don't you answer, Ellen? you surely would not object to see an old acquaintance happily settled, would you? What! still silent? Why, Ellen, are you ill? Speak, child-what! weeping? I do not understand the meaning of these tears: what ails thee, Ellen?" “Oh, mother-dear mother, say no more; I cannot bear it. I wish Frank happy-marriedanything but I could not live, and see him united to another, for I love him better than all the world!" 64 'Say you so, dearest Ellen? then indeed I am too blessed!" exclaimed Clifford, springing from the closet, and clasping the astonished girl in his arms. "Yes!" he continued, "you have taught me a lesson I shall not easily forget. Here is my hand-you have long since robbed me of my heart; but, since I perceive there is a giddy girl's hovering round me in return, I'll catch the truant ere it flies away, and bind for ever with the chains of Hymen. Nay, you may frown, or laugh, or jest-do what you please, I never will resign you. You see, young lady, I have learned your lesson well, and thus I finish my education." "Oh, this is shameful! how could you do so, mother?" murmured the young girl, as she turned her blushing face from the passionate kisses of her lover; then raising her eyes for a moment to his face, with a wild laugh of girlish happiness, she hid her smiles of joy in his bosom. "Dear madam," exclaimed Frank, extending his hand to the old lady, "how can I sufficiently thank you for the bliss you have this night conferred upon me? You have made me the happiest of human beings; and that I may merit your friendship, and deserve the love of this dear girl, will ever be my constant wish and thought. And let me tell you, Nelly," he continued, with a gay laugh, "when you are my wife, I'll cure you of your airs and graces." "You never will, dear Frank, so do not boast; I'm already cured, since I've been crossed." ALICIA S Birmingham. L'INCONSOLABLE. Another married! 'tis too bad- O! what a fate is mine! I little thought this "Belle et bonne" Our moonlight walks were ecstacy, I deemed she loved me "point du tout”. And it is ever thus with me, Rejected o'er and o'er ; I've had to mourn for broken vows, "ON WHOM CAN WE DEPEND?" Paraphrased from a passage in Mr. James's cleve Oh! not on him, who with us quaffs As slime on river-stones may sit. Oh! not on him, whose counsels smooth Not on the priest, who preaches what When we extort from another a secret, which we should be very unwilling to learn, and which, perhaps, but for our own importunity we never should bave known, it in some degree binds up our hands, and prevents us from acting, in consequence of this acknowledgment, with that freedom which we should otherwise bave a right to do, whilst acting under an apparent ignorance of the person's secret wishes. LA VERNEY. BY ELIZABETH YOUATT. There are laughing voices, but thy young tone A few years ago there was a small cottage at Hastings, situated in the most romantic part of that most romantic watering-place, and known by the name of "Helen's Bower;" though who Helen was, or from what it derived its appellation, we could never discover; doubtless there was some legend connected with it well worth hearing. The cottage may be there now for aught we know to the contrary; if not, more's the pity, for it was a very pretty summer residence. Being a detached house, and as we have before said, beautifully situated, the rent during the season was proportionably high, and although Hastings gradually became crowded, somehow no one offered to take possession of "Helen's Bower;" but it was let at last to a French family, at least so far as could be made out from their name and appearance, for no one knew anything else about them. Madame Durant was past the meridian of life, although still retaining traces of extraordinary beauty; and there was something in the sweeping stateliness of her step, and the peculiar intonation of her deep rich voice, which irresistibly enchained the attention. Her daughter was apparently about seventeen or eighteen, slight and singularly graceful, with the merriest laugh and the brightest eyes in the world; she was suffering severely from a sprained ancle, although there were people illnatured enough to say that she only feigned lameness in order to draw attention to the exquisite smallness of her feet. They kept but one servant, and lived very quietly; and the somewhat fantastic style of their dress when they appeared abroad, was excused as the result of foreign habits. Both spoke English, the mother with great correctness, and the daughter with that beautiful accent which is so naïveté and so charming, making a thousand little blunders, which she was always the first to laugh at. the trouble. He was, moreover, believed to be somewhat fastidious in his tastes; certain it is, that he had been heard to declare that he would never wed with any one who was not of high family and rare beauty, money being of no importance, as he had quite enough for both; and doubtless there were plenty of girls so endowed to be met with in the world if he had but taken the trouble to look about him. Many a young heart bounded with pleasure when it became generally known that he had taken up his abode for a time at Hastings, and much surprise and disappointment was felt at not meeting him so frequently as they had anticipated in its promenades; but the baronet had better taste, and leaves and carries with him sweet records of his loved-with a modern poet who, wherever he goes, sojourning Skies cloudless, waters smooth and clear, Green woods and downs, where thought poetic claims And keeps the throne o' the mind! During one of these rambles, Fitzgerald happened to have it in his power to do a slight service to Mademoiselle Durant, who had sprained her weak foot upon the rocks so as to be incapable of walking home without that assistance which he was so ready to afford her. The poor girl was evidently in great pain, but she spoke cheerfully, and apologized for the trouble she was giving him in her pretty broken accent, and with a profusion of smiles and blushes. "I am afraid your foot gives you a great deal of pain, Mademoiselle," said Sir Edward, still lingering by her side, although he had no longer any excuse to prolong his stay. "Oh no, it is nothing-it will soon be better." "May I call to-morrow, and satisfy myself on that point?" asked the baronet with a smile, addressing himself to Madame Durant, though his eyes rested on her daughter. haughtiness, but he fancied that the girl looked The desired permission was given with some pleased at his having made the request, and her prettily uttered thanks rung like music in his ears as he slowly retraced his steps homewards. It was something quite new to the young baronet to find himself treated with the stately indifference manifested towards him by Madame Durant, while her daughter's artless gaiety was equally strange and charming. It chanced, on that particular year, that Sir Edward Fitzgerald, a proud and wealthy baronet, full of prejudices and dying with ennui, took it into his head to come to Hastings, although until then he had always voted a fashionable wateringplace as the greatest bore in life-nor was he far from right. Had Fitzgerald been less rich, or even if he had had an elder brother, he would have been a thousand times happier; but fèted As may be imagined, he failed not to call the and courted as he was, it required all his naturally following morning at the cottage, where he found high and noble qualities to prevent him from Ida, for that was the name of the young girl, degenerating into a coxcomb. Fortunately, how-reclining upon a couch, reading; she was dressed ever, at least for himself, it took another turn, and in a white robe, and wore a rose mingled with her engendered only contempt for his admirers. Sir dark bright curls. There was a striving for effect Edward had reached the age of four-and-twenty without ever falling in love, as it is termed, and simply because all the girls he associated with were so dazzled by his wealth as not to give him *See Calder Campbell's sonnet written at Has tings. in the whole arrangement of the apartment, from the pale and becoming tint cast by the sweeping drapery of the window-curtains, to the scattered books and music which lay in picturesque confusion on the various tables; but Fitzgerald was in no humour to notice it, his whole attention being engrossed by the fair invalid herself, who certainly looked marvellously pretty. "How kind of Monsieur, to come and enquire after me," said the girl, looking at her mother, while she placed her hand in his with innocent confidence. The elder lady bowed, and murmured something about condescension, which was suitably replied to by her visitor, and the conversation soon became both interesting and animated. Both mother and daughter spoke Italian fluently, and were conversant with the best foreign authors—the former especially; and although Ida spoke little, her manners were sprightly and elegant. The stiffness of Madame Durant's deportment imperceptibly wore away, and this time her permission for the young baronet to repeat his visit was given with evident cordiality. Scarcely a day passed after this without seeing Sir Edward at the cottage, and if it did happen that, either through fear of intruding or some pressing engagement, he chanced to absent himself, Ida did not scruple to tell him in her innocent way how much she had missed him. One morning he found Madame Durant reading aloud to her daughter, who, although much better, was still obliged to keep herself very quiet. She laid down the book on his entrance, but upon his entreating her to resume it, did so at once, and he was forcibly struck with the singular correctness of her style and pronunciation, and the felicity with which she brought out the varied beauties of her author. Ida laughed at his undisguised admiration, but her mother appeared embarrassed, and hastily changed the conversation. He never heard her read again. Some time after this, and when Ida's foot was quite strong, Fitzgerald brought them tickets for a ball, which was to be got up for some charitable purpose, and at which all the principal residents at Hastings were expected to be present; but Madame Durant declined them at once, without regarding the disappointed looks of her daughter and the baronet. "Oh, Mamma, I should so like to go," said the girl pleadingly. "But you would not be able to dance, Ida." "No; but I could walk about and see others; besides, it is so unkind to refuse them, when Sir Edward has been at all the trouble of getting them for us." Madame Durant drew her daughter gently aside, but not so far off but what Fitzgerald could not avoid overhearing all that passed. "Silly girl!" said the mother reproachfully, "how can you tell but what among the host of foreigners at present in Hastings, there may not be some who will recognize us?" "Oh! it is not likely, and even if they do, what then?" the baronet, who had turned away that he might not appear to listen. "My dear Mamma, no one will think of meeting us here, and I will promise to dress plainly and sit still all the evening-only let us go. It will be such a treat! you know I have not even seen a dance since Hush!-speak lower-I remember well, and so should you, who are suffering from it even now." "No, indeed my foot is quite well. Come, let me have my own way only this once!" and she threw her arms coaxingly around her mother's waist. "Do you not always ?" replied Madame Durant, kissing her affectionately; "but remember, if you should afterwards have cause to repent this rashness, the fault is all your own." Ida approached Fitzgerald, and laid her hand upon his arm to arouse him from the fit of abstraction into which he had fallen, and starting at her light touch, he looked up and tried to smile away the cloud that had gathered over his brow, and take pleasure in listening to her glad anticipations of delight, and her thanks for his kindness in thinking of them. That day Sir Edward could not rest for musing on the strange mystery which seemed to hang over this interesting family, and trying to persuade himself that it could be no concern of his. The servant at "Helen's Bower" had long since ceased to be at the ceremony of announcing his arrival, and generally contented herself with pushing open the door of the sitting-room and shewing him straight in. This was the case a few days previous to the ball, and the young baronet started at the scene which presented itself. On the different chairs and couches lay scattered dresses composed of the most bright and costly materials, velvet mantles lined with the finest ermine, and caskets glittering with precious stones. Madame Durant rose to receive him in evident embarrassment, while Ida simply observed that she was trying to fancy a dress for the ball out of some of her old ones, as there was no time to get new made. "I tell you they are all much too gay," said her mother quickly, in which opinion Sir Edward perfectly agreed with her, "I will have you go in white." "Well, as you please, but I assure you this amber satin, braided with pearls, was particularly admired the last time I wore it. Did I ever tell you what was said to me that night by the Prince of.” "No, no," interrupted Madame Durant, abruptly gathering up the dresses, and calling upon her daughter to assist her, "I will hear it some other time.” Ida closed the caskets, and having put them away as directed, sat down quietly to her work, while Fitzgerald regarded her in silent wonder and admiration, and, led by the words he had accidentally overheard into an entirely mistaken train of ideas, abandoned himself to the passion he had so long conceived for the young foreigner with an ardour which could not fail to convince her how dear she was to him. That night Ida went to res very happy, even her mother was satisfied and | token or message from Ida; but finding that none proud, but she still feared-she wished that ball had never been thought of. came, he bethought himself that the most likely way to meet with her was by frequenting all fashionable places of resort, for his heart yet clung to the idea of finding her of noble birth. He re prince had said to her with the quiet air of one accustomed to mix in such society, and argued from it the most favourable results. Mademoiselle Durant, in obedience to her mother's commands, appeared on that eventful night attired with the utmost simplicity, and with-membered that she had once spoken of what a out a single ornament, but such a face and form as hers could not possibly be passed over without notice, and a buz of adniiration greeted her entrance into the ball-room, leaning on the arm of Madame Durant, who, dressed in a rich black velvet robe, looked and moved a queen. Although sorely tempted, Ida kept her word, and never danced all the evening; but then she did not feel the privation so very much, for Fitzgerald scarcely quitted her side for a moment. At length she persuaded him to leave her just for one waltz, which he did very reluctantly. When he returned she looked pale and weary, and entreated, almost with tears, to be taken home immediately. "What has happened, my beloved child?" asked her mother anxiously when they were once more alone. Ida replied only by a passionate burst of grief, which seemed doubly strange, coming from one who had hitherto been so joyous and merryhearted. "I know now," she sobbed at length, “why | you have always been so careful to keep all knowledge of the past from Fitzgerald. I heard them say at the ball to-night how proud he was, and that he would never marry one who was not of high family and connexions; is it true, think you?" "He may have said so years ago, my child, but fear not; for I am sure he loves you." "You think he does, and yet if he is really so very proud!" "What man's pride ever resisted the smiles of a beautiful woman? I tell you you are sure of him!" "But he must not be deceived, mamma-he must know all." "He shall; leave everything to time, and trust me it will end well." Ida suffered herself to be soothed, and met Sir Edward the following morning with her usual happy smile. That night there was to be grand doings at the Theatre San Carlo, and thither he accordingly directed his steps, but he found everything in confusion. The lobbies were crowded with ladies carried out fainting, or in strong hysterics, shrieking fearfully; even the men wore a stern and contracted brow, and the few exclamations which escaped them-such as, "So young too!" "So beautiful!" "Poor La Verney!" afforded little clue to the mystery. Fitzgerald passed on unquestioned into the very centre of the Theatre, and mingled with the multitude who were congregated around a young girl, trying to snatch her from the custody of the few soldiers who could be hastily gathered together, several of the better disposed among the crowd assisting them in striving to shield the youthful criminal from the brutal fury of the mob. The girl stood with folded arms, and white cheeks, unmoved in the midst, occasionally glancing around her with a wild and sullen expression of countenance, but without fear. "What has happened?" asked Sir Edward of one of the bystanders. "Ah! have you not heard, Signor? To-night our favourite danseuse, La Verney, was to make her re-appearance after a long absence. She came, such dancing was never seen before in Italy-the people were in raptures-they flung flowers and wreaths upon the stage. They called upon her name with one voice, and as the enchantress came gracefully forward to receive the homage she had won, and bent before them, this fiend in human shape this Bianca-sprang suddenly from amidst the band of dancing girls, and threw over her some hellish liquid that has destroyed her. They say her face is burnt and disfigured past recog nition, and her eyesight quite gone-she that one short hour ago was so beautiful!” Fitzgerald shuddered, and for a moment felt almost inclined to leave the wretched victim to a fate so well deserved. Months passed away, when Madame Durant one morning expressed her intention of starting in a few days for Naples. This, as she anticipated, brought on a declaration from Fitzgerald, which Ida heard with a throbbing heart and burning" brow. He proposed following them abroad, as Madame peremptorily refused to allow him to join their party, and at Naples the young girl promised to explain the mystery which had so long hung over them, and be his if he should still wish it. "If," repeated the lover with reproachful tenderness, while Ida sighed, and then smiled again directly with a smile full of hope. A few weeks after this, "Helen's Bower" was again to let, and the foreigners departed as they had come, unknown and unaccompanied, and yet how much of brief happiness and lasting woe did that visit occasion! The first few days after Sir Edward arrived at Naples were spent in anxiously waiting for some "She was jealous of her," continued the man, jealous of her loveliness-of her fame. Bianca was the first dancer in Italy before La Verney came." He was interrupted by a piercing shriek. ་ They will have her at last," said the man, grinding his teeth with savage fury. "They will tear her limb from limb!" Fitzgerald sprang forward; he called upon others to assist him, and a few did, but many more joined in the wild imprecations of the mob. The girl herself began at length to grow terrified; * This actually occurred at one of the continents theatres some few years back. she lifted up her bare and jewelled arms, which flashed in the lamp-light, and tried to shield her head from the stones and other missiles aimed at it. Her thin crape dress hung about her in tatters, and it was strange to see how ghastly the white roses looked around her whiter face. Struggling and fighting they reached the street, Fitzgerald was close to her-he flung his cloak over her head, and lifted her up in his arms; a few out of compassion, favoured his escape-most of them did not observe it. The crowd rushed on, shrieking with demoniac fury, and when all was silent he emerged from his hiding place, and led the bewildered girl quietly to his lodgings, where he locked her in, and left her while he went forth again to claim the assistance of the magistrates. The streets were now almost entirely deserted, save at the corner of the great square, where a crowd yet lingered, conversing together in subdued voices, and evidently waiting most anxiously for some intelligence. "She lives there!" said a man, laying his hand on Fitzgerald's arm, and pointing to a faint light in one of the windows- La Verney! she was so good and charitable to the poor; they all loved her.' "Poor girl!-and beautiful, you say?" "Oh! yes, Signor, and innocent and merryhearted as a child; it was happiness only to hear her laugh. Last season she fell and sprained her foot, owing to a string being tied maliciously across the stage, most likely by the same girl who has since destroyed her. But hush! they are coming to let us know how she is." The window was flung open, and a tall dark figure appeared on the balcony, while the people held their breaths to listen. "All will soon be over, my friends," said a rich and never-to-be-forgotten voice. "La Verney desires that you will disperse quietly to your homes, and there pray for her; ere morning she will not need even your prayers!" Fitzgerald uttered a wild and thrilling cry, and in another moment had scaled the low balcony and stood looking with fearful intensity into the shrinking eyes of the woman; then, turning away, buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. The chamber in which La Verney lay in her dying agony was almost entirely dark, but Fitzgerald could better have borne to behold, than fancy as he did, that changed and blighted face. Occasionally the sufferer uttered a piercing shriek of agony that could not be controlled, but otherwise her moanings were low and stifled; for she remembered that her mother was watching over her. "Mamma," said the girl, in a feeble voice, come nearer to me how I wish I could see you; it is a terrible thing to be blind, but your features are engraven on my heart. Now listen Sir Edward Fitzgerald must never know whom he has loved-how fearfully she died! Promise me that he shall not-it would only grieve him to no purpose!" Madame Durant-or rather Madame Verney, for that was her real name-laid her hand on the arm of the young baronet, and attempted to draw him away, but he would not stir, and the girl went on. "I do not think Fitzgerald was so very proud, and you say you are sure he loved me. Oh! we might have been very happy had it been heaven's will, but we must not murmur because it is otherwise ordained." "My child! my blessed child!" sobbed the wretched mother, and again all was silent; while the groans of the dying girl grew fainter and fainter, and at length almost entirely ceased. "Mamma," murmured Ida once again, and in a scarcely audible whisper, "do not let them hurt poor Bianca !" The girl never spoke a word more, and after a long pause, during which they sat together in that desolate apartment hardly daring to breathe, Madame Verney approached the bed, and drawing aside the curtains so as to let one small ray of light upon the face of the sufferer, saw that her agony was past. fall It was morning before Fitzgerald returned to his lodgings; the wretched Bianca had fallen asleep on the floor just where he left her, with her brow pressed against the cold stones. She screamed when awakened, and gazed with bewildered terror upon the face of her protector. "Fly!" said he, "your victim is no more--the officers of justice will be here in a few moments-take this purse and begone instantly!" Bianca shuddered, but did not stir. "Away!" shouted Fitzgerald, shaking her fiercely by the arm. "It was La Verney's last wish that you should be spared, otherwise I would have been the first to yield you up to that punishment you have so well merited. Go, I say, while there is yet time!" The young criminal, alarmed at his vehemence, turned instantly and fled with the utmost speed, and as he afterwards heard, managed by changing dresses with some charitable peasant girl to escape from Naples, although it was never known what then became of her. Madame Durant, as we shall still continue to call her, with all a mother's pride, would not suffer any one but herself to gaze upon the changed face of her once beautiful child, and La Verney was carried to the grave amidst tears and lamentations, leaving many hearts to mourn and one to break for her. Madame had been originally a tragic actress, and afterwards gained her livelihood by giving instructions in elocution; but she never after Ida's death had occasion to exert any of her numerous accomplishments; he who had once hoped to call her mother, insisting upon providing for her as such as long as she lived, which was but a few years. Fitzgerald is still a bachelor, a little eccentric, and very grave and melancholy, but with a kind heart and benevolent disposition, which endears him to all around him. Having no relations, his property will descend to the daughter of an old college friend, a merry, bright-eyed little girl, who to please him they have called Ida. The mother thinks it an odd romantic name, and guesses that it belongs to his early love, but she never ventures to tease him on the subject; and her husband, who is a clergyman, leads him gently onward to seek peace for his wounded spirit where alone it is to be found-in heaven! |