mm #'339 WOVEN OF MANY THREADS, "La vie complete! C'est le programme de la renaissance. II est bon que Tame essaie de toutes les attitudes. II est bon que 1'homme multiplie ses sentimens et ses pense'es ; les esprits et les coaurs en friche ne sont pas agre'ables a Dieu. II est bon que rhomme sache rire, aussi bien que pleurer ; si le travail et la douleur sont sacre's, les plaisirs purs n'ont rien qui offense la supreme sagesse.'' "Hast thou suffered?" "No." " Then this book is not for thee." BOSTON: JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co. 1871. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co., CAMBRIDGE. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. HELMSFORD HALL 1 n. HELMSFORD RECTORY 2 III. THE HEIR OF HELMSFORD 4 IV. HOW CARELESSLY WE GO TO MEET pUR FATE .... 5 V. OXLY A DEAD LEAF 7 VI. " Two LIVES so NEARLY JOINED IN ONE " 9 VII. THE STORY OF MONA 10 VIII. " O LIFE, so STREET AND YET so SAD ! " 14 IX. " AND TIME SWINGS WIDE HIS OUTWARD GATE" . . . .16 X. CHATEAU LE COMPTE 19 XL AM I TO BLAME? 22 XII. TOMBS AND PICTURES 25 XIII. IN SEARCH F HAPPINESS 29 XIV. SANTO SPIRITO 33 XV. SAN MICHELE 36 XVI. VILLA ALDOBRANDINI '40 XVII. CAPELLA DEL CORO 42 XVIII. IL MAESTRO . . . 46 XIX. MP.S. TREMAINE AND THE PRINCE CONTI 49 XX. A USELESS QUEST 53 XXI. AM I WORTHY TO BE YOUR FRIEND? 56 XXII. WAS IT POVERTY OR SHAME ? 59 XXIII. LET ME LIVE IN THE PRESENT 61 XXIV. THE RETREAT OF A SUFFERING HEART 63 XXV. THE CHARITY OF THE WORLD . 65 XXVI. I SEEM TO HAVE HEARD THAT VOICE BEFORE .... 69 XXVII. LADY DINSMORE AND THE MAESTRO 70 XXVIII. ONLY A LITTLE MARBLE CROSS 73 2051114 iv CONTENTS. XXIX. THE TIDE THAT BEARS us ON 77 XXX. ALL is OVER BETWEEN us FOREVER 81 XXXI. WHY? ... 84 XXXII. BY THE SEA 86 XXXIII. SANS Souci 89 XXXIV. THE KOMANCE OF LADY DINSMORE'S LIFE .... 93 XXXV. HOW IT ENDED 96 XXXVI. I HAVE LOVED YOU FROM THE FIRST 98 XXXVII. THE BATTLE OF CASTEL FIDARDO 101 XXXVIII. AT LAST PACE TO FACE - 103 XXXIX. UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE MOON ....... 106 XL. RICHARD VANDELEUR'S REPARATION . . .' . . . 108 XLI. THE CONVENT OF THE SACRE CCEUR ... . . . .113 XLII. NEITHER POVERTY NOR* SHAME 116 XLIII. UNDER THE LIGHT OF STARS 120 XLIV. SHE SMILED IN THE FACE OF DEATH 124 XLV. HELMSFORD HALL .... . .126 > WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. CHAPTER I HELMSFORD HALL. HELMSFORD HALL, and the family of Vandeleur, dated back to the reign of Henry VI. There seemed to be a strange fatality connected with the birth of sons, for never but one in each genera- tion lived to reach his majority. It was always Richard Vandeleur of Helmsford, the name of father and son since the earliest records of the family. In remote generations there had been many lovely daughters who had married and given children to the noble house, but not to the proud name. It was a tradition in the family, that, when the War of the Roses ended, and Henry VII. presented his trusty servant and friend, Richard Vandeleur, with the broad lands of Helmsford, he had also offered him a title, which the brave soldier sturdily refused, preferring to be simply Richard Vandeleur, gentleman ; and so it had been for all these generations. In all England there was not a more beautiful estate than Helmsford, or a more imposing country mansion than Helmsford Hall, a substantial gray stone construc- tion, of mixed architecture. Around its three sides ran two rows of open porticos, the lower Doric, the upper Ionic. A double flight of massive stone steps led to the grand entrance, on either side of which were couchant lions, holding between their paws tablets bearing the family coat of arms. From its high position it commanded a magnificent view of distant mountains, hills, and valleys, and, far beyond, the broad, open sea. In the middle landscape were miles of rich meadow land, dotted here and there with the white cottages of the happy farmers of England. Directly under the eye the broad park and terraced gardens of Helmsford, ornamented with fountains and statues, in the midst of which swept two broad carriage drives from the terraces to the massive gates, bordered on each side with stately oaks and elms. Whichever way the eye turned, one saw the verdant representatives 1 of every clime, pines from the dreary north, magnolia and ilex from the sunny south, and palms from the far-off tropics. On this day, April 6, 18, there was the confusion of excited expectation in the ap- pearance of all that appertained to the mansion. For eight years it had been closed, but to-day windows and doors are thrown open, and servants pass in and out with that air of importance that plainly foretells a coming event, for to-night Richard Vnnde- leur, the heir and last of his name, returns to Helmsford, after an absence of eight years. Within the mansion are unmistaka- ble signs of great joy : the furniture, pic- tures, and mirrors have laid aside their linen shrouds, and reveal themselves in all their original freshness to the admiring eyes of the new servants. The stately butler is everywhere, giving orders in a kindly, pat- ronizing tone, detecting with equal alac- rity a speck of dust in the grand saloon or an unsavory odor in the kitchen. As the day draws to a close, the house- keeper, in stiff silk, rustles from room to room to see that'all is in perfect order. Slu stops for a moment in the grand corridor, where hang the family portraits, and as s-lu regards the bewitching face of the last Mrs, Vandeleur, she sighs and says audibly : " This reminds me of thirty-four years ago, when we were expecting Mr. Vande- leur and his bride. My poor father was butler then, and I was a slip of a girl wild with delight because there was to be some stir in the house. How lovely the looked that night as ?he stepped out of the car- riage and came tripping up to the door, with a sweet smile and gentle word to all ! Ah, how soon her bright eyes closed on her young life, leaving the little wailing baby, and my poor master heart-broken ! Though he lived ten years after her death, I never saw him smile in all that time. The day she went out of the door in her coffin, sad- ness seemed to enter, for ever since all has been dull and gloomy. "If Mr. Vandeleur were only bringing a young wife home with him, things might bo different, but as it is I fear he will be off again to foreign countries. He 's not like his father, the quiet of the 2 WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. old hall and the dull country life docs n't suit him. He has only spent a few weeks here since he left college, and then he was always discontented and restless. The Vandeleurs have always been so steady and domestic, married young, and lived the lives of quiet country gentlemen ; but Mr. llichard is not like them, he prefers his roving life and foreign hotels to his ewn elegant home, and he has already passed his thirtieth year, and yet seems no nearer taking a wife than he did at twenty. If he dies without marrying, what will become of the estate ? There are no Vandeleurs to inherit it. It must go to some distant fe- male branch, and the name will become extinct." Just then the sound of carriage wheels was heard on the gravel below, and the old lady finished her soliloquy as she has- tened down the stairs, that she might be the first to welcome her master. CHAPTER II. HELJISFORD RECTORY. THE slanting rays of the setting sun stole into the west windows of Helms- ford rectory, and rested for a moment like golden arrows on the white hair of Mr. Wilbreham, as he lay back in his arm-chair, comfortably enjoying his after-dinner nap. The room was furnished with comfort, taste, and elegance. Pictures of no little merit adorned the walls, and graceful stat- uettes the niches. In the windows were stands filled with rare flowers, that flooded the room with a faint delicious odor. A soft carpet in which the pervading color was a warm mossy green, furniture of dark ruby velvet, and curtains of the same rich hue, made the whole as perfect in tone and detail as English drawing-rooms usually are. A bright fire burned in an open steel grate, for the evening was chilly, and a beautiful spaniel lay in the warmth on a tiger-skin at his master's feet. Mr. Wilbreham moved slightly in his sleep as the door was softly opened and a young girl entered. At first, in the half- light, it was difficult to see what her face was like ; but as she walked with a languid grace toward the window, and stood with her eyes fixed sadly and dreamily on the distant clouds tinged with the last faint radiance of the setting sun, there was something in her tout ensemble that almost startled one with its strange beauty and gentle grace. She was dressed in rich black silk that trailed behind her in heavy folds ; a plain, tight-fitting corsage reveal- ed the perfect proportions of the elegant shoulders, bust, and round, slender waist ; a collar of delicate lace fastened with a jet pin encircled the throat, and cuffs of the same finished the sleeves, tight fitting at the Lands, which were perfect in shape, white, and almost childish in their dimpled beauty. How can I portray her face ? It had that rare and subtile charm that always defies description, a broad, low forehead, from which was turned back like a coronet heavy waves of* hair that, at the first glance, ap- peared black, but in the light was a bronze brown ; a complexion as lair and spotless as a rose-leaf, with scarcely a tinge of color in the cheeks ; eyes of bluish gray, long in shape, with slightly drooping lids fringed with lashes so dark they gave a shadowy softness to that part of her face ; the brows were the color of her lashes, slightly arched, with that mournful droop at the temples one notices in the lovely face of the French Empress ; her nose was straight, and in the high spirited curves of the nostrils was just a little expression of scorn ; but perhaps in her mouth lay the beauty, the rare charm and fascination of her face. Her upper lip, short and rather thin, but exqui- sitely chiselled in arch curves, was almost lost in iaint crimson lines in the dimpled corners ; the under lip was full and passion- ate, yet there was something inexpressibly sad and sweet in the whole, something of that grieved, childish expression that one notices in the sad and touching face of the Beatrice Cenci. Constance Wilbreham, until her four- teenth year, had lived a life of childish, unalloyed happiness. To a sister six years older, and a brother who was twelve when she was born, she had been the idol and pet. Her mother had died at her birth, and her father, after the loss of the wife whom he adored, had lived the life of a stern-ascetic. He seldom went abroad, and only as his clerical duties demanded, and it was rarely that visitors came to the rectory ; so in this brother and sister her whole young life was centred ; every innocent joy and pleasure was connected with them. Within three years God took them both. First, her sister ; she came home one day from a visit to a poor woman who was ill with what afterward proved to be a malig- nant fever. She complained of feeling cold, and went to her room with burning spots on her cheeks and racking pains in her head. For two weeks she tossed and ' moaned in wild delirium, never for a mo- ment recognizing the little sister who hung over her in speechless agony. Then the lamp waned, flickered, and went out, and she Avas laid by her mother under the east window of Ilelmsford church, with her feet, that had so soon finished the journey of life, toward the rising sun, and her fair young WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. face upturned to God, there to rest until that morning when the sun shall shine upon her, to set no more forever. For months Constance was inconsolable, scarcely eating or sleeping, wandering from her sister's grave to her chamber, weeping with her head upon the pillow where she had so often rested, or pressing her tear- stained face almost frantically to the green sod that covered the last resting-place of the beloved dead. If it had not been for her brother, who, fearing grief would kill the child, left his studies at Oxford and devoted himself to her, she surely must have succumbed to her deep sorrow. As he tried every means to divert her, she gradually became more cheerful, but never again the light-hearted, happy child she had been before. Two years after, that idolized brother, in all the strength and glory of youth, was brought from Oxford to his childhood's home, hopelessly insane. Over-study in preparing to graduate had affected a ner- vous excitable temperament, and an already overtasked brain, so as to extinguish for- ever the light of reason. For six months he lingered in that terrible darkness, some- times gentle and tractable as a child, or again raving in the strongest and wildest delirium. Constance scarcely left him. Even at the worst she could soothe and calm him with her gentle voice and tender caresses. Sometimes the poor soul, wandering in gloom, would seem to draw near the light for a moment, and she would believe he recognized her ; then she would pray in an agony of hope and desire that God would restore his reason, if only long enough for them to receive his farewell. But that mo- ment never came. And as she looked upon him rigid in death she would moan, " O, if he had only known me before he died ! " It was then that all the hei-oic in the young girl's nature was called into action, as she was obliged to turn from the death- bed of her brother to the sick-bed of her . father, who found no strength in his creeds, neither in his ascetic life, to support him under this last blow. Constance, in the great fear that he too might be taken from her, and she be left alone in the world, for- got her own sorrow to minister to him, and lure him back to life. Not until she found her father once more in his accustomed health did she pause to look on the utter desolation of her heart. There was in her nature great power ami strength of endur- ance, yet deep abysses of sadness, and keen susceptibilities of suffering. If no slonns had passed over her, the ibrce of her char- acter would never have been tested, and she might have lived in ignorance of her own heroic fortitude. Nevertheless, these bitter experiences left a shadow on her life that time and after happiness never entirely effaced. To Mr. Wilbrcham the loss of this son, his pride and hope for the future, was un- doubtedly the deepest sorrow of his life; but it was a sorrow that softened him. He came out of his affliction more charitable, more gentle, and more companionable. This was indeed a blessing to Constance; the tendrils of her young life, which had been so rudely torn from the supporting tree, must needs find another trunk around which to twine. So she became to her father, now no longer stern and silent, but almost childlike in his dependent clinging affection, his constant companion, his only earthly consolation, his last and sole hope in life. Poor child! there were hours when in the sadness of her heart she thought of her shat- tered idols, and wept in bitterness because they could not be again restored to her : but still she took up bravely the burden of life, and never acknowledged, even to herself, how weary she sometimes grew in bearing it. It was, then, no wonder, that on this April evening, as she stood gazing into the deepening twilight, her lovely face bore the marks of subdued sorrow and sad, sweet patience. Nearly three years had passed since her brother's death, and neither outwardly nor inwardly had she laid aside her mourning, and there were times when she longed, with an inexpressible longing, once more to hear his voice, and to see his happy face, as she remembered him before sorrow had dark- ened their home ; but she tried resolutely to stifle the yearning cries of her heart, and to look steadily forward to the time when she should see him again radiant with im- mortality. " How papa sleeps ! " she said softly, as she turned from the darkened window and paced slowly back and forth in the gather- ing shadows. " Ah me, how sad I am to- night! I wonder what new trouble is com- ing upon me. I feel a foreboding I cannot shake off. Or am I getting nervous ? or perhaps I study too much. I know Dr. Bur- nett would say I had taken German meta- physics in too large doses. Well, it may be ; but I like study ; it is my greatest re- lief. This stagnant life would kill me in a lit lit; while if I did not work. And I believe it is better to wear out than to rust out." Walking languidly to the piano, she sat down, and, touching a few minor chords, she sang in a low voice, Una J-\>f//in, from // 'I'rurntore. And as she repeated the words " II tuo destine tanto somiglia al mio " the tears started to her eyes, and, covering her lace with her hands, she wept silently. WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. Suddenly, on the evening air, from the tower of Helmsfbrd church, sounded the clamor of bells. Mr. Wilbreham, startled from his sleep, inquired of Constance what it meant. " Why, papa," she said, " have you for- gotten ? They ring to welcome Mr. Van- deleur home." CHAPTER III. THE HEIR OF HELMSFORD. fT>HE morning sun shone broadly over J_ Helmsford as Richard Vandeleur walked on the highest terrace, lazily smoking his after-breakfast cigar, and looking with an expression half of dissatisfaction, half of pride, on the broad acres before him. There was much in his appearance that denoted his character. The broad, full forehead, and square, firm chin, showed intellect and power; the extreme sweetness of the blue eyes, half mirthful and half sad, gene- rosity and kindliness; the straight aristo- cratic nose, pride, and contempt of the world's opinion ; the mouth, which was rather sensual, portrayed all the weakness and love of pleasure that made him a Syba- rite in his tastes and habits ; his form was perfect, from his elegant shoulders to his slender foot; his face was cleanly shaven, save a heavy brown mustache, slightly curved upward at the ends ; his hair was several shades lighter, and, cut close, lay in short thick waves, except around the fore- head, which a premature baldness had left a liltle bare ; the lower part of his face be- ing browned by exposure to foreign suns re- deemed his complexion from a whiteness almost effeminate. There was a sort of lazy grace in his man- ner, a well-bred ease that marked him at once as a man of fashion as well as a per- son of wealth and leisure. His character was one of those strange anomalous com- binationsvof good and evil, - a sensuous na- ture, alive to beauty in every form ; selfish and indolent, yet brave and generous ; self- ish if anything interfered with his self-grat- ification ; generous, perhaps, because it cost him no self-sacrifice ; brave, because it was a natural inheritance of the Vandeleurs. A keen, brilliant wit, that saw through the sub- terfuges of life, and held up hypocrisy and deceit to severe and withering scorn. What he affected to despise in men was the cow- ardice that made them fear to meet the con- sequences of their own acts, and a cringing subserviency to the opinion of the world. In his life he had accomplished but little, and denied himself but little. He had seized the cups of pleasure as they were presented to him, drained them to the dregs, and flung them away, weary and disgusted, because he found no sweetness in them. He had graduated from Cambridge with some honor, because, with good natural abilities and a brilliant and decisive in- tellect, he had found study but little labor. With much wealth at his command, an unstained name, a noble person, and agree- able, winning manners, not a restraint on his life, master of himself and his for- tune, he was welcome everywhere. Pride, and perhaps the latent good in him, had pro- vented him from becoming a thorough profli- gate, yet he had sullied the whiteness of his soul in more than one scene of debauchery, and he had known the worst of life in every land, as well as the best; and perhaps in his secret sonl was the memory of deeds that would not bear the closest scrutiny of his fellow-men, and even appeared ugly to his own regard. Yet before the world Richard Vandeleur, at thirty, bore an irreproachable name. There was much in the man, that, if cir- cumstances had called it forth, might have made him great and good. If he had been poor, ambition would have spurred him on to strenuous efforts for a name and position ; but what need was there of exertion, when birth and wealth had placed him on a high- er pedestal than poor toiling genius ever at- tains? One other thing might have been the salvation of his life, it in his earlier manhood he had found the true, strong love of a noble woman, his equal in birth and education, who would have encouraged him to loftier aspirations and higher deeds, who would have elevated him by her affection, and taught him the purity and holiness of love ; but such a saving angel never crossed his path, or, if so, he had never understood her. He had been inveigled by aspiring mammas into tame flirtations with insipid girls, and had been the principal actor in not a few intrigues with married women, and yet he had come out of the engagement unwounded, but with a deep disgust for the general frailty of the sex ; for, like the rest of generous mankind, he expected to find in the weaker vessel wine of strength enough for both, and because he failed to do so, he condemned all for the faults of a few, and had decided many times, if it were not for perpetuating the name, never to marry. As he sauntered back and forth on the terrace this bright morning, one would nev- er have imagined, from his passive face and listless manner, how important and varied were the thoughts that passed through his mind. First came the far-off memories of his childish days ; his father, always sad, but kind ; his grief and loneliness when death took him away; his studies at the WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. rectory, under Mr. Wilbreham, who had been a second father to him; his college days to Hehnsfbrd, the spirits of the Vandelcurs would haunt me through all eternity with their never-ceasing reproaches." He was interrupted in his cogitations by of grand opportunities, from which he had gathered so few results ; then his eight years of wandering in foreign lands; his | the appearance of his steward, with a pack- first enthusiastic delight with the gayety of| age of papers and a portentous-looking book Paris ; his deep draughts of pleasure, fbl- under his arm. lowed by satiety and disgust ; his quieter wanderings through Germany and Swit/er- Good morning, Mr. Vandeleur," he said, taking off his hat and making a low bow. land; the glory of the castled cities ; the " I 'in on my way to the Hall to see if you legends of the lovely Rhine ; the wild moun- tains, cloud-capped; the dashing cataracts, and the murmuring forests, that filled his soul with deep and pure delight. Then iiis love for Italy, the classic mourner who folds her weeds about her and sits apart from the world. There his heart had thrilled with his first deep experience, as fragrant as the wild brier, as rich and sweet as the blood will have the goodness to coimnence looking over the books as scon as possible, they have been running so long." " O, never mind the books ! " interrupted Mr. Yandeleur. " They have done with- out me for eight years, and I think a few days won't make much difference. I dare say they are all right. You have kept every- thing in good order, and, as far as I can of the purple grape. There his first noble | judge, the whole estate is in a flourishing and enthusiastic desire for fame and glory, touching every pulse of his life, and throb- bing in every vein, brought to birth in his young heart the ardent longing to do something for the freedom of Italy. Then was tha turning-point in his existence. If a noble soul had been near him to have, given impetus to his aspirations, he might have done something for his fellow-men ; but as it was, a demon in the form of a friend urged him to a fatal mistake, that left its blight on his whole life. Italy was no longer to him the pure and classic mourner for whom he longed to give his heart's blood, bit in the secrecy of his soul almost accursed from being the scene of his first crime. Then he fled to Spain, with its reckless debauchery, dark, lovely eyes, bull-fights, and duels ; to Greece, with its ruins and lost hopes ; and then to the sol- emn East, with the shadows of ages hanging over it. From the shores of the Nile to the sepulchre of Christ he wandered, weary and restless, seeking for forgetfulness and happiness, but finding neither. O, how many hours there were, in the lull of pas- sion, in the midst of brilliant vice, when his spirit longed to go back again to drink of the pure, cool fountain of youth ! and yet, lured o:a by some fatal spell, for eight years he had wandered and sinned; and now, in reviewing it all, there was noth- ing from which he could glean one thrill of joy or satisfaction. He only felt now that it was all finished, th:it the best part of his life was gone, and Time had found him deeply his debtor. He must decide upon some future course. He must give up his old Bohemian life, so careless and free, marry some good, patient English girl, and settle down into a respectable country gen- tleman. " Bah ! " he thought, with a feel- ing of disgust, " what a life! I shall rust out in no time. But I can't live always, and if I should die without leaving an heir condition. I have no time now. I must go at once and pay my respects to Mr. Wilbreham. Does he still continue in good health V " " In tolerably good health, I believe, sir, though a little feeble. He 's never been quite the same since his son's death." The steward waited for a reply ; but as Mr. Vandeleur seemed lost in thought he turned away with a sigh of disappointment, for he dearly liked a gossip, and he felt he had missed a chance. As he walked slow- ly away, Mr. Vandeleur called after him, ' I will look over the books some other day, when I feel more up to it." Then he added mentally, as he went towards the Hall, " What a bore business is ! I hate the sight of an account-book. Yes, 1 must go directly to the rectory. My little pet, Constance, must be a young lady now; I wonder what she is like. She was a love- ly child. I dare say she is engaged to some country curate before this ; if not. she is no longer my little pet, but a dignified young lady, visiting charity schools, making flan- nel frocks for the poor, and tea for her father, with what a life ! ' equal patience. Poor girl, CHAPTER IV. HOW CARELESSLY WE GO TO MEET OUIl niCIIARD VANDELEUR sat in the JL\ rectory parlor, awaiting the appear- ance of Mr. Wilbreham. How familiar everything looks!" he thought, as he glanced around the 1 well-or- dered room, so elegant, so refined, and so tranquil. ''The same subduing influence steals over me that always did when I came here, a wild boy, to con my lessons. Can it be that so many years have passed, and I only am changed ? No, outwardly all is the 6 WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. same, but where is the gentlewoman who was all the mother I ever knew, the golden- haired little girl, and the bright, active boy ? Gone, all gone, one after another; and yet her chair stands there in the very place it used to, and there is the stool the child so often knelt upon to lay her lovely head in her mother's lap. And Mr. Wilbreham's chair in the other corner, that we so often hung over, our eager, boyish heads pressed together above some book he held in his hand, which amused while it instructed us." His revery was interrupted by the slight rustling of a dress, and through the open garden door there entered a girl so lovely that his astonishment almost startled him out of his usual well-bred ease. As he arose and bowed, she came calmly forward, with graceful self-possession, and held out her hand kindly, as to an old friend. " Who can this lovely creature be ? " he thought, as he looked at her with a troubled doubt in his face. " I see you do not recognize me, Mr. Van- deleur," she said. " Can it be you have forgotten your troublesome little playmate ?" " Constance ! " he exclaimed. " Miss Wilbreham ! Is it possible ? But do not think me forgetful when I cannot discern in the charming young lady before me one trace of the little pet I left eight years ago. I had not thought, I avow, that while time had been buffeting and damaging me, he had been more generous to you, and had un- folded my little rosebud into the fairest flower that ever bloomed." " Pray do not flatter me, Mr. Vandeleur ; you knew me too long ago to resort now to the usages of fashionable society. Eight years must have changed us all in some re- spects, or else time were useless. Do be seated. Papa will be with us directly. I expect him every moment from the vestry." Her manner was so calm, so quiet, so self- possessed, and yet, withal, so frank and sweet, that she completely disarmed the man of fashion. He knew at once all his well- turned compliments and polite phrases would be wasted on the girl before him, in whose face he saw an intelligence and sin- cerity too exalted for the banter of ordinary society. " Can it be possible," he thought, "that this elegant young lady is the little child I held on my knee, and romped and played with, only a few years ago? Every- thing about her is perfect, from the waves of her glossy hair to the folds of her white dress ; from the belt that encircles her waist to the toe of her slipper ; so refined, so pure, so simple." While regarding her a new and strange emotion swept over him, a feeling half of awe and half of self-abasement ; a holy rever- ence, such as one might experience in the presence of an angel. And for the first time in his life he felt that he could kneel to the purity of a woman, the woman who was henceforth to change his whole des- tiny. This new sensation troubled and entan- gled his ever-available wit, so that he found ! it difficult to frame the commonplaces he ' always gave utterance to with such facil- ity. He was glad when Mr. Wilbreham en- tered, and the conversation changed the current of his thoughts. The voice of the poor old rector was broken with emotion, and he could scarcely restrain his tears when he saw before him, in the full flush of health and manhood, one who had been the constant companion of his dead son, who had shared with him in all his boyish sports and more mature studies. Their young heads had bent over the same books, their fresh voices had min- gled in the same free games. For three years that beloved voice had been silent. The brilliant intellect, the strong, vigor- ous frame, had perished at a stroke, while this man, who had wandered far and wide, and encountered danger in every form, stood before him, a strong contrast to his own blighted hopes. Richard Vandeleur felt a choking sen- sation in his throat, and a dimness of vision, as he witnessed the grief of his old tutor, and the heroic efforts of Constance to con- trol herself and soothe the agitation of her father. After a few moments Mr. Wilbreham re- gained his calmness, and spoke witli resig- nation of his deep affliction. Then the con- versation turned on indifferent subjects, and Mr. Vandeleur, more at his ease, gave charm- ing accounts of his travels, of foreign life and manners, of the people he had met, the books he had read, the works of art he had seen, of his wanderings in the East; of his half-Arab life in Arabia, his half-gypsy life in Spain ; and of his more refined asso- ciations with the most brilliant cities in Eu- rope ; to all of which Constance listened with pleased interest, and he was not a little surprised at the knowledge her questions and remarks evinced. He saw at once 'she had read and studied much, and that her mind was as perfect as her person. When the conversation turned upon mu- sic, the girl became enthusiastic ; her cheeks flushed, and her eyes beamed with interest, as they discussed their favorite composers. He asked her to sing. With modest readi- ness she seated herself at the piano, and sang with exquisite taste a difficult Italian composition. "You understand Italian," lie said when she had finished. " You pronounce it with the purity of a native." " O no ! " she replied, smiling ; " but I WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. love the divine language of Dante, and I try to mutilate it as little as possible." " Constance has had a French governess who lived many years in Italy, and sin- speaks both French and It-dian with flu- ency," observed Mr. Wilbreham. After a little more desultory conversa- tion, and an invitation to dinner, which he accepted for the next day, Mr. Van- deleur took his leave, and walked slowly towards the Hall in deep thought; and his thoughts put into words would read like this : "Is it possible that I, who have seen and known the most celebrated beauties of Eu- rope, and have not been troubled with any twinges of the tender passion, should, after one hour's interview, be in love with this girl whom I have carried in my arms a baby ? No, no ; it is too ridiculous, and yet I cannot drive her from my thoughts. How lovely she is ! A Carlo Dolce type of beau- ty. By Jove ! she is as superior to any wo- man I have ever met, as moonlight is to a glow-worm. There is one thing certain, if I can win her, she shall be my wile before the next harvest moon." And then a hateful memory wrenched his heart, and his face grew white for a moment. " But what have I to give worthy of that pure young life V Nothing ! nothing but dregs ! My God ! how she would shrink from me if she could read the blurred page of my past ! I won- der if it is ever possible to wipe out all and begin anew ? Yes, with her I think I might renew something of the purity of my youth. O, if I were only twenty ! Why, I was an angel then, compared to what I am now. It is strange, but I believe for the first time I see myself in my true colors, and they are anything but lovely. But I will never de- ceive her. No, I will tell her all, and then, if she will marry me, she shall be my wife before the next harvest moon." And with this resolution his step grew lighter, and he walked almost briskly up the broad avenue to the Hall, thinking, as he went, of the improvements he should make when Constance became its mistress. It was very strange how short a time had reconciled him to living; at Helmsford. CHAPTER V. ONLY A DEAD LEAF. NEARLY five months had passed since Richard Vandeleur's return to Helms- ford. It was the evening of an excessively hot day in August, and he and Constance were slowly walking back and forth on the lawn before the open door, engaged in earnest conversation. Mr. Wilbreham was sleeping as usual at that hour and Ma'Iame Landel, governess, friend, and companion to Constance, was sitting near the open win- dow, a book in her hand, but her eyes fixed meditatively on tlie distant clouds. She was a quiet little woman, neatly dressed in black, with bands of soft gray hair simply arranged under a plain cap. The childless widow of a French ollicer, sin; had known much sorrow, and had passed the most of her life in journeying from one country to another, never knowing a home, and scarcely remaining long enough in one place to form those friendly ties which are so dear, and withal so necessary to a wo- man's happiness; yet her placid brow and patient face bore scarcely a sign of her sad experience. For nearly eight years she had found a congenial home in Mr. Wilbreham's family, and an intelligent and affectionate pupil in Constance. The day had been sultry and oppressive, but, now, refreshed by the dew and the soft breeze, the languid flowers raised their bent heads, and gave forth their delicious odor with unsparing bounty. The west was all aglow with the gorgeous evening drapery of the sun ; and the full yellow moon rose se- renely above the row of tall poplars that di- vided the rectory garden from the church- yard, and which Constance always likened unto grim sentinels standing between the living and the dead. It was one of those hours when all nature, and even the unquiet heart of man, is lulled into a dreamy pence ; and Constance, leaning on the arm of Mr. Vandeleur, and listening to his words of tender devotion, felt that, at last, her rest- less heart had found repose in his love. Her sweet mouth had lost its curves of sor- row, the limpid eyes their dreamy abstract- ed expression ; and now her whole face beamed with an almost childish gladness as she listened to his plans for their fu- ture. His tenderness and devotion filled the void in her life that had been left deso- late by the death of those she loved, and al- ready her fond young heart clung to him with that blind trust, that unsuspecting and unquestioning confidence, which is a wo- man's rarest charm. Her pure and stainless nature knew nothing of the world, and she supposed the past life of the man she lined to have been as true and irreproachable as the present seemed, under her ennobling influence. They were to