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love anything, and had made Marie her confidante, i threw aside his palette, and for a while abandoned long before the object of her love dreamed how far himself to hopeless grief. Commissions might pour he might count on the affection of the accom- in as of old—all in vain now—he had no plished Miss Emily Sydney. Grey was well cale spirit to execute them. Soon he selfishly souglit culated to win hearts, if not to retain them when relief from sorrow in the bachelor society of won; he was so witty, so gentleman-like, so “auld lang syne,” to which he had long been a self-possessed, and had the useful faculty of find stranger, leaving his daughter, in spite of her tearing out and playing upou other people's weak- ful entreaties, night after night alone, to sit idly nesses long before he had manifested bis own, that listening to the wind, or fall asleep over the fire, it would have been evident to any one who spent till the whole of her young life would pass before five minutes in the society of the two, that John her sad retrospect; till Grey, the first-only love, Savile could have no chance with James Grey in would appear to her once more in her dreams, with “ turning up hearts” at the first game in the rub- his bright eyes, and proud dark face, till she would ber of life. What wonder then if the painter's awake with a nervous start to find her cheek wet two daughters fell in love with one man, and he, with tears, and her drunken father reeling into the James Grey ? Sydney had no objection whatever hall. Few can tell the misery of a home like this
, to Grey's penchant (as he thought) for Emily. Yet save they who have seen the beloved eye, that, in there was a great leaven of selfishness in Grey's other and happier years, had never beamed on love (I don't know what else to call it) of Emily; them but with parental affection, now glassy in he was proud of his inamorata, plumed himself the fixed stare of maudlin drunkenness, leering in upon his conquest, and had already begun to spe- hideous merriment, or flashing with a drunkard's culate on the possibility of her becoming his wife, impotent spleen. Imagine all this; imagine a fair, and, when he had risen into eminence, of attract. delicate girl, watching night after night, with eyes ing half the “lions” of society to her soireés. red with long weeping, alone in a lonely house, Still there were moments when, as he sat by the with no sound to answer back her sobs but the side of Marie, while her sister was flirting with moan of the night-wind over the cold beath, or half the room, lie felt that he would willingly the bay of the chained watch-dog at the moon. have resigned his pretensions to the envied hand But there comes a sound under the window, the of Emily for the love of one like her sister-and, dog bays, clanks his chain, and is silent-surely halting between two opinions, he had, even at the ke must have come at last-go to the door, pale very time when he was pressing his suit with Marie, see thy father reeling in, staggering under Emily, half hinted bis affection for Marie to that the fumes of spirits, feel his burniug breath reekreserved young lady herself. Possibly, had she ing from the tavern upon thy pale cheek, till even given him the least encouragement, the recreant thou dost shrink from him, tend him in his belplover would at the eleventh hour, have thrown off his lessness till the morning sun shall shine in on thee allegiance. But Marie, with woman's quick per- watching in sad silence a drunken father's perception, seeing all this, nevertheless had made up turbed sleep—then go to thy chamber, not to her mind as to the course she ought to pursue- nurse angry thoughts, but to pray long and ser. she would never cross Emily's happiness. So she vently for him that he may see the error of his met the fickle Grey's advances with chilling ways, and be as he had been of old, ere the hauteur, shunned him as much as was compatible hand of the All-Wise had been laid so heavily with politeness, and soon succeeded in forcing upon on thee and thine. Such was the life of his vanity a conviction that Marie Sydney would Marie Sydney now, with little variation. The never love James Grey. It was indeed a sore trial only happy hours she ever spent now to the young loving heart—but she went through when John Savile came up to pass a quiet erening it bravely. Moreover, she knew that her mother's with them-for, on such occasions only, would her days were well nigh ended (Mrs. Sydney was in a father sit quietly at home, and seem something decline,) that her father's home would soon be like his former self. For he loved the young broken up, and, having heard from her mother literateur as a younger brother, and she had great that he had once been all that she fondly loped hopes that Savile's influence over Sydney would he never could be again, she dreaded the re-action be exerted so far as to wean him back to his easel consequent on her mother's death doubly on that and his home once more. After a while her hopes score. "Mine be the path of duty !” said she. were in part realised. Sydney did take up his She saw it clearly defined, with tearful eyes, but brush once more, and Savile would now often come brave, loving heart, and she never swerved once out to tea, so that Sydney had less excuse, if he from it, even unto the end. So Emily Sydney had sought it, for leaving home. But my lady became the bride of James Grey; but Marie still readers, if I be so fortunate as to have any such, nursed her sick mother, and was still the angel will say—“What of Savile's love for Marie-don't of the painter's home.
you mean, oh! neglectful reverist, to tell us any more of that?" And the reminder is, I feel, well
timed. To continue. One eveuing he called upon Mrs. Sydney died, and the re-action, as Maric the painter by appointment, but found on knockhad feared, was too much for the painter. He ing at the door, that Sydney had gone out— leaving
a message for Savile to wait till bis return. He dour deserves candour.” She rose slowly from was ushered into the drawing-room, and there sat her chair, walked across the room to him, and, Miss Sydney reading. Now, thought honest John laying her hand on his shoulder, looking trustingly Savile, is the time to speak, or be for ever silent. up in his honest face, said slowly, as though the After much nervous circumlocution, he had at last words pained her, “ John Savile, I will evermore, placked up heart of grace to tell Marie all he felt, after this, love you as a sister. I have wronged whereat that young lady opened her blue eyes your heart-1 have thought lightly of you—now wider than was their wont, and at first seemed I see your truth at last. I would retain the friend divided in her opinion as to the propriety of ring. if I lose the lover, but my heart is another's, and ing the bell or bursting out laughing. But earnest. I can never be your wife.” He laid his great ness, however awkward, will always, in the long sinewy hand upon the fair young head that was run, command attention, and she was soon listening buwed down before him, and, with face as pale as with face suffused with blushes, to his passionate ashes, said very calmly, “ Be it so— love me as a appeal. But as I do not mean to indite a love sister. God bless you, Marie, even for that same. scene, I must, in school-boy phrase, "skip and go You do not lose the lover in wishing to retain
Now Marie had, like most other young simply the friend. Both are combined.” He ladies, certain elevated ideas of her own as to stooped down, brushed a tear from his eyes with what gentlemen ought to be, and I fear poor the back of his hand, ere he imprinted on hier John Savile in face, manners, and other minor upturned brow one long kiss—and with husky matters, fell far below her standard. They voice said—“Good bye, Marie.”
" Good bye, parted that night, she with the idea that wounded John." And so they parted; and as the door vanity was bis only feeling when she declined his closed upon him, Marie sank down into her chair, suit, and he half inclined to believe he had made a and wept tears of pity for him she did so much fool of himself, and half inclined to go back again esteem, yet could not love. And John Savile at the earliest opportunity to settle his doubts by strode home across the heath to his books and a second and similar scene. Well-certainly the papers, with a heavy heart, to work manfully little blind god does twist us men round his finger through the night, with his head down to his desk and make fools of the wisest—from Solomon to till bis candle flickered in its socket, and he went Savile.
to bed worn out with his toil, to dream of love Tine wore away, and his affection for Marie and Marie. had in nowise changed- love is hopeful, even in Marie's constitution, which had long ago been the teeth of despair-so he determined on de- undermined by her unremitting exertions at her ciding the momentous question, if his love could poor mother's bed-side, and latterly by the wretched justly claim hope as an ingredient therein, by a life she had led with poor Sydney since her mother's second appeal to Marie's lieart. They were alone death, now gave way, and it became evident to once more in Sydney's drawing.room, as they liad all who saw her that change of scene was been on that very 21st of June, two years ago, sary. Just when Sydney was talking about rewhen he made his first appeal. He felt that the moving his daughter to the coast of Devonshire, lapse of time was in his favour ; it was at least a a friend, for whom he had imprudently become proof of the sincerity of his early love, and now security, levanted—and although it was but a small he must and would tell Marie the feelings he had sum, £250-he saw no chance of paying it with. pent up within his honest heart for two long years, out assistance, and for this he was too proud to let the result be what it might. He told her in apply to Grey, or to any of his friends. An execuSydney's little drawing-room, as they sat face to tion was put into the house, the furniture-even face in the two arm-chairs, with Alushing brow, how the very bed whereon poor Marie slept—was about bis love for her had been a purifying influence to to be sold, when the required sum was lodged at save him from the many temptations of a young the office of the Sheriff of Middlesex, and his author's life-how he had mourned in secret over myrmidons left Sydney's house. Sydney's benebis own unworthiness and shortcomings, till he factor, who had done him this kindnessanonymously, could bear it no longer, and had come there to tell was no other than John Savile, who had managed her all. But still sat Marie with downcast eyes to save this sum out of the price of his literary in silence, making no answer to his wild appeal. labours, and had now well nigh beggared himself He told her in words of deep humility, that seemed to save his friend. So Sydney painted another $0 strange when falling from the lips of that great, picture, and with the price thereof took his sick harsh-featured John Savile, that he did not wish daughter down to L- Devonshire. It will ber to mistake him for anything else than he was perhaps be asked, "where were Grey and his wife -that he bad many grievous faults—but, if she all this time ?” That astute barrister, who had would but suggest amendment, he would cast them now risen into fame by his great talent, unaided from him ; and Marie believed all now. Still she by aught else, and his worldly wife of late seldom answered not a word. He could not bear silence came to Hampstead. Neglected by her husband, longer. “Marie,” said he, bluntly, at last, "I to whom ambition was everything, Emily Grey had know I am ill-fitted by nature to play carpet. determined to be happy after her own heart's knight I don't wish to be one even uow-can- | desire, and to that end filled her husbaud's house
nightly with the “ lions” of the fashionable world, her eternal rest, and the stalwart man behind the till his purse-strings were stretched beyond bear- dying girl's chair would often turn his face aside ing, and till enforced retrenchment, followed by to conceal the tears which would fill his eyes when the exhibition of much ill temper, ended in mutual he thought it could be now but a little time ere coldness and dislike. So their marriage was pro- she must slumber beneath the daisies in L-ductive of nought save discomfort. Grey, having churchyard. Nevertheless, there were times when become an M.P., sold himself to the Government, these two men, father and lover, as they sat in gained greatly thereby, spent his nights in the Sydney's garden, brooding over the thought of House, was on the high road to preferment, and their dear one's departure as a grief too heavy to yet an unhappy man; his wife, all smiles to her be borne, could hardly bring themselves to realise guests, all frowns to him ; each the other's bane- its possibility; for that mysterious malady, which as they might long ago jnstly have expected. Sa bears away so many of earth's best and fairest to an vile was in the habit of taking a walking-tour early grave, is oftentimes so deceptive in its raevery year, and, as he knew the Sydneys were vages that it is hard to believe, wbcn the bectic of sojourning at L
determined on starting on a moment flushes beauty's wasted cheek, and the a tour through Devonshire, the sole object of which eye is beaming with almost unearthly brightnese, trip was once more to see Marie.
that all these things are but as the last fick. The little village of L---, in Devonshire, ering flashes of a lamp ere it is quenched for ever. slopes greenly to the sea, and there, in a pretty
a delightful summer evening when little villa facing the beach dwelt the painter and Sydney, sketch-book in hand, strolled out from his daughter. She was dying ; he knew it well, and 1- with Savile to the next village. Their conbad once more applied himself vigorously to his versation, which had been more cheerful than painting, without which she must bave been de usual on starting, assumed a more serious tone as, prived of many comforts essential to a sufferer casting themselves upon the grass, they watched like her; yet she felt far happier now, in the midst the sun dipping redly beneath the ocean and of her sufferings, than she had been for a long talked of Marie. time; she hailed with joy the blessed change that "I fear you will think me but a Job's comforter, had taken place in her father since her illness, and when I say I do not think poor dear Marie will thanked God that in His mercy, bringing good out see another sunset," said Sydney, sadly; “I of evil, He had been pleased by her illness to turn remember the day her poor mother died, I say John Sydney's heart. One balmy summer day, the same bright flush on her cheek that Marie's when poor Sydney had wheeled his dying daughter wore when we left home this evening. I left her, in her Bath chair to the beach, they saw a pedes- my wife, that morning, and on my return to trian striding vigorously along, in full tourist cos
Hampstead she was dead. I really begin to feel tume, towards I-a Sydney hailed him with wretchedly nervous, let us return." a shout of welcome. It was Savile.
The sun had nearly disappeared from the horizon, proached, and, as his eye fell on Marie, bis cheek the night-beetle began, droning as he flew, to grew pale, and the words of greeting stuck in his skim the unruffled surface of the farm-yard pool, throat.
where the bats were chasing the moths under Having to fulfil some literary engagement the willow boughs; the village wives were standing within a fortnight, he took up his abode at the at their cottage doors, awaiting their husbands' village inn, near to Sydney, and never missed cal- return from toil; the boys were playing cricket on ling on him two or three times a day. Glad, the village green, their merry laugh rang pleasantly indeed, were father and daughter that he bad come through the balmy twilight, and the good old down-Marie had told her father, now that she rector, leaning on the rectory gate, was laughing felt herself dying, the story of Savile's love. She louder than them all, as Sydney and Savile passed on felt that, when she was gone, it would knit the to L—. They found Marie much worse; indeed, two men's hearts more closely together for her the nurse had not expected she would have been sake, and ever, since that confession of hers, Syd- alive by the time her father and Savile reached ney had loved him as a son.
a touching L sight to see the three on fine summer mornings, Sydney went up to his daughter's room, and on when the wind was mild, sitting under a tree some coming down with a tear on his cheek an hour half-mile from L--; Sydney with his sketch. afterwards, told Savile that she wished to see him book in his band, drawing outlines for one of alone for the last time. Savile crept lightly those sweet pictures of his, which I never see upstairs, entered the room, bent down to kiss the now without a sigh, and Savile leaning on the dying girl
, and then sank upon his knees by her back of Marie's Bath chair, arranging her shawls, bedside, with his face buried in his hands, groanor anticipating her slightest wish, with almost ing in great bitterness of soul. But this weakness womanly tenderness, enhanced by its coming from was of brief duration. Brought to himself by her one usually so rough of hand and blunt of speech gentle voice, he started up, as she said in low as he whom Maric in early days, at a quadrille, tones, so weakly that he could with difficulty had nicknamed the “dancing bear.” But this understand her, – could not last long-she was fast entering upon “John, you have come to see me die : listen to
me, ere my voice is for ever silent in the grave. To bow thy fair young head to grief beneath care's heavy Forgive me if I have embittered your life ; forgive Now it hath fallen from thee, love, before the throne of God.
, me if, in times past, I have mocked your sorrow
I oft have wept - I weep not now---for Faith forbids a tear, by an affectation of indifference, and believe now
Though all earth held of bright and fair to me lies buried that, dying, Marie Sydney does full justice to your faithful heart at last. When I am gone, think some. I'll still my wild heart's murmurs with the thought that thou times of me, as of one not dead, but
art blest, before
gone ---let my memory carry no bitterness with it, Enough for me to know thou'rt free and leave to God the bury not all love in my grave; seek another more worthy of your love than I have been, and may
The fragile form I loved so well sleeps in a lowly bed, God watch over you and her till we meet again in the cold clay's all the pillow there for Marie's clay-cold heaven. Juhn, remember in early days you once asked me for a lock of my hair; I denied that The voice is mute whose music long hath haunted me in
sleep, request, let me grant it now; there is a locket in
And cheers my midnight labours oft while lonely watch I that drawer, there are the scissors too, cut a lock
keep; from these poor throbbing temples, and when I am Wheu Hope and Faith together fail, it nerves me to the dead, sometimes think of the giver who, if she strise; had known in other days as she knows your virtues Oh! Marie, here thy memory should preach a 'Psalm of
Life,' now, might have loved you dearer than a sistermight have been to you, even now, a loving little To guide me and to cheer me, and, blessed, my soul to vise."
To win me from my barren grief and bitter worldliness ; Sydney came upstairs, and Marie taking his To tell me, 'midst life's daily tasks, that, till earth's trials hand in hers, bade Savile grasp it too, and then
The path of willing duty here alone can lead to peace. looking up to heaven she prayed that these two
My first, last love, thy girlhood's life with lessons deep was men might comfort each other when she was gone fraught; -that John Savile would love her father for her I've been a lowly learner-if one lesson I have taught dead sake.
To other hearts by limnings fair of woman's guileless truth, "I will,” said Savile fervently.
And single-hearted tenderness from Marie nuto Ruth; A light played over Marie's pale face; her lips If I have won a single sigh from worldly-minded men,
Thine was the inspiration—thy memory blessed my pen. moved in prayer once more ere she seemed to fall asleep, then the two men bent down over her, and kissed ber once again, and so she passed away.
The sun has sunk down in the west-the sea-bird left the Their very hopes belied their fears,
The mists are creeping o'er the fields, ils sorrow creeps o'er Their fears their hopes belied,
me; They thought her dying when she slept,
But yonder riscth through the mists of eve a twinkling star, And sleeping when she died.
And 'tis enough for grief to think that there the angels are;
That thou with thy fair sisterhood--that white-robed angelAnd Sydney and John Savile went back after
band, the funeral to Hampstead, where they live together That thou wilt meet me face to face — know me as thou art
Art singing hymns eternal while at this grave I stand; now, and both go down to Devonshire every known, summer to spend a month at L-~, where Sydney And greet me with thy gentle voice before our Father's often, with poor John Savile at his side, sits upon throne; his lost daughter's grassy grave, and prays re
When Grief shall cease to wander with Memory through the
past, morsefully that God will pardon him for having when Faith shall calmly sink to sleep o'er perfect bliss at ever wounded the gentle heart that now moulders beneath the daisies there. One evening, after When Reason in humility shall own, what is, is best, Savile had returned from a solitary visit to her
When the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at
rest, grave, her father found the following lines on the young author's table among his other MSS. :" I stood apon thy daisied grave beneath a twilight sky, When the winds were wandering o'er the graves to sing a
And Grey is achieving his ambition's height lullaby ;
slowly and securely, but is not a happy man When ebbed the tide from yonder cliff with weary life-like withal; and Emily is now passée and shrewish, moan,
without a vestige of her former beauty. And I stood and weaved sad fancies in the grave-yard still and Savile still writes on; and his books, under ano
lone. I mourned thee long in bitterness—for life was very dark,
ther name, are read throughout the length and Since thou didst soar to heaven, sweet dove of Sorrow's ark, breadth of the land; but sadness is now the key. Add Sorrow oft would murmur, like the sea that will not
note of his life. His books often win men's hearts rest,
to sadness by his pictures of other blue eyed That thou hadst gone to lay thy cares upon thy Saviour's maidens--other gentle Maries, who almost always
breast. But now I'm masing o'er this grave, and would not call
die young, as she died, whose memory has inspired thee back,
so much that is beautiful in his writings. And To bruise again thy tender feet upon earth's rugged track, Sydney paints still ; but he has lost his “child.
angel,” his blue-eyed model, and his pictures are old man, that he is soon going a last long jonrney, not what they used to be; and the painter, when, at whose end he sondly hopes once more to greet in spite of Savile's tenderness, he feels lonely in his long-lost daughter Marie, who upon earth had the world, thanks God that he is fast growing an been the angel of ber father's home.
“Thou hast already served me faithfully; I require thy services again, thy zeal and discretion
shall not go unrewarded, but if thou shouldst The following day, Paco Rosales was at bis usual play me false, I am as quick to punish as to place at the little door of the church of Notre requite ; thou knowest now what
my conditions Dame de las Desemparados, conversing with his are-speak, art thou ready to undertake what I ,
friend Tovalito upon the events of the preceding
shall require of thee ?" night. “What has become of them?” said he ;
“Yes, signor ; I am but a poor man, but I "I would willingly give all this day's alms to
never yet betrayed a trust. I am ready to do know."
your bidding." “He has carried her off either by persuasion or
“Which is this ; find me out a priest who will force, God only knows to what place !"
undertake to perform the ceremony of a private “To his own, perhaps," replied Tovalito.
marriage without troubling himself about the “ He would hardly have dared to do that. He usual formalities of the church, or his archbishoz. must have known that he would be pursued." Thou who dost so continually frequent the places " What else wouldst thou have him do with
of public worship must know of some such mau her ? Trust me, he is not a man to consider the amongst the priesthood of Valencia ? He shall consequences. When he has satisfied this caprice,
be well paid for his trouble.” it will be all over with her; he is quite capable of Paco Rosales listened to this abrupt and strange sending her back to ber friends."
proposal in silent astonishment. “Why wouldst thou not say that thou knew- “ Well! why dost thou hesitate ?" asked Don est who he was ?” said Paco, reproachfully. Alonzo. “ Friend Paco, it is easy to see that thou hast
"A private marriage," slowly repeated Paco ; never frequented the society of the great. His “but it will be good and valid ?" dignity the Canon don Ignacio de Vasconcellos is “Certainly; dost thou know of any priest who gone to the corregidor's, all the alguazils of the
would marry a couple whose union must remain a Saint Hermandad are now on the alert in search secret?” of Donna Theresa ; but if they knew the name “I know a Dominican father who might be and rank of the seducer, no farther notice would induced to perform this marriage ; but I must go be taken of her abduction. If he be found, it will and seek bim at his convent." be time enough for me to declare it. Don Guz
“This niglıt, this same night, it must be done man, no doubt, goes by another name here”- before twelve o'clock. Time presses, I must leave
“Silence, silence !” interrupted Paco; " here Valencia to-morrow,” interrupted the Cavalier. he comes; it is certainly be."
To-night !" repeated Paco. “It is a long In fact it was Don Alonzo, who cautiously ap- way to Father Cyrillo's.” proached the mendicants. Although it “ There is no help for it, my friend ! Wilt thou already dusk, he concealed the lower part of his go for him or not p” answered Don Alonzo im. face with his cloak, and his large hat, which was patiently. ornamented by a long black feather, fell over his “There is nothing to prevent me, Signor, but eyes.
in whose name shall I speak to the reverend “It was thus he dressed last night," said Paco father" Rosales ; “ he is coming towards us, withdraw" Mine,” replied the Cavalier, showing him a thyself, Tovalito."
paper which he had held concealed in his band; “Oh! never fear. He won't recognise me “thou wilt give him this, and on thy return meet now, take my word for it," replied Tovalito, me near the garden of the Archiepiscopal palace. walking to a little distance.
Do not come alone, bring some one else with thee, Don Alonzo baving advanced with caution, one in whom thou canst trast. Soine poor mau looked round to see that no one else was near, like thyself.” and having thus satisfied himself that they were alone, he beckoned to Paco Rosales to approach. Alonzo took his departure ; but not alone, for he The mendicant obeyed, and the cavalier thus ad- was closely followed through all the gloomy and dressed him.
intricate streets that intersected the vicinity of
ere Immediately after this conversation, Don