ANTONY, 
 
 THE DEAF AND DUMB BOY. 
 
 ' Patience, patience, child of toil and suffering. Time brings relief or rest. 
 Patience — believe and act ! Every man may rise above his calamity." 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 185L 
 
FEINTED BT HARRISOIT AND SON, 
 
 LONDON GAZETTK OITICE, ST. MAKTIN'S LANK 
 
 AND 
 
 OECHARD STREET, WESTMINSTER. 
 
9S-S- 
 
 A N T O N Y. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION TO EVERYBODY, AND LITTLE PEOPLE IN 
 PARTICULAR. 
 
 Follow me, gentle reader, follow me with 
 patience and kind forbearance, while, as in a moving 
 panorama, I place before you scenes and interests 
 which will be, I think, new to you. Let us now 
 begin a pleasant companionship along a path which, 
 1 trust, you will not find too long or too gloomy. If 
 you are a critic, I would request you to come un- 
 armed for our ramble through a garden where truth 
 and love are sown, or, if you must ever bear with 
 you the knife which is the symbol of your profes- 
 sion, be at least kind and compassionate in your use 
 of it there. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 ivi37460 
 
ANTOXY 
 
 If you are old, and contemplating with melan- 
 choly gaze the short and uneasy track of life still 
 stretching before you, give me, for awhile, your 
 attention ; for my tale may perhaps bring back to 
 your fading memory, in bright, refreshing colours, 
 some dear passages of your own childhood and 
 youth. 
 
 If you are young, bounding gaily and thought- 
 lessly forward to meet an unknown future, it may 
 ■ Iiot bfi /uiiint^reSsting to -you to watch how others 
 have, before 'you,^ -stepped over the threshold of youth 
 :ihfa.i:h4 -.ngi^y-wprld beyond, and what they have 
 there found. 
 
 If you are a child of sorrow, lay by your own 
 grief to sympathise in that of others, and find con- 
 solation in the hallowing influence of suffering. 
 
 If you are happy, the sorrows of my tale will give 
 seriousness but not gloom to your gladness, and its 
 joys will find an echo in your own spirit. 
 
 Whosoever and whatsoever and wheresoever you 
 are, follow me, kind readers, and on the wings of 
 fancy be transported with me to a valley in South 
 Wales, around which stand hills, grouped gracefully 
 together, lifting their sloping outlines into the quiet 
 air, some crowned with woods, some marked over 
 with the husbandman's varied chequers, while here 
 and there a precipitous mountain raises far above 
 them its barren and rugged form, lifting a bold front 
 to meet the clouds. Through the valley flows a 
 
ANTONY. 3 
 
 river, not wide, nor deep, but leaping and dashing 
 with iron-grey waters through the village. To this 
 little river we will give the name of the Erry, and 
 that of Ponterry to the village, as the real titles of 
 the places as well as of the persons introduced into 
 our tale must be suppressed, for reasons which it is 
 not now necessary to state. 
 
 Our tale, did I say ? let me rather call it our Life-, 
 poem. 
 
 You ask, ^^ Why a poem ?" 
 
 Do we not designate by that nkme an illustration 
 of what is beautiful and true, developed with power, 
 and, in all its parts, growing into a perfect whole ; 
 and may not a human life be the same ? 
 
 If then our narration will place before you the 
 particulars of the existence here below of a fellow 
 creature, unfolding, through the influence of time 
 and events, into a noble monument of the good and 
 the holy, then the name of a prose Life-poem may 
 not be unsuitable. 
 
 The afternoon sun of an April day glows over the 
 valley, and glistens on the young springing fohage 
 that is moist with recent showers. The tneadows 
 and the mountains are bathed in its light. Nature 
 is robing herself gaily. The blue ether of the sky, 
 and the green grass carpetting the earth, are brilliant. 
 The village lies there, like a child in the lap of its 
 mother catching and reflecting back her smiles. As 
 we gaze on the neat tiles and the yellow thatch of 
 
 b2 
 
4 ANTONY. 
 
 the cottages, shining in the sunlight, how many a 
 wondering thought springs up in our minds, specu- 
 lating on what life-romance may be going on beneath 
 each roof vonder ! what loves, what hates, what 
 jealousies, what smiles, what tears, may be flowing 
 from the hearts of the many dwellers there ! 
 
 Let us enter the narrow streets. How much that 
 we deemed beautiful from a distance loses its charm 
 as we approach, like a hopeful future darkening as 
 we near it I The pretty village reveals itself now to 
 us as a very dirty village. A few pigs and old 
 women appear here and there in the muddy streets 
 — children come out pf small cbttages to caress the 
 swine and lead them in to share their meals and 
 their dwelling, while the roomy pigsties remain 
 empty ; for it is a remarkable feature, characteristic 
 of Welsh pigs and Welsh old women and children that, 
 at home or abroad, they love to be in companion- 
 ship. Here stands the church, with the peculiar grey 
 square tower, which is found universally throughout 
 Wales, and as we pass the churchyard, dotted with 
 whitewashed grave-stones, and carefully-trimmed 
 flower-beds, we observe close to us a three-storied 
 house, painted as yellow as the daffbdils that nod 
 in the garden plot before its front door, looking out 
 with a considerate expression in its long eyes on 
 the lowlier buildings which surround it. Surely 
 that is the Parsonage. 
 
 Now we cross the bridge, from the arches of 
 
ANTONY. 
 
 which hang fringes of petrified water, and of green 
 graceful wreaths of the ivy that mantles its parapet. 
 Passing another cluster of cottages, and a farm and 
 well-filled rick-yard, we come to a picturesque 
 building in the Gothic style, apparently of recent 
 date. A neat garden surrounds it. A honeysuckle 
 climbs over the porch, scattering here and there 
 some of its first sweet blossoms, and stretching out 
 its long arms tipped with opening buds towards 
 the lattice window, on which they gently tap, as 
 the breeze stirs them, as if asking for admittance. 
 A low murmur is heard within, which we recognise 
 as the hum of cliildren's voices. We read the 
 superscription in English over the porch — 
 
 "Infant School — Established 18 — .^^ 
 
 We will not refuse to enter the walls, where the 
 freshness and beauty of childhood are to be found. 
 Let us then rest within here awhile. 
 
 At the top of the long school-room sits the young 
 teacher, Gladis Evans, with pallid countenance, an 
 a soft yet watchful expression in her eyes. The 
 elder girls, none older than eight years, are seated 
 on the upper steps at the further end of the apart- 
 ment, working with downward bent heads. The 
 elder boys, of the same age, are engaged opposite 
 them, with slates ; the very little ones are murmur- 
 ing over their spelling-books, and many are doing 
 nothing, but trying to be still, which is, after all, 
 
6 ANTONY. 
 
 the most difl&cult task that can be given to a child. 
 One lovely little girl, of five years old, stands with 
 her book on the knee of the schoolmistress, repeating 
 to her the sentence, — 
 
 " We must all love God/' 
 
 The child stops and looks thoughtfully up ; 
 "Please, ma'am, does God wear a blue coat or a 
 black one ?" 
 
 " Neither the one nor the other, my dear,'' is the 
 reply. " Go on, Rachel, spell the next sentence."! 
 
 But the child looks up again with an expression 
 of surprise and enquiry, saying, timidly, "Then does 
 he not wear a coat ?" 
 
 The teacher can with difficulty suppress a momen- 
 tary smile ; then with a grave expression she bends 
 forwards, softly draws the little one nearer to her, 
 strokes back the hair from her brow, and with 
 earnest voice begins to impart to the young mind an 
 idea of the Invisibility of that One who is every- 
 where present, and pervades all things, and yet who 
 at one time walked upon the earth in the form of 
 man, and wore the garb of poverty. 
 
ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN WHICH A VISITOR INTRODUCES HIMSELF. 
 
 Gladis Evans was here suddenly interrupted 
 by the falling of a shower of primroses over her 
 shoulders into her lap. Some fell on the head of 
 the little Rachel, and more caught in her curling 
 hair ; the child looked laughing up, fresh and glow- 
 ing as the blossoms — she and they were all alike — 
 early spring flowers. 
 
 A loud peal of laughter burst from the other 
 scholars at the same moment, together with shouts 
 of, '' The deaf and dumb young gentleman ! Master 
 Antony ! Master Antony ?' 
 
 Gladis hastily looked round for the one whose 
 hands had thus sweetly baptized her with April 
 blossoms, and she saw that a visitor had entered the 
 school. Indeed, the new comer had already stood 
 there some minutes, while she had been too atten- 
 
8 ANTONY. 
 
 tively engaged with Rachel to hear the sound of the 
 latch and opening door, or to notice the gestures 
 of her other pupils, who had watched the entrance 
 with suppressed smiles and whispers. 
 
 Catching the flowers in her apron as she quickly 
 rose, Gladis dropt a curtsy to Master Antony, and 
 oflfered him her seat; but, waving his hand in token 
 that she should remain undisturbed, he placed him- 
 self on a low wooden stool at the further end of the 
 apartment. 
 
 Antony Nayton, the deaf and dumb pupil of the 
 clergyman of Ponterry, or " Master Antony, ^^ as he 
 was called by the servants of the parsonage, and by 
 many of the people of the village, appeared about 
 fifteen years of age ; black hair hung over the pro- 
 jecting brow, from beneath which glanced dark and 
 penetrating eyes. His whole countenance wore a 
 wild expression, frequently clouded with melancholy. 
 Sometimes, however, a beautiful smile curled his 
 lips, lighting up the face with that brightness which 
 springs from the inmost soul ; then it would soon 
 die away, and despondency seem once more to over- 
 shadow him. Alas ! poor youth ! for him no voice 
 spoke words of love, — to his spirit no music breathed 
 its consolations. 
 
 He gazed with apparent delight at the group of 
 cheerful faces before him, and presently taking a 
 small drawing-book from his pocket, he began to 
 form rude sketches of the children, as they continued 
 
ANTONY. 
 
 their studies. The little Rachel more particularly 
 attracted his gaze, and long employed his pencil. 
 They were all evidently not surprised at his occu- 
 pation, for Master Antony was wont frequently to 
 visit the school, and thus spend an hour or two in 
 this silent amusement, undisturbed, and undisturbing. 
 The wild sketches he usually made, however, were 
 so incomprehensible to Gladis, and all who saw 
 them, that they did but strengthen the general 
 opinion that Master Antoriy was deficient in mental 
 power. 
 
 At length the hour of freedom for the little scholars 
 approached, and they rose spontaneously to join in 
 the hymn appointed to be sung before they dispersed. 
 Sweetly flowed upwards the chorus of these young 
 voices, while the Mute gazed earnestly at the parted 
 lips of the singers, till his own eyes overflowed with 
 tears. He pressed his hand upon his brows, as if 
 to restrain them, but they still gushed forth, — and 
 before the hymn was ended. Master Antony had 
 quitted the house. Now came the noise and bustle 
 of the breaking up of the school ; boys rushed to 
 seize their caps, tumbling over one another in their 
 haste, laughing and calling each other's names 
 loudly; girls grouped together less noisily, — elder 
 sisters reaching down to the younger ones the hats 
 and hoods, which they then carefully fastened on the 
 little upturned heads, and soon all were ready. Then 
 with the clamorous tread of so many thick and 
 
 b3 
 
10 ANTONY. 
 
 nailed shoes, boys and girls all ran from the room, 
 each stopping however as they passed the teacher, 
 to receive her last word of injunction or advice, and 
 give the quick bow or bob-curtsy, which was their 
 mark of respect, and acknowledgment of her autho- 
 rity over them. Then, when fairly outside the 
 schoolhouse, how joyfully did the young feet bound 
 along the pathway, towards the wicket-gate which 
 led into the road. Close beyond it, a narrow plank 
 was thrown across one of those fresh running streams 
 which form a small but very general characteristic 
 of Welsh scenery. This was a fresh source of amuse- 
 ment to the children. With shouts and cries of 
 enjoyment, the boys leaped over the brook, vying 
 with one another in the height and vigour of the 
 leap ; and their pleasure was increased two-fold, 
 when on looking up they saw their triumphs were 
 witnessed by Master Antony, who, leaning against 
 the garden-railings, watched their gambols with 
 smiling countenance. No trace of a tear was now 
 in his eyes ; they sparkled in sympathy with the 
 many glances that met them from the children, and 
 frequently he clapped his hands loudly, to encourage 
 their sport, which called forth a still louder shout 
 from the happy troop. 
 
 He was interested in observing the care with 
 which some, even of the most boisterous, would come 
 back to help their little brothers and sisters over 
 the plank. Presently the little Rachel caught his 
 
ANTONY. 11 
 
 attention. They were all gone on, and she was the 
 last. She approached the stream with hesitating 
 step, looking frightened into the bubbling water, and 
 almost trembling as she put her small foot upon the 
 narrow bridge. In a moment she felt kind arms 
 around her ; one bound, and she was transported to 
 the other side, and carefully set down on the turf by 
 Master Antony ; but he could not disengage her from 
 him, her little hands, entwined round his arm, still 
 clung to him, as if she would thus express to him 
 the thanks which she knew he could not hear. Her 
 simple face and large blue eyes were turned with a 
 grateful look towards him. He .was touched — he 
 caught her up and kissed the pretty round cheeks, he 
 put her down, then again raised her in his arms, and 
 looked lovingly into the young dimpled countenance, 
 whilst she smilingly played with his dark hair. It 
 seemed as if he longed to speak, to give utterance if 
 it were only to a single word. A low murmur pro- 
 ceeded from his parted lips — Rachel w^as frightened 
 — she struggled from him, and then fled away, and 
 was received into her mo therms open arms at the first 
 cottage door. 
 
 " Thus all fly from me, when they begin to know 
 me,^^ thought the Mute ; but the bitterness of expres- 
 sion with whicb he watched the little one's retreating 
 steps, passed soon away, and pleasant thoughts seemed 
 to follow. Surely the child must have awakened in 
 his mind some sweet or holy feeling, or recalled some 
 
12 ANTONY. 
 
 fair recollection ; for now the lips relax into a smile ; 
 his gaze is at vacancy, he is dwelling in the past. 
 
 Master Antony sat down on the turf bank op- 
 posite the gate, and, opening his sketch book, turned 
 to the drawing of Rachel, beneath which he wrote, 
 — " Sweet sister Kathleen V and sank again into an 
 apparently agreeable reverie. 
 
 While thus occupied, a little scene, which for us 
 may possess some interest, was passing very near 
 him. 
 
 The doors of the infant school had been closed 
 and locked, and Gladis Evans has retired to the back 
 part of the dwelling, where two or three comfortable 
 rooms were neatly arranged, and where she and her 
 mother dwelt. 
 
 From an open window the head of Gladis might 
 now and then have been seen looking out towards 
 the lane, as if in expectation of some arrival in that 
 direction. Sometimes appeared the neat cap of 
 Mrs. Evans, at the same window, as she stood 
 arranging the primroses in a jar, which she placed 
 where the soft air would breathe on them. Pre- 
 sently both mother and daughter emerged from the 
 porch, and sauntered along the garden path, talking 
 of the setting sun and the freshness of the evening 
 breeze, while their thoughts were in reality occupied 
 with other subjects ; for Gladis^ attention was still 
 directed towards the lane, and that of the mother 
 was concentrated on the small flower garden lying 
 
AXTONY. 13 
 
 around her. She was the personification of neat- 
 ness, and one of those tidy gardeners who love not 
 so much the presence of flowers as the absence of 
 weeds. 
 
 She was constantly stopping to train the young 
 rose branches aright, or lift a stone oif the neatly 
 dressed flower plot. And now the heart of Gladis 
 beat quicker and quicker, as quicker and quicker 
 came a footstep she well knew, along the lane. A 
 young labourer laid down his working implements at 
 the gate, entered the garden, and advanced towards 
 them with a hearty " Good evening" on his lips for 
 both. 
 
 "What! Howel Philips, is it you?'' said the 
 mother, in Welsh; "and how come you here so 
 early, for the sun is not down yet ; and surely your 
 work is not over ?" 
 
 Just now a shoot of bindweed caught her eye, 
 stealthily creeping round a gooseberry bush, and she 
 started ofi^ hastily to pluck it away, while Howel 
 Philips' eyes and thoughts were fixed on her 
 daughter, and Gladis stood silent and motionless 
 before him. " She was now no longer the pale 
 teacher we saw in the school; fresh' crimson roses 
 bloomed in her cheek, and a new fire gleamed from 
 beneath the lids of the downward bent eyes. 
 
 "It is a wicked little plant that," cried Mrs. 
 Evans, as she tore up the root of the delicate white 
 convolvulus; "how cunningly it winds itself round 
 
14 ANTONY. 
 
 and round the stem of the poor bush, looking too 
 gentle and fragile to harm it, yet clinging so tightly 
 I can scarce tear it away/^ 
 
 Ah ! little did she think that at that moment a 
 gentle and clinging thought was, like the plant, 
 entwining itself with firm grasp around her daughter's 
 heart, which it would be as cruel as difficult to tear 
 away. 
 
 Mrs. Evans now repeated her questioning, and 
 roused Huwel Philips' attention to herself. 
 
 '* I am not much earlier this evening than usual,'^ 
 he said, in his own language, which, for the edifi- 
 cation of our readers, shall be translated ; " but th6 
 sun is later, and I have run hither quickly from the 
 works that I might have a chat with you, and — and 
 with Gladis, before my companions come to the 
 farm-house. They will be up with me directly, and 
 then I must on with them without delay, for this is 
 pay night, and I expect, perhaps, a row among the 
 men." 
 
 *^What is the matter, then?" asked both the 
 women. 
 
 "The labourers working at the Bog Canal have 
 agreed to strike for higher wages. I know, however. 
 Farmer San ford, like all the Englishmen, is a stingy 
 fellow, and will not, I expect, add a penny to our 
 payment, though wages are higher all the country 
 round." 
 
 "They will do wrong, however, to leave the 
 
ANTONY. 15 
 
 works/' leturned Mrs. Evans ; "for no farmers will 
 employ at this season so many hands as Sanford 
 wants at that large bog to make the canal. Have 
 you tried to dissuade them, Philips? you are their 
 overseer, and should have influence with the men ?^* • 
 
 " I will take care there is no violence, which they 
 once threatened, but at their request I have agreed 
 to make the demand.^' 
 
 ^^ You were not wise to do that. Philips,^' said the 
 prudent Mrs. Evans. " Thirty men, once roused, 
 are difficult to be quieted again. Why not try to 
 keep them content with what they have ?'^ 
 
 " That was impossible ; that fellow Morgan is one 
 of them — his spirit is up, and he has excited them. 
 I too must take my stand with them, or I shall lose 
 all power of keeping order among them. So I will 
 state their grievance to old Sanford with some bold- 
 ness, for the demand is a just one, and I owe it to 
 them as well as to myself to represent to our em- 
 ployer our wants and our dues. He cannot expect 
 us to stay in his service for lower pay than we get 
 from other rich men in the county." 
 
 " But remember. Philips, if you lose this employ- 
 ment, you may not find another, and it will be hard 
 for you, and for your poor parents who are now so 
 infirm, if you are out of work,'' interposed Mrs. 
 Evans. 
 
 " I could get double the money at the coal mines, 
 or the ironworks at Swansea, any day," said the 
 
IG ANTONY. 
 
 young man ; " so I shall perhaps try my fortune 
 there/' 
 
 Now Swansea was at least thirty or forty miles off, 
 which appeared to Gladis a fearful distance, and the 
 idea of the coal mines filled her mind with terror. 
 
 She looked up quickly at Philips with an expres- 
 sion of alarm, saying, in a tone of regret, ^^ But that 
 will be so far away ! will you indeed go ?" 
 
 Her glance was all eloquent. Philips caught her 
 hand with an unusual eagerness : *^ No, sure and I 
 cannot leave Ponterry,'' he cried ; and though 
 nothing more was said, Gladis soon knew well enough 
 he would not wish to go far away from her. 
 
 The information was silently and rapidly carried 
 to her through the eye, that electric telegraph be- 
 tween kindred minds, by which so much intelligence 
 is conveyed. This was perhaps the first assurance 
 Howel had received that his stay or departure was a 
 matter of interest to her. 
 
 Meanwhile the good mother was blind and deaf to 
 anything that passed between the two young people, 
 and busied herself putting her white collar smooth, 
 and pinning her tippet straight. She was glad to 
 see Howel and liked him, as being an honest steady 
 young man, in whom she was interested, because she 
 had known him from a boy, and cared for his 
 parents; but that Howel had ventured to look on 
 her daughter with any thought of affection, or that 
 Gladis could stoop to return such a feeling, she 
 
ANTONY. 17 
 
 never imagined. She was conning over in her mind 
 something he had said, and presently remarked, 
 
 "So Morgan is among the discontented set, is he? 
 You will have some trouble with him. He is so 
 passionate and obstinate.'^ 
 
 " Ay, and insolent, too," interrupted Howel, " if 
 it be true_, as they say it is in the village, that he has 
 thought to make the first flower in Ponterry his 
 own;" and here he cast a searching glance at Gladis, 
 who again blushed crimson. 
 
 "Why, how heard you of that?" asked the 
 mother, inquisitively. 
 
 " All the village are talking of it. It is then true? 
 He had boasted he would have your pretty rose for 
 his wife, but we laid a bet he would not win her." 
 
 " Well, say nothing of it,^^ continued the matron, 
 mysteriously. "' It is true he gave my dear Gladis 
 some trouble and me some anxiety, for he is a violent 
 man, and too often in the ale-house. Now, I think, 
 we are rid of him, for he knows Gladis^ mind." 
 
 " I am glad of it, and he knows mine, too ; we are 
 no friends — he is jealous of my being his overseer, 
 and is always trying to quarrel. We shall all have a 
 hearty laugh at him for this matter. But who is 
 that leaning over the gate and overhearing our 
 chat?" 
 
 " One," said Gladis, " who is harmless and help- 
 less, and will tell no tales, for he can neither hear 
 nor speak." 
 
18 ANTONY. 
 
 "Ahl now he turns his face I know the poor 
 young gentleman/^ returned Howel, " he has been up 
 many times at the bog, watching our work. He and 
 I are the best friends, and sometimes he loves to take 
 the spade and work for an hour at a time. With him 
 I have no need to try speaking my poor English, and, 
 though lie cannot talk Welsh, we can understand 
 one another. His ways are so gentlemanlike, and he 
 has so comely a face, it is difficult for me to be- 
 lieve he is but half-witted, as the clergyman says. he 
 is.^^ 
 
 " But Mr. Donought must surely know well 
 enough,^^ said Mrs. Evans, " for he has the trouble 
 of his education ; and I have heard say, it is a trying 
 task to teach the poor lad.'' 
 
 "He has such strange black eyes," observed 
 Gladis, " they seem to look one through and through. 
 They show he cannot be quite in his right mind. 
 See, he has been looking at us for the last few 
 minutes with that earnestness which sometimes 
 brings tears and sometimes smiles to his face. Ah ! 
 it is the smile now ; he is waving his hands to us to 
 wish us a good evening, and now he is gone." 
 
 " Poor soul ! poor soul 1" sighed Mrs. Evans, in a 
 tone of compassion. " How sad it must be to have 
 only half one's wits, and not understand what is 
 going on 1" 
 
 "Come, come, he is perhaps, after all, not so 
 much to be pitied as ourselves," cried Howel ; " he is 
 
ANTONY. 19 
 
 at least free from many troubles we who have more 
 feeling know too well/^ 
 
 Gladis nodded approval to this observation, which 
 she thought remarkably sensible, and here their chat 
 was interrupted. 
 
 " How noisily the men are coming along the lane/^ 
 said Howel ; " they have been stopping at the ale- 
 house^ I guess, upon the way.^^ 
 
 " And there is Morgan/' added Mrs. Evans, " sure 
 you can read in his face he's after even worse mis- 
 chief than ever, to-day." 
 
 A troop of about thirty labouring men now ap- 
 proached a gate close by the garden, leading into a 
 large farm-yard that adjoined the back of the school- 
 house. The noise and shouting appeared to proceed 
 from only a few of them. One of these, a short, 
 dark- looking man, with a strikingly unpleasant 
 coimtenance, was in the act, on perceiving the 
 women, of springing over the fence into the garden, 
 but on catching sight of Philips he passed on, with 
 angry gestures, shaking his fist over the railing, and 
 uttering a loud oath. Gladis withdrew, frightened, 
 behind Philips. " I must follow them," said 
 Philips ; " good bye to you." 
 
 " Good bye, then. Philips ; I hope you will per- 
 suade the men to be quiet ; good bye," said Mrs. 
 Evans, leading her daughter into the porch. 
 
 " Ay, take her into the house, for the sun is gone 
 down, and the air is getting cold," said Howel; 
 
20 ANTONY. 
 
 and then whispered a farewell in the ear of Gladis. 
 How wistfully he looked back at the two as he left 
 them. 
 
 " Come in this evening, Howel, and tell us all 
 that happens before you go home/' said the 
 mother; "come in and have supper with us, will 
 you V' 
 
 " Thank you — thank you, I w^ill be back with you 
 before the moon is up," cried Howel, and disap- 
 peared among the farm buildings. 
 
ANTONY. 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHERE AN AGREEABLE PROPOSAL IS MADE. 
 
 " How beautiful it must be to love and to be 
 loved !" thought Master Antony, as awakening from 
 the dream of other days, into which the recollection 
 of his young sister had plunged him, he gazed on 
 Howel Philips and Gladis Evans, as they stood to- 
 gether in the garden, and read in their looks and 
 manner, even at that distance, by a quick power of 
 discernment which was peculiar to him, that they 
 were lovers. 
 
 It is a holy enjoyment to the lonely and suffering 
 heart to w^itness the happiness of others, and it was 
 a balm to the wounded spirit of him who contem- 
 plated them, to watch love floating between the two 
 young peasants. 
 
 •■'May fortune smile on your true, simple, and 
 tender hearts V' he thought, as he turned away, and 
 
22 ANTONY. 
 
 sighs burst from him while he began to retrace his 
 steps through the village. 
 
 " Ah ! when will any heart bless mine with its 
 love ? Mine, that has so rich a store for others !" 
 
 Thus we learn already that Howel Philips was 
 as much mistaken as the compassionate Mrs. Evans, 
 in his judgment of the deaf mute, and we shall pro- 
 bably find that there were others who were so like- 
 wise. 
 
 Master Antony, "the half-witted,^^ as she had 
 styled him, had been quicker than Mrs. Evans her- 
 self in discerning the secret of her daughter's heart ; 
 and at the time the young labourer pronounc^ him 
 happy in being devoid of feeling, the spirit of the 
 lonely one had vibrated with emotions of such 
 warmth and intensity as perhaps are experienced by 
 but a small number among the vast swarms of men. 
 Ah ! thus also few of us are correct in our judgment 
 of one another. 
 
 And, now, I would pause for a moment to ask of 
 my readers if there be not, amongst them, some in 
 whom, an almost personal interest and sympathy 
 may be excited for the fate of the deaf and the dumb 
 Antony ? since are there not, in the masses of man- 
 kind, many who, figuratively speaking, are deaf^ 
 because locked out from the world and the world^s 
 joys, by seclusion, or poverty, or affliction; and 
 many also that are dumh^ because the desolate and 
 suffering spirit, surrounded by its unkind or un- 
 
ANTONY. 23 
 
 sympathising fellows can give no utterance to its 
 longings, but remains ever closed and silent ? 
 
 As Master ifcitony approached the bridge he 
 encountered the troop of labourers already men- 
 tioned on their way to Sanford^s farm, and as he 
 passed among them, the impatient gestures of some 
 of the men, but particularly the strange manner 
 and angry looks of Morgan, caught his attention. 
 They met each other on the path, and the man 
 brushed by Antony so closely and so heedlessly, 
 that his elbow struck the drawing-book from his 
 hand. Antony lifted it from the ground, but did 
 not lose sight of Morgan, on whom he had fixed 
 one of those penetrating looks which were peculiar 
 and of important use to the deaf youth. He was 
 surprised to observe Morgan and a few others pick 
 up stones of some weight, and carry them on with 
 them, and curious to know their purpose, he followed 
 them back till he saw them enter Sanford's farm- 
 premises, depositing the stones quietly in a heap by 
 the gate as they went in. This circumstance, together 
 with the appearance and countenance of the man 
 whom we know by the name of Morgan, made 
 a strong impression on Master Antony. He had 
 seen there an expression of wild passions which 
 formed for him a striking contrast to those happy 
 and gentle characters he had been contemplating 
 only a few minutes previously. Pondering over 
 these little events he wandered back to his home; 
 
24 ANTONY. 
 
 and this home was no other than that square, un- 
 seemly house, of a bright yellow colour, which ap- 
 peared so uninteresting to us whea first we noticed 
 it; this was the Parsonage of Pon terry, and here 
 dwelt the Reverend Bildad Donought, with his wife 
 and a crowd of children, and also his poor pupil 
 Antony Nay ton. 
 
 Home ! Ah, how many sweet and holy thoughts 
 associate themselves in our minds with that word ! 
 What tenderness, what sympathies, what loves, 
 never to be forgotten ! How is it hallowed by the 
 recollection of our childhood's innocence., of the 
 birth in our hearts of strange and unrecognisable 
 longings, since grown up to noble aspirations for 
 great and holy things ! of the first prayers an- 
 swered, of the first temptations mastered ! How it 
 recalls the blessed times when we knew a mother^s 
 fondness, a father's caress, and the merry com- 
 panionship of brothers and sisters, whose spirits, 
 young and springing as our own, enjoyed with ours 
 the sunshine of life's dawn, and were like flowers, 
 fresh and newly painted from the hand of the great 
 Universal Artist ! 
 
 But to Antony Nayton home was not such. It 
 was a stranger's home, and he was a stranger in it. 
 He lived year after year with a tutor who cared for 
 him only as he brought him an annual payment 
 for his support, and who took little trouble and no 
 interest in his education. He lived with children 
 
ANTONY. 25 
 
 who learned from their parents to despise him and 
 to consider the deaf and dumb boy as of impaired 
 intellect, and unfit for their companionship. He 
 daily drank deep the bitter draught of depreciation, 
 and who, that has not tasted this, can know its bit- 
 terness ? Such a dwelling-place could not then 
 claim, from him, the dear epithet of " Home.'^ 
 
 The boy entered the house, and passed from room 
 to room without meeting any one. The place 
 seemed altogether deserted. No candles, no fires, 
 no human beings to be seen, till he made his way 
 to the nursery, where two little children were being 
 put to bed, and he there received from the nurse, 
 written on a slate, in reply to his inquiries, an 
 intimation that the family were all out, gone to dine 
 
 with some friends in the town of T , and not 
 
 likely to return till late. 
 
 He procured a light, and repaired upstairs to a 
 garret, which was his own apartment, and where 
 books and papers were scattered in confusion ; and 
 sitting down, began again to occupy himself w^ith 
 the sketch of Rachel, which was dear to his fancy, 
 as recalling to it the features of his own sister. It 
 was evident, however, that though the peculiar 
 quickness and truthfulness of his eye gave him an 
 undoubted capability of imitating forms by the art 
 of drawing, yet a total want of instruction and prac- 
 tice made this power of little service to him. He 
 laboured for some time unsuccessfully at his picture; 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
26 ANTONY. 
 
 then^ as a remembrance of the dear reality he longed 
 to pourtray flashed across his mind, he became 
 impatient and angry with his feeble attempt, and 
 tore the picture into a thousand pieces. 
 
 Through the window of his chamber, the moon, 
 already risen high, was visible ; and he rushed again 
 out of the house, and into the cold night. The wind 
 blew in gusts, clouds flew swiftly across the heavens, 
 oftentimes obscuring the moon's rays. Then the 
 darkness of the scene pleased him well, and the ele- 
 ments seemed to have caught a gloominess from his 
 own mind, where only now and then a light glim- 
 mered ; and yet, as he at such times stood immov- 
 able, a strange awe would creep over him. For it 
 should be observed, that when the eye can no longer 
 guide the deaf, they no longer feel safe in motion, — 
 they have no sense to which they can trust, — and it 
 is for this reason darkness is so peculiarly distressing 
 to them. Still Antony now drank in this sympathy 
 of nature, with a certain mysterious enjoyment, and 
 the wind's breath, however boisterous, was welcome 
 to him. 
 
 When the moon again appeared, he wandered on, 
 and presently found himself in a beautiful park, 
 well known to him, where ancient trees were scat- 
 tered in groups over the sloping lawns, and in the 
 midst of which a large mansion elevated itself, and 
 spread out its wide wings far on either side. He 
 looked up longingly at the tall windows, but there were 
 
ANTONY. 27 
 
 no warm lights glowing within — the rooms seemed 
 uninhabited, all was dreary and still. During some 
 few dark minutes he sat down by a border of spring- 
 roses, just bursting into bloom, spreading a delicious 
 perfume around ; which was at that time the more 
 sweet to him, as the sense thus gratified was the 
 only sense that could then receive enjoyment and 
 impart it to his mind. 
 
 ^^ Ah ! rose, rose, thou dost not live in vain, even 
 when the great gate of heaven is closed, and its 
 grandest light cannot shine on thee, and reveal to 
 mortals thine exquisite beauty; even then thou 
 canst administer a pleasurable charm to us, — thou 
 thro west out to the night-winds that invisible essence, 
 which has power to soothe the spirit and lull it into 
 delight. Thanks for thy perfume ! Ah, rose ! thou 
 livest not in vain ; but I — oh ! wherefore do I live ? 
 Thou actest on earth a holy part — but — mine — 
 what is mine V 
 
 Then, fearful of indulging in that morbid melan- 
 choly which at times came over him, he started up, 
 and by snatches of the moonlight continued his 
 wanderings down the park across the river, through 
 the meadows, till he reached the moor which spread 
 out at the back of Sanford^s Farm and the Infant- 
 School, and across which a public path led towards 
 some distant cottages and a small ale-house, near to 
 which he now found himself. 
 
 As he came upon the heath he observed three men 
 
 c 2 
 
28 ANTONY. 
 
 in close conversation, and the light was now so clear 
 that he could see them distinctly, and thought he re- 
 cognized them, though they were too much engaged in 
 their own talk to perceive him as he passed along 
 quietly behind the thick furze bushes. He sauntered 
 on, watching the running moon as she sped through 
 a labyrinth of little clouds, till he reached the back 
 of the school-house. Here, an old oak, growing 
 within the paling of the adjoining rick-yard, stretched 
 itself slanting over the pathway. He climbed up into 
 its branches, nestled himself among the young spring- 
 ing foliage, and gazed out upon the calm and lovely 
 scene. He could here have a view over the heath 
 where the men, whom he had passed, were still dis- 
 cernible ; and he was so near to the dw^elling of Gladis 
 Evans, he could even look into the little parlour 
 which lay below him, and where candle light was still 
 glowing. Around, in the farm house, and the yards, 
 and barns, all was quiet ; shutters were closed, and 
 it appeared that the family had retired to rest. 
 
 An angry scene had passed at the farm that even- 
 ing. The demand of the working men for increase of 
 wages, made in their name by Howel Philips, was 
 met by a refusal; they became violent in their 
 clamour and expressions of abuse of Mr. Sanford. 
 Stones were thrown at the windows, and some broken; 
 and they would have proceeded to tear down part of 
 the outbuildings, had not Philips restrained them. 
 Tliey would listen to no one but him, for though a 
 
ANTONY. 29 
 
 few among them, incited by Morgan, had conceived 
 a hatred for Philips, being jealous of his authority 
 over them, yet the most part of his fellow-labourers 
 respected him highly, and were easily influenced by 
 him. He now harangued them in Welsh, with an 
 eloquence which, though simple, was persuasive, and 
 he at length succeeded in quieting the rebellious 
 spirits, and prevailing on the men not to throw up 
 their employment, but continue in Sanford's service, 
 and now to retire peaceably to their homes. 
 
 Morgan and his party, however, would not be so 
 satisfied. They were angry that their comrades could 
 no longer be excited into violence, and angry at the 
 triumph of Philips, and the failure of their designs ; 
 while Sanford, enraged, but not alarmed by their 
 threats, became more than ever obstinate. Morgan, 
 having, with the rest, received his pay, at length 
 declared he would remain in Sanford^s service no 
 longer, and, on parting with the men, took the road 
 to the town of T . 
 
 By nine o'clock, quiet was restored, and the 
 anxious inmates of the school, who had listened with 
 alarm to the distant sounds of violence, were cheered 
 by the promised visit of Howel. 
 
 How welcome to the ear of Gladis was his low 
 tap at the door, and then the sound of his clear 
 voice! how sweet to her hand the warm pressure of 
 his, as he entered! how eagerly boih mother and 
 
30 ANTONY. 
 
 daughter listened, as he told the adventures of the 
 evening. 
 
 But Mrs. Evans was one of those busy and 
 industrious females, who must always be about 
 something; whose thoughts cannot be busy unless 
 the fingers are also; even while Philips spoke she 
 was occupied in untying and re-tying her apron- 
 strings ; and now that the tale was ended, to sit still 
 any longer was out of the question. Up she started, 
 to move the work things from the table; to open 
 little cupboards full of shelves, china tea-things, and 
 packets of tea and sugar; to go into the back 
 kitchen and get out the bacon, that Howel might eat 
 a good supper with them ; to take down four or five 
 dishes, before she settled on the right sized one; to 
 put it on, and to occupy herself in numberless little 
 matters of business, the record of which it would 
 weary our readers to peruse. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Howel and Gladis were making 
 the best use of their time. Yes, indeed ! The very 
 best use in the world. And they, too, were doing 
 business; but of a much more important nature. 
 They were deep in conversation, in low voices; when 
 Mrs. Evans bustled into the room, a pause gene- 
 rally ensued; and the moment she had bustled out 
 again, the conversation recommenced. 
 
 At length, before supper was ready, Gladis' pretty 
 face, which had been sinking lower and lower during 
 
ANTONY. 31 
 
 some minutes past, and becoming more and more 
 flushed, was nearly out of sight, until the parting of 
 her brown glossy hair became almost a perpendicular 
 line. One hand, trembling with happiness, was 
 clasped in those of the excited Howel. Suddenly, 
 up started the maiden^s head — tears were fast flow- 
 ing — those sweet and luxurious tears which are 
 wrung forth by an intense joy, and her eyes flashed 
 brilliantly upwards, as she said, in a voice stifled with 
 emotion, "With God's blessing, dear Howel, we 
 will, indeed, be happy!" and then, rising, hastily 
 left the room. 
 
 Yes; in those few minutes he had declared all she 
 longed to hear; words had been spoken on which 
 depended their whole future life. Joyous hearts! 
 they had confessed to one another what was the spell 
 that had long bound them together; and Gladis had 
 promised to become the wife of Howel. 
 
 Gladis was soon back again, and seated at the 
 supper table, her face calmer, but expressive of a 
 peculiar excitement. She found Howel deeply en- 
 gaged in saying civil things to her mother, who could 
 not understand why, after her long preparations for 
 the repast, he could not touch the bacon or the pud- 
 ding, but declared he had lost appetite and could eat 
 nothing. 
 
 Ten o'clock struck ere he quitted them to hasten 
 home to his parents, who, he said, would be expect - 
 
32 ANTONY. 
 
 ing his return, for his mother was always fidgetty 
 when he was late after work. 
 
 And now the mother and daughter carefully barred 
 the door and window-shutters, and retired to rest; 
 but how could the young Gladis sleep, with a heart 
 so full, and without revealing to her mother the 
 rich joy that lay within it. Flinging her arms round 
 Mrs. Evans^ neck, Gladis poured forth to the asto- 
 nished listener her soon- told tale, and then followed 
 all the long train of hopes and joyful expectancies 
 that love ever brings with it. 
 
 " Who would have thought it — who would have 
 thought it ? but so it is in this world,^^ said Mrs. 
 Evans with a sigh; *^we poor folks are always sinking 
 lower and lower in it. I little dreamt when I mar- 
 ried your father, a child of mine would have been 
 content to wed a common labourer .^^ 
 
 She wiped the tears from her eyes and continued, 
 sobbing. " When the bank broke and we lost all, 
 and when you were forced to take to teaching to 
 gain us a living, 1 thought we had fallen low enough. 
 It was hard for me to bear that — coming as it did, 
 too, after your poor father was gone — but now — oh 
 dear, dear — what shall we become at last }" 
 
 A groan of regret interrupted her, and Gladis 
 began cheerfully. 
 
 " Fear nothing, mother. Howel cannot fail to do 
 well in the world. I know we cannot marry yet — 
 
ANTONY. 33 
 
 perhaps not for years — but they will pass quickly to 
 me, with the hope of being his at last." 
 
 " Ha ! — so many a young girl has thought before 
 you, Gladisj and each year has passed to her slower 
 than the one before, till hope deferred and hope 
 perhaps at last crushed, has robbed the cheek of its 
 bloom, and the heart of its gladness. And must I 
 watch you, my only and precious one, drooping thus 
 away, under suspense and anxiety ? Think, Gladis, 
 even when you are married to the man you love, 
 think of the poverty, weariness, toil, and suffering in 
 store for you, for him, and for your children !'^ 
 
 Gladis was startled by the darkness of the pic- 
 ture thus presented to her; but the light of love 
 quickly dispelled all gloom from her heart, though 
 the vexed mother continued, in disappointed tones — 
 
 " Howel Philips may be a good-hearted fellow, 
 but what is that if he have no means to keep his 
 wife in a way suitable for your father^s daughter ? I 
 always felt sure young Williams, the coal-merchant, 
 
 at T , would have come forward sooner or later 
 
 — and he has a good trade. Now Philips' daily 
 earnings go to support his old sick parents. You 
 have done foolishly, girl — very foolishly, to encou- 
 rage the poor lad. There 's many a match might 
 have offered itself to you far better than this : you 
 are too well born to be the mate of one so low in 
 the world,'' she exclaimed, in the bitterness of disap- 
 pointed pride, and that jealousy of the dignity of 
 
 c3 
 
34 ANTONY. 
 
 birth which is so characteristic of the Welsh pea- 
 santry, who regard their pedigrees with a fondness 
 and consideration hardly met with in the lower ranks 
 of any other country. 
 
 Here^ however^ she was interrupted by Gladis with 
 increased animation. 
 
 " Mother/' she said, " remember it is not for us 
 to be haughty in this matter. Philips is as well 
 born as ourselves ; and though, as you say, he has 
 become, by misfortune, only a common labourer, yet 
 I feel, I know, he will be one day something better. 
 He has a vigorous and manly spirit, which will lift 
 him above his adversities. I am proud of his love, 
 and confide in him with my whole soul !" 
 
 Thus they continued conversing till both were 
 more calm, and the prudent mother had become 
 more reconciled to relinquish the expected coal- 
 merchant for her daughter. At length Gladis had 
 the satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Evans wrapped in a 
 sound sleep ; but the girl, excited by the fever of 
 hope, could not compose herself to rest. She felt, 
 indeed, a strange dread of, that night, resigning her- 
 self to slumber, for which she could not account, and 
 a nervous shudder frequently came over her as she 
 sat wakefully dreaming over the present and the 
 future. She heard not the noise of the elements 
 without, she heard not the death-watch with its 
 warning voice within — she heard nothing save the 
 voice of her own heart. Suddenly a loud shriek 
 
ANTONY. 35 
 
 rent the air. It was close beneath her window. Her 
 mother started from her slumber. 
 
 " Was it an owl ?" she whispered. 
 
 Gladis shook her head, and both silently listened ; 
 then came another, and another cry, louder, longer, 
 and more unearthly than the first. 
 
36 ANTONY, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A CATASTROPHE. 
 
 Shuddering with alarm Gladis rushed to the 
 window, in her agitation throwing down the light 
 and extinguishing it, for other sounds of a more 
 strange and unaccountable nature proceeded from 
 below. The darkness of the chamber, added to her 
 own terror, made it difficult for her to unbolt the 
 shutter. There was a rushing and crackling noise in 
 the air, and under the window Mrs. Evans thought 
 she could distinguish sounds as of men scuffling or 
 fighting together, and now and then of angry groans 
 or muttered curses, while frequently that strange cry 
 was repeated. Meanwhile Gladis was fumbling for 
 the bolt of the shutter, and when she had at length 
 unfastened it, the chamber was no longer in darkness 
 — a glare of crimson light poured into the room. 
 The whole rick-yard close to the back of the house 
 was in flames. 
 
ANTONY. 37 
 
 ^' Fire ! fire I'' screamed Gladis. 
 
 •^Sure, and I hear men too fighting without 
 there," cried the mother. " What can it be ? What 
 —what is happening?^' She was now up and by 
 Gladis' side, and throwing open the casement, joined 
 her cries for help to those of the girl. They eagerly 
 bent forward out of the window to see from whom 
 the screams had proceeded, but no one was now 
 visible below and they were not repeated. 
 
 It would be difiicult to describe the terror of the 
 women when they perceived that the ornamental 
 woodwork of the roof of their own dwelling had 
 caught fire from some flakes of burning thatch. 
 
 " Mother ! mother ! dress yourself — we must go 
 down; we must rush out or we shall be burnt — the 
 house is on fire — we shall lose all — all — and our lives 
 also. Hasten — hasten — or we shall die — die ! Oh, 
 mother ! what will become of us ? Howel — save us — 
 Howel ! Ah me, I shall never see him more V 
 
 Such were the girl's ejaculations, as she helped 
 the terrified mother to dress herself and then rushed 
 back to the window, through which the increasing 
 glare of the flames glowed upon them. 
 
 " Robbers ! mother, robbers !" cried Gladis, in new 
 alarm : " there is a man creeping round beneath the 
 house ! What shall we do ? I see him in the fire- 
 light — no — it is no robber — it Is — oh, joy !— yes — it 
 is Master Antony." 
 
 Again the cry was repeated, the cry of warning 
 by which the deaf one had roused them to a sense pf 
 
38 ANTONY. 
 
 their peril, and as he stood below, he strove by the 
 most vehement signs and ejaculations to summon 
 them down and away from the burning house. 
 
 " The Lord have mercy on us V cried the trem- 
 bling mother. 
 
 '^ He calls to us — he means us to go down with 
 him — he will save us. Mother, mother, come down, 
 let us go with him.^^ 
 
 " Silly girl ! where are your senses — how can that 
 helpless boy protect us from fire and ruffians }'' cried 
 the mother. 
 
 ^^ Listen ; he knocks at the door. I will go down, 
 and open it,'^ cried Gladis ; but her mother seized 
 her arm, forcibly. 
 
 '^ Stop, are you mad ? Would you have us women 
 go out among a fighting mob ? '' 
 
 ^' There is no mob, — no one, mother, but the poor 
 Master Antony, and he is now our good angel. 
 Come down, let us fly with him ! '' 
 
 " Nay, nay, Gladis ; I will not move from this 
 house,^^ said the elder woman, determinately. " I tell 
 you, child, you wiU be in more danger out of doors, 
 than here.^' 
 
 ^^ What ! here, among flames ? here, where the 
 roof soon will fall upon us ? Must we be burnt ? 
 Must we then die ? " 
 
 Gladis in vain endeavoured to shake off the grasp 
 of her mother, whose terror and trembling even 
 exceeded her own. 
 
 " Oh ! mother, mother, I am too young yet to 
 
ANTONY. 39 
 
 dieP' cried the frightened girl; and shivering and 
 shuddering she leant back against the bed, and cried 
 aloud in agony. 
 
 The knocking at the door below was repeated, the 
 roaring of the fire increased, the cracking of the 
 woodwork on their own roof was audible ; the death- 
 like pallor overspreading the face of the girl, and 
 the chilling coldness of the hand she grasped, gave 
 the mother a new courage and presence of mind. 
 
 " Child, child/' she said, " thou wilt die of fright ; 
 come down, then, we will go, and Heaven have 
 mercy on us.'' 
 
 Meanw^hile, Master Antony was becoming more 
 and more impatient, he had armed himself with a 
 club from the adjacent hedge, and having good reason 
 to believe that to leave them to escape without pro- 
 tection, or to suffer them to remain in the dwelling, 
 would be alike dangerous, he continued by louder 
 knockings to warn them of their peril. At length 
 the door was opened, and the mother, leading out 
 her girl, besought, by her gestures, that he would 
 conduct them whithersoever he thought best. Away 
 then he hurried them, along the lane, and over the 
 bridge, into the midst of tlie village ; but, oh ! terrible 
 reality, he perceived that the wind had suddenly 
 changed ; it now blew violently from the west. The 
 farm-yards on both sides of Sanford's house, were 
 fiercely burning, the adjacent cottages had caught 
 fire, and the wind, like a giant nurse to the young 
 
40 ANTONY. 
 
 flames, caught up each as they were first lit, in its 
 great arms, fondled and played with them, then bore 
 them along, and set them down only where there 
 was food to nourish and increase them. Thus, from 
 one thatched cottage roof to the other, flew the 
 fearful element. 
 
 Master Antony conducted the women through the 
 crowd of frightened villagers, who already rushing 
 out from all sides, stood stupefied with terror, staring 
 at the raging fire. He led them to a house pointed 
 out by Mrs. Evans, as one where she had friends, 
 who would receive her, and where she was far 
 removed from the place of danger, and having seen 
 her and Gladis received in safety, he rushed back 
 over the bridge, to give help to other sufi'erers. 
 
 ^^Who would have thought it,^^ exclaimed Mrs. 
 Evans, when she had recovered breath, after her 
 hasty walk, and found herself unhurt, and escaped 
 from the late threatening danger, ^^who would have 
 thought it — our lives are saved by the half-witted 
 deaf lad.^^ 
 
 Oh ! the sight that awaited Antony Nay ton, — the 
 burning of a village, the destruction of men^s hearths 
 and homes, and of all that is material that they love 
 and value, by the most magnificent and royal of the 
 elements, is a sight sublime in its terror ! To his 
 eyes it was splendour, to his heart it was agony ; to his 
 ears, only that eternal silence, which, like that of the 
 profoundest depths of the ocean, sound never breaks 
 
ANTOXY. 41 
 
 in upon. It was now an advantage to him that he 
 could not hear the roaring of the flames, the sucking 
 of the wind, the cracking of frameworks, the falling 
 of buildings, the lowing of cattle, the stamping of 
 frightened horses, the bleating of folded sheep, the 
 voices of men calling and hallooing, the groans of 
 the wounded, and the screams of frantic women and 
 children ; for these sounds — this Babel of horrors — 
 stunned the senses of the sufferers, and added to the 
 universal confusion. While they were frenzied or 
 panic-struck, the deaf boy was calm, active, and 
 energetic. 
 
 Already, before he had roused the women of the 
 school-house to a sense of their danger, when the 
 fire first broke out, and before it had attained to its 
 height, it was he who had awoke the slumbering 
 inmates of the farm. Sanford and the men of his 
 household were now busy, removing the cattle from 
 the burning sheds to a place of safety, and applying 
 water to the fire, and in consequence of their exer- 
 tions the flames were already abating in the farm- 
 yards ; but the cottages of the poor were falling, one 
 by one, victims to the devouring element, without 
 resistance and without help. It was here that 
 Antony was most active. 
 
 The parents of the little Rachel beheld their home 
 crumbling before them, beneath the flames ; their 
 elder children, dragged from their beds, stood grouped 
 together, holding each other's hands, and trembling 
 
42 ANTONY. 
 
 at their father^s words, that the judgment -day had 
 come. The mother was rushing to and fro, and her 
 screams became louder, as she again counted her 
 children, and looked anxiously round for one of 
 them, who was not there. In this moment of 
 anguish. Master Antony stood by her side. He 
 canght her arm, as she was about to rush once more 
 into the burning cottage, pointed to her other chil- 
 dren, signed to her to hasten to their protection, 
 and then disappeared within the building. In a few 
 minutes he was again seen emerging from it ; he 
 bore a sleeping child in his arms, he gave it to those 
 of the mother — he had saved her Rachel, 
 
 An aged couple, with shaking limbs, stood before 
 the door of the next cottage, unable to rescue from 
 the fire any of their furniture or their effects. 
 Their little all was perishing before their eyes, and 
 there was no power to save it. Master Antony 
 rushed into the dwelling, and hastily dragged out 
 whatever furniture he had strength to remove. Then 
 he hurried on to the other cottages, showing examples 
 of courage and presence of mind to the frightened 
 owners, and by his gestures summoning them to 
 cast aside the panic which paralysed them, and join 
 their exertions to his in saving their property. 
 
 He saw there was more hope for the narrow street 
 'of huts running along by the side of the river, as the 
 flames had not yet so furious a hold on them. 
 
 Some of the inhabitants of these were not yet 
 
ANTONY. 43 
 
 aroused. He flew from door to door, forcing his 
 way in, waking the inmates, and, tearing down what 
 curtains or drapery he could find, showed them that by 
 dipping them in the water and casting them over the 
 thatched roof, the sparks might be extinguished 
 before they had become flames, and flakes of fire 
 might fall without spreading destruction. 
 
 It was at this time the pastor's carriage arrived on 
 the spot, driving home with his family from the 
 neighbouring town. Alarming and unexpected in- 
 deed was the scene that awaited him. The pale 
 light of the moon by which he had journeyed was 
 now exchanged for a crimson glow, which, as he had 
 turned into the valley of the Erry, spread itself over 
 the sky, and clothed every object in an awful 
 splendour. It was with difficulty the frightened 
 horse could be persuaded to make his way along the 
 crowded highway. 
 
 Mr. Don ought gazed with a dark frown on the 
 scene. He was recognized by the villagers, but his 
 presence gave to them no thrill of awakening hope 
 or confidence ; for though he was their pastor, they 
 had not been accustomed to find in him a sympa- 
 thizer or a helper. 
 
 " What is this business ?" he asked of a bystander, 
 which proved to be Sanford himself. 
 
 "A plot— a foul plot ! — the work of an incendiary, 
 sirl" was the reply, in a voice trembling with 
 passion. 
 
44 ANTONY. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! Sanford, what do you mean ? 
 What devdls could have set the whole village on 
 fire r 
 
 " The villain meant only to burn down my farm, 
 and lighted both the rick-yards at once ; so that half 
 my property is lost/^ cried Sanford, with an angry 
 oath. 
 
 ^^And the fellow is off, I suppose — no trace of 
 him, eh ? — beyond scent, and no one can guess who 
 he is ; is not that it, Sanford V' asked the other. 
 
 ^^ No, no — better luck than that, this time : they 
 have found out the scoundrel — followed him from 
 the farm, seized him, and he is as safe as a rat with 
 the ferret at his throat. The constable is oflf with 
 him to jail by this time.'' 
 
 '^ And who is he ?" 
 
 " The lying dog, Howel Philips." 
 
 The curiosity of the inquirer by this time satis- 
 fied, he whipped on the horse with many impatient 
 ejaculations, anxious to cross the bridge, and learn 
 if his own house was also in danger. He heeded 
 not the sound of his pupil's name, of " Master 
 Antony — Master Antony !" which burst from all 
 sides, as the crowd watched the daring intrepidity of 
 the youth. 
 
 Antony's attention w^as now concentrated on another 
 burning house. He knew not that it was the property 
 of an aged miser who could be with difficulty per- 
 suaded to save his own life, and leave the blazing 
 
ANTONY. 45 
 
 rooms, without returning to the rescue of his dear 
 treasure. The deaf boy observed the man's gesticu- 
 lations of despair as, while they dragged him out of 
 the building, he gazed back at it with a grief which 
 wrung tears from his eyes. 
 
 " It is for some beloved one that he w^eeps," thought 
 Antony. " Perhaps a young son is hing within 
 there, weak and ill, or, perhaps, powerless from 
 suffocation. Heaven strengthen my arm to save ! " 
 And, little thinking that it was for a casket of gold 
 only that the miser wept tears of affection, Antony 
 rushed into the house, and up the stairs, breaking 
 into each chamber, and seeking everywhere for the 
 expected sufferer. 
 
 By this time Mr. Donought had returned, having 
 placed his wife and children in safety in his own 
 house, which w-as separated by the river, as well as 
 by a wide area, from the burning part of the village. 
 He observed that the confusion among the crowd 
 had even increased during his absence, and yet it 
 appeared to him that the flames had far less power 
 than when he had entered the valley, and that the 
 fire was gradually diminishing. But, hark ! what a 
 terrible crash ! the miser's house has fallen in, and 
 Master Antony is buried beneath it ! 
 
46 ANTONY 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 WHICH IS IN ALL RESPECTS GLOOMY. 
 
 Now came an universal rush to the spot — an 
 universal shout of horror and despair. 
 
 "He is killed ! '' " Oh, Master Antony, dear 
 Master Antony ! ^' cried many. 
 
 "But are you sure he is there ?^' asked some. 
 " Perhaps he had escaped in time/' hoped another. 
 " Yes, yes ; see he is upon the edge of the wall. No, 
 it is only a black rafter; look, it has fallen in,'' 
 
 " He must be crushed ! he must be destroyed ! 
 Alas ! alas ! '' 
 
 " No, he may yet be saved ! Come on, boys, come 
 on, we will tear away the smoking walls, we may yet 
 he in time. Come on, fellows, we will save the brave 
 young gentleman.*' 
 
 So shouted several voices, and numerous hands 
 began immediately to tear away the bricks and rub- 
 
ANTONY. 47 
 
 bish of the hot ruins. Sanford and his men were 
 foremost in the work, and as many of his own imple- 
 ments as could be laid hands on were brought out, 
 to be of use in the important labour. Water was 
 fetched hastily by many who, moved by an impulse 
 of gratitude and admiration for the unfortunate youth, 
 were more ready to act now, for him, than they had 
 been before, for themselves. Amply were the streams 
 poured on, upon the hot stones and timber, till it was 
 at length possible to move them away. But another 
 difficulty now arose ; they could not discover in what 
 direction their labour should be turned, in what spot 
 beneath the mass of ruins the poor lad might be 
 lying. Parties formed themselves to work in various 
 places. They dug deep, and with untiring energ)^, 
 at the points they had separately allotted to them- 
 selves, each group of men straining their attention to 
 listen, should any sound or cries be uttered by the 
 sufferer from below. They felt it, however, as a great 
 disadvantage, that he could not hear their voices from 
 above, and thus take hope, and reply to them, should 
 he be indeed in a state of consciousness. Time wore 
 on, but their toil still seemed useless. 
 
 Mr. Donought had sent for a surgeon to the town 
 
 of T , and he was shortly expected to arrive ; but 
 
 the sufferer was not yet found. 
 
 At length one man cried aloud that he heard 
 groans from beneath, in a direction where they had 
 not yet worked deeply. All hands were now turned 
 
48 ANTONY. 
 
 to that spot, and it was hoped that if Master An- 
 tony were indeed there, as it was the upper story 
 of the house, his injuries might not prove so posi- 
 tively fatal as they must have been were he in the 
 lowest rooms at the time of the fall. 
 
 In the mean time the night was passing on, and 
 the fire fading out. The river had been a powerful 
 barrier to stop its course towards the heart of the 
 village; it could rage no further, and seemed at 
 length satisfied with its work of destruction and con- 
 tent to die. The twilight of morning stole onwards, 
 and still the men laboured for the rescue of Antony ; 
 but his groans were now no longer heard. What 
 terrible hours must these have been of pain and 
 suspense to the sufferer, if he still remained con- 
 scious of his state — if still he panted in that living 
 grave for air and freedom ! The labourers, however, 
 felt it was more than probable that he must now be 
 beyond suffering. 
 
 But hark ! a shout of triumph 1 — they have found 
 him ! — they lift him from his grave ! The sun's first 
 rays glow upon the pallid countenance of Antony 
 Nay ton. A rafter had fallen over him, but in such 
 a manner as effectually to protect him from the 
 weight of the hot stone and wood which tumbled 
 from above. Around him, there had been no means 
 of protection. One arm appeared crushed between 
 the bricks, his clothes were scorched and burnt, and 
 it was with difficulty they could extricate him from 
 
ANTONY. 49 
 
 his position. It would appear, however, that the 
 application of water had been of important use in 
 flowing downwards and forming pools around him, 
 which lessened the fatal effects of the intense heat. 
 
 Now, many a heart beat joyfully, and many an 
 eye was moist among the stout labourers in this 
 good work, as they beheld the uninjured countenance 
 of the brave boy. All pressed forward to gaze upon 
 him ; but hope died away in the breasts of his de- 
 liverers as they beheld the powerless form stretched 
 before them without a sign of life. A deep groan 
 burst from some of the men. ^' Too late ! too late !'^ 
 they cried, " noble fellow ! poor young gentleman — 
 and he has died in our service.^' 
 
 The attempts of the surgeon to restore any ani- 
 mation were vain, and he was borne away to the 
 parsonage-house accompanied by the mournful and 
 disappointed crowd, forming a procession such as 
 follows a bier to the grave. 
 
 Ah ! mournful was the scene on which the sun 
 gazed with his wonted smile of blessing and peaCe, 
 as he arose over the village of Ponterry, on that 
 morning. Many hearths had been laid bare to the 
 winds, many happy faces had been clouded by sor- 
 row, many hearts had nigh fainted with despair since 
 he had gone down a few hours previously ; but owing 
 to the exertions and self-devotion of the deaf and 
 dumb youth, no lives had been lost, the beloved 
 ones of each family had been preserved to one 
 
 VOL. I. i> 
 
50 ANTONY. 
 
 another. He alone had endured those sufferings 
 from which he had been the means of rescuing so 
 many. 
 
 The Parsonage was surrounded the next day by 
 a crowd of people inquiring for the sufferer. The 
 only answer given was, that he still remained in a 
 state of unconsciousness, and he had but twice 
 showed signs of returning animation. 
 
 For several days following, there was little varia- 
 tion in the reply; he still lay in a state of entire 
 prostration of mind and body. 
 
 The rumour that Howel Philips was charged with 
 the crime of incendiarism, was at first generally dis- 
 credited, for the young man bore far too high a 
 character in his village to be suspected of such a 
 crime. When, however, it was generally known 
 that he was actually remov.ed to the gaol of the town 
 
 of T , and that his aged parents were left alone, 
 
 bemoaning this new adversity for their dear and 
 only son ; and when it became universally reported 
 that he had long borne a dislike for his employer, 
 farmer Sanford, and that by ensuring the destruc- 
 tion of his farm-yards, he had sought to satisfy a 
 secret revenge, not intending or expecting his native 
 village would also suflfer, the public mind became 
 gradually less doubtful of his innocence, and ere 
 long believed decidedly that he was the guilty man. 
 So universal among the Welsh is their dislike of 
 Englishmen, that although general horror was ex- 
 pressed at the crime of Philips, there were many. 
 
ANTONY. 51 
 
 who, not having personally suffered from the fire, 
 felt a certain sympathy with the accused in his 
 hatred for Sanford, and a secret rejoicing that his 
 vengeance on him whom they considered as an 
 enemy, was so effectual. As to Sanford, he could 
 not at the first moment be persuaded that Philips 
 had so injured him. He had recognised the hand 
 of an incendiary in the work, the moment that 
 Master Antony had made known to him the break- 
 ing out of the fire, but he could not then suspect 
 Philips. It was not till the voices of the angry 
 villagers marked out Philips as their destroyer, and 
 two of Sanford's own labourers, Meredith and Jones, 
 declared that they had seen the man in the yard after 
 they had left it, and that no other man was near the 
 spot — it was not till the excited mob had rushed to 
 his cottage, and dragged him out, when matches 
 and gunpowder had been found on his person, that 
 Sanford would believe that young Philips could 
 be guilty; for he had respected and trusted him; 
 and though he had been to him a hard and severe 
 master, he had not discovered in Philips symptoms 
 of dissatisfaction or rebellion till the night before 
 the fire. He had been astonished at Philips pre- 
 ferring the demand for an increase of wages, but he 
 had not imagined that, by his refusal, he had in- 
 jured or excited a revengeful feeling in the young 
 labourer. He was now, however, informed of many 
 terms of disrespect and of abuse used in reference 
 
 D 2 
 
52 AXTOXY. 
 
 to himself, by Howel Philips. He had at first 
 suspected that another was the guilty party, but he 
 now became incensed against Philips by all that he 
 had heard ; he believed that he had been deceived 
 in him^ that his confidence had been undeserved, 
 and that the man had proved himself a hypocrite 
 and a villain. He therefore resolved to follow and 
 punish him for his crime with the extremest severity 
 of the law; and determined to use every exertion, 
 to collect every fact, and summon every witness, 
 that could ensure the proof of his guilt. 
 
 One fact appeared highly important, in pointing 
 out Phihps as the criminal ; in the parlour of the 
 Infant School-house, which had remained unhurt by 
 the fire, the upper part of the dwelling only having 
 been destroyed, there were discovered, the morning 
 afterwards, matches and other combustible materials, 
 corresponding with those found on the person of 
 Howel Philips. It was certain that no other person 
 had entered that room after Howel's departure, as 
 the women positively affirmed. 
 
 These then must have been accidentally dropped 
 by Howel during his evening visit to them. 
 
 Gladis was in a passionate state of mingled grief 
 and anger when she heard of his accusation. It was 
 in vain the prudent Mrs. Evans besought her to 
 keep unki.own to any the secret of her engagement 
 to the supposed culprit. Gladis' violent declarations 
 that he was innocent could not be restrained, nor 
 
ANTONY. 53 
 
 would she attempt to conceal from any the deep 
 interest she had in his fate. She went instantly to 
 the home of his parents, and announced to the old 
 Philips and his wife their son's engagement to h^r- 
 self, and her desire to be to them as a daughter 
 during his distressing absence. She renewed her 
 vows of devotion to her betrothed, and mingled with 
 those of the aged couple her tears and her assevera- 
 tions of his innocence. 
 
 She afterwards daily visited them, for their infirmi- 
 ties made her services highly valual)le, the woman 
 being partly deaf, and her husband feeble in sight, 
 and daily did she tend and nurse them, devoting to 
 them those hours which were not required for her 
 duties in the school. 
 
 " And this is the secret, the happy secret that the 
 poor lad had in his mind when he came home to us 
 on that last night," said the mother, ^^when his 
 heart was so full, Gladis, of his love for thee ! I 
 saw there was something more than common in his 
 thoughts, though my poor ears could not catch all 
 his words, when, in the midst of this, the wicked men 
 tore him from us ; and oh ! Gladis, perhaps we shall 
 never see him more, save. in the dark prison or the 
 convict ship,'^ and here the poor woman, over- 
 whelmed with her grief, burst into tears. 
 
 '^ Nay, mother, take heart,'' cried the girl ; '' the 
 God of justice will not permit it. Howel will return 
 to us, as surely as spring will again visit the 
 earth." 
 
54 ANTONY. 
 
 The old man shook his head. " Take care, girl, 
 take care, that you are not too confident ; you are 
 young and blinded by your love for the youth. You 
 know not — even I know not —what temptation he 
 may have had tq^ do this dark deed, nor how weak he 
 may not have been to stand against it. Satan may 
 may have led him to it, and he is perhaps terribly 
 guilty. Who can tell? We can none of us answer 
 for one another. ^^ 
 
 "But in this I can and will answer for Howel/^ 
 cried Gladis, with vehemence. " Not all the proof 
 the whole world can bring against him, no, not even 
 a confession from his own lips, would make me 
 believe Howel guilty I'* 
 
 Her own mother, poor, disappointed Mrs. Evans, 
 thought herself scarcely less to be pitied than the 
 parents of Howel himself, so deeply was she dis- 
 tressed and spirit-broken concerning her daughter's 
 engagement, a subject which had been quickly spread 
 by the many gossips of Pon terry, and which she 
 found the theme of conversation wherever she went. 
 She never ceased to regret the untimely circumstance 
 of Howel's having visited them on the eventful night, 
 and she again thought, with many sighs, of the 
 expected coal merchant. 
 
 " You young girls are always in such haste to 
 ensure a husband,^' she began, to the sorrowful 
 Gladis, who was wearied with sleepless nights and 
 anxious days, and sometimes felt her courageous 
 hope faint within her. "Now, if you had only 
 
ANTONY. 55 
 
 waited till Williams was again in the village, or there 
 was young Mr. James the grocer's ^' 
 
 ^^ What, mother V cried the indignant Gladis, all 
 her spirit again roused ; ^' do you think my heart 
 could have ever listened to any in the world but to 
 Hbwel ?'' 
 
 " But, Gladis, you knew not then of this dreadful 
 event?'' 
 
 ^' Do you mean that you, mother, can join with 
 the unkind world against him — him who is as inno- 
 cent of this cruel charge as that daisy in the turf ? 
 I will still wed him — I will not forsake him. I will 
 be his wife, even if the wicked judges condemn him 
 to transportation for his whole life ! I will go with 
 him, if it be to the ends of the earth — for so have 
 I promised V' 
 
 Such declarations were unanswerable, but called 
 forth fresh floods of tears from the regretful mother. 
 
 When she and Gladis were examined by the police 
 officers respecting the commencement of the fire, 
 the girl declared she believed no other than Morgan 
 to be the criminal — a statement which was set aside 
 instantly as uncalled for, and unworthy of conside- 
 ration, as she could give no proof and no positive 
 reason for the suspicion. They had also evidence 
 that the man she had named left the village early in 
 the evening, and spent the night in T . 
 
 The statement of both mother and daughter that 
 Howel left their cottasre at about ten o'clock, cor- 
 
56 ANTONY. 
 
 responded precisely with the evidence against him ; 
 as it was shortly after that time he was seen to leave 
 the rick-yard previous to the breaking out of the 
 fire. Gladis expressed her belief that the clergy- 
 man's pupil could perhaps throw some light on the 
 matter, as he had been the first to call the attention 
 of Sanford's household, as well as their own, to the 
 flames ; and her mother described the sounds of 
 fighting, which she believed she had heard, without 
 seeing the parties engaged in it, and one of whom, 
 she suggested, might perhaps have been Master 
 A.ntony Nayton. As however they had found no 
 trace, and could form no conjecture regarding these 
 sounds last-mentioned, they were considered as pro- 
 bably the result of the frightened woman's excited 
 imagination ; and with regard to the importance of 
 Master Nayton's evidence, it would be taken, if he 
 should sufficiently recover from the dangerous illness 
 in which he now lay, although Sanford and many 
 others declared they judged him, even when in health, 
 incapacitated by his imperfect senses and confused 
 understanding, from giving any evidence that could 
 be relied upon. 
 
 As to Gladis' assertions of Howel's innocence, 
 her energetic appeals to the officers in his behalf 
 were received coldly — as they only evinced the depth 
 of the poor girl's personal interest in the prisoner, 
 thus rendering her vehement arguments in his favor 
 of no effect. 
 
ANTONY. 57 
 
 The examiners left her in a state of hopeless 
 dejection, into which she had not before permitted 
 herself to fall. She had now learnt, that after the 
 lapse of one month, the assizes would come round, 
 and that during that time the accused must remain 
 in prison to take his trial. 
 
 And now let us visit the chamber of the sufferer. 
 For nine days Antony Nayton, showing symptoms of 
 life only at times, remained in that state of stupor, 
 into which he had been thrown by the shock which 
 his whole nervous system sustained at the falling in 
 of the burning house ; and when at length he awoke 
 it was to an acute sense of pain in his injured arm 
 and shoulder, of smarting and burning in the 
 scorched limbs, and of fever and sickness in the 
 whole body, which rendered him restless, weary, and 
 miserable, and for a considerable time deprived him 
 of all recollection, either of the events which had 
 preceded or caused his long swoon. The arm, which 
 had been found to be dislocated, had been already 
 set, during his unconsciousness. The impossibility 
 of his inquiring of those around his bed, or of their 
 reminding him of the cause of the painful situation 
 in which he found himself, prolonged the state of 
 forgetfulness and confusion of his mind. It was not 
 till several days ^fter his revival that he began to 
 recall a faint idea of the terrific scene of the burning 
 village, but so undefined and strange was the impres- 
 sion, that he imagined all this to have been a 
 
 d3 
 
58 ANTONY. 
 
 horrible dream, occasioned by some severe illness or 
 fever, from the effects of which he was still suffering 
 in all his aching limbs. Sometimes, however, the 
 past scenes would flash before him with a vividness 
 which he felt must belong only to reality ; and then, 
 wondering and longing for some explanation, he 
 would turn to make inquiries, by eager gestures, of 
 his attendant, but received no satisfactory reply. 
 
 The person hired by Mrs. Donought to act as his 
 nurse, and selected by her as especially suited to 
 the office, was a dull and almost infirm old woman, 
 who could neither read nor write, and therefore had 
 no means of understanding or of making herself 
 understood by the deaf and dumb invaUd. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Donought only entered his room about once a 
 day ; and that was generally at the times that the 
 surgeon attended to dress his wounds, and when 
 quiet and stillness were enjoined, and he was not 
 permitted to converse. 
 
 His mind, Hke the eye of the blind, could there- 
 fore discern neither the past nor the present — all 
 was darkness and confusion within — and during the 
 long restless nights of feverish weakness, frightful 
 repetitions of what he had suffered passed before him 
 in wild dreams, which made him start and tremble. 
 
 Sometimes he fancied himself again in the living 
 grave, where his whole frame was cramped together, 
 without the power of motion, by the surrounding 
 scorching matter, and where it had seemed to him 
 he had groaned out his spirit. 
 
ANTONY. 59 
 
 Death would now have been sweet to him indeed, 
 but instead of this comforter, his distracted mind 
 was threatened by madness. 
 
 His delirium had so far abated by the second 
 week after his awaking from the swoon, that, by the 
 sanction of the ignorant and inconsiderate surgeon, 
 he was visited by the police officers, to whom it was 
 important to gather immediately as much informa- 
 tion as was possible relative to the incendiary. 
 Various questions which were deemed necessary 
 were accordingly written and presented one after 
 another to the invalid, to receive his answers. But, 
 owing to the confused state of his thoughts, these 
 were given in so strange and incoherent a manner, 
 that they could hardly be deciphered. They were 
 pronounced useless and undeserving of considera- 
 tion ; and that evening it was reported through the 
 village that Master Antony Nayton was recovering 
 from his bodily injuries, bat that his mind was 
 entirely gone. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed 1" said some few of those to whom 
 he had been a deliverer w^hen danger threatened 
 them, and who, now in safety, beheld new and more 
 comfortable homes rising for them, ^^ndeed — so 
 the poor young gentleman has lost his senses ! 
 Well, they always said he was not over steady- 
 minded ; and 1 did think, when I saw him on that 
 night, flying in and out among the flames, like the 
 
60 ANTONY. 
 
 very spirit of the fire, that he acted more like one 
 mad than a sensible man." 
 
 " So, it is but the worst part of him he has lost 
 now '/' added another. 
 
 Alas ! how soon does gratitude faint in the heart ; 
 how little influence has it to make us true in our 
 judgment of others! How readily do we shake it 
 from us, glad to rid ourselves of the humiliating 
 feeling of being indebted to a fellow creature ! 
 
 Gladis, who never omitted her daily inquiries at 
 the Parsonage, now received the confirmation of her 
 worst fears. She was informed by the servants. 
 ^^ Master Nayton's groans and cries were heard 
 nightly by them; that he had not slept since his 
 revival from the fit; and that the medical man had 
 been heard to say, that a melancholy madness would 
 probably follow." 
 
 The girl left the house in a state of despair, and 
 on reaching her cottage sank down before her mother, 
 overpowered with grief, crying: 
 
 '^Mother, my last hope is gone from me; no one 
 will save my Howel; our good angel can help us no 
 
ANTONY. 61 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 IN AVHICH THE PAST BEGINS TO KEVEAL ITSELF TO US. 
 
 In the meantime the village of Ponterry was rising 
 from its ruins. The newly made wilderness was not 
 long permitted to remain desolate. Even the second 
 day after the fire, and while flames were still smoul- 
 dering among the fallen masses, the vigorous spirit 
 of man had begun the work of restitution. The 
 remains of cottages, and other traces of the devasta- 
 tion, were being removed, and the men worked with 
 zeal and industry. 
 
 It was evident, however, that months must elapse 
 before the comfort and convenience could be restored 
 by newly formed streets, which it had taken but a 
 few hours to destroy so utterly; while there was 
 little hope of due reparation being ever made to the 
 poor villagers for their losses of furniture and, to 
 them, valuable property. The greatest sympathy 
 was bestowed on the sufferers from all sides. 
 
62 ANTONY. 
 
 Sir William Allingworth, the occupier of the large 
 mansion and park close to the village, who heard of 
 the work of destruction, during his visit vrith his 
 family to London, was liberal in his assistance, 
 which he sent orders should be given to all who 
 most needed it. 
 
 Whole families, now homeless and roofless, were 
 received and housed by those friendly neighbours 
 who had been so fortunate as to escape; and the 
 land-owners were speedy in their exertions to raise 
 new and better built dwellings on all sides. 
 
 That period in our existence which we call youth, 
 should be to us as dear, as precious, as the charger 
 to the Arab; w^ith what vigour, what grace and 
 buoyancy, with what bounding steps, does it bear us 
 along the desert of life, swiftly flying from one green 
 oasis to another, that we may taste of the freshest of 
 waters, and enjoy the shadow of the noblest palms 
 that grow along the weary way! When that steed is 
 gone from us, our journey is more slow and tedious; 
 and the next oasis that we rea^h, is perhaps the last. 
 It is in our youth that every draught of joy is 
 sweetest, every hope brightest, every experience 
 richest. 
 
 Let us then, oh! my friends, enjoy and feel in our 
 inmost soul, the sacredness of the privileges of this 
 stage of our existence: let us value and preserve 
 them; knowing that the youth of the spirit may be 
 
ANTONY. 63 
 
 ours even in our old age here, for by fixing our 
 earnest gaze upon eternity we may keep the soul 
 ever young on earth, till it enters on that everlasting 
 youth for which it is destined. 
 
 It was a thought of Master Antbny Nayton, that 
 led us thus away; for we would observe, in reference 
 to him, that it is, during this spring time of man, 
 that the fountain of renewing life is ever at hand, to 
 revive the powers of mind and body, when wearied 
 and sinking beneath the influence of an " outrageous 
 fortune.^' It is only when youth is passed away that 
 these waters fail us. 
 
 They did not fail to bring their refreshment to the 
 suffering Antony. His diseased mind, which, as we 
 have seen, was becoming frenzied, and his worn 
 frame, excited by fever, and exhausted by pain, at 
 length found the remedy so greatly needed. That 
 comfort, which the ignorance or neglect of his 
 medical attendant had omitted to seek, and which it 
 is the privilege of his art to be enabled at such times 
 to administer to the suflferer, nature at last gave. 
 He at length slept. 
 
 A long sweet slumber embraced him in its soft 
 and tender arms, and when he after several hours 
 awoke from it, he found that, with it, a shadow had 
 passed away from his mind. Now he could again 
 think, now he could again pray. 
 
 Oh, kind and holy sleep ! precious gift from Him 
 who knoweth our infirmities, thou art to the children 
 
64 ANTONY. 
 
 of men an angel bearing healing on thy wings, not 
 only for the body but for the very soul also ! 
 
 It was now, to Antony, as if a long night had 
 passed from his spirit, for the light of knowledge again 
 began to dawn. As he lay calmly on his bed, he 
 wandered through the gardens of memory, recognising 
 each path, each flower, each thorn and rock. Gradually 
 the whole recollection of that last fearful night pre- 
 sented itself to him. He now understood that he 
 had been mercifully preserved in a great danger, and 
 that it was a marvel that he still lived, and had not 
 been utterly crushed and destroyed. 
 
 The aching m his limbs was no longer so constant 
 or so violent, and he felt that his only great injury 
 was the dislocation of his left arm. The fever had 
 abated, but he was still stiff with the bruises and 
 burns which were at times painful. His weakness 
 was extreme, and he could move only with the greatest 
 difficulty, but this mattered not, now that the mind 
 had begun to resume its vigour. 
 
 Each day he felt and rejoiced in this upspringing 
 of life more and more, and yet those around him 
 seemed not to observe it. The surgeon acknowledged 
 the body was recovering, but he heeded not the 
 change in the condition of the mind. He did not 
 even seek to discover its state ; he had no interest in 
 his patient, and his visits were too few and hasty to 
 allow of his acquiring it. When asked about the 
 invalid he^ would say that restoration of the health 
 
ANTONY. 65 
 
 might now be confidently expected in the course of 
 time, but it was beyond his power to state how long 
 a period must elapse before the nerves, and through 
 them the brain itself, could recover from the shock 
 they had sustained. 
 
 As soon as Antony was able to rise in his bed he 
 amused himself, when unwatched by others, with the 
 occupation of writing in a book, w^hich was already 
 half filled with manuscript, and for which he appeared 
 to have a peculiar feeling amounting to affection. 
 And this book, reader, had been to him a companion 
 and a friend for many months past when he had no 
 other on earth. In it he had made a record of his 
 past life ; there he had unbosomed his thoughts, 
 which had otherwise remained ever locked within 
 himself. There he had found relief by the outpour- 
 ing of his overburdened spirit, which afforded him a 
 kind of consolation, though it could not give that 
 sympathy for which he panted, and which is only 
 found in a loving and a kindred heart. 
 
 Reader, let us open this manuscript volume and 
 acquaint ourselves therefrom with the past outer and 
 inner life of the deaf mute, Antony Nay ton. 
 
 Begun on Monday morning, March 29, 
 at Ponterry Parsonage. 
 
 Yes, to feel alone, utterly alone, on this great 
 earth, is a melancholy thing for one so young as I am ; 
 I have no friend among men ; no mother, no brother. 
 
66 ANTONY. 
 
 no sister^ or father that care for me. I live in a 
 stranger's home. No one loves me on the earth ; 
 only in Heaven is there one v^^ho cherishes me, only 
 when to Heaven my thoughts are uplifted in prayer, 
 are they peaceful and joyous, only from Heaven cart 
 I expect love and help. 
 
 All is very calm on this spring morning, and the 
 rising sun casts a red glow into my small chamber. 
 Its soft kiss upon my eyelids, stiff with the tears 
 that had flowed from beneath them during my dream, 
 first aroused me, and I obey its summons with a 
 lightness of heart which I only feel when I rise thus 
 early, or after I have said my prayers. All without 
 and within the house is very still — still to the eye, 
 and also I believe to the ear. Alas ! all is ever still 
 to my ears. 
 
 I see the world in motion around me, and my 
 heart would beat in unison with that action ; but there 
 is no other heart to respond to mine, and thus it 
 remains ever dumb — as my poor lips. But at this 
 moment it is not like fair nature, still ; sighs are the 
 breezes that ruffle its surface ; tears and groanings of 
 grief are the storms that lash the waters of this sea, 
 that desires to reflect the brightness and gladness of 
 Heaven. Aye, and sometimes they do reflect it. 
 There are intervals of holy calm, such, as when the 
 winds that pass over the earth and visit my heart, 
 glide unconsciously acros sit; for the sun of God's 
 love glows on me, my soul receives its image, and 
 
ANTONY. 67 
 
 sparkling in its warmth and glory, sinks into 
 repose. — 
 
 So constantly am T forced to commune with my 
 own thoughts, having no friend to play and talk with, 
 and so many hours of my life are thus spent in soli- 
 tude, that I fancy it would give me a new interest 
 and amusement at such times, if I were to write an 
 account of my life as it passes, and of my thoughts 
 and feelings as they grow into form. 
 
 I will then begin with my infancy. 
 
 Ah, infancy ! thou wert more blest than ever my 
 later childhood or youth or manhood can be to me. 
 Then, I enjoyed a mother's love ; a care and tender- 
 ness that none but a child has received from none but 
 a mother, were bestowed on me. At seven years old 
 I lost this. She died, and from thence dates all the 
 sorrow of my life. In the first seven years of my 
 existence, I enjoyed those gifts of hearing and speech 
 which have since been denied me. 
 
 Oh ! let me think over that sweet time — let me 
 dwell upon its irrevocably past joys. I remem- 
 ber her distinctly. She was tall, and fair, with long 
 black ringlets, and a smile of soft kindness, which I 
 loved to gaze on ; and then, her voice ! — that be- 
 loved, never-to-be-forgotten voice! — the only one I 
 ever hear now : it rings yet in my ears. Still in my 
 heart the echoes have not died away of those en- 
 chanting tones when she sang me to sleep, or 
 
68 ANTONY. 
 
 aroused me from it, or prayed for me and sung 
 hymns, to teach my yoang ^oul to know its Maker. 
 
 Aye, the world may despise me, men may turn in 
 contempt from the senseless , child, who hears not 
 and speaks not, but none can contemn the treasure 
 that lies within my breast — the recollection of the 
 voice and the music that once enchanted it — the 
 feeling that I even yet possess them there, that 
 years, and pain, and sickness, and misery — that 
 nothing can stifle the resounding melodies within, 
 until memory itself be destroyed. 
 
 My angel mother! perhaps it is that thy spirit 
 ofttimes bends downwards from thy bright home to 
 thy child, and hovering round his head, breathes 
 those beloved strains into his soul, thus constantly 
 renewing and increasing their enchantment. 
 
 *' Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss — 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss ! " 
 
 Her death, and the impression it made upon me, 
 has never been effaced from my mind. 
 
 She sank under a fever, during the progress of 
 which her children were not permitted to see her. 
 T heard my nurses observe to one another, in their 
 conversation, that my mother was '^ in great danger/^ 
 Startled and alarmed, I was seized with an inexpres- 
 sible longing to go to her. I could not bear that 
 she should be alone in her danger, that. I should not be 
 by her side to share it with her ; or, as my fondness 
 
ANTONY. 69 
 
 made me imagine I had power to do, to guard her 
 from it. To Augustus, my elder brother, or to the 
 little Kathleen, I said nothing of what I had heard, 
 but took the first opportunity to creep unnoticed 
 into my mother's room, and wait there concealed, 
 till a paroxysm of high fever had somewhat passed 
 off, and the attendants left her to sleep. I then 
 stole to the bedside, and gazed, as I trembled fear- 
 fully, on the pale emaciated face I so loved. Her 
 eyes were raised to heaven, and her thin hands 
 joined ; and I felt that she was praying. I have 
 observed there is a sympathy in children, by which 
 they are moved to imitate, and this was now roused 
 in me. I knelt down, joined my hands like hers, 
 like her I uplifted my eyes, and began to repeat the 
 Lord's Prayer. I had concluded before I remem- 
 bered that I had uttered the words audibly, and I 
 looked up at the dear sufferer, frightened lest she 
 should thus have become aware of my presence ; I 
 found her eyes fixed on me. " God bless you, my 
 boy!*' said a hollow, faint voice, which I could 
 hardly recognise. "My Antony, how came you 
 here ? Go away, go away, you must not touch me, 
 you must not approach me !" 
 
 " What have they done, mama, to make you look 
 so unhappy — Oh ! what have they done }'' I began, 
 as tears sprang to my eyes. 
 
 " Go, my child, I am very ill ; it will hurt you to 
 stay with me." 
 
70 ANTONY. 
 
 '^ Oh ! mama^ do not send me from you ; they say 
 you are in danger. Oh ! let me be with you till it 
 it is passed. I will not touch or speak to you, only 
 let me look at your dear face ; do not send me away, 
 or 1 shall die of sorrow/' I cried, passionately. 
 
 ^*My Antony, Heaven grant you may not yet 
 know what it is to die.'' 
 
 *^Do you, mama?" I asked. 
 
 " I shall know it soon." She could speak no 
 more. I turned suddenly cold, and my whole frame 
 shivered, as I gazed in silence ; presently the door 
 opened, I would have hidden myself, but I could not 
 move. 
 
 The attending nurse entered, and approached the 
 bed. ^' Take him away !" began the faint voice ; and 
 with a gesture of alarm, the nurse advanced and 
 caught me in her arms. I wept bitterly, and im- 
 plored she would let me stay. 
 
 '^ If I go from you, mama, I do not think I shall 
 ever see your face again." The woman was evidently 
 touched, she must have felt the truth of my words ; 
 she tarried an instant, but would not suffer me to 
 approach the bed, as she told me my mother must not 
 be disturbed. I looked at her dear face earnestly, and 
 met her penetrating gaze. " Farewell, my child, your 
 mother's blessing is on you — she prays for you. 
 Never forget your heavenly Father ; love and obey 
 Him always, and we shall meet again." I was now 
 carried hastily away. " When shall I see mama 
 
ANTONY. 71 
 
 again r^' I asked^ eagerly. '^ When you are gone also 
 to heaven/^ was the reply ; ^^ and for that reason 
 you must always be a wonderfully good boy.^^ That 
 scene and these words are as vivid in ray recollection 
 as if they had passed but yesterday. Thus it was I 
 unconsciously brought upon myself the deep afflic- 
 tion of my life. 
 
 On being carried to my nursery, I crept to my 
 little bed, and hiding myself in it, thought over what 
 had passed. My imagination was soon in a state of 
 burning excitement — my head throbbed, my whole 
 frame trembled violently. I had caught the fever, 
 which lasted so long, life was almost despaired of, and 
 when that was at length reassured to me, one of my 
 senses was gone. My ears refused to receive and 
 impart to my understanding the sounds of life. Ah ! 
 sad bereavement. Often have I desired that life had 
 rather been taken, and that I had thus soon been 
 with my mother, in her holy and everlasting rest. 
 
 At first I did not feel my loss of hearing so deeply 
 as I now do. Children, so little as I was, cannot 
 foresee consequences, and whilst I received the atten- 
 tions and kindnesses of those around me, I was not 
 fully aware of the necessities which called them 
 forth : then, too, I could speak — I could express my 
 wants and feelings, and was understood. Now, how- 
 ever, that guide to the voice, that teacher of the 
 great art of language, the ear, has been so long deaf- 
 ened, that I have no means of directing my organs of 
 
72 ANTONY. 
 
 speech, and though I do constantly strive to express 
 myself — as the power of articulation is not gone, I 
 excite only the ridicule of others, which, to a 
 sensitive nature, such as mine, is indescribably 
 painful. 
 
 My nurse, who was much attached to me, greatly 
 blamed herself for having spoken of my mother's 
 danger in my presence, and thus attributed my illness 
 and affliction to her own imprudence. She was 
 unceasing in her aifectionate care of me, and when 
 my deafness was pronounced by the medical man to 
 l)e incurable, she applied herself with the most 
 earnest and anxious pains to lessen to me its incon- 
 veniences and its miseries. She made me converse 
 to her as much as possible, to preserve to me my 
 articulation ; which, therefore, though my contemp- 
 tuous associates believe me dumb, is still — still mine, 
 and, which, did I not find myself only among those 
 who scorn my infirmity, and could I attain the 
 command of my voice, might even yet' be serviceable 
 to me. 
 
 My good nurse also taught me, by watching the 
 lips of others, to read on them the words they uttered. 
 This has been of infinite service to me ; my intellect 
 has, I believe become sharpened by this constant 
 eager attention, and T can now, by watching the 
 expression of the speaker's countenance, as well as 
 the motion of the mouth, catch, with comparative 
 ease, at their meaning. To utter words, however. 
 
ANTONY. 73 
 
 myself, I do not attempt ; for I have been many years 
 among strangers, and am careful, by retreating within 
 myself, by silence, and a cold, calm exterior, to avoid 
 the notice of others, and exposure of my defect. In 
 this manner, the vehemence and acute sensibilities of 
 my passionate nature have been so locked within 
 myself, that none are aware of them ; and I have 
 frequently read on the lips of those around me — 
 " The poor fellow is dull of understanding/' 
 
 My inward nature would not, however, have been 
 thus concealed and suppressed had there been one 
 sympathising heart near me to whom it could have 
 developed itself. 
 
 My early home was in Ireland, where my father, 
 who is, however, of an English family, inherited an 
 estate so deeply mortgaged, that from the time of 
 his coming into it, it had been only a burden upon 
 his resources, which were small, and had been 
 greatly reduced early in his life by the many losses 
 he had suffered. He has been at length reduced 
 from a wealthy to a poor gentleman, with means 
 scarcely sufficient to educate his family. 
 
 About a year and a half after our mother's death, 
 we were informed that our father, who had been 
 long absent from home, was about to bring back to 
 us a new mama. This news gave me a sensation 
 of delight I cannot describe. My father's cold 
 nature, and his evident disappointment in me, since 
 my calamity, deadened in me that deep aflfection 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
74 ANTONY. 
 
 with which maternal fondness had inspired my 
 heart; and thus, while 1 dreaded his return and 
 his glances of dislike at me, his afflicted child, I 
 looked forward with a sweet pleasure to the moment 
 when I should again own a mother. The long- 
 desired day at length arrived ; we were all carefully 
 dressed by the nurse, w^ho was anxious that we 
 should please the new lady, but I observed that 
 the good woman appeared vexed and angry while 
 making preparations for the bride, and when I 
 asked, *^Are you not glad, nurse, we shall soon 
 have a mama to love?^^ she shook her head, and 
 made me understand that she would care for none 
 but our first mama. I saw tears in her eyes; I 
 remembered all the love and joy that had passed 
 away with my own mother, and I, too, cried bit- 
 terly. But children's grief-showers are soon past, 
 and sunshine ere long gleamed in my heart, for 
 my dispoi>ition was naturally cheerful. The carriage 
 was seen descending a distant hill, and Augustus, 
 a fine manly boy, four years older than myself, 
 posted himself before the gate of the old castle-like 
 building in which we dwelt, and with his toy-gun 
 upon his shoulder, paced to and fro, as warder of 
 the castle, prepared, on the arrival of the expected 
 ones, to give the military salute in due form. 
 
 Presently the carriage drove to the gate, and 
 nurse bade little Kate and myself go hand in hand 
 down stairs, while she followed. 
 
ANTONY. 75 
 
 How my heart beat ! How was I excited ! How 
 my knees shook, as I approached the drawing-room, 
 dreading my father's look — longing for a mother's 
 embrace ! 
 
 On entering I noticed Augustus standing by our 
 father. He was fixing a bold, scrutinizing gaze on 
 the bride, who sat, gaily dressed, in an easy chair, and 
 seemed examining the room and furniture with her 
 small, quick, grey eyes. I saw her then speak to 
 my father, and glancing in our direction, without 
 appearing to notice us, continued to address him. 
 She had a fine, large figure, commanding in appear- 
 ance and manner, with severity marked on her 
 somewhat low forehead, and a scornful expression 
 on her lips when they were in repose, but whilst 
 addressing my father they wore an agreeable smile. 
 I learned afterwards to understand that she did love 
 him, but could love no other, excepting herself, in 
 the world. 
 
 Nurse encouraged us to approach, and the pretty 
 little Kathleen stepped forward shyly. I crept be- 
 hind Augustus, and stood gazing at her and trembling. 
 At length my father, lifting Kathleen in his arms, 
 kissed and presented her to his wife : she caressed 
 her with that same smile which I knew afterwards 
 she always wore when she wished to please our 
 father. Nurse then led me towards him, else I 
 should have remained still probably unnoticed. I 
 took his hand and kissed it, not daring to look up ; 
 
 E 2 
 
76 ANTONY. 
 
 and when the lady kissed my forehead and spoke to 
 me, my embarrassment was painful, for she seemed 
 not aware of my deafness. She spoke again to me ; 
 I looked anxiously at my fatlier's face, but it was 
 turned away ; then at nurse, but I saw it was dis- 
 tressing to the good creature to explain the truth, 
 and therefore turning my eyes to the stern counte- 
 nance which it would now be my duty to love, and 
 summoning all my courage, I uttered in a voice I 
 believe hardly audible, and with an imperfect articu- 
 lation, the word " deaf, deaf,^^ as I pointed to my 
 ears and lips. Her look of surprise as she dropped 
 my hand pained me greatly, and I was glad that an 
 observation from my father called off her attention 
 from myself. Nurse was ordered to take us back to 
 the nursery, and so anxious was I that she should 
 not be distressed by knowing how deeply this scene 
 had wounded me, that I danced away and laughed 
 and played with Kate, then seeking the first oppor- 
 tunity of rushing out of doors, I hid myself in the 
 thicket of bushes, far from where eye or ear could 
 reach me, and sobbed as if my heart would break. 
 
 I was bitterly disappointed. To be uncared for 
 by both my parents was melancholy for a heart so 
 full of love as mine. 
 
 '' Ah ! my own mama, thou who art an angel 
 above, a brighter one even than when on earth, thou 
 only hast ever loved me. Thou art the only mother 
 I can ever love.^' Thus my thoughts fled to her ; I 
 
ANTONY. 77 
 
 thought of her songs, her words, her care and fond- 
 ness. I thought of the last scene, and the last 
 injunctions she gave me. Oh ! how deeply are they 
 engraven on my heart; how constantly do my 
 thoughts whisper them to me when no other voice 
 is near to comfort. "Never forget your heavenly 
 Father V I withdrew still further among the thick 
 branches of my retreat, and kneeling down and 
 repeating the prayers she had taught me, I com- 
 mended myself, the friendless child, to my Heavenly 
 Father's care, and besought that my mother's prayers 
 might indeed bring down a blessing upon me. 
 
 I rose witti a strength within my soul, a calm over 
 my heart, which I had never before known. I felt 
 no longer friendless; no longer without love, or 
 without an object for my love. I felt as if I were 
 upheld by the Divine hand, as if spiritual wingg 
 overshadowed me, as if I could give all my thoughts, 
 all my affections to Heaven, and be for ever safe ; 
 as if one day would be realised my mother's last 
 words, " We shall meet again." Then I came forth 
 from my hiding-place, and feeling endowed with a 
 strange courage, I picked two nosegays of the 
 sweetest flowers, and finding my parents seated in a 
 summer-house in the garden, I ventured to approach 
 them, lay a nosegay in each lap, and then run swiftly 
 away. When I afterwards returned, they had left 
 the spot, and the flowers lay there untouched. 
 
 Before I was ten years old my father succeeded in 
 
78 ANTONY. 
 
 obtaining a government appointment in the West 
 Indies, which his reduced fortune rendered very de- 
 sirable, and it was arranged that he and his wife 
 should proceed thither directly, and leave us in Eng- 
 land. The thought of this separation caused no 
 feeling of regret either to Augustus or myself. He 
 did not like his step-mother, yet his behaviour to- 
 wards her was respectful at all times, though now 
 and then somewhat too frank and candid to please 
 her, for he was open-hearted, never daunted, and 
 spoke freely what he thought and felt. She, on the 
 contrary, appeared never to speak from the heart, 
 and when words of kindness did fall from her, they 
 were evidently forced and unfelt. Thus, Augustus 
 found no sympathy in her, yet maintained his position 
 in the affections of his father, who was proud of his 
 fine, brave boy, and had always treated him with a 
 tenderness which I, alas ! had longed in vain to excite. 
 I had little opportunity of seeking her love or his. I 
 was confined to the nursery with little Kate, and was 
 seldom permitted to descend into the drawing-room ; 
 even in our walks, we did not meet our parents ; it 
 seemed to me, I was avoided by them as a thing too 
 displeasing and contemptible to be borne with, and 
 why should I wonder at this? Who could have 
 pleasure, I thought, in the society of a dull child, 
 with whom interchange of ideas is so difficult, and 
 whose attempts at uttering verbal sounds, usually can 
 only excite laughter or grate painfully on the ear ? 
 
ANTONY. 79 
 
 Neither my character or person can excite interest in 
 any ; I am of no use in the world ; a tasteless drop 
 in the immense ocean of souls, and I cannot blame 
 my poor father for his lack of love for me, who am 
 only a burden on him. 
 
 Augustus was sent to school ; and two aunts on 
 my father'*s side, who lived together at Cheltenham, 
 undertook the charge of the pretty little Kathleen, 
 The difficulty now was how to dispose of me. My 
 only relation on my mother's side was an uncle, who 
 lived always at Naples, and to whom, therefore, it 
 was useless to apply ; and it was soon evident to me 
 that no one could like to have the charge of a child 
 such as myself. I wept bitter tears at the thought of 
 being thus so unfit for love. I wept to part with 
 Augustus, who, I saw, gladly looked forward to his 
 entering on life, as it may be called, and enjoying it 
 with other young spirits like his own. I wept at 
 parting with my sister, but she too seemed to rejoice 
 that she was going '' to a gay town and to such kind 
 ladies'' as her aunts were represented to be, while 
 she could feel no alarm, for nurse was to accompany 
 and always remain attendant on her. 
 
 At length I was told, Mr. Donought, the clergy- 
 man of our parish, " had been so kitid as to say he 
 would take care of me ;" and I afterwards understood 
 the meaning of this was, he had undertaken to act as 
 tutor towards me, and that my father had made 
 
80 ANTONY. 
 
 arrangements that I should always live with him. In 
 his family have I remained ever since. 
 
 It is sweet to me to remember the affectionate 
 grief of good nurse at bidding me farewell, and leav- 
 ing me in the hands of strangers, for I was her 
 darling, and her compassion and love were more like 
 those of my own mother than any I had known. 
 She consigned to my care, before parting, many 
 precious remembrances of the beloved one. She 
 gave me several books of poetry which had belonged 
 to her. She entrusted also to me a pretty tortoise- 
 shell case, containing ivory tablets, and fastened by 
 silver hinges and clasp, that had been my mother's, 
 and which is of constant use to me, as by writing 
 and receiving the written replies upon it I am able 
 to have communication with others. The Bible and 
 Prayer-book, so well worn with signs and markers at 
 favourite passages; the little book of "Sacred Songs/^ 
 from which she had sung to me; the manuscript 
 pamphlet of daily prayers, traced by her own hand ; 
 ah ! how inexpressibly dear are these to me ! 
 
 My parents parted with me without one sign of 
 regret or anxiety, yet my heart sank within me as I 
 felt I was quitting for years, and perhaps for ever, 
 those to whom I was bound by some natural ties, 
 while I must now live with strangers who had no 
 claim on my affection, and probably could bear no 
 love for me. 
 
ANTONY. 81 
 
 Not long after my instalment in the family of the 
 Donoughts, another change took place. My tutor 
 
 was oflfered a living in the county of , in 
 
 South Wales, as he had early in life studied the 
 Welsh language, and practised it in a curacy in that 
 country ; and as this appointment would prove more 
 remunerative than the last, it was immediately 
 accepted, and we forsook the dreary and bleak desert 
 of my native parish, and settled in a damp house, but 
 a lovely county, in the village of Pon terry. 
 
 Here, from the window of my chamber, which 
 looks towards the east, I see, rolling and dashing 
 along, the wild waters of the Erry ; and on the other 
 side of our dwelling, and beyond the village, rises a 
 high bare hill, and around us, in the horizon, lie 
 beautiful blue distances of mountain ranges. 
 
 Here am I domesticated with the family of my 
 teacher, which consists of a numerous flock of young 
 children. Five boys are always doing some mischief, 
 either to themselves, or to each other, and exciting 
 the alarm or anger of their poor mother. Four 
 girls are always quarrelling, and frequently fighting, 
 while the fifth, the eldest, is rigidly and untiringly 
 performing the duty she appears to consider pecu- 
 liarly her own, of scolding and keeping all in order. 
 I am so fortunate as to be on good terms with the 
 brothers, as I am glad to join them in the games and 
 exercises they learn at school, and disregarding the 
 blows my shins constantly receive from the vigorous 
 
 E 3 
 
82 ANTONY. 
 
 legs of the younger, I contrive to be a good friend, 
 and make myself of use to them, in many ways. It 
 is the young ladies I find it most difficult to con- 
 ciliate, as they are somewhat exacting and resolute, 
 as well as combative. My taste for reading and 
 poetry, and my love of study, which are the result 
 of my calamity, do, in the meantime, cast a barrier 
 of distinction between our minds, which years of 
 intercourse and familiarity cannot remove; and, 
 indeed, our thoughts and feelings become each day 
 farther and farther apart. Theirs are all wild, 
 buoyant, and youthful, while mine are maturing by 
 each day's experience, and though but fifteen years 
 old, I seem actually to have lived a long and weary 
 life, — for ah ! how slowly, for me, have the months 
 and years crept by ! 
 
 My tutor is a quiet, sullen man, with only transient 
 gleams of good temper, and usually a settled frown 
 upon his brow. He goes through the daily tasks 
 with me regularly, but with no zeal or interest, and 
 I frequently return from my lesson, vexed and 
 disappointed, my inquiries unanswered, my longings 
 not responded to, and my heart more and more 
 regretting that my calamity should make me so 
 wearisome a pupil, and the task of instruction so 
 difficult to my teacher, My chief passion is for 
 reading, and I eagerly devour the contents of every 
 book that falls in my way. I am thus acquainted 
 with every volume this house affords, — from the 
 
ANTONY. 83 
 
 children's '' Nursery Rhymes, '^ to their mother's 
 shelves full of romances, and my tutor's '' Hints for 
 Writing Sermons/' and dry theological dissertations. 
 It is only by the means of reading, the mind of the 
 deaf can acquaint itself with the thoughts and actions 
 of men ; and also learn the depth and force of that 
 wonderful river, language, which by its powerful 
 currents, and by its constant ebbs and flows, bears 
 from man to man, on its reflecting and sparkling 
 surface, the important freight of soul communi- 
 cation, of the trading of mind with mind, and of the 
 conveying to and fro of intelligence concerning the 
 momentous developments of our outer and inner 
 life. 
 
84 ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CONTINUATION OF THE DEAF MUTe's LIFE, IN WHICH WE ARE 
 INTRODUCED TO OLD FRIENDS WHEN THEY WERE NEW ONES. 
 
 To the second summer of our residence at Pon- 
 terry, I look back with a peculiar interest. I feel 
 that it will in some measure influence my whole 
 future life. I remember that during the previous 
 spring I had been suffering from a tedious illness, — 
 a cold, caught one dewy morning, when I had arisen 
 and gone forth with the sun, proved severe, and my 
 mind became more than usually dejected, during the 
 lingering illness. How easily the spirits are depressed 
 by sickness ! My heart sank into a strain of such 
 indifference, it almost rejoiced- in bodily suffering, 
 and felt a strange longing that this malady might 
 prove the last. 
 
 Ah ! there is in the immortal soul an instinctive 
 desire for its final rest, which, if the mind be 
 
ANTOXY. 85 
 
 unshackled by earthly interests^ buoys it up, above 
 the troubled waves of life, and gives it a distant 
 view, through storm or calm, of the longed-for 
 haven. And what joy, what gratitude, must it 
 experience, when that haven is attained. How often 
 does my heart breathe, ^^ Would that I had reached 
 it!'^ 
 
 On my recovery, to enjoy the beautiful month of 
 May, I sought for renewal of strength by constant 
 wanderings in the fresh air and over the green earth, 
 that, during my seclusion, had decked herself so gaily. 
 And now, for the first time, my mind was awakened 
 to a sense of nature's loveliness. Out in the exqui- 
 sitely verdant fields, in mossy lanes, beneath young- 
 leaved beech boughs — out, under the intensely blue 
 heaven, I now found an endless book to study, 
 which afforded me an endless delight. 
 
 It was also an agreeable moment for me when I 
 first discovered that in one little sentiment I could 
 attract the sympathy of my wild companions, with 
 the sage Miss Donought at their head. This was, 
 when cowslips first covered the fields, and we all 
 went forth together, happy, merry children, to fill 
 our baskets with them. Then, seated in the shade 
 of a newly budding .hedge, where the blackthorn 
 covered its dark stems with wreaths of snow, as if 
 in mimicry of departed winter, there we sat, smiles 
 playing on the children's rosy cheeks, all mischief 
 and contention forgotten, their eyes turned upon 
 
86 ANTONY. 
 
 their deaf and mute playmate as he taught them by 
 the motion of his thin fingers and the silent speak- 
 ing of his eyes, how to form cowslip-balls. (I had 
 learnt the art from my nurse, in days of yore.) 
 Then, as the children smiled upon him, his heart 
 felt for the time no longer lonely, but glowed with 
 the new pleasure of sympathy, and thanked Heaven 
 fervently for that hour. 
 
 I believe that flowers must possess a greater charm 
 for me than they do for others. By them are the 
 two most intellectual senses that I enjoy, intensely 
 gratified. To me, the hues and the fragrance of the 
 carnation are intellectual pleasures^ and the scent 
 that fills the air, when, roaming through the forest, I 
 approach a bed of dark blue-bells, ascends to my 
 mind with an almost intoxicating enjoyment. I 
 have somewhere read that a poet in his fanciful 
 ingenuity ascribes to this flower another exquisite 
 quality — he makes it musical ! 
 
 *' And the hyacinth, purple and white and blue, 
 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew, 
 Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 
 It was felt as an odour within the sense." 
 
 Oh, music ! thou soul enchanter — what have I not 
 lost in being denied enjoying thee ! When I was 
 even an infant, musical sounds had a peculiar charm 
 for me, and at five years of age I could whistle and 
 sing tunes, so that it was said I had a musical genius 
 and should one day be a performer on various instru- 
 
ANTONY. 87 
 
 ments. The remembrance of my mother's voice has 
 given me an idea of the nature of music which other- 
 wise I could not have retained. It seems to me, a 
 doubly poetical means of expression. An imitation 
 of feelings with something heavenly in it which 
 makes those feelings more holy and more elevated 
 than any other means of expression could make 
 them. It is like perfume, without matter, and aerial. 
 Is it not also divine ? Oh, there are melodies, rich, 
 deep melodies within my own soul, roving hither and 
 thither, and longing to resound forth ! 
 
 But there is one period in that ensuing beautiful 
 summer which can never be forgotten by me, and 
 must here be fully recorded. 
 
 Llanawr Park, the domain adjoining Ponterry, 
 had been hitherto my favourite resort in my solitary 
 rambles. It is charmingly situated on rising grounds 
 and over sloping dells, with groups of fine trees 
 scattered over it, and around it extends a little forest 
 of magnificent beech mingled with oak, and with firs 
 of various kinds. The house is large and ancient, 
 with avenue approaches and terraced walks and 
 gardens. I had understood that the estate was the 
 property of a gentleman living abroad, who seldom 
 visited it. It was now, however, reported, that the 
 mansion and park had been let to Sir William 
 AUingworth, and the new tenant with his family 
 were shortly expected to arrive. 
 
 Such a prospect was hailed joyfully by Ponterry 
 
88 ANTONY. 
 
 and the whole neighbourhood; for so banished had 
 we been from society hitherto, that an English 
 family, residing at the manor-house, would be felt a 
 great acquisition by all — but myself. It is strange 
 what pain the announcement occasioned me. Though 
 more than four years have since passed, I can recall, 
 as if it had been but yesterday, the bitterness of 
 heart which I then experienced. Tt appeared to 
 me the doom that would entirely deprive me of one 
 of the few luxuries I could enjoy — for it would 
 banish me from Llanawr ; while the society of the 
 new comers could be in no way advantageous to me, 
 w^ho shun all society, and only with the greatest 
 repugnance can submit to the notice of strangers. 
 Indeed, the expression of curiosity with which my 
 fellow men gaze on me and then turn carelessly 
 away, has frequently so wounded me, that I avoid 
 the repetition, and rush away sometimes, across field 
 and forest, to escape such scenes. 
 
 In the beautiful domains of Llanawr, I had con- 
 stantly enjoyed the only happiness I then knew. 
 There had I wandered alone, but not lonely — for 
 closely in the mind^s ear the busy thoughts mur- 
 mured — making themselves companions to me. 
 
 How often, when restless and excited by dark 
 visions of the future, or distressed by the petty 
 tyrannies of my tutor, or j)ining for some love or 
 sympathy among my fellows, had I turned my steps 
 towards those lovely haunts, and throwing myself 
 
ANTONY. 89 
 
 upon yonder grass knoll, where the eye can scan a 
 wide expanse and revel in its freedom, where the 
 refreshing air seems to the hot cheek and vexed 
 brow, sent on purpose from above to cool and glad- 
 den them, — there had I reclined till the soul, follow- 
 ing the eye into the purity and liberty of space, 
 forgot the small cell that retains her — forgot the 
 narrow compass of her interest there, shook off the 
 world's dews, that moisten her wings so heavily, and 
 bee-like, that 
 
 " Winds her small but mellow horn, 
 Blythe to salute the sunny smile of mom," 
 
 flew forth uttering her murmur of rejoicing, far as 
 her earth-formed wings could bear her into the 
 expanse, to bask in the sun of liberty. 
 
 Sometimes she sought only recreation and could 
 bring home no substantial good. Sometimes she 
 sang hymns such as this, in that still small voice 
 which is heard only in Heaven. 
 
 Would that the lips could sing it ! 
 
 '^ Sing, sing, my soul, of praise and gladness sing, 
 Let thy young voice with nature's thousands ring! 
 With birds of air, with winds and gushing streams. 
 Join, to adore the Power that round thee beams. 
 The flowers, their sacrifice of fragrance tend. 
 As towards fair Heaven their golden eyes they wend ; 
 And joyous butterflies, those winged flowers. 
 Flit hke enfranchised souls through Eden's bowers. 
 
90 ANTONY. 
 
 " Lift, lift thine eyes where glows the sua of love, 
 Leave nature's form for nature's mind above ; 
 Earth's beauties fade, morn turns to weeping night, 
 The glowworm's star is but a cold, false light. 
 How fair soe'r the world, th' etherial skies 
 Are fairer far, and thither must thou rise ; 
 Then sing, my grateful soul, and lend thy voice. 
 To shout, with all a universe, ' rejoice' 1" 
 
 If such are the associations which Llanawr Park 
 had tor me, no wonder that the fact that I must now 
 be an exile from it, was to me a source of deep 
 regret. Never again, I thought, could I seek there 
 the sweet solitude I had loved : never again could 
 I visit it as a hallowed temple. When man takes 
 his station there, with all his sins and his passions, 
 the angel of holiness must depart. Sympathies in 
 nature I might find — in human hearts I had sought 
 them in vain — I sighed then a farewell to beautiful 
 Llanawr, 
 
 Farewell! — yes — but hastily did I retract the 
 bitter word, when in a few days a letter reached me 
 from my dear old nurse, who still lived with Kath- 
 leen and her aunts. It was in reply to a long epistle 
 from myself sent her some weeks previously, and 
 after dwelling on various particulars concerning my 
 own health, and her tender anxiety for me, she 
 alluded, as she seldom omits to do in her letters, to 
 a subject I loved to dwell on — my mother ! It was 
 then that this passage startled me : — 
 
 " Your godmama tells me you probably live in 
 
ANTONY. 91 
 
 the neighbourhood of Llanawr Park^ which is your 
 
 uncle's seat in shire. You know he always lives 
 
 abroad now ; but, when he was a little boy^ he and 
 your own mother lived with their parents at Lla- 
 nawr, and w^ere brought up there. Your aunts tell 
 me he has lately let the estate to a friend of his— a 
 rich baronet^ who resides in London.'^ 
 
 The news was indeed unexpected. I knew that 
 my uncle had some property in South Wales, but 
 I little thought that here had been my mother's 
 home. I had never chanced to have the name of 
 the owner mentioned to me, or I should not have 
 remained so long ignorant. Alas ! the deaf lose 
 much pleasure even in apparently the most trifling 
 consequences of their calamity. 
 
 This communication chanoed the whole current of 
 
 o 
 
 my thoughts. Not all the baronets in England 
 should now hinder my entering those domains ; not 
 all my wonted shyness, doubts, and fears, at encoun- 
 tering my fellow-men, should now keep me back 
 from visiting the beloved Llanawr ! 
 
 My mother's home ! Oh ! why had I not learnt 
 this earlier, what hours and days of inward joy would 
 I not have known ! And I had trod the same paths, 
 followed the course of the same stream, gazed on the 
 same landscape, as my mother knew and loved — all 
 unconscious of this charm. I had picked flowers, 
 where her young hands bent down to gather, and 
 roses, perhaps, from the same trees she planted. 
 
92 ANTONY. 
 
 Sweet thought I I resolved that there again I would 
 roam — while men might say of the usually shy deaf 
 and dumb boy that he was animated by a strangely 
 bold and wilful spirit ; but say what they would, it 
 mattered not, so they forbade me not this — to wander 
 now and then in my Eden ! 
 
 The Sabbath day came round — that Sabbath which 
 of all others 1 remember, perhaps, the most vividly. 
 It was a restless day among the children here, as 
 indeed Sundays appeared to me most generally to 
 be. The boys evidently know not what to do with 
 themselves ; the girls are more quarrelsome if pos- 
 sible than usual, requiring all the authority and stern 
 looks of the eldest to prevent a general outbreak of 
 kicking and fighting, while Mrs. Donought^s fits of 
 yawning seem more irresistible and more prolonged 
 than ever, and her husband having more to do, is 
 more than usually sullen. 
 
 The family of the AUingworths had arrived, and 
 were on that day, for the first time, to take 
 their places in the large family pew belonging to the 
 Llanawr property. What an elephant of a pew it 
 is ! It is almost like an apartment — like a second 
 vestry fixed in the most conspicuous part of the 
 church — the wooden walls all round it are high, with 
 short crimson curtains. I had often formerly gazed 
 on this mysterious chamber, and wondered where- 
 fore it was biiilt — for no one made use of it then. I 
 one day ventured to make my way into it, and was 
 
ANTONY. 93 
 
 still more surprised to find a fire-place^ a table in the 
 centre^ and the cushions of the seats and the hassocks 
 also covered with crimson cloth. These were then 
 old and moth-eaten, but have been since renewed 
 for the new tenants. 
 
 It seemed to me that my excellent grandparents 
 had thought themselves too good even to enter at the 
 same door as the other parishioners, for this pew had 
 an entrance from the outside of the church, exclu- 
 sively its own. This, then, is an island of comfort in 
 the midst of the sea of the congregation, who all 
 complain of damp air and cold feet, and bear these 
 inconveniences with patience as if they regarded them 
 as penance for their sins, while the rich family alone 
 is worthy to be exempt from them. I may, perhaps, 
 be excused for often wondering what the people did 
 who hid themselves in there, for if they said prayers 
 like the rest, surely they need not be ashamed of 
 being seen. 
 
 I looked eagerly at the forms of the Allingworth 
 family as they wandered along the churchyard path 
 after the service, but had only the backs of a tall 
 gentleman and a lady, with a group of boys, short 
 middle-aged ladies, and young ladies, to gaze on; that 
 was not very satisfactory, but far better than nothing, 
 as I had an extreme curiosity to know something of 
 the new tenants of Llanawr. I recollect the picture 
 as if it were now before me. That tall gentleman is, 
 I thought, evidently Sir William, and contemplating 
 
94 ANTONY. 
 
 those shoulders one reads directly, in their very shape, 
 that the owner is a severe, cold-hearted manj also, 
 perhaps, stiff, and, one may add, provokingly proud. 
 Then the lady, who leans on his left arm, must surely 
 be his wife. She turns her head from side to side 
 towards the children with a peculiar air, which says, 
 evidently, that they are her property. What a graceful 
 figure, how elegantly the ample silk folds of her dress 
 fall around her ! Indeed, she was the most beauti- 
 fully dressed lady I had ever seen. I did not fancy 
 her proud, she appeared too graceful. And this was 
 my first acquaintance with the strangers. 
 
 In the evening I went forth to enjoy the scene, for 
 mildly and invitingly the sun shed forth his beams, 
 and cast a golden vest over the garment of many 
 colours wuth which the landscape is clothed at this 
 season of the year. It was one of those hot summer 
 evenings when nature hardly seems to breathe, but 
 to be lying in a trance, only conscious of the luxury 
 of existing — lulled into stillness by a spell, such as 
 the soul feels when the ^^ peace of God'^ resteth 
 on it. 
 
 The sun was about to set, and as I wandered by 
 the park, and gazed within on my old haunts, I could 
 not resist my longing to enter. I bounded over the 
 fence and flew towards that favourite spot, the high 
 knoll, on which a solitary and ancient thorn stands, 
 and from whence the eye commands the far west. 
 I stood there for I know not how long. I watched 
 
ANTONY. 95 
 
 the orb of fire dropping, dropping, lower, lower, like 
 a fathoming lead, sounding the depth of Heaven's 
 ocean, till it touched the earth. The whole sky over 
 the west was clothed in crimson, a magnificent 
 apparel, while dark purple clouds, and golden barks, 
 as some appeared, with golden sails, flitted to and 
 fro before it, like attendant spirits on the splendid 
 majesty that was about to depart. From the fiery eye 
 shot the brightest beams that minecould bear upon 
 my head. Ah ! merciful sun, to gaze so kindly, so 
 gloriously on the sinful child ! It is like the eye of 
 the Omnipresent, though it gazes on a whole earth 
 at once, each minute object on the surface feels that 
 it casts on itself a ray of peculiar warmth and love. 
 Each little Christian child feels itself the peculiar 
 mark of the love and interest of the Heavenly Father, 
 while He gazes alike on all, save where clouds of 
 earth's atmosphere intervene. 
 
 As the brilliant beams came forth, they formed a 
 path from me to heaven. It seemed that if my feet 
 could tread that golden but aerial way, I should soon 
 be in the celestial regions. Those glowing distances 
 of bright clouds seemed to my excited imagination 
 the Paradisaical fields — the land of angels. Heaven 
 never before appeared so near earth, so accessible to 
 me, except that I remember, before we left Ireland, 
 the beauty of the setting sun once so took possession 
 of my fancy that I believed that if I could only reach 
 the distant mountain behind which the mighty orb 
 
96 ANTONY. 
 
 was about to sink^ I could with ease follow up that 
 golden way^ and be an angel of Heaven, no longer 
 deaf and dumb, no longer lonely, no longer sad. 
 
 I actually rushed away over the valley, striving to 
 attain that summit^ till my feet could no longer move, 
 the sun vanished, and I fell asleep amid the dewy 
 flowers. 
 
 Alarmed at my disappearance, my tutor sent 
 servants to seek the lost child. 1 was found in a 
 meadow, and carried homewards, and then severely 
 beaten. I could not, and dared not, disclose the 
 object of my strange wanderings, but it continued to. 
 dwell in my mind, and on this beautiful Sabbath the 
 idea was re-awakened with unusual force, so that 
 when night came I could not sleep for the new 
 pleasure of imagining and inventing the adventures 
 of a child thus led to undertake a journey with so 
 brilliant a goal before him. 
 
 I thought of Italy, of the increased beauty of such 
 a scene in its pure atmosphere, and its effect upon 
 the susceptible mind of a little child. I thought of 
 the poetic loveliness of that land, which, if we con- 
 template it through the medium of books only, of 
 paintings, or of description, seems to reflect to our 
 minds its own inspiring glow. When at length I 
 fell asleep, it was to dream of fairy tales, of Heaven, 
 of Italy, and also of that great, ugly pew ; and I rose 
 the following morning with the determination of 
 beginning to write a tale, — yes, a little novel, to be 
 
ANTONY. 97 
 
 called the " Minstrel of Italy," and in which my little 
 hero should be taught only by nature and his own 
 instincts, and tread in a glorious, though an humble 
 path, I would not, however, permit the unpoetic 
 pew of the Allingworth family to make its appearance 
 here. 
 
 Thus began my first attempt at composition, which 
 has since proved a source of true enjoyment to me. 
 The sketch I then made of th^ " Minstrel of Italy,^' I 
 have since carried out, together with some other fan- 
 ciful pictures of various ideas that I longed to reduce 
 to form. It is indeed a pleasant task thus to create 
 by one's own hand. 
 
 But let me continue my reminiscence of the sum- 
 mer evening at Llanawr. 
 
 I was wTapped not only in the sun's rays, but around 
 my soul glowed the warm light of the Creator^s love. 
 I sank upon my knees, and lifting my eyes from the 
 material sun, higher, higher, my spirit sprang above 
 the immeasurable fields of air into which I gazed, and 
 stretching out my clasped hands, I yielded my soul to 
 the impulse of devotion, as it cried fervently, *^ Lead 
 me, lead me to Thyself?^ 
 
 The sun now dropped; his beams no longer glorified 
 my head. I felt disturbed that its disappearance 
 had happened at such a moment. But again my 
 soul uplifted itself : — 
 
 " The sun of the Divine love never sets. May its 
 
 VOL. 1. F 
 
98 ANTONY. 
 
 betms shine on for ever upon my spirit. Oh ! that 
 1 may become worthy of that love !'^ 
 
 Then I sank down upon the grass beneath the 
 green thornbranches that fanned and played about 
 me, and I buried my face in the flowery lap of the 
 earth. 
 
 A pure and calm happiness rested on my whole 
 being. 
 
 I felt at that moment as if I might be the only 
 being on the earth, as if the universe were not too 
 vast for me alone ; and yet I remembered that, at 
 that same instant thousands of souls might be up- 
 lifted from the earth by pure and lofty aspirations, 
 and that among them I was ])ut as a single leaf in a 
 whole forest. I knew this; I understood my little- 
 ness, and yet I did not feel myself the less great, for 
 I perceived that the Creator can impart a grandeur 
 to his smallest work, and that my own spirit, being 
 sprung from such a source, could not be insig- 
 nificant. 
 
 With a true peace and happiness in my heart, I 
 raised my head at length and was startled and alarmed 
 at seeing human figures not far off from where I was. 
 I was relieved to observe, from their relative position 
 to myself, I must have been unnoticed by them. 
 The party of ladies and children were gazing at the 
 view, some with eye-glasses, some without, some 
 carelessly, and some with apparently real satisfac- 
 
ANTONY. 99 
 
 tion. They seemed to me also to be listening to 
 agreeable sounds, but I was frightened at their pre- 
 sence ; I turned, ran down the steep bank, and flew 
 homewards. 
 
 There, in the wood, however, I met Mr. and Mrs. 
 Donoaght with their children. They all, too, ap- 
 peared listening in silence and with pleased attention. 
 Turning to my tutor I asked, " What ? what ?" that 
 being a word I can pronounce comprehensibly. 
 Mrs. Donought shook my shoulder reprovingly, and 
 put her finger to my lips to enjoin silence. Miss 
 Donought frowned at me, and looked so ugly as she 
 did so, I turned away and left them. Darkness 
 was approaching, and 
 
 " Tw-ilight grey. 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad." 
 
 My tutor, when I afterwards questioned him again, 
 wrote the word " Nightingales." 
 
 Ah ! here is an enchantment I cannot know, nor 
 even imagine ! I have not the smallest recollection 
 of the singing of. birds ; I cannot recall the kind of 
 sound, nor can I account for this dulness of my 
 memory. They tell me the bird's voice resembles 
 whistling, but though I could once whistle, the effect 
 is gone from my mind. I fancy it is tone, something 
 round and solid, as it were, which alone has im- 
 pressed itself on my mortal ear. 
 
 F 2 
 
100 ANTONY. 
 
 Would that the nightingale could pierce my ears ; 
 I should find sympathy in her, one that is ^ 
 
 *' So musical, so melancholy," 
 
 would attune well with my heart. 
 
 The proper visits of introduction having been paid 
 by the Donought family to the Allingworths and 
 duly returned, acquaintanceship was established be- 
 tween them, and an invitation accepted by Mrs. 
 Donought, for herself and her children, to spend the 
 day at Llanawr Park. I recollect, with amusement, 
 this was the signal for the greatest bustle and appa- 
 rent alarm throughout the house for the entire week 
 previous to the important day. It was evident that 
 nobody thought of anything else but the invitation to 
 Llanawr, Miss Donought was more stately and 
 more excitable than ever; she appeared to think 
 herself, if possible, a person of more importance than 
 usual, and was occupied during the whole of each 
 day in putting new, gay ribbons on rather old bonnets, 
 and cutting out the muslin mantillas, which, I was told, 
 must be the most fashionable things for her and her 
 sisters to wear, since the Miss Allingworths were seen 
 in just such things when they drove out in the carriage. 
 Then she hurried the maids and the assistant work- 
 ing-women in finishing the frocks and the little boys' 
 purple coats ; and, whatever room I entered, I found 
 women working solemnly at the same patterned 
 
ANTONY. ,^ i(^t 
 
 frocks^ in which there were so many colours vividly 
 contrasted, it would seem all the sisters wished to 
 have Joseph's coat, to show that no preference was 
 to be given to either over the rest. 
 
 Mr. Donought showed me the note of invitation, 
 which contained a polite request that ^'his young 
 pupil might be of the party/^ and as I read, he 
 added in pencil, ^' Of course you would like me to 
 decline it for you/' 
 
 I was amused to observe his look of surprise when 
 I replied, that if he pleased I would willingly go. 
 This was the first time I had not shrunk from every 
 opportunity of meeting society, and he the less 
 expected it from me now, as he knew the Ailing- 
 worths were entire strangers to me. He was not 
 aware of the longing I had frequently felt to enter 
 that mansion, which I had so often contemplated 
 from without with a peculiar interest, which had so 
 often gazed on me with its many eyes so temptingly, 
 so invitingly. 
 
 Ah, how beautiful to visit thy home, oh ! my 
 mother! — to enter the halls that thy young feet trod, 
 and through which thy gay laugh rung; — to live, 
 if only for a <iay, where thou hadst lived through a 
 childhood ! 
 
 My longing to enter those chambers could not be 
 resisted. My extreme repugnance to frequent the 
 haunts of men, and to expose my defects to the 
 criticising eyes of others, my painful nervousness 
 
10^ ANTONY, 
 
 and reserve, and that awakening of discontented 
 feelings which I always shun rather than endure, 
 must now give way to the longing of my heart, and 
 though they would still be suffered, the new enjoy- 
 ment I anticipated would rob them of their bitter- 
 ness. I could think only of to-morrow — beautiful 
 to-morrow. With what longing I counted each day 
 to that of the invitation ! With what excited feelings 
 at length I hailed the eve of that to-morrow which 
 was already beautiful to me ! 
 
 The dear to-morrow came — it passed — and the 
 reality proved even more beautiful than the anticipa- 
 tion. 
 
 It will form an epoch in my life. Let me fully 
 record it. 
 
 Mrs. Donought and her family were received by 
 Lady Allingworth with a courtesy I had not expected. 
 Everything around, the spacious apartments, the 
 furniture, the decorations, the company, was splendid 
 to my eyes. I had not before been in so elegant a 
 mansion. Lady Allingworth's manner was kind and 
 free from ostentation, though dignified in every 
 movement. Her countenance and handsome features 
 wore the impress of a superior mind and a gentle 
 heart. She would be introduced to each of her young 
 guests separately, learn their names, and address 
 them with a few words of kindness. I was, of course, 
 the last in coming forward. I had felt that she had 
 frequently fixed her mild, pleasant eyes on me. 
 
ANTONY. 103 
 
 At length I advanced, and timidly glancing up to 
 her fair face, I observed that Mrs. Donought was 
 explaining my defect and calamity. I looked search- 
 ingly at the lady to read her thoughts. A cloud of 
 surprise, then, I thought, of distress, passed over her 
 brow ; she bent towards me, took my hand, and 
 looked upon me with a sweet and sympathising 
 smile. I saw on her lips, as she uttered them, the 
 words, " Poor boy, deaf and dumb ! how very sad !" 
 She placed her hand on my shoulder, and then with 
 her fair jewelled fingers gently put back the locks 
 of hair I had permitted to fall forwards over my 
 brow and cheek, on which I felt a deep blush 
 gradually rising. I was much confused, but I was 
 gratified. I felt I had won her sympathy, and she 
 had won my heart. 
 
 There were uncles and aunts staying in the house, 
 with a flock of little cousins j and these last, with her 
 own daughters and her son, were to be our play- 
 mates for the day. We met Sir William in the hall ; 
 he looked with good humour at the group of chil- 
 dren, and spoke a few polite words to Miss Donought, 
 who, T fancied, was quite satisfied with the manner 
 her new dress and ribbons became her. I was again 
 pointed out as the deaf pupil, and eagerly scrutinized 
 by all the merry eyes around me. Sir William's 
 steady gaze was fixed upon me with an inquisitive 
 expression, and again did my confusion cause the 
 blood to rush to my face. I felt that I was regarded 
 
104 ANTONY. 
 
 as a natural curiosity, and so galling was this to me, 
 that I could have burst into tears* I however main- 
 tained a calm exterior. 
 
 We were soon roving over the extent of the house, 
 my companions laughing and evidently in the highest 
 spirits^ joining in such merry games as " hide and 
 seek/^ and " blind man's buff/' in which I of course 
 took but a quiet part. At length the whole troop, 
 after much gesture of delight, followed Miss Ailing- 
 worth, an elegant and fair girl of eighteen, through a 
 long passage leading across the centre of the building 
 from that part where we had been playing to the left 
 wing, which we had not yet visited. She had keys 
 in her hand, and, after having unlocked a heavy door, 
 she ushered us into apartments altogether very dif- 
 ferent in style to those we had yet seen. 
 
 They had been evidently unused for a long period, 
 and contained old furniture, crowded like lumber 
 along the sides ; but were otherwise bare and empty. 
 It was afterwards explained to me that Sir William 
 had considered the house larger than he required, and 
 proposed leaving the left wing untouched and unre- 
 paired, which my uncle was glad to accede to, re- 
 questing that his own furniture might remain there. 
 
 The delight of the children on being admitted to 
 run through these regions of mystery was unbounded, 
 and Miss Allingworth was forced to unite her gentle 
 and effective powers of persuasion to the stern 
 authority of Miss Donought to prevent many little 
 
ANTONY. 105 
 
 mischievous hands from injuring the relics that stood 
 around. And I, — though a feeling of melancholy 
 for which I could scarcely account was on my heart, — 
 how happy was I thus to be able to retrace the 
 footsteps of my mother ! I should have been indeed 
 unsatisfied if any part of that beloved mansion had 
 been unexplored by me. I was almost glad that I 
 could not be disturbed by hearing the boisterous 
 mirth around me, being thus able to indulge my in- 
 ward interesting thoughts. We had wandered 
 through a long suite of rooms, and my merry com- 
 panions had one by one rushed away, so that I now, 
 on looking round, discovered myself to be alone. No 
 curious eye could now scan my countenance and 
 seek to read there my hearths emotions. Delightful 
 liberty ! I could now breathe freely, and felt no 
 longer so painful a restraint. Yet one more chamber 
 remained unexamined. I entered it. The room 
 seemed used exclusively as a lumber-room for the 
 pictures, and heaps of old family portraits were 
 placed there, one leaning against another, and some 
 of more recent date were hung upon the walls. I 
 noticed bars placed before the lattice window, as if 
 to render it less dangerous for children, and it imme- 
 diately struck me that this was probably my mother^s 
 nursery. 
 
 There was a picture of my uncle in his youth, with 
 his name marked on the frame below. Another I 
 saw from the label fastened on it was my grand- 
 
 f3 
 
106 ANTONY. 
 
 mother, who as an elegant shepherdess is represented 
 with a large nosegay of carnations. 
 
 Close below it hung the portrait of a young girl of 
 about sixteen, with luxuriant dark hair and a beautiful 
 countenance. 
 
 The earnest and penetrating gaze of the wonderful 
 eyes which, as I looked, seemed to rest on me, and 
 pierce into my soul, arrested my thoughts. That 
 pale and finely formed brow, that dark eye, that 
 heavenly smile, were in a moment recognised. 
 
 "My mother T' 
 
 An agony of feeling rushed upon me — 
 
 . ** Oh ! that those lips had language, life has past 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last ! 
 Those lips are thine, thine own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me." 
 
 As I gazed silently, the smile seemed to extend, 
 the eyes to sparkle. I felt that I, too, smiled. I 
 smiled, as if to respond to that beautiful expression. 
 My eyes moved not; they were rivetted there, while 
 my heart beat quickly, and my thoughts roamed 
 back to far distant times, on dear memory^s wings. 
 1 was the infant again. I was looking into the 
 darling face, with the intent to kiss. I was listening 
 to her; she was singing to me. Oh, that rapturous 
 melody! it was awakened again within my mind. 
 The touchingly sweet voice, its rich tones, rising and 
 falling in beautiful intervals, the words of poetry, 
 all — all, was aroused within, and seemed actually 
 
ANTONY. 
 
 107 
 
 present to me. I forgot that I was deaf; it seemed 
 that I heard; that these well known sounds again 
 struck upon my ear. 
 
 " Ohj mother, it is thou! it is thyself !^^ 
 
 I would have sprung forward to c&tch the loved 
 form to press it to my heart, but as I moved in 
 advance the varnish of the oil-painting glared in the 
 light. I had lost the focus where the effect was 
 most perfect. 
 
 The exquisitely charming vision was past. The 
 reality, that I was no more that happy child — that 
 she did not look upon me — that she could not sing 
 to me again — that I could hear her voice no longer — 
 that all her love — all my joy had passed, for ever, 
 glared frightfully upon me. I burst into a flood of 
 tears and sobbed violently. Then casting myself 
 upon a couch, against which many an old picture- 
 frame found support, I indulged in an outburst of 
 grief. I hardly dared look up again, to encounter 
 that form, which had so powerful an influence upor 
 me. At length, however, I raised my heavy eyes, 
 and started, frightened, to my feet, for another and a 
 diff*erent form stood before me. 
 
 A little girl, hardly younger than myself, gazed at 
 me with lovely hazel eyes ; tears glistened in them, 
 and rolled quickly down her cheek. There was an 
 expression of sorrow and distress in the small 
 mouth. Her brown hair hung in ringlets over her 
 neck and shoulders, and on her white dress. I knew 
 
108 ANTONY. 
 
 her. She was the second daughter of Lady AUing- 
 worth. 1 had noticed her often during the day, as 
 my eye had met hers bent earnestly upon me, and I 
 had mistaken the look of kindness for one of scru- 
 tiny. As I now recognised her, with confusion and 
 distress, at having been thus discovered, I saw that 
 she sighed heavily. Oh ! I could deeply sympathise 
 with those who are in sorrow. My solicitude, my 
 desire to show I could feel with her, if she were 
 unhappy, prompted me to advance, and take her 
 small hand in mine, as gazing in her sweet face I 
 asked — 
 
 "What? what?^' 
 
 Her countenance expressed, that she felt it would 
 be in vain for her to reply, since I could not hear; 
 and she looked round with a distressed air. She 
 sighed again ; and tears once more sprang to her 
 eyes. I drew from my pocket the ivory tablets, 
 which are of such constant serAdce to me, and offered 
 her the pencil. She seized it gladly and wrote — 
 
 " Poor little boy ! I am so sorry for j^ou.'^ 
 
 *^ But why these tears ?" I wrote. " Why are 
 you so unhappy r'^ 
 
 She repeated, " So sorry for you'/^ 
 
 And was it, indeed, compassion that caused the 
 light-hearted child these sighs? Compassion for 
 me ? The uncouth, the plain, the dull mute ? Was 
 it possible, that Lady AUingworth's daughter could 
 condescend to care for the poor pupil? 
 
ANTONY. 109 
 
 Sweet child ! how can my heart tell its gratitude. 
 
 I pressed the hand again^ and kissed it for having 
 written such sweet words. Though time shall at 
 length efface them from my tablets, it cannot make 
 them fade from my memory. 
 
 What a strange, unnatural character have I! I 
 never express or demonstrate in any degree what I 
 feel. This arises from the severe restraint I have 
 been forced ever to place upon my every emotion or 
 impulse, owing to the cold, hard natures of those 
 around me. So intense are my feelings and passions 
 that I believe that this obligation to check them may 
 be beneficial for me, as they might otherwise carry 
 me beyond bounds ; and yet I sometimes think that 
 had I opportunity to express my feelings, had I some 
 channel through which I could pour them forth, I 
 should be greatly relieved from the burden that seems 
 ever lying on my heart. My delight, my gratitude to 
 the beautiful angel child, who thus tendered to me 
 her pity, were deep— yet all the expression I gave to 
 them was writing the words. 
 
 '^' How very kind V^ 
 
 Then followed an explanation on both sides of the 
 scene just past, thus — 
 
 '^ Did you hide yourself here on purpose ?" 
 
 ^' I did not think you would miss me — you all 
 seemed so happy " 
 
 " I missed you directly we reached the garden — 
 they have been all playing there for an hour — and 
 
110 ANTONY. 
 
 have looked for you. Sister Adelaide at last guessed 
 you must be locked in here, and gave me the key to 
 come and see, as you cannot call out.^^ 
 
 " Thank you for releasing me — I did not know I 
 was locked in.^^ 
 
 ^^ What made you cry so bitterly }" 
 
 In reply to this I hardly knew what to write. I 
 then pointed to the beloved picture, led her to the 
 spot whence she could see its beauty, and strove to 
 articulate, " My mother,'^ 
 
 She seemed to understand me, and looked sur- 
 prised. 
 
 ^^ Is that picture really like your mamma ? Where 
 does she live — I should like to know her — " 
 
 I looked mournfully at her, closed my eyes and 
 lips, and let my head fall backwards as if to indicate 
 that sad word, which I could not have the heart to 
 write. Then I slowly shook my head — and sighed. 
 She caught my meaning, and turned her face away. 
 After a pause, she effaced our writing from the ivory 
 and began again our conversation — asking the ques- 
 tions with which, it has since appeared to me, children 
 usually begin acquaintanceship, what was my name — 
 my age, and had I brothers or sisters. 
 
 Her inquiry — " What lessons do you do }" some- 
 what puzzled me ; she saw it, and added, ^^ My bro- 
 ther does Latin and Greek,^' and she seemed in her 
 turn surprised when I wrote, " So do I.^^ " Do you 
 hate Latin V " No, I am fond of it." 
 
ANTONY. Ill 
 
 '^ How clever you must be V 
 
 Here the sun poured a bright gleam into the cham- 
 ber, and shooting across our heads, kissed the beloved 
 picture and recalled my attention to it. Presently 
 she touched my arm and showed me the tablets on 
 which she had been writing. 
 
 " I have seen you before. On the first Sunday 
 after we came here, you were on the Thorn hill. 
 Do tell me if you were not saying your prayers ? and 
 if you generally say your |prayers then, as well as at 
 morning and night ?" 
 
 I could not at first understand her question, till 
 I remembered the impulse of devotion which over- 
 whelmed me at the sunset 
 
 " The beautiful heavens,'^ I wrote, '^and the bright 
 landscape made me think of the Father above and 
 try to pray. I am distressed that any one saw me.^^ 
 
 " No one saw you but myself,^' she answered, '* and 
 you looked so holy I did not disturb you by drawing 
 the attention of the others to you. Do you think if 
 1 prayed whenever the sky is beautiful, I would get 
 as good as you are }" 
 
 " I wish that I were indeed good — then, 1 should 
 never be discontented or impatient.'^ 
 
 She looked gravely at me, then read again what I 
 had written several times. Wishing to change the 
 subject of our thoughts, I asked her name. She 
 wrote — 
 
 " Nina !" and then insisted on my pronouncing it. 
 
112 ANTONY. 
 
 which I strove to do^ and she presently assured me 
 I spoke it prettily. 
 
 ^' Now we will always be good friends together, 
 shall we ? '^ she wrote ; and my reply was — 
 
 ^^ 1 have no friends- — none— unless you will be one 
 to me. Will you indeed be my friend ?" 
 
 She nodded her head, smiling ; then, again, with 
 a sad expression, I saw her exclaim, " Poor little 
 boy V' Presently, she clapped her hands, merrily — 
 as a sudden thought appeared to start to her mind. 
 She hastily wrote, "Come away, leave this ugly old 
 room. I will give you a book to read, which will 
 make you so happy ! A charming book — it shall 
 teach you and all of us to talk together.'^ 
 
 " But, Nina, this room is not ugly to me. I love 
 it — for here my mother lived ;^^ and I explained to 
 her how I was related to the owner of Llanawr: 
 she was the more delighted, and led me away, 
 dancing and smiling. Before we joined the rest, she 
 had placed in my hands ^^The Boy's Own Book,'* 
 and pointed out to me in it a method for speaking 
 with the fingers, which has been invented for the 
 use of the deaf. I had never seen it before* I was 
 charmed ; and soon her little hands and mine were 
 busily employed in conversation. The other children 
 were amused, and some wished to learn it too ; so 
 that for the first time in my life 1 conversed with 
 ease, and without giving them annoyance, but rather 
 amusement.- My heart had not for many years felt 
 
ANTONY. 113 
 
 SO happy — I was once more a glad and rejoicing 
 child ! 
 
 Dear Eden ! beautiful Llanawr ! now more beloved 
 than ever. Oh ! would that such a day as I then 
 spent in thee could be an eternity ! Would that I 
 could live and die in thine enchantment I 
 
114 ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 CONTINUATION OF THE DEAF MUTE's CHILDHOOD, IN WHICH WE 
 SEE HOW HIS HEART SOMETIMES SUNK WITHIN HIM. 
 
 Such was my introduction to the family of Nina 
 Allingworth, and the subsequent occasions of our 
 meeting have confirmed, without changing the im- 
 pression made on me at first. Sir William, who, 
 like his eldest daughter, is of haughty and cold 
 nature, became, however, almost gracious to me^ 
 when informed of my relationship to the owner of 
 Llanawr, and gave me permission to roam in the 
 park at my pleasure. Lady Allingworth's gentle 
 kindness has been a source of extreme gratification 
 to me, and to it I have been indebted for the oppor- 
 tunity of studying many books of interest and 
 importance, lent me by her. 
 
 I know no picture more beautiful to me than that 
 of Nina's affectionate care of the little Clara, her 
 youngest, favourite sister. 
 
ANTONY. 115 
 
 Ah, Nina! thou art the angel among all of them, 
 and among the whole universe of beings. This 
 beautiful young gir] has a peculiar intelligence and 
 judgment; her tastes are intellectual, and her 
 powers of comprehension acute, while the freshness 
 of her childish fancies and the warmth of her heart 
 make her an enchanting being, — yet so dark a pic- 
 ture does mankind usually present to me, I some- 
 times fear lest my ideal, even of Nina, may, perhaps, 
 in its perfection, exceed the reality. 
 
 But what do I say? — mistaken in thee, Nina! 
 impossible. To read the inward mind on that 
 flushing and revealing countenance, and in those 
 honest eyes, is not so difficult — and I believe now, 
 there is in the soul of human beings, an instinct, as 
 it may be called, which teaches us, in some cases, 
 that we are right, decidedly right, in our first im- 
 pulsive appreciation of another; at first sight we feel 
 that we have sympathies with that one of whom we 
 are judging, and we know, without any actual proo^ 
 that we shall not, cannot be mistaken. Thus is it 
 with me, and the beautiful child Nina. 
 
 1 recollect, on one occasion, she called here with 
 Clara and their governess, to bring some message 
 concerning the parish schools, to Mrs. Donought; 
 they found me in one of my melancholy moods ; I 
 bowed to them, and was about to retire, but could 
 not resist watching her lips as she addressed her 
 little sister, and I read on them the words, — 
 
116 ANTONY. 
 
 " If Master Naytou were our brother, how happy 
 we would make him ; he should never look sad." 
 
 The little one nodded assent, ran forwards, and 
 tossed to me her handful of flowers ; then looked in 
 my face and laughed, as the ready smile flew to my 
 lips, then in a fit of shyness slipped back to Nina, 
 and buried her face in her sister's mantle. 
 
 The kindness of the AUingworth family is cer- 
 tainly sweet to me, but it has also a bitterness 
 which I cannot avoid tasting perceptibly. Their 
 condescension arises from pity — they do not love, 
 they only pity me. It is my defect, and not my 
 own individual worth, that earns for me their interest. 
 Alas ! any poor and sufi^ering animal awakens com- 
 passion in the human breast — it is my ambition to 
 inspire lovcj a real regard for my individual seK 
 for some intelligence, power or quality, which must 
 at least excite esteem in others ; but of this, I feel 
 I am incapable. Alas ! how can such as I expect 
 to win love. 
 
 It is unnecessary, and would perhaps be only 
 uninteresting, to carry on too closely the perusal 
 of these papers, which now take the form of a diary. 
 
 A few extracts will serve to disclose to us the 
 inclination of the mind, with the development of its 
 tastes and powers. 
 
 August nth, 
 
 I have to day succeeded in a caricature sketch of 
 
ANTONY. 117 
 
 Mr. Donought's countenance, which all the children 
 recognise, and which causes them great amusement. 
 They have since kept me constantly occupied draw- 
 ing their own faces. I had the wit to flatter Miss 
 Donought, by giving her an improved edition of 
 her own profile, which has brought me into high 
 favour. 
 
 I have sometimes designed for myself the study of 
 painting. The pictures and prints which I have seen 
 at Llanawr House, and some of which are of great 
 value, have increased my taste for the art; and I 
 have thought, that were I to dedicate my energies to 
 the study, I might one day become a painter, as the 
 sense of sight is in me unusually keen. The eye 
 having been so much exercised, since it is the sole 
 means of communication with the outer world, has 
 become acutely sensitive to forms and colour, as well 
 as motion ; but I now feel that even could I attain 
 a high proficiency in it, this art, however, beautiful, 
 could not satisfy my mind. My taste is not for the 
 study o{ form, but of spirit — of the wonderful inner 
 growth and development of the soul, not of the out- 
 ward man. This, then, will not be a resource of any 
 extreme pleasure for me. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ¥r 
 
 September Ath, 
 Another summer is fast retreating, but there is 
 no change in our existence, save that I have been 
 
118 ANTONY. 
 
 enabled to enjoy some novelties in study. I am be- 
 come more and more dissatisfied with my tutor. His 
 negligence and his incapacity to teach more than the 
 mere outlines of such branches of study as form my 
 chief interest in life, render me often despairing. 
 The soul longs for knowledge — for knowledge of the 
 deep and the true. This is its only healthy food, 
 and without it it cannot be satisfied. 
 
 I have great difficulty in exciting in myself any 
 interest in the tasks assigned me by him, associated 
 as they are with his unpleasant tempers and petty 
 severities. A spirit of contradiction, or perhaps of 
 pride, makes my whole mind revolt from any duty 
 imposed on me by my tutor, while self-inflicted 
 studies have an engrossing charm for me. I feel at 
 the same time that this rebellion is highly blameable 
 —that I must force my spirit to submission in these 
 little matters, if I would have power over myself in 
 future more severe trials. 
 
 Submission — submission, must be the- motto of 
 my life. When I was a little child, and apt to 
 burst forth into passion at opposition, my mother 
 taught me that word, '^ Learn, my Antony, learn to 
 submit ; this, all children must do.^^ Ah ! I have 
 since been taught that maxim still more powerfully 
 by the affliction laid on me by a Divine sentence. 
 
 May I never forget thy words, oh, my mother ! 
 But the lesson is the more difficult to realize within 
 
ANTONY. 119 
 
 ourselves, as it is against our nature ; for submission 
 implies servitude, and for freedom — ior freedom, the 
 spirit of man ever strives — freedom is his birthright ! 
 but he comes not into this inheritance here below. 
 While on earth he must ever be a slave — a slave to 
 circumstances — a slave to the humours and passions 
 of others, as well as to his own. 
 
 This truth is indeed humbling ! How hard it is 
 to know when the impulse natural to us leads us 
 aright, or when wrong. Pride, within, represents to 
 our minds that there is something noble in resisting 
 the authority of our fellow men ; while conscience, 
 with finer instinct, warns us that this brave pride is 
 evil, and even dangerous. Is not the philosophy of 
 pride ever sl false philosophy ? 
 
 But a truce to moralising; out, out into the 
 refreshing fields and forests ; up, up the bold moun- 
 tains ; away, away from such dull converse with my 
 own dull thoughts. 
 
 September 6th, 
 
 After a ramble yesterday, a plunge into the Erry 
 waters, and a bath which I expected would be a 
 refreshment, I found myself a victim to pain and 
 fever. A sleepless night brought me little relief 
 * * * * 
 
 Mitford^s history carries me, as in a magic chariot, 
 back to the days of the mighty men of Greece — 
 days when the ancient nations went through the 
 ordeal of the infancy of civilisation, for us piloted by 
 
120 ANTONY. 
 
 the vigorous geniuses of philosophers, whose writings 
 and deeds command the reverent admiration of this 
 age, the manhood of the world. I, however, have 
 laid aside Mitford, till I shall have read the narra- 
 tions of Thucydides and Herodotus in their original 
 languages. 
 
 At the present time history is my favourite study. 
 Indeed, it must ever be one of peculiar interest to 
 the deaf. While we read, our defect is not felt as a 
 disadvantage, and we are as it were on a level with 
 our fellow-men. By history is human nature best 
 made known to us. It teaches us the various ele- 
 ments for good and for evil, which constitute indi- 
 vidual spirits as well as whole nations. It takes us, 
 as it were, by the hand, and leads us forth to the 
 pinnacle, whence we have a view of the great land of 
 men ; and as I silently look on, I long to be there 
 and in action. 
 
 The life of the statesman has now a charm for me. 
 That must be a great office for the mind, by which it 
 receives into it and weighs the great interests of 
 nations; deals forth judgment, and helps to keep 
 in motion that vast machine which promotes order 
 and progress in a state. Were it possible for me, I 
 should, I think, aspire to devoting my life to such 
 ends. 
 
 September 14. 
 
 Oh ! for a Pegasus, on whose swift form I 
 might fly through ether, far from this gloomy 
 
ANTONY. 121 
 
 dwelling, and my own dark thoughts ! My very 
 enjoyments — my intellectual pleasures, are becom- 
 ing unbearable to me. I am weary in mind and 
 body. I have grown feverish in thought, and weak 
 in limb. I am ill, and in constant pain, both in 
 heart and head. And how could it be otherwise 
 with me? I have no distinct aim even in my studies 
 — no aim which can interest my heart, though the 
 mind may be amused, for every thought centres in 
 myself. My life is utterly selfish. Hated word ! — an 
 egotistical existence is unbearable ; I detest it. For 
 others — for some dear ol)ject on which my full heart 
 might lavish its store of love, — for some fellow-being, 
 not for my worthless, hopeless self, would I occupy 
 my energies. 
 
 Yet what can I do ? I stand alone, an isolated 
 atom on the life-stored world, beloved by none. No 
 father commends me if I do well, or urges me 
 onward when I waver. No mother fondly and 
 eagerly smiles encouragement on my aspirations, or 
 watches my health with tenderness. No brethren 
 care for me — why do I live ? — I have no one to love. 
 
 From my father I seldom hear: a short note 
 sometimes accompanies the yearly payment of the 
 expenses of my education and living, to Mr. Do- 
 nought, which arrives but irregularly. This note 
 contains, perhaps, a short injunction to obedience to 
 my tutor, or a recommendation to industry in my 
 studies, and is usually written by my step-mother. 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 ANTONY. 
 
 The expressions are cold, and no insight is given me 
 into my future destination. My sister Kathleen 
 seems to have forgotten me. Augustus, I have not 
 seen for two or three years. He has written to me 
 at distant intervals of time long accounts of his 
 sports and school-tricks, which serve to excite more 
 and more ray longing for a school-life. Thus my 
 relations are all far off in affection as well as locality ; 
 and with the exception of the attachment of my good 
 nurse, who sometimes writes to me, I am, alas ! 
 alone. 
 
 After writing thus far to-day, I roamed out into 
 Llanawr Park. As I reclined moodily on the turf, I 
 became interested in one of those velvet-coated cater- 
 pillars which now abound. The little creature clung 
 upon a tall grass blade, and, as seeking some firmer 
 support, stretched forth its form eagerly in all direc- 
 tions to seize on some other object, but in vain — 
 there was none sufficiently near. I watched till, in 
 one despairing effort, it fell to the ground. I was 
 struck by the similarity of my own circumstances. 
 Lonely as I am, how does my soul look forth, seek- 
 ing, striving, longing for some friendly heart to cling 
 to. If these struggles are too long in vain, may it 
 not fall, like that worm, to the hard bed of despair? 
 
 Oh ! for the joyous moment when, with airy 
 wings, the germ there hidden may spring upwards, 
 from its grave, and fly freely towards the bright 
 Heaven of Immortality ! 
 
ANTONY. 123 
 
 As even that insect was not unregarded by its 
 Creator, so am I not unwatched. 
 
 Meek, imperfect, soiled by the dust of sin, still 
 am I loved and guarded ; and though ofttimes my 
 soul gives utterance in mournful accents and its 
 suiferings, yet it doth not complain — its sighs are 
 not murmurs; as the groans of the wounded man 
 need not be expressions of impatience, but of 
 resigned and calm endurance. 
 
 How mercifully Nature teaches us self-content, 
 though our conscience may make us self-dissatisfied ! 
 After all, what matters it what we are here, in our 
 first hour of the souPs life, so we become prepared 
 during it for the long day beyond ? 
 
 Ah! it is easy thus to write truths which we 
 extract from our experiences, but how difficult is it 
 to feel them, to realize them to the mind in the 
 course of e very-day life ! 
 
 My thoughts did not long continue in this mood, 
 for on rising from the clover-scented grass I was again 
 overcome by an attack of pain in my side, which 
 now constantly attends me, and by a cough which 
 has lately become troublesome. I could not walk 
 far, and was soon forced to rest on the first bench 
 I met with. My brain felt weary of thinking. I 
 strove not to think — to shun the entire exertion, 
 and fly from each thought as it arose. The flowers 
 bloomed, smiled, and nodded at me; the birds 
 hopped about me, and I saw that they sang; tanta- 
 
 G 2 
 
124 ANTONY. 
 
 lizing birds ! how I longed to hear their strain, which 
 appeared to have in it no sad notes. The words — 
 
 *' How can ye chant ye little birds. 
 And I so wearie fu' o' care ?" 
 
 occurred to me. Nature no longer charmed, but 
 rather tormented me. Shakespeare knew, I fancy, 
 well enough such a state, when he said how difficult 
 it is to 
 
 " Minister to a mind diseased, 
 Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, 
 And, with some sweet oblivious antidote. 
 Cleanse the foul bosom, of that perilous stuflf 
 Which weighs upon the heart." 
 
 As I sat long thus, T presently became aware 
 that I was not alone, and opened my weary eyes 
 
 Miss Schwartz, the little German governess, with 
 her two pupils, stood near. Her small, good-natured 
 eyes twinkled as I looked up ; she nodded, and 
 signed to me to join them in their walk. I rose, 
 but sudden pain in my side obliged me to resume my 
 seat. Nina's gaze on me was grave and anxious. She 
 sat down beside me, and in that language, of which her 
 pretty fingers are the clever mistress, she inquired 
 about my health. We had a long conversation in 
 this manner ; she told me that I was wrong in study- 
 ing so much, and that the cold bath in the river, 
 more than a week ago, must have brought on the 
 violent cold, which caused my present suffering. 
 She requested I would lay aside study in the hours 
 
ANTONY. 125 
 
 afforded me for recreation, and seemed greatly sur- 
 prised that Mrs. Donought and my tutor should be 
 so regardless of my health. 
 
 This never surprises me in any way. The good 
 mother of so numerous a family must have enough 
 to do in attending to the health and the clothes of 
 ten obstreperous children, without willingly adding 
 another to the number. Indeed, her whole life 
 seems to be occupied in household duties, and cutt ng 
 out apparel for her ten. 
 
 When the young ladies returned from their walk 
 they found me at the same spot. I had not been 
 able to quit it, not now because ill and weak, but 
 because I was too happy. The scene just past, the 
 kindness and solicitude of these good hearts, and 
 of the angel Nina, had been ecstacy for me. 
 
 Clara bounded towards me, her arms clinging 
 round a bundle of long green rushes, which she 
 consigned to mine, and she was not content till 
 Nina had taught me her method of making a basket 
 by interweaving them. My fingers were soon thus 
 cheerfully employed, and I have a commission from 
 Nina to make a basket for her flower-roots. I am 
 bent on going to-morrow to the dell, and seeking 
 the finest rushes for my handy-work. This scene 
 has cheered my thoughts, but health it could not 
 restore. 
 
 I feel strangely ill to-night. Oh ! that in my dreams 
 
126 ANTOxN'Y. 
 
 Nina may be with me. Thoughts of her, waking 
 or sleeping, are enchanting. 
 
 November, 
 Autumn has been here and is departed. It has 
 laid bare the golden-leaved maple and the red beech. 
 Its winds have borne many, many fading forms to 
 their graves — yet I still linger! A severe and pain- 
 ful illness is, with the season, passing away, and life 
 yet remains with me, which, they tell me, may 
 spring forth, and bring back health. Yes, I still 
 
 live 
 
 Ah ! wherefore ? 
 
 I have, from my bedroom window, enjoyed the 
 earth's beauty during this glowing season. Favoured 
 autumn wears a ^^ coat of many colours/' for a short 
 while, and then, like the patriarch's son of old, is 
 robbed of the envied vest by his cold-hearted brother. 
 Now winter is at hand, and I look on with dread to 
 its cold and cheerless months. To spring, the joyous 
 spring, I dare not look forward ; it seems so far, far 
 off, — perhaps I shall never reach it. 
 
 The kindness of the AUingworth family during my 
 illness has been untiring. Lady AUingworth has, I 
 believe, spoken of me to Mrs. Donought, commend- 
 ing me especially to her watchfulness ; and has, it 
 seems, been so considerate as to make their former 
 acquaintance with my uncle, an excuse for a peculiar 
 
ANTONY. 127 
 
 interest in myself, and thus has somewhat allayed 
 the feeling of jealousy which the favour shown me 
 had already awakened here. 
 
 During this illness I have, however, realised some 
 new intellectual pleasures. There are times, even 
 when we are most miserable, that some blessings 
 beam upon our souls with startling brilliancy, as, in 
 the darkest night, the eternal stars shine brightest. 
 
 Poetry has been my chief source of amusement, 
 and latterly I have occupied myself with the adven- 
 tures of my Italian child, so that the tale is now 
 completed, and a new subject begun. Another 
 pleasant occupation has been, attempting to write 
 verses. To form the rhymes, and string them like 
 musical bells together, is, to my poor deaf brain, as 
 if I composed melodies, silent melodies, to which 
 my heart sings its passions, its longings, joys, and 
 sorrows. 
 
 The metre is, however, a great difficulty to me, as 
 I cannot, by use, learn the emphasis of the various 
 syllables. To assist me in this, I have recalled to 
 my mind the hymns I used to repeat when a little 
 child, and remind myself thus also of the sound of 
 certain rhymes. I find in Murray's " Grammar^' an 
 explanation of metrical feet. 
 
 Miss Donought, having once wished to write an 
 answer, in rhyme, to a valentine, introduced an 
 old second-hand rhyming Dictionary into the house ^ 
 which has since fallen into my hands, and is invalu- 
 able to me. 
 
128 ANTONY. 
 
 The cough has not yet left me, and change of air 
 is advised ; but whither should I go ? I have no 
 home but this; indeed, I should be distressed to 
 give my father the expense of my removal to the 
 sea-side, which has been proposed. I cannot avoid 
 feeling truly that he would have suffered no great 
 grief, had the result of my illness been different to 
 what it has. Who is there that will shed one tear 
 over my grave ? who would not feel that it had been 
 better had I been laid there long ago ? who would 
 miss one so helpless and so useless as the deaf mute? 
 surely not one of my own family, not one of that in 
 which I am domesticated, no, not the Allingworths, 
 not even Nina ! Their kindness to me is not yet 
 the consequence of esteem ; and, perhaps, not one 
 of them is less personally attached to me than Nina. 
 She is a good angel to all as to myself. I have seen 
 her shed a tear when an animal suffered, bind up, 
 with her own hands, the broken limb of a dog, and 
 walk some miles to give relief to a poor family. In 
 like manner she compassionates me. Oh, Nina ! 
 could st thou but love me for myself! 
 
 December 5. 
 I have received a kind letter from nurse, and an 
 unexpected and welcome invitation from my aunts 
 to visit them at the Christmas holidays, when 
 Augustus returns from school, thus to become ac- 
 quainted with my brother and sister, as well as to 
 regain my strength. The thought of this meeting 
 
ANTONY. 129 
 
 fills me with joy. The intervening weeks will pass 
 quickly, almost disregarded by me, so eagerly shall I 
 be contemplating the bright prospect before me* 
 To see and speak with Augustus, to embrace the 
 little Kate, oh ! what an exquisite pleasure. 
 
 December 13. 
 
 A week has gone by, since the invitation arrived ; 
 it had passed so slowly, as to appear a month to me. 
 Expectation, instead of lending another pair of wings 
 to old Time, seems to place a burden on his back, 
 to retard his flight. 
 
 I am better, more light-hearted, than I have long 
 felt. In a day or two I must pay my farewell visit 
 to Llanawr, and look a last look at the picture of 
 my mother. 
 
 Before leaving Llanawr House, to-day, I had the 
 gratification of receiving from Sir William a written 
 as well as verbal permission to visit his library at 
 my will, and study there what books I please. Of 
 this valuable favour I may avail myself, when I 
 return. 
 
 And now, good journal, my excellent friend, I 
 will bid adieu to thee for a short while. Thou hast 
 been trustworthy, consolatory, and a source of plea- 
 sure to me ; thou hast been what no mortal being 
 has ever been to me, — thou couldst not advise or 
 teach, but thou hast received into thy silent bosom 
 
 g3 
 
130 ANTONY. 
 
 all my confidences, my few joys, my many sorrows, 
 my thoughts and affections. Thou art my own 
 oflfspring, faulty and useless to all save myself. Thou 
 art the impress of my life. Oh ! that that life might 
 become one day useful, not only to myself, but to 
 others — no longer faulty, but perfect — as perfect as 
 is compatible with existence on the earth. 
 
 In a manuscript of my mother's, I find the fol- 
 lowing words, written by her own hand, — words that 
 I will henceforth take to be the motto of my life : 
 " Patience, patience, child of toil and suffering ; time 
 brings relief or rest. Patience, — believe, and act. 
 Every man may rise above his calamity .'' 
 
 Ah ! may I find and preserve this^ powerful and 
 holy patience ! greatly, indeed, do I need it. By it 
 may T learn to await more cheerfully the time when 
 my ears shall at length be opened, and my tongue 
 loosened, — in the world where suffering entereth 
 not — to join with thee, oh ! my mother, in thy songs 
 of everlasting praise ! 
 
ANTONY. 131 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN WHICH THE DIARY CARRIES US TO NEW aUARTBRS, AND THEN 
 BACK AGAIN TO THE OLD. 
 
 Felicity Villa, Cheltenham, 
 I HAVE been here already more than a week. 
 My good aunts, the Miss Singlevies, half-sisters of 
 my father, have received me in a manner I can best 
 describe as benign. They are good-natured and 
 very particular ladies, also very prim, and I believe 
 entirely fashionable in their dress and demeanour. 
 
 Aunt Joan, the youngest, is tall and stately, jealous 
 of her dignity, conscious of great importance, with a 
 grave countenance, wearing at times an expression 
 of obstinacy ; and she is gifted with a temper easily 
 ruffled, and a strong inclination to quarrel, whenever 
 an opportunity presents itself. 
 
 Aunt Bess, the eldest, is my godmqther, and I 
 fancy somewhat disturbed at possessing so unsatis- 
 
132 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 factory a godson, and one so little worthy of being 
 exhibited to her fashionable world, as a belonging 
 of hers. She has a truly kind heart, but is so easily 
 influenced by others, that Joan, believing herself to 
 possess the master-mind, assumes authority over 
 her, and manages to secure her own way in general. 
 She can, however, carry on a dispute bravely, and 
 there is no lack of petty quarrels about trifles, 
 between the sisters. In one thing they agree, — 
 they are both fond and proud of their niece, whose 
 pure and lovely nature I am only fearful lest they 
 should injure by their too strict mode of education. 
 
 On my arrival here, the door was opened by a 
 stately man-servant. I had written my name on a 
 card, ready to deliver when the coach should set me 
 down at the gates, whereon I read the name of 
 Felicity Villa. I entered the hall — all was magnificent 
 to my humble ideas. Strange servants only appeared 
 to my anxious gaze. Nurse was not among them. 
 " Kate, Kate, my darling sister,'^ were the words my 
 heart breathed, but my lips were still. I had 
 imagined the little lisping blue-eyed girl of five 
 years old, scarcely altered from what I remembered 
 her, would have been ready to fly to my arms. 
 Presently, a head peeped over the dark-polished 
 banisters, and in an instant, came dancing down 
 stairs, the elegant figure of a girl of twelve years 
 old. I ran forward, caught her in my arms, and 
 covered her cheeks with kisses. She seemed too 
 
ANTONY. 133 
 
 startled to return he salutation, disengaged herself 
 from my embrace, asked the servant ^^ Who is it ? " 
 while a deep blush overspread her face, as if called 
 up by my unceremonious greeting, and gracefully 
 springing forwards to where my boxes stood, before 
 she could have a reply, she satisfied herself by a 
 glance at the name written on them ; then with an 
 air and an elegance I could not but admire, and 
 with a happy smile, she passed by me, and beckoning 
 to me to follow, flitted up stairs, like some fairy. 
 She threw open the drawing-room door, and as I 
 advanced, took my hand with an air almost theatrical, 
 and led me forwards, to introduce me to my aunts. 
 
 The ladies examined me minutely as I made my 
 bow to them for the first time in my life, and then 
 they motioned me to be seated. Kate sat down 
 opposite to me, bolt upright, and with her hands in 
 her lap, as if she had been drilled into that position 
 by the severest discipline. The two aunts, who were 
 each also as erect as a post, and each back as flat as 
 a door, looked at Kate approvingly, then at one 
 another with satisfaction, then at me, as I thought, 
 with disgust. 
 
 I felt that I stooped, was awkward and dull, for I 
 was very weary. None of the ladies knew what to 
 say, and I could not assist matters; presently my 
 cough come on in so violent a fit, that they all looked 
 greatly alarmed, the bell was rung hastily, the maid 
 appeared, and I was hurried off to my room. I 
 
134 ^ ANTONY, 
 
 thought Kate looked as if she would hke to follow, if 
 she dared. 
 
 My fit of coughing at length over, I signified my 
 desire to see nurse, and as a shake of the head was 
 all the reply I received, I asked for my sister ; I was 
 vexed, mortified, and disappointed. 
 
 Presently Kate appeared with a large slate and 
 pencil, which, I have since learnt, was purchased by 
 the good aunts, expressly for the purpose of convers- 
 ing with the deaf and dumb boy. I could not but 
 smile, when I saw that on it Kate had already written 
 — " Dear Antony, I was obliged to finish saying my 
 French before I could come to you.^' 
 
 We stood and gazed at one another, and into each 
 other's eyes. The blue orbs I had recollected in 
 the little Kate, are become dark grey, and are intelli- 
 gent and sparkling; the hair, formerly brown, is 
 nearly black, and her complexion delicate. Were it 
 not for the restraint which the poor child is forced to 
 wear by her aunts, and, if I may coin a word, the 
 artificiality which stamps her motions in general, 
 there is a genuineness and truth in her character 
 which are valuable. I may presently, be enabled to 
 obtain an influence over her, and, perhaps, check 
 the little affectation of her pretty airs before it is 
 more confirmed. 
 
 She contemplated me for some minutes with a 
 clever, scrutinizing gaze. Then I perceived a change 
 steal over her face — the lips quivered, the breast 
 
ANTONY. 135 
 
 heaved, tears stood in her eyes — another moment and 
 her arms were flung round my neck, the warmest 
 kisses covered my cheek, and I was pressed con- 
 vulsively to her throbbing heart. 
 
 Sweet moment ! then she was indeed still my own 
 warm-hearted Kathleen, and the blessing of sisterly 
 affection was not denied me. I wept with her for 
 very joy. 
 
 She seemed to forget I heard not — exclaiming 
 words which I saw on her lips, as she looked with 
 loving smiles into my face. 
 
 " Dear, dear Antony, I am so happy— so happy. I 
 have often thought of how happy we once were 
 together as little children, and longed to see you 
 again .^' 
 
 She afterwards explained to me, that nurse had 
 been called away to the bedside of a sick friend, but 
 would return that night. She confessed she did not 
 at first know me, when I arrived, and feared she had 
 done wrong in going down into the hall, as her aunts 
 had told her it was very improper for her to be there 
 when company came. 
 
 " 1 thought you would be a little boy, young 
 enough to play with me,'^ she wrote. 
 
 " And am I not so, dear Kate ?" 
 
 " You look so — rather old," was the naive reply. 
 
 '' You expected me to be a pretty boy, did you 
 not ?" 
 
 '* I thought you would be younger," she answered. 
 
136 ANTONY. 
 
 then adding, " you are so tall — you are no longer a 
 child ; and your shoes are so large and thick — they 
 make prettier shoes than these in Cheltenham/' 
 
 My smiles were interrupted, and my attention sud- 
 denly called away from the amusing child. A form 
 was before my eyes, which appeared in my excite- 
 ment not a reality, but a phantom, so suddenly had 
 it risen up there; so silently did its gaze pierce into 
 my soul, that I knew not what I did, or hardly what 
 I felt. Visions of the past stole athwart my brain, 
 like golden clouds over a distant sky when the 
 sun has vanished. Thoughts of my mother — of that 
 last day T saw her, thoughts of my first adversities 
 hovered over me, with the numberless sweet associa- 
 tions connected with her who had loved me in those 
 early days — for it was nurse who stood before me. 
 
 " Ah ! dear nurse,'' I strove to utter. I felt her 
 hands upon my shoulders, and sank backwards 
 unconscious. 
 
 When next I woke, I lay in a large crimson cur- 
 tained bed, and candle-light showed me that nurse 
 was sitting by my side. T was thankful that my for- 
 midable aunts were not present, or even Kathleen. 
 I had suffered so much, so deeply, since last I had 
 seen nurse, nearly five years ago, that now, when I 
 again met her mild, loving gaze, and was reminded of 
 her almost forgotten, but quickly recognised coun- 
 tenance, the host of varied feelings and remembrances 
 that crowded on myheart were almost too much forme. 
 
ANTONY. 137 
 
 It was not till past midfiight that my weary head 
 resting once more in those kind arms, I fell into a 
 soft slumber, and my dreams were of my mother, and 
 again I heard in my soul the melodies her voice had 
 once sung to me while she was on earth. 
 
 :ic :ii iic if: :ic 
 
 Augustus has returned from school ; and we have 
 had what Kate calls *^ the merriest of all the Christ- 
 mases she ever knew.^^ It is something as sweet as 
 it is new to me to find myself once more among 
 those related to me. Our aunts look in the best 
 humour imaginable, and entirely satisfied with them- 
 selves ; they have hardly quarrelled for a week past, 
 and the good hearts seem greatly pleased to hale 
 rejoiced us young beings by bringing us together. 
 
 With Augustus, I have had long and important 
 conversations on our family matters and future 
 prospects. He is a fine handsome laJ of eighteen, 
 with the strength of a lion, and with health and 
 inclination fully to enjoy life's cup of pleasure. He 
 is a merry, pleasant companion ; but has, I fear, 
 lost some of that candour which was his noble cha- 
 racteristic when a child. With regard to myself, he 
 seems altogether disappointed in me. " Antony is 
 a poor, sickly fellow ! '' was his remark to one of 
 my aunts, which he little thought I could under- 
 stand. His manner towards me is compassionate 
 and sometimes patronising to a degree which I find 
 it difficult to endure. He is intending soon to enter 
 
138 ANTONY. 
 
 the University of Cambridge, and seems to form no 
 plans for a profession. We have just separated after 
 such a conversation as the following. 
 
 " A university career is absolutely necessary to 
 complete a gentleman's education/' he says, ^^and 
 my father must exert himself to enable his eldest 
 son to have this. I shall go abroad in the long 
 vacation, as I must see my old uncle Waltingham, 
 at Naples, and ingratiate myself with him; then I 
 shall, perhaps, get some appointment by his influ- 
 ence which will keep me till I come into his 
 fortune." 
 
 ^^But surely, Augustus, you do not expect any- 
 thing from our uncle ? Remember, the child he has 
 adopted will doubtless be his heir. You have, I 
 fancy, deceived yourself if you expect the fortune 
 will become yours." 
 
 , " So it seems to you ; but, my dear fellow, you 
 know nothing about it. This important individual, 
 this adopted child, is a young lady — a cousin of his 
 own ; and who knows but she may be a most charm- 
 ing being, and I may fall in love with her at first 
 sight r 
 
 " Easily done, certainly, Augustus, since you are 
 already in love with what you think the best part of 
 her — her fortune; but are you altogether sure she 
 will as quickly return the sentiment?" I wrote, 
 laughing. 
 
 " For such men as I am," he answered, ^^ the very 
 
ANTONY. 139 
 
 uncertainty of chance has a charm. I am one of 
 that clever set who always fall on their feet. I 
 throw myself on the sea of chance, and let its waves 
 carry and toss me as they will ; the motion is 
 pleasant to me, be it rough or smooth. Even if I 
 am stranded, my weight is not enough to sink me 
 deep in the sand, and the friendly waves of the next 
 tide drag me off again, and again I am in motion.^^ 
 
 Augustus doubtless expects his fascinations will 
 be irresistible, both to uncle and cousin, and, indeed, 
 I believe he does not overrate them, for I cannot 
 but admire him immensely. 
 
 After such conversations as these, I feel that he 
 is, however, mistaken in his views of life^ and of 
 what his duty in it should be. At other times, his 
 good humour and good nature, united with his hand- 
 some face and winning manners, make me turn in 
 disappointment from the contemplation of myself, 
 and long to be like him. 
 
 I have always wished to have the advantage of a 
 school life. To fight my own way through difficul- 
 ties and dangers among my fellows, would be agree- 
 able and beneficial to me. I have mentioned this 
 to Augustus, told him how little progress I can 
 expect to -make with my tutor, and how constantly I 
 pine for the society of companions. He at first 
 laughed at the idea, told me I could not stand it — I 
 ^as too much like a girl — my health was bad ; and 
 then on my rejecting such an argument almost 
 
140 ANTONY. 
 
 angrily, and urging my desire with a spirit and 
 energy which he seemed not to have expected from 
 me, he promised to mention it to my father when he 
 next wrote to him, and his letter shall not depart 
 without another from myself on the same subject. I 
 am now fifteen years of age, and to continue for the 
 few more years I have for education in that melan- 
 choly house of the Donought^s, appears to me un- 
 endurable. 
 
 A-ugustus informs me that my father has decided 
 upon my future course. I am destined to be a mer- 
 chant's clerk in a respectable firm in London, with 
 which my father is acquainted ! 
 
 ^^ It is the best thing you can do/' continued Au- 
 gustus. ^^ Our father will place you there in three or 
 four years' time ; you will, if you take my advice, set 
 yourself cheerfully to the business, and it will bring 
 you, shortly, at least sixty or seventy pounds a-year. 
 1 see little use in your going to a school only to pre- 
 pare yourself for a life of mere arithmetic ; but as it 
 is your wish, I will do what I can for you in per- 
 suading our father." 
 
 Such is the glimpse my brother gives me of my 
 future life. I am to be removed from the joyless 
 home where my energies have been, and must conti- 
 nue to be unexercised, and to be conveyed thence to a 
 dark and gloomy street in the heart of London, there 
 in an unwholesome air to work as an automaton, for 
 my daily bread, at operations in which mind and in- 
 
ANTONY. 141 
 
 telligence can take no part, and have no sympathy. 
 Thus is the culprit conveyed from one prison to 
 another. I made Augustus comprehend how dis- 
 tasteful to me is such a prospect. 
 
 " My dear fellow, you have hitherto,'^ he wrote, 
 " been only a dreamer. You have amused your 
 child^s mind with childish fancies, which you have 
 imagined to be poetical. Sentiment has been the 
 only food for your thoughts, and that is too poor 
 a diet for a mind to grow healthy and strong 
 upon. You have mistaken this sentiment for refine- 
 ment of intellect, and think yourself too much of a 
 poet to work like an honest man for your livelihood. 
 I am very sorry for you. I pity you from my heart, 
 as I see your fate is entirely contrary to your taste, 
 but I advise you to shake off all morbid despondency 
 and be thankful we have been able to find any path 
 in life in which you have a probability of such suc- 
 cess. Your dreams, my good Antony, have been 
 nearly long enough ; in a few more years' time you 
 must be prepared to rouse yourself from them, and 
 encounter the realities of life.'' 
 
 Thus does Augustus humble me, though indeed I 
 feel that he is, in all he says, kind and brotherly. His 
 advice is valuable, but in some things he judges of 
 me too severely. 
 
 In some of this surely he is wrong, for it is not a 
 false sentiment that my mind has had. I can dis- 
 tinguish a vast difference between the morbid feel- 
 
142 ANTONY. 
 
 ings to which he refers, and the taste for intellectual 
 improvement I have desired to indulge. To guard 
 myself from falling a prey to such false sentiment, 
 I have forced myself to learn other minds through 
 the medium of books, and not so much yield to my 
 own thoughts, as to make myself master of those of the 
 great and wise, who have, in their writings, given traces 
 of their experiences to guide and enlighten others. 
 
 But he is right in saying I must cast aw^ay the 
 tastes I have till now cultivated, and prepare for the 
 realities of life. I would not be a burden on my 
 father and my family longer than is actually neces- 
 sary, and I must hail gladly the opportunity of free- 
 ing them from all care of one, who can only be a 
 source of distress to them . 
 
 Augustus' idea of his own future life seems not to 
 include the thought that exertion on his part will be 
 necessary, though he is aware of our father's diffi- 
 culties. That he, the eldest son should be required 
 to have any profession, seems far from his thoughts. 
 The estate in Ireland he deems now utterly w^orthless, 
 and that it must remain in its present barren state, 
 as capital will be required to raise it from ruin. '^ The 
 times may be better when I come into it," he wrote, 
 " and then my uncle's fortune will assist me to make 
 something of it." 
 
 " But what, Augustus, if you do not succeed in 
 providing yourself with your uncle's fortune ?" 
 
 " I must go into the army for which I at one 
 
ANTONY. 143 
 
 time destined myself, and look out for another 
 heiress/^ 
 
 ^' And if our father cannot buy you a commission ?' 
 I asked. 
 
 " Tush, foolish boy ! he can and must/' was the 
 reply. 
 
 January 17. 
 
 How sweet is the restoration of health ; how 
 gratefully do those who have known its loss, receive 
 back so priceless a gift. 
 
 The change of air, and scene, and mode of life, 
 have already aifected me beneficially, and I feel vigour 
 mind and body daily returning. 
 
 To-day Augustus has given me new and surprising 
 information regarding my father's fortunes, or rather 
 misfortunes. I learned now that the cause of his 
 leaving his home and his country was not that a de- 
 sirable appointment in Jamaica had summoned him 
 irresistibly away, but that he could no longer remain 
 without the utter ruin which he was about to suffer 
 being made known to the world ; early extravagancies,^ 
 and later failures in several schemes that had pro- 
 mised better results, had brought upon him ruin. 
 But he had a proud spirit, and could not brook that 
 those who had been his friends in prosperity, and all 
 who had looked up to him and paM him honour, 
 should now know how great was his fall. '^ 
 
 His wife, who brought him a little income of her 
 own, prevailed on him to establish himself i the 
 
144 ANTONY. 
 
 West Indies, as she had relatives there, who were in 
 power. Such relatives, however, are rarely eager to 
 assist their humbler connections when applicants for 
 help, and it was not till long after their settlement 
 in the island of Jamaica, that our father had obtained 
 an appointment under the government with a small 
 income sufficient to provide for the needs of his 
 family, and for his own establishment. Augustus has 
 also gathered from some expressions in his letters, 
 that our stepmother does not study to give him hap- 
 piness ; she is self-willed and of a passionate nature, 
 and our poor father does, it appears, constantly pine 
 to behold once more his long-parted children. 
 
 I wept to think of my father's suffering, and then 
 of my own defects. Alas ! alas ! that I am incapa- 
 citated for usefulness in life, or how eagerly would I 
 strive to bring him back to his country and his 
 children, and replace him in his former position. 
 
 Felicity Villa, January 20. 
 
 A violent quarrel between my aunts yesterday 
 morning at breakfast, of which it appeared to me I 
 was in some way the subject, has since been explained 
 to me. Thus has Kathleen described the scene to me. 
 
 The two good hearts have determined that during 
 my visit here I shall have the advantage of medical 
 advice for my deafness, and the debate this morning 
 was the settling to which of the two pet doctors I 
 should go. Aunt Joan strotigly advises her dear 
 
ANTONY. 145 
 
 friend, Mr. Haler, and my godmother, who seems to 
 feel she has a more just right to have her way with 
 me than her sister, insists on my seeing her own 
 adviser, Mr. Goall. 
 
 " You know," says aunt Joan, ^' Mr. Haler entirely 
 cured my deafness." 
 
 '^ But that was only arising from a little cold, and 
 would, probably, have left you without his help. Mr. 
 Goall would be much more likely to understand 
 Antony." 
 
 "How can you be so foolish, Bess; Mr. Goall is 
 only a quack. If I were his godmother I would not 
 permit him to go near the man," cried Joan, who is 
 generally the more violent of the two ladies in the 
 expression of her opinion. 
 
 " He is more clever than you suppose — he under- 
 stands the nerves so well. Antonyms deafness may 
 depend on the nerves. Remember how very success- 
 ful he has been with his vinegar and salt water system." 
 
 '* Vinegar and salt water, indeed ! I know that he 
 never could cure my rheumatism in the elbow. It 
 was dear Mr. Haler relieved me from that torment. 
 I should be an unnatural creature could I cease to 
 be grateful to him." 
 
 " But, Joan, it was as much the change m the 
 weather as anything else that cured you ; you cannot 
 deny that the day you sent for him became so sultry, 
 the pain was gone before he knocked at the door." 
 
 '^ Sultry, indeed ! Bess, you are insulting me. 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 ANTONY. 
 
 Surely I must be the best judge of m}^ own sufferings, 
 and my own recovery from them ! " 
 
 " Well, Joan, I did not mean to excite you ; I 
 humbly beg pardon, but I cannot help saying Antony 
 may as well go to you to be cured as to Mr. Haler. 
 That man has no notion of the nerves !" 
 
 "And I am sure, Bess, he may as well go to the 
 cook to be cured as to your Goall 1" 
 
 Thus continued the dispute, as Kathleen tells me, 
 till both at length agreed in one point, and that was, 
 that I should see both the doctors. Then came the 
 question which should I see first? which there was a 
 great deal of difficulty in settling. At length, aunt 
 Joan succeeded in arranging that her dear Mr. Haler 
 should receive the first visit, as a mark of her grati- 
 tude, for she said it would certainly be a compliment 
 to him. Eager to seize any opportunity or chance of 
 benefiting my calamity, I willingly accompanied the 
 aunts to Mr. Haler's. 
 
 He seemed a regular ladies' man — so polite, "so 
 very gentlemanly," as aunt Joan says — so detestably 
 sw^eet and agreeable in his manners ; one who might 
 win a lady's heart by his graceful and interesting 
 method of feeling her pulse. He examined me for, 
 I believe, nearly three quarters of an hour, then 
 shook his head, told me my case was hopeless, and 
 that it was his opinion that the tympanum was irre- 
 coverably injured, but he advised us to consult Dr. 
 
 D , the celebrated aurist. He received his guinea, 
 
 and many expressions of gratitude from Miss Joan 
 
ANTONY. 147 
 
 for the time and trouble he had expended on me, and 
 we left him. I had never before doubted the hope- 
 lessness of my recovery^ but I began to do so when 
 assured of it by this man. 
 
 Aunt Bess, all triumphant, now carried me off to 
 her friend, Mr. Goall. This was a little ofF-hand 
 man, who, after contemplating me with frowning 
 brows and tightly-closed lips for some minutes, gave 
 his answers with, coldness and decision. 
 
 He declared my deafness rather the fault of the 
 whole system than of the ear itself, which made Miss 
 Joan's eyes shoot daggers of conteiiipt, and me laugh 
 most heartily. He advised my good godmother, his 
 patroness, to effect an entire change in my diet, for 
 that I required to live exceedingly well (to which I 
 had not the slightest objection), and also to put me 
 under a course of shower baths of his wonderful 
 vinegar and salt water. 
 
 This opinion seemed so truly original, that she 
 left the house quite proud of her valued friend. 
 But Joan was not thus to be triumphed over. She 
 stopped us before we had proceeded far on our way 
 homewards, with the startling observation to my 
 godmother. — 
 
 "Well, Bess, now that you have seen the folly 
 of this quack, perhaps you will try the advice of 
 
 a sensible man, and go to th^ aurist. Dr. D , as 
 
 Mr. Haler desired.'' 
 
 '' I believe Goall to be quite right about Antony, 
 
 H 2 
 
148 ANTONY. 
 
 and thought him wonderfully clever to-day/^ said 
 Bess, somewhat meekly, however. 
 
 I had read these words on their lips, and posi- 
 tively could not restrain my laughter ; but fortu- 
 nately neither were offended, as they little guessed 
 that my attention was directed to themselves. Aunt 
 Bess, however, had the wit to understand that I had 
 no great respect for her Goall, and submitted to 
 Miss Joan's arguments. We accordingly turned 
 our course towards the house of the aurist, whose 
 name shone distinctly on an important brass plate 
 on his street door. 
 
 Oh, torments ! I shall never forget what I went 
 through here. The examination of my poor ears 
 was of a most torturing description. He shot into 
 them with syringes all kinds of liquids, — hot and 
 cold water, spirits and lotions, — he probed them 
 with instruments, pryed into them with eyeglasses, 
 and actually seemed bent on turning them inside 
 out. At last an application of an infusion, as yet 
 untried, was made to them, which caused great 
 pain as it passed over the delicate organs, and 
 then seemed to fly to my brain, and threw me into 
 agonies, driving me half mad. I could no longer 
 endure this martyrdom. I started up — no one could 
 restrain me — seized m,y hat, rushed from the house, 
 and flew homewards, whither my poor aunts followed 
 me, altogether disconcerted and alarmed. They 
 brought a paper from the aurist, on which he had 
 written the result of his examination — and of which. 
 
ANTONY. 149 
 
 • 
 
 all I could understand was, " that fever and inflam- 
 mation had at one period taken place in the auditory 
 nerve, and that the web of the portio mollis, lining 
 the cochlea, was so far injured as to be now useless/^ 
 
 I could have told him all this myself, omitting 
 only the Latin terms, without his throwing me into 
 such torments, and threatening to destroy my poor 
 brains. Henceforth am I resolved to let my ears 
 alone, and never again to go doctor-visiting — having 
 made up my mind it is better to lose one's hearing, 
 than all one^s senses besides. 
 
 My good aunts have, however the satisfaction of 
 feeling they have done their best for me. And I 
 now must shortly part with my Kathleen, and return 
 to the house of Donought. The anticipation of this 
 would be melancholy to me, were it not that the 
 gloom of my existence there is at times lighted up 
 by the sun of Nina's smiles and sympathies. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Ponterry, February . 
 
 Again at Ponterry. Winter is unpleasant, and so 
 is Miss Donought, who, dressed in a thick dark 
 gown, like a Franciscan monk, that same gown I 
 have already seen for four winters, and which seems 
 to have made up its mind never to wear out, looks 
 crosser than ever, and beats and pushes her poor 
 little sisters about more energetically than ever, as 
 if thereby to keep her red hands warm. 
 
 The busy Mrs. Donought is apparently employed 
 day and night and for ever, in making pelisses that 
 
150 ANTONY. 
 
 will not fit the elder ones do for the younger. I 
 constantly see her thus occupied, scissors in hand, 
 with brows knit, and countenance intent, cutting • 
 and carving. Alas ! there is yet no Nina ! The 
 Allingworth family are in London, and I must exist 
 
 for two more months in a wilderness. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 There are scattered here and there, through the 
 cold, flowerless month of February, some fair days, 
 so warm, so sunny, that they resemble the coming 
 spring, and are foretastes of that golden time. It is 
 thus, too, in our lives ; in the midst of their weary 
 durati(m, unenlivened by the flowers of hope, are 
 hours so genial, so spiritually blessed, that we feel 
 they are foretastes of the eternal spring. 
 
 In my rambles to-day, my attention v/as attracted 
 by a flock of little boys and girls, who were stand- 
 ing round the door of the Infant School-house. I 
 followed them, as the latch was at length raised, and 
 they all rushed headlong in ; and was amused and 
 surprised to observe, with gravity and quiet dignity, 
 the pretty young schoolmistress soon produced order 
 by her commands and gestures, among the boisterous 
 and laughing children. It was an enjoyment to me 
 to watch the bright young faces with as yet no 
 shadow of care, or sin, or sorrow, to cloud their 
 sunshine. I could not sojn tear myself away from 
 the pleasant picture, and am resolved often to repeat 
 my visits there; they will be a refreshment to my 
 whole being. 
 
ANTONY. 151 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BEING A DISSERTATION OF OUR OWN, OF WHICH THE DEAF MUTE 
 IS THE SUBJECT. 
 
 Thus far have we followed the development of 
 Antony's life and mind, as traced by his own 
 hand. 
 
 Here the journal ceases its continuous strain; and 
 for more than a year we find only memoranda of 
 books perused, of studies of new and varied nature, 
 undertaken and carried on with zeal, and of but 
 few matters of interest. 
 
 Passing over this period with only a slight notice, 
 we shall arrive at the point where we were at first 
 introduced to him, on the day of the burning of the 
 village. But before doing this, we would observe, 
 shortly, on some peculiarities in the character of our 
 deaf friend, to which it may not be uninteresting to 
 call attention, since they are unusual among the 
 
152 ANTONY. 
 
 greater part of those persons who are afflicted like 
 himself. 
 
 It is well known that those who are born deaf, or 
 become so early in childhood, remain usually 
 remarkably young, almost infantine, in countenance, 
 manner, and mind, even till an advanced age. The 
 intelligences of such unfortunate ones stand still, 
 while the body grows and matures. This has been 
 remarked, even in some of those who have the 
 advantage of pains-taking friends, and the improved 
 education of the admirable institutions for teaching 
 the deaf and dumb, now established in so many 
 parts of the country, where able men devote them- 
 selves to the study of the capabilities of the 
 deaf. 
 
 Antony Nayton had none of these advantages; 
 but he availed himself of others, which he raised 
 up from even his calamity itself; and though so 
 young when it came upon him, we must acknowledge 
 him eminently forward in intelligence and power of 
 thought. He had, in fact, been carried forward 
 rapidly, and successfully, by his own natural energy, 
 no superior mind being at hand to aid or guide 
 him — to consult his powers, and adapt to them 
 the acquirement of knowledge— to explain, or to en- 
 courage. At the age of fifteen we find him greatly 
 advanced, even during the quiet monotony of his 
 dull life, in mental acquirement, and, we may add, 
 in the experiences of life; for, by reflective minds, 
 
ANTONY. 153 
 
 are not the smallest daily events and trials often 
 made more valuable than the heaviest would be by 
 the inconsiderate ? And this we may ascribe to his 
 having been brought forward in education, perhaps 
 by his mother's care, as well as his own natural 
 quickness, previous to his losing the sense of hearing. 
 Already, before this door to the understanding was 
 so irremediably shut, that understanding had begun 
 to expand; his genius had received the spark which 
 now the smallest breath would fan into fire; his 
 mind had opened so far during the seven years that 
 it had existed, that no circumstances, however 
 violent, could close it again ; and his powers required 
 now only food and time to bring them to maturity. 
 
 Hence his love of reading and application, where- 
 by he was able to acquaint himself with a knowledge 
 of men and of the world, which assisted wonderfully 
 to raise him to a level with those who suffered not 
 his deprivation. 
 
 The effect of his calamity on his character was, 
 therefore, not as injurious as might have been the 
 case, under other circumstances. By it, all his 
 energies were directed inwards, and there concen- 
 trated, kindling in him a constant longing to effect 
 that which would, at first, appear impossible to him, 
 or even absolutely denied him by his calamity; and 
 an urgent striving to master the difficulties of his 
 position. 
 
 Thus we find him attempting to write poetry, for 
 
 h3 
 
154 ANTONY. 
 
 which, it would seem, that the musical ear and 
 knowledge of the emphasis of language, which he 
 could not possess, must be indispensable. Thus, 
 also, the study of other tongues than his native 
 English, was undertaken by him with gusto; and 
 whatever he undertook, he carried out. 
 
 It is also interesting to remark, how continually 
 thoughts of music appeared hovering in his mind, 
 and how he seems ever longing to realise to his 
 inward sense the beautiful soul enjoyment of which 
 his misfortune had outwardly deprived him. 
 
 We find him during the year after his first 
 acquaintanceship with the Allingworth family, carry- 
 ing on his studies with greater assiduity than ever. 
 His visits to the library in Llanawr mansion were 
 daily. History continued at first his favourite study 
 in times of recreation, and mathematics then took 
 its place, and absorbed his whole attention. This 
 science possessed so new and wonderful a charm for 
 him, that he threw everything aside for it except his 
 tutor's tasks. 
 
 He was indulging the hope that his father might 
 grant his request of sending him to a school, and 
 that his application now would prepare him for it. 
 At length, however, came the reply from his father 
 in a letter from Augustus, wherein he learnt that it 
 was decided he should remain where he was till he 
 was nineteen, and then undertake the office of clerk 
 in the merchant's house of his father's former friend. 
 
ANTONY. 155 
 
 And now came the difficult task of resigning himself 
 to this joyless doom. Such a position was indeed 
 dark and painful to him ; yet what else could he do 
 in the world? for what was he fitted? This was a 
 sad question, and one which his bold spirit had not 
 yet learned to answer. 
 
 Now came the remembrance of his writings to 
 cheer him with new hopeful visions ; of his Italian 
 tale and of the little hoard of pleasant fancies and 
 inventions which were gathered in his mind ready to 
 be brought forth and woven into gay poetic garlands, 
 when he should find leisure and occupation for the 
 work. He now began to imagine that these might 
 be of service to him. 
 
 " Yes, even though I must pine in the dust and 
 darkness of the great Babylon, I will not be without 
 aim or the hope of some enjoyment. I will find 
 moments in the night or morning which shall afford 
 my imagination time for its glowing dreams. I will 
 write, and thus may perhaps bring extra provision 
 to my scanty purse.'^ Such thoughts grew and mul- 
 tiplied ; he thought of disposing of his effusions to 
 some of the literary magazines, and then indulged in 
 more wonderful and brilliant visions for the future. 
 
 In the library of Sir William Allingworth, whilst 
 he sat busily reading, Nina would frequently visit 
 him. In the intervals of her play hours she would 
 love to interrupt his studies and chatter to him with 
 her fingers ; and how Antony loved to be thus dis- 
 
156 ANTONY. 
 
 turbed! He told her all his thoughts and prospects. 
 He spoke with her as with her sister Kate, only with 
 a different and more interesting pleasure. Her 
 intellect was quick and her judgment so keen that 
 he always derived from her new ideas, or found his 
 own enlarged or corrected. 
 
 '^ What if I should become a lit3rary man, some 
 distant day?" he asked, with an expectant smile. 
 
 '' Oh, don't attempt it. Papa says authors and 
 artists are always the worst off in the world." 
 
 '' What if I should be a poet?" 
 
 ^^ Worse still. Papa says poets are never men of 
 business, and that men of business get on best in the 
 world." 
 
 "I have already written a little romance," said 
 Antony, whilst he felt a little disconcerted at what 
 she had told him. , 
 
 '' You clever boy ! let me read it." 
 
 The manuscript was accordingly intrusted to her, 
 and when she gave it back to him, he had the plea- 
 sure of receiving expressions of the warmest admira- 
 tion. 
 
 " Mama has read it, for I privately told her our 
 secret, and she cried over the poor little boy's sorrow 
 almost as much as I did ; but we did laugh at one or 
 two parts." 
 
 '^ Which?" 
 
 " At the poetry ; for the rhymes and the measure 
 were not altogether right, and sounded very strange. 
 
ANTONY. 157 
 
 Now, however, all is put right, if you will alter the 
 few words we have marked ;^^ and she pointed out 
 to him the faulls, showing that " plough'^ and 
 "rough," a.d "head," and "to lead," "shadow," 
 and " endow," do not rhyme, although their termi- 
 nations are in the same letters. 
 
 These imperfections made him the more eager to 
 write more ; and he was not content till Nina had 
 read a copy of verses which she could pronounce 
 correct. 
 
 From Augustus he heard that his father's affairs 
 were becoming more and more embarrassed. He 
 could not permit Augustus to go to the university, 
 to the great disappointment of the latter ; but had 
 applied, in his difficulty as to what he should do with 
 his son, to his brother-in-law at Naples, and be- 
 sought for the sake of the sister, who was no longer 
 living, that he would use his interest to place her 
 son in the army. 
 
 This was afterwards answered by the uncle pre- 
 senting Augustus with a commission in the army, 
 expressing that he wished this to be the first and 
 last application to him ; and Augustus was des- 
 patched with his regiment to Ireland within a month 
 afterwards. Occasionally Antony received letters 
 from Kathleen, written in a pretty young lady's 
 hand, very stiff and child-like in their matter, and 
 evidently penned under the eye of the aunts. A 
 few lines, sometimes were scribbled at the end, as a 
 
158 ANTONY. 
 
 postscript, containing a burst of affectionate ex- 
 pressions, which were precious indeed to him, as 
 gushing spontaneously from the simple and tender 
 heart of the sister so dear to him. 
 
 The last words that we find written in his diary 
 before the eventful day of the incendiary fire, are 
 the following : 
 
 April 16. 
 
 My visits to the Infant School become more fre- 
 quent. Among the little laughing faces, there is one 
 has a peculiar charm for me, as it wonderfully 
 resembles my recollection of the little Kathleen, 
 when four years old. My pencil must again be in 
 motion, to commit this sweet memory to paper. 
 
 There has been a fete in the village to-day; 
 clothes and food have been given away to many 
 smiling parents of families, and all in lionour of 
 Miss Allingworth's marriage, which is to-day to 
 take place in London, whence the family will not 
 yet return. This marriage is universally approved, as 
 the young lady has united herself with a titled nol^le- 
 man of large fortune. Surely it will not be very long 
 before the more enchanting Nina, stepping forward 
 into her sister^s place in the world of fashion, will 
 follow her also to the altar, led thither by a noble 
 and gifted lover. Alas ! then I may never again 
 hope to look upon her who is the only light in my 
 dark life. 
 
 And what a strange existence has that life been ! 
 
ANTONY. 159 
 
 When I look back on my journal, I abhor it, and 
 still more myself. What nothingness — what egotism 
 it betrays ! — how grievously it exhibits an interest 
 only in myself, and disregard of others ! How nar- 
 row must be the heart in which self only dwells ; 
 and yet I would gladly open my own to a world 
 of souls, would they care for the revelation — would 
 they respond to my love ! 
 
 W^hen I look on into the miserable future, which 
 threatens me with a continued isolation from hope or 
 affection, I shrink from it with a shudder. Is there 
 no cause of humanity, no means of usefulness, to 
 which I can devote myself ? 
 
 Oh ! I have the will and the power within me, to 
 act and suffer long and patiently for the sake of 
 others ; but, alas ! I feel that for me there is no 
 sphere of action, no capability for usefulness, and I 
 must be content to exist only for myself. Content I 
 — no, thus content I can never be ! Heaven dooms 
 not one of the lowliest creatures to this. All exist 
 for the glory of their Creator. Oh, that I might be 
 among these blessed ones ! 
 
 JjC Jjs J|> y^ 
 
 We have seen how this desire was shortly after- 
 wards in a measure fulfilled, when on the night of 
 the fire Antony was enabled by his own self-sacrifice 
 to administer to the preservation of other lives. 
 
 W^e now leave the past, and* resume the thread of 
 our narrative at the eventful period of Gladis Evans' 
 anxiety and Antony's illness. 
 
160 ANTONY 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 IN WHICH ANTONY ENGAGES IN A NEW ENTERPRISE. 
 
 It was the end of May. The month of the 
 prisoner's suspense had passed. The assizes had come 
 on, and Howel Philips had stood for his trial on the 
 charge of incendiarism. He had declared his inno- 
 cence : that the formidable array of evidence against 
 him was the result of a conspiracy among his 
 enemies, and all utterly false. A statement of this 
 nature was, however, only to be expected from a 
 prisoner, and was accordingly disregarded. He 
 requested that Master Antony Nayton might be 
 examined, as, although he had not seen him on that 
 night, he, having been the first to discover the flames, 
 might have important communications to make. But 
 all agreed with the surgeon in stating that his evi- 
 dence could not be relied on, tlmt he was always 
 considered to have lacked understanding, and i;ow 
 his reason had entirely failed him. As a proof of 
 
ANTONY. IGl 
 
 this, his strange and unmeaning replies during his 
 examination by the officers of the police were read. 
 
 It was late before the examinations were over on 
 that day, and as it was probable the jury would be 
 long discussing their verdict, the case was remanded 
 till the following day. 
 
 Gladis, on this the last morning of the trial which 
 was to decide the fate of hers and of Howel's life, 
 sat within her cottage in a state of suspense and 
 alarm too painful to describe. She was wrapped in 
 her own fears, and regardless of all around her. 
 .- On the floor before her lay the newspaper con- 
 taining the account of the transactions in court during 
 the previous day. Her eyes were fixed in a steady 
 stare as if they saw nothing ; her lips and cheeks 
 were pale, and now and then deeply heaved sighs 
 burst from her. Her weeping mother sometimes 
 stood watching her, then busied herself with little 
 household matters, then again, gazing at her sadly, 
 attempted to distract her thoughts, or offer her con- 
 solation in such words as_, " Never mind, Gladis, it 
 will soon be over; don't fret : you know it is impos- 
 sible they can touch his life ; they don't dare dq 
 that. Look up, answer me, Gladis; tell me you 
 won't grieve about it. Come, come, we will go 
 and see him in the i)rison ; he will like that." 
 
 Such harrowing words might have pierced with 
 renewed anguish the heart of Gladis had she heard 
 them, but it was evident she was as deaf to them as 
 
162 ANTONY. 
 
 she was blind to her mother's tears, for at this 
 moment she heard nothing but the deep moanings of 
 her own spirit, and saw only the workings of the 
 alarmed thoughts within. She and her mother had 
 attended at court as witnesses on the previous day, 
 and had been deeply disappointed that their evidence 
 instead of aiding the cause of the prisoner had rather 
 had the contrary effect. 
 
 It was now between ten and eleven o"* clock in 
 the morning, and Mrs. Evans, imagining that her 
 daughter was gradually sinking into a swoon, so still 
 and so pallid did Gladis remain, began to throw open 
 the door and the windows around to give her air, but 
 suddenly the girl started up, crying with a vigour 
 which surprised her mother, " I have settled it. I 
 will do it. 1 will go to him. I will see him myself.^' 
 
 She caught up the newspaper and rushed out of 
 the house. ^^ Whom, whom, will you see ? stop, 
 Gladis ; are you mad ? where are you going V ex- 
 claimed the mother, and hurried after her into the 
 village. 
 
 It was one of those fair mornings when the young 
 foliage of spring smiles l:>eneath the kisses of the 
 sun. Joyful and beautiful was all nature. 
 
 Master Antony had been sitting in his tutor's 
 study, which opened on the garden. His recovery 
 from his painful illness had during the last two days 
 been more rapid than before, but he still felt very 
 
ANTONY. 163 
 
 weak. He had not yet walked out^ and he now sat 
 b}' the window luxuriating in the sweetness of the 
 air^ for Mr. and Mrs. Donought were away from 
 
 home ; they had gone to the town of T , to be 
 
 present at the termination of Phiiip^s trial, but 
 Antony knew not the cause of their absence. He 
 was totally unaware of the transactions going on 
 there ; he did not know either that incendiarism had 
 been suspected in the case of the fire at Ponterry, 
 nor that the supposed offender had been captured ; to 
 him all was silence and ignorance on this head. He 
 had to-day been endeavouring to amuse himself with 
 resuming his studies, but found his head too weak 
 for much application. His injured arm and shoulder 
 were at times very painful. He therefore, after 
 writing a few pages of his diary, sauntered out into 
 the flower garden. Such times as these were very 
 beneficial to him ; they refreshed his spirit and im- 
 parted a returning vigour lo his limbs. 
 
 He thought with deep gratitude not only on his 
 wonderful preservation beneath the smoking ruins of 
 the miser's house, and on the sweet feeling of reco- 
 very, but he rejoiced thankfully that strength had 
 been given him to act with courage on that fearful 
 night, and to lend help to a few of his fellow-creatures 
 in their time of need. He remembered with pleasure 
 the look of the mother as he gave the little Rachel 
 into her extended arms. He thought of other similar 
 moments. Then he thought of Nina ; he had often 
 
164 ANTONY. 
 
 and often so longed to see her during his illness. It 
 was night to him when he could not for a length of 
 time behold her ; but he knew she was away, for the 
 whole family had been in London during the gay 
 spring season, and he was ignorant of when she would 
 return. 
 
 As he now noticed the garden gate open from 
 without, he regretted that his pleasant meditations 
 should be disturbed, and dreaded the appearance of 
 any of the Donought family. He did not at first 
 recognise the new comer, who ran speedily towards 
 him. It was Gladis Evans. She rushed forwards 
 to him, threw herself at his. feet, embraced his knees, 
 kissed his hand, and, by every gesture and motion, 
 seemed endeavouring to express delight and grati- 
 tude. He felt that she was thus thanking him for 
 the help he might have given her; or perhaps she 
 rejoiced to see him so far recovered. And he was 
 right. Her first impulse was one of joy, at seeing 
 him again, then of gratitude. When, however, he 
 strove to raise her from the ground, and signify to 
 her he had sufficiently understood her, she changed 
 her attitude towards him ; she raised her clasped 
 hands with an expression of earnest petition, and as 
 he showed surprise and ignorance of what she 
 would impart, she traced with her finger in the loose 
 gravel of the walk on which they stood, the words, 
 " Save him V 
 
 Antony was still more perplexed; he saw she was 
 
ANTONY. 165 
 
 greatly agitated, but knew not how to calm her. 
 At length she held to him the newspaper she had 
 brought, pointed out that part in which the account 
 of the trial was given, and then left the garden. 
 Outside the gate she however tarried, watching his 
 movements. He was in a moment interested in 
 the subject, and seating himself in the arbour, he 
 perused attentively the whole account. 
 
 "The wretch is then seized,^' thought he, "and they 
 seem to have sufficient evidence of his guilt, without 
 my testimony, or I could throw some light on the 
 sinful business of that night; now I should be too 
 late, for I see this morning the verdict will be given.^^ 
 When he read the unexpected opinion of himself, 
 his incapacity of reasoning or giving evidence, he 
 was fjreatlv startled. He learned, for the first time, 
 that men ascribed to him a mental malady — a defi- 
 ciency of understanding, and he was startled— then 
 he read that his exertions to save the lives and pro- 
 perties of others, and his perilhng his own life in 
 their cause, had been considered as proofs of mad- 
 ness — not of courage inspired by a humane heart. 
 
 An impatient frown for a moment darkened his 
 brow, then followed a sorrowful smile; he placed his 
 hand on his heart, for it beat quickly, and he sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 ^' Would Nina, too, have thought this, had she 
 been here ? No, no, I believe she alone understands 
 me 'P and with cheerfulness he resumed his reading. 
 
166 ANTONY. 
 
 He had hardly concluded the account of the trial, 
 when a hand touched his arra^ and he found Gladis 
 again before him. '~ 
 
 Again^ and again, she traced on the ground the 
 words, "Save him! save him P^ and turned with a 
 look of entreat}^ towards him. He signed to her it 
 was impossible ; shook his head, and wrote on the 
 ground, ^^ cannot." She appeared in a state of des- 
 pair. She pointed to the name of Howel Philips, 
 then clasped her hand on her heart; he understood 
 then that she loved that man, and was more than 
 ever perplexed. He led her into the study, and 
 taking pen and paper, wrote thus : 
 
 '^ Surely, you cannot love this man V 
 
 "I do — save him." 
 
 " I cannot — I saw him do the deed — I watched 
 him in the rick-yard — he lit the fire." 
 
 *'* It is false ! you did not." 
 
 Antony looked wonderingly at her, he was alarmed 
 at her appearance, she was greatly altered since the 
 last day he had seen her in the school — pale, worn, 
 emaciated ; her cheeks hollow, her eyes wild, and 
 starting forward with an unnatural fire; her hands 
 clasped, her whole frame trembling, she stood now 
 before him, a statue of despair. 
 
 He resumed the pen — 
 
 " This man cannot love you ; I believe he intended 
 you ill — not good — on the night of the fire ; he de- 
 serves his punishment. He was, I believe, forcing 
 
ANTONY. • 167 
 
 an entrance into your house when I first cried out to 
 you/^ 
 
 She read the words, and stared wildly at Antony ; 
 he presently continued — 
 
 '^ Fie had burst open the parlour window, when I 
 rushed forward and threw myself upon him. I had 
 seen him earlier lurking round the house, before the 
 young labourer, who spent the evening with you, 
 went away across the moor " 
 
 She clapped her hands with a wild expression of 
 joy, caught the pen eagerly, and wrote, in a hand 
 almost illegible from her agitation — 
 
 "Howel Philips is that young labourer — he is to 
 be my husband ; he is innocent, and in prison \" 
 
 Antony was startled. The whole truth flashed 
 across him. Howel Philips was, then, not the name of 
 the incendiary ; the innocent man was aboiit to suffer 
 for the guilty ; and when next she wrote the eager 
 prayer^ " Save him ! ^^ he replied, " I can — I will/' 
 
 Antony now set himself to consider how best he 
 could perform the urgent duty which he felt was 
 upon him. The trial was to come on that day. He 
 must in person present himself, without delay, in 
 court, and give in his evidence. It would be useless 
 to write, and send his testimony, he must be pre- 
 sent, not only to see the prisoner and declare him 
 innocent, but also to give proof to the assembly of 
 his own sanity. A nervous tremor came over him 
 when he thought of this. He shrunk from it with 
 
]68 ANTONY. 
 
 alarm. How could he, weak and ill as he still was, 
 be enabled to command his powers of mind and 
 body, when standing before a crowd of men already- 
 prejudiced against him, and he, the deaf and dumb, 
 prove there to them his own intellectuality in the face 
 of their disbelief? He felt, at first, that he could not 
 have strength to go through it ; but then, the con- 
 demnation of an iimocent man, hung upon him — he 
 felt as if he held the life or death of this man in 
 his own hands. But how could he go r^ — he would 
 scarcely be able to walk — what vehicle would carry 
 him ? The Donou"ht's carriage was out. The 
 Alhngworths were away, or he would not hesitate to 
 apply to them. He knew of no other conveyance 
 anywhere at hand. He must then walk. Yes, he 
 would walk ; surely, he could do it ; there was a 
 short way to the town across the fields ; that little 
 journey he conld well perform. 
 
 Gladis, meanwhile, watched him with mingled 
 feelings of hope, of doubt, and of fear. Hope that 
 he might be enabled to prove HowePs innocence ; 
 doubt, whether Master A^ntony was indeed sane, 
 whether, even as she gazed at him, confusion and 
 forgetfulness were not gathering over his brain ; and 
 fear, lest, even, if his evidence were such as could be 
 received, it might not arrive too late, for time was 
 passing, and Howel might, even now, be standing 
 at the bar, awaiting the fatal verdict. 
 
 '^ What, if he be too ill to act for us ! what, if 
 
ANTONY. 169 
 
 his mind be wandering i ^^ thought she in terror, as 
 she observed he trembled and sank into a chair, 
 *^ What if reason is, indeed, gone ! Oh, Heaven 
 have mercy on us ! '^ 
 
 In a few minutes, however, she was reassured. 
 Master Antony removed his hand, with which he 
 had covered his eyes during his meditations, and 
 looked earnestly at her, then wrote with a firm 
 hand, though with haste — 
 
 ^' Where is your mother ? Let her go with me by 
 
 the paths over the fields to T , it will be only 
 
 four miles from this that way ; can she go with me ? 
 I am too weak to go alone. We must be in court 
 as soon as possible ; and, with God^s help, we will 
 
 save your Howel ^' 
 
 The grateful Gladis flew away on her joyful mis- 
 sion. 
 
 '^ Why should my spirit faint ? Why is my heart 
 disquieted ? " thought Antony. " God will of a cer- 
 tainty give his child that strength both of mind and 
 body which is needful to carry him through so just 
 and important a duty.^' 
 
 He now prepared himseK with a new energy for 
 his journey. 
 
 He had not long to await the return of Gladis 
 and her mother, for Mrs. Evans had been watching 
 for her daughter near the garden, and soon learned 
 from her all that passed within. She now presented 
 herself to him in the study. He was writing what 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
1 70 ANTONY. 
 
 he had to say to them in a clear hand, that both 
 might read ; it was thus — 
 
 "Mrs. Evans must accompany me to court at 
 
 T , where I will give my written evidence which 
 
 shall prove Howel Philips innocent. This evidence 
 I cannot have time now to write ; but see, it is already 
 written. Look, both of you, at this book ; it is my 
 diary ; in it I write all that happens to me. In this 
 book I have written, during my illness, all that I 
 saw and did on the night of the fire. You will be 
 witnesses that I tear out of my diary four sheets, 
 and this I will carry to court. The jury must read 
 them — they will declare all I know of the truth — 
 and having seen me do this, I request you will 
 both sign this paper, which I will present in expla- 
 nation.^^ 
 
 He showed them, accordingly, the manuscript 
 journal, with which we are already acquainted, and 
 tore out the important leaves. The two women 
 signed the paper, as he had desired, and he inclosed 
 it, with his evidence, in brown paper, sealed it, and 
 wrote on the exterior — 
 
 " To the Gentlemen of the Jury at T . By 
 
 this evidence Antony Nayton declares the inno- 
 cence of Howel Philips, and describes the person 
 of the true incendiary, he having witnessed the 
 deed.^^ 
 
 And now that all was ready, and they were about 
 to depart, Antony was filled with an unexpected 
 
ANTONY. 171 
 
 vigour. His nervous timidity, his usual shyness, 
 his fears and doubts of his own strength to carry 
 out his design, were passed away. He suffered no 
 longer from that extreme lassitude which had lately 
 incapacitated him. His usually paUid cheek glowed 
 with the tinge of health, his step was ready, and his 
 countenance cheerful. 
 
 And now it was Mrs. Evans' turn to waver. He^ 
 appointed companion had been judged uncertain in 
 his mind, and she thought with some alarm of the 
 journey she was to make with him. " A pity, Gladis> 
 you can't come with us," she said ; " must you in- 
 deed go to the school at twelve o'clock ? perhaps I am 
 not quite prudent to go alone with the poor lad. He 
 is strange, you know, at times — crazy, they say — 
 and look, his cheek is already flushed. Is he not 
 somewhat excited?" 
 
 '^ Go, mother, in Heaven's name ! The young 
 gentleman has been our preserver before now — trust 
 his kind heart ! Go, mother, remember he is to be 
 Howel's deliverer — tarry not one moment," cried the 
 girl, impatiently. '^ Would that I, too, could go — 
 would that he would take me also ; but I dare not 
 press myself upon him — he is too good. Good bye, 
 mother — my heart will be with you the whole long 
 day — and oh ! hurry back to me, or send me news, 
 or 1 shall die of anxiety." 
 
 The poor woman promised to be back as soon as 
 possible, and endeavoured to assume that courage 
 
 T 2 
 
172 ANTONY. 
 
 and pleasure in the enterprise which were far from 
 her heart. 
 
 Antony laid his hand on the girPs shoulder with a 
 gentle kindness as he took leave, and there was in his 
 eye so holy an earnestness, and his whole counte- 
 nance beamed with so full a benevolence, that Gladis^ 
 heart was deeply touched. 
 
 She followed them as they set out. " Mother/' 
 she cried, "we have sinned grievously against Master 
 Antony, in that we ever doubted that his mind is 
 right — he is not crazy — he is not foolish — look at 
 that face, and then how dare we pronounce him other 
 ^jhan the most intelligent and excellent of beings. 
 Mother, believe me, his head is as sound as his heart, 
 and his heart is as true as the ocean is deep !'' 
 
 ^^ Ah, who would have thought it !" sighed out Mrs. 
 Evans. 
 
ANTONY. 173 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IN WHICH THE TRAVELLERS ARE STOPPED ON THEIR SHORT 
 JOURNEr. 
 
 The hilarity with which Antony had begun his 
 journey soon wore away^ and his quick step became 
 languid before he had walked a mile. The heat of 
 the mid-day sun was pouring down upon him un- 
 checked, and made him feel oppressed and weary. 
 Silently on went the two— Antony, wrapped in his own 
 thoughts, and the woman taking care to leave a con- 
 siderable distance between herself and him as they 
 paced on, and watching him eagerly with a certain 
 feeling of distrust, while the last words of her daugh- 
 ter rung in her ears, and kept repeating themselves 
 constantly to her mind. 
 
 Sometimes he was obliged to stop and sit down in 
 the shade of the trees, till the pain which the exercise 
 caused in his arm had passed oiF, Sometimes he 
 
174 ANTONY. 
 
 sought refreshment by sipping the clear waters of the 
 many streams that rippled along under the hedges. 
 After this, he would proceed with renewed vigour* 
 At length, however, his fatigue was so great, the way 
 was so long and tedious, seeming to lengthen instead 
 of to decrease, that he could not move further. 
 
 This was the first time he had attempted walking 
 since his illness, and this seemed too much for him. 
 He lay for some time upon the grass without power 
 of moving. At length, however, the alarmed Mrs. 
 Evans was relieved by seeing him rise with a sudden 
 energy, and striking out of the path they had hitherto 
 followed, start across the field to the high road. She 
 followed him, keeping, however, still at a distance. 
 " This, certainly ,^^ she thought, ^^ seemed a very 
 strange freak. What could he be thinking of ?^' 
 
 On he went till he reached the public road, and 
 here he sat down by the wayside and turned his face 
 towards the direction of Ponterry, watching every 
 cart or rider that approached from that way. At last 
 a carrier's cart appeared advancing towards them, and 
 Antony made her understand he had formed the in- 
 tention of proceeding in that to the town, for he could 
 walk no further. She stopped it, therefore, as it was 
 about to pass them, and bargained with the driver to 
 
 take them on to the town of T . This help was 
 
 most welcome to Antony, and he now hoped for ease 
 and rest, but h^ presently found the jolting of the 
 cart painful, as it repeatedly shook the injured arm. 
 
ANTONY. 175 
 
 He bore this with patience for a long while, so anxious 
 was he not to be again forced to have to depend on 
 his own powers of motion. And now he was re- 
 lieved from a great anxiety — namely, the fear of ar- 
 riving too late in court, for Mrs. Evans on inquiring 
 
 from the driver, who was a carrier from T , some 
 
 news respecting the trial of Philips, was assured by 
 him that the case would not come on till two o'clock 
 that day, adding that he knew it for truth as his wife 
 was going to hear it, and all the town would surely 
 turn into court at that time, so much were they all 
 interested in the case. 
 
 Mrs. Evans was not long in communicating this 
 news to Antony, and then she made the best use of 
 her time and her wits by declaring to the man, that 
 it was certain that Philips was innocent, that the 
 young gentleman who accompanied her would prove 
 it before the whole court, and point out the true cul- 
 prit. Then she assured him Master Nayton was a 
 most sensible and wise young gentleman, and that all 
 the world had been mistaken in him when they 
 thought him foolish — and (without revealing that she 
 was still as incredulous as any on this point) repeated 
 to him the last words of Gladis concerning Master 
 Antony. The man declared it would be a joy to 
 
 many a heart in and around Ponterry, and in T 
 
 too, should Howel Philips be acquitted, for he had 
 many friends, and it was a grievous thing to find him 
 guilty of such a crime. 
 
176 
 
 ANTONY. 
 
 Here their gossip was broken off by the sound 
 of repeated groans from Antony. The road was 
 rough, and the jolting of the cart so constant, 
 that he had been thrown into agonies. He made 
 signs, therefore, that it should be stopped, as he 
 could no longer bear the motion, and he and his 
 companion accordingly alighted. He paid the man 
 liberally for his accommodation, and expressed that 
 he would finish the journey on foot. 
 
 They had not now far to go; the church-tower 
 peeped over the trees invitingly to them ; it seemed 
 so near they hoped soon to reach it. 
 
 The carrier drove on, but Antony had not gone 
 many steps when his knees failed him. He leaned 
 for support on the woman's shoulder, and gasped for 
 breath. A strange sensation was stealing over him, 
 and with it an inexpressible horror at being out in 
 the public highway at such a moment. He had still 
 sense and power to look around him. He observed 
 a small gateway opening into a shrubbery on one side 
 of the road. Supported by his companion, he suc- 
 ceeded in gaining this, entered within the enclosure, 
 drew forth and held to her the packet containing his 
 evidence, and then sank in a swoon upon the ground. 
 
 " Indeed ! indeed ! he is dying,^^ thought the 
 woman, as she bent over him, and saw the livid 
 whiteness of his features ; " and here I am, all alone 
 with him — ^what can I do ?'' 
 
 And indeed she knew not what to do ; she was 
 
ANTONY. 177 
 
 bewildered. She looked at him^ then out along the 
 roadj then again at him ; she shuddered and groaned, 
 while she pondered on the strange position into 
 which she had allowed herself to be brought, in 
 such thoughts as the following : — 
 
 " Foolish Gladis, to bring this trouble upon me ! 
 Why did I come thus alone with the poor young 
 gentleman ? Gladis ought to have known something 
 dreadful would happen. Mad, silly girl — what could 
 she be thinking of, to fall in love with that Philips, 
 and then to send us all over the country hunting in 
 this way, to try and get him out of prison ? I will 
 be bound it will be of no good to the fellow, and it 
 has cost this poor lad his life, I believe. Foolish 
 Gladis ! and I was almost as foolish as she, to come 
 with him thus, all alone. Oh ! dear, dear — no one 
 to help me ! What shall I do ? — he will not revive, 
 indeed — indeed ! He seems to be dead — what can I 
 do ? It is all over with us.^' 
 
 She sought to rouse him ; rubbed his limbs; fanned 
 his temples; but became the more hopeless. At 
 length it struck her that his last action of giving the 
 parcel into her hand indicated perhaps a wish that 
 she should proceed with it into the town ; this she 
 therefore resolved to do, and bring back assistance 
 for him. She took her shawl from her shoulders, 
 for she felt she could not leave that face, which 
 looked so holy in its quietude, exposed to the rough 
 air and light, when no guard was by his side ; and 
 
 i3 
 
178 ANTONY. 
 
 she laid the mantle over him with a feeling of solemn 
 awe, then turned away and left him, closing the gate 
 after her. Then she proceeded to the town, carrying 
 with her the precious papers she had taken from his 
 person, but hardly knowing to whom she ought to 
 consign them. 
 
 On reaching the first street of T , she passed 
 
 the large and convenient dwelling of the rector of the 
 parish. The gates of the back-yard were open, and she 
 could descry within it the cart of the carrier with whom 
 they had not long ago parted. The thought struck 
 her that she could not apply for aid anywhere with 
 such confidence as there. Mr. Forsythe, the clergy- 
 man, was well known in the country round as being 
 an excellent and benevolent man. She accordingly 
 entered the yard, determined to seek his counsel and 
 assistance. The carrier, however, had already done 
 this. On receiving the money from Antony, who 
 was evidently in great suffering, a new interest in 
 the poor young gentleman had been awakened in 
 the breast of the man. He had heard the report so 
 widely spread of the deaf and dumb boy^s efforts to 
 aid the villagers on the night of the fire, and of his 
 having nearly lost his life in the cause. 
 
 He was proud of having seen Master Antony, and 
 as he knew the object of his present journey, and saw 
 he was again suffering for the sake of others, the man 
 was deeply touched. Before he drove away from him 
 and his companion he observed the extreme pallor 
 
ANTONY. 179 
 
 which had come over him, and his trembling steps, 
 and he felt ashamed of having accepted the fee 
 proffered him by Antony in return for the accommo- 
 dation of his cart, which had, in fact, caused him 
 increase of pain. The man's first impulse was to get 
 down from his cart and oflfer him his assistance ; the 
 next, to seek for a more suitable conveyance for him. 
 For this purpose he drove instantly to Mr. Forsythe's, 
 had an interview with him, and recounted the whole 
 matter to the attentive ear of the good pastor. As 
 Mrs. Evans entered the yard she saw and recognised 
 Mr. Forsythe^ who, together with a young man, 
 whom she believed to be his son, was in conversation 
 with the carrier. His own carriage was being brought 
 out of the coach-house, and the horses were prepared 
 to be fastened to it. She hurried forwards, and with 
 disconnected words, and some agitation, held forth to 
 him the parcel of papers. 
 
 " That is the woman, sir,'' cried the carrier, " of 
 whom I speak." 
 
 Mr. Forsythe cast at her an examining look. 
 " Where is young Mr. Nay ton ?" he asked. 
 
 " On the road, a short way back ; he is dying, sir. 
 Oh, come and help him." 
 
 "I have ordered my carriage for the purpose of 
 bringing him hither. I know the whole matter; go 
 back quickly to him ; I or my son will speedily fol- 
 low with means of restoring him." 
 
 Mrs. Evans was delighted that the trouble of 
 
180 ANTONY. 
 
 explanation had been spared her, and returned hastily 
 to the side of Antony. 
 
 Mr. Forsythe tore open the packet containing 
 Antony's evidence, 
 
 " Ernest/' he said, addressing his son, "these 
 papers are of importance, they must be instantly 
 examined. You must hasten to bring hither the 
 young gentleman, while I peruse these. I will send 
 a message to the County Hall to delay the trial, and 
 inform the Judge of this unexpected circumstance.'' 
 
 Ernest leapt into the carriage and galloped furiously 
 along the road. He had reached the gate of the 
 shrubbery, and lifted Antony in his strong arms, 
 before Mrs. Evans had rejoined him. 
 
ANTONY. 181 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 Oh, heart! is this thy last flutter? Oh, spirit! 
 is this moment the last fetter binding thee to earth ? 
 Soul, art thou about to be set free from the land of 
 thy imprisonment ? Oh, World ! is this the last fare- 
 well to thee ? If so, joyous is the farewell ! Welcome, 
 inviting repose I 
 
 Now, all bodily infirmity is gone ; now, undefined 
 dissolving visions float before the brain ; now, follows 
 a blank — a stoppage of the everflowing stream of 
 thought — a vacancyin the existence — a chaos to the 
 mind — a darkness over the lamp of life. Time is 
 now unfelt in that soul. Memory^s gates are closed. 
 
 And is this death ? and from this trance will the 
 renewed being awaken in the unknown regions 
 whence no mortal has returned, in the land of the 
 departed ? 
 
 Oh, hope it not, weary one ! it is not thus gently 
 
182 ANTONY* 
 
 the soul separates itself from the body. Throes of 
 anguish, terrible conflicts, agonies untold, are suffered 
 in that struggle when the final tearing asunder of 
 the inexplicable union of soul and body is effected. 
 No, thou art condemned yet again to be aroused 
 to the experiences of time — thou hast not yet won 
 eternity. 
 
 Hark ! did a sound again strike upon the ear? Oh, 
 vain imagination ! it was but the distant echoes of 
 thy mother's voice resounding from the holy chapel 
 of infancy through the cathedral aisles of life. 
 
 Thou art still on the earth ; thy nature still imper- 
 fect ; thou must again arise to life upon the earth to 
 work out thy destinies. 
 
 Antony now fancied he opened his eyes ; but the 
 vision continued — he was still wrapped in enchant- 
 ment — mild and benevolent eyes beamed upon him. 
 It seemed to him that a holy soul looked into his — 
 then that a young, manly, and beautiful face gazed 
 earnestly at him, and floated to and fro around him. 
 Oh, pleasant dream, in which it appeared that angels 
 in the forms of men communed silently with him ! 
 It was as if he reclined in a chamber lined with 
 flowers, on a soft couch, with sweetest perfumes in 
 the quiet air, and warm hands smoothing his brow, 
 and a violet light diffusing itself through the room, 
 as if the beams of the sun shone through purple 
 flowers. Oh, sweet moments of calm rapture, would 
 ye could last ! All was to his spirit as when a land- 
 
ANTONY. 183 
 
 scape is steeped in the mists of morning, which 
 gradually fold themselves up and roll away. 
 
 Perhaps others besides Antony may have expe- 
 rienced similar feelings on falling into and awakening 
 from a swoon ? 
 
 The dream becomes each moment more distinct; 
 Antony sees more clearly that the walls of the 
 chamber are indeed painted with flowers^ that he is 
 on a sofa, that vases filled with sweet odours are by 
 his side, that curtains hang before the window to 
 mellow the sun^s glare, and that two human beings 
 are before him — the one, a gentleman of middle age, 
 of tall stature, with elevated forehead and head partly 
 bald, with a serene countenance that commands 
 respect and love, and with a beautiful smile; the 
 other, a young man with thoughtful brows, fair fea- 
 tures, and a deep expression in his honest eyes ; 
 both perfectly unknown to him, bend towards him 
 and tend him with a woman^s gentleness. 
 
 Oh ! is not this reality ? A ntony again closed 
 his eyes, wishing to arouse himself and dispel the 
 vision, but when he again looked up it was there 
 still, and he now felt that it was real indeed. As 
 he attempted to rise, the youngest of his watchers 
 started forward and carefully assisted him. His 
 wonder and bewilderment only increased when he 
 understood that he was in a scene so new, and it was 
 not till his eye caught sight of his own papers and 
 handwriting lying on the table, that a recollection of 
 
184 ANTONY. 
 
 the past, and a kind of explanation of the present 
 sprung to his mind. He could only look his thanks 
 and kiss the hands that were held out in friendliness 
 towards him. In a few moments a new thought 
 occurred to him, and he stretched forward to 
 examine the dial of his watch which he observed 
 lying upon the table. It was already two o'clock, 
 and he started from the couch, but was, however, 
 retained by the same kind hands, while the elder 
 gentleman held to him a slate on which he had 
 written thus — 
 
 ^' You are in the house of Mr. Forsythe. My son 
 and myself wish that you may feel that you are now 
 among friends who desire sincerely to administer 
 to your comfort. Be tranquil — we understand the 
 business that brings you here ; the trial of Howel 
 Philips is delayed for another hour or two ; you 
 must recover from your fatigue, and obey our injunc- 
 tions, taking such cordials and such food as we shall 
 advise, before we will allow you to appear in court. 
 
 " I have read your evidence, and think it impor- 
 tant. I have communicated with the Judge and with 
 the counsel for the prisoner, the last of whom you 
 shall also see. The man we now suspect is seized 
 and in custody. Our interest in you, and our regard 
 for your excellence, is great. My name is William 
 Forsythe, and mine,'^ added the youth, " Ernest." 
 
 Antony pressed their hands fervently in both his 
 own. How his heart warmed towards his new- 
 
ANTONY. 185 
 
 found friends I he felt he could love them deeply ; 
 that he had here, for the first time, found tenderness 
 and affection ; a ray of warm sunHght filled his soul, 
 he could have wept for pleasure. How carefully did 
 Ernest bathe the injured arm with refreshing lotions, 
 then binding it up again with a gentleness he had 
 not known from any for many a year. 
 
 The hour he now spent with the friendly For- 
 sythes was delightful to him — he became invigorated, 
 and had time to collect his ideas and refresh his 
 memory. He had also a conversation with the bar- 
 rister who acted as advocate for Philips. During 
 the afternoon they were summoned to appear in 
 court. 
 
 That it may be understood how far the evidence 
 of Antony Nay ton was important for the acquittal of 
 Philips, it will be necessary to acquaint ourselves 
 with the testimony which had been brought against 
 him. It was declared by two men, labourers in the 
 service of Sanford, by name Meredith and Jones, 
 that Howel Phihps was observed by them to leave 
 the rick-yard shortly before the outbreak of the fire. 
 They were on the moor, and he had to cross their 
 path to regain his cottage — he did so with hasty 
 steps, appeared annoyed at their observing him, and 
 wished evidently not to be detained by them. They 
 invited him to come into the alehouse with them 
 and have some beer; he declined, and would not 
 speak to them ; Meredith walked by his side for 
 
186 ANTONY. 
 
 some distance, but could not get him into conver- 
 sation. They declared they had frequently heard 
 him express hatred for the Englishman, Sanford — 
 many violent and revengeful expressions were re- 
 peated by them as having been uttered by Philips, 
 and it was said that, in the hearing of a few of the 
 men, he had declared that if Sanford refused to 
 increase the wages, he should suifer for it. 
 
 Morgan was also examined, and with some sus- 
 picion, he having been the most forward to incite 
 the men to open acts of violence at the farm on 
 that evening. They could, however, bring no proof 
 against him. Meredith and Jones, together with 
 the owner of the public-house on the moor, all swore 
 
 that he left them for the town of T before 
 
 nine o^clock. Morgan asserted, that he had left 
 Pon terry the same hour he had thrown up his 
 employment under Sanford ; that one of the chief 
 reasons for leaving that service was his knowledge 
 of the deceitful character of Philips, whom he never 
 liked, and whom he suspected of some evil inten- 
 tions towards Sanford, in which Morgan had no 
 desire to be in any way implicated. He said he had 
 
 reached T before ten that night, and slept in the 
 
 church-yard. 
 
 From the parents of Howel little could be drawn 
 in explanation of the affair. They said Howel had 
 returned full an hour or two later than usual; they 
 were in bed when he came in, and he told them he 
 
ANTONY. 187 
 
 had spent the evenmg at the cottage of Mrs. Evans. 
 He seemed excited, and told his mother if all went 
 well, he should be the happiest man in the world. 
 They asked him about the manner in which the 
 affair among the men had gone off at the farm. He 
 described it to them. On cross-examination they 
 were forced to acknowledge he had blamed Sanford. 
 After he had gone to bed they heard a noise of 
 shouting in the distance. They saw flames as they 
 looked from the window. Howel hastily dressed 
 himself, saying, he would go and find out what was 
 the matter and return to tell them. Before he left 
 the house the constable and a few men came to the 
 door; they were followed by a crowd, who were 
 enraged against Howel, declared he was on the point 
 of escaping, and dragged him away. The matches 
 and powder which were on bis person, identified him 
 as the incendiary ; those found in the parlour of the 
 school-house were further proof. 
 
 The evidence of the Evanses concerning the hour 
 of his leaving them, showed he must have imme- 
 diately proceeded to the lighting of the trains in the 
 rick-yard, which probably he had prepared pre- 
 viously. It seemed impossible to discover any 
 accomplices, and it was believed that Philips was the 
 sole and unadvised perpetrator of the deed. His 
 having supped with Mrs. Evans and her daughter, 
 appeared a means of blinding them with regard to 
 his intentions, and his reason for being in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the farm at that time of night. 
 
188 ANTONY. 
 
 So far the combined evidence appeared to incul- 
 pate the unfortunate Howel Philips. 
 
 In Antony Nayton^s evidence he stated^ that on 
 crossing the moor in his evening ramble he passed 
 three men in close conversation among the furze. 
 The moon gave light enough for him to recognise 
 one of these, as the man who had passed him at the 
 time of sunset on the bridge, the book he carried 
 being forced from his hand by the collision with him 
 in passing. He had then looked at the man's face 
 and figure sufficiently to become acquainted with his 
 appearance. Antony then proceeded across the field, 
 seated himself in the branches of the oak tree which 
 hung out of the farm-yard towards the Infant School- 
 house. Here the parlour window was open. He 
 could distinguish by the candle-light within Howel 
 Philips, and occasionally the head of Gladis or her 
 mother. He now saw the man he had recognised 
 on the moor, climb through the hedge beneath him, 
 and advance to the window. 
 
 He described the man as short, with high shoulders, 
 thick black whiskers, dark complexion, wore a green 
 felt cap, and a light brown coat. Soon afterwards 
 Mrs. Evans closed the window and drew the cur- 
 tains, so that Antony saw no longer into the parlour. 
 He now observed the same man within the rick- 
 yard ; he then lost sight of him again. Nearly half 
 an hour afterwards he again saw him still in the 
 rick-yard. 
 
 He now perceived the light of a dark lantern 
 
ANTONY. 189 
 
 which the man carried. He began to believe he was 
 an accomplice with the other two men he had seen 
 on the moor, and that a robbery was being contem- 
 plated on the farm-house. He constantly lost sight 
 of the man behind the different stacks. At length 
 a light in the porch of the school cottage attracted 
 his attention ; he saw Howel Philips come out, 
 take leave of Mrs. Evans, and cross the garden, 
 to the pathway on the moor. Howel looked up at 
 the moonlit sky, and Antony remarked the honest 
 and happy expression of his countenance, as he 
 passed him, and hurried away. Antony then deter- 
 mined to watch the proceedings of the supposed 
 housebreaker more closely, for which purpose he 
 climbed down from his hiding place, and crept in 
 the shadow of the hedges, round the farm-house, to 
 the other side, where there was another stack-yard. 
 He perceived a smell of burning, but turned his 
 attention to the building, rather than to the ricks, 
 looking eagerly at the windows and doorways, 
 expecting the man he sought would be there 
 engaged. He found it difficult to make his way 
 round, on account of the outbuildings, and before 
 he had reached the front-door, a cloud of smoke 
 poured down on him, — one rick after another burst 
 into flames, and he perceived that the work of 
 an incendiary had begun, with fearful success. He 
 now cried and shrieked aloud, to disturb the inmates, 
 then perceiving that the stacks adjoining the school 
 
190 ANTONY. 
 
 cottage were also burning, and being' alarmed for 
 the safety of the two women who slept alone and 
 unprotected within, he made his way as speedily as 
 he could, to their dwelling ; as he advanced, he saw 
 the incendiary by the window, and observed it had 
 been forced open, — (the barrister inferred that at 
 that time he must have thrown the matches into the 
 chamber). He recognised him by the flame's light. 
 Antony started forwards, shouting and screaming, 
 in order to arouse the inmates, and clutched him by 
 the throat ; the man leaped up, and endeavoured to 
 shake him oflP; he clung the more tightly; they 
 struggled, they fought. Antony succeeded in drag- 
 ging him out into the light. He threw Antony to 
 the ground. Again and again Antony screamed ; 
 then springing up again in a moment, he would have 
 again seized him, but now the women threw open 
 the window, and the incendiary, tearing himself 
 from the grasp of Antony, flew like a shot round 
 the house, and away. Antony found it impossible 
 to follow him, he could not track him, but presently 
 observed him running with great speed, across a 
 
 field which lies in the direction of T . Thus far 
 
 the account of Antony Nay ton's proceedings on that 
 eventful night, threw a new light on the affair. 
 
 When the deaf mute appeared in the Hall, he 
 was led to the witness-box, and as he could not 
 verbally take the oaths, a paper, on which their 
 signification was written, was handed to him, which 
 
ANTONY. 191 
 
 he was required to sign, and he then delivered to 
 the attending officer the written evidence which we 
 have already considered, and which was now handed 
 to the barrister appointed to read it aloud. 
 
 Antony now found himself, for the first time in 
 his life, a mark for the gaze of some hundreds of 
 persons ; all eyes were turned upon him, with undis- 
 guised curiosity, and as he looked along the sea of 
 heads that moved to and fro before him, he felt an 
 indescribable feeling of annoyance at the publicity 
 of his position. This, however, was but momentary; 
 ashamed of the feeling as unmanly, he shook it from 
 him, and stood boldly forward. The spot which at 
 once attracted his attention was the bar. His 
 entrance had not been observed by the prisoner, 
 whom no one had yet informed of the testimony 
 which the new witness would bring in his favour. 
 
 Howel Philips stood with folded arms, and head 
 erect, his face pale, his lips tightly pressed together, 
 a settled gloom on his brow, and his eyes fixed on 
 vacancy. Evidently he was paying no attention to 
 what was passing around him ; his thoughts were 
 far away. Now, however, these, the first words of 
 Antony's paper resounded through the hall, pro- 
 nounced by the barrister in a clear loud voice : 
 
 " I hereby declare that Howel Philips is innocent 
 of the charge brought against him.'^ 
 
 The young man started from his reverie, — his 
 heart bounded with a new joy, and the excitement 
 
192 ANTONY. 
 
 among the crowd broke forth in a loud burst of 
 acclamation, with cries of "Hurrah! Philips, courage, 
 courage, hurrah \" in Welsh, which the officers and 
 constables had some difficulty in silencing. The 
 eyes of Philips now turned to the witness-box, and 
 he sprung forwards with a sudden impulse of joy, as 
 he recognised there Master Antony. He held for- 
 ward his clasped hands eagerly towards him, while a 
 bright smile flashed over his countenance. 
 
 Oh ! how sweet to the heart of Antony was this 
 look. How happy was that moment to him, when 
 a fellow-being thus raised to him a look of love and 
 gratitude, which seemed to say, "Thou, thou hast 
 saved me!^^ 
 
 Order being restored in court, the diary of Antony 
 Nay ton was read: the substance of which we have 
 already given. A cross-examination added little to 
 the information thus obtained.. On being asked, if 
 he would be able to recognise the men he had seen 
 on the moor, and believed to be the accomplices of 
 the incendiary, should they be brought before him, 
 he replied, he believed he should ; and, accordingly, 
 the Judge ordered that those who had appeared as 
 witnesses against Howel, with one or two others, 
 whose persons had that morning been secured by his 
 desire, should be led into court. 
 
 The owner of the public-house was the first intro- 
 duced, he being strongly suspected by the Judge. 
 Antony, however, did not recognise him. The 
 
ANTONY. 193 
 
 labourers, also, who had been active in seizing 
 Howel Philips, were brought in; but witness was 
 positive in asserting he had not seen them. Next 
 came Jones. Antony recognised him as one of the 
 men on the moor, by his tall, gaunt figure. Then 
 Meredith was led in, but he could not identify him 
 as another of the three companions. Morgan was 
 the last on whom any suspicion rested. Antony 
 fixed on him a penetrating gaze; started forward 
 with a scream ; then pointing eagerly at Morgan, 
 uttered, loudly and distinctly, the word " He ! he !' 
 The man quailed beneath his eye ; he was taken by 
 surprise at meeting the deaf mute here. The 
 hundreds of eyes around were now all turned on the 
 man ; he gnashed his teeth, muttered low oaths; his 
 eyes flashed fire ; his countenance became demoni- 
 acal ; it, alone, would have revealed him guilty. He 
 stood, self-betrayed -^before the whole court, the 
 incendiary. 
 
 Antonyms written declaration, that that man was 
 he whom he had seen in the rick-yard with a lantern 
 when none other was there, whom he had followed 
 as a robber, and with whom he had fought, was now 
 only needed, and was quickly given. Antony Nayton 
 was then removed from the witness-box, and returned 
 with his new friends to the vicarage. 
 
 And now Mr. Forsythe would not permit him to 
 go home to the family of his tutor ; he argued, that 
 change of air an/i scene was so important for the 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
J 94 ANTONY. 
 
 restoration of his health, that he must delay return- 
 ing to Ponterry, till he was perfectly recovered ; and 
 a letter to this effect was dispatched to Mr. Do- 
 nought, with assurances that every care and attention 
 should be shown his pupil, while he remained in the 
 house of Mr. Forsythe. 
 
 . They were informed, that evening, of the result 
 of the aifair in court. 
 
 The counsel for Philips had publicly expressed his 
 admiration of the energy of Antony, in his speech 
 for the prisoner. He had declared, that all those 
 who were personally acquainted with the young 
 gentleman, whose testimony, so clearly and ably 
 given, had been of the highest importance, had been 
 guilty of a gross injustice towards him, in believing, 
 or permitting it to be publicly believed, that he was 
 in any way deficient in understanding ; or that his 
 recent sufferings, in the cause of his fellow-creatures, 
 had affected his intelligence. He highly blamed the 
 ignorance of the surgeon who had attended him, 
 and permitted himself to be so deceived in his case ; 
 and he called the attention of the court, to the clear- 
 ness of his statements, and to the cultivated powers 
 and intellectual tone of mind evident in the writing 
 of the poor youth, who, on account of one bodily 
 disqualification, had been stamped by the world as a 
 being without intelligence, and unworthy the regard 
 of his fellow-men. 
 
 All doubt that might have been entertained with 
 regard to Morgan's guilt was removed, when Jones, 
 
ANTONY. 195 
 
 one of the three plotters in the affair, confessed that 
 the fire was a conspiracy between Morgan, Meredith, 
 and himself, instigated by Morgan ; that they had 
 thus all three been guilty of perjury in accusing 
 Philips. Morgan had hated Philips, and resolved to 
 make a punishment on Sanford bring down his 
 revengeful malice on the young overseer. 
 
 He could not prevail on either of his accomplices 
 to assist in lighting the ricks; this he accordingly 
 undertook to do without aid. They watched Philips 
 into the school-room; Morgan threw the matches 
 in at the parlour window, that they might be an 
 evidence against the young man ; and it was agreed 
 that the trains should be laid in preparation, and not 
 be lighted till Howel should leave the school-house 
 and the conspirators should have watched him pass 
 the public-house, on bis way to his home. Meredith 
 then joined the unconscious victim of their malice, 
 and as they walked together, side by side, managed 
 to put matches, and the packet of gunpowder, into 
 his pocket. 
 
 On being led into court, Jones was so startled at 
 the appearance of Master Antony, and at his decla- 
 ration that they were the guilty parties, at the 
 moment, too, when it appeared to them that their 
 plot was working itself out with the most marvellous 
 success, that he took alarm, felt their cause lost, and 
 thought it most politic to lay bare all the facts of the 
 crime. 
 
 K 2 
 
196 ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 TREATING OF MORE THAN ONE RETURN HOME. 
 
 There is one among ^^the cottage homes'^ of 
 Ponterry, dear readers, that we would fain visit, 
 since the little scene within it bears for us perhaps 
 the charm of interest. 
 
 On the evening of the day of which we have last 
 spoken, the door of the quiet dwelling stands open, 
 and sunlight gleams in along the neatly swept brick- 
 floor, and rests upon the oaken table where bright 
 china teacups and plates are laid out, and announce 
 that the evening meal is not yet begun. The appear- 
 ance of the whole chamber implies to us expecta- 
 tion ; it would seem that the small party within is 
 not yet complete, that they wait for another. 
 
 The pretty nosegay in the flower-pot can, we 
 guess, have been arranged by no other hand but that 
 of the young woman who busies herself with the 
 boiling of the kettle and other little housewiferies. 
 
ANTONY. 197 
 
 while the aged man and woman look smilingly upon 
 her, who is to them already as a daughter, though 
 we observe also tears, as of anxious expectation, in 
 their eyes. 
 
 "But what, Gladis, if the poor young gentleman 
 should have come too late ?" says the feeble voice 
 of the partly deaf woman in Welsh ; and then Gladis 
 approaches her with cheerful tenderness. 
 
 *^ Never fear, mother, never fear ; remember there^s 
 no danger for the innocent. Howel will return.'^ 
 
 But the father shakes his head, slowly, then 
 gently stroking the hand the girl has laid upon his 
 wife^s shoulder, he draws her nearer to him, and asks, 
 " But what proof, Gladis, what proof can you 
 Master Antony bring of our poor lad^s innocence }" 
 lifting his half blind eyes to read her answer in her 
 comely face. 
 
 It was pale, but the eyes flashed brilliantly. 
 ''Proof; why, sure, the truth — the truth; and if 
 no living man could bring the proof of your son's 
 innocence, I believe an angel would come from 
 heaven to declare it to the world. Never fear — he 
 will return,'' she cried, then turned away to hide 
 the trepidation of her own heart, which had 
 often sunk within her notwithstanding the brave 
 words she uttered to sustain those of the anxious 
 parents. 
 
 " Ha ! she has the Welsh spirit in her," said the 
 old man, touching the arm of his wife, and chuck- 
 
198 ANTONY. 
 
 ling with affectionate pleasure, as he pointed towards 
 her. "The Welsh spirit, it don't soon faint." 
 
 " Yes, Philips, and indeed she is a good girl too, 
 to come to cheer and comfort us in our sorrow," 
 began the other. 
 
 " Hark — wife, wife — I hear a step in the lane,'^ 
 interrupted the man, " do you see anything yet ?" 
 
 She bent forwards, and the girl drew the door 
 further open. 
 
 " Ay — there is a figure coming on behind the 
 trees ; Gladis — Gladis — tell us, girl — who is it ?'' 
 
 Trembling with joy she stood behind the door she 
 held open, as Howel rushed in and was clasped in 
 the arms of his parents. 
 
 Then how beautiful was the surprise for him when 
 on lifting his eyes, the blushing, weeping, lovely 
 Gladis stood before him. 
 
 sfc Jjj ^ ^ 
 
 The week which followed the trial was one of 
 unexpected and till now unknown joy to Antony. 
 He spent it in the house of the Forsythes, where he 
 found himself with men of superior intellectual 
 attainment and benevolence of heart. 
 
 A sweet luxury indeed to the young and aspiring 
 spirit, is communion with elevated minds. 
 
 Antony had till now been groping through dark- 
 ness, seeking among mankind for the brightness of 
 nobility of mind ; that brightness which is reflected 
 on man from the divine sun 3 and till now, only one 
 
ANTONY. 199 
 
 such planet had he discerned ; Nina had hitherto 
 been the only star presented to his eye, glorified by 
 this light. Now this same radiance sprang forth to 
 his view in the characters of these two good men. 
 
 At first he felt humbled in his joy, by that old 
 feeling which had before now clouded his gratification 
 at the kindness of others ; the feeling that commis- 
 eration for his misfortune, not regard for himself, had 
 bent these manly hearts towards him, and his diffidence 
 concealed from him for some days the pleasurable 
 truth that he was ])eloved by them for himself. 
 
 He could even hardly trust himself to believe the 
 words of Ernest, when during one of those conver- 
 sations of intense interest between the two youths, 
 which revealed their characters to one another, he 
 wrote thus : — 
 
 '^Yoa, xVntony, can make me a happier and better 
 man, if you will think me worthy of your friendship. 
 I love you from my soul. I admire you more than 
 I have admired any one except my father. Can you 
 not love me ?''' 
 
 " Can this be true ?'^ thought Antony, and looking 
 into the clear blue eye of his companion, read there, 
 and in the whole countenance, a truth and earnest- 
 ness which chased every doubt from his heart. 
 
 ^' You love me, Ernest ? oh, rapture P^ 
 
 They clasped each other^s hands. 
 
 The clash of tlfeir hearts struck fire, and from that 
 fire sprang forth the newly forged golden chain of 
 
200 ANTONY. 
 
 brotherhood, which we know by the name of friend- 
 ship, and which, when struck in the true metal, is 
 of so firm a nature, that it lasts through a whole 
 life, and however tried and strained by the harshness 
 of events or separation, can never be entirely broken. 
 
 It is a beautiful and solemn moment when a 
 mutual affection first springs up in kindred minds, 
 when every word from each is to the other as a key, 
 unlocking for him some unseen casket richly stored 
 with the jewels of thought and excellence, belonging 
 to the new friend, and which in future shall be lent 
 to the other to adorn and beautify his whole life, 
 and be to him almost as his own. 
 
 Sacred friendships ! To how many a lonely one 
 do you come, as foretastes of heaven ! 
 
 Hgw pleasant it now was to the two youths to 
 open to each other the experiences of the past, to 
 compare mind with mind, joy with joy, sorrow with 
 sorrow, and to speak unreservedly of their prospects 
 for the future. Ernest was some few ^^ears older 
 than Antony, had just bid farewell to university life 
 in England, and was shortly to take it up again in 
 Germany, there to study those branches of know- 
 ledge most suited to his taste, and to prepare himself 
 for the profession of his choice ; — for, though heir to 
 an ample fortune, and connected with many noble 
 and high-standing families, and though his position 
 in life was such as not to demand personal exertion, 
 yet his father had not permitted him at any time 
 
ANTONY. 201 
 
 throughout his education to lay aside the intention 
 of entering on a profession, and Ernest willingly- 
 acceded to his views. 
 
 "And what will you be, Ernest ?^' asked Antony. 
 
 " Surely, good fellow, you must have already dis- 
 covered to what trade I have apprenticed myself? 
 I, who have with such wonderful sagacity mended 
 up, in the course of a handful of days, your broken 
 arm, broken spirits, and health. You see, I am a 
 mender, — though not a carpenter.^^ 
 
 " I am aware, too, that you are a lover of science; 
 but how can this taste render you thus practically 
 useful }'' 
 
 "I am naturally as inquisitive as a woman; so 
 after diving into many of the mysteries Madame 
 Nature seems determined to keep to herself, and 
 having plunged into the dark pits of many of the 
 ologies, creeping out of one mystification only to 
 tumble into another, I at last, in a mood of intense 
 curiosity to know how my own machine is put toge- 
 ther and kept in motion, dipped into anatomy. I 
 was soon over head and ears in the subject, and have 
 never extricated myself from it. In short, you may 
 expect to hear of your humble servant, one day, as 
 among the first physicians in the United Kingdom, 
 or, if you will, in the world ;^^ and Ernest laughed. 
 
 " You surprise me ; had I your powder and talent, 
 with your opportunities also, I should, I think, have 
 made a very different choice.^^ 
 
 k3 
 
202 ANTONY. 
 
 "Perhaps the very same^ — though it appears at 
 first to be contrary to your taste." 
 
 " Why, Ernest ?" 
 
 '' Because you are a philanthropist ; and a man 
 who is imbued with a deep love of his fellow-beings, 
 knows no pursuit so fascinating to him as that which 
 enables him to carry joy, healing, and comfort to 
 those who suffer.^' 
 
 ^•I understand you. With this profession then 
 in view, life opens to you as a beautiful vista, lined 
 on either side with ranks of the sons of pain and 
 woe, who, turning towards you as you pass along, 
 receive from you, as from a heavenly messenger, 
 relief and happiness. Happy Ernest ! How few 
 have, like you, so sunny a past, and so sunny a 
 future, with no cloud to obscure your heaven !^' 
 
 And now it was the turn of the deaf one to tell 
 his dreams for the future. " Were I Ernest,^^ he 
 wrote, '' I should, 1 think, devote my abilities to my 
 country; I would become a diplomatist, one day, 
 perhaps, a legislator; but, being Antony, 1 am 
 destined by my family for " 
 
 '^Well?" 
 
 ^' A merchant's clerk !" 
 
 Ernest's countenance changed ft cm a look of 
 attention to one of surprise and disappointment; 
 and Antony then told of all his wishes and longings, 
 of his limited hopes, of his literary dreams — and 
 then of his first and highest aim. 
 
ANTONY. 203 
 
 "To obtain such an independence as may at 
 length enable me to bring back my father from his 
 exile to live in England once more in ease and 
 comfort/' 
 
 Ernest smiled as he read the concluding words; 
 looked thoughtfully at him, and then wrote — 
 
 " Well ! The hand that draws at a stroke so bold 
 an outline, will not lack power to work out the 
 details into a master-painting ! Let us now consider 
 the means. I think I should advise you not to 
 indulge too much in literary prospects; such roads 
 to fortune are among the longest and most uncertain. 
 On the other hand, in the uninteresting and plodding 
 life of the merchant's office, you may perhaps find 
 most safety." 
 
 At another time, when the subject of their discourse 
 was the cause of Antony's deafness, Ernest suggested 
 the possibility of attempting a remedy for his cala- 
 mity, since he had not been deprived of the sense 
 from his birth. He offered, therefore, to examine 
 the injured organs. This, however, Antony at first 
 steadily declined, for he remembered still, with a 
 certain horror, the probing of the aurist during his 
 visit to his aunts, when it seemed to him his very 
 reason was likely to be alarmingly effected. 
 
 At length, Ernest persisting in his desire, * he 
 submitted, with the words — 
 
 " I am aware that recovery is hopeless — I am 
 resigned." 
 
204 ANTONY. 
 
 Ernest, whose characteristic was impetuosity, or, 
 rather, acting uncon strain edly on every impulse, 
 began the important examination with a zeal and 
 apparent confidence which shook even to its founda- 
 tion the marble statue of Resignation that the deaf 
 mute had long since raised upon the pedestal of his 
 Despair. The noble figure trembled, tottered, — and 
 Hope stood near ready to take its place, painted like 
 the Grecian statues of old, with variegated and 
 pleasing colours. 
 
 A momentary flash of a new joy — of a sudden 
 expectation that Ernest might do for him that 
 which he would trust no one else even to attempt — ■ 
 kindled in the mind of Antony. His heart bounded 
 at the thought, and grew each minute more and 
 more elated as he awaited his sentence from the lips 
 of Ernest. 
 
 Suddenly as the young physician stood wrapped 
 in thought, pondering on the results of his inves- 
 tigation, Antony sprung towards him, grasped his 
 shoulder eagerly, and with his eyes starting forwards 
 and filled with an unnatural fire, looked keenly into 
 those of Ernest, as if to strike even to his soul, and 
 there read his doom ; his lips were white and con- 
 vulsed by restrained agitation, then falling at the 
 feet of Ernest he embraced his knees, clasped his 
 hands, as imploring for one word of joyful intelli- 
 gence, then in a wild voice uttered, — 
 " May I hope ?'' 
 
ANTONY. 205 
 
 Ernest was alarmed at the effect of his inconsider- 
 ateness, and grieved to utter a reply that seemed 
 so bitterly crueJ, but which he considered it impor- 
 tant to give. Antony gazed on his lips with an 
 intense eagerness, and Ernest shook his head 
 dejectedly. 
 
 " You say you are resigned ; I believe it is need- 
 ful !" 
 
 Antony let go his hold, covered his face with his 
 hands, and groaned aloud. 
 
 A minute afterwards he was up again, his counte- 
 nance calm; no trace was there of his recent passionate 
 emotion, no light but that of serenity in his eye. He 
 shook his friend^s hand cheerfully, and smiled with 
 good humour at some new fancy, with which he 
 sought to chase from Ernest's mind even a thought 
 of the event of the past few minutes. Again had 
 Resignation's marble form elevated itself, firm and 
 triumphant within his soul. 
 
 On another occasion, Ernest urged him strongly 
 to cultivate the power of speech ; he told him that, 
 after much consideration, he had become convinced 
 it would be of the highest importance to him to 
 resume the ability he had enjoyed when a very young 
 child, of using these organs. It is well known that, 
 that for those who early lose the sense of hearing, it 
 becomes exceedingly difficult, even painful, to attempt 
 to speak ; in time the voice is totally unable to form 
 itself, and utterance is almost an impossibility. 
 
206 ANTONY. 
 
 With Antony^ however^ as we have already learnt 
 from his record of his early life, this was not entirely 
 the case. The power of articulation he still pre- 
 served, though he had for years concealed it ; but 
 the voice was no longer under his control. With 
 attention and practise, however, both might still 
 become serviceable, and Ernest traced also, in his 
 silence, much of that bashfulness and nervous 
 timidity of which he had been ever the victim. He 
 believed that by exertion and courage the valuable 
 powers might shortly be regained, and be of impor- 
 tant service in his commerce with the world, and, 
 accordingly, throwing aside the pencil, he ceased to 
 speak to him by the manual signs, in which both had 
 become wonderfully speedy, and insisted on Antony's 
 reading his words upon his lips, and replying to them 
 by his own. The difficulty of pitching the voice, and 
 regulating it so as not to distress the listener, was, 
 however, so great, as to require considerable time 
 and perseverance ; and Antony resolved that it should 
 be only with his kind and indulgent Ernest, that he 
 would exercise himself in this new acquirement. 
 
 At length the morning had arrived, when Antony, 
 feeling it was no longer necessary for his health to 
 avail himself of the hospitality of Mr. Forsythe, bade 
 adieu to his worthy friends, and to the apartment 
 where he had first met the glance of Ernest, to the 
 dwelling in which the covenant of their friendship 
 
ANTONY. 207 
 
 had been formed and sealed, and where he had first 
 experienced the joy of receiving the honour and 
 esteem of his fellow men, all which must now be 
 exchanged for that abode of Donought, which 
 was to him lonely and gloomy as the cell to the 
 captive. 
 
 It was therefore with a sad, though a deeply grate- 
 ful heart, that the deaf youth stepped into Mr. For- 
 sythe's carriage, accompanied by Ernest, for the short 
 journey to Ponterry. 
 
 It wjis a beautiful morning ; the youthful spring 
 had now evidently passed by, and the richness of ma- 
 turity was advancing in all vegetation. The open car- 
 riage enabled Antony to enjoy the sweetness of the 
 air, and he remarked how speedily since he last had 
 w^andered through them, the trees and the meadows 
 had robed themselves luxuriantly, as if they desired 
 with the wild flowers smiling below, and with the blue 
 and glowing sky above, to offer to himself their 
 beauty, as a friendly greeting on his restoration to 
 health and to the power of enjoyment. 
 
 He felt it was a duty at such a time to rejoice, and 
 yet could not dispel the gloom that stole over him 
 as he thought that a beautiful dream had now passed, 
 and that it was to cold and closed hearts that he was 
 returning. 
 
 It was noon when they drove into the village : the 
 cottage doors stood open ; of some, the families were 
 already assembled within, for their mid-day meal • of 
 
208 ANTONY, 
 
 Others, the merry children clustered round the door- 
 ways, and wives looked out expectantly for the 
 labourers who now came strolling down the street. 
 Suddenly, however, mothers and children all were 
 summoned out, and the men already seated at their 
 tables, hurried forth into the street, at an exclama- 
 tion from some of the labourers without, that 
 *^ Master Antony was coming/' 
 
 Then as the carriage drove quietly up the narrow 
 and somewhat rough road, the villagers pressed for- 
 ward eagerly to give Antony their respectful greeting. 
 At one point the little crowd had so speedily formed 
 itself that the progress of the carriage was retarded, 
 and Antony, glowing with the grateful and happy- 
 feelings called forth by the sight of those to whose 
 perseverance on the night of his danger, he owed his 
 life, waved and kissed his hands towards them, while 
 Ernest repeated to them audibly, and in Welsh, the 
 thanks which he perceived the deaf mute was striving 
 to articulate. Then the mother of the little Rachel 
 held the child he had rescued, aloft to him, with joy- 
 ful gesticulations. He then passed through the street 
 where the fire had raged, and where now neat and 
 newly built dwellings were rising on all sides. 
 
 The Infant School too, was by this time restored, 
 and as the carriage approached it, a flock of children 
 running on before, summoned the attention of the 
 inmates by calling aloud the name which had now 
 become so dear to them. It chanced that there were 
 
ANTONY. 209 
 
 guests to-day to share the mid-day repast with Gladis 
 and her mother, and they hastily caught the sound, 
 and Howel Phihps running out detained the carriage, 
 while he grasped eagerly the hand of his deliverer, 
 and at the moment, forgetting poor Antony's in- 
 firmity, poured forth to him a stream of happy and 
 grateful words. 
 
 An old man, led by the hand of Gladis, tottered 
 feebly by the carriage side, lifting his dim eyes to- 
 wards the face of Antony, and calling loudly to ask 
 his wife, who had already followed Howel, if this 
 comely lad were indeed the one that had restored to 
 him his son. 
 
 " Yes, yes, and may the Lord bless the brave 
 young gentleman, and give him a prosperous life, 
 when we two are sleeping in the churchyard,^' cried 
 the woman. 
 
 The carriage moved on — but this blessing pro- 
 nounced by the happy mother, followed the deaf and 
 unconscious Antony throughout his life. 
 
 Antony had not observed yet other witnesses of 
 the little scene. Not far off he might have noticed the 
 good-natured face of the German, Miss Schwartz, 
 beaming cheerfully on him ; for she, with Nina and 
 Clara, had, but a few minutes before, arrived at the 
 gate of the school-garden, on a message to the young 
 mistress, and now stood at no great distance from the 
 road. The two beautiful young girls looked on their 
 former playmate with different expressions of coun- 
 
210 ANTONY. 
 
 tenance. Little Clara^s glance was an inquisitive one, 
 and then she laughed at HoweFs mistake in address- 
 ing Antony in his broken English. Nina, thinking of 
 all her friend had suffered, looked anxiously into his 
 face, and read there what traces those sufferings had 
 left. 
 
 It was Ernest, who, observing the young ladies, as 
 the carriage drove on, pointed them out to the atten- 
 tion of Antony. He turned his head quickly towards 
 them, and caught the ready smile that flew to the 
 lips of Nina at his recognition of her. In another 
 moment she was lost to his view ; they had crossed 
 the bridge, and advanced nearer and nearer to the 
 abode he had just reason to look upon with dislike. 
 He now parted with Ernest, and entered the parson- 
 age — to be received by Mr. Donought with more 
 solemnity, by Miss Donought wdtli more stiffness, 
 and by all the little Donoughts with more inquisitive 
 scrutiny than ever. 
 
 The incident of the day had, however, delightfully 
 impressed the sensitive nature of the deaf youth, and 
 it was thus he wrote in his diary that evening. 
 
 '^ Then I have not lived utterly in vain ! I am 
 loved, and even by those whom I had not thought 
 capable of such a sentiment to such a one as myself. 
 They are grateful to me and I to them. Oh ! how 
 sweet to my soul was the regard of those many eyes 
 directed to-day on myself with an expression of 
 affection. Those beautiful moments I shall not for- 
 
ANTONY. 211 
 
 get, and yet how abashed was I at the same time. I 
 never before felt so proud and yet so humble at the 
 same instant. The love of the poor man is indeed far 
 more beautiful than the favour of the richest. Mankind 
 had never before presented itself to me in so comely a 
 garb. There is indeed much that is good and holy 
 even among the rudest and least cultivated minds, 
 which is not recognised by themselves or others, till 
 drawn forth by circumstances. Like musical instru- 
 ments, they yield no sound till touched, then they 
 ring out, with full and divine tones, responsive to that 
 touch. 
 
 " This has been a golden day to me. 
 
 " I feel ennobled by the love these simple hearts 
 have expressed towards me. I am no longer the 
 same being I was a month ago. I am elevated in the 
 scale of worth. I am of more intrinsic value, for 
 friendship and affection have poured their riches into 
 my heart. To have won the good opinion of others 
 is something so new to me. Ah, how beautiful is it 
 to be at length understood, to find my love for my 
 fellow-men, thus, at length reciprocated l'^ 
 
212 ANTONY, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SUMMER DAYS. 
 
 Happy Antony ! he slept that night a sweeter 
 sleep than he had ever before known ! There lay 
 over his whole soul such a glow of joy and peace, of 
 content and of gratitude to which till now he had 
 never attained. 
 
 Antony dreamed of Ernest, of the dear villagers 
 whom he now loved with all his heart, of sunny green 
 fields, and of the perfume of flowers, whilst Nina 
 with that beautiful smile on her lips which he had 
 marked as she stood in the garden, hovered above, 
 like a pale moon, and cast a silvery light over the 
 whole vision. 
 
 And now days and weeks passed with swifter and 
 lighter tread for him than ever. When Antony went 
 out for a ramble round the village, kind locks fol- 
 lowed him from the inhabitants as he passed, and^ he 
 
ANTONY. 213 
 
 received some testimony of respect from all. Ernest, 
 too, was frequent in his visits ; they met constantly, 
 they walked together, studied together, conversed, 
 opened new and beautiful thoughts to each other, 
 exchanged opinions, reformed one another's tastes. 
 Antony had said to his friend at first, ^^Ah, when 
 you know me better you will no longer love me ; 
 you will find in me nothing to refresh or satisfy you." 
 Yet, as their acquaintance increased, there seemed no 
 end to the depths of interest and pleasure which they 
 discovered in one another. The one was not before 
 the other. Ernest appreciated and yielded to the 
 gentle arguments of Antony, who though so much 
 the younger frequently formed his opinions with 
 more thought and judgment than the impetuous 
 Ernest, while the knowledge of the world possessed 
 by the latter, and his buoyancy of spirit, were in 
 their turn most valuable to the deaf youth. 
 
 The little attic, Antony's chamber in the parson- 
 age, was becoming very dear to him now, associated 
 as it was with the visits of Ernest. On one occasion 
 Ernest carried away with him the manuscript of his 
 first romance, which he was eager to peruse and 
 criticise. He took also that of "The Miner," by 
 which name Antony had designated his last com- 
 pleted little work. " Ah now," thought he, with a 
 feeling of alarm, " now Ernest will no longer esteem 
 me ; he must, with his manly spirit, despise the fan- 
 ciful reveries and vain imaginations which have 
 
214 ANTONY. 
 
 formed an engrossing amusement for my child mind," 
 and he looked forward with a feeling of dread to 
 Ernest^s next visit. 
 
 One afternoon when studying with deep attention 
 one of the most complicated of Euclid's problems, an 
 unexpected hand alighted, on the paper, and wrote 
 hastily : — 
 
 " So, you young dog, you are 3. poet too ; w^hy did 
 you not tell me that before?" He started round; 
 Ernest met his eye with a look of proud delight in him. 
 
 " You laugh at me," he said, in that low voice 
 almost hke a whisper, which he now had attained, his 
 pronunciation being like that of a foreigner, every 
 syllable separately uttered, and with an evident 
 effort to pronounce each consonant. 
 
 " I am earnest," said the other smiling. " Remem- 
 ber, always earnest ! You then are a poet." 
 
 '^ Nina corrected the rhymes in the little songs, 
 and even the metre also ; 1 could not write poetry 
 without her assistance." 
 
 '^ Rhymes and metre, nonsense ! do you think 
 poetry consists in such jingling? do you call such 
 musical words as — 
 
 Take your hat, 
 Stroke the cat. 
 Hang the rat — 
 
 poetry? yet the rhymes are perfect. I speak of 
 your whole works, and in each a poet is revealed. 
 Did the pretty Nina originate them all for you?" 
 
ANTONY. 215 
 
 '^ No, only some of the rhymes." 
 
 '* Will you trust your manuscripts to me ? for if I 
 take them to London they may do you service as an 
 introduction that may be hereafter important to some 
 literary relations of mine V Antony could not at 
 first consent to this exposure of his youthful pen- 
 paintings ; but remembering his long-cherished wish 
 that they might help on the great desire of his life, 
 he at length summoned courage to consign them to 
 the charge and to the discretion of Ernest ? 
 
 "And what will become of me when you are gone, 
 my Ernest ! When you are far away in the distant 
 Germany ? Now that you have awakened me from 
 the sleep of lone-heartedness, by the charm of your 
 society, I shall suffer more than ever, when your pre- 
 sence being v»ithdrawn I must fall into it again/' 
 
 "Courage, dear fellow, I shall soon return to you. 
 In a couple of years, you know, I shall be home 
 again.'' 
 
 " Two years ? Oh ! Ernest, years are longer to 
 the deaf than they are to others."" 
 
 " Well, well — who knows but I may be in Wales 
 before many months are out, if it be only to look 
 after my pupil in the English language, and keep his 
 tongue going. I 'shall not leave you, Antony, till I 
 have received from you a solemn promise that you 
 will continue to exercise your organs of speech, and 
 carry out the useful work of pronunciation we have 
 begun together. It would be a sin for you to neglect 
 
216 ANTONY. 
 
 it, and all for the sake of some foolish modesty or 
 shyness, which is not worthy of the brave Antony." 
 
 " Then I will promise you this. Yes ; I can at 
 least not fear to converse with Nina/^ said Antony. 
 
 " Ha ! that was well spoken ; the voice properly 
 pitched ; the tone as gentle as any young lady^s ; the 
 right emphasis given to each word ;" and he clapped 
 him smartly on the shoulder. " Why, I am becom- 
 ing as proud of my pupil's English as I am of my 
 own German.'^ 
 
 '^ German ! — yes, this German will now be your 
 adopted language ; it will become almost as a mother- 
 tongue to you; and you will at length, perhaps, even 
 utter your prayers in this language, which will l)e all 
 strange to me. German will be around you like an 
 atmosphere : ah ! that I could also breathe that 
 atmosphere — I should feel nearer to you, when the 
 great land and sea part us !" 
 
 " You shall then breathe it, if you will ; you shall 
 learn German; it will be of wonderful use to you. 
 The translation of some of the works of the great 
 poets will give you, one day, a noble occupation. 
 
 Who knows but my friend A N may one 
 
 day be a second Coleridge ? I will begin teaching 
 you German to-day, if you are willing." 
 
 Antony clapped his hands, and agreed with delight 
 to the proposition. 
 
 ** And Nina, too, loves German," he said. 
 
 " What ! Nina again ? The name is ever on your 
 
ANTONY. 217 
 
 lips. It would seem that pretty young maidens 
 twine themselves in among your thoughts, as these 
 patterned flowers are woven into 5^our waistcoat ; but 
 I do not wonder. I was myself in love with this Nina 
 the first time I saw her, though she was but a child.'^ 
 
 " You know her, then ?'' 
 
 " I have known her ever since she has been in the 
 country. I have niet her in London, too. Do you 
 not remember seeing me at an evening party at 
 Llanawr Park, not nine months ago, when her 
 singing enchanted us all ?^' 
 
 " I remember the evening, and that she sang ; but 
 were you there V 
 
 " Certainly. My attention was attracted to you 
 by the intense earnestness with which you gazed at 
 her as she sang. I supposed you to be in an ecstacy 
 with the young lady's voice, and so affected by the 
 tones, that tears might each moment have started 
 from your eyes. You looked such a handsome fellow 
 I wanted to get some words out of you. I went up 
 and talked to you for perhaps ten minutes. Hut could 
 get no answer, so flew into a violent rage at your 
 rude indifference ; when at length you looked up, 
 and caught sight of the fiery countenance with which 
 I gazed at yours, you turned, as if frightened, away, 
 and for the rest of the evening stood where the light 
 could not reach your face. They told me afterwards 
 you were deaf, but it was your evident shyness that 
 prevented my addressing you again.'' 
 
 VOL. I. L. 
 
218 ANTONY. 
 
 " How could I ever turn away from you, Ernest ? 
 I was then, indeed, a savage. But did you not con- 
 sider Nina^s sister Adelaide the belle of that evening? 
 She appeared universally admired.^' 
 
 "But that bell, though richly ornamented, had to 
 me always an unpleasing tone, which frightened, me. 
 To sit between her and Nina gave one a strange 
 sensation. One found on the one side an elegant 
 and cold marble figure, which on one's approach 
 gave one a severe chill ; on the other side, a form of 
 perhaps less artistic perfection, but which, overflow- 
 ing with life and genius, glowed with a genial 
 warmth upon one." 
 
 Antony smiled — ^^ So you, too, can be enthusiastic 
 about Nina ?" 
 
 '^ Ha! — one day— one day, she will be a beautiful, 
 glorious woman 1" cried Ernest, striking his cane 
 with such violence upon the ground that he snapped 
 it in two. He frowned, angrily. "'Twas my 
 favourite," he muttered, ^' my favourite — had been 
 my companion over hill and dale, in city and coun- 
 try, for many a day. Fool that I am to have 
 destroyed it !" 
 
 He tore off the silver knob, and hurled the frag- 
 ments of wood away with an impatient gesture. 
 
 " Shall we indeed begin the German to-day ?' 
 asked Antony. 
 
 "This very moment," said Ernest. And the 
 friends began the new study with diligence, which 
 
ANTONY. 219 
 
 Antony's energy and intelligence afterwards carried 
 on unweariedly, receiving every word from his good- 
 humoured instructor with devout attention. 
 
 Summer, however, at length departed, and with it, 
 Ernest. Antony had never found a farewell so 
 bitter. He had not yet permitted his heart to attach 
 itself so firmly to any as to Ernest. Life had been 
 all new to him when in his companionship. It had 
 been like a vest of a richer and more gorgeous 
 quality than he had ever worn before^ and which 
 now, that his friend was gone, must be folded up 
 and laid aside, while the former dark mantle was to 
 be resumed. 
 
 l2 
 
220 ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 NEW DANGERS. 
 
 How short-lived is calm to the spirit ! when we 
 have spoken to ourselves ^'peace/^ how that word 
 seems to portend an approaching conflict ! and how 
 often, when we feel that tranquillity and confidence 
 have built themselves up within, the engine is in 
 preparation which shall shake these fair structures 
 to the foundation ! 
 
 Antony little expected the convulsions which were 
 soon to shatter to pieces the beautiful serenity of 
 his soul. 
 
 Autumn^s chill gloom overspread the earth, and 
 the inward world of Antony, while the adieus he 
 had uttered to his friend still rung with mournful 
 echoes through his heart. 
 
 It was shortly after the departure of Ernest from 
 England, that a new and unexpected course of 
 thought brought clouds of a dark and dangerous 
 
ANTONY. 221 
 
 nature over Antonyms inward existence. As he had 
 attained the age of sixteen, it was proposed by his 
 godmother, the considerate Aunt Bess Singlevie, that 
 he should avail himself of an occasion which would 
 shortly present itself to his becoming a candidate 
 for confirmation. She had, on inquir}^, been in- 
 formed, that such an opportunity would not occur 
 
 at the town of T for more than a year, but that 
 
 the bishop of the diocese intended holding a con- 
 firmation within a few weeks at , in the adjoin- 
 ing county. 
 
 Her anxiety in the matter, indeed, led Antony to 
 imagine, that his good aunt was, perhaps, in secret, 
 somewhat eager to shake off from herself as soon as 
 possible, any little responsibility she might now feel 
 regarding the godson, who had so small a share of 
 her regard or sympathy. A stiff and formal epistle 
 to him, expressing her desire that he should be 
 
 confirmed at on the approaching occasion, 
 
 accompanied a handsomely bound copy of " Paley's 
 Evidences of Christianity.^' It was thus the letter 
 ended. 
 
 " It is often consolatory to me to think, my dear 
 nephew, that owing to your peculiar position in life, 
 you are not likely to meet with many of those 
 temptations and trials which generally assail young 
 men. Kathleen has grown very tall lately, and 
 promises to be a fine young woman. She is taking 
 
222 ANTONY. 
 
 lessons in dancing, which will improve her style and 
 
 figure. 
 
 '^I remain, your afiPectionate aunt, 
 
 '•'Elizabeth Singlevie.'^ 
 
 And when Antony had written to acknowledge the 
 receipt of her gift, all correspondence ceased between 
 them ; she interested herself no farther concerning 
 him, and appeared to consider their sponsorial rela- 
 tionship at an end. 
 
 It was now that Antony's mind, being directed to 
 investigations concerning his religion of a deeper 
 nature than had hitherto occupied it^ he was led, by 
 a strange and unfortunate course of reasoning, into 
 an imperfect consideration of the subject before him, 
 from which he vrandered into a labyriiich of theo- 
 logical inquiries, that ended only in wondering and 
 doubt — new views and arguments of the most unex- 
 pected nature burst upon him ; thoughts he had 
 never before dared to harbour, engrossed his mind ; 
 reasonings of the most startling kind pressed them- 
 selves in quick succession into his thoughts, and 
 struggled powerfully to triumph over# the simple 
 belief and piety of childhood, which, feeble and un- 
 prepared for such an attack, sank under the over- 
 whelming force of the new enemy. 
 
 Antony's mind had, in fact, entered on that 
 perilous sea of doubt and darkness, where so many 
 of the highly intellectual, as well as of the wildest 
 and most inconsiderate, have suffered shipwreck. 
 
ANTONY. 223 
 
 Antony had hitherto been always a pious child. 
 His mother had, at the first opening of his under- 
 standing, infused into his heart a knowledge of that 
 religion v.hich had imparted, even to his recollection 
 of her, a sacred beauty, and he had, as he grew on, 
 felt that to be happy here or hereafter, he must be 
 even as she was; God-fearing and God-loving. Her 
 last words to him had also made a deep impres- 
 sion on his mind. It had been his religion only, 
 which had reconciled him to, or consoled him in, 
 his calamity ; and it was to its influence, also, he 
 had owed the happiest moments of his life. He 
 had believed that his prayers were ever heard and 
 answered, and had recognised in the late events of 
 his lifii especially, a wonderful fulfilment of the 
 earnest peiitions of his previous life, that he might 
 not live in vain, but be enabled to act in some 
 measure for the good of others, and to the glory 
 of his Creator. 
 
 His belief had then been, till now, part of his 
 existence ; it was a holy and awful mystery which 
 he had never desired or dared to fathom. Now, 
 however, he found all that had been to him most 
 holy, darkened by the fearful cloud which was over- 
 whelming his whole soul. He could not fly or extri- 
 cate himself from it — all was in confusion within him 
 — the once clear and sunny atmosphere of his spirit 
 was now absorbed in the chaos of scepticism. 
 
 It is a terrible moment for the mind, and one 
 
224 ANTONY. 
 
 fraught with alarming peril, when a man permits any- 
 startling power to break asunder the charmed girdle 
 of his faith, which with a kind spell has bound 
 around him the mantle of his childhood's religion ; 
 and when the pride of intellect rises with a sudden 
 boldness and ca^sts aside that beautiful vest as no 
 longer needful, he can never be again happy till he 
 has enwrapped himself once more in its sheltering 
 and sacred folds ! 
 
 Antony was greatly struck by the fact, that so 
 many high and gifted minds, men of vast range of 
 thought and masterly intelligence, men who are the 
 admiration of the world — had lived and died unbe- 
 lievers in Christianity. To them, he thought many 
 of life's mysteries had been revealed ; tliey held the 
 key of true wisdom— surely the opinions of such 
 should be valued. It was only minds that may be 
 easily satisfied and of inferior power, he imagined, 
 who, prescribing to their consciences certain narrow 
 limits, become too bigoted in their dogmas to weigh 
 the matter justly. Antony would not be one of 
 these ! he would plunge boldly into the question, 
 sift it to the bottom, throw away the paltry argu- 
 ments that rested only on historical evidence, (evi- 
 dence which he believed could not be relied on, and 
 which indeed had no power to touch and convince 
 the soul,) and then he would read all that great 
 minds had been able to say against Christianity, then 
 consider all that could be brought forward in its 
 
ANTONY. 225 
 
 favour, and draw bis own conclusions. Surely he 
 had arrived at an age, and his intelligence was suffi- 
 ciently developed, to enable him to do this. So he 
 rushed on madly to the struggle ! 
 
 That which he longed to grasp was "Truth.'' 
 He knew not that in this wild search he left it far 
 behind, On this point it was thus he wrote : — 
 
 " Ah, truth ! where shall I seek it ? How difficult 
 is it, alas! to find truth even in small matters; how 
 impossible then to know what is, and where the 
 greatest, vastest, and most solemn truth 1 Oh, cruel 
 truth, for ever hiding thyself from us ; for thee does 
 man's soul ever strive and long, and it would seem 
 only in vain. As the healthy eye loves light, turns 
 to it, or to any object on which light glitters, so the 
 soul looks for truth as that for which it was created, 
 and fixes its delighted gaze on anything that bears 
 its likeness. Perhaps, however, the great sun from 
 which alone it emanates, cannot be looked on by 
 mortal minds — only for its lunar-borrowed radiance 
 is our vision fitted ! Alas ! this is a melancholy 
 denial for souls that are longing for all that is most 
 plorious and real ! 
 
 o 
 
 " Soul ! what do I write ? What do I mean by 
 this word — what is this soul ? ^' 
 
 5fC ^ JjC 5fC 5f^ ^ n* 
 
 To follow the wild strange wanderings of Antony's 
 thoughts into a metaphysical labyrinth, will be 
 
 L 3 
 
226 ANTONY. 
 
 neither necessary nor salutary for us ; we will relate 
 only the effect they produced on him. 
 
 His old studies had now become uninteresting. 
 He was day and night absorbed in the one great 
 discussion. No book or object that did not tend to 
 develop the important argument going on within 
 him, could excite his concern or attention. 
 
 His tutor, in accordance with the desire expressed 
 by Miss Bess Singlevie, in a letter to himself, upon 
 the subject, about this time, acquainted Antony 
 with the fact, that as he understood he was shortly 
 to be confirmed, he (Mr. Donought) had named him 
 in his list of candidates, and it would be necessary 
 for him to present himself at in the neigh- 
 bouring county, in the course of the ensuing week, 
 for examination. Antony, in reply, questioned his 
 tutor slightly, on some of those points now so 
 discredited by him, but, as might be expected, with 
 no success. Mr. Donought referred him to Paley, 
 but he had already sought in vain for aid, in his 
 difficult inquiries, in the cnilling arguments of the 
 ingenious logician, and on the following day Mr. 
 Donought was surprised by the announcement from 
 his pupil, that he declined presenting himself for 
 confirmation, and requested his name might be with- 
 drawn. 
 
 Antony could not, at this time, have the advantage 
 of Mr. Forsythe's counsel, as that gentleman was on a 
 visit to his son, in Germany. 
 
ANTONY. 227 
 
 Here, in his own written words, we see flashing 
 forth the spirit of the demon that had so successfully- 
 assailed his stronghold : 
 
 " It is night — solemn and calm night. It resembles 
 my own spirit, for that is also now calm. It is 
 rising gradually from its prostration, after the strife 
 of the past few weeks. It wull be triumphant. 
 
 "Not only my reason, my very heart also has 
 now^ shaken off the yoke which my childisii super- 
 stition had laid on me. I feel at length free, a noble 
 and elevating pride fills my soul, — a self-dependence, 
 a manliness, I had not known before. The natural 
 powers of my whole spirit are developing themselves 
 with might. I am attaining strength, to grasp at 
 whatever I will, and I enjoy a wild happiness in this 
 liberty. ■ No longer a helpless and trembling child, 
 I stand forth a man. I will live for, and in, 
 the present time. I will love it, I will revel in it, 
 only. I have powerful sources of mind ; these shall 
 open to me wide fields of enjoyment, now, now, to 
 be realised ; for who can tell if that mind shall ever 
 know a future ? Shall not the stroke that destroys 
 the bodv, crush the spirit also? How beautiful is 
 it to be free ! Rise, rise, spirit of my soul ! rise, 
 and assume an independence to which in thine infant 
 years thou wast a stranger. A captive no longer to 
 dull credulity, spring up, and assert thy rights. 
 What matters it that men despise me, for a personal 
 defect. I will be above carin«; for man^s solicitude. 
 
228 ANTONY. 
 
 I scorn the little woes of life, that have hitherto 
 vexed my soul. I defy the calamity which fate has 
 laid on me, to crush my spirit. Off, off, these 
 shackles, — the weak humility to which I have been 
 a slave, — the fawning man-worship, with which I 
 have sought and pined for the love of my fellows. 
 Up, I will stand alone. The approbation of God 
 or man are alike indifferent to me. Perhaps I may 
 be the means of opening Ernest^s eyes, to perceive 
 our great self-deception.^^ 
 
 Antony continued for successive months indulging 
 in such dark frenzies ; his ideas always wild, inco- 
 herent, and disordered, he could not analyze them, 
 nor did he recognise their deformity. All that was 
 once dear to him was fading from his heart; not 
 that his friendship for Ernest was becoming cold, — 
 that could never die ; but he felt as if a bar were now 
 placed between them, which parted their sympathies. 
 Antony, in fact, felt a pride and self-admiration 
 which lifted him above his friend, in his own opinion, 
 —for it is humility of mind that is the great purifier 
 of love. His mother's Bible and little book of 
 prayers were now untouched ; they had fallen from 
 their place upon the shelf, and lay neglected and 
 uncared for. So had fallen all his former sources of 
 consolation, and yet he was not aware of it. 
 
 Thus he afterwards writes : — '^ Were the state of 
 my mind known to the weak, dull beings that sur- 
 
ANTONY. 229 
 
 round me, with what horror should I be spurned 
 from them ! How httle can they appreciate the 
 precious freedom my brave soul has won for herself. 
 Nina, too I does she not contemn me ? Nina ! to 
 whom alone I have revealed my great secret. I 
 deemed she possessed a power of mind which hitherto 
 I had respected, but to-day I have been disappointed 
 in her, also; she has, after all^ only a woman's 
 narrow compass of intelligence. She came with 
 Clara and Miss Schwartz, to the parsonage garden 
 to-day. I was standing alone in the arbour, the life 
 of Voltaire in my hand^ when she approached. I 
 felt a passionate longing for her societ}^, and, delighted, 
 I now caught her hand, and led her into the arl^our. 
 Pretty maiden ! how sweetly she looked up, w^ith 
 her innocent smile and searching eyes, then began 
 to converse v/ith her slender fingers ; she asked me 
 what was the matter, said I looked ill and pale, and 
 strangely excited. Ah ! the contrast between us ; it 
 made my heart groan, — weak that I was — and I, 
 who had panted for her society, to impart to her all, 
 I dared not now speak to her. She, robed in her 
 gentle and humble God-obedience, — T, torn by the 
 uncertain strivings of my philosophy ; we were no 
 longer what we had been to one another. She 
 seemed to my eyes a holy angel. I felt as if a demon 
 breathed vrithin me. 
 
 '' I resolved to leave her in her innocent ignorance. 
 
230 ANTONY. 
 
 rather than present to her even one taste of the fruit 
 of that tree of knowledge which I had devoured. 
 
 " Notwithstanding this determination^ however, she 
 succeeded, before we parted, in drawing from me the 
 cause of my evident change. 
 
 '' ' You will hate me, Nina, but I will tell you.' " 
 
 " I drew nearer to her, and restraining my voice, 
 spoke, I believe, whispering, and told her all. 
 
 '^ She started, and her face expressed alarm. ^ I 
 thought you were so good — so holy,'' she said. 
 
 "My anger was kindled. 'You hate me, then?' I asked. 
 
 " ' No, no— not hate— I pity ' " 
 
 " Half mad I rushed from her. Ha! pity! pity 
 again — despicable word — I fling it back — I need it 
 not. Am I then so mean, so ungifted, so insig- 
 nificant, that my fellows should insult me with this 
 expression ? The word from any but Nina would 
 have made me hate the speaker. Perhaps I should 
 receive the same also from Ernest ; perhaps he 
 would withdraw his friendship, did he know me 
 now, for now indeed I am not altogether the same 
 poor being I was when he called me friend. And if 
 Ernest gives me up — despises me, I shall be utterly 
 alone, with no friend in earth or Heaven. Alone ? 
 — that am I now — I feel this loneliness increasing 
 daily. Ah ! more than alone am I ; neither the 
 shadowy past nor the dreamy future now bear me 
 pleasant company. 
 
ANTONY. 231 
 
 "The words of the archfiend are roving in my 
 brain ! 
 
 " ' Horror and doubt distract 
 His troubled thoughts, ard from the bottom stir 
 The hell within him ; for within him hell 
 He brings, and round about him, nor from hell 
 One step no more than from himself can fly ! 
 By change of place : now conscience wakes despair 
 That slumber'd ; wakes the bitter memory 
 Of what he was, what is, and what must be. 
 Worse !' 
 
 " The truth I seek is farther off than ever ; my 
 whole soul is night. No moonlight of hope — no dawn 
 of truth betokens approaching day.^' 
 
 •}(• -x- 4f -Jf ^ 
 
 Nina soon^ however, found an occasion of speak- 
 ing with him as he sat in her father"'s library over 
 Hume's " Treatise on Natural Religion," and other 
 works that possessed now a new interest for him ; 
 and many and earnest were their conversations after- 
 wards, but vain also, for his mind was not in a con- 
 dition to receive the food of truth and comfort. 
 
232 ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 WHICH IS SHORT, BUT SHOWS US A NEW AND VERY FAIR 
 PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 Thus months went by ; the long year spent itself 
 out, and another came on^ and wore slowly away, 
 while Antony made no advance in his inward wan- 
 derings. 
 
 At length a settled dejection sank upon his spirits, 
 for his thouglits were weary of their constant search 
 for that which they could never find. And, even 
 when for a time he laid the subject aside, and sought 
 to occupy himself with new and lighter studies and 
 amusements, still he w^as ever conscious of an inward 
 pain, the result of that secret soul-malady, for which 
 he found no remedy. 
 
 In the course of the year he again met Nina, and 
 their conversations upon his state of mind were 
 renewed. From one of these we will extract a short 
 dialogue which may show in what manner one of the 
 
ANTONY. 233 
 
 most important of his inquiries became at length 
 
 answered. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " But, setting aside any considerations of my 
 own/' continued Nina, " permit me to join you in 
 your own thoughts, and fully understand them. 
 You seem hardly to be aware of the state of your 
 own opinion with regard to the existence of the 
 Deity. You ask, ' Is there a God ?' '' 
 
 " I am scarcely yet prepared to pronounce what 
 theory appears most convincing on this subject. For 
 a clearer definition I am now seeking, in the writings 
 of the mighty minds of those philosophers whose 
 names command the adoration of the world." 
 
 " But why should you not think for yourself in 
 this matter as in all others? — AYhy cast all your de- 
 pendence on the opinions of the uncertain and 
 speculative minds of men of a former age ?" 
 
 " When one wanders in a dark road, a guide is of 
 important service," said Antony. 
 
 '* But that guide may be as ignorant of the right 
 way as yourself, and may lead you in an entirely 
 opposite direction from that which you seek." 
 
 " Nay, nay, if left to myself in this wilderness, I 
 must stand still, bewildered and incapable of motion. 
 See, here is a wonderful idea opened to us — how new 
 and startling — to begin to discern in the workings of 
 the universe a mighty mechanical action; matter 
 working on matter, every part submitting to the 
 grand law which governs all; every unconscious 
 
234 ANTONY. 
 
 atom working by itself, an important part in the 
 great whole /^ 
 
 "But what/' said Nina, "is that grand law to 
 which you say all must submit f^ 
 
 Antony did not perceive that Nina^s mind, safely 
 freed from the labyrinth which inclosed his, now 
 sought to beguile him gently away from it, and 
 taking him by the hand, insensibly to lead him to- 
 wards the goal she longed that he should reach. 
 
 " Without a controlling law,^^ said Antonj^, in 
 reply, " how could millions of atoms work together 
 to one end ?" 
 
 " I agree," wrote Nina. " This law is then a 
 great mind existing in all ?^' 
 
 " It is so — it must be so ; or, as some philoso- 
 phers suppose, a fate — a necessity — overruling the 
 First Creator of the universe from matter." 
 
 '^ But how can the Source of all, who, according to 
 this theory, has created matter, and from matter all 
 things that are, be overruled by any other power, 
 since that power, springing from him-, cannot l)e 
 greater than its creator? If this, which you call 
 necessity, be greater, then, must it not be the greatest, 
 therefore the first — therefore the supreme?^' 
 
 " Yes, and this necessity, being co- eternal with the 
 cause, may be in fact his will, and (joining together 
 the two hypotheses) we recognise here the law go- 
 verning all, of which we spoke in the first system I 
 mentioned to you." 
 
 " Let us call it rather mind," said Nina, " since law 
 
ANTONY. 235 
 
 must result from a previous power. This great mind 
 then is a supreme being, an author of everything, a 
 source of spirit, a founder of matter, a creator of the 
 whole universe — in fine, this incomprehensible entity 
 is a God. We have ourselves then answered our 
 question respecting the existence of a deity. There 
 is a God \r 
 
 " Well done Nina, you have become eloquent, and 
 make old Strato and Hume hide their heads.^^ 
 
 " I think this is as clear to you as it is to me, and 
 have we not thus arrived at a grand and beautiful 
 truth? — a truth, written by the faultless hand of na- 
 ture in every human intelligence ? Is it not, and has 
 it not ever been, recognised as well by the savage as 
 by the philosopher? 
 
 " Even Pope expressed it in the comprehensive 
 lines — 
 
 "■ ' AH is but part of one stupendous whole, 
 "Whose body nature is, and God the soul.' " 
 
 " Those are beautiful words," interrupted Antony, 
 "and realise the idea^ with wonderful power, to my 
 mind.^^ 
 
 "And the good Lord Bacon,^^ she continued, "as 
 I tliink I have read, said that ' though a little sip of 
 philosophy might lead one to Atheism, a deep draught 
 will bring one back to belief in God.^ " 
 
 Antony was glad to feel one of the questions that 
 had so long perplexed him had found at length a 
 determined reply. Nina was arranging for him his 
 
236 ANTONY. 
 
 own thoughts, and giving them a form. She seemed 
 too absorbed in the discussions before them to con- 
 te/nplate their effect on him, and hastily resumed the 
 pen. 
 
 '^That this Deity is also a being of benevolence, 
 rejoicing in the happiness of his creatures, appears 
 evident to me, though not perhaps to you^ who have 
 
 suffered so much during your life ; but yet ^^ He 
 
 laid his hand on her pen to interrupt her words. 
 
 ^^ I would not be ungrateful, but how reconcile to 
 this, the fact of a bitter deception having been laid 
 on our too confiding child-souls.'^ He remained 
 silent, hiding his face with his hand and contemplat- 
 ing the fact which now painfully haunted him — his 
 having so earnestly offered prayers of intense fervor 
 through an imagined but non-existing mediator. He 
 presently expressed his thoughts aloud. 
 
 "Were he so good, so benevolent, would he permit 
 his children to deceive themselves so terribly in their 
 views of him ?" 
 
 " No ! he does not allow his true sons to be 
 deceived ; even now your soul is working its way 
 out through darkness into an endless light/' she 
 wrote. 
 
 " But Nina, why endless — what proof have we that 
 the soul is immortal ?" 
 
 " Its own instinctive knowledge that it is imperish- 
 able." 
 
 "That is no proof, only an imagination on which 
 
ANTONY. 237 
 
 we cannot depend — that is an old story repeated by 
 every narrow-minded arguer on this matter for cen- 
 turies past/^ 
 
 ^^ That does not make it the less true/^ she said; 
 addinf^, " How can the breath of the Deity perish r" 
 
 '^ How can we pronomice the soul to be the breath 
 of the Deity ? 
 
 " What else can it be, with all its heavenward aspira- 
 tions, its longings for an after world, its innate con- 
 fident knowledge that it does not belong to 
 earth ." 
 
 " We will return to this question ; — now, will Nina 
 solve a mystery to me? I have l)een informed you 
 are a candidate for the approaching confirmation at 
 
 T 5 but how can your mind, entering as it does 
 
 into the wonderful theories which I have opened to 
 it, still find shelter in its former faith ?" 
 
 " Because no theory that you, Antony, or any other, 
 may present to me can be so wonderfully beautiful 
 or perfect as that of my own religion/^ 
 
 *^ Is it possible ? How, then, have you arrived at 
 such a conviction ?" 
 
 " Forgive me, I cannot at this moment reveal more 
 to you/' 
 
 " Nay ; tell me all.'^ 
 
 ^^ I dare not now ; on a future occasion, perhaps ; 
 but there are subjects of too solemn and sacred a 
 nature to be committed to the consideration of those 
 who are already prejudiced against them. You might 
 
238 ANTONY. 
 
 spurn with contempt that which is to me divinely 
 holy.'' 
 
 "And do you hold a precious secret which could, 
 you believe, give me peace, and yet will not lay it 
 before me ? — this is incomprehensible in you, Nina." 
 
 She smiled slightly as she wrote, 
 
 " Ought I not to be careful how T press too eagerly 
 upon you my own opinions in so important a matter, 
 since even were they to convert you entirely at this 
 moment, might they not at the next lose all power 
 over you, as being merely the arguments of a womavbS 
 weak mind ?" 
 
 ^* Do you deem me then so proud ?" 
 
 "Yes, Antony." And Antony could not but feel 
 that she was right. He was, however, angry and 
 irritated still with his own vao^ue mind-wanderings. 
 
 " So you will not help me ; you are cruel !" 
 
 ^^Antony, all will at length be well with you ; I feel, 
 I know it." 
 
 " No ; I still seek in vain for light on this awful 
 subject." 
 
 ^' You have acknowledged to me a Supreme Being. 
 Pray to Him !" 
 
 ^' Impossible 1 how can the worm lift its toneless 
 voice to the regions of Heaven ?" 
 
 " It certainly cannot ; some one must stand be- 
 tween to echo in more powerful notes the whisper of 
 the insignificant creature. 8eek that One!'' 
 
 Nina was here called away ; she left him, and he 
 relapsed into deep thought. 
 
ANTONY. 239 
 
 Antony and Nina had been as two children, walking 
 hand in hand as they looked up into the mysterious 
 labyrinth of Heaven^s stars — she leading him on a 
 safe path. Now that she was gone, a step of his 
 might plunge him downwards over an unseen pre- 
 cipice — so he stood still. '^ She counselled me to pray 
 to the Supreme. Impossible; the atom he permits 
 to exist must lie at his feet, or be lifted in the palm 
 of his hand. Of itself it must be motionless. It 
 were an insult to demand of the Universal Majesty, 
 * Do this, or do that ' for me ; I am then silent.^' 
 
 On another occasion he writes thus — 
 " Nina did well to remind me of the great enemy — 
 Sin. That word is the instrument that cuts from my 
 head the locks in which lay the Samson strength of 
 Pride — and I am now humbled. 
 
 "Where is now that independence, that freedom, 
 of which I boasted ? where is the self-confidence I 
 claimed as a happy privilege ? I feel that I am even 
 becoming morally w^eak, acting foolishly, selfishly, 
 contrary to my own sense of right in many matters ; 
 my passions are no longer under my control, my 
 infirmities degrade myself in my own eyes. Alas ! I 
 have no abiding strength, powers of body and mind 
 fail me against my will ; where shall I seek support ? 
 "The intellect I deemed so fine and keen is dull ; 
 the spirituality I believed to be the purifying flame 
 of my whole being, is, indeed, but a mouldering spark 
 which sin struggles to quench, and I have no power 
 
240 ANTONY. 
 
 to fan it to fire. I am sinking in the scale of crea- 
 tures^ even the discipline of mind-education does not 
 bear me up from the contamination of the earthly 
 nature. Of what use is it that Nina bids me seek that 
 One who may stand between me and the Supreme 
 as advocate ? I have already in vain sought such, and, 
 did I imagine Him found, what proof could T have 
 of the actual reality V' 
 
ANTONY. 241 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 THE STEPPING-STONES. 
 
 It was about a month before the confirmation that 
 Mr. Forsythe, surprised that he had not for so long 
 received a visit from Antony^ sent him, together with 
 a kind letter, a small pamphlet on the subject, which 
 he thought might prove useful to the young candi- 
 date, for such he expected him to be. The kind 
 considerateness of the good clergyman, however, gave 
 Antony no pleasure, for as he was ashamed to acknow- 
 ledge to himself, he had lately felt cold and estranged 
 from one to whom he had owed so much. He walked 
 over to T on the same day, resolved to inform 
 
 Mr. Forsythe that he had at present no intention of 
 being confirmed. 
 
 They had a long conversation together, in which 
 Antony, in spite of his determination not to distress 
 the excellent minister by relating his own condition 
 of mind, was, nevertheless, at length led into a full 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
242 ANTONY. 
 
 confession of the change that had for so long come 
 over his thoughts. Mr. Forsythe received with 
 respect and considerateness his views, arguments, 
 and inquiries, replying to all with ready perspicuity. 
 Yet Antony was not satisfied. 
 
 " Believe me, my dear young friend,^' continued the 
 clergyman, " you are wrong in this, that you seek for 
 satisfaction for the soul in external evidence ; it is not 
 this which can convince our spiritual natures.^^ 
 
 "And yet that faith which is not based on external 
 evidence is superstition.^^ 
 
 '' Pardon me ! superstition requires external evi- 
 dence. On it, the man who believes a house is 
 haunted, grounds his superstition ; he will declare to 
 you, and, owing to the excitement of his imagination, 
 will believe also, that he has heard the knocking and 
 seen the form of a ghost. Without this external evi- 
 dence, his statement that a ghost exists in that spot is 
 instantly discredited. It is not so with our religion ; 
 the perfection of Faith, its purity and beauty is, 
 without seeing to believe.^' 
 
 " This opens a new view of the matter to me," 
 said Antony, and his friend continued — . 
 
 " You may lay aside the great historical evidence 
 of Christianity (which, however, in my opinion, is of 
 striking value) and still the religion is perfect — for 
 remember what it was that enabled the twelve fisher- 
 men of Galilee to send home their words to the con- 
 science of each man they addressed. It was the 
 
ANTONY. 243 
 
 grand internal testimony which every heart gave 
 responsive to the words of the apostle — it was the 
 inward conviction of the truth of the principles and 
 the duties he inculcated. Look into your own soul 
 — ask yourself if you also do not there find a wit- 
 ness of the divine origin of Christianity. But first 
 cast away the shackles intellectual pride lays on you. 
 Believe me, pride bears down, it does not elevate the 
 soul — throw it then away ! Be humble, and then 
 seek for a reply to your important questions within 
 yourself. Examine well, after this, your position 
 here, your future position in another world — consider 
 what the latter must be if you do not, now and here, 
 seek to regain that rank in the scale of creation which 
 through sin you have lost. Seek for the Christ 
 whom the prophets of old promised — meditate on 
 the grand scheme of redemption, and ask yourself 
 if there can be any form of religion in the world 
 which the ingenuity of the most brilliant and bene- 
 volent minds could devise, that could so answer to 
 our necessities as this ?" 
 
 ^' I admire the design. I feel its grandeur ; but 
 how can I know it has been indeed carried out ?" 
 
 " There is but one arch that can span the vast 
 chasm lying between outward proof and internal 
 instructive conviction. This arch is Revelation. 
 Divine revelation is granted you ; if you refuse to 
 receive it, if you cast from you the holy gift, if the 
 foot of pride spurns it aw^ay — yours is the fault. All 
 
 M 2 
 
244 ANTONY. 
 
 that can be done is done for your safety; your 
 acceptance of the means lies in your own hands. 
 Submit to believe revelation, or with your own hands 
 close the door of Mercy, and remain for ever lost.'^ 
 
 Antony made no reply ; there was dejection still 
 in his countenance, but he pressed aifectionately the 
 hand that had thus far written for his advantage. 
 
 " Think over what we have said, and let me have 
 another visit from you the day after to-morrow/^ 
 continued the clergyman. 
 
 '' 1 have thought it all over and over ; my mind 
 cannot rest day or night for the conflict that is 
 within/^ said Antony. 
 
 The good man contemplated him with a fatherly 
 tenderness, and again wrote — 
 
 *' My son, Heaven will direct your spirit and bless 
 these struggles after truth. I would advise you to 
 examine the Bible — let it speak for itself to you — 
 let it give you its own explanation and defence — do 
 you give it a just hearing — and may the Spirit of 
 Truth preside over, guard, and guide you I" 
 
 Antony wandered homewards, slowly pondering on 
 all that he had read, for every w^ord written by Nina 
 and by Mr. Forsythe was still standing prominently 
 forward in his mind, and he contemplated them with 
 attentive consideration, though they had not affected 
 him. His reasonings, his arguments, had been 
 nearly all answered away, and yet —ah, strange and 
 unaccountable perversity of the human mind ! — yet 
 
ANTONY. 245 
 
 he was not convinced. His understanding could not 
 digest the truths it had received because the heart 
 — the hearty that great propeller of the machine of 
 the whole soul of man — was not in the work. It 
 remained untouched, unawakened to action still. 
 
 It was a dull afternoon, rain had fallen early in 
 the day, dead leaves strewed themselves around him, 
 and mists were rising from the valley. He took an 
 unusual path, and instead of returning straight home- 
 wards, diverged, and rambled over the hills to the 
 spot where the rapids of the river Erry bear down, 
 along its sloping bed, with force towards the vallej^ 
 Below them, a dark line of stepping-stones marks 
 itself across the grey water, forming an easy and oft- 
 trodden path for the foot-passenger over the ford. 
 Beyond tliis the stream rolls over a narrower and 
 deeper channel, takes a sudden bend through nest- 
 ling trees, and then, again, widening, spreads its 
 dancing waters on towards the domain of Llanavvr. 
 
 It was by the stepping-stones that Antony stopped. 
 He had wandered thus far, scarce knowing whither, 
 and now found himself by the river's brink, gazing 
 intently on the spray and jumping wavelets. His 
 eyes watched so long the running waters that he 
 felt as if he and the shore were gliding away, and 
 that the waters lay still. It was a pleasant feeling, 
 though he knew that it was caused only by a visual 
 delusion, 
 
 " May it be possible that that advancing motion 
 
246 ANTONY. 
 
 which my mind has lately experienced, is, like this, 
 only a fancied one — only caused by deception ? No, 
 it could not be; but, would I rejoice could I find 
 myself again standing still on the shore of my child- 
 hood's faith, looking on in safety at the tossing 
 waters of uncertainty ? Perhaps I might ; I think 
 I should then be happier — if to be blind to disap- 
 pointing reality can give any degree of happiness. 
 Ah ! there is a blessing in peace of mind which none 
 know till they have lost it ; and there ara circum- 
 stances which make the return of that tranquillity, 
 when it has gone from us, impossible ! Our first 
 adieu to it, though when uttered we know it not, is 
 our last/' 
 
 Thus thought Antony in his Vv'ild ignorance. May 
 we not add — " Young and disturbed soul, despair not. 
 Peace of mind is never irrevocably cut off from the 
 Christian. Passions and miseries may scare the dove 
 away ; but it will return — it will return !" Oh, believe, 
 thou child of sorrow, who may peruse these pages, 
 believe that it will return — it will seek again and again 
 its nest in thy soul, for whenever the Spirit of God, 
 invoked by thy prayers, sinful though thou mayest 
 be, visits thy heart, that dove bears him company 1 
 
 At this time a dark cloud which had been gather- 
 ing above, burst among the mountains, lightning 
 flashed before Antony, and thunder roared at no 
 great distance. He felt it, he almost heard it, as it 
 vibrated through his whole system. The air was 
 
ANTONY. 247 
 
 still as death. It was a moment of awe and solemn 
 grandeur to Antony. A thought of death hovered 
 over his mind. What if a thunderbolt from the 
 heavens should strike him ! He shuddered ; he had 
 never before trembled at death. " Where should I 
 then be ? Ha ! I see it — I feel now, that Nina is 
 right; the soul is immortal. Now, now, I feel, were 
 the thunderbolt at this moment to crush to atoms 
 this body, it could not so much as touch the soul. 
 Oh ! bounding, gushing soul, that cries mightily 
 within me, ' I will, I will live ! ' Oh, Death ! come 
 not yet, I am not prepared for thee ! " 
 
 All nature was now dumb, as in solemn expec- 
 tation of the outpouring of the thunder-storm. 
 Antony felt a sudden thrill of mad defiance of the 
 death from which, a moment previously, his whole 
 being had shrunk in dire dread. He looked boldly 
 around, above him, anxious to watch the next col- 
 lision of the black clouds, and catch the burst of 
 their next flash of fire. 
 
 It was now that, as he looked across the waters, 
 he perceived three figures approaching the stepping- 
 stones on the other side ; the first was a child, a 
 girl ; she already came bounding down towards the 
 rocks. The next he instantly recognised; by the 
 light tread, the slim graceful figure, he knew Nina ! 
 She stepped down the bank, a basket in one hand, 
 the other extended to her sister. Miss Schwartz 
 followed. The young ladies had been out with 
 
248 ANTONY. 
 
 their governess to visit a sick woman in her cottage, 
 and were later than they intended in returning, hav- 
 ing been detained to administer comfort and advice 
 longer than they had expected. 
 
 Antony noticed the care with which Nina handed 
 her child-sister along the rough way. The causeway, 
 viewed at a short distance, appeared formed of 
 smooth, small stones, lying close together, that, 
 when approached, discovered themselves to be large 
 blocks of rock, sunk deep into the bed of the river, 
 some few of them separated by so wide a space as 
 demanded some little care from the passengers in 
 stepping from one to the other. Antony lost not 
 a moment in bounding over the rocks towards 
 the ladies, then catching Clara in his arms, he 
 bore her, as swiftly as the slippery surface of the 
 stones permitted, to the other side. As he did so, 
 he perceived that an unusual rush of water burst 
 over the rapids — then a larger and larger volume 
 followed with increasing rapidity, and he under- 
 stood that the storm, having burst already in the 
 hills, had caused a sudden swell among the upper 
 springs, and thus that the river was suddenly 
 rising. Another peal of thunder broke over their 
 heads, and Antony, having deposited his frightened 
 burden in safety on shore, rushed back with renewed 
 haste towards Nina and Miss Schwartz. The go- 
 verness, however, would not accept his proffered 
 assistance by accompanying him at the same time 
 
ANTONY. 249 
 
 with Nina, but desired that, without considering 
 herself, he would escort her young charge as quickly 
 as possible across the ford, promising to wait on the 
 shore till he could return to her assistance. 
 
 Nina quickly took his arm, and, at his request, 
 resigning to his care the basket she carried, com- 
 mitted herself to his guidance, and sprang fearlessly 
 with him from stone to stone. She had perceived 
 the change in the river, and that the sides of the 
 rocks over which they stepped were becoming 
 deeper and deeper immersed in the water, but still 
 they stood high above the surface, and she would 
 not permit a thought of fear to startle her. When 
 they had gained the middle of the ford, however, he 
 accidentally let fall the basket, and stooped quickly 
 to lift it. In this act his foot slipped, he fell ; the 
 rock was narrow, he fell into the water ; the current 
 was strong, he had no time to master it. Nina 
 held out her hand to him ; he dared not clutch it, 
 lest he should drag her down also; he caught in 
 vain at the slippery rock the wet moss gave way 
 in his grasp ; the waters bore down with more and 
 more violence; and they swept the unhappy Antony 
 along with them. He struggled, he stretched forth 
 his limbs, they were powerless in that impetuous 
 torrent — he sank — he rose — he shrieked aloud. The 
 question of Nina^s safety flashed, swiftly as the 
 lightning above him, across his mind. 
 
 See ! she is standing on that dangerous rock ; the 
 
 M 3 
 
250 ANTONY. 
 
 pallor of death upon her face ; her hands clasped 
 in a grasp of agony ; her eyes gazing^ oh, not to- 
 wards the drowning boy, but up, up, into heaven — 
 the deep, dark heaven, whither also her souFs 
 voice is uplifted, and though silent to mortal ears, 
 shrieks forth to the ends of the universe, its loud 
 cry for ^^ Mercy V 
 
 Antony again sank, again rose, and was borne 
 swiftly and 'more swiftly away, to the deepest and 
 most dangerous turn in the river, while now and 
 then his piercing scream — a scream of anguish, re- 
 sounded like the war-cry of death from the roaring 
 waters. 
 
 In the meanwhile the terrified Clara ran to and 
 fro, crying wildly. She rushed towards a low hut 
 standing near the spot, and began, by knocking at 
 the door and window, and by her cries, to summon 
 the attention of the inmates ; there was, however, no 
 reply. At length the latch of the old and broken 
 door gave way to the child's thrust, and she ran 
 into the hut — to find it empty. 
 
 From the other side of the river poor Miss 
 Schwartz looked on the danger of Nina with in- 
 creased terror. Her screams for help were hardly 
 audible in the noise of the river. She tried in vain 
 to cross the rocks to Nina's assistance ; her alarm 
 increased her nervous trembling, and she grew giddy 
 as she attempted to pass the stepping-stones. 
 
 Thus Time flew by, as swiftly as the angry river 
 
ANTONY. 251 
 
 dashed along ; and the tossing form of Antony was. 
 now no longer visible. 
 
 Still Nina stood upon her wave-washed pedestal. 
 She saw not the rising floods — she saw not the 
 lightning darting around her — that which she con- 
 templated was far above the waters of death, and 
 beyond the birth-place of the thunderbolt. 
 
 Now the rain begins to fall in large, pattering 
 drops — now it descends in increasing power. Now 
 the torrent from above and the torrent from below 
 unite to overwhelm the powerless Nina. Blacker 
 and blacker grows the sky — more and more vivid 
 the lightning. 
 
252 ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 NO STORM LASTS TOR EVER. 
 
 The hut in which the child Clara had found 
 refuge was a small uninhabited building, standing 
 on the property of Sir William Allingworth, which, 
 during the heavy storms so frequent among the hills, 
 was often of service in providing shelter for himself 
 and friends in their shooting excursions. Hardly 
 had Clara, seeking for assistance in her terror, hastily 
 explored the inner chamber of the cabin, when un- 
 expected forms appeared in the doorway. Two 
 gentlemen, with their guns and sporting-dogs, 
 entered, followed by their gamekeeper ; in the first 
 of these the child recognised her father; and, spring- 
 ing forwards to meet him, began, between her sobs 
 and tears, to repeat the names of Nina and Miss 
 Schwartz, praying him to hasten to their rescue. 
 
 The astonished father caught quickly her alarming 
 words, and bidding her remain patiently in the hut, 
 
ANTONY. 253 
 
 rushed out, followed by his companions, to the 
 rivePs brink. Here, as Sir William, who was much 
 agitated, began hastily and with trembling steps, the 
 passage of the stepping-stones, a firm hand grasped 
 his arm and drew him back. It was the gentleman 
 by his side — a tall, strongly-built young man. 
 
 " Stand back. Sir William ; with your leave I will 
 pass you. Young legs are the most fitted for this 
 retriever's business,'' he cried, threw down his gun, 
 and sprang, with giant strides, over the rocks to the 
 side of Nina, who, stunned by the roar of the waters, 
 was becoming half unconscious of the reality of her 
 position. All was to her like a terrible dream, in 
 which she was helpless, when the.vigorous arms of him 
 who came to her rescue lifted her from the perilous 
 rocks, bore her over the causeway, and, climbing 
 the bank, carried her swiftly along into the hut. 
 
 ^* Thank you, thank you, Darcy ! God bless you, 
 my lord, — you have saved my child !'^ cried the 
 father, who, following him with eager step, now 
 received his shivering daughter in his arms. 
 
 " Nina, my child, he has saved you ! Look up — 
 speak to me — to him— it is Lord Darcy !" 
 
 She was startled, as it were awakened, from the 
 strange vision. 
 
 The rain pattered without, and the thunder 
 pealed, — and vividly to her mind did the heart- 
 rending scene she had so lately witnessed present 
 itself, of Antony being swept away from her. 
 
254 ANTONY. 
 
 " Oh^ Antony ! — where is he ? Oh, poor Antony \" 
 was all she could exclaim, while Clara caught the 
 hands of Lord Darcy, and still sobbing, but now 
 with joy, and forgetful of her terror, poured out to 
 him her enthusiastic expressions of thanks for having 
 brought her sister to her in safety. Nina, too, 
 murmured hastily her earnest w^ords of acknowledg- 
 ment, and then, rushing to her father, asked for 
 Antony ; and, turning from one to the other, 
 besought them to inform her of his fate, however 
 horrible. 
 
 Meanwhile Clara continued to occupy herself with 
 the young nobleman ; but disappointed to find him 
 more interested in examining the lock of his gun, 
 which had been injured by a fall, than in herself, 
 while he, however, glanced from time to time silently 
 tow^ards her sister, she turned with a secret chagriiy 
 from the hero of the adventure, (for in Clara^s mind 
 Lord Darcy had been suddenly exalted to the rank 
 of the most chivalric of heroes), and inquired of 
 her father if Miss Schwartz were in safety. Sir 
 William had, before leaving the stepping-stones, sent 
 Roberts, bis gamekeeper, across the river to her assist- 
 ance, with orders to bring her round over the 
 wooden bridge above the rapids to the hut, as soon 
 as possible. Of the fate of Antony he could know 
 nothing — as till now he had been ignorant of his 
 danger, and he listened with alarm to Clara^s account 
 of the accident. 
 
ANTONY. 255 
 
 And now Nina, restless and excited, strove to 
 escape from her father's arms, that she might obtain 
 for herself some relief for her painful suspense, and 
 would have rushed out again into the pouring rain, 
 had he not forcibly detained her. 
 
 Presently the door was burst open, and a cry of 
 surprise and terror broke from the inmates, as, 
 instead of the expected Miss Schwartz, Howel 
 Philips rushed into the cabin, bearing in his arms a 
 lifeless form. 
 
 ^^ Antony!'' cried Nina, and ran forwards. The 
 long dripping hair hung over his face — she pushed 
 it back — the lips were compressed, and a livid pallor 
 overspread the whole countenance. 
 
 Howel laid him gently on the floor, and Nina 
 knelt down with him by the side of the lifeless one, 
 and began to help to tear off from him the wet coat, 
 and rub the cold and swollen arms, — and try every 
 means that alarm and grief could devise to restore 
 animation, — while her companions each lent a wil- 
 ling assistance. She wrapped him in her shawl, 
 wrung the water from his hair, and wiped the cold 
 forehead and the shut eyelids, while in replv to her 
 father's alarmed ejaculations and ill-boding shakings 
 of the head, she murmured repeatedly, '^ He is not 
 dead ! he is not dead !" 
 
 " What has happened to the young fellow ?" asked 
 Lord Darcy. 
 
 "Drowned, drowned,-' said Sir William; "past 
 hope !" 
 
256 ANTONY. 
 
 "Nonsense; that is not the look of a drowned 
 man. He is only stunned, or fainting/^ 
 
 "Yes, he will live; he must live !^^ murmured 
 Nina. 
 
 ^'Your honour's right/' cried Howel, addressing 
 the young nobleman, in his broken English. " He 
 did fight bravely with the water; but sure he would 
 have been down to the bottom, like a stone, in 
 another moment; if we had not heard his cries, and 
 seen him a-coming down the stream, swept on, like 
 a leaf in the wind." Howel, and a companion, 
 returning from their labour at the bog, had thus 
 become aware of Antony's danger; and Howel, to 
 whom the turn in the river was well known, whither 
 Antony was being carried, and where he probably 
 w^ould have been utterly lost, had, with an admirable 
 courage, and presence of mind, ran forwards, and 
 dropping into the water, beneath the boughs of the 
 overhanging trees, caught Antony as the current 
 swept past, and, clinging to the branches, was 
 enabled by their help to drag himself, with his 
 precious burden, from the grasp of the flood. 
 
 " He did clutch me, your honour, as sure only a 
 man in terror of death can clutch ; so I knew he 
 was not drowned : and when on land, he did try to 
 stand on his feet ; but then, indeed, fell in a dead 
 faint in my arms,'' said Howel. 
 
 "It is warmth, man, that he wants. He will 
 never revive, till he has heat about him. We'll 
 try this old hearth, which, I'll wager, has not had a 
 
ANTONY. 257 
 
 yule log on it for many a-day. Pll strike the light ; 
 the straws of the bottom of yonder lame chair will 
 do for tinder, and its three legs for fuel/^ said Lord 
 Darcy; and began to shake out upon the ancient 
 hearthstone a sprinkle of gunpowder from his flask, 
 and whilst he was successfully experimenting with 
 the old piece of furniture he had thus doomed, the 
 door again was thrust open, and Miss Schwartz and 
 a violent gust of wind rushed in together, accom- 
 panied by Roberts. The latter was immediately 
 dispatched, by Sir William, to the park, with orders 
 to send up the carriage to the cabin as quickly as 
 the stony lanes would permit, and to desire it might 
 bring blankets and cordials, as well as dry clothes, 
 for Master Nayton ; while the former new comers 
 made themselves useful in assisting Lord Darcy, for 
 the blast of air fanned up his newly-kindled spark, 
 and the good-natured little German lady set her 
 wits and her hands to work, and soon collected such 
 an ample store of dried autumn leaves (which had 
 on previous occasions been blown into all the corners 
 of the hut), as, when thrown upon the hearth, blazed 
 up into a right cheerful flame. Then she busied 
 herself with Antony, whom they had brought nearer 
 to the sparkling fire, and on whom the warm glow 
 fell with a genial influence. Nina still bent over 
 him. 
 
 " If the poor Master Antony had only his hear- 
 ing,'^ said Howel; " the young lady's voice (and he 
 
258 ANTOXY. 
 
 looked at Nina) would, sure, bring him back to 
 life/^ 
 
 "He will live," she repeated; though, indeed, to 
 her, the period of his insensibility seemed so long, 
 as to be interminable. 
 
 "He will! he does liveP' she cried aloud, the 
 blood rushing to her cheek, and her heart bounding 
 with new joy, as her watchful eye caught the first 
 indications of returning life. 
 
 The lips moved — convulsive starts ran along the 
 limbs — the eyelash quivered. Tears rushed forth 
 unrestrained, and flowed down the cheeks of Nina. 
 She raised his head — he struggled for breath — and 
 groaned aloud. 
 
 " I knew he would live," she whispered; and yet 
 her emotion was that of a new-born hope— the 
 reaction of a deep despair — of a heart-rending terror, 
 which she had thought to hide even from herself; 
 and against which she had been able to struggle 
 during that time of anguish, by the might of her 
 strong and hopeful faith. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The carriage had arrived before Antony had alto- 
 gether recovered from his swoon; but Nina could 
 not be persuaded by the anxious Miss Schwartz to 
 leave him, till his consciousness was entirely restored. 
 Then Antony's eyes met those of Nina, and he read 
 there, with an emotion of gratification, as well as 
 gratitude, the intense anxiety she had suffered for 
 
ANTONY. 259 
 
 him. Howel helped him to rise to his feet, and his 
 friends were assured that he had sustained no serious 
 injury, as he now only suffered from fatigue and 
 cold^ from which the warm, dry clothes, the refresh- 
 ments and cordials, which Lady Allingworth had 
 dispatched, promised soon to relieve him. 
 
 As Nina was ahout to follow her sister, and the 
 rest, to the carriage, she turned back to address the 
 honest labourer. 
 
 "Good HoweV^ she said; "it is you who saved 
 the life of our friend; for this I shall always be 
 grateful to you, since it was for my sake he ran this 
 danger. What can 1 do for you, or for Gladis ?" she 
 added, hastily. 
 
 " Gladis ? Oh ! Miss Allingworth, the Lord have 
 pity on us ; Gladis is sadly ill.'^ 
 
 " I will see her, if possible, to-morrow,'^ said 
 Nina, with an expression of interest and sorrow, 
 giving her hand to Lord Darcy, who waited to hand 
 her to the carriage. 
 
 Sir William desired his own valet to remain with 
 Master Nay ton, and attend him with care, adminis- 
 tering as much as possible to his recovery and his 
 com.fort, till the carriage should return and convey 
 him homewards. 
 
 Then the door closed; and Nina, weary and ill 
 with her late alarm, but in her inmost heart full of 
 an exquisite joy, sank back silent and thoughtful in 
 the darkness ; and was carried swiftly by the horses 
 
260 ANTONY. 
 
 that started and plunged at the storm, to the arms of 
 her anxious mother. 
 
 The sun had by this time set ; and, in less than two 
 hours after their return, the valet brought from 
 Antony warm expressions of his thanks for the care 
 and kindness bestowed on him, and assurances that 
 he was well and recovered from the effects of the late 
 adventure. He had with many thanks declined the 
 invitation to spend that night at Llanawr, and had 
 retired to the Parsonage. 
 
 There was indeed much in all the events of that 
 day to occupy deeply the thoughts of Antony, and 
 he was engaged in reviewing the strange and start- 
 ling vicissitudes of he last few hours, when a small 
 packet was put into his hand which had just arrived 
 from Llanawr. 
 
 With a thrill of pleasurable surprise Antony 
 recognised the handwriting of the address ; he 
 locked the chamber door, and hastily tore open the 
 seal. 
 
 "Ah Nina, how merciful of thee to give me this 
 consolation P' 
 
 The packet contained a small book — a selection 
 from the writings of Baxter. Within the little 
 volume lay a note, where the leaf was turned down, 
 as if to mark out to him a particular passage. The 
 note was quickly opened, and he read thus: — 
 
 " My whole heart is filled with rejoicing at this 
 beautiful miracle, that you are safe. Let us both 
 
ANTONY. 261 
 
 dwell with due gratitude on the deliverance of to- 
 da-j. 
 
 " Forgive my addressing you at such a time, but, 
 I would ask if you have not at length found peace. 
 Has not that One whom you sought revealed Him- 
 self to you to-day unmistakeably ? 
 
 " The torrent was bearing you with a mighty arm 
 to a terrible death. The faint voice of my soul 
 uplifted itself to the Mediator — You live. 
 
 ^^ Let me then now reply to your question in our 
 last earnest conversation. You asked me the secret 
 of my faith. It lies in this. I have found one of 
 the strongest proofs of the reality of my religion to 
 be the hearing and answering of prayer. The pas- 
 sage I have marked in the accompanying little book, 
 may serve to explain to you my meaning. 
 
 ^' Good night, Antony, may all blessings and 
 
 peace be yours. 
 
 "Your friend, 
 
 "Nina.'' 
 
 The passage which she had marked was as follows. 
 
 From the " Dying Thoughts of Richard Baxter, 
 Book II.'' 
 
 *^ God's hearing and answering prayer in this life, 
 assures his servants that he is their true and faithful 
 Saviour. How often have I cried to Him when 
 there appeared to be no help in second causes, and 
 how frequently, suddenly, and mercifully has he 
 delivered me ! Such extraordinary changes, beyond 
 
262 ANTONY. 
 
 my own and others' expectations^ while many plain- 
 hearted, upright Christians, by fasting and prayer, 
 sought God on my behalf, have abundantly convinced 
 me of a special Providence, and that God is indeed 
 a hearer of prayer ; I have also seen wonders done 
 for others, by prayer, more than for myself, though 
 I and others are too much like those who ' cried to 
 the Lord in their trouble and he delivered them out 
 of their distresses ; but they forgot his works and 
 his wonders that he showed them ;' and what are all 
 those merciful answers but the fruits of Christ's 
 power, faithfulness, and love, the fulfilling of his 
 promises, and the earnest of the greater blessings of 
 immortality, which the same promises entitle me to/' 
 
 Antony was deeply moved by all that he read, and 
 he perused every word with intense interest. 
 
 Surely now, in various manners and in the many 
 different events of late, every question and every 
 doubt must have been answered in his mind. Now 
 at length, too, the heart was touched by the holy 
 finger of the Divine Spirit, and darkness was flying 
 swiftly from his soul, to leave space for the flood of 
 light, which it was at length prepared to bear. 
 
 He remembered that Mr. Forsythe had counselled 
 him to have recourse to the Bible for its own 
 advocacy. The beautiful words of Baxter had streng- 
 thened his resolution, and he at length again sought 
 for the book once so dear to him. The search was 
 for some time in vain, and ashamed and angry was 
 
ANTONY. 263 
 
 he indeed with himself when he discovered it lying 
 bent and neglected upon the ground. He lifted it 
 reverentially. ^^ And it was my mother^s,*^ he said, 
 " how mournfully I have forgotten her too, and all 
 her holy words latterly. Heaven forgive me for this 
 and all.^' 
 
 And now, reader, we will not follow his thoughts. 
 They were deep and complicated, involving all the 
 mindworkings of the past, and influencing all those 
 of the future. 
 
 We will turn to Nina, and visit her late in the 
 night. 
 
 She lies on the whitecurtained bed, with the 
 moonlight streaming in upon her fair face. The 
 door is open leading to the inner chamber where her 
 younger sister sleeps, and dreams of the handsome 
 young nobleman bearing her, instead of Nina, over 
 the waters, and to her imagination, he becomes a 
 powerful giant and the river Erry a mighty ocean. 
 And does Nina sleep ? Must not that sympathy 
 which at such a moment binds her mind to that of 
 Antony make her, as he is, wakeful ? Yes ! though 
 she be outwardly still and calm, the mind is all 
 aroused and watchful, and her heart is throbbing 
 with vehement yet holy emotions. 
 
 She is there, in the attitude of the marble monu- 
 ment that bespeaketh the eternal rest. 
 
 Her hands are crossed upon her breast ; her eyes 
 looking into the tranquil night, into the dark blue 
 
264 ANTONY. 
 
 ether, from which storms and clouds have passed 
 away. She looks beyond the moon, and her thoughts 
 dwell all the long night through upon the eternal 
 love, while breathings of gratitude float like strains 
 of never-ending music in her soul. She hears not 
 the owPs cry, or the dripping water from the wet 
 eaves upon the balcony, sounding a dull, toneless 
 knell for the night minutes ; nor then, the chirping 
 of the sparrows that awaken with the dawn, nor any 
 other sound of earth. 
 
 She is wrapped in those contemplations of all that 
 is sacred and heavenly, which seldom visit, and when 
 they do, tarry not long in the hearts of the sons of 
 men. 
 
 Yet one more glance at Antony, reader, on this 
 eventful night. 
 
 See, he is kneeling by his bedside. His lamp is 
 burnt out ; the moon gone down ; the first streaks 
 of daylight glance through the window — he is kneel- 
 ing — he has knelt there for hours ; his clasped 
 hands are stretched upwards, tears course themselves 
 down his cheeks, and sobs burst occasionally from 
 him, indicating the agony of his soul. Humbled, 
 prostrate, and deeply penitent, see him, pouring 
 forth his confessions, his contrition, his acknowledg- 
 ments of that One whom he had denied. The Bible 
 of his mother lies open beside him, where may be 
 read these words : — 
 
 " Ye believe not, because ye are not of my sheep : 
 
ANTONY. 265 
 
 my sheep hear my voice ; and I know them, and they 
 follow me, and I give unto them eternal life.'^* 
 
 And Antony falters forth the fervent prayer ; 
 
 "Oh, divine Shepherd, number me among Thy 
 flock; teach me to hear Thy voice and to follow 
 Thee. Give, oh Christ, to me, even unto me, the 
 eternal life.^' 
 
 • St. John, X. 26, 27, 28. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
266 ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 WHEREIN THE FIRST ACT OF ANTONY's LIFE-DRAMA DRAWS TO 
 A CLOSE. 
 
 It was some days before Nina and Antony again 
 met, for she had suffered from an attack of cold and 
 nervous fever, brought on by the agitating scene 
 during the tempest at the stepping-stones. The letter 
 which she received from him, however, in reply to 
 her own, told her all she most wished to know, and 
 with deep joy she awaited the confirmation day, when 
 she and Antony would together take upon themselves 
 the covenant of Christians, and receive the promised 
 blessing. 
 
 And at length the expected day came, and with it 
 
 came to the town of T the various ministers 
 
 of the surrounding parishes, leading with them 
 handfuls, from their respective flocks, of candidates 
 for the rite. 
 
 With what a countenance, beaming with pleasure 
 
ANTONY. 267 
 
 and kindness, and with what a cordial grasp of the 
 hand, did Mr. Forsythe welcome Antony 1 
 
 There are few scenes so heart-pleasing, or capable 
 of awakening in the spectator a more beautiful and 
 holy interest than a confirmation. 
 
 In the galleries of the church are crowded the 
 elders of the community, looking reverentially upon 
 the bishop, whose lawn sleeves and venerable head 
 are a rare sight to a country congregation. 
 
 What a number of young heads, filled with a strange 
 variety of thoughts, feelings, and intentions, are 
 ranged along in the high pews of the body of the 
 church ; on the one side are those of all the youths, 
 on the other, those of the maiden?, with small white 
 caps resting on their shining hair. 
 
 It is a solemn and touching moment, when in a 
 low murmur, the many youthful voices join in the 
 words, 
 
 " I do V 
 
 Thus affirming, that willingly and heartily they 
 resolve to fight life's battle faithfully beneath the 
 banner of Christ. 
 
 Then follows a silence, which is only disturbed by the 
 soft tread of the girls,and the rustling of their dresses 
 as they draw near to the altar to receive the bishop's 
 blessing; and now is heard the manly step of the 
 boys who advance and bow humbly before the holy 
 man. 
 
 It is at these times that the spectators in the gal- 
 
 N 2 
 
268 ANTONY. 
 
 leries press eagerly forward, and strain their sight to 
 recognise among the young people below the son or 
 daughter, the grandchild, or the friend's child, in 
 whom they are interested. 
 
 How attentively Antony watched the form of Nina, 
 as she knelt and bent down her gentle head at the 
 altar, whilst his heart beat with the proud tliought 
 that he was about to set forth with her, on the same 
 journey, and to the same bourne. 
 
 And though afterwards Nina's eyes were downcast 
 as Antony passed the pew in which she sat, yet 
 how well she knew and recognised his step, and up- 
 lifted her petition with that of the bishop's, that 
 the lonely and afflicted deaf boy " might in mercy be 
 defended, and continue the Lord's for ever." 
 
 When the ceremony was over and the congregation 
 dispersed, Antony looked towards Nina, who, having 
 been joined by Lady Allingworth, was also moving 
 away ; their eyes met, and their looks said, "We are 
 now, indeed, brethren, members together of the one 
 great Unity ; confirmed in the one faith ; blest by 
 the One Spirit.'^ 
 
 When next Antony visited the Infant School, he 
 found the teacher's seat occupied by Mrs. Evans, for 
 Gladis was not present, and the poor woman was 
 striving in vain by frowns, and now and then the use 
 of her hand applied somewhat noisily to the shoulders 
 or arms of the obstreperous children, to keep that 
 order and good behaviour among them which a look 
 
ANTONY. 269 
 
 and word from Gladis, so firm though gentle, was gene- 
 rally able to preserve. 
 
 Fearing that the indisposition of Gladis which had 
 been mentioned to him by Howel, had become of a 
 serious nature, Antony waited patiently till the break- 
 ing up of the school, and then made anxious inquiries 
 of Mrs. Evans, concerning her daughter. He could, 
 however, gain little information from her, for in reply 
 to his questions, the good woman continued only a 
 repetition of elevations of the eyebrows, draggings 
 down of the corners of the mouth, and shruggings of 
 the shoulders, during which performance she was, as 
 usual, careful not to waste time, and, therefore, in 
 the spirit of neatness which pervaded her whole 
 nature, ceased not to sweep up the dust and mould 
 that the many little peasant feet had left behind them, 
 then to arrange all the slates and books, in various 
 heaps, several times over, before she had satisfied 
 herself with regard to their relative heights and posi- 
 tions, and then to move the benches away, and place 
 them in strict uniformity on the sides of the room. 
 She looked up now and then, as if in the hope that 
 Master Antony might have disappeared, and was 
 evidently embarrassed by his patience holding out so 
 long; for, to say the truth, as she had often confessed 
 to Gladis, she was always somewhat nervous when 
 alone in his company : " For I a'nt clever, you see, at 
 managing young gentlemen as you are, Gladis, es- 
 pecially deaf ones, and when with Master Antony, 
 I don't quite know what to do with my lips or my 
 
270 ANTONY. 
 
 eyes, for it's no good to speak, and it wouldn't be 
 civil to stare at him, and my arms can't talk in a way 
 that he can understand.'^ 
 
 When the room was intensely neatified, Antony 
 again began his inquiries, for his interest in the for- 
 tunes of Howel and Gladis was deep, and he could 
 not go away unsatisfied. 
 
 " Dear me !" mused the busy little woman in 
 Welsh, 'i why, he has got a tongue — he is beginning 
 again now, — sure enough, he is not a dumb man, 
 however deaf he may be. I see plainly there is no 
 getting rid of him." 
 
 Then with two or three very visible sighs, and to 
 any other ears than those of Antony, very audible 
 ones also, she opened the door of their parlour, and 
 ushered him in. 
 
 He found the sick girl seated by the fire, looking 
 ill and wan, save where a deep pink hue had tinged 
 her cheek with its alarming beauty. She had work 
 in her Hand, but appeared too languid to be able to 
 persevere in her task. Antony also observed she 
 suffered from a cough, and he was startled and grieved 
 at her whole appearance. 
 
 After Mrs. Evans had wiped with her apron the 
 chair destined for his use, and he had seated himself 
 kindly by Gladis' side, and the poor mother,, who was 
 now vigorously wiping her tearful eyes with the afore- 
 said useful apron, had handed Gladis a slate and 
 pencil, the two began their conversation. 
 
 By it, Antony learnt how ill-boding were the clouds 
 
AKTONY. 271 
 
 that now gathered over the heaven of the betrothed 
 ones. The poor girl had suffered so much of anxiety 
 during her lover's imprisonment and trial, that her 
 health had been since much affected, and an attack 
 of cold was followed by a cough, which made her 
 duty of teaching both painful and injurious. The 
 medical man had said that her illness would undoubt- 
 edly become too powerful to be checked if the exer- 
 tion of teaching were continued, and he recommended 
 an entire change in her mode of life. It was, accord- 
 ingly, now determined that the office of school 
 teacher should be given up — the invalid was pre- 
 paring to resign it to one more suited by vigorous 
 health to its duties ; and she and her mother were 
 shortly to bid adieu to their present home, and seek 
 another elsewhere, as it was not as yet possible that 
 Gladis could marry, for poor Howel was too deeply 
 suffering from poverty himself, to require their union, 
 which would undoubtedly force upon her a life of 
 anxiety and discomfort. The wages he now received 
 were barely sufficient to enable him to provide for his 
 parents, and he had resolved on quitting Ponterry. 
 Miss Allingworth who had been constant in her visits 
 to them, had been more than ever liberal since the 
 adventure at the stepping-stones. She had also 
 exerted herself to find some new situation for Howel, 
 which would be more remunerative than that he now 
 held, and accordingly Sir WiUiam Allingworth had 
 procured for him a valuable position in the iron mines 
 
2,72 ANTONY. 
 
 in Glamorganshire, and though at first the pay here 
 would be small, yet in time it would certainly be in- 
 creased in consideration of that fidelity and steadiness 
 which his employers would not fail to find and ac- 
 knowledge in Howel. In the meanwhile, as it had 
 been planned, Mrs. Evans was to live with her 
 daughter in one of the new houses of the village, and 
 the mother would let out apartments to lodgers, while 
 Gladis would take in needle-work. The dwelling 
 was indeed already taken, and the only difficulty was 
 how, without too great an outlay, to provide furni- 
 ture for their best apartments which would be applied 
 to the use of their guests. 
 
 Antony understood the motive which had incited 
 Nina to exertion in favour of Howel, and he rejoiced 
 that the important service the poor labourer had ren- 
 dered him by saving him from a sudden death, had 
 thus received from Nina so valuable a reward. 
 
 On leaving the Infant School-house he proceeded 
 to inspect the new dwelling and examine the furni- 
 ture already provided, which he found sadly deficient 
 both in quality and quantity. How pleased then was 
 Antony on returning home, to be able, by denying 
 himself some long-promised and much-desired luxu- 
 ries, as well as a few of those purchases which he 
 had began to consider even necessary to his comfort, 
 to lay aside, for the assistance of those in whom he 
 was interested, a sum which would prove highly 
 acceptable to them. But how much he regretted, at 
 
ANTONY. 273 
 
 the same time, that this sum could not be far more 
 liberal, and how he longed for the time when, by his 
 own exertions, he should be enabled to earn the 
 means of serving others. 
 
 The winter passed by less slowly than ever before 
 for Antony. His position in the hitherto repelling 
 society of the family of Donought was becoming 
 less unpleasant, he found himself each day treated 
 with more respect, and with less discourtesy, even 
 by the usually rude children. 
 
 His inner world, too, was less gloomy than it had 
 been in former times. His study of the German 
 language was a source of deep enjoyment to him, 
 opening, as it ever does to the earnest student, beau- 
 tiful gardens of philosophy, crowded with poesy's 
 richest and most brilliant flowers ; and Ernest's 
 letters, that ever brought him cheerfulness and 
 friendship, and often contained passages written in 
 the new, favourite language, constantly gave him 
 courage, and refreshed his zeal in the study. Ernest 
 gave him the hope, also, that a knowledge of German 
 and French might prove highly useful to him in the 
 merchant's office, since it might make him of more 
 value to his employers, and subsequently enable him 
 to take a higher position in the firm. Accordingly, 
 when Antony next wrote to his friend, he gave him 
 the intelligence, that he had begun the study of 
 French. 
 
 n3 
 
2 74 ANTONY. 
 
 ^^ You will be surprised to learn that I have a 
 most amiable instructress in this language/^ he wrote. 
 '^ I have lately been so fortunate as to become less 
 contemptible in the eyes of Miss Donought. She 
 does not so often try the old experiment of ' frowning 
 me down/ which she ever found unsuccessful, but 
 could not renounce, so much was it an unavoidable 
 development of her unpleasant nature. She there- 
 fore now receives more civility from me. Your 
 exertions to give me a voice, have been of great use, 
 as the power of speech gains for me the respect of 
 my companions. Miss Donought and I are, in 
 short, becoming all politeness to one another. She 
 has offered to teach me French, and receives my 
 gallantries with such amiability, that I begin to think 
 she would not reject a proposal for an elopement, at 
 any time I may feel inclined to make it.'^ 
 
 And now we will draw the mist of silence over 
 the rest of the boy life of Antony, and close this, the 
 first act of his history, with the consolatory assurance 
 that the elopement with the charming Miss Donought, 
 just alluded to, does not yet take place. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Let us now with one bound spring over the next 
 two years of Antony's existence, and behold him 
 arrived at the age of nineteen, with only a few weeks 
 before him, ere he must bid adieu to Ponterry, and 
 repair to London, there to begin his new duties. 
 
275 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Dr. Kitto (the well-known editor of ** the Pictorial Bible," and 
 author of some valuable works upon the East,) became deaf at the age 
 of twelve years, in consequence of a fall from a ladder, the height of 
 thirty-five feet, upon the pavement below. 
 
 In his little volume upon "Deafness," he has given us many inte- 
 resting particulars concerning the condition of those afflicted by loss 
 of hearing. In it he alludes to the faculty possessed by some 
 deaf persons, and deaf mutes, of reading off, so to express it, the 
 words of a person from the motion of his lips. He mentions the 
 story ** of the old lady who became deaf, and who yet continued her 
 attendance at church, and was able, very completely, to follow the 
 preacher, by observing the action of his mouth. I have been told," 
 he continues, '' something similar of a lad now living ; and a case has 
 been mentioned to me, by an intelligent stationer, of a lady who came 
 to his shop and asked for certain articles in what seemed to him a 
 foreign accent; and who so readily understood and replied to what he 
 said, that he had not the slightest suspicion of her being deaf and 
 dumb, which he afterwards learned to be the fact."* 
 
 I may here mention that a clergyman, for many years afflicted with 
 entire deafness, is enabled to catechise the children of various schools, 
 by reading their answers upon their lips. My informant, who had 
 witnessed the fact, was a personal acquaintance of this intelligent 
 gentleman. He stated, that the questions were freely put by the 
 catechist without any reference to a written form, yet his watchful 
 eye could detect every fault in the children's various replies. 
 
 * The '• Lost Senses, Deafness," p. 29. 
 
276 APPENDIX. 
 
 It is well known that this acquirement is taught at some of the 
 asylums now established for the deaf and dumb ; but it is, perhaps, 
 hardly ever attained in a degree that may give ease and quickness, in 
 reading sentences hastily uttered, except by those who have, at a 
 former period of their lives, heard and spoken, or who are endowed 
 with extraordinary intelligence, and have had many years of constant 
 practice. 
 
 Dr. Kitto, in speaking of loss of speech being the result of loss of 
 hearing, and of the connection between the organs of hearing and of 
 speech, writes thus :* — " The hearing, being the more delicate organ, 
 is utterly extinguished by that which only suffices to impede or deaden, 
 without utterly destroying, the vocal organs ; leaving in them so 
 much vitality as may, under a certain training and stimulus, be 
 awakened into imperfect action. The deaf can thus be taught to 
 speak, as a bear can be taught to dance ; but a natural indisposition 
 to use this acquired art, with more or less difficulty or pain in the use 
 of it, remains." * * « * 
 
 *' Although I have no recollection of physical pain in the act of 
 speaking (after I became deaf), I felt the strongest possible indis- 
 position to use my vocal organs. * * * * Xhe force of this 
 tendency to dumbness was so great, that for many years I habitually 
 expressed myself to others in writing, even when not more than a few 
 words were necessary ; and where this mode of intercourse could not 
 be used, I avoided occasion of speech, or heaved up a few mono- 
 syllables, or expressed my wish by a slight motion or gesture. In 
 fact, I came to be generally considered as both deaf and dumb, 
 excepting by the few who were acquainted with my real condition. 
 I rejoiced in the protection which that impression afforded ; for 
 nothing distressed me more than to be asked to speak ; and from 
 disuse having been superadded to the pre-existing causes, there 
 seemed a strong probability of my eventually justifying the impres- 
 sion concerning my dumbness which was generally entertained. I 
 now speak with considerable ease and freedom, however, and in per- 
 sonal intercourse never resort to any other than the oral mode of 
 
 ♦ The " Lost Senses, Deafness," p. 18. 
 
APPENDIX. 277 
 
 communication. This was brought about in a rather remarkable 
 manner/' * 
 
 * ' It is a remarkable fact, that when I thus again obtained the use 
 of speech, my language was formed, not so much upon the recovery 
 of my former habits, as upon the language of books ; and the voca- 
 bulary on which I proceeded was very different, more copious, and 
 contained more choice words than those which I had been in the 
 habit of using before my affliction. * * * » Many of the 
 words of my old vocabulary continue to be pronounced in the pro- 
 vincial dialect, in which they were learned, such as tay for tea, even 
 though I know the right pronunciation, and generally recollect the error 
 after it has been committed." 
 
 The effect of vibration on the deaf is thus described by Dr. 
 Kitto :— 
 
 " In the state of entire deafness, a pecidiar susceptibility of the 
 whole frame to tangible percussions supplies the only intimations 
 which have the slightest approximation to those which hearing affords. 
 I was about to call this a peculiar susceptibility of the sense of 
 touch ; but this would unduly limit a kind of vibration, which, in 
 certain of its developments, seems to pervade the whole frame, to the 
 very bones and marrow. I do not at all imagine that there is any- 
 thing in this essentially different from that which is experienced by 
 those who are in possession of their hearing; but it would seem that 
 the absence of the sense concentrates the attention more exclusively 
 upon the sensation which is through this medium obtained ; and the 
 intimations of which, being no longer checked and verified by the 
 information of the higher organs, assume an importance which does 
 not naturally belong to them. * * * * £ remember, once, 
 examining the grea t clock of St. Paul's, when it began to strike. 
 The sensation which this occasioned was that of very heavy blows 
 upon the fabric in which I stood, communicated to my feet by contact 
 with the floor, and from the feet diffused over the whole body. 
 * * * * When a percussion of any kind takes place upon 
 the very framework with which my standing-point is connected, 
 
 • The "Lost Senses, Deafness," p. 20. 
 
278 APPENDIX. 
 
 the sensation is powerful, and the intensity is in the ratio of the 
 closeness of the connection. * * * * The moving of a table 
 is to me more than to the reader would be the combined noise 
 and vibration of a mail coach drawn over a wooden floor; the 
 feet of children, like the tramp of horses upon the same floor ; 
 and the shutting of a door like a thunderclap, shaking the very 
 house. * * * * The vibration of such sounds being diffused 
 from the feet over the whole body shakes the whole nervous 
 system, in a way which even long use has not enabled me to bear. 
 * * * * When in the gallery of the church, and the organ 
 sounded, I became sensible of a strong vibration, but without any 
 metallic sound, and more like to the sound of a distant singing of a 
 congregation, so distant that one can only catch the higher notes, than 
 to anything else with which it can be compared." 
 Dr. Kitto never recovered the use of his hearing. 
 
ANTONY. 279 
 
 mn M. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CONCERNING ANTONY AND ANTONY's SISTER. 
 
 During our childhood we all look forward with 
 a kind of vague pleasure to the unknown and perhaps 
 beautiful future. Its novelty, its change from our 
 present state, have in themselves a charm for us, 
 and we cannot permit ourselves to believe that it 
 will be otherwise than beautiful. 
 
 As we look towards our elders, — those who have 
 already tasted the waters of life, and learnt their 
 bitter qualities, — we see in their worn countenances 
 traces of disappointment and of tears ; we hear their 
 plaintive words, asserting that life is but 
 
 ** A painful passage o'er a restless flood, 
 A vain pursuit of fugitive false good ; 
 A scene of fancied bliss and heartfelt care, 
 Closing at last in darkness and despair." 
 
 W. COWPJER. 
 
280 ANTONY. 
 
 And yet we, happy children, think that we shall not 
 be among the mourners, — that for us the world will 
 smile, that we at least shall be favoured and happy 
 ones on the earth. 
 
 This is the reason that a man^s childhood is usually 
 happier than any other stage of his life, — for then, 
 though his infant woes may be for his young soul 
 as heavy and as painful as are afterwards the griefs 
 and disappointments of manhood, yet they are but 
 sorrows of a moment, and the light heart knows not 
 the. oppression of hopeless anticipations of future ill. 
 Thus is it, not only in our childhood, but also in 
 our youth, until some dark reality presents itself 
 before us, we are forced to look at it face to face, to 
 know it, feel it, acknowledge its baneful presence, 
 and learn to bear with it in patience ; then are the 
 eyes open, the golden veil which our hopes and our 
 ignorance had suspended between us and futurity is 
 torn down, and we behold the dreariness of the 
 onward path which we must now tread, weeping. 
 
 From the mind of Antony Nayton this veil had 
 been rent away in his early years by the unusual 
 calamity which then came upon him. Before that 
 of Kathleen, of Nina, and the young Clara, even 
 before that of Ernest, it yet hung in all its beauty, 
 soon perhaps to be rent away from each. 
 
 It was with a feeling of melancholy that Antony 
 now prepared himself to quit the village where he 
 had spent so many years; and as the appointed 
 
ANTONY. 281 
 
 time for the farewell drew near, he was surprised to 
 find how much he had there loved. Latterly all 
 had become so unexpectedly dear to him ! 
 
 The villagers loved him ; of this he had constantly 
 new proofs. They seemed to look upon him, the 
 silent one, as he wandered to and fro among them 
 with smiles for the happy, and kind thoughts for 
 the sad, as on a good angel, a holy spirit haunting 
 their village, on whose presence their comfort and 
 peace depended. They wept when he told them 
 he must leave them, and he too could have wept. 
 He could have wept as he contemplated the dear 
 running waters, the springing hedges, the budding 
 trees, the purple mountains, the green, deep valleys, 
 all which had with an unfelt and mysterious power 
 linked themselves by unnumbered sweet associations 
 to his very soul, and now clung to it with a tenacity 
 he could not dissolve. He could have wept too, and 
 his full heart swelled and sank within him, as he 
 looked on the domains of Llanawr — his mother's 
 home — the home of Nina — the home of his loves 
 and longings — the mansion which was to him a holy 
 paradise, since within it had dwelt that dear young 
 spirit which had grown up in a sisterhood with his 
 — developing itself in rare and holy beauty — the spirit 
 of that child maiden, who had felt and thought with 
 him, had cared for him — once, perhaps, loved him — 
 and to whom he was bound by an undying reve- 
 rence and gratitude. 
 
28'2 ANTONY. 
 
 From that homCj from that friend, he must now 
 part. 
 
 This was indeed sorrow ! 
 
 And yet he knew that he would not have it other- 
 wise. Often he had longed to be released from the 
 cage in which his mind was here pent ; often had he 
 felt that to go forth into the world, and to struggle 
 through its black waters, to cast aside his natural 
 tastes and enjoyments, and enter on new dull duties 
 in which he should force himself to find an interest 
 —to throw himself into the clash of events, and to 
 make each subservient to his will, and a stepping- 
 stone to future success, — this he knew was of the 
 first importance, and must not be delayed for a day. 
 
 Cheerfully then must he renounce every tender 
 impulse of his heart, and go forth manfully to seek a 
 new fate. 
 
 He had corresponded with the firm of R 
 
 and M , with whom his father had been for- 
 merly acquainted, and it was decided that on the 3rd 
 of September Antony should make his appearance at 
 the merchant's office in the city, and begin the duties 
 of his clerkship : his salary to be 60/. per annum. 
 
 The few weeks that now remained to him of 
 country life, he was anticipating with pleasure, for 
 he had long been promised by the Aunts Singlevie, 
 that Kathleen should pay a visit to Ponterry before 
 his departure; and he longed to enjoy her sweet 
 companionship. 
 
ANTONY. ii83 
 
 It was arranged that she should be accompanied 
 thither by nurse, and, with her, tenant the lodgings 
 of which Mrs. Evans was still the landlady, and 
 where she and Gladis had continued to dwell ever 
 since the departure of Howel Philips from the 
 village. 
 
 It was not, however, for his sole enjoyment that 
 Antony eagerly desired the visit of his sister. He 
 had long wished it for her own sake. He believed 
 this change would be of important service to her, 
 for she had spent long years in the quiet home of 
 her aunts, with little relief from the monotony of 
 their stiff and constrained manner of life. 
 
 How sweet then to the young girl, he thought, 
 would be the freedom she might enjoy with him in 
 the wild and beautiful haunts around Ponterry, 
 wandering among woods and fields, and deriving 
 health and vigour in the sunny scene, the fresh 
 breeze of the mountains, and the luxurious summer 
 weather. But, al)ove all, he desired that she might 
 become acquainted with Nina, who, though not yet 
 returned from London, was with her family shortly 
 expected at the park. Her friendship would, he 
 thought, be of the greatest advantage to Kathleen, 
 who now sixteen years of age, though introduced at 
 times into the circle of acquaintance at Cheltenham, 
 favoured by her aunt^s patronage, had, he knew, but 
 seldom enjoyed the companionship of young people 
 of her own age. The society of the AUingworth 
 
284 ANTONY. 
 
 family would then be a beneficial refreshment to her 
 mind. 
 
 Poor Kathleen ! He knew not that for her^ so 
 youthful — so inexperienced, with a character as yet 
 so undeveloped, trials and sorrow, such as they little 
 anticipated, were even now preparing. 
 
 The month of July was drawing to a close, and he 
 had already suffered disappointment by the postpone- 
 ment of her journey (which was to have taken place 
 some weeks ago) on account of Augustus having 
 obtained leave of absence from his regiment, and 
 being now on a visit to his aunts. 
 
 A letter from nurse to Antony had informed him 
 that Mr. Augustus had become a fine soldier, and a 
 very handsome man ("Ah ! if his poor dear mamma 
 could only see him now, how proud she would be of 
 such a son !^^) that he had brought with him to his 
 aunt^s house a nice looking young officer, a Captain 
 Bruce, who seemed to be his best friend, and was 
 already becoming a favourite with the aunts, as well 
 as with Miss Kathleen. 
 
 Antony endeavoured to silence his own annoyance 
 at the delay, by the thought of his sister's pleasure in 
 the society of Augustus and his young friend. 
 
 A letter from Kathleen herself, in a few days, 
 brought three lines of regret that her visit to Ponterry 
 should be put off, and three pages of a description of 
 the agreeable Captain Bruce, relating how much her 
 aunts were pleased with him, how well he sang, how 
 
ANTONY. 285 
 
 good-natured he was, how well-bred were his man- 
 ners, and how delightful to her had been the ex- 
 cursions she had taken with him and Augustus. 
 
 Such an account and such particulars from the 
 open-hearted Kathleen, somewhat startled Antony. 
 At first he had felt pleased that his pretty and en- 
 gaging sister, of whom he was not a little proud, 
 should be known and, doubtless, admired by his 
 brother's friend. On second thoughts, however, this 
 gratification was lessened by a certain feeling of mis- 
 trust. The stranger might be unworthy of the 
 admiration he had evidently excited in his sister; 
 and Antony remembered to have learnt from Ernest, 
 who was acquainted with one or two of his brother's 
 messmates, that Augustus had not been prudent, on 
 first entering the regiment, in the choice of his friends. 
 Augustus might then have acted inconsiderately in 
 introducing Captain Bruce to his sister, who might 
 be a man of little education or strength of character ; 
 and it was evident all Kathleen could mention in his 
 favour was, his possessing a handsome person and 
 agreeable manners. Antony's suspicions were more 
 than justified when, on examining the Army List 
 that lay on the table of Mr. Forsythe, he sought in 
 vain for the name of Captain Bruce in the regiment 
 to which Augustus belonged. He, therefore, waited 
 somewhat anxiously for the intelligence that the leave 
 of absence should be over, and Augustus and his 
 friend returned to the regiment. The next letter 
 
286 ANTONY. 
 
 from nurse, however, brought word that the agreeable 
 guest had not yet left them, and gave the extraordi- 
 nary intimation that nurse " shouldn't wonder if a 
 match were presently made up between him and Miss 
 Kathleen, which would be indeed a good one, as 
 Captain Bruce had, she understood, a nice little for- 
 tune of his own.'' 
 
 Antony was surprised and alarmed. He had been 
 accustomed to seek the opinion and advice of his kind 
 friend, Mr. Forsythe, in every difficulty ; and, indeed, 
 his visits to the parsonage of T were now fre- 
 quent ; for the good pastor, while he had exerted 
 himself with earnestness and zeal to improve and 
 assist the mind of the deaf youth, had become so 
 attached to him, and derived so much pleasure from 
 his society, that he had urged Antony to spend witli 
 him as many of his leisure hours as possible. 
 
 Antony accordingly visited him on that day, and 
 determined to explain to him his misgivings concern- 
 ing the probable marriage of his sister, and ask what 
 step could be best taken. 
 
 He was received by Mr. Forsythe with a counte- 
 nance beaming with an unusual expression of pleasure. 
 A tear sparkled in his eye as he threw a letter he held 
 in his hand towards Antony. It was from Ernest. 
 
 From the date it appeared to have been delayed 
 on its journey. It told of Ernest having been de- 
 tained at Leyden longer than he had expected by the 
 agreeable society of men of education and intellect ; 
 
ANTONY. 287 
 
 that he had formed new and important friendships^ 
 but that his return to England should now be no 
 longer retarded, and he hoped shortly to embrace his 
 father once more. Antony's heart throbbed joyfully 
 with the warm impulses of friendship and hope. And 
 now Mr. Forsythe devoted his interest and attention 
 to the subject which caused his young friend uneasi- 
 ness, and listened sometimes with an expression of 
 doubt, sometimes wdth an amused smile to the ex- 
 pression of his fears. Then he also examined the 
 Army List unsuccessfully ; the only officer's name 
 which he recognised in the regiment of Augustus, 
 Nayton was that of an ensign Marley, with whom 
 he said Ernest had been acquainted at college, who 
 was a wild young fellow, had been expelled from the 
 University, and it was reported had ruined himself 
 by gambling. Of his fellow-officers and of this Cap- 
 tain Bruce he knew nothing. 
 
 " That may not be his own name,'' remarked 
 Antony. 
 
 " Perhaps not," and Mr. Forsythe wrote, musingly ; 
 " what will be your sister's dowry ?" 
 
 " She has nothing," said Antony ; but added, on 
 further consideration, " I remember being once told 
 that her godfather had left her a legacy of 500/. to be 
 paid on her marriage day." 
 
 " I will write to an acquaintance of my own who 
 may be able to tell us something of this Bruce, if 
 you will?" 
 
288 ANTONY. 
 
 " I thank you. I will, however, also start to- 
 morrow for Cheltenham and look into this business/^ 
 cried Antony. 
 
 "You will do well, but remember we may be 
 wrong in all our suspicions and fears, and a letter 
 may reach you presently, telling you that your 
 brother and his friend have rejoined their regiment, 
 and that the nurse was over hasty in her conclusions/^ 
 
 " Nevertheless I will go ; I need not offend any 
 by the appearance of suspicion, but I cannot delay 
 inquiring into the matter myself, and discovering 
 the reason of this mistake about the name.^' 
 
 The next morning before six o'clock Antony was 
 on the outside of the coach bound for Gloucester, 
 where he hoped to arrive that night, so as to reach 
 Felicity Villa the following morning. 
 
 At T the London mail had already arrived, 
 
 and this being the poJjt town of the neighbouring 
 villages, and the letters already sorted, one was placed 
 into the hand of Antony before the coach-horses 
 were harnessed and the vehicle again in motion. He 
 could not recognise the handwriting of the address, 
 but on breaking open the seal observed it was Kath- 
 leen's signet, and then saw that hers was the direc- 
 tion also, though irregular and evidently hastily 
 written. He read within an announcement from 
 herself that Captain Bruce had made her an offer of 
 marriage, to which her aunts had gladly given their 
 
ANTONY. 289 
 
 consent ; that he was therefore accepted, and that 
 Augustus was pleased. She confessed, however, that 
 she could not feel entirely happy without Antonyms 
 sanctioning her engagement, and that to-day she 
 had been almost frightened by the Captain insisting 
 that the marriage should take place immediately, as 
 he must shortly rejoin his regiment. She had used 
 every argument for delay, and stated she was not 
 prepared to quit her home and her good aunts so 
 quickly, to travel far away, and he had promised to 
 leave her with them after the wedding, and rejoin her 
 from the army as soon as it could be possible for 
 him to obtain again a leave of absence. 
 
 '^All is so hurried," she continued, "and has been 
 so quickly settled that I feel quite nervous and giddy ; 
 it seems to me almost as if I were doing wrong, and 
 yet all around me are pleased at my engagement. 
 The suddenness of the arrangements would no longer 
 distress me, could I, dear Antony, be assured of 
 your and our father^s approbation. My aunts will 
 not, however, hear of our waiting for a reply from our 
 father, as they feel confident he would be desirous 
 of my marrying as soon as possible. Write to 
 me then speedily, dearest brother. It is proposed 
 that our marriage should take place the day after to- 
 morrow, but to this I can hardly consent. I will 
 not permit it till I hear from you.^^ 
 
 Such a letter made Antony more and more rejoice 
 that he was already flying to his sister's side. 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
290 ANTONY. 
 
 A note from Miss Bess accompanied this, convey- 
 ing to him in a formal manner the communication 
 of Kathleen's engagement and speedy marriage ; 
 informing him, that Captain Bruce being connected 
 with the excellent and honored family of the Bruces 
 
 of LI , in G shire, with which she and Miss 
 
 Joan had been once partially acquainted, and being 
 possessor of an ample private fortune, this union 
 promised to be highly advantageous to their niece. 
 
 The cheerful tone of coniidence in which these 
 lines were penned, succeeded in lulling, for a short 
 time, the warning voice that suspicion had roused in 
 the mind of Antony, and he began even to rejoice 
 for his sister's new and flattering prospects. Then 
 again the re-perusal of Kathleen's truthful and frank 
 expressions of her own uncertainty, renewed the 
 fears of Antony. The desire fur the speedy union 
 appeared as unnecessary as unaccountable. His 
 suspicions increased. He doubted the statements of 
 his aunt, and even thought that the. boasted con- 
 nection between the Captain and the honored family 
 mentioned by Miss Bess, was a false assertion, made 
 only to assist in blinding them to the reality, and 
 inducing them to allow the immediate marriage. 
 
 Antony longed more than ever to be with his 
 sister. He had begun to feel little confidence in 
 Augustus' power or inclination to protect her from 
 the dreaded evil ; he was all impatience to place 
 himself beside her, and bid her lean on him for 
 
ANTONY. 291 
 
 assistance and advice. The wheels of the unener- 
 getic coach spun not round half swiftly enough to 
 satisfy him. His eager thoughts and longings sprang 
 onward with lightning speed, leaving him in person 
 far behind. He determined on his arrival he would 
 first see Augustus and converse with him. Kate had 
 promised to wait for his advice. The post could 
 hardly have borne it to her so early as he would 
 bring it. 
 
 At length, when it was past midnight, the coach 
 reached the Gloucester Inn, and Antony, wearied with 
 hunger and uneasiness of thought, was glad to find 
 himself no longer in motion, but seated in the coffee- 
 room with a welcome supper before him. He paid 
 little heed to the company of travellers who were 
 already there, and occupied, like himself, only more 
 noisily, and less exclusively. With their loud talk 
 he could not be disturbed, so, without noticing them, 
 he shortly afterwards rose from the side-table, where 
 he had sat alone, and retired to seek his chamber, 
 giving orders that he should be roused sufficiently 
 early to start by the first morning coach for Chelten- 
 ham. He was not aware that one of the party in 
 the coffee-room had observed his entrance, watched 
 his every motion, and was following him away. 
 
 o2 
 
292 ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 BEING A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES. 
 
 Up the stairs went Antony, holding his candle 
 aloft, that he might read the numbers of the doors, 
 and seeking among them for that one which he had 
 understood would be his own for the night. To 
 reach it he had to thread the labyrinth of the ram- 
 bling interior of the well-known Bell Inn, of Glou- 
 cester ; he had to mount one staircase, descend 
 another, turn to the right along one dim passage, to 
 the left through another, up three stairs into a third 
 corridor, and on and on between the dull dark walls 
 that seemed to have no end. He was unconscious 
 of the echo to the tread of his footsteps, or that he 
 was still watched and followed. Presently a strong 
 arm seized his shoulder, he turned suddenly round, 
 his candle was blown out, and the invisible power, 
 keeping a firm hold on him, dragged Antony with an 
 irresistible grasp some yards backwards; another 
 
ANTONY. 293 
 
 door started open, he was thrust powerfully into a 
 room where a light blazed, and the door was banged 
 to. Antony, not a little incensed, sprang instantly 
 on his assailant, and in another moment would have 
 laid him prostrate before him, but started back with 
 a new surprise as the light fell upon the stranger^s 
 face. Antony burst into a loud laugh, and threw his 
 arms around him. 
 
 Ernest, Ernest, Ernest ! 
 
 How vehemently they embraced; how loudly 
 and joyfully beat the warm friendly hearts together; 
 how they laughed at the surprise ; and how brightly 
 the eyes of Antony glistened with tears of delight 
 and love, at the unexpected joy. They were now 
 in Ernest's apartment ; here they must stay ; and 
 here they must talk. How Ernest's fingers flashed, 
 and how Antony strove to speak in his quickest and 
 best style! Then came the question, how had it 
 happened that they were both there — and Ernest 
 explained that he had been ten days in England ; 
 had that morning left London, and was now on his 
 way home to surprise his father. 
 
 Then Antony had to tell his long history, and the 
 cause of his journey, which he could easiest do, by 
 showing his sister's letters, before confessing his 
 own doubts and fears for her. At these last, Ernest 
 laughed heartily, adding : — 
 
 " Now, dear fellow, I must certainly go with you 
 to-morrow, either to be one of the wedding party, 
 
294 AiSTToi^ry* 
 
 or to stand by you in the duel ; for I anticipate you 
 will insult the young Captain, before we have been 
 there half an hour — he will demand satisfaction — 
 you will call him out, and will be glad enough to 
 have me for your friend/^ 
 
 ''^Nay, Ernest, this is no laisghing matter— a man 
 dares to assume a feigned name — propose to my 
 sister, and gets off directly he has married her, and 
 her little dowry has become his 1 What can this 
 mean ? there must be falsehood and trickery in such 
 a business^^^ But Ernest would smile and make a 
 joke of the whole^ 
 
 "Why, man, you forget what prim, prudent 
 aunts your little sister has got to take care of her ; 
 one would think you were one of them, with all 
 your wisdom and foresight. — Come, let us take 
 another peep at Miss Kate's beau-ideal of a hand- 
 some man ;" and he turned to the first letter from 
 Kathleen, reading again her description of the 
 captain's person, and interlining in pencil his own 
 comments. ' Light blue eyes,' (in lover's lan- 
 guage, signifying watery green,) ^ fair complexion,* 
 (that means sallow), ^ auburn hair,' (signifying red) 
 — (ha, ha ! I am beginning to recognise an old ac- 
 quaintance of mine) — ^ a nice tall figure,' (that 
 stands for lankey), ' he has a fund of anecdote,' 
 (viz., an admirable power of drawing long bows), 
 ^ very agreeable manners, and a pleasant voice, both 
 in speaking and singing;' (in fact, he is a lady's 
 
ANTONY. 295 
 
 man every inch of him). I have him before me, 
 Antony ; and as he may turn out to be a dear old 
 friend of mine, and you will be after Mr. Reynard 
 to-morrow, I will join in the hunt, and be in at the 
 death too.*' 
 
 " Come along then, if you are one at the meet all 
 will be well with us — but if Bruce be indeed a friend 
 of yours, Kate shall have him with all my heart,'^ 
 said Antony. 
 
 " I doubt that point — nevertheless, get ready your 
 white gloves — we must be early visitors at this Temple 
 of Felicity, whether the wedding comes off or not.^^ 
 
 ^' But, Ernest, we must be careful not to hurt the 
 feelings of the dear, confiding Kate.^^ 
 
 "Trust me, dear fellow for that, I honour and 
 revere this dear little sister of yours highly, for her 
 appreciation of you. That says something for her 
 sense, though the good old ladies have done their 
 best to spoil the poor child with their detestable 
 * hoard of maxims teaching down her heart, ' as 
 Tennyson expresses it. The educatresses of tiie 
 present day have destroyed the half of our English 
 women in the bud, by their stiffening, starching 
 principles ; checking every lively and spirited im- 
 pulse or energy the young things have in them, as 
 if they intended them to remain, like themselves, for 
 ever old maids.^^ 
 
 '"' Well, if my aunts have intended this, they appear 
 to have been unsuccessful in this case ! And dear 
 Kate is, indeed, a sweet girl." 
 
296 ANTONY. 
 
 *^ A sweet girl I yes — there it is. The elders of 
 society think that the nitrogen in womankind, as 
 in some plants, must be turned into starch in the 
 seed; that when that seed ripens, it may become 
 sugar, and they may all become, what is called, 
 ' sweet girls.^ Why not let the pretty blossoms 
 make use of the constituents of their nature in their 
 own way. To give their intellects a good soil, is all 
 the secret of cultivation, and freedom is the parent 
 of all beauty .'' 
 
 " Yes — it is thus Nina is becoming rich in loveli- 
 ness," said Antony. 
 
 " Nina ! she possesses the most cultivated intelli- 
 gence, with the finest nature, I ever met with. She 
 is also wonderfully beautiful, with all the charm that 
 youth and an elegant mind can give. She is now 
 more than ever enchanting.^^ 
 
 " You have, then, seen her }" 
 
 " Almost every night I was in town I managed to 
 be in her society, although I was the guest of my 
 baronet cousin, Melville. At the opera all eyes 
 were attracted to her box, and she was the 'first 
 beauty in the assembly-room. It is said she is to 
 be married to Lord Darcy, but this I can hardly 
 believe." 
 
 " I think I have once met this Lord Darcy ; but 
 who is he? tell me more of him." 
 
 ^^He is a rich nobleman, — a great pet of Sir 
 William Allingworth's. He has an estate in Glouces- 
 tershire, and a shooting-box in the neighbourhood of 
 
ANTONY. 297 
 
 Llanawr ; is there every season, and out constantly 
 among the hills with Sir William. His tastes are 
 for waltzing and races ; and he is clever with his 
 betting-book. I believe he is a fair shot, too ; but 
 here his accomplishments end. The fortune and 
 title, however, are enough to make Sir William think 
 a match between him and his daughter highly desir- 
 able ; but how could such a man make Nina happy ? 
 I^d stake a high wager that Nina has the wit to 
 choose a very different husband." 
 
 Antony was too intent on Ernest^s words, to 
 remark the aspect of satisfaction with which he now 
 glanced towards a looking-glass, as he gave his collar 
 a fashionable twirl, and shook back his hair from his 
 handsome face. 
 
 In such pleasant chat between the two friends, 
 hours rolled by unheeded, and morning surprised 
 them. 
 
 5^ t* ^ *^ <n *|5 
 
 At Felicity Villa, breakfast was over, and the post 
 was anxiously awaited by the inmates. Kathleen 
 was sitting in the drawing-room window, her back 
 turned towards it, listening, with her young face 
 bright with smiles, to the gallantries and lively chat- 
 ter of her intended; and he, leaning against the 
 shutter, was exerting all his energies to keep alive 
 the fascination which he had known how to create, 
 and by which he now attracted to himself the pleased 
 attention of the eldest aunt (who sat working on the 
 
 o3 
 
298 ANTONY. 
 
 sofa), as well as that of the young lady. The clever 
 Captain was every moment impressing more and 
 more deeply on the mind of Miss Bess, what a 
 delightful man he was; what a charming husband 
 he would make to her dear niece ; how lucky she 
 was to have got him ; and how important it was that 
 no delay of the wedding should permit the escape of 
 so precious a prize. The good aunt was inwardly 
 vehemently blaming her niece for her positive refusal 
 that the marriage should take place before the follow- 
 ing day, unless she heard that morning from Antony, 
 while she awaited with almost as much trepidation 
 as Kathleen herself, or even the Captain, the arrival 
 of the post, which, it was feared, might bring him a 
 summons, and oblige him at once to quit Felicity 
 Villa. 
 
 '^ Well, it will be a sad pity if the dear girl do not 
 get married to him, after all 1'^ thought aunt Bess ; 
 " though it would, indeed, be a grief to part with 
 her. But then the separation from us would not 
 take place yet, as he agrees to leave her with us 
 at present;" — and then the good lady meditated 
 how comfortably the interesting ceremony might 
 have been all over that morning, had not the bride 
 insisted on the postponement ; and how the impor- 
 tant hour of twelve would now soon be past; and 
 how they might then, perhaps, be forced to hurry 
 through the marriage at a most inconveniently early 
 hour the following day ; — or the Captain might be 
 
ANTONY. 299 
 
 obliged to depart even that very afternoon, and Kate 
 might lose her lover altogether, for he had already 
 stretched his leave of absence to the utmost ; and 
 who could say when he would be able to return, or 
 if ever ? and thus Kate's chance of a good husband 
 might be gone. *' Well, the silly girl will have time 
 then, when too late, to repent her imprudence !" 
 sighed the fidgetty aunt. 
 
 The quiet resistance of Kathleen to the eager 
 arguments of her suitor, and the advice of her usually 
 prudent aunts, was very unusual in one so timid and 
 so confiding; but her unwillingness to break her 
 promise to Antony, of awaiting the letter from him, 
 had given her strength of purpose. She positively 
 expected the post would bring her what she desired, 
 and was impatiently longing for its arrival, while 
 silently listening to the animated conversation of 
 Captain Bruce. 
 
 His own attention was too eagerly engaged with 
 himself and with her at that moment, to become 
 aware of the proceedings without the house, and he 
 knew not that a coach had stopped not far from the 
 gate, that two gentlemen had entered and were now 
 walking up the drive, having, as they did so, a full 
 view of his person, and time to criticise and com- 
 ment upon it — that they had entered the mansion, 
 giving the footman a charge not to mention their 
 arrival to the rest of the household, but to lead them 
 to Miss Joan — and that they were now enjoying an 
 
300 ANTOKV. 
 
 interview with that lady, in the little breakfast -room 
 on the ground-floor, where she and her gentleman of 
 business had been already engaged in drawing up a 
 legal document that had reference to the approaching 
 marriage. 
 
 As Antony and Ernest had entered the study, 
 the attorney left it, and they found themselves in 
 the presence of Miss Joan, who, with an air of even 
 more than usual dignity and self-satisfaction, glanced 
 towards the visitors, and then turning to the man- 
 servant enquired majestically — 
 
 " What are the names of these gentlemen, Leo- 
 pold r' 
 
 (It may be here observed that the appellation 
 Leopold, had been selected by the Misses Single vie 
 for their footman, as far more genteel and, therefore, 
 more appropriate than the vulgar epithet John, which 
 his sponsors had had the bad taste to assign to him 
 at his baptism.) 
 
 Antony, however, unconsciously prevented the 
 reply, as, obeying a natural impulse, he ran forwards, 
 caught his aunt^s hands in both his own, and said, 
 " Dear aunt Joan, have you forgotten your boy, 
 Antony ?'' 
 
 She eyed him from head to foot with increasing 
 doubt and surprise, as, for the first time in her life, 
 she heard the deaf lad speak. Indeed, it was some 
 time ere she could convince herself that she saw, 
 in the tall and comely youth before her, the once 
 
ANTONY. 301 
 
 despised deaf and dumb Antony. As he introduced 
 his friend, she received Ernest with her character- 
 istic prim dignity, and explanations were soon given 
 of the cause of their sudden arrival. It was easy for 
 her to understand that Antony was eager to be pre- 
 sent at his sister's wedding, and having met with his 
 friend at so short a distance, had prevailed on him 
 to accompany him. She told them they had arrived 
 but just in time, as no one knew how soon the cere- 
 mony would take place. It was only owing to Kate's 
 unaccountable obstinacy it had been postponed to 
 the last moment. It was feared, too, that Augustus 
 must leave them immediately. 
 
 Ernest's fingers had acted as interpreters between 
 the aunt and the nephew so far, when Antony, thus 
 reminded that time was precious, started up, and 
 demanded where he should find his brother. The 
 reply informed him that Augustus had not felt well 
 that morning, and was even now, probably, in his 
 own chamber. The two friends had already arranged 
 their tactics ; so Antony confidently left Ernest to 
 fulfil his part, while he hastened from the room to 
 seek his brother. 
 
 Antony went with a quiet and quick step along 
 the well-remembered passage towards the chamber 
 he had formerly tenanted. As he passed that of his 
 sister, he started back, fearful lest he should be dis- 
 covered before the plot was ripe. The door stood 
 open, and within he could distinguish the figure of 
 
302 ANTONY. 
 
 nurse, as, with her back turned towards him, she 
 held aloft, with outstretched arms, a snow-white 
 robe, then laid it on the bed, stroked out its beauti- 
 ful folds, adjusting each aright, and then stooped 
 down, as he thought, to kiss the bridal garment of 
 her darling. He shuddered, hurried on to the old 
 room, turned the handle, and entered ; then he 
 closed the door. 
 
 Augustus sat by the table, his arms thrown upon 
 it, and his head thrust down and buried in them. 
 Then a voice, a voice that was startling and un- 
 known, but a voice that had once been sweetly 
 familiar to his ear in the long-past times of his inno- 
 cent childhood— a voice which, like his own soul, 
 had greatly changed since then — a low, unexpected 
 voice uttered his name : — 
 
 -■^ Augustus ! — Brother !" 
 
 He sprang up. The sound was a loud whisper, 
 as if uttered from a closed sepulchre. The brothers 
 confronted one another ! 
 
 The elder looked upon the younger with a pale 
 and wondering countenance, as on an apparition 
 conjured up by his own evil conscience, and for a 
 few moments both gazed in silence. The morning 
 sun glanced aside on the face of Antony, lighting up 
 gloriously its truth and manliness, while his dark 
 eyes pierced, though with a mild beam, into the very 
 soul of his brother. Augustus stretched forth his 
 hand as if to feel if the unexpected form were 
 
ANTONY. 303 
 
 indeed a vision. Antony grasped it warmly — the 
 mistrust, the anger, which had urged him to the 
 interview fled from his heart as a flood of that 
 ancient love for the child-brother which, when their 
 one mother had lived, had bound these two together, 
 rushed upon his memory. Then pity for the sad 
 changes which time and a sinful world had worked 
 in that once gay spirit, sent tears to his eyes. 
 
 "Dear brother — all is not well with jon," said 
 Antony, " or I have startled you. Come, speak to 
 me ; are you ill }'^ 
 
 Augustus burst into a wild laugh, wrung his 
 brother's hand, threw himself into his seat, and 
 began with boisterous voice and majiner to ask how, 
 in the name of the Black Art, he had got there, or 
 how he had conjured back his lost senses. Antonv 
 could not discern his swiftly uttered words, but at 
 length found opportunity, during a pause in his tor- 
 rent of speech, to explain, as he pushed towards him 
 the paper and pen that lay on the table, that 
 though able to articulate, he was still the deaf 
 Antony. Then, remembering the duty he had come 
 to fulfil, he spoke wdth a gravity which again sur- 
 prised Augustus. 
 
 "So, Augustus, our sister is to be a bride to-morrow." 
 
 He reddened with an expression of confusion 
 which he knew not how to conceal. 
 
 "Who is the bridegroom you have brought her?^^ 
 
304 ANTONV. 
 
 " She has made her own choice^'^ wrote the other, 
 with an effort to assume carelessness of manner, 
 though his hand trembled. 
 
 ^' She then knows that the man she is about to 
 marry is an impostor ; assuming a rank, as well as a 
 name, which are not his own ; without money, with- 
 out prospects — shall I add — without the position or 
 the character of a gentleman." 
 
 Augustus made a passionate gesture of surprise; 
 but Antony continued ; — 
 
 . " If, however, she be aware of these facts or not, 
 we must, of course, be active and determined in 
 breaking off such an engagement instantly. The 
 marriage cannot take place." 
 
 " It must!" wrote Augustus. 
 
 '•It must not!" 
 
 '^ It must! or I am a ruined man." 
 
 "And if it must, what will she be, Augustus? 
 Ruined, indeed; broken-hearted; all her young life 
 blighted I No ! she does not know the man who has 
 dared to enter this family with designs so insulting 
 to her and us; and we must this moment undeceive 
 \iQx, before it may be too late." 
 
 Augustus grasped the arm of his brother with a 
 threatening gesture, and kept there a vehement and 
 tightening hold. 
 
 " What, Augustus ! No, no ! You cannot hesi- 
 tate — cannot sacrifice our darling^s happiness." 
 
ANTONY. 305 
 
 Augustus let go the grasp — turned away — and 
 wrote hurriedly : — 
 
 " She will be happy, for she loves him. Women 
 love deeply and long. She will not be unhappy/' 
 
 Antony read the words, and then tore the paper 
 into a thousand pieces, and threw it at Augustus's 
 feet. The next moment, however, he had curbed his 
 passion, and spoke with restrained anger. 
 
 ^^ And is that pure and holy heart to be devoted by 
 us to a villain ? Good heavens ! Brother, sooner would 
 I, that both you and I were in the dust — crushed — 
 dead! But come, come; we waste words; this 
 fellow, of whose name and history I have been 
 informed, of course woos our Kate for the five 
 hundred pounds, which would be his own upon her 
 marriage-day. I am told, he has nothing but his 
 pay ; by what lies has he deceived my aunts V 
 
 " I hardly know," said Augustus ; forgetting him- 
 seK in his surprise. Antony watched his lips, and 
 caught his words. " They have both settled some- 
 thing on Kate, which would have yearly assisted 
 her.'^ 
 
 " Their liberality is, however, unnecessary," said 
 Antony. " I am informed, too, that a summons 
 of a different nature to that which shall 
 recall him to the regiment, is daily expected, 
 and feared by him, and makes him so impatient 
 for the marriage. Ha, brother ! you are more 
 startled now than ever. It is time we should be 
 
306 ANTONY. 
 
 frank together. It seems he has deceived you, as 
 well as numberless others. My last intelligence 
 is new to you ; but I have it from good autho- 
 rity — from one who was in London yesterday, 
 and heard there that Marley had sent word to 
 his creditors that he was about to marry an heiress, 
 and pay off old debts." 
 
 At the name of Marley, Augustus sprung from 
 his seat; his spirit was now vanquished. He threw 
 himself back again in his chair, and became of a ghastly 
 pallor ; fixing a frowning, yet perplexed gaze, on the 
 paper before him. Antony could mould him now 
 to his own will; could draw from him his most 
 secret confidence : he felt his power, and he used it ; 
 but with gentleness, with kindness ; and without 
 permitting one gleam of his triumph to appear, to 
 grieve, or to sting his already grieved and suffering 
 brother. 
 
 Augustus now replied, hesitatingly, but irre- 
 sistibly, to his questions. With pity, as well as 
 pain, Antony listened to the tale of temptation, 
 error, and misfortune, which gradually revealed itself 
 to him. As their conversation continued, Antony 
 learned, that the unhappy Augustus had been filled 
 with remorse and sorrow, when he had discovered 
 the danger into which his sister was falling, and yet 
 he knew not how to save her from it — for that the 
 stranger had a hold on him, from which he could 
 not escape; that he (Augustus) owed him money, 
 
ANTONY. 307 
 
 which it was impossible for him to pay; that he 
 hated the man ; longed to free himself from his 
 power^ but it daily became more irresistible ; that 
 when he brought him to his aunts' home, he had no 
 anticipation of such a result for his sister ; that the 
 whole affair had been sudden and unexpected to 
 him ; that he saw her so involved, it seemed that 
 she could not escape, and he dared not warn her ; 
 for this man had bound him by threats which he 
 dared not defy, not to disclose to Kate, or he r 
 relations, either his real name, or any knowledge he 
 possessed of his previous life and character. 
 
 " You understand, then, that 1 am in his clutches," 
 he continued to write, with a desperate energy. 
 " He swore, that only by permitting this marriage 
 should I escape him. You can have no imagination 
 of what I have suffered. At last, in my madness, I 
 even began to make myself believe the poor child 
 might not be miserable ; and that the union might 
 not break her heart.'^ 
 
 "Dear brother! poor Augustus!'^ murmured 
 Antony, affectionately ; as he leaned on his shoulder 
 and read the swiftly-penned words. 
 
 " You cannot conceive into what terrible diffi- 
 culties I had previously fallen. From some he had, 
 at first, extricated me, only to lead me into deeper. 
 You, Antony, are fortunate indeed, never to have 
 found yourself at a gambling-table, among such a 
 company of devils.'^ 
 
308 ANTONY. 
 
 Antony staid his hand. " Thank Heaven, I have 
 not known such dire temptations as you, poor 
 brother. But now there is no time to be lost — the 
 mischief is yet to be undone : you will grant my 
 request to stay here for awhile : you must not again 
 encounter this fellow, who has, I see, a strange power 
 over you. Then you promise to remain here ? 
 Good. Farewell.^^ 
 
 Antony rushed from the room. 
 
 In the meantime Ernest had excited the interest 
 and attention of Miss Joan by his lively conversa- 
 tion. They had talked on a variety of subjects, he 
 listening with well-sustained gravity to her opinions 
 on political and ecclesiastical matters, and, to her 
 laudatory remarks upon the army of the British 
 empire, which she declared she considered to be a 
 body of the finest and noblest specimens of mankind 
 that the world had ever produced. After delivering 
 this sentiment, she was evidently too much overcome 
 by a sense of the magnanimity and patriotism which 
 had inspired it, to proceed, and a pause thus happily 
 occurred which gave Ernest the much desired oppor- 
 tunity of introducing his suggestion, that perhaps 
 there were some among the members of that body, 
 whom she had so highly honoured by her commen- 
 dation, who might not be altogether worthy of such 
 praise. She could only say, in reply, that all those 
 with whom she had ever been acquainted in that 
 profession, had been among the handsomest and 
 
ANTONY. 309 
 
 most honourable of men. There were, in short, none 
 in any other profession, except perhaps the medical, 
 (Ernest bowed, supposing these last words were 
 given in compliment to himself, for he knew not 
 of her faithful adoration of her dear Mr. Haler,) 
 none who had excited her admiration so highly as 
 the warriors of England, from her own nephew, of 
 whom she confessed she was truly proud, (though 
 she said it who should not say it,) to that hero — who 
 was the first of heroes — and of whom she was grate- 
 ful that she was a contemporary — the Hero of 
 Waterloo ! 
 
 Ernest remarked that though he had not the 
 honour of the acquaintance of her martial nephew, 
 yet he had once known personally a comrade of Mr. 
 Nayton^s, an officer in the same regiment, who was, 
 he feared, not the sole instance that could be found, 
 that if our army were but an array of dear, warlike 
 angels, they were not all angels of light. 
 
 She was indeed surprised. Augustus had never 
 expressed any sentiment but that of respect for his 
 fellow-officers. Ernest concluded that he had never 
 mentioned a fellow of the name of Marley, who was 
 as great a rascal as lived under the abused title of 
 gentleman. 
 
 This Marley, he told her, he had first met at the 
 University, whence he had been turned out for his 
 wild and unlawful practices; that he had ruined him- 
 self by gambling, and now sought and found refuge 
 
310 ANTONY. 
 
 in the army ; and Ernest, not suffering himself to be 
 interrupted by his fair listener, now that he was 
 fairly launched out into the subject it was his part to 
 present to her, continued to discourse upon the 
 villany of such characters, their cunning, their power 
 of imposing on half the world by bragging and 
 falsehood, and the mischief and misery they loved to 
 work, till Miss Joan, filled with a just indignation 
 'dJt the sinfulness of humanity, and with a sense more 
 comfortable than ever of her own sanctity, elevated 
 her eyebrows, and drew down the corners of her 
 mouth, as she thanked Heaven that she was what 
 she was, that Kathleen was Kathleen, and that 
 Captain Bruce was not a Marley. 
 
 Shortly after this observation, she conducted 
 Ernest upstairs to the drawing-room to introduce 
 him to her sister and the two young people. 
 
 Kathleen sprang up as Miss Joan entered, and 
 ran forwards to meet her. 
 
 " You have a letter for me, dear aunt — a letter 
 from Antony — is it not so ?'^ she cried; adding, 
 impatiently, " give it me, I entreat you. I knew he 
 would write to me, and long to read it. Give it me, 
 dear aunt, do not be cruel to me ; you could not, if 
 you knew my anxiety .^^ 
 
 " Poor Kate ! I have no letter ; but, cheer up, 
 child; no tears, no sighs. I have brought you 
 Antonyms friend, Mr. Forsythe.^^ Aunt Joan re- 
 sumed her dignity as she turned towards the guest 
 
ANTONY. '311 
 
 for the formal introduction, — " Sir, my sister. Miss 
 Singlevie/^ — "Sir, my niece, Miss Kathleen Nayton;'' 
 then, to the two ladies, " Mr. Forsythe.^^ 
 
 Kathleen ought to have curtsied — she knew she 
 ought, for the dancing-master had told her so, and 
 taught her how it was to be done, as dancing-masters 
 always used to do ; but though both the eyes of 
 both the aunts were upon her, and those of her 
 intended also, — the impulse of delight which now 
 followed the disappointment of the previous moment, 
 at seeing before her the friend of Antony, overcame 
 every idea of the formalities of etiquette, and she 
 stepped joyfully forwards, and permitted him to 
 wring her hand, warmly, as if he were an old acquaint- 
 ance, while she repeated the words, " I am so glad 
 to see you, I am so glad to see you," over and over 
 again, as if they were all she knew of the English 
 language, and were meant to express everything she 
 had to say. Then, regardless of Miss Joan's fidgetty 
 impatience to continue the introductions to the rest 
 of the party, he sat down by Kate upon the sofa, 
 while all her wonted shyness came back, and her 
 pretty, sparkling face was by this time covered with 
 blushes. As she again glanced timidly up into the 
 face of the friend of Antony, his good-humoured 
 glistening eyes met hers ; he was contemplating the 
 sister of Antony with an amused smile, which well 
 concealed the feeling of interest and pleasure which 
 she had unexpectedly awakened. He was startled 
 to find in her the charm of artlessness and nature ; 
 
312 ANTONY. 
 
 it seemed to him that one educated in the constant 
 presence of those painfully flat backs, (the two aunts 
 were just then sitting so very erect, must become a 
 being devoid of all elasticity of mind or person. 
 
 Ah, youth ! dear buoyant youth ! there are some 
 baneful influences, from which, though it may lead 
 us into others, it protects us with friendly power ! 
 
 From Ernest's beaming countenance Kathleen 
 caught new courage. 
 
 "You have it !''' she cried, suddenly ; " you have 
 the letter — I know it ; this is charming — you come 
 from him — you bring it to me !" 
 
 " I come from London, Miss Nayton, I have not 
 seen Ponterry for at least two years," said Ernest, 
 still smiling ; but then distressed at the expression of 
 disappointment which passed suddenly over poor 
 Kathleen's face, as she turned it away. 
 
 " And you can tell me nothing of him ?" she 
 sighed forth. 
 
 '' His last letter to me was dated last Christmas, 
 I think. No, no, it was May, so it was ! But are you 
 not unusually anxious to hear of him. Miss Nayton : 
 you do not anticipate unpleasant news, I hope ?" said 
 Ernest, considering how best to lead her to the 
 truth. 
 
 *^ No, not of him; but — but— if his letter do not 
 arrive till to-morrow, " she stopped, much embar- 
 rassed, and added in a low voice, — " but there is now 
 no hope; ten o'clock — the post gone — I am in 
 despair." 
 
ANTONY. 313 
 
 " Comfort yourself, Miss Nayton ; courage, 
 courage,'^ murmured Ernest ; " you may not only 
 hope, you may be confident of Antonyms never failing 
 you, in any matter of importance 1'^ 
 
 "You think so, indeed? Thank you, thank you, 
 Mr. Forsythe." 
 
 " Depend upon it, if Antony knew you expected 
 a communication from him, and the post could not 
 bring it in time, he would travel night and day to 
 bring it himself, rather than cause you disappoint- 
 ment.^' 
 
 Kate thanked liim again, warmly, but hardly 
 thought his words could be verified. 
 
 " Perhaps, Kate,'' Miss Joan now interposed, in 
 the most imposing voice she could command, "you 
 may by this time have carried on a sufficiently long 
 conversation with Mr. Forsythe, and can allow him 
 at last to be introduced to our friend." 
 
 Miss Joan elevated herself from her seat, and 
 Ernest did the same. 
 
 ^' Good heavens !" thought he, as he did so, with 
 a stateliness which he caught involuntarily from the 
 lady before him; "this is dangerous, infectious ; if 
 I lived a week in this house, I should turn into a 
 Miss Singlevie. I must get out of the place as 
 quick as I can ; but here is some business to get 
 through smartly, though it will be unpleasant work 
 for the poor gentle maiden V 
 
 The figure of Captain Bruce had, since the 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
314 ANTONY. 
 
 entrance of Ernest, been partially concealed behind 
 the hangings of the window, and even now appeared 
 somewhat reluctant to respond to the summoning 
 gesture of Miss Joan, and advance into the sunlight. 
 
 She turned to Ernest, — " Sir, allow me to present 
 Captain Bruce — of the Infantry. — Mr.Forsythe.'^ 
 
 The officer bowed slightly, and sat down again ; 
 but Ernest kept a firm scrutinising gaze upon him ; 
 then turned to the lady — 
 
 "Your pardon, madam, but there is here some 
 mistake. The name of that person is Marley.'^ 
 
 " Marley ! ^^ screamed Joan, with a look of horror, 
 " Marley ! Heaven preserve us ! '' 
 
 "Joan, what do you mean ? do not be rude/^ said 
 Bess in a low tone ; then addressing Ernest, " No, 
 sir, no mistake ; this is Captain Bruce, the friend of 
 Mr. Augustus Nay ton, and of my niece, and who, 
 sir, will shortly be nearly related to us.^^ 
 
 The would-be Captain rose, bowed, still kept 
 near the friendly curtain, and in a mild voice assured 
 the gentleman that he had not the honour of his 
 acquaintance, and that the name he applied to him 
 was altogether unknown to him. 
 
 Ernest's whole countenance glowed with indigna- 
 tion, and his words flew forth in an angry torrent. 
 
 " You do well, Mr. Marley, to assume another 
 name, as 1 believe that any other must be safer for 
 you than yoar own. It is not, however, in your 
 power to assume another appearance than your own. 
 
ANTONY. 315 
 
 or to persuade me that I cannot depend upon my 
 own eyesight. That you are Marley, and the Marley 
 whom I have good reason to remember, is a fact 
 which admits of no denial, and I counsel you, sir, 
 not to attempt it.'^ 
 
 "You perplex me, sir, and your inconsiderate 
 lanojuage is incomprehensible to me ; again I must 
 assure you that you are deceived," stammered forth 
 the other, 
 
 ^' Deceived, sir ? are you mad, sir ?'^ cried the 
 still more incensed and eager Ernest. " You may 
 have deceived these ladies, and I suppose also the 
 gentleman who introduced you to their house ; but 
 me, sir, you never have, and never can deceive. 
 You are aware how well I am acquainted with you. 
 Your name, your person, and your past disgraceful 
 conduct may have been concealed from some mem- 
 bers of this family, but, sir, I am ready to declare 
 them ^' 
 
 Marley sprang forwards with a threatening gesture. 
 Kathleen, trembling with surprise and terror, rushed 
 between them, when suddenly a new actor appeared 
 on the scene. Antony was now at his sister^s side, 
 and she, with a loud cry of joy, threw herself into 
 his arms. Ernest had, in his impetuosity, half for- 
 gotten her presence, or he might have spared her 
 the pain of so sudden and cruel a communication as 
 she had received from his lips. He was now glad 
 to see that Antony, to whom she clung with a 
 
 p 2 
 
31b ANTONY. 
 
 passionate embrace, was bearing her from the room. 
 She would not, however, permit him to close the 
 door, as Ernest^s voice again rose. 
 
 " I have just left London, Marley, and understood 
 that some gentlemen, with whose names you are 
 well acquainted, were inquiring for you. You may 
 have reason to thank me for this warning, and for 
 the advice to quit the country without an hour's 
 delay. The marriage you have had the insolence to 
 project, and which would involve in your own mis- 
 fortune so young and excellent a lady, must '^ 
 
 But Antony would permit Kate to hear no more ; 
 he closed the door forcibly, and proceeded to bear 
 her swiftly away. 
 
 " Tell me, — tell me, darling brother, is it true r'^ 
 ^he asked, looking, with piteous face into his. He 
 kissed her fondly, and then, in a low voice, that 
 sounded with terrible power into her heart, uttered 
 that which, to one so tenderly loving and confiding, 
 so pure and ignorant of sin, it was agony to hear ; 
 but he told it gently, too — careful not to startle her 
 by a too sudden knowledge of the truth. 
 
 ^' But, Augustus ? '^ she asked. 
 
 ^^ He has deceived him, too ; him as well as you ; 
 he was unworthy of you, my precious one ; but calm 
 yourself, and trust to me.^^ 
 
 " Yes ; all, all I trust to you, Antony ; but once 
 more, let me see him.'' 
 
 She strove to struggle away back to the room they 
 
ANTONY. 317 
 
 had left, but he shook his head, and would not 
 yield his hold. She was pale and feeble, her head 
 drooped on his shoulder. He had borne her towards 
 her own chamber, but when he spied within the 
 bridal dress still upon the bed, he turned away, and 
 closed the door. 
 
 " It would mock her sorrow/' he thought. " On, 
 then, to Augustus. No, no, that would give pain to 
 both ; yet it were better that they should meet at 
 once. He can explain what he will.'' He carried her, 
 half fainting, to the room. Augustus still stood there 
 in the attitude of passive remorse. He bore her in. 
 
 '* Augustus, take her, for you will soothe, you will 
 comfort our dear child." 
 
 The brother sprang forwards, and received her 
 in his arms, while Antony returned hastily to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
318 ANTONlf. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 BEING A CHAPTER OF DEPARTURES. 
 
 The scene in the drawing-room, when Antony 
 re-entered it, so far alarmed the ladies as to cause 
 their instantly retiring from it in terror. Miss Bess 
 nearly went into hysterics, as she anticipated fatal 
 terminations to both the duels which must, of course, 
 take place that very day between Augustus and the 
 insolent Mr. Forsythe, and between Antony and 
 poor Captain Bruce, while Miss Joan scrupled not 
 to pronounce the reasoning faculties of her sister to 
 be most grievously defective, to be unable to com- 
 prehend the whole matter at a glance, and she 
 proceeded to communicate the information concern- 
 ing " that horror of a Marley^^ which Ernest had 
 given her, and which she was mightily proud of 
 being the first to possess ; adding, that if she had 
 been attended to in the beginning, none of this 
 would have occurred to poor Kate, for, had she 
 
ANTONY. 319 
 
 not, the first moment she saw the man, declared him 
 to be a wolf in sheep^s clothing? only because she 
 happened to be younger than Miss Bess (on this 
 difference of age Miss Joan was peculiarly fond of 
 dwelling when a possibility offered), her advice was 
 never followed, her warnings were despised, her 
 wishes set at nought. 
 
 Poor Miss Bess ! she was conquered ; and though 
 she could not exactly remember the prophecy alluded 
 to, she consented to resign herself to deep contrition, 
 and to the triumphant domination of her far more 
 discerning sister. During the continuation of the 
 long contest between the ladies, that between the 
 young men proceeded with equal vehemence and 
 greater rapidity, while, in Augustus's room the young 
 girl was sitting by her elder brother's side, sobbing 
 and weeping bitterly in the first outburst of her 
 grief and disappointment. 
 
 " Poor Augustus !" she said, at length, " and you, 
 too, were deceived by — by him." 
 
 *^ I, too, Kate?" stammered the other, who had 
 till now sat silent, " who said so ?" 
 
 " Antony told me. I am so sorry for you. It is 
 so terribly bitter to find one's self thus mistaken in 
 one who ," her sobs prevented her saying more. 
 
 Augustus rose hastily, and turned his face away, 
 while his heart swelled with a warm sense of Antony's 
 generosity, in having spared him the humiliation 
 of exposure, even to her. He could not bear to see 
 
320 ANTONY. 
 
 her tears ; each one that fell seemed to resound 
 with a voice of reproof to his own soul, since they 
 were called forth by his own crime. He paced the 
 room impatiently : " She need not then know it — she 
 may still be ignorant of her cause to hate me ; the 
 secret of my shame is safe with Antony/' he thought, 
 and sought to give himself relief and consolation by 
 the knowledge that his guilt was hidden from the 
 one it had most injured. But he was unsuccessful; 
 the weight of the sin lay still painfully heavy upon 
 his soul. Her gentle sorrow, her child-like ejacu- 
 lations of regret, her very ignorance of the wrong 
 he had done her, increased his passionate anger with 
 himself; he gave no reply to her occasional questions; 
 he dared not address her, but continued for a length 
 of time treading the floor to and fro, with knit brows, 
 and downward-bent head. His brother's tender 
 consideration for him had deeply touched him. That 
 Kathleen was released from the terrible danger 
 against which he had been too weak to contend for 
 her, rejoiced him sincerely, and began to alleviate 
 the fever, excited by remorse in his diseased mind, 
 which had clouded his reason, and increased almost 
 to madness. 
 
 His own liabilities, his own ruin, indeed, were 
 still as threatening as before, but — " no matter, she 
 was safe!'' — they were deserved, and brought upon 
 himself ; they must be borne, and since she was safe 
 they could be borne, and manfully he would meet 
 
ANTONY. 32 
 
 them, as his due chastisement. He would leave her, 
 for her suiFering he could not bear to witness. He 
 would leave her, — ignorant of his own part in inflicting 
 on her this cruel wound, and leave her to Antonyms 
 tenderness and consolation. Yes, Antony would 
 give her comfort, but who or what could give com- 
 fort to his own self-accusing, self-persecuting con- 
 science ? 
 
 At length contrition worked within him its 
 all-powerful change. At length the better and 
 purer nature of his younger days — the truth and 
 candour of his childhood — returned in its early 
 power. His resolution was taken. He approached 
 his sister; still, as he stood before her, turned his 
 face away, and looked upon the ground, for he dared 
 not yet meet the troubled gaze of those sorrowful 
 eyes; and then, in broken sentences, with eager 
 hasty utterance, he told her all the truth, confessed 
 all his guilt and weakness, told her to hate him — to 
 call him no longer brother, to recoil from him, as 
 from a poisonous thing, for that he had given himself 
 to the power of a fiend, and permitted his own sister, 
 the innocent, the loving, the confiding one, to be 
 another victim. 
 
 Kate bent down her face, and hid it in her hands, 
 and a long silence followed. She had listened calmly, 
 but with inexpressible wonder. To have been 
 deceived in a brother, too! her heart seemed to 
 gather itself together, — to close — to shut out all the 
 
 p3 
 
322 ANTONY. 
 
 world. If not in a brother, in whom, then, could 
 she believe ? 
 
 This is the first effect of such disappointment 
 on the spirit of the young, and the pain is then 
 more intense than from any subsequent wound. 
 Who amongst us has not known it ? for do we not 
 all learn in such experiences to " put not our trust 
 in any child of man," before we can believe that 
 our entire confidence is only to be placed in that 
 Being who alone is perfect ? 
 
 The confession which had so increased the bitter- 
 ness of Kathleen^s grief, had on the contrary begun, as 
 soon as uttered, to relieve that of Augustus. He now 
 found that the humiliation of acknowledging a wrong, 
 to the one injured by it, instead of making the sense 
 of shame more painful to the guilty one, is its only 
 alleviator. 
 
 Thus it is, also, that confession to the Supreme 
 Being is one of the first duties of man ; for even 
 where our crime is apparently chiefly against our 
 neighbour, and therefore should to him be acknow- 
 ledged, yet in that crime, as well as every other, we 
 sin first and principally against God. Confession 
 is, we feel, the only reparation (if we may so speak) 
 that it is in our power to make, and it must be made 
 to Him, and generally to Him alone. 
 
 When Kathleen at length looked up, and beheld 
 the expression on her brother's face, of deep humiUa- 
 tion and wretchedness, a sudden gush of pity and 
 
ANTONY. 323 
 
 of tenderness rose within her. She strove to cast 
 aside her own sufferings to silence the angry voice 
 of her wronged heart against him, and advancing 
 towards him, she laid her arm upon his shoulder, 
 and looked up into his sad eyes. 
 
 " Dear brother V' she said, and again paused ; but 
 in a few moments the strength she needed came into 
 her heart, and with a feeling of rekindling love, 
 almost of forgiveness, she continued : — ' Dearest 
 brother, it was generous of you to tell me this. 1 
 
 thank you — I thank you earnestly ," She saw 
 
 him start. He had not expected these welcome 
 words ; and tears, now for the first time, were spring- 
 ing to his eyes. 
 
 "It must have so pained you," she went on, 
 *^to repeat to me the trying story. I thank you 
 the more for so kindly confiding all to me. I will 
 not betray it to any other ; neither must you, dear 
 Augustus. Do not be vexed for me, dear ; I shall 
 not cry any more now — not for myself. But for you 
 — for you — I am deeply grieved. Your fears, your 
 danger — these terrible liabilities are still upon you. 
 Oh ! would that you could escape also ! Would that 
 you could be no longer thus tormented! What 
 would I not give that you might be released I" 
 
 "Dear Augustus," she presently continued, " and 
 you might have escaped, and yet — you permitted 
 Antony to — undo the possibility " 
 
 "And do you think I would have suffered the 
 
324 ANTONY. 
 
 marriage V^ cried the other with vehemence, catch- 
 ing her in his arms. '^ No ! sooner would I have 
 died ! I had in my cowardice and weakness striven 
 to silence my own hearths self-reproaches,, by the 
 thought that as you could love him, his faults and 
 misfortunes might not, with time, change him to 
 you ; but I had striven in vain. For nights and 
 days, remorse has been in my whole soul; frequently 
 I have sought to disclose to our aunts and to you 
 your danger ; but the serpent was ever watching me, 
 and when his eye was upon me I became powerless 
 as an infant. I was half mad, but sooner than bind 
 you to him, I tell you, I should have slain myself 1 
 Another night, such as the last, I could not have 
 endured — T should have slain myself P^ 
 
 " Hush, hush, Augustus ! these last are terrible 
 words,^^ she said, tenderly kissing him. 
 
 " Kathleen ! you must hate me,^^ he cried, striving 
 to push her away from him. " You never can for- 
 give me I^' 
 
 ^^ I do, and with my whole heart, brother \" 
 
 In the meanwhile, Antony had quickly brought to 
 a close the angry contest in the drawing-room, by 
 compelling the convicted Marley to leave the house 
 of his aunts immediately, without seeing Augustus 
 again. 
 
 On the following day, the inhabitants of Felicity 
 Villa were greatly disturbed by the appearance of 
 two gentlemen, of bold and resolute demeanour, at 
 
AXTONY. 325 
 
 the gates ; who, on entering the premises, required 
 that they should be conducted instantly to the pre- 
 sence of Mr. Marley, alias Captain Bruce, who, they 
 had been informed, was here concealed. They were 
 from London, and empowered to arrest the said per- 
 son for debt. Nor would they be prevailed upon to 
 retire till they had searched the whole dwelling. 
 
 This proceeding, while it sent the astonished nurse 
 into fits of alarm, served to convince her, more than 
 all Miss Joan's powers of persuasion were capable of 
 doing, of the fact that the suitor of her darling was 
 unworthy to have ever set foot on the threshold of 
 their home ; for so deep was the disappointment of 
 the fond nurse that her Kathleen could not be a 
 bride, that she had declared she thought she should 
 hardly ever forgive even Master Antony, for having 
 so cruelly broken off the affair. 
 
 They saw no more of Ernest ; he proceeded on his 
 journey to Wales before the close of the same day, 
 leaving Antony at Felicity Villa, as he had resolved 
 not to return to Ponterry without being accompanied 
 by his sister. 
 
 She had told Augustus that she had forgiven all; 
 how could her gentle heart retain a thought of un- 
 kindness towards any ? She had said that she would 
 not grieve for herself ; and, accordingly, for the two 
 or three days that Augustus remained in the house 
 she maintained a wonderful tranquillity, sometimes 
 almost cheerfulness of demeanour ; but when he was 
 
326 ANTONY. 
 
 near her no longer, this could be no longer assumed^ 
 and the first sorrow slie had experienced over- 
 whelmed her whole spirit irresistibly, and she be- 
 came ill and sadly depressed. 
 
 Her aunts were then easily persuaded by the loving 
 and anxious Antony, that as change of air and scene 
 were the best restoratives of health, mind, and body, 
 there should be no further delay in her journeying 
 
 with him and nurse to Ponterry. 
 
 ***** 
 
 As the coach drove off from the gates of Felicity 
 Villa, bearing from the aunts the girl they had loved 
 as their own child far away, for tlie first time in her 
 young life, they turned towards one another with 
 tearful eyes. 
 
 " Poor dear thing!" sobbed Miss Bess. ^'Weil, 
 one thing is certain, we could not trust her in better 
 hands than Antonyms. He has his wits about him, 
 and dearly loves her." 
 
 " Yes,^' said Miss Joan, ^^ I always thought he 
 might be of some use to his family after all, notwith- 
 standing his misfortune." 
 
 " Well, Joan, I suppose of course, as you say so, 
 you thought so. I certainly never heard you express 
 such a thought ; indeed, / thought you always used 
 to cry down my poor godson, and call him both use- 
 less and stupid ; however, of course, you are always 
 right." 
 
 The latter words quelled the rising little storm 
 
ANTONY. 327 
 
 which the preceding had excited. The sisters entered 
 the house together ; every object, every room, served 
 but to remind them of the dear young heart that was 
 now for a while gone, and had so long cheered and 
 gladdened them. 
 
 *^ Dear little Kate ?' sighed one aunt. 
 
 " What shall we do without her V sobbed the other. 
 
 And the maiden sisters forgot to quarrel as they 
 thought of her ! — in their affection for Kate they 
 could not but truly agree ; and their good hearts 
 warming with a genial sympathy, they embraced and 
 kissed affectionately ! 
 
328 ■ ANTONY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WE RETURN TO PONTERRY AND MEET THERE ERNEST AND NINA. 
 
 THE RESULT, 
 
 No change could have been so beneficial to Kath- 
 leen at this time, as that which her brother had pre- 
 pared for her. 
 
 The effect of the beautiful scenery in which she 
 found herself, with its new and striking features, its 
 mountains, its ravines, its forests, streams and rivers, 
 all coloured and mellowed by the glow of the sum- 
 mer's sun, was peculiarly cheering to her young and 
 susceptible mind. She who had lived from her in- 
 fancy in a town, brought up in the strict discipline of 
 the formalities of a circle of society intensely artificial, 
 her every word and limb fettered by the harness of 
 etiquette, now found herself, for the first time, free 
 in the wild gardens of nature — free to roam, to run, 
 to stop, to listen, to look around, to laugh, to sing, 
 and to enjoy all, entirely according to her own will ; 
 
ANTONY. 329 
 
 while the gentle brother was ever at her side to sym- 
 pathise in the pleasure^ to help her along the way, 
 when rough or steep, with his manly arm, and to 
 breathe into her ear in that low voice which was so 
 peculiar to him, and which had become to her inex- 
 pressibly dear, all the sweet thoughts, circumstances, 
 and associations which every spot, tree and flower 
 brought to his own mind. 
 
 And when, after their rambles, they returned for 
 the quiet evenings to the lodgings in Mrs. Evans^ 
 cottage, which Antony had engaged for her, and 
 which were so full of comfort, so neatly furnished, so 
 sweet with the perfume of the blossoms in the pots 
 of roses and geraniums in the window, how happily, 
 then and there, flew the peaceful time for the brother 
 and sister ! 
 
 During the morning hours, when Antony was en- 
 gaged at the vicarage, Kathleen and Gladis often sat 
 together, and then the peasant girl would, in reply to 
 the questioning of her companion, tell of the good- 
 ness and noble character of her lover — of his having 
 honourably and patiently laboured for two long years, 
 and more, to obtain a maintenance for his future 
 wife — that the kind Heaven had sent a blessing on 
 his work — that he had been wonderfully successful, 
 and had advanced in his position so that the mar- 
 riage would now soon take place and she would go 
 with him to the iron works and live happily in his 
 little home. 
 
330 ANTONY. 
 
 " And this is Howel Philips," Kate returned, " to 
 whom my brother tells me he owes his life, for he 
 once saved him from the angry river in the storm.'^ 
 
 " Master Antony should rather have told you, dear 
 young lady," cried Gladis, her blooming countenance 
 radiant with the glow of her reverence and gratitude 
 for him, ^^ of all he. Master Antony himself, has done 
 for us — of his saving me and my mother from the 
 fire, of his endangering his own life to bring help to 
 the villagers, of all he suffered for their sakes, and of 
 that terrible illness — of his having set out, though in 
 pain and weakness, on a journey wearying indeed 
 for him then, to save my Howel from ruin — how he 
 was victorious over all the sinful desisjns of our ene- 
 mies, delivered him from disgrace and infamy and 
 banishment and, perhaps, death, and gave him back 
 to me free and happy. — How that day which he made 
 joyous to me, was one of suffering to him, and how 
 he nearly died on the way. Ah ! it is long ago now, 
 but, by my heart, as well remembered as if yesterday." 
 
 " I never heard of it before," interposed the young 
 lady. 
 
 " He should have told you that he has ever been 
 to us and to all a kind, friendly-hearted gentleman, 
 and that rich and poor love and honour him, for we 
 all know the Lord loves him, has set his mark upon 
 his handsome face, and will bless him to his life's 
 end." 
 
 The energetic vehemence of the young Welsh wo- 
 
ANTONY. 331 
 
 man was now, even more than usual, a strong contrast 
 to the quiet and subdued Kathleen, who sat listening 
 with a beating heart and delighted smile to the elo- 
 quent praises of the brother so dear to her, and Gladis 
 continued to pour forth to her a long list of little 
 adventures and anecdotes connected with the deaf 
 boy and his life among the villagers, which were en- 
 chanting to her ears, ending with, "Howel may take 
 me where he will when Ponterry has lost its good 
 angel/^ Gladis was making numerous preparations 
 already for her change of life, and Kate watched their 
 progress with interest. 
 
 " Ah ! it has been a long and trying time since the 
 night when we first spoke together of the wedding- 
 day, and many a time when I have been ill and sad 
 T thought sure enough I should not live to see it. 
 Ah, dear young lady ! Heaven grant you and him 
 who is dearest to ye that ye know less of doubt and 
 and anxiety than me ; but, Miss Nayton, a better 
 man than my Howel you cannot have, even though 
 he were a king.'^ 
 
 Kathleen only said with a slight sigh, "Ah ! it 
 must be sweet indeed for a warm love to be thus 
 worthily returned." 
 
 Antony had taken an early opportunity of intro- 
 ducing his sister to the inmates of Llanawr Park, 
 where she had been pronounced an amiable and 
 elegant girl, only a little too shy. Nina had been 
 warm in her reception of her, had visited her in the 
 
332 ANTO^Y. 
 
 dwelling of Mrs. Evans, and appeared greatly in- 
 terested in her ; while Lady AUingworth^s manner 
 was all graciousness, and Clara, who though a girl of 
 fifteen had not yet laid aside the childish playfulness 
 and gay spirits which were natural to her, took such 
 a fancy to Kathleen that she seemed never so 
 happy as when chatting with her, fondling her, and 
 leading her away to join in her own amusements. 
 And how proud was Antony to see his sister appre- 
 ciated and esteemed by all, and winning for herself 
 the friendship of Nina ! 
 
 Nina! enchanting Nina ! Ernest had truly spoken 
 when he had said she was now more than ever beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 On Antony's first visit to the park, accompanied 
 by Kate, he had gone to meet the friendly and 
 favourite playmate of his child days with the same 
 impulse of gay pleasure, the same lighthearted and 
 familiar greeting, as in former times. He had hastened 
 towards her as she stood on the broad stone steps 
 leading from the house into the flower garden, sur- 
 rounded by a party of visitors then guests at the 
 park. His eyes were fixed upon her some moments 
 before she was aware of his approach. She had 
 become taller, the symmetry of her whole figure more 
 perfect, the features more defined, the brown, rich 
 hair more luxuriant, the glowing eyes and lips more 
 full of vivacious and ever-varying expression. When 
 she recognised him, the colour on her cheek visibly 
 
ANTONY. 333 
 
 heightened, and her eye flashed ; but when he took 
 her hand and spoke to her^ he observed with a sudden 
 feehng of pain that she received his welcome with a 
 coldness and reserve he had never known in her 
 before. It was then with a certain timidity he pre- 
 sented his sister to her, became more embarrassed 
 each moment, and could with difficulty force himself 
 to avert his eyes from Nina to address the other 
 members of the company to whom he was known ; 
 while Nina, taking the hand of the bashful girl with 
 a cordiality and kindness which were meant to give 
 her confidence and pleasure^ led her immediately to 
 Lady Allingworth, and exerted herself by every 
 word and act to assure her their welcome was sincere 
 and heartfelt. 
 
 It was a bright summer^s day; the whole scene 
 was bright, and when the company became gradually 
 scattered among the shrubs and green lawns, it was 
 indeed a brilliantly bright moment for Antony as he 
 found himself by Nina's side. 
 
 He had volumes to say to her ; he had longed to 
 see her ; he had thought over and over, till he had 
 learnt by heart, every word he was to say to her, and 
 had guessed at all that she would reply. How beau- 
 tiful it would be to him, he had thought, to see her 
 fair hands again flashing before him, in his own 
 silent language. He felt how as he looked upon her 
 this would be a privilege ; yes, a privilege too great 
 
334 ANTONY. 
 
 for one so lowly as the deaf Antony felt himself to 
 be before that glorious lady. 
 
 But he remembered their childhood together ; this 
 gave him courage, and he approached her ; they 
 were for a short while alone, but lo ! he could say 
 nothing ; he was dumb indeed : he dared not address 
 her ; he could only look, and look in admiring 
 wonder. Her manner was kind, but she too, he 
 thought, seemed to have little to say ; she only told 
 him that it was a true delight to her to see and know 
 his sister ; and he could only thank her for her friendly 
 condescension to her as well as to himself, when they 
 were joined by Clara leading Kathleen by the hand. 
 
 It was not till he was bidding her good-bye that 
 he could find occasion or courage to tell her that in 
 three weeks he was to begin his engagement in Lon- 
 don. She said, " Indeed ; that is soon, very soon, 
 Antony/' 
 
 Then they went home ; Antony was lost in thought 
 as they walked together. He left his sister at the 
 little home where nurse was awaiting her return, 
 eager for her account of the " great people at the 
 grand house,'' and their reception of her^ and pleading 
 as an excuse for avoiding the usual evening tete-a- 
 tete Avith Kate that he had an employment at his 
 tutor's, hurried home alone. 
 
 Nina had that day inspired him with a feeling he 
 had never known before. Thoughts of her had 
 
ANTONY. 335 
 
 always hovered in his mind ; now her actual pre- 
 sence pervaded his soul, his reason, his heart, his 
 entire being. He had always loved her tenderly, 
 now he loved her madly. Formerly to look on her 
 was a sweet pleasure, now it was both rapture and 
 despair. 
 
 Antony slept not that night; there was a wild 
 fever in his mind, and for many days and many 
 nights he was restless and wretched ; but he re- 
 solved to keep inviolate from all the new secret of 
 his heart; neither his sister nor his friend must 
 know the suffering, the sorrow, the darkness that 
 were within him. For he was now the prey of 
 a deep and passionate love for the daughter of 
 Sir William Allingworth, a love which he knew to 
 be as utterly hopeless as it was vehement ; a love 
 which was assuming mastery over his whole nature ; 
 a love which made the duty of his quitting her 
 j)resence, never again to see her, as imperative as 
 it would be heart-rending. He felt that it was better 
 that circumstances would force upon him this se- 
 paration, than that it should depend entirely on 
 his own will; for the anticipation of the parting 
 with Nina, which was now daily approaching, was 
 agony. 
 
 It was fortunate that Antony had been early dis- 
 ciplined, by his unusual lot, to obtain so strong a 
 command over his emotions, even when they were 
 most passionate, as to be enabled to conceal them 
 
336 ANTONY. 
 
 from the eyes of others. Thus, though his whole 
 mind was now in a whirl of excitement, he never 
 lost command over himself, nor betrayed to his 
 companions one trace of the contest within. Thus, 
 too, he could keep from Nina all suspicion of the 
 truth. He was now never happy but in her pre- 
 sence — but that is a strange happiness which, when 
 past, leaves pain, fever, and despair in the heart. 
 That Nina sought frequently the society of Kathleen, 
 and that Antony had thus opportunity to look on 
 in silence at the beautiful and deeply loved, while 
 his emotion was in no way demonstrated by glance 
 or motion, and was all unknown to any; that he 
 could thus be in her presence unsuspected and 
 un watched, noting her every action, catching her 
 every smile and gesture, every sparkling, speaking 
 glance, was indeed sweet to him ; but yet there was 
 in it an acute bitterness, a melancholy delight. 
 
 One thing in Nina^s manner towards himself had 
 deeply pained him. She was still, as at their first 
 meeting, more reserved, more distant, than could be 
 consistent, he thought, with the familiar and close 
 union, which, in their childhood, had existed between 
 them, and had lasted even till the previous year, 
 when they had again been so frequently together. 
 He observed, that now she did not so often raise 
 her honest eyes to his, and to catch his thoughts 
 fromx their reflection in his countenance, as she had 
 been wont to do. Now, when she spoke to him 
 
ANTONY. 337 
 
 with her fingers, their motions were slower; her 
 face sometimes betrayed a slight uneasiness, and she 
 seldom gave him occasion to read her words upon 
 her lips, as in former days ; he hoped that she was 
 perhaps scarcely aware of this herself, and ventured 
 once to remark upon it to her. 
 
 She replied gravely, and without appearing sur- 
 prised — '^You know, Antony, we can no longer be 
 as children together/^ 
 
 Yes — Antony felt this was but too true ; and it 
 made him the more sad to feel that the joy of the 
 past was now gon e by for ever. 
 
 There was a general report of an intended mar- 
 riage between Nina and Lord Darcy. 
 
 Kathleen, however, in her intercourse with Clara 
 Allingworth, had been assured by her, that though 
 the young lord was frequently at the park, and con- 
 stant in his attentions to her sister, there was yet no 
 engagement between them, but that she fully ex- 
 pected it to be arranged shortly. 
 
 On one occasion, when Antony spoke with Ernest 
 on the subject, the latter became unusually vehe- 
 ment, declaring that Nina must sink greatly in his 
 esteem, before he would believe her capable of con- 
 senting to such a union. He said that he had met 
 her and Lord Darcy in public, more than once, and 
 had been unable to discover in her demeanour to- 
 wards him, one sign of encouragement. 
 
 *^If she indeed becomes his wife,^^ Ernest con- 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
338 ANTONY. 
 
 tinued, ^^it will be for the sake of title and 
 rank, and these, I believe, a mind such as hers de- 
 spise/^ 
 
 *^ No, Ernestj no lady educated among the higher 
 circles of life, in the midst of rank and fashion, can 
 be supposed capable of despising that which has 
 formed the atmosphere in which she has hitherto 
 lived and acted. Remember, Nina AUingworth has 
 moved among our aristocracy ; and he who marries 
 her must not stand lower in the scale of society. 
 Nina must never descend — - one who loves her 
 would not wish her to do so." 
 
 '^ Believe me, here is a mistake, Antony, no de~ 
 scent can be so degrading to a woman of spirituality, 
 such as Nina, as that which she suffers when she 
 marries a man below her in intellectual power. The 
 importance to her happiness of ensuring to her the 
 station and splendour in which she has been edu- 
 cated, cannot for an instant be weighed against that 
 of linking her fine intelligence with another that is 
 manly and powerful, and is able not only to ap- 
 ])reciate her refined tastes and talents, but to 
 elevate them and her whole spirit with his own 
 to a degree of nobleness and perfection, which 
 otherwise is un attain a])le, and which ought, in 
 fact, to be the aim of our existence, as it was the 
 object of our creation. And now look at Darcy; 
 see him in his stable with an eye and a taste 
 only for his dogs, with his thoughts engrossed in a 
 
ANTONY. 339 
 
 betting-book, his favourite subject of conversation, 
 the points of a horse. And can you then imagine 
 for a moment such a man worthy of Nina^s com- 
 panionship V 
 
 Ernest's cheek glowed, and Antony's turned deadly 
 pale, as a new thought flashed over him. 
 
 "You think, then," he said, with an unsteady 
 voice, " you think that she would willingly give up 
 rank, title, and position, for a noble heart and an 
 aspiring mind ?" 
 
 " I should not do her justice if I did not believe 
 it." 
 
 They were sitting in Kathleen's parlour, and at 
 this moment a carriage drove to the door. Lady 
 Ailing worth, with her daughters, had called by ap- 
 pointment to take Kathleen for a drive. They did 
 not alight; but as Ernest sprang to the window, his 
 eager countenance and manner confirmed the sus- 
 picion of Antony. 
 
 Kate now came from the adjoining room, and giving 
 her hand to her brother was led out by him. Ernest, 
 however, followed, and hastily took her arm in his to 
 conduct her to the carriage. Any excuse for present- 
 ing himself before Nina could not be neglected, and 
 Antony looked calmly on ; saw Nin a bow with her 
 accustomed grace to his companion, and reply cheer- 
 fully to his greeting ; saw him exchange with her a 
 few quick words, and when the carriage moved on 
 saw how eagerly his eyes continued to follow it till it 
 
 q2 
 
S40 ANTONY. 
 
 had rolled out of sights and then^ with a suppressed 
 sigh, Antony led his friend back into the room, and 
 closed the door. 
 
 Ernest was now passive and thoughtful. Antony- 
 laid his hand upon his shoulder and looked intently 
 into his eyes, and the other started as by an electric 
 shock, as the deep voice spoke. 
 
 '^ Ernest, you love Nina \" 
 
 Nearly an hour had passed by, and still the friends 
 spoke together, and still they spoke of Nina. Yes, 
 Ernest had confessed all, and Antony had guessed 
 aright. Ernest's heart was now all widely opened to 
 his friend, and Antony's was more than ever firmly 
 closed. 
 
 Ah ! how well could he sympathise in his com- 
 panion's enthusiastic words as he spoke of the ardent 
 love that burnt within him, of her goodness and her 
 beauty, of the rapturous joy which her acceptance of 
 his devotion must ensure ; and when he said — 
 
 " Have I not, for years, had it in my heart to be 
 worthy of her !" 
 
 " Does she return your aflfection ?" asked Antony, 
 eagerly. 
 
 '^ I have reason to hope she may.'' 
 
 *^ Has she given any encouragement ?'' 
 
 ^^ None ; but I feel we sympathise in all our tastes 
 and opinions. The next step to such sympathy is 
 love. I long only for further opportunities to make 
 
ANTONY. 3 41 
 
 myself known to her. Lord Darcy cannot yet, shall 
 not, be an impediment to my hopes. Though I have 
 not title, my fortune is, or will, be such as can ensure 
 to her every comfort, and even luxury. As to my 
 profession, that has been never necessary to me save 
 as an amusement. Science, while it must ever con- 
 tinue my pursuit and delight, may serve to open to 
 her quick intelligence a new field for cultivation and 
 enjoyment. With regard to my position, I can as- 
 sume any she may desire. That my family is of old 
 and honourable standing she well knows. Sir William 
 is aware that my first cousin. Sir Frederick Melville, 
 has high appointments in the diplomacy.^^ 
 
 "There seems a brilliant promise for you,'' said 
 Antony, with difficult}-, for his hreath had suddenly 
 become short and quick, " but do not be too 
 sanguine.^' 
 
 "That I can hardly be, have I not every hope of 
 success ? Indeed I have been hitherto, as it appears, 
 a favourite wdth Fortune. And yet, though I have 
 known little of sorrow or disappointment, and have 
 thought myself a happy man, life has never seemed 
 so beautiful to me as now. Oh, Antony, we know 
 not what it is to exist, we know not how brilliantly 
 the flame of Being can burn within us till we have 
 loved r' 
 
 " Do we not ? But think you I cannot under- 
 stand, — feel with you ?'' 
 
 " Nay, nay, friend — impossible, since you have 
 
S42 ANTONY. 
 
 never experienced it. Friendship cannot teach the 
 deep m^^steries of such a love as I speak of ;^^ and he 
 glanced carelessly towards his companion^ whose 
 white lips were curved by a marble smile. Then he 
 caught his hand, but marked not that it was icy- 
 cold ; and asked, '^ Dear fellow, you will hope for 
 me — pray for me V^ 
 
 Antony turned his head away, to evade a reply, as 
 well as to hide the passionate struggle within him 
 but the question was repeated with increased earnest- 
 ness. He pressed his hand over his forehead, and 
 presently strove to give the the answer; but the 
 power of articulation was, for the moment, gone, 
 and it was with an effort, both of heart and utter- 
 ance, that he said, at length : ^^ My best — my only 
 friend ; must I not desire j^our happiness ?'' 
 
 ^' Thank you, dear fellow ;" and Ernest wrung the 
 hand he held, and then wrote, " She must see more 
 of me, and learn to know me better/^ 
 
 Antony nodded assent ; then, looking at his watch, 
 burst into a laugh, declaring his tutor must have 
 been long waiting for him — that he had forgotten 
 time, and could stay no longer ; and then he hurried 
 away. Yes, away hurried Antony, leaving Ernest to 
 enjoy the beautiful visions of his own hopeful heart; 
 away he hurried, but not to the baneful presence of 
 his tutor ; away to loneliness — to any spot where he 
 could be farthest from other eyes; away into the 
 fields ; yet, no — there, sun and sky, birds and flowers, 
 
ANTONY. , 343 
 
 seemed smiling upon him, only in mockery of his 
 woe. There, too, from behind the trees, or along 
 the pathway, people or children might occasionally 
 come upon him. At such a time he must be utterly 
 alone, so back to the parsonage rushed Antony, and 
 up to his own chamber ; there, violently thrusting 
 the table before the shut door, that none might enter, 
 he buried his head in his hands, and gave himself up 
 to the torture of his grief. 
 
 To struggle against his own love, seemed to 
 Antony utterly vain ; to crush it — to tear it from 
 him, was impossible. It was no common passion — 
 no sudden impulse — no glow of imagination. The 
 love of Nina was wound in among the inmost 
 fibres of his heart : it had been there in his child- 
 hood; it had grown on there in his youth ; with him 
 it must now live, but with him it could not die ; he 
 felt it as part of his soul, and that with it, it must 
 live to eternity. And yet it must remain silent — 
 silent as the whole world wasto his own outward 
 sense ; dumb as he had himself been throughout so 
 many years. And, oh ! agony — Ernest must possess 
 her ! Ernest, whom he had loved as a brother ; for 
 whose sake he had believed he could have died. 
 This Ernest loved Nina — lived for her — longed for 
 her love, and must possess her ; while Antony must 
 look on, and pray for a blessing on them. 
 
 " Oh I Ernest — thou who first taught me to know 
 
344 ANTONY, 
 
 the joys of friendship, may I be preserved from 
 hating thee P' 
 
 Before, however, Antony laid down that night to 
 sleep, he had so far obtained a mastery over himself, 
 that a feeling as of almost forgiveness towards Ernest 
 for some unnamed wrong, rose in his heart; and he 
 was enabled, without defining his desire to himself, 
 to hope sincerely for his friend's happiness. 
 
 When he next met Nina, and they spoke together, 
 Antony, maintaining his usual severe command over 
 himself, was able to mention to her Ernest Forsy the ; 
 to tell her of his noble, high-minded character ; of 
 his grasping intellect and talents; and of his true 
 and generous heart. She listened with interest to 
 his words, and replied : — 
 
 '^ 1 have always liked Mr. Forsythe, and was glad 
 to know him your friend ; but I shall esteem him 
 more, since he is so dear to you, Antony. I shall 
 be glad to know more of him.^' 
 
 And she did see n^ore of him from that time 
 forward, and she learnt to know him better; and 
 Antony's moments of the most bitter and despairing 
 satisfaction were those when he saw them together, 
 whilst he stood in his silence, looking on. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. # 
 
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