C.8&7 I THE OGILVIES. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 329 & 331 PEARL STREET, FRANKLIN SQUARE. DEDICATION, YEARS ago I used to say, that, if I ever wrote a book, it should be dedicated to my mother. The possibility then contemplated almost in jest, has now been fulfilled. The book is written : but all else is changed. I will keep my promise still. Let this, my first novel, which would have been a tribute of tenderest affection to the Living, become a solemn offering to the holy memory of the Dead. G3S THE OGILVIES. CHAPTER I. She, like the hazel twig la straight and slender ; and as brown in hue As hazel nuts, and sweeter than their kernels. SHAKSPEARK. "KATHARINE, Katharine where is Katharine Ogilvie ?" resounded from the entrance-hall of an old family mansion, in which, between the twilight and moonlight of a December evening, a group of young people were assembled. " Where is she ? why, staying to adorn herself, of course," said "a young lady," the very type, par excellence, of that numerous class, being pret- ty-faced, pretty-spoken, and pretty-mannered. " Was there ever a girl of sixteen, who did not spend two hours at the least, in dressing for her first evening party ? J know I did." " Very likely," muttered a rather fine-looking young man, who stood at the door. " I dare say you do the same now, Bella. But Katharine is not one of your sort." The first speaker tossed her head. " That is a double-edged compliment. Pray, Mr. Hugh Ogilvie, for which of your cousins do you mean it?" And Miss Isabella Worsley, shaking her multitudinous ringlets, looked up in his face, with what she doubtless thought, a most be- witching air of espieglerie. But the young man turned away, quite unmoved. Her fascinations, so apparently displayed, only vexed him. " I wish some of you children would go and fetch your cousin. Uncle and aunt Ogil- vie are quite ready ; and Katharine knows her father will not endure to be kept waiting, even by herself." "It is all your fault, cousin Hugh," inter- posed one of the smaller fry, which composed the Christmas family-party, assembled at Summer- wood Park. " I feel quite sure that Katharine is staying to tie up the flowers you sent her. I told her how scarce they were, and how you rode over the country, all this morning, in search of them," continued the wicked, long-tongued little imp of a boy, causing Hugh to turn very red, and walk angrily away; and consequently winning an approving glance from the elder sis- ter of all the juvenile brood Isabella Worsley. " Really, Hugh, what a blessing such a cousin as yourself must be," sneeringly observed the latter, following him to the foot of the staircase, where he stood restlessly beating his heel upon the stone steps. " One quite envies Katharine, in having you so constantly at Summerwood. Why, it is better for her than possessing half-a- dozen brothers, isn't it now '? And I dare say you have never wanted your sister Eleanor at all !" Not if she were like my cousin Bella," thought Hugh; but he made no audible answer, except beginning a long, low whistle sports- man-fashion. " I declare, he is calling for Katharine as he does for Juno how very flattering !" cried Isa- bella, laughing. "Really, Hugh, this sort of behavior does not at all match with that elegant, evening costume, which, by-the-by, I have not yet sufficiently admired." ; I wish to goodness I were out of it," mut- tered Hugh. "I had rather, a great deal, put on my shooting-jacket, and go rabbit-hunting, than start for this dull party at Mrs. Lancaster's. Nothing should have persuaded me to it, ex- cept " "Except Katharine," persisted Miss Worsley " But here she comes." At this moment, a young girl descended the stairs. Now, whatever the poets may say, there is not a more uncomfortable and unprepossessing age than "sweet sixteen." The character and manners are usually alike unformed the grace- ful frankness of childhood is lost, and the calm dignity of womanhood is not yet gained. Katha- rine Ogilvie was exactly in this transition state, with regard to both mind and person. She had outgrown the roundness of early youth, and her tall, thin figure, without being positively awk- ward, bore a ludicrous resemblance as the short, plump Miss Worsley often remarked to a let- tuce run to seed, or a hyacinth that will stretch out its long, lanky leaves with an obstinate de- termination not to flower. This attenuated ap- pearance was increased, by the airy evening dress she wore a half-mourning robe, exhibit- ing her thin neck and long arms, whose slender- ness caused her otherwise well-formed hands to seem somewhat disproportionate. Her features were regular and pleasing but her dark, almost sallow complexion, prevented their attracting the notice which their classical form deserved. But the girl had one beauty, which, when she did chance to lift up her long lashes a circuits stance by no means frequent was almost start- ling in its effect. Katharine's eyes were mag- nificent, of the darkest, and yet most limpid hazel with an iris of that clear, bluish white, which gives a look of such pure brightness, as f the deep, unfathomable orbs were floating in their own light. Therein lay the chief express sion of her face ; and often, when the rest of the features seemed perfectly in repose, these strange yes were suddenly lifted up. repealing such u world of feeling, enthusiasm, passion, and ten- derness, that her whole form seemed lighted up into beauty. ' Come here, Katharine, and let us all have a THfc OGILVIES look at you," said Isabella, drawing her shrink- ing cousin under the light of the hall lamp. ' Well, you are dressed tolerably to-night; your hair is neat, and pretty enough." It was, in- deed, very lovely, of a rich purple-black hue, its silken, wavy masses being most gracefully folded round her small head. "But, Kath- arine, child, what makes you so pale? You ought to be delighted at going to this grand soiree ; I only wish I had been invited in your stead." " So do I too. Indeed, Bella, it would have been much pleasanter for me to stay at home," said Katharine, in a low, timid voice, whose music was at least equal to the beauty of her eyes. " You little simpletom to say so ! But I don't believe a word," cried Isabella. "You may believe her or not, just as you like. Miss Bella, nobody minds," answered Hugh, rather angrily, as he drew his young cousin's arm through his own, " Come, Katharine, don't be frightened, I'll take care of you ; and we will manage to get through this formidable iiter- ary soiree together." She clung to him with a grateful and affec- tionate look ; which would certainly have once more roused Isabella's acrid tongue, had not Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie appeared. After them followed a light-footed graceful girl in deep mourning. She carried a warm shawl, which she wrapped closely round Katharine. "There's a good thoughtful little Nelly," said Hugh, admiringly, while Katharine turned round with a quick impulse and kissed her. But she did not say a word, except, " Good- night, dear Eleanor," for her young heart had fluttered strangely throughout all this evening. However, there was no time to pause over doubts and trepidations, since her father was already calling from the carriage, and thither she was herself hurried by Hugh, with an anxious care and tenderness that still further excited Isabella's envious indignation. "It is a fine thing to be an only daughter, and an heiress," thought she. " But one can easily see how the case will end. Hugh thinks, of course, that he may as well get the estate with the title, and uncle Ogilvie will be glad enough to keep both in the family, even if Hugh is not quite so rich as Croesus. I wonder how much money old Sir James will leave him, though. Any how, it is a good match for a lit- tle ugly thing like Katharine. But the husband she gets will make matters even, for Hugh Ogilvie is a common-place, stupid bore. I would not have married him for the world." Miss Worsley's anger had probably affected her memory, since she came to pay this visit to her maternal grand-father, with the firm de- termination so to " play her cards" as regarded Hugh, that on her departure she might have the certainty of one day revisiting Summer- wood as its future mistress. Let us thinking of the fearful number of her class which slur and degrade the pure ideal of womanhood look mournfully on this girl. She had grown wise too soon wise in the world's evil sense. With her, love had been regarded alternately as a light jest and a sentimental pre- tense, at an age when she could not understand its Character, and ought scarcely to have heard its name, and when the time came for tho full heart of womanhood to respond to the mystic, universal touch, there was no answer. The one holy feeling had been frittered away into a number of small fancies, until Isabella, now fully emerged from her boarding-school romance, believed what her brother told her, that " a girl should wait till she is asked to marry, and then make the best match she can." And until this desirable event happened, which, at five-and- twenty, seemed farther than ever from her earn- est longings, Miss Worsley amused herself by carrying on passing flirtations with every agree- able young man she met. But while Isabella's vain and worldly mind was thus judging by its own baser motives, the pure, unsuspicious nature of Katharine Ogilvie, the latter sat calmly by Hugh's side, enjoying the dreamy motion of the carriage, and not dis- posed to murmur at the silence of its occu- pants, which gave her full liberty to indulge in thought. "It is very cold," at last observed Mrs. Ogil vie, trying to make the most original observa- tion she could, in order to rouse her husband, who was always exceedingly cross after his sleep a circumstance whjph she naturally wished to prevent if possible. A grunt an- swered her observation. " Don't you think you will get colder than ever if you go to sleep, Mr. Ogilvie ?" pursued the lady. "Pray suffer me to decide that," answered he. "It was very foolish of us to go to this party, all the way to London, on such a wintry night. " But, my dear, you know Katharine must be brought out some time or other, and Mrs. Lan- caster's soiree was such an excellent opportunity for her, since we can not have a ball at home on account of Sir James. Mrs. Lancaster knowa all the scientific and literary world her parties are most brilliant it is a first-rate introduction for a girl." Poor Katharine felt her timidity come ovei her with added painfulness, and she heartily wished herself on the ottoman at her grand- father's feet, instead of on her way to this ter- rible ordeal. But Hugh gave her hand an en- couraging pressure, and she felt comforted. So she listened patiently to her mother's enumera- tion of all the celebrated people she would be sure to meet. After which the good lady, op. pressed by her somnolent husband's example, leaned her head back, so as not to disarrange her elegant tiara, and fell asleep in a few min- utes. The carriage rolled through the unfrequent- ed reads which mark the environs of the metrop- Katharine sat watching the light which olis. the carriage-lamps threw as they passed, illu- mining for a moment the formal, leafless hedges, until every trace of rurality was lost in the purely suburban character of the villa-studded road. The young girl's vision, and the most outward fold of her thoughts, received all those | things, but her inner mind was all the while re- volving widely different matters, and chiefl this unseen world of society, about which she had formed various romantic ideas, the pre- dominant one being, that it was a brilliant daz- zling compound of the scenes described in Bv^ THE OGILVIES. wer's " Godolphin," and Mrs. Gore's novels, passim. It is hardly possible to imagine a girl more utterly ignorant of the realities of life than was Katharine Ogilvie at sixteen. Delicate health had made her childhood solitary, and though fortune had bestowed on her such troops of cousin-playfellows, she had known little of any of them except Hugh and his sister. She had seen nothing of society, or of the amusements of life, for her quiet, retired parents rarely mingled in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie were a pattern couple for individual excellence and mutual observance of matrimonial proprie- ties. United in middle life, their existence flowed on in a placid stream deep, silent, un- troubled ; their affection toward each other, and toward their only child, being rather passive than active, and though steady, very undemon- strative. So Katharine, whom nature had cast in a different mold, became, as the confiding and clinging helplessness of childhood departed, more and more shut up within herself looking to herself alone for amusement, seeking no sharer either in her pleasures or in her cares. A. life like this sometimes educes strength and originality of character, but more often causes a morbidness of feeling which contents itself throughout existence with dreaming, not acting. Or if, indeed, the soul's long-restrained and passionate emotions do break out, it is with a ter- rible flood that sweeps away all before it. Kath- arine was by no means sentimental, for the term implies affectation, of which no trace had ever marred her pure nature. But her whole char- acter was imbued with the wildest, deepest romance the romance which comes instinctive- ly to a finely-constituted mind, left to form its own ideal of what is good and true. Her soli- tary childhood had created an imaginary world, in which she lived and moved, side by side with its inhabitants. These were the heroes and heroines of the books she had read a most heterogeneous mass of literature, and of hsr own fanciful dreams. One thing only was wanting to crown her romance. Though she had actually wasted sixteen years, the full time allowed for its ultimation in girlhood, Katharine had never even fancied herself "in love" ex- cept with Zanoni. A few vague day-dreams and nightly fancies had of late floated over her spirit, causing her to yearn for some companion higher and nobler than any she had yet known ; one on whom she might expend, not merely her warm home-affections, already fully bestowed on her parents and Hugh, but the love of her soul, the worship of heart and intellect com- bine^. And she had of late tried to fulfill this longing, by changing her ideal hero for a real humaa being, that young poet, whose life was itself a poem Keats. His likeness, which Katharine had hung up in her room, haunted her perpetually, and many a time she sat watch- ing that face with its dreamy eyes, passion- quivering lips, and wavy hair, until she felt for this embodiment of the beautiful poet-soul, now gone from earth, a sensation very like that love of which she had read, that strange, delicious secret which was to her as yet only a name. And thus, half a woman and half a child, Katharine Ogilvie was about to pass out of her Ideal world, so fanvliar and so dear, into the real world, of which she knew nothing. No wonder that she was silent and disposed to muse. " Wake up, little cousin of mine ; what are you thinking about ?" said Hugh, suddenly, after an interval of patience-waiting. Katharine started, and her reverie was broken. The painful consciousness that Hugh might smile at her for having been " in the clouds," as he called these fits of abstraction, made the color rise rapidly in her cheek. " What made you imagine I was thinking at all?" she answered. "Merely because we have been perfectly silent for the last Hour," answered Hugh, in a tone far gentler than he ever used to Isabella, " so that your papa and mamma have had time to fall comfortably asleep, and I have grown quite weary and cross, through not having the pleasant talk that we promised ourselves this morning." " Dear Hugh ! it was very stupid of me." "Not at all, dear Katharine," Hugh answer- ed, echoing the adjective with an emphasis that deepened its meaning considerably. "Not at all if you will tell me now what occupied your thoughts so much." But Katharine, sincere as was her affection for her cousin, felt conscious that he would not understand one-half of the fanciful ideas which had passed through her brain during tha't long interval of silence. So her reply was the usual compromise one which people adopt in such "I was thinking of several things; among others, of Mrs. Lancaster's party." Hugh looked rather annoyed. "I thought you did not wish to go, and would much rather have been left at home." " Yes, at the last, and yet all this fortnight I have been longing for the day. Hugh, did you ever feel what it is to wish for any thing, and dream of it, and wonder about, it, until when the time came you grew positively frightened, and almost wished that something would happen to frustrate your first desire?" "Was this what made you so timid then?" " Perhaps so I hardly know. I enjoyed the anticipation very much until, from thinking of all the wonderful people I should meet, I began to think about myself. It is a bad thing to think too much about oneself, Hugh is it not?" Hugh assented abstractedly. It always gav* him much more pleasure to hear Katharine talk than to talk himself; and besides his conversa,- tion was rarely either rapid or brilliant. Katharine went on. " It was, after all, very vain and foolish of me, to fancy that any one I should meet to-night would notice me in the least. And so I have now come to the determination not to think about myself or my imperfeetions, but to enjoy this evening as much as possible. Tell me, Hugh, what great people are we likely to see?" " There is the Countess of A , and Lord William B , and Sir Vivian C ," said Hugh, naming a few of the minor lights of the aristocracy, who lend their feeble radiance to middle-class reunions. "I do not call these 'great people,'" an- swered Katharine, in a tone of disappointment. " They are not my heroes and heroines. I want THE OGILVIES. to see great writers, great poets, great paint- ers," she continued, with an energy that made Hugh open his great blue eyes to their utrr ?st " Well, well, my littJe enthusiast, you will see plenty of that sort of people too." " That sort of people," repeated Katharine, in a low tone, and she shrank into herself, and was silent for five minutes. A feeling of passing vexation, even toward Hugh, op- pressed her, until a chance movement wafted toward her the perfume of her flowers the flowers to procure which, he had ridden for miles over the country that rainy morning. A trifle sways one's feelings sometimes: and Katharine's at once turned toward Hugh, with an almost contrite acknowledgment of his kind nature. She sought an opportunity to remove any painful impression her sudden silence might have given him. " Well, here we are, almost at our journey's end, and papa and mamma are still asleep. We shall have very little more time for our talk, Hugh so make haste, and tell me what occu- pied your thoughts, during that long hour of si- lence?" "Not now, dear Katharine, not now!" said her cousin, in a tone so low and hurried, that Katharine would have been compelled to repeat the question, had not the carriage stopped, and the sudden waking of the elders produced a change in the state of affairs. CHAPTER II. Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set. And in the lighted hall the guests are met. On frozen hearts the fury rain of wine Falls, and the dew of music, more divine, Tempers the deep emotions of the time How many meet who never yet have met, To part too soon, but never to forget ; But life's familiar vail was now withdrawn, As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn. SHE LUCY. BEFORE Katharine had time once more to grow terrified at the sudden realization of her ideal of the world, she found herself in the brill- iant drawing-rooms of Mrs. Lancaster, follow- ing in the wake of her stately parents, and cling- ing, with desperate energy, to the arm of her cousin Hugh. Her eyes, dazzled and pained by the sudden transition from darkness to light, saw only a moving mass of gay attire, which she was utterly unable to individualize. Her ear was bewildered by that scarcely suppressed din of many voices, which makes literary conversazioni in general a sort of polite Babel. In4eed, the rng girl's outward organs of observation were the time, quite dazzled ; and sb<* only awoke to life on hearing her mother say " Mrs. Lancaster, allow m to introduce to you my daughter, Katharine." Now, ever since Mrs. Ogiivie had discovered an old schoolfellow in the celebrated Mrs. Lan- caster, Katharine had heard continually of the lady in question. Every one talked of her as a " clever woman," " a blue," an extraordinary creature a woman of mind ; and, somehow, the girl had pictured to herself a till, masculine, loud-voiced dame. Therefore, ?he was agreea- bly surprised, at seeing before her a lady c :ainly not pretty, nor young, except in her attire, aut, nevertheless, graceful, from her extreme smallness and delicacy of figure; nor was there any thing outre in her 1 appearance, except a pe- culiar style of head-dress, which set off the shape of her face to much advantage. This face was not remarkable for an intellectual expression, though the features evidently perpetually strug- led to attain one. Still in spite of her semi-wild glances, compressed lips, and fixed attitudes, Mrs. Lancaster never could succeed in appearing a genius, but was merely an agreeable-looking, stylish little lady. In that character, Katharine was not in the least afraid of her. Infinitely relieved, she felt the light touch of the jewelecf fingers, and listen- ed to the blandest and best-modulated welcome that female lips could utter, until the girl's pre- vailing sentiments were those of intense relief, deep admiration, and undying gratitude, toward Mrs. Lancaster. Immediately afterward, a tall, thin, pale young man, who stood behind the lady, timidly and silently shook hands with Katharine's parents, and then, to her infinite surprise, with her- self. " Who is that gentleman ? I don't know him," said Katharine, in a whisper, to Hugh. " Why did not mamma introduce me and why did he not speak?" " Oh ! it is only Mr. Lancaster, Mrs. Lancas- ter's husband," answered Hugh, with a scarce- ly perceptible smile. " He rarely speaks to any body, and nobody minds him at all." "How very odd," thought Katharine, whose idea of a husband when the subject did occupy her mind was some noble being, to whom the wife could look up with reverent admiration, who was always to take the lead in society, she fol- lowing after like a loving shadow but still only a shadow of himself. Katharine watched Mrs. Lancaster, as she flitted about here and there, all smiles and conversation, while the silent husband retreated to a corner; and she thought once more, how very strange it was. She expressed as much to Hugh, when, after great difficulty, they at last found a seat, and talked together in that deep quietude which is nowhere greater than in a crowded assembly of strangers. But Hugh did not seem at all surprised; he had not known the Lancasters long, he said; but he believed they were a very happy couple. Mrs. Lancaster was a very superior woman, and perhaps that was the reason she took the lead, rather than her husband. " My husband shall never be a man inferior to myself; he shall be one whom I can worship, reverence, look up to, in every thing," said Katharine, while her eye dilated, and her cheek glowed with earnestness. But when she caught Hugh's look fixed upon her with intense astonish- ment, deepened by an expression then quite in- explicable to her, Katharine suddenly felt con- scious that she had said something wrong, and shrank abashed into her corner. She was not disturbed, for Hugh did not answer a word, but once or twice she fancied she heard him sigh heavily. "Ah, poor Hugh!" thought Katharine, "h imagines his wild cousin will never amend. And yet, I only spoke what I thought. I must not. do that any more. Perhaps my thoughts THE OGILVIES. are foolish or wrong, since no one else seems to understand them." And Katharine, glad as she had felt of Hugh's society and protection in this gay place of deso- lation for so it seemed to her experienced a feeling very like relief, when a lady near them addressed her cousin, and occupied his attention, so that she herself could sit still and think. It was an amusement to her to watch the different combinations of the kaleidoscope of moving humanity which passed in review before her ; looking at the different individuals, and speculat- ing on their characters, or weaving little his- tories that might belong to each. Katharine took most interest in her own sex, who, with their zephyr-like dresses, and smiling air, at least approached her ideas of outward grace; but the "fine gentlemen" of a modern drawing- room did not at all resemble the heroes with which the romance-loving girl had peopled her world. See hardly bestowed a second glance upon any of them. At last, while her eyes were vacantly fixed on the door, it opened and admitted a gentleman. Katharine looked at him, and this time her gaze was attracted a second time a third until it rested permanently on this fortunate individual. He was, in truth, a man of striking appearance. Not from his personal beauty, for there were many in the room whose features were far more perfect than his, but from an inexpressible dig- nity, composure of manner, and grace of move- merit, to which his tall figure gave every ad- vantage. His clear, open countenance was not disfigured by any of the modern atrocities of mustache and imperial, no starched white cravat hid the outline of his chin and upper throat, and his dark, crisped hair was thrown back, giving a classic beauty to the whole head. He had a complexion of clear brown; and calm, contem- plative eyes, of that dark gray which seems ever changing in hue and expression. But no indi- vidual feature would adequately give an idea of the indescribable air which at once impressed an observing mind, with the conviction that this man was different to other men. Even the slight singularities of dress usually puerile and contemptible affectations were by him made so completely subservient to the wearer, that the most captious could not accuse him of con- ceit o* eccentricity. Had he appeared in a Roman toga he would have carried it with an air that would have identified the dress with the man, and prevented 'both from seeming ridic- ulous. This was he on whom Katharine's young eyes vested the moment he entered the room. Let the world laugh as it will at first impressions, or as we might say with the poet t " Love at first-sight, first-born, and heir to all." But we do not go so far as our well-beloved Tennyson. First impressions are not love, but, as the first streaks of dawn foretell the glorious noon, into which they at last expand, so does this s-hadowy light merge into the broad day of love. Oh ! Katharine, simple Katharine, who watched that face with a vague deepening in- terest, feeling certain that she had seen it before it seemed so familiar yet so new to whom that one stately form appeared at once to indi- vidualize itself from every other in the room, whose eye followed it witU a pleased conscious- ness that it brought sunshine wherever it moved dear Katharine ! you are not the first to whom a life's destiny has thus come at once ; forcing the acknowledgment that there are, in human nature, strange and sudden impulses, which, though mysterious in their exercise, and still more so in their causes, are nevertheless reali- ties. Katharine watched this young man for a long time. Sometimes, when he came nearer, she listened, and caught a few tones of his voice ; they were like his face, calm, thoughtful, ex- pressive, and they went to Katharine's heart like the music of some dear olden song. " What are you looking at so earnestly, Kath- arine?" said Hugh's cheerful voice, breaking in upon the girl's silence. Katharine had no reason to conceal her thoughts, so she frankly pointed out the object of her contemplation. " Look at him, Hugh ! Has he not a pleasant, thoughtful face?" Hugh could not see any such face, or would not. " There ! standing by the lady at the harp, I have watched him a long time," said Katharine. "I feel sure I must have seen him somewhere before." "In the clouds, very likely," answered her cousin, with a sharpness rare to his quiet man- ner, " for he has but just come from abroad. I have seen him here once before, but no one, ex- cept my romantic little cousin, ever called Lyne- don handsome." "Lynedon Lynedon. Is that his name?" " Yes ; and that is all I know about him. But, Katharine there, your eyes are wandering aftef him again. Why, you will be noticed if you look at him so much, even though you do think him handsome." "I do not," said Katharine, quietly; "but his face seems as if I knew it ; it is pleasant to me to look at him, as it is to look at a picture or a statue. However, I will not do so if it is wrong, or, at all events, rude. I do not know the world so well as you, dear cousin." Hugh's countenance brightened, and he said no more. Meanwhile, Katharine persevered foi at least five minutes in looking in the direction exactly opposite to Mr. Lynedon. At last, cast ing her eyes in the mirror, she saw the reflection of his face, as he stood silent at the opposite end of the room. That face, in its thoughtful repose, revealed to her the vague likeness which had at once made it seem familiar and dear. Mr. Lyne- don strongly resembled the head of Keats, which had been the girl's dream-idol for so many months. As the fancy struck her mind Katharine's cheek flushed, and a strange thrill shot through her heart. She looked at him again, and still the likeness seemed to deepen. It was a pleasure so new and with the aid of that friendly mirror, surely there could be nothing wrong in thus watching the living semblance of her poet. So Katharine gazed and gazed, utterly unconscious that she was drinking in the first draught of that cup which is offered to every human lip ; to some, of honey ; to others, of gall. Lynedon still kept close to the harp, until a lady sat down to play and sing. Her voice was touching and beautiful, and its pathos st'llod 10 THE OGILVIES. oven the noisy murmur around. A foppish, af- fected young man, at one side of the harp, went into ecstasies, of rapture. Lynedon stood on the other side. His figure, drawn up to its utmost height, and his arms folded, as still as a marble statue. His head was bent, and half in shadow ; bat once Katharine thought she saw the lips tremble with deep feeling. She did not wonder, for the tears were in her own eyes. "Divine ; enchanting ! Miss Trevor, you sing like an angel," cried the young dandy, taking out his pocket handkerchief. Lynedon did not say a single word, but offered his hand to lead the musician to her seat. She seemed a shy, timid creature, neither fashion- able nor beautiful. As they passed, Katharine heard him say, in answer to some remark of hers " Yes, it gave me pleasure. It is a dear, old song to me. I had a little sister who used to sing it once : she had a sweet voice, very like yours." Katharine longed for an angel's voice, that she might have sung that song. She wondered if his sister lived ; but, no, there was a tremu- lousness in his tone when he spoke of her she must be dead. He was surely good and affec- tionate, since he loved his sister. How well she must have loved him ! Katharine had already woven out the whole romance of this stranger's life, and yet she did not even know his Christian name, and he had not once spoken to her, or even looked at her. Only some time after, as she was in the act of bidding adieu to Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine's flowers fell, and Mr. Lynedon, who stood beside the hostess, stooped and gave them into the young girl's hand. It was a trifling act of courtesy, yet he did it as he did every thing else, more gracefully than other men. But he would have done the same to anv woman, old or young, ugly or pretty. Katha- rine felt that he had not even looked in her face. She experienced no surprise, or wounded vanity, for she never remembered herself at all. Even now, at this faint dawn of feeling, her thoughts were alone of him. "Well, it has been a pleasant evening," said Mrs. Ogilvie, when they were again in the car- riage. "Do you think so, Hugh?" Hugh did, indeed, for there was still the long, quiet ride home, with Katharine close beside him, ready to talk over every thing, as he had proposed. "And you, Katharine, love; have you liked your entrance into society ?" inquired the mother. "Yes," said Katharine, gently, but briefly. She did not seem half so much disposed to talk as Hugh expected. "I asked Mrs. Lancaster and her husband to spend a day with us; was I right, Mr. Ogilvie?" observed the wife, deferentially. " Certainly, my dear, ask whom you please ; Mrs. Lancaster is a womalDof very good breed- ing ; and, besides, to an intellectual lady, and a lover of antiquities, there are many curious and remarkable sights near Summerwood Park. Of ourse she will come ?" "Not just at present, as she has a friend staying there, a Mr. Lynedon. I did not know whether you would like him to be included." " By all means, Mrs. Ogilvie ; I happened to have a t folk as the OgilviS. THE OGILVIKS. 13 The old father, Sir James, is in his dotage, and Mr. Ogilvie has considerable influence in the county. He might be of use in this parliament- ary scheme of yours, especially as he told me, in his own solemn way, how much he liked you." " Liked me ? Oh, yes, I remember him now. A precise, middle-aged specimen of the genus 'country gentleman,' with a quiet mild-looking lady always creeping after him. She was his wife, probably." He looked at the signature, '"Katharine Ogilvie,' a pretty name, very; it is hers, I suppose." " No, the note is from their daughter ; you saw her too the other night, a little brown-comple-x- ioned girl, who dropped her flowers and you gave them to her." "I really do not remember the fact," said Paul Lynedon, shaking back his beautiful hair ; " but I am quite at your service, Mrs. Lancas- ter, for this visit." " Then it is agreed upon ; Julian, my love, put it down in my visiting-book, that we may not forget." Mr. Lancaster did as he was biddsn, and his wife and Mr. Lynedon went on with their conversation, during which the latter who had a habit of always playing with something while he was talking earnestly twisted Katha- rine's note into every conceivable shape, finally tearing it into small diamonds, and then again into triangles. Poor Katharine ! and yet in the wildness and self-forgetfulness of her dream, she might not have thought it an unworthy destiny for her let- ter. It had been torn in pieces by Paul Lyne- don's own fingers ! Added to Mrs. Lancaster's acceptance, came one from Mr. Lynedon himself; a few courteous words which won the marked approbation of the formal Mr. Ogilvie. "A. proper gentleman-like note. Mr. Lyne- don is, as I thought, very superior to the young men of the present day," observed the father. He did not see how his young daughter's eyes brightened at the words. It was so pleasant to hear her hero praised. "And read what Mrs. Lancaster says of him," observed Mrs. Ogilvie, and she handed the lady's epistle to her husband. Mr. Ogilvie looked, shook his head, and pass- ed the note on to his daughter. " Read it, Kath- arine, I never could make out Mrs. Lancaster's hand." Katharine read with a voice wonderfully steady, considering how her little heart fluttered all the time. "I thank you for including my friend, Mr. Lynedon, in your invitation; it will give me pleasure to introduce to your circle one whom you will, I trust, esteem as I do. He is a man whose talents will doubtless one day raise him high in the world. He has the minor ad- vantages of a good social position, and, I believe, an excellent heart ; but these are nothing com- pared to the greatest of all a commanding and powerful mind." "Is Mrs. Lancaster quite right there?" said Eleanor, lifting up her soft, quiet eyes from her work. " She seems to think of Mr. Lynedon's intellect alone, and never regards any other qual- ities. Now he may be a clever man " "He may be he is!" crieJ Katharine, ener- getically. " He will be the greatest man of the age." And then, seeing that, as usual, her sud- den btust of enthusiasm met with but a freezing reception, she grew hot and cold, and heartily wished she could run away. "Really Katharine, that is a very positive declaration to be made by a child like you," said her father ; " and, beside, what opportunity can you have had of judging of Mr. Paul Lynedon's intellect. Did he speak to you?" " Oh, no ! but I heard him talk to others; that was much better than if he had spoken to me. I liked very much to listen to him; I did not know it was wrong." "By no means, my love," said Mrs. Ogilvie. " A taste for refined conversation is always be- coming in a lady, and when you grow up, and are aware of the position you hold in the world, I hope you will always have clever men and women in your society. But still, as a child, you should not express quite so decided an opinion at least not in public. Here, with only your papa, myself, and Eleanor, it signifies little'." Katharine, in the depth of her heart, did not at all see that an expression of feeling allowable in private, must not be countenanced or given way to in public. But she said nothing. Her life was a continual exercise of such acts of self- suppression, for she always found that arguing on the subject did not avail in the slightest degree, as her father invariably repeated the same re- marks in a tone gradually more and more au- thoritative. The girl's only chance of eliciting what was good and true, lay in pondering over every thing she saw and heard in the depths of her own heart, and thus struggling toward a conclusion. But, with the wisest of us, this in- ternal course of education 'is often at first grop- ing through dark ways. Our minds, not only in their powers of acquiring knowledge, but their perceptive and reflective faculties, need a guid- ing hand as well as our bodies. We must be led awhile, before we have strength to walk alone. Katharine Ogilvie had no one to guide these first tottering struggles of a mind and heart su- perior to those of most women. She was ever looking toward the light, and in vain. Every glimmering taper she mistook for the glorious fullness of day. Perhaps it was this intense yearning for something whereon to rest her soul, in addition to her purely womanly inclination toward hero-worship, that made her cling with such sudden vehemence to that ideal which she thought she saw in Paul Lynedon. It was not that, according to the creed of young misses of her age, she "fell in love." Katharine would have started with instinctive delicacy had the amusing expression met her ear, or the idea en- tered her mind. Love had as yet little place in her world except as something to come one day a vague sentiment that was full of poetry, and carried with it a mysterious charm. Her feeling toward Paul Lynedon was something akin to what she experienced toward her pet heroes in romances, or her favorite poets. An appreciat- ive worship, drawn forth by all that was in them of noble and beautiful " A devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow." Of "falling in love" with (hateful terms), or of marrying Paul Lynedon, she no more thought than of uniting herself in affectionate earthly THE OGILVIES. ties to an angel who guided sor>. " bright par- ticular star." Yet in spite of all this child-like unconscious- ness of the real nature of the life-phase which was opening upon her, it was strange how much this vague interest in her hero grew during the few days that intervened between the acceptance of the invitation and its fulfillment. But she kept her thoughts closely locked up in her own heart, which, indeed, was a circumstance neither strange nor new. When, a few days after, the departure of the Worsley tribe left Katharine alone with her two cousins, Hugh and Eleanor, she felt the restraint a little removed. But still, though she loved them both sincerely, neither they nor any human being had ever passed the circle of the young girl's inner world. Hugh could not it was be- yond his power; and Eleanor, detained for years by the sick couch of her lost mother, had scarcely visited Summerwood. Thus she had never won from Katharine's shy and reserved disposition that friendship and confidence which no mere ties of kindred can acquire. Therefore no hand had yet lifted more than the outer Ibid of this young heart, trembling, bursting, and thrilling with its full, rich, pas- sionate life, and ready, at the first sun-gleam, to pour forth, rose-like, its whole awakened being, in a flood of perfume, and beauty, and love. CHAPTER IV. Like to a good old age feleased from care, Journeying in long serenity away, In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, midst bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks And murmur of kind voices ever nigh. BRYANT. Children ought to consider themselves in the house of their father as in a temple where nature has placed them, and of which she has made them the priests and the ministers, that they might continually employ them- selves in the worship of those deities who gave them being. HIKROCLKS. MRS. LANCASTER'S expected three days' visit necessitated considerable preparation within the quiet precincts of Summerwood, and Katharine was deputed to stay as much as possible by her grandfather's side, in order to amuse him, and keep from him the knowledge of any domestic revolutions. This was rather pleasant to the young girl than otherwise, for she was a great favorite with Sir James, and returned his affec- tion by a watchful love, above that of most pet grandchildren. Besides, the office gave her more opportunities of indulging in those fits of dreaminess, which now more than ever became her delight. Every morning Hugh looked in upon his grand- father's study ; it was called so still, though now thi scene of youthful labor had been transformed into the quiet, luxurious asylum of feeble old age. Hugh, as he came with his guns or his fishing- rods, had often glanced half-con temptuously at the various oddities which decorated the cham- ber of the old politician; ponderous tomes, in century -old bindings ; dusty files of newspapers, which chronicled the speeches of Pitt, Fox, and Burke, possibly with the announcement that the orator was " left speaking." And so he contin- ued to speak in the mind and memory of Si? James Ogilvie, who thus, by relics so carefully preserved, was enabled to blend the past and the present. Every morning, when he had listlessly heard the last night's speeches in the Times, list- ening perhaps more to the echoes of his pet grand-daughter's young voice than to the elo- quence of Stanley, Peel, or D'Israeli ; he made Katherine turn over the old file of newspapers, and read the daily chronicle of fifty years ago. Thus events, which had grown dim even in his- torical recollection, acquired the freshness of yesterday, and great men, sharing in the resus- citation, spoke not from their tombs, but from their old haunts in palace and senate. And to the old man the last relic of a departed age- this past was a reality, the stirring, teeming present, a mere shadow, less than a dream. Katharine never laughed at these vagaries ; they were to her a something strangely sacred, and her fanciful mind cast a poetry over all. " Still busy with those yellow old pamphlets," said Hugh, putting in his head. A bright cheer- ful face it was, glowing with health and good- temper, with a fur cap sitting jauntily on the thick brown curls. " Katharine ! will you never have done these readings? at Warren Hast- ings still, I see." Katharine knitted her graceful brows, and laid her finger on her lips, as a sign to stop her cousin's thoughtless speech. She looked much prettier in her high, close morning -dress than in the ball costume she wore when first described. The morning sun, slanting on her rich black hair, gave it a warm tinge, while her features, thrown into shadow, looked delicately perfect in outline. She sat on a footstool, leaning against her grandfather's arm-chair, with pamphlets and papers all scattered around. Sir James, a little, spare, withered old man, whose sole rem- nant of life seemed to exist in his bright restless eyes, leaned back in abstraction so perfect, that he only noticed Hugh's entrance by the cessa- tion of the reading. " Go on, Katharine," he said, in the queru- lous tone of extreme old age ; " why did you stop in the middle of that fine sentence of Mr. Burke's?" " Hugh has just come in to say good-morning, dear grandfather." " Hugh what, Sir Hugh Abercrombie ! I am really honored," said the old man, still wandering to. the past. Hugh could not help laughing ; at which Sir James turned sharply round, and, as he recog- nized his grandson, his keen, glittering eyes wore an expression of annoyance. . " You are exceedingly rude, sir ! Go away, and do not interrupt us again." "Very well, grandfather," answered Hugh, good-humoredly. "I only came to say how-d'ye- do to you, and to have a word with my little cousin here. Katharine," he continued, lower- ing his voice, " I met your mamma on the stairs, and she desired me to say that you must try and make Sir James understand about these visitors, the Lancasters you know they come to-mor- row;" and Hugh's face grew cloudy, while Katharine's brightened considerably. " My aunt has told him already, but he did not seem to make it out clearly, and was rathe* THE OG1LVIES. 15 cross ; but you can persuade your grandfather to any thing." "I don't wonder at it," muttered Hugh, look- ing fondly in her face as she stood in the window, whither he had drawn her aside. " Very well, Hugh ; and now run away ; and good success to your skates, which I see is to be your amuse ment; to-day." "But, Katharine, I shall be so dull alone. Here you stay with Sir James, and Eleanor is busy ; will nobody come and see me skate this fine morning ?" "How vain you are, cousin Hugh," laughed Katharine. "But it will soon be grandpapa's lunch-time, and then I shall be at liberty, and will come to the pond. So good-by for a little." "Good-by, and thank you, dear Katharine." And, as Hugh departed, his cousin heard him whistling all the way down the staircase, " My love she's but a lassie yet," his favorite tune. "How tiresome that boy is," said the old man. Katharine did not answer, but again took her place, and began to read. Sir James tried to compose himself to listen, but the thread was broken, and would not reunite. Besides, the in- terruption had made Katharine's own thoughts wander, and she read on mechanically, so that even her voice took a monotonous tone. Her grandfather nodded over the very exordium of Warren Hastings' defense, and at last pronounced that it seemed not quite so interesting as it was at first; so he thought they had read enough for to-day. Katharine felt really glad ; she put by all the books and papers with alacrity, and took her place again at her grandfather's feet. Now was the time for bringing out the sub- ject committed to her care. There could hardly be a more favorable moment, for she had got fast hold of her grandfather's thin, yellow, with- ered fingers, and was playing with the magnifi- cent rings which still daily adorned them. Noth- ing contributed so much to the old baronet's good-humor as to have his rings admired, and he began to tell Katharine, for the hundredth time, how one had been a bequest of Lord Chat- ham's, when he, Sir James, was quite a boy; and how another, a magnificent diamond, had been placed on his finger by Frederick, Prince of Wales, with his own royal and friendly hand. The young girl listened patiently, and with the interest that affection always taught her to assume. Then taking advantage of a pause, she observed " I think, grandpapa, you, who are so fond of Antique rings, will like to see one that Mrs. Lan- caster wears. I will ask her to show it you when she comes to-morrow." " Who comes to-morrow, child ? Who is Mrs. Lancaster?" " A very clever, nice woman. Don't you re- member that mamma invited her to spend a few days here she, and her husband, and a friend, Mr. Lynedon." " Lynedon Lynedon. Ah ! I remember him well. Mr. no, he was afterward made Vis- count Lynedon, of Lynedon. A clever speaker a perfect gentleman. He and I were both presented at the king's first levee. I shall be delighted to see Lord Lynedon." "I do not think this is the gentleman you mean, grandpapa," said Katharine, meekly, while the faintest shadow of a smile hovered over her lips. " He is not viscount, only Mr. Lynedon Paul Lynedon ; but he may be related to vour old friend." "Ah, yes, yes just so," repeated Sir James, his look of disappointment brightening into one of content. " Of course he is ! Let me see : the Lynedons were a large family. There was a second brother, and his name was a Scripture one Philip, or Stephen, or Paul. Yes, yes ! it must be Paul, and this is he. Right, Kath- arine." Katharine hardly knew what to answer. "1 shall be delighted honored, to welcome Mr. Paul Lynedon at Summerwood," continued the old man. "I well remember Lord Lyne- don a fine, tall, noble-looking man. My Lord Chesterfield was scarcely more courtly, and not half so handsome. I wonder if his brother is like him. Describe Mr. Paul Lynedon, Kath- arine." " I am afraid you are a little mistaken, dear grandpapa," said the girl, caressingly. "This Mr. Lynedon is quite a young man, while your friend must be " "Eh, eh, Katharine; what are you saying?" sharply asked Sir James. " Why, I am not so very old, am I ? Let me see : it is since then only twenty forty fifty years ; ah, fifty years, fifty years," repeated he, counting on his trem- bling fingers. "Yes, child, you are right, it can not be the same ; he must have been dead long ago. I was a youth then, and he a man of forty. Yes, yes! all are gone; there is no- body left but me ;" and the old man fell back in his chair, with deep sadness overshadowing his face. Katharine leaned her rosy cheek against the withered and wrinkled one of her grandfather, and said, gently, "Dear grandpapa, don't talk so, when you know we all love you. And though this gentleman is not the friend you knew, I am sure you will like him very much. Papa does ; and you know he may be one of the Lynedons after all, and able to talk to you about your old friends." " Ah, well, little Katharine, you would almost make amends for my growing old. I would not have had you here otherwise ; and it is worth being eighty years of age to find oneself grand- father to a little coaxing, loving, smiling Kate." 'The old man laughed, but there were tears in his eyes ; and Katharine hastened to beguile them away by all the playful wiles of which she was mistress. By the time the arrival of lunch set her free from her loving attendance, all Sir James's equanimity was restored. He even re- membered that he had been rather hasty toward Hugh, and sent a message intended to be pro- pitiatory, challenging his grandson to an hour's backgammon in the study after dinner. More- over, he made many inquiries concerning 'the way in which Katharine intended to pass the rest of the day, and learning that she was going to watch Hugh's skating, he delayed her for full five minutes, with a circumstantial ^ account of the fair that was held on the Thames, when it wa frozen over in the year . ''And, grandpapa," whispered Katharine, when she had listened patiently to all, "you will think of the visitors coming to-morrow, and bo sure to like Mr. Paul Lynedon." " Mr. Paul Lynedon 1 Oh, I remember now," 16 THE OGILV1ES. answered the old man, making an effort to col- lect his wandering ideas. " Yes, yes the vis- count's son. Of course, Katharine, I shall be delighted to see him. You must not forget to tell him so." Katharine made no attempt to explain the matter further, satisfied that her grandfather's mind was properly inclined to courtesy and kindly feeling. She went away perfectly con- tent with the duty so well fulfilled, not reflecting that in their conversation she had entirely for- gotten all that was to have been said about Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster. CHAPTER V. In thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; Like two streams of incense free From one censer, in one shrine Thought and motion mingle They were modulated so To an unheard melody Which lives about thee, and n, sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other, mello .v, deep, Who may express thee, Eleanore 1 TENNYSON. THOUGH Katharine had been busy all the morninop aiding her mother in the various cares whJch t^re the. half-necessary, half- voluntary duty o' the mistress of Summerwood Park, still, when the time approached for the arrival of the guests, she did not feel inclined to rest. Hugh had taken himself off for the day on a shooting excursion ; Eleanor was writing, reading, or practicing in her own room ; and when all was prepared for the visitors, Katharine had no re- source but to wander about the house. She did so, roaming from room to room with a vague restlessness that would not pass away ; every now and then she stood at the hall window and listened for the sound of carriage-wheels ; then she pondered and speculated about the Lancas- ters, ransacking her memory for all that she had ever heard about them, wondering if Mrs. Lan- caster would seem as agreeable as at first ; and then, between her and the lady, rose the face of Paul Lynedon, and the former vision grew dim in Katharine's mind. The quick-coming twilight of winter drew nigh, and the guests had not arrived. The girl's Sleasurable anticipations faded a little, and she jit vexed at herself for having wasted so much time in thinking about these new acquaintances. Conscience-smitten for the little notice she had taken of her cousin during that day, she pro- ceeded to Eleanor's room, and finding it empty, followed her into the garden. Eleanor sat quietly in the conservatory, her favorite place of study. A book lay on her lap, but she was hardly reading ; her eyes wandered as her thoughts did. Eleanor, like her cousin, was still at that period of life when dreaming is so pleasant. Alas ! that there should come a time when we dare not dream. There can hardly be a better opportunity than the present to sketch the personal likeness of Eleanor Ogilvie. It shall not be done in rose- colors, garnished with similes taken from flowers, shells, sky, earth, and air, for true beauty is in- dependent of all these. Eleanor had no angel's face, only a woman's; sweet, fair, and. mild bt a woman's should be. Her beautiful soul shone through it, and therefore it became itsek/beautiful ; not that it was without a certain grace of for m, but still that was subservient to the higher quality of expression, without which, features as perfect as the sculptor's chisel can create, are mere soul- less and stony than the marble itself. Eleanor's countenance was not so much removed from the ordinary in humanity, but that it would have been passed over as merely "rather pretty," except for the inexpressible charm which each varying emotion of her mind threw over it. After all, this is the truest beauty ; not that which suddenly dazzles and fascinates, but that which steals upon us insensibly. Let each of us call up to memory the faces that have been most pleasant to us those that we have loved best to look upon, that now rise most vividly before us in solitude, and oftenest haunt our slumbers, and we shall usually find them not the most perfect in form, but the sweetest in ex- pression. Yet silence on this generalizing ! It is idle. Every human mind has its own ideal of beauty, and almost always this ideal is based upon some individual reality ; therefore we will leave the peculiarities of Eleanor Ogilvie's face in that dim mystery out of which each can form his own dream, merely saying that the fountain into which Eve looked did not reflect a sweeter or more womanly image. Katharine, even, was struck by it. The con- trast was great between her own restless move- ments and flushed cheek, and her cousin's perfect quietude. " Why. Eleanor, how still you are here, when all the house is full of hurry and ex- pectation ? You seem almost to have forgotten that the Lancasters are coming?" " Oh, no ; for you see I have already dressed for dinner." " So you have ; and how well you look, with your high black dress, and your smooth fair hair. You are quite a picture," said Katharine, removing her cousin's fur wrappings, and look- ing at her with some admiration. Katharine's intense appreciation of the beautiful was often almost child-like in its demonstration. " I won- der what Mr. Lyne that is, Mrs. Lancaster will think of you?" "You forget, Katharine, that I am not a stranger ; she has seen me before. Hugh and I spent one evening with her when we were in town last year." " And how did you like her ? and is not her house the most charming place in the world ?" cried Katharine. "That is rather an extreme declaration to make ; and your question is one that can hardly be answered justly upon the little acquaintance I have had with the lady. But she seemed rather hesitatingly, "was he there?" Eleanor could hardly help smiling. " Is Mr. Paul Lynedon, then, the only agreeable person in the world ? Well, I am not quite sure, but I believe that he was of the party." " Why did you not tell us so the other day ?" "I really quite forgot it at the time." Amazing, thought Katharine, that she shoulu not be quite certain whether she had met Pan' TliL OGILVIES. 17 Lynedon, or, having met him, should positively forget the fact. In her own mind, Katharine set down her cousin as a girl of very little dis- crimination. How could any one overlook Paul Lynedon. But she did not pursue the conversa- tion, for Eleanor, closing her book, prepared to return to the house. " Let us take one turn before vr e go in," said Eleanor. "There will be plenty of time, for now the Lancasters will probably not be here until dinner ; and, Katharine, tell me what you have been doing all day?" " Following mamma, and delivering messages *o cook and housemaids, until my poor brain is quite bewildered," said Katharine. "I never would take an interest in such things; I wish mamma would leave me alone, and not try to make a woman of me. I had much rather be with grandpapa, and hear him talk about public matters, and read the speeches in the newspaper. Eleanor, I was never born for this dull, quiet life; I want to do something to be something." "To be what, dear Katharine?" said Elea- nor, to whom this confidence was new; but it burst from her cousin's lips under shelter of the twilight, and in consequence of the restlessness of her mind. "I hardly know what," she answered; "but I think I should like to be in Mrs. Lancaster's position clever, with plenty of society, able to write, speak, and think, just as I liked; quite independent of every body." " I do not think there is, or was, any individ- ual in this world certainly no woman of whom one could say that ; nay, even were it possible, I doubt if such a life would be a happy one ; and what is still more, if it would be usetul and full of good to others, which is the highest happiness of all." " Eleanor," said Katherine, looking fixedly in her face, "you reason where I only feel." "Do you think I never feel, dear?" answered Eleanor, while her own peculiar moonlight smile cast a grave sweetness over her face. li But we will talk of these things another time. I am so glad we have begun to talk of them. Those are rarely very close friends who keep shut-up corners in their hearts. You must let me peep into a few of yours, by-and-by, my little cou- sin." " Suppose you find nothing but cobwebs and dust there?" said Katharine, laughing. "I will sweep them all away with a little broom I keep by me for the purpose," returned Eleanor, in the same strain. "What is it?" " It is made of a flowering plant, that grows in every quiet dell throughout the world, and which you may often find when you least look for it. It is gathered in the poor sunshine of hope, and tied together with a ground-creeper, called patience ; which, though as slender as a thread, binds all together with the strength of an iron chain. I would engage to brighten up the most unsightly heart-chambers with this broom of mine. Now, \vhat is it made of?" "I guess, dear Nelly, I guess," cried Kath- arine, clapping her hands with that sudden, childlike ebullition of pleasure which was natural to her ; and, both laughing merrily, with & bright- ness in their eyes, and a glow on their cheeks, rhe two girls entered the open hall-door, bonnets B in hand, and shawls carelessly dangling, they passed into the drawing-room. There, talking to Mr. Ogilvie, and having evidently just arrived, stood the Lancasters ana Mr. Paul Lynedon I CHAPTER VI. A woman's love is essentially lonely, and spiritual m its nature. It is the heathenism of the heart : she hag herself created the glory and beauty with which the idol of her altar stands invested. L. E. L. THERE was no retreat for Katharine no rescue from the suddenness of this first inter- view, which, when in prospective, she had viewed in every phase of probability, fancying all she should do and say, and all they might do and say, in a mental rehearsal, which she supposed in- cluded every possible chance. But the moment- ous event had presented itself in a light quite unforeseen, and Katharine's only resource was to shrink behind her cousin as much as possible. Eleanor advanced, in her usual composed man- ner, to Mrs. Lancaster. "My dear Miss Ogilvie, I am delighted to see you," said the lady, with her customary demonstration of cordiality at least, the amount of it which was consistent with gracefulness of deportment. "Julian, my love, here is your young favorite. Mr. Lynedon, allow me " " Miss Katharine Ogilvie, I believe," said Paul Lynedon, bowing over Eleanor's hand, and noticing, with his usual quick appreciation of female beauty, her sweet, expressive face. "No, no; I really beg pardon," cried Mrs. Lancaster, as Katharine's shrinking, blushing countenance met her eye. "This is the real fair one, the right Katharine. I must apologize for my short sight. My dearest Miss Ogilvie," taking Katharine's hand, "allow me to thank you for your charming note, and to present to you my friend Mr. Lynedon." Paul Lynedon was a perfect gentleman. No passing error ever altered his composure or . courtesy. His bend was as graceful over Kath- arine's timidly-offered hand as it had been over her cousin's. His acknowledgments, addressed to the shy, awkward girl, were exactly as cour- teous as those of which Eleanor had been the recipient. Yet in this Paul Lynedon was not insincere. The polish of his manners originated in the only quality which makes a true gentle- man, and which no formal, Chesterfield-like education can bestow a natural refinement in himself, and an instinctive wish to give pleasure to others. This true urbanity never fails in its results ; nor was it unsuccessful now. In a few moments, Katharine became sufficiently reas- sured to lift her eyes from the carpet to Paul Lynedon's face. A little different was the reality from the one which had haunted her during this long ten days, for imagination is rarely quite faithful at first. But still it wore the same inexpressible charm. She dared look at it now, for the eyes were turned away. Mrs. Lancaster floated up to Eleanor with great em- pressement. " My dear young friend, how could I mistake you. I remember you perfectly now," said that lady, the universality of whoso friend ship was Its chief recommendation 18 THE OGILVIES. "It is some time since you saw me," an- swered Eleanor's quiet voice, " and my cousin and I are alike in height, so the mistake was not surprising." " And you have been quite well since I saw you last, and that charming young man, your brother Peter." "Hugh," said Eleanor, smiling. "He is quite well, I believe ; he made one of your guests the other day." " Of course oh, yes !" and Mrs. Lancaster's lips formed themselves into an exquisite smile, while her eyes wandered abstractedly about the room. She had in perfection the faculty which is so useful in general society, that of being able to train the features into the appearance of polite attention, attended by just so much of the mind as will suffice for suitable answers. Mr. Paul Lynedon was not quite so much au fait as this; he had not lived so long in the world by some dozen years as his excellent friend, Mrs. Lancaster ; therefore, in the conver- sation which he tried hard to commence with Katharine, he did net succeed in advancing one step beyond the weather, and the distance from London to Summerwood. Perhaps Katharine herself had something to do with this, for though it was her delight to listen when Paul Lynedon talked to others, the tones of his musical voice, addressed to herself, oppressed her with a pain- ful timidity; it was positively a relief when Eleanor proposed an adjournment with the bon- nets and shawls. When the two cousins re-entered the drawing- room, there was still the same striking contrast between them ; Eleanor so calm and self-pos- sessed ; Katharine almost trembling with nervous timidity. The little party were grouped, as was natural they should be Mrs. Lancaster conversing with Mr. Ogilvie, while a feeling of hostess-like benignity prompted Mrs. Ogilvie to extract from the taciturn Mr. Lancaster small frag- ments of conversation relative to the weather, their journey, the country in general, and Summerwood in particular. Paul Lynedon was carelessly turning over the leaves of a book, occasionally joining in with a passing remark. On the entrance of the two girls, he at once displayed the customary courtesy of providing them with seats, though in a manner so quick and unconscious that it might have passed with- out a remark. There is nothing more annoying and uncomfortable to a lady than to enter a room and see every gentleman jump up, armed : with a chair, ready to perform acts of officious I chivalry, which place the recipient in a position infinitely more unpleasant than if she were en- tirely neglected. Paul Lynedon began with a common-place and, reader, almost all things in life, pleasant friendships, deep, earnest, lite-long loves, begin with the same he made the remark, that the /iew from the hall-windows was that it would be in daylight, and in summer-time a very beautiful one ; and then he could not help smiling as he thought what a stupid and involved obser- vation he had made. That very circumstance broke the ice. v "You seem to have an instinctive perception of the beaut ifi/l, Mr. Lynndon," said Eleanor. " You see ' with your mind's eye,' which pierces through the darkness of a winter night, closed shutters, curtains and all." And the good-tem- pered smile which accompanied her words, fairly removing their sting, caused Paul Lynedon to laugh merrily. "You have saved me, Miss Eleanor given me something to talk about, and redeemed me from committing myself any more, by unfolding to me a few points in the character of the lady with whom 1 have the pleasure of conversing/' " What, can you find out my character from that one speech?" said Eleanor, rather amused, "A little of it." "Tell me how?" " Why, in the first place, you have Shakspeare on your tongue, and consequently in your heart. One rarely quotes where one does not love the author, therefore you love Shakspeare, and as a necessary result, all true poetry. Then my re- mark common-place, forced, and to a certain degree insincere, as I acknowledge it to be made you smile ; therefore you have a quick perception of what is inclined to falseness and affectation, while your condemnation of it is good-tempered and lenient. Have I explained myself, even though I prove my own accuser?" "Perfectly, though you are too harsh upon yourself," answered Eleanor. " What do you say to this sketch of me, Katharine?" " If Mr. Lynedon means that you are all-true in yourself, and all-kind toward others, he is quite right," said Katharine, affectionately. Paul Lynedon directed toward the warm- hearted speaker a look of more curiosity than he had yet thought fit to bestow upon the "little school-girl." "Thank you, Miss Ogilvie; that is, I thank you for proving my observations correct. A harmless vanity; yet I fancy they needed no proof but the presence of Miss Eleanor." And, as he bowed, his eyes rested on her face ad miringly. No added color came to that clear cheek: the smile was tranquil and self-possessed, and Paul Lynedon felt almost vexed. She was the first pretty woman who had seemed indifferent to his compliments. The little group were again sinking into small-talk, when a servant came to the door with "Sir James Ogilvie's compliments, and he was impatient for the honor of receiving Mr. Paul Lynedon." " My father is very old, and has a few pecu- liarities; will it be agreeable to you to numor him with a visit now?" said Mrs. Ogilvie, al- most apologetically. "I forgot to tell Mr. Lynedon about SI. James," said Mrs. Lancaster, "pray go you will be so much amused with his oddities," she continued, in a low tone. It was meant for an aside, but it jarred painfully on Katharine's ear, which was ever open to all that was said by, or addressed to Paul Lynedon. But the young man's only answer was di- rected to Mrs. Ogilvie. " Pray d9 not talk to me about ' humoring' Sir James ; it is always to me not only a duty but a pleasure to show respect to old age." Katharine's heart beat with delight, and her bright smile had in it something of pude, ** it rested on Paul Lynedon. He had never looked so noble in her eyes. THE OGILVIES. "Katharine, show Mr. Lynedon the way to your grandfather's study ; you can make Sir James understand better than any one," said Mrs. Ogilvie. Paul offered his arm to the young girl, and led her out of the room with a stately courtesy, that made Katharine almost fancy she was escorto ] by Sir Charles Grandison. Through the long hall, where the light of modern gas contrasted strangely enough with the quaint panneled walls and ancient moldings, Katharine and her cavalier passed. She could hardly believe that she was alone with Paul Lynedon, that her hand rested on his arm, that his voice was really in her ear, talking with gentle consideration of all things that he thought Ukely to set the timid girl at her ease But there was something so irresistibly win- ning in all that Paul Lynedon did, that before they reached Sir James's door, Katharine found herself talking frankly of her grandfather, his love for her, his waning intellect, and explain- ing the misapprehension which had led to his .inxiety to see Mr. Lynedon. " I hardly know whether it would not be as well to let him continue in the idea," said Kath- arine : " it gives him pleasure : but then I do not like to deceive dear grandpapa." " It will not be deceit, for I believe I do really belong to the same family," answered Lynedon, ' so let us go in." The old baronet raised himself on his gold- Aeaded cane, and extended his thin yellow fingers to his visitor. "It is to me an honor and pleasure to wel- come my old friend's son. Am I not right in addressing the heir of Viscount Lynedon?" " My name is Lynedon, and I h?' e no doubt (hat my father was well acquainted with the jame of Sir James Ogilvie," said Paul, evasively. Somehow Katharine did not like the subter- fuge ; and yet it sprang from kindly feeling. She said this to herself until she became quite satis- fied ; the more so, as Lynedon replaced the old man in his chair with an air of respectful court- esy, and then taking a seat beside him, entered into conversation. He talked with the baronet to his heart's content, showing himself perfectly at home in all peculiarities of the long-past era, wherein alone Sir James seemed to exist; and moreover, he appeared to throw his whole mind into the conversation with a cordial earnestness that at first, excited Katharine's surprise, and then her warm admiration. " How kind, how considerate, how clever he is," she thought to herself, as she stood in the shadow, watching each expression of his face, and listening to the music of his voice. Through every avenue by which brilliant and noble qual- ities first attract and then enchain a heart alive to all that is good and beautiful, was Paul Lyne- don unconsciously taking possession of Katha- rine's. While unwittingly stealing this young girl's heart, Lynedon no less won that of Sir James. Delightedly the old man passed from conversa- tion about public matters to inquiries concern- ing his friend the viscount, and the whole Lyne- don family, which Paul answered with a clear- ness and readiness that charmed his companion. Katharine having now completely got over the facl that Paul had assumed an untrue character to please her grandfather, felt quite glac that, though there was a slight mistake about his being the viscount's son, Lynedon was so well acquainted with all the affairs of his family, and could thus delight Sir James so much. The dinner-bell rang when he was in the midst of, an account of the marriage of Lord Lynedon's eldest daughter. " I'm quite sorry that I must relinquish the honor of your society, my dear young friend, for may I not bestow that title on your father's son?" said the baronet, taking Lynedon's hand, with a curious mixture of formality and affection. "I shall always be proud of the title," an- swered Paul. " And besides, on second thoughts, I believe that more than one intermarriage has taken place between the Lynedons and the Ogilvies. Katharine, before you go, bring me that 'Peer- age ;' I feel almost sure that there must be some connection between Mr. Lynedon and ourselves. Suppose he were to turn out a cousin eh?" " I should only be too happy to boast any re- lationship to Miss Ogilvie," said Paul Lynedon. It was a common phrase of courtesy ; he would have said the same to any one, especially a woman, and yet the blood rushed to Katharine's dark cheek, and her heart beat wildly. She hastily walked to the book-case ; but if Debrette's "Peerage" had been written as plain as with letters of phosphorus, her eyes could not have discovered it. But Lynedon's practice of the bien seances was never at fault, and the book was soon in Sir James's hand. " Adieu, my dear young friend. Katharine, bring him again very soon," said the baronet. "A venerable old man, your grandfather," observed Paul Lynedon, as they threaded once more the long passages. " It was very kind of you to talk to him so much," Katharine answered, softly. " Oh, not at all not at all, my dear Miss Ogilvie. But, here is the drawing-room a very desert;, forsaken by all except Miss Eleanor," he added, " which makes my first remark a most untrue one . Let me have the happiness of escort - ing both the lair cousins to the dining-room " CHAPTER VII. As on the finger of a throned queen The basest jewel would be well esteemed ; So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated, and for true things deemed. SHAKSPKARK. MRS. LANCASTER, hemmed in on one side by the sedate and somewhat ponderous courtesies of Mrs. Ogilvie, and on the other by the long interval of dinner-table space which separated her from the inanities of her husband, looked often toward the other side, where Paul Lynedon sat between the two fair cousins, trying to en- liven as much as possible the terrible solemnity of this always formal meal. It is not in human nature to talk well during soup. This is the case even with the most serious and earnest of conversationalists those who, disliking the current nothings of society, plunge at once into some -sensible topic, so as to fathom, if possible, the minds of their associates. These excellent coral-divers of soc iety find their THE OG1LVIES. occupation gone at the commencement of a din- ner-party ; a few refreshing dips over head, just to try the waters, are all they can venture, until the necessary duties of eating and drinking are performed. Therefore, as we aim not at chronicling every word and action with exact fidelity, even as Van Eyck painted the hairs of a lapdog's tail and the nails in a floor, we do not think it necessary to enumerate all the graceful trifles that Paul Lynedon said, interesting his fair neighbors first, and by degrees the elders of the company. He threw over the commonest things a light fila- gree-work of elegance, that, while unsubstantial and evanescent, yet made every thing seem beautiful for the time. And is not such an art of passing glamour a most beneficial attainment in this weary, dusty, matter-of-fact world of ours? When the serious business of dinner had re- solved itself into the graceful dolcefar niente of dessert, Mrs. Ogilvie observed "And now may I venture to hope, Mr. Lyne- don, that my poor father did not weary you very much." " Not at all ; we got on admirably together, did we not, Miss Ogilvie?" and Paul turned to Katharine, who gave a delighted assent. " Grandpapa was delighted with Mr. Lyne- don," observed Katharine to her cousin. "I never saw him more pleased. And Mr. Lyne- don knew all about the branch of his own family of which grandpapa talked, so that he could an- swer every question. Where could you get so much information, Mr. Lynedon ? and how well you seemed to remember every thing." " Perhaps I did not quite remember every thing, Miss Ogilvie," he answered, smiling. "My his- tory of the Lynedon pedigree was, like hasty novels, only 'founded on facts.' It seemed to please your grandfather, and I was delighted to secure his good opinion, even though it entailed upon me some exercise of imagination. But but," he stopped and hesitated, for he met the calm, clear eyes of Eleanor Ogilvie fixed on his face with an expression before which his own fell. He grew confused and tried to laugh the matter off. " I fear your cousin here thinks there was something very wicked in my little extempore romance. Yet I did all for the best. Let me plead before my fair accuser." "I am no accuser," said Eleanor, with quiet dignity. " Surely Eleanor would not say one word against what was done with such kindly motives, and succeeded so well in giving grandpapa pleasure?" cried Katharine, while an unwonted light kindled her dark eyes. Paul Lynedon looked surprised, perhaps a little gratified. He thanked his "young de- fender," as he called her, and changed the con- versation, which, by his consummate skill, he caused to flow in an easy and delicious current until the ladies retired. " What do you think of Mr. Lynedon now, Eleanor?" cried Katharine, as, leaving Mrs. Lancaster and her hostess deeply engaged in a friendly feminine discussion on costume, the two cousins crept away to Mrs. Ogilvie's dressing- room, and there indulged in a talk. " Under what particular phase am I to crit^ise this hero of yours. Katharine?" was Eleanor's response; "do you wish me to call him hand- some ?" " No ; for that wou.d not be true. But is lie not very clever so perfect a gentleman so re- fined?'' "Too refined for me." " How can that be possible ? Really, Eleanor, what taste you have," said Katharine, turning away. " To speak candidly, though there were niacy things in Mr. Lynedon that pleased me very much, there was one that I did not like ; why did he make grandpapa believe what was not true?" "Because he wished to give pleasure, and therefore it was not wtong; I am sure it was not." " Now, dear Katharine, I think it was. Plain- ly, what he called a little romance, was a tissue of untruths." "You are very unjust, Eleanor." " I hope not ; but you asked me for my opinion, and how can I help giving it ? It seemed to me that Mr. Lynedon thought more of being gener- ally agreeable than of doing what was right." " There you are, at your moralities again j where did you learn them all ?" Eleanor would have been puzzled to answer, but, nevertheless, her perception of this man's character was a true one. He had a keener desire to appear than to be ; public ambition and love of social approbation were united in him, and together seemed likely to become so strong as to render invisible in his own eyes the "in- direct crook'd ways" by which he attained his end. Yet even this fault had its origin in tne natural longing after the praise and love of human kind, which is also the germ of the noblest qualities of our nature. It is a creed, harmless, indeed, and inclining us to patience and long-suffering, that evil itself is but a wild ill-regulated good, and has no separate existence. There is not a poison-weed cumbering the ground that may not once have been a flower. And it rests still with the Great Fashioner, who, being all good, could not create positive evil, to stay the rampant growth, and to resolve each cor- rupted particle into its own pure elements. We have wandered strangely from our scene, persons, and conversation ; yet such wanderings are not uncommon in real life. Eveiy one must now and then lift up the curtain of his inner be- ing ; and it is always good so to do. Perhaps Eleanor's "moralities," as her cousin called them, had in some degree this effect, for it is certain that both she and Katharine looked silently into the fire .for some minutes before they attempted to move. At last Katharine rose, and smoothed her long black hair before the mirror. She looked at the reflection therein more earnestly than she was wont, for Katharine was one who cared little for her own personal appearance probably because, having all her life been told how plain she was, she now fully believed it, and reconciled herself to her fate. But this night a faint sigh revealed a few rebellious feelings struggling in her young bosom. "Eleanor," she said, "it must be very pleatant to be beautiful." " Why ? that one might be ndmired ?" THE OGILVIES. "Not exactly so, but tnat we might giv pleasure tc others. Is not every one glad t look on what is beautiful ? and if we could our selves be as pleasant as pictures or statues i the eyes of others, at least of those we love "A sweet, loving definition of that desire t be fair which we all have, more or less," sai Eleanor. "What made you think of it jus now?" K Because I was looking at myself, and think ing how different it would be if I saw a beauti ful reflection in the glass instead of that ugl face and awkward figure." " My dear Katharine !" answered her cousin putting her arms round the girl's neck, " do no speak so of yourself; remember, you are quit young ; I should not wonder if you turned out ; beauty yet tall, thin girls like ypu very oftei do." " Do you think so ; do you really think so ? cried Katharine. " Oh, how glad I am !" Am then a sudden impulse of shame dyed her fac and neck crimson. "I am afraid you will thin! me very vain and foolish ; but but " " I think you a little, wayward, fanciful, darling girl," replied Eleanor, "and the more you let me peep into your heart, no matter what I see there the more you will please your cousin Nelly. Anc now let us go down stairs." Mrs. Ogilvie sat in one arm-chair, and Mrs Lancaster in another two planets in opposition They certainly belonged to different hemispheres, and no power on earth could make them blend their light. Poor Mrs. Ogilvie had had a mosl painful hunt after ideas, and now, wearied and worn, she fairly gave in, unable to pursue the chase, and determining to let the conversation take its chance. Mrs. Lancaster was one of those inflexible talkers who will choose their subject, and "say their say," without regarding the capabilities of their hearers. If the latter understood and followed her, well ; if not, she let them "toil after her in vain" until she had done, and then passed on, rejoicing in the supe- riority of her own intellect. Yet, at times, she positively plumed herself upon her skill in adapt- ing her conversation to all varieties of listeners. Under this idea she would in these days have entered a village blacksmith's, and talked about Elihu Burritt, or discussed with some poor stock- ing-weaver Lee's invention of the loom, illustrat- ed by fragmentary allusions to Elmore's late pic- ture on this subject ; a speech on the union of art and manufactures forming an appropriate winding up to the whole. Thus Mrs. Lancaster had glided from the examination of her hostess's dress to a dissert- ation on the costume of the middle ages, varied by references to Froissart and the illuminated manuscripts of monkish times. Mrs. Ogilvie, carried out of her depth, struggled for a little, and had failed in her last despairing effort, just when her daughter and niece came to the res- cue. Eleanor saw at once the state of the case, by the sudden, half-imploring glance which her aunt turned to the opening door, and the un- changing smile of pat.ent politeness which sat on her lip;. Taking her place by Mrs. Ogilvie, she relieved guard, ingeniously sustaining the whole burden of Mrs. Lancaster's conversation until coffee appeared, and with it the wanderer, Hogh. In most after-dinner female cotei.es the advent of one of the nobler sex produces a satisfactory change, and Hugh's coming formed no excep- tion to the rule. His cheerful, pleasant face always brought sunshine with it. Mrs. Ogilvie gathered courage, Mrs. Lancaster thawed, and the two girls were fully disposed to enjoyment. Only Katharine, while she tried to interest her- self in Hugh's account of his day's sport, could not help wondering, now and then, what it was that detained Paul Lynedon. Lynedon was deep in a conversation witA Mr, Ogil vie concerning electioneering topics . There was a borough near, where the Summerwood interest still lingered, despite the Reform Act ; and Paul's inward dreams of ambition invested Mr. Ogilvie's conversation with a wondrous charm. He did not act for, as we have before stated, Paul Lynedon was not habitually insin- cere but the golden shadow of the time to come, when his host's friendship might be of service, made him regard many a prosy com- mon-place with a feeling of real interest, and also exert his own powers to their utmost in order to produce a satisfactory impression. When the clear singing of a young girl pene- trated to the dining-room, Paul Lynedon first remembered he had asked Eleanor the usual question, " Did she love music ?" and the sud- den brightening of her face had answered the question better than her tongue. He felt sure that the voice was hers, and the future election, with all its ingenious devices, faded from his mind. When he reached the drawing-room door it was quite gone. Paul Lynedon never saw one cheek that plowed with sudden pleasure at his entrance; le walked straight to the piano, and said to Eleanor, "I knew I was right. It was you who sang, was it not ?" " Yes ; I love music, as I think I told you." " Will you sing again for me ?" " You are quite unconscionable," said Mrs. Lancaster, while the faintest shade of acrimony mingled with her dulcet tone. " I am sure she must be tired." The hint failed; and Mrs. Lancaster was oomed to a little longer silence, while Eleanor ang again, and yet again. Paul Lynedon was nchanted, for her voice was the true heart-mu- ic, and it touched the purest and inmost springs f his nature. He was no longer the polished, rbane gentleman of society he stood as Kath- rine had first beheld him so silent, so deeply moved, that he forgot to pay a single compliment, r even to say " Thank you." He knew not that Eleanor had sung thus well nly because, she had forgotten his presence, hi* ery existence ; because every song, by raising ome* hidden link of memory, and touching some ecret feeling, carried her further and further way into the dim past, and blotted out all the resent. He guessed not, that while she poured ut her whole heart, no thought of him, or of his pproval, influenced the song; that though he ;ood beside her, the face she saw was not his j nd when, at last, his voice thanked her, it jar- ed on her ear like a painful waking from a leasant dream. And then her uncle and Mr. Lancaster came, nth their vapid acknowledgments. But neither hey, nor the gentle Mrs. Ogilvie who, in the THE OGILVIES. good-nature of others, saw the reflection of her own, and praised her niece accordingly ; nor the wordly fashionable dame, who. living all for out- iide show, secretly acknowledged that, though done for effect, it was almost as good as reality ; nor poor, simple Katharine who marveled at no inspiration, the guerdon of which was Paul Ly- nedon's praise not one of these had fathomed the truth, or knew why it was that Eleanor Ogil- vie had sung so well. The change wrought in Paul Lynedon made him seem more attractive, even in Eleanor's eyes. His manner grew earnest, and lost that outside gloss of almost annoying deference that characterized it when he had talked with the two girls at dinner. He spoke like a man put forth his own opinion honestly, even when it dif- fered from theirs. They talked he, and Elea- nor, and Katharine 'about books and music, and all pleasant things, which are a continual feast to the young and happy. Recognizing Hugh, Lynedon drew him, almost against his will, into the charmed circle, conquering his re- luctance to talk, and making him feel interested upon subjects that otherwise he cared little about. It was rather an exertion, but Paul was in a happy mood. So all conflicting elements were reconciled, and Lynedon and Eleanor led the way, and supported the chief conversation. Hugh was happy, for he had Katharine next to him. She sat almost silent, vailing her dark dreamy eyes with their long lashes ; and at times, when Paul Lynedon spoke earnestly, raising them to his face with a look which once positively startled him with its strange in- tenseness. Katharine was conscious of but one influence new, wild, delicious which breathed in his words, which brightened every thing where- on he looked. He seemed to her some glorious and divine creature, Whose overpowering presence made her feel It would not be idolatry to kneel. And Paul Lynedon, what did he think of her? Let his own words tell. "You seem delighted with the Ogilvies?" whispered Mrs. Lancaster, as, somewhat piqued at the dull evening passed with the elders, she was about to retire. "Oh, certainly delighted !" echoed Paul- "they are a charming family." "Especially the young vocalist?" Lynedon answered warmly, but laconically, "I quite agree with you." " And the dark-eyed Katharine ?" " A gentle, thoughtful creature ; evidently full of feeling, and so fond of her cousin. I like I almost love Katharine Ogilvie," he said, decisively. And it so chanced, that in passing by, Kath- arine heard the words. He had said them idly, and forgotten them as soon as they were uttered, but they gave a color- ing to her whole life. Oh ye, who have passed through the cloudy time when youth is struggling with the strange and mysterious stirrings of that power which, either near or remote, environs our whole life with its influence, who can now look back calm- ly on that terrible mingling of stormy darkness and glorious light, and know on wha't shadowy nothings love will build airy palaces wherein a god might dwei 1 !, regard with tenderness that wild, enthusiastic dream ! ' Perchancn there w one of you who has dreamed like Katharine Ogilvie. CHAPTER VIII. Say never, ye loved once. God is too near above the grave below, And all our moments go Too quickly past our souls, for saying so. The mysteries of life and death avenge Affections light of range. There comes no change to justify that change. E. B. BFOWNINS. The memory of the withered leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garnered autumn sheaf: Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust! The right ear, that is filled with dust Hears little of the false or just TENNYSO*. THERE are in our existence days which are ages. True, at such seasons the hours glide as fast, nay, faster in their golden stream; but when we look back, it seems as though the narrow tide of a single day had swelled into a life's flood a mighty ocean which upheaves itself between us and the last epoch that we called the past. It was thus with Katharine when she arose next morning. Her foot seemed already within the shining entrance-gate of a new paradise the old childish world of a few hours since looked far distant, and oh, how pale and dim ! She scarcely turned her face to gaze upon it now. All night her spirit had floated among the wildest, the most delicious fancies; and even on her waking she felt as still in a dream. On descending, she found that her restless hap- piness had made her the earliest riser in the house. She lingered a few minutes in the breakfast-room, looking out on' the dappled morning sky, and thinking how beautiful the world was. Then she went into the drawing- room, and began to pour out her heart's emotion to her usual friendly confidante her piano-forte. Katharine loved music intensely, but the very sense which made her feel so keenly the power of song rendered its science irksome in the extreme. Still though in society she shrank from any display, she sometimes sat alone for hours, her light fingers and sweet, but feeble voice, weaving together bird-like melodies, most' of which were the inspiration of the moment. Now almost unconsciously, she glided into the song which Miss Trevor's rich tones and Paul Lynedon's praise had impressed upon her memory. She sang it with her whole heart, seeing nothing, save perchance one likeness which her fancy conjured up, and which formed the inspiration of the strain. " Thank you, Miss Ogilvie," said a voice behind Paul Lynedon's own for he had en- tered softly ; " why will you compel me to act the spy in order to attain such a pleasure as this?" Katharine did not answer. Poor child ! she trembled like a little bird in its captor's hands. Paul thought what terribly hard work it was to get on at all with young girls, who bore the lingering traces of pinafores and bread-and- butter. But good-nature urged him to make another attempt. THE OGILVIES. " I was not aware that you sang at all, still wss that you knew this pet song of mine, which I asked your cousin for in vain last night; why did you not tell me so ?" " Because I can not sing," murmured Katha- ine ; " I have scarcely any voice." "Nay, must differ from you there; you tiave a very sweet one ; only it wants power and proper cultivation. But you sing with your soul, if not with your lips, and that is what I love to hear." And then, Lynedon, to relieve her confusion, went on talking in an easy, kind, quiet manner, about the quality of her voice and the way to strengthen it. " But what a long speech I am making quite a lecture," he added, laughing. "I like to listen to you; pray, go on," said Katharine, simply. " Well, here is some improvement ; we shall get on in time," thought Paul Lynedon. And then he continued, " What I mean to say is, that as we ought to let no talent rust, if I were you, I would try to sing as well as I could. It may not be quite so charmingly as your cousin, but you will give pleasure to many, as you did to me this morning." " I am glad very glad," said Katharine, with a bright smile, and that earnest look, which always puzzled Lynedon, in her intense, dark eyes. " Thank you ; and you will sing whenever I ask you, like a dear little friend ?" "Yes." "Then, thank you once more," answered Paul, feeling toward the " little shy girl" a real liking, which partly sprang from gratified self- leye at having succeeded so well in the difficult task of drawing her out. " Then it is agreed, Miss Katharine Miss Ogilvie, I mean, " for so you are by right, I think." " Yes, but I am never called so only Kath- arine, I like it best." " Then I will call you Katharine, if you will allow me." Another quiet " Yes," sealed the contract ; and thus was woven one more link of the dark chain that was to bind that young heart forever. The time of the visit flew by the "rest-day" the "prest-day" and still the guests linger- ed, to the satisfaction of all. It is astonishing how soon an agreeable party at a country-house seems to grow into one family. And in this case it really seemed to be so. Whatever pas- sions were dawning to life beneath, there were no stirrings on the surface to break the calm- ness of that pleasant circle. Paul Lynedon, after a few days, began to think a great deal more than he liked to confess of Eleanor Ogilvie. Perhaps this was because her character burst upon him with a freshness that quite contradicted his former notions of women. She was the first who, if not treating him with positive indifference, had, at least, never sought in any way to win his attention. Her perfect independence annoyed him. It was in vain that, every time he spoke, there dropped from his lips, like the fairy gift of pearls and diamonds, compliments so graceful and re- fined that they had been the envied wonder of all his fair friends of old, but Eleanor never once stooped to pick them up. His vanity was piqued, and, afte: trying the experiment for a short time on Katharii-j, he gave up these ele- gant flatteries, and became his own real self his better self. But this change only gained from Eleanor a surprised, pleased, and friendly response. She treated him with greater warmth, but still with the unreserve and frank kindness which she showed to every one around her. With men of Lynedon's character opposition is often the greatest incentive. Before he had been many days in her society, Paul was more in love with Eleanor than he had ever been with any woman during his gay and mercurial life. Perhaps, added to the spur of wounded vanity, came the impulse of many purer and higher feelings, long dormant within him, which her true nature had awakened once more ; and the reverent admiration with which he felt constrain- ed to regard this gentle, single-hearted gyrl, Lynedon's quick and fiery temperament mistook for love. i Paul was one of those men in whom natural reserve adds to the outward self-command taught by habituation to society. Therefore, though Eleanor's influence over him grew stronger every day and he felt it to be so no outward sign of his awakening passion was discernible. Perhaps Eleanor might have discovered it, for a woman generally sees intuitively where she is loved ; but her heart was too full of one feeling to admit even the suspicion of another. There was one more person whose eyes might have been open to the elements for future fate that were brooding among the gay idlers at Summerwood. But Mrs. Lancaster was deep in antiquarian researches, traversing the coun- try with her host as pioneer; and in this lady, love for science at least, for the eclat that sci- ence brings shut out even the feminine impulse of curiosity. So the young people walked, rode, drove, in the pleasant winter mornings sat by the even- ing fire, and talked, or sang, or told ghost-stories, until the week ended, and with it Mrs. Lancas- ter's peregrinations. She spoke of going home : and, after the usually friendly battle, pro and con, the affair was decided. The last evening came the last morning. No more would there be of those social firesides at night, of that merry breakfast-table chat; and, when Katha- rine rose to answer her grandfather's summons, she felt this so strongly, that, ere she reached the hall, there was a strange dimness in her eyes. As she passed on toward her grand- father's room, she heard Lynedon call " Katharine, Katharine, tell Sir James I wil< be with him by the time the reading is finished." He had usually come in to aid her in the task, and now, the last day, every moment in his sight became so precious ! It was a disap- pointment, that made what was ever a loving duty seem almost a burden. Paul thought, during that time, he might con- trive to be a few moments alone with Eleanor, not to tell her he loved her, he was too cautious for that, but to try and gain some word or look on which his own heart might rest for a time, when he was no longer in her presence. But there was Hugh, busy making flies, his usual morning occupation, and continually calling out for his sister's light fingers to aid in the dab- bing, or to cut the wings. Eleanor, all-patient as she was, seemed quite content, but Lynedon 24 THE OG1LVIES. grew restless and uncomfortable. At last, see- ing no chance of the brief interview he sought, he went to Sir James's study. Katharine was still reading ; but there was a vacant look in the old man's eyes which seemed to imply that the listener profited as little as the reader. Every now and then he interrupted her. to ask, in a voice feebler than usual, some question that betokened a wandering mind. He did not notice Paul's entrance, and the young man motioned to Katharine not to stop, while he placed himself behind her, and looked over what she read. It was an old paper that chron- icled the coronation of George III. ; and Paul could not help listening with a strange, almost painful feeling, to the description of festivities, courtiers, and court beauties, whose very mem- ory had passed away. "I should think it must have been a gay sight, grandpapa?" said Katharine, stopping. " Eh, what did you say ? my child." Katharine repeated her observation. "Read that last sentence again, dear; I don't think I quite understood it ; indeed, things do not seem quite clear here to-day." The old man touched his forehead, with a feeble smile, and tried to attend while Katharine read. Then he shook his head mournfully, and said " It is of no use, Katharine ; I can't make it out. What is it?" "It is an account of the coronation levee, dear grandpapa, and of who were presented ; and look, here, is your own name, Sir James Ogilvie, among the rest." " Ah, yes I remember I went let me see, it must have been last week, for the Gazette appears weekly now. And the king has asked me to go down to Windsor and hunt ; don't for- get that, Katharine ; and while I think of it, ring for Peters, to see about Ringdove. His Majesty said there was not a finer hunter any where than my Ringdove. Make haste, love." Katharine looked imploringly at Paul Lyne- don, who slipped forward. " My dear Sir James, you are thinking of things long gone by." " Eh what who are you, sir ? I never saw you before," said the old man, over whom a strange change appeared to have come, for his dim eyes glittered, and he moved restlessly in his chair. " Katharine, who is this man ? I don't know him. What is he going to do with me?" and he caught his grandchild's hand un- easily. " Dearest grandpapa, it is only Mr. Lynedon." "Lynedon; ah, to be sure Viscount Lyne- don ; my dear lord, so you have come from the levee; perhaps the king has invited you, too? Ah ! is it so ? that's well. How young you look; you find me not over strong, my dear friend, but I shall soon be better very soon." The old man paused a moment in his unusual volubility, and turned to Lynedon and Katharine neither of whom woulc 1 speak. A vague terror oppressed the latter; she became very pale, and her eyes filled with tears. Sir James looked wistfully at her. ' " Who is that lady I don't remember her?" he whispered to Lynedon. Katharine's tears overflowed, and she hid her face. "It is Katharine your own Katharine," said Paul. "My own Katharine^' repeated the old man; "yes, it must be Katharine Katharine Mavhew. But you mistake, my lord, you must not call hei my Katharine. Come another day, and I'll tell you all about it; I can't now;" and his voice trembled! "There she is, weeping still; my dear friend, go to her ; we must do as the world does, and if her father should come in tell her 1 did love her I did indeed and I always shall, though they will not let us marry. Katharine, my Katharine, do not weep." His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he leaned back with closed eyes, his fingers flutter- ing to and fro on the elbows of the chair. Lyne- don motioned for Katharine to speak to him. " Are you tired, dear grandpapa, or not well. Shall I call any one?" " No, no, no ! I am quite well, only tired ; so tired." "Is your father in the house, Katharine?" asked Paul, who felt more alarmed than he liked to let her see. " No ; he is gone out with Mrs. Lancaster, I think to the church." "Church!" said the old baronet, opening his eyes at the word. "Are we at the church? Ah, yes, I remember I promised. And so you are to be married, Katharine Mayhew married after all ? Well, well ; and this is your bride- groom and his name " "Dear grandpapa, you are thinking of some- thing else," cried Katharine, sobbing. "Here is no one but Mr. Lynedon and myself." "Lynedon so you are going to marry a Lynedon ; well, I had not thought so once ; but here we are, and I must say the words myself. Give me your hands " "Do not contradict him, it is best not," whispered Paul. Sir James joined their hands together even at that moment of terror and excitement a wild thrill shot through Katharine's heart, and her very brow crimsoned at the touch. The old man muttered some indistinct sounds, and stopped. "I have forgotten the service! how does it begin ? Ah ! I remember," said he, very faintly "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; yes, yes" Katharine started up, and shrieked with terror, for her grandfather had sunk back in his chair, white and ghastly. One feeble shudder con- vulsed the aged limbs, and then all was still- ness. Paul and Katharine their hands still clasped together stood in the presence of Death ! CHAPTER IX. The ordinary use of acquaintance is a sharing of talk, news, drink, mirth, together ; but sorrow is the right of a friend, as a thing nearer the heart, and to be delivered with it. BISHOP SELDEN. She did but look upon him, and his blood Blushed deeper, even from his inmost heart. For at each glance of those sweet eyes, a soul Look'd forth as from the azure gates of heaven. PHILIP BAILBT. WHAT a shocking occurrence, and really quite unfortunate, that it should have happened just now !" said Mrs. Lancaster, as she paced the drawing-room in a state of nervous agitation > half affected, half real. This was some two et THE OGLIVIES. three hours after the first excitement and terror- with her gloved fingers. " Now we shall get stricken surprise of the family had subsided into away without meeting the family." the stillness of a household which had been in- I " What ! shall you not see them before you vaded by Death. I go?" asked Paul, with much surprise. The lady's remark drew no answer from Paul j "Oh, no; such an intrusion would be indeo Lynedon, who was the only person present. He orous. I will send cards when I get home." sat, leaning his head on his hand, in a grave at- j " Cards ! Why, I thought, of all woman's titude. i duties and privileges, there was none so sac " I wish Julian would make haste with the ; as that of consolation. Surely I have heard you carnage," restlessly muttered Mrs. Lancaster. \ say so yourself." " I shall be glad to get away. It is so very Mrs. Lancaster shrugged her shoulders, unpleasant to be where there is a death in the < " In other cases, certainly ; but in this how- house ; it makes me quite nervous. If the old ever, my dear friend, I can not argue the point gentleman had but lived until night. Really, now, for here is Julian with the boxes. Really, Mr. Lynedon, I wish you would speak, instead it is very disagreeable to wait upon ourselves, of sitting there without uttering a word and and all because of this old gentleman's death, when you see me so agitated, too." However, we shall soon be at home. Of course, ; I am very sorry," began Paul, in an absent tone. "Death is, indeed, solemn." " Of course, of course ; but you know I do not think with these stupid, church-going peo- ple. No one of strong mind would. There is Mrs. Ogilvie, with her Bible quotations, and her talk about ' submission,' as if it were not a good thing that the old man is gone such a trouble as he was. Of course, they are all in their hearts quite thankful for the event." At this moment a low moaning from one of the distant apartments reached the drawing- room. Paul Lynedon's countenance changed, from the apathy with which he had listened to Mrs. Lancaster, to an expression of deep, corn- passion. " Hark ! that is Katharine, child," he said, softly. Poor child, poor ; She has been in hysterics ever since you carried her to her room. It is almost time the scene were ended, I fancy," answered the lady, sarcastically. "Mrs. Lancaster!' said Paul Lynedon, with a look of grave reproof; but immediately recol lecting himself, his countenance resumed its usual expression, and he relapsed into the thoughtful silence which had excited Mrs. Lan- caster's animadversions. She, on her part, was becoming thoroughly vexed with her protege. For several days he had not paid her half the attention she exacted, or wished to exact ; and now it appeared to her that his mind was entirely occupied by thoughts in which she had evidently no share. The lady's conjectures were right. At this moment her worldliness and cold-heartedness were almost ab- horrent to Paul Lynedon. For days there had been a struggle within him between the two in- fluences the true and the unreal; custom, on the one hand; and, on the other, purity, sim- plicity, and nature. The latter was especially attractive, as they came in the guise of Eleanor Ogilvie. Now, startled, awed by the day's event, and brought, for the first time in his life, within the presence of death at least of sudden death Lynedon had put off, for a while, the fictions which constituted his outer self, and there was something powerfully repugnant in the affecta- tions with which Mrs. Lancaster broke in upon the current of thoughts, deeper and purer than tho young mai, had indulged in for a long season. "Thank heaven, there are the carriage- wheels," cried Mrs. Lancaster, who had been unpatiently beating time on the window-panes | apology , allow m foi me tc you are quite ready, Mr. Lynedon." " I beg your pardon, but I do not go just yet." " Not go ! And, pray, what is the reason of this sudden and most disinterested resolution?" said Mrs. Lancaster, with a smile of such iron- ical meaning, that Paul Lynedon's brown cheek grew many shades deeper with annoyance. But, as was customary with him, he only showed his vexation by answering in a tone more firm and haughty than usual. "Mrs. Lancaster, my only reason is one so trifling, that it hardly deserves your attention Merely, that having received much courtesy in this house, I wish to return it, by inquiring if, in this time of confusion and anxiety, I can in any way be of use ; and so, with an a troubling you with this explanation lead you to your carriage." Verily, the stateliness of the whole Lynedon race, for a century back, was compressed in Paul, when he chose to exhibit that peculiar manner. The petite, graceful Mrs. Lancaster shrank into nothing beside the overwhelming courtesy of his demeanor, and they were silently descending the staircase, when Eleanor Ogilvie appeared. "How very unpleasant !" and "how fortu- nate!" cried Mrs. Lancaster, in a breath, the former being, of course, an aside. But a glance at Eleanor's face, which, though a degree paler than ordinary, was perfectly composed, freed the departing guest from the apprehension of a scene, and she re-ascended to the drawing-room. "My dearest Eleanor, I would fain have saved us all the pain of an adieu these most afflicting circumstances your feelings my own ;" and here Mrs. Lancaster took out her pocket-handkerchief. But Eleanor neither wept, nor made any pre- tense of doing so. " Thank you for your sympathy," she answer- ed ; " and since I see you are going, may I hope that you will excus* an omission which " "Excuse! My dear young friend, I would have remained could I have been any comfort ; but I thought the kindest act was to intrude no longer on your sorrow." Eleanor offered no word of dissent to this re- mark, and Mrs. Lancaster felt so completely at a loss that she again had recourse to her pocket- handkerchief. " You will bear my adieus and condolence to your aunt and to poor, dear Miss Ogilvie, who must be sadly afflicted." "Yes," said Eleanor, briefly. She suffered Mrs. Lancaster's vail to sweep her cheek in a THE OGILVIES. salute, and then held out her hand to Paul Lyne- don, who had stood by in perfect silence. He took her hand, but said quietly, " I am not bidding adieu, for I do not return to town until night ; perhaps I may be of some service." *" You are very kind," was Eleanor's reply, "but we will not encroach on your good offices, there is no need." " That is just what I have been telling him, Miss Eleanor; he will only be in the way; you had better come with us, Lynedon," said Mrs. Lancaster. Paul never answered her, but raised his eyes to Eleanor ; his look was so full of earnest feel- ing, sympathy, and sincere kindliness, that she was touched. " You will let me stay, if I can be of use to any one here," he said, gently, when Mrs. Lancaster walked forward, in ill-con- cealed impatience. " Thank you, yes ; do as you will," answered Eleanor, while the tears which affected sym- pathy would never have drawn forth, confessed the influence of real feeling. The traces of this emotion were still on her cheek when Paul Lynedon returned to the room. They went to his very heart, for men to whom tears are un- known seem most susceptible to their power in women. There is probably hardly any man liv- ing who does not feel his heart drawn to the girl he lovos, or even is- only beginning to love, if he sees her under the influence of any grief deep ftnougb to call forth tears. So it was that when Lynedon came again into Eleanoi 's presence, his manner was so subdued, so tender, so free from all affectation, that she had never felt more inclined to regard him with friendly feelings. That she could either inspire or return a warmer sentiment, had not once en- tered Eleanor's mind with respect to Paul Lyne- don ; therefore, her manner was always frank, open, and kindly, and now even gentler than usual. "This is kind of you very kind," she said, giving him her hand. He pressed it warmly, as a friend might, and then let it go ; he dared not, he could not suffer the expression of earthly love to intrude at such a time. "I feel very much with you indeed I do," said Paul's low, musical tones ; " and that dear child, poor Katharine, it was a terrible shock for her." " Yes, Katharine loved him very dearly, and she was the darling of his heart. He gave her her name, and she was his god-child, too. Poor grandpapa ! I think he loved Katharine better than any one in the world. How strange that no one should have been present when he died, except you and herself. Did he say any thing, or seem to suffer ? Poor Katharine has told us nothing ; indeed, she has been weeping inces- santly ever since." Then Paul Lynedon related the scene in the study, and the strange delusion under which Sir James had died; a common sympathy, though neither was aware of it, made Paul speak and Eleanor listen with deep interest to the touching memory of a long-past love. "And he remembered her even then, this Katharine Mayhew. How strange !" murmured Gleanor. " It is not strange," said Paul, earnestly ; " no man ever forgets the woman whom he first loved. The storms of a lifetime may intervene, but thaf such first true love should pass away never, never!" Eleanor's lips trembled, her bosom heaved, and the voice of her soul, even more than that of her tongue, echoed the " never !" It was as the one amen to the universal love-orison which every young heart breathes at its first awaken- ing. But how rarely does each life's history work out the fulfillment of the prayer. And not only do fate's mysteries, but the willfulness, change, and weakness of humanity itself cast a shadow between it and that blessed " never" which, while still believed in, is strength and hope ; for love is no longer divine to us when we find out, or only begin to suspect, that it is not eternal. Lynedon watched Eleanor's evident emotion with a thrill of rapture which he could hardly conceal. He interpreted all as a lover would fain do. Her lightest word, her most passing look, might then have drawn from him the con- fession of his feelings, and would surely have done so, despite the time and place, had there been in her an answering love, thus involuntarily betraying itself. But, when Eleanor lifted up her face, the look which met his was so calm, so unconstrained in its maidenly frankness, that the most enthusiastic, self-deceiving lover would not have discovered in it the secret which he might desire to see. Paul Lynedon shrank back into himself, and the passionate words which had risen from his heart almost to his lips died away in the ordinary expressions of feeling called forth by the occasion. And even these were so cold that Eleanor seemed surprised. She looked in his face, which was pale and agitated, and her womanly sympathy at once supplied the imag- ined cause. "How ill you look, Mr. Lynedon," said she, while her gentle tone and kind eyes expressed more than her words. " We have been thinking so much of ourselves, and have forgotten how much this painful day must have affected you. Sit down, and let me bring you a glass of wine. I will have no refusal." Paul had no power to refuse. When Eleanor brought him the wine he took it from her hand, drank it, and then leaned his head against the wall, incapable of uttering one word. Eleanor stood by him with a feeling of strange interest, mingled with compassion. At last he roused himself, and said, with a faint smile "You must pardon me." " There is no need ; it was a trying scene no wonder it affected you. I often think that men can less bear to come within the shadow of death than can women. It is our fate it is we who have to meet the terrible one face to face ! No matter how regardless a man may be during his life of all female ties, it is from mother, wife, sister, or daughter, that he will seek the last offices of kindness. We leave wordly pleasures to you, but you look to us for comfort at the last." ' Eleanor had said all this a long speech it was, too, for one of her generally undemonstrat- ive character with the kindly intention of giv- ing Paul time to recover himself. When she ceased, she found his eyes fixed upon her face with an intense, earnest gaze. But it was ot so much that of a lover toward his mispress, as THE OGILVIES. Ihe upraised, almost adoring look which a Cath- olic worshiper might turn to his saint ; and there was a sweetness and benignity almost mother- like in the placid face that bent over Paul Lyne- don, and assuaged the troubled waters of his spirit until they sunk into a calm. " Have I talked to you until you are wearied ?" said Eleanor, with one of her peculiar shadowy smiles. " It is some time since I have said so much on my own account. How much longer would you listen, I wonder?" " Forever ! forever !" muttered Paul Lynedon. "What were you saying?" inquired the un- conscious Eleanor. Paul recollected himself at once. " That you are very kind and thoughtful just like a woman, and that I am ashamed to have given you so much trouble." "Then you feel quite well, now? If so, I will go up to see poor Katharine." "Not yet, not yet," Lynedon hastily inter- posed. " You were to tell me if there is any thing I can do in London any business to ar- range; or, if not to-day, can not I ride back here to-morrow and see? You do not know what pleasure it would give me to do any thing for you that is, for the family." " I am sure of it I know how good you are," said Eleanor, with a look full of kindness; "but my uncle and Hugh are both at home." "Nay, your brother is out ten miles off in the forest. Shall I ride over to meet him, and in- form him of this sad event?" "Thank you, but we have already sent: in- deed, Mr. Lynedou, there is really no need for the exercise of your kindness ; and since, to be frank with you, my uncle and aunt will like best to see no one except Hugh and myself, I will positively send you away." " But I may come to-morrow, or the next day, only to inquire after you all; and perhaps see yourself or your brother for a few minutes. It will be a satisfaction to me ; and Mrs. Lancas- ter, too, will be glad " Eleanor's countenance changed a little a very little she was so sincere, that even a passing thought ever cast some reflected shadow on her face ; her companion saw it, and hastened to remove the impression. "You must not judge of me by that is, I mean to say that a man is not accountable for the faults of his friends, or or acquaintance." There was some confusion in his speech, which was not removed by Eleanor's total silence. "I wish you to think well of me indeed I do," the young man continued; "I know there is much in me wrong ; but then I have been left to myself since boyhood ; for years have not had a home, a mother or a sister, and so I have grown more worldly than I ought to be. For this rea- son, now, in going away, I feel how much I owe for the pleasant and good influence of this week to you and to others." Paul was treading on dangerous ground, but once more Eleanor's composure saved him. " I am glad we have made you happy ; in- deed, we wished to do so, Katharine and I ; and it has been a pleasant week to us all, but for its sad ending. And now, Mr. Lynedon, since I am the only one of the household who can take leave of you, let me thank you again on the part of all and sty good-by." "Good-by," repeated Paul, as neir extreme and almost sickly white- ness contrasting with her black dress. She was no longer an invalid ; but a dreaminess and lan- guor still hung over her, giving theft own expres- sion to her face and attitude. It w r as a pleasure to sit still and think one so great that she often suffered her parents and Hugh to suppose her asleep, rather than be disturbed by conversation. The room was so quiet, that she might have been alone ; but Hugh, who ever since her re- covery, had followed her like a shadow, sat at the window, making his eternal flies at least, that was his excuse for remaining with her in the study, but he oftener looked at Katharine than at his work. So silent and quiet was he, that she had entirely forgotten his presence, until, waking from her reverie with a half-sup- pressed sigh, she saw Hugh creep softly to her ehair. " I thought you were asleep, Katharine ; are you awake now ?" he said, affectionately. Katharine's answer was a smile. She felt very grateful to Hugh, who had been her chief com- panion for some days, and had striven in every way to amuse her. He had given up the finest hunt of the season to stay at home with her, and, after in vain trying to interest her in the adventures of every fox dispatched during the winter, had finally offered to read aloud to her out of any book she liked, provided it was not poetry. But the time was gone by vhen the lingering childishness of Katharine's nature would sympathize with those purely physical delights of exercise and out-door amusement which constituted Hugh's world. She tried to hide this from him, and attempted to enter into every thing as usual; but it would not do. The day lagged veiy heavily, and though Hugh was too good-natured to allude to the hunt,' it re- curred sorrowfully to his mind, as he saw from the study windows a few moving specks of scar- let sweeping along the distant country. At last, when a horse's feet were heard up the avenue, he could rest quiet no longer. " It is surely one of the men from the hunt ; I will just go and speak to him, and ask him to have some lunch. You will not mind being left alone for a few minutes, dear Katharine ?" " Oh, no ! not at all ! You are only too kind to me, cousin Hugh; pray go, and enjoy yourself." The door closed on him, and Katharine leaned back in quiet, dreamy solitude. She thought of her grandfather how soon every memory of him had passed away from the household how even the long life of eighty years, with all its ties and all its events, had become like a shadow had crumbled into nothing at the touch of death so that in the world not even a month's void was left by the human soul now departed. And then Katharine's mind reverted to the closing scene of his life : the old man's vague, wandering words, which she felt referred to some memory of his youth, which he had strange- ly connected with her, not knowing that the universal chord thus touched in the shadowy past had found its echo in the present ; that the impulse swayed the spirit then passing away and that just entering upon its world-struggles. And amidst the solemn mournfulness of this death-vision came the remembered face of Paul Lynedon the gentle sympathy of his look, the touch of his hand, the strange symbolizing of their united fate for so it might prove who could tell ? And Katharine gave herself up to the wild love-reverie of early youth, until the one whose influence, magician-like, had peopled her life with such glorious imaginings, stood by her side. Katharine had never seen Paul Lynedon since the moment when, half insensible, she had felt herself borne in his arms from the chamber of death. Now he came so suddenly into her pres- ence, that at the sight of him her heart seemed to suspend its beatings. Not a word came from her colorless lips, and the hand Paul took between his own felt like marble. he you. too how foolish it was of me." Katharine drooped her head, and burst into tears. Paul's kindly feelings were roused. He wait ed until Katharine's emotion had somewhat ex- hausted itself, and then laid her head back on the cushion, smoothing her soft black hair with his hand, as gently and soothingly as an elder brother or father might have done. "Poor Katharine, dear Katharine, you have suffered much ; but we will not think of it any more now. Let us talk about something else, and I will sit by you until you have quite re- covered yourself. You see, the first thing I did was to come here to see you. Your cousin Hugh told me he had left you in the study." A happy smile broke through Katharine's tears, and a faint color flitted over her cheek* THE OG1LV1ES. The words were very tender made still more BO by the inexpressible sweetness of the tone. What music there was at times in Paul Lyne- don's voice ! No wonder it should echo in that poor self-deceiving heart like a celestial melody. " I have not yet inquired after your father and mother ; they are well, I hope ? May I not see them to-day?" " Yes, certainly;" said Katharine. " And and your cousin Miss Eleanor, I mean?" Paul's head here turned toward the fire, and his fingers busied themselves in playing with a loose tassel on the arm-chair. " Eleanor is very well. I had a letter from her to-day," Katharine answered. "A letter!" " Yes ; she was sent for a week since by her old friend, Mrs. Breynton. She told me to say how sorry she was not to bid you adieu 5 in- deed, we half expected you every day last week." A slight exclamation of vexed surprise rose to Paul's lips, but he suppressed it, and only tore the tassel into small bits. No indication of what was in his mind conveyed itself to Kath- arine's ; she sat with her sweet, downcast eyes and trembling lips, drinking in nothing but deep Happiness. So habitual was Paul Lynedon's command over his voice and features, that when he turned round there was no shade of disappointment visible on his countenance at least, only suf- ficient to give a joyful thrill to Katharine's un- suspecting heart, as he said " How sorry I am really quite vexed. You must have thought me very unkind and forgetful to stay away a whole fortnight." Katharine did not know whether to say yes or no. She was in a rapturous dream, whose light flooded and dazzled all her thoughts and senses. " But you will forgive me, dear Katharine, and ask your cousin to do the same when you write ? Will that be soon ?" " Oh, yes ; we write very often, Eleanor and "How pleasant," said Paul Lynedon; while his thoughts flew far away, and the few words with which he tried to keep up the conversation only sufficed to make it more confused and broken. Katharine never noticed how absent his manner grew. She was absorbed in the happiness of sitting near him, hearing him ' speak, and stealing glances, now and then, at that calm, intellectual face, which to her seemed even more beautiful, in its thoughtful composure than when lighted up by animation; and per* haps, had she considered it at all, his silence would have only seemed another token of the blessed secret which she fancied she read in the deep tenderness of his words and manner. To him the time passed rather wearily it was a duty of kindness and consideration at first pleasant, then somewhat dull, and possibly a relief when fulfilled. To her, the bliss of a year, nay, a life-time, was comprised in that one half-hour. At the moment it seemed a dizzy trance of confused joy, formless and vague, but in after-hours it grew distinct : each word, each look, each gesture, being written on her heart and brain in letters of golden lijjht, until at last they turned to lire Hugh came jn, looking not particularly pleased. Though he had a strong suspicion that his sister Eleanor was Paul Lynedon's chief attraction at Summerwood, he never felt altogether free from a -vague jealousy on Katharine's account. But the warmth with which his supposed rival mt him quite re-assured the simple-hearted, good* j natured Hugh ; and while the two young m/ui ! interchanged greetings, Katharine crept away to Her own room. There, when quite alone ; the full tide of joy was free to flow. With an emotion of almost j child-like, rapture she clasped her hands above her head. " It may come that bliss ! It may come yet I" she murmured ; and then she repeated his words the words which now ever haunted her like a perpetual music "J almost love Katharine Ogilvie!" "It may be true it must be how happy am I !" And as she stood with her clasped hands pressed on her bosom, her head thrown back, the lips parted, the face beaming, and her whole form dilated with joy, Katharine caught a sight of her figure in the opposite mirror. She was startled to see herself so lovely. There is no beauty like happiness, especially the happiness of love. It often seems to invest with a halo of radiance the most ordinary face and form. No wonder was it, that, under its influence, Kath- arine hardly knew her own semblance. , But, in a moment, a delicious consciousness of beauty stole over her. It was not vanity, but a wild gladness, .that thereby she might be more worthy of him. She drew nearer ; she gazed almost lovingly on the bright young face reflected there, not as if it were her own, but as some- thing fair and precious in his sight, which ac- cordingly became most dear to hers. She looked into the depths of the dark, clear eyes. Ah ! one day it might be his joy to do the same. She marked the graceful curves of the round, white hand the same hand which had rested in his perhaps the time might come when it would rest there forever. The thought made it most beautiful, most hallowed in her eyes. Simple, childlike Katharine a child in all but love if thou could'st have died in that blessed dream ! The sudden delirium of joy passed away, and left a still gladness, which lighted up her eyes and trembled in her lips, making her whole countenance beautiful. As she went down to dinner, she passed the open door of the study, and entered it for a moment. How changed it seemed ! the memorial altar of Death had be- come the s-anctuary of Love. A little, Katha- rine's heart smote her, and a few tears fell, awakened by one sudden thought of him who was gone. But how could the dear, yet now faint memory of the dead, contend with the fresh, glad fount of youth and first love that sprung up in her heart, filling it with sunshine and singing evermore ; so that the light and the music shut out all sorrowful sights and sounds, or changed them into joy. It could not be ; it never is so in this world. And Nature, who makes the greenest grass and the brightest flow, ers to grow over graves, thus teaches us that, in this ever renewed current of life, there is deep wisdom and infinite love. Paul Lynedon staid all the day. It was one 50 THE OGILVIES. of quiet pleasui e to every one. Mr. or, as Paul found some difficulty in calling him, Sir Robert ^Ogilvie was glad to have a talk about politics, and his lady was delighted that a visitor had at last arrived to break the formal gloom of a house- hold over which death had passed, but scarcely sorrow. Hugh had an engagement elsewhere. This fact, while Sir Robert took his after-dinner nap, cost Lady Ogilvie a long apology, which her guest thought infinitely more wearisome than the circumstance for which it was meant to atone. " Though casting no reproach on your neph- ew's agreeable society," said the polite Lyne- don, " I assure you, my dear Lady Ogilvie, that I shall be quite content, and, indeed, gratified, to have your daughter all to myself for a whole evening, such good friends as we are. Is it not so, Katharine?" and he took the young girl's hand with the affectionate familiarity which he had established between them. How bright how joyful, were the answering blush and smile ! Paul Lynedon saw both. He was flattered at having so completely conquered the shyness of this young creature, who, in the intervals of his sudden passion for Eleanor, had at once interest- ed, amused, and puzzled him. He could not but perceive the admiring reverence of himself which her whole manner unconsciously showed ; and a proud man likes to be worshiped and looked up to, especially by the other sex. To be sure, Katharine was still a mere child ; but there was something even in the devotion of a young girl that gratified his self-esteem and love of appro- bation both very strong in Paul Lynedon. So his manner toward Katharine took a deep- er and tenderer meaning more so than even he intended it should. Though the other fair image, which he fancied so dear, still lingered in his heart, and he was haunted all that evening with shadowy visions of Eleanor, still he talked to Katharine as men will idly talk, never dreaming that every low, affectionate tone every speak- ing look, thoughtlessly lavished on an interesting girl, went deep to the most passionate recesses of a woman's heart. After tea, Paul's eyes wandered to the little recess where harp and piano stood. Perhaps his lover-like fancy conjured up there the sweet, calm face and bending figure of Eleanor "You feel dull without music. Is not that what you are thinking of?" inquired Katharine, timidly. A tacit prevarication, by which more tender consciences than Paul's often deem it no wrong to compromise truth, enabled him to answer, " Yes ; I was wishing to ask you to sing, but did not like so soon after " and he stopped. Katharine looked grave, anl her eyes filled with tears. " Perhaps I ought not. Yet he always loved to see me happy, and he liked you so much ! Mr. Lynedon, I will try to sing, if it will give you any pleasure. May I not, mamma?" But Lady Ogilvie had gone comfortably to sleep in the inner drawing-room. Katharine sang ; it was wonderful how much she had improved in. that one little week. Paul listened, praised, and made her try over all his favorites which Eleanor had sung to him. Kath- arine saw his earnest, almost abstracted look she knew not that he was touched less by th present, than by recollections of a happy past, and vague plans for a future. That future was now all centered in Eleanor Ogilvie. Under the influence of these thoughts and pro- jects Paul felt happy. He took leave of the family of Katharine especially, with a cheerful, tender light in his eyes those beautiful soft gray eyes, which at times were more eloquent than even his tongue. " I am going a short journey, but I shall not be away long. A fortnight, at furthest, will see me again at Summer wood." " We shall be happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," said Sir Robert, cordially; "you see we make you quite one of the family." "It is my greatest happiness," answered Paul, with a delighted look, and a tone of deeper earn- estness than Katharine had ever heard him use. It made her little heart flutter wildly. Quicker still it throbbed, when Lynedon entreated Sir Robert not to stir from the fireside. "Your good-by and your good-speed shall be the last, dear Katharine, if you will come with me to the door." She did so, trembling all over. When they stood together in the hall, he took both her hands in his, and held them there for a*ong time, look- ing down tenderly upon her agitated face. " You will think of me when I am away ? you will be glad to see me when I come again ?" he whispered, in those low, winning tones, which men like him thoughtlessly pour into a young girl's ear. " Yes," was all she could answer ; but he saw that her slight frnme quivered like a reed, and that the large, limpid eyes which she raised to his, for one instant only, were swimming in tears. As he gazed, a thrill of pleased vanity, not un- mingled with a deeper, tenderer feeling, came over Paul Lynedon. With a sudden impulse, he stooped down and kissed the tearful eyes the trembling lips, which had silently betrayed so much. " God bless you, Katharine dearest Kath- arine !" were his last words. Their echoes rang through her life for years. Lynedon, as he rode home, felt rather annoyed that he had committed himself in this way. But he could not help it, she looked so pretty. And then, she was a mere child after all, and would be his little cousin soon, he hoped. With this thought, he dismissed the subject, and the image of Katharine glided into that of Eleanor Oglivie. But she the young creature whom he left behind stood there, absorbed in a trance of delirious rapture. She saw nothing felt noth- ing but the vanished face, and the touch that lingered on her lips and eyelids. It seemed as if with that kiss a new soul his soul had passed into her own, giving it a second life. She awoke, as if in another world, feeling her whole being changed and sublimated. With her, every thing in existence now tended toward one thought, one desire, one passionate and yet sol- emn prayer that she might one day be worthy to lay down her life, her love, her very soul, at the feet of Paul Lynedon. THE OGILVIES. CHAPTER XL Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it, In sound of funeral or marriage-bells, And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock. TENNYSON. THERE is, in one of the counties between Devon and Northumberland, a certain cathedral city, the name of which I do not intend to reveal. It is, or was, until very lately, one of the few remaining strongholds of high Churchism and Conservatism, political and moral. In olden days it almost sacrificed its existence as a city for the cause of King Charles the Martyr, and ever since has kept true to its principles, or at least to that modification of them which the exigencies of modern times required. And the " loyal and ancient" town which dignifies itself by the name of city, though a twenty minutes' walk would bring you from one extremity to the other is fully alive to the consciousness of its own deservings. It is a very colony of Levites ; who, devoted to the temple-service, shut out from their precincts any unholy thing. But this unnoliness is an epithet of their own affixing, not Heaven's. It means not merely what is ir- religious, but what is ungenteel, unaristocratic, unconservative. Yet there is much that is good about the place and its inhabitants. The latter may well be proud of their ancient and beautiful city beauti- ful, not so much in itself as for its situation. It lies in the midst of a fertile and gracefully undu- lated region, and consists of a cluster of artistical, irregular, and deliciously old-fashioned streets, of which the cathedral is the nucleus ; rising aloft with its three airy spires, so light, so delicately traced, that they have been christened the Ladies of the Vale ; you may see them for miles and miles, looking almost like a fairy building against the sky. The city has an air of repose, an old- world look, which becomes it well. No railway has yet disturbed the sacred peace of its an- tiquity, and here and there you may see grass growing in its quiet streets, over which you would no more think of thundering in a modern equipage, than of driving a coach-and-four across the graves of your ancestors. The whole atmosphere of the place is that of sleepiness and antique propriety. The people do every thing, as Boniface says, "soberly." They have grave dinner-parties once or twice in the year ; a public ball, as solemn as a funeral ; a concert now and then, very select and proper; and so it is that society moves on in a circle of polite regularities. The resident bishop is the sun of the system, around which deans, sub-deans, choral vicars, and clerical functionaries of all sorts revolve in successive orbits with their separate satellites. But one character and tone of feeling pervade every body. It is a city of serene old age, nobody seems young at L , not even the little singing-boys. But the sanctum sanctorum, the penetralia of the city, is a small region surrounding the cathe- dral, and entitled the Close. Here abide relics of ancient sanctity, w'iows of departed deans, maiden descendants of officials who probably chanted anthems on the accession of George III., or the downfall of the last Pretender. Here, too, is the residence of many cathedral functionaries, who pass their lives within the precincts of the sanctuary. These dwellings have imbibed the clerical and dignified solemnity due to their neighborhood. It seems always Sunday in the Close, and the child who ventured to bowl a hoop along its still pavement, or play at marbles on its door-steps, would be more daring than ever was infant within the verge of the city of L . In this spot was the residence of Mrs. Breyn- ton. But it looked down upon its neighbors' in the Close with sublime dignity, inasmuch as it was a detached mansion, inclosed by high walls, gardens, and massive gates. It had once been the bishop's palace, and was a beautiful relic of the stately magnificence of old. Large and lofty rooms, oak-paneled, and supported by pillars, noble staircases, recesses, where proscribed traitors might have hid ; gloomy bed-chambers with spectral furniture, meet for the visitation of legions of ghosts ; dark passages, where you might shiver at the echo of your own footsteps such was the internal appearance of the house. Every thing was solemn, still age- stricken. But without, one seemed to pass at once from the frigidity of age to the light gladness and freshness of youth. A lovely garden, redolent of sweet odors, , alive with birds, studded with velvety grass-plots of the brightest green, inter- wound by shady alleys, with here and there trees which hid their aged boughs in a mantle of leave* and flowers, so that one never thought how they and the gray pile they neighbored had come into existence together. It was like the contrast between a human mind which the world teaches and builds on its own fading model, and the soul of God's making and nourishing, which lives in His sunshine and His dews, fresh and pure, grows never old, and bears flowers to the last. There, in that still garden, you might sit for hours, and hear no world-sounds to break its quiet, except the chimes of the cathedral-clock, drowsily ringing out the hours. Now and then, at service-time, there would come a faint mur- mur of chanting, uniting the visible form of holy service with Nature's eternal words and prayers, and so blending the spiritual and the tangible, the symbol and the expression, in a pleasant harmony. Dear, beautiful garden 'I No dream of fiction, but a little Eden of memory let us rest awhile in thy lovely shades, before we peo- ple them with the denizens of this our self-created world. Oh ! pleasant garden ! let us go back in spirit to the past, and lie down on the green, sloping bank, under the magnificent old tree with its cloud of white blossoms no poet-sung hawthorn, though, bnt only a double-cherry let us stroll along the terrace-walk, and lean against the thick, low wall, looking down upon what was once the cathedral-moat, but is now a sloping dell, all trailed over with blackberries iet us watch the sun-lit spires of the old cathe- dral, in a quiet dreaminess that almost shuts out thought let us rest under the shadow of this dream its pictures made life-like to us by the accompaniment of solemn music, such as this:* O earth so full of dreary noises ; O men with wailing in your voices ; O delved gold the waller's heap: O strife O tears that o'er it fall, God makes a silence through you all ! And giveth his beloved sleep. THE OGILVIES. CHAPTER XII. Of what quality was your love, then ? Like a fair house built upon another man's ground, so that I have .ost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it SHAKSPEARE. How 511 doth he deserve a lover's name Whose pale, weak flame Can not retain His heart, in spite of absence or disdain: But does at once, like paper set on fire, Burn and expire ! CAREW. IT was hardly possible to imagine a greater eontrast than that between Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor Ogilvie. Not so much that of youth and age, or beauty and ugliness, for the lady )f the palace was certainly not very old, and might once have been decidedly handsome. But there was a line-and-plummet regularity, an angular preciseness in Mrs. Breynton's mind and person, that was altogether opposed to Hogarth's curve "of beauty and grace." She was like a correct mathematical figure, alto- gether made up of right lines. A bishop's niece, a canon's daughter, and a dean's widow, she had lived all her life under the shadow of the cathedral walls. It was her world she could imagine no greater and in it she had passed a ife serene, sedate, unbroken, save by two shocks : the death of the. dean, and an event still more terrible, her only brother's relinquish- ment of the church for the army. The first she recovered in time 5 the second she atoned for by bringing up that favorite brother's orphan son, to restore the credit of the family, through the induction of surplice and band. The elder lady and her companion sat together in the breakfast-room. It was the only apart- ment in the house that was small enough to be comfortable, and this shadow of domestic cosi- aess was taken away by one-half of it being transformed by a glass partition- wall into a con- seivatory. But this conservatory was unlike all others, inasmuch as it had dead brick walls and high windows, through which little light could penetrate, so that it looked as if the room had been made into a vegetable menagerie. Mrs. Breynton always made a rule of sitting still after breakfast for half an hour, during which time she read her letters, decided upon the day's avocations, and knitted one square of an eternal counterpane, that seemed likely to enter on its duties for the first time as the shroud of its centenarian fabricator. " Eleanor, my dear!" said the measured tones of the dean's widow. Eleanor had entered the menagerie with the charitable intention of opening the window to give air to its caged occupants. " My dear Eleanor !" repeated in a tone higher, made her turn round, and answer the call. " I merely wished to remind you that we never open the conservatory window until Easter, and it is now only the week before Lent." Eleanor closed the windows, looking compas- sionately at the poor orange-trees, which could only drink in air and light by rule and measure. She came into the breakfast-room, and sat watch- ing the sunshine that struggled in, and rested on an old picture the only one in the room a portrait of a rosy, golden-haired little boy. The original was the canon Francis Wychnor, whose monument stood in the cathedral nave. Could ie have ever been a child 9 Mrs. Breynton knitted another row in silence, and then observed " Eleanor, my reference to this season of Lent, has made me remember how near it is to the Ember weeks. I wonder I did not hear from Philip to-day." Sudden blushes rarely came to Eleanor'* clear, pale cheek ; her feelings were too calm. But now she felt glad that she sat in the shade, for Mrs. Breynton's thoughts had taken the same direction as her own. " Perhaps he will write to-morrow," was the very ordinary reply that she found herself able to make. " I hope so ; but he has rarely suffered Tues- day morning to pass by; and it would have been pleasant to me to know that he is quite prepared for taking orders." " This year so soon !" " Certainly, my dear. He was three-and- twenty last month just in time. I have already spoken to the bishop about the curacy of Wear- mouth ; and old Mr. Vernon, the rector of that place, is not likely, in course of nature, to live more than two or three years. I consider that there are few young men with better prospects than my nephew ; and I think I may flatter my- self on having been, to a certain degree, instru- mental in his well-being." " Indeed, he owes you much ! But I am sure, from what I know of Mr. Wychnor, that your kindness will be requited with interest." A pleased, though very frigid smile bent the thin lips of the dean's widow. "I am quite satisfied that Philip will do credit to his family. I have no fault to find with him, except, perhaps, that he is not regular enough in his studies, and has a fancy for always carrying with him. a volume or two of idle poetry not quite the thing for a young clergyman to read. But he will get over that ; and if he conducts himself well in his curacy, and marries to please me, as I have little doubt he will" (here Mrs. Breynton glanced approvingly at Eleanor's gracefully- drooped head), "why then Philip will have no cause to regret that he is my nephew. But it is already ten o'clock, and I have to speak to the gardener about transplanting some gera- niums. Eleanor, will you be kind enough to ring for Davis ?" Long after the old lady had attired herself, and been seen slowly traversing the garden- walks, Eleanor sat musing on her latter words, " If Philip marries to please me." It was al- most the first time she had ever heard the word marriage on Mrs. Breynton's lips. The palace had always seemed a quiet, innocent paradise, wherein there was no mention of the one feeling which in society is often diluted into a meaning- less and contemptible jest, or made the cause oi all strife, evil, and sorrow. Eleanor and Philip, shut up together, like two young birds, in this peaceful Eden, had glided into love without any one's taking apparent notice of the fact, and almost without knowing it themselves. The flower had sprung up in their hearts, and grown leaf by leaf, bud by bud, neither could tell how. No doubts and jealousies from the world outside had ever come between them. Their perfect love was perfect trust the deep faith between two beings who feel that they are formed for one another, and are united to their heart's core. THE OG1LVIES. 33 They never talked about their.love Philip made no declarations Eleanor asked no vows and vnen they parted, for the short visit at Summer- wood, there was no formal farewell, only as they stood at the hall-door, Philip pressed her hand closer to his arm, and said " Take care of yourself, Eleanor my Elea- nor! remember you are dearest to me of all the world." Eleanor believed it, and felt from that moment that she was betrothed to him in heart and soul. She rested in the knowledge .full of trust in him, in his true, earnest, noble nature. Satisfied with this, she had not thought much of the fu- ture, until Mrs. Breynton's words awakened a restlessness, and an anxious looking forward. Eleanor knew Philip's heart better than any one, and foreboded that all these projects for his fu- ture advantage were little likely to be seconded by him. She sat pondering for nearly an hour, when she was summoned into the drawing-room by the arrival of a visitor. It was the last person in the world whom she expected. "Mr. Lynedon; this is, indeed, a surprise;" cried Eleanor. There was a slight confusion in his manner which was very soon reflected in hers, for just at that moment Mrs. Breynton entered. The extreme frigidity of her reception was enough to produce an uncomfortable feeling in any maiden of nineteen, who had to introduce a strange gentleman arrived, apparently, without any object but that of seeing her. " Mrs. Breynton, this is Mr. Lynedon, a friend of my uncle Ogilvie's, who was staying at Sum- merwood. 1 believe I spoke of him." I have not the slightest recollection of the feet, my dear ; but any friend of yours, or of Sir RDbsrt Ogilvie's is welcome to my house. Pray be seated, Mr. . Excuse me, Eleanor, but I did not catch the gentleman's name." " Lynedon," answered Paul, somewhat dis- concerted by the cold, penetrating gaze of Mrs. Breynton. However, he made an effort and re- covered his self-command. " I bear credentials from Summerwood, which I hope will atone for this intrusion, a few books, which Miss Ogilvie was sending to her cousin. Happening to pur- pose a journey which would lead me through your city, 1 volunteered to deliver them. Per- haps this was hardly disinterested, as I was glad of an excuse to stay and see your beautiful ca- thedral." Mrs. Breynton began to thaw. To praise "our cathedral," and manifest interest therein, was a certain road to her favor. From the few words she answered, Paul Lynedon was sharp- sighted enough to discover this, and he followed up his game with great patience and ingenuity. While Eleanor examined the books he had brought, he talked the dean's lady into the best of humors. She took him to the window which looked on the cathedral-yard, explained its archi- tecture from top to bottom, and finally, delighted with the interest that he evinced, and his evident skill in antiquarian lore Paul was the cleverest of tacticians in displaying every whit of his knowledge she invited her unexpected guest to stay to luncheon. "Then, Eleanor, my dear, we can afterward show the cathedral to Mr. Lynedon, since he seems to admire it so much. I mention this, Mr. Lynedon, because, under my escort, you will be able to see the Ladye Chapel, the vaults, anc. other interesting parts, where visitors are not admitted in general ; but I, as connected with the cathedral " "Of course, .my dear madam; how fortunate that I have the pleasure of an introduction from one so important as yourself," said Paul Lyne- don, trying not to smile at the clerical pride of this relative of so many departed dignitaries. His tendency for delicately polite satire became almost irrepressible, until, in the midst "of his pretended deference, he caught Eleanor's pure, soft eyes fixed on him. The reproach she was hardly conscious of giving, he felt, and stopped immediately. Excited by her presence, Paul's longing to unfold his love, and receive his requital, grew stronger than ever. He tried every expedient that courtesy could either sanction or conceal, in order to get the old lady out of the room. But Mrs. Breynton had been brought up in the old-world school of proprieties, and had no idea of leaving a young lady and gentleman alone together for five minutes, unless they were plighted lovers. So during two interminable hours, Paul had not an opportunity of ex(jhang- ing one word with Eleanor, except on the most trivial subjects, and even then Mrs. Breynton's quick, black eyes followed him with a hawk-like pertinacity, that was any thing but pleasant. Paul grew quite nervous. " It will come to a letter after all, and I hate the idea of a proposal in ink. Confound that stupid old woman!" thought Lynedon, while the impetuosity of his character foamed and boiled under the check ho was forced to put upon it. At last Mrs. Breynton proposed to visit the cathedral. "Pray do not let me encroach upon you too much," said Paul; "the verger will show me, or if Miss Ogilvie would favor me so far." His eyes turned toward Eleanor; so did Mrs. Breynton's ; but there was not the shadow of a love-plot suggested in that calm, mild face. " Indeed, Mr. Lynedon, I should be very glad to act as your guide, only Mrs. Breynton knows so much more than I do about these curious old monuments. However, we will both go with you." " Certainly Eleanor,'' acquiesced Mrs. Breyn- ton, with an air of complete re-assurance ; while Paul forced his hand so precipitately into his glove that he tore it right in two. But, as if the favoring stars looked with pity on the vexed lover, it so chanced that the bishop's lady drove up to the gates just as the three were setting out. Mrs. Breynton was forced to return, and Paul at last found himself alone with Eleanor. " Who ever wooed As in his boyish hope he would have done V' asks the poet; and poets are, in nine cases out of ten, the only truth-speakers. Paul Lynedon suddenly discovered that he had not a word to say. Eleanor quiet, composed, unconscious Eleanor, had all the talk to herself She exerted her memory to the utmost in order to explain every thing. Paul listened assentingly walked beside her looked where she directed but whether she were showing him Newgate oj 34 THE OGILVIES. Westminster Abbey, it would have been quite impossible lor him to tell. When they came out, a sudden fear urged him to make the most of the time. " Do not let us go in yet. I should like to see the view from the terrace you spoke of," he said, hurriedly. They walked to the garden terrace. "I really am much obliged to you for being Katharine's messenger it was so kind and thoughtful of her to make me this present, and to choose such nice books, too," observed Elea- nor. Paul felt that he must " do or die." He stood still in his walk, took her hand and said, in a deep, low whisper "Miss Ogilvie, you are mistaken, Katharine never sent those books, it was but my excuse for seeing you. I can not live any longer with- out saying, ' Eleanor, I love you !' Why do you start why do you turn away? Eleanor, you must hear me you must answer me." She could not indeed, he hardly allowed her time but went on rapidly " You were so kind, so gentle, when we were at Summerwood I thought you might love me, or would let me teach you to do so in time. Eleaaor, is it so? tell me or have I deceived myself?" Eleanor's reply was the one terrible word "Yes!" Paul Lynedon did not answer. He leaned against the wall and covered his face. Eleanor, startled, pained, almost terrified, was also silent. They stood thus for some minutes. At last Eleanor said You must not think bitterly of me. I did re- you very much as a friend, but I had no lea of this. Mr. Lynedon, you do not think I deceived you?" " No, ncH it was my own madness," muttered Paul; "the fool I was! to think I had read a woman's" heart. Well! it will be a lesson to me. Miss Ogilvie, I trust you will pardon me," he said, in a tone that savored more of wounded pride than of heart-broken love. "And you will forgive me for thus making you unhappy. Indeed, I would fain have been saved this trial, for I respect you very much," answered that soft voice which took its modula- tions from Eleanor's own tender heart. It touched Paul's, even amidst the throng of angry and bit- ter feelings that were rising there. "For God's sake, Miss Ogilvie, tell me why you reject me! Is it simply because I have been so hasty, that I have not given you time to love me, or because you love another?" A deep crimson rose to Eleanor's very brow. Paul saw the blush ; his pride took arms against his lingering love, and drove it from the field. " You need not speak I am answered ; Miss Ogilvie, let me hope that you will forget this unfortunate betrayal of feelings you do not re- turn ; and accept my best wishes for your happi- ness. Look ! I see your friend at the window ; shall we retrace our steps ? I wish to heaven it could be done in more ways than one," added the rejected Jover in a bitter aside, which Eleanor's agitation prevented her from hearing. If she had, it might have saved her gentle heart from many a painful thrill of womanly pity, and shown her how rootless, and how easily extinguished is the love which springs up suddenly in the breast of a proud and impetuous man, and with tha thwarting of its own selfish impulse as quickly dies away. No man who loves worthily, how- ever hopelessly, will mingle bitterness and anger with his sorrow, or say to the sunbeams under whose brightness he had walked for a time, " [ would ye had never shone !" Eleanor and Lynedon re-entered the house in silence. Mrs. Breynton looked at them with a politely-qualified curiosity; but the answer to her penetrating inquiry appeared sufficiently satisfactory, for she took no notice of the dis- covery. And the reverend and reverenced sha- dow of the bishopess was still upon the good lady, who felt herself bound to reflect on all around the high dignity and honor of this rare visit, shutting out every minor consideration. "I shall be always happy to see you, Mr, Lynedon," she said, replying to her guest's hurried adieus ; and, with a stately politeness, "I regret that my nephew is not here, but we expect him shortly." Paul glanced at Eleanor. In the drooped head in the bright rosy dye which suffused the very throat he read the secret of his rejection. He turned hastily away, and his hurried strides re- sounded heavily down the pavement of the close. There was a little child playing in his path he drove the frightened boy aside with a fiery glance, and a command that sounded almost like an execration. Spirit of true and pure Love even though sorrow- vailed couldst thou have been in his soul and suffered this ? " Well ! he is the strangest young man I ever knew, is Mr. Paul Lynedon," was Mrs. Breyn- ton's comment as she watched him from th window of the palace; "really, Eleanor " But Eleanor had left the room to relieve her troubled heart with a gush of pent-up tears. This sudden knowledge of another's love had un vailed to her more completely the depths of her own, and shown her how her whole soul was bound up in Philip Wychnor. And no matter in how happy and hopeful a light this consciousness may come, there is always something solemn, almost fearful to a woman, who thus stands, as it were, on the brink of a life-destiny ; feeling that in the future nothing can be perfectly sure or clear but the faithful love in her own heart. Yet that love is her fairest omen her safest anchor her chiefest strength, except in Heaven ! And while Eleanor lingered alone, in thought- ful musings that were almost prayers, and Paul Lynedon dashed on his way in angry sorrow, determined to travel abroad, and so crush out of his heart every memory of his slighted love, Mrs. Breynton good, easy soul sat dozing over her netting, and thinking how very con- descending was the new bishop's lady, when the first invitation to dinner would arrive, and whether she should wear the black velvet or the Irish poplin. Oh ! youth, with thy fiery heart which, after all, is nearest to Heaven in the nobleness that thrills through its wildest beatings canst thou ever freeze into such a dead, dull calm as this ? THE OGILVIES. 35 CHAPTER XIII. I ask no vengeance from the powers above ; All I implore is, never more to love : Let me this fondness from my bosom tear, Let me forget t that e'er I thought her fair. LYTTLETON. Passions are likened best to floods and streames, The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb; So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. RALEIGH. LYNEDON strode through the quiet grass- grown streets of L , his feet winged by the impetuous anger of a thwarted will. Despite the impulse of this sudden passion, it had cost him considerable effort, before the gay and courted man of the world could resolve to give up his liberty, and immolate himself on the matrimonial shrine for any woman soever. And now the heroic resolution was wholly needless the momentous sacrifice was rejected as an un- valued offering. The first proposal of marriage with which Paul Lynedon had ever honored the sex, had been refused. And by whom? By a simple country girl, who had, he now thought, neither beauty, nor fascinations of manner, nor -fortune. He remembered that last circumstance now, though, to do Paul justice, he had not considered it before for he was not a mercenary man. Even while it stung his pride, it brought a faint consolation to his sense of worldly wisdom. It had certainly saved him from perpetrating a most improvident marriage. He " laid the flat- tering unction to his soul," but it proved only a temporary balsam; the sting still remained wounded pride selfish, angry sorrow, like that of a ahild over a lost toy and perhaps a deeper, purer feeling, that regretted the vanished spell of that gentle woman's nature, under which every better impulse of his own had been re- awakened. That which he had felt was not the real love, the one sole love of life ; but no man could have entered even within the shadow of Eleanor Ogilvie's influence, without some true, deep chords being sounded in his heart: and from their silence came the pain, the only sin- cere and virtuous pain which Paul Lynedon experienced. To lull it, he walked fcr miles across the country, striving by physical exercise to deaden the excitement of his mind. It was a lovely region through which he pass- ed all woodland or pasture-grounds but the young man saw nothing. Nature, pure, unal- loyed nature, was rarely his delight : his percep- tions, though refined, were not simple enough to relish such pleasures. Now he only felt that the roads were insufferably muddy, and the fields hatefully quiet. He did not marvel at the taste of a woman brought up in such scenes ; he only cursed his own folly for ever having seen any charm in rural innocence. He would eschew such sentimentality in future ; he would go back to the gay, care-drowning world plunge in London life or, what seemed far better, travel abroad once more. Under this impulse he sprang on a coach that was then passing, caring little whither it bore him, so' that it was far away from L . Lynedon intrenched himself in proud reserve beside the coachman, and scarcely answered even in monosyllables, when this individual a character in his way civilly pointed out many a lovely pastoral view, among which, from every point, the "Ladies of the Vale" could be seen airily towering into the clear sky; an<2 with melancholy emphasis, did the foreboding hero of the whip point out the line where the threatened railway was to traverse this beautiful champaign, and bring at last the evil spirit of reform and progress into the time-honored sanc- tity of the cathedral town. But Lynedon hated the very name of the place. All he noticed in his neighbor's conversation was the atrocious S shire accent, and he came to the conclu sion that the English peasantry were the rud- est in the world. At last Paul's mind began to settle into a few straightforward resolves with regard to his fu- ture proceedings. The coach was bearing him toward London but could he go there, within reach of the sneers of the already suspecting Mrs. Lancaster ? No ; he would pretend ur^ gent affairs, and rush abroad ; and to do this, he, must first go home. Home ! It was a rare word in Paul Lynedon's vocabulary ; very few of his friends knew of it? existence at all, and he never sought to enlight en their ignorance ; for, in fact, he was consider- ably ashamed of the circumstance. The penultimate descendant of the time-hon- ored Lynedon race had sought to redeem his. fortunes by trade. Paul's father had been a cot- ton-manufacturer. The moderate fortune which now enabled the son to take his stand in that sphere to which his birth entitled him, had sprung from the red brick mill, with its black windows, its ever-dinning wheels. The grim phantom had been the horror of Paul Lynedon's youth it haunted him even yet. Perhaps, had his bet- ter self gained free play, he would not have so wholly sought to stifle the memory of the place w r here, years before, the aristocratic father, equally proud, but yet noble in his pride, had put his hand to the plough, and never once look- ed back until he had replaced ancestral wealth by the wealth of industry. Paul's conscience, and his appreciative reverence for virtue, ac- knowledged all this, but he had not strength of mind to brave the world, and say so. Therefore, while he would not part with the simple dwelling where his gray-haired father and his young mother had both died, and where his sister and himself had spent their orphaned childhood still Lynedon rarely alluded to his " home," and scarcely ever visited it. The dis- tant sound of the horrible cotton-mill, now long since passed into other hands, almost drove him wild still. No head with brains could endure the din. On his rare visits he usually made a circumbendibus of half a mile to avoid it- He did so now, notwithstanding the weariness caused by his long night journey. At last, in the sunshine of early morning, he stood by his own door. It had been a straight-staring, plain-fronted house, of the eternal red brick peculiar to the manufacturing districts. But the builder's want of taste was concealed by tho late owner's pos- session of that graceful quality. Over the star- ing front were trained ivy, clematis, and vine, converting it into a very bower of greenery. And amidst the formal garden had been plant- ed quick-growing lime trees, that now formed 36 THE OGILV1ES. "pleached alleys," wherein even poets or lov- ersthe true honey-bees of all life's pleasure- flowers might delight to walk. As Paul Lynedon passed hastily through them, he thought for a moment how, when the trees were growing, he and his little sister had used to play at hide-and-seek among them. He wish- ed that the bright, curly-tressed nead had been peeping out now from the branches, and smiling a quiet, womanly, sisterly welcome from the now barred and lonely door-way. The first time for many months he remembered a little green mound beside the stately burying-place of the Lynedons far away. Paul sighed, and thought that he might have been a better and a hap- pier man if poor little Alice had lived to be a woman He roused his old housekeeper; but when she came, at the first look of her sour, grum- bling face, he dismissed her speedily. In the long-deserted house was neither chamber nor bed prepared; so he stretched himself on a sofa, and tried to forget past, present, and future in a most welcome slumber. This deep sleep lasted for several hours, and he woke with the afternoon sun staring right into his face, together with a couple of human optics, belonging to a young man who sat near him and maintained an equally pertinacious gaze. This individual held, likewise, his evi- dently medical fingers on Lynedon's wrist, while from the other hand dangled the orthodox M.D.'s watch. It fell to the ground, when Paul started up with an energy very unlike a patient's. " My good fellow my dear Lynedon well, I thought there would be nothing much the matter with you." " Who imagined there was?" " Why, that good old soul below, who said you slept so heavily at first, and then began to talk so wildly, she was sure you were mad, or had taken poison, and so fetched me." "Pshaw! well, I am very glad to see you, doctor," said Paul, rousing himself, and trying to shake off the rush of painful and mortifyin] thoughts that came with his waking. He coul not do this altogether ; and it was with con- siderable effort that he forced his features into a polite smile while he listened to the talk of his old college chum, who, on giving up the sermon- book for the spatula, had been considerably indebted to Lynedon's kindness for a start in life. " I am sure I hope you are coming to settle among us, or at least to stay a long time," said Dr. Saville. Paul's face darkened "No; I shall be off in a day or two for the Continent. I don't care when I come back. I hate England." " Really how very odd what can be the reason?" was the simple remark of the most common-place of country doctors. " Never mind, my good fellow," said Paul, rather sharply. " Don^; talk about myself, I am sick of the subject ; speak about any other mat- ters your own for instance ; doubtless far more interesting to both parties." " Thank you, Lynedon, you are very kind ;" and the chattering, weak-minded, but good-na- tured medico held forth for a long time on the inane topics current in the neighborhood. At last he crept on to his own peculiar affairs ; and, as the twilight darkened, gathered courage to convey to his old friend and patron the important nformation that he was about to marry. "If you do, you are a confounded fool," cried Lynedon, with an energy that made the little dector tremble on his chair. "I beg your par- don, Saville," he added, trying to laugh off the matter, "you don't know what women are but old friend Mars did though, remember. ' Varium et mutabile semper Foemina.' The old fellow was not far wrong, eh ! They are all alike." " Except my Lizzie ! oh, no ! I'm quite sure of Lizzie ;" and the good simple soul began to dilate contentedly on a future rendered certain by its humble hopes and limited desires. Paul was touched; it formed such a contrast to his selfish sorrow and mortified pride. He listened with a feeling almost like envy to the bride- groom-expectant's account of his already fur- nished house, his neat garden Lizzie liked flowers his little gig, wherein he could go his rounds and drive Lizzie to see her mother on a Sunday. In the midst of this quiet, monotonous stream of talk the worthy doctor was startled by Paul's suddenly springing up with the cry "Upon my soul, Charles Saville, you are a happy man, and I am a most miserable one ! I wish to Heaven that I were dead !" Lovers, and especially rejected lovers, are generally slow to communicate to any male friend the story of their sufferings. They will do so sometimes, nay, often, to a friend of the opposite sex. A woman makes the best confidante after all ; and perhaps, in such cases, womanly sympathy is the surest cure for a heart-wound. It is hard to account for the im- pulse that made Lynedon betray his feelings to his old friend, except from the fact, that the sympathy of the worthy, simple-minded doctor was most like that of a woman. Perhaps, too, the contrast in their prospects invited sympa- thy, and Lynedon, having been the doctor's patron, was disposed to like him, and to be more than usually communicative. But how- ever it chanced, most certainly Doctor Saville contrived to glean a great deal of information ; and by putting together names, incidents, and exclamations, to form a tolerable guess at a great deal more. In fact, if he did not arrive at the whole truth, he came very near it, and his prolific imagination easily supplied the rest. But he took care, by a respectful reserve, to avoid startling the sensitiveness of his patron ; and the promise of secrecy, with which he bade Lynedon adieu, he long and faithfully kept ex- cept with regard to his "Lizzie." Paul, left to himself, saw night close upon him in the lonely house. He felt more and more its desolation and his own. It was not so much the lost love, as the need of loving, which came upon him with such intense pain. He thought of the poor village doctor, contempti- ble in mind as in person, who yet could look forward to a bright hearth, made happy by a mother's blessing and a wife's clinging arms. While he, the admired of many a circle accus- tomed to the honeyed flatteries of many a fair lip, which he knew to be false as his own he, Paul Lynedon, stood alone, with not a single THE OGILVIES. 37 creature in the whole wide world to love him truly. "Not one not one!" As he despondently repeated the words, Paul Lynedon's eye fell upon a slip of paper which he had carelessly tossed out of his pocket-book. It was merely a few verses copied by his request written out in a girlish hand, evidently strained into the most anxious neatness. It bore the date "Summer- wood," and the signature " Katharine Ogilvie." As Paul unfolded tba paper, his face bright- ened -yi *5ft.n*d mto tenderness. There came ^Otbre mm a vision of the dark eyes lifted, for one moment only, in sorrowing, yearning love the fair lips which had trembled beneath his own. "Dear little girl sweet little Katharine! I think she does care for me God bless her !" He felt almost inclined to kiss the paper^ but stopped; reflecting with a half-smile that she was such a child ! But even a child's love was precious to him then. " I should almost like to see her again before I leave England," thought Paul. "But no it would not do ! What excuse could I make for my sudden flight? However, I will write." He did write, as the impulse of the moment dictated. He spoke of his departure from En- gland as of a painful necessity, of her remem- brance as the dearest consolation of his exile, and of meeting her on his return as a cherished hope. It was a letter which spoke as his idle words had before done every thing except the positive declaration of love. Its deep tender- ness its half ambiguous expressions its brok- en and altered sentences were such as to thrill with happiness any young, impassioned heart, that would fain make its desire its trust, and cling with wild intensity to every imagined token of love, which is, alas ! but the reflection cast by its own. Poor Katharine ! These out- pourings of a momentary feeling, forgotten by the writer ere they met the reader's eye, what would they be to her ? Paul Lynedon knew not thought not per- chance, cared not ! A few weeks after, and he was mingling in the gayest salons of Paris ; the pleasure and pain of the last three months hav- ing alike passed from his memory, as though they had never been. CHAPTER XIV. I have a more than friend Across the mountains dim ; No other voice to me is sweet Unless it nameth him ! We broke no ring of gold A pledge of faith to be, But 1 wear his last look in my soul Which said, "I love but thee !" I was betrothed that day : T wore a troth-kiss on my lips I would not give away. E. B. BROWNING. THERE is hardly a man in the world who does not feel his pulse beat quicker, when, even after a short absence, he finds himself nearing home. A common-place this often said, often written but there are common-places, deli- cious, ever-fresh truths, which seem the daisies on the world's highway ; it is hard not to stop and gather them sometimes. So, beginning with this trite saying, we may go on to remark that Philip Wychnor's heait experienced a slight ad ditional thrill, when, riding through the grass- growrf streets of L , he saw the evening sun emblazoning the palace-windows, and felt that he was really "coming home." It was a dearer home to him than to most ; for it was his heart's home, too. It is a rule with novelists and a sterling one, too, in general that you should never unvail your characters by elaborate descriptions of mind and person, but suffer them to develop themselves in the progress of the story, shining down upon them until they unfold beneath the sun-burst of your artistic skill, instead of pull- ing them open, leaf by leaf, with your fingers, and thus presenting to the reader your well-dis- sected bouquet of human-heart flowers. But, in the present case, we will waive the aforesa'-d excellent rule, for no reader could ever find out the inner character of Philip Wychnor from its outward manifestations in the routine of daily life. Not that he was deficient in many exterior qualities to win regard : most people liked him or, at least, that half of his character which was most apparent and said, as Hugh Ogilvie once did, that he was "a good fellow enough." There was but one in the world who thoroughly understood him, who had looked into the pure depths of his noble soul. What need is there to say who was that one precious, loving, and beloved on whom this glorious soul rested, and from whom it drew comfort, freshness, and peace ? Philip Wychnor would never have made a hero, either in body or mind at least, not one of your grand world-heroes, who will overthrow an army, or perform some act of self-devotion with which the heart of history throbs for a century after. But there is many a lauded mar- tyr whose funeral pile is only a huge altar to self-glory, which the man's own dying hands have reared : the true heroes are those whose names the world never hears, and never will hear the blessed household martyrs, who offer unto God the sacrifice, not of death's one pang, but of life's long, patient endurance ; the holy ones who, through "Love's divine self-abnegation," attain the white robes and the ever-blooming palms of those who " have passed through much tribulation." Our Philip might have been one of these. But, wearying of our "was-nots" and "might- have-beens," we may ask, dear reader, what he was. A poet ? No ; he had scarcely ever strung together six consecutive rhymes. But his whole life was a poem so pure, so rich in all those dear charities and holy influences which create the poetry of this world. God makes some of his truest poets outwardly dumb, but their singing is like the music of the stars ; the angels hear it up in heaven ; and no- ble spirits, looking thither from earth, can tell how glorious such unheard melody must be. Was he handsome ? It might be, for genius rarely exists without casting over the outward frame a certain spiritual loveliness; and often- times soul and body grow linked together in an exquisite perfection, so that neither materialist nor spiritualist would think of dissevering the one from the other. But the beauty of I 7 hili# 38 THE OGILVIES. W/chnors face was too refined almost too feminine to attract general notice. Features regularly chiseled and delicately small, shadow- ed by hair of a pale, clear brown, in which somewhat rare tint no one could detect either the admired gold or the widely-condemned red a stature very reed-like, both as to height and slenderness and that personal sign which in a man so often accompanies exquisite refinement of mind, a beautiful hand comprise the exter- nal semblance of him whom we have hitherto seen only through the reflection of Eleanor Ogilvie's love. Let him now stand alone in his real likeness, ungilded by even this love-sunshine ; a son of Adam, not perfect, but still nearer ay, ten thousand times nearer to that grand image of true manhood than the many poor clay deities, the work of the tailor and the fencing-master, that draw silly maidens' eyes in drawing-room or street. Stand forth, Philip Wychnor ! raise thy face, sublime in its gentleness with the pure lips, through which the foul impieties of boasting youth never yet passed with the eyes that have scorned not at times to let their lashes droop over a tear of sympathy or sorrow. Lift up thy hand, which never used its strength against a fellow-creature, and was not the less heroic for that. Stand forth, noble yet meek- hearted Philip Wychnor, and show the world the likeness of a man ! He passed the iron gateway, sprang up the palace-steps with a speed worthy of an agile youth, and a lover; in a minute the pleasant, fire-lit room where Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor held their after-dinner chat, was brightened by a presence welcome to both now doubly so to one ! A good and kind, if not an affectionate aunt, was Mrs. Breynton, and perhaps now as much warmth as her nature boasted was ex- pressed in the solemn salutation which Philip's forehead received. And then came the dear, close, lingering hand-pressure of meeting and welcome so silent, yet so full of all faithful assurance, between two, who to their inmost hearts know, love, and trust one another. After even a few months of separation, it al- ways takes a space of desultory talk, before the dearest friends settle down into the quiet satis- faction of meeting, and so the conversation around that dear fireside at the palace was rather restless and wandering, both as to the topics discussed, and the way in which they were sustained. Philip found himself listening, or at least hearing with his outward ears, the full, true, and particular account of the new bishop's first sermon, and his lady's first call at the palace. It showed either surprising forge t- fulness, or true womanly tact in Mrs. Breynton, that in her lengthened recital of that day's events she made no allusion to Mr. Paul Lyne- don. " By-the-by, my dear Philip, as you did not write, I did not expect you home quite so soon." "1 myself hardly expected such a pleasure until yesterday, when I found I could leave. And you know, aunt Breynton, that I never lose any time in coming to see you," answered the young man, affectionately. A nleased, though rather a sedate smile, marked the acknowledgments of aunt Breyn- ton : and ilien her mind turned suddenly to the 1 melancholy fact, that no household preparation was made for the visitor. " This, you see, my dear nephew, is the result of not doing things regularly. Had you written the day before, we should have had your room ready ; but now I will not answer for your hav- ing to sleep without curtains. And I dare say you have not dined, and the cook is gone to bed, most likely." Philip protested against the accusation of hunger, though he was quite unable to recol- lect whether he had dined or not. Thereupon, he was obliged to listen to a few arguments upon the necessity of taking care of his health and the evil of long fasting, and at last Mrs. Breynton's domestic anxiety could no longer restrain itself, and she rose to quit the room ; only, as she passed the door, she unfortunately spied on a chair the hat and gloves which her nephew had thrown down on his entry. She could not resist the opportunity. "Philip!" Philip started from an earnest gaze at the clear, drooping profile which was reflected against the fire-light, and opened the door for the old lady. The act of politeness disarmed her ; she was ever a devotee to the grave court- esies of old, and the long lecture resolved itself into "Thank you, Philip. Now oblige me by ringing for the footman to take away these. She pointed to the offending intruders on the neatness of her drawing-room, and sailed majes- tically away, the very genius of tidiness. Dear Eleanor and Philip ! young, simple- hearted lovers ! such as the wide world's heart i has ever yearned over in song or story ay, and I ever will how did they look at, how speak to ' each other ? They did neither ; they stood by i the fire for she had risen too stood quite si- 1 lent, until Philip took first one hand, then both, I in his. "Eleanor, are you glad to see me?" " Glad, Philip !" was the low reply only an echo, after all ; but the clear, pure eyes were raised to his with a fullness of love that gave ! all the answer his own sought. He lifted the dear soft hands he drew them, not unwilling to be thus guided, around his neck, and folded to his bosom his betrothed. It was the silent marriage-vow between two hearts, each of which felt for the first time the other's pure beatings ; j a vow not less sacred than the after one, with joined hands before the altar; a solemn troth- plight, which, once given and received in sin- j cerity and true love, no earthly power ought ever to disannul. And surely the angels, who sang the mar- I riage-hymn of the first lovers in Eden, cast down upon these their holy eyes ay, and felt that holiness unstained by the look. For can there be in this world aught more sacred than two beings who stand together, man and woman, i heart-betrothed, ready to go forth hand in hand, ' in glad yet solemn union, on the same journey, I toward the one eternal home ? God. look down upon them ! O God bless them and fill them with love, first toward thee, and then toward one another ! Make them strong to bear gladly and nobly the dear burden i which all must take who, in loving, receive unto i themselves another soul, with its errors and its THE OGILVIES. weaknesses. And so, witla a like prayer, should be sanctified all earthly betrothals, even as this of Philip and Eleanor. When Mrs. Breynton returned, she found the hat and gloves lying precisely where she had left them; through the half-opened inner-door, she caught a glimpse of Eleanor's black dress gliding up the stair-case, while Philip stood with his face to the fire, trying with all his might to commit the enormity of whistling in a drawing-room. How all these conflicting ele- ments were finally reconciled is not on record ; but the fact is certain that, in honor, probably, of her nephew's return, the good old lady sat up talking with him until past eleven o'clock, and, for the first time in her life, quite forgot to call the servants to family prayers. Moreover, as she passed Eleanor's room, she entered, kissed her on both cheeks, and went away with- out a word, save a fervent " God bless you !" Perhaps the one heartfelt blessing rose nearer to heaven than the leaden- winged, formal prayers would ever have climbed. CHAPTER XV. Has it never occurred to us when surrounded by sor- rows, that they may be sent to us only for our instruc- tion, as we darken the eyes of birds when we wish to teach them to sing 7 JEAN PAUL. Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove, With the wings of care. In the batile, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee, Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee. SHELLEY. " AND now, my dear children, let us talk of your prospects in the world," said Mrs. Breyn- ton, gravely, when, after a long day, happy, in- deed, bit somewhat restlessly spent by all three, they sa; once more in the pleasant fire-light, as they had done the evening before. The only difference was that now Philip ventured to sit on the same side of the fire as Eleanor ; and in the shadowy flicker of the blaze, it would have been impossible to tell precisely what had become of her hand. Still, the right, true, and worthy owner of that little hand probably knew, and no one else had any business to inquire. Mrs. Breynton found it necessary to repeat her observation, slightly varied, "I wish, my dear nephew, and niece that will be, to talk seriously about your plans for the future. When do you propose to marry ? and what do you pro- pose to marry upon?" These point-blank questions rather startled Philip and his affianced. Few lovers, especially young lovers, amidst the first burst of deep hap- piness, stay to think at all of those common-place things, house-furnishing, house-keeping, yearly income, and such like. A little, Eleanor had mused ; perhaps more than most young girls, on the time when the enthusiastic devotion of the lover, merged in the still affection of the hus- band, it would be her part less to be ministered unto than to minister, surrounding him with all comfort and love in the dear, quiet, blessed home their home. But Philip, the dreamer, Siill unacquainted with the rea-'ities of life, had never thought of thesfc things at all. They came upon him almost bewilderingly, and all the answer he could make to his aunt's ques- tion was the very unsatisfactory one "I really do not know!" Mrs. Breynton looked from the one to the other in dignified reproof. "This, I must say, is the evil of young people's arranging their matrimonial affairs for themselves. Nobody ever did so in my day. Your excellent uncle, the dean, furnished his house down to the very stair-carpets, before he even asked me to marry him. And you, Philip, I dare say, have not even thought in what county of England you intend to settle ?" Philip acknowledged he had not. Oh, blessed Present, that with its golden light can so dim and dazzle the eyes as to make them scarcely desire to look further, even into a happy future. Mrs. Breynton tried to lecture gravely upon improvident and hasty marriages ; it was her way ; and yet she had lain awake since seven o'clock that morning, calculating how much in- come the curacy of Wearmouth would bring in yearly, and what it would take to furnish that pretty cottage next to the rectory ; nay, she had even settled the color of the drawing-room cur- tains, and was only doubtful whether the carpet should be Axminster or Brussels. But she loved so to dictate and reprove, and then sweep grace- fully round, laden with advice and assistance. Thus, after a due delay, she unfolded all her kindly purposes ; dilating with an earnestness and clerical appreciation worthy of the dean's lady, on the promised curacy, the living in pro- spectu, with its great advantages, viz., the easy duty large Easter offerings plenty of glebe- land, and a nobleman's seat close by, whose owner was devoted to the Church, and always gave practical marks of his respect by dinners and game. "I think, Philip," continued she, "that noth- ing could be more fortunate. I have the bishop's word for your having the curacy immediately on your taking orders ; and though I mean no dis- respect to good Mr. Vernon if he should die in a year or two, as in course of nature he must you will meanwhile have an opportunity of showing his grace what an agreeable neighbor he might secure by presenting you with the living." Had the worthy dame been able to read her nephew's face, as well as those gentle eyes which were now lifted to it with anxious ten- derness, she would have seen in the grave, almost sad expression which came over it, how little the young, earnest nature sympathized with the worldly-minded one. Philip's honest foot would never have entered the tainted Paradise she drew. Respect restrained his tongue as it had done many a time before ; but Eleanor read in his silence what his thoughts were. Honor be to the unselfish and truly womanly impulse which prompted her to press fondly and encour- agingly the hand wherein her own lay, as if to say, " Stand fast, my beloved ; do that which is right; I keep with thee through all." It was the first taking upon herself of tJbat blessed bur- den of love, which through life's journey they were to bear for one another. Philip leaned in spirit upon the helpmate God had given him. He grew strong, and was comforted. THE OGILVIES. "Dear aunt," he said, gently, "you are very good tn think of all these things, but I feel by no means sure that I shall ever be a clergy- man." " Not be a Clergyman ! not take orders ! when you have all your life been studying for the Church !" cried Mrs. Breynton, lifting up her eyes, with the most intense astonishment. 'Philip Wychnor ! what can you mean?" "I mean," said Philip, slowly and firmly, though in a tone low and humble as a child's, " that for the last year I have thought much and deeply of the life apparently before me. I have seen how the sanctity of the Church is pro- faned by those servants who, at its very threshold, take either an utterly false vow, or one half- understood and wholly disregarded. I dare not lay upon my soul this sin." Mrs. Breynton' s temperament was too frigid to be often disturbed by violent passion ; but it was easy to see, from the restless movements of her fingers, and the sudden twitching about her thin, compressed lips, how keenly she was agi- tated by her nephew's words. " Then, sir," she said, after a pause, "you are about to inform me that you have followed the example of other wild, misguided young men, and dissented from the Establishment ; in short, that you no longer believe in our Holy Church." " I do believe in it," cried Philip, earnestly. " I believe it to be the purest on earth ; but no human form of worship can be all pure. I have never quitted, and never shall quit, the Church in which I was born, but I will not bind myself to believe and to follow blindly all her dogmas ; and I dare not, in the sight of God, say that I feel called by his Spirit to be a minister at the altar, when I do not sincerely think I am." "And may I ask what right you have to think any thing at all about the matter ? This is merely a form of ordination, which men much wiser, and more pious than yourself excuse me, Philip have appointed; and which every clergyman passes through without any scruple. It is a mere form of words meaning only that the candidate is a good man, and will not dis- grace the cloth he wears. Your uncle explained it all to me, once, Philip." continued Mrs. Breynton, losing the cold scorn of her manner in the real earnestness of her feelings. " You would not, surely, give up your prospects in life for such a trifle as this ?" "A trifle !" echoed Philip, sadly, as he saw how vain it would be to explain his motives further, and felt keenly the bitterness his deter- mination would give to his aunt's mind. She, fancying that in his silence she had gained an advantage, pursued it with all the skill of which she was capable. "My dear nephew, do you know what you are doing ? Have you forgotten that your whole education has been bent toward this end ; that your owr. small fortune perhaps a little more, to which I will not allude has gone in college expenses for the same purpose ; that if you fol- low your present wild scheme, you must begin life anew, with nothing in this world to trust to." "Except an honest heart and a clear cci- ccience," said Philip, calmly but resolutely. How tender and holy was the light in those sweet eyes that looked up in his how warm the pressure of the other hand not the clasped one which of its own accord turned round his arm in fond encouragement. He needed the strength thus imparted, for it was sorely shaken by Mrs. Breynton's next words uttered in tone where anger and disappointment triumphed over all acquired composure. "Listen to me, Philip Wychnor. You are about to act like a madman, and I feel it my duty to stop you if I can. I do not ask you to remember how I have brought you up, with this purpose in view, treating you less like my brother's child than my own ; nor do I speak of my disappointment for I know your great tieroes, for conscience-sake, think little of these things," she added, with a sarcastic meaning that cut Philip to the heart. He sprang up to.- speak " Stay sit down again. I am not accustomed to any scenes," said the old lady, coldly. "I knew a young man once he was not unlike you, Philip" and Mrs. Breynton regarded her nephew with a smile, half bitter half mournful " he too, for a whim a boyish whim gave up the Church, and his father turned him out into the wide world to starve. His mother broke her heart ; and the girl he was about to marry (still like you) she grieved until her friends forced her to wed, another lover ; but they could not keep her from dying, after all. Will you hearken, Philip, now? for the man was yeur father, and that gentle-hearted creature he left to die of grief, was the dearest friend I ever had ay, and the mother of your Eleanor." Struck with surprise, and deeply moved, the two young lovers impulsively started from each other's side but only for a moment. Closer they drew together in that painful time of agita- tion, unrestrained by outward form ; and Philip murmured, as he wound his arm round her " Mine mine still for all the past. She will trust me my Eleanor my own ?" Mrs. Breynton went on. " Now, Philip Wych- nor, you may follow your father's steps, if you like ; but I solemnly declare, that if you persist in this, and disgrace the family as he did, I will give up my purpose of making you my heir; and that you may not bring poverty on that dear child, whom I have loved all her life for her mother's sake : with my consent you shall never marry Eleanor Ogilvie." Too angry to trust herself with another word, Mrs. Breynton swept out of the room. Philip had started up to detain her, but she was gone. He paced the room in violent agita- tion, never looking toward Eleanor; then he threw himself beside a table in the farthest and darkest corner, and laid his head upon his folded arms, as^if quite oblivious even of her presence. For this a proud woman would have treated her lover with silent indignation; a selfish one would have let loose her wounded vanity in a burst of reproaches; but Eleanor was neither one nor the other. A single pain shot through her heart, as she sat alone and unnoticed by the fire ; two or three tears fell, and then the true woman's nature triumphed. She had not be- stowed her love for the poor requital of out- ward attentions, such as wooers pay she had not meted it out, share for share, as if love were a thing to be weighed and measured : but she had given it freely, knitting her soul 'unto his, until she felt and Iived 3 suffered, and rejoice4; THE OGILVIES. 41 not in herself, or for herself, but in him, and for him. Eleanor rose and glided noiselessly across the room, until she stood beside her lover. In his stupor he hardly felt that she was near him. ft K- faint beatings were there in the young maiden-heart at the new and solemn office that became hers ; one passing flush, and then all earthly feelings were stilled by the mute prayer Nknich spoke in the lifted eyes. She stooped down, laid her arms round Philip's neck, and kissed him on the forehead. H ) started he almost shivered beneath the touch of her lips. " Oh, my God ! how shall I bear this ? Don't speak to me, Eleanor ; don't touch me, or I shall have no strength at all go away !" But the next moment the harsh accents melt- ed into tears such a wild, burning flood as rarely burst even from man's pent-up suffering. Eleanor, terrified, almost heart-broken, was yet the stronger now. A woman who loves always is. She knelt beside him it was on her true breast that his tears fell, and he did not turn away from that blessed resting-place. How could he ? A child does not cling to its mother with more utter helplessness than did Philip to his betrothed in that hour of suffering. And she, as she bent over him, her heart lifted itself up in silent breathings, that she might grow strong to strengthen him, and trust- ful to comfort him. U 0h, God!" was that inward prayer; "if it must be, take all the sunshine out of my life and give it to his. Oh! would that I could die for thee, my heart's dearest my pride my hus- band /" And as her soul breathed over him the yet unuttered name, she felt it as an omen, that this cloud would pass away, and the time would surely come when her lips had a right to echo the heart's voice. "You see how weak I am, Eleanor," at last he said, with a mournful attempt at a smile; " I, who yesterday told you how my arm would brave the world for you ; and now I cling help- lessly to yours. But it must not be she was right I should only bring trouble on you. I must stand alone. Eleanor, take your arm away, it weighs me down like lead. Oh! that we were only friends that yesterday had never been!" He spoke in the bitterness of his soul, without thinking of her. Eleanor cast one hurried, pained glance upon his face, and knew this. Blessings on that unselfish nature, which, knowing, at once forgave ! "Eleanor," he said, after a pause, speaking quickly and abruptly, "have you thought what will be the end of this? Do you know that I can not marry you at least, not for many, many rars ; that I have nothing to live upon, because was too proud to be entirely dependent on I aunt Breynton, and I spent, as she says, my little all " at college, intending to enter the Church. Even after my mind changed, I went dreaming on, never thinking of the future, fool that I was ! And yet most people would say I am a greater fool now ;" he added, with a bit- ter smile " ay, and something of a villain to boot. Eleanor, after all, I think I will take the euracy. I shall not be a greater hypocrite than many of those in gown and band ; and I shall keep my oath to you, if I break it to Heaven." _" Never," cried Eleanor. "Philip, do you think I would let you sell your soul for me ! Do you think 1 would ever be your wife then? No for j should not love you. I should despise you! nay, I did not mean that, my Philip" and her voice softened almost into weeping " only it would break my heart if you did this wicked thing. You must not you shall 'not nay, you will not. My own Philip, tell me that you will not." And kneeling before him, Eleanor made her lover solemnly take the promise which would for years doom herself to the long sufferings of hope deferred. Then she sat down beside him, and took his hand. " Now, Philip, let us consider what is best to be* done. Do not think of yesterday at all, if it pains you ; only talk to me as a friend a dear friend who regards your honor and happiness above every thing in this world. Shall it be so, Philip?" " God bless my Eleanor my strength my comfort!" was his answer. The words were more precious to her than the wildest outburst of lover-like adoration could ever have been. They talked together long and seriously like old friends. And this was no pretense, for none are true lovers who have not also for one another the still, thoughtful affection of friends. Her calmness gave him strength ; her clear, pene- trating mind aided his; and, the first shock over, Philip seemed to pass at once from the dreaminess of aimless boyhood to the self-reli- ance and courage of a man. And still beside him, in all his plans, hopes, and fears, was the faithful woman-heart, as brave, as self-denying, never looking back, but going forth with him into the dim future, and half dispersing its mists with the blessed light of love. " And you will forgive me, my dearest," said Philip, when they had decided how and where he was to begin the hard battle with the world " you will forgive me for bringing this fortune upon you ; and in spite of these erring words of mine, you will " He hesitated, but Eleanor went on. " I will wait for years if it must be until Philip makes for me a home happier and dear- er for the long waiting. And who knows how rich it may be, too? a great deal richer than any tiny cottage at Wearmouth." She tried to speak gayly, though the smile her lips assumed could not reach her eyes, and soon melted into a grave look, as she continued. "Besides, dear Philip, there is one thought which lies deep, almost painfully in my heart, though your gen- erous lips have never breathed it. I can not forget that half your cares would have been lightened had the girl you chose possessed ever so little fortune, instead of being left dependent on a brother's kindness. Philip, how I wish to be rich for your sake, that I might requite this dear love of yours for me." " You do, you do ! you are my riches, my comfort, my joy !" cried Philip, drawing into his very heart his affianced wife. She clung there closer in sorrow than she had ever done in joy. " If this day's trial had never been, and we could be again as we were last night wouM you wish it, Eleanor?" 42 THE OGILVIES. " No j" she answerec, lifting her eyes to his, with glad pride and tenderest love. " No ! for even then I knew not fully as I do now, how true, how worthy, how noble was my Philip!" At this precise moment Mrs. Breynton's voice was heard without. With her entered an old sub-dean, who lived in the Close, and who had come in nearly every evening for some six years, during which he and Mrs. Breynton had played an infinity of games at backgammon. Mr. Sed- ley did not know what a relief his presence was this evening, by casting the vail of outward formality over the conflicting emotions of the trio at the Palace. So the worthy old clergy- man talked with Philip about Oxford, paid his labored, old-fashioned, but, withal, affectionate compliments to his particular favorite, Miss Ogilvie, and then engaged Mrs. Breynton in their beloved game. During its progress Elea- nor gladly retired for the night. At the foot of the staircase she met Philip, who had followed unperceived. He looked very pale, and his voice trembled, though he tried to speak as usual. "Eleanor, say good-night to me ; not formally, as just now, but as we did that happy yesterday." She took both his hands, and looked up lov- ingly in his face. " Good-night, then, dear Philip !" He folded her in his arms and kissed her many times. She spoke to him hopeful words; and they were uttered insincerity, for. her own spirit was so full of love and faith, both in God and man, that she had little doubt of the future. " To-morrow, Philip ! all will seem brighter to us to-morrow," was her adieu. He watched her glide up the staircase, turn- ing once round to cast on him that quiet, love- beaming smile peculiar to herself. Then he leant against the wall with a heavy sigh. "The bitterness is past," murmured Philip. "Now I can go forth, alone." CHAPTER XVI Look not mournfully into the past : it returns no more. Wisely improve the present; and go forth into the shad- owy future without fear, and with a manly heart. LONGFELLOW. ELEANOR arose next morning composed almost cheerful. True, there had been, on her first waking, a feeling of oppression, as though some vague sorrow had chanced, under the shadow of which she still lay ; and a few tears had stolen through the yet closed eyes, chasing away sleep, and making the faint daylight a welcome visitant. But when she had arisen, and looked out on the bright spring morning, all this waking pain changed into a quiet hopefulness. One creeps so soon out of the gloom into the light at least, when one is young ! Eleanor watched -the early swallows flying in and out of the eaves : the morning sun glistened so cheer- fully on the three spires of the cathedral, though its walls still lay in heavy shadow. But the girl's eyes looked upward only, and therefore it was the sunshine she saw, not the shade. She thought of Philip's dear, precious love flow all her own and of his noble nature, both $ which had been tried, and come out with a orightness which made her forget the refining fire. Dear Eleanor ! her sou] was sc amvorldly, so filled with trusting affection, that she had no fear. She was ready to let her lover go forth ! into the world, believing entirely in him, and ' confiding so much in the world itself, that she felt sure its storms would subside, and its evils be rem oved, by the very influence of his pure nature. Simple girl ! And yet, perhaps, there . was more in her theory than many imagine : it : is the faithful, the holy-hearted ones, who walk calmly and safely on the troubled waters of the world. Eleanor was still musing, more thoughtfully j than sadly, and considering whether or not she should descend to tell Philip the fruit of her hopeful meditations, when the maid brought a letter. " Mr. Wychnor told me to give you this, " ma'am, as soon as I heard you stirring." Eleanor changed color, and her fingers trem- ; bled over the seal. " I hope, Miss Ogilvie, that nothing is amiss with Master Philip Mr. Wychnor, I mean but I can't get out of the old ways," said the servant, whose curiosity was spurred on by real anxiety : " he looked so ill this morning ! and I could not persuade him to have any breakfast before he went away." "Went away!" " Yes, indeed, Miss ; he set off before it was quite light, by the early London coach." Eleanor's fingers tightened over the unopened letter, and her very lips grew white; yet she had self-control enough to speak calmly. " Indeed, Davis, you need not be uneasy. Mr. Wychnor has probably taken his journey a day or two sooner than he intended ; that is all." "I'd stake my life it's not all," muttered the good woman, as she courtesied herself out ; I only hope there is nothing wrong between him and Miss Eleanor bless their dear hearts ! they was born for one another, sure-ly !" Poor Eleanor ! she threw herself on the bed with a wild burst of weeping, that for many minutes would not be restrained ! "Oh, Philip, Philip, why did you..go?" she said, almost aloud ; and it was long before her grief found any solace save in the utterance of this despairing cry. She was but a girl with all the weakness of a deep first love but she had also its strength. So after a time her sobs grew calmer, and while with still-dimmed eyes she read Philip's letter, its peaceful influence passed into her spirit. Even then it was so blessed to read this first letter, and to see there written down the love which she had before heard his lips declare; the words "Dearest Eleanor," smiling at her from the top of the | page, almost took away the pain of that sad hour. And as she read on, tracing in every earnest line the brave, true heart of him who wrote, she became comforted more and more. " Eleanor !" ran this dear record (Reader, do not be alarmed lest we should transcribe an ordinary love-letter, for though full of affection, Philip had in him something of reserve, and far too much of good sense ever to indulge in the wild fantastic rhapsodies which have passed into a proverb) " Eleanor, you must not think this departure of mine hasty or ill-advised un- ! kind you will not for you love me, and know that I love you better than any thing on earth ', THE OGILVIES, therefore there can be no thought of unkindness between us. I have gone away, because, know- ing my aunt as well as I do, I see no hope had I remained, but added bitterness and pain for us all. And though I can not I dare not suffer myself unworthily to enter that course she has laid out for me, God forbid that I should, in word or deed, return evil for many kindnesses which she has shown me all my life through. 0, Eleanor ! when I sit here, in the quiet night- time, and think of those boyish days, I almost doubt whether I am really right in thwarting her desire so much. But yet I could not no, Eleanor, you yourself, with your pure right- minded ness, said I ought not to do this thing. And have I not also given up you ? Surely it must be a holy and a worthy sacrifice ! " Dearest ! if in this I have done my aunt wrong and I feel my heart melt toward her, in spite of all the harsh words, ay, and the bitter* taunts which she gave me this' night when you were not by if I have done her wrong you will atone it. She reproached me with casting you off you, my heart's treasure ! she said that her hearth and home should at least be open to you. Let it be so ! Stay with her, Eleanor ; give her the dutiful care that I ought to have shown : it will comfort me to know this. You see how I trust you, Eleanor, as if you were a part of myself feeling that her harsh condemnations will not alter your love. And if her mind should change if she should learn to see with our eyes many things whereon she differs from us now, and should find out why it was I acted thus, how will the influence of my own gentle girl prove a blessing to us all ! In this I think not of world- ly fortune. I will fight my own way, and be indebted to no one on earth, save for the help of affection. " And now, Eleanor, I set out for the path on which we decided. Thank Heaven that I can write we ! that I carry with me your precious love that we are one in heart and mind and look forward to one future, which I will work out. Send me away with a blessing ! Yet you have done so already. Eleanor, that one smile of yours you did not know it was the last, but I did will rest in my heart and be its strength until I see you again. Forgive me that I could not trust myself to say * Good-by.' Yet it is hardly a farewell between those whose hearts and thoughts are ever united ! God grant it may be even so until our lives' end and after! " More did Philip write concerning his worldly plans and the arrangement of their future cor- respondence. All that he said was calm ; breath- ing perhaps more of steadfast patience than of hope but still without a shade of fear either for himself or for her. When Eleanor laid down the letter of her lover, there was not a tear in her eye not a sigh on her lip. "God be with thee, my beloved!" she said fervently ; put the letter in her bosom, and went down stairs. In the hall she met the old waiting-woman, Davis, coming out of the breakfast-room, with tears in her eyes. "O, Miss Ogilvie!" cried the poor soul, "I can't tell what has come over my mistress. Sixteen years have I been in this house and never saw her look so before. She did not speak a word all the while I was dressing her, until Master Philip's little djog whined at the door, and then she grew very angry, and order- ed me to go and tell James to shoot it or hang it, for she did not want to be troubled with it any more. I could hardly believe my ears, Miss Eleanor I couldn't indeed so good as she used to be to poor little Flo. And when I only stood staring, instead of going off, she stamped her foot and ordered me out of the room. To think that my lady should have served me so!" "She did not mean it, good Davis; she is very fond of you," said Eleanor, soothingly. There was room enough in that dear, warm heart of hers for every one's sorrows great and small. " I hope so, Miss ; indeed, I should not care so much, except that I fear something has gone wrong between her and Master Philip. I hap- pened to let fall a word about his being gone ; but she seemed to know it herself beforehand. She turned round so sharply, and desired me never to mention his name, but to go and lock up his room just as it was, for he would not want it again. Ay, dear ! how sorry I shall be not to see the young maste'r here any more !" Eleanor felt her own eyes growing dim, and a choking in her throat prevented any reply. The good woman went on in her voluble grief. " Well, well !" servants have no business with their masters' or mistresses' affairs ; but I do feel sorry about poor Master Philip, whom I have played with many a time when he was a, little boy. And there is another thing that troubles me ; he left me this letter for my mis tress, and for the life of me I daren't give it tc her myself. If it were not making too free, Mis* Ogilvie, I wish you would." Eleanor stretched out her hand for the letter "Where is Mrs. Breynton?" she asked. "At the breakfast-table, Miss sitting bolt upright, like I don't know what ! Bless us all but she's off already. Poor young lady ! something is the matter with her too ; for I saw the tears in her pretty eyes. Well, I don't think she's quarreled with Master Philip, or she would not have looked at his letter so tenderly just as I used to do at poor Samuel's. Ah, lack-a-day ! it's a troublesome world!" And the starched old maid went away up-stairs, rubbing with a corner of her apron each of her dull gray eyes. They might have been young and bright once who knows ? Mrs. Breyton sat, a very statue of rigidity, in her usual placa at the head of the table ; hei face as smooth and unwrinkled as her dress. She said " Good morning, Eleanor, my dear," in the usual tone neither warmer nor colder than the salutation had been for years ; and the hand with which she poured out the coffee was as steady as ever. Eleanor almost began to think that the painful events of the night and morning were only a dream so perfectly as- tounded was she by the manner of the old lady. She had come with a swelling heart to thr :\v herself at the knees of Philip's aunt, and beg her to forgive him or at least, to receive from her- self all the loving care that was in the heart of the nephew whom she had discarded. But at the sight of that frigid, composed face so in- different, so unmarked by any sign of suffering, regret, or oven anger Eleanor felt all her own warm impulses completely frozen- *Phe ?onld 44 THE OGILVIES as easily have po^ed out her feelings before the grim old figures sitting in their niches on the Id cathedral wall. Philip's letter was still in her hand almost unconsciously she thrust it out of sight : and the voice which replied to the morning salutation, though tremulous, was al- most as cold as Mrs. Breynton's own. Eleanor took her place at the breakfast table just as though she had never passed through these sudden phases of love, joy, sorrow events which would govern a life-time. Mechanically her eyes wandered over the familiar objects about the room : the boy's portrait that hung on the wall the orange-trees and the flowers in the conservatory, now bright- ened by a 'week's more sunshine. It was one week only since the morning when Philip and Philip's fortunes had been talked of, sending such a pleasant thrill to her heart : how much one little week, nay, one day, had brought forth ! Mrs. Breynton began, apparently without an effort, her usual morning conversation. This never rambled far beyond what might literally be considered table-talk : the dryness of toast, and the over or under-boiling of eggs, seemed always subjects sufficiently engrossing at that early hour of the day. Thus she succeeded in passing away the half-hour which to Eleanor seemed insupportable. The latter many times was on the point of giving way to her pent-up feelings, when a word or tone sent them all back again to the depth of her heart. How would she ever find courage to deliver Philip's letter ? The breakfast equipage was already removed, and still nothing had been uttered between them except those ordinary common-places which froze Eleanor's very heart. "If you please ma'am," said the retreating James, " the gardener told me to ask if you would have the auriculas planted out, as the weather is so warm now, and he has always done this about Easter ?" There was the faintest possible trembling of Mrs. Breynton's mouth and she dropped a few stitches in her knitting. Then, walking to the window to take them up, she answered, rather angrily ' ; Tell Morris I shall judge myself about the matter, and will speak to him to-morrow." Eleanor Watched all with intense anxiety. She marked how the reference to Easter had startled Mrs. Breynton from her indifference showing how much of it was assumed. Tremu- lously she advanced to the window. "Shall I make the knitting right for you?" she asked. " Thank you, my dear ; I really can not see *o well as I used to do," was the answer. Eleanor gave back the work, and with it Philip's letter. " What is this ?" said Mrs. Breynton, sharply. Eleanor threw herself before her. " ! dear friend, read it pray, read it ; and then you will forgive him forgive me. Indeed, you do not know how unhappy we are !" Mrs. Breynton walked across the room to the fire. It had gone out. She laid the letter on the table, and rang the bell. Eleanor rose up as the man entered. " James," said his mistress, "bring me a lighted taper." When it came she deliberately unsealed the letter, tore it into long strips, and burned eacn of them separately. Eleanor stood and dared not utter a word. There was such iron stern- ness such implacable, calm determination in that rigid face, that the girl was terrified into silence. She saw the words which Philip's dear hand bad traced consumed to ashes, and offered no opposition. Then, Mrs. Breynton advanced, and touched the girl's forehead with her cold, aged lips. "Eleanor Ogilvie, you shall be my daughter if you will. In you I have nothing to forgive much to pity. I take you as my child my only one. But as respects this" she pointed to the little heap of burnt paper " or its writer, the subject must never more be breathed between us." She walked out of the room with her own firm, stately steps; her silks rustling on the staircase as she ascended slowly but not more slowly than usual to her chamber : and then Eleanor heard the door shut. Upon what strug- gles it closed or, if there were any conflict at all no one knew. That day, and for a day or two after, there was a grayer shade on the cheek already pallid with age ; and once or twice in reading the evening prayers the cold, steady voice changed for a moment. But in a week the dean's widow was the same as she had ever been and all went on at the palace as though Philip's name had never been heard. CHAPTER XVII. Authorship is, according to the spirit in which it is pur sued, an infamy, a pastime, a day-labor, a handicraft an art, a science, a virtue. SCHLKQEL. Take away the self-conceited, and there will be elbow- room in the world. WHICHCOTK. MR. PIERCE PENNYTHORNE was what the world respectfully terms a "very clever man." The world understands "cleverness" thoroughly, and venerates it accordingly, though it often scoffs at genius. Perhaps on the same principle the cockney who gazes in admiration on the stone-built fabric of St. Paul's turns away con- temptuously from some grand, lonely mountain of nature's making, and thinks it is not so very fine after all. He can not measure its inches ; he does not understand it. He had rather by half look up from his city dwelling at the gilt cross and ball. Now, Mr. Pennythorne was exactly the man to attract and keep this sort of admiration. In whatever sphere he moved and he had moved in many and various ones during his sixty years of life he was always sure to get the preemi- nence. His acute, decisive character impressed ordinary people with reverence, and his tact and quickness of judgment had enabled him to ex- tract from the small modicum of talent which he possessed the reputation of being a literary star of considerable magnitude. For, after passing through various phases of life, Mr. Pennythorne had finally subsided into literature. He took to writing as another man would take to bricklaying- considering that "The worth of any thing Is just as much as it will bring." And as literature brought him in some hundreds a year, and maintained respectably the house in THE OGILVIES. 45 Blank Square, K insington, together with Mrs. Pennythorne and two young Pennythornes, he regarded it as a \iseful instrument of labor, and valued it accordingly. His was a most conven- ient pen, too a pen of all-work. It would write for any body, on any subject, in any style always excepting that of imaginative litera- ture, in wh.ch road it had never been known to travel. But this, as its owner doubtless believed, was only because it did not choose, as such writing was all trash, and never paid. Such was Mr. Pennythorne abroad : at home tte carried out the same character, slightly fayed. He was, so to speak, the most excellent if tyrants ; his sway was absolute, but he used o already,'" mut tered Mr. Pennythorne, as with some touch of compassion he regarded the young man's wild eyes and haggard face. A faint whisper of con- science, too, hinted that he himself had not used Philip quite well : not but that he had tried to serve him writing to two or three friends, and speaking to two or three more, about "a young man who wanted employment." But Mr. Pen- nythorne had erred where most ostentatious, pa- tronizing men err : and woeful is the misery which they bring on their dependents by the same ! promising far too much, and boasting of imagin ary influence, to gratify a petty love of power. There never yet was human heart so naturall) cold, or so frozen over by outward formalities, that you could not find in one corner or other some fountain of goodness bubbling up. No matter how soon it disappears it has been, and therefore may be again. Now, just such a spring as this began to irrigate that very dry and dusty portion of Mr. Pennythorne's anatomy which lay under his left waistcoat pocket ; and, by a curious sympathy between external and internal things, he remembered that there was in this said pocke* a five-pound note. His fingers even advanced nearer to it they touched it but just at this moment a loud, fashionable knock came to the hall-door, and the tiny fountain in Mr. Penny- thorne's heart sank suddenly down. Still, it had watered a little the arid soil around. " Come and dine with me to-morrow, my dear boy," he said, cordially; "and cheer up. I'll think of something for you by that time." " To-morrow to-morrow to-morrow," sigh- ed Philip, mechanically repeating that word of mournful beguiling. As he descended, he passed in the hall a stylish little lady, who had just stepped from her carriage, and was busy im- pressing on the servant "Mrs. Lancaster's wish for only five minutes' speech of Mr. Pennythorne." Philip stood aside to let the visitor pass by and then departed. He crept wearily along the sunny side of the square, all glare, and dust, and burn ing heat ; and there came idly jingling through his brain, in that season of care, so dull, heavy, and numbing as to shut out all consecutive thought, the fragment of olden rhyme " Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play ; For some must watch, while some must sleep ; Thus runs the world away." It so chanced that Mr. Pennythorne, working hard all that day at a review of a book which he had no time to read, and in the evening busily engaged dispensing his bon-mots and amusing THE OG1L IES. fellow ihat came yesterday, you know, if I wanted a tutor for Leigh how much sneers in Mrs. Lancaster's gay drawing-room, never thought agaur, of Philip Wychnor until his wife asked him the next morning what he would have for dinner. Mr. Pennythorne's sway, be it known, extended even to the comestibles of his household. "Dear me that reminds me that I asked young Wychnor to dine here, and I promised to think of something for him. Really, how tire- some are these fellows iu want of employment !" And the old gentleman cogitated for at least five minutes, with his chin on his hand. At last, a brilliant thought struck him. "Cillie, my dear." "Yes, Pierce." ''How much did that young Johnson the to ask did he charge by the lesson ?' " Half-a-guinea for two hours ; only he wanted his lunch as well, and you said that would " " Tut tut ! how women's tongues do run ! Mrs. Pennythorne, will you be so obliging as to go down-stairs ? and when I need your advice and conversation I will ring the bell." And Mr. Pennythorne politely opened the door for his wife, shut her out, and returned to his easy chair. " That will just do a capital plan !" said he, rubbing his hands with an air of benevolent sat- isfaction. " How thankful the poor fellow will be ! Of course, one could not give him so much as a professed tutor. Let me see s&yfour hours at half-a-guinea, and that twice a week : a very good thing for him very good indeed. He ought to be quite satisfied, and very thankful. It will save me time and trouble, too for that Leigh is getting confoundedly stupid; so kill two birds with one stone. Really, what young I shall deal of good one can do in the world if one tries!" With a pleasing conviction of his own gener- osity, Mr. Pennythorne leaned back in his chair, and summoned his wife, to give orders for a tur- bot and lamb with a dish of game to follow. " Young Wychnor is coming here to-day," he added, benevolently. "I dare say he does not get such a dinner every day." He certainly did not but Mr. Pennythorne did very often. Therefore he was obliged, alas ! to pay his son's tutor only two shillings and seven- pence halfpenny for each hour's instruction in Latin, Greek, and Mathematics. self and so did Mrs. Pennyihorne. Moreover, the latter often added to the benevolence by giv- ing Philip a glass of wine and a sandwich when he came in, hot and exhausted, after his three- mile walk. These were not " nominated in the bond," and Philip took them gratefully. The trifling kindness was better than the gold. He had at first little pleasure in teaching Leigh Pennjjthorne. . He gave his instruction carefully, patiently, kindly ; but it never seemed to pene- trate beyond the outward layer of the boy's dull, overworked brain. The soil had been plowed and sown over and over again, until there was no vestige of fertility left in it. Philip tried to in- terest his young pupil to make a friend of him but the heart seemed as dead as the brain. Now and then there would come a gleam of speculation into the heavy eyes ; but it was only a passing one, and the youth's face sank a-ain into its vacant dreariness. I* Leigh has got plenty of brains only they re quire a great deal of hammering to knock out the laziness," said the father. "Leigh has grown the sulkiest fellow that ' :s. By Jove ! father's head CHAPTER XX. Should the Body sue the Mind before a court of judi- cature for damages, it would be found that the Mind would prove to have been a ruinous tenant to its landlord. PLUTARCH. Can I love thee, my beloved can I love thee? And is this like love, to stand With no help in my hand, When strong as death I fain would watch above thee ? May God love thee, my beloved, may God love thee 1 E. B. BROWNING. THE five-pound note found its way into Philip's pocket after all. To be sure, it came diluted into guinea-drops at not very regular intervals but still it did come, and Mr. Pennythorne had done a benevolent action. He felt sure of this him- ever lived, over those stupid books. I'm glad nobody ever put it into famci a that I was clever," laughed Mr. Frederick. "Poor Leigh! I wonder why he will make himself ill with sitting over the fire and never going out," Mrs. Pennythorne would sometimes lament: but she never dared to say more hardly to think. So, the boy grew paler anti duller every day, but still he must work work for the time was going by, and Mr. Pennythorne was determined to have a man of learning in the family. His credit was at stake, for he had vaunted every where his son's classic acquirements, and the boast should be made good in spite of " that lazy Leigh." Morning and night the father attacked him. " Study study !" was forever dinned into his ears ; so, at last, the boy rarely stirred out of his own little den. There he sat, with his books heaped up around him : they helped to build the altar-pile on which the deluded father was offering up his victim. Philip Wychnor saw very little of all this, or his truthful tongue could not have kept silence, He was sorry for the boy, and tried to make the few hours during which he himself guided his studies, as little like labor as possible ; and if ever Leigh's countenance brightened into inter- est or intelligence, it was during the time that he was alone with his gentle teacher. That teacher was, himself, fast yielding to the effects of the desolate and anxious summer through which he had passed. It had prostrated all hit bodily energies, and his mind sank with them, He felt as though he were gradually drawing nearer and nearer into the shadow of some terri- ble illness which he could not avert. Every day he rose up with the thought, "Well, I wonder what will become of me before night!" and every night when he lay down on his bed, it was under a vague impression that he might not rise from it again. At last, one morning when he left the Penny- thornes, he felt so ill that he ventured to expend sixpence in a ride home almost his last coin, poor fellow! for it wanted some days of the month's end, and Mr. Pennythorne was never be- forehand in his disbursements. As he sat in the 52 THE OGILVIES. corner of the omnibus, with his hat drawn over his aching eyes, he felt conscious of nothing save the dull rolling of the vehicle which carried him somewhere he hardly knew where. There was a crying child near him and a lady with a sharp- tone'd voice, who drew her silk robes from the babe's greasy fingers, and glared angrily at its shabbily-clad mother, muttering not inaudibly, 11 What very disagreeable people one meets in omnibuses !" About King William-street there was a stoppage in the street, and a consequent pushing of passengers' heads out of the window, with a general murmur about a woman having been run over. All these things Philip's eye and ear perceived as through a dense, confused mist : he sat in his corner and never stirred. "What unfeelingness !" muttered the lady- passenger with the silk dress, who seemed to find her own self such very dull company that she spent her whole time in watching and comment- ing on other people. "Totten' Co't Road!" bawled out the con- ductor ; and Philip was just conscious of making a movement to alight, and being assisted out by a little old man who sat by the door. " Money, sir !" the omnibus man shouted in- dignantly, as Philip turned away. He took out a shilling and hastily went on. " Gen'lemen drunk never wants no change," said the conductor, with a broad grin that made all the passengers laugh except the odd-looking little old man. As he stood on the step, in the act of descending, he threw back on the conductor the most frowning glance of which his mild, good- natured eyes were capable. Philip walked on a little way into a quiet street, and there leaned against a railing, utterly unable to stand. A touch at his elbow startled him : it was the queer old man in the omnibus. "Afraid you're ill, sir," said the most depre- cating and yet kindly voice in the world. " No yes perhaps so the day is so hot," murmured Philip, and then he fainted in the street. Luckily, he had with him a card. Oppressed with the presentiment of sudden illness, he al- ways took this precaution. The little old man called a cab and took him home. That night Philip Wychnor lay smitten with fever on his poor pallet-bed in the close back attic of street. At the same hour Eleanor was passing up and down under the lime-tree shadow of the palace-garden thinking of her betrothed. She pictured him in busy London, at work bravely, steadily, hopefully. Perchance she almost en- vied his lot of active employment, while she her- self had to bear many home trials^to walk in the old paths and see Philip's face there no more to have one constant thought of Philip in her heart, and yet fear to utter his name. Dear, faithful Eleanor, could she have seen him now ! Oh, why is love so powerless so vain? in- finite in will, yet how bounded in power ! We would fain spread world-extended wings of shelter and comfort over our beloved ; and yet in our helpless earth-nature we may let them sink, suffer, die, alone ! Strange and sad it is, that we, who would brave alike life's toil and death's agony ay, lay down body and soul at the feet of ever was giad to see me or who told me so." There was a tone half bitter half despondent piercing through the boy's apathy but Philip took no notice of it. "How did you know I was ill?" he asked. " Oh, I could easily see that the last day you came. I watched you down our square, and' into the omnibus I hope you'll not be offended at that, Mr. Wychnor?" and the sallow cheek of the shy boy reddened visibly. Philip pressed his hand and Leigh brightened up more and more. "I said to. myself that you must be ill, as you never rode home before ; so the next day, when the governor dined out, I came over here to see.". " How kind ! you who never care to stir from home." am been here very often since then ; only you were light-headed, and did not know me." " But they told me I had a fever. Oh, Leigh, if you should take it!" said Philip, hurriedly. " Don't mind that ; I heard the doctor say it wasn't catching and if it were, I should not be afraid. It would be rather pleasant to have a fever, and then I should not work. But there's no danger : so don't make yourself uncomfort- able." "But your father?" " Oh, he knows nothing about it, I managed all so cleverly. Guess how f I wrote a letter in your name, saying you had fallen down and sprained your foot, so that you would be glad if father would let me take the lessons here, and you'd give an extra one each week. I knew that would catch the old governor !" and an expression in which the glee of childhood and the sarcasm of manhood were conjoined passed over the boy's face. "The writing looked'just like yours, and I put it in the post-office at Southampton Row. He never found out the cheat. How should he ? So I used to come over regularly with my books and then I took care of you." Philip was struck dumb by the strange mixture of affection and duplicity, generosity and utter neglect of truth or duty, which the boy's conduct exhibited. But the good was Leigh's own nature the evil, the result of his education. Philip, weak and ill as he was, had no power to argue the right and wrong of the case. He only felt the influence of this sudden upspringing of affection toward himself; it came to him like waters in a dry land he could not thrust it from him, though much that was evil mingled in thf fountain's source. Liegh went on talking as fast as though he had a twelvemonth's arrears of silence to make up at once. "I told the landlady I was your cousin she and I got very good friends I used to pay her every week." "Pay her?" echoed Philip, as a thought of his empty purse flashed across his mind. "Oh, yes of course, father sent the money for the lessons just as usual it did very nicely or I really don't know how I could have got you what you wanted during your illness. But 1 shall talk too much for you. Hadn't you better lie down again?" The advice did not come too soon, for Philip, bewildered and exhausted, had sunk back in hi* chair. THE OGILV.ES. In a moment the dull, stupid Leigh Penny- horne became changed into the most active and skillful of nurses gentle and thoughtful as a woman. His apathetic manner, his lazy drawl, seemed to vanish at once. He tended Philip, and even wept over him with a remorseful affec- tion that was touching to witness. ye hard parents, who look upon your off- spring as your mere property, to be brought up for your pleasure or pride never remembering that each child may have lived, and assuredly will live, through eternity, an independent, self- existing being that the Bestower of these young spirits gives them not, but lends " Take this child and mii'se it for Me" think what a fearful thing it is to have upon your heads the destruction of a human soul ! Philip, left to himself, thought much and anxiously of the best course to pursue : and by the best Philip Wychnor always meant the right : he never turned aside to expediencies. Once, his upright, truthful mind prompted him to write the whole story to Mr. Penny thorne ; but then he soon saw how terrible would be the result to Leigh. He would not give up the poor, boy whose fragile life seemed to owe its sole brightness to his own affection. So as the young teacher himself gathered strength he set about the cure of this poor diseased mind ; trying to bend it straight, as he would a tree which wrong culture had warped aside, not with a sudden wrench, but by a grad- ual influence ; so that, ere long, he made Leigh see and acknowledge his errors. And all this he did so gently, that while the boy's spirit opened to the light, he loved more than ever the hand which brought it. even though the brightness of truth revealed in his heart much evil that op- pressed him with shame. "And now," said Philip, one day, as Leigh sat beside him listening to his gentle arguments, "What are we to do to amend all this ?" "I don't know. Do you decide," answered Leigh humbly. " Go and tell your father, what is indeed the truth, that I have been too ill to give you your lessons; but that you had not courage to say this, and continued coming here still. Surely he can not be angry, since this was from kindness to me." Leigh shook his head. " I'll do it, however, if you say so. You must be right, Mr. Wychnor, and I don't care what happens to myself." "And tell your father, too, from me," contin- ued Philip, "that I will make up all the missed lessons as soon as ever I recover. I could not rest with this load on my mind." There was a look of surprise and tenderness in the large, wistful eyes which now seemed ever reading Philip's face. " You must be a very good man, Mr. Wych- nor." said Leigh, simply. " You do and say the sort of things that I used to read of long ago when 1 had books I liked I don't mean these !" and he kicked the blue bag disdainfully. " I fancied I should meet in real life the same sort of good- ness, but I never did ; and so, at last, I thought it was only found in poetry and novels. I don't now, though." Philip made no answer to this simple child- like confession, but it went to his heart. He vowed within himself that while the boy lived he would not part fron him, but would strive through all difficulties tt guide this frail, strug- gling spirit to the light. Mr. Pennythorne was rati.er indignant af having been deceived, but his parental dignity grew mollified by the humble behavior of his son. " Leigh is not half so sulky as he used to be ? and he gets on very well with young Wychnor, n he observed to Mrs. Pennythorne. "It is not worth while breaking up the lessens, when the lad came himself and told of his own error. However, he must apologize properly, for I can not have my authority set at naught." The mother deferentially suggested that it did poor Leigh, so much good to go out every day ; and so the end of the matter was, that Mr. Pennythorne graciously acceded to the lessons being given at Philip's home the extra one being still continued. " And about the money already received ?" said Philip, anxiously, when his young pupil brought the message. " Will your father wait until I can return it?" Leigh blushed crimson, and turned to the window. " Oh, he is quite satisfied on that account ; you are not to think about it any more." " How kind !" And in Philip's first uneasi- ness and quick-springing gratitude he never noticed Leigh's confusion. The bo- had sold his watch his pet play- thing and companion to pay his father the money. CHAPTER XXII. Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs in ^Esop were extremely wise : they had a great mind to some water, but they would not leap into a well because they could not get out again. SELDEN. A coxcomb is ugly all over with the affectation of a fine gentleman. STEKLI. IN the bay-window of a somewhat tawdry London drawing-room stood a lady alone. She was looking toward the street more through idleness than curiosity, for she kept restlessly beating time with her riding-whip on her gloved hand. You could not see her face, except the outline of the cheek and graceful little ear but these wore all the beautiful roundness of early youth ; and her tall figure, which the dark riding-habit so well displayed, had an almost statue-like perfection in its curves. By degrees the impatient little hand grew still, the fair head drooped, and with her brow leaning against the window-pane the girl stood for some minutes in thought. The fact itself showed how young she was. After twenty, one's ponderings usually grow too deep and earnest to be expended in light and sudden rev- eries. A voice outside and an opened door broke in upon these musings, and caused the young girl to turn round. It was Katharine Ogilvie. "Dear me, Katharine, how you are altered !" exclaimed the lady who entered the room also an old acquaintance of ours, whom we have left so long to pursue the sole aim of her life, mat- rimony, that we feel almost ashamed to re-in troduce her as still Miss Isabella Worsley. THE OGILVIES. * 1 never saw such a change !" continued she, m genuine astonishment, which really was not at all surprising. Eleanor had proved right in her conjecture ; one could hardly see any where a more graceful and beautiful young creature than Katharine Ogilvie at nineteen. "Why, what has made such a difference in you?" con- tinued Isabella, " eying her over" from head to foot. Katharine smiled, and a faint color rose into her cheek : a lovely cheek it was too no longer sallow, but of a clear pale brown, under which the rich blood wandered, at times suffusing it with a peach-like glow. " You know it is nearly three years since you saw me, Isabella:" and as she spoke a deeper and more womanly thrill might have been traced in her silvery voice. " Three years ! nay, I am sure it is not nearly so much," said Isabella, with some little acer- bity. She began to find it rather irksome to count years. " Indeed it is, all but two months. It will be three years next February I mean January;" and Katharine's color grew a shade deeper as she continued more quickly, "Yes, it was in January that you came, Isabella you and Liz- zie, and George and we had, besides, Eleanor and Hugh. What a merry time it was !" " You seem to remember it exceedingly well," said Isabella, pointedly, and not altogether with- out ill-nature. " Certainly I do," answered Katharine's se- reno voice ; and the beautiful head was lifted a little, with an air of dignity not unmixed with pride. If showed Isabella at once that where she had left the child she had found the woman. She turned the conversation immediately. " We have been looking for you all the morn- ing, Katharine. It is so horridly dull to be up in town when every body else is out of it ; living in lodgings too, with nobody but mamma. I wish this disagreeable law-business were over. But come, my dear girl, take off your hat and let us talk. How long have you to stay with me this morning ?" " My father will come for me in an hour or two, if he can get away from the house Other- wise, he will be sure to send Hugh." " Hugh ! Oh, really I shall be quite delighted to see cousin Hugh! Is he altered?" and the sharp eyes fixed themselves observantly on Kath- arine's face. " Oh, no ! Hugh is just the same as ever," answered the young girl, with a merry laugh, as she stood braiding back the thick black hair which had fallen in taking off her hat. The attitude was so unconstrained so perfectly graceful that Isabella's envious heart acknowl- edged perforce the exceeding beauty of her oousin. " And Hugh stays at Summerwood as much s he used to do ?" she pursued, keeping up the same scrutiny. " Oh yes ! I don't know what papa would do without him, now he is himself in Parliament. Hugh manages every thing at the Park ; takes care of the farming and the shooting of mam- ma, of Brown Bess, and of myself." "So I suppose," muttered Isabella. " Besides, he can hardly feel settled any where eke, now that Eleanor lives with Mrs. Breyn- ton." "Ah! teL me all about that," cried Miss Worsley, in her eagerness for gossip. ''How odd it was of Eleanor to go and live entirely with a stupid old woman ! But perhaps she had plenty of money to leave ?" Katharine's proud lip curled. "Eleanor is not a legacy-hunter, I imagine," she answered, coldly. " I really did not intend to vex you, my dear," said Miss Worsley. " Of course, Hugh's sister is all perfection." "What did you say, Isabella?" asked the quiet and rather haughty voice. " Oh, nothing, nothing ; only that Eleanor and I never took to one another much, though we are cousins, and so we never correspond: therefore, all I know of her proceedings is from hearsay. Pray, enlighten me, Katharine ; I do love a nice little bit of mystery." " There is really no mystery about the matter," answered Katharine, smiling. I have not seen my cousin much of late and her letters are rather short than otherwise, and contain very little about herself. I know no more than every one else does that, being an orphan and sister- less, she likes to live with an old lady who was her mother's friend and is very fond of herself. There is nothing very mysterious in this is there?" "Oh, no! only I was rather curious about the matter^ for Eleanor's sake, of course," said the young lady. We call her so par excellence as Isabella was essentially one of those care- fully manufactured articles which the boarding- school creates and " society" finishes. There is a German fairy fable of the Elle-women, who are all fair in front, but if you walk round them hollow as a piece of stamped leather. Perhaps this is a myth of young-ladyhood. Our young lady, then, finding it impossible to pump from Katharine any thing that adminis- tered to her vanity or her love of gossip, began to feel the conversation growing rather tiresome ; so she took out a piece of fancy-work, and having tried to engage her visitor's admiration of it, eet her to wind some Berlin wool : doubtless think- ing within herself how stupid it was to talk to girls, and wishing for the arrival of any two- legged animal in coat and hat to relieve the tedium of this morning call. And as if at that auspicious moment For- tunatus's wishing-cap had adorned her head, instead of the pretty little nondescript fabric of wool which she wore, partly for warmth, partly because any sort of matronly coif sets off a passe face advantageously lo ! there was a terrific thundering at the hall-door, and the servant ap- peared with a card. " Mr. Frederick Pennythorne," read Isabella. " Show him up immediately." And with an air of satisfaction she glanced at the mirror, and went through one or two small ceremonies of dress-arranging with which fair damsels of her stamp always honor the approach of an individual in broadcloth. "A matter of business, I conclude?" ob- served Katharine, "as you said you had no friends in town now. Shall I be in the way?" " Oh, no ; not in the least. The fact is, that Mr. Pennythorne is the solicitor in our suit quite a rising young man; not disagreeable either. He calls often rather oftener than is THE OGILVIES. quite necessary for the law-business" (here Isabella cast her eyes down with an affected smile, and tittered exceedingly), " so. Katharine, it is perhaps as well for you to be here, as mamma is so very particular. But I suppose you have not got to these things yet, my dear ; and, in- deed" Open sesame ! videlicet the drawing-room door and then enter Mr. Frederick Penny- thorne ! Then came due greeting and introduction, and the small rattle of conversation began. It was just such as might have been expected from the two principal interlocutors, for Katharine took little part in it. With instinctive, but in this case quite superfluous delicacy, she soon retired to the window ; and if once or twice her eyes wandered toward Isabella and the new visitor, her gaze was induced by a far deeper feeling than idle curiosity. To her, all lovers and all love were sacred ; and she felt for the first time a sympathy with her cousin. The young, un- suspicious heart saw in all others but the like- ness of its own : the true could not even divine the false. Yet a little, a very little, did Katharine mar- vel, when the light laugh and unconcerned chatter of her cousin struck her ear. Love seemed to her such a deep, earnest thing and there was Isabella all carelessness and merri- ment, even in the presence of her lovtr. Lover ! As Katharine glanced at the easy, self-com- placent rattler of small compliments, a feeling came over her very like self-scorn for having so applied the word. And, turning away from the mean prettiness of the well-arranged, smirking visage, with its small lappets of whisker meet- ing under the chin, and its unmistakable air of "Don't you see what a good-looking fellow I am?" there rose up before her the shadowy likeness of a calm, thoughtful face, with broad, noble brow and deep eyes. Then Katharine, smiling to herself a proud, joyous smile, did not even think again of Mr. Frederick Penny- thorne. That gentleman, on his part, was inclined to return the somewhat negative compliment. People like himself feel an extreme aversion to being looked down upon, either corporeally or mentally. Katharine Ogilvie, unfortunately, did both; and the manner in which she received his first compliment effectually prevented his hazarding a second. He found his small mind quite out of its depths, and floundered back as quickly as possible to the protecting shallows of Miss Worsley's easy talk. When Katharine was startled out of her pleasant silence by the announcement of the visitor's departure, all that passed between them was a valedictory bow, which Miss Ogilvie tried to make^as cour- teous as possible to the imagined lover of her cousin. "Dear me! how tiresome these men are! What trouble I have with them, to bo sure !" exclaimed Miss Wbrhley, throwing herself lan- guidly into an arm-chair, while a gratified sim- per rather contradicted her assertions. Katharine looked a good deal surprised. " Why, Bella, I thought you were quite glad to ee this gentleman; that he was a particular friend of yours in short, a " " Beau, you mean," interrupted Isabella, with a laugh, "or admirer, or sweetheart, as the maid-servants say." "And Shakspeare who makes the word so pretty, as indeed it is sweet heart" said Kath arine; who scarcely knew whether or not to echo her cousin's laugh, and in truth could hardly tell what to make of her. At last she inquired earnestly "My dear Bella, do you and this young man really love one another?" Isabella laughed more heartily than ever. "Well, that is good ! 'Love one another!' it sounds just like a text out of the Bible. You little simplicity ! nobody ever talks in that way nowadays, except in novels. Where did you learn your pretty lesson, my dear, and who taught you?" Again the proud cheek's sudden crimson warned Miss Worsley that the childish days wherein she used to make sport of her young cousin were over. She changed her tactics immediately, seriously adding " Well, well, I know what you mean, Kath arine ; the mere form of words does not much signify. Whether I like Fred Pennythorne or not, 'tis quite clear he likes me as indeed he managed to tell me about ten minutes ago." "And you will marry him that is, if you never loved any one else?" said Katharine, simply. " My dear girl, how unsophisticated you are ! What difference could that last fact make in my becoming Mrs. Pennythorne? Why, I have had affairs of this sort, off and on, ever since I was sixteen. It is very hard ; but if men will fall in love, what can one do ? However, you will be finding out these things for yourself one day, if what I hear people say about you be true." " What do people say about me ? And there was a trembling at the girl's heart, as the thought passed through it, that but no, it was impossible ! She smiled calmly. " Pray tell me this interesting rumor, Isabella." " Only that when Miss Katharine Ogilvie marries, she will not need to change her sur- name and that" our excellent cousin Hugh bids fair to inherit title, estates, heiress, and all. So thinks the world." Katharine drew herself up with lofty dignity. " I do not see that the world has any business to think about the matter ; but whether it does or not, can be of little consequence to me, or to Hugh either. We are too good friends to mind an idle report." " Yes, yes, it is all quite proper for you to talk so now, my dear but we shall see. I guessed how it would end, long ago ; and so, I dare say, did some older heads than either yours or mine. Of course, your father and mother both know what a good match it would be for you." "A good match!" repeated Katharine, while her beautiful lip curled, and her whole mien ex- pressed ineffable scorn. " Is that all that people marry for?" "Isabella, at this moment, jumped up from her seat by the window. " Talk of the I beg your pardon, and that of Mr. Hugh Ogilvie, fo* there he is riding down the street. And oh ! doesn't he look up at the window, Miss Katha- rine ? Well, he is a fine-looking fellow so ( congratulate you, my dear." THE OGILVIES. 57 If the flashes of indignant womanly pride that, shot from Katharine's eyes had been lightning- gleams, they would have consumed Isabella to tshes. CHAPTER XXIII. Oh ! I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little horde of maxims preaching down a daugh- ter's heart. TENNYSON. Well ! nature makes some wise provisions ! We might be envious of others' happiness, if in nine cases out of ten we did not despise it. L. E. L. KATHARINE rode home with her father and Hugh, more silent and thoughtful than was her wont, Two or three times her horse started at some restless, almost angry motions of its young rider ; and when Hugh came anxiously to her assistance, she rejected his aid a little sharply. " How independent you are, this morning, Katharine !" said the young man, jestingly. " Of course I am, and always will be," was the quick answer. Hugh looked surprised' and somewhat hurt and Katharine instantly reproached herself. "How foolish I am how wrong!" she thought. "It might have been all nonsense the mere gossip of Isabella, about it." I will not think arry more So she called Hu<*h to her side, with some trivial observation, in which the gentle tone made all the concession needed. But as she noticed how hastily he spurred his horse for- ward at her summons, and how his whole coun- tenance beamed with delight, Katharine again became troubled. In these frequent rides, the two young people were in the habit of lingering behind Sir Rob- ert, to look at the country around, and talk. But this time, Katharine kept her horse close beside her father's, the whole way ; and when they reached Summerwood, she leaped off, without waiting for Hugh's customary assistance. " Still independent, Katharine," said the young man, too little sensitive, or else feeling too sure of his prize, to notice the change in his cousin's manner. She laughed but the laugh was forced ; and springing up the hall-steps, with an excuse about being late for dinner, she went at once to her own room her young bosom oppressed with a new care. The possibility of Hugh's wishing to make her his wife had never crossed Katharine's mind before. She had no girlish vanity ; and the one great love which absorbed every thought, aim, and desire of her heart, shut out from it entirely all lesser fancies, or even the suspicion of their existence in others. Besides, all her life she had looked upon Hugh as a brother, and treated him as such. His quiet nature was satisfied with this frank and affectionate intercourse ; and believing that in her secluded life she had no chance of forming any other attachment, he waited until his uncle gave him leave to say "Katharine, will you marry me?" fully per- suaded that she would at once answer, " Thank you, Hugh; 1 will." As he really loved her very dearly, he would then most probably tell her so : and so they would settle down into pla- cid matrimonial felicity, suck as was in fashion at Summerwood. And was the passionate dream of almost idol- atrous love to subside into this ? Was Katha- rine, with her intense yearning after all that is great and glorious with a soul so high, that it sought a yet loftier for its worship thus to sink from her ideal of marriage ? There, husband and wife stood hand-in-hand in their fair and be- loved home genius, worth, and world-wide goodness shedding dignity and happiness around them. Could she barter this glorious future for a life with one who had no higher interests than the kennel, the stable, and the chase ? Katharine almost maddened at the thought. But immediately she reproached .herself for tht intense scorn which she felt embittering her against Hugh poor, easy Hugh ! How could he help it, if he were not endowed with brains ? Katharine began to ponder on the possibility of his loving her; and her memory, roving over past years, found many a little circumstance that confirmed this vague suspicion. She grew very sad. The love that filled her own heart, taught her compassion toward Hugh. She thought of her parents, and of the motives which Isabella had imputed to them. The de- tested words, "a good match," rang in her ears, goading her proud nature to resistance. " They shall never buy and sell me ! me, to whom he gave his loving words, his blessing, his parting kiss. Oh, Paul, Paul ! no man liv ing, save you, shall ever have this hand. I wih keep it for you unto my life's end !" And she kissed with wild passion her own delicate hand the hand which had once been made forever sacred by the clasp of Paul Lynedon's. Then she went to the little desk where she kept all her treasures. There, with many a girlish memento token-flowers, so idly given but so fondly kept lay the only letter she had ever received from him the one he had written after his rejection by Eleanor. At first, how rarJtarous had been the joy it brought to her ! And with succeeding weeks and months came a happiness calmer, indeed, but not less deep. In all her longing regrets for him, in all her light home-troubles, how it comforted her to fly to her little treasure-house, lay her cheek upon the paper, and feel that its very touch changed all tears to smiles ! How blessed it was to read over and over again her name written in his own hand linked, too, with tenderest words, "My dear Katharine, my true Katharine !" And she was true fatally true to the love which she deemed she read in this letter. The thoughtless outburst of wounded feeling, idly penned and soon forgotten, became to her de- ceived heart a treasure which gave it its hope its strength its life. She never doubted him for one moment not even when his absence grew from months into years, and no tidings either of him or from him ever reached her loneliness. Some strange necessity detained him ; but that he would come back to claim the love which he had won, she felt as sure as that the sun was in the heavens. Once only, tha terrible, withering thought struck her, that he was dead ! But no for in death he would have remembered her. She did not conjure up that horror again she could not have done so, and lived ! So she waited calmly all her care being to make herself worthy of him, and of that bless- ed time when he should claim her. She str^e to THE OG1LV1ES. ift herself nearer to him, in intellect, heart, and soul ; she cherished her beauty, and rejoiced as She saw herself grow fairer day by day ; she practiced every graceful accomplishment that might make her more winning in his sight; and when, at last, the world's praises were lav- ished at the feet of Sir Robert Ogilvie's heiress, Katharine gloried in her resistless charms, her talents, and her beauty, since they were all for him ! There was in her but one thing wanting the deep, holy faith which sees in love itself but the reflection of that pure ideal after which all should strive, and which in the heart's wildest devotion never suffers the Human to shut out the Divine. . Katharine took the letter and read it for the thousandth time. Its tender words seemed breathed in her ear by Paul's own voice, giving her comfort and strength. Then she placed before her the likeness, which, no longer hung up in her chamber, was now hidden carefully from sight. She gazed upon it fondly yearn- ingly ; but she thought not of the young poet's face she only felt as though she were looking into Paul Lynedon's eyes. * ; They shall never tear me frdm you, my own, own love my noble one!" she cried. "I will stand firm against father mother the whole world. I will die rather than wed any man living save you!" But she felt rather ashamed of these heroic resolutions against unjust parents, &c., &c., when she found no change in the behavior of any of the party. Her good-natured father, her kind moiiiei, and her quiet, easy-tempered Hugh, seemed by no means characters for a stern trag- edy of blighted love and innocence oppressed. In the course of a week Katharine's suspicions died away, and she smiled at the easy credence ehe had given to an idle rumor. But, ne^ver- theless, the thoughts which it awakened were not without their influence, but rooted deeper and deeper in her heart its intense and engross- ing love. One day Lady Ogilvie entered her daughter's little study it was still the old, beloved room with an air of mysterious importance, and a let- ter in her hand. " My dear Katharine, I have some news for you. Here is a letter from your aunt Worsley ; but read it yourself it will save me the trouble of talking." And Lady Ogilvie now grown a little older, a little stouter, and a good deal less active sat down in the arm-chair the very arm-chair wherein Sir James had died and began to stroke a great black eat of which Katharine tcok affec- tionate care, because in its kitten-days it had been a plaything of her grandfather's second childhood. Once or twice Lady Ogilvie glanced toward her daughter's face, and wondered that Katharine manifested scarcely any surprise, but returned the letter, merely observing " Well, mamma, I am sure you are very glad, and so am I." " Really, my dear, how quietly you take it ! A wedding in the family does not come every day. I feel quite excited 'about it myself." " But, mamma, it is not exactly news to me. I met Mr. Penny thorne the day I was at aunt Worsley's." " And you never said a word about it !" "It would not have been right, as Isabella begged me not." " Young people should never keep any thing from their parents," was the mild reproof of Lady Ogilvie. "Indeed, dear mamma, to tell the truth, 1 have scarcely thought of the matter a second time, as I did not take much interest in the gen- tleman. But I am glad Isabella is to be mar- ried, since I think she wished it very much." And the slight satirical tendency which lay dormant in Katharine peeped out in a rather comically-repressed smile. "It is very natural a. young person should wish to be settled," answered the impassive Lady Ogilvie "especially when she is, like your cousin, the eldest of a large family. The only thing requisite is, that she should make a suitable match." Katharine started a little, and her fair brow contracted for a moment at the disagreeable reminiscences which her mother's last words recalled. But Lady Ogilvie went on quite un- consciously. " In Isabella's case every thing seems satis factory. With your father, Mrs. Worsley* is, of course, more explicit than with me ; and her letter to him states that the gentleman has a good income and excellent prospects. The family are respectable, too, though rather cit- oyen. But that will not signify to Isabella, as Mr. Frederick Pennythorne intends taking a house at the west-end. Indeed, from what Sir Robert tells me, I should consider Isabella most fortunate, as she has little or no fortune, and may not have a better offer." During this speech, delivered rather prosily and oracularly, Katharine had listened in perfect silence. Once or twice she bit her beautiful under lip until its curves grew of a deeper rose, and tapped her little foot restlessly upon the cushion, so as materially to disturb the peace of mind of the great black cat who usually claimed it. When Lady Ogilvie ceased, ex- pecting a replv, the only one she gained was "Well, mamma?" " Well, my dear, you seem to take very little interest about the matter." "Not a great deal, I confess." " What an odd girl you are, Katharine ! I imagined all young ladies of your age must be interested in love and matrimony," said the mother, eying her child rather suspiciously. " I don't think the two are united in this case," answered Katharine, " and, therefore, I care less about it." " But, my dear child, you are coming to an age when it is necessary to have right ideas on these points. Most probably, some time or other, you yourself " " You do not want to send Katharine away from you?" said the girl, rising suddenly, and putting her arms round her mother's neck, so that her face was hid from Lady Ogilvie's ob- servation. " By no means, love ; but " " Then we will not talk about it." " Not if you do not like it, my darling," said the mother, fondly ; and at the moment a sudden and natural impulse of maternal jealousy made j her feel that it would be hard to give ut her THE OGILVIES. nly child to any husband whomsoever. Fhe drew Katharine to the stool at her feet. " Sit down here, love, and let us go on talk- ing about Isabella. You know she wishes to have you for bridesmaid shall you like it?" "Yes, certainly, if you are willing." " Oh, to be sure ; and, moreover, as the mar- riage is to be so soon, before Mrs. Worshy leaves London, your papa intends proposing that it shall take place- at Summerwood. It will cause a good deal of trouble, but then Isa- bella is his only sister's child, and has no father living. Sir Robert thinks this plan would be more creditable to the family than having her married from lodgings ; and I quite agree with him, especially as it will please your aunt so much." " What a good, kind, thoughtful mamma you are!" murmured Katharine, with a sudden twinge of conscience as she remembered all the conflicting ideas which had passed through her mind within the last ten minutes. "And now, my dear, as there is no time to be lost, I have ordered the carriage, that we may go at once to your aunt's and arrange about the dresses and other matters. She will make a nice bridesmaid, will my little Kath- arine ! I shall quite like to see her," added the mother, affectionately passing her hand down the smooth, braided hair. Katharine laughed as merrily as a child. " And when she comes to be a bride herself," continued Lady Ogiivie, in tones whose formal- ity had sunk to an almost perceptible tremulous- ness, " she will make a good choice, 'and marry so as to please her papa and me." " I will never marry without consulting your will and my father's," said Katharine, softly, but i. rally ; " and you must leave me equally free in mine." " Of course we shall, my child ! But there is time enough to think about that. Now, let us go together and congratulate Isabella." CHAPTER XXIV. "Tis a mom for a bridal the merry bride bell Rings clear through the greenwood that skirts the chapelle. The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done, They who knelt down together arise up as one : Fair riseth the bride oh, a fair bride is she ! But for all (think the maidens), * * * No saint at her praying. E. B. BROWNING. " How beautiful you look in your bridal dress, Katharine !" cried Hugh, as he met her upon the staircase on the wedding-morning. He could not forbear taking hold of both her hands, and gazing admiringly in her bright young face. "I declare you only want the orange-blossoms to look like a bride yourself and a great deal prettier than Miss Bella, too, as I always said you were." "Thank you, Hugh," returned his cousin, with a laugh and a low courtesy. " Only it is as well that the bride does not hear you ; for Cknow," she added, giving way to a light- rted, girlish jest, "you know that once upon a time you thought her very handsome, and people said that Isabella need not go out of the family in search of a husband." " Pooh ! nonsense ! I hope you never thought so. Indeed, Katharine, t should be very much vexed if you did," said Hugh, earnestly. Katharine's color rose, and she drew her hand away. " Really, I never thought about the matter at all. I am too young to consider such things." Hugh looked disappointed and confused. At last he stammered out hastily "I wish you would come into the garden with me, and let me gather your bouquet and Isabella's from the greenhouse. And and I've two such pretty little puppies in the stable to show you," he added, evidently ransacking his brain for various excellent excuses. "Do come, Katharine !" "Not now," answered Katharine, striving to get away ; for the apprehension which Isabella had first suggested had never been entirely erad- icated, but sprang up again painfully at the least cause. And though the foolish vanity which construes every little attention into declared ad- miration was as far from Katharine's nature as darkness from light, yet it sometimes struck her that Hugh was growing less of a cousin and more of a lover every day. "You are not kind to me, Katharine," said the young man, almost sulkily. "I don't care a bit for either the flowers or the puppies, or any thing else, except on your account; and that you must know pretty well by this time." "I do not understand you, cousin Hugh." "There, now, don't be angry with me," said Hugh, humbled in a moment. " Oh, Katharine, I'd give the best hunter in the stables and that's saying a great deal, considering it's Brown Bess I'd give the mare herself, or any thing else in the world, if you only cared for me half as much as I do for you." Katharine was touched. She had known hina many years, and had never seen him so agitated before. "Indeed, I do like you very much as my cousin my kind, good-natured cousin, Hugh!" "And is that all?" "Yes," said Katharine, seriously and earnest- ly. "And now good-by, dear Hugh, for there is Isabella calling." She broke away, and Hugh saw the glimmer of her white dress passing not to the bride's chamber but to her own. *"She turned pale she trembled," he said to himself, "and I'm sure she called me 'dear Hugh !' Girls often don't mean half they say, so I'll count her yes as nothing. Heigh-ho ! I wish it were my wedding-day instead of Bella's. How tiresome it is of my uncle to tie my tongue in this way ! I'll ask him again this very day when he means to let me marry Katharine." So the young man descended the stairs, and went out at the hall-door, tapping his boots with bis riding-whip, and whistling his usual comment on the fact of his "love" being "but a lassie yet," in very doleful style. Katharine, who, pale and agitated, stood at tier window trying to compose herself, both saw and heard him. Then, she pressed her hand on her swelling heart, and the deep sadness which Hugh's words had caused changed to pride. " He thinks to have me against my will, does he? And here have I been so foolish as to weep because I must give him pain ! I will not care for that. What signifies it whether ho 49 THE OG loves me or not ? But my father will ask me the reason that I refuse Hugh ; and I dare not tell I could not. O Paul! why do you not come and take all this sorrow from me?" mourned the girl; and at once all her pride melted, and all her grief was charmed away at the whisper of that beloved name. The wedding took place, as outwardly gay and inwardly gloomy as most weddings are. There were the parents of the "happy couple" all pride and satisfaction Mr. Pennythorne sending forth his bon-mots in a perfect shower of scintillations, so that his conversation became quite a pyrotechnic display. Mrs. Pennythorne kept close to her husband, and was rather un- comfortable at seeing so many strange faces. Yet her maternal gaze continually wandered from those to the bridegroom's and a tear or two would rise silently to the soft, brown eyes. Once when they were setting out for the church, Lady Ogilvie noticed this. " I dare say you feel sorry to part with your son," she whispered, kindly: "I understand he has always lived at home. But you have another child, Isabella says, who was prevented coming to-day." "Yes, thank you, ma'am Lady Ogilvie, I mean," stammered the timid Mrs. Pennythorne, with a glance toward her husband, who was at the other end of the room. "I believe he is much younger than Mr. Frederick?" pursued the considerate hostess. "I am really sorry we did not see him to-day." "Leigh can not go out this winter-time he is not very strong," answered the guest. And then a sort of maternal freemasonry being es- tablished between them Mrs. Pennythorne went on more courageously. "I was thinking about Leigh just then ; I shall have only him to think about when his brother is married." " Until Leigh is not that his name ? grows up, and is married himself," said the other ma- tron, with a smile. "Ah, yes!" returned Mrs. Pennythorne, eagerly ; " he will be a man soon tall and strong ; tlaey say these delicate boys always make the stoutest men." " You will go to his wedding next," pursued Lady Ogilvie. " Shall I ? oh, yes, of course I shall ! but n,ot . just yet, for I don t think I could no, it would break my heart to part with Leigh ! He must bring his wife home ay, that shall be it!" added she, suddenly, as if to explain even to herself that the words, "I could not part with Leigh," related solely to his marrying. The poor mother ! Isabella was quite in her glory. She had attained the great aim of her life the being married : it did not signify much to whom. So that she reached the honor of matronhood, she was almost indifferent as to who conferred it she cared little what surname was on her cards, if the Mrs. were the prefix. Perhaps, once or twice, when Hugh Ogilvie and Frederick Penny- thorne stood talking together, she remembered the time when she had fancied herself very much in love with the former. She laughed at the notion now. If Hugh were the taller and hand- somer, her Frederick had such lively London manners, and dressed so much better. Isabella was quite satisfied ; only she took care to show her cousin how much he had lost, by exhibiting great pride and fondness toward her bridegroom, and deporting herself toward Hugh with a re- served and matronly dignity. Katharine alone for the first time in her life present at a wedding was grave and silent. She trembled as she walked up the aisle ; she listened to the solemn words of the service with a beating heart. " To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, until death us do part." And this vow of almost fearful import, comprehending so much, and in its wide compass involving life, soul, and worldly estate, either as a joyful offering or as a dread immolation this awful vow was taken lightly by two young creatures, who care- lessly rattled it over during -the short pause of jests and compliments, amid lace and satin flut- terings, thinking more of the fall of a robe, or tba fold of a cravat, than of the oath, or of each other ! Katharine divined not this, for her fancy ideal ized all. The marriage scene touched her pure, young heart in its deepest chords. She saw not the smirking bridegroom the affected bride ; her thoughts, traveling into the future, peopled with other forms the dim, gray shadows of the old church where she had worshiped every Sunday from a child. She beheld at her side the face of her dreams ; she heard the deep, low voice uttering the troth-plight "/, Paul,' take thee, Katharine;" and bowing her face upon the altar-rails, the girl suffered her tears to flow freely. "Yes!" she murmured to herself, "I would not fear to kneel in the sight of heaven, and take that vow toward thee, O my best beloved ! and I will take it here one day to thee, and none but thee!" Why was it that in this very moment the bright dream of the future was crossed by a strange shadow from the past ? Even while she yet thought thus, there flashed across the young bridesmaid's memory that olden scene in the library. And, above the benediction of the priest, the amen of the congregation even above the beloved voice which her fancy had conjured up, there rang in Katharine's ears the words of her dying grandfather ''Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" The ceremony was over, and Isabella had the satisfaction of hearing herself greeted as Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne. A thought did once cross her mind that according to the received etiquette it was necessary for a bride to indulge in a slight faint, or a gush of hysterical tears, on reaching the vestry. But the former would spoil her bonnet, and the latter her eyes; so she resolved to do neither, but resort to the outward calmness of suppressed emotion. "How well she bears it, poor, dear child !" observed Mrs. Worsley. This lady being one of those nobodies who, wherever they go, always contrive to make themselves invisible, we have i not-hitherto drawn her into the light ; nor, to tell 1 the truth, have we any intention of doing so. After the space often minutes, Isabella quietly ' emerged from her fit of repressed feeling, and burst into full splendor as " the beautiful and I accomplished bride," in which character she I may whirl away with her chosen to the Lakes, ! or in any direction she pleases ; for we cai e too THE OGILVIES. 61 little abou': the happy couple to chronicle their honeymoon. The Pennythornes were borne homeward hi Sir Robert's carriage; a circumstance which made Mr. Pennythorne exult in the good train- ing which had caused his eldest son to marry into so high a family. " My Frederick is an excellent boy; he knows how to choose a wife, God bless him !" said the old gentleman, with somewhat of maudlin senti- mentality, for which the excellent cellar at Sum- merwood was alone to blame. " Cillie, my dear, now you see how right I was, five years ago, in putting an end to that foolish affair with Mason's daughter. No, no ! a girl who worked as a daily governess was not a fit match for my son." " Poor Bessie ! Fred was not so wild then," murmured Mrs. Pennythorne. "Well, I hope his new wife will make him comfortable." " Comfortable !" echoed the husband, her last word falling on his dulled ear; "of course she will. I said to him, soon after Mrs. Lancaster recommended the Worsleys to put their Chancery suit into his hands, 'Fred, my lad, that's the very wife for you. Good family style fashion and money coming.' Fred took my advice, and you see the result. Mrs. P., I only hope that stupid Leigh will turn out as well on my hands." Mrs. Pennythorne sighed: "I wonder how Leigh has been all day ! I hardly liked leaving him ; but young Wychnor promised to stay with him until we came home from the Ogilvies'." " Don't mention that fellow in the same breath with the Ogilvies!" sharply said the husband. " Indeed, Pierce, I will not, if you don't like it," replied Mrs. Pennythorne humbly; "but the young, man has been so attentive to poor Leigh, and has really seemed quite interested in this marriage." "Mrs. Pennythorne, I am sleepy; will you be so obliging as to hold your tongue ?" said the old gentleman, with a slow and somnolent empha- sis : and immediately as this sentence ended, his doze began. The mother leaned her head back on the carriage-cushions, having previously taken the feminine precaution of laying the wedding bon- net on her lap. She did not go to sleep; but her thoughts wandered dreamily, first after her eld- est born, and then flying back some thirty years they traveled over her own wedding trip. Final- ly, they settled in the little back-parlor in Blank Square, and by the sofa whereon Leigh was ac- customed to rest, hour after hour, with Philip Wychnor by his side. " Poor boy ! well, I can do better without Fred than without him. He will get well in the summer and grow up a man ; but he will not think of marrying for many years. No, no ; we must keep Leigh with us we will keep him always," said the mother. O God! as if with this wild "IwilF 1 of our despairing human love, we could stand between the destroyer and the doomed ! CHAPTER XXV. We think of Genius, how glorious it is to let the spirit go forth, winning a throne in men's hearts; sending our thoughts, like ships of Tyre, laden with rich merchandise, ever the ocean of human opinion, and bringing back a still richer cargo of praise and good will. L. E. L. THERE could hardly be a greater contrast than that between the gay bridal-party at Summer- wood and the little dark parlor in Blank Square where Philip Wychnor sat with his young friend. They had indeed grown to be friends, the man and the boy for one counts time more by the heart than by the head. According to that reck- oning poor Leigh was far older than his years while Philip in the freshness and simplicity of his character had a boy's heart still, and would prob- ably keep it forever. Nevertheless, he did not look by any means so much of a boy as in those days when Eleanor first introduced him to the reader's notice by this appellation nor, indeed, as when we last saw him just emerging from his weary, wasting sick- ness. As he sat reading aloud to Leigh, the lamp-light showed how the delicate outlines of his face had sharpened into the features of man- hood ; the brow had grown broader and fuller, the lips firmer, and there were a new strength and a new character about the whole head. Philip had been tossed about on the world's stormy currents until at last he had learned to breast them. His powers of mind, the thews and sinews of the inner man, had matured accord- ingly ; and the more he used them the strong- er they grew. The dreamer had become the worker. We may say, with Malvolio, that " some are born to greatness, and some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." Philip Wychnor was of the latter class. His in tellect seemed to work itself out by the force of necessity, and not by inspiration. He was per- fectly sincere when he told Mr. Pennythorne that he had no genius; but the linnet reared in a hedge-sparrow's nest never knows that it can sing until it tries. So, it happened that the same individual who bad once declined attempting authorship on the ground of his entire unworthiness, was now fair- ly embarked in literature, with a moderate chance of success. All this had come gradual- ly. In his deep straits of poverty, Philip had tried to wile away the hours that hung so heav- ily, and perhaps to gain a little money, by turn- ing to account his knowledge of foreign langua- ges. He mounted the ladder of fame by its low- est step ; becoming a translator of small articles for newspapers and magazines a sort of liter- ary hodman, carrying the mortar with which more skillful workmen might build. But while searching into and reproducing other people's thoughts, he uncorisciously began to think for himself. It was in a very small way at first for his genius was not yet fledged, and its feath- ers took a long time in growing. He thought, and with the thought came unconsciously the power of expression. He wrote at first, not by impulse or inspiration, but merely for daily bread. Yet though in his humility he never hoped to rise higher than a common laborer in the highways of literature, he always strove to do his small task-work well and worthily, and suffered nei- ther carelessness nor hope of gain to allure his pen into what was false or vicious. All he wrote, he wrote earnestly : gradually more and more so, as the high cause in which he had engaged un- folded itself to his perception. But he made no outward display : never put forth his name from its anonymous shelter; and told no person of his THE OGILVIES. pursuits, except Leigh and one more who ami the dear right of a betrothed to know all con- cerning him. He had never seen her again, and many chances occurred to make their correspond- ence irregular; but still the joy, the strength, the very pulse of the young man's heart, was the remembrance of Eleanor Ogilvie. We have taken this passing glance at the out- ward and in \rard changes in Philip Wychnor while he sal reading his last story, sketch, or essay. This he did more for the sake of amusing Leigh than from an author's vanity; since, as before explained, Philip's work was still very mechanical the raw material woven with care and difficulty into a coarse web that gave him little pleasure and in which he took no pride. Yet still, as he went on, it was some satisfaction to see the evident interest that brightened Leigh's pale face, over which illness seemed to have cast a .strange, even an intellectual beauty. Every now and then the boy clapped his poor thin, wasted hands, applauding with childlike eager- ness. When Philip paused, he discussed the article in all its bearings with an acuteness and judgment that much enhanced the value of his laudations, and brought a smile to the young author's cheek. " Why, Leigh, you are quite a critic !" "If I am, I know who made me so," an- swered the boy, affectionately. "I know who took the dullness out of my head, and put there what is still little enough all the sense it has." " It has a great deal. I am bound to say so, my boy, since it is exercised for my own benefit ; though, of course, I ought not to believe a word of your praise," said Philip, laughing. "Dont say so," Leigh replied, earnestly. " Indeed, Philip, you will be a celebrated author some of these days I know you will. And when you are become a great man, remember this prophecy of mine." The serious tone and look at once banished the light manner which Philip had assumed, partly to divert the sick boy. "I hardly think so I wish I could!" he said, almost sadly. ''No; it takes far more talent than I have to make a just and deserved fame I don't look for that at all," Leigh answered with an ingenious evasion. "Philip, do you remember when I was first taken ill so ill as to be obliged to give up study ; and you brought one day some of your German books, and read to me c Undine' and ' Sintram ?' Ah! what a delicious time that was, after all the dry, musty Cicero and Xenophon'" And Leigh rubbed his feeble hands together with in- tense pleasure at the recollection Philip watched him affectionately. " My dear boy, how glad I am that I thought of the books !" " So am I, because otherwise you might never have done what you then did through kindness to me I mean that translation from Riickert, which I longed to have, so that I might read it over and over again. How good you were to me, dear Philip !" " But my goodness was requited to myself." said Philip, laug'hing ; " for you remember the three golden guineas I had from the ' Mag- azine.' to which you persuaded me to send the tale?" '* That's just what I mean. Now, if in one lithe ytar you have gone on from making a translation just for good-nature, to writing beau- tiful stories such as this for it is most beauti- ful !" cried Leigh, energetically " why should you not rise to be a well-known author, like my no, I don't mean that," and the boy's face grew troubled " but like one of those great writers who do the world so much good ; who can make the best and wisest of people better and wiser still, and yet can bring comfort to a poor sick boy like me. Would not this be some- thing great to try for, Philip?" said Leigh his tones warming into eloquence, and his large, soft eyes positively floating in their own light. Before Philip could answer, they were inter- rupted by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Penny thorne. The mother's quick footstep was scarce- ! ly heard before she entered. It had often touched Philip's heart of late to see what a new and in- tense expression came into the once unmeaning face and voice of Mrs. Pennythorne whenever she looked at or spoke to her son Leigh. This day the young man noticed it more than ever. Even the presence of her redoubtable lord, which usually restrained every display of feeling, failed to prevent her from leaning over her boy and kissing him fervently. " How has my dear Leigh been all day ?" she asked, anxiously. " Oh, so well, so content, mother !" said Leigh, cheerfully. " Ask Philip Wychnor there." " Mr. Wychnor is very kind." And a look of deep gratitude said more than the words. " Every thing went off well ? Fred is really married, then?" inquired Leigh. " Yes, my dear. To-morrow you shall hear about it, and about Summerwood; it is such a pretty place ! ; ' "Is it?" said the -boy, lidly. "I think I heard Miss Worsley say so, the day she called, but I did not take much interest in what she said; she tired me. You can't think, Philip, how fast she talks !" " I know she does that is, I think you said so," answered Philip, correcting himself, and rising to depart. " Don't go yet ; stay and hear a little about the wedding. We were talking so much of it this morning, you know." Philip sat down agaitf, not unwillingly. He j had a vague pleasure in hearing the sound of the I familiar names assured that no one knew how familiar they were to him. "Now go on, mother; tell us about the Ogilvies." "I did not see much of Sir Robert; your father talked to him ; and besides, he was so stately. But Lady Ogilvie was very kind. And there was Mr. Hugh, a fine handsome young man so polite to Fred ! and that sweet, beau- tiful creature, Miss Ogilvie." Here, Philip dropped his gloves, and stooping hastily, made several unavailing attempts to re- cover them "I don't think I ever saw a prettier brides- maid than Miss Ogilvie Katharine, I believe they called her. Shall I hold the light for you, Mr. Wychnor?" said simple Mrs. Pennythorne, compassionating the glove-hunter. Philip hurriedly apologized for the interrup- tion. "But pray go on, 1 ' he said; "we poor bachelors like to hear of these merry doings. THE OG1LV1E? 63 Mri Frederick Pennythorne seems rich in hand- some relatives : how many more attended her to the altar?" " There were none but Miss Ogilvie ; she is an only child. Her father and mother seem so proud of her ! and well they may. Perhaps, Leigh, she may come and stay with your new sister, and then you will see her." " Shall I ? I don't much care," said the sick boy, wearily. "I don't mind seeing any one except you, mother, and Philip Wychnor. Are you really going then, Philip?" and Leigh, tak- ing his friend's hand, so as to draw him close, whispered in his ear. " Now, remember what we were talking about before they came in ; it may do you good some time or other to think over what I said though I am. so young per- haps stupid enough too, as they always told me," and a smile of patient humility flitted over the boy's pale lips. "But never mind, there is the old fable of the Mouse and the Lion, you know; we'll act it over again, Philip." "God bless you, my dear boy!" murmured Philip, as he took his leave. He had felt passing disappointment at not hear- ing that Eleanor was at Summerwood as he had framed that reason to account to himself for the fact of an unusual silence in her correspondence. This slight vexation returned again as he walked homeward but it soon passed away. A man's strong heart is seldom entirely engrossed by a love-dream, be it ever so close and dear. And Eleanor herself would have been the last to blame her betrothed, if these tender thoughts of her became absorbed in the life-purpose which was awakening in him since therewith also she was connected, as its origin and aim. Even while he smiled at Leigh Pennythorne's quaint fable, Wychnor acknowledged its truth. As he walked along, the boy's words came again and again into his mind ; and he began to think yet more earnestly on his literary pursuits what he had doae, and what he purposed to do. " How can a man touch pitch and not be de- filed?" says the wise man of Israel; and Philip was not likely to have been thrown so much in the circle of Mr. Pennythorne's influence without being slightly affected thereby. His young heart, filled to enthusiasm with love of literature, and also with a complete hero-worship of literary men, had been checked in its most sensitive point. He found how different was the ideal of the book-reader to the reality of the book-writer. He had painted an imaginary picture of a great author, inspired by a noble purpose, and working always with his whole heart for the truth or at least for what he esteemed the truth and for nothing else.. Now, this image crumbled into dust; and from its ashes arose the semblance of a modern " litterateur" writing not from his earnest heart, but from his clever head doling out at so much per column the fruit of his brains, no matter whether it be tinseled inanity or vile poison, so that it will sell ; or else ready to cringe, steal, lie ; by word or by pen, becoming " all things to all men" if by such means he can get his base metal puffed off as gold. Philip Wychnor saw this detestable likeness in Mr. Pennythorne and it was variously re- duplicated in all the petty dabblers in literature who surrounded him. A triton of similar mag- nitude is always accompanied by a host of min- nows especially if, as in this case, the larger fish rather glories in his train. And so, our young visionary began to look on books and book-creators with diminished reverence ; and in the fair picture of literary fame, he saw only the unsightly framework by which its theatrical and deceitful splendor was supported. He had been behind the scenes. Poor Philip Wychnor! He was too young, too inexperienced, to know that of all imitations there must be somewhere or other a vital reality that if the true were not, its parody would never have existed. CHAPTER XXVI. What is a man, If his chief good, and market of his time, Be but to sleep and feed ? A beast, no more. Sure He that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To rust in us, unused. I do not know Why yet I live to say, This thing's to do, Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and mean To do it. SHAKSPEARK. GOOD Dame Fortune makes it her pleasure to walk about the world in varied guise; sud- denly showing her bonnie face sometimes in the oddest w r ay and under the oddest semblance imaginable so that it is a considerable length of time before we begin to find out that it is really her own fair self. She came to Philip Wychnor that very night as he was returning home, meeting him under the shroud of a Lon- don fog. And such a fog ! one that people who are fond of elegant symbolization would empha- tically describe as being "like breathing ropes," or at least one that might be considered as a suspiration of small twine. It was a literal version of the phrase "jaundiced atmosphere," for the whole circumambient seemed to have grown suddenly yellow and bilious. Therein all London groped blindfold : Newroad omnibuses finding themselves plunged against the inner railings of Woburn Place and cabmen, while they threaded the mazes of Trafalgar Square, inquiring in tones of distracted uncertainty how far they were from Charing Cross. It was a time when each man's great struggle appeared to be the discovery of his own whereabouts ; when the whole world seemed bent on an in- voluntary fraternization every body running into his neighbor's arms. This was exactly what Philip Wychnor did, somewhere about Russell Square. Dame For- tune, hid in the fog, laughed as she knocked right into his involuntary embrace a chance passer-by. A gentle voice, obviously that of an elderly man, expressed the usual apology ; and added thereto the not uncommon inquiry, "Pray, sir, can you tell me whereabouts I am?" " I fancy, near the British Museum," answered Philip. " That's where I've been this hour-and-half," said the voice, with a comic hopelessness that made Philip smile. "I live only a few streets off, and I can't find my way home." " My case is not unlike yours," laughed Philip; THE OGILVIES. " and most probably there are plenty more in the same predicament, especially strangers. Sup- pose, mv good sir, we were to unite our fortunes or misfortunes and try to make out the way together Mine is street. Which is yours ? ; ' * l The same ; and I'm very much obliged to you, young gentleman for so I perceive you are, by your voice. May I take your arm ? for I am old, and very tired." "Gladly," replied Philip. There was some- thing in the simplicity of the manner that pleased him. He liked the voice, and almost fancied he had heard it before. Perhaps the old man thought the same, since when they came to the nearest lamp the two wayfarers each stopped to look in the other's face. The recognition was mutual. "Bless my life!" cried the elder one, "you are the very young man I found a year ago, near this spot, in a faint !" "And most good-naturedly took home; for which kindness I have often longed to thank you. Let me do so now," answered Philip, grasping his companion's hand with a hearty shake. " Really, my friend, your fingers are as young and strong as your arms," said the queer little old man of the omnibus. " Mine are rather too frozen and weak to bear squeezing, this raw day ; and besides, they are not used to such a cordial cripe," he added, blowing the ends of the said ngers, which peeped up bluely from a pair of old otton gloves : yet he looked much gratified all cotton g the while. " You don't know how pleased I am to meet you!" reiterated Philip. "I often kept a look- out in the streets and squares for every " " Evsry odd little old fellow, you mean ? Well, for my part, I never passed down your street without looking out for you. Once I saw your head at the window, so I knew you were better." " Why did you never come in ? But you shall now;" ani Philip, trusting to gratitude and physiognomy, and following an impulse which showed how unsuspicious and provincial he was, took home his queer-looking acquintance, invit- ing him to spend the evening, without even ask- ing his name. The old gentleman, after a few shy excuses ant! some hesitation, settled himself in the easy-chair, and began to make himself quite comfortable and at home. "Will you have some tea and eggs as I always have when it is thus late?" said Wych- nor, coloring slightly for he had peered into his bachelor larder only to discover itsjemptiness and hospitality is a virtue that poverty some- times causes to grow rusty. " But perhaps you have not dined ?" " I never practice what the world in general considers dining it's inconvenient," said the guest. "Meat is very dear, and not whole- some. I gave it up a long time ago, and am much the better, too. Pythagoras, my good sir depend upon it, Pythagoras was the wisest fellow that ever lived. I keep to his doctrines." Crossing his legs, he gazed complacently at the kettle which Philip put on the fire, thereby eclipsing its cheerful blaze. These housekeep- ing avocations, which the young man afterward continued, even to egg-boiling and toast-making may a little dim the romance that surrounds or at least ought to surround him as a novel- hero ; but as we began by avowing Priiup Wychnor's utter dissimilarity from the received ideal of that fascinating personage, we shall not apologize for this little circumstance. And that the inner life of man goes on just the same, en- nobling and idealizing the commonest outward manifestation, is proved by the fact that while the young host continued his lowly domestic occupations, and the guest sat drying the wet soles of his clumsy boots, they talked ye gods ! how they did talk ! The stranger was an original, and that Philip soon found. In five minutes they had plunged into the depths of a conversation which sprang from the remark concerning Pythagoras. The little old man quoted with the most perfect sim- plicity recondite Greek authors and middle-age philosophers, referring to them without the slightest pedantry or affectation of learning. Such things seemed to him part of his daily life, familiar as the air he breathed. He wandered from Pythagoras to Plato, then to the Rosicru- cian mystics, and onward to Jacob Brehmen, finally landing in these modern times with Hegel and Coleridge. He seemed to know every thing, and to be able to talk about every thing, except ordinary topics. While lingering among these he was shy uneasy, and could not find a word to say ; but the moment he found an opportunity of plunging into his native element, he rushed to it like a duck to the water, and was himself again. Immediately his whole outer man changed. Throwing himself back in the chair one foot crossed on the knee of the other leg, the tip? of his long, thin fingers oracularly joined together this curious individual was set a-going like a well wound-up watch. His bright eye flashed ; his whole countenance grew inspired, and his tongue, now fully let loose, was ready to pour forth eloquent discourse. However, with him conversation resembled rather a solo than a duet it was less talking than lecturing. Now and then he waited a second, if his companion seemed eager to make an observation, and then he went off again in his harangue. At last, fairly tired out, he began sipping his tea with infinite satisfaction; meanwhile em- ploying himself in a close inspection of his host's countenance and person. He broke silence, at last, by the abrupt question " My young friend, what are you ?" Philip started at this unceremonious interrog- atory ; but there was something so kindly in the clear eyes that he only smiled, and answered, "My name is " " I don't mean that," interrupted the old man ; " I don't want to know your name ; every body has one, I suppose. I asked what you are?" " My profession ?" " No not your profession, but you -your real self your soul your ego. Have you found out that?" Philip began to think his visitor was rather more than eccentric slightly touched in the head ; but the old gentleman went on " I have a theory of my own about physiogno- my, or, more properly speaking, the influence \ of spirit over matter. I never knew a great man yet and I have known a good many (ay, though I am an odd-looking fellow to look at) I never yet knew a man of intellect whose rrind THE was not shown in his face ; not to the common observer, perhaps, but to those who look deeper. Moreover, I believe firmly in sympathies and antipathies. Why should not the soul have its ifl-stincts, and its atmosphere of attraction and repulsion, as well as the body? We respect the outer machine sadly too much, and don't notice half enough the workings of the free agent within." " Well, my dear sir ?" said Philip, interroga- tively) as his companion paused to take breath. "Well, my friend, I dare say you think all this means nothing. But it does, a great deal. It explains why I liked you why I followed you out of the omnibus ; and also why I am here. You have a good face ; I read your soul in it like a book ; and it is a great, deep, true soul, thirsting after the pure, the lofty, and the divine. It may not be developed yet ; I hardly think it can be ; but it is* there. Now I want to ask if you feel this in yourself if you know what is this inner life of * the spirit ?' " Philip caught somewhat of the meaning which these singular words unfolded, and the earnest- ness of his guest was communicated to himself. "I know thus far," he said, "that I have been a student and a dreamer all my life ; that I have tried to fill my head with knowledge, and my heart with poetry; that I have gone through the world feeling that there were in me many things which no person could understand ex- cept one." " Who was he ?" Philip changed color ; but even had he wished otherwise, he could not but speak the truth be- neath that piercing gaze. "It was no man a woman." "Ah !" said the old man, catching the mean- ing. " Well, such things are ! Go on." " I have had some trouble in my life ; latterly, rery much. It has made me think more deeply ; and I am now trying to work out those thoughts with my pen." " I imagined so. You are an author ?" "I can not call myself by that name," said Philip, humbly; "I write, as many others do, for bread. But still I begin to see how great an author's calling might be made, and I long, however vainly, to realize that ideal." "That's right, my boy!" cried the old man, energetically, " I knew you had the true soul in you. But how far has it manifested itself? in short, what have you written?" Philip enumerated his various productions. "I have seen some of them; very fair for a beginning, but too much written to order world-fashion all outside. My young friend, you will begin to think soon. Why don't you put your name to what you do ?" " Because though the confession is humiliat- ing I have written, as I before said, simply from necessity. It would have given me no pleasure to see my poor name in print. I worked for money, not reputation. I am no genius !" The guest lifted himself up in his chair, and fixed his keen eyes on Philip. "And do you think every man of genius does write for repu- tation? Do you imagine that we" his uncon- scious egotism was too earnest even to provoke a smile " that we care whether Tom Smith or Hi'ok ones praises or abuses us that is, our E 65 work, which is our true self, much more than the curious frame-work on two legs that walks about in broadcloth ? No ! a real author sends forth his brain-children as God did Adam, created out of the fullness that is in his soul, and meant for a great purpose. If these, his offspring^ walk upright through the world, and fulfill their being's end angels may shout and devils grin he cares as little for one as for the other." Philip quiet Philip who had lived all his life in the precise decorums of L , or in the rigid proprieties of the most orthodox college at Oxford, was a little startled at this style of language. "I dare say you think me profane," continued his strange guest, " but it is not so : I am one of those who have had the power given them to lift up a littlei of the vail from the Infinite and the Divine, and, feeling this power in their souls, are emboldened to speak fearlessly of things, at which common minds stupidly marvel. I say, with that great new poet, Philip Bailey ' That to the full of worship All things are worshipful. Call things by their right names ! Hell, call thou hell ; Archangel, call archangel; and God God!' but I do so with the humble and reverent awe of one who, knowing more of these mysteries, is the more penetrated with adoration." And the old man's voice sank meekly as a little child's, while his uplifted eyes, spoke the deepest devotion. Philip was moved. There was something in the intense earnestness of this man which touch- ed a new chord in his heart. He saw amidst all the quaint vagaries of the enthusiast, a some- thing which in the world he had himself so vainly longed to find a striving after knowl- edge for its own sake, a power to separate the real from the unreal, the true from the false. And the young man's whole soul sprang to meet and welcome what he had begun to deem almost an idle chimera. " My dear sir," cried he, seizing the hand of his guest, "will you let me ask you the same question you asked me What are you ?" " Outwardly, just what you see a little old man poor enough and shabby enough ; because while other folk spend their lives in trying how to feed and clothe their bodies, he has spent his in doing the same for his soul. And a very creditable soul it is," said the old gentleman, laughing, and tapping with his fore-finger a brow, full, high, and broad enough, to delight any follower of Spurzheim, with its magnificent developments. " There is a good deal of float- ing capital here, in the way of learning, only it does not bring in much interest." Philip smiled. "So your life has been de- voted to study ! Of what kind !" "Oh, I have contrived, during sixty years, to put into this pericanium some dozen languages, a. good deal of mathematics and metaphysics, a little of nearly all the onomies and ologies, with fragments of literature and poetry, to lighten the load and make it fit tight together. As for ray profession, it is none at all, if you ask the world's Dpinion ; but I think I may rank, however hum- aly, with some honest fellows of old, who, in Iheir lifetime, were regarded about as little a [ am. In fact, my good friend, I think I ma> call myself a philof apher." THE OGILVIES. "And a poet," cried Philip; "I read it in your eyes." The old man shook his head. " God makes many poets, but He only gives utterance to a few. He never gave it to me ! Nevertheless, I can distinguish this power in others; I can feel it sometimes rising and bubbling up in my own soul ; but there is a seal on my lips, and I shall remain a dumb poet to my life's end." So saying, Philip's guest rose, and began to button up his well-worn coat, as a preparative to his departure. " We shall meet again soon ?" said the young man, cordially. " Oh, yes ; you will always find me ' at the British Museum, in the reading-room ! I go there every day. 'Tis a nice warm place for study; especially when one finds that dinner and fire are too great luxuries on the same day. I have done so now and then," said the old gen- tleman, with a patient smile, that made Philip's warm shake of the hand grow into an almost affectionate clasp, They seemed to feel quite like old friends, and yet to this minute they did not know each other's name. The elder one was absolutely going away without this neces- sary piece of information, when Philip, disclosing his own patronymic, requested to know his visitor's. " My name, eh ? Drysdale David Drysdale. A good one, isn't it? My great grandfather made it tolerably well known among the Scottish Covenanters. The Christian name is not bad, either. You know the Hebrew meaning, 'be- loved.' Not that it has been exactly suitable for me I don't suppose any one in the world ever loved me much" and a slight bitterness was perceptible in the quaint humor of the tone. But it changed into softness as he added, " ex- cept except my poor old mother. Young man," he continued, "when you have lived as long as I have, you may perhaps find out that there are in this world two sorts of love only which last until death, and after your mother's love, and your God's." He took off his hat reverently, though they stood at the street-door, exposed to the bleak wind ; then put it on again, and disappeared. CHAPTER XXVII. Oh, prophesy no more, but be the poet ! This longing was but granted unto thce That, when all beauty thou couldst feel, and know it, That beauty ia its highest thou couldst be. J. R. LOWELL. I am a youthful traveler in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. KIRKK WHITE. PHILIP was in the habit of laying up in his memory a kindly store of his little dily adven- tures, in order to amuse Leigh Pcnnythorne. Also, as the boy grew more and more of a companion and friend, he shared many of Philip's most inward thoughts always excepting the one which lay in the core of the young man's heart. Therefore Leigh was soon informed of the sin- gular acquaintance that Wychnor made in the last chapter. "David Drysdale!" said Leigh, "my father, nay, every body knows old Drysdale. I have seen him here sometimes, and -watched those curious eyes of his they seem to look one through." "Does he come often?" " No, my father can't endure him says he ia such a bear. Then Drysdale has a great deal of dry humor ; and when two flints meet there is a blaze directly, you know," said the boy; who sometimes expressed himself, when alone with Philip, in a manner that made the tradition about "stupid Leigh" appear of very doubtful accuracy. " But still there is no quarrel between him and Mr. Penny thorne ?" " Oh, no; my father would never quarrel with such a one as Drysdale. He has wonderful in- fluence, in a quiet way, among literary people. He knows every body, and every body knows him. I have heard that his learning is prodi- gious !" "I found out that very soon," said Philip, smiling. "Ay, and so did I," Leigh continued. "In those old times of work work work you know," and the boy seemed absolutely to shud- der at the remembrance, "my father once sent me down-stairs to show off my Greek to Drys- dale. How the old fellow frightened me with those eyes of his ! I forgot every word. And then he told my father that I was not quite such a fool as I looked ; but that I should soon be, if I went on with the classics. Perhaps he was right," said Leigh, sighing. "However, my father never asked him here again, but made me work harder than ever." Philip saw that the boy's thoughts were wan- dering in a direction not good for him; so he took no notice, but pursued the questions about the old philosopher. " How happens it, though, that Drysdale is so poor?" " I have heard my father say it is because of his genius and his learning, which are never of any use to their possessors. But I do not exactly think that; do you?" "No; however, your father has many opinions of his own," answered Philip, always careful, in their various conversations, to remember that Leigh was Mr. Pennythorne's son. " It seems to me that this man's tastes, while rendering him somewhat unfit for the ordinary world, also make him independent of it. If he had just enough to keep him alive, and plenty of oppor- tunity for study, I fancy Drysdale would be quite happy." "Very likely-; but it is an odd taste," said Leigh. "I can understand genius not learn- ing." "Our queer old friend has both, I think." And Philip repeated the substance of the last evening's conversation, which had clung closely to his memory. Leigh listened eagerly, partly because he com- prehended some little of it, but more because he saw how deeply his friend was interested. "Philip," he said at last, " if you understand and feel all this, you must have a strong and threat intellect yourself, otherwise you would not care for it in the least." The simple argument struck home . It brought to the young author's mind the first consciousness of its own powers, without which no genius ean come to perfection. It was not the whisper of THE OGILVIES. va ml /-the answering thrill to idle praise but the glad sense of an inward strength to carry out the purpose which filled the soul. It was the power which made the new-born Hercules stretch forth among the serpents his babe's arm, and feel that in its nerves lay the might of the son of Jove. The thought was so solemn, yet so wildly delicious, that it brought a mist to Philip's eyes. * God bless you, Leigh!" he murmured. "You have done me good many a time ; and if this should be true, and I ever do become what you say why, I will remember your words, or you must remind me of them." Leigh turned round, and looked for a moment fixedly and sadly in his companion's face. "You do not mean what you say, Philip ; you know that I . But we will talk no more* now," he said, hurriedly, as he caught sight of his mother entering the room. However, when he had minutely and affectionately discussed with her the important topic of what he could eat for dinner, the boy lay for a long time silent and pensive. It might be that upon him, too, had come a new and sudden thougnt more solemn than even that which had cast a musing shadow over Philip Wychnor. Both thoughts passed on into the undefined future ; but one was of life, the other of death ! Mrs. Pennythorne, supposing her boy was asleep, went on talking to his friend in her own quiet, prosy way, to which Philip had now grown quite accustomed. His fondness and care for Leigh had touched the mother's heart, and long since worn away her shyness. On his part the young man was an excellent listener to the monotonous, but not unmusical flow of mild repetitions which made up Mrs. Pennythorne's conversation. On this occasion it chiefly turned upon Frederick's wedding, his new house and furniture, which she accurately catalogued, be- ginning with the drawing-room carpets, and ending with the kitchen fire-irons. Philip tried to attend, but at last his thoughts went roaming ; and his answers subsided into gentle monosylla- bles of assent, which, fortunately, were all that the lady required. Of Leigh his mother did not speak at all, ex- cept to say that the pony-carriage, which Mrs. Frederick had thought indispensable, would be useful to take the boy country-drives when the spring came supposing he needed them by that time, which was not likely, as he had been so much better of late. And then, as she glanced at the face which lay back on the sofa-pillow, with the blue-veined, shut eyelids, and the dark lashes resting on the colorless cheek, in a repose that seemed almost deeper than sleep, the mother shivered, looked another way, and began to talk hastily of something else. A few minutes after, the peculiar rap with which Mr. Pennythorne signaled his arrival, was heard at the hall-door. Those three heavy strokes had always the effect of an electric shock on the whole household, pro- ducing a commotion from cellar to attic. Mrs. Pennythorne jumped up with alacrity, only ob- serving, timidly, that she hoped the knock would not awaken Leigh. "I am not asleep, mother," said the boy, rousing himself as she quitted the room, in answer to the marital summons. "Philip, come heie a minute," he added, hurriedly, the flush rising into his white cheek at the very sound of his father's step. "Don't tell him you know Drysdale it might vex him. He is rather pe- culiar, you know." "How thoughtful you are grown, my dear, kind boy!" answered Philip. "And was that what you lay pondering upon when we fancied you asleep?" "Not quite all," Leigh replied, suddenly look- ing grave, " but but we'll talk of that another time, Philip. You must go to the Museum read- ing-room ; it would be such a nice place for you to work in, far better than your own close little room. You don't yet feel what it is to be shut up all day, until you grow sick, bewildered, ill. No, Philip, you must not get ill," cried the boy, earn- estly; "you must live live to be a great man. And remember always what we talked about to- day," he continued, dropping his voice to a whis- per as his father entered the room. Mr. Pennythorne whisked about in his usual style, skipping hither and thither, and shaking his coat-tails whenever he rested, after a fashion which gave him very much the appearance of a water- wagtail. He was evidently in high feather, too asked Leigh how he felt himseli, and only called him "stupid" twice within the first ten minutes. Then he turned to Philip. "Well, and how does the world treat you, young Norwych?" (Mr. Pennythorne had an amusing system of cognominizing those about him by some ingenious transposition of their various patronymics ; and this was the anagram into which Philip Wychnor's surname had long ago been decomposed.) Where do you put the carriage and pair, my young friend? I have not seen it yet." Philip smiled ; but he was too well accustomed to the bitter "pleasantries" of his would-be patron to take offense, and he always bore it patiently for Leigh's sake. " Ay, that's all the good of being a gentle- man with a large independence in the head, at least," and Mr. Pennythorne laughed at what he considered his wit. " Now, 1 here's my Fred clever fellow ! knows how to make his way in the world ! -just come from his house in Harley-street splendid affair ! furnished like a duke's as, indeed, Mrs. Lancaster observed. By-the-by, Cillie, my dear!" "Yes, Pierce," was the meek answer from behind the door. "I met Mrs. Lancaster in the Park charm- ing woman that! moves in the highest circles of literature. Of course you are acqainted with her, St. Philippus of Norwich?" "No," answered the young man, shortly, "except once in your hall, I never heard the name." In truth he never had, notwithstanding Eleanor's acquaintance with the lady. But Mrs. Lancaster was the last person likely to have place in the memory, or on the lips, of Philip's betrothed. " Then you have a pleasure to come for, of course, the fair Lancastrian will strain every nerve for an introduction to such a desirable young man, that you may embellish her literary soirees with your well-earned fame," said Mr. Pennythorne. He drew the bow at a venture ; %nd, as he saw Philip's cheek redden, congratu- lated himself on the keen shafts of his irony, quite unconscious how near sarcasm touched THE OGILVIES. upon truth. "And this reminds me, Gillie, my dear, that, hearing what a beautiful and talented woman I have the honor to call my wife, Mrs. Lancaster has invited you to grace with your presence the next soiree." Leigh." "Gillie, the whole party would languish at your absence, and I can not allow it. Besides, you will have to matronize your fair daughter- in-law, for Mrs. Lancaster is well acquainted with the Ogilvies, knows every branch of the family, and will ask them to meet us. The matter is decided Friday, the 17th, sees us all at Pittville Lodge." So saying, he hopped up-stairs, but not before Philip's quick ears, had caught the whole of the last sentence. Indeed, of late he had been ever on the watch for some chance information which might have reference to Eleanor, whose long and unwonted silence had made him feel some- what anxious. And even as he walked home that night, his memory retained with a curious tenacity the date and the place of this reunion of the Ogilvie family. He recurred to the circumstance again and again, in spite of the more serious thoughts which now occupied him ; and almost wished that there had been some truth in the sneering remarks of Mr. Penny- thorne as to his own future invitation to Pittville Lodge. There is an old Norse fable about the Nornir, or Fates, who sit weaving the invisible threads of human destiny, stretching them from heaven to earth, winding them in and out about man's feet, intercepting and intervolving him wherever he moves. One of these gossamers, stirred by the breath of Philip's idle wish, thereupon fell in his pathway and entangled him. But the web, at first light as air, grew afterward into a heavy coil, woven of the darkest fibers with which humanity is bound. CHAPTER XXVIII. You may rise early, go to bed late, study hard, read much, and devour the marrow of the best authors ; and when you have done all, be as meager in regard of true and useful knowledge as Pharaoh's lean kine after they had eaten the fat ones. BISHOP SANDERSON. I DO not think any poet or novelist has ever ; immortalized that curious place well known to All dabblers in literature or science, the read- ing-room at the British Museum. Yet there is hardly any spot more suggestive. You pass out of the clear daylight into large, gloomy, ghostly rooms, the walls occupied by the mum- mied literature of some centuries, looking out from glass cases. You see ranged at various tables scores of mute readers, who sometimes lift up a glance as you pass, and then, like Dante's ghosts in purgatory, relapse into their penance. Indeed, the whofe scene, with the spectral attendants flitting to and fro, and the dim vista beyond the man who takes the checks (alas, for poetic diction !), might easily be im- agined some Hades of literature, where all pen- guiders and brain-workers were doomed to ex- piate their evil deeds by an eternity of reading. Not only the lover of poetic idealization, but t,b* moralizing student of human nature, would find much food for thought in the same reading- room. Consider what hundreds of literary laborers have toiled within these walls ! Prob- ably nearly all the clever brains in the three kingdoms have worked here at some time or other for nobody ever comes to the reading- room for amusement. If a student had moral courage enough to ask for the last new novel; surely the ghosts of somber, ponderous folios would rise up and frown him into annihilation. The book of signatures where every new comer is greeted by the politest of attendants, handing him the most detestable of pens is in itself a rich collection of autographs, comprising almost every celebrated name which has risen year by year, and many oh, how many ! that the world has never chronicled at all. The reading-room is fertile in this latter class meek followers of Science, who toil after her and for her, day by day, and to whom she only gives her livery of rags. You may distinguish at a glance one of these habitues of the place, shabby in attire, at times almost squalid, plunged j up to the ears in volumes as rusty and ancient as himself. At times he is seen timidly propiti- ating some attendant with small fragments of whispering conversation, listened to condescend- ingly, like the purring of a cat which has be- come a harmless household appendage. Per- haps the poor old student has- come daily year after year, growing ever older and shabbier, until at last the attendants miss him for a week. One of them perhaps sees in the papers a death, or some mournful coroner's inquest ; and recol- lecting the name, identifies it as that of the old book-worm. Then probably there is a few, minutes' confab by the ticket-keeper's den at the end of the rooms one or two of the regular frequenters are told of the fact, and utter a careless "Poor old fellow, he seemed wearing out!" the books put by for his daily use are silently replaced, and one more atom of dis- appointed humanity is blotted from the living world. This illustrative exordium may be consider- ed as heralding the advent of a new Museumite in the person of Philip Wychnor. Speculations something like the foregoing occupied him dur- ing the time that he was awaiting the asked-for book, and trying to discover among the thick- set plantation of heads brown, black, fair, red, and gray young, old, ugly, handsome, patri- cian, and plebeian the identical cranium of his new acquaintance, David Drvsdale. First, he thought of promenading the long alleys, and peering over every table, but this sort of run- ning the gauntlet was too much for his nerves So, inquiring of the head attendant the tute lary Lar of the place, who knew every body and he.lped every body a sort of literary lion's- provider, with good-nature as unfailing and uni- versal as his information Philip soon learned the whereabouts of old Drysdale. There he was, with his bald head peering from a semicircle of most formidable books ; lookiiig by the daylight a little older and a little \ more rusty in attire. He greeted his young friend with a pleased look, and began to talk in the customary Museum undertone. It was a drowsy murmur, such as a poet would liken to THE OGTLVIES. the distant humming of the Hybla bees ; and perhaps the simile is not inapt with regard to :his curious literary hive. " Glad to see you here, my young friend very glad shows you're in earnest," said Drys- dale. "Ever been here before?" Philip answered in the negative. " Isn't it a fine place a grand place ? Fancy miles of books, stratum upon stratum what a glorious literary formation !" Excuse me," he added, smiling, " but I've been reading geology all the morning, and then I always catch my- self 'talking shop,' as some would elegantly express it You don't study the science, I be- lieve?" " No," said Philip ; " the earth's beautiful outside is enough for me. I never wished to dive beneath it." "Mistaken there, my good sir," answered the Other, in a tone of gentle reproof; "you should try to learn a little of every thing. I always do. When I hear of any science or study, I feel quite uncomfortable until I have mastered it, or, at least, know enough of it to form a judgment on the remainder. You would be astonished at the heterogeneous mass I have here" here, as usual, he pointed to his fore- head "and I'm still working on. Indeed, I should feel something like Alexander the Great at the world's end, if I thought there were no Drysdale shrugged his shoulders. " Ah, yes ! Much good may it do them! Some of them seem to work hard enough, poor little souls ! but they had far better be at home making pud- dings. 1 don't like learned women in general ; not that I mean women of intellect and feel- ing, regular workers in literature ; but small philosophers in petticoats, just dipping their pretty feet into the sciences, and talking as if they had taken the whole bath. Here's one of them ! ' ' added the old gentleman, with visible discom- fiture as a diminutive dame in all the grace of fashionable costume floated up the center-aisle, we were about to write, and may still do so, considering what a great temple of literature we are now describing. " Ah, Drysdale ! you are just the very person I want," lisped the new comer; and Philip at once recognized both face and voice as belong- ing to the lady he had once glanced at in Mr. Pennythorne's hall. He began to notice with some curiosity the well-known Mrs. Lancaster. Rather surprised was he to find so stylish a dame on terms of condescending familiarity with old David Drysdale. But Philip did not know that lion-hunters often prefer for their menageries the most rugged and eccentric ani- mals of that royal breed. Besides, the shabbi- ness and singularities of the queer-looking philos- opher were tolerated every where, even among more sciences for me to conquer. But that is J the elegant clique who honored literature by nnfr HlmlTr " coir) tho v*lilriorknliQY xx-M+Vi an oil* rf* tVioii* Y\Q tfnriarrn not likely," said the philosopher, with an air of great consolation, as he eyed affectionately the pile of books that surrounded him. Philip, fearful of interrupting his work, said so. " Bless you, no ! rectly." I can settle to it again di- "This would seem a capital place for the study of human nature," observed Philip; "I never saw such a collection of odd people;" and then he checked himself, and colored with sensitive apprehension, on account of his com- panion. But Drysdale only laughed. "Yes, I believe we are an odd set we don't care at all for our outward man. There lies the difference be- tween your man of science, the regular old bookworm, and your man of refined genius a poet, for instance. Their minds may be equal- great, but are of a totally opposite character, he latter sort has the best of it, for with him the soul has greater influence over the body. I never knew a genius yet mind you, I use the word in its largest sense who did not carry about with him, either in face or person, or in a certain inexplicable grace of manner, the patent of nobility which Heaven has bestowed upon him ; while the hard-working grubbers in sci- ence and acquired learning often find the mud sticking to them ! Their pursuits are too much of this world to let them soar like those light- winged fellows. One class is the quicksilver of earth the other, its plain, useful iron. You couldn't do well without either, I fancy eh?" And the old philosopher rubbed his hands, and pausing in his oration, sat balano'ng himself on the edge of one of those comfortable chairs with which a benign government indulges Mu- seum-frequenters. Philip, much amused, tried to draw the conversation into its original channel. " You have a few fair students also ; I see a sprinkling of bonnets here and there." their patronage. Philip Wychnor was too courteous to gratify his curiosity by much open observation, still he could not but be amused by the visit of this fair literary devotee. The excellent presiding Lar before mentioned, who was especially the good genius of feminine bookworms, found himself perpetually engaged in foraging out ponderous volumes. These she carelessly turned over to the imminent peril of her delicate lemon-col- ored gloves and then as carelessly threw them aside. One or two quiet, elderly readers, at the other side of the table, had their studies grievously interrupted by the quick, sharp voice; and no doubt, devoutly wished all fe- male literati, and this one especially, in some distant paradise of fools, not particularly speci- fied. At last Mrs. Lancaster began to look about her, and talk in an under-tone to David Drysdale. Wychnor thought it was some literary secret, and with quite needless delicacy made for himself an errand to the catalogue-stand. Now Mrs. Lancaster, besides her widely pro- fessed admiration for literature, had a slight mania for art, as regards its developments in physical beauty ; at least, so she said ; and was forever hunting up models of perfection where- with to fill 'her drawing-rooms. She had been watching for some time Philip's exquisitely- marked profile, as he stooped over his book, and now inquired " By-the-by, Drysdale" (Mrs. Lancaster af- fected, in common with many literary ladies, the disagreeable and mannish custom of address- ing her male acquaintance without the Mr.) " By-the-by, Drysdale, who is that clever-look- ing, handsome youth? He was talking to you when I came in." With all his unworldliness, old David had a great deal of shrewdness, and more with regard to other people's anVrs than his own. He knew THE OGTLVIES. how almost impossible it is for a literary man to work his way without entering into the general society of the fraternity, and making personal interests, which materially aid his fortune, though it is his own fault if he suffer them to compromise his independence. Therefore Drys- dale saw at once what an advantage it would be to Wychnor to gain admission into Mrs. Lan- caster's clever circle. Immediately he set to work to clear the way, by judicious commend- ations. " Really, is he so very talented ? I knew I was right, for my observation never fails!" ex- claimed the gratified lady. And she began to dilate anatomically upon Philip's face and skull, in order to prove her full acquaintance with La- vater and Gall. Oid Drysdale shrugged his shoulders and listened. He never wasted words on persons of Mrs. Lancaster's stamp " prefer- ring, " as he often said, " to let himself be pelted with swine's chaff, rather than cast his own pearls before them." However, as soon as Philip returned to the table he performed the introduction for which the mistress of Pittville Lodge was so anxious. Wychnor was agreeably surprised to find him- self graciously invited to accompany her " ex- cellent friend Drysdale" to join the constellation of literary stars that were to illuminate the Lodge with their presence on the identical 17th. "By the by, Drysdale," continued the lady, " you who have such a fancy for youthful gen- iuses will meet one that night a Miss Katharine Ogilvie." Here Philip's heart beat quicker it always did so at the name of Ogilvie. Mrs. Lancaster went on. " She is wonderfully clever, and so lovely ! quite a Corinne at nineteen. I never was more surprised than when I met her last week ; for, three years ago, I was staying at her father's, Sir Robert Ogilvie of Summer- wood Park, and she seemed the most ordinary little girl imaginable." " Humph ! dare say sne is the same now. Mrs. Lancaster's swans are always geese," muttered Drysdale, in an aside. Philip's heart beat quicker than ever, for he remembered Eleanor's Christmas visit, and won- dered whether by any chance she had then spoken of him to Mrs. Lancaster. He did not know that the name which lies deepest in a woman's heart is the last which is likely to rise to her lips. But so it was, that except the chance allusion of Hugh, Philip Wychnor had not once been mentioned at Summerwood. Mrs. Lancaster, as she prepared to depart, turned from the imperturbable old philosopher to her new acquaintance. " I am sure a man of genius like yourself, Mr. Wychnor, will be delighted with my young improvisatrice, as I call her ; indeed, she is quite an ideal of romance. Only be sure you do not fall in love with her, for people say she is engaged to a cousin of hers, who is always at Summerwood. Apropos, Drysdale, in this said Christmas visit young Paul Lynedon accompanied us. You know him indeed, you know every body. He has not written to me this long while. What has become of him?" " Can't say, and don't care," replied the old man, rathe-r gruffly, for his patience was getting exhausted. " You never chanced to meet Paul Lynedon, Mr. Wychnor?" Philip made a negative motion of the head, and the voluble lady continued. " You would have exactly suited each other he was:uch a charming creature so full of talent. But I must not stay chattering here. Adieu ! au revoir." And Mrs. Lancaster evan- ished gracefully from the reading-room. David Drysdale began to breathe freely, and shook himself with an air of great relief, some- what after the fashion of an old house-dog round whose nose a troublesome fly has been buzzing. Then he settled down among his books in a silence which Philip did not feel inclined to interrupt. Mrs. Lancaster's idle talk had stirred a few conflicting thoughts in the young man's bosom. With a natural curiosity, he looked forward to seeing this young cousin of Eleanor's, who, as report said, was likely to become her sister too. Forgetting how false rumor somtimes is, and how complete was the seclusion of L , he felt surprised almost vexed that his affianced had not alluded to the fact. He wondered also that she had never made mention of Mrs. Lan- caster, or of this fascinating Paul Lynedon, whose name now reached him for the first time. It might have been an error in judgment, and yet it was from a noble and truly feminine del- icacy, that Eleanor never told her betrothed of the love she had refused. She had none of that contemptible vanity which would fain carry about as a trophy a string of trampled and broken hearts, ready to flourish them before the eyes of the accepted lover, should the warning be required. Even amidst her own happiness she had sighed over the wound she gave, and kept the knowledge of that rejected love sacred from all. as every generous, delicate-minded woman will. But her silence now aroused more than one doubt in the mind of Philip Wychnor. This was wrong ; he knew it, too j yet, being restless and uneasy, framed excuses for this idle jealousy over every action of his beloved Eleanor. But Philip Wychnor was a man, after all, and no man living ever can trust as a woman does. CHAPTER XXIX. My mind misgives Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars Will bitterly begin its fearful date From this night's revels. SIIAKSPEA.RK. Each word gwam in on my brain With a dim, dilating pain, Till it burst I fell flooded with a Dark In the silence of a swoon. When I rose, still cold and stark, There was night ! E. B. BROWNING. NOTHING could be better arranged than Mrs, Lancaster's soirees. She collected and grouped her guests as artistically as a fashionable bou- quetiere disposes her flowers. They were not all literary people far from it : the hostess was too well acquainted with the idiosyncracies and pe- culiarities of the fraternity to risk any such het- erogeneous commixture. She adroitly sprinkled here and there a few of those fair, scentless blossoms evening-party demoiselles who might be considered as hired only for the night, like THE OGILVIES. 71 ihe flowers on the staircase, to adorn the man- sion. And then, amid the gay cluster of ordinary humanities, might be distinguished some homely- iuoking plant, whose pungent aroma nevertheless diffused itself throughout the whole parterre tfye poet of Nature's making, who brought into refined saloons all the freshness, and a great deal of the mud, from the clods among which ne was born. There, too, was the dandy author, who, when deigning to handle the pen, considered literature much the obliged party; the keen, sarcastic wit, the porcupine of society, whom every body hated, yet treated with respect for fear of his quills, and the timid aspirant, who sat in a corner, and watched the scene with reverent and somewhat fearful eyes. All these were ingeniously amalgamated, so as to form the very perfection of reunions. Nobody felt obliged to " talk blue ;" and while the heavy conversationalists had full play in snug corners, there were interludes of both dancing and music to lighten the hearts and heels of the rest. Philip Wychnor watched this moving pano- rama with considerable interest. He had never been much in society, and all was novel to him. David Drysdale, who kept close beside him, took quite a child-like pleasure in witnessing the amusement of his young acquaintance, and in pointing out to him the various concomitants which made up the soiret. " There stand the Merry-go-rounds," said he, pointing to a curiously-mingled group, in which the most prominent were a very big man and a very little one. " They all belong to the Merry- go-round paper you may know that by their talk, which comprises a whole artillery of fun and jest. But they have a character for wit to keep up, and must do it, well or ill, like the kings' fools of old." "Amateur assumers of the cap and bells, I presume?" observed Philip, smiling. " Just so ; but not all of them. Look at that man to whom every body listens whenever he opens his lips, as though he dropped from them pearls and diamonds. He buzzes about like a wasp, and wherever he settles for a minute, it is nine chances to one that he does not leave a sting behind. But he is a great fellow, nevertheless brimming over with wit; his tongue and his pen are like lancets ; and if they do bleed Dame Society pretty freely, it is most frequently to keep down the lady's own plethora, and re- move all bad humors." " Who is that gay butterfly of a young man, who .seems to set himself in opposition to your wasp?" inquired Philip. "He keeps up an in- cessant rattle of small witticisms, chiefly directed to the ladies, with whom he appears quite a pet." " Did you ever know true coin that had not its counterfeit ?" said Drysdale. " He is a small mimic of the other a mushroom wit, sprung up in a night out of the very refuse-bed of literature. He belongs to the Young England School of authorship impudent jesters who turn the most earnest things of life into farce who would parody Milton, and write a comic history of the Bible. ' I'd put in every honest hand a whip, % To lash the rascals naked through the world,' " eried worthy old David, with an energy that, while it made Philip smile, touched him deeply. That one grain of true earnestness seemed to purify the Mnole heaitless, worldly mass aroand him. The young man grew stronger in heart and purpose every hour of his association with Drysdale. " There are two of another set. You will find all this literary world divided into sets," observed the old philosopher, glancing toward a couple who were talking together a little aloof from the rest. " You mean that patriarchal old man, with a grand, massive head, and the younger one, with hair parted in the center, and a face that re- minds one of Raphael's angels ? I have been watching them some time they talk so earnest- ly, and are such a picturesque couple to look at ; only I don't like that outre style of dress " said Philip. "Yet there is a great deal of good in them, for all that," answered his companion; "they belong to the Progress movement people sin- cere and earnest in their way, only they are ever trying to move the world with their own small Archimedean lever rather a vain task. Now, though I hold that every man ought quietly to put his shoulder to the wheel, and give society a shove onward, as far as he can in his petty life-time, yet I don't like much talking about it. With these Progress people it is often ' great cry and little wool.' They are always bemoaning with Hamlet, that * The time is out of joint,' but rarely attempt to * set it right.' " "I agree with you," said Philip; "I believe less in universal than individual movements. If every man began the work of reformation in him- self first, and afterward in his own circle, there would be no need of public revolutions at all. To use your own favorite system of symboliza- tion, Mr. Drysdale," continued the young man, with a good-humored smile, "I think that quietly undermining a rock is far better than blowing it up with gunpowder, because in the latter case you never know how far the work of destruction may extend, and you run a chance of being knocked on the head by the fragments." Drysdale patted his young friend on the arm, with an air of gratified approval. " That's right quite right! learn to think for yourself, and don't be afraid of speaking what you think, my dear boy excuse me for calling you so, but you are a boy to me." Philip was about to express his sincere pleas- ure in this new friendship of theirs, when Mrs. Lancaster glided through the still increasing crowd. " Drysdale, where are you ? Here in a corner ! Fie, fie ! when every one wants to talk to you." " Perhaps I can not quite return the compli- ment, ma'am," answered the old philosopher, rather abruptly, for if he had any cynical pro- pensities, they were always drawn out by the flippant tongue of Mrs. Lancaster. " Now really, that's too bad ! What a nice, good, disagreeable, comical creature you are ! Here is your old acquaintance, Mr. Pennythorne, asking for you." And as she spoke, the individual alluded to made his appearance, shook hands with Drysdale, and then turning round, caught sight of Philip Wychnor. A slight elevation of the eyebrows marked Mr. Pennythorne's extreme astonish- THE OdlLVIES. 72 ment, but he was too much a man of the world to seem discomposed by any thing. He hopped up to Philip with a cordial greeting. "My dear young friend -delighted to meet you so unexpectedly, and in such charming society too. And so you know that excellent old Drysdale : how surprising ! how pleasant !" And he bustled away to another part of the room, wondering within himself what the (Mr. Pennythorne's expletives were always con- fined to mere thoughts) brought the young ras- cal there. " You must come with me, Drysdale," pursued Mrs. Lancaster, laying her tiny white-gloved hand on the rough coat-sleeve of the shaggy- looking old philosopher, who looked in that gay assemblage something like the dog Diogenes amidst the train of canine Alexanders in Land- seer's picture ; " I want to introduce you to my young Corinne my improvisatrice." But Drysdale still hung back. He had an un pleasant recollection of innumerable dainty MSS. and scores of young-ladyish poems with which he had been deluged in consequence of doing the civil to Mrs. Lancaster's literary protegees. " It is I who ought to be introduced to Mr. Drysdale," said a sweet young voice behind; and the old man could not resist either the voice or the bewitching smile that adorned the lips | through which it passed. Philip turned gently round, and looked at Katharine Ogilvie. She was indeed dazzlingly beautiful the more so perhaps from the ex- treme simplicity of her white dress, which con- trasted strongly with the be-laced and be-furbe- lowed throng around. Her small, Greek-shaped head had no ornament but the magnificent purple- black hair, which was gathered up in a knot be- hind, giving to her classic features a character more classic still. But there was no impassive marble beauty about the face . It was all woman the lips now dimpling with smiles, now trem- bling with ill concealed emotion as some sudden thought passed through her mind. How different from the shy girl who, years before, had moved timidly amidst the same scene, in the same place ! Katharine felt it so ; and her heart was full running over with the delicious memories that every moment renewed, and dilating w^th a joy- ful pride as she compared the present with the past. She felt she was beautiful she saw how every eye followed her admiringly; she knew that even over that gay and gifted circle the spell of her talents and her fascinations was cast. She gloried in the knowledge. "He would not be ashamed of me now," she murmured to herself with a proud, happy smile. " No ; when he comes again he will find Kath- arine not unworthy, even of him." And the thought kindled * new luster in her eyes, and lent an unwonted softness to every tone of her melodious voice. How happy she was! nay, she seemed to cast eveiy where around her an atmosphere of gentle gladness. She inclined particularly toward old David Drysdale ; and he, on his part, thawed into positive enthusiasm beneath the sunshine of her influence. "I wished much to see you, Mr. Drysdale," she said at last, though somewhat timidly, when the conversation with him had grown into quite a friendly chat. " I have heard of you before, from from an old acquaintance of yours.'' aiirt the quick color rose slightly in her cluck . " My dear young lady, I am really honored delighted!" answered the old man, charmed almost into compliment, " Who could it be ?" Katharine's lips trembled while they framed the name of Paul Lynedon. "Lynedon Ah ! I remember him fine fellow to look at, with a great deal in him. But ours was a very slight acquaintance. I have heard nothing of him since he went abroad. Eve been abroad, Miss Ogilvie?" added Drysdale, unconsciously turning the conversation ; at which Katharine felt a vague disappointment, for it was pleasant even to hear a stranger utter the name that was the music of her heart. "No!" she replied. "I know scarcely any thing of the world except from books." "And perhaps the knowledge thus gained is the best, after all ; at least so says my young friend Philip Wychnor here," said Drysdale, good-naturedly turning to where his new favor- ite sat aloof. Philip was trying to alleviate his rather dull position with looking over various books. "Philip Wychnor!" echoed Katharine, sud- denly recollecting the name. It caught the owner's ear, and the eyes of the two young people met. " This must be Eleanor's friend ; there can not be two Philip Wychnors," she said to herself; and with womanly tact and kindliness, seeing he was a stranger, she tried to break the awkwardness of his position, and bring him into the conversation. " I believe you are not quite unknown to me, Mr. Wychnor," said Katharine, as Philip answering Drysdale' s summons bowed in ac- knowledgment of the introduction. " Are you not a friend of my two cousins Hugh and Eleanoi Ogilvie?" Philip answered " Yes." He did not use the ridiculous form, "I have that honor," &o. Katharine thought his agitation spi *ng from the shyness of one unused to society ^ women have so much more self-possession than men. She tried to re-assure him by continuing to talk. "I am quite delighted to meet you," and she offered her hand with a graceful frankness. " I remember perfectly how warmly my cousins spoke of you Eleanor especially. What a dear sweet girl she is is she not ?" she added warm- ly; and was rather surprised when Philip an- swered, in a grave, constrained tone "There is no lady I respect more than Miss Eleanor Ogilvie. And her brother how is he ?" continued Wychnor, not daring to trust his voice with a more direct question. " Hugh is quite well, I believe I hope he left Summerwood some days since," said Kath- arine, while a shadow of annoyance passed over her face, and the clear brow was contracted for a moment. "To join his sister, I conclude?" was the tremulous question of the lover. " Oh, no ! Eleanor is gone abroad, you know." "Gone abroad?" "Yes, to Naples, with Mrs. Breynton, hei friend, and your annt^is she not ? I thought of course you were aware of the fact." Philip felt sick at heart ; muttering some un connected words, he turned to look for Drysdale, for he had no power to sustain the cop 1 ersatioa. THE OGILVIES. 73 However, the old man was gone. At another time Katharine's curiosity and sympathy would have been excited ; but now her attention was drawn away from him by a chance word one that, whenever she heard it, pierced, with a clear, trumpet-tone through the buzz of conver- sation the name of Paul Lynedon. Katharine and Philip chanced to sit together on one cf those round ottomans which seem made for double tete-a-tetes ; and behind them were a lady and gentleman chatting merrily. "Mr. Lynedon!" repeated the latter. "So, my dear Miss Trevor, you really know my ex- cellent friend Paul Lynedon." " I should rather say 1 knew him since it is several years since we met. He went on the continent, I believe ? A sudden departure, was it not, Dr. Saville ?" " Hem ! my dear madam, a little mystery that I would not mention to any one but to you, who were his particular friend. In fact, poor Lynedon was in love." "You don't say so!" " Oh, yes ; he told me all about it at the time long attachment lovers' quarrel, but of course made up directly, as my Lizzie that is. Mrs. Doctor Saville said it would be." " 'All's well that ends well !' Really I am quite glad of it, for I had a very great regard for Mr. Lynedon," said Miss Trevor, cordially. "Are they married yet?" " No ; but I have every reason to believe the event will soon take place, for I saw in yester- day's paper the lady's name as one of the visit- ants in a certain Italian town the very same from whence Lynedon's last letter was dated. Sly fellow ! he writes' so full of happiness. I think I have the letter in my pocket now if I did not send it home this morning to Lizzie. No! here it is." Every word of this mixture of truth and false- hood fell on the stunned ear of Katharine Ogilvie. Yet she sat immovable, her fingers still turning over the book on her lap, her lips still fixed in the courteous smile of attention. Once only her eyes wandered, with an air of half-frenzied in- credulousness, over the letter which Dr. Saville held. It was the same hand his hand ! Pas- sionate in all her impulses, she drank in, un- doubting, the horrible truth. Her heart died within her, and was turned to stone. The next moment Dr. Saville moved to make way for Mrs. Lancaster, who fluttered up, all empressement, and entreated her "sweet Kath- arine" to sing. Katharine rose, and crossed the room with a steady footstep. Philip Wychnor, brooding over his own troubled thoughts, felt relieved when her departure caused a cessation in the idle talk, to which he had listened merely from a passing curiosity concerning Paul Lynedon. But the conversation was immediately renewed. " What a lovely girl that is, and with what intense feeling she sings !" observed a gentle- man to Miss Trevor, as Katherine's voice came from the inner room, clear, full, and pure, with- out one tremulous tone. " Yes ; she is a sweet creature a Miss Kath- arine Ogilvie." " OgUvie how singular ! Has she any sis- ters?" inquired Dr. Seville, much surprised. "No, I believe not. Why do you ask ?" " Because 'the name of Paul Lynedon^ love was Ogilvie Eleanor Ogilvie." There was a movement of the fashionable crowd, as one of the guests hastily wound his way through, and passed out of the door. When David Drysdale came to inquire for his yo^^, friend, Philip Wychnor was already gone. Still the gay throng fluttered, laughed, and chattered, for an hour or two more, and then dispersed. " My dea*- "/Catharine, how silent you are !" remarked Lady Ogilvie, as the carriage drove homeward. " I am tired, mother very weary. Let me alone !" was the answer, in a cold, sharp tone, tha f excited the mild reproach, " Really my dear, I don't think your temper is improved by the admiration you receive." There was no reply and the two parents dozed Katharine reached her own room, and locked the door. Then she flung her arms above her head with a wild cry of agony half-sob, half- moan and fell heavily on the floor. CHAPTER XXX There I maddened Life swept through me into fever, And my soul sprang up astonished sprang full-statured in an hour : Know you what it is when anguish with apocalyptic Never To a Pythian height dilates you and despair sublimes to power? E. B. BROWNINO. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears such bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at its root. TENNYSON. YE cold clear winter stars, look down pity- ingly on that solitary chamber where was pour- ed out the anguish of first passionate love ! Erring it might be hopeless, visionary, even unmaidenly but it was pure, nursed in solitude, and hidden from all human eyes. With strength such as woman only knows, Katharine for hours had sung, talked, and sat in silence ; but when she was alone the terrible cry of her despair burst forth. It was indeed despair; not pining, girlish sorrow. She neither fainted nor wept ; but she crouched on the floor, swaying to and fro, her small hands tightly clenched, her whole frame convulsed with a choking agony. " Oh God ! oh God ! let me die !" rose up the almost impious cry of the stricken heart that in happiness had rarely known either thanks- giving or prayer while moan after moan broke the night-stillness. She breathed no word not even his name. All that she felt then was a longing for silence darkness death. But this stupor did not last. Her burning, tearless eyes, wandering round the room, fell first on the flowers she wore his favorites then on a book he had given her alas ! her whole daily life was full of mementoes of him. At once the flood of anguish burst forth unre- strained. "Oh, Paul, Paul, must I think of you no more ? is the old time gone forever ? A life without you, a future wherein the past must b* 74 THE OG1LVIES. forgotten all is darkness, darkness ! Oh, God, that I could die !" And then, like a lightning-flash, came the thought, that even that old time over which she mourned had been only a self-beguiling dream. He had never loved her, not even then ; but he had made her believe so. That moment a new storm of passion arose in her heart. " He deceived me ; he deceived me even then ! I in my madness have given him all life, hope, youth ; and he has given me nothing ! Paul ! Paul Lynedon !" (and rising up she stood erect pride, indignation, scorn, on eye, lip, and lofty stature), "how dared you utter your false words to me when another was in your heart ! How dared you call me ' dear Katharine,' when you loved not me, but her ? And now you will go and jest with her over the poor foolish girl who trembled and blushed in your sight, who had given you her whole heart's love, and would have died for yours !" Katharine paced the chamber, her step quick and wrathful, her face burning with shame. Then she stopped before the mirror, and sur- veyed herself from head to foot, regarding in- tently the beauty in which she had so gloried tor his sake. " He shall never say that I pined for him in unrequited love I, Katharine Ogilvie, whom the world calls fair, who might have been ad- mired, loved ay, worshiped. But I gave up all for him." And her memory pictured the face of Hugh, as when he had last bade her good- by, pale, sad, with tears in the kind eyes that had watched over her for so many years. His love, if rude, was deep and sincere, and hardly merited a rejection so cold and scornful as she had lately given. Then in her heart dawned a purpose, sprung from the passion which for the time had almost changed to hate, and now warped every feeling of her impulsive nature. It was a purpose from which every woman who loves with a calm, pure love, however hopeless, would turn shuddering aside, feeling how great was the sin. "You shall never triumph over me you, Paul, and that wife of yours ! you shall never laugh together at the girl who broke her heart for lov.e. No; I will live live to make the world know, and you know, what I am ! Yes, you shall hear of me my beauty, and my talents !" And a strange bitter laugh of self- derision broke from those white lips, over which, a few hours before, had dimpled the sweet, happy, girlish smile. But that never came again no, never more ! You, O Man ! who with your honey words and your tender looks steal away a young girl's heart for thoughtless or selfish vanity, do you know what it is you do ? Do you know what it is to turn the precious fountain of woman's first love into a very Marah, whose bitterness may pervade her whole life's current crushing her, if humble, beneath the torture of self-con- temptor, if proud, making her cold, heartless, revengeful quick to wound otheis as she has herself been wounded? And if she marry, what is her fate ? She has lost that instinctive worship of what is noble in man, which causes a woman gladly to follow out the righteous altar-vow, and in "honoring" and "obeying" her husband, to create the sunshine of her home. And this is caused by your deed ! Is not such deed a sin ? Ay, almost second to that deadly one which ruins life and fame, body and soul ! Yet man does both toward woman, and goes smiling amidst the world, which smiles at him again ! It may be said, and perhaps truly, that with most young girls love is a mere fancy ; that the pain, if any, is soon forgotten, and so the inflic- tion of it becomes no crime. But how few hearts are ever read, even by those nearest and dearest ! There may be in the inmost core of many, a worm of which the world never knows. And every now and then, undistinguished out- wardly from the vapid, fickle tribe, may be found some impassioned nature like Katharine Ogil- vie's of such an one, a blow like this makes either a noble martyr-heroine, or a woman over whom the very demons gloat ; for they see in her their own likeness she is a fallen angel too. The distant clanging of Summerwood church- clock resounded above the moaning of the bleak November wind one, two, three, four. Katha- rine heard the strokes, and paused. Twelve hours before, she had counted them and longed for the passing of the brief winter twilight, that the pleasant night might come. It would per- haps bring not the sight of Paul Lynedon, that she knew was impossible but at least some tidings of him. Now oh, terrible change! It was from a world of sunshine, to the same world encompassed by a thick darkness not that of holy, star-spangled night, but the dark- ness of a heavy mist, which pierced into the very "soul. Yet she must walk through it, and alone ! The dull blank future lifted itself up before her with terrible distinctness. Year after year to live and endure, and she scarce twenty yet ! Katharine shuddered ;- one wild thought of death blessed, peaceful death, ^self- summoned entered her soul ; but that soul was still too pure to let the evil spirit linger there. Flinging herself on her knees, she buried her head in the little white bed where night after night she had lain down ; reserving always, when the day's cares or pleasures were thought over, a few minutes to muse in the still darkness upon her secret maiden-love ; and then had gone calmly to sleep, breathing, with an earnest, tender blessing, the one beloved name. Now, that name must never be uttered more ! "O God!" she moaned, forgetting her usual form of nightly prayer alas for Katharine ! in forms only had she learned to pray "O God! have mercy have mercy on me !" Let us speak no more of this night's agony. It was such as no human being has ever wit nessed, or ever will, for the heart's most terrible struggles must be borne alone. But a few have felt it God help those few ! He only who gave to our mortal nature the power of loving with such intensity, can guide, and sway, and comfort in a like hour. But Katharine Ogilvie knew not this there- fore, ere the wild prayer which despair had wrung forth passed from her lips, its influence had vanished from her heart. Into that poor torn heart entered evil unknown before : and its chambers, no longer swept and garnished, became neglected and defiled. The world's daily round goes on, heedless of life, death, love, the three elements which oom THE OGILV1ES. pose its sorrows and its joys. Katharine lay down and slept yes, slept ; for terrible suffering often brings torpor. . In the morning she arose and dressed calmly, without a tear or moan all such were long past ! Only once as she stood arranging her long, beautiful hair, in which she always took great pride, for his hand had rested on it the remembrance struck into her heart like a dagger. She could have rent the mag- nificent tresses from her head, she could have cursed the beauty that had failed to win Paul Lynedon ! Henceforward, if she regarded at all the self-adornment which in due measure is es- sential to a woman, it would be, not from that loving desire to be fair and pleasing, but from a desperate, vain-glorious pride. She would drive men mad with her beauty, dazzle them blind, set her foot on their necks, and laugh them to scorn ! Katharine passed down the stair-case. The tudp door was open, and her grandfather's great cat came purring about her feet, inviting her in. But to cross the threshold of the well- known room ! Every thing in it cried out with a fiend-like mocking voice "Fool fool self- deceiving fool ! The past, the precious past is nothing was nothing. Blot it out forever !" She shivered, locked the door, and fled down the hall. On the table lay some green-house flowers the old gardener's daily offering. Above them her bird sang to her its morning welcome ; the gladder Because the clear winter sunshine reached it 'even in its cage. Mechanically Katharine placed the flowers in water ; gave the bird his groundsel ; stooped down to stroke her ever-attendant purring favorite ; but the great change had come. Girlhood's simple pleasures were no more for her ; she had reached the en- trance of that enchanted valley which is either paradise or hell crossed it, and shut the gate behind her forever. " Don't stay here longer than you like, my dear," said Lady Ogilvie, as, long after break- fast was over, and Sir Robert had ridden off to London, Katharine, contrary to her custom, lin- gered in the room, sitting motionless by the fire, with her hands those dear, active, little hands, generally employed in something or other folded listlessly on her lap. She turned round, bent her head assentingly, and then gazed once more on the fire. "Still here, Katharine!" again mildly won- dered Lady Ogilvie, as she paused, after some housekeeping arrangements. " Pray, my love, do not let me keep you from your studies. I am not at all dull alone, you know; run away if you like." "I can't, mamma, I am tired;" said Katharine, wearily. " Let me stay with you.'.' " By all means, dear child. Really you do not look well ; come and lay your head on my lap, as you know you always like to do." She drew her daughter to her feet, and as usual began smoothing her hair with motherly tenderness, talking all the while in her mild, quiet way. Lady Ogilvie was very much sur- prised when Katharine, burying her face in her knees, began to weep violently ; murmuring amid her sobs " Oh, mother, mother ! you at least love me ; yes, I know you do ! Tell me so again. Let me feel there is some one in tXe wide world that cares for me." "There are many, my darling," replied Lady Ogilvie, at once attributing this sudden burst of emotion to over-fatigue and excitement. After having soothed the girl as well as she could, sne commenced various maternal questionings and advice, which, if tender, were both prosy and out of place, as they entirely related to the physical welfare of her child. Such a thin as a tortured and diseased mind never entered into Lady Ogilvie' s calculations. Katharine's agonized spirit felt this, and drew back into itself. Her good and tender mother was very dear to her, so far as natural and in- stinctive affection went ; but in all else there was a wide gulf between them now wider than ever. Unfortunate Katharine ! there was in the whole world no tie close enough to fill the yearnings of her passionate soul, no hand strong enough to snatch her from the abyss into which she was already about to plunge. " You shall go and lie down again, my dear,' T said the mother. But Katharine refused. She dared not be alone, and she longed for an op- portunity to say that for which she had nerved herself. So, suffering her mother to place her comfortably on the sofa, she rested in apparent quiet for half an hour. Lady Ogilvie went in and out softly, and then settled herself to an occupation which was always heavy and irksome to her writing a letter. Looking up with a sigh, after five minutes spent over the first three lines, she saw her daughter's large, dark eyes fixed upon her. "Dear me, Katharine, I thought you were asleep," she said, trying to conceal the note. " No, I can not sleep. Whom are you writing to, mother?" asked Katharine, in an imperative tone, not unusual in their intercourse, for the daughter's stronger mind continually and undis- guisedly assumed the pre-eminence. Lady Ogilvie was constrained to answer the truth. " Only to Hugh poor Hugh ! I prom- ised I would. But you need not be angry at that, my child." Katharine saw the opportunity had come : she seized it, with a bold, desperate effort. " Mother, put away the letter and come here ; I want to speak to you about Hugh." Her voice and face were both quite calm; the mother did not see that under the folds of the shawl with which she had covered her child, the damp hands were so tightly clenched that the mark of the nails remained on the rosy palm. "Do not let us talk about that, my darling; it was very sad, and your father and I were troubled and disappointed at the time, because we wanted to see our Katharine happy, and we liked Hugh so much. But if you could not love him, why, you know, my child, we shall never tease you any more on the subject. Pray be content." Katharine rose up and looked her mother in the face. Years after, when gentle Lady Ogilvie lay on a death-bei, she described that look amid her ravings, and said it ever haunted her, with the rigid, colorless lips, the dark, stony eyes, " neither smiling nor sorry." "Mother," said the girl, "do not wonder at me do not question me but I have changed my mind. I will marry Hugh, when he or you choose. Write and tell him so." She put her hand to her heart for a moment, 76 THE OGiLVIES. as if the effort of speaking had brought a pain there as indeed it had, a sharp bodily pain; but she hardly felt it then. She sat up, and bore her mother's startled, searching glance without shrinking. " Do you really mean what you say, Katha- rine? Will you make poor Hugh make us all so happy ? Will you indeed marry him ? "I will." Lady Ogilvie, much agitated, did what nine out of ten gentle-hearted and rather weak-mind- ed women would do on such an occasion she caught her daughter to her bosom, and wept aloud. Katharine repulsed not the caresses, out she herself did not shed a tear. A faint mis- giving crossed the mother's mind. " My darling Katharine, you are happy your- self, are you not? You are not doing this mere- ly to please yout father and me ? Much as we wished this marriage, we never will consent to the sacrifice of our child." " I am not sacrificing myself mother." " Then you really do love Hugh not in a sentimental girlish, way but enough to make you happy with him as "your husband?" "My husband Hugh my husband !" mutter- ed Katharine, with quivering lips, but she set them firmly together. The next moment her old manner returned. " Mother, I marry Hugh because I choose ; and when I say a thing I mean it ay, and do it, too. Is that suffi- cient?" " Yes, my dear love, yes. Pray be quiet. I am only too happy so happy I don't know what to do with myself;" and she moved restlessly about, her eyes continually running over, even while her mouth wore its most contented smile. "Now, mother, come here," said Katharine once more, drawing the letter from its hiding- place. " Finish this. ' Tell Hugh that I have thought over the matter again, and will marry him whenever he chooses to come for me. Only it must be soon, very soon." " How strange you are, my love ! You do not seem to feel at all like other young girls." "No questioning, mother! Write as I say," Katharine answered, in a hoarse, imperious tone. " I will, I will, dear ! Only why must the marriage be so soon?" " Because I might change my mind," said Katharine, bitterly. " I have done so once be- fore. My nature must be very fickle ; I want to guard against it, that is all. Now, write, dear mother," she added more gently. The letter was written and dispatched. Then Katharine's strange manner passed awrfy, and she seemed calm. So, the prisoner who writhes in agony on his way to the scaffold, on reaching it mounts with a firm and steady step; he shrank from the doom afar off; it comes, and he can meet it without fear. Lady Ogilvie kept near her child the whole day. In Katharine's manner she saw only the natural agitation of a young girl in such a posi- tion. She was most thankful that her dear child had made up her mind to marry Hugh, such an excellent young man as he was, and so suitable in every respect. This marriage would unite the title and estate, keep both in the family be- side, and prevent Katharine's leaving Summer- wood. No doubt they would be very happy for if Katharine was not positively in love with her cousin, she liked him well enough, ana it was always best to have most love on the husband's 3ide. So reasoned Lady Ogilvie, sometimes com municating her thoughts aloud. But Katharine received them coldly, and at last begged her to changed the subject. The mother, ascribing this to natural shyness and sensitiveness, obeyed as, indeed, she generally did and only too glad was she to have her daughter by her side the whole day. "You have quite deserted your own little room, though I know you like it far Setter than this large, dull drawing-room. Come, dear child, let us both go, and you shall sing for me in the study." "Not there, not there!" answered Katharine, shuddering. "I will not go into that room. I hate it." "Why so?" gravely said the mother, surpris- ed, and rather uneasy at these sudden whims. Katharine recovered herself in a moment. " Did I not tell you how fickle I was ? There is a proof of it ;" and she forced a laugh but, oh, how changed from the low, musical laugh of old ! " Now, don't tease me, there's a dear mother. I have a right to be fanciful, have I not? Let me try to sing my whims away." She began to extemporize, as she often did, composing music to stray poetry. First came an air, not meiely cheerful, but Breathing the desperation of reckless mirth. It floated into a passionate lament. When she ceased, her face was as white as marble, and as tigid. She had poured out her whole soul with her song ; and absorbed in a deep reverie, she had called up the past before her. She had filled the half- darkened, desolate room with light, and music, and gay laughter. Beside the dear old piano she had seen standing a tall shadowy image, with folded arms, and eyes bent dreamily for- ward. A moment, and she must shut it out for- ever from heart, and fancy 3 and memory. This song was the dirge of that olden love. She closed the instrument, and in that room or in that house Katharine vowed never to sing more. She never did ! Worthy Sir Robert Ogilvie was mightily as- tonished, when he came home next day, to* find his nephew hourly expected as a future son-in- law. He kissed his daughter a ceremony per- formed solemnly at Christmas and Easter, or when he went on a journey told her he was much gratified by her obedience, and felt sure she would be happy. "Only," observed the sedate baronet to his wife^ when they were alone together, "it would have saved much trouble and annoyance if Kath- arine had known her own mind at first. But I suppose no women especially young women ever do." CHAPTER XXXI. Deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, Oh, death in life the days that are no more ! TENNYSON. IT was the eve of the wedding-day the day which was to unite, in newspaper parlance, "Katharine, only child and heiress of Sir Rob- THE OGILVIES. 77 ert Ogilvie, of Summerwood Park, to Hugh Ogilvie, Esq., only son of the late Captain Francis Ogilvie, of his majesty's service." Nev- er was there a better match and eo said every gossiping party in the village, from the circle round the blacksmith's warm, welcome forge, to that round the doctor's equally welcome tea- table. Every body had guessed how it would be, and only wondered it had not come oft' be- fore. All the world and his wife were making ready for the next day ; for the wedding was to be at the village church, with all necessary accompaniments of green boughs, young girls dressed in white, charity children, &c., &c. Love would ever fain seal its vows unobserv- ed, in glad and solemn privacy ; but no such im- pediment came between Sir Robert and his de- sire for a little aristocratic ostentation. " It was proper," he said; "for the Ogilvies were always married and buried in public, with due ceremony." Katharine assented; and if there came a deeper and bitterer meaning to the set smile which her lips now habitually wore, her father never noticed it. She let them all do with her just what they pleased; so the joint conductors of the affair, Lady Ogilvie, Mrs. Fred Pennythorne, and Sir Robert, arranged every thing between them. On the wedding-eve the two former sat with the young bride in her dressing-room. It was strewed with attire of every kind laces, silks, and satins, tossed about in beautiful confusion. The female ministrants at this shrine had been trying on the wedding-dress, and it hung grace- fully over the back of a chair, with the wreath and vail. Lady Ogilvie was just wiping, for the thousandth time, her ever-tearful eyes, and say- ing she did not know what she should do with- out Katharine, even for a month. "I dare say you will have to learn, aunt," paid Mrs. Frederick, who had been quite in her element of late, administering consolation, lec- tures, and advice, with all the dignity of a new- ly-married lady. "For my part, I wonder that Katharine likes the thought of coming back. I never would have married Frederick at all if I could not have a house of my own." "I believe you," said a cold, satirical voice, as Katharine looked up for a moment, and then continued her work, making white favors for some old servants, who had begged for this token from the bride's own hands. " Really, my dear, how sharply, you take one up ! you quite forget I am married," said Mrs. Pennythorne, tossing her head. " But I sup- pose we must humor you. However, things will be different when you are settled again at Summerwood." " When I am," was the pointed reply. " When you are !" echoed Mrs. Frederick. " Why, I thought the matter was quite settled. Your father wishes it and your future husband. Ah, when you are married, Hugh will make you Jo whatever he likes !" " Hugh will do whatever I like," said Kath- arine, haughtily, and she knew she spoke the truth : the humble, loving slave of one man was fast becoming the tyrant of another. It always is so. " Ask him the question yourself, Isabel- la," she added, as the bridegroom put his beam- ing face in at the door. He was a fine specimen of mere physical beauty, was Hugh Ogilvie the beau ideal of a young country squire : most girls would hav thought him a very Apollo, at a race-course or a county ball. And though somewhat rough, he was not coarse, else how could Katharine have liked him? as she certainly did while they were only cousins. And since his affection for her had grown into the happiness of assured love, his manner had gained a softness that was almost refinement. If with others he laughed loudly, and talked with some vulgarity, he nev- er came into her presence, or within the spher* of her influence, but his tone at once became gentle and suppressed. He loved her very dearly, and she knew it ; but the knowledge only brought alternately scornful triumph and torturing regret. t; Cousin Hugh ! cousin Hugh ! here's a pret ty attempt at rebellion in your bonnie bride !" said Isabella, flippantly. "It vows and declares that it will not obey its husband, and does not intend to live at Summerwood." "What is that about not living at Summer- wood?" said Lady Ogilvie, turning rouu m- easily, with her pocket-handkerchief at her eyes. "Katharine does not surely mean to say that. To lose her so would break my heart." " It must not do that, mother ; I hope it will not," answered Katharine, steadily ; "but I may as well say at first as at last, that I can not live- here any longer. I am quite wearied of this dull place, and Hugh must take me away, as he promised he would, when I engaged to be his wife. Is it not so, Hugh?" " Yes, yes but I thought that is, I hoped ' r stammered the bridegroom, with a disappointed look. " You thought I should not expect you to keep your promise ? Well, then, I see no necessity to keep my own." "My darling Katharine, don't say so!" cried the lover in new anxiety, as he flew to her side and took her hand. She drew it away, not in coquettish anger, but with a proud coldness, which she had already learned to assume. Al- ready already the tender womanliness was vanishing from her nature, and she who had once suffered the tortures of love was begin ning to inflict them. "Here's a pretty lovers' quarrel and the very day before the wedding, too!" cried Isa- bella. " Aunt, aunt, you and I had better l^ave them to make it up alone." And Mrs. Fred Pennythorne led through the open door the still weeping and passive Lady Ogilvie, who now, more than ever, was ready to be persuaded by any body. To tell the truth, Isabella, who had not lost a jot of her envious temper, rather hoped that the slight disagreement might end in a reg- ular fracas, and so break off the marriage. Katharine was left alone with her bride- groom. She saw that the time was come for using her power, and she did use it. No statue could be more haughtily impassive than she, though not a trace of that contemptible quality feminine sullenness deformed her beautiful face. She ruled her lover with a rod of iron : in a minute he was before her, humbled and penitent. " Katharine dear Katharine don't be angry. I will do any thing you like ; only we should b so happy living here." 78 THE OGILV1ES 14 I will not stay at Summerwood. I hate it. Hugh, you promised to take me away : remem- ber that promise now, if you- love me as you say you do." And Katharine, restless from the thought of the battle she had to win, and a iittle^touched by Hugh's gentleness, spoke less freezingly than before. "If I love you? You know I do," answered Hugh, fondly winding her arm round his neck. She drew it back a moment, and then, smiling bitterly, she let it stay. He had a right to it now. '"Katharine," continued he, "don't you remember the time when we were children at least, you were and I used to carry you in my arms through the fields ? Don't you remember the old times how we went gathering black- berries how I led your pony, and taught you to ride ; do you think I did not love you even then ? And though, when we grew up, we be- gan to like different pursuits, and you were a great deal cleverer than I, didn't I love you as much as ever more perhaps?" " You did you did. Good, kind cousin Hugh!" murmured Katharine, with a pang of self-reproach. She thought of the old, happy, childish days, before the coming of that wild, delicious, terrible love. "Well, then, Katharine, let us stay at Summer- wood. It will please your father and mother, and me, too though I don't say much on that score, and I care little about myself in com- parison with you; but it would be rather hard to give up the shooting and farming, to shut oneself up in a close, nasty London square. I really don't think I can consent to it." Katharine rose from her seat all her passing softness gone. She was resolved to rule this inferior mind, and the present was the first struggle. The victory must be gained. "Hugh Ogilvie," she said, with a cold firm- ness, "I never deceived you from the first. I told you even when you came back to -to be my husband," she said the word without trem- bling or blushing, " that I did not love you as you loved me. But I liked you had liked you from a child. I respected, esteemed you ; I was willing to marry you, if you chose. Is not that true?" "It is it is," murmured the bridegroom, shrinking beneath her proud eye. "But I made the condition that you should take me to live elsewhere to see the world; that I should not be cooped up here it tortures me it kills me ! I want to be free and I will ! Otherwise, no power on earth shall persuade or force me to marry you not even though to- morrow was to have been our wedding-day." "Was to have been! Oh, Katharine, how cruel you are ! Say shall be, for indeed it shall. I will try to persuade my uncle. We will live wherever you like only don't give me up, Katharine. I know how little you care for me I feel it ; but you may come to care more in time, if you will only let me love you, and try to make you happy. Indeed indeed I would." And the young man, perfectly subdued, knelt before her as she stood, bowing his strong frame to the earth, and clasping her knees, with tears funning down his cheeks. One flash of evil triumph lighted up Katharine's face, and then, for the second time, a pang of remorse pierced her soul. The wickedness, the falsehood of th coming marriage vow the cruel trampling upon a heart which, whatever its short-comings, wa* filled with love for her rushed upon her mind. For a moment, she thought of telling him all ; there was a whisper within, urging her to im- plore his forgiveness, and rather brave th* humiliation of hopeless, unrequited love, than the sin of entering a married home with a lie upon her soul. But while she hesitated, outside the door rang the light, mocking laugh of Isa- bella; and the world its idle jest, its hateful pity rose to her remembrance. Her proud spirit writhed. One struggle the whisper grew fainter, and the good angel fled. "Katharine, say you forgive me," pleaded Hugh; "you shall have your own way in this, and every thing else, if you will only try to love me, and be my sweet, dear, precious wife !" "I will," answered Katharine. If, as the Word saith, "there is joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth," surely there is sorrow over one fallen soul ! The same night, long after the whole house was hushed, a light might have been seen burn- ing in one of the upper windows at Summer- wood. It came from Katharine's chamber. There, for the last time, she kept vigil in the little room which had been her shut-up Eden in childhood, girlhood, womanhood. The very walls looked at her with the old faces into which her childish imagination had transformed their shadowy bunches of flowers, when she used to lie in bed awake, but dreaming many a fanci- ful day-dream, before her mother's morning summons and morning kiss always her moth- er's broke upon tVn's paradise of reverie. Then there was the bookcase, with its treasure-laden shelves, arranged so as to form almost a perfect life-chronicle. The upper one was filled with old worn child's-books, two or three of Mrs. Hofland's beautiful tales, such as the Clergy- man's Widow, the Young Crusoe, and the Bar- badoes Girl, books which every child must love ; beside them came a volume of Mrs. Hemans', and the delicious "Story without an End," showing the gradual dawning of fancy and poetry in the young mind : and so the silent his- tory went on. The lower shelf was all filled with works, the strong heart-beatings of heaven- ly-voiced poets and glorious prose-writers Shelley, Tennyson, Miss Barrett, Carlyle, Bul- wer, Emerson. And in this era of the chroni- cle, each volume, each page, was alive with memories of that strong love which had been the very essence of Katharine's life ; out of which every development of her intellect and every phase of her character had sprung. She sat by the fire, rocking to and fro, on the little rocking-chair, which had been one of her fancies, and whose soothing motion had many a time composed and quieted her in her light pass- ing troubles. Beside her, on the table, lay the old worn-out desk she had used when a child, and in which, afterward, she kept her treasures. She opened it, and looked them all over. They were many, and curious, but all relating in some wny or other to the great secret of her life. There were numberless fragments of stray poetry, or rather rhyme ; not direct heart-pour- ings her shrinking delicacy would have blush- ed at that but effusions, in all of which there THE OGILVIES. 79 was some hidden meaning. As she read these over, one by one, her breast heaved convulsively, and torrents of tears burst from her eyes She dashed them away, and went on with her task. Other relics were there the usual girlish me- mentoes a few gift-flowers, all withered; with some verses of a song, written in a bold, manly hand Lynedon had done it to beguile the time, while she was copying music, and had scribbled all along the sides of the page her name and his own. Apart from these, in a secret drawer, lay Paul's letter his first and only letter. Katha- rine tore open its folds, and read it slowly all through. But when she reached the end, she lashed it to the floor. " ' His Katharine ! his own Katharine !' And it was all false false ! He bade me remember him, and I a poor, vain, credulous fool But it shall be so no more; I will crush him from my heart thus thus !" Her foot was already on the letter ; but she drew back, snatched it once again, and pressed it wildly to her lips and bqsom. There was one more relic: that likeness which bore such a strange resemblance to Paul Lynedon the head of Keats. Katharine took the long-hoarded treasure from its hiding-place, and gazed fixedly on it for a long time. Then the fountain of her tears was unlocked, and sobs of agony shook her whole frame. " Oh, my Paul ! heart of my heart ! my no- ble Paul ! why did you not love me ? Is there any one in the world who would have worshiped you as I ? I who would have given my life to make you happy who would now count it the dearest blessing only to lean one moment on your breast, to hear you say, ' My Katharine !' and then lie down at your feet and die. Die shall I die for one who sported with me, who de- ceived me? Nay; but I beguiled myself; I only was vain mad blind! What was I, to think to wm him? Paul Paul Lynedon no wonder that you loved me not ! I was not wor- thy even to lift my eyes unto such as you !" In this fearful vigil of dispair, fierce anger, and lingering love, the night wore on. It seem- ed an eternity to the miserable girl. At last, utterly broken and exhausted, Katharine's tor- tured spirit sank into a deadly calm. She sat motionless, her arms folded on the little desk, and her cheek leaning against the mournful relics of a life's dream. Suddenly she heard the twitter of a bird, and saw her lamp grow pale in the day- break. Then she arose, gathered up her treasures, laid them solemnly, one by one, on the embers of the dying fire, and watched until all were consumed. The next day nay, the same day, for it was already dawn Katharine Ogilvie was married. CHAPTER XXXII. Seldom hath my tongue pronounced that name. But the dear love, so deeply wounded then, I in ray heart, with silent faith sincere Devoutly cherish till we meet again. SOUTHKY. WE are about to break through all dramatic unity of place, and to convey our readers abroad Suppose, then, the scene transfei red to the conti- nent I taly Florence. But the reader need not shudder at the name, and expect long-winded descriptions of scenery chapters taken at ran- dom from Murray's Handbook ; since, for various excellent reasons, we shall eschew all landscape painting. There is, we understand for truth forbids us to speak without this qualification in Florence a pleasant square, which forms a general lounge for idlers, rich and poor, native and foreign, in- asmuch as it contains a market, a curious antique building Called, not unappropriately, the Palaz- zo Vecchip and the town post-office. This lat- ter place is of course the perpetual resort of for- eigners who are anxious to snatch their precious home remembrances from the well-known care- lessness of Italian officials. Thus, almost all the British residents, or passing visitors to Florence, may be seen at different times strolling round this square. Among them, one day in winter, were two ladies walking slowly, the elder leaning on her companion's arm. Beneath the close black bon- net and vail of the taller one, appeared the sharp regular features of Mrs. Breynton. She looked a little older perhaps, and a little more wrin- kled; but still she was the same Mrs. Breyn- ton, the widow of the dean, with her tall, straight figure, and her canonically flowing black robes. The young girl on whom she leaned was, it is needless to say, Eleanor Ogilvie. Dear Eleanor the much-tried but yet happy, because loved and loving one ! let us look once more on that slight, drooping figure, like a wil- low at a brook side that pale, clear brow those sweet, calm eyes ! But adjectives and metaphors fail ; she is of those whom one does not even wish to describe only to look upon, murmuring softly, "I love you I love you!" evermore. And where there is love there must be beauty, perhaps the more irresistible because we can not tell exactly in what feature or gesture it lies. Time passes lightly over all equable natures ; it had done so over Eleanor Ogilvie. Her mind and character were nearly matured when we first saw her, and a few years made little difference. Perhaps the fair cheek was some- what less round, and the eyes more deep and thoughtful, especially now, when a care heavier than ordinary weighed on her gentle spirit. But it caused no jarring there ; no outward sign of impatient trouble marred the sweetness of look or manner. To a heart so pure, even sorrow comes as a vailed angel. " How cold it is, Eleanor !" said Mrs. Breyn- + ton, as the occasional east-wind, which maxes a Lombard winter almost like a northern one, swept round the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio ; "I do not see that I am any the better for com- ing to Italy; it was much warmer at L ." And as she spoke, one might perceive that her voice had changed from the slow preciseness of old, to a sharp, querulous tone, which seemed te ask, as if through long habit, for the soothing an- swer that never failed. ' It is indeed very cold ; but this bleak wind only conies now and then. We may be sure that Doctor B was quite right when he or- 80 THE OG1LVIES. dered you te the South , and I think your cough is better already." "Is it?" said the invalid, and to disprove the fact she coughed violently. "No, no I shall die of asthma, I know ; like my father, and my great uncle, Sir Philip Wychnor." Here there was a slight movement in the arm on which the old lady rested ; it caused her brow to darken, and the thin lips, through which had uncon- sciously issued this rarely uttered name, were angrily compressed. She did not look at her companion, but walked on in silence for some minutes. Nor did Eleanor speak, but her head drooped . little lower ; and the moistened eyelash and trembling lip could have told through how much forbearance and meekness, daily exercised, had Philip's betrothed kept her promise to him. She was, indeed, as a daughter unto the stern woman who had once shown kindness toward her lover. It was a strange bond between the two, and formed of many conflicting elements. On one side, the very wrath of Mrs. Breynton toward her nephew made her heart cling with a sort of compassion to the young girl whom she deemed he had slighted; while, on the other hand, Eleanor for- got, at times, even the present wrong done to her lover, remembering that Mrs. Breynton was Philip's near kinswoman, and had once been, as far as her cold nature allowed, in the stead of a mother to him. There was still a lingering warmth in the ashes of that olden affection. Elea- nor saw it many a time, even in the sudden anger aroused by some chance memento of Philip's childhood; and, day by day, her whole thought, her whole aim, was to revive this form- er love. Thus silently, slowly, she pursued the blessed work of the peacemaker. They advanced toward the post-office, where, as usual, was a cluster of people anxiously strug- gling for letters. It would have been an amus- ing scene for a psychologist, or a student of human nature; but the English ladies had too much interest on their own account to notice those around. They were trying to make their way through the crowd, which, trifling as it was, inconvenienced the precise Mrs. Breynton ex- ceedingly. " Let us stay in the rear of this gentleman, who is probably waiting for the English letters," whispered Eleanor, glancing at a tall, cloak-en- veloped personage who stood in front. Softly as she spoke, he seemed to catch the tone, for he turned round suddenly, and Eleanor recognized the face, which had almost passed from her memory like a painful dream the face of Paul Lynedon. Their eyes met; her color rose, and there was a slight contraction of his brow ; but the next .noAent he bowed with an easy grace and a polite smile, that at once banished from Eleanor's mind all regretful thought of the lover she had rejected. She held out her hand with a frank and gentle kindness ; he took it with the careless courtqsy of a man of fashion. There was no agitation, no pain, visible in his countenance, for there was none in his heart. A little annoy- ance or mortification he, perhaps, might feel, on being unpleasantly reminded of the time when he had "made such a fool of himself ;" but he was too polite and too proud to betray the same in word or manner. Paul Lynedon quite overwhelmed Mrs. Breyn. ton with his expressions of gratification at so unexpectedly meeting with two " fair country- women." He was as stately and courteous as of old ; but his manners wore less of the grace- ful charm which springs from a kindly heart, and more of that outward empressement which some- times assimilates to affectation. It was evident that he had become a complete man of the world. He easily procured their letters. There were several for Mrs. Breynton, and two for Eleanor. Hugh's large, careless handwriting marked one of the latter. She opened it, and started in joy- ful surprise at the intelligence it contained the announcement of the intended marriage of her brother and cousin. In sisterly exultation, she proclaimed the news aloud. " How glad I am ! how I always wished for this ! Dear Hugh ! dear Katharine ! You re- member Katharine, Mr. Lynedon?" were her hurried exclamations. Mr. Lynedon "remembered her quite well, as every one must a sweet girl ! He was in- deed happy to hear she was married." This was not exactly true, as, in running over the list of fair young creatures who had looked favorably on himself, Paul had unconsciously fallen into the habit of including Katharine Ogilvie. She was a mere child then, to be sure, but she might grow up pretty ; and if so, supposing they ever met again, the renewal of his slight flirtation with her would be rather amusing than other wise. At hearing ef her marriage, he felt an uncomfortable sensation as he often did at the wedding of any young girl who had appeared to like him. It seemed to imply, that Paul Lynedon was not the only attractive man in the world. Even when Eleanor, chancing to draw off her glove, had unconsciously exhibited the unwedded left hand, he had glanced at it with a pleasurable vanity. Though he was not in love with her now, and really wondered how he ever could have been, still he felt a degree of self-satisfac- tion that no other man had gained the prize which he now blushed for ever having sought. How gradually the rust of vain and selfish worldliness had crept over Paul Lynedon's soul ! "They must be married by this time," ob- served Eleanor, referring to the letter. "Hugh says, I think, that it was to be very soon ah ! yes, the 27th." " Then to-morrow is the wedding-day," said Lynedon. " Allow me thus early to offer you my warm congratulations, with every good wish to the happy couple." Eleanor thanked him, her heart in her eyes. Then he made his adieus, and disappeared among a group of Florentine ladies. There was a ball that night in Florence, at which none were more brilliant or admired than the young English- man. He smiled as he listened to the words, il Signor Paul Lynedon, brokenly and coquettishly murmured by many a fair Italian dama. He did not hear from afar the wild moan of one stricken heart, that in lonely despair sobbed forth the same name. Oh Life ! how blindly we grope among thy mysteries ! Mrs. Breynton expressed the proper degree of pleasure in a few formal congratulations; but her knowledge of Hugh was small, and her in- ! terest in him still less, for the range of the good ; lady's sympathies had never been very wide THE OGILVIES. 81 Besides, she was somewhat shocked at the im- propriety of reading letters in the street, and had carefully gathered up her own budget for a quiet home-perusal. However, on reaching their abode, she condescended so far as to ask ..o see Hugh's letter. Eleanor gave it before she had herself quite read through the long and rambling effusion of a lover's delight. Over it the aged eyes seemed slowly to jour- ney without a single change of expression. Eleanor watched the immovable face, and mar- veled. A love-history of any kind is regarded so differently at three-and-twenty and three-and- sixty. But when Mrs. Breynton, in her slow perusal, reached the postscript, her countenance changed, grew pale, and then darkened. She hastily refolded the paper, laid it on the table, and snatching up her own packet of letters, quit- ted. the room. Eleanor again took Hugh's epistle, and read : " Cousin Bella was married lately to a Mr. Frederick Pennythorne. By-the-by, through this wedding, our old friend, or rather yours, Philip Wychnor, has turned up again. The Penny- thornes know him, and Katharine met him at a grand literary party. He asked after you, but he did not speak about Mrs. Breynton. Is there any breeze between him and the old aunt ? He is growing a celebrated author, having turned out quite a genius, as Katharine says and she must know, being so clever herself," &c., &c. And the lover returned, of course, to the praises of his beloved. Eleanor paused, oppressed with many mingled feelings. It was now a long season since she had heard from Philip. At first his sudden si- lence pained her; and, casting aside all girlish caprice and anger, she had written more than once, but no answer came. She then felt, not doubt of his faithfulness, but terror for his health; until this fear was lightened by her continually tracing his name in various literary channels, and on one occasion receiving, addressed to her in his own handwriting, Philip's first published book. She marveled, almost sorrowfully, that even her loving and delighted acknowledgment of this brought no reply. And yet she trusted him still. She would have doubted the whole world rather than Philip Wychnor's truth. Yet, except that her constant attendance on Mrs. Breynton left little time to muse and grieve, Eleanor would have been very sad the more so, that she had to shut up all grief and anxiety so closely in her heart. Truthful and candid as she was, Eleanor had never sought to make her correspondence with her betrothed a clandestine one. Between her- self and Mrs. Breynton there was a perfect silence on the subject, without attempt either at explanation or concealment. Month after month the post-bag of the palace had been trusted with these precious love-messages from one true-heart to the other ; therefore now no doubt of foul play ever crossed the mind of the young betrothed : she would have scorned to harbor such an un- worthy suspicion of Philip's aunt. Still, Eleanor had need of all her courage and faithful love to bear this suspense. Even now, when she re- oiced at these good news of him-, her gentle heart was sorely pained that Philip himself should not have been the first to convey it. She dried a few gathering tear? and determ- F ined to trust him still, uncil the near tennina- tion of this Italian journey should enable her to visit Summerwood, when some blessed chance would bring her face to face with her betrothed. Then she mechanically opened the second letter, which had been neglected for Hugh's. It informed her that Sub-dean Sedley, the un wearied backgammon-player of the Close, at L , had died and left her, Eleanor Ogilvie, sole mistress of six thousand pounds ! CHAPTER XXXIII. Cym. O disloyal thing, That should repair my youth ; thou heapest A year's age on me. /MW. I beseech you, Harm not yourself with your vexation : I Am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. Cym. Past grace 1 obedience 1 SHAKSPKARE MRS. BREYNTON had the character of being a strong-minded woman; but no one would ha^e thought so to see her when, after leaving Eleanor, she proceeded to her own apartment and walked restlessly up and down, her whole countenance betraying the inward chafing of her spirit. She glanced carelessly at the letters she still held, and threw them down again. She was just beginning to grow calm when another packet was brought her with " Mr. Lynedon's compli- ments, and he felt glad to have been able to rescue the inclosed from further delay at the post." Mrs. Breynton returned a polite message, put on her spectacles, and prepared herself to read the second edition of correspondence. The first of the batch was evidently interesting as it might well be for it looked the fac-simile of that lawyer's epistle which had communicated to Eleanor such important tidings. Mrs. Breynton was rising to summon her young friend, when the second letter caught her eye. It was ad- dressed to Miss Ogilvie, yet she snatched it up, and eagerly examined the handwriting. It resembled that of many a, schoolboy letter which at Midsummer and Christmas had come to the palace, which she ha.d deciphered not without pleasure from the flourishing "Dear Aunt," to the small, cramped ending, " Your dutiful and affectionate nephew." It was still more like the careless college scrawl which had weekly informed her of Oxford doings in a frank, easy style, whose informality sometimes gained a grave reproof. As she held the letter to the light, her fingers trembled, even though her brow was angrily knitted. Then she turned to the seal a rather remarkable one. It was her own gift she remembered it well with the Wychnor crest and a cross underneath. What trouble she had taken to have it engraved in time for his birthday ! How dared he think of this, and use it now ! Mrs. Breynton had never been a mother. No child had ever clung to her bosom, and nestled near her heart, to charm away all the coldness and harshness there. Marrying without love, she had passed through life, and never felt a single strong affection. Perhaps the warmest feeling of her nature had been that which in her girlhood united her to her only brother. After THE OGILVIES. this tie was broken, her disposition grew cold and impassive, until the little Philip came a softened image of the past, a vague interest for the future. Every lingering womanly feeling in her frost-bound heart gathered itself around the child of her dead brother ; and with these new affections came a determination, springing from her iron will and inflexible prejudices, to make the son atone for the still unforgiven dereliction of the father, in quitting that service of the sanctuary which had become part of the family inheritance. A female bigot is the most inveterate of all. The Smithfield burnt-offerings of Mary Tudor were tenfold more numerous than those of the kingly wife-murderer, who called her 'daughter. Had Mrs. Breynton lived in those days, she would have rejoiced in a heretic-pyre. There- fore when she tried to constrain her nephew to enter the Church, it was with the full conviction that she was doing her best for his soul as well as for his temporal interests. She loved him, as much as a woman like her could love ; she de- sired his welfare ; but then all good must come to him through one way the way she had plan- ned. To this road she had alternately lured and goaded him. In his destiny she proposed to in- clude two atonements one on the shrine of the Church, the other by his union with Eleanor to the memory of the girl's forsaken" mother. When the conscientious scruples of the young man thwarted this great scheme of her life, Mrs. Breynton was at first paralyzed. That Philip should venture to oppose herself that he should dare to doubt those ecclesiastical mys- teries, without the pale of which she conceived all to be crime and darkness, was a greater shock than even the short-comings of his father. She felt overwhelmed with horror and indigna- tion ; an indignation so violent, that both then and for a long time afterward it caused her, like most bigots, to confound the sinner with the sin, until she ^positively hated the nephew who had once been to her a source of interest and pride. But, this first tempest of wrath over, she began to incline toward the lost one ; and with a strange mingling of affection, obstinate will, and that stern prejudice which seemed to her dark- ened eyes the true spirit of religion, Mrs. Breyn- ton determined, if she could not win, to force her nephew into the path for which she had destined him. Long she pondered upon the best method of accomplishing her will ; and, embittered as she was against Philip, it was some time before she could reconcile her pride and her conscience to do that which, by driving him to despair, would at last bring home the repentant prodigal. Bat when, in her blindness, she had fully satisfied herself that "the end sanctified the means," she commenced the plan which suggested itself as best. No more letters were received either by Philip or Eleanor. All were intercepted and consigned to the flames, in Mrs. Breynton' s room. She did not qpen or read a single one ; for, while persuading herself that she was fulfilling a stern duty the dean's widow would have scorned to gratify idle curiosity or malice. She could, self-deceived, commit a great crime, but she could not stoop to a small meanness. Un- moved, she saw Eleanor's cheek grow pale with anxiety, and fancied that all this time she was working out the girl's future happiness; thai the recreant lover would be brought to his senses, and, with a good rectory, lake to himself a loving wife. It would be a curious study for those whc rightly and justly believe in the perfectibility of humanity, to trace how often at the root of darkest woe-creating crime lurks some motive, which, though warped to evil, has its origin in good. So it was with this woman. She stood looking at the letter, and thinking over the news which had come to her knowledge concerning Philip. It had irritated and alarmed her to hear of her nephew's success. She feared lest her own hold over him by which, through his love for Eleanor, she might wring every fiber of his heart should grow weaker as he prospered in the world. Indignant beyond endurance, she crushed the letter in her hand and the seal broke ! But for this chance she might have withstood the desire which prompted her, by plunging still deeper into deceit, to arrive at a clear knowledge of Philip's motives and intentions, so as thereby to guide her own. For a moment she paused irresolute, and then the evil desire conquered Mrs. Breynton opened the letter. It seemed to have been written at various times, the first date being many weeks back. "Eleanor!" it began and the handwriting, which often betrays what words succeed in con- cealing, was tremulous and illegible: "you said one day that soft spring morning, do you remember? when we stood together in the window, looking on the palace-lawn your hand on my shoulder, and my arm encircling you, as it had a right to do then you said that we must have no secrets from one another ; that we must never suffer the faintest shadow to rise up be- tween us. There has been none until now '. Eleanor ! dearest still dearest shall I tell yor what is on my spirit? A trouble a doubt idle, perhaps wrong, and yet it weighs me down heavily. I heard, last night, by chance, a few words that I would only have smiled at, but for your long silence, and your departure from En- gland. You have gone, as I understand, and without informing me. Was this quite right, my Eleanor? Still, there may have been a reason. My aunt but I will not speak of her. Let me come at once to this idle rumor. They say though I do not believe it that three years ago which must have been at the very time, the blessed spring-time, when I first told you how precious was your love another did the same. In short, that you were wooed willingly wooed by a Mr. Paul Lynedon, whom you met at Summerwood. Why did you never speak of this acquaintance for, of course he was nothing more? You could not no, my Eleanor, my all-pure, all-true Eleanor ! you could not have deceived me, when you confessed that I such as I am, inferior in outward qualities to many, and doubtless to this Paul Lynedon, if report be true that I was dearer to you than all th^ world. How I hesitate over this foolish tale ! let me end it at once. Well then, they say this same Lynedon is now with you at Florence j that fact is certainly true. As for the rest oh ! my kind and faithful one, forgive me ; but THE UGILVIES. . I cun anxious, troubled. Write, if only one line. Not that I doubt you do not think it; but still However, I must wait, for I have to find out your address by some means, before I can send this." The letter continued, dated later, " You do not know what I suffer from your silence, Eleanor. I have seen Hugh, your brother mine that is to be. When I thought so, his car^ sss greeting pained me. It was perhaps best to keep our engagement so secret, and yet it is humiliating. Hugh chanced to speak of your visit at Summerwood long ago; of Paul Lynedon, too with that name he jestingly coupled yours. He said but few words : for his mind was too full of his approaching marriage of course you are aware of it. Eleanor ? But these few words cut me to the heart. And I must wait still, for Hugh has lost your address. No ! I can not wait it is torture. I must go to L . L , March 20th. "You see I am here on the very spot, so sacred but I dare not think of that now. Ele- anor, I have learned believe me, it was by mere chance, not by prying rudely into your affairs I have learned that this story was not all false, that Paul Lynedon was here with you. And yet you never told me ! What must I think? There is a cloud before me. I see two images Eleanor, the Eleanor of old true, faithful, loving, in whom I trusted, and would fain trust still; and the other Eleanor, secretly wooed of Lynedon, the heiress of Dean Sedley you see I know that too. You need not have concealed your good fortune from me, but this is nothing compared to the other pang. I try to write calmly ; yet if you knew But I will rest until to-morrow " I think the madness the torture is over now. All day almost all night, I have been walking along our old walks ; by the river and beneath the cathedral-shadow ; in your very footsteps, Eleanor, as it seemed. I can write to you now and say what I have to say calmly, tenderly, as becomes one to whom you were ever gentle and kind. Eleanor, if you love this man, and he loves you he could not but do that ! then let no promise once given to me stand between you two. Mr. Lynedon is, as I hear, not unworthy of you high-minded, clever, rich, and withal calculated to win any woman's heart. If he has won yours I have no right to murmur. Perhaps I ought rather to rejoice that you will be saved from sharing the struggles and poverty which must be my lot for many years ; it may be while I live. Be happy ; I can endure all ; and peace will come to me in time. Eleanor, my Eleanor ! let me write the words once more, only once God bless you ! He only knows how dearly I have loved, how dearly I do love you ! But this love can only pain you now, so I will not utter it. " One word yet. If all this tale be false though I dare not trust myself to think so then, Eleanor, have pity ; forget all I have said in my misery; fo' give me love me take me to your heart again, and write speedily, that I may once more take to mine its life, its joy, its lost treasure ' But if not, I will count your silence as a mute farewell. A farewell ! and '^otvv-oer us, who " 8C Here two or thiee lines were carefully oblit- erated, and the letter ended abruptly with on* last blessing, the moui nful tenderness of which would have brought tears to any eyes but those cold, hard ones that read this sad record of sorely-tried, devoted love. Mrs. Breynton now discovered, like many another short-sighted plotter, that her scheme had worked its own ruin. With Philip's final parting from Eleanor she herself would lose her remaining influence over his future destiny. And such a separation must be the inevitable consequence of the silence which could be the only answer to her nephew's letter, unless she made a full confession of her own duplicity. And, even then, what would result ? A joyful reconciliation, and Philip's speedy union, not with the portionless Eleanor, but with Dean Sedley's heiress, thus forever excluding that ecclesiastical life which now more than ever Mrs. Breynton wished to force upon her nephew. She was taken in her own toils. She writhed beneath them : and, while helplessly she turned over in her mind some means of escape, a knock came to the door. The dull red mounted to her pale, withered cheek, as Mrs. Breynton, with an instinctive impulse, tottered across the room, and hid Philip's letter in her escritoire. " May I come in, dear friend?" murmured a tremulous voice outside. And Eleanor entered, almost weeping, yet with a strange happiness shining in her face and mien. She had the lawyer's letter in her hand, and, without speak- ing, she gave it to Mrs. Breynton. The latter took it mechanically, glad of any excuse to escape those beaming, innocent eyes. Then she rose up and touched Eleanor's brow with her frigid lips. " I wish you joy, my dear. You are a good girl, and deserving of all happiness. Mr. Sedle} was right to leave his fortune where it would be worthily used. I hope that it may prove a blessing to you." " It will ! it will ! Oh, how glad, how thank- ful I am!" cried the young betrothed, as her thoughts flew far over land and sea to where her heart was. Thither she herself would soon journey, to drive away with one word, one smile, the light cloud which had come between her and Philip ; and then pour out all her new store at his feet, joyful that she could bring to him ai once both riches and happiness, worldly fortune and faithful love. Mrs. Breynton regarded her with a cold, sus- picious glance. " I do not often seek to know your concerns,'" she said, sharply. " Indeed, I have carefully ab stained from interfering with them in any way ever since you have resided with me, Miss Ogilvie." "Do not call me thus. Say Eleanor," v*** 1 the beseeching answer. " Well, then, Eleanor, may I be excused k asking why you are so happy at receiving this legacy, and what you intend to do with it ?" Eleanor was accustomed to the sudden change of temper which the invalid often exhibited ; but now there was a deeper meaning in Mrs. Breynton' s searching, irritated look. Jt brought a quick blush to the girl's cheek : and though she did not reply, she felt that her silence wai penetrated and resented. 84 THE OGILVIES. " Are yoo going to leave me, now that you | are became an independent lady?" was the bit- | ter question which deepened the flush still more, j " I always was independent Hugh took care I of that and, if not, I would have made myself so," said Eleanor, rather proudly. "But you j know I staid with you by your own wish and my own, too," she added, in her gentlest tone, " to love you, and be a daughter to you. How could you think I should forget all this, Mrs. Breynton?" " Well, we will not talk about that," muttered the old lady, with a slight change of feature. " You will stay, then ? Other people may not be more forgetful of kindness shown to their old age than was Bean Sedley. You will not leave me, Eleanor?" Eleanor threw herself on her knees besid.6 Mrs. Breynton's chair. " We will not leave you," she whispered. " Oh, dear friend ! now this good fortune has come, let me be your very own your child your niece, and forgive us both. Indeed we have suffered very much I and Philip!" The long forbidden name burst from her lips accompanied by a flood of tears. Mrs. Breynton started, and stood upright. " Do you mean to tell me that you will marry that ungrateful fool ! that beggar ! who has in- sulted his aunt, and disgraced his family? Is this the way you show your love for me ? Eleanor Ogilvie, you may become my niece if you will, but it shall be an empty name, for you shall never see my face again. So choose be- tween me and him whose name you have dared to utter. If I hear it spoken in my presence again, it shall be echoed by my lips too, but after it shall come a curse !" And the aged woman, overpowered by this storm of anger, sank back in her chair. Eleanor, trembling in every limb, sprang up to assist her, but she pushed her aside. " Call Davis, I want no one else. Go away." Eleanor dared not disobey, for she was terrified at this burst of passion, the first she had ever seen in the reserved and frigid Mrs. Breynton. She summoned the maid, and was gliding out of the room quietly, though tearfully, when the old lady called her back, and said, in a low, hoarse whisper " Remember, Eleanor, before either of us sleep this night, I will know your intention one way or the other. I must have your promise, your solemn promise, to last your life long or if not " Her voice ceased, but her eyes e ^pressed the rest. That look of anger, doubt, threatening, and yet entreaty, haunted Eleanor for many hours. How sore a strait for one so young ! Her heart was almost rent in twain, it was the old contest, old as the world itself the strife between duty and love. Most writers on this subject are, we think, somewhat in the wrong. They never consider that love is duty a most solemn and holy duty ! He who, loving and being beloved, takes upon himself this second life, this glad burden of an- other's happiness, has no right to sacrifice it for any other human tie. It is the fashion to extol the self-devotion of the girl who, for parental caprice, or to work out the happiness of some love-lorn sister, gives up the chosen of her heart, whose heart's chosen she knows herself to be. And the man who, rather than make a lovme woman a little poorer in worldly wealth but oh, how rich in affection ! proudly conceals his love in his own breast, and will not utter it he is deemed a self-denying hero ! Is this right ? You writers of moral fiction, who exalt to the skies sacrifices such as these, what would you say if for any cause under heaven a wife gavt 1 up a husband, or a husband a wife, each doom- ing the other to suffering worse than death? And is the tie between two hearts knitted to gether by mutual love less strong, less sacred, before the altar-vow than after it ? Is not the breaking of such bond a sin, even though no con- secrated ordinance has rendered the actual per- jury visible guilt ? When will you, who with the world-wide truths of the ideal show forth what is noblest in humanity, boldly put forward this law of a morality, higher and more wholesome than all your tales of sacrifices in filial and paternal shrines that no power on earth should stand between two beings who worthily, holily, and faithfully love one another ? By this law let us judge Eleanor Ogilvie. CHAPTER XXXIV. Countess. Now I see The mystery of your loneliness, and find Your salt tears' head Helena. My dearest madam, Let not your hate encounter with my love, For loving where you do. SHAKSPKARK. IT was almost night before Eleanor was sum- moned to the chamber of Mrs. Breynton. The ' latter had already retired to rest ; and Davis, on ! quitting the room, whispered that her mistress had seemed any thing but well for several hours. In truth, the thin, white, aged face that lay on the pillow was very different from the stern, haughty countenance of old. If Mrs. Breynton had any idea of working out her purpose by touching Eleanor's feelings, she certainly went the right way to do so. The poor girl, strong as she had been a few minutes before, felt weak, almost guilty, now. She sat down beside the bed, silent and trembling. Mrs. Breynton did not speak j but the imperious eyes which anger had lighted up with all the fires of youth, implacably asked the dreaded question. Eleanor trembled still more. "Dear Mrs. Breynton, do not let us talk now; it is so late, and you are wearied. Let me wait until to- morrow," she pleaded. "But / will not wait. I never break my ! word. I told you I must have an answer, and I will," said the aged voice, whose tones gained | in sharpness where they failed in strength. i " Eleanor Ogilvie, before I sleep you must promise that you will not throw away yourself and your fortune by marrying that vile, dishow- I ored, ungrateful nephew of mine." Eleanor's spirit was roused. Is there any loving woman's that would not be ? " You are mistaken, Mrs. Breynton," she said gently, but i decisively, " such appellations are not meet for I Philip Wychnor." ** Ah ! you dare utter his name after what I said ! Have you forgotten ?" THE OGI. VIES. 85 "I have forgotten all that was wrong all that you yourself would soon wish to forget. Why do you feel so bitterly toward him ? You whom he loved so dearly, you who loved him too, once ; and thought him so good, and so noble-minded as he is still." 'It is a lie! And you defend him to my face!" almost screamed Mrs. Breynton. " Because he has no one else to defend him. And who but I should have a right to do so? I, who love him and have loved him since I was a girl ? I, who have known every thought of his heart who am his plighted wife in the sight of Heaven ? Oh, Mrs. Breynton, how can you ask me to give him up?" The speech, begun with patient firmness, ended with tearful entreaty. Even the storm of invec- tive that had risen to Mrs. Breynton's lips, died away unuttered. It might be, that for the mo- ment she saw, in the pale, drooping face and clasped hands, the likeness of Eleanor's dead mother, with all her struggles and sufferings. The harsh voice became a little softer, when she said, " You are blinded, Eleanor, or you would see that it is for your own good I ask this. You do not give up him ? he gives up you. Nay, do not speak I say he does. Where is the honor of a man who keeps a young girl waiting for him year after year, bound by a promise, and shut out from the chance of making a better match ?" Mrs. Breynton did not see how Elea- nor's lips curled at the words. " A worthy lover he is, who talks of his sentimental affection, and forsooth says he is too poor to marry, while by his own folly he chooses to remain so ! This is how that I will not utter his name, would treat you until you grow old; and then he would go and marry some one younger, lovelier, and richer. It is like men; they are all the same!" muttered the dean's widow, repeating the usual lament of narrow-minded women, who, mean themselves, have had no power to win as friends or lovers any but the meanest of the other sex. Thus they never know how high and noble ay, and gentle too, is the nature of a truly good aiuTpure-hearted man. The old lady paused a moment to look at the young creature before her. Eleanor had risen and stood by the bed-side, not weeping", but com- "Mrs. Breynton," she said, in a low, quiet tone, "you have been ever kind to me, and I am grateful. Besides, you are dear to me for your own sake, and for his, whose name I will not speak if it offends you. But I can go no farther. It pains me very much to hear you talk in this way. I owe you all respect, but I also owe some to him whose wife I have promised to be." " And you will in spite of all you will be his wife?" "Yes!" The word was scarcely above a breath, but it said enough. Love had give to the timid, gentle-hearted girl a strength that was able to stand firm against the world. To that "Yes!" there came no answer. It controlled even .the outburst of Mrs. Breynton's wrath. She lay silent, unable to to remove her eyes from this young girl, so meek and yet so resolute so patient, yet so brave. But though restrained L/ this irresistible influence, the storm of passion raged within until it shook every fiber of the aged frame. It seemed as though in her life's decline Mrs. Breynton was destined tc feel the vehement passions which in her dull youth and frigid middle age had never been awakened. Eleanor, startled by her silence, yet drawing from it a faint ray of hope, gathered courage. Kneeling down by the bed-side, she would have taken one of Mrs. Breynton's hands, but they were too tightly clenched together. " Dear friend, my mother's 'friend !" she cried, " do not try me so bitterly. If you knew what it costs me to say this one word and yet I can not but say it. How can I give up my own Philip ?" And in the sorrow and struggle of the moment she spoke to Mrs. Breynton as in her maiden timidity she had never spoken to any human being. " Has he not been my play- fellow, my friend, these many years ? Did not you yourself first teach me to love him, by tell- ing me how good he was, and by bringing us con- stantly together, boy and girl as we were?" "I did, I did. I wished to atone to poor Isa- bel's child for the wrong done to her mother. Fool that I was, to trust the son of such a father !" muttered Mrs. Breynton, almost inaud- ibly. Not hearing, or not noticing the words, Elea- nor went on with her earnest pleading. " How could we help loving one another ; or, loving, how could we by your will break at once through these dear ties, and never love each other again ? Mrs. Breynton, I owe you much, but I owe Philip more. He chose me; he gave me his true, noble heart ; and I will keep it faith - , fully and truly. He loves me, he trusts me ; and I will never forsake him while I live." Mrs. Breynton, overwhelmed by the pent-up | secrets which convulsed her breast, saw her last chance of regaining power fading from her, and yet she dared not speak. Goaded on almost to madness, she gazed on that young face, now ! grown serene with the shining of the perfect j faith and perfect love which " casteth out fear." It did not shrink even from those gleaming eyes, wherein the wild fires of stormiest youth con- tended with the dimness of age. "Eleanor Ogilvie," she said, hoarsely, "whr< do you intend to do with this fortune?" " To wait until I again meet him who has a | right to all my love all my riches ; and then, if he so wills it, to make both his own." At these words, Mrs. Breynton, driven to desperation alike by wrath and fear of discovery, snatched blindly at any means of keeping asun- der, for a time at least, those two to whom a few words of heart-confidence would reveal all her own machinations. " You are mad deceived," cried she, vehe- mently. " How do you know that he remembers you still? What does your brother's letter say ? that he is gay, prosperous." " There is nothing in that to pain me. Philip happy, loves me as well as Philip sorrowful/ she murmured, saying the last words in a musing tone. " Then why does he not show his love ? Why does he not come and claim you to share his fortune? But I tell you, Eleanor Ogilvie, you are blinded by this folly. I know " and for the first time her lips shrank not from a deliber- ate lie; "I know more than yon do of hi.s THE OGILVIES. ness aud nnworthiness. He only waits an ex- cuse to cast you off. He has said so." Eleanor shrunk back a little, and a slight pain smote her heart. " Will you tell me how you learned this?" she asked. "No, no, I will not tell you any thing," hast- ily said the conscience-stricken woman. " They who informed me spoke truth, as I firmly be- lieve." " But / do not I ought not." And once more the beautiful light of confiding love re- turned to the face of the young betrothed. " Who knows Philip Wychnor so well as I ? There- fore it is I who should trust him most. And I do trust him !" "Then you turn away from your mother's friend, who would have been a mother to you. You go and leave her without a child to com- fort her old age," said Mrs. Breynton. "What shall I do? what ought I to do?" cried Eleanor, her gentle heart wrung to the very core by this conflict. "Go away go away. I never wish to see your face again! and the voice rose sharper and sharper. Mrs. Breynton lifted herself up in bed, with flashing eyes and out-stretched hands, which she shook with a threatening gesture, as though the malediction which Philip had scarce escaped were about to fall on his affianced. Eleanor, mute with horror, instinctively mov- ed toward the door; but on reaching it, she stood irresolute. It was one of those crises which sometimes occur in life, when right and wrong seem confounded, when we feel ourselves driven blindly along without power to say, " This is the true way I will walk therein, God helping me." Poor Eleanor ! in either course she took, all seemed darkness, suffering, and, still more, sin. Strong as she was in her faith- ful devotion to Philip, when she thought of Phil- ip's aunt she felt almost as if she had done wrong. From an impulse, more than a settled intent, she laid her hand again on the door, paused a moment, and then re-entered the cham- ber. Mrs. Breynton was leaning forward, with her face on her hands : the storm of passion had spent itself, and tears were dropping fast be- tween her poor, thin fingers. Eleanor's heart sprang toward the desolate woman with intense tenderness. She put her arms round her; she laid the aged head on her young bosom just as she had used to rest her own mother's during many a long night of suffering as she had done on that last night until the moment when suffer- ing merged into the peace of death. The action awoke all these memories like a tide. The or- phan felt drawn with a fullness of love to her who had been the friend of the dead ; and the mother- less and the childless clung together in a close embrace. " You will not send me away from you, Mrs. Breynton ?" whispered the girl. 'Never!" was the answer. "And you will stay with me, Eleanor, my child ; that is, until no, I can not talk about it yet but in time in time " Mrs. Breynton said no more; and this was the only explanation to which they came. Yet El- eanor felt satisfied that a change had passed over the mind of Philip's aunt slight, indeed, but greater than she had ever dared to hope! From that night the icy barrier seemed broken down between them. Though Mrs. Breynton never spoke of her nephew, still she bore at times the chance mention of his name ; and often, even after it had been uttered, she would regard El- eanor with a vague tenderness, and seem on the point of saying something which yet never rose to her lips. This filled the young gi; 1 with hap- py hope ; so that she bore patiently the long si- lence between herself and Philip, waiting until her return home should solve all doubt, and show him that even this temporary alienation was a sacrifice for his sake, in order that the work of the peace-maker might be finished with joy. Eleanor never guessed from how much of re- morse sprang the new gentleness which the dean's widow continually showed toward her. After a little longer sojourn abroad, Mrs. Breyn- ton began restlessly to long after home, instanc- ing the necessity for Eleanor's being at L to look after her own little fortune. The young girl prepared gladly for the journey, and tried to see in the reason urged only an excuse framed by this still haughty spirit, willing and yet half- ashamed to make the concession that would give so much happiness. And with such diverse feelings did Mrs. Breynton and her young companion again set foot in L CHAPTER XXXV. Most men Are cradled into poesy by wrong : They learn in suffering what they teach in song. SHELLEY Life is real life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal : 'Dust thou art to dust relurnest,' Was not spoken of the soul. LONSFILLOW. " So your young bridesmaid has really follow ed your example, and is gone on her honeymoon trip," said Mrs. Penny thorne, as she nervously prepared herself for the martyrdom of a draw- ing-room tete-a-tete with her stylish daughter-in- law. This was after the usual Sunday dinner the hebdomadal sacrifice on the family shrine which its new member always considered a " horrid bore." "Yes, indeed, and has come back again, too," answered Mrs. Frederick, throwing herself on a sofa by the window, while the elder Mrs. Pen- nythorne sat bolt upright by her side on one of the frail, comfortless fabrics which her husband's omnipotent taste had provided for the drawing- room chairs. " They made a short wedding tour, did Hugh and Katharine Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie, I mean ; but one can't get over old habits, and my cousins and I were such friends, especially Hugh," smipered the young bride. " Were you, indeed ! oh, of course, being re- lations," absently replied Mrs. Penny thorne. She made the quietest and most submissive mother-in-law in the world to Isabella ; indeed, to tell the truth, she was considerably afraid of \ her son ; s gay, fashionable wife. . "They seemed both very nice young people; I hope they will be happy," added she, in a vain attempt to con- verse. " Happy ? Oh, I suppose so ! She is not the best of tempers, to be sure ; and I don't thint THE OGILV1ES. 87 'lugh would hare married her if he had not been dnigged into it,, so to speak. He used to pay me a great deal of attention once." Mrs. Pennythorne opened her eyes a little wider than usual. She thought this style of conversation rather odd in her son's wife, but it was perhaps the way of fashionable young ladies. She merely said "Indeed!" and looked out of the window, watching the people of the square going to evening service, and listening to the Heavy, monotonous tone of the solitary bell. "How disagreeable it must be to live near a church ! I hate that ding-dong, it is so annoy- ing; especially when it tolls for a funeral." said Isabella. Mrs. Pennythorne shivered perceptibly. " Oh, we have not many funerals here j it is a very healthy neighborhood." There was a silence, during which the dull seund of some one coughing feebly was heard in the next room. " Can you find a book for a minute or two, while I go and speak to Leigh ? I always do so after dinner," said the mother, meekly apolo- gizing. " Oh yes ! And, by-the-by, that reminds me that I have not yet asked after Leigh. He is much as usual, I suppose?" "A little better, we think. He likes those drives in your pony-chaise so much, and they are Sure to do him good." " Well, he can have the carriage any morning. I never stir out till after luncheon. Only he must not go too far, so as to tire out the horses before I want them." " There is no fear of that. Leigh can not take long rides. He does not get strong very fast. The doctor says we must not expect it at pres- ent. But it is such fine May weather now, and he is really improving," said Mrs. Pennythorne, moving from the room. Isabella looked after b,3r, and tossed her head. "People are so blind when they choose," said she to herself. Then glancing down at her splendid, gay-tinted satin, "How provoking it will be to put it aside for horrible, unbecoming black j and one can't take 'to one's wedding- dresses twelve months after marriage. What a nuisance it is that boy dying !" And during the ten minutes of solitude Mrs. Frederick occupied herself in considering wheth- er it would not be advisable to give her first evening party at once, without postponing it for the usual round of bridal entertainments. " One may as well make the most of the time, .for one never knows what may happen," moral- ized the young wife, whose whole life of vain heartlessness was a contradiction to the say- ing. Mrs. Pennythorne returned to her seat by the window ; and the elder and younger matron tried to keep up a desultory talk, broken by two or three ill-concealed yawns from the latter. "I beg your pardon, but one always gets so stupid at this time of the evening ; at least I do. t quite hate the twilight," observed Isabella. " We might shut it out and have candles, only I promised Leigh that I would watch for Mr. Wychnor round the square he never misses coming on a Sunday evening, you know, and the boy is so glad to see him. Perhaps you would ot mind waiting a little without lights, just to humor poor Ltgh? i5 observed the mother-in- law, humbly. " Oh, dear, *v> ! don't inconvenience yourself on my account," languidly answered Mrs. Fred- erick ; and after inwardly resolving to make one last attempt to keep " that nice young Wychnor" by her side in the drawing-room, instead of suf- fering him to spend nearly the whole evening, as usual, in Leigh's room, Isabella began to dilate on her favorite subject, " my cousins, the Ogil- vies" their great wealth and connections the beautiful villa that Hugh and Katharine had taken in the Regent's Park, and the elegant and costly style in which it was furnished. Con- tented with monosyllabic answers, Mrs. Frederick had thus gone on for a quarter of an hour, when her mother-in-law interrupted her with the in- formation that she must go and tell Leigh that Mr. Wychnor was turning the corner of the square. Thereupon Isabella smoothed her dress, pulled her ringlets out properly, and awaited Mr. Wychnor's entrance. The preparation was vain, for he went at once to Leigh's room. Thither we will follow him, and gladly too, having little love for scenes wherein move such ?ayly bedizened puppets as Mrs. Frederick eunythorne. ' It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting." And better, far better, to stand face to face with the struggling, the sorrowful, nay, even the dying, than to dwell entirely amidst a world of outside show. More precious is it to trace the earnest throbs of the most wounded heart, than to live among those human machines to whom existence is one daily round of dullness and frivolity. Looking on these, Youth, with its bursting tide of soul and sense, shrinks. back aghast "Oh, God!" rises the prayer " Let me not be as these ! Rather let my pulses swell like a torrent, pour them- selves out, and cease let heart and brain work their work, even to the perishing of both be my life short like a weaver's shuttle,' but let it be a life, full, strong, rich perchance a day only, but one of those days of heaven, which are as a thousand years !" When Philip Wychnor came into Leigh's room the boy had fallen asleep as he often did in the twilight. He roused himself, however, to give his friend a welcome ; but his mother and Philip persuaded him to rest again until tea. Just then the sharp call of " Gillie, my dear," resounded through the house, and Mrs. Penny- thorne vanished. Philip Wychnor sat in the growing darkness, holding the feeble hand in his, and listening to the breathing of the sleeper. It is a solemn thing, this vigil beside those over whom, day after day, the shadow of death is creeping, whom we seem to be ourselves leading walking step by step with them to the very entrance of the dark valley. Strange it is to think that there we must leave them needing our guidance and support no more ; that in one day, one hour, the poor frail ones, who have for months clung help- lessly to us for tendance, almost existence, will be bodiless spirits, strong, glorious, mighty ! looking down, it may be, with divine pity on our weak humanity. TheA, perchance, with a power whose limits are yet unrevealed those to whom we ministered may become themselves glad ministrants to us. 88 THE OGILVIKS. As the young man, in all the strength of his >outh, sat beside that scarcely-breathing form, ; where clay and spirit seemed linked together by . { a thread so fine that each moment might dissever ! : then for eternity he felt a strange awe come over him. There are many phases which the human soul must go through before it can attain even that approximation to the divine, which is possible on earth. We cling to prop after prop ; we follow longingly whichever of earth's beautiful and blessed things seems most to realize that perfect . ideal which we call happiness. Of these joys the dearest, the truest, the most satisfying, is that wk ih lifts us out of ourselves, and unites us in heart and soul ay, and intellect, too, for the spirit must find its mate to make the union perfect with some other human being. This blessed bond we call Love. But the chances of fortune come between us and our desire ; the light passes, and we go on our way in dark- ness. There are times, when we must stand alone, and see earth's deepest and most real joys float by like shadows. Alas ! we can but stretch out our arms toward that Infinite, which alone is able to fill the longings of an immortal spirit. Then, with our wounded souls lying naked and open before the Beholder of all, we look yearn- ingly toward the eternal and divine life, com- plete, unchangeable, and cry with solemn, thankful voice, "0 God, Thy fullness is sufficient for me; God, Thy love is an all-boundless store." Through this portion of his inward life had Philip passed. But while learning the deepest mystery of all, he also gained other knowledge, other power. It seemed as though his intellect had sprung up, strong and mighty, from the ashes of the fire which had consumed his heart. Perhaps the same would be the secret history of almost every poet-soul, whose words go forth like lightning; man heeding not the stormy cloud and tempest from whence it leaps forth. Philip's world-ideal had been the woman he loved ; when that became a dream, as he now deemed it was, all human love seemed to pass out of that world with her. The heart's life shut out the soul's life began. Within his spirit there dawned a new energy; an irresistible power, to work, to will, to do. The individual sense was merged in the univer- sal; he felt the deep fountain of his genius springing up within him. After a season of wrestling with that strong agony of crushed love which, thank God! no human being can know more than once he arose, ready to fight the glorious battle, to begin the blessed toil of those great spirits whom Heaven sends as lights unto the world. He had been- called an author now he be- came one. He joined that little band of true brothers to whom authorship is a sacred thing ; a lay priesthood, which, wearing the garb of ordinary fraternity, carries beneath it evermore an inward consecration. Philip wrote not with the haughty assumption of an apostle among men : sometimes in his writings the deepest truth, the purest lore, lay coiled, serpent-like (we use the ancient emblem of wisdom for wis- dom itself), beneath garlands of flowers. But ne never forgot his mission, though the word, sften so falsely assumed, had not once passed his lips. God's truest messenger is not the Pharisee who harangues in the temple, but the Publican who passes unnoticed by r,ne way-side. Yet Philip Wychnor had his share of honor and repute. Every day his fame was growing ; but there was one difference between his present life and the past. The work itself brought pleasure, at least that sense of duty ful- filled which is likest pleasure ; the mere fame brought none. He had no care whether it came or not. For two ends only is renown precious : for ambition's sake and for love's. Philip had neither ; life to him seemed now made not for happiness but for worthy toil. He stood in the world's vineyard, not as a joyful gatherer of fruit, but as a laborer, patient and active, yet looking toward the day's close as toward its chiefest joy. Was then this brave heart, worthily struggling with and surmounting fate, utterly without mem- ories of the sweet past ? Was it grown so -indif- ! ferent that oblivion brought no pain ? Let many | a fearful hour of suffering in the dead of night, ! at intervals in the day's toil, or in seasons of good fortune, wherein there was no sharer, and of fame become all joyless now let these tell that the young man yet unearned over his buried dream. Perchance tliis sorrow oppressed him even* j when on this n ght he sat in the darkness beside the sick boy. Leigh's deep sleep left Philip's thoughts that liberty of range which is bliss to ' the happy to the suffering, or those who have j suffered, torture indeed. The young man sighed heavily many times. "Are you unhappy, Philip?" whispered a ; faint voice, and the damp fingers he held twined feebly round his own. " My dear Leigh ! I thought that you were asleep." " No, not for some minutes ; but I fancied you were, until those deep sighs came. We never sigh when we are asleep, you know." " Very seldom : there is no sorrow in sleep," murmured Philip, as if his words had a deeper ! sense than their apparent one. He had some- jhow caught a little of this habit of twofold speech from his constant associate and friend, David Drysdale. " What are you saying about sorrow ?" asked i Leigh. " What have you been thinking of, | Philip? Not that old grief of which you never speak ; and which, when I found out that it was in your heart, you said I could not understand ? ; I can understand many things better now ; per- , haps I might this. And you often say, I do you good at times." " Always, always, my boy ! Only let us talk of something else now. Be content, Leigh ; indeed I am so too, as content as one can be in this sorrowful world." " Is it so sorrowful, this world of yours ?" " Why do you say 'yours,' Leigh ?" " Because because you know why, Philip," and the voice became feebler, more solemn. There was no answer ; Philip could not breathe the lie of hope to the spirit which seemed already spreading its pure wings. Both were silent for awhile, but the mute hand-clasp be- tween them appeared to say, "I go !" "Yea, thou goest, blessed one !" Leigh was the first who spoke. "I am not afraid, scarcely sorry and yot perhaps Olx THE OGILVIES. 89 Philip ! if you knew how often in the old times I wished, earnestly wished, that it might be thus with me that I might get away from that dull life of torment. And now when the wish comes true, I sometimes have thought that I should like to stay a little longer, that I might do some- thing to atone for these eighteen wasted years. You would not think me thus old, Philip, child- ish as I am ? yet, at times I feel so weary, so worn it might have been a life of eighty years which I lay down. Then again, even when my body is weakest, my soul feels so clear and strong, that I shrink from this coming quiet this deep rest." "Not all rest," answered Philip, softly. " God never meant it so He. the Creator, the Sus- tainer, knows no idle repose. If either shall we, His servants. We shall work His will how, we can not tell, but we shall do it, and rejoice in the doing. Think, Leigh, how glorious to pass from weakness to strength from suffering to action; perhaps to be heaven's messengers throughout the wide universe ; feeling nearer Him, because, in our measure, we share His divinest attribute that of dispensing good." In the darkness, Philip could not see the face of the almost dying boy; but he felt the hand which he still held, drawn nearer to the other, and both clasped, as in prayer his own still be- tween them. It seemed*that even then Leigh could not relinquish the hand which had brought light into his darkness, and guided him on until he stood at the death-portal, looking thereon calmly and without fear. "All this is joyful so joyful!" Leigh said, after a pause. ;i Philip, your words are like an angel's they always were so to me ; and some time not now, but you know when will you tell my mother all this ? and say how it was that I never spoke thus to her, because she could not bear it. But you will remember it all, and it will sound as if I said it not in my poor, weak, childish words, but with the voice which I shall have then." Philip promised. A little while longer they talked in this calm, solemn strain, and then the mother came in with a light. "How well Leigh looks to-night !" she said. And truly there was a strange spiritual beauty over the boy's face. " He seems so quiet and happy ! You always do him good, Mr. Wych- nor," gratefully added Mrs. Penny thorne. And then through the open drawing-room door came Mrs. Frederick's titter, and her husband's loud chatter, while above all sounded Mr. Pennythorne's decisive tone. " Cillie, my dear, don't forget to tell that ex- cellent Mr. Wychnor that we can not do without him any longer ; send your ever-grumbling boy to bed, and ask Mr. Wychnor to come into the drawing-room." "Yes, do go, Philip," whispered Leigh, "it will please my father he thinks so much of you now." He did indeed; for Mr. Pennythorne was a very Ghebir in his way his face always turned worshipingly toward the rising sun. Philip assented as he would have done to any wish of poor Leigh's. After an affectionate j good-night, and a promise to come next day, he passed from the sick bc/'s room, the solemn ante-chamber of death, into the world the hol- low, frivolous world of Mr. Pennythorne. CHAPTER XXXVI. Many waters can not quench love, neither can the floods drown it For love is strong as death : jealousy as cruel as the grave. SONO OF SOLOMON. LET us follow Wychnor where his presence was so energetically demanded. In the drawing- room of Blank Square no one could be more abundantly welcomed than he. Mr. Pennythorne now delighted to honor his "very clever young friend," and had told some scores of times the story of Philip's first coming to London with the introduction to himself. He would probably re- peat the same, with additions, for the benefit of every young man whom he chose to patronize for the next ten years. " Happy to see you, my dear Norwych Wychnor, I mean," said Mr. Pennythorne, cor- recting himself; since the amusing sobriquet which he had conferred on the poor tutor was hardly respectful enough to the rising author. " Here we all are striving to get through the evening : Fred is more sleepy than ever, and my fair daughter-in-law evidently thinking she has entered into the dullest family-party of the three kingdoms." ''Oh, dear no, Mr. Pennythorne," disclaimed Isabella, who got on extremely well with her husband's father. She was, indeed, treated by him with great consideration, through the def- erential mockery of which she w r as nnt acutr enough to penetrate. She really liked him the best of the family, and pronounced him to be " a most amusing old fellow." "I assure you, Mr. Wychnor, we have been laughing amazingly. Mr, Pennythorne is so droll," said she, striving by this address to bring the young man in closei approximation to her chair. But Philip only made some ordinary reply and sat down at the other end of the table, con sidering what excuse he could frame to mak< his stay to-night in this interesting fami'y-circh as brief as possible. Mr. Pennythorne led the conversation, as h< always did shooting his small popguns of wk to the infinite amusement of Mrs. Frederick ; nevertheless she was considerably annoyed tha< all the attentions paid her came from her elderly papa-in-law, and none from his young guest. Philip sat more silent and quiet than usval, until Mrs. Pennythorne came in, and then he rose up to find her a chair. " He never did that for me in his life, the bear!" thought Isabella. It was, perhaps, rather a fault in Philip's manners that his courtesies and his feelings always went together ; he could not express the one without the other. "How does Leigh seem now?" askel he, ad dressing the mother, who was so accustomed to the young man's kindly attentions, that she took them with less nervousness and shyness from him than any one else, and requited the respect he showed her (to which, poor woman ! she was, little used) with a grateful regard. " Leigh is really better to-night ; you have quite brightened him up, Mr. Wychnor, for he was so dull all day." " Pray choose some more interesting subject Cillie, my dear," sharply interposed Mr. Penny thorne. " Leigh thinks far too much of himself already; and you coax him into imagiring him- self ill, because it looks interesting. That is THE OGILVIES. always the way with women and miners, but it will not do in ray family. Of course, nothing of consequence is the matter with Leigh." The father spoke quickly, almost angrily ; but there was an uneasy restlessness in his manner, which Philip had often discerned of late when the boy was mentioned; and the piteous look of Mrs. Pennythorne checked the answer that was rising indignantly to the young man's lips. There was a constrained silence. Then 'Mrs. Frederick, turning from her husband, who was dropping fast to sleep again his usual habit of proving that Sunday was indeed a day of rest made another effort to draw Philip into con- versation. " I was quite anxious to meet you to-night, Mr. Wychnor, as I have a message to you from a friend of yours, my cousin " Philip moved a little "my cousin, Hugh Ogilvie." The remark only brought an assenting bow, and a hope, laconically expressed, that Mr. Ogilvie was quite well. " Certainly ; how could he be otherwise with a young bride to take care of him '?" tittered Isabella; "and, by-the-by, the message comes conjointly from her, which must be very natter- ing, as all the men think my cousin Katharine the most betwiching creature in the world. But perhaps you have met her?" "I have," answered Philip. He remem- bered but too well how and where was that meeting. " Oh ! of course you did that night, at Mrs. Lancaster's. A delightful party, was it not ? though no one then thought how soon my nice little bridesmaid would become a bride. Well, Mr. Wychnor, she and her husband were inquir- ing after you the other day, and desired me to say how happy they will be to see you at the Regent's Park. They have the sweetest villa in the world, and ought to be as happy as two doves in a cage," observed Mrs. Frederick, in a parenthesis. Philip bowed again, and muttered some ac- knowledgment of the "kind invitation." " There never was such a stupid young man," thought Isabella; adding aloud, "Hugh told me also to say, as a further inducement, that shortly they expected a visit from his sister and your very particular friend, Eleanor. I repeat his words, though I never heard before of this friendship." Another silent assent but no deeper pallor could show the icy coldness that crept through every fiber of Philip's frame. Sudden, delicious tremblings, quick changes of color, are the tokens of love's hopeful dawn love's sorrowful after- life knows none of these. Philip sat still he would have "died and made no sign." " The fellow is positively rude he might be made of stone." muttered the young, wife, as she turned indignantly away, and relieved her feelings by pulling the hair of her sleeping hus- band, with a pretty gamesomeness that made her father-in-law laugh. ''Does the light annoy you, Mr. Wychnor? This camnhme is always too dull or too bright," quietly said Mrs. Pennythorne. ' Shall I move the lamp, if it pains your eyes?" "Oh, no, not at all that is, a little," Philip answered, hastily removing the hand with which he had beon shading his face. " My eyes are weak. I think I sit up too late, and woik too much." " You do not look too well, indeed ;" and Mrs. Pennythorne regarded him with an almost moth- erly gaze. " You should go to bed at eleven, as I always told poor Leigh." Here she checked a sigh, and glanced fearfully to her husband. He was performing a few practical jokes on his drowsy eldest-born, to the extreme delight of that son's wife, who treated her spouse with about as much respect, and not half as much attention, as she showed to her pet spaniel. " I will come and see Leigh soon. And per- haps I had better follow your kind advice, Mrs. Pennythorne, for I am really very tired; so J will bid you good-night at once," said Philip, rising. Here, however, Mr. Pennythorne put in his veto. " What ! running away so soon ! Non- sense, my dear young friend. Sit down again. Gillie, ring for the supper at once." Certainly, w T ith all his short-comings, Pierce Pennythorne never failed in hospitality. But Philip resisted successfully, and made his adieus. He had gained the hall, when Mr. Pen- nythorne summoned him back. "There was something I wanted to say to you, only the lively and amusing conversation of my gifted daughter-in-law, here, quite put it out of my head. Pray, Mr. Wychnor, among the numberless invitations which must throng upon a gentleman of your standing, are you dis- engaged on Thursday?" Philip said he was. "Then will you dine here? In fact, 1 want you te meet a particular friend of mine, a very talented young man immense fortune estates here, there " and Mr. Pennythorne nodded his head to the four points of the compass. At which Frederick winked slily his usual custom to signify that his revered parent was drawing the longbow. . "I should be most happy, but " "I will take no buts, my dear Wychnor. I want you particularly, as my friend is thinking- of entering the House, and wishes to stand for a borough near that worthy old city of cats and canons, L . You, of course, having lived there, as you once mentioned, know all about the place, and can give him the information he requires. Pray do us the favor." " I shall be glad to serve any friend of yours, Mr. Pennythorne," said Philip, longing to es- cape. " Then we may expect you. Indeed, you will be of immense service to this embryo statesman, if you can tell him the state of politics and par- ties in shire. He wishes to settle in En- gland, but he knows not a jot about English affairs, and is only just come to town from a long residence on the Continent. You'll like him very much there is. not a more perfect gentleman any where than Mr. Paul Lynedon." "Paul Lynedon!" echoed Philip. " Yes ; do you know the name ?" "I have heard it. Bat I am keeping you standing in the hall. Good-evening, Mr. Pen- ! nythorne." " Good-evening. Remember Thursday, at i six." The young man muttered some answer about being "very happy," that white lie of society! THE OGILVIES. But Philip hardly knew what he said or did. When he had fairly quieted the house and its atmosphere of torture for the cool night air, he leaned against the railings, trembling all over. Paul Lynedon in London ! Eleanor coming shortly ! It was all as plain as light, even to this entering parliament. Of course, the intend- ed bridegroom would wish to be of importance in the county whence he had chosen his bride. They would settle there, too ; and she could bear to live in the dear old place, within sound of the cathedral chimes ! And he himself, whom these thoughts caused to writhe beneath an al- ! most insupportable agony an agony which he had dreamed was now deadened and seared within him it was he who had to meet these j happy ones, face to face ! It was he who seem- ed called upon to serve the man who had won his heart's treasure the love of Eleanor Ogil- vie. What mattered it that this treasure was perhaps false worthless ? It had not been so once ; and, whether or not, he had carried it in his bosom as a jewel beyond price. To see the gem worn flauntingly by another it would be torture death ! He could not do it ! He would leave London he would hide himself out of their sight ; and in some lonely place he would pray Heaven to comfort him, and to cast out from his riven heart the very ashes of this bitter love. He thought he had trodden it down, with his firm will, his noble patience, his proud sense of duty; and yet here it was, bursting up afresh, in tor- turing and burning flames ! He wrestled with it he sped on with rapid strides through the loneliest streets he bared his head, that the fresh May-breeze might pierce with loving cool- ness into his brain and yet he was half-mad- dened still ! It is a fearful thing this gathering up of the love of boyhood, youth, and manhood, into one absorbing passion, which is life or death. Men, in general, rarely know it ; the sentiment comes to them in successive and various forms a dream of remance and poetry, an intoxication of sense, A calm, tender esteem; but when all these feelings are merged into one felt through life for one object only then, what woman's devotion, faithful and tender though it be, is like the wild, strong, deep, enduring love of man? Philip reached his home, utterly exhausted in body and mind. His brain seemed flooded with a dull, heavy pain, and yet he must lie down and try to make it calm, ready for a long day of labor on the morrow. He must forget the real in the ideal he must write on ! No mat- ter what were his own heart-tortures he must I sit down and calmly analyze the throbbings of j the wide pulse of humanity, as displayed in the ' world of imagination. Perhaps both lives, that ' of brain and heart, would unconsciously mingle : into one, and men would marvel at the strange truth to nature not knowing that every ideal | line had been written with real throes of agony, j and that each word had gleamed before his eyes, as though his soul had inscribed it with a lightning-pen. Poor Philip ! Heaven only knows through what martyr-fires souls like thine ascend to im- mortal fame ! CHAPTER XXXVII. Go not away ! Oh, leave rae not alone ! I yet would see the light within thine eyes ; I yet would hear thy voice's heavenly tone ; Oh, leave me not, whom most on earth I prize ' Go not away ! yet, ah ! dark shades I see Creep o'er thy brow thou goest ; but give thy hand ! Must it. be so ? Then go ! I follow thee Unto the Silent Land. FREDRIKA BREMER. So, life is loss, and death felicitie ! SPENSER. IN the morning Philip Wyennor was laboring as usual at his daily work ; for it was work real work though he loved it well. He ap- plied himself to it, day after day, not waiting for inspiration, as few writers can afford to do, but sedulously training his mind to its duties^ until he roamed among the beautiful regions of imagination, like a man who wanders in his own pleasant garden, having first taken the proper measure of walking to its gate and bringing the key. Philip on this day began his work with a des- perate energy. He could not stay musing, he dared not ; he fled from the specter that memory conjured up. Thought battled against thought. He worked his brain almost to suffering, that he might deaden the pain which gnawed at his heart. Nor was this the first time he had need to be thankful for that blessed dream-life, that second existence, which brings oblivion for the sorrows of the real world. A space since, and we pitied the poor toiler in literature, obliged to rack his tortured brain in despite of inward troubles. We look at him now, and see how he grows calm and brave-hearted, as, by the power of a strong will, he passes from his own small world of personal suffering into the grand world wherein the author sits godlike, forming, as it were, out of nothing, new heavens and a new earth. Shall we pity this true man, who stands nearer to the Heavenly Maker than other men, because he also can create ? Rather let us behold him with reverence almost with envy for he drinks of the truest, holiest Lethe, where self is swallowed up in the universal. If at times the shadow of his own bitter thought is thrown across the wave, it appears there in an image so spiritualized that he can look on it without pain. In the deep calm of those pure waters, it only seems like a light cloud between him and heaven. * When Philip had written for a few hours, there came a message from the Pennythornes - or, rather, from Mrs. Pennythorne saying that Leigh felt so much better, and longed for a drive with his dear friend, Mr. Wychnor. The mother could not go with Leigh herself, and could trust him to no one but Philip, whom she entreated to come to the square at once. This was repug- nant enough to the young man. He would fain fly from every place where he might hear the sound of Paul Lynedon's name. And yet, poor Leigh ! At the thought of him all these earth- feelings grew dim ; they melted away into noth- ing before the awful shadow of Death. Philip laid aside his work, and was soon by the side of the sick boy. " How good of you to come ! But you are always good," said Leigh. "Indeed he is ! I can not tell what we should do without Mr. Wychnor," thankfully cried Mrs. Pennythorne, in whose long-subdued nature THE OG1LV1ES. /nany a new chord of feeling had been touched ' of late. Philip pressed the hands of both, but did not speak. They little thought what deep emotion struggled in "his heart that poor, torn heart which, still madly loving, found itself alone and unloved. Yet their few words fell upon it like balm : it was sweet to feel that even now he was of use. and precious to some one in the wide, desolate world. " Leigh may take a little longer drive to-day, for Mrs. Frederick does not want the carriage. 1 wish I were going with you both," sighed the mother; "but Mr. Pennythorne does not like being left alone when he is writing." "Cillie! Cillje! are you going to stay in \ Leigh's room all day?" resounded from the ; study door. Poor Mrs. Pennythorne cast a ; hopeless glance at Philip, hastily kissed her boy, j and disappeared in a moment. Leigh looked after her wistfully. "I wish | she could stay with me a little more. She would like it now, and afterward! But she is a good, dear mother! and she knows I think so. Be sure you tell her that I did, Philip." Wychnor pressed the boy's hand : it was a strange and touching thing, this calm mingling of death with life in Leigh's thoughts and words. He was si- lent a minute, and then went on in a cheerful tone. " You must let me remain out a good while to-day, L feel so strong; and perhaps I might stay a little later, to watch the sunset. I never can see it from my room, you know; which seems rather hard, now the evenings are 90 beautiful and spring-like." Philip soothed him as an elder brother might have done, and promised all, provided he felt strong enough. Then he took Leigh in his arms like a child, and carried him down stairs to the gay carriage. What different occupants were the fluttering, fashionable young wife, and the poor sick boy, who lay half-buried in cloaks and cushions ! Yet Leigh lifted up his head with a cheerful look when Mrs. Pennythorne appeared at a window to give her parting nod as they drove away. Philip saw the bright, loving smile that passed between mother and son he thought of it afterward many a time. "Now, where shall we go, Leigh?" was the first question proposed, as they drove along the interminable Kensington High-street. Leigh pleaded for some quiet road : he want- ed to go far out in the country, to that beautiful lane which runs along by the river-side at Chis- wick. He had been there once at the begin- ning of his illness, and had often talked of the place since. It haunted him, he said, with its overhanging trees, and the river-view breaking in between them its tiny wavelets all sparkling in the sun. He knew it would look just the same this calm, bright May afternoon. So, accordingly, they went thither. It was one of those spring days when the earth seems to rest from her joyful labor of budding and blos- soming, and to be dreaming of summer. The birds in the trees the swans in the water the white clouds in the sky were alike still ; and upon all things had fallen the spell of a blessed silence a silence full of happiness, and hope, and love. Happiness, hope, and love what words, what idle words they would sound, unto the two who were passing slowly under the shadow of the trees! Oh, Earth, beautiful, cruel mother, how canst thou smile with a face so fair, when sorrow or death is on thy children ! But the earth answers softly, ' ; I smile with a calm and changeless smile, to tell my frail chil- dren that if in me, made but for their use, is such ever-renewed life and joy, shall it not be so with them? And even while they gaze upon me, I pour into their hearts my deep peace !" It was so with Philip and Leigh. They sat silent, hand in hand, and looked on this beautiful scene : from both, the bitterness passed away the bitterness of life, and that of death. Which was the greater ? On the bridge at Kew, Leigh spoke. He begged that \he carriage might rest a moment to let him iook at the sunset, which was very lovely. He had lifted himself up, and the large, brown eyes seemed drinking in all the beauty that was in land, river, and sky they re*id longest there. Then they turned to meet Philip's : that mute gaze between the two was full of sol- emn meaning. " Are you content?" whispered Philip. ." Yes, quite : now let us go home." Leigh's eyes closed, and his voice grew faint. "You seem tired," said the other, anxiously. " Yes, a little. Take me home soon, will you, Philip ?" His head drooped on the young man's shoulder heavily so heavily that Philip signed to the coachman to drive on at his utmost speed. Then he put his arm round the boy, who lay with closed eyes, his white cheek looking gray and sunken in the purple evening light. Once Philip spoke, almost trembling lest no answer should come. "Are you quite easy, dear Leigh?" The eyes opened and the lips parted with a faint smile. " Yes, thank you, only weary ; I can hardly keep awake, but I must till I have seen my mother." And still the dying head sank heavier on Philip's shoulder, and the hands which he drew in his to warm them were already growing damp and rigid. He sat with this solemn bur- den in his arms, and the carnage drove home- ward until they entered the square. The mother stood at the door ! " Take her away, for God's sake only one minute," whispered Philip to the servant ; but she had sprung already to the carriage. " Leigh ! how is my darling Leigh ?" Her voice seemed to pierce even through the shadows of another world and reach the dying boy : he opened his eyes, and smiled tenderly upon her- "Leigh is tired, almost asleep. Take the cushion, Mrs. Pennythorne, and I will carry him in," said Wychnor, hastily. She obeyed withou a word, but her face grew deadly white and her hands trembled. When the boy was placed, as he seemed to wish, in his mother's arm-chair, she came and knelt before him, looking into his face. There was a shadow there. She saw it and felt that the time was come when not even the mother could stand between her child and Death. Philip thought she would have shrieked, or fainted, but she did neither. She only jrazed into the dim eyes with a wild, earnest, almost beseeching gaze. "Mother, you will let me go?" murmured Leigh. THE OGILVIES. She drew a long sigh, a* if repressing an agony so terrible that the struggle was like that of a soul parting ; and then said, " Yes, my darling !'" He smiled what a heaven is there in the happv smile of the dying ! and suffered her fond, ministering hands unwilling even yet to give up their long tendance to unfasten the cloak and put the wine to his lips. Then she sat down beside him, laid his head on her bosom, and awaited oh mighty strength of a mother's love ! awaited, tearless and calm, the passing away of the life which she had given. "He is quite content quite happy he told me so," Philip whispered in her ear, with his soft, comforting voice. She turned round one moment, with a startled air : " Yes, yes, I know. Hush !" and she bent ! down again over her child, whose faint lips seemed trying to frame, scarcely louder than a sigh, the last word, " Mother." Then there fell over the twilight-shadowed room a solemn silence, long and deep in the midst of which the spirit passed. They only knew that it was so, when, as the moon rose, the pale, spiritual light fell on the calm face of the dead boy, still pillowed on the mother's breast. She turned and looked upon it without a cry or a moan, so beautiful, so heavenly was it ! At that moment, had they put to her the question of old, " Is it well with the child ?" she would have answered like the Shunammite, " It is well !" " God help her !" murmured Philip Wychnor, as she at last suffered him to take the beloved form from her arms, and bear k to " Leigh's room" they call it so even now. Ere the young man left the chamber once the scene of suffering and pain, now of holy peace and death-slumber he looked long and earnestly at the white, still image before him. Then he turned away ; and thought no more of the dead likeness of what poor Leigh had been, but of the now free, glorious, rejoicing soul. As he passed down stairs, a quick loud knock sounded at the door it was the father's, who knew not that he came to a house of death. " Cillie, my dear ! Eh, what's this ? Where's Mrs. Pennythorne ?" he said, in his sharpest tones, as he missed the customs ly meeting at the door. Philip advanced, and drew the old man into the parlor. " Ah, Mr. Wychnor ! quite a surprise to see you, but delighted," he began in his usual man- ner. " Cillie ! Where can she be ? Cillie, my dear !" Then, startled by Philip's silence, he stopped. "Mrs. Pennythorne is up-stairs," the young man said, in a low and hesitating tone. "Eh ? oh, of course she is with Leigh." "No: Leigh does not need her now," an- swered Philip, solemnly. "Mr. Pennythorne, your son is dead !" But the next moment he repented foi thus abruptly communicating the tidings. The old man snatched his arm with an incre- dulous gesture. Then he groaned "Oh my God!" we ever call upon that nams in our agony t and fell into a chair, almost paralyzed. Philip had shrunk with disgust from the stern, unloving father of the living, who, willfully self- decoived, hac' led his own son to the sacrifice, and looked on with hard and cruel eyes ; bnt no human heart could have turned away unpuying from the agonized, remorse-stricken father of the dead. For many minutes did the old man sit rtere speechless and immovable. His grief w*s so terrible, in its pent-up, stony strength, that Philip dared not breathe a word of consolation. At last Mr. Pennythorne raised his head, tlougb without looking up, and murmured the natne of his wife. " Shall I call her ?" "Yes." She came in that instant. She had ben for minutes at the door, not daring to approach him even then. But now she drew near to her hus- band woman-like, wife-like. She laid lib head on her shoulder, and, for the first time in his life, he clung to her humbly, meekly feeling that she, in all her weakness, was yet stronger than he. " Come with me, Pierce," she whispered, and led him away; he following her as unre- sisting as a child. What passed between the desolate parents, none cf the household knew. They remained shut up together in their own room for hours nay, for days all the time that the dead lay in the littJe chamber above. They saw no one at least he did not though the wife passed in and out now and then, to give the needful orders. She did all with a new-born firmness and energy marvelous to witness. Philip Wychnor, who once or twice saw her for a few moments when she descended to the silent, darkened parlor, be- low, unconsciously spoke to her with a strange reverence and tenderness, as to one of those women who are God's angels upon earth. In a few days the burial-train passed from the door, its stately array vain mockery ! moving, down the square in the bright sunshine; ana the house of the Penny thornes was childless evermore. CHAPTER XXXVIII. The tongue was intended for a divine organ, bat the devil often plays upon it. JKRKMY TAYLOR. How much have cost us the evils that have never hap pened ! JEFFERSOK. Quiet thyself until time try the truth, and it may be thy fear will prove greater than thy misfortune. SOUTHWELL. " ARE you at home this evening, Wychnor?" said a friendly voice, when Philip sat leaning on his desk, in a thoughtful mood. He looked up, and saw at the door the face of old David Drysdale. " Certainly to you always, my good friend." "But I mean, is there any need for that amusing fiction at which society smilingly con- nives, though I know you do not? Is your mind really at 'home,' as well as your body? are you quite disengaged?" "Yes, I have done my work for to-day. Pray, come in, Mr. Drysdale, and be very wel come." " Have you more welcomes than one to give away?" pursued Drysdale, still holding tb* door-handle; "because I am not alone." 94 THE OGILVIES, " Any friend of yours I shall be happy to I tinued Lynedon, politely, and still turning tc see," beo-an Philip, in the usual conventional! his silent host. ' But in numberless ways, too. form." * 1 1 have heard so much of you from Mr. Penny- " Nonsense !" interrupted the old man, "I i tk.rne, and in several other quarters." thought I had cured you of that fashion of polite Philip changed color. He need not have speaking. Besides friends are about as plenti- done so, had he known liow often truth is ex- ful as blackberries in London I may say that tended a little for the sake of compliment, and with great truth, you know. This gentleman was so especially by Paul Lynedon. Wychnor is only an ar^uaintance. of mine, who wishes to began to talk hastily about the Penny thornes. become one of yours." "I believe I was invited to meet you there, " And a Jit tie more than that, I hope, in time," ' Mr. Lynedon, only for the trouble that inter- continued a voice behind. It was so sweetly j vened. modulated so perfectly the tone and accent of j "Ah yes! a son died, or daughter. What that rare personage, a gentleman that Philip a melancholy event ! Doubtless the family were looked eagerly to the speaker, who added, " Shall much afflicted,' said Paul. But though his face I introduce myself, Mr. Wychnor, as my friend was composed to a decent gravity, the tone was here seems rather to disown me?" And that not quite sincere. Philip might have noticed it, beautiful, irresistible smile broke over his face, save that at the moment his thoughts reverted making one forget that it was not strictly hand- tenderly to Leigh. some. My 7 name is Lynedon Paul Lynedon." j "I knew they would kill that lad the young- Philip had guessed it before, yet he could not est, was it not ? Poor fellow ! I dare say you suppress a start. Once again there came that miss him, Wychnor?" observed old David, torturing pain ; the blood seemed ice-bound in | " I do indeed. He was a dear friend to me, his heart, and then flowed back again in fire. ; though he was quite a boy !" He must be calm ; he was so. The next moment ! "What a good-for-nothing wretch and idiot he forced himself to utter acknowledgment and the father has been ! I wish I had told him so," welcome to the man whom Eleanor loved. j cried Drysdale, indignantly. He could not wonder that she did so, now. " Hush ! you would forgive him if you saw He looked on the finely-molded form, where, to him now," Philip gently interposed ; and then natural grace, was added all that ease of move- he spoke more about poor Leigh, to which ment and courtly elegance which polished society Drysdale listened compassionately, while Paul bestows ; the intellectual head, which had, be- Lynedon sat twirling his cane, trying to assume sides character, a winning sweetness, given by the same interest. He did not do it so well as its only perfect feature, a mouth and chin most usual, though ; for Wychnor detected his ab- exquisite in shape and expression. And then straction, and apologized. the voice, that index of the heart, how musical i " You knew nothing, I believe, of this poor it was ! Philip's eye and ear took in all this ; ' lost friend of mine : so the conversation can not and even while a sense of self-abasement made be very interesting' to you." his heart die within, he felt glad thankful. , " Except so far as all humanity is interesting She had not cast away her love upon one mean' and where will you find a subject like it?" and unworthy ; her choice was not such as to answered the other. Lynedon would not have lower her in his eyes he could bear any thing but that ! " I have been wishing for this pleasure some time, Mr. Wychnor," said Paul, with that mixt- ure of frankness and courtesy which formed the great charm of his manner; "you seem any thing but unknown to me not merely from your writings, which I will not be so rude as to discourse upon here " "Right, Mr. Lynedon," put in David Drys- dale; "it is very annoying, when a stranger follows up his introduction by taking your soul to pieces and setting it up before your eyes, until in most instances you despise it yourself, 'after it has been handled, whether lovingly or not, by the dirty paws of a fool. Glad to see you have more sense and tact than that, Mr. Paul." "Thank you!" answered Lynedon, with a pleasant smile and bow, as he turned round again to Philip. " After, this, I suppose I must say no more about the knowledge I have gained of you from your writings which is, neverthe- less, the true way of becoming acquainted with o. man. In the world, we have so many various outward selves." "Humph! we oughtn't to have, though!" muttered Drysdale, still taking the answer out of Philip's mouth. He did not know how thank- ful the young man was for the interposition. "Perhaps you are right, Mr. Drysdale," con- been considered unfeeling on any account. Besides, he had taken much pains to collect traditionary evidence concerning the character of the young author, who was likely to be use- ful to him ; and he was now exerting in every way his own favorite talent of being " all things to all men." Paul often thought this was the wisest thing his saintly namesake ever said, and congratulated himself rather irreverently on the presumed resemblance between them. He failed here, however ; since Wychnor was not inclined for a discussion on moral philosophy, but came to the point in his own candid way, by saying at once "I conclude the reason assigned by Mr. Pen- nythorne for our meeting at his house will fur- ther explain this obliging visit of yours, Mr. Lynedon ; and as the matter is no secret, I be- lieve, let would have ; Aided his views ! So you had some views, me tell you with what pleasure I re aided your views had I been able." Mr. Paul? about them Why, you never told me any thing !" said Drysdale, with a degree of simplicity that made Lynedon internally wish him at that "central fire," which formed the old philosopher's present hobby, and of which he was perpetually talking. "I thought you came here only to see the young author of whom you said you had heard so much?" " Certainly, that was my chief inducement. You only do me justice my worth> friend." THE OGILVIES. And Paul smiled still courteously as ever on old David ; but immediately tried to free himself from a rather awkward predicament by turning the conversation to his plans with regard to shire. " You resided there, I believe ? A delicious county ! There is none in England which I like so much." Philip bent his head, and his fingers played convulsively with the papers on his desk. " So you are really going to join that excel- lent band of law-makers that Parliament-mir- ror which is supposed to reflect the soul of the nation. Whether it does so, despite its cracks and its cobwebs, must remain an open ques- tion," said Drysdale, trying in vain to get an opportunity for one of his lengthy harangues. "And you mean to stand for that little town which has been a close borough these two centuries ? I know shire pretty well. Of course you have been there ?" "Once or so; not very often." And Paul looked rather confused, being struck with the remembrance of his former mortifying visit, and earnestly hoping that its fair object had never compromised him by publishing the foolish af- fair. The very idea brought a dye of shame to his cheek. Philip saw it ; it seemed to his eyes the consciousness of happy love, and his very soul writhed within him. These strangely diverse feelings inclined both the young men to the same course, t Each in- stinctively glided from the subject, and the name of L or of its inhabitants was not once men- tioned by either. They sought refuge in safe generalities ; and the conversation became of a broken, indifferent, skirmishing description, nat- ural to two men, each of whom is bent upon concealing his own thoughts and discovering those of his companion. In this Paul Lynedon succeeded best ; he was a far greater adept than Philip Wychnor. He talked well at times brilliantly but still even to the most earnest subjects he, seemed to render only lip-service, and always appeared to consider more the effect of his words than the words themselves. He and David Drysdale almost engrossed the con- versation; but once or twice, in some of his Snest sentences, Paul stopped unconsciously, and wondered why the eyes of Philip Wychnor were so earnestly fixed upon him. He did not like their scrutiny. After a space, Mr. Lynedon, growing rather wearied, remembered that all this while his cab was waiting in the street, and that he had an engagement at the Regent's Park ; which was the first place he happened to think of. As the chance word passed his careless lips, those of Philip Wychnor quivered and grew pale j but they uttered the parting salutation still. Paul Lynedon's adieu was full of the most friendly courtesy. He thanked his new ac- quaintance warmly for all his kindness " the kindness which he intended to show," as Drys- dale commented rather pointedly and said, how glad and proud he should be to number among his friends Mr. Philip Wychnor. Per- haps he felt the greater part of what he express- ed ; for no one ever looked on the calm, thought- ful face of the young author without a feelling of interest and regard. " You will be sure to come and see me soon, Mr. Wychnor,'' said Paul, holding out hii hand. For the moment Philip drew back his own ; but the act was unseen in the half-darkened room. With a violent effort he .repressed the shudder that came over him, and suffered, rather than returned, the grasp of Lynedon ; but it was with the self-compulsion of the martyr who thrust his right hand into the flames. When the door closed on his visitor, Philip sighed as though a mountain had been lifted from his breast. " He knows nothing of the past. She has not told him. That was kind of her at le^st. Thank Heaven ! he does not, can not, know what we were to one another !" thought Wychnor to him- self, almost forgetting the presence of Drysdale, who sat in the shadow. At length the latter roused himself from a brown study of some minutes' duration with " It's of no use. I can't make out that young man at all. Can you?" " I ? What young man ?" asked Philip, star- tled out of his own silent thoughts. " Paul Lynedon, of course. I should like to anatomize him that is, his soul. What a splendid psychological study it would make !" "Would it?" said Philip, absently. "Yes, certainly! I have been trying the experiment myself for some days. Having nearly come to the end of the abstract sciences, I intend to begin the grand science of man, and my first subject shall be Paul Lynedon. What do you think of him?" Philip conquered a rising spasm, and said, firmly " He seems an intellectual man, and is doubt- less as noble-hearted as he looks." "There's the thing! As he looks as he seems ! I have never yet been able to say as he is. He puzzles me, just like the old fable of the chameleon. View him at different times, and he appears of different colors ; and yet you can't say he changes his skin 'tis the same animal after all. The change is but the effect of tlv lights through which he passes. To-night ht seemed quite different from the individual whora I had the honor of meeting yesterday at Mrs Lancaster's. Yet I don't believe Paul Lynedo?^ is either a liar or a hypocrite ; it could not be so, with his head." And David, who was a phrenologist as well as a physiognomist, in- dulged his young friend with a loiank Villa, Regent's Park, were very different from the blithe Katharine and cousin Hugh of Sum merwood. The latter, deprived of that physi^a.' out-of-door life which comprised his whole exist- ence, was growing dull, stout, lazy. The heavy- looking man who lounged wearily over his late Dreakfast, the greater part of which became the perquisite of his sole companions in the meal, two pet dogs was a melancholy contrast to the lithe, active youth who used to come bound- ing in from his morning ride or walk to the breakfast-table at Summerwood. " Down, Tiger, down ! You must creep out of the way when your mistress comes ; she don't like you as she used to do. Heigho, twelve i>' clock ! Katharine gets later than ever. Sho always was down by elevsn at least," sighed Hugh to himself. " This comes of living in town. Things were not thus at SuirunerworxL" He rang for his wife's maid, ai:d ?ent up a deprecating message, that if Mrs. Ogihiecou'd manage it, without hurrying he, -self, he wi/old very much like to see her before he took his morning ride. And then in despair he patted his dogs again, thinking with doleful regret of " the life that late he led." Katharine heard the humble request with an impatient gesture, and turned her levered cheek again on the pillow. It was indeed a long, long time since Hugh had been blest with that bright- est morning sunshine for a young husband -his wife's cheerful smile at his breakfast-board. Katharine, who once used to rise with the lark, now indulged perpetually in that dreamy stupor, half sleeping, half waking, by which, in our troubled and restless moods, we seek to shorten the day and deaden the consciousness of our real life. It is only when we are happy and light-hearted that we care to face the morning hours. Katharine Ogilvie shrank from them with a vague fear, and never rose until near mid-day. Hugh had mounted Brown Bess in despair, and cantered her thrice round the Park before his wife appeared. On his return he found Katharine still in the breakfast-room. Though during the ride he had in his vexation resolved to give her a right due conjugal lecture, she looked so beautiful in her white morning dress, that he quite forgot it, and kissed her heartily instead. She received his welcome coldly enough. " There, that will do. Why will you bring those two horrid dogs, Hugh ? You know they annoy me. Take them away." "That I will. Here, Tiger! Leo!" He turned them out, and shut the door. " I never let them in here except when you are not down to breakfast, Katharine. But that is often enough," he added, disconsolately. " I can not help it, with our late hours and visiting." " Why should we visit so much, then ? I'm sure I don't want it. Suppose we were to turn over a new leaf, dear Katharine," was the hum- ble proposition of the husband; but it met no consenting response from the wife. " Do not trouble me, Hugh ; I told you when I married that I must see a little of the world. You want nothing but dogs and horses ; I want many other things books, amusements, society and I can not be happy without them. Don't judge me by yourself, because my pleasures are very different from yours." " Ah, yes, I know they are," answered Hugh, with a sigh. " Well, Katharine, you were al- ways cleverer than I ; it shall be as you like ; only if you would let me see a little more of you in the morning " " Yes, yes, if you will not interrupt me now that I have this new book to read ; and you may sit down and look at the second volume : not that it would interest you, except that the author is your old acquaintance, Mr. Wychnor." Hugh seated himself in obedient silence, and turned over the leaves of the book. His gentle forbearance made no impression on his wile. A woman especially one like Katharine had ten times rather be trodden under foot by a man who is her superior, than worshiped as an idol by one beneath herself. How fearful is the dan- ger into which such a woman plunges, when siie takes for the guide of her f > **tjc. < ^ < ?fee hus- 100 THE OGILVIES. band who ought to be reverenced next to Heaven one who must perforce be to her not a ruler but a slave ! In the desperation which prompted her sud- den marriage, Katharine had never thought of this. She considered not the daily burden of a loveless, unequal yoke the petty jars the con- tinual dragging down a strong mind to the weary level of an inferior one. Heaven made woman from man, not man from woman. A great- hearted and good man can lift his wife nearer to his own standard ; but by no power on earth can a superior woman elevate her husband's weaker mind. She must sink down to him ; all the love in the world will not make him her equal. And if love be not there, woe, woe unto her, for it is a fearful precipice on which she stands ! Mrs. Ogilvie's pride had carried her success- fully through the first months of her married life. Young, beautiful, and universally admired as she was, no one had cast upon her the shadow of blame. Her self-respect, if not her love, had covered Hugh's inferiority as with a shield, which made others show him the deference that the wife felt not, but had the grace to simulate. For herself she received the incense of admira- tion which universally greeted her with such proud indifference, that many men, whom one smile would have brought unworthily to her feet were content to be driven in chains, like wild tigers harnessed to the car of some Amazonian queen. She let them see ay, and the world see too that she would not step from her height for one moment, so as to become their prey. Thus it was with the young wife, until her path was again crossed by the shadow of that terrible love which had made her life's destiny until she was once more brought within the influence of Paul Lynedon. Against this influence her spirit now strug- gled. She felt that already a change had come over her, breaking the dull round of her aimless existence, to escape the inanity of which she had plunged into the excitement of perpetual dissi- pation. It was as if a gleam of lurid brightness had darted across her sky : the world itself did not look as it had done one little day before. She sought not to analyze her own sensations : she only knew that where there had been dark- ness there now was light ; and if the flash were a blinding flame, she would have lifted her long ing eyes to it just the same. Her heart was yet pure enough to be fearless ; her sense of a^ wife's duty was sufficiently strong, she deemed, to stand in the place of a wife's love. And even with regard to Paul Lynedon there had come a change. She woi'shiped no longer with blind adoration the-all-perfect ideal of her girlhood, but with her love's reviving fires mingled a darkening cloud of vengeance. She desired to make him feel what she had herself felt to drive him mad for her sake, and then fling back upon him the dread " too late/' While, with the book before her eyes, she leaned in her cushioned chair reading, not the beautiful outpourings of Philip Wychnor's genius, but the fearful writing on her own heart Katharine heard the name which had once been to her a glad, all-pervading music. The silent tete-a-tete of the husband and wife was broken by Paul Lynedon. He had that morning been much gratified at the discovery of Mrs. Ogilvie's opera glass in his own pocket, and now came to express, \vith his usual indifference to truth, the extreme re- gret which this fact would *have caused him, except, indeed, for the pleasure of returning the fair owner her property. Lynedon would have received a welcome, though without this excuse. Hugh was always lad to see any stray visitor who brightened up his wife's gloomy brow. It is only a happy home that needs no guests within its walls. Paul found Mrs. Ovilvie as beautiful by day- light as under the glare of opera radiance. He had never seen any one who came so near his ideal of womanhood. He admired, too, the very - atmosphere in which she moved, her house being filled with indications of its mistress's taste in music, art, and literature. His refined percep- tion at once detected these mute revealings of a woman's mind and character. Struck more and more, he exerted his whole powers of pleasing, and the unfailing charm extended even to Hugh. The trio talked pleasantly for some time on general and individual subjects, and Lynedon heard how Sir Robert and Lady Ogilvie still resided at Summerwood, though the latter, was in rather infirm health. " I can not be much with mamma now it is impossible," observed Katharine ; 4t 'but I have petitioned my sister-in-law to visit her. Kou remember Eleanor?" " Of course he does. Why, Lynedon, I used to think you were smitten there," cried Hugh, adding to the coarse expression a coarser laugh. Paul replied, with an air of perfect self-posses- sion and indifference, "I feel for Miss Eleanor Ogilvie the same respect which I have for any lady who honors me with her acquaintance." As he spoke he caught the searching glance of Katharine, but it glided from his face in a moment. Hugh persisted in his idle jest. " Well, well, I suppose I was mistaken. And so you have got no farther than acquaintance with any of the pretty girls you have met? Never expect me to take in that Lynedon ! Why, we heard you were going to be married to a lady abroad. Who said so ? Mrs. Lancas- ter, was it not, Katharine ?" " I am sorry Mrs. Lancaster should have ascribed to me more happine'ss than I am likely to attain," said Paul, with quiet dignity. "I have never yet seen the woman whom I could marry." It was a saving " could" he laid it to his conscience as an atonement for the falsehood. " Mrs. Ogilvie, allow me !" he added, stooping for a book which, in hastily reaching it, she had let fall. He staid to gather up some dried flowers which were scattered from the open leaves, and so did not see Katharine's face. When he presented the book, she took it with a steady hand and a graceful, smiling acknowledg- ment. "It is a favorite volume of mine, though I have only lately placed it among the list of the books I love, she said. "The author is an acquaintance of ours, named Wychnor." " Philip Wychnor an excellent fellow ! I know him, and like him much. How glad I \ am to call a friend of yours mine also !" cried Paul "Indeed we can't exactly call him a friend THE OGILVIES. tti We never can get him out here," said Hugh. " Katharine, let us try him once more, and invite, him for Thursday. Perhaps Mr. Lynedon might persuade him. I wish Eleanor were here she would ! They two always got on together ex- cellently." This remark was lost on Paul, who had long ceased to attach any interest to Eleanor's name; but it struck Katharine's womanly ear. " Tell Mr. Wychnor," said she, " that though it is impossible for my sister to be with us on Thursday, I hope he will still come. He must meet her here some day the following week : Eleanor is always glad to see an old friend. But stay : I will not trouble you with so long a message. I will write, and make you my Mer- cury," she added, gayly. " To be of use to Mrs. Ogilvie in any thing would give me only too much happiness," was his reply, spoken for once with entire, undis- guised truth. When, a few minutes after, Lynedon passed out of the house, he drew the delicate missive from his pocket and looked on the handwriting and seal with a lingering, loving gaze. He felt that he could have traversed all London to fulfill the slightest wish of Katharine Ogilvie. The whole way to Philip Wychnor's abode, her voice rang in his car her face flitted bsfore him. He contrived, however, to banish the haunting vision a little ; so as to enter into con- versation with the young author, and efface the evident confusion which his unexpected entrance caused. Paul attributed this to the sudden dis- turbance he had occasioned in Wychnor's lit- erary pursuits, and thanked his stars that he was not an author. To shorten his visit, he quickly delivered the letter. But he never noticed how Philip's hands trembled over it, for Lynedon had taken advantage of the silence to ponder once more on the exquisite beauty of Mrs. Ogilvie. "You will go, of course? They are a charming family the Ogilvies. I feel quite proud to call them old friends, as I am sure you must, since you, I believe, share the same priv- ilege?" After this remark, Paul looked up for an answer, and received Philip's half-suppressed "Yes!" " Mrs. Ogilvie is so anxious to know more of you, and you can not refuse her. Indeed, Mr. Wychnor, you see how desirous we all are for your friendship." " We all are !" Philip shrank visibly the careless word seemed to him to imply so much. But there was a cordial frankness in Lynedon's manner that he could not resist. He remembered, too, the conversation with David Drysdale, and his own promise concerning Paul. "I shall not see her," he reasoned within himself; "no, I could not bear that. But I will not draw back from this man : I will prove him I will read his heart, and be satisfied whether he is worthy of her or not. Mr. Lyne- don," he said aloud, " it has of late been rarely my custom to visit I have neither time nor inclination; but since Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie desire it, I will come on Thursday." " That is right ! it will give her so much pleasure !" and again Philip's shrinking fingers were compressed in the warm grasp of his supposed rival. They talked for a few minutes longer on other subjects, and then Paul quitted him. Philip Wychnor sank back on his chair with a heavy sigh. "It is my doom I can not escape. Heaven grant me strength to uear it CHAPTER XLI. How often ah, how often ! between the desire of th heart and its fulfillment lies only the briefest soace of time or distance, and yet the desire remains 'forever unfulfilled ! It is so near that we can touch it with the hand, and yet so far that the eye can not behold it. LONOFKLLOW Oh ! for a borse *v*h wings ! SlIAKSPEARE. " FOUR years - .four years !" Eleanor murmured, these words to herself, in. that half-melancholy dreaminess which invari- ably comes over one of thoughtful nature, when standing, no matter how hopefully, on the blink of what seems a crisis in life's history. The present time appeared a crisis in hers. She was going to Summerwood going where she was sure to meet Philip. Soon the long-afli anced lovers would look on each other's foce. After such a season of absence, and a brief period 'of silence, almost estrangement, how would they meet ? Eleanor had no doubt, no dread, in her faithful heart; but still she was thoughtful, and when all the preparations for the morrow's journey were completed, she sat down by the window of her little chamber, and watched the twilight shadows deepen on the gray cathedral, saying to herself, over and over again, " Four years four years !" It was, indeed, thus long since she had seen Philip. Four years ! It seems a short time to mattirer age, but to youth it is an eternity. Nineteen and twenty-three ! What a gulf often lies between the two periods of existence. The child's heart many a young girl is at nineteen still a child is taken away, and in its stead has come the woman's, which must beat on, on, loved or loveless, enjoying or enduring life until life's end ! It is a solemn thing to have traveled so far on the universal road, that we begin to look not only forward but backward to say, even jestingly, " When I was a child." And to some it chances that, in every space thus jour- neyed over, uprises a specter, which confronts them with its ghastly face whenever they turn to review the past ; nay, even if they set their faces bravely and patiently to the future, they hear continually behind them its haunting foot- steps, mocking each onward tread of theirs, and knelling into their hearts the eternal "no more." On Eleanor's peaceful life this bitterness had not passed. To her, the " four years" on which she now dreamily mused had brought little out- ward change. They had flowed on in a quiet, unbroken routine of duties, patiently fulfilled, yet somewhat monotonous. It seemed scarce a month since she and Philip had sat together that sweet spring morning, beneath the beautiful double cherry-tree on which she now looked. Yet, since then, three times she had watched its budding, leafing, flowering had watched it THE OGILVIES. alone! And the clematis which that same morning in the playfulness of happy, newly- betrothed lovers, they together planted in mem- *ry of the day, had now climbed even to her window, and flung therein a cloud of perfume. It came over her senses wooingly, like the memory of those dear olden times, and of Philip's precious love. She leaned her head against the casement, and drank in the fragrance, until her eyes filled with happy tears. " I shall see him, I shall see him ! soon, ah, soon!" she whispered; while her fancy con- jured up his likeness, as she used to watch him, lying on the grass dreamily in summer noons, with the light falling on his fair hair and his delicate, almost boyish cheek. Picturing him thus, Eleanor half smiled to herself, remember- ing that Philip was no boy now that four years must have given him quite the port and appear- ance of a man. He would be, ay, almost eight- and-twenty now, and he had wrestled with the world, and gained therein fame and success. Ah, he would not look like the Philip whose boyish grace had been her ideal of beauty for so long. He must be changed in that, at least. She was almost sorry, yet proud to think how great he had become. And she Eleanor did not often think' of herself, es- pecially her outward self; but she did now. Yet it was still with reference to him. Was she worthy of him? In her heart her faithful, loving heart she knew she was. But in ex- ternal things ? When she thought of Philip living in London, gay, courted, moving among the talented and beautiful and herself, a simple country girl, who had spent this long time in complete retirement, and patient attendance on querulous age, Eleanor was struck by a passing feeling of anxiety. She was no heroine, but a very woman. She rose up, half unconsciously, and looked at herself in the mirror. It reflected a face not beautiful, but full of a sweetness more winning even than beauty. Perhaps the cheek was less peach-like and had a straighter curve, and on the mouth, instead of girlhood's dimples, sat a meek, calm smile. The eyes ah, there Time had given, rather than taken away ! he had left still the true heart shining from them, and had added thereto the deep, thoughtful soul of matured womanhood. Something of this their owner herself saw, for she smiled once more, murmuring, " He used to love my eyes I think he will love them still ! And he will find only too soon how dearly they love him," she added, as her gentle heart, nigh oppressed with the w r eight of its joy and tender- ness, relieved itself with what sounded almost like a sigh. "I will not sit thinking any more, but try and find something to do," said Eleanor, as she roused herself from her dreamy mood, and be- gan to aTange with feminine care her "proper- lies" already packed up for the gay visit which was to break her monotonous life. But even in this occupation the one thought followed her. She was always neat and tasteful in her dress, as a woman should be; but now she felt con- scious of having selected her wardrobe with more than usual care. The colors Philip had liked the style of attire that once pleased his fancy ever a poet's fancy, graceful and ideal- all were remembered. It was a trifling per- h^ps an idle thought but it was natural and womanly; showing too how Love binds up into itself all life's aims and purposes, great and small ; how it can dare the world's battle, and sit smiling at the hearth is at once a crowned monarch, a mighty hero, and a little playful child. When Eleanor's hands had resolutely busied themselves for some minutes, they again drooped listlessly on her lap, as she sat down on the floor, and once more became absorbed in pleas- ant musings. She was roused by a summons from Davis. Mrs. Breynton "wished to know whether Miss Ogilvie intended to give her any of her company this evening ; which she mi^ht well do, seeing it was the last." "You must excuse the message, Miss Elea- nor," said the old servant; " but I don't wonder at my lady's being cross ; she will miss you so much ; indeed we all shall. But I am glad you are going ; 'tis hard for a young creature to be kept moping here. I hope you'll have a pleas- ant visit, Miss Ogilvie, though the house will be dull without your pretty face God bless it !" Eleanor thanked her, almost tearfully, for her heart was very full. " And you'll come back as blithe and bloom- ing as " the old woman paused for a simile "as my canary there, which poor Master Phi Oh ! Miss Ogilvie. perhaps in that great world of London you may hear something of somebody I daren't speak about, though good- ness knows I've never forgotten him never!" And the unfailing apron was lifted to poor Davis's eyes. Eleanor could not speak ; but, as she passed hastily out of the room, her delicate fingers pressed warmly the hard, brown hand of the faithful, affectionate creature, who remembered Philip still. Poor Davis was proud of the clasp as long as she lived. Mr. Breynton sat in her arm-chair, and knit- ting vehemently at the eternal quilt, which was now promoted to be nearly the sole occupation of its aged projector, whose dimmed eyes and trembling fingers grew daily less active and more helpless. To-night they seemed incompe" tent even to the simple work to which they ap. plied themselves with such indignant energy, for the perpetually unroved square seemed a very Penelope's web. At length, when the old lady had knitted away her wrath and her cotton, she looked up, and saw Eleanor sitting near her. " Oh, I thought you intended to stay up-stairs all the evening. Pray, how long is it since you troubled yourself to come down ?" "I have been here some minutes," was the gentle answer. " Why did you not speak, then ?" "I did once, bi but you were too busy to hear me, I think. Now, shall I take your work away, and ring for tea?" Mrs. Breynton assented, muttered something about the chill autumn evening, and turned her chair opposite the fire, so that her face was completely hid. Eleanor went about the light tiousehold duty now wholly hers with an agi- tated heart, for there came upon her the thought, natural to the eve of a journey and such a journey How would be the return? When she again sat at Mrs. Breynton's board, would THE OGILV1ES. J03 t'be in peace and hope, or She drove away the fear : she could not would not think of it. She would btill believe in Philip, and in Philip's aunt. " Shall T move your chair hither, or bring your tea to the work-table ?" she said, trying to steady her voice to its usual tone of affectionate attention. " Bring it here. I may as well get used to taking tea alone," muttered Mrs. Breynton. But when Eleanor came beside her, to show, for the last time, the simple act of careful tendance to which she had been so long accustomed, the hash voice softened. " Ah ! I shall have no one to make tea for me to-morrow night ! Indeed, I can't tell what I shall do without you, Eleanor." And instead of taking the offered cup, she gazed wistfully in the sweet young face that was now becoming troubled and tearful. "Dear friend dear Mrs. Breynton, shall I stay?" " No, no; I have no right to keep you," hast- ily interrupted Mrs. Breynton, as though some sudden thought had crossed her mind ; . " of course your friends want you, and you yourself must be delighted to leave this dull place." "Nay was it not by your own consent your own desire ?" "I desired nothi ing. What made you think so ?" cried Mrs. Breynton, angrily. There was, indeed, a strange and painful conflict in her mind. Fearful lest all hope of winning back her erring yet cherished nephew should be lost, and pierced deeper and deeper with a feeling almost akin to remorse, she had determined to risk all chance of discovery, and let the lovers meet. Yet when the time came she trembled. Besides, she did not like to part even for a sea- son with the gentle creature who had become almost necessary to her comfort ; age can ill bear any change or any separation. But for all that, Eleanor must go ; it was the only chance of winning him for whom Mrs. Breynton's pride and love alike yeajned continually. Her feel- ings changed hourly momently with an im- petuosity that even her yet energetic mind could scarce conceal. "Eleanor," she continued, "do not mistake me : you go by your own choice, and your friends' wish ; I have no right to interfere with either. But you will come back ?" " I will, indeed ! And, oh ! Mrs. Breynton, if" Eleanor sank down beside her. There was no mistaking the plea of that earnest face the one plea which her whole life of duty and ten- derness silently urged. But Mrs. Breynton turn- ed hastily and coldly away. " Rise, and go to your place, my dear : we will talk no more now." And for an hour afterward, by a violent con- trol which showed how strong still was her lin- gering pride, the dean's widow maintained her usual indifference, talked of common things, and made no allusion to the journey or the parting. At last she took out her watch, and desired Eleanor, as usual to call the servants in to prayers. The girl obeyed, placed the cushion and the open book, as she had done every night for so long, and knelt down, with her eyes overflowing. Mrs. Breynton read the accustomed form in her accustomed tone, save that when she insert- ed the prescribed prayer, "for one about to travel," her voice faltered; she paused suddenly, and then with a strong effort went on to the end. The servants gone, she and Eleanor stood alone. " My dear, is every thing prepared for your journey to-morrow ?" said Mrs. Breynton, break- ing the silence. Eleanor assented mutely ; she could not speak. "You will take as escort either Davis or James, which you choose ; either can return next day." " Oh, no, you are too kind," said Eleanor, who, knew what it cost the precise old lady to part, for ever so short a time, with either of these her long-trusted domestics ; " indeed, I can travel very well alone." "But I do not choose my child, my adopted daughter" she laid a faint emphasis on the word "to do any such thing. The matter is decided." Pride struggled with tenderness in her man- ner, and still she stood irresolute. The old but ler entered with lighted candles. "James," said his mistress, "you will accom- pany Miss Ogilvie to her journey's end, with all care and attention, as though she were my own child." And then, finding the last minute had indeed come, Mrs. Breynton took her candle. "My dear Eleanor, as you depart so soon, we had better say good-by to-night." She held out her hand, but Eleanor fell on her neck, weeping bitterly. Mrs. Breynton began to tremble. "Hush, my dear, you must not try me so; I am old, I can not bear agitation." She sank on a chair, struggled a momont, and then stretch- ed out her hands. "Eleanor poor Isabel's Eleanor forgive me. Come !" And for the second time in her life, the child- less widow folded to her bosom the young creat- ure from whom, in her old age she had learned, and was learning more and more^ the blessed lesson, to love. In a few minutes the emotion passed, and she rose up. "Now, my child, I must go. Give me your arm to my room door, for I am weak and ex- hausted." " And you will not let me see you in the morning?" " No, my dear, no ! better thus ! You will come back at the two months' end. You prom- ise?" And her searching eyes brought the quick color into Eleanor's cheek. , "I promise!" She might have said more, but Mrs. Breynton moved hastily on to her chamber. At the door she turned round, kissed the girl's cheek, and bade God bless her. Then from Eleanor's full heart burst the cry "Bless him even him also! Oh, dearest friend, let me take with me a blessing for Philip!" At the name, Mrs. Breynton's countenance became stone once more. All her wrath, all her sternness, all her pride, were gathered up in one word "No!" J04 THE OG1LVIES. She closed the door, and Eleanor saw her not again. But for hours she heard the feeble. the next chamber and i'n her heaviness the girl was not without aged footstep pacing hone Eleanor awoke at dawn, startled from her restless sleep by one of those fantastic dreams that will scmefimes come on the eve of any great joy, in which we rehearse the long-ex- pected bliss, and find that, by the intervention of some strange "cloud of dole" it has been changed to pain. Philip's betrothed dreamed of that meeting, the hope of which, waking, had filled her whole soul with happiness almost too great to bear. She saw him, but his face was cold changed. He turned away without even a clasp of the hand ; and then the dream became wild and unconnected though it was Philip still Philip. She was* again with him, and the ground seemed suddenly cloven, while a tem- pestuous river rushed howling between them; it grew into a mighty sea, above which she saw Philip standing on a rock-pinnacle, his averted face lifted to the sky, his deaf ear heeding not the despairing cry which she sent up from the midst of the ingulfing waters. With that cry she awoke, to find with, oh ! what thankful joy ! that these were but dreams. Suddenly, like a burst of sunshine, the joyful truth broke upon her, that this day this very day. she would journey toward Philip a brief space, perchance a few hours, and they would meet ! Once more burst from her innocent heart the rapturous murmur " I shall see him ! I shall see him!" And Eleanor turned her face upon the pillow, weeping tears of happi- ness. Oh, the thrill of a remembered joy that comes with waking how wild, how deep it is ! Only second to that keenest pang, the first waking consciousness of misery. Soon Eleanor arose, saying to herself the old adage she had an innocent superstition lurking in the depths of her simple heart "Morning tears bring evening smiles ;" and she thought, if the tears were so sweet, what must be the bliss of her snyles ! So she made ready for her departure with a cheerful spirit, over which neither the painful dream, nor the still more painful remembrance of Mrs. Breynton's last words, could throw more than a passing cloud. As though to confirm this joy, Davis knocked at her chanrber-door, with an affectionate fare- well message from Mrs. Breynton, and a letter. It was from Sir Robert Ogilvie, begging his niece to hasten her journey, so as to accompany him that night to his daughter's house. "It was Katharine's especial wish," he said; and Katharine's wish had long become law with father, mother, and husband too. "Eleanor could easily reach Summerwood by the after- noon," her uncle continued, " thanks to the rail- way the only useful innovation that the hateful march-of-5ntellect radicals had ever made." Eleanor read Katharine's inclosed letter of warm invitation. It bore the following post- script : " If you come, you will see one who will doubtless be also much pleased to see you your old acquaintance, Mr. Wychnor." What a world of joy lay in that idly-scribbled line! "To-nigut, to-night !" cried Eleanor, as be- wildered almost stunned by the certainty of the coming bliss, she sank on the bed and hid her face. Thence, gliding to her knees, the first impulse of that pure and true heart was one, the sacredness of which received no taint thereby a thanksgiving lifted to Him who gave Eve unto Adam, and Sarah unto Abraham, and whose first act of heaven-descended power was at the marriage at Cana. Once again, ere the last moment of departure came, Eleanor entered her little chamber, shut the door, and prayed that she might return thither in safety and in joy ; and then, all bitter- ness reconciled, pass from this home of patient duty into another far dearer, and thus faithfully fulfill woman's highest, holiest destiny, that of a loving and devoted wife. And as she arose, the sun burst through the gray morning clouds, arid the cathedral chimes rang out joyfully, yet with a sweet solemnity. Their sound followed hei like a parting blessing. And so, borne cheerily on the "horse with wings," which to her was as welcome and as full of poetry as that dream-creation of Imogen's desire, Eleanor sped on to Summerwood. CHAPTER XLII. I saw it 'Twas no foul vision with unblinded eyes I saw it ! his fond hands were wreathed in hers He gazed upon her face, Even with those fatal eyes no woman looks at. May'st thou Ne'er know the racking anguish of this hour The desolation of this heart ! MILMAN THE circle assembled in Hugh Ogilvie's draw ing-room was the very perfection of a. social dinner-party. Every body knew every body, or nearly so. There was Mrs. Lancaster flitting about as usual in her gossamer drapery, and he shadow of a husband still hovering beside her- the reflection of her glory. There was David Drysdale pursuing his new science the study of humanity in general; with especial reference to Paul Lynedon, whose movements he watched with Argus eyes. The object of his scrutiny, however, was unconscious of the fact. Paul moved hither and thither, casting in all directions his -graceful and brilliant talk ; but for the first time in his life found himself quite indifferent as to the sensation he created among the general company. They seemed to him like a moving phantasmagoria of shadows ; among them he saw but one form, heard but one voice and these were Katharine Ogilvie's. She knew this, too : though he did not keep constantly at her side, she felt his eyes upon her wherever she moved. She was conscious that not one word from her lips, not one silken stirring of her robe, escaped the notice of Paul Lynedon. The thought made her eyes glitter with triumph.' She felt that she had only to stretch forth her arm, to lay her delicate hand on the lion's mane, and, Ariadne-like, she would ride victoriously on the beautiful Terror which had once trampled on her peace. Exultingly she disp ayed the pow^r which had gained her universa. homage the lofty and careless defi- ance that only subdued the more. Yet, eould any eyes have pierced through THE OGILVIES. 105 that outward illusion, they might perchance have seen behind the lovely, queen-like, radiant woman, the shadow of an angel the angel of Katharine's lost youth mourning for her future. And ever and anon, piercing through the clouds that were fast darkening over the wife's soul, came a low whisper, warning her that even an erring marriage-vow becomes sacred forever ; and that to break it, though only in thought, is a sin which oceans of penitent tears can scarcely wash away. To none of her guests was Mrs. Ogilvie more gracefully courteous than to the silent, reserved Philip Wychnor. During the half hour that elapsed before dinner, her magic influence melted from his troubled spirit many of those frosty coverings in which he unconsciously en veloped himself in society. A man instinctively lays his soul open before a woman, much more than before one of his own sex ; and had Katha- rine been less absorbed in the struggles of her own heart, she might have read much of Wych- nor's, even without his knowledge. At length there mingled in her winning speech the name so loved, yet so dreaded by her hearer. "I hope, after all, that you will meet your old friend Eleanor to-night. My father told me she was expected at Suramerwood to-day, so I entreated him to bring her hither." Philip made no answer : despite his iron will, he felt stifling gasping for air. " You are not well sit down," observed the young hostess, kindly ; " I ought not to have kept you standing talking so long." He sank on a chair, muttering that blessed excusu for a tortured heart, something about an overworked mind. " I thought so ; indeed, an author's calling must be one most trying, though so lofty. You must take care of yourself, Mr. Wychnor ; I will not say for the world's sake, but for that of your manv friends : among them," she added, smiling with pleasant cordiality, "I hope to be numbered one day ; and when Eleanor comes " He turned away, and his eyes encountered Lynedon's. The latter was apparently listen- ing eagerly to each word that fell from Mrs. Ogilvie's lips. Philip shuddered ! he deemed that the spell lay in the sound of the beloved name, when it was only in the voice that uttered it. But he had scarce time to collect his thoughts, when the drawing-room door opened and Hugh burst in, with somewhat of the old cheerfulness brightening his heavy features. "Katharine, make haste : they're both come, your father and our dear Nelly. I'm so glad !" " And so am I," answered Katharine, for once echoing hn* husband ; and, making her own graceful excuses to her guests, she glided from the room. As she did so, Philip looked up with a wild, bewildered air, and again caught the eager gaze of Paul Lynedon fixed on the closing door. He started from his seat, conscious only of a vague desire to fly any where, on any pretext so as to escape the torture of the scene. But Drys- dale intercepted him. *' Eh, my young friend, what's this ? Where are you going ?" " I I can not tell" 'Nothing the matter? not ill ?" And, fol- lowing the old man's affectionate, anxious look, came the curious and surprised glance of Lyne- don. Beneath it Philip's agony sank into a deadly calm. Once again he said in his heart, " It is my doom. I cannot flee; I must endure" He had just strength to creep to a shadowy corner of the room, apart from all. There he sat down, and waited in patient, dull despair, for the approach of her whom he siill loved dearer than his life. There were voices without the door. Lyne don sprang to open it. It was in answer to his greeting that Philip's half-maddened ear distin- guished the first tone of that beloved voice, un- heard for years except in dreams. Soft it was, and sweet as ever, and tremulous with gladness. Gladness ! when she knew that he, once loved, and then so cruelly forsaken, was in her pres- ence, and heard all ! " Well, this is a hearty welcome ! You will hardly let her pass. Make way, some of you," said Hugh's blithe voice. "Come in, Nelly." She came in, pale but smiling no set smile of forced courtesy, but one which betokened a happy heart; her own, her very own smile, shining in eyes and lips, and making her whole face beautiful. Philip saw it, and then a cold mist seemed to enwrap him through which he beheld men and women, and moving lights, indistinct and vague. Yet still he sat, leaning forward, as though at- tent to the last dull saying of his dull neighbor : Mr. Lancaster. And Eleanor ! Oh ! if he had known that in all the room she saw only one face his ! that she passed the welcoming group scarce con- scious of their greetings that through them all her whole soul flew to him, yearning to cling to his bosom nay, even to fall at his feet in a transport of rejoicing that they had met at last ! Yet, when she stood before him when she held out her hand, she could scarce speak one word. She dared not even lift her eyes, lest she should betray the joy, which was almost too great to conceal. It blanched her smiling lips, made her frame tremble, and her voice grow measured and cold. And thus they met, in the midst of strangers, w ith one passing clasp of the hand, one formal greeting ; and then either turned away, to hide from the world and from each other at once the agony and the gladness. For in Eleanor's heart the gladness lingered still. A momentary pang she had felt, that they should meet thus coldly, even in outward show but still she doubted him not. Philip must be right he must be true. A few minutes* ipace, and he would surely find some opportu- nity to steal to her side to give her one word one loving smile, which might show that they were still to one another as they had been for years nay, all their lives ! So she glided from the group around Katharine, to calm her beat- "ng heart, and gather strength even to bear her oy. She sat down, choosing a place where she could see him who was to her all in the room all in the world ! She watched him continually, talking or in repose. He was greatly altered much older ; the face harsher in its lines, now almost rigid with suppressed anguish ; but he 100 THE OGILVIES. Plf'ip still. Gradually, amidst all the . the former likeness grew, and these four years of bitter separation seemed melted into nothing. She saw again the playmate of Her childhood the lover of her youth her chosen husband. She waited tremblingly for him to come to her, to say only in one look that he remembered the sweet past. But he never came ! She saw him move, talk- ino- to one guest and then another. At last they all left him, and he stood alone. He would sure- ly seek her now ? No. he did not even turn his eyes, but sank wearily into a chair ; and above the murmur of heedless voices, there came to Eleanor his heavy sigh. She started : one moment more, and she would have cast aside all maidenly pride and crept nearer to him, only to look in his face, and say, "Philip!" But in that instant Mrs. Lancaster approached him, and she heard his -voice answer- ing some idle speech with the calmness it had learnt in the heartless world, she thought knowing not that love's agony gives to its mar- tyrs a strength, almost superhuman, to endure, and, enduring, to conceal. She saw him speak and smile ay, smile and an icy fear crept over her. It seemed the shadow of that terrible "no more," which some- times yawns between the present and past. Oh, all ye loving ones, pray rather that your throb- bing hearts may grow cold in the tomb, than that you should live to feel them freezing slow- ly in your bosoms, and be taught by their al- tered beatings to say, calmly, " The time has been!" " It so chanced that Paul Lynedon led Eleanor down to dinner. He did it merely because she happened to stand near Mrs. Ogilvie. The lat- ter, with feminine willfulness, had turned from him and taken the arm of her friend David Drys- dale, over whom she had long since cast the spell of a winning gentleness, all the more irre- sistible because with her so unusual. These formed the group at the head of the table ; Philip sat far apart, placed by his own will where he could not see the face of either Paul or Eleanor. But their tones came to him through the dazzling, bewildering mist of light and sound; every word, especially the rare utterances of El- eanor's low voice, piercing distinct and clear through all. Philip's neighbor was Mrs. Lancaster, who, now feeling herself sinking from that meridian altitude which, as the central sun of a petty lit- erary sphere, she had long maintained, caught at every chance of ingratiating herself with any rising author. She mounted her high horse of sentiment and feeling, and cantered it gently on through a long criticism of Wyehnor's last work. Then, finding the chase was vain, for that he only answered in polite monosyllables, she tried another and less lofty style of conversation re- marks and tittle-tattle, concerning her friends absent and present. She was especially led to this by the mortification of seeing her former pro- tege, Paul Lynedon, so entirely escaped from under her wing. "How talkative that young Lynedon has grown !" she said, sharply. " I never saw such a change. Why, he used to be so shy, and proud, and reserved ; and now he seems tc have become (juke a lion in society What an argument he is holding with Mrs. Ogilvie and her sister ! y. the-by, perhaps that may account for his brillian- cy to-night." "Do you think so?" answered Philip, absently. "Ah, the affair was before your time, Mr. Wychnor," said the lady mysteriously; "but some years ago I really imagined it would have been a match between Miss Eleanor Ogilvie and Paul Lynedon there. How he admired her singing, and herself, too ! Not that / ever could see much in either; But love is blind, you . *. * know. " Mrs. Lancaster, allow me to take wine with you," interrupted Paul, who from the other end of the table had accidentally caught the sound of his own name united with Eleanor's, and was in mortal fear lest Mrs. Lancaster's tenacious memory should be recalling her former badinage on the subject. Philip sat silent. His cup of agony seemed overflowing. But ere his lips approached the brim, an angel came by and touched it, chang- ing the gall into a healing draught. On the young man's agonized ear came the mention of one name the name of the Dead. What mat- ter though it was uttered by the frivolous tongue of Mrs. Lancaster, to whom Leigh Pennythorne and his sufferings were merely a vehicle for sen- timental pity ! Even while she pronounced the name, surely some heavenly ministrant caught up the sound and caused it to fall like balm on Philip Wyehnor's heart. The casual words car- ried his thoughts away from all life's tortures, to the holy peace of death. They brought back to him the dark, still room, where, holding the boy's damp hand, he had talked with him, solemnly, joyfully, of the glorious after-world. Then came floating across his memory, the calm river sun- set the last look at the moon-illumined, peace- ful image, on whose cold lips yet lingered the smile of the parted soul. Even now, amidst this torturing scene, the remembrance lilted Philip's writhing heart from its earth-sufferings, toward the blessed eternity where all these should be counted but as a drop in the balance. If the thorns of life pierce keenest into the poet's soul, Heaven and Heaven's angels are nearer to him than to the worldly man. Philip Wychnor grew calmer, and his thoughts rose upward, where, far above both grief and joy, amidst the glories of the ideal and the blessedness of the divine, a great and pure mind sits serene. Thither, when they have endured a while, does the All-compassionate, even in life, lift the souls of these His children, and give them to stand, Moses-like, on the lonely height of this calm Pisgah. Far below lies the wilderness through which their weary feet have journeyed. But God turns their faces from the past, and they be- hold no more the desert, but the Canaan. There was a fluttering of silken dresses as the hostess and her fair companions glided away. Philip did not look up ; or he might have caught fixed on his face a gaze so full of mournful, anx- ious tenderness, that it would have pierced through the thickest clouds of jealous doubt and suspicion. He felt that Eleanor passed him by, though his eyes were lifted no higher than the skirt of her robe. But on her left hand, which lay like a snow-flake among the black folds, he saw a ring, his own gift his only one. for lova like theirs needed no outward token. She huu THE OG1LVIES. 107 promised on their betrothal-eve that it should never be taken off, save for the holier symbol of marnage. How could she how dared she wear it now ! One bright gleam of light shot almost blindingly through Philip's darkness, as he beheld ; the deep calm fled from his heart, and it was again racked with suspense. He sat motionless ; the loud talk and laughter of Hugh Ogilvie, and the vapid murmurings of Mr. Lan- caster, floating over him confusedly. Paul Lynedon had already disappeared from the dining-room. He could not drive from his mind the vague fear lest his foolish affair with Eleanor Ogilvie should be bruited about in some way or other. He longed for those allegorical implements a silver needle, and golden thread to sew up Mrs. Lancaster's ever-active tongue. And, judging feminine nature by the blurred and blotted side on which he had viewed it for the last few years, he felt considerable doubt even of that pure image of all womanly delicacy, Eleanor herself. If she had betrayed, or should now betray, especially to Katharine Ogilvie, the secret of his folly ! He would not have such a thing happen for the world! Wherefore, he staid not to consider; for Paul's impetuous feel- ings were rarely subjected to much self-ex- amination. Acting on their impulse now, he bent his pride to that stronger passion which was insensibly stealing over him ; and first assur- ing himself that his fellow-adventurer in the drawing-room, David Drysdale, was safely en- grossing the conversation of their beautiful hostess, Lynedon carelessly strolled toward an inner apartment divided from the rest by a glass-door, through which he saw Eleanor Ogil- vie, sitting thoughtful and alone. "Now is my time," said Paul to himself, "but I must accomplish the matter with finesse and diplomacy. What a fool I was, ever to have brought myself into such a scrape!" He walked with as much indifference as he could assume through the half-open door, which silently closed after him. He was rather glad of this, for th?n there would be no eaves-drop- pers. Eleanor looked up, and found herself alone with the lover she had once rejected. But there was no fear of his again imposing on her the same painful necessity ; for a more careless, good-humored smile never sat on the face of the most indifferent acquaintance, than that which Paul Lynedon's countenance now wore. "Do I intrude on your meditations, Miss Ogilvie ? If so, send me away at once, which will be treating me with the candor of an old friend. But I had rather claim the privilege in a different way, and be allowed to stay and have a little pleasant chat with you." Eleanor's troubled heart would fain have been lefy;o solitude ; but through life she had thought of others first of herself last. It gave her true pleasure, that by meeting Lynedon's frankness with equal cordiality she could atone to the friend for the pain once given to the lover. So she answered kindly, "Indeed, I shall be quite glad to renew our old sociable talks, which you know, Mr. Lynedon, were always agreeable to me." "Then we are friends real, open-hearted, sincere friends," answered Paul, returning her smile with one of equal candor. "And," he added in a lower tone, "to make our friendship sure, I trust Miss Ogilvie has already forgotten that I ever had the presumption to aspire to more?" Eleanor replied, with mingled sweetness and dignity "I remember only what was pleasurable in our acqaintance. Be assured that . the pain, which I am truly glad to see has passed from your memory, rests no longer on mine. We will not speak or think of it again, Mr. Lyne- don." But Paul still hesitated. " Except that I may venture to express one hope indeed I should rather say a conviction. I feel sure that, with one so generous and delicate-minded, this this circumstance has remained, and will ever re- main, unrevealed?" "Can you doubt it?" And a look as nearly approaching pride as Eleanor's gentle counten ance could assume, marked her wounded feeling. " I thought that you would have judged more worthily of me of any woman." " Of you, indeed, I ought. I am ashamed of myself, Miss Ogilvie," cried Lynedon, giving way to a really sincere impulse of compunction, and gazing in her face with something of his old reverence. "I do believe you, as ever, the kind- est, noblest creature half-woman, half-saint; and, except that I am unworthy of the boon, it would be a blessing to me through life to call you friend." " Indeed you shall call me so, and I will strive to make the title justly mine," said Eleanor, with a bright, warm-hearted smile, as she stretched out her hand to him. He took it, and pressed it to his lips. Neithei saw that on this instant a shadow darkened the transparent door, and a face, passing by chance, looked in. It was the face of Philip Wychnor ! CHAPTER XLIII. Better trust all, and be deceived ; And weep that trust and that deceiving ; Than doubt one heart, which if believed, Had blessed one's life with true believing Oh ! in this mocking world, too fast The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ; Better be cheated to the last Than lose the blessed hope of truth ! FRANCES ANNK BUTLER. " WELL, I never in my life knew a fellow sc altered as that Philip Wychnor!" cried Hugh. as he entered his wife's dressing-room. His sister had fled there to gain a few minutes' quiet and strength, after her somewhat painful interview with Lynedon, and before the still greater trial of the formal evening that was ta come. As she lay on the couch, wearied in heart and frame, there was ever in her thought the name which her brother now uttered care- lessly almost angrily. It made her start with added suffering. Hugh continued " I suppose he thinks it so fine to have grown an author and a man of genius, that he may d< any thing he likes, and play off all sorts of air*. on his old friends." " Nay, Hugh, what has he done ?" said nor, her heart sinking colder and colder. "Only that, after all the trouble we hi to get him here to-night, he has gone off ju 108 THE OG1LVIES. now without having even the civility to say good-by." "Go'ne! is he gone?" and she started up; but recollected herself in time to add, "You forget, he might have been ill." "in? nonsense!" cried Hugh, as he stood lazily lolling against the window. " Look, there he goes, tearing across the Park as if he were having a walking-match, or racing with Brown Bess herself. There's a likely fellow to be ill ! Phew, it's only a vagary for effect I've learnt these games since I married. But I must go down to this confounded soiree." And he loung- ed off moodily. The moment he was gone, Eleanor sprang to the window. It was indeed, Philip she saw him clearly : his slender figure and floating fair hair looking shadowy, almost ghostlike, in the moonlight. He walked rapidly; nay flew! It might have been a fiend that was pursuing him, instead of the weeping eyes, the outstretched arms, the agonized murmur, " Philip, my Philip !" He saw not, he heard not, but sped onward disappeared ! Then Eleanor sank down, nigh broken-hearted. tVas this the blessed meeting, the day so longed for, begun in joy to end in misery ? No, not all misery ; for when the first bitter- ness passed, and she began to think calmly, there dawned the hope that Philip loved her still. His very avoidance of her, that heavy sigh, most of all, his sudden departure, as though he had fled, unable to endure her presence all these showed that his heart had not grown utterly cold. He had loved her once she believed that. She would have believed it though the whole world had borne testimony against it, and against him. It was impossible but that some portion of this deep, true love must linger still. Some unac- countable change had come over him some great sorrow or imagined wrong had warped his mind. And then she remembered the little cloud which had risen up between them, and grown into weeks, months, of silence. But whatever had been the estrangement, if the love were still there, in his heart as in her own, she would win him back yet ! "Yes," she cried, "I will have patience. I will put from me all pride all resentment. If there has been wrong, I will be the first to say, forgive me ! He is still the same good and true I see it in his face, I feel it in my soul. How could it be otherwise?" Hugh's half-mocking, half-angry words con- cerning him troubled her for a moment. She heaved a low, shuddering sigh, and then the Buffering passed. " Even if so, 1 will not despair. Oh, my Philip, if it be that you are changed, that this evil world has cast its shadow over your pure heart, still I will not leave you. You were mine you are mine, in suffering even in sin ! I will stand by you, and pray God night and day or you, and never, never give you up, until you ire my true, noble Philip once more." She stood, her clasped hands raised, her face shining with a faith all-perfect faith in Heaven, %nd faith in him. Oh, men ! to whom woman's X)ve is a light jest, a haughty scorn, how know you but that you drive from your pathway and from your side a guardian presence, which, in blessing and in prayer, might have been for you as omnipotent as an angel ? Mrs. Ogilvie entered, while her sister still stood, pale and thoughtful, in the moonlight. Katharine was restless her cheek burned and her eye glittered. The contrast was never so strong between the two. "Why, what is this, my dear girl?" At another time Eleanor would have smiled at the half-patronizing title, but, as the tall, magnificent- looking woman of the world bent over her, she felt that it was scarcely strange. She was in- deed a child to her " little cousin" now. Alas ! she knew not that Katharine would have given worlds to have taken the fresh, simple child's heart into her racked bosom once more ! " How quiet you are, Eleanor ! how dull this room seems, when we are all below so merry so merry !" And she laughed that mocking laugh an echo true as the words. "Are you? I am glad of it," was Eleanor's simple reply. " But you must forgive my stay- ing here, I am so weary." " Weary ! I thought you, happy, good country damsels, were never weary, as we are." " We ! Nay, Katharine, are not you yourself country-bred, good, and happy?" Again there came the musical laugh light, but oh ! how bitter ! " For the first adjective, I suppose I must acknowledge the crime, or mis- fortune ; for the second, you can ask Hugh ; for the third well, you may ask him, too of course he knows ! But I must go. Will you come with me? No? Then good-by, fair coz.' ; " Sister!" was the gentle word that met Katharine, as she was departing with the flutter- ing gayety she had so well learned to assume. And Eleanor came softly behind, and put her arm round the neck of her brother's wife. " Ah, yes, I forgot of course, we are sisters now. Are you glad of it, Eleanor ?" " Yes, most happy ! And you ?" Katharine looked at her earnestly, and then shrank away. " Let me go ! I mean that your arm your bracelet hurts me," she added, hurriedly. Eleanor removed it. Katharine paused a moment, and then stooped forward and kissed her cheek, saying, affectionately " You are a dear, good girl, as of old. You will bear with me, Nelly? I am tired per- haps not well. This gay life is too much ibi me." " Then why " "Ah, be quiet, dear," said Mrs. Ogilvie, tapping Eleanor's shoulder with her perfumed fan. " You shall lecture me to-night, when I have sent away these people that is, my guests," she continued, remembering who was of the number. And as she went away, Katha/ine could almost have cut out her own tongue, that had carelessly ranked Paul Lynedon in the tribe thus designated. Though made a slave, he was an idol still. For an hour or two longer Eleanor sat alone by the window, sometimes trying to calm her spirit with looking up at the deep peace of the * moonlight sky, and then watching the carriages that rolled to the door, bearing away guest after guest. The last who left departed on foot Eleanor distinguished his tall figure passing hastily through the little shrubbery, and fancied THE OG1LVIES. i oft it was like Mr. Lynedon's. But she thought little on the subject, for immediately afterward her sister entered. Katharine stood at the door, the silver lamp she held casting a rich subdued light on her face and person. She wore a pale amber robe, and a gold net confined her hair. Save this, she had no ornament of any kind. She took a pride in showing that her daring beauty scorned all such adjuncts. Well she might, for a more magnifi- cent creature never rode triumphant over hu- man hearts. Even Eleanor lifting up her meek, sorrowful gaze acknowledged this. " Katharine, how beautiful you are ! You see my prophecy was right. Do you remember it, that night at Summerwood, when the Lancasters and Mr. Lynedon came ?" The silver lamp fell to the floor. There was a minute's silence, and then Kath- arine rekindled the light, saying gayly " See, my dear, this comes of standing to be looked at and flattered. But I will have your praise still : now look at me once more !" " Still beautiful most beautiful ! perhaps the more so because of your paleness. It suits well with your black hair." "Does it?" "And how simple your dress is! no jewels? no flowers?" "I never wear either. I hate your bits of shining stone, precious only because the world chooses to make them, rare ; and as for flowers, I trod down my life's flowers long ago." The indistinct speech was lost upon Elea- nor's wandering mind. She made no answer, and the. two sisters-in-law sat for some minutes without exchanging a word. At last Eleanor said " Will not Hugh or Sir Robert come in and speak to us before we all go to rest?" " Sir Robert ? Oh, he retired an hour ago ; he keeps Summerwood time. As for Hugh, I doubt if either wife or sister could draw him from his beloved cigars and punch. Don't flat- ter yourself with any such thing ; I fear you must be content with my society." "Indeed I am," said Eleanor, affectionately, laying her hand on Katharine's arm. She shrank restlessly beneath the touch ; but the moment after, she leaned her head on her sister's shoulder; and though she was quite silent, neither moved nor sobbed, Eleanor felt on her neck the drop of one heavy, burning tear. "My own sister! my dear Katharine! are you ill unhappy ?" " No, no ; quite well quite happy. Did I not say so ? I think few mistresses of such a gay revel as ours, could retire from it with so fresh and blithe a face as mine was when you saw it at the door. Still, I own to being rather tired now." " Will you go to rest ?" " No, not just yet. Come, Eleanor, shall we sit and talk for half an hour, as we used to do ? Only first I will shut out the moonlight, it looks so pale, and cold, and melancholy. Why, Nelly, when you stood in it I could almost have thought you a ghost the ghost of that old time ! What nonsense I am saying !" She rose up quickly, drew the curtains, and the chamber remained lit only by a taper at the further ond. "I can not endure this darkness. 1 wilt call for lights. But no, it is better as it is. Did yon ever know such a fitful creature?" continued she, throwing herself on the ground at Eleanor's feet. " But I am quiet now for a little ; so be gin. What are you thinking about ?" "Of how strangely things change in Jife Who would have thought that the little Kath arine I used to play with, and lecture, and won- der at for I did wonder at you sometimes would have grown into this Katharine?" "Ay, who would have thought it?" " And still more, that she should be Hugh's wife my sister ; and I never guessed that you loved one another! Indeed, I thought " "What did you think? tell me," said Kath arine, suddenly. " That our young dreamer would have chosen --not dear, quiet, gentle Hugh, but some hero of romance." " Ha, ha ! you were mistaken then." " Yes, truly ! Yet she was a little dreamer, was the dear Katharine of Summerwood ! How well I remember the night we sat together, as we do now, talking of many things of Mr. Lynedon especially. Oh, Katharine, we are both changed since then !" said Eleanor, sadly, as her memory flew back, and her own sorrows once more sank heavy on that gentle heart, so ready to forget itself in and for others. Katharine lay quite silent, and without mov- ing only once she shivered convulsively. " How cold you are your hands, your neck \ Let me wrap you in this shawl," Eleanor said. " And, indeed, I will not keep you talking any longer. Be good, dear, and go to rest!" "Rest! Oh, God! that I could rest for- ever!" was the smothered moan that broke from Katharine's lips. "What were you saying, love?" " Only that I will do any thing you like, Eleanor. But I am forgetting all my duties- Come, I will see you to your room." " She rose up, and the two sisters passed thither tenderly, too, with linked arms. "Now, dearest Katharine, you will promise me to go to bed and sleep ?" "Yes, yes; only let me breathe first." She threw open the window, and drank in, almost with a 'gasp, the cool night air of summer Eleanor came beside her and so they stood, God's peaceful heaven shining on both, with its moonlight and its stars. Then Katharine drew her sister's face between her two hands, and said " There, now you look as when I saw you at the window to-night pale, pure, like a warning spirit, or an angel. I think you are both ! And I Eleanor, remember, in all times, under all chance or change, that I did love you I shall love you always." The smile, that unearthly, almost awful smile, passed from her face, showing what was left when the fitful gleam had vanished a counte- nance of utter despair ! But it was turned from Eleanor she never saw it. Had she done so, perhaps But no, it was too late ! "I Believe you love me, dearest, as I you," she answered, tenderly; "we are sisters now and forever. Good-night!" They kissed each other once more, and then Katharine turned away bul on the threshold her foot staid no THE OGILV1ES. "Eleanor!" Sleanor sprang toward her. You say your prayers every mght, as chil- dren do as we did together once, when I was a little child ? Well, say for me to-night, as then, ' God bless ' no, no ' God take care of Katharine !' " Ere she glided away, she lifted her eyes up- ward foi a moment, and then closed them, droop- *~g her head. Eleanor never again saw on her lace that quiet, solemn look never until CHAPTER XLIV. We women have four seasons, like the year. Our Spring is in our lightsome, girlish days, When the heart laughs within us for sheer joy Summer is when we love and are beloved. Autumn, when some young thing with tiny hands Is wantoning about us, day and night ; And winter is when those we love have perished. Some miss one season some another ; this Shall have them early, and that late : and yet The year wears round with all as best it may. PHILIP BAILEY. HUGH and his sister breakfasted alone together. Sir Robert had gone through that necessary cer- emony an hour before, and retired to his legis- lative duties. Poor man ! he spent as much time in trying to bind up the wounds of the^nation, as though the sole doctor and nurse of tfiat contin- ually-ailing patient had been Sir Robert Ogilvie, Bart., M P., of Summerwood Park. "You needn't look for Katharine," said the husband, half sulkily, half sadly; "she never comes down till after eleven. Nobody ever does in London, I suppose at least nobody fashionable. Sit down, Eleanor, and let me for once be saved the trouble of pouring out my own coffee." So tho brother and sister began their tete-a- tete. It was rather an uninteresting one, for Hugh, after another word or two, buried him- self in the mysteries of BelVs Life, from which he was not exhumed until the groom sent word that Brown Bess was waiting. " Good-by. Nell. You'll stay till to-morrow, of course? Uncle won't go back to Summer- wood before then." And he was off, as he himself would characteristically have expressed it, " like a shot." Ties of blood do not necessarily constitute ties of affection. The world ay, even the best and truest part of it is a little mistaken on this .point. The parental or fraternal bond is at first a mere instinct, or, viewed in its highest light, a link of duty ; but when, added to this, comes the tender friendship, the deep devotion, which springs from sympathy and esteem, then the love is made perfect, and the kindred of blood becomes a yet stronger kindred of heart. But j unless circumstances, or the nature and charac- ter of the parties themselves, allow opportunity j for this union, parent and child, brother and sis- ter, are as much strangers as though no bond of relationship existed between tnem. Thus it was with Eleanor and Hugh. They regarded one another warmly; would have gladly fulfilled any duty of affection or self- sacrifice at least, she would; but they had lived apart nearly all their lives: Hugh tUrf'll fta Viio iinl n ' U_:_ TM ^.L- turecl as his uncle's heir Eleanor, the com- panion of her widowed mother, on whose com- paratively lowly condition the rest of the Ogilvie family somewhat looked down. In char, acter and disposition, there was scarcely a single meeting link of sympathy between them ; and though they had always loved one another with a kind of instinctive affection, yet it had never grown into that intense devotion which makes the tie between brother and sister the sweetest and dearest of all earthly bonds, second only to the one which Heaven alone makes ^perfect, heart-united marriage. Eleanor sat awhile, thinking with a vague doubt that this was not the marriage between her brother and her cousin. But she was too little acquainted with the inner character of either, for her doubts to amount to fear. They quickly vanished when Hugh's wife came in, so smiling, so full of playful grace, that Eleanor could hardly believe it was the same Katharine whose parting look the previous night had pain- fully haunted her, even amidst her own still more sorrowful remembrances. "What! your brother gone, Nelly? Why, then, I shall have you all to myself this morn- ing," said Mrs. Ogilvie. "So come, bring your work since you are so countrified as to have work and let us indulge in a chat before any one comes." " Have you so many visitors, then ?" " Oh, the Lancasters might call, after last night, you know; or Mr. Lynedon" (she said the name with a resolute carelessness) ; "or even though it is scarce likely your old friend and my new one, Mr. Philip Wychnor." There was no answer. Katharine amused herself with walking to the window, and teas- ing an ugly pet pa./ rot. Poor exchange for the merry little lark that, happy in its love-tended captivity, sang to the girl Katharine at Sum- merwood ! Eleanor, glad of any thing to break the silence, inquired after the old favorite. "Dead !" was the short, sharp answer. Th word and its tone might have revealed a whole life's mystery. "But Eleanor," she added, in a jesting man- ner, "you always talk of the past generally a tiresome subject. Let us turn to something more interesting. For instance, I want to hear all you know about that nice, good, gentle creature, Philip Wychnor. No wonder you liked him : I do already. How long have you known one another?" "Nearly all our lives." This truth Eleanor could not, would not, speak aught but the truth was murmured with a drooping and crimsoning cheek. She revealed nothing, but she waa unable to feign : she never tried. " Eleanor !" said Katharine, catching her hands, and looking earnestly in her face, " Sis- ter ! tell me" She was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, announcing Mr. Lynedon. "Let me creep awayj I am too weary to talk," whispered Eleanor. "No, stay!" The gesture was imperative, almost fierce ; but in a moment it was softened, and Mrs. Ogilvie received her guest as Mrs. Ogilvie ever did. In her easy, dignified mien lingered not a trace of Katharine. They talked for a while the passing nothings THE OGILVIES. Ill incident on morning visits, and then Mrs. Ogil- rie noticed her sister's pale face. "How weary she is, poor Nelly!" and the touch of sympathy which prompted the words was sincere and self-forgetful " Go, love, and rest there in my favorite chair, and stay, take this book, also a favorite: you will like it, I know." It was a new volume, and bore Philip Wych- nor's name on the title-page. There, sitting in the recess, Eleanor read her lover's soul. It was his soul ; for a great and true author, in a! 1 he writes, will still reflect the truth that is within him not as the world seeth, but as Heaven seeth ! Man, passing by on the broad wayside, beholds only the battered leaves of the unsightly, perhaps broken flower; but God's sun, shining into its heart, finds beauty, and draws thence perfume, so that earth is made to rejoice in what is poured out unto heaven alone. It is a merciful thing, that when fate seals up the full bursting tide of human hopes and human yearnings in a great man's soul, the current, frozen for a time, at length flows back again to enrich and glorify, not his poor earthly being, but that which will endure forever his true self his genius. And so his work, whatever it be, stands to him in the place of all that in life is lost, or never realized ; becomes to him love ' hope joy home wife child every thing. Something of this Philip Wychnor had already felt. His work was his soul, poured out, not for the petty present circle of individual praise, that Mr. This might flatter, and Mrs. That might weep over his page, but for the great wide world, wherein the true author longs to dwell the hearts of kindred sympathy, throb- bing every where and in all time. He wrote that he might, in the only way he could, make his life an offering to Heaven, and to the mem- ory of that love which was to him next heaven. He wrote, too, that, going down to the grave lonely and childless, as he deemed it would be, ne might thus leave behind him a portion of his soul that soul which through life had kept pure its triune faith in his God, his genius, and her! And so, looking on his writings, the woman he loved read his heart. She discerned too as none but she could his long patience, his strug- gles, his enduring love. All was dim, even to her, still groping blindly in a mesh of circum- stances. But thus far she read the unchanged purity of his noble nature his truth, his faith- fulness, and his love love for her, and her alone ! She knew it, she felt it, now. A deep peace fell upon her spirit. She read over and over again many a line to the world, nothing to her, sweet as Philip's own dear voice, hopeful as the love which answered his. Alas that he knew it not ! She closed the book, laid it in her bosom, and leaned back with a peaceful, solemn joy. As she did so, there came to her heart a strong faith a blessed forewarn- ing such as Heaven sometimes sends amidst all-conflicting destinies, that one day Philip would be her husband, and she his wife never to be sundered more ! Never until the simple girl and boy, who once looked out together dreamily into life's future, should stand, still together, on its verge, looking back on the earthly j journey traversed hand-in-hand ; and forward, unto the opening gates of heaven. Absorbed in these thoughts, she had almost forgotten the presence of Katharine and Lyne- don, until the former stood behind her chair. "What, Nelly, in a reverie? I thought dreaming invariably ended with one's teens. Is it not so, Mr. Lynedon?" And she turned to Paul, who was standing a little aloof, turning over books and newspapers in an absent, half- vexed manner. But he was beside Katharine in a moment, nevertheless. "You were speaking to me ?" " Yes ; but my question was hardly worth sum- moning you from those interesting newspapers, in which a future statesman, must take such de- light," said Katharine, with an air of careless badinage, which sat on her, like all her various moods, ever gracefully. " I really should apol- ogize for having entertained you for the last quarter of an hour with that operatic discussion concerning my poor ill-used favorite, Giuseppe Verdi. Do I linger properly on those musical Italian syllables ? Answer, you Signer fresh from the sweet South." " Every thing you do Still betters what is done." was Lynedon's reply ; too earnest to be mere compliment. But Mrs. Ogilvie mocked alike at both or seemed to mock, for her eye glittered even as she spoke. " Come, Eleanor, answer ! Here is Mr. Lynedon quoting Shakespeare, of course for you ; since, if I remember right, your acquaint- ance began over that very excellent but yet somewhat overlauded individual." "You remember!" said Paul, eagerly, and in a low tone ; " Do you indeed remember, all that time?" Katharine's lips were set together, and her head turned aside. But immediately she looked upon him coldly carelessly too carelessly to be even proud. " ' All' is a comprehensive word ; I really can not engage to lay so heavy a tax on my memory, which was never very good was it Eleanor?" Eleanor smiled quietly. " I have naught tc say against it, since it has been so true to me, a* least." And then making an effort, she began to talk to Mr. Lynedon about the old times and Summer wood, until the arrival of another visitor. Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne glided into the room in all the grace of mourning attire, the most interesting and least wo-begone possible. Never did crape bonnet sit more tastefully and airily, and certainly never did it shade a blither smile. It quite removed the doubt which had startled Eleanor at first seeing the unexpected sables. The cousins met, as cousins do who have proved all their life the falsity of the saying that "bluid is thicker than water." But the affectionate clanship which originated the prov- erb is rarely known across the Tweed. " Well, Miss Ogilvie (I suppose the ' Eleanor' time is past now)," said Mrs. Frederick, in a dignified parenthesis, " here we are, you see, all married I beg your pardon except yourself. What a pity that you should be left the last bird on the bushl" "If you attach such discredit to the circum- stance, I think I may venture to say for Eleanor that it is her own fault," said Katharine, in the 112 THE OGILVIES. peculiar tone with which she always suppressed her cousin's i!.-natured speeches. The chance words brought the color to Eleanor's cheek, and made Paul Lynedon fidget on his chair. For the twentieth time he said to himself, "What a fool I was ! ' ' " Oh, no doubt no doubt," observed Isabella, making an unconscious answer to both thought and word. " I dare say she finds it pleasant and convenient to be an old maid ; she certainly looks very well, and tolerably happy, consider- ing. And now, Miss Eleanor, since I have complimented you what have you to say of me ? Do I look much older, eh?" ' People dp not usually grow aged in four or five years," said Eleanor, hardly able to repress a smile. " Oh, dear, no ! Aged ! how could you use the odious word ! But still, I thought I might seem altered, especially in this disagreeable mourning." "I was afraid " began Eleanor, looking rather grave. " Nay, you need not pull a long face on the matter. It's nothing ; only for my brother-in-law Leigh Penny thorne." "Leigh! Is poor Leigh dead?" cried Eleanor : and, with the quick sympathy of love which ex- tends to all near or dear to the beloved, she felt a regret, as though she had known the boy. "Oh, he died two months since a great blessing too, of course, because he suffered so much, poor fellow," added Mrs. Frederick, catching from the surprised faces of her two cousins a hint as to the outward proprieties. " I was not aware, Eleanor, that you knew this poor boy, in whom I too have been interest- ed," said Katharine. "I have heard of him." Mrs. Ogilvie glanced at her sister's drooping countenance half earnestly, half sadly, and said no more. "Interested!" continued Isabella, catching up the word ; " I can't imagine, and never could, what there was interesting in Leigh; and yet every body made such a fuss over him, especially that Mr. Wychnor. You know him, Katharine ? a quiet, stupid sort of young man." " You are courteous, Isabella, to a gentleman who happened to be my friend, and also that of Mr. Lynedon there," was Mrs. Ogilvie's inter- ruption. Her cousin bent with mortified apology to the "very distingue-]ooking" personage who stood in the shadow of the window ; and, in an eager effort to follow up the introduction by conversation, Mrs. Frederick's vapid ideas were soon turned from their original course. She succeeded in getting through, as hundreds of her character do, another of the hours which make up a whole precious existence. But it is perhaps consolatory to think that those by whom a life is thus wasted, are at all events squander- ing a capital which is of no use to any one not even to the owner. There are people in this world who almost make one question the possi- bility of their attaining another. Their souls go like the beasts' downward; so that even if their small spark of immortality can survive the quenching of the body, one doubts if they would ever feel either the torture of Purgatory or the bliss of Paradise. "Well!" at last said Mrs. Frederick: she always interlarded her conversation with so many "wells!" that her eccentric father-in-law had given her, according to his usual habit, the sobriquet of Well-come. "Well, Katharine, I must go." But she seemed determined to outstay Mr. Lynedon ; so contented herself with impressing on her hearers the melancholy warning of her departure once every five minutes. " And besides, my dear Mrs. Ogilvie" Isa- bella sometimes bestowed the Mrs., which she was most punctilious in exacting; "I wanted you to help me through a dull visit on my mother- in-law. But of course you can't come ; only if, as Fred the ill-natured creature has taken the carriage to Hampton " " I will order mine," said Katharine, with the faintest possible smile. "I am engaged; but, Eleanor, a drive would do you good. Will you take my place, and visit poor Mrs. Penny- thorne? It was a sudden and kindly thought, which found its grateful echo in the thrill of Eleanor's heart. Alas, that through life those two had not known each other better, that they might have loved and sustained each other more ! Paul still lingered, trespassing on the utmost limits of etiquette, to gain another half-hour another minute of the presence which was al- ready growing more and more attractive nay, beloved ! As Katharine bade adieu to her cousin and Eleanor, she turned to him : " Mr. Lyne- don, may I, as a friend, appropriate your idle morning, and ask you to become knight-errant to these fair ladies?" He bowed, wavering between disappointment and pleasure. The latter triumphed : that win ning manner the gentle name of "friend" would have sent him to the very end of the eartl for her sake, or at her bidding. CHAPTER XLV Know what love is that it draws Into itself all passion, hope, and thought; The heart of life, to which all currents flow Through every vein of being which if chilled, The streams are ice forever ! WESTLAND MARSTON. MRS. FREDERICK PENNYTHORNE, in high good humor and good spirits, played off every femi- nine air of which she was mistress, for the espe- cial benefit of Mr. Lynedon. She was one of those women to whom nothing ever comes amiss that comes in a coat and hat. The passive re- cipient of these attentions received them at first coldly, and afterward with some amusement, for, despite his dawning passion, Lynedon could not already deny his nature. He was but a man a man of the world and she a pretty woman ; so he looked smiling and pleased ready to snatch an hour's idle amusement, which would be utterly forgotten the next. Oh, Love ! mocked at and trifled with when thou wouldst come as an angel of blessing, how often dost thou visit at last an avenging angel of doom ! Leaning back silent and quiet, Eleanor felt oppressed by an almost trembling eagerness. To tread where Philip's weary feet had so often trod ; to enter the house of which his letters haa THE OGILVIES 113 frequently spoken: to see the gentle and now desolate woman whom he had liked, and who had been kind to him in those sorrowful days these were indeed sweet though stolen pleasures unto his betrothed. For she was his betrothed still her heart told her so : a passing estrange- ment could never break the faithful bond of years. Love makes the most ordinary things appear sacred. Simple Eleanor ! to her the dull road and the glaring, formal square were interesting, even beautiful. She looked up at the house itself with loving, wistful eyes, as though the shadow of Philip's presence were still reflected there. She crossed the threshold where he had passed so many a time the very track of his footsteps seemed hallowed in her sight. Oh, woman ! woman ! whom idle poets celebrate as a capricious goddess, how often art thou the veriest of idolaters ! Lynedon remained in the carriage. He never liked visits of condplence, or interviews at all approaching to the doleful ; so he made a show of consideration for "poor Mrs. Pennythorne's feelings," and enacted the sympathizing and anxious friend by means of a couple of cards. There is a deep solemnity on entering a house over which the shadow of a great woe still lin- gers, where pale Patience sits smiling by the darkened hearth, giving all due welcome to the stranger, yet not so but that the welcomed one can feel this to be a mere passing interest. No tear may dim the eye, the lips may not once utter the name now only a name but the vis- itant knows that the thoughts are far away, far as heaven is from earth ; and he pictures almost Vith awe what must be the depth of the grief that is not seen. Eleanor and her cousin passed into the draw- ing-room. It had a heavy, damp atmosphere, like that of a room long closed up. " How disagreeable ! They never sit in this room now, because of that likeness over the mantle-piece. Why couldn't they have it re- moved, instead of shutting up the only tolerable room in the house?" said Isabella, as she drew up the Venetian blind, and partly illumined the gloomy apartment. "Is that poor Leigh?" asked Eleanor. It was a portrait a common-place, bright-colored daub, but still a portrait of a little child sitting on the ground, his arms full of flowers. " Was itltkehim?" "Not a bit; but 'tis all that is left of the boy." All left ! the sole memento of that brief young life ! Eleanor gazed upon it with interest even with tears. She was standing looking at it still when the mother entered. Eleanor turned and met the meek brown eyes once fondly chronicled as being like her own ; but all memory of herself or of Philip passed away when she beheld Mrs. Pennythorne. What was earthly love, even in its most sacred form, to that hallowed grief, patient but perpetual, which to the mourner became as a staff to lean on through the narrow valley whose sole ending must be the tomb ? Even Isabella's careless tone sank subdued before that soundless footfall that quiet voice! She introduced her cousin with an awkward half-apology H "I hope you will not mind her being a st: anger, but " here a bright thought struck Isabella "she knows your great favorite, Mr. Wychnor." A smile or at least its shadow all that those patient lips would ever wear on earth showed how the mother's gratitude had become affection. Mrs. Pennythorne took Eleanor's hand affectionately. "I don't know if I have ever heard of you, but indeed I am very glad to see you, for Mr. Wychnor 's sake." It was the dearest welcome in the world to Eleanor Ogilvie ! Have you seen him to-day?" pursued Mrs. Pennythorne, simply ; " but indeed you could not, for he has been with me all the morning. I made him stay, because he seemed worn and ill." "111!" echoed Eleanor, anxiously. But her word and look passed unnoticed, for Isabella was watching Lynedon from the window, ^and Mrs. Pennythorne answered, unconsciously " Yes : he has not looked well of late ; I have been quite uneasy about him. I left him lying on the sofa in the parlor. Shall we go down there now? he will be so dull alone." She led the way ; Isabella reluctantly quit ting her post of observation. " Always Mr. Wychnor ! What a bore that young man is !" she observed to her cousin. But Eleanor heard nothing thought of nothing save that Philip was near Philip ill sad ! So ill, so sad, that he scarce moved at the opening door ; but lay with eyes closed heavily, as though the light itself were pain and lips pressed together, lest their writhings should be- tray, even in solitude, what the firm will had resolved to conquer, forbidding even the relief of sorrow. For one brief instant she beheld him thus she, his betrothed, who would have given her life for his sake. Her heart yearned over him, almost as a mother's over a child. She could have knelt beside him and taken the weary, drooping head to her bosom, comforting and cherishing as a woman only can : but He saw her ! there came a momentary spasm over his face, and then, starting up, he met her with a cold eye, as he had done the night be- fore. It caused her heart, that heart overflowing with tenderness and love, to freeze within her She shrank back, and had hardly strength tc give him the listless hand of outward courtesy. He took it as courtesy ; nothing more. And thus they met, the second time, as strangers, worse than strangers they who had been each other's very life for so many years ! He began to talk not with her, save the few words that formality exacted but with Mrs. Pennythorne. A few frigid nothings passed constrainedly, and then Isabella cried out " Goodness, Eleanor, how pale you are !" Eleanor was conscious of Philip's sudden glance full of anxiety, wild tenderness, any thing but coldness. He half sprang to her side, and then paused. Mrs. Pennythorne observed that the room was close, and perhaps Mr. Wychnor would open the window. He did so, and saw Paul Lynedon ! Once more his eye became cold meaning less stern. It sought Eleanor's no more. He sat down beside Mrs, Frederick, answering J14 THE OGILVIES. vaguely her light chatter. Five minutes after, he made some idle excuse, and left the house. " What a pity, when he had promised to stay until dinner-time!" said Mrs. Pennythorne, regretfully. He had gone, then, to escape her ! Eleanor saw it knew it. Colder and colder her heart grew, until it felt like stone. She neither trembled nor wept; she only wished that she couW lie down and die. Thus, silent as she came but oh ! with what a different silence she departed from the house. > To those who suffer, there is no life more bit- ter, more full of continual outward mockery, than that of an author immersed in the literary life of London. In a duller sphere a man may hide his misery in his chamber may fly with it to some blessed country solitude even wrap it round him like a mantle of pride or stupidity, and. pass unnoticed in the common crowd. But here it is impossible. He must fill his place in his circle perhaps a brilliant one ; and if so he must shine too, as much as ever. He must keep in the society which is so necessary to his worldly prospects he must be seen in those haunts which are to others amusement, to him business in theater, exhibition, or social meet- ing ; so at last he learns to do as others do to act. It is merely creating a new self, as he does a new character ; and perhaps in time this ficti- tious self becomes so habitual, that never, save in those works which the world calls fiction, but which are indeed his only true life, does the real man shine out. Philip Wychnor had not gone so far as this on the track of simulation ; day and night he pray- ed that it never might be so with him. The world had not cast upon him her many-colored fool's vesture, but she had taught him so to wear his own robe that no eye could penetrate the workings of the heart within. He had his outward life to lead, and he led it without de- ceit, but without betrayal of aught that was within. So it chanced that the self-same night, when Eleanor, yielding to Katharine's restless eager- ness for any thing that might smooth time's passing and deaden thought, went with her to some place of amusement a " Shakspeare read- ing," the first face she saw was Philip Wych- nor's. She saw it not pale, worn, dejected, as a few hours since, but wearing the look of courteous, almost pleased attention, as he listen- ed, nay talked among a group whose very names brought thoughts of wit, and talent, and gayety. She looked at him she, with her anguished, half-broken heart he the center of that brilliant circle; and then the change burst upon her. The Philip Wychnor of the world was not hers. What was she to him now ? She turned away her head, and strove to endure patiently, with- out sorrow. That he should be great and honored rich in fame ought not that to be hap- piness ? If he loved not her, she might still worship him. So she pressed her anguish down in the lowest depths of her faithful heart, and tried to make it rejoice in his glory; con- tent to be even trodden down under his footsteps, so that those footsteps led him unto the lofty path whither he desired to go. She watched him from 'afar his kindling eye, his beautiful Countenance, on which sat genius and truth; and it seemed to her nothing that her own pool unknown life, with its hopes and joys, should b< sacrificed, to give unto the world and unto fam& such an one as he. He passed from the circle where he stood, and moving listlessly, without looking around him, came and sat down beside Katharine. At her greeting he started : again as if that per- petual doom must ever haunt them the once betrothed lovers met. The play was Romeo and Juliet. They had read it when almost children, sitting in the palace-garden ; they had acted it once the bal- cony scene leaning over the terrace-wall. She wondered, Did he think of this ? But she dared not look at him ; she dared not trust herself to speak. So she remained silent, and he too. Katharine sat between them sometimes list- ening to the play, sometimes turning a restless, eager gaze around. If any human eye could have looked into those three hearts, he would have seen there as mournful depths as ever the world's great Poet sounded. Ay, and it will be so to the end of time ! Cold age may preach them down, world- liness may make a mock at them, but still the two great truths of life are Romance and Love. The play ended. " He will not come," said Katharine, laughing ; " I mean not Hugh, but Mr. Lynedon, whom he said he would ask to meet us here. What shall we do, Eleanor? How shall we punish the false knight?" she continued, showing forth mockingly the real anger which she felt. It was a good disguise. Eleanor answered in a few gentle words. Philip only understood that they were a plead-; ing and for Lynedon ! "Will you take the place of our faithless cavalier, and succor us, Mr. Wychnor?" was Katharine's winning request. He could not but accede. He felt impelled by a blind destiny which drove him on against his will. At last he ceased even to strive against it. He accompanied the two ladies home. Then, when Mrs. Ogilvie, in her own irresistible way, besought him not to leave the rescued dnmsels in solitude, but to spend a quiet hour with her- self and Eleanor, he complied passively me- chanically and entered. There were flowers on the table. "The very flowers, Eleanor, that I or rather you admired in the gardens to-day!" cried Katha- rine. " Well, that atones for the falsehood of this evening. Mr. Lynedon is a preux chevalier, after all. A bouquet for each ! How kind ! is it not?" "Yes, very!" answered Eleanor. "Yes, very!" mimicked Katharine, striving to hide her excitement under a flippant tongue. " Upon my word, were I Mr. Lynedon, I should be in a state of high indignation ! And a note, too to me, of course. Come, will you answer it? No? Then I must. Talk to Mr. Wych- nor the while." She went away, humming a gay tune, tear- ing the envelope to pieces : the note, itself she crushed in her hand for the moment, to be after- ward But no eye followed her to that inner chamber. Alas ! every human being has some inner chamber, of heart or home ! They were together at last, Philip and El- eanor, quite alone. He felt the loneliness witk THE OGILVIES. 115 a shuddering feat a vague desire to fly; she, with a faint hope, a wild longing to throw her- self at his feet, and pray him to tell her what was this terrible cloud that hung between them : yet neither had the power to move. She stood her fingers beginning, half-unconsciously, to arrange the flowers in a vase : he, sitting at the farther end of the room, whither he had retired at the first mention of Lynedon's name, neither moved, nor looked, nor spoke. Gradually his hands dropped from the book he had taken, and a stray moonbeam, shining through the white, half-drawn curtains, showed his face ; so white, so fixed, so rigid, that it might have been that of one dead. It was shown thus to her ! At the sight she forgot all coldness, bitterness, pride even that reserve which some call womanly, which makes a girl shrink from being the first to say to her lover, "Forgive!" She remembered only that they had loved one another that both suffered. Ah ! he did suffer ; she saw it now ay, with a strange gladness, for the suffering showed a lingering love. The hand of one or other must rend the cloud between them, or it might darken over both their lives eternally. Should that hand be hers ? She thought a moment and then prayed ! She was one of those little children who fear not to look up every hour to the face of their Father in heaven. Then she crept noiselessly beside her lover. "Philip!" He heard the tremulous, pleading voice 5 saw the outstretched hands ! Forgetting all, he would have clasped them, have sprung forward and fallen on her bosom, but that he saw there, placed by her unconsciously, in the agitation of the moment, the flowers Lynedon's flowers ! Then came rushing back upon the young man's soul its love and its despair despair that must be hidden even from her. What right had he to breathe one tender word, even to utter one cry of misery, in the ear of his lost beloved, when she was another man's chosen bride ? The struggle, were it unto death, must be concealed, not only for his own sake, but for hers. He did conceal it. He took her hand only one and then let it go, not rudely, but softly, though the chilling action wounded her ten times more. " You are very kind. Thank you ! I hope you will be happy, indeed I do." " Happy ! Oh, Philip, never in this world !" And she would have sunk before him, but that he rose and gave her his place. The action, which seemed as one of mere courtesy to any every-day friend, went to her heart like a dagger. " It is all changed with us, Philip ; I feel it is." And she burst into tears. He felt the madness rising within him, and turned to fly. But he could not go and leave her thus. He came near once more, . and said, in a low, hurried tone " I have been unkind ; I have made you weep. You were always gentle ; I think you are so, still. But I will not pain you any more, Eleanor let me call you so this once, for the sake of all the past." " The past !" she murmured. "You know it is the past eternally the past. Why do you seek to bring it back again ? For- get it, blot it out, trample on it, as I do." And his voice rose with the wild passion that swelled within him ; but it sank at once when he met her upraised eyes, wherein the tears were frozen into a glassy terror. " Forgive me !" he cried. " Let me say fare- well now. You will be happy ; and I I shall not suffer much not much. Do not think of me, except in forgiveness " " Oh, Philip, Philip, it is you who should forgive me!" And she extended her loving arms; but he thrust them back with a half- frenzied gesture. " Eleanor, I thought you one of God's angels ; but a demon could not temjat and torture me thus. Think what we once were to one another, and then of the gulf between us a wide, fiery gulf. Do you not see it Eleanor ? I can not pass I dare not. Dare you ?" "Yes." The word was scarcely framed on her lips when Philip stopped it with a cry. " You shall not ! I will save you from your- self. I want no gentleness, no pity; only let me go. Loose my hand !" But she held it still. His tones sank to entreaty. "Eleanor, be merciful ! let me depart ; I can be nothing to you now. I would have been every thing ; but it is too late. You hold me still? How can you how dare you when there is one who stands between us ! Ah, you drop my hand now ! I knew it !" He stood one moment looking in her face. Then he cried, passionately " Eleanor mine once, now mine no more ! though misery, torture, sin itself, are between us, still, for the last time, come !" He opened his arms, and strained her to his heart, so tightly that she almost shrieked. Then he broke away, and fled precipitately from the house. CHAPTER XL VI. Go be sure of my love by that treason forgiven Of my prayers by the blessings they bring thee from heaven ; Of my grief : judge the length of tlie sword by the sheath's, By the silence of life more pathetic than death's. . B. BROWNINS ELEANOR OGILVIE'S love was like her nature calm, silent, deep. It had threaded the whole course of her life, not as a bursting torrent, but a quiet, ever-flowing stream "that knew no fall.' When the change came, all the freshness and beauty passed from her world, leaving it arid and dry. She made no outward show of sorrow; for she deemed it alike due to Philip and herself, that whatever had come between their love to end it thus, it should now be buried out of sight. If, indeed, his long silence had but too truly foretold his change toward her, and, as his brok- en words faintly seemed to reveal, some other love had driven her from his heart or, at least, some new bond had made the very memory of that olden pledge a sin was the deserted be- trothed to lay bare her sufferings, to be a mark for the pointed finger of scornful curiosity, and the glance o' *.rilr3t* pity? And still more, 116 THE OGILVIES. was she to suffer idle tongues to bring reproach against Aim ? Her heart folded itself over this terrible grief as close as nay, closer than over its precious love; even as the cankered leaf gathers its fibers nearer together, to hide the cause which eats its life away. She moved about the house at Summerwood living her outward daily life of gentle tendance on the des- olate and complaining Lady Ogilvie ; ever the same ministering angel, as it seemed her fortune always to be, toward one sufferer or another. And so it is with some, who have themselves already drained to the dregs the cup of affliction. But He who sees fit to lift unto their lips the vinegar and the gall, also places in their hands the honey and the balm which they may pour out to others. At times, when in the night-time her pent-up sorrow expended itself in bitterest tears, or when in the twilight, she sat by Lady Ogilvie, whose complainings were then hushed in the heavy slumber of weakness and old age. Eleanor's brain wearied itself in conjectures as to what this terrible mystery could be; this "gulf" of which Philip had spoken, which neither he nor she must dare to cross. Ever and anon there flashed upon her memory his wild tones and ges- tures his half-maddened looks. They effaced the thoughts which had once brought comfort to her. Could it be with him as with other men of whom she had heard that his face and his writings alike gave the lie to his heart without, all fair ; within, all foulness and sin ? Could it be that her own pure Philip was no more ; and in his stead was an erring, world-stained man, to whom her sight had brought back, remorse- fully, the innocent days of old ? " Oh, no ! not that. Let me believe any thing but that!" moaned Eleanor, as one even- ing, when she sat all alone by Lady Ogilvie's couch, these thoughts came, wringing her very soul. " Oh, my Philip ! I could bear that you should love me no more that another should stand in my place, and be to you all I was, and all I hoped to be but let me not think you un- worthy. It would kill me ; I feel it would !" And she leant her head against the cushion of the sofa, and gave way to a burst of agonizing sobs. They half aroused Lady Ogilvie, who moved, and said, dreamily "Katharine, my child! What! are you cry- ing ! You shall not be married unless Ah ! Eleanor, it is you ! I might have remembered that it was not Katharine she never comes to sit by her mother now," murmured the feeble voice, in a touching complaint. It went to Eleanor's heart, even amidst her own sorrow. Struggling, she repressed all ut- terance of the grief which her aunt had not yet seen ; and leaned over her tenderly. " Katharine will come soon, dear aunt. I am sure she would be here to-morrow if she thought you wished for her. Shall we send?" " No, no, I have no right now. She has her husband, and her friends, and her gayeties. She hates Summerwood. too ; she told me so. And I who was so anxious for her marriage with Hugh, that she might still live here, and no one might come to part my child from me I did not think she would have gone away of her own ac- cord." Eleanor, as she stood by Lady Ogilvie's couch, thought of her own mother, now sife m heaven, from whom, while life lasted, neither fate nor an erring will had ever taker away the clasp of a daughter's loving arms. And while, strong through the dividing shade w of death of inter- vening years of other bords and other griefs shone the memory of this first, holiest love, she lifted her heart with thankful joy that her bless- ed work had been fulfilled. From the eternal shore, the mother now, perchance, stretched forth, to the struggling and suffering one, her spirit-arms, murmuring, " My child my true and duteous child I wait for thee ! Be patient, and endure !" Lady Ogilvie felt her hand taken silently What word of consolation could have broken in upon the deserted parent's tears ? But the touch seemed to yield comfort. "You are a kind, dear girl. Eleanor; I am very glad to have you here. I think you do me good. Thank you !" Eleanor kissed her aunt's cheek, and was then about to sit down by the couch on a little ottoman, when Lady Ogilvie prevented her. "Not there not there. Katharine always liked to sit beside me thus. She does not care for it now; but no one shall have Katharine's place no, no !" And the poor mother again began to weep. Eleanor took her seat at the foot of the sofa in compassionate silence. Dear aunt," she whispered at length, "your Katharine loves you as much as ever. You must not think her lost to you because she is married." " Ah, that is what people say. I once said the same myself to a mother at her child's wed- ding. Let me see who was it?" and her wan- dering thoughts seemed eagerly to catch at the subject. "Yes, I remember now, it was on Bella's wedding-day, and I was talking to her husband's mother/ Poor Mrs. Pennythorne! She made me feel for her, for she, too, had one child a son, I think. She said he must bring his wife home, because she could not bear to part with him. I wonder if she ever did !" "Yes!" said Eleanor, softly. " Then her son is as unkind as my Katharine. He forgets his mother. Poor thing ! poor thing ! She is left all alone, like me !" "Not so; far lonelier," said Eleanor's low voice. "Her son is dead." " Dead ! dead !" cried Lady Ogilvie ; " and 1 have still my Katharine well and happy. God forgive me! I will never murmur any more." And, deeply moved, she lay back in silence for many minutes. Then she said " Eleanor, 1 should like to hear more about that poor mother. Where did you learn these news of her?" "I saw her when I was in London, three weeks since," answered Eleanor, in a tremulous voice, remembering what years of sorrow she had lived in those three weeks. " Poor Mrs. Pennythorne ! I wish I could talk to her. Do you think she would come and see me? It m-ight do her good," said Lady Ogilvie, yearning after this new sympathy; which brought back somewhat of her own thoughtful, kindly nature, Jong suppressed by the acquired selfishness of sickness and old age. Eleanor gladly seconded the plan; and surely she might be forgiven, if there flashed across THE OGILVIES. 117 her mind the thought that through this channel might come tidings of Philip Wychnor. A few days more, and she had succeeded in accomplishing her aunt's desire. Mrs. Penny- thorne, wondering and shrinking, crept silently into the room, scarcely believing that the aged and sickly form which at her entrance half arose from the couch, could be the tall and stately Lady Ogilvie. Still more surprised was she when Katharine's mother, glancing at her black garments, and then for an instant regard- ing her pale, meek face, grief-worn but calm, laid her head on Mrs. Pennythorne's shoulder and burst into tears. Then, to the mother of the Dead, came that new strength and dignity born of her sorrow; and she who had given her one lamb from her bosom to be sheltered in the eternal fold, spoke comforting words unto her whose grief was for the living gone astray. They talked not long of Katharine ; but passed on to the subject that was now rarely absent from Mrs. Pennythorne's lips, and never from her heart, though it dwelt on both with a holy calmness, and without pain. She spoke of Leigh of all that was good and beautiful in himself, of all that was hopeful in his death. And amidst the simple and touching story of his illness and his passing away she spoke of the last parting by no harsher word she continually uttered, and ever with deep ten- derness and thankful blessings, one name the name of Philip Wychnor. Half-hidden in the window, Eleanor listened to the tale which the grateful mother told. She heard of Philip's struggles, of his noble patience, of those high qualities which had awakened in poor Leigh such an intense love and afterward of the almost womanly tenderness which had smoothed the sick boy's pillow, filling his heart with joy and peace even to the last. And then Mrs. Pennythorne spoke of the gentle kindness which had since led Philip, prosperous and courted as he was, to visit her in her loneliness with comfort and cheer. ',' My dear boy always said that Mr. Wychnor talked like an angel," continued Mrs. Penny- thorne. "And so he does. Night and day I pray Heaven to reward him for the blessings he has brought to me and mine. And though he is sadly changed of late, and I can see there is more in his heart than even / know of, yet his words are like an angel's still. May God com- fort him and bless him evermore !" "Amen!" was the faint echo, no louder than a breath. And shrouded from sight. Eleanor, with streaming, uplifted eyes and clasped hands, poured forth her passionate thanksgiving for the worthiness of him she loved. "He is not mine he never may be ; but he is yet all I believed good, pure, noble. My Philip, my true Philip, God bless thee ! we shall yet stand side by side in His heaven, and look upon each other's face without a tear." She was still in the recess when Mrs. Penny- thorne entered it. her usual timid steps seeming more reluctant than ordinary. "Your aunt would like to sleep a little, Miss Ogilvie, so she has sent me to you." "Eleanor roused herself, and spoke wswmly and gratefully to the pale-faced woman > the name shall never pass my lips. You speak truly ; I was a child a happy child until you came You came, with your winning words, 132 THE OGILVIES. your subduing tenderness > you made me be- lieve it allme, a simple girl, gifted, to my misery, with a woman's heart! See, I speak without a blush or a sigh these are past now. Paul Lynedon, I loved you then I have loved you all my life through I love you now, dearly, dearly! But I tell you this for the first time and the last, for you shall never look on my face more." "Katharine, have mercy!" " You had none ! Oh, why did you deceive me? Why did your lips speak falsely ay, more than speak?" and Katharine shuddered. " Why did your hand write what your heart felt not? And I, who loved, who trusted you so, vtntil I heard But I can not think of it now it drove me mad ! Now, when we might have been so happy, it is too late ! too late ! Her voice sank into a low, broken weeping. There was a silence a terrible silence, and then Katharine felt her hand drawn in his. She lifted herself up, almost with a cry. "You can not you dare not take my hand. See ! see !" Snatching it away, she pointed to the golden symbol it bore the wedding-ring ! Lynedon sprang madly to his feet. " Kath- arine, there is no pity in heaven or earth for us I say MS, because you love me. I know it now ; I see it in your anger as in your tears those blessed tears! Oh, Katharine, I can not weep, but I could pour out my heart's blood for you !" Again he paused, and then went on speaking in a low, rapid whisper. " Tell me for I know nothing nothing, except that I am almost mad ! tell me what we must do. Shall I end all this? Katharine, my lost Katharine! shall I die?" "No, no, no!" and she unconsciously seized Lynedon's hands. "Hush, Paul! be calm, let me think a moment." She began to talk soothingly; leaning over him the while, and trying to speak in quiet and gentle tones. Then Paul Lynedon forgot all honor, duty, even love ; for the love that would destroy is un- worthy of the name. "Katharine," he murmured, "the world shuts us out, or will do soon. It may be that Heaven is more merciful than man. Let us try ! Let us go far away together to some land beyond the seas to some Eden where love is no longer sin!" Katharine looked at him for an instant, with a frenzied, incredulous gaze. Then she un- clasped his hand, which had once more taken hers ; flung it from her, and sprang upright. "Paul Lynedon, I know you now! You have darkened my peace you have made me a scorn, a loathing to myself but you shall not slay my soul. Go go from my sight forever!" He flung himself on the ground, kissing her dress, her feet ; but there was no relenting. She stood, with lifted hand, pointing to the door moveless, silent, stern. "Katharine, I will obey you I will go," he cried, at last. " I will never cross your path again. Only forgive me ! One word one look to say farewell!" But there she stood immovable in her stony silence. Beneath it his own passionate heart grew still and cold. He rose up, pressed his lips once more to her garment's hem, and tnec crept humbled from her sight. The door closed and Katharine was alone. That night there came a messenger to Sum- merwood, with tidings awful indeed! Death had struck the young heir in the midst of his careless sports. Death! sudden death! occa- sioned unwittingly by his own hand. Poor Hugh kind-hearted, good-natured Hugh, was brought home to Summerwood, dead ! Katharine Ogilvie was a widow. CHAPTER LIII. 'Twere sweet to think of sweeter still To hope for that this blessed end soothes up The curse of the beginning: but I know It comes too late. ROBERT BROWNING. IT was all over; and the unloving wife was free! Free ! when she was haunted perpetually by an avenging voice, bringing back to her memory the false marriage-vow so rashly taken, so nearly broken the duties unfulfilled the affec- tion unvalued, and requited with scorn. It was a fearful picture of a wasted life wasted by the one withering shadow the love which placed the Human in the stead of the D-'vme By night and day the^ young jndow watched in mute agony beside her husband's coffined re- mains. Father, mother, friends, went away weeping, and saying to one another, " See how dearly she loved him!" But Katharine shud- dered to hear them, knowing that it was less grief she felt, than a bitter, gnawing remorse, which cried ever aloud, "It is too late too late !" She thought of her childish days of Hugh's old tenderness, so constant and yet so humble of his patience and forbearance during their brief married life. Throughout that married life she had met her husband's unsuspicious gaze, know- ing that she carried in her soul a secret that might destroy his peace forever. And when the end came, she had suffered Paul Lynedon to kneel at her feet, giving and receiving the con- fession of erring love. She had felt, with that love, the glow of hatred toward him who stood between her and happiness. Nay, there had darted across her mind the thought, scarcely formed into a wish, that some strange fate would set her free. And even then the thought was accomplished. She had withstood the tempter, she had kept her marriage-vow, and yet she felt almost like Hugh's murderess. At times her bewildered mind strove to palliate the wrong by the self-same plea. She remembered that Lynedon's passionate words had been poured out unto a widow not a wife ; and that she her- self, in repulsing them, had kept faithful even to the dead. " And I will still be faithful !" she cried. "Oh, my husband ! if I sinned against you then, accept the atonement now ! Never, never shall my hand clasp his never shall Hugh's widow became Paul Lynedon's bride ! Husband ! if I sacrificed your peace, I will offer up myself with my life's hope as an atonement on your grave !" Strong was. the remorse that prompted the THE OGILVIES. 133 words deep was the shame that uttered them; but stronger aud deeper than either remorse or shame was the undying love which had created, and yet withered, the life-destiny of Katharine Ogilvie. Hugh rested in the little church at Summer- wood, beneath a gorgeous monument. Sir Rob- ert had deplored less the death of an affectionate son-in-law than the extinction of a baronetcy two hundred years old. This antiquity, chron- icled in golden letters beneath the weeping marble cherubim, for the benefit of ages to come, was at least some slight consolation to the be- reaved father-in-law. Eleanor wept many an affectionate tear over the brother who was so different from herself, and with whom, through life, she had held little intercourse. And then she went away from Sumraerwood, to fulfill once more the self-as- sumed duties of a daughter, until they should merge in those of a wife. All the long winter Katharine spent in soli- tude. "Atonement atonement !" was the cry of her anguished spirit, and she strove to work out that penance by shutting from her heart every thought save the memory of her husband every pleasure save that which grew out of duties fulfilled. The mother mourned no longer over her careless daughter; Katharine tended her with a contrite tenderness that was almost painful to behold. She clung with a vehement intensity to this pure love, the only one on which her memory dared rest in the past the only one to which she looked for comfort in the future. So she lived, binding down every impulse in her nature with an iron will, born of remorse. She imitated the martyrs of old, who thought to win atonement by inflicting on themselves a living death. But they only tortured the body ; Katharine did penance with the soul. The self- conflict was vain, for it sprang from proud re- morse, not humble penitence. Her sorrow could not wash away the suffering or the sin, for the drops that fell were not tears, but fire. From the time when she drove him from her presence, Katharine had never heard of Paul Lynedon. It was her prayer the prayer of her lips, at least that she might never see him more. And when the gloom of winter passed, and the spring came out upon the earth, creating vague yearnings after hope and love, Katharine still sought to deaden them with prayer. But its very utterance only made it the more false. Evermore, piercing through remorse, indigna- tion, and shame, rose up the face which she had last seen bowed before her in such agonizing pleading, less for love than for pardon. And one day she saw that face not in fancy, but in reality. She was on her knees beside her father, in the church at Summerwood. The Sabbath sunshine slanted at once on the stately monument of her husband, and on her own drooped head, hidden by the thick widow's vail. She lifted it, and beheld Paul Lynedon. He sat in a dark corner of the church, intently watching her. As Katharine rose, their eyes met, and a numbing coldness crept through her veins. Still, she had power to answer the gaze with another, fixed, freezing, proud ; and then she turned away, nor lifted her eyes again, save to the marble tablet which should mark the dif- ference between the erring wife of the living, and the repentant widow of the dead. She looked no more toward Lynedon, Kit she felt his eyes upon her, and his influence around her. It seemed to encompass her with a dim, confused mist, through which she heard the priest's voice and the organ's sound indistinctly as in a dream. In vain she tried to break the spell, driving her thoughts back to the past to the death-cham- ber to the tomb beneath her very feet, where the young man was laid in the strength of his youth, hidden in darkness from the sunshine and the fresh breeze, and all those pleasures of nature which he had loved so well. Katharine gathered up these images of pain and laid them to her soul, but they could not press from it the one image which transcended all the rest. When she passed out of the church, clinging helplessly to her father's arm, Sir Robert staid a moment, and Katharine's eyes, impelled by an uncontroll- able power, looked back for an instant. Lynedon watched her yet. She could not still the rapture of her heart no, not though the spot she stood upon was her husband's grave. From that day she knew that wherever she went his presence encompassed her. If she walked, she saw a shadow gliding beneath the trees ; if she rode, there echoed far in the dis- tance the tramp of a horse's feet. At night, when all were gone to rest, she heard beneath her window a footstep that paced there for hours in the silence and the darkness. And Katharine, who so long ago had distinguished, above all oth- ers, that firm, slow, manly tread, knew that this watcher by night as by day was indeed Paul Lynedon. Thus weeks passed. She never saw his face except at church, and then he always crept into the shadow. And though once or twice she un- wittingly looked that way, it was with the cold- ness and sternness that became the insulted wife, the widow of Hugh Ogilvie. But this could not last. One morning it was so early that the April dews yet glistened in the sunshine Katharine took her solitary walk to a glade in the park, which had been her favorite haunt in her girlhood. She had brought him there long ago, and they had spent an hour's happy talk together, sitting on a fallen tree, half-covered with ivy, while she sang. He had carved thereon her initials, and his own. They were there still : Katharine moved aside the ivy which had wreathed round them, and bent ten derly over this record of the past. And then, as he sprang from the shadow of the trees, she saw Lynedon stand before her. Her first impulse was to fly, but she had no strength, not even to utter the stern command which rose to her lips ; and when she looked on him again, the words were silenced by another feeling. He was so changed, so haggard in face, so bent in form, that he might have borne the burthen of more than forty years. The deep eye had grown wild and restless, the brow was marked with many a line, and the dark, beauti- ful hair was threaded with gray. He stood there, and only uttered one word "Katharine!" Hearing it, she rose, and her eyes flashed through the tears which filled them. " Why do you come here ? why do you haunt my presence ? Paul Lynedon ! You dare to cross my path still ? 134 THE OG1LVIES. But he only answered to the wrath with an accent tender, humble, despairing " Katha- Unce more she looked upon him, and her tone softened. "You must not come here you must leave me. Still you move not ? Then I go." ( "Katharine, one word!" " Do not speak do not follow me. You can no t youdaronot. Ay, that is well." Removed aside ; and she passed on a few steps, and then turned. He had fallen on the ivy-covered tree, his head lying on the spot where he had carved her name. Katharine could struggle no more. " Paul ! Paul !" and she stretched out her hands. He sprang forward, and pressed them to his breast his brow ; but the next moment she had snatched them away with a cry. "I dare not, I dare not, Paul. Speak no word, but go from my sight." "I will go, if you desire. Only say that you forgive me. Oh, Katharine, if I sinned, I have suffered too !" "We have both sinned, and we must both suffer ; it is our doom. We must never look on ach other's face again." " Have you no mercy now, when you are free when it is no crime in the sight of earth or heaven for us to Jove one another? Katharine," he continued, catching her arm, and holding it in his firm grasp, " I remember what you said to me that night ay, every word how you have loved me all your life. Yes, and you love me still ! I saw your tears fall but now, and I knew it was at the remembrance of me. See, you tremble, you shrink : Katharine, you shall not part from me." And he spoke in a low, desperate tone. " I tell you, whether it is right or wrong, you shall be my wife." She felt his power upon her, gathering over her like a cloud of destiny, through which she could not pierce. She remained so mute, so frozen, that Lynedon was terrified. "Katharine, speak to me; say that I have not angered you. Look on me, and see what I have endured. - For these weeks past I have tracked your walks, only to catch a glimpse of your dress, or see the print of your footsteps ; then at night I have prowled, like a thief, under your window, watching while you slept. But I dared not enter your presence ; I would never have done so, save that I saw you weeping here. Is not this love? is not this penitence?'' She looked at him, only once ; but he gather- ed courage, and went on. " Why should we not be happy? If we erred, you will pardon me, and Heaven will forgive us both. Katha- rine, you shall bring back to me my youth, you shall make me what you will ; we will live over again the happy past"" "Not the past," dried Katharine; "we have no past we dare not have." " But we have a future that is, if you hear my words, and forsake me not. If otherwise, Katharine, shall I tell you what you will do?" And, as Paul stood over her, his wild eyes sought hers, speaking more even than his words. " You will drive me from you, a vagabond on the face of the earth : there is no evil which I shall not commit, or else I shall die die miser- ably, perhaps by my own hand." "No. no, Paul my Paul! you you shall not die ; I will save you if I peril my hope of heaven for your sake !" was the bitter cry that burst from Katharine's heart and lips, as she clasped both his hands and held them long, weeping over them passionately. Lynedon made her sit down on the fallen tree, while he threw back the vail from her face, and removed from her fair head, so youthful still, the tokens of widowhood. As he did so, he cast them down with a violent gesture and trampled them under foot. Then he took her hand and began to draw from it the wedding-ring; but Katharine sprang from his side. " Paul, I am very guilty, but it is for you ; you should not torture me thus. Listen. When my husband hush ! I will call him so still, for he was good to me when my husband died, I vowed to atone unto the dead for my sin to- ward the living. I said in my heart, solemnly and truly, then, that I would never be your wife. Now I break that vow the second I have broken for you. Paul, it is a fearful thing to have this upon my soul. You must be kind and tender to me you must let me wait a year two years until all this horror has passed, and then" " You will be mine my own wife ?" cried Lynedon, joyfully. He knelt beside her on the grass, and would have folded her in his arms, but Katharine drew back. " Not yet, not yet," she muttered. * It seems as though he stood between us he, my husband he will not let me come to you. This happi- ness will be too late ! I know it will." And while she spoke she drew her breath with a deep sigh, and put her hand suddenly to her heart. "What ails you, Katharine, my darling Katha- rine ?" cried Lynedon, anxiously. " Nothing the pain will pass soon I am used to it. Let me rest my head here," she answered faintly. He stood by her side, and she leaned against his arm in silence for a few minutes. Then she looked up with a sad, grave smile. " I am well now, Paul, thank you ! You see I make you my comfort and support al- ready." " Dearest, how happy am I ! May it be ever so !" was the low, loving answer. Her face was hid from him, or he would have seen that there passed over it a spasm of agony awakened by his words. Then it was that Katharine felt the curse of a granted prayer. The death so madly longed for was now a horrible doom ! To die, in the midst of youth and hope ! to leave him to go into the still, dark grave, without the blessing of his love it was fearful ! "Paul, Paul, save me!" she almost shrieked. " Hold me in your arms fast fast ! Do not let me die !" He thought her words were mere ravings, and asked no questions, but soothed her tenderly. After a while she spoke again, not wildly, but solemnly. "Paul, a little while since I told you that it must be a year or more before you made me yours. But I shall not live till then." He looked anxiously on her face and form. I There was no outward sign of wasted health, ! so he smiled calmly. " These fears are nothing, my Katharine ; you THE (JG1LV1ES. 135 shall live many happy years. I will end all su'oh forebodings when you give me the right to do so when you let me call you wife." "You may call me so when you will," an- swered Katharine, in a low tone. " A month, a week ay, who knows how soon the end may come ! But I will defy fate ! Paul my Paul my only love !" and she threw herself upon his breast, clinging to him wildly " I will not be torn from you I will live until that blessed day!" Lynedon, only too joyful thus to win his bride, overwhelmed her with the outburst of his happiness. He counted all her fears as an idle dream ; and ere they left the dell, he had fixed the first May-morning for their marriage-day. "It will indeed be May-time with us then," he said, as with an almost boyish fondness he leaned over her and fastened her bonnet. " And this dear head shall have that hateful vail no more, but a bridal garland." "And afterward afterward !" murmured Ka- tharine. But she drove back the chilling horror she looked in the glad face of her bridegroom she leaned on his arm as they walked slowly on, with sunshine and flowers, and birds singing every where around them. Could it be that over all this bliss frowned the heavy shadow of Death ? CHAPTER LIV. Scarce I heed These pangs. Yet thee to leave is death is death indeed ! * * * * * Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love, to die beholding thee ! CAMPBELL. KATHARINE revealed the tidings of her ap- proaching marriage to neither father nor mother. Sir Robert would have talked of the "honor of the family," which forbade even the most de- sirable second union until the days of mourning were ended. And Lady Ogilvie, who now rested tranquilly in the knowledge that she would never be parted from her daughter, would have bitterly murmured at the faintest hint of separation. Katharine knew all this, and pre- pared for a secret union unhallowed by a pa- rent's blessing. Only once, by her earnest desire, Lynedon, almost against his will, came openly to Sum- merwood. He spent a few hours with Sir Rob- ert, striving to act the part of a chance guest, and then Katharine brought him to her mother's apartment. He sat down by Lady Ogilvie's side, and talked to her in a tone so gentle and tender that Katharine blessed him with her whole souL She longed to throw herself at her mother's feet, beseeching her to take to her heart as a son, this dearest one in whom was centered her child's every hope. But just then, Lady Ogilvie chanced to speak, and her first words made Katharine's impulse change. " Yes, as you say, Mr. Lynedon, I am much better than I used to be. It is all Katharine's doing ; the very sight of her seems to make me young again. I feel quite different since she has come back to live at Summerwood. She must never leave me again." Lynedon made no reply. He had -ong since abandoned all false and feigning speech. Such could not be uttered beneath Katharine's eye, or within the influence of Katharine's earnest nature. Ere he departed, Paul took Lady Ogilvie's hand with affectionate reverence, and said, softly, "I shall not see you again for a little while. Will you not bid me farewell and good speed on my journey? for it is a sweet and solemn one to me, and when I return it will not be alone." " What, Mr. Lynedon ! you are going to be married at last ? I do not like weddings not much but I hope yours will be a happy one, And who is your bride?" "You will know soon," and Paul drooped his head he could not bear to look in Lady Ogilvie's face. "Only, dear friend, our wed- ding will miss one happiness. I have no mother to bless my bride. Let me take her a kind wish and a blessing from you." " Indeed you must. I am sure we shall like her very much, whoever she be shall we not, Katharine? Good-by, Mr. Lynedon; and God bless you and your wife, and give you a long and happy life together." Paul Lynedon kissed the aged hand that she extended to him, and was gone. That night Katharine stood beside her sleep- ing mother, to take, in one long, lingering, tearful look, the farewell which she could not utter. Yet it would be but a short parting; for she had made her lover promise that, once united beyond the chances of earthly severance, they should both speed to ask her mother's for- giveness and blessing. The blessing seemed on Lady Ogilvie's pro- phetic lips even now. Her fancy returned in dreams to the tidings of which she had often spoken during the day ; and as Katharine leaned over her she heard her mother repeat once again, mingled with a blessing, the name of Lynedon. It sounded like a late hallowing of the love which had sprung up in such uncontrolled vehemence, and come to maturity in a passion that trembled on the very verge of crime. Katharine sank on her knees beside the bed. " Oh, that it may indeed be so ! that Heaven may forgive us both, and suffer us to atone the past! And, mother, surely, re-echoing your words, I dare now cry, ' God bless my Paul my own Paul !' " Lady Ogilvie moved in her sleep, disturbed by the last pressure of her daughter's lips ; and then, stealing one lingering, farewell gaze, Katharine glided from the room. Ere long, accompanied by an old, faithful servant, who had been her nurse, she quitted her father's house. The place chosen for the marriage was a village some miles distant, where the nurse's daughter lived. Beneath the roof of this little cottage, which in its rose-embowered beauty had been the very paradise of her childhood, Katharine spent the eve of her second bridal. It was strangely unlike the first more so than might have been imagined, for the intensity of suffering and of joy are very near akin. But Lynedon's bride felt no excess of joy ; a solemn shadow hung over her which she could not dis- 136 i'HE UG1LVIES. pel. Tnrouffh it she heard the chimes from the near church-tower, ring out the passing of the brief May-eve; and then she lay down and slept ay, slept. She was awakened at dawn by the rooks, who from their lofty nests made merry music over the old church-yard. Katharine rose up, and the first sight that met her eyes was the white grave-stones that glimmered in the yet faint light. Strange and solemn vision for a bride on her marriage-morn! Katharine turned away, and looked up at the sky. It was all gray* and dark, for the shadow of the village church the church where she was to plight her vows came between her and the sunrise. She buried her head again in the pillow, and tried to realize the truth, that this day this very day Paul Lynedon would be her husband, loving her as she had once so vainly loved him ; that she would never part from him again, but be his own wife, the sharer of his home through life until death. Until death ! She thought the words, she did not say them, but they filled her with a cold, dull fear. To drive it away, she arose. She would have put on her wedding- dress almost as a spell, that the bridal garment might bring with it happy bridal thoughts but it was not in her room. So Katharine dressed herself once more in her widow's attire, and waited until the rest of the household were stirring. Meanwhile there recurred to her mind a lov- ing duty, that befitted the time. She sat down and wrote to her mother a long, tender letter, not proud but contrite, pleading for pardon and a kindly welcome, less for herself than for her husband. Katharine paused an instant. " Yes," she said, " he will be my husband ; no earthly power can come between us now." Her pen traced the word firmly ; the mere writing of it sent happiness to her heart. As she went on, the pleading grew into a confession, and she un- burthened from her soul the weight of years. Humbly, repentantly, she told of that overwhelm- ing love which had come upon her like a fate, and had haunted her through life until it became its own avenger. She omitted no link in this terrible history save that which might bring shame upon him whose honor was soon to be one with hers. Katharine finished the letter all but the signa- ture. A few hours more, and she would write, as her own, that long-beloved name. The thought came upon her with a flood of bewilder- ing joy. She leaned her forehead on the paper in one long, still pause; and then sprang up, pressing her clasped hands in turns to her heav- ing breast and throbbing temples, in a delirium of rapture that was almost pain. "It is true it is all true!" she cried "joy- has come at last. This day I shall be his wife this day, nay, this hour ; and he will be mine mine only mine forever!" As she stood, her once drooping form was sublimated into almost superhuman beauty the beauty which had dawned with the dawning love. It was the same face radiant with the same shining which had kindled into passionate hope the young girl who once gazed into the mirror at Summerwood. But ten times more ^io\ious was the loveliness born of the hope fulfilled. The hope fulfilled ! Could it be so, when, excited by this frenzied joy, there darted through her heart that warning pang ? She sank on the bed, struck with a cold numbness. Above the morning sounds without the bees humming among the roses, the swallows twittering it the eaves Katharine heard and felt the death- pulse, which warned her that her hours were numbered. To die, so young still, so full of life and love to sink from Lynedon's arms to the cold, dark grave to pass from this glad spring sunshine into darkness, and silence, and nothingness ! It was a horrible doom ! And it might come at any moment soon soon perhaps even be- fore the bridal ! "It shall not come!" shrieked the voice of Katharine's despair, though her palsied lips scarcely gave vent to the sound. " I will live to be his wife, if only for one week, one day, one hour! Love has conquered life it shall conquer death ! I will not die /" She held her breath ; she strove to press down the pulsations that stirred her very garments ; she moved her feeble ice-bound limbs and stood upright. "I must be calm, very calm. What is this poor, weak body to my strong soul? I will fight with death I will drive it from me. Love is my life, naught else : while that lasts I can not die !" But still the loud beating choked her very breath, as she moaned, " Paul, Paul, come ! Save me, clasp me; let your spirit pass into mine, and give me life life !" And while she yet called upon his name, Katharine heard from below the voice of her bridegroom. He came bounding over the little gate, and entered the rose-porch, wearing a bridegroom's most radiant mien. She saw him ; she heard him asking for her ; a scarce per- ceptible anxiety trembled through his cheerful tone. Could she cast over his happiness the cold horror which froze her own? could she tell him that his bride was doomed ? No ; she would smile, she would bring him joy, even to the last. " Tell him I am coming," she said, in a calm, cheerful voice, to the nurse who repeated Lynedon's anxious summons. And then Kath- arine bathed her temples, smoothed her hair, and went to meet her bridegroom. After the first somewhat agitated greeting was over, Lynedon regarded her, and a shadow darkened his bright face. " What is this, Katharine ?" and he touched her mourning, dress, which she had forgotten to remove. She made no answer, but mechanically fol- lowed the old nurse, who led her hastily a-vvay to take off the ill-omened garment. When &ne re-appeared, Paul looked at her admiringly, smoothed the folds of her white garments, and passed his hands lovingly over the shining braids of her beautiful hair no longer hidden under the widow's cap. "Now you look like a bride, though your dress is so simple. But we will have store of ornaments yet. Not a lady in England shal' ! outshine my Katharine. And when we have u rich, beautiful, happy home, perhaps some time her wish may come true, and she may be the , wife of a great statesman yet. But. darling^ THE OGILVIES. 137 fou shiver ! How cold these spring mornings are still!" He drew her from the window, and made her sit down. They went through the form of breakfast, in order to please the anxious mis- tress of the little cottage parlor. Lynedon still talked of his plans their plans, seeking few replies. Only once he thought his bride ap- peared grave, and asked her " if she were quite content with him quite happy ?" "Yes!" she "said, and turned toward him, her lips smiling. He saw their rich rosy curves ; he never looked at her eyes. When the marriage-hour approached they were summoned by the old nurse, the only wed- ding guest. " Ours is a strange, informal bridal," said Lynedon, with a disappointed air. " But we will make amends for it. When we take our beautiful house, we will have a merry coming home." Katharine sank on a chair. " Hush, Paul, do not talk to me not now." He might have murmured a little, but the tone of her voice filled him with inexplicable awe. He was rather agitated, too, as the bridal hour drew nigh. So he drew her arm through his, and they walked in silence through the haw- thorn-scented lane that led to the church. At the little wicket-gate which formed the lowly entrance to the village sanctuary, Kath- arine paused. The church-yard was a fair sight. The sunshine sparkled dazzlingly on the white stones, which had looked so ghostlike in the dawn ; and every green nameless hillock had its flower-epitaph written in daisy-stars. Many a cheerful sound pervaded the spot ; for it was bounded on one side by several cottages, whose inmates had made this quiet resting-place of the de^d a garden for the living. A narrow path- way only divided the flower-beds from the graves, and among them both the cottage chil- dren played all day long. There was no yew nor cypress to cast gloom on the place ; but leading to the church-door was an avenue of limes, in whose fragrant branches the bees kept up a pleasant murmur. And the merry rookery close by was never silent from dawn till eve. It was a place that made Death beautiful, as it should be. Katharine looked and a little of the freezing horror passed from her soul. " It would not be so fearful to sleep here," she whispered half to herself, " with sunshine and flowers, and chil- dren's voices above. Paul, when Idle," and she uttered the words fpith less terror, though solemnly, " when I die, do not let them take me to that gloomy vault at Summerwood ; and put no stone over me only grass. I think I could rest then." Lynedon turned toward her with a smile. " Katharine, dearest, you do not mean what you say you would not leave me, would you ?" "No, noj" cried Katharine, with wild vehe- mence 5 and, as she clung to her bridegroom's arm, and looked up into his eyes, the olden madness came over her, and she could have bartered life, hope, peace nay heaven itself, for Paul Lynedon's love. She stood in the sun- shine she felt the breeze his presence sur- rounded her his tenderness filled her whole soul with Hiss. The terrible phantom at her side grew dim. She forgot all things on earth, save that she was Paul Lynedon's bride. At that instant they passed out of the sun- shine into the heavy gloom that pervaded the church. It felt like entering a tomb. A few minutes' space, and the scene which the young passionate dreamer had once conjured up, became reality. Katharine knelt at the altar to give and receive the vow which made her Lynedon's bride. Through the silence of the desolate church was heard the low mumbling of the priest a feeble old man. He joined the hands of the bridegroom and the bride, and then there darted through Katharine's memory another scene. As she felt the touch of Paul Lynedon's hand, she almost expected to hear a long-silenced voice, uttering not the marriage benediction, but the awful service for the dead. They rose up man and wife. The old nurse came forward with her tearful congratulations ; and the clergyman, as he clutched his withered fingers over the golden fee, muttered something about "long life and happiness." There was no other blessing on the bride. But she needed none. The whole wide world was nothing to her now. She only held the hand which pressed her own with a tender though somewhat agitated clasp, and said to herself, " I am his he is mine forever." They walk- ed in silence from the church, down the lane, through the rose-porch, and into the cottage parlor. Then Katharine felt herself drawn closely, passionately, into his very heart ; and she heard the words, once so wildly prayed for, " My Katharine my wife /" In that embrace in that one long, never-end- ing kiss she could willingly have passed from life into eternity. After a while they both began to talk calmly. Paul made her sit by the open window, while he leaned over her, pulling the roses from outside the casement, and throwing them leaf by leaf into her lap. While he did so, she took courage to tell him of the letter to her mother. He mur- mured a little at the full confession, but when he read it he only blessed her the more for her tenderness toward himself. " May I grow worthy of such love, my Kath- arine !" he said, for the moment deeply touched. " But we must not be sad, dearest. Come, sign your name your new name. Are you content to bear it ?" continued he, with a smile. Her answer was another, radiant with intense love and perfect joy. Paul looked over her while she laid the paper on the rose-strewed window-sill, and wrote the words Katharine. Lynedon" She said them over to herself once or twice with a loving intonation and then turned her face on her bridegroom's arm, weeping. " Do not chide me, Paul : I am so happy so happy ! Now I begin to hope that the past may be forgiven us that we may have a future yet." "We may? We will," was Lynedon's an- swer. While he spoke, through the hush of that glad May-noon came a sound- dull, sol* emn ! Another, and yet another ! It was the funeral bell tolling from the near church-tower Katharine lifted up her face, white and ghast- ly. " Paul, do you hear that ?" and her voice was shrill with terror " It is our marriage-peal (38 THE OGILVIES wo have no other, we ought not to have. I knew it was too late !" "Nay, my own love," answered Paul, be- coming alarmed at her look. He drew her nearer to him, but she seemed neither to hear his voice nor to feel his clasp. The bell sounded again. " Hark ! hark !" Katharine cried. " Paul, do you remember the room where we knelt, you and I ; and he joined our hands, and said the words, ' Eartu to earth ashes to ashes ?' It will come true : I know it will, and it is right ft should." Lynedon took his bride in his arms, and en- deavored to calm her. He half succeeded, for she looked up in his face with a faint smile. " Thank you ! I know you love me, my own Paul, my" Suddenly her voice ceased. With a convulsive movement she put her hand to her heart, and her head sank on her husband's breast. That instant the awful summons came. With- out a word, or sigh, or moan, the spirit passed ! Katharine was dead. But she died on Paul Lynedon's breast, knowing herself his wife, be- loved even as she had loved. For her, such a death was happier than life ! CHAPTER LV. She was his own both, Love's. .... Bliss unspeakable Became at once their being and its food ; The world they did inhabit was themselves, And they were Love's, and all their world was good. O ye whose hearts in happy love repose, Your thankful blessings at its footstool lay, Since faith and peace can issue from its woes. WKSTLAND MARSTON. IT was the early twilight of a winter's day, clear and cold, though not frosty. The fire burned merrily in a cheerful room the draw- ing-room of one of those pretty homes, half-cot- tage, half-villa, which stud the environs of the metropolis. But no hateful London sights and sounds reached this dwelling, for it stood on a fresh, breezy hill-side ; and the wind that now came whistling round had swept over an open champaign, and had shaken the blossoms from acres of yellow furze. This region wore no re- semblance to the weary desert of London ; and though from one spot on the hill-top you could see the vast cloud-hung metropolis lying far beneath, it looked less like reality than a shadowy city seen in dreams. Turning your steps another way. you might sit down under a fir- grove, and gaze over a wide expanse of field, wood, and water, stretching for miles toward the west ; and in the summer, at evening time, with the sunset light fluttering on the boles of the fir-trees, and the wind harping musically in their topmost branches, you might fancy your- self in a very fairy-land. Within the house, which lay close beside, was fairy-land too a paradise of home. It was not made so by costly furniture, but its appendages bespoke what is better than wealth taste and refinement. These extended their influence even to trifles. The crimson curtain, looped up with graceful ornaments ; the mirror, set in its fanciful carved flowers ; the mantle-piece, with "ts delicate freight of Greek vases and one or two statuettes, showed how a beautiful mind can assemble all beautiful things around it. The walls were hung, not with pictures, for such worthily painted are within the reach of few, but with prints from masters ancient and modern. One could see at once That in this new home for it was a new home these treasures of Art would be loved as household comforts, reverenced as household gods. Books, too, there were not exhibited in glass cases under lock and key, but strewed here and there as if meant to be read ; and the open piano showed its ivory smile, like the cheerful welcoming face of a dear friend ; it seemed to know, instinctively, that it would be courted as such in this happy home. There was no sign of other inhabitant, until the door opened, and a light creeping step crossed the yet untrodden carpet. The shadow that crossed the mirror was that of a woman in mourning, but whose meek, placid face showed that the garb was now worn less for sorrow than for tender memory. She stirred the fire, drew the curtains, lighted the lamp, and looked about the room, performing many a little needless office which spoke of lov- ing expectation. Then she sat down, but rose up every five minutes to peer through the cur- tains out into the night. She started at hearing a ring at the bell ; but composed herself, saying half aloud, that " It could not be they, for there were no carriage-wheels." Still she was a lit- tle tremulous and agitated when the door open- ed, and the pretty-looking white-ribboned maid announced Mr. David Drysdale. " Too soon, I see ; but I thought I might ven- ture to take a peep at the little nest before the birds came in it, especially as you're here. Very glad to see you, Mrs. Penny thorne." She gave him her hand and asked him to sit down, but rather hesitatingly. She was always very much afraid of David Drysdale. But she need not, for the sharpness in his manner had long since been softened to her. " Thank you. I will stay a few minutes, just to look round, and hear about the young couple. When do they come home ?" "To-night," was the answer. "They have had a month's traveling, and Mrs. Wychnor wants to keep this New Year's Eve at home." "At home! It sounds 'a sweet word to them now, I dare say. I can understand it better since I've studdied the science of human na- ture," said Drysdale, musing. "I did not like Philip's marrying, at first : a great mind should do without all that I always did. But may be he was right. Perhaps the lark would not soar with so strong a wing, or sing so loud and high, if it had not a snug little nest on the ground." "Yes," replied Mrs. Pennythorne seeing that he looked at her, though she did not quite understand what he was talking about. Drysdale gave a grunt and stopped. After a minute's silence he uttered the rather suspicious remark, " I hope Master Philip's wife is a wom- an with brains?" " She is very clever, I believe, and she loves him so dearly ! There is not a sweeter creature living than Miss Eleanor Mrs. Wychnor that is now. Do you know," and Mrs. Pennythorno seemed becoming positively eloquent, " She would net even be married until she had nursed THE OGiLVIES. 139 poor Lady Ogilvie, through hr iong illness, never quitting her until she died." " Ah," said David, looking very grave, "that was an awftil story ! I always said there was something not right about Lynedon. He wasn't a true soul /" and the energetic hand came down upon the table with a sound that quite startled Mrs. Penny thorne. " I beg your pardon, ma'am," Drysdale went on, "but when I think of that poor Mrs. Ogilvie, it makes me hate him. Mrs. Lancaster would have told fine lies about them if Philip Wychnor had not stopped her mouth. But I never be- lieved any thing against that beautiful, earnest- hearted creature. "Nor I for her poor mother died speaking quite happily of the dear Katharine whom she was going to meet. And I do believe, Mr. Drysdale, that she knew all the story, though no one else did. I fancied, and Miss Eleanor too, that it was told in the letter which Mrs. Ogilvie wrote just before that strange wedding. We found it under the mother's pillow, and it was put in her coffin by her desire." " Poor things ! Well, it's better to give up the humanities altogether. One can make very tolerable children of one's books quiet babies, too ; always turn out well, and don't die before oneself. Perhaps, some of these days, our young friend here may envy such a ragged childless old philosopher as I." But just then, as Drysdale looked on the cheerful, smiling room, and thought of his own gloomy attic, the faintest shadow of a doubt crossed his mind. Mrs. Pennythorne sat gazing on the fire, the expression of her soft brown eyes deepened by a memory which his words had awakened a memory not sad now, but calm and holy. If the newly-married pair could have beheld her, and then regarded the quaint, rest- less-eyed, lonely old man, they would have clasped each other's hands, and entered on life without fear, knowing that "it was not good for man to be alone." David Drysdale staid a little while longer, and then departed. Mrs. Pennythorne's thought- ful mood might have ended in sadness, but that she found it necessary to bestir herself in erasing the marks of two muddy, clumsy boots from the pretty carpet. She had scarcely succeeded when the long-desired arrival was heard. Who shall describe the blessed coming home the greeting, all smiles and tears and broken words ; the happy, admiring glances around ; the fire-side corner, made ready for the bride; the bonnet-laden handmaid, rich in courtesies and curiosity; until the door closes upon the little group ? " Now, my Eleanor," said the young husband, "welcome home !" "Welcome home!" echoed Mrs. Penny- thorne, almost ready to weep. But very soon Philip took her hand, and Eleanor fell on her neck and kissed her almost like a daughter. Then they both thanked her tenderly, and said how pleasant it was to have her kind face awaiting them on their arrival. " You will stay with us and keep this New- Year's Eve. dear friend?" said Philip. It cer- tainly cost him something to give the invitation, but he did it warmly "and sincerely, feeling it was due. However, Mrs. Pennythorne did not accept it. She never left her husband in an evening now, she said; and she had not far to go only to her son's, where they were staying with Fred. " He rather likes to have us there, now Isabella is so much away ; and we like it too, because of the baby. It is a great comfort to have a grand- child ; and he is such a beauty!" said Mrs Pennythorne. "I sometimes think he has my Leigh's eyes, but I would not let them call him so." And though she spoke contentedly, and even smiled, it was easy to see that the mother's thoughts were with her lost darling still. Then she went away, and the husband and wife stood for the first time by their own hearth not quite calmly, perhaps, for Philip's voice trembled, and Eleanor's long lashes were cast down, glittering with a joyful tear. But the husband kissed it away, and then stretched him self out in the arm-chair, book in hand, to " act the lazy," as he said, while she made tea. He did not read much, apparently, for he held the volume upside down ; and when his wife stood beside him with the tea, he drew her bright face down to his with a fondness that threw both cup and saucer into imminent peril. Then they wandered together about the room and the house, admiring every thing, and talk- ing of a thousand happy plans. Eleanor sat down to the piano and began to sing, but her tones faltered more than once ; and Philip tried to read aloud, but it would not do both their hearts were full of happiness so tremulous and deep. At last Eleanor made her hus- band lean back in his arm-chair, while she came and sat at his feet, laying her head on his knee. Thus they rested, listening to the wailing of the stormy wind outside, which made more blessed the peace and stillness of their own dear home. They talked not wholly of joy, but of gone-by sorrow even of death. They spoke with a sol- emn tenderness of Hugh of Katharine and then of him who, if still living, was to them like as one numbered with the dead. Paul Lynedon had passed away and was seen no more. Wheth- er he wore out existence in anguished solitude, or sought oblivion in reckless pleasure perhaps crime, no one then knew, and no one ever did know. The sole record of him lay in a little dai- sy-covered grave, on whose stone was the name " Katharine Lynedon." " And, dearest," said Philip, "when I stood be- side it last, in that peaceful, smiling church-yard where you and I will go to see it one day I thought of the almost frenzied man who drove me from him, venting his sorrow in curses, not prayers. Perchance the poor heart beneath my feet might have lived to know a bitterer sorrow still. And I said to myself, ' So best ! so best !" ' Eleanor kissed the hand on which her cheek rested, and both fell into a thoughtful silence. Then they spoke no more of the past. Hour by hour the old year waned, and the young husband and wife still sat talking, in happy yet grave confidence, of their coming future of Philip's future, for hers was absorbed in his. "It shall be a life good and great, and full ol honor," said the wife, fondly ; " I know it will !' "If I can make it so, Heaven helping me," answered Philip. " But Eleanor, darling, it is a i40 THE OGILv'iES. hard life. too. We, who work at once with heart, soul, and brain, have many a temptation to strug- gle with, and many a sorrow to bear ; and they who love us must bear much likewise for us, and with us; sometimes, even, from us." "I fear not," whispered Eleanor; "I, too, will enter on my life saying, in my husbandd's words, ' Heaven helping me.' And Heaven will help us both ; and we will walk together, hand- in-hand, each doing our appointed work until our lives' end." " Be it even so, my true wife, the helpmeet God has given me !" was the low answer. " And, my own husband, when after all our sorrows we rest here, heart to heart, looking back on the past as on a troubled dream, wherein wo remember only the love that shone through all, let us think of those who still go on in darkness, loving, struggling, suffering. Let us pray that they may have strength to endure, waiting until the light come. Oh, Philip, God grant that all who love purely, truly, faithfully, may find at last, like us, a blessed home !" "Amen!" said Philip Wychnor. And with that prayer the first hour of the New Year dawned. THE END. HARPER'S LIBRARY OF SELECT NOVELS. Mailing Notice. HABPER & BBOTIIEBS mitt send their Books by Mail, postage free, to any part of the Unite* States, on receipt of the Price. S&~ HARPER'S CATALOGUE and new TRADE-LIST may be obtained gratuitously, on application to the Publishers personally, or by letter, enclosing Five Cents. PRICE 1. Pelham. By Bulwer $ 75 2. The Disowned. By Bulwer 75 3. Devereux. By Bulwer BO 4. Paul Clifford. By Bulwer 50 5. Eugene Aram. By Bulwer ! 6. The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer 50 7. The Czarina. By Mrs. Holland 50 8. Rienzi. By Bulwer 75 9. Self-Devotion. By Miss Campbell 50 10. The Nabob at Home 11. Ernest Maltravers. By Bulwer 50 12. Alice ; or, The Mysteries. By Bulwer 50 13. The Last of the Barons. By Bulwer 1 00 14. ForestDays. By James 50 15. 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By Miss Carlen 50 184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess D'Orsay 50 185. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 75 186. Lady Lee's Widowhood ... ,50 I'KICK 187. Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever $1 25 188. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 75 189. Quiet Heart 25 190. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 75 191. Ticonderoga. By James 50 192. Hard Times. By Dickens 50 193. The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey 50 194. The Mother's Recompense. By Grace Aguilar. 75 195. Avillion, &c. By Miss Mulock 125 196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Dupuy 53 198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jewsbury 50 199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. Marsh 50 200. The Old Dominion. By James 50 201. John Halifax. By the Author of " Olive," &c. 75 202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Marsh 50 203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 204. Leonora d'Orco. By James 50 205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulok 50 206. The Rose of Ashurst. By Mrs. Marsh 50 207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 208. Scenes of Clerical Life 75 209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell . . . . / 25 210. 211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever 50 212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock 50 213. Sword and Gown. By the Author of "Guy Livingstone" 25 214. Misrepresentation. By Anna H. Drury 1 00 215. The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 75 216. One of Them. By Lever 75 217. A Day's Ride. By Lever 50 218. Notice to Quit. By Wills [50 219. A Strange Story 1 00 220. The Struggles of Brown, Jones, and Robinson. By Trollope 50 221. Abel Drake's Wife. By John Saunders 75 "2.22, Olive Blake's Good Work. By John Cordy Jeaffreson 75 223. The Professor's T.ady 25 224. Mistress and Maul. By Miss Mulock.,, 50 225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon 75 226. Barrington. By Lever 75 227. Sylvia's Lovers. By Mrs. Gaskell 75 228. A First Friendship 50 229. A Dark Night's Work. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 230. Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings .' 25 231. St.Olave's 75 232. A Point of Honor 50 233. Live it Down. Fy Jeaffreson 1 00 234 Martin Pole. By Jsaunders 50 235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Ponsonby 50 236. Eleanor's Victory. By M. E. Braddon 75. 237. Rachel Ray. By Trollope 50 238. John Marchmont's Legacy. By M. E. Braddon 75 239. Annis Warleigh's Fortunes. By Holme Lee. .. 75 240. The Wife's Evidence. By Wills 50 241. Barbara's History. By Amelia B. Edwards. ... 75 242. Cousin Phillis 25 243. What will he do with It ? By Bulwer 1 50 244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. Edwards. . . 50 245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray 50 246. Maurice Dering. By the Author of t; Guy Liv- ' ingstone" 50 247. Margaret Denzil's History. Annotated by her Husband 75 248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus Sala 75 249. Mattie: a Stray 75 250} My Brother's Wife. By Amelia B. Edwards .. . 50 25?. Uncle Silas. By J. S. Le Fanti 75 252. Kate Kennedy 50 253. Mi?s Mackenzie. By Anthony Trollope 50 , SSi? On Guard. By Annie Thomas 50 \ 255. Thno Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50 ( 256. Denis Donne. By Annie Thomas 50 \ 257. Belial 50 j 258. Carry's Confession 75 THE WORKS OF SIR E. BULWER LYTTON, BAET., PUBLISHED EY HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE, NEW YCR& Sent by Mail, postage free, on receipt of price. A Strange Story. A Novel. Illustrated by American Artists. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents ; Library Edition, 12mo, Cloth. What will He do with It? A Novel. 8vo, Paper, $1 00; Cloth, $1 25. My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life. 8vo, Paper, $1 00; Library Edition, 12mo, Cloth, $3 50. The Caxtons. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 50 cents; Library Edition, 12mo, Cloth, $1 75. Lucretia; or, The Children of Night. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. The Last of the Barons. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents. Night and Morning. A Novel. 8vo, Pa- per, 50 cents. Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 60 cents. Pelham ; or, The Adventures of a Gentleman. A Novel. With a New Introduction and Por- trait of the Author. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. Devereux. A Tale. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. The Disowned. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. The Last Days of Pompeii. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. The Pilgrims of the Rhine. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 25 cents. Zanoni. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. Paul Clifford. A Novel. A New and En* larged Edition. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. Eugene Aram. A Tale. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. Ernest Maltravers. A Novel. Svo, Paper, 50 cents. Alice ; or, The Mysteries. A Novel. A Se- quel to "Ernest Maltravers." Svo, Paper, 50 cents. Leila ; or, The Siege of Granada. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, 75 cents. Calderoii the Courtier. A Novel. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents. Rienzi. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. Falkland. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 25 cents, Godolphin. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00.. The Student. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00. Athens, its Rise and Fall. With Views of the Literature, Philosophy, and Social Life of the Athenians. 2 vols. 12rno, Cloth, $1 25. England and the English. 2 vols. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25. The Lady of Lyons ; or, Love and Pride. A Play. 12mo, Cloth, 50 cents. Not so Bad as we Seem. A Play. 12mo, Cloth, 50 cents. Who is there uniting in one person the imagination, the passion, the humor, the energy, the knowledge of the heart, the artist-like eye, the originality, the fancy, and the learning of Ed- ward Lytton Bulwer? In a vivid wit in profundity and a Gothic inassiveness of thought in style in a calm certainty and definitiveness of purpose in industry and, above all, in the power of controlling and regulating, by volition, his illimitable faculties of mind, he is unequaled ha is unapproacheu. EDGAR A POE. To Bulwer, the author of "Pelham," "The Caxtons," and "My Novel," we assign the high* cst place among: modern writers of fiction. There is always power in the creations of his fancy ; he is always polished, witty, learned. Since the days of Scott were ended, there is, in our ap, prehension, no pinnacle so high as that ori which we hang our wreath to Bulwer: like the Ro- man emperor, a prince among his equals, the first of his craft. Blackwood's Magazine. W. M. THACKERAY'S WORKS. Thackeray's novels are an indispensable portion of every well-selected library. His vivid pic- tures of real life, his keen perception of the shams and pretense that lurk under an imposing ex- terior his biting sarcasm on fashionable follies, his anatomical dissection of character, with the terse and pointed vigor of his style, place him in the front rank of English fiction-writers, and assure a lasting fame to his productions. The personages who have been the subjects of his caustic pen appear like the men and women whom we meet in the daily walks of society, and, by their life-like naturalness, make an indelible impression on the imagination and memory. No popular novelist has succeeded so well in representing the darker shades of human nature with- out indulging in exaggeration or description of low depravity. His works are no less valuable as an introduction to a knowledge of the world than as an inexhaustible fund of entertainment Why have I alluded to this man ? I have alluded to him, reader, because I think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his contemporaries have yet recognized ; because I regard him as the first social regenerator of the day as the very master of that working corps who" would restore to rectitude the warped system of things ; because I think no commentator on his writings has yet found the comparison that suits him, the terms which rightly characterize his talent. They say he is like Fielding ; they talk of his wit, humor, comic powers. He resem- bles Fielding as an eagle does a vulture : Fielding could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humor attractive ; but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent sheet-lightning, playing under the edge of the summer cloud, does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. " CURRER BELL," Author of Jane Eyre, Shirley, Villette, and The Professor. VANITY PAIR. A Novel without a Hero. With II- lustrations. Library Ed., 3 v., $7 50 ; Svo, Cloth, $2 00. THE NEWOOMES. Memoirs of a Most Respectable Family. A Novel. Edited by ABJTHUB PKNPENNIS, Esq. Illustrated. Svo, Cloth, $3 50. PENDENNT3. The History of Pendennis. Hii For- tunes and his Misfortunes, his Friends and his Great- est Enemy. A Novel. With Illustrations. 2 vols. . 8vo, Cloth, $4 00. THE VIRGINIANS. A Novel With Illustrations by the Author. Svo, Cloth, $3 50. THE ADVENTURES OF PHILIP on his Way through the World ; showing who robbed Him, who helped Him, and who passed Him by. A Novel. With Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, $2 00, HENRY ESMOND. The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne. A NoveL Written by Himself. Svo, Paper, 75 cents. LOVEL THE WIDOWER. A Novel. With Illustra- tions. Svo, Paper, 25 cents. THE GREAT HOGGARTY DIAMOND. A NoveL Svo, Paper, 25 cents. ROUNDABOUT PAPERS. Cloth, $150. With Illustrations. 12mo, These papers are most of them pregnant with wit, hu- mor, sense, and observation. They are wise, thoughtful, truthful, original, delightful. They are brilliant, satiri- cal, ironical, genial, pathetic, solacious, fine, ripe, mellow, delectable. And there is a flavor, a relish, a tang in their tyle that is delicious, that is superior to the exquisite fla- vor of Congreve's style. Those who love pure, simple, strong, racy, idiomatic English, should read these *' Round- about Papers." TOM FOLIO, la the Boiton Transcript. THE ENGLISH HUMORISTS OF THE EIGHT- EENTH CENTURY. Together with the Author's Lecture on "Charity and Humor." 12mo, Cloth, $150. In none of the productions of Thackeray's pen is his ad- mirable genius exhibited to greater advantage than in these exquisite sketches of the English humorists. His fine and subtle criticisms of their literary characteristics are by no means the most valuable feature of the work. He aims rather at giving a faithful portraiture of their personal traits ; at presenting them in the familiarity of their homes and habitual haunts ; at showing us the men whom we have chiefly known as writers, and enabling the readers to trace their characters in their productions. Such a gallery of intellectual celebrities, with pictures so accurately drawn, so brilliantly colored, and so exqui- sitely shaded, is not to be found in any language. THE FOUR GEORGES. Sketches of Manners, Morals, Court and Town Life. With Illustrations. New Edi- tion. 12mo, Cloth, $150. We have perused them several times, and on each oc- casion with an increased admiration for their remarkable condensation and unrivaled brilliancy. The research of the author has been conscientious and complete. Mr. Thackeray has selected only the choicest grapes for his vintage, and has certainly presented us with a wine of rich and peculiar flavor. The literary excellence is con- summate, aided by an artistic use of the costume of the period and the limner's skill, and not disdaining the ju- dicious use of rhetoric. It is not difficult to perceive that Mr. Thackeray is very capable of taking broad and states- manlike views of the lives he is discussing. It is, per- haps, rather unfortunate for his great reputation that he has so exclusively embraced the province of satire. What- ever subject he discusses, he is expected to be sarcastic and funny. As his genius has matured and his fame in- creased, this great writer has taken more earnest views of human life. London Literary Gazette. THE ROSE AND THE RING; or, the History of Prince Giglio and Prince Bulbo. A Fireside Panto- mime for Great and Small Children. By Mr. A. M. Trot ARSU. Numerous Illustrations. Small 4to, Cloth, $100. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, Franklin Square, New York, Sent by mail, postage-free, on receipt of price. YC ! 02520