The brigand captive, or, Gipsy queen
page: 0Illustration[View Page 0Illustration] page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] ALDEN'S RAILROAD AND HOME LIBRARY. THE BRIGAND CAPTIVE; OR, Gipsy Queen. BY HUGH DE NORMAND, AUTHOR OF "TWO ERAS OF FRANCE," "TRUE STORIES FROM HSTORY," ETC., ETC. AUBURN: ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO. NEW YORK: J. C. DERBY, 119 NASSAU STREET. 1855. page: 0[View Page 0] ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by ALONZO G. BEARDSLEY, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Northern District of New York. THOMAS B. SMITH, STEREOTYPER AND ELECTROTYPER, 216 William Street, N. Y. Preface. THE following story has been reproduced from a French romance, but in such way, and with such free handling of the original story, in the structure of the plot, and in the sentiment, as to leave in the copy but slight resemblance to the model. Whether the reader of these pages will gain or lose by the freedom which has been used, it is not for me to say. The labor it has cost has not been without reward in the gratification which near contact and association with a character so pure, so simple, and so religious as JULIENNE'S, have brought to me in hours when I felt the need of some relaxation from severer duties. I would trust that the reader will find a similar gratification in the perusal of what has been written. H. DE N. May, 1854, page: 0 (Table of Contents) [View Page 0 (Table of Contents) ] Contents. CHAPTER I. PAGE. CHILDHOOD-YOUTH-TRIALS .................... 9 CHAPTER II. THE ARRIVAL -THE CHATEAU- THE PARSONAGE AND THE TWO YOUNG FRIENDS .................... 29 CHAPTER III. THE BIRTH-DAY FETE -DEPARTURE TO A MILDER CLIMATE- ALLEVIATION OF SUFFERING -TROUBLED HAPPINESS- FORESHADOWINGS OF EVIL .................... 53 CHAPTER IV. THE DEPARTURE -THE VALLEY OF SAN LORENZO- THE CAVERN .................... 77 CHAPTER V. GOOD IN EVIL -HISTORY OF A GIPSY- JOACHMO'S OATH .... 108 CHAPTER VI. THE ATTACK UPON THE VILLAGE -JOACHMO AND PEPITA- THE MISER -ABRUZIO, THE BRIGAND -CONSULTATION- THE EMBARKATION AND PASSAGE -CUNNING MAB AND HER DEAD CHILDREN .................... 134 CHAPTER VII. THE INSPIRED DAUGHTER -THE FOREST OF GLENMORE- ELECTION OF THE GIPSY CHEF -THE SONG OF THE BOHEMANS -ADONAI AND JANIE .................... 164 page: viii (Table of Contents) -9[View Page viii (Table of Contents) -9] CONTENTS. CHAPTER VIII. THE MESSENGER -RANSOM AND DELIVERANCE- THE PATERNAL HOME -PREDICTION .................... 183 CHAPTER IX. THE DAY CLOSES -LAST WISHES .................... 212 CHAPTER X. THE DEPARTURE -NAYA AND JANIE .................... 232 CHAPTER XI. COMMUTATION OF THE SENTENCE -JULIENNE RETURNS TO FRANCE- THE JOY OF THE HAMLET .................... 253 CHAPTER XII. THE COTTAGE ON THE COAST -SHIPWRECK- RESCUE FROM THE WAVES, .................... 272 CHAPTER XIII. THE FISHERMAN'S SON -TROUBLED MUSINGS- THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE -WILLIE STEDMAN .................... 291 CHAPTER XIV. JULIENNE GOES TO LONDON -WALBURY CASTLE- THE SCHOOLS -SIR THOMAS SYDENHAM -UNFORESEEN OBSTACLES .................... 311 CHAPTER XV. EDWARD TO JULIENNE -HIS HSTORY, AND HIS FATHER'S NARRATIVE -THE END .................... 332 CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD -YOUTH- TRIALS. JULIENNE was a peasant's daughter. The house in which she was born was an humble cottage, poor in appearance, and covered with thatch; and the garden in which her first footprints were impressed, was only a narrow enclosure between the highway and the willows which bordered the river and the meadow. The first monument on which her eye had rested was the village church, whose gothic tower, venerable with time and with signals of decay, lifted itself up among the aged trees which surrounded it. Her prayers to the good God, which she had been taught at home, by her humble and pious parents, she had said there. All her associations were page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] rude and humble. The conversation she had listened to was between countrymen, whose occupations were limited to seed-sowing and harvesting. The companions of her young years were the children of the neighboring hamlet. While she enjoyed, with ingenuous freedom and the impulse of happy youth, the merry sports of her companions, she listened also, in maturer years, with interest to the old friends of her father, who came at evening, when the cares of the day were over, to talk of their flocks and their fields. In all that surrounded the early years of Julienne, there was nothing to indicate any change or elevation in her future position. And yet, this simple girl, who seemed born to live, grow old, and die, in her native place, gradually attained a station of influence and usefulness much beyond her aspirations or her dreams. She who in her childhood heard no other conversations than those of the simple husbandmen of her native province, in after years listened to that of ministers and kings. Raised from so low a position to one so high, it might be supposed that she had among her friends some who could command influence and control what we call fortune. But it was not so. Worldly protection descends not to the lowly. Make yourself a name, and the world will repeat it. The great ones of the world seldom grasp with cordial interest and affection the hard hand of toil and poverty, and elevate it towards themselves. One of the first occupations of Julienne, or Liennette, as she was called among her companions, was to tend the flocks of her father. She was entrusted with this charge before she had attained her tenth year. Before quitting the farmhouse, her mother furnished her with a small basket of fruit and bread, her daily provision. Her head, covered with beautiful flowing ringlets of soft auburn hair, was protected, in the summer season, by a large straw hat, such as the peasants wore; and in winter, when the freezing north wind was abroad, the mother wrapped her cherished child in a mantle of wool, and gave her an page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] earthen vessel, containing a portion of charcoal, by whose glow she might warm her hands and feet. Cheerful and happy the little Liennette went forth gaily to her charge, waiting always, however, for the tender embrace of her mother, and her parting words, -"Go, darling, guard the flocks well, and God will guard thee." That the mind may open for the ingress of wisdom, and that the imagination may be elevated and refined, it is not always and only necessary that the lessons of the schools should be taught. He who made man knows that in the long succession of ages, among the children of our common humanity, there will be a countless multitude born, not upon the lap of fortune, and in the way leading up to the temple of knowledge, but in the humble and narrow households of poverty, where there is neither time nor facilities for intellectual culture. The little Julienne exhibited in her countenance, even in childhood, indications of an active and inquiring mind. Already -while playing the part of the rustic shepherdess upon her native hills -she gave promise of the rich harvest of future goodness and intelligence. There were avenues of instruction open to her in the familiar aspects of nature, and in her observations and calm reflections upon what was passing around her in her limited sphere. There are many who see and observe so little, that the day is born and dies without furnishing anything for their observation or study. They know that the sun rises and sets, but they are neither moved at the morning glories of the luminary of day, neither at the majestic pomp of his setting, -the glorious pavilion of clouds in which he makes his couch. Although he mounts the heavens "as a giant to run his course," and bends and declines towards the west, draped with purple and gold, yet these unreflecting, unpoetic minds are so engrossed with their business or their pleasures, that it would be absurd to talk to them of the grandeur and power thus manifested in the heavens, and of the beautiful effect of light and page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] shade, playing over the fields, the meadows, the forests, and the waters. To them the twelve hours of the day are alike in interest and beauty, and they allow them to pass unobserved, leaving such thoughts to painters, romancers, and all other dreamers. Poor, stupid beings! they regard with pity all those who are not like them, occupied with material things. They study and love nature only as it yields them revenue. They look upon the majestic oak only to measure it with the eye, in order to calculate what will be its value in its returns of money, when the axe of the woodman shall have brought to the earth this monarch of the grand old forest. In the meadow, enameled with flowers, over which the breeze of spring-time passes caressingly, they think only of the food it will produce for their cattle. Show not the beauty of the country to their stupid and vacant minds! Talk to them of the value of the lands, and the gain that can be gathered from their surface, then they will listen! It was not thus that Julienne understood nature. The love that this young soul felt for God, made her, though only a child, study and love the works of the Creator. She knew the name of the flower which opens itself to the first rays of morning, and which the people of the country have named belle-du-jour.* She had remarked that this flower never opens itself to the mid-day sun. She knew that the bind-weed of the hedges shuts its cup under the great heat of the sun, and opens it only to receive the dews of the night. She knew the herb that the sheep love best, and that which is best fitted for the lambs of the flock when separated from their mothers. It was from the trunk of the old oak that she gathered the gray moss which stanched the blood of the fresh wound. And then this child, who could have no sorrow of heart, or cause for disquiet, fell, notwithstanding, into long reveries, when the bell of the church sounded the Angelus of the evening. There was something extraordinary in Julienne, which the inhabitants of the hamlet, and even her own family, could not *The morning-glory. page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] comprehend. They looked upon this young girl as they would upon the flowers of the field, -herself a beautiful flower,- or upon those which grew by the way-side, and without any deeper regard. As the lily of the valley, which has received into its white cup pearls of dew, and which keeps them there, because the wind and the storm cannot reach down to the deep seclusion, so Liennette kept in her young heart the love of God, which her mother had infused there, by divine grace. And during the long hours that she passed in the fields, her greatest pleasure consisted in contemplating the heaven so beautifully blue, the forests clad in greenness, and the waters of the clear river, and in singing her grateful hymns of praise. One day, in the month of May, she was seated near a hedge of hawthorne, white with its fresh flowers, and gladdened by the sun, which shed its golden light over all created things. The young girl sang as sweetly and as joyously as the birds which build their nests in the perfumed hedge. At that moment, Hardouin, the good and venerable pastor of the village, passed along in the path below where she was seated. Fatigued by his walk, he paused to rest himself on some rustic steps beneath the shade. Julienne was holding in her hand a wreath of flowers, and with her eyes raised towards the clear heavens, she was mingling her voice with the songs of the birds, joyously carolling around her. After regarding her for a moment, the pastor called to her. The familiar voice of the old man drew her towards him. "My child," said he, passing his fingers through her fair ringlets, "you sing well always, and your hymn to-day is very beautiful." "Yes, sir, it is one of the hymns which my mother taught me." "You do right to remember what your parents have taught you. But tell me, do you not tire of being thus always alone?" "I am never lonely, but sometimes I am afraid. Yesterday, for example, when the sudden storm came down, the thunder rolled in a frightful manner, and the red lightning appeared like serpents of fire page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] hissing through the black heavens, I dared not shelter myself under the old oak which you see below, for my father says there is greater danger there, and has forbidden it, and I seated myself in the midst of my flock. I was there with all my little lambs, and they, too, were afraid. And so I prayed, in a low voice, -My God, have pity on us!" "It is well -it is well- my child, thus to put your trust in God. Storms are often His voice, and this great voice makes itself heard to remind men that He has in His hands the power to punish the earth when the earth forgets Him. You were seated, all trembling, in the midst of your flock. On the branches of the trees, bent and twisted by the storm, were the frightened birds trembling in their nests. But God watched over them and you, and to-day they sing among the leaves, as you among the white flowers of the hedge. You may, then, safely trust in Him who will protect and keep you in sunshine and in storm." The bell sounded for prayers. The good pastor returned to his parsonage, and Julienne to the farm. When St. Germain of Auxerre and his friend St. Loup went forth on their mission to preach the Gospel and to do good to men, they travelled by short journeys. In traversing the plains of Nanterre, one day they fell in with a young peasant girl, seated by the side of a fountain, watching her flock, and accompanying the music of her spinning wheel with her voice. The travellers entered into conversation with her, and found in her words so much faith and love, so much good sense and piety, that they foresaw, at once, the exalted station of usefulness and influence to which the providence of God afterwards called her. St. Germain gave her a medal, and his blessing, with these words,- "Keep this, and it will recall to you that you are the servant of Jesus Christ." The pastor of the hamlet of Saules hearing Julienne singing her sweet religious songs, in the midst of the birds and flowers, was reminded of the page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] heroine of Nanterre, who with her simple shepherd's crook had repulsed the proud array which that Scourge of God, the redoubtable Attila, had marshalled against Paris. And truly the simple pastor was not altogether wrong in entertaining the thought. Julienne certainly did not attain the same height of distinction as the shepherdess of Nanterre, nor did she seek it in the same way, but yet she gained an elevation far above that of many who have dreamed of renown and glory. Her ambition was to do good -to be useful in the state of life to which God had called her. And it was by His providence that she was lifted above her own station, in order that she might be useful in a more extended sphere. There are some minds which, left to solitude, waste away by an imperceptible decay, and die. There are others whom solitude nourishes into greatness and glory. For the first, it is like the blow of the Indian club which fells them to the earth. For the last, it has wings wherewith they approach heaven. The idea of a profound solitude has tempted many a spirit from the world. It has peopled the Thebaide, and it is not the vulgar spirit alone, and always, that has deserted the city to live, meditate, and pray under the palm tree of the desert, and in the caverns of the rock. It was in solitude that the first impulses of the mind of Julienne were formed, which were afterwards developed, as we shall see, in healthful and noble activity. After the conversation of the pastor with Julienne, he was convinced that she was no ordinary child, and that her future life promised much. Charmed with her grace and good sense, he asked of her parents the privilege of providing for her education. His sister, a good and pious woman, would teach her to read, and the domestic duties, while he would take charge of her religious instruction. One may divine with what readiness they acceded to this arrangement, and with what earnestness they counselled the little Liennette to profit by the offered advantages. And so she did. After page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] twelve years under the roof of these kind friends, her beauty of mind and person, and her pure, consistent and well-developed religious character, rendered her peculiarly attractive and lovely, while she had lost none of that simplicity, and humility, and calm enthusiasm which made her beloved by all, and not less by those of her own original rank in society, than by the cultivated and refined. There are flowers whose cups open and spread their perfume, as the first rays of the sun glitter among the dew-drops. It is the same with the minds of some children which open to the first words of instruction, and in whose dew of youth the light of wisdom is reflected as in the dew of flowers. Julienne displayed a docility of mind and an aptitude to receive instruction which made the task of teaching her a pleasure, and so she grew up to reward the care and affection which had been freely bestowed upon her by the good pastor and sister. The simple husbandmen were sleeping tranquilly under their rustic roofs, though a strong wind had risen in the clear night, that swayed the branches of the trees which formed a grove about the hamlet. Notwithstanding the increasing tumult of the storm that broke in upon the silence of the night, and the calm repose in which the fields were sleeping, the tired husbandmen rested tranquilly beneath their rustic roofs. They who gain their bread in the sweat of their brows, sleep soundly. Idleness and remorse drive sleep far from their couch. Suddenly the cry of fire was heard, loudly ringing through the village, and startling the inhabitants from their beds. You may have witnessed the zeal and courage with which the firemen in large cities address themselves to the work of rescue. In small villages, while the confusion is greater, there is no less brave exertion prompted by the common feeling of humanity and good will. Here the pastor is generally the first at the scene of conflagration. It is true that here there are no costly pictures, nor sumptuous furniture, nor precious works of art to page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] rescue from the flames, but there are the harvests of the reapers to save, and the thatched roofs which cover them, and every one works with a good will. And now in the hamlet every one is abroad. The church bell has sounded the alarm, the red flames gleam upon the darkness, and everywhere is confusion and dismay. A poor, old paralytic woman, deaf and very infirm, had not been awakened by the alarm, and the fire was approaching her cottage. In the general confusion she seemed to have been forgotten by every one except Julienne. The beautiful girl, in her thoughtful care of others, and forgetful of herself, ran to awaken and save mother Gertrude. When she reached her cabin, she discovered that the roof already was on fire, for the wind, which was constantly increasing, carried the burning brands in every direction. Julienne, who had not strength herself to force the door, called for assistance in saving the old woman's life. Being but partially awakened, it was some time before they could make her aware of the danger, and persuade her to attempt to escape. At length a broad-shouldered peasant lifted her in his arms and bore her from the blazing cottage, while a burning rafter fell upon the head of Julienne, striking her to the ground, where she would have perished, had not the pastor, in his care for the poor and suffering, -like a father for the children whom he loves,- came to rescue mother Gertrude. He found not the infirm old woman, but saw with affright Julienne stretched upon the floor, pale and motionless. He raised her in his arms, and bore her away to a place of safety, blessing God that she was rescued. Notwithstanding the zeal and brave exertions of the inhabitants, aided by those of the neighboring hamlets, many of the cottages were destroyed, and the produce of their fields consumed. The father and mother of Julienne were soon at her bedside in the parsonage, weeping over her tears both of sorrow and of joy -of sorrow for her sufferings, and of joy for her rescue. But, alas, page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] how was their affliction deepened when they found that the flames had scorched her head, and injured her eyes. She was blind. She would see them no more. The light of her beautiful eyes was extinguished, and with blindness must come -they thought- the extinction of all their proud hopes and aspirations for her future career. Julienne, hearing the loud grief of her parents, said to them, with a voice as sweet and composed as when chanting the songs of David:- "Do not thus make yourselves unhappy. Your grief makes me more sorrowful than the loss of sight. Do not believe that I shall always remain blind, for He who has taken away my sight, knows with what joy I look upon his works." Three months had passed since the hamlet was made desolate by the fire. The roses no longer bloomed, but the queen-marguerites blossomed in the garden, and the dahlias also were putting forth their first gay flowers. In the fields and by the road-side the massive foliage of the trees was becoming flecked with yellow and crimson. Autumn was silently approaching. In this interval the physician of the hamlet had in vain applied his skill in restoring the sight of Julienne. Her eyelids, fringed with long black lashes, were constantly closed. No longer was seen the mild, deep expression of her fine blue eyes, but upon her lips descended all the graces of sweetness and beauty. She continued to dwell at the parsonage, for under the care of the pious pastor and his sister, her parents believed that she was nearer to God. After the labors of the day were done, the fond mother, evening after evening, came to pass an hour or two with her daughter, and was consoled by Julienne saying often,- "Dear mother, you see me here, surrounded with all that I can desire. But, notwithstanding my pleasant chamber, my abundant home, the perfume of the garden, and the quiet repose which I enjoy, I often regret my simple country life. My happiest hours were those which I passed with my flocks. The blessedness of your warning benediction went with me through the whole day. I re- page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] member, too, how we sang together the holy song of David, who, in his love to God, calls on all created things, the sun, the moon, the stars, and the seas, torrents, tides, waves, and streams, to praise with him the Eternal Creator. Now I see not the golden light of the sun. I know not if the heaven be blue, or whether it is covered with gray and sombre clouds. Yet through all this darkness, Hope, like a single ray of the sun, remains to me. Then, dear mother, do not afflict yourself. Tobias was blind, as we read in the sacred story, -but was restored to sight. The God of Tobias is still in the heavens, and His angels are always ready to conduct and console the afflicted." These words of hope and resignation flowed from the lips of the blind girl as a healing balm to the fond mother's bleeding spirit, assuaging her grief, and sending her home to her husband to infuse into his heart something of the consolation and reliance which her daughter's words had breathed into her own. CHAPTER II. THE ARRIVAL -THE CHATEAU- THE PARSONAGE -THE TWO YOUNG FRIENDS. DURING the long emigration of the French clergy at the time of the great Revolution, Hardouin, the pastor of the hamlet of Saules, had passed the days of his exile in Germany, in the grand-duchy of Baden. There he cultivated successfully the science of Music, and had often desired that he might introduce into the churches of France the sweet and harmonious chants which he had heard in the land of his banishment. During the years of his exile he had often said, that if it pleased God to restore him to his own country, the service should be chanted in his church. This vow of the exile priest had been performed, and in his little page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] gothic church in the hamlet of Saules, the service was chanted with a perfection of harmony exceedingly rare in France, and which would have been impressive and effective even in a grand cathedral. During her months of blindness, Julienne had learned to move without a guide through the parsonage, the garden, the churchyard, and into the church, where her daily prayers were said. There she passed many hours, improvising, upon the organ, chords full of sweetness and melancholy. Soon taught by her loving and exalted sense, she acquired a skill which often astonished and always touched the hearts of others. God has consolations to give to those from whom He has taken away the sense of sight. It is observed that their appearance is always quiet and serene, and that wrinkles seldom appear upon their brows. Julienne recovered in music much of the charm of her early life, while watching her flocks in the solitudes of the hills. The clouds driven by the winds, sailing over the azure heavens, like ships on the wide waters of the sea; the rays of the sun, playing and sparkling upon the waves; the willows, the alders, and the poplars, bending under the breath of the morning and evening, and lifting again their leafy tops; all those things which, in the past, had plunged her into long reveries, she saw again when she abandoned herself to her inspirations. Sometimes her music recalled scenes of the laughing and joyous days passed in the meadows, and at other times days of storm and gloom. This music, more of sentiment than of science, is that which one loves. Born of the soul, it reaches the soul. In its effects we recall a thousand reminiscences of nature. Sometimes it is the rivulet, gently flowing over its pebbly bed, between banks of flowers; sometimes the full flood, rolling and flowing; then it is the lion that lifts his voice in the desert, demanding his prey; and again it is the nightingale that repeats to the moon her song of love. There was little variety in the life of the simple- page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] minded villagers of Saules. In spite of the old proverb, that "no two days are alike," there to-day was like yesterday, and will be repeated to-morrow without changing its likeness. It is perhaps difficult to say whether one should regret such monotony of life, or sigh for such scenes as furnish more stirring events and changes. In what we call the drama of life, there is more sorrow than joy, more tears than smiles, more adversity than prosperity, and from the depths of my soul I pronounce happy a rural home, like that of the hamlet of Saules, in not being the theatre of any great event in the annals of France. Glory is a costly gift or heritage. A man of great genius has said, "Happy the people whose history is Dulness." However, an incident did occur in the quiet little hamlet, which took the place of a great event in the minds of the simple inhabitants. An English nobleman, with his family on his way to the chateau of Landais, stopped at the village inn to make inquiries as to the route and the distance, and to afford rest to his family, and especially to their invalid daughter. The magnificence of their travelling equipage excited the wonder of the inhabitants, who crowded to their doors as their carriages passed. Master, mistress and servants, as seen through the carriage windows, were covered with dust. Finding that they were within half a league of the chateau, the servants and baggage were sent on, while from the remaining carriage descended a gentleman, clad in a travelling-dress of gray summercloth, with shoes and gaiters of the same color. The traveller holding in his hand a note-book, asked the inn-keeper if there were any curiosities in the neighborhood worthy of being visited. "As to curiosities," he replied, "I know of none, yet it happens sometimes that travellers like yourself find our little church curious and beautiful. For myself, sir, I find it old and very ugly." The English gentleman then extended his hand to a lady, who appeared nearly of his own age -past the middle of life- of elegant manners, dressed in a robe of unbleached linen, a hat of green, and page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] a long veil of the same color, which shaded her face without hiding the noble expression of her countenance, the clearness of her complexion, or the profusion of hair which time had already sprinkled with gray. They assisted in descending from the carriage a young girl of fourteen or fifteen years, dressed like a child in white, who, with a smile tender and sad, thanked them for their affectionate courtesy. "Oh, this freshness is charming, and will make me well," said the young girl, taking off her bonnet, and shaking her fair locks. "It is like the breath of evening, my mother -it is like one of your caresses." Then addressing her father, she asked, "Is there anything to see, now that we have alighted?" "My child, there is an old church. I know that you love to linger around them, and it is for your sake that I have delayed here, while your brothers and your aunt have proceeded to Landais to prepare for our reception." "I thank you, my father. I love well the old churches; above all I love to visit them at the hour of sunset, and this evening is so beautiful." "If you intend, Amelia, to make a sketch of the time-worn church and parsonage, it will be necessary to hasten, for you are forbidden to expose yourself to the night air, you know, my love," said her mother, throwing a mantle of white cashmere over the shoulders of her child. The party proceeded to the church, and while examining its gothic carvings, and sculptures, and the rude figures of angels and saints which ornamented its portal, they were greatly surprised to hear, at that hour of the day, and in the humble village church, the sound of an organ. The astonishment of the travellers was increased when, on entering the church, they found it empty. No person was visible either in the nave or aisles, and yet from the high gallery under which they were standing, flowed waves of harmony. There was something in this music simple and touching, like the voice of an angel, which impelled one to bend the knee and adore. Thus these strangers, page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] although not of the Roman Catholic Church, did not deem it superstitious or wrong in them, as they approached the chancel, to kneel at the rail, and pray to God in the house consecrated to His name. After their silent devotions, they seated themselves and listened with admiration and delight to the inspiring music. To their regret the organ soon ceased to pour forth its melody, and in the silence of the church they heard the steps of some one descending from the gallery. The noble stranger wishing to know to whom he was indebted for music so full of soul, hastened to the entrance of the stair-case, and saw issuing from it, in the shadow of the door-way, a young girl of about the same age of his daughter. "Tell me, I pray you," said the traveller, "who is the organist to whom I have been listening with so much admiration. Will he come down soon? I wish to thank him for myself, and for my wife and daughter as well, for the pleasure he has given us. Do you think he will remain much longer in the church?" "My lord, there is no person here, and in leaving the church, I must lock the door, and return the key to the pastor." Saying these words, Julienne -for it was she- descended the last stair of the turret, coming into fuller light, where the strangers could see her more distinctly. They observed that there was great purity and beauty in the lines of her face, that her complexion was somewhat darkened by exposure to the sun, and that her eyes, veiled by long black lashes, and seemingly bent upon the pavement, gave her an appearance of great modesty and timidity. It was not long, however, before they discovered that she was blind. "Is it possible," said the stranger, "that you are the performer to whom we have been listening?" "Yes, my lord, it was I," answered Julienne, very low, and very timidly. "You so young -in this village- it is hardly conceivable. And who is your master?" "The pastor, Father Hardouin." page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] "What, the priest of this hamlet?" "Yes, my lord." "And where is he who is capable of giving such instruction as you have received?" "Oh, my lord, I know very little. I only know how to place my fingers upon the keys, and then I pour out my soul here before God. But, sir, the pastor is a great musician. He has passed many years in Germany, and it was there that he acquired his skill." "Does he ever preside at the organ?" "O yes; when assisted by a neighboring priest, he then plays the organ, and one might imagine that he was listening to the music of paradise." "We have already felt that in listening to you," said the lady, who had approached with her daughter, and now joined in the conversation. At these gracious compliments, the village musician, taking from her pocket the key of the church, made a step towards the door. "It is time for us to leave," said the stranger,- "we have still to reach Landais before night. Wo shall come again to listen to your music, if you will permit us. Will you say to the pastor that we shall make our home for the present at Landais, and that we shall soon call to pay our respects to him?" While the father of Amelia was speaking to Julienne, the young English girl regarded her with attention, and felt her heart penetrated with pity and interest for the blind child. Thus face to face the two young persons now stood. Amelia was the child of wealth and station, but under the brilliant exterior -under that mantle of cashmere- there lay concealed the germ of death, like a beautiful rose, filled with perfume, and the cherished pride of the gardener, but pierced at the heart by the worm that kills. But the afflicted child of the hamlet had none of the consolations which wealth brings, but He whose goodness compensates in some way or other, for the sorrows and misfortunes which are ordained for us, had given her a calm and pious spirit of trust and confidence, and endowed her with a poetic imagina- page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] tion. Some saint has likened imagination to an insane asylum. I beg pardon of the saint, but I believe imagination is often the best consoler. The brilliant tints of the dying day were mingling with the dark shadows of evening, when the noble strangers again seated themselves in the carriage to proceed to Landais. The chateau of Landais had not, for many years, been inhabited by its ancient masters. Attached for more than two centuries to the royal house of France, the Counts of Mareuil had abandoned Poitou, and lived at Court, where they had hereditary possessions. In 1790 they emigrated, as did many other royalists. At the commencement of the empire, this noble family returned to France, and the two young sons of the old favorite of Louis XVI., seduced by the glory which surrounded the soldier emperor, who had come to dethrone anarchy, had entered the army, on their return from England, and following the victorious eagle, had visited all the capitals of Europe. Descendants of Agenor de Mareuil, who had had the honor of fighting by the side of Henry IV., and distinguished among the bravest, Napoleon had attached himself to the two brothers. He had appointed the elder an officer of ordnance, and to the younger, who was wounded at the battle of Jena, he had given one of the most important prefectures of Italy. When Napoleon, by his retreat to the island of Elba, had freed from their oath the French who were devoted to his cause, these two officers came to offer their swords to the Bourbons, whom their father, Agenor de Mareuil, had served. Thus having spent many years in exile, and known all the sorrows of banishment, the Counts of Mareuil had at last established themselves at Paris, where they mingled in all the fetes of the Tuileries. Although the chateau of Landais had long been abandoned by its owners, it had been kept up under the care of a faithful steward. He had grown old in the service of the family, and showed his zeal and fidelity in the management of the estate, and in his care of this beautiful mansion, which page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] the family of Lord Mountclare had leased for a series of years. During the reign of Francis I. the chateau had been ornamented and adorned by several illustrious artists, and it contained many fine engravings and paintings, and several choice specimens of sculpture. The main building, in its style of architecture, and by its high roof and towers, and clustered chimneys, gave evidence that it was erected during that age of magnificence and taste, and recalled the wonders of Chambord, and the green facade of the chateau of Blois. The wings, built during the reign of Louis XIII., were wanting in that lightness and elegance which belonged to the original structure, and the confused mingling of brick and stone which they exhibited, injured essentially the effect which they were intended to produce. Lord and Lady Mountclare had known in England the Count and Countess Mareuil, having met them in the melancholy saloons of Holyrood, where many of the distinguished French exiles had found a re-union. It was there that, having expressed their desire to find, under the softer sky and milder heavens of France, a pleasant habitation to which they might retreat with their suffering daughter, the Mareuils had offered them their estate at Landais. After parting with Julienne at the hamlet on the evening of their arrival, the travellers proceeded to the chateau, so long deserted by its owners, intending to remain so long as the health of Amelia should be benefited by the change. The English have abundance of wealth at their command, and build splendid palaces for their dwellings. These favorites of fortune gather around themselves gorgeous furniture, and all the appliances of life which taste and wealth combined can furnish. They adorn their walls with the choicest paintings of all the schools. They shut out from their dwellings the north wind, which brings the cold, and surround their palaces with immense parks; and yet the blue heavens and the warm sun cannot be found in their three kingdoms! So much to be envied as they are for their wealth, and for all page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] which it brings of comfort and enjoyment, yet they are forced abroad for their health, under the delightful skies of France. If you examine them closely, you will see beneath all their outward appearances of health and vigor, faces pale and melancholy, -the old folks full of spleen, the young girls consumptive,- pale flowers, whom it is necessary to bear far from the cold, gray fogs of their native land. Amelia was one of these flowers, and it was beautiful and touching to see the tender care with which the preparations for her arrival had been made by her brothers and aunt. The chamber which commanded the finest view of the country had been chosen, the windows of which opened to the south, and admitted only the cool and balmy air, laden with the perfume of the orange, reminding one of the climate of Italy. Consumption, of all forms of disease, attracts most sympathy and interest. Those who thus suffer have, I know not what, which attracts and charms. They are more loved and caressed than other invalids. One foresees that their days are numbered. Amelia had this attraction. She exercised it over all she saw, with an unspeakable grace which made even her sickness lovely. She had also a tender care for all about her. When afflictions come upon us, it is necessary to receive them with resignation. It is right so to receive them, not only because they are sent by God, but on our own account. Resignation is the balm of grief. It is also the attraction which surrounds with friends the couch of suffering. In a word, resignation is the grace and the attraction of grief. Many days had not passed after their quiet settlement at Landais, when Amelia said to her mother,- "When shall we return to the village to hear again the blind organist?" "This very evening, if you wish, my child," replied Lord Mountclare, looking up from his book, in which he was reading. When in the room with his daughter, his thoughts were with her, more than with his book, or whatever occupation in which he seemed to be engaged. page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] The aunt and brother of Amelia had heard the talent of the country girl so highly praised, that they begged to be of the party, and so together they proceeded to the village church, intending, also, to call upon the pastor. The servants, as well as all the other members of the family, had but one fixed thought -one paramount desire, that of relieving the sufferings, and seeing restored to health, the young girl on whose forehead seemed the mark of the finger of death. During the few days of their residence at Landais, the air had been soft and balmy, and one might have thought that the country had put on its most attractive appearance to welcome the charming invalid. Thus in the family there were more smiles than had for a long time been seen, because hope, the last to desert us, had gladdened their loving hearts. When the carriage reached the gate of the churchyard, the sound of the organ was again heard, mingling harmoniously with the murmurs and shadows of the evening. Having silently crossed the open space, they opened softly the little gothic door, and fearing lest the sound of their footsteps upon the pavement might be heard, they remained in the porch. Julienne, believing that she was alone with God, surpassed herself. Never had she drawn out such strains of harmony as then, and again the noble strangers thought of the music of angels. For nearly an hour she continued to play, without knowing that there were listeners in the church below. On leaving the church, Lord and Lady Mountclare, as they had promised Julienne, turned towards the parsonage, to visit the good pastor. When they opened the gate of the parsonage, they saw the priest seated on a stone bench near his door, surrounded by a number of young boys, who were listening attentively to his instructions, while he was explaining to them, in simple and earnest words, the meaning and application of that divine saying,- "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] As the strangers entered, Father Hardouin rose, and approaching them, said:- "I regret, my lord, not to have known beforehand of this visit with which you honor me, that I might have been prepared to receive you in a more fitting manner. At this season of the year our occupations leave us little unemployed time. I beg, therefore, that you will excuse the disarray and confusion in which you find our poor place." "I know," said Lord Mountclare, "that your time is occupied in attending upon those who have claims upon you -the sick and the poor. But after them, when you have alleviated their sufferings and provided for their wants, you must visit us at Landais. We are now your parishioners, for though we hold the Protestant faith, and worship under different forms, yet it is the same God, and the same blessed Saviour, whom we serve and adore. We have already twice visited your church, and we shall claim, my dear sir, your pastoral care." "Yes, my lord, I know that you have been here, and that you have deigned to praise the peasant girl, the little Julienne, for her skill in music." "Praise ought, also, to be bestowed upon her teacher," said Lady Mountclare, "upon him who has skill to cultivate such talents as she evidently possesses. It is to you that such praise belongs." "By no means, my lady. It is God who has given to Julienne the gift which you have admired. I have done but little. But I am convinced that she is gifted in an extraordinary manner. She is not only a musician, but a poet. She is not only a poet, but better than that, -she is endowed with a holy inspiration. It is marvellous to listen to this blind child -the daughter of poor and simple parents- speaking of the power and goodness of the Creator with such enthusiasm, and with the wisdom of the prophets and elect of heaven." "Dear mother," said Amelia, "may I not see her, and know her better?" "I beg you," said Lady Mountclare to the priest, "to bring her with you to Landais." page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] While Father Hardouin was doing the honors of his house to his noble guests, and while they were admiring the simplicity and good taste which were everywhere apparent in the arrangement and adorning of the parsonage, Julienne, returning from the church, opened the door of the court, and with the uncertain step of the blind, to which her youth and beauty lent a certain grace, she walked to the covered well, and took from it a basket of grain, which she scattered around, at the same time singing these simple words:- "Come, come, morning and evening, You, whom alas, I shall never more see, My doves, my turtle doves. Little creatures, so beautiful, Who fly so high in the heavens, Would that I had your sight and your wings. Gentle birds, fly to me, Come and eat without fear From my hands, which love to hold you. My duty is to feed you- My happiness is to cherish you- My pleasure is to hear you." Soon a large number of pigeons and doves quitting the roof where they were lazily reclining in the evening sun, came at this well-known voice, and partook eagerly at the feet of Julienne of their repast. While some of them were picking up the grain scattered upon the ground, others were flying around the head of the poor child, sometimes resting upon her shoulders, making plaintive cooings, seeming to pity her misfortunes. She took the tame creatures in her hands, kissing them and pressing them to her bosom, as if to thank them for the pleasure they gave her. The pastor called her, and she entered the saloon without awkwardness or embarrassment. She had already recognized the voice of Amelia, which she had heard once before in the church. That voice was more pleasant to her than that of any other person, and especially was she delighted when the young English girl said to her:- "My mother has begged M. Hardouin to bring you with him to Landais. I shall be delighted to see you there." page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] "And I," replied Julienne, "shall be happy to go. Your voice is so sweet, that I am sure you must be beautiful. I cannot see you, but my heart understands you, and goes out to you." CHAPTER III. THE BIRTH-DAY FETE -DEPARTURE TO A MILDER CLIMATE- ALLEVIATION OF SUFFERING -TROUBLED HAPPINESS- FORESHADOWINGS OF EVIL. SEVERAL days after the visit spoken of in the last chapter, Lord Mountclare wrote to M. Hardouin that the 25th of August was the anniversary of the birth of their invalid daughter, Amelia, and that on this occasion his presence would give them much pleasure. Lady Mountclare added,- "Bring with you the interesting blind girl. It will give great pleasure to us all, but to my poor daughter especially, for she has conceived a great attachment for Julienne, and everything is dear to us which she loves." This invitation filled the heart of the blind girl with joy. The good sister of the pastor was care- page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] ful to provide for her favorite suitable clothing, such as was worn by the peasant girls of the hamlet. She loved the child as if she were her own, and in all that belonged to her toilet there was displayed something of maternal pride. The pious family of Mountclare would have felt that the celebration of their daughter's birthday was incomplete without having first invoked the blessing of heaven, and the protection of the Almighty Father. Accordingly, the chapel of the chateau was elegantly adorned with flowers and wreaths, and at an early hour of the day the family repaired thither, and the morning service of the English Church -in which all joined devoutly- was read. Lord Mountclare, in his letter to the pastor of Saules, had said,- "There will be a collation for all your parishioners laid in the great hall of the Elm park, and it is my desire that you extend this invitation generally, that all who can come may join with us in the festivities. Let me ask you, also, for a list of all such of your parishioners as are in sickness or distress, that we may, relieve them, in the name of our child. Especially let me know if there are any girls of her own age who need assistance, and it will give us much happiness to relieve them." If the rejoicings of the rich and happy were often like those of the parents of Amelia, they would be more blessed to those who participate in them, while from the height of heaven the angels would look down with interest and with love upon such festivities as are made, not solely to be enjoyed, but, also, to carry consolation to the afflicted. On the 25th of August, the sun arose serene and glorious. The whole country seemed prepared for the festivities. No shade of gray, no rain-cloud, marred the azure heavens, or threatened to interrupt the pleasures and enjoyments of the occasion. A beautiful day is an offering that heaven gives to the earth. A cool and refreshing breeze agitated the tree-tops and the shrubbery of the park of Landais, and the well-kept walks were page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] strewn with flowers that the morning wind had scattered. For Amelia, the day of the fete was one which she had looked forward to with joyous anticipation. The air of the early morning being recommended as most conducive to the restoration of her health, she had risen early, as was her custom, and, accompanied by the gardener, she had gone out to gather flowers, and to arrange them in vases and wreaths for the chapel. It was a touching sight to see this pale and beautiful girl, in her white morning dress, making her way through the massive clumps of shrubbery, sometimes elevating her arms to reach some rare flower almost beyond her grasp, or bending over the low plants, to gather some odorous blossom, worthy by its beauty and fragrance to be placed on the altar of prayer. Seeing her thus employed, one would have been reminded of those beautiful angels which Raphael loved to paint, and whose office it might well be to serve at heaven's altar of incense. At the hour of nine, M. Hardouin, his sister, and Julienne, arrived at the chateau. The worthy pastor had desired to see his parishioners in their Sunday attire, and as he approached the chateau he encountered groups of them clustered together here and there, eager for enjoyment. He and they were cordially received. Julienne was taken possession of by Amelia, who would not allow her to be separated from her sight. Before the sports and the more active amusements of the day began, M. Hardouin, at the request of Lord Mountclare, made a brief address to the assembled peasants and villagers, welcoming them, in the name of the noble Englishman, to the chateau, and expressing his desire to aid them, in every way consistently with his new relations towards them, while he remained in their neighborhood. The French priest then turned towards the party of English people, and in turn, and in behalf of his parishioners, and in his own name, welcomed Lord Mountclare and his family to Landais. Referring to Amelia and the blind Julienne, who were standing side by side near by, he said, page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] with a touch of national pride: "Although, my lord, your faith differs from that of those whom you see around you, you will, I trust, pardon me for saying that God did not refuse the saint whom France has given to heaven. Among the virtues of Louis IX., we cannot fail to mark his charity, and his benevolence towards all, and especially his symthy and compassion for the blind. After his return from Palestine, he established a hospital for the benefit of the soldiers of the cross, his companions in arms, who had lost their sight on the burning sands of Africa, and since his death many have been restored to sight by visiting his tomb, or by touching his relics." When the priest had finished speaking, Amelia took the hand of the blind girl, and said to her:- "Julienne, I have been taught to believe that such miracles are no longer done. But I trust in God that you may be restored to sight. All that my father can procure to be done for you by medical skill, I am certain he will gladly do." It were long to describe all that passed that day. There was the dance upon the lawn; the sail upon the lake; the race through the grand avenue; the collation in the Elm-tree park, and the display of fire-works in the evening. Of course, everywhere there was music, and everywhere there was enjoyment. There was nothing to mar the harmony of the festivities. As the day had dawned brightly, with a promise of happiness to all, so it closed calmly, having seen that promise fulfilled. When the time arrived for the pastor to return to the hamlet, it was proposed by Amelia, and warmly seconded by her mother, that Julienne should remain, and it was settled that she should pass a week at the chateau. Lord Mountclare promised that she should have an organ to practice upon, having ordered one from Paris, which should have been received, as he had expected, before that day. "Thus, my friend," said he to the priest, "be assured, she will not neglect her music by remaining with us." page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] At these words, Amelia threw herself upon her father's neck, and embraced him, saying, "Oh, how happy we shall all be together." This expression of joy from the noble young girl filled the heart of Julienne with happiness. Her darkened eyes shone not with the joy she felt, but on her rosy lips one saw a revelation of the deep emotion within her bosom. After a few weeks had passed without any change or event worthy of notice, the season approached when the cold northern winds began to be severely felt at Landais. The alleys of the park were no longer strewn with flowers by the morning breeze, nor was the early dawn balmy and sweet with the perfume of blossoms, as on Amelia's birth-day, but dry and yellow leaves rustled mournfully under the footsteps. The summer, with all its glories, was gone. Early autumn, with its fruits and flowers, had departed too, and bleak winter was approaching. Fogs, gray and cold, like those of England, began to veil the horizon, and if at times the sun pierced the humid atmosphere, his rays seemed to have lost all their heat. The flowers, especially, felt the change of the season; their stalks were bent, and their beauty and perfume were gone. But Amelia suffered most by the change. For the last few weeks she had daily, though almost imperceptibly, declined. And yet her days had been rendered happy by the continued presence of Julienne, whose visit of a week had been protracted into a month. She believed herself better, because happy and contented, but those whose hope and love were centered in her, felt their hearts oppressed with sorrow when they saw the feverish excitement with which she planned excursions and amusements for the pleasure of others. The parents of Amelia had been counselled by their physicians in England to remove her to a milder climate than that of her native land. France had been chosen for its verdure and beauty of scenery, as well as for its healthfulness. But now the beautiful fields were bleak and dreary, and the hills cold, while the distant mountains were page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] covered with a robe of snow. The trees no longer waved their verdant foliage between the eye and the blue heavens, but their long, leafless branches, glittering with frost, were pencilled against the gray sky. The physicians said it was only in genial Italy that the Lady Amelia could regain health and vigor. When such advice is given, sending the patient abroad, the hopes of friends die. They look only for alleviation, not for cure. With sad hearts Lord and Lady Mountclare again prepared for a change of residence, and Naples was chosen -that ancient Parthenope- that siren which, in the luxurious life it gives, makes us forget our native land. It was the city above all others which Amelia had desired to see, and of which she had read with delight. And now it was proposed as a residence which promised most for the restoration of her strength and health! But when informed that arrangements for leaving Landais were completed, and that they were really soon to take their departure, she felt that her love for the peasant girl Julienne was stronger than her desire to see Italy. She could not part with her favorite, whose cheerful and affectionate disposition, and attractive loveliness of mind, and grace of person, had made her inexpressibly dear to her. It was, therefore, finally arranged that Julienne should accompany them, though many sad hearts would be left in the little hamlet of Saules. But the promise of Lord Mountclare to return and make Landais their home, softened, in a measure, the grief of parting. The family of the Mountclares had made themselves greatly beloved among the simple villagers, -a class of persons on whom love and kindness are seldom lost. It was during the first days of December that the Mountclares left Landais, after having deposited in the hands of the pastor of the hamlet a considerable sum to be expended at his discretion in relieving the poor and the suffering of his charge. Julienne wept much in parting with her father and mother, her young companions, and the venerable pastor, whom she had loved as a parent. Some one has said that adieus are sad chiefly to those page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] who remain, not to those who go. Julienne had many bright-hopes mingling with, and softening her regrets. To the friends she left there remained only their quiet, homely cares, and the wide void occasioned by her absence. I will not attempt to picture the joy and enthusiasm of our young travellers, as they journeyed through the delicious scenery of Italy. There were the cities where genius built its palaces of marble, now deserted:- Venice, the city of the Doges, who remembered their former glory, and wept for their past grandeur; Florence, the pearl of Italy, the city of arts, of marvellous statues and pictures, of churches and libraries, its elegant society and its beautiful heavens; Rome, the queen of cities, the city of the seven hills, where the Christian religion came and seated itself in the home of the Scipios, of Paul Emilius, of Marcus Aurelius and of Titus -called, and perhaps justly, the Eternal City; Naples, whose beauty may be learned from the saying- "See Naples, and die." Like true tourists, Lord and Lady Mountclare travelled leisurely through these beautiful regions. The soft Ionian breeze brought bloom, and vigor and beauty to their invalid daughter, while the wonderful creations of genius opened up to her sources of enjoyment hitherto unknown. Nor were the benefits of travel confined to her alone. At Florence, Julienne, for the first time, began to perceive a faint dawn of light. In that city she was placed under the care of an oculist, eminent for his skill throughout Italy, and soon her long night of darkness began to be dissipated. His instructions to the protege of the Lady Mountclare were doubtless somewhat poetic, but this is not surprising, for in the elder days men who held the lyre, and by their songs healed the maladies of the soul, possessed, also, wonderful secrets for healing those of the body. "My child," said he, "put not all your faith and hope in my medicines. Leave it to the breeze of the morning and to the water of the far-off fountains to give you light. The breeze of the morning is as the breath of God. Open your eye-lids, page: 66-67[View Page 66-67]and this breath shall heal you. But as the morning is salutary, so you must avoid the dews of night. Let not the soft splendor of the moon among these melancholy ruins and beautiful monuments, tempt you forth." "Notwithstanding my scientific studies," added the old doctor, "there yet remains something of the poetry of the soul, and I know all the charms of lingering among orange and myrtle groves, under the clear, starry heavens. But from this charm and attraction, defend yourselves, for in the serene and dewy night there is something fatal to the best and most beautiful eyes." The same morning regime being recommended both to Amelia and Julienne, they, with their governess and servant, were often seen climbing the loftiest hills to catch the faint rays of the sun, and to offer their prayers in the face of the great luminary of day, coming to awaken and reanimate all nature. These scenes called forth all the enthusiasm of their souls, and if something like idolatry mingled with their prayers, there was never idolatry more innocent. "'I have seen Napes,'" said Amelia one day to Lord and Lady Mountclare, with a charming smile, "and I die not. I daily feel new life since you have brought me here." This smile, and these words, so well calculated to chase inquietude from the breasts of her parents, and make the hearts of all who surrounded her rejoice, were very different from the smile and the words of the pale and feeble child when they left the chateau of Laudais a few months before. During their sojourn in the capital of the Two Sicilies, Lord and Lady Mountclare received many visitors from their native country, who were returning from their travels in Calabria, and who spoke with raptures of the south of Italy. There, said the enthusiastic travellers, you never meet the trace of those eternal tourists who efface the bloom from nature. There is a poetic wildness in the scenery, and you dream again of virgin nature. Like Lord Byron, Mountclare wished, as much as page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] possible, to avoid the society of his own countrymen, and finding himself, perhaps, too much annoyed at Naples, he listened to these accounts of Calabria, and finally resolved to pass some time in visiting that highly-lauded portion of Italy. Meanwhile, the health of Amelia had become so nearly re-established, that her mother no longer feared the effects of a fatiguing journey. As for Julienne, the change would be beneficial. Like the morning mists resting upon the plains which the sun, lifting itself in the orient, disperses, so the cloud which had hitherto obscured the sight of the young village maiden was dispelled, as the invigorating air of Italy had developed her whole person. She, too, now enjoyed, with keen appreciation, the beauties of nature and of art. The grand and imposing scenes which she witnessed, filled her mind with ecstasy which seemed almost to recompense her for the trial of her patience and constancy during the long months past, when the shadow lay so dark upon her path. Lord Mountclare was a sensible traveller. He could not imagine that travel could contribute either to one's pleasure or instruction, without stopping occasionally for rest -without breathing- spaces, when the mind could have an opportunity to re-collect its disturbed faculties, and arrange the impressions and images that had been made upon it, and the ideas it had gathered amidst the dust and stains of the journey. He avoided fixing in advance, and in an irrevocable manner, the number of hours, or days, or weeks, or months, during which an excursion should last, and he looked with a hearty contempt upon such travellers as never take into account the way-side and unsuspected attractions which might bind one to a place longer than he had foreseen in his plans. In parting, he said to his curious friends who wished to know when he would return:- "If Ennui travels with us, our return will be speedy. On the contrary, if Pleasure makes itself the companion of our route, I cannot tell you when we may come back." Acting on this principle, the man of good taste and observation makes frequent halts here and page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] there, as the scenery or the society offers interest either to himself or to his companions. In planning and arranging his journey and his sojourns, he follows no geographical chart, but determines his course and his delays for repose by the unforeseen circumstances which offer interest or study. Our party established themselves for a time in the environs of Rossano, some fifty leagues from Naples, in a charming villa, situated near the site of that ancient and voluptuous city of the Sybarites, so named from the luxurious indolence of its inhabitants, who suffered to dwell among them neither locksmith nor forger, neither carpenter nor any other workman, who by the noisy din of his handicraft might trouble their indolent enjoyment, the dolce far niente in which they dreamed their lives away. Reclining on beds of flowers, the fold of a leaf was sufficient to trouble their repose. Indolent and effeminate, they had no thought beyond the present hour, and sought no pleasures even, which could not be procured without exertion. To Lord Mountclare this quiet and beauty was agreeable, though he was no Sybarite, but he had found here subjects for geological study, and they established themselves here for several weeks. The Prince of Callano, to whom the villa belonged, had left not only his pictures, and statuary, and furniture, but also a part of his servants, and all the necessary supplies for the convenience and comfort of a household. Our travellers congratulated themselves in being established in this beautiful and picturesque residence, and in escaping the incessant agitation and constraint of society at Naples. They found the coveted repose amidst these wild and attractive scenes. Julienne's sight daily improved. Her noble protector and her sweet friend Amelia sat with her in the same bowers in which the luxurious Sybarites had once reclined, while Lady Mountclare, with her usual impulses of benevolence, sought out the poor and the suffering among the neighboring peasantry, to minister to their wants. Amelia's health was still improving in the pure atmosphere, which the sea-breeze rendered refreshing and in- page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] vigorating. Calabria recalled, at first, to our travellers the fearful stories of brigands and robbers for which the region had been famed, but their fears -if any had been excited- were soon dissipated by hearing that no depredations or outrages had been commited at Rossano for several years. It was on the morning of the 10th of October. The eastern heavens were becoming white with the light of the dawning day. The trees, the roofs and chimneys of the houses, the village church-tower, and the broken walls of the old Roman ruins, were all drawn in dark shadows on the pearly sky. It was not yet the fourth hour of the morning, -as they reckon time,- yet the peasants were already astir for the labors of the day. The farm-gates, one after another, swung open, and the ploughboys, stretching their arms and rubbing their eyes, were seen issuing forth to their work. The shepherd with his flock took his way towards the pasture, his dog, barking at the lambs which remained behind, frightened from the bushes the birds which would have remained longer upon their nests, for their plumage was still wet with the dews of night. Confused sounds were heard on all sides, as the toiling world roused itself once more to its daily tasks. "Alas!" cried Januario, the shepherd of the farm lying nearest the villa, "my best sheep are gone! But, look, Joseppa, the gate of the sheepfold has been forced open in the night!" "Yes, certainly," replied the servant girl, "and so has also the door of the dove-cote." "Ah, what a disaster! -our choicest pigeons gone, and the finest of our flocks carried off!" "There must be a band of robbers in the neighborhood." "There can be no doubt of it." "But, Joseppa, where is your favorite dog, Fidelio?" "Why, I heard him but just now." "I also heard a faint sound, but it ceased instantly." "Let us see if he is sick." "Sick? No, Joseppa. As sure as you are liv- page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] ing, he is there, near the cottage, stretched upon the grass -strangled- dead." "Oh, what misfortunes for a single night!" "So they have attacked the sheepfold and dove-cote, and we may soon expect them upon the farm; and then, Januario, we must look to ourselves." "Joseppa, fear not, for if this alarm should force you to return to your grand city of Naples, what shall I do when you are no longer here?" "Januario, do not talk thus, in the midst of all these traces of the robbers. Poor old Fidelio! Good and faithful dog! The Prince, our master, will weep for his loss, for his father brought him from the Pyrenees. He was in the house before you and I. Poor, old, faithful servant. Januario, let us bury him under the large mountain fir-tree." "I think, Joseppa, we had better bury him near the lake, in the same spot where he drew the Prince, our master, whom he saved from drowning when a boy." While Joseppa and Januario were talking thus, new disasters were discovered as the day fully dawned. Evidently a band of robbers had passed during the night over the country, and through the village of Rossano. Loud complaints and lamentations were heard from all directions, and these were increased by an act of sacrilege committed in the churchyard. Some persons, going at an early hour to prayers, found the shrubs and flowers trampled under foot and destroyed. A tombstone had been used for a table, and the remains of a feast were found strewed around the sacred resting-place of the dead. Other monuments had been defaced, and especially the wooden churchyard cross had been overturned and broken. In the neighboring forests were found their traces also, and the finest trees had been cut and destroyed. In the hamlet, on the doors of the houses, were drawn strange lines and irregular letters and characters, and words were written in such language as the master of the school could not make out. These characters had been written in the dark, with red chalk, by page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] hands unknown. Were they human hands? Aforetime in Egypt, the houses where the firstborn children slept were thus marked by the fingers of the destroying angel! Such were the perplexities and thoughts of the simple and superstitious villagers of Rossano. No doubt remained of the passage of a horde of vagabonds and robbers. And with these certain traces of their wild foray, the simple country people connected various exaggerations and portents with the mysterious occurrences of the night, which increased their perplexity and their fears. The women asserted that for many nights the owl and the osprey had called through the darkness, to awaken the people to the coming misfortune. Two leagues from the villa, tears were shed, not alone for the death of a watch-dog, and the loss of sheep and doves, but young children and infants had been mysteriously carried off. Everywhere there were evidences of this unlooked -for incursion, and, as may be supposed, the whole country was earnestly aroused and excited. CHAPTER IV. THE DEPARTURE -VALLEY OF SAN LORENZO- THE CAVERN. ON the same day, Lord Mountclare, having heard, at an early hour of the morning, of what had transpired in the neighborhood of the villa, after conversing with Joseppa and Januario, made a visit to the priest, who, like his parishioners, was much excited by the occurrences of the past night. The priest thought himself obliged in conscience to say, that, after his experience, he believed as well as feared that these thefts would be followed by other crimes, and perhaps murder. "I have seen," added he, "the Gipsies or Bohemians traverse our mountains, and they are always the precursors of brigands the most formidable. They seem to go before, to sow the seeds of fear page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] in the minds of the people, and when apprehension and terror are well spread abroad among them, the great blow is struck." These facts, given by the priest, determined Lord Mountclare to return at once to Naples, for he feared the effect of these frightful rumors upon the excitable imagination of his daughter. They quitted the villa for a time, until the country should again become settled and serene, for they had learned to love this tranquil residence, where Amelia seemed to breathe more freely, and had become more vigorous and animated. When we look beneath the surface, in our study of life, we are convinced that the country which pleases us best is that which is most agreeable to those we love. Thus, had Calabria been without picturesque sights, without wild and poetic scenery, without interest for the geologist, Lord Mountclare would still have loved it, since there his cherished child had found renewed health. One would have thought that Amelia would have quitted the villa with many regrets, for there, in company with Julienne, she had been very happy; but youth loves change, and with a light heart she entered the carriage to return to Naples. They left in the early morning, which happened to be a dull one for that cheerful climate, and during the whole day indeed the heavens were covered with clouds, and the heat was almost insupportable. The evening came, without, however, the faintest breeze to scatter freshness over the earth, which seemed as if stifled under the weight of the low black clouds. The moon would have enlightened the surrounding landscape, and given interest to their journey, but it was hidden by the stormy veil, which left no openings through which light could reach them. In descending towards the sea, the road was shut in between two wall-like mountains, and in this gorge the heat was almost intolerable. Conversation languished, notwithstanding the efforts which were made, especially by the gentlemen of the party, in order to dissipate the vague fears which weighed upon the spirits of the travellers. page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] The ladies having been well assured before setting out upon their journey, that the way was thought to be perfectly safe, passed the day as pleasantly, and gaily as possible. But the evening gloom, the approaching storm, and the solitude of the country brought to their recollection all the fearful accounts of brigands which they had heard, and in spite of their efforts, they felt apprehension and alarm. No sound had been heard along their route, but the noise of the carriage wheels upon the mountain road, when suddenly they were startled by the report of fire-arms, and their postilions refused to advance. In vain Lord Mountclare commanded them to proceed. They obstinately refused to take a step further. Then, with the aid of his son, and some of his own domestics, the postilions were pulled from their saddles, and mounting in their stead, they drove on with all possible speed. It was evident that there was an understanding between their assailants and the postilions, with the purpose of robbing them of their money, and other valuable effects. They feared, also, that the robbers would overtake them, as they ascended the mountain towards San Lorenzo. And to add to their terror and distress, the storm now fell upon them in all its fury, and in the darkness there was danger of missing the road, and of being precipitated over some of the frightful precipices, on the brink of which it had been constructed. The mountain-side, down which they were plunging, was steep, but fortunately they reached the valley in safety, and stopped to consult as to what they should do; whether they should attempt to retrace their steps to Calabria, or continue on towards San Lorenzo. It was necessary to decide at once, for the night was growing darker, and every moment's delay would afford their assailants time to rally, and intercept them in the pine forest beyond. Lady Mountclare insisted that it would be safer to return than to advance, for, "be assured," said she to her husband and son, "that the postilions have joined the brigands, whose accomplices they are, and they will await us as we ascend the hill." "Without doubt danger is to be feared," replied page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] Lord Mountclare. "But there is danger either way: in returning, we shall doubtless meet some of the robbers, and there would be no more safety in going that way than in advancing. But we are well armed, and we need not fear. I am sorry, however, that we left the postilions free." "Yes," said young Mountclare, "it would have been better to have put them in a condition in which they could neither speak nor run." "A few shots from the carbines would have finished the affair," added the valet-de-chambre. "It would have been better," said Amelia, "to have bound them to the pines, then no blood would have been shed." Meanwhile, they succeeded in lighting the lamps on the carriages, and finally came to the bold resolution to go on instead of returning. The horses were once more put to the top of their speed. Neither the violence of the storm nor the obscurity of the way had diminished, and the rolling of the thunder was continuous and frightful. They passed in safety the narrow valley lying between the two mountain ridges, and commenced the ascent leading to San Lorenzo. Suddenly, several shots were fired at them from behind the trees, and they found that their progress was arrested by several strong ropes which were drawn across the narrow road. This attack was vigorously repulsed, and for a time the assailants were driven back by the fire of the English party, and their escape seemed certain. Already the young Mountclare, although wounded by a ball in the shoulder, had, with the aid of two of the servants, cut away the barrier of ropes. A free passage was thus made, and Lord Mountclare was getting together his party in order to proceed, when the brigands, armed with long daggers, and creeping stealthily among the undergrowth, avoiding the light of the lamps, approached the carriage, in which were the ladies of the party. They burst open the door, and a loud cry of terror and affright was heard, which reached the ear of Lord Mountclare, and summoned him to the spot. He sprang at once to their assistance, but before he reached them, he received a ball in his breast, which page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] brought him to the ground. Bleeding, and unable to interfere, he saw his daughter and Julienne dragged from the carriage by the hands of the ruffians. Lady Mountclare was not with them. Though fainting from the loss of blood, this sight gave new energy and life to Lord Mountclare, and he dragged himself with painful difficulty to the carriage, where a horrible spectacle presented itself. There lay the dead body of his wife, slain by the daggers of the ruflian bandits, and covered with blood. The young Mountclare hearing the cries for help from the carriage of his mother and sister, had, like his father, hastened to the rescue, but was met by several of the assailants, who overpowered him at once, and threw him down into the ditch by the road-side, with the dead bodies of two of the domestics, who had fallen in defence of their master. There lay the noble and gallant young man, unable to rise -powerless to help, and distracted with agony as he heard the cry of his aunt,- "They have killed your mother! they have carried off my niece! Help, George! Where are you? Help!" "Silence!" cried the chief of the band, "silence, or my dagger shall quiet you." The unhappy lady continued to groan and cry for help. Two discharges of pistols were heard, and then no more lamentation. This silence was far more horrible for George Mountclare than the anguish of his wounds, and the agony of his own personal apprehensions. While all this horrible drama was going on around the carriages, Amelia and Julienne were carried far into the depths of the forest by the hands of their captors. In their terror and despair, and notwithstanding the menaces of the robbers, the two young girls ceased not to call for help, and filled the air with their cries. For nearly two hours, the bandits, headed by the famous Abruzio, who had led on this sanguinary attack, traversed the winding-paths of the forest. The day had not yet dawned when they reached a wide glade, covered with a rank page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] growth of brambles, with here and there a bare rocky cliff. The storm still continued, though with abated force. The heavy rolling thunder and the gleaming lightning were still heard and seen, while the wind swept fiercely through the tall firs which swayed their stems and bent their heads before the blast. Near one of these tall granite cliffs, almost entirely concealed by the low bushes and tangled briers, was the mouth of a cavern. Arriving at this opening, the leader lighted a torch, and ordered his men, who were carrying Amelia and Julienne, to follow. A rapid descent led them into the depths of this cavern, which was the rendezvous of the fierce band of the robber Abruzio. Amelia, borne by the hands of the men whose clothes were stained with the blood of her dearest kindred, was happily unconscious to all that passed. Julienne, stronger and less timid, was allowed now to walk. With a firm step she kept near her friend, clinging to her hand, and watching every movement of their captors. Soon the narrow entrance of the cavern began gradually to enlarge. An hundred paces brought them to an immense room, brilliantly lighted with torches fixed in the crevices of the projecting rocks. Under the irregular arches of this cavern were seen many of the robber's band, and retainers passing in and out; sometimes in the broad light of the torches, and again disappearing in the deep shadows of the subterranean galleries. More hideous in appearance than even the bandit crew, were two women, who approached, in obedience to the summons of the chief, who gave the two young ladies into their charge, saying, with the fierce and imperative tone of one not used to be thwarted or disobeyed,- "Behold, I confide to your care these two princesses. Surround them with every care and attention: be to them most reverential: watch that you obey them in every particular; and take care, that if a single complaint of you reaches me, the justice of the great Abruzio is here to take vengeance and to punish you." page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] While the chief was thus speaking, Amelia was placed upon a pile of mattrasses, in a corner of the cavern, shadowed by a projecting arch of rock. Julienne seated herself behind her friend, supporting her beautiful head, and endeavoring to recall her to consciousness. And as the daughter of the hamlet looked around in this wild cavern, and on these savage men, what a spectacle presented itself to her view! She had been so pre-occupied with Amelia, that she had scarcely remarked the strange objects that surrounded her. On one side, as in a vast armory, were piled up swords, daggers, pistols, poignards, carbines, and all kinds and descriptions of weapons. On another side she saw a collection of the costumes of all nations -mantles of all colors; habits of all forms and fashions. Here was the Calabrian chapeau, with pointed crown and broad brim; the Phrygian cap of the lazzaroni; the casque of the dragoon; the bonnet of the Greek; the Spanish resille; the Swiss cap; the black hood of the priest, and the turban of the Arab and Turk; -and these were all the various and cunning disguises of the troops of Abruzio. Here there were trunks, boxes, and cases, filled with precious spoils, the results of their daring robberies. On the other side there were heaped together furniture for the table; pitchers, cups, richly-cut glasses, and various costly articles of plate; while in another corner there was carefully stored a supply of ammunition -powder and balls. In another part of the cavern, which was called by the brigands the chapel, there were carefully arranged the products of their sacrilege. From this apartment the chief brought to Julienne a beautiful and costly crucifix, saying,- "My lady, your friend begins to revive, and she will wish to pray for those of her family whose obstinacy, to our great regret, compelled us to put to death, during the past night. Here is a crucifix. Before this you can pray for the repose of their souls. As for yourselves, you have nothing to fear. The loyalty and honor of Abruzio will be a sufficient safeguard and protection, and I his second, his friend, his other self, page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] will be answerable for every hair of your heads." Saying these words, he reverently kissed the crucifix, and handed it to Julienne. What a mockery, thought she, of all that is holy and blessed, when such a man as this recommends to us the consolations of prayer! And what a system of faith must that be, she was compelled to think, which could reconcile a man to such wrongs, and outrages, and bloody crimes, as consistent with itself! She had already begun to feel the influence of the purer faith which she had, almost unconsciously, imbibed from her intercourse with her English friends. Pure and devoutly religious herself, and nurtured under the guardian care of the excellent village pastor, Hardouin, and his sister, she had never thought at all whether there were, or could be, a purer faith than that in which she had learned to love and serve God, until she saw, in the family of Lord Mountclare, and in their devout example, how far removed a true piety is from the superstitions and formalities to which she had been accustomed, from her earliest years. In the simple hamlet, all was sincerity and devout piety. As she saw more of the world, she found that it was not so, in the society of the larger Italian cities especially; but that, under the cloak of scrupulous external observances and forms, there was much corruption of life and manners. And this troubled and pained her. She knew that religion is pure and lovely, and that a true faith could not fail to work out into good living. Such were the manifestations of the religion of her dear English friends; but such, alas, it was not always among those of her own faith. But we return to Amelia. Julienne, assisted by the women, applied such restoratives as were at hand, and Amelia soon regained her consciousness. Seeing whose arm supported her, she arose and embraced Julienne, saying, with a heart-rending voice,- "Dear Julienne, are we two, then, entirely alone? My mother, my father, my aunt, my page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] brother, where are they? Have they all perished?" To these questions Julienne could reply only by tears, and from this silence Amelia learned the depth of her misfortunes and the horror of her isolation. The agony of her heart overpowered her, and she seemed like one who was dead to the world, which had visited her with such cruel inflictions of suffering. Julienne had been obliged to accept for her friend the offered assistance of the women of the cavern, but now having thrown aside the fears which had almost overpowered her, and rousing herself by an effort to meet the new responsibilities which she felt to be resting upon her, she therefore repulsed the attendants, and administered with her own hands the remedies necessary for her friend. The elder of the women saw with discontent how promptly this young girl roused her energies. It seemed to her a species of defiance, and her manner betrayed her displeasure. But the other, a woman of about twenty years, seemed of a more gentle and sympathizing character, and she said to her companion,- "Why are you angry, Beatrice? Is is not natural that she should wish to take care of her friend?" Then addressing Julienne, and pointing to Amelia, Pepita added,- "When for the first time I found myself in the midst of these bandits, I was also overcome with terror, and it was the voice of a friend only which gave me courage. Continue, then, young lady, your cares for this beautiful girl, and ask me, if you please, for whatever you wish." Seeing that Beatrice listened with an angry brow, Pepita placed her fingers upon her lips, intimating to Julienne that at some other time she would speak more freely. There was something gracious and attractive in the appearance of this young woman, although at the same time her manners were abrupt, -graceful enough, perhaps, but somewhat strange. Her countenance, which was for the most part stern and hard, became at times page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] illumined with great sweetness and modesty. Her voice, while speaking to her vagabond companions, was harsh and imperative, but when she addressed those whom she loved, it melted into tones of sweetness and affectionate softness, and in her lively and animated conversation were heard words of interest and compassion for those whom fate had seemed to cut off from all hope of happiness. The hair, eye-brows, and long eye-lashes of the Bohemian girl were black as the raven's wing, and the carnation of her brown cheek was as deep as that of the Andalusian, or of the women who bathe in the waters of the Nile. Her costume was as picturesque as it was strange, leaving bare her shoulders and her arms, and displaying her fine and well-developed form to great advantage. Her robe, embroidered in various colors, descended only to the knee. Her large, full pantaloons were gathered and fastened just above the ankle, while upon her small foot she wore the Turkish shoe. Around her head was twisted a red scarf, the long flowing ends of which fell on each side of her beautiful face, and waved over her shoulders. Around her neck was a chain made of large grains of coral, to which were attached a silver cross, an Agnus Dei, and various amulets and talismans. An Indian scarf encircled her slender waist, in the folds of which she wore a poignard, with a shining hilt. Thus the most striking contrasts were exhibited in her strange costume, and in the diversity of her ornaments; the scapularies and the Agnus Dei suspended from the same chain to which were fastened the fetishes and the oriental talismans, and all them in contrast with the cross and the glittering steel of the poignard. In the mind and character of Pepita were the same discords and disparities as in her dress. Thus she wore the cross, knowing little of the religion of the crucified. The native goodness of her heart would have prevented her injuring any one, and would have made her the protector of the oppressed and suffering, and yet she kept the blade of her dagger always sharpened and ready page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] at hand. Sometimes she invoked the Madonna for aid, and again she asked of her fetishes that she might be the most beautiful and captivating among the girls who mingled in the Gypsy dance. Although a companion of the brigands, she was kind and gentle as a sister of mercy. As Pepita moved around the cavern, seeking restoratives for Amelia, the bandits addressed to her words of raillery and merriment, but with the dignified aspect of a queen she commanded silence, and enforced respect. Beatrice and her young companion gave orders to some of the men to bring from the magazine some pieces of tent cloth, and to erect a screen across that part of the cave where the young girls were seated. When this was accomplished by fastenings from the projecting rock, Pepita took a girdle of Abruzio's, and hung it above the alcove, thus indicating the will of the chief, that no one should enter. In all that troop, among the most fearless and insubordinate of the brigands, no man could be found of sufficient hardihood to violate this sanctuary, so protected by the girdle. The instant punishment of death would have been the reward of such rashness. Notwithstanding the courtesy and tender care manifested to Amelia and Julienne, their first night in the cavern was passed without sleep. Their guardians, accustomed to this mode of life, threw themselves upon pallets before the bed of these young girls, and were soon in profound repose. And often, during the night, the attention of Julienne was attracted towards these two singular beings. She saw them by the light of the large iron lamp, suspended from the arched roof of the cavern, resting upon the same pillow: the long black locks of Pepita mingling with the white hairs of the aged Beatrice; the one young and full of hope, and resplendent with beauty, and the other wrinkled, and worn with years, and sorrows, and sins. It was a contrast well fitted to excite attention, and to provoke deep and earnest thought. From the part of the cavern beyond the screen, low sounds were heard through the whole night. There were hurryings to and fro, passing and re- page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] passing; the noise of bringing in heavy bales and trunks and packages, but not the faintest sound of the human voice. How welcome to Amelia and Julienne would have been even groans, or sobs and sighs, assuring them that some of their friends were still living, and that all besides themselves had not perished. But, alas! it seemed only too true that Amelia was henceforth an orphan. They were confident that all their effects had fallen into the hands of the robbers. Of all their jewels and ornaments, they had not even their watches, to mark the hours as they passed. In vain they sought to discover the glimmering of any other light than that of the lamp, or the ruddy torch. In that frightful cavern, all was dismal and gloomy, while, perhaps, without, nature was smiling at her re-awakening; all things rejoicing as the sun rose to shed down upon the broad earth his light and cheering warmth. Alas! to the prisoners in that cavern, no ray of the gladdening sun ever penetrated. The young girls thought that if only the rocky vault were removed from over their heads; could they once more see the east lighted up with the splendors of morning, they could joyfully mingle their voices in the grand song of nature, giving thanks to Him who makes the outgoings of the morning and evening to praise Him, notwithstanding the perils which surrounded them, and the sorrows that filled their hearts. The early dawn was the hour when these robbers -these men of rapine and murder, into whose power Julienne and Amelia had fallen, withdrew to conceal themselves. For many of these men the noise of the world, the agitation of villages and cities, the cultivation of the fields, the eagerness of pleasure in spectacles and fetes, the sound of church-bells, the smoke and roaring of the forge, the ring and clang of the hammer and the anvil, and, in fine, all the various movements of busy life, and all the voices of the day and of labor, were only as vague murmurs heard as from far-off shores; for the greatest number of them had grown old in these subterranean regions. They were outlaws from society, and they must, page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] therefore, envelope themselves in the shadows of the rocky caves and tangled woods in order to escape the arm of justice, which would have pursued them always and everywhere among the usual haunts of men. Among them were found, also, young men and women, and even children, for evil, vice, and crime, -each has always his devotee and his victim. As in society, States have their grades and hierarchies, so the band of Abruzio had theirs. When the stars have grown pale, when the dark shadows of night are folded back from the east like a curtain, when the first broad band of white upon the horizon gradually deepens into the crimson flush, and purple and gold, silence is brooding upon all the face of nature. All things still sleep. But when the broad sun lifts itself above the waters of the sea, or the distant landward horizon, and tinges with his glory the crests of the mountains, and presently the harvests of the plain, -at that moment a solemn trembling, like deep joy; an emotion which we may conceive to belong to the awakening of the just -is felt and understood by all. It is as the first strain of a hymn to the Creator, when the morning stars sing together and all the sons of God shout for joy. Of all the hours which are given to man on this beautiful earth, this is the sweetest and most poetic. There is a freshness and perfume in it which impart themselves to his frame and to his very mind and heart, and rough and harsh must be his encounters with a hard, cold world, if they do not go with him to his evening couch. Yet this first hour of the dawn has not that sweetness and charm which can break the dull slumbers of the sluggard, and call him forth from the close air of his room to taste the invigorating breath of fresh morning. While under the first rays of the sun, the birds shake their humid wings, and warble their matin songs; while the light vapors, like veils of gauze, are born aloft upon the breeze, to mingle with the clouds of the upper deep, and the flowers erect again their bended stems, and open their cups to drink the morning dew, there are creatures having page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] life and powers of motion -having eyes to see and ears to hear, and tastes to be gratified with beautiful forms and colors- who dream away their glorious morning hours upon their indolent beds, and rise, at last, as the day wears on, unrefreshed in mind or body, peevish in temper, and impatient of the cares and duties of life. The robber band of Abruzio shrunk away, of course, from the light of day, and concealed themselves in their caverns, while honest men went forth to their work and labor, until the evening. They were silent as the dead, fearing to attract the notice of the authorities, with whom they were in constant and declared hostility. Old Beatrice and Pepita had risen, and from one of them the young captives had learned that it was broad day. Pepita, the gypsy girl, had travelled, she said, over a great part of Europe, and instead of addressing Julienne and her companion in Italian, she spoke to them in English: "My companion has been called elsewhere," she said, "for an hour or two. The captain requires her services for some purposes in which his band is concerned. During her absence, refuse not to ask me for whatever you may desire. I and one other will watch over your comfort and safety. Be silent, and hope." Then she added- "I will prepare some tea for this sick English girl." She soon returned, with a large silver salver, containing a breakfast service which, as soon as the young girls saw, they burst into tears. It was the Lady Mountclare's, which she always carried with her in travelling. Pepita, in her eager desire to please, had chosen this service from among the spoils, little dreaming what cruel recollections the sight of these familiar objects would recall. Poor Amelia abandoned herself to grief -kissing every well-known article, and refusing the food which had been prepared for them. As soon as their breakfast was over, the gypsy again appeared, announcing the arrival of the lieutenant of Abruzio, who desired to wait upon them with a message from that chief. The curtain covering the entrance of the alcove was withdrawn, page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] and a young man, tall and finely formed; advanced, and, removing his gray, broad-brimmed hat, and bowing respectfully and courteously, he said,- "If the Signor Abruzio, my valiant chief, were here, he would deliver to you, better than I know how to say it, the message which he has commissioned me to give. Your family and friends, who are expecting your arrival in Naples, must know that you are in our power, and if they wish to see you, they have the infallible means of doing so. Abruzio, who never forfeits his word, has sworn with a solemn oath that he will restore you to your parents the day he shall find, at a place to be designated by him, the sum of thirty thousand ducats, the price of your ransom. Furthermore, he has sent by me -his lieutenant Joachimo- this crucifix. Join hands, and on your knees before this symbol, ask of Him who died upon the cross, that these conditions may be acceded to by your friends, and that your ransom may be promptly paid to our chief and master. Then, young ladies, you will be set at liberty, and you will be able to say that if the troop of Abruzio are robbers, they know how to protect the feeble, and to respect females." "Alas!" cried Amelia, "you have spoken of my parents. Have they not fallen by your hands?" "By my hands? No, lady. Murder is not my employment. I prepare an ambush, force gates, overleap ditches, scale walls, and relieve those who happen to be burdened with too much wealth, of the surplus, because I wish, in the spirit of justice and equity, to see riches equally distributed; but to assassinate, to spill the blood of old men, women, and children, is not at all to my taste: it is repugnant to my habits, as well as my nature, and would make me ill at heart. Were I to meet a man on the highway, my equal in strength and years, and he were to oppose me, I would strike him down as the hunter strikes the deer." Julienne remarked, while he was speaking, that the hands of the brigand were white and delicate, his fingers long and slender, and loaded with rings, page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] set with costly stones, indicating that no rude toil had ever been performed by him. Amelia was too much oppressed with grief to notice anything, and looked the very picture of suffering and hopelessness. Joachimo seemed touched with sorrow, and approaching her, he said:- "The confined and impure air of this subterranean abode aggravates your illness, my lady. It will do you good to go forth and inhale the fresh and balmy air of the morning under the old firs that grow above our heads. Let us hold council. You shall be the good genius of this place, and shall rule here. Pepita shall accompany you in your walks, and you will promise me that you will not attempt to escape, for, be assured, that it would be absolutely in vain. Have hope only in the ransom that is demanded. If that is paid, you are at liberty; but, otherwise, it cannot be possible for you to escape our watchfulness. Our pledges shall be exactly redeemed, and for myself, I think that your friends ought to be willing to purchase your ransom at any price whatever." At these words, there came upon the lips of Julienne the shadow of a smile of hope. In the dreams of her imagination, and in whatever she had heard or read of robbers and brigands, she had pictured them to her mind as men of savage ferocity, whose hands were stained with human blood, and their lips defiled with brutal and blasphemous language. She had not conceived that there could be in these lawless men any touch of compassion, any gentle feelings. And yet Joachimo stood before them in that rude cavern with a form and mien that might have belonged to a hero, and spoke to them with a gentleness, and refined courtesy, which would have graced a noble hall, or the prouder palace. page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] CHAPTER V. GOOD AND EVIL -THE HISTORY OF A GYPSY- JOACHIMO'S OATH. WHEN Joachimo had left the alcove and joined his companions in another part of the cavern, Julienne entreated Amelia to avail herself of the permission to leave the damp and chilly atmosphere in which they were confined, and to go out into the fresh, invigorating air of the forest. "Strength is necessary for us," said she, "for we have not reached the end of our trials, and, dear friend, that your mind may be able to bear what God may have ordained for us, it is necessary that your body should be able to withstand adversity." Julienne encouraged and assisted her pale and afflicted friend to dress for a walk, and calling the gypsy, she escorted them from their closely-curtained corner into the grand hall of the cavern. Here was gathered a large body of the bandits, with their companions and servants. But all was quiet and orderly. Some were lying upon mats, wrapped in mantles; others seated upon the boxes and trunks, which were placed in order against the wall; others, again, supported upon fragments of the rocks, and others armed, were standing talking with each other, in voices suppressed and low. There were old men there, with locks and beards like snow; young men of vigorous and active frames; gypsy girls, and children with flaxen hair. From this multitude arose a murmur of surprise and admiration at the sight of the young and beautiful captives, who really seemed, in that thronged cavern, and in the uncertain light shed from the lamps and torches, like two beings of a brighter sphere wandering among the lost. The bandits, both old and young, men and women, ranged themselves respectfully on either side, thus page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] opening a passage for them. If their words had been audible, these two girls would have heard loud praises of their beauty and grace as they passed along. But Abruzio had trained his followers to observe silence in the presence of strangers, and to avoid all demonstrations of interest or curiosity in what might be going on around them. Julienne cast her eyes around the vast subterranean hall, but could see nothing which indicated an opening or a passage to the light of day. On all sides her eyes were arrested by walls of gray rock, which rose fifteen or twenty feet above the floor, and bending inwards, formed a symmetrical arch, from which depended stalactites, resembling the tracery with which the architects of the middle ages ornamented so richly the naves of the churches. Julienne remembered that the approach to the cavern from without, was beneath one of the projecting giant rocks which she saw scattered over the purple heath, but how the entrance was closed, she could not divine. This cave being the receptacle and general depot of the numerous and formidable bands of Abruzio, the entrance was, of course, so contrived as to be invisible and out of the reach of discovery, except to the initiated. The gate was neither of iron, nor of bronze, but a huge rock had been so fixed and poised, that it opened with ease under the proper application of a single hand, and thus formed an entrance for men and plunder. When Julienne and her friend reached this mysterious gate, they were surprised to see the heavy mass of rock, which the united strength of an hundred men could not lift, move slowly from its place and give them egress. Scarcely had they passed beyond this singular portal, when they met the sweet and fragrant breath of morning, which seemed to these desolate young girls like a caress of heaven. It was no longer the chilly and damp atmosphere of the cavern, -it was no longer the pale light of the lamp or the resin torch,- it was the soft and odorous, and pure breath of nature page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] and the blessed light of day, and God's own smile on all inanimate things. When they had ascended to the plateau, and saw the white clouds and the blue sky over their heads, with spontaneous joy they fell upon their knees to pour forth their gratitude to Heaven. But there was bitterness mingled with this taste of joy. The air they breathed; the heavens they saw once more; the trees, the branches of which made harmonious music over their heads; the heath, enameled with flowers, on which they knelt; all these enchanting scenes were no longer known to those whom they best loved. It is when we are in the enjoyment of such bright blessings as these, that we most regret the absence of those we love; then it is that we feel most keenly the loss of those whom death has taken! Julienne and her companions, Amelia and Pepita, had not passed from the cave alone. Notwithstanding their promise that they would not attempt escape, Joachimo had ordered two of the men to follow them at a distance, but to keep concealed, so as not to interfere with their enjoyment of the walk, and their exercise of liberty. Amelia was too feeble and sad to go far. Reaching a mossy bank, near a little stream which bubbled up from the sand, and after a short distance disappeared among the heath, Julienne and Amelia seated themselves, while Pepita placed herself near them, and taking the feet of Amelia in her lap, she wiped from them the dew, and wrapped them in her scarf to make them warm. Thus sympathizing and caressing, she well divined that she inspired confidence in the bosom of the strangers, and that they would wish to know all she could properly tell them of their present condition and prospects. "We have now two hours of liberty," said she, "in which we can talk without constraint, and I can tell you many things. Then, first of all, we are expecting, to-day or to-morrow, our great chief, Abruzio. Old Beatrice has been sent to a neighboring village, in order to procure from the priest, by some means, if possible, certain documents which he possesses, and which are necessary page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] for the accomplishment of some grand scheme which is about to be undertaken. On her return, she will be occupied with preparations for a banquet to be made for Abruzio. She orders and superintends all such affairs. "It is necessary that you know, noble ladies, that for more than three years a price has been set upon the head of Abruzio, and no person among us has yet been tempted to betray him, though the reward offered is large. And yet, just now, our band is in a state of disquiet and uncertainty. The King of Naples has sent a body of troops into Calabria, to hunt out the brigands, and we believe that our chief will disperse the bands who acknowledge him as their leader, and break up the present organization till such time as they can combine again with safety. It is said that Joachimo will cross the Alps into France; and if he goes, I shall go also. He is not cruel and sanguinary, -as you may have learned from what he said this morning,- his heart is as noble as his form, and as good as his face is beautiful, and I love him, as a brother. He was not present at the attack in the valley of San Lorenzo, -oh no, he was not there, I assure you he was not; and you may look upon him without fear,- he has no blood stains upon his hands." "Pepita," said Julienne, "if what you say is true; if, before our ransom is received by Abruzio -if we do not regain our liberty before the dispersion of these men among whom you live, -obtain from Joachimo, over whom, I think, you hold control, the promise that we shall not be separated from you. Your kind and sympathizing attentions have gained the heart of my friend, and when our ransom does arrive, we will give you proofs of our gratitude and of our friendship." At these words the large hazle eyes of the beautiful Bohemian filled with tears, and a sweet smile glanced upon her coral lips. "Oh," said she, putting her hand into that of Julienne, "for one so unhappy as I am -for a daughter living so long from her home- for a poor brigand -your words are kind and sweet." page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] "How long have you been attached to this band?" asked Julienne of the young girl- "you have not certainly been long with them, for you could not have remained so compassionate and good among companions so gross and disorderly." "Alas, nearly two years," said Pepita, blushing. "Joachimo, who came from the same village, and whose father and mine lived side by side, was engaged in a sad affair, which led to his escape from home. He was the rival in love of the son of a wealthy neighbor. They fought, and the rich man's son was killed. I had played with Joachimo in our childhood, and he was called my brother, because we were as brother and sister to each other. He was forced to fly to hide himself, for with us, as elsewhere, the rich have power to avenge themselves on those they hate. Joachimo fled, and secreted himself in the neighborhood, and his parents and friends, each in turn to avoid suspicion, carried him nourishment, and whatever else he needed. My turn came with the others, and one evening I went with a basket of provisions to his place of retreat -a cave which the waves had worn in the rocky sea-shore. I found him sleeping on a bed of sea-weeds, which he had gathered and dried in the sun. "I had seen him in his days of happiness; I had danced with him at our village festivals; I had passed long evenings with him, listening to stories of outlaws and robbers, which the old people of the village related: indeed, my young years, in all their occupations and pleasures, were interwoven with his. Yet I never thought him so beautiful as he looked that evening. For some moments I dared not wake him, and seating myself upon the sand at the entrance of the cave, while the waves broke in murmurs at my feet, and the curlews uttered their plaintive cries, as they passed before me, skimming the waves, I then asked myself why he had not loved me more? wherefore the daughter of the rich man had charmed him more than the sister of his childhood? If it had only been me whom he had loved, he would have found no rivalry; there would have been no deadly en- page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] counter, and he, poor Joachimo, would not have been obliged to flee like a hunted man, and seek refuge in this wild and lonely place. "I fancy that in my pre-occupied mood I spoke aloud my thoughts, for Joachimo, suddenly awaking, said, 'Who calls me?' "His voice made me tremble, and turning my eyes towards the sea, in which the silvery light of the moon was reflected, I said, 'Joachimo, it is Pepita, thy sister, who comes to bring thee the food which thy mother has prepared.' Then he rose, and taking me by the hand, said, 'At this hour there is no danger for me, let us go and seat ourselves outside the cave, there where the moon and stars may shine down upon us from the heavens.' I seated myself beside him on the sandy beach gladly, for the growing obscurity of the grotto had made me sad and apprehensive, but now, having over our heads that glorious firmament, I listened without dread or fear to all he wished to say to me. "'For two nights,' said he, 'after my retreat to this place, I did not sleep, for when one has avenged himself, and shed the blood of his fellow; has been cursed by the family of his foe; driven from his home, and forced to seek refuge in secret and desert retreats, sleep comes with difficulty to close the eyes, and the spirit knows no repose. Then in my waking hours, I thought of our hamlet, of my parents and friends, and of you, Pepita.' "'Of me,' replied I, 'it was not of me you dreamed, but of Ambrosia, the beautiful girl who always wore in her shining black hair rich ornaments of gold, and diamonds in her ears.' "'Speak not to me of her,' said he, 'she is the cause of all my misfortunes. She it was who armed my hand, and kindled in me the fire of jealousy and the ardor of vengeance. If I had only listened to the first impulses of my heart towards you, if I had loved only you, my young and beautiful sister, -but my destiny is fixed.' "'Your destiny, Joachimo, what is it?' "'It has been fixed by the powers on high: it is necessary that I obey.' page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] "'That you obey -whom?' "'Fate and chance. The death of Pedro has placed me in their power. But let me explain to you, Pepita. During the long and painful nights which I passed without sleep, in the profound silence which enveloped my savage retreat, I heard the low sounds of oars breaking the surface of the calm sea. Going from my cave, I wished to ascertain who were these nocturnal voyagers, and through the darkness I perceived a group of men upon the shore, just landed from a long vessel, which lay at anchor at a little distance. At a given signal, a troop of men descended from the rocks, and a consultation was then held, which lasted for many hours; and as I was accustomed to the darkness, I was able to discover that an exchange was made of chests and boxes between the men from the rocks and the rovers of the sea. A ledge of rock running down to the water's age, and elevated several feet above the level of the beach, was the throne or chair of state, which was occupied by the commander of these bands -a man of great stature and of imperious mien. Around him were seated in a circle the whole assembled company. I saw all, but wishing to hear also, I passed silently from the cave, and keeping in the shadow of the rock, approached near enough to distinguish the words of the speaker. "'The subject of discourse was the new measures taken by the Neapolitan government against the brigands. They were more rigorous and severe than ever. They were no longer to employ native soldiers, but mercenary troops -regiments of the Swiss- who were charged henceforth to make war on the sons of independence and liberty -on the defenders of equal rights. "'You see, brave and valiant friends,' said the chief, slightly elevating his voice, 'our tyrants pursue us; and in order to hinder us in the equal distribution of wealth, they are obliged to hire strangers. This recourse to foreign influence -to the aid of soldiers not born on our native soil- does it not reveal all we wish to know? Does it not proclaim that the Neapolitan population is not hostile page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] to us? And wherefore is it that our own citizens are not our enemies? Is it not that in pursuing our work of equal division, we unite humanity with our daring, and clemency with success? "'It is well known, both in the villages and in the country, that our troops are as generous as they are valiant, and that blood is never shed except in the last extremity. We shall never be overcome by tyrants. Five thousand foreign soldiers have entered into the states of King Ferdinand, and are penetrating and spreading themselves among our mountains. It is necessary, then, to recruit from all parts, and to increase our ranks. All things around us are favorable to our success. Injustice everywhere weighs upon society. The oppresed and the spoiled, and all the discontented spirits of the times, and all who are struggling against tyranny, turn their eyes to us. Let us extend to them the hand, and say to those who groan, bending under the weight of despotism, -to those whom the foot of power has trodden to the earth- to those whom arbitrary laws have compelled to exile themselves from their own firesides -friends, come to us, and you shall find protection and vengeance!' "'I will come to you,' I cried, showing myself to the chief of the band. 'I am one of the unfortunate men. I am proscribed. I come to you, and like you, have need of liberty and vengeance. "'My sudden appearance, the words which I had pronounced with a loud voice, startled Abruzio -for it was he- and rising from his seat and advancing several steps towards me, he demanded:- "'Whence comest thou? Who art thou?' '"I am, I repeat, a proscribed man.' '"What hast thou done?' "'I fought with my rival, and killed him.' "'The cause of the combat?' "'Love.' "'He was thy rival?' "'Yes, my happy rival.' "'He was then rich, since justice pursued thee?' page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] "'His father is rich and powerful.' "'Oh, then, it is the order of things that justice should arm itself against thee. What seek you among these rocks?' "'A shelter.' "'And thou hast seen us come and disembark?' "'Yes; for since my exile from my aged mother, I have scarcely slept, and in the silence of the night the sound of your oars struck upon my ears. I watched your approach. I have seen, and heard, and understood all.' "'What, hast thou dared to listen to the deliberations of our council?' "'Yes, I heard the appeal made to the discontented and the compromised, and taking courage from your words, I revealed myself.' "'Then, since thou hast heard and understood our deliberations, thou art no longer thine own. You belong to us, for if you remain free, our projects may be discovered.' "'Reveal them; I will support them with my courage and my arms.' "'It is well. We will admit you among us when you have submitted to the test, and given proofs of your valor. If you show yourself worthy, by your zeal, your address, and your courage, to be one of us, you shall be received; if not, as you have our secret, you know we will not leave you your life: -the dead, alone, speak not.' "'The proofs which you require of me,' said I, 'shall not be beyond my daring. Tell me what I shall do, and it shall be done. Order, and you shall see that I obey.' "'Young man, thy language pleases me. But tell me from what country art thou? By thy accent, I recognize thee for a Calabrian; but from what part of Calabria?' "'From the village of Santa Maria, near the valley of Lorenzo.' "'Ah, it is a village that has furnished many good additions to my troop. The young men of that valley are vigilant, brave, and adroit in an attack. But listen. We are now to re-embark. page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] You will remain with ten of my men. They will conduct you to the Roche Percee, through which there is a passage to this port, -a rock which the hand of man has not elevated, neither can overturn. The waves of the sea have worn this narrow entrance, and made it a door to our dominions. To-morrow, or the day after, Count Toleno, minister of marine, under the escort of a company of cavaliers, will pass this way, to inspect the place, with a view to erecting a fort and lighthouse, which, if accomplished, will be greatly prejudicial to our interests, as well as to those of our brothers, the contrabandists. "'It is important that this man, our bitterest enemy, should not pass through this door, opening upon this wild solitude. We regard it as our own domain, and his project must not succeed. Luis Vampa will command the little troop which I leave, and which is composed of my most intrepid followers; and he will take care to place you where you can show what you are, and what you can do.' "'I thank your excellency for placing me at once among your most valiant men. This honor deserves my gratitude: may the occasion soon come to show it!' 'I had scarcely pronounced these words, when the chief drew from his vest a relique, suspended from his neck by a brilliant chain. With a solemn voice, he said, -holding it up before me,- 'Believest thou in the power of the great Saint Janvier?' I answered,- "'I believe in it as I do in my own existence.' "'Well, then, -swear upon this parcel of his bones, that of all thou hast seen; of all thou hast understood; of all thou knowest, thou wilt reveal nothing, not even when torture shall tear thy flesh from thy body, or the fire shall wither and consume thee; nor even when thy soul, exhausted by their torments, shall be ready to quit its mortal covering and appear at the tribunal above!' "'I swear it,' I replied, placing my hand upon the golden casket.' "When Joachimo reached this point of his his- page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] tory; when he spoke of his oath upon these relics of the patron saint of the kingdom, I shuddered as before a sacrilege. To me it was no less than sacrilege to take an oath over these holy relics which bound him to thieves, brigands, and assassins. "'Oh, Joachimo! Joachimo! what hast thou done!' I cried, bursting into tears. 'Thy friends will weep for thee; thy mother will die when she learns thy resolution. There will be no longer any person to love thee!' "'And wilt thou detest me, now that I have told thee all?' "Detest thee? Never!' "I wished to continue, but sighs stifled my voice, and it seemed that despair would break my heart. Joachimo, fearing the effect of his revelation, fell upon his knees, and holding my hands, kissed them, and watered them with his tears, saying, -'Pepita, that I may not be eternally lost, curse me not! The guardian angels, we are taught, never abandon the greatest sinners; not withstanding their crimes, they still remain near them. Oh Pepita, whom I have always loved as a cherished sister, if thou canst no longer preserve a friendship for me, at least retain in thy heart a spark of pity for the poor outcast. Now return to the village, to my mother and our friends. Take back the basket of provisions which they sent by your hands, and say to them, that entering the cave, you found it empty; that at the entrance you saw upon the sand this paper; then read to them this which I have written:- "'Be not disquieted on my account. I am safe beyond the reach of my persecutors. I will think of you always. Pray for me. Our separation may not be long. Think of me with affection and kindness.' "'You must give these lines, dear Pepita, to my mother, and you must swear that you found me not, neither in the cave, nor in the neighborhood.' "'You wish, then, Joachimo, that I shall, also, take an oath?' page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] "'Yes, and I am sure you will do what I ask. It is the only means of saving my life.' "'I will swear to anything you wish,' I cried, extending my hand to the friend of my childhood. 'May God forsake me, if I ever speak a word that shall put your safety in peril.' "'Dear Pepita, see the moon is already high in the heavens. The men with whom I am sworn to make the attack at the Roche Percee will soon be here, and I would not have them find you here. Let us part now. I will guide you as far as the cabin of Paoli, and he will conduct you to the village.' "My suspicions with regard to the character of these persons with whom Joachimo was associated were now fully confirmed. The name of Luis Vampa had often occurred in the stories of brigands which I had heard, and always with horror, and it was this same man who was now chosen by Abruzio to lead the attack upon the Minister of Marine. "Obeying, then, the command of Joachimo, and supported by his arm, we left the cave, and took our way towards the hamlet. My heart was torn, my mind was filled with fear and dark presentiments. I must leave him whom from childhood I had loved as a brother, and with those who gloried in the name of robber, -must leave him with these brigands, who have been meditating the great crime of murder this very night! "As you may imagine, in our walk to the cabin of Paoli, I made every effort, and used every argument, to induce him to return to the village with me, but all in vain. 'Honor,' he said, now bound him, as if duty had not done so before. "'I have taken the oath, I have pledged my faith,' repeated he. 'I belong to myself no more, but have devoted myself, body and soul, to Abruzio.' "'Before making that oath, thou hadst pledged thyself to God,' I said to him. 'It is to Him that you belong.' "'To God, yes, for eternity but for time, for my entire life, to Abruzio. Seek not,' added he, 'to make me fail in my duty to him. And re- page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] member, Pepita, that if I were to follow your counsels, and accede to your wishes, I should fall into the hands of my enemies, and from the prison I should pass to the scaffold.' "At these words, my blood froze in my veins. I could find no other arguments to induce him to return to the village, for I knew that his enemies were lying in wait for him. "At last we reached the cottage of Paoli, and then we said our last sad adieus. Then suddenly taking me in his arms, and pressing me convulsively to his heart, he said, 'Pepita, say not the word adieu; it is too sad. It is au revoir -goodbye till we meet again, that you must say,' and tearing himself from me, he walked away with hasty steps; and when at some distance, I heard again his voice, saying, 'au revoir, au revoir.' "'Henceforth how are we to meet?' I asked myself in ascending the aclivity on which stood the cabin of his friend. How might we ever find ourselves together again? Between us now I seemed to see chains, and the prison, the block, and the axe! "As I promised Joachimo, I related to Paoli that I had found the cavern empty, and showed him the written paper I had brought from the beach. "'He feared to be discovered,' said the old man, 'for the Swiss soldiers are now soon to occupy the country near his retreat. An officer of Marine has been ordered to establish himself at the Roche Percee.' "For the first time in my life, I was obliged to hide from my mother the truth, and from this time my life became a different one from all it had been before. From a bright life of joy and happiness, I entered now upon a saddened one. Silent and retiring from my companions, I had in my mind one fixed and constant thought, and on my heart a stifling weight. In church, when I wished to pray, the thought that he prayed no longer -that he had renounced his religious engagements, and attached himself to the chief of the robber tribe, extinguished all hope in my soul, crowded back my prayers, and kept them from rising up to heaven." page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] CHAPTER VI. THE ATTACK UPON THE VILLAGE -JOACHMO AND PEPITA- THE OLD MSER -ABRUZIO- THE COUNCIL -THE EMBARCATION AND VOYAGE- BROTHER ANSELM -THE CHEF'S WIDOW- THE STOLEN CHILDREN- CUNNING MAB. IN listening to the history of Pepita, Julienne and Amelia began to understand her character, and to know her worth. They learned that her heart was still fresh and pure, uncontaminated by the vices of those among whom they found her, and with whom she formed a striking contrast in most respects. As one of the most effectual means of dissipating our own sorrows, is entering into and sympathizing with the misfortunes of others, so the orphan Amelia, in listening to the narrative of Pepita, had felt less cruelly the horrors of her own situation. Julienne perceiving the effect of this recital upon her friend, begged the girl to continue her narrative, and relate to them how she had become connected with the band of Abruzio, and once more the companion of the bold Joachimo. "You remember, ladies," said Pepita, "that when Joachimo quitted me, his last word was au revoir. "In order to accomplish his purpose, one day in a council which was held soon after the expedition to the Rock, and the capture of Count Toleno, who was afterwards ransomed, Joachimo proposed an attack upon an old man named Hieronimo Banti, who was known as one of the richest proprietors of the neighborhood of San Lorenzo, and who for more than sixty years had been occupied in heaping up his gold in a subterranean passage of an ancient chateau, on the ruins of which his own house was built. 'There,' said Joachimo, 'our troops will find heaps of gold and silver;' and for the relief of their consciences, and to stimulate their zeal, he made them to understand that the wealth of the old miser and usurer had been amassed at the expense of the poor. page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] "The proposition of the new brigand, who, in the affair at the Roche Percee, had shown as much cool courage as sound judgment, and who had thus gained the spurs of knighthood, was agreeable to Abruzio. It was by the advice and through the istigation of Joachimo, that the troops took their way to our village. Oh, Joachimo almost merited malediction for counselling an attack upon his native place! But you will see that in acting thus, he had another end in view than that of filling the purses of the freebooters. As he could no longer live with his mother and with those he had loved from infancy, he compelled them to adopt a life which cruel necessity had driven him into, -a life culpable, without doubt, but which for a young man like him, thirsting for adventure, was not without its charm. "One night, then, Abruzio and his followers, excited by the love of gold as vultures by the thirst of blood, attacked the house of old Banti. They effectually secured their rich booty without staining their hands with blood, for Abruzio, having learned that his aged father was ill, had made a vow to be, during an entire month, compasionate and humane, and to spill no blood, if it could be avoided. He contented himself, therefore, with causing the miser to be bound with his two domestics, saying to the men who executed his orders:- 'In returning to the mountains, you will pass the Abbey of Charity, and you will leave at the gate of the holy house these three wicked Christians, and you will attach to their persons a note in my name, recommending them to the charity of the good fathers. And further, I have vowed to establish, with a part of the wealth taken from this old miser, four new beds at the hospital of St. Janvier, at Naples.' "While these things were passing with Banti, Joachimo, with a band of masked men, and himself disguised, having ordered his followers to harm no one, bore from our homes his mother and mine, with myself and my young brother. It will be two years on All Saints' Day since we were brought to this place. Our two aged mothers page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] wished to call down curses upon these marauders, but Joachimo knew how to obtain their pardon and mine, for he declared, with such simple earnestness, that he knew not how to live so far from those he loved, and as he could not remain with them, he had brought them here to be with him. "'The violence I have committed, in bringing you here,' said he, 'you will pardon, for it is in consequence of the love which I am commanded to cherish for such dear friends, and, therefore, I am sure it cannot be wrong.' "He added yet further, that among the list of those on whom their vengeance was to alight, was the name of my father, who had powerfully assisted in the arrest and subsequent execution of Antonio Abruzio, the elder brother, and predecessor of the present chief of the band. "'Without me,' said Joachimo to my poor mother, 'you would have been immolated during the attack: a cross of red chalk had been made upon your door, and the meaning of that cross was, Here it is necessary to exterminate all.' "And then Joachimo, though he was a robber, as a son showed himself so respectful and tender; displayed so much kindness and attention to my mother and myself, and to my brother Pedro, that we could never find in our hearts, nor bring our lips to utter a malediction against him. "My mother lived but a short time after she was brought here from the home and house where she was born, and where she had passed all her days. She was old and infirm, and she gradually relaxed her hold upon this world, and passed away to a better, for which she had long been waiting. In her last moments, she placed her hand upon the head of the 'good brigand,' as she called Joachimo, and said,- "'You have been careful and kind to me and to my daughter and son, -you have been tender and respectful towards your mother, who reared you in the ways of goodness, and I invoke for you the blessing of Him who said, 'Honor thy father and mother.' Joachimo, when one stands, as I do, on the verge of the other world, the future is page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] sometimes unfolded and revealed. I see, through those mists which are gathering over my fading sight, what will happen to you. You will not remain as you now are, but you will return to the safer and happier path which you trod in early youth.' "I have strong hopes that this prediction uttered by my mother, in my hearing, will be realized." Pepita had reached this point in her narrative, when a confused noise was heard of horsemen advancing through the heath and undergrowth of that wild and savage place. At the sound, the gypsy rose and went forward a short distance; but soon returned, saying,- "It is the chief Abruzio himself who has arrived, and we shall soon receive orders to return to the cavern." It was not so, however; they still remained undisturbed. Abruzio descended into the cave, and the mysterious door swung to its place again. A council was then held in the great hall of the cavern, to which were admitted thirty of their number, most renowned for their prudence, judgment, and energy. They were, in fact, the aristocracy of these dark regions, the cabinet and privy council of the great chief. During the long sitting of this conclave, the glade was animated by the recreations and sports of those who had been excluded from their deliberations. Among the younger part of the band, was one who, by his feats of strength and agility, and by his grace, surpassed his comrades. He seemed as if playing yet in his native meadows, with his familiar companions. His appearance was modest, and there was nothing in his manners of rudeness or savage boldness, which one might expect to find in such associations. The sun of Calabria had not burned his fair locks, nor browned his cheeks, and his voice was still sweet and melodious, as he chanted the wild mountain song. At the close of one of the dances, the young lad brought to Pepita two large bouquets of wild hyacinths and roses, and said to her,- "Thy hand is whiter than mine; offer these to the two ladies; from you they will not refuse them." page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] Then he bounded away like a young fawn, and mingled again in the sports of his companions It was Pedro, the beautiful young brother of Pepita. What was discussed and resolved upon in the council, no one not admitted to its secrets ever knew, but ten days afterwards one part of the band repaired, with all their baggage, during the night, to the borders of the sea. There, riding at anchor, some rods from the shore, was a ship waiting to transport these troops away. Among these men there were very few of those whom the great chief was accustomed to employ in perilous adventures; those who were to embark represented not the strength of the band, but those who were noted for their address, and skill, and cunning. The veteran bandits were not there; the men of athletic forms, whose muscles had been hardened into steel by exercise, whose visages were browned by exposure, and marred with the scars of many encounters, and whose air and bearing were ferocious and arbitrary. They were the young men and women; the brave, and hardy, and careless young adventurers, whose nonchalant air and attitude reminded one of the lazzaroni, whose unobserving indolence, and careless disregard and improvidence of all beyond the present moment, would attract the eye of the painter, who would find in their easy attitudes models of grace and poetic beauty. Two old men and some matrons, among whom was Beatrice, had been selected by Abruzio as the guides and managers of this singular company of Zingari, Gypsies, and Bohemians. Except Joachimo, not one of the more distinguished of the band was allowed to join this expedition. Above the wide plane of waters, far away in the east, was seen a silvery line of light, announcing the coming day. At this moment, escorted by a company of men, there approached a friar, wearing the garb of the Capuchins. Soon Abruzio himself appeared upon the beach, and standing apart from the rest, he called Joachimo and Beatrice aside, and gave them secret instructions in regard to Julienne and Amelia, who were to go with page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] them, and when all was ready they embarked and set sail. Julienne, who, by her courage and hopefulness, sustained the sad and suffering Amelia, and, with the assistance of Pepita, supported her on board, saw with surprise that the white-bearded Capuchin was to be of their company on the voyage. She had learned from Pedro, that in one of his expeditions Abruzio had pillaged a convent of Capuchins, and had brought away the steward, a simple lay brother, who, by good humor, and a faculty of making himself useful as well as agreeable, had become very popular in the community. This man had been promised by the chief, that he should be set at liberty as soon as he should disclose the place where their treasure was hidden,- a treasure which was known in the traditions of the country as the "Purse of St. Francis." Now, as there was no treasure to be disclosed, and no revelation of hidden wealth to be made, the deliverance of the good brother never came. Anselm, for that was his name, consoled himself by the good which he sought to do among the depraved men with whom he was condemned to live; and truly, if the holy man succeeded not in bringing them into the ways of virtue, he arrested and checked them many times on the road to crime, and as other servants of God before him have attained to sanctity in prisons and in the galleys, so it was his to seek a like perfection among a band of robbers. With his genial and benevolent character, he was never very severe, except toward himself, and showed himself towards all others benevolent and compassionate. His words were rarely bitter or hard, and when he addressed himself to the most perverse and culpable, his rebukes were always softened with charity. By such tolerant treatment, enforced by his pure and edifying example, he diffused among those unhappy creatures who surrounded him, the seeds of repentance and reformation. The proud and imperious Abruzio, wrapped in his black mantle, and with his broad hat drawn page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] over his face, rode down to the extremity of the strand. The white-crested waves struck the feet of the noble steed on which he was mounted. As the men passed before their chief to embark, he waved his hand, and courteously bade them good-by. But when the Lady Amelia Mountclare approached, leaning on the arm of Julienne, he bowed gracefully and respectfully, saying, "Your ransom, my lady, has not been deposited as I stipulated, in the place I have indicated: consequently, I cannot give you freedom; but, owing to the unsettled state of this country, by which our affairs are rendered uncertain, and also to the entreaties of Joachimo, and the girl Pepita, of whom I have learned how much you suffer, and how nobly you bear your misfortunes, I have determined to send you back to your friends." Then calling the brother Anselm, and presenting him to her, he added,- "I have given to this man, who is bound to me by oath, my instructions with regard to you. Your family and friends are on the other side of the water. He goes to seek them out, and if they fulfil the conditions imposed, you will be set at liberty, and also your beautiful friend. Of both of you, then, I ask prayers for Abruzio, who will not soon forget you." The boat then pushed out from the shore, and thus they parted from their captor, who turned and rode off towards the mountains. As they stood on the beach, they had scarcely noticed the scattered troops, but when they were all embarked together, men and women, old and young, Julienne and Amelia shuddered at finding themselves in contact with such a motley company, -Zingari, vagabonds without a home, a country, a shelter, without morals, and almost without God. The good Anselm seemed to understand their thoughts, and divining their terror, came and seated himself near them, in the forward part of the vessel. Amelia, like all English people, breathed with pleasure the air of the sea; for to them it is the air of their homes. She beguiled the moments by watching the crested waves glittering in the first page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] rays of the sun, while the curlew and the halcyon were skimming along the surface, sometimes rising a little from the water, and again settling down to be carried along by the waves. Julienne was, also, charmed with this grand spectacle of the sea. Born in the little hamlet of Saules, she had seen the sun rising over the rivulet which flowed through the meadows, beside which she had watched her flock. She had also seen the grand luminary shining over the laughing plains of Tuscany, and the magnificent bay of Naples, and gild with his glorious rays the monuments of Florence, of Rome, and of Paestum; but now she felt her heart overflowing with more than human love, and stirred with strange emotion, as she witnessed this dawn of day from the ocean bed. These sublime scenes of nature bear to the most desolate soul a wonderful power of calming its human passions; and these captives of Abruzio, though surrounded by the roughest and most abject of our species, wept less bitterly. Before so much beauty, and serenity, and purity, the aspect of the whole scene immediately around them was subdued, and even the wild, wandering band of the Zingari seemed to feel the influence of the hour and the scene. What were their feelings it would be difficult to define, but perhaps God, in his great goodness, accepted them as a prayer. The wind was propitious, the heavens serene, and the waves, gleaming and sparkling in their own beauty, shone like the green and flowing robe of Venus, as she emerged from their bosom. In answer to the questions of Julienne, the pilot said that in the course of a few days, the land would be in sight, and their voyage ended. "And what country shall we reach?" asked Julienne. "That is a secret of Abruzio's," replied the pilot, "and as no man who betrays a secret survives the indiscretion, it will be well, my lady, not to reply to your question." But Pepita, with her usual address, had discovered that they were bound for some port in the page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] west, whither their chief, Abruzio, was soon to repair, to be present at the election of a new Waidda, or supreme chief of the Bohemian tribes. In every part of the globe, the Zingari, gypsies, fortune-tellers and jugglers -an immense nation scattered ever all the earth- had received orders to send deputations to elect a successor of the crafty and terrible Bensam, who had long presided over these wandering people. It was, then, towards England that this portion of the brigands were directing their course. It would be impossible to detail all the incidents of the voyage. The fair weather, however, did not continue, but tempestuous days soon followed, and the passengers, so laughing and light-hearted, so gay and turbulent, trembled and grew pale, as the angry waves dashed the vessel hither and thither, while the rolling thunder and the gleaming lightnings added to their terror. Those whose lives are passed in forgetfulness of religious duties, are generally most timid in times of peril. The fear which the gypsies felt was excessive, and the good brother Anselm had employment enough in going among them, administering consolation, and cheering them with hopes of safety. Joachimo and Pepita, with her brother and the two English girls, formed a group themselves apart as far as possible from the others, whose terrors and sufferings they could not relieve. In a bay near Holy-Head, the ship was driven ashore. Instead of landing quietly and secretly during the night, as Joachimo had been instructed, they were forced to abandon the vessel, and reach the land by means of boats and rafts, as best as they could. Here at last gathered this motley crowd, all in safety. They who in their hours of idleness had danced and sung, and in the fury of the storm had trembled, and wept, and prayed, now became mad with joy the moment they trod the land again. "To us, to us," said they in their songs, "belong the broad fields and the village lanes; to us, the farms and the hedge-rows, and the old ruins; to us, the rich and the poor; to us, all the broad page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] earth, where we may roam, and enjoy, and explore. "Young boys, be ye agile, and cunning, and hardy; let your language be enticing, your minds acute, and your hands ready. "Young girls, gather the flowers of the heath and of the meadow, the wild poppy and the blue-bell of the field, and weave garlands for your heads. Learn to read in the hard and callous hand, as well as in the white and soft, the signs of the future, and promise, to those who wish to know what destiny the future will disclose, great riches and happiness. Under the moon, and under the sun, in the cities and in the fields, in the forests and in the plains, in the palace and in the hut, on the firm earth and on the bounding billows -wherever we find restlessness and curiosity- wherever there is need of hope -let us go there and sell our secrets of the future to grief and to credulity." While chanting these rude songs, repeated from generation to generation among these wandering children of the earth, the young men and women joined hands and dancing, encircled an ancient stone of the Druids, where the priestess of that old superstition once uttered her predictions, mingling her observation of the stars with the cry of the raven, and reading the future in her leaves of fate. Two or three days after their arrival, Joachimo had an interview with the widow of Bensam, the late king of the Zingari. After this, he marked out to the company the bounds beyond which they were not to pass, and within which he gave them permission to occupy themselves in such ways as suited their habits and tastes. They were to take care not to render themselves obnoxious to the people living near their encampment, and were strictly charged to commit no depredations upon their property. Such wandering tribes are common in all parts of England, and excite little observation, unless where they are guilty of encroachments upon property. In the secluded neighborhood of Holy-Head their camp was undisturbed, page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] while they confined themselves within the limits which Joachimo had prescribed. A few weeks after their arrival, Anselm, at the solicitation of Julienne, left them, and set out on his way to London to seek there the relatives of Amelia, and to make arrangements for her ransom. Before his departure, a package of letters was given him by Joachimo, addressed to the father and mother of Amelia. These letters were from their friends and relatives at home, written at various times while the Mountclare family were travelling on the continent, and they afforded, therefore, the means for discovering such persons as would be interested in the release of the Lady Amelia. The good Anselm, having been the steward of the convent, had evidently occupied himself with the secular affairs of the brotherhood more than with the study of theology and morals, and he believed himself bound by the oath which the robber chief had exacted from him. He had pledged his faith never to give intelligence whereby he or any member of his band could be discovered, and if ever employed in arranging the ransom of any one whom they held captive, to execute with exactness every article of the stipulation. By this oath alone his life had been spared, and nothing could tempt him to break it. Such was the man who was charged with the business of finding the friends of Amelia Mountdare, who would interest themselves in procuring her liberty. How he would succeed in his mission, was uncertain. Julienne was alarmed for her friend's health, and would see no obstacle in the way of her release. In the midst of so many vicissitudes, privations and dangers, the malady of Amelia had made frightful progress. Through the kindness of Joachimo and Pepita, a comfortable place had been secured for these two young girls in the hut of the widow of the Gypsy king. From the appearance of this house, it was evident that the deceased Waidda had amassed but little wealth. Some cabalistic signs, which the eye of the uninitiated could not comprehend, were the only ornaments of the walls of her chamber, and the room in page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] which the widow received her visitors, who came to consult her, was equally unornamented and bare of furniture. To Julienne and Amelia the adventures of the Gypsy queen were a subject of interest and curiosity. In her narratives, there was a singular mixing up of great and dignified with low and vulgar events; of evil actions and of generous sentiments, and a sort of virtue teaching vice. In all her conversations, the name of God was never pronounced; and if she acknowledged a superior power, it was Fate. Her code of morals was to take from others whatever she had need of, and at the same time to give, whenever the hand of the unfortunate was stretched out to her. The gypsy king had chosen this woman, known by the name of Cunning Mab, to be his wife and queen, particularly because she excelled in one branch of thieving, that of picking up children. The number of children of wealthy parents whom she had brought to the camp, was almost beyond belief, and many a home was made desolate by her. This kind of theft, the most cruel and horrible of all others, the gypsy queen had been made most severely to expiate. Of the three boys and four girls whom she had borne, not one remained to her. They had all been strong and healthy in their infancy, and had grown up, beautiful as the flowers of the meadow, till near the age of five, when they were seized, each one in turn with an unknown malady; the color faded from their cheeks, and they became languid; the brightness of their eyes faded, their intellects were darkened, until at last they ceased to recognize even the mother who had fondly nourished them at her own breast; and so they died. The wretched mother, who had broken the hearts of so many parents, and caused so many tears to flow, was inconsolable for the loss of her own children. The darkest and most insupportable sorrow is that which is born of remorse; which shuts out from the soul every ray of gladness and of joy. There was something savage in Mab's grief. She wore, at all times, around her neck, a page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] collar, ornamented with the small teeth of her children. Notwithstanding Bensam had filled her casket with diamonds, and pearls, and precious stones, she would not wear them, but preferred this strange memento of mourning and grief. At all times, whether in her solitary walks, in desolate places, or seated at her hearth-stone, or watching from the door the clouds sailing through the heavens like ships on the seas -she had with her seven gray doves, with a black circle round their necks, which seemed to represent to her the seven children whom she had borne and buried. The gypsies live in profound ignorance of the Christian religion, and those who have studied their habits and characters most closely, and know them most intimately, have in vain sought to discover among them traces of any religion whatever. It appears, indeed, that they believe in the existence of the soul after death, but all their ideas of God and immortality are confused and indistinct. Mab would often call her doves to her, and fondle them as if they were her children. She would talk to them in a strange, wild way: "My doves," she would say, "my darlings, whom I love as my children, you are welcome, you who perched upon their cradles, and to whom they extended their little arms. Ah, you were with them in their last hours, and bending over their pale lips, inhaled their souls. Poor gentle creatures, you have ravished me of my children, whom I would have protected with care and affection. O my children, I seek you -I seek you everywhere! I go up upon the mountain; I descend to the valley; I hasten over the heath-clad hills; I penetrate into the darkest shadows of the forests to find you; but I see you not, oh darling children! "I ask of the flowers which open in the morning, and of those that close at evening, if your spirits dwell with them; but neither the flowers which shut their chalices at night, nor those which scatter their perfume upon the breath of morning, reply to my demand. page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] "But you, gentle turtle-doves, when I caress you, and kiss your rosy beaks, while thinking of my sons, you reply to me by your sad moanings. I believe that the souls of my children are animating you, and when I hear you complaining, it is my children who speak to me through you. "When the little bird comes to provide for itself, it finds in the fields many bitter grains. You, poor children, if you had over-lived your infancy, might have found your wayfaring as barren and desolate as mine. Dear and cherished doves, guard well, I beseech you, the souls of my infants, -fly with them among the most beautiful flowers, and rest in the coolest shades. Make them happy as they are, that they may never wish to return to this vale of tears. Bring them to me only in my dreams, that I may see them again in their beauty." In such wild strains as these did the weird mother bewail her lost infants. Julienne and the lady Amelia felt a singular interest in her, and resolved that they would seek, in every way, to enlighten her mind with the truth, that she might receive such consolations as her case demanded. Preoccupied with this thought, Amelia said one evening to Mab, when she saw her surrounded by her doves, talking to them and caressing them:- "Like you, I love these beautiful doves, and it gives me pleasure to observe their graceful movements, and to listen to their plaintive moanings. Have a care for them, caress them, and cherish them, since they were dear to your children. But do not believe that the spirits of your loved ones, who were called away to heaven, were arrested and shut up in the bodies of these birds. No, young children are brothers to the angels, and when they die the ministering spirits which God placed near their cradles, spread their wings and mount up to the abode of the Creator, bearing with them, as an invisible flame, the souls of the dead." "I am not a Christian," said the Gypsy Mab, "and I know not what I worship. My father and my mother taught me no religion, and I know of no God. But when my first born child, at the age page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] of four years, began to wither like an autumn flower, one of the women of our company told me that to restore him, and to bring back his smiles, it was necessary to pour upon his head the waters of baptism. That woman was a Christian woman, and she performed the ceremony; for my love taught me to believe that she said the truth. But, unhappy mother that I was, -your Christian baptism availed nothing. It was tried upon all, but one after another, they all passed away, and left me desolate and sorrowful, -with no comfort in this life and no expectation or hope of anything beyond." "We have," said Julienne, "no other way to comfort those who mourn for their dead children, than to say that the Saviour has opened to them an eternal abode with the angels, and that He himself has said, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not.' If you would rejoin your lost children, far away beyond the clouds which are floating above us -far beyond the sun and the stars, -you must believe in God, and worship Him, -that God who alone is our support in sorrow and captivity." "Ah!" replied the gypsy queen, "when I can be persuaded of the truth of your words, -when I shall see opening before me the way leading to my children, then your worship shall be mine, and your God mine also." page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] CHAPTER VII. THE INSPIRED DAUGHTER -THE FOREST OF GLENMORE- ELECTION OF THE GYPSY CHEF -THE SONG OF THE BOHEMIANS -ADONAI AND JANIE. IF you plant the simple field flower near the queen of our gardens, the daisy of the meadows will imbibe the perfume of the rose. So with Pepita and her friend Joachimo, who being much in the society of Julienne and Amelia, and listening to the instructions which they gave to Mab in the Christian faith, they comprehended and took in something of the purity of its doctrines, and became day by day more impressed with the truths which they had learned early in life, but which they had sadly neglected. More than once they formed the resolution to break from their present wicked associates, and return to a life of repentance and virtue. Julienne employed the long days of her captivity in composing and arranging music which she sung in Italian, -the language spoken by most of the band,- and with so much soul that it touched the hearts of all who listened to her. Hers was a song of admiration, called forth by the wonders of creation and love for the Creator. Morning and evening, and often in the calm hours of the night, the poetic daughter of the little hamlet of Saules was heard, accompanying herself on a guitar which Joachimo had provided for her. At the sound of her voice the gypsies would cease from their conversation or amusements, and crouching around Julienne, they would listen with an interest which would soon pass from silent enjoyment into loud applause. The hearts of the wild wanderers seemed touched and softened under this influence. Two months had scarcely passed since they landed here, but even in that space of time many of them had become interested in the teachings of these young girls, and their characters essentially improved, for the present at least, under their influ- page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] ence. Especially was it so with Pepita and Joachimo, and with old Beatrice, and others who were most brought together under their direct influence. Since the departure of brother Anselm, the company had greatly increased in numbers. They arrived by various routes, and generally at night, avoiding the high roads and the light of day. They came from Scotland and Ireland, and even from Sweden and Denmark. During the six months which had elapsed since the death of the old king, ships touching at the English ports seldom failed to land some individuals or families of the great tribe of the Zingari, or Gypsies. The election of a king of this nation -a nation without a country, who had taken the title of "Children of space, of the air and of liberty" -was the great event which drew together such numbers from all the scattered tribes. The late Waidda had under him prefects and subprefects, by whom the notice of his death had been transmitted faithfully, though silently as the footsteps of the night, to the remotest wanderers. Finally, as the day of the election drew near, there were arrivals from London and the provinces, from the villages and the country. To those who are accustomed to see men alone engaged in political affairs, this assemblage of families would seem a novel sight. Matrons, and young girls, and children crowded the heath-clad hills around Holy Head, -wandering parties who traversed the length and breadth of the island, without soiling their feet with the dust of its highways, or sleeping beneath a roof of its countless households. A vast glade in the forest of Glenmore was the place where the election was to be held, and the summit of a scraggy rock, encircled by immense fir trees which had stood for centuries, was the throne sacred to the vagabond king. For this grand ceremony, the preparations were neither long, nor sumptuous, nor imposing. The young men had prepared the glade by removing every impediment to the formation of three entire circles around the rocky throne, com- page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] posed of all the gathered tribes, old men and women, young men, girls and children. To break this triple chain was an ill omen. The chief elect was to be seated upon the rock, while three of the wisest and most prudent of the old men, standing at the base, examined his qualifications for the office. The new chief was not to be selected from among the aged, for to a nation never at rest, a ruler is necessary who possesses all the vigor of life. A gypsy king is never expected to die in his bed, but to be ready to encounter perils and endure hardship and wandering, until accident or sudden death in some form, shall close his reign. The aspirant for this office is obliged to make a full and unreserved statement of his whole manner of life -his wiles and deceptions; his thefts and cunning; his revenges and his cruelties; -all things that Christian society repels and condemns and punishes, took the place, in the estimation of the gypsies, of morals and probity, and were reckoned as qualities of distinction and eminence among them. This beautiful glade in the forest of Glenmore now presented a singular scene. Young girls were there, with their large black eyes; their rich glossy black hair flowing over their shoulders; their parted lips displaying the brilliant whiteness of their teeth; their necks, arms, and feet naked; and so light and airy in the dance, that the purple heath scarcely bent under their tread. The dance itself was wild and bewildering in its mazes, and the music to which they kept time not less bewildering and enervating. As these Bohemians were wanderers in all lands, so had they learned the popular music of all nations, and there were collected in this strange assembly all kinds of musical instruments; the horn, the harp, the guitar, and the flute; the shrill fife and the noisy tambourine; the harsh bagpipes, and the cymbals, whose clang was like the Chinese gong. These combined songs produced a powerful effect, and excited a delirium of enthusiasm. As the young danced and sang, the old caught something of their maddened spirit, and shouted out their applause. page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] Each family had their silver goblet, which passed from hand to hand, filled with intoxicating drinks. They drank freely, but not to the worst excesses. They say that intoxication is madness, the death of the soul; but exhilaration is the inspiration of the spirit which quickens its energies and prepares them for the encounter with the greater exigencies of life. After a while, the music and dancing ceased, and a bugle, which had belonged to the late king, was put into the hands of a young brigand by one of the three judges. The bugle sounded three calls, the summons to the election. At this signal, the candidates for the vacant place advanced towards the throne. Among them was a noble-looking young man, of vigorous frame and graceful carriage, who, at the close of the dance, had seated himself upon a bank of moss beneath the pines, while a young woman, who placed herself beside him, said,- "Adonai, do you wish to become king?" "Since my first recollection, it has been my only aim and aspiration. All that I have ever done has been with a view to this." "But to know if you merit this distinction, the judges will ask of you an account of all you have done." "That I well know." "And will you declare all?" "Yes." "What, reveal all?" "My duty is to hide nothing. I shall say all." "Ah, you will not speak of the agony and despair of my mother; you cannot tell of the curses of my old father, when they found how you had abused their hospitality! Adonai! Adonai! I conjure you, speak not of us." Saying these words, the poor girl fell upon her knees, weeping and sighing, and endeavoring to detain the Bohemian. The bugle sounded a second time. Then the young man pushed her rudely away, and in so doing the head of the poor girl struck against the tree, and from the wound thus made the blood flowed copiously. Adonai seemed page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] not even to hear her fearful cry of pain, but advanced with perfect coolness and self-possession towards the judges. Surrounded with stars like a queen in the midst of her court, the moon was shining in the azure depths of heaven, and her tranquil light contrasted strongly with the lurid torches and the restless agitation of that strange assembly, in the midst of which stood the rocky throne, conspicuous in the blaze of the illumination. The candidates for the black wand of the Waidda were seen crossing the glade, and as they approached, the confused murmurs of the multitude, died into a silence so profound that the rustling of the leaves in the treetops might be distinctly heard. When these aspirants for Gypsy royalty approached the judges, the elder arose and required them to proclaim all they had done to merit the distinction which they sought, telling them to lay aside the lying tongue, and to speak the truth, for they were surrounded by those who knew them, and could detect any falsehood. We will not speak minutely of the revelations made by these men to support their pretensions to the sovereignty -pretensions based on deeds of injustice and crime, recounted and enumerated in the presence of the multitude, with the utmost boldness and impudence. It would be too long and shameful a history to narrate all that was said that night under the old trees of Glenmore. The candidates boasted and gloried in their crimes of falsehood and robbery, of cupidity and deceit, of every selfish and vicious principle put in action, whenever they, as individuals, or as members of a community of brigands and vagabonds, could be profited. They were examined by the elders, each in turn, and as no one exhibited himself in his life and revelations, so false, so adroit, so successful in deceits, so hypocritical, so ungrateful and so criminal, in short, as Adonai, he was pronounced by the judges the leader and king, and the baton of power, which, since the death of Bensam had been concealed in one of their caverns, was placed in his hands. When he received this symbol of sovereignty, page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] loud acclamations rose from the crowd, which, combined with the crash and the confused sounds of the musical instruments, scared the raven from his nightly perch in the tree tops, and as it flew it mingled its harsh croaking with the unearthly din which arose from the glade, and on the mountain of Glenmore, from its base to its summit, every living creature awoke -the fox in his burrow, the owl in the crevice of the rocks, and the little bird in its mossy nest. The newly-elected king was invited by the judges to take his seat on a couch formed of branches of the trees, covered with a brown mantle, and ornamented by female hands with ribands and wild flowers. This constituted the whole pomp and ceremony of the coronation of the Gypsy chief. Adonai, receiving at the altar a true crown, could not have been more proud; his heart could not have palpitated with greater joy, than when he ascended to his place among the elders. In his unbounded love of independence and hatred of restraint, he repeated to himself, "I shall obey no longer; I shall command others;" and at this thought his eye beamed with a fierce joy, like that which Satan felt when he commanded the demons of the abyss. To increase the proud exultation of the new chief, the young men and women around him chanted the song which they had learned from their forefathers, while the voices of the whole multitude joined in the refrain, and swelled the wild chorus. "King of the night! child of the shade! thou hast received the black baton of the Waidda, and we, who wish to obey no other power, will obey thee. King of the night! child of the shade! we hail thee king. "We have chosen thee, young, active, and strong, that thou mayest better deceive those whom thou wishest to overcome and despoil. Thy arm is strong, go, break the iron fetters; thy soul is crafty, go, deceive thine enemies. "King of the night! child of the shade! we hail thee king! "They have placed kings on thrones, magis- page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] trates in cities, judges in the tribunals, jailors in the prisons, and executioners on the scaffold; all these tyrannies have been created to make man a slave; but thou, newly-elected, we have chosen thee to fight against our enemies. "King of the night! child of the shade! we hail thee king! "The day is for others; the night for us. The night is the mother of great deeds; she is ready to conceal those who seek deliverance and enfranchisement. Freedom shall come to us at last, and then the sun will shine for us also. Be thou cunning as the fox; by-and-bye thou shalt be terrible as the lion. "King of the night! child of the darkness! we hail thee!" While they were singing this wild chant, the Gypsies left the forest. Their march was illuminated by torches, which they held aloft, and waved and shook in order to keep alive their lurid fires, and to scatter the sparks around them. In passing near a tree which the lightning had blasted, Adonai saw a woman stretched upon the ground, and in the full tide of joy and triumph his heart was suddenly wrung with remorse. It was Janie, she who wished to prevent the revelation of such crimes in his past life as related to her own family; the unhappy woman whom he, in the delirium of his ambition, had repulsed and wounded. "Stop!" cried he to the men who were bearing him along in triumph- "Stop!" His voice had already learned the accent of command, and his new subjects obeyed. Adonai, descending from the litter on which he was seated, placed himself beside the prostrate girl. But from the loss of blood she had become cold, unconscious, and motionless. All pale and inanimate as she was, Adonai lifted her in his arms, and placed her by his side on the litter, and then ordered the triumphal march to proceed. And thus they encircled three times the Gypsy throne. But the aspect of the company was suddenly changed. The motionless girl, over whom the newly-chosen chief was bending, gave to the procession something of page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] a funeral appearance, and the old gypsies shook their heads, saying among themselves,- "It is as though death had come to the feast; Adonai will not be prosperous and happy." Before the ceremonies of the coronation were finished, the moon had kissed the horizon, and the stars were extinguished in the heavens. Janie at last recovered, and found herself alone with Adonai. Solitude and silence once more reigned in the forest; the sounds of the dance and songs were hushed, and the wandering children of the night were fast locked in the arms of sleep. The good brother Anselm had hastened his departure for London, in order to avoid being present at the ceremony of the election; but Julienne and Amelia were forced to remain and witness the wild scene. Joachimo and Pepita had said to them,- "You are now in our secret, and that your influence may increase, as you wish, over these tribes, with whom you may be obliged to remain for some time yet, it is necessary for you to be present at the election. It is our great festival, the most imposing ceremony, as well as the most important event, which ever occurs amongst us." Mab, the widow of the late king, who had also become much interested in these young ladies, also entreated them to go with them to the forest and witness the ceremonies. All strange and wild as were these proceedings, they served to alleviate the profound grief of the Lady Amelia, and to furnish to the poetic mind of Julienne subjects of interesting and grave speculation. They were both greatly moved at the bad treatment which the poor Janie received from Adonai, and especially when they saw him conveying her lifeless in the triumphal procession. When the ceremonies were over, they begged Mab to invite Janie to their cabin, with the double purpose of consoling her grief, and teaching her, if she should be willing to receive it, Christian truth. She promised to comply with their wishes, and told them something of the sad history of the beautiful girl in whom they felt such interest. Among the Gypsies Janie was called the "beauti- page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] ful weeper;" for from the day she was brought into the company, she was rarely seen to smile. According to the regulations and laws which governed them, each member must become useful, performing some duty which shall add something to the common stock. Janie possessed a fine voice and a talent for music. The chief had instructed her that she was to make herself useful by singing at fairs, markets, and village fetes, for her beauty and her charming voice would not fail to draw crowds around her, which would afford the others opportunities for fortune-telling and other means of gain. But the poor girl, remembering her childhood's home, and the manner in which she had been torn away from it, could never command herself so as to sing a single song. Tears and sighs stifled her voice, and she would be obliged to break off at the end of the first verse. Then Adonai would reproach her with eating their bread without contributing by her own exertions to pay for it. Sometimes, too, he would beat her cruelly. The pale and beautiful Janie would then reply to him,- "I could be useful if I might apply the knowledge and skill which I acquired from my mother in aiding the poor and healing the sick. When young, I went often with her among the rocks along the coast, to gather the gray moss and the healing lichens; and sometimes in the meadows and on the river banks, to collect the simple remedies which Providence has distributed for all, by which their maladies may be healed. If the care of the sick and suffering in our company were confided to me, then you would no longer reproach me, Adonai, for being useless." Since that day Adonai has obtained for his victim employment as nurse for the sick. "If it should be my fortune to remain among you," said Amelia, "if Anselm should not succeed in procuring my liberty, I would wish, with Julienne and the poor girl Janie, to be employed in dressing the wounds, and in healing and comforting the sick, for, you understand, that to know how to feel for the sufferings of others, it is necessary ourselves to have suffered. The healing bal- page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] sam never flows from the tree until its bark has been wounded. "When you know the sweet spirit over which Adonai tyrannizes," replied Mab, "you will find that she deserves compassion, for griefs of all kinds have fallen upon her." Amelia and Julienne heard with interest all that Mab related of the history of Janie, and they thought that if they were destined to live and die among the Gypsies, they would wish to attach themselves to the beautiful wife of Adonai, and to adopt her method of giving hope to all hearts that need its consoling power. Hope is, in reality, one of the most effective means of assuaging suffering. It is the best remedy for the pangs of the body, as well as for the grief of the soul. CHAPTER VIII. THE MESSENGER -RANSOM- DELIVERANCE -THE PATERNAL HOME- THE PROPHECY. AS the chief Abruzio had foreseen, there were living in England many friends and relatives of the family of Mountclare, and Anselm was almost certain of finding some of them in London. His difficulty would be, not in obtaining an interview with them, but in being able to persuade them of the propriety and safety of entrusting to him the sum demanded for her ransom. His principles were such as forbid him to violate either the letter or spirit of the oath by which he was bound to the brigands, and his mind and thoughts were occupied incessantly in contriving how he should prove that the Lady Amelia was still living, and could be re- page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] stored, while it was impossible for him to reveal where she could be found before her ransom was paid. To accomplish the mission with which he was charged, Anselm also ran the risk of being regarded by the persons with whom he was to negociate, as an accomplice of the brigands who retained the two young girls as captives, and perhaps as having been accessory to the assassination of the other members of the family on the night of the fatal encounter in the mountains of Calabria. He was exposed to the risk of being denounced to the police as soon as the revelation was made. However, he hastened his journey, for though bound by the force of his oath to these terrible men, he had always preserved in his heart a Christian zeal and charity, and an ardent desire to repair, as much as he might, the evil committed by the men with whom unhappy necessity had made him the associate for the time being. Anselm expected to find in London Sir Thomas Sydenham, the maternal uncle, and god-father of the Lady Amelia. During the sojourn of Lord Mountclare's family in France, and their travels in Italy, his god-daughter had often written to him, and she could not now suffer the monk to depart without a letter to her uncle, which Anselm promised to deliver on condition that it should be short, and that it should contain nothing which would indicate, in any manner, the place whence she wrote, or the kind of people by whom she was detained in captivity. Amelia wrote, therefore, as follows:- "Dear uncle: Of the family whom you saw depart, three years ago, from London, to seek, on account of my feeble health, a warmer sun and a more temperate climate, -of all this family, so happy and so united, there remains only your unfortunate niece and god-child. You will recognize that it is she who writes you these lines, and I am not permitted to say to you in what place I may be found, and by whom I am detained from your affectionate embraces. The person by whose hands you will receive this letter, is a lay brother of the page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] order of St. Francis in the Romish church. His convent is in the neighborhood of Naples. He has laid aside the habit of his order, that he may visit London without attracting attention. He can and will reveal to you the only means existing by which I can be restored to the relatives who remain to me. You may trust his word, for I believe that he is incapable of deceiving you. Adieu, dear uncle, pity me with your whole soul, and hasten by every means the moment when I may embrace you as my father." Furnished with this letter, and some other tokens by which her friends might be certified of her being still living, and in captivity, the Capuchin brother set out for London. In order to make the journey without awakening suspicion or attracting inconvenient curiosity and attention, by which his journey might possibly be interrupted or delayed, Anselm was obliged -to his great regret- to part with his long white beard, which the razor had never touched during all the years of his cloister life. It was expedient, also, for him to lay aside his peculiar dress, and to clothe himself in the costume of other laics, that he might mingle with other Christian men without attracting attention. Thus transformed in his personal appearance, and improved, he arrived in London, and after some inquiries in suitable quarters, he found that Sir Thomas Sydenham was not then in town, but at one of his seats in the northern part of the kingdom. A steward of the family of Amelia, a Mr. Wright, was desirous of detaining, for several days, the old man who had brought news of the daughter of his master. He showed him Lord Mountclare's house, a noble and beautiful residence in one of the aristocratic quarters of the city, and Anselm could not avoid contrasting the magnificence and comfort here displayed, with the rude life of privation, the mat of straw, the coarse food, and the mean cabin in which the heiress of this splendid mansion was now forcibly detained. How unlike this mansion in Portland Place was the miserable cabin of cunning Mab, the old gypsy queen! page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] If Anselm should succeed in his mission; if the heiress should return to her home, how would she come back? Would it be with the color of health in her cheeks and the serenity of joy upon her brow, and the smile of pleasure on her lips? No, he feared that disease had already made sure in-roads upon her health; that fatigue and suffering and disappointment had already done their fatal work. These sad and mournful presentiments brought tears from the old man's eyes. He thought that the days of the young and lovely girl were numbered, and more than once he said to himself:- "Poor child, when she shall have returned to her home, she will again soon be torn away from it, and then not by human hands, but by the cold hand of death, and from that captivity no friends or wealth can ransom her." Sir Thomas Sydenham had been endowed with a fine dispositition, loyal, and generous, and confiding, and it was with regret that he was obliged to distrust any one with whom he had to do. For persons like him, of open and frank natures, prudence is a most difficult virtue. Such men cannot endure that any doubt or distrust should be felt in regard to themselves, and therefore they feel a great repugnance in doubting the good faith of others. In his youth, Sir Thomas had often been the dupe of this generous and good-natured confidence in men; but years had taught him by experience something of distrust. I will not say that he had become suspicious, but more prudent. Before reading the letter written by his niece, he had received with all hospitality the brother Anselm. He had learned, long before, the sad news of the horrible ambuscade and slaughter in the valley of San Lorenzo. And when the stranger told him that the Lady Amelia had been spared and carried away by the robbers, he was inclined to credit the story of the old man, for it was confirmed by all the accounts he had received from Italy. But when he held in his hands, and read the letter of his niece, whom he had always loved as a daughter, he wept for joy at the assurance of her safety. He felt that all his fortune was not page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] too much to sacrifice for the ransom of the poor orphan, and he promised the messenger that he should not have long to wait, and he begged that he might be permitted to accompany him, and bring her home. Two days after this first interview, the sum of twenty thousand crowns was put into the hands of Anselm for the ransom of the captives. There was in the character of this simple old man something of the same ingenuousness which distinguished the uncle of Amelia. Suspicion of others had come to him only after long years, and after having been many times deceived. His first impulse, therefore, was to accede to Sir Thomas' wishes, and to take him with him on his return to Glenmore, that he might, at once, receive the orphan, and conduct her home. But his second thought was, that in this way these gypsies would be denounced to the civil authorities, and he recalled his instructions, which forbad him to admit any person into the secrets of the band, and so he set off on his return alone. Three weeks only had passed since Anselm took his leave of the inmates of the gypsy cabin, and he again drew near, with a light step, rejoicing in the success of his undertaking. The sun had set, but its rays still lingered over the surrounding country. The crests of the pines and the ridges on the mountain sides were still filled with the purple and golden light. On reaching the door of the hut, he perceived Amelia lying on a miserable pallet of straw. "Amelia," said he, "rise and return to the house of your father." Julienne was sitting near the bed of her friend, who was growing more feeble and exhausted every day. "Yes, rise, my sweet friend," said she, "by the goodness of God we have been ransomed, and let us depart." Amelia made an effort to rise, but sunk back through weakness, and joy at their deliverance. "Let us thank God in our hearts," said Anselm, "that it has pleased Him to give us success, and let us humbly ask Him for grace and strength to page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] serve Him faithfully, in gratitude for all his mercies." "Yes, dear mistress," cried Pepita, "take courage, and I will follow you wherever you go." "And will you abandon me, then?" demanded Joachimo. "O no, you will come with me; you will forsake evil associates and attach yourself to the good," said Pepita, "and we will beg on our knees these our noble friends to retain us in their service." "It is well," said Anselm, much moved at the sight of these young girls, and at the attachment which they had inspired among the rude Bohemians- "it is well; and when Abruzio shall have received this purse, I shall in my turn be free, and if God permits -my oath preserved, and my mission accomplished- I too will come to die near you." With a feeble voice Amelia added- "O do not say to die, but to live with us. You shall remain near us, and we will recall your kindness and your consolations in our unhappy days. And that is not all. Your words of instruction, and the influence and example of Julienne, have happily turned the thoughts of many of these wandering people to a different and better kind of life. When I have reached my home again, I shall have farms and fields to cultivate, and, with your assistance, we will form a community of these Bohemians, and provide them with honest employment, where they can be contented and happy." And then with a sweet smile she added- "Pepita shall be my dairy maid, and her husband, Joachimo, my gamekeeper, and little Pedro, so gay and so active, shall have the oversight of my flocks and herds." "And!" -said Mab- "when you are gone, who shall take your place as my guide and friend? You have taught me the way back to my Father's house: you have told me of the mansions where my children are; you have led me, with a gentle hand, into the ways of peace. My heart is bound to yours, and do not break the cords which fasten me there. Take me away with you. I will adore page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] and serve your God. I have need of His pity and yours." "Reassure yourself, my good Mab," said Amelia, "the ties which our evil days have knit together, shall not be broken. I will never break them." While these words were passing, Amelia rose from her couch and attempted to walk, but she was too feeble to sustain her steps, without the assistance of her friend. "My child," said Anselm, "grief and anxiety have taken away your strength, but happiness will restore it. The manner of life to which you have been subjected for several months past, has impaired your health, but that which awaits you when you are again restored to the comforts of home, will chase away all anxiety and suffering. But you must recruit yourself for your journey. Remain, then, calm during the day. Be quiet and seek rest. Sleep, if you can, and do not excite yourself. We will arrange everything for the journey." Amelia promised to follow his advice and to seek repose, but first she must learn from Anselm what news he brought her from her friends, and whether he had found her uncle, and what messages he brought for her. "My lady," replied the old man, "it has pleased Providence, in that wisdom of His which we cannot understand, to deprive you of your parents; but there is left to you, in your uncle, another father, and if I could have permitted it, consistently with my oath of secrecy, he would have accompanied me hither, and would have been already at your couch, calling you his child, -his well-beloved,- and pressing you to his bosom." "Go then," said she, "I will sleep with this thought, and I will trust to you to make the necessary preparations for our departure." In the consultation held between Julienne, Anselm, and Joachimo, it was agreed that these preparations should be made quietly and in secret, that they might not excite too much notice in the gypsy camp. Joachimo, with Pepita and Pedro, was re- page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] solved to separate from his companions, and after the promise made by Amelia to Mab, she also was to be counted among their number. Anselm, who retained the dress which he had worn during his late journey to London, was to go to the neighboring village and to make arrangements for carriages and horses, and Joachimo was to accompany him to procure for himself and the females such clothing and other supplies as they needed. All this was done promptly, and after two days of repose for Amelia, it was decided that in the night following they would abandon Mab's cabin and commence their journey towards London. The night came; it came without moon and without star in the heavens, and sombre with large black clouds. Silently the little company left the cabin, and when they reached the high road, they took their seats in the carriages which were waiting for them. It was an hour of excitement, hope and joy. They were leaving the arid heaths and the strange companionship which they had known so long. We may readily conceive what emotions stirred the hearts of Julienne and Amelia but we cannot so well divine the feelings of her companions. More than once, we suppose, the old gypsy queen turned her head to distinguish, as well as she might through the darkness, the place from which she was separating herself forever. No doubt she was desirous of abandoning her manner of life hitherto, and of passing her remaining days in peace, for she had found what she never knew before, in the hopes of religion a balm for the wounds of her mind. But she had grown old in the wandering band, and notwithstanding her present happiness in being under the care and protection of the Lady Amelia, yet there were, in the depths of her soul, painful regrets that she was leaving behind the little graves of her children. In consequence of the feebleness of Amelia, they travelled slowly, and it was several days before they reached London. Sometimes during the journey she wished to hasten their speed, at others again to slacken their pace, for she shuddered to think of standing on the deserted hearth of her page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] childhood's home. But, at last, there she stood; there where her young years were nurtured in tenderness and affection by those who should have welcomed her back, but who, alas, were now no more! We have described different scenes in the life of Amelia and Julienne; we have seen them side by side in the little church of the French hamlet, and in the park at Landais, and journeying through Italy; we have followed Julienne, with solicitude and interest, while she was recovering her sight, and have witnessed the joy of her friend at the restoration; we have shuddered in describing the fearful onslaught of the brigands in the valley of San Lorenzo; we have explored the cavern of Abruzio, and followed the wanderers across the sea to the English coast; we have witnessed the forest scene of the election of the gypsy king, and traced the journey and return of Anselm, and thus, step by step, we have followed Julienne and Amelia down to the time when they stood together on the threshold of the home in which the high-born English girl was nurtured in her early childhood; but we cannot describe her emotions as she stood there once more, again in the house of her father, now empty, sad and silent! Oh, there are, in the human heart, more and finer cords of grief than of joy! Man smiles for an instant, but weeps through long years! Amelia now took possession of her home, and was restored to all that society has to offer for the repose of the body, or to direct the mind, or alleviate suffering, but yet she was unable to receive the congratulations which were ready to be offered by the friends of her father. The best physicians of London were already in attendance, but all their art could afford her no alleviation, nor allay the fever which increased continually. They could order no other prescription than that which the friar Anselm had recommended, -silence and repose. There is never anywhere absolute silence; even night has its murmurs. Under the cabin roof of cunning Mab, where everything had been provided for repose, vague sounds would reach the page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] ear. Sometimes it was the far-off and monotonous beating of the waves upon the shore, or the wind rising as the day was dawning, and rustling the treetops. In London, other sounds broke the stillness of the night. Sometimes it was the rolling of the carriages upon the pavement, or the clocks marking the hour of time, or some poor workman who toiled all night to gain the bread for the day, or the man of letters who meditates and writes till the dawn, or the young dancing at the merry-making, or the poor mother who watches by the cradle of her suffering child. So life goes on, and in some form or other its movements and sounds are audible all the night through to the listening ear. It cannot be supposed, that when the physicians prescribed solitude and silence to Amelia, that it was intended to keep from her couch her friend Julienne, she who had become more than a sister, -the half of her soul. Nay, she was scarcely absent from her side, watching with anxious solicitude the alternatives so frequent and peculiar to consumptive patients. When the brilliant day is gone; when the radiant sun no longer sheds down upon the earth light, and warmth and life; when the twilight is past, and night is come, there is still over our heads a beautiful spectacle; it is the moon, reigning in the midst of her court of stars, and letting fall their melancholy light upon the trees, the meadows, and the waters. The life of Amelia had only these pale reflections, and when over her wan lips there strayed a smile, it was sad, like a ray of the moon falling upon a lily broken by the storm, or shining upon a tomb. At other times her features wore an expression still more painful, -as when there passed over the face of this frail and lovely girl, a breath of hope, or a remembrance of past happiness. Then, when the friends who surrounded her heard her projecting new plans for travel and amusement, and improvements in her house, their hearts were almost broken. It is often less painful to hear the groans and complainings of the sick than to listen to their half delirious anticipations and projects for the future. page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] Amelia had always loved music passionately, and Julienne, to recall the happy hours of the past, had, without her knowledge, placed an organ in the chamber next to her apartment, and one evening about the same hour as when she met for the first time the family of Lord Mountclare, in the church of the old hamlet of Saules, she left her lying half asleep, and went silently, and seating herself at the organ, she again poured forth the hymn which Amelia had first heard in her native village. The notes fell upon her ear soothingly, as angel voices. "Julienne, Julienne!" cried she, "come and let me thank you. How kind you have been to contrive this surprise. You know well how to reach my heart. Your magical fingers have placed me again in the little French church, where I saw you for the first time at the foot of the gallery stairs, receiving with modest blushes the praises of my dear parents." "Dear Amelia, I felt that day that I was to love you always, and this presentiment has not deceived me." "I know it -I know it, dear Julienne. Neither of us have failed in that which we vowed to each other in the chapel of Landais, on the day of my fete. But, my sweet friend, look around you to see how destiny, which promised so much happiness, has deceived us." Julienne found nothing to reply, and one of those long pauses of silence which sometimes seize the heart, had already reigned some moments in the sick chamber, when Pepita, divining the impression and the painful emotions which weighed upon the spirits of her friends, seated herself upon the carpet at the side of the Lady Amelia's couch, and taking the hand of her mistress, covered it with kisses, and then by force of habit, the gypsy opened her hand, and sought, under the fair white skin, the lines which were there traced. Raising her head a little, Amelia saw what the girl was doing, and she said to her,- "Do you wish, Pepita, to predict the future for me?" "My lady, you have never been willing that I page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] should reveal it. You have always told me, when I wished to predict joyous and happy days, that it was an offence against God to seek to know what He has not revealed. And yet I could have foretold much of joy and happiness." "And how is it now, Pepita?" "Now?" asked the Bohemian, with a troubled voice. "Yes, now. Open my hand -look at it- study it- recollect your ancient occupation, and if you are still able, give me hope." Pepita's inquietude increased. She rose and seated herself upon the bed, then taking the hand of her benefactress, she fixed her large, deep eyes upon it. While she traced and studied what she called the signs of the future, the others around the bed were regarding the expression of the gypsy's countenance with anxious scrutiny. A long and painful silence ensued, which was, at last, broken by her saying, pointing out at the same time to Julienne the lines she was observing:- "Behold this cross at the base of the first finger, which foretells sorrow, but see, -mark well this sign which encircles this emblem of sorrow above, like a crescent, and nearly effaces it. This sign is what we call the arc of felicity. It countervails the sign of ill fortune beneath it. And do you not distinguish under the fourth finger several little rays which form a star in appearance? This star never appears in the hand except as a reflection of one in the heavens. Let us then pray the good angel of the lady Amelia, that he will make visible to us this propitious star which I announce to you, and which will not fail to appear to us." With an indescribable smile Amelia withdrew her hand from that of the gypsy, and laying it caressingly on her dark locks, she said:- "Good child, I thank you. To-night we will seek for my good star, and you will aid us, will you not, in discovering in what part of the heavens it may be found? And, then, will you be able to convince me that I shall recover my strength, and be well again?" "Yes, my lady." page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] "And that I shall be able to travel, and return to Landais, and see Italy again?" "Without doubt." "I thank you, Pepita. If I shall realize all that you predict; if my weakness leaves me, we will set out. We will go to Marseilles, Julienne, with Pedro and Joachimo; we will revisit Naples and Calabria, and there drink and bathe in the cool waters which before gave strength to your sight and vigor to my frame. And if it pleases God, also, to give me strength and courage, we will visit the fatal valley of San Lorenzo, and there erect a cross in memory of the cherished beings whom I seek daily, but in vain in this desolate mansion." "It is a pious purpose, and worthy of your affectionate heart. Would God that you may be able to accomplish it," said Julienne, as she turned away to wipe the tears which were flowing from her eyes. At the same time the uncle of Amelia entered the room, and extending her hand to him, she said:- "I shall be cured, dear uncle. Pepita has predicted it. She reads, by her mystic wisdom, the signs of my recovery in this hand which presses yours." "My child, it gives me joy to see you once more cheerful and hopeful, and I beg of you always to consult your beautiful Bohemian. She is the most skilful leech whom you have yet tried." "Yes," replied the invalid, "and now that she has predicted my future, I wish, also, that Julienne would allow her to foretell her fortunes." "My dear Amelia, I am sorry to refuse anything you desire, and which may serve to interest or amuse you; but the future of a poor girl like me is scarcely worth inquiring into." "You are right, Julienne," said Sir Thomas. "My niece has Scotch blood in her veins, and she, I suspect, more than half believes in second sight. But you, reared in France, do not credit our superstitions. And it is well that you do not trouble your thoughts with them. There are instances, doubtless, which look marvellously like prophecy, and there may be, for aught I know, certain states page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] of mind or conditions of the nervous system in which we become more sensitive to spiritual influences, and when the mind seems to go out, so to say, from its sensuous environment, and to take hold of things beyond the present. But it is wisely ordered that we cannot know the future. A merciful Father will provide for all that is to come, and will give us grace and strength sufficient for the day. Our duty is with the present, and here are our reponsibilities." The conversation then fell, as it had often done of late, into a discussion of the differences between the faith of the English Church and that in which Julienne had been nurtured. Sincere and simple in her piety, trained in the household of the good priest, Hardouin, the village pastor, whose benevolence and devotion she had witnessed daily for years, and instructed by the living example of his pious sister, she had never thought at all that there could be corruptions in the faith they professed, or that this faith could lead to inconsistent practices. There were many things which she did not understand, and with which she did not trouble her thoughts. She had been taught to pray before images and pictures of the saints, and she had learned, as an indelible thing, to reverence holy places and sacred appointments, but she was not conscious that there was any feeling of idolatry in these practices. She invoked the protection of the Virgin and of the saints, and there was, doubtless, in her mind, as there must be in all of the same faith, notions more or less distinct and clearly defined, of the efficacy of their mediation. But it was not until her attention was called to the subject in her intercourse with her English friends, and by her more extended observation of the working of the system of the Romish Church, which she witnessed in Italy, that she began to suspect that under this system the Saviour himself was dishonored by a depreciation of His atonement and His mediatorial power. She had observed carefully, but silently; and on her arrival in London, she had quietly set herself to work to examine. She had read such books as page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] fell in her way, and had attended, altogether, the services of the Protestant Church. It was with great joy that her friend Amelia witnessed the silent progress of this change. Julienne had confided to her her difficulties, and she had given her such guidance and counsel as she was able, and had put into her hands such books as she judged would be useful in removing her doubts and settling her faith. Sir Thomas Sydenham had also taken much interest in her case, and had been of much assistance in directing her inquiries. She had also derived much instruction from Mr. Grant, the friend of the family, and the clergyman whose ministrations they attended. With a gentleness and tolerance which were admirably calculated to win the confidence of such a mind as hers, he had explained to her the doctrines of the Church catholic, as distinguished from the corruptions of the Roman communion, and had happily succeeded in clearing up her difficulties, and she was now settling down in the assured certainty of the truth. One thing only gave her uneasiness, and that was, that among Protestants there was no provision made -corresponding with the conventual system of Rome, but without its abuses- for that large class of persons, like herself, who had no comfortable homes of their own, and who would willingly devote themselves to a religious life in which they might be usefully employed in the instruction of the young, and the care and nursing of the sick, instead of eating the bread of dependence, or being exposed to the encounter with the rough elements of life. This seemed to her a defect in the system of the English Church, and she had often talked with Amelia on this subject, and they together had endeavored to devise some plan by which the good could be secured, without the evil. It was to this topic that they again recurred this evening. page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] CHAPTER IX. THE DAY CLOSES -LAST WISHES. WHEN the winds are steady and gentle, they only ruffle the broad plain of the sea; they uplift no mountain waves, they plough no deep furrows. So in some stages of consumption, hope and fear seem nearly evenly balanced. During the two days succeeding the evening when Pepita had predicted the recovery of her beloved mistress, she seemed really to be gaining strength, as if she were rallying with sufficient energy to overcome the disease. The physicians even were struck with the evident improvement, and without giving encouragement in words, their looks were less foreboding and more cheerful, seeming to promise hope. The good and affectionate heart of her uncle, like that of a tender father, opened itself to this feeling, of which all men have need, but above all those whom friendship and family ties keep near the bed of suffering. During these tranquil days, Mr. Grant was often with her. He was a man of piety and intelligence, of gentle manners and of simple faith, and of experience in the practical duties of his profession. The good loved him, and the evil respected him for his sincerity and consistency. When he entered a house where there was suffering or grief, he seemed to bring with him a blessing. In the practice of the pious duties of his ministry, and in his near relations with sacred things, there seemed to have descended upon him a calm serenity and composure, whose influence was felt by all with whom he came in contact, and especially by the sick, and by those whom friendship and love had collected around the couch of the suffering. His presence always brought relief and hope into the chamber of the sick. Loving solitude, which refreshes and strengthens page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] the soul, he was yet by no means a stranger to the habits and manners of society. He had mingled in the world in his early life, and had known, appreciated and despised the pleasures in which he had taken part. Having tasted of them, he had a right to proclaim their vanity and worthlessness. And yet he was always moderate, treating with true Christian tenderness and tolerance those who were not yet disabused of the enchantments of the world. A firm friendship had grown up and cemented between this man and the uncle of Amelia. Sir Thomas had eagerly desired to bring him into association with these two young girls since the day of their arrival. Clergymen, by their profession, are often brought in contact with the sorrows and sufferings of humanity, and they know, more than others, by their personal observation, of the evils and trials of life. In the sad school of experience, too, they acquire, like the physician, some knowledge of disease, and the symptoms of its virulence. From the moment that Mr. Grant first saw the Lady Amelia, he doubted not that the disease was firmly seated, and that it was impossible, as far as human means were concerned, to restore her. He was convinced that the poor child could not remain long in the home in which she had been born, and that in the midst of all the comforts of friends, and all the appliances of wealth, she must continue to suffer, -even these could not shield her; and that in this respect, the home of opulence was little better than the cavern of the robbers, or the gypsy queen's hut. And in this he was not deceived, for, all at once, the disease which seemed to have been arrested, reasserted its power, and as if to make up for what had been lost, its progress was more fearful and rapid than ever before. But notwithstanding this increase of suffering and debility, the sweet girl enjoyed, in the intervals of pain, a deep serenity and thankfulness of soul. In one of these respites from suffering, while breathing more freely, she said to the clergyman, who was seated near her, with her uncle and Julienne:- page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] "Perhaps, sir, I ought to accuse myself for having had my fortune told by my gypsy girl a few days since. Having lived for several months, as you know, among the Bohemians, I fancied that it would dissipate the tedium and dispel the sad thoughts which fill the sick chamber to listen to the prophecies of Pepita, my companion in captivity. It was wrong, I am sure. I should have relied upon other and holier consolations, but it was a childish impulse which controlled me for the time. I regret it now." "This was wrong, undoubtedly," replied Mr. Grant, with a smile, "for you know, my child, that it is tempting God to wish to know the future. It is not to man that we must address ourselves to know what is reserved for us; it is not for the blind to lead the blind. How can he who may not live till to-morrow, foretell long days to come? The Lord alone holds in His hands the hours, days, and years, and He alone knows the part given each one of us to perform. It is wrong, therefore, to pretend to believe in the prescience of the gypsies." "But those who are gifted with second sight," asked Sir Thomas, "can they not reveal future events?" "I have in my veins," replied the clergyman, "Scottish blood, but I have little belief in what they call second sight. To each one, I leave what belongs to him; to the creature a limited knowledge, to the Creator a knowledge without bounds. The bird which builds its nest in the depth of the valley, cannot take in the wide prospect that the eagle embraces with a glance of his eye as he hovers over the mountain top. And, besides, if there are persons gifted with a knowledge of the future, would it be wise to consult them? No; for neither our minds nor our hearts have been formed to appreciate and use such knowledge." "It was this sentiment, doubtless," said Sir Thomas, "which suggested the saying of Madame de Stael, 'we live only because we forget death!'" "As a Christian and a clergyman I neither would wish, nor recommend a forgetfulness of death. To youth, suffering before its time; to page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] age, bending under the infirmities which years bring with them, I would say- 'live to-day as if you were to die to-morrow;' -indeed to all, to the happy children of fortune, as well as to those who eat their bread steeped in tears, I would show that death comes as God's messenger, knocking at our door when least we expect it." Then seeing the large, clear eyes of Amelia fixed upon him with so much sweet resignation and patient hope, he added:- "Health and life are like this mysterious messenger of whom I have just spoken. They also come to us when we least expect them. They take by the hand the feeble sufferer; and he is restored by degrees to health again. But in any event, either in health or sickness; either in suffering or in freedom from pain; either in life or death, there is a sustaining hand that can soothe the throbbings of the aching head, and cheer the desolate heart, or temper with suitable moderation the enjoyments which are given. And even though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we need fear no evil, for He is with us; His rod and His staff shall comfort us." It was in such conversations as these that the good clergyman, with a peculiar gentleness and tenderness, mingled words of hope and resignation. But for himself, he felt that there could be no earthly hope of her recovery. Her days were numbered, and the messenger of death was already at the door. Amelia had desired to receive the communion before her strength should be so much exhausted that it would be difficult and painful for her to follow the services, and join in the commemoration and oblation of the sacrament. It was, therefore, arranged that it should be administered on the following day. Poor Julienne desired to receive it with her; to make, in the sick room of her dear sister and friend, a renunciation of the errors of her former faith, and to give in her solemn adhesion to the pure catholic system. For a long time the daughter of the hamlet had watched her sweet companion, and seen her gently page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] but daily declining towards the grave. But yet when the clergyman recommended her to prepare herself for receiving the sacrament, it seemed that now, for the first time, she had become conscious of the truth that she was really in danger. She wept with an almost inconsolable grief. The world seemed darker and gloomier than it had ever appeared before in all her sorrows. How could she give her up and see her no more! "To-morrow," said Amelia to Julienne, "is the great day when I must, by a formal act of submission, lay aside this world forever, and give myself up, henceforth, to my Lord alone. That I may prepare myself for this act of faith, and love, and resignation, when the sun returns again to enlighten this beautiful earth, I would wish to fill my soul to-night with holy thoughts, and you shall assist me in doing so with your music. Under your fingers, dear Julienne, the organ has ever been to me like the voices of angels. That was my first thought when I heard you play in the church of the hamlet. Let me hear its harmonies this evening. And in the morning do you and Pepita select from the green-house the freshest and most fragrant flowers, and adorn my room as if it were the day of my marriage. Let my servants arrange bouquets and wreaths of flowers on the staircaise and in the antichamber. Oh, how have I loved the sunshine, and music, and flowers, of the earth; surely, dear Julienne, I shall not miss them in heaven!" With that self-command and strength of character which belonged to Julienne, she presided over all these arrangements as her friend desired. A large part of the evening she spent at the organ, pouring out her whole soul, with all its passions, and griefs, and tears, in strains of harmony which seemed as if inspired. She recounted all her past history, and told out all incidents of joy and hope, of sorrow and disappointment, and every touch of her hands upon the keys seemed to answer back to the deep feelings of her soul. At last she reached the great catastrophe of her life, -the great sorrow whose shadow was, even now, brooding darkly page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] over her spirit. Ah, how mournful, how touching, how deeply sad, was that requiem for "the loved and lost." No more for her, the living, was there remaining the sweet counsel and the glowing love of the friend, and more than sister, now passing away. The cold grave opens for the colder bosom. The kind heart beats no more against her loving heart. The bright world fades as the stars go out in the heavens, and the poor crushed heart of the weeping Julienne is desolate and alone. But again -that strain is scarcely of sorrow; it has an undertone almost of joy. The grave is there; the grass above it is withered and dead; -the frosts of winter have seared it as if with fire. But on that grave there are springing flowers; the sweet violet is growing there. All is not dead. There are tokens of revival; images of the resurrection. The strain becomes more jubilant; the funeral wail dies out into soft and more joyous tones; the harmony rises and expands, and becomes richer and deeper, and seems to utter as with an audible voice, that glorious sentence of hope and triumph -I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE! This night was one of wakefulness and prayer. Amelia had fully comprehended and followed the music of the organ, and when Julienne returned to her bedside, and saw the calm and holy expression which had settled upon her face, she was satisfied. Taking her hand, and drawing her to her, and kissing her, Amelia said,- "My dear, kind sister, I thank you with my heart. I thank you that, before I go to join, I trust, the concert of angels, I have been made happy once more, in listening to those sweet sounds on earth." At last the morning came, -the morning of the day of which the Lady Amelia Mountclare was not to witness the close. A table was prepared in her chamber, -beneath a beautiful picture by Guido, representing the morning of the resurrection, with the women at the vacant sepulchre, -for the celebration of the sacrament of the last supper. Sir Thomas Sydenham, Julienne, and one or two page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] other friends of the family, knelt around the couch of the dying girl, and the clergyman then proceeded to minister in these sacred rites of the Church. A solemn awe pervaded their minds, and a sacred sorrow oppressed their hearts. When they came to the Trisagion, Amelia made a sign to Julienne to go to the organ, and as they lifted up their voices- "Therefore with angels, and arch-angels, and all the company of heaven" -a smile of deep serenity rested upon the pale lips of the dying, as if she had already caught the echo of that song in heaven. What I am now writing may, doubtless, meet the eye of the young reader, who may have already learned that it is not necessary to have become old in order to have seen death. The apprenticeship of grief waits not mature age, and eyes which flash with all the fire and brilliancy of youth have already often overflowed with tears. I will not attempt to describe all the events of that day in the chamber of the dying girl. Over her last moments were reflected the influences of that solemn act which she did in grateful remembrance of her Lord, and she calmly awaited His coming. Towards five o'clock in the evening she spoke some incoherent words, but it was impossible to understand what she said. Soon afterwards she made signs for some music. Julienne seated herself at the organ, and played what they had been accustomed to call the evening prayer, -a chant full of touching melancholy. All at once, while those she loved were standing around her,- her uncle, the clergyman, Joachimo, Pepita, and Pedro, while several of the domestics were in the ante-chamber, she raised herself on her pillow and called to Julienne,- "Come, Julienne, come; give me your hand." Julienne arose, hastened to her side, and took her hand. It was no longer warm and moist, but icy cold. Amelia said,- "Do not leave me. We will go together. I see them up there -they call us both. Ah, how pale the sun is here below, and how poor and miserable is man's dwelling place. But the regions now page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] opened are beautiful and bright. Oh my Lord, give me wings that I may fly to you." The clergyman then knelt down by her bed, and commended the departing soul to God, "as into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Saviour." Her voice, clear, sweet, and low, repeated the amen at the close. Poor child! during the few years of her life, this voice, which was now heard in its last utterances, she had employed only to say caressing words to her father, and mother, and friends, and consoling words to the suffering and poor. Now this voice was soon to be silent in death. And now the last prayers were said. The beautiful and graceful head of the young girl recalled that which a great sculptor had given to Sleeping Innocence. More than once Julienne placed her cheek to the open mouth of her friend, to assure herself that she still breathed, and from time to time her uncle pressed his fingers upon her pulse, to ascertain if her heart yet beat. All the servants and nurses stood at a distance, watching eagerly, and with suspended breath, to see if the eyes of their young mistress would ever be opened again upon them. Julienne held her hand in her own, standing calm and pale by her side. No movement or noise was heard in that chamber; all was silence, as if death had already descended there. "Let us go; let us go;" she said all at once, and raising her hands, she turned her face towards Julienne, and added,- "Dear Julienne, leave me not; dost thou not see them? they hear us; they call us;" and then in a more feeble voice,- "God of my youth, of my father and mother, have pity on me. Watch over Julienne, and keep her in Thy care." After these words, exhausted by the effort, she ceased to breathe. Death sealed forever her lips, and the soul of the young Christian girl went to its rest in paradise. That spirit which, for eighteen years, had animated her fair and delicate frame,- who shall tell what sights and sounds were presented as it emerged from its earthly prison-house? page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] It may be that this sweet and timid spirit remained yet some moments, hovering over that still chamber, around those who knelt, and wept, and prayed! Ah, if it was so, if it could look into the heart of Julienne, it would have been contented with her grief; never did friendship or love shed more sincere or bitter tears. Amelia lay in her chamber, which was hung with white drapery, with a crown of white roses around her beautiful hair, and with her ivory hands crossed upon her breast. After several days had passed, Sir Thomas Sydenham, who mourned for her loss with all the affection of a father, had her remains removed to Walbury Castle, the family seat of the Mountclares. When the coffin left the house, it was like a second death, and tears and groans broke forth again. Julienne accompanied the funeral train, and it journeyed onwards towards the place where the dead was to be laid in her rest. On the day after their arrival at Walbury Castle, the body was taken to the church, and there committed to the earth. For several weeks after the funeral, Julienne remained in the country, unwilling to leave the place where her friend was reposing. But Sir Thomas Sydenham persuaded her that it would be better for her to return to town, for a time at least, where there were more objects and interests to draw her away from her sad thoughts, and to restore the tone of her mind. After she arrived in London, the seals were duly removed from the room of Amelia, and in a cabinet which had been her mother's, a will was found, and read. By this will, her whole estate was to be divided into two equal parts, one of which was to go to her uncle, Sir Thomas, and the other moiety to her friend Julienne Genevieve Garnier. I know not whether this will, made by a person yet under age, was legally binding; but Sir Thomas, with a generosity becoming his noble nature, hastened to confirm it by his own act, and thus to fulfil the last wishes of his niece. This property amounted to five thousand pounds a year, page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] and was duly transferred to the daughter of the hamlet. It remained for her now to arrange her plans for the future. She felt that a stewardship of responsibility had been entrusted to her, and providence, in giving her wealth, would also require a prudent use of it, for the good of others, as well as for her own comfort. Her religious principles had changed, or rather I should say, that her faith had changed, by the adoption of a reformed and purer system of belief, for her principles were never wrong. She could not now think of returning to the hamlet to live. She had become a Protestant; all her convictions and habits of thought and feeling were with them, and as she could not think of foregoing the privileges of the church, she could not, therefore, determine to return to France. About this time she received a letter from the pastor of the hamlet, the good old priest, Hardouin, and she proposed, as soon as she could arrange her private affairs, to visit her family, make suitable provision for her aged parents, either in their own country or in England, if they were willing to emigrate, and afterwards to settle down upon some systematic plan of life. page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] CHAPTER X. THE DEPARTURE -NAYA AND JANIE. WHEN in our days of grief we receive letters of business, or of mere friendship, they are unwelcome; they derange us, and disturb our sorrow. Far otherwise when a friend, entering into our feelings, speaks to us of those whom we have lost, and whom they have loved as we have, and whom they too regret. When, as with us, the departed live in their memory, then the letters they write to us are as melancholy harmonies in perfect accord with the sadness of our thoughts, and these letters we read over and over again. The letter of the pastor of the hamlet had caused Julienne to reflect much, and as she walked the shady alleys of the park at Walbury, or repaired to the tomb of her friend, she would say to herself,- "Yes, my parents have become old and infirm, as the good pastor says -they need my care. Amelia sleeps in the quiet churchyard, and has no longer need of my support. The grave is a bed where we suffer no more. My duty is to the living; to those whom I may yet benefit by my affectionate care, and especially to my aged father and mother. Who shall care for them if I neglect them?" This thought of duty to the living now dwelt continually in her mind, and served to lighten the burden of her grief for the dead. She consulted with Sir Thomas Sydenham, who approved of her resolution, but begged her to persuade her parents to return with her to England, where he was sure she would be happier, and they better contented in knowing that she was making no sacrifice in providing for their comfort. "My child," said he, "with a heart like yours, one is never happy if he does not do what seems his duty. It is right for you to go, and succor page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] your parents, but you must promise me to return. I exact it of you as a duty, also, to one who -now that the other is taken away from me- is to me as a daughter." The next day it was known throughout the castle that Julienne was to return to France, and there was much anxiety felt on the part of her gypsy friends to know whether any of them would be permitted to accompany her. Pepita had become very much attached to her, and she was specially desirous not to be separated from her. It was, therefore, arranged that she and Joachimo, her husband, were to go with her, while Pedro and the old widow, Cunning Mab, were to remain, the former in the service of Sir Thomas, and the latter suitably provided for in one of the cottages of the estate at Walbury Castle. Monday had been fixed upon as the day of their departure for London, where arrangements for the voyage were to be completed. Sir Thomas had not left his friends and neighbors ignorant of the fact, that the beautiful and accomplished French lady -as she was known to them- was on the eve of returning to her own country, and she received many parting visits. She had charmed and captivated all hearts by her intelligence and accomplishments, and by the loveliness of her character and the graces of her person. And it was not only the noble friends of the baronet who loved Julienne, but the poor and aged, and her servants and tenants. She had visited them in their houses, made herself familiar with their condition, and with her own hands had ministered to their wants. The day preceding her departure was passed sadly enough. After the services at the church, Julienne had passed the evening with Sir Thomas and a few friends, who had come to say their last adieus. They had talked much, but with calmness of the past, and revolved many plans for the future. It was Julienne's desire, and the highest ambition of her heart, to establish somewhere in the neighborhood an asylum for aged and destitute women, and a school for the education of the children of the poor -a school where they would be trained in page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] the principles of religion, and fitted for usefulness in their own sphere of life. The subject was discussed in all its bearings, and Julienne was happy to find in the rector of the parish, a person whose wisdom and prudence promised to be of essential aid to her, in carrying out such plans of benevolence as she might finally adopt. The next morning a travelling carriage was ready at the door, and Julienne, in her mourning habit, and leaning on the arm of the baronet, descended the steps, said adieu to her household that crowded around her, and taking her seat, with Pepita beside her, set out on her journey. As she traversed the beautiful country, always so attractive to the eye of the traveller, her thoughts were busy with memories of the past and plans for the future, so that she had no eye for the rich and luxuriant scenery along her route. For two years she had been absent from her native hamlet. There awaited her at home her father and mother, and her venerable friends, the pastor and his sister, in whose house her childhood had been nourished, and to whom she had been so much indebted for care, protection, and instruction. When she thought of all these, she became impatient of delay, and urged the postilions to hasten their pace. As they proceeded on their journey, Julienne imparted to Pepita the plans which she had formed for her future life, and for doing good with the abundant wealth which it had pleased Providence to bestow upon her. "If I am anything," said she, "if I have been the means of good or blessing to any one, if I have consoled any heart, or wiped away any tears, it is because I was taught in my childhood to love God and my neighbor. This love I wish to teach others. My first duty is to my parents. If I can prevail upon them to leave France, I will bring them to this country, and we will settle down upon the estate at Walbury Castle, and there we will build our school and our asylum, and employ our time in doing good. I will surround myself with the children of the poor. I will show them the earth, where they ought to be useful, and the page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] heaven where the good Father of all will keep and recompense them at last, when their work on earth is done. The more I reflect, the more am I persuaded that knowledge, and influence, and wealth, are gifts from heaven which we must not hoard up for ourselves, but make them blessings to others also." "I am ignorant and unworthy," said Pepita, "but I have learned from you, and from my dear mistress who is gone, that there is something for even me to do; and if I am not sufficiently skilful to aid you in your school, and to instruct the little children, I beg that you will employ me in the household duties of the establishment, that I may repay with gratitude, the great debt I owe you for having rescued me, and Joachimo, and my young brother, from a life of wandering and crime." Talking thus, the time passed less tediously, and at the end of the second day, they reached London, where they found everything prepared for their reception, through the kindness of Sir Thomas, who had given orders for that purpose. It was necessary that she should devote some days to affairs of business, and although poetic as was the mind of Julienne, it was not light, and she could comprehend clearly things less fugitive than dreams, and more fruitful in good results than sentimental reveries. As business still detained her in London for several days, she visited the monuments and curiosities which she had not been able to see during her first stay there, on account of Amelia's sickness. One morning, as she was driving through Hyde Park, she saw a large crowd collected around a young woman and some children, who were exhibiting feats of agility upon a carpet spread upon the ground. The spectacle had no attraction for Julienne, but Pepita, who was with her, told her that it was a company of gypsies. Thinking there might be among them some whom they had formerly known, they left the carriage and made their way through the crowd. Pepita immediately recognized the girl as Naya, the sister of Adonai, and as soon as the exhibition was over, she con- page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] ducted her to Julienne, who had returned to the carriage to wait to learn some intelligence of poor Janie, who was still remembered with interest, but of whom they had never heard since they left the gypsy encampment in the forest of Glenmore. Naya told them that Janie was with her in London, sick and suffering in a miserable lodging in one of the suburbs. Having learned where she could be found, they promised to visit her the next morning. Early the next day they set out to fulfil their promise. They found the house with some difficulty, a miserable dwelling in an obscure and filthy street. "Oh what a palace," said Pepita, "for one who has been crowned as queen." "Let us ascend the stairs," said Julienne; "this is only poverty; higher up we shall find suffering." A ragged and desolate looking child led the way to the chamber of the wife of Adonai. When they had reached the head of the stairs, under the roof, the child pointed to a door, saying, "Ladies, she is here." They opened the door, and a sad sight presented itself. On a miserable mattress, under a blanket, torn and scanty, on a pillow much the worse for wear, lay a woman, young and still beautiful, notwithstanding the hardships and sufferings she had endured. "Ah," said Janie -for it was she- perceiving Julienne before her, so young, fresh, and resplendent in beauty. "Ah, thou art the angel of comfort that Naya announced to me last evening." "Janie, I am no angel, but a poor girl who has suffered almost as much as you, but now, after many trials, it has pleased God to give me the means to help those who are in need." Saying these words, Julienne seated herself on a low stool by the side of the bed, and taking the hand of the gypsy, she added,- "Janie, you are suffering with a burning fever." "Yes, my lady; for three days and nights it has never left me." "You must quit this chamber and come with me; you are too ill here." page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] "Oh he is much worse off than I; much more to be pitied." "Where is he, then?" asked Julienne, for she comprehended that it was of Adonai that the poor creature wished to speak. "He is in Newgate, confined in the prison, from which he goes out only to death." "Is he already sentenced?" asked Julienne. "Yes, he is under sentence of death, and this very morning I must go and place myself in the way of the king and queen, as they enter the Park. When they descend from the carriage, I will throw myself at their feet, and will beg for mercy -beg that they will grant him life, and send him into banishment." "But you are not in a condition to rise; you are sick and suffering." "But if I succeed, happiness will make me well. If they refuse, despair will kill me, and I shall bless that which gives me death." "Janie, you comprehend your duty, and I will aid you to fulfil it. I will go to a lady whom I have seen at the house of my friend, Sir Thomas Sydenham, and who is a near relative of the attorney-general, and while I am gone to see what can be done in this quarter, I will leave Pepita with you, who will assist you to rise and dress, and then bring you to my house." "To dress, dear Madame!" said Janie. "I have only these tattered garments, and I cannot go to your house, -I should be ashamed to show myself there." "In an hour my carriage will return for you. I will send you some clothes, and by the time you arrive, I shall have ascertained what can be done for Adonai." "My dear Madame, in the forest of Glenmore, when I saw you for the first time, you gave me consolation. To-day it is more than that which you give me; it is the hope of saving the unhappy Adonai. Bless you, lady! God will bless you! He who has promised to hear the unhappy, and to succor those who suffer and weep, has surely heard my sighs and prayers. Since the day when the page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] sweet and caressing voice of Adonai lured me from the house of my father-" "Some other time," interrupted Julienne, "we will speak of your unhappiness, and of what has been done for you; but now it is necessary to act; there is no time to lose. I will go, as I have said; and you, Pepita, remain here with the poor invalid, and when the carriage comes back, bring her to my house." When Janie was alone with her old forest companion, she said to her,- "What a good angel you have met with in your friend and protector." "Oh yes," answered Pepita, "a true, helpful friend and protector. As you see her now, such she is always. She lives, thinks, acts, only to do good. But you, poor Janie, you have suffered much since we parted." "More than ever. The power which Adonai acquired when chosen chief of the band, made him delirious. I was to him no more than the veriest slave. Before he reached the station to which he had all his life aspired, he sometimes listened to me when I spoke to him submissively of the promises he had made of returning to an honest life. But since he became chief, I have not been able to approach him on the subject with one word of prayer or entreaty. I never dared to utter remonstrances. But now he gave me not only harsh words, but cruel treatment. I now renounced all hope of softening him, and of ever seeing him abandon the disorderly and criminal life he was leading. And while he was engaged in some bold and dangerous enterprise at a distance, I said to myself one day, I will arise, and go to my father. "Brave and firm, then; strengthened by an unknown power -perhaps by grace from on high- I left the forest of Glenmore never to return, and took the road towards my native village, where my parents still lived. I had with me some money, and I purchased at a farm-house the dress of a peasant girl, with which I replaced my gypsy costume. I seemed to breathe more freely when I had laid aside the Bohemian dress and put on the other. As I travelled along, I trembled whenever page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] I saw any persons upon the road, fearing that they were sent to overtake me, and carry me back to my husband. "When Adonai enticed me away from home, my parents, as I afterwards learned, wept for me, but did not curse me; they wept much, and my mother above all, who almost broke her heart with grief. To sustain and encourage myself on my weary journey, which lasted three days, I was continually repeating to myself, 'Since they did not curse me, they will pardon me.' "Ah, Pepita, I was not deceived. When I presented myself on the threshold of the old home of my innocent childhood, a great cry was heard, -a cry of joy and pardon. I fell upon my knees, but they raised me from the floor -the father and mother whom I had forsaken- they embraced me, and we mingled our tears -tears of repentance and gratitude, of pardon and welcome. I cried, 'Forgive me, father, mother;' they replied, 'Janie, my child now and always. We love you still.' "From that day not a harsh word, not a look or tone of reproach has escaped from them. My mother, to whom I related all my sufferings, has endeavored in every way, by all care and attentions, to make me happy, that I might suffer no longer. Ah, it was like regaining paradise after wandering among the evil and the lost! Under the roof where I was born, I recovered my self-esteem, and when I came to recall my past life, I remembered it only as a bad dream. "This repose after fatigue, this sweet enjoyment of rest after so long wandering and suffering, endured for many months. I recovered my strength, and having so much for which to thank God, I went every morning to the parish church, where there was the service at an early hour. One day, as I was returning from prayers, I noticed a noise and commotion in the village; children, women, and men were collected in the street, as if attracted by some unusual spectacle or event. Beyond the crowd and over their heads, I perceived the bayonets of the soldiers glittering in the sun. I hastened my steps, and as I approached the excited page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] assemblage, I saw several carts filled with men and women, badly dressed, and looking haggard and wretched. They were gypsies and prisoners, and among them I recognized Adonai. At this sight my heart was pierced with grief, and I felt as if I were going to die. "When the carts had passed through the little village, and the prisoners were consigned to jail, I hastened home and begged my father to send quickly for the clergyman, whom I must see at once. My parents were greatly alarmed at seeing me so much excited, and the clergyman was immediately summoned. When he came, I told them what I had just seen, and that among the prisoners was the man who had taken me from my home, and torn me from their love. I hastened to assure them that Adonai, yielding to my tears and prayers, had gone with me, on the day of my flight from home, to a neighboring town, where we were married in the presence of witnesses. "'And so, unhappy child,' said my father, 'you are the wife of that man.' "'Yes,' I said, 'before heaven, and before men.' "'Oh, heaven!' cried my mother, 'what misery is this!' "'God has not sent this woe for naught. Janie, what will you do now?' asked the clergyman. "'I must do my duty,' I replied; 'pray Heaven to give me strength for this great trial.' Then addressing my parents, I said,- "'That I may be more worthy of you, and of the pardon that you have granted me, let me go with your friend and pastor, and visit my husband in prison.' "'And what do you wish to say to this man who has betrayed you, and embittered all your life, and is now about to be arraigned as a felon?' cried my father, -and anger, and anguish, and pity, I could see, were struggling in his heart as he turned to me with the question. "'I would say to him that repentance is the second innocence of man,' I replied; 'and I would urge him to repent.' page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] "'Ah, my child, your words would have no power over a conscience like his.' "'It may be so,' said the clergyman, 'but it is not for us to refuse to make the attempt to save him. Let her go; I will accompany her.' "Under the protection of this good man, I obtained access to the prison, and when after some formalities I was admitted to the cell of Adonai, I found him lying upon the straw, heavily ironed. Seeing me he half raised himself, and cried, "Janie, you are come to save me!' "'I come to do all that I can to restore you to liberty.' "'Say, then, to restore me to life, for the hand of the executioner is already extended over me.' "'O Adonai! Adonai!' I cried, in the bitterness of grief. "'Yes, you may weep. Adonai, the chief, the king of the Bohemians, his reign has not lasted long. When you left me, I rushed on in my career without restraint. These hands which you see loaded with these heavy fetters, Janie, these hands are not free from blood.' "Saying these words he raised his hands, and shook the heavy chains with which they were bound. "'Repent,' said the clergyman, 'of the crimes which you have committed, and boast no more of the blood you have spilled, and I promise you that I will assist your wife in every effort to obtain your pardon.' "'Pardon, do you say? yes, that is the word. Well, it will be necessary, then, for you to set out for London, for I and my companions are destined to make our appearance in the balcony of Newgate, and to give to the inhabitants of that humane and refined city, the spectacle which they prefer to all others.' "Scarcely had he said these words, when the keepers came to conduct him before the magistrate. "'To London, then. There it is, Janie, that we make our last rendezvous.' page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] "He then extended his hand. I took it in mine, saying, 'Adonai, I shall be true.' "Since that moment I have not seen him, but I believe what Naya tells me, that the government has resolved to make an end of the gypsy troops which are spread over the kingdom. Let us not lose time, Pepita; let us go to your mistress, whom Providence has sent to my aid." CHAPTER XI. COMMUTATION OF THE SENTENCE -JULIENNE RETURNS TO FRANCE- THE JOY OF THE HAMLET. THROUGH the exertions of Julienne, aided by some influential persons, -friends of Sir Thomas Sydenham, with whom she had become acquainted at the house of the baronet, such representations were made to the government as induced them to change the sentence of death into that of transportation. Janie had now recovered her health, and seemed comparatively at ease and happy. She had resolved to accompany her husband, and was not without hope that his reformation would be accomplished. He seemed softened and subdued by the dangers he had just escaped, and he leaned towards his poor wife with more page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] tenderness and affection than he had exhibited for a long time past. Before quitting London, Julienne sent for Janie to advise and encourage her, and to provide her with money to purchase such supplies as would make them comfortable on the voyage. Janie was profoundly grateful for the kindness she had received, and in her simple but earnest way, she expressed her thanks and invoked blessings on the head of her benefactress. "I go, Madame," she said, "with the man whose life you have saved. I cannot abandon him in his evil days, for I am convinced that the ties which bind my fate to his are such that even crime cannot break them. I have heard you speak, dear lady, of that divine goodness which has spread light over the darkness of this world, and opened an avenue to a better beyond the grave. My heart has been touched with these truths as it was never touched before. They will be my solace and support on the distant shore to which we are bound, and never can I cease to remember, with lively gratitude, the good you have done for me, and the great kindness you have shown to the desolate and miserable woman who blesses you and thanks you with all her heart." Of the journey from London, by way of Paris, to the hamlet of Saules, it is not necessary for me to speak. Before setting out for Italy, Julienne, with the family of the Mountclares, had visited Paris, but there the blindness of the poor child had prevented her enjoying the sights which are furnished in this great capital. Now it was her purpose to remain here several days, and to visit and examine such works of art especially as were most worthy of attention. For a few days she enjoyed this sight-seeing exceedingly. She was capable of appreciating the beautiful in art, because she had, all her life, admired the beautiful in nature, and her wandering life, since she first left the hamlet, had afforded her many opportunities of observation and study. But even this enjoyment was not without what might be called a species of remorse. The old cathedral of Notre Dame, while page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] it delayed her under its venerable and magnificent dome, prevented her arriving, as soon as she otherwise might, at the little church of the hamlet, which she loved so dearly. The palaces of the Louvre and the Tuileries were beautiful without doubt, and surrounded with a very halo of historic and poetic interest, but, she thought to herself, "there is the farm and cottage of my father, and there he and my mother are waiting for me." Thus anxious to reach her old home, she hastened her departure from Paris, much to the regret of Joachimo and Pepita, who thought the capital the city of wonders and enjoyment. I shall not attempt to describe the emotions that filled the soul of Julienne as she approached her native hamlet, and saw once more, above the tree-tops, the cross and the gilt weather-cock which surmounted the old tower of the church. There was the brook whose murmuring voices again filled her ear, as when in childhood she sat upon its banks, and listened and dreamed, as its waters went gently past. There was the meadow where, many a time, she had gathered the wild flowers, and beyond, the hills where she had tended her flocks through many a live-long day. And then, further on, beyond the village, she distinguished, above the lofty trees, the roof and turrets of Landais, where, with Amelia -Amelia, then her childhood's friend, and afterwards her benefactress- she had, notwithstanding her blindness, passed so many gay and happy hours. There are hours, truly, -rare hours, it must be said,- when we feel as if the heart were too small to contain the happiness which fills and overflows it. As Julienne saw these well-remembered objects once more, she felt all this excess of emotion and joy, and she said to Pepita,- "I have been able to endure much suffering and hardship; I have witnessed the death of my kind friends and benefactress, in the valley of the San Lorenzo; I stood by the death-bed of Amelia, and my heart did not break; but now I feel as if I should sink under the happiness of this hour." Before you reach the village of Saules, you pass page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] through a low and monotonous country, with fertile fields, rich lands, and gleaming harvests; but as the richest country is not always the most beautiful, there is nothing here grand or picturesque to attract the eye. But before reaching the valley in which the hamlet is planted, the country suddenly changes. You climb to the top of a dividing ridge by a gentle and easy ascent, and there opens before you a new view. It is no more the yellow gleaming of the corn, but the verdure of meadows, bordered with the willow, with its silver foliage, and the Italian poplar, which serves to mark the meandering course of the stream which waters the plain and turns the mill. In the midst of this valley lies the hamlet, with its cottages so simple and rustic, covered to their roofs with climbing roses and fragrant jasmine, and these overtopped by the old tower of the church, which had grown gray in the storms and sunshine of many years. In all this picture there is nothing grand, but the effect is eminently pleasing. There is an air of seclusion and comfort which suggests happy thoughts of home, and love, and simple content. Often in Italy and England, when her attention was directed to some grand or beautiful scene, or magnificent landscape, which she admired, as all the world does, Julienne had said to herself,- "I love still better the view of my dear little hamlet of Saules." When Julienne reached the hamlet, it was not long before she was surrounded by the whole population -old and young, men and women. She was greeted with joyous welcome by her parents, and by the pastor and his sister, indeed the whole population was thrown into a state of great excitement. She had been absent for a long time; she went away a poor, blind child, but now she returned a rich, beautiful woman, whose grace, loveliness and intelligence made her a suitable and welcome companion of even the high-born and aristocratic families of England. It were easier to conceive than to describe the joy which filled the hearts of her parents, and their pride in their daughter now returned so lovely and page: 260-261[View Page 260-261] so accomplished. Their first thought was that she would purchase the estate at Landais, which had been offered for sale, and that she would settle down among them as the mistress of the chateau, and the patroness of the hamlet. As they left her that night at a late hour at the parsonage -where the sister of the priest insisted she should occupy her old room- and while they were retiring to their own cottage, they talked over the plans which they hoped Julienne would adopt, and made themselves happy -in their simple hearts- in anticipation of the consideration and importance they would acquire in their new relations with the world, and their more elevated position in the social scale. They could scarcely be said to be ambitious in their aspirations, but rather childish. They had seen the world at a distance, heretofore. Its pinnacles and towers glistened in the sun, and they imagined -weak and blind mortals- that wealth was happiness, and that beneath the gilded roof the aching head could find repose, and the wounded heart a balm for all its sufferings. Serene and happy days followed Julienne's arrival at the hamlet. She found the humble pastor busy and cheerful in his work; his heart overflowing with kindness, and his hands ever ready for deeds of benevolence. He heard, not without regret, but with evident disappointment and sorrow, that Julienne had abandoned the church in which she had received her earliest Christian instruction, and joined the Protestant communion. Father Hardouin was really more tolerant than most of his brethren, but in this case he felt that he himself had failed -that it was through his neglect that Julienne had imbibed what he considered heretical opinions, and he endeavored to bring her back to the ancient faith. He supposed that it was through the influence of associations that she had been led to make this change; and not understanding well the differences which separate one communion from the other, he thought it was possible for her to be a good Protestant among the English, and a good "Catholic" at home. He said to her, therefore, one day, as they were discoursing plans for the future:- page: 262-263[View Page 262-263] "I propose, my dear child, that you purchase this estate which is now to be disposed of, and settle down in the chateau. There are many ways in which you may be useful in the employment of the wealth which it has pleased God to intrust to you. We need schools for the young, and a retreat for the aged poor, where they may enjoy refuge and comfort in their closing days, and I am sure you will find happiness in such work, a far deeper content than you could look for in the midst of society, and surrounded by the cares and absorbing occupations of the world." "But you must remember, my excellent friend, that I have become a Protestant, and that in such a scheme as you project, I must teach a different religion to these children, or else do violence to my own conscience." "Nay, but you will return to the ancient, Catholic faith, Julienne, from which your English friends have drawn you away." "I have come back," said Julienne, "to the ancient, Catholic faith. I have learned to distinguish between the pure primitive faith and the corruptions which have been introduced into the Roman branch of the church. I rest upon the principles of the English reformation." "But that," said the priest, "was schismatical. The English church separated from the Catholic church. They broke the unity of the faith, and they can no longer be considered as parts, or members of the body of Christ." Julienne, in her humility, was desirous of avoiding, as much as possible, all controversial discussion with her venerable friend, but she felt that it was due to him who had shown her so much kindness, as well as to herself, that she should declare distinctly and unequivocally, the grounds of her faith, in order that he might understand, once for all, that it was impossible for her -having once freed herself from the shackles of superstition and error- ever to return again to their embrace. Accordingly, she took this occasion to go over the ground which she had traversed in her own investigations, when, for many months, her mind was in a state of pain- page: 264-265[View Page 264-265] ful suspense; balancing between the opinions and habits she had acquired in childhood, and the new and deep convictions of reason and conscience which she now felt. It was easy for her to answer the common and obvious objections which he made, and to show, to a mind so pure and honest as his, the necessity there was for a reformation of the discipline of the church. Julienne was familiar enough with the history of the times under consideration, to be able to make clear to him the distinctions between the reformation on the continent and in the English church, and the difference of the principles on which they proceeded. He himself readily recognized the distinction between matters of faith and matters of discipline. She then traced out the history of the church in England, down to the present time. She reminded him of its first planting in apostolic times, and possibly by apostolic hands; of the mission of Augustine; of their unwillingness to admit the interference and control of the Bishop of Rome; of the gradual encroachments of the papal power, notwithstanding the continual protests of the English Christians; of the final corruption of religion, and the successful efforts which were at last made, by which the church was regenerated and the pure faith once more acknowledged and maintained. She showed that in the progress of this work, so necessary and so salutary, the faith of the church was never impaired or violated; that it was preserved in its integrity; that there were still, as there had always been, in England, the same faith, the same ministry, the same sacraments, and, therefore, the same church which was planted there in primitive times. "But," asked the priest, "why did the English church separate from what you call the Roman church; -what was the necessity for the schism, and why could not the two remain in communion, if, as you say, the faith was preserved in its integrity?" "The reason why they could not remain in communion," replied Julienne, "is simply that your church requires unscriptural and uncatholic terms page: 266-267[View Page 266-267] of communion. You have overlaid the faith with corruptions. You refuse to reform the faith, and, by your acts of discipline, you require us to receive doctrines and practices which were unknown to the primitive church. Yours is a new religion; ours is the old and catholic. We went back at the reformation. We laid aside all that had grown and accumulated upon the system, since the early and pure ages of Christianity, and the position the English church now holds and maintains, is that of the pure, primitive, and reformed faith." As regards the charge of schism, Julienne showed by reference to history, that the Roman church was guilty of that sin, and that it could not be charged upon the English. She reminded Hardouin that the popes of Rome, Paul IV. and Pius IV., being desirous of regaining their supremacy in England, offered to confirm and acknowledge the English prayer-book, which contains and teaches the system of the reformed religion, provided they would recognize the papal authority and restore the papal ascendency, and that it was not until the twelfth year of the reign of Queen Elizabeth that a separation was effected between the two, and that this was done by a bull of the pope, excommunicating the queen, and absolving her subjects from their allegiance to her. But it is not necessary that we dwell upon this portion of our history. As was to be expected, the reasons and arguments of Julienne, did not convince the priest, though they satisfied him that she had followed her conscientious convictions, and not been led by impulse, or the influences of mere association; and while he thought that these convictions were wrong, yet he never doubted her devotion and humility, and her earnest purpose. On the other hand, the firmness and constancy of Julienne were not at all shaken by the reasoning of her good old pastor. She saw that he was not used to controversy, and indeed that he was more ignorant than she could have supposed, of the whole subject in debate. He had passed most of his life in this little and obscure hamlet, in the page: 268-269[View Page 268-269] humble and faithful duties of his calling, and as he had never occasion to discuss such questions, or to resolve the doubts of such minds as might be troubled in this way, he was not prepared to defend his church against any intelligent objector. He had learned from his authorized teachers, that such was the faith and practice to which he must conform, and his simple duty was obediently to receive and faithfully to teach what he had learned. And so tolerant was he, so little was his meek and quiet spirit tinged with controversy and party zeal, that even Julienne's abandonment of the ancient faith, as he called it, did not occasion him the sorrow or disappointment which she feared, or weaken his interest in her or her future plans and fortunes. The weeks that Julienne passed in the hamlet were weeks of delightful enjoyment. She had recovered her tone of mind, which the death of her dear Amelia had disturbed, and had become again cheerful and happy. She had easily gained the consent of her parents to accompany her to England, and now began to look forward with some anxiety to the time when she would be once more at home at Walbury. As she thought of the past, how it had pleased Providence to conduct her, by such steps, and through such a discipline, to a position where she could be useful, she felt the more than ever deeply persuaded, that she had not been so favored and blessed with prosperity merely that she might gratify her vanity and pride, and pass her life at ease and without care. Her mind was constantly occupied with plans for usefulness. It had been the fixed desire of her heart to contribute, in some way, to the comfort and improvement of her own sex, and she had projected a scheme for founding a home for the aged and destitute, as well as a school for young girls, where they could be taught useful knowledge, and be trained to exercise such employments as would secure independence, and make them respectable and useful. "It is my vocation," she thought, "to teach the young and the ignorant, how much God is to be loved, and how light and easy is the yoke of His service." There are some soils where the seed only ger- page: 270-271[View Page 270-271] minates, but through lack of moisture, perishes before it can ripen into fruit. There are others where the plant springs and grows into perfection, under the hand of the anxious husbandman. The soul of Julienne was like the fertile land; when once a thought of benevolence and kindness had fallen there, it took root, and grew apace. There was beneath the quiet and calm exterior you saw, an energy and fixedness of purpose, a deep persistency of character, which saw no obstacle and was repelled by no difficulties. Having once determined what was right and proper to be done, she set herself to the doing of it, not with noise and confusion of preparation, but with calm constancy of effort. She had been thrown so much upon her own resources, and especially during her captivity among the brigands and gypsies, that she had become self-relying. Not that she was obstinate or perverse, for she took counsel of her friends always when friends were at hand, but having once come to see what was her duty, she allowed no discouragements to turn her aside. Her arrangements being now completed, she turned her steps once more towards England. Having made suitable provision for the pastor and his sister, and deposited with him a considerable sum for the relief of the poor, and sick, and the aged in her native hamlet, she bade them adieu and departed. page: 272-273[View Page 272-273] CHAPTER XII. THE COTTAGE ON THE COAST -THE SHIPWRECK- RESCUE FROM THE WAVES. ON the south-eastern coast of England, and near the hamlet of Rainsford, there stands, or did stand a few years ago, a snug little cottage, over-shadowed by a wide elm, which, by a certain air of serenity and comfort, attracted the attention of the traveller, and suggested to his mind the association of like qualities in its inmates. There was something about it, with its thatched roof, over-mantled with the creeping vine, and its sweet shrubbery, that accorded with our ideas of the comfortable English cottage. On the north it was sheltered by a precipice, feathered with ivy and wild honey-suckle, from whose side a fountain of cool water fell in a crystal shower into a natural basin formed from the solid rock, and thence it ran with gentle murmurs through the garden. It was one of those sweet spots lovers dream of, and whither we can repair in peace when wearied with the cold and selfish world. In front of the cottage a green velvet lawn sloped down to the shore, where was moored the boat of a fisherman, which indicated the avocation of the cottager. The view from the cottage was charming. The bay, bounded on the south by an island about a mile in length, and covered with a grove of trees, with here and there a house smiling through them, formed a most beautiful little picture in the scene we are sketching. Around the bay were scattered several rocky islands, which were inhabited only by the sea-gulls, which screamed from the rocks, and the dry limbs which overhung their nests. This was a spot well fitted for the home of an old sailor, after having been tossed about for many a long year upon the billows of the ocean, the page: 274-275[View Page 274-275] mere plaything of the storms and the fickle waves. And such was the person who at this time made his home in this place. William Stedman was a happy man, though an humble fisherman. His boat and cottage, with its inmates, were his all, and when he lost his skiff in a storm, he was indebted to the generosity of the gentlemen whose table he supplied with fish for another. He had seen better days, as far as this world's goods are concerned; yet in the enjoyments of his present life he was happy, for his home was the home of content. Of his early history, nothing was known by those among whom he now dwelt; the log of his life was a sealed book to all but himself and wife. Still, gossip had not been idle, and there was a report that he and his wife and child had been landed on the coast during the war, in a boat with muffled oars from a privateer. However this may have been, he was a good and industrious man, and Mary Stedman, his wife, was a woman of no ordinary qualities for one in her station. She associated but little with the families of the neighboring fishermen. Her time and affections were bestowed upon her little family, and a small collection of books, which were carefully preserved in the cottage, occupied her leisure hours in the absence of her husband. Willie Stedman had long been a sailor, -had cruised in all seas, been wrecked on every coast, seized by pirates, and wounded in battle; his life for many years had been checkered by scenes incident to the mariner. At the age of forty, having ceased from his wanderings, and with little else than an honest heart and peaceful conscience, he had at last cast anchor in this place, where he might weather the rest of his life in safety. He possessed all the characteristics which are peculiar to the sailor, -a heart frank and free, that would yield its last drop to serve a friend or his country, while he carried many a scar that gave evidence of his bravery. His mind and temper bore a strong affinity to his favorite element. When insulted, his anger was as rough and resistless as the ocean in a storm; but when in his own peaceful home, be- page: 276-277[View Page 276-277] neath the smile of his wife, he was as calm as the sea when the moon sheds her mellow radiance over the slumbering waters. He was still attached to the deep, and loved to drift about in his boat, sometimes with his boy Edward for a companion, and always with his dog Neptune, who enjoyed this idle life upon the wave as keenly as his master. Long ere the sea-gull had left her nest, he was seen in his boat, bound on his daily voyage along the coast. He was a successful fisherman; and when others caught nothing, his cars were always well stored. He frequently spent the whole day in his favorite employment, seldom returning, except in bad weather, until the lamps of the light-house on the neighboring headland could be seen shining like the stars, brighter as the waters grew darker in the shades of the evening; and then he was happy when he met his family, and gathered with them around the evening board and the cheerful fireside. Thus his daily routine was the miniature of his past life, -the parting, the voyage, and the return. When he was compelled to lie by for a day or two, he spent his time repairing his nets and fishing-tackle. Nor was he without his amusements, when the cold and stormy season set in. Often he could be seen with his books and his boy Edward engaged in the study of navigation, or of some of the higher branches of mathematics with which he had made himself familiar. And there were the pleasures of his own cheerful fireside, and the thick curling wreaths of smoke which rose from the chimney, gave evidence to the passer-by of the comfort within. Thus lived the Stedman family, with sufficient variety in their life to render it pleasant, and with nothing apparently to cause a single care or overshadow their content. It almost makes one covet the lot of the poor when we see associated with it so much happiness. Then we feel that peace of mind makes not her home in the halls of magnificence, but, like the dove, seeks out some secluded retreat, far from the mart of gilded misery, to build her downy nest. The proud lord beneath his sculptured dome sleeps not so sweetly as the poor fisherman under the page: 278-279[View Page 278-279] thatched roof of his hut, for the storms that beat upon it wake him not to bitter thoughts and unattainable longings, but serve rather to make his slumber still more deep and sound. But was there no restlessness within that cottage; no waking in the night-watches, and no visions of dreams with their golden wings unfolded under that thatched roof? There was something about Edward Stedman which you would not look to find in the son of a poor fisherman. His countenance was stamped with a lofty and noble impress that arrested attention and awakened interest. His dark eye shone with a sparkling and intelligent light, -it was the mirror of a mind that possessed elements which would raise him to a position superior to that he occupied -a fire that might be enkindled until it would charm men with its eloquence or awe them to obedience. His face, shaded by his black soft hair, was slightly bronzed by exposure, but beamed with intelligence, good-nature, and manly beauty. Willie Stedman was proud of his boy. Himself well educated and fond of books, he had imparted to Edward what knowledge he could; instilled into his mind a love for reading; imparted to him his own high principles of honor and honesty, and his deep reverence for God, and all that is holy, and pure, and sacred. When he had done what he could do, with the aid of his wife, for his education, he then placed him a school in a neighboring town, where he had made rapid progress in learning, and grew up to man's estate, himself a man in the best sense of the term; armed with principles and preparations for the great battle of life, and eager to take his part and "be a hero in the strife." At the age of nineteen, Edward Stedman had gone up to London, and taken his place as a clerk in the office of an eminent barrister, who had a summer cottage near Rainsford, on the coast, and who had long known and taken an interest in the young man. He had been with him a few months, when he found it necessary to send out a trusty agent to Jamaica to attend to some business connected with the settlement of an estate, and he page: 280-281[View Page 280-281] chose Edward to execute this business. He had been absent from England six months; had successfully accomplished his mission, and had now returned, and was on a visit at the cottage of his father. It was a calm evening towards the end of summer, and, as Willie Stedman was returning into the bay, he discovered a large ship in the offing, which, although every sail was unfurled to woo the breeze, sat as silent and as motionless as if chained by immovable moorings. The hollow voice of the deep was heard as its surf broke on the strand, seeming to forbode, in portending accents, the storm which was about to agitate its waters, although not a breath of air curled its surface, and its waves were hushed into a calm as deep as if they had been congealed to the bottom, save when a long line of foaming breakers marked the course of a reef which, as they rushed forward towards the rocky battlements of the shore, seemed like the white, flowing crests of war-horses, rushing onward to the charge. All day the islands in the distance had loomed up, till they seemed like dark clouds suspended in the air, and the vessels with their snowy sails traversing the sky. The sea-gulls careered and screamed in large flocks over the surf; the curlews were flying landward, and the black ducks, in long, chain-like flocks, were seeking shelter within the narrow bays, or up the streams. The experienced eye of the fisherman also read on the clouds and sky, many a sure sign of the approaching tempest. He moored his boat with more than ordinary care to its security, and looking once more towards the ship, he said to Edward, who was idling along the beach,- "Unless that ship keeps away, where she can get a wider berth, she will stand a chance of being thrown upon the breakers, and then, God help her crew and passengers." "Did you make out her name, father?" said Edward. "No; I have been but just outside the island, and not near enough to see who or what she is." page: 282-283[View Page 282-283] "But they know, father, the dangers of the coast, and that there is no shelter for them along this whole line, and they will, of course, put out from the land as the breeze freshens." The sun was sinking into the deep between two distant islands -a beautiful sight, exhibiting all the splendors of a sunset at sea. Large clouds, in rich crimson folds, curtained his sea-couch, and his parting rays tinged them with colors as changeful and delicate as those of the dying dolphin. But there was treachery in the smile of nature; although the scene was now brighter than the conceptions of the poet's dream, it was soon to wear a darker and more threatening aspect. Just as the sun rested upon the waters, a cloud passed before it, and hid it from the sight; the gorgeous coloring faded away, and a sombre purple occupied its place. The moon came forth, but it had a pale look. A large bank of clouds, which had been seen in the south, now by degrees rolled up their murky masses, like smoke from some submarine volcano, and were extending rapidly towards the opposite side of the horizon. Those in the west, but a short time since so beautiful, now extended to the north-west, where they were joined by another mass, and thence they stole over the firmament, gradually quenching the light of the moon and the stars, and casting a gloomy shadow over sea and land. All was silent as the dreadful calm which precedes the earthquake. The sound of the streams on the hill was distinct, but all was motionless, save those dark clouds fast converging towards the zenith. At last they met -the darkness was complete- and it seemed that light had been extinguished forever. Then was heard the mighty march of the tempest, like the clamor of hosts hastening to battle. A few faint flashes of lightning were seen, low mutterings of distant thunder heard, and then a rushing, roaring sound like the fall of a cataract. Soon there followed a jarring crash, as if unsphered planets had come in collision -the earth trembled, and it seemed that the whole armament of heaven had been combined in page: 284-285[View Page 284-285] one shock. The lightnings dashed, like writhing, fiery serpents, with the speed of thought, across the heavens. The angry ocean was roused from its slumber. The roaring waves leaped madly towards heaven, and rushed in foam on the rocky shore, as if in their rebellious rage they were striving to overleap the bounds by which they had been circumscribed. The deafening thunder peals now followed each other in awful succession, till it seemed that the knell of the universe was tolling, and that the ocean was answering back with its deep chant of the dirge of time. The rain now poured down as if the earth were threatened with another deluge. The cottage rocked like a cradle, but the fisherman and his family thought not of themselves, -their trust was in Him who "stilleth the raging of the sea and the noise of his waves." Their thoughts wandered to those who were upon the deep, who were now, perhaps, perishing beyond the reach of aid. But what could they do in this terrible night? were the thoughts of Willie Stedman. In his mind he saw the foundering hulk -the barkless mariner clinging to a shattered spar- the hand of the drowning man raised in vain for aid; -he heard his strangling gasp as he sank down and the waves covered him forever. The sympathies of his wife were also with those upon the deep. She knew well the anxiety of the sailor's wife in such a night, and she dropped a tear when she thought of those who, after this storm, would look in vain for the return of husband or father. There are times when we are awed into silence by the rage of the elements, as if in the tempest we heard voices from another sphere. And there was a stillness in that little mansion; the shaded lamp threw a dim light around the room; and now and then, during a pause in the storm, the ticking of the old chronometer that hung over the mantle-piece could be distinctly heard, and it sounded like the death-watch in the chamber of the dying. The dog lay crouched in the corner. page: 286-287[View Page 286-287]Suddenly he pricked up his ears and barked, as if he heard some strange noise, and when the blast ceased, a booming sound was heard in the distance. The old sailor imagined it to be a gun of distress from some bark in danger of being wrecked. Looking forth from his window he saw the flash of guns a few miles out at sea, and heard the report of heavy cannon. He well knew the fate of that ship. If she could hold on by her cables until morning, she might ride out the storm in safety. But no chain and anchor could hold her with that wind on a lee shore, and a heavy groundswell. Willie and Edward Stedman could endure their suspense no longer. Buttoning their rough seajackets around them, they took each a lantern, and accompanied by Neptune, their faithful and inseparable companion at such times, they sallied forth into the darkness. They directed their steps towards a neighboring headland, whence they could best calculate the situation of the ship, for they had no doubt it was the same vessel they had seen in the evening, before the storm. It was impossible to see a cable's length from the shore, and the only means of judging of the ship's distance was by observing the flash and reports of her guns. Many of the fishermen had collected on the spot, and having set fire to a heap of fagots, they hoped to apprize them of their proximity to the land, which, in the extreme darkness, they were unable to perceive. It was soon known that the vessel was dragging her anchor, and had struck upon the reef. What few hopes they had entertained, that she would take a narrow channel and drift under the lee of a small island, were suddenly destroyed. But a new horror was now presented to their sight. The wreck had been struck by lightning, which had set fire to the hold, and the flames, bursting up from the hatchways, were gradually creeping aloft, and firing the sails, spars, and rigging. It was a heart-rending sight to behold that noble ship, which had the day before floated in all the pride of her white plumage like some large and majestic bird on the waters, an object of admiration, now stranded upon page: 288-289[View Page 288-289] the rocks and on fire, so near the shore, with its cargo of human beings, exposed to a terrible death, beyond the possibility of relief. By the light the crew could be seen moving about in wild confusion, while to one part of the deck had retreated a large group of wretched beings, who shrank back in despair from the awful element that threatened inevitable destruction. The masts fell, with their blazing rigging and sails, into the deep. The sailors were seen to launch the long-boat, which was immediately swamped alongside; the breakers drove over her, and the waves and the flames seemed madly struggling for the mastery. A terrible and heart rending wail of woe was wrung from the group when the flames reached the spot where they were collected -the deck fell in- and fair hands and bright eyes were, for the last time, raised to heaven. The vessel had now burnt down to the water's edge, and the sea gradually extinguished the fire, till there was no trace left in the black darkness of the wrecked ship! All this was going on so near the shore, that it was hoped that some, at least, of the crew and passengers might be saved by clinging to the spars and pieces of the wreck, and so brought ashore by the force of the waves. Edward and his father hastened down to the water's edge. Another large fire was kindled on the beach, and the search was commenced. After a short time, charred spars and fragments of the ship were driven in upon the shore, and clinging to them were a few sailors, who had, by some means, escaped from the burning element. As they continued the search, Edward heard, at a little distance, the bark of his dog, and hastening towards him, climbing over a point of rocks which jutted out into the water, he came to a little cove which the reef protected from the violence of the storm and waves, and there was the faithful Neptune, standing over the lifeless body of a young lady, lashed to a light bench, or settee, which the dog had dragged upon the bank. Edward knew what to do in such circumstances, for he had more than once assisted his father in restoring life to those who were rescued from the page: 290-291[View Page 290-291] deep. He removed the wet shawl, he wrapped the cold form in his own thick jacket, and taking up the lovely and senseless burden, he hastened with it to the cottage. Mary Stedman received the charge with all a mother's tenderness; placed the fair girl in her own couch, and applied such restoratives as she well knew how to use, and in a short time she was made happy in seeing life restored;- again the lips moved; a sigh heaved the bosom; the purple lips changed to a damask dye; a flush like the blushing hue of the morning tinged the cheeks with returning life, and the beautiful eyes of Julienne opened, and turned with a wondering and perplexed look upon the two persons to whose care and eforts, under God, she owed her life. CHAPTER XIII. THE SURVIVORS -TROUBLED MUSINGS- THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE -WILLIE STEDMAN. VERY few of that ship's company survived the wreck. In the course of the night Pepita and another woman were brought to Willie Stedman's house and revived. The few sailors who floated on the beach, clinging to the fragments of spars and furniture, were taken to the cottages of the neighboring fishermen. During the next and the following days the bodies of a number of the unfortunate crew and passengers, many of them horribly scorched, and bruised, and disfigured, floated up along the beach, and were buried by the fishermen. But nothing was ever found of the remains of Joachimo and the aged parents of Julienne. In page: 292-293[View Page 292-293] the hurry and confusion of the terrible night, she only remembered that while crowded together on the deck, -some calm and self possessed, and others frantic with fear; in the midst of a wild and exciting scene, where some were praying, others cursing and screaming, and others still overcome with terror, lay fainting upon the deck; she was seized by Joachimo, fastened to the seat on which she had floated ashore, and then let down into the waves. Her consciousness fled, and she knew no more until her eyes opened in the cottage, and she saw Edward and his mother hanging over her, and, by their assiduous attentions, bringing her back to life. Pepita was saved by the, exertions of Joachimo, in the same way. Everywhere was he active and busy; encouraging the desponding; endeavoring to calm the excitement of the frantic; pointing out the best methods of escape, and assisting all, as far as he could. When Pepita was launched over the side of the vessel, he threw himself also into the water. As he rose to the surface, she heard him call to others who were standing upon the bulwarks, to follow him; and at that instant, a wave swept her away from him, and she saw and heard him no more. Deep and profound was the grief which Julienne felt at the loss of her aged parents. She had anticipated for them a calm and peaceful old age at Walbury, while she should watch and support their steps along the declivity of their life, with tender and affectionate care. One great interest and concern of life had been rudely destroyed, and she felt that the ties were lessening and becoming weaker which bound her to the visible world, and with the more interest and longing, she began to look forward to the life unseen. For several days after her rescue, she was confined to her bed, exhausted by the hardships and sufferings she had endured, and the exposure of that terrible night of storm. But her frame was too hardy to yield long to such weakness, and after a time she began to recover, and to venture out upon the shore, and to breathe again the free air of heaven. page: 294-295[View Page 294-295] It was now time for Edward Stedman to return to his employment in London. He had been some weeks at home, and he felt that it was necessary that he should present himself at the office and make a final settlement of the business which had been entrusted to him. But, somehow or other, he could not make up his mind to leave the cottage. He seemed to think that his presence was, if not essential, yet likely to contribute to the comfort of the young ladies whom he had assisted in rescuing, and that until they were ready to take their departure, it would hardly be right for him to go. He was with them a great deal, or rather with Julienne, and there was something which seemed to draw them together -a mutual interest, which was perfectly natural, and certainly not unusual- for persons brought together in such circumstances. He accompanied her in her walks along the shore, and over the neighboring hills, he rowed her boat around the bay; he gathered the wild flowers which she loved; and in the evening he read to her, or they listened together to the wild stories of the sea with which Willie Stedman beguiled their time. Nor did it seem that Julienne was anxious to hasten her departure, for she yielded without opposition to the remonstrances of the fisherman and his wife against her undertaking the fatigues of the journey until she had recovered her strength. She became enamored of the sea-coast, and spent much of her time in rambling about. Nor was she often alone. Edward, too, loved the open country, and the free air, and the charms of social intercourse, and it was evident that a warm, pure, and deep interest in each other had already grown up in their young hearts. One evening, after Julienne had retired to her chamber, she sat by the open casement which looked out towards the bay, on which the moonlight was resting like a smile of heaven, absorbed in thought, with her head resting on a delicate hand, which looked almost transparent as the pure light fell upon it. Poor, sorrowful Pepita, who mourned deeply and faithfully the loss of her husband, had sought her pillow, and oblivion in sleep page: 296-297[View Page 296-297]from the grief which oppressed her. Julienne was alone, and in that hour of stillness and silence, there was sadness brooding within her heart, and yet with that sadness there was mingled an undertone of happiness, as you sometimes hear a strain half of joy running through the mournful cadences of music. She thought of her past history; of all the way which Providence had conducted her since she first left the hamlet with her dear friends, now no longer living to love and protect her; of her present desolate state, and of that impenetrable future, with all its burden of cares and responsibilities, which lay before her. She had now been for nearly three weeks an inmate of the fisherman's cottage, and the daily companion of the fisherman's son. She was conscious of a growing interest and regard for Edward, which must either be checked at once, or -and she blushed, as the thought dwelt in her mind- be suffered to ripen into an absorbing passion. It must be checked; it was not for her to love and be loved, -to be wooed and won. There were other duties for her -other relations than that of wife, which must encircle her and bind her affections, and employ her activities of mind and heart. And yet, on the other side, why checked? Edward Stedman was a noble man, high-souled and intelligent -her equal in birth, -a man whose principles and dispositions, whose tastes and pursuits, were such as her heart as well as her reason approved. He had saved her life, and if he asked it, could she refuse to give that life to him, as far as the service of the affections was consistent with the higher service which she owed to her heavenly Father? But would he ask it -did he love her? With the quick intuition which belongs to the heart of woman, she had already settled that question. It is true he had never spoken of love, he had never poured into her ear the sweet flatteries and the earnest protestations of affection; on the contrary, he was timid, and as far as the affections are concerned, reserved. Frank, open and generous in ordinary intercourse; anxious to oblige, and studious of pleasing; much interested in her society, and constantly seeking it, page: 298-299[View Page 298-299] there were a thousand delicate and nameless attentions, and implications of affection, which betrayed his secret, while he thought it concealed from all eyes, and most of all from hers. Edward had conceived a deep affection for Julienne. It had grown up unconsciously to himself, and before he was aware of its strength, it had entwined and interlaced itself so firmly in his heart, that he could not escape. He saw the obstacles that stood between them. He knew that if even her affections were gained, the relations in which she stood to Sir Thomas Sydenham and the proud family of the Mountclares would present serious obstacles to their union, and perhaps produce an estrangement on their part which would be a perpetual source of gief and mortification to her. As the son of a poor fisherman he dared not aspire to her hand, and he resolved that he would return to London without any declaration of the state of his affections, and before she could know or suspect that he loved her. He would leave her; avoid her presence; fly from the sweet enchantment of her smile and voice, and in the employments of the office, and the cares of business, endeavor to forget that such bright visions had ever flashed across his mind. But he found, as we ever do, how much easier it is to resolve than to do, and especially when it is against our inclinations and affections that we are arming ourselves. He resolved to go away, but his resolutions vanished with the next morning's dew. "One more day," he said to himself, "one more sail upon the bay, and ramble along the beach at nightfall, and then I must depart; I must crush this growing love, hide it in my own poor heart, and let her be happy, as she deserves, in the sphere in which she belongs." The sail upon the bay followed; the walk upon the beach at evening, which was protracted far into the night, and in the light of that moon, by the sounding sea, breathing the balmy air, they walked to and fro, his arm around the fair girl, and her hand in his; and he told his love, and received in return her frank confessions, and her promise that when her mourning for her parents page: 300-301[View Page 300-301] was ended, she would be his. There was joy in their hearts when they returned to the cottage that night, where Pepita was waiting for her mistress- joy which overflowed in their eyes, and in smiles upon their lips, -joy not unmixed with devout thankfulness to Him who gives us happiness. It was now arranged that Edward was to return immediately to London, and re-enter upon his professional studies. Julienne, in a few days, would also go up to town, and from thence to Walbury Castle, to put in execution the noble plans she had formed for providing a home for the aged and destitute, and a school for the children of the poor. "You must aid me in my mission," she said to Edward; "this is the vocation towards which my heart has always leaned." "And what you love," he replied, "shall be the object of my affection and care also." The joy of the fisherman and his wife was scarcely less than that of Edward, when he told them of his happiness. The beauty, intelligence, and goodness of Julienne had charmed them from the first. Although now in humble station, the day had been when their associations were with the refined and wealthy, and they had not only imparted the same tastes and habits to Edward, but had retained them themselves. He was the sole earthly object of their solicitude; the centre of all their sphere of hope and interest in this world. They had sought and expected for him a career of usefulness and distinction, and this alliance would place him at once on a vantage-ground where he could command success. But there were other reasons aside from the affection which they felt for Edward, which had kept alive their interest in him, and made them solicitous for his advancement. He was not their son; a mystery enveloped him which they had never been able to penetrate. Committed to their care in early childhood, he had been nurtured and educated by them as tenderly as if he were bound to them by the ties of consanguinity. The history of William Stedman had been an eventful one, though unmarked by any uncommon page: 302-303[View Page 302-303] incidents to render it romantic. He began life as a merchant in the city of Glasgow, and it was there that he married. For several years his business prospered and his gains accumulated, and he was enabled to gather around himself and his beloved Mary all the comforts and such of the luxuries of life, as they cared to enjoy. They were both of them fond of society and music, and with a taste for reading, in addition to these other enjoyments, they passed the first five years of their married life in as much happiness as usually falls to our human lot. The two children that had been born to them died in infancy, before they learned to lisp the endearing names of father and mother. These losses had grieved them sadly, but the effect of the chastisement was salutary, inasmuch as it taught them to look forward and upward to a better world, where they would be reunited in a holier affection and with undying ties But this was not all the burden of suffering and trial which was ordained for them. The grave closed over their children, and then other sorrows came. As they passed from one cloud, others gathered their blackness over their path. Mr. Stedman's commercial interests were large and extended. The India trade, which had yielded him heavy profits, was every year increasing, and he began to anticipate the time when he would be able to retire from business, give himself up to his favorite pursuits in some rural home, and thus realize the fond dream which beguiled him in the midst of the cares and perplexities in which he was toiling. A few more prosperous and successful ventures, and he would then be in a condition to withdraw from business. But these plans were never to be realized, and the goal attained. Misfortune and reverses, in one form or another, overwhelmed him, stripped him of his wealth, and compelled him to abandon his business and resort to some other employment for a livelihood. In closing up his affairs, he found that there were heavy obligations which he could not meet, and that in addition to the loss of social position involved in his failure, and the sacrifice of his home comforts, page: 304-305[View Page 304-305] and the gratification of tastes which had now become habitual, his sensitive nature would also suffer the imposition of the oppressive burden of debt to so large an amount as to require years of prosperous industry to wipe it out. Under these circumstances he felt his spirit almost utterly crushed within him, and had it not been for the calm and cheerful conduct of his wife, he would have succumbed, possibly, to his misfortunes, and given up in despair. She was hopeful still. There was underneath the calm exterior of her character, a depth of energy and a firmness of faith in the wisdom and goodness of Providence, which, by degrees and at length, imparted strength also to her husband, and gave him hope that all was not lost. Among those with whom he had business connections was a shipping merchant in London, of the name of Wray, who offered Mr. Stedman the place of supercargo in a trading voyage to the East Indies, together with some advances which would enable him, if the voyage were successful, to realize considerable profits, and thus lay the foundation on which he could rebuild his ruined fortunes. Accordingly, they removed to London, where Mary Stedman was established in comfortable lodgings, and her husband, now more cheerful and hopeful for the future, began his voyage. But unfortunately, the prospects which cheered the beginning, were never realized. After an absence of more than twelve months, he returned as poor as he had left, having encountered numerous delays and disasters, by which the profits of his speculations were almost entirely consumed. In this way passed several years of his life, bringing no permanent success, -yielding no fortune to his faithful and strenuous endeavors. His touch turned nothing to gold; -his ventures were barren of success; -all his toils, and privations, and hardships, barely yielded enough for the comfortable support of his patient and cheerful wife. Thus separated for a large portion of the time, and exposed to the perils and hardships of sea-faring, Mrs. Stedman urged upon her husband some page: 306-307[View Page 306-307] change of employment which would allow them the only comfort and happiness they looked for in this life, that of being together, and so, hand in hand, passing down the remaining pathway which led to a better world, and an enduring home. His early and well-tried friend, Wray, again proposed that he should try his fortune once more upon the sea, and by an arrangement for that purpose, the cottage on the coast was assigned to Mrs. Stedman for a residence. Thither she transferred such furniture as was necessary to comfort, and a small, though choice collection of books, which remained to them. Her husband went down to the coast with her, and spent several weeks there, putting everything in order, and providing with affectionate care for her comfort and protection. While thus busied, he began to feel as if he had found a home at last, where he could rest, after the buffetings which he had experienced in the rude world. "With thee, Mary, and in this cottage," said he, "I could find all that I now expect or desire, this side the grave." She urged him, therefore, to abandon his wandering way of life; to tempt no more the hazards of the sea, and the uncertainties of fortune; but to content himself with the humble home and the simple life which awaited them there; and he promised that if he were moderately successful in this voyage, it should be his last, and he would then settle down and remain at home. The voyage was successful, -that is to say, it was not, as too many of his previous ventures had been,- unfortunate; it brought sufficient returns to enable him to pay for the cottage, and the little garden which belonged to it, and to secure a small annuity. It was in returning from this voyage that the boy Edward, whom they had afterwards called their own, and nurtured as such, was cast upon his care. While at Jamaica, and just before he was ready to sail, on his return to England, Mr. Stedman received, through an old negro who called on him at his lodgings, a letter requesting him to take charge of a boy, some two years old, who would be sent to his ship the next day, and to de- page: 308-309[View Page 308-309] liver him to his friends, who would call for him, at a certain place in London. The name was given of the person who would await his arrival in London, and the letter contained an enclosure of a considerable sum of money, to pay the expenses of his passage, and for the trouble and loss of time which would be incurred. The writer added no particulars in regard to the child, except that he was the son of an English gentleman -that his mother was dead, and that his name was Edward. Mr. Stedman, supposing that all was right, -although the singular way in which the business was done, -by a letter and not by a personal interview -looked as if there were some mystery attached to the boy's history, -consented reluctantly to undertake the charge. He found the child, -a bright and happy looking boy, on board the vessel, as the letter had indicated; he placed him in the charge of an infirm old sailor, who acted in the capacity of steward and cabin-boy in the ship, and once more spread his canvass for his home, looking forward with interest and anxiety, to the quiet cottage-life on the coast. As they approached England, running along on the coast, Willie Stedman gave over the charge of the vessel to the mate, and taking the boy with him, went ashore in a boat, landing at the hamlet of Rainsford, and thus giving rise to the report already alluded to, that he and his son were set on shore from a privateer. After a few days spent at the cottage, he went up to town, carrying Edward with him, for the purpose of giving him over to his friends, and attending to the settlement of his affairs with Mr. Wray. But great was his surprise and anxiety, in calling at the place indicated in the letter he had received in Jamaica, to find that no inquiries had been made there for the child, -that the person to whom he was directed, knew nothing of him, or of the Mr. Hackfield who was to call for him; and that he could give no clue or information whatever which would serve to clear up the mystery. He then inserted an advertisement in the papers, requesting Mr. Hackfield to communi- page: 310-311[View Page 310-311] cate with him through his friend Wray. And when he found that this procured no response, he published a brief account of the whole transaction, and requested the friends of the child, -if there were friends in England- to come forward and take charge of him. But no Hackfield, and no other friends appeared to claim the charge. In the meantime, he had returned to his sea-side home, taking the child with him, to await there tidings which he daily expected from the friends of the boy, who would undoubtedly claim him, as soon as they heard of his arrival in England. He found busy employment in his new home, and all the delightful enjoyments which rural occupations and a free life upon the sea could afford. In this way years rolled on in calm and equal flow. Willie Stedman and his wife became much attached to Edward, and he, on his part, looked up to them with an affectionate reverence, as his parents, for he remembered no other home, or father and mother, than those he had found by the sea-side. CHAPTER XIV. JULIENNE GOES UP TO LONDON -WALBURY CASTLE- THE SCHOOLS -SIR THOMAS SYDENHAM- UNFORESEEN OBSTACLES. THE soul of Julienne was like the fertile soil. When once a thought of heaven had fallen upon it, as the seed falls upon the furrowed field, it grew, and flourished, and brought forth good fruit. Strengthened in mind and body, after the perils and sufferings of the shipwreck, and with a new principle and impulse infused into her heart, when once she had looked into its depths and dared to confess to herself that she loved, she had gone up to town, resolved to disclose to her friend, Sir Thomas Sydenham, the state of her feelings and affections, and to take counsel with him on the subject. From London she would go to Wal- page: 312-313[View Page 312-313] bury, and remain there during the period of her mourning, and until such time as she felt that it would be proper for the marriage to take place. Meanwhile, she would carry into effect the plans long since formed and matured, for the education of the children of the neighborhood of the castle, and for provision for the care of the aged and destitute of her own sex. She did not anticipate, on the part of the baronet, or any of the family of her late friend, Amelia Mountclare, any objection or opposition to her marriage with Edward Stedman. He was, in her estimation at least, all that was gentle, and noble, and intelligent; formed by nature to excel in whatever position he should occupy, and gifted with a depth and constancy and warmth of affection which would make home blessed and its inmates happy. This was her estimate of his character, nor was she deceived. Noble, generous, and high-minded, he would sacrifice himself for duty or affection. Nor was he destitute of ambition, -an honorable and well-regulated ambition, governed by principle and chastened by the consciousness of responsibility. With an independence of character and a fearlessness of soul which would prompt him to aspire to any honorable distinction, there was united a conscientiousness and a religious firmness of principle which made all his aspirations pure and noble. Julienne, with that intuitive sense and knowledge of character with which women are often gifted, had known and understood Edward from the beginning. Apart from the circumstances in which they first met, and the obligations which she incurred by his saving her life in that night of peril, she would have felt that his was no ordinary or common-place character. A probationary intercourse of months and years is not, in every instance, necessary to open the heart to esteem and the warmest admiration. We may sometimes love at a glance, and be unconsciously subdued by the magic of a look. Were it otherwise, were our hearts to be triple-barred, and open only to the few whom for a lifetime we page: 314-315[View Page 314-315] have tried and found faithful, how tenantless would they be! Little of the sunshine of existence would visit us, if its beams were thus sifted and chosen. The chambers of the heart would be cold and inhospitable, the fit dwelling of envy, malevolence, and distrust. The cheerful gleams of light, through the clouds of dull life, would be excluded, -gleams that might warm into being some virtue, or leave behind a lingering, an imprisoned ray, which, like the diamond in the cave, would sparkle and glow long after the parent beam had passed away into darkness. He who keeps his heart so jealously guarded, will be in no danger, it is true, of having his happiness destroyed, for he will have none to lose. Malignant passions will be most likely to enter and lurk in such a heart, for they will find it empty, swept and garnished. Julienne and her companion Pepita were welcomed to London with warm-hearted affection, and a cordial sympathy was manifested for them in the bereavements which they had sustained. Poor Pepita grieved much for the loss of Joachimo. Her affectionate and impassioned nature had clung to him always and faithfully, from her very childhood. Brave and fearless, but kind and gentle in his affection, his qualities -good and bad- were such as to attract and secure the admiration, and it is not to be wondered at that she should grieve deeply when the blow fell so suddenly upon her head. "My heart is broken, dear lady," she said to Julienne- "he was so kind, and so dear to me, and now I shall see him no more." "But he died nobly, Pepita, endeavoring to assist others, and to save their lives. It pleased Heaven that it should be so, and you must not allow your grief for the dead to make you forget the duty you owe to the living. We are alone now, without many earthly ties left to us. I am an orphan, with no brother's arm to lean upon, and with no sister's smile to cheer and bless me. Pedro remains to you. We must cheer and comfort one another, and learn to love the poor, the destitute, the homeless, and the ignorant, and to instruct them and do them good. I shall go down to Wal- page: 316-317[View Page 316-317] bury Castle, and there we must find enough employment for our minds and hands, so that we may forget our own private griefs." "Ah," replied Pepita, "it is easy for you, dear mistress, to feel so, for there is everything to make you forget your sorrows, but for me, alas, in losing Joachimo, I have lost all." "Say not so," said Julienne; "you are ungrateful and distrusting of God's goodness. It is hard to feel so, I know, but yet it is most true, that these bereavements are meant for our good." Sir Thomas Sydenham was absent from town when Julienne arrived; and as business would detain him for several weeks, he wrote to her that he would join her at Walbury Castle. During her stay in town, Edward passed as much of his time with her as could be spared from his business, and here they renewed the charming and delightful intercourse which had been begun at the sea-side. With an earnest enthusiasm, he entered into the plans that Julienne had formed for the occupation of her time, and for her intellectual improvement. He procured for her such books as she would need, and which she was not likely to find in the library at Walbury, and consulted, in her behalf, with several persons of judgment and benevolence, in regard to the arrangements and management of the institutions which it was her purpose to found on her estate. He had executed the business which had been entrusted to him in the settlement of the Jamaica property with such judgment and tact, that he had gained the confidence of his employer to the utmost, and a fair career in his profession was now opened to him. Advantageous proposals had been made to him, and he looked forward to the future with the most animating hopes. The very dreams of his youth were about to be realized, -a career of usefulness and distinction, and a home of wedded joy, with the fair being whom he could honor and love. It was proper that Julienne should not protract her stay in town, though -if she had confessed the truth- she found it hard to tear herself away from page: 318-319[View Page 318-319] the society of Edward. With the death of Amelia, she had felt that she had buried all earthly affections, save those that clung so dutifully around her aged parents, and the few friends to whom her childhood was indebted for nurture and blessings. But now life began to wear a new aspect, brighter and dearer than ever before. Love and hope once more surrounded her with their enchantments, and crowned her with their flowery wreaths. She had found in Edward the object which her heart had long been seeking, without knowing, indeed, its wants, or the cause of its restlessness, and upon him she had poured the wealth of her pure young heart. O thrice happy days, when first we learn the happiness of love and trust, and can turn from the hollow world to one fond heart, with the certainty that we shall find there the sympathy and affection which make the light of our life! Julienne, in company with her faithful Pepita, reached Walbury Castle, where they had long been looked for with anxiety, and immediately she set about the work of gathering in the children of the poor for the purpose of instructing them. In the clergyman of the parish she found an earnest and judicious friend, always ready to aid in any good work, and especially where the laboring classes were concerned. He was a man of large observation, and in the best sense of the term, a practical man. Devoted to his vocation, simple in his habits, zealous for religion, humble, pious, and active, he had long desired to be able to provide for the thorough instruction and training of the children of his cure whose parents had not the means for such provision, or were too indifferent or ignorant to secure and appreciate such advantages. With a large family of sons and daughters of his own to provide for out of his narrow living, he had not hitherto been able to effect the objects which lay so near his heart. One may readily conceive how much he rejoiced when Julienne explained her plans, and asked for his counsel and co-operation, and how promptly he responded to her wishes. "It has been my earnest desire," said he, "to page: 320-321[View Page 320-321] collect together the younger children, as soon as they are able to acquire the simplest elements of instruction, and to have them taught under my own supervision. By the time they are old enough to attend such schools as we have, their services at home are of value, and the instruction they obtain is consequently limited and imperfect. Besides, it is in their tender years that they acquire habits and principles which determine their character for life. If their parents are rude, and ignorant, and irreligious, the children are certain to grow up in the same way, and hence it is that the mass of our rural population exhibit so little regard for the church, and so little interest in anything beyond the most common and sensual enjoyments of life. They are ignorant, and because they are ignorant, they are brutal and irreligious." "And how shall we meet this evil," asked Julienne, "and apply the remedy? The parents are not conscious of their wants, and it may be difficult, at least, to excite so much interest in our plans as to secure such attendance and control as will enable us to accomplish anything effectually." "This lack of interest will doubtless be the great obstacle in the way of success. But we must persevere. My plan would be to begin with such children as might be sent to us -to provide comfortable rooms for instruction, and grounds for their recreation, and by offering rewards for punctual attendance at first, and until we can excite an interest among the parents and children in our enterprise, we might hope for success. At all events, the object is a noble one, and as it deserves to be prospered, I am sure we may expect that God will bless our efforts." Julienne readily undertook to provide suitable accommodations for an infant school -for with this only would they begin their work- and besides, she and Pepita would devote several hours of each week to the business of instruction. The two eldest daughters of the clergyman entered earnestly into the undertaking, and having secured the services of a matron to whom the constant care of the page: 322-323[View Page 322-323] children was committed, the humble work of benevolence was begun. The first success of the experiment was small, and Julienne had much to discourage her. But it was not in her nature to yield to discouragement, when she felt that she was doing her duty, and she persevered in the hope of success. And before the end of the first year, she was happy in knowing that her efforts were appreciated, and her school permanently established. A school-room near the church had been built, and provided with every requisite for the comfort, instruction, and enjoyment of the children. She had, by her gentle and winning manners, attached herself to all -old and young- and was looked up to with the greatest reverence and affection, while Pepita had proved to be a most efficient and invaluable assistant, relieving her of many cares, and engaging in the work with a hearty good will. It was now determined to enlarge their plans by providing a school for girls, where they would be instructed in domestic duties, in addition to the usual routine of schools. This department, and the asylum for aged and destitute women Julienne determined to connect together in the same building, in order that the services of the latter, if any of them were competent, might be employed in the care and instruction of the girls. The moral and religious training of these children was, of course, a primary object of regard and attention. The two establishments were placed, therefore, near the church, so that their inmates could attend the daily services. Julienne's taste and fondness for music, as might be expected, had led her to provide instruction in this branch of education, and much more than ordinary attention was given to it. She desired that the music in the church, on Sundays as well as week days, should be led by the children, and they were instructed and trained for that purpose. This not only served to interest them in their school duties, and in the services of God's house, but it gave also to the music a peculiar charm, which can be secured by none but children's voices. There is nothing more page: 324-325[View Page 324-325] touching and beautiful to a simple and uncultivated taste, certainly, than such music. It seems to lift the soul above the earth -out of itself- and to open paradise, where we may hear harpings and voices which are forever swelling the anthems of praise. But while Julienne was thus employed in her chosen and favorite work, and surmounting the difficulties which beset its inception and first progress, there were other trials which she was called to endure which grieved her very deeply. Sir Thomas Sydenham came to Walbury, as he had promised, and approved her plans for the instruction and elevation of her tenantry most cordially. As she had determined to do, she sought an early opportunity to tell him of her attachment to the young barrister, and to ask his approval of her choice, and consent to the union which, it was agreed, should take place at the end of the year. Frankly, and without reserve, but with that maidenly modesty which belonged to her character, Julienne spoke of his intelligence, his principles, and his fine manly bearing, and acknowledged the affection which he had inspired. She felt towards the baronet as a daughter might feel towards her father. He was the near relative of her dearest friend, now no more, and he had manifested great kindness and affection for herself. Moreover, instead of offering obstacles or delays to her inheritance of the large estate which Amelia had left to her, he, by his own prompt and voluntary act, had confirmed the will of Amelia, and put her in possession at once of the property. The relation in which he stood to her was virtually that of guardian, and very willingly and gratefully did she acknowledge that relation. To enter into a matrimonial engagement without consulting him and obtaining his consent, was entirely contrary to her feelings, as well as her sense of obligation, and she had been on the point of writing to him immediately after her arrival in London, but hoping soon to see him, when she could explain to him everything in relation to Edward's social position, she had foreborne to communicate to him her secret page: 326-327[View Page 326-327] until they should meet. Great was her surprise and grief, then, to find that he was firmly and positively opposed to the marriage, and refused to yield consent. "You tell me," said the baronet, "that you have given encouragement to this young man." "I have promised to be his wife, with your consent." "But why," asked he, "did you not first consult with me before you made a rash promise, which I plainly foresee must be broken? I know very well that it will give you pain to violate your promise, even were you convinced that he is unworthy of you. I am aware of your scrupulous regard for your plighted word, and I respect, above all things, such conscientiousness. But I fear, at the same time, that he is a mere adventurer -at all events, the alliance is beneath you, and must not take place." Perhaps it was not strange that Sir Thomas, with all his family pride, and his regard for the opinion of society, should feel repugnance at the idea of an alliance between one so nearly connected with his family, and the son of a poor fisherman- a man who was first a bankrupt, and then a wanderer, and an unsuccessful adventurer. It would naturally occur to him, also, that he sought her fortune alone, and that one in his position could hardly presume upon such an alliance unless he were actuated by mercenary motives. Little did he know the true nobility of soul, and the exalted sentiments of honor, which belonged to that young man. Little was he aware how indignantly Edward Stedman would scorn and repel the implication of such base motives. And as little did he know the sort of character which he had to deal with in the gentle girl who now sat opposite him in the library at Walbury, listening to his harsh insinuations and remonstrances. "I feel too deeply," said Julienne, "the obligations which your kindness has laid me under, to have a wish or thought which you do not approve. My heart was knit to that of Amelia -your Amelia and mine- with tenderer ties than any I can page: 328-329[View Page 328-329] ever know again, save for this man whom you refuse to me. And when she was taken away from us, and laid in yonder tomb, my heart went with her. I thought it would never come back to me again. But I confess, dear sir, that it has known again the touch of love. Its depths have been moved by one to whom I owe my life. He is no adventurer. He is noble, and generous, and brave. He is worthy of my love, and of your respect and admiration. You must see him, and know him, before you refuse to sanction the promise my heart, as well as lips, have spoken." "It cannot be, Julienne. You must break off this rash engagement. You know too little of the world to judge whether he is worthy of you. And if he were -grant that he is all you believe, noble, and generous, and high-minded, -yet I say that the alliance is beneath you, and there are, or will be, other suitors for your hand, who may be worthy of you." "What honorable alliance," said Julienne proudly, "can be beneath the low-born daughter of the hamlet! My father was a peasant; my mother was a peasant's daughter; my childhood was nurtured in poverty, and it is only by the goodness of Heaven that I am not a peasant still, watching the flocks in my distant native valley, or gleaning the harvest-field with the peasant girls at home. Edward, too, is lowly-born, but he has the true nobility of soul and of mind. His social position, like my own, is now above that to which his birth entitles him, and his talents and character will win him a name of which even the high-born might be proud." The opposition of the baronet was determined. He would listen to no reasoning on the subject, and while Julienne doubted not his kindness of intention and honesty of purpose, she could not respect the prejudices which influenced him to decide against them without waiting to see him and judge of him by a personal knowledge of his character. It was about this time that Edward had written her that he would see her at Walbury Castle. But she feared that his appearance here, while page: 330-331[View Page 330-331] the baronet was still her guest, would only complicate the difficulty, and make him still more averse to the marriage. Accordingly, she despatched a letter to him, begging him not to come, and detailing the chief objections which Sir Thomas urged against the engagement, but keeping back the insinuations he had thrown out, by which Edward's motives in seeking her hand were implicated. She added, frankly, her assurance of unalterable attachment, and that she would keep her faith to him, come what would. She hoped, however, that events would so shape themselves that they would yet have the free consent and approval of her guardian. She was even confident that it would be so. The grief and chagrin which Edward felt at this unexpected opposition to his happiness, rendered him so unfit for business, that he determined to leave town, and make a visit to Rainsford. Before setting out on his journey, he wrote to Julienne a long letter, which disclosed his sensitive and unselfish feelings, as well as the fervency of his affection for her. He told her that he could not stand in the way of her happiness, or be the means of thwarting her interests, and that he would resign all claim or hope of her hand, if such sacrifice would promote her peace of mind and ultimate welfare. He recalled the days they had spent together, and the happiness they had known in each other's society, even before he had dared to breathe to her the secret of his love. That affection was no idle passion which would come or go at the bidding of his reason or his will, but if needful, he would tear it from his heart, and give her back the troth she had plighted him, though she could not restore to him the peace and calmness which he had known in former days. How ennobling and elevating in all its impulses, is a deep-rooted passion! Edward could not transfer to any other being, however lovely and beautiful, the allegiance of his heart, since she had taught that heart to beat high and proudly. Julienne, lost to him forever, was still, and ever would be, more than any other woman. All the past clung to her memory -all the future, without her, would be dark and desolate! page: 332-333[View Page 332-333] CHAPTER XV. EDWARD TO JULIENNE -HIS HISTORY AND HIS FATHER'S NARRATIVE- THE END. "I CAME down to this lovely cottage, dear Julienne, where my early years were spent, and where but recently I had enjoyed such unmingled happiness in your society, with feelings of loneliness and desolation which it were impossible for me to describe. Your image alone haunted me, and every path and dell, -the waves that rolled gently upon the beach, and the boat that swung lazily upon their bosom,- all reminded me of you, and recalled the bright vision of your grace and beauty. It is now past, I thought to myself. The dream that made the future all light and gladness, is dispelled; the cold reality of life is before me, and my path is, henceforth, a lonely and solitary one. It would be ungrateful and wrong in me to insist upon the fulfilment of those vows of love and fidelity which were here plighted, and I must yield the prize of which I am all unworthy, and devote my solitary life to the duties I owe to my friends and to society. I would have striven, with all the energy of affection, to make the life happy and the path pleasant and smooth, if we could have travelled it side by side; but it would be unkind to cloud that life by alienating from her the affection and confidence of those to whose kindness and disinterestedness she owes so much. They will learn, too, that I am not the unworthy and selfish being they have thought me; they will know me better. Yes, I thought, when they see how my life has been blighted and darkened, and yet how I have struggled on, and borne up under the crushing sorrow, they and she will know me better, and appreciate the sacrifice I have made. Henceforth, toil and duty are all to me; ambition alone presents a prospect which may fill page: 334-335[View Page 334-335] up the aching void that disappointed and ruined hopes have left behind them. God forgive me, Julienne, for indulging such wild and distracting thoughts! "In the midst of such mental agitations, your letter came, in which you assure me that nothing shall shake your purpose, and that you will be true to your own heart, though your fidelity shall alienate all hearts but mine. The objection which Sir Thomas urges is chiefly my lowly birth. To this, even, you hope he may become reconciled, when he shall see that I am able, notwithstanding these disadvantages, to take a position at once honorable and useful. You encourage me, therefore, to wait with the hope that all will yet be well, and you give me the sweetest assurance that my heart could covet, that you love me. "But, dear Julienne, we need not wait if this is all that stands between us and happiness. I have learned, since I have been here, that William Stedman is not my father, but that I was born- "But let me give you the narrative as it was given to me. My heart is full of joy -not that it would disown the honest parentage of such excellent and right-minded people as the Stedmans, but that all obstacles to our union are now removed. Soon after my arrival my father -for so I must call one who has been to me ever, in devoted affection and care, a tender parent- my father observing how moody and restless I was, questioned me as to the cause of my disquiet. I freely told him all, -how that your high-born and proud friends rejected me because I was the son of a poor and humble fisherman. "'But you are not my son, Edward,' he said, interrupting me. He then told me the history of my life, as far as known to him; -that I was placed in his care, as he was returning from his last voyage, and that certain directions were given him by which he would find friends who would claim me; that he had sought in vain for my relatives, and that only within a few weeks had he been able to gain any clue to the mystery which involved me. Only a few days before he had re- page: 336-337[View Page 336-337] ceived from London a package which contained, among certain legal documents which were necessary to prove my identity, and to substantiate my claims, the history of my parentage and birth. This history was written by my father's hand. I shall give you its chief outlines, and when we meet I will explain to you how it happened never before to reach my adopted father. To-morrow I go up to town to take such legal measures as may be necessary, and thence I shall hasten, at the earliest moment, to Walbury Castle. The Father's Narrative. "Oh, thrice happy days of my childhood! the memory of thy joyous hours comes upon me now like the music of birds from yonder orange groves! How vividly is pictured on my mind all that my youth's home once was; the old mansion embosomed in the silent dell, the laughing stream dancing by in the pride of its silver ripples, the old oak trees which shaded the lawn, and in whose branches I loved to sit and rock lazily in every breeze that stirred their leaves, and, above all, my venerable and well-beloved father, whom I remember as if it were but yesterday that I saw him for the last time. My mother died when I was yet in my early childhood. "These were, indeed, happy hours, but they are past, and the desolating hand of time has been upon the abode of my fathers. The mansion has fallen into decay, and the broad lands which we once called our own have passed into other hands. The associations around that place were too painful, and it was suffered to pass away from the possession of the family, and for many years strangers have dwelt there. My good old father, too, has gone to his rest. The burden of sorrow which was laid upon him was too heavy for him to bear, and it pleased God, at length, to take it off. "I have always looked back upon my youthful days with peculiar and sacred emotions, and even the deepening shadows of by-gone years but slightly dim their hallowed light. A voice from that desolate home, from my father's grave, from those page: 338-339[View Page 338-339] other resting-places of the dead, has been caught on the wings of the wind and wafted to my ear, many a time when I seemed to be listening to present voices, and absorbed in the present scene. The sweet and hallowed remembrances of the joyous spring-time of life, like the volcano in the sea, burst their way through the waves of guilt and crime, which long have hidden them in their depths, and cast light upon the troubled waters of my soul. Then I was free and wild as the mountain air, at liberty to roam wherever I pleased. Then I loved to stand on the verge of the roaring cataract, and watch it leap from crag to crag, seeming as eager to seek its quiet bed among the grassy banks beneath, as the weary pilgrim, through the dust and heat of life's journey, covets his haven of rest. Then, too, I loved to climb the craggy steep, and fright the proud eagle from his lonely eyrie on its summit, and think that, as he, undazzled, dared to lift his eye to the full blaze of the meridian sun, so would I meet and withstand the gaze of the great and mighty of the land. "My father, Lord Sydenham, had several children, three of whom were sons; Thomas, the eldest, and Edward, younger than myself. Few would have supposed us children of the same parents. While to me was given the appearance of one born under the sunny skies of the south, with all the darker and more imaginative characteristics of that clime, on my brothers were bestowed the fairer complexion and the milder natures of children of the northern clime. And yet, though different in our disposition and character, we cling to each other with a deep and ardent love. This was displayed in our boyhood in all our sports and enjoyments, and in our maturer years when separated from home, we were pursuing our studies at school and college. The closest intimacy existed between Edward and myself. My brother Thomas was five years my senior, and five years at that period of life make a wide separation between children. "Edward, my fair-haired, bright-eyed brother! he stands before me now as when in the glorious days of youth we talked enthusiastically of the page: 340-341[View Page 340-341] happiness we would see in after years, and how pleasantly we would live on together through the bright career of manhood! But his career ended while the dew of youth was on him -mine has been protracted and accursed. "Woman came, and with her, love. It entered both our hearts and severed the bond which fastened them together. "The young girl who enthralled us both was passing the season on a visit with my sisters, and we were at home in our vacation. Bright and beautiful, with a mind rich and penetrating, she read the heart with the same glance that won its affections. But why speak of her deep blue eye, her graceful form? why dwell on those attractions that were fraught with woe for us all? It was enough for me to know that she was surpassingly lovely, and her beauty swept over my impassioned nature like the breeze over the chords of the AEolian harp -it called forth the deep wild music of my soul. The strong tide of love had long been pent up, and only awaited some hand to put aside the barrier. Hers was the hand, and the barrier was torn away, and the full, mighty current of my affections rushed forth, with the accumulated strength of years, and in its resistless flood overwhelmed the fair girl herself, who, all innocent as she was, had first opened an outlet to the impetuous tide. And my brother, too, loved the Lady Mary Neville. She touched his heart as the prophet smote the rock, and the rich well-spring sent forth its flow of gushing love, and then she loved him. Was it not spoken in the heaving bosom, in the glance of her eye, in the milder, lower tones of her voice, whenever they met? "I knew that my impetuous nature was as opposite to hers as it was to Edward's; that her every feeling and every thought was in unison with his. Yet still knowing and believing all this, I wished her to cast him off, and accept my love. I was angry with her, and with Edward, and yet more with myself. I was carried away, and beside myself with the wildness of my passion. I strove with all the energy with which I was endowed to page: 342-343[View Page 342-343] win her from him. I offered her all those little attentions which women love, and called out all my store of information and laid it at her feet. But in vain. I who loved the gloomy retreat and the rocky glen, wandered with her through mead and plain; I glowed in her smile; I bowed my proud heart and wept at the tale of sorrow as the tear gathered in her eye; I was completely fascinated by the spell she had woven about me, and I employed every art to please and win her to me. I had a meaning in every word, a praise in every sentence, and all to gain her love, but still in vain. And she was right. One smile, rich from Edward's heart, was worth all the hoarded love, the deep, impetuous feelings of mine! And yet, I knew not that she was right. I worshipped her very shadow, and could have kissed the foot-prints she left on the dewy grass. I would have given my life for her love, my very heart's blood for a single glance and smile such as she lavished every day upon my brother. Had she loved me, I would have devoted my life to her happiness without one selfish thought, one wish, or feeling, which did not embrace her welfare. "Time flew on -the leaf had fallen- winter had bound up the fountains, and covered the green sward with his snowy mantle; spring had called her minstrels forth to chant the songs of her glorious beauty, and had then breathed away her life on the breast of summer, and summer was kissing the faded cheek of autumn, and yet there was no change in our relations, save that I knew now that Edward had told his feelings, and that they were reciprocated. I knew this by their manner, by the very tones of the voice when they spoke to each other. Oh, the grief, the agony, that this knowledge brought me! I confess that I then hated my brother; I hated him for loving her, but more deeply for gaining her. I believed, and perhaps truly, that had he not been there that girl's love, with all the warm, deep, pure feelings of her nature, would have been lavished upon me. "Down from its high throne -down in its strength -down upon my heart, to check the flowing tide page: 344-345[View Page 344-345] of love, did I force my pride. It was agony; but I was free. Then up from the depths of my dark spirit came, as I thought, hate. It was agony still -I was not free- I was a slave to my over-mastering passion. "A short distance from the old mansion is a lake. Away -far away, into the bosom of the hills, wrapped up and sheltered in their dusky mantle, glad and glorious in their beauty, stretched its waters. Bounded on every side by mountains, clad in the fresh green drapery of forest trees, it lies smiling sweetly and serenely, save when the winds come whispering through the trees, and breathing sweet music to its waves, and enticing them to leap up in their gladness to the embrace of the whisperer. At one end a stream enters it with a joyous bound, as if eager to reach a spot where it may rest after its long and rugged journey through the mountain glen; while at the opposite shore it passes out, murmuring at being compelled to leave its calm repose. After a few short turns, it runs on smoothly and noiselessly, for the wild flowers shed upon its bosom their fragrant blossoms, to cheer its way towards the broader stream which sweeps onward evermore to the ocean. Here and there from the surface of the lake, like the queen of Beauty starting from the depths of the AEgean, rises an islet blooming with flowers, and verdant with trees laden with festoons of the wild grape. Ah, how vividly is the scene pictured upon my memory, though many intervening years and weary leagues divide me from it. "Upon this sheet of water we had our boats, and often in company with Edward and my sisters, and the Lady Mary, had I whiled away hour after hour in sailing over its merry waves, stopping at times to bring up from its crystal depths the fish with which it was well stocked, and then again gliding rapidly away, we would make the air resound with our songs and shouts. "It was one of the last days of summer, and towards evening we were wandering along the winding shore of that sweet lake. Lady Mary and Edward were walking together, while I stalked page: 346-347[View Page 346-347] gloomily apart from them, wrapped up in my own wild thoughts, It would have been wiser if I had avoided her, and kept myself aloof from her companionship. But there was a spell in her presence I could not shake off. She drew me to her as the magnet attracts the steel, and I could not resist, though I felt that it was madness. "At length we reached the boat-house, and she proposed that we should cross over to one of the islands, and gather some of the flowers which grew there in profusion. My brother took his seat next to her in the stern of the boat, and adjusting the oars, I began to row. We had nearly reached the landing, when we passed under a tree which overhung the water, and was covered with the beautiful blossoms of some parasitical plant, looking most tempting. Edward begged me to stop the boat, that he might gather some of them. The flowers were beyond his reach, and in his eagerness to pluck them he leaned too far, the boat was propelled forward by his weight, and he fell into the water. Oh, how fearfully then did a fiery train of dark and fiendish thoughts flash through my brain! I knew that he could not swim. If I failed to rescue him, he must die -die in the spring-time of his years- die with the world untried, and with every prospect bright and cheering -die with the warmth of love, of reciprocal love, still glowing in his heart. When he was gone, might I not gain the love that he had gained? Fierce, deadly, was the conflict between my mad passions and my conscience. I confess that the thought was upper-most for one moment, that he must die. "'Robert, brother, save me!' came up from the waters. 'Oh, help, or I am lost.' "The memory of our happy childhood -of the days of youthful joyousness came back. All my love for the gentle boy -the affectionate brother, returned once more. I forgot that he was my rival. He must be saved. "'Save him! Rescue your brother!' shrieked the bright creature by my side, and she attempted to leap after him. But my hand was on her, with a firm grasp. I seated her in the bottom of the page: 348-349[View Page 348-349] boat, and begged her to be quiet, and I would save him. Again came up the wild, despairing cry. He rose, threw out his arms in bitter agony, and, before I could loose myself from the grasp with which Lady Mary in her terror had seized my arm, he began again to sink. "Oh Heaven! I see him now. How slowly he sinks down through the waters, while I plunged in after him. As soon as I reached him, he seized me with a drowning man's grasp, which impeded my efforts, hampered my limbs, and dragged me down to the bottom with him. I endeavored to rise and bring him to the surface, but I could not. I attempted to loosen his grasp, but he clung to me still. A terrible struggle then ensued. I felt my strength departing, and I knew that even in death he would cling to me still. My sight and consciousness were failing me rapidly, and it seemed as if my head would burst apart, while my lungs and chest were filling with water. What a moment was that, when I felt that death was nigh- that we two were dying together, and by a strange effort and power of memory, my whole past life, with all its checkered history of joy and sorrow, of passion and sin, of enjoyment and disappointment, was drawn out and arrayed before my mind. In that one moment I seemed to have lived years, -long, and busy, and suffering years. By some effort -how I know not- by some desperate, but successful struggle, I freed my limbs, rose to the surface, and reached the shore. It was several minutes, doubtless -perhaps many- before I regained my consciousness. When I recovered and raised. myself from the ground, I saw the boat drifting at a short distance from the shore, with Lady Mary stretched insensible on the bottom, and there, down deep in the clear water, lying upon the golden sands, with his hair clustered thickly around his brow, was Edward, my brother. He was at rest; his loving heart was still forever. "My first care was to bring his body to the shore, and endeavor to recall him to life. It was in vain. I then swam off to the boat and brought page: 350-351[View Page 350-351] it to land. Without difficulty I was able to revive the fair young girl who had been so suddenly bereaved of her lover, and her heart and hopes so completely crushed. Would God that she had died then, before she had come back to the consciousness of her loss. As she came to herself, and to the knowledge that he was dead, she uttered a sharp cry of agony, whose thrilling wail I even now often hear in my dreams. It was the cry and the curse of the broken-hearted. "'Slayer of the holy and pure -destroyer of the beautiful and innocent- murderer! murderer of thy brother! The deep and eternal curse of heaven shall fall upon thy head.' "She thought that I had murdered him: that while I could have saved him, and given him back to her love, I had allowed him to perish in his helplessness. I tried to calm her madness, and to persuade her, but her ear was closed against all my protestations. The shock had been too terrible for her reason; she was a maniac. Poor girl! But she is dead now, and they sleep together beneath the walls of the church where my fathers worshipped for many generations. "I went from home. For many years I was a wanderer in distant lands, and among strange tribes. I endeavored to blot out the bitter memories of those days. I knew that I was innocent of the great crime she had charged me with -that I would have saved Edward, but I could not. And yet I was haunted with the recollection of the dark thoughts which struggled in my bosom, and for the moment, had the mastery over my reason and my conscience. I was not the murderer of my brother, and yet had I not wished him dead -had not my heart consented? I have but little recollection of those years of wandering and suffering. I think I was not quite sane; that my diseased mind had lost its balance. I can recall faint traces of those years, but they are like the dim memories of a dream -there is nothing real, nothing connected and consistent. * * * * * page: 352-353[View Page 352-353] "Yes, I loved again, and again the earth looked bright and beautiful. We were married, and that one year of bliss was like paradise to a soul that had escaped from the torments of the lost. You, my child, were born. You had the features of your father, softened and beautified by those of your sweet mother, and I hoped and prayed that you might not be cursed with the wild and impassioned dispositions which had been, hitherto, the bane of my existence, but that you might resemble your uncle. I gave you his name. I called you Edward, and when she died, -your beautiful and peerless mother,- when to all my cup of suffering, this too was added by the hand of God, then I determined to send you home to England, and to place you in the care of your family relations there, that you might grow up under gentler nurture, and with holier and more genial influences around you, than I can provide. To-morrow you leave me, my sweet child. I shall rejoin you in England, as soon as I can order my affairs here, if it shall please heaven to give me life. But as life is uncertain, and I feel mine to be so, I have written this memorial, and placed it in the hands of a friend, from whom you will receive it, when you come to be of age to understand it, should it be the will of God that I am to see you no more." * * * * We shall now draw rapidly together the threads of our story. As the reader has already divined, Edward was the son of Robert Sydenham, the brother of Sir Thomas and of Lady Mountclare. He had been consigned, by the hands of William Stedman, to a man who had acted for several years as the agent of Edward's father in England, but who had, some months previously, been detected in a fraudulent transaction with the bank, had made his escape to the continent, and died there. Edward's father had never returned to England, nor had there been any correspondence between him and his family, after the first year of his absence, and consequently he was supposed to be dead until within the last year, when Sir Thomas Sydenham had heard from Jamaica that his broth- page: 354-355[View Page 354-355] er had recently died on his estate in that island, leaving a considerable property which he had acquired by his marriage. It was for the settlement of this very estate, that Edward had been sent out to Jamaica, and thus by a singular and providential combination of circumstances, he had been employed, without knowing it, in arranging his own business and securing his own inheritance. Sir Thomas received his nephew with joy, and, as we may readily suppose, interposed no further obstacles to his union with Julienne. The legal proofs of his identity were easily procured, and he entered upon possession of his property. A few months afterwards the marriage was solemnized in London, and Edward and Julienne took up their abode at Walbury Castle, happy in the calm and deep affection which bound their hearts in one; and happy in doing good in the state of life to which it had pleased God to call them. THE END.
