lilllli lllllilllll ! I I I i| iPn' I 111 ij||'NiF'l'i|i n ! ' ik4»fii I' ill ijfiiJiMiilJ I'lUiii' ill 'ii ' mi i ' l''lll 'IJ\ llf '" ' "illlll,ll mr V'TilI'il il"liil|lllliliil|ilj, ; iiiUi II fi II nrii HUH i it i ' |il||iu 1 ivr I III (II iiir..^^ 1- I CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM Rhoads General Hospital Cornell University Library PS 2232.L15A4 Amabel :a family histom /bv.Mary Elizab 3 1924 022 161 685 The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 9240221 61 685 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY MARY ELIZABETH WORJIELEY. Wait, and Love Mmsolf will bring The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time And that which shapes it to some perfect end. TSNHTSOK. •*'*■■ BUJrCE & BROTHER, PUBLISHERS, 131 NASSAU STREET. MDCCCLIT. > according lo Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by BUNOB & BBOTHEB In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern Bistrict of New York. ^. (^. ®. MY TRIED AND TRUE FRIEND, 18 Ari-E CTIONATEL Y OFFERED. AND, IF IT POINTS THE MORAL THAT LOVE, THE PRINCIPLE, INFUSED INTO OUR DUTIES WORKS ITS OWN REWARD, TO NO ONE CO OLD IT BE MOKE APPROPRIATELY Unstxiiti. •ntiiiBt. Through suffering' and sorrow thou hast past, To show ns what a woman true may be. They have not taken sympathy &om thee. Nor made thee any other than thou wast ; But like some tree which, in a sudden blast, Sheddeth those blossoms that were weakly grown. Upon the air, but keepeth every one Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last, So thou hast shed some blooms of gaiety, But never one of steadfast cheerfulness ; Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, But rather cleared tbine inner eyes to see How many simple ways there are to bless. James Russel Lowell. Sntrnirurtinii, Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And- departing-, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time. Footprints that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, Some forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. H. W. Longfellow. "I DWELL amongst mine own people.'' The woman who can echo these words of the Shunamite, is blessed beyond all others of her sex in her position in society. " Amongst mine own people :" a sound of peace is in the very words. How much they seem to promise of usefulness; of happi- ness, of that kind sympathy and watchful consideration which are the birthright of our sex, and for the loss of which no public triumphs can bring us consolation ! Enjoyment is not happiness. Happiness has its seat in the affec- tions. It is reserved, modest, and retiring; it never courts publicity. The triumphs of beauty, wit, or even virtue have their value, but they cannot restore tranquillity when lost ; they leave the heart as lonely as they found it ; they cannot take the place of considerate friends. " I dwell amongst mine own people." Not only the living, but the dead surround me. I raise my eyes, and fix them on the portraits of the lost and loved. At yonder mansion, half hidden by tall cedar trees, dwell my grandfather and grandmother. Since the appointment of my father to the South American station, I have lived there too ; but the house is no longer what it used to be, a very fairy-land of merriment and happiness, since the boys were " cut adrift," as grandpapa expresses it, and my sweet sister Ella was married on the same day and hour as our cousin Mab. VIU INTRODUCTION. In a few months there is to be another wedding. Edward will have come home from the coast of South America; Mab and Ella with their young and happy husbands, will return, thouijh only for a season, to the dear old Hall ; relations of all degrees of consan- guinity will be gathered together by invitation ; grandmamma will hold high council with her housekeeper ; and grandpapa will give away another blushing bride. ^ut although the happy pair may seek for a short period some unSsturbed retreat, the bride will continue to " dwell amongst her own people :" Edward has purchased this dear cottage, and has promised to instal his " wee bit wifie " where she loves best to dwell ; and although some few articles of modern furniture are already in preparation, he has promised to disturb no one of these de.ir pictures, to banish no one of these stiff-backed, uncomfortable, time-hallowed arm chairs. My dear kind Edward ! . . . Shame on thee, truant goosequill ! I was talking of my ancestors. Is it possible, I ask myself, when I gaze upon their pictures, that Such as these have lived and died, without leaving a single trace of their being upon the tablets of time? They were not heroes, not authors, not founders of noble houses, not renowned for their discoveries in science or in art. They were plain, every-day, matter-of-fact men and women. But are the pages of the Annual Register to be alone our passport to immortality ? I have often been led to reflect, as I sit surrounded by the portraits that adorn this little drawing-room, that there is a veil hung up between the Present and the Past, whose folds are as impenetrable as that be- fore the Future. In the life of every one of us there i.s an inner sanc- tuary — a Holy of Holies — which the stranger may not enter, and where the footfalls of friendship are never heard. It is this veil that I now seek to draw aside from the histoiy of my ancestors. We seldom lift it from the inner life of living friend or neighbor ; but the dead! — the lessons of their experience, so far as we can gather them, are 'our own inheritance ; and sometimes it doe,? us good to look at life under circumstances in which its " deep things " are revealed to us ; and on the chart of the experience of others, we discern the breakers, the sunk rocks, and shifting sandbanks that endanger our own course, with the Pharos of Hope kindled for us beyond. In one respect I am ill-fitted for the task before me : my life has been full of the sunshine of happiness. Those whose history I am INTRODUCTION. IX to chronicle drank to the very dregs the cup of suffering ; but my path has been so fringed by the shadow of their sorrows, that I have imbibed a portion of their spirit, and have grown capable of appre- ciating their struggles with adversity. Besides this, from my earliest childhood I have been familiar with the outline of this history: every spot in our sweet valley is associated with its scenes ; the old servants of the family have stimulated my curiosity, and when once interested in any vague tradition, I have only to coax grandpapa — a revealer of secrets — a Zaphnath-Paneah — and I can learn all upon the subject that he knows. But I have a still mo're valuable source of information for some parts of my narrative : a manuscript that I inherit, in my father's hand. If my readers will have patience with me, I will tell them how^ it v/aa that my father came to record his own autobiography in connexion with these scenes. My parents spent their early married life abroad, my father having received a good naval appointment at one of the ports of the Medi- terranean. I was a puny, sickly, little thing, when we returned to England. My mother's health was thought precarious ; and while the doctors wished to keep her in London for advice, they strongly recommended my removal to the country. In the afternoon of the second day's journey, my father raised my weary head from his supporting shoulder, and pointed out to me the gable end of my future English home. We swept up the park avenue, we passed the four grand cedars; the autumn sun was gilding gloriously the Suifolk hills beyond. The old gardeners rolling the smooth carriage way and sweeping up the leaves, stood aside, and raised their hats from their white heads as "ve flew- by ; we turned suddenly into a flower garden, and drevp^ up before the rose-entwined high porch of the hall door. The family patty had flown forth to welcome us. They were all in walking dresses ; all animated, happy, and as healthful as thoy were gay.- I clung closer to my father's breast, with a, feeling of helplessness and isolation. He clasped me in his arms and sprang out of the carriage. " God bless you, Theodosius," cried my grandfather, who stood, cane in hand, the centre of a merry group of children in the door- way. With two bounds my father sprang up the front steps, and laid me gently in my grandmother's arms. Five children, besides myself, were in the nursery. Two were 1* X INTRODUCTION. the children of the house ; the parents of two others were at Singa- pore, in India ; the fifth was the daughter of aunt Annie, the wife of a lieutenant-colonel of artillery. I hardly know why I dwell upon my first introduction to this family group, unless it be because it gives me pleasure to remember how, when they had forced me by prayers, exhortations, and caresses, to go down in my white frock, after dinner, to dessert, I was attracted by a handsome boy, about sixteen, dressed in midshipman's uniform, who took me on his knee as soon as I came in, and filled a plate with fruit for me. "Have you been introduced all round, my child?" inquired my ■grandmother. "Yes, she has," answered a sturdy little urchin, "and she won't understand how I'm an uncle to her." " Hold your tongue, Leo. Don't worry the poor child," said the midshipman, "for Garter King himself, would be puzzled in this house to make out our consanguinity. We are all cousins. I am your cousin Ned. Blind, — never call me your great uncle !" It was in the arms of this great uncle or cousin, that I was carried across the Park that night, for as the OTeat house was full of guests I was to sleep with my father, at our new home — the Cottage. My father went with us, we were attended by old Maurice with a light, and I had been wrapped in shawls by the soft hands of my grandmother. My father, on coming out into the night, shook hands with the old butler. "Well, Maurice, my man," said he, "so at last you have brought your ship into port." " Aye, aye, sir, so I have," replied the old sailor. " I have made fast alongside yonder craft " (shaking his lantern towards the house that we • were leavmg). " It is as good a berth as a sailor ought to ask till he makes sail for his last v'y'ge ! And Captain,— I thought so on the night I saw her first,— that craft there sails with the figure-head of an angel !" When Ned and Maurice left us at our cottage, I was consigned into the hands of a new maid and put to bed. But when alone in the dark room, under a heavy canopy of damask, a horror of loneliness fell upon me. In hysterical terror, I started out of bed, and guided by the light that streamed beneath a door, made my way into the sitting-room. My father, who was there alone, took me in his arms, folded his coat round me, laid my head against his breast, and, sitting down before the hearth, drew my attention to a picture. It was the simple head of a woman, beautiful, young, but with the marks of INTRODUCTION. Xl early sorrow in the face. An expression of woe, which fascinated rather than repelled ; which made you feel that nothing that grieved you could be too trivial for her to sympathize with, and no sorrow so terrible but that she might venture with the right of sad expe- rience to bring it balm. A sort of holy peace stole into my heart, as 1 gazed on the calm eyes of the picture. " Who is it 1 — who is it, dear papa 1" I cried. He answered, smiling, with a kiss, " Old Maurice told us, dearest, who it was. It is our guardian angel." Two years ago, after my mother's death, wh«n our dear father, broken by his grief, had applied for and obtained a ship on the South American Station, we again returned together across the Park, from a family dinner at the Hall. Maurice, the old butler, escorted us with his lantern, and at my side was cousin Ned. Let not the reader think he was really my great uncle, for our marriage was arranged. When Ned and Maurice had departed, my father sat down before the hearth, and, having drawn a low stool near, I placed myself at his feet. "Father, have you no last instructions for your daughter?" He was gazing'eamestly at the picture. " You will fulfil your dear mother's last wishes, and my hopes, if you are just like Tier." " Father, you always say like Iter — and now — now I know that she is perfect, but was she so at my age? I have heard" .... "What?" " Strange things." My father rose up ; opened a desk and took out some papers. " Your mother wished you to know this," said he, — "I would that every person old and young in, England, knew this history, my child, and learned its lesson. You need it less than many, but there are those who cannot see their way through life, and it might leach : that Love — I do not mean Love the Passion, but Love the Principle — infused into our duties, works its own reward. There may be often the passion of love without this lovingness, but alone it never lasts long. People wonder sometimes they are not made happy by their duties ; it is because they are performed from some other motive tha,n love. And there is another mistake that people make, my child. They ascribe different origins to this love ; lut it is self-hegeliirig. Nothing produces it in others' hearts but its manifestation in our XU INTRODUCTION. own. We can neither lay claim to it, command it, nor compel it. It exists as between man and man independently of relationship. Only the Christian has, with respect to it, a peculiar privilege. He has the advantage of the initiative. With him it springs from God's love, and love to God in him ; and it is his privilege to call it forth in the hearts of others." The papers were in three parts. The first was a manuscript, labelled by my father " Doctor Glascock's Narrative." Doctor Glas- cock had been Inspector of our hospitals in Malta, and, in answer to some inquiries made in 1819, by my father, wrote down his reminis- cences of Amabel during her early life, and in the years 1809-10. The second manuscript was a long letter addressed by Amabel, herself, to Captain Warner. The third was a narrative of my father's ovni acquaintance with that lady, commenced that very night when he first brought me to my English home. The story fascinated me. I could not forget my father's wish " that every person in England knew this tale and learned its lesson." Impelled by the interest I took in what I read, I passed many hours in rewriting the history ; making extracts here and there from my authorities ; but the language and arrangement are my own. A fourth part I have supplied from my remembrance, and as I have already said from other sources. It is little the concern of any reader why, after rovrating the story solely to amuse myself, I have eventually been induced to publish it. It is given to the world with the full consent of my ovm family. My grandfather even ventured to suggest, some few days since, a sen- tence from the Catechism as its appropriate motto — " And do my duty in that state of life to which it may please God to call ^e.'' " Very true, but not exactly appropriate," was my answer. " The moral of my tale is love. And my father would have told us that the cold round of duty, without love to season it, is very unsatisfactory to all parties, dear grandpapa." ^art ymi DRAWN MAINLY PROM DR. GLASCOCK'S WRITTEN « NARRATIVE. Strong- is the life that nestles there, But into motion and delight It may not burst, till soft as air It feels Love's brooding timely might; Lyra Innocentium. AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. PART I. CHAPTER I. :* . • ■ . . English air ; For there is nothing here Which from the outward to the inward brought,. Moulded thy baby thought. — Tennyson. " It appears to me," says my father in one portion of Hs narra- tive, " that in our ordinary estimate of individual character, we seldom give sufficient weight to the influences that have formed it. " A family is established : — the opinions and character of the parents determine the nature of its associates, and give it its general tone. As one by one the children increase in years and understanding, each infuses somewhat of his peculiar tastes and disposition into the social' circle. "It has its gaieties — for they are young ; its interests — for they are many ; its sorrows — for they come to all ; its relative duties ; its expe- riences ; its anniversaries ; its sympathies ; its fears. The youthful mind is fonned under these influences ; it is not exposed to receive its impressions rudely from the world with- out, but learns at first to look on all things in a sort of family light. By degrees the permanent family character has been formed ; and it sends forth its members, each with the family impress, to take up their positions in the world. " But who is there, that looking round amongst his acquaint- ance makes sufficient allowance for the nature of the family influence which has acted on each mind ? Who is there, for example, who when passing judgment upon the faults or weak- nesses of a young and inexperienced woman, — beautiful per- haps, and exposed to every snare of vanity ; — enthusiastic, and therefore open to every temptation of an ill-regulated fancy — will suffer the words of condemnation to die unuttered on his 16 Amabel; a family history. lips, and plead for this joung girl before the many that accuse her, that she never knew the counsels of a mother ? " A mother's love ! It is the aegis of her children. Who can estimate its influence in a family of love ?" This is not in truth the moral of my story, but these reflec- tions seem to have been called forth from my father by an allusion to the early years of its heroine, Amabel de Karnac. Yes ; heroine I called her, for like my father, I have little sympathy with those who think that heroism went out of date together with chain armor. She was born at the close of the eighteenth century, at the last place in the world one would have fixed on for the produc- tion of a heroine, a low, close, miserable lodging near the gates of Deptford Dockyard. Her father, Louis Marie Amable de Kamao, was a Viscount and an emigre. The opening of the Kevolution found him in Paris, one of those mere men of day — those star-spangled court danglers — who, caring for nothing but their privileges as members of an aristocracy, passed into foreign countries on the first signal of popular insurrection, intending, wheii all was settled, to return triumphant from their voluntary exile, to reap the plea- sant fruits that other hands had sown, and to exult over the discomfiture of rebellion and of anarchy, which men of another stamp had encountered and put down. This was the- more disgraceful in the Viscount because he came from Brittany ; a province which, up to the time of the Revolution, was full of country gentlemen living on their estates surrounded by their peasantry ; unconnected with gene- ral politics, or with the intrigues of the court, to which, indeed, they were traditionally hostile since the annexation of the Province, three hundred years befor6, to the French crown. The Viscount had the acquaintance of certain men of influ- ence in England, who, as the French emigration increased, and claims upon their patronage grew numerous, provided for him, by procuring him the situation of teacher of French at Black- heath in a young ladies' school ; probably considering that if a Marquis could keep a cook's shop in Oxford street in the days of his misfortunes, a Viscount might be well content to ama^bel; a family history. 17 drag the youthful intellect through Telemaque, and the four regular conjugations of French verbs. But the situation, though not dishonorable, was not a lucra- tive one, and the Viscount was willing to exchange advantages. He took an early opportunity of making love to one of his pupils, reported to possess a small amount of private fortune. English beauty is always attractive to a foreigner, and the heiress had enough of it to enhance the value of her gold. They eloped at the close of a school ball, and before the alarmed preceptress could convey intelligence of the event to Miss Lane's family, she had united her fortunes to those of the Viscount, and no remedy remained for the evil done. The event, so far from improving the young Viscount's posi- tion, deprived him of the bare subsistence he had hitherto en- joyed. It turned out that Miss Lane's little fortune, till she ■was twenty-one, was not in her own power. Her father, willing that she should reap for a time the fruits of her own folly, refused to contribute to her support, or to extend to her his forgiveness ; the Viscount lost the countenance of his English.,: patrons, who -were not ill pleased to have an excuse for getting rid of him ; no careful mother would receive him as French teacher in her family ; while to complete their misfortunes his only sister Louise, who had been receiving her education in a convent in Brittany, barely escaping with life and reason from the destruction of her asylum, was, by the fidelity of one of her father's old retainers, brought over into England, to add to the number of those who must be fed from money raised at an enormous interest upon Madame de Karnac's future fortune. In the midst of all this poverty and anxiety, Amabel de Karnac came into the world. The very necessaries of her situ- ation were procured for the young mother by the exertions of Louise, who, oppressed b^ the idea that she entailed a burden on the family, worked early and late to meet her share of the expenses, procuring a coarse and precarious employment from a marine store, nearly opposite to their windows in Deptford. As she went backwards and forwards to this- establishment, for the purpose of returning work or of obtaining it, she was 18 Amabel; a family his«ort. quite unconscious that a lover's eyes were on lier, till one eve- ning, a few days after the birth of her brother's baby, the master of the marine store having invited her into his back parlor, seized the opportunity of declaring his passion, and of setting before her a full account of his late pecuniary suc- cesses as a government contractor. Poor, pale Louise ! As soon as she understood him, she broke away from the rash store-keeper, and covering her face ■with her little neat black apron, darted through the shop to the astonishment of customers, and never stopped till, in the little closet that she called her chamber, she fell upon her knees beside her bed, weeping passionately and long. Her adnjirer was not discouraged by this conduct. He gave her what he supposed a sufficient time to recover herself, and to explain all that had passed between them to her brother, and then, eager and impatient, he took up his hat and went across the street to honor the young Viscount with a call. The astonishment of de Karnac at his proposal was "equal to the measure of his family pride ; but, by degrees, he saw the thing more reasonably. He reflected on his own position, and remembered that the marriage of a female in a foreign land with a rich negociant Anglais would scarcely mar the glories of his family tree. I never heard any one talk of the character of the Viscount, but he must have been an eminently selfish man, although he looks so speciously handsome in the miniature likeness now hanging on the wall beside me, for, before t^ie store-keeper departed from his presence, he had arranged that if the shop were given up, and a handsome marriage settlement made upon his sister, he would use his influence to bring her over to their views. Louis-e had passed all her life in the seclusion of her convent, or in the almost equal retirement of her father's lands in Brit- tany ; her little fluttering heart was yet entirely free, and she had always looked upon a mariage de convenance as her natu- ral destiny. Like all French girls, however, she had trusted to the afiection of her friends to make a choice likely to be agree- able to her ; yet, when her brother spoke to her on the subject Amabel; a fami'ly history. 19 — when he laid before her reasons bearing less upon her happi- ness than on his own, he found her resigned and yielding, and in less than a fortnight after the proposal, Louise de Karnac, the descendant of a long line of Breton ancestors, became the wife of the store-keeper Sibbes. The next event that happened in the Karnac family was scarcely more of a tragedy than such a wedding. Poor, pale Louise, who every day grew paler, passed much of her time in her late home, her brother's lodgings, where, pressing to her heart his little baby, she at least felt that her feelings and her prejudices were not rudely ruffled by the bluff, vulgar bonhomie of Mr. Sibbes. She was thus employed one evening, when a sailor was sud- denly shown in, who with such preparation as a kind, rough nature could suggest, informed the ladies that the Viscount de Kamac had taken a boat at the Tower Stairs to row down to Deptford ; that a collier coming up the river had run down the little wherry ; that it had turned over upon the unfortunate Viscountj and that before he could be got out of the water he was drowned. Though Madame do Karnac had ceased to love her husband, though she reproached him daily with having deceived her into an unhappy marriage, and although at the very moment when the sad news reached her, she was engaged in pouring a long tale of his delinquencies into his sister's ear, she was not the less vehement in her grief, not the less helpless as she shrieked forth her lamentation. Louis6 had her immediately removed to her own cottage, and Mr. Sibbes took on himself all the arrangements for the inquest and the funeral. He easily per- suaded Madame de Karnac, after the first paroxysm of her des- pair was over, to write to her own family, and in a few hours her father arrived to take charge of her. He made no offer to attend the obsequies of the Viscount, or to share the funeral * expenses. He only inquired after his liabilities ; was shocked and indignant at the inroads made in the young wife's fortune ; and as soon as possible departed,_taking with him the widow land her little girl. Louise, as she watched the departure of the carriage, burst 20 Amabel; a f a m i l y ii i s t o r y . into a passion of weeping. She felt that the last tie that con- nected her present existence with the past had just been severed, and that henceforward she was to be nothing more than the wife of -Mr. Sibbes. The next intelligence she received of Madame de Karnac was through the medium of a newspaper, which reported her approaching marriage with a gallant naval officer. Louise glanced at her own black dress, and again wept long and bitterly. At length a thought occurred to her ; Mr. Sibbes had always sought to gratify her wishes ; what if she should entreat him to adopt her brother's orphan as their own ! It was with an impatience she had never felt before to see her husband, that she awaited his return. She had full confidence in the power she had never yet cared to exert over him, and she broached the subject eagerly before he had stepped across the threshold of his door. Her enthusiasm had lost sight of opposition to her wishes, and" she was both surprised and angry to discover that Ber pro- position was met by Mr. Sibbes with coldness. He did not approve of meddling with other people's children he told her ; the Viscount had been much expense to him already ; and Madame de Karnac he especially abhorred. " Say what remains when hope is fled ? She answered — endless weeping." And the character of Louise must have resembled that of the mother of the Boy of Egremont, for though excited into energy by the approach of care or danger, since all hope of ameliorat- ing her condition had forsaken her, she had become gradually almost weak in mind. Mr. Sibbes was not a man of strong sensibilities; he could not understand her sufferings, but he was made uncomfortable by tears. He arose early in the morning, went down by coach to the country-seat of Mr. Lane, saw the young widow in gay half-mourning listening to the pleasant nothings of Captain Talbot, her intended ; and after some negotiation struck a bar- gain with little Amabel's grandfather. The terms of which were, first, that the Sibbeses should have the entire charge and ' Amabel; a family history. 21 .care of the child. Secondly, that in consideration of the honor thence devolving upon him, Mr. Sibbes should furnish little Amabel with a handsome marriage portion, or settle an equiva- lent upon her should he die. A third proviso was added by the grandmother ; that she should not be brought up in the Roman Catholic religion. She was a model of childish beauty; but had she been deformed and ugly Mr. Sibbes would not have cared. He had obtained her solely to gratify his sad and sickly wife, and he was more than jepaid for his diplomacy and trouble, when as the post-chaise stopped before his house Louise came forth to meet them. " Here is your niece, my dear wife," he said, kindly. Louise extended her arms, but it was to throw them around him ; her first kiss was for her husband, and her second for the child. It would have been a pleasant thing to state that this act of considerate kindness brought health back to her cheek and happiness to their home. But it was not so. Louise's mental and moral powers had been irremediably weakened, and she sank, by slow yet steady stages, into childish imbecility. It was a happy imbecility, however ; the child became her playmate, alternately assuming the ascendency from her superior energy of character, or looking up to the enlarged physical powers of her aunt, with respect and admiration. Often as Mr. Sibbes must in after years have regretted his unwise ambition in his marriage, he never repented his adoption of the child. Though the mother of Amabel had protested, that unless allowed to see her often, she could not part with " her angel — her sweet love," it chanced, that in the excitement and bustle which succeeded her gay wedding with Capt. Talbot, she found little leisure or inclination for renewing her intercourse with Mr. and Mrs. Sibbes ; and an occasional note or message of inquiry, left by her gaudy footman at the Httle house, in Dept- ford, alone proved to her late husband's relations that she had not yet forgotten his child. ' W When, however, she was established in a country house, 22 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. after her third London season, and had begun to think of demanding a visit from her little daughter, she received notice of the intended removal of the family to Malta. Mr. Sibbes had made large speculations as a Levant merchant ; his wife's health required a milder air ; and, with lurking irony, the ex-dealer in marine stores ventured to hope, that Lady Karnac (she chose to be called thus, though the wife of Captain Talbot) would not object to so wide a separation from her little girl. This letter lay unanswered till Mr. Sibbes and his party had left England : and from that time, Amabel's communica- tions with her mother were very " few and far between." Like a garden flower, sown by chance in the comer of a field, which, beautiful in wild luxuriance, excites regret that it has not been cidtivated and trained ; so, Bella Karnac (as it was usual to call her) continued to grow up in Malta, a very different person from the proper model of lady-like deportment which every careful mother sets before her child. There is this important difference between our moral and intellectual faculties. "The former," says a great Review, (which, my father used to observe, sounds like a "lead line," the spirit of our times), " cannot be accustomed to discipline too early, that they may receive their bent in time ; but there is danger of weakening or disturbing the intellectual powers, if we interfere too soon with their"free growth." Bella's moral training came from the circumstances of her position. Heis was no artificial nursery and school-room existence, requiring artificial checks, excitements, and emulations ; she was at once thrown upon all the realities, and assumed some of the respon- sibilities, of actual life. Her faults brought their own punish- ment ; the angles of her disposition were forced to accommo- date themselves to circumstances. This, which would have led to artifice and cunning had she been struggling for freedom in an artificial state of society, made her fearless, light-hearted, and trustful, in her actual position. Her aunt was weak in health, as we have seen, and still more weak in mind ; whilst Mr. Sibbes, who was engaged in business and often absent on long voyages, paid no more atten- tion to the moral and intellectual training of his niece than to Amabel; a family history. 23 the moral and intellectual training of her puppy. Save in mutual offices of kindness she was perfectly independent of every one around her, and her heart was too loving not to strengthen hourly this grateful tie. That she was wilful and independent was the worst that could be said of her ; and wil- fulfiess and independence, properly directed, form, under other names, with other combinations, the elements of much that is noble, wise, and beautiful in character. CHAPTER n. Three years she grew in sun and shower Then nature said^" A lovelier flower On earth was never sown, This maiden for my own I take She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own." — Wokdswobth The windows of the house, or rather flat, which Mr. Sibbes occupied in Valetta, looted out upon the grass-plat behind the castle of St. Elmo, at that time the place where French prison- ers were coniined. Here Bella daily played before the grate through which they were permitted to hold intercourse with the townspeople, who came at cerfein hours to buy the little works they carved in wood and bone. Grey veterans leaning .on the sill of this barred window would tell her endless stories of la belle. France — of their battles and campaigns. As they warmed in their recital they constantly forgot that a mere child was their listener, and would tell her all that lay upon their hearte, tales of their families, their early loves, their homes, their generals, their camps and comrades, wrongs and hatreds, hopes, and griefs, and fears. They looked upon little Amabel as a French child and a prisoner. Even the most republican amongst them pardoned her father's nobility and emigration, in dehght at the national sympathies she evinced towards the land that they had .taught her to reverence and to love. fi^ When Amabel was seven years of age there was landed on 24 Amabel; a family history. the island a young French midshipman, taken prisoner by the boats of a British man of war on the neighboring coast of Cala- bria. The authorities, taking pity on the little fellow's youth, allowed him to go at large about the city. He took at first no pleasure in his liberty, but kept in sight of his fellow-prisoners in the Castle, walking silently and listlessly backwards and forr wards, along the edge of the fortifications, endeavoring to exchange the impulses of childhood for a stern and solemn sense of his position. But Bella on the third day succeeded in attracting his attention ; on the fourth she ventured to offer him confetti ; on the fifth, they were seated in an angle of the wall of the old fortress, busily engaged in playing mora, and very soon they were away together^ on the wharves, where Bella made her young companion known to her friends the fishermen. All little girls who play with little boys, resigning the con- ventional privileges of their sex, are content to follow admiringly, and sometimes on bare sufferance, the lead of the bolder party. The superiority of Felix in strength and age and practical attainment was the ground of little Amabel's excessive admiration. Later in life we want some one to sym- pathize with us, in childhood we are content with being per- mitted to sympathize. Bella brought her young companion home to Aunt Louise, who melted into tears the first time she heard the accent with which he spoke. He was a* compatriot of hers — a Bas-Breton. His father was a wealthy shipowner at Roscoff, who had made large purchases of landed property during the Revolution. Amongst his acquisitions was a part of the estate of the old family of De Karnac ; and Felix, not Amabel, had been brought up in the old Chateau. After a brief happiness of two months came tidings of the Peace of Amiens. The French prisoners in Valetta were ordei'ed to embark for their own home. Amabel followed her playmate to the water's edge, following and weepino- like Phaltiel the son of Laish in the train of his vrife Michal when reclaimed by David. She crept up to his side as he stood waiting for the boat on the verge of the Marina, lifting her tearful face for that last kiss which he, an oflBcer surrounded by amabkl; jl familt history. 25 his men, was half ashamed to give, She saw the boat push off and near the vessel which was to carry back the prisoners to their own gay land, and as her white sails lessened in the dis- tance poor little Bella's tears fell fast. Nor was it till six or eight months afterwards, that her grief for the loss Of Felix Guiscard was dispersed by the acquisition of another friend. This friend was Doctor Glascock ; from his pen c^me almost all the details I can give of this portion of our story. He arrived in Malta as Inspector of the Hospitals, imme- diately after the rupture of the Peace of Amiens. At the com- mencement of the Revolution he had caught the epidemic fever of the mind; — ;the gospel according to Jean Jacques was his religion ; and he dreamed imder its influence, the approaching overthrow of superstition and of tjranny, and Utopian felicity for all the human race. Surge after surge, the rolling waves of public opinion con- tinued to advance, and bore him onwg^d, until the sceptre of Napoleon was stretched over its waters : — the tide turned and left him deserted on the shore. He despaired thenceforth of liberty^ and turned the bitterness of his bold irony against human nature, which he thought had disappointed him. He -became a misanthrope because all men were not philanthro- pists.. He hated his fellow-creatures because they wanted love! At this stage of his mental history his friends procured him his .appointment, and Government, which in those days had its eyes on individiiajs, was nothing loath to exile one who frater- nized with Cartwright to a place so loyal as the little isle of Malta, where the British population, naval and military, looked upon a man who read the Edinburgh Review as scarcely capa,ble of loyal service to his Majesty ; and the Declaration of Rights, which the Doctor hung framed and glazed over his fire-place, as a code of ..opinions only adapted to a community of bandits,- subversive alike of civilization, religion, loyalty, and honor. On the grassy ground behind the Castle, Dr. Glascock noticed Bella Karnacthe fiM time that he went into the Prison Hospital. She had climbed up the rough wall, inserting her tiny fingers and her feet in the interstices of the moitar, till 2 26 amadel; a family histoiiy. she could hang in safety by the iron bars of a window, sup- ported by the arms of a rough French soldier. When Dr. Glas- cock came in sight he let her down, putting into her hand at the same time some little article of his own manufacture. She ran up to the Doctor, in whom she hoped the trifle of her friend would find a purchaser, but as she caught the expression of his face, the little air of confidence she had assumed vanished, and she turned timidly away.. " Humph," said the Doctor, " catching fleas and fevers ; pestering the public with that trumpery ! Modern charity puts a new sense on the old adage. Sending its agents abroad to pick its neighbor's pocket, it enjoys its happy idleness com- fortably at home." But in the course of his professional visits he made many inquiries about the child amongst the English ladies of the gar- rison. In answer he heard discussed the probable wealth of the old merchant whoASvas her uncle and protector, his obscure origin, his rise in life, the health and circumstances of his wife, and the future prospects of the httle girl. " My good ladies," said the Doctor in his turn, " there is no melancholy fact on earth but has its uses. Miserable children who grow up as you describe, without the artificial restraints you impose in education, serve to gauge the advantages your daughters must enjoy." One lady told him that as the child spoke French, she had been anxious to secure her as a companion to her daughters, and would have been willing to have her with them in the school-room, hut her tastes were so low, and she had so large an acquaintance, which she could not be made to relinquish, amongst the prisoners of St. Elmo, and the fishermen and fruitwomen of Valetta, that to reclaim her was impossible. All this jumped with the Doctor's humor, and he made advances the next morning to little Amabel, on the grass plot of the Castle. She followed him about after a short time, and served him as interpreter. She accompanied him in all his walks and to the houses of his patients, waiting for him at the dooi-s. Children find out where their company is welcome and a loving heart can always accommodate itself to character. Amabel; a family history. 27 Little Bella rarely ventured to converse with her stern doctor. He was too much absorbed in his political disappointments to enter into the spirit of her prattle, but she caught readily a sympathy with his thoughts, she felt he liked to have her silent near hira, and -that sometimes her naive exclamations could disperse from his face a gathering cloud of gloom. Wherever they went, and leave her where he might, she had friendly relations with the native population — ^a word, a joke, a game of play, a smile. All over the island she was known and welcomed. She knew a blessed truth, which' he did not : that in every human heart there is sympathy and kindness, and trusted in these qualities which experience had taaght her must be there. And so her hfe went on ; three years passed in attendance on her aunt and in the constant companionship of the Doctor. She well understood that which many persons capable of self- sacrifice never discover-^that by seeking variety and amuse- ment in hours of leisure, she became of double value to her invalide as a medium of communication with the outward world. In 1806, however, this existence was broken up. Mrs. Sibbes was recommended a sea voyage, and Mr. Sibbes having several merchant vessels in port on their way from the Levant to England, his family was embarked on board of one of them to go with a convoy to Gibraltar. Amabel was absent but six months, yet when she returned to Valetta her old friend could scarcely recognise her. She left him a mere child, she came back to him a woman. The voyage had revealed to her another life. They coasted along the shores of Africa, watching the palm-clad mountain ridges blending with the sky. A gentleman on board the vessel pointed put to the inquiring Amabel, the site of the sub- merged city — Dido's Carthage— the Carthage of the ^neid. He held a Copy of Virgil in his hand, and was endeavoring to identify the poet's descriptions. He had not before taken much notice of his little fellow-passenger, but now, in answer to her •ieager questions, and' moved by an impulse in search of sympa- thy, he volunteered to translate to her a book of the .^Eneid. 28 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. It was that which records the departure of ^aeas, and the Belf-iLnmolation of his victim on her lofty funeral pile. " It is not the finest in the poem," said the stranger; " I prefer the description of the sack of Troy." " Oh ! that I could read it all !" cried Amabel. " You can — in Dryden's Virgil." "I cannot get the book," she answered, with a voice so melancholy, that it awakened at once the mirth and the com- passion of the stranger. " Shall I send you one from England ?" " God bless you ! — God reward you !" sprang to the lips of Amabel ; and if she repressed the exclamation, it was not because she thought it ill-suited to the obligation. There is a species of enthusiasm of this nature wliich is not unusual, even in very sober minds. It occurs when a portion of beautiful poetry has been read or beard, the remainder of which is unattainable. The remembrance of the broken plea- sure dwells upon the mind ; the melody of the verses — the interest of the story — haunts us in the daytime, and comes back to us in dreams ; we brood over it ; we cherish it, and we feel as if a part of our very being was wanting, till the missing portion is restored. All the interest of Bella's trip was swallowed up in an intense desire to possess the promised Virgil. The chances of war were various, — it may have been lost upon its passage, or the promise forgotten — it never arrived. But Bella was never long under the influence of discourage- ment. " If I cannot have what I want, I will use what I can " was, throughout life, (with one sad interval) her watchword. Her resolution was taken. An hour after their re-establishment in their house in Valetta, she had slipped away unobserved from her uncle and the doctor, and when the latter at midnight entered his own study, he found her seated there, with his old Virgil and a Latin dictionary, too much absorbed to have taken note of time. Then first came to him the idea of educating her. Then it first struck him, that, though a woman might never be remark- able as a Latin scholar, though she might not wring her brain A FAMILY HISTOEY. 29 for nonsense verses, or pass a creditable examination in the Eton grammar, she might become mistress of the poetry of old. The notion pleased him. He invited her to come every morning to his quarters ; and soon the hours they devoted to the study of the poets and of history became to both the hap- piest of their iives. Her enthusiasm supplied the place of early habits of study. Her early responsibilities had disciplined her mind. But if, in these respects, she fell something short of the standard of pas- sive obedience required in a school, she had at least escaped tho evils of an early over-education. Her faculties were not stunted ;-^her thirst for knowledge never had been satiated^ With her,-, the demand for information exceeded the supply, and thus retained its price and value. Her little capital of know- ledge was constantly employed. To say that the better part of education is ^elf-bestowed, would be an impertinent truism ; but my father was accus- tomed to go further, and assert that all education is of self, and that the mere acquisition of knowledge and accomplish- ment is unworthy such a name. " Till knowledge," he observes, " has become a portion, of our being — something upon which we act — which, subtracted from us, would make us other than we are^-it has not entered into our education. A little know- ledge is only dangerous when it lies crude and undigested, without working its way into the heart, out of the head." French and Italian she acquired naturally — the former from her aunt, the latter from her intercourse with the better class of the Maltese; but, at the same time, she became mistress of two patois languages — the mixed Arabic and Italian used by the lower class of the native population of Valetta. and the harsh, inflexile Breton, which was by inheritance her native tongue. Her earliest pleasure had been to sit upon a little. footstool, gazing up .into her aunt's pale face, whilst, with lingering athusiasm, Louise talked to her of Brittany, or, in a soft, low voice, sang ballads, framed when men wrote little, but reflected luch, and tha;experience of a lifetime was compressed into a 30 Amabel; a family history. song. Brittany was, in the Middle Ages, the storehouse of romantic literature. The songs of the Trouvere and the Jon- ffleur, which afterwards degenerated into our nursery ballads, had their origin among that people whose sober enthusiasm betrays their Celtic origin ; and the child's imagination warmed at the recital of the adventures of the Breton hero, Arthur. There are distinct stages of mind, which mark the progress of our years, developed in different degrees, according to cir- cumstances or character, in every specimen of human nature. The child's first impulse is, to personalize all objects ; and, in this state of mind, ideal things have, to him, a reality. Next comes the stage of youth, when real things are idealized ; and the restless melancholy common to those just entering life, hasits origin in an unacknowledged instinctive conviction that the first encounter with the realities of life will break in upon this state of feeling, and that the heart cannot repose itself in dreams. It was Bella's transition on her return from her Mediterra- nean voyage from her first into her second period of mental history which had taken the doctor by surprise. Cut off from her usual companions, occupations, and resources, with the poetry of Virgil yet ringing in her ears, she had given herself up dming her residence in Gibraltar to a new state of existence. The pleasures of her infancy were renewed and now appre- ciated. The tales of her aunt became her Waverley Novels — her Ariosto — and far more. We sober people, who can comment on our own enjoyment, seldom rest on such enchanted ground, where, falling asleep as it were to earthly objects, the dreamer is transported for a season to the poet's fairy land. With that egotism of early youth which leads us to asso- ciate ourselves personally with all that interests us, she gave life and breath to the fancies that delighted her, and played & prominent part in her own ideal world. She lived amongst these wild creations, she felt with them, she imitated them. She adopted their scale of virtues, she imbibed a portion of their exaggerated sentiments, she adopted the country in which her fancy had located them, and their very religion had a pecu- liar charm for her. The only stipulation respecting her educa- ' tion made by Mr. Lane, when he gave her uputo Mr. Sibbes, amauhl; a family history. 31 was, that she should' be brought up a member of the Church of England ; but in Malta she imbibed a leaning towards Qatholicism ; its poetry impressed her fancy, and she cared little for its creed. And it was well for her that she had even such slight links to bind her by a crude notion of loyalty to some form of Christianity ; for the Doctor, her preceptor, called himself, in the disguised language of the times, a " philosopher." ; He could point out bigotries and fallacies ; could make her feel a void — ^^a want, by laying bare the insecure foundations of her faith ; but there were points on which her warm young heart distrusted him ; she accepted a great many of his opinions, always in the hope of seeing through them a something never there. Two years thus passed ; and Bella, now sixteen, grew restless and oppressed by the vagueness, the inapplicability of her feel- ings. She had no one into whose bosom she could pour them •all, and learn by the mere recital that they were exaggerated and wrong. Then waj felt that void which nature has im- planted in a young girl's heart, to- teach her, perhaps, that hu- man life is incomplete without the union of two souls. She was living in the house of Dr. Glascock. Mr. Sibbes was engaged in constant voyages, and in the melancholy con- dition of his wife's health, it seemed desirable that Dr. Glas- cock should receive her as " a nervous patient," with her niece and servant to occupy the first floor of a house which govern- ment had assigned him in that part of Valetta, called the suburb Ploriana. The health of Amabel was perhaps less strong than in her earlier years. Her temperament had always been of a nervous character, and she was growing morbid. The Doctor's bitter theories struck painfully upon her sensibili- ties, and 'v^eakened the attachment she had early conceived for him. She had given up bet healthful intercourse in works of charity and mutual kindness with the world without ; and since " the salt had lost its savor '' wherewith were the tone, and freshness of her mind to be restored ? '.' The doctor saw all this; with a ^ sigh confessed that it was suitable companionship she wanted, and invited to his house 32 Amabel; a family history. tlie daughter of an early friend of liis, 'a lady who had just come out' to Malta, the wife of a Captain Annesley. Captain Annesley had an intimate friend, a Captain Warner. Both commanded sLster brigs on the same station, both were looking eagerly for post rank in the service, both were gentle- men by birth, and gallant officers, and both had entered into the " holy estate," though Captain Warner was a widower. He had lost the year before, a wife, whom he had married when only a Lieutenant, who had left him two young children ; now resident in England, under the care of their grandmother. The brig which he commanded, came into Valetta a few days after the departure of Captain Annesley, and one of Captain Warner's first movements was to pay his respects to the wife of his friend. Dr. Glascock having admitted Mrs. Annesley as an inmate of his family, had no power to prevent the daily calls of Cap- tain Warner. In her society he saw the doctor's pupil, and Bella's beauty made a deep impression on his sailor-like suscep- tibility, whilst his attentions (the first ever directed to herself ) produced all the feelings of surprise and gratification, which that sort of devotion naturally calls forth, ere circumstances have compelled the recipient to weigh its worth, or to calculate its probable conclusion. • Captain Warner was an excellent sailor ; he could fight his ship with gallantry, and keep her in good discipline. He had a thousand anecdotes to tell, of adventures that had befallen him afloat and ashore ; and told them so effectively, that the doctor began to fear lest, Othello-like, he should work his way into the afiections of Bella. With the careless insouciance of his cha racter and his profession, the Captain, considering that a mere medical man had no business to concern himself about Miss Kamac's afi'ections, though too much of a gentleman to treat the doctor in his own house cavalferly, plainly showed that he came only to visit the ladies of the family, and that he consi- dered all interest in himself, or his proceedings, as clearly beyond the limits of the jurisdiction of the doctor. Dr. Glascock, in his turn, resented this by great stiffness of deportment when they met ; by making and promulgating the AMABEI,; A FAMILY HISTOBV. 33 discovery, that the Captain's temper was imperious and exci- table; and by threatening to remove his family across the Island, to a country-house he had at Eamalah, whither the Captain's professional engagements would rarely permit him to follow. And here it is that the doctor's narrative may properly be said to open. It was sent in 1819, with the following letter to my father. "Sir: " A man of the world knows always how to draw consola- tion from the society of objects worthy his affection, and to console himself for their removal. "My knowledge of Miss Amabel de Karnac's early life does not enable me to pronounce any opinion upon her conduct or her character under circumstances unfamiliar, but I send, as you request, particulars relative to her early love affair, before leaving Valletta. I have no personal objection to this letter being shown to Capt. Warner. For this reason, I have begun my narrative at a point which will enable him to estimate the kind of way in which she then regarded him ; and he may learn, possibly, to consider my wisdom was prophetic, when I counselled her to avoid all connexion with a country, where manners and dispositions not conventional, are misrepresented, misinterpreted, and misunderstood. " Your obedient humble servant, "Thos. Glascock, M. D. " Government Inspector of Hospitals at Valetta." 2« 34 Amabel: a tamily HisiORy. CHAPTER m. Standing witK reluctant feet, "Where the brook and river meet, Maidenhood and childhood fleet. Why thus pause in indecision. Whilst the angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?— H. W. LoNOFELLOW. Onk of the places whicli the great war of this century raised into the highest militaiy and commercial consequence, was Malta. In its palmy days, the little island was the great emporium of British commerce. In 1808, even the friendly ports of Portugal were closed to English goods, and the only opening left for the introduction of our manufactm-es into Europe, was through the Ottoman Empire. Under these cir- cumstances large numbers of English merchants emigrated to Malta, to maintain their trading communications with the East; the femilies of naval and military officers established themselves at Valetta, as a convenient residence in the vicinity of their friends ; travellers shut out from continental tourage, were flocking eastward, taking Malta on their way :^its praises — or the contrary — during that period,have been said or sung, by Coleridge, Byron, and by many other visitors ; and the lit- tle island — notwithstanding the denseness of its population, ten times exceeding that of any known corner of the world, in its average proportion ; the immensely high rental of its land, or rather rock, for almost every foot of soil is artificial ; — was in a state of activity and prosperity, unparalleled in its experi- ence ; though the industry of its inhabitants, and the forced fertility of its shelving hill-side terraces, have been the theme of classic song. No spot of ground has ever had so many masters, and no portion of Europe has a history so obscure. Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Huns and Saracens, Normans, Emperors of Germany, Kings of Arra- gon, Knights of Jerusalem, and French and English kings AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 3& have by turns possessed it ; and political events seem lately to have raised it to higher consequence than ever as a dependency on our crown. " Under the English rule," says Pico, writing before the great plague. which desolated it in 1813, "it was delightful to see the cities of the island, and particularly Valetta, crowded to excess with a contented population, intent on a variety of occupations, trades, and novel enterprises. Amidst the inces- sant hum of busy life, were heard various idiomij, accompa- nied by-different national customs, by reason of the many foreignei-s of divers nations there congregated together ; a con- tinuat crowd of carts, asses, and porters, thronged the streets and lined the harbors ; ships were unlading merchandise, and others were receiving cargoes ; at the gates there was a perpe- tual jostle of busy comers and goers. And when this general activity of business ceased with the close of daylight, at night the shops, cafis, theatres, and all places of amusement, were frequented by a gay and festive crowd. The patriot congratu- lated himself on seeing every kind of wretchedness exiled from his birth-place, which had become the great commercial emporium of the European world ; the stranger enjoyed its hospitality, and the government reaped the fruits of its wise provisions in the general happiness of the population." The presence of a large naval force added greatly to the liveliness of Valetta. So many English families had settled there, that officers on coming into port looked forward to much gaiety, and were in the habit of returning, either at their own lodgings, or on shipboard, the attentions paid to them on shore. The Admiral of the Port, at the time of our history, deter- mined to do his part in aid of the general festivity, and issued cards for an entertainment on board his Flag Ship, which some young and lively women of his acquaintance undertook to per- suade him must be a Fancy Ball. Though Amabel was unknown in the English circles of Valetta, Captain Warner had no difficulty in procuring her an invitation, at the same time that he got one fox Mrs, Annesley. 36 Amabel; a family hibtort. « Doctor," said Bella, exhibiting this note, " I am grown up. I want to see the world. Giaointa says I ought, and " "And?" " Captain Warner." " Pooh ! silly child— the world ! Do you not think the pri- vate study of. your private friends, who, in their daily lives, lay bare their hearts before you, better than looking on the var- nished face of what men call society ?" "How should I know till I have tried both. Doctor? I dare say society is bad, but at least when people mffet, each one dependent on the rest for pleasure, which all seek, there must be something of the law of love (nay. Doctor, not ' its counterfeit politeness, and not much of that') amongst them." " Not so ; men congregate in multitudes to make each other miserable. Hobbes, Grotius, and Spinosa, t«ll us right that society was first organized by men for their own advan- tage, each one hoping to win that advantage over his fellows by address or force." " And what account do you make of family affection ?" " A thing you know but in wild theory. You make your own bright notions of what life should be, and fit your facts to suit your vague imagining. In 'love,' as you call it, there is little of loving kindness as a principle," said the Doctor. " I will be loved, and I must love," cried Bella, passionately. " Listen to me," replied the cynic. " You will grow like others, selfish, jealous, and covetous, after your kind. These things, instead of love, are mingled by men even with their religion. The condor wings his flight to Chimborazo, but his nature brings him back to the plain in search of prey. Captain Warner, let me hint to you, appreciates the value of your gold, your promised dowry. Widowers are mostly on the look-out for young and trusting hearts with money.''' Bella smiled. Had her own mind been made up as to tho degree of liking that she felt for the gay Captain, she would pro- bably have answered by a perverse defence of her new friend (had he been nothing more to her), or by some pettish observation thrown out to irritate the Doctor, had he touched her heart thus roughly on a tenderer string. But the conclusion of the whole Amabel; a family history, 37 matter was, that the Doctor admitting some reason in the reproaches she addressed to him on her seclusion, and still more influenced on the subject by his housekeeper, gave his consent reluctantly to her appearance at the party, coupled with the astonishing condition that she should accept him as her body-guard, over and above the chaperonage of Mrs. Annesley. Having small time for preparation, she resolved to make her appearance as a peasant girl of Brittany, in a dress some- thing like the gala dress of the richer Bernese maidens. As hour after hour she labored on this costume with the occasional assistance of Mrs. Annesley, the Doctor would make constant pretexts for coming into the room that he might gaze upon the beauty of their young and happy faces, enhanced by a contrast of character and charms. Mrs. Annesley, scarcely past the age of legal childhood, was an example of that fair and rounded healthy English beauty, which expresses generally great amiability of disposition and little activity of mind. But her companion ! A Stranger would at once have pro- nounced her a Maltese, for her dress, all black, was of tho fashion of the isle, yet an accurate observer would have hesitated to assign that beautifully rounded speaking face to the daughter of a people of confessedly African extraction, though her hair was very dark and her eyes of a rich brown hue. At times a shade of sadness quenched the sunshine of her beauty ; it was always full of thought, the mirror of the soul, but smiles and dimples were its natural expression. The cares of life had not yet fallen upon one of the most free and natu- ral of God's creatures, but her mind had lately caught a vision of existence, and she shrank shuddering from the realities of life, when she reflected that she too might be called upon to struggle and endure. With no one to repress the natural expression and free expansion of her nature, she had till recently been infinitely happy, though the careful hand of dis- cipline was wanting to teach her in these days of early girlhood, when life was lavish of the gifts it flung around her, how to store up the materials from whence to fashion perma- nent felicity, when the dark days of her destiny should come, 38 Amabel; a familv histouv. in which she should say of the things that now delighted her, " I have no pleasure in them." The child gathers flowers in the sunshine, but he weaves them into garlands wherewith he crowns himself, when sitting in the shade. " The best attainments are made from inward impulse," says the lamented Margaret Fuller, in her Papers on Literature and Art ; " but it does not follow that outward discipline of any liberality will impair grace or strength, and it is impossible for any mind fully or harmoniously to ascertain its own wants, with- out being made to resound from some strong outward pressure." She was but at that age when childhood imperceptibly is merged in womanhood ; that age when a tender and judicious mother, relying on effects already wrought by the loving disci- pline of early days, will exert her influence rather than her authority ; when the human soul, if gifted with any powers of reflection, stands bewildered with the responsibilities just open- ing before it ; when ceasing to live for self we begin to carry forth the hoarded love of infancy upon the service of others ; when human life seems a dark problem ; when the spirit, fear- less in its inexperience, sometimes longs to try its powers; when the philosophic observer watches the unfolding of the eharacter, and the parent and true friend lay up before the throne of God their prayers in store for the young creature, whom they would fain hold back a short time longer from the world in which she pants to share. Sixteen ! the poet's sweet sixteen ! We protest against the bard as an authority. It is the most important era in a young girl's life, and to many, we are certain, the least happy. She struggles with her own position, she finds life incomprehensible. New duties are rudely thrust upon her. She has to achieve consideration even in the domestic circle ; she commits follies, which, long wept over, will influence her character; faults rhich appear to others and herself an earnest of future error. She is restless and unhappy. The period of life (even with all the sprihg-tide hopes of an opening destiny before her) that ft wise woman would least willingly take back again, would be the poet's " sweet sixteen 1" AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 30 The evening came, hazy with heat. At about six o'clock news was brought to Mrs. Annesley that her husband's ship, the Sea Gull, with a prize in tow, was coming into the Great Harbor, and she hurried to the water's edge to be the first to go on board of her. When the hour came for the departure of Bella and tho Doctor, he went into the garden and called her. " I am ready. Doctor,'' was her answer, and her sweet head parted the flowering shrubs upon her trellised balcony. "An angel's living portrait," he exclaims, "framed by the leaves and flowers !" " Beauty is a great gift of heaven," it is true, but it is chiefly valuable because it gives, at starting, a large advantage in society. : In the social circle it can be of no account, unless the want of the complacency it gives is allowed to sour the dispo- sition of the plainer members of a family. Beauty always becomes associated in idea with excellence, assert to the contrary who may. And this is the true answer to those foolish actualists, who nowadays object to having the heroes, of romance made handsome and the heroines all fair. If their characters, noble or lovely, had been known to the reader in actual life as well as he learns to know them in the pages of the novel, they would assuredly have seemed beauti- ful to him. It would be giving him a false idea by describing them as unattractive ; he must therefore be presented with a beautiful idea. But to return to her as she stood waiting in the Doctor's study. The rattling cabriolet swung upon two high wheels, and weighing down behind, drawn by a lusty mule, was at the door. He put ber in, and they drove oflF along the narrow, steep, irregular street (swarming with population, and crowded with knightly monuments of the chivalric ages), which led to both of the great^iarbors from the suburb Floriana. They crossed the Plaza Britannica, where troops of English red-coats were parading, a scene of mechanical regularity totally opposed to that presented in the streets, or rather alleys, where ladies of all ranks sat en plein air on the flat roofs, or m the flowery balconies of tall white houses, whilst market- 40 Amabel; a family history. women, standing beneath the canvas of rude booths, sold pro- visions to the passenger. Now, as an opening was passed, they saw down a " street of stairs," the deep blue of the harbor, dotted with white shipping ; and next they passed before some public building, the residence of a proud " language" in Valetta's knightly days, built of grey stone, and more remarkable for attention to general symmetry of effect than for any elabora- tion of ornament ; and rattling down a rough steep hiil, they arrived at the Marina. The Doctor saw Pietro, an acquaintance, amongst the loung- ing boatmen, and signed to him. He launched his boat into the water, and came round to meet them at the Nix Mangare stairs. As he did so the gig of Captain Warner's ship, the Dodo, touched the stairs, and Captain Warner, springing on shore, made his way towards them. " I am sorry, sir," he said to Dr. Glascock, " to detain this lady by asking you to make a little detour on our way to the Undaunted. The Sea Gull has lost her surgeon in the action, and the French Captain of her prize is badly wounded. Cap- tain Annesley presents his compliments, and would be glad if you would come on board." " To the Sea Gull 1" There she lay, sail after sail coming down with cool and practised regularity — her crew no more in a bustle than if she had been lying lazily becalmed in the waters of the Tropics. Scarcely a word was said until they reached the vessel : before the accommodation chair could be got ready, Amabel had followed tW doctor up the side, to the great admiration of the midshipmen, and, shading her beauty with her large straw hat, passed below into the captain's cabin. ' " Glad to see you. Dr. Glascock," was his salutation ; " and you too, Miss Bella. You will find my prisoner intractable, and I ventured, my good sir, to send for you to parlez-vous to him. Persuade him to have his wounds dressed ; he won't listen to my English, and I think him in rather a bad way, doctor." So saying, he opened the door of his own cabin, which had been given up considerately to the wounded French commander. Bella remained in the^ cabin, listening to the doctor's broken Amabel; a family history. 41 remonstrances addressed to tte sick Frenchman, and, with a woman's ready sympathy for the unfortunate, straining her ear for his voice in reply. From girlhood she had, as we have said, been at the hospitaL No one had taught her that attendance on the sick could be unfeminine ; on the contrary, the doctor's creed was, that a woman was alwa3fs in her sphere, if she can be of use to others. Accustomed to be listened to, she felt sure she could persuade where all the doctor's arguments had not succeeded. She opened the cabin door, and no sooner had she appeared upon the threshold, than the young Frenchman, with a half- cry, rose from his pillow. His face was of death's yellowish paleness, his long dark hair thrown back from his forehead, matted with dried blood, stood up around his face, stiffly and wildly. Dark hair was on his lip, the soft fine growth of very early manhood, which, having been for some days untrimmed and neglected, made him look even more haggard than his paleness. Yet still they could dis- cover fine features. The fires of intellect were not extinguished in his blood-shot, glazing eyes ; — the arm that lay so powerless upon the coverlet, had, a day or two earlier, wielded the lost sword, now hanging, a trophy of success, in a corner of the captain's cabin. Parts of his martial accoutrements, spotted witk blood, and torn with rents of battle, lay scattered on Ihe bedding. " Speak to him," said the doctor. Her voice was choked, but her face spoke to his heart with the eloquent sympathy of tears. The prisoner first broke silence ; stretching out his hand, he drew her towards him. "Etes vous Bretonne ?" he said, in a low voice. The doctor made ready his instruments, and watched them. " Yes. •Not Bretonne by birth. I was not born there ; but my father was from Brittany." The young man gazed upon her fixedly. " Are you "he began. She started. " I am Felix," he said, painfully. 42 Amabel; a family history. In the years that had elapsed since they last met, his image had faded in her heart ; yet not so utterly, but that she spoke the truth when, as he clasped her hand, she whispered, with a blush, that her companion and compatriot had never been for- gotten. There was a pause. The heart of the sufferer was stirred within him. Dr. Glascock was preparing to come forward. Amabel collected all her courage. "For the sake of our dear France," she said, "you must submit, and let us aid you." With woman's sweetest tact she had found out the vulnera- ble point in his affections, and had associated herself there. " No," he replied, half fiercely. " I will not live to pine over the ruin of my hopes in any English prison. France should be served only by the fortunate. Enough, who have not failed, are left to serve her. Those who fail should die." She fell upon her knees beside his cot ; clasping his left hand fast in both her own, she pressed it to her forehead, to her lips, in an agony of supplication. »The young man looked at her irresolute. Something to live for, in what had seemed to him his last hour, he had found. Convulsively the blood-stained hand she held returned the pressure of her soft warm fingers. At that moment the Doctor drew near and caught his eye. He saw his aid would no longer be rejected. Two balls were extracted, and his wounds dressed, whilst he lay without speak- ing, looking at Amabel with a fixed yet sad expression. When all was over he grew faint; Bella's small hands parted his matted hair upon his forehead, and applied restoratives. Dr- Glascock called up the Captain's steward, gave him direc- tions for his attendance that night upon his patient, and unwil- ling to agitate him further by the sight of his companion, took her by the hand and led her into the cabin. "A highly improper thing," they heard Captai^ Warner saying as they entered. But he broke off his observation at that word, and merely remarked to Amabel, in a tone of irrita- tion, that " they should be confoundedly late at the Admiral's ball." " Can you think that I am going to the ball after such a amadel; a family history. 43 scene as this 3"she replied, surprised, " and in such a dress ?" she added, holding up her skirt stained with large drops of blood. The Captain began eagerly to remonstrate, assuring her that this would be the last time he should see her for some months, the Dodo being under sailing orders. Unmoved by what he said, she coldly wished him a good night, and. In a few moments, she and Dr. Glascock were seated in their boat pulling for the Marina. " You might have gone on to the ball," he said ; " but please youi-self. . I hope you will find a woman's satisfaction in tho thought that your conduct has been exceedingly disagreeable to-night to Captain Warner." "And what signifies Captain Warner's displeasure to mel" she said impatiently. "Less than- it did this morning, I suspect," replied the Doctor. • CHAPTER rv. Who sows in tears his spring-tide years Shall bind the golden sheaves ; Who scatters flowers in summer bowers Shall reap but the- withered leaves. Mrs. Howe — South Boston. Bella, like the Sultaness Scheherazade, the mother of Female Novelists, was roused "an hour before day" by an unusual bustle, in the midst of which she could distinguish the voice of Doctor Glascock, who was scolding on the stall's. It was seldom the custom of that cynic to scold aloud, still less to swear out roundly. He was doing both on the present occasion. " What is the matter ?" said Bella, opening her door and encountering the housekeeper. . " Signorina" said Giacinta, " il Capitano Inglese is bringing in a sick Frenchman, a young prisoner. The ofiicers' quarters are all full in the Hospital, and he has got an order from the .Governor to remove him here' into our spare chamber. This 44 Amabel; a family histobt. house belongs to the English government, and the Signor Padrone had it on condition that he should give up any of the rooms when they were wanted ; but, cospeito ! it never happened so before !" And she went on to complain to Amabel that there being no nurses disengaged in the Hospital the Doctor had ordered her to attend on the young prisoner. " Oh ! stay, Giacinta, stay ! I can help you. I am as good a nurse as you," said Bella, hurrying her toilette. "Impossible!" said Giacinta. "The Doctor's orders are express, that you shall not go into his room for fear of dis- turbing or exciting him. When the Signor Dottore com- mands, bisogna obbedire." Bella made a little face of mutiny at this, an expression which soon changed into one of disappointment, when she found it impossiblet;o break through the cold stern reserve of the Doctor at the breakfast-table. His general deportment and his mono- syllables did not encourage her to ask him questions. In vain she tried her usual occupations. There was a change that day within herself which infected everything around ; and yet its influences were not unpleasant ; her restlessness brought with it no vexation or remorse. The day before she had been unfettered, free, thirsting for enjoyment ; looking on life as a dark problem, and her own powers of every kind with a strange fear because they were untried. Her heart overflowing with lovingness which was undemanded, enthusiasms repressed, and poetry and speculations others little understood. A more timid — a more English nature might have been repressed into mediocrity, and have retained nothing* of all its early promise, save the seeds of morbid sentiment to bear a crop of eccentri- cities, invalid peevishness, or disgust of the world in after years ; but Bella, while bewildering her young mind with great problems, had kept her heart fresh by contact with the world without, and waited for her destiny. Her hour had come. The sun had risen on her path, and all her being was about to waken into life under the first influences of love. All Malta, at midday, was taking its siesta ; the house was hushed ; Amabel, who never slept by' daylight, sat in silent reverie in her own room. This midday hour was the Sabbath Amabel; a family history. 45 of her day, devoted- to her studies,, contemplations, and the communings of her young spirit with itself, and with its God. She sat leaning her head against the tveliis-work, festooned ■with a profusion of sweet flowers, which overhung the window of her chamber, when she was surprised by the sudden entrance of the old housekeeper. "Ck' i, Giacintar " Signorina, he has come to himself; but he is greatly changed. I cannot understand him perfectly, but he is calling you ; saying your name over and over, and Mrs. Annesley has sent me here for you ; but the Signor Dottore said so positively, you were not to see him, and . ... I dare not wake the Signor Dottore." A smile broke over the face of la Signorina, so bright, bewitching, and persuasive, that Giacinta felt that by such another smile her master's worst displeasure might be at once subdued. " Oara Giacinta ! Certainly one must not wake il Signor Dottore. It is- an act of humanity. Let us go." But, when they reached the chamber, the prisoner appeared to have dropped oflF into a sudden sleep, and it was not wise to awaken him. Amabel found a letter lying on the table, directed to herself, but "Apres ma mart" was ■written in one corner. She sat down on the floor of the ante-chamber. The day- light waned, and the shadows of the evening quietly stole on, and she still sat with her little white dog nestling in her lap, leaning her bead against the door-post, listening to every sound. Giaeinta had opened the door a little way, and a stream of dying sunlight lay flickering and narrowing upon the floor. As she sflt watching it in silence, her mind less occupied with thoughts than with sensations, she remarked that it was suddenly invaded by a dark, yet shining stream, moving across it slo^wly. The dog, too, stretched himself, whined, snified, and darted into the chamber. She saw his paws dyed as he went. A dreadful fear came over her. She sprang forward — touched it ... , " JfoWa Santissima, help ! " she screamed to Giacinta. "It is blood!" 46 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. It was found that the prisoner had quietly removed the dressings of his wounds, with an intent to bleed to death ; and, but for the. little stream of blood which had trickled on the floor, and caught the eye of Amabel, in another half hour he would have been beyond their care. He was not quite gone, however ; weak as he was, his consciousness had not forsaken him ; he pressed the hand of his young nurse as she leaned over him, and directed her attention, by a feeble glance, towards the letter on the table. Leaving him in abler hands, she turned aside, and broke it open. Inclosed was a short letter to Ferdi- nand, a brother, serving in Spain, in Dupont's army, beseeching him to consider this document as a last will and testament, and to restore to the Viscount de Karnac's daughter, for his sake, all that part of the Viscount's Breton property which had fallen by their father's purchase, and subsequent distribution of his estate, to his (Felix Guiscard's) share. " Doctor — Doctor ! " cried Amabel, shocked at the idea of pecuniarily profiting by the death of her early playfellow. " Tell him that he ought not to do this. Tell him that he will not die. Tell him so — dear Doctor." " You had better hold your tongue. Miss Bella," the Doctor answered sternly ; " I will not answer for his Hfes if you repeat these scenes." " Oh ! God forbid ! He must not die ! Only tell me. Doc- tor, that he will not die. Save him ! Oh ! say one word to me. Say he will not die, dearest, dearest Doctor ! " But Dr. Glascock did not condescend to give an answer. He was again binding up the wounds of his patient, now quita incapable of resistance or exertion; and Amabel insisting. on her right to stay beside him, with comments, sotto voce, on the insufficiency of Giacinta, was suffered to remain watching all night the wavering of the spark of life, administering cordials, bending over him with her sweet looks of interest and compas- sion, and praying for him with an intensity of feeling which took the place of mere expression ; whilst Giacinta told her beads in the same cause at the foot of the bed. He who does infinitely " above all that we can either ask or think," who is fiill of compassion and consolation, would never refuse to grant AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORV. 47 the letter of suoh petitions, did He not feel that in taking the beloved one, He does all " far better than we know." In this instance the prayer was heard, and Felix Guiscard, after days of unconsciousness and suffering, gradually regained his powers. The life that Amabel had saved was now her rigjit, and she asserted it ; not that the prisoner was any longer disposed to make away with himself. Like Napoleon, after the abortive poisoning at Fontainbleau ; of Clive, when his sui- " cidal pistol had twiceflashed in the pan ; he seemed sobered by his attempt, and inclined to accept and make the best of the decreees of Destiny. The individual most to be pitied in the group was the poor Doctor. He had quarrelled with Amahel, who scarcely felt the cold- ness, so engrossed was she by her new interest in Felix. Dr. G-lascock had insisted after the night of her first wat6h- iag on taking her with hira to the seclusion of his country house at Bamalah. A somewhat violent scene had taken place between them, in which the Doctor stretched impru- dently the bounds of his authority. Amabel fortified herself with the opinion of the -Annesleys, and Dr. Glascock had been overcome. Between them now there was a great gulf fixed. Feeling that an attachment to the young French captain was inevitable, he thenceforth kept aloof, that he might not watch its progress ; and as day by day he saw her more engrossed with her new hopes and occupations, he drew back into himself, gtowing more caustic, more cynical, more the enemy of the world. Oh ! the joy of those first days when Amabel could lead her patient out into the summer air at sunset, when she sat by him in the garden and sang him Breton lays, or listened to his descriptions of his father's home. When women discuss together the mysteries of courtship, they often remark that it is a pity the task of love-making has not been confided to them. They understand the secret workings of the heart so much better than the sex to whom it is permitted to be demon- strative ; their tact is so much, finer — their attention is so much 48 Amabel; a family history. more habituated to trifles — and trifles make the sum of court- ship — that it often seems a pity that the exercise of these abilities in the most important passage of their whole lives is denied them. " Man carves for himself, woman is helped to her destiny," says a dear, dear friend of mine, the brilliant Julia, and the same thought is gracefully expressed in a little Spanish poem: Alas I to seize the moment When heart inclines to heart, And press a suit wil^passion, Is not a woman's part. If man comes not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade amidst their foliage, They cannot seek his hand. Here, however, was in part exception. Amabel held the chief authority. Felix was helpless, thrown upon her loving care for the recovery of his health, and for his amusement in convalescence ; it was for her to plan, devise, and bring about all that could make him happy. She could give him her sweetest smiles without a fear of misconstruction ; she could dare to be true in act to her own feelings without drawing upon herself the slanderous clamor of the strife of tongues. Captain Annesley, before the Sea Gull left, made arrange- ments for his prisoner's removal, on parole, to Citta Vecchia ; whilst Amabel accompanied Dr. Glascock to his country-house at Ramalah. But the decayed capital of Malta is at no formidable distance from the southern centre of the island, and Felix met her every day. Bella long pondered in her heart the memory of their walks along the rocky beach ; their whis- pered words to the deep sounding melody of the mysterious ocean ; the tales he told of his adventurous life by sea and land, and of the great Napoleon ; whilst in return she read to him her favorite authors, and shared with him her inner life, " those sacred things that belong unto the soul." And yet they were half children. They threw pebbles into the ocean, they made merriment from trifles, they laughed, enjoyed, and joked, rather than sentimentalized or sighed. Felix scarcely knew he was in love, but felt the pleasures Amabel: a family history. 49 of the courtship, and Amabel gave no account to lierself of her sensations. In highest art is the repose of power. A love perfected has also its repose. When you can prattle to another unreservedly of yourself, without calculating even unconsciously on the effect you are producing, be sure you love with your whole heart, and are basking in the consciousness of a reciprocity of love. Bella, like most young persons who have any profundity of character, was jealous over her deepest feelings ; to talk of lierself was a stretch of affection and of confidence that in earlier days she Lad rarely accorded even to the Doctor. But now the passing mood, the flash of thought, the impulse, grave or gay, was shared with Felix. Love listens first, then speaks. She had mounted above the earlier stages of a true devoted love, and loved him as the completion of her being — ^loved him less for Ms sake than her own. Mrs. Annesley, growing a little scandalized at the extent of the intimacy whicb withdrew her young companion from her former friends, in writing to her husband, did not fail to put into her letter an account of what she called '' this strange engagement." Belle would have said she was in Captain Warner's interest, yet it was not exactly so, for she would not have been unwil- ling that through her husband, Capt. Warner should learn something to the disparagement of the young lady, fo^jvhose sake, during his late stay in Valetta, he had relaxed in th™ tten- tions he had formerly been wont to pay to her. 50 amabel; a family history. CHAPTER V. " Wo wives of sailors only can lay claim to any real knowledge of tlie noble profes- ■ion. What natural object is there, or can there be," exclaimed the nautical Dowager, in a burst of professional enthusiasm, " finer than a stately ship breasting the billows, as I have heard the Admiral say a tliousand times ; its taffrail ploughing the main, and its cut-water gliding after I know not, my dear Wyllys, if I make myself intelligible to you." — Red Rover. " June IV.— H. M. S. Dodo ; Commander Leonard Warner. Off Cape Passaro; latitude 36° 33', longitude 15° 2'; wea- ther clear ; wind S. S. W, ; light breezes, and making about four tnots, with only the top-sails set, to keep in company with the convoy. At noon made out a sail to the S. W. of us, standing across from the coast of Africa. Made signals to con- voy to close, as she might prove an enemy. " At 4 P. M., made her out as H. M. S. Sea Gull, Captain Annesley. Passed some miles to the southward of us, standing apparently on her course for Malta. Made us a signal, 'Mis — Malta — Frenchman — engaged — Admiral's order — ' The re- mainder unintelligible." Such was the entry made into his log book about 6 P. M. of the same evening, by my father, Theodosius Ord, midship- man on board the Dodo, fourteen or fifteen years or so before my existence became an unextinguishable fact in the creation. The weather, so summarily dismissed as ''clear" in the offi- cial oRument, had been early in the morning gloriously beau- tiful. The Dodo, having charge of a large convoy of merchantmen, bound from Cadiz to Malta, was hugging pretty closely the Sicilian shore. The undulating coast, crowned by the snows of Etna, was visible with sufficient distinctness for those on board the Dodo to mark the glancing patches of bright sunlight on the mountains, in contrast with the masses of deep shadow lying between them over the valleys. Objects, however, unless thrown into clear relief by gleams of the mellowing sunlight against a backg«)und of blue sky, were not uniformly dis- Amabel; a family history. 51 tinguishable. The water, deepest blue, -was more than rippled, for the wind was rising, and the twenty sail of merchantmen, scattered over an area of two miles, according to their respec- tive rates of sailing, presented the same contrast of glistering light and massy shadow upon their quivering sails. At a long distance to the south-east, on the direct course for Malta, a practised nautical eye might yet discern the upper sails of a far-off vessel — a glimmering speck of light, but dimly seen on the extreme verg« of the two blues of the horizon. It was H. M. Brig Sea Gull, which had passed the merchant fleet about two hours earlier, and it caught at once the eye of Captain Warner, of the Dodo, who had come up on deck after his dinner, at the moment of the opening of this portion of our story. He was a man of middle height, stoutly yet trigly built, of a make and size well fitted for activity. He wore the hand- some undress .naval uniform of the good old days, when panta- loons and coat pockets were yet unseamed with unsailorly gold lace, and a commission of taste at the Admiralty had not patched the cuffs and collars of the service with red cloth, like the coats of the two-penny postmen. His forehead, which was high, sloped slightly back, and was extremely broad and full over the eyes ; a style of feature enhanced in beauty to the utmost by the way in which his light hair, not exactly curled but waving, was combed back from his temples — singularly calculated to convey an idea of firmness, nobleness, and author- ity, and much more often met with fifty years ago than at the present day. His face, habitually expressive of easy enjoyment,,^ denoted that-the cares of this world were strangers to his heart, or else sat lightly on him; but in moments of command or irritation it could assume the very sternest of expressions — cold and hard, softened, however, by his eyes, which were a clear, bright blue, more sparkling and vivacious than is usual with blue ey^. He took a rapid survey of sky, convoy, land, and ocean, in which he was assisted by his first Heutenant, ^njan much older than himself, kept down in his profession b^ljjffiasional fits of inebri^y, who, with his hands in the pocSts of his jacket 52 Amabel; a family history. and a cap upon his head, awaited, with rather a sulky expres- sion of countenance, the remarks of his superior. " Keep her head three points more off the land, Mr. Grump," was the first order ; " there may be wind to-night, and I had rather get an ofBng." " Confound those lumbering merchantmen," remarked the first lieutenant, pointing to the sternmost of the convoy, " there are three or four amongst them floating about like tubs." " Make the signal, Mr. Grump, to close in for the night, and let that make-shift whipper-in of ours tow up those two brigs yonder. Here, Ord ! Where is that young gentleman ? Call him and let him make the signal." The first lieutenant passed the word for Mr. Ord, who at that moment was engaged in making in his log the already quoted entry ; and having sent for him observed gruffly to the Captain, that, " that lad would be sure to make some horrible mistake some day. Always confident — no consideration — ^he could not show less care or act with more precipitation if he had swallowed the signal- book." " Mr. Ord," said the Captain, somewhat sternly, as he came upon the quarter-deck, after this observation, " you are certain you were right about that signal ?" "I am, sir. What more there was I cannot say; the slip dipped. But so far as it goes I am confident of accuracy. There are not many pairs of eyes in the ship that could have made out any signal at a distance of so many miles." "There's not a single ship in His Majesty's fleets in the Mediterranean that begins with M. I. S.," put in the fii-st lieu- tenant ; " but plenty with M. I. F. Minotaur, Minorca, Min- strel, Min " " M. I. S.," repeated the Captain, interrupting him, " you are quite positive, Mr. Ord ?" " Positive, indeed," muttered the first lieutenant, as Theodo- sius reasserted his firm belief that he had rightly interpreted the signal. " P^sitwe, indeed. What man, I ask you, in his senses would abbrevia^'a^ship's name in a signal ? M. I. N. it must have been, and you mistook the second number. Cap- tain Warner, sir, I'H lav mv life the Minotaur, the Min- amabkl; a family history. 63 strel, or Minorca, is engaged with the enemy at this rrflbient somewhere between this and Malta ; and the Admiral's order is for us to reinforce her." And Mr. Grump concluded with an angry glance and an accompanying gesture towards his junior, distinctly signifying, ^' But for you we might have been upon the spot to share the fun apd prize money." ' " Make the night signal to the convoy," said the Captain ; and soon the little fleet came closing round the Dodo like chickens snuggling beneath their mother's wing; and lest some hovering Frenchman like a stealthy hawk might chance during the night to filch one of them away, a sailor was sent aloft an hour before night-fall to sweep the horizon with a glass, but even the Sea Gull had disappeared and he saw nothing but blue water out to seaward. The Captain leaning over his vessel's side watched thesepre- parations ; saw how the night closed jealously over the momen- tary gleam of twilight, and remarked the shimmering light of a full moon upon the water. He had put his cocked hat between his knees as he gazed over the side of 'his vessel, and, as he stood half leaning against one of the ship's guns and half against her bulwarks, the wind blew his hair about his face, the spray dashed up at intervals upon him, and the Lieutenant, who had set his watch, remarked, that lost in thought he seemed indiflferent to outward circum- stances, and that the expression of his features was disturbed. The signal by which his first lieutenant was disquieted was no mystery to him. It had been made, he knew, but for his private information, and with a sailor's quickness he had underT stood it immediately. " Engaged ! — engaged, is she ? Engaged to that French prisoner !" And as memory in moments of vexation loves to dwell upon the little sacrifices that have been made in hope for those who have disappointed us, he called to mind the various little rari- ties he had collected to offer her as gifts, at everybort that he had touched at after leaving Malta^ and rej^mffS-ed the cir- cumstances of each purchase, and the impression he had hoped they would produce on her. 54 Amabel; a family history. Xjftertainty, and jealousy, and mortification, and displeasure, were struggling with the remembrance of her charms. So simple, naive, beautiful, and joyous ! What a splendid woman, as Mrs. Leonard Warner, she would have made ! How greatly she would have graced his always well-kept table ! How proud he would have been of her ! How mucb his marriage would have mortified all the ambitious spinsters of his neighborhood in England ! He was naturally a man who loved his home. Like most of those engaged in active life, it was pleasant to him to have a spot set apart to hold his treasures ; a shrine of his own rearing, to which he might (returning) bring large tributes from his fame, his fortune, his hopes", his happiness. He had once had such a spot, but it was only for a brief interval in his life ; his household gods had been both suddenly and rudely broken ; death had made desolate the little plot of happiness that he had redeemed from the exigen- cies of his professional career. He had married young; a woman not interesting — yet he had invested her with interest ; though merely domestic, she had sufiiced for his requirements. She was the portionless daughter of a lieutenant in the service ; but the bride that he now coveted had noble blood, and would inhoiit money. His first wife had given him, in all things, his own way — was pale, delicate, and querulous, a sort of upper-servant to his children ; but this was not the idea he had formed of his new bride. She, he intended, should be perfectly domestic, ministering in every particular to his comfort, yet at the same time to his vanity. He contemplated AmabeL with complacency. He thought how he would exhibit her beauty, with pride, as his possession ■ — and the society of so superior a being would be of such advantage to his children ! Katie, the elder, would grow up, under her care, no uncouth country-maiden, but would uncon- sciously acquire grace and grow another Bella. He had almost thought his dream into reality, when an angry whisper, on the other side the deck, broke up his medi- tations. Amabel; a family historv. 55 ** I tell jou, sir, you did mistake that signal. The Minotaur, tl\e Minstrel, or Minorca, must be engaged out yonder with some Frenchman. Had you made the thing out plain, we might have put the convoy into some Sicilian port, and gone in search of them." The Captain looked up at the night, clear, starry, with the wind rising. " You may let that matter rest, Grump," he said, passing hjs first lieutenant, who had the early watch, on his way .to the companion. " I am satisfied with Mr. Ord ; as signal midship- man, he. has my approbation." " Yes, always so. The lad would do anything for praise. He will be guilty to-morrow of some new piece of inconsideration or absurdity," muttered the lieutenant, as Captain Warner descended to his cabin. "A relation of the Captain's ! Enough to serve him upon all occasions. Pah !" And Mr. Grump balanced himself upon his heels, and took hold with both hands of two ropes near him, and still balancing, looked out, between his arms, into the night ; forgetting that, partly owing to his own prejudice against the lad, and partly, from an exaggerated desire on the Captain's part to avoid all suspicion amongst his officers of nepotic pai-tiality, Theodosius was the lad most frequently found fault with, and most often put upon unpleasant duty in the vessel. He was right, howevei-, in his estimation of his character. " That lad will do anything for praise," struck at the root of his disposition. He had run away from school to join Captain Warner, the first cousin of his mother, who had called him a " smart fellow.'' As the kinsman of his Captain, it was always suspected he was favored by authority. All the fancied slights and vexa- tions received from their superiors, by his comrades, were revenged upon him. When disposed to do him justice, they allowed that he was good-tempered and safe; his love of approbation, leading him rarely to risk the good opinion of a comrade, by telling ^ny anecdot/e to his disadvantage. He was not a lad of very 56 Amabel; A FAMILY history. social habits, or the temptation of shining at another's expense might possibly have proved too strong for him. sHe adored his profession. To have been honorably men- tioned in a despatch, he would haye accepted any danger. He was eager, energetic, and self-confident, when he had only him- self to depend upon ; was always going beyond his functions, or the wishes of his superiors, and in constant scrapes on every occasion. He was one of those persons, in short, who would have won all praise, had he stopped midway in every under- taking ; but, not being ablg to withstand the temptation of making any one his friend, he was always carried by excess of , zeal beyond the confines of prudence, duty, and authority. He was the most active spirit of the ship, and never could resist any glance of approbation. If I cast blame upon his motives, it is because in after years he taught me, that man's duty rests upon more stable princi- ples ; and if! point out as a weakness, his love of approbation, it is because he taught me early to consider it so. But the majority of men who -have adopted these ideas as their auxili- aries in the work of education, have no right to call his princi- ple of action worthless, or his ambition un-christian, vain, or unennobling. He kept his watch that night, with a light heart, proud of the approbation of his commander, and of his own quickness of sight which had made out the signal. Little he knew that with the facts that it communicated, there lay bound up his own history. ****** Hurrah ! for the Valetta harbor ! No captain ever ran in there with a convoy more eagerly than Captain Warner, five days after he had made out the unwelcome signal. Beautiful harbor ! On the one hand frowned the Castle of St. Elmo, a vast mass of jagged freestone broken here and there by loopholes, and squared windows, cut out without regard to architectural regularity. Before the city stretched the beautiful smooth bay, whose mouth opened to the north-east guarded by die round and light-house looking Fort Eiascoli. It was Sunday, and the ships were dressed in flags ; the hum Amabel; a family history. 67 of commerce was lessened if not hushed ; and but for the bustle caused by the entrance of the little merchant fleet, there would have been a Sabbath stillness in the harbor, the vessels almost basking in the intense heat of the sunny summer day. There was a couple of three-deckers at that time in port, but the object that first struck the eyes of Captain Warner, was the Sea Gull anchored near the quarantine harbor, or Marsa Musat, which is separated from the larger, outer harbor, by the sharp and tongue-like promontory on which is built the town. The moment Captain Warner could feel it right to leave Ivis vessel, his gig was manned, and pulling alongside the Sea Gull, he asked eagerly for Captain Annesley. The Captain had gone ashore. " Had the Sea Gull only come into port that morning ?" " No, yesterday. They had been in chase of a French brig, which had run them a hundred miles out of their course to the eastward." Captain Warner saluted the officer at the Sea Gull's gang- way, and threw himself back in the stern sheets impatiently. His coxswain asked his orders. " To the stairs ! The Nix Mangare." They landed him beneath the frowning front of stern St. Elmo, and, turning to his right, he walked along the quay of the great harbor. Here lay boats of every shape and of all sizes drawn up upon the beach out of the water ; sailors of all nations lounging lazily around. The trig man-o'-war's man in blue jacket, whitPi trowsers, and straw hat, was awaiting the arrival of somo officer ; Maltese fisher sailors, the best in the Mediterranean, who had spent their night upon the waters, lay sleeping out the day beside their fishing craft, dressed in white cotton ^irts, full trowsers to the knee, the rest of the leg naked or swathed in loose unwieldy bands, long knives in shagreen sheaths with the handles sticking out of their gay girdles, and striped caps of red or blue upon their heads. There were likewise lounging, smoking or asleep, Greek and occasionally Turkish sailors- for the trade with the Levant, at that time very flourishing, was all carried on through Malta, and the dresses and accoutre- 3* 68 Amabel; a family history. ments of tliese wild groups were remarkably in keeping with the semi-Orientalism of the scene. Shops for eastern goods, and sailors' eating-houses, bordered the Marina ; but all the rest of the buildings facing inward, gave to the mere European traveller a notion of domestic architecture in the eastern style. The Captain's intention was to call on Mrs. Annesley, but remembering that it was Sunday, he took his road past the little chapel of the English near the Governor's residence. . He met the congregation coming out ; amongst them Captain and Mrs. Annesley. "Ha! Warner, old boy!" said the Captain. "How are you ? And what did you make out of my signal ?" " That Miss Karnac is to be married to your infernal French Captain," was the answer. " But that was not the point of it," the other replied. " Since I heard how things were going from my wife, I have been oiF Tarragona, and Admiral happening to ask after you, I told him the whole story. Says "he, ' Be hanged if any Frenchman cuts out his prize from him,' It is his plan that something might be done by way of an exchange for this young rascal, and I have here a letter for the Governor, and an order to take him with me when I make sail for Gibraltar. " I should like you to see him,'' he went on to sav. " He is on parole in Citta Vecchia. I am going to ride over there this morning, and tell him to hold himself in readiness to sail next week.'' " No, I can't go, thank youj" said Captain Warner, who in these expressions understood an invitation to accompany him, and was not altogether sure how far he was acting fairly by proxy towards his rival. " I have to pay my respects to the Governor." "Well," replied Annesley, "if he joins me when I sail, the coast is clear for you." ' "Warner! ahoy! Warner!" He called after his friend; who with a few rapid strides had almost got beyond hail of him. " You must dine with us to-day at our rooms in Floriana. Half-past five, mind, and Mrs. Annesley will accept of no excuses." AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 59 " Nodiing can be further from my thoughts than to excuse myself to Mrs. Annesley." It was the turning point of Captain Warner's destiny. CHAPTER VI. Gather the roaes while ye may, Old Time is still a.-fl-^'ag,. The fairest flower that hlooms to-day To-morrow may4)e dying. — ^Herrxce. It was a beautiful May morning. The north-east breeze was gently breathing odors from the flowery shores of Sicily, where gloomy Dis seized his unwilling bride : it was the commence- ment of the Maltese summer, but as yet the glare reflected from the stone walls and shadeless plains of the grey roci, was not intolerable. The temperature of Valetta itself ia almost always' equable, and at the pleasant spot near the Palace of the former Grand Inquisitar, not far from which Dr. Glascock's country residence was built, near the centre of the southern shore of the island, the heat was scarcely greater than that of an English spring. The landscape that here presented itself was not altogether dissimilar to that of certain of our less cultivated districts. At the south-west portion of the island is a double line of clifls ; the outer one rising from the sea, and sloping inward, till the freestone wall of the second line abruptly flanks the valley. It was upon this cultivated slope at its lower and eastern end, and looking up the hollow formed by the cltein of rodky hills that almost bisects Malta (dividing it into^o nearly equal portions — the eastern thickly populated, and the western a Petrea), that Dr. Glascock had erected his small coi^^y house, and surrounded it with orange trees. The road to this retreat led through theprettiest and most cultivated landscape in all Malta. 'Hie plains and gentle declivities were rich with crops of grain and fodder, amongst which fields of suUa, gay with large 60 Amabel; a family history. red flowers, -Were particularly beautiful and conspicuous. All were surrounded with stone walls, coeval with the field's crea- tion. The peasant, in making a grooved bed for the two or three feet thickness of earth scraped from the fissures of the rocks, or brought occasionally from Sicily, removed large fragments of the porous rook and made his wall of them. " How admirable is God's Providence !" cries a pious Maltese writer ; " no sooner is a field formed than on that very spot lie the materials to raise around it the defence that it requires 1" The steep acclivities of the hill sides presented a succession of terraces, which, rising rapidly one above the other, suggested to the beholder the idea of seats in a vast amphitheatre ; whilst the curved lines of the opposite hills strengthened the impres- sion. These little terraces were prettily planted with fruit trees, especially the apple and the vine, which being trained together, intermingled their branches ; for having been carefully pruned and kept low, few even of the apple trees were larger than mere shrubs. In full bloom at the time, and covering so consi- derable an extent of ground, they presented a singular appear- ance, broken as the cultivation was, at intervals, by ridges of gray limestone ; whilst on the right, lay the lovely valley of Boschetto, crowned with its quadrangular castle, a spot which is now laid out in groves of fruit trees, oranges, lemons, or pomegi-anates, and, there only, the dark olive, once, it is sup- posed, the indigenous product of the isle. Winding between the hill-slopes, on the one side, and the entrance to the valley, is the hard, white road, running south- wards from Valetta, passing through Citta Vecchia, the ancient capital of the island, now silent and deserted like an enchanted city. In 1809, it still retained some portion of its splendor; and was the residence on parole of a small number of French officers, who, later in the war, well nigh fell victims to the fanaticism and resentment of the lower orders. It was at the close of the Sunday afternoon mentioned in the last chapter of our story, that Captain Felix Guiscard rode at full speed to Ramalah. An hour earlier, Amabel, descending to the garden, had gathered her lap full of sweet flowers, more richly perfumed Amabel; a family history. 61 it is said, in Malta, than elsewhere. Holding her poor aunt by the hand, and accompanied as usual by her little white dog) Barba, she climbed over a broken portion of the wall, which inclosed the garden of the Doctor ; went slowly down the hill behind his cottage, and stood at the eastern extremity of the cli^, beside the sea. Whither had flown her former doubts of life ? She doubted not her happiness, for perfect love casts out all fear. Alas ! ' alas ! that dread mistrustfulness will after first deception follow on such fearlessness ! Alas ! that tender hearts, well capable of warm affection, should, early wounded, grow defiant ; that caustic words, and a curled Up, and Rochefoucauld philosophy, should be the signs that half the so-called love on earth is false, and that the unhappy one has learned to mask her fears, her wrongs, her helplessness, by simulated fearlessness. If it " be real, it is the fearlessness of that poor, widowed, fallen Queen, when, passing out of the low wicket of the Temple, on her way to the Conciergerie, she struck her " grey, discrowned head " against its lintel, and answered the rough inquiries of her jailor with the saddest words, that, perhaps, ever have been uttered by a woman's lips : " Nothing can hurt me now." But we will not linger on such thoughts, for, as yet, the}- have nothing in common with our subject. In Amabel, all thoughts were swallowed up in a sensation that pervaded her whole being, that Felix Guiscard loved her. She had no anxiety to hear him say it. The most impassioned words could have added no certainty to her mind. She knew their lives, to be happy, must be passed together : to be complete, must be united. She was as necessary to him, as he to her. She had no thought for the futm-e — the present had absorbed it, together with the past. Or rather, the past was but the prelude .to the present ; the future, the guarantee for its continuance. Her eyes were fixed upon the path over the cliffs, which led from the main road to the shelving shore ; and the moment ho appeared, she caught sight of him. She ran to meet him ; more joyous, more childlike, than usual, for a fresh, free air was blowing, which had given her high spirits and a high color. 62 Amabel; a family history. She wore, as she always did, the costume of the country ; her hands and feet were of more than Maltese beauty, and the peculiar fashion in which her dark hair was strained into the sugar-loaf form, back from her forehead, though not in itself beautiful or natural, gave a brilliancy to her eyes, and a piquancy to the fair young face, so expressive in its beauty, that was perfectly bewitching to those accustomed only to the totally dissimilar style of countenance sought to be produced by the fashions of the times. Over her head she wore the black silk faldetta, of Moorish or Saracenic origin ; which thrown back, looked like a classical, wide, floating mantle, but when she walked, was twisted gracefully on one side, and drawn so as to cover the lower part of her face. The skirt of her wide robe was black, but opening on one side, gave to view the ample, snowy petticoat; and the corset, also black, stiffened with whalebone, and laced over the graceful figure, whose out- line seemed to have been rounded by the softest touches of. Dame Nature's hand, gave something the appearance of a modern court dress to the costume. The faldetla, her black mantle, blew out sail-like behind her as she ran, embarrassing her movements, and causing her to stop every few moments and draw it closer round her bright and rosy features. Felix stretched out both his hands, and as she placed hers in them, the faldetta blew forwards, enveloped his head, and the hood held two faces. What wonder that, under its friendly screen, his lips met her forehead. It was two hours later when Dr. Glascock, having risen from a leisurely siesta^ mounted to the top of the acclivity, on the side of which his house stood. At first his eyes rested on a vessel in the offing, with all her white sails glistening as she glided across a golden path that paved the waters to the setting sun. The " tideless Mediterranean" rises nevertheless a few feet morning and evening, during the months of spring and autumn, above its usual level. It was now nearly high water and along the foot of the cliffs lay a mere margin of white sand, sloping gently out of which rose a large rock, once Amabel; a family history. 63 Bella's favorite retreat for study or for solitude, now dearest of all places upon earth, from the memory of hours she and Felix had there passed, shut in from prying eyes, the blue sea murmuring at their feet, the grey cliffs sheltering their heads. Upon this rock it was that they stood, the flowers she had brought had fallen from her lap, and now lay scattered round them.. He seemed in act to go, yet lingering still ; as loath not to prolong that " sweetest sorrow of the parting words." At sight of them the Doctor, with all speed, began his descent from the ridge of the acclivity, but a sudden bend in the steep path hid them for a moment from his view. When Doctor Glascock next caught sight of the young lovere, Felix had renounced his purpose of departure. Amabel ytas sitting or hajf kneeling on the rock, and he had placed himself beside her. " Bella, one word of answer !" Her eyes turned pleadingly to Doctor Gldscock. Her lover knew that she thus mutely told him that the happiness of ■which he had been speaking, hung on the consent of others. He rose, and eagerly addressed the Doctor. As Amabel's nearest protector and guardian, he implored his blessing on their union, and that it might be speedily ; that he might carry her with him if he returned to France, and restore her to her father's home. " I have no such authority as you suppose,'' replied the Doctor. " Mademoiselle is under the guardianship of her uncle. You must gain the consent of Mr. Sibbes.'' " Then, Felix," cried Amabel, starting up with sudden anima- tion, " refuse this terrible exchange on any plea you like, and stay in Malta. My uncle will not be back from Smyrna till October, and meantime" — Captain Guiscard shook his head, but Dr. Glascock inter- rupted his reply to Amabel's bright hopes. " Go up to the house," he said, " and we will come to you in half an hour. I must have some talk on this with Capt. Guiscard." She rose up and obeyed him. The wind had lulled. Both watched her light figure, till in one of the windings of the path /it disappeared, when the Doctor turned to the Captain, 64 Amabel; a family history. ■with a remark not to have been expected from one of his cynicism and years. " She loves you, sir," he said. " No man can doubt that I She loves you, sir ; — she loves you." The words seemed wrung from him by an extremity of emotion. " I have entire trust in her affection," was the answer. " And you may have in her constancy. Hers is one of those clinging natures which cannot detach themselves, even from a common friend, without leaving a part of life itself behind. Some persons, Captain Guiscard, dissociate them- selves as they are from themselves as they were or as they hope to be. Progressive natures, on the contrary, cherish the memo- ries of the past, because they see in them the germ of the pre- sent, and prophecies of the future, nor can they live without a prospect in life before them. You are associated with her past, in you are centred all her visions of thefuture — you are her life. Were her future existence to be severed from you by accident or treachery, she would live indeed, and in time recover herself I trust, but every hope, taste, and affection, which embellish life, would long be bruised, sickly, and imperfect in her." " Do you intend, sir," he resumed after a pause, " to give up your exchange, and wait for Mr. Sibbes in Malta ?" " That would not be possible. My honor as an officer — my devotion to my country — my professional prospects — all forbid my making use of any false plea of ill health," began Captain Guiscard. " Enough, sir. I knew that you would not. Be it my task, therefore, to' make Mr. Sibbes favorable to your hopes, and to receive security for your good faith from you." " Security !" "Most certainly. If you leave Malta, have we any cer- tainty that in your active changeful life you will form no other hopes — love no other pretty woman ?" And without regarding the fervent protestations poured out by the young lover, he went on to insist on this security. " You are attached to her, you say. That is between you and her. You say you love her ; but, sir, is Mr. Sibbes, whose Amabel; a family histobt. 65 ideas are all pecuniary, to be satisfied to have his niece remain unmarried in his house on such security ? Are you sure that in the end his arguments would have no weight with Amabel ? '■^ Bon dieu! you torture me. What would you have me do, M. le docteur ? " " Offer the man security for your fidelity, of a nature that he can understand. Bind Amabel to constancy by her Jionor as well as her affection.'' " And how ?" "Those Breton lands you hold, wrung, by the devices of revolutionary times, by your father the intendant, from her father the noble, restored to her by deedi|((f gift, would secure all these advantages. At the end of the war, you might reclaim both wife and property. Mr. Sibbes could not object to a suitor who had already made such sacrifices. Bella could never doubt your tried fidelity ; you would have acquired new claims on her affection by your sacrifice^" With a sort of weak generosity he meant to secure to her the object of her choice. At the worst, he gave her the inheri- tance of her fathers, and for himself, if he must lose her (and he saw but too clearly that all his early claims upon her love had lost their force) better a Frenchman should win her than an Englishman ; better Felix than Captain Warner. "The father in IP Amour- Medecin" thought he to himself, " spoke not unwisely when he lamented the hard fate of those who bring up female children, only to see them, at the age when they have gi-own most useful, most desirable, most com- panionable, pass into the hands of a stranger." " I see that my proposition is distasteful to you," he resumed, ha.ving, during the pause, closely watched the other's features. " Nevertheless, it is the price of my influence with her uncle. Nay, sir," (for Felix was about to speak) " we will not chaffer, if you please, over such a bargain." He began ascending to his house with some rapidity. Felix followed him, lost in thought. He saw that his only real secu- rity for his own happiness or the safety of his patrimony, if he did what Dr. Glascock required, was the affection of Amabel. 66 AMABEL; A FAMILY HIS TORY. But he had full trust in her. He saw her in the glow of setting sunlight, standing on the cliffs above the house and looking down. He fancied she was weeping, and he would have " coined his heart and dropped his blood to drachmas " could gold have stayed the tear-drops that fell from those bright eyes. He hastened his steps ; he overtook the doctor, he overtook the doctor. " Will you give me time, sir?" he said. " Give me till to- morrow, that I may make sure I have understood the instruc- tions of Captain Annesley."" He ran up the cliff to join her. He told her — not the price he was to pay — but that the doctor was their friend and theii- protector. He told her how he trusted her and loved her ; and every word he said awoke its echoes in her heart, repeated and multiplied. " To-morrow !" he said, parting at length. " To-morrow !" she answered. " To-morrow — dear to-mor- row !" She walked with him to the spot where he had left his horse. He was glad to escape a second meeting with the doctor ; and, with a heart less light than that with which he had left Citta Vecchia, he rode more slowly back to it as evening fell. He had not ridden half "a mile from Ramalah; when he be- came aware that her dog, who had taken a great fancy to him, was following him. As he passed through Citta Vecchia, he stopped a "moment at the residence of the English officer, then on duty, to obtain permission to pass the night in Valetta, as he had busi- ness to transact there. On his arrival at Valetta he put up his horse at an inn with which he was acquainted, in the suburbs, ordered a bed, and then set out in search of Captain Annesley. It was half past ten o'clock. No moon. The night was cloudy. The scanty lamps burned dim. Felix turned into the street where Captain Annesley had taken lodgings, and found it quite deserted. Not a living soul appeared to be abroad. Amabel: a family history. 07 CHAPTER VII. lie who too far indulges hope, Will iiiid how soon hope fails ; He's like a seaman bottling wind In hopes to fill his sails. TRA.NSLA.TION OF A MALTESE SONG. "Mr. Gk0Mp," said Captain Warner, coming on board the Dodo in no good humor, about the j|iour Captain Felix Guiscard set out for Ramalah. " Mr. Grump, we are to sail again to-night with a devil of a French spy on board, whom the Admiral has ordered me to take to join Sir John Warren in Sicily. Have his cot slung in my cabin. He will mess at my table. You will receive him when he comes on board, and take care of him. He is a personage of importance, with particular news for the armyin Sicily. Bis name is Girard. I shall be on board by nin^ I am going to dine on shore with Captain Annesley.'' Mr. Grump, left in command of the vessel, paced the quarter- deck in dudgeon, remembering that he too had an engagement in Valetta, and that the second lieutenant having had leave to go ashore, it would be out of rule for him to quit the ship upon the eve of saiHng. As the evening advanced, however, and there appeared nothing particular for him to do, he made up his mind to intrust his command to the officer of the watch for half an hour, the acting junior lieutenant, my father, Theodosius Ord, and taking a boat, was landed on the Marina. He stayed longer than he had intended, for a friend detained him over a pleasant bottle. It wanted a quarter of nine when he returned to the vessel. Theodosius met him at the gangway. " Mr. Grump, is that you, sir ?" " Yes, sir." " Have you seen anything of Mr. Girard, sir ?" G8 Amabel; a family history. " Mr. Girard, sir ?" "Yes, sir — the French spy. He came on board just after jou left, sir, in one of the boats from the flag-ship, and as it was only seven o'clock he asked leave to go ashore and get his kit. I gave him leave, sir." " The devil you did, sir ! And I, sir, am responsible to Captain Warner. Did you know he was a person of import- ance, sir ? Do you know I can be broke for this by a court- martial ?" cried the lieutenant, jumping back into his boat with angry gestures towards his junior. " Hang it ! I am very sorry, sir. He must be on board soon, sir, I think. He promised me, in less than an hour," was Theodosius's answer. " On board again !" repeated Mr. Gruinp disdainfully. " Do you suppose, sir, that he'll come on board again? It is a stratagem on his part, and if I can't catch him in half an hour I shall order you under an arrest, sir.'' So saying, Mr. Grump pushed Q/f again from the Dodo, and swore at Theodosius all the way across the harbor. By the time he landed, his wine and his vexation had put him quite beside himself. He rusted into every sailors' shop in the Marina, making incoherent inquiries. " Anybody know a Frenchman ? A French spy living in Valetta ? a Frenchman ! a Frenchman ! a Monsieur Girard 1 a man who landed from the Dodo about two hours ago ?" " Go this way,'' said one. " Try that way," said another. Poor Grump in despair dashed, at the head of his boat's crew, up the principal street of Valetta. Some one (he questioned every man he met) had told him there was a Frenchman living in Floriana. Thither he went, and having no definite ideas of the geography of that locality, happened to strike into the quiet street where Captain Annesley had taken lodgings, just as Felix Guiscard reached his door. " Ahoy there ! you !" cried the lieutenant. " What is the way out of this street ? Do you know any Frenchman in this neighborhood ?" " Comment, monsieur ? " said Captain Guiscard. " Come along. I am in chase of you, sir. You're my man," Amabel; a family history. 69 cried the lieutenant. " Wliat are you doing here ? What did you go ashore for ? Is your nama Girard, sir ?" " I am le Gapitaine Guiscard" said the other, wlio, whether he understood the last question or not, thought it better to declare himself. "Guiscard! Hang their French pronunciation. The cap- tain called it Girard.* Never mind ; it's all the same. Come along with me, sir ; you are the man I want," poured forth the lieutenant, pressed for time, oveijoyed at the rencontre, and with his brain a good deal fuddled. Felix had mastered a few words of Italian during his two residences in Malta, but could not speak a syllable of English. Nevertheless he endeavored to remonstrate. " Collar him ! Tate hold of him ! Gag him ! Make him be quiet, men !" cried the lieutenant, shouting into his ear the two words most likely to be understood and to explain the business, " Captain Warner of the Dodo ; Captain War- ner !" » Still Felix struggled. Windows were opening in the street ; there was no time for ceremony. One of the sailors stuffed a ball of rope-yarn into his mouth ; his arms were seized and pinioned. Four stout men lifted him off his feet, and, at a word from the lieutenant, all the party, followed by the dog, dashed down hill at full speed to the Marina, Felix was stowed in the boat with little cerettiony, and the Dodo's men pulled off to join their vessel. She had weighed anchor; she was working out into the Great Harbor. Mr. Grumpy stood up in the stern sheets, and exhorted his men to "give way," to pull harder. " Aye, aye, sir." And the little boat skimmed over the dark water, for the night was clouded,' as we said. Before them all was black ; but the bright lights of the harbor, shining like stars in an inverted sky, were gleaiiiing in the path behind. Fejix, stunned, gagged, and bewildered, lay in the bottom of the boat, and gazed at them. Hope lay behind : every mo- * A aimilar mistake occurred, during the laot war, in Mahon harbor. vo [Abel: a family histoey. ment bore him swiftly to an unknown future — doubt, distress^ and darkness. Tbey have come up with the Dodo. Again Theodosius meets ttiem at the gangway. " I have him,'' cried the lieutenant, springing on board. "Hand up that Frenchman." " Plave who 2" cried Theodosius, hoarsely. " The spy — your M. Girard. What's his name ? Gniscard. You pronounced it wrong, my boy," replied the other. " Mr. Grump, it is the wrong man, sir. The right one came on board just after you left. We shall have two of them on board, sir." " Don't speak too loud," continued he, as the lieutenant burst upon him with a volley of execration. " I thought it best to say nothing to the captain." " Hoist him up here in the boat. He '11 be safe .there for the present, and throw my boat cloak over him," said Grump to the seamen who were bringing his prisoner over the side ; and, without further concern at pj-esent for his fate, he went down to report himself to Captain Warner. The captain was in good humor, drinking wine and talking French with M. Gimrd. The lieutenant escaped his reprimand, and-had so much to do for some hours, in attention to his duties, that it was not till all hands, save the watch, had turned in for the night, that he had time to feel troubled as to the consequences of his adventure. As he paced the quarter-deck, he observed something to lee- ward of the vessel. He opened his night-glass, and found they were running close down upon a boat of that kind called, in the Mediterra- nean, a speronara. It is a sort of shallop without deck, from twenty- four to thirty feet in length, manned by a crew of seven Maltese sailors — the captain, or patron, and six rowers. He hailed it ; the Padrone answered him, and, in a few minutes, she was dragging alongside the Dodo. She proved to be the Santa Maria degli Angeli, engaged in carrying cattle, from Sicily to Malta. She had about fifteen head on board, lashed to the thwarts or benches. The lieutenant, hanging over his vessel's side, soon made an AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. . , Yl agreement, by signs, with the Padrone, who understood he was •to receive a passenger, and land him within a few hours at Malta. Mr. Grump trusted that, even if the story of the kidnapping got abroad in Valetta^ he would be able to represent it so hu- morously in an after-dinner conversation with the captain, when the consequences were all remedied and the affair had aged, that he would get off himself without anything worse than a cau- tionary reprimand. And, after all, a few hours' fright to a Frenchman and a prisoner could have little importance to th^ government authorities. He called to an old sea dog who was near him, and together - they dragged Captain Guiscard out of the boat, his hands still tied and his mouth stuffed with rope-yarn. The speronara's crew received hinx at the gangway. The lieutenant, with his own hands, cast off the Santa Maria, making signs to the Padrone to unbind, his prisoner, as sooji as he was beyond hea,ring of the Dodo. The Padrone jingled together some sil- , ver given him for the service, and stood up in his boat making signs of intelligence and bows. The lieutenant watched the little craft as she worked her way into the thick darkness, and congratulated himself on his good luck and dexterity. The affair might be spoken of, very likely, in the forecastle, but would never from that quarter make its way to Captain Warner. CHAPTER Vm. Helas ! II m*a done fui sans me laisser de trace, Mais pour le retenir j'ai fait ce que j'ai pu, Ce temps ou le bonheur brille'et soudain s*efface Comme un sourire interrompu. — Yictoh Hooo " FEWii/Ess of life!" In their general, their highest accepta- tion, these "TCords have a scriptural and theological jneaning, but the historian of the heart may borrow the expression, for "72 ^ Amabel; a family histoet. it designates exactly that change which passes over the whole being'on the first certainty of loving and being loved. A sister will sometimes hardly recognise the companion of her nursery, her studies, her girlhood's hopes and joys, when this great change has taken place, and the happy one has found even her own past life look strange to her. But to Amabel — the loving and the lonely — whose life had latterly been aimless (discontent had not grown upon her sim- ply because she understood no happier lot,) to be so loved, so blessed, with such a perspective view of future happiness opened suddenly before her, embodying at once the realization of every dream of hsr childhood, however wild ; of every yearning of her heart in later years, however vague ; the newness of life that broke upon her was overwhelming in its strangeness and immensity. It was many hours deep into the night before she sought her pillow ; — she spent them walking backwards and ferwards in her chamber, with her hands clasped and her eyes beaming, her smile satisfied and proud. She could not defi- nitely fix her thoughts on any speculations for the future, or reminiscences of happiness, but mechanically, almost without perception of their meaning, out of the very fulness of her heart, her lips kept on repeating words that he had said to hei', so strange — so new — so beautiful. The language of love is the only language understood when heard for the first time ; and she had heard it and had spoken it a few hours before, as the shadows of the night crept over them, and they sat together on the green hill-side alone. And then again she would fall down on her knees beside her bed, or near the window, and pour forth the fulness of her heart, thanking God, who had given her such happiness ; for, ignorant as she was of forms, and creeds, and doctrines (barriers wisely set around our faith to prevent the encroachments of mysticism into religion), it was the voice of nature that pro- claimed that love is God's best gift ; that its tendency, till the soils of earth pollute it, is to lead upward to the Giver ; that happiness is the state in which man may best serve his Creator here, as he served him in Eden, and shall hereafter serve Him in the courts of heaven. Amabel; a family history. %■"■ 73 Yet who knows, if she had ujarried "as she desired and ex- pected, how long this loving happiness would have endured 3 Though her heloved and herself, for a few months or a few years, might have merged their individualities together, so as, indeed, to he but of one heart ahd of one mind — that period in married life must have come to them, as it comes to all, when differences of chaij^cter, of views and tastes, must have jarred upon their happiness ; when each would have discovered the other was not perfect, when allowances on each side would have been called for, when, for the firet time, must have been enter- tained by each a vague feeling of the possibility of future dis- union and unhappitiess. Was their love of sCich a nature as to stand firm and come purified, triumphant, and enlarged out of these trials 1 "Was it so founded as to be likely to gather prin- ciple in hours of happiness wherewith it might withstand the threatening aspect of a darker day ? ■ In misty rain broke that desired to-morrow. Dr. Glascock did not go into Valetta. He sat with gloomy face and watched the clouds hanging low over his dwelling. Amabel wandered about the house from window to window, straining her sight to catch a glimpse of the high road through the thick mist that surrounded them, Watching afar, if yet her lover's steed Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew : endeavoring, through aU her anxiety and the si6kening nervous feeling which follows upon long and eager often deluded expec- tation, to excuse the tardiness of him who disappointed her. " Doctor," she said at length, " did he say he would be early? There may be such a little time before he leaves us, doctor !" " My child," said the doctor, rising and coming up to the window where she stood, " have you taken the idea that the mere talk of idle hours is the true expression of love ? To try the love a man professes for you, Bella, you had better touch his pocket. The pocket tests mankind." Bel^ooked inquiringly. " I have put him to this proof!: I made a propositiqjj to him last evening to settle ilpon you his portion of those estates your father held in Brittany." 14 tr Amabel; a family history. Anger glowed over Amabel's bright face ; the pent up vexa- tion and excitement of expectation of the morning burst forth against the doctor. The vehemence of its expression positively- alarmed him. She almost wept away her senses at the thought that Felix should have been insulted for her sake. She was sure that he could not forgive her ; that was the reason he had not come. Evening fell, and she was half distracted,* There was no post across the island, and no communication with the world without had taken place that day. Miserafble Amabel ! Felix she felt was angry — the doctor angiy — and her poor aunt, more exacting than usual, on account of the confinement to the house occa- sioned by the weather, was made fretful and capricious by an inattention to her pleasures, the cause of which she could not understand. The heavy rain still fell, and Bella early sobbed herself to •sleep, exhausted by emotion. Yet the innermost conviction of, her little aching heart was secretly that Felix would be with her by the dawn, and the last employment of her thoughts was to imagine for him excuses ; to frame some probable cause for his delay, which should make up to her tenfold for this day's disappointment by the additional prospect of happiness in store for her upon the morrow. She was awakened by the clatter of horse's hoofs at the early dawn of morning. Starting up, she flew to her little window, and saw — not the brown horse that carried Felix coming up to the garden gate — but the broad, black flanks and flapping tail of Dr. Glascock's pony, urged down the road at a quick pace. Her screams brought in Giacinta. " Has anything happened ? Has any messenger been here 1" " Ii''o, signorina. f! partito di huon ora il Signor Dottore." Day of agony made still more dreadful than the dreadful yesterday, by glad, bright, mocking sunshine 1 About three o'clock came back the doctor. He disirwunted at the gate, came into the house slowly, hung up his hat and cloak on their accustomed pegs, walked into the drawing-room (she had not dared to go and meet him), and took both her Amabel; a family HiST\Rr. Yg hands ia liis. She saw he had ill news, and hersp^ch failed her. " He was a traitor — worthless — unworthy, my peer child. Ha is better gone. Don't mourn for him," said the aoctor. She fell senseless on the floor — senseless at his feet. She read the certainty of her fate in his compassion. It was hours before she could make inquiries, or would suffer herself to be told that, together with his vows to her, his promises to the doctor, he had broken his parole, and had left Malta, no one tnew how, no one knew whither. His horse had been put up in a stable in Valetta ; no accident, therefore, had befallen him, and he had been seen, by one who knew him, on foot, in a retired part of Floriana. Some persons remembered, about ten o'clock, a bustle in the street, but the night was dark, and to those who looked out of their windows, all was undistinguishable. The doctor had been into his chamber at Citta Vecchia. No money was there, and he was known to have received of Cap- tain Annesley, the day before, a sum not inconsiderable. Dr. Glascock was astonished at the firmness with which Bella insisted on her right to investigate, personally and thoroughly, all that made against her lover. She went with: him next day to Citta Vecchia and to Valetta ; visited his rooms, questioned the neighbors, made inquiries on the Marina. She there learned from the boatmen the agitation of Mr. Grump upon that evening, and his frantic inquiries after a Frenchman. A glimmering vision of the truth broke in upon hei'. " We shall have certainty when Captain Warner comes into port," she said once to the doctor. But she seldom spoke to others of her hope; it was too fragile for the rough touch with which they handled it; too dear to be profaned. The excitement that had sustained her in the first days of her loss, vanished speedily away. The affair was a nine days' wonder in Valetta ; but, though the, admiral and governor were very angry, and the French prisonera upon parole were more strietl^watched than they had been before, all interest upon^ the subject was exhausted by the time that Captain An- nesley, of the Sea Gull, sailed to join the Gibraltar squadron. 76 Amabel; a tamily history. Those around Amabel lapsed into their usual state of feeling, and expected her to do the same. But in vain ; the days of her sweet loving trustfulness, — the days of her first youth were over. Happen what might around her she could never be the same again. Sometimes a burst of passionate, fierce grief, like an ocean-storm in suddenness and fury, would take the doctor by surprise, and make him fear, if not for her j'eason, for her future peace. He was wrong ; it is despair, taking the common form of indifi'erence of lieal-t, that is so dangerous, not the half-civilized wild, cry of a strong nature. And her eyes would then grow bright with latent fever, her movements would be hurried and impulsive, her temper capricious, her attention difiicult, almost impossible to engage. To this mood would succeed another — its contre-coup, its reaction — when she would bitterly bewail her starts of passion, and think of herself as one deserving the loss of every blessing for the ingratitude with which this sorrow was received. Then she would hide her troubles in her heart, and try to go forth as she had done in her days of hope and gladness, to in- terest herself in others' griefs, and so forget her .own ; but the attempt was but a cold effort of duty. The life had fled from her exertions ; we can do no good thing to others when we seek them /or our oion sake, and the remedy must fail even for our- selves. Another phase in her distress fell temporarily upon her. She recovered herself suddenly. Her step regained its former elas- ticity ; her lip a proud and fierce, though not a happy smile. Her eyes still burned with an unusual brightness, but a droop- ing of their lids sometimes relieved the glare. She had laid aside her sorrows for a time, and had resigned herself to the conviction that Felix must he true. That her trust in him was too strong to be shaken by the power of circumstances. That he must come back, —what matter with what interval of years ? — to explain all that had happened, and to claim her love. In the midst of this mood of feverish hope, the Dodo^came back into the harbor of Valetta. It was October. Dr. Glas- cock had moved his household to the city to meet Mr. Sibbes AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 77 who was expected home from Smyrna, and old Giacinta brought Amabel word the moment the desired vessel was made out from Fort Riascoli. Amabel heard her with an unchanging smile- without interrupting her occupation. The doctor had gone that morning across the island. All day she betrayed no sign of emotion or impatience. At noon Captain Warner was announced. She received him, and entered upon the usual topics of the day. He said no- thing of Felix. Her heart began to fail her, and she had less courage than ever to venture the inquiry ; but the thought came that they both thus cruelly might be preparing her a surprise. At that moment Dr. Glascock entered. " Captain," he said, " a word with you," and drew him apart to a window. "I am anx:ious to inquire whether you took a Frenchman, Captain Guiscard, to the coast of Sicily ?" " Monsieur Girard ? I did, sir ; a mighty pleasant fellow." " Was he your only French passenger ?" " Yes, sir," said the captain, with surprise. He had not yet heard, of the mysterious disappearance of his rival. " Favor me by describing Monsieur Girard. " " A short man, middle-aged, thick-necked, with a wound over his left^eye." ^ The doctor asked no more. The captain turned to take his leave. Amabel did not rise, or take the least notice of his de- parture. She had comprehended the conversatio;i ; and, when the doctor spoke to her, she looked up in Ms face smiling, and sat playing with the trimmings that were sewn upon her robe. Oh ! breaking heart that will not break, Oriana. Oh ! pale, pale face, so sweet and meek, Oriana. Thou smilest, but.thou dost not speak. And then the tears run down my cheek, What -wantest thou ? Whom dost thou seek, Orianal From that time not a word escaped" her on the subject of her sorrow. Peirhaps sometimes a half thought of reproach to Felix may have crossed her mind ; but, so far from giving utterance' is Amabel; a family history. to it, tlie dread lest her changed looks should seem to others to reproachhim, was her strongest motive for exertion. Oh ! the subtleties of true affection ! How into the least of things creeps woman's love ! The sun of her existence was put out. She was groping her way in life through darkness. The roses in the crown of her youth had been broken, and were faded. The world danced on around the shrine of hope, but she had drawn back into soli- tude and silence, a spectator of the throng. Her tears fell in the long nights, and they seemed to fall m vain ; for, as yet, they watered not the ground for the reception of a better, more enduring, kind of household love and trustful happiness. They gushed from rock, they Avere drunk in by the sands of a desert ; for, like a dusty whirlwind of the wilderness, this sorrow had passed over her, burying the bright oasis of her life in desolation. No pleasures, no remembraiices, no hopes, no fears, and, worst of all, no loving interest in others, no kind affections seemed to have escaped the rain. Her pas- sion had drunk up the streams of lovingness that liad fei'tilized her life and watered her own soul. That choked or flowing undergound, sh« had none left for others. If she wept for others' griefs, it was because they called to mind her own. And the Santa Maria degli Angeli lay at anchor in the harbor or made her winter voyages to Sicily ; and Mr. Grump kept his own counsel during the few da)'s the Dodo stayed in port, reflecting that nothing called on him to declare his blun- der, and that, as the prisoner had not been returned to Malta, the consequences might be more serious than he had at first anticipated. As the spring came, Mrs. Sibbes's health grew worse. Amabel watched over her, and waited on her with a sort of mechanical attention. She had an affection for her aunt, but it was not of a nature to attract many of her thoughts from the absorbing subject that occupied her mind. Yet, when the sufferer wat dead, and she knelt beside the coffin, her grief was made more bitter by the reproaches of that affection. It whispered to her night and day that, carefully and laboriously as her daily duties to the lost had been performed, her heart had not been in them. Amabel; a family history. iq No sooner was the funeral over tlian Mr. Sibbes resolved to part with Amabel. Business called him to the East, and he eonld not leave her with propriety, under the care of the doctor. He would have preferred that she should marry in Malta ; but, as she showed no disposition to do this, he determined to return her to her mother's care. Lady Karnac was living at a country town upon the eastern coast of England with her hus- band. Captain Talbot, and her children by this marriage. Scarcely anything was known of them by the family in Malta, but Mr. Sibbes wrote word he should be with them speedily, and sailed for England with his niece early in the spring. I am inclined to thiak that Dr. Glascock tried every means in Jiis power to induce her to remain in Malta ; that, in short, he pressingly offered himself to her, and that this offer and its rejection caused a coolness between them. The doctor, how- ever, says nothing on either of these points in his narrative. With the restlessness of youthful sorrow (for the young hope often to cheat grief, as the sick cheat pain, by a change of posi- tron) Amabel was glad to go to England. New scenes, new duties, new hopes, and new relationships, would put the apathy of her heart, she thought, to trial. She would learn thereby whether her life was to be henceforth anything more than one long, vain regret for the loss of earthly happiness, and whether there were other things worth living for or no. END OF PART FIRST. ^art $ttmt DRAWN CHIEFLY, FROM AMABEL'S OWN LETTERS ADDRESSED TO CAPTAIN WARNER. Yet as happiness in domestic Ufe must depend mainly on the personal influences of those around us, our power of cultivating- that happiness must depend very consi- derably on our understanding the nature of such influences. With partial exception it may he said that all great personal influences are mutual, and are derived from the sympathetic power which we have for the expressed feelings of another. — Spectatou., 1847. Article on the Duchesse de Praslin. PART II. CHAPTER I. $weet flower of Hope ! free Nature^s genial child, That did'st so fair disclose thine early bloom, Filling the wide air with its rich perfume, • For thee iq vain all heavenly aspects smiled, From the hard world brief respite could they win ; The frost nipped sharp without, the canker preyed within. COLBRIDGS. " I HAVE spoten to you freely of what I felt on leaving Malta," says Amabel herself, in a letter that she wrote in after years to Captain Warner, " and I would do so also of my first impressions of England, not because they have any direct bearing on the matter immediately before us, or that in them- selves they are litely to afibrd you interest, but because fully to appreciate my position in the new home to which my duty called me, you must bear in mind my previous way of life, and the circumstances in which I was placed, and look upon the aspect of things around me, less as they really were, than from the point of view in which it was natural I should regard them." The voyage was tedious, and without events, at least notling that she saw af sea made any powerful- impression, but her sensibilities were blunted by the indulgence of her sorrow, and nothing had power to rouse her, save to a sharper poignancy of regret. A long monotonous sea voyage was the very thing for sobering an active grief into a settled one ; no one on board claimed any of her sympathy, she asked for none of theirs, still, as the only lady in the vessel, she was petted and courted, as had always been the case, but nothing whispered that it 84 Amabel; a pamilt history. »^ was the last time in her life she should be spoiled to give it value, and these advantages in her position made at that time little impression. They stood along the English coast for two days after enter- ing the Channel ; on the third, being close in shore, a fishing boat came off to them. They were opposite to the little town of Worthing, and Mr. Sibbes resolved to land;. The ship lay to ; they were shifted with their luggage into the fish- ing boat, and the ship stood on her course towards the Downs, Worthing was an insignificant collection of fishermen's huts at that period ; one long thin line of better houses only, loom- ing out of tihe morning haze. Half a mile from shore the boat of the customs came off to meet them, and with wetting, confusion, swearing, and not without, on the part of the fishing craft, what Mr. Sibbes damned as "English extortion," they were transferred into her. Bella was carried ashore through the surf on the stout back of an amphibious animal in jack- boots, whether man or woman she never could determine. Another plucked the earings from her ears, a third soused her carpet-bag in the water, and when they found themselves on Eng- lish ground under an escort of the revenue officials, Mr. Sibbes dragging her by the hand, pushing, swearing, and pursued for sixpences, she was roused to sensations that were extremely disagreeable. " Cabined, cribbed, confined " in an inn parlor, the curtains of which had not been taken down for half a century, harbor- ing dust and fusty smells, a smouldering fire smoking on the hearth — for though the month was June, the town was damp- ened by a dreary drizzle — the luggage gOne in a taxed cart to be examined at the Custom House at Brighton — for contrary to the information of the fishermen, there were only officials and not offices at Worthing — and with a scanty English break- fast (thin chips of dry crisp toast, black tea, and an egg apiece before them), things looked, to her (though English people might have called them snug) neither liberal, inviting, nor comfortable. The luggage was kept a whole day at Brighthelmstone. Mr. ' Amabel; a family history. 85 Sibbes, an easy man abroad, could not resist the influences of the climate, and a fit of English fussiness took hold upon him. At day-break Amabel was called. The morning happened to be fine, the country was green and beautiful. They put her into an old-fashioned, rattling, awkward, fusty, rickety post- chaise, which Mr. Sibbes agreed to share in a proportion of two thirds with a gentleman of Worthing, so Bella rode bod- kin all that day to London, along a road diversified by English country seats and English commons. She remarked the deference paid to their gentry by all the inn people with whom she came in contact during that day's jom-ney, nor had she ever occasion to alter the opinion then formed, that amongst the English peasantry and the class immediately above them, less real independence of opinion than amongst all other civilized people is to be found. Every man, while following the occupations of his class, tries to adopt the manners and opinions of the class above him. For which reason it is easy on occasion to lead the entire English nation by the nose. ' On the whole, the great impression made upon her mind was that smallfless indicated* restraint, and that mutual dependence made classes looBF selfishly upon each other, instead of being the guarantee of feelings more kindly. London was hot and hateful. They spent a night there, and the next day journeyed by coach into the eastern counties. Mr. Sibbes rode outside, Amabel within. The morning had been fair — the afternoon proved rainy. The perfect travelling ar- rangements, the smoothness of the roads, the greenness of the country, struck her much ; but she probably made few general reflections, unless it may have been on the condition of society in England as typified by a fat woman, her companion, whose talk was all of lords, which made her fellow-traveller, who carried in her bag a volume of Evelina, imagine her some member of the aristocracy of England,-so much were the private affairs and family histories of persons of that class at her tongue's end. The other two places were filled and emptied at most of the _ chief towns, sometimes by country gentlemen with white-top boots and strangely florid faces, once by a man disposed to be 80 Amabel; a, family histobt. disagreeably familiar, and several times damp children were thrust in, whose friends were slowly sbaldng in the rain out- side. It was dark without, weary within ; the lamps were lighted and the streets were sloppy when they drove into the county town, half a seaport, yet not correctly so, for its boats are launched upon fresh water, where, for some years, the mother of Amabel had been living, together with her second famUy. The communication between mother and child had. been so much inteiTupted, that Amabel was entirely ignorant of the present circumstances of the family ; judging, however, from all that she had heard of her mother at the time of her second marriage, she fancied they must be people of consideration, and live in style. At the inn, where the coach stopped, her uncle Sibbes's good-natured face appeared at the coach door. She had been more drawn towards him during that day's journey than in all her life before. ^ " Get out, my dear," he said, " and come into the coffee- room. I have made an arrangement with the coachman to take off his leaders and take us on. They live in St. Clement's, half a mile through the town. I shall order my supper ; for they won't want me with them at your first mSeting. I am no favorite of your mother's, nor is she of mine." These were the first words she had ever heard her uncle say about her parents. She looked round the cheerful coffee-room, and almost wished to stay and share the steak she heard him order. " My dear," he said, coming back to the box, where she stood patiently. " My dear," fumbling in his pocket-book, " if you don't find yourself comfortable amongst your friends, my advice to you is — marry. You may let the world know that your marriage portion from me will be £10,000 ; that will procure you, any day, plenty of suitors. Take this, my dear," he added, pressing a £20 bank-note into her hand. " You may want it where you are going." She threw herself upon his neck ; she wept bitterly. She regretted she must leave him ; she felt afraid of all that was to come. He was flustered by the action, and disengaged her AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 87 anns. At that moment tlie coachman called. She was put into the coach again, and they rattled with weary horses over the rough pavement of the bact streets of the town. They stopped at a green door ; her uncle Sibbes rang, and, after an interval, a maid in pattens, holding up her clothes, came down the sloppy flags and admitted them through the gate into the garden. "Go in, child," said her uncle. "^The coachman and I will bring your things in after you." Springing past the maid, Amabel ran into the house through the wet garden, dashed into the first room that was at hand, and came upon the family. " Gracious me !" exclaimed her mother. " Who are you ? I thought it was Captain Talbot." Bella mad^ her understand who she was ; she clasped her in her arms, and, for the first time in her remembrance, her heart beat against the heart of her mother. The letter of Amabel dwells upon the first days of her arrival in England, as tbough it gave her pleasure to linger over her last recollections of her uncle Sibbes, but she grows less diffuse at this point of her narrative. It is easy to see that something pained her, and we gather that the first cause of her distress was the cavalier reception bestowed on Mr. Sibbes. The trader, however, with a pride of his own, had no inten- tion of staying long to be made uncomfortable by Lady Kamac's airs and insolence. He saw his niece's things safely deposited ; wrung her hand ; she threw her arms around his neck, and, in another moment, he was gone. Years and years passed before they met again ; and, ere they did so, if we measure age by our experience in sorrow, she was far the older of the two. LadyKarnac was stiU a handsome woman, with beautiful hair, a slight lisp, constant complaints -of ill health, and an expression of peevishness. She had been a great belle in her day, loved flirting and gay parties, saw no medium between flauntiness in dress and dowdiness, and could not for- give her husband, whose taste for Speculation had dissipated their fortune, and had brought her down from the high estate where she was fitted to shine triumphantly, to live in .a back 88 Amabel; a family history. street of a small commercial town, where lie held a patent in a manufactory. They had four children. Olivia, the eldest, a large girl of fourteen, with a heavy looking face, of which the expression of sullen, settled ill-temper never varied. Almost idiotic as she looked, she had the influence of a strong will over her mother, a sagacity which always showed her an advantage, and a per- severance which enabled Tier to keep her ends in view, and to accomplish them. Annie, the second daughter, was a sickly child, cowed by her sister, made fretful by constant ailments, and obstinate and shy by the excess of her timidity. Edward was the pickle of the family ; too audacious to be kept under by Olivia, too good at heart for her, as yet, to spoil. Little Joseph was the baby. When people meet who ought to be intimate,yet have not seen each other for half their lives, they have nothing to say. There is no common point of interest from which to start a conversation, unless by bringing forward things set generally out of sight as too precious for common handling. Olivia rang the bell with authority, and ordered tea. It was a long time coming, though she left the room to worry the slowness of their servant of all- work, and, when it did make its appearance, the smoked and tepid water, the stale half loaf of knobby bread, the children's clamor and untidy way of eating, Olivia's and the mother's slaps and scoldings, took the elder sister's appetite away. Alas ! in her secret thoughts, she could irot help contrasting that comfortless, noisy, miserable, tea-table, with the peace and plenty of her Maltese house. By ten o'clock, after the servant had taken off the children. Captain Talbot's knock was heard at tlie hall door. He was a gentlemanly man, of middle height, with a slightly bald, and high, retreating forehead. He received Amabel with much kindness and cordiality, entering into conversation, and asking her questions upon Malta, the relations she had lived with, and her voyage, with the ease and tact of a man of the world. Amabel felt more at her ease than she had yet done in her new home. Why should we linger over the life, to which this was the Amabel; a family history. 89 prophetic introduction 1 It is sad to trace the shadows creep- ing over a young and happy spirit, the growth of selfish feel- ings and their attendant evil thoughts, in the mind of one un- used by nature or experience to be neglected or unloved. She was the one too many eyerywhere. There was no place for her in their iiearts ; there seemed no duties for her in their home. So soon as she attempted to win her way into the afiections of the children, or to be useful to her mother, or to protect little Annie, to w.hcj she " took " in preference to them all, Olivia's watchful jealousy strewed briers in her path, and some outbreak of bad -feeling upon her part awakened echoes in her sister's mind. ^ She never was alone ; for she shared the sleeping-room of Oliyia, and could not even lay her head upon her pillow and secretly weep bitter tears for her lost happiness ; Olivia's ear was swift to hear, and those cutting taunts which it is be- neath usto revenge, but which the greatest and mo^patient are not too great nor too patient to feel, were the price she paid for even this melancholy species of relief. Or worse, her mother would be informed of these repinings, and would take advan- tage of their next disagreement to inform her that, if she was too fastidious to be satisfied with her relations, she had better seek another home, pr, better still, have stayed in Malta. The twenty-pound note her uncle Sibbes had given her formed her greatest consolation. As long as it lasted she was able, by little presents, to gain favor even with Olivia, to pro- cure books for herself and various little comforts, and lighten, in many ways, the lot of their poor servant girl. But twenty pounds is far from inexhaustible, and, by Christmas, it was spent, leaving her without pocket moneys and dependent on her mother's purse even for her clothes. Then it was she learned the value of money, and felt as if an ample fortune would almost of itself suffice to make her happy. Her ideas of happiness wei'e now much changed, from what they were in better times. To " flee away and be at rest" from the wear and tear of evil feelings, excited or endured ; to bo free again to do, or think, <5r weep, or speak, and not under thraldom to Olivia ; to have power to help the suffering ; to be placed in a position where her enjoyment of even the lesser 90 Amabel; a family history. things of life might be unmarred by a conflict of feelings, now seemed to her a degree of happiness she never should enjoy. And after eveiy annoyance, every quarrel, or humiliation, her t9.ars flowed faster from the thought, that had Felix been true to her, these things would not have been. Yes, she distrusted Felix ; that sorrow was the worst of all. She was growing, as Dr. Glascock had once prophesied, " sel- fish, jealous, and covetous, after her kind." She had been suddenly plunged into the responsibilities of new relationships. She was not gently or lovingly initiated into them. She was not called to fulfil active duties, but to take up passively the heavy burden of life. Her service was onerous, her position distasteful to her. There was no well-spring of lovingness left withia her heart, her affection for Felix Guiscard had exhausted it. Earth no longer seemed to her like the great moving ocean, which jfiust be governed by some law harmonious and good, though yet unknown to her ; but cold, hard, dry, a round of pettj' grovelling cares, endurances, antl duties, to which she had no clue. She, the spoiled child of Dr. Glascock, whose very caprices were looked on as endearing, whose wilfulness was tolerated, whose love made many happy, had now no kind word said of her, save by one who had no influence in the contracted circle to which her existence was confined. It was her step-father, Captain Talbot, who remarked sometimes to his wife, when she was peevish with her eldest child : " Poor thing, there seems no harm in her, she looks to me very quiet and inoSensive ; but I agree with you, I wish she were well married with all my heart, my dear.'' Amabel; a family iiistoiiy. 91 CHAPTER 11. she will weep her woman's tears, She will pray her woman's prayers, But her heart is youn^ in pain, And her hopes will spring again By the suntime of her years. E. Bakuett Beowning. The society of tlie countiy-town in wliich Amabel found her- self, was no less distasteful to her than the interior of her home. But had she been older in years, ov ijj experience, and personally .independent of that society and its influences, it might have afforded her amusement to watch the oddness of the elements of which it was composed. A country-town, even twenty years ago, before the age of railroads, was a rich museum of human cmiosities. The young student-artist of character could have found no better model- room. But Bella- only- reflected that these were the people amongst whom her life was to be passed ; she had nothing in common with them, not an idea, an interest, or aim. It was a forced alliance upon her part ; had they appeared in any way dependent upon her exertions for their self-esteem or their amusement, her better feelings would have prompted her to meet the obligation ; as it was, she thought it not worth while to find .pleasure or improvement in her intercourse with them. There was old Miss Maddox, driven sometimes into their society, when there were no card parties in more fashionable quarters, by mere stress of ennui ; and big Mrs. Batliurst, whose husband died of care and curry, a colonel in the East Indies, who exacted a deference and attention on the ground of her father having been an honorable, which it was positive humiliation to their society to pay. She had a niece who lived with her, who wore long ropy ringlets, was kept in abject subjection by her aunt, and consoled herself for her home mise- ries by looking out for admiration amongst the o£Scers in gar- 92 Amabel; a family histoey. rison. No regimental gossip was unknown to this young lady, who called all the gentlemen by their surnames, and spoke fa- miliarly of " tlie men," meaning the private soldiers. Nor did Bella see anything to interest her in the clergyman's wife, a country-bred young woman, with lots of children and of parish business always accumulating on hand. The Talbots had withdrawn in- a great measure from society ; for in England one must regulate the circle in which one moves, by one's pecuniary ability to cope with those composing it, and these persons, who for purposes of their own found their way into St. Clement's, were nearly all with whom they visited, save that Captain Talbot had a professional acquaintance with Ad- miral Sir Jeremiah Thompson, a triton amongst the minnows of their little society, whc^ invited them to a state dinner once a year, to feed them off of plate, and would have considered himself ineffably insulted by being asked to eat off of stone- ware in return. Bella only perceived that the idee fixe of all the persons that she met was a holy hatred of the French, and that a man was held an infidel except he acknowledged a be- lief in every malicious calumny then in circulation against the " Corsican monster." Conversation amongst them never grew exciting, save when they compared their interpretations of the prophecies against him as the Beast of the Revelation, or Da- niel's little horn. Dr. Glascock had early prejudiced her mind against the English, and she could not see the intrinsic excel- 'lenoes of character, national and individual, that lay beneath the surface both of society and manners. The exterior dis- gusted her, and, poor thing, she was too unhappy'lto look deeper. No mere stranger and sojourner can understand Eng- land or like its people. He must live amongst them, associate himself with their interests, work with them, feel with them, hope with them, in short, (/row English, before he will have the leastidea of their real excellences. The things a foreigner most generally admires in a six weeks' stay in London in the season, are precisely the " evidence of things unseen," of which the true Englishman is the least proud. As spring advanced, there began to be talk amongst the gay people of the town about the Easter Ball. Peace had been Amabel; a family bistort. 93 proclaimed. London was getting ready for the visit of the allied sovereigns, money was plenty, all England was beside itself; brothers and beaux were expected home from foreign wars, or naval stations ; and, Mrs. Beamish, who had always young persons to recommend to places, county poets with books to be got out, and loads of lotteries and raffles, exerted herself on behalf of the society for the relief of seamen's widows, to get up a subscription ball. Lady Earnae, who could ill afford it, was pressed into taking four tickets, at a guinea each — the Cap- tain, herself, Amabel, and Olivia were to go. The white dress of Amabel was prepared. Weary of work and sick at heart, for the morning had been one of continued fretfulness and dissension, she offered, about four o'clock, to take the children for a walk along the London road. It was a dreary expedition. She set out, thinking with what expectations of delight she had looked forward two years be- fore to her first ball at Malta. " Then there were so many to be proud of me and love me." That thought crowned every bitterness, and in spite of all her efibrts her tears flowed silently, starting fresh thoughts of Felix and of Malta. She was very unhappy. Peace "was proclaimed ; a year and a half since they last met had passed, and yet no news of him had reached her. " Stand back, children, and see the coach come over the bridge," she crigd, drawing them aside, as the sound of the guard's horn reached her. Over it came, with its four shining brown horses, thin but sjnewy, scenting their stable from afar, and put^g new life and energy into their exertions. It passed. A gentleman on the box seat looked back. A few yards fur- ther it pulled up abruptly. The gentleman got down, tossed his half-crown to the coachman, and joined them. It was Captain Warner. How full of warmth was his first greeting ! How cordially he shook her by the hand ! How readily he praised the chil- dren 1 How he answered all her hurried, eager questions about Malta ; not that he had been there lately, for he had been cruis- ing with the Gibraltar squadron ; but he could talk of old times, and of old scenes, and call back pleasant reminiscences. 94 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. By the time he left her at her own door, she had learned that his ship having been paid off, he had gained his post rank, had come down on a visit to the admiral, and would meet her at the ball. With very diflferent feelings from those with which she had looked forward to that evening, did she now put on her plain white dress, and wistfully gaze into. her little looking-glass, marking the changes Time had made in her young featiires, and regretting the loss of the fresh bright complexion that had paled since she left Malta. What a new feeling of pride and of protection it gave her to find him waiting for her at the door of the cloak room ! She felt that she was not so very isolated, when she introduced him as her friend to her mother and Captain Talbot ; and when she entered the ball-room leaning on his arm, and he had got a smart young ensign to be the partner of Olivia, she felt her consequence increased by his attentions, and knew they would ameliorate her position M home. Captain Warner was, as sailors mostly are, a spirited Terpsichorian ; and this evening, being in a state of high excitement, he outdid himself in his exertions. " Make way, there, for the gallant captain," many cried, as he came down the middle, ably seconded by his now bloosi- ing, smiling, animated partner. " We'll show you how to do it," he exclaimed. " Miss Kar- nac and I will show you how they do these things in style in Malta.'' It was the first time her residence abroad had been men- tioned in England to her honor. After the dance, he led her up the room to introduce her in form to Lady Thompson. The Captain, though destitute of worldly tact, had insured her kind reception by telling her ladyship at dinner that he was going to dance the first dance with a pretty girl with a large fortune. She held Amabel afifec- tionately by the hand, and hoped she should have the pleasure of seeing her young friend at a dinner party next week, with her father and mother. The captain was too ingenuous to keep his knowledge of his Amabel; a family history. 95 pretty partner's money to himself and soon the room was talk- ing of " that lovely girl and her large fortune." Partners, the elite of the garrison and of the townsmen, contended for the honor of dancing with her, but in the midst of her triumph her constant thought was, "how stupid they all are compared to Captain Warner.'' At the end of every dance he contrived to find himself beside her. When tea-tables were introduced into the ball-room, he waited upon her, he cloaked her care- fully in the passage when Lady Karnac insisted on going home, and she got into the carriage with a confused remembrance of pleasant things said, felt, a^d suggested, and with a crowd of questions on her mind that she had meant to ask him. By the time, however, she was awake^ and had breakfasted, Captain Warner came to call, full of hopes that she had spent a pleasant evening, and was none the worse for her exertions, and with proposals for a morning walk, which he was certain would do her good. To be sure they were hampered with Olivia and the children, but the Captain would break Off in the midst of his pleasant chat with Amabel, to run after " the young rascals," and'^set them to play with one another. Olivia remained gloomy and silent; but to the rest of the party, the walk, which led them along the river's bank, was most dehghtful. "So different," thought Amabel, "to our daily dreary promenades up and down the rope walk," where the children were sent out to take exercise during the winter. The admiral's dinner, too, was most agreeable. Lady Kar- nac and Captain Talbot met quite a different set from the people they had been invited with before. Captain Warner sat next at table to Amabel, and old Lady Thompson in the drawing-room ventured some solemn jokes with her about his admiration. He expr^sed a wish that she should sing when the gentle- men came in from tabled and instantly the old Admiral and his lady seconded the proposal. She sang some Breton songs, and her piano was surrounded by gentlemen applauding the performance, and talking with her of things abroad. Captain 96 Amabel; a family history. "Warner said something in reference to thenn about " puppies," but even lie was pleased that she should be an object of admi- ration. He got her away into a corner soon, however, under pretence of examining some Chinese curiosities, and talked to her about his place — the Cedars. Days rapidly rolled on ; walk succeeded walk, and there were several more parties. Amabel cared not to examine the state of her own heart. She only knew she was immeasurably happier since Captain Warner's arrival ; that his attention was something she possessed all to herself, independently of Olivia; that the niece of Mrs. Bathurst was "dying in love" with him ; and she could not help regretting that the time was drawing near for his departure. CHAPTER in. *' Why art thou weepiiig^ ?" maiden mild, Said a Friar Grey to a lonely child ; " I weep for the swallows gone over the sea, Who used to come and be fed by me." " Then dry your tears," said the Friar Grey, "They will all come back in the month of May." ********** " Oh ! tell me, Friar," the maiden cried, " Why my sister weeps since her lover died, Will he come back with the early spring To woo his bride with a gay gold ring ?" " Hush, hush, my child, he is gone for aye ;" "Will my sister's life have another May i" Pawsey's Pocket-Book fob 1847. We have hurried over that part of oilr heroine's history when all in her that was most good and lovable was growing stag- nant, for want of a free course amongst the barriers that repressed it. But -all is changing now, or on the eve of chang- ing. Captain Warner has called forth pleasurable feelings and awatened strong emotions. She cannot go back to the state of apathetic indifference from which she has been roused. His departure from Admiral Thompson's was fixed for the Amabel; a family history. 97 day after a great fancy fair whieli was to be held in the Park of Sir Julius Matthieson, the member for the county. All the neigh- borhood was there ; all the county people — persons of landed property, who would have scorned any association with the townspeople, and even whilst they admitted them as buyers to the/eie, kept themselves aloof from them. # This local aristocracy was, however, on good terms with Cap- tain Warner, himself the heir expectant of a large estate in the next shire. He had cordial, pleasant maimers, which, in addi- tion to his property (his card of admission into that circle), enhanced his value there, and made him welcome. He held a private license as a single man, — a travelled man, and (not being of that county) in some sort as a foreigner, under which he might do anything he pleased ; and shake off, on occasion, the shackles of conventional etiquette, wMch pinioned nature in that treadmill circle. ^ He very soon detached Bella from Lady Thompson, and went with her amongst the booths, paying, whilst she looked at' the pretty trifles, a sailor's ready compliments to the pleased but aristocratic ladies who presided at each table. He was not a person who required any great amount of conversational power on another's part to " set him going." If he was in good spirits, and he found his earliest sallies well received, a woman of any disposition or capacity would have been sure to find him pleasant and agreeable. He had a great acquaintance amongst the dowagers, most of whom had not seen him since he became a widower, and were glad to welcome back his attentions and his rattle. To many of these gi-eat ladies he introduced our Amabel.; amongst the rest, he made her known to Lady Matthieson, the; mistress of the mansion, who invited them to go into the house to a colla- tion. Captain "Warner had one idie fixe with regard to social cus- toms — that an old lady should always give place to a young one, a plain to a pretty woman. He carried his companion up to the end of the room, amongst the highest of the company, and though the seats of honor were already filled, procured her a charming place at a little side-table just fitted for two persons, 6 98 AM ABE I,; A F,\ MIL Y HISTORY. in the bend of the window ; saw that she was helped the first to everything ; pledged her in the first opened bottle of cham- pagne, and, strange to say, gave no oflfence to any of the com- pany, for the news had run nmongst the guests that she was a foreign heiress, the elected Mrs. Warner. " Under the costliest embi^Rdered waistcoat beats a heart," says a quaint modern phi- losopher ; and people, however stiflF, etiquettish, and unnatural, have always sympathy with the progress of a love affair. Cap- tain Warner, but just returned from foreign service, had slighted none of them in his selection. The pensive, subdued rnanners of his bride elect, together with her pretensions to birth, were in her favor. " Come," said the captain, rising from his seat before the toasts were given, and offering her his arm. She rose, and they step- ped out of the long, open window upon the mossy lawn. The kindly wishes of many of the guests went with the lovers. He took her through the shrubberies, away from the crowd and bustle of the park, across a little bridge, into a hayfield. The laborers had left their work half done ; their hay-cocks were still standing. Captain Warner selected one under the shade of a fine elm, on the slope of a hill near the Park paling, and made a fragrant couch in the sweet new hay for his com- panion. She sat down smiling, closed her eyes, and leaned back, giving herself up to the sweet and peaceful influences around her. The sun peeped through the nodding leaves upon the trembling branches, and seemed to press his warm, soft kiss upon her eyelids, whilst he called up a brilliant blush on her pale cheek, and caused her to shelter her sweet face from his glances with her hands. Captain Warner threw himself beside her, and, lost in thought, began tossing about handfuls of the delicious hay. Amabel had held a loving intimacy with nature in her hap- pier days. Nearly a year had passed since she had wandered far from the dull and dirty precincts of that country town. The peaceful scene around her, the quiet, the seclusion, brought back the saddening memories of the past ; and, bending her head down in the hay, she found relief in quiet weeping. A barrier of hay hid her face from Captain Warner, who, busied Amabel; a familt history. 99 with his own hesitations on the eve of an enterprise important to his happiness, did not perceive her tears. " This is the sort of day which ought to make a man happy," he began at length, drawing a little nearer. A sigh escaped her, and was echoed by the captain, aa though his feelings were not quite in unison with his words. "Beautiful !" she said, drying her eyes, and gazing upward at the summer sky through the trembling branches of the elm that threw its shadows o^er them. " I wish it might make me happy," rejoined Captain Warner. He put aside the screen of hay that was between them and stretched his arm out till it was almost around her. An instinct prompted Amabel to change the theme. "All this is very different," she said, "from the rocky aridity of the greater part of Malta ; but not unlike our own sweet vale at Ramalah, That lovely valley is constantly before me, even in my dreams." " England bears away the bell, however, in home scenery," replied the Captain. " I have it much at heart, that you should grow familiar with our country life in England." * "I could grow warmly attached, I do not doubt, to any scene so beautiful as thisi But I have never till to-day been, beyond the dirty suburbs of the town, since my arrival." " My place, ' The Cedars,' is considered very beautiful," con- tinued Captain Warner. " I wanted you to havfi seen it, Miss Karnac, before addressing you. You would be happy there. I would shield you from everything painful or unpleasant. I would love you — ^I mean rather, I do love you as truly as any woman can desire to be loved. The Cedars only wants a pretty mistress. I have a sailor's heart, Miss Belle; forgive a sailor's blunt proposal. Your college men might have carved out their periods with more eloquence, but by no one could you be more passionately beloved." Bella had started up. The Captain threw himself forward, but at the sight of her face he too sprang to his feet. Her lips were parted, expressionless, and that very absence of all expression sent a thrill of horror to his soul. Her face was pale; her eyes, red with her previous weeping, Wjandered wildly 100 Amabel; a family histoky. round, the field, as if in search of friendly aid. Suddenly they rested on the ivied village church, which stood at the bottom of the field, parted from it only by the grave-ground. With a cry she started forward, i-unning swiftly towards it. In vain Captain Warner followed her, imploring her to compose herself, to go back to the house with him, for he would not distress her — did not mean to say another word. She heard not, or she did not heed him. Her light steps were as quick as his, and she gained the churchyard in advance of him. The church door happened to stand open. It was Friday, cleaning day ; she flew in, and sank down, clinging to the rails of the altar. Lonely and unhappy one ! it was as if failing all human sympathy, all human friends, she had flown for refuge to her Father in Heaven. She was cruelly ignorant, as we have said before, of even the first principles of religion ; but there is something in every human heart which vice has not perverted, prompting it, in the extremity of sorrow or excitement, to turn aside and recognise its God. Captain Warner followed her, and stooping over her, attempted to unclasp the fingers she had wound convulsively around the oaken railing ; her head was leasing on the velvet- covered balustrade, and she was weeping bitterly. "Dearest — my dear girl — get up, I entreat you. Get up. Come away," he repeated again and again, imploringly. " No — no. Go away 1 Leave me ! Take pity on me !" broke from her, as she caught breath between her intervals of sobbing. " I dare not leave you here ; but I promise not to speak to you. Get up. Take my arm, my dear Miss Belle. Come with me," repeated Captain Warner. " No — no. Leave me," continued Bella. The Captain, totally at a loss, like any other man in such a case, bethought him of a glass of water, and went to the church door to look for some neighboring cottage. By the time he returned with some water in a tea-cup, Bella was standing up before the altar, and was more c6mposed. She had prayed as she knelt, for strength, and for decision, and with the prayer returned her setf-possession. Amabel; a family history. 101 She drank some of the water, and wetting her handkerchief with it, cooled her eyes and forehead. " Shall we go now ?" said the Captain, oflfering her his arm. " No," she replied, " not yet. I have much that I must say to you." " Not now ; when you are hetter.'' " Yes, now,^'' she said, with energetic determination. " Cap- tain Warner, you have been very — very good to me. What must my conduct seem to you 3" He tried to soothe her. She went on. "You know that I once loved — ^loved as not every nature can love. See ! I am not ashamed to own it. And with vyf hope there Aed at once my early peace of mind, my early bloom of youth, my early capabilities of happiness. TiU lately I should certainly have told you, that all power to love again was for ever dead within me. Nor do I lovB again 1 I do not love you. Captain Warner. Not as I could once have loved- Not as you yourself would wish to have me love. But some- thing lately, since you have been so much with us, has whis- pered in my heart that I might love again — not passionately perhaps — but fondly, gratefully- — one who would be willing to take me as I am — not to exact too much from me ; who would cherish me, and bear with me, as a loving mother bears with a suffering child. I think I speak the truth in saying thus. I am so unhappy here." "But this is all I ask of you, dear girl," said Captain War- ner, trying to draw her nearer to his side. " I have no fear but that in a little time you will get over the past. Your sufferings at your age have been too much for you. I will cherish you. I will love you — my mother too. You shall begin, life with us over again, at the Old Cedars." " I cannot ! I cannot 1 — I believe you and I trust you ; but I cannot!" she cried, starting back with again that wandering look of pale, unmeaning horror. " If Felix were to come back, even years hence, could I love you? I vowed to love him all my life. I cannot break my vow. It is binding till his death ! How then .... Have pity on me ! I fancy con- stantly I see him. When your image comes-^efore me, his is 102 Amabel; a i'Amily history. aiways there. Dead or living, it would give him pain were 1 ever to forget him. How can I marry you P' " He is dead. Take my word for it, Miss Belle," cried Cap- tain "Warner, eagerly. " Dead ? Dead ? How dead ? When ? Where 2 How long have you known it. Captain Warner ?" She stood up erect before him. Her face assumed another expression. Stern, earnest, fierce, and almost threatening ; as though despite her eagerness, she warned him against being led astray by any unworthy rivalship, in what he answered her. " If he were not dead," he said, in a lower tone, and as if subdued before her, " he must have broken his parole when he left Malta. Tell me. Miss Belle, in that case would you not think him too dishonorable to be beloved 1" "Annesley is now in Paris," he suddenly exclaimed, after waiting a moment, and receiving no answer. "If I write to-day to Annesley, and Annesley discovers that his name is entered on the Naval Obituary at the French Admiralty, will you believe me then ? If he is dead. Miss Belle, will you con- sent to hear me ? If he is not reported dead, then I, on my part, will cease, if you desire it, to importune you." " Oh ! let me know the truth. I pray you — I implore you. Captain Warner ! I promise nothing, for I cannot promise, but pity me 1 Be generous, as I am sure you can be. Get certainty for me, at any rate. I should be happier with cer- tainty, be it what it may." He was about to spealc, when suddenly the words were arrested on hjs lips by the swelling notes of the church organ, and sweet, warbling voices of the village children chanting their Sunday hymn. Again Amabel knelt down on the stone flooring and hid her face before the altar, and Captain Warner stood beside her, watching the colored light which streamed upon her, and seemed to form a carpet for her kneeling on the pavement ; for the sun was hastening westward, and his beams cast colored shadows through a few panes of stained glass spared in the' upper divi- sion of the windows. It was a quiet village church, no longer greatly decorated, as it had been in times when faith impressed Amabel; a family history. 103 its semblance upon materia} things, or rather, feeling borrowed a material expression. Its oaken carving, its stained glass, and monumental marbles, had been replaced, sinoe the iconoclastic days of the Long Parliament, by whitewash, deal, and window- panes with bulls' eyes ; but it was still, serene, neat, and devo- tional. On the spot where, for six hundred years, the weary and the suffering had knelt to pray and weep whilst in the body, and where each villager rested for the last time in his coffin, ere " dust to dust," he was gathered to his fathers. Captain Warner stood beside the woman that he loved, who was silently pray- ing. The place was sad and calm, and, coupled with the influ- ences of the music, brought, notwithstanding the exciiing nature of their recent conversation, a sad and holy calmness into both their souls. She rose up from her knees at length, and took his arm in silence. Nature without looked calm, and spoke the lesson, that, in the revolvings of time, however short, joy often follows on the track of sadness, encamping on the very spot where traces of a recent grief may still be seen. A merry party of young boys were shouting, struggling, and tossing about the sweet, new hay on the spot where they had sat, under the old dm tree ; and Bella, as they paused^ was pleased to see the place look glad again. They walked on through the shrubbe- ries, and were met upon their way by Sir Jeremiah Thompson's servant, sent in search of them. They hurried on. Admiral Thompson's carriage was at the hall door^ and Lady Thompson in it was waiting for her companion. The captain put her in, and, as he closed the door, leaned forward and said, " God bless you ! I shall not see you again till I have had an answer." He pressed her hand. She bent forward for a moment as the carriage started, and a tear fell upon the hand he had laid upon its door. What were her feelings ? She herself would have been puz- zled to define them. Deep gratitude .for his preference and forbearance, a young heart's yearning for kindliness and affec- tion, a pity for him should his suit with her not prosper. Certainly all these feelings towards him argued the absence of indifference, but also, all united, they were not exactly Ipve. 104 Amabel; a family history. CHAPTER IV. Grave will I be And thoughtful ; for already it is gone — God's blessing on my earlier years bestowed — The clear contentment of a heart at ease. Am will I part with to partake thy cares Let but thy love my lesser joys outlast. Philip van Artkvelde. With her -heart oppressed and her brow throbbing, and thoughts so crowding on her brain that they seemed too closely pressed together for any one to struggle itself into pre-eminence, she was sei down at the garden gate of her dull home by Lady Thomp- son. The immediate consequence of the/eher where she had laid her head. Her movement startled the captain. " Ha ! little woman," he said, putting out his hand. " It is late — is it not ? Have you had a pleasant evening ?" How tell him that it had been one of agony ? She left the room without an answer, and the captain fell asleep again. Later, she crept tp h^r place beside him. Her last act was to snatch up the watch and trinkets she found lying on the coun- Amabel; a family history. 147 terpane, and she fell tisleep, her flushed cheek pillowed on the hand that held them, as though there were safety from some imkuown peril, if these gifts of her husband were but near. She fell asleep — strange as it may seem to the naturally wakeful ; for there are persons easily exhausted by emotion ; and, when sher awoke, it was because her cheek was kissed, and her husband, dressed, was standing over her. "Good bye, my. little wife," he said, "I shall not see you to- morrow, it is the day of the poll ; but, the day after, I shall meet you and my mother at C , and come home with you from the Chairing." " Oh ! Leonard, stay a moment," she cried, starting up with an awakened remembrance of the griefs of yesterday. " I have something I want to ask you." "Be quick, then. I am in haste," he replied. " I will not detain you. It was to ask a question — about Felix — Captain Guiscard" — she gasped, trying to collect her thoughts and to gain courage. " What of him ?" said the captain, tartly. " I thought you had forgotten him." "It was to ask you how you keard that he was dead 3 — at first, I mean." , ** Why do you ask ? Have you any doubts of it, my dear V said Captain Warner. " The official evidence is more convinc- ing than if I had told you he- had died at Cabrera, on only my own authority." " Cabrera,! He died at Cabrera ?" " Cabrera. Yes. He died at Cabrera," said the captain. " Leonard," she said, rising up in her bed with that strange look he dreaded in her eyes, " you have deceived me. Was that right ? Tou know more than you have told me. You have deceived me, Leonard." " My love for you excuses me," began the captain, with a weak attempt at gallantry. " The, subject was unwelcome to us both," he continued, " and I considered I had done my best, when I gave you the fac.t upon the best authority. Why are you dissatisfied ? The man is dead. What has put him into 148 Amabel; a family history. your head just now? Have you been visited by liis ghost last night, little woman, in your dreams ?" "Hush! Hush !" said Belle, her dark. eyes fixed upon his face. " This is no time to trifle. Were you concerned in it ? How did you first hear that he was dead ?" " How could I be concerned in it ? You know, as well as I, that Cabrera is an island upon which the Spaniards landed the wreck of Dupont's army. It was reported to me when I went there, by Sir Charles Cotton's orders,- to carry relief to the pri- soners on the island. I never saw him. It was a strange thing he should be there ; and the whole business, as I heard it, was so inexplicable and so fabulous, that I had great doubt if he were really dead, until that letter came from Annesley." " He had a brother. Col. Gruiscard, whom I met — " began Bella. " His brother !" interrupted Captain Warner. " Has that fel- low been trying to hold any communication with you ? I forbid you to see him. He is mad ; I shall have to shoot him, or else get him put into a lunatic asylum. The rascal set upon me when I was in Paris, a year ago, with the Allies. Remember what I say. Belle, and have nothing to do with him." He left the room, and she, turning on her pillow, hid her face in it, with deep-drawn sighs. Every now and then, as some recollection of her husband came to her, she would press her lips spasmodically upon her watch-case, or hold it shudder- ing from her, when dark thoughts arose, fraught with a name- less terror. It was late when she got up — pale, languid, haggard, and little fit for the duties of the day, The first person she saw was the old lady, who came in, as she sat at breakfast, to glean some account of the party. " Very late, Mrs. Leonard. Much going out will not do, I see, for you. I never allowed my engagements to interfere with the breakfast-hour of the household, and never with the comforts of the late Mr. Warner. But then I was brought up an English wife. I never had any taste for the customs of foreigners ; they breakfast in bed, I believe. Who was there last evening ? Amabel; a family histokt. 149 Bella tried to enumerate the company. " What did you say to Lord Loudoun ?" " I was not introduced to him," said Bella. " What did Sir John Pawley say to you ?" pursued the old .ady. " Nothing. Nothing of any consequence.'' Bella would not tell her the nightingale stfciy. " Mrs. Leonard," continued the old lady. " I want you to go with me to call upon Miss Armstrong. The carriage is to pick us tip at the butcher's. By the way, I wonder you allow Goose- foot, coptrai-y to my orders, to send you weighing meat with a neck of veal ?" "I really cannot go to-day. I caughtcold, last night," said Bella. , Mrs. Warner was going to say something cross, about "ab- surd coddling" and " strengthening the constitution ;" but she changed the remark into " Who is that 1" as an open phaeton drove by the window. " Lady Harriet Rustmere," said the servant, announcing her. „"I hope I see you in the enjoymont of your usual health, Mrs. Warner. My dear, excuse this early visit ;^ but an election excuses everything. I am full of business. You look pale, you naughty child. Caught a cold, eh ? I know how you got that cold last evening. I am going round to stir up some of our voters, and I want your presence and influence. It will give you an opportunity of seeing English character. Our people come out twice themselves at an election." " You must excuse, me, Lady Harriet. I have just declined to drive with Mrs. Warner." " Pooh !" said Lady Harriet. " Mrs. Warner, I am an humble suitor to you on behalf of the good cause for the society of your daughter-in-law, and it is very disinterested in me to patronize her, for she cuts me out sadly with the gentlemen, particularly Sir John Pawley. I assure you, Mrs. Warner, that her conversation with Sir John Pawley last night amused us mightily. Such piquant questions !" " You are deeper than many persons give you credit for, Mrs. Leonard. A mask of simplicity often covers a great deal 160 amabbl; a familt history. with foreigners. When I was a young wife I had some respect for my husband's family 1 \*as English to be sure," said old Mrs. Warner, with a look of thunder. " I think I had better not go. I am really unwell," said Amabel, in a low voice, to Lady Harriet. " Nonsense, child," began the other ; but was interrupted by Bella's little footboy, in his stable jacket, who opened the door. Seeing company, he was going out again, but old Mis. Warner Galled him. " What is it, William ?" "If you please, ma'am, I have been to Foxley," said.theboy, giving his hair three pulls to the three ladies, " and the gentle- man is not staying there, but is over at C ; and he sends his compliments, and there is no answer." " Answer !" said Bella, indignantly, meeting her mother-in- law's stare. ■" Yes, ma'am, to the dog, from the French gentleman. But he sent word to know," continued the boy, anxious to do his commission thoroughly, " if master was to be out to-day, and what time you would ba likely to be at home, ma'am." " Well, to be sure !" said Lady Harriet, rising, when the boy had left the room. " Now it is clear a beau is expected, I shall not press you to go." • "Yes, Lady Harriet, pray — pray let me go. I had rather do anything than meet that man to-day," was Bella's eager answer. " Mrs. Leonard," said the old lady, so soon as she could speak, " what errand did you send that boy upon to Foxley ?" " Col. Guisoard's little dog followed the carriage," ' she re- plied, looking the picture of confusion, " and I sent him back. I gave the boy no message. I wanted no answer." " It was a case of love at first sight," laughed Lady Harriet. " But," she added, in a lower voice, " I cannot but suspect that you had met before." AMABEL; A FAMILY HI STORY. 161 CHAPTER X. No demoa, but a miserable man become savag$ and diseased from circumstances. — S. Margaret Fuller. "What a dragon she is!" cried Lady Harriet, when they were fairly rid of Mrs. Warner. " My wonder is that you put up with her." Lady Harriet was in an open phaeton, and it was bitter cold, though both ladies were cloaked and furred from heel to head. " The weather really is severe for March," said Lady Harriet. " Now tell me about Guiscard. Have you known him befote, my dear ? " Bella denied she had, and made some remark about the con- tinuance of the cold weather. Lady Harriet turned her attention to her horses, and her companion was left at leisure to reflect upon the accidents which threatened more than ever to mix her name with that of Col. Guiscard. They were barely out of the park gates when a horseman came in view. Lady Harriet saw him first, and cried, " Look, look, my dear. Is that your husband or your lover ? Warner or Guiscard ? " As she spoke, Colonel Ferdinand pulled up his horse beside the carriage, and honored Amabel with a familiar stare. She flushed with anger, shuddered, wrapped herself closer in her furs, and drew back into the corner of the carriage. Col. Guiscard kept his place, and addressed his conversation across her to her companion. Under the influence of his steady stare she gi'ew more and more uncomfortable. As she turned over her situation in her mind, she suddenly became aware, that by thus keeping up a show of resentment, when so powerless to avenge her own wrongs, she was adding 152 Amabel; a family history. to the triumph of her insolent tormentor. It was giving him to understand that he had an influence over her, and that his ■words and actions had the power to wound. When she understood this she roused herself, sat up in the phaeton, and looted deliberately, without change of coun- tenance, out of the carnage. She met his glances with a gaze of indifference, and made some trifling observation to J^ady Ilarriet as though perfectly careless of the presence of Col. Guiscard. This change did not escape him, and for a moment he was at a loss to what he should attribute it. A little reflection, towever, on the suddenness of the alteration revealed the truth to him. He had not given her credit for so much spirit, and now, as the huntsman exults in the swiftness and subtilty of his intended victim, or the warrior in battle, may Rejoice to feel A foeman worthy of his steel, this display of gallantry and spirit lent excitement to the game that he was playing to her ruin, and he began to feel a species of respect for her. " I am glad I can admire her," he said to himself, musingly, as he checked his horse whilst making these reflections and de- termining his line of conduct towards heri Resuming his place by her side, and. continuing his conver- sation with Lady Harriet, he rode on, talking upon all kinds of subjects with a general knowledge and a fluency' that proved him an adept in the art of conversation. Yet he talked mock- ingly ; his observations were seasoned with a dry, telling epi- grammatic raillery, the very thing to give success in a Parisian salon. He talked from the head, not from the heart; yet now and then in directing an observation to Amabel, he made her feel that something lay deeper in his heart to which she had the clue. Captain Warner had also a high reputation for conver- sational ability ; but when he laid himself out to be agreeable, it was his good-natured heartiness that secured his pleasing.. His efforts to please were all from himself and in himself. Pro- vided only he was liked, he cared little for the intelligence or Amabel; a family history. 153 the character of mind of his companion. Col. Guiscard, on the contrary, owed all his power of pleasing to the conscious- ness he gave to others that they were agreeable to himself. He exercised a magnetic influence, by means of which, in other minds, he reproduced his own. Amabel was astonished at the eflect of his convci-sation. The more agreeable she was compelled to acknowledge him, the more resentment she felt. Her only thought was how she hated him, yet every moment was deepening an influence that she was not aware of; and increased the feeling of triumph at his heart, though it was no longer his policy to display that feeling to her. Suddenly the carriage stopped at a road-side public-house, where Lady Harriet wanted to cajole the landlord. " You neednot get out here, my dear," she said ; " sit still." " Yes, Lady Harriet, I had rather," Bella replied, rising to follow her. She caught a sudden gleam from Ferdinand's dark eyes, such a gleam as shoots from the eye of the wild beast or the maniac, when they know fieir power is felt and that defenceless man is afraid of them. Bella met the glance with firmness, called up all her resolu- tion, drew her furs closer round her, and sank back into the carriage. Col. Guiscard came round to her; she looked boldly out upon the landscape, with her face turned towards him. It was a cold, calm, vacant look, which seemed to take him in without observing him. '' "Do I owe yon no explanation of my motives?" he said, stooping towards her. " None," she replied, looking at him firmly. " The fact of your insolent behavior was enough. I have no concern nor interest in your motives." "But you cannot judge of my conduct without — " " I have no curiosity to judge you." After a pause, " I was a brute last night," he said. She made no answer. " You are very unkind !" He tried to take her hand. Sho drew it from him steadily. 7* 154 Amabel; a family history. " Sir," she said, " I am here, compelled to listen patiently, against my will, to any impertinence you may be pleased to address to me. Let that suffice. Do not presume to touch me !" " I am ready to acknowledge," he said, not appearing to notice her indignation, " that, last night, I wronged you." A little movement of her eyelids only, told how much she felt that he had wronged her. " I thought you careless and insen- sible. Not the woman I had pictured to myself as her whose cherished name was on my brother's lips till he died." " Oh ! tell me how he died !" " I dare not tell you how he died ; but I was with him. Hunger, disease, and mental suffering did their work. He wasted day by day*; but confidence in your love was his sup- port. His eye beamed always when he spoke of you. So young ! to be cut off by such cruel fate ! So young ! to be the victim of his love ! And he who loved so passionately — whose very life was almost breathed away in words of love, to be so soon forgotten ! Forgive me if I judged unjustly. It was only by appearances I could judge." A pause followed. As soon as Bella could gain voice, she asked, "But why not tell me how he died? Why did ha leave me ?" " Do you believe that, of his own will, he left Valetta ? Have you never heard . Do you believe that there has been no treachery to both of you ? Is this your love ? Can you believe all other men, and withhold trust from Felix only V " I do not mistrust. I only believe on evidence. Did not Felix leave me ? Does not deep mystery hang over his depar- ture ?" said Bella, with some spirit, in spite of her tears. "Poor child!" said Ferdinand.' "It is better you should think so. I will not come with dreadful revelations to distract your married peace. Felix must still be the victim to hard thoughts ; his shall be in death the same fate that in life his love would have accepted. He shall be sacrificed to the heart's peace of the woman -he loved." " Why sacrificed ? Explain yourself. Col. Guiscard, I im- plore you to explain yourself. The truth cannot destroy my peace of mind." AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 155 " I dare not put your generosity to such a proof," cried Col. Guiscard. " Yet, for my dead brother's sake, I will not, on my own responsibility, withhold this knowledge from you. But, were I to reveal the truth, it must recoil on Captain Warner. Are you prepared to sacrifice your husband to the dead Felix, and do justice to his memory ? Shall I tell you that which the man you have married has purposely concealed from you? Shall I bid you curse your marriage-day ? Curse the fatal love- liness which tempted crime ? Shall I harrow all the womanly tenderness yet lingering in your heart, both for the man who married and the man. who loved you?' " Hush ! Hush 1" cried Bella, Starting up, and almost cover- ing his mouth with her hand. ' • " Well, to be sure," said Lady Harriet, stepping into her carriage, attended by the landlord, bowing to her, behind. " Well, to be sure ! I can make some shrewd guesses. Colonel Guiscard. (To Bergholt, Thomas.) My dear, I recommend you Owley. He is a Blue voter, and has very good things. I advise yon to step in, whenever you come over.'' "Lady Harriet," said Bella, clinging to her arm, " please take me home ; I am really too ill to go further." " Bless me !" said Lady Harriet, " she is pale. What have you been saying to her. Col. Guiscard ? Never mind. Keep out of her sight. Tell the coachman to drive fast to The Cedara. We should be there quicker, if the carriage could get through Waterrlane. Ride on, colonel ; — that will do, I can attend to Mrs. Warner." 156 Amabel; a tamily bistort. CHAPTER XL There are who, darkling and alone Could wish the weary night were gone ; Though morning's dawn can only show The secret of their unl^ nown woe. Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain To case them of doubt's galling chain. "Only disperse the cloud," they cry, " And if our fate be death, give light and let us die." Eeble. — Christian Yeah. A RIVER winds through, the village near which The Cedars stands. A tortuous and sluggish river, with the rich meadow- lands of the valley on either side ; and, though navigable only for barges at the point we are describing, ten or twelve miles further on its course it opens out into a broad estuary, and ships of burden sail upon its waters up to its port, which stands not immediately upon the sea. The village itself, surrounding the fine church famed for its square tower, lies at the foot of the hill, crowned by the park of The Cedars. It consists princi- pally of one long street with a branch to the left, .leading to the water-mill, an ugly, square construction, which has a dam across the river, and where, when the wheels are at work, the floodgate makes a miniature cascade. The river, at this point, was spanned till lately by a wooden foot-bridge, aci-oss which, about one o'clock upon the morning of the morrow, Amabel was passing with her husband's little boy. Already the child had learned to love her. Little as he had seen of his step-mother, he bad found out she was a pleasant play- mate; he knew she could tell funny stories ; he was sure of never being teased by her for childish attentions, and there was some- thing about her which made him always confident of sympathy and love. Katie "Warner she had rarely seen. The old lady had put her at a strict school in the neighboring village, and her Christmas holidays had been passed at Bnghton with a kinswoman of her mother's, a Miss Taylor. Amabel; a family histort. 157 The boy, a pale and sickly child, with a high spirit, was bois- terously glad of his release from Mrs. Mathers. He ran back- wards and forwards like a dog bfefore her, boasting of what he could do, and dared to do, with what we might call an Irish dis- regard of the current value of words. He was suffered to do and say pretty much what he pleased without reproof or obser- vation, for the thoughts of his step-mother were pre-occupied, and there were cares that weighed upon her spirit which all his random prattle could not charm away. " I hear something splashing, along Water-lane," she said at length, rousing herself, as they stood upon the little bridge, with the mill lock on their left, and the second lock of the river at some distance on their right hand. Johnny paused a moment, and, holding by his step-mother's skirts, tried to climb up by the railing. ' " Stand down, Johnny. Water-lane is deep. At this sea- son," she added, " I fancy few people come down there." " It's a bullock got in. He's got in there," said Johnny, jumping. "A great, big, fat bull. Tm not afraid of him. He'll run at ycm." " Let us go and see," said Bella. " Yes," cried the boy. " They drive them in here to rest on their way to London. They are sometimes very savage — very savage in this field." " Stay here, then," said Bella, and hurried alone into the meadow. She parted the alders that overhung the lane, a torrent tributaiy of the river in winter — a bed of stones in sum- mer-time. " It is no bullock, Johnny," she cried. " You may come. It is a man and horse struggling in the water." The horse was slipping upon the bed of slimy pebbles, and his rider was with difficulty holding him up. At the sound oi her voice he turned towards her. Bella drew back suddenly. It was Col. Guiscard. " Oh ! see," shouted her little step-son. " They are letting out the water from the mill. He will get into the stream ; it will carry him away, He will go floating, floating through the bridge out into the great, wide, big sea yonder." 156 Amabel: a family histoet. CHAPTER XI. There are who, darkling and alone Could wish the weary night were gone ; Though morning's dawn can only show The secret of their unlfnown woe. Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain To ease them of doubt's galling chain. " Only disperse the cloud," they cry, " And if our fate be death, give light and let us die." Eeble. — Christian Year. A RIVER winds through, the village near which The Cedars stands. A tortuous and sluggish river, with the rich meadow- lands of the valley on either side ; and, though navigable only for barges at the point we are describing, ten or twelve miles further on its course it opens out into a broad estuary, and ships of burden sail upon its waters up to its port, which stands not immediately upon the sea. The village itself, surrounding the fine church famed for its square tower, lies at the foot of the hill, crowned by the park of The Cedars. It consists princi- pally of one long street with a branch to the left,. leading to the water-mill, an ugly, square construction, which has a dam across the river, and where, when the wheels are at work, the floodgate makes a miniature cascade. The river, at this point, was spanned till lately by a wooden foot-bridge, across which, about one o'clock upon the morning of the morrow, Amabel was passing with her husband's little boy. Already the child had learned to love her. Little as he had seen of his step-mother, he had found out she was a pleasant play- mate; he knew she could tell funny stories; he was sure of never being teased by her for childish attentions, and there was some- thing about her which made him always confident of sympathy and love. Katie Warner she had rarely seen. The old lady had put her at a strict school in the neighboring village, and her Christmas holidays had been passed at Brighton with a kinswoman of her mother's, a Miss Taylor. Amabel; a family history. ISl The boy, a pale and sickly child, with a high spirit, was bois- terously glad of his release from Mrs. Mathers. He ran back- wards and forwards like a dog^before her, boasting of what he could do, and dared to do, with what we might call an Irish dis- regard of the current value of words. He was suffered to do and say pretty miieh what he pleased without reproof or obser- vation, for the thoughts of his step-mother were pre-occupied, and there were cares that weighed upon her spirit which all his random prattle could not charm away. " I hear something splashing along Water-lane," she said at length, rousing herself, as they stood upon the little bridge, with the mill lock on their left, and the second look of the river at some distance on their right hand. ' Johnny paused a moment, and, holding by his step-mother's skirts, tried to climb up by the railing. ' " Stand down, Johnny. Water-lane is deep. At this sea- son," she added, " I fancy few people come down there." "It's a bullock got in. He's got in there,'' said Johnny, jumping. "A great, big, fat bull. Tm not afraid of him. He'll run at you." " Let us go and see," said Bella. " Yes," cried the boy. " They drive them in here to rest on their way to London. They are sometimes very savage — very savage in this field." " Stay here, then," said Bella, and hurried alone into the meadow. She parted the alders that overhung the lane, a torrent tributary of the river in winter — a bed of stones in sum- mer-time. " It is no bullock, Johnny," she cried. " You may come. It is a man and horse struggling in the water.'' The horse was slipping upon the bed of slimy pebbles, and his rider was with difficulty holding him up. At the sound oi her voice he turned towards her. Bella drew back suddenly. It was Col. Guiscard. " Oh ! see," shouted her little step-son. " They are letting out the water from the mill. He will get into the stream ; it will carry him away, ■^fiffe will go floating, floating through the bridge out into the greatj'^fe big sea yonder." 158 Amabel; a family history. At this moment little Barba, who accompanied the Colonel, scrambled up the bank to where they stood. Col. Guiscard saw his danger. Bella saw it too. A few steps further, and his horse, swept off his feet by the rush of the seething mill-stream, would be dashed against the bridge, and drawn under it. " Col. Guiscard !" she shouted. " Turn your horse's head. Here is a landing-place," and parting the bushes, she showed him a bullock track between the alders. Eeining his slipping, frightened horee with a powerful hand, he succeeded in turning his head towards her. The moment was critical. Bella looked on in terror. A moment more, and the snorting, dripping animal struck his fore-feet on the bank, and stood trembling and powerless, safe on terra firma. Col. Guiscard sprang off. " Now I can speak a few words with you alone," he cried, seizing her hand and pressing it warmly. " Forgive me ! — for- give me, sweetest lady, whom I dared to wrong before I under- stood." " Let me go, sir," cried Amabel, struggling to get free. " Hear me," cried Ferdinand, on his knees before her. " I will not hear, sir. Get up," she said, in a voice of great irritation. " I came here to see you," said Ferdinand, slowly obeying her. " It is the last time. I am going back to France. Have you heard the news ?" " What ?" she cried, with her mannar changed at once. " Is Felix come ? — Is Felix living ?" "Felix," he said, " died long ago. The emperor has escaped from Elba." " Napoleon !" She clasped her hands, and for a moment both forgot their relative situations in one common enthusiasm. " Now hear me. It is the last time I can explain," began the Colonel. " I will not hear you," said Amabel. " You make me miser- able — ^more miserable than I was before I knew you. I wished when we first met to have approached you as the brother of Felix, one dear to me — yes, dear to me, in that relation. You Amabel; a family history. 159 repulsed, me — you insulted me, and now you come to tell me, as you told me yesterday, when I could not resent it, that it was not at me alone you aimed your insults, but through me at my husband." " You have bitter thoughts of him," he said, " or you would not so pettishly repulse all explanation." She made no answer, but turned away. " Nay," said he, " before you go, hear this. That Felix left a dying message for you, which I cannot, will not, am bound not to deliver till the mystery of his departure — the manner of his death has been revealed to you." She stopped, and looked at him. " Captain Warner can do this," he said. " Perhaps you have already questioned him?'' She made no auswer. " Had you been told by him I might have spoken." She pressed her hands upon her brow. She had no power to decide. She only felt that the moment was rapidly passing away for her decision. That she was called upon to choose between her first love and her husband. That whilst on the one hand this was the last opportunity she might ever have to hear the last words and justification of Felix, on the other it was a fearful thing for a married woman deliberately to choose to hear in favor of a lover that which she knew beforehand was to implicate her husband. But Captain Warner had not been frank with her in the first instance. There was the greatest sting. Col. Guiscard stood and watched her. The struggle in her mind was his triumph. He had been' aiming to produce it ever since he saw her. Whatever her decision in the case might be, it would avenge him of his adversary. Should her sense of allegiance, as a wife, yield to the desire to justify her early lover, he would build on this first step of conscious wrong the firm foundation of his future power. Even should duty prevail over love, he had his triumph — he had stuflfed with thorns her marriage pillow. ■ God knows, poor child, how she would have chosen. Which- ever way it had chanced, she would have repented her decision. 160 Amabel; a family history. Probably some accidental circumstance would have settled it ; for, as a modern philosopher has observed, " The power of accident is strong, where the strength of design is weak." The time was passing. She had lost tlie power to think ; or, rather, her thoughts were wandering to happy days and sunny Malta, contrasting " what was now, with what had been.'' Leaning against one of the wooden posts which protected the little bridge from the intrusion of the cattle, with her arms close folded over her heaving bosom, Amabel Warner stood deciding her own destiny. Her eyes were turned towards the foaming, eddying waters of the river, and as she watched the swift flowing of the current, a vague feeling absorbed all her thoughts, that it would be happiness thus to pass away into an unknown future, and leave the past behind. Her choice? «•" I cannot tell, God knoweth." She herself perhaps never knew. For the moments passed as swiftly as the waters ; when suddenly there was uttered at some distance a wild, terrified, piercing cry. In a moment her still form was reanimated by terror. The child, whom she had quite forgotten in the deep and agonizing interest of her conversation with Ferdinand, had been amusing himself with. the dog. Perhaps Barba had indulged some canine feelings in a bark of bravado at the -cattle ; at any rate he drew upon himself the attention of three or four young bullocks at the further end of the large field, and when Amabel was roused by Johnny's frightened scream, these, with their heads down and their tails raised, "were in full career after the dog, which ran after the child, who was hastening with all the speed that terror lent his little legs, directly away from Col. Guiscard and herself, along the narrow barge path that led beside the river. With a scream more terrified, more agonized, more piercing than the child's, Amabel, in her turn, ran in pursuit of them. The dog turned off to the left, the bullocks after him, and they were soon half a quarter of a mile from Johnny, at the further end of the field ; but the child did not slacken his pace. In vain his step-mother called to him to stop. He ran on, still be- Amabel; a family history. 161 lieving the dog and the oxen were behind him. There was a low fence and a ditch that separated this meadow from its neigh- bor. A hurdle bad been put up where it crossed the path. The child, only anxious to put this barrier between himself and his imaginary pursuers, attempted to get round it on the river side. The green weeds on which he set his foot were treacherous. His little hands strove to grasp the hurdle ; it trembled, flew from him, and he was in the water. Amabel, who reached the spot a moment after, was about to plunge in after him, when she was seized and violently flung back by the strong arm of Col.- Guiscard. Eecovei'ing herself, she saw him throw off his coat, and spring from the bank into the rapid, rushing water. The river at that point, though not wide, was very deep, and one of the boys from the Grammar School had, the year before, been lost there. The child had sunk, and came up, borne by the current, at some distance towards the other side of the r*er. The river was running very swiftly at the time, aggravated by the addi- tion of the rapid waters from the mill-stream, but Col. Guiscard was a first-rate swimmer, and struck «ut boldly, though en- cumbered with his boots and spurs. A second time the boy sank. When he rose again his preserver was near him. He caught him by the little dress, that floated like the bell of soine large flower on the surface of the water. They were close to the lock gates, and nearer to the right bank of the, river than the left. It was useless to attempt to swim with his burden back across thestream. Col. Guiscard, with great exertion, for the bank was very steep, landed safely on the other side. "Crossthe field in a straight' line," shouted Amabel across the water. "Take the lane behind the workhouse, and that will lead you to the back of our cottage." She herself, taking the longer way across the bridge, followed them. Over the fields and through the lane by which she had directed him, she ran, without regard to paths or fences, or anything, save shaping a straight course. Her bonnet was flung back, her hair had been thrown down; the people whc met her looked at her -in astonishment. But she did not heed them ; she had not breath to, speak. She ran so 162 Amabel; a family uistoby. swiftly as to reach her own door at the same moment as Ferdi- nand, when, taking his insensible burden from his arms, she bore the boy up stairs, and laid him on her bed. CHAPTER XII. And here was plenty to be done, And she that could do it ^reat and small, She was to do nothing at all. R. Browning. Fhqht of the Duchess. " Will he live ?" cried Amabel to the apprentice of the village surgeon and apothecary. Pale lips aslilMaily the same question, and weeping eyes fas- tened upon the solemn face of the physician, anticipate the reply. As she spoke, she was kneeling by the bed applying warm flannels to the feet of the drowned child, and such other simple remedies as her experience suggested. She did not pause in her employment as she asked the question. It seemed as though she was afraid to lose some precious moment that might assist in his recovery. Just then the bed-room door opened, and Mrs. Buck, the housekeeper, came into the room. She took the flannel out of the hands of Amabel, and remarked, as she did so, " Leave all this, if you please, to me. I am responsible for the dear child to Mrs. Warner. I have sent a man and horse after my mis- tress, who is gone to Miss Armstrong's to pass the day. You had better leave all this to the young man ana me, and go down stairs, if you please, ma'am." " / leave the child ! / leave the child to you ?" cried Ama- bel, looking up suddenly. * ■ " You had better, ma'am. The child is not put under your care, but my mistress's." Mrs. Warner entered. " She will settle it," continued Buck. Amabel; a family history. 163 " Pray, ma'am, is it me, or young Mrs. Warner, that you wish should attend upon the child 3" " Mrs. Leonard," said the old lady, her lips quivering with emotion. "Leave this room ; the reSt of the house is clear." Amabel rose from her knees, and cast an indignant look around her. The housekeeper and the apprentice were con- sulting over their patient's bed. " Look as you will, Mrs. Leonard. Aye, look as proud as Lucifer,' as bold as brass before me ; but I have heard such things of you to-day as ought to humble you into the very dust," said the old lady. " This is np place to quarrel, ma'am," said Amabel. " I at least respect a death-bed." This said, she left the room. She heard the bolts drawn after her; but she could not tear herself away. She knelt down at the door, hearkening ta every sound. She heard the servants'^ voices there; they were permitted to enter by the back staircase, whilst she was kept away. She heard the authoritative voice of Mrs. Buck, the solemn voice of the young man, the apothecary, the trembling voice of the poor grand- mother ; at last, a tiny, feeble voice, asking some incoherent question. She sprang to her feet with a joyful cry. Then, at last, she went down stairs; her heart swelling with indignation against old Mrs. Warner, with contempt for the littleness which had exposed her before inferiore, and with deeply wounded pride. A servant, passing through the hall, gave her a letter, adding, " The gentleman desired me to -say, ma'am, he should not leave C to-morrow, as he mentioned, but should put off his journey in hopes to hear from you." ■ Bella took the letter. Her heart beat as she opened it ; but it was only an invitation from Lady Harriet to dine that day and sleep at Foxley, and go with their party to the Chairing at C . She stood with it in her hand before the fire, with many.thonghis fast ci-owding on her mind, when a noise at the window drew her attention. It was Colonel Guiscard on horse- back. He had ridden close up to the house, and was tapping with his whip upon one of the window-panes. She threw open the window. " He lives 1" she said. " Ho 164 Amabel; a family history. lives ! The gratitude of my whole life will be too little to repay you, Col. Guiscard !" He leaned forward and took her hand. " Oh ! had you been btxt true to Felix longer — had you de- layed this marriage — all might have been well. Felix's wishes would have been fulfilled. My life's devotion must have secured your happiness. And even yet " A rough hand from within pulled Bella from the window. Ferdinand waved a farewell and rode oflF. Bella turned and confronted Mrs. Buck, sent down by Mrs. Warner. " My mistress desires you will keep to this room, ma'am, and not stir till she can see you, which will b§ after tl^e doctor from , that I have sent to fetch, has been and gone. The dear child has come to himself, and spoken a little ; but he had better not have spoken, for every word he said was worse to my mistress's heart than a dagger." Here Mrs. Buck's manner ■ changed suddenly. Overcome by virtuous indignation, and, I may add also, with a deep regard for the peace and honor of the family, she exclaimed, vehemently, " Oh ! you wicked — wicked foreign woman, you !" It is easy to imagine the effect this had on Amabel's excited, wounded feelings, on a temper equally uncurbed and proud. This from an inferior, in her own house, and she powerless to resent it ! Now, indeed, she felt utterly friendless, a foreigner, forlorn. She bit her lips till Mrs. Buck had swept out of the drawing-room, and stood, looking after her, without any change of countenance. She would not, for the world, have let her see how much her words had moved her. To be alone, struggling alone, with an injustice, how hard it is ! How little the con- sciousness of innocence will bear one up, until, on principle, we have learned to rest satisfied with the testimony of a good con- science before God ! Her conscience, however, would have reproached, her had she consulted it, not in the way that Mrs. Buck imagined, but with a thousand instances of want of lov- ingness, of rebellion against thedestiny assigned to her. As Buck closed. the door, she flung herself upon a sofa. She tried to weep, but she could not. She buried her convulsed features in the cushions and stamped her feet with rage, and AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTOKY. 165 wrung her hands. By degrees, all this subsided into a sort of stupor. At last something roused her. She looked up ; it was snow- ing. The branches of the trees were becoming frosted ; the grass was just covered with a transparent lace-work of snow. She got up and looked out of the window. Suddenly, the words of the prodigal occurred to her. She repeated them several times, thinking of Captain Warner. She felt she should be safe and happy under his care. She dreaded her own weak- ness. She was wounded by her inferiors ; above all, she dreaded lest something he might hear from others might infuse a vile suspicion into his mind ^ and she was resolute to tear from him the secret of Felix Guiscard's death, however unwilling he might prove to part with it. She was true to him ; she was still true. And oh ! how few supports were given to her. faithfulness of heart amidst the trials of that hour. Why did he leave her so exposed ? Why did he leave her doubtful about Felix ? A little frankness, a little love would yet have saved her. She was resolved to arise and go to his protection. ****** The snow fell only in scattered flakes, as she went on foot along the avenue. She had wrapped herself in warm clothing and left the house without consulting Mrs. Warner. She was going to her husband, and to no one else was she responsible. Her intention was to go down to the village, and thence take the post-chaise to C ; but, as she mounted the brow of the hill, she saw it coming homewards, full of drunken electors, a drunken post-boy on the box, and the tired horses covered with sweat and foam. She paused and looked around her. She must walk to C- . She had no ^thought of turning back, and I believe her excitement would, without fatigue, have car- ried her there. Her last memory of her cottage home was as it lay half a quarter of a mile upon her right, its gable ends projecting through the shrubbery ; its tiled roofs white with snow. As she was turning away to continue her walk through the increasing darkness, her ear caught the sound of wheels upon 166 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. the gravel. It was the doctor from C , who had driven in through the other entrance. She had not been aware of his arrival, and now stopped him, as he approached the gate, to inquire fpr his patient. " Doing well," was the substance of his answer. "A damp night," he added, "Mis. Warner. The fogs of your valley induce ague. Let me advise your returning to the house; you may contract catarrh." " Are you going to C 1" "I shall be there in fifty minutes. Have you any com- mands ?" " I believe I shall ask you for a seat in your gig. I want to go to the Oommittee-roorns, to meet my husband. The village chaise is engaged, and the night is too riotous for me to go alone." " I will make a point of seeing Captain Warner, and of as- suring him the little boy is out of danger." Strange, that wrapped up in the details of her own position, that reason for seeking him had not occvirred to -her. She seized it at once,, however. " No," she replied, " I will drive over to C with you. My husband will not be easy till he has heard how it occurred." Seated beside the doctor, wrapped in her cloak and absorbed in her own thoughts, which, tending to no conclusion, served only to fatigue her mffitd, she drove up to the principal Inn in C , then occupied by the Blue Committee. There was a good deal of excitement and some crowd before the door, As soon as the doctor could force his horse amongst the people, she sprang out, and, passing through a mob of electors, entered the Crown Inn, and asked the first waiter she met for Captain Warner. " Captain Warner, madam, is gone, I believe, to dine at Mr. O'Byrne's with a large party." " Gone !" she said aloud. She was smitten to the heart by the thought that at the moment when she so much needed his support, he had been attracted by her rival. " I will go and make sure," said the waiter. " What name shall I say, ma'am ?" Amabel; a familv history. 167 She waited a moment, and tlien Mr. Rustmere came out of a side room. " What ! you here, Mi-s. Warner 2" " I want to see my husband." " He is over at O'Byrne's. Can I do anything for you ? You can't get at him to-night. It is a large party." " You can order me a post-chaise," she replied, " for I must see him." " There is not a chaise to be had this evening," said the waiter. " They are all taken up by the electors." " I have my gig here, and am going home," said Mr. Rust- mere. " You must come home with me. To-morrow morning I will di-ive you over. You will meet your husband at the Chairing, ""He will sleep at O'Byrne's.", " I had rather not," she said. " But there is no alternative," said Mr. Rustmere. " You cannot pass the night alone in an inn in town." CHAPTER Xni. With cruel weight these trifles press A temper sore with tenderness, When aches the void within. COLEKIDQE. As they drove, next morning, into C , the crowd was gre^t and vociferous. At the narrow end of the High street, several mob orators, mounted upon chairs, were haranguing, either upon the election itself or the escape from Elba. As the Rust- mere carriage came in sight the livery was recognised, a large party of Yellow boys raised three groans for all aris- tocrats, and a tumult rose accordingly. Stones were thrown ; coarse jests assailed the ears of Amabel ; the coachman, fear- ing for himself, his horses, aqd his carriage, lost all presence of mind, and appeared anxious to turn off int(? the yard of the 168 Amabel; a family history. Yellow inn — the Red Lion. The horses grew restive. The license of an election day — that day on which the mob asserts and exercises its rights of sovereignty,- — treats its masters as its servants,— and lays bare, for the space of a few hours, all the passions, the rankling sense of injuries, the prejudices and hatreds that find their vent, at other times, only in low pot- houses — did not offer any protection to ladies when the party- badges that they wore had been disregarded, and the party- watchwords that they used had no influence to calm the popu- lar rage. An English mob aroused must, indeed, be terrible to a woman and a foreigner. Lady Harriet, a person of much nerve, kept calm ; but Amabel became thoroughly frightened. She lost her presence of mind ; she screamed and struggled to undo the door of the carriage, hoping, probably, in the extremity of her terror, to escape on foot, unnoticed, through the crowd, the more terrible, because brutally jocular. She succeeded, in spite of her companion's efforts, in making her escape, and found herself almost immediately seized by Ferdinand Guiscard. The Abbe C — was with him, and the attention of the crowd being, by her movement, directed towards them, they were recognised at once with a groan of reprobation. Every vile epithet which national feeling had, for years, given to Bona- parte, was howled after them. Amabel had put herself in a worse position than if she had kept her seat in the Rustmere carriage. Followed, jostled, insulted with coarse words, and narrowly escaping being pelted with election missiles, the trio made their way irito the Red Lion. Amabel was shown into a private parlor, whither the Colonel and the Abbe followed her. It was long before she could compose herself, or summon courage to look out upon the crowd that filled the street below. A few doors above the Red Lion, and opposite to the Crown Hotel, where sat the Blue Committee, was the great Blue book- seller's and stationer's. Here Lady Harriet sat, the centre of a party of gentlemen. It was the head-quarters of the Blues, and a staging had been erected for the ladies' accommodation. Thither Miss O'Byrne rode up on horseback, and Captain War- ner, smiling, talking, and triumphant, was at her side. His wife AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 169 sat watching liim. He crossed the street, turned into the court- yard of the Crown, and went into the Committee-room. A few minutes after, Mr. Kustmere, sent by Lady* Harriet, came down the street, and entered the Red Lion. The crowd set up an ironical huzza when it saw the Blue leader passing over to the head-quarters of the Yellow party. He came up- stairs to Amabel ; gravely, but politely, offered her his arm, and told her she had better join Lady Hai-riel and her own party. He bowed to CoL Guiscard,.and declined his escort for Mrs. Warner, stating that he was well known by the crowd, and perfectly capable of protecting her. As she passed along the street, she saw a servant-boy of Mrs. Warner's amongst the ostlers at the inn-door, and from him she learned the child was better; that Mrs. Warner continued at the cottage, and had, even in a few hours, made alterations in the establishment which seemed to indicate an intention to take everything into her own hands. When Mr. Eustmere delivered her over to his wife, Lady Harriet seemed provoked at her imprudence ; and the county ladies, gay, triumphant, and radiant in Blue ribbons, seemed to shrink from the bewildered, frightened foreigner, who wore no party badge. Preparations for the Chairing went on. A passage was made through the crowd for the procession ; blue flags of every shade were gaily waving ; the city bells were ringing ; bands of music were tuning. The Blue platform was brought forth, borne upon the shoulders of a dozen stalwart husband- men, covered with Blue favors, on which, standing before an arm- chair, — blue damask decked with silver, — the new member, in fiill yeomanry uniform, was to be paraded bowing through the town, surroundetl by his committee on horseback, and his prin- cipal supporters. Just as the procession was forming, Captain Warner came out of the inn, entered the stationer's house, and came out upon the staging. His wife rose, seized both his hands, and drew him into an inner chamber. V Oh ! Leonard, I have so much to tell you," she began. "Well, my love, tell me another time," he answered. "Is not this great news ?" 8 IVO Amabel; a family history. " You do not know what has happened," ahe continued. " What has happened ?" he replied. " Is anything amiss ? My mother "he looked round him with alarm. " Why is she not with you ?" " She is well enough.- But little Johnny has been nearly drowned, and it was my fault. He is better now." "Good heavens! How did it occur?" cried the captain, beginning to work himself into a fuss, in the midst of which, as his wife was soothing him and explaining the accident, he was summoned to the Committee-room. " Thank God," he cried, " it was no worse. Kiss the child- ren for me. Belle, my little wife, I am here to say good-bye. I'll write to you from London. This landing of Boney's has given me a ship. I have a letter from the Admiralty in my pocket, ordering me, without delay, to Spithead, to take com- mand of the Magician. I shall be off the moment that this thing is at an end. My post-chaise is getting ready." " Oh ! Leonard, do not leave me !" She clung to him. " Nonsense ! Nonsense !" he replied, half-laughing at her tears. " Cheer up, little woman, I shall not be long away. You shall hear from me. I may stop a day or so in town." " Captain Warner, you are wanted, if you please, sir," said a waiter. " There, there, my time is up." " Oh ! Leonard, what is to become of me ?" "I must go, my Httle woman," cried the captain. "If I am delayed at Portsmouth, I will write for you to join me ; but I hope to be off at once for the Mediterranean. I leave a credit for you at the bank. Good bye I Good-bye!" he repeated, each time with a kiss. " Give my duty to my mother. Kiss the children. Good bye ! Good bye !" She saw him mount his horse and bow to Miss O'Byrne. He looked up with a smile to catch her eye. He was full of excite- ment ; — glad to be employed. He was gone ! And Amabel was left; — left a stranger amongst strangers. The seafarer, wrecked and destitute upon a hostile shore ! She could not rejoin the gay party on the staging. Lady Harriet came into the room and tried to comfort her. AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 171 She urged her to forget her grief, and return with them to Foxloy. This invitation was very acceptable to Amabel. A thought, a hope, a plan of escape possessed her. She was already resolved not to go back to Mrs. Warner. Her hus- band being ordered to the Mediterranean, there was a chance of return to her own happy Maltese home. She would write for his permission to live, during his term of service, with Dr. Glascock or her uncle. From the former she had, a few days before, received a letter, the first he had written to her since her marriage. She had not shown it to her husband, partly because he had always been pre-occupied with the business of the election, partly because it contained several remarks very far from complimentary, upon her marriage. " Should yon ever be in want of protection or a home," it said, " remember Malta. The time may come when, in the general wreck, yoii sink your pride." She wrote old Mrs. Warner a civil note with a bad pen, desiring her to forward her clothes and maid to Foxley. That done, she resigned herself to Lady Harriet. But, at the time, she was not aware that the invitation had been extended to Col. Ferdinand and the Abbe, as, after the events of the morn- ing, their stay at C , amidst all the excitement of a coming war and the license of an election, was not considered likely to be safe or very agreeable. So Amabel returned to Foxley. As soon as she could escape to her own chamber, she threw oflf her cloak and bonnet, and ■ seating herself at a table, began a letter to her husband. The tender tears bad dried that she had sh«d for his departure. During her drive to Foxley, she had been meditating upon her position and her wrongs. She says herself of this letter, that it was '' stiff, cold, and harsh. I tried to strip my remonstrance of all passion. I succeeded in making it bare of feeling too." She told her husband that she would not, during his absence, submit to Mrs. Warner ; that every house must have its own sole head, and that she was a stranger in her own establish- ment. That her married life had been anything but a happy one ; that she pined for her home in Malta ; that her uncle or Dr. Glascock would still receive her. She told him, too, that 172 Amabel; a family history. his conduct had been far from frank with reference to the death and disappearance of Captain Guiscard ; and desired him, rather than conjured him, ere the moment when his explanation would satisfy her doubts had passed away, to tell her all. She even hinted at his preference for Miss O'Byrne, adding that she knew his choice of herself had not been wisely made, and that he, as well as herself, was sensible that, for the good of both, it had been best that they had never been united. This letter she put into the post that night, and directed it to his London lodging. This done, she went down stairs, and found there Col. Guiscard and the Abbe. The colonel, that evening, paid her much attention ; and, softened towards him by his bravery, and emboldened by a sense of comparative independence, she allowed him to approach her. He was calm, courteous, polished, and respectful. He avoided all exciting topics. She talked to him of Brittany, and there was something in the tones of his voice that reminded her of his brother. It was the first time she had ever felt the relationship. The next day passed. It was Thursday. A great /eare bleakness of the moorland. Her heart died within her. All without was full of promise, glad in hope, harmo- nious in beauty ; within there was neither hope nor promise. Her ehitnging cheek, her troubled eye, her nervous agitation, told of her consciousness of many faults, arid of her sense of her position. As they wound into the village, they had one or two noble views of the surrounding country. The village itself lay at the foot 224 Amabel; a family histokit. of a very remarkable hill, rising so steeply from the plain that the close, wild, tangled wood that clothed its sides was called, by the country people, the Hanger. The summit was long used as a race ground and a sheep-walk :.-and to any one who approaches it only from the village, it is a matter of amazement how horses are got up there. The village itself lay under the hill, sheltered from the west winds, which, in winter, sweep the moorland. There were no gentlemen's houses in the neigh- borhood. The Faborers' cottages were mostly built of stone, but thatched. The trees of the district were singular for size and beauty. There was but one long straggling street, chiefly composed of cottages. They drove along this street to the vil- lage green. Every child of the place turned out as the chaise passed, to witness the unusual apparition. The men wore green smock frocks curiously ornamented with cunning work. The women on Sundays had red cloaks and hoods, which disap- peared upon a week day. At one corner of the gi-een stood the lone tavern of the village. Thither the farmers came to drink a cup ; and there, too, could be read, though often a week t>ld, the village number of the county paper. Guests rarely lodged there even for a night. There was no thoroughfare through the village. Once in a great while only it entertained strangere, when Sir John 's hounds met in the neighborhood, and the spare room once or twice a year might lodge a wan- dering pedlar. Every one supposed the chaise was going to the vicarage.; and when it drew up at the Eoyal Stag on the opposite side of the green, great was the astonishment of the villagers. The landlady could hardly promise to make the lady com- fortable for the night ; but, meantime, she showed her into the best parlor, and advised Farmer Dryden to go and see whether his sister-in-law, Hinde, might be expecting them. Amabel stood at the casement, looking out on the ^till even- ing. Before her stood the parsonage, — a quaint, grey house; with a high slated roof, built in Queen Anne's time. No flow- ers were trained up its front ; but a small grass yard, with four tall poplars, separated it from the green. The enti-ance to the yard was by a tall, slender, rusted iron gate, and a paved walk Amabel; a family history. 225 led up to the door. On the left of the vicarage was the church, of some antiquity, with a low, grey, square tower, where the swallows built their nests under the ivy, and raised their broods of young. Around it slept the dead of the parish. There were few tombstones ; but, marking the character of the place, stood two enormous yews. Amabel looked at the house ap- pointed for all living, and a murmur arose in her heart ; — she wished she lay there too. She saw the farmer cross the green ; and at the moment that he did so the door of the vicarage flew open. Out of the iron gate rushed a group of laughing children, making the solemn Heighborhood glad with their merry voices. Behind them came the father and the mother. The latter a delicate and pretty woman ; the husband not robust, with a pale student face, the air of a born gentleman, mild and expressive features, but sandy, not to say red hair. The children paused in their gambols as they saw the farmer approaching them ; and, drawing back be- hind their parents, became at once shy, silent, and demure. The vicar recognised the farmer, and advanced with his hand extended towards him. Then he introduced him to his wife, and named the children. He seemed to be asking the farmer what had brought him from home. Once or twice they pointed to the post-chaise at the inn-door. Then Farmer Dryden drew the vicar from the group, and walked apart with him. Amabel knew what they were saying, and all her feelings rushed into her cheeks as she thought that even her history was not con- sidered such as Farmer Dryden thought it fit to name before the pure and gentle wife of his respected pastor. After a con- versation of some moments, they returned. The Vicar spoke to his wife ; she nodded, gathered the children round her, and retired into the house. The farmer went his way, and the Vicar crossed the green. She saw him coming towards the inn ; she heard his voice below. She heard him say to the landlady, " Is she up stairs ? Don't announce me. I~ will go up alone." In a moment more she heard a rap at the door. It was opened gently, and he entered. " I am the clergyman of the place," he said, and held crtit his hand. 10* 226 Amabel; a family history, She advanced to meet him, and put her hand in his. She was weak from illness, wearied with long travelling, depressed, and yet excited. She put her hand in his, and burst into tears. The Vicar placed her in a chair, stood by her a few moments, and then said kindly, " I have come to tell you that Mrs. Hinde, contrary to my advice, has insisted on fresh painting a room for you. She did not expect you so soon, and it is not ready. Indeed, I think that it would be hardly safe to sleep there for a week or two. Meantime, my wife authorizes me to say she has a room at your disposal. This inn, I- think, is hardly a place for you." Amabel wept more *than ever during this address ; it w£is some minutes before she could answer him ; then she said, " For- give me, sir, — excuse me. I am not so foolish always. I am tired and weak now." Then, after a pause, she said, covering her face with both her hands, " You are very good to invite me, but — but — did Master Dryden tell your wife why I have come here ? Did he tell you about me ?" It was now the Vicar's turn for embarrassment. " Yes, he told me,'' said he. " He told me too, that you had been some weeks under his roof. That his wife liked you. That he believed you penitent, — unhappy. We are not prudent people in the world's sense. My wife will do anything she can for you." " Oh ! sir, indeed," cried Amabel, " I have been wrong enough, weak enough, bad enough, but not so wrong. There are times, and to-day is one, when I feel my punishment disproportioned to my fault — greater than I can bear." " We must wait," said the Vicar, solemnlj'. " We must wait and see the end, both of God's judgments, and of his forbear- ings. Sometimes the discipline that he provides is necessary for the formation of the Christian character; sometimes for the nurture and encouragement of other Christian souls. Often- times it is sent in mercy, to bring us to himself; and he not sel- dom most afflicts his chosen, because through their submission to his will, he gets most honor to his holy name." f«^' May I tell you my history ?" she said. " I may not tell you my real name, but I may give you the particulars of my life, if amabgl; a family histobt. 22Y you will promise not to divulge them. I need some help to judge of my own conduct; some one to appeal to. 'But I have not one friend, sir, left, in all this wide, wide world." The Vicar drew a chair and sat opposite to her, in silence, while she gave him the outline of her story. When she had done, he said, "Then the error of your life has been the want of love. Love to God, and love to men ; those two contain all, and the former of the two contains the latter," said the Vicar, quoting unconsciously from his favorite author, ' Love to God is the only due principle and spring of all due love to man, and all love that begins there, returns there likewise, and ends there.' " " But," said Amabel, a little hurt that the fact that she had most endeavored to impress upon her hearer was overlooked and unacknowledged. "I loved, .... I do most truly *love my husband." " And the fruits of that love ?" said the Vicar. " We do not recognise any emotion but by its fruits. They do not appear, I think, in your narration. Love," he continued, " is an active principle. Self is the enemy it combats. — In other words, its hostile, its antagonistic principle." "I am not selfish," said. Amabel. " My early attachment was true, steadfast, and sincere ; and, I repeat, I love my husband." " I do not believe your disposition selfish, and for that thank God," replied the Vicar. " It is one obstacle the. less upon your path to Heaven. But was there not a prevalence of self throughout your married life in your distempered moods of feeling, gloom, despondeney, indifference, and other reactions of disappointed desire ? There are natures so barren that they hardly receive from othei-s'. love the germ of an attachment. Such I do not think can be the case with you. But have you taken the initiative in love ? The highest effort of a merely human love ouij^ord himself has pointed out when he says ' For if you love them that love you, what thank have ye ? for sinners also love those that love them.' " " I hardly understand you," she replied. " Is love never given where it is not returned ?" " Observe me," said the Vicar. " I speak of love the piinci- 228 Amabel; a family history. pie, not love the passion. If you know love only as a passion, I have nothing more to say. Only this. The passion never lasts without the principle. It will not stand the wear and tear of married life, nor the cooling, on the other side, of conju- gal attachment." After a pause, she added, " I am so young to live a lifetime unloving and unloved." " Unloving and unloved !" repeated the Yicar. " What human soul does that? Does the Almighty place His birds, His beasts, or even His inanimate creation, where no nourishment for life can be obtained ? And is not love the life of the soul ? Have we not God's love to us on the one part, and His per- mission, His command, having freely received, freely to extend that love to others ? You may learn wisdom from the plants of the heath, from the trees that spread out their broad roots over the freestone rocks of our wood yonder. My poor lady, God purposes that each of us sho-jld have his full development, should come to the full measuie of his stature, and each is happy or is miserable in proportion as this development is attained. No one has the opportunity of this development denied him. A woman's development, especially, comes through the exercise of the affections. 1 grant that to some women this development seems more difficult than to others, because the natural channels for the outgoings and the inpourings of a loving interest seem closed. I grant that your position is dif- ficult and exceptional. So is that of the Old Maid. So was Milton's. Does God exact day labor, light denied ? We must gather stubble for our brick, nor minish aught of our daily tasks where straw is withheld. Take a lesson from this little prisoner," he added, pointing to the landlady's bulfinch, which hung above them in its painted cage, " It draws its water with a bucket. Water is necessary for its life, and it obtains it, though in an exceptional, unnatural way." " This is a hard saying," said Amabel. *^ * " It is indeed," replied the Vicar. " It is almost the great pro- blem of life to us— the riddle of the Sphinx in the nineteenth century. It needs all our faith to unravel it, and every holy aid." " And, yet," said Amabel, " the people I have met who said Amabel; a familt history. 229 they were the most religious, have been, not unfrequently, the least loveable and charitable of all that I have known." The Vicar sighed. "There are some natures," he said, " which, having received the milk of the word, seem indeed to turn it sour. But the world has no right to throw the blame of our failings back on Christianity. While there exists a perfect type of Christianity incarnate, you have no right to judge it by stunted, misshapen, undeveloped speci- mens. God commanded love, but His creatures could not obey Him. It required a practical manifestation of love in their own nature and personally towards themselves, to teach them even the true nature of love." CHAPTER XIX. £t Is mere faisant nn effort ponr Clever la Toix. Ma fflle, dit elle, le bontaenr n'est pas de poBseder beaucoup, mais d'esp6rer et d^aimer beaucoup. Notre esperance n^est paa iei-bas ni notre boohenr nou plus, ou sMl y est ce n'est qu'en passant. La Mehnais. Paroles d?un Croyani. While Amabel and the Vicar were discoursing thus, the Vicar's wife was making preparations for her guest's reception. When all was ready she sent one of the children over to her husband ; and the Vicar, giving his arm to Amabel, conducted her across the Green. The room made ready for her use was a quiet upper chamber, looking over a large kitchen gar- den, whose straight walks were bordered with box and flow- ers. After an early tea, the family met for evening prayer. It was no dull, dry ceremony, like the offering of family devotion under the roof of Mrs. Warner ; but, the object^of the Vicar not being the mere respectable performance of a reputable duty, but the praise and worship of Almighty God, and the awakening of devotional feeling in the two or three that were gathered together, pains were taken to engage the attention and the 230 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORV . interest of the youngest and the most ignorant of the little, con- gregation. The Vicar possessed the accomplishment, most rare in his profession. He was a good reader. Indeed, to read the Bible well, is the highest test of taste in elocution. He read, without clipping the sacred narrative into verses ; and his beautiful read- ing did more than any commentary (though he offered a few simple remarks in explanation of the chapter,) to make its meaning clear. The interest and attention of his auditors were kindled by his own. When prayers were over, Amabel went to her own chamber ; and when she again left it, found the busi- ness of the morning some hours on its way. She found the Vicar's wife teaching her little 'girls, and busy, while they said their lessons, in cutting out some garments for the poor. Amabel asked her for some needlework, which being given to her, occu- pied her hands till the Vicar's wife, preparing for a walk, asked if she would like to go to the village school with her. At the school, the lady of the Parish had her attention called in many different directions, and Amabel soon tired of standing before the school-dame's desk, looking at the little chubby faces that lined the cold, white walls. The Vicar's wife was a good woman, and kind, in all respects to Amabel, but her mind was taken up by many local cares, and she was by no means a person of extended sympathies. She felt rather afraid of her guest ; afraid of the superior know- ledge of this wicked world, which she attributed to her; afraid of having her own feelings .shocked in such society, or of wounding those of Amabel. Very little communication ever ensued between them. The Vicar's wife, when her husband told her of Amabel's version of her history, said merely, " Well, dear, I suppose she would say so." A sentence which contained much more meaning than was apparent in the words. Be all this as it may, Amabel got tired at the school, and pleading her recent illness as an excuse for her departure, found her way back into the house, and into the Vicar's study. There lay on the table a large volume opened. The Vicar had been consulting it with reference to his late conversation with her. It was Leighton's Commentary upon St. Peter. The part AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTOKY. 231 on the tMrd chapter was open, on the mutual duties of hus- bands and wives. Amabel hung over the book, and read it eagerly. Her tears were dropping fast upon its leaves, when the Vicar entered the room. " May I borrow this book?" she said to him. " Yes, indeed," he answered, putting it into ^er hands, which he held clasped in his a moment, as he said solemnly : " I pray God that He will bless it to you. Archbishop Leighton is my favorite author. His writings breathe the spirit of his life; his hfe was the illustration of his writings." Amabel took away the volume ; and the Vicar prayed for its influence upon her heart, as she read it alone in the still, small hours of the night, or in the woods and fields, or on the heath, alone with God and nature. The book of nature was, she found, the largest and oldest edition of the Bible. Henceforth, like its great antitype, she read it understandingly. As the spirit of God moved through the void upon the waters, so the spirit of God now brooded over her heart, and there came the first faint dawnings of a new light in her soul. She held little personal communication- with the Vicar, but she was punctual and eager in her attendance at his church, and after her heart was lifted up to God in the church service, her understanding hung upon his sermons. The doctrines that he taught, at first so strange and new, became, by degrees, clear to her. It is not our place nor our intention to tell the reader what passed in her soul during these hours, for, with her mind in full activity, she sought no companionship, and, indeed, accepted none. We have exhibited her character as it was formed under the happy influences of her early life ; we have shown how it became deteriorated by influences less genial ; and yet, how tra- ces of its native sweetness lingered with her throughout. It was about to undergo a renovating influence ; but it is not our province to show the process, we have only to exhibit its fruits. Man was driven forth from Paradise, lest he should take also of the tree of life, and eat and live for ever. The evil poison of the tree of knowledge circulated in his veins, and was 232 Amabel; a family history. inherited by his posterity ; but the thirst after the knowledge of good, that antagonist principle, which, more or less enlightened, has been at work since the day of Eve's transgression, he brought with him from Eden. Man's aspirations have been always better, higher than himself. Conscience awoke in her. Conscience, the stirrings of the will of God. It stood like the messenger of the Lord to Balaam, warning her from further pro- gi-ess in an evil path ; and as she stretched out her hands for succor, the God of Mercy drew her to himself. She judged herself more harshly, perhaps more truly, than we, who, judging only the external life, pronounce that she was scarcely blame- worthy. ****** Time passed. One day, the Vicar went to visit her at Mrs. Hinde's house, to which she had long before removed. For some days, he had had no news of her, and he took the path that led him through the woods, because he thought he might meet her in her haunts. She was not there. A stupid servant, under a vague impression that he was come to read the service for the visitation of the sick, admitted him without question into her chamber. She was sitting up in bed, her infant, some few hours old, clasped closely in her arms ; and as she saw him, her face was lighted with a glow such as he never yet had seen there. She half presented him the child, and cried, " I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord." ****** I hardly feel myself competent to touch upon this portion of her history. To every unmarried woman there is something solemnly mysterious in motherhood, and only from the yearn- ings of our own hearts towards little children, can we guess the brooding tenderness of a mother's love. Amabel's aflfection for her boy was her one tie to existence. They tell me there is rarely born a more puny, weakly, mise- rable babe; yet such as it was, its mother's life seemed bound up in its own. A tender light softened her eyes when she looked upon its face. It became her one thought and her one dream. Her affection for her son was passion. In him her own existence was renewed, free from the blight that had over- AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 233 taken it. She dreamed dreams of the future for her boy, visions of future happiness, distinction, honor, and reward. Sometimes she fancied hito, under an assumed name, thehero of a naval victory, saving the life of his own fetter, and being triumph- antly, joyfully, repentantly acknowledged his son. And then, in the midst of her excitement and exultation, would come the bitter thought that through her fault all the advantages of a father's name, a father's love, a father's influence, must be denied to him. Even her inexperience told her how much he might reproach her for the trials he would meet, if hoarding all ber wealth for his advancement, she sent him into the world in an anomalous position. Yes, for her boy's sake she could brave the -displeasure of his father, she could conquer all the suggestic^P of pride, of anger, and of wounded feeling, which, in the intervals of her self-reproach, made themselves heard. For her son's sake she could implore a forgiveness, which for herself were impossible. For his sake she would write a letter to her husband. With many tears and many prayers, and with that sort of timid, morbid conscientiousness which takes undeserved blame sooner than it will accord it when due, she wrote to Captain Warner the letter from which I have filled up my own outline knowledge of this narrative. I wish I could have given it entire, but this I had no right to do. It would have worked upon the reader's feelings by the mournful, lingering tender- ness with which, in some places, she dwells on the brief hopes of her married life, on her growing appreciation of her hus- band, on all the signs and tokens that she cherished of his love. At times, she seems to have -done violence to the warmer ira- pulses- of her own heart, striving to take a tone of dignified impartiality, to state facts without drawing inferences ; and aftei a few such paragraphs, the bitterness of a reproachful con- science pierces the coldness she assumes ; or as her eyes, per haps, rested on her baby's face, she breaks forth into tendei beseechings for forgiveness — into protestations of fidelity. She wrote her letter when still weak from recent suffering; at that period of her convalescence, when under happier cir- cumstances, a proud and -loving husband would have taken her 234 Amabel; a family history. light form in his strong arms, and have carried her for the first time beyond her chamber ; when friends and gossips, greeting her reappearance, would have been offering (5Dngratulations, and delighting her assenting heart by admiration of her babe, when all would have found some trace of the father in its face, and when that father, proud of the name, joyful, generous, loving as he was, would, in the full contentment of a happy heart, have given back to her, in her new relation, all that she had forfeited. She wrote this letter to her husband sitting night after night by the peat embers, in spite of all remonstrance, alone by the cradle of her child ; the guardian of its troubled sleep ; lull- ing it from time to time with words and looks expressive of a more tender, passionate affection than any that^ien hired women watched her she ventured to employ ; repeating over and over again, in its unconscious ear, the name of Leonard Warner — Leonard Warner — Leonard Warner. She had got a habit of repeating that name in half-tones, over and over, unconsciously, when no one else was near. And thus this letter drew in part its inspiration. She poured into it all the feelings of her heart, nor knew how much of all she felt and there expressed, owed its existence to the love that in the hour of her loss she first acknowledged to the father, how much to her passionate affection for the child. It was twelve o'clock one night when she finished the last, the strongest, the tenderest appeal in all the letter. She folded it, she unfolded it, looked again and again at the lines that would first meet his eye, and tried to imagine the sensations it would excite when he first opened it. Then timidly, with blushes, and with a quick beating at her heart, — as a young girl pressing for the first time her lips on the handwriting of her lover is startled by the voice of her own modesty^she pressed a kiss upon its pages, and then again, again upon its words, upon its seal, wherever it seemed to her his fingers perhaps might rest upon her kisses. She pressed it to her baby's lips, she strained it to her heart, she kept it safe from her own tears, she breathed prayers over it, and then laying it sealed and folded before her on the desk, she added the direction, to amabel; a family history. 235 Captain Leonard Wakneb, R. N. H. M, S. Mapician, inclosing it in an outer envelope, directed to Mrs. Warner. And tliis letter, over which so much emotion had been spent, did not reach its destination. In brief (for I have no taste nor skill for making mysteries, and am recording the simplest and most probable of contingencies), it ought to have been directed as all letters are for oflBcers or men at sea, to her hus- band's agent or to the Admiralty. When old Mrs. Warner, who was prejudiced like every English man and woman of well regulated mind during the old franking days against extrava- gance in postage, received this bulky envelope, she thought it would be a pity to send her son at great.expense a letter which she was sure would be unwelcome. She was too strictly prin- cipled to suppress a letter. She wrote to Captain Warner tell- ing him that she had received a very heavy package from his w tc ; should she forward it to him ? This letter reached him at an unpropitious moment, when worried by some business connected with a court-martial. He answered it immediately in the negative. He wished, he said, for no communication from his wife. There could be no necessity for such communication, as he had liberally provided for her. Old Mr-. Warner had anticipated such an answSr, but per- haps her son afterwards regretted it, when softer thoughts of his young wife rose in his heart as he paced the quarter- deck during the night watches; yet even at such moments the image of Amabel appeared before him, not desolate, sad-hearted, and repentant, but glad to have regained her liberty, satisfied with her new position, undomestic in her ways. Sometimes, when he fancied the attentions of other men insulting her, he grew frantic. He cursed his . evil fate in having married her, his worse fate in having left her; and resolved, as soon as professional honor would permit, to return and seek news of her. He would watch her from a distance, 236 AMABEL; A FAMILY HIBTOKT. never see her, never forgive her, never hold any communica- tion with her, but no man should insult her with impunity ; no man should presume to think her unprotected. CHAPTER XX. Shall my soul stoop, her new found prize forget, And yield Iier courage to & vain regret ? Miss C. Macheadt. MSS. I HKMABKED in the last chapter that Captain Warner had been worried by the proceedings of a court-martial, which court- mai'tial, so soon as Buonaparte had been disposed of, he request- ed on his own conduct, in relation to the abduction of a French prisoner; Colonel Guiscard having laid his version of. the tale before the Admiralty. It was a bore to my Lords Commis- sioners, who could willingly have dispensed with any such pro- ceeding, having plenty of more important business on their hands ; but as Captain Warner demanded investigation, a court of inquiry was held at Malta, which resulted in acquittal. How far it may have thrown light upon the dark portions of Felix Guiscard's history I cannot tell, never having seen any report of the proceedings. Indeed, " our own correspondent" in the morning papers, confined himself in that day to very limited accounts of mere matters of local interest. The few lines devoted to the subject ended to the effect that " the humane and gallant Captain, having received publicly the commendations of his superior officers for his conduct in the fleet since the late commencement of hostilities, was triumph- antly exonerated from all the charges brought against him." Amabel, whose only interest now in life beyond the welfare of her son, was in the naval intelligence of the morning papers, read this paragraph again, again, and again with ever varying. emotion. In these few words the interest of the whole newspaper appeared comprised. To her eyes they were printed in large type. She cut them out, and then destroyed the Amabel; a family history.- 237 paper, fearing lest by her preservation of the paragraph her interest in Captain Warner might be discovered by other eyes. It is my belief that had she at that time died suddenly, these few words folded on her heart would have revealed the secret of her love. So absorbing a power had her new affection, that vague as the intelligence was so far as related to the escape of Felix Guiscard, it was enough to mate her sure that Ferdinand must be a villain. She never thought of doubtiflg the correct judgment of the court-martial. In her heart of hearts, her husband had long had his acquittal. She knew he was incapable of a dishonorable action, or his affection for herself extenuated in her eyes any stratagem of love. She had long felt sure that some excuse or explanation could be made for him ; and now that Not Guilty was pronounced professionally, her mind delighted to depose all doubts at the foot of his acquittal. In proportion as her heart and judg- ment exonerated Captain Warner, she found a pleasure in con- vincing herself that she kated Colonel Guiscard. She believed him capable of any 'villany. Every remembrance of him brought the blood into her face and sent a sharp pang through her bosom. The thought of him would take her unawares, and make her start, and say wild' words, and use impatient gestures, which the people about her interpreted as they would. Day after day passed, and her poor child, instead of growing larger, seemed to shrivel away. Its poor little weak arms were bent and withered. Its little face had an habitual expression of weak suffering. The mother sent for new doctors. They came from a distance, knew the case was hopeless, but being obliged to prescribe something, recommended a change of nurse. They say that it was piteous to see the mother's look, as she resigned her treasure into other hands, her secret envy as she watched it lying on the bosom of another. And as she took him back into her arms one can understand the jealous impulse which made her press him closer to her own maternal heart. The poor little' fellow wasted. He came into the world at an unpropitious season. They might perhaps have saved him had he been bom in early spring, with bright soft summer 238 Amabel; a family uistoey. weather for the first days of his life ; but ia the chilling breath of a cold November, he withered away. His mother watched him without rest. Day and night she held him on her knees for a week before he died. It gave her pain when any other woman touched him. She went about without tears, but with a vacant look of acute suffering. You would have said that slie was so absorbed in watching the slow approach of a great sorrow that she was hardly sensible to the reality of any pre- sent grief. Only a few hours before he died, when his little life seemed nearly spent, and the doctors and wise women first said that he must die, she sent on a sudden, by early daylight, for the Vicar. He came and baptized the child. She called him Leonard ; but her voice was choked as she tried to say the name, and she wrote it for the pastor. They could not get her to attend to the entry in the parish register, and indeed her distress was so great that the Vicar did not persist in troubling her. The baby died at day-break the next morning. His mother watched the final gaspings of his feeble life — watched with her hands clasped close, straining the very nerves of her thin fingers. There was no help that could be ofiered ; every human aid was powerless, pity and love had no refuge but in prayer. They could only watch a struggle of which the end was not uncertain. They stood around to see him die. At length the women present all drew back. The parting pang was over. There had been no word spoken in the chamber for some time. At last one of the women whispered something to another. The mother heard her words or caught their mean- ing. " I know he is dead," she exclaimed vehemently ; and start- ing wildly from the low chair on which she sat, she clasped her son's corpse tightly to her breast, and began walking backwards and forwards in the room, as if lulling back to an uneasy sleep the child that slept the sleep that knows no waking. She shed no tear, but in her eyes there gleamed a wild amalkl; a family history. 239 • strange look of half bewildered horror. The women were afraid of her. They stood together in a corner of the room and whispered one to another. But anything that they might now say in her presence was unheard. Then they* made attempts to get the child away, but did not know how to maflage her, and, as I said, were afraid of her. They ^succeeded only in irritating her. " Leave us alone. Leave us in peace," was all she said, and pressed her baby closer. At last the doctor came. He drew off the women. " You must not anger her," he said, " but get her into bed. This is partly want of sleep. Tears will relieve her." He went up to her with an air of authority, and offered to take the baby out of her arms. She looked him in the face, stopped in her walk, and drew back from him. Then stooping towards the cradle she laid in it the body of her child, com- posed its little limbs, took off its tiny cap, kissed its pale temples, smoothed down the little hair upon its head, and motioned to the doctor to give her another cap, pointing to a drawer. He obeyed her. The little rufiBe was adjusted round its face. It looked happy and asleep, marble white and calm, without a trace of suffering. She gave one last long gaze upon it, such a gaze as one may venture to imagine when a mother looks her last, and then rose up, turning towards the Doctor, this time with a look that seemed to say, " There ! all is done. What do you expect more of me f ' He took her by the arm, and led her to another chamber. . . . All through that day and the next night she lay upon her bed. She uttered no murmur of complaint ; she was quiet and gentle when theyspoke to her; but the expression of her face never varied. It wore a stony look. Suffering was stamped on -all ' the features, but no sort of expression was in the eyes. She heard them saying something about her lack of tears, and she said piteously, " Ask Gdd not to let me lose my reason. I -wish that I could cry." Tbank God, bleas God all ye wtao suffer not More grief than ye can weep for. 240 Amabel; a family history. They had heard how a mother's tears have been made to flow after bereavement at the sight of little relics of the darling she has lost, and they strewed her room with things that had belonged to him. In vain. Nature was exhausted ; she was insensible to the reality of her loss, and only conscious of some gji-eat sense of bitter sorrow. At last they were getting much alarmed about her, when she heard some one saiying outside her door that a letter for her had come. . . Should it be given her ? She started up at once upon her bed, and eagerly asked to have the letter. It was rare for her to receive one. For weeks, with hope that sickened day by day, and yet took heart at the hour that the mail came in, she had watched for this arrival. She held out her hand for it. She thought for a moment the direction was in the desired writing. She broke the seal. The superscription had deceived her. The letter was from Olivia She burst into tears. She wept for the griefs of her married life, wept in self pity for her present fat«, wept for the death of her lost babe, wept for the disappointment of the moment; wept with a mere sense of the relief brought by those precious tears. They relieved the oppression on her brain, and then she slept. Her tears had saved her. She continued some days in this state, showing little disposi- tion to contend with the people round her, who insisted that she had better not, revisit her child's room. They even roused her to attend to some of the arrangements for mourning, and the funeral. Cares, that, however they may jar upon the feel- ings, are of service to the afflicted, rousing them (by petty worries) from an absorbing sense of their bereavement, and pro- viding what is of most service to a disposition like Amabel's, something they are compelled to do. She enclosed £30 to a London dressmaker, ordering her to send down without delay, everything necessary for the deepest mourning. She went herself to the funeral. She stood sole nrourner, calm and tearless by the coffin, while others were performing the last rites. When all was aver, and the damp sods of the churchyard hid it from her view, and the very ministers of AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTOKTf 241 death were preparing to go away, she still stood silently watch- ing the spot beside the grave where they had first set down the little coflBn. The Vicar took her by the arm, and led her from the churchyard. " I prayed for you with my whole heart," he said to her. "I did not hear the funeral service," she answered. "I was not even thinking of my child. I seemed to be living over a scene that I once saw in Malta. It was the funeral of just such a little one. They buried her with her face exposed upon an open bier, without a coffin. The children who had known her, scattered flowers in the grave. It was half full of flowers when they began to throw earth over her. The old people gathered round the mother. She walked away leaning upon her husband's arm, he comforting her. They prophesied to her, a new, a living son, in place of her dead baby. How came I to think of this at such a moment ? Can you account for it ? I should have been thinking' only of my own, my own dead child." He wanted to take her home to bis vicarage, but she declined, and turned away alone into the beech wood, by the path that led to Mrs. Hinde's. The Vicar had an engagement that after- noon at the further end of his extensive parish, and so let her depart alone, but he deeply regretted not having provided for her safety, when, towards midnight, he was called up by a mes- s^e from Mrs. Hinde. "The lady had not come home. Was she passing the night at the parsonage 1" Starting up from his warm bed, he went out into the chill night air,' in search of her. He turned his steps first into the churchyard ; and there, as he expected, found her sitting on a tomb, too much benumbed in body and in mind' to give much account of how she came there. All she could say, seemed a spe- cies of excuse. " I have been meaning to get up and go home ; I have, indeed, sir." He carried her in his arms back to the vicarage, where his wife and maid kindled a blazing fire, and chafed her stfflFened. limbs, and sat up all that night with her. They kept her there a day or two, but she^spent most of her time looking at the graveyard from her window, unless any person brought her 11 242 Amabel; a fa milt historv. anything to do, when she mechanically took it in hand and finished it. They learned afterwards what had become of her when she parted from the Vicar at the gate of the churchyard. She had wandered away through the beech woods, where the skeleton trees, dropping their russet mantles round their feet, stood bare and dreary,* to a small cabin on the edge of the black moor- land. A poor woman lived there with a large family. The tenth child, an infant, had died three weeks before. Its wicker cradle now stood empty by the wall, and it slept its sleep near little Leonard, by the yew treej in the churchyard. The mother was washing. I suppose she would have given her life for her baby's life in the horrors of shipwreck, in time of pestilence, or even in the fearful trial of famine, when human nature sinks, by slow stages, into brut6 nature ; but now, that the poor thing was dead and buried, she returned to her inter- est in other duties, and like David, having fasted and wept while the child lived, after its death she put aside her sorrow, to be indulged in only of a Sunday afternoon, with her Bible in her hand, and her best gown on, or on a quiet evening, when she was not too tired, and the children were asleep, and all the work put by. - She looked up from her wash-tub, and saw a woman standing in deep black, pale and silent, at her door. She guessed who it must be at once, and, wringing the soap-suds from her arms, and wiping down a chair, asked the lady to be seated. Amabel came in without speaking. The woman, embarrassed by her silence, began to make apologies for Tommy's dirty face, and Sarah Jane's torn pinafore, and her own untidy condition. "But, where there's such a sight of children,'' she said,- "it takes a body more than her whole time to slave after them." " And you have lost a little boy ?" said the visitor. " Yes," replied the mother, recalled to a remembrance of her bereavement. "He was long a-dying, and there was a sight to do when he was ill. Things got all behindhand. I am just beginning to tidy up a bit; and here's Sarah Jane, the doc- tor says, is threatened with consumption. Let go the lady's Amabel; a family history. 243 gown, child, or I'll beat you. Yes, my lady, I've had a deal to struggle through this year past. My poor little Davy ! That was his little cradle. As I say, they are better off in Heaven, Ma'am, if we could only think so.'' Amabel stood up. She had come round there partly to feed her own grief upon the sorrows of another. The thoughts that this woman expressed, simple as they were, were to her unlooked for. That life had any interests and duties left, that children bring us worries, and anxieties, and troubles, even the simple thought that consoled this hard-working, rough woman, that the baby she had lost was better off in Heaven, came freshly to her heart. Old truths newly realized, bring most comfort in affliction. " I came," .... she said, " I thought .... you might be glad to put up a little stone to the memory of your infant. You may put a stone and a name over hira. My boy is buried near.'" She put a ten pound note into the woman's hand, and went back to sit till midnight on the grave, where the kind Vicar found her in the chilling dampness, and in deepening gloom. CHAPTER XXI. If our first luys too piteous have beeu, And you have feared our tears would never cease ; If we too gloomily Life's prose have seen. Nor suffered Man nor mouse to dwell in peace. Yet pardon us for our youth's sake. The vine Must weep/rom her ciushed grapes the generous wine , Nor without paiu the precious beverage flows. Thus joy and power may yet spring from the woes Which have so wearied every long-tasked ear, — TJhland. /:, ' -^ She spent a day or two at the Vicarage, where all that could be done was done to rouse her. The truth is, it was very diffi- cult to lead one who had so few interests in life and so few ties, 244 Amabel; a family history. from one sole thought to a sense of life's remaining pleasures and duties. She sat all day at the window of her room, looking out upon the churchyard, thinking frequently how greatly she dis- liked the Vicar's wife, for feeling, as she knew she felt, that this immoderate grieving for her loss was impious and unnatural. When she went back to Mrs. Hinde's it was but a nominal return to her old lodging, for she haunted her child's grave by the yew tree in the churchyard. One afternoon the Vicar, finding that he could not persuade her to quit the nameless little mound, carried her some dinner. It was time to bring to bear upon the case his personal influ- ence and his pastoral authority. He sat down beside the grave, and repeated that beautiful passage of the Scriptures beginning ; " But I would not have you ignorant, brethren, con- cerning them that are asleep, that ye sorrow not even as ' others that have no hope." She seemed to pay it no heed. He said, " I must speak plainly to you. As the ambassador of God I am called to counsel you. You have yielded long enough to what I may fenture to call the instincts of your grief; it is time that you should now assert the empire of your reason." " It is many days," she answered, " since I have read a chapter in the Bible, but one verse seems ever ringing through my mind. ' These two, things are come upon thee in one day, loss of children and widowhood.' I went to see Mrs. Gresse at the Wood's End after my child's funeral, but her sorrow was not like my sorrow." " ILiw old are you 3" said the Vicar. " I am barely twenty-one." " And with a strong constitution and the prospect of a long life, can you fancy that the Father of Mercies intends that at twenty-one the loves and interests of life should terminate for you ? At twenty-one we stand upon the threshold of real life. ' The present day may be the better for yesterday's error.' " '' Ah ! yes," said Amabel. " This is true, no doubt, to you. But place yourself in my case, lose at one blow and by your A FAMILY HISTORY. 245 own fault, wife, children, honor, station, family influences and family ties !" " 'My grace is suflScient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.' I should blame myself," the Vicar answered, " if I had not the courage to do what should be done by a wise mind." " What would you do 2" "I should try to remember that in God the Christian not only rests all his hopes, but has his relations to all things. That as a Christian there is promised him ten-fold even in this life for all that he has lost, father, mother, wife, and children here, and in the world to come life everlasting." " I hardly understand you," said Amabel. " To what end," said the Vicar, ;' are all the good gifts of God bestowed upon His people? For what three ends did God Almighty give you your child, for instance, or your husband 2" She did not answer. " For your good, — and for their good, — ^and for His own glory." She shuddered. " These blessings have been now recalled, but other gifts are left. Your health and strength, your money, and God's poor." "A blessing r "Most undoubtedly ; and they are always with you. Is it not a privilege to those who have lost all themselves to find all again in Christ even in this world ?" "Day after' day since my loss," she replied, "I have said I will arouse myself, yet grief ■ importunate has pleaded for indulgence. How shall I begin ? What do you expect of me ?" " Begin," said the Vicar, " by reestablishing your relations with the world. There are interests enough hidden under the surface of things about us. ' Grasp into the thick of human •life.' Wh^tgver your hand brings up, will awaken healthy new emotion. Make the most, in the worst of circumstaiices, of their attendant advantages. For example, in your position you have lost all you enumerate, but have gained an independence in exchange. How many, bound to uncongenial duties, would 246 Amabel; a family histort. gladly begin life afresh, as you can do ! ' The good goat will browse where she is tethered,' says our pi»verb. I should give you almost the advice that I would give to an old maid .... " To such an one belongs, in the first instance, social duties of all kinds. Not merely care of the poor, but the promotion of the benefit of others in all the relations between man and man. " Positive work is a great blessing. That unmarried woman is, I think, the happiest, who labors by her head or by her hands for some portion of her income. Still, work is of many kinds. In your Case, the charge of a fortune, the duties of housekeeping, and of a country lady, would supply you with actual necessary occupation. " Thirdly, care of her own health is necessary to the single woman. Nothing can be done without health in her position. Neglected health is the soil from which spring many sorrows. " And lastly," said the Vicar, ',' a woman without arbitrary ties, can so regulate her life as to be much in God's service, and in prayer for others, in his temple, like Anna, the Prpphetess, a widow indeed." "Then," said Amabel, and her eyes rekindled as she raised them to the Vicar's face, " advise me, if you can, what are the first practical steps by which all this may be accomplished. I have courage, health, and energy, thanks to my happy child- hood ; you tell me I have independence. In God's name, if life has anything to ofier, let me claim it now." " As a first step," said the Vicar, " I would recommend your taking a house in this or in some other country neighboThood. The influence of our country gentry is immense. The poor would have positive and established claims upon you, and your position give you claims at once on the respect and attention of the poor.'' " I thought of it," said Amabel. " I have thought of it. But my position was uncertain. I hoped .... I Jiave hoped lately for a reconciliation with my husband. I had thought of taking some small place, it might be in this neighborhood, but then, my child's feet would have made music in my house, now " Amabel; a family his tor v. 247 " One moment o'er her face The tablet of unutterable thoughts was traced." Then came a sudden vision of herself as Lady of the Manor, occupying an independent position, respected in her neighbor- hood, with loving interests in others, and herself beloved. She imagined the return of Captain Warner, a man on whom the opinions of other men reacted very strongly. She knew his character well enough to be sure, that in such a position, she would be able to command his forgiveness and regard far more than by any pathetic appeals to his sympathy. The Vicar sat silent. He could see a struggle going on within her mind, and waited till her next remark gave indica- tion of its nature. " What places are to be let in this neighborhood ?" she said. " I should only wish to hire." " Not many very near here. This is the most retired vicinity in England, and we have few country seats about us. There is a pretty little cottage, at a low rent, in a parish about fifteen miles from here, of which a friend of mine is the incumbent ; but it is on the other side of the Great Heath, and can scarcely be got at, the roads are so bad. There is Horton Hall, a mile or two from here." "A place much too expensive for my six hundred pSr annum.'' " Hardly. Its hay would almost pay the rent, and its pos- session give you great influence amongst us." Amabel half laughed. " It is absurd," she said, " my setting out to manage all these matters. I am so inexperienced. I have made so signal a failure in whatever I have undertaken hitherto. How should I ever look after an estate, and fulfil the duties of my Lady Bountiful ?" " We would have great patience with your efi'orts, and allow you a handsome per centage of egregious errors for the fii-st few months," the Vicar replied. " Is Hort^n'Hall on view ?" " Yes ; if I put my forrest pony into old Hinde's tax cart, will you let me drive you there ?" Amabel pondered, with a half smile on her face. 248 Amabel; a family history. She had vigor of mind, and a happy vigor of constitution. In spite of watching and of sowow, regular exercise, and the pure air of this open country, had renewed her strength. A person of her temperament must be roused by practical sug- gestions, and the want of anything practical in our consolations is the reason why we so seldom console. Such a person is also peculiarly dependent, in cases where the mind is unstrung, upon the patient wisdom of a judicious friend. Point out something to be done, win his interest and his attention, allure him to exertion, and you have carried him more than half way on the road to his recovery. Amabel assented to the proposition the Vicar made, and they both arose. As they did so, she caught sight of a post-chaise entering th* village. " What can that be ?" she said hurriedly. Before he had time to answer her, it drew up on the Green, and a man inside, after making an inquiry, got out and walked towards the Vicar's door. Amabel made a sudden exclamation. All the projects and the visions that had been floating in her mind a moment or two before, had vanished. " It is for me," she cried. " I know him. He is our lawyer, Mr. Trevor. He has come to see me." " Shall I see him first ?" said the Vicar, observing how much she was agitated. "Yes, if you would! But let me know . . . soon . . . quickly, if you please, does he come from . . . from . . . my husband !" The Vicar went towards his own door, and left her standing alone under the yew tree. She covered her face with her hands. How marvellous is the power of thought ! By one brief thought our weakness becomes strong. Five minutes' thought may send us back into the world enriched wit^ purpose that shall adorn a life-time. ^^% " God help me !" she said slowly. The thought expanded into prayer. ' A word to God is a word/rom God.' The Vicar returned. There was a new light in her eyes, and Amabel; a family histort. 251 brought to bear. Her affection for her dead son had been passion, too exclusive to awaken the real springs of lovingness in her heart. The death of her child had left her nerveless, spiritless, lonely in the world. A new era in her life seemed about to begin. The fountainsof love had not been opened in her ; but with a new position, new relations, and new responsi- bilities, a new experience was at hand. She was to learn in a few hours the impossibility henceforth of doing good by any- thing but by her personal relations to others. Not her money but her influence was to be blessed, blessed through the direct and indirect working from the inward to the outward of the holy spirit of love. KND OF PART SECOND. Amabel; a family histort. 249 a grave smile on her lip. He seemed to look compassionately upon her. " It is a messenger for yon, but not from the quarter you expect," he began. " Bad news 1 In pity tell it me ... at once." The grave smile lingered on her lip, but the light in her eyes was troubled. " It is not good news. It is a death." " Is it - ^. . is it Leonard . . . my husband ? Is it Captain Warner ?" " My news has no relation to your husband. Have you had no letters lately ?" " Sfeveral from my half-sister." " Did they say nothing about your mother's illness ? I am told they were on that subject." " I never read one of them." " They have sent your man of business here to find- you. He describes the present position of your family as most melan- choly. Your mother's death was hastened by the unfortunate position of Captain Talbot's affairs. He has embarked in specu- lations, which h^e swallowed up his fortune. He, himself, over- whelmed by the same blow, has had a stroke of paralysis, which leaves him helpless, and has weakened all his faculties. Bailiffs are in the house. The family is without a head, and is anxious for your presence. Captain Talbot, the lawyer tells me, is continually asking for you." " I am ready. I am prepared to start at once," she exclaimed with energy. The Vicar was astonished. He had expected that his news would overpower her. He found her calm and strong. He did not know, indeed, how slight had been the intercourse between her and her mother's family. She might have felt her orphanhood more keenly, had not the few unhappy months of their iute^urse weakened instead of strengthened mere natural ties.*? Amabel was not insensible, but in her secret^/ heart I believe she grieved less for her own loss than for Captain ■ Talbot's sorrows. In all the intercourse that she had had with*^ him she had found him kind and fatherly. 250 Amabel; a family history. There passed througt her mind a vision of assisting him, of aiding all of them, of being useful and of consequence amongst them, of possessing through them once more family influence and family ties. She went into the Vicarage, and exchanged a few words alone with Mr. Trevor. When she came forth again, though there was a composed, calm gravity about her face, her step had grown more buoyant than of late. It was no longer the slow, listless, hopeless tread to which she had grown accustomed. She hurried home through the Hanger. Mrs. Hinde saw her coming, and marvelled at the rapidity of her walk. Every- thing was at once put into a bustle. In half an hour her trunks were packed. The people at the farm could not under- stand, except they interpreted her conduct by affectation or hypocrisy, how a woman late so nerveless and indifferent could have so much authority, energy, and decision now. She took with her about £200 in money, which was after- wards of great assistance to her. The Vicar drove round in the chaise to the farm to take leave of her. She took him up for a few moments into her dead child's chamber, and gave him charge of the little crib and of some other things. What more passed during the few minutes they were alone together she never told, but when she came out of the chamber, the tears that glistened on her cheek had melted for ever the old hard stony look out of her eyes. He put her into the carriage. The people round it caught bro- kenly a few of their last words. " Yes ; I feel the worst is past." " Indeed, I thank you." " To lead a new life." "I will ; God helping me." They passed rapidly through the village. Crossing the green she leaned forward to look her last towards the churchyard and its western yew tree. She smiled a farewell to the Vicar's wife who stood at her own gate watching her, and overcoming a sore temptation to give way to tears and silence, ''Aurned with some question about her mother's death to her travelling companion. " Action ! Work, work at any price," said her heart. The spirit of duty was active, the spirit of love had not yet been PART III CHAPTEE I. Tho glofr, the glance had passed swajt The sunshine and the sparknng glitter. Still thongh I noticed pale decay The retrospect was scarcely bitter ; For m their place a calmness dwelt Serene — subduing — soothing — holy. These lines were mucli admired by my father ; perhaps he too felt they could be made to have reference to her. I learned them by heart when a very little girl, and quote them now from memory. They are from Blackwood's Magazine for the spring of 1829, and are part of a very sweet poem by Delta, called " Time's Changes." Take the train from London, reader, if you wish to visit our localities, and let it put you out at a lone station, in the midst of that desolate heath country through which the old high- road to Portsmouth used to run, — the wilderness of moorland which lies upon the borders of Hampshire and Surrey. You may take a post-chaise at this place if you will, either at the staring hotel of the station or at a little country inn a couple of hundred yards to the right of it, at the sign of Tumble- down-Pick, a name not uncommon with inns in that vicinity, given probably in derision of the downfall of Eichard CTromwell. Your chaise will carry you some dozen miles over the most barren country that your eyes have ever lighted on. Not a tree, not a green herb, not a house nor rill of water. In Sep- tember, when the purple heath is in full blossom, this moorland is extremely beautiful ; but at all other seasons' of the year i(^ lies as far as the eye can reach a brovra and sombre massj stretching out to the horizon, undulated it is true, but unre-= lieved by any change of tint, save where the passing clouds 266 Amabel; a family history. reflect themselves upon its surface. Passing at length through a straggling country town, stretch your head out of the win- dow, and yonder on your left hand at the edge of the dun moorland catch a glimpse of that white mansion. You go on your way pondering sad thoughts of man's faithless- ness and cruelty, and thinking over one of the mysteries of general interest inherited by the men of this generation. You have seen the house celebrated for the loves of a secretary and a waiting-woman — of Swift and Stella. Travel on, and by and by a park wall skirts the moorland. On ; — and where three ways appear to meet, or rather where ■ the public road- di-verges into three mere cart tracks, your car- riage sets you down before what is a high brick wall, but looks a hedge of ivy. You entei* through a .doorway fashioned through the wall, and find yourself walking up a straight paved path to a dull and sombre Elizabethan cottage. Pass through its hall ; stand on the lawn beneath its windows. The scene has changed. You are at the ed^e of the moorland. The long barren waste lies out of sight behind the cottage. Yoii are on an elevation looking'down upon a cultivated valley. At your feet winds a tortuous and tiny river, yonder is the village steeple, crowned with dark ivy, peeping coyly through the trees ; all around is fertility and cultivation, in the distance stretch wide hilly tracts of the blue moorland. Flowers breathe out their little life beside your feet. The very aspect of the house is not the same ; on the side that you entered, it was sombre as a castle, on the lawn side a rustic porch gives to what was, at the time of which we write, a very small and inconvenient dwelling, an air of refinement, taste, and care. In the small low parlor Of this cottage towards the close of a summer afternoon, two years after the closing date of the last part of our story, an old man whom sickness had much worn, with sharpened features and long thin white hair, was asleep before a smouldering fire of peat, though it was early •summer. Beside him were two girls, one with a low and sullen brow, who was standing at a window making marks with her bi'eath and fingers on the panes ; the other, a young, fragile, delicate, timid creature crouched on a low footstool, -with a ^art €\iixl DRAWN CHIEFLY PROM PAPBUS GIVEN ME BY THEODOSIUS ORD; MY FATHER. Per correr miglior acqva alza le Tele Omai lanavicella del m^o ingegiio, Che lascia dietro a ae mar si crudele ; £ cantero di quel secondo regno, Ove V umano spirito si purga, £ di salire al ciel diventa degno. Dante. Purgatorio. To scud o*er brighter wave -. 1 spread the sails Of my yacht Fancy ; which but now has left Far in her wake -yon boisterous cruel sea. And fain I sing of that fair second realm VVherein the human soul herself may purge, And grow more worthy to ascend to Heaven. Amabel; a family history. 25*7 book slie was endeavouring to- study or to read. The door opened suddenly, and a fine boy nine years old rushed in. He had the dark iair and dark eyes of the elder girl, the open brow and the refined expression of the -younger of the two. " Where's Amabel 1" was his first question. " What do you come in here for with your dirty shoes, sir V was the elder girl's rejoinder. " Take yourself oS, come." A sort of contemptuous laugh met this assumption of author- ity, and the boy repeated " Where is Amabel ?" advancing as he said so into the room. "Oh! Ned, what a pretty rose that i^ said Annie, the younger sister. The old man opened his eyes, and stretched out his hand towards it. " Don't give it him, Annie," said the boy roughly. " No, father — ^not this — you can't have this, sir. Annie, I met the new visitor coming over the heath to the Hill Farm." " Give my father that rose directly, Ned," said Olivia, snatch- ing it. " Are his own children to be taught by strangers to fret and wony him ? He shall have it, I say." " Be quiet, I telF you, Olivia ! You will break it. It's from Horace. It is for Amabel." " What is the matter, Olivia ?" said a steady voice. A hand was laid on Edward's shoulder; and at that presence every angry word subsided in the room. "Oh! it is of no use now," said Olivia. "Wherever i/ou come that boy has the privilege of insulting us. I give it up in despair. " It's just this, Amabel," cried the boy eagerly ; " father wanted the rose which Horace sent you — the only one of the kind — poor fellow — in his garden ; and he has been nursing it all the spring for you." " And you grew very rude, and very much excited," said Amabel, turning him round, and pointing with a half smile to the reflection of bis red face in a small looking-glass.. As she; did so she took a bunch of roses from a jar, and approach- ing her step-father. Captain Talbot, ofiered to exchange them for Horace's white rose. There was no fuss, no excitement in 258 Amabel; a family history. her manner, and the poor paralytic allowed her to take the flower, placing the roses she had given him in his button-hole. " Now, Ned," she said, " you may come up stairs with me. Bring your books, but be very quiet, poor little Joseph must not be disturbed." There was a calm authority about her manner which restored quiet to the room. But oh ! how changed she is since we last saw her. She has lived such years as tell upon the close of life, and make old age like a long sickness, or else cut oif ten years at the latter end of life for one such year of suffering at the beginning, xbey had been years in which all her powers, moral, physical, and mental, were kept always tuned' up to their highest pitch. Any faltering, any flagging, any debilitat- ing self-pity, any ' earning for compassion, must have ruin«d her. To maintain her difficult position it was necessary she should be always self-poss^sed and calm. Her safety lay in the conflict and variety of her cares. One lonely grief, though small, is more diflicult to bear than a variety of great ones which serve to check each other ; that is, to a temperament like Amabel's, capable even beyond its strength of great exer- tions, but fond of brooding in inaction wfen not sufficiently aroused. Her dress was black, of ordinary material, but fashioned with a French simplicity of taste, for it was the work of her own hands. The glow, the bloom, the sparkle of her youth had passed away. Scarcely any trace remained of the bright face, so round, so soft, so fresh in early girlhood ; as little too was left of the young wife, more pale, more timid, less self-con- fident; tender and eonSding if trusted — pettish and resentful if ill-used. It was her picture drawn in chalks not long after this period to which I have already alluded in the introduc- tion. " Beautiful, young, but with the marks of early sorrow fn her face. An expression which fascinated rather than repelled, which made you feel that nothing that grieved you fcould be too trivial for her to sympathize with, and no sorrow so teriible but that she might venture with the right of sad experience to bring it balm." Her hair was worn quite plain, a fasjjion then unusual, save Amabel; a family history. 259 for widows. She had been in the habit of hiding its luxuriance under caps, but that proved too expen^ve an indulgence, and now the hair put simply back was worn alone. And her character ? What had enabled a naturally sensi- tive, excitable woman to acquire this calm and quiet manner ■ unaccompanied by severity or affectation ? She owed it partly to having been crushed to the earth by personal suffering, at the time she entered on her present responsibilities ; the slights and mortifications then inflicted by Olivia failed to give pain to feelings benumbed and deadened by repeated blows. She had found Captain Talbot when she reached him from S , eager to see her. He drew her towards him the moment that she arrived, and whispered in his now imperfect speech,^ " It is all gone — all your fortune" — and then he wept and whimpered like a child. What was poor Amabel to do ? Where turn in the midst of such c isaster ? Should she — her pride and inclination both prompted her to this — at once seek employment for herself, and cease to be a burden upon the little property of the family? But duty urged her to remain. Poor Captain^Tal- bot would- cling fast to her skirts as she stood beside, his bed, and repeat over and over again, " Stay here — stay here." He had a sort of vague impression that if she shared their pit- tance he should not have wronged and ruined her. And her sense of duty cried remain. Remain, even though taunted by Olivia as a beggar and intruder. Remain for the sake of those young children^ — remain for the sake of that poor step-father, whose life is now so valuable to his family even in a pecuniary point of view. - Thus there devolved on her — on her — inexpe- rienced, singlg-handed, unloved, unwelcomed, and alone, the care of this feeble paralytic — that of two young children, Ned^ about nine years old, and Joseph six, whose education and^ future prospects had to be provided for, together with the charge of Annie now thirteen, and the ungrateful responsibility of directing Olivia. To meet the expenses of the family she had absolutely nothing but Captain Talbot's half-pay of ten and sixpence per diem. Olivia had had in infancy a small 260 Amabel; a family histoby. legacy left her by a god-father payable upon her coining of age, when it would be about £4,000 ; but this, of course, was not available. With an energy and judgment not to have been expected from one so inexperienced, she set herself to make future, arrangements for the family, to give up the house and furniture for the benefit of the creditors of Captain Talbot, and to seek another home. In vain Olivia taunted her, slighted her, treated her as an intruder. she heard, bat seemed to hear in vain, Insensible as steel, If aught was felt, — 'twas only pain To find she could not feel. She had no time to indulge in melancholy imaginations; and her position soon became to her a stern, a terrible — yet an accepted reality. This, probably, saved her from much suffer- ing. When we can bring our mind to realize our fate, and start afresh in life from the point at which we stand, we have acquired a sort of power over our own destiny. It is a sad mistake to think that in this life there is but one love* Here was a woman, the love of whose heart was now given wholly to a man whom she could never hope to see again — whom she had not understood^— appreciated — nor knew she loved, while happiness with him was in her power. It was a real love, though surrounded by an aureole of the imagination. And now, she was beginning life anew ; but He, who will not make our burden greater than we have strength to bear, was providing for her objects of interest and of affection. She might have closed her heart, as many of us do, nursing with jealous care our own peculiar sorrow ; but her sorrow was so real, and so accepted, that there was no fear it would evapo- rate, if not daily fed and cherished. She was happy to be made ^sometimes to forget it, and very ready to do all in her power, to be loving and beloved. She resolved, at once, to move away from the neighborhood where they were known, partly upon her own account, and partly to avoid meeting creditors, who had suffered by the bankru|)tcy of her step-father. Olivia violently objected to her Amabel; a family history. 261 plans of strict seclusion, and many very bitter hours did the elder sister pass, endeavoring to determine whether the fortunes of the family ought, in justice, to be sacrificed to Olivia. It was a painful task, because she had, in fact, supplanted her as mistress of the household, and she felt a peculiar responsibility in having the welfare and direction of that unhappy girl placed in her hands. She determined, however, on taking this small cottage, which had been once recommended to her by the Vicar. It stood close to a farm-house, on a sort of high sand bluff, near the village of Sandrock, on the edge of the broad heath country of Hampshire and Surrey. It was about twelve or fifteen miles from the scene of her late retirement, but the cross roads between Sandrock and S were so impassable, being for many miles merely rough wagon tracks over the moorland, that the two villages were nearly as much separated as Cornwall from Yorkshire. They had been residents here over a year, and though every night when she lay down to sleep something was added to her load, it was nevertheless, perhaps, the least sensi- bly unhappy year that she had passed since the death of Felix Guiscard, and her removal from Malta. " Amabel," said Annie Talbot, " the new visitor has come down to the Hill Farm." " Lieutenant Theodosius Ord," said Fed. " I met him just now, with Beyis in his tax-cart, coming over from the town; and Horace told me to say, he should have come round, Ama- bel, to see you, had he not felt it incumbent upon him to stay at home and see his cousin." She was standing on the hearth, with her back towards them, and Horace's^hite rosebud in her hand. Edward thought he sawlier kiss it lightly, and there glistened on its leaves a dewdrop or a tear. " Come, Ked," she said, after having rebuilt the fire of peat, stroked back her step-father's white hair, and pressed a kiss upon his forehead. And she went up stairs once more to little Joe's sick chamber, taking Edward by the h3.nd. 202 Amabel; a family histort. CHAPTER n. Oh ! if they knew and considered, unhappy ones ! — oh '. could they see, could But for a moment discern how the blood of true gallantry kindles— How the old knightly religion, the chivalry semi-quixotic Stirs in the veins of a man at seeing some delicate woman Serving him— toiling— for him and the world ; some tcnderest girl now Over-weighted, expectant of him, is it 1 — who shall if only Duly her burden be lightened— not wholly removed from her, mind you, Lightened if but by the love, the devotion man only can olTer, Grand on her pedestal rise, as um-bearing statue of Hellas. The Boihie of Toper na Fuosich. Clouoh. The Hill Farm, mentioned by Ned Talbot, was beautifully situated on the brow of a hill, about a mile from the Talbots' cottage. It belonged to Horace Vane, a youth whose father was head of the great banking-house in India, of Vane, Chetney, and Vane. The farm had been left to Horace by his mother, who was dead. She was my father's aunt, the sister of the Rev. George Ord, my grandfather ; so that Horace and my father were first cousins. The farm is now turned into a hand- some house. At the time of which I write it was a farm of the better class, in which two or three rooms had been fitted up for the residence of Horace and his tutor. I can give no' impartial description of the latter. I knew him in my youth, and if ever there was a man I hated it was Bevis. I never knew whether I disliked him most when his manners were in full dress and sanctimonious, or when they were familiar and era neglige. Even as a little child, nothing would have tempted me to stay in the room alone with him, or kiss him ; he had, even with us chndren, sj^ich an S. unpleasantly familiar way. Horace was a youth nearly eighteen ; very handsome, with a profusion of dark hair more luxuriant than fine. His nose and mouth were exquisitely formed. His smile was charming. On his upper lip there was a slight dark down. His figure was a little too embonpoint for his age, the lesult.of taking little or AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 263 no exercise. His eyes were blue^ shaded with soft dark lashes. But Though clear To outward view of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing had forgot. Nor to their idle orbs did sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star throughout the year, - Or man or woman. Two years before he had been struggling for the position of head boy in the sixth form of a great school ; was a lad of the highest promise, an only son, heir to great wealth, with brilliant prospects, the petted child of fortune. He was spend- ing the Christmas holidays with a school-mate, his friend and rival. The friend insisted one bright morning on having a day's shooting. Horace reluctantly threw down the unfi- nished novel he was never to look into again. They had crossed their first field, and were getting over a stile, when the gun of the friend accidentally went ofi'. About thirty shot lodged in the head and face of Horace. Assistance was pro- cured ; he was carried to the house ; the most distinguished oculists were called from town. They came only to repeat that hope was vain. ■ Since his blindness he had shunned the world, and Bevis had been placed with him as tutor and companion. A mother would have been drawn nearer to her son by his misfortune, a crowd of sympathies would have been awakened between them. But the mercantile father in India grew afraid of Horace after his alBiction. What could he do with a blind son ? He pitied himself for the wreck of his ambition. My father had not seen this cousin since he became blind ; but having been requested in a letter from the father, Mr. Vane, to visit him, he made an oflfer of coming down to the Hill -Farm fajf a'-few weeks on his. return from a long cruise in the Magician.' He got up by daybreak on the morning after his arrival, and took an early stroll around the neighborhood in search of a trout stream. He was struck with the peculiar nature of the country, so sombre on the moorland, so smiling in the valley. The cottages were placed so far apart as to be scarcely neigh- 264 Amabel; a family history. borly, and were generally built upon the edge of the heath to secure facilities for peat digging. The peasants whom he met, clad in green smocks, were far from prepossessing — of the earth, earthy — scarcely superior, save in powers of mischief, to the beasts under their care. "Mr. Bevis," he said, during breakfast, "have you any society about here? Anybody living in any hall, or great house in the village ? Any clergyman's family ?" " We have an old clergyman and an old wife — their united ages are one hundred and twenty-five ; but you may see to- night all the society we can rake and scrape in Sandrock, or its neighborhood, for these old folks have been so obliging as to ask us to a party." " Are there likely to be any pretty girls there ?" said my father. " By Jove ! I should think not !" replied the other. " Yet, stay — do you see that cottage on the top of the high sand-cliff? — there is a handsome woman lives there — a mysterious lady !" " How so ? how came she here ?" said my father. " It was a small place, and out of repair. A man built it for himself, and found it was too lonely ; so he let it cheap to a Captain Talbot, of your service, who has had a stroke of para- lysis, and has nothing but his half-pay on which to support a large family, one member of which is this person. She is very pretty ; she dresses in black, and passes for a widow. The girls say she is their sister, but they are mysteriously un- communicative about her." " What is her name ?" said my father ; " what do you call her ?" " There was the difficulty. Amabel is her Christian name, and it was long before we heard of any other.^ji^ome people, speaking of her, used to say Miss Talbot, some Mrs. 'Talbot, some Mrs. Bell ; but she gave herself out at length to be a Mrs. Leonard." " How very strange ! Do people visit her ?" " There is no visiting in this retired district. I call there, of course, to see this Captain, and I cannot keep Horace away." " An anomalous person of that kind must be very disagree- Amabel; a family history. 265 able in so small a society," began my father. As he was say ing this, he caught sight of the face of Horace, who, habitually late for breakfast, was just opening the door. Bevis observed it too, and dropping the subject of Amabel, at once made some remarks about the aspect of the country, and the prospects of the weather. No sooner was breakfast done, than Horace dragged bis cousin by the arm upon the terrace, overlooking many miles of cultivated meadow-land and heath, and asked him, with some vehemence, what Bevis had been telling him. " He was speaking of Mrs. Leonard when I carae in," said he ; "I know by the tone of his voice he was spearking of Mrs. Leonard." " Why, yes," said my father, smiling, " he did mention that mysterious lady. I should consider any person of that sort no advantage to the neighborhood." " Of that sort !" said Horace, fiercely ; " Bevis shows him- self the villain — the scoundrel — the liar, that he is, if he has dared to breathe a word against that angel — I tell you what it is," he continued, " Bevis wants to be revenged. There is no love lost between them, I can tell him. He made love to her when she first came her?, but since he found it would not do, he has lost no opportunity of slandering and annoying her. He pays court to Olivia Talbot under her very eyes, and says when Amabel opposes his visits, it is frova jealousy.'^ " But, Horace, small as your experience of the world has been, you must own that the position of this woman is equivo- cal, which no woman's position can be, unless something is wrong." " Wait till you see her," exclaimed Horace. " See her your- self, Theo.^ee how nobly she sustains herself in her trying situ- ation ; see now she awes Bevis ; see her with that hateful girk[ he flirts with. Or see her with the poor, or with her paralysed old father, or the children, or talk to her yourself — ^just let her get over you the least influence — " " Why, Horace, my dear fellow, she is getting an influence over you, I pureeive," said my father. " An influence ! I should think so ! An influence I It does 12 266 Amabel; a family histokt. me more good to sit an hour at her side, than all the sermons Dr. Frost ever knocked out of his red cushion. To see such an example of suffering patience, of the beauty of holiness, sweetens the heart, and mine was full of bitterness before I knew her." " My dear cousin," began my father, " I have no doubt she is a woman of great art." But Horace did not hear him. "I feel as if, now that I have known her, my life had a motive. Life, since my blindness, has had little to offer me ; but, I shall .not have lived in vain, if I can do something to lighten her burdens. I am living for hei — living in the hope that some day I may do something to make her happier, — something to serve her — something — were it only to make her feel that there is somebody to care for — and admire — and sympathize with her. That helps — a thought of that kind helps, you know. But, Theodosius," here he changed his tone, " there is so little I can do by reason of my blindness. She leads a hard life here. I thought that you would be her friend — would protect her from my tutor. I do what I can ; but, sometimes my blood boils to find I cannot aid her, and if I had not a little self-command, for her sake, I should knock him down." " The poor woman shall have fair play, as far as I have any influence," said my father. " But, Horace," "Hush !" exclaimed Horace, laying his finger on his lips, fot he heard the step of Bevis coming towards them. Very much disturbed for his young cousin's sake, by all he had been hearing, my father sauntered forth alone, amidst the highways and the hedges. It must be allowed — indeed, it has been said, that my father had in his disposition an undue allow- .ance of the love of approbation. The impression that he made on others, was always a consideration with him. On the present occasion, when he thought of Horace, he was clearly of the opinion that the poor fellow had been getting strangely duped by a woman of equivocal character, and, possibly, of very considerable powers of mind. But, when he remembered Horace's wish that he should know and aid her, a degree of Amabel; a.famiiiY history. 207 complacency entered into his contemplations. He, a man three- and-twenty years of age, was better fitted than a youth like Horace, for intercourse with such a person. He stood in no danger from her arts, or her position. He even might, perhaps, be of essential use to her. So thinking, he walked, rod in hand, along the winding banks of the small river that has a name upon our maps, but is no broader than a trout stream. On its banks, fishing patiently for minnows, at a spot opposite that part of the high sand clifi' where the martins have a colony, sat a small boy with a rude ro.d made out of a hop-pole. My father sauntered up to him, to ask some questions about the stream, and the kind of fish in it. >» " Minnows, gudgeon, perch, bream, and occasionally a pike," was the answer. " Such a one," pursued the boy, " as old farmer Caesar caught a year ago about here. Amabel said, that if we had lived in a less out of the way spot, it would have gone into the paper." My father perceived that the boy was handsome, and evi- dently a gentleman's son. " And who is Amabel ?" he said, throwing his line into the water. " Amabel is my sister." " A favorite sister ?" said my father, hesitating, however, to question him. " Oh ! I am. very — very fond of her," said Ned. " Every- body is, except Mr. Bevis and Olivia." " Ah ! indeed," said my father, pondering this reply, or intent upon his fishing. " Hurra 1" cried Ned, " you have a bite ! Haul him in — haul him in, sir !" My father was on his feet at once. The fish was large, and strained the slender line ; he let it out to give him play. Away darted the fish down the stream, Ned and my father after it ; till after a run of about two hundred yjirds along the winding banks of the moat-like little river, the prize, exhausted, allowed him- self to be hauled in opposite a small garden, with terraces scooped out of the cliff, sloping down to the water's edge, with a rustic seat and bower immediately upon the bank of the river. 268 Amabel; a family histoiiy. "That is Amabel," said Ned, "and there's my father." Theodosius looked up from the large pike he had been land- ing. On the opposite bank of the river, in the rustic seat, sat an old and feeble man, attended by a graceful woman, dressed in black ; no longer in the fresh bloom of girlhood, but with that kind of beauty which makes its appeal to our sympathy. It was not to be expected he should recognise her. He had seen her figure only at Foxley, on that night when he and Cap- tain Warner watched the declaration of Ferdinand through the window of the oonserratory. " Sister, look here, what a one Lieut. Ord has caught," shouted Ned across the water. " It's as big as the one Tom Csesar got. See here !" Snatching up the fish, he set his foot upon an iron chain, hung slack across the stream, to mark the boundary of the fish- ing privileges of the property ; and, with the help of the long hop-pole, scrambled across the river. "Edward, don't!" cried Amabel, "don't, Ned, pray, don't. Prevent him, Mr. Ord." She colored to the eyes, as she addresed him. But it was too late to stop the daring boy ; he and the pike were safe across the water. " We will have this with wine sauce, my dear," cried the old man. " Port wine sauce. You can teach Sarah to dress it. I think a pike very good eating — a little fish is a treat to me, now." " Hush, father ; — Ned did not catch the pike ; it belongs to Mr. Ord." " I hope, madam, you will do me the honor of accepting it," said my father, who, the river not being at that spot ten feet in width, distinctly heard the conversation. " And Amabel," said Capt. Talbot, " ask him to come and dine." " My father hopes, sir, you will come to-morrow and help us eat your fish," said Amabel. My father assented. " Are you going to fish any more, Mr. Ord ?" said Ned. " I shall try my luck again, if I am not a trespasser." Amabel; a family history. 269 " Certainly not," said Amabel. " Our fish is not preserved." " There is better fishing," said the old man, " in the heath ponds." " Yes, Mr. Ord, I can show you, sir. Amabel, may I go with Mr. Ord ?" cried Ned. " Provided Mr. Ord will not object to looking after you. I shall be much obliged to you, Mr. Ord," she said, on receiving his assurance that he would take care of little Pickle. " His brother Joe is ill in bed, and to-day I have no time to see after his studies." CHAPTER m. But wl^n the days of golden dreams had perished. And e'en despair seemed powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy. Ellis Bell. At an early hour in the evening — an hour at which no fashion- able individual will confess that he has dined, Bevis, Horace, and my father walked from the Hill Farm to the parsonage : the latter very smart, wearing new white kid gloves. The parsonage Wiis one wing of an old convent, owing its pre^ sent picturesque effect, not to any original architectural beauty," but to the tooth of time and the growth of ivy. It was an un- comfortable residence enough, ill arranged and very draughty, with, a neat little modern flower-garden in front, and with a view of the churchyard behind. The living was a very poor one, a few acres of glebe land scarcely fit for cultivation, £80 a year, and the right of cutting turf from the neighboring common. The population of the parish was scattered. The village might have contained a couple of hundred- inhabitants, and rather more than an equal number of other parLshioners were dispersed over an area of heath country ten miles broad by four and a half long. These people were many of them clustered in small hamlets, wherever a spring of water, or a i 270 Amabel; a family h i s t o u y . patch of better land on an edge of the common seemed to invite a settlement. It was impossible for the majority of these persons ever to attend the church, and nearly equally impossi- ble for the clergyman to become acquainted with their wants, even had he been in the prime of life, and an active man. But, Dr. Frost was " in years," as his people expressed it ; very corpulent, and at no time very active. He found it impossible even with the help of his broad gauge tax-cart and fat poay, to keep a proper pastoral supervision over the flock confided to him. In consequence of which praying tailors and preach- ing weavers troubled the outskirts of his parish, and the cause of dissent gained ground there. To the day of his death I don't believe Dr. Frost ever attributed this defection to the right cause. Nearer at home worse evils, than dissent made their appear- ance, even in the village. Very early marriages had become the fashion amongst the peasantry ; and every description of evil was the result. The boy and girl united at fifteen, found, together with the cares of an increasing family, a great want of mutual assimilation. In no parish were wives more brutally beaten, conjugal infidelities more frequent, or female honor less secure. The doctor attributed all these evils to dissent, and continued conscienti6usly to preach very dry sermons, in a very cold church, in which " our venerable establishment" figured .amidst exhortations against heresy, Atheism, Popery, and schism. When Amabel came into the village, she found that by reason of Dr. and Mrs. Frost's infirmities, there was 'plenty of work for her to do. She was anything but one of those officious ladies who seek to govern all things in a pai'isTi- — priest, churchwardens, and people. Had there been any oppo- sition offered to her efforts, I am afraid, so meek-spirited was she in the service of the public at that period, that her preten- sions to do good would have been humbly withdrawn. But encouraged by the advice of the Vic;ir of S — — , from whom she brought a letter of introduction to Dr. Frost, she became m some sort a lay curate to the doctor. She went about from house to house, making herself familiar with the character of the inhabitants, administering, as far as she was able, to their ■wants, and whenever the case was urgent, bringing it to the Amabel; a family history. 271 notice of the Eector. Never had that ecclesiastic found his clerical character so looked up to in his parish, never before had he taken so much interest in his people. In return Dr. Frost undertook to give Edward a daily lesson in Latin. The labor of this instruction fell chiefly upon Ama- bel, who was careful to cause the task to be well studied. But with all this, it was a great assistance to her to have a superior authority out of her own circle for whom the daily lesson must be prepared. How she accomplished all this, her home, her parish, and her scholastic duties, I confess myself unable to understand. She herself, when questioned on the subject, said she must have broken down at every point, had she permitted any press of business to interfere with her habit of walking alone. Two hours a 4ay she past off the cares of home, and with Barba and a rough Newfoundland puppy crossed the heath in all directions, breathing the fresh free air of the moorland, the object of each walk being generally a- mission of love to some poor cottage. Bevis, Horace, and my father re&ched Dr. Frost's parsonage before the Talbots arrived. The old taxrcart and the asthma- tic pony had been sent to bring the captain, and the family came together into the room ; Ned, Annie, and Olivia having walked by a short cut, while Amabel and her step-father in''! the doctor's cart, came round by the road. Amabel was dressed in black, with a white rose in her bosom. There were present two Miss Peytons from the Holt, the daughters of the Ranger ; a young curate from the next parish, ■ and several of the sons and daughters of the better class of farmers. My father watched Amabel. , He noticed that the greetings she exchanged .with Dr. and Mrs. Frost were very cordial, and that she drew the former aside and entered into animated dis- course with him. Hovering round a table on which books were spread, he caught occasional fragments of their earnest conversation. " I am the last woman in the world to favor the separation 272 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. of man and wife," she said, ''still there might b& occasions. . . . I wanted your advice before I gave my own, doctor." Here the doctor being called off by his wife, my father quitted the old albums, and with a sort of awkward hesitation, asked leave of Amabel to renevv his acquaintance with her. Her manner was embarrassed, and after expressing a polite pleasure in meeting him that evening, the conversation came to a full stop. " You seem au fait at the business of the parish," said my father, blurting out in desperation the thought that was upper- most in his mind. Amabel looked a little uncomfortable. " If you have heard any of my conversation with Dr. Frost," she said, " I fear it may have given you a wrong idea of my opinions. I brought hifii a case of conscience. There is a couple in this parish, where conjugal felicity is extremely rare, who have led a cat and dog life to the scandal of the neighborhood. The man has lately received encouragement to join a brother in one of the midland counties, and his wife, who is a capable woman, has the promise of a place. ' To be or not to be, that is the question.' Shall I counsel the separation ? What advice do you give me, Mr. Ord ?" " I should say," said my fether, " that the sooner they parted company the better.'' ^,.-. " You think, then," she replied, " that a temporary separa- tion of husband and wife may teach a lesson of forbearance, which, in an inflamed state of their relations, they are not likely to learn ? You may be right; Everything that now goes wrong with either, is attributed by the wife to the hus- band, by the husband to the wife." " Mr. Ord, will you take a partner for the next dance f" said old Mrs Frost, bustling up to him. " My dear, will your good father play his rub ?" Amabel walked up to the card-table, and took her seat beside the captain. He loved to hold a hand at whist, and to play his cards by her direction. Meantime, Mrs. Frost rattled wonderful tunes out of her old piano. Set quadrilles had then lately been introduced into Amabel; a family history; 273 England : not quadrilles such as we now dance them, monoto- Dous and constitutional, but quadrilles of anarchy. Quadrilles with pousset at the corners, right hand and left all,, round, ladies' chain, and monline des dames. As soon as the rubber ended, Captain Talbot rose ; and, taking his step-daughter's chair, placidly contented himself with looking on. Amabel at once offered to relieve Mrs. Frost at the piano. She was not a great musical performer, but she played quadrille music in perfect time, with indefatigable good humor. Horace sat by the piano, and, at intervals, they exchanged a few words. My father, not so well accustomed as the rest of the corps de ballet to make use of her musical exer- tions, came up at last, and asked if she were tired. For some time she had had a flagging look, and her iands trembled. . * " I am not easily tired," she answered/ evasively, with a smile. " I am no skilful performer, and 1 consider it my vocation to be a useful one." Here Horace, who had exhibited symptoms of uneasiness, drew his cousin aside. " Don't you see she is tired to death 3" said be. " Ask one of the Miss Eeytons. They play well enough to dance by. Either of them will play, if you ask her." Acting on this hint, my father placed at the piano his late partner, and then, turning to Amabel, invited her to dance a quadrille. "Yes, Amabel, we want a vis-a-^is. Here," said Olivia, " opposite to mei" " Have you been long in this part of the country ?" said ray father, when the side couples were performing the first figure. " Long enough to get sincerely attached to its strange, wild, moorland scenery. I suppose, as you came down, its desolation surprised you. In winter, the cold is intense. Were it not for the abundance of peat, we could hardly live here." " Do not you find -the people stupid and del>ased ? I can hardly understand their speech,'' continued my father. " I had acquired very considerable familiarity with their character and rural dialect during the year before we camo here." 19* Zli Amabel; a family history. " Were you living in this neigtborliood ?" " About fifteen miles from here, at S . Have you been long agbore ?" " Only a few weeks," he replied. " I am just come hcJme from the Mediterranean." "From cruising in what ship?" she said, making a balancez. " The Magician frigate," he answered, turning her round. (" Gentlemen, change partners" Miss Peyton cried.) " Has the Magician come home 1" said Amabel. " No ; she stays abroad a year longer." " Did you have a pleasant cruise V " Very. We were on a crack station." " A pleasant cruise, depends, I suppose, less on the cruising ground than the oflBcers and Captain." (Pousset again!) " I had sailed with Captain Warner before. He is my cou- sin," said my father. " This time I had little to say to him. He was sadder, quieter, and less genial than usual." " Sadder ; quieter ; less genial," she repeated, dwelling upon the words. " Was his health impaired?" "No— but," " But ? — What were you going to say ?" (^'Forward and back — cross over") Amabel and my father performed their parts in the quadrille, and returned to their places. " Don't spare me," she said, in a low voice. " What were you going to say ?" " That Capt. Warner's wife fell under suspicion ; and as he is a man of quick feelings, it seemed almost impossible for him to rally from his distress of mind." (" Balancez. Forward. Turn your vis-a-vis. Demie queue de chat") It was fortunate for Amabdi olie was called to dance. Her cheeks flushed, ' And troubled blood through her pale face was scene To come and goe with tydings from the heart, Ab it a running messenger had been. Amabel; a family history. 2'7S Tears gathered in her eyes. It was all she could do on rejoining her partner, to resume the conversation. " Are you sure that you have not judged her harshly ? It is so difficult to know the truth. Many a true woman (I' speak from my experience) has been put by circumstances so much in the wrong.'' " I cannot judge for you, unless " " Do not let us talk of myself. Let us continue the conver- sation on the subject of Mrs. "Warner. In this very Byron con- troversy, which is shaking Europe from one end to the other, how quick We are to judge — how little can we, any of us, know of the personal affinities of the married pair or the real progress of the quarrel." " I wish the woman who wronged my cousin, could see him pacing his own quarter-deck of an evening. If she ever had a spark of love for him, his listless melancholy face would be punishment enough for her," was my father's reply. Amabel returned to the charge. " I see," she said, " you are determined to condemn her ; and that she may be guilty, 1 have no disposition to deny. But, is your idea of the sanctity of the marriage vow so limited that you will not admit any notion of its breach, short of what society has pronounced the unpardona- ble sill 8" At this moment the company was summoned round the sandwich tray. Amabel and her partner were forced to join the others. Their conversation passed^ to more general topics. He asked her about Scott and Byron, and-at length even con- fessed that he himself wrote verses, and had brought down to the Hill Farm a MS. volume, nearly complete, something after the order of the " Hours of Idleness." Emboldened by her ready sympathy, and her evident appreciation of poetry, he v-entured to hope that he might be permitted to submit to her some 9f those verses. She had,#s I have elsewhere said, a beautiful intuition of sympathy, which won her almost at once the poniidence of those brought into contact with her. She that night fixed a spell upon my father ; and no doubt some of my readers would be glad to learn at secondhand, the magic secret of her power. 276 Amabel; a family histoky. I regret I cannot gratify them. This winsome art of inviting confidence is the peail of gifts in the bestowal of such fairy- friends as shower presents on the infant pillow. There 'is an incalculable influence in interest, there is a charm *1BSnveyed by manner, there is a personal potency in presence more powerful than mere eloquence of words. My father talked to her of his verses and his hopes; she entered into his feelings ; she returned him his own thoughts enriched in their transit through her mind ; she made him feel that all he was saying had to her a living interest, and he did not quit her side till he put her into the tax-cart with Captain Talbot. He then walked home in the bright light of, a full moon, with Horace, Bevis, Ned, Annie, and Olivia. The coarse flirtation of the latter with the tutor, inexpressibly disgusted him. He had been wandering in purer, higher realms of thought, and the conversation around him brought him down to earth again. He began thinking over his own verses. He meditated on what favorable specimens of his muse he should submit to her consideration. He was so eager to secure her good opinion of his verses, that he could hardly bear the delay that must ensue before her verdict for or against their committal to the press, could be secured. He lagged behind, repeating to himself select fragments of his poetry, and particularly two stanzas written several days * before. He was so pleased with the efifect, on repetition, that he took out his pencil, and leaning against one of the posts of the footbridge that spans the little river, copied down ihe stanzas on the back of an old letter. " Give it me !" cried Olivia, as he rejoined the party. " This horrid man declares you are a poet, and have been writing verses to the moon. Give them to me ! I want them for my album." " It is not for you. Miss Talbot," said my father, putting the paper into Amabel's hand. She was standing i^ the road, before the cottage. " I have copied down this little thing," he said. " I wrote it the other day. Perhaps you will look at it. It was suggested by a few words in a letter from my Captain. It bears a little Amabel; a family history. 277 upon one of the subjects we were speating of this evening. There is a liiie or two in it which, perhaps, you may find rather powerful." ■ 4|.C "I shall have time to ponder it to-night," she said. -"Our youngest boy is ill, and I am going to sit up with him." ******** *^ Rather powerful!" Forgive me, my dear father — you well tnow how fondly I have always loved you, how every word of your wisdom has sunk into your daughter's heart, how highly I estimate your rare good sense, your cultivated facul- ties, your genial powers of appreciation, but .... I cannot, here or elsewhere, pay my tribute to your muse. Amabel herself said, when I questioned her upon the subject, that in the days in which you chiefly wrote, society was afflicted with a flux of rhyme. That every encouragement was given to the production of hosh in the Annuals, Poets' Corners, and Ladies' Albums then in fashion. That every lady invoked the spirit of Letitia Elizabeth Landon, and every collegian, remembering that Lord Byron'sfame and genius grew like the bean stalk, in one night, planted his little bean. She agreed in what I ventured to remark, that "ideas are now shoving mere rhyme out of the verse-market, and that poetry is a luxury to be had good or not at all ;" yet remarked, that she was sorry you had ceased to write. She thought it was our fault — Edward's and mine. She liad observed you had never been prolific in verse, since the day you found your solemn ode on the March of the British Army to €abul, covered with the mock heroic illus- trations in gay paint we had daubed upon the margin. 378 Amabel: a jtamilv uiwcoky. CHAPTER IV, Je ne »ais pas «f j'aimatli cctte dame. Muin Jc sai« bieii^ Quo poiir avoir an rejfard dc son ^me, Moi pauvre chien ! J'auraiif gainumt f>iut(t6 dix an* an baerne SciiB le verroo. .... ViCTOK Huoo. OvUare. " ItATHBR powerful," »aid my father, and rcjoinerl Horace ami Lis tutor. The former wa» riot entirely at tiin ea«e, butBeviu ■with a coarse laugh slapped my father on the back, and com- plimented him on having raade huch progress in intimacy with a lady who had generally more pride than nhe could afford to keep in her position. " Give ua your receipt, old boy. Her head is »et remark- ably well upon her slioulderH, and if hhe werfj a trifle plumper in the Tiust, her figure would be fine." My father drew back dinguhtefL Horace seized hi* arm, "I confess I am a:-torii.-,hed, 'J'heO'lowiuii," bald he. "She i» generally very reserved with strangers. You must not believe one word of what li'-vis tells you. lie is a good-for-nothing scoundrel ; piqucij and jealous," On re^icliinghls own room at the Hill Farm, my father took out of hi* portfolio all his poetical effusions ; mui them over ; re-copied them, blotted, and altered. Putting fiimself in her place as it were, he calculated the effect ea';h word was likely to produce on her. Whoever has known anything of the plea- sures of composition, knows that when njally v/orked up to compo-iirig j/iteh, the poet Is under the influence of a kind of mental intoxication ; and like any other U/per, pays for his night's excels by miserable reaction, and by utUir disgust at the heel-taps of the bumper.-> quaffed sparkling over night from the Castalian spring. He was excited and disquieted. He could hardly interpret his emotion. A golden glory seemed to circle the whole earth. Amabel; a family histoey. 279 His life had been hitherto (so far as the sympathies and the affections were concerned), like a waste howling' wilderness, parched and bare ; a wellspring of gladness had gushed up in its midst, and there was a sound of abundance of rain. This feeling communicated its sympathy to his frame. He bared his breast to the night wind, and breathed free draughts of the pure air scented with heather. At a distance in the moonlight the tower of the village church was faintly visible ; underneath it, a mere mass of shadow, stood the parsonage ; in it the room where she had been. It was holy ground in his sight ; as in eastern lands they hallow the spots once pressed according to tradition by the footsteps of an angel. The mill stream with its murmur spoke also of her ; of the little boy, her brother, and the garden where he had seen her ; and further off upon the sand-cliff the lights of her cottage were gleaming still. He opened wide the casement, and sprang cmt into the night — ^her light his beacon. He rendered himself no account of the strange interest he felt. He found his way down to the river. He lingered on the mill bi-idge, soothed by the sound of rushing waters. He crossed the bridge, and made his way along the river's edge until he reached her garden. He thought that he should like to stand upon the spot beside the rustic seat where she had stood. He lingered there but a few moments, and then, as from that position he could riot see the light shining from the window of the room where his heart told him that she must be, he climbed the stone steps of the ter- race. At the top was a very low wall covered with ivy, separating the garden from a narrow lawn. Suddenly he paused, and stooped behind the wall. A white figure made its appearance at the lighted window, and looked out upon the night. There was a passing and repassing of shadows as if other persons were moving in the chamber. In truth, an old woman of the village, whom Amabel had hired to assist her in her watch, having slept during the early part of the BJght, had risen at two o'clock to take her place by little Joseph's bed. Soon all was once more still within the house, and my "father was just about to issue from his concealment, when a door 280 Amabel; a family histoey. half covered by an ivy porch was opened, and Amabel herself came out upon the lawn. A large white shawl — a cashmere shawl, one of the wedding gifts of Captain Warner, was thro\vn over her dress, her dark hair was put up as it had been during the evening, and Horace's white rose was still in her bosom. She seemed to be in a state of the greatest excit«ment, and to have come out into the open air to calm herself by the sooth- ing influences of the night. In the bright moonlight of the early summer night he could see her eyes gleam. She walked up and down the short lawn, moving her arms, andxlasping her hands nervously; with an occasional ejacula- tion, such as : " Father in Heaven, have mercy on me ! Let this long trial now be over. I thank Thee, my God, for this new hope !" These worSs, and such as these, my father heard at inter- vals, without knowing at all what meaning to put on them. Suddenly'^he stopped near him and repeated his own verses. Her voice was thrilling, 'and yet very sweet. Never had poetry sounded so musically in his ears. It was all he could do to restrain himself from starting up almost beneath her feet, and terrifying her by some vehement outburst of admiration. She repeated his lines again — this time with une larme dans la voix, and her emotion touched the poet's heart, and made her still more dear. The lines that he had given her, called forth by some words in a letter from Captain Warner, had been selected merely because they were fresh in his memory, having been recently written, and were, as I have said, part of a favorite copy of verses. Every author knows the tit-bits of his own literature. But they were well calculated to aflford nourishment to a deal delusion. She had never been able to persuade herself that she had made no impression on her husband by her letter. For long months after her baby's death, she continued to expect an answer, and when that hope was given up another hope was bom. She thought he would come back, inquire into the truth of all that she had said, seek her out in her retreat, forgive her, bless her, and restore her to her old position. But the war was over. Waterloo had long been fought. The ships AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 281 employed were ordered home. She knew he could have relinquished his command, had he desired it. Nearly three years since they parted had now passed, but still she would not listen to that inner voice which said, " Lasciate la sperama." Suddenly the arrival of Theodosius Ord, her husband's cousin, his lieutenant, his second at Foxley, revived her drooping hopes, and quickened into certainty her expectation. It did not occur to her that he might possibly not i-ecognise her ; that he had seen her but once, and then hardly could be said to have seen her in the dim light of the conservatory at Foxley. It did not occur to her, that, not having been in England when she married, but having heard of her repeatedly in Malta, he only knew her as Miss Belle Kamac, and was so entirely ignorant of her English connexion, that, had any suspicions crossed his mind, he would have been thrown off the scent by her relation- ship with the Talbots. She believed he was the Ambassador Extraordinary of her husband, sent to make a report upon her life and her position. She believed that Captain Warner, moved by her representa- tions, was disposed to raise her from the dust, and had sent Theodosius before him, crying " Repent, for the hour of forgive- ness is at hand." Every word said by my father on that night, had strengthened the conviction. His eager attentions to her- self his interest in her concerns, the scarcely civil curiosity with which he pressed inquiry, were gladly welcomed as the grounds of hope, while she determined carefully to avoid any direct betrayal of, her real name and position, remembering but too well her husband's last appeal to her. But, these proofs of my father's mission were corroborated, strengthened, and surpassed by the nature of the verses he had given her. Wife!. does no memory haunt thee even now Of that sad day — accursed let it be ! — When I exchanged for thine unhallowed vow My name — dishonored now — lUafionored .'^and by thte T Woman ! does soft repentance never come — No brief compassion for the exile, driven From the lone roof of a dishonored home — A home that might — O God ! — through Ihee have been a heaven? 282 Amabel; a family iiistory. No wonder she had sought, in the night air, to cool the fever in her veins, to calm the storm of self-reproach, of pity, admira- tion, tenderness, and love, that raged within her. Oh ! how her heart went out in her loneliness to him who had held out to her his golden sceptre. How earnestly she desired to appear well in his cousin's eyes. Since she had entered into her step- father's family, she had heen struggling to regain some part of the position, and consideration, and self-respect which she had lost. She had taken up the burden of duty boldly. There had been none to love her, to bid her God speed, or to encourage her. But the fulfilment of her duty awakened new interests in her heart for those around her. True, there were none to appreciate the great struggle of her life, to enter into her higher feelings, but there were some to love her as they might. And all her troubles she carried to her God. I have a friend who has penetrated to the frozen depths of the far North, and has seen the Ice King in his glittering beauty. As she lay in her warm bed, the hoary monarch passed, shrivelling with his icy touch the mercury in the glass, two dozen degrees below the cypher. She has seen him bearded with icicles. Plumes nodded on his head of hemlock boughs, tipped with fresh fallen snows. The raiment that he wore was white and glistering. He walked upon the waters. The rapid i-iver shrank some fathoms out of sight when he smote it with his mantle. AH nature wore his livery. He seemed almost a God. — The glory of man in these far, frozen lands, is to prove himself the lord, the superior, the master of Winter. To walk into his very teeth unchilled by his keen breath, and indepen- dent of his power. Even thus had Amabel become the mis- tress of the chill, stem sorrow that controlled her external life. As the northern inhabitant watches winter from the windows of his warm abode, he learns to perceive that the very jjower that has hidden the loveliness of nature from his sight, has glo- ries of its own. As sunlight falls upon the landscape, every twig of every leafless tree sparkles with crystallines. As he gazes on the buds and blo-ssoms nipped and blighted by the frost, he finds each closely shrined in glittering ice ; and shadows have their most glorious beauty when cast by God's own sun- amabel; a family history. 283 light on the pure untrodden snow. No winds on such still days of extreme frost bring icy terrors to the fur-clad breast. So in the stern reign of her now fixed and settled sorrow, petty griefs were not brought home to her. She had so strengthened ■ herself by acquiescence, to endure the gl-eat reality of grief, that smaller troubles could not harm. She was almost ready even to sport at times with her own sorrow, to find a beauty in the tears she shed, in the blight of her youth's blossoms. And, on the horizon of such a life, shone on this night the aurora borealis of her fancy. Her imagination gleamed and glistened, and formed new coruscations of strange beauty, and took shapes that had no substance, and sported with the unreal ; and, ever and anon, shot up bright gleams of glory to the zenith. High aspirations, holy thoughts, a pure repentance offered up to God. In this still hour of the summer night, as all these fancies chased each other through her mind, she -stood so near my father, that he could almost hear the beating of her heart, and see her tears. At length, after standing for a few moments in an attitude of prayer, with her hands clasped, and her pale face lifted to the moonlight, she drew the folds of her shawl round her, and went towards the house. As she turned, the white rose in her bosom fell within my father's reach. He watched her with excitement. He feared lest she should miss the flower and return ; but, occupied with other thoughts, she did not perceive that she had dropped it, and, without turning her head, disap- peared into the cottage. As soon as the door closed on her, my father seized his prize. It had faded a little in its warm, soft nest. It was the dearer for that reason. It was still fra- grant. It was a rose unique, a rare kind of rose— one only growing on each branch of a small bush during the season, and Horace had nursed it carefully through storm, and frost, and blight, for an offering to her. He had, with pride, per- ceived stie wore it at the Doctor's house ! He loved her because ev^thingin life that had to him a value and an interest, lived, and moved, and had its being in her. When my father reached his ■Chamber, which he entered as 284 amabkl; a tamily history. he had quitted it, through the low casement, he clipped the stalk of his rose, deteriliined to prolong its life to the utmost limits of floral existence, and put it into a glass of water before he turned in for the night, when, of course, he dreamed (but his dreams were not the dreams of the first night of his arrival) he was her preux chevalier, her true knight and defender, that . he had saved her from some peril (what it was, he remembered very vaguely), and that on his knees he had presented her a large pink poppy, which it gave Lim afterwards incredible uneasiness to discover, was not, as he had imagined it, a rose. CHAPTER V. The blessing of her quiet life Fell on us like the clew, And good thoughts where her footsteps pressed Like fairy blossoms grew, — Whittier. The next morning there was not wanting a pretext to go early to the cottage. He found Amabel giving Edward and Annie their lessons, but she received him with her pleasant smile, especially when he produced Marmion, which he offered to read to her. " It is against all' precedent to break into the hours of my school," she said, "but, indeed, the temptation is irresistible. I nevei- owned the book, and never read it but once. Annie, take your work. Ned, get your drawing. Mi-. Ord, excuse my darning in your presence, but we keep but one maid, and these stockings must be done. Now, if you will settle your- self in this arm-chair, and put your book upon this stand, I think you will be comfortable." Once begun, the attention of the party was entranced, for my father was an admirable reader ; but after two hours his voice began to fail, and he laid down the volume at the close of the third canto. For some time before he ended Amabel had been frequently wiping her eyes, and when he closed the AMABEi'; A FAMILY HISTOBT. 286 boot, instead of thanking him, she did not raise her head. Ned had already slipped through the open window, Annie rose quietly and went for a ball of thread into another chamber. My father sat playing with the leaves of his book, not liking to notice Amabel's agitation. At kngth she raised her eyes and be^ed his- pardon. " I am miore restless and excitable to-day than I have been for months,'' she said. " Our conversation of yesterday was very agitating, and I am afi-aid I have indulged," she added, ■with a smile, " in too large a dose of poetry." "Indeed I too have done little but thiiik of our conversation of last evening," he exclaimed, rushing into the subject with an excess of enthusiasm and a lack of penetration. " And I should wish you to forget it," she replied. " I went further and said more than I find it pleasant to remember. Believe me, I am not usiially indiscreet and confidential. There is not one person here to whom I would have said or hinted a tithe of what I said to you." " Not even to Horace ?" " Certainly not to Horace," she replied. " When I talk to Horace it is of himselfj not of myself. You can easily imagine why I speak with you of matters I could never touch upon with Horace." She rolled up the stockings she was mending as she spoke, and my father moved imeasily upon his chair. At last he said — " I have been much interested in my cousin Horace." "And you may well be," Amabel replied. "The steady courage with which he meets misfortune, conscious that he is its master and superior, is a lesson I would gladly lay to heart, and cherish for my own use in despondent times." " Yet Horace says that he learnt that patient courage, Mrs. Leonard, from you." It was the first time that he had called her by the name she had assumed ; a name that she could never hear without emotion. She colored, and tears gathered in her eyes ; but she recovered herself and continued : • " When I first knew Horace, the elements of a noble charac- 286 Amabel; a family iSstory. ter had not been disci]olined ; and like the singer whose too powerful voice requires to be brought into subjection, he needed that self-mastery, without which the milder virtues become weaknesses, and the stronger passions." " Self ^discipline is then a system of checks and balances ?" said my father. ^ " I find it so," she answered, " and .... Mr. Bevis is not the man to educe a perfect character out of conflicting elements. I hope that in return for the happiness I have found in the interest inspired by Horace, and his almost filial devotion and affection, I may have been able to do him good." " A filial aflfection ! I have suspected on Horace's part something more." " More 1" she cried. " Horace at nineteen is a young man. His feelings and his passions strong. I doubt," said my father, " if you are more than four-and-twenty, and you must know the power likely to be exerted over him in the pride of her loveliness by a superior woman !" " Oh, God 1" she exclaimed, shuddering, " how deeply am I yet to drink the cup of humiliation ! Mr. Ord, as before heaven I pray you to beUeve that what you have just said is perfectly new to me, and it gives me more pain than you can imagine. Amidst all the difficulties of my present life, my friendly intercourse with Horace has been my consolation." Then, after pausing a moment, she exclaimed, " What gave you the idea ?" " Personal observation, and some few words dropped by Bevis." "By Bevis !" she cried. "That man, Mr. Ord, is my perse- vering enemy ; and knowing him to be such, I have not felt it becoming in me to speak to you as I should otherwise have done to the friend of Horace, of his utter unfitness for his pre- sent position. He is a bad man .... meanly bad. Putting his hope in my position, he has dared to insult me by profes- sions, and has never forgiven me his repulse. He is endea- voriner at present to annoy me by making love to my young ner at prei r Olivia, sister Olivia, for whose welfare I am responsible ; though her t AMABEL; 4 FAMILY HISTOBY. "287 character places her little under my conti-ol. His attentions are well received .by her. I cannot preveilt or counteract them. I see the thing going on under my own eyes. I know the character of Mr. Bevis, and nothing but the watchful auxiliary aid of Horace has sustained me in the unequal struggle." " What attractions can a man like Bevis find in Miss Olivia ?" " In the main, I suppose, her prospect of a small fortune. - Olivia is beyond my control, and inaccessible to my persuasions. We are only half-sisters, you know. I was placed when very young with the relations of my father, but Olivia, at home, early contrived to gain over her mother the ascendency which a strong will has over a weak one, and has never, till she fouiid herself under my authority, been subject to any salutary control." " Oh ! that is it," thought my father. " So the mother died young, and Capt. Talbot married again — children of the same father by different women. She is very fond of the father, I perceive." Then, he said aloud, " You undertook a very great responsibility, when you took the direction of your father's family." " Very great, indeed ; but I had no one to advise me. What could I do ? Alone in the world, without any other domestic ties, this call appeared to me a call from Heaven. It gave me new interests in life-'— it gave me a vocation.'' Then, after a pause, " I cannot believe what you tell me about Horace. It has agitated me more than you can conceive. Cannot you tell Horace how vain, how impossible, how criminal is such a folly ? Cannot you warn him ? It would come better from you than from me." " I will tell him, if you choose, all that I can," replied my father. She hesitated. " Second thoughts are best," she replied. " Say nothing for the present. I cannot believe your informa- . tion, and I know Horace better than you do. If it were really so, any actual explanation might only root the evil. If it becomes necessary to speak, I will do it myself. But I must first observe him. Poor Horace ! It is absurd. It cannot be. .. A. mere, boy 1" 288 Amabel; a family history. She was evidently greatly disturbed by his suggestion. But, without continuing the conversation, rose, "and was putting away her work-bag. " Are you going out ?" said my father, who could not tear himself away. " May I accompany you 3" "I think not," she replied. "I am in want of calm and quiet. Your conversation will excite me, and I have need to recover my self-command." " I promise to touch only on literary subjects. I want your opinion on Scott's poems ?" " If you mean by that, you want to know my opinion of Marmion, I should reply, that immediately after the treat we had this morning, I feel that I admire it too much to criticize. Yet, if you must have a small criticism, I should say, I have no sympathy with the character, or rather sketch of Wilton. Man is, or ought to be, superior to circumstances. Wilton was not a man of the highest kind of courage, or would he not, having sunk out of public sight in the character of knight and noble, have done something better than wander round the world a useless, solitary, morose, despairing palmer ? I have no sympathy with that kind of man." Before the conclusion of their walk, they had made wonder- ful progress in intimacy. She found it delightful to catch from him the tope of general opinion on literary subjects, and he, unused to intercourse with an appreciative woman, his equal in poetical feeling, though his inferior in cultivation, was fascinated and charmed with her beyond my powers of description. He quitted her on their return, as they approached Sandrock, for their dinner hour was early, and he had some preparation to make before he joined them. After she had been into the kitchen, visited the chamber of little Joseph, and tied the bow of her father's best white neck- handkerchief, she proceeded to attend to h-er own toilette. This was always elegant and neat, but generally very brief and inex- pensive. On this occasion, however, she was hard to satisfy. Somivlittle adornments which had never seen the light since the disruption of her marriage, were brought out and tried on. 4f • AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 289 She had hardly put in her last pin, when there was a loud knock at her door, and, opening it, she found Ned and my father standing on the threshold. " May we come in, sister ?" said the former. " Mr. Ord has been admiring the view fi'om my window, and I told him it was a great deal better from yours." " Come in," she said, recovering from her first surprise, and postponing Ned's lesson in propriety to a more convenient season. The view my father came to see, he barely looked at. Ha glanced around him. Nothing coidd exceed the bare simplicity of the decorations of the chamber. In one of the windows stood a few flowers ; above them hung a painted cage, contain- ing a young linnet, the gift of a poor woman. On the mantel- piece were two small vases, filled with graceful flowering grasses ; ov^r them hung a slight sketch of a village church and churchyard, shaded by yews. A few — very few— books, devo- tional, or of Italian or classical poetry, stood on a plain deal shelf over her dressing table. My father's attention was, however, drawn chiefly to a large blue camlet cloak, evidently " once the property of a gentle- man," which, with its brass chain clasp and scarlet woollen lining, lay spread over her sofa bed. " I hope you admire my sister's counterpane," said Ned, per- ceiving that it had caught the attention of my father. He looked into her face and saw her blush, as, turning hastily, she asked him if the portfolio in his hand contained his own poems. " Nothing, however, could affect me so deeply, as the stan- zas you have given me," she added, looking on the ground. My father seized her hand. " It is the poet's highest tri- umph," he said, " to awaken such emotions. "Might the impres- sion but be lasting, not evanescent, I should indeed have gained from poetry the highest reward she can bestow." " It is an impression which will last me all my life," she said, in a low voice, as they went down stairs. The fish was highly approved of My father found out that Amabel had made the wine sauce, the pickles, and the 290 AMABEL; A FAMILY H I S T R T . pudding. He told some of liis best sea stories to Capt. Talbot, who was able to join slightly in the conversation, it being one of his well days. My father was quite surprised by the nauti- cal erudition of Amabel. She even ventured to dispute with him upon the navy list, and set him right on a point of promo- tion. After dinner, she went to the piano, by way of sequel to a discussion upon sea songs, and began to sing Tom Bowline and Black-eyed Susan, asking his advice on points of emphasis. My father, who had a good voice, added a second. The music gave the most intense delight to the poor paralytic, who sat by the fire beating time. Annie had gone on some errand, Olivia had retired to her chamber, and Ned was despatclied to Dr. Frost's with his Latin grammar. My^father and Amabel, left alone, stood by the window, talking low, until the lengthened shadows on the lawn grew dim, and they were startled by the entrance of the girl, with tea and candles. At nine o'clock, a liquor stand was brought in for Captain Talbot, who, before he slept, always took a glass of toddy, like a fine old English ofii- cer all of the olden time. Amabel offered to mix one for my father, who could not resist the temptation of a glass of grog from her fair hands. As soon as he was gone, she hurried up to the sick child's chamber, inwardly reproaching herself, for having that day left him to others' care. My father, meanwhile, was striding briskly homewards, thinking Horace a fool for imagining that a youth of his age could captivate such a woman, but with no trace of the fear he had had the day before, that his young relation w.ould be taken in by the insidious arts of a seductive charmer. It was very dark, and the road was bad in some places. After several mistakes, he found himself within the garden fence of the Hiil Farm, but could not see the path, and fancied he had got into the midst of a flower border. Clods of earth and briers entangled his feet ; he tried to kick them away, and as he did so, tripped and fell over a spade. " Confound the careless rascal who left such things lying in the middle of the foot-path," he exclaimed, to Bevis, as he entered the house, rubbinsr his shins. Amabel; a family HiSTORr. 291 " I suppose it was Horace," said the tutor. " He was out there till the night closed in." Bevis had that afternoon seen the white rose blooming in a glass in my father's chamber. He had recognised it at once, Horace having made a great fuss over it during the period of its growth, and there was not another like it in that part of the country. In the spirit of ill-natured mischief, he had iastened to tell Horace that the favors of his immaculate lady-love seemed very lightly won, and pretty generally distributed ; that she appeared strangely willing to extend the range of her tri- umphs by purchasing the attentions of a new admirer, at the expense of an old one ; that, at present, the absurd enthusiasm of youth blinded his judgment, but that when he grew older . . . ... Here Horace interrupted him, exclaiming, that he was not going to stand by and hear a lady such as Amabel, insulted ; that nothing could be more mean than to shelter a taunt behind unanswerable arguments of being olde, than the other party. " I know I am young," he cried, " I am willing to acknow- ledge it. But I also know that' grown up man loses the yoiithful instittct. Learns to argue upon good, but what is good he discerns not. Learns to handle the helm, but breaks the compass to steer by. I would not be you, Mr. Bevis, at your age, for all the gold of Ophir." So saying, Horace turned with vehement contempt from his unworthy tutor. He found his way down to the river's brink,* and stood upon the bridge over the mill stream. His pride and his strong passions slipped their leash. He lost all self- command. He returned home after nightfall in a state of great bodily and mental suffering. He seized a spade out of * It has been suggested to me by several friends unaccustomed to tKe society of the blind, that Horace's activity is rather extraordinary. I beg leave to assure them that I have a very dear friend and cousin, who not only is blind like Horace, but has su fFered amputation of one leg. Notwithstanding this double misfortune, he is full of activity and energy, the best farmer in his county, a good correspondent, and a capital horse man. The life of my cousin John, like Horace's example, points one of the morals of my book, and proves that an Immortal being has.it in his power, if he vnU^ to bruise the head of adverse circomBtances, which can only bruise his heel if he openly defiei. them. 292 Amabel; a f am ilt hi sto ry. the tool-house, and began a sort of indiscviminate devastation m the flower-beds ; first digging up the rose unique, the pride of his garden. CHAPTER VI. HeUs ! dans mes longs jours d'alarme Que j'ai verse (i'ameres pleurs ! Aujourd'hui ccs pleurs out leur charme, Je suisheureux de mes douleurs ! Qui, pour moi quand je vous ^coute Du ciel s'apaise le courroux ; C'est un blaspheme que le doute, Et je crois au bonheur ; Dieu m'a conduit vers vous ! The next morning every one was late at thS'Hill Farm ; my father slept late, Bevis was late, the servants late, and Horace did not make his appearance at all. He had passed a restless, feverish night, Bevis had been called up to him, and by morn- ing he was seriously indisposed. The day was a wet Sunday, that mpst wearisome of all days to at least nine tenths of our Christian population. My father went into his cousin's room to see if he could do anything for him, but soon came forth again supposing he was too ill to receive visitors, as Horace, when he entered, turned his face to the wall. This being the case, my father followed the bent of his own inclination, which was to go to church in the hope of meeting Amabel. He took his way past the cottage of the Talbots, and on nearing it, saw Olivia at an open widow with her bonnet on. " Good morning. Miss Olivia," said my father, entering the gate. " Are any of you going to church this morning ?" " I do not know, Mr. Ord. Has Mr. Bevis gone past ?" replied Olivia. '' Horace is ill, and he had to stop at home this morning. No doubt he will regret it, Miss Olivia, when he knows he was expected by you." amabkl; a family history. 293 Olivia tossed her bead. " You will be late for church, Mr. Ord," said Annie, from her window. " Are you all at home this morning ?" said my father, anxi- ous to find out by an indirect question if Amabel were gone. " AH, except Ned and Amabel. They went at nine o'clock to the Sunday-school." Having thus ascertained that the pleasure of sheltering Ama- bel to church under his umbrella was not to be expected,. my father lifted his hat, and walked briskly on. He was not so late in getting into church as he had anticipated. The beadle showed him into the Hill Farm pew, and as soon as he had settled himself in his place, he heard a low earnest fervent voice, in the next pew behind him, repeating the responses in the confession. All through the service he listened to Ama- bel's sweet pleading voice; it awoke in him a hearty desire to pray for her and for himself. He too knelt down, almost beside her, a few frail boards divided them, but their souls together soared above the earth, their hearts together met before their Father's throne. Her earnestness had kindled his. The fervent petitions of that Sunday were the prelude to a deep conviction of the privilege of prayer. He did not see her face. He turned but once to look at her. Her veil was down. Well might she weep, well might she pray ; the events of the past week, the new hopes they had awakened, the sins of the past, never to be sufficiently remembered ^r repented of, each in its turn smarted her tears. It was one of those moments of self consciousness and of self pity which soften the heart, and make us weep without any very especial or prominent cause. The church, to them the House of God, t'le gate of heaven, was perfectly innocent of all Papistical adornments. Of it they might truly say No ficulptured wondeys meet the sight, Nor pictured saints appear, Nor storied window's gorgeous light, But God himself is here. The proportions of the edifice were good, but it had been 294 Amabel; a family history. subject to a long course of indiscriminating whitewash, which gave to ceiling, walls, and floor, a glaring unifoi'mity, broken only by the black board hung out over the gallery, on which was scored with chalk, the number of the Psalms and Hymns the choir proposed to sing " to the glory of God," and the dis- comfort of the congregation. From the same gallery, the rising generation had been in the habit of spitting down with tolerable aim, on the grey locks and bald heads of its elders, and the beadle's lithe cane — whack. — whack — had in former days resornded there ; but the influence of Amabel had, in some degree, restored order and decency among the scholars of the Sunday School. The discourse delivered by Dr. Frost was as chilling as his name. Had either Theodosius or Amabel hstened to it atten- tively, I am afraid it might have done away with the preced- ing effect of the service ; but, my father, at that time, was not much given to take an interest in any but very eloquent dis- courses, and' Amabel, who had long sat under Dr. Frost's red cushion, had given up attempting to be edified. My father went out first, hoping to intercept her, but she waited so long in the church to speak to some old women, -that he almost began to fear she had escaped, till Ned came out into the church porch, and stood beside him. Shortly after- wards she joined them. As she did so, the first sunbeam of the day fell on her head, and seemed to crown her with a golden glory. ^ "Where is Horace?" she said. "I do not see him to-day. In general, he is so punctual." " Horace is ill," replied my father, and proceeded to give her what he knew of the particulars. He offered her his arm, she took it, and they walked on silently. At length, he said, " How astonishingly beautiful is our ser- vice ; — how soothing its influence ; — and, though composed of many parts, how perfect as a whole !" " Indeed, I feel it so," she said. " I know but one omission. There is no prayer for the happy. I felt the want of one this morning. There is abundant provision made for the sad." Amabel; a family hist on v. 295 ' You wanted a prayer for the happy !" he said, and stopped. "Yes, indeed," she said. "The tears that I have shed, which I am not ashamed that you should see, were not all grief. There is a new hope brooding in my heart," and her voice faltered. Again they walked on silently. Her thoughts were on the subject of her tears ; of happy tears, Which perfect Joy, perplexed for utterance, Stole from her sister Sorrow. Not perfect joy, no doubt. But she was like the shipwrecked seaman in an open boat, tossed weary days and dreadful nights upon unvarying waters, who dimly sees ahead at the blue verge of sky and sea, a faint low strip of land. Tears, manfully suppressed during an earnest struggle for his life, start to his eyes. He thanks God and takes courage. They walked on arm in arm, not wishing to converse ; the heart of each was understood by the other, a very different thing, you perceive, from having on matters of fact come to a clear understanding. They entered the premises by the garden. As they climbed up the terraces, she stopped under a warm wall, where grew a sweet-leaved verbena. She paused, broke off the largest sprig, thereby nearly destroying the plant, which she had nursed in her own room during a long -winter, and, as she put it into his haitd, she bruised one leaf between her fingers. " The crushed leaf gives the sweetest fragrance. May I take that as an omen for the future, Mr. Ord ?" He pressed the hand that lay upon his arm, still closer to his heart. Hi felt as if she iad almost given him the right to watch over her, to be concerned in all that affected her. After a pause, he said, " You are wearing yourself out in this place." "At the worst," she said, in the sweet words of the Port- royalist, and looked up in his face and smiled, " N'avons nous pas toute Viterniie pour nous reposer?" So saying, she took leave of him, and he went on his way 296 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. rejoicing. She had smiled into his heart. There was a pecu- liar fascination in her smile to every one who loved her. Every leaf in every nooi glittered with rain-drops, a sum- mer's sun shone on them, and the dreary rain which had been shed all night, glistened and sparkled in the golden liglit of mid-day. A fragrance rose from all the moistened earth, the tender wheat was peeping from amongst the clods of the future fiplds of harvest. The little birds, who had hidden themselves in leafy coverts, while the rain-storm lasted, now blithely hovered upon every branch, or splashed, and bathed, and twit- tered in the rain pools. Nature, rejoicing in her alchemy, turned all her possessions into profit, and, literally under the influences of the sunlight, even the dust of the earth seemed turned to gold. As my father walked along, buried in reflections in unison •with nature, he heard the patter of feet behind him on the path, and, turning round, beheld Ned Talbot running after him, with a tumbler full of jelly iu his hand. " Where are you going with that, my boy ?" said he, good- humoredly. "I am taking it up to Horace Vane," said Ned, "Sister made some the other day for Joseph, and she thinks it will do Horace good." " Give it to me then 1" said my father, " I shall carry and deliver it quite as safely as you. You can run home to your dinner." " No, sir ; I can't do that," said Master Ned mysteriously, " because you see," here he came near to my father, and began to whisper — "because you see I have a note to deliver from Olivia to Mr. Bevis, and I am to bring back another volume of a book he has got for her." " Does your sister Amabel know you carry notes between them ?" said my father. A delicious thrill went through him, as, for the first time, he spoke her name. " I don't know quite," said Ned, rather disconcerted. " You see," he added, resuming his confidential whisper, " I think Mr. Bevis and Olivia are going to be married. I wish they would. She would go away then, and we should have another wedding." auabel; a fami^lt hibtort. 29Y " Do you remember that of your sister Amabel ?" asked my fatter. " Yes ; I do just," said Ned. " What sort of man was her husband !" " I don't remember him much," said ^ed, " but it was all prime. I had a new suit of clothes, and went to church, and ate all the ornaments oif the cake, and was dreadfully sick the day after ?" * " What became of him ?" " He died," said Ned, repeating an untruth Olivia had one day told him, to get rid of his iiMportunity in asking the same question. " He went to sea, and never came back any more. You must never," he- continued, "tell Amabel I told you ; for, since she came back to live with us, she can't bear to hear him spoken of, and we have been told never to mention him. You won't tell, will you ?" Horace continued ill, and obstinately refused to let them send to the nearest market town for the medical practitioner. During the early part of the week, daily accounts reached Ama- bel through the gossips of the village, of the bachelor discom- forts of his sick chamber ; and at length, her own patient, little Joseph, being once more on his feet, she took courage in the thought of the protection afforded her against Bevis by my father's presence, and one morning walked up to the Hill Farm, with her basket, making her way at once to the blind boy's chamber. He was lying, at that moment, in a most uneasy slumber. His arms were tossed above his head, his thick hair ■was tangled, and his bed-clothes in the most uncomfortable disorder ;. two or three pillows, which, in the restless agitation of the night, he had flung away, lay on the floor ; with one of them he had knocked down a small table. She cleared a chair, put down on it her bonnet,-^shawl, and basket, and then, with her light step and fairy touch, proceeded to restore an appear- ance of order and of comfort to the chamber. In her hands, creaking doors would never creak, arid glasses never rattle. The room was set to rights, the beef tea she had brought was simmering upon the hearth, and she herself, calm, still, and 13* 298 Amabel; a tamily history. gentle, when Horace woke, was sitting by his side. He recog- nised her presence even before she laid her cool, soft hand on his, and as he felt the touch, he made an uneasy movement. "Dear Horace," , she said, "you do not know how much more comfortable I have made your room. Now, let me smoothe this rugged mane, and re-arrange these troubled pil- lows." n " What does it signify ?" he said, in an impatient tone. " What use am I on earth ? A blight — a good-for-nothing bur- den." " Why, Horace, how unlike you !" said Amabel in surprise, for she had come up there to minister to the body, and was not prepared to find the mind diseased. " Dear Horace, you shall not call your misfortune by hard names. You are ungrateful to that God who has given you large opportunities of usefulness. Oh ! Horace, words can never tell how, when trials were multiplied, and I must have fainted without help, your silent sympathy Has strengthened and refreshed me !" " Say that again — say that again," cried Horace. " Say I am something yet to you." "Much — much indeed, dear Horace, your love is more to me than words can tell ; and my confidence in your aflfection has sustained my courage when without you Oh ! Horace, I do not love to think of times like those," she said, and stopped ; then murmured to herself those words of the Ancient Mariner — My soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea, So lonely 'twas, that God Himself Scarce seemed there to be. " Mrs. Leonard," cried Horace, after a moment's pause, " will you answer me one question ?" " Certainly, Horace, sht)uld it be a question I can answer." " Have you known Theodosius Ord before , or has he sup ? Did you ever see him before ?" he cried. Amabel hesitated a moment, and then — " You have asked a hard thing," she replied. " To explain to you the relations that subsist between Mr. Ord and myself, would lead me to speak of A-mabel; a family histoey. 293 things wliich, in honor and duty, I am bound not to mention, Not secrets only of my own, for I would be willing to lay before you the story of my life with all its feults, its errors, and short- comings. I have seen Theodosius Ord before. Will that brief answer satisfy you ?" " Oh ! did you — answer me this one more question," said Horace, seizing her hand, " did you," and he started up in bed, and his face flushed, and he turned on her his eyes, those eyes that could not see, "did you give him my rose, my poor little rose unique which I gave you ? Did you give it him as a love-token — to be valued for your sake ? Had it no sort of value because / raised it for you V " Horace," she said gravely, " listen to me. You know not what you say. No man ought to presume to talk to me of love tokens. I would not, for a forest of magnolias, have given any one your rose. I never gave it to Mr. Ord. I never knew, till now, it had been in^ his possession. I wore it home from Dr. Frost's, and thought it safe, but missed it when I was undi'£ssing. Are you sure you are not mistaken ?" " Yes, indeed," said Horace, " Bevis saw it in his room, and I went in and found it there. Nothing but the fear that you would be displeased, prevented my tearing it in my jealous fury. Will you forgive me? I was very unjust and very wrong." She looked very sad and very grave for a few moments. " Lie down, dear Horace," she said. " Lie down and hear me. I believe your love for me to be so pure, and real, and strong, that you will believe and trust me, though I speak in riddles. Oh ! Horace, for that love's sake, if you knew how sad my life has been, you would be glad to know that I walk in the brightness of a new hope since your cousin has been with you. If that hope is not deceived, before very long, dear Horace, I trust to tell you all. Theodosius has come here, ostensibly to pay you a visit, but in reality, because I live here. I knew it from the time of his arrival. And, know, dear Horace, once for all, and once for ever, that between us there is no question of affection. It would be criminal for Theo- dosius Ord, or any other man who knew my history, to ask of me what is commonly called lore ; and vain — utterly vain, for 300 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. any one whatever, to hope to inspire me with such a feeling. Horace, is my joy to be dimmed because you will not share it ? When happiness and honor, love, station, and a name are all restored to me, is my satisfaction to be dashed with bitteniess, because Horace Vane, whose sympathy was so dear to me in my days of grief, refuses to be glad that I am happy ?" He started up, and seizing both her hands, pressed them together between his own. " Hear me swear," he said, " that your happiness is dearer to my heart a hundred thousand fold than my own. That I will and do rejoice in anything that makes you happy. No tears of mine shall fall upon your path. If it can please you, when you are happy, I will be so too." " May God bless you and teep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you, and be merciful unto you," she said, consecrating, as it were, his vow by her most solemn blessing, and, stooping over him, she pressed a cool, calm, elder sister kiss upon the eyelids of his sightless eyes and on his burning forehead. ^v^ After a quiet pause, she rose, proceeded to toast crisp, and to prepare a slice of bread, after which she poured the beef tea she had been cooking, into a cup, and bringing it to his bed-side, invited him to dine. He tried to rally, poor fellow, and take an interest in all she did. She put the cup and spoon into his hand, and made him feel the thin crisp bars of toast. " How nice it all is when you make it," he said. " Mrs. Csesar brings me great gi'easy basins of coarse broth, holding a quart." "If you behave well," said Amabel, trying to smile and to speak gaily, though there was a little quiver in her voice, " I am coming up to make it for you every day." She kept her word. The sort of slow fever under which Horace was suffering, was not to be shaken off at once, though he grew better day by day. Every morning my father walked to Saudrock, for the pleasure of escorting her. Often he came into Horace's room, while she was there, and heard her read, or read to them, while she worked ; for Horace, anxious to show her he could conquer his own passion, had become very cordial to his cousin. Sometimes they talked, more often they read. " The Rejected Addresses," was, to my father's great disgust, Amabel; a family history. 301 one of their favorite volumes. lAmabel had always, as he called it, " a perverse penchant for parody." She hailed Bon Gaultier's abilities years ago, before they were generally acknowledged ; and gave a binding to that number of Tait's Magazine which contained his review of the Topaz. The days of Horace's convalescence were thus upon the ■whole, "merry and joyful." The- poor fellow struggled to be gay, and succeeded at last, without a painfully visible expendi- ture of effort. The natural gaiety of Amabel broke forth, as it had never done since the days of her girlhood. She laughed, and quoted fragments of gay verse, and sang snatches of sea song up staira, down stairs, and in poor Horace's chamber. Her step was buoyant, and her smile was gay ; there was almost an air of triumph in the way in which sometimes, when alone and very elate, she tossed her head and carried herself. On the gloomy background of her past life, glittered and sparkled the trifling pleasures of the present. She seemed to say with Browning's charming Duchess, when contemplating the trials and distresses so ill suited to her nature — It was all a jest against God ; who meant That I should be ever, as I am, content And glad in His sight. Therefore glad will I b«. And my father, who had iirst loved her in her sadder moods, became bewitched with her in those of gladness. He became domesticated at her cottage. He would have been there all day long, had he not considered himself bound to devote some of his time to Horace. He knew ^alL her ways and all her haunts. He could lie in wait for her at all hours, and when he intruded, she was never displeased. He began to frame plans for their future. He was made wretched one day, because having, bitterly complained to her in a fit of disgust, of the slowness of his promotion, and having told her that he thought of not applying any more for employment, -and of never aspiring to anything beyond his lieutenant's commission, she answered him that any man was wrong to give up his profession ; that if he quitted the navy, he would be cutting off from his future all the past of his life, that naval men always grumbled at the ser- 302 Amabel; a family' HisTOBr. vice, and Nelson himself was once on the verge of an open rup- ture with the Admiralty. " If she wants me to go to sea," said he,. " she cannot love me." But, soon he forgot this dis- couragement, and was eagerly endeavoring to find out even her most trivial tastes. He began to think that a retired country life, enlivened by farm work and literary labor, would bo all he wanted to construct a Paradise, an Eve being already provided for his Eden. He had a barely sufficient funded competency left him by his parents, and it was curious to see how eagerly he began to make acquaintance with the farmers, and to inquire the price of land, and the capabilities of houses, and how earnestly he consulted her upon these subjects, and how her lightest opinion swayed him. While he indulged these dreams of cottage love, and planted pleasant fancies, in his paradise, Amabel was not with- out her visions. Her thoughts turned often to her old home, the cottage within the park bounds of the Cedars, planning alterations in its flower beds, and improvements in its house- keeping, the transplantation of her new ideas, and her dwarf roses for the embellishment of that home in which she had had little interest when she possessed it. CHAPTER Vn. Two ears aDd but a single tongue By nature's laws to man belong ; The lesson she would teach is clear — Repeat but half of what you hear. FRASEB's MAaAZINE. My father's intimacy with Amabel was now so well established, that, in the course of one of their confidential conversations, he informed her of the notes carried by Ned Talbot between Bevis and Olivia. A few days later, whilst looking with interest, in the dusk of the evening, at a fine growth of turnips, in a field near the entrance of the village, he was accosted in a truculent way by AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORy. 303 Be vis, who, in an extremely excited and offensive manner, broke in upon his meditation. " I understand, Mr. Ord," said he, " you have been tj'oubling yourself very amnecessariiy with my concerns ; that you have taken upon you to make representations, concerning my inter- course with Miss Olivia, to her family ; and I musfsay I consi- der it an oiHcious interference, sir." " Upon my word, Mr. Bevis," replied my father, who, being an officer, restrained his temper, when, if a civilian, he might possibly have knocked the fellow down, " this is not language to be held to me. I am not conscious that I have interfered unwarrantably in any affair that affects you." " You did not mention, I presume, to that sister of her's, that choice morsels of correspondence have occasionally passed between us." " I certainly may have mentioned," my father replied, " that I found Ned Talbot carrying notes one morning. I knew Mrs. Leonard was anxious on the subject, and — " " And I must say," interrupted Bevis, " that for her to be playing the guai-diini of vestal virtue, and casting stones at her sister on the ground of impropriety, is one of the richest jokes I ever heard of." " It is quite time to stop these insinuations. I should like to know, sir, what you mean ?" indignantly exclaimed my father. " It is nearly as good," continued Bevis, eluding his ques- tion — "it is nearly as good as your setting up to lecture me upon this subject. I must say the cool self-possession of you both is quite remarkable ! My intentions respecting Miss Oli- via are strictly honorable, whatever yours may be respecting the other lady." My father burst forth, "I will trouble you, to remember, in my presence, that the lady whom you dare to sneer at, I hope to make my wife ! For any further remarks made in your present style, you will have to be answerable to me, sir." . ' Bevis stopped short. " Why, Theodosius Ord," said he, " shake hands. I beg your pardon. I did not mean to offend you. But .... you are joking ! You 304 Amabel; a family history, don't mean to say ... . !" And Bevis finished off each uncompleted sentence with a short contemptuous laugh. " I should like to know upon what grounds you have been pleased to base such vile insinuations V cried my father. "I can hardly suppose that any gentleman would dare to wound a defenceless widow thus, without fancying at least he had some slight grounds " *' ' If imputation and strong circumstances — Which lead directly to the door of truth — Will give you satisfaction, you may have it,* " interrupted Bevis. " You may well quote lago. I believe you are playing the " very part. But you will find me no Othello, sir." " Listen then, Ord. It is not easy to make you hear reason, you are so excitable on this subject. I have known all along there was a screw loose in her history. I have seen her wince and blush, and evade questions, from the time she first arrived in this place. All about her was not open and above board, as all that concerns female honor should be. And you may lay it down as a general rule — a rule without exception in English society — that the woman or man, close-mouthed about the ante- cedents of their lives, well know that there is something which will not bear to be looked at too keenly." "These are mere general assertions, Mr. Bevis," said my father. " 1 am coming to particulars. Of course I can give you little positive information on my own personal knowledge. But I can tell you the impression made on my mind by conversation with Olivia. The little fool is tolerably discreet, too, upon this point, and this alone; but to-day, when she heard that you and Mrs. Leonard had been interfering with her conduct, her temper got the better of her, and she vowed to me that of all the impertinent things she ever heard, was her setting up to read lectures on propriety — that if I only knew all she knew. . . . And she stopped, and I could not get a word more out of her." " Mere malice of Olivia's," my father cried. " Oh ! if you are going to reject all testimony as malicious, it AMfABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 305 is no use talking. You may persist in considering her a saint, but you cannot prevent other people from remembering 'that the character of a female saint has always been supposed to combine a good deal of the ' fair penitent.' Did you ever," he continued, seeing my father was turning away, " did you ever hear her talk of the village of S , a place of some celebrity, about a dozen or fifteen milesfrom here? I suspect you never heard her mention it. A short time after she came here, a travelling pedlar told the people at the ale-house, that he knew her well, and knew more than she would like him to tell us of her story. He said he had seen her — it must be now two years ago — at S , living in strict retirement, secluded from her relations and former friends, and without any male protector ; that she had an infant born there, which soon died, and she left the place almost immediately after, with a good-looking man, in a post-chaise. There, now, is a series of facts, -which I sus- pect, in all the intimacy of your late intercourse, you never heard alluded to by her." My father could not say that she had ever made the least mention of any such passages in her history. He feebly tried, at first, to prove that the pedlar must have been mistaken ; but Bevis was positive on the question of identity. " I know I have made you angry with me, Ord, but it is for your true good," said he. " You are a man entirely above caring for the opinion of the world, but still I do not fancy you would like to have the character of Mrs. mixed up with the beer swilled in a hedge ale-house." So saying, Mr. Bevis turned away, muttering — " ' Lift not up your horn on high, look not with a stifl" neck.' I could preach a profitable sermon upon that text to certain people." As to my father, if he had a fault, it was, as I have said already, an extreme sensitiveness to public opinion, as Bevis knew when he flattered him on the possession of a quahty in which he was quite aware of his deficiency. The fault must have been inherited, I think, for he shared it in common with his cousin, Capt. Warner, only the latter was more easily swayed by his feelings than my father, having a habit of taking the bearings of things in relation to himself, his views upon 306 A M A B E L ; A FAMILY U I S T O R V . most subjects being- strictly person.'il. Of course, ray father was a man superior to tlie vulgar influence of Vanity Fair on points of conscience ; the public- opinion that had such power over him, was the opinion of the two or three immediately around him. The opinion of the world does not usually break upon a man at once, but approaches him in the narrowing circles , of acquaintance, friendship, connexion, and intimacy. He had a candid way of judging things, and could always see a certain amount of reason in either side of any question set before hiui. Tlie representations of Bevis had exceedingly disturbed him, lie turned, as that gentleman quitted him, and walked slowly back in the direction of the cottage. Bevis had given him an altered view of life, and showed him all the glory of his hopes with a shadow upon them. As he repassed the turnip fields at which he had been gazing, he felt the change that had passed over him. He had no longer any interest in the rotation of their crops, in their price, or their production. He walked back pretty I'apidly to the cottage, and entered the premises by the garden. As he crossed ,the strip of lawn, and j)assed by the open window of the sitting-room, he heard voices. 01i\'ia was using the very words which Bevis had attributed to her. " I think," she said, in an excited voice, " that for you — for you to throw a stone at me on the ground of impropriety, is the most audacious piece of impudence I ever heard of !" At that moment both the sisters caught sight of Theodo.sius, and Olivia becoming suddenly silent,, flung out of the room, violently slamming the door. My father, on coming into the room, found Amabel standing by the table very still and very pale, looking worn out and suiFering. " I am very — that is, very glad — I am very glad to — " Tlie effort she had been making, during the discussion with Olivia, to retain the mastery of her feelings and of her indig- nation, had been too much for- her. She had retained her calmness till the interview was over; now she faltered, and sank down in the nearest chair. My father, alarmed by her paleness, was about to ring the bell, but she retained presence of mind enough to prevent his doing so, and pointed to a Amabel;- a family history. 307 lavender-water bottle on the table. He brought it to her, and as she poured its contents on her handkerchief,, and bathed her brow, he stood and looked at her. Her paleness, her air of suffering, her womanly dependence, all appealed to his man- liness for protection. Was he, in whom she had placed trust, who had had such opportunities of knowing her, to abandon her lightly to the evil tongues of others ? He had come, hoping to ask her some questions, but was this a time to do so 1 And yet the words he had just heard from the lips of OUvia — words which apparently she had not reproved, had- sent an arrow to his heart, and he could not bear to leave her without quieting, in some degree, his doubts and fears. At last he said, when she seemed to be revived, "Do you know how far it is to S ?" " Fifteen miles of bad road. Do you think of going there ?" she replied. " I thought of going to-morrow on horseback," he continued, not boldly, however, for he was not accustomed to approach a subject indirectly. " It is a region that has gained a name in print, and it seems a pity to go out of the neighbourhood viithout seeing it." " Are you going to leave us ?" she said. She was wiping lavender-water stains from hei^ dress, and he did not see her face. He did not answer her question, but said, " Were you over there ?" " Oh ! yes,'' she said, " I know it well. The first sad months after — of my widowed life were passed at S . There my child died." "You have never spoken to me of your child." " The wound is too fresh," she replied. " I should upset myself at once, and you see how much I require self-command. Tf you go to S ," she continued after a pause, " let me give you a letter of introduction to the Vicar ; I may almost call him my earliest true friend." So saying she rose. " I am greatly obliged to you," he said, seizing her hand, and shaking it with fervor. " How white you look 1" continued he, looking tenderly on her pale face, 308 Amabel; a family history. till a faint blush stole over it. " Had you not better go and lie down ?" " It is pleasant to be cared for," she said. " But Mr. Ord — ," her eye caught a shadow flitting furtively across the grass, and she put her hand to her side as if to check a sudden spasm. " It is as I suspected. There goes Olivia. I am not at all equal to my duty towards my sister. Mr. Ord, as you go home, will you observe if she meets Bevis, and, if you can, break up their interview ?" " I hardly like to play the spy," said he. She looked up quickly. " Perhaps not," she answered with a smile ; " but no one can so graciously fulfil a graceless duty as you." " I do not think you need be in any fear of Bevis. I met him half an hour ago on his way homeward." " I am glad of it," she replied. " Eesponsibility without power is a great trial. Call here to-morrow on your way to S . I will have the letter ready for you." In obedience to this direction he presented himself the next morning before the gate of the cottage, mounted on a shaggy, tawny pony, born and bred, in the neighboring forest, in the midst of a drove of its own kind. The fellow who owned and had brought him up from the village, had been over once or twice to S , and gave my father some directions for his journey. He was to cross the Holt Forest, skirt the land inclosed for the Ranger's House (he would know it by the unusual magnitude of the oaks upon the lawn), then . to bear to the left for several miles, choosing his way among the cart tracks, and at a certain point he would meet with a deep ditch and a gap in a hedge, through which he would have to scramble, and was to be careful the pony did not kick him off. He always kicked at such places — " kicked like the very devil." On the other side of the gap he would find himself in a rough lane. If he followed it a mile or two he would fall in with a house, and might then ask his way. Amabel came out to him with her letter. " Here it is," she said. " The Vicar is the only person in this part of the world Amabel; a family history. 809 who really knows my history. I felt myself at liberty to reveal to him much that I have conscientiously concealed from every other person." " And from me ?" said my father. " May I never claim the privilege of a friend, and have you talk to me of yourself and of your sorrows ?" " The time may come," she answered gravely. " Let it come now !" he cried. " Not yet. There are things I may only speak of to the man of God I have chosen for my spiritual adviser, and .... my husband." Strange courtship ! And yet my father rode away displeased with her last words. It seemed to him she was leading him on too fest, that she was making a littk too sure that he proposed to be her husband. I do not say that he thought this, but he felt it. Pleasant thoughts did not come easily to him that morning. We have all had experience of such days. When chndreo in the nursery, we knew what it was " to get out of bed the wrong side," or to be attended by " the black dog ;" and, in Mahommedan history, it is told of Numan bin el Man- zer, an Arab prince of some celebrity, that to two days of the week he had given names : one he called Na&m, the day of good fortune ; the other Bos, or the day of evil. All petitioners who came to him on Naam he dismissed with bounty ; as for all who came during that he called Bos, he rolled their heads in the dust of the earth with the decree of execution. It was so with my father. All the pleasant fancies that preserited themselves upon this evil day " rolled in the dust of execution." That part of the forest through which he had to pass was a mere dreary barren waste, destitute of trees. Here and there some scathed and giant oak, inclosed and spared when all its fellows sank under the stroke of the woodman, lifted its bare and leafless arms to heaven, a sort of witness for nature against the destructive propensities of man. The ground over which his pony trod was full of sand holes. It had none of the beauty of the purple moorland ; it had not even the gfreen, short, smooth turf of the wild commons of 310 Amabel; a family histobv,. Norfolk, on whicli flocks of geese pick up a living. All was a uniform and dingy green ; and my father, slilor though he -was, and fond of reckless riding, could not push his pony fast through this uninteresting district, for fear of his setting his feet into deep holes. My good papA was glad enough to find himself at the gap in the hedge he had been warned of, and settling himself more firmly on his beast, he attempted to push him through. The vicious little brute laid his ears close to his head, and sent his heels high into the air, but my father stuck tight to him, hold- ing on by the mane as well as by his knees, and was rather proud of getting safely through into, a lane so . astonishingly rugged that it seemed, as I have before described it, more like the rough bed of a watercourse than like a road. It also proved, by reason of a late rain, extremely slippery, the pony stumbling and sliding at every step over large blocks of wet stone. It was long past noon when my father'arrived within sight of the village. There nothing had been altered since Amabel left it, two years before, with her lawyer, Mr. Trevor. Outward and visible changes in the street had bepn sparingly made during the past half century. The yews had looked no younger fifty years before ; the church then lay as closely shrined in ivy ; a few of the stone cottages of the peasantry had indeed renewed their thatch, but on the roofs of many grew the same gay wall-flowers and fat leeks which had been planted by the fathers of the present geiieration. My father had no difficulty in recognising the parsonage ; and having dismounted at the Eoyal Stag, leaving his jaded pony in the hands of the ostler of that place of entertainment, he walked across the green to the gate of the Vicar. A tax-cart was stand- ing before it, the horse held by a smart, boy about ten years old ; who, in reply to the stranger's inquiry, informed him that the Vicar had just been sent for to the utmost boundary of his parish, to fulfil the double duty of pastor and of magistrate. " Nevertheless," said Theodosius, " take this letter in to him, my boy ; I will hold the horse while you go." Alter a few moments the Vicar came out of the house with the note still in his hand. AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 311 " How is tlie ladv, sir 3 She speats of you as one of her true frieads." " "And no less so, sir, of you.- How longhave you been ac- quainted with her ?" said my father. " I received her when she came friendless and alone into this part of 'the country," said the Vicar, referring, as he spoke, to the letter in his hand. It said, " The gentleman I introduce to you is the cousin and most intimate friend of my husband. Ho has come here to examine into the tenor of my life since its catastrophe, and to eifect our reconciliation. Need I, my dear friend, tell you how hope and happiness now seem to smile upon me? He has, however, never alluded- in express terms to the circumstances of the past. 1 presume he has been made acquainted with the narrative^ I wrote to my husband while my sweet baby was still living, and therefore I had rather not speak to him myself of past events, nor do I wish you to allude 'to them further than he may lead you. I imagine the purpose of both is, not to inquire into the truth of my letter (at least such inquiries are not to be made here); but they wish to ascertain how I have spent my life since the temble separation ; whether I am more worthy of trust ; whether, to use your own quotation, ' the present-day has been the better for yesterday's error.' Say what you can for me, dear friend, with a due regard to truth, and believe that your counsels and your kindliness never can be forgotten by one who is equally bound to you by ties of deep respect and true regard." " She tells me, sir," said the Vicar, " that you would like to satisfy some doubts by making inquiries. I shall be glad to answer any -questions you may ask; but I am not quite sure from what she says how far she would wish me to volunteer my information." " I do not mean, of course," said my father, " to ask you to betray anything that Mrs. Leonard would rather conceal." '' You will learn the circumsiances of her history, best, I think, from her own lips, or her own pen ; but I fancy she wish^ me to bear testimony that, after an intimate acquaintance with her for many months, during which she opened her heart to me as 312 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. her friend and pastor, no doubt remains upon my mind that she is not only pure in fact but pure in heart." " That is, an honorable man need not fear I feel ashamed, sir, knowing her as I have done, to ask this question) to take her as his wife, and to be proud of her ?" " Indeed, sir, had I known her husband, I should have said to him long ago, ' fear not to take unto thee thy wife,' " replied the Vicar. " What became of him ?" exclaimed my father. " Indeed, sir, I don't know," said the Vicar in surprise. " He must have been cruelly violent and unjust to her," said my father." " There were false friends and many circumstances that may well have deceived him," said the Vicar. " There is plenty of heathenism in our modern code of honor. Our pattern man is modelled, not after Christ, but after Achilles ! Sometimes prompt anger and injustice seem to him almost a duty. I am not, however, going to acquit her husband. I think that, having man-ied one so young and inexperienced, and having bound him- self to love, cherish, and protect her, he should have borne with her. Instead of which, having planted her as it were into the place provided for his wife, he had not patience to wait till she had adapted herself to the climate and the soil." " I have heard a clever friend say that the world is made up of round holes and square holes, and round people get into the square, and square people into the round," replied my father. " That is particularly the case at the commencejjent of mar- ried life," returned the Vicar, " and woman's pliability enables her, if at first a little humored, soon to adapt herself to her hole and its proportions. However, she was more to blame than he, and for this reason. From what I imderstand of him, I think he was a man who, with native kindliness of heart and gene- rosity of feeling, had little power of discriminating character. Indeed I suspect he would have learned to appreciate his wife more through the warmth of his heart than the clearness of his und^standing. She, on the contrary, should have taken the initiative. She was quite capable of appreciating his character, of adapting herself to his tastes, and of winning his respect and amabkl; a family history. 313 admiration. But, sir," lie continued, being, as we know, a little long-winded, "I am sorry that indispensable business calls me away, and that my wife is passing a few weets at the sea- side. I shall be home probably this evening, and if you will do me the favor to pass the night, I have a few bottles of old Sherry, over which I will discuss this matter more at length with you." ' " One question more," said my father, as the Vicar was get- ting into his cart and gathering up his reins ; " one question more. Why did she come down here for her confinement, away from all her Mends and her connexions ?" "So hoi so hoi" cried the Vicar to his horse. "That is easUy explained, sir. She was recommended here by the Dry- dens, old people of her village, who came from this part of the country." Here, the Vicar's horse, tired of waiting, tossed his head and started from the door. My father, having partaken of a woolly mutton chop and a bottle of bitter port wine at the Royal Stag, wandered into the church-yard, and stood by the grave of little Leonard, under- neath the yews. The sun was sinking towards the west, yet it was not going down upon the day's ill-feelings. A few hours' absence had made her dearer to him than ever. He gazed into the western sky, and built up airy castles. " I can be her all on earth 1" he cried. "What man would not "desire to be all things to the wife he loves ?" A yearning to tell her so took possession of him ; a desire to see her before night-fall ; a longing to acquire, as soon as pos- sible, the right to shelter and protect her. " Why should I wait I" he cried. " Do I not now know all I came to know 1 Why should I stay for that good man's return ? To-morrow, to-morrow she is mine ! When I clasp her to the shelter of my breast will she not whisper all the cir- cumstances of her history ?" So thinking, my father took leave of the churchyard and remounted his pony. All sorts of pleasant meditations came with the deepening twilight. His fancy took its own way, so 14 314 Amabel; a family iiistory.' did his quadruped. Suddenly he found himself on his back on the other side of the gap, while the pony, kifeng, as his owner had said, like the " very devil," was gallopping with streaming rein towards home. Amabel was sitting with Horace by the river's side. The poor fellow had enjoyed that day. He had spent it with her, taking pleasure as the blind do, in showing skill in various little household avocations. Captain Talbot was asleep in the twi- light. They had talked of gaieties and gravities ; now Horace was showing her some sleight-of-hand. Bevis had gone over to the market town that afternoon. She was relieved from her anxiety, and her heart was very happy. "Hark!" said Horace, "here comes Ord, at the true sailor's pace !" Suddenly the pony stopped, tossed his vicious-looking head at them over the- hedge, and then resumed his gallop to the vUlage.. Amabel screamed at the sight of the empty saddle. " Oh, Horace !" she cried, " we must get help. Oh, Horace, how dreadful !" In moments of emergency the true relation of the sexes adjusts itself instinctively. What woman, in sudden mutual grief, does not, by impulse, become a comforter, and in mo- ments of alarm as naturally look at once to the nearest person of the other sex to shelter and protect her ? Perhaps at no moment of poor Horace's life was he more proud than wTien she thus involuntarily acknowledged the claims of his man- hood ; when she clung to him and shuddered, and he felt, though blind, he was protecting her. After a few moments her presence of mind returned. Horace thought that they had better go at once to the Hill Farm, and thence despatch help, as the pony would give the alarm in the village. They got together two or three stout men, and sent them off upon the road. Amabel returned meanwhile to the cottage, while Horace remained at the farm, whence he engaged to send her word whatever happened. Late in the evening — past ten o'clock — my father rang at the Amabel; a family history. 315 cottage door. Amabel, with a candle in her hand, flew down to open it. " I am come to report myself," said he ; " to-night I feel a little jarred— to-morrow I shall be as ' right as a trivet.' " " I shall not ask you to come in," she said, after a few words about his fall had passed. " It is too late." "No; but dear Amabel," he cried, seizing her hand," to- morrow will you not give me a quiet hour ? I have so much I want to say to you. Meantime I have brought you something that you may value ; a violet from . . . . " " From the grave of my child. Do you know," she added, " that of late — since we have met — I have indulged again in day dreams. Sometimes I see myself once more the happy wife ; sometimes sweet baby faces, with fair curls, seem clus- tering round my knee. I seek to take a lily hand And kiss a rosy chin. And in the midst of such thoughts came, as I lay awake last night, a vision of the morning of the Resurrection. I imagined myself lying in the grave, with monument and name, and round me slept my family of children. I had a mother's heart for all ; yet, as the great trumpet sounded, and we rose, I clasped my pale lost darling to my breast, strained in my arms, and nestling in my bosom.'' CHAPTER VHL Inseeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be liuund With fear of blame ; btit whichever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind words in the wound — If they he. wounds which such sweet teaching makes — Giving itself a pang for others* sakes. Irene J. R. Lowbll. " Horace,'' said my father, bending over his blind cousin ; " I have something I want to say to her. I wish you would leave us a little while alone." 316 Amabel; a family histoey. It was the following afternoon ; she was sitting again with Horace on the rustic bench by the side of the little river. Horace had been persuading her to put her hands on his, and try if she could draw them back more quickly than he could grasp them. He was very expert at this amusement : she was caught again and again. Horace was delighted at his triumph ; and their mutual laughter rang over the water. When his cousin came up to him, laid his hand upon his arm, and whispered his request, the smile faded from his face. But, getting up, he said at once, " Good bye, Mrs. Leonard, I believe I must go. Do not come with me," continued he, find- ing she had risen to assist him. "No — no," he whispered, when they were a little withdrawn from Theodosius, " stay with him. He has something to say to you. May you be happy — very happy. My warmest wishes go with you." " Give me a prayer, 'dear Horace," she said, trembling, " one little prayer may turn a vague good wish into 'a blessing." " Do you think so ?" said he. " ' Prier, e'est dire que Von aime? For one prayer that I offer for myself, my heart says two for you." So saying, Horace turned away ; she watched him anxiously till he reached the upper terrace of the garden, then stooped and gathered thoughtfully a few flowers. My father, when she raised her head, was at her side. He drew her arm through his, and led her back to the seat beside the water. I cannot tell how a man feels when he is about to make an offer, but I know how a woman feels when she thinks she is going to receive one. There is hardly in her life a more uncomfort- able moment. She is too nervous to talk calmly upon common things. She fears, by some rash word or look, to precipitalie the event and compromise her modesty. She tries to veil her heart, to maintain a calm reserve. In a few moments she may con- cede to him the right, the holy right, to look into her heart — Ce c{£ur dont rien ne reste, L'amour ot6. But now— for just this little while — he must not even guess at what she hides from him. She is like little children on the eve Amabel; a family histort. 31'7 of a surprise, when, though their mother well knows what is coming, she lets them climb upon her lap and cover up her eyes with eager fingers. The holier a woman's heart, the greater her reseiTe in such an hour. The deeper her own feelings, the less is her power over those of her lover. I have known men who mistook the self-consciousness and timidity of such moments for indifference. I have known women, like unskilful chess-players, succeed in reducing the other party to extremity, without the power of completing the game by a check-mate. Though Amabel was not expecting an offer of marriage, her feelings were very much the same as those I have adverted to. She feared to urge on what he had to say, even by her silence. She anxiously searched for any observation possible to make, so trivial that it might not even appear designed to prompt him. At that moment they heard the voice of little Joe calling her. " Don't go to that child. Give me time to speak," cried my father. " I cannot bear the claims that are made upon you by these people. I cannot bear to see you from morning till night the slave of their caprices." " And I answer," replied Amabel, " that you always err in your judgment upon such points. The person who is prone to fancy he could do God better service in a higher grade, is not yet equal to the station that he occupies. The glory of a wom^, * c^est moins encore qu'elle suffit au travail de chaque jour, que le travail de chaque jour lui suffit' " " Your teachings," exclaimed my father, " unlike the teach- ings of anybody else, are drawn from your experience. You know already what my heart is longing to express. You know I have never yet seen, or hope to see your equal. You won my heart from the moment I first talked with you. Amabel ! I dare not say you are in my eyes less a woman than an angel. It is your womanliness that charms me ." " Mr. Ord !'l she cried, " you know best your own meaning. Is this language to be addressed to me by you ?" 318 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORT. " It is the language of a lover to the object of his devo- tion," he exclaimed. She sprang up suddenly. The flowers that she held fell at her feet. " Do not finish that sentence," she cried. " I will endeavor to forget it was ever begun.'' She had thrown herself again upon the bench, her face was hidden, but her whole frame shook with her weeping. " Alas ! beloved, you must indeed have fallen upon evil men and evil times. We are not all like Bevis," said my father. " It had not occurred to me to preface my confession by the declaration that my love for you was not an insult. Ibeseech you give me a husband's right to protect and make you happy ; and make the little I possess better and dearer than other men's great wealth, because shared with you. Let me in turn participate in your secrets and your sorrows." " Say that again — say that again !" she cried. " Let me be sure I heard aright 1 Strike the death-blow of my hopes firmly — repeatedly. Make sure that not one lives. Let me be certain there is no mistake this time." " Dearest ! I woo ' you with all respect and all devotion. These tears, beloved, are the last that those dear eyes shall shed." And stooping down he kissed her drapery and her unresisting hand. He was eager to give her some token of a sympathy for which he found no words. Suddenly she became aware of his caresses. She started up, drew her hand brusquely from his lips, and by an involuntary impulse brushed the back of it against her dress, as if t% vripe from it his kisses. " Mr. Ord," said she, " no more of this. A frightful mistake has been encouraged. Your disappointment can be nothing to my sufiering. You must strangle all your brood of pleasant fancies almost at their birth, but mine were full grovra hopes; and such die hard. Eeproach me as you will — you cannot blame me as I blame myself." She paused a moment, as it seemed, to gather strength, and hid her face ; she was probably in prayer. Amabel; a family history, 819 " Hear me, Mr. Ord," slie exclaimed, laying her hand upon his arm with the dignity of command. " Hear me, and look into my eyes. Be sure you feel that I say the truth, although I speak in riddles. I cannot explain this mystery. I thought you knew . No matter now, blame me for all . No ! do not blame mo, I cannot endure .blame from you. The present must bear the misunderstandings of the past, but let there be no mistake between us on the subject of the future. We must never meet again, unless . Oh ! but that cannot be !" she cried, with a fresh burst of grief. " We must never meet again. I conjure you to leave Sandrock for your ovv'n sake and for mine. There is no hope. No suit man ever made to woman, has suffered a rejection more hopeless — more complete than yours to me." "But, Iklr.j. Leonard, how is this?" exclaimed my father. " Surely you encouraged me to hope." " I know I did — I know I did, but it was all a mistake, a fatal, teiTible mistake. Believe me, Mr. Ord — or if you will not believe me on my word, hear me swear solemnly, that I never once thought of you iu the light of a lover. I believed you my best earthly friend. I thought you knew ." " Tell fte but this," my father cried, " has any other man a prior claim to your regarj." " Yes, sir," she cried, with a slightly impatient proud move- ment of her head. " Yes, sir, — my husband^ " And is his memory my only rival ? A man who could be violent, unjust. Ah \ Amabel, in time ." " Violent ! — ^unjust !" she cried, and her eyes lighted. " The Vicar told mo so — or ]'ather," said my father, struck by her air of indignation, " the words themselves may have been mine. The Vicar gave me the impression." " If he was ever unjust" she said, " it was because he pro- nounced judgment upon insufficient premises. If he was violent, it was because he was concerned, as every man should be, for the maintenance of his honor 1 Your own lips have acquitted him," she continued, remembering the words she had heard between Theodosius Ord himself, and the second of Col. Guiscard, in the gallery of Foxley. " I mean, you would 320 Amabel; a family history. acquit him I mean . No," said she, calming her- self, " I cannot explain all. -The secret I iave kept so far shall not leak out in hints. Only, I repeat, do not deceive yourself. Do not imagine you have won a tenderness that, under other circumstances, might have ripened into love. I do not wish to leave you the smallest ground of hope. Such hopes as you have formed are an insult to me." " I must understand you better," said my father. " It cannot be possible I have been misinformed by your own family, that you are not a widow, but a wife — your husband cannot be living ?" " Yes !" she exclaimed. " Ask me no further questions, Mr. Ord. My husband is alive ! / love my husband !" There was nothing angry in her voice, it was very sad and very sweet, but there was a firmness in its tone which brought conviction. " Farewell," she said at length ; " until you have left Sand- rock I shall not quit my chamber. Forgive me — forget me." She turned to go up the steep terraces. He walked in silence by her side. When they had nearly reached the top, she paused upon the spot, whence on the night he had seen her on the lawn, he had watched her. He was trying to conceal his tears, but she remarked them. It is so painful, on such occasions, to see a man weep. ',' Mrs. Leonard," said he, " one word before I leave you. Is there nothing I can ever do to make you happy ? I ask nothing for myself." "Think. as kindly of me as you can. Believe that I have given you less pain than I suffer. One of these days, when you are married, we may meet again." My father winced as if the very thought of his marriage were suffering. " I know," said she, " you think my words unkind ; never- theless I trust the time may come when you wiU 'remember, either with pleasure or indifference, that I anticipated your marriage." " Oh, Amabel !" said he, " I cannot bear to give you up. To know that you are living here, in the midst of danger and A FAMILY HISTOBy. 321 of difficulty, with Bevis near you. Let me stay here and ba your friend. Do not send me away. Let me protect you.'' " Our God is my protector," she said, solemnly. " Tbeodo- sius, we have taken sweet counsel together ; we have walked in the House of God as friends. In thinking of me remember only such hours. Farewell !" She was gone ! The sun had set ! Twilight had lost its rosy glow, and deepened into darkness. He walked back to the rustic bench where she had sat, and gathered up the flowers she had scattered on the ground. CHAPTER IX. Fasten your souls so high that constantly The sound of your heroic cheer may float Above all floods of earthly agonies, — Purification being- the joy of pain. Elizabeth Barrktt {Drowning. " Who, passing through the Vale of Misery, make it a well ; the rain thereof filleth the pools." This beautiful verse of Scrip- ture may be called a sort of motto to Amabel's thoughts as she quitted the cottage, on the following afternoon, equipped for walking. My father had received from her on the previous evening a packet containing his portfolio. No note or message accompanied the verses, but some pages of the manuscript were blistered by fresh tears. He returned her a short note in which, conscientiously avoiding all expressions of attachment, he infoi-med her that being desiroiis to consult her pleasure, he should go to town by the mail of the next evening, and trusted that this arrangement would not confine her all the next day, as she had threatened, to the house, as he would make no fur- ther attempt to seek an intei-view. She had received a message from a sick woman at Ghurt, a small hamlet lying in exactly an opposite direction to the Hill Farm. To reach it from the cottage she had to pass over the wildest and most desolate part of the health. Churt was ap- 14* 322 Amabel; a family history. proached by no high road, and was nearly three miles from the village. The case appeared to be one of pressing necessity, and reassured by the promise of my father that he would not try to meet her, she started alone about six o'clock, to cross this tract of desolation. " "Who, passing through the Vale of Misery^make it a well ; the rain thereof filleth the pools." Thus said her heart. The thought became a prayer, the prayer a prophecy, from which she turned to the records of her life, and found the truth the Psalmist taught was written there. Why, in this world, is there sorrow upon sorrow ? Why ? — ah ! why ? Each thinking soul is sooner or later startled by this question. Sermons are preached, and books are written on the subject, and others try to force on us their own conclusions. It is of little use. Each must answer the great question for himself. Amabel walked on, trying to find her answer, and her thoughts resulted in a paradox. Sorrow is essential to perfeo tion ; therefore, is necessary to happiness. " Will not this view," thought she, " account in part for the strange truth, that of sorrow it may be said, 'to him that hath shall be given V The purest, holiest, best of men — those whoip we should think least needing the discipline of grief, are often those most. called on to suffer and endure." " Ah 1" she thought, " how different is man's judgment from God's judgment — our finite benevolence from the benevolence of infinity. If an unlimited power of conferring happiness and of lemedying evil were bestowed on one of us, how would he fly at once to make the crooked paths straight, and the rough places plain. He would restore me to the arms of my dear husband ; the mother weeping over her dead son would embrace a living child ; the sickly would be healthy ; Lazarus sit in pur- ple beside Dives : — and our Father in Heaven has the power to do this, and not the wilL Is His benevolence less than our common impulses of kindness ? Or rather is it not love that will not heed our hearts' desire : wisdom that withholdeth the request of our lips ?" " After all," said Amabel, " as we advance in life, what thing AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 323 that we possess would we relinquisli the least willingly ? Is it not our experience in sorrow ? Who would be willing to have subtracted from himself all he has learnt from trial? Who would not tremble at the thought of being cut off from th« power of heart sympathy — from his fellowship in that freemasonry ■whereby hearts recognise each other's discipline in the great school of adversity ?" " Patience is bitter, but bears sweet fruits," says the Arab proverb. Horace always said, that Amabel was like those bees which gather honey from stinging nettles. She could not look into the past without seeing that the pre- vious sorrows of her life had been her best preparation for her present disappointment. The first, real, bitter grief is a thou- sand fold the worst to be'ar, because it brings a sense of insecu- rity, and lets the daylight of reality break in upt>n delusions. " We fear and hate," says the author of Yeast, " the utterly unknown, and it only." A second sorrow finds us more pre- pared. We have the remains of our entrenched position, thrown up in fear and haste when the first invader came, to depend on and retire to. « So Amabel, though — as she had said to my father — the sud- den slaughter of her hopes was ten-ible to bear, was by no means so unhappy as we have already seen her. Her present position, her present interests in life, were not affected by this disappointment. She was called upon only to sacrifice her dreams. " I cannot understand," she said to herself, " why Mr. Ord is always pitying me for the petty annoyances of my present position. If he only knew how much more dreadful it is to be adrift on the great ocean of life without any responsibilities, any duties, any ties." She thanked God, who had hired her into His vineyard, who had given her work — '' work, at any price ;" — for the sense of independence that comes from hearty labor, and the interest it awakens if undertaken aright. "Ah!" she said, smiling at her own conceit, "is not life, after all, a tangled mass of sea-weed, such as the ocean throws 324 amabkl; a family history. up everywhere along its shore. When we separate a portion from the rest, and dip it again into its element, how beautiful is every fragment we have rescued ! We regret that our time by the sea-side is so short, that we can never half develope or investigate the portion we have grasped out of the thick of the vast mass that we must abandon. It is in the world of human interests as it is in the world of nature." As she thought thus, she began to feel that her basket was heavy on her arm, she set it down upon the turf. Her puppy, scenting sonlething savory within, and perceiving that his mistress was gazing at the sky, got his nose in, when Amabel, recalled to present interests, resumed her bur- then. The puppy had broken in upon her pleasant thoughts. She suddenly woke up to a sickening sense of fear, like the first consciousness of danger felt by one who has reached the worst part of some frightful path, from which there is no retiring. A horror of great loneliness fell upon her. She looked around. She was terrified by the extent of the unbroken moor, its stillness and desolation. She had never before been out alone upon the heath at so late an hour. She had not thought of this when she left home in the broad sun- shine, but now the God of Day was hastening to the west, and , she was only half across the heath ; it would be dark when she reached Churt. She feared to go back ; and she dared not go on. All aroimd her stretched brown, barren, and desolate, miles of unbroken moorland ; not a living creature was in sight, not a habitation, nor a tree. She tried to recall some of the thoughts that had so lately occupied her. They would not come. She watched the sun setting behind her in a haze of golden light, and tried to fix her heart upon that verse of Isaiah, " The glory of the Lord shall be thy rear-ward." It would not do. The fear was physical, partly induced, perhaps, by the long agitation of her nerves. It was a horror of loneliness : such a horror as we feel in dreams, when space seems spreading into an infinite vastness. The horror that Ms upon children in the dark, which is not so much a terror of ob- scurity, as of space without apparent limit. It is a horror of the same kind as that physical fear with which some persons Amabel; a familt histort. 325 look on death, a dread of going alone into the Dark Valley, of passing alone through ways untried. She was upon the edge of a wide, still, deep pond, nearly a mile in circuit, and it suddenly occurred to her that a fair AV.as to be held in a few days upon its borders. She remembered some horrible stories of violence and wrong that had been late- ly current in the village. She felt the insufficiency of her dogs as a protection: the. puppy was an arrant coward, and Barba was too old and too small to be of any use to her. She looked around with nervous apprehension ; nothing stirred, save the shadows that the clouds cast over the dreary moorland. " Oh !" she exclaimed, crossing herself for fear, mqved by an impulse derived from her Catholic experience in her old child- ish days. " I do not wonder men are so much bolder than wo- men ; — the worst that can befall them is to be murdered by some ruffian " As she said so, the figure of a man started up before her on the path — she did not see whence he came. Her first feel- ing was one of relief at seeing a human being. Then the blood rushed back from her heart, and she sickened with terror. He was a villanous-looking wretch, whose shaggy whiskere, swarthy complexion, and red neck-handkerchief, betokened some- thing of the gipsy. He eyed the dogs keenly, with some con- tempt, and stared Amabel hard in the face, as he brushed by. A moment after, as she was hiirrying on, with a sigh of relief for her escape, her arms were seized roughly from behind. " Piero ! — At him !" she cried. But the puppy stood still upon the path, and on the gipsy's threatening him with his foot he ran away. " Now, my mistress, out with your cash ; that dog won't let fly at me," said the footpad with a laugh. " Let go my arms, then," she exclaimed. "I have only three shillings ; ta;ke that and begone." " You have got to give me all these gimcracks," he said,pull- ing at her watch-chain. " Oh ! not that," she cried. " Please — pray, not that. I have gome money at home I will " But she stopped. Her conscientiousness suggested that this 326 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. money might be of great use in some emergency. Had she the right to give it to redeem her watch, even though that watch had been her husband's wedding gift — though a Httle supersti- tion connected its possession with her hopes for the future ? The ruiBan snatched it from her side. She moaned as if a part of herself were torn away. " Now, your rings ;" said he. " I have but one," she cried, " my wedding ring. You could not take a woman's wedding ring away !" " Give it me — and be quick !" She would not take off her glove. She started back, and screamed with all her force. She had a vague idea that deli- verance might come in some shape, — that some other person might be lurking by the pond. The fellow cursed her for her screams. He made an attempt to seize her hand and wrench the ring from her finger ; but, failing to do this, he struck her over the head with a thick stick, and ran away. Neither he nor Amabel had observed that, at the beginning of their colloquy, a horseman had appeared above a hilly ridge, about a quarter of a mile from them. From the top of any rising ground, ia thatclear atmosphere, one can see distinctly to an almost incredible distance. My father sat upon his horse at the top of the brown hillock, clear against the sky, like a statue of bronze. He had a small shijj's spy-glass in his hand. He had ridden off the high road to take one last long look, from that position, at the Cottage. After gazing at it for a moment, his eye fell on the foreground of the landscape, on the two human figures in the long heather- less green track which served for a road across the common. Instantly, with a speed that no one but a sailor could have got out of his pony, he came galloping down hill to the rescue. The ruffian, intent upon his object, and secure in the unbroken solitude of that desolate district, did not perceive his approach, until her scream, which he fancied was a call upon this person for help. He struck her, hoping her deliverer would pause and raise her, and being occupied with her, would have no time for attempting an arrest. He was mistaken. A desire for his capture and his punishment — that desire for pursuit which is AMABEL; A TAMILY HISTORY. 327 said to be man's strongest natural propensity — took possession of my father. He swerved his pony to the left, to cut oS the retreat of the rascal. He came up with him. He caught at him, and would have captured him had the pony been less hard in the mouth. But it was impossible to stop it at the right moment. It made a sudden bound, as its rider tried to pull it in, and the collar of the gipsy^lipped through my father's fingers. He could spend no more time in trying to arfEst the criminaL He saw Amabel, slowly rising from the turf. PeTceiving she was safe, he got off his pony to find what the robber, as he came up with him, had thrown away. The dogs ran up ; and presently he saw Barba, who had been taught to fetch and carry, dragging some- thing through the heather. He found a watch in the mouth of the little animal. The case had started open ; and, as he took it in his hand, the inscription met -his eye, " Amabel Warner, from her husband Iieonard Warner." For a moment he was perfectly stunned. His first clear thought was one of amazement ait his own obtuseness. Why, had he never perceived the truth before ? It was plain to him at once. And, yet, it was not plain. He did not understand it, though memory poured in upon him, like a flood, words and events Which leave upon the still susceptive sense A message undelivered, till the mind Awakes to apprehensiveness and takes it. He went up to her, where she sat by the road side feebly sup- porting her head upon her hands. Her bonnet was off; and her long hair unbound, stirred by the evening wind, waved lightly on her shoulders. " Are you much hurt ?" said be. " Were you much fright- ened, Mrs. Warner ?" As he came up to her he had been arranging this little sen- tence. It was better at once she should know of his dis- covery. She looked up. He put the watch into her lap, and repeated his inquiry. 328 AMABEL; A TAMILT HISTOKY. " I feel very faint," said she, " Lean on me," said my father. " Lean your head upon my shoulder." He sat down by her. She hesitated, and did not take advan- tage of his offer; but her Nevpfoundland puppy running up and putting his paws upon her knees, she clasped him round the neck and laid her head on his. " When did you find it out ?" she said, in a faint voice, with- out looking at my father. " When I picked up the watch. Believe me — on my honor, Mrs. Warner, I had not suspected it before." " And what do you think of me now ?" " I think that neither my cousin nor I have ever been rightly informed as to the story. Knowing you as I do, I feel it is impossible. Amabel, give me your word. It is impossible they could have been right in all they said of you ?" " You thought it true at Foxley," said Amabel. And she repeated all that she had heard him say upon that dreadful night when he and the young officer of artillery arranged the duel. " Is it possible you heard us ? Were you so near and in distress ?" " I am not Oh ! it shames me even to say that / am not — I am not what they said of me," she cried, hiding h^r face still closer than before, while her very neck, and ears, and fin- gers flushed. " Mr. Ord, I feel fallen very low, so low that I am constrained to fear that you may not believe me. Matters of fact you and my husband may yet, I trust, investigate, and prove that I am true ; but, whether I tell a lie in my heart, laboring to impress on you the idea of a purity I had not, the Lord be judge." " I did not ask of you," said he, " such solemn words. The woman I have loved could not be It is so strangely difficult to reconcile it to my mind that you are she." " You mean you have always been so sure of the worthless- ness of Mrs. Warner ?" He would not tell a felsehood even to himself, and persuade ^imself he had not always condemned her; but he laid his Amabel; a family history. 329 hand upon the little hand that wore the wedding ring, and whispered, " But not now." " Yes," she said, repeating a thought upon which she loved to ring the changes : " one can place more confidenee in per- sons than in circumstances. I am comforted to think that you can trust me now." He thought it strange that in her most excited moraents she so frequently became reflective ; not knowing that this is often- times the case with those whose range of reading or of thought has been larger than that of their experience. To such, an, abstract truth, held fast and applied in any present strait, brings often a strange strength and comfort. " You see the cruel mistake I fell into," said she. " I per- suaded myself you must have recognised me. I remembered you, though I had seen you but once. I fancied he was goiiig to forgive me, and had sent you here to bring him a report of me. How came it that my name, which is so uncommon, did not at once betray me ?" " Which — Leonard or Amabel ?" "Both!" she replied. " 1 asked you once, you remember, if you were related to the • Suffolk Leonards, and you answered in the affirmative." " That was true. They are connexions of my husband. Old Mrs. Warner was a Leonard." " As to your Christian name — when he spoke of you to me, he called you Belle or Bella." " True — true !" she interrupted ; " Belle was always the name he called me. He never called me Amabel ; and for that reason I cannot bear that any one but he should call me Belle. I have no pet name now." " I took it for granted that Belle stood for Isabella," said my father. " I thought she was a foreigner — but you are English. I had formed such a different idea of her ; I could not associate her with you." She rose up quietly, and turned towards home. He slipped one arm through the bridle of his horse, while, with the other, he supported her. She was too weak to walk alone. Many were the pauses in their walk, and many a mouthful 330 Amabel; a family history. of grass tlie pony cropped by the wayside, as she told him hei story. When she came to spealc of the abduction of Felix Guiscard he broke in, eager to exonerate Captain Warner. She heard all he could tell her of the mistake made at Valetta ■with a piteous smile. " It matters little now," said she ; " I trust characters rather than circumstances. I have long been sure that either Captain Warner was not concerned in the affair, or that he had sufficient reason for his conduct. But you see," she added, with a sudden burst of grief, " you see how ready I was once, I — his wife — to mistnist him and to wrong him !" When she spoke of old Mrs. Warner, and of the sorrows of her early married life, Theodosius was unmeasured in his expres- sions of indignation. " You conld not have been subject to her. You could not have lived with her. She is enough to exhaust the patience of the angels." " Let us hope not," she answered. " She is dead. I read her death in last week's paper." •' But," said he, when she had done, " why let Warner believe the things he does of you ? I do not see you were to blame at all ; but, at any rate, it is neither, for his honor nor for yours, that things should stand as they are." " But I wrote to him — I sent him an explanation," she cried, with a bitterness that showed the deepest of her griefs was now disclosed, " and he took no notice of my letter." " Shall I write V said Tlieodosius. " Would it be of any use ?" " I do not know. If I could see him, a few words might set him right. I would appeal to his aflfectionate heart, and to his manly generosity. I should not fear. He is a man peculiarly susceptible to eloquence, because that excites the feelings ; but I never knew him much affected by a letter. The necessity of picking his way along a written sheet, appears to cool his blood." " That is veiy true," said Amabel ; " I have noticed that often, and I have thought it very strange. Impressions deepen with me, long after personal influence has been withdrawn. It is so^ in this instance. If he could look into my heart ! You are convinced, are you not, that I do truly love him ?" A FAMILT HISTORY. 331 " Alas, yes !" he said. He liad already felt it to be true, and in that brief " alas !" betrayed bis love. He felt her arm drawn quickly from his own. " Perhaps," she said, as she withdrew a little from his side, " perhaps you don't believe me. You may think I am light- minded. I cannot — it is not in my nature to have no human interests. I am not one of those cairn superior women who live in an atmosphere above our earth. This one great grief has not yet blighted all the pretty flowers that bloom along my path. K I again were Leonard's wife, I should have a.thousand happinesses at once. I should not be afraid of loving you and Horace. Now I am struggling to appear what I am not, cold and indifferent, when so many are kind to me." Nothing she could have said would have so thoroughly con- vinced him of her innocence, and of the necessity of conquering his own feelings,, as this simple expression of regard for her two lovers. He took her hand, and stood still in the middle of the path. " I have no need to teU you that I have given up my dearest hopes — that the wife of my cousin is sacred in my eyes." In the expression of her face he read a cahn of coutse. She expected every man to do his duty. That Theodosius should do his was no matter of surprise. And he, while flattered in one sense by her innocent confidence in his integrity, felt pained that #ie did not understand that he was suffering. Alas ! how seldom, when we make a strong effort to do right, have we the comfort of knowing that any eyes but those of angels watch the struggle. He went on. " WiU you hear me assure you, before God, that the dearest wish I now dare to entertain is, that I may be instrumental in restoring you to your husband ? Will you depend on me ? For the present I will go away, because the solemn vow that I now take binds me to protect you. I begin by protecting. you from myself. I shall plunge into new interests in London. I will silence the voice of my own heart, by making books : as hundreds have done before, amd thousands will do yet. When am calm, I shall come back. Meanwhile, promise me that, 332 Amabel; a family history. should anything happen to interrupt your present life — should any case arise in which you stand in need of friendship or protection, you will send for me. Eemember, I am Warner's nearest friend — his friend and his cousin." "And here we part," he said, finding they had reached the cottage gate. " But, ^rs. Warner ," " Call me Mrs. Leonard," she said, " as hitherto." " I think that in giving up your married name, a great mis- tate was committed." " So my step-father told me at the time. But I was so ignorant of things three years ago, and so very anxious to show my readiness to obey /am." " Promise me," said my father, taking her hands, and gazing earnestly by the pale light of a young moon into her face, "promise me to consider me your friend and counsellor. Promise to send for me if you are in any trouble. Promise to think of me sometimes." With that he opened the heavy gate. She went through, thinking he was about to follow her, but it swung to behind her. Before she could open it, to bid him a kind farewell, to teU him how entirely she trusted him, he had mounted the pony. He saw her wave him the farewell he dared not trust himself to hear her speak. And as he rode away in haste, without reply, she was half disposed to think she had offended him. A troubled feeling remained after this interview, a fear lest he must certainly despise her. As often as it rose, she put it down by prayer and by reflection. It was her rule never to indulge a painful fancy ; she wanted aU her strength to expend on actual cares. CHAPTER X. Elle Be vengea de sa destm^e, qui lui refusait le bonliear pour elle-meme, en se con sumant pourle bonheur des autres. — Lamartine of Mad. Roland. So, Theodosius Ord went up to the great metropolis. Sucked into the Maelstrom, he whirled and tossed amongst his fellow Amabel; a family histoey-, 333 straws. He took a dingy lodging in a, close and murky street, and knew something of the ordeal of hot ploughshares, as day after day he trod the burning summer pavement searching for a publisher. Had he been a necessitous adVenturer, dependent on literature as a profession, his portfolio might have contained poems a thousand-fold better than any that were there, and yet have lain in manuscript for ever. ' But he had private means, and was wUling to advance a hundred pounds upon the risk of publication, so that the verses got at last set up in type, and made their appearance in the world of letters. There was Vast pleasure to my father in seeing his verses through the press, in correcting the proof-sheets, and in distributing with lavish hand, copies of the work with inscriptions " from the author.'' There is, in every case, a little circle in which the first work of a new author is fondled at its birth, and where its reception is by no means an earnest of the treatment it will meet, when, poor little vessel of earth, it takes its chance amongst the iron pots made to outlast the century. Alas ! after a year has passed, of such ventures as my father's how rarely there remains even a shred ! A vast deal has been shrieked, and said, and sung, about the cruelties of critics ; strictures which, in my opinion (considering what harsh judgments we, private critics, in our private life, pass daily on each other), are extremely undeserved. I. do not mean fo say that no Mr. Bludyer mangled with savage ruthlessness my father's little volume ; that no shabby little paper, of the baser sort, having been overlooked by the publisher, hired the work, and revenged itself upon its author ; but when we think of the mass of stupidity and trash shovelled in, weekly on the critic by profession, to be examined without loss of time, and set up on the shelf to which his judgment may assign it, I think we shall acknowledge that the real worker in the hive stings oftentimes less severely than the drones — that criticisms by pens that write for bread are kinder than those pronounced by the tongues of the dilettanti. So my father rolled out of blankets and warm feathers into his plunge bath, being suflFered to indulge himself in the 334 Amabel; a family history. hope that his poems were succeeding, until he came to inquire — if they sold. He had had the presentation copy he designed for Amabel bound in green morocco ; and though, as he walked down with it to the Spread Eagle, in Gracechurch street, he repeated, smil- ing to himself, — " Ha I some one has robbed me — " " I pity your grie£ ' " Of my manuscript verses !" " I pity the thiel !'' he suffered unusual anxieties until he heard of its arrival. She wrote at once to acknowledge it. Her letter was very kind, gentle, and full of interest in his success. She said that everything was going on as usual at Sandrock. She did not say that her spirits and her health began to fail. That there were moments when life itself seemed to hang upon the chance of rest or change ; that Olivia was giving her inconceivable anxiety ; and that of late, in her brief moments of repose, when her soul strayed wearily into the " land of vision," it sought in preference the place of tombs. She would fancy herself dead — fancy her troubles over — her soul at rest, and Leonard happy — the stain her memory left behind upon his life, washed from the world's sight by his marriage with another. Autumn had come — coal smoke, and the first fog. The Junior United Service Club had not then been established, and my father found himself horribly lonely in his lodgings. He wrote upon the subject to Amabel. He quoted to her Lord Byron's famous passage about the solitude of a crowd. , She replied, by recommending him to walk out into the streets, and seize on the first interest that came to hand. " Follow it up," said she, " and it will lead you, before you are aware, into a tangled mass of human interests, in the midst of which your only difiiculty will be to hold on steadily to the one that first attracted you. I am a good deal of Diderot's opinion, that only the wicked can be solitary. The controversy between the Encyclopaedia and Jean Jacques, upon the subject, was a favorite theme with my poor friend. Dr. Glascock, who always asserted, with Rousseau, that the solitary, by choice, are com- monly humane and benevolent, since whoever suflBces for himself has no disposition to hurt another. For his own part, amabkl; a family history. 335 he used to say, he preferred living separated from the wicked, to living amongst them and hating them. In all of which argimients, you will perceive, that each party fired wide of the truths held by the other. And now I speak of Dr. Glascock — let me say that which my courage has failed me to say hitherto : would you be willing to write to.him, and try to get from him some account of my early life in Malta ? Much of what afterwards happened hinges upon that part of my story : and when I am permitted to exculpate myself to my husband, I should like him to have every word I say confirmed and cor- roborated." Upon that hint my father wrote to Malta, and obtained, though not till some months had elapsed, that NaiTative, by Dt. Glascock, which I have used so freely in the fii'st part of this volume. He did not, however, act on her advice, in regard to the living interests around him. His soul was animated with poetical ambition, and in that day (amongst his class of poets) poetry was by no means educed " out of emo- tion excited by action recollected in tranquillity," but from visions evoked out of the " vasty deep," disdaining all con- nexion with the red clay of humanity, having as little as possible to do with what was real. So my father, not knowing that in the low and swampy places of the earth the poet will find most luxuriance, gave no heed to her advice, as he pon- dered his new poem. It was to be an Eastern tale — the East being a sort of poet's storehouse of romance, after the publication of Lalla Rookh, the Corsair, and Giaour. To be sure, my father knew as little of the East as I know of the manners, customs, habits of thought, and social prejudices of the inhabitants of Dahomey ; but that was rather an advantage than otherwise — the fanciful, not the vrai-semhlahle, being all that was necessary. Amongst the multitude of poetasters who wrote upon the East, few gave to the subject any preparatory study. My father laid in a stock of hulbuls and of yataghans • called his heroine Zaida ; and having composed the first canto of his work, bethought himself of applying to his publisher. He found one night, on returning tq his lodgings, the following communication ; — 336 Amabel; a family history. Dear Sib, We beg to thank you for your very obliging offer of your new volume of poems. The issue of the publication of the " Lazy Longings" is, however, so little encouraging, and we so sincerely regret the unsa- tisfactory result to yourself, that we have not courage to undertake another book in these unfavorable times, on the same terms, from the same author. Accept our best thanks, nevertheless, for the courtesy which led you to propose it to us. We trust in other hands you may be more fortunate. Your obedient Servants Kacon and Bungay. T. Ord, JEsg. Inclosed was the account. Only thirty-eight copies had been sold out of five hundred, and of twenty-six of these he himself had been the purchaser. He took out his newspapers, re-studied the verdict of his critics, and was convinced that they had not taken so unfavorable a view of his work as the man of business. But, after all, the business brought him to his senses ; he could not afford to lose for Zaida's sake another hundred guineas. He took up the despised " Longings," but found himself actually sick of his own poems. " No man, I presume," said he, " can read any work of pro- fane literature, day after day, and not get bored by it." He forgot Shakspeare ; and the world, as yet, knew nothing of its Thackeray. He put on his dressing-gown ; he treated with a sad and subdued kindness the maid of all work who brought him up his tea, and who habitually put him out of temper by her womanly propensity for setting to rights his books and papers, or rather, as he called it, " for putting things to wrongs." He poured all the tea into one large basin ; set it to cool upon the fireplace ; put his feet upon the fender ; poked a black coal with his foot ; and, running his fingers through his hair, sat in moody medi- tation. And here,'! remember, I have never yet described him. Ho' belonged to a tall and light-haired race. He himself was too tall, he used to say, for a naval man. His intimates in after yeai-s called him the Viking ; and, indeed, there is a tradition that our family has descended from some SwejTi or Friolthulf, Amabel; a family HisioRr. 337 who led a colony of his countrymen to the Northumbrian shore. His hair was of a rare golden hue, very thick and closely curled. It lay in heavy masses, piled up over his head, and shading his brow and temples. His eyes were of a peculiar, soft, golden- streaked hazel, with lashes much darker than his hair. These eyes and his chin w«re the two handsome features of his face ; the latter was dimpled d la Napoliemie. But his chief charm was his voice, clear, rich, and full. Above the wildest storm he could hail the main-top without a trumpet ; yet it was dis- tinct, ringing, soft, and manageable in its lowest tones. As he sat before his fire, he heard a sudden loud knocking and ringing. Persons were heard coming up the staircase. A voice, in rather a provoked tone, said, " That will do — that will do, my good girl. I don't want your assistance ; I can do very well." The door of the room burst open, and the maid of all work entered, leading Horace Vane. " There, sir — there. Sit down. Here's a chair," said she, almost thrusting him into it. " What brings you here, old fellow ?" cried my father. " She sent me," replied Horace. " She wants to see you at once. She says you have promised to be her friend, and you and I are to manage for her. You and /, Theodosius." " What has happened f said my father, " make haste and tell me." " Bevis has eloped- with Miss Olivia." " Is that all ?" cried my father. " I was afraid it was some- thing a great deal worse." " There is something worse behind," said Horace. " Captain Talbot is given over; on hearing the news he had another paralytic stroke. I cannot tell what she will do. Her health is failing — and to have all that family thrown upon her hands — " " Her health ! Has she been ill ?" "Not ill, but ailing. As she says,, one would compound for a dangerous fever once a year, if it could buy off the dreadful feeling of being just not equal to the claims of every day. Ohvia's behavior has told terribly upon her." " He will marry her of course," said my father, after a pause. " He ooidd have found no attraction but her property." 15 338 Amabel; a family iiistokt. "Amabel, however, has her doubts about the marriage. That is exactly what she wants of you and me. Olivia is twenty, and her four thousand pounds next year will be quite in her own power. He may want to get it from-feer, and then , at any rate, Amabel does not trust him, and she wants us both either to get her back or to see them manied properly." " Do you know anything about them ? Where did they go ?" exclaimed my father. " Bevis has been in the habit, since you left, of constantly spending his nights out in the market town. I did not mind it much ; for, had he been at home, he would probably have been plapng his buffoon tricks to an admiring audjgnce of clowns at Caesar's alehouse. The evenings he was over there I spent with Amabel, and was engaged during the day in training, for her use, a forest pony; I was, formerly, considered a good horse- man, and I find I can still ride, accompanied by a groom. Ama- bel has not been able to walk much. She is pale, languid, easily fatigued, and I fancied if I could train a gentle pony for her use -" " Go on !" exclaimed my father. " Last night," continued Horace, " Bevis did not come home. I thought little of his absence till I received a message from Amabel this morning, begging me to come to her at once, and send off some one for the doctor. I found the clergyman already there. The captain was lying speechless, having been too suddenly informed of the elopement. Olivia appeared to have been gone since daybreak, leaving a rather impertinent note behind, which was not shown me. Amabel sent me off at once for you. I took the cross-roads to Guilford, having got information which led me to suppose I was in the track of them. Bevis drove her in a gig from the Bush Inn, and they had some hours' start of me. At Guilford they had hired a post-chaise. Just as I got there the coach drove up. I got upon the top, leaving the groom to take back the horses. We travelled faster than they. By the help of a sharp boy, whom I found upon the coach, I made inquiries. We came up with them at Kingston, where they had gone into the inn to dine, ana had ordered a wedding-cake from the confectioner. Know- amabbl; a family history. 339 ing Miss Olivia's taste for eating,, I fancy tliey will be detained. If you come on at once we may probably intercept them. They are taking no precautions of any kind." " Come on then," said my father. " How shall we go ?" "Better ride." Horses were soon procured. After proceeding with some caution till they left behind the lights of London, they crossed Putney bridge, passed the house which was once the head-quart- ers of the great Oliver^ and began to quicken their speed. Not a word to each other — they kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing their place. They found themselves at length on open ground, completely out of the dense London atmosphere — " The shining lamps in Jove's high house were lit." " We are on Wimbledon Common," said my father. "Hark 1" replied Horace. "I hear something advancing in the distance. Pull up your horse. I think it is the carriage." CHAPTER XL *^'EvBiy disease has its remedy except for folly; that alone is incurable." The Prophet, on whom be peace, has also said, " Folly is the commonest portion of man- kind." ToBKisH Book. Horace was right. ' There was a carriage on the road, but whether it contained the runaways, the eyes of my father could not determine. Horace proposed to ride on to Kingston, and see whether the fugitives had left there. " That will never do," said my father. " We passed the place a mile from here, where the road becomes two branches, and it will be impossible, in the dark, to guess whether they have taken t)ie one that runs through Putney or that by the Elephant and Castle. Whatever we Co, do not let us lose sight of the carriage." 340 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. They- had turned their horses as it passed, and were following it at a smart trot. Suddenly all doubt was removed by a sharp shriek. " It is they !" exclaimed Horace. " What can he be doing to her ! It is the voice of Olivia !" They spurred on, but the nearer they approached the louder and more piercing grew the shrieks. Just as they got up abreast of the carriage, Bevis, who was not without a certain kind of pluck, let down the glass, and thrust his head out of the window. " I have no money with me !" he exclaimed, " but I have pis- tols, and am prepared to use them." My father pulled up. " By George !" he cried to Horace, " they have taken us for highwaymen." Once more they headed the postillion. " Stop, man !" cried my father to the post-boy. " Stop, if you have any sense left, and tell those fools inside that we have no intention of harming them." Sure that after such galloping they would find it necessary to rest at the next post-house, the horsemen then made the best of their way in advance of the carriage ; and, alighting on the outskirts of Putney, at a neat little roadside tavern, asked, for the best parlor, and summoned the landlady. She came up to them at once, a dapper chipper little woman, with a very pretty face, and a certain rotundity of figure. My father, who was innocent of all diplomacy, and who in any difficulty trusted always to a free, frank explanation of the circumstances to bear him through, took her aside and told her the whole story. Just as he had finished, they heard the post-chaise that contained th| frightened travellers driving up to the inn door. " Now, my dear good woman," said my father, hearing Bevis calling out at the bar below for stifi' brandy and water, " be dis- creet. Go down and ask the lady up. We are her best friends • — we mean well by her. We do not even mean to separate her from her lover. Here is my card. You see I am a lieute- nant of the navy. This young gentleman is the son of one of our great merchants in India. We had rather see her without the man who is with her. And we wish you to stay in the room." Thus directed, the landlady went down to the front door, and Amabel; a family history, 341 found Olivia protesting that she would go no further on that load ; that it was quite dark ; that she had been frightened to death by robbers ; and she would only travel by day. " Better 'Some up and rest, Miss," said the landlady. At the word Miss, Olivia tossed her head. ' " I must consult my husband," she replied. But the consulting was only a farce,for a moment after, in spite of all he could say to dissuade her, she got out, ' and leaving him to dismiss the chaise, followed the landlady. The door of the small parlor opened, and she stood face to face with my father and Horace Vane. Olivia's shrewdness seldom deserted her. She stepped back, crying to the landlady, " Why do you harbor such people ? They are^ robbers ! They are robbers !" " You know better than that, Miss Talbot," said my father. " I am sent to you by your family." But Olivia began again to scream and call on Bevis. " My husband ! My husband !" My father took her by the arm, and .begged her to be quiet, but she struggled so vehemeiitly, that he let her go. By this . time up came Bevis,* armed with Dutch courage, with the brandy and water glass still in his hand. " We are here by the authority of her sister, sir, and Captain Talbot," said my father. " Miss Olivia, do you know your father is dyiiig ? You have killed your father." " Then he ought not to have set her over me," said Olivia. *' A pretty thing, indeed, for her to talk about elopements ; when her husband caught her one night in the act of running off with a French officer." " You know, Olivia, that that is false," cried the two friends of Amabel at once. My father, because he knew the truth ; Hor-ace, because he felt such a deed on her part was impossible. "I am the nearest friend and relative of Captain Warner," cried my father, " and know all about that affain You know well, or ought to know, Miss Talbot, that she was simply set- ting off to join her husband." " I don't see, then, why he turned her off," said Olivia, with a quiet sneer. 842 Amabel; a family history. My father was veiy angry ; the more so because this fool of a ^rl had the best of the argument. In his narrative he breaks out at this point, as was too much his wont, into reflections. " I had not learned," says he, " the lesson Amabel was always learning. " ' The deed once done, no power can abrogate,' is old Pindar's expression of a truth, which, though by no- means generally admitted now, seems to have been pretty well settled in the public mind in his time. " ' That our works do follow us,' — not merely into the next world, but throughout our ' stay in the present. That God himself will not check the working of His laws, and stand between a man and the natural consequences of his own mis- behavior. That even repentance will not lay the evil spirits of our evil actions. From David's time to ours, each wrong has had its consequences. The transgressor may, struggling against the evil in which he has involved himself, come out of the conflict a better man than he went in ; but he will never be the same man that he would have been, but for his fault. He will never be suffered to pluck out thie thorn he stuck into his own pillow. " At this time," continues my father, " I did not understand this in the Jeast. I thought it just, that when a man was sorry for a fault, he should be relieved from his liabilities. I forgot- that, though with care and pains a crew may plug a shot-hole, you can never make the ship's hull sound, till she has been hauled into dock again. Nor did I see that it was just that, when Amabel had committed a little fault, she should have the credit of a great one, — that having been a careless wife, she should be supposed unfaithful. As if we could estimate the mischief done to others by each fault, and portion out its fittiiig retribution." "It is an astonishment to me, Miss Olivia," said my father, frank in his anger, " that you, who certainly would not have troubled yourself, from generous motives, to keep sacred the secrets and the reputation of your sister, should not long ago have shouted, on the housetops of your neighborhood, your version of the separation." Amabel; a family history. 343 " That is another instance," cried Olivia, " of her falsehood and injustice. She told me once that if I did not hold my tongue UR(» that sijbject — if I succeeded in making the public think as 'vQ^j^ her as I do — I might be sure the mischief would recoil upon myself, for that no one then would wish to marry me. You see now what an untruth she told," continued Olivia, triumphantly, "for Bevis found it out, and yet is con- tent to have me." " You need not flatter yourself, Mr. Bevis," cried my father, " that you have sho™ magnanimity in proposing to marry the sister of such a woman — a woman who is a lady and a wife of whom the proudest might be proud. 1 am not going to insult her, by hinting that her behavior need be defended to you and Miss Olivia. And now, sir, if you will be pleased to step aside, and leave me alone a moment with this lady, I will call you when we have ascertained on what she chooses to decide." " No — my Bevis — my Bevis — never shall they part us !" cried Olivia ,.flinging herself into his arms. " Tyrants ! never shall you tear me from my husband." " That is exactly what I want to ascertain," said my father. " You are not maiiied, I know. Wlion do you propose to be ? That you dare to intend anything else," he added, turning to Bevis, " I do not venture to imagine. She is an officer's daughter — and has friends, sir." " Of course^that is, of course not," said the tutor.. " Miss Olivia has intrusted her happiness to me, and you see it is very expensive, and, I think, very disreputable, to make a journey into Scotland. Miss Olivia would be very safe in London with my friends for a few weeks — till a residence " " You d- d rascally scoundrel !" cried my, father. " Olivia Talbot, do you heg,r this man ? It is evident that he has marked you out for ruin. Come back with us to Sandrock — to your old father who is dying — to the friends who care for your true good." But Olivia drew back from the hand that he held out, and cried, clinging to Bevis, " I will stay with him — nothing shall part us." 344 AMABEL- A FAMILY HISTORY. " Come back to Sandrock," cried my father. " If this man can be bought over to marry you, I promise the consent of your family to the union.'' " I would not go back to Sandrock, if I were to be married the very next minute," cried Olivia. " I can trust Mr. Bevis, and you have no authority over us. Go away.'' " Mr. Bevis, I desire you to leave this room," said my father. But Bevis sprang at him, and seized him by the collar. My father was the taller man, Bevis the more powerful. They had a tussle of some moments, each trying to push the other out of the door. Olivia began to shriek again. Such shrill and horrid shrieks ! They brought part of the population of Putney out of their beds, and quite a crowd assembled round the inn, who took the part of the runaways, vociferating that the lady should not be ill used — they intended to prevent it — and calling for a constable to break in the door. " Dear heart," said the landlady, alarmed for the respectabi- lity of her inn, " Can't you, sir, (to my father) calm the people outside." You could get m.y father to do anything by making an appeal to him for assistance. He ran to a window in the front of the house, and throwing it open, confronted the sympa- thizers, assuring them that there was no cause for apprehen- . sion — that the lady was under the protection of her friends, but was rather excitable. Just at that moment, Horace came behind him, and desired him to send at once for a doctor., Olivia %ad fallen in a fit. My father, exceedingly alarmed, sent oflF for the nearest surgeon. Hastening back into the room, where Bevis and Olivia had been left, they found the door locked, while the voice of the tutor within insultingly infoimed them that they need not trouble themselves further — that he and Olivia should make themselves quite comfortable, and should not listen to any more of their representations, being capable of managing their own afia'irs. Horace was in despair. " It was my fault," said he, " all my fault. K I had not believed the fellow's word ! I was a fool. I fancied I heard her fall, when all the time she was Amabel; a family history. 345 probably standing by and laughing at my not being able to see her." They were joined by the young doctor, sent for by my father, whoj, ^en he"l^Mjd the case, appeared excessively amused. " The only wa^Mtee," said' he, " of getting in, is through the \ymdow. I supposeTfejiey have a ladder." 3Key ran into the gar^m, the crowd jeering them, atti-acted ari^^mused by the publmity of the aifair. A ladder was plamea ^Wnst the wall, ant my father was about to mount, ■when Hor^p stopped himjPagged him aside, and had s6m6 parley with hiin^ after Praich he ran up the ladder, broke a pane of glass,, and th rew the window open. Olivia agaiiP^^n to shriek. " Open the door, Mr. Bevis," said my father. " For her friends' sake, I am come to propose terms to you. The arrangement- I offer will be very advantageous. You may aceept it or not, as you like. If you reject it, I shall wash my hands of Miss Olivia." " What are your terms ?" said Bevis. " Open the door," said my father, springing into the room ; " open the door, for I want witnesses. Horace, the landlady, and the surgeon of the place, are outside." "" " Don't open it, it is a trick. Don't open it, my dearest," cried Olivia, and flung herself against the door. "•-" " Mr. .Bevis," said my father, " convince her we are men of honor ; we do not have recourse to tricks.^' "j^^% be a fool, Olivia," said Bevis, drawing her from the door, and opening it. -n.iB- Wtten his witnasses came in, " To both of you," said my father, " in the name and for the sake of Miss Talbot's family, we propose, first, that you shall be married to-morrow morn- ing in London, by special license, procured at our expense." "By special license, at St. George's, Hanover Square. By special license, my dear madam," said the young doctor to Olivia. He was the only one of the party the least inclined to take any notice of her. As soon .as he came in he asked leave' to feel her pulse, begged her not to give way to agita- tion,, and sat down by her side. 15* 346 Amabel; a family histobt. " Secondly," said my father; " in consideration of this mar- riage, it is proposed by Horace Vane, who has the means at his disposal, to pay your passages to India, where he will give you, Mr. Bevis, such letters to the hous^^':'Vane!'l|jl^tney, and Vane, as will secure you a situatio^M a competency." * " India, my dear madam !" said thglurgeon. " The climate of India will be of the greatest s^ice to your healj^ j^n India you will be a sort of princesdS pa,lanquins, nativesjBffl-s, elephants, and all that sort of ila!X&t your disposal." ©livia smiled. My father con^lfiued. ^p. "And, thirdly, Mr. Bevis," as we B^e reason lb suspect that you owe debts to trades-people, and other persons in Sandrook and its neighborhood, Mr. Vane desires you will engage to remit him ten per cent, quarterly upon- your salary, for the bene- fit of these creditors, to whom he is willing to become security." "I do not see that Horace has power to do this," said Bevis, "He is a minor, and infirm." " You must be quite aware that my father will do anything I ask," said Horace, firmly. " The Hill Farm I inherit from my ^ mother. I have a much larger allowance than I have ever spent, and have funds in hand quite equal to the payment of your passage." ^'■Lastly, Mr. Bevis," said my father, "if you "accept our terms, we expect you to leave Miss Talbot in our hands until- her mar- riage. If we fail to perform our part of these engagiments, we shall then permit her to take her own course, doing our best, however, by warning and advice, to prevent her elopement with Bevis, after some consultation with Olivia, having si^ified his consent to the proposed arrangement, that young lady was delivered over to the landlady, who had strict injunctions fi-om my father not to lose sight of her, and Bevis went down into the bar, notwithstanding her frantic efforts to detain him. They offered a fee to the yoimg doctor. " You think I have earned it in the exercise of my profession," said he, laughing ; " you think I deserve it for humbugging ?" "Kthat be a legitimate branch of the medical profession, I think you quite a master of your art." :^ Amabel; a family bistort. 34*7 "One has plenty of practice, even here; practice in humbug I mean,'' said the young surgeon. In the middle of the night, my father was awakened by a noise, and sprang up, with a full conviction that Bevis was again carrying oft' Olivia. The flickering gleams thrown through the holes of a tin shade, by an attenuated rushlight, were too feeble to enable him to recognise the figure by his bed. "^js I," said Horace; "I can't sleep." " What's o'clock ?" said my father. "It is only a quarter after three, by my repeater." Now, amongst, the petites miseres de la vie humaine, there is no brief sufi"ering more acute than to be called upon, when over- come by sleep, to give your interest and attention to a wake- ful person. My father pinched himself to keep awake, but settling down upoif his pillows, found the task impossible. So he fought his battle with old Somnus, sitting up in bed. , ,, " Would you very much mind," said Horace, " letting Bevis ride on with me to town, and going yourself with Miss Olivia?" " No. In this afikir, I am nothing but your agent. You have the money ; I wish to heaven I had !" , ' "My dear fellow," said Horace, earnestly, "you need not envy me the casji. , I am thankful to it for what it can do, but it cannot buy me the sight of one eye. As to Olivia, I should- Eg glad that task should fall on you. I have been dreading II night. She might take advantage of me. I dare say you wUl find her quite agreeable. You are a ladies' man." " Ladies, indeed !" cried my father. " Do not insult the sex by considering her a lady. There is the very devil in that girl." " There is little enough of the fallen angel about her," re- pliedJiprace. " Everything lever saw in her. was low and mean. gThere are none of those perverted grand .qualities which MilJ.onl|'ook to form his Satan." " ^Frue ; but Milton's Satan is a Titan, not a devil." Which literary observation gave a j)ang to my father, as he uttered it, recalling the note of his publisher, and the failure of his production. - " What did she mean to-night," said Horace, sitting on the bed, ^feout her running ofi" with a Frenchman." 348 Amabel; a family histoet. " Who mean, about what 1" said my father. " About Amabel and a French officer ?" " Oh !" said my father, rousing himself from the embrace of his beloved divinity, " It is a great secret, but, I suppose, Horace, I may tell yow." As he -went on, he warmed into the history ; and the earliest- rays of dawn having, before he had done, fallen aslant intothe chamber, he sprang up, dismissed Horace to dress, and sIR^to call Bevis and Miss Olivia. He had the satisfaction of being as severely snubbed as circumstances would permit, by Olivia, who would take no notice of him when she came into the room ; nor would she drink tea, because he presided over the tea-pot, but shared the poached eggs and buttered toast of her bridegroom, who seem- ed by no means willing to reciprocate her demonstrations of affection. Nothing could have been less interesting to my father, than his journey up to town with her. Not a word, for many milea,- was exchanged between them. As they were entering Londoa., "he roused himself, in spite of his dislike, to point out objects of iiiterest ;^but Olivia turned him the cold shoulder, till, as the caiiage passed along the Edgeware road, her attention was caught by a milliner's window. ' y " Mr. Ord," said she, turning round with sudden animation, " I want a bonnet to be married in. I am not fit to go to church • in this fright of a thing." i " Certainly, Miss Talbot." ' ^,^ He stopped the carriage. She went in and selected the one that pleased her taste, sat down, and waited half an hour in the shop, while they trimmed it with orange flowers, and^^y, she requested my father to lend her the money to pay ^riC -"^^^ He gave her the few pounds he had in his purse, and, sud- denly remembering that if she went to India she must be pro- vided with an outfit, he took great pleasure in the thought that he could thus indirectly offer his Httle purse to Amabel. It had distressed him U) think that Horace alone was to assist her with money. He cursed, in his heart, the " Lazy Longings" ■which had cost him a hundred pounds, which might hsiAhesa Amabel; a family histoet. 349 of use to her ; and -as soon as he had seen Olivia safely deposit- ed in a parlor at an inn contiguous to St. George's, he went to his banking house, which happened not to be in the city, and drew out his little balance, which he put into her hand. " Oh ! thank you, Mr. Ord," said she ; " I have been talking to the chambermaid, and she tells me there are lovely summer muslins to be had cheap at this time of year." " Miss Talbot," said my father, solemnly, " let me advise you to remember that your wedding wardrobe will probably be mourning." " You are very unkind to me, all of you," said Olivia, burst- ing into tears. " You want to make me unhappy at my wed- ding ; but here 'they come !" she added, running to the window, and seeing Bevis and Horace get out of a coach. " In another half hour I shall be Mrs. Bevis. I wonder whether that old monster has got the wedding ring 1" CHAPTER Xn. All my life long I liave beheld with most respect the man Who knew himself, and knew the ways before him. And from amongst them chose considerately With a clear foresight — not a hlind'fold courage, — And, having chosen, with a steadfast mind Pursued his purposes. Tatlob. — PhUip Van Artevelde. @S the register of St. George's, amongst names of note and fashion, ladies to whom the Duke has acted father, bride- grooms with long pedigrees, and fashionable brides, stands the obscure record of this marriage. The clergyman who performed the ceremony wondered at the unfashionable character of parties who were married by special license, and at the smallness of his fee. Immediately after the marriage Bevis and Horace went again into the city. My father would have accompanied them, but Olivia, in high. 350 Amabel; a family history. spirits, seized him by the arm, and insisted on his going shopping. " I will introduce you, Mrs. Bevis," said he, " to a friend of mine, a fashionable milliner and dressmaker in Bond street." " La ! Mr. Ord, how ever did you get acquainted with such a person ?" said Olivia. " We were both detenus at Verdun," said my father. " I was taken prisoner, near Rome, in 1812, having been sent on boat service up the Tiber. They marched me all through Italy, into the heart of France. I was recommended, when I reached Verdun, to board with this Miss Graham, who was exceedingly kind to midshipmen. She and her sister had been daughters of a Scotch officer, who, dying, left them unprovided for ; and, with that rare courage which can sacrifice, when circumstances demand it, a fiction of gentility, they oame up to London to be milliners. They were doing very well, when, at the Peace of Amiens, Miss Flora, my friend, went over to France to get the fashions. The war broke out, and she was sent to Verdun. Having some little means she set up a pension, which was of the greatest service to her countrymen ; and I owe more to Miss Flora than to almost any person living, for there were plenty of temptations at Verdun for a friendless little middy. I never come up to town without going to see her. She is to me a living monument of the good that a plain single woman, with small means, may quietly accomplish." So saying, without noticing the toss of Olivia's head at his mention of old maids, my father knocked at Miss Graham's door in Bond street, and was admitted into the show-room. " I should like to see Miss Flora,'' he said to the young per- son who received them ; and in a few morhents a quiet-looking old lady, dressed in black, came in. " Ls this your lady, Mr. Ord ?" she said, observing the bridal flowers in the bonnet of Olivia. " No, Miss Flora ! She is a lady just married, who is going out to India. I am the friend of her family, and have brought her to you." He whispered something aside, to which Miss Graham an- swered, " Certainly, Mr. Ord, to any friend of yours." Amabel; a fa milt history. 351 Olivia was already trying on some very figshy and expensive millinery. " I ■would not advise you to buy these tilings to-day, Mrs. Bevis," said my father. " Miss Graham will be glad to see you another time." "I had no intention of buying anything, I assure you," said Olivia. But she stayed so long, pulling over every flower, cap, and bonnet in the show-room, that they did not get back to the hotel till after the two gentlemen had returned from the city. There was barely time for my father and Horace to take the Hampshire maU. ***** It was six in the morning when the chaise in which they had, with some difficulty, made their way across the heath, stopped at the bridge of Sandrock, and my father jumped out. " Go to bed at once, old boy," he said to Horace. " I wiU come up soon, and let you know." As he swung himself over the stile, and gained the path, which was to lead him by a short cut to her cottage, he heard the church bell of the village begin to toll. All the sweet in- fluences of early dawn were abroad that morning. Though overhead the sky seemed clear, a softening mist mellowed the purple distance, and the eye lingered upon objects in the fore- ground, the mountain ashes with their tufts, the hazels at whose roots peeped forth the autumn violet, the hawthorn covert where the linnet sang. The turf a,long the path was dry under his feet ; here and ihere, as he passed, some tall, dry, slender weed crackled, when he brushed it by. Autumn had mellowed with its touch the brown tints of the beeches, and an early frost had given a rus- set glow to all the foliage of the wood. On one^ side bubbled a blithe brooklet — to him its murmur seemed to babble of those happy days when her footsteps had hallowed the same path as she paid her daily visits to the Hill Farm, during the sickness of Horace. A breeze began to tremble over the leaves of the copse ; it played across the stubble field. On the day when his hopes were brightest, the young wheat had been 352 Amabel; a family history. springing green and fresLi above tlie furrows. It had ripened, and. been reaped, gleaned, and garnered, since then. Another breeze flew by him ; — the solemn knell it bore seemed to strike upon his heart. Mounting a rising ground which led out of the copse, he paused beside a stile and looked around the moor, which had been brown and bare during his spring visit, and now was purple with the heath in flower. An exclamation of astonishment escaped him. It had been morning twilight as he crossed the heath, and the full beauty of the change now broke upon him in the ruddy glow of the sun. On every side but one, stretched out the moorland landscape. On that one side the copse was parted from the heath by a fringe of flowering broom. Every waft of wind that reached him from the heath, seemed to bear and scatter perfimae. Though no man was to be seen at that early hour of the morning, life was not wanting to animate the landscape. The " heavy winged thieves,'' who love the sweet farina of the moorland, flew past him with their spoils. Cattle were standing in the fields through which he had to pass ; brown sheep were grazing on the purple hiUs. All was so still, it hushed his heart — so still ! — save where the bell of death gave forth its warning knell. He walked on, almost in a dream. He entered the premises by the gate xmder the arch of ivy. Tlie once familiar door bell had now a jarring sound. " How is the Captain 1" he said to the old woman who opened the door to him. " The Captain is dead, sir," she replied. Her face had told him so before she spoke. " He died at five o'clock this mov- ing." " Marriage and death, — mourning and feasting — Sarah," said my father, musingly. "Miss Olivia is married. Can I see your mistress ?" " Walk in, sir. She is still in his room ; I will call her, if you. please to wait, sir." She showed him into the dining parlor. Not having chosen to go to bed since the event, she had set out the breakfast table with snowy napery, white cups, and plates, the honey of the heath, and home-made bread upon a wooden trencher. Amabel; a family history. 353 He stood at the ■window, watching the light mist that vrss- rising from the river — hearing the solemn bell which announ- ced to the neighborhood the departm-e of a soul. Amabel came in, dressed in white, in a loose dimity wrapper. Over her shoulders hung the soft folds of her cashmere. She looked very pale. The shock of the night had opened the sluices of her tears. She wept not only for her recent loss, but for her earlier sorrows. Since her health had been less strong, her face, when in repose, had expressed that condition of the heart so beauti- fully described by Longfellow : A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain. But resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles rain. She greeted him with a sad, quiet gentleness, unlike her usual cordiality of manner. " Sarah says Olivia is married," she began. " Yes, thank God ; she is safe," he said. " But what a safety !" she exclaimed. " To be the wife of Bevis !" My father endeavored to comfort her. While he continued speaking, she sat down at the table and poured out tea. As he watched her, he felt how unspeakably blessed would be that home of which she was the presiding spirit ; and his cousin who had owned this pearl of price, thought its possession a disgrace, and cast it from him. To abandon such a woman, to leave her exposed to the chance influences of life, to evil men and evil days, struck him as cruel and unmanly. To do penance for such thoiights — to raise an additional barrier between her and himself — he told her before he left, he had had a recent letter from her husband — there was nothing in it about her — but would she like to read it? " Oh ! so much !" The trembling eagerness with which she took it, the wistful way in which she gazed at the direction till tears gathered in her eyes, went to his heart. He took up his hat and left her with the letter. It was a long letter, written in one of those moments of feaming after home, which soften the heart of the wanderer. 354 Amabel; a family nisiORY. It began by entreating Theodosius to go and see bis children, and to write- him word how they looked, how much they had grown, if they were happy. " I have been driven forth," he said, " from my home, and its affections, and have learned by misfortune that without the enjoyment of such blessings there is no real happiness, and that with them there is no excuse for sorrow or discontent." Speaking of certain political changes that were agitating England at that period, he went on to say : " I am isolated from all mankind — for I rarely go ashore unless I land upon the savage coast of Barbary, off which I am engaged in cruising, and occasionally giving chase to a corsair. I am without a human , being near .me from whom I can imbibe an idea or a prejudice, for my society consists solely of young officers, with whom I have only a professional intercourse ; so that I am mostly alone. I can, therefore, view impartially the questions which quicken the pulses and flush the cheeks of our orators and statesmen, and look back with surprise upon the days in which I chafed with all the ardor and bitter emotions of a par- tisan. As regards the future, all my buoyancy and sanguine temperament have disappeared. My health is good, and I take much exercise. Physical fatigue deadens reflection. The excitement of my duty keeps me all day upon deck ; at night I retire early to my cabin. There is something congenial to my spirit in being day after day upon the wild waters, which for all I know, or perhaps care, may be my resting-place." The feelings of her heart as she read this, have since that day been forcibly expressed in that most heart-rending poem. The Valediction, in which Miss Barrett has given voice to the inarticulate giief of hundreds of her sex ; who, adopting and repeating it, have found it a cry of relief to their own souls : Can I bless thee, my beloved— can I bless thee ? What blessing word can I From my own tears keep dry ? What flower grows in my field wherewith to dress thee ? My good reverts to ill ; — My calmnesses would move thee — My softnesses would prick thee My bindings up would break thee, My crownings curse and kill. Amabel; a family history. 355 Alas ! I can but love thee ! May God bless thee, my beloved — may God bless tliee I It seemed most strange that whfle her life was full of recol- lections of her husband, she should have no longer part or lot in any of his daily interests. That while his memory lay so deeply in her heart, that she prayed for him morning and night, and while her own life seemed in every way connected with his remembrance, she should have been living with so little real knowledge of his actual employments and his state of feeling. The information that she gained seemed to remove him further off from her than ever. She was eager to reconcile the Leonard who was always in her thoughts" with the Leonard of reality. When Theodosius came in, later in the day, she questioned him (timidly at first), about her husband. And he, finding how deeply she was inte^ rested by any trivial anecdote of Captain Warner, submitted, at the price of his self love, to give her pleasure. They spent that afternoon walking up and down the gi'ass plot — 4h.e next day he came early, and the next. If they found themselves alone they talked of Leonard. The week the Tal- bot family passed in strict seclusion, while death was in the house, was not unliappy. Already Theodosius and Horace began planning for the future; the former telling her that she must ride that' autumn, and proposing to brush up all his learning, and to help to teach the boys. He was resolved to spend the vrinter at the Hill Farm, and Horace was delighted with the plan. Since they had talked so much of Leonard, she seemed to my father less the love of his past dreams than the wife of his cousin. Their intercourse was nearly on its old footing. • After the funeral, my father walked up with her to her house. He spoke again of how much good it would do her to ride on horseback on the moors. " Now that Olivia is married," said he, " and your cares have become less, we shall see you no longer ** Compelled to suifer throngh the day Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where lore has no concern." 356 Amabel; a family history. " Oh ! you mistake, indeed you do," said she. " Love has had great concern in all my cares. Those that were once dis- tasteful have become dear to me as discipline ; and I shall sadly miss my dear step-father. I was most sincerely attached to him." " How much more disinterested women are, than we !" ex- claimed my father ; " a man could not say that of the man who had ruined him." " Far be it from me," said Amabel, " to speak lightly of th« errors into which a man may be led by a taste for speculation, a word which, somebody has remarked, too often begins with the second letter. Do you think," she added, after a pause, " one never can retrieve a fault ? Do you not think that, though one can never be the same one would have been, had it never been committed, one may be better ? Is not error an element of progress ? Do you think it signifies essentially what ' the world' says of us, if we have the consciousness within our hearts of improvement and integrity? Ought one not to take even the unjust things the world says as the natural and just punishment of former error ?" She spoke with a tearful eagerness which made my father feel she was applying all she uttered to herself. " You are right," he said, " you always are. The world's opinion is measured upon a shadow, thrown off from what wo are. And if we die with a vertical sun over our heads, before the world has time to take our altitude by our shadow, what does it signify, so we are what we ought to be, and the right work has been done ?' The light of her eyes, the grave smile on her lip, told him she felt deeply and applied his simile. For a few minutes she was silent. " And now," she said, " there is something I wish to ask. Olivia writes to Annie that you have some acquaintance with a respectable and worthy dressmaker ; do you think she would take Annie for a small premium ? The poor child earnestly de- sires it. She has no aptitude for study, no taste for teaching. She must make her ovra way 'ax the world. There are so many governesses !" AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 357 " But an officer's daughter !" cried my father, forgetting what he had said on the subject to Olivia not ten days before. " That consideration is the shadow; of a shade," said Amabel, with a smile. "Poor little Annie has taken a wiser view. Miss Darius, our dressmaker at F , will take her into part- nership, if she can obtain proper instruction." " And what are your own plans ?" said my father. * "I shall go out as governess, if I can find a situation. The position may be odious, but the employment would not ,be distasteful to me. ! should like a situation in which I could take a summer holiday, and gather my brothers and Annie un- der my wing. Ned I must place somewhere, till he is old enough to go to sea, and Joseph must be put to a cheap school. I have luckily a little money left, and I think I could manage this, if my services would command a tolerable salary." " If we could get Ned into the naval school, it would be a grieat thing. He is just the fellow for sea." " Yes," said Amabel, with pride in her pet brother. " It will be hard for me to part with them, — with him, hardest of all." Horace and my father would have admired and respected her more than ever,, could they have overheard that night, her affectionate discourse with the young orphans. To Ned she talked cheerily of his fancy for the sea, encouraging his boy- ish hope that one day, if he were brave and good, he would rise to be an Admiral ; whilst to Joe, she promised a supply of " taws," and " alleys," engaging to put a long tail to his kite, and encouraging him to look with pleasant hopes to his pros- pect of going to school. Annie, when the boys were gone to rest, threw her arms about her neck, and laid, her head upon her breast, and wept, and kissed her. Amabel, whilst she uttered words of encouragement and consolation, breathed a prayer, that Annie's efforts to earn her own poor crust might not be long required ; that she herself might be soon at liberty to offer her shelter and a home under the roof of her husband. " Had I never failed in duty," was her thought, " I should at this crisis have been mistress of the Cedars. I should have had a home to offer these young creatures, who, now, as a conse- ^HioM^a /\f tm-rr fnn\i Gva fTirilflf Allf ITlfn tho WOrld." 358 AMABEI,; A FAMILV HISTORY. THEODOSIUS TO AMABEL. "Warwick Street, Oct. 14, 1819. " My DEAR Mrs. Leonard : " I have seen Miss Graham, and have easily persuaded her to take Miss Annie. Miss G. desires me to say, that she will do all in her power to favor the poor child, and to soften the rigors of her situation ; but that there must necessarily be much, both, in the working of the present system, and her association with unrefined young persons of inferior position, that will be very distasteful to her. Still, Miss Flora, who has gone herself through the ordeal, thinlcs she is doing the right thing, and will, as much as possible, cherish and protect her. There is no other establishment in town where she would not have to work after nine, for women, as a class, are very cruel to women ; but Miss Graham, unless pressed in the height of the season, never keeps her young ladies beyond that hour. She thinks Annie will find it an advantage to begin her apprenticeship at once, as she will become accustomed to the work and the confinement before the season. It seems a hard life for her, dear Amabel, and if her heart misgives her, the stipulation I have made at your request leaves her free at any time. " In Bond street, as I was passing your late, father's club, I met Admiral Lord Epervier. I have only a slight acquaintance with his lordship, but knowing him to be the President of the Naval School, I ventured to accost him. His lordship was extremely gracious, gave me a paper of the rules and regula- tions, and took me into the Club, where he introduced me to several gentlemen. I found amongst these Sir Jeremiah Thomp- son, just come up from the eastern counties, who promised to interest himself for ' Talbot's son.' You will see by the paper I inclose, that the pupils are of three classes. Those who pay £100 a year for their schooling ; those (of whom John Warner is one), who pay £35, the bare cost of their board and instruc- tion, and the pui^ils on the foundation, who pay nothing at all. I have thought you would prefer Ned should enter as the second kind of pupil, especially as I find I can procure money to pay his way from the naval fund. "I am on my way tc T^-'-b' -^ +- — ■*^--- '^■— '— — - ^ AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 359 old soul, the aunt of Horace, and my own near connexion. It was from her house Captain Warner married his first wife, who was her relation. I find, on examining a list of persons having the right of presentation to Christ's Hospital, that she is one, and that her turn is near at hand. I make little doubt I can so manage as to get her presentation for Joseph. As you are so great a stranger in London I send you Lamb's book on : Christ's Hospital, to prepare your mind for seeing him in the horrible disguise of a Blue Coat Boy. " In haste, ever sincerely yom-s, " Theo. Ord." THEODOSIUS TO AMABKL. "Brighton, October 18, 1819. " Dkar Mrs. Leonard ; "I took my maiden relative completely by surprise, and flurried her not a little. She gave me at once to understand she had promised her presentation to Christ's Hospital, and has refused hundreds of applications. Knowing my good aunt's way of doing business, I ventured to inquire when, where, and to whom she had given her promise, and found that, ten years ago, when she had her last chance, she had been obliged to dis- appoint a very worthy country parson, and had promised to give a younger child of his her next turn. I inquired if she knew anything about thife child, and finding she did not, suggested she should write and ascertain about him. She wrote that very day, and before she got her answer had worked herself up to a great pitch of anxiety and enthusiasm. I talked to her a great deal about you, and her fits of irritation at herself for her unlucky promise, and of hope the child was dead, were exceedingly diverting. This morning she received her answer, when, to my very great amusement and her own content, we discover that the promise she had made was ante-natal. The infant happened to be born a girl, and the father thought no more of it. This anecdote is Miss Taylor all over. You have Miss Taylor before you, blindly, btenderingly enthusiastic, fussily benevolent, inconsequente, but with a freshness of interest in the concerns of her fellow-creatures, very unusual 360 Amabel; A family history. with a person of her age. She is the kindest-hearted woman in the world, and the most persuadable. " I have told her it is her duty to invite Horace to mate her house his residence till his father makes some arrangement to replace Bevis, but she has a nervous fear of any one aflBict- ed with personal infirmity. She will worry him out of his life by her attentions, will persist in considering him helpless, and in spite of all possible remonstrances, if he is delivered over to her care, I have no doubt she will feed him with a spoon. " She has made me this morning a proposition which, under these circumstances, I think very good. She wishes to know whether you could be induced to accompany Horace, and be governess to a little girl she is going to take home from school. I earnestly advise you to accept this offer. Miss T. begs you will dictate your terms, and will listen to any stipulation. You may govern her and all her household, for she is of a timid and un- certain nature, made to be ruled by a strong mind. She is wildly enthusiastic about you at this moment. She is disposed to do anything to serve you. There is no person on earth with whom she so much desires to be acquainted. You will at once establish an influence which will be of equal service to her and to Horace, to yours and to you. I should like to have an an- swer as soon as possible. Miss T., indeed, suggested sending this by express, though there is in reality no hurry. Meantime take care of yourself, my dear friend, consult Horace, and be- lieve me ever, " Your attached friend and cousin, "Theo. Okd." CHAPTER Xm. God assigns All thy tears over like pure crystallines For younger fellow workers of the soil To wear as amulets. Mbs. Browmimo. Miss Taylor had a house on the Old Steyne. Thither our principal dramatis personpe are now converging. Captain Amabel; a family history. S61 Warner, to be sure, is not making a straiglit course for Brighton, paving just passed through the Straits of Gibraltar, with 'despatches for Sir Hudson Lowe at St. Helena ; but the frigate that he commands is thence to return to England ; his thoughts dwell often on his native land ; and, in consequence of betters he" has just received, chiefly fix -themselves on the Old Steyne. Theodosius, Amabel, and Horace, are approaching it by mail. Ai for Annie, Ned, and Joseph, the tide of the great city has swept them from our view. With an aching heart, Amabel comniitted her young sister to Miss Flora, feeling that " the system," like that of slavery or despotism, can only be made endurable by the intervention of " happy accident," in the character of those by whom it is administered. Annie Talbot, without any literary capacity, had exhibited, since her father's death, an energy of purpose which had greatly endeared her to Amabel. Joseph was already on his way to the Blue Coat nursery, at Hertford. Ned had been left at the naval school. He took leave of his sister in the carriage. He sti'uggled hard to main- tain that firmness at parting which custom considers the best preparation for manliness,, but natural feelings got the better of stoic pride— he threw himself on her breast, and began to cry. He was comforted somewhat by receiving a purse, which she had knit for him, containing three new half-crowns. Still drawing his breath hard, he followed Theodosius Ord into the parlor of the establishment. Theodosius asked for Warner, and after committing Talbot to the care of that yoimg fellow, aiid tipping him with liberality, that he might remember to protect Ned's entrance into the school, he returned to Ama- bel, accompanied to the gate by the two boys. The children made a contrast which smote her to the heart. Ned, with his dark and glossy curls, his animated eyes,- free movements, and fresh cheeks, had the air of a boy nurtured with care ; John Warner was a pale neglected schoolboy. He had a look as if he were not accustomed to receive visitors — as if he knew nothing of the ties of home. Wrapped in sad thoughts, she sat in one corner of the coach, travelling towards Brighton, when she was roused to attention 862 AMABEL; A FAMILY HiUCORY. by tbe conversation of Theodosius with the fourth inside passenger. Captain Warner's conversation had been distin- guished for its picturesque and admirable style of anecdote',»^l Ferdinand Guiscard's by its adaptiveness, but she had never met bfefore a first-rate practised converser : one of those men ■who are so brilliantly agreeable when thrown a httle out of their own sphere, because they have at command not only the current chit-chat of the day, but staler stories of the year before, which cannot be made available in their own circle, the laws of which forbid a twice-told tale. This No. 4, inside the mail, was a man of this descrijjtion. When Amabel first gave heed to his discourse, he was talking ■with my father about the ■wonders of the divining rod, the Jannes and the Jambres of old and modern Egypt, and all the other faintly da^wning maiTels of mesmerism. Amabel listened in amazement. She seemed to find herself transported into the ■wonderful dream life of her childhood. From Mesmer and his " ism," the discourse branched off to the subject of ancient civilization, a-propos of which, my father said that it was singular so many names out of the Classical Dictionary -ivere retained in Sandrock and its neighborhood ; that the commonest name amongst its peasantry was Csesar, and that Darius, Alexander, and Cyrus flourished largely on the shop signs of the neighboring to^wn. " Your name, ma'am," said the passenger, turning to Amabel, ■whom Horace addressed always by her Christian name, " your name is a singular one." Without ■waiting for a reply, for he was in the full tide of brilliant and successful conversation, encouraged, as I have said, by the ■wonder and delight of an appreciative auditory, he ■went on : "I never heard the name you bear but once, and then it was trolled day and night by a French colonel of huzzars to the burden of a drinking song. I was coming up in the year '14 from Marseilles to Paris, in the coupe of the diligence, when he joined me. He was particularly curious on the subject of our laws of divorce. If his story were ti-ue he had sufiered injuries sufficiently exasperating from a captain in our navy, and -was coming over to England with an intention of Amabel; a familv historv. 863 taking Ms revenge by seducing his enemy's wife, and afterwards mariying her, the case involving some question of property hich he wished to secure." Here my father, with more zeal than sound .discretion, stamped violently on the toes of the speaker, who, being one of those rare persons who can receive such a hint without break- ing short off in their sentence with confusion, oj saying in an angiy whisper; " Whatthe deuce are you kicking me for ?" — ■ quietly remarked that no man could measure the lying impu- dence of Frenchmen when they get upon the subject of honines fortunes, and turned the conversation ,to the wines of the south of Prance, and the probability of a change of ministry. He got out of the coach a short distance from Brighton. Theodosius, when he had left, grew very fidgety. On entering the townj he too got out with: a hurried apolo^ to Amabel, desiring Horace to t^l their aunt that he had pressing business to attend to, but would be with her in the evening. In a few moments more the coach stopped on the Old Steyne. The door of their new home was thrown open by a servant in blue and scarlet livery, and Amabel and Horace found themselves in the hall surrounded by their carpet-bags and boxes. " This way, madam," said the servant, ushering them into a small library. An elderly lady met them at the door. There was a strange mixture of courtliness and kindliness in her reception. She made Amabel a funny little tripping courtesy, and then kissed her. She was a woman about sixty ; with still a pretty face, though her figure ha4 long ceased to retain any propor- tion. On the top of her grey hair, which frizzled over her byow in all directions, she had mounted a wonderful starched cap ; her gown was short, and showed pretty little feetj too small to support her frame, and she rolled in her walk like Jack in a gale of wind. " Come in, my dear — don't stand in the draught. Bennett will see to your thin^. Bennett will -pay all there is to pay. Betinett, you hear me ?" And- seizing upon Horace, she led him carefully, into the room, and pushed him into a chair. 364 Amabel; a family history. " Why don't you have a dog, Horace, to lead you by a string 1" " Thank you, Aunt Taylor, I have no taste for canine services when I can do better," said Horace, laying his hand on that of' Am abel. "And you need not talk so loud," he added, " I can Aear." " I think you can get safely about this room," said Miss Tay- lor, looking round the apartment, which was certainly very bare. "I had all the tables carried off before you came. This winter we will sit here instead of in the drawing-room, because of my Dresden china." '* " I do not think you need be afraid," said Amabel. " I never yet saw Horace run over a table or chair." " Won't you take off your bonnet, my deai; ? Perhaps, you had better go up at once to your own room. I hope you will like it. I was so glad you consented to come to us." At that moment a pensive fair-haired girl came into the library. " Katie, come here and hold yourself straight," said Miss Taylor ; " I want to introduce you to this lady. I hope you willnot be troublesome. Mrs. Leonard^ — ^Miss Catherine Warner." , Miss Taylor did not see the start of her governess, nor the sud- den flush that mounted to her face ; she was taking Horace's hat out of his hand and otherwise fussing over him. Katie Warner, who had timidly approached her instructress with the intention of taking her hand, chilled by receiving no reception, was turning away, when Amabel, with sudden impulse, threw her arms about her, drew her to her heart, and kissed the fair young head and the pale- forehead. Katie looked up into her face, and, inspired with confidence by what she saw, returned the embrace fervently. " Take Mrs. Leonard up to her own room," said Miss Taylor to Katie Warner. " I did not wait dinner because I thought, my dear, you would like a beefsteak with your tea. You must be hungry," she said, ringing the bell to hurry Bennett ; " Katie, take Mrs. Leonard up to her own room, and see the fire burns, and ring the bell for Anne, and tell her to attend to all she wants, and make yourself of use, but don't annoy her. I will stay with him,'' she said, in an aside to Amabel, " in case he should want anything." Amabel; a family history. 365 " I 1 think I -will not take off my bonnet," said Amabel, t" at least not till I have spoken to Mr. Ord." if " Just as you please about going to your room, but take your things off here. You cannot want to drink tea in your bonnet. It would make me quite uncomfortable. I want to. see you enjoy your tea, my dear. Put your bonnet on the table. Oh ! I forgot ; there is no table. Bennett, take her things, and put them in the hall. I think you had much better see if you like your room. It has a southern aspect. I want you to see if it suits you. Katie, show Mrs. Leonard her room, you know." Thus adjured, Amabel went up the stairs, passing her arm round the waist of her step-daughter. For this one hour, till Theodosius Ord's return, she might enjoy the happiness of being near her. Then she must launch forth again on the dark, stormy, troubled waves of life, leaving this friendly shelter. She could not stay,_ of course, as governess to Katie Warner. She could not bear to see the room with preparations for her comfort ; the cheerful fire bm-ning, the bed turned down. " Let me go into Mr. Vane's room," she whispered to Katie. " I have his keys, and we will unpack his portmanteau." Katie noticed that, as her governess knelt before the trunk, her tears fell fast upon the linen. Katie had a kind heart, and had herself known trouble. " That woman could not be of nature's making', Who, being kind, her misery made not kinder." She stole up to Amabel and gave her a kiss. " My child-^my precious child," said Amabel, fairly over- come f and closing the portmanteau, she seated herself before it, and drew Katie to her side. " Tell me something of yourself," said she. " I do not know that there is much to t ill," said the young girl, " except that I have never had a home like other girls, and nobody has ever seemed to be much interested about me. Sometimes I think of the old song : ' I care for nobody, no, not I, For nobody cares/or u e," 366 Amabel; a family history. and I think that is my case too. Won't you be kind to me, and try if you can love me ?" Eeceiving Amabel's caress, given without reply, Katie War- ner went on. " I have not seen my papa for three long years, and scarcely saw him for several years before. He came back from sea, and married a second time. My own mamma died when I was very young— and poor papa's new wife turned out so ill, and made him so unhappy. I do not believe he will ever return to live in England, and we have no fixed home. I have only seen, twice in these three years, my brother. Don't you think," said she, after a pause, " it was very unjust and cruel of the girls at school to taunt and twit me about that bad wife of my father ? I only saw her two or three times. I did not even live in her house. She was not rtiy own mamma, you know. But whenever they got angry, or when I was naughty, every one would say .that I took after her. I am sure I would not be like her, Mrs. Leonard, for the world, and grieve papa. I suppose we shall be richer now that grand- mamma is dead, and papa has got his property," said Katie, continuing her confidence ; " but papa has never been ricli before. He wrote word to my mistress that I must never be extravagant, as he had little more than his half pay. All the girls were rich, and my gowns used to get so bad. I had no one to look after me. I try to make them last as long as they can. I try not to wish for new ones. What is the matter, Mrs. Leonard, are you ill ?" " Nothing, my child." She remembered that the money of which this forlorn child had felt the want, had, by her hus- band's generosity, been given up to her. Her punishment was greater than she could bear. "Let me get you some sal volatile," said Kate. "Aunt Taylor takes lots of sal volatile." " No, nothing of that kind. Sit down and tell me more." " There is nothing to tell — only my school life was unhappy. The girls did not like me much, they said I was so sensitive and childish; and the teachers did not like my wearing such old clothes. When grandmamma died, papa wrote to Aunt Taylor, and she came the other day, and brought me here. AMABEL; A FAMILY UISTORT. 867 I shall love you very mucli. I mean to do my very best. I do really." " And suppose that I must leave you ?" " Then I shall have to go back again to school. She said so the other day. Dear Mrs. Leonard, I am sure you won't do that ! You will try how I behave a little while. She said if I did not please you I should have to go to school again." Aipabel had a little turquoise ring upon her finger. It had been a first love gift from Felix. She drew it off, and put it upon Katie's hand. " Wear that alwaya for my sake," she said, " and never think, dear child, that no one loves you." " If you please, ladies, tea," said the footman. "Katie, my love, unpack this trunk to-niorrow for poor Horace, and be kind to him. He will love you, and your cousin, Mr. Ord, will love you. Every one will love you, if you show them love." So saying they went down into the library, where Amabel gently bnt decidedly took Horace out of good Miss Taylor's hands. She ate little herself, but busied herself with him ; yet all she did was so quietly done, that you might have drunk tea many times in their company without noticing that he was blind, and that she was waiting on him. After the m«al was cleared away. Miss Taylor and Amabel sat down to backgammon. " It is a real treat to me, my dear, to find that you can play," said the old lady, as the clock struck ten, closing the backgam- mon board. " To-morrow night I will give you your revenge. I-wonder where Do. Ord is ? — I want to thank him, my dear, for bringing you. Ring the bell for the servants, Katie. My dear, it would save my old eyes very much, if you would do me the favor always to read prayers." So Amabel read in the chapter of Isaiah, wherein is that verse, " Doubtless thou art our Father, though Abraham be ignorant of us, though Israel acknowledge us not — Thou, O Lord, art our Father, our guide, our redeemer, from everlast- ing." " I will sit up. Miss Taylor, if you do not object, till Mr. Ord comes home." 368 Amabel; a tamily history. " Better go to bed, my dear. Can you turn out the lamp ? Will you rate out the fire ?" ■ " Oh ! certainly," said Amabel. i The moment all the party were gone, and she bad given Katie her last kiss, her last promise of great caution to Miss Taylor, her last pressure of the hand to Horace Vane, with the feeling on her mind, that when they woke up on the morrow she -wfculd be no longer in the house, and that her brief appear- ance there would seem a dream, — sh« put on her bonnet, cloak, and gloves, and sat down to await my father's arrival. About eleven o'clock she heard his knock. He had taken his candle from Bennett, and was going up to bed, when she came out of the library, and met him. " I must speak to you," she said, much agitated. " Come in l^ere a minute, Mr. Ord.' Tell me why you brought me here ? "Why did you make me feel how happy I could have been in this new home — when you knew I could not stay with Katie Warner ?" " Do you object to the poor child ?" " Object ! — Oh, no ! It would have been my greatest hap- piness to have the care of her. But Miss Taylor and her father never would consent. I ought not to deceive them. In taking any other situation I should have felt myself justified in saying nothing of my past life. Here it is different. I cannot stay. WiU you get a coach at once, and take me to some lodging ?" " I knew it !" cried my father. " A man never can do any- thing to suit a woman ! Here have I been walking the streets . these last five hours, hoping to prevent this very thing. I knew you would set up absurd scruples." " You knew that my pupil — the pupil you always professed to know nothing about — was Katie Warner !" " I thought," said he, going on without answering her excla- mation, " that after being with them a few hours, as you have been, your scruples would all vanish. Believe me they are morbid. What harm can you do my cousin Kate ? — what good may you not do ?" '* Thou shalt not do evil that good may come," she answered Amabel; a family history. 369'^ gravely. " It would be dishonorable to stay here, and deceive Miss Taylor. You know, as well as I, she would not let me stay if she knew I was the discarded wife of Katie's father." She said this interrogatively. " I don't know any such absurdity," replied my father. " Let , us pause, and think it over. Even good is not to be done hastily. ' Staidness is of God — haste of the devil. Saith the Prophet, it is better not to go to Friday prayers, than to go there in a hurry.' " " You will not tm-n the current of my thoughts," she said, " by any gay quotations. K I sleep under this roof to-night, it will be with the fullest intention of quitting it in the morn- Miss Taylor challenged Amabel, as she passed her door, with " Did you rake out the fire ? Did you turn the lamp out ?" " I left Mr. Ord below," said Amabel, and made her way hastily to her own chamber. Miss Taylor, having the highest opinion of my father's care- lessness, and indeed of the untrustworthiness of all his sex with whom she was connected, could not have slept a wink without examining into the safety of her ashes. Putting a cloak over her dressing gown, and arrayed in a wonderful frilled night coif, with a long band of cambric muslin and lace tied round the crown, which gave it the effect of a tiara, she came down stairs to the library. Her nephew stood before the grate chewing a pen. It was a common practice with him when thoughtful or when worried. " Come, Do. — go to bed. Where have you been ? I want to put out the fire." " Sit down, Aunt Kate," said he, " sit down — ^there's a good soul ! I want to have some talk with you." " My dear," said the old lady, always ready for a chat, " I am delighted — perfectly delighted with Mrs. Leonard, I assure you. I can't thank you enough for having induced her to take this situation. She has the prettiest face, and the prettiest ways:: " " Then, I am sorry to inform you. Aunt Taylor," said he, " that I am charged by her to say that you need not think she 16* 370 AMABELjA FAMILY HISTORY. is going to remain. I had a hard matter to keep her here to-night, and she -will certainly be off to town to-morrow- morning." ■'■ "Heaven bless us !" cried Miss Taylor. " Why, what can we have done ? Bennett and Anne, I hope, have not been rude. Hav'n't they made her comfortable ? I put her into the best bedroom. I told you to offer her what salary you would. Doesn't she like Katie Warner V " Yes," said my father. " Yes — but there's the rub. You see her true name is not Leonard," said he. " You see she is — in short it is — she is Katie's step-mother, Mrs. Leonard Warner." . " Heaven bless us ! Good gracious ! That pretty, modest, amiable, young thing !" cried Miss Taylor. " Go along with you. Do. Ord ! You are making fun of your old aunt. 1 am not going to believe you." " It's true enough. I have known it for some months past," said my father. " If you knew it, what, for heaven's sake, did you recommend her here for ? And, now that I have seen her, and I like her, and have got that little Warner girl from school, and have asked Horace Vane to ^pend the winter^why do you come and teU me who she is ? Why couldn't you keep quiet ? What do you want to unsettle me for ?" " The very thing I told her !" exclaimed he. " I thought everything would have gone on right, unless she took a sudden fright on seeing Katie Warner. She not only has been falsely accused, but is holy as the stars, and as pure as the snow. 1 thought she would be so happy here, and so well protected. That when Warner came back, a few words from you and me would set things between them all taut and ataunto. But she insists, as she says, in not deceiving you ; so to-morrow morning she is going off; and I should like to know where she is to go." "Poor thing — poor pretty young thing! She will go on perhaps from bad to worse. Suppose I send Katie away." " But she is not bad, Aunt Kate, I tell you. It is not a ques- tion of bad or of worse. Sit down, and let me explain to you " AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 3'71 Good heavens, Do. ! wliat shall I do 1" cried Miss Taylor, when he had run ovSr the principal points of Amabel's stoi-y. " I am so sorry for her, poor dear. I cannot let her go. ^ And what ever am I to do with Horace ? And I cannot bear to send Katie back to school. She is so very sensitive. What is to be done ? Do. Ord, you got me yourself into this scrape ; it is for you to get me out — what is to be done ?" "Aunt Kate," he answered, after a moment's pause, "make me your plenipo. Give me full powers. Let me ask her in your name to remain. If you will, I think I can arrange it for you." "I vrish you would. I had rathisr it would appear as if nothing had been said to me^ you know." " Make yourself easy, my dear aunt," said my father. " No word upon the subject ever need to pass between you. If she does not agree to stay, she will be gone by daybreak " " If she does go by daybreak, be sure that the front door is locked after you leave here," interrupted Miss Taylor. " Offer her any terms if she will stay," she continued, raking out the dead coaFs from the grate. " She suits me exactly. But — why she is almost one of my own relations ! I shall never treat her right, I know.'' " You do everything just right," exclaimed my father ; '' you are the best, and kindest, and most valuable of women. A deal too good for any one man to have had you to himself" " Ah !" said Miss Taylor, with a sigh ; " and you don't suppose Leonard Warner will be angry with me, do you ?" The next morning Amabel was Awakened by a maid, who put into her hand the following communication : — theodosius to amabel. " Dear Mrs. Leonard : " My aunt and I have had an interview ; I have told her everything. Do not be angry. She earnestly entreats, you to stay, at least tUl fhe return of Captain W-arher. She offers you your own terms, and is only afraid she shall not make your new home agreeable. It will be an imprudence to throw your- Sl2 Amabel; a familt history. self upon the world, when such a home is offered to you. Make us all happy by remaining here — none more so ihan " Your devoted friend, -*• "Theo.Ord. "P.8. — ^My aunt will send Katie to school if you wish. She is shy about having any conversation with you upon affairs of your own! If you appear at breakfast, she will conclude that you remain. If you decide to go, you had better get away at once. I will take bur places by the early coach to town." " Is there an answer, ma'am, for Mr. Ord," said the maid- servant ; and Amabel replied, " there is no answer." As she fell back on her pillow, the door of communication opened between her room and that of Katie Warner. " Did you dream any dreams ?" said Katie, coming to the side of her bed. " I dreamed, my darling, that you loved me." " Oh !" said she, " your dreams are coming true. I think I shall love you so veiy much, Mrs. Leonard — next best to dear papa — and the memory of my dead mother." # CHAPTER XIV. Oh ! how and by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that calls thee back more near ? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time when thou art here ? I'll tell thee. For thy sake I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrat&to thee In worthy deeds each moment that is told, While thou, beloved oae, art far from me. Mrs. F. Eehble, Behold Amabel installed at Brighton, the de facto mistress of Miss Taylor's house on the Old Steyne. Bennett brought her his accounts. She was Miss Taylor's right hand, and her right eye. My Mker, Horace, Katie, and Miss Taylor vied Amabel; a family history. 3l3 ■with each other in attempts to restore her health and make her happy. At the riding-school to which the young men ins^ted on taking her and Katie Warner, she was distinguished by her beautiful figure on horseback, and by what my father called her, " vaulting ambition," her extreme anxiety to try the leaping bar. She remembered having seen Miss O'Byrne take a wide ditch, and having heard her husband's "bravo !" as she went gallantly over. As soon as she and Katie had acquired some knowledge of equestrianism, their daily rides extended beyond the saw-dust of the riding-school. They were even distinguished by the notice of George " the Magnificent," who was at that time sojourning in the midst of his faithful people of Brighton, in that hideous Pavilion his taste had set up. Amabel rode generally with Horace, who required an occa- sional " To the right, Horace," or "Pull to the left," and whose propensity for the saddle was a crook in the lot of the worthy Miss Taylor. Early one brilliant autumn morning, when they were out of sight of the houses of the town, my father and his cousin Kate rattled up behind Amabel and Horace, crying out as they fle.w by: " Did you see that French print, yesterday, on the Parade, of two people kissing on. horseback 3 What will you bet us that it can't be done ?" " Mr. Ord ! Katie ! I will hear of no such thing 1" cried Amabel, galloping after them. They checked iheir horses when they found she was in ear- nest* Katie looked extremely frightened — all her bright spirits sank at once, and Amabel felt she must be cautious in reproving her. " Mr. Ord," she said, as my father ptilled his horse up at her side, " I thought you had strict notions of womanly propmW ; I am astonished at you .'" ^W,' " Yes ; womanly propriety," said he,; " but your pupil is a mere child — a child I have known and romped with all her life — my cousin, too !" 374 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. " If she were your owii sister, I should disapprove of your kissing her on horseback on the Brighton Downs ; but she is not even your first cousin. That ' a man may not many his second cousin,' is, I believe, no fact in English law." " Ridiculous !" said my father. "The child is a mere child. You are treating the whole thing as if she were a woman." " She is not such a child as you appear to think. She is six- teen, I assure you." " She is a mere passionless little school-girl. Do you recog- nise no difference between her and you ?" At that moment they approached nearer to the brink of a dispute than they had ever done before, or than they ever came again. But the little cloud dispersed, at least so far as Ama- bel and my father were concerned. It seemed, however, to- have thrown a damp over the gaiety of Katie. Her self-con- sciousness, and extreme dread of reproof, which had been lulled to sleep by recent kindness, had been awakened en sursaut by this little affair. Her education seemed to have been hitherto directed to repressing, rather than developing, her disposition ; and Amabel regi-etted having checked the familiarity with which she had begun to treat her cousin, since in pulling up a tare she seemed to have been rooting out the wheat also. She had more pure poetical sensibility than Amabel, who chose her favorite poetry for the high thoughts it set forth, and for its tonic effect upon her. Katie had a natural sensibility to all the influences of Nature. She delighted in the verse of Mrs. He- mans. The bent of her nature was to broodingness, and hidden feeling ; that of Amabel to sympathy and action. Katie was passive, pensive, and receptive ; Amabel diffusive, energetic, and naiturallyf gay. Amabel was a person who could not pass through a room without attracting notice. Katie, who required drawing out, might be overlooked until you knew her. Her admiration for Amabel was unbounded, and her step-mother fiil^j, Reciprocated her affection. It was beautiful to see them side by side ; the dark-haired, bright-eyed, energetic mother looking down with a sort of tender pride upon her fair-haired, soft-eyed, tender, timid child. Once, when Katie was speaking, as she often did, of the second TLM abel; a family history. 875 marriage and the misfortunes of lier father, Amabel ventured to ask her step-mother's maiden name. " She was French, I think her surname was Karnac. Her Christian name," said Katie, undouMingly, " was Isabelle." It was probably the strong impression that had been enter- tained both by Theodosius Ord and Katie Warner, that the second Mrs. Warner had been French, that saved Amabel from suspicion. Nothing ahoutJier bespoke the foreigner. The purity of her English accent was quite faultless, though there was a little peculiarity about her speech, which lent to what she said a piquant charm. Her association with the peasantry of Hamp- shire had giiven to her mind an English tone. Miss Taylor was persuaded by Horace, who loved Sandrock, to pass part of the winter at his farm, and shortly before Christmas the whole family removed there. Dr. Frost told Amabel he was delighted to get back his curate. She went daily through the parish, accompanied by Katie, who never loved her more sincerely than when she saw her the ministering angel of the needy and infirm. There was skating for fine days on the Heath Ponds. My fat^' made an ice boat, which did not answer ; but its con- struction and its iailure furnished interest and much amuse- ment to the party. In order to remedy the disappointment, my father and Horace fitted up what they called a chaise glis- sanie, in which Amabel, Katie, and Miss Taylor, flew swiftly over the ice, to their own great delight, and that of the con- trivere. When there was neither snow nor ice they mounted forest ponies, and gallopped into the neighboring market-town, or scampered wer the moors. - , . In-'doors, there were enormous glowing fires of peat, and plenty of dispute how peat fires should "be made. The ladies worked in worsted,' while my father read aloud history, poetry," and Scott's novels. There' was backganimon in the evening, battledore and shuttlecock, and a great singing of glees and madrigals. Katie was found to have a sweet soprano voice ; and, above all, there was plenty of laughter. In the month of March my father, the life of the whole 376 auabel; a family house, went up to town, and ten days after he had left, Miss Taylor got a letter. " I have heard from 'Warner," it said, " and he is coming home. He wants you and me, Aunt Kate, to run down before he comes, and overhaul the Cedars. If you leave Sandrock on this errand, do not mention your business to his wife. It might distress her to know that you and I were doing, what, under other circumstances, it would have been her pride and pleasure to have done." Miss Taylor, the next^ day, obeyed the call; and while she and my father were at the Cedars, putting aside old Mrs. Warner's clothes and bonnets, looking over her strange hoards, sorting and arranging her cabinets of papers, and getting the house into habitable array, my father received another letter from the Captain, dated " Off Falmouth," directing him to come at once to Portsmouth, and join him there. Captain Warner's frigate fell in with an outward-bound Indiaman, somewhere off Cape de Verd. As the sea was very calm, and the day fine, a boat full of passengers visited the Magician. " I believe a relative of yours is come on board, sir — Mr. Bevis," said the midshipman, touching his hat to his captain. " Mr. Bevis !" said the Captain. " Bevis ! I never heard the name even. I don't know such a, man." " I understood him to say, sir, he was your relation." " Point him out," said the Captain, looking down through the sky-light into his own cabin, where the first lieutenant was dispensing to the visitors the ivine and ale of hospitaUty. The madeira was very good — the weather very warm. Bevis had been pulling an oar in the boat that brought them to the Magician. He tossed ofi' several glasses, and partook freely of port wine sangaree. He was very merry, free, and jovial, when Captain Warner made his appearance in the cabin. He went up to him, with a free and easy air, saying, " I believe, Captain, you don't know me. I have just married a half sister of your wife. Could you get us permission, on arriving at St. Helena, to see General Buonaparte ?" AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 377 " Sir !" said the Captain, flushing at the mention of her who ■ had not been named before him for three years ; but cooling down, he added,, more calmly, " Can you tell me where my wife is now, sir ?" " I don't know where she may be now, for old Talbot died the week before we left, and his family is dispersed in all directions. But I daresay she will do, Captain. • She has two zealous young men who will look after her." " Zealous young men, sir !" "Come, Captain," said Bevis, with rather a tipsy laugh, " you can't expect a deuced pretty woman, left alone, to go through the world without an admirer. / wasted a little time that way. But Theodosius Ord and Horace Vane are the lucky chaps at present ; and I suspect, from what I know, that their admiration has cost them a pretty penny." " Mr. Bevis," shouted the mate of the Indiaman, who was' getting his party into their boat. " Can anybody tell me," said he, in a lower voice, " if that fellow will be fit to pull the bow oar ? He took too many pulls at this," pursued the mate, holding up the brandy flask, and shaking it at his ear. jt Captain Warner crowded all sail upon his ship, he walked the deck day and night, he grew unpopular among his crew, whom he kept squaring the yards and pulling at the braces. The anxiety he sufiered seemed to revive his interest in Amabel. He dreamed about her when he slept ; as moonlight shimmered on the shrouds, he seemed to see her form. As he passed Fal- mouth, he fell in with a pilot, by whose boat he sent ashore the letter received by my father at the Cedars, directing him to come and join him at Portsmouth. When my father went on board the Magician, having tra- velled all night after he received the letter. Captain Warner met him at the gangway. " Ord," said he, taking him into his- cabin, and tapping with his finger a box that stood upon his table, " I have been pretty undecided the last few, weeks, whether to blow my own brains oul^ or' to shoot you. I have heard you were paying attentions to my wife. I ask you, is it true ?" S'ZS Amabel; a family history. My father -was completely taken aback. After a moment's hesitation he made an injudicious answer. " AVho told you so ?"■ said he. " Her own relation, sir — a Mr. Bevis. You do not deny it, sir ! Do you mean to tell me to my face that it is so ?" cried Captain Warner. " I deny the imputation of any dishonorable act," cried Theodosius ; " but I do say to the face of any man who throws over a wife as virtuous as Mrs. Warner — who takes from her even the protection of his name — who exposes her to be insulted by such a fellow as that Bevis, that he betrays his trust, and almost deserves dishonor." " Will you tell me, without equivocation — I insist on know- ing, sir, — the' whole of what you know of her ?" There was something deadly in his look, as he again laid his hand on the box upon his table. " There, sir, is what I know," said Theodosius, throwing down two letters. " The one directed to me is from Dr. Glas- cock, of Malta, the guardian of her youth, and her best friend. The other is in her own handwriting, and addressed to you. I know the contents, though the seals are yet unbro- ken. She has told me what she wrote to you. I found it at the Cedars amongst your mother's papers. When you have read both letters, if you wish the sequel of the tale, I am. ready to give it you.'"' » With that my father took his leave of Captain Warner. The Captain sat with the letters before him for some mo- ments, looking vaguely at their directions and their seals. The one found at the Cedars was that which Amabel had written to himself three years before. Little had she expected, when she folded it with kisses, and wondered how, where, and with what feelings he would open it, that it would lie by three years in Mrs. Warner's secretaire, and afterwards in what an unpro- pitious moment he would break the seal. There was something humihating to Captain Waxner in the thought of being bearded by a man who half acknowledged having been the lover of his wife ; in being reproached by him for want of care and tenderness to one towards whom his heart had been beginning to relent. Amabel; a family history. 3*79 His life, so late, and sole delight, Now at his feet submissive in distress, Creature so fair his reconcilement seeking. He began to read her letter as if in a dream. He could not fix Ms miud upon the words, and indeed he was called off con- tinually during its perusal. It seemed to him the officer of the deck had never made such perpetual reference to him before. After one of these interruptions, he threw her letter down and took up that of the Doctor. It was the narrative from which I have compiled the first part of this biography. It had been written purposely to prove her early love for Felix, and to show, as Dr. Glascock said himself, that "that wisdom was pro- phetic which cautioned her to avoid all connexion with a country where manners and opinions not conventional were misrepre- sented, misinterpreted, and misunderstood." The scornful, cynical irony of Dr. Glascock, and the opinion he advanced against her marriage with an Englishman, operated against her in the Captain's mipd. Theodosius Ord and Dr. Glascock — both of them had loved her — was he, her husband, to be school- ed by them ? Again he took up her own letter. Its self- reproach, its humility, the tenderness_of its appeals began to pro- duce its effect upon him. She did not seem to blame him for her wrongs as much as others. "Why did I marry her ?" he asked himself; "the- flower • that has withered in my grasp might have been still blooming. Why was I caught by a inere pretty face ? Why did I not place in marriage a sufficient yalue,upon judgment, knowledge, and experience — qualities which a man requires in the woman who is to bless or curse his home ?" Did the Captain's good angel whisper softly at that moment, " But she is yours, for you have married her, for better, for worse, to love and to cherish.. Make the best of your choice now ?" Amabel's account of the child rpoved him. Tears gathered in his eyes as he looked upon a little golden curl she had put into her letter. He was leaning over the letter, his face buried in his hands, when Captain Annesley, unannounced, came into the cabin. 380 amabkl; a family bistort. " mat is the matter with you, Warner 1" said this friend ; " Have you had a letter from my Lords Commissioners ? You look as if you were digesting a rap over the knuckles. " No," said Warner, " it isn't that this time. It s— it s-it s my wife. Read these letters, Annesley,— you are my friend,— and tell me what I am to think of her." Annesley sat down by the table of the cabin ; his counte- nance was that of a man prepared to look gravely into a sus- picious document. He was as much a man of judgment as his friend a man of feeling. " What do you think of it all ?" said Captain Warner, as his friend read the last sheet of Amabel's long letter. " I think it a very able letter," replied Annesley. " She says she is not guilty. I never thought you had much evidence against her. This is a very able defence — a very well written letter." " An able defence ! One does not want an able defence from one's wife," repeated Captain Warner. He was walking, as he spoke, up and down his narrow cabin. He knew what he, felt, and it seemed to him the present was a case of feeling, but he could not make mere feeling act on the cool judgment of Captain Annesley. " You see," said he, stopping at length, " I feel that between us there was always something wrong. Upon cool judgment I don't think now that she actually went so far as to carry on an intrigue with that Frenchman. I donH think she had time. But I think she might. I think she liked him. I think she cared little for me or for my honor." Annesley rapped upon the table with his nails, and pondered what he should say further. At length he resumed — " My opinion is, that if you have no more against her than your own suspicion, you are a fool not to believe her own ver- sion of the story. A man is more respectable Kving decently with his wife, than quarrelling with her. I should take her back and keep a tight hand over her." Amabel; a familt h'i story. 881 CHAPTER XV. " Alas ! Bnid she, we ne'er can be Made happy by compulsion." — Coleridge. Mt father, after his return from the Magician, went to his room at the Quebec Hotel, and threw himself down to sleep, fatigued by his night travelling. He was waied up about one o'clock in the day by a shake. Captain Warner was standing over him, demanding a full account of his acquaintance with Amabel. My father started up, and began to give a rather confused, narrative of their intercom-se and intimacy. So eager was he to make an impression in her favor, that he launched freely into indiscreet eulogy, which, in the present state of the affair, greatly increased the irritation of her husband. Each vehe- ment word thus uttered in her praise, by a man who owned he had once loved her, was felt by Captain Warner as a per- sonal reproach. He impatiently interrupted my father. " Where is she now, sir — can you tell me ?" And he stood perfectly silent, struck dumb with surprise, while my father explained that she was living with Miss Taylor, as governess to Katie Warner, spoke of her virtues and her loveliness, of the affection they all bore her, and the esteem in which she was held. " And her child !" said Captain Warner, recovering himself at length. " Died long ago," replied ray father. " Poor Belle !" said the Captain (it was years since, even in his heart, he had called his wife poor Belle), " she seemed so very fond of it — I am sorry for her." " The London coach is ready," said my father, taking advan- tage of his softness. " Dp you wish to go to her at once ? They are all at ^he Hill Farm. Shall I get places to Fam- ham f 382 AMABEL; A TAMILT HISTORY. The-e were but two vacancies upon the coach, one in front and one behind ; so that my father -and his companion were separated during the journey, probably to the great rehef of both. At Farnham they took a chaise. It was early spring, but intensely cold. " Too cold for snow,'' the landlord of the Bush thought, when his opinion was asked ; but they had hardly reached the top of the first hill beyond the town, when large thick flakes began to fall, and soon the moorland on all sides of them was deep in snow. A snowy sky hung low over the landscape, The postillion and his horses bent down their heads to break the force of the wind, which blew piercing and sharp — a true snow wind — over the common. When they came near to the gate of the Hill Farm, at the spot where the pine grove runs into the avenue, they caught sight of a woman taking shelter under a tree. " That is Katie !" cried my father. Captain "Warner, recognising his daughter, stopped the car- riage and sprang out. She knew him at once, and flew into his arms. " How came you here alone, my child, in all this snow ?" said he. " Where is Mrs. Leonard ?" cried my father. " Mrs. Leonard sent me out of the way, cousin Do." said she, with an arch look at her cousin. " I don't believe she observed a storm was coming. There is a visitor in the drawing-roorn. Such a tall Frenchman! She has sent me out tUl Ijis visit is over." "For God's sake, cousin Katie, be careful what you say," he cried, vainly endeavoring to stop her. Katie was an enfant terrible to my father. Ever since she had again become familiar with him, after the Brighton- Mssing affair, she had delighted to tease him about his supposed par- tiality for Amabel. It proved that she, Katie, had no interest in his attentions. " It is terrible to you, no doubt," she answered, laughing archly, and clinging to the arm of her father, "to know that she is closeted with a French officer." Amabel; a family historv. 383 She felt her father tremble as she spoke, and saw his clouded brow. " Oh ! don't be angry, dear papa," she said. " I was only teasing my cousin. You don't know how devoted he has always been to Mrs. Leonard. I wanted to make him jealous, papa." " For God's sake, hold your tongue," said Theodosius, in a fierce and angry whisper. They had by this time come within sight of the house. A chaise was standihg at the door, a spectral chaise well sprinkled with fresh snow, which was falling very thickly. As they entered the hall, the door of the sitting-room was opened in their faces, and Amabel came out, with a tall man leaning on a stick, feeble and decrepid. Captain Warner hardly recog- nised his wife — but the man at her side he knew at once — ^it was Ferdinand Guiscard. Colonel Guiscard, the moment he saw Captain Warner, made a step' back into the room he had just left, tore in halves a paper on the table, and flung the fragments on the glowing bed of the peat fire. Amabel saw all was lost from the moment she looked into the set face of her husband. Excuse or explanation she saw would not avail her. Her courage rose with hopelessness, — she feared no longer for herself, but was anxious to prevent collision. She checked the exclamation that was rising to her lips, and fearing, from a suddeai movement of the Captain, that he was about to offer some indignity to Col, Guiscard, she placed herself betwten them, standing in the doorway, with one hand on the lintel. " Do not strike him," she said. " He saved your child's life once. You are revenged on him enough. Your shot made him a cripple." Captain Warner thrust his^ hands into the pockets of the great-coat he wore over his uniform. " It is over !" he cried, turning away. " It is over ! Oh ! my God— !" Amabel made a hm-ried sign to Theodosius to get Colonel 384 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. Guiscard into his carriage. She flew to the side of hei husband, but he motioned her away. She saw it was of no use to humble herself before him. She recovered her self-pos- session, and paused, pale and speechless, supporting herself by the side of the drawing-room door. " Give us an explanation, for God's sake," cried my father, coming back. " What is the use of explanation ?" she replied. " I have lived for years hoping for this moment. I have labored to advance it — it has kept me alive. It is not now as when we parted. I am worthy of his confidence — and you know it ! I have earned the right to be trusted and believed. Is this mere circumstance — beyond my own control ..." She burst into tears, and bent her head, covering her eyes with her hand ; saying, " Thy will be done !" " Leonard," she said, after a pause, " will you believe the explanation I can give you of this scene — or treat it like the letter that I wrote you by the bedside of our child ? Did you believe that letter ?" Katie Warner, who had just begun to comprehend the scene, was clinging round her father's neck, crying, " Speak kindly to her — comfort her ! She is so good — so good — dear, dear papa !" " This is no place for you, my child," he said ; and starting up, rushed out of the door. In a few moments he came back. " The chaise has left. Give me my hat," he said. " I shall walk to Farnham.'' " Mrs. Leonard, rouse yourself ! It is not yet too late," exclaimed my father. " Too late ? Too late for what ! , Is it for happiness ?" she cried. " It is too late for that — too late !" She seemed bewildered by the sudden blow. But, as Cap- tain Warner again opened the front door, admitting a fierce gust of wind and snow, she seemed to recover her recollec- tion. " Hear me. Captain Warner," she said, and there was some thing in her voice which arrested his steps and commanded bis Amabel; a family history. 385 attention ; " We are now separated for ever. I would not now resign my liberty to the man who neither trusts me nor believes me. But for the sate of the friends who are made unhappy by all this, who have loved me, sheltered, trusted me, I speak ! If you have read my letter you know the circumstances that occarred before we parted." The captain made a slight sign with his head. " I can add nothing whatever to what I wrote you then, and from that statement I take nothing away. I have never had any sentiment but strong dislike towards the man whom you found here. I have never, since the moment that you left, seen him — ^heard news of him — or wished ever to see, ever to hear. It seems, however, that for some time past, spurred by remorse, he has been in search of me. I do not understand," said she, piteously, " how he came to find me out in this retreat. You remember, Mr. Ord, that literary man who made himself so pleasant in the coach when we were going on to Brighton ? He says he heard from him that I was here. That man rhentioned, you remember, having for- merly known him. They met again in London, the other day. You remember the conversation, Mr. Ord, about the name of Amabel. How could that conversation have betrayed me?" "It was my fault — ^my fault," cried my father. "I trod on his toes. Fool that I was — ^I have ruined you !" " This man, when he found Colonel Guiscard had come to England in search for me, made no scruple in putting him upon my track. He went to Brighton, found out I was here, arrived at F last night, and to-day came over to see me. You see," she continued, turning to my father, and glancing at her dress, which showed unusual care, " I had read of the arrival of the Magician. I was sure you would go at once to Captain Warner. I expected you to-day. When they told me I was wanted by a gentleman, I made sure that it was my husband. I sent Katie out of the way ; I could not let her be present when I met her father. What I felt when I disco- vered who it was — when I had to meet that bad man without witnesses, knowing that you Theodosius, and Miss Taylor, and even Horace were away — need not be spoken 1" 386 " Where is Horace ?" cried my father. " How came he to he away ?" " Horace has gone to-day over to the Holt, to see the Ran- ger—" " You were going on to tell us what the Frenchman said to you," prompted my father^not liking the pause she made after the last sentence, or the forgetful, dreamy look in her " True," she replied, starting, as if his question had roused her. " He had been visited by remorse, he told me, for his con- duct, and desired my forgiveness, which I freely gave him. He brought me a deed too, saying that he had not probably very long to live — and by this deed I should become possessed of all the property of his brother in Brittany. Could I touch that money ?" she said, turning to her husband. " Would you have had me take it ? Even though your generosity to me has made you poor; — though I should have brought something thereby to the common purse in the event of our reconci- liation — something that might have been settled on your child- She looked with piteous eyes into his face, but there saw no relenting. " Qui s'excuse — s^aecuse," said he. It was about the only quotation that he used to employ. To him it was very conve- nient. In him the perceptive, not the reasoning powers, were acute. He could not be touched by an argument. All expla- nations, exculpations, and reasonings in self-defence, he called excuses. " He does not believe me. I knew he would not," she said, to Theodosius, who stood by. " I told you so." Captain Warner opened the front door, and went out into the storm. " Follow him," cried Amabel to my father. " He cannot walk to F through all this snow. Tell him I am going. I shall pass the night at the Cottage. All is over." ,My father obeyed her. She went up stairs, put on her shawl and bonnet, and wrapped her husband's old blue camlet cloak about her, almost covering her head. amabkl; a family history. 387 As she made these preparations, the expression of her face- was strangely fixed. Katie crept into her room.*' She was ; crying hitterly. " Mamma — mamma,'' she said, pressing close to her. " Do yon not love me^? Why do you smile ?' " Because I cannot help it, Katie," said Amahel, sitting down, with a sort of laugh. " My child, I want my self-eommand, or I should bo hysterical." " Mamma, why is your bonnet on ? Do not go — you are not fit to go," said Katie Wamer, removing her bonnet from her head. " I must be growing very wicked," said Amabel, at length. " I do not realize these events. I do not feel sorry to give you up, my child. I don't feel soitow for myself, or for your father. I don't feel at all. Oh ! Katie, it is dreadful !" " Mamma, I shall put you to bed," said Katie, feeling that while her step-mother's hand and cheek were burning hot, her whole frame shook with a sudden shiver. " Where is your father ?" she resumed, when, having drunk a glass of water, she felt somewhat more composed. " I see papa," said Katie, looking out ^f the window, " walking up arid down the avenue with cousin Do." " Katie," said Amabel, " when I am gone I commit your father and both your cousins to your care. Your cousin, Mr. Ord, will, perhaps, reproach himself for this affair. Some day, if you find he blames himself, show him this, dear — it is my last message," she said, opening a Bible she had taken up to carry with her in her hand. " I can't find it," she said piteously, vaguely turning over the leaves. " You must find it, dear. It is that passage, in which Joseph tells his brethren that what had happened was the will of God, and not their fault. And oh ! Katie, my sweet daughter, be a good child to your father. Pity him, my darling ; — ^i-emember that his home is desolate. He has no mother — no wife. Do not injure your influence, by taking what you may fancy is my side. But, if a softer mood should ever come, tell him, dear Katie, I would h.ive died to win him back again." Her voice seemed to die aw^y into a sigh, " I love him — I hardly know how this love of mine was 388 Amabel; a family history born — from pity, self-reproach, admiration, perhaps ^'oni grati- ftude. Theyteay the love of an Englishwoman springs most often ' from gratitude — ask your father, in that day, to let you see my lettjer. Before God, every word is true in that letter. I was a careless, an impatient, an unloving wife, but nothing worse — not worse, dear." So saying, she held out her arms to the young girl, who weeping, threw herself upon her breast. For several minutes, Amabel held her in her arms, stroking back the smooth, bright hair from her fair brow, and covering it with kisses. She went out of the house by the back gate. Thp pelting of the pitiless storm was on her head. She skirted the pine ^■ove, and gained the by-road that led her by the mill-stream. Drenched from head to foot, but insensible to physical pain, she reached the cottage, entering her old home by the path at the foot of the garden.* " Lad a massy !" cried the Widow Caesar, who kept the enl|ity house, when she came in by the back door. " Don't say anything,'' said Amabel. " Get me ready a bed, and a cup of hot tea, if you have any." " What is that, Mrs. Caesar ? What can be coming next ?" she cried, as a few moments after the bell of the front gate rang with sudden clamor. " It's a post-chay and a gentleman," said the widow, coming back. " They got on to the heath, and a'most lost their way. He is took ill, and the boy is bringing him in. He is e'en a'most dead. He might ha' took him into Sandrock to the inn, but this was the first tenement." " Let him in — ask him in," said Amabel, standing up. " He is welcome — oh ! extraordinarily welcome, I am sure, to-day." The post-boy was bringing in meanwhile the insensible and crippled form of Col. Guiscard, seized, as Mrs. Csesar saw at once by a twist in his face, with a sudden stroke of palsy. She gave him, however, only a sudden glance. She was more intent on watching the wild strange look of Amabel. ,,."Dear heart — what is it ?" exclaimed she. " Surely you're not a going to be tooken ill with a fever?" "I passed over the mill-stream," replied Amabel. "The AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 889 ■waters tossing, foaming, gurgling, rushed under the hridge. The mill wheel was whirring. I believe I have got all thesei together in my head." ' " Sit down. Sit down and rest ye ; and I'll make your dish of tea," said Mrs. Csesar. But Amabel drew her cloak over her head, went out to the gate, and spoke to the post-boy. " Have you ever a barn where I could put my 'osses up f he said, addressing her. , " Put them to again," said Amabel, getting into the chaise, and drawing out her purse? " Light your lamps and drive me into Farnham." "I couldn't no how, ma'am," said the post-boy. "It is such a night of weather." "Drive to the Doctor's. I must send him help," she said, paying no heed. " When we get to F you shall have this — I have plenty of money." The-poot boy saw gold through her silk netting. " Perhaps I could ride on horseback and get through ?" jaid he. " Charley, here, is the better 'oss of the two. But Lord bless you, ma'am, you wouldn't get the Doctor !" " If you refuse to drive me, I must walk," said Amabel. The post-boy,- bribed by het tempting golcj^ and shamed by her determination, put up the steps and closed the carriage door. It took him some time to fix into.his lamps two little bits of candle ends ; then drawing his cap over his face, and -beating his numb arms across his breast, he prepared to face the storm. • ^ CHAPTER XVL God be with thee, my beloved— God be with thee, Else alone thou goest forth, Thy face unto the north, Moor and pleasance all around thee and beneath thee, Looking' equal in one snow. The Valediction. — Mhs. Browning. Her faculties were benumbed. They had been overstrairftd. A mist hung over her understanding. 890 amabbl; a family history. _ The carriage rocked and trembled along the rutty road. The fierce north wind blew hail and snow against the glass. She sat with one hand covering her eyes. All sorts of scenes, and scraps of personal dramatic action — passages of her youth, events that had been, or that might have been, went surging through her fancy. Attractive fragments of autobiography arranged themselves in her mind. She was amused and interested, as she might have been by the perusal of a story. Everything about her seemed unreal. Her spirit had passed into Kilmeny's " land of vision.'' * By-and-by, after severe jolting, the carriage came suddenly to a stand. She heard the post-boy shouting aloud. It was the first thing she had noticed since her journey had begun. He cracked his whip ; the horses floundered in a deep drift of ' snow ; the chaise trembled and shook, then turned over on its side. On creeping out of the window she found the horses up to theif breasts in the snow. The chaise had wandered from the road, had got into a kind of hollow to the right of the high- road that leads to F , and had come suddenl}'' up against a fence which parted a small cultivated oasis from the moor. Across the snow the faint few lights of the town at midnight were gleaming in the distance, blurred and misty through the snowy haze. The storm beat more terribly than- ever, the wind rushing with wild fury and fierce strength over the open moor. The postillion was benumbed, terrified by the storm, and alarmed about his cattle. One horse lay exhausted, half buried in the snow-drift ; the other kicked and floundered as the boy attempted to detach him from the carriage. Amabel stood by, watching the scene, as though it were a spectacle got up to amuse her. " I am going on," she said, at length, putting into the post- boy's hand a piece of gold, which he transferred to his mouth. " There ought to be a house down yonder,'' said he, pointing with his thumb into the hollow. " If you get to it, please to send me help. I'm a'most froze, and Charley here, I think, is gone. What ever will master say to me !" 1 MABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 391 His mind was taken up by the situation of his horses, and he paid little attention to the probability of her being able fo reach the house through the darkness and the storin. She drew her cloak around her, faced the full force of the wind, and disappeared into'the blackness. The snow that had fallen was moist, light, and feathery. At every step she sank up to her knees. Constantly stumbling, constautly rising, she pressed on. She crossed the fence, which caused the drift by which the carriage had been stopped, and found herself descend- ing into a kind of valley. She heard the rush of running water, and followed the sound, until she found herself beside the little stream which flows by F , and by her home at Sandrock. She struggled along its banks, for some distance down the stream, seeking for a bridge. The snow was less deep by the river-side than it had been upon the common. She paused, weary and spent, spread her cloak upon the snow, and sat down to rest upon it. Her clothes were wringing wet. She took off her bonnet and her gloves, and laid them down beside her. She watched the snow-flakes whitening her cloak, and powdering her hair. " Madame la Vierge file sa quenouille,' she said, repeating a poetical Bretonism for a snow-storm ; and she laughed. A strange, wild, tuneless laugh, which the wind bore away over the moor so fast, that she could scarcely catch the strangeness of the sound. She started up. " I must push on," she cried, " and yet I am so weary. I have strange pains in my limbs — a ringing sound of bells is in my head. And yet my head seems clearer than it did. Suppose I sing." And her former reflection about the distaff of the Virgin having probably put Brittany into her mind, she began to sing a low, sad ballad, taught her by poor Felix, or rather the French imitation of a guerz, still heard in Upper Brittany. Oh ! dttes moi, ma mere, ma mie Pourquoi les varints* sonnent ainsi % Ma fille on fait la procession Tout a Pentour de la maison. <• Oh ! dites moi, ma m^re, ma mie Quel habit mettrai-je aajourd'hui 7 • Bells. 392 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. Prenez du noir — prenez du blanc — Mais 1b noir est plus convenant; Oh ' dites moi, ma indre, ma mie Pour qui la lerre est rafraichie 1 Je ue puis plus vous le cacher, Votre mari est enterr6. Again — again — again the notes and words of this sad plaint rang out upon the blast. She was hurrying on, seeming to think that, if she stopped singing, her strength would fail. She had found a little bridge which crossed the stream. She was now upon a road somewhat sheltered by hedges. She was bareheaded — her bonnet and cloak having been left lying on the spot where she had paused to rest. In one of the many falls which bruised and jarred her, but from which she conti- nued to rise and to push on with unshaken resolution, the comb had fallen from her head. Every fierce gust of the wild wind set her hair streaming, and she was forced at every step to stop and put it from her eyes. Again she was beyond the friendly shelter of a hedge, and on the open moor. The lights of F were gleaming far behind. Struggling with the wind, and singing as she went, she pressed on across the heath. She had fallen in with no sign of any human dwelling. Every now and then came a lull in the storm— ^a silence more terrific than its fury. Amabel knew that the wind was gathering up its strength ; she staggered as the spirit of the storm flew past, or, stooping down, she met its buifet kneeling on the snow. There were no roclcs, nor hills, nor walls, to echo back the roaring of the tempest. It seemed to sweep alone under the leaden sky, over the open moor. The last song she had sung was a Breton HjTnn on Hell ; — Dantesque and terrible, probably the work of some young Celtic David, keeping sheep upon a Breton moor. I will give it in a translation : — Hearken, sinners, can ye tell Anght of such a place as hell ? Tis a furnace where the flame Rbarcth day and night the same; And the lime-ltiln's fiercest. breath, Which to near is certain death, When its glowing flag-stones swell, Is but-saioke to flames of hell ' Amabel; a rxuitt hisjort. 393 There no light will gleam for OTer— Firo bumeth like a fever. There no hope will enter more, God Himself hath barred the door. Fire will your footsteps bound ! Fire rages all around. Hungary sinner, eat the fire ! Or^if water you desire^ 0*er yon river's burning bed Brimstone flows, — and molten lead I Weeping through Eternity, All your tears will make a sea , But that sea, howe'er it swell, Will not make a drop in hell. Tears shall never quench hell-fire. Tears will make it mount the higher ; You will hear, more loud than groans, The marrow bubbling in your bones. From its trunk your head they'll sever. Yet you'n have to live for ever ! Deviis ranged in rival bands Toss it to «ach other's hands,— While immortal you stand by, For in hell you cannot die ! They shall roast your body whole Till you feel it' turn to coal ; And this fearful torment o'er You shall live to suffer more ! The song was cruel, fierce, Celtic, and material, but full of a wild power. It seemed to suit her frenzied state of mind. The storm, her suffering, the fever in her brain, incited her to sing it again and again. She sang it with fierce energy — ^her voice rising, in some notes, louder than the storm. Suddenly she shrieked. A flame — it seemed to her the flames of heU-^shot up almost at her feet. She felt the air around her growing hot. The wind ceased, or rather flew by her, without seizing her each time in its wild grasp. She was under the lee of some wall that protected her. Fire again shot out. She heard the rumble of a roaring flame ; — she felt a hot breath on her face.' Again she shrieked wildly — ^loudly — in frenzy. Her voice was this time louder than the tumult of the storm. " 'Tis a furnace where the ilame " noareth day and night the same ; 11* 394 Amabel; a family histobt. And the lime-kiln's fiercest breatli, Wliich to near is certain deatii^ When its glowing flagstones swell, Is but smoke to flames of hell !" Faintly she tried to sing these words again. She turned to fly. Forth, forth, forth into the void of night — ^into the face of the wind — ^into the strong grasp of the storm. Anywhere — anywhere to be beyond the light of that fierce, shooting flaine, beyond the furnace blast of that mysterious fire ! As she strove to rush back on the heath, and to escape, she struck her hand. The wall she touched was burning. The side of her hand was blistered and smarting with pain. She shrieked again — she struggled, and fell senseless on a bed of heated ashes. ********* Two men came out with lanterns. They were rude men, who gained their bread by making brick. Their brick-kilns and their hut are still standing. You may see them any day in the midst of the great heath, a mile or two from Famborough. One of them protested he had heard a woman's shriek. The other, after a brief survey of the glowing kiln, declared it was aU stuff. " BUI had dreamed a bad dream, and heard the howling of the tempest through the out-houses." As he said this, he stumbled over th« heap of spent ashes thrown out from the kiln the day before, and cried out, " 'Ees — bring us the light, BiU. 'Ere she be now." Bill came up to the spot, and the two men stood looking at her. " An' what can us do wi' such a thing as she ?" asked the elder man of BiU, contemptuously stirring her with his foot at the same time. " I'm just no sure," said BiU, as he turned her over, and drew out the long wet hair that was wrapped round her. " I'm just no sure that she beant a mad 'ooman scaped out o' t' Asylum." "May be," said the other, his eye catching sight of her watch and chain. ^' Bring her in to th' ould 'ooman, BUI. Amabel; a familt histobt. 895 " She'll keep her safe till called for, let her be as mad as Bedlam. May be there'll be a bit of a reward offered. Here's a bit o' th' Mln is started, and the flame is coming out o' t' side. Lord ! Lord ! Bill, what a night !" END OF THE THIRD FART. ^art /nnrtli. Loved wilt thou be ' Then Love by thee must first be given ; No purchase mone; else avails beneath the heaven. R. C. Tkench.— Cmftiry of Couplets PART IV. CHAPTER I. Trust no Future faowe'er pleasant, Let the dead past bury its dead ; Act — act in the living Present, Heart within, and God o'er head. H. W. LOMOFELLOW HOBACB TO AMABEL. Hill Farm, July 26, 1820. You must not be displeased -witli me, my dearest friend, for the earaest desire that impels me to address you. Yet, having prepared to write, I know not how to begin. Last night, as I lay awake, my whole soul seemed to pour itself out in an imaginary^ letter; to-day I experience that embarrassment which springs from fulness of the heart — an embarrassment which hinders vigorous statement ia speech, and holds the pen suspended over the letter. Why — ah-! why, dearest Amabel, did that vile man come to this place ? I do not understand why God has given an accident such power ! The ways of Providence are very dark. I can understand why trial came to you at first, in those old days when nothing had developed the woman's soul within you. It was good for you to be afflicted then — ^but now, Amabel — rum, what is the use of any further disappointment ? Why could not Providence have made you happy your own way? Surely, in the language of the Holy Book, you have been "purified, and made white, and tried." In your face glows, they tell me, all the "beauty of holiness" — the sound of your voice brings the blessing of peace. We were sitting yesterday at breakfast in the cool west 400 Amabel; a family histokt. parlor. Katie, Miss Taylor, my new tutor, and I. Katie has taken your place as president of the table. It is beautiful to see her walking in your steps — conforming to that ideal image of womanly perfection that she has seen in you, speaking cheerful words when I know that her young heart is sad, and keeping up her own spirits that she may sustain those of others. As Katie was presiding over the breakfast tray, engaging, or endeavoring to engage, the rest of us in conversation, the door flew open, and your old friend Dr. Frost almost rushed into the room. Katie says his flaxen wig was all awry, and only half the buttons of his trim black gaiters fastened. Never had the venerable man been seen abroad in such a state of deshabille before. He had walked up the hill so very fast that he came in panting. He made no reply to our exclamations of surprise, but began shaking hands all round. I knew, from the joHy pressure of his fat old palm, that he was the bearer of good news. " What do you think it is ?" said he. " Be prepared. ..... I have got a letter^ She is alive, and in London.'' " Oh ! Doctor Frost," cried Katie, with a little scream ; and, springing up from where she sat, she threw her arm round his old neck in her caressing way, and made him show her your letter. I wish you could have seen the joy those few brief lines con- veyed ! But why were they so brief? Do you mistrust our confidence and affection ? I can almost write your letter in one line. " Dear Sir, Will you cause any personal effects I may have left behind to be forwarded from Sandrock to the inclosed direction." Where have you been ? — ^How came you in town ? — How have we failed to discover you ? Ah ! had you seen poor Katie rush up stairs and tear off £^1 her mourning ! • The trunks forwarded in obedience to your note have been packed by her own hands. She bids me tell you, with the assurance of her love, that if not your child by birth, she will be your child in spirit. That if she can but live in the resolu- tions she has made her life will owe you its complexion. She AMABEL.; A FAMILY HISTORY. 401 says you will find your desk gone and many of your papers. They are in the possession of her father. On the evening of that dreadful day when you left Sandrook, while I was still detained by the great storm at the house of the Ranger, Captain Warner and Theodosius, I am told, remained walking till- night-fall up and down the avenue. They appear to have. been kept from freezing by excitement. When they came in Theodosius joined his cousin Katie in the parlor, while Captain Warner went straight to his room. Theodosius carried him a cup of tea later in the evening, and found him gone to bed. " You had better say to her," said he, " that I shall go away as soon as the stonn is past, and take my daughter. Tell her I shall provide for her. I hope to do everything reasonable, — but I 'never want to see her face again." "She is gone, sir," said Theodosius. " Gone ! Where the devil is she gone to in this storm !" cried Capt. Warner. " Gone to the Cottage, sir," said Do. " Heavens and earth, sir !" cried the Captain, " do you call it like a man — do you call it humanity — to drive a woman 'Out on such a night to seek for shelter in an empty hovel ! One would think I was a tyrant — a barbarian — that it were better to fly from me and brave the elements. I am not aware I ever gave her cause to look on me in that light. We might have been, happy in our married life, if people had not put themselves between me and her." At this moment a fearful blast of wind and sleet struck the loose casement. " By heavens," cried the Captain, " I will not stand this any more. A woman is a woman, and ought to be treated as a woman — which I know, if you do not, sir. If no one else will go to-night and see if she is safe — I shall, sir !" " While she was under my care," he continued, " I never suffered the winds of heaven to visit her cheek too roughly. She hardly would venture her foot upon the ground for deli- cateness and tenderness. Now see, what she has oome to under your advice — and such as yours — to be turned out on such a night as this like a dog. Who would have thought it ? Who would have believed it ? A tender and delicate young creature led astray by evil counsellors ! When I married her, sir, she 402 A FAMILY HISTORY. was like a tender, loving little fawn, and after a few weeks she grew eold, constrained, and anxious. It was the bad advice of people like yourself, who called themselves her friends — teach- ing her to live in dread of her own husband, who — I vow to heaven ! — would have laid his life down at her feet All I wanted of her was to be, and to seem happy. Instead of which she grieved and pined, and quarrelled with my relatives, and had her heart still set on an old foolish love, and got her reputation blasted by this Guiscard. And now that years have passed, you see to-night an epitorne of the same story. No, sir, I am not like the Eoyal Family of France, who have ' nothing remembered, nothing forgot,' during their years of emigration.'' The next day, by early dawn, the Captain was on foot — -not earlier, however, than Theodosius Ord bound on the same errand. It had left off snowing, and they met each other in the avenue, each steering his course towards the Cottage. When they reached it, Theodosius went alone into the kitchen, and there learned froni Mrs. Caesar that Col. Guiscard lay dying in the house, and that you had gone over to F , in the fore-part of the night, during the heiglit of the storm. Mrs. Caesar followed him out to the gate, declaring " that the dear lady cOuld never, she was sure, have got alive that night across the heath,— many and many a man and horse had perished on less dreadful nights upon the pathless moor." "Which is the road— which is the road?" — was all that Captain Warner could exclaim, on hearing her opinion. Both he and Theodosius had 'long poles, torn from a hop-field, in their hands, to sound the snow-drifts, and at every step each sank into the wet snow up to his knees. They pushed their way about a mil« across the heath, and then turned back to get the help of our farm laborers. Katie wanted to serve them with hot coffee, but the Captain would take nothing. He asked her for brandy, which she put into pocket-flasks for all the party. The men trudged first — stout farming men accustomed to the road. They did more in half an hour, with half the exertion, than Theo. and Captain Warner had been able to accompHsh in double the time, AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTOHr. 403 hindered as they were by agitation and excitement. The men pnshed on in single file, taking turns to lead the party, keeping a bold front, but failing to beat a path— the snow being so wet that there was no crust, and at every step, in American phrase, " they slumped" — that is, broke through. When they had reached Fox Hill, and were almost into F , they saw a party of men on the heath to the right, gathered round some object in the distance, which Theodosius's quick eye made out to be a broken carriage. They made their way across the common to the spot, and there found the chaise of the Bush Inn. The post-boy had passed the night at the cabin, in the midst of a little oasis, which Katie says you will remember to the right of Fox Hill by the run. When they found that he could give them no account of you. Captain Warner gave up hope — but his despair of success redoubled his exertions. Those assembled round the carriage quitted it at once to join his search, while three or four persons were sent off to F to inquire for /ou. It was soon ascertained that you had not been there. Theodosius says your husband's agitation was terrible to witness ; there was a sort of reckless energy in his search, which led him hither and thither, sounding the s'now wherever any ridge or drift appeared to indicate a body. He said not a word to any of ^the men, but shook his head hopelessly as he turned over tlie snow. Once or twice they heard him sapng, vrith a groan, " Oh ! my poor wife ! — oh ! my poor Bella !" One of the men discerned a faint^red stain beside the river. He fancied it was blood. One of the party directed your hus- band's attention to some other place, while Theodosius and the rest went down to examine it. The' bloody tinge they had observed was the scarlet lining of your cloak shining through the snow. They disinterred the cloak, and found your bonnet and gloves. The inference was, that you were in the river. While the men, full of horror, were gathered round the spot, some proposing to set off to F , to procure means to drag the river, or to the nearest farm to fill a cart with straw and bring it to the spot that it might be in readiness ; discuss- 'he probable manner of your death, whether by suicide or 404 Amabel; a family history, accident, as with their poles they sounded the river at its brink ; they forgot to conceal the agitation of their movements from Captain Warner. He discovered that something had been found — he overheard the words, " a cart to take the body." He hurried to the spot, insisting on his right to receive you. "She is my wife," cried he. "They made her fancy I was cruel. Her fear of me has killed her ! Give her to me," he cried, throwing open his bosom ; " let me hold her." It was long before they could convince him that they had not found your corpse. They laid your cloak upon his arm ; he recog- nised it, and was overcome. Theodosius kept near him, reso- lute and active, and, to all appearance, calm ; but Johnny Cob- bett told me that he was pale as marble. By-and-by the cap- tain's strength began to fail, and, while they dragged the river, he sat down upon the snow. The activity and bustle of the men employed seemed to jar upon his feelings. When drag- ging the river proved of no use, parties went over the heath towards Moor-park to look for you in that direction. They made wild, impi ssible surmises — some even fancied you might have found yom' way into one of the caves upon that property, which were hiding-places during the civil war, and the retreat, as you may remember, some years since of a* poor madman. One man was a good deal hurt in trying to get up a cliff to the entrance of one of thei9. They sent one of their number back to the hill-farm to bring your dogs, but their scent failed to trace you. Later in the day they brought the captain home again, I had then returned from my visit to the Ranger. Theodosius said it was a touching sight to see poor little Katie rush into his arms, and lay her head upon his breast, while he rested his cheek upon it, and wept over her. They sat a long time clasped in each other's arms. The first words he said were, "My child, you must get the deepest mourning." " Oh 1 papa — ^papa," she cried, " she is not gone ! Oh, dear papa, I loved her so !" Theodosius came up to me. "She is gone, Horace," said he. " We will mourn her together." Aihahel ! it is not for me to tell of manly tears wept for your amabkl; a family history. ' 405 fate — of clicking sobs which, in the silence of long nights, each stifled in his pillow. How each sought to hear his grief apart) and to subtract his share out of the common sorrow. How we sat down to meals where nothing could be eaten, but at which we all appeared, each hoping the rest might be encouraged by his presence to take food. How, day after day, we rode down to the brink of that dark swollen river, where men, no longer sanguine in their search, were kept dragging up the mud and weeds by the promise of high wages ; nor will I tell you of the Sabbath when we all, weeping and stricken, assembled in our pew. Once, in the service, an unexpected sob from Theodosius Ord seemed to startle the congregation. Miss Taylor had come back to us. She pitied and excused every one; was betrayed into a thousand inconsistencies of speech — never into an inconsistency of kindly feeling. . Your husband said very little to us ; but the silent sympathy of his daughter seemed everything to him. Katie seemed to be teaching him the power and the worth of a true woman. She was always cKnging to his side, directing him in all he did, with a calm soothing influence to which he made no opposi- tion ; comforting him more, it seemed to us, by a sense of her sympathy than by the power of her words. Sometimes, when released for a few moments from the side of " poor papa," she would walk apart with Theodosius. She used, you know, to be afraid of hjm, but all that had disappeared. I, too, might, perhaps, have been the confidant of her sorrow, but I was less ready to talk of yo%thanie. It pained me a little that they found so close a bond of union in their loss. She sat beside her father when he looked over your papers. She bids me tell you, that all he gave her she has sent to you. They relate priiicipally to your experience and your feelings. He charged Katie to return Theodosius his letters. For his own share he kept your account books, your book of receipts, and your journal, the baptismal register of your child, the little paper with his hair, the bills relating to his funeral, and (which he afterwards gave Katie) the drawing of the grave under the yews. Theodosius said something to Katie about the Vicar of S , and Katie communicated it to her- father. " He rode 406 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. over to S alone, and spent two days there. On his return I heard him desire Katie to get out a pearl cross you used to wear, and send it to the Vicar's lady as a remembrance of you. He wrote to the Admiralty for employment, and got an order to take command of the Alcastor frigate, forming part of the blockading force on the coast of Africa. On receiving the appointment, he and Ord had a long interview, the nature of which we were not told, but it produced a happy change in their relations with each other. Theodosius has sailed with him to Africa. The day before they left, Katie and. her father went through the village and to Churt, visiting the cottagers. In t;his walk your husband heard your praises, and learned the deep devo- tion and respect paid to your memory. They pitied the " poor gentleman," asked questions about you after their way, and condoled with him on his bereavement. Everywhere he scat- tered money, and every cottage, Katie says, they left in tears. He has taken your puppy, Piero, to his ship. Barba is dead. He pined when you had gone, attached himself to Katie and the captain, and died one night upon her bed. I had nearly forgotten to tell you that the French Colonel, at the cottage, partially recovered. At any rate, he got well enough to go away. A valet came down to him from town, and he paid Mrs. Csesar handsomely. I have got a new tutor from Oxford ; a solemn prig, but a good scholar. He has revived: many of my forgotten tastes, and some of my old ambition. When I lost my sight, I was almost prepared for my " little go," and I begin to believe I may easily recover that preparation. Adopting your favorite maxim, " that man is to mould circumstance," I do not see why I should not go creditably through college. At any rate a college life will offer me variety — the hope of success will stimulate exertion, and both are necessary. "Will you refuse to write to us, dear Amabel ? Remember that we are ignorant of where you have been hidden during our long search, as well as of what you are now doing. We need your sympathy and encouragement in all our hopes and endeavours ; are you above the influence of ours f Amabel; a family iiistorv. 407 How shall I impress you so strongly with the wish of my whole soul that you should write, that you must answer me ? Nay ; I wiU close my letter without urging you. I have such perfect faith in all you have done, or can ever do, that I only say — write, I implore you, write for all our sakes, unless you have some cause for silence so suflScient that you feel it justifies your giving us who love you, deep, deep pain, instead of a strengthening and refreshing pleasure. The black paper of my writing machine is nearly worn away ; and indeed I fear to trust myself to write more lest I should urge on you my hope and break my resolution. With all respect, affection, and devotion. Your faithful friend, Horace Vane. AMABEL TO HOKACE. Great Ormond Street, August 3, 1820. Dear Horace, You well knew that the simple expression of your interest in my fate, would be more powerful than any eloquent persuasions. I did not mean to write — nor do I think it well to keep up this correspondence, but I must answer your long letter, partly, because it affected me very much, and partly because its first words contain an arraignment of Providence, and show a want of appreciation of what I conceive to be my true position. I have long known that it was' good, for me that I have been afflicted, but 1 iiow know it has been well that Mr. Ord's scheme for my happiness was permitted to fail. More than ever I felt this when I read your letter. The tears my husband shed over what he supposed to be my fate were tears of manly pity. His better feelings were called out in favor of my woman- hood. He wept with some feeling of self-reproach — with some remembrance of the days when we were happ)'. But for the sad manner in which he fancied I had met my death, no tears from his eyes woul(3 have fallen on my sepulchre, and when he knows that I am yet alive, he will blush at having, shed them. For years after our separation I daily assured myself that the appeal I 408 Amabel; a family histort. had made to him in writing would have its effect upon him. I believed and hoped he would restore to me his confidence, and love me. — I see now that the hope I nursed was vain. I do not desire to be acknowledged without affection. I can make my way alone through life. I have proved I can. I have cut adrift, dear Horace, from my past. I will no longer labor at the wretched task of making it the platform of my Present or my Future. It clogged my steps through the three years I lived at Sandrock, and, had I joined my husband, as I hoped, I see now that it would have chained me more than ever. It was a sad and evil Past. But, Horace, it is dead to me at length. I will no longer be " A slave, bound face to face with death, till death." For I have conquered. Henceforth I cast the Past behind my back, and will work out my own Future. Do you not see — I see it now — that had such a reconciliation as a third party can effect been brought about between us, by the efforts of your cousin, we could not have been happy without that love and mutual, trust to which the very steps taken to effect our reunion would have imposed a barrier ? Imagine the case other than it was — imagine Col. Guiscard had not crossed my path after the separation, — imagine that my husband and Mr. Ord had found Lucretia at her spinning — remember that my husband had consented to see his wife, not from choice on his own part, but persuasion. To be persuaded by others to love abstract excellence or penitence, and to love the lovingness that loves us, are very different things. We might again have lived together, and have worn the marriage yoke with cold respectability — but I am convinced there could hav« been little happiness for either. He would always have mistrusted the wife he had been persuaded into forgiving, nor could I ever have won my way into his af- fection. I should have pined under a sense of bis mistrust. I see that it is better as it is. Believe it so, as t do, dearest Horace, The certainty that struck Hope dead Hath left contentment in its stead ; And that is next to best. AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 409 I am writing in tlie two pair of stairs back room of a large and once handsome house, where I have taken lodgings. This part of London was the fashion in Queen Anne's time. It is fer from the scene of my toU, but this gives me a walk which I am glad to force myself to take every day. Could you look in upon me at. this moment, you would think rae a lady of leisure. I am sitting at my little table — it is after diimer, about four o'clock. My dinner I cooked myself in the middle of the day. You would be rather sur- prised at the development of my talents for cooking, sweeping, dusting, and all other things in which a woman ought to be instructed. I know now the full value of a sausage. With a pound of this comestible, I can almost rival the reputation of the French Marshal's chef de cuisine, who sent up during the straitness of a siege, seven courses and a dessert, made out of his master's leathern slippers. Did you know there were upwards of three hundred ways of cooking eggs ? Have you measured the capacities ad infinitum of a salad ? To you, your dinner is — your dinner. A daily event too much a matter of course to be anticipated — ^too httle Varied to inspire interest ; but to oner who has to earn, and buy, and cook, as well as eat the meal, it becomes the event of the day, the prominent circumstance, and every little thing upon your table, from the pepper you bought yesterday, to the potatoe whidi, if not eaten to-day, will be saute d la maitre d'hotel to-morrow, has an individ^gjMMMftt and a history. Life is full of interes^^H^PRace, — I am bound to it by as many tiny cords as th^^which confined Gulliver in Lilliput ; and if life has many interests to oflfer me, wha>t may it not have for you and others ! I am interested in my fellow- dwellers in this house. Without uncovering more than this one roof, I could spin you a longer and. a purer version of the Diable Boiteux. In return for some Jittle instruction I am ^vifig to their children, my feUow-lodgers bring me up my water and coals. |t The thing that, perhaps, would the most surprise you, could you gaze on me and my apartment in a magic glass, would be my costume. I am wearing a brown stuff gown, with large 18 410 Amabel; a family histobt. pockets, and an apron. My hair is put up under a quaint starched cap, with a high crown. I wear a long black ribbon at my side, from whence depends a pair of scissors. Sometimes I walk in the Park, still in this strange costume. Nobody looks the little brown woman in the face ; I am equally secure from insult and observation. On Sundays I resume my former dress, for. Annie, Ned, and little Joe, are here. It is a pleasant interlude. The horn of plenty empties itself on Sundays on our table. I take them to some quiet church, where we sit in the aisle amongst the poor and the stranger. Sometimes we take a quiet walk when church is done. Once or twice I have carried them to Westminster. I am sure that you are wondering what my occupation in life can be — ^how I can earn my daily bread, and yet have so much leisure. My calling is denoted by my dress, which is that of a nurse in a public hospital, a position for which I feel myself peculiarly adapted by my early experience and education. It is a voca- tion that gives endless opportunities of usefulness. " I magnify mine office." We nurses are not only auxiliaries of the physi- cians of the body, but we can aid the work of the -Great Physician of souls. I am surprised that decayed gentlewomen of the better class, who sigh after conventual life, and crowd the daily papers with advertisements, so seldom make choice of this occupation. It is safe, independent, respectable, and responsible. It may be JHKifid^y a religious self-conse- " That which does good dls^Rth no degree," and the Saviour says—" He that woidd be great amongst you let him be your minister,"— putting honor iise'f on such an office, so that she who dreads lowliness need not be deterred. I am one of the night watchers at our hospital, my hours of attendance on the sick being from sunset to sunrise. I chose this rather than day-duty, because it leaves me half my Sunday after sleep, toj^evote to my brothers and sister. You will wish, I suppose, to receive some account of what became of me on quitting Sandrock. I will give you a brief outline of th€*>.principal events before I close my letter. After Amabel; a family history. 411 leaving the post-boy and Ms chaise, I went on foot acros i tho heath, I know not how. I must have wandered far and fast, for after terrible visions, which I remember far better than my phy- sical sufferings, which were also very great, I was picked up by some people at the brick-kilns, seven miles the other side of F , in the midst of the lone heath near Fariiborough. I there had a rheumatic fever. They did not call in any doctor. A doctor was unknown in their rude hut. These peo- ple had been born, and struggled thiough every kind of evilto which flesh is heir, and buried their relations in their time, with- out a doctor. No inquiries were made for me so far away from F . No handbills offered a reward, and they discovered I had not made my escape from the county asylum. I heard thela consulting whether to take me to the workhouse. Their principal difficulty was how to get me there ; for the workhouse was many miles distant from their kiln. They decided, at last, that r should go with the next load of bricks that a farmer, called Joe Downing, might send over for. I husbanded my strength, and before that time arrived, con- trived one day to elude their eyes, and those of their old mother. I left behind me gold enougb to pay them for their care, for these people, though uncivilized,^ were honest, and had not touched my money. I dragged myself to a milestone on the road that crosses the great heath, and soon the London coach came up with its four horses, prancing and foamingi^Sfcvas like a dream when the coach door was opened, the iroimeps let down, and I got in. There was but one passenger inside. My appearance, I daresay, surprised him. My shawl was pinned over my head, and I must have looked not a little singular. He offered me his newspaper. It was the 24th of April — I had left Sandrook in March. The young fellow was a medical student. He asked if I had been ill ? I said " with rheumatic fever." "My good woman, you are not fit to travel yet," was his reply. ^*^ Something, however, seemed to win me his respect. .Perhaps he detected a lady under my India shawl, for afterwards fee called me '• ma'am," and tried to be very attentive. 412 AMABEL.; A FAMILV HISTORY. The journey was too long for me. Before entering London I fainted away, and the young medical passenger did his best to bring me to. He felt in my pocket for salts, and found I had money, but could derive no indication of where I belonged. At length the coach stopped.. He was a good-natured young fellow ; and I seemed to be thrown on his compassion. He put me into a hackney coach, and drove me to a hospital. There I lay many days hardly alive. When I began to recover my senses, and to look about me, I was greatly struck with the beautiful order and regularity that prevailed. Some persons who have never seen a; hospital, fancy it an inferno of dreadful sights and sounds. It is quite the contrary. The ward in which I lay was airy and convenient. It contained forty-eight little white beds. Those in which patients lay dying and deli- rious were railed off by a white screen. I assure you I would rather be a convalescent in a hospital than at home. Your own room grows so close when you are ill, and seems to contract daily. You weary of its monotony-T— you are cut off from your kind — and are tied down to an exclu- sive interest in your own symptoms.' In a hospital, on the con- trary, your attention is called off from your own condition ; you are amused and interested by what is passing round you. If you have no friends to come and visit you, you nevertheless take pleasure in the arrival of the days when those about you expect to see their friends. The ward of which you are mi inmate has its public opinion, its gossip, and its society. Your- fellow-sufferers, even those to whom you never speak, become,, by force of sympathy, your friends. Were it not for the medi- cal staff which daily gathers round your couch to be lectured to upon the nature of your symptoms, a slow recovery in a hospital would be one of the forms of the dolcefar niente. After a time, however, cares for the future began to intrude into my mind. I was not veiy uneasy ; I had chosen my path in life, where imc roads met, several times before. The princip^physician who attended our establishment was a person I had Consulted some years previously while passing thfough London on my way to S -. One day I asked him if he could spSre me a few minutes, and the next morning he AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY, 413 entered the ward earlier than usual, and came alone to me. One of the nurses was about to leave the hospital. I told him I wanted io succeed* her. I gave him as much of jmy history as it concerned him to know, and told him of the experience in the care of the sick which I had had in early life, under Dr. Glascock in Valetta. I allowed him to refer, as to my charac- ter, to the Vicar of S , who I knew would speak as favor- ably as he could of me. The result was that the good word of Dr. L secured me the situation I now occupy. I am trusted by the hospital authorities, and I hope I am beloved by many of the patients who come under my care. _ Many a one with his last breath has given me his blessing, and convalescents come often to my room to claim my interest in their little affairs. I am happy, dear Horace. We who have no ties of family need not be destitute of other ties. Our interests are bounded by the universe alone. Is man, the immortal, to have the life that lies within him necessarily limited and cramped, by any set of events or bereavements, or privations ? " All is you/s," says the promise ; " life, death, things pre- sent, things to come." In the face of such words cam I say, / have lost all? Yet, I look forward to death as the chamberlain of the Lord. Sometimes I think of him as transformed into my friend, hold- ing out to me his skeleton palm, and conducting my weak steps into the presence of my Saviour. God be praised, this weary life is but a waiting in the antechamber ! The Christian's true existence lies beyond. I dare not send any message of affection to your aunt or to my dearest child — yet tell her always to wear the little ring I placed upon her fingey. Tell her — I know not what to tell her — I have so little hope we shall ever meet again in this world 1 You may tell her that the other day I saw her brother. He and. Ned sleep in the same room at school, and^ye great friends with each other. Ned, who is not aware of^ur connexion, brought him here last week on a half holiday, entreating me to dress the poor child's f^et, which were covered with chilblains. 414 amabkl; a family history. I could not turn the suflfering child away, but I told Xed he must never again bring me any of his companions. Nothing so painful as this has happened to me since I left you. I could not bring my mind to tell him who I was ; but perhaps it may be as well Katie should do so in a letter. Let us all strive for unity of faith, of spirit, and of purpose here ; and hereafter, my beloved ones, there will be union ever- lastingly ! '■'■Sur quoi, je prie Dieu qu'il vous ait en sa sainte et digne garde." Amabel. CHAPTER II. And is this like love to stand With no help in my hand, When strong as Death I fain would watch above thee 1 . , Mrs. BKOWNINO.—TAe Valediction. Nearly two years after the date of the last letter, a group of our dramatis personce were assembled on the telegraph hill, near Portsmouth. It was in the summer season — -a very hot July. — Amabel and Annie Talbot were sitting on the close parched turf, without their bonnets, which were lying beside them. They were looking towards the ocean, watching for the first puff of the sea-breeze after sunset. The blue offing shone like silver, where it melted soft into the hazy sky, and right across it glanced a golden path, seeming to pave the waters to the setting sun. Light sparkled upon every surge, up to where the ripple of a sea at rest flashed upon the copper of the frigates at Spithead. In the distance, indistinct at first in the bright haze of glow- ing sunlight, a brig and a frigate, standing in shore, were notice- able. The brig ,had the frigate in tow. At first sight, one might have thoi%ht that they stood still on the smooth silvered blue of the water ; nevertheless, rising upon the swells could be every now and then seen, with increasing distinctness, the dark side, and white streak of the man-o'-war, checkered with a AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORT. 415 double row of ports, her wake gleaming white in the heave of the sea. The brig was a long, rakish-looking eraft of Yankee build, painted black, with sharp bows. As the two women sat watching the slow nearing of these vessels, they were joined by two lads in midshipmen's uniform. N"ever, in after life, does the naval officer feel himself so great a man as when he first walks the Common Hard of Portsmouth, with his new laced hat on his round head, and his shining middy's dirk stuck in his girdle. The magnificent air of proud iudifierence with which these young gentlemen acknowledge the salutes of the marines, standing sentry at the dock-yard gates, is unsurpassed for supercilious condescension. ITiey stood by Amabel and Annie, pointing towards Spit- head, and discoursing on the build and rates of sailing of the shipping. Haying been educated at a naval school, founded for the instruction of the sons of officers, they had some nauti- cal knowledge, of which they made a great display, spicing their conversation so largely with sea terms that their discourse was nearly unintelligible to Annie, who, though the daughter of a post-captaip, did not know the braces from the yards, nor the fore ftom the after part of a vessel. Amabel was wiser. She cast an intelligent look out to sea, when, pointing to the brig which seemed tender to the frigate, they- noticed the flap of her fore-top-sail, and said that the wind was drawing ahead for her, and it would come pretty near from due nor'-east before long. These boys were Ned Talbot and John Warner, fast Mends and schoolmates, who had suddenly emerg-ed together into midshipman-hood. It was the close of the London season. Annie Talbot, who had been worn out with hard labor, had been ordered to recruit at the sea-side. Amabel (that quiet little brown figure in a plain white cap) had obtained leave of absence, and Portsmouth had been selected in spite of the supe- rior cheapness of Margate, because it would, enable them to see the last of th«ir brother Ned. Amabel had nc^peen aware that John Warner would be with him when, she left London. ' John, however, had travelled down with her inside the coach, and treated her with the greatest respect and consideration. He 416 Amabel; a family history. had received many letters from his sister Katie, on the subject of their step-mother. Katie, by the way, and Miss Taylor were in Portsmouth at this moment. They had come to see John off ; and as soon as Katie learned from him that Amabel was there, she made many an attempt to meet her accidentally. And, therefore, Ajnabel, who thought it right that her life should be henceforward dissevered from her step-children, shunned all frequented streets in order to avoid a meeting ; and discouraged, though she did not quite forbid, John Warner's visits to her quiet lodging. John had a ship's glass in his hand, which he was bringing to bear upon the vessels, endeavoring to steady it for the ladies, who generally succeeded in seeing vaguely dim patches of grey sky ; and who, when prominent objects had been sought and found for their inspection, contrived, before they got their eye fairly to the glass, to let the whole picture drop back into the channel. " Dreadful dirty she looks aloft, John," said Ked, taking the glass. '"Her ropes are all hanging about her yards in kinks;" That is not the order I should choose to keep aboard a man- o'-war." " Nor I," said John, taking the glass. " What a precious lot of old hamper she's got hanging about her." As the boys were making their comments on these ships, and taking brief peeps at them in the intervals of fixing the spy-glass for the ladies, they had not noticed some men coming up the hill to work the telegraph ; and soon the great unwieldy wooden arms were playing up and down in the light of the setting sun. " What frigate's that ?" said Ned to one of the men standing about the place, who had the appearance of a sailor. "That there's the Alcastor frigate, Cap'n "Warner, come home, sir, from Bight o' Benin. She have the black vomit aboard her. That there's her prize, a slaver, towi-ng of her. They say she^Esn't got well men enough on board to work her in. All hands is took down, men and officers, aboard her. They are dying off as thick as peas. The Admiral has ordered them to moor her off the Motherbank in strict quar Amabel; a family history. 417 rantine. They are working a message up to town to ask what's, to be done about her." "Do you know, sir," said John Warner, dropping -his new- found airs, and flushing in the face, while Amabel with hps apart grew pale as marble, "do you know, sir, whether her captain is on board ? He is my father." The man touched his hat, gazed silently a moment into the boy's face, with a kindly look of rough compassion, then shifted his tobacco in his cheek, and looked away as he answered — " I believe, Mr. Warner, your father is on board, sir. He was a fine officer. I served under him once, sir, iji the Dodo sloop-of-war, in the Mediterranean.'' ^' Was/" exclaimed- Amabel, seizing his arm. "Did you mean was ? Is he dead ? Is it over ?" " No, marm — no, my lady," said the man ; " only ill, marm. He may get over it. Try and hopa he may." Annie began to cry ; not that she in the least remembered Captain Warner, or had heard his name for yearsj but her heart was soft, and her feelings easily moved. Amabel did not lanjpnt aloud,^ nor faint, nor shriek, as the boys supposed she would, nor did she even cover her pale f&ce, nor wring her hands ; she stood with a fixed abstracted look, gazing at the ships which were coming to their moorings. There was something, however, in the expression of her face, which made John Warner pity her from his whole soul. He went up and shook hjr by the hand. The tears that rolled in silence down his face overcame her. " Oh ! my son," she cried, " is there no help ?" And the poor felloi^could not answer her. Then Amabel disengaged herself from all of them, and walked apart. As usual, when much moved, there came into her mind a text of Scripture. This time it was, " Gird up the loins of your mind — ^be sober — and hope to the erid." She took it as a message to herself — the voice of heaven in her heart, and she was comforted. In a few moments she lifted up jher face — very pale, but more coniposed. As she stood with her back to the* telegraph and her companions, she saw in the north-east corner of the sky, a small cloud rising with extreme' rapidity ; — 418 Amabel; a family histort. ligiit, misty, and yet clearly defined against the sky, with three taU points mounting to the. zenith — it looked like the distant shrouds and sails of some far off giant ship, or like the shoot- ing ray of an aurora. The rest of the party joined her ; silently they hastened to their temporary home. Ned Talbot and Jack Warner took leave of them at the door of the house where they had lodgings, and promising to come back, and tell what further news they might collect, went off to make inquiries. When they returned, they found Annie gone up to her chamber. The long walk and her tears had exhausted her. Amabel was lying on the sofa, with her face hidden in the cushions, weeping quiet tears. She wiped them away when they came in, and struggled to receive them with composure-r- ** The shade by which her life was crossed Had made her kindly with her kind." It was natural to her to smile a welcome, but this time the smDe yielded to a sob. Tea stood prepared upon the table, with cream and strawberries, but nobody could eat, and as soon as they had told her the little news that they had been able to collect, they went away a second time. All communication with the plague ship was forbidden. Medicines and fresh provisions were to be put into empty boats fastened astern, and di-awn on board of her. Theodosius Ord was in command of the prize slaver, and at present all his men were healthy, communication between the brig and frigate having been cut off since the appearance of the disorder. The surgeon of the Alcastor had been one of the first^victims, and it was said the Admiral was looking round for a volunteer to send on board of her, if any medical man could be found in Ports- mouth, who would cast in his lot with the plague-stricken, and devote himself to almost certain death, for the bare chance of saving some one life by his professional exertions. Amabel heaj-d all that Ned and John could tell, asked calmly where the Admiral resided, and dismissed them to carry their sad news to Katie and Miss Taylor. At the door John Warner, whose heart failed him at the AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 419 thought of his sister's grief, turned back and said to Ama- bel— " Won't you go with us ? She is so fond of you ? You would break it to her better than I." " No, my dear boy, I have other work to do ; but take her this," she cried, and going up to him, to the disconcerting of his newly-fledged dignity, laid her hands upon his shoulders, and kissed him. " Take her one of my kisses," she said, " and to-morrow morning bid her come here to this house, as early as she can. God bless and comfort you !" " I cannot make your sister out," said John to Ned as they walked on, " she seems to take my poor father's danger very quietly, and I should suppose that was quite natural after the terms they have lived upon for years — only there is such a look of suppressed suffering in her face." " I know Amabel," said Ned, " when she feels much she never talks. She is gathering up her energies for something. When she takes a thing in hand, there is nothing she can't do." Meantime, Amabel had sent out for a glass Qoach. In it she placed a basket and some clothes. Over her quiet brown stuff gown, she threw the soft folds of her cashmere, and put her bonnet over the close white cap, which in the hospital marked her position. No person, though the fashion of her dress was quaint, and it was made of rough material, could glance at her without perceiving at once she was a lady ; — a very refvrkd lady, the acute observer would have added, had his eye fallen on the neat black boot she set upon her carriage-step, or on the well gloved hand which rested a moment on the coat sleeve of her coachman. There was nothing French about her now, except a natural taste for such small niceties. As she drove through the suburbs to the door of the Port Admiral, the storm that had been -gathering, broke over the town. The cloud which had risen so misty and so white upon the clear blue sky, to the north-east, had gathered blackness as it spread ovet the heaven. To westward, where the sun had set, was rolled together a big Mack bank of cloud, glowing like copper at the top, or like the dull, lurid yellow light of iUumi- 420 Amabel; a family history. nated smoke, hanging low over a burning city. Of a sudden, the thunder broke with a crash out of the midst of clouds and darkness. Amabel started, and turned pale ; the sound was so sudden and so near, that it seemed as if a thunderbolt had fallen; and then the long, low, sullen roar went booming over the water. The thunder followed close upon a blinding flash, succeeded by the rain, dashing, leaping, rattling, falling on the streets with a force more nearly like the dash of stone to stone than like the fall of water. In this tremendous rain, Amabel's carriage drove dovm High street, and stopped at the Port Admiral's door. She got out, and desired the servant to let her speak with Admiral P . Her heart felt sick and faint within her. " Papa," said one of the Admiral's young ladies, who had seen her as she was shown in. " There is somebody waiting to see you in the library." , « " Who is it, my dear ?" " It's a woman of some kind." That sixth sense, by which a gentleman at once detects gentility, enabled the Admiral, on entering his library, to per- ceive a lady ; and he begged her to command him, with the ceremonious gallantry of an oflBcer of the old school. " Sir," said she, " I am connected with an hospital in London, and am experienced in fever. I want an order to go on board the Alcastor." " My dear woman," said the Admiral, " I would not give you such a thing if I had it in my power. Her very timbers are infected ; — her men and oflBcers are dying off by dozens." " Sir," said Amabel, coming close toj him, and laying both her hands upon the knotted fist the old man had brought down with emphasis upon the table — " you must let me go on board. The only tie I have to life is there." " Impossible, — impossible. We must not spread the fever. If every woman went on board " . . . . " Oh ! Admiral P , let me go to my husband /" " Indeed, I would," said the Admiral — " I would, if I could. But the duty of a commander, ma'am, is more to save life than to risk it. Who is your husband ?" Amabel; a family history. 421 " He is on board tke Alcastor," said Amabel, evasively. - " Yes, but what name has he^?" said the Admiral, referring to a list. " Maybe he is not ill. Tell me his name ?" " He is ill," said Amabel. "I could not possibly admit you, ma'am," said the Admiral. "Oh! sir," cried Amabel, detaining him, "not if I get a certificate from Lieut. Ord, now acting in command of the prize of the Alcastor, that I am a fit person to go -on board, — that my knowledge and discretion may be trusted ? — Mr. Ord knows me." "No, Madam — no,-" said the Admiral, "I could not take the responsibility." " But a physician," urged Amabel, " is to be allowed to go." " A man is different," the Admiral replied. •' A man's life ought always to be at the disposal of his country, but - 1 could not expose a woman." " Oh ! Admiral P , a woman is equally a human being ! I entreat — I implore you," cried Amabel, clasping her hands. All she could get out of the Admiral was, " I know my duty. I could not hear of it, ma'am." She felt that she was breaking hef strength against a rock, and rose to leave him. The old Admiral walked out with her bareheaded, into the rain, and handed her ceremoniously into her carriage. " "Where to ?" said the coachman, glistering in drenched tarpaulin. " To wherever they let out boats,'' said Amabel. The man muttered, " that he fancied no waterman would like the night no more then he,'' but drove her down to the Point. Here Amabel got out. Two or three old salts who had been lounging under the eaves of a drinking-shop, came round her. She offered them a high price if they would take her within hail of the black brig lying at the Motherbank. "Couldn't manage it, marm, no how," was the unanimous answer. "OhLmy Godf" she cried; "my good men, the rain has lessened — ^it is going to be fine. Ten pounds l—^I offer you 422 amabbl; a family history. ten pounds, — WGn't anybody take ten pounds ? My husband is dying on board tlie Alcastor, and I want to go off to him." " No, marm," said one of the men, who had stepped a little forward. " There's none on us as 'ud like to go a cable's length to windward o' that craft, I'm thinking., I thou't you said you only wanted a bit of a hail from 'tother black chap as is lyin' in her company.'' " Yes, that is all I ask — indeed it is," said Amabel, "I want a certificate from Lieut. Ord, who is on board of. her, to show Admiral P , and then perhaps he'll let me go on board the frigate, to my husband." The last words dying away like the sough of a gust piping in winter through the trees. At last two of the men came forward ; and knocking the ashes out of their pipes, which they had smoked at intervals in short puffs, during the colloquy, and putting them into their jacket pockets, said, with many hitches at their trowsers, that if " beside the ten pound, the lady would stand summut to drink" .... Amabel interrupted the speech by putting five shillings into the hand of the spokesman, and one of the party handed her down at once into the stem sheets of a small wherry, and stowed her " traps," as he called them, snugly in the locker. She sat there slowly soaking, though the rain fell with less fury than it had done during the strength of the storm. In earlier days she would have covered her face, and have lapsed into reverie ; now she kept rising in the boat, looking for the boatmen, trying to steady herself against- the wet piles of the jetty. " Your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions," but the spirit of action is for the prime of age. And yet what hope for her was there in action ? There is an extraordinary vitality in hope — 'tis the true Hydra. We are haunted daily by the ghosts of hopes, years after we have laid them with weeping and with mourning in their graves. She had given up the idea of ever being reconciled to her husband ; she had even persuaded herself that such a recon- ciliation would not be for their mutual good ; she had torn up AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 423 tte desire of her Jife, and rooted out its fibres. But she found it living still. Now all was over ; she might see him,- — die beside him — receive forgiveness from those tainted lips, the only reconcilia- tion possible, — and after that came death. Her lot was sealed ; she had no earthly future. There arose in her sou], as she sat unsheltered in the boat, a self-dependent woman in the power of rough men, a vision — a prophecy oi a future that might have been, — a vision of a sunny summer evening, such as never had been, nor could be, at the old Cedars. She saw the trim smooth lawn, the clustering monthly roses, the iron roller dragged by James, the ga,rdener "with white hair. As shading her eyes from the bright sunset she listened for the tramp of the horse-hoofs of her husband, she felt her sMrts puUed by a rosy boy, the Leonard who lay dead under the yews ; the fair face of Katie smiled on hei from a window, and suddenly a strong, firm arm,, was clasped about her waist, and her face was lifted up, and met her husband's warm, app'roving kiss, and happy, loving smile. " Ah ! backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content 1" Her soul was stirred to its very depths. Tender recollections of her married- life came in like a flood. Wave after wave of bitterness broke over her. She was oft' her feet as it were — carried away as by a mighty surge. " Sorrow is vain, and despondency sinful." " Even so," said her spirit. " Forgive me, Leonatd," said the voice within, " forgive me the deficiency in courage with which I meet my fate; — forgive me for this weakness. My soul seems lost — adrift, under a dark sky, and in wild waters. Oh ! Father Almighty ! make me strong for Leonard's sake, that when wc meet hereafter, — as oh ! grant we may, upon the crystal sea befpre Thy throne, there may not bo charged on him the guilt of any of- my murmuring ! " Wilt thoti not feel it, shame and grief to thee, That I, for thy sake, loved less fervently — 424 Amabel; a tamilt history. Less heartily obeyed, less understood, Him whom we then shall both acknowledge Good 1 Thou hast enough to bear ! My sins and fears, My guilty weaknesses, and sullen tears, ^ Shall not be added, dearest, to thy load- Aid me, for Ms sake, aid me, oh ! my God ! To hope and trust in Thee !" As she repeated this verse half >loud, the men came out of the drinking-house, and took their places in the wherry. They cast her loose, stripped off their jackets, dipped their oars into the brine, and soon the little boat was standing across the har- bor. The sea was not running very high, the rain having beaten down the white caps, but the swell was excessive. The night was black as pitch, and the wind rising. Amabel, all alive to the present, had to resign the " bitter-sweet " of meditative sad- ness. All her strength and attention were required to keep herself steady. The little boat heeled dreadfully at times. The swash of angry waters on her keel was very different from the gently-plashing sound which soothes the soul in a pleasure trip about a harbor. Rowing was hard work in that heavy swell. Sometimes she seemed to mount upon a' huge, smooth hill of water, dark as the night, while the light of their one small lamp fell on the bright wet oar-blades ; a moment after she was plunging and surging in the trough of the sea. They had taken a third man to steer ; he sat in the stern, handling the yoke lines, and advised Amabel to lie down in the bottom of the wherry. The men upon the thwarts, though apparently intent on bending to their oars, cast many a furtive glance under their brows at their fair passenger, and covered her over with their jackets to prevent her being drenched with the driving spray, for the rain having ceased, the waves began to show their white backs, as the boat went dancing over the surge. The wind, I said, was getting up, and the rain ceasing ; but suddenly the thunder was renewed ; clap after clap, flash after flash ; — a sudden squall broke over them. The swell washed over the gunwale of the boat, and nearly filled it with water. Amabel, upon her knees, kept trying to bale it ont with a tar- paulin. .Amabel; a family history. 425 The oarsmen bent to their work, the faint -light of their one lamp throwing its gleam ever and anon athwart their fixed, dark faces, with the steersman trying in vain to steady the little craft, and keep her head before the gale, which was their only chance of safety, though it should blow them over the bar. Suddenly an exclamation .broke from the bowman. He had broken one of the row-locks-^there was no longer any rest for one of the oars. In the darkness, the confusion, and the pitching of the boat, he could find no other, even if another were in the locker, of which none of- the men were sure. At the next minute, a white and dripping bowsprit lifted right over their heads, and the hull of a huge ship, black as the darkness, drift- ed past them on a rolling swell. The bowman gave a sheer off from her quarter. " It's a frigate, mates !" cried he ; *' I made out her ports in the white line." "I'm blessed if it isn't the Alcastor broke adrift," exclaimed the steersman, "she was only riding a while ago at single an- chor." It was the Alcastor, drifting before the wind, rolling her big- black hull as helpless as a cask, now on one side, then the other, her masts, jumping, yards and rudder creaking, the loose ham- per aloft that Ned and John had remarked upon, swaying; as she rolled from sifle to side. The terrified boat party watched the broad black mass, seem- ing to copie out from, and to be a part of, the darkness, with a gleam or two from her galley and the binnacle, and fancied they distinguished ghostly faces peering above her bulwarks ; though- above the roaring of the tempest, the plash from the scuppers, and creaking of the timbers of the ship, no human voice made itself heard. As the big ship drifted past, they.watching her, silent and breathless, the set of the current carried them under her stern. A boat was. towing in her wake, and they ran foul of the tow- rope, with a force which came near to knock the head off of the steersman, who was standing up, watching the receding danger.. "It's the provision-boat," cried Amabel, as one of the men 426 Amabel; a family hi8tob.y„ held on a moment by tlie line ; " let me get into it — perhaps the people on board may haul me in ! Dear — dear men, I'll give you all the money I have ; only let me get in !" " Pity she shouldn't get on board, if she's so sot on it," said one of them, as she pulled out her little purse. " Boat ahoy !" sung out a voice from the poop of the fi-igate, not a full, hearty naval voice, fit to be heard above the battle and the storm. " Ay, ay, sir ! the Alcastor ahoy !" sung out the steersman, into whose hand Amabel had put her httle purse, with the gold of her half-year's salary shining through the netting. " We've got a lady-passenger come off to ye, half drownded. Send down a whip and get her on board." It was never satisfactorily explained how this order on the part of the Portsmouth wherryman came to be obeyed by the men on the poop of the Alcastor, for the orders of the Admiral had been strict that no one should go on board of her. I sup- pose, however, the boatman, in his hoarse tones, spoke with a voice of authority, and in the disorganized state into which the ship had fallen, with all her ofiicers dead or sick, except her master's mate, and one small reefer, any appearance of com- mand carried its weight. In five minutes down came the whip, with a small sail hooked on to it, " looking," as some one -else says, " like a big grocer's scale dangling fr(5m the end of the spanker-boom ;" into which, while the boat pitched and plimged beyond the power of the oarsmen to steady it, and in great dan- ger from any sudden stroke of the loose rudder, the steersman tumbled Amabel, her basket and bag. " Heave ahead !" he cried, and the next moment, holding on for very life, Amabel felt herself rising between the sky and water, at the imminent risk of being canted out of one corner of the studding-sail, or of striking against the stern-lights or the poop-raihng. She was pulled in with a sudden jerk by several rough hands, and being landed on the deck, so soon as they could release her from the folds of the sail she. stood amongst them. The men drew back with sudden awe. It was a time of su- perstition. The hand of death was busy all around. The few AMABEL; A FAMILY IIISTORT. 427 left were like the blades of grass that here and there escape the sweepings of the scythe. Dizzy and drenched, she stood silent in their midst, holding fast by the railing of the poop, the light of tiiumph in her eye, a smile of thankfulness upon her lip. The spirit of love and faith had made her more than conqueror over death and all his terrors. They saw it glowing in her cheek — ^they saw it sparkle in her eye, as full upon her face, defining its sweet outline, and filling up its hollows by deep shadows, light gleamed up upon her from the binnacle. There was dead silence amongst all hands on the poop, whilst in the white wake of the frigate, rising often to a level with the stem windows on the long, foamy, rolling swell, tossed the frail wherry of the watermen ; and the spectral figures on the frigate's deck, who gathered about Amabel, looking stead- fastly upon her, saw her face as it had been the face of an angel. CHAPTER in. We know not whither our frail barks are home, To quiet haven or to stormy shore ; Nor need we seek to know it, while above The tempest, and the water's angriest roar. Are heard the voices of Almighty love. R. C. Teekoh. There was silence for some moments on the poop. The men all held aloof. The reefer nudged the master's mate to speak, the master's mate the reefer. The big ship gave a sudden quiver from stem to stern. " Hold on," shouted the mate. Amabel .clung with both hands to one of the brass stanchions of the poop railing. ¥he ofiicers sang- out between their hands some unintelligible orders ; the deck of the ship as she plunged into the swell, looked like a mighty slide ; while swashing, dashing, bursting, came a tre- mendous sea over her bulwarks, washing everything before it, rattling like stones upon her deck, and plashing down into her 428 Amabel; a family history. scuppers. Amabel was carried off her feet by the violence of the plunge, and having let go of the stanchion, rolled down the ladder of the poop and found herself both sorely drenched and bruised, struggling to catch hold of something fast in the neighborhood of the binnacle, while the roll with which the frigate righted, sent the helmsman swinging to the lee side of the wheel, the wind shaking her big frame, and whistling through among her yards ; her bulkheads, timbers, and tiller ropes creaking and straining. The noise and confusion about Amabel, for some moments, were more stunning than the fall. Before she had recovered herself, a man holding on with one hand to different objects in his course, came staggering towards her, and passing his strong arm round her waist, helped her towards the opening that led down into the cabin, shoved back the hatch which had been slipped over to keep out the sea, and put her down below as in a place of safety. It was pitch dark in the place she found herself. She groped, however, for the handle of the cabin door, knowing well the ways of such places, from her long acquaintance with ships in earlier days. It was dark, and choking hot. Over head, the noise, the creaking and confusion, appeared to be augmenting. Getting hold of the handle of the door, she opened it. In place of the rushing wind, salt and fresh from the ocean, there met her a close sickly air from the cabin, and the faint gleam of one pale lamp showed her the interior. They had got the dead lights into the stern windows, but nothing else appeared to have been made fast before the storm. Every loose thing in tlie place was heaved and tumbled into a heap to leeward, chairs, desks, trunks, and tables. Making her way with difficulty, and with several swings and fa+ls, she struggled towards a light in the starboard after-cabin. As she got close to it, and paused, holding on to the elected dining table, the ship gave a sudden quiver and a headlong plunge. She heard a voice moaning for water. The next moment the roll of the ship heaved her close against a door. She caught at the lintel to steady herself, and looked in. Amabel; a family history. 429 Her tusband lay moaning in his cot. The dim light from the cabin lamp fell on his worn, wan, sharpened face: He looked twenty years older than when she married him. All the little matters he had used in health, were strewn about the cabin. A few worn books were swinging on a shelf. His clothes and cap, trumpet, and spy-glasses, were hanging upon pegs. There was a small writing table fixed to a bulkhead, in one compartment of "which' were his chronometers. They had run down, however. Nobody had thoiight it necessary to keep the ship's reckoning while she remained in company with the brig in this distracted time. The captain lay with his features in sharp outline ; his knees drawn up, making an abrupt ridge in the white bedding ; his head resting tineasily against the bulkhead. Some one had cut away much of his long light hair at the beginning of his illness. " Water," he said, faintly. But the man who should have waited on him had disappeared ; perhaps struck down' by fever. Hanging on a hook was a black bottle, made fast by the neck, and swinging with every plunge made by the vessel. How it had escaped being dashed in pieces against the J)ulkhead was a miracle. She got it down to see what it contained, and found to her great joy that it was water. Steadying herself as well as she could, she passed one arm under her husband's neck, and put the bottle to his lips. He drank with a terrible eagerness. Even the clammy wetness of her drenched sleeves, as she 'touched him, seemed to be gratefiil from its coolness. He looked her in the face, as she resettled his head upon his pillow, and taking one of her hands feebly in his own, he pressed and patted it, calling her by name. " Poor little woman — poor little ^ella !" She answered him by tears, and by warm kisses showered fast upon his hands and forehead. But by the next thing.? that he said, she found his mind was wandering. He had gone back in fancy, to the old Cedars. He had strong local attachments, and his heart clung to his old home. Jle wanted to know if all the hay was cut, and seemed to be pfanning improvements. 430 amabbl; a familv his tout. " There is a large dead chestnut yonder," said he, looking full at the lamp, " that ought to be cut down, — but the first walk I took with my wife we went and sat under its shadow ; she was a pretty little thing — my wife, and she seemed fond of me." Then as the vessel gave a sudden lurch, which caused him to catch hold of her, and her to cling to him, he remarked how wet she was, and again appeared to recognise her. "Is this snow?" he cried. "Have you come from your river-bed, where none of us could find you ? ' Commit his body to the deep,' you know — will she meet me dripping and damp in my grave under the sea ?" What a night ! what a night 1 Sometimes the sick rnan had a snatch of sleep ; sometimes he raved, and, when violent, a less experienced nurse would have found it hard to manage him. Sometimes he seemed to know-^his wife, and talked quite rationally ; always, however, with an entire want of recognition of the real circumstances of the occasion. Sometimes he would call out for news about the ship, — and send orders to Ord, or threaten to get up and ^o on deck ; or repeat scraps of the funeral service, which he had read over so many of his doomed ship's company ere they were dropped alongside. Amabel, during a short broken doze he had, got off her wet clothes, and put on a white wrapper. She tried to reach the steward's pantry, but the ship rolled heavily and she could not accomplish it. So she returned to her husband's side, and sat steadying herself and watching him. She sat quiet ; strong in that self-reliance which hinges upon faith — and in the midst of danger and of death, joy and peace were hers. Her feet touched the brink of the river of death ; but the past of her life — that fatal past — the monster she herself had assisted to create, which had so long haunted her steps and harassed wiile it could not harm, viewing her at last beyond its reach, ceased to pursue her. Her feet had glided swiftly over the last strip of future betwefen her and the dark river. Her future lay in the mysterious Beyond ! Towards morning a man came into the cabin, who looked surprised beyond measure to see her there. She quietly accost- Amabel; a family history. 431 ed him, begging him to fill her water bottle, and to let in day- light, if possible ; adding, with a smile, " I am the woman who came on board last night." From-him she learned that the few well men who were left, assisted by the convalescents, had just managed to keep the ship clear of the land during the night ; that they had passed the Isle of Wight an hour before dawn, and were driving and drifting in a sou'-south-westerly course across the Channel. He told her that when the Alcastor was cruising off the mouths of the Gambia, eighteen of the men had been attacked with the most fatal form of Afi-ican fever. The captain had run in for a small port belonging to the Portuguese, where the plague spread rapidly amongst both men and officers, notwithstand- ing every attempt to purify the vessel. She lost her surgeon and assistant surgeon. Two thirds of her ship's company had died ; some manned the prize she had made, which, under the command of Lieutenant Ord, was sent in company with her to England. Nea,rly a hundred of her men were left in a small fort near the Portuguese settlement, being ill or convalescent at the time of her sailing ; and the small remainder of her crew, after every precaution had been taken by white-washing, wash- ing, and fumigating the vessel, were sent home in her to Eng- land. When they were two days out there had appeared ano- ther case of fever. Next a self-devoted surgeon, who had volunteered into her from another ship, was struck down. Every day some two or three had died — till the frigate was left with a working crew of twelve men and two officers untouched, and fourteen or fifteen fevered spectral wretches who were getting over the disorder. The man, with rough kindness, gave Amabel a little camphor bag, which he begged her to smell of, assuring her it had kept him safe during the fatal voyage. " A little puff of fresh air will do us even more good," she said, and persuaded him to undo the skylight, and let the breeze freshen the close cabin. The skylight, indeed, as he assured her, would admit less air than water, for the Alcastor was still running under bare poles before the gale ; the spray dashing over her from taffrail to cutwater. 432 Amabel; a family history. As day wore on, the gusts of wind hold off, but the sky continued murky. Once or twice Amabel made an attempt to cree'^ up the companion ladder, and get a free glance of sea and sky on deck ; but failing in the attempt, she was obliged to content herself with such a view of the grey heaving mass of sea and a firmament to match, as she could obtain out of the little square stern window. What happened all that day above deck — what struggles the weak crew made to manage the ship that was running away with them — what deeds of daring may have been performed under the name of duty — what manly qualities may have shone forth — what powers of forethought and command — what disci- pline and obedience — I am unable to describe, Amabel remain- ing, as I said, all day under hatches. All the time she hung about her husband with that soft, womanly, endearing tenderness, which all men appreciate in sickness, and the sailor most of all. She had a French taste for very delicate perfumes, and a fragrance of roses was always wafted from her fingers. The captain seemed sensible to this sweetness, catching her hands and pressing them frequently to his parched face ; and seeming to be comforted and soothed whenever her soft cool touch freshened his burning forehead. The heat of the cabin was very great. The vrind that came dovni the skylight scarcely seemed to change or cool the air. She sat down by her husband's cot, fanning his flushed face, or moistening the fevered lips, now turning black, with precious drops of water. Again the night came on, without her starry crown, clad in her deepest sables. , The captain was asleep — a quiet sleep ; she had fancied there was moisture on his palms, and steadying herself beside his cot she knelt down, and put the thoughts of prayer, which had been her support all day, into words. " A word to God is a word from God." It was not the first time she had found it so. What peace in the midst of that confusion — what light in the midst of the thick darkness of that night were poured into her soul ! As long as light was left she had watched the ship's white AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTOHT. 433 wake running zigzag, far as the eye could reach into the grey heave astern of her. " The course of a life, with a distinct end and purpose," said her heart, " is like the way of a ship in her path on the great waters, not -straight forward on her course, but with many a tack and counter tack helping her onward." Maurice, the sailor, coming down to light the lamp, found her dozing about eight o'clock, her head supported against the bulkhead of the cabin. He stood looking compassionately at her pale, worn face. In sleep it was not lighted with the smile of encouragement to others that in waking hours it almost always wore. In sleep her features took the expressioii stamped upon them by the tenor of her life. You read, as in a book, a biography of suffering. And silver threads already glistened on her forehead — ^that forehead which, in many a memory, wore the golden halo of soft light which crowns the brows of martyrs, saints, and angels. The rough old foremast-man, when he found her asleep, gazed on her tiU a correspondent feeling came into his heart. " God bless her, and send her away safe, whoever she may be," said he, and moved off to attend to other duties. As the second night of the storm came on, the wind con- tinued to increase after a lurid sunset. It was blowing great guns by midnight, and the noise overhead, the creaking and the clatter, seemed deafening. All of a sudden, just before dawn, the captain lifted himself up in his cot and seemed to listen. There was a moment's lull, Amabel's ear canght afar a dull roaring sound unlike any of the previous noises. Then overhead on deck she heard a hail from the young mate, too technical for her to understand, ter- minating in the words " the breakers .'" Then came a rushing, scuffling, and confusion overhead. The men seemed to be set- ting a sail. Biit before they had well accompUshed it there came a roar — a rush — a sudden clap like near and awful thun- der. The dark clouds of the night were lifting, and looking full into the stem window was a grey streak of dawn, breaking clear to the eastward. The roaring sound had been the rending of the canvas. The sail that they had set flew sheer out of the bolt-ropes. Then came a sound of fluttering and crashing^; 434 AMABEL ; A FAMILY HISTORY. hoarse cries and hurried orders upon deck. The ship careen- ing over on one side, till the deck of the cabin was at an angle of forty-five, and everything in it seemed tumbled into a heap together. The men appeared to be trying to cut a mast away. Another shock — another crash; the great ship shivered through her mighty frame. The mainmast was gone over- boai-d. Amabel heard the quick chopping of hatchets upon deck. She saw the spar, and the rag of the main-top-sail, drift into the sparkling foam of the white wake, with a drowning man clinging to the yard. She shrieked and hid her face. She was ready to meet death, but this was terrible. Captain Warner, too, bad heard the crash. His earUest pas- sion had been for his profession. He was a thorough sailor. Even delirium could not obhterate what to him was second nature. He knew at once that the main-mast had gone over, and sprang from his cot just as the frigate righted, after getting rid of her broken spar. Just then there came another booiriing sound from overhead ; a flash amidst a steamy cloud of smoke swept back along the broadside of the vessel. The crew were firing minute guns. Before Amabel could prevent her husband, he was making his way on deck in all the strength of fever. Just as he got to the companion ladder, his wife following him, a sudden shock threw them both back into the cabin. The ship had struck — the next wave lifting her floated her still further on the reef, sending her down with renewed force and a heavy crash on the rocks again. Captain Warner was in a moment on his feet ; a man above, in answer to his heavy thumps, drew off the hatch. The light of dawn broke in on them at once, and the sight of such a sea ! Foam, breakers, surf on either hand, and land on the lee bow and straight before them. It was a bold, bluff coast. They were so near inshore as to distinguish moving objects. The cliffs appeared burning with torchlight. Men, women, children were on foot, rushing hither and thither with wild, hoarse, unintelligible cries. They had tempted the ship to steer inshore by putting out false lights, and were now assembled to receive her. Amabel; a. family history. 435 Amabel saw at once they were upon the coast of France, probably on that of Brittany ; for while the savage wreckers watched the ship with anxious exultation, a priest in his robes, his figure thrown into relief by the glowing torchlight, stood on a high point of rock above the surf, repeating aloud the service for the dying. Inboard the eyes of Amabel first rested on the crew. Some were already lashing themselves to coops and spars ; convales- cents looking like the pictures of Lazarus out of the charnel- house, came feebly creeping up from berths below. Some, like Captain Warner, stood on deck in the fierce strength of fever. The ship now swung from side to side, her decks working, her beams breaking. Fast on a rock, she lay helpless as a log in the midst of the breakers; the sea, at every third wave, making a breach over her, each- time washing away some one of those on board. Their shrieks of despair, as they floated away into the raging surf, pierced Amabel's very soiil. Mean- time the oaken decks, an hour before so firm and tight, were opening and shutting with eveiy heave of the tide. Sopie cried to God for assistance and forgiveness, other few shook hands with one another. Some tried to loose the stern boat from the davits, the only one that could have been got off, as the ship lay so high up in the breakers. In the bewildering confusion, Amabel, for a few moments, lost sight of her husband. All at once, just as she missed him, he reappeared suddenly at her " Come aft— ^we' have but one chance now," he- said, and hurrying her upon the poop, he lifted her up before she was aware. There was a whizz — a whirr — a rush of air about her face ; he had flung her clear of the ship, and then sprang after her. When she came up he seized her with a firm strong grasp with one arm, with the other he buffeted his way through the foam of the surf which was rolling inshore. 436 amabbl; a family history. CHAPTER IV. I would be thine ! Not passion's wild emotion To show thee, fitful as the changing wind, Bat with a still, deep, fervent life devotion, To be to thee the helpmeet God designed ; For this I would be thine ! Feaser's Magazine. The right arm of the strong sivimmer sufficed to keep their heads above the water, for though the surf was running high, the set of the current, and the rise of the tide, were carrying them in shore. On mighty rollers they were one moment borne onward towards the beach, at the next washed back almost to the wreck again. But each wave bore them in a little further, till at last, tangled with floating sea-weed, exhausted, bruised, insensible, locked in each other's arms, they were washed against a reef reaching far out into the surf, where a savage figure, wrapped in a mantle of sail-cloth, waiting to fish up its prey, stuck a boarding pike into their clothes, and dragged them from the water. The Cure on the cliff, who had his eye upon the prowl- ing savage on the reef, saw him drag the bodies from the surl^ turn them over, seem to search for any valuables they might have secured upon their persons, and weH knowing that having robbed them, the wretch would either leave them senseless on the rocks to be washed ofi" by the rising tide, or push them back into the boiling sui-^ he hastened to the beach at the head of a- small party x>i douaniers. By dint of threats they got the semi-savage, who alone had dared to tread the reef over which the tide was breakiag, to drag ashore the bodies. Raising them with ease in his power- ful arms, and throwing them across his shoulder, he came back along the ree^ steadying his steps upon the hidden rocks vrith his old boarding pike. The priest took them into his own keeping. On opening her Amabel; a family history. 437 eyes, Amabel found herself lying under a cliff upon dry sand, covered by the old man's black soutane. Around her, men in wide breeches, and slouched hats, were talking a harsh jargon. She roused herself as quickly as she could, and starting up, cried, " Where is he ?" Then seeing her husband lying at her side, she remembered the safety of others. Turning to, the priest, she made haste to explain to him something of their situation. No people have such an insane dread of infection as the French of all classes. The customrhouse oflBqials, startled and confused by what she told, heartily wished no other survivor of the wreck might get ashore ; and by no means blessed the benevolence of the priest' who had rescued these two persons from the tender mercies of Philopen. " Is there no empty building here ? No empty barn that we could be shut up in ?" suggested Amabel. " It seems but right, if you will supply us with necessaries, that we should keep a quarantine." " There is a usine — a machine factory upon the cliff," said the priest, " belonging to an Englishman.'' "That will do," said Amabel. "Have him carried up there." A-nd raising herself, she feebly walked by the side of the men who bore her husband. His fever strength was now all spent. His head and limbs drooped on the arms of his bearers. Amabel Could still muster enough of the harsh language of Brittany, to implore the peasants round her to be careful of her husband. Her husband ! She had not dared to call Hm so to Maurice the old sailor, who had seen her in his cabin, but she dared to speak her secret in the unknown tongue, and repeated the loved name over and over. Her knowledge of their lan- guage won at once upon the peasants. "She is not a Saxon," they exclaimed, using the term by which they designate the English, " but a poor Christian." The Breton peasant has a stoical resignation to the decrees of fate. These men were less alive to the risk they ran than their French betters ; and partly through the interest she inspired, -partly by the exercise of the authority of the priest, a sort of temporary hospital was established in the empty factory. 438 Amabel; a family history. A few beds w«re brought in from cabins round about, and piles of sweet dry heather. One by one the ghastly bodies of the drowned were carried up to the factory, and some few not less ghastly living men were also brought there. One or two of the doomed crew came up who seemed to have escaped unharmed. All at length who were likely to be saved were gathered together, and the prefet of the district, who had been summon- ed on so important an occasion, ordered the doors of the build- ing to be closed. From one of the windows, Amabel, after administering relief to the sufferers, looked out upon the sea. She saw it breaking, boiling, bubbling over the rocks that edged the land. The frigate lay on her beam ends, going fast to pieces. The bay beneath the cliff looked more like a vast inland lake than like an arm of the ocean, being shut in with mountains. She watched the sea birds sweeping over it. She heard them cry one to another, as they darted after objects floating on the waves. As I sat on the deep sea sand 1 saw a fair ship nigh at hand, I waved my wings, I bent my beak, The ship sank, and I heard a shriek. There lie the sailors one, two, three, 1 shall dine by the wild salt sea. And she fancied each time that they swept low over the waves, they might swoop to peck the eyes of some poor fellow late her shipmate, floating swollen on the waters. Below, upon the reef, were men and women, coming and going, each having his or her portion of the frigate's spoil. She thought of what Felix had often said to her, " that the milch cow of the peasant of that district was the ocean." Afar upon the blue horizon, where the waters of the bay joined the open sea, she saw the light white canvas of ships rejoicing in the lull of the storm. About four o'clock in the day, the captain woke to conscious- ness. As his eyes wandered with a sort of dreamy wonder round the spot in which he found himself, and as he tried to connect his latest remembrance of time and place with the Amabel; a family histouy. 439 strange scene, liis gaze rested on Us wife, and became fixed there. He had a vague impression of the events of the past night, and of her actual bodily presence ; such an impression as is left on a susceptible imagination by a very vivid dream. It was pleasant, in his weakness, to have her tranquil femi- nine figure within the range of his vision. He feared the soothing apparition would disappear. A tear fell on her lap. Just then she turned her face. He saw it full. A gentle, tearful face, full of a tender anxiety ; upon whose lines one seemed to view the trace Of old, unhappy, far-ojf things, And battles long ago. The rounded beauty of her cheek was gone. The glitter, glow, and sparkle of the sunshine of her life had passed away for ever ; but the impression he received from what he saw was scarcely one of pain. Change he noticed in her face, but not decay. It had acquired a new beauty — the still, calm beauty of a summer twilight. A beauty so serene, that as he gazed, it seemed to send a subduing, soothing, holy influence into his soul. Her figure still retained its grace. The turn of her head, as she sat in thought, was such as could be hers alone. * The sunlight fell upon her through a small lucarne in the rough wall, and the beams that played about her, made misty by the motes and dust that filled the place, made a sort of golden halo about her hair. At last a groan from a sick sailor roused her. The captain watched her as she tenderly waited on the sufferer, writhing on his bed of fern and heather. Even to him her presence seemed to bring a holy influence. The captain heard him invoke heaven's blessing on her head. As she came back to his side, he closed his eyes, but felt her cool hand gently laid upon his forehead. He/eZi the influence of her soft loving look. He felt her bending over him. He felt her long, warm, fervent kiss pressed cautiously ujDon his face, and as she kissed him, she felt herself drawn gently down — drawn down — and the warm fond pressure that she gave, returned upon her forehead. She beard him say some- 440 Amabel; a familt history. thing nearly inarticulate, but ste distinguished the words " my WIFE !" Oh ! blessed words ! Oh ! triumph — victory at last ! He has surrendered to her love ! Drawing her down nearer — nearer to his heart, she heard him add, " Can all the past, my dearest, be forgiven?" She did not answer him by words, but by the kisses that she rained upon his lips. Kisses fervent and ardent — the expression of her soul. He drew her down upon the bed, and' made her sit beside him. " To every time there' is a season, and a time for every pur- pose under the sun." A time for happy, quiet acquiescence in the tenor of events — as well as a time for the exhibition of emotion. Amabel was afterwards astonished to find how quietly her relations with her husband had been altered ; how noiselessly the crisis of her hfe had been passed through. The rolling surf which dashed her over the bar into the quiet haven she so long had tried to reach, had brought her in one moment into still and sheltered waters. The eaptain was too weak to make it safe, at such a moment, to excite him ; indeed, the brain of man after emerging from unconsciousness, is more susceptible of sensations. of complacent happiness, than of turbulent emo- tion, whether of joy or pain. After a little time, — a little talk incoherent and happy, in the course of which he endeavoured to express how, day by day, by slow degrees, through no particular representation or event, but from the combination of all testimonies in her favor, his opinion of her had been changed, — confessing he had been unjust, pleading none of the excuses for his conduct that might have been urged — Amabel disengaged the hand he held in his, and smoothing his rough pillow, went off to a stove in one corner of the room, and brought him a cup of something she had prepared. She sat upon the bed, assisting to prop him up, and holding the cup, tempting him to eat, with a flush upob her cheeks, but triumph brimming, dancing, sparkling in her eyes. '' Where did you get this ? — it is very good, my dear," said Captain Warner. " Made it," said Amabel, with a laugh and a blush, catching his -eye. " Did you think your little wife too silly to improve ? Amabel; a family history, 441 t Do you expect to find me still as inefficient and inexperienced as I used to be at home ?" " Ah !" said the Captain, "the dear old Cedars ! — shall I see it again I If God spares us, little woman, we will go and live again at the old Cedars." " Leonard," she said, after a moment's pause — " I have gained immeasurably in experience. I have grown quite an accom- plished country lady. I can do eveiything to be expected of your wife, except electioneer." In talk like this a happy hour swiftly passed. Then Ama- bel looked at her watch, which, though torn from her side by the wrecker on the reef, the exertions of the Cure had restored to her, touched the spring of the case, showed her husband the "Amabel Warner" he had had engraved there, and pressed the nar^e to her lips, with a sigh and a smile. Captain War- ner replied by kissing her left hand, which lay upon the coverlid, remarking, as he did so, and as she laid him back upon his pillow, how much too large her wedding ring had grown for her slight finger. Still holding his wife's hand clasped in both his own, he sank at length into a quiet slumber. Amabel had not a great while sat quiet by his side, com- muning with her agitated heart, and wrapt in happy dreams, when she was roused by a groan from one of the poor fellows saved oflF the wreck, and disengaging bsr hand from her sleep- ing husband's grasp, " prompt at every call," she went up to his low couch, and found the hand of death appeared to be upon him. "If I had only the priest!" he said, in broken English. lie was a foreign sailor — a Eoman Catholic, and the thought of dying unconfessed, disturbed his dying hour. The voice of the Cure was heard outside the building, and Amabel looked out, and told him of his penitent. " I will ccme in and confess him," said the priest. " Will it not do as well," said Amabel, " if you stand outside, and I interpret his confession ? He can speak no language that is known to you." But the Curi was not one of a plass disposed to slight a duty. He persisted in entering the infected factory, and 19* 442 A.MABEL; A TAMILY HISTORY. t thougli it would liave been quite in accordance with the prac- tice of his church to receive the man's confession in a tongue unknown to him, the sick man, finding Amabel could speak his native tongue, seemed inclined to retain her as an interpreter. He was a Maltese, and had at one time been a devout Catho- lic. His affairs had prospered in the days of his piety ; he had been master or patron of a speronara. But misfortune had overtaken him ; he had been reduced to a mere fisherman, and had been pressed by the captain of an English man-of-war. Since then he had continued to serve in the British navy. The most itnportant item in the confession that he made was a tale of robbery. It was the first sin unconfessed, and he dated all his irreligion and his fall from its commission. One night, while master of his boat, and running with cattle from Sicily to Malta, he had been called alongside an English sloop-of-war, ^nd had a young Frenchman put on board of him, with orders to take him into Malta harbor. The devil, he said, had incited him, the prisoner being tightly bound, to search his person, and secure his purse, which contained so large a sum of money, that he began to be afraid that the theft would not escape notice if brought to the knowledge of the English authorities. He was tempted to cut his prisoner's throat, but was not har- dened enough for murder. He contented himself with robbing him of all he had about him, and a large Spanish storeship passing him at dawn, hff went on board of her, and delivered up the Frenchman. " What did you take from him besides his pui-se f" cried Amabel. "Nothing of any consequence. His papers I threw over- board. I kept a large sharp knife. He was a handsome young man, with a small dog." "And the knife ? — was it marked F. G. ? What became of it?" said Amabel, forgetting entirely the priest to whom she should have acted as interpreter. " I sold it at Cabrera after I was pressed to a young Corsi- can soldier." Thus strangely Amabel learned, ten years after the event, the history of the tragedy of her early lover. She remembered that Amabel; a family history. 443 CoL Ferdinand had mentioned having put to death one of two Corsicans, who had pursued him at Cahrera into the craggy hills, and doubted not that Felix had fallen a victim to the ven- detta, that CoTsican custom which avenges the blood of the murdered, by that of a relation of the murderer. She had years ago acquitted her husband, in her heart, of all knowledge of the fate of poor Felix, but it was a satisfac- tion to her mind, to know, at last, how the sad tragedy had happened. The poor fellow by whose confession she thus strangely learned tbe truth, died shortly after receiving absolution. When all was over, and the corpse was decently composed upon its bed of heather, she went back to her husband, and sat down by his side. A few moments after came a loud alai'um from without. " Open the door, some of you,'' cried a jolly English voice. " Open the doOr." " It is one of the Englishmen who own the place," said the priest, raising his head from his Breviary. " You had better not come in, gentlemen," said Amabel, going to the window, which was her post of observation. " Who are you ? Who are you ?" she cried, as she caught sight of the faces of two men before the door. " We are relations of Madame la Proprietaire, who has mar- ried an Englishman, and are her agents on this property." " But your jiames, gentlemen ! Your names !" she cried. " Say quickly." " This gentleman's name is Dr. Glascock. Mine, at your service, is Sibbes." " Uncle Sibbes ! Doctor Glascock ! , Is this fairy land 2" she cried. " I am Amabel ! Mrs. Warner ! Do neither of you know me ?" " By Jove ! I hardly should," exclaimied her uncle. " Open the door. Belle. Let's have a full view." Doctor Glascock took her hand in his with the pressure of a vice, and trembled all over as he did so. Her Uncle Sibbes kissed her, saying that contagion was a humbug. And so indeed it proved. 444 Amabel; a rAMiLrniSTORr. They were on the lands of tte old Karnacs ; not above half a mile from the chateau of the Viscount, her father. Ferdinand Guiscardj who had visited Malta, and knew all her friends, had, on his death-bed, made a will bequeathing this property to Dr. Glascock and to Mr. Sibbes, to have and to hold in trust for the sole benefit of Amabel. The news of this bequest arrived as they were setting ofi' for England. They had taken Brittany in their way through France, and were engaged in putting the property_ in order before going in search of the legatee. They insisted on Amabel's going directly to bed in a neigh- boring* cottage. In vain she protested that she wished to watch beside her husband. They said she had too long been independent, and must now learn to obey. They promised, when the captain woke, to move him, too, into the cottage. She threw herself upon the bed of the peasants who owned the little hut, and fell asleep immediately. When she woke the next morning, after many hours' sleep, persons were talking in English in the kitchen. They were apparently at breakfast. She started up, shocked at her long repose ; but nature had been exhausted after her nights and days of watching. As she opened the door of her sleeping room, the first person upon whom her eyes fell was Theodosius Ord. " Where is my husband ?" was the first question she asked him. " Safe' in the GwrSs house, and very glad just now to hear that you were sleeping. I have been sitting with him since I arrived." " But where do you come from ?" " My little brig was sent off in pursuit of the Alcastor ; and, by the way, both Ned and John are here. I sent ashore for volunteers, and they came with me by special permission of the Admiral. I am going to send off 'a messenger to the Admi- ralty in about an hour. He is to take the MalU Paste at Brest, and get over to Portsmouth by way of Havre. If you have anything for him to take you had better get it ready." AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTOBT. 445 CHAPTER V. Wlien seven long years had comit and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead* When scarce was rememberit Kilmeny's name, Late— late in ane gloa^un^Kilmeny cam hame. Hoaa. Bonny Kilmeni/, A BREAKFAST cloth is Spread in the small parlor of a lodgihg- liouse at Portsmouth. It is nine o'clock — that most cony.enient of all hours for the first greeting of a family, and the first gathering for the day. Katie Warner is standing by the table, examining the columns of the morning paper with a sicken- ing heart, and with a trembling hand. In a chair beside her sits Horace Vane ; upon his upturned face is an^expression of intense anxiety, though he is speaking words of hope — proving, as he has already proved a hundred times before to all who heard him, that the Alcastor must be safe, without a doubt, and all be well on board. Not that in his secret heart he believes what he is saying, any more than do those many friends who come daily to the house, and speak about the chance of Captain Warner's safety to his daughter. When the pity of the com- munity is excited on behalf of persons over whose heads some terrible calamity is impending, the sufierer is always approached with words of hope, never, or rarely, with those of prepa- ration. Every kind of impossible conjecture was ventured as to the fate of those on board the Alcastor ; every rumor that could be dressed into a hopeful sign was treated as encouragement. And, though there were moments when Kate and Horace could only clasp each other's hands, and mingle their tears together, in general they assisted the delusions of their comforters, partly because it is so hard to crush the life out of a hope, and partly because Annie Talbot, who had been taken home by them, ou the first news of Amabel's departure, was so cast down and dispirited, that they were glad to resort to any expedients to give her a good heart, if only for a time. 446 Amabel; a family histoby. She entered the room, pale and unrefreshed by her rest during the night, and held out' her hand nervously for the newspaper. " There's nothing in it, dear," said Katie Warner. " The good news was not to be expected so soQUy you know.'' Nevertheless Annie seized the paper with an eager hand, and as she studied its close columns with an anxious face. Miss Taylor came in to the breakfast parlor. " Cheer up, my dears," said she, " Theodosius has gone after them. I am sure we have every confidence that Theodosius will do all that man can do to save them. They may have been dismasted, — may be lying-to at sea to put new masts into the ship ; and you know if they cannot rig new masts they won't be able to get home very rapidly. A ship can't get along at the rate of many knots an hour without sails. Keep up your hearts, my dears." " Oh ! but they may be all dead," sighed Annie. " I heard Mr. Ord once read the Ancient Mariner ; and I saw them before me just like that in a dreadful dream last night — the corpses swollen, with their eyes open." "Don't you beheve it, my dear. I'll be bound they are all well by now," said Miss Taylor. She was the only person in the group who really believed her own assertions. , She clung tenaciously to her hope, which by no means resembled an anchor, but might rather be typified by a ship's wheel, which had as many spokes as there wei-e points in the compass to lay hold of. ''Let us pray," said Katie Warner, standing by the table with the book of prayer. There was no direct allusion niade in the course of that home- service to the subject that engrossed them ; but whenever any- thing was said about that confidence in the love and mercy of God " which hath great recompense of reward," - Katie's voice became more fervent, and Horace's heart beat in response to hers. They had risen from their knees, and drawn around the table, when there was a loud ringing at the door-bell ; and the servant girl coming in, stated that a man outside wanted to see Amabel; a family history, 447 one of the ladies. Miss Taylor vyent out, and, in a moment after, rushed back into the breakfast-room, holding out a letter to Katie, and throwing herself half-frantic upon Annie's neck with tears and kisses. " Is it over ? Is it the worst ?" cried Horace and Katie in one breath. " God comfort us ! Oh ! Annie dear— poor little Annie !" " It isn't that at all i — it isn't that ! They are safe !— safe ! — safe !" cried Miss Taylor, performing an awkward kind of war-dance round the table. " Safe ! safe !" cried they. " Safe — safe ! May God be praised ! How is it ? Where are they ?" " You don't suppose I asked ?" cried out Miss Taylor,, as soon as she could be brought to hear. " He said safe. That was enough. I did not ask the fellow who he was. I took the letter." Katie was standing reading it, with her lips parted and her face in a glow. " Oh ! it is all too full — too full of every kind of happiness !" she exclaimed, lajring it down. And, throwing herself upon a chair, she burst into' tears. By this time the good news had spread, and the servants came running up to see how they bore it. Friends too, hoping to be the first with their glad tidings, were pouring in messages at the door. Katie, again snatching lip her letter, and pressing it with kisses to her lips, proposed to read it to the household. « " My dearest Katie : " Your dear father is alive, and in a fair way of recovery. He sends you his love, and desires me to tell you that we hope in a few days to be with you. We have been wrecked ofi" the coast of Brittany, where all sorts of wonderful adventures have befallen us, which I cannot now particularize. Your dear father saved me in his arms — and Katie, my dear child, I am the happwit of the happy ! " Your affectionate Mother, "Ajuabel Warner. •448 Amabel; a family history. " P.S. — Since writing the above, your dear father has waked up, refreshed and like himself again. He wishes you to get the Cedars in good order, and to be there, all of you, to receive us. In less than three weeks we shall be at home ! Please to communicate this letter to dear Annie. Theodosius returns almost immediately to England. You will see him in a few days." " Amabel Warner !" cried Katie, repeating the name over and over, " Amabel Warner ! How well it sounds ! She has signed it boldly in large letters. Theodosius will be so glad of this. Horace, in a few days we shall have him home !" When Theodosius did arrive, he brought all manner of good news with him. Captain Warner was recovering — so were all the survivors of the wreck of the Alcastor. ■ Amabel, notwith- standing her anxiety and watching, was in perfect health and brilliant spirits. They were to come home by way of Paris, where, to use the Captain's phrase, she was to be fitted out with all manner of new rigging, Probably she was well aware, by this time, that a handsome toilette^ lively persiflage^ and a gay manner, were more suited . to her husband's taste than pensive brooding ovpr past grief or present joy. "So little Miss Warner has come down here," said the wife of Dr. R to her husband, the rector of the parish in which the Cedars stands. " I hear the captain has taken back his wife, and is going to bring her home again. What had I better do about calling ? It will be very awkward, my dear." Dr. R having no answer at hand, and being unable to gainsay the fact that there was something very awkward in Mrs. Warner's return, continued, without lifting his eyes, to, pore over a large folio which he had taken down from one of the shelves of his library. " I was thinking, dear," continued Mrs. R , who was over- come with curiosity to know what manner of things had been in preparation for a week past at the Cedars, " that perhaps it would be best if I were to call upon Miss Warner before they Amabel; a family histoby. 449 come. I pity her with all my heart, poor thing ! And I think the Captain is Well, I knew her poor mother, and should like to give her my advice. She shall always find me her friend." Xhe doctor having started no objection to this call, Mrs. E took the first step in the exercise of her benevolent inte- rest in Katie Warner, and set out for the Cedars towards the middle of the day. All was bustle and preparation in the grounds, where gar- deners and laborers were raking, mowing, clipping, rolling, and bringing everything into trimness and repair. Mrs. R was shown into the library, where she sat in the arm chair of her late friend, Mi's. Warner, calculating whether it had been good economy to cut up the old Turkey carpet in the dining-room, to fit the library. Presently the door opened, and Katie came in tripping and smiling, with her hand held out, and many apologies to Mrs. R for her appearance, but she was " really so busy. Papa and mamma were expected so soon." "Has your father entirely got well, my dear?" "said Mr.o. R , quite stiffly, avoiding any recognition of the existence of a step-mother. "Mamma writes word he is getting up his strength," said Katie. " Is not the whole thing like a miracle, Mrs. R ?" At this moment Theodosius, not aware that company was in the house, called to Katie from the garden. She rose and spoke to him through the window tor a moment, then turnmg to Mrs. R , said, "You are a great horticulturist — will you give us some hints about forming a rose garden ? I want roses of all kinds near the house, especially the old-fashioned, fra-, grant, Provence roses, mamma is so very fond of them." " You must haye a good memory," said Mrs. R . " You were but a little girl when — when she was here before." " Oh !" said Katie, with a look of surprise, " I have lived with her and known her since then, Mrs. R . We were toge- ther at Brighton and at Sandrock, all the year before last, you know." " Were you, indeed !" said Mrs. R . " Really ! How very strange, my dear ! I did not know . . . . " 450 Amabel; a family histort. Before this sentence was finislied, Miss Taylor bustled in, inter- rupting Mrs. R . " Mrs. R , Aunt Taylor," said Katie, secretly ashamed of the crooked wig, the tunabled cap, the venerable pair of* ex- white gloves, and, the rusty, black stuff apron. " Happy, ma'am, to see you," said Miss Taylor, rolling up in her queer way, and shaking hands. "Excuse my working dress, but I was just moving the furniture in Mrs. Warner's room. Kitty, my dear, you understand exactly what will suit your mamma. And about that picture with the yew trees which you and Theodosius Ord have brought with you, my dear, where is it to be hung ? Go up, and see what is going on, while I sit here awhile and rest, and talk to Mrs. R ." A week later, on a Thursday evening in the twilight, Theo- dosius Ord and Katie aria walking down the avenue. They have given their last look at every room, the last touches to the vases of cut flowers, their iast glance at the dining-table, set out with an unusual display of plate. They have entreated Annie Talbot not to suffer Miss Taylor to disarrange their pre- parations, and, though it is some time before the carriage is expected, they have gone out arm in arm to wait at the park gates, and be the first to give them welcome. Theodosius has been kept in such an excitement of prepara- tion, nailing carpets, hoeing flower beds, putting up window curtains — lending a hand; in fact, wherever a supernumerary could be employed, that he has not had time to think of senti- ment—not retrospective sentiment at least ; and Katie has looked up to him in everything. Miss Taylor's judgment was not to be relied on, and somehow Horace's opinion was of no importance when brought into competition with that of Cousin Do. Her httle hand is lying now upon my father's arm. He has put his hand over it, and holds it there. Her eyes are down- cast. Her face is shy and pensive. She is listening with a painful interest to what he says to her. She half feels as if she ought not to hear such a story froni his lips. Yet she has confidence. He could not tell her what she ought not to hear. Amabel; a family history. 451 He is speaking about Amabel ; — tKe sorrows of her married life-— the causes of the separation. And Katie pities all by tiims. How can she blame her father ? How can she blame the friend and mother she respects and loves ? There is a little embarrassment about her manner ; for she has two suspicions. She is beginning to guess the state of her own heart. She is frightened at a feeling she detects there. And Theodosius! — can he have Zoned her mother ? Is love never got over ? — never transferred ? . ' As she is so thinking, the small hand on his sleeve begins to shrink, but he holds it all the tighter, looking with a smile into her eyes. They sit down by the gate, on the dry turf under a tall cedar. And still he smiles and looks under the bonnet which she tries to turn away. He begins to speak of Amabel at length as his first love. The little hand drops from his side. He is telling her all that I have written in the third part of this narrative, and Katie, trembling and tearful when he first began, gains courage to insinuate her sympathy, ventures to lay her hand again on his. There is nothing she can say, or that she ought to say. He takes the little hand. " You are sorry for me, Cousin Kate ?" " So sorry." " It was a dark time, Katie, in my life." " Very dark. Only — may I say what I think — dear Cousin Do ? Ought you not ?" * Ought I not what 1 Speak frankly, Cousin Kate. Don't be afraid to give me your advice. Go on." " To conquer such an attachment. It will be vefy hard, I know, at first. But strength comes with the trying. If you were to try, dear cousin — to try bravely, I know— that is, I am sure " She wanted to conceal that she herself had had experience in such a trial, and in the endeavor to express her thought with- out self-compromise, her speech "became confused, and her words failed her. " Ah ! Cousin Kate," said he, "my lips have poured into your ear this early grief, because no true man making a venture foi 452 Amabel; a family history. the woman that he loveS, will put to sea under false colors. It is two years and a half since then. I have been thrown con- tinually with you, dear Kate. For two years past I have been learning, sweet, to love you. We may be the happiest set of people in the world this night, and I the happiest man amongst us all, if Cousin Katie whispers what I want to hear her say to me." " What is it that you want ? I cannot tell." But she did not shrink away from his caress, and her blushes did tell that she understood his meaning. The grating of carriage wheels startled them both, and at the same moment began the village chimes. "There is the gleaners' bell," cried Katie, as they both flew to the gate, " I forgot one thing. I should have liked the bells to ring their welcome. I remember when papa was mar- ried, he did not like it that no bells were rung. This seems a sort of second wedding-day. I should have liked, to have them ring." " It is eight o'clock, my love. The gleaners' curfew rang two hours ago," said my father, glancing hurriedly at his watch. " Some one, dearest, has anticipated your wish. They are ringing a peal." At this moment the carriage turned into the gate and stopped. "Welcome — welcome home, dear mother — dear father 1" cried Katie. Theodosius opened the carriage door. In another moment Katie was inside. Captain Warner was still very weakj and wasted almost to a shadow ; " But, oh ! mamma, how young and well you look !" was her first exclamation. Amabel laughed, and shook her head ; and said she sup- posed that Katie meant to compliment her Paris bonnet — but the glance she threw her husband, plainly showed that the secret of her good looks was a heart satisfied. " Shut the door, Ord, and get upon the box. We will take you both home in the carriage." But Katie caught a glance fi-om Theodosius, and said, timid- ly, she believed that they had better not drive. I wonder which loving pair was happiest that night, my father and my Amabel; a fa mil* history. 463 mother walking by moonlight to the house, or my grandfather and grandmother in the carriage 1 Everybody connected with the place was at his or her post, ready to receive Captain Warner and his lady. My father had 'Wisely thought it good policy to infuse as much pride, pomp, and circumstance as possible into the reception. Amabel's color was very high, and She trembled excessively as she got out of the carriage. Miss Taylor, Horace, and Annie were on the stepis to receive her. " Come in, my dear — come in," said the former, giving her a hearty kiss, and attempting to drag her by force into the hall. But Amabel disengaged herself, and going back to the carriage helped her husband to alight. With one hand he took her arm — in the other he held a stout stick to support himself. He required some assistance to get up the steps of the hall door. But he was just as hearty as ever — gave the kindest welcome to Annie Talbot, and said more guests were coming the next day— Mr. Sibbes and Dr. Grlascock, Ned Talbot and John. Everybody who went into the dining-room when dinner was announced, felt as if walking in a sort of triumphal procession, escorting her to the head of her own table, her husband lean- ing on her arm. CHAPTEK VI. fiide your time ; one false step taken Perils all you yet have done , Undismayed, erect, unshaken, Wait and watch, and all is won. 'Tis not by a rash endeavor Men or states to greatness climb- Would yon win your rights for ever Calm and thoug^htful bide your time. What now remains for me to write ? Shall I take an abrupt leave of her sitting at the head of her own table ? Am I to give her friends to understand that every diflS-culty was sur- 454 amabel;a family iiistory. mounted — that lier warfare was accomplished — ;that she had entered into rest — that nothing remained for her but to enjoy ? Reader, would you believe me if I said so ? Was it ever so in life with yours or with you ? She found herself respected in her husband's house^once more protected by his name, bi^ this was only to place her again on the right track ; the dangers of her journey were beyond. In the first place, now that she had learned to smile or to tremble in sympathy with Captain Warner, she could not be quite happy till her social standing was restored. At first the captain was too much engrossed with the novelty of his charac- ter as an invalid — with being once more in his old home, with improvements to be made, and his family around him, to pay much attention to the names in his wife's card basket, or to the state of the household's foreign relations. But Amabel well knew that the time must come, when her position in society would react upon her at home. She would so gladly have led a retired life ; — would so thankfully have lived beyond the echoes of the rumors afloat about her, but my grandfather had a taste for social life — and laid, as she well knew, an undue stress on the opinions of society. She used to lie awake at nights troubled by these reflections. But as she pondered on these thoughts she heard a voice from Heaven. It came to her in church in one of the evening lessons — " Gird up the loins of your mind — be sober — and hope to the end." It was not the first time these words had strength- ened and refreshed her. They showed her her true position. Think not of rest ; — tlioug-h dreams be sweet, Start up and ply your heavenward feet. And, like the weary traveller in Alpine lands, who sees blue distant hills, without apparent path or possibility of path across their height, swell from the valley ; yet journeying onward, finds insensibly that he has reached their top through dells, and breaks, and gorges; so Amabel found many an apparent difli- culty remove out of her path as she approached it boldly. The very day after that Sunday, as she was driving with her AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORY. 455 husbcand in a low pony chaise, they met a certain Mrs. G , who had one of the best houses in the village. The many doubts and difficulties that were agitating the mind of his wife had never yet presented themselves to Captain Warner. Public opinion in the little circle out of which he had not emerged since his late sickness, idolized and extolled her. He pulled up his ponies, and saluted Mrs. G with his usual friendly cor- diality. " How are you, Mrs. G ? Glad to see you, Mrs. G . Upon my word I find you looking younger than you did when I last saw you. By the way, when are you coming up to call upon my wife ? Tell your husband I want to see him at the Cedars. When you come., come up so as to have some lunch with us. We want something more from you than a mere fashionable call." This unconscious sort of taking it for granted that the society about the Cedars_did not mean to slight his wife, did much to make her visited. Every day he grew more proud of her. He was fond of tell- ing anecdotes of her, and quoted " my wife, sir," pretty fre- quently. His afiection and admiration for her were so genuine and spontaneous that they failed not to react on other minds. One by one the ladies of the neighborhood left cards upon her, heartily hoping, no doubt, that they should be out when the visit was returned. That was not generally the case. My grandmother and Katie returned all calls, together, and the matrons who came nervously into their drawing-rooms to receive Mrs. and Miss Warner, were won by my grandmother's calm, self- possessed deportment, and withal by a certain acknowledgment of manner, that, she was grateful her claim to their acquaintance had not been disallowed. But what acted in her favor most, was the cordial affection evinced for her in every look and tone by her step-daughter. For many years she continued quietly to win her way into the houses of the rich and the hearts of the poor. She was living down the stories once lyidely in circulation. She was giving persons something better to talk of when they heard her name than stale evil report. . There were certain things she 456 Amabel; a family history. never could be persuaded to do, however. One was, to make her appearance at- the public balls. Early in 1832, when my grandfather had that brief appoint- ment to a line-of-battle ship, which he lost after the passage of the Reform Bill, the cholera appeared upon our shores. The principal families in C fled away at its approach. The town authorities seemed paralysed. The wise men and the councillors, on whom they were accustomed to rely, had listened to the entreaties of their families, and consulted their own safety. The medical practitioners still stood their ground, but were worn down by labor. Everything seemed at a dead lock in the city. Sanitary precautions, then so little understood, were almost entirely neglected. The enemy was upon us, and nothing had been done. At this juncture my grandmother ordered her low pony chaise, and drove alone into the panic-stricken city. On her arrival, she proceeded to the house of the mayor, whom she found in consultation with a physician and some of the principal trades- men. They were amazed when my grandmother walked into the midst of them. I believe she made them a kind of little speech, saying, " Gentlemen, this affair concerns us all. I do not live in your town, but am in many ways connected with it. In the name of humanity it behoves us to succor those -who cannot help themselves. If we falter in our duty at this crisis, our own lives may pay the penalty; the pestilence. is already knocking at our doors." It was something of this sort that she said, and it made a great impression. She then presented all her balance at the bank, and with it — in her husband's name — ^headed a sub- scription for cleansing and whitewashing the houses of the poor, and distributing proper clothing. Whilst the timid were set to work at a safe distance from infection, to prepare gar- ments and necessaries for those who could not afford to pay for them, she animated many a sinking heart by her fearless visits to the worst districts of the town, to which she went in com- pany with the landlords of houses, and sanitary commissioners, whom the board at length appointed to have whitewashing done, and to examine into drainage. "While these gentlemen amabbl; a family histort. 467 noted, estimated, and issued orders, she talked to the families, promised supplies of comforts and of clothing, strengthened the weat-hearted, and induced the strong to put forth all their strength in the emergency. The sight of a lady amongst them did more towards establishing confidence than anything else ■whatever would have done, and the cholera passed lightly over even the most squalid districts of our city. A few months after my grandfather came home, and stood for the borough in the next general election. He laughingly informed his wife that he should not expect her to meddle in his canvas. Yet when election matters were discussed before her, it proved that the acquaintance she had made with all sorts and conditions of men during the cholera, gave her a knowledge, not possessed by any of the Blue committee, of a large. class of voters. " If Mrs. Warner would see some of these men !" suggested several gentlemen. Mrs. Warner had one or two talks on the subject with her husband, and at length, armed with a simple declaration of his principles, which were moderate, and with the strongest assur- ances that if elected he would advocate the interests of the town, and protect the trade in oysters, she drove over to C , and went to call on several of the principal radical and doubt- fiil voters. She brought home two promises to vote, and many of non- opposition. The poll was pretty closely contested. The influ- ence of the respect felt for her heroism during the pestilence alone carried the captain into the House of Commons. Everybody knew she was anxious about the election, though after she had made her one day's round of calls, she took no part in the canvassing. Several young farmers station- ed th(emselves along the road, determined, when the result of the poll should be announced, to bring her the first news of her husband's election. The new M.P. left C the moment he h^d made his speech, returning humble and hearty thanks to his friends and electors. Accompanied by a chosen band of his committee and his firiends all wearing his colors — ^blue ribbon and oak leaves — he threw himself on horseback and gallopped to his home. No 20 458 AMABEL; A FAMILY HISTOilY. sooner had he passed the bounds of the parish in which the Cedars stands — fully expecting he would be the first to announce his own success — than the bells began ringing in the village. At the park gates of his home, he was met and cheered by an exulting crowd, " God bless you, Captain," said many an honest voice. " God bless you and your lady !" Amabel came out to the hall door to meet the party, dressed in blue, with beautiful blue feathers and oak leaves in her hair. She almost always wore either grey or black, and her husband was delighted by the unexpected attention. " My wife invites you all to supper, gentlemen," he said, getting oflf his horse, putting his arm round her in presence of them all, and kissing her. " You must come in and drink her health. She is our best electioneerer." Captain Warner, M.P., was requested to be steward of the balls the following year, when for the first time, Amabel, secure of her position in the county, made her appearance at the assembly, with a large and brilliant suite she had invited to accompany her. She received most marked attention all that night.' This first ball to which she went was a sort of little triumph, and it made Captain Warner extremely happy. On that occasion also she wore blue, with oak leaves on her dress and in her hair. " Were you thinking," whispered my father, who was present, " that in France the combination of blue and green is called prejuge vaincu ?" The coachmen who drove the London line, no longer, when they pointed out the Cedars fi-om their box, told, as they had been used to tell, of stories to her disadvantage. Or if they alluded to the- reports once in circulation^(and Amabel had no right to expect such remembrances would altogether die away) — their mention of such tales was brief. They enlarged on her heroism during the cholera, on the affection and esteem in which she was held everywhere, or told romantic stories about the wreck of^ the Alcastor. Mrs. Buck, the housekeeper, had long since been removed from the Cedars. After the death of Mrs. Warner she married, and became the landlady of a small post-house in a neighboring village. There, rumors daily reached her, of the popularity of AiMABEL; A FAMILY HISTORV. 459 the new mistress of the Cedars. In-vain Mrs. Buck maintained that the good repute in which she was now held was only ano- ther sign of the degeneracy of those who praised her. Having moved into a rival village, in a rival county, she had no longer any influence upon the little place whose public opinion she had once swayed. When Parliament opened, my grandfather and gi'andmother took a small house well situated in town, and began to give din- ners. My grandfather was liked in Parliament, and his wife had quite a success in London society. Not in the fashionable saloons of Pimlico perhaps ; but members of Parliament and their wives, eminent lawyers, literary men and women, fre- quenters of the Athenaeum and the Traveller's, army and navy club men and their families, composed the pleasant circle of which she was the centre. Her conversation was particularly sought by men of sense. The same power of sympathetic appreciation which had captivated my father in his youth, charmed and fascinated men of renown. She might have had political influence had she desired it, but nothing was further from her thoughts. Her intercourse with society formed a plea- sant feature in her life, but her heart was in the vie interieure. One day after the Blues got back to the Treasury bench, she was conversing with the Chancellor. He told her that the minis- try felt itself indebted for her husband's seat to her influence in the borough ; and asked her, with a smile, if she had no personal request to make in favor of any friend. My grandmother hesi- tated. Her first thought was of my father, but he and Ned and John were in a fair way of promotion ; — with a blush and a smile she asked for a better living than that of S-r , for her old friend the Vicar. Horace Vane went to Oxford, accompanied by his hard read- ing tutor. Notwithstanding the disadvantages under which he worked, he made pretty sure of taking honors. My grand- mother had lirged him to come down to the Cedars, and spend the vacation that was to precede the examination for his degree. He declined her invitation, preferring to stay and read with his tutor in college. One night in August, she received an express written hur- 460 Amabel; a family history, riedly by the tutor, urging her to come at once to Mr. Yane. She and my father, who was at the Cedars at the time, set off immediately. On reaching Oxford, they went at once to Horace's silent and deserted college. His rooms looked on the waving lime trees in the grand old grounds, and com- manded a graceful sweep of the Isis, winding by college gar- dens and their learned piles. A soft breeze swept through the open casement of the room in which they found him. He had had his own bedstead moved into his sitting-room, and lay sur- rounded by books on every side. He was dying of rapid con- sumption^ developed, probably, by over work, and aggravated by want of prompt attention. He was too feeble to converse much, yet as Amabel sat by his side during that iiight and the next day, a thousand signs of affection were exchanged between them. They spoke much of the happy meeting yet reserved for them in that world where all is light. Once only he alluded to the grief which had settled down upon his darkened life, and doubtless both directly and indirectly brought him to his end. She had reproached him gently for that too great eagerness for college success^ which had led him to exert him- self beyond his strength. " It was not that — it was not that," he said, a sudden spasm shooting across his face, as he took and pressed her hand, "but I felt the necessity of work. Something here," he added, laying his right hand on his heart, " seemed ever urging me on." IJie second night he seemed quite free from pain. My grandmother sat up with him till midnight, and with her good night kiss upon his lips he fell asleep as soon as she had left him. About three o'clock in the morning she was called. My father, who had been watching with Horace, had suddenly discovered that sleep had changed to death. When, how, he never knew. He died without a movement — without any change of smile. He left Amabel the Hill Farm, which she has let to Col. Airey. My father and mother went for some years to the Mediterra- nean after their quiet wedding. During the period of their engagement, they kept so much together, and my grandfather and grandmother newly reunited, were so all-sufficient to each other, that Miss Taylor, Dr. Glascock, and Annie Taibot were Amabel; a famiit HiSTORr. 461 left to amuse themselves. The old man took a great fancy to the latter. Cynic as he was, he always wanted some young girl to whom he might attach himself. By and by, for he never could do anything straightforward, he succeeded in alarming Miss Taylor on the subject of her health — she was always pre- disposed to hypochondria — and after persuading her to try the air of Malta, it was an easy t&sk to induce her to take Annie. They occupied rooms in his house in Floriana, went with him in- summer to Eamalah, and Annie was the Amabel of former days. After a year or two, to the Doctor's gxeat annoyance and regret, Annie married a Lieut. Col. Ai^. The match has proved a very liappy one. The Doctor is living at present at the Hill Farm with the Aireys. They have three pretty daughters, and Thomasine, the second one, "fe his acknowledged heir. He will be upwards of a hun- dred if he lives to see the marriage of this pet ; but she comes less often than her sisters to the Cedars, he being very particu- lar she should visit there, only' in the absence of her boy- cousins. Amabels abound in the new generation ; and as my grand- father and grandmother prefer keeping for their own sole use Belle, Bella, Amabel, and Leonard, we have been much puzzled to invent other abbreviations for the favorite name. , My mother would not call me Amabel, much as I know she wished it in her heart, thinking it a proper compliment to the memory of her own mother to give her name to her eldest child. My. story has described a circle. In the Introduction I told of my first arrival at the Cedars, the happy group of children who hung around my grandfather, and the reverential affection we all bore to grandmamma. Four younger AiBiabels grew up under the shade of our old Cedars. Ella Ord, Mab Warner, Mabel Airey, and Amabel Bevis, to whom, on accoimt of her quarrelsome disposition, the boys assigned the name of Bellona. I always thought it was rather a piece of impertinence on the part of Mrs. Bevis so to 462 Amabel; a bamilt history. name her daughter. Our grandmother, herself, did not regard it ia that light, but readily accepted the trust of bringing up Olivia's two children who were sent home to her from India. Under her management they turned out well', especially Bellona. As I sat beside my grandmother in church, last Sunday, thiaking more than I ought to have been thinking at such a time, of the things that are written in this book, I was struck with the look of motherly pride with which, from time to time, she glanced up at the son who was with her in the pew — her handsome young, collegian. He is taller than his father, with a sunny open brow ; just the fellow to deserve and to secure a mother's strongest interest and affection. But I noticed that while her eyes were fixed on Leo, they suddenly filled as they turned from his bright handsome face to a plain white marble slab, let into the church wall over the4>lace where she was sitting. ZRitttl to i\)t fd'ZVXBTS oJ LEONARD, Infant Son of Captain Leonabd Waiu7£b. R. N., and of Ajuabel, his wife ; WTio died, Wovember 27, 1817, In ihs Parish of SELBonRNB, Hanib; Aged one month and eighteen days. CHAPTER Vn. The mellowed reflex of a winter moon, A clear stream flowing' with a muddy one Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light Th^ vexed eddies of its wayward brother: A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had faU§n quite, With clustered flower bells and ambrosial orbs Of rich fruit bunches leaning on each other, Shadow forth thee. Tenntson. — Isabel, Mt pleasant task is over. I shall no longer, day by day, sit down to write this story. The last proof-sheet has been com- Amabel; a family histoky. 463 mitted to the post-offlce. I am feeling tlie reaction consequent upon the sudden cessation of exciting labor. •! am in a frenzy of energetic nervousness. I want to finish everything. A thousand of those things undone that ought to have been done, fthat ever accumulate around a woman of the pen, stare iny conscience in the face, and deniand my immediate attention. Meantime I am in a ^d reactionary mood, with the apprehen- sion weighing on my heart that my little book, which has cost me so much pains — ^has been so dear to me — has so many associations — and from time to time has feeen the pedestal of an airy figure ^ That Speranza hight, — clad in a blue robe leaning on an anchor, will not be pro- bably successful. What am I, that men amidst the shock and tumult of the terrible realities of life should pause and listen to my still small voice piping an obscure experience ? Who am I, that 'in the midst of the fashionable Regent street of life, gay women should spare time to buy my posies; for, though pretty when the dew was on their leaves at early dawn, the flowers that I offer have faded in the gathering ? I am sitting on the cushioned window-seat of the dining roopi. The room is lined with oak; the dark shade of the cedar tree, that grows beside the window, throws solemn sha- dows into the room. My grandmother comes up to me to comfort me, " What, Lily ! crying, dear ?" She has drawn me up into her morning room^ guessing, I doubt not, exactly how I feel, and begs that I will read aloud to her. I have taken up a handsomely bound book which Leo has brought home. It is a volume of Alfred Tennyson; a poet with whose writings the rising generation in this house is much more on every-day familiar terms than its elders. She draws out her embroide^ frame, and makes me sit beside her on her sofa. As I watch her, calm, silent, industrious, and self-possessed, it is difficult to connect her with the events of her own life. As difficult as is it to connect a granite rock with the idea of molten lava. 464 AMABEL; A F A 11 1 L T H I S T O R T . I avoid tlie " Lilians," the " Adelines," and " Claribels" of my book, well knowing that the affected language of those poems will be more likely to strike a matron of her age than the pictm-esque effect of their word-painting ; but I read her " Isabel," the poem from which the motto of this chapter has^ been taken — a poem I can never read* without associating it with her. Evidently she does not recognise the picture as her liklness. Nor does the poem greatly strik:e her. But as I read it, won- dering what effect it will produce, a thousand reflections crowd • into my mind. Has her married life been one of happiness ? So circled lives she in love's holy light, — I cannot doubt she has been happy. Her Christian love — the fountain of that lovingness that waters her whole life, has made all round her green, and fresh, and fertile with fresh growths of human tenderness and love. True that there may be — ^there must have been in her tastes, feelings, and interests unappre- ciated by her husband. She is to him what books of holy lore are to the neophite— a treasury of undeveloped beauties — a mine which grows more rich the deeper that you sink your shaft — a well that never fails in its supply. She loves Mm. Deeply, truly, reverentially. The affinities that unite them are not of the intellect,-.but of the heart. The sorrows of her early life — her long yearning for reunion — ;the dangers she has braved to bring him back from the dark bor- ders of the grave — her sense of the reparation that is due to him — her admiration for his frank, forgiving generosity, makes an equality between them that, perhaps, would not always have existed had these things never occurred. They are constantly together. In everything of one mind. She thoroughly under- stands his character — he appreciates without thoroughly under- standing the varied excellence of hers. She is to him, indeed, , The leaning and upbearing parasite Clothing the stem. His interests are hers. I never knew another instance in which Amabel; a family bistort. 465 in all that concerns the outward life, husband and wife seemed so completely to be one. And if she -walks apart from him sometimes in higher realms of thought, she brings back with her so many graceful fancies, pleasant truths, and practical suggestions to beautife the life they share together, that her husband only the more adores and acknowledges an excellence which gladdens and adorns the common things of life — giving her richly all things to enjoy, and the power of multiplying Heaven's gifts bestowed upon herself by sharing them with others. Finding that she did not enter, as I had hoped, into the spirit of " Isabel," I turned over the leaves of my book and read her "The Miller's Daughter." The touching, sweetness and simpli- city of that most lovely ballad seemed to produce on her a much greater impression. Her needle stayed suspended as I read — tears trembled, in her eyes. I was so interested in the poem and in watching its effect, that I did not observe I had another auditor. My grand- father had stolen in behind the sofa. " Bead that again, Lily,'' said he, " read that again." As I read the last verses over again, emphasizing them slowly, he came and sat down by his wife's side, and put his arm around her. ik' The kiss, The -woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort I have found in thee. But that God bless thee, dear — who WTOught Two spirits to one equal mind — With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find. He murmured these words slowly to himself, then dropped into my lap a foreign letter. " Let us hear how Captain Ned is getting on. Read it out, Lil," said he. " For shame — ^for shame," exclaimed my grandmother, smiling. " The letter is from you know who, my dear. How should you have hked to have your love-letters read out when you were young ?" 466 Amabel; a family history. " As to m^ love-letters, my dear," said my grandfather, with the tone of a man who dares to play 'with a grief that has long lost its sting, " we had been married seven years before you ever wrote me one. And as to being a young man — who says that I am not young ?" And young he was. Those happy, kindly, genial men who have taken in their early days the rough and tumble of a salt water life, often seem, as they advance in years, to grow younger instead of older. " Oh ! there is sueh good news," I cried. " Such good — good news in my letter. Papa and Ned are both on their way home." ■ " And what else does Captain Edward Talbot say ? What more does he intend to do when he comes home?" asked my gi'andfather, with a meaning look at me and at my grand- mother. "Nothing particular," I answered, with a blush. My grandfather was standing on the rug before tlie hearth, with the air of a man who in any room in his own house is chief authority, cutting a ball of his wife's worsted-with her scissors, and whistling " Come haste to the wedding," with his back to the fire. T H B END. iLihilliL !nli.,..l«l|.i,! lit Ijlli llll'i'ili, ,1,11 111 I I I ,, .!l. , . , ! .1.1 i'llfll