant on his father's 
 bosom. But his ideas of right and wrong were 
 greatly perplexed ; he shrank from Mrs. Courtenay 
 with the same personal repugnance as ever, yet was 
 conscious that he had incurred so much misery and 
 guilt in setting all her lessons at nought, that he 
 no longer dared pronounce them worthless, but was 
 content that his little Beatrice should learn them, 
 and hoped that to her they would prove less dis- 
 tasteful than they had to him. Fortunately for the 
 little orphan, in the home to which she was con- 
 signed, she found the kind Dorcas, and became the 
 object of her grandfather's utmost tenderness. 
 Mrs. Courtenay, too, loved the child, though she 
 could scarcely win her love in return ; she did not, 
 however, recognise the difference there was in the 
 very tone and look of Beatrice when brought 
 within her sphere, but pronounced her ' a good, 
 c 2
 
 ZO THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 quiet girl, considering — wonderful indeed that she 
 should be G-erald's daughter.' 
 
 In fact, happily for Beatrice, she was in disposi- 
 tion, as in beauty, the very reflex of that young 
 Italian mother, whom Mrs. Courtenay thought it 
 right never to mention. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay died when Beatrice was nine 
 years old ; many said that she was an inesti- 
 mable woman, and that Mr. Courtenay would be 
 lost without her. He dreaded as much himself; 
 but, as it proved, he, and his little grandchild, and 
 Dorcas went on with no other difference than a 
 diffusion of increased peace around them, which 
 they enjoyed without inquiring whence it came. 
 It was not designed to be of long duration. 
 
 A letter arrived from Naples, and from Gerald, who 
 having written with tolerable frequency at first to 
 gather tidings of his child, gradually sank into 
 silence ; it came in the autumn of the year, and was 
 composed under the influence of deep despondency. 
 
 ' I have ruptured a blood-vessel. I shall die as 
 my mother died. It is in vain that they speak to 
 me of hope founded on the genial climate in which 
 I happen to be.' (Mr. Courtenay groaned : ' Always 
 that miserable reference of everything to chance — 
 the gambler's habit !') ' No winter of late has passed 
 without my suffering from a cough, one attack of 
 which seems now enough to break the thread on 
 which my life is hanging. Oh ! father, forgive me ! 
 deny me not one line to assure me that you do. 
 If I die sooner than I anticipate, and therefoi'e 
 unanswered, my last thought of you shall be your 
 look of love when I stood at your door, and you
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 21 
 
 drew me in. Oh ! that I had abided at your 
 hearth ! but it was not possible ! all power of 
 retracing my steps was denied me, almost from the 
 beginning of my mad career. Is this a token of 
 the wrath of Heaven ? 
 
 ' Write to me, father, and tell me if my child has 
 been allowed to cherish any love for me ?' 
 
 Mr. Courtenay knew whence this implied doubt 
 arose, and he sighed; yet in this sigh there mingled 
 somewhat of a sense of relief. His path lay plain 
 before him, and no hand was stretched out to check 
 his steps. He let the letter fall, bent down his face 
 on his hands ; at last he raised it bathed with tears, 
 and said : ' I shall be with him soon !' 
 
 Beatrice stood at her grandfather's side, motion- 
 less and pale. She had seen him weep before for 
 his wife, but she could not tell why he should weep 
 now ; she was sure that his grief was in some way 
 the consequence of the letter, which he had received 
 with trepidation. Instead of trying to conceal his 
 emotion, he caught her in his arms, placed her in 
 his lap, and cried : 
 
 ' Here is a letter from your father, my darling. 
 He wants to know if his little Beatrice loves him.' 
 
 The child nestled closer to her grandfather's 
 bosom, and whispered : ' Tell him — so much !' 
 
 The words seemed to come from her inmost 
 heart. In fact, there had been for months im- 
 pressed on the child's memory a mysterious speech 
 from Mrs. Courtenay' s lips, not meant to reach her 
 ear : ' Utterly forgetful of his child — no love, no 
 gratitude !' 
 
 These expressions had sunk deep, contrasting as
 
 22 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 they did with the affection, reverential as a child's 
 ought to be, which her grandfather daily instilled 
 into Beatrice. 
 
 Courtenay was impressed — somewhat alarmed — by 
 the child's earnestness, and thought how he could 
 suggest to her mind pleasurable images. He kissed 
 her affectionately, saying : ' Think of Sir Guyon, 
 and of his guardian angel, Beatrice. We will go 
 hence, and join your father ; we will cheer and nurse 
 him, will we not ?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! but when ?' 
 
 ' At once — as soon as possible.' 
 
 Before Christmas, Courtenay reached Naples. He 
 found Gerald unmistakeably dying. He ministered 
 to him day and night — parent, friend, nurse, in one. 
 The deep delight with which Gerald beheld his father 
 and his child at his side w^as unspeakable. Almost 
 his first welcome of Beatrice was an ecstatic declara- 
 tion of her resemblance to her mother. 
 
 ' That angel face !' he exclaimed ; ' I see it again 
 before me !' 
 
 These few words kindled into a flame the interest 
 in her mother which Beatrice treasured up in her 
 bosom. The child hungered and thirsted for informa- 
 tion concerning her. At the Grove, her father's 
 name had rarely passed Mrs. Courtenay's rigid lips, 
 her mother's never ; and Beatrice entertained a sort 
 of fear and awe which restrained her from all inter- 
 rogations. Now she yearned to hear her father 
 speak, yet still spoke not herself. At nine years 
 old, Beatrice in many points outstripped her age : 
 she had already felt deeply ; within the few last 
 weeks, had considered, even acted, for other persons ;
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 23 
 
 in the chamber of sickness, had learned to keep 
 under her own feelings, and in its silence had gone 
 over and over again in her mind, questions and specu- 
 lations which she could not communicate. Her 
 patient, unconscious self-denial at length had its 
 reward. After the conversation which we have re- 
 peated, her father having, by the appeal he made to 
 her, relieved his mind of its chief burden, was will- 
 ing to turn to other subjects of interest as deep, but 
 not equally pressed on him by compunction. Gerald 
 had, in truth, less to reproach himself with in his 
 conduct to his young wife, than to any other person 
 to whom he had been an object of affection. He 
 had loved her from the first hour to the last ; he 
 had bewailed her loss passionately ; yet, pure as she 
 was, affection for her had not purified him ; dear as 
 she was, grief for her had not reclaimed him. Puri- 
 fication, repentance, can only proceed from a higher, 
 holier influence than human love or human sorrow ; 
 — an influence now at work in Gerald's heart. As 
 the hope gradually dawned on him that he, too, 
 might possibly be admitted into those regions of 
 peace where he believed his Beatrice to dwell — that 
 he might again behold her face looking on him with 
 all the kindness and far more than the happiness he 
 had seen on it on earth, by degrees he loved to speak 
 of her to his father and to her child. The subject be- 
 came of constant recurrence. In the pensiveness of 
 evening — in the stillness of night, when they often 
 waked and watched together — in the early dawn, 
 when the bay lay sparkling before them, and Cour- 
 tenay, with look of reverent joy, would speak of the 
 Sun of Righteousness arising with healing on His
 
 24 TPIE MYUTLE AND THE HEATHEll. 
 
 wings, (and the wounded spirit of Gerald experi- 
 enced the blessed effects of the balm which dropped 
 from them) — the memory of the one who was gone 
 before, mingled sweetly with their musings. In 
 dreams and waking visions, sounds of peace and 
 words of pardon thrilled on Gerald's ear ; the 
 depth of his humility, the fervency of his contrition, 
 encouraged his father to ' hope all things,' and ren- 
 dered him not afraid to breathe his hopes aloud. 
 
 To the unspeakable comfort of Courtenay, the 
 faithful ministerings of the Church of England were 
 not wanting to him and to his children, on this 
 foreign strand. In addition to the kind and gentle 
 clergyman resident in Naples, there came one of the 
 name of Edward Herbert, brought thither by the 
 same malady which was destroying Gerald, and had 
 incapacitated him for the discharge of his home 
 duties, between whom and the elder Courtenay some 
 previous acquaintance had existed, and was now 
 accidentally renewed. 
 
 Herbert no sooner learned the cause which led 
 his countryman to Naples, than he felt desirous to 
 share in some measure his task. He made the sug- 
 gestion with so much delicacy, that it could not fail 
 to be acceptable to Courtenay, who had some diffi- 
 culty in rendering .it equally so to his son. But all 
 unwillingness was dissipated by the first smile of 
 Herbert's benign face, by the first touch of his kindly 
 hand. Gerald started when he saw a man no older 
 than himself standing at his bedside, detected the 
 same consuming fire, though burning as yet more 
 slowly, in the deep-set eye, and heard the same 
 couo:h, in less violence.
 
 THE :myrtle and the heather. 25 
 
 ' You must not come here,' he said, in a hollow 
 voice. ' Don't think me ungracious for finding tjiat 
 out the first time you honour me with a visit ; but 
 for you to undergo the exertion of mounting to this 
 height for me — it is out of the question. You must 
 surely possess friends who have a right to require 
 better treatment of yourself, even if you are careless 
 of danger.' 
 
 ' Xone,' replied Edward Herbert, now regaining 
 breath, * who would deprive me of the inexpressible 
 relief it affords me to escape a little from enforced 
 idleness — to find myself doing something, that some- 
 thing being quite insufficient to alarm any one.' 
 
 From that day Herbert's visits were welcomed 
 by all ; the expressive looks of the little silent 
 Beatrice were perhaps to him the most eloquent 
 thanks which he received. It was easily arranged 
 that he should be carried up the stairs in a sort of 
 chaise a porteurs, as if he were mounting Vesuvius, 
 he said with a smile ; ' a precaution which renders 
 my visits beneficial rather than injurious to me.' 

 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It is a precious sight, whicli angels view 
 In trembling joy and hope . . . 
 
 The Baptistery. 
 
 And this is pity such as dwells above. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL, most beautiful, was the scene in 
 that little upper chamber on the clay which 
 proved to be the closing one of Gerald Courtenay's 
 
 life :— 
 
 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky ! 
 
 Meet day whereon to think and speak of ' Blessings' 
 
 More plentiful than hope. 
 
 Beyond the couch of the dying man knelt his 
 father, Edward Herbert, and the calm sister who 
 had left her home to be with him, to minister to 
 him in all hours of languor and of pain, and faithfully 
 to record for those fond hearts forced to endure the 
 solicitudes of absence, the alternations of his state. 
 The resident English clergyman of Naples was there 
 to administer to these few sheep in the wilderness 
 whom it was his office to gather together, and to 
 tend, ' to feed with a faithful and true heart, and to
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHEK. 27 
 
 rule prudently with all his power,' the Holy Sacra- 
 ment entrusted to his keeping. 
 
 Beside her father's pillow was Beatrice, not ex- 
 cluded from a scene so well calculated to impress 
 her mind with convictions, and to kindle feelings in 
 her heart, which should influence both through their 
 whole earthly course. The gorgeous light of day 
 burst in upon them, and the beauties of the visible 
 creation which they knew to be around them, 
 brought Heaven nearer, though their conscious 
 thoughts were solely of the higher glories and won- 
 ders of hidden grace. Sweet to their attentive ears 
 were the last words of the Gospel : ' But is passed 
 from death unto life.' Beatrice watched the expres- 
 sion of her father's upturned eye, then buried her 
 face in his pillow. 
 
 And now all is concluded. The hymn of praise, 
 the word of blessing have died away. The chamber 
 is still, the penitent is solitary; he had asked to 
 commune for a while with his own heart, with his 
 God alone. And his father and Beatrice, where 
 were they ? They sat on the sea-shore, the waves 
 quietly rippling to their feet, soothing them by 
 soft repeated murmurs. Silent, thankful — nay, even 
 joyful were their hearts. Beatrice first proposed 
 to return ; her grandfather acquiesced. They came 
 not too soon. Gerald's face was serene, his smile 
 welcomed them, but each perceived that an hour 
 had done the work of days since they quitted him. 
 Death was close at hand. This Courtenay knew, 
 and Beatrice felt, without knowing ; she had never 
 yet seen the near approach of the king of terrors ; 
 an undefined awe seized her at his presence.
 
 28 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' Oh ! my father, kindest father, bless me once 
 more ere I go hence and am no more seen !' 
 
 ' Bless thee, my boy — God bless thee, and take 
 thee to Himself!' 
 
 ' Beatrice — never — forget — ' no more worthy to 
 — be called — thy son.' Gerald's breathing grew 
 every moment more difficult. 
 
 'Never!' replied Beatrice, twining her hands 
 together in agony. ' But, oh ! bless me too ! do not 
 go without blessing me ! — and tell my mother how 
 I love her !' 
 
 She bowed down her head, and burst into an 
 uncontrollable flood of tears. 
 
 Gerald took his father's hand, and laid it with his 
 own on Beatrice's head : 
 
 ' Heaven guard and guide thee, my precious one !' 
 
 Courtenay would have led the child away to 
 regain composure. 
 
 ' Let me stay !' she implored : ' I will not disturb 
 him.' 
 
 The starry heavens were spread like a pall be- 
 decked with diamonds. Courtenay and his grand- 
 child looked down on the face of the dead ; it was 
 placid and beautiful. Both the man stricken with 
 affliction and with years, and the girl who stood yet 
 on the threshold of life, yearned to partake of a like 
 placidity. Beatrice started as her grandfather broke 
 the awful silence. 
 
 ' tarr}^ thou the Lord's leisure, be strong, and 
 He shall comfort thine heart, and put thou thy 
 trust in the Lord.' 
 
 Edward Herbert was dissuaded from reading over 
 the remains of Gerald the words with which the
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 29 
 
 Church lays her children to rest from the toils, the 
 troubles, and the temptations of this present world, 
 but he would not be dissuaded from being present 
 at the funeral. Compassion thrilled his heart as he 
 looked on the forms of Courtenay and his grandchild 
 bending low under the burden of affliction which 
 for the time seemeth grievous ; nor could he suppress 
 a pang of like emotion for the meek companion at 
 his side, as he listened with a conviction that the 
 same sentences now uttered would ere long be re- 
 peated for himself. But as he heaved the sigh of 
 natural feeling, he beheld a light of exceeding peace 
 and joy illumine the usually pale, subdued counte- 
 nance of his sister, as the words ' Blessed are the 
 dead which die in the Lord. Even so, saith the 
 Spirit ' — were pronounced. He was comforted, re- 
 invigorated, and murmured to himself with a full 
 assurance, ' Thy God will send forth strength for 
 thee.' 
 
 At the close of an evening walk with her brother, 
 Serena Herbert paused at the gate of the Palazzo in 
 which the Courtenays dwelt. 
 
 ' I would go to that dear child — motherless, 
 sisterless ; surely, Edward, I may be something to 
 her !' 
 
 ' Go, dearest,' replied her brother, gently pressing 
 her hand as she left him. 
 
 The door at which she knocked was opened by 
 Courtenay himself. 
 
 'Miss Herbeit,' he said, 'you are come to my 
 child!' 
 
 Serena could not doubt that she was welcome. 
 She entered softly. Beatrice was lying on her bed, 
 on her face, suffocating, strangling every sob, lest
 
 30 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 she should grieve her grandfather ; he shrank back, 
 and left Serena alone with her. 
 
 Serena seated herself beside the young girl, — she 
 cast her arm across her : 
 
 ' My poor Beatrice !' 
 
 The spell was broken. Beatrice half rose, cast 
 herself on the compassionate bosom which waited 
 to receive her, and gave vent to a storm of grief so 
 wild and violent that it alarmed Serena, who yet 
 was resolved, if possible, to let it exhaust itself with- 
 out contention. All the vehemence of her Italian 
 nature possessed Beatrice in this, as in some other 
 hours of her existence ; giving her emotions a force 
 which it seemed to surpass the strength of childhood 
 to combat. At length she lay quiet in Serena's 
 arms, almost too weak to speak, yet apparently not 
 without that sense of absolute enjoyment which 
 enlivens the feeble hours succeeding to acute pain. 
 Serena bent down to kiss the girl's lips, as, gently 
 withdrawing her arms, she let her sink on the couch, 
 she hoped to sleep. 
 
 ' One moment,' whispered Beatrice. ' Has all this 
 been wrong? would Mr. Herbert say so? I feel 
 that I should like to thank God — it has done me so 
 much good.' 
 
 ' No, no ; not wrong. The God who made us, 
 gave us tears ; we may thank Him for His gift. 
 Good night, Beatrice.' And Serena stole away. 
 
 (^^-
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 If thou hast loved in hours of gloom 
 
 To dream the dead are near, 
 And people all the lonely room 
 
 With guardian spirits dear. 
 
 Dream on the soothing dream at will : 
 
 The lurid mist is o'er, 
 That show'd the righteous suffering still 
 
 Upon the eternal shore. 
 
 Christian Year, 
 
 THE Herberts had, for Gerald Courtenay's sake, 
 tarried in Naples longer than they had intended, 
 and when his life came to a close they prepared for 
 departure. Nothing contributed so much to revive 
 Beatrice after her sorrow, as the belief that she 
 could afford any assistance to her friends in the pre- 
 paration for their removal. When they were gone, 
 what was to become of her grandfather and herself ? 
 On this point Beatrice speculated little ; yet their 
 present mode of life was undoubtedly cheerless and 
 monotonous. Courtenay had taken to his books 
 again. Beatrice sat in silence, usually in the 
 window, gazing on all her father had gazed on, 
 thinking of him and of her mother, longing to be 
 with them ; yet, mindful of the promise she had 
 made concerning her grandfather, the desire was not
 
 3 2 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 entertained without self-reproach, and she asked, 
 with timid apology, 'would he really miss me?' 
 
 She did not doubt that his heart was full of love 
 for her ; but she little guessed how he racked his 
 brain with thought, nor how he pressed inward the 
 cares which harassed him, that she might not be 
 vexed. He was so bent on averting future evil from 
 her, as for this very cause scarcely to mark the pre- 
 sent, though betrayed by her pale, thin cheek and 
 altered appetite. At length, one day, he called her 
 to him, as he had used to do when she was a little 
 child (he quite forgot how time passed on), and 
 said: 
 
 ' My Beatrice, we are going to leave Naples. You 
 must make yourself ready.' 
 
 Beatrice started ; any prospect of change seemed 
 to surprise her, but she could not distinguish 
 whether she felt joy or sorrow. 
 
 ' What !' she said, ' are we going back to the 
 Grove P' 
 
 'No, Beatrice,' replied Mr. Courtenay, gravely. 
 ' The Grove is no longer ours.' 
 
 ' No longer ours !' repeated Beatrice ; ' whose can 
 it be ? And Dorcas ?' 
 
 'It belongs to strangers,' answered her grand- 
 father ; ' and Dorcas — she will serve them.' 
 
 This brief reply sounded strangely in the ears of 
 Beatrice, but her grandfather proffered no further 
 explanation. In fact, he had resolved that he would 
 not yet tell Beatrice that he was as much an exile 
 as Gerald had been ; still less that for Gerald's sake 
 he was so. He had not communicated even to 
 Edward Herbert his determination to discharge his
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. ^^ 
 
 son's debts to the full, but, unfortunately, had re- 
 course to a friend of far less judgment in England, by 
 whose aid he carried on the investigations which he 
 wished to make, and in the course of them involved 
 himself in liabilities beyond his expectations. And 
 now even his present means of subsistence were 
 exhausted : he roused liimself to seek others, and, in 
 despair of gaining immediate profit from writings 
 which he continued to regard as the future source of 
 wealth and fame, he listened eagerly to the sug- 
 gestions of a bookseller (whom he had furnished 
 with some translations, and who had found his 
 erudition useful), that he should offer himself as 
 English tutor to a Russian nobleman, seeking one 
 for his sons, who would assuredly bestow a full 
 remuneration on his services, and without difficulty 
 include him and his grandchild in the princely suite. 
 Courtenay knew almost as little of the world as 
 Beatrice did, and, without more caution than she 
 would have employed, closed with this arrangement. 
 He must now, as he told her, prepare to start on 
 
 an appointed day with the Prince Z for Rome 
 
 and Florence. 
 
 The duties imposed on Courtenay in his novel 
 post were not sufficient to engross his time, or 
 thoughts. A residence in Rome revived all his 
 classic lore, and he wandered frequently among the 
 ruins, absorbed in researches of antiquarian interest, 
 and mightily indifferent to more modern conside- 
 rations. With the spring, the Prince passed on to 
 Florence, where society of a different caste flocked 
 around him, which still comprehended individuals by 
 no means unacceptable to Courtenay ; among them 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 was Oreste Gualandi, a painter of much good-nature 
 and considerable ability, who was greatly charmed 
 with the beauty of Beatrice. 
 
 ' Come with me,' he one day said to them, taking 
 the little girl's hand in his, — ' come with me, and I 
 will show you Beatrice's portrait. It will astonish 
 you.' He led Courtenay on, not to his own studio, 
 but through the gorgeous apartments of the Pitti 
 Palace. So great was Courtenay' s absence of mind, 
 that he followed without displaying that astonishment 
 on which Oreste had calculated ; the Englishman's 
 abstraction was a source of amusement to the lively 
 Florentine. They moved forward till they reached 
 the room in which hangs the beautiful picture of 
 the Madonna della Seggiola ; there Oreste stopped. 
 ' I have a commission to copy this for the Signor 
 Principe. See, my platform and easel are already 
 placed ; but as I began, it struck me that were the 
 Signorina but a few years older, she might spare me 
 the weariness of copying from the canvas, and I 
 would produce from life something that should rival 
 what we see here.' 
 
 So saying, he placed Beatrice on the platform, 
 and looked from her to the picture with approving 
 scrutiny. 
 
 ' Is it not surprising ? is it not admirable ?' he 
 exclaimed, and the exclamation was responded to 
 on every side with Italian vivacity. The artists 
 thronged around, expressing their delight and sur- 
 prise in every variety of gesture and tone, yet the 
 gravity of Courtenay and of his granddaughter was 
 little discomposed. The former contemplated with 
 satisfaction the remarkable likeness which Oreste
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 35 
 
 had pointed out, but the painter's ecstatic words 
 sank deeper into Beatrice's heart, who drank them 
 in with much attention. She well remembered how 
 often her father had commented on her resemblance 
 to her mother — that mother whom she had yearned 
 to behold. ' This, then,' said she, inwardly, gazing 
 on the lovely picture before her, — ' this, then, is my 
 mother !' and the face there portrayed was for 
 evermore enshrined in Beatrice's memory. 
 
 Oreste became daily more fascinated by the sweet- 
 ness, simplicity, and beauty of the little orphan. 
 As he told his wife : ' There is a pathetic gravity in 
 that child's face which I can't bear to see at her 
 age. Now, little Maria's composure suits her well, 
 you know ; vowed as she is to white, it is beautiful 
 to see her so calm and so sedate, in the world and 
 not of it. But Beatrice — she looks too melancholy, 
 and even at times too anxious, for childhood. We 
 must get her here, Maddalena mia ; Flavio, and 
 Rosina, and even the good, dear Maria will enliven 
 her, and make her another, and a happier child. 
 Ah ! I am bent on that measure. I shall bring them 
 to my studio, to see how the Prince's picture pro- 
 gresses ; moreover, I must paint her — I certainly- 
 must — such a heavenly face ! 
 
 'You will love the grandfather, too. You will 
 think of your own father, as we saw him last year at 
 Leghorn. I understand women : they always find 
 out some reason, some association, that makes them 
 love the young and the old ; and then I know, every 
 one knows, there is not such a heart as thine, Mad- 
 dalena, beating under heaven !' 
 
 Thus did Signor Oreste address his handsome, 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 benign-looking wife, who rewarded him by a sweet 
 smile, which disclosed two rows of teeth as white as 
 pearls. 
 
 ' A strange household for them to form part of,' 
 muttered Oreste to himself, as he went on preparing 
 his palette. ' It is well that Beatrice is a mere 
 child.' 
 
 Now, it had never occurred to Reginald Courtenay 
 that it was a strange household of which he formed 
 part, or that a breath of scandal was afloat con- 
 cerning it. How long he might have maintained 
 an ignorance for which he would have found few to 
 give him credit, cannot be ascertained ; the truth 
 of the matter was revealed by an act of extreme 
 caution on the part of the most guilt}' concerned in 
 what might otherwise have remained a secret to 
 liim for ever. Such total blindness they could not 
 believe in ; they thought it admirably simulated, and 
 that he who could assume it so well, must be quite 
 keen-witted enough to claim an ample reward at 
 some convenient season. They began to feel uneasy 
 in living with one possessed of such a weapon, 
 unless they could absolutely bind him over not to 
 use it against them ; and they proffered a bribe 
 so considerable as to rouse Courtenay's suspicions. 
 He would not accept the gift without fully ascer- 
 taining its meaning. Crime took off" its mask, and 
 Courtenay rose before it in all the dignity of recti- 
 tude ; there followed one flash of indignant scorn, 
 one bold rebuke, the sternest that had ever passed 
 his lips. It was as if he woke up from a dream ; but 
 the reality of the brief scene was proved by the 
 arrears of his salary lying before him, and he turned
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 37 
 
 awa}' to consider where he and his Uttle Beatrice 
 should that night rest their heads. 
 
 ' That painter and his wife — surely they are good 
 and true. I never saw countenances more honest, 
 more benevolent. And Beatrice, how happy she 
 was yesterday evening with their children ! I never 
 knew her in such spirits in my life. I will ask him 
 for advice.' 
 
 Courtenay hastened away to the Palazzo C , 
 
 and found Oreste at his easel. He explained his 
 difficulties with considerable embarrassment, all the 
 greater that Gualandi was painting for the Prince. 
 Oreste shrugged his shoulders, and wondered whe- 
 ther the worthy student could be really so blind as 
 he professed ; at last, he came to the conclusion, 
 which he afterwards communicated to his wife, that 
 the honest man was as innocent as a babe. The 
 painter, with all his apparent frankness and real 
 goodness of heart, was a subtle Italian nevertheless. 
 He did not intend to give offence to his patron by 
 coming suddenly forward, but he did intend to serve 
 Courtenay. He found him. an apartment before 
 night ; but not till after the Prince Z 's depar- 
 ture from Florence did he propose that he should 
 occupy one under the same roof with himself, 
 and let the little Beatrice have the full benefit of 
 the cheerful societyj of his children ; — almost the 
 greatest boon that could be bestowed on her. The 
 unfailing kindness of Oreste's nature made him 
 thoughtful of all he knew even in the slightest 
 degree. The beggar whom he had passed twice in 
 the same locality would keep a place in his memory, 
 and induce him to set aside some trifle as suitable
 
 38 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 to no one else, but just such as Oreste would tell 
 la buona Maddalena, could not fail to call up a 
 twinkle in a roguish eye, and win the bestower the 
 reward he relished, in the sly remark and pun- 
 gent jest, which might be reckoned on from such a 
 parasite. In the present instance, the painter and 
 his wife made every necessary domestic arrange- 
 ment for Courtenay and his grandchild, and, actu- 
 ated by consideration for each party, secured for 
 them the services of a woman in whose honesty and 
 zeal for her employers they had perfect confidence, 
 and whom they were very glad to furnish with 
 occupation. She was a widow, who had followed 
 her only child, a girl of twelve, a year since to the 
 grave. She had idolized her Teresina, and for a 
 long while went about like a creature bereft of her 
 senses, unable to give her attention to any of the 
 former concerns of her life. Maddalena had done 
 all in her power to console poor Annunziata ; she 
 had met her with the sympathy which a mother 
 alone could yield her. She had never lost a child, 
 it is true, and Annunziata had been heard to 
 assert that a woman never came to her feelings till 
 she had ; but Maddalena had watched through 
 weary nights and days beside the little Maria, when 
 the cloud of death seemed to have settled on her 
 fresh childhood. In those hours of intense anxiety, 
 she committed the sufferer to the care of the 
 Mother pierced by many sorrows, with that fond 
 superstition invented as a relief to parental agony, 
 and thenceforward clad her in white raiment as part 
 of her vow. The little maiden, enfeebled by her 
 fearful malady, the smallpox, and bleached by it
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHEK. 39 
 
 nearly as white as the dress she wore, regained 
 not the elasticity and hveliness of youth, but 
 moved, a gentle shadow, about the house, with an 
 influence over each inmate of it possessed by none 
 else. 
 
 *Ah! but she was spared to you; and my Tere- 
 sina, I have lost her !' replied Annunziata, shaking 
 her head to all Maddalena's arguments and compa- 
 risons. ' E sai, mia buona signora, cosa ha detto il 
 padre riverentissimo' — she began for the hundredth 
 time ; and Maddalena listened with her angelic pa- 
 tience, well aware that there was more comfort in 
 the one little anecdote Annunziata was about to re- 
 late, than in all the considerations she could urge. 
 
 ' When the child felt herself dying, she must con- 
 fess with all speed, though Heaven knows there 
 could not be a speck on her conscience, taking her, 
 as I ever did, to mass, and confession, and holy com- 
 munion, from the hour she was confirmed by our 
 good archbishop here in the Duomo. I lost no 
 time, you may believe me, in fetching Father 
 Clement from the convent to her. She had been 
 used to him from her birth, you know — no other 
 had ever confessed her — and when not nine years 
 old, so particular she was to omit nothing, that the 
 good man would sometimes sa}^ to her — ' Have you 
 not done yet, my child ?' He rose up and left his 
 supper untouched ; he was not the one to vex me 
 with delay in such a moment as that. When we 
 came to the chamber — ' Mamma mia,' she said, ' go 
 away, and shut the door.' I did as she bid me. I 
 had served her night and day like a slave, and 
 though she was gentleness itself, there was a tone
 
 40 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 of authority in her voice now, I thought. I closed 
 the door after me, sat down beside it, leaning my 
 head against the wall, and I wept — oh! how I 
 wept ! — yet too quietly for her to hear me. Pre- 
 sently Padre Clemente came forth. I thought that 
 he did not see me cowering there in my misery, for 
 he made as if he would have passed speedily on ; but 
 I saw it was to hide the tears which were trickling 
 down his face. I caught the good man by the robe, 
 and cried — ' Father, father, not one word of consola- 
 tion ?' He turned back, and a smile sweet as Heaven 
 broke through his tears ; he put his hand kindly 
 on my shoulder, and said, 'Cara mia, non piangete, 
 che avete un' angiola in casa!'* Those were his 
 words, signora mia ; indeed they were.' And throw- 
 ing her apron over her face, Annunziata wept aloud. 
 
 Regardless of Maddalena's soothing speeches, she 
 went on again as if without interruption. 
 
 ' I answered — ' But you, father, you weep. What, 
 then, is there for me ?' ' Hope and joy,' he replied ; 
 ' my tears are not of sorrow.' 
 
 ' I left him then to go to her. Before midnight 
 she died. Her last words were — ' I see Jesus ! — 
 and now He sees me — yes, yes. He smiles !' and on 
 her own wan lips came an answering smile, and with 
 that she expired. How, then, am I to believe Fra 
 Giovacchino, who comes to me so frequently, and 
 tells me she is suffering still, and that if I have a 
 mother's heart beating in this body, I must give 
 yet and again money for masses for her soul ?' 
 
 * Dear friend, do not weep, for you have an angel in the 
 house.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 4I 
 
 Anger and doubt were struggling on the woman's 
 countenance with a fearful belief; thej flashed from 
 her dark eye, they quivered on her lip. The pious 
 Maddalena shrank away from a perilous subject. 
 
 ' Fear not, signora,' continued Annunziata, vehe- 
 mently; ' I have given — I do give the food this flesh 
 craves, for the repose of her dear spirit. I have left 
 myself this only gown which is not rent, for I earn 
 nothing now, and grow poorer and poorer. But the 
 bitterest of all is, that I lay myself down at night 
 thinking of the smile which Jesus bent on her, and 
 then in the morning comes that Frate to tell me of 
 flames and torments.' 
 
 Her tone was one of intense anguish, and Mad- 
 dalena knew not how to soothe her; at last she 
 thought of saying — 
 
 ' But Father Clement, what does he say ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! he speaks words of comfort and hope. But 
 I can't deafen my ears to those of the other, for 
 you know they are both priests alike. What can I 
 believe ?' And Annunziata swayed her body back- 
 wards and forwards in her grievous perplexity. 
 
 It was with the kind design of weaning this poor 
 woman from her sorrow, that Oreste and his wife 
 urged her to take the care of Beatrice and of her 
 grandfather, the latter standing scarcely less in need 
 of it than the former. To oblige her friends, Annun- 
 ziata consented ; she had been but a very short time 
 about a child so lovely and so engaging as Beatrice, 
 before she entered with her whole heart into her ser- 
 vice. Astonished at the w^armth of interest which she 
 felt kindling within her, her imagination, in order to 
 account for it, conjured up the idea that there existed
 
 42 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 a marvellous resemblance between Beatrice and her 
 lost child. On this belief she dwelt with rapture to 
 Oreste and his wife ; they never contradicted her, 
 although Oreste shrugged his shoulders, when she 
 departed, at the comparison between his favourite 
 and her Teresina. But Maddalena laid her soft 
 hand on his, and said — 
 
 ' I feel what Annunziata means. You would smile 
 at the thought of any likeness existing between our 
 pale Maria and Beatrice ; yet I sometimes perceive 
 one, and I believe it to consist in something which 
 is common to all devout children. It is the trace 
 of Heaven still upon them ; the freshness of baptismal 
 dew is glistening yet, not parched up by the blast 
 that blows across this desert world.'
 
 ^'i'ym!-4»ym.<4'- 
 
 W 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 It was a pure delight. 
 
 Wordsworth, 
 
 good Oreste, pray tell me ^vllo it is that is 
 singing in the garden ? — not one of your 
 children, I am sure, for I should have heard your 
 ecstasies long since, had either of them possessed 
 such a gift.' 
 
 'Well, signore, I must confess she is none of 
 mine. She sings like an angel, it is true, and she is 
 no less of an angel to look upon. You shall see her, 
 and you must learn also that you and I possess an 
 equal right to be proud of her. She is as much 
 your compatriot as mine, and as much mme as 
 yours : you know I love riddles. On my word, I 
 believe that you would find yourself not a httle at 
 home with the old grandfather. His brain is so 
 stuffed with learning, that it has not the smallest 
 nook wherein to keep any little knowledge of ordi- 
 nary things. He has filled his chamber with musty 
 volumes, over which he pores all day, in order that 
 he may compile another, which I doubt not will take 
 in all the antiquarians, il Signor Oarde among them' 
 (bowing slightly to his companion) ; ' and they will
 
 44 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 pronounce it not a whit more modern than those he 
 has consulted. Poor man ! he has also another claim 
 to your friendship, a strange one, not often allowed, 
 but all-powerful with you, I believe — poverty ! 
 
 ' I can tell you, la buona Maddalena has more 
 than once lengthened out our broth with water till 
 the children have made wry faces, in order that we 
 might call these strangers in to partake of it.' 
 
 ' And is he an Englishman ?' 
 
 ' Certainly, and of high birth too. The girl's 
 mother was Neapolitan, and, I believe, the daughter 
 of a comedian — ' 
 
 Oreste began to relate all the particulars of his 
 new acquaintance which he had been able to glean 
 from Courtenay or from Beatrice, both of whom he 
 found far less communicative than he desired, for 
 he was a man of singular curiosity. 
 
 Mr. Howard, his auditor, gave the utmost atten- 
 tion to the narrative of Oreste, and then remarked : 
 ' Be they poor as you sa^'', this girl's voice will 
 prove a fortune in itself. Only hear her now, 
 singing like a nightingale.' 
 
 ' Yes, and wonderful pathos in the tone, is there 
 not ? It touches me to the heart. Until she came 
 here, and was among my children, she scarcely sang 
 at all — scarcely knew that she could sing. I don't 
 believe that she was ever happy before : her old 
 grandfather, who loves her passionately, esteems her 
 his solitary treasure — of course he could not be 
 a companion to her, like my little Rosina is. 
 
 ' Ah ! I should have made you acquainted with 
 each other long ago, had you not passed all the 
 summer at Lucca. Florence has been very dull
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 45 
 
 without you. I want fresh orders sadly. You 
 must bring some rich milor here soon, — not a tire- 
 some, ignorant creature, without an idea in his head, 
 beyond those eternal, worthless copies of La Flora 
 and La Fornarina, which we are constrained to 
 manufacture — but one who will give wings (golden 
 wings) to my own imagination. MyUgolino! only 
 look upon it !' 
 
 The painter crossed his studio, removed the cloth 
 from the largest canvas it contained, and displayed 
 a picture of considerable force and merit — half 
 finished only, because he received no encouragement 
 to proceed. 
 
 ' See,' he continued, pointing to the figure of the 
 youngest son ; ' he listens for some sound of succour 
 from without, and his beating heart (the throbs of 
 which are the only sound he hears) tells him he 
 listens in vain. That is Flavio. I had recourse to 
 the barbarous expedient of keeping him at home, 
 when the girls, and Beatrice whom he adores, were 
 all gone to the Cascine with the mother. Miserably 
 plaintive it made him look, I assure you. And 
 Ugolino — oh ! he is myself — gnawing his hands in 
 despair of ever receiving an order for any original,' 
 
 ' Don't despair, my dear Oreste. I will procure 
 you one. Now call that syren in.' 
 
 Oreste complied, and slyly watched the surprise 
 and pleasure which Mr. Howard evinced, as the 
 little girl, obedient to his call, entered the studio. 
 She shrank back with a blush of timidity when she 
 perceived a stranger there, and one whose attention 
 was evidently directed to herself. 
 
 ' Nonsense,' cried Flavio, a handsome, lively boy ;
 
 46 THE MYllTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 * don't pinch my fingers, Beatrice, and pull me away. 
 I want to speak to the Signor Inglese. It is long 
 since he has heen here, and he is quite an amico di 
 casa, and always kind to us. I know he will have 
 brought us something from Lucca, if it be only nuts 
 for the Carnival. Oh ! such a beautiful mask as he 
 gave me last year !' 
 
 ' True, true, my friend Flavio,' cried Mr. Howard, 
 in a benevolent tone, as he caught some portion of 
 this speech ; ' you shall find that you have not been 
 forgotten. And this little stranger, surely she will 
 make acquaintance with me ? Why, she is my own 
 countrywoman, I am told. Come nearer, and let 
 us hold a discourse together of which this young 
 impertinente shall not understand a syllable.' 
 
 ' Nay, signore,' returned Flavio, nothing daunted, 
 ' we are just breaking her of her English, for we 
 wish her to belong altogether to us.' 
 
 The kindness of Mr. Howard's smile had reassured 
 Beatrice, who now approached, and put her hand in 
 his. 
 
 ' Will you let them break you of your English ?' 
 he asked softly in his native tongue, stroking her 
 dark brown hair as he spoke. 
 
 Beatrice looked up for a moment. 
 
 ' They can never do that,' she replied, in a tone 
 of extreme feeling. 
 
 ' You have heart and brain enough to love and to 
 comprehend both languages, I can see.' 
 
 * I speak English with my grandfather — ' 
 
 ' And with me,' interposed Mr. Howard, in the 
 tone of established friendship.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 47 
 
 'And Italian with them and with Annunziata,' 
 continued Beatrice. 
 
 ' That is as it should be.' 
 
 ' She was a terrible little Neapolitan when she 
 came here,' cried Flavio, unwilling to be silent. 
 
 ' I had heard nothing else,' returned Beatrice, 
 quietly. 
 
 There was a composure and even dignity in the 
 child's manner, which struck Mr. Howard as re- 
 markable. 
 
 ' Do you love singing ?' he inquired. 
 
 ' Very much now.' 
 
 ' What, did you not always love it ?' 
 
 ' I sang little till lately ; at least, no one noticed 
 it at home ; and if I sang, I scarcely knew that I 
 did myself — except sometimes.' 
 
 Beatrice stopped. 
 
 ' At what times ?' 
 
 ' When I wanted not to cry.' 
 
 * What did you sing then, my child ?' 
 
 ' A song I heard the nuns sing one day in Eome, 
 when my grandfather took me into a church on a 
 hill while we were out walking.' 
 
 ' Will you sing that now ?' 
 
 Beatrice shrank away : ' Not now, thank you.' 
 
 ' Well, sing me the song you were singing in the 
 garden.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, that is one of Flavio's songs.' The 
 child's face brightened with a vivacity which 
 Mr. Howard had not supposed it capable of ex- 
 pressing, so pensive had it hitherto appeared. She 
 immediately began to sing a playful and grace-
 
 48 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ful air, to which Oreste beat time with rapture, 
 and Mr. Howard listened with evident appro- 
 bation. 
 
 ' I did not over-estimate the quahty of her voice 
 or ear one whit, I am sure, Oreste,' exclaimed Mr. 
 Howard, as soon as the performance was finished. 
 ' Now I must go ; but remember, you are to bring 
 the grandfather and me acquainted as soon as 
 possible.' 
 
 There was never a more favourable occurrence for 
 Courtenay and for his granddaughter than this 
 acquaintance with Mr. Howard, which gradually 
 ripened into friendship. This gentleman was one 
 of the oldest English residents in Florence, and the 
 truest patron which her sons of genius possessed. 
 He was far from living as a man of wealth, was 
 strictly frugal in all his personal expenses, remarkably 
 careless of his own exterior, yet looking, however 
 shabby, or even threadbare his garments, unequi- 
 vocally aristocratic. He was sometimes discovered 
 (for these were secrets sedulously guarded, and re- 
 vealed only by the necessity which occasionally 
 existed for co-operators,) to have performed acts of 
 a princely generosity, besides the frequent lesser 
 proofs of benevolence which abounded in his dail}'- 
 life. 
 
 Without evincing any impertinent curiosity as to 
 the past, Mr. Howard acquainted himself with 
 Courtenay's present circumstances sufficiently to 
 learn how best to serve him, and gradually obtained 
 for him engagements which he could conscientiously 
 and efficiently fulfil. He also made him alive to the 
 rare gift which Beatrice possessed, and with the
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHER. 49 
 
 utmost delicacy took upon himself the due culture 
 of it, setting it before her grandfather as a means 
 of future support for the unprovided orphan. 
 
 No sooner was Beatrice herself taught to contem- 
 plate the musical genius which had afforded her a 
 deep and secret delight, as a possible source of 
 wealth, than her whole imagination fired with the 
 idea that this was the instrument granted her by 
 Providence, for the fulfilment of her father's last 
 desire. By these means would she set her grand- 
 father free from the trammels which bound him ; 
 of their existence she could not live unconscious, 
 of their origin she was not as utterl}^ unsuspicious 
 as he who groaned under them would have had 
 her. That they were worn with something of 
 ignominy she guessed, and she resolved to strain 
 every nerve to break them off. When Mr. Howard, 
 therefore, spoke kindly to her of relieving her grand- 
 father from the anxiety which lay on him as to 
 future provision for herself, she silently contemplated 
 an individual service to be first rendered to him, 
 as far exceeding all other objects in importance. 
 This purpose she cherished secretly during the first 
 years of her education, nor did she ever formally 
 disclose it till, in her seventeenth year, Mr. Howard 
 placed before her the desirableness of quitting, ere 
 long, her grandfather's tranquil home, and pursuing 
 as her profession the art which she had acquired. 
 
 ' I have already spoken with Mr. Courtenay on 
 this point, Beatrice,' said her thoughtful friend. ' I 
 consider you scarcely less my child than his, you 
 know, and w^e can but consult together on all ques- 
 tions that concern your w^elfare.' 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 Beatrice changed colour; then answered, in her 
 quiet voice (Mr. Howard thought it trembled) — 
 
 ' What did my grandfather say ?' 
 
 ' He spoke of his sister, Mrs. Lewis Fane, as of 
 one who would afford you a home in London, and 
 bestow on you all the love and care of a mother. If 
 she is as gentle and as kind as your grandfather, 
 Beatrice, you will be happy with her.' (Beatrice 
 turned a little aside.) ' All this is extremely valu- 
 able, but still you will want patronage — introduc- 
 tions — ' 
 
 ' I suppose so,' replied Beatrice, in a tone of de- 
 jection, realising, as she had never realised before, 
 that she was going among strangers. 
 
 ' I will find all that is wanting to ensure success ; 
 never fear. The chief elements of it must be, and 
 are, in yourself; the subordinate will present them- 
 selves.' 
 
 ' Is Aunt Mary willing to let me live with her ?' 
 asked Beatrice that evening, rather suddenly, when, 
 raising her sad eyes, she found those of her grand- 
 father fixed wistfully upon her. 
 
 ' Little less willing than I to keep you,' replied 
 Courtenay, with irrepressible fondness. 
 
 ' Dearest grandfather, I must go,' Beatrice cried, 
 then bent down her face, and hid it with her hands ; 
 she felt one of her grandfather's laid tenderly on her 
 head, — she murmured again, ' I must go !' And he 
 contradicted her not. 
 
 At length the girl looked up, and in a tone of 
 deep feeling she continued : — 
 
 ' I have never yet told you why I must go ; but 
 perhaps you know. It is to set you free — to do as
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 51 
 
 lie would have me were he with us still. I entreat 
 you now to relieve me of all doubt or suspicion that 
 has harassed me in the past — any certainty were 
 preferable, I am sure of that. You are an exile 
 from the England you love, — tell me, is this priva- 
 tion endured solely in consequence of — ?' 
 
 ' Incurred for Ms sake, it has ceased to be priva- 
 tion,' replied Courtenay, with emphasis. 
 
 Beatrice caught his hand, and pressed it to her 
 lips passionately. 
 
 ' What, then, will be the labour undertaken for 
 him and for you ?' she asked. ' You see now my 
 design.' 
 
 ' My child, my child, this must not be ;' and 
 Courtenay clasped her to his bosom. 
 
 ' It must. I cannot go from you with a slighter 
 purpose than this. I have undertaken — I have pro- 
 mised — ' She gasped for breath. 
 
 ' AVhat, Beatrice ?' 
 
 'To be to you all he should have been. His 
 rehance on my faithful adherence to this promise 
 was his last earthly comfort — it alone can sustain 
 me in the separation I have long contemplated, and 
 now consent to — ' 
 
 She hid her face on her grandfather's bosom, 
 weeping. 
 
 Courtenay knew that, mild and docile as Beatrice 
 was, he should never wean her from a purpose thus 
 embraced. He held her in his arms, while he 
 thoughtfully contrasted her docility and ordinary 
 composure of deportment with that vehemence 
 which from time to time manifested itself as an 
 equally decided feature of her character. While thus 
 E 2 

 
 52 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 musing, an idea flaslied across his mind at which he 
 shuddered ; then he contemplated it in silence, and 
 at length spoke in a grave, low tone : — 
 
 ' Be it so, my child. You do well to follow a 
 course which a wise and devoted friend has marked 
 out for you. Go forth, and sustain yourself with 
 high and holy purposes ; I forbid you not. With 
 God's blessing, I may not need the fruit of your 
 labours. In yonder desk lies what should have en- 
 riched us both ere now, and will, I doubt not, when 
 this hand is mouldering in the grave, repay you for 
 my long days and nights of thought. Bat, for the 
 present, my own, my kind friend Mr. Howard's 
 exertions, have failed. All acknowledge these MSS. 
 to be invaluable, it is true, but as yet unavailable. 
 We must wait. Meanwhile, Beatrice, I have one 
 injunction to lay on you, one promise to exact, and 
 your past dutifulness assures me of obedience.' 
 
 Beatrice raised her head. 
 
 * Let me hear what you require before a promise 
 passes my lips.' 
 
 'You shall; that is but just. Whatever your 
 talents may prove — whatever impulse come from 
 within, whatever solicitation from without, — re- 
 member, Beatrice, it is my command that no pros- 
 pect of a brilliant career, of rapid gains, prevail with 
 you to go on the stage. Your mind is pure, your 
 principles are firm ; but most iniquitous would it be 
 in me to allow you, in your unprotected orphanhood, 
 to enter on a course so perilous, for any hope of 
 earthly wealth. I forbid it, Beatrice — I utterly forbid 
 it ; and I expect you to give me now a full assur- 
 ance of obedience.'
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. ^^ 
 
 Courtenay had worked himself up to a pitch of 
 excitement very unusual with him. Beatrice, with 
 a serenity which gave her the aspect of a consoling 
 angel at his side, clasped his hands in hers, and said, 
 in a low, soft voice — 
 
 * You cannot suppose that I would ever have 
 taken such a measure unauthorised by you, unarmed 
 by your full consent ? Should 1 not need all the 
 support of it, to nerve me to the effort ? But 
 would a promise calm you ? It is given.' 
 
 After this conversation with her grandfather, 
 Beatrice spoke again with Mr. Howard. 
 
 ' You,' she said timidly, as she disclosed her pur- 
 poses to him, ' have so much more knowledge of the 
 world than we possess. You will tell me how all I 
 wish can be accomplished.' 
 
 ' My generous child,' interrupted Mr. Howard, 
 ' I must first consider whether it ought even to be 
 undertaken.' 
 
 'Indeed it ought — it must,' replied Beatrice, 
 earnestly. ' There are other claims on me, I know ; 
 — debts of gratitude to you — I am not forgetful.' 
 
 ' Beatrice, Beatrice, never let me hear such terms 
 applied again to anything that passes between us. 
 Has not your fresh young heart blessed me with its 
 love almost as a father through long years other- 
 wise barren of joy ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! do not say that,' exclaimed Beatrice, with 
 an expression of the utmost pain. 
 
 ' Well, then never talk of gratitude again ; let us 
 understand that it is mutual.' 
 
 Mr. Howard now applied his thoughts seriously 
 to the best means of accomplishing for Beatrice her
 
 54 'I'llE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 purposes and his own. He by no means desired to 
 banish from her mind the delightful hope of reliev- 
 ing her grandfather from all debt and anxiety, and 
 wiping away from a reputation which he himself 
 had kept unblemished, a stain which now defaced 
 it. Generosity never failed to awaken his sympathy, 
 and he thought too highly of the beauty and the 
 talents with which Beatrice was endowed to form a 
 meagre idea of the success which awaited her. He 
 could not but acknowledge that the restrictions im- 
 posed by her grandfather were laudable, even if he 
 might himself have been unwilling to dictate them. 
 He knew that, from the first, Courtenay had pur- 
 posely objected to any training of his grandchild 
 that should have the vocation of an actress as its 
 special view. 
 
 4-
 
 ^■.^■■.^■■^■■^^■■■^■■■^^■■■^ 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 By Vanity's unwearied finger di-essed. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 THE spring of the year came, and Florence was 
 thronged with English travellers. A group of 
 them were standing in the Pitti Palace, in front 
 of Raphael's beautiful Madonna della Seggiola. One 
 of the party, a lady dressed in the utmost extra- 
 vagance of fashion, was expressing her delight in 
 terms which accorded extremely well with her 
 attire ; a companion, younger than herself, and of 
 far more simplicity of appearance, was standing at a 
 little distance, saying nothing, save that her silence 
 said much. At the side of the first was Mr. 
 Howard. 
 
 ' You will be surprised,' he said, ' when I tell you, 
 as I can with truth, that I could place before you a 
 living model of that very style of beauty. The 
 striking resemblance which she bears to this picture 
 is well known in Florence. Above all, she is a 
 countrywoman of our own, I am proud to say.' 
 
 * Come here,' continued he, in Italian, turning to 
 a painter who sat at work at his easel, — ' come here, 
 Signor Gualandi, and assure my friend, the Countess 
 of St. Helens, that you fully corroborate my asser-
 
 ^6 THE MYJITLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 tion that I can show her a hving Englishwoman the 
 counterpart of this lovely picture.' 
 
 Great was the popularity of Mr. Howard among 
 the best artists of the day. Few of them would 
 have gainsaid him, had he equalled his own paint- 
 ings, as he did his countr3"woman, to Raphael. 
 It was our old friend Oreste whom he addressed, 
 who, shrugging his shoulders, replied with his usual 
 mixture of candour, humour, and caution : 
 
 'I will not deny to our city the honour of pos- 
 sessing a wonderful type of that picture, living and 
 breathing in all the beauty of seventeen, well known 
 to the Signor Oarde, and equally so to his humble 
 servant Oreste Gualandi ; but I will dispute the 
 justice of the claim he lays on her as his compatriot 
 alone ; she is eqnally our own. Her mother was 
 Italian, and her father an Englishman.' 
 
 ' A true English girl in heart,' cried Mr. Howard, 
 laughing : ' enough so to satisfy you. Miss Lindsay,' 
 he added, turning to the younger of the ladies. 
 ' There is something very pretty and interesting in 
 the affection she entertains for the two countries, 
 deprived as she is of both her parents, and cherish- 
 ing their memories with equal enthusiasm.' 
 
 ' Poor child ! is she an orphan ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; she lives with her grandfather in the same 
 palace as my friend Oreste. Would you like me to 
 bring her to see you ?' 
 
 ' Oh, pray do !' cried Lady St. Helens. ' I shall 
 be delighted to behold anything so lovely as she 
 must be. You know the passion 1 have for beauty; 
 how I discover it wherever it exists — on canvas, in 
 life. I live — I feast on it. But tell me frankly, my
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 57 
 
 dear friend, is 3^our beauty insipid or clever ? — am I 
 just to look, and no more ? — or does she realise 
 what Campbell means when he speaks of the soul 
 that looks from such a face ? Has she a soul ?' 
 
 ' I will not prejudice you. Lady St. Helens,' replied 
 Mr. Howard, ' for I will not give you any answer. 
 You shall see her if you please, and decide for 
 yourself.' 
 
 From the palace, the party passed to the pleasant 
 gardens. As they walked among the pines, and the 
 fountains, and the orange-trees, many other of their 
 countrymen, and acquaintances of various nations, 
 joined them, thronging round Lady St. Helens, not 
 more remarkable for her air of fashion than for her 
 beauty, and leaving Miss Lindsay at liberty to follow 
 her own inclination, which led her to walk a little aside 
 with Mr. Howard, an old friend, to whom she wore 
 an air of consideration and affection which particu- 
 larly gratified him. True, he knew that the Countess 
 could better appreciate his accomplished mind, his 
 taste, his just criticisms, his varied knowledge ; or, 
 at least, could show a more ready appreciation of 
 them than Anne Lindsay. But he had not un- 
 frequently found that Anne treasured up carefully 
 remarks not very available as current coin to be 
 passed on — sayings such as would scarcely be accepted 
 as impromptus from Lady St. Helens' own lips. 
 
 'I think I have heard 3^ou say' — ' I remember' — 
 were phrases which came sweetly and simply from 
 Anne's mouth, when no one was at hand to hear 
 except himself. Mr. Howard was a keen observer 
 of physiognomy, and he could read in Anne's 
 fair, sweet-tempered face, which some called heavy,
 
 58 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 indications of more than ordinary intelligence, and 
 a lurking sense of the ridiculous. For these, and 
 reasons more, Anne was a favourite with Mr. Howard 
 in a degree that he hardly made evident to Lady 
 St. Helens. Now we have known Mr. Howard as 
 the patron of Oreste, the friend of Courtenay, 
 the self-instituted guardian of Beatrice; but who 
 can he be, whose favour could thus excite jealousy 
 in the heart of a lady so flattered, so sought after, 
 as the Countess ? Who is Mr. Howard ? is a 
 question which no one appears very well able to 
 answer : at least, no one who has visited Florence 
 since he took up his abode in it. His name sounds 
 well, and he undoubtedly is worthy of it. Look 
 at him, and see if there can be a moment's hesi- 
 tation in pronouncing him a gentleman — of the old 
 school, of course. Remark the fine outline of his 
 head. Did you ever see any more intellectual ? It 
 must be allowed that, he being considerably below 
 the ordinary height, it was disproportionably large ; 
 but then the grand development of forehead, the 
 mild melancholy of the deep-set eye, the refinement 
 of the features, the extreme brilliancy and sweetness 
 of the smile, gave a charm to the whole countenance, 
 to which no stranger of any nation, no child of any 
 age, proved invincible : add to this, the most mu- 
 sical of voices. 
 
 Although nobody knew much about Mr. Howard, 
 Mr. Howard knew a great deal about everybody. 
 Half an hour's conversation with him was sure to 
 reveal to you an intimacy between him and one or 
 other of your intimate friends ; and if hereafter you 
 have the opportunity of asking him or her who that
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHER. 59 
 
 very delightful Mr. Howard is, the reply comes — 
 
 ' Delightful, is he not ? I met him at Lord C 's, 
 
 or Lady D 's. Everybody knows him.' But 
 
 the fact remains as before — that everybody knows 
 him not. 
 
 But there were other inquiries not unfrequently 
 made by those who went below the surface in their 
 intercourse with this singular and remarkable person. 
 What was the source of tlie one bitter current in 
 waters else so sweet ? — what the occasion of the op- 
 pressive lassitude discoverable in one whose intellect 
 was richly stored, and whose heart was expansive ? 
 Why were there none nearer or dearer to him than 
 the passing acquaintance ? Whence arose those fits 
 of melancholy, the effects of which could not be con- 
 cealed, although during their reign he shunned all 
 eyes ? Had all the youth of his heart undergone 
 a sudden destruction in the shock of disappointed 
 love, or of blasted ambition ? Courtenay, who, as 
 his countryman, and a man of peculiar dehcacy and 
 nobleness of mind, had won much of Howard's 
 regard and confidence, had long since re[)lied to 
 questions such as these in his own heart, but would 
 never utter the solution he had given them to any 
 human ear. The cause of Howard" s secret unhap- 
 piness Courtenay traced to the absence of settled 
 religious convictions. He had never grasped 
 the sure anchor of the soul, never placed himself 
 securely on the Rock higher than he ; daily dying 
 the death which excruciates the sensibilities of 
 higher natures, but never dying daily with Christ 
 — therefore never rising dail}^ with Him, above the 
 storms of this lower atmosphere. Gloomy at times
 
 6o THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 as Leopardi, whose eloquent strains too often en- 
 gaged his mind, but far more manly, no friend, man 
 or woman, ever heard from the lips of Howard the 
 querulous threats of self-destruction in which the 
 M'retehed poet could find solace, or food for vanity, 
 while the reading of such only curled the English- 
 man's lip with scorn. Howard resembled rather 
 what Pascal might have been, could he have made 
 shipwreck of the faith he grasped with the tenacity 
 of one struggling amid the billows of the world for 
 much more than life — willing, and even wisely will- 
 ing, to bow his majestic intellect to every puerility 
 forced on it, rather than for one moment to impair 
 that singleness of eye with which he looked on with 
 eager gaze to the all- satisfying end. And thus 
 Howard might have been a better and a wiser, as 
 well as a far happier man, labouring under the bur- 
 den of all the clogs and hindrances of a superstitious 
 faith, than standing, as he did, on a proud eminence, 
 in a nakedness of soul which exposed him to the 
 keenest anguish, as he encountered the blasts which 
 sweep from every quarter in turn over the face of 
 the globe. 
 
 But why, it may be asked, should alternatives so 
 gloomy be contemplated for Howard, who, as an 
 Englishman, might have enjoyed freedom of intel- 
 lect and fulness of faith at one and at the same time ; 
 and who, even here in a foreign land, had teaching 
 near, from the lips of Courtenay, at once enlightened, 
 pious, and fervent ? Why did he, as it were, con- 
 tent himself to endure privations similar to those of 
 a blind and deaf man, rather than apply to that 
 Physician who could open his ear to hear and his
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER,. 6l 
 
 eyes to see sounds and sights whicli should have 
 banished heart-sadness, and called him to 'rejoice 
 evermore ?' Why, indeed ? sadly asked Courtenay, 
 and then turned to pray, and to teach Beatrice to 
 pray for their benefactor, with patience and dili- 
 gence unwearied, and hope undying. 
 
 The world at large contented itself with declaring 
 Mr. Howard to be a very eccentric man ; for it was 
 very eccentric in him to pace round and round the 
 deserted cloisters of Santa Maria Novella, when all 
 people who wished to make a respectable appearance 
 were at church. Courtenay once strove to probe 
 deeper, and there was a bonhommie and a depth of 
 love in look and tone which forbid Howard to repel 
 his attempt as an impertinence. He did not at the 
 time respond to it ; but on an after occasion he laid 
 his hand gravely on Courtenay 's arm, and said, 'My 
 friend, if yonder building be the temple of a God, I 
 dare not mock Him by entering it as I am.' 
 
 Courtenay would have combated this conclusion ; 
 but Howard closed the conversation with irresistible 
 though gentle force.
 
 ^ -^ '^ 'i- ^^ ^• 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 What you do 
 
 Still betters what is done. . . . 
 
 when you sing, 
 
 I'd have you buy and sell so ; so give alms, 
 Pray so, and for the ordering of your affairs 
 To sing them too. 
 
 "Winter's Tale. 
 
 AS Mr. Howard took leave of Lady St. Helens 
 in the Piazza PItti, he reiterated his promise to 
 bring the young English girl of whom he had 
 spoken, to see her that evening, at her hotel 
 on the Lungarno. He commissioned Oreste to 
 tell Beatrice to expect him, and promised to give 
 the painter an opinion he had begged on a fancy 
 picture which now occupied him. Accordingly, 
 after the frugal meal which always satisfied him, 
 Mr. Howard set forth to accomplish his double 
 purpose. Oreste was anxiously awaiting his visitor; 
 he had placed his picture in a favourable light, and 
 was regarding it with enthusiastic fondness now 
 from one corner, now from another of the apartment, 
 while Maddalena, with her usual placid smile, at 
 once calmed and encouraged him. 
 
 ' It is worthy of me, Maddalena !' he exclaimed ; 
 ' say, it is worthy of me.'
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 6^ 
 
 ' It is the prettiest easel picture you have ever 
 produced.' 
 
 ' Be it so ! What then ? What is an easel pic- 
 ture ? una cosa di nullo ! — Oh ! my poor Ugolino ! 
 wilt thou ever be finished ? or wilt thou gnaw thy 
 hands till the rats come to thy help ? But why 
 does not the Sign or Oarde arrive ?' 
 
 ' He is here,' said Mr. Howard, placing his hand 
 on the painter's shoulder. ' Don't move — I see 
 your work excellently.' 
 
 The picture represented a man dying in extreme 
 old age, yet with lire in his e^'e, and strength in 
 the grasp with which he holds a youth, nearer 
 mature manhood than Flavio, but evidently drawn 
 from him. He listens to his father's last words 
 w^ith grief and earnestness ; there is a soft beauty on 
 his face, and a certain irresoluteness in his attitude. 
 At some distance from the pallet, a young woman 
 is kneeling before a shrine to the Madonna ; her 
 figure is partially lighted by the lamp burning be- 
 fore the image, and partially by the grey light of 
 morning, which steals through a casement, and, 
 falling on the dying man's face, increases its ghastly 
 hue. Her hands are clasped in the utmost intensity 
 of supplication, and her lips are apart ; but her eyes 
 have wandered away, and rest on the old man's 
 countenance with an expression of agonized soli- 
 citude. 
 
 'Now you would not suppose that the child 
 Beatrice could look like that, would you r' cried 
 Oreste. ' She has marvellous readiness of under- 
 standing. Three words of the story in her ear, and 
 there she was before me — the very thing I desired.'
 
 64 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 In another part of the picture were soldiers fur- 
 bishing arms, and regarding their expiring leader 
 with various expressions of sorrow. A Capuchin 
 friar, of a singularly mean and base physiognom}', 
 was placed by himself in the shade. 
 
 ' There is that rascally Era Giovacchino — for a 
 rascal he is, gainsay it who will,' muttered Oreste, 
 ' and I have branded him as such to avenge poor 
 Annunziata.' 
 
 ' I should like to hear your story, Oreste,' said 
 Mr. Howard, regarding the picture with considerable 
 pleasure. 
 
 ' I am not sure that you would at this present 
 moment, having, as you hinted, further engage- 
 ments for this evening. If I begin to improvise, 
 which I must do to tell such a history as this, 
 I cannot answer when I may leave off; and on 
 my word, if I do begin, you shall not quit this 
 chamber while one syllable is wanting to make the 
 tale complete.' 
 
 ' Thanks, good Oreste, for your warning ; and you 
 have suggested an idea altogether more worthy of 
 yourself and of your work than making me your 
 sole auditor. The English Countess to whom 1 
 presented you, shall hear you improvise and see your 
 picture, and who knows what may be the effect 
 produced ? Eh ! Signora Maddalena, what say you P' 
 
 * Always grateful to our kind patron.' 
 
 * I hope you did not omit to give Beatrice notice 
 that she is to accompany me this evening.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, she is ready,' replied Oreste, caUing to 
 her from the gallery of the court. Beatrice quickly 
 descended, dressed in the only costume she ever
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 6^^ 
 
 wore when she walked with Mr. Howard — a plain 
 black silk gown, and a large Leghorn hat ; while 
 round her neck was the sole ornament she possessed 
 — a string of pearls purchased one by one by Annun- 
 ziata, with which it was her especial pride to encircle 
 the throat of her darling child. 
 
 Beatrice thus simply arrayed, was certainly as 
 lovely a creature as ever painter or poet in this 
 land of painting and poetry dreamed of. And she 
 even yet retained the charm of the unconscious 
 beauty of childhood ; which is to be accounted for 
 by the fact that her thoughts were of others, not 
 of herself. 
 
 ' I am going to take you to see some friends and 
 countrywomen of mine, Beatrice,' said Mr. Howard, 
 with a smile of satisfaction as he looked on her. 
 ' ' I am ready,' replied Beatrice, with the composed 
 and perfectly unaffected dignity which Maddalena 
 loved in her. 
 
 The two set out together. They had not far to 
 walk before they reached the Lungarno. A flower- 
 girl passed them, who immediately held out to 
 Beatrice a white rose-bud, exclaiming with admira- 
 tion — 
 
 ' Bella rosa che tu sei, prendi.' 
 
 And Beatrice with a smile accepted the flower. 
 
 On entering the hotel, Mr. Howard and Beatrice 
 were led into the magnificent apartments of the 
 first floor. The walls of the rooms were hung with 
 tapestry, or painted in fresco, and adorned with 
 gilding and mirrors. Casts of the best statues 
 stood on the inlaid floors, and tables of polished 
 marbles occupied the centre of the sala. The 
 
 YOL. I. r
 
 66 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 general aspect was that of a palace rather than 
 of an hotel, and Lady St. Helens, reclining on 
 a sofa of rich damask, a silver salver covered 
 with fruit by her side, contemplated it with satis- 
 faction. Anne Lindsay was standing in an open 
 balcony ; beyond her a fountain played in the 
 midst of flowers ; she came in to welcome her old 
 friend and new guest. The two ladies exchanged 
 glances expressive to Mr. Howard of as much admi- 
 ration as he could desire. A guitar was lying on a 
 cushion. 
 
 ' Are you fond of music ?' asked Anne, as she 
 followed Beatrice's eye to the instrument. 
 
 * Oh ! very,' replied Beatrice, timidly. 
 
 ' Do you like the guitar ?' 
 
 ' Very much.' 
 
 ' Can you play it ?' 
 
 ' I have none.' 
 
 As Beatrice answered shyly in monosyllables, Mr. 
 Howard came to her aid. 
 
 ' Beatrice is very fond of music, and I know it 
 would be a great pleasure to her to hear Miss 
 Lindsay's guitar.' 
 
 ' Then certainly she shall,' replied Anne, with a 
 good-natured smile ; and taking it up, she began to 
 tune the strings. ' We are all fond of music, Mr. 
 Howard. I assure you my brother sings very well ; 
 even my aunt allows that, judge as she is.' 
 
 Lady St. Helens smiled an assent, then added, 
 languidly, ' Indeed, my dear Anne, I like your voice 
 also particularly. Pray sing that pretty Venetian 
 barcarolla.' 
 
 Anne took up her guitar simply, rather awk-
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 67 
 
 wardly, and, without any arrangement of herself or 
 it, sang correctly, sweetly, and with spirit (though 
 it was not the spirit of coquetry), the air for 
 which Lady St. Helens had asked. 
 
 Lady St. Helens listened as if she found the per- 
 formance a little vapid, and rising from her reclining 
 position, exclaimed, almost before the song was 
 finished — 
 
 'Here, my dear Anne, lend me the guitar. I 
 want Mr. Howard to hear the Spanish melody that 
 clever creature was trying to teach me this morning. 
 I was so stupid over it — I am afraid I have not 
 caught it now.' 
 
 A more striking contrast than the Countess pre- 
 sented to her niece cannot be imagined. She was 
 tall and graceful ; the raven tresses of her hair hung 
 never in very exact order round her face and neck ; 
 her forehead was of a creamy whiteness ; eyebrows 
 most pathetically curved added to the sentimental 
 character of her large grey eyes and black eyelashes ; 
 her complexion was brilliant, her teeth pearly, her 
 smile frequent, yet by no means to an experienced 
 observer convincingly indicative of a sweet temper. 
 She placed herself in a graceful attitude, threw back 
 her head with a little laugh meant to conciliate for- 
 giveness for all shortcomings, and then sang an air 
 which was very romanesque, and required for its 
 accompaniment a variety of taps on the sounding- 
 board and thrums on the strings, which Anne would 
 have performed very unskilfully. The Countess had 
 not a fine voice, but she had a correct ear and taste, 
 and knew how to make everything agreeable that 
 she attempted. Her small audience listened with 
 r 2
 
 68 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 such evident pleasure, that she gave them a second 
 song, and then laid the guitar languishingly aside. 
 This was the moment chosen by Mr. Howard for 
 saying— 
 
 ' I should like you to hear Miss Courtenay sing.' 
 
 ' Miss Courtenay — how terribly English ! — and 
 she is so enchantingly Italian in looks and in 
 manner.' 
 
 ' Oh ! not quite in manner, I hope,' said Beatrice, 
 casting a look of appeal on Anne, who smiling good- 
 humouredly, replied — ■ 
 
 ' No, no ; we will own you for a countrywoman. 
 You must come to England, and get rid of your 
 foreign ways.' 
 
 ' I would not have her get rid of them for the 
 world,' exclaimed Lady St. Helens, with vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 Mr. Howard returned to his point : ' Beatrice has 
 had the best instructions that Florence affords. I 
 should like now to enjoy the benefit of your opinion, 
 for I have set my heart on making a proficient of 
 my favourite.' 
 
 ' Don't frighten her,' said Lady St. Helens, 
 placing her jewelled fingers on Mr. Howard's arm. 
 
 ' We must not shorten Lady St. Helens' drive in 
 the Cascine, Beatrice ; sing one song before we take 
 leave.' 
 
 Beatrice, accustomed to a ready compliance with 
 his wishes, conquered timidity enough to obey, though 
 not enough to prevent the first notes of her song 
 from being tremulous ; but so genuine was her 
 enthusiasm in the exercise of her art, that in a few 
 moments she was less anxious to please Mr. Howard,
 
 THE MYJITLE AND THE HEATHER. 69 
 
 less fearful to displease the Countess, than she was 
 absorbed in the song itself. 
 
 Her beautiful soprana voice gushed forth in a tide 
 of melody that amazed and enchanted her hearers ; 
 the song she had chosen was ' Son vergine vezzosa.' 
 
 ' Brava, brava !' exclaimed Lady St. Helens ; and 
 she poured out a torrent of Italian praise as the 
 meed worthy of the fair cantatrice. 
 
 ' Beautiful !' said Anne, in a low voice, and draw- 
 ing a deep breath of admiration. 
 
 ' I am delighted beyond expression,' continued 
 the Countess. ' Wh}^ what a wonder of the world 
 this is ! Is not all Florence mad about her ?' 
 
 ' Her grandfather and I have taken especial pains 
 to prevent that, my dear Lady St. Helens. I assure 
 you, to see and to hear Beatrice is a pleasure per- 
 mitted to few. Here I knew she would be appre- 
 ciated.' 
 
 Beatrice, to whom this language was absolutely 
 new, was like one in a dream. 
 
 ' I insist on taking her and you with me this 
 evening to the Cascine. I cannot think of, or look 
 at, or speak to any one else. Cara Beatrice, you 
 must not refuse me.' 
 
 Beatrice turned to Mr. Howard, who gave his 
 assent. 
 
 Greatly was Beatrice fascinated by the beauty 
 and the affability of the Countess ; yet, not even 
 in this the first hour of their influence did they 
 render her insensible to Anne's honest friendliness of 
 manner, which particularly pleased her as directed 
 towards Mr. Howard. She thought she could per- 
 ceive that Miss Lindsay's sentiments had something
 
 70 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 in their nature of the almost filial affection with 
 which she herself regarded him. 
 
 The hours went too swiftly : the weather was 
 lovely ; everything, everybody seemed to welcome 
 Beatrice ; and at night, when alone in her little 
 chamber (Annunziata was fast asleep), there was a 
 yet deeper delight experienced as she reflected on the 
 pleasure that was passed, and exclaimed to herself: 
 
 ' Then I have not laboured in vain — I have repaid 
 all Mr. Hov/ard's cares. How far beyond anything 
 I could expect were the Countess's expressions of 
 praise ! and Mr. Howard appealed to her, he seemed 
 to think that her opinion was not to be doubted. 
 My prayers are about to be answered; my desires 
 will be accomplished. Happy, happy Beatrice ! Oh ! 
 my father, dost thou know how happy thy child is ? 
 
 'Dear grandfather, you little know all the de- 
 lightful hopes and designs with which this fond 
 heart is throbbing, so near your own !' 
 
 She started up, feeling as if she could scarcely 
 refrain from seeking her grandfather at once, and 
 telUng him all that had happened. But she lay 
 softly down again, and at length slept. 
 
 At daybreak Annunziata stood beside her : 
 
 ' Bambina mia, you have rested ill ; you tossed 
 from side to side, and you sang in your sleep.' 
 
 'No wonder, dear Annunziata,' cried Beatrice, 
 smiling brightly, — ' no wonder. Don't be sur- 
 prised if I sing always now. I cannot tell you all 
 the kind things the English Countess said to me 
 last night when T sang to her, nor how satisfied Mr. 
 Howard was ; and your Beatrice, she was not a little 
 pleased either; for you well know,' she added, gravely,
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 7 1 
 
 ' how my thoughts have, for some time, turned on 
 my silly voice being one day of use to my dear 
 grandfather.' 
 
 ' I don't know what all this means,' replied An- 
 nunziata, pettishly. ' II Signor Oarde is a strange 
 man, always full of his schemes — and you are a child 
 — and the nonno, he lives with his head in the clouds. 
 I hope all will turn out well ; but, for my part, 
 I think you are beautiful and good enough to match 
 with the first of our nobles. Noble you are in your 
 own country, are you not ?— the blood of em^perors 
 flows in your veins — so Signor Oreste told me, or I 
 would not have served you as I have. This is what 
 ought to employ your countryman's thoughts, and 
 he could bring it to pass if he would.' 
 
 ' Peace, peace, Annunziata,' said Beatrice, with a 
 blush, putting her hand on her nurse's mouth. 
 ' Neither his thoughts nor mine ever take that direc- 
 tion. But now I must get up ; there is much to 
 do, for the Countess insisted that we — that is, my 
 grandfather and I — should come to her this morn- 
 ing, before she goes out.' 
 
 And Beatrice was singing all the time she was 
 dressing. It was not a very common occurrence to 
 see an exuberance of spirits in her, and Annunziata 
 could not but take pleasure in her happiness, though, 
 as she continued to murmur, she was somewhat 
 suspicious of Mr. Howard's plans concerning her 
 darling.
 
 ^5 cg3 eg? eOi f4> eg;? eQ3 cQ3 cib 
 
 J5JX, a>^ 0^ ..(>J51, J^ >i!jfb vUlfl/ v^ J^ .S^ S^ J!j^ 0^ »j^ ..^ C^ vl?pL 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, 
 And with the half-blown rose. 
 
 Shakespeake. 
 
 MR. HOWARD had introduced Beatrice to the 
 notice of the Countess of St. Helens without 
 any positive project ; but from the first burst of her 
 enthusiastic admiration, he framed one. He had 
 cast the future of the young girl constantly in his 
 mind of late. He seemed to have done all he could 
 do, and was at a loss to proceed, when Lady St. 
 Helens appeared in Florence. He knew her well as 
 a patroness of the fine arts, an ardent seeker of 
 the rare and beautiful, a jealous appropriatress of 
 whatever challenged admiration : her liberality was 
 profuse ; her wealth vast, and chiefly at her com- 
 mand ; for, wife of Sir Roderic Lindsay, a Scotch 
 baronet, she was also a Countess in her own right. 
 
 That Beatrice should exercise her talents in Eng- 
 land, and reap the rich harvest which that country 
 affords, was certainly the advisable course to pursue ; 
 but Courtenay could not render it practicable, and 
 Howard himself discerned no mode whereby to effect 
 it so promising as that of making her the protegee of 
 the Countess. He well knew the attendant disadvan-
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 73 
 
 tages, but avoided a close searching into them, lest 
 the discoveries he should make might frighten him 
 from the accomplishment of the scheme. Lady St. 
 Helens really had musical taste and knowledge, and 
 would hold Beatrice's talents in due estimation. Was 
 it possible that she should pass from admiration to 
 envy ? He trusted it was not. Beatrice, as her atten- 
 dant star, would but heighten her brilliancy. The 
 lady was proverbially fickle ; but by the time she 
 wearied of Beatrice, Beatrice might have gained a 
 footing independent of her support. ' A time comes 
 when the scaffolding may be thrown down, and the 
 building stands complete,' he thought. 
 
 He was aware that the Countess required flattery 
 and obedience. Beatrice knew not what the first in its 
 falseness meant ; but nothing could be more gratify- 
 ing than her genuine admiration of Lady St. Helens' 
 charms, and her gratitude for the kindness lavished 
 on her ; and having all her life been used to 
 yield unhesitating compliance to those she loved, 
 without one servile thought she would render a 
 submission as complete as the veriest tyrant could 
 desire, on all points where merely her own wishes 
 were concerned. Annunziata's imperious temper 
 had exercised her in gentleness and patience. But 
 as Mr. Howard began to reflect on the unsophisti- 
 cated simplicity of the girl and all her docile virtues, 
 he felt some compunction in plunging her at once in 
 total ignorance, into the whirlpool of fashion. He 
 sighed, but he did not — he said he could not relin- 
 quish the project, for what else was to be done with 
 her ? He took comfort in the thought of Anne 
 Lindsay, retaining her honest plainness of speech
 
 74 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 and rectitude of conduct in the pernicious atmosphere 
 which Beatrice would be forced to breathe. To 
 be sure, she had not Beatrice's beauty and talent 
 to win her the flattery which dazzles. She was 
 rather a stander-b}'-, than an actress on the stage 
 on which Lady St. Helens loved to exhibit 
 herself and her favourites, of whom Anne was 
 not one. 
 
 ' She is worth a thousand Countesses,' Mr. Howard 
 cordially pronounced ; ' but she cannot be Beatrice's 
 patroness. I will see that she is her friend.' 
 
 ' Has the Countess been long a widow ?' asked 
 Beatrice of Mr. Howard, not venturing as yet to 
 appeal to Miss Lindsay to unravel any little mystery 
 in which she found herself involved. 
 
 ' A widow ! silly child ! what can you mean ? 
 Why do you kill her husband, pray ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! then she has one !' exclaimed Beatrice, in a 
 tone of pleasure as well as surprise. ' I am very glad 
 of that. But I am sure I never heard her mention 
 him,' she added with a perplexed air. 
 
 * You may have heard him mentioned without 
 recognising him as her husband, for he bears quite 
 a different name. He is Sir Roderic Lindsay, while 
 she is Countess of St. Helens.' 
 
 'Ah! Miss Lindsay's uncle.' 
 
 ' He went from Rome to Scotland ; the ladies 
 return by land, passing the summer months in 
 Switzerland — a very pleasant scheme : if I were not 
 too old to be a chevalier des dames, I would offer my 
 attendance. Now explain to me the source of your 
 great satisfaction on learning that the Countess is 
 not a widow ?'
 
 THE MYETLE AXD THE HEATHER. 75 
 
 ' Why, I think it must be that so much magnifi- 
 cence, so much gaiety, did not seem to suit widow- 
 hood. I did not understand how she could appear 
 so happy, yet at times I fancied I could trace a secret 
 sorrow under it.' 
 
 ' I know of none. She has never lost a child, I 
 believe. If such melancholy exist, it is probably the 
 effect of the lassitude produced by a life of fashion, 
 Beatrice. Do you imagine such a position as hers 
 to be enviable ?' 
 
 ' I never considered it, I believe ; except that 
 sometimes I have thought — ' Beatrice paused. 
 
 ' What, Beatrice ?' 
 
 ' That it must be very delightful to be able to be 
 as kind and generous as she is.' 
 
 ' True,' replied Mr. Howard. ' You have hit on 
 the chief gratification of a high station. What 
 would you say, if Lady St. Helens were to offer to 
 exert her generosity on your behalf, and to take you 
 to England, introduce you, facilitate the accom- 
 plishment of the object of your education ?' 
 
 Beatrice looked Mr. Howard earnestly in the face. 
 A full conviction of the reality of his words impressed 
 itself on her mind ; she turned slowly away, and wept 
 in silence. 
 
 ' You must not answer her with tears, Beatrice,' 
 said Mr. Howard, kindly. 
 
 The girl raised her face ; it was very pale : in a 
 tone of profound pathos she said — 
 
 ' To go hence, to leave all I love — all I am used 
 to ; they to be without me — I without them ! Alone 
 in the world ! — ah ! better alone in a desert,' She 
 seated herself as she spoke, dropped her hands in
 
 7^ THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 her lap in an attitude of dejection, and after a few- 
 moments' pause, she added, looking upwards — 
 
 ' As near those in Heaven there as here — and 
 those I leave would have me go. I know it. 
 Nor must I lose any time. My grandfather, he 
 sometimes looks pale and feeble — God grant that my 
 harvest may be early enough for him to reap its 
 fruits ! I am ready, quite ready !' 
 
 ' But why speak thus of loneliness, and of leaving 
 all you love ? I thought you already loved the 
 Countess and Miss Lindsay.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Beatrice ; ' but the love of to-day and 
 the love that is to be, may they compare with the 
 affections that run in my veins, or have subsisted 
 for yeai-s ? But enough : if it be as you say, I will 
 go with them lovingly and gratefully, and God will 
 help me on my way.' 
 
 And it was as Mr. Howard said. It needed very 
 little instigation on his part to draw forth from the 
 Countess the frankest and warmest proposals to make 
 Beatrice one of her family, to convey her to Eng- 
 land, and when there, to make every effort to accom- 
 plish whatever could be desired for her. Mr. Howard 
 did not consider himself justified in refusing, or 
 counselling the refusal of offers so advantageous and 
 well-timed ; and Courtenay, guided by him, gave a 
 grateful consent, and bore in silence the pang it 
 inflicted. What the decision of Courtenay or his 
 granddaughter would have been, had Mr. Howard 
 revealed all the knowledge he possessed of Lady 
 St. Helens' character, it is useless to inquire ; 
 he left them in darkness, which he deemed more 
 beneficial than light. He could not be quite blind to
 
 THE MYHTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 77 
 
 a certain gleam of surprise that passed across Anne 
 Lindsay's face when she first learned his willingness 
 to commit his favourite to the charge of her aunt ; 
 and it was in a half apologetic tone that he rehearsed 
 to her some of the reasons by which he was actuated, 
 ' What was I likely to be able to do for her, that 
 would be more advantageous, or even equally so, than 
 this may prove r' was his answer to his own mis- 
 givings; but it could not be uttered in similar words 
 to Miss Lindsay, though she could read pretty 
 plainly his meaning and his doubts, in his various 
 modes of recommending Beatrice to her care, and 
 his attempts to derive from her a clear know- 
 ledge of the dangers and difficulties most likely to 
 beset inexperience. Anne felt her respect for Mr. 
 Howard somewhat impaired by his present pro- 
 ceeding. She regarded Beatrice with compassion. 
 She blamed and yet pitied the former, and she 
 pitied without blaming the latter. She looked on 
 the young girl as one turned adrift in a little boat, 
 on a proverbially treacherous lake, by an experienced 
 sailor, who ought to have known better than to let 
 her run such risk. She, standing on the shore, 
 watching the fairy bark, its white sail glistening in 
 the bright sunshine and fluttering in the favourable 
 breeze, felt desirous to render her knowledge available 
 to its unsuspicious occupant, as far as she could do 
 so without heightening her peril by the diminution 
 of her confidence. 
 
 ' She is too good to be the sport of an hour,' she 
 thought ; ' more bright and beautiful than any 
 that have gone before. And I am losing my heart 
 to one of my aunt's butterflies? Yes — there is
 
 78 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 something worth caring for here. She is pure and 
 guileless as a child, truthful and trusting. At pre- 
 sent, she is fascinated by Lady St. Helens' lavish 
 fondness and agreeable qualities ; and if she is to 
 allow them, to be exercised for her benefit, I should 
 not like to open her eyes, and substitute for grateful 
 affection mere self-interest. No, I must let her 
 alone, poor child ! but I may hazard some hints to 
 Mr. Howard.' 
 
 Accordingly, Anne expressed a hope that Miss 
 Courtenay would be enabled to retain a certain 
 degree of independence. 
 
 ' She is, I see, a perfect child in many things. It 
 may never occur to her that gifts, however freely 
 given, may become links in a heavier chain of obli- 
 gation than she may like to bear. For instance, 
 dear Mr. Howard, we Lindsays are poor — and proud 
 enough, our enemies would add. Do you suppose 
 that I could allow my wealthy aunt to array me in 
 splendour like her own ? Of course not. What I 
 could not afford to purchase for myself, it would 
 not become me to receive. And Miss Courtenay 
 does not want trinkets, or any of the frippery of the 
 fashion ; she will never look better than she did the 
 first evening you brought her to us, in her straw hat 
 and her black dress. I hope she feels thus, and 
 that her grandfather intends her to have some 
 allowance sufficient for her simple wants. These are 
 very feminine remarks, but I am sure you under- 
 stand my meaning. I don't know her well enough 
 yet to make them to herself.' 
 
 ' Thank you, I understand you perfectly. Bea- 
 trice shall not be unprovided forj and when she
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 79 
 
 arrives in England, she has the house of her grand- 
 father's sister, who resides in London, always open 
 to her as a home.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that is a comfort. I dare say it will all do 
 very well, now you tell me there is a place to 
 which she can go if she tire of us, or we may send 
 her if we tire of her,' replied Anne, trying not to 
 give too serious a tone to her indications of anxiety. 
 
 ' This is an old promise on the part of Mrs. Fane,' 
 said Mr. Howard. ' I suppose that Beatrice's pro- 
 fessional engagements will be carried on in London. 
 Her grandfather has positively debarred her from 
 the stage. I see plainly that her talents (perhaps 
 hereditary) would singularly qualify her for it ; and 
 such is my perfect reliance on her purity, that even in 
 an atmosphere so perilous, I believe she might breathe 
 with perfect moral health. Xor is he less inti- 
 mately convinced of this, but no inducement on 
 earth would make him sanction the act ; and to 
 calm his fears, she has given him her promise.' 
 
 ' And my aunt is thoroughly acquamted with her 
 position?' asked Anne. 
 
 ' I have made everything known to her,' said Mr. 
 Howard ; ' and she takes an interest in the glorious 
 projects the girl cherishes, and forms the liveliest 
 anticipations of her success.' 
 
 ' I am quite as well disposed to her as Lady St. 
 Helens is,' cried Anne, cheerfully, 'though not so 
 powerful to serve her, and no doubt she must think 
 me dull by comparison. Still, in the long ran, I 
 don't despair of her feeling some little liking for 
 plain Anne Lindsay.' 
 
 ' You do not know how great a value I set on
 
 8o THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 your regard for her,' interrupted Mr. Howard, 
 warmly. ' Indeed, my dear Miss Lindsay, were it 
 not for your presence, I do not think I could let 
 my child depart. I commend her to you most 
 earnestly. You cannot he yet acquainted with half 
 the loveliness of her character. She is rich in 
 
 * All with which Nature hallo weth her daughters." 
 
 * I believe it,' said Anne, in tones that sounded 
 sober, compared to those in which the Countess spoke 
 the praises of Beatrice, but which inspired Mr. 
 Howard with the utmost confidence. 
 
 There was yet another person to consent to Bea- 
 trice's departure ; this was Annunziata. On hearing 
 the proposal, she remained, as she said, ' stupefatta.* 
 Then, with a burst of eloquence, she declared, ' If 
 the Signorina goes, I go with her. When does she 
 depart ? I am ready. Annunziata has little to 
 take, and little to leave. The child shall not go 
 hence by herself, to pine and die. Her father and 
 mother both died young ; so would she, if uncared 
 for by any she has been used to from her youth. 
 I have said.' 
 
 She never for a moment relinquished this design, 
 nor did it appear to concern her whether or not 
 others considered it feasible. How acceptable it was 
 to Beatrice, was evinced, in spite of herself, by the 
 increased serenity of her countenance and elasticity 
 of her step. Mr. Howard, who had watched with 
 deep concern her struggles for cheerfulness, could not 
 reject that which seemed to restore it, and the addi- 
 tion of Annunziata, with the romance which attended 
 it, was by no means displeasing to the Countess.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Till you taught my nature 
 Like a rude storm to talk aloud and thunder, 
 Sleep was not gentler than my soul, and stiller. 
 
 Shakespeake. 
 
 BUT Oreste — Mr. Howard did not forget Ms 
 promise to him ? Certainly not. One evening 
 before the departure of the Countess, her salon in 
 the hotel was lighted, a select number of her 
 friends were assembled in it, and at the further end 
 of the room was Oreste's picture, placed on an easel, 
 and appearing to great advantage, while Oreste him- 
 self, casting away a little shyness which at times 
 overtook him to his own dismay and surprise, stood 
 beside it. Mr. Howard moved about among the 
 guests, commenting on the merits of the painting, 
 and mentioning that the fact represented was the 
 death of Pier Saccone dei Tarlati, the celebrated 
 bandit chief of the fourteenth century, striking and 
 remarkable enough as related by Sismondi, without 
 the adjuncts which the painter's and poet's fancy 
 furnished. 
 
 Beatrice and Flavio were there, side by side, their 
 eyes fixed intently on Oreste, as he began — 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 8 3 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 O'er Pietra Mala rolled the wintry storm, 
 
 As on a mission, with its mighty voice 
 
 To call the dying chieftain's soul away, 
 
 And bear it onward on the howling blast — 
 
 Meet messenger to one who fourscore years 
 
 Had vowed to blood, to rapine and revenge, 
 
 And even now was gladdened by the sound 
 
 Of the wild war without. He lay, and watched 
 
 The elements' contention with delight 
 
 Fierce as had filled him when, from rocky crag. 
 
 He had looked down upon a struggling host. 
 
 And marked their deeds of valour, till he longed 
 
 To urge his charger on, and plunge below. 
 
 The mists that rushed across the argent moon 
 
 Were like armed squadrons hurrying to engage, 
 
 And ever and anon the lightning's flash 
 
 Bade the dark cloud recoil like shrivelling scroll ; 
 
 And mountain-top to mountain-top gave forth 
 
 The thunder's bandied menace, while the wind 
 
 Swept moaning through the chesnut grove that girt 
 
 The castle height no foe had ever scaled. 
 
 * My son, this is thy father's dying hour — 
 
 The Heavens, they know it ! Shall his foes sleep on ' 
 Or if the whirlwind wake them, turn and say, 
 
 * 'Tis but the murmur of the shivering trees — 
 Without a leader are Saccone's spears. 
 
 'Tis but the pattering hail, not metalled hoof 
 Of horses, that we hear ; no night-surprise 
 Threatens us more. Piero sleeps in death.* 
 Weep not beside me, boy. Tears ill become 
 Thy father's son. Hear my expiring wish : 
 Gird on my sword, and call my followers round. 
 Go — scale the walls of Gressa. Bid their lord 
 Quail, though his ancient enemy be dead !' 
 Young Marco saw the flicker of fierce joy 
 Light up his eye, and, shuddering, he implored ; 
 
 * Send me not from thee, father, till thine ear 
 Be deaf to all my words of love, thy gaze 
 No longer answer mine. I have obeyed
 
 THE MYRTLE A^sD THE HEATHER. 83 
 
 With a meet reverence thy behests till now. 
 The hawk upon thy hand, thy crouching hound. 
 The steed that leaped with joy beneath thy weight, 
 Were not more mindful of thy slightest word 
 Than I have been. Then bid me, father, stay.' 
 The old man smiled : ''Tis my last thought of glee 
 To rouse the Bishop from his morning dreams ; 
 Then disappoint me not, but haste to prove 
 To all my gallant band that, wanting me. 
 They yet a chief retain.' 
 
 Irresolute 
 The youth with glance unconscious sought his bride. 
 And saw her praying at the Virgin's shrine, 
 Lit by the tiny lamp her hands had trimmed. 
 For him who lay in the death agony. 
 Her lowly attitude beseemed the prayer. 
 But her dilated eyes were fixed upon 
 That hoary man who still of vengeance raved. 
 Her cheek grew pale as she his meaning drank. 
 And, springing to her feet, she seized the arm 
 Of a tall, sallow- \asaged monk, who stood 
 Near to the pallet, murmuring in his ear — 
 ' Forbid this crime for the Eedeemer's sake ! 
 Tell him, of blood and guilt he hath enough 
 To bear upon him to the judgment-seat. 
 Bid him not send my husband forth to fall.' 
 But the wretch trembled at Saccone's glare, 
 Nor dared to speak the mandate of his Lord. 
 She turned her to an aged soldier near. 
 Furbishing arms, and said, in milder tones : 
 
 * Oh ! follow not to death thy chieftain young. 
 His father's stratagem and strength of arm 
 Failed of this feat — then why should he prevail ?' 
 
 * He must attempt,' the veteran said, ' or men 
 "Will lightly hold his courage. Lady, peace !' 
 
 * Peace !' Paolina cried, ''tis peace I ask !' 
 As lioness upon the hunter turns 
 
 WTio seeks to steal her cubs, to Marco's sire 
 She next her speech directs, first snatching from 
 
 G 2
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 The monk's astonished grasp the crucifix : 
 
 * See here, old man, the emblem of our faith, 
 And all thy hope ; repent thee of thy crimes, 
 Nor seal thy doom by murder of thy son. 
 My Marco shall not quit his home, his wife !' 
 
 * Give me my father's sword,' the young man cried, 
 (For, looking round, he saw on every brow 
 
 A sullen discontent, as they would cry — 
 
 * Shall women be our rulers ? — rule our chief?') 
 ' I am prepared, and follow me who will !' 
 
 Old Piero clapped his feeble hands ; the youth 
 Sprang to his wife, and clasped her in his arms. 
 More fondly than in love's first hour he kissed 
 Her quivering lips, and silenced their complaint. 
 
 * See, see, the morning breaks — I must be gone — 
 Bring forth my snow-white steed. Arm, men, and mount. 
 Beside my father, Paolina, watch — 
 
 He is my father — dear one, watch for me ! 
 
 I will be here by noon ; meanwhile look up — 
 
 See yonder star, within its lake of blue 
 
 Serenely beautiful ! Let that star speak 
 
 Of love and hope to thee. Farewell, farewell !' 
 
 She watched beside the dying man till dawn — 
 
 Watched till her solitary star had quenched 
 
 Its rays in light, and with them quenched her hope. 
 
 'Why comes he not?' Piero feebly groaned. 
 
 She left his side, and from the casement gazed. 
 
 But no returning horseman met her sight. 
 
 * Why comes he not ?' he quei-ulously asked ; 
 
 * What ! must I die, my foeman's fall unknown, 
 Triumph untasted, and my noble boy 
 Unblessed ? Paolina, are they yet in view V 
 She heeded not his questions nor his plaints. 
 
 * Fain would I close for aye these weary eyes. 
 
 Fain rest these aching limbs.' 'Twas then she turned. 
 
 * Thou ask'st in vain for rest till Marco comes. 
 That spirit which has warred with all men's peace 
 Shall lack it now. Live in thy doubt and fear ; 
 
 I bid thee tarry till his doom be sealed.'
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEll. 85 
 
 The tardy hours crept by, and still he cried, 
 
 * I fain would die,' and still in hollow tones 
 She bid him linger on. 
 
 Now she beholds 
 A solitary horseman at the foot 
 Of the steep mountain path. 'Tis not the steed — 
 'Tis not the snowy plume on Marco's helm. 
 And further she discerns a little band 
 That climb the hill together, for they bear 
 A burden 'mong them. ' Come they yet in view V 
 She has passed by him like the lightning flash ; 
 Her wild eye scorched him as she went. She fled 
 Down the stone steps, and to the postern-gate. 
 
 * Otto ! how darest thou thus outstrip thy lord ? 
 
 Was his steed maimed ? Could he not mount on thine ?' 
 ' Dear lady — he himself — ' * Is wounded ? — speak !' 
 
 * Is stretched on yonder bier.' 'Approach — approach — 
 Ye cannot come too quick who bear my love ! 
 Hither,' she frantic cried, * and follow me !' 
 
 Back to the chamber of the expiring man 
 
 She sprang with speed that mocked their burdened steps. 
 
 * Place him beside his sire. Now, old man, die ; 
 Die, if thou canst, in peace, for I forgive !' 
 Then Paolina sank upon the corse, 
 
 And her heart broke for her young Marco's death ! 
 
 This brief version of Oreste's narrative must fail 
 to convey any idea of the interest it excited as it 
 poured from his lips in the accents of his native 
 tongue, with eloquence that knew no pause, and 
 aided by powerful expression of tone, gesture, and 
 countenance. Some of his auditors wept, and Anne 
 Lindsay, though none discovered it, was of the 
 number. More applauded with enthusiasm, and of 
 these was the Countess herself. 
 
 * Good, my friend — very good,' was Mr. Howard's 
 brief, emphatic comment.
 
 86 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 Beatrice came to Oreste's side, placed her hand on 
 his arm, and looking up with a pale earnest face, she 
 said, in a reproachful tone : 
 
 ' Had I known that Paolina was so fierce, I do 
 not think I could have knelt to represent her, Signor 
 Oreste.' 
 
 ' And I,' exclaimed Flavio, — ' I never would have 
 been Marco, to break your heart !' 
 
 ' Foolish children, both of you,' cried Oreste, who 
 was the good-natured, lively, shrewd Florentine of 
 the nineteenth century again, his moustaches no 
 longer bristling with fierceness, nor his e3''e fired 
 with the desire of revenge, but listening with 
 grateful smiles to the Countess of St. Helens' ma- 
 jestic announcement that the picture was hers. 
 
 J
 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Trained to look up and hold a parent's hand, 
 And ever lift the eye to One above ; 
 Which knows not yet, while it obeys command, — 
 Hopes all, and all believes. 
 
 The Baptistery, 
 
 ON the stone steps of the terrace in front of the 
 ruined church of San Miniato, sat Beatrice 
 and Annunziata. They were looking their last 
 on Florence ; the view of the fair city spread out 
 before them was the loveliest which her neighbour- 
 ing heights command. Beatrice gazed in tearful 
 silence ; all speculativs apprehensions for the future 
 were swallowed up in the present grief of parting 
 from localities so dear. But Beatrice was little 
 accustomed to remain long absorbed in her own 
 feelings, and quickly became sensible that the 
 anguish she experienced was felt with equal keen- 
 ness by the companion at her side. With fondness 
 like that of her childhood, she laid her head on her 
 nurse's knee, saying, softly : 
 
 ' And you — your native Florence — all this bright- 
 ness, all this beauty — you will leave for me ! Good, 
 kind Annunziata ! it seems almost too much.' 
 
 The woman looked on Beatrice for a moment ;
 
 88 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 she raised her hand to her eyes, and passionately 
 dashed away the tears which dimmed them. And 
 now they sparkled as if with anger, and with a 
 sudden burst of that volubility which she shared as 
 the common gift of her compatriots, she exclaimed — 
 
 ' Presumptuous ! — ungrateful ! If you go to Eng- 
 land, is there any choice for Annunziata ? What ! 
 you, a child ! — you, in good truth, would set forth 
 by yourself to see the world ! You would think for 
 yourself, act for yourself, as you have here at home 
 for your grandfather, doubtless. Ask yourself what 
 you would have done together these long years, had 
 not Annunziata watched by you, cooked for you, 
 taken you out for air ? Have you ever known the 
 want of a mother ? Yet all this you would cast 
 aside for a whim ! — a whim which the Signor Oarde, 
 who spends his time and his money on whims, has 
 fabricated for you. Let me never hear such words 
 pass 3' our lips again. Too much for me to do ! 
 And what, may I ask, will you be able to do without 
 me ? Let me tell you, once for all, that if poor, 
 despised Annunziata goes not to England, neither 
 does the Signorina, clever as she may think herself.' 
 
 Having exhausted the rage which was, in fact, 
 only the refuge of sorrow, Annunziata burst into 
 tears, and rocked herself backwards and forwards to 
 lull the storm of emotion. 
 
 For a moment Beatrice had listened to her in 
 painful surprise, but reading the real cause of her 
 violence long before she had arrived at the end of 
 her tirade, the girl, in reply, did but place her hand 
 in that of Annunziata, and gently say : 
 
 ' No, dearest nurse, your child shall not venture
 
 THE IIYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 09 
 
 into the perilous world without you. Well is it for 
 her to have your bosom for her refuge in all her new 
 sorrows and difficulties, as in her old.' 
 
 Annunziata drew Beatrice, as she spoke, closely 
 to her, kissing her once or twice passionately. 
 
 ' But to think,' whispered Beatrice, ' of my grand- 
 father without either of us !' 
 
 'He has his books — he has his paper — he has his 
 pen. What could I do for him when you were 
 away ? Nothing. I should scold and quarrel with 
 him, for all would go wrong. No, no ; the Signor 
 Oreste and the Signor Oarde must see to him.' 
 
 A pause ensued, till Annunziata, rising hastily, 
 exclaimed : 
 
 ' It does not do to think — we must go into the 
 chui'ch and pray.' 
 
 They traversed the majestic nave in all its length, 
 and descended to the subterranean chapel, where the 
 lamps were burning round the shrine. Kneeling 
 there in the solemn silence of the spot, each pom-ed 
 forth the utterings of the heart to Him who alone can 
 comprehend them. Each grew calmer in praying — 
 first trustful, then hopeful. The God of Love invi- 
 gorated those who were prepared to encounter all 
 things in love. Annunziata prayed with vehemence; 
 her hands smote her breast. Beatrice might have 
 been a statue of prayer; her lips did not move, 
 her eyes were fixed on the pavement. They rose 
 and quitted the church. Beatrice lingered on the 
 terrace. 
 
 ' Yet a few moments,' she said, ' to see the sun 
 go down for the last time ! — a fitting farewell to 
 Florence. My grandfather cares not how late I am
 
 90 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 when with you; and the bright moon has risen 
 behind us.' 
 
 ' You told me that you must call on the Signor 
 Oarde as we return.' 
 
 ' I must indeed. Yet let us wait five minutes here.' 
 
 Beatrice seated herself on the step, and drew 
 Annunziata down by her side. 
 
 With a step as noiseless as he could make it, 
 a youth little older than Beatrice approached, 
 bearing in his hand a branch of roses, culled from 
 the bushes, which remain to tell where the convent 
 garden was. Placing himself beside Beatrice, he 
 laid them in her lap. 
 
 ' The last roses,' he said, — ' the last roses I shall 
 gather for you at San Miniato !' 
 
 The girl looked down at the flowers, and her tears 
 fell on them. 
 
 ' You here, Flavio ?' cried Annunziata, roughly. 
 
 * Pardon me,' said Flavio. ' Beatrice, you do not 
 reprove ?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Beatrice ; ' why should I reprove if 
 you liked to come ?' But her kindness seemed to 
 wound more than Annunziata' s asperity. 
 
 ' The same to you whether I come or stay away ! 
 I knew it, yet I was resolved that I would walk 
 home by your side this evening — that I would watch 
 your face as you looked your last on Florence, that 
 spot which I must inhabit when you are gone — how 
 long I know not. Will it be preferable, for the 
 sake of the tears you now shed, to any other in the 
 world, where you are not, nor have ever been, or 
 shall I seize the first moment which sets me free to 
 follow you ?'
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 9 1 
 
 ' Oh ! Flavio — your mother !' 
 
 ' What happiness will it be to her to behold my 
 misery ?' 
 
 * For her sake, be happy,' said Beatrice, placing 
 her hand on his kindly. 
 
 ' For her sake, make me happy : tell me that you 
 go to return — you will find me a man whom you leave 
 a boy ; tell me to love on in confidence — that the 
 time will arrive when 3^ou will not disregard the 
 accents which now fall so unheeded on your ear.' 
 
 ' Flavio, Flavio, have I not already begged you 
 not to distress me thus ? Of late you have spared 
 me, and I have again loved your companionship as 
 I did when we were children. Thus it was that I 
 desired we should part, but you have destroyed all 
 that I looked for — ' 
 
 ' In vain,' interrupted Flavio. ' I have been 
 silent of late, because silence gained me permission to 
 be at your side, and am so no longer because it now 
 avails me nothing, and I will have in exchange the 
 bitter pleasure of expressing all that I feel.' 
 
 Annunziata, at these words, and at the sight of 
 Beatrice's tears, burst with indignation on Flavio : 
 
 ' Has not my child enough to suffer, that you 
 should come here to make her weep ? Begone ! your 
 father shall hear of this. You were always over- 
 bold, but this is the first day that I have known 
 how far you carried your presumption. Insolent !' 
 
 Beatrice turned to her : 
 
 ' He is young, dear Annunziata. He is the son 
 of our good friend. Be not angry with him, and 
 still less repeat words which he will not be able to 
 use again. And you, Flavio,' she added, with a
 
 9^ THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 sweetness meant to soothe, but which aggravated 
 a thousandfold his grief, ' do not sorrow for the 
 past ; do not muse over it, nor feed your fancy 
 with thoughts of the future. I can make no pro- 
 mise with regard to feelings of which I can form no 
 idea. Your pleadings call foi*th no answer from my 
 heart ; when they cease, it is perfectly mute.' She 
 pressed her hand to her side as she spoke. ' Heart 
 and brain — all I have to give of thought or feeling 
 — is absorbed in my one purpose ; there seems to be 
 no space for more. To ask for what I have not to give 
 only pains me — only makes me turn from you, as I 
 would not turn from my playmate and my friend, 
 the brother of Maria. Moreover' (and here the girl 
 spoke with the dignity of a woman), ' you say that 
 silence now avails nothing. But it grieves me 
 more than ever that you should thrust this discourse 
 on me at this moment, when my sorrow is sacred, as 
 it were, to my grandfather, and when I need all my 
 fortitude to accomplish what I have undertaken.' 
 
 ' Only hear how she speaks !' exclaimed Annun- 
 ziata, with delight. 
 
 * Enough,' said Flavio. ' I oifend no more. See 
 there !' he pointed to his roses ; Beatrice having 
 risen as she spoke, they had fallen from her lap, and 
 some of them had scattered their leaves in the fall. 
 * Do not trample on them.' 
 
 Beatrice looked on him reproachfully, while he 
 picked up a branch on which were two rose-buds 
 unharmed ; he broke off one, and held it towards 
 her. She took it, and placed it in her bosom. 
 
 ' And this is mine,' he cried, triumphantly ; then, 
 as he examined it more closely, he exclaimed, with
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 93 
 
 bitter disappointment, ' See — a worm has eaten to 
 its core.' 
 
 He dashed it from him with Italian vehemence, 
 and darted down the hill. 
 
 ' Flavio !' cried Beatrice, but he paused not. 
 
 ' Let him go,' said Annimziata ; 'he is mad.' 
 She knew not whether in her heart she was most 
 angry with his presumption, or pleased with his 
 adoration of her child. 
 
 At a slower pace they descended the hill, passed 
 the gate, re-entered Florence, and paused under the 
 archway of a gloomy palace before they reached the 
 river. They mounted the stairs, rang the bell at 
 the side of a door, and heard the latch raised in 
 reply. They entered a gallery full of a strange 
 variety of objects : pieces of armour and of arms, 
 tapestry, china, marbles, pictures, and books of all 
 sizes and ages, were crowded together with little 
 arrangement. Annunziata placed herself on a bench 
 near the entrance, and telling Beatrice she would, as 
 was her custom, await her there, fell asleep apparently 
 before the girl had reached the further end of the 
 gallery, and by a light touch gained admittance to 
 the inner chamber, where Mr. Howard sat expectant 
 of her visit. 
 
 'You are late, my child,' said he, in a tone of 
 melancholy fondness. 
 
 ' I could not help it,' replied Beatrice. ' I could 
 not quit San Miniato till the sun went down. To 
 take leave of Florence, and to take leave of you, 
 my grandfather will know cannot be done quickly. 
 He will not expect an early return. Even Annun- 
 ziata is patient with me.' She smiled sadly, and
 
 94 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 took off the large straw hat she wore, laying it on 
 the ground, for her head ached. The old man 
 passed his hand over the dark braids of her hair : 
 
 ' I shall not be without your picture,' he observed, 
 glancing at a study from the Seggiola which hung 
 against the wall. Beatrice looked up at it. 
 
 ' I must keep yours in my heart,' she said, ' be- 
 cause you know you have never permitted any one 
 to paint it on canvas. Otherwise, Signor Oreste 
 would have given it to me long ago as a companion 
 to my grandfather's. It was not good of you to 
 refuse. Shall you ever relent, and send it to me ?' 
 
 ' Never, never, Beatrice,' replied Mr. Howard, 
 shaking his head. ' I am a lonely old man, and I 
 would not have one trace of me survive beyond the 
 loving remembrance which friendly hearts may 
 cherish for a while.' 
 
 ' Mine will never beat forgetful of you,' said 
 Beatrice, slowly. ' How ungrateful if it could !' she 
 added, fancying that she saw a doubt on his counte- 
 nance. ' Can you believe it possible ?' she inquired, 
 with eagerness. 
 
 ' It would not be possible for you now to antici- 
 pate such a time,' he answered, evasively, and 
 Beatrice was wounded ; he saw that she was, and he 
 added, ' Nor for me.' 
 
 She pressed his hand to her lips ; a long silence 
 ensued ; Beatrice broke it by saying — 
 
 ' I thought there were so many things which I 
 must say to you this evening, and now I cannot say 
 any of them. I wanted to thank ycu, and that you 
 will not perniit me to do. I wanted to commit my 
 grandfather to your care, and now my heart tells
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 95 
 
 me that you will care for him without one word of 
 entreaty on my part.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! I will be mindful of him. He shall 
 not walk into the Arno, nor smother himself with 
 his charcoal : and, moreover, I must write to you 
 from time to time to tell you how he fares.' 
 
 ' Oh ! write to me, for I shall be very glad to 
 have your letters ; but I am sure he will not fail me 
 in that, I am certain he will never forget nor 
 neglect the promise he has made me,' cried Beatrice, 
 warmly ; and again both sank into thought, and 
 neither knew what course the mind of the other was 
 pursuing. This time it was Mr. Howard who 
 spoke : 
 
 ' Beatrice, I am strangely inclined to show you a 
 picture before you go, which you may never have 
 any future opportunity of seeing. I feel a wish that 
 it should be graven on your memory in union with 
 myself — with this interview, which may be our 
 last.' 
 
 ' — On earth,' added Beatrice, in a very low but 
 distinct voice. Clear as it was, Mr. Howard gave 
 no sign of hearing it. There was such an extreme 
 pallor over his face, his diminutive form — his intel- 
 lectual head looked so spiritual, as it were, — that 
 Beatrice gazed on him as on one about to melt from 
 earthly sight. 
 
 This strange appearance was increased by the 
 illumination of the lamp which he now lighted, and 
 bore across the room to an antique cabinet, which 
 he proceeded to unlock, and produced from its most 
 secret drawer a small picture. It was the repre- 
 sentation of a young girl of a beauty as remarkable
 
 g6 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 in character as in degree — so purely classical that a 
 sculptor need have desired no other model for a 
 Psyche, while the pensiveness which mingled with 
 its light and playful expression rendered it peculiarly 
 fitted for that subject. 
 
 Beatrice surveyed the portrait with extreme in- 
 terest, and Mr. Howard averting his eyes from it, 
 fixed them on her : 
 
 'What should you expect from that face?' at 
 length he asked. 
 
 Beatrice hesitated to reply ; but she saw, for she 
 understood him well, that he would not dispense 
 with her answer. She bent over the picture, and a 
 tear fell from her eye. 
 
 * An early death,' she said. 
 
 Mr. Howard murmured, ' Then why did not I — ?' 
 He replaced the picture, and beckoning Beatrice 
 to his side, took out a sheet of paper on which a 
 faint outline was traced : it was that of the same 
 face ; the eyes were closed in death, not to be mis- 
 taken for sleep, 
 f ' Do you think you shall remember her ?' he 
 asked, after a while. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Beatrice. And he withdrew the 
 paper, closed the cabinet, and returned to his seat. 
 He might have been content that Beatrice should 
 now depart, but she was not content. Her face 
 assumed an expression of solicitude it had not yet 
 worn. She knelt by his side, and when she spoke, 
 her voice trembled. 
 
 * Forgive me,' she said, ' pray forgive me if I anger 
 you. I cannot help it. I cannot resolve to see you 
 no more, and to leave unsaid what I have in my
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 97 
 
 heart. When I knelt and prayed in San Miniato, 
 it was part of my prayers — it ever shall be part of 
 them. Oh ! let me speak it this once to your ear, 
 as I spoke it then to the ear of God.' 
 
 The earnestness of her supplication could not hut 
 touch Howard ; yet he manifested unwillingness to 
 let her proceed, which she ventured to disregard : 
 
 'All I ask — and often would I have asked it be- 
 fore, when the whispers of others and your own sad 
 brow have troubled me — is that you will not grieve, 
 or muse here alone. I have committed my grand- 
 father to your care ; let him but repay that which 
 we receive from you, by whispering in your hours 
 of depression those words of consolation with which 
 he sustained my suffering father. You have sor- 
 rowful remembrances ; you need repose — a place 
 whereon to lay your head. Oh ! my kind friend, let 
 that be the bosom of the Saviour !' 
 
 Her clasped hands rested on the old man's knee 
 as she spoke. He bent forward, kissed her pure 
 brow ; Beatrice threw herself on his neck : 
 
 ' May God reward you for all your care and kind- 
 ness to the orphan child. You are not angry with 
 her ?' Her voice died away. 
 
 ' Angry, my child ? — no, but it is time to send 
 you hence. Be satisfied. Your words are neither 
 disregarded nor despised, and come better from your 
 lips than from any others on earth.' 
 
 ' that I might stay with you !' exclaimed 
 Beatrice. 
 
 ' No, no, that may not be. Yet I believe you 
 would stay ' — he looked on her with his smile of 
 wonderful sweetness — ' stay to make me — ' he broke 
 
 TOL. I. H
 
 98 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 off'. ' Your memory shall be a spell when your pre- 
 sence is at end, Beatrice. Gro without a misgiving; 
 you are on your right road. Your grandfather — his 
 claim is first.' 
 
 Mr. Howard led her to the end of the gallery, 
 bearing the lamp, the light of which and the sound 
 of their feet roused Annunziata, who muttered some 
 phrases not meant to be intelligible. 
 
 ' Addio, Annunziata. I know you will take good 
 care of my child.' 
 
 ' Ay, indeed ; who should care for her if I do not ? 
 You think, Signor Oarde, that you have done a good 
 deed in sending hence the creatura,' as Annunziata 
 delighted to call Beatrice. ' Heaven grant it may 
 prove so ! Addio !'
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 How shall I hide thee from the unpitying winds 
 Of this rude world, and keep thy cheek so fair 
 In the sweet innocence of unsoiled minds — 
 From that which, ah ! too soon the spirit finds ? 
 If I do love thee with a spirit's love 
 In this bad earth where sin our vision blinds. 
 How should I pray some angel from above 
 May guide thee through this world, and thy sure guardian 
 prove ! 
 
 The Baptistery. 
 
 AS Annunziata and Beatrice crossed the bridge, a 
 dark figure in a cloak was hanging over the 
 parapet. At their approach, he raised his head, 
 quitted his reclining posture, and moved on at their 
 side : they knew it was Flavio. 
 
 ' You have been here long,' observed Beatrice, in 
 a tone of mingled pity and annoyance. 
 
 * Yes ; for I reached the spot long before you did. 
 I watched you enter. I waited for you to come 
 out.' 
 
 ' Cattivo !' exclaimed Annunziata. ' Loitering 
 away your time after this fashion ! We wanted you 
 not. We would much rather be without you.' 
 
 ' Beatrice,' said the boy, not heeding Annunziata, 
 ' you cannot imagine the wild thoughts that ran m 
 
 H 2
 
 lOO THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 my brain while I hung over the bridge, and gazed 
 into the stream. If you had known them, you 
 would have come sooner to put them to flight ; for 
 none can soothe as you can the very grief you 
 cause.' 
 
 ' Not Maria ?' asked Beatrice, gently, wishing to 
 remind him of the sister, who would be near when 
 she would be gone. 
 
 ' Not Maria. — The stream flowed on and on, with- 
 out pause ; my brain grew dizzy. I thought of 
 madness. What if it were coming now, and I by 
 a sudden impulse should cast myself into that dark 
 water, and none should know what was become of 
 me, and they should wait as wearily for me in my 
 home as I waited for you — not minutes, but 
 hours ? Day would dawn, and its rays fall on 
 the strand where I was lying dead !' 
 
 ' Flavio, Flavio, these were thoughts of sin !' 
 
 * Pazienza — hear me to the end. I pictured my 
 father running here and there, wildly asking of the 
 crowd, where was his son ? — my mother sitting at 
 home in her wonderful quietness, which you know 
 so well, and Maria at her feet ! I fancied that my 
 father came where I lay, and knew my face in- 
 stantly, swollen, disfigured as it was. There were 
 kind hands to help to bear me ; the brothers of the 
 Misericordia, who are never absent, they bore me 
 on to the home of my dear ones — not my home any 
 longer — and laid me on my mother's knees. When 
 I saw her look of anguish, and felt her tears fall on 
 my brow, oh ! Beatrice, I woke up from that dreary 
 vision, and resolved for her dear sake to resist the 
 whisperings of despair.'
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 101 
 
 ' Good Flavio ! God will bless you ; you must 
 not speak of despair.' 
 
 ' Then of hope ?' cried the youth, joyfully. 
 
 'No, no — I do not understand your meaning. 
 We are children ; and to be good, dutiful children, is 
 what we have to think of. I go hence to serve my 
 grandfather ; you abide here to be the comfort and 
 assistance of your parents. I do not wish to hear 
 of aught else. We are childi'en, Annunziata — is it 
 not so ?' 
 
 * Yes, indeed, bambina mia ; and Flavio is a pre- 
 sumptuous boy, whom the Signor Oreste would 
 chastise deservedly, were I to make known the tor- 
 ment he has been to us this evening.' 
 
 ' I would not have you do that,' interrupted 
 Beatrice. ' See, we are at the door. We sup with 
 you to-night, Flavio ; but you must not keep us too 
 late, for I would fain have a short time with my 
 grandfather before we part for the night.' 
 
 ' Do you like to come to us ?' asked Flavio, gene- 
 rously forgetting himself. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes ; the whole evening — that would be 
 too sad for him !' 
 
 They entered. 
 
 The supper was over. Signor Oreste had striven 
 in vain to make jests or to tell stories ; even down 
 the cheek of the placid Maddalena a few tears 
 trickled ; Flavio escaped from the table, his food un- 
 touched ; Maria sat with her hand clasped in that 
 of Beatrice ; and little Rosina, the most unrestrained 
 of the party, cried and consoled herself alternately. 
 Courtenay sat, the image of silent woe. 
 
 After the breaking-up of the family, Annunziata
 
 102 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 tarried below, to receive from Maddalena many a 
 direction how to deal with the motherless girl. 
 Beatrice, in the chamber above, was on her knees 
 before her grandfather. His extreme paleness terri- 
 fied her. 
 
 ' How can I quit you,' she exclaimed, * if my 
 departure move you thus ?' 
 
 Courtenay appeared unconscious of her address, 
 as, without replying to her, he cried — 
 
 ' Gerald, my son, forgive me if I sin against her 
 and thee in letting her go hence !' 
 
 He bent down his head on his hands, and wept 
 like a child. 
 
 ' Now it will be well with him,' thought Beatrice. 
 * This is more natural, more harmless.' 
 
 After having given way to his emotion without 
 restraint for a while, Courtenay looked up, regarding 
 his grandchild with a meek air of sorrow : 
 
 ' God knows how I have toiled for you ! I have 
 risen at nights when you dreamt not of it — ' 
 ' Oh ! promise you will do so no more !' 
 ' Meantime, I dare not forbid you to go out — to 
 strive for yourself.' Courtenay could not bear to 
 acknowledge that it was for him that she went. 
 
 ' I do not doubt that we have decided wisely/ 
 said Beatrice. ' Doubt it not for me.' 
 
 He answered but by tears. Beatrice soothed him, 
 supported his head on her bosom, and moved not 
 till the old man, exhausted by emotion, sank to 
 sleep. 
 
 Annunziata, believing that the girl was engaged 
 in a manner hkely to be injurious to her own 
 strength on the eve of her journey, could not refrain
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. I03 
 
 from opening the door, and thrusting her head into 
 the chamber. Beatrice laid her finger on her lip 
 imploringly. Annunziata, touched by the appeal, 
 withdi'ew ; the noise had troubled, though not 
 awakened Courtenay, who muttered, ' Gerald, she is 
 safe !' In a few moments, he opened his eyes, and 
 looked round, perplexed : ' You here ! What is this? 
 — Ah ! I know now. Go, my child, to rest. I 
 must not keep you ; and how can moments or hours 
 make me more ready to part with you ? God bless 
 you, my good, gentle, loving child !' 
 
 With a fresh agony of grief he pressed her to his 
 bosom, then led her to the door, and closed it on her 
 himself. Pale, silent, tearless, Beatrice stood there 
 trembling ; not till Annunziata appeared, lamp in 
 hand, turning the light full upon her, did she at- 
 tempt to move ; then, deaf to mingled entreaty or 
 rebuke, she entered her own chamber, and, like an 
 automaton in her hands, suffered her to undress and 
 place her in her bed. 
 
 In the morning, Courtenay had resumed the self- 
 command which he felt owing to himself and to all 
 concerned. He conducted his grandchild to the 
 Countess, thanking her with the dignity in which 
 none could at times surpass him. Beatrice saw him 
 depart, and yet maintained that calmness with which 
 she ever faced her deepest sorrows. She knew full 
 well (better than any for her) that it could not 
 last, granted but, as it were, to bear her through 
 some difficult pass which might otherwise cost her 
 life. 
 
 ' I feel nothing now,' she thought ; ' I am like 
 marble ; his grief touches me not, and I have none
 
 104 ''•'HE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 of my own. Oh ! this stoniness is worse than pain 
 to me, but it is well for others ; and later, when the 
 pain comes, I shall think that worst of all.' 
 
 Mute as she was, and apparently composed, there 
 was something in her countenance which frightened 
 Mr. Howard, and he commended her with earnest- 
 ness to Miss Lindsay's consideration. 
 
 At length the cortege departed, under the super- 
 intendence of the best of couriers ; but the Countess 
 and the French maid were always discomposed at 
 the commencement of a journey. Miss Lindsay 
 rectified all that went amiss as far as she could, and, 
 during the somewhat dreary passage of the Apen- 
 nines, strove to cheer her companions. The Countess 
 declared herself quite as afflicted in turning her back 
 on la bella Italia, the only country in which she 
 existed, as Beatrice could be in quitting her only 
 relative and friends. ' You have me, my child !' she 
 exclaimed ; ' I must be everything to you !' But 
 afterwards she remembered that she was bound to 
 be something to Fidelio also, the shivering Httle 
 greyhound which she was taking from its genial 
 climate, and he shared her attentions and her com- 
 passion largely v/ith Beatrice. 
 
 r;=^ 
 
 c. e)^^^^'^-
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 Que de bassesses pour parvenir 
 
 Massillon. 
 
 WHILE the Countess of St. Helens was bidding 
 farewell to la bella Italia, events were taking 
 place in a very different part of the world, the results 
 of which affected her movements so as to awaken no 
 inconsiderable degree of indignation in that magni- 
 ficent lady. 
 
 On a romantic part of the western coast of Scot- 
 land, on one of the loveliest days of April — days 
 stolen, as it were, from Summer, who resents the 
 theft by many a bluff rebuke and chilling frown 
 coming after, — rode a horseman, who checked his 
 steed frequently, and gazed with intense earnest- 
 ness on the scenery around. Yet, certainly he was 
 no tourist enraptured with novel loveliness spread 
 out before him ; nor did he linger like the native 
 of the spot, whose love of the picturesque, though 
 strong, is the weakest of the feelings which enchain 
 him to it. Mounted on a stout, rough pony, accus- 
 tomed to carry him for miles over the domain he 
 surveyed, Maxwell looked like what he was, — the 
 hard-working, skilful man of business — no mere
 
 I06 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 plodder or miser; the fire in his dark, deep-set 
 eye — the frequent twitchings about his thin, com- 
 pressed hps, seemed to denote a love of enter- 
 prise and speculation ; and his nervous grasp of 
 the bridle, his impatient spur, his head bent down, 
 and his muttered thoughts, indicated a mind en- 
 gaged at this hour in such pursuits. Those who 
 best knew Maxwell, the agent, and Sir Rod eric 
 Lindsay, the proprietor of the estate, were inclined 
 to believe that, however wide the difference between 
 the prudent sagacity, the indefatigable industry of 
 the one, and the reckless, thriftless dissipation of 
 the other, the spirit of gambling was perhaps equally 
 strong in both. 
 
 Maxwell was traversing one of the roads, beau- 
 tifully wooded with oak and birch, skirting the 
 edge of some of those arms of the sea, which form 
 the lakes of the west of Scotland. Nearly opposite 
 to him, as he halted on the brow of an ascent, lay a 
 promontory, on which stood the ancient Castle of 
 Duror. The site was so lovely, that the father of 
 the present baronet had added to it a dwelling- 
 house, which, with the accommodation afforded by 
 a portion of the castle admitting of repair, consti- 
 tuted a stately residence ; the builder proceeded to 
 beautify it by laying out very fine pleasure-grounds, 
 thereby impoverishing himself, and furnishing an 
 excuse to Sir Roderic for all subsequent embarrass- 
 ments. 
 
 ' That old castle — that foolish fancy of my good 
 father's, in which his son has scarcely been able to 
 set his foot to this day — took all the ready money
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. IO7 
 
 out of the family, and incurred some pretty heavy 
 mortgages on the estate into the bargain.' 
 
 Now, whether Sir Roderic had brought his con- 
 science to that comfortable state in which it could 
 ' credit his own lie,' or not, may remain doubtful ; 
 but Maxwell certainly knew well the falseness of 
 such excuses, and the number of additional acres, up 
 to the very gateway of the castle, which Sir Roderic 
 had himself mortgaged since his father's death. If 
 recollections such as these occasionally pressed on 
 the Baronet, he would silence them with an angry 
 declaration that, having no children himself, it was 
 hard to be expected to hoard all his life for a nephew, 
 and to get everything right which was altogether 
 wrong when he came into the property. At other 
 times, he would affirm that he should be heartily 
 sorry to ruin the young fellow ; nothing could be 
 fui'ther from his intentions than to act unhand- 
 somely by him, who was to be his heir. Maxwell 
 was a first-rate man of business, and no doubt would 
 put everything in order long enough before Horace 
 should stand in his shoes ; for, after all, he was him- 
 self but a young man still. And true it was that 
 Sir Roderic's handsome face, at forty-five, bore still 
 a wonderfully good comparison with his nephew's 
 equally handsome, and far more refined, face at 
 twenty. ' I beUeve I look like his elder brother,* 
 was an assertion which afforded Sir Eoderic infinite 
 satisfaction. His other conviction, that his agent 
 was a very clever man, was even more just ; and 
 any one who could have read his cogitations as he 
 sat on his pony, sui'veying the scene before him,
 
 108 THE MIHTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 would have been well persuaded of the fact. The 
 chief object of the picture undoubtedly was the 
 castle, on its picturesque tongue of land ; but not 
 very remote from it stood one possessed of interest to 
 Maxwell, though a stranger might have pronounced 
 it an eyesore. This was the agent's new house, 
 built on the main land, and called the Heronry, from 
 a tradition that the ancient heronry had occupied 
 the same spot. A little further on, in the greenest, 
 shadiest place, stood an unpretending little Episcopa- 
 lian chapel, with its quiet churchyard lying around, 
 and nothing but the wooded road between it and 
 the lake ; and further yet, where the trees had 
 grouped themselves into a grove, a chimney and 
 ascending smoke alone betrayed the existence of a 
 dwelhng, which went by the name of the English 
 Cottage, not on account of the neatness of all its 
 details, but because an English lady had for many 
 years made it her residence. On this humble object 
 Maxwell, in his present mood, bestowed not one 
 moment's attention ; yet, instead of being insigni- 
 ficant to him, and unallied to the train of thought 
 which absorbed his mind, it was precisely the centre 
 whence radiated the master-influence which, at a 
 later period, should aifect all his schemes. Had he 
 been able now to penetrate this truth, how dif- 
 ferently would he have shaped his course! But 
 what the English cottage, and its lonely invalid 
 mistress, Sybil Evelyn, could have to do with his 
 ambitious designs, would have perplexed the acute 
 Maxwell to discover ; nay, he might have laughed 
 the very idea to scorn. 
 
 Having contemplated the pleasant scene for some
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 09 
 
 time with an expression of countenance not at all in 
 unison with it, Maxwell turned his pony's steps 
 somewhat abruptly into a path leading to a rugged 
 common. The track ceased altogether after the first 
 ascent from the main road, and Maxwell found him- 
 self obliged to ride with somewhat more caution 
 than he had hitherto bestowed ; for the earth was 
 here and there delved into dangerous holes by the 
 searchers after ore, of which the face of the country 
 gave promises never yet fulfilled in any measure 
 likely to repay the time and trouble of the search. 
 Some men were haunted even by the discovery of 
 gold, while Maxwell would have been very satisfied 
 with, and, indeed, could not altogether relinquish 
 the idea of finding copper. But this was not the 
 present subject of his thoughts, and he rode on 
 till at the edge of a wood he was met by a man, 
 who having watched there for hours, now greeted 
 him as if the meeting were casual, and walking by 
 his side, placed his hand on the bridle as Dot made 
 a false step. 
 
 ' Thank you, Donaldson, thank you ; Dot will 
 pick his own way better than we can pick it for 
 him,' said Maxwell. 
 
 Donaldson did not know whether this speech 
 signified that the agent had no great desire for his 
 further company, but he did know that it would not 
 suit him so to understand it ; he moved on with 
 that loitering, good-humoured sort of manner which 
 generally distinguishes the idler from the industrious 
 man of a community, and fell into an easy discourse 
 in his native Gaelic, universal among the peasantry, 
 and perfectly familiar to the agent.
 
 no THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 ' Sir Roderic still in the South — no chance have 
 we poor Highlanders of ever looking on his face 
 again, I suppose ; — not, indeed, that we need grieve 
 very deeply, seeing we have you, sir, as a substitute. 
 There are some among us who desire a sight of the 
 young laird that will be — the laird's nephew — . 
 Horace Lindsay, I think he is called — why not 
 Roderic, or Angus, as his father was before him ? 
 However, I dare say the foreign name suits his 
 foreign manners. I suppose that not a word of 
 Gaelic has he ever heard, or would he understand. 
 See, Maxwell,' — ^he checked the pony abruptly as he 
 spoke, resolved to rouse the agent from his abstrac- 
 tion, and pointed to the glorious expanse of moun- 
 tain, wood, and water lying before them : ' Do 
 you think that in foreign parts a fairer scene than 
 that ever met the eye ?' 
 
 ' No, Donaldson, I verily believe not — but here 
 we gain level ground, and I must push on.' ^ 
 
 Donaldson's hand was still on the bridle. 
 
 ' Bide still a moment, sir,' he said, thrusting the 
 other hand into his bosom. ' I want you to look at 
 this.' 
 
 He pulled out a piece of ore, which Maxwell's 
 quick eye recognised as a sample of copper, and 
 allowed the agent to take it into his hold, though 
 not without watching his treasure the while. Max- 
 well, after a close scrutiny, gave the lump back 
 to Donaldson, gathered up his bridle, and said, com- 
 posedly : 
 
 ' I should take it for copper, certainly.' 
 
 ' For copper,' rephed Donaldson, provoked out of
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE,. Ill 
 
 his caution ; ' and of the finest. They who know 
 more than you or I, have pronounced that already.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' returned Maxwell. 
 
 ' Now I want to learn,' continued Donaldson, 
 drawing nearer, ' what Sir Roderic would say to 
 the man who came with this in his hand, and pro- 
 mised to show him how to make his own, as fair a 
 mine of it as ever was worked ?' 
 
 ' And which, I suppose, is Sir Roderic's at this 
 moment,' replied the agent. ' Some time since, you 
 applied for permission to search for ore on the 
 estate.' 
 
 ' True ; and much good time and some good 
 money did I so employ ; and to be up in the cold of 
 the morning and out in the damp of the evening, 
 when the sun was high, or when the stars only 
 watched me — all this made the mountain-dew 
 more necessary than it had ever been before, and 
 spoiled me for the quiet, steady chap I used to be, 
 as Nanny would tell you. But no luck ever at- 
 tended me while I tarried on Duror's property. 
 This was found on the land of a man poorer than 
 he is (though I have been told he is poor enough), 
 who neither suspects his treasure, nor could use it 
 if he knew of its existence.' 
 
 Maxwell, whose modes of proceeding somewhat 
 resembled that of an angler with a fish, still abstained 
 from any great demonstration of interest. 
 
 Donaldson at length felt himself forced to adopt 
 a more confidential tone, and continued : 
 
 'Now, what I 'would advise, if I may be bold 
 enough to advise without being thought over-bold,
 
 112 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 is this — that Duror should loosen his purse-strings, 
 while there is any silver yet in the purse, and give 
 it freely for this dull-faced stuff, which, you know, 
 may soon be turned into gold. I need make no 
 scruple of telling you what is yet a secret to 
 the real proprietor, for I do him no harm ; but I 
 look to receive something as my thanks which 
 would set me right, after all the waste and ruin 
 that have come from my working in a wrong 
 direction.' 
 
 ' And what would set you right, you rogue ?' 
 asked Maxwell. 
 
 But it was impossible to prevail on the rogue, as 
 he might justly be called, to name any terms, pos- 
 sessed as he was with the fear that he might fall 
 short of what the agent contemplated as a suitable 
 reward. Maxwell rode on with an indifference that 
 startled him, and at last he exclaimed, with an 
 unwilling betrayal of alarm : 
 
 ' You can't doubt the excellence of the ore ?' 
 
 * Not in the least,' rephed Maxwell. 
 
 ' Nor is it possible that you should know whence 
 it comes.' 
 
 * I don't know, but I shall.' 
 
 * From whom, unless from me ?' 
 
 * I do not intend to seek further,' said Maxwell, 
 bending down his head, and muttering a short sen- 
 tence in Donaldson's ear which astounded him, out- 
 stripping all his expectations. Maxwell read his 
 surprise : ' Hear me,' he said, ' and don't be a fool. 
 So much would I give, neither more nor less — and 
 any further prevarication or altercation as to terms,
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. TI3 
 
 and I make none. Remember that it is perfectly 
 useless to obtain any from Duror which I do not 
 accede to ; and further, I require you to swear that, 
 having revealed this to me, you will never under 
 any possible circumstances reveal it to another 
 without my free permission.' 
 
 Donaldson looked up in the agent's face with 
 keen scrutiny. He read the language of his keen 
 eye, bent brow, and compressed lip, and knew that 
 he must not temporise with him. 
 
 ' Enough,' he said ; ' I accept the terms.' 
 
 * And bind yourself by an oath ?' 
 
 ' I do,' said the man, hesitating ; ' but surely I 
 may expect — if it turn out well — ' 
 
 ' And if it turn out ill ?' asked Maxwell, sternly. 
 
 Donaldson was silent for a moment ; then glancing 
 round, began in a low voice — 
 
 ' You know old Meredith — he, who holds, as it 
 were, aNaboth's vine^^ard in the middle of the laird's 
 property. His family and his fortune have dwindled 
 away. What could he do with the knowledge I 
 am now giving you, otherwise than I am doing ? 
 He could not make use of it himself. A dreary 
 while I might have to wait before I should get any 
 reward for my pains, if I told him, or his son 
 Fergus.' 
 
 ' He has been hitherto too proud to part with the 
 patrimony of his grandfathers,' said Maxwell, a man 
 of few words, glad to glean from the loquacity of 
 others, facts which might be valuable to him, and 
 cautious of communicating any in return. 
 
 ' It is my opinion that his remaining children 
 
 YOL. I. I
 
 114 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 would be well pleased if lie would put that same 
 pride of his into his pocket, together with anything 
 the laird would kindly add to it.' 
 
 ' Before you receive anything for your informa- 
 tion, I must be satisfied that it is correct,' observed 
 Maxwell. 
 
 * It was at dead of night that I satisfied myself,' 
 replied Donaldson ; ' but if you will ride a little out 
 of your way now, I can show you the very locality.' 
 
 Donaldson conducted the agent to a height, which 
 commanded nearly the whole of Meredith's small 
 property. 
 
 'Wretched work, here!' said Maxwell, as his eye 
 passed from one mark of neglect to another. 
 
 ' Very — the work of poverty,' replied Donaldson, 
 briefly. ' There — carry on your eye past that ash- 
 tree to the left : no eye can detect my work ; yet did 
 we stand side by side there, I would quickly put the 
 point beyond a doubt.' 
 
 ' We must stand side by side there,' returned 
 Maxwell, imperatively. ' Why not now ? The 
 shades of evening are falling, and not a soul is 
 about.' 
 
 Maxwell dismounted, tied Dot to a tree, and a few 
 minutes' walking brought them to the place. The 
 agent was convinced, and they parted, with an 
 agreement that Donaldson should come to the 
 Heronry at eight that night. 
 
 On remounting his pony. Maxwell rode more 
 carelessly than before. Suddenly he muttered to 
 himself — ' Ten years ago, I might have been will- 
 ing to have transferred this mine of wealth to Sir 
 lioderic — but now it is too late ; I cannot, I will
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHER. II5 
 
 not resign what, scarce an hour ago, I looked on as 
 mj own.' 
 
 He rode moodily on : the whole train of thought 
 in which he had paused to indulge, when he stood 
 still at the turn of the road, was now changed. 
 Then he had tried to convince himself that there was 
 nothing of unfairness in the transactions between 
 himself and his employer, by which, in the course of a 
 service of twenty years' dui*ation, not without at first 
 frequent and solemn warnings, he had continued to 
 supply Sir Roderic with the money the Baronet 
 insisted on having, until every acre of the domain 
 of Duror was mortgaged to himself. Better thus, 
 the agent had argued, than that the Laird should 
 have sought the means of self-indulgence elsewhere 
 and secretly. Xow, on the very verge of the estate, 
 seemed to be cast up the means of its redemption. 
 Could Sir Roderic know the treasure to be unearthed, 
 — could he possess himself of the farm in which it 
 lay — could he procure money to work the mine, — he 
 might free himself from all his difficulties. ' But,' 
 cried Maxwell, with triumph, 'this last obstacle 
 would be insm-mountable. I cannot be expected to 
 furnish him with further sums, when he is so greatly 
 my debtor. Yet, again, suppose him to be possessed 
 of Meredith's farm, he might sell the estate to sin- 
 gular advantage. True ; but why must I purchase 
 that farm for him, rather than for myself ? Because 
 Meredith's indomitable pride will never let him sell 
 it to any one less than the Laird of Duror — because 
 I have over and over again made the attempt to 
 purchase it for Sir Roderic, and cannot change now 
 without future imputation on my character. I must 
 I 2
 
 Il6 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 be careful not to offer Meredith a price that shall 
 excite suspicion. Wretched old man ! I will repay 
 him as handsomely as I dare, but T must not seem 
 less keen than is my wont. I may reasonably offer 
 him something considerable, to remove what is an 
 eyesore in the map of the estate.' 
 
 As Maxwell's mind was absorbed in these reflec- 
 tions, darkness had come on him before he looked 
 for it. The road he descended was in a more 
 unsafe state than he or Dot were aware of : in fact, 
 it was on Meredith's property, where everything 
 was going to rack and ruin. A step on dangerous 
 ground, against which Dot's sagacity failed to warn 
 him, precipitated him to the ground, hurling his 
 unfortunate rider over the edge of the bank, several 
 yards below it, and casting him on some sharp 
 stones. The effect of the fall on the agent was 
 very severe, and singular in this respect, that though 
 he recovered the first stunning effect of the blow, 
 and became aware where he was, and how he came 
 there, he still found that he had lost all power of 
 speech, as well as of motion. His hearing, how- 
 ever, was unimpaired ; while he lay there, the dew 
 falling on him, the sounds he heard caused him an 
 irritation so violent, that it seemed as if he must 
 break by force the spell which bound him ; but all 
 his efforts failed. No mental struggle could conquer 
 the paralyzing effects of his fall, and he listened in 
 agony to the sheep-dog's bark, the shepherd's voice, 
 the very pattering of the descending flock. He 
 could call none to his aid, and none came. Dot, 
 meanwhile, scarcely injured by his mischance, having
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. II7 
 
 scrambled to his feet, wandered here and there, de- 
 terred by aflfection, or instinct, from removing to a 
 distance from his master. As the night grew dark, 
 he wearied of nibbling the pasture, and came and 
 stood by the side of Maxwell, and neighed. 
 
 4-
 
 :s:i^^ .>i#cc- -^c^iC- •><>fec- v#<^- -^^^^^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller betwixt life and death, 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright, 
 With something of an angel's light. 
 
 WOEDSWOETH. 
 
 DONALDSON was punctual to his appointment. 
 The agent's daughter came out to meet him 
 with a troubled face. 
 
 ' Have you brought any tidings of my father ?' 
 she asked, earnestly. ' It is very strange that he 
 should stay out so late, and in the dark. Yet what 
 harm can he and Dot come to ? — Impossible !' 
 
 The girl strove to look reassured, then added — 
 
 ' I have just sent out the farm-servants with lan- 
 terns. I will go m.yself with the first who returns, 
 if he does not bring my father with him.' 
 
 She wound her plaid round her as she spoke, too 
 uneasy not to be restless. 
 
 ' Better let me go in search of him. Miss,' replied 
 Donaldson, with ready apprehension. ' He bid me 
 be here this evening ; something out of the way
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. II9 
 
 must have detained him. I know the path he would 
 have taken after I left him.' 
 
 ' I will come too,' returned Judith, eagerly. 
 
 * What good will that do ? — only render your 
 father very uneasy, if he come in while we are away, 
 and render you unable to do anything to make him 
 comfortable — which he will want to be, after expo- 
 sure to the cold.' 
 
 ' True all that you say — but I can't stay here ; 
 and I want Bevis to go too,' she added, placing her 
 hand on the large black staghound which stood by, 
 understanding no small part of all that she said 
 and felt. 
 
 ' I may have to go to some distance,' returned 
 Donaldson. ' You will only hinder me — ' 
 
 ' Not much, and Bevis will not follow you,' an- 
 swered Judith. 
 
 ' He'll follow me, though, Miss,' cried a red- 
 headed boy, suddenly emerging from a comer. 
 
 ' True, Colin ; go, go — lose no more time.' 
 
 Judith sat down on a bench, and leaning on a 
 table, rested her head on her arms, covering her face 
 with her plaid, as if she did not wish to see them 
 depart without her. 
 
 ' Now don't take on as if evil were already 
 here,' said Janet, the cook : ' sure enough, if any ill 
 had come to the master, I should have seen and 
 known it ere now.' 
 
 This assurance did not weigh much with Judith, 
 who thought less of Janet's supernatural gifts than 
 Janet herself did. The girl rose hastily, and reached 
 the window just in time to see the disappearance of 
 Colin' s lantern.
 
 120 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 * I ought to have gone with them !' she exclaimed, 
 clasping her hands. ' Oh ! those wretched oughts — 
 always coming behind ; too late now !' 
 
 ' You meant for the best, and have done for the 
 best, my bairn,' said old Janet. 
 
 ' Meant !' replied Judith, scornfully. ' Irresolution 
 has no meaning. There — they are crossing the bit 
 of common !' The light emerged as suddenly as it 
 had disappeared. 'I could overtake them even 
 now.' 
 
 But there was still the thought that her father 
 might enter, needing her care ; and the same feeling 
 which told her that none would look for him as she 
 would look, told her also that none would tend him 
 as she would tend. 
 
 * Now, bide quiet,' said Janet, putting her wrinkled 
 hand on the girl's arm. And Judith did bide, but 
 not quiet ; nor did the men, who returned soon after 
 Donaldson's departure, bring any tidings of power 
 to calm her. 
 
 Donaldson had set out with the prompt resolution 
 to seek the spot where Maxwell had tied the pony 
 to a tree, which he had left him to regain alone. As 
 he hurried onward, he speculated with selfish keen- 
 ness on what possible bearing the agent's singular 
 delay could have on the subject on which they were 
 to have met. Wild fancies that Maxwell might be 
 trying to profit by his revelations, to the exclusion 
 of himself from any share of the advantage, ran 
 through the brain of the uneducated, but sharp- 
 witted man. Donaldson and Colin climbed up the 
 steep ascent, Bevis far outstripping them. From 
 time to time they paused, listening attentively, and
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 121 
 
 searching around. During one of these pauses, they 
 heard a horse neighing. 
 
 ' Dot's neigh !' cried Colin. ' I know it well.' 
 
 A low hark from Bevis followed. 
 
 ' We are on their track now,' said Donaldson, and 
 moved on in the direction of the sound. The light 
 of the lantern fell on the ghastly face of Maxwell, 
 as he lay, bruised, and perishing with cold. The 
 grey coat of Dot was perceptible even through the 
 darkness. 
 
 Donaldson raised the injured man as well as he 
 could, bid Colin to jump on Dot, placed the helpless 
 Maxwell before him on the saddle, and desiring the 
 boy to give his whole attention to supporting him 
 there, conducted Dot down the path with the utmost 
 care. It cost them some time to regain home. 
 Bevis was the first to arrive there, and commenced 
 scratching and whining for an entrance. Judith's 
 attentive ear caught the sound ; she threw the door 
 open, and darted out, the dog leaping on her, as it 
 were, with congratulation. A few paces onward she 
 met the Httle procession, sad and silent almost as 
 if it were a funeral one. 
 
 * My father !' exclaimed Judith, in terrible alarm. 
 
 ' We found him speechless — motionless ; but he 
 lives,' cried Donaldson. ' Get him into the house. 
 
 I will ride off on Dot to Fort , and bring you 
 
 the military doctor.' 
 
 ' Thanks — thanks !' cried Judith ; and darting 
 back to the house, she exlaimed — ' Open the doors — 
 bring light — bear him at once to his chamber. Hot 
 water, Janet ; blankets — brandy — anything to fight 
 with this chill, or it will be the chill of death !'
 
 122 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 Delighted with Donaldson's promptitude, she 
 showed a like promptitude herself, marked by a 
 calmness, a precision, that were wonderful. It 
 was only when Judith had nothing to do that she 
 was restless, agitated, desponding. Let her part he 
 assigned, — and one of importance, — every faculty 
 proved itself to be at her command. 
 
 Fortunately, owing to the contiguity of Fort , 
 
 medical advice of a somewhat superior character was 
 obtained without much lapse of time, and, instructed 
 by Donaldson of the nature of the occurrence, Mr. 
 Arnold, the surgeon, brought with him all most likely 
 to be in request. Judith listened to and obeyed his 
 instructions with an intelligence which considerably 
 assisted him, and which he observed with surprise. 
 Towards dawn, he prepared to depart for a few hours. 
 
 ' Your father's state is precarious,' he said to 
 Judith. ' If he be spared, to you will he owe his 
 life even more than to me. Watch him with the 
 greatest attention till my return.' 
 
 ' When will that be ?' 
 
 * At ten o'clock.' 
 
 Arnold rode away, and Judith returned to her 
 father's couch. She was glad to find that his eyes 
 were now closed. It had been terrible to see them 
 open and fixed, with so little meaning in their fixed- 
 ness. Arnold, on his return, thought that a favour- 
 able change had taken place. 
 
 ' Try,' he said to Judith, * not to be hoping or 
 fearing.' 
 
 ' Then give me something to do.' 
 
 * Rest. You are as white as he is — try to sleep.' 
 
 ' I can't do that,' rephed Judith, moving away
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 23 
 
 with a sort of aversion. ' I can watch and pray,' 
 she added to herself. 
 
 Maxwell sm-vived. Awful was the silence to 
 which he was condemned for man}^ days. During 
 the suspension of his speech, Judith scarcely quitted 
 him. 
 
 ' I will not miss the first sound of his voice,' she 
 inwardly exclaimed. ' If its accents fell on any 
 other ear, they would afterwards ring on mine like 
 a reproach, had I been voluntarily absent.' 
 
 She was rewarded for her patient waiting, for the 
 first word Maxwell uttered was her name. She sat at 
 his bedside, quietly reading the thirty-ninth Psalm ; 
 and she read it with deep thought of her father. 
 Her eyes were resting on the words — ' I was dumb, 
 I opened not my mouth, because Thou didst it. 
 Remove Thy stroke away from me ; I am consumed 
 by the blow of Thy hand' — when she heard her 
 father murmur, ' Judith!' 
 
 She cast herself on her knees beside him, tem- 
 pering her joy by the fear of agitating him. She 
 took his hand softly in her own. He tried to speak 
 again, but in vain, and tears like those of childhood 
 rolled down his face. Judith, in a low tone, re- 
 peated from the Psalm she had been reading — 
 ' Spare him, that he may recover strength before he 
 goes hence and be no more seen !' 
 
 She felt her father's hand return her pressure. 
 Then he comprehended her. 
 
 Towards evening. Maxwell fell into a refreshing 
 sleep. Arnold had seen him, and spoke of his well- 
 doing with a decision he had not yet ventured to 
 use ; and Judith, placing Janet beside him, snatched
 
 124 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 her cloak, and flew rather than walked, down the 
 slope which led to the English Cottage. 
 
 'I can't stop to ring — I shan't startle Miss 
 Evelyn — she must be always expecting me,' were 
 Judith's rajDid thoughts ; and she passed on, and 
 gave one little quick knock at the door of her 
 friend's room. 
 
 ' Come in, Judith, I know it is you,' said a glad 
 voice ; and the kindest, softest hand in the world 
 was at the same time extended, and caught by 
 Judith, who, uttering the words ' My father !' could 
 proceed no further, but burst into tears. 
 
 ' He is better, or I should not see you here,' said 
 Miss Evelyn, in gentle, reassuring tones. 
 
 Judith smiled through her tears. 
 
 ' He spoke to me — called me by my name — this 
 morning,' she exclaimed ; and, bending down her 
 face on the arm of Miss Evelyn's chair, she indulged 
 in a burst of emotion, which suffered no interruption 
 from her friend. It was over before long, and raising 
 her head, she cried — 
 
 ' A pretty nurse you must think me ! — very little 
 to be trusted!' 
 
 ' Nay, Judith ; Mr. Arnold has paid me more than 
 one visit, and he tells me quite a different tale.' 
 
 * Ah !' replied Judith, ' perhaps it has not been 
 quite so bad as you might suppose from this specimen 
 of weakness. You can't imagine, my dear friend,' 
 she added, changing to a serious and deeply -pathetic 
 tone, ' how very few tears I have shed till now. 
 And now, I am half inclined to begin again. No ; 
 — I wont. Do not fear ; I will consider you now, 
 as 1 have had to consider him hitherto.'
 
 THE MYUTLE AND THE HEATHEU. 12^ 
 
 ' Dear Judith, it has done me no harm to see 
 your burst of natural feehng ; and it must have done 
 you good, I am sure.' 
 
 ' I really think it has !' said Judith, drawing a 
 deep breath, and sitting in silence for a while. 
 
 ' Now I must go : no time as yet to tell you all 
 the long, long history of these hours of waiting — 
 these days and nights of watching ; but I shall, some 
 time, come and kneel here, relate it all, and cry 
 just as much and as long as I like. Now, good- 
 bye ; but tell me first, how you are, and that 
 you have not been fretting yourself to death for 
 us.' 
 
 She gazed earnestly on her friend's pallid face. 
 
 ' No, I have been as well as usual,' was the patient 
 reply. 
 
 ' As ill as usual,' was Judith's mental ejaculation, 
 as she shook her head, and, with one warm embrace, 
 rose to depart. As she reached the door, she paused 
 — she turned back ; a Prayer-book was lying near 
 Miss Evelyn, and she hastily sought and found the 
 Psalm which she had been reading that morning. 
 She put her finger on the verses which had struck 
 her forcibly by their application, and said, in a 
 tremulous voice — 
 
 'There — it was then he spoke to me — I shall 
 never forget it. I like you to know, to think of this 
 too. You are praying for me all through this trial, 
 I am sure. Oh ! what comfort in that assurance ! 
 You ask that I may be patient and gentle, 1 doubt 
 not, for you know well I am neither. But ask also 
 that I may ' have a right judgment in all things,' for 
 I am so fearful, so dreadfully fearful, lest I may
 
 ia6 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 overlook anything — make any mistake — do some- 
 thing quite wrong !' 
 
 The girl clasped her hands. Her face was pale 
 with apprehension, and past emotion. 
 
 ' Patience will guard you against such dangers, in 
 a great measure, my dear child.' 
 
 ' Ah ! yes — I see — I am always too quick.' 
 
 With those words, Judith disappeared. 
 
 ' It is wonderful, the account which Mr. Arnold 
 gives me of her presence of mind, her sound sense, 
 and perfect self-command. She is a rare creature. 
 And what a noble face it is when it looks on me — 
 all sense and feeling !' 
 
 These were Miss Evelyn's partial reflections when 
 Judith was gone. Not that in sober matter-of-fact 
 the Highland lassie had any remarkable beauty of per- 
 son to boast of. She possessed an open countenance, 
 with a clear, brown, hawk-like eye, a dimpled smile, 
 a pure skin usually pale, but with a rich glow in exer- 
 cise or in emotion, and hair as glossy as a raven's 
 wing. She was somewhat low of stature, and strongly, 
 rather than elegantly made. But activity has a 
 certain grace of its own, and Judith's step over the 
 heather, and the lightness and spirit with which she 
 danced her national dances, were by no means desti- 
 tute of that quality. Her voice, in speaking, was 
 clear and sweet, as was her ringing laugh ; but ear 
 for music she had none. Her enunciation was 
 peculiarly distinct, and she had taken considerable 
 pains to acquire a pure and even elegant English, 
 from a hearty desire not to disappoint Miss Evelyn, 
 who had striven hard to endow her with it. 
 
 Thus, on the whole, the presence of Judith was
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 27 
 
 agreeable, the love she inspired was partial, and Miss 
 Evelyn, leaning back in her arm-chair, would often 
 gaze on her with admiring fondness, and fancy that 
 she must be acknowledged to be attractive by even 
 the most casual observers. 
 
 Not so her father, who, after the first scrutiny 
 bestowed on his daughter, when she returned from 
 the boarding-school, walked to the window, saying 
 to himself: 
 
 'The girl is no beauty, certainly — not half so 
 good-looking as her mother before her; — sense 
 enough in her face — not unlike my own.' 
 
 ^ 
 
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 •^A^ "^^ '^fi/' "^A^ '^A^ '\A^ ^o^ •^A^ 'W' '>A^ '^l^ "^i^ '\d/' 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 Then first was noted in his eye 
 A gleam of native energy. 
 
 Hogg. 
 
 And female patience winning firm repose. 
 
 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 ' T HAVE not been wanted, Janet ?' asked Judith, 
 JL in a whisper, on her return from her visit to 
 the cottage. 
 
 ' No, no ; and it is well that you have had a 
 walk. You look all the better for it.' 
 
 ' Better I cannot be ; I was well before. No one 
 so strong as I am, Janet.' 
 
 * I don't know what to say to that. You look 
 white enough sometimes.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ;' and Judith repeated in the old 
 woman's ear, ' ' My love is like the red, red rose,' 
 and that am I.' 
 
 Janet, who deemed her as clever as she thought 
 herself, and as well-looking as Miss Evelyn thought 
 her, ceded her place. 
 
 Maxwell's recovery went slowly forward from 
 that day ; but although he had regained the use of 
 speech, he still laboured under an infirmity which 
 is always remembered with pain by those; who have 
 experienced it ; he was unable to express his wishes,
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 29 
 
 to name the thing he needed ; and at times, after 
 the vain endeavour to arrive at the word he meant 
 by exertions of his own, or the promptings of Judith, 
 worn out by weakness and vexation, he would melt 
 into tears. 
 
 During these weeks of suffering and incapacity, 
 Judith's devotion of herself to her father's service 
 could not have been exceeded. She laid her bed on 
 the floor by his side, she gave him his medicine and 
 his food, she ministered to him, as her worst fears 
 subsided, with a playfulness mingled with her ten- 
 derness which cheered him, though he was a stem 
 man by nature, whose very presence cast a damp on 
 the spirits of others, and discouraged the most inno- 
 cent mirth ; so that Judith, his only child, had never 
 hitherto unrestrainedly displayed to him the natural 
 fearlessness and gaiety of her temper. But now it 
 was somewhat different. Forced to abstain from 
 his arduous labours, he could allow himself to be 
 amused, and perhaps was never more so (although 
 alarm mingled with his sense of the comicality of 
 the proceeding) than when Judith accomplished 
 shaving him for the first time. 
 
 All the neighbours were very thoughtful of Judith 
 and of her father during this period of anxiety ; and 
 Judith, though of a high independence of character, 
 received kindness with grateful cordiality. More 
 especially did her heart warm towards her poorer 
 friends, as they pressed around with various little 
 tokens of respectful love; love which was the 
 merited guerdon of Judith's tender, active minister- 
 ings among them, from the time of her return to 
 her father's house. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 Maxwell gradually resumed his old train of 
 thought. Indeed, no one could tell whether it had, 
 or had not been interrupted, or exchanged for 
 another better suited to the solemnity of a bed, 
 which had so narrowly escaped being that of 
 death. During the weary period of confinement, 
 the sick-chamber was frequently entered by Mr. 
 Douglas, the Episcopalian clergyman of Duror, 
 for Maxwell was a member of his congregation. 
 The Lairds of Duror had for generations been of 
 the Episcopal Church ; their present agent, a man 
 of considerable ambition, had a satisfaction in being 
 one with them on this point ; and, consequently, Mr. 
 Douglas had to thank him for marks of respect and 
 consideration, and for the constant upholding of all 
 his endeavours to promote the welfare of his people. 
 Fortunately, the Presbyterian minister of Duror, 
 Mr. Cameron, whose manse did not lie in the imme- 
 diate vicinity of the Castle, was a man of remarkable 
 friendliness and good temper, and could regard Mr. 
 Douglas, and the favourable position which he occu- 
 pied, without jealousy. He certainly had no reason to 
 complain of any unfairness in the agent's treatment 
 of himself; and Judith, with her father's full permis- 
 sion, supplied too generously the wants of his poor 
 for him to meet her with anything but cordial 
 affection ; and on all questions which concerned his 
 flock, she was encouraged by Mr. Douglas to seek 
 the sanction of his advice. The latter Judith re- 
 garded almost as a second father, and his visits were 
 replete with consolation to her. What feelings his 
 presence and his ministrations awakened in the sick 
 man^ it was difficult to judge.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ^31 
 
 By degrees Maxwell began to show the irritability 
 of returning vigour, and made eager attempts to 
 direct his attention to business. Judith saw that 
 he would not have his inquiries turned aside, and 
 resolved to throw her whole mind into the endea- 
 vour to fulfil his present requirements. At first he 
 was shy of her aid. He could not believe that she 
 would be capable of comprehending, or of executing, 
 this or that piece of business. Judith, under other 
 circumstances, might have been impatient of the 
 doubt, but she now with earnest assiduity won his 
 confidence, fulfilled his injunctions with such pre- 
 cision, remembered with such fidelity when he him- 
 self was yet liable to forgetfulness, that in a little 
 time she became as much his secretary, as she con- 
 tinued to be his nurse. 
 
 ' Eeally, Judith,' he one day said to her, with 
 rather a crabbed attempt at a smile, ' when I sent 
 you to a young lady's finishing school to learn to 
 play the piano and to paint flowers, I never hoped 
 that you would come back a first-rate woman of 
 business.' 
 
 Judith's eyes spai'kled with delight. 
 
 ' Thanks, dearest father, for the commendation, 
 but let praise be given where praise is due ; and 
 that certainly is not to the worthy Miss Finchleys, 
 of Liverpool. I have been carefully unlearning 
 what I learned there, ever since I returned. I 
 shudder when I think what a di'eadful creature I 
 should have been, if I had never found a better 
 instructress. Believe me, every bit of good sense, 
 or right principle, that there is in me, is owdng 
 to Miss Evelyn.' 
 
 £ 2
 
 132 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEK. 
 
 ' Not every bit, Judith, I should think. I have 
 sometimes wondered how a young, lively girl could 
 spend so many hours beside a sick woman's arm- 
 chair.' 
 
 ' The most profitable hours your giddy daughter 
 ever spent,' said Judith, laughing. 
 
 This conversation was matter of surprise and 
 thought to Maxwell afterwards. 
 
 ' Miss Evelyn must really be a remarkable woman,' 
 said he to himself. ' Thoroughly a lady, I know ; of 
 some distinction amongst her own people, I believe ; 
 good blood there, no doubt (and for this Maxwell 
 had secretly a veneration). Her coming here was 
 strange and fanciful, I thought ; a sick woman's 
 caprice : with that opinion, I dismissed her from 
 my mind. I always felt that my girl would get no 
 harm by going there, but I never imagined she 
 would get so much positive good. I have not 
 known nor valued my child till now. She is capable 
 of sustaining all I can design.' 
 
 Maxwell was not an ungrateful man to those who 
 furnished him with anything that was the object of 
 his ardent desires ; he was unobservant enough of 
 services rendered on points indifferent to him. Now 
 he felt warmly his, obligations to Miss Evelyn and 
 to Judith, and was desirous to recompense both ; and 
 he perceived an easy way of rewarding Judith, and 
 calling up her brightest looks. A few words of just 
 praise of her friend, a little more communicative- 
 ness than was customary with regard to himself, 
 and Judith's heart overflowed with happiness. She 
 thought her father's society highly agreeable when
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. I33 
 
 he cast aside reserve, and sighed as her quick pene- 
 tration told her that he never would continue to be 
 so gentle, so sociable, so easy of approach, when he 
 was again himself, again independent of others' 
 care. 
 
 ' But will he ever be able to dispense with assist- 
 ance as he used to do ?' was a mournful question 
 which suggested itself, as she observed his altered 
 appearance. ' Will he ever be able to discard 
 his Judith ?' she added, with a deep thrill of 
 tenderness. 
 
 During Maxwell's confinement to his bed, Donald- 
 son inquired after his health with constant solici- 
 tude. It seemed natural to Judith, that the person 
 who discovered and brought her father home, should 
 feel a peculiar interest in his progress afterwards ; 
 and the manifestation of the feeling recommended 
 the man to her liking, although it could not banish 
 from her memory the fact that he had never been a 
 favourite hitherto, and that neither he nor his asso- 
 ciates were reckoned among the well-disposed part 
 of the community by Mr. Cameron. 
 
 ' Odd that he should have come to our house by 
 appointment,' thought Judith. ' I should not have 
 expected him to have had any business to transact 
 with my father.' 
 
 Judith had a turn for investigation. She saw 
 that her father was disposed (by gratitude as for 
 the preservation of life, she concluded) to accept 
 Donaldson's attentions cordially, and to consent to 
 the request which, after a while, the man proffered 
 to be admitted to an interview. Judith led the
 
 134 
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 way to her father's chamber, and was struck by the 
 keen look of scrutiny which Donaldson fixed on him, 
 as if seeking to read in what state he found him. 
 Maxwell showed some excitement, thanked Donald- 
 son for his exertions, and told Judith she might 
 leave them for a while. She retired with more 
 unwillingness than she could quite account for, and 
 even ventured to say — 'You see, Donaldson, my 
 father is not strong yet.' 
 
 ' Go, go, child,' said Maxwell, with impatience ; 
 as the door closed, he took up his cheque-book, 
 which he had bid Judith lay beside him, observing 
 that he knew what description of thanks would suit 
 his preserver best, and, tearing a leaf from it, held 
 it out to Donaldson : ' There, that is what you came 
 for. All stands as it did concerning that affair, eh ?' 
 
 Donaldson was gazing at his cheque the while 
 too intently to heed the inquiry. The sum there 
 specified was no inconsiderable augmentation of the 
 one first named. 
 
 ' Well,' said Maxwell, reading his countenance, 
 * you did not pick me up for nothing, did you ?' He 
 smiled grimly ; the agent's jests always seemed to 
 have a bitter taste in his mouth. 'JSTow answer my 
 question,' he added, silencing Donaldson's thoughts. 
 
 ' Everything is exactly as we left it,' replied Do- 
 naldson. 
 
 ' And old Meredith, the same as ever ?' 
 
 ' Precisely.' 
 
 'You have not sounded him as to his present 
 feelings with regard to selling ?' 
 
 ' I have. He has the same averseness as ever ;
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 35 
 
 but the son would be very glad if he could bring 
 him to another way of thinking.' 
 
 ' Enough — good-day, Donaldson. As my daugh- 
 ter told you, I am not fit for much yet. The 
 important part of the business is transacted. 
 And now I would advise you — that is, I desire you — 
 to leave the country as speedily as you can, for 
 your own sake. Remember that I have as good a 
 knowledge of your character as I have of your 
 secret. Grood-day.'
 
 ^ 'il? *)!(?')!(?*$? *ilp *)l(? *«i? *^ 
 
 ^ c)j(» t)jj» c)j(> cfe tmj cmj c)m 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 But hushed be every thought that springs 
 From out the bitterness of things. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 MAXWELL, who had been lying with closed eyes 
 since Donaldson quitted him, leaving Judith 
 in doubt whether he slept or mused, at length 
 roused himself sufficiently to say : 
 
 ' Do you know much of the Merediths, child ?' 
 Judith's propensity to make herself acquainted 
 with all the tenantry (especially the poorer) on the 
 estate had never been discouraged by her father; 
 he liked her, for purposes of his own, to gain popu- 
 larity among them, and had consented to better 
 their condition, in various ways, at the suggestion 
 of her warm feelings, and lively apprehension of 
 their wants. He did not know whether her acquaint- 
 ance extended to the Merediths, who were small, 
 independent proprietors. 
 
 'Oh, yes, father, I know them,' replied Judith, 
 with alacrity. She was pleased with the interroga- 
 tion, having sometimes doubted whether her father 
 would approve of her holding intercourse with the 
 family. He had looked coldly, she thought, on the 
 old man, whose obstinacy and prejudices were stum-
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE.. I37 
 
 bling-blocks in the paths of younger men, and whose 
 fast approaching ruin was not likely to commend 
 him to those who could foresee the catastrophe, and 
 how it might have been averted. 
 
 ' A stubborn old fool, the father, is he not ?' con- 
 tinued Maxwell, still in a drowsy tone. 
 
 ' Those words are too hard for my lips,' returned 
 Judith, laughing. 
 
 ' Well, you know them to be just. He is ruining 
 his children by his stubbornness.' 
 
 ' Do you think so ?' said Judith, sorrowfully. 
 
 *What does the son think? — has he any more 
 common sense than the father ?' 
 
 ' A great deal more, in my opinion, poor fellow. 
 There are none left now but Fergus and Agnes ; and 
 the poor girl looks harassed and care-worn, not 
 knowing what to wish or what to do, to soothe her 
 father's old age, and to save her brother. I can't 
 but feel pity for her, and that takes me there to 
 cheer them sometimes.' 
 
 ' I should be willing enough to cheer them, and 
 to help them too, if they would be helped.' 
 
 ' Dear father, that is kind.' 
 
 'There is no help for them but to sell that 
 wretched farm, which they are making more 
 wretched every day. I have told him that for 
 these ten years past.' 
 
 ' And Fergus sees the truth of it,' cried Judith, 
 growing willing to disclose what she knew of the 
 feelings and affairs of this poverty-stricken family. 
 
 ' Do you mean that he would make terms, if his 
 father would be reasonable enough to listen to 
 any?'
 
 138 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 'I really believe he would. Mr. Cameron has 
 advised it.' 
 
 'And failed? You may try, Judith, if you like. 
 Exert yom' powers of persuasion; I think highly 
 of them.' 
 
 There was always a slight tone of sarcasm in 
 Maxwell's jests or praises, yet Judith relished either 
 from his lips ; mingled with the latter, it seemed to 
 add pungency to them — to spur her mettled spirit. 
 
 ' What he half accords, he shall see I can fully 
 deserve,' was her common feeling ; and on the 
 present occasion, she set out the following day 
 for Meredith's farm, to reconnoitre, chiefly stimu- 
 lated by a warm desire to serve — always a marked 
 feature in her disposition, — but not without some 
 love of victory. Delighted to be trusted and 
 employed by her father, proud to be thought skilful 
 enough to have a good chance of success, Judith 
 was at this time more elated than she had ever 
 been. Even at an earlier period, when Miss Evelyn 
 had reminded her that she had still much anxiety 
 to undergo, she had replied promptly — 
 
 ' Yes — I know it : yet, in spite of all, I am not 
 unhappy — I am not depressed ; my spirits seem to 
 rebound.' 
 
 ' It is the sense of being useful that supports 
 you,' replied Miss Evelyn. 
 
 ' That is a favourable answer,' replied Judith. * I 
 must think it over, and find out whether it is too 
 favourable.' 
 
 To-day her solitary ride afforded her a fair season 
 for the scrutiny she had not yet found leisure to 
 carry out. Sparing neither herself nor others, she
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 1 39 
 
 loved to laugh at petty foibles, and at the thousand 
 modes in which the proudest and most circumspect 
 of us all cannot escape affording amusement to 
 those who, like Judith, possess a lively sense of the 
 ridiculous. But she had a more serious purpose in 
 view in her present self-examination. She shrewdly 
 suspected that it was not solely the love of ren- 
 dering service to others, but also a pride in being 
 so employed — a belief that she was peculiarly ready 
 in the performance of any office assigned to her — a 
 little secret confidence that none else could do it half 
 so well, which gave her this happy flutter of spirits: 
 ' It is pleasant to feel how different ni}^ father is 
 to me, since circumstances have made him know me 
 better — have brought me out. I have heard him 
 speak so scornfully of women. I was to him no- 
 thing but a little school-girl : now, he believes that 
 I have a heart and a head worth consulting ; and 
 he believes, too, that we both aUke owe a deep debt 
 of gratitude to Miss Evelyn. Ah ! out of this 
 terrible evil good has been wrought. I am justly 
 far happier than I was before my father's illness ; 
 only I must try not to get very conceited — I sup- 
 pose I ara quick. I am exceedingly vexed when I 
 can't be quite as quick as I wish to be — make any 
 mistake — do anything stupid, awkward. It is 
 necessary to be very ready with my father; he 
 is impatient, and so clever himself, he cannot 
 tolerate dulness. It is something to win his appro- 
 bation, and I have won it ! Surely, he too must 
 rejoice to find that his little daughter is not quite 
 the nonentity he deemed her; it will soften and 
 open his heart.'
 
 140 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 Thus thought Judith, as she basked in the bright 
 gleam of sunshine which had broken through the 
 black cloud of trial. The whole landscape smiled 
 to her eyes, and she feared no treachery, no incon- 
 stancy, in the smile. 
 
 She reached the dilapidated farmhouse, and 
 struck at the door with her little riding-whip. A 
 pale, blue-eyed girl opened it. 
 
 ' Dear Agnes, I have long wanted to see you.' 
 
 'Indeed, Miss Judith, I am thankful that you 
 can be spared to come here again.' 
 
 ' Ah ! thank God, my father is wonderfully better. 
 And yours, Alice ?' 
 
 ' Deafer and more downcast than when you were 
 here,' said the girl, glancing at the figure of an old 
 man in the chimney-corner, with his back to them, 
 unconscious as yet of Judith's entrance ; ' but come 
 to him. It always enlivens him to see you, and he 
 hears your voice better- than most. Mr. Cameron's, 
 yesterday, could not reach him at all.' 
 
 ' I will talk with him, certainly ; but it was 
 Fergus whom I came to see,' said Judith. ' Good- 
 day to you, Meredith,' she continued, gaily, seating 
 herself by him. She knew that he loved far better 
 to be addressed by the title of his small patrimony, 
 Auldgirth, but, in the present state of things, 
 doubted whether it was judicious to grant him the 
 indulgence. 
 
 ' I did not use to answer to that calling, being 
 the head of my family,' replied he, querulously. 
 
 ' Forgive me, Auldgirth ; you know I have had 
 too much English training for a Highland lassie.'
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. I4I 
 
 ' Ay, all the good old ways are going out of date.' 
 
 ' Father, are you not glad to see Miss Maxwell's 
 face again ? Think how long it is since she has been 
 sitting beside you — ' 
 
 ' Tired of the old man, like all the rest — ' 
 
 ' Nay, nay,' cried Agnes, greatly shocked. ' You 
 have forgotten that her own father has been well- 
 nigh dying, and she watching him day and night.' 
 
 'And was it indeed so ?' said the old man, placing 
 his hand on Judith's shoulder, and turning her to 
 the light ; looking earnestly on her, though his 
 power of vision was nearly exhausted, and asking : 
 * Is she thin and pale with it ?' 
 
 The tears started to Judith's eyes; but she 
 brushed them aw^ay, and replied — 
 
 ' Auldgirth, God has blessed our care, and my 
 father will, I trust, be well and stout again ; but he 
 has had a weary while to lie on a bed of pain. 
 However, he knows how to make the hours lighter 
 by kindly thoughts of distant ones. He sent me 
 here to-day to see you, for he guessed that you and 
 I should like it, and Agnes too ; and now you greet 
 me with reproach !' 
 
 ' Nay, not so bad as that, either. But was it his 
 thought your coming, do you say ? Well, who can 
 tell what men will think of on a sick-bed ? — ' 
 
 ' Who, indeed ?' said Judith, a solemn thought 
 passing thi'ough her mind. 
 
 ' But you must tell me about your father's fall.' 
 
 This was almost too much for Judith. She 
 described the spot and the circumstances as briefly 
 as she could, saying : ' It was on your own ground
 
 14^ THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 that it happened,' and then, turning away from the 
 subject, exclaimed, playfully : 
 
 ' When is Fergus to be married, Auldgirth ? that 
 is what I came to ask. Now, don't shake your 
 head. I can't bear the idea of pretty Lizzie Leigh 
 growing pale and dull with waiting too long. You 
 must find out some way of making the young folk 
 happy, or 1 must.' 
 
 The old man's countenance changed, and Agnes, 
 in a low voice, said : 
 
 ' I see Fergus coming over the brae now — if you 
 would speak with him.' 
 
 Judith rose, took leave of Meredith, and met 
 Fergus, who went in search of her pony. Standing 
 beside Dot, she exchanged a few sentences with 
 him. 
 
 'I ventured further with your father to-day, 
 Fergus, than Agnes liked. I asked when your 
 wedding should be.' The young man changed from 
 red to white, and Judith proceeded, earnestly : ' I 
 cannot bear to see things go wrong with you. Tell 
 me plainly, can you perceive any mode of setting 
 them right ? I don't ask questions idly. I know 
 that once you proposed to go to America with 
 your pretty bride.' 
 
 ' I did, once ; but that is all over now. My 
 father did not resent the thought — it was but a 
 passing one — so much, as that he felt it deeply. 
 And I myself could not resolve to leave him and 
 Agnes, nor would Lizzie wish me to do so.' 
 
 'No, I dare say not. She is a generous girl. 
 You all are noble-hearted. But why leave them ? 
 What is there to stay here for ? and in America you
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 43 
 
 really have fair prospects. Why not all go 
 together ?' 
 
 ' I have thought of that also, but dare not pro- 
 pose it. Moreover, although some years ago my 
 father could have sold the farm well, there is no 
 present offer for it.' 
 
 ' Still, if there were an offer, and if his mind could 
 be brought to it, you would not be averse ?' 
 
 ' No — quite the contrary.' 
 
 'Well, good-day. I must go home.' And she 
 sprang on Dot, and rode away. 
 
 Judith explained to her father exactly the state 
 of things at the farm. He authorized her (to her 
 belief, under the influence of a generous desire to 
 save a family invested with interest, both by outward 
 circumstances and individual character, from total 
 ruin) to make an offer for the land, which was cer- 
 tainly beyond what could be reasonably expected, but 
 solely on the condition of their removal to America. 
 This precaution, for his own sake, Maxwell easily 
 made to appear as if devised to protect Fergus and 
 Agnes from any further ill effects of their father's 
 want of judgment and obstinacy. 
 
 ' If Auldgirth waste this sum of money here in 
 futile attempts to regain some of the old importance 
 on which he prides himself, they wdll soon be as 
 badly off as ever. If his son take it to a new 
 country, it may be the making of him ; and set 
 before Auldgirth as an inevitable condition, he may 
 assent to it.' 
 
 Judith entered into her father's views with her 
 characteristic promptitude, and, with the guileless- 
 ness of her age and of a single heart, saw no further
 
 144 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 than he showed her, nor supposed that there was 
 anything beyond to see. She rode over to Auld- 
 gu'th, secure of finding the old man at home ; for 
 she had warned Fergus to be absent, and Agnes to 
 go up to Lizzie Leigh's, and take her knitting with 
 her, and not to hurry back. 
 
 ' Now I have got him all to myself, and I will 
 not be said nay to.' She was surprised to find that 
 her cheek burned, her heart beat, her limbs trembled. 
 
 * All this trepidation in having to encounter one old 
 man !' She strove to laugh herself into reassurance. 
 
 * The welfare of a whole family is at stake — no 
 wonder that I tremble. But I am certain that we 
 are right. There cannot be two opinions about it.' 
 
 She entered. Auldgirth called out : ' Who is 
 there ?' 
 
 'Judith Maxwell, who is come to see you for 
 a while. You are alone, and will be glad of my 
 company.' 
 
 ' I will not deny that, lassie,' replied the old man. 
 
 * I am glad to find you by yourself. I want to 
 have some comfortable, rational talk with you, 
 undisturbed by the whirr of Agnes' wheel, or the 
 barking of Fergus's dogs. Bevis, here, will help 
 rather than hinder the conference. You know, 
 Auldgirth, they are all afraid of you, except Judith 
 Maxwell — and she not a bit. So, I am going to talk 
 to you of a few things which concern you greatly, 
 and which Fergus has never mentioned to this day, 
 I verily believe.' 
 
 ' More shame for him, if he has kept back aught 
 I should know, and left it for a stranger's lips to
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 1 45 
 
 ' Not a stranger's, but a friend's, Auldgirth ; and 
 how can you blame bim, if bis silence be but the 
 fruit of your own bidding, even though it prove to 
 his detriment and youi- own ?' 
 
 The old man placed his hands on his knees, and 
 gazed straightforward with his nearly sightless eyes, 
 wearing an air of obstinacy that would have dis- 
 couraged any one less determined than Judith. 
 
 ' I know now that you would speak of the sale of 
 the estate.' 
 
 He paused ; but Judith answered not. 
 
 ' Why can they not be content to bury me first r' 
 
 ' Oh, Auldgirth ! you will not, by these cruel 
 delays, leave them the wherewithal to do it !' 
 
 * Judith Maxwell,' replied Auldgirth, ' you say 
 what sounds neither very kind nor very respectful 
 to my ears.' He spoke with that dignity, that 
 grandeur, which the most imbecile old age can at 
 times assume, when the consideration due to it is 
 trespassed on by youth. 
 
 Judith instantly felt the rebuke. She threw her- 
 self on her knees at the old man's side, took his 
 hand tenderly and reverently : 
 
 ' Forgive me,' she said, ' words too hasty and un- 
 becoming. Forgive me, and grant a calm hearing, 
 such as it suits your grey hairs to lend. I will 
 speak with the reverence, and, believe me, Auldgu'th, 
 with not a little of the love, of a daughter.' 
 
 The old man placed his hand on her head, and said — 
 
 ' Bless thee, my child ! The anger you kindle can 
 scarce be more than a hasty spark. I'll lend you a 
 hearing as patient as may be.' 
 
 Judith began ; and, with singular precision and 
 YOL. I. L
 
 146 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 force, she put before Meredith all the arguments 
 which she had arranged and rehearsed over and over 
 again as she rode thither, yet did not give herself 
 half the satisfaction which she had felt then, when, 
 at once orator and auditor, her words had carried 
 conviction with them; now they seemed to be 
 thrown back on her by the aversion of her present 
 listener. She made known to Meredith the sum of 
 money which her father had empowered her to otFer ; 
 she pointed out the wealth and comfort it would 
 ensure in America ; she poured forth a warm sym- 
 pathy with his anguish in rising to depart ; but she 
 ventured to remind him how much more real were 
 the evils which he incurred by remaining, than those 
 which he encountered in departing. She turned to 
 the open window, and said : 
 
 ' You tell me yourself you can no longer discern 
 what is beyond the lattice. The picture your mind 
 draws of the scene will be no less faithful when 
 ocean is between you and its reality, instead of a few 
 feet of earth. You would fain lie by old Ailie in the 
 grave — but would you break the hearts of Ailie's 
 children ? When you rise again to greet her, will 
 it not be sweet to have to tell her all you relin- 
 quished, all you suffered, sooner than injure them ? 
 Think, too, that we urge you not to go hence to 
 strangers. The voice that will welcome you is the 
 voice that you have often told me rang most cheerily 
 on your ear in boyhood — the joyous sailor-brother's 
 whom you loved so well. Oh ! what a happy chimney- 
 corner would it be which held you both ! And this 
 is a dreary one, haunted by old remembrances and 
 present cares, and whispers of self-reproach you are
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 1 47 
 
 too proud to breathe, and cross words to poor Agnes 
 which your own heart gainsays, and deaf ears to 
 Fergus. Oh ! rise up, and do your best for them ; 
 it will so open your heart, that you will think little 
 of the decree of God which has dulled your eyes and 
 ears to the sights and sounds of earth.' 
 
 The tears streamed down the old man's face : 
 ' Go away, I bid you, for you do half persuade me 
 to consent.' 
 
 ' I must not go away till I persuade you quite. 
 Listen to my words, for I dare not promise that you 
 shall ever hear them again. To-day my father 
 sent me here ; he may send me no more.' 
 
 She rose, and fetched the large family Bible, and 
 placed it on the table by him. 
 
 ' Auldgirth, you have often heard me read the 
 words of Holy Writ ; now hear these, and tell me 
 if they do not appeal to your heart with a won- 
 derful force of appHcation.' 
 
 She read to him of the aged Israel's journey into 
 Egypt to see his beloved son ; she uttered the 
 sentence — ' If I am bereaved of my children, I am 
 bereaved.' And he felt and acknowledged that his 
 children were all in all to him. 
 
 ' For their sakes, I will do as you would have me. 
 I cannot honestly before God say that I disbelieve 
 in the prospect of happiness which it holds out to 
 them. And as for me, I can't be at peace here in 
 refusing.' 
 
 ' You will be at peace there in complying — I am 
 certain you will.' 
 
 The old man cried — ' I can't be more wretched 
 than I have been here for many a day, when none 
 
 L 2
 
 I4B THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 but God has heard my heart-strings breaking.' He 
 covered his face with his withered hands, and sobbed 
 aloud. 
 
 ' Go,' at last he said, almost sternly, — ' Go, I 
 have given my word to you.' 
 
 But Judith would not go as if dismissed in dis- 
 pleasure. She threw her arms around him, and 
 mingled her tears with his, as if she had been his 
 very child. She softened him, she soothed him, she 
 departed with his blessing. She rode silently on 
 with conflicting feelings, now longing to turn back 
 and release the old man from the promise wrung 
 from him, now rejoicing that she had broken from 
 Fergus's neck the galling chain of penury. 
 
 ' that I could say to them, ' Take the money, 
 and stay !' But that may not be. My father is 
 bound to consult the interests of Duror ; and the 
 most he can say is, ' Take the money, and go.' ' 
 
 Judith, as she thus mused, saw Fergus at a dis- 
 tance, and instantly urged Dot into a canter, which 
 brought her to his side. She held out her hand, 
 and exclaimed breathlessly, ' Fergus, I have pre- 
 vailed !' 
 
 The suddenness of her words seemed to stun him ; 
 he changed colour, gazed wildly on her. 
 
 * You don't understand me. I have been with 
 your father — he consents.' 
 
 Fergus put his hand on Dot's mane, to support 
 himself ; he did not speak for some time, and then 
 murmured, ' Don't think me ungrateful.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no — Lizzie wont let you be that,' 
 cried Judith, wishing to call to his mind a thought
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 49 
 
 agreeable enough to vanquish the natural pangs 
 which transfixed it now. 
 
 ' Lizzie !' he repeated, in a tone of deep feeling, 
 and was able to look up to her with eyes which did 
 thank. 
 
 ' It will be all for the best, Fergus — for him, and 
 for all,' said Judith, with earnestness. ' I am cer- 
 tain it will.' 
 
 ' That is my honest belief,' replied Fergus, in a 
 subdued tone. 
 
 ' We are not deceiving ourselves,' cried Judith, 
 hopefully. 'He will be happier, too, than he has 
 been for a long time past.' 
 
 ' God grant it !' said Fergus, letting fall a tear. 
 
 They parted on the very spot of ground where, 
 six weeks before, Maxwell and Donaldson had delved 
 into the bosom of an incalculable treasure.
 
 '••..^•■®s.-s.:*..^''®-..-\.--..-.-'®\.".J'..^-®"!.''\.:"..^'®-!.:^ 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Like two plants smiling in the dew, 
 
 By the side of the rock in the warmth of the sun, 
 
 With undivided root. 
 
 OSSIAN. 
 
 Was ever spirit that would bend 
 So graciously ? — that could descend. 
 Another's need to suit, 
 So promptly from her lofty throne ? 
 
 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 MAXWELL wished to veil the extreme satisfac- 
 tion with which Judith's success filled him ; 
 and he succeeded so well, that she retired disap- 
 pointed by his apparent indifference. No sooner 
 was she gone, than he indulged himself in the excla- 
 mations, 'Admirable ! excellent ! She is everything 
 I desire her to be — could contend with any diffi- 
 culty — is equal to any station — impossible to be 
 better suited in mind and character to fulfil my 
 intentions ! She little knows how she is building 
 up her own fortunes! Now for SirRoderic's recall!' 
 As Maxwell uttered these last sentences, a sudden 
 twinge of disquietude seized him. A question forced 
 itself on him to which he could not deafen his ear. 
 If Judith had any idea of the edifice which she was
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. I5I 
 
 assisting to raise, would not her own hands be the 
 first to pull it down ? Maxwell, in spite of himself, 
 recognised and dreaded his daughter's rectitude. 
 He shrank into himself, resolved to work with 
 redoubled caution. 
 
 Judith went down to the English Cottage, to get 
 quit of her chagrin. 
 
 ' You look quite tired,' said Miss Evelyn. 
 
 ' I am, and my head aches,' replied Judith, 
 throwing her riding-hat on the ground, and pressing 
 her brow with her hand. After a short silence, she 
 added — ' I have had a hard day's work ; I hope it 
 may prove a good one — not done only to be 
 repented of later.' She sank again into a fit of 
 musing. 
 
 Judith, since she had been admitted into her 
 father's confidence, had esteemed herself bound in 
 honour not to speak of the aff'airs she transacted for 
 him, or discussed with him. Thus her lips were 
 sealed to further disclosures ; yet the few words she 
 had uttered brought some relief to her. Perhaps, 
 also, there was a little flattering self-importance 
 in the avowal of fatigue, the necessity for over- 
 exertion. All such feeling, however, faded away 
 into real pensiveness, as she sat gazing through 
 Miss Evelyn's window into the small churchyard 
 which was in view, and rested her eyes (it was rest) 
 on a white marble cross which constituted the 
 most remarkable object in it. She recalled her 
 looks, conscious that her friend observed the direc- 
 tion they had taken. 
 
 ' You will not credit the natm-e of my thoughts,' 
 she said ; ' you think I am never tired, body or
 
 152 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEll. 
 
 mind ; that I have not the slightest idea of the 
 happiness of repose, the prospect of which seems 
 sometimes to afford you extreme satisfaction. I 
 don't suppose that I shall continue to desire it long, 
 but at this moment I do feel that it must be hap- 
 pier, far happier, to lie there at peace, than to toil 
 here so uncertainly as we do, ill assured of our 
 motive, our aim, our end.' 
 
 ' What,' replied Miss Evelyn, smoothing Judith's 
 dark hair, which had twined itself into one rich 
 cluster ; ' you envy them f 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' It is impossible not to do so sometimes. Blessed 
 is their tranquillity, — a precious boon, but one not 
 accorded to us, Judith. We have to act and to 
 suffer as soldiers and servants. They seemed solely 
 as dear children, who played their game of innocent 
 sportiveness, and lay down and slept.' 
 
 It was not often that Miss Evelyn spoke of the 
 departed, though the white cross which marked 
 their grave was intentionally in her view. 
 
 ' Dear Judith,' she added, ' when I was your age, 
 I used to indulge this train of feeling, which with 
 you is rare: in indulging it, I fancied that I was 
 cultivating religion. I was not only willing, but 
 desirous to die, forgetting that there is more love for 
 Christ in being content to labour for Him here at a 
 distance, than in desiring to lie in His bosom. My 
 child. His vineyard is before you. You have great 
 vigour, though you must look for some hours of 
 faintness.' 
 
 ' Of discouragement, rather,' said Judith, sorrow- 
 fully, ' when I cannot tell whether the very labour
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 53 
 
 I have performed with diligence may not injure, 
 rather than benefit, the plant on which I have be- 
 stowed it.' 
 
 ' Why, Judith, I have occasionally wished to see 
 you less rather than more self-confident.' 
 
 ' I dare say. But you must be aware that often, 
 through a certain exuberance of I scarce know what 
 — something which is not mere playfulness nor abso- 
 lute pride — I assume more satisfaction than I feel. 
 Oh ! my dear friend, if I could always come to you, 
 and tell you everything — all I feel or fancy, all I 
 do or leave undone — then I should escape perplexity, 
 and know when I deserve praise or blame. But I 
 foresee that my power to act thus will become more 
 and more circumscribed ; and in revealing this pre- 
 sentiment, I reveal that which is pressing heaviest 
 on me.' 
 
 ' Of course, Judith, you will not be able, as you 
 mix more in the world, to discuss with me freely all 
 that may concern others even more than yourself — 
 all that may be intrusted to you.' 
 
 ' No ; and then I shall go wrong, and no one to 
 tell me so — for I would not hear it from many.' 
 
 'When true, you should welcome the warning 
 from any.' 
 
 ' 1 don't remember that I welcomed my school- 
 day scoldings — and I suppose some of them were 
 deserved. But let me read to you ; it will be very 
 soothing.' 
 
 Judith fetched her book ; it was a good old one, 
 and she and her friend soon grew interested in it. 
 She went home, taking by preference the path 
 through the churchyard, and stood by the white
 
 154 THE MTETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 cross, gazing awhile on the two graves which it 
 marked. When she entered her father's room, she 
 found writing materials and a folded letter lying 
 before him. 
 
 ' The first time that you have written for yourself, 
 father !' she exclaimed. 
 
 * Yes,' said Maxwell, wearily. * Seal that letter, 
 and take it to the post-bag.' 
 
 Judith obeyed, hoping that her father had not 
 suffered by her absence. Her eye fell on the super- 
 scription: it was to Sir Roderic Lindsay. When 
 she returned. Maxwell fixed a keen look on her, and 
 said — 
 
 'I admit you to my confidence; I discuss my 
 affairs with you. I expect that nothing which 
 passes between us shall go farther.' 
 
 ' I should never have thought otherwise,' replied 
 Judith, colouring deeply. 
 
 Her father saw her as she was ; proud to be trusted, 
 scrupulously honourable, and by nature discreet. 
 
 And whose were the graves marked by the white 
 cross ? 
 
 Ten years had passed since, in the month of 
 June — before England poured forth her shoal of 
 tourists, when there seemed a freshness in the very 
 scenery beyond what it would possess when thou- 
 sands of eyes were feasting on it, when various 
 tracks were unexplored which now are beaten, — two 
 young English pedestrians entered the village of 
 Duror. The strong resemblance between them de- 
 clared them brothers ; they appeared even like twins, 
 so much were they of an age. The day had been
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 1 55 
 
 and was very sultry. The travellers were slight of 
 frame and limb, and seemed somewhat fatigued by 
 their exertions. The youthful beauty of their ex- 
 terior, their courteous lively bearing, won favour 
 with every one with whom they exchanged a greet- 
 ing. Although unable to understand or to make 
 themselves understood by the majority of the in- 
 habitants of the village, they received many atten- 
 tions, such as the proffered draught of milk which 
 the Highlander ever makes you welcome to, and some 
 pressing invitations to tarry for the night. There 
 were ominous clouds darkening the sky; but all the 
 day long their threats had been unfulfilled, and the 
 two youths believed that the storm would roll to a 
 distance. They were eager to traverse the mountain- 
 pass, and gain a httle village on the other side of 
 it ; and declining with friendhness every solicita- 
 tion to the contrary, after an hour's repose at the 
 inn they took their upward way, singing cheerily 
 as they went. The winding defile closed on them. 
 Many a wise surmise, many a kindly look of regret 
 and anxiety followed them, as the prognostic was 
 uttered by many a voice, that the strangers would 
 not cross the mountain that evening without a 
 storm. It was three hours' good walking to the 
 spot they had in view ; they had not been gone two, 
 when the roar and shock of the tempest began, — 
 mountain-top answering to mountain-top — a wild 
 bandying to and fro, as it were, of threat and 
 scornful reply — a low muttering first, then a ter- 
 rible crash like the discharge of artillery through 
 the defile. The vivid lightning flashed on the 
 bosom of the dark waters, and seemed to rive it.
 
 1^6 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 The storm ceased, the black pall of clouds rolled 
 away, the moon rose placidly over the lake, the stars 
 came out, the air was cool and balmy. A delightful 
 feeling of refreshment pervaded all nature ; the 
 serenity of the night resembled the deep repose 
 after pain. 
 
 In the grey dawn of morning, an old shepherd 
 came down the mountain-side seeking for a lost 
 sheep ; and when he reached the path, he found two 
 lambs that the lightning had scathed. There lay, 
 locked in each other's arms, the young wayfarers 
 of the preceding eve — their beauty unmarred, their 
 faces placid as in sleep, and lovingly approached 
 to each other, their fair hair heavy with the dew of 
 morning., The shepherd had not seen them nor 
 heard of them before. He stood astonished, as one 
 turned to stone, for a while. Then he knew that 
 he was in the presence of Death. He raised the 
 cap from his brow a few inches, and looking up to 
 Heaven, said : 
 
 ' Lord, have mercy upon us !' 
 
 He reverently stretched his plaid over the strip- 
 lings, and bade his faithful dog bide near them till 
 he returned. He then bent his steps down to 
 Duror, to the house of Mr. Cameron, and told of 
 the sad sight he had seen. 
 
 When the tidings spread through the village, all 
 recognised to whom they bore relation. Mr. 
 Cameron followed the old shepherd up the pass, 
 attended by some of the young men of the vicinity, 
 who gathering up the sleeping boys in their arms, 
 bore them tenderly back to his house. Having laid 
 them in a chamber, he proceeded to search for some
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. I57 
 
 clue to their distant friends. In their knapsacks 
 he found a clasped volume, on the first leaf of which 
 was written, 'The Peregrinations of Cecil and 
 Eugene Evelyn, for the sole amusement of Aunt 
 Sybil.' There were also many letters signed ' Sybil 
 Evelyn.' According to their date and signature, he 
 transmitted the sad tidings. In the pocket of each 
 young traveller's blouse was a very small Book of 
 Prayer, precisely similar ; and in the one was written 
 * Cecil,' in the other ' Eugene Evelyn, from Aunt 
 Sybil,' in the same delicate and legible handwriting. 
 As soon as Mr. Cameron observed this circumstance, 
 he despatched a messenger to Mr. Douglas, who on 
 his arrival, taking up one of the books, perceived 
 that the marker was placed at the Burial Service. 
 Much touched, he showed the page in silence to 
 Mr. Cameron, who immediately requested him to 
 give a resting-place to these young strangers in his 
 churchyard, where he might read over them the 
 words dear and familiar to them and to their 
 kindred. On the day of the funeral, every 
 Christian heart in the vale responded to the 
 appeal. When Sunday arrived, scarce an inha- 
 bitant that did not come to look on the strangers* 
 grave ; and of those within the church, scarce 
 an eye was dry, when Mr. Douglas in the ser- 
 mon spoke of the sad and singular event. It so 
 happened that on this Sunday the Lord's Supper 
 was celebrated, and numbers had flocked to Duror 
 who might not otherwise have been present. The 
 church afforded the beautiful spectacle of a whole 
 congregation abiding under its roof, one in heart 
 and hope, and thankful acceptance of the gracious
 
 158 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 gift of the Lord of life. A few children only 
 (among whom was Judith Maxwell) issued from the 
 porch, and with whispered awe stood around the 
 resting-place prepared for the travellers, who had 
 reached their bourn. Three days after the funeral, 
 a carriage drove up to Mr. Douglas's door ; a lady 
 in black was helped to descend from it ; she looked 
 very pale, but composed, and sank feebly into the 
 seat to which Mr. Douglas led her. 
 
 ' I am Sybil Evelyn,' were her only words, accom- 
 panied by a look which implored to hear all without 
 delay. She bowed down her head, while Mr. Douglas 
 told gently what had been done. Amovement checked 
 him in his narrative ; his listener had fainted. 
 
 Had Sybil Evelyn heard the ringing voices of her 
 nephews in life within the walls of her sick-room, 
 bidding her travel from York to the Highlands 
 as rapidly as she had now effected the journey, 
 she would with a patient smile have contrasted 
 their vigorous fancies and her enfeebled frame ; 
 but in death they called her, and without fear- 
 fulness, without hesitation, she had come. She 
 paid the cost which in a calmer moment she might 
 have paused to count. A dangerous illness seized 
 her ; she lay long between life and death, and then 
 slowly recovered. Mr. Douglas was a kind and 
 vigilant friend. One day she said to him : 
 
 '■ I thought you would have laid me by them ; but 
 it will not be yet. I am rallying. Will you 
 execute this for me ?' 
 
 She gave him a sheet of paper, on which she had 
 delicately traced (for she possessed the fine skill of 
 the artist) a simple design of a cross, with the
 
 THE MYE-TLE AND THE HEATHER. I59 
 
 inscription on the base, 'Eugene and Cecil Evelyn, 
 aged eighteen. ' They were lovely in their lives, 
 and in their deaths they were not divided.' ' 
 
 What other words could she put ? How could 
 she not put those ? 
 
 ' There is a white marble peculiar to this country,' 
 said Mr. Douglas ; ' shall the cross be carved in it?' 
 
 Thenceforward Miss Evelyn quitted not Duror. 
 She said — ' I have nothing to return to.' And the 
 abiding there seemed to be something of a fulfil- 
 ment of her promise to her gallant soldier-brother 
 who had fallen in the field, that she would never 
 forsake his motherless children while she lived. 
 
 ' How much of mercy there is in every chastise- 
 ment !' she observed to Mr. Douglas. ' To how 
 soothing, how healing a spot has Grod, in my 
 evening time of sorrow, brought me ! It would be 
 very different did I want what I here possess, — the 
 daily ministering of the Church of my baptism — the 
 faithful consolations of you, her ambassador. It is 
 grateful to me to see my beloved ones lie in the 
 consecrated ground which she sets apart, in reverent 
 love, for her dear children's last sleep. It is good 
 for me to be here.' 
 
 Mr. Douglas, a man of education, solid under- 
 standing, and refined sensibility, quickly recognised 
 the singular and elevated character of the person 
 whom circumstances so unexpected had rendered one 
 of his flock. Each day's acquaintance increased his 
 value of her, and his delight in ministering to her 
 comfort. The liveliest pleasure in her society had 
 ever been experienced by every one who entered it, 
 be they what they might, in age or station, in
 
 l60 THE MYUTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 acquirement or natural endowment, in temper or 
 opinions. Somewhere she could meet them, being all 
 things to all men in the truest Christian spirit of 
 the words. All left her elevated, not degraded ; not 
 elated by flattery, for never were there truer lips 
 than Sybil's ; but soothed and invigorated by the 
 conviction that she could perceive something in 
 them worth drawing out, seed capable of bringing 
 forth good fruit, qualities deserving of encourage- 
 ment and respect. None ever walked side by side 
 with Sybil Evelyn, for however short a space, without 
 feeling themselves urged to go a step farther in the 
 right path than they had as yet advanced. 
 
 Then her powers of sympathy with all who wept 
 and all who rejoiced were unlimited — inexhaustible ; 
 no care was too light to be weighed in her balance, 
 nor so heavy as to break its chain. No perplexity 
 was too trivial nor too difficult for her attention ; 
 she neither despised the first, nor shunned the last. 
 ' She is such a good adviser !' was the exclamation 
 of an humble friend; and none complained of an 
 ill-timed, unauthorized counsel thrust on him by 
 Sybil Evelyn. The gift of the Prophet had in full 
 measure been accorded to her : ' The Lord God hath 
 given me the tongue of the learned, that I should 
 know how to speak a word in season to him that is 
 weary.' 
 
 Who was there who would not wilhngly sit at 
 her feet, and tell the inmost secret of the heart ? 
 Whose pride could it grieve to confess to her the 
 soul's accusations, misgivings, needs, desires ? — to 
 lay bare the infirmities, the maladies, the throbbings, 
 of the wounded spirit which none can bear ? Who
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHER. l6l 
 
 would not feel joy heightened by its reflection on 
 her kindly countenance ? 
 
 The child would show its toy, the girl confide her 
 love — the young mother bring her babe — the care- 
 ful mistress of a family detail all her little schemes, 
 and vexations, and satisfactions — the pale and weary 
 widow retrace the past. But the society of Sybil 
 Evelyn was not more highly valued and delighted in 
 by women than by men. Well-born and well-bred, 
 she had mixed largely with the world in a wide 
 circle, for she had never loved a narrow one. Her 
 vigorous understanding, extraordinary calmness of 
 judgment, and playful wit had caused her to be 
 sought out, when health and fortune favoured her 
 earlier years, b}' all the more ' excellent spirits ' 
 of her time. Her tastes were not exclusive ; what- 
 ever was good of its kind, she appreciated and 
 relished. Yet she was not one of those formed 
 chiefly to estimate others with justice and discern- 
 ment ; she possessed the creative powers which con- 
 stitute genius. In painting and in music she had 
 manifested singular excellence, liveliness of fancy 
 and elegance of execution being in each her dis- 
 tinctive characteristics. Strange that the decree of 
 Providence for a being thus gifted and thus bene- 
 volent, should be one long dreary course of disease, 
 never terrible enough to destroy hfe, never tolerable 
 enough to admit of prolonged action or enjoyment ! 
 If she could accept it, shall others rebel for her ? 
 
 Touch not the pining chord of discontent 
 In the great anthem, till the mighty scroll 
 Of mystery all the vision doth unroll. 
 
 It was as if Death came not near her, while 
 
 YOL. I. M
 
 1 62 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 multitudes of the healthy and the thoughtless fell 
 around, but stretched forth one of his icy fingers 
 to paralyse her by its pressure, and limited her daily 
 duty to ' suffer and be still.' And when a season 
 of despondency, of misgiving, and weariness of in- 
 action came, as come it must to a spirit not less 
 energetic than mild, — 
 
 Patience, to prevent 
 That murmur, soon replies : ' God doth not need 
 Either man's work or His own gifts : who best 
 Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best ; His state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest. 
 They also serve who only stand and wait. ' 
 
 Moreover, without any diminution of humility, it 
 was at times granted her to perceive, that scarcely 
 under any other circumstances could she have 
 expected to render service so extended as her pre- 
 sent. From her fixed orbit she dispersed light, 
 warmth, and health around. Had she mingled 
 more unrestrictedly with the world, susceptible as 
 she was of outward impressions, she could not with 
 equal constancy have experienced the influences of 
 inward grace ; and had they undergone diminution, 
 she must have become a less powerful instrument of 
 good. Her position in life has often reminded me 
 of the mode of treatment which sacred subjects have 
 received at the hands of some painters, when the 
 main light of the picture has emanated supernatu- 
 rally from the holiest object in it. A radiance ever 
 seemed to pervade the spot where she dwelt. 
 
 The severe shock of the loss of a brother, her 
 sole earthly stay, was not sustained without great
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 63 
 
 injury to her delicate organization; but for the 
 sake of the nephews, whose education she under- 
 took to superintend, she continued to make many- 
 painful exertions with an unconquerable spirit of 
 self-sacrifice. When, therefore, that mainspring 
 of action was broken, the recoil was violent, the 
 prostration for a time total. The seclusion of 
 Duror, the absence of all society save Mr. Douglas's, 
 was at first acceptable, and even beneficial. She never 
 regained in strength or spirits the pomt from which 
 she fell ; but neither bodil}'" nor mental suffering 
 could extmguish sensibilities and sympathies warm 
 as hers. As she gradually revived, they again 
 demanded objects on which to expend themselves. 
 The bright-eyed daughter of Maxwell, who had 
 proved himself friendly and obliging to Miss Evelyn 
 in all transactions concerning the cottage which she 
 had chosen as a residence, soon became one of 
 interest ; while the gentle Agnes Meredith, pretty 
 Lizzie Leigh, the high-spirited Fergus, brooking 
 with difficulty the many mortifications which attend 
 falhng fortunes — all who welcomed kindly intercourse 
 and the du*ection of a superior intellect, obtained a 
 share of her attention. 
 
 To Judith this guidance proved an inestimable 
 advantage. A clever, high-spirited child, she was 
 for a period suffered to run wild, indulged by a 
 weakly fond mother, and overlooked by a father 
 whose thoughts were otherwise absorbed. The first 
 she lost, and tenderly lamented. Maxwell then fol- 
 lowed the advice of a sister, who had made a wealthy 
 marriage in Liverpool, and sent Judith to a school 
 there. She retm-ned with not a little conceit and 
 M 2
 
 164 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 some stubbornness, engrafted on the self-will of 
 former years, and, moreover, with the character of 
 being utterly unmanageable ; but through all the 
 faults and deficiencies of fifteen, Miss Evelyn's pene- 
 trating eye discovered a fine nature, and an under- 
 standing well worth cultivation ; and her endeavours 
 to assist her were greatly facilitated by the oneness 
 of their religious creed, and the co-operation she 
 could claim from Mr. Douglas. Judith soon yielded 
 her an enthusiastic love, none the less fond because 
 imbued with reverence. Her own words best de- 
 scribe the sort of influence which Miss Evelyn pos- 
 sessed over her. One evening, after having enjoyed 
 what she esteemed a high privilege, the reading the 
 Psalms of the day to her, she said, with that arch- 
 ness which best averted reproof if she too nearly 
 trespassed on forbidden ground : 
 
 ' I never can read this verse — ' Be ye not like 
 unto horse and mule, which have no understanding, 
 whose mouth must be held by the bit and bridle, 
 lest they fall upon thee,' — without thinking of the 
 training that was bestowed on me in your country. 
 My aunt and my governess treated me exactly like 
 the horse or the mule here spoken of: I suppose 
 they were afraid of me. I never should have learned 
 any good thing, had not you found me out, and 
 administered a different discipline. Oh! my dear, 
 kind friend, — my best — nay, my only instructress, — 
 how much more like you is the preceding verse ! — ' I 
 will inform thee and teach thee in the way wherein 
 thou shalt go, and 1 will guide thee with mine eye.' 
 Yes, your eye — one look of it can do more than all 
 their force of hand could ever effect. I used to long
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 65 
 
 to say to them, as I know Dot often longs to say to 
 my father, (who, to tell you a secret, never could 
 ride a bit,) ' Don't pull my head so hard. Just let 
 me alone, and see if I cannot do something of 
 myself.' ' 
 
 ' But could you go right, Judith, when left to 
 self-guidance ?' 
 
 ' Not invariably, I confess ; a pit-fall and a quag- 
 mire now and then,' laughed Judith, 'got into 
 sometimes for the pleasure of rolling my riders in 
 them. To speak plainly, I did not love nor respect 
 those ray aunt placed me with. I am quick in the 
 detection of false pretensions. What they talked of 
 teaching me, I saw they had yet to learn. They 
 called my wildness vulgarity ; I perceived that it 
 was far less truly vulgar than their studied tame- 
 ness ; just as it took me not a moment to detect the 
 contrast between their twang and your pure accent. 
 My aim w^as to be quite unlike them ; and in that, I 
 fear, it was easier to succeed than in my present 
 desire to resemble you.' 
 
 ' I do not want you to be running away from nor 
 running after any one, Judith. That is not the 
 way to go farthest, nor to rise highest.'
 
 ^vi^®^>>5^v^v >>C:v5^>^^ 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Quel sujet inconnu vous trouble et vous alt^re ? 
 D'oiL vous vient aujourd'hui cet air sombre et severe, 
 Et ce visage enfin plus pale qu'un rentier 
 A r aspect d'un arret qui retranche un quartier? 
 Qui vous a pli plonger dans cette humeur chagrine? 
 
 BOILEAU. 
 
 UNDER a strong conviction that his affairs were 
 about to come to a very disagreeable crisis, Sir 
 Roderic Lindsay without loss of time obeyed the 
 summons of his agent, taking leave of the Countess of 
 St. Helens, his wife, in Italy, and promising that his 
 nephew, Horace Lindsay, should join her in Switzer- 
 land. The Countess had a very dreary remembrance 
 of a year passed at Duror when she first married, 
 young, beautiful, accomphshed, and athirst for 
 pleasure and for admiration, but without prospect of 
 title or wealth of her own ; now possessed of both, 
 she had never been prevailed on to return there, 
 and Sir Roderic had not looked on his native castle 
 for fifteen years. He had occasionally spent a few 
 weeks in autumn at a small house on a moor, 
 whither Maxwell, if he would force unwelcome 
 details on him, was bound to repair. But now the 
 agent commanded rather than solicited the Baronet's
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 67 
 
 presence ; and Sir Roderic, who for so long a season 
 had given himself up to selfish enjoyment, felt a 
 twinge of compunction, the chief cause of which 
 was best known to himself, as, on the near approach 
 of his nephew's twenty-first birthday, he contem- 
 plated the possible discovery that he had thrown 
 away the whole of the Duror estates, which he had 
 always held out to Horace as his future inheritance. 
 He no longer took refuge in the plea that he could 
 not be expected to spare for his nephew's sake what 
 he had not spared for his own. Sir Roderic knew 
 of a wrong secretly, inexcusably inflicted on the 
 orphan entrusted to his care, which forbid him to 
 offer any less palliation for his conduct than that of 
 making him his heir, if an inheritance yet remained. 
 At length came the day on which the Laird of 
 Duror was expected; and the weather promised 
 him so boisterous a welcome to its lone, deserted 
 shore, that Maxwell could well believe the Baronet 
 would greatly prefer the snug comforts the Heronry 
 could aftbrd, to the dilapidated grandeur of the 
 Castle. The agent, by his zealous preparation for 
 his Laird's reception, had almost occasioned himself 
 a relapse : the weakness and fretfulness consequent 
 on past illness and present confinement, probabl}' had 
 induced him to apply himself to trifles, of which 
 formerly no man could be more disregardful. Even 
 his daughter's dress did not escape his animad- 
 vension. 
 
 ' That is a very ordinary gown, Judith, surely.' 
 ' This linsey-woolsey, papa ? Oh ! it is capital. 
 It was out in the rain yesterday for two hours, and 
 to-day looks all the brighter !'
 
 1 68 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' Let me see you dressed a little more like a lady 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 Judith moved away discomforted rather by the 
 manner than the matter of this remark ; for of her 
 best silk dress she knew she had no need to be 
 ashamed; while her father muttered to himself: 
 ' Impossible to make anj^thing of her appearance. 
 Yet I have seen her look more tolerable than now.' 
 
 It was not without positive danger that his hardy 
 Highlanders brought the Laird — for whom, though 
 his very person was unknown to them, they cherished 
 a romantic attachment — safely to land; indeed, 
 there was scarcely a safe landing in tempestuous 
 weather on the rocky promontory of Duror. How- 
 ever, the waves were surmounted by the well-manned 
 boat, and Sir Eoderic arrived at the Heronry. 
 
 'You look ill, Maxwell,' said the Baronet, too 
 good-natured to betray the conviction which at first 
 sight had flashed on him, that Maxwell looked not 
 ill, but dying. 
 
 ' I have been ill — very,' replied Maxwell, with an 
 aguish shiver, ' and the storm rages. An extra log 
 of wood and a bottle of claret. Sir Roderic, will be 
 good for both of us. This is a dismal welcome 
 home for you.' 
 
 Judith regarded her father with uneasiness, and 
 disapproved of the remedy he proposed ; but she 
 knew that she must not venture on interference in 
 the presence of their guest. Yet she glanced at the 
 handsome stranger, a far more youthful man than 
 she had expected to see, and felt that his courteous 
 good-nature banished all the awe her father's anxiety 
 had inspired. She was by nature more shy than she
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 1 69 
 
 willingly acknowledged to others or to herself; but 
 now restored to ease, and finding herself for a few 
 moments alone with Sir Koderic before dinner, she 
 seized the opportunity of saying : 
 
 ' You think that my father looks ill ? He has 
 been fearfully so, but I trusted it was past.' 
 
 Her tone of anxiety moved Sir Eoderic's pity, 
 and he immediately strove to disavow his former 
 words : 
 
 ' Oh ! no,' he said. ' At first I was struck by his 
 appearance, it is true ; but I perceive now that it is 
 past, not present, illness which has affected it. Tell 
 me how his accident happened. — Ah! I see I distress 
 you. Nothing could be farther from my intention. 
 Don't attempt to speak — ' 
 
 ' I am afraid — I know,' — hesitated Judith : * my 
 father will enter, and he could not bear to find us 
 speaking of — ' She changed colour. 
 
 ' Perfectly natural,' cried Sir Roderic. ' A man 
 of vigour and determination as he is — I understand 
 his feelings. My dear Miss Maxwell, do not pursue 
 the subject for a moment.' 
 
 And when Maxwell entered, he found Judith lis- 
 tening, Avith no small degree of amusement, to an 
 account of the Carnival of Rome, in which Sir 
 Roderic had that winter been playing a tolerably 
 conspicuous part. 
 
 ' Rather silly, to be sure, this conversation sounds,' 
 cried Judith, next day, when, with renewed mirth, 
 she repeated it to Miss Evelyn. ' And for a man of 
 fifty, too! But you can't think how young Sir 
 Roderic looks and seems — or rather, did look and 
 seem last night, for this morning he is quite an
 
 170 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 altered man — silent, haggard. And my father, too, 
 he has no mercy on himself or others when work 
 has to be done. I hope, for his sake, that the Laird 
 will soon be gone. Only think, the first night of 
 Sir Eoderie's arrival (and coming through such 
 weather), he invited him to his study, and kept him 
 there till midnight. I listened for my dear father's 
 step ; and, oh ! of that I heard too much, for he 
 was pacing afterwards to and fro in his chamber for 
 an hour or more. I left them shut up now with 
 their papers — ' 
 
 Judith stopped short : the thought suddenly broke 
 upon her, that the business which cost her father 
 and his guest so much anxiety to transact could 
 not be of an agreeable nature. Ought she to repeat 
 details which led to such an inference ? Miss Evelyn 
 perceived her confusion, and the cause of it, and 
 with delicacy turned the conversation into a new 
 course. 

 
 
 
 Bii 
 
 
 11 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 It is the sin that thrives, not the man. It cannot be a 
 happiness to thrive on the stock of a great sin, 
 
 Jeremy Taylor. 
 
 THE day was drawing to a close, and the last 
 rays of sunset scarcely penetrated into the little 
 room called a study, m which the Baronet and his 
 agent had spent some hours. On the table before 
 them, the map of the estate lay spread : Sir Roderic's 
 eyes were fixed on it with a dull, despairing gaze. 
 Maxwell pushed back his chair, walked to the fire, 
 and placed himself before it, looking down into one 
 of its bright crevices with intense eai-nestness. AVhat 
 a contrast the two countenances presented, while 
 the one man was surveying a document of the utmost 
 interest, the other an object on which he bestowed 
 a perfectly unmeaning scrutiny ! 
 
 ' Sir Roderic — ' said Maxwell. 
 
 The Baronet started; the agent's voice sounded 
 strangely hollow in his ear. 
 
 *You see plainly,' continued Maxwell, without 
 moving his eyes from the spot on which he had 
 fixed them, 'that the estate is no longer yours.' 
 (Sir Roderic uttered an impatient groan.) 'Yet
 
 172 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 there is one expedient by means of whicli I could 
 be content that it should again become so, — one 
 which exacts no sacrifice of honour or gratitude on 
 either side.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' exclaimed Sir Roderic, with sudden 
 life ; ' does such exist ?' (' and you to reveal it ?' he 
 muttered, inwardly.) 
 
 ' Your nephew — you have naturally regarded him 
 as your heir. He is the last of your line. If he 
 have a spark of true Highland nobility in him, he 
 must value the inheritance of his forefathers, though 
 he has never set foot, I believe, on his native soil, 
 but has lived as one of the English race his father 
 allied himself to.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' murmured Sir Roderic, ' the boy will 
 be severely disappointed. Hard enough on him this 
 turn which things have taken !' 
 
 ' Let him retrieve the disaster and the disgrace,' 
 replied Maxwell, laying the strongest possible accent 
 on the last term. A flush passed over his pallid 
 face, as he continued speaking in a lower, quieter 
 voice than before. Something of shame — something 
 of the servility of a low-born man who unduly esti- 
 mates the qualities of ancient birth and high rank 
 — betrayed themselves in his deportment, in spite 
 of the daring pride of his language. 
 
 ' Sir Roderic, I have a daughter, beloved by every 
 peasant on the estate : happy will they esteem the 
 day when they look to her as the mistress of their 
 interests. They are right. She is endowed with 
 each quality which can best secure their welfare. 
 I would bestow her on no man who was blind to 
 her merits. Judith Maxwell, heiress of Duror, is
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 1 73 
 
 not one to go begging. But, in consideration of 
 old associations — in forbearance for an ancient line, 
 did Horace Lindsay seek her hand, none would 
 rejoice more than I to see the banner of the 
 Lindsays still wave from the Castle.' 
 
 Sir Roderic started from his seat, and took some 
 rapid turns in the apartment ; Maxwell remained as 
 before. 
 
 ' What a device ! — Crafty villain ! — Is it prac- 
 ticable ?' — were the thoughts which chased each other 
 through Sir Roderic's brain. His share of the pride 
 of the Lindsays was very moderate, yet he felt a 
 smarting now; but then the agent's proposal offered 
 a cloak for his own shame, and concealed the dis- 
 credit he had brought on his family. ' What,' he 
 asked, ' could be a commoner expedient than to prop 
 up a falling house by a wealthy marriage ? What 
 more lamentable than to hear that an ancient domain 
 must pass away to a new name ? Lindsay of Duror — 
 who, in the next generation, will remember that it 
 was only an alliance with the agent Maxwell which 
 kept him in possession of his lands ? There is no 
 disgrace whatever in it — if the boy himself can be 
 prevailed on to accept the alternative, and why not ? 
 The damsel is neither old nor ugly, nor blind, nor 
 lame, nor marked with the small-pox. She is as 
 sprightly a Highland lassie as ever trod the heather. 
 I only wish I was as young again, and as free as 
 when first I saw the Countess ; I should know better 
 where to choose. I see no reason whatever why 
 Horace should object. 
 
 ' I have but two doubts — two difficulties. I 
 believe him to be more of an Englishman than a
 
 174 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 Highlander — my fault again. I have left him too 
 much to his mother's relations. Eton and Oxford 
 have had the making of him. And next — I don't 
 believe I have a shade of influence with him. The 
 young fellow has not a debt in the world that I 
 know of, although I promised to increase his allow- 
 ance, and never did so. I have not that hold on 
 him ; I wish I had. To be sure, were I to reveal — 
 what I never will so long as it is possible to avoid 
 it — that I was forced to touch his capital, then his 
 fancied independence would be gone.' 
 
 It must be allowed that Sir E-oderic had now got 
 to a part of the subject which he never could endure 
 to dwell upon. He therefore broke off the train of 
 his thoughts abruptly, and told himself it was quite 
 time to give some reply to the ghost-like, silent 
 Maxwell. He approached him, stopped short as he 
 reached his side, and addressing him with an ease 
 and cordiality at once amazing and embarrassing to 
 the agent, and awakening his envy of the Baronet's 
 facility ; he said : 
 
 'The best step to take in the present circum- 
 stances is to fetch Horace here at once. He will 
 be of age this autumn.' 
 
 ' In August,' observed Maxwell. 
 
 ' He has been too little acquainted with the place ; 
 he will see it in all its beauty. Miss Maxwell is 
 the best person in the world to make him acquainted 
 with it. You must perceive that your daughter's best 
 chance — ' The Baronet broke off, and cleared his 
 throat ; he recognised a frown of displeasure on 
 Maxwell's brow. ' The most injudicious thing pos- 
 sible it would be to lay any part of the scheme bare
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEll, 1 75 
 
 before a young man like my nephew — of his age and 
 position; — -just set him against it — make him restive, 
 self-willed, as all young men of the day are — lovers 
 of opposition for opposition's sake. Let him come 
 here — learn to love Dm'or, see how worthy your 
 daughter is to be its mistress, and, no doubt, mthout 
 any interference on om* parts, the whole thing will 
 of itself take the com'se we would point out.' 
 
 ' Then I am to understand that we fully agree as 
 to the course which we desire that it should take ?' 
 asked Maxwell, imperatively. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the Baronet, not without a twinge 
 of reluctance, which was instantly detected by his 
 companion, who continued, with studied slow- 
 ness : 
 
 ' Then, for the present, imtil Mr. Lindsay shall 
 have attamed his majority, we mil say — we need 
 have no more of the unpleasant discussions which 
 have occupied us for so many hours, Sir Roderic' 
 
 As he finished speaking, he began to gather up 
 and to arrange with the greatest accuracy the papers 
 which lay scattered on the table ; a proceeding which 
 gave the Baronet to understand that they would 
 always be perfectly ready for use if required at any 
 future season. 
 
 ' Shall we take a turn in the garden for refresh- 
 ment ? I see my daughter coming up the walk.' 
 
 Sir Boderic could not refuse ; though he went to 
 meet Judith, now returning from the English 
 Cottage, with little of his usual suavity. He walked 
 to and fro with an abstracted air, and at last, 
 addressing himself to Maxwell, said, in somewhat 
 an under-tone :
 
 176 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' If I write to-morrow to my nephew, he cannot 
 be here under three weeks.' 
 
 ' Probably longer,' answered Maxwell, drily. 
 
 ' I shall disconcert Lady St. Helens' plans, I fear. 
 She has no thought of returning to England before 
 July.' 
 
 Maxwell made no comment on this observation. 
 
 ' I shall go to my friend Macdonald to-morrow, 
 and write from his house. I can get away for ten 
 days at least, I reckon.' 
 
 Judith listened with surprise, for she discovered 
 ill-humour in the Baronet's tone. He, too, began 
 to feel shame, and shaking off at once his dis- 
 comfort, addressed her with his former entertaining 
 liveliness. 
 
 It was now Maxwell's turn to fall into an absent 
 mood, and he soon re-entered the house. 
 
 Judith repaired to her own chamber, her curiosity 
 considerably excited. ' Then we are to have Mr. 
 Lindsay here ! I shall rather hke to see the uncle 
 and nephew together.' 
 
 At night. Maxwell lay feeling almost more like 
 an honest man, and a happy man, than he had since 
 the recover}'- of consciousness. He had done the 
 very utmost he could devise to serve the interests of 
 the Lindsays without renouncing his own. He had 
 in full view the attainment of the highest pinnacle 
 of his ambition for his daughter. Why, then, thus 
 self-approving, self-congratulating, as he tried to 
 convince himself that he was, slumbers brief and 
 restless ? — and why that waking at morn 
 
 * With fevered lips and withered heart' ?
 
 •..•;•• ••.':'•; ■•.■;■• ••.:■.' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 II y a dans quelques femmes une grandeur artificielle, un 
 esprit ^blouissant qui impose et que Ton n'estime que parce- 
 qu'il n'est pas approfondi, II y a dans quelques autres une 
 grandeur simple, naturelle, inddpendante du geste et de la 
 demarche, qui a sa source dans le coeur ; un m^rite paisible, 
 mais solide, accompagn^ de mille vertus, qu'elles ne peuvent 
 couvrir de toute leur modestie, qui ^chappent et se montrent 
 k ceux qui ont des yeux. 
 
 La Bkutere. 
 
 IP 
 
 NDEE, the walnut-trees at Interlaken sat a 
 ^ party of English travellers, who, having 
 arrived the preceding evening, had just obtained 
 their letters from the post, and were reading them 
 at leisure on that lovely spot. The Countess of 
 St. Helens, with envelopes scattered around her, 
 was earnestly perusing their contents. Beatrice 
 was sitting a little apart from the group ; she had 
 no tidings from her fi'iends, and she regarded with 
 rather a disconsolate air those whom she deemed 
 more fortunate than herself. Anne Lindsay was 
 standing behind a young man. on whose shoulder 
 she leant to read with him the letter which he 
 held, a portion of which he had already communi- 
 cated to the Countess, who was as yet too much 
 preoccupied to yield him further attention than a 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 pettish exclamation of : ' Nonsense, my dear Horace ! 
 Want you in Scotland at tliis time ? Not even 
 3'onr uncle could be so inconsiderate. What should 
 I do without you ?' And she went on with her 
 own letters. 
 
 ' He is quite in earnest,' remarked Anne, in a low 
 voice, to her brother. 
 
 Horace did not appear better pleased than did his 
 aunt, but felt a little touched by the frank good- 
 nature of Sir Roderic's address, which ended thus : 
 
 ' Of course, my dear fellow, I should not break 
 into the plans which promised you much pleasure, 
 were it not imperatively necessary to do so. I have 
 lately been with that unpliable man of business, 
 Maxwell,' (the Baronet had thought it judicious to 
 write rather from Macdonald's than from Duror,) 
 ' and he has placed things before me in a point 
 of view which would make me unjustifiable did I 
 not consult your interest rather than your amuse- 
 ment, for which I trust you will have abundance 
 of time hereafter. My lady must dispense with 
 your services as best she can, for really you cannot 
 sacrifice yourself to your attendance on her or her 
 lap-dog.' 
 
 Horace involuntarily glanced from the paper to 
 Beatrice, who had just withdrawn her eyes from 
 him, for she had perceived that to watch his coun- 
 tenance was to read his secrets, so good an index 
 was it of what passed within. Idle herself, she had 
 without thought allowed herself to glance from face 
 to face, from the Countess's to Anne's, from Anne's 
 to Horace's, and there her attention had been caught 
 by the extreme vexation which settled round his
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 79 
 
 mouth — the most flexible of all features in betraying 
 every variation of humour — and the rapid language 
 of his clear grey eye, as he looked up at his sister 
 and down again on his letter. Horace now rose, and 
 drawing Anne's arm within his, led her away to a 
 spot where they might be alone. The Countess 
 came to the end of her letter, and let it drop into 
 her lap ; she looked up, and exclaimed : 
 
 ' Why, where are they gone ? Come nearer, 
 Beatrice, and tell me what Horace was sajdng. 
 Something foolish and provoking, I know it was ; 
 all Sir Roderic's epistles contain that.' 
 
 ' I think Mr. Lindsay spoke of being called to 
 Scotland.' 
 
 ' Think, child ? Why, do you not know ? You 
 had no letters to distract you. Now, really I did 
 not mean to bring tears into your beaux yeux. I 
 don't believe that there is any post from Italy to- 
 day. To-morrow you will have your share, carina.' 
 
 * Ah ! perhaps that is it !' exclaimed Beatrice, 
 cheered. 
 
 ' I am sure,' said Lady St. Helens, ' I wish we 
 could not have heard from England. What does Sir 
 Roderic mean ? I cannot spare Horace, and 1 will 
 not. He is as delightful as his uncle is tormenting. 
 He is not of age till August, and the earliest I can 
 quit Switzerland is July. I shall tell him what 
 answer he must give,' she ended, haughtily. 
 
 Beatrice secretly speculated whether Horace 
 would or would not decide that point for himself. 
 
 ' Don't you see,' cried Lady St. Helens, impatient 
 of hearing no assenting voice, ' ho\v unreasonable 
 this is ?' 
 
 K 2
 
 l8o THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 'Perhaps Sir Roderic has reasons. I suppose 
 the letter explains.' 
 
 ' My dear,' replied Lady St. Helens, in a tone of 
 sovereign contempt, 'as if Sir Roderic ever had 
 reason on his side ! If you knew him, it is the last 
 supposition you would hazard.' 
 
 The Countess was silent for a while, but reflection 
 could only redouble the anger kindled by a proposal 
 which must, she considered, have no other object 
 than her vexation and inconvenience. Before the 
 reception of this disagreeable missive, Lady St. 
 Helens had regarded herself and her companions 
 with no little complacency, and anticipated much 
 pleasure from their progress through the most 
 fashionable places of resort in Switzerland. Her 
 own splendid style of beauty and of dress — the youth 
 and loveliness of Beatrice, which ' made simplicity a 
 grace,' — the aristocratic bearing of Horace, his coun- 
 tenance beaming alike with intelligence and feeling ; 
 — these could be seen but to be admired. Charmed 
 as she was with the beauty of her party, she cer- 
 tainly would not submit to have one of the chief 
 objects of attraction withdrawn ; Anne Lindsay's 
 mediocrity might have been spared, even willingly, 
 but Horace was not to be resigned. She turned 
 to Beatrice, the only listener at hand, perhaps 
 the only one she would have thus addressed, and 
 poured forth such a tide of complaint and cen- 
 sure of Sir Boderic as Beatrice could not hear 
 without dismay. Shocked as she was by language 
 which right-mindedness and delicacy told her ought, 
 under no circumstances, to escape the lips of a 
 wife, she nevertheless felt extreme sorrow for her
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEU. I<51 
 
 impetuous friend, when she uttered the avowal 
 that she was the most wretched and unfortunate 
 of women. 
 
 ' Of what avail are rank, or beauty, or talents — 
 all that commands respect and admiration in every 
 other quarter — while bound to a man who is utterly 
 insensible to an3^thing but his own selfish gratifica- 
 tions ? Not a taste, not a feeling do we possess in 
 common. His mind is uncultivated, his temper 
 ruined by gambling. At Eome, last winter, while 
 I was surrounded by men of every nation the most 
 distinguished of their day, he could find no nobler 
 pursuit than that of fox-hunting. And the money 
 which he spent in bringing out dogs and horses ! 
 Yet he reproaches me with extravagance. He is 
 the stingiest of mortals when giving to others is 
 concerned ; and that you know, my dear Beatrice, is 
 what I live for. I see your look of surprise ; you 
 wonder how characters so different ever came to be 
 united.' 
 
 ' I do indeed,' replied Beatrice, with heartfelt regret. 
 
 ' I suppose my beauty attracted him. Oh ! he 
 certainly was desperately in love, (I was a silly, 
 inexperienced girl, not older than you are, Beatrice,) 
 and I thought that would last, at least — ' 
 
 ' Surely, it cannot have passed away,' said Bea- 
 trice. ' Love may sleep ; I do not believe it can 
 die. Your feelings are impetuous; but then they 
 will impel you to a generous forbearance which 
 would melt any heart. I cannot bear to think that 
 you, endowed with all nature and fortune can give, 
 should have made wreck of happiness.' 
 
 ' Nature — yes ; but as to fortune ! You don't
 
 j82 the myrtle and the heathee. 
 
 imagine that I was Countess of St. Helens in my 
 own right when I married Sir Eoderic ? No, I have 
 not quite so much folly as that to reproach myself 
 with when I deplore the crowning error of my life !' 
 
 The Countess's regret and anger were too real for 
 her to observe Beatrice's look of amazement. She 
 rose, and sweeping by, returned to the hotel, leaving 
 the latter at a loss to know whether she ought to 
 follow her, and strive to minister consolation, or 
 leave her time to recover in solitude emotions which 
 had urged her so far beyond the bounds of good 
 judgment and self-respect. It was not the first 
 time that Beatrice had regretted the incautious 
 utterance which her patroness gave to her feelings 
 on subjects which she would have expected her to 
 shrink from ; but she had never yet spoken so 
 plainly as now of the unhappiness of her married 
 life. Beatrice, uncertain how to proceed, remained 
 on the spot where the Countess had left her, trying 
 to solve the mystery which that lady's character 
 was becoming to her, and to read the meaning of 
 her last words. As she sat musing on the six 
 weeks which had elapsed since she quitted Florence, 
 she could not refrain from the wish that she had 
 known her patroness a little differently and better 
 before she had set out with her. 
 
 ' Surely Mr. Howard might have made me imder- 
 stand some points on which he left me quite in the 
 dark. Yet he never would have placed me here, had 
 he not confided, on the whole, in her excellence. 
 She appreciates him : it is as delightful to hear 
 her speak of him, as painful to listen to her 
 scorn of Sir Eoderic. She always declares her
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 183 
 
 enthusiasm for talent of every description. I hope 
 she has a heart, too ! How ungrateful of me to ask 
 it ! how kind, how lavish in her fondness has she 
 been to me ! But there has always been something 
 strangely chilling in the intercourse between her 
 and Miss Lindsay. I can never feel comfortable 
 when with both, yet I am sure that Anne's heart is 
 warm and true. Her conduct is considerate — sis- 
 terlj^, as Mr. Howard assured me I should find it. 
 I am half inclined to reproach myself sometimes for 
 feehng happier with her than with Lady St. Helens.' 
 
 Beatrice recalled certain warnings which she had 
 received from Miss Lindsay, very briefly and deli- 
 cately conveyed, and in which now she was dis- 
 posed to rejoice ; but she did not like the turn her 
 thoughts had taken, and called them back to the 
 Countess's sorrow. 
 
 ' All alone — lost in thought, and that of the most 
 perplexing nature, if one may judge by looks.' It 
 was Anne Lindsay's voice. Beatrice started ; she 
 could not contradict her. Anne looked amused 
 and curious : ' A batz for your thought !' she cried ; 
 and Beatrice would willingly have disclosed it ; but 
 that might not be, and she ventured no further than 
 to say : 
 
 'I was thinking about Lady St. Helens' not 
 having always been Lady St. Helens: I did not 
 know it till she told me now.' 
 
 Anne appeared for the moment surprised, then 
 answered, with a certain brusquerie, from which her 
 manner was not always free : 
 
 ' Of course not, or she would never have married 
 Sir Eoderic Lindsav.'
 
 J 84 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' I don't understand you.' 
 
 ' I don't think you understand anything, and that 
 is all very well at eighteen. But the explanation 
 of this assertion I fancied you might have already- 
 received from the Countess herself. Why should 
 she speak to you of the first fact, unless it were to 
 deplore the second ? Why should she long conceal 
 from you what she publishes to all the world? 
 Are you still really perplexed ? Three words will 
 relieve you. When she first met my uncle, she was, 
 as you will believe, very beautiful and very clever ; 
 also very impatient to emerge from the obscurity in 
 which poverty held her. In fact, she thought that 
 in marrying him she did very well for herself. 
 Several unexpected deaths made her Countess of St. 
 Helens ; then she thought she had done very ill. 
 The marriage has not been happy — faults on both 
 sides. I have done.' 
 
 Beatrice looked sad and serious at this revelation, 
 xlnne smiled, then said : 
 
 'Your eyes say as plainly as lips could, 'How 
 can you smile ?' In some circumstances, one must 
 smile or cry ; and I feel that your excessive simpli- 
 city moves me to one or the other. As to myself, 
 one gets used to everything.' 
 
 ' I don't think I ever could get used to every- 
 thing,' replied Beatrice. 
 
 ' You can't tell yet,' said Anne, quickly ; then 
 added, ' Much crying would not suit my position. 
 My uncle, Horace, how would they like it ? My 
 aunt and I go on well enough together, and of my 
 brother she is desperately fond — now.' 
 
 ' It was grief at the idea of his going away — '
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHER. 1 85 
 
 ' — That called forth this burst of indignation. I 
 knew it.' 
 
 Beatrice was silent, and looked unhappy : 
 
 ' Anne, I feel as if I had done something very- 
 wrong — betrayed — ' 
 
 ' Nonsense, dear ! You can't betray what is not 
 concealed. I saw, in a moment, how it would be. 
 I am very sorry that Horace is called home ; but 
 he must comply with my uncle's desire, and he will.' 
 
 Beatrice was relieved to hear this quiet tone of 
 decision. It was pleasant to perceive Anne's calm 
 rehance on her brother. ' If his duty is plain, he 
 will perform it, she knows,' thought Beatrice ; and 
 she felt that she breathed again the pure atmo- 
 sphere in which her childhood had been reared. 
 
 Lady St. Helens, meanwhile, had resolved to 
 throw every obstacle in the way of Horace's depar- 
 tm-e, and to disregard the future in her anxiety to 
 keep near her the youth whom, at this moment, it 
 flattered her vanity to lead in her train. 
 
 To her endeavours were opposed Anne's sober 
 sense and Horace's generosity. Had there been less 
 good-nature in Sir Koderic's letter, his nephew 
 might have rebelled ; had there been less evident 
 anxiety, his niece might have temporized; but 
 in the walk the brother and sister took together, 
 they carefully considered the matter, and their deci- 
 sion was made. Whatever the contrasts of their 
 characters, they were alike determined ; Anne being 
 called obstinate, as the firmness of good-tempered 
 people is sometimes stigmatized, and Horace head- 
 strong, as that of fiery natures is often pronounced 
 to be.
 
 l86 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 The Countess appeared at the table-d'hote in the 
 middle of the day, not only having regained her 
 composure, but in the best of humours and the 
 most becoming of toilettes. Every eye was turned 
 on her, as she entered the room leaning on Horace's 
 arm, followed by Anne and Beatrice. Seated at 
 table, the conversation was furnished by a party 
 just returned from the mountains, who described 
 with enthusiasm the sights and sounds of the glo- 
 rious upper world they had visited. 
 
 ' Look at that face !' said Lady St. Helens, 
 touching Horace's arm. ' Did you ever see such 
 fresh young delight ! This is anticipation — what 
 will be the reality ? How I shall enjoy realizing 
 it ! We must start for the mountains at once.' 
 
 The object to which she had directed Horace's 
 eyes was the face of Beatrice, beaming with anima- 
 tion, as she listened to a description of the ascent of 
 the Wengern Alp. He gazed certainly not with less 
 pleasure than the Countess experienced, nor with a 
 less lively desire to accomplish the wishes which 
 Beatrice could not but entertain. 
 
 ' Why, even Anne is enlivened by such a topic, ' 
 said the Countess. 
 
 ' No one has a truer appreciation of the beauties 
 of nature than Anne,' replied Horace, warmly. 
 
 ' I am glad to hear you say so. It would spoil 
 our party to have one blank. We must set out to- 
 morrow — this weather is too propitious to be lost. 
 I shall make you engage the guides this evening : 
 I have ordered them to come to our salon.' 
 
 Horace looked embarrassed ; he did not like to
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 87 
 
 hazard a remark likely to create great dissatisfaction 
 at this moment ; at least, he told himself that pru- 
 dence suspended his speech, and did not choose to 
 dwell on the fact, that departure became doubly 
 painful, associated with the idea of Beatrice's dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 Anne took his arm, after leaving the room, and 
 said, ' Have you made known your decision ?' 
 
 ' No ; it was not the time.' 
 
 'But it is now.' 
 
 ' Dear Lady St. Helens,' said Horace, coming 
 forward with desperation, ' you are aware that my 
 uncle's letter obliges me to leave you.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you mean,] replied Lady St. 
 Helens, drawing him into a room where the guides 
 were already met, the maps spread on the table, and 
 Beatrice deep in discourse with a Swiss, who was 
 speaking with intelligence and spirit, and pro- 
 nouncing that he had devised a plan which compre- 
 hended ' tout ce qu'il y a de plus beau.' 
 
 ' My dear Beatrice, this is all delightful,' said the 
 Countess ; ' but Mr. Lindsay says that he means to 
 make it impracticable.' 
 
 Beatrice changed countenance ; she could not 
 repress her first feeling of disappointment : 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' she said. ' I have been too 
 hasty — I suppose I misunderstood you. I thought 
 you told me to speak to Pierre.' 
 
 ' I did so. I was not aware that Mr. Lindsay 
 meant to forsake us. I cannot attempt this or any 
 other excui'sion without him.' 
 
 Beatrice laid down the map.
 
 1 88 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' Indeed, aunt,' said Anne, ' I believe the guides 
 would take very good care of us. Other parties, 
 too, we might fall in with.' 
 
 'I go nowhere without Horace,' replied the 
 Countess ; and she withdrew to her own room. 
 
 ' This is very annoying,' said Anne ; ' but how 
 can it be helped ?' 
 
 Beatrice came to her friend's side, and then 
 addressing herself to Horace, said, earnestly : 
 
 ' Don't you think, if you were to go to Lady St. 
 Helens, to explain to her once more — to show her 
 the letter, she would be quite satisfied ?' 
 
 ' She has seen the letter — I sent it to her before 
 dinner,' returned Horace, in a tone at once vexed 
 and indignant. 
 
 Beatrice's countenance fell. She could suggest 
 no more. She feared to offer to go herself; it 
 seemed presumptuous, and perhaps intrusive. Anne 
 and Horace ought to possess more influence than 
 she did. Anne, after a few thoughtful moments, 
 left them. 
 
 ' And you — you, too, must feel disappointed ?' 
 said Horace, tiu'ning to Beatrice. 
 
 ' I should have been more disappointed, had you 
 acted differently, for that would have grieved Anne. 
 She told me that you had made your decision,' she 
 gently answered. 
 
 ' I think I can keep it now,' cried Horace, his 
 face beaming with pleasure. ' How could I expect 
 other than this from you ? I have been with you a 
 short time, it is true ; but from my aunt — from 
 Anne — I have heard much. I know — ' 
 
 ' Indeed, there is nothing to know ; pray do not
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 189 
 
 talk of me,' said Beatrice, with looks of distress. 
 I particularly dislike — I can't help it.' 
 
 Anne re-entered the room : 
 
 ' Horace, I have given one day for you, if you 
 will consent. I think you may. Only hear my 
 reasons.' 
 
 Beatrice shrank back. ' Don't go away,' said 
 Anne. She went on speaking in a low voice to her 
 brother, and Beatrice could not avoid catching the 
 words, ' hard on her' — ' not to exasperate' — ' widen 
 the breach' — ' well, then, for peace' sake.' 
 
 ' Pierre,' said Horace, calling through the window 
 to the disconsolate guide, still hanging about the 
 house, ' promise us a fine day, and we will ride up 
 the Wengern Alp to-morrow.' 
 
 Pierre was all smiles and promises ; and the 
 Countess presently reappeared, with some smiles 
 also (though less sweet than they had been) ; and 
 Beatrice believed that all was right because Anne 
 had done it, and allowed herself to gaze on the 
 Jungfrau, as it blushed at eve, with a delighted 
 anticipation of the morrow, which was to bring her 
 near it. 
 
 The day was true to Pierre's promise ; the beauties 
 of the ride were such as impress themselves for ever 
 on the memory of those who are acquainted with the 
 mountains of Switzerland — such as cannot be sug- 
 gested to the imaginations of those who are not. 
 The enjoyment of Beatrice was exquisite; Anne 
 drank in a great deal of silent delight ; the Countess, 
 but partially restored to good-humour, having ascer- 
 tained that Beatrice's charms had not the spell to 
 break Horace's resolution to depart the next day.
 
 190 THE MTRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 would not allow him to seek their influence merely 
 for his own amusement, and, more exigeante than 
 ever, detained him at her bridle. The young man 
 submitted with impatience, and had frequently to 
 remind himself that this day was a peace-offering 
 to Lady St. Helens. At length, however, on the 
 descent of a precipitous and narrow path, he con- 
 trived to fall back till he found himself beside Bea- 
 trice's horse, the last of the cavalcade. Placing his 
 hand on her bridle, he said : 
 
 'You will descend more safely, and more expe- 
 ditiously, I am sure, if on foot, as I am.' 
 
 * Should I ?' replied Beatrice ; and, with his help, 
 she dismounted. 
 
 They waited a few minutes for the horses to move 
 out of their way. 
 
 ' More expeditiously !' exclaimed Horace. ' Why 
 should we wish that ? The termination of these 
 glorious scenes will be reached far too soon. You, 
 at least, have thoroughly enjoyed this excursion, 
 have you not ?' 
 
 'Yes, indeed. I cannot believe my enjoyment 
 will ever be exceeded in its kind ; for, surely, this 
 scenery is not to be surpassed.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! I fear its memory may make me 
 gaze with too ' blank an eye' on my native moun- 
 tains.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no ; you will descry the same Hand there 
 as here.' 
 
 ' Thank you for that thought ; I shall carry it 
 with me, and the remembrance of your unmixed 
 delight.' 
 
 ' Unmixed !' repeated Beatrice, thoughtfully. ' I
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. I9I 
 
 am not sure that it is. May I ask you — I hardly 
 know how to ask what implies a doubt, which I 
 ought not to entertain — ' 
 
 ' You must ask now. I perceive that you have a 
 doubt : give me the chance of removing it.' 
 
 ' Ah ! yes, I must do that. I should like to be 
 quite sure that you have not regretted the gift of 
 this day.' 
 
 ' I have not,' replied Horace, without hesitation. 
 ' In fact, I was not tempted to give it against my 
 judgment — or conscience, if you will. Do you 
 remember hovv^ you spoke yesterday of my previous 
 decision ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And you stopped me, when about to add some- 
 thing I should like to return to now. It cannot 
 offend you. I was only going to say, that I am 
 acquainted with the plan of your generous future. 
 If now — by any of the unforeseen changes and 
 chances of life — we part for longer than I antici- 
 pate, may I not tell you, that none reverence your 
 purpose more, none will watch for your success with 
 warmer sympathy, than I ? — Are these expressions 
 quite valueless ? Do you regret that you have not 
 again checked their utterance ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! no,' said Beatrice. ' Kindness cannot be 
 valueless. I meet with too much of it from all — 
 so far beyond my deserts.' 
 
 But the mauvais pas was over. The Countess, and 
 Anne, and Beatrice's horse were waiting. Beatrice 
 remounted ; Lady St. Helens called Horace to 
 lengthen her stirrup ; and the previous order of the 
 dav was resumed.
 
 192 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' However tired you are, you must come and look 
 on the valley in the moonshine,' said Horace, at 
 night. 
 
 Lady St. Helens cried — ' How unreasonable ! 
 You are quite a Lindsay, I see.' 
 
 Anne confessed herself very sleepy, but followed 
 her brother; and Beatrice, who thought that moon- 
 light always rested her, came also, and 
 
 * As still was her look, and as still was her ee, 
 As the stillness that lay on the emerald lea, 
 Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea' — 
 
 such a sea as the lake before them. Each felt 
 tranquillized. 
 
 ' Anne,' said Horace, as they turned their steps 
 again to the house, 'say, this is a day not to be 
 forgotten, and not to be repented of.' 
 
 ' No, indeed,' returned Anne, promptly. 
 
 ^ Good-night ; Miss Courtenay — farewell !'
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Her kindness and her worth to spy, 
 You need but gaze on Ellen's eye. 
 
 His form accorded with a mind 
 Lively and ardent, frank and kind. 
 
 Lady of the Lake. 
 
 ' rpHREE days have Sir Eoderic Lindsay and his 
 J- nephew been here, and I have not yet found time 
 to tell Miss Evelyn what I think of them. I shall 
 get to her now without interruption, I hope ; for I 
 believe they are all shut up in my father's room safe 
 till afternoon. I can't quite see in Mr. Lindsay- 
 all my father sees. There is no lack of intelhgence, 
 but I should not have guessed that there was so 
 much sohdity as my father has discovered. Surely, 
 he is very ignorant of all the common business of 
 life. He is young, a few months older than I am, 
 which, in fact, makes him much my junior. I can- 
 not prevent those lines of Shakspeare running in 
 my head. Curious that I should have been reading 
 them to Miss Evelyn the day when he unexpectedly 
 arrived ! — Not in the least curious, and, no doubt, 
 the very reason why they have hnked themselves 
 with him in my memory.' 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 J 94 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 And Judith, as she went on her way to the cot- 
 tage, repeated to herself : 
 
 'Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that's his name, 
 Made use and fair advantage of his days.' 
 
 ' Proteiis ! is that his name ! I dare say he is volatile. 
 Having known him now three days, I have not as 
 good a claim to sum up his character as Valentine, 
 who says — 
 
 * I knew him as myself, for from our infancy 
 We have conversed and spent our time together.' 
 
 Yet who could come to more erroneous conclusions 
 than he did ? 
 
 ' His years but young, but his experience old. ' 
 
 That was stuff. What could make Valentine fancy 
 that his experience was old ? He was just one of 
 those home-keeping youths, who are smooth as still 
 waters till the tide of temptation comes, and then 
 astonish others and themselves hy the desperate 
 acts of which they are suddenly capable. I have 
 heard my father speak of such. Still let him he Sir 
 Proteus, as I have chanced to dub him so ; but 
 rather he whom Valentine's generous fancy drew, 
 than the traitor his false friend proved. If Sir 
 Proteus, there must be an absent Julia. What then ? 
 Why, if there be, I will vouch for his truth,' 
 
 She murmured the rest of the passage half 
 aloud : 
 
 ' And, in a word (for far behind his worth 
 Come all the praises that I now bestow), 
 He is complete in feature, and in mind 
 With all good grace to grace a gentleman.'
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. I95 
 
 By this time the cottage-door was reached. Judith 
 entered, and seated herself by her friend. 
 
 ' Your father's guests seem to afford you almost 
 as much occupation as they do him,' said Miss 
 Evelyn, but in no voice of complaint. Judith's 
 cheek brightened at the observation. 
 
 ' True,' she replied ; ' but I was determined they 
 should not keep me from you this morning ; there- 
 fore I told Mr. Lindsay that if he wanted to walk 
 to Meredith's farm, he must call for me here. Mind, 
 I did not tell him that he was to invade your abode 
 — but may I ? I want you to see him.' 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear,' cried Miss Evelyn, shocked 
 at a coolness of proceeding quite contrary to her 
 ideas of courtesy ; and she instantly rang, and gave 
 orders for Mr. Lindsay's admission. 
 
 ' This is just as I would have it,' said Judith, 
 laughing. ' We have few characters to study here, 
 and I covet the aid of your wonderful penetration 
 to direct my own observations when I can meet 
 with a specimen. I shall never say, ' Man delights 
 not me, nor woman either :' both do. All creatures 
 (those of my own race peculiarly) interest me; birds, 
 beasts, and fishes — I love them each.' 
 
 ' Better than you do my flowers,' answered Miss 
 Evelyn, looking out of her window. 
 
 ' Yes ; because they do not speak or act. I dare 
 say they think. They often look pensive.' 
 
 ' You are not a flower, Judith,' 
 
 'Xo. What am I?' 
 
 ' You are very like a hawk, in looks ; but I cannot 
 think you would pounce down on the weaker and 
 smaller of your species.' 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' I would rather soar up, and attack the eagle.' 
 
 ' What ! your king ?' 
 
 ' A robber-king, with a lamb in his talons, which 
 I would force him to drop. My father is like a hawk. 
 It amuses me to watch his keen eye — now on Sir 
 Eoderic, now on the nephew. I see he has more 
 respect for, more opinion of, the younger than the 
 older ; with all Sir Eoderic's readiness of discourse 
 and knowledge of the world, I find Mr. Lindsay 
 a thousand times more agreeable. There is often 
 something forced in his uncle's mirth, while his own 
 is so natural ; and a levity unsuited to Sir Eoderic's 
 years, gives the impression that if he have a certain 
 quickness, he wants all sober sense.' 
 
 * Why, Judith, he has been losing ground with you.' 
 
 Judith looked a little ashamed. 
 
 ' I confess on his first visit I granted him more 
 than I now think he deserves. Every day I care 
 less for his conversation; it tires me. He comes 
 from my father's room, looking dull and bewildered, 
 exactly like a schoolboy escaped from a task he 
 hates, and the study of which only makes him more 
 stupid than he was before : he has a cowardly face, 
 too, as if he were getting out before he ought, and 
 expected to be whipped back. Then he gradually 
 recovers the fun and frolic of a boy ; and you would 
 say he was younger than his nephew, were there not 
 a hollow sound in all his gaiety.' 
 , * Judith, you are describing a man grown old in 
 the world's intercourse, and another yet new to it : 
 that may be the chief difference.' 
 
 ' I hope Mr. Lindsay will not be a second Sir 
 Eoderic when he is thirty years older.'
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. I97 
 
 'If he be, he will find many to think him as 
 delightful as you thought his uncle on first ac- 
 quaintance.' 
 
 ' I must not refuse him due praise for good-nature 
 still. He is most obliging ; but even there he wants 
 dignity, and I am sure his nephew feels it. With 
 admirable tact, he tries to put him up on his pedestal 
 again, after he has come down with a harlequin leap. 
 Sir Roderic appears to me afraid of Mr. Lindsay ; 
 not quite at ease with him — too anxious to con- 
 ciliate. I should like a more parental air, which, 
 surely, as an micle and a guardian, might belong 
 to him.' 
 
 'Perhaps Sir Roderic thinks himself a younger 
 man than you at twenty think him.' 
 
 ' Not young enough to be his nephew's play- 
 fellow!' 
 
 ' I, like you, am tired of Sir Roderic : let me hear 
 something of this nephew.' 
 
 'See him and judge for yom-self first. He is 
 already at your gate,' said Judith, removing from 
 the window. 
 
 ' Then, go out, and invite him to enter. You owe 
 him some amends for bringing him here.' 
 
 ' That I esteem a favour done to him. Ought I 
 to do as you say ? I don't wish to be too conde- 
 scending. I am wilhng to obey your directions, 
 for I confess I do not always know how to behave. 
 I could not learn at school, and how can I on the 
 mountain-tops ?' 
 
 'Now, if you wish Mr. Lindsay and me to 
 become acquainted, what ought you to do ? Con- 
 sider for yourself-'
 
 igH THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' I think I know. Don't you remember how well 
 I introduced Fergus Meredith to you ?' and, laugh- 
 ing, she left the room, and returned in a few minutes 
 with Horace, who considered that a visit from him 
 to a lady who, in the immediate vicinity of the 
 Castle, held the position of a tenant of his uncle's, 
 was by no means out of place. He therefore met 
 her with easy courtesy, and was surprised at the 
 refined grace of her reception of him in return. 
 Miss Evelyn, hearing that Horace had received his 
 education wholly in England, judged from his age 
 that the children of her former friends must have 
 been his companions, and turning the conversation 
 on English society, was glad to hear from him 
 tidings of many she had long lost sight of, and 
 with whom he found her to have been familiarl}'^ 
 acquainted. Horace looked round her elegant little 
 apartment, and told lier how agreeable was the 
 impression made on him by the tastefulness of her 
 garden. 
 
 ' We ought to feel indebted to 3'^ou for the creation 
 of this lovely spot.' 
 
 ' Nature has held out great encouragement to the 
 industr}^ of art,' replied Miss Evelyn. 
 
 ' True !' exclaimed Horace. ' What might not be 
 done there ?' 
 
 He looked towards the Castle : — ' What a delight- 
 ful abode it might be rendered ! What a field for 
 my uncle's activity ! What scope for Lady St. 
 Helens' taste ! I come to this beautiful scenery 
 from Switzerland, j^et am not deadened to its 
 charms by even that mighty comparison. I wrote
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 1 99 
 
 to my aunt, 3^esterday, and told her all tlie delight 
 it affords me ; she, who pitied me for my exile to it, 
 what would she think of it as a residence !' 
 
 ' Lady St. Helens is generally abroad, is she not ?' 
 said Judith, with secret resentment. 
 
 ' She has been for two years in Italy, and she 
 does think of Paris this winter.' 
 
 ' It would not be reasonable to propose a Scotch 
 winter immediately after those of the South,' said 
 Miss Evelyn. 
 
 ' I do not know that at any season of the year 
 Lady St. Helens would take the same view of the 
 attractions of this place that I do,' replied Horace. 
 ' The uncouthness of the people, the savageness of 
 their jargon — I acknowledge that these would mate- 
 riall}^ interfere with — ■' 
 
 ' The comfort of the grand personages whose total 
 ignorance of the wants and feelings of these rough 
 mountaineers materially interferes with their welfare !' 
 exclaimed Judith, in defiance of a conviction that 
 Miss Evelyn would not approve of this ebullition. 
 
 Horace coloured slightly, but, with perfect good- 
 humour, replied : 
 
 ' Well, Miss Maxwell, as you are good enough to 
 act as interpreter to-day, we shall learn how to 
 serve them better than we otherwise could.' 
 
 They rose to go ; Judith Hngering for a moment 
 to whisper in Miss Evelyn's ear : 
 
 ' I know you are angry with me ; but when he 
 began to talk of comfort, I could not think he was 
 good for much.' 
 
 ' He did not use the word ; you put it into his
 
 200 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 mouth, in contradiction, I believe, to his meaning ; 
 and I think he is good for a great deal.' 
 
 Judith shook her head playfully, and in a moment 
 was to he seen walking with Bevis at her side, as 
 if she desired no other companion. 
 
 ' What a charming abode, and what a charming 
 occupant !' cried Horace. ' How can such a person 
 as Miss Evelyn be found here ?' 
 
 ' In these wilds which you utterly despise,' said 
 Judith ; (and to herself she added ' I do not see 
 that this speech is more civil than mine was.') 'You 
 think that she must be without a creature to ex- 
 change a word with ? She has taught me Enghsh 
 — not, of course, with the idea that I could ever 
 become a fit companion for her cultivated mind, but 
 just to keep up the use of speech. Then, again, 
 there is Mr. Douglas, our clergyman. You may 
 have the opportunity, as the English service fortu- 
 nately takes place to-morrow, of hearing him — a 
 man of education — do our beautiful Liturgy fuller 
 justice than Miss Evelyn tells me it has been com- 
 monly her lot to hear rendered to it.' 
 
 * And you — are you of his congregation ?' 
 'I have that privilege,' replied Judith, with 
 reverence. ' And,' she added, pointing to the quiet 
 churchyard they were now to traverse, ' when you 
 enter there, your question will meet its answer. 
 There lies the cause which brought us the happi- 
 ness of Miss Evelyn's dwelling among us — her great 
 grief, and — and springing out of it, like the flowers 
 on those graves, our joy : good worked out of evil 
 — the balm of this bruised state of existence.'
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 20I 
 
 ' Tell me more of this,' said Horace, his interest 
 awakened as he read the inscription beneath the 
 cross. And Judith repeated, with a depth of feehng 
 which communicated itself to her companion, all 
 she had to tell. Sir Eoderic and Maxwell awaited 
 them on the brow of the hill, and both remarked 
 the earnestness of their faces as they approached, 
 engaged in talk. An expression of complacency 
 diffused itself over the countenance of Maxwell. 
 Sir Eoderic perceived it, and turned away with an 
 impatience to which he could give no other vent 
 than that of cutting off the head of a towering 
 thistle, with this address : 
 
 ' You are carrying yourself too highly, upon my 
 word.' 
 
 The result of the walk to Meredith's farm, and of 
 other opportunities of conversing with Horace 
 Lindsay, whom Judith was led to consider as the 
 future Laird of Duror, was as follows : — Judith 
 entered Miss Evelyn's room with a face more than 
 usually earnest. 
 
 ' Lend me one of your books,' she said ; ' I want 
 to show Mr. Lindsay a passage in it — one that 
 ought to do him a great deal of good ; and I think 
 he is capable of comprehending the truth it con- 
 tains. I am sure he is.' 
 
 She took from the book-case the volume she 
 sought. 
 
 ' Massillon !' observed Miss Evelyn ; ' are you 
 going to teach him out of that ?' 
 
 ' Yes. He understands French, though not 
 Gaelic. I wish I could reverse this ; but I can't.
 
 302 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHETl. 
 
 He may, in time, possess an acquisition I should so 
 much prefer for him ; but, as yet, one must be con- 
 tent to work with what instruments one has at 
 hand. Yesterday, in our walk, and at other times 
 also, he has spoken wisely and well, with good, 
 honest emotion : I am confident he is sincere. He 
 has a conscience towards God, as to the high 
 responsibility of a position such as he is called to ; 
 he has a feeling for his fellow-man in a mud-floored 
 cabin, as well as in the ceiled houses where his com- 
 panions dwell. 
 
 ' I ventured (I am too venturesome) to upbraid 
 him for never having trodden the land of his fore- 
 fathers till now : he was rejoicing in its beauties, 
 glorying in them, after a manner I thought he had 
 scarcely a right to assume. He disarmed me quite. 
 I must repeat to you his words, but I cannot tell 
 you the feeling with which they were uttered. I 
 could not reproach any more. 
 
 ' ' It is true,' he said, ' that this is the land of my 
 ancestors, and that on this mountain, with you at 
 my side, I am a Highlander ; but you must not 
 blame me because other sentiments have a place in 
 my heart. I have not wandered among strangers : 
 I have dwelt in the home of my mother.' ' 
 
 ' I was particularly struck by the tone of his voice 
 and the expression of his face,' replied Miss Evelyn. 
 ' There is great sensibility in both.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear friend, if it exist — and I think it 
 does — how greatly do I desire that the disposition 
 may be productive of real, solid benefits to those 
 who have a sacred right to them from his hand !
 
 THE MTETLE AXD THE HEATHER. 203 
 
 I do not want the beauties of our native mountains 
 merely to waken, as they well may, the romance, 
 the poetry of youth ; 1 want something deep and 
 lasting. You know how my heart is in this ; and 
 surely such sentiments as I seek here will not speak 
 to his in vain.' 
 
 The gii-1 rapidly turned over the leaves of the 
 book till she arrived at the passages she alluded to, 
 and then read, in a voice tremulous in its earnest- 
 ness : 
 
 'Toute puissance vient de Dieu, et tout ce qui 
 vient de Dieu n'est etabli que pour I'utilite des 
 hommes. Les grands seraient inutiles sur la terre s'il 
 ne s'y trouvait des pauvres et des malhem-eux ; ils 
 ne doivent leur elevation qu'aux besoiiis publics, et 
 loin que les peuples soient faits pour eux, ils ne sont 
 eux-memes tout ce qu'ils sont que pour les peuples. 
 
 ' Quelle aftreuse providence, si toute la multitude 
 des hommes n'etait placee sur la terre que pour 
 servu' aux plaisii's d'un petit nombre d'hem'eux qui 
 I'habitent, et qui souvent ne connaissent pas le Dieu 
 qui les comble de bienfaits ! 
 
 ' Si Dieu en eleve quelques-uns, c'est done pour 
 etre I'appui et la ressource des autres. II se 
 decharge sur eux du soin des faibles et des petits ; 
 c'est par-la qu'ils entrent dans I'ordre des conseils 
 de la Sagesse Eternelle !' 
 
 ' Oh, how grand !' exclaimed Judith, lookmg up. 
 ' Sm'ely, if such a vocation as that be placed before 
 him, he will press toward the mark for the prize 
 of his calling? And he is one of the great to 
 whom this is spoken. He might be as a prince
 
 204 
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 among his people. So far from being exagge- 
 rated as addressed to him, why, I have applied 
 these words in their measure even to myself, when I 
 have compared my ease, my plenty, my leisure, with 
 the hardships, the necessities, the toils of the poor. 
 May I not take this to him ?' 
 
 'You may, indeed,' replied Miss Evelyn, much 
 
 affected. 'Nor do 
 speak in vain.' 
 
 I beheve that it, or 
 
 you 
 
 will
 
 •^#cC- .>#cC- .>#^- •>c>^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 "Why sleeps the future as a snake, enrolled 
 Coil within coil ? 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 ' TTERE is a new fancy of my Lady's,' exclaimed 
 J- J- Sir Roderic, in a tone of vexation, ' and one I 
 would quite as soon she had not taken into her 
 head.' He tossed a letter across the breakfast-table 
 to Horace, as Maxwell called his daughter from the 
 room. Horace glanced his eye over it with a look of 
 evident satisfaction. 
 
 ' You, I perceive, do not agree with me,' said his 
 uncle, as if aggrieved. 
 
 ' Why, my dear uncle, I do not see that there is 
 anything particularly annoying in this.' 
 
 ' It is always annoying to me to have Lady St. 
 Helens' company,' replied the Baronet ; then added, 
 — ' when I am engaged in business of a serious cha- 
 racter.' 
 
 ' Those are just the seasons in which Anne's pre- 
 sence is most acceptable to me,' said Horace. 
 
 ' She is a good, sensible girl — there is no denying 
 that : I look to her to rectify any mischief your 
 aunt may do by coming here so unexpectedly and 
 so undesired. But there is her ladyship's suite, and
 
 2,06 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 a Miss Courtenay, and half-a-dozen foreign servants 
 besides, no doubt. However, you see that she does 
 me the honour to say, that my stinginess need not 
 stand in the way of her welcome. She will take all 
 the necessary expenses of this plan cfa herself, and 
 bids me send at once to Glasgow for tradespeople to 
 make the Castle habitable. Well, that is consi- 
 derate.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; and the mode of expression is merely 
 playful, and meant to spare you any delicacy in 
 allowing her to provide for her own reception.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' said Sir Roderic, in a tone of irony. 
 ' She knows very well it must be so if she chooses 
 to come uninvited. I have very little ready money 
 this year, Horace.' 
 
 Horace had heard that assertion most years. 
 
 ' It seems to be all the Countess's desperate affec- 
 tion for you, and the glowing account you have sent 
 her of the picturesqueness of the Highlands, that 
 brings her here,' added the Baronet, pettishly ; and 
 his nephew could not but feel guilty. ' I am not 
 sure that her wishes can be complied with.' 
 
 And Sir Eoderic, taking up his letter, went in 
 search of Maxwell ; and, finding him, put it into 
 his hand, making these comments during its 
 perusal : 
 
 ' Could not have been worse timed — and having 
 refused all her life to come here when it might have 
 done some good, it can't be allowed now.' 
 
 ' I don't see that,' replied the agent, raising his 
 eyes to Su' Roderic's face with an expression which 
 checked the flow of his ideas. ' Why should not 
 the Countess come here, and give as many enter-
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 207 
 
 tainments as she pleases, on the joyful occasion of 
 Mr. Lindsay's coming of age ?' 
 
 ' Why ? I should have thought — I see no parti- 
 cular use in attracting attention — in drawing forth 
 observations, just at this time.' 
 
 ' Of course, Sir Roderic,' said Maxwell, slowly, ' if 
 there were really any danger of Mr. Lindsay's never 
 succeeding to the inheritance after all, it would he 
 only doubly mortifying. But as that danger does 
 happen to be averted — ' here he paused, long 
 enough for the thought to flash through Sir 
 Eoderic's mind — ' he thinks all this noise and 
 display will but bind us faster than before — so it 
 will — and why not ? The chain cannot be riveted 
 too tightly which is to drag us out of the pit.' 
 
 ' As to any money which may be required to do 
 this becomingly, Sir Roderic,' said Maxwell, who 
 had walked away to his desk, ' that can easily be 
 forthcommg.' 
 
 The Baronet muttered thanks, and then added : 
 
 ' On the whole, then, you don't think this unfor- 
 tunate ?' 
 
 ' The contrary — ' 
 
 Sir Roderic took his gun, and strolled out, 
 whistling, not for want of thought, but to rid him- 
 self of such as was very disagreeable. Unhappily, a 
 new idea not at all less so than the old ones sprang 
 up, producing positive pain — nay, a sensation which 
 he almost thought must be remorse. 
 
 ' No use to be tormented in this way by a mere 
 name, and that a name borne by hundreds. Of 
 course, it recalls the past — strange coincidences 
 sometimes occur, but I am not a child to be
 
 iJ08 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 frightened by a shadow. Perhaps Horace can tell 
 me something — and here he comes — but it would 
 look odd to seem too curious.' 
 
 Sir Roderic hailed his nephew cheerfully — walked 
 by his side, talking, laughing — quizzing Maxwell, 
 whom he so greatly feared — praising Judith with an 
 appearance of hearty liking. Horace had approached 
 his uncle with a wish to discuss various affairs 
 connected with the estate and the condition of the 
 people on it, for he was just fresh from Judith's 
 influence, but he found that he could not hold him 
 for two minutes to the same subject. 
 
 * By-the-bye,' he cried, ' you read the Countess's 
 letter. Who is this Miss Courtenay ? — a new 
 favourite ? Does she dance on the tight or the 
 slack rope — or what can she do ?' 
 
 ' She is a young lady whom my aunt intends to 
 introduce in the musical world,' replied Horace, 
 striving to speak without embarrassment, and in a 
 tone which should impress his uncle with respect. 
 
 ' Where did she pick her up ?' Sir Roderic 
 returned, in a manner which convicted Horace's 
 last attempt of failure. 
 
 ' Lady St. Helens met Miss Courtenay in Italy — 
 at Florence, where she had received her education — 
 and her friends accepted my aunt's offer to bring 
 her to England.' 
 
 'Her friends. Oh! she has friends to fall 
 back on !' 
 
 Horace was as desirous to escape from the subject 
 as his uncle to pursue it. 
 
 ' Her parents must be poor, half-starved wretches, 
 to send off their child in this way.'
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 2Ci) 
 
 ' She has none,' replied Horace. 
 
 ' Dead, are they P' asked Sir Roderic, with an 
 eagerness which surprised his companion ; on per- 
 ceiving which he dropped the subject altogether, 
 having been too much absorbed while en^Si2:ed in it, 
 in his own interest, to remark that it possessed more 
 than a common share of his nephew's. 
 
 ' The Castle looks well from here, Horace !' he 
 cried, suddenly pausing, and throwing himself down 
 on the heather. Horace followed his example ; and 
 as his eye wandered over the beautiful scene, his 
 mind dwelt on a coming hour when he might be 
 standing at Beatrice's side on this spot. Sir 
 Eoderic's thoughts, meanwhile, were : ' If this girl 
 should prove to be the daughter of that Gerald 
 Courteuay, who lost to me — I fear, his all — at 
 Baden-Baden, I am sure I shall be very glad for 
 the Countess to help her to repair the ruin.' 
 
 How surprised would the uncle and the nephew 
 have been, had they discovered that each was 
 thinking of the same person ! They were alike 
 roused from their reveries by Bevis, who bounded 
 towards them. 
 
 ' Your mistress cannot be far oflP,' cried Sir 
 Roderic. ' There she is, beneath us ; come, let us 
 overtake her, I consider we are fully as much 
 indebted to her as to Maxwell for the care of the 
 estate. The way in which she understands the 
 people and manages them is wonderful.' 
 
 'Her father's liberality seems great,' observed 
 Horace ; ' he lets her follow out all her schemes.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes !' replied Sir Roderic, muttering to 
 himself, ' as long as they are his.' 
 
 TOL. I. P
 
 a 10 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' Miss Maxwell,' he began, as they now reached 
 Judith's side, 'has your father told you of the 
 horde of Sassenachs which are going to invade your 
 territory ? — for yours it is, and I know not how 
 you will brook any interference with your absolute 
 rule. What will you say to English countesses, 
 and Italian songstresses, and I know not whom 
 beside, pouring in upon us ?' 
 
 ' I have heard nothing of all this,' replied Judith, 
 in a tone of surprise, and of some amusement. 
 
 ' Then I must prepare you ;' and Sir Roderic 
 repeated all that the Countess proposed to do. ' It 
 will be but civil, Horace,' he said, after the subject 
 had been in discussion, ' for you and for me to meet 
 the party at Edinburgh, and escort it here.' 
 
 ' You think they will fear to enter these fastnesses 
 unguarded ?' asked Judith, smiling. 
 
 ' I do, indeed.' 
 
 Horace accepted the proposition with alacrity, 
 and it became a settled point. 
 
 ' What will the influence of the Countess of St. 
 Helens be ?' asked Judith, on the morning of the 
 departure of Sir Roderic and his nephew. ' For 
 good or for evil' — with or against all I desire to see 
 prevail ?' 
 
 ' I wish I had been born to a title,' she said to 
 Miss Evelyn, as on this idle day she sat beside her. 
 
 ' Well, my dear, you are pausing for me to be 
 surprised or shocked at this extraordinary wish ; but 
 I choose to suppose that you have some excellent 
 reason for it, and wait for you to explain yourself, 
 without any exclamation on my part. I am too 
 languid to make one.'
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 211 
 
 ' It would give me an authority I should like to 
 exercise. It would increase my influence. Any 
 little good I might do would have greater effect ; it 
 would spread wider — go deeper.' 
 
 ' And any little evil the same.' 
 
 ' Of course.' 
 
 ' And you really covet authority ?' 
 
 * Yes. I should like to force people to be good 
 and wise. You know it is not difficult to tell others 
 how to be so ; and if I were a Lady St. Helens, they 
 would listen to me. Then, too, I could do things in 
 my own way, and what things I pleased.' 
 
 ' You are desirous of rule.' 
 
 'I desire to be independent — arbitrary. What 
 do you think of such desires ?' 
 
 ' Why, I think that if you marry, it must be 
 a silly, weak man.' 
 
 ' Now there you are quite mistaken,' exclaimed 
 Judith, surprised into earnest. ' I should be ashamed 
 to marry a man whom it would not be an honour to 
 obey.' 
 
 Miss Evelyn smiled : ' You have talked nonsense 
 enough for to-day. Be content to be plain Judith 
 Maxwell, and let her do what good she can.' 
 
 ' As I can't be Miss Evelyn, I will.' 
 
 Miss Evelyn looked on the girl, bright with 
 health and spirits, and sighed as she thought : 
 
 ' How little, when I was her age, was the disci- 
 pline I have needed to be discovered ! Yet not one 
 needless stroke — not one too much nor too heavy — 
 does our Heavenly Father award. What is in store 
 for her ?' 
 
 Exactly that which shall suit her best. Fear 
 
 P 2
 
 212 THE MTRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 not, true friend, to trust her, as you have trusted 
 yourself, to One who knows whereof we are made. 
 Judith has somewhat more of that high-mindedness 
 which is forbidden than it is meet for her to retain. 
 There are laid up for her blessings of a nature she 
 can as yet but imperfectly recognise the value of — 
 the blessings of the mourners, of the meek, of those 
 against whom evil is falsely spoken. Humiliation 
 is to be endured — patience to be learned. Sore 
 temptations — bitterest griefs are to come. And 
 then ?— 
 
 Look out, Judith, on the face of the sea thou 
 lovest so well. Meet the fresh breeze which it 
 braces thee to contend with. Gaze upward to the 
 stormy sky, and downward on the troubled wave, 
 and mark yon little bark that rides it : many a deep 
 furrow does it fathom, and surmounts them with an 
 elasticity like that of thine own spirit ; and when 
 the tranquil evening is come, it lies in the pleasant 
 bay, all natui-e smiling round it. 

 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Apprends-moi si je dois ou me taire ou parler? 
 
 BOILEAU. 
 
 ' r\F course you are aware of the grand arrival of 
 Vy last night,' said Judith to Miss Evelyn, 
 having repaired to her at as early an hour as she 
 was likely to find admittance. ' I am come to tell 
 you all I saw of it. My father insisted on being 
 at the Castle to receive the family ; that, I dare 
 say, was very proper — but I never understood why 
 I was to be there, and I certainly felt myself in the 
 way. I did not like it at all.' Judith reddened as 
 she spoke, broke off, and resumed abruptly : 
 
 'I will tell you the whole truth. I have no 
 mother.' (Tears sprang to her eyes.) ' I often feel 
 the want of a woman to speak to. You are my 
 friend — the best friend in the world — and I am 
 resolved to profit to the full by the possession — ' 
 
 ' My dear child, I believe it is good for you to 
 have me to speak to.' 
 
 Judith pressed the kind hand which had taken 
 hers, and as each exchanged a tearful smile, con- 
 tinued : 
 
 ' And what, after all, have I to say ? Such a 
 preface has prepared you for great things, and you
 
 214 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 will hear the squeaking of a mouse. I have only 
 to describe what I saw. Travelling carriages — two 
 of them — with what I should have believed the 
 baggage of an army would scarcely amount to ; 
 chattering foreign servants, running here and there ; 
 a very grand lady — vraiment, tres-grande dame — 
 sweeping into the hall on Mr. Lindsay's arm — 
 dressed as I never saw any one dressed before — 
 looking so haughty, that I immediately recognised 
 the Countess in her own right.' 
 
 ' My dear Judith, I cannot tolerate vulgar pre- 
 judice in you. Believe me, pride is of no class. 
 Countesses may wear the ornament of a meek and 
 quiet spirit, and rags may want it.' 
 
 'Nay — I don't doubt that. Something on the 
 journey had evidently gone wrong, or else a High- 
 land castle was by no means to her ladyship's taste. 
 If you had but seen her lofty stare when Mr. Lind- 
 say shook hands with me, with something like cordi- 
 ality in his manner, saying, ' Miss Maxwell, aunt — 
 Mr. Maxwell's daughter,' he added, seeing that she 
 took no notice of his first words. ' Who is Mr. 
 Maxwell ?' she asked. I took courage to answer 
 her. ' My father is Sir Roderic's agent.' I spoke 
 as plain as I could — and that is very plain, you 
 know ; but I trembled all the while, partly because 
 I was afraid that my father would be angry if he 
 heard me — and he was near doing so ; he came up 
 just then, and was — oh ! what I can scarcely 
 bear to see him, and what I can't learn to be.' 
 
 ' Sir Roderic brought in Miss Lindsay. I liked 
 her look better — a sweet-tempered, sensible face, not
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 21^ 
 
 handsome — not like her brother, much fairer — yel- 
 lowish hair, and light-blue eyes, beautiful teeth, and 
 such an honest, pleasant smile. Don't you know 
 that some smiles are neither ? She seemed willing 
 to be pleased with everything, only adding that she 
 was very sleepy and tired. And I will tell you 
 all — though my pride is pinching me now — I think. 
 I had been foolish enough to take my bonnet off, 
 because it hurt my head.' 
 
 ' Why, that was wise, Judith.' 
 
 ' Hear the consequences : it must have been for 
 this reason that she took me for a housemaid !' 
 
 ' Very stupid if she did !' cried Miss Evelyn, 
 roused to indignation. 
 
 ' Rather : she does not look clever — heavy, I 
 expect. Sir Roderic appeared so shocked and 
 annoyed ! It must have been real — he could not 
 have thought it worth while to affect so much vex- 
 ation. I could not help being amused ; but I must 
 tell you how the mistake arose — (had it been made 
 by the Countess, I should have reckoned it no mis- 
 take, but mere impertinence) ; and there is one more 
 individual of the party to describe to you yet ; — 
 a tall, slight girl, so delicate and so beautiful, and 
 looking more tired than any one. That was why I 
 liked Miss Lindsay. She went up to her, and, 
 taking both her hands, said, ' My poor Beatrice, 
 how weary you are !' And then it was that she 
 turned to me, saying, ' Have the goodness to take 
 Miss Courtenay to the room prepared for her. Now 
 go there at once, before you are asked for or wanted.' 
 I saw the mistake in a moment : but I answered.
 
 21 6 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 quietly, that I did not know the arrangements of 
 the house, and that I would find them out. Sir 
 Eoderic came to my aid, thanking me, and saying a 
 thousand flowery things ahout my kindness, and 
 ended by introducing me to his niece, Anne. But 
 his niece Anne was not much discomposed. She 
 acknowledg-ed me as Miss Maxwell, and returned 
 again to the point of finding out Miss Courtenay's 
 room. 
 
 ' I was very glad when my father arrived at the 
 conclusion that it was best to leave them to them- 
 selves. This morning I persuaded him that it was 
 just what they would still prefer. I came down 
 here in a great hurry, lest he should change his 
 mind. I should like not to go to the Castle again 
 while they are in it.' 
 
 * Now, Judith, you think that very spirited ?' 
 
 ' No, only common sense, not to go where one is 
 not wanted.' 
 
 ' What will become you best, is, to go there with- 
 out affectation or singularity. Not to pay them 
 the attention they have a right to expect from you, 
 is just as much want of self-respect as to seek them 
 with servility.' 
 
 ' I suppose you consider that it is pride which 
 makes me dislike to present myself where I have 
 been treated as a menial, and vanity which makes 
 me annoyed at the mistake ?' 
 
 ' Quite right,' said Miss Evelyn ; ' but, joking 
 apart, Judith, you know that it is your father's 
 pleasure, not your own, which must chiefly decide 
 how much you go to the Castle.'
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHEH. 217 
 
 ' Well ! I have escaped the Countess's levee this 
 morning to attend yours.' 
 
 Judith might have gone up to the Castle at this 
 early hour, without meeting any of the party of 
 last night, except Sir E-oderic and Miss Lindsay, 
 who were strolling on the terrace. 
 
 ' That is a pretty, gentle-looking girl, that Miss 
 Courtenay, Anne,' said Sir Eoderic, after he had 
 taken a turn or two, and hstened with an absent air 
 to his niece's enthusiastic encomiums on the site of 
 the Castle and the neighbouring coast. 
 
 ' She is much more than that, uncle, as I should 
 have expected you to perceive.' 
 
 ' Oh ! she has bitten you as well as my Lady ? 
 You don't commonly take the same fancies, do 
 you.r' 
 
 ' I think there is generally some merit in my 
 aunt's favourites, and Beatrice must excite every 
 one's admiration.' 
 
 ' Who is she ? — not a bad-sounding name, 
 Courtenay.' 
 
 ' A very good one. She is an orphan. We found 
 her living at Florence, with an old grandfather of 
 the same name. You know Mr. Howard ?' 
 
 ' That queer fellow ? Oh ! yes. Well ?' 
 
 ' He brought her to us. She has set her heart 
 on enabling her grandfather to return to England, 
 by paying the debts which he incurred for his son. 
 This is the story ; and her talents will enable her 
 to do it.' 
 
 ' The son was a scapegrace, I suppose. I wonder 
 what his name was — his Christian name, I mean.'
 
 3l8 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' I am sure I do not know. Shall I ask ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! no ; why, in the world ?' cried Sir Roderic. 
 Then abruptly changing the subject, he exclaimed: 
 'Anne, m^^ dear girl, your aunt is a wonderfully 
 clever woman. I would give all her talents to 
 endow her with half your good sense, and a quarter 
 of your good temper.' 
 
 ' Oh ! uncle, don't say that. I really believe she 
 will be in a good humour here, if she has every- 
 thing her own way.' 
 
 ' But the misfortune is, her own way never is the 
 wsij of any one else.' 
 
 * I don't see that it will interfere with other ways, 
 really. She has set her heart on a few whims that 
 will be rather amusing, and not at all mischievous. 
 She has taken a prodigious fancy to Horace.' 
 
 'Why is that?' 
 
 ' Oh ! because he is so handsome and agreeable, 
 you know; and he sings — ' 
 
 ' Sings, does he ? I suppose she will try to make 
 him just the conceited, accomplished ninny which 
 she thinks a man ought to be.' 
 
 ' No, no ; she can't make Horace that.' 
 
 ' Well, I shall hear of her absurdities soon enough. 
 What I want to say to you, Anne, you must promise 
 to regard. It sounds a mere trifle, but it is import- 
 ant. It was an awkward mistake of yours last 
 night to take that girl for a domestic. I was quite 
 annoyed.' 
 
 * Oh ! the agent's daughter. It can't be helped, 
 and she looked good-humoured.' 
 
 ' She is an excellent girl ! capital head and heart !
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 2ig 
 
 full of spirit, not to be daunted by any fine lady 
 airs, unless I am mucb mistaken.' 
 
 * Dear uncle, I am no fine lady ; it was mere 
 stupidity on my part.' 
 
 ' I dare say it was ; only please to avoid for the 
 future anything likely to give offence, and pay her 
 what attention you can. Come, you say you are 
 not proud, so don't look astonished. Let her be at 
 the Castle as much as possible. I don't dare to 
 breathe a word of this to the Countess, for fear she 
 should run exactly counter to all I wish. But I 
 tell you, Anne,' — and here Sir Roderie dropped his 
 voice, — ' it is of the utmost importance to me, and, 
 what you will care more for, to Horace, that we 
 should stand well with that man. Maxwell. Now 
 you need not repeat this to Horace. He is much 
 more likely to act as I would have him, if it is not 
 made a question of self-interest, than if it is.' 
 
 ' Very true,' observed Anne. 
 
 'Well, enough is said,' returned Sir Roderie. 
 ' And there are Maxwell and his daughter passing 
 the gateway at this moment. I wonder if her 
 ladyship will show — eh, Anne ?' 
 
 ' I can't tell, but I will go and prepare her, if 
 you like,' said Anne, entering the house. 
 
 ' It must be a harder heart than mine,' thought 
 Sir Roderie, lingering for a moment before he went 
 forward to welcome Maxwell and his daughter, 
 ' that could banish poor Beatrice from Duror, just 
 as she is about to attempt the recovery of that inde- 
 pendence of which I suspect I helped to rob her. 
 Yet I wish she had remained another year in Italy.'
 
 %%0 THE MYRTLE ANT) THE HEATHEE. 
 
 But the Baronet dismissed the vain desire, 
 remembering also that to expel the Countess's 
 reigning favourite was nothing less than to expel 
 the Countess herself, — an act so extreme that it 
 would stamp him as a madman ; unless he chose 
 to account for the proceeding by the disclosure of 
 designs which he had many inducements to keep 
 secret. He therefore satisfied himself by greeting 
 Judith in a manner which relieved her of all fear of 
 meeting with any treatment at the Castle that could 
 offend her dignity.
 
 H 
 
 H 
 
 
 H 
 
 Si: 
 
 ..;■;...■..•..•;.-; 
 
 
 11 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 Qu'il est difl&cile d'etre content de quelqu'un! 
 
 La Brutere. 
 
 IX fact, Mr. Maxwell would not, by any little 
 finesse on Judith's part, be deterred from going 
 up to the Castle, soon after she returned from 
 Miss Evelyn ; and Lady St. Helens had learned 
 that he was the person to whom she must apply for 
 the furtherance of all her wishes. She was, there- 
 fore, very gracious in her reception of him, but did 
 not bestow much attention on the little dark girl 
 she saw at his side, till Maxwell drew his daughter 
 forward, saying : 
 
 ' This is my right hand, my Lady. All you require 
 will be far more promptly understood and more 
 dexterously executed by her than by me. She is 
 also absolute queen here ; not a creature but would 
 fly at her bidding.' 
 
 Judith shrank back from the now flattering 
 addi-ess of the Countess. 
 
 ' Mr. Maxwell,' continued Lady St. Helens, 
 thinking the girl shy and awkward in spite of her 
 father's praises, ' have I rightly understood from 
 Sir Eoderic that Mr. Lindsay's coming of age is to
 
 %'X2 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 be celebrated here on the fifth of August ? Is that 
 the day ? Of course, I leave to you all the rejoicings 
 among the natives which will take place. I shall 
 like to see the lake covered with boats, and the 
 grounds filled with people. You must manage, my 
 dear Miss Maxwell, that as many of them as 
 possible shall appear in costume. I shall insist 
 with Horace himself, on his adopting the national 
 garb at once. He will look splendid in it, won't 
 he, Mr. Maxwell? Then Sir Roderic wants a ball in 
 the evening. Now, I don't intend anything so 
 tiresome and commonplace. I should have the 
 tunes of those Scotch reels running in my ears all 
 the rest of the week. Barbarous sounds! Oh! that 
 piper last night ! What I suffered ! and my poor 
 Beatrice — her Italian ears — ' 
 
 Now, Judith, who disliked all music except that 
 of the bagpipes, and thought no dance equal .to a 
 reel, felt greatly indignant, and very sure that she 
 never could tolerate the Countess or her protegee ; 
 but Maxwell smiled, and bowed, and smiled again. 
 
 ' I shall fill the Castle with friends of my own — 
 civilized people — whom I saw during my few days 
 in London ; and Sir Roderic may catch some of his 
 friends before they hurry to the Moors ; that is his 
 afiair — he must consider where they are all to be 
 put up when they arrive ; but he and Miss Lindsay 
 will arrange all that perfectly well.' 
 
 ' Your ladyship will find the accommodation af- 
 forded by the Castle extensive — the four turrets — ' 
 
 'Oh! yes — owls' houses they look like; they 
 must be made habitable. But all that is, as I said, 
 ordinary straightforward work, and can be done by
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 223 
 
 ordinary straightforward people. What I want to 
 consult you about is the theatre.' 
 
 Maxwell looked amazed, Judith very curious. 
 
 ' Ah ! I frighten you, I see. Scrupulous, I dare 
 say — I know you have rigid ideas here. I shall 
 shock the natives.' 
 
 'Not at all,' interrupted Maxwell, anxious to 
 disclaim all scruples. 
 
 ' Then listen. I am very moderate in my require- 
 ments — nothing to alarm you — the simplest arrange- 
 ments in the world will suffice. Come with me into 
 the great barrack, called a hall, which we crossed 
 yesterday.' 
 
 And Lady St. Helens, followed by Maxwell and 
 his daughter, proceeded to the hall. 
 
 ' You see, there are doors at that end,' continued 
 the lady, with inexhaustible flow of speech. ' We must 
 have a platform for that portion of the room, and 
 a curtain — that is indispensable — and lights — stand- 
 ing lights — two rows of them : do you understand, 
 Miss Maxwell ? Be so good as to take a sheet of 
 paper and a pencil, and make a list of all I shall 
 require. Come to-morrow morning, and you shall 
 write for the things according to the addresses I 
 shall give you.' 
 
 Maxwell began to fear that he had made a mistake 
 in putting Judith forward. 
 
 ' The whole of that end of the room,' said Lady 
 St. Helens, ' must have draperies — rose-colour and 
 white, I think : my hair is dark, so is Miss Cour- 
 tenay's. I shall consult Gabrielle. My grand piano 
 will stand on the platform ; I shall preside at it. 
 Miss Courtenay, Mr. Lindsay' (Judith felt herself
 
 224 ^^^ MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 start), ' and the rest of the performers, they will be 
 grouped on either side. No attempt to dress in 
 character or to act ; bad taste — sure to be ridiculous 
 — and not the whole opera, merely the best scenes. 
 Now, this is my idea of the evening ; and will you 
 be so good' (and the lady was all smiles again) ' as 
 to get the people to work as fast as possible, to 
 provide all that I have enumerated. Benches, too, 
 you know : from this spot where we stand, to the 
 entrance, must be filled with seats. Three weeks 
 yesterday ; ample time, I am sure, for you. No one 
 will have to encounter such fatigue as I, the poor 
 manager. My corps dramatique incomplete to the 
 last moment — that wretch, De Courcy, my hasso, 
 will not arrive till the third. You are amazed at 
 my energy, I see — everybody is. Now, adieu.' 
 
 ' My dear father,' exclaimed Judith, as they 
 quitted the Castle, ' did you ever hear any one talk 
 as Lady St. Helens talks ? I should have liked a ball 
 — I shall detest her opera ; but some amusement can 
 be derived from her absurdities, no doubt. I don't 
 feel at all disposed to be the slave of the lamp or 
 of the ring. Is it your desire that I should be so ?' 
 
 Maxwell, already dubious as to the good judg- 
 ment of his proceedings of this morning, now 
 stopped short, raised his head, (habitually bent for- 
 ward,) looked proudly round, and said : ' Certainly 
 not !' 
 
 And Judith, more than once, as she walked home- 
 wards, repeated to herself, with an indignation not 
 to be repressed : ' ' Miss Courtenay, Mr. Lindsay, 
 and the rest of the performers.' And he can endure 
 this?'
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 225 
 
 The next morning, Maxwell repaired alone to the 
 Castle to transact with the Countess whatever husi- 
 ness she thought necessary; and he returned with 
 an invitation to himself and to his daughter to dine 
 there that day. Several of Lady St. Helens' friends 
 were arrived, and some of Sir Roderic's. By a little 
 management on the part of the Baronet, it fell to 
 Horace to take Judith in to dinner ; but by a little 
 management on his own part, he also obtained a 
 seat beside Beatrice. Judith now saw her for the 
 first time since her glimpse of her, pale and tired, 
 on the evening of her arrival, and was at once sur- 
 prised and delighted by her beauty. But the con- 
 versation soon turned chiefly on the opera and on 
 music — subjects which possessed no charms what- 
 ever for Judith. When appealed to, she answered 
 bluntly : 
 
 ' I know nothing of music ; and when I hear it, 
 I dislike it.' 
 
 ' Your assertion rather surprises me,' replied 
 Horace ; ' because, when I was staying with 3'ou, I 
 remember being very much struck by the manner 
 in which your school (for I know it is especially 
 youi's) joined in the Church service ; and surely I 
 am not mistaken in saying, that you played the 
 organ yourself 
 
 ' All that is quite true, and the subject is one of 
 peculiar interest and pleasure to me, and yet has 
 small connexion with love or knowledge of music. 
 I do not teach the children to sing.' 
 
 ' Who does ?' 
 
 ' Miss Evelyn.' 
 
 'Your most agreeable Miss Evelyn ?' 
 
 YOL. I. Q
 
 3^6 THE MYllTLE AND THE HEATHETl. 
 
 This exclamation on the part of Horace brought 
 a smile of delight to Judith's lips ; and at that 
 moment her father caught a glimpse of her beam- 
 ing countenance. Hitherto she had felt, she knew 
 not why, not altogether content with her neigh- 
 bours nor herself ; now she proceeded to speak with 
 animation : 
 
 ' Yes. She is a most accomplished musician, just 
 as she is perfect in everything else. And her energy 
 — is not that wonderful ? Twice in the week she 
 gathers the children round her, and I verily believe 
 she would have been organist herself, which must 
 have killed her, had not the fear of that made me 
 labour, and sore labour it was, to acquire just skill 
 enough to be her delegate.' 
 
 ' Your zeal for your friend has stood instead of 
 zeal for the art; and I promise Miss Courtenay, 
 fearlessly, that she shall be gratified by the simple 
 strains of to-morrow.' 
 
 The whole evening was spent round the piano, 
 which had been unpacked that morning. Judith 
 felt the dislike, which she supposed herself to enter- 
 tain to music, confirmed by that which she now 
 heard. She was previously unacquainted with the 
 intricacy of Italian operatic singing, and certainly 
 did not enjoy it. While Judith recognised to the 
 full Beatrice's beauty, her voice, to others fasci- 
 nating, was powerless over her ; and she was fast 
 losing all respect for Horace, and all hopes of ever 
 seeing him play the manly part she had assigned 
 him, when she beheld him content to spend two 
 hours in a manner which she deemed so frivolous.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 227 
 
 The better he sang, the less she esteemed him. 
 Not a word had he addressed to her on any of the 
 subjects which, when he was at Duror alone, had 
 seemed of mutual interest to them. That he should 
 improve the condition of the people, ever take the 
 lead as their protector, now seemed to her incredible. 
 She began to feel quite out of her element among 
 people whom she could not understand. She was 
 shy ; but as hers was a shyness somewhat tinctured 
 with pride, she was unwilling to acknowledge it 
 even to herself. She perceived that, as she sat 
 there, she was wholly insignificant, and yet she felt 
 that she was not really so. She suspected that it 
 was a sort of pity which made Sir Roderic seat 
 himself beside her ; and she did not like to show 
 gratitude by readiness to be pleased. She wished 
 herself at home again, and when Anne Lindsay 
 tried to lead her into conversation, baffled her by 
 resolutely replying in monosyllables. 
 
 Absorbed in her own thoughts, Judith was not 
 prepared for a sudden attack made on her by her 
 father, as they returned home, and not disposed to 
 take it very meekly. 
 
 ' Strange, Judith, that after all the cost and 
 trouble of your education, you should be unable, 
 as I heard you assure Sir Roderic that you are, to 
 play the simplest tune on the piano. You will feel 
 this ignorance painfully in good society.' 
 
 'Why, really, father, music has not been an 
 expensive item in my education. I cannot play or 
 sing without ear or voice ; and I did not wish to 
 learn to be only like a self-acting piano. As to
 
 228 
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 those Italian screams I heard to-night, I have not 
 the slightest desire to utter them.' 
 
 'I am assured that Lady St. Helens, and the 
 young lady for whom she designs the opera, are 
 first-rate musicians — admirable performers.' 
 
 ' Well, dearest father, so would I be both, had 
 nature qualified me for such excellences,' replied 
 Judith, conquering her petulance, but not relieved 
 from certain feelings of vexation.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Et je serai le seul qui ne pourrai rien dire ? 
 On sera ridicule, et je n'oserai rire ? 
 
 BOILEAU. 
 
 JUDITH, more occupied at the Castle than she 
 had any desire to be, was obliged to let two or 
 three days elapse without the relief of a discourse 
 with Miss Evelyn. At length, however, she made 
 her escape to the Cottage, and almost her first words 
 were : 
 
 'I can't tell you how stupid I am when with 
 these great people ; and this vexes my father, and 
 it vexes me, I will not pretend solely on his 
 account ; a little on my own also. I am not stupid 
 when I am with you. I am not frightened and 
 tongue-tied here. I know very well that you are 
 superior to them in every possible way ; and yet 
 you do .not despise me, and think nothing of me, 
 as they do.' 
 
 ' My dear Judith, I cannot believe that they 
 despise you, unless there are some very silly, un- 
 worthy people among them — daws in peacocks' 
 feathers ; but that they do not think so much about 
 you as the one old woman whom you delight and 
 amuse, I can easily believe. They don't know you
 
 230 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 — how should they ? especially as you choose to 
 wear a veil of pride and reserve, which lets not a ray 
 of light come through.' 
 
 ' Reserve ? You would not have me thrust on 
 them, unasked, all the little opinions and sentiments 
 which you like to hear ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 ' Pride ? It is their pride that crushes me, quite 
 down. But, like my own native heather, I have a 
 constitutional springiness which enables me to rise 
 up again from the heaviest tread.' 
 
 ' I will answer for it, Judith, you have as much 
 repellent pride as they have aggressive.' 
 
 ' Some armour, of course, it is necessary to wear.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' Oh ! there are shafts of all sorts flying round, 
 some of them poisonous enough, I dare say,' replied 
 Judith, laughing. 'And then, you know, it does 
 exhaust all my patience to go there, and hear 
 nothing but singing from morning till night.' 
 
 ' But surely every one does not sing ?' 
 
 'No,' said Judith, a little ashamed to find out 
 that it was chiefly Horace Lindsay's singing that 
 annoyed her. ' Miss Lindsay, to be sure, seems 
 almost as tired of it as myself; but out of good- 
 nature she has promised to take a part, if Lady St 
 Helens can find no one better. And Lady Rhoda 
 Marlowe, she does not sing, certainly ! — Miss Cour- 
 tenay is a lovely creature, but I think she is rather 
 insipid. Perhaps I might like her better if I heard 
 her talk, but at present I only hear her sing. To 
 tell you the real truth, it puts me out of all patience 
 to see the change in Mr. Lindsay !'
 
 THE MlTxTLE AND THE HEATHER. 23 1 
 
 Judith, though she volunteered this frank con- 
 fession, could not make it without colouring a little. 
 * I had fancied, you encouraged me to fancy, that 
 there was something more in him than this. I who 
 have so deeply at heart the interests of these 
 neglected people, and who have learned that under 
 all Sii- Roderic's good-nature there is a deep-rooted 
 selfishness, and a total disregard of them — I thought 
 that the warm feelings and energy of youth might 
 dispose Mr. Lindsay to exertions in their behalf. 
 And now, I assure you, there are matters that I 
 have meditated on and planned, and thought that I 
 might usefully and laudably communicate to him (as 
 I used to do in his first visit), and I have gone up 
 to the Castle with my head and heart full of them, 
 and found him wearing away time at the piano — ' 
 
 ' With Miss Courtenay r' asked Miss Evel}^, 
 strenuously avoiding a tone of voice which might 
 betray her own suspicion. 
 
 ' Yes, and his sister or his aunt. Then it has 
 seemed out of place to speak of anything worth 
 speaking about in the midst of so much trifling, and 
 I have turned away in silence and gone home again. 
 I would not go any more, at least much less fre- 
 quently than hitherto, if my father did not constrain 
 me to it. No one wants me there, and I w^ant no one.' 
 
 ' Well, Judith, perhaps these little mortifications 
 are good discipline for you. You like sitting here 
 at my footstool, saying just what you please, — flat- 
 tered, spoiled — ' 
 
 ' Flattered,' interrupted Judith, eagerly, flxing 
 her piercing eyes on her friend ; ' then you do flatter 
 me ?'
 
 232 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 Miss Evelyn watched her with a smile. 
 
 * 1 do regard you with very partial eyes, I con- 
 fess.' 
 
 * Ah ! and that blinds you to my faults ? And I 
 have always thought that you kept guard over 
 them, and told me of them, and therefore I loved 
 and valued you more than all the world beside.' 
 
 ' Dear Judith, so I do — but — ' 
 
 * But still — I know very well what you mean. I 
 have found it out by the change of circumstances. 
 J^l[iB,ve seen more than one side of myself lately, and 
 ^sides that you can't get a sight of. I am one per- 
 son here in your room, with you alone ; another with 
 companions I less reverence. The pride which I 
 take in your partiality hardens me to the indif- 
 ference of others — more, perhaps, than it ought. 
 Then, again, I am not sure that I do not fancy 
 myself more indifferent to their opinion of me than 
 I really am — ' 
 
 ' Now, Judith, take my advice. Mix freely, with 
 as little thought of yourself as may be, in this 
 society which has so suddenly encircled you. You 
 will see much, learn much ; and by the time all this 
 disappears, and is as if it had never been more real 
 than the play they are going to act, you will fmd 
 you have learned many a lesson which shall abide 
 with you through life.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, dear Miss Evelyn ; I must go and 
 study a fresh page of the task you set me.' 
 
 Judith was gone in a more tolerant mood than 
 she had brought with her. Miss Evelyn mused a 
 little before she cut the leaves of her new book, and 
 said to herself:
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEll. 233 
 
 ' I am afraid I am going to be very much disap- 
 pointed, silly old woman that I am.' She refused 
 to entertain the more painful thought that Judith 
 would, perhaps, be disappointed also. 
 
 The next day Judith returned, looking far too 
 bright to excite a feeling of apprehension or pity. 
 
 * I am come to tell you that I am very much 
 ashamed of myself, and not half so conceited as I 
 was yesterday.' 
 
 ' What a rapid improvement ! — beyond any I 
 hoped for.' 
 
 ' I am a true penitent. You shall hear. Did I 
 not talk to you as if I considered Beatrice Courtenay 
 a lovely automaton, wound up to sing so many songs 
 a day, and to bestow a certain number of silent 
 smile H in acknowledgment of the applause bestowed 
 on them, with or without delicacy, as the case 
 might be r' 
 
 ' And how is the case ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! Sir Roderic applauds vociferously — he is 
 very kind to her — Lady St. Helens with Italian 
 enthusiasm. Lady Ehoda with blunt decision, Miss 
 Lindsay with warm affection, Mr. Lindsay — ' Ju- 
 dith paused. Miss Evelyn felt an increased interest, 
 ' — in a way which escapes, and possibly is intended 
 to escape, much observation. I don't think he could 
 praise loudly what he feels deeply.' 
 
 ' And he does feel music deeply ?' 
 
 ' I suppose so. I will give him credit for that. 
 You see, every one applauds excepting myself; 
 yet my indifference to Beatrice's singing — m}^ want 
 of appreciation of her character — have not in any 
 degree sprung from female env}^ : of that I am
 
 234 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEU. 
 
 quite certain — quite — ' Judith spoke with glowing 
 face, and honest open countenance, which conveyed 
 ' the full assurance given hy looks ' to her admiring 
 friend, who needed none. 
 
 *And now to return to the point. I went to 
 the Castle on quitting you yesterday, and had my 
 usual dose of music, and wearied of it as much as 
 ever, though I had formed good resolutions as I 
 went. I was also, at first, as stupidly silent as 
 usual, feeling sure that if I unhridled my tongue I 
 should make people stare, say some of those things 
 which you perfectly understand the true bearing of, 
 but which strangers would infallibly misinterpret. 
 I have fallen into a foolish habit with you. I trust 
 you implicitly, and shoot as far beyond the mark 
 as a long sight and a strong arm^ dispose me to do, 
 knowing that you will gather up my arrows for me, 
 and by some good fairy-work place them safely in 
 the bull's-eye, after all.' 
 
 ' My dear Judith, I know well what you mean, 
 and I am afraid I have done you harm.' 
 
 ' No, no, you shan't have done me harm. I will 
 come right yet ; don't despair of me. I do not 
 despair of myself: I broke bounds a little yesterday, 
 I confess — I generally do, after particularly wise 
 resolutions. Having hazarded a few sneers at nmsic 
 in general, I tossed my head, and said : ' I could not 
 sing all day, like Miss Courtenay.' Lady Ehoda 
 Marlowe rose, on purpose to overpower me by her 
 height, as well as by her commanding voice in its 
 awful distinctness. She fixed her eyes on me ; I 
 met them without quailing, and she said : ' We are 
 perfectly aware, Miss Maxwell, that you could not
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 235 
 
 sing as Beatrice Courtenay does : very few can — 
 hers is a rare gift, and most worthily employed.' 
 There was a dead silence. Then one silly girl tit- 
 tered. Lady Rhoda walked away, first bestowing 
 on her a look of disdain. I was abashed, certainly ; 
 but I did not feel as I should have felt had there 
 been any spite or envy in my heart. I was con- 
 scious that I had shown a ridiculous self-conceit, 
 and I tingled — Lady Rhoda had whipped the 
 naughty child with a nettle. 
 
 ' That kind Miss Lindsay, who never derives the 
 smallest pleasure from seeing any one discomforted, 
 immediately but unobtrusively seated herself on the 
 sofa by me, and began to speak. Then, as general 
 conversation was restored, she said to me, gently 
 and quietly r ' I don't think, Miss Maxwell, that 
 you very well understand Beatrice Courtenay's posi- 
 tion amongst us, nor why we all admire and love 
 her so much.' ' I admire her, too,' I said, ' but I 
 do not appreciate, because I am very stupid and 
 ignorant concerning music. Lady Rhoda applied 
 the lash justly to my impertinent conceit.' I could 
 not help smiling and shrugging my shoulders as if I 
 felt it still. Miss Lindsay smiled also, and said : 
 ' I don't like to hear it applied, even in defence of 
 my friends. But let me tell you something of 
 Beatrice, which, if jo\i are indifferent to her genius, 
 you may, and I think will, know how to value.' ' 
 
 Judith repeated, with generous enthusiasm, Anne 
 Lindsay's history of Beatrice, and of her motives for 
 exertion. 
 
 ' Well, Judith, this will be a lesson to you to be 
 slow to despise. Beatrice must indeed be very
 
 236 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 interesting, and I should much like to see and to 
 hear her.' 
 
 ' I am resolved that you shall.' 
 
 ' In a day or two, I dare say, you will have dis- 
 covered that Mr. Lindsay is in the highest degree 
 deserving of your respect, though he can sing.' 
 
 ' Dear Miss Evelyn, if he were, he would have 
 repeated his visit here long ago. Do you remember 
 the day that he came ?' 
 
 ' Yes. How agreeable and intelligent I thought 
 him !' 
 
 ' And he in return declared you to be the most 
 remarkable person he had ever met with. I shall 
 give up the belief that he was capable of forming so 
 just an opinion, unless he finds his way here soon 
 again.' 
 
 ' My dear, I don't regard it as surprising or un- 
 pardonable that just at present he should not think 
 ol me at all.' 
 
 *0r of anything worth thinking of? When I 
 remember the days of Massillon, I smart all over 
 for my folly.' 
 
 * Why was it folly, Judith ? Mr. Lindsay is not 
 yet one-and-twenty. You say you do not despair of 
 yourself. Do not despair of him. But who is Lady 
 Rhoda ? I have heard her name more than once, 
 and that in a manner which makes me think that 
 she also must be remarkable.' 
 
 'Very. She is a cousin of Lady St. Helens — a 
 tall, gaunt woman, with a handsome, severe face. 
 She makes a point of presenting a contrast to her 
 elegant kinswoman as striking as possible. Her 
 dress is more homely than that of the other is
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 237 
 
 costly. She usually contradicts the Countess when- 
 ever she opens her mouth, pets Sir Rocleric because 
 his wife insults him, and when she takes notice of 
 the younger folk, wishes to rule them.' 
 
 ' They, then, are not very grateful for her notice, 
 I presume ?' said Miss Evelyn. 
 
 ' I think Mr. Lindsay likes her ; she is an old 
 friend of his English relations ; he has an easy, play- 
 ful manner, by which she is softened and sweetened. 
 But Miss Lindsay is afraid of her.' 
 
 * And you, Judith ?' 
 
 ' I fanc}^ I could like her if she would allow me. 
 But she thinks of me, if at all, as of a pert, con- 
 ceited — perhaps unmannered girl, who ought to be 
 put down — kept back. Perhaps she is right.' 
 
 Judith found Beatrice that afternoon alone, and 
 apparently at leisure — a rare occurrence. She im- 
 mediately took advantage of it to approach her, 
 saying : 
 
 ' Miss Courtenay, some time when you are disen- 
 gaged,! should like to take you to the English Cottage 
 to see Miss Evelyn, a countrywoman of yours, and one 
 who would fully understand — derive real pleasure 
 from your singing. She leads such a secluded life 
 now from ill health, and her choice of an abode, that 
 such gratifications are rare to her. You have often 
 heard Mr. Lindsay speak of her.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes,' replied Beatrice ; ' and he has several 
 times spoken of going there, and taking his sister 
 with him. Shall we visit her together r" 
 
 ' I would rather go with you alone ; she is seldom 
 well enough to see many strangers.' 
 
 Beatrice shrank a little from this proposal : natu-
 
 238 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 rally timid, the bluntness of Judith's manner was 
 rather startling to her, and she was always happier 
 when Anne Lindsay shared her society with her. 
 
 ' You don't like this ?' said Judith. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes,' returned Beatrice ; ' let us go, if you 
 wish it, now.' 
 
 Judith thought it absurd to draw back, yet was 
 not quite pleased to proceed, and walked in silence 
 through the garden at Beatrice's side. As they 
 were quitting it, they met Horace and Anne. 
 
 ' Going to Miss Evelyn ? I shall be delighted 
 to renew my a^uaintance with her, and to intro- 
 duce Anne. Pray, Miss Maxwell, give me leave to 
 accompany 3'ou.' 
 
 Judith could not refuse, but stipulated that she 
 should proceed in advance, and warn Miss Evelyn 
 of their approach. 
 
 ' I shall like to see them very much,' was Miss 
 Evelyn's reply ; and she received them with what 
 might well be called urbanity ; it was far beyond 
 conventional courtesy — it was the benevolence of 
 age toward youth. Horace felt that he had deferred 
 his visit to his own loss, and had deprived his sister 
 and Beatrice of a valuable privilege. Judith's eyes 
 glistened, for she saw that her friend was duly 
 regarded. After a while she even glanced at the 
 piano, and said to Horace : 
 
 ' I should like Miss Evelyn to hear Miss Courtenay 
 sing, and I should like quite as well for her to hear 
 Miss Evelyn play.' 
 
 Horace had a happy facility in accomplishing 
 people's wishes. Beatrice was soon at the piano, 
 and he watched with delight the expression of Miss
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 239 
 
 Evelyn's coiintenance as she listened : she was, as he 
 expected, worthy to listen. The Opera naturally 
 came into discussion. 
 
 ' I shall bring my aunt here, that she may profit 
 by your remarks, if you will allow me. I am sure 
 Lady St. Helens will make your acquaintance with 
 the utmost pleasure, if you can resolve to admit so 
 many invaders.' Horace spoke fearlessly, for he not 
 only knew that at present he was all-powerful with 
 his aunt, but was also assured that Miss Evelyn's 
 merits would not be thrown away on her. She 
 played a few chords herself on ter instrument, 
 which, though small, was of peculiar sweetness, and 
 the beauty of her touch was striking : but she was 
 merely trying to explain a remark she had made, 
 and seemed indisposed to further exertion. 
 
 Horace soon availed himself of the permission he 
 had won to bring the Countess, who was quite as 
 graceful and as gracious as he had hoped that she 
 would be : she at once recognised the high-bred 
 lady, the woman of rare cultivation and natural 
 endowments. 
 
 'How terrible to live here in the shade, quite 
 thrown away ! But then her health is so bad !' 
 was the Countess's comment. 
 
 When Lady Rhoda heard the last portion of it, 
 she expressed an intention of visiting Miss Evelyn 
 also : she particulai'ly piqued herself on her medical 
 skill, and was certain that she could alleviate her 
 sufferings. Judith was horrified at the idea, but 
 she knew that Miss Evelyn could protect herself 
 with quiet firmness, and desired that she should 
 become acquainted with the only remaining inmate
 
 240 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 of the Castle, whom she thought otherwise than 
 commonplace. Lady Rhoda went, and liked Miss 
 Evelyn no less than others did but regretted that, 
 she was unfortunately, prejudiced and timorous 
 as she declined the use of certain infallible re- 
 medies. 
 
 From this time. Miss Evelyn's cottage became 
 a favourite rendezvous of the party at the Castle. 
 The Countess often condescended to be brilliant and 
 amusing, but was sometimes selfish and fatiguing. 
 Lady Rhoda's sterling worth was valued, and it was 
 observed that she would return from the Cottage 
 with an unusual softness of manner. Anne was 
 cordial, and soon loved to speak with Miss Evelyn 
 of her brother and of her friend ; and Miss Evelyn 
 strove with success to strengthen in both Anne and 
 Horace a sense of the responsibility of the position 
 which the latter appeared destined to fill. The 
 gentle, imaginative Beatrice engaged Miss Evelyn's 
 lively sj^mpathy. Touched by her loveliness and 
 the loneliness of her situation, she sought her confi- 
 dence with the desire of being useful to her, and 
 soon taught Beatrice to delight to sit beside her 
 chair, and to disclose to her the thoughts and feel- 
 ings and few events of her past life, and her future 
 aims and hopes. Often did this pleasurable inter- 
 course with Miss Evelyn recal Mr. Howard to 
 Beatrice's mind ; she would muse on the striking 
 parity in the gifts of intellect, on the melancholy 
 disparity in the peace of the soul. While Beatrice 
 always spoke gratefully of Lady St. Helens' gene- 
 rosity and zeal. Miss Evelyn detected misgivings 
 of which she could too plainly discern the cause.
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 24I 
 
 It was with relief that Beatrice turned to Anne, and 
 expressed the entire confidence she reposed in her 
 goodness and truth ; of Anne's brother she spoke 
 little, but when Miss Evelyn thought of the 
 daily intercourse, the necessary rehearsals which 
 now took place between them, she felt an anxiety 
 on the matter which was not confined to her alone, 
 though none as yet expressed it. 
 
 Of the benefits thus generally derived from Miss 
 Evelyn's influence, Judith was a partaker. All 
 learned to value her more on discovering the value 
 "which Miss Evelyn set on her; and she began to 
 find herself in a more prominent position, which 
 gave her freer scope, and restored her father to 
 better humour. As on Horace's first visit, so again 
 now she found him frequently applying to her for 
 information, and even advice ; and was often the 
 chosen companion of him and of Anne, while 
 Beatrice, when the Countess would spare her, was 
 very happy to join them. 
 
 VOL. T.
 
 til<r 'tiftr tilSr tJlsr iJfcr tillx* Tilly^ Tiliy^ lilir 'rilir 'TJfer tifcr tifcr Tilir' 'xiKr tifer '^Jfir tiifcr tiRp 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 The gentle heart scorns base disparagement. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 THE design of the opera in some measure took 
 gradually a different character from the first 
 which was assigned to it. The Countess of St. 
 Helens had, in the course of the rehearsals, dis- 
 covered in Beatrice such remarkable powers of 
 acting as surprised and delighted her. If they 
 existed, why might they not be cultivated with 
 a view to her future advantage ? She had a vague, 
 she chose it to be a very vague recollection of Mr. 
 Howard's saying to her one day, that Courtenay 
 would never permit his granddaughter to go on the 
 stage. Though unwilling to encounter the difficul- 
 ties of costume or scenery, and not very desirous to 
 engage in the expense of them, she resolved to afford 
 Beatrice some scope in the most remarkable scenes 
 of the chosen opera. La Sonnamhula. The Countess, 
 in good humour herself, was content to put others 
 in good humour, and agreed that the music should 
 be succeeded by dancing. This improvement Judith 
 communicated to Miss Evelyn with considerable 
 elation j besides which, she had to consult her on
 
 THE MYETLE AND TBE HEATHER. 243 
 
 a point of no small importance. Her father had 
 laid on her no less than a command to obtain a very 
 handsome dress from Edinburgh for the occasion. 
 Judith with some distress had urged her own ideas 
 on him : ' Indeed, father, it will never suit me to 
 emulate these grand people of fashion. You can't 
 think how simply Miss Lindsay and Beatrice 
 Courtenay will be dressed.' 
 
 ' Very likely. It would not suit either of them 
 to expend the sum of money I design for you. 
 There shall be no woman in the room better 
 dressed than my daughter.' 
 
 ' But I have not a person that can bear much 
 parade. I shall only look short and vulgar if I am 
 bedizened out. Let me consult Miss Evelyn. You 
 know she has both taste and acquaintance with good 
 society. See how all these people regard her.' 
 
 The beginning of this speech frightened Maxwell, 
 and the end of it convinced him. He consented, to 
 Judith's inexpressible relief, that the question should 
 be submitted to Miss Evelyn's decision. 
 
 ' Well, my dear child, I should like you to have a 
 pink dress, for that will suit 3'our white skin and 
 black hair. Besides, as Miss Lindsay and Beatrice 
 mean to be in white, and exactly alike, you will form 
 a happy contrast. I don't see why your father 
 should not give you a set of pearls, as he is so libe- 
 rally disposed.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't wish for them in the least. What 
 
 a sum of money to throw away ! Moreover, there 
 
 is Beatrice's string of pearls — her only and constant 
 
 ornament. I don't wish to call forth any compa- 
 
 E 2
 
 244 '^^'^' MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 risons — to appear to attempt to rival or surpass her 
 on such a point as that : and Annunziata, her 
 Italian nurse would be greatly offended.' 
 
 ' Then you can content yourself with silver ?' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 The next day, Judith brought some beautiful 
 filigree silver ornaments of Genoese workmanship, 
 and placed them before Miss Evelyn. 
 
 ' Do those satisfy you ?' 
 
 ' How very elegant ! You look pleased, Judith.' 
 
 ' I am, with the way in which they came into my 
 possession. Miss Lindsay is so good-natured, one 
 does not mind asking her a question ; so I just 
 inquired of her what sort of thing silver ornaments 
 ought to be, and explained a little why I wanted to 
 learn. She coloured, as people do when a new idea, 
 and a pleasant one, comes suddenly into their head, 
 and looked really to my eyes very pretty. ' I beg 
 your pardon,' she said, and ran out of the room. In 
 two or three minutes she returned, accompanied by 
 her brother, with this case in her hand ; opened it, 
 and placed it before me. ' How elegant !' I exclaimed. 
 * These are foreign.' ' They are,' she answered. 'I 
 brought them from Genoa, and you must do us the 
 favour of accepting and wearing them on the night 
 of the ball. You cannot think how much pleasure 
 it will give us, if you will c(msider them as the 
 slightest possible token of the grateful regard 
 which we feel when we reflect on all your exertions 
 among those who owe, I grieve to say, but too little 
 to ourselves. I should not have thought of offering 
 you these trifles, had not your inquiries reminded 
 me of them. They lay unappropriated in my
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 24^ 
 
 trinket-box, and mj brother, whom I consulted, 
 agrees with me in thinking this an agreeable use to 
 make of them. Her manner was so kind, and her 
 brother seconded her with so much delicacy, and a 
 gracefulness which, I must say, belongs especially 
 to him, that I could not do otherwise than I have 
 done — accept them.' Judith's eyes glistened. In a 
 moment she added : 
 
 ' If I had thought it only thanks — if they had 
 not showed a cordial liking — I could not, I would 
 not, have taken the gift.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I think it must be gratifying to you and 
 to your father. You could not have rejected it 
 without wounding the Lhidsays keenly ; and cer- 
 tainly they said only what you de — ' 
 
 ' Now stop, pray stop. I will not have a word of 
 of that, please: it is dreadful. I want to talk to you 
 about that pretty Beatrice, whom I really begin to 
 care for, a little.' 
 
 ' I do, a great deal.' 
 
 ' I was amused yesterday. I am sure that she 
 excites no small jealousy in some of the ladies at 
 the Castle; and I must tell you how well Mr. Lind- 
 say can lead them on to betray themselves. We 
 were all sitting working — that is, idling and gos- 
 siping together, when one of the number began to 
 laugh at Miss Courtenay's accent (which is really 
 the slightest thing in the world, if not the prettiest), 
 calling it broken English. ' We islanders are so 
 absurd !' she said. ' She is quite right, you know, 
 to play the foreigner. Of course, she must adopt 
 an Italian name, if she intends to make any sensa- 
 tion.' ' La Beatrice,' cried Mr. Lindsay, ' wili sound
 
 24^ THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 charming ; to be sure, she has some reason to be 
 proud of the Enghsh name she bears, but no doubt 
 she will lay it aside for a more melodious one.' ' I 
 hate singularity in dress,' was the next observation; 
 ' it is such bad taste. An eternal black silk dress is 
 quite remarkable,' ' And a string of pearls round the 
 throat, morning and evening, can only be worn,' 
 said Horace, ' to call forth a multitude of allusions 
 to a skin ' much whiter.' A pity, that on the night 
 of the opera we cannot offer the tribute of a neck- 
 lace of diamonds.' 'Oh ! I dare say that jewels will 
 not always be wanting,' said another, who had not 
 spoken hitherto, while the one who began the sub- 
 ject continued : ' I suppose she has heard too often 
 of the Madonna-like style of her beauty, ever to 
 have it quite absent from her mind.' ' No doubt,' 
 returned Mr. Lindsay, in a tone so sarcastic that I 
 wondered the lady did not discover that his remarks 
 were directed rather against her than the unof- 
 fending Beatrice, 'this consciousness is the sole 
 cause of that peculiar sweetness and serenity of 
 countenance, of the habitual downcast look of the 
 finest eyes in the world, and the singular simplicity 
 and grace with which she disposes of the braids of 
 hair so rich in colour and so profuse in quantity.' 
 ' Oh ! I quite agree with you as to her affectation,' 
 exclaimed the lady he addressed, in tones of delight, 
 only checked by the sudden appearance of Beatrice 
 herself from the inner room. She stood for a mo- 
 ment in the doorway ; her cheek had more colour 
 than usual, and I fancied theie was a look of slight 
 reproach in her eye, which fell on Mr. Lindsay. 
 But he sprang up from the sofa ; and no one ever
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 247 
 
 looked less guilty, or better pleased to see another, 
 than he did. I can't say as much for the ladies. 
 She must have known that they were talking of her, 
 from their faces, even if she did not come to warn 
 them, as I suppose her to have done.' 
 
 ' Poor Beatrice, hers is a perilous position !' 
 ' Sometimes I think it enviable,' replied Judith. 
 ' She looks forward, as few can, to serving those she 
 loves. And though it is not her song that charms 
 me, I can feel what it must be to have such a magic 
 power, and to see the spell work. Her beauty, too 
 — it must be pleasant to possess it !' 
 
 ' I wish all who can feel that, as you do at this 
 moment, could be as free from envy as you are !' 
 
 ' I wish so, too ; for it would make Beatrice hap- 
 pier. She cannot divert herself with envy and 
 jealousy as I should, were I the object of them.' 
 ' Not a very innocent amusement, Judith.' 
 ' Perhaps not. I shall never be tempted to play 
 at it. But we need not pity Beatrice just now, 
 while she has Lady St. Helens for her patroness, 
 and Lady Ehoda for her protectress, and Mr. Lind- 
 say for her champion.' 
 
 4*
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 All ranged in a ring, and dancing in delight. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 When Johnnie's mother gat word o' that, 
 
 Her hands for dule she wrang : 
 Johnnie, for my benison 
 
 To the grene wood dinna gang. 
 
 Old Ballad. 
 
 IT was the last day before the grand day for which 
 every one was so nearly ready, that the inter- 
 vening hours threatened to want occupation. 
 
 ' Come with me to my school,' said J udith. * You 
 have long promised to do so. You, Miss Courtenay, 
 are engaged to give a music lesson ; and you, Mr. 
 Lindsay, an English one. It will really be very 
 diverting, and I never saw more idle people than you 
 at present appear to be.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes !' said Anne. ' Do let us go. My aunt 
 does not want any of us.' 
 
 They set out to walk to the schoolhouse, and 
 arrived within sight of it a few minutes before the 
 hour at which the children assembled. A group of 
 girls were dancing reels on a pleasant piece of turf 
 by the roadside. They broke off with a laugh as 
 they saw the ladies approach.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 249 
 
 ' You come to instruct,' cried Judith ; ' but here 
 is an opportunity of gaining instruction. I have in 
 vain tried to make you accomplish the true High- 
 land fling. Only see.' 
 
 She moved forward, and bid the girls continue 
 their dance ; shaking off their bash fulness, they 
 recommenced by degrees with a natural grace ; and 
 Judith, catching their spirit, mingled with them, 
 and in a few minutes whs dancing as merrily as the 
 others, till all, exhausted, threw themselves on the 
 grass, while their spectators expressed the pleasure 
 it had given them to view the lively scene. 
 
 ' It was nice of the children,' said Anne, ' to go 
 on with frank good-nature as soon as they under- 
 stood that we really wished to see them.' 
 
 ' That is just what 1 think,' replied Judith, with 
 the cordiality which had existed between her and 
 Anne Lindsay since the affair of the silver orna- 
 ments.' 
 
 In a little cove of the lake not a hundred yards 
 from the schoolhouse, and lying immediately below 
 a road which led to the castle, while Judith Maxwell 
 and her companions were occupied in the school- 
 room with as much or more interest than they had 
 anticipated, were two fishermen trimming theu' 
 boat and preparing to set sail : the one was a youth 
 of open countenance, but wild and impetuous ; that 
 of the other was somewhat sinister and ferocious in 
 expression. There were several men and women on 
 the shore, followers of the same craft, and one of 
 the most experienced of the former eyed the sky 
 with that odd, half-cunning look with which a sailor 
 foresees a storm, and muttered half aloud a proonos-
 
 250 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 tication of bad weather, Dermot, the elder fisher- 
 man, glanced at him fiercely and forbid him to croak 
 his forebodings, when an aged woman rapidly de- 
 scended the steep path which led into the cove, 
 waving her hands in the air. 
 
 ' Angus,' she cried, in Gaelic, ' I forbid this voyage. 
 It ends in death. Come back, as you value my 
 peace of mind or my blessing. I tell you that I 
 saw you standing at m}"" side while I sat at my 
 wheel. I had been to the door to look out. I saw 
 the wild storm come dancing up the glen. I went 
 in and shut the door, as if I could shut out my 
 misery. I returned to my wheel, and, God forgive 
 me ! I tried to sing. Then didst thou stand beside 
 me ! Leave me not, my son — leave me not, or I 
 shall never see thee again.' 
 
 ' As safe, mother, on sea as on land. If death 
 come, he can walk on the surest ground as well as 
 he can ride on the wildest wave.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I know that the peril was of the water, 
 because thou hadst thy fisher-net in thy hand.' 
 
 ' But that is as often the case with me on land as 
 at sea. All this morning have I been mending it 
 in this shed.' 
 
 Morag was not to be silenced by jest or subter- 
 fuge. Her son seemed to be half shaken by her 
 entreaties or by her prognostics, when his dark- 
 browed companion put his hand heavily on the 
 youth's shoulder, saying : 
 
 ' Now tell me, Angus, comest thou with me and 
 as fair a wind as ever favoured fisher, or bidest thou 
 here to grow pale at old wives' tales ?' 
 
 There was a biting tone of irony in the man's
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEH. 25 1 
 
 tone which made Angus redden, and move uneasily 
 under the pressure of his hand. 
 
 ' I promised you my company,' he cried, ' for the 
 half of what we take, and I am not going to throw 
 up the bargain. Let us start.' 
 
 ' And you, Dermot,' cried old Morag, ' it suits you 
 ill to gainsay my words, for T tell you there was a 
 dark figure lurking behind my boy, and I could not 
 guess whom it might be ; but as they melted away, 
 the plaid fell partly from the face of the second, and 
 I know now that they were your sandy locks and 
 cold grey eye that met my view. Beguile the boy 
 to his ruin, and you share it.' 
 
 ' Why, mother,' replied Dermot, scoffingly, ' I 
 have less scruple than ever in urging our departure 
 now ; but if Angus has either scruple or fear, let 
 him set his foot on the strand, and never speak to 
 Dermot of joining him more.' 
 
 He tarried for a minute to give Angus time to 
 stamp himself a coward for ever in his estimation; 
 and as the youth turned determinedly away from 
 his mother, he pushed the boat from the shore. The 
 wind caught the sail which Angus unfurled, and 
 they were soon past a point which, once doubled, 
 placed them out of view. 
 
 It was at this juncture that Judith Maxwell and 
 her companions, returning from the school, were 
 attracted by the noisy group gathered together in 
 the cove. Morag had seated herself on a stone, 
 silent with grief and anger. Some of the expres- 
 sions used by the women in their vociferations 
 caught Judith's ear. 
 
 ' Let us go down, and inquire into the meaning
 
 2^'Z THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 of this,' she said. As she approached, Morag rose 
 up wildly. 
 
 ' He has dishonoured my grey hairs,' she exclaimed. 
 * He has brought his doom on his own head. I knew 
 how it would be from the day that Dermot shared 
 his boat with him.' 
 
 She stalked up the cliff, without pausing to heed 
 the gentry. 
 
 ' This is a strange tale,' cried Judith, after listen- 
 ing eagerly to the various versions of the occurrence 
 poured out by the bystanders. ' With you,' she said 
 to her companions, ' it will pass for the wildest super- 
 stition ; nor do I speak in full faith. Yet I heartily 
 wish that we had arrived ten minutes earlier. The 
 command of his young laird might have restrained 
 this wilful boy when the supplication of his mother 
 failed to do so.' 
 
 She repeated the circumstances as she had ga- 
 thered them. 
 
 ' It is useless,' said Horace, ' to argue against 
 such an impression as this ; nothing can eftace it 
 but the safe return of the fishermen.' 
 
 ' But will they return ?' asked Judith ; and the 
 whole party proceeded homewards, without a vestige 
 of that liveliness which had animated them in the 
 former part of their walk.
 
 -^^^-•■•v ><--<> -•■■V^l>^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Grief claimed his right, and tears their course. 
 
 Lady of the Lake. 
 
 THE night was stormy — stormy enough to justify 
 old Morag's prognostications ; but the weather 
 gradually cleared, the clouds rolled away, and the 
 scenery of Duror's lake and mountains looked as 
 beautiful as those gathered together to rejoice on 
 the birthday of Duror's future Laird could desire 
 that it should look. 
 
 Judith was actively employed thoughout the day, 
 3^et more than once the remembrance of Moray 
 forced itself upon her, and she longed to make her 
 escape to the old woman's cottage. But her father 
 demanded her thoughts and utmost attention. He 
 battled with the energy of mental strength against 
 bodily infirmity ; regulated, superintended every- 
 thing with admirable skill ; and appeared at the 
 tenants' dinner at Sir Roderic Lindsay's left hand, 
 his nephew being placed on his right. Mr. Douglas 
 and Mr. Cameron were next to Horace. 
 
 The Baronet, in a flowery speech, lauded his agent 
 in the highest degree, and then proceeded to lavish 
 more delicate praise on Judith, the benefactress of
 
 2^4 '^^^ MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 the poor. To these Horace Lindsay warmly re- 
 sponded, and all eyes were turned towards her as 
 she stood among the group of ladies. 
 
 With emotions painful from excess and mixed in 
 nature, though she could not then analyse them, 
 Judith listened. The meed of praise accorded by 
 Horace was proffered with so much refinement and 
 generosity, that none could have received it un- 
 moved. The florid discourse of Sir Roderic had 
 called the colour to her cheek, but certainly not the 
 tears to her eye. A feeling half of annoyance and 
 half of an intense desire to escape was that which 
 she chiefly experienced ; but when Horace spoke, 
 her sensations assumed a different character. With 
 a dread of she knew not what, she saw her father 
 rise to return thanks for himself and for her. Tears 
 forced their way, a convulsive sob filled her throat. 
 With one hand she grasped the support of the tent 
 against which she leaned ; who was it that took the 
 other with a soft, kind touch, which seemed to lend 
 more support in its sympathy than the strong iron 
 bar to which she clung ? It was Beatrice. Judith 
 started with surprise, and felt, as she had never felt 
 before, the exceeding beauty of the face which 
 beamed on her in its sisterly love. And Horace, as 
 he turned his looks to the spot where both stood, 
 saw only Beatrice. Maxwell observed the direction 
 of the young man's face, and the expression of ten- 
 derness and admiration which suddenly lit up his 
 eyes, and was more than satisfied. The agent's 
 words were forcible and few. ' The interest of every 
 inhabitant of Duror, from the poorest in the glen to 
 the noblest in the castle, was the object sacred to
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 2^c^ 
 
 his own and to his daughter's heart and mind, and 
 to that sacred ohject he did beHeve them to have 
 been ardently devoted. How fervent, then, the joy 
 and satisfaction with which they recognised the due 
 estimation in which it was held by the Laird and 
 the acknowledged heir of Duror !' As Maxwell spoke, 
 there was the pride of successful ambition on his 
 brow, fire flashed from his eye, and, in the content- 
 ment of his heart at that moment, his face glowed 
 ■with something of the sunshine which usually made 
 his daughter's so much more agreeable than his own 
 to look on. But all brightness faded away, and he 
 sank down again, a man broken by sickness. Judith 
 saw the change, and would gladly have sprung to 
 his side. Beatrice perceived her impulse, and its 
 cause ; and Judith, feeling herself understood, reco- 
 gnised in turn that the coming effort of the evening 
 was no mere play of vanity to Beatrice, and rendered 
 back the tribute of reverential sympathy which 
 filial love deserved. 
 
 Judith returned home with her father, and as she 
 was to see him no more till the morrow, would 
 gladly have remained with him till the evening ; but 
 he insisted, with the irritability of over-excitement, 
 that she should repair again to the Castle for the 
 four-o'clock dinner, where the guests were to as- 
 semble, and afterwards were expected to dispose of 
 themselves as they pleased till the entertainments 
 should begin at eight. Judith found something to 
 do for everybody, and felt her powers of exertion 
 increase as the scope for them widened. At length 
 she went to her own room to prepare herself for 
 the ball, and had not been there many moments,
 
 256 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 when Effie, the housemaid, abruptly opened the 
 door. 
 
 ' Are you come to see my finery — to help me to 
 put it on ?' asked Judith, smiling ; but she stopped 
 short when she saw the pale, scared face of the 
 girl. She drew her into the room. 'Effie, Effie, 
 what has happened ?' 
 
 ' I was resolved you should know of it. Poor 
 Morag ! her words are always true. Who in the 
 glen ever found them false ? over-true now — ' The 
 girl sobbed violently. 
 
 ' What, Angus ?' faltered Judith. 
 
 ' And his wild companion,' replied Effie ; ' both 
 lost ! Angus is found — washed on shore, and 
 brought home ; and she is crazed — like a mad crea- 
 ture — and they don't think she will get through 
 the night. If you could have been with her — but 
 you can't — ' 
 
 'Can't?' said Judith, thoughtfully, and she 
 approached the window. ' I can — I will. No one 
 needs me here ; and if they did for their pastime, 
 should that keep me from old Morag in her woe ? 
 Who can blame me ? None ; not my father. If I 
 act otherwise, the words I heard this morning 
 stamp me a hypocrite. It was bad enough to listen 
 to them while I could believe that they contained 
 some truth ; but to remember them falsified ! — they 
 would burn into my brain.' 
 
 While meditating thus, she was also putting on her 
 plaid as fast as she could, — Effie standing by, half 
 dismayed, half delighted. 
 
 ' But if I am missed,' continued Judith to herself,
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 257 
 
 'if any do concern themselves about me — if they 
 were to send to disturb my father — that must not 
 be. To whom can I now speak with a chance of 
 being understood ? Miss Lindsay, she has usually 
 some calmness left.' 
 
 She darted through the passages to Anne's room ; 
 she was gone to superintend Beatrice's toilet. 
 Judith, hastily snatching some writing materials, 
 wrote, in a large, bold hand : ' I am going out to a 
 poor woman who is in great need of me. Keep my 
 secret. Don't let me be thought of, spoken of, if 
 you can prevent it. Judith Maxwell.' 
 
 She would not sadden Anne by revealing the true 
 case to her. She laid the note on her dressing-table, 
 and in a few minutes was beyond the Castle-grounds. 
 On she went, without time for regret or misgiving. 
 She reached the cottage-door — she heard wild 
 sounds of woe, but they came not from Morag, of 
 that she was convinced. She entered; the place 
 was full to suffocation (it was but a mud-floored 
 hovel), and Judith's sudden apparition was beheld 
 with surprise and satisfaction. With the air of 
 authority it was natural enough to her to assume, 
 she bid those assembled draw back from the speech- 
 less mourner, to whose side she made her way. She 
 threw herself on her knees, and taking Morag's 
 hand, she said : 
 
 ' I am come to you. You know that I am here — ' 
 
 ' You came too late to curb his wilfulness,' cried 
 Morag, suddenly ; ' and now ! — ' 
 
 ' God stayed my steps then, in His wisdom, 
 which is not as our wisdom ; He has hastened them 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 2^8 THE MYHTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 now in His mercy, that I may weep with you, pray 
 with you!' 
 
 Morag rose. On the bed lay what Judith knew 
 must be the body of her son, shrouded in a sail of 
 his boat. The mother stood beside it, and said : 
 
 ' This morning I wept and prayed — this evening 
 I do neither.' But the movement was too much 
 for her exhausted strength ; and as she spoke, she 
 fell senseless on the bed. 
 
 ### 
 
 ^^
 
 CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 Sans aucun tour, sans nulle singularity, sans faste, sans 
 affectation ; ce n'est pas une sc^ne qu'elle joue pour le public — 
 Ai'istarque se transporte dans la place, avee un h^raut et une 
 trompette. La Bruyeee. 
 
 TT7HILE Judith's ear was pierced by the shrill 
 V V cry which told that Morag had regained con- 
 sciousness, Beatrice, with a deep delight of heart 
 which augured future success, with a thrilling an- 
 ticipation of what the enjoyment of that success 
 would be, was pouring forth the ecstatic notes of her 
 last song : 
 
 ' Ah ! non giunge uman pensiero 
 Al contento del mio cor !' 
 
 The youthful simplicity with which she uttered 
 these words — the modest delight in the acknow- 
 ledgment of her innocence — the loveliness of her 
 countenance — the unaffected gestures so expressive 
 of overflowing happiness, — all was so fresh and beau- 
 tiful, that every one who listened was enraptured. 
 Horace was so truly Elvino, that he forgot the pre- 
 sence of all save Amina. He heard not the din of 
 applause. Anne started when the song was over ; 
 till then every thought centred in Beatrice, but now 
 s 2
 
 26o THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEU. 
 
 her wishes were completed, and Anne had leisure 
 to ask herself: 
 
 ' Judith — that strange Judith, — I wonder if her 
 absence was indispensable ?' 
 
 The ball had begun, the first dance was over, 
 when Horace addressed his sister -. 
 
 ' I can't make it out, Anne ; where can Miss 
 Maxwell have hid herself? I promised my uncle 
 to dance with her early in the evening.' 
 
 ' You cannot keep your promise ; she is not 
 here — ' 
 
 ' Her father ill ? I hope not !' 
 
 ' No, but she is absent in a good cause, I believe. 
 To-morrow I suppose we shall know more of her. 
 She begged me to keep her absence as secret as I 
 could.' 
 
 ' That is not possible. My uncle, you saw the 
 sort of interest he expressed — how he brought her 
 forward this morning. I am sure he will not be 
 content to lose sight of her now. You must make 
 the best explanation you can.' 
 
 'I will,' replied Anne; and a moment afterwards 
 she saw her brother dancing with Beatrice, and met 
 her uncle with a black cloud on his brow. 
 
 * Thoughtless — regardless — Horace has not danced 
 with Miss Maxwell yet. I have been looking for 
 her everywhere, that I might dance with her my- 
 self.' 
 
 ' But, my dear uncle, Horace is not in fault, and 
 you will look in vain. She is not here !' 
 
 ' Not here ! What folly is this ? Has anything 
 offended her ? Your aunt ! — this is too bad ; she 
 shall answer for this.'
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 26 1 
 
 ' Indeed, mj aunt is quite innocent. Miss Mas- 
 well was called away by a summons she would not 
 disregard — to a poor woman in distress, I believe.' 
 
 * Absurd ! her head was turned by our compli- 
 ments of this morning, I see. Very vexatious ! I 
 would not have had this happen for — ' 
 
 ' Nor T,' interrupted Anne. ' Poor Judith, she 
 must have wished to be here.' 
 
 ' Not she, a little satirical creature — Maxwell over 
 again. Your amusements are to her matters of 
 ridicule,' said Sir Roderic, with an ill humour rare 
 in him. ' And as to that Italian beauty on Horace's 
 arm, it was an act of madness to bring her here, nor 
 should she have stayed under this roof had she not 
 been — ' But here Sir Roderic broke oif abruptly, 
 afraid of exciting Anne's curiosity. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the brilliancy, the complete 
 success of the entertainment. Lady St. Helens con- 
 gratulated herself; Sir Roderic looked miserably 
 discontented ; she supposed that was because she 
 was pleased. Horace was as popular as a young heir 
 on the day of his coming of age could expect to be. 
 Beatrice was the star of the evening. 
 
 The sun was rising as Judith returned to the 
 Castle. The morning breeze blowing across the lake 
 refreshed her after a sleepless night. Her step was 
 elastic. She had not watched in vain. Gradually 
 had she won Morag from her blank despair to a 
 better mood ; and when at length she laid her grey 
 head on her shoulder and wept like a young child, 
 Judith felt that a great change was worked and a 
 great reward gained. After this natural outburst of 
 sorrow, she could pray, and endure to listen to
 
 2,62, THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 Judith's words, which were few and simple. Mr. 
 Cameron came down to the cottage almost with the 
 dawn, for Morag was one he knew well and esteemed. 
 Judith on his arrival prepared to withdraw, but 
 the mourner would not dispense with a promise of 
 her return. 
 
 Judith would have been more inclined to go to 
 her own home than to the Castle, had she known 
 how to meet her father ; she did not for a moment 
 entertain the idea of permanent concealment, but 
 she wished to render his disappointment as slight as 
 possible. She had seen his over-anxiety to have her 
 presence recognised at all the festivities ; and while 
 she did not entertain the feeling in the same degree, 
 she could not but consider it in him. She glanced 
 round the ball-room and the stage as she passed — • 
 the faded flowers, the burnt-out lights. ' All gone,' 
 she said, ' and I saw none of it in its brightness. I 
 wonder if they enjoyed all the pleasure, all the tri- 
 umph they anticipated. I long to know how Bea- 
 trice sang and acted. Was I missed by one, even 
 one?' 
 
 She went on to her own room. Her black hair was 
 uncurled and damp. She pushed it aside, and, wea- 
 ried, worn out by the exertion she had gone through, 
 cast herself on her bed, and fairly cried herself to 
 sleep. When she opened her eyes, Anne Lindsay 
 was standing beside her : 
 
 ' I wanted to know if you were returned, and what 
 you have been doing ?' 
 
 Judith told her. 
 
 ' Yvliat a strange, wild, unaccountable tale ! Poor 
 Morag ! What can be done for her, Judith ?'
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 263 
 
 ' I shall see later. As soon as breakfast is over, 
 I must go to my father ; I shall stay for that to 
 glean anecdotes for him.' 
 
 ' He cannot be displeased, he can only be proud 
 of his daughter.' 
 
 ' Proud ? I cannot see that — what else was 
 there to do ? But tell me, did Beatrice suc- 
 ceed ?' 
 
 'Admirably!' 
 
 ' I am very glad,' cried Judith, with cordial 
 warmth ; and Anne smiled with pleasure. 
 
 ' Ah ! little truant !' was Sir Eoderic's greeting. 
 
 'Sir Roderic, you are always good-natured — do 
 not speak of me and of my proceedings, and then no 
 one will waste a thought on them,' said Judith, with 
 real earnestness. 
 
 ' Not so,' interposed Horace ; ' I hope later. Miss 
 Maxwell, to understand them better. You must 
 not refuse me the gratification.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Judith ; ' what I have to say will 
 have an interest for you.' 
 
 Judith's intelligence, however, was fated not to 
 be the first which should reach her father's ears. 
 A tenant, who had contrived to see most of what 
 had taken place at the Castle, came to see him, and 
 sat gossiping on while the agent was eating his 
 breakfast. Maxwell, a man never disposed to fami- 
 liarity, checked it now with greater assumption of 
 dignity than pleased a Highlander prouder than 
 himself, saying : 
 
 ' I shall hear all these details from my daughter, 
 my good friend.' 
 
 This remark afforded the man the opportunity of
 
 264 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 avenging himself for the shght put upon him, and 
 he immediately replied : 
 
 ' Shall you ? Why, scarcely so well as from myself, 
 I think. I must say, it seemed odd to me, especially 
 after all that was said in the morning, that Miss 
 Judith should not he present. I asked the servants 
 — I feared she might be ill ; but they said for certain 
 not that, for she was working away at the make- 
 believe theatre, and the garlands, till the last.' 
 
 Maxwell's dark skin grew darker with ire, and 
 then suddenly blanched. 
 
 ' There is some mistake here,' he said, as coolly as 
 he could. ' My daughter is now at the Castle, and 
 was present last night at the ball.' 
 
 His tormentor saw that the proud man's hand 
 shook as he raised his cup to his lips. Maxwell's 
 eye caught his, and read enjoyment of his discom- 
 fort in it. He half rose from his seat, the door 
 opened, and Judith entered. 
 
 ' Grood-day, Mackenzie. Dearest father, I am come 
 to tell you all the news.' She came towards him 
 with one of the brightest looks. 
 
 Her father extended his hands, and held her at a 
 little distance from him, as he fixed his piercing eye 
 on her face : 
 
 ' Judith, were you at the ball last night?' 
 
 Judith paused for an instant ; her quick percep- 
 tion told that Mackenzie had forestalled her, or not 
 in his presence had the interrogation been put. In 
 a clear voice, she answered : 
 
 ' No, father.' 
 
 ' Where were you, then?' asked Maxwell, in a low, 
 concentrated tone.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 265 
 
 ' I was with Morag Alison. Yesterday, her son — 
 her only son — was brought back to her, drowned.' 
 Judith hastily drew away her hands from her father's 
 holdj hid her face in them, and burst into tears. 
 
 ' Good morning, Mackenzie,' said Maxwell. ' You 
 will now know how to account for my daughter's 
 absence when you hear it commented on.' 
 
 The man quitted the room. Judith checked her 
 sobs, she came close to her father's side. 
 
 ' I have vexed you,' she said, softl}^ ' I knew 1 
 should; and the thought of your disappointment 
 came over me, even then.' 
 
 ' Yet you went,' returned Maxwell, gloomily. 
 
 ' Oh ! father, could I do otherwise ? Effie came 
 to me with these tidings of wretchedness. If ever 
 such bereavement fall on you, may God send you a 
 comforter !' 
 
 The girl looked up to heaven with glistening 
 eyes. Even Maxwell's heart, steeled as it was by 
 ambition, could not frame a rebuke. Moreover, he 
 had before this day come to the conclusion that 
 Judith must be herself, and take her own way ; and 
 it happened that, without coercion, she had hitherto 
 gone, and perhaps even in this was going, his way. 
 Therefore, he forgave her, at least for the time. 
 
 ' Well, Judith,' he said, ' I suppose I must not 
 reprove you.' 
 
 ' No, indeed,' replied Judith, recovering herself ; 
 and then she spoke to him, not of poor Morag and 
 her woe, but of the doings at the Castle. 
 
 A smile of something very like derision came 
 occasionally to Maxwell's lips as he listened. Judith 
 was annoyed and perplexed ; but when she told him
 
 266 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 that it was Anne Lindsay in whom she had placed 
 her confidence, and who had stood by her bedside 
 that morning, a smile of approbation took its place. 
 
 Judith quitted her father to go to Morag, accord- 
 ing to her promise. Maxwell saw her depart with 
 satisfaction, for he desired to be alone. After a rapid 
 consideration of what had taken place, he repaired 
 to the Castle, there to tell, without loss of time, 
 Judith's story, with far more effect than Judith 
 would have given it. At least, such was his design, 
 and he did not detect his failure, for Horace Lindsay 
 turned hastily away to conceal the expression of 
 disgust and annoyance on his countenance, saying 
 to his sister, in private : 
 
 ' How unlike Judith's simplicity of action is her 
 father's vainglorious comment !' 
 
 ' Judith,' said Anne. ' Nothing could be more 
 unaffected than her whole proceeding.' 
 
 Maxwell, with all his sensitiveness to ridicule, 
 did not recognise how much he exposed himself to 
 it, in his extreme anxiety to counteract any erro- 
 neous inference which might be drawn from Judith's 
 non-appearance at the ball. 
 
 Poor Judith, when she became aware of her 
 father's proceedings, was silent with dismay and 
 vexation ; indeed, she could not trust herself to 
 speak or to expostulate. 
 
 The mischief was irretrievable. Moreover, she 
 perceived that her father, though he disavowed any 
 displeasure, could not really altogether reconcile 
 himself to her act, and to the freedom she had 
 asserted in it, and was in a humour to resent greatly 
 the slightest contradiction of opinion.
 
 ■llliiliiKS 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 So to the sea we came ; the sea that is 
 A world of waters heaped up on high ; 
 Rolling like mountains in wild wilderness. 
 Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse cry, 
 
 Spensek. 
 
 THE boisterous weather which had visited the 
 coast of Duror with fatal effect, did not imme- 
 diately subside. On a morning brilliant with the 
 fitful effects of light and shade, Beatrice was standing 
 alone on the terrace looking out over the water. 
 Every wave had its glittering crest of snow. 
 Beatrice, very little acquainted with the sea, had 
 never seen it in its present state before, and began 
 to muse on the familiar sayings of its treachery and 
 its fickleness. The wild beauty of the scene she 
 contemplated, wakened all the poetry of her natm'e. 
 A step fell on her ear — a step which ever quickened 
 the pulsation of her heart. Horace was at her side, 
 his countenance glowing with animation, his dark 
 hair swept across his forehead by the breeze. The 
 Highland garb which he had a few days since 
 adopted, he now wore with easy grace. 
 
 'Miss Courtenay,' he said, 'you are enjoying 
 this scene ; but you must not remain here, where 
 you have no idea of its magnificence. Come with 
 me. I came to seek you. I want to lead you by
 
 268 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 a path you have never trodden yet. It will bring 
 us down close to the shore ; the wild waves will rise 
 to our very feet.' He led her on, animated by an 
 earnest desire to secure his object without the 
 intervention of any third person — to stand alone 
 with Beatrice on the spot from whence he returned, 
 and to watch the effect the sublimity of the scene 
 would have on her, with not another eye to read the 
 eloquence of her countenance. But Horace had 
 not foreseen all the results of his proposed experi- 
 ment. Proceeding rapidly by a path somewhat 
 precipitous, but in serene weather not alarming, he 
 was astonished to feel Beatrice's hand tremble on 
 his arm, as the roar of the waves grew louder, and 
 their white spray dashed higher and higher. He 
 turned to her, perceived that her cheek and lips 
 were become colourless, and heard her, in low, 
 panting accents, exclaim : 
 
 ' I cannot, indeed I cannot go further — m}"- head 
 is dizzy, my feet fail me. I shall fall into that 
 whirling abyss !' 
 
 ' Not while I am at your side. Have you no 
 confidence in this arm ? Look away — don't turn 
 your eyes downwards — shut them for a while. 
 1 cannot bear that you should retreat immediately. 
 It is worth a trial to see such a sj)ectacle. Only 
 habit can conquer these sensations ; every moment 
 will weaken them. Do you think I could trifle with 
 your safety ? Lean on me. There — you are grow- 
 ing braver.' 
 
 And, reassured by his voice, by his smile, still 
 clinging almost convulsively to him on one side, 
 clutching with her hand the scanty herbage on the
 
 THE MYRTLE AXD THE HEATHER. 269 
 
 other, Beatrice ventured to look down again on the 
 foaming waters below, here gurgling round a hidden 
 rock in midnight blackness, there tossing high in 
 contortions as if frenzied by resistance they could 
 neither brook nor conquer, 
 
 ' Beautiful ! terribly beautiful !' she said, closing 
 her eyes after a few moments. 
 
 ' And now,' said Horace, with gentle force, ' you 
 must come further. When we turn that point, 
 we shall gain more than you can imagine.' 
 
 ' Ah !' returned Beatrice, plaintively. ' It is just 
 that turn which I dread. You smile ! What a 
 coward you think me! But if I promise to be brave, 
 I shall promise in vain. When I reach that spot, 
 all my courage will disappear.' 
 
 ' Against the perils of the place I undertake to 
 secure you. It is moral, not physical courage I ask 
 of you, Beatrice; and I know you have that Trust 
 to me, and believe that the danger is imaginary. 
 Will you not trust me ? Shall we go forward, or 
 
 back r 
 
 Beatrice trembled, but trusted, and said : ' For- 
 ward.' 
 
 Horace led her on, and round the dreaded turn 
 into a sheltered nook beyond. As he had promised 
 her, the magnificence of the spectacle was increased 
 threefold, and she had regained a sense of secui'ity. 
 They were at the end of a natural terrace, sloping 
 as it proceeded down to the shore. When the sea 
 was calm, and the tide low, all the rocks which were 
 the groundwork of the billowy tumult lay bare; and 
 here and there, even now in their inmost recesses, 
 were basins of water undisturbed.
 
 270 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEU. 
 
 'See,' said Beatrice, after an interval of very 
 acceptable repose. ' See, there is all the toil and 
 tumult of the world which I have yet to battle 
 with ; and here are calm retreats, Heaven reflected 
 on them, where I would fain be.' 
 
 ' They are beautiful in their clear stillness,' replied 
 Horace, ' but without your indication would scarcely 
 catch my attention. This scene awakens in me 
 only the desire to ride the storm. Those glassy 
 pools are but as the aimless childhood we have both 
 passed, Beatrice — ' 
 
 At this moment, a gesture of astonishment on the 
 part of Beatrice arrested Horace's speech, much to 
 his dissatisfaction ; but, following the direction of her 
 eyes, he could not help participating in her sensation. 
 They saw a woman's figure appear on the crest of 
 the rocks above them, rather further down the 
 terrace. She fearlessly began to descend where no 
 track was visible; probably well acquainted with 
 the ground, she proceeded without once pausing, till 
 she reached the sands, and seated herself on a rock, 
 whence she must have at command a wider view 
 than their own. Beatrice had watched her prompt 
 movements breathlessly : 
 
 'It is, I am sure it is Judith Maxwell!' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' Bravely done !' cried Horace. ' A true mountain 
 maid, a true Highland lassie 1' 
 
 Judith was unconscious of their near presence, 
 and sat there with a proud exultation they could 
 descry in her bearing. She started up ; the blast 
 blew back her bonnet, and scattered her black hair 
 on her shoulders. She clasped her hands with an
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 27 f 
 
 expression of horror. The wind brought the tones 
 of her voice towards them, and not of her voice 
 only ; she was speaking with another, and that other 
 must be in distress. Horace and Beatrice hastened 
 forward. She saw and eagerly beckoned them on. 
 WTien they reached her side, for she moved not, she 
 caught Horace's arm, and pointed to a cavern par- 
 tially filled with water ; on a ledge within it was a 
 boy, cowering to its furthest recess. Horace per- 
 ceived with horror that the water was gradually 
 rising ; he called to the boy, and pointed to a spot 
 of greater safety than that to which, half stupified, 
 he clung. The child did not appear to understand 
 him in the least. Judith reiterated the counsel, 
 the wisdom of which she recognised. 
 
 ' He must hear,' she said ; ' the wind bears our 
 voices right mto the cave.' 
 
 ' It is in vain,' cried Beatrice ; ' his sense is gone.' 
 The remembrance of her own terror vividly im- 
 pressed this idea on her mind. 
 
 ' No, no,' returned Judith ; ' only his English 
 memory.' She called to him in Gaelic, and, to her 
 infinite delight, saw him begin to obey. 
 
 ' I know the place,' she continued, hurriedly, to 
 Horace. ' It is only the unusual fury of the waves 
 that fills it. It is possible that he may be safe yet 
 — none may reach him — But see ! Oh ! they will ! 
 See. see, each mounts higher than the last !' 
 
 'Could we obtain ropes before the waves reach 
 his ledge, to save him would be possible — without 
 them, impossible,' said Horace, in a low, steadfast 
 voice ; then added, with impetuosity : ' Fly, Miss 
 Maxwell — fly for aid. I will stay here, and make
 
 27^ THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 the attempt, if necessary, before it arrives : I will 
 not wait too long. Gro — ' 
 
 ' But you do not understand him, — he does not 
 understand you ; that increases the danger to both. 
 Beatrice, go.' 
 
 Horace looked at Beatrice's pale face. He knew 
 the terror she had already evinced. 
 
 ' She is too unused,' he exclaimed, ' to these paths, 
 to tread them securely.' 
 
 Judith turned away with an angry, impatient 
 gesture. Beatrice sprang forward and stopped her. 
 
 ' I am going,' she said, and took some steps on the 
 path by which she had arrived. 
 
 ' Not that way,' cried Judith ; ' it is too long. 
 This will lead you straight to the fisher's hut. 
 There is help.' 
 
 She pointed to her own descent, 
 
 ' Impossible !' exclaimed Horace, catching Bea- 
 trice's arm. ' You shall not attempt it !' 
 
 Judith smiled on them with scorn. 
 
 ' There is neither difficulty nor danger,' she said. 
 
 ' You cannot scale it,' repeated Horace. 
 
 'I must, I will,' returned Beatrice, earnestly. 
 * Do not be rash — think of Anne — I will be speedy.' 
 
 She broke from his grasp ; but he sprang after her, 
 and not without his aid did she mount the first part 
 of the ascent. 
 
 Judith looked after them : ' They love each 
 other !' flashed through her mind. ' Is this a time 
 for me to heed that !' was her next thought, and 
 she turned to Colin. She began to speak to him in 
 the most reassuring accents she could command. 
 
 ' Fear nothing,' she said. ' Help comes. The
 
 THE MYHTLE AXD THE HEATHER. 273 
 
 waves seldom if ever reach the spot on which you 
 stand. I don't believe they ever reached it. Colin, 
 dear little Colin, say a yjrayer. Say, after me, 
 Father, which art in heaven, help thy poor child ! 
 He will help thee, Colin. Think of Jesus, who 
 walked upon the waters to help his servants. Think 
 of thy mother, dear. She is in Heaven. If the 
 waves bear thee from us, she will welcome her boy 
 in her arms.' 
 
 'Mother, mother!' was the boy's answering wail, 
 but it reached not Judith's ears. 
 
 ' Oh ! God ! will no aid come ?' groaned Judith, 
 with uplifted hands and streaming tears ; and she 
 sank on her knees on the sand, and involuntarily hid 
 her face, as a tremendous wave rolled solemnly on- 
 wards to engulph the child in its bosom. 
 
 'Oh! God! will no aid comer' she mui-mured 
 again, exhausted by the exertion of keeping her 
 voice at so high a pitch, and by the agony of sus- 
 pense. 
 
 ' We can wait no longer,' cried Horace, making her 
 for the first time aware that he was again at her side, 
 where he had stood in silence till he deemed the 
 season for action arrived. ' Now,' he said, in a low, 
 earnest tone ; and casting down his plaid, he sprang, 
 before Judith could make any reply, into the water, 
 caught the boy as the wave bore him back on its 
 surface, and began the fight for life and death to 
 regain the shore. 
 
 One piercing shriek broke from Judith's lips at 
 the moment when her task was over, and she could 
 do nothing to help. While afraid of startling the 
 child, she had maintained a marvellous self-com- 
 
 TOL. I. T
 
 274 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 mand; now she was wild with horror and with 
 anguish. Her cry was not the only one which 
 echoed from the rocks ; a loud shout mingled with 
 it from the men who were hurrying down the steep 
 descent, one of them carrying, rather than leading, 
 Beatrice, who was indicating the spot. They gained 
 the shore. The younger fisherman, a robust man of 
 thirty, cast himself, provided with ropes, into the 
 water. Horace had fought with the strength of the 
 approaching billow, and was yet within reach of aid. 
 After a space of time which to Judith and Beatrice 
 seemed immeasurable, they saw him lying on the 
 shore, the pale child at his side : neither could be 
 called sensible, though a languid smile played on 
 Horace's countenance ere he closed the e^^es which, 
 in the remaining moment of consciousness, sought 
 Beatrice. Judith gazed down on them ; then cried : 
 
 ' Bear them to the hut at once !' 
 
 She was obeyed, 
 
 ' Here, dear Beatrice, take my arm. Rely on 
 me ; I can help you.' She stopped short, having 
 looked at Beatrice as she had not done before ; then, 
 turning abruptly away, she said to a tall young 
 Highlander, in Gaelic : ' Here, bring her safely up ; 
 you can be spared. I cannot lead her on without 
 help. I think she will faint. Let her rest on the 
 stone for a minute. Don't be frightened : I will 
 stay with you. A fainting woman is not half so 
 bad as a drowned man.' 
 
 The mountaineer, who had indeed seemed terribly 
 alarmed at Beatrice's ghastly looks, glanced at the 
 cliff, and said :
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 275 
 
 ' It is something to have crossed that twice at the 
 speed she has used.' 
 
 'Ah ! I see the men are taking the longest path,' 
 cried Judith, with vexation. 
 
 ' Nay ; the shortest, burdened as they are,' was 
 the man's reply. 
 
 ' Are you waiting for me ?' said Beatrice, rising 
 suddenly; then drawing back as Judith led her 
 towards the path, she added : 
 
 ' Not that — the cliff — the shortest — his sister — I 
 want to reach the Castle — ' 
 
 ' We shall lose nothing by keeping to this ; — you 
 can't climb — you can scarcely stand ; — there, take 
 his arm, and take mine.' 
 
 And they hurried on. Before they reached the 
 hut, the alarm had been given at the Castle, and 
 those most interested in the event were already col- 
 lected there. Anne w^as on her knees beside her 
 brother. Judith made her way to her — feeling that 
 it was not the first time she had witnessed scenes 
 too similar to the present, and eager to render assist- 
 ance. With the promptitude she had shown on her 
 father's return, she now issued orders which she 
 deemed suitable : Maxwell, who was present, en- 
 forced them, as if* he considered her words alone 
 worthy of attention. 
 
 ' He revives — he breathes !' exclaimed Anne. 
 Judith, convinced that Colin was in a state of far 
 more danger than Horace Lindsay, quitted the 
 latter for the former. Horace opened his eyes, 
 pressed his sister's hand, and feebly said : 
 
 ' Pain — pain made me faint — " then, trying to 
 T 2
 
 1^6 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 rise, he sank back again, as if he felt movement 
 impossible. He put his hand on his hip — ' I must 
 have struck myself ; — that is all — depend on it.' 
 
 ' The surgeon will be here soon — very soon,' said 
 Anne. ' Do not attempt to move till he comes. 
 My uncle rode off for him himself.' 
 
 Judith no sooner saw animation recalled to the 
 child, than she hastened away to his grandmother's 
 cottage, near at hand, who learned of his peril with 
 a vehemence of alarm which Judith could scarcely 
 curb by any assurance of his safety. 
 
 Arnold, on his arrival, pronounced neither of his 
 patients in any danger. ' Perfect quiet,' he said, ' is 
 necessary for both of them ; and Mr. Lindsay must 
 submit to show me some little obedience, or he will 
 have a troublesome fit of lameness.' 
 
 Horace tried to laugh off the warning, in order to 
 reassure Anne and Beatrice, who, locked hand in 
 hand, stood by in silent anxiety. Lady St. Helens' 
 intense alarm appeared to excite his attention less. 
 But he soon found that the attempt to walk was 
 quite impracticable, and consented to be carried to 
 the Castle. 
 
 ' Where is the child ?' he asked, before he departed. 
 
 ' Oh ! Judith has taken care o^him.' 
 
 ' Just what Judith was sure to do,' replied Horace, 
 with a smile of approbation which disarmed the 
 anger with which Maxwell looked around on then 
 first perceiving his daughter's absence. ' Strange 
 girl!' he muttered to himself; 'she seems bent only 
 on manifesting indifference.' 
 
 Horace Lindsay now moved forward, followed by 
 a procession of some length. Arnold, accompanying
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 277 
 
 him, enjoined that he should at once be phiced in 
 his own chamber, and not be visited by any one but 
 Anne until he should have seen him the next day. 
 Then taking his leave, he rode round by Colm's 
 cottage, pretty sui'e that there he should find 
 Judith. 
 
 Beatrice gained the first relief which she had 
 been permitted to experience, in crying profusely on 
 Annunziata's neck, and begged permission not to 
 leave her room, acknowledging that she had sus- 
 tained severe fatigue. Lady St. Helens kissed her, 
 and said the evening would be sadly dull. Annun- 
 ziata cast no very gentle glance alter her, and 
 pronounced it a miracle that her darling child had 
 not broken her neck. 
 
 ' Don't speak of it, dear Annunziata. Don't 
 bring that foaming water — that giddy precipice — 
 before me again. I wish I were like Judith.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' inquired Annunziata, 
 angrily. ' Why should you wish to be like any one 
 else ? Who did half so much as you ?'
 
 ' v/v^ ..^^ ilAf^ tAAt «/cru tAf^ w^crvj 
 
 '•\A/^ '^A/^ '\A^ "Vt^ '•\A^ "^A/^ %a/^ ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 To thee 
 Was given (say rather thou of later birth 
 Wert given to her) a sister .... 
 
 the meek. 
 The self- restraining, and the ever-kind. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 * A NNE,' said Horace, eagerly, ' you know that 
 -lJL you owe my life to Beatrice ?' 
 
 Anne gave a silent gesture of assent, chiefly desi- 
 rous to calm him ; for there was, as night closed in, 
 a feverish glow on his cheek and a bright fire in his 
 eye, and he could no longer be silent and still; 
 but he would not so be calmed. 
 
 ' That life which you prize,' he continued ; ' God 
 knows its real value. I feel as if henceforth it 
 should be of more worth than hitherto. I have all 
 the incitement to good a man can have. And those 
 awful moments ! Oh ! Anne, as I looked down that 
 foaming chasm, I felt I was not ready to die ; but 
 I knew that it was in doing my duty that I braved 
 destruction, and I cried in my heart, ' God ! be 
 merciful to me a pinner !' — and there was given me, 
 even in that gasp of agony, the conviction that He 
 would be merciful in life or in death.' 
 
 ' He has been most merciful in yielding j^ou to me,' 
 said Anne, kissing his brow.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 279 
 
 Horace caught her hand as she bent : 
 
 ' Eemember what I have told you, and henceforth 
 love her more than ever. You must love her as a 
 sister, Anne.' 
 
 Anne made no reply. 
 
 ' Why don't you speak ? You must know — you 
 must have seen — it can't be strange to you. How 
 could it be otherwise ?' 
 
 ' No, no,' said Anne. She half tui-ned away, and 
 Horace's quick ear caught a sigh. He grew pale. 
 He still retained her hand : 
 
 ' I see, you think there is no hope for me, — that 
 I have been vain, presumptuous. I am not worthy 
 of her, I know; but I have contemplated the making 
 myself more so — I thought, with time ; but this 
 morning's events have startled me out of all pur- 
 poses of deliberation, and awakened hopes — Only 
 tell me one thing, Anne — if you may, if you feel 
 at liberty. You know her ; has she a heart to be 
 won? — is it in Italy? I have seen her look sad. 
 I know how she loves that land.' 
 
 Anne looked down on him, and allayed his 
 imaginary apprehensions with a smile. She drew 
 away her hand, and placed it on her brother's 
 mouth : 
 
 ' Now, on but one condition will I utter a word 
 of reply to your question — that you shall not speak 
 again to-night on any subject of interest. Dearest 
 Horace, it is very bad for you, and it is cruel to 
 trifle with your health now, just restored to us from 
 the grave. Her grandfather's hearth, her father's 
 grave — those are the spots where Beatrice's heart 
 lingers : it was free from all other love when we left
 
 28o THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 Florence together. Now, no answer. I consider 
 that I have your promise.' 
 
 Horace, condemned to silence, speculated on the 
 possible extent of Anne's assurance — recalled every 
 tone, every change of expression in Beatrice's face, 
 through this eventful day, and found something so 
 soothing in the employment, that he at length 
 sank into a sleep delightfully refreshing to his 
 wearied frame and spirit. Anne kept watch at 
 his side. 
 
 ' It could not be otherwise !' she repeated his own 
 words. ' Need I wish it otherwise ? — when I love 
 her as a sister for her excellent qualities — when I 
 admire her for her rare adornments of beauty and 
 of genius. Can he expect to look upon her like 
 again ? I think not. Can he be content to forego 
 her if she is to be won ? Impossible. Why, then, 
 should I try to close his heart or my own to her, 
 in obedience to the dictates of the narrowest 
 worldly prudence ? I am sick of the world — very 
 sick. Since sixteen have I lived in it, and at 
 four-and-twenty I have thoroughly sounded its 
 hollowness. I will preach none of its precepts to 
 him.' 
 
 Anne's thoughts wandered away to the saddest 
 (and never-communicated) remembrance of her 
 life: she mused on one too poor, and therefore 
 too proud, to ask her to be his wife — who had gone 
 forth to fight the battle of life alone, and fell with no 
 loving hand to close his eyes in death. Tears softly 
 trickled down Anne's cheek — tears never dried by 
 any human friend. 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' no ;' quickly recalling, as was
 
 THE MYHTLE AND THE HEATHEll. 28 1 
 
 her wont, her thoughts from herself back to others. 
 'I will counsel no sacrifice of the heart's deep 
 affections.' 
 
 She looked on the young face of the sleeper with 
 indescribable tenderness. ' It would be quite incon- 
 sistent with my whole conduct towards him, ever 
 since I have regarded myself as sister, mother, in 
 one. I have never chilled — never thwarted him. 
 I have welcomed his confidence, and striven to 
 the utmost to accomplish his wishes. And why 
 should I combat them now, when they have my 
 approbation P If he is poor — if this inheritance 
 is doomed to be all squandered before the time 
 come when he might look to enjoy it, let him be 
 the maker of his own fortunes. He is equal to the 
 task. His abilities are of a high order. Set a 
 worthy object before him, and he is capable of 
 strenuous exertion. Oh ! what a far happier and 
 more honourable course than the race of fashion 
 which our poor uncle has madh^ run ! And Beatrice 
 is worthy — they deserve each other. God forbid 
 that I should separate them !' 
 
 Morning came. It was often Anne's way to 
 seek her friend's chamber for a few moments before 
 joining the rest of the inmates of the Castle. There 
 was something extremely delightful to them in this 
 brief communion, while yet fresh from their first 
 offering of their being and their heart to their 
 Creator, before they entered that less pure atmo- 
 sphere by which they were consciously encircled, or 
 before their minds were distracted by innumerable 
 petty cares. Calm and cordial were the moments 
 of sisterly intercom'se which they tlias passed toge-
 
 282 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ther, but this morning naturally less calm than 
 usual. Anne would have felt wearied with watch- 
 ing, had not the buoyancy of thankfulness sustained 
 her. Beatrice had never heard her approach with 
 more gladness. She was, in truth, depressed by a 
 sense of loneliness — not of neglect ; she was too 
 humble to exact or expect much attention ; but in 
 all the excitement around her she had taken a trying 
 though not a conspicuous part. She, too, sank 
 when it ceased; she, too, required some one to 
 soothe her hurried spirits, to calm her from the 
 shock, though she had not been tossed on the waves 
 like Horace. It is true that Annunziata had done 
 much for her; but still it was Anne, his sister, 
 whom she needed, and now she came : she was at 
 her side, her arms around her, her kind face beam- 
 ing with happiness, while her eyes were tearful. 
 
 ' I thought him feverish at first, but afterwards 
 he slept sweetly — like a tired child. He opened 
 his eyes, gave me one smile, then slept again ; 
 and in that sleep I have left him. I could not keep 
 him from talking last night ; and, Beatrice, — ' 
 
 Anne drew her nearer, pressed her to her bosom, 
 and the warm tears fell fast and freely : 
 
 ' Do you know what he said — what he could not 
 rest without saying ? It was, that he owed his life 
 to you — that the aid you brought saved it !' 
 
 Beatrice drew a long, deep breath, bent her head 
 down on Anne's neck : she did not shed a tear, but, 
 in a low, measured tone, she said : 
 
 ' You do not know how I toiled to bring it ! 
 Moments seemed hours — I longed to fly, and felt 
 as if I could not even crawl. And then that
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 283 
 
 precipice, which I had watched Judith descend 
 with wonder, deeming it impossible to tread the 
 same path a few minutes before ! — Oh ! Anne, 
 the desperation with which I scaled it, when 
 life — human life — was at stake! Onward, upward 
 I went. I never looked around me or below, and 
 my heart repeated that prayer : ' Give Thy angels 
 charge over me, that I hurt not my foot against a 
 stone !' for I felt that all depended on my doing my 
 mission securely. I was heard. God ' made room 
 enough under me for to go, that my footsteps did 
 not slide.' ' 
 
 ' And when you had to descend again ?' 
 
 ' I had help ; but I had lost all sense of danger 
 then.' 
 
 Anne made no comment ; after a few moments' 
 silence, she started, and exclaimed : 
 
 ' I must go now !' 
 
 One warm kiss told her gratitude and her love. 
 
 Lady St. Helens was rapturous in her encomiums 
 on Horace. ' And you, my dear,' she added, turning 
 to Beatrice, ' how you ever climbed that rock, 
 Heaven only knows.' 
 
 ' Heaven only knows,' replied Beatrice, in a low 
 voice. Her tone and manner, as she reiterated 
 Lady St. Helens' expression, was so simply reveren- 
 tial, that it struck every one, and gave an unex- 
 pectedly solemn turn to their thoughts. Lady 
 Ehoda, who was on the point of saying : ' Every- 
 body can 'trample on impossibilities' if they choose. 
 Does not Miss Maxwell go up and down the same 
 path any day ?' checked herself, looked at Beatrice, 
 perceived that she was very pale, and understood
 
 284 TPIE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 that her exertions had cost something. She was 
 softened, but she carefully abstained from mingling 
 her voice with the general strain. She did not ask 
 for Horace ; she heard all there was to hear without 
 that condescension. In the course of breakfast, she 
 announced that she had deferred her departure till the 
 following day ; it had been fixed for the present. 
 
 ' Better, perhaps,' she said, ' to wait till the hubbub 
 had subsided.' She would not add, that she wished 
 to see Horace out of his room again before she 
 went. 
 
 The party, having said everything that could 
 be thought, felt, invented, or conjectured on the 
 late accident, dispersed — Lady St. Helens to her 
 boudoir, the gentlemen to their shooting, Anne to 
 her brother in anxious expectation of Arnold's 
 opinion of him this morning, and Beatrice was con- 
 strained to remain with Lady Rhoda. Let us just 
 look in at the Heronry. 
 
 Judith had sought the hut of Colin long before 
 her father looked for her to make his breakfast. 
 She was rewarded by finding the child placidly 
 sleeping. On her return, Maxwell's first greeting 
 was : ' I sent up to the Castle. Mr. Lindsay had 
 passed a good night; but Arnold has not called 
 
 yet.' 
 
 Judith's cheeks were glowing ; she attributed this 
 fact to her early walk — her father to his words. 
 After breakfast, she said : 
 
 ' I must go down to Miss Evelyn, and tell her the 
 truth of all this, which will have reached her in 
 some exaggerated form.' 
 
 She set out, as if in haste ; yet after she had left
 
 THE MYRTLE A>'D THE HEATHER. 285 
 
 her home behind her, she took the longest way to 
 the cottage, and paused at every point of it. What 
 was the cause of her seeking solitude ? What was 
 the subject of her musing ? Even that thought 
 which had flashed across her mind when she beheld 
 Horace and Beatrice spring up the crag : ' They 
 love each other !' The longer she meditated, the 
 more entire became her confidence in the revelation 
 of that moment, and the greater her amazement that 
 she had not reached it sooner. But of what import 
 was this conclusion to her, that it should make her 
 step linger, and that, at length, she should sit down 
 on a jutting rock, gazing idly on the waves, and 
 seeming to forget that she had any intention of pro- 
 ceeding further ? 
 
 ' Others will make this discovery ere long,' she 
 said to herself. ' The haughty Countess — Sir Eoderie, 
 with his surface of good-nature — Anne, devoted to 
 her brother, enthusiastic on the subject of her friend, 
 — how will each accept this fact ? And Mr. Lindsay 
 himself, what will be the result of his fancy for this 
 pretty singing-bird, worthy to be kept in a jewelled 
 case, and let out now and then to warble till all 
 listeners are enchanted ? Will such an attachment 
 as this make him what I have thought that he 
 might become — what this fair domain requires that 
 he should be, unless its very fairness is a mockery to 
 the misery to be found on it ? Let them go back 
 to Italy, and bask in its sun — float in a gondola, 
 singing to each other. Why am I so caustic — nay, 
 so unjust ? I know better things of Horace and of 
 Beatrice than these. Am I conceited enough to 
 imagine that, without Judith Maxwell at his right
 
 286 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 
 
 hand, Horace Lindsay can neither devise nor pursue 
 what is wise and good ? He has a noble nature — a 
 truthful heart ; he will break asunder the trammels 
 of the world : in seeking this portionless orphan for 
 his bride, he does so.' But Judith sighed. 
 
 ' Now, I shall insist on knowing, before I rise from 
 this stone, whether that sigh arose solely from a 
 consideration of my father's disappointment, or not ? 
 Disappointed he will be. It were mere falsehood to 
 pretend blindness to the visions he has conjured up 
 — the ambitious schemes he has formed for his 
 homely little daughter — assuming the airs of a 
 princess for her — expecting to see all do homage, 
 often on the verge of making her and himself ridi- 
 culous. Ah ! how I have smarted sometimes ! — 
 
 ' And I — have I been foolish enough to enter 
 the Castle he has built — to look out of the window, 
 and picture Horace sighing beneath it, lute in 
 hand of course ? If I have been dreaming, I 
 dream no longer. Dreaming by daylight is not 
 for me. I shall proceed now to Miss Evelyn. 
 I am not at all sure but that she has indulged in 
 some delusions on this subject.' 
 
 Judith walked on without faltering. First, she 
 had to tell Miss Evelyn distinctly, consecutively, 
 all that had happened ; and she was heard with 
 breathless interest. 
 
 ' Thank God that all are safe — all precious, all 
 noble ones !' was Miss Evelyn's ejaculation. 
 
 * Thank God, indeed !' repeated Judith, earnestly. 
 
 ' And now,' she added, smiling, ' don't you see 
 plainly how this reveals that Horace Lindsay and 
 Beatrice Courtenay — '
 
 THE MYRTLE A:^D THE HEATHER. 287 
 
 ' Ah !' said Miss Evelyn, with a sigh, as Judith 
 made perhaps an involuntary pause ; ' it was sure to 
 end thus — she is so beautiful and loveable. Yet I 
 could wish it otherwise. I doubt if she will ever be 
 so perfectly well suited to the position his wife 
 ought to hold as some women might be. It was 
 very imprudent of his aunt to expose him to this 
 danger. You see, my dear, there was all that period 
 in Switzerland before he ever came here — ' 
 
 ' Almost a fortnight, I believe,' replied Judith, in 
 a careless tone, fully aware that there was passing 
 in Miss Evelyn's mind a thought that, had he 
 seen her first, even Beatrice might not have been a 
 successful rival. She took leave. Miss Evelyn 
 mused over what she had heard, and hoped Judith's 
 composure was unaffected. She could not help 
 feeling a little discomfort herself, and not quite so 
 kindly to Beatrice as usual. Then came back the 
 memory of the girl's gentle, reverent bearing to- 
 wards herself — of her simple relation of the 
 occurrences of the evening of her brilliant triumph, 
 and her ready repetition of her sweetest songs for 
 her satisfaction. She acknowledged that 
 
 * Airs of heaven played round her tongue,' 
 
 and forgave her freely, and Horace almost. 
 
 CVXJCYS
 
 Msmmm^mmimim?M0m& 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Ses caresses font peur. — BoiLEAU. 
 
 ALONE in the room with Beatrice, Lady Rhocla 
 said, in her abrupt, dry manner : 
 
 ' Do you intend to come to see me. Miss Courte- 
 nay, when you reside in London ?' 
 
 Beatrice started, hardly sensible of Lady Rhoda's 
 presence until she addressed her. Moreover, she 
 had never given a thought to the subject on which 
 the question was put. After a moment's reflection, 
 she answered, with a smile : 
 
 ' I could not intend that. Lady Rhoda, until you 
 had invited me.' 
 
 ' I do invite you.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Beatrice, timidly ; and before 
 she could say more. Lady Bhoda proceeded : 
 
 ' And I wish you to come, though I don't ima- 
 gine that you have any great inclination to do so. 
 I may be of use to you at some time, in some way.' 
 
 ' How very kind of you !' — began Beatrice, grate- 
 fully ; but Lady Rhoda checked the effusion : 
 
 * I like you. Miss Courtenay : I have seen enough 
 of you now to decide that point. I wish to serve 
 you. Perhaps, if you did not please me, I might
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 289 
 
 wish that. The fact is, however, that I do like you, 
 and I do not like your position. How much of my 
 frankness can you bear ?' 
 
 ' As much as you please,' replied Beatrice ; but 
 immediately afterwards a shade of uneasiness passed 
 over her face. 
 
 ' Words no sooner spoken than repented of,' said 
 Lady Ehoda. 
 
 ' No,' said Beatrice, ' not so. I feel your kind- 
 ness ; I think I could bear youi' frankness, as far as 
 I only am concerned.' 
 
 ' Why did your face change ? — what a face it is !' 
 
 ' I feared lest you might choose to speak of some 
 who befriend me in terms I should not Hke to hear,' 
 said Beatrice, looking down. 
 
 ' Well, T respect your fear ; I will be as sparing 
 as I can. Anything more ?' 
 
 Beatrice seemed doubting still. 
 
 ' What !' cried Lady Rhoda, with impatience, 
 ' will only Lady St. Helens' sugar-plums do for the 
 child ? They are not wholesome, her flatteries and 
 Anne's caresses ; you need something besides.' 
 
 ' Miss Lindsay is so true!' exclaimed Beatrice, 
 whose colour had heightened at the name of Anne. 
 
 ' She is an honest-hearted girl ; not in all things 
 the best of friends for you. But enough of this. If 
 I were to talk in this strain to Judith Maxwell, it 
 would delight her ; but I have not the least idea of 
 so doing. I should feel that I was merely affording 
 her amusement, and that she was trying to make 
 me out. She is a keen, clever girl ; she can take 
 care of herself : but you — ' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Beatrice, looking up, ' that is rather 
 
 YOL. I. T7
 
 290 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 what I fear. Perhaps you would expect from me 
 more submission than you would find. I know this 
 sounds very presumptuous — conceited — ungrateful 
 even. I can't explain exactly what I mean — I should 
 not like to disappoint you.' 
 
 ' I will explain your meaning for you. It is, that, 
 with all your pretty, gentle waj^s, you would not like 
 to be directed — or, at least, not by me. Well, this 
 is honest, and not altogether discouraging ; though, 
 perhaps, you wish me to consider it so. I have 
 always found that those who solicit advice, and affect 
 to need guidance and invite correction, are those 
 who least avail themselves of either of the three. 
 Moreover, when I have taken a fancy to any one, I 
 am not easily shaken off. I will serve you, not ab- 
 solutely against your consent, but as far as you will 
 allow me. Don't be frightened ; and, above all, be 
 as honest with j^ourself as you have been with me. 
 If my advice prove unpalatable, take care that you 
 do not reject it because you weakly prefer something 
 pleasanter, and fancy the while that you resent my 
 interference only because you wish to maintain a 
 becoming independence.' 
 
 ' I will be on my guard against such a mistake,' 
 said Beatrice ; and she sighed, as if conscious that 
 danger existed. 
 
 ' I don't want to talk any more now. Will you 
 breakfast with me in my room to-morrow, before I 
 start ? I shall see no one else after leave-taking 
 to-night. Anne has plenty to do, and I shall be 
 too early for the others.' 
 
 Beatrice' accepted the invitation, and, as Lady 
 Ehoda began to write, not unwillingly left the room.
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 29 1 
 
 Presently Lady Ehoda looked round, and perceived 
 she was gone. 
 
 ' Not sorry to make her escape,' she thought, and 
 looked down again on her paper ; then suspending 
 her writing after accomplishing two or three lines, 
 she continued : ' She is a nice creature, in sj)ite of 
 them all — worth caring for. To think of my taking 
 to another of the Countess's protegees ! And people 
 call me prejudiced — few have so little higotry as I 
 have. Poor child ! a singular story — none to take 
 care of her hut two old men ; how should they know 
 what to do ?' 
 
 Lady Ehoda wrote on vigorously; an hour at least 
 had elapsed when she closed her desk, locked it with 
 a decided touch, and left the room. 
 
 Now, when Beatrice, on quitting Lady Ehoda, 
 mounted the staircase, she had passed the door of a 
 room which opened on the garden, and had heard 
 the voices of Horace and Anne within. Her own 
 name was pronounced, and Anne, coming forward, 
 had begged her to enter. 
 
 ' You have been a good girl with Lady Ehoda for 
 the last half-hour. Xow come to us. Poor Horace 
 can't move, and we ought to do all we can to amuse 
 him. Only we must not have a scene,' she added, 
 in a low voice : ' don't speak of yesterday — it is too 
 agitating.' 
 
 But when Beatrice entered, Horace was not to 
 be altogether restrained; he extended his hand 
 eagerly, and clasping hers, exclaimed : 
 
 ' It is through you that I am here ! Anne knows 
 it, Anne feels it ; and I — ' 
 
 ' Pray, pray do not let us speak of this — at least, 
 TJ 2
 
 292 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 not now,' replied Beatrice, with emotion ; ' I pro- 
 mised her I would not.' Then, in obedience to 
 Anne's injunctions, as quickly as she could she 
 returned to the safe subject of Lady Rhoda. 
 
 ' I don't dislike being with Lady Ehoda, I assure 
 you. She can be very amusing, and, moreover, very 
 kind. She has asked me to come to see her in 
 London.' 
 
 ' Oh, she is extremely good,' replied Anne ; ' and 
 kind she can be when she takes a liking, I know. 
 But, I can scarcely tell why, I cannot get on with 
 her — cannot shake off constraint. There is a cer- 
 tain tone in her voice, a certain glance in her eye, 
 which render me uncomfortable when I hear or see 
 them. She is fond of making herself feared. She 
 must be content, therefore, to be less loved.' 
 
 ' I think she would like to be loved, too,' said 
 Beatrice. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Evelyn,' continued Anne, ' is quite as 
 clever, quite as clear-sighted; but she does not make 
 me or any one else afraid of her. That I am igno- 
 rant and dull, compared to her cultivation and intel- 
 ligence, I know very well ; but the knowledge only 
 makes me admire and love her the more for being 
 so kind to me.' 
 
 ' I am sure Lady Ehoda likes her,' interrupted 
 Beatrice. 
 
 ' But she cannot be like her,' persisted Anne. 
 
 ' Miss Courtenay,' cried Horace, ' I will take up 
 the defence of your friend Lady Ehoda. I esteem 
 her. She is thoroughly honest ; and very often 
 when she is most rough and hard, it is to conceal a 
 tenderness of which she is ashamed. She has the
 
 THE MYETLE AND THE HEATHEE. 293 
 
 same horror of emotion, of a scene, which most men 
 have. She dreads and disapproves of all excitement 
 which does not immediately lead to action ; perhaps 
 she is right, or very nearly so. Here we have seen 
 her to the greatest possible disadvantage, for she 
 thinks it her duty to be the antagonist at every 
 point of my most effervescent aunt.' 
 
 'It is a curious thing,' said Anne, ' to see her 
 affection bestowed on one of whom that aunt makes 
 an idol. It really does speak much for her candour 
 that she can allow you to possess any charms, and I 
 will love her a little since she loves you.' 
 
 Then followed lighter and pleasanter talk than 
 the caustic Lady Rhoda could give rise to. Anne 
 and Beatrice went to the garden in search of flowers. 
 Flowers led their thoughts to Florence, and many 
 a pleasant memory did they dwell on, when they 
 returned to Horace laden with their spoil. They 
 spoke of Oreste — the good-natured, droll Oreste, 
 and of the pictures he loved so dearly, the offspring 
 of his own fancy. 
 
 * Do you remember his Seasons, his Primavera, 
 his Spring ? Xow sit still, Beatrice ; in a moment 
 I will make you the very picture. Only let me un- 
 fasten your hair, and put these few flowers round 
 your head.' 
 
 As Anne spoke, she let down her friend's luxuriant 
 tresses, which fell around her to the ground, and 
 held over her head a wreath of starry jessamine 
 which she had been twining. It was a pretty 
 picture that which the two girls presented, and 
 Horace lay gazing on it with admiring eyes; 
 Beatrice raised not hers as long as she felt only his
 
 294 THE MYRTLE A?fD THE HEATHER. 
 
 gaze resting on her, and the rich glow of crimson 
 mounted from cheek to brow. Suddenly she looked 
 up, moved by some impulse of which she knew not 
 the spring, and beheld Lady Ehoda standing in the 
 doorway, her keen glance piercing her as it were, 
 a mixture of displeasure and of contemptuous pity 
 on her countenance. 
 
 Lady Rhoda, after a moment's silence, turned to 
 Horace : ' I see you have plenty of entertainment. 
 Yon don't want me; I shall but spoil your pastime.' 
 
 She left them ; all three were silent. There was 
 a flush of something like anger on Horace's brow. 
 
 Anne was the first to speak. 
 
 * Dear me !' she said, ' Lady Ehoda does not 
 understand that we were making a tableau. To her 
 we appear very foolish.' 
 
 She dropped the wreath, which she had held 
 suspended, as if her hands were paralysed by Lady 
 Ehoda's look, on Beatrice's head. But Beatrice 
 laid aside the flowers, and murmured in a timid 
 voice : 
 
 ' I am afraid we did appear very foolish.' 
 
 Gathering up her hair, and coiling it round her 
 head like a rope as fast as she could, she retreated. 
 
 'Poor Beatrice!' said Anne, seating herself on 
 the foot of her brother's couch. ' Lady Rhoda has 
 fairly frightened her. She is rather awful. I could 
 not resist the inclination to show how long and 
 thick her hair is. I never saw any like it.'
 
 mmmmmmm^M^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Lae. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, 
 Hold it a fashion . . . 
 
 Forward, not permanent ; sweet, not lasting : 
 The perfume and suppliance of a minute. 
 
 Oph. No more ! 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 * "PVON'T forget your engagement,' said Lady 
 -^ Rhoda to Beatrice, as she wished her good- 
 night. 
 
 ' I will not,' replied Beatrice ; who if not thus 
 reminded, would certainly not have ventured to 
 remember it. When morning came, and she found 
 herself at Lady Rhoda' s door, she paused for a 
 moment, and then knocked timidly. She was 
 obliged to repeat the knock before she was heard ; 
 then the door was thrown open by Lady Rhoda 
 herself. 
 
 ' Come in, child, though such a knock as that 
 scarcely seems like wishing it. The breakfast is in 
 the inner room. Go to it. I have not quite packed 
 this box.' 
 
 ' May I help you?' cried Beatrice, feeling that to 
 do so would be a great relief.
 
 296 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' No ; if I wanted help, I should send for my 
 maid. Do as I bid you.' 
 
 Beatrice obeyed; Lady Rhoda was soon with her, 
 and asked : ' When do you think you shall come to 
 London ?' 
 
 ' Very soon, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Well, I shall not repeat my invitation.' 
 
 Beatrice looked uncertain whether this speech 
 did not mean that Lady Rhoda retracted it. 
 
 ' Why, if you really welcome it, you will not 
 require a second.' 
 
 ' May I be sure that I shall be really welcome ?' 
 ventured Beatrice. 
 
 ' Certainly, Miss Courtenay,' replied Lady Rhoda, 
 not without displeasure. ' I do not ask unwelcome 
 
 * I was afraid — almost — that yesterday I had 
 done something to displease you in the evening.' 
 
 ' No ; not in the evening — in the day ; and you 
 know that you did — and exactly what and when.' 
 ' Indeed,' cried Beatrice, blushing, ' I do not.' 
 ' Don't be untrue ; modesty does not require that.' 
 ' I do not know why you were so much displeased,' 
 returned Beatrice, with spirit. 
 
 ' Then, my dear, I will tell you. I asked you 
 here for the purpose of speaking to you on this very 
 subject. Don't look as if you must escape through 
 that door: I rather imagine it to be locked. 
 Beatrice, you have no mother, no friend here wise 
 enough and careful enough for you. What your 
 aunt may prove, I can't tell ; but probably you will 
 never put her in possession of half the little events 
 of the past. Now listen to me. Let the worst
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHEE. 297 
 
 come at once ; then it will be over, and we can part 
 as good friends as a dentist and his patient. It 
 is a very injurious thing for you to stay here for 
 Horace Lindsay to make love to you in a manner 
 which means nothing, and never can mean any- 
 thing,' 
 
 Beatrice started with indignation. When she 
 could at all recover herself, she exclaimed : 
 
 ' Oh ! Lady Rhoda, did you bring me here for 
 this ?' 
 
 ' I did,' said Lady Rhoda, more softly, and laying 
 her hand on Beatrice's arm. 'Bear with me a while. 
 I am certain of what I say. He is not in a position 
 to mean anything, be his admiration of you ever so 
 sincere, and it cannot be otherwise. It would be 
 miserable madness for him to think of marrying 
 without money. Idly, expensively as he has been 
 brought up, his uncle will leave him probably little 
 but debts, and his aunt's property is not at her own 
 disposal. He is very handsome, agreeable, and well- 
 born. "What better or easier proof of her partiality 
 can Lady St. Helens give than the providing an 
 heiress for his bride ? Depend upon it, when he has 
 gone a little further — when he begins to think your 
 feelings interested, and expostulations pour thick 
 upon him, — he will take these things into considera- 
 tion, and you will be sacrificed. I know people of 
 fashion much too well to doubt this for a moment. 
 Or even were Horace too young and too much in 
 love to listen to these suofo^estions of reason — were 
 he to become your husband, a very few months, not 
 years, would suffice to convince you both how 
 utterly you had mistaken your happiness.'
 
 298 THE MIRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 Beatrice, while Lady Rhoda spoke, had gradually 
 concealed her face in her hands to hide her burning 
 blushes, her resentful tears. She now raised her 
 head .- 
 
 ' The friends around me are not so utterly false 
 — so selfish — as you would have me believe. I reject 
 the imputation. For Mr. Lindsay, I will only say 
 I have heard nothing from his lips that entitles 
 me to discuss such questions as these. I cannot — 
 I will not.' 
 
 ' Miss Courtenay, my words of warning will 
 abide with you — that is enough. If you wish to 
 make yourself or Horace Lindsay very unhappy, 
 you may try to put them out of mind ; but if you 
 will weigh them fairly and act on them, you will 
 quit this place, and pursue with sincerity and dili- 
 gence the purpose which brought you to England.' 
 
 ' It was in pursuit of it that I came here.' 
 
 ' Lady St. Helens has amused you long enough 
 with fair speeches — made you her plaything long 
 enough. Put her to the proof; and if she disappoints 
 youj come to your own home, and seek me.' 
 
 Beatrice felt as if she could not seek her. She 
 rose, and appeared waiting to hear if Lady Rhoda 
 desired to speak further. 
 
 ' Beatrice, I will not deal with you by half mea- 
 sures ; what I have said does not appear to suffice.' 
 
 ' You are mistaken,' answered Beatrice. ' It is 
 quite enough. You have set before me Mr. Lindsay's 
 loss of friends and of happiness. I do not know 
 that either are at stake, but I will never voluntarily 
 endanger them.' 
 
 ' But, my dear child, I am not certain that he
 
 THE :\IYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 299 
 
 deserves consideration on your part. I cannot prove 
 what 1 sav, yet I will tell you that there have been 
 times when I have doubted whether he is wholly 
 free from some other engagement, which does meet 
 the approbation of his uncle.' 
 
 Beatrice struggled hard for composure ; her hand, 
 which leaned on the sofa, closed tightly. 
 
 ' Intimate as his sister is with me. Lady Rhoda, 
 you may expect me to be able to solve these doubts ; 
 but her intimacy does not extend to the communi- 
 cation of the secrets of her brother, if secrets he 
 has.' 
 
 ' I have no more to say. Out of regard to him, 
 if he be sincere — out of respect to yourself, if he be 
 trifling — I warn you to quit Duror. Forgive me 
 the pain I have caused you. Appreciate my motives. 
 Believe in my affection.' 
 
 This was much for Lady Rhoda to say ; she 
 drew Beatrice towards her to kiss her, and the girl 
 was rather like a statue that cannot repel, than a 
 living being to comply or to resent. Lady Rhoda 
 took no offence at her conduct, and let her depart in 
 silence as she released her from her embrace. 
 
 In the hall she met Annunziata, and shaking her 
 warmly by the hand, she said : 
 
 ' You and your young mistress are to come to see 
 me when you arrive in London, remember.' 
 
 Annunziata assented willingly, for Lady Rhoda 
 was not without a portion of her favour. 
 
 Beatrice hastened to her room ; she threw herself 
 on a seat — she felt like a person who had been 
 struck a severe blow, smarting with the pain and 
 the indiornitv.
 
 300 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 ' What — oh ! what ought I to do ? Never would 
 I have entered her room, had I expected — How 
 indignant would Anne — would he be, did they know ! 
 — but they never can. What did she mean at last \ 
 Can it be — after he left us in Switzerland ? when he 
 came to Sir Roderic ? If he love me, must it be 
 so very destructive of his happiness ? But 1 did 
 not come here to think of these things — there she 
 is right. My father's injunction — my solemn pur- 
 pose — have they abided with me as they ought 
 during these few last agitating days ? I will write 
 to my aunt — I will go. — What letter is that on my 
 table ? Oh ! I remember, the man was sent to the 
 post on Lady E-hoda's account.' She broke the 
 seal mechanically. The first time she read the letter, 
 she did not understand it. ' I cannot comprehend 
 anything this morning,' she cried, with agitation, 
 and let it fall into her lap. She listened for a 
 moment to the tramp of horses. ' That is Lady 
 Rhoda departing; she cannot bestow her advice 
 upon me now. Yet she is honest — but Anne, I 
 have you.' 
 
 Beatrice now read her letter deliberately. It was 
 from the manager of a theatre in Edinburgh, who 
 said that the extraordinary ability displa3^ed by 
 Miss Courtenay in the private theatricals at Duror 
 had been reported to him by a perfectly competent 
 judge, and that he felt encouraged to offer her an 
 engagement for the winter, which, he was assured, 
 would terminate satisfactorily to both parties. 
 The terms he set before her would at once have 
 cancelled the half of her grandfather's debt ; yet 
 that idea at first did not occur to Beatrice. The
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 3OI 
 
 simple conviction that she had nothing whatever to 
 do with the proposal, save to decline it, alone took 
 possession of her mind, and she scarcely noticed the 
 sum specified, and made no comparison between it 
 and the one it was her purpose to acquire. She sat 
 down, and wrote a brief but courteous refusal, assign- 
 ing as her reason for so doing that she did not intend 
 ever to go on the stage ; but after she had written 
 this, it occurred to her that although she could not 
 accede to the first proposition, she yet might form 
 some other professional engagement with a person 
 who met her with so much liberality. She began to 
 reflect on the subject : ' Lady St. Helens — she can 
 advise me, better than any one else can ; I will con- 
 sult her before I reply. This hasty note is useless.' 
 Beatrice read the manager's letter again with 
 rapidly-varying sensations. The greatness of the 
 sum now struck her : her purpose half accomplished, 
 a second engagement might restore her to her 
 grandfather: his beloved image rose before her — 
 she was again the solace of his life, he again her 
 protector and guide ; a home of peace and security 
 open to them; to him tranquiUity — to her pre- 
 servation from indignity, freedom from patronage. 
 The dream was pleasant ; but she shook her head, 
 and murmured : ' Not yet to be !' But now all the 
 impassioned sentiments which had inspired her — 
 borne her along on a tide of eloquence on the night 
 of her acting — swept again over heart and brain. 
 She clasped her hands : 
 
 ' This is my gift !' she exclaimed, ' This is what 
 my nature demands to be — am I to reject it ? am I 
 to crush it inward ? Is its exercise to be denied
 
 30!^ THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 me ? I felt then as if it were part of my existence ; 
 — now it seems all the happiness left me, the sole 
 scope for the spirit within. Oh ! my grandfather ! 
 you could not know the weight of the fetters you 
 hung on me — set me free, or I die !' 
 
 This was one of those paroxysms of emotion to 
 which Beatrice from her childhood had been sub- 
 ject — rarely yielded to, save in solitude, and there- 
 fore by others almost unsuspected. 
 
 A gentle knock was heard at her door ; Beatrice 
 started up — her head swam ! ' Come in,' she said, 
 and Anne entered : 
 
 'Dear Beatrice, it is nearly twelve o'clock. I 
 began to wonder at your absence. Moreover, I 
 chanced to go into Lady Rhoda's room, and I saw 
 that but one had breakfasted.' 
 
 'I did not eat anything, I remember,' said 
 Beatrice, with a languid smile. 
 
 'And now you look ready to faint.' Anne darted 
 from the room to return with a glass of milk and a 
 roll. Beatrice tried to partake of these to reassure 
 her ; but Anne still regarded her with surprise, and 
 sitting beside her, at length took her hand, saying : 
 
 ' This cannot be for Lady Rhoda ! What has 
 troubled you ?' 
 
 ' This, for one thing,' replied Beatrice, putting 
 her letter into her friend's hand. 
 
 Anne read it with lively interest, and raised her 
 eyes with a look of inquiry. 
 
 ' There,' said Beatrice, faintly, ' is the reply I 
 wrote without consideration.' 
 
 Anne read that also, evidently with satisfaction. 
 
 Beatrice, in a constrained voice, continued :
 
 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 3O3 
 
 ' I have never told you that my grandfather 
 forbade me to go on the stage. Nothing led us to 
 the subject.' 
 
 ' No ; but Mr. Howard did. Still, this is gratify- 
 ing — encouraging—' 
 
 ' You think that I have no room for deliberation,' 
 said Beatrice, still maintaining composure. 
 
 ' None,' answered Anne, without hesitation. 
 
 Beatrice's eyes were fixed on her friend's open 
 countenance. ' Who,' she thought, ' dare doubt 
 your rectitude and sincerity ?' She threw herself 
 on Anne's neck, and burst into a passionate flood of 
 tears. Anne, almost alarmed at this suddenness and 
 violence of emotion in one remarkable for habitual 
 self-command, strove to soothe her. At length she 
 sobbed : 
 
 * Dearest Anne, it seems all so easy, so straight- 
 forward to you — you know now how I have been 
 tortured. You cannot understand — you will not 
 feel for me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, I will — only tell me — ' 
 
 ' I can't explain ; but it has been a sore tempta- 
 tion — not only the greatness of the sum, even far 
 more the nature of the offer. I cannot tell you all 
 the feelings awakened in me by that one night — 
 beyond any of the same sort that I had ever 
 known before — not unguessed at, but unrealised 
 till then.' 
 
 ' Ah !' replied Anne, sadly, ' many thought it 
 dangerous for you.' 
 
 ' Dangerous !' repeated Beatrice ; and she longed 
 to ask, ' Was Horace one of these ?' ' Dear Anne,' 
 she continued, after a pause, ' I am safe now : I am
 
 <t 
 
 304 THE MYRTLE AND THE HEATHER. 
 
 right again. Your simple truth has swept away all 
 the delusions which passion was flinging across my 
 sight. You have disenchanted me. Thank you! 
 thank you — ' 
 
 And if her grief had been like a storm, there was 
 already on her face that sweetness and serenity 
 which in sky and earth succeed the tempest. 
 
 ' But I shall not send that letter. My castle 
 has fallen in ruins around me, yet I think I may 
 build a little cottage with the fragments. I am 
 going to consult the Countess whether I cannot, 
 while I decline this offer, make some other terms 
 with the generous author of it.' 
 
 Anne looked as if she had misgivings, but said : 
 
 'I suppose she will advise jo\i best on such a 
 subject as this. She has more knowledge than you 
 or I can pretend to — or Horace — or any one here. 
 But I hope you intend to have an opinion of your 
 own ?' 
 
 ' One always does when one asks advice,' returned 
 Beatrice, with a smile, for victory over self had 
 restored her spirits. 
 
 ' This is not a secret, Beatrice. I may talk of it 
 to my brother.' 
 
 ' Oh, no !' exclaimed Beatrice, recalling with 
 nervous horror Lady Ehoda's conversation, — ' Oh, 
 no — pray do not !' 
 
 Anne could not understand the distress of her 
 tone, but promised silence. 
 
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