THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
/
IRENE;
OB,
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
ARTIST'S DAUGHTER.
AND OTHER TALES.
BOSTON :
PUBLISHED BY
DAMRELL AND MOORE,
16 DEVONSHIRE STREET.
1853.
?s
THE
VICE PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER
MISS G. G. FAIRFIELD.
LETTER FROM EUGENE SUE TO MISS FAIRFIELD.
MADEMOISELLE:
Je serai tres heureuse et tres flatte d'accepter la dedi6ase d'une Livre
que vous me faites 1'honneur, de me proposer : il sera, croye/ le bien,
une des plus precieuses recompenses des mes travaux qui on eu le bon-
heur de meriter votre interet, et celui des vos honorables compatriots des
Etats Unis. Vraiment, Mademoiselle,
PARIS, 27 Juillet, 1852. EUGENE SUE.
TRANSLATED.
Miss : I shall be happy and very much flattered to accept the dedi-
cation of the book which you have done me the honor to propose to me :
it will be, believe me, one of the most precious recompenses of my
labors, which has the happiness to merit your interest, and that of your
honorable compatriots of the United States. Truly, Miss,
PARIS, 27th July, 1852. EUGENE SUE.
THE
VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.
THE BALL.
THE new administration bad just came into power. All
was anticipation, disappointment, life, hope, excitement, and
confusion at Washington. Office-seekers came and went.
The Cabinet held agitated councils. The Senate argued.
The House quarreled. Women flirted, and gossipped, and
gave parties. With one of the latter will I open this tale,
in the year of our Lord 18 , at the house of the lovely
Chilian Ambassadress, Madame C. This distinguished and
accomplished lady, on the night of which I speak, gave a
brilliant entertainment, to which came the chiefs of the new
Cabinet, numerous Members and Senators, and several
distinguished foreign noblemen.
The ^cene was bright and illusive. The gay dresses ;
floating plumes, and expressive faces, mingled amid the
court uniforms, the simple American civilian dress, and the
foreign faces, contrasted strangely with the pale American
physiognomy and less easy grace of our countrymen.
WhDe Madame and her husband dispensed bons and
smiles with urbanity and grace, and their interesting daugh-
ter, Mile Eliza, performed a fine overture on the piano
6 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
forte, a group of young men, standing by the fire-place,
appeared to be criticising the guests. One or two had eye-
glases conspicuously placed before their eyes. It was a
party of four. The two foremost were evidently Americans,
but the two who stood behind, partly in shadow, from their
peculiar air and stately manner, one might suppose were Eng-
lishmen. One of these two first was tall and dark, a man of
imperious presence. His large, flashing eyes, aquiline nose,
his delicate, firm lips, and decided air betokened one born to
command. With a look half interested, half contemptuous,
he contemplated the scene before him. His companion, to
whom, from time to time, he addressed some remark, was
much smaller. His features were less regular, less strongly
marked than were the other's ; his appearance was lighter,
less commanding; there was more of the ball-room beau
about him. These two and the two before them were
engaged hi earnest conversation.
" The}* tell me," said the handsome stranger, speaking to
his companion at his side, " that the Vice-President is here
to-night ; can you point him out to me ?"
" The Vice-President," responded the person addressed ;
"let me see, I thought I saw him a moment ago speaking to
our lady hostess. Oh, there he is, and his daughter, too,
reclining on his arm, and her superb cousin following her.
They are coming this way; shall I introduce you? Miss
Ariadne Kedarisa splendid beauty, and the Vice-President's
daughter is Very intellectual."
As he spoke, a tall, robust man, with a determined, saga-
cious expression of countenance, upon whose aim leaned a
toll, intellectual looking woman, a blonde in appearance, with
blue eyes and fair hair, attired in white dress, came walking
past them. A little behind, not exactly on the other arm,
(for both herVwere folded before her,) but near enough to
THE BALL. 7
$
show she was in their company, came gliding a being so
beautiful that all, in gazing on her, might almost imagine
they looked on a creature of another sphere.
She was tall perhaps five feet four or five perfectly
rounded were her lovely neck and arms, and white as marble.
Her hair was golden brown, her eyes celestial blue, and their
gaze seemed beaming with love and tenderness.
Her fine chiseled mouth, its lips thin and of a red color,
the transparent whiteness of her complexion, gave to this
beautiful women an air of magnificence. She wore a simple
robe of white silk, made with severe simplicity, and a lace
scarf partly concealed her neck and arms. Her beautiful
hair fell in long curls to her bosom, and on her head was
placed a wreath of scarlet cypress. The bright hues of the
flowers gave an air of brightness to the otherwise external
simplicity of her costume. As she passed, a murmur of
admiration followed her.
As this party was passing the group of gentlemen, the
Vice-President was surrounded immediately by numberless
persons, all paying compliments, shaking hands, etc., and, in
consequence of the crowd, he was obliged to pause, and the
ladies also, so that the strangers had a full view of them.
The two young ladies stood quietly by the Vice-President's
side, occasionally bowing to an acquaintance, or smiling at
some remark made to them. The Vice-President's daughter
seemed somewhat shy, and appeared to reply with an effort
to the courtesy extended to her ; but the beautiful cousin
with her bold, gay face, answered, with bursts of laughter,
the sallies of her admirers.
"Flewellin," said the handsome stranger, still looking at
the two girls, " pray present me to them, if you are suffi-
ciently well acquainted to do so ;" and the young gentleman
stepped forward by the other, whom he presented as Lord
8 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
Falmouth. The gentlemen bowed profoundly to both of
them, and as his friend had already secured a position by
the beauty, he began conversing with the Vice-President's
' daughter. They had scarcely exchanged the usual compli-
ments of the evening before the music ceased, and there was
a general movement to secure places for the quadrille. Ari-
adne Kedar had already moved away on the arm of Mr.
Flewellin, and although Lord Falmouth in reality would
rather have danced with her, yet, seeing she was engaged, he
offered his arm to the shy girl at his side, and they moved
forward to find a vis-a-vis. . Chance placed them opposite
the young daughter of the Ministress, who, dressed in rose-
colored satin and a white wreath, was gaily talking to her
father. The two ladies bowed to each other as they took
their places.
"You have not been long in our country, I believe,"
timidly observed Alexanderina, venturing to glance up at
the face of her partner.
"No; not long; a month,! believe, since I arrived here."
" I recollect hearing papa say that he had seen you,"
began the Vice-President's daughter; but they were inter-
rupted by the music, and all commenced dancing.
Alexanderina did not dance very well ; her form was not
so sylph-like, nor her movements so graceful as her cousin's ;
yet there was an unconscious charm about her very exterior,
and it was that of the most unaffected sincerity and sim-
plicity. Her open, candid face, with its large blue eyes, and
raven hair plainly smoothed over her pale cheeks, and her
tall, light form, which swayed gently like a young willow tree.
Although not beautiful, yet he found her so mild, so intelli-
gent, so interesting, that before the dance was finished, Lord
.Falmouth found himself insensibly becoming delighted with
the Vice-President's daughter.
THE BALL. 9
As he led her to a seat, her cousin also came up at
the moment, and Alexanderina introduced them to each
other.
" We have a gay party this evening, sir," said Ariadne
Kedar, fixing her bold, beautiful eyes full on his face as she
spoke, and he felt almost fascinated by their liquid fire. " I
saw you dancing in the next set to us just now with Alexan-
derina. I love dancing very much, but really it is so warm
I must leave you and go toward the windows yonder, where I
think it is cooler. Good evening, sir;" and bowing and
smiling sweetly the fair beauty took Col. Flewellin's arm, and
they disappeared in the crowd.
Lord Falinouth followed her with his eye still she was gone;
then seating himself by Miss Kedar's side, he was still con-
versing with her, when her father came forward and pre-
sented a gentleman who claimed her hand for the next dance.
Lord Falmouth rose and resigned his place to the new comer,
after the Vice-President had assured and re-assured him that
he was delighted with the honor of his acquaintance, and
hoped to have the pleasure of seeing him at his house. , To
this cordial invitation the young gentleman gracefully re-
sponded, and then bidding the young lady good evening,
turned away.
He had not proceeded many steps ere he was stopped by
his friend Flewellin, and the other two of whom I have
spoken, who were attached to the legation.
" Well, my friend, how do you like the two Miss Kedars ?"
was the united exclammation.
a I am pleased with both," was the quiet reply. " One is
very beautiful, and the other is interesting."
" There are several other beauties in the room this even-
ing ; don't you want to be introduced ? They have all heard
of YOU : they are all longing to have an introduction to you."
10 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
"I beg you to excuse me this evening; I really have
exhausted my energy and all my agreeableness. I intend
going home now. Let me see the hour;" and he drew from
his pocket a tiny gold watch, and glancing at it, said, "Eleven
o'clock ; I am tired of this. Come, Flewellin, do n't you
want to go back with me to the hotel? I am going."
" Yes ; if you say so ;" and they left the gay room, after
bidding Madame C good evening.
Soon after the Vice-President and his two fair charges also
departed. Both had danced ; both had been admired the
one mentally the other physically : yet as they drove home
in their landeau, both silent from the effort at display which a
ball always calls forth. Both thought of one {done ; and
that one was Lord Falmouth.
CHAPTER II.
THE COUSINS.
ALEXANDERINA and Ariadne Kedar were cousins. Their
fathers were brothers. They had begun life poor and friend-
less ; but by prudence, perseverance and economy, joined to
worldly tact and finesse, had risen to their present position :
the one as Vice-President, the other as Senator. Both were
strong-minded, sagacious men; both had married, in early
life, plain, sensible women, by whom they had several child-
ren. Alexanderina and Ariadne were the eldest of these
children. Ariadne was a year older than her cousin. They
were as different in their characters as in then- names. Ari-
adne was marvelously beautiful, subtle, adroit, talented, and
vain. Alexanderina scarcely showed what she was at first ;
yet she possessed the finest principles, the most elevated
soul, the kindest heart, and most enduring affections. Her
mother, who had been in infirm health for many years, adored
the gentle nurse who attended her with such loving care.
Her father, proud of his daughter's abilities and finished edu-
cation, took delight in showing her off to his friends on all
occasions ; and, as if he could foresee the future, predicted
years of happiness and wealth in store for her.
The mother of Ariadne loved the gay world as well as her
daughter did, but never having been educated in that class
of society, she neither appeared at ease herself, nor made
others feel so, and gradually becoming tired of that in which
she could not excel, she generally stayed athome, and allowed
her beautiful daughter to go alone, with her father or uncle,
11
12 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
to all the gay parties, and dinners, and balls of the capital of
our country.
In winter, both families dwelt in town, in handsome houses
at the West End, but in the beautiful summer time each of
the Messrs.Kedar had a Gothic Villa, a few miles from Wash-
ington, on the beautiful shores of the Potomac. That of the
Vice-President was called Paradise, while to Wm. Kedar's
they gave the name of Doux Repos. To these elegant country
seats Alexanderina and Ariadne came, and passed one or two
months ; and it was to her mother's home, at the Doux Re-
pos, that Ariadne immediately went after the party at the
Chilian Ambassadress'. Her mother was suddenly taken
sick, and sent post-haste for her favorite child to come to her.
Madame C 's had been the last entertainment of a bril-
liant season, through which Ariadne had shone the brightest
star of all ; and fagged with dissipation, tired even of the ad-
miration her appearance everywhere excited, Ariadne gladly
obeyed the summons, and left the city to join her mother on
the shores of those sweet waters.
It was the last of May ; the season had been unusually
brilliant, both in balls and political affairs. Plots and counter
plots, intrigues and counter intrigues had flourished all winter.
Some had been successful, some not ; and now, the last month
of Spring found the town and its inhabitants completely tired
from all these causes.
The Vice-President's wife had been anticipating her speedy
removal to the Villa, but a heavy cold, caught from indiscreet
exposure, had again confined her in her room, and Alexan-
derina, remained in town to watch her beloved mother, and
take care of the younger children.
A week after the ball, Alexanderina sat in her mother's
room, by her bedside, teaching one of her young sisters her
spelling lesson. Alexanderina did not resemble her mother,
THE COUSINS. 13
who was of darker complexion, and eyes, and hair than her
daughter ; yet there was something in the air and manner
that was so alike in both, for both were elegant and patrician.
Mrs. Kedar was muffled up in shawls, and sat in bed,
reading. It was near twilight. Few towns in our country
are favored with lovelier sunsets than Washington, where you
often see the sky a mass of blue and gold, tinged with crimson,
and its hues are reflected upon those beautiful waters, till
they seem animated with the light of another world. Beau-
tiful, beautiful Washington ! On this evening the sky was so,
and presently Mrs. Kedar forgot her book and fell into a
reverie, as she looked from the window on the scene. The
lisping tones of the child were the only sounds of the hour,
and the ticking of the clock, as it moved to and fro.
" Allie, my dear," suddenly said the mother, " that gentle-
man, Lord Falmouth, to whom you was introduced, has not
yet called on us, and it is a week since the party. I should
like to see him. I wish he would come. How I wish some
such man might fall in love with you, my love, and marry
you. Do you know I have such dreams, and particularly
often since I have been in such bad health. I greatly fear I
shall not be with you long; and to leave you alone with
your father ! He is fond of you, though he could not pay
you that attention I have always done, so that I feel doubly
anxious about you."
Alexandcrina, who, at the beginning of her mother's speech,
had blushed slightly at the mention of Lord Falmouth, calmly
replied :
" Dear mamma, I fear those are day-dreams, castles in the
air, that will prove only empty mist. English noblemen sel-
dom marry out of their own rank, and even if they did so,
no one of them would be likely to admire me much, for you
know I am not very handsome, and Englishmen, I think, are
14 THE VICE-PRESIDENTS DAUGHTER.
almost entirely influenced by their eyes. Don't think about
the future; let it take care of itself: and above all things,
don't despond about your health. You will be better soon, 1
trust."
I hope so, darling, for your sake, not for my own, for I am
no longer young. It matters not for me, but I wish to retain
life to advise and love my good child ; but whether I live or
die, I want to see you well married ; for single life, for u
woman, is odious in my opinion. It is so solitary, so un-
loving."
" I have always had a presentiment that I should never
marry, and I think so now," said Alexanderina, thoughtfully.
" Why ! how strange, my daughter. What put that idea
into your head ?" asked the mother in alarm.
" I don't know, I can't tell you or myself; but so it is. I
think that Ariadne will marry, and that very soon ; but as
for myself, I doubt."
"You think Ariadne, who is not half as talented, half as
good nor amiable as you are, will be married first. Nonsense^
that depends upon yourself, my love. You are too timid, I
fear. You don't show what you are, except upon an intimate
acquaintance. You should be bolder, more showy."
" No, no, dear mamma," answered the daughter, with a
smile at her mother's enthusiasm ; let me be as I am. I shall
do well enough ; those who love me will love me as I am ;
and as for others, they certainly have a right to their fancies
as well as myself. I spoke only of my presentiment ; it may
be all nonsense, though. Don't let it disturb you ; let us
speak of something else. I was about to say that I wonder I
had not heard from Ariadne since she left. She has had
time enough for a letter to reach me."
I really don't care much myself if I never see your cousin
again, unless she could be entirely altered ; for I know Ary
THE COUSINS. 16
adne to posses^notwithstanding all her beauty, a wicked,
perfidious heart.''
u Oh, mamma, don't speak so," interposed her daughter.
" Yes, I will say it, Allie, for I know it to be true. Not-
withstanding your uniform kindness to your cousin, if she
could, at any moment, in any way interfere with you, even at
the sacrifice of your peace of mind, she would not hesitate to
do it. She neither loves you, nor even her own parents, nor
anything half as well as herself"
" Oh, mamma, that is saying too much; you are too severe,
indeed. Remember that she has been much spoiled by her
mother ; and that mother is a silly woman, not a wise woman,
like you, who knows how to instruct her children. Ariadne
is vain, too. She loves admiration ; and the gay world, per-
haps, has spoiled her somewhat ; but indeed you do go too
far when you speak so."
" No, I do not I am a woman of observation. I know the
world," was the mother's reply.
And Alexanderina had finished giving the child her lesson,
and was smoothing her hair at her mother's mirror, when her
servant entered, with a visiting card on a salver. The young
lady glanced at it, and turned, with a joyous expression, to
her mother.
LordFalmouth had called.
" I will be down immediately, tell the gentleman,'* said
she. " Mamma, cannot you also come ? I should like to
introduce you to him. He is a splendid gentleman/'
u No, my love, I cannot rise to-night. I am too ill. Give
my compliments to him. I wish he had called to-morrow ;
I might have been well enough to go down stairs. But no
matter ; some other time will do as well.
She closed her eyes, and laid her head on the pillow, but
immediately unclosed them, and with the desire that every
2
lo THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER
mother feels, that her daughter should look well, said to
Alexanderina :
"My dear, I want you to look well; what dress have you
our '
"My blue silk, mamma, with white satin bow."
*' Have you anything on your head ? I cannot see, it is
so dark."
(( Only my Lama head-dress."
" Oh, that will do ; make -haste, my dear, the gentleman
is waiting." And Alexanderina disappeared.
CHAPTER III.
LORD FALMOUTH.
THE lamps were already lit in the two large coving-rooms,
and the lady found her visitor seated near one of them, look-
ing at a book, when she entered. Perhaps she was more
becomingly dressed, or it may be that anticipation sent a
brighter flush to her cheeks than usually dwelt there, for
the gentleman looked at her admiringly, as she came towards
him. He had been haunted since the night of the party, by
the recollection of Ariadne. Her beautiful face and form
were constantly before him. In paying this visit, he prob-
ably expected to see her also ; but as the Vice-President's
daughter saluted him timidly, yet gracefully, he thought her
almost as lovely as her cousin.
At first she felt rather timid and seemed afraid to talk,
(which, of course, did not display her accomplishments to
advantage,) but the practiced man of the world was used to
courts and councils; to women of the gay world, and to
those of unassuming, quiet merit, he was equally accustomed.
With fine tact, he drew the gentle girl into conversation, and
gradually forgetting her diffidence, Alexanderina became
animated and fluent, and to the surprise of herself and Lord
Falmouth, an hour passed away and found them still con-
versing. When he rose to take leave, he spoke, for the
first tune since his entrance, of Ariadne.
" My cousin has gone to spend the summer at her father's
country-seat, fifty miles from here," said Miss Kedar.
17
jg THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
"Ah! do you spend your summers in the country?
Washington seems like the country to me," said his Lord-
ship.
"Yes; we always have done so till now. But my mother
hfis been too sick to be removed from home, consequently
I stay with her."
And after the usual expressions of leave-taking, Lord
Falmouth went away.
Alexanderina, her cheeks bright crimson, her eyes dan-
cing with delight, returned to her mother's room, where she
found her father, and detailed all the conversation of her
charming visitor. Both parents listened to her with fixed
attention, for the worldly Vice-President, perhaps, imagined
that his sweet daughter might win the Peer to closer ties than
mere friendship; and a family alliance with so distinguished
a man, would much advance his foreign relations. He made
no remark, however, by which these thoughts might be
divined, and soon began talking to his wife about the cabi-
net difficulties, and their affairs, on which he often consulted
her, she being a woman of superior judgment.
If Mrs. Kedar was pleased at Lord Falmouth having
called, she was still more so, when, some days after the visit,
he came, with two beautiful horses, and took Alexanderina
out riding on the Georgetown road. On this occasion Miss
Kedar wore a fawn-colored habit, in Hussar style, with a hat
and feathers. She rode well, and looked well; her fond
mother watched her as she rode away.
This was a delightful ride to Alexanderina, and, when years
after, fancy recalled the scene, memory always revived the
feelings she experienced then. Lord Falmouth was more
and more pleased the better he became acquainted with her.
He discovered so many fine qualities, such exquisite sensi-
bility, so different from the mawkish sentimentality of most
LORD FALMOTJTH. 19
young girls, that insensibly, his heart becoming interested
through his mind, he began to ask himself if he were not in
love with her.
And so a month glided away, while he became a regular
visitor twice or three times a week, and he rode, drove, and
visifed often with Mrs. and Miss Kedar. Of all the foreign-
ers in town, he was most sought and most admired; all the
ladies desired to secure him to escort their daughters; all
the fathers were anxious to make his acquaintance, that
they might say they had the honor of knowing so distin-
guished a man.
Lord Falmouth was too perfect a gentleman to think he
honored people by extending to them those civilities we all
owe to each other. He was well-bred and uniformly polite
because it was his nature because he was born with those
fine feelings which make a gentleman. The eager avidity
with which they ran after him rather amused than otherwise ;
and the heartless admiration with which the young girls lis-
tened to the simplest things he said, as if his mouth distilled
pearls and diamonds, frequently made him laugh. Alexan-
derina Kedar showed none of this folly; in fact, she was too
proud. She thought too much of her own qualities to
cringe obsequiously to any one; and it was this independ-
ence in herself and cousin that first interested him toward
them. He admired her fine qualities, and that admiration
gradually deepened into love. He could not but perceive the
impression he had made upon her fancy when they first met;
it was too evident to be concealed, and time only deepened
that love at first-sight only made it a part of her very-
life.
Ariadne had been quite a month at Doux Repos, but she
often wrote her cousin letters describing the scenery in the
country, her mother's health, and how they lived at the
20 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
villa. To these letters Alexanderina always replied, and
she mentioned everything except that she should first have
told that is, her attachment to Lord Falmouth. But as his
image became fixed in her heart, she felt reluctant to either
speak of him herself, or hear others do so, and this strange
feeling of shame she experienced even when alone. She
often blushed at her own thoughts, and then asked herself
why she did so, since to love is the law of our being, and, so
far from suggesting feelings of shame, it should chasten the
mind.
When July arrived, Mrs. Kedar, whose health had revived
a little, declared her intention of going to Paradise during
the hot months of summer ; and, although Alexanderina feared
that her mother's health was too delicate to bear the journey,
yet Mrs. Kedar insisted so strongly on going that the
daughter and husband acquiesced, and the whole household
immediately began packing up to go. Alexanderina feared
they should but seldom see Lord Falmouth there, as it was
fifty miles away, (ten miles from Ariadne's father's,) and,
being situated in a lovely part of the country, near the river
shore, would not be a very inviting spot for his travel; but
all these objections were obviated, when, on being asked to
spend a month with them, he consented willingly, and the
whole party started together. The Vice-President remained
in town alone, his official duties preventing him from leaving
the city an hour.
They journeyed to the villa in their -own carriage. The
scenery along the way was charming; and Alexanderina
knew many old Indian legends with which she beguiled the
hours away. Mrs. Kedar said not much, but, enveloped in
her cashmere, listened to her daughter and Lord Falmouth,
and, charmed with her companion, I dare say the young kdy
regretted not her mamma's silence.
LORD FALMOUTH. 21
On the evening of the day they started, they reached their
sylvan home. The. villa stood on the edge of the shore; a
long avenue of beech trees lead to it, and the grounds were
beautifully kid out, and planted with flowers, and, in the
midst, played a fountain, and threw high in air its fantastic
showers.
The house was antique-looking, and of Gothic style, and
as they drove up to it, two or three negro servants came out
to the carriage to assist. When the ladies were established
in the elegant drawing-rooms, (which opened with French
windows on the lawn,) and Mrs. Kedar was somewhat rested,
fche v proposed a walk through the grounds. Lord Falmouth
assented, offered her his arm, and Miss Kedar following with
her mother's shawl, they set out.
It was ngain a twilight scene; but I have a partiality for
those times of day at Washington, having seen so many
beautiful sunsets there. It was twilight, and there was no
sound to break the charmed silence, save the Kweet, low
music of the fountain. ,
All the loud noise, the bustle, the excitement of a town,
was absent from these woods. Nature alone presided there
Nature in her repose. The underwood had been cleared
from the tall trees; the grass had been trimmed to such a
hight; yet, though the place bore marks of order and con-
stant care, it was very beautiful. The scenery around the
villa, on the opposite side of the blue, translucent Potomac,
was dim from distance, but still distinct enough to show how
fine it is, and that in their immediate vicinity would have
been a subject for any artist's pencil.
" I have not been here for a year," said Mrs. Kedar, as
they walked along; "my health has been so feeble, I hardly
expected to reach here this summer. But I am very glad
I came; the change will do me good, I doubt not. I see
22 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
the gardener has cut down the brushwood, and attended care-
fully to Allie's favorite flowers."
"Her favorite flowers?" said Lord Falmouth, with an
appearance of interest. "Which are her favorite flowers?"
" Those beds of Heliotrope," said the lady, pointing to a
large bed of those plants near them.
" So that is your favorite flower ! henceforth it shall bfc
mine also," whispered he to the blushing girl.
And now, a turn in the walk brought them full in view of
the Potomac. Its blue, tranquil waters were gliding calmly
by; not a boat, large or small, to be seen; all was silence;
all was gilded with the light of that sunset. In gazing on
such a scene, any lofty mind feels too full of it to talk; and
so felt Lord Falmouth and Alexanderina as they looked:
though occasionally Mrs. Kedar exclaimed, " Oh, is it not
beautiful; did you ever see anything like it?"
But they spoke not.
"Life in America would be charming if all were like
you," said he to Mrs. Kedar, as they walked back again to
the house.
"Like me? sure you jest; a poor invalid, I am poor
company: hundreds of others could better entertain you."
"Or like your fair daughter, if you like it better," he
said. " The one who shall always dwell in her company will
be happy; too happy, perhaps, for this changing earth.
Mrs. Kedar glanced sharply at her guest, as if to ascer-
tain what weight to give his words; and then said, slowly,
"and why not you always?"
"I!" answered he, as if replying to her look rather than
to her words. "Oh, that is my wish; that would constitute
my happiness. But she ?" added he, as if in doubt.
"She is already won!" said the mother; and they entered
the house.
CHAPTER IV.
THE PARTY FROM TOWN.
Two days after their arrival, a gay party came from
Washington to visit them. The Chilian Minister's family,
Mr. Flewellin, the two attachees mentioned at the beginning
of the story, Mr. Ribera and Mr. Attos, and several other
gentlemen and ladies came to spend a week or two with
them.
All was life and gayety. Dancing, singing, pistol-shooting,
promenading, flirting, gossiping, and goodness only knows
what was not done there. The gossip concentrated on the
fact, that Lord Falmouth was supposed to be paying
attention to Miss Kedar; and many, who had never
been able to discover the thousand merits of the unassuming
girl, now overwhelmed her with civilities, under the supposi-
tion that she would soon be a Peeress. But she, the gentle
heroine of this tale, who had become fascinated with him for
himself alone, who scarcely knew, or thought, or cared what
a Peeress was, how did she encounter all this ? The same
as ever. Calm, placid, she attended to her mother, amused
the guests, or listened to Lord Falmouth with the innocent
simplicity of a school-girl.
Miss Kedar had never set her heart, as the common say-
ing is, on the gay world. She liked it well enough, but she
could not plunge into pleasure with that wild recklessness
that many women do, periling affection, comfort, happiness,
everything, to gratify self. Such was not her nature; she
loved home and home comforts, and home affections; these
23
24 THE VICE-PRESIDENT S DAUGHTER.
constituted her heaven. To marry a man she loved, and be
happy with him alone, was all she longed for; and now that
she had a dim prospect of happiness opening out before her.
the thought was almost too beautiful for earth.
The Chilian Ambassadress and Mrs. Kedar sat together,
some days after the former's arrival at the villa. The two
ladies were alone, the other guests having gone on a sailing
excursion.
" Alexanderina's birth-day happens next week," said Mrs.
Kedar. "Cannot we get up something new? I care no
longer for these things ; but the young people do. There is
your pretty daughter, my daughter, and the two Miss Jones'
and several gentlemen. I should think we might get up a
Fancy Dress Party in the woods, and have a baud of music
to play for them. What bio you think about it ?"
" Well, I should think it would be the very thing, by way
of a change; although I hardly know how to dress C-
on the occasion. When do you propose having it?"
" Well, to-day is Tuesday : a week from to-day is Allie's
birth-day; it must be on that evening, if at all. I will pro-
pose it to our party this evening. I shall have to send
to town for a band of music, and get ready the dresses. I
will iell them myself what I want them to wear."
" It will be a delightful recreation for them, I dare say,"
observed the Ministress; and then she added, "By the way,
where is your niece, Miss Ariadne Kedar; this affair would
delight her, she is so fond of gayety."
" Her mother is sick at her place, ten miles from here,
and she is detained with her," answered Mrs. Kedar quickly,
as if she wished to change the conversation. And soon
after, Madame C , seeing he* own fair daughter on the
lawn below, descended to her.
That evening, when all the merry party were talking and
THE PARTY FROM TOWN. 25
laughing at the tea-table, Mrs. Kedar suddenly announced
her plan, and it was met with bursts -of applause by all her
auditors.
"Oh, capital; let us have it immediately. Pray do, Mrs.
K,edar. What costume shall we wear? Where shall we
dance ? were the reiterated questions and demands from all.
<e Patience, my turbulent friends, I must tell you what
dresses you are to wear; for I intend deciding that myself,"
said the hostess, smiling at their excitement.
"Oh, no!" that is not fair; let us choose our own.
Then each can dress according to his or her fancy."
" And each probably look ridiculous, because you each
may choose costumes entirely different from each other.
Listen to me, wild people. It is to celebrate my daughter's
birth-day, which takes place next Tuesday, this clay week,
that 1 4vish to get up something fine for you all. Now, I
will write you your orders as to what you arc to wear, and
send notes to your rooms to-morrow. I must have some
hours to decide about the costumes. Do you agree?"
The guests seemed to hesitate; but at last they all said,
"Yes," and apparently much pleased with the proposed fete,
they all adjourned to the drawing-room.
" I wonder what costume she will allot us ?" said one of
the Miss Jones' to the other, as they sat together, near the
window.
"I really cannot imagine," replied the sister. "But I
suppose the most prominent ones will be given to the Min-
istress's family, and- her own daughter. For my part, I
cannot think what attraction that girl can have for this Eng-
lishman, who, they say, is paying her attention. I don't see
anything attractive about her; and I can't imagine how
anybody else can. But, then, she is the Vice-President's
daughter."
26 THE VICE-PRESIDENTS DAUGHTEB.
"Oh, yes; I suppose it's her position that makes her.
But never mind; I don't care who either of them many, so
long as they will give us a nice party. But hush, here's
Mr. Ribera; I do like that man so engaging."
I wish he would engage either one of you for life, ejac-
ulated their mother, as the subject of remark approached.
And leaving these silly tones to their equally silly gossip,
let us walk out in the moonlight, upon the verdant lawn.
Two forms are walking there. , They are those of Lord Fal-
mouth and Alexanderina. If I were writing a love story,
or rather a tale of sickly sentimentality, which they gener-
ally are if I were doing this, I might, I suppose, burst into
extacies about the pale moonlight; and tell how their feelings
were like those we attribute to the angels. But I am doing
nothing of the sort; nor do I believe in such nonsense.
This is a story of facts and feelings; and reed feelings are
always quiet, and hushed within themselves. Lord Falmouth
and the gentle girl at his side were quiet; neither felt quite
at their ease. Her heart was full of him; and he was think-
ing of her.
When they had walked up and down on the green grass
several times, he said, seeing that she held her head down:
" Allie ! wilLyou let me call you so ? why do you hold
your head in that position?"
"I was thinking of you," she innocently answered, as she
raised it.
"Of me! Oh, think of me always, my own Allie; and
give me the right to think of you."
"I fear I am not worthy of you," was her blushing
response.
" But if I think so?"
" Oh, then, let it be as you 'say/'
He caught her in his arms, but swift as light, she escaped
THE PARTY FROM TOWN. 27
away, and flew to the solitude of her own chamber; and he
returned to her mother in the drawing-room.
For hours she sat silent, thinking on what had just
passed between her and her idol the first ruler her heart
had ever known. That he had asked her, in sincerity and
truth, to be his wife, was too great happiness, she thought,
for mortal woman. She almost thought it must be a dream.
He, so great, so distinguished, wished to marry her, a simple
American girl; and she should go to England, that great
world in itselfj and live with him in some one of his castles,
or travel on the continent, if she liked ! Oh, how charming!
What happiness, what cxstasy ! And full of these bright
day-dreams, her waiting-maid found her in bed, and undressed
her as she lay asleep.
The next day, all was confusion and bustle; about the
costumes for the fete, which Mrs. Kedar sent the notes
about to their respective rooms. Every one kept up a
mystery about what they were going to wear, and a private
messenger was dispatched to town to have the dresses got
ready for the night of the ball. And the young girls talked
and discussed the affair; and the young men flirted with
them, and practiced target-shooting, and whiled away the
time as all the butterflies of society do.
Madame C and Mrs. Kedar attended to the arrange-
ments of the garden, and made extensive preparations for a
fine supper to be held among the trees and flowers; on
the former of which they intended hanging lamps, to
light the guests at their repast; and the servants were also to
be attired in fairy costume, and all was to be like a fairy scene.
The amiable Ministress entered into the spirit of the
project with the glee of a child; and these two charming
women, by dint of energy, soon completed everything to
their satisfaction.
28 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
Lord Falmouth and Alexander!, after they came to a
mutual understanding about their feelings, separated them-
selves from the rest of the gay company, and walked and
rode alone. Occasionally Mademoiselle C accompanied
them on horseback; but she also had her admirer to claim
her exclusive attention, and so they were generally left alone.
The two Miss Jones' were enchanted with the attentions
of the attachees, and their mother already saw them married
in prospective. While Mrs. Hawkwood, (who, although
married, still loved admiration,) seized on Mr. Flewellin, and
was soon deep in the mazes of a flirtation with him; and
her niece, Miss Dashwood, claimed the spare time of Mon-
sieur c 9 w ith whom she endeavored to discuss Euro-
pean politics.
One day Mr. Flewellin, who was a great admirer of Ari-
adne Kedar's beauty, asked why she was not at the villa,
and where she was ? and Mrs. Hawkwood replying to the
question, that she was detained at her mother's, they insen-
sibly began talking of Ariadne and her cousin.
They were all in the bowling gallery at the time*, and
these two, pausing at a distant corner of the room, while
the others continued their amusement, began conversing :
" I have known Alexanderina and Ariadne for some years,"
said Mrs. Hawkwood; "they are very different in character
and appearance. I must say I love Alexanderina best.
She is so truthful, so sincere and good; although not to
compare with her cousin in beauty. I wonder that neither
are married yet. Ariadne is nineteen, her cousin eighteen."
a I think the Vice-President's daughter soon will be, if
appearances deceive us not." said Mr. Flewellin.
"Ah, yes! so all say, too," answered his companion,
" Lord Falmouth seems devoted to her. Do you know him
well?"
THE PARTY FROM TOWN. 29
" Know him ! " exclaimed Mr. Flewellin, as if amazed at
the question. "I have known him for many years; and a
nobler, kinder being than George Falmouth, one would have
difficulty in finding."
"She will have a splendid position as Lady Falmouth;
and it seems certain to happen from what her mother and
Madame C say. And, bye the bye, I sometimes
thought that your fancies inclined to Ariadne. We might
have a double marriage before long, if that were the case."
"Me!" said Mr. Flewellin, in a gay tone. "Ah, my dear
Lady, I am not a marrying man. Besides," he added, "you
know, we are to wait for each other."
"Nonsense! Will you never give up your nonsense?"
she said, laughing; and they began throwing the balls with
the others.
CHAPTER V.
THE FETE CHAMPETRE.
ALEXANDEBINA and E had many long conversations
about their costumes, and how they should dress their hair
for the fete.
E was a lively brunette, witty and agreeable. Her
liveliness formed a pleasing contrast to the other's pensive-
ness; and both being unusually refined and elegant, they
soon conceived a warm attachment for each other.
The Monday before the night for the fete soon arrived.
All the costumes had come; and, although everybody
meant to keep everything a secret from the others, yet
everybody seemed to know everything about the affair.
The garden decorations were all completed. An immense
crimson awning was suspended over the spot where the
people were to dance. Within, it was hung with gaily
painted lamps, and adorned with festoons of flowers; and
further along, the supper table was arranged in exquisite
style, by Madame and Miss Kedar, and everything looked
gay and beautiful.
Lord Falmouth had openly declared his intention of
going in an Armenian dress he had brought from the East,
and Mrs. Kedar laughingly jested him about the dark
shrouded form he would display, the high-pointed cap, etc.
Still, he persevered in his intention, and wished to discover
what Alexanderiha would wear; but that she would not tell,
and her mother also refused to gratify his curiosity, so that
30
THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 31
he remained in heathen darkness on that subject. Every
one was too much occupied in their own vanity to notice
any one.
The wished-for evening at length arrived. Tea was
served in their rooms, where they were all busily talking,
and laughing, and dressing. Madame E and Mrs. Kedar
attired themselves in the latter's room, while Miss Kedar
and C arranged their costumes in Alexanderina's apart-
ment.
The dress her mother had provided for her was a beauti-
ful Hungarian Hussar costume, and that of the lovely
C was a Swiss Ballad Singer's; both were pleased with
the choice, and, as they were dressing, the maid expended
all her energy in praising them. Miss Kedar's hair was
plaited in long braids down her back; that of E - was
worn in long ringlets. Alexanderina's small feet were cased
in fancy top boots; those of M'lle C- -in tiny slippers.
Just as Miss Kedar was about placing oh her head the little
hat and feathers which completes the Hungarian dress, she
remembered a small bottle of perfume which she wanted;
and which she recollected having left in a small room in one
of the turrets of the villa, and she sent Ann to get it.
Presently the girl returned, saying the door of the room
was locked, and she could not get in.
"Locked, Ann, you are mistaken, indeed. I was there
this morning, and left it open," said her mistress.
"Indeed, Miss, it's locked now. At any rate, I tried the
door several times, and could not move it"
"Let me see," said Alexanderina. "I want some perfume
very much, and I have none but that." She ascended the
flight of stairs to the door of the room, and found it locked
as the girl had said. "Why, how strange. What can it
mean. I left it open this morning," exclaimed Miss Kedar,
32 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
Impatiently, and again she assailed the lock, but in vain, it
would not yield. "Well, I cannot imagine how it came
locked; but, no matter, I can borrow some perfume from
mamma," said she, as she went back again, and E having
completed her toilette, they descended to the drawing-room.
None of the guests were there, except Lord Falmouth, in
his mysterious Armenian dress, and he hailed with delight
the appearance of the two fair girls. While they sat chat-
tering with him. the band of music on the lawn played
some of its lively airs, and Alexanderina, in listening to the
melody of her lover's voice, and the melody of the instru-
ments,almost fancied herself in another world.
Presently Madame C and Mrs. Kedar joined them.
The one was a "Belle a hundred years since," the other a
Gipsy. The costume of that singular race suited well the
dark, bright face of Madame C , while the gay dress of
the beautiful Belle set off Mrs. Kedar's delicate style of
beauty.
One by one all the others came. Then ensued many
surprises, a great deal of talking and laughing, and mysti-
fying, and finally at eight o'clock they all went to the ball-
room.
The two Miss Jones were in Polish dress, Mrs. Hawkwood
in a "Die Yernon," Miss Dashwood as an Italian Vintage
Girl, Mr. Flewellin as a Greek, Mrs. Jones in a Sybil cos-
tume, the two attachees as Monks of the Capuchin order,
and the others in different dresses, which the taste of their
entertainer had provided for them. It was not a numerous,
but a select and joyous party. Every face sparkled with
smiles, all seemed happy, and I will venture to affirm that
one, at least was perfectly happy there that night; and that
one was Alexanderina. The Armenian and the Hungarian
girl walked apart from the others, and spoke in whispered
THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 33
tones. The moonlight came stealing on the scene, blending
with the gay lights, and diffusing a gentle calm over the
noisy dance.
While they were walking about the woods, the Gipsy
confronted them, and asked to tell their fortunes.
" Much good fortune is in store for you, fair people," she
muttered, laughingly, as Lord Falmouth crossed her hand
with silver. " But you'll both die some day."
" Every one knows that, I believe," said Lord Falmouth,
started from his gravity into fits of laughter, as the gay
lady sprang away to some other group that attracted her
attention.
And M'lle E - sang a pretty song, and the Miss
Jones' danced a pretty dance, and the band poured forth its
melody, and all was life and gayety.
It was, perhaps, ten o'clock; the fun and the frolic was
at its bight, when Miss Kedar was called from her lover's
side for a moment by her mother, and Lord Falmouth was
left alone in the illuminated wood, standing near the ball-rooni.
As he stood there, his arms folded within the vast sleeves of
his Armenian dress, his eyes downcast, sunk in revery, a
slight sound startled him near by. He looked up, and im-
mediately before him, leaning against a tree, her eyes fixed
upon him, through the velvet mask she wore, he saw what
he took to be a visitant from another world, so brilliantly
beautiful was the figure.
She wore a Fairy's dress, and the tissue spangled with
gold, which floated around her was not more ethereal looking
than was her form.
On her tiny feet were white satin shoes; and on her
ankles and arms, gold bracelets. A starred veil was thrown
around her head, and half fell over the mask she wore.
Although he could not discover her features through her
.a
34 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
mask, yet her beautiful form induced him to think her
lovely. This splendid apparition remained motionless some
minutes, while Lord Falmouth gazed upon her in speechless
admiration. Then she put her ringer to her mouth, and
stepping backward all the time, whispered, "Come,"
"come."
Lord Falmouth moved forward mechanically, as she called;
and still stepping backward toward .the denser forest, she
whispered, "Come."
They thus proceeded some distance from the ball-room
tent, when suddenly the beautiful form fell down upon the
ground, motionless, before him, and lay there on the green
sward as if without life.
Believing himself in a dream of enchantment, the gen-
tleman stooped down to ascertain if it was really a being of
earth he saw, and taking off the mask to give her air, a
profusion of curls fell over the face, and lifting these aside,
he saw the features of Ariadne Kedar. The attitude in
which she lay, the expression of her features, and the splen-
did dress touched by the moonlight's beams, formed a pic-
ture of fairy-like magnificence, such as might challenge
many an artist's skill.
Wondering how she came there, and what he should do
for her without exciting the curiosity of the guests, and
thereby attracting disagreeable attention toward himself,
Lord Falmouth set off to find some water to revive her.
The villa stood on the river shore, and a green bank sloped
down to the water's edge. He ran to it, dipped his cap full,
and then hurried back. She still lay in the same position,
and, when he raised her fair face, and gently threw some
water in it, she feebly unclosed her great blue eyes, and
then shut them again.
Presently, after several efforts, she partially revived, and
THE FETE CHAMPETRE.. 35
Lord Falmouth, after assisting her to rise from the damp
ground, asked where she would go.
" I feel very faint as yet, sir. I cannot think what made
me faint just now, perhaps it was the excitement of coming
here, for I stole away from mamma's house early this morning,
and, arriving here at dusk, concealed myself in the house,
without being seen, so that I might surprise them all to-
night"
"And you have surprised and enchanted at least me,
already," exclaimed Lord Falmouth, who could not prevent
himself from being charmed with this splendid beauty, with-
out suspecting the trick of the fainting fit.
"And you came to surprise us to-night; and where were
you going when I met you just now?"
" I was about making my appearance. I wanted to make
them believe I. was a Fairy."
u You look like one ; you might easily pass for a celestial
being at present," was his gallant reply, and the bold girl
turned full upon him the light of those beautiful eyes which
were fated to cause him so many sorrows; but any one to
look upon so glorious a being would have been bewildered,
and so was Lord Falmouth.
Leaning on his arm, the Fairy wended her way to the
ball-room. They were all dancing, and the sounds of their
joyous merriment might be heard far away; but dancing
and merriment ceased in utter astonishment when Ariadno
entered on the arm of Lord Falmouth. Alexanderina stared
fixedly at Ariadne and her lover when they entered, and a
shade passed over her quiet face; perhaps it was the
first symptom of jealousy, but she gayly approached them,
and welcomed them, saying, "Why, cousin, is this you?"
"Yes; I am the Queen of the Fairies, come to honor
your revels, and this is an enchanted Knight I found just
36 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
now in the woods. Ah, aunt! how do you do?" she cried,
as the "Belle of a hundred years since" approached her.
"Are you not surprised to see me?"
"No, Ariadne, I am not surprised at anything you do,"
responded Mrs. Kedar, with a slightly ironical air.
" No, indeed !" said her neice, in the same tone. "Well,
it's lucky you are not; for I doubt if you could follow all
my fancies, as I believe it takes you longer to find people
out than most persons require."
And with this sarcasm the haughty beauty turned away,
and bidding the music play a fancy dance, began dancing a
solo.
Although astonished at her boldness, all the guests
paused in admiration of her grace. No movements could
be more, graceful, more harmonious (if I may be allowed to
use the expression) than her's, and at the conclusion a mur-
mur of applause ran around the room.
Mi*: Mewellin now came forward to her, and taking his
arm, they went in to supper together. Lord Falmouth had
returned to Miss Kedar's side, and Madame C and Mrs.
Kedar were preceding the party by taking the head and
foot of the table. All the guests seated themselves round
in rural wicket chairs, and joy and pleasure seemed to pre-
side over the scene. All the choicest luxuries of the season
were spread before them. Oranges, pine-apples, tropical
fruits from the Indies, and everything that could tempt the
palate or please the eye, was there.
And the young ladies talked and flirted, and Ariadne
laughed louder than any, as she talked with Mr. Flewellin.
Of all the costumes there, her's was the most magnificent,
and the flashings of the ornaments on her dress was not
more brilliant than the light of her eyes. All the gentle-
men looked at her with admiration; all the women with
THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 37
envy. Mrs. Kedar looked annoyed by the presence of
her niece ; but Alexanderina, who could not foresee the
future, and consequently could not know how much that
night would affect her future happiness, felt happy as
she stood by the side of the man she loved.
And now the gay 'party had finished their sylvan repast,
at which they had been attended by the servants of the
villa attired as Turkish slaves.
" One more dance, and then we will break up ; it is past
one o'clock in the morning," was the joyous cry, as they all
returned to the ball-room; and the dance was done. They
all looked heated, jaded, and tired, except Ariadne, who con-
tinued to enliven the air by her merry laughter, so they all
returned to the drawing room of the villa.
" Well, Queen of the* Fairies, how have you enjoyed
yourself?" asked Mrs. C- , as the gay girl flung herself
on a sofa, when they entered the room.
" Oh, delightfully ! You know when I make up my mind
to do anything, I always accomplish it; and I resolutely de-
termined to enjoy myself this evening, when I left mamma's
this moniing, in a close carriage, and drove furiously, so as
to reach here in time. Then I secreted myself in one of
the little rooms of the turret to dress, and at the proper time
I made my appearance. I think I played my part with
spirit."
lf Oh, it was you, then, who locked the door of the turret
when I .tried to get in," said Miss Kedar. " I could not
imagine what was the matter with the door."
"Yes, it was me," answered Ariadne, laughing; and turn-
ing to Mrs. Hawkwood, she said, "Well, Die Vernon, I
hope you have completed your conquest of this unhappy
man's heart this evening. I saw you with him some
time."
38 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
"Well, no, my dear," replied the gay lady, "I must say
I found him difficult. Perhaps his affections are pre-
engaged," she added, with a knowing look.
" Oh, yes, I dare say they are to many," and Ariadne
laughed her own musical laugh. All the gentlemen now
were gathered around her, and she dispensed smiles and gay
wit seemingly without an effort. The others were compara-
tively silent for they had danced and talked themselves
almost to death.
" Now, Fairy Queen, I want to know how you came to
know that we were going to have a ball to-night," said Mr.
Flewellin.
" How I heard ! why, some of the people traveling be-
tween this house and ours, told our servants, who told me,
and I resolved to be present; and I came, saw, and con-
quered.' "
" Of course you did," was the gallant rejoinder.
"Now, let us have one fine song before I go to bed; for
I suppose that you can provide me a room," she added,
turning to Mrs. Kedar, who assented, and she opened the
piano, and burst into a wild, beautiful melody, and when its
thrilling notes had ceased, she bowed, smiled, and left the
room.
All the others also sought their slumbers, and Lord Fal-
mouth, as he sunk into dreams, was haunted by the vision
of the Fairy Queen.
CHAPTER VI.
FLIRTATIONS.
ALEXANDERINA went into her mother's room that night,
although it was near two in the morning, before Madame
C and E left the lady of the house to her repose,
so many things had they mutually to say. At length, the
brilliant gipsy, and the pretty Swiss departed, and Miss
Kedar began undressing before her mother's mirror.
" How strange it is that Ariadne should have come to us
to-night," said she. " I should have as soon expected to
see a ghost"
"Yes, it was singular," answered Mrs. Kedar, "I only
hope she will not cause you to regret it."
"Cause me to regret ! How could that be, mamma?"
" It might easily be, with a woman of her character."
" How so ? Do explain. You never dealt in mysteries
before. Don't do so now."
" Well, if she were to entice away your lover, it would not
please you so well, would it?"
"Take away Lord Falmouth," exclaimed Miss Kedar, as
if struck with amazement at the question. " Oh, I cannot
believe that she or any other could do that."
" You are young and innocent You don't know the
world," was the mother's calm reply.
" And do you then really suppose that Ariadne has come
here with any such intention?"
" It may be. I don't absolutely say it is so," answered
39
40 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
Mrs. Kedar; "but she loves admiration, as she loves her
life, and might, merely to try her skill, take him away from
you. "
ee Oh, if I could believe so, I should indeed wish her away,
but I cannot think it. You know you have ever been pre-
judiced against Ariadne. I presume she only came here
on the whim of the moment. It is only a jest; nothing
more. And as for Lord Falmouth, why, if he loves me
as he says he does, he loves me too well to give me up
for another; so I shall be happy, dear mamma, and set my
heart at rest."
A peculiar smile flitted over the mother's face, but she
made no further remark, and both mother and daughter were
soon buried in repose, in their different apartments.
The next morning, at breakfast, all the guests looked
somewhat fagged from the last night's dissipation, except
Ariadne, who made her appearance in a blue muslin dress,
and looked like a sunbeam personified. Her long hair fell in
ringlets to her waist, and her large blue eyes darted fire.
"How is your mother, my dear," said Mrs. Jones,
addressing her across the table.
ts I left mamma rather better than usual," was the reply.
"Does she like the country as well as town?" said Miss
Dashwood.
" Not so well, but now she is there for the summer, she
thinks she had better remain, not being well enough to be
removed home."
"And do you intend returning to her immediately?"
" No, I intend staying a week or two with aunt and cou-
sin."
" Miss Ariadne," said Mr Flewellin, " this is a fine day
for riding, don't you want to take a ride on this fine road
over the hill 9 "
FLIRTATIONS. 41
u Oh yes I should be charmed to go," and with seeming
artless simplicity, she clapped her tiny hands.
"Well, get ready immediately after breakfast, and we
will chase the winds this morning; but what will you do for a
habit ? You brought no luggage with you, did you ?"
? Oh yes, I have some dresses and my habit along with
me. I will get ready," and she ran from the room, leaving
every one astonished at her grace and loveliness. Lord Fal-
mouth again looked after her admiringly.
After breakfast, all went to the drawing-room, as usual,
and consulted what was to be done for the day. Some
decided on going to the bowling-alley; others went to walk
in the woods till dinner-tune, taking books along to amuse
themselves; and Lord Falmouth was left alone in the parlor,
when two horses were brought before the door for Mr Flew-
ellin and Ariadne. Presently, she came bounding down
stairs.
She wore a dark blue habit, and a black hat and feathers.
In her hand she held a small riding whip. As she passed
the drawing-room door, Lord Falmouth came towards her.
"You are admirably equiped for riding, Miss Kedar," said
he, as she paused before him.
She suddenly started, as if she had not seen him, and
looking curiously in his face, said:
"Ah, I believe it is Lord Falmouth that I see?"
"Yes, it is none other, and so you are off. When will
you be back?"
"I really don't know; that depends upon the agreeableness
of my beau: if I find him very agreeable, I may stay long,
if not, I shall soon return."
"He has every inducement then to call forth all his
powers of eloquence," said Lord Falmouth, glancing towards
Mr. Flewellin, who came foward to assist her on her horse.
42 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
When placed upon the animal's back, she rapidly rode away,
the feathers of her hat floating behind her in the air. " I
have never seen so beautiful a woman in my life; no, not
even at the court of the Queen," he said aloud, as he re-
entered the room. His gentle love, at that moment came
in with her bonnet on, and he went with her to take a walk,
while Mrs. Kedar was overlooking the servants as they re-
moved the ruins of the last night's feast. In the afternoon,
just before dinner, Ariadne, flushed from the exercise, returned
from her ride, and devoted herself to an interesting flirtation
with Mr. Flewellin for the rest of the day and evening, and
Alexanderina, re-assured by her cousin's indifferent man-
ner as to her designs on Lord Falmouth, became as confi-
ding and affectionate toward her, as she had ever been.
Thus, in conversation and agreeable nothings a week wore
away, when Mrs. Hawkwood received letters which she said
would oblige her to tear herself away from such delightful
society, her presence being imperatively demanded at home,
and she departed with her niece, promising to see them again
next summer. Mrs. Jones also, and her two daughters, re-
turned to town, and the young attachees went with them,
so that the party at the villa consisted only of intimate
friends.
Ariadne continued as wildly gay as ever, and persisted in
devoting herself to Mr. Flewellin, only occasionally talking
to Lord Falmouth, and that in such a way as not to lead
any one to imagine she wished to coquette with him.
Mrs. Kedar's delicate health seemed to improve by the
country air; and altogether, they formed a loving family
party.
It was now generally understood that Lord Falmouth and
, the Vice-President's daughter were engaged, and they were
treated by their friends in that tacit understanding manner,
FLIRTATIONS. 43
which implies that engaged lovers are to be left to them-
selves, and not be disturbed.
Madame C loved both the Misses Kedar, and with
her usual urbanity, treated both equally kindly. Perhaps
her own generous nature induced her to love Alexanderina
most, for the instincts of our own nature teach us who are
most like ourselves,^ but outwardly she treated both alike.
She felt rejoiced that one so gentle and so good as Alexan-
derina should form so lofty and advantageous a match as she
was about to enter into, and had it have been her own child,
could not have felt happier, or have expressed more joy.
One evening, some days after Ariadne had been at the
Villa, Lord Falmouth came into the drawing-roo.ni, and found
Ariadne Kedar there alone. The rest of the family and
visitors, were dispersed about the house in various direc-
tions, and she alone was there singing and playing on the
piano.
Sometimes when she was silent and thoughtful, a melan-
choly expression would dwell upon her features, mellowing
their somewhat haughty mockeiy and gaiety, and now such
a look was impressed there momentarily. Perhaps the song
she had been singing was mournful, and its plaintive notes
influenced her soul. At all events, she looked particularly
subdued and captivating.
She was dressed in good taste, in a blue silk robe, and her
beautiful hair was plainly smoothed over her pale round
cheeks, and being twisted round her head like a crown, was
enclosed in a comb. As she sat listlessly turning over the
leaves of the music book, he paused to look at her, and,
suddenly looking up, she perceived him; and starting ex-
claimed:
0h, my Lord, is that you?"
* " I was looking at you," he said. Had she here been in
44 THE VICE-PRESIDENTS DAUGHTER.
her wonted mood, some gay witticism would have followed
this remark, but a cloud seemed to have thrown its shadows
on Ariadne's spirit that evening, and she made no reply.
" Will you sing me that song I heard you singing as I
came through the hall ?" said he, after a pause of some mo-
ments, which she did not break.
"Oh, certainly; I shall be too happy," she replied, and
immediately began, "Then you'll remember me," from a
beautiful foreign opera. As she accented the words, her
wandering gaze fell on his, and the almost unearthly sweet-
ness of her voice, thrilled his soul as she went on. When
she ceased, her hands still lay on the piano keys, and her
eyes were still fixed in abstraction before her.
" You are not in your wonted mood of gaiety and frolic
this evening," at length said the gentleman.
" Am I not ! Oh, pray excuse me, if I am dull, but I
was thinking about mamma to-night, I am going shortly^
you know!"
"Going to leave us! Ah, indeed! What, so soon!
What shall we do without so bright a Fairy Queen ? " and
a shade of sadness seemed mixed with his reply.
" Do without me ! " she exclaimed, staring him full in the
face. "Why you, at least, have your Fairy Queen always
to beguile your sadness; and as for aunt, she cares little
about me, and Madame C and daughter aro only ac-
quaintances. No, I shall not be much missed."
"By me, at least, you will be, I assure you," he said, in
a low tone.
"Well, if you care anything about my society, you care
enough to seek it. Come and pay me a visit at Doux Re-
pos. Mamma is there, and every thing shall go on merry
as a marriage bell, if you will come. I have asked Mr.
Flewellin, and he has promised to come."
FLIRTATIONS. 45
"I shall be happy to go, and to have the pleasure of
seeing you there," said he; but he thought of Alexanderina,
and his brow darkened. What would the Vice-President's
wife and daughter think of his going from them to spend
some days or weeks with her cousin at another house.
Surely they would have reason, not only to doubt his affec-
tion, but his intention; but then she who asked the favor
of his company was so beautiful All these thoughts passed
through his mind like lightning, as he sat beside the
beautiful Ariadne. Her eyes were roving the apartment, as
if in reverie, and presently she said:
" I used to be here, Lord Falmouth, when a little child,
and I have ofcen played hide-and-seek behind these very
doors. How one changes as they grow older," she added
thoughtfully.
" Yes;, some change for better, some for worse, but you
have only grown more beautiful from the lapse of time."
Ariadne smiled, and looked at Mm joyously as he made
the observation. She knew she was handsome, and compli-
ments pleased her
" I don't know about that," said she, after a pause of some
moments. " I sometimes think that I had better never have
been born at all."
" Why, beautiful Ariadne ? What makes you think so ?"
" Oh. I don't know," was the sad reply. "I don't, think
any one cares much whether I live or die," and the artful girl
looked at him with those beaming eyes. An expression of
tenderness came over the gentleman's face; he took her
hand he seemed about to say something, when as they
both raised their eyes, there, standing in the doorway,
looking at them, pale, grave, and amazed, there stood Al-
exanderina.
CHAPTER VII.
MAN'S CAPRICES.
IT is time, ^gentle reader, that I told you something
about my hero, for at present, he must appear to you like
one of those mysterious knights one reads about in tales of
chivalry, of whom no one knoweth whence he coineth, or
whither he goeth. Not so is it with my handsome hero; he
is indeed a substantial human being, though his actions are
not always as they should have been.
James Sigismund Maximilian Anglesey, Lord Falmouth,
in his own right a Peer, and heir to a large fortune, which
he came in possession of at twenty, was, at the beginning of
this story, thirty years of age. He had traveled extensively
on the continent, possessed a fine mind, and kind disposition^
and, although a man of violent impulse, notwithstanding his
calm exterior, he was generally noble minded and hon-
orable.
His mother and sisters, who lived at one of his castles
in England, constantly urged him to marry, and offered to
his favorable attention, the most beautiful and accomplished
women at that Court; yet he averred, that when he married
he cared not about his wife's pedigree or fortune, having an
ample one of his own, and, as he loved none of those ladies,
he still remained a bachelor.
Wishing to see the New World, he came to the United
States, and traveled through the country; though he thought
the American women pretty, none of them pleased his
46
MAN'S CAPRICES. 47
fancy, till, at the Ambassadress' party, he was struck with
the appearance of the two Miss Kedars. The splendid
beauty of Ariadne enchanted him, but the quiet innocence
and goodness of Alexanderina insensibly won upon the fine
feelings of his nature so much that he resolved to marry her.
It certainly could not be called a marriage of disparagement?
since she was the Vice-President's daughter, her father one
of the magnates of the land. Although she would bring
him no fortune, yet she might be considered almost his equal.
Unconsciously, at first sight, he had won her affections, and
so week after week flew away, and she saw him constantly.
What wonder is it she should have learned to love him, and
that her young heart looked forward with delight to the hour
when she should remain with him always.
Lord Falmouth possessed the most charming manner, and
that facility of adaptation which enabled him to suit himself
to any one whom he tried to please, and he had tried to
please her. But now another form haunted his fancy, and
after the brilliant appearance of the Fairy Queen he found
himself constantly thinking of her. Ariadne, with her
wonted tact, made no violent attack upon him. She let
nature alone. Confident that, if she had opportunity, she
could win him from her less attractive cousin, she planned her
movements with quiet and skill. Vows, and engagements,
and oaths, were nothing in the eyes of Ariadne Kedar, and
longing to get him away to her own house, where she could
execute her plans at leisure, she was content to remain an
uninterested spectator of the love of her cousin, and to ap-
pear secretly indifferent to Lord Falmouth.
But, in truth, as far as her haughty, selfish nature would
allow her, Ariadne had fallen in love with him at the party
of Madame C . She admired his fine appearance, and
fine manners, but even to those she loved most, Ariadne
4
48 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
was selfish and exacting. Very different in filial duty was
she to her cousin, who was the self-devoted friend and com-
panion of her mother.
And, after this short digression, let us return to them.
Both Ariadne and Lord Falmouth started with surprise at
the sight of Alexanderina, and he let fall the pretty hand
he held in his; but they need not have done so, for after
looking at him sadly for a moment, she went away, leaving
them to their tete-a-tete undisturbed.
u Your sweetheart will be angry at you for this," said
Ariadne in a tone of mockery. "Are you not afraid ?
man of iron nerve. "
He made her no reply. His brow darkened, and rising
from her side, he began pacing the room. He seemed
angry at himself, the mute look of reproval Miss Kedar
threw at him with her large blue eyes, and the silentness
with which she went immediately away, spoke volumes.
Ariadne sat still, and archly contemplated him. Pres-
ently, ejaculating, " I wish I never had been born," he rushed
from the room.
When Miss Kedar left the room a moment before, she
did not hurry to tell her mother her jealous grief. A feel-
ing of shame prevented her from doing so. No, she plunged
into the thickest recesses of the forest trees and flowers,
and sitting down upon the stump of an old tree, tried to
forget what she had just seen, but she could not. The
vision of Lord Falmouth holding her cousin's hand in his,
and whispering love to her, was too much for her, and she
sat slightly pondering on it, and recalling her mother's
prophecy, when a tall form came walking swiftly through the
wood, and, even by the moonlight, she recognized her
lover.
After taking several turns to the right and left, he sud-
MAN'S CAPRICES. 49
denly dashed through the trees immediately where she was
sitting, and was by her side before she could move away.
" Gracious Heavens ! is this you, Miss Kedar," was his
hasty exclamation, and kneeling down on the green grass,
he entreated her to forgive his having caused her pain by
his conduct.
" Oh, no, Lord Falmouth, you need not ask mo to forgive
you; you have a right, of course, to do as you please, it is
nothing to me," was the somewhat pettish reply.
" Come now, do be reasonable, dear Miss Kedar; let all
that nonsense go for nothing, just what it is worth, and pray
come into the house with me; the night air will give you
cold."
The young lady forgot her anger at her lover's voice. She
allowed herself, after a slight resistance, and a little anger,
to be persuaded to go into the house, and this transient
lover's quarrel was over. Yet, after that night, it must be
confessed that Miss Kedar felt less kindly and acted less
kindly towards her cousin. Love is soon alarmed for its
idol, and she feared anything and everything that could in-
terfere with her Elysium. Ariadne did not have a long
conversation with Lord Falmouth for some days, and in the
meantime her father came to take her home. Her mother
wanted her immediately. She obeyed, because she did not
wish to stay, and because she thought her absence would
induce Lord Falmouth to come to Doux Repos.
The morning of her departure they met in the hall. Ar-
iadne was awaiting her father, and again Lord Falmouth was
reminded of how lovely she was, as he gazed on her fair
face. She extended her hand to him, and said with naive
simplicity, " Good bye, my Lord, I am going to leave Par-
adise."
"Are you," said he, grasping her hand in his. "Well I
50 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
shall see you soon again, I am coming to see you at your
house."
0h, how happy we shall be, so come soon, she ex-
claimed. At this moment her father came, and all the rest
of the party joined them to bid adieu.
Mrs. Kedar coldly responded to her niece's caresses.
Alexanderina was less loving, perhaps, then she once had
been, and Madame C and her daughter were the same
as ever. Ariadne sprang into the carriage, and was soon lost
to their view amid the tall trees of the forest.
After her departure, although he tried to convince him-
self that it was all folly, Lord Falmouth felt a void around
and within. There was something so animated, so buoyant,
so joyous about that girl, that threw an enchantment around
whatever she said or did. The Villa seemed suddenly to
become very dull. He wondered what was the matter with
it. Alas ! thus it ever is in life. We think the change is
in others, when it is in our own hearts. As I said before, it
was generally understood that the Vice-President's daughter
and the Englishman were engaged to be married. No
definite time was fixed, but then he had offered himself,
and all thought that a few weeks, or months, would con-
summate the rest. When, then, a week after Ariadne's
departure, he spoke of going back to town for a few days,
neither the lady nor her daughter suspected anything; and
he left them, they anticipating his return within a week, as
they had decided on staying at the Villa until October.
Conscious that he was not acting rightly, Lord Falmouth
felt somewhat ashamed, as he left the amiable family, and
took the road back to Washington, which he had not pursued
a mile, ere he branched off, and set out in another direction
for Doux Repos.
The route lay through a beautiful woodland country.
51
The tall trees and gently undulating meadows were ripe with
bud and blossom. Shrubs and wild flowers flourished in
regular confusion.
Numerous country seats also adorned the way, and Lord
Falmouth spent two hours in admiring the beauty and pro-
lific vegetation of our country.
At length, he arrived at Doux Repos, which was a much
smaller house, and not so tastefully laid out as Paradise.
It was built in the same style, however, and bore a great
resemblance to it.
He was received by a tall, thin woman, who looked some-
thing like Ariadne, and who introduced herself as the young
lady's mother. She was not handsome, and probably never
was so. Her face was very long and thin, her features
prominent, and eyes sunken. Her manner was quiet, (if
manner that can be called which is no manner at all,) and
she welcomed him cordially to Doux Repos, saying that her
daughter was in the garden, but would be there soon to re-
ceive him. The gentleman sat conversing with her about
the beauties of her place, etc., when the daughter entered
by a glass-door from the garden. She looked surprised at
seeing him, and her face brightened into a smile as he paid
the compliments of the occasion. Then she presented her
father, who had not been presented to Lord Falmouth, when
he came to bring her from Paradise, and they all formed a
gay party, talking and laughing together for sometime, ere
they went in to tea.
CHAPTER VIII.
INCONSTANCY.
MR. and MRS. KEDAR were delighted with the honor of
having so distinguished a gentleman staying with them, and
spared neither time nor pains to render his visit agreeable;
but it was Ariadne he came to see, and without her their
attentions would have been lost or unappreciated.
Mr. Mewellin came next day after Lord Falmouth, and
although surprised to find him there, he became one pf the
family as he had been accustomed to be when he paid visits
to Paradise or Doux Repos.
He entertained Mrs. Kedar with a poetical description of
her daughter's appearance at the fete at Paradise, and the
vain mother, who delighted in rank and show, and still more
at the idea that her daughter was the reigning beauty, lis-
tened with eager attention. Ariadne, although vain, like
her mother, had many strong points of character, which that
mother possessed not, and could not comprehend. She was
a woman of judgment; there were in her character none of
those evanescent emotions that are generally seen in young
women. Her mind was as thoughtful as any man's, and her
sagacity seldom at fault. She did not much resemble either
parent in manner or appearance, for both were quiet people
and she was wildly gay, and now determined to make a con-
quest of Lord Falmouth, she assumed even more than was
natural.
Day after day passed away, and found him ever with
52
INCONSTANCY. 53
her, when she sang, or walked, or played, and he persuaded
himself, as each day stole more of his heart away, that it
was only more deeply fixed at Paradise, while Alexanderina
and4ier mother were expecting him soon to return to them,
and the young lady dreamt day-dreams which were destined
not to be realized.
When Lord Falmouth spoke of leaving them, and return-
ing to Paradise, Ariadne would look at him so sadly, and
pout so prettily that he could not find it in his heart to tear
himself away, and he delayed his departure, day after day,
and only became the more hi love the longer he did stay.
If Ariadne spoke of her cousin, sometimes in conversa-
tion, she always did it kindly, and seemed to feel most lov-
ingly toward her. Toward her aunt, also, she seemed to
cherish a reverential regard. She had too supreme a con-
tempt for human nature, to be anything but urbane to every
one, and to speak well of every one.
She played well on the harp, and one evening they sat
together in the arbor in the garden, he gazing on her as she
sang. It was a plaintive love song, and she threw into the
execution a world of expression and feeling. When she
ceased, she sat still, her long slender fingers played care-
lessly with the strings.
Presently, Lord Falmouth spoke.
" I think I must leave you this week. I feel that it is
dangerous for me to stay here any longer."
"Leave us ! " cried the young lady, laying both hands in
his. " Oh, you really are not going away, are you ? "
" Oh, I must go, for if I stay longer I shall want to stay
always."
" And why cannot we be always together ? What pre-
vents you from remaining ? "
54 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
" What prevents me ! Am I not in honor bound to an-
other, to Alexanderina ? "
" And so you will sacrifice me for her ? " said Ariadne,
with a scornful smile on her thin lips. " Is she your equal
in mind? Can she understand you as well as I; but per-
haps, like other intellectual men, you prefer marrying a silly
woman to a bright one ? "
"Oh no, you know better. You know I love you; but
my truth, my honor, oblige me to marry."
"Alexanderina is too proud to take you, if she knew
that," said Ariadne; "to be married from a tie of honor is
not very flattering."
" If she knew that I loved you, do you suppose that she
would give me up ? " asked he, a sudden thought seeming
to strike his mind.
" Certainly, of course my cousin would," was the reply
of the artful girl.
" And if I can get released from this engagement, we will
be married," and he drew the beautiful girl toward him, and
kissed her. Still a mental struggle of conscience seemed
going on in his mind; for several minutes he stood motionless,
looking down, and his hand pressed to his head, as if to still
the thoughts that rushed through his brain.
But time proved the avenger for that night's action.
They returned to the house. He left her soon, and went
to his room, while she hastened to her mother.
When alone, in sober thought, the wild witcheries of her
voice and smile no longer before him, Lord Falmouth took
an inverted view of self, and endeavored to find some ex-
cuse for what he was about to do, but none offered.
He thought of the gentle girl he had wooed and won,
within the last two months, and of how treacherously he was
about to treat her; but finally he determined not to think.
INCONSTANCY. 55
and taking pen ink and paper, he sat down and wrote to
Alexanderina, requesting his release from his engagement.
He could give no reason, state no fact, why or wherefore,
all he asked was that the engagement should be null and void
After he wrote the note and sealed it, he did not dare to
think upon it, and went to bed.
The next morning, the note was sent from Doux Repos
to the other Villa, and, knowing that the reply would be
what he wished, knowing the young lady's pride would
prompt her to relinquish an unwilling lover, he tried to
banish all troublesome thoughts from his mind, and aban-
doned himself to Ariadne's allurements more than ever. Mrs.
Kedar entered, with childish glee, into their amusements,
and Mr. Flewellin, though astonished at his friend's conduct,
was as attentive as ever.
Two days after he sent the letter, a reply came. He was
released; that was all the note contained, written in Miss
Kedar's clear, pretty hand-writing. He consoled himself in
the belief that she would soon forget him, and wed another,
and his new love did all she could to strengthen the suppo-
sition.
But I must turn to Paradise, and see what is happening
there in these unhappy times.
CHAPTER IX.
EXPIATION.
WHEN Lord Falmouth first left the ladies of the Villa
they confidently expected to see him again in a few days,
"but, when two weeks elapsed and he came not, they really
began to marvel what had become of him, and where he was.
At last his cruel letter arrived.
They were all playing whist together, when one of the
servants brought it to them.
" Excuse me a moment, Madame C ," said Miss Ke-
dar, as she opened the note, " I will play directly." She
glanced at the written page looked at it again, at the top
and bottom turned pale, half arose from her chair, then
fell upon the floor in a fainting fit. Mrs. Kedar and her
friend, alarmed at the sight, sprang to her assistance; the
mother seizing the letter for an explanation of the scene;
the friend holding the unhappy girl's head, and dispatching
her own daughter for cologne.
The mother had no sooner deciphered its contents, than
with an expression of desperate resolve, she laid the note
down, and calling some of the - servants had her daughter
carried to bed. For some hours she did not recover, and
both ladies watched her with anxious tenderness. When
the subject of the note was communicated to Madame C ,
she was amazed, and could with difficulty be made to
believe it. It was too monstrous for belief, she thought.
EXPIATION. 57
But Mrs. Kedar reminded her daughter of what she had
first told her the night Ariadne appeared at the Fancy Ball,
when her instinct had not deceived her as to the motive of
her neice's coming. Miss Kedar tried to control her feel-
ings; she endeavored to suppress the outward emotion from
her mother's keen eye. But the effort was an unavailing
one; she could not do it; she suffered too much. Madame
C and her daughter would have offered their sympathy,
but they felt that it would he a greater insult on this occasion
than utter silence, and knowing that the mother and daugh-
ter would feel more at ease alone, they returned to town;
Mrs. Kedar promising her friends to follow soon, also, and
bring Alexanderina with her.
The lady and her daughter remained alone at Paradise.
They talked continually of this unfortunate affair, and tried
to fathom the motives of Lord Falmouth's conduct in engag-
ing himself to her, and then deserting her for her cousin.
When, in fact, there were no motives at all. It resulted
in caprice alone; in the fact of Ariadne being the most beau-
tiful and the most artful.
At first, the young lady grieved constantly, but, at
length she learned to conceal her emotions, and, as the fall
approached (the time for their return to town) she had
resumed her wonted manner and behavior. How to break
the strange news to her beloved father, troubled her most;
but her mother had already arranged that, by writing to him
all the circumstances, and he was prepared to meet them
when they came.
Mrs. Kedar had great difficulty in persuading the
angry husband and father from asking out Lord Falmouth,
and demanding a personal explanation of his conduct, but
the prudent wife convinced him, that, as the engagement
was only known to a very few. it would be wiser to pass it
58 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
over in silence, rather than disgrace their daughter by hav-
ing it known that she had been wooed and deserted, and
after execrating him to his satisfaction, the enraged Vice-
President abided by her advice.
The Vice-President's daughter again made her appearance
among her friends, and, to a casual observer, her look and
manner was the same as it had been the spring before, but
a physiognomist might have seen traits of suffering and sor-
row on that calm, quiet face, and, although her manner was
as polite as ever, yet, within, her heart felt crushed and
dead, like a volcanic eruption that has overrun a beautiful
land of flowers with burning lava, leaving that all desolate
which a moment before was blooming -and gay. So felt she
as she pursued her usual house avocations, and tried to de-
ceive her fond mother into the belief she had forgotten him.
She only hoped, now that all ties were severed, that they
would not come to town to be married. She wished that
trial might be spared her, and it was.
Lord Falmouth, and Ariadne, sensible that they should
insult the deserted one by being married in Washington,
were privately wedded at the Villa, the family party alone
being the witnesses of the ceremony.
The father and mother of Ariadne were, enchanted at
their daughter's prospects, and still more pleased at having
taken away the lover of her cousin.
Lord Falmouth and his bride, two weeks after their mar-
riage, departed for Europe, it being his intention to visit the
Continent before he returned to England definitely to reside ;
and Ariadne, triumphant with success, and radiant with
beauty, left the hills of Washington, the tranquil shores of
the Potomac, where her childhood had been spent, the hun-
dred associations of years, and her own hearthstone, with a
foreign husband, for a foreign home ; and I doubt if, in the
EXPIATION. 59
strange infatuation in which he was beguiled, the bridegroom
once thought of the deserted heart his neglect had blighted.
I must pass over two years. ) It is but a mote in the
sun of time; it is less than nothing in the lapse of years.
In an elegant apartment, in one of the fashionable houses,
in a fashionable street of Paris, sat a beautiful woman, in a
morning dress, indolently lounging in an arm-chair. Her
hair was in a very disheveled condition, and her naked feet
were thrust into Turkish slippers. A handsome, dark man,
was agitatedly pacing the floor, while a nurse carried an
infant round the room in her arms. The lady looked indif-
ferent and lazy. The gentleman looked annoyed and out
of humor, and now and then the nurse said " hush," in her
endeavors to keep the child still.
"Why don't you take that child yourself?" at length said
the gentleman, impatiently. " No one can take care of a
child so well as its own mother, and yet you seldom touch
it or attend to it."
"Mary can attend to it just as well as I. Besides,
I can't bear to be a slave to children," said the lady, in-
dolently.
The gentleman seemed about to speak, when a waiting
maid entered, with a dress in her hands, to ask her mistress
something about the trimming. At this question, the lady's
face brightened greatly, and she aroused herself from her
apparent lethargy, to reply to the girl. "Yes, I want the
braiding down before, and the lace on the shoulders. Mind,
and have it done in time," was the command, and the girl
left the room.
"Yes; nothing but dinner parties, new dresses, and all
other gew-gaws. I wish to ask you, Ariadne, if this is the
way you intend spending your life in future ? "
60 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
" Why, it's as good a way to spend it, I think, as any
other," she answered, languidly. " I don't see that those
wives who immolate themselves to house affections, as they
are called, are any happier or better off than those who dis-
sipate their time away; and I have only one life. I can't
afford to throw it away in nothingness."
" And you call a respectable life nothingness, do you ? "
he sternly demanded.
"Pray, what is your criterion of respectable life ? " asked
his wife.
" Well, I will give you a capital example in your cousin,
Alexanderina."
Ariadne's eyes darted fire, as she satirically replied:
"Why you astonish me, Lord Falmouth, at your late
appreciation of my cousin's merits. Had it not been your
own choice you might have had the beau ideal always before
you."
" Say, rather, that a blind infatuation made me overlook
her; but all that is past," he added with a painful expression.
" It is useless to look back."
"Very true," said she, disdainfully; "and that is why I
wish we would live as quietly as possible, -notwithstanding
you have found that you have married a human being, instead
of a sun-beam"
"Yes, and a miserable one at that; but I do not wish to
quarrel, but merely to tell you that you must retrench some
of your expenses, which I cannot and will not liquidate,
and, also, prepare to set out for the United States within
a week."
" The United States," cried she, with a start of unfeigned
surprise. " Surely you are not going there now before you
return to England?"
" To England !" repeated the gentleman with a sneer, " to
EXPIATION. 61
England, with you ? No, I think I had quite enough of
England with you last year. I neither wish, nor intend to
go home at present; I am going to Washington."
" To throw yourself at the feet of my sweet cousin, and
entreat her forgiveness]" asked she in the same scornful
tone in which he had addressed her.
"No, that would be superfluous. I know her gentle
spirit would not allow her to entertain malice against the
meanest thing that lives. No, my object in going to see
her once more, is to beg her to take care of my child, which
I wish educated in a proper manner, and to leave it with
her."
" You, Lord Falmouth, intend taking my own infant away
from me, and giving it to another to rear ? We shall see
about that, sir. If you suppose that I will submit to such a
thing, you are vastly mistaken."
" You shall do as I say, Madame. There is no will in
this family but mine. You are as defenceless as a fly," was
his severe rejoinder to the astonished woman. Then, tur-
ning to leave the room, he stopped and took the child in his
arms, and kissing it, said:
" Poor little one, before many weeks I will place you
with one that wiU be a mother to you," and he quitted the
chamber.
His wife then went into a fit of hysterics, sobbed, moaned,
called him a hardened wretch, vowed she would not go to
America, wished she never had been born, cursed her cousin,
and finally fell down on the floor totally exhausted from her
efforts. Her maid hastened to soothe her by flattery, a
medicine Ariadne never was averse to.
" Ah now, my lady, don't cry your beautiful eyes out
because my Lord is so barbarous. Come, now, do get up;
I'm sure you've no lack of heart, and if he don't love you,
62 THE VICE-PRESIDENTS DAUGHTER.
somebody else will. Count Giorgi, I'm sure, would give his
eyes to have you for a wife; but these Englishmen have no
taste. You ought to have married an Italian; they know
how to appreciate women like you. Come, my lady, do now,
get up."
Ariadne presently allowed herself to be coaxed upon her
feet again, and she sat down in her chair, while the maid
smoothed her hair, pouting forth her wrongs.
"He says, Minnette, that when we get to the United
States he will take away my child, and give it to an odious
cousin of mine, living there, to bring up. Oh, only think
how dreadful."
"Never mind about him or the child either, my lady.
Children are plentiful in the world, and your husband don't
appreciate you, that every one knows. What would you
say, my lady, if I were to tell you that I have a dear little
note in my pocket from Count Giorgi."
"From him! Oh give it me quick, Minnette. The dear
man; he, at least, does not abuse me; there are some charm-
ing men in the world, I do believe; and tell Mary to put
the child away, its crying disturbs me so."
The infant and its nurse were sent away, and Lady Fal-
mouth, alone with her confidential maid, opened the note
and devoured the contents. It was written on rose-coloured
paper, and ran as follows:
"My adored Signora, one who admires you more than
words can express, craves the honor of being admitted to
your divine presence at the earliest moment you can name."
" Oh, I will see him to-morrow," said she, as she folded up
the epistle, and put it in her bosom. "How did you get the
letter, Minnette."
"Why, my lady, the Count slipped it into my hand this
morning, and begged me not to let your husband see it"
EXPIATION. 63
" Oh, my husband would not care anything about it, if he
had seen it. There is very little love between us now; but
this idea of being dragged off to the United States, instead
of going to England, as I expected, distracts me."
"Why don't you run away, my lady, with the Italian
Count; my Lord don't care a straw about you, and I'm sure
the Count does. I think he's the very man to make you
happy."
" Hush, Minnette, don't talk so to me," said her mistress,
deprecatingly, " I am a married woman."
" Well, my lady, what difference does it make, I should
like to know ? Other ladies are admired by other gentle-
men, when their husbands don't attend to them, and I'm
sure I don't see why the most beautiful lady in all * Paris
shouldn't."
"Never mind now, Minnette, don't talk any more now;
I must get ready for dinner, I will see him to-morrow. I
cannot to-day, I have so many things to think of. You can
go, Minnette. I want to be alone awhile."
The girl left her, and the wayward woman sank in a chair
with oppressed thought.
CHAPTER X.
THE ELOPEMENT.
AND this was the marriage which commenced so brightly
two years before. Yes, two years had sufficed to rob Ari-
adne of all the false brilliancy in which his excited fancy had
arrayed her, and to show her as she really was, a vain, indo-
lent, Capricious beauty, spoiled by indulgence.
At first, he only thought her wayward, but as the novelty
of possession wor^ off, and he longed to find her a conso-
lation and an admirer, and discovered only an adorer of
fashion's follies; then he began to think, perhaps, he had been
deceived. Time only convinced him of this, only showed
her character more completely, and Lord Falmouth mourned,
too late, his infatuation. Then he turned to the child for
comfort, and sometimes in listening to its baby prattle, he
imagined it bore a resemblance to Alexanderina. To her
his thoughts constantly reverted, and he longed to get back
again to the United States, and place the infant under her
care to educate.
At Paris, from her husband's rank, Ariadne mingled in
all the gaiety of the town. By some, she was adored, by all
admired for her great beauty; and the startling announce-
ment that she must leave for the United States, and lose all
this brilliancy and pleasure, rendered her miserable ; but, she
knew by experience, that, although amiable and lenient,
there was a point at which Lord Falmouth paused, and the
64
THE ELOPEMENT. 65
stern manner in which he had addressed her, convinced her
that he was decided, and she was left to nurse her own
bitter thoughts. If Ariadne had taken an impartial self-
retrospection she would have found that, neither as daughter
nor wife, had she done her duty. She would have seen that
she had been selfish and negligent in all the social relations
of life, that she had thought only of herself, cared only for
herself. Her transient attachment to her husband had been
founded more on a desire to rival her cousin, than from any
real love she bore Lord Falmouth, and two years had com-
pletely killed that love. It was entirely dead and gone, and
so was his. In public, they kept up a show of fondness that
was only a mask. In private they were cold and indifferent
to each other. She was consoled with balls and entertain-
ments. He also sought umusement; but, being a man of
intense feelings and elevated mind, he found but little in the
"heaven of fools" to amuse or captivate him. He longed
to find a companion at home ; some one who was not a doll
or plaything, but a reasonable, reflecting woman, who
could understand and sympathize with him. Such was not
Ariadne; she had no sympathies for any but herself.
The day after the foregoing scene, I have described, found
Lady Falmouth splendidly dressed, seated on a sofa in her
parlor, conversing with a tall, slender, dark-eyed Italian,
whom she called Count Giorgi. She looked ruffled in tem-
per, and the Italian seemed endeavoring to soothe her dis-
turbed soul.
" Ah, mia cara, Ariadne, do not look so grieved, it wounds
my very soul. What can I do to amuse you ? Pray tell
your devoted slave."
" Ah, my dear Count, I am miserable. I don't think that
anything could amuse me," said she, assuming those plaintive
airs which she had found so successful with her own husband.
65 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
" Ah, tell me what it is that preys upon your mind ? '
he again tenderly demanded; "I fear your husband is not
the right man for you. Is it so ? "
She made no reply, but dropped her head, with its long
falling curls, on her hand, pensively. Her admirer threw him-
self at her feet and clasping his hands looked up into hei
face.
" Ah, Ariadne, how happy I could make you, were I your
husband, and we lived at one of my Villas among the
Pyrenees, away, far away, from all others, alone by our-
selves. We should be happy as the day is long."
" Ah, yes," sighed Ariadne, " if circumstances were only
different."
" Well, let us make them different, let us run away to-
gether. In Italy, none will know that you have been mar-
ried, and we shall be happy."
Ariadne started, and gazed on him fixedly for a moment.
She seemed debating the subject in her own mind. Any-
thing of a wild, unprecedented character, charmed her law-
less spirit, but she dreaded the consequences. Then she
thought of her child; was it right to desert that infant?
But then her husband had already told her that he should
take away the babe, when they returned to the United
States. All these thoughts chased each other through her
mind, as she sat there.
The Count took both her pretty hands; still Ariadne
moved not. She was in deep thought.
" Ah, speak to me one little word, to tell me you are not
angry with me," said he, entreatingly.
" Count, I am miserable this morning. I am no company
for you. Come to me this evening. I will see you
then."
ft Cannot I console you now ?" urged he.
THE ELOPEMENT. 67
"No, no. I must be alone now. Farewell till this even-
ing, my dear Alnini."
A request from Ariadne was equivalent to a command,
and the reluctant admirer went away.
Then, as soon as the door had closed behind him, she
sprang to her feet, and began an agitated walk.
" Now is the time : here is an opportunity of escape from
him. I no longer care for him, and he cares nothing for
me. I can fly with this man to Italy, and live in wealth
and splendor with him. He can give me a palace, slaves to
attend me, every wish of my heart can be gratified. Shall
I, or shall I not?"
She paused, clinched her fists, upturned those large blue
eyes, as if she had inwardly resolved something, and rushed
from the room.
A large dinner party was given that afternoon by one of
the nobility of Paris. Lord and Lady Falmouth were invited,
and she was obliged to calm her excited mind sufficiently to
appear gay and agreeable at the entertainment.
Wherever she went, her beauty and wit attracted univer-
sal attention from the men, and envy from the women. For
neither cared she much: she had become reckless, or rather
time and opportunity had developed a latent indifference.
After the dinner was over, however, and she and her hus-
band had driven home silently side by side, she went to her
parlor to await the Count, while he turned to the nursery to
look at the child. Lord Falmouth never interfered with
his wife concerning her visitors or engagements. She came
and she went; she saw this one and that one; she did as
best pleased her, unmolested. She knew this, and it piqued
her, too. To be treated with silent contempt is the most
galling way of being treated.
She had determined that day, however, on leaving him,
gg THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
and consequently cared little what her husband thought, and
she was sunk in reverie when the Count stood beside her.
"You look more cheerful, dear lady, than you did this
morning," was his remark, as he sank beside her on an
ottoman.
" Do I, my dear friend. It is your beloved society that
has restored me, then, if I look so."
"And I would strive that you should always look so, if
you were only mine."
" I am yours, then," said she, softly.
"Mine ! Oh, will you fly with me to Italy; to my own
sunny laud?"
"Yes! we will go together. I told you I would tell you
this evening. I have decided, and it is to go. I have no
one to care for me : you love me; I will fly with you."
" How happy we shall be. I will take you to my Villa
in the mountains, and it shall be a perfect earthly paradise
for you."
At the word "Paradise," she shuddered; it recalled the
" Paradise " of home, where she had dwelt, and all the scenes
connected with her marriage arose before her at the name-
Where was that home now? Did her parents still dwell
there, or were they gone away to some other place? She
had not heard from them for months, and now, perhaps, that
she was about to take this step, she probably never would
again; but this transient feeling of remorse fleeted by.
Ariadne was too bold and reckless to care much for the
opinion either of parents or friends.
The Count and Ariadne remained together that evening,
and when he left at ten o'clock, they had made arrangements
for their elopement the following day.
As she went to her room that night, Lady Falmouth
passed her husband's. The door was ajar, and looking
THE ELOPEMENT. 69
through, she saw him on his knees beside the cradle of the
child. He had been praying audibly, and she heard the con-
cluding words, " Oh, great God, my heavenly father, grant
it may never live to be like her."
She was struck to the heart's core, not with sorrow, but
anger. How dared he pray that her infant daughter never
should be like her! This expression, which would have
softened the soul of a less reckless woman, only the more
confirmed her in her determination. She grew pale with
rage, but suppressing any outward emotion, muttered to
herself,
u No matter, it is the last time," and swept loftily to her
own room.
Lord Falmouth was absent from his house during the whole
of the* following day. When he returned in the dusk to his
home, he thought it unusually still, for his wife generally
had many visitors, which made it very gay. No carriages
were before the door, no servants in the hall. He concluded
she was out, and without going to see, (for they seldom saw
each other, except when going in public together,) he went to
his own room to see his child, when one of the servants gave
him a letter, which, he said, his mistress had bade him give
his master.
" Where is your mistress ? " asked Lord Falmouth.
" I don't know, my Lord, she is gone away."
"Away! Whereto?"
" I don't know that either, sir. All I know is that I saw
her go this morning in a carriage with a gentleman."
Lord Falmouth went to his room, and impatiently broke
open the letter.- He started with surprise as hp read its
contents:
" I have left you forever: consider me as no longer your
wife, ARIADNE."
70 THE VICE-PRESIDENTS DAUGHTER.
He crushed the paper in his hand, and exclaimed, in that
tone of deep feeling which only those who have really
suffered, can ever express:
"And it is thus that the delusion of two years ends, like
all other delusions, in disappointment. It is thus that my
hopes, like castles in the air, are shivered into atoms. It is
thus that my feelings recoil upon themselves to be absorbed
in gloom. And thus the play ends. Oh, God !"
He strode from the apartment, and his face grew paler,
even than usual, and his dark eyes flashed fire. There was
something, too, in the quiver of his lips, that told how
deeply the wound bled. Although experience had showed
him what she was, although he no longer loved her, yet this
willful desertion, in spite of himself, pained him: he felt
wretched.
He had no difficulty in tracing Count Giorgi as the lover
with whom she had flown. His friends advised him to save
his honor and his ancient name, by getting a divorce, and
abjuring her forever. He did so. All Paris sympathized
with him; all condemned her. What consolation was the
idle talk of a curious multitude to the broken-hearted man,
to the betrayed husband, the unhappy father, left alone with
his infant daughter, in a foreign land. For their opinions
he cared not. In the solitude of his house, he sat him
down by his desolate hearthstone. He thought how differ-
ent might have been his fate had he married Alexanderina.
He recalled her confiding gentleness, her abnegation of self,
her continued devotion to her mother and her younger sisters,
her ever-gushing tenderness, and the thousand intellectual
graces that hovered round her. Then he looked upon the
other picture. What had been his married life ? He had
married a splendid beauty, a talented woman, too, but way-
ward, spoilt by indulgence, selfish and indolent. Had he
THE ELOPEMENT. 71
ever experienced during his married life any delightful inter-
change of thought and feeling, such as he might have felt
had he married Alexanderina.
No! From the moment of their marriage to that of
their separation, all had been excitement, riot and confusion ;
if, sometimes, he wished to pass a quiet evening at home
with his wife, she was engaged for the Opera, If he wished
to read to her from some favorite author, she was arranging a
new dress for a ball. It was in vain to appeal to her feelings,
to surrender this artificial life. Ariadne had no feeling, as
I have said before, but for herself. When the allurements of
his attachment wore off, Lord Falmouth became utterly
disgusted, and gave up the attempt in despair. The birth
of their daughter made no change in the mother's life. She
continued as gay, as full of levity as ever. She felt no
sympathy for the child, and it was consigned to the care of
hirelings. But the father loved the little one, and it grew
.ind prospered, and when he gazed upon its azure eyes, he
thought it resembled Miss Kedar, and he resolved to return
to that distant land, and confide the infant to her care. He
longed to tell her how much he had suffered, how sincerely
he had repented his folly. The elopement of Ariadne only
hastened the execution of his plan, and a few weeks after
her desertion, he departed for America, to the regret of all
his friends, who deplored his absence.
CHAPTER XI.
REMEMBRANCES.
ONCE, again, let us re-visit Paradise. Is it as beautiful
as it was when Lord Falmouth walked through the shady
aisles of trees hand-in-hand with Alexanderina; and are its
inmates as they were then? Do the flowers bloom as
freshly, and the birds sing as sweetly as in those days ?
Or, are all changed? are all gone? or, are they dead?
Let us see.
There seems to be some alteration in the habits of the
family; for the long French windows which used to be
opened on the lawn, and in the evening showed the bright
lights of the drawing-room are now tightly closed. Not a
ray of light issues thence. The hum of voices, which used
to sound about the house, is heard no more. All is hushed
and still. The clean, smoothed gravel-walks also look neg-
lected, and the box-wood untrimmed. As the bright moon-
light flits through the trees, you can see that the flower-
beds are overgrown with weeds. What can these signs of
decay mean?
Is this fairy-like country-seat, which used to be the
abode of a happy family, and numerous gay guests, sud-
denly deserted; or, has Death been here?
A light gleams suddenly through the windows; presently
a door opens, and a female form comes forth, with a light
in her hand. She is clothed in white, and she shields the
flickering taper with her hand, as she slowly glides over
the grass like a phantom. She pursues her way to the
72
REMEMBRANCES. 73
end of the garden; there she pauses before a tomb! Who
is this woman, who comes at this hour to a grave ? And
what grave is this? who is interred here?
She sets down the light, and kneeling before the tomb,
clasps her hands, and bows her head, as if in prayer. As
the light falls on her face, we see that it is Miss Kedar it
is Alexanderina ! At whose grave does she kneel? A
simple inscription tells that that beloved mother to whom
she was a companion for so many years, and whose loss
she now so bitterly grieves, sleeps in dust, and her daugh-
ter, with pious care, prays over her grave.
The expression of her features, as she raises her eyes to
the broad expanse above her, is that of profound devotion.
Heaven itself could not endow a countenance with more
loveliness and faith than her's. There is a rapt cxtacy in
her eye, a hallowed hope in her face, which cannot be
described. Thus she remains motionless, inspired, and
silent, for some time, while the flickering light plays over
her face, and the wind plays through the forest trees.
A half hour, perhaps, elapses before she arouses herself
from thought; then she takes up the light, and pensively
and slowly returns to the house, frequently turning ere she
enters, to look at that grave.
She passes through the lobby, and enters the same draw-
ing-room where Lord Falmouth and herself had so often
talked together. No other light is there but the one she
carries; she places it upon a table, then she seats herself,
and, leaning her head on her hand, seems to think. The
furniture of the room remains the same, the mirror* hang
in the same position, and the chairs sit in the same places.
The inanimate objects seem to remind the young lady of
something, for she looks around wistfully, then she leans
her head on her hand and weeps.
74 THE VICE-PKESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
Presently, the door slightly opens, and an aged negress
enters. Seeing her mistress in this attitude of grief, she
pauses at the threshold, mutely sympathizing in the expres-
sion of her face; still her mistress neither hears nor* sees
her. The domestic advances, and kneeling by her side
endeavors to draw those tiny hands from her face. The
lady starts, and looks round; she sees the old woman, and
a melancholy smile steals over her sad countenance.
"Ah, my dear Miss Allie, why do you weep so much?"
asked the old nurse.
"Have I not had enough to make me weep?" asked her
mistress, sadly.
"Ah, yes, my dear lady, indeed you have; but it's no
use to cry. Your dear mother is gone from us, to be
sure; but your father is left. Pray, do not weep any
more."
" It is not that alone makes me grieve," exclaimed Miss
Kedar, as she gazed around the room so fraught with rem-
iniscences of her lover.
The old nurse caught the glance of her eyes. She knew
of whom she thought, for she had been at Paradise when
Lord Falmouth was there; and the tears started to her eyes
as she reflected how cruelly her mistress had been treated.
"Never mind, my dear young lady, better times will
come yet, I know; don't fret any more," said she, as she
saw the tears still dropping from her mistress's cheeks.
" I am afraid not. Mamma has been dead six months,
and there seems no change for me."
"Why, my dear lady, you can go to the Springs, and be
a belle, if you choose; and your father will provide plenty
of beaux for you."
"Oh, dear, I have no such ambition. To be a belle
would not give me the slightest pleasure. I would rather
REMEMBRANCES. 75
stay here, where my dear mamma is buried, and' look at
her grave sometimes, and take care of my sisters."
But sure you will ruin your health by fretting so much,
dear Miss Allie. Why not open the house, and have com-
pany to amuse you, as you used to have when Mistress
was living."
I could not do justice to any society, Juda; I am too
much pre-occupied. No, my good nurse, let me live as I
now live alone; it suits me best."
At this moment, the drawing-room door again unclosed,
and a beautiful child came running in, exclaiming:
" Oh, dear sister, I am so tired. Annie and I have been
playing till we are nearly dead, and now I want to go to
bed."
"Do you, my dear child?" said Miss Kedar, taking the
little one in her arms. "Well, you shall have Juda to
attend you: Where is Annie and Christina?"
They are up stairs, in mamma's room," said the child.
"At least," she added, correcting herself hastily, "in what
used to be mamma's room; for mamma has no room now,"
and the child's face saddened.
"No, our dear mother has no room now, love, but the
cold, dark earth," said her sister, clasping her in her arms,
and kissing her.
"But shall I not see mamma again some day, Allie,"
wistfully demanded the child.
" I hope so, love, in heaven."
"Where is heaven? What is it? Where does it lie?"
" We none of us can know that; we must wait and hope to
attain it, at least, when we die."
"But will it be a long time before I do that?"
Do what?"
u Why, die, and go to heaven."
70 THE VICE-PRESIDENTS DAUGHTER.
God alone knows when we shall die, love. We must
await our destiny, but when we do, I trust we shall meet
the spirit of our dear mother, in another and a better
land. And, now, go to bed, Juda will accompany you."
The child reluctantly quitted her sister's lap, took the
hand of her nurse, and left the room. The aged domestic
sorrowfully regarding her as she went away.
Then Miss Kedar seated herself at the center-table, and
drew from her bosom a miniature, set in gold and brilliants.
She bent over it, and by the light of the lamp, gazed long
and wistfully upon it. A painful expression took possession
of her countenance; to this succeeded one of sadness, but,
at last a smile broke through the gloom, and replacing the
picture, in her bosom, she took up the light, and left the
apartment
We find our gentle heroine alone at Paradise. Her mo-
ther, then, is dead. When did she die ?
Let us go back to the time when her lover married her
cousin, and went to Europe. When she recovered from
the shock of that unhappy affair, Alexanderina pursued her
usual duties at home, and devoted herself to her invalid
mother. The first bitterness of disappointment wore away,
but a chilling blight still lay heavily on her soul. We gen-
erally find that sudden attachments suddenly die away; but
it was not so in this case. Alexanderina had known Lord
Falmouth but two months, yet he had left an impression on
her mind that years could never efface.
She sought amusements in the gay world; she found it
not. She endeavored to become interested in other men;
the image of the absent one rose higher in her mind.
She compared his imperial presence, his splendid beauty,
his elevated mind, with the common-place worldings by
whom she was surrounded. She listened to their senseless
REMEMBRANCES. Tf
inanities, and then she recalled the liquid tones, the terse
language, the vehement eloquence of Lord Falmouth.
She sometimes imagined herself his wife, always with him,
ever permitted to learn something from his wisdom, ever
leaning on his arm, ever gazing in his beautiful eyes; then
reality aroused her from these dreams; then she looked
around her; then she wept.
So a year passed away, when Mrs. Kedar, whose health
had been wretched for sometime, suddenly died; and Alex-
anderina, was left entirely alone with her younger sisters;
for her father, constantly engaged in the vortex of politics,
could scarcely spare tune to mourn his wife's loss, although
he deeply regretted her.
According to her urgent wish, she was buried in the
garden^, at Paradise; and when circumstances allowed her,
Miss Kedar passed all of her time at the Villa.
She spent hours at the tomb of that parent, who,
when living, had been to her such a devoted mother.
She daily invoked, from the shades of eternity, that
blessed spirit to guard and cherish her and her infant
sisters.
When the Vice-President sometimes run down to Para-
dise, and found his daughter either weeping or silently
regretting her mother's loss, he would endeavor to persuade
her to mingle in the gaieties of Washington, to distract her
thoughts from these painful recollections. He talked to her
of celebrity for her talents, of a fine settlement by marriage;
but at the word marriage, she instinctively shrunk back,
and begged him not to mention it; and fame had few
attractions for her retiring spirit,
Her indulgent father, seeing her determined to remain
in seclusion, finally allowed her to do as she pleased, and
she continued her quiet life of regular monotony.
78 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER,
The days went and came; she scarcely knew how they
passed. She superintended the education of her younger
sisters, and busied herself in household affairs; but even
then many long hours each day hung heavily on her hands,
hours when she thought, that invisible visitor which she
wished to overcome, yet, like the skeleton at the feast,
thought would obtrude itself, and it always made her
sadder.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RETURN.
THE day after the night we had seen her at her mother's
tomb, Miss Kedar was in the school-room, with the childrer
and their tutor, hearing their lessons, when a landeau and
four horses came whirling past the window of the school-
room. The children and Alexanderina only caught a glimpse
of it and of two postillions following at the top of their
speed, ere it was gone, and they were wondering who conk
have come to the Villa, when Juda entered and said a gen-
tleman was in the drawing-room, and wished to see her mis-
tress.
" Who is it ? Do you know, Juda ? Who can it be ! 1
would rather not see any one to-day. Cannot you excuse
me ? Ask the gentleman's name."
These exclamations and interrogations Alexanderina
poured forth, ere her servant could reply. Presently Juda
answered,
"It is a gentleman, Miss. He wishes to see you im-
mediately. He did not give his name."
" I wonder who it can be. I must go, 1 suppose," said
Miss Kedar, rising from her seat, and giving the book she
held in her hand to the tutor. " Some gentleman, I suppose.
with a message from papa. Now, Amina," said she, turning
to the child who came to her the night before, in the draw-
ing-room, " be sure and know your lessons well to recite to
6 79
gO THIS VICE-PRESIDENTS DAUGHTER.
your teacher, and you, too, dear ones," to the others, be ye
also diligent."
" Oh, do come back to us soon, dear Allie," was the gen-
eral exclamation, as she left the room.
The drawing-room shutters were closed, as they had gen-
erally been since Mrs. Kedar's death. Consequently, the
Tight came dimly into the room, and Alexanderina had
stepped into the centre of the apartment, ere she discov-
ered her visitor.
He was standing with his back towards her, by the fireless
grate, leaning against the mantel-piece, and apparently look-
ing into the mirror, which hung over it. She coughed
slightly to attract his attention. The gentleman started, and
turning suddenly round, she beheld Lord Falmouth.
Yes, there, right before her, she beheld the idol of her
dreams, her faithless lover; the man who from the first
moment she saw him, never had been one moment absent
from her thoughts. The one whom it might truly be said,
had become embodied in her soul a part of herself; he
lived in her mind; and now she saw him again, or did she
dream ? or was it a vision of the dead.
She held her breath. She could not speak She was toe
agitated to scream. For a moment, neither moved, and
again the glorious light of those dark eyes were fixed upon
her. He was the first to recover from the surprise, and
taking one step towards her, he said, mournfully,
' It is thus we meet again, Alexanderina."
K Oh, do I see you," cried she, forgetting everything in
her joy at beholding him once more. "Is it really you,
Lord Falmouth, or do I dream ? " and she stepped toward
him. He advanced, and took both hands in his. She
allowed him to do so. She seemed to have lost all con-
sciousness of identity, to have forgotten time and place, anil
THE RETURN. 81
where she was. He drew her to a sofa, and she sat down
beside him.
"I have come back, my darling one. The wicked one
has returned at last. I ought to receive curses, instead of
this cordial reception. I have been a villian."
Miss Kedar raised her limpid blue eyes to his, bathed in
tears. In their pellucid rays, you might have read what she
felt, as she replied,
"Oh, don't speak of the past. All that is over. Let
it be forgotten. Let me 'tell you how glad I am at your
return."
" Glad at my return, are you, kindest and best of woman
kind ! And am I not glad to come back to throw myself at
your feet, and ask to be forgiven ? "
He then rapidly detailed what had occurred since his
departure for Europe, and finished by telling her that he had
brought his child to her care.
Astonishment held Alexanderina spell-bound, when he
informed her of Ariadne's elopement.
u Left you, you, for an Italian ? left you forever ! Oh ! I
cannot credit it ! " she exclaimed.
"It is but too true; she has gone forever. Now, I have
a divorce from her; I shall see her no more. Oh, God ! have
I not had enough to make me repent my folly, and have I
not sincerely regretted it, my Alexanderina."
And he again pressed those small hands in his, and this
time he ventured to kiss her white, smooth, intellectu.-il
forehead; then, glancing at her sombre dress, he asked for
whom she was in mourning.
" My mother is dead," replied the young lady, sadly.
"And after I left yon, she probably hated me, did
she not, and taught you to do the same, my Alexan-
derina?" 6
82 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
" Oh, no, my Lord, my dear departed mother never hated
anything in her life. She grieved, it is true, at past events,
but she never expressed herself violently. Since her death,
I have been so lonely that the sight of you rejoices me,
and, oh ! how pleased would she be, too, were she living
now."
" I am afraid, with all her benevolence, she would despise
me heartily. But," he suddenly remarked, " you must have
many admirers who sometimes wean you from these sad
thoughts. You will probably many, and a husband will take
the place of your mother in your heart."
" Marry ! " cried Miss Kedar, in amazement, while a pang
of agony shot through her heart, at his apparent indiffer-
ence. " Oh, no, my fate is sealed in that respect. I shall
never marry. I told my mother so on her death-bed. I
tell my father so every day."
"Does he wish you to wed any one?" asked Lord Fal-
mouth, looking at her with his piercing dark eyes.
"He often wishes me to choose some one and marry.
He thinks that the contingencies of life are less in the
married than single state," replied the young lady.
"And of whom do you think in relation to that condi-
tion?'' said he, almost sternly.
" I ! think of any one ! Have I not already said that I
should never wed. I see no one that interests me."
" Yes, I know that there are few worthy of you, or suited
to you, my good Alexanderina, but you ought to marry.
If I were worthy of you, I would try and make you care,
but I dare not, I have acted like a villian toward you. I
must not say what my heart prompts me to say. I must
be silent, and be contented to see you sometimes; to be a
friend to you only."
His face saddened, and dropping the hand he held in his,
THE RETURN. 83
he seemed to ponder. Miss Kedar laid her hand on his;
she looked at him with those eyes of truth and devotion
which never had deceived.
" Oh, banish, my dear friend, banish from your memory
these unhappy recollections,, Come and live at Washington;
my father, myself, dear Madame C , and our numerous
fiiends will once again surround you. We will form one
happy family together. You and I will be like brother and
sister " here she paused, and trembling, she blushed, for
she caught a side-long glimpse of his impassioned glances."
" We never can be like brother and sister to each other,
Allie. I do not love you with a brother's love. I should
only be deceiving myself and you, if I thought I could see
you every day, and still only regard you as a sister. Did
I love you as a sister, when I hung around you here two
long, unhappy years ago ? Were my actions like the calm,
unimpassioned interest a brother takes in a sister? Were
they?"
"Oh, no, indeed/' was her eager reply: "but
" I know what you would say," said he, anticipating her.
" Those times are fled. You wish me to understand that
in future, our relations can only be those of friendship.
Well, I acknowledge the reproof. I have richly deserved it.
I preferred your worthless cousin to you; you have a right
to disdain me."
" I disdain you ! Oh, my Lord, how can you say so ?
Have I reverted to the past in anger, and if either should
feel resentment, surely I have the better right to (b so?"
She withdrew her hand from his, and proudly drew herself
up, as she made the reply.
But a wild war of feeling was raging in Lord Falmouth's
breast. Remorse at his former actions, which the sight of
this amiable woman only served to heighten, the love which
84 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
had revived in his soul for all her virtues, the dishonor which
his shameless wife had heaped upon him, all these thoughts
rushed through his mind like torrents.
He rose abruptly from his seat, and began pacing the
room with disordered steps.
Presently, he stopped before the young lady, who sat still,
silently weeping.
" You weep, Miss Kedar, your eyes weep pearly tears, but
my heart has wept invisible drops of blood, since I saw you.
Oh ; how different might have been my lot, had I not been
blinded by an absurd infatuation," he exclaimed, clasping
his hands to his brow. She looked up through her tears;
their eyes met they felt that they loved each other still.
What mattered the past ! He was her idol, her only love.
She had loved him through perfidy, through absence,
through trials, which would have shaken the attachment of
other women into atoms. He had come back to her; he
asked to be forgiven, to be taken back again to her heart,
and he was forgiven. Almost unconsciously he fell upon his
knees, he extended his arms to the true-hearted girl, she
saw his eyes beaming with tenderness, she forgot everything
except that he was there before her, and she fell into them;
and as they fervently enfolded her, he murmured:
"Will you be mine, love?" she answered not, save by
uplifting to his, her azure eyes, and in their sincerity and
hallowed love, he read his destiny.
CHAPTER XIII.
EXPLANATIONS.
THE VICE-PRESIDENT and our lovely friend, Madame
C who had been a second mother to Alexanderina
since her mother's death, and all the other friends who knew
and loved her, all these were apprized of the strange facts
relating to Lord Falmouth. Some blamed, some pitied, but
all praised the Vice-President's daughter. The town, for a
week, was absorbed hi speculation and talk concerning Lady
Falmouth's elopement from her husband, and all the circum-
stances relating to it were detailed and amplified, until the
subject was worn literally thread-bare. Then gossip stopped.
not for the want of inclination to talk, but absolutely for the
want of something to talk about, and some other piece of
scandal claimed the public attention, and Lord Falmouth and
his treacherous wife were forgotten.
Ariadne's parents no longer dwelt at " Doux Ilepos."
Within the first year after their daughter's marriage, they
had removed to an estate he owned in the northern part of
Ohio, so they did not hear of their daughter's conduct for
some time after Lord Falmouth's arrival at Washington.
When at last they did hear of it, it was with feelings of the
deepest mortification and regret, for although vain and
worldly, they were not desperate, and utterly lost to pride
and shame. They endeavored to ascertain to what place in
Italy she had flown with the Count, but in vain. She had
succeeded in enveloping herself in so much mystery, that
85
86 TIIE VICE-PRESIDENT S DAUGHTER.
every trace was lost; they never saw, nor heard of theii
beautiful, but erring child again.
Meanwhile, a day or two after Lord Falmouth arrived at
Paradise, the Vice-President and Madame C came to
the Villa. Madame had not been there since the death of
Mrs. Kedar, and the place had many saddening associations
for her. She now came to see Alexanderina, and to per-
suade her to visit Washington, at least for a week or two,
and shake off her depressing feelings.
When the party arrived, at twilight, they found the chil-
dren playing on the lawn, and, on entering the drawing-room,
found Lord Falmouth and Miss Kedar seated side-by-side.
As yet, neither the Vice-President nor the Ministress knew
of Lord Falmouth being there. He had arrived at Paradise,
(it was indeed a Paradise to him !) he stopped at a forest
inn near the Villa, and there had not been time enough for
the news to reach ..Washington that he was there. Mr.
Kedar knew nothing- of it; when, therefore, he and the lady
entered, struck with astonishment at the sight of that which
they could not comprehend, they stood in silent amaze.
The lady recovered herself first, and exclaimed: "What
strange necromancy has been going on here ? What do I
behold ! Is it really you, Lord Falmouth, or the ghost
of former times come to re-visit Paradise; and you, my
gentle Alexanderina, whom I left in tears and deep grief^
whence comes these smiles and this joyous mien ? "
The entrance of the Vice-President and Madame C ,
had been so unexpected, that, for an instant, neither Lord
Falmouth nor Miss Kedar could speak. Both started, and
blushed, however, recollecting the familiar air they had as-
sumed toward each other, thinking themselves alone. The
manner of the charming Ministress was ga}', but a heavy
frown gathered on the brow of the Vice-President on seeing
EXPLANATIONS. 87
the man who had so cruelly deserted his daughter again by
her side.
" What, may I ask, sir, has occasioned my daughter the
honor of this visit, and for what purpose?" sternly de-
manded he, advancing toward the Englishman.
Lord Falmouth rose from Miss Kedar's side, and turning
deadly pale, confronted the angry father. Both gentlemen
were angered, and a fierce retort to the rude salutation
seemed starting to the lips of the nobleman, when Alexan-
derina, pale and trembling at this unexpected meeting,
threw herself between the two men, and, hanging on her
lather's arm, said, " Father, dear father, forbear. lie has
come back to me."
" Come back to you, you silly girl, come back to you
the husband of your cousin, a man who deserted you for
that flippant girl. He has come back to you, ha, ha; and
what do you mean by receiving the protestations of love of
a married man?"
Lord Falmouth was about to answer, but the young lady
waived him back, and she replied to her angry parent, in
her own liquid tones : " Father, this gentleman is no longer
the husband of my cousin. She has left him he is
divorced, and has come here."
"No longer the husband of Ariadne divorced!" ejaculated
the Vice-Preside nt and Madame C , in the same breath.
" What does all this mean ? Where, then, is his wife your
cousin?"
" Ariadne now lives in Italy with a Count," answered Miss
Kedar, blushing at her own words, while she cast an apolo-
getic glance at Lord Falmouth, as if to atone for what she
said.
Here Lord Falmouth spoke, and taking Miss Kedar's
hand in his, led her to the angered Vice-President " It is
88 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER.
even as your daughter has said, sir; my wife has wronged
me. She has left me forever; I am now wifeless. Know-
ing the character of your matchless daughter, I came from
France to this Villa, which was the scene of our short
courtship; of my desertion; and, I trust, of our future hap-
piness. I came two days ago, a lonely and disappointed
man; my domestic happiness was wrecked, and I felt de-
spairing. I only brought with me my servants and my infant
daughter, whom I wished to entrust to the care of your
estimable daughter for education. But, when I came, I found
old feelings were not dead in her heart, and we resolved to
become to each other what we should have been at first
husband and wife. I am rich, she is good. We love each
other. Those who love, who assimilate, generally are happy.
I beg that what has been may rest what has been. I entreat
you give us your blessing, sir."
There was something so touching in the proud humility
with which the nobleman spoke, and there was something so
entreating in the beaming eyes of his daughter, that, almost
unconsciously, the Vice-President extended his hands over
their bowed heads, and breathed a blessing on their united
loves.
Madame C , as if bowing before the host, also
bent her beautiful head, and a profound silence, for mam-
moments, reigned in this strangely re-united group, and
when each roused from the strange awe which enchained
their souls, in the eyes of each one might have been seen a
tear glistening.
" I sympathize, sir, with your sorrows," said the Vice-
President, with touching earnestness, grasping the English-
man's hand; "I agree with you that the past shall be
forgotten and forgiven; and I hope that now my daughter
will experience that happiness for which she so long has
EXPLANATIONS. 89
pined, and which, she always said, you alone could give
her."
" And I," said the sweet Ministress, suddenly startling
the group by her melodious voice. " What shall I say on
this unexpected occasion ? How shall I express the joy I
feel at seeing my fair favorite looking so well and gay, when
I anticipated seeing her lonely and sad, as has been too
much her wont since her beloved mother's death. What
shall I say to you, my Lord, who have been so strangely
and mysteriously brought back to her? How shall I ex-
press my gladness of soul; at this charming re-union, when
we seem all happy again together after so long a separation ?"
"You must attribute it, my dear lady, to fate, which,
without doubt, designed that we should be each other's joy
some day; and now our destiny is fulfilled, and you, dear
lady, shall be partaker of it. You shah 1 be my wife's adviser,
(nay, do not blush, my Allie,) and mine; and if my fancy
ever roves in future, you shall win it back again to her to
whom it is due."
" Take care," was the gay reply of the lady. " I am
afraid that you will be like all others of your sex. You may
require my good offices before you think, and I may find
myself an impotent enchantress; but," she added, with a ten-
der glance at Miss Kedar, " that could scarcely be with
such a lovely being; and now, if your dear mother could only
be returned to us, how happy we might all be."
" Oh, let us try and be happy as it is, dear Madame
C ," said Alexanderina, with a sad smile; "for mammn
is gone from us, and in this world we shall see her no more."
The Vice-President looked grave for a moment; though,
to a great politician, to a man absorbed in actions of mo-
mentous importance, the transient affections of home are like
a drop of water in the vast, unfathomable ocean. This is
90 THE VICE-PRESIDENTS DAUGHTER.
ever the case with great legislators, with men whose minds
are engrossed with stupendous actions, which require all
their thoughts, and not unfrequently absorb and swallow up
all their souls tenderness for the minor affections of life
Love to these men is the pastime of an hour; to a fond,
devoted woman it is the business of a life-time. This is
life.
For some moments silence fell upon the group, with their
hands clasped in each other, as if they feared some unto-
ward stroke of fate would again tear them apart. Lord
Falmouth and Miss Kedar gazed into each other's eyes in
rapturous silence. The Vice-President probably recalling
the memory of his lost wife, was sunk in thought; and in
the sparkling brown eyes of Madame C there stood a
tear. The Vice-President was the first to break the silence;
approaching them, he took their hands in both of his, and
addressing himself to Lord Falmouth said:
"My Lord, I give you my daughter, and I pray that
every hallowed bliss, every hope and love the human heart
is capable of possessing, may be yours jointly. I trust that
time, the great consoler of mankind, the panacea of life,
may console you for all you have suffered. I trust that
years, as they roll over your heads, may only add joys on
joys; and that time, instead of diminishing, may only add
brighter glory to it, is my most fervent prayer."
His voice sank into a pathetic tone as he closed this
invocation. He looked at his beautiful daughter; she who
had ever been to him so good a child. He felt that here-
after, another would be first in her heart; that the deep
love, the anxious devotion, with which she had ever
attended him would now be transferred to another; that her
lover would be first in her thoughts, in her nightly dreams,
and daily actions; and, notwithstanding it made him glad to
EXPLANATIONS. 91
see smiles again dawn on that pensive face, which, for so
long a time had not been seen to smile; yet, worldly and
ambitious as he was, the parting, mentally, from the dearest
object of his affections, gave him an emotion of profound
sorrow. The transient look of sadness, however, passed
from his face, and it again resumed the calm, impassioned
expression of resolution it generally wore, and taking the
hand of the Ministress, who had resumed her joyous
expression of face, he laid it within his arm, and turning to
Lord Falmouth and Alexanderina, he said:
" Come, let us all go to the supper-room, for I see by the
light that gleams in that direction, that tea awaits us, and, in
a strong cup of Bohea, we will forget our past sorrows, and
promise that, if consistent with the known inconsistency of
human affairs, we will be happy for the rest of our days,"
And they all left the drawing-room.
. CHAPTER XIV.
LAST SCENE.
AND, now, that I have brought my gentle, my much-loved
heroine, to an episode of happiness, perhaps, dear reader, I
ought to leave her, knowing as you and I do, that temporal
happiness is, of necessity from human organization, of limited
duration, that the blissful emotions all lovers feel when
first they reciprocate their passion, like the beautiful scarlet
cypress, is scarcely plucked and admired, ere the bloom of
the flower is fled; and, in the place of glowing color, we sec
faded hues; in the place of its slender, beautiful petals,
drooping leaves display themselves; all is changed and dead.
And so, stern philosophers say, dear reader, it is with pos-
session: the charms which please the lover's eye, wither in
the husband's arms; the air, and trick and manner, which de-
lighted him before he gained her, are unnoticed by him who
sees them every day; and, I verily believe, many husbands
and wives look at each other with astonishment, after time has
dimmed the ardor of their love to ashes, and wonder what
they ever could have seen to admire so mucky Certainly,
many grow very tired, and long to be released from the tie
which has become a yoke of burden to both; yet, I hope and
trust, in fact, I know and believe, that such sentiments could
never find a place in the sympathetic souls of Lord Falmouth
and Alexanderina. The fervor of novelty may have worn off,
and their feelings may have calmed down somewhat, which
is inevitably the result of all earthly emotions, but the
92
LAST SCENE. 93
affinity of mind, taste, habits and pursuits must still have
remained the same, and the light of their honey-moon
shed its tranquil radiance over their graves.
Yet one more scene, and we leave them.
Some days after their re-union, Madame C and Miss
Kedar were walking in the garden. They had left the Vice-
President and Lord Falmouth at the dinner table, and taking
advantage of the beautiful autumn sunset, arm-in-arm were
promenading through the same woods which had beheld theii
merry revels, the night of the masquerade. The trees were
as green and as beautiful as they were then, the flowers
bloomed as freshly, the skies were as bright, If there was
a change, it was in their saddened hearts, perhaps; not in
nature; that remained the same. Perhaps recollections of
those olden times came over their hearts, with mournful truth;
for, with that association of time and place, which gives
the tone to thought, . they spoke of what had been.
A turn in the walk brought them before Mrs. Kedar's
grave. Madame C paused, and read the simple in-
scription offered by a daughter to the memory of a mother;
then uplifting her eyes, she beheld on top of the monument
the figure of an angel, its arms crossed on its bosom, and
its' eyes raised to heaven, ius if about to ascend to the
skies.
" How beautiful that is," said the Ministress. " It
seems emblematic of your mother's spirit, leaving earth and,
with that faith she ever possessed, soaring to a better land."
" And so I hope that her's has soared aioft," was
the tearful response of Miss Kedar; and she added, clasping
her hands with earnestness. "How good she was; how well
she deserved a blessed future."
The lady looked at her friend with sympathizing eyes;
and wound her arms around her.
94 THE VICE-PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER,
" A truce to any more sorrows and regrets, my love; your
troubles are over, I trust, and a brilliant future will be yours,
I know. Your dear mother, my beloved friend, from above,
will look down and behold your joy; and your husband,
repentant of former follies, will do every thing to make
you happy; while I and my family will be witnesses and
partakers of your happiness."
And Alexanderina, with a look of heartfelt thankfulness,
grasped her friend's hands, and wiping the tears from her eyes,
said:
" God grant it may be so ! "
THE
WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
BT
MISS G. G. FAIRFIELD.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
GENEVIERE GENEVRA FAIRFIELD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern
District of Pennsylvania.
WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
CHAPTER I.
DARKNESS shrouded in impenetrable shades, the giant
cliffs of Dover. The heavens were lowering and black;
obscured by dense masses of heavy clouds, drifting hither
and thither; while occasionally the sullen roar of the thun-
der, or the fitful gleams of lightning, alone broke the solemn
stillness of the scene.
The flashes of phosphoric light revealed, beneath the
towering cliffs, the surging waves, as they beat against the
rocks, seeming to lash themselves to fury as the wind rose
and fell, and alternately urged them onward, and repelled
them, driving them in unavailing pursuit after each other
along the vast, unfathomable waste of water. These moun-
tainous waves, as they rolled onward into distance, now
rising, now falling, were at length utterly lost in the immen-
sity of that great ocean.
As the lightning traversed the sky, severing, with rude
power, the purple clouds hanging so darkly and gloomily
above the dark-blue ocean, those grand, tall rocks, and the
town itself, it gave momentarily to view, standing near the
verge of the precipice, an antique hostel, of so strange, so
97
98 THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
old, an appearance, that it seemed the natural and privileged
abode of storms and whirlwinds.
It was of the old Gothic style; and yet it looked half
Venetian, with its pointed gable-ends and close lattices, now
firmly shut to exclude the wind. As the gleams of light
occasionally revealed it, lowering so dangerously over the
dark abyss below, and separated some distance from any
other house, its appearance was indeed weird and ghost-like,
looking more like the phantasmagoria of a panorama than
reality.
Still the wind howled, and the lightning flashed, and the
thunder roared, and again the heavens opened; and this
time the lurid glare showed two forms struggling against the
tempest, and seeming to approach the Inn.
"Great God, what a night!" said one voice. "Never
have I seen the like. No 1 not even in the Mediterra-
nean."
" Did you tell me," said the other, " that a vessel was
expected in to-night ? If so, she will be lost utterly. No
bark could live in a gale like this."
" Yes ! The Saint Germain is telegraphed to arrive from
France this very night."
"Oh, terrible!" ejaculated the first. "But, hark!" he
cried, seizing his companion's arm convulsively. " Listen, I
hear something; it sounds like a wild shriek; perhaps that
was the ship in distress?"
" Pshaw, it is the stormy petrel you hear. You imagine
things, my friend. It cannot be the ship. I pray to God
that now she may be in safe keeping for to-night, far away
from this."
"Didn't you tell me," rejoined the first, "that the
Admiral expects something to arrive for him in this
Ship?"
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 99
"Yes, he expects some fire arms. We shall see to-
morrow, when the storm clears, what has become of the
Saint Germain. What a flash!" he exclaimed, as the
lightning wandered over his face. " Thank God, here we are
at the Inn. Open the door, quick, I am drenched with rain."
The blaze of light, as they entered, contrasting with the
blank darkness without, for a moment almost dazzled them,
but recovering, they looked around upon the cheerful scene
that homely kitchen presented to their view.
In the centre of the broad, brick-paved room, a great fire
blazed in the wide chimney, around which were grouped, in
careless ease, several hardy, bold-looking sailors, inter-
spersed with merchants, from the town of Dover, and numer-
ous other persons of different trades, some chewing, some
drinking, and merrily singing songs in praise of their loves.
A fat, good-natured looking woman, bustled around, whom
the sojourners called Mrs. Harding, and who was the hostess
of the Inn.
As the two visitors came forward, the bright fire light
showed that they wore the undress uniform of the midship-
men of the Admiralty service.
They drew chairs toward the fire, and sat down, after
requesting the landlady to mix two glasses of brandy and
water for them. The elder, who was tall and robust, and
appeared to take the lead, unbuttoned his great coat, which
was saturated with rain, and threw it on the back of a chair;
laying aside his hat also, he brushed back the heavy masses
of his black hair. The younger one remained silent, his
hands plunged into his coat pockets, and his eyes fixed in
abstraction on the brick floor.
"It's a very stormy night, sir," said one of the men
seated at the fire, addressing the elder of the strangers.
" Very," answered he, quietly.
j 00 THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
"You are from the Admiralty, I suppose, sir?" he con-
tinued. "You must have had a dreadful walk through the
storm?"
" Very disagreeable," was the laconic reply, and the oc-
cupant of the chimney corner, thus repulsed in his at-
tempts to open a conversation, became silent, as also were
the strangers. The other occupants of the room, after
staring a few moments, returned to their singing and
talking.
The landlady now emerged from a small room, opening
off a distant corner of the old kitchen, bearing on a tray
the two glasses of brandy, but on seeing the strangers dis-
tinctly as she approached them, she made a profound cour-
tesy, and, as if struck with astonishment at her own neglect,
exclaimed:
"Oh, I beg pardon, gentlemen, I didn't see who you
were, when you first came in. Pray walk with me, I'll show
you a parlor; this is only a common place, where the sailors
come."
The two officers rose, and followed her through a dark
passage, and up a creaking pair of stairs, lighted by a sol-
itary candle placed in a niche on the wall.
"It is a terrible storm !" said she, as she ushered them
into a small, but comfortably-furnished room. A lamp shed
a cheerful radiance around the apartment, and although no
fire illuminated the scene as in the kitchen, yet its general
aspect was attractive.
" There's no fire here, gentlemen, but if you would like,
I'll have one made directly, for, though it's mid May, we
always have fire in the kitchen, for the traders and sailors
like to sit round it of a night, and tell stories."
" It makes no difference, don't disturb yourself; this will
do very well as it is. We only came to your house on
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 101
business, or rather to see one with whom we have business,
who is staying here, I understand; but as it is so rainy a
night, I fear we will' be obliged to remain till morning.
There seems no prospect of it's clearing."
"No, sir," said the loquacious hostess, going to the win-
dow. " It's raging worse than ever. I should not wonder
if it lasted for several days: these gales of Dover often do.
Maybe you won't be thinking me over curious, if I ven-
tured to ask who it is you wish to see that's staying here ?"
"We have come from the Admiralty, especially to see a
gentleman we were told we should find here, called Lord
Glenfells. I wish if possible to see him to-night, for if the
wind should change, the storm will abate; and we can re-
turn."
"Ah, sir, do you come to see Lord Glenfells. Well, poor
gentleman that's to say," she added, correcting herself,
" he's a very great gentleman, to be sure, but then I call all
people poor, who are so unhappy. He seldom leaves his
room, and when he does go out, he looks as if he had lost his
best friend. They say he is very great; but sure, I would
rather be as I am, than as he is, and be so miserable."
"Here, my good woman," said the gentleman, who had
been writing on a card, without apparently having heard
her, " oblige me by taking this to the gentleman immedi-
ately, and bring me his reply. Then, if possible, get us
some supper, for my long walk has made me hungry, and
to all appearances we must spend the night here."
The hostess glanced eagerly at the card, as she departed
with it, leaving the two tumblers of brandy and water upon
the table. The younger officer drank his with avidity, then
walking to the windows drew back the curtain, and seemed
deeply absorbed in contemplation of the glorious scene
without. The elder, although he called for the brandy left
j^2 THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
it untasted, and continued gazing before him, as if in deep
thought.
No sound was heard within the house, save the creakings
of the doors and windows, as the blast shook the window
glass, and made the doors swing more heavily to than
usual.
Nor without could the human ear distinguish aught but
the incessant roar of the whirlwind.
The landlady returned; her face was brighter then when
she went.
" Sure, sir, you must be a conjurer, for the Lord Glenfells,
who has denied himself to every body who wished to see
hun for the last month, (and that's not a few persons,) no
sooner saw what you wrote on the card, than he told me to
say that he would be happy to see you this evening, if you
wished. Indeed, I thought he seemed quite anxious about
it, so if you please, I'll show you his room now, and then
go and see to having a nice supper got ready for you, and I
know you'll do justice to my cookery."
" I shall be obliged to you," replied the elder officer, in
a tone of courtesy. "Come my friend," addressing the
other, "let us hasten to see the object of our visit, since
he has given us permission to do so, and then get some re-
freshments and to bed, for I feel inconceivably fatigued, and
the storm shall be our lullaby."
The Avoman preceded them to the end of the passage, when
opening a door, she said, "Here, my Lord, are the gentle-
men who wished to see you." A low, sweet voice said,
"Bid them enter." The woman ushered them into the
apartment, then courtesying, went away. The door closed
behind her, and they found themselves in the presence of
the stranger.
This room was elegantly furnished. A soft, delightful
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 103
light diffused itself around, from a lamp suspended above,
casting circular shadows upon the heavy window curtain, the
carpeted floor, and flinging full their rays upon the lone
occupant, seated before a table on which was strewn some
papers which he seemed to have been reading.
He was tall, finely formed, slightly athletic, and dark.
The expression of his strongly marked features was sad and
somewhat stern, but there was a tender light mingling with
the sternness of those large dark eyes, which told of tender-
ness and devotion to be called forth at will. Although the
severely chiseled mouth showed that at times he could be
severe even to bitterness, yet the general air and manner of
the stranger was benevolent
He raised his eyes from the paper he was reading, as
they entered, and rising, said, with much urbanity, "Be
seated, gentlemen. I am happy to see you."
There was nothing startling in these simple words, yet
the "commanding, though chivalrous manner with which they
were uttered, seemed to embarrass the officer, for he re-
mained silent several minutes, then apparently rallying
his self-possession, said, "Lord Hastings, sir, under whom
we serve, requested me to deliver to you this evening a small
package which I take pleasure in now giving you," and he
gave to the stranger a small parcel which he drew from his
coat pocket. It looked like a package of letters, from the
exterior.
Lord Glenfells glanced at it eagerly, as if he wished im-
- mediately to open and examine the contents, but restraining
his curiosity, he placed it on the table, and said, " How is
my friend Hastings, Captain Lewis ? I have not seen him
lately."
"His Lordship is quite well, sir. He requested me to
present his compliments, and hoped lie should see you soon,
104 THEJWIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.'
but if this storm in which we have been caught con-
tinues, he probably will not be able to see you very
soon. This tempest may last some days."
" Ah, indeed, does it storm ?" said Lord Glenfells, in a
tone of abstraction.
"Why, is it possible you have not heard the raging
blast ? Listen, even now you can hear the thunder."
The stranger slightly turned in his chair toward the win-
dow. "Yes," he replied, "I now distinguish it; but in fact
I am sometimes so pre-occupied that I know not what the
weather is."
Another pause ensued. Lord Glenfells seemed abstracted
as if something held his mind in thraldom. Their errand
being accomplished, the two gentlemen rose to go.
" I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again in the
morning, I presume. You will remain here to-night, of
course," he remarked, as they moved toward the door.
"Yes, sir, we shall be obliged to stay, although against
our will, only having come from the Fort for the purpose of
safely delivering into your hands the parcel our Commander
gave me for you, and if it clears, I wish to get back as soon
as possible in the morning to the Admiralty."
" Do not go, I request, before I see you; I may wish to
return a reply by you. And now allow me to wish you
pleasant dreams and hallowed slumbers. Good night."
He smiled. Oh ! such a smile danced on his strong fea-
tures, as scarcely seemed of mortal birth; and waving a
farewell gracefully with his hand, the two young men
withdrew, strangely, yet pleasingly impressed with their
visit.
They returned to their room, where between the gossip
of their hostess, who favored them with an entire detail of
the stranger's daily habits, his daily conversation, of which
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 105
she seemed to retain a marvelous remembrance, and his
loneliness, and apparent misanthrophy. Between these
details, and the fine supper, two hours passed quickly away,
and then the young men retired to rest
CHAPTER II.
AFTER the officers went away, the stranger turned quickly
to the package, and tearing off the cover, with despeiate
haste, flung himself into a chair beneath the light, and
seemed buried in the contents of the letter.
His dark eyes sometimes dilated, sometimes contracted,
and his brow darkened into a frown as he read onward;
then he clenched his fist on the table, and the nails of his
fingers seemed to sink deep into the flesh of the palms.
His action seemed so intensely fixed, it was painful.
Presently his thoughts unconsciously found vent in words.
He spoke:
" Let me think ; it seems to me that I" have lost the power
of thought. What does my friend say ? where is the paper ?
let me read it again. I believe I am going mad, my thoughts
wander so. Oh, here it is. He wishes to console me; but,
alas ! neither he nor any other friend can do that; the wound
is deep; death alone will relieve me."
He took up the letter again, and blinding tears obscured
the page, as he read the following words :
" You can act upon these suggestions of mine, or not, as
you please, my dear Alexander; you know I offer them
solely from the kindest of motives the wish to win you
from these unavailing regrets which are now destroying your
manhood.
- " In regard to her, I am quite certain of the correctness
106
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 107
of my information. She was seen in the Province of Nor-
mandy three months ago, in company with a young man of
prepossessing appearance, whom she caHed her husband.
Our friend recognized her immediately by the description
you had given him of her, and more than all, by that
splendid, that fatal beauty, which is now the cause of your
sorrow. The past, my beloved friend, we can never recall,
and why should you grieve away the glorious days of your
youth in restless, jealous anguish, over the frailties of this
jost one. True, she may be as beautiful as an houri, but the
recollection of her charms is only a source of unavailing
grief to you now. I had hoped that time would have con-
soled you, but you seem as wretched as when first it hap-
pened. Cannot I persuade you to accept my proposition,
and accompany me to the Levant. There the melancholy
charm of Grecian scenery perhaps may beguile some of
these sad reveries away. Our government will willingly
change my position, and we will immediately depart, if you
consent. Think of it calmly, and tell me if you will do so.
" The Gods be with you. HASTINGS."
The stranger still pored over the page, as if he read it
mechanically, without realizing the sense of the words; then
suddenly starting from his seat, he traveled the room with
disordered steps; he swung his arms in air, and murmured
to himself in an angry tone, as he did so. The curtain of
the windows hung in heavy masses to the floor, but suddenly
pausing, he seized a mass of drapery in one hand and threw
it back from the window on a bracket, and then gazed
wistfully upon the scene without. A change had taken
place since the two officers, two hours before, had contended
so manfully against the elements. The sky was brighter,
but it was an ominous lightness, such as often happens
during a great storm, when nature, as if exhausted, pauses
IQg THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
as it were, to take breath, ere she re-commences her task
of carnage and death. Toward the horizon, the sky was
pale, dim and ghostlike, in its misty whiteness. Nearer the
centre, dark and dense clouds hid the dark blue sky. The
lightning had ceased flashing, and the thunder warring.
To these noisy sounds, a profound stillness had succeeded the
wild war of these conflicting elements, and for a moment all
nature seemed still. The landscape before the Inn, imper-
fectly seen by the obscured light, looked unreal and vision-
ary, like one of those scenes one sometimes sees in dreams,
which are intangible, and upon awaking we endeavor to
recollect it, but the mystical semblance eludes our thought.
Such an impression might this place have made upon your
mind, gentle reader, had you seen it; but I doubt if the
unhappy nobleman I am speaking of, saw it at all, or compre-
hended what it was. He still continued speaking to himself:
" He tells me to forget her; that the past can never be
recalled. Oh, God ! do I not know that it can never return.
What would I not give to take back those fairy hours when
I knew that she loved me, when looking in her beautiful
eyes, and listening to her sweet voice, I thought I saw heav-
en there? Oh, yes, and I ivas happy, -too happy to have it
long; but those days are forever past away, all that is dust
and ashes; and now I learn, after years of separation, that
she is living still with another in France. Yes, she forfeited
my love, disgraced my ancient name, deserted me, per-
chance for some worthless adventurer, with whom she is
now living, and. yet I love her still, yet I dream of her by
night, and think of her all day, and even now, I suffer the
agonies of jealousy I felt when she first left me. It seems
to me that if I could see her now in all the splendor of
her beauty, I would forgive her all the injury she has dono
me; but, oh! that can never be."
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 109
In his strange despair, he even seemed to regret the
opportunity of forgiving the unworthy one. Then, he
resumed, still following the melancholy train of his thoughts,
and looking on the landscape:
u Why do ye not blow, ye strange winds ? Why do ye
not rain, ye dark clouds ? Darkness and storms suit my
soul, which, dreary as those dark vapors, and lonely as the
moon when she presides alone in the sky, nor cloud nor
star is seen. Why was I ever born ? or why do I still live,
unhappy from a fatal passion which I cannot subdue, yet
which I know to be wrong?"
He raised the window sash, and resting his arms on the
sill, looked forth. As I said before, it was the middle of
May, though they had a fire in the kitchen of the Iim, but,
though ah 1 nature put forth buds and flowers in beauty, yet
sometimes the air from the ocean was chill and raw, requir-
ing, on those cold nights, large fires to render it of an agree-
able temperature.
Without, on the green sward, all was bright and beautiful
when the sun came with his golden rays to show it as it
was. Trees and flowers, jostled each other in gay confusion,
and the neat, quiet-looking houses of the town itself gave
life and animation to the scene. But now the intense gloom
which pervaded the sky except in one small corner in which
a livid glare displayed itself, prevented the stranger from
seeing the charms of nature, and he had no other view
before him but the mental retrospection of his own thoughts.
The faint light gleaming on the horizon's verge dimly
shadowed forth the harbor and the distant* ocean whose
waves tossed wildly and mountainously, breaking into rag-
ged edges of surge and foam. Beneath the cliffs they
roared and plunged as if endeavoring to climb upward to
the summit, while the towering cliffs above the turbulent
110 THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
waters frowned darkly over them as if reproving their
temerity.
Moment after moment flew away. As the stranger gazed
on, a change came over the scene, the dark clouds moved
away from the lower part of the sky, and, as the light
gleamed through them, the dun outline of a ship might be
distinguished, (so far distant that it resembled a child's toy,)
buffetting the rude waves, now struggling, now turning, it
seemed doomed to perdition. The sea momentarily broke
over it, obscuring it altogether, and when again it rose to
view, each time it looked nearer destruction.
The bark was too far distant to see the persons on it,
though doubtless many unhappy beings were anxiously
awaiting their doom. Presently an immense wave came
and completely engulfed the ship; the sea rolled over the
spot where it had struggled for life, not a sound was heard,
not even a shriek, to say that life had passed away. Like
a mote in the sunbeam, a drop in the ocean of time, perhaps
hundreds of human souls had in that moment died, unknown,
unsought for, and forgotten. The blue waves passed over
the ship's dark grave as before it sunk. Again the drifting
clouds darkened the sky, and cast their sombre shadows
over the waters, so that they could not be seen.
// " Thus it is with life," said the stranger, as he looked on
the sea;" thus will it be one day with me : the sea rolls on the
same as before that fated ship struck. The tide of life will
still roll on the same after I am cold in death. Who knows,
who cares, whether I live or die, whether I am happy or
miserable; when I am dead a tombstone will mark the spot
where I lie, and that will be the end; and is this all ? oh, is
this all?" *
He raised himself from his drooping position. Withdraw-
ing within the window, he closed it, and went to bed; even
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. ];Q
in slumber his beautiful dark features retained their fixed
expression of melancholy and sternness.
After breakfast, next morning, the young officers again
waited on Lord Glenfells, according to request, and he gave
them a letter to carry back to his friend, which he hastily
dashed off while they waited for it. On leaving him, he
cordially invited them to visit him again; and they were
about to go when one of the servants of the house came
running in to say that a vessel had been wrecked off the
cliffs the night before. The ship has sunk, but some of
the passengers were saved, having swam to the beach, and
they were bringing them to the house. " Ah ! " said the
younger officer, "that was the shriek, I heard last night.
The ship was then going ashore on the rocks; it must have
been the Saint Germain which we have been expecting for
some days."
"Yes; probably, after all you are right my friend," said
the elder. "It must have been the Saint Germain. Let
us go down to the beach and see if there are any traces of
it, and if the crew and passengers are saved."
"Gentlemen, that is needless. I myself saw the ship go
down last night," said the stranger, in a sad tone.
8
CHAPTER III.
THROUGH the open casement, the stars gleamed brightly
on the pair so strangely re-united. They shone forth from
the dark blue sky, the glorious, eternal ornaments of
heaven. Bright looked they as when first placed there,
and yet, how many thousands, tens of thousands, millions,
had mouldered into dust since they were hung there. The
air caine warm, and odorous of a thousand flowers, and it
played with the drapery of the windows, and lifted the hair
from the cheeks of the lady.
She had pillowed her head on his shoulder, and her large
blue eyes, so dreamy, so full of soul and feeling were fixed
upon that sky. But he drooped his head upon her lap;
and by the convulsive shiver that sometimes ran over him,
one might easily see that he was weeping. Presently
she spoke again, but her voice this time was feebler than
before.
"How often have I looked on such a night as this with
you years ago, when I was gay and innocent; and had any
one then predicted that I should meet you thus, how skep-
tical would I have been; yet thus it is, and time, which
should have found me wiser and better than in the days of
yore, which should have confirmed me in faith and duty,
only witnesses the death-bed of a faithless woman."
No no! you shall not die; you shall not! I say it; I
declare it!" frantically cried Lord Glenfells.
112
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
113
. "You cannot gainsay the law of life. You " cannot stay
the fleeting breath which is even now about to leave my
frame; but, oh! my Lord, I am happy, to receive forgive-
ness to hear you speak so gently to the erring one, who
has done so much to deserve your hatred and contempt.
And who knows?" she continued, clasping both hands
together, and uplifting her eyes, with an expression of
fervent devotion, "who knows but that our three spirits
yours, mine, and his may yet meet in a future
state of being, where, purified and divested of earth, together
we may rejoice in a blessed spirituality?" Oh, Alexander,
let us hope that it will be so."
He looked at her as if he gazed on one inspired, so illu-
mined with ferver and feeling was her pale face so ani-
mated the fire of her eyes ; but even as ho looked, a dark
cloud came over this brightness. Her lace suddenly flushed
deep crimson ; the blood flowed from her small mouth ; it
dabbled, with its red stain, the dress she wore. A vein had
burst, and it was hastening the event which a few brief
hours must have ultimately accomplished. She fell back
upon her pillows, and putting her hands to her mouth, they
were also suffused with blood. In agony, Lord Glenfells
surveyed her ; then, in confusion and anguish, he strove to
wipe away the fatal hemorrhage, but in vain ; it flowed as
quickly as before. Some moments she lay quiet, as if
unconscious, while he, almost paralyzed with fear, stood over
the bed. Then, opening her eyes, she motioned him to
raise her; he did so; he laid her beautiful head on his
breast, and took one hand in his. She seemed endeavoring
to say something, but the words died inarticulate on her
pale lips. Another, and a darker shade now passed over
her pale features ; the blood flowed with renewed violence
from her mouth ; her eyes were now suffused with a red
114 THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
light ; their lovely expression altered ; she no longer saw
him. Alarmed at this terrible sight, he anxiously called
her by name ; but she answered not. She opened her eyes
on him ; but they were cold and fixed. The hue had faded,
within ten -minutes, to a pale gray color. Speechless with
amazement, Lord Glenfells again laid her on the bed, and
knelt by its side. Too frightened to think of soliciting
assistance, he remained, as it were, in a dream, almost
doubting his own identity, or the reality of the scene.
Presently, the first agony of the paroxysm passed away.
A calmer light came over her sweet face. She extended
her arms, and drawing his face close to hers, she imprinted
a kiss upon his forehead. It was the first in many years
she had given him, it was the last ; for in that kiss her
life had passed away, and the sweet smile that played
around her lips remained imprinted there in death.
Alarmed, stupefied, Lord Glenfells uttered an involuntary
shriek, and hastened toward the door for assistance. As he
did so, two men came rushing in. They were the physician
and Lord Adonfion.
" Who is this ? What does this man want in my wife's
room?" sternly demanded the second husband, as he ob-
served the agony impressed on the other's face. The
stranger endeavored to stop him, and escape from the room
unobserved; but seizing him by the arm, he again de-
manded, "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"My Lord," said Lord Glenfells, calmly shaking off his
hold, and pointing to the lifeless form before them, "I have
just seen the death of my wife and yours. Five years ago,
that beautiful woman, now lying so stiff and cold, was my
wife ; now I find her yours. How shall we reconcile our
claims?"
" How, what is it ? What do you say ? I cannot
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 115
comprehend, pray explain?" said the physician, inter-
posing.
"Am I dreaming?" ejaculated Lord Adonfion, "she was
your wife ? Why you must be mad ! truly two days ago
we were wrecked off this coast coming from France to this
country. I have been the husband of this lady five years,
and to my knowledge she never was the wife of any other
man. And here in my own room I find a stranger bending
over my wife, who calls himself her husband ! Who are you,
I ask again? Tell me, what do you want?"
At this imperious demand the flashing dark eyes of Lord
Glenfells darted fire; but as he appeared about to retort in
anger, his gaze fell upon the lifeles s form upon the bed and
his anger fled. He calmly replied, "I can easily satisfy
you who I am in more than one way ; suffice it to say I
am Lord Glenfells, the lawful 'husband of that unhappy
woman. She deserted me; years have fled; I was unable
to obtain the faintest trace of her, when chance this evening
showed her to me once more, and I was in time to hear her
last words, to listen to her confession, to see her die."
"Die," shrieked Lord Adonfion. "Oh God, it is impos-
sible; I left her sleeping an hour ago; she is not dead." He
rushed to the bedside, and lifted one of the beautiful hands,
lying like a snow-flake on the coverlid. It fell back again
heavily by her side; but even this did not satisfy the dis-
tracted lover, for catching up the corpse, notwithstanding all
the physician and Lord Glenfells could do to prevent him,
he carried it to the window as if he thought the cool air
would restore life again. He kissed the still lips, he called
" Paradise " again and again; but never again, unhappy man
will that little mouth distill words of sweetness and love !
It is stilled forever, forever ! Oh, fatal word, and yet how
often we feel its truth.
116 THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
They succeeded in inducing him to give them the corpse
and they laid it back again on the bed. Then Lord Adon-
fion fell into a chair and sobbed; but Lord Glenfells' face
was composed again into its habitual taciturnity and sad-
ness, and after taking a long, impassioned, lingering look at
the lady, he turned to Lord AdonSon.
" Lord Adonfion," said he " we are strangers to each
other, we have never met before, and probably shall never
meet again. Our meeting thus, both being the husband of
the same woman, is truly extraordinary; so singular an
event, probably, never has happened before, nor will such a:
thing occur soon again. I am her lawful husband; you also
suppose yourself so; she deserted me; she deceived you;
yet her fine talents and her splendid beauty would have in-
duced many other men to have as blindly loved her as we
have done. Let us be friends, since the cause of our love
and grief is dead. Let us together render the last duties
to the departed as if we were brothers."
Lord Adonfion, without lifting his head from his right
arm on which it was pillowed on the back of the chair, ex-
tended his left hand and cordially grasped that of the
stranger, he seemed unable to speak from the violence of
his feelings, and, when some moments after he looked up,
Lord Glenfells was gone, and he and the physician were left
alone with the dead beauty.
CHAPTER IV.
SHE was buried on that rocky shore, and her two hus?
bands -were the mourners at the funeral. To have seen the
intense gloom of Lord Genfells' face, and the mournful sad-
ness of Lord Adonfion, one could scarcely have told which
suffered the most. Her grave was on a gentle promontory;
the waves washed the shore, and their soft murmur in a
calm was the lullaby of quiet grief, and in storms their
sullen roar was the loud requiem of sorrow over her tomb.
When the grave was filled, the sod pressed down over
the last repose of the beautiful lady, the sexton, the clergy-
man, and the numerous spectators departed, the two hus-
bands, with impressive earnestness, pressed each other's
hands, and bade each other adieu. Lord Glenfells returning
to the Inn, shut himself up in his room; Lord Adonfion, in
desperate haste, as if to forget himself and the world, depar-
ted from Dover, leaving the bewildered inhabitants to specu-
late on this ^mysterious affair. But, notwithstanding their
vulgar curiosity used every means to discover the secret, it
was so carefully guarded by the two persons interested in its
keeping that they talked and surmised in vain.
For some days after the funeral, Lord Glenfells refused
to admit to his apartments either the hostess or the domes-
tics of the establishment, his own valet Henri, attending
alone; but it was rumored by this servant, that his master
seemed absorbed in grief; that he continually walked the
118 THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
floor and talked to himseE Every night, too, whether it
was storm or brightness, he walked forth to her grave and
passed hours there. Thus he lived as it were with the dead,
for a month; when the two officers who came before to the
Inn, again made their appearance and demanded to see
him.
They were admitted. They found him again seated
before a table reading, as on the night of their first visit.
He welcomed them with the same urbanity, but a deeper
gloom and unhappiness was imprinted on his fine features.
" Gentlemen, I am most happy to see you again," was
his polite salutation, as they entered his room.
The elder officer started, as he noticed the sad change
wrought in the nobleman's face since last he saw him; but,
without appearing to observe it, he said:
" We have been sent here in advance, sir, to announce
that his Lordship intends coming here within an hour. He
has received Government orders to leave in the' Vengeance,'
for the Mediterranean."
" Going to the Mediterranean !" exclaimed Lord Glenfells,
speaking almost with animation. "Why, this is strange,
most singular you said nothing of* it to me when last I
saw you."
"No, we did not; neither did his Lordship know that he
should go there so soon. He only received his orders two
days ago, and the i Vengeance ' has been sent round here
to an offing. You can see her in the harbor from this
window. His Lordship was detained a little while at the
Admiralty, but will be here soon."
Lord Glenfells rose, and going to the window looked out.
Far away on the bosom of the blue, tranquil ocean, the
"Vengeance " reposed like a swan on a tranquil lake. Her
tall, slender masts, covered with white sails, spread to the
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 119
freshening breeze, and seemed to invite the zephyr's play.
The sparkling waves glittered in the sunshine, and gently
rolled over the spot where the lost ship lay.
With his back turned toward his visitors, Lord Glenfells
murmured as he gazed:
"Roll on, glorious ocean, silent and deep as my own
sad heart. Roll on, ye silent waters, now calmly smiling;
but your tempest and whirlwind suits me best. In storms
and darkness my soul now finds affinity, since she is gone
forever, who made the sunshine of my life."
The tears started to his dark eyes; but, with a violent
effort of his will, he repressed them, and, when he turned,
his face was as calm as before.
The hour passed quickly away in general conversation,
and they were still talking, when Lord Hastings was an-
nounced. Merry, fat, and good-natured looking were the
characteristics of his face, yet there was blended with its
light-heartedness much decision and force of character. He
was short, and rather fat in form, but withal, graceful and
high-bred in manner. Advancing rapidly toward Lord Glen-
tells, he greeted him with great cordiality, then turning to
Captain Lewis, he said with urbanity, yet still in a com-
manding manner, at the same time giving him a note:
"May I request, Captain Lewis, that you will give this
to my brother, whom you will find at the shore ?"
The younger gentlemen bowed low to their commander
and his friend, and both went away. Then Lord Hastings
turned with eagerness to his friend, and said:
" My dear, dear Glenfells, I have received orders agree -
able to my wish, sending me immediately to the Mediter-
ranean and the Levant. I know all, my dear fellow," he
added, with an expression of deep interest in his merry face,
" I most sincerely sympathize with and pity you. But all
120 ' THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS.
is over now; don't waste your life any longer in these bitter
feelings; they will destroy you. Come with me to the
South. The beautiful waves of the^Egean will bear us to
climes we have never seen. New scenes will divert your
mind and chase away these morbid moods. Come with me
in my fairy ship. She floats like a swan on the waters.
Together you and I will wander amid the ruins of Thebes,
Memphis, and Balbeck. Together we will philosophize at
Athens and Corinth. Let me persuade you to accompany
me; a few months journey will completely revive your health
and spirits. I shall see you again gay and witty as of old."
A melancholy smile flitted across Lord Glenfells' face. For
a moment he made no reply.
Again his friend urged him :
te I have come either to bid you farewell or to take you
with me, Alexander. I sail in two hours. Which shall it
be ? Will you persist in remaining here and grieving your-
self to a skeleton, or will you come to joy and pleasure, far
away from the associations of your misfortunes ? Decide
my friend, or let me decide for you?"
" Well ! " answered the other listless. " Do you decide
for me . "
" Well ! I am selfish; I want your agreeable company. I
want to wean you from regrets. I say, come."
"Very well," answered Lord Glenfells, "I shall be ready
in an hour."
" Call your valet, and let him get things ready for you ;
and, in the meantime, do you come and walk with me on the
beach. The scenery is delightful, and the air is very brac-
ing 'this fine morning."
Together they descended to the beach. On the way
they passed the grave of Paradise. " She sleeps there/ 7
observed Lord Glenfells, pointing to it. Lord Hastings
THE WIFE OF TWO HUSBANDS. 121
looked at it with an expression of interest; then, glancing
at his friend, he said, seeing the look of fixed sorrow im-
printed there:
"Tune will console you. Wait and hope."
" I will try," was the almost inarticulate response.
Two hours afterwards found them on the, deck of the
man-of-war. The sailors loosed the ropes, hoisted this sail,
and hauled out that, with incredible speed.
The stately ship gradually swung round to the breze
which filled her sails. As they rounded the promontory on
which Paradise was buried, Lord Glenfells wafted a blessing
to the shore.
"Farewell," he muttered, "to the first, last, greatest, only
passion of my life. Farewell; never again shall I be called
on to endure the torments of jealousy, or experience the
happiness of love. All those feelings with mo are past.
They are buried with you my Paradise. Henceforth,
welcome wisdom, thought, labor, anything that can prevent
me from thinking, from looking back. Farewell Farewell."
The ship went bounding on. * Let us suppose that it
bore the unhappy man onward to happiness, to what he so
ardently desired repose."
THE END.
IRENE;
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF
AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER,
MISS GERTRUDE FAIRFIELD.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
GERTRUDE FAIRFIELD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern
District of New York.
AUTHORESS' NOTICE.
[5 consequence of an unavoidable delay in the completion of i
Novelette, by Miss Geneveive Genevera Fairfield, which was orifriDflly
designed to conclude this work, Miss Gertrude Fairfield, her sister, will
supply its place with " IRENE."
It appears requisite to state this for the satisfaction of those who
might be perplexed with the new arrangement.
GERTRUDE FAIRFIELD.
TO
PROFESSOR HENRY W. LONGFELLOW,
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF ADMIRATION,
FOR HIS GENIUS
AND IN TESTIMONY OF HIGH APPRECIATION OF
HIS FRIENDSHIP FOR HER FATHER,
ran NOVELETTE is DEDICATED BY THX
AUTHORESS,
' * - ,-;*'
IRENE:
OB, TH
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER.
INTRODUCTION.
WE were at Naples at last. The goal of all my wishes
since we had entered Italy, and the dream of my girlish
years lay smiling and beautiful before me ; more beautiful,
more poetical, than I had ever imagined it. I had stood
upon the cloud-capped Alps, and seen the torrents, whose
sources are often lost in the clouds, rush over the rocks
into the ravines below ; I had gazed upon its pathless for-
'ests, its eternal snows and glaciers, and in those scenes
terrifically sublime,felt mingled emotions of awe, wild enthu-
siasm, and deep melancholy. In these majestic solitudes
nature seems omnipotent, and human beings mere accesso-
ries. The lonely grandeur excites only the imagination all
passions sink into insignificance. In Italy the heart and
the senses are as irresistibly awakened as the imagination.
This is especially true of Naples. The azure sky reflects
itself in the bay, whose waters, of a soft blue, lave the
base of the villas, gardens, and convents, that border the
long and gentle curve of the shore, from which the build-
ings rise amphitheatrically, till crowned by the castle of Si
129
130 IRENE ; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Elms. To the right of the city, about four miles distant,
rises Vesuvius, the villages of Portici and Resina, reposing
at its feet, while to the left, close to the extremity of the
city, projects the gentle promontory Posilippo, covered with
beautiful villas, towers, gardens and groves. In the back-
ground tower the bold and many colored peaks of the
Apennines.
The balmy softness of the atmosphere, the enchanting
haxmony of everything around, insensibly tranquilizes ; it
seems to me that only images of beauty, and love, visited
this soft clime.
I, a wanderer from America, traveled with my daughter,
a child of ten, an English lady and dear friend, and her hus-
band. Together we had visited Switzerland, Rome, Flor-
ence, and Pisa, and my friend, though not as great an en-
thusiast as myself, still had gazed with delight on all that
was great and beautiful.
It was Carnival time, but its gaieties were almost over 5
Lent approached. Mrs. L and myself were both Cath-
olics, with the difference that she possessed some of the
intolerance common to this religion in England, and on the
Continent, while I in my faith had no prejudice; religion
like politics in my happy land, is free and enlightened. It
is the custom with many devout Catholics in Italy to renre
to the sacred privacy of a convent during this season. Mrs.
L wished to do so, and urged me to accompany
her. After a little hesitation about leaving my child, whom
I thought too young to go with me to such profound seclu-
sion, I concluded to confide her to the care of Mr. L
and her governess, and the first week of Lent we entered
the convent of the Holy Cross, standing on one of the gen-
tle hills a little way out of Naples, commanding a splendid
view of the city and the bay. There were about a hundred
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 131
sisters in the convent, simple-minded, devout women, in no
way differing from the generality. The only one among
them possessing any distinguishing traits, was the ahbess,
Mother Cecilia. Her mild and serene face still retained
traces of beauty, and her kindly manner immediately at-
tracted me.
We had been in the convent some days. One evening
Mrs. L , Mother Cecilia, and myself were wandering
through the aisles, looking at the cells of the nuns, and the
little altars to the Virgin at the end of them. We entered,
at last, a wing of the building containing only one cell, the door
of which was closed. " Whose cell is this, mother ?" I asked.
" It is no one's now, my child ; it was once occupied by
one I dearly loved."
"And she is dead, dear mother? " suggested Mrs. L- .
* I do not know, I hope not. She was not a nun, but a
stranger, an English lady, who sought retirement here, suffer-
ing with deep grief. Would you like to go in my children ?"
" Yes, much," we said, our interest excited by her words.
She took a key from a bunch by her side, unlocked the
door, and we entered. It was a cell the same size as the
others, and furnished with' the same severe plainness. There
was no carpet on the floor ; under a window, looking out on
the beautiful grounds, stood a table, scattered over with
writing materials; beside it was an arm chair. A pallet
occupied one side of the wall, opposite hung a,few shelves
piled with books. But for the dust thickly settled on every-
thing, the cell looked as if its occupant had just quitted it,
I gazed around with that undefmable melancholy one feels in
beholding a deserted abode.
" Mother," I said turning to her, "this place seems to me
very lonely."
" And to me very sad ; everything is as it was when she
132 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
was here I permit nothing to be altered." The eyes of
the good mother moistened.
"Do you know the history of this unfortunate la,dy?"
asked Mrs. L .
"Would you be pleased, if I should relate it to you ?"
"I should be delighted/' I said eagerly, all my love of
romance excited by this mysterious, melancholy being.
"There is the bell for evening prayers, my children, I
have no time now. To-morrow I will relate to you all that
I know concerning her."
We went out, the door was closed and locked, and we
went to prayers.
The next day, an hour before dusk, the abbess entered
our cell. She held in her hands a piece of tapestry work
and a portfolio. She seated herself and said,
"I come to fulfill my promise, that is, if you have not
lost your interest in one unknown."
I assured her we had not, and after a short, thoughtful
pause, she began :
" One morning, four years ago, I was summoned to the
reception room. I opened the wicket and saw a gentleman
of noble, venerable appearance, sfttnding beside a chair, in
which a lady was seated. She was dressed in mourning, and
a veil concealed her face. The gentleman advanced to me
and said,
" Are you the mother Superior, madam ? "
" I am sir," I replied.
"And you receive here, I believe, persons who desire to
retire from society for a time ? "
"Any one of our faith can go into retreat here, sir."
" This lady has just recovered from a dangerous illness,
occasioned by grief for the loss of friends. She desires to
leave society for a time, and I would be glad if she could
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 133
enter here, as you have the reputation of being benevolent.
She is not a Catholic in profession, but in faith I believe she
is. Would this be an objection to receiving her ? "
" According to general custom, sir, it would be, but as she
is a Catholic in faith, I waive the rest. Are you a relation
of the lady, sir ? "
"No madam, simply an old friend of herself and her
husband. I confide her to your care with confidence ; any
sum you will name, as compensation, shall be paid." After
a moment's reflection, I told him the amount I considered
sufficient. I was about to ask if he would visit his friend,
when he said,
"Florence is the residence of this lady, and also mine.
I am obliged to return immediately. She has no relatives
or friends here ; she leaves Florence for change of scene and
entire seclusion. The Countess Giolamo is her name this
is mine," and he handed me a card on which was written,
"Count Louis Foresti."
He turned away and approached the lady, who, during our
conversation, had sat as silent and immovable as a statue,
and said a few words to her in a low voice. She rose, laid
her hand upon his arm, and averted her head from me, but
I saw her raise her handkerchief to her eyes with a trem-
bling hand, while he continued to speak to her. After a
few moments, he bent down and pressed his lips gently to
her forehead ; she sank into her chair, and coming quickly
to me, he said, "If anything should occur that you wish
to inform me of, write to me at Florence. Adieu madam,"
he bowed to me, and hastily quitted the apartment.
I opened the door and went to her, and said as kindly
as possible,
4< Will you be kind enough madam to follow me into the
convent ? "
134 IRENE J OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
She got up without a word, and walked by my side to
one of the cells, appropriated to ladies in retreat, somewhat
better furnished than our own, as you know. I ushered her
in and then left her for a moment, to attend to the call of
one of the sisters. When I returned she was seated by the
window, drying the last tears from her cheeks. She had
taken off her hat and shawl, which had so completely shrouded
her, that I had formed no idea of her age or appearance.
I was greatly surprised to see a young woman, not more
than twenty-one, and spite of the marks of grief and illness,
a most beautiful creature. She was above the medium
height, and though very thin, her form was exquisitely
symmetrical. The marble whiteness of her complexion
was enhanced by the contrast of her splendid dark brown
hair, arranged in bands falling on her cheeks. Her features
were regular and delicate, and her large almond-shaped
eyes of a deep, soft blue.
"My dear daughter," I said approaching her, U I hope
you will be happy with us ; you will find companions among
the sisters, if you desire it, of your own age.
" Thank you, you are very kind, but I should be but a
poor companion for any one."
I perceived by this reply, and by her abstracted look,
that she wished for solitude, and so I left her. Sister Mar-
tha carried her meals to the cell that day, as she requested
it, and the next morning I saw her again. She was dressed,
but lying on her pallet with her eyes closed ; she heard
my step and rose quickly, and said in her musical, sad
voice,
" Good morning mother."
" Good morning my child, how are you ? "
"Well I thank you; pray be seated." I sat down and
she continued,
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 135
a I am going to ask a favor of you, I want to change my
cell. I hear the sisters talking and laughing around, and it
disturbs me ; don't think me morose, I have been so ill, and
the slightest thing troubles me. I should like a cell re-
moved from the others, where I might be quiet."
I was not much surprised at her request, and remember-
ing the cell in the wing, I mentioned it to her, and asked
if it -would please her to have it. She accepted immedi-
ately, and that day removed there. She preferred, she said,
that her cell should be furnished just like the nuns, and so
it remained. She asked me to allow her to take her meals in
her cell, and her youth, loveliness and misfortunes interes-
ted me so much, that I consented to whatever she wished.
She expressed no wish to see either myself, or the sisters,
and we had too much delicacy to force ourselves upon her.
Weeks months passed ; I saw her only at mass on Sun-
day, and then exchanged a few words. Sister Martha said,
she often found her weeping bitterly. She had been with
us five months; I had never entered her cell. One day
Sister Martha told me the lady was ill, and wished to see
me. I went immediately to her. She was in bed, and
looked languid and feverish ; I sat down by her, and she
gave me her hand and said,
" I am glad to see you mother, perhaps I am going to
have another long, dreadful illness, and this time it may
take me out of the world ; promise me that you will, if I
am very ill, write to Count Foresti to come here. I tell
you now, because I may become delirious."
" Oh, my dear . child, you must not talk so ; I am the
physician of the convent and will administer something that
will cure you immediately," I said cheeringly.
"I wish you to promise me, good mother."
" Certainly my child, if it is necessary it shall be done."
136 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I remained with her as much as my duties would permit,
and the remedies I gave her stayed the course of the fever,
and in a few days -she was almost well again. During this
time a very tender intimacy grew up between us, I hardly
know how. She was wearing away her life with grief, and I
strove with ah 1 my power to cheer and console her, and my
sympathy won her gratitude and affection. As soon as she
got well, we took long walks together in the grounds. I
often gently urged her to confide to me the history of her
life. At first she refused. " Ah, dear mother," she would
say, "it would only pain you, and be of no use to me."
*Not so, my dear child, dispassionate, to retrace the past,
severely to judge yourself, would calm you ; you would find,
doubtless, that you have done as nearly right as frail mor-
tals ever do."
"I have much to regret perhaps, but your interest is so kind,
I will endeavor to summon courage to write my life for you."
Very frequently after that I found her writing, some-
times bathing the pages with her tears.
Another six months passed. One day I was sitting with
her, when the portress came to tell me a gentleman wished
to see me. I hastened to the reception room. I saw a
magnficent looking man standing in the little parlor; his
face was agitated ; he came to the wicket and said,
" Is there a lady here, bearing the name of the Coun-
tess Giolamo."
" There is sir," I answered.
"Will you be kind enough madam to give her this
letter? I will wait here for an answer."
I took the letter to her myself, wondering what it could
be. She was pacing her cell ; I held the letter up to her.
"For me? From my friend, the Count?" she said,
eagerly taking it.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 137
The moment she saw the superscription, she turned pale
and fell into a chair, dropping the letter on the floor.
" What is the matter ? " I said, picking it up, and giv-
ing it to her.
She opened it tremblingly. Wishing to wait ibr her
reply, I walked to the window and waited. Suddenly the
Countess uttered an incoherent exclamation; I turned
quickly; she rose from her seat, took a few steps toward
the door and fell insensible. I caught a pitcher of water
off a table, raised her head upon my knees, and bathed her
face and hands until she recovered. "Ah what is it?
Where am I? It was a dream, then," she exclaimed,
rising and gazing wildly around. Then seeing the letter lying
on the floor,she seized and pressed it to her lips passionately.
" Ah, if it is true if it is only true, how happy how
blessed I shall be ; but he is waiting, take me to him,
quickly, I implore you."
I guided her to the reception room. Joy lent her wings,
she flew along before me, pulled the wicket door open and
rushed in. I withdrew.
It was nearly three hours before the bell told me the
stranger wished to depart. The portress went and unlocked
the doors, and returned with a request from the Countess,
that I would come to her cell. I went, curious and anxious
to know what had occured. She was pacing to and fro, her
eye-lashes and her flushed cheeks were wet with tears, but
her face beamed. She threw herself into my arms. " Oh !
I am happy so happy; my poor head throbs so I can
hardly stand; but alas! there is something sad in every-
thing. I must go and leave you to-morrow morning."
"How I shall regret you, my child," I said.
She laid her hand upon a manuscript on the table and
said,
138 IRENE f OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
" This is the history of my life you have asked me for.
I shall add a few words to explain what you have just seeo.
You will read it, and think of me, when I am far away."
I bade her "good night," and left her to her joyous
thoughts.
Early the next morning the gentleman came. I went to
bid her adieu with a heavy heart. She was ready and I
walked by her side to the gate. She threw her arms around
me, I pressed her to my heart and murmured, " God bless
you." She passed through the gate, it closed after her
she was gone. I found the manuscript on the table in her
cell ; I read it with deep interest, passing over some hereti-
cal passages, which you, if Catholics, will do well to do also,
in reading it.
The mother took the manuscript from the portfolio and
gave it to me. My curiosity excited by her narrative, I
immediately read the Autobiography, and took the trouble
to copy it so that I might retain it. Having explained
how it came into my possession, I shall no longer detain
my readers from it.
CHAPTER I.
IRENE'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
Mr earliest recollections are very desultory and confused.
A woman with a graceful form, soft eyes, and a sweet sooth-
ing voice, is associated with my infantile years. Something
tells me that those kindly eyes, and gentle tones, can belong
only to my mother. This sweet but intangible impression
is* all I retain of her.
Next, there is a little tottering creature, that I lead
about and play with, and a tall man with dark eyes and
raven hair, who holds me in his arms and carries me round
a large room, showing me things I cannot comprehend at
all, but which I know now were pictures. There is a blank
in my memory ; time has elasped. I have become quite a
large girl, and my little sister Estelle has grown almost as
large as myself. We are living in lodgings, a large room
where we sit all day, and study our lessons to recite to our
father; and two little bed-rooms, one occupied by Estelle,
myself and a servant, who takes care of us ; the other by
our father. From this time everything is clear in my
memory.
The large apartment, at once dining and sitting room,
was also my father's studio. A curtain fastened across the
lower part of the window, allowed the light to Ml on the
picture resting on the easel. Portfolios of engravings,
busts, casts, and statues, used to excite my childish
wonder and delight. I never tired of admiring the bright
colors ranged on the palette, and the large manikin who
139
140 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
had such pretty dresses. I have sat for hours,, my book
upon my knee, gazing at the picture as it grew beneath
my father's hand. Some of the beautiful creations of his
fancy are indelibly imprinted on my memory. There was
one, representing in miniature, the fable of Diana and En-
dymion. Azure hills and streams in the distance, towering
rocks and soft green sward in the foreground, were bathed
with the tranquil light of the moon. Near the entrance to
a cave, almost concealed by luxuriant foliage, on a gentle
eminence of moss-grown rocks, half reclined Endymion, his
long fair locks curled from his broad white brow. It was
the Endymion of the poet. * The dark tender eyes dwelt
on the daring goddess of the hunt, who reclined beside him,
her head upon her arm and that upon his shoulder. A
hunting dress of green descended below the knee, sandals
on her feet, and round her proud brow gleamed the golden
crescent. The greatest charm of the picture, the deep mys-
terious silence that seemed to breathe from it, broken, one
would imagine, only by the sighs of love. I was too young
to understand or appreciate ; but the ideal loveliness of the
forms, the beautiful softness of the coloring, touched here
and there by sharp rays of light, excited the love of the
beautiful, inherent in my nature. The other was a full
sized head and shoulders of the Magdalene, the hands clas-
ping an ivory cross upon the bosom, a mantle of black
serge fell upon it, the neck revealing the full throat and
heaving bosom. Her magnificent dark eyes were uplifted
to heaven, shining through tears ; they stood, too, upon her
pale olive cheeks, surrounded by long, dark, unconfmed tres-
ses, and on her mournful robe. Since then, I have gazed
on the Magdalenes of the great masters, but none to my
mind were more beautiful than that sorrowing face.
In writing of these, how vividly rises the recollection of
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 141
my father. Ah ! how often I have seen him standing before
his easel, his fair black hair brushed from his beautiful brow,
eloquent with thought. His clear olive complexion, noble
features and beaming smile, they are all before me as I
write. I was then, I suppose, about eight years old, too
young to be a confident of my father's disappointments and
sorrows; but, child as I was, my heart saddened when I
saw his face clouded.
CHAPTER II
WE had been living in this place some months, I do not
know exactly how long. Our life had been exceedingly
monotonous and solitary; for Estelle and I to study our
lessons, repeat them to our father, eat lunch at twelve, and
then amuse ourselves with plays or books until towards
evening, when our father, resting from his labors, took us to
walk in the crowded, busy streets ; this was the routine of
every day, and though one would not think this life suited
to light-hearted children, yet we were happy till a sad change
came.
Day by day I noticed things disappearing from the studio.
In the course of a few weeks all the statues, busts and some
of the pictures had gone. At last the manikin went away.
I could not understand what it meant, and asking my father,
he told me with a sigh that they were sold. Sometime
passed ; one morning my father instead of sitting down at
his easel, as usual, dressed himself to go out, and then called
Mary, our faithful and kind servant to him.
"Mary," he said, "what do I owe you?" She told him.
He took some money from his pocket-book and paid her,
and said, "I shall not want you any longer, Mary." I and
Estelle were leaning on the arm chair in which my father
sat. I saw Mary's face become red.
" Have I done anything to offend you sir ? " she said.
142
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 143
* No, Mary, I have no fault to find with you. I discharge
you because I cannot afford to keep you,"
"But the children, sir, what will they do ? "
" They must learn to do for themselves."
Mary turned quietly away and went into our little bed-
room. I followed her. She began tying up her clothes in
a little bundle, while I stood gazing at her very sadly, won-
dering what Estelle and I would possibly do without her.
Presently she finished and came to me.
"Good-by, Miss Irene, I am sorry enough to leave
you," she said.
"Good-by Mary," I replied, walking after her into the
hall. At the head of the stairs she paused a moment and said,
u If you ever want me, Miss Irene, you will find me in
street, between and ."
The names have long since escaped my memory. I told
her I would come and see her,and then went back intotho room.
"Come here, Irene," said my father. I went to him.
Estelle sat on one knee, he took me on the other.
"Irene, my dear child, you will have to take care of
yourself and Estelle hereafter. Dress yourself and her,
and take care of your clothes. I know you are very young
to do this, but poor children, you have no mother and I
have not money to pay a servant, or even to stay in these
lodgings. I must get a cheaper place. You are a dear,
thoughtful child, Irene, and you will try to do for your
father what he tells you, won't you ? "
I was not very self-confident, but his tone, his sad face,
moved me so, that I laid my cheek to his with tears in my
eyes and said,
"Dear, dear pa, indeed I will."
" I must go now and look for a place to take you to, for
this does not belong to me after to-day. While I am gone,
10
144 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Irene, take your first lesson in doing for yourself, by pack-
ing your and Estelle's clothes, books, etc., in your trunk."
He put us down, kissed us and went out. I stood look-
ing round, wondering where I should begin. There was
nothing here belonging to us, except our school books; I
gathered them up and went into my little room, followed by
Estelle. I opened my trunk and laid them in. Then I
looked round, found our night clothes and put them in next.
Dresses, books, shoes, followed pell mell. When I had
closed and locked the trunk, and put the key in my pocket,
I thought that though it might have been, more methodi-
cally done, still such things were not so frightfully difficult
as I had imagined.
This done, I brushed Estelle's hair and my own and re-
turned to the studio, wandered round, looking at the pictures
and out of the windows for two hours, that went very slowly,
till my father returned. I ran to him and drew him by the
hand to see how I had obeyed him.
"Ah! what a good child, everything packed. Now I
must be as industrious with my things. I have got a place f
not as comfortable as this, but ," he stopped and sighed
heavily, hastily returned to the studio and commenced his
preparations. In an hour all was ready ; our luggage was
put on a cart and we walked after it, holding our father's
hands. Up and down many long streets, and we came at
last to a narrow, dirty street, and stopped before a mean old
houses' -
" This is the house," said my father.
We ascended the steep wooden steps. An old woman
admitted us. We went up a long-flight of stairs and entered
a scantily furnished room. A double bed stood in one cor-
ner. A door opened into a room as small as a closet, con-
taining- a cot. This was to be our future home.
145
The easel was set up. The school commenced over
again everything in the old course, only our father was
frequently absent, and we had to get accustomed to solitude.
Our domestic arrangements were very simple. My father
furnished the provision, which the servant of the house
cooked ; and we took our meals in our room. My father
occupied the little bed-room: Estelle and I slept in the
lar^e bed. The servant atiended to our room.
CHAPTER III.
The long, dreary winter passed monotonously. Very fre-
quently we had not sufficient food or fuel to render us
comfortable. As spring drew on things grew worse ; some-
times we had nothing but bread to eat, and our poor father
was worn and pale with toil and anxiety. Summer went in
the same way ; our only recreation was a walk in the hot,
dusty streets.
This life, strange and solitary for so young a child, made
me thoughtful beyond my years. By degrees my father
came to look upon me as a companion, and confided to me
many of his difficulties and sorrows. Winter approached
again. It was impossible for my father to pay for the rooms
we occupied, and so we removed again. Two small rooms,
uncarpeted and uncurtained; a few wooden chairs, a pine
table, and a little stove; this was all the furniture our new
abode contained. We slept on straw beds, placed on cots,
and with such scant covering, that very often, Estelle and I
lay shivering for hours before we could sleep.
Through his own exertions and the influence of the last
friend, evil fortunes had left him ; my father was engaged
to paint the portraits of a family living in H , a few
miles from London. He went to them every morning, and
thus we were left alone all day ; but at sunset he returned
to us. At the sound of his dear, familiar footsteps on the
stairs, we rushed to meet him, joyfully kissed his hands, his
146
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 147
noble sad face, led him in, and when he was seated, climbed
upon his knee, to hear him relate the incidents of the day.
Often, in the long weary hours of his absence, after our
lessons were finished, we were at a loss to amuse ourselves.
One day, looking over a box of books, the only relics of
happier days, I found among Greek and Latin books, works
upon the fine arts, and a volume of Byron. I seized on it
with delight and soon lost myself in its pages. I could not
then understand these great and sombre thoughts, but with-
out knowing why, I always felt melancholy after reading it.
In after years I have felt the same, in reading those dis-
heartening, desolating views of life perhaps, alas ! too
true and yet no no faith, even if it deceives, is a fur
wiser philosophy. The belief in a supreme and benign
Being, is necessary to reconcile us to the inevitable and
irremediable evils of life. Ah ! there are moments, when
the greatest and proudest repose their weary, doubting
spirits, on the thought of the great Infinite. But I wan-
der let me return.
My father had completed all but one of the portraits he
was engaged in painting. One cold morning it was storming
violently, my father went away, saying, with a long sigh,
" My poor little ones, always alone ; be good, dear children,
and I will return early."
The day wore heavily away. At two o'clock the servant
brought our little dinner. When we had finished the things
were taken away, and we stood with our arm round each
other, looking through the blurred window panes into the
wet, comfortless streets. It rained so that it grew dark very
early ; I lighted our lamp and we listened every instant for
our father's step.
Minutes lengthened into hours, still he came not. We
sat clinging to each other, terrified at the loneliness and
148 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
deep silence, broken only by the pattering of the rain, afraid
to speak or move.
A night of storms is always melancholy, especially to
lonely children, assailed by a thousand vague terrors. We
heard a bell strike .nine, ten, eleven, and then, weeping with
grief, such as only helpless children know, we undressed,
fastened our door and went to bed. Estelle slept almost
immediately, but I tossed for an hour before I forgot my-
self. It was late, in the morning when we awoke j the sun
was shining brightly into the room. I looked around, ex-
pecting to see my father. How wretched and dreary the
room looked, and I remembered how many hours had passed
since I had seen him. We got up and dressed ourselves
sadly. "Where is poor papa, Irene?" asked Estelle. I
turned away my head so that she might not see the tears
in my eyes.
" He will be back to-day, I am sure, dear."
We waited for our breakfast, but it came not ; hearing
the servant in the hall, we called her and told her to bring
it to us. In a little time it came ; we ate a few morsels,
but my aching heart, the tears rushing incessantly to my
eyes, choked me.
We passed the day in doing nothing ; I looked out of the
window, counted every moment, listened to every sound?
while Estelle moaned and cried herself sick. It was another
dreary day. A drizzling rain fell a thick fog almost hid
the opposite side of the street.
About four o'clock some one opened the door and entered.
I raised my eyes quickly and saw the tall, gaunt form of our
landlady.
u Where is your father ? " she said in her sharp vinegar
voice.
* I don't know ma'am," I answered.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 149
"You don't know? he has been away all night, hasn't
he?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Who knows if he'll ever come back again; gone off and
left you on me ; if he has, I shall have to send you to the
alms house. I am poor I can't do anything for you."
Estelle burst into loud cries and sobs, and clung around
my neck. Terrified at her words and at her hard vulgar
face, I faltered,
" Oh ! what makes you think our father has gone away
from us? our dear father, what will become of us?"
"I don T t know; all I can say is, if your father don't
come back soon, I will have to hand you over to the com-
missioner of the poor."
With these words she left us. What grief and desolation
filled our hearts. I did not for an instant believe her ab-
surd assertion, that our father had deserted us ; but it made
me think, with terror, of his long absence, and feel confident
something dreadful had happened to him. Oh ! with what
unutterable dread I thought of our being left to the mercy
of the cruel world, and how utterly helpless we were. Es-
telle bathed in tears, clung to me, but I did not weep, though
I felt as if my heart would break. It was already dark and
raining violently. Suddenly a desperate idea entered my
head ; I ran to the little closet, where all the clothes we
possessed hung, took clown our worn hats and cloaks and
said to Estelle, quite breathless,
"Put them on quick, dear."
She obeyed, saying wonderingly,
"What are you going to do, Irene?"
I threw my own on, seized her hand and whispered,
" Come, and don't make a noise for your life."
We stole down stairs and into the street; half frantic
350 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
with fright, I rushed down the street, dragging Estelle after
me. We ran up and down two or three streets and then
recovering my reason a little, I paused ; I had acted from
a blind iinpuise, thinking the dark, wet, lonely streets, were
preferable to that woman and the commissioners of the poor;
but now the darkness, the rain, that already drenched us,
filled me with new alarms.
"Oh Estelle," I cried, "what will become of us we shall
have to go back oh where is our father ? "
She replied only with sobs, and tremblingly I endeavored
to retrace my steps in the thick darkness ; but in the con-
fusion of my mind, I mistook the street, again and again ; we
turned and at last entirely lost myself in a labyrinth of nar-
row lanes; then giving up all hope I began to weep bitterly.
Wet to our very skins, shivering with cold and terror, we
hurried along without knowing whither we were going. At
every step upon the pavement I started, expecting to feel a
heavy hand upon my shoulder, and hear a voice arresting
us as vagrants. The night was pitch dark ; only by an oc-
casional street lamp or light from a tavern, were we enabled
to see a step before us.
" Oh Irene, I shall die indeed, indeed I shall I can't go
any further I am too wet and tired. We shall never see our
poor father any more ; we shall never find our way back again."
The poor child leaned so heavily on me as she spoke,
that I was obliged to stop.
Almost dying myself I supported her, and at this mo-
ment, my eyes fell on a light shining from the window of a
little house opposite. I had heard such dreadful tales of
London, that I had been afraid to inquire the way of any
one ; but this little house looked cheerful and respectable.
* See Estelle, dear, we will go over there and inquire the
way," I said.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 151
We crossed to the door and I knocked. Some one rose
quickly within and came to open it. It was a young woman.
"What do you want, children? " she asked.
" Oh ma'am ! " I said, through my tears, " we have lost
our way; we have been for two hours in the wet dark
streets. Oh! can't you let some one show us the way
home, if you please ? "
" Why, bless my heart and soul ! " cried the woman,
throwing the door wide open, and pulling us in, " I know
that voice, I'm sure. Why gracious me, it is it's Miss
Irene and Estelle. Oh ! the darling children, so wet and
cold. Come here to the stove, you'll surely die and tell
me what on earth you are out in the street at night for ?"
It was our old kind Mary. In my joy to see a familiar
face, I kissed her again and again. She drew us to the
warm stove, took off our shoes and stockings, bonnets and
cloaks, and hung them to dry. Then she produced from a
little closet a bottle of ale, which she emptied into two
glasses and almost forced us to drink, saying, it would keep
us from taking cold. Then she sat down by the table, took
her sewing, and I told her, weeping all the time, of our
father's long absence of our terrified flight from our cruel
landlady.
"The wreteh!" said Mary, indignantly; "my dear chil-
dren, you shall never go back there again ; you shall stay
here till your father comes."
For a moment I was quite delighted, then a sudden
thought, and I said,
" But if our father should come back Mary, he could not
find us and we should lose him forever."
"That's true, I never thought of it; I'll tell you what
we can do, though ; I am married, Miss Irene ; I expect my
husband in every minute, as soon as ever he comes he shall
152 IRENE; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
go home with you and speak something to the woman,
that will make her quiet ; if your father don't come to-mor-
row you shall come here."
This plan seemed to me very good. I consented to it
Kind Mary tried to cheer us in every possible way, and in
a few moments her husband came in. Mary told him all.
I named the street where we lived, forgotten now, and with
our hands in his we set off, after affectionately kissing Mary
good-night. His name was John, an honest, kind-hearted
laborer. He talked to us as we walked along, but I was too
sad and anxious to answer him. We reached at length the
old place. John rang the bell and the woman herself an-
swered it.
" I brought back these poor children, ma'am," he said ; " I
want you to be kind to them, and if their father don't come
hack, I'll pay you myself; my name is John Morgan."
At this assurance the hard face of the woman softened.
She said it was ah 1 right, and told us to go up stairs. We
bade John good-night and hastened to our room. I had
undressed Estelle and partly myself; while wringing the
water from my long hair, I turned my face from ner to hide
the tears that still rolled over my cheeks. At this moment
there was a step upon the stairs I listened it approached.
I held my breath in intense anxiety ; it stopped upon the
landing, the door was opened, and, uttering convulsive cries
of joy, we were locked in our father's arms.
Oh my father ! my idolized father ! thou hast long since
passed away from this melancholy life, but still I seem to
feel the clasp of thy protecting arms I am held once more
to thy noble heart, in ineffable happiness.
It was a long time before we were calm enough to listen
to anything; we all wept with joy, and held each other
tightly embraced, as though fearing to be again separated-
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 153
At last my father drew us to a chair, sat down and took us
on his knees. He removed his hat, and I observed he was
extremely pale, and deep melancholy pervaded his beautiful,
exquisite brow.
"My beloved children, oh, how I have suffered in being
away from you ! Where do you think your father has
been?"
ft Oh dear, dear pa, where have you been ? How we have
cried; we thought we should never see you any more;" and
Estelle as she spoke began to weep again at the recollec-
tion.
u I will tell you ; you may know nothing but force could
have kept me from you, my blessed chidren, the only things
on earth I love. Well, your poor father was put into prison
and locked up until four o'clock to-day. I went the morning
I left you, directly to H . I had to put a few finishing
touches to one of the portraits. In a few hours it was com-
pleted. I went to the man the villain who had engaged
me to paint his family took him to the studio, showed him
the portraits, and upon his expressing his satisfaction, re-
quested him with delicacy to settle with me. He replied
that it was not convenient at that time ; in a week or two
he would do so. I condescended so far as to tell him I
needed the money, and that my children were in want. He
replied arrogantly, that he had said all he had to say upon
the subject. I remonstrated, and he replied rudely, insult-
ingly. I was indignant, I* became furious, rushed to my
easel, seized a brush and daubed the freshly laid on colors
until the portraits were no longer recognizable. He ran to
me and struck me, but did I not return his blow with in-
terest? The house was roused, the family, servants, and
police officers came rushing in, I was seized and dragged
away, and your poor father was thrown into a prison like a
154 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
common felon. Oh ! what agonies I endured, thinking of
my children ; I thought I should have died that long dread-
ful night. Morning came at last, but I had to wait my turn
for examination, and it did not come until four o'clock this
afternoon.' After an hour passed in torture, during which
I and the witnesses were examined, it was decided that I
should be released, and the only punishment of the man
who had insulted me, was to pay me for the portraits I had
not destroyed. This he was obliged to do upon the spot.
Oh! how I longed to cast it back at him and tell him,
" take it, pitiful wretch, I give you my labor ; " but the
thought of my children conquered my pride ; I accepted it
and rushed home. I find you here my precious babes, wet,
cold and covered with tears. Where have you been? tell
me quickly, Irene ? "
Large drops of sweat stood upon his brow, and he looked
exhausted. I wiped them away with the skirt of my dress,
and laying my cheek close to his, with my arms around his
neck, I told him all our grief and terror, our wanderings ;
and how by a wonderful chance we met Mary, and were
brought safely home. He clasped us closer, and for the
first time I felt his tears drop upon my face. We were all
silent at last, and quite wearied out with so much excite-
ment, we half fell asleep in his arms ; and then he gently
roused us, helped us to undress, and then lifted us into bed,
murmuring softly, with the good-night kiss, " God bless and
guide you ever, my sweet children."
Then he quitted the bed-side, and I saw him moving
about the room, until my eyes closed, and remembering my
nightly prayer, I folded my hands upon my bosom, and
lifted my heart to the Creator, with a child's trust and un-
speakable thankfulness.
CHAPTER IV.
FOR some time after this things went on better. My
father obtained a young gentleman for a pupil in Latin and
Greek. The remuneration he received for instructing him,
enabled us, with the most severe economy, to live.
My birthday came ; I was nine years old. One year had
greatly changed me ; from a careless child I had become a
thoughtful, melancholy girl I was tall and womanly, in ap-
pearance, for my age. My form was slight but round ; my
features somewhat regular, and more formed than children's
usually are. My dark brown hair, large blue eyes, languid
and thoughtful, and the extreme paleness of my white com-
plexion, made me look very unlike English children, whose
faces are usually so rosy and joyous.
Estelle, though but a year and a half younger than I, was
yet much smaller, but her form was perfect; already she
was a little Venus. Her features were beautiful, and her
complexion delicately fair. Nothing could be imagined
more lovely than her dark grey eyes, fringed with long
black lashes, and beaming with an expression of tenderness,
I have never seen in any other. To complete the portrait,
fine, long and thick hair, almost brown in the shade, but
of the brightest gold in the sun, waving in natural ring-
lets around this charming, innocent face.
We loved each other fondly. She, with the clinging ten-
derness of her nature, and I with the protecting devotion of
mine.
155
CHAPTER V.
I COME to speak now of the saddest thing in all my life
full of sadness as it has been. From day to day I observed
a change in my poor father. Amid all our privations he had
always had kind words and cheering smiles for us ; now he
returned to us after an absence of hours, gloomy and indif-
ferent, and went to his bed, uttering a few unintelligible
words, or in silence. . It was a long time before I could
comprehend it but it came to me at last my father, the
man of genius and refinement, sought in taverns forgetful-
ness of his sorrows. Unpitying is the world's judgment on
those who sink beneath the harsh trials of life. They for-
get that the man of genius is differently constituted to the
rest of mankind. My poor father, worshiping his art, so
beautiful, but yet so little appreciated, too proud and eleva-
ted in character to condescend to the low chicanery of the
world for success, with a spirit too sensitive for persevering
energy, there was no escape for him from his crushing
poverty. Awaking from his beautiful day-dreams, he beheld
himself and his children starving in a garret ; looking into
the future he saw nothing but the repetition of these scenes
of misery, and all the powers of his mind sank in utter de-
spondency. The genius, that, under happier circumstances^
would have raised him to wealth and position, now drove
him to degrade himself. And daily he grew more reckless,
156
IRENE; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 157
and our situation was indeed deplorable. Incessantly re-
moving from one place to another, (for in a few days people
would discover the state of things, and request us to find
other rooms;) always alone, and often suffering for the re-
quisites of hie, constantly hearing people say, "see those
children with that wretched man. Why are they not taken
from him and provided for ? " Was it not too much for us
poor children ? And then at the thought of being separated
from my father, trembling and weeping, I mentally vowed
that death alone should part us. And so indeed it proved.
God alone knows how we lived for many weary months.
Ah ! how often, when poor, weary Estelle had gone supper-
less to bed, I sat with a book I had borrowed, or with only
my own thoughts to entertain me, waiting my father's re-
turn ; for no matter how late he remained out, I never slept
until I saw him. Sometimes in those long hoursof loneli-
ness, I amused myself by recalling all the beautiful tales oi
fairies, and genii, I had ever read. Then the dark, desolate
garret, stretched away into a magnificent hall, gleaming with
a thousand lights. Lovely beings offered me gems and
flowers, and I forgot the terrible reality, till the door opened
and I saw my father, lividly pale, looking wildly at me ; then
tottering a few steps fall to the floor insensible. Sitting
on the floor beside him, holding his head upon my lap,
bathing him with my tears until worn out, I placed a pil-
low beneath his head, and stole to the side of Estelle. These,
and far worse, were scenes of daily occurence for a long,
long tune. I have not the heart to dwell upon minute de-
tails I am too wretched in recalling them.
And yet lost, degraded as he had become, how we loved
and clung to him. In my deep respect for him, I never
dared to urge him, not to make us so wretched. Often I
went to him with a beating heart, the words of entreaty
158 IRENE; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
trembling on my lips, but at the sight of his pale and hag-
gard face, his listless, despairing attitude, my courage failed
me and I was silent. Sometimes, however, he remained
himself for two or three days, then, by little commissions,
petty things, that he would have scorned in happier years,
he obtained bread for us.
VI.
*'^^
;Ah! young J adie P <~ , approached
"Yes sir," j replied ' > ' Stewart's chUdren ?"
7, horribte Sd* ^ ^ Pr * e ^ of leav
ge
you
**
thoughts
were
..
te die. y to W ' ^ u n t FrigWned at my own
. ftmi(Uy to to s* ^ his head and Baid in a cheerfu
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 161
skies of the country, you will be removed from the horrible
destitution you have suffered so long. I trust in God I
may be able to succeed in something for once in my life."
"Oh Irene! how delightful to see the little birds, and
bright flowers, as we have read of them in our books," said
Estelle turning to me, her sweet face radiant with smiles.
"Yes, and to leave dirty, dark London," answered I, and
seeing our father had fallen into a reverie, we kissed him
and went gaily to our straw beds.
The next morning after our breakfast, my father told us
to put on our things and go and take a walk ; " I wish
Irene," he said to me " to see this gentleman alone ; stay
out for an hour or two."
Having so much time before us we wandered off to Re-
gent's Park. This place was enchanted ground for me.
The lovely women reclining so lightly on the cushions of
their carriages, their magnificent dresses of silk and velvet,
waving plumes and furs, their gay faces and smiling saluta-
tions to their friends, the prestige of beauty and refinement
that surrounded them, rendered this a fairy scene to my'
young eyes ; I could not realize that those beautiful beings
were ordinary mortals like us; they were always young,
charming and happy, I thought. Ah, the sweet romance of
youth, how enchanting it is but alas! how short lived.
We lingered so long that it was almost noon when we got
back. My father was pacing the floor. I knew the mo-
ment I saw him that he had been successful.
"Ah, my dear children," he exclaimed, "it is all right,
Mr. Armstrong is the kindest man in the world. The sal-
ary of this school is not large, but sufficient to live upon,
and imagine his kindness, perceiving, no doubt, from the ap-
pearance of things, what my situation was, he offered me an
advance of my salary to provide whatever may be requisite
162 IRENE ; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
to go. Without this I know not what we should have
done."
"When do we go, papa?" I inquired
" As soon as possible to-morrow if we can ; I have only
to provide some clothing for both of you, and myself also,
then we are all ready, and oh ! with what joy shall I quit
London."
We were crazy with joy, and laughed, and danced about
the room, like perfect mad-caps.
The next morning we were ready to start. My father
had purchased for us some ready-made clothing that ena-
bled us to appear respectable.
Our poor old ragged clothes were packed in our little
trunk as mementos of our gipsy life, and conveyed to the
stage office. Mr. Armstrong was to accompany us to the
villiage of A . At ten we all got into the stage. Af-
ter half an hour of delay and confusion we drove away. It
was a long time before we got out of London, but at length
the roads were wider, and here and there trees, and then
we left London behind, and the air felt purer, and we saw
the fields stretching away; I recollect it was a very mild
day for the season, and my father allowed us to have the
window down. To my childish eyes everything was beauti-
ful and mysterious ; the little wild flowers in the road, the
gray clouds floating in the sky, were invested with an un-
definable charm by my imagination. Toward evening the
next day we arrived at A . Being late in the day, we
stopped that night at the little inn, and the next morning
Mr. Armstrong conducted us to the school-house, and our
little residence which stood near it. Our house was situated
on a gentle hill a little way out of the village. It did not
front toward the village, and directly before it rose an
almost perpendicular mountain; to the right were wide,
163
open fields, bounded only by mountains in the distance, and
on the left, some yards distant, was a deep gulf-like ravine.
A small white-washed frame house it was, plainly but com-
fortably furnished, and surrounded by ground for a garden.
It seemed to me to be a paradise j I looked at and admired
everything, but more than all the beautiful landscape. The
school-house stood on the other side of the ravine, and in or-
der to get to it, we had to go down into the street. It was
only one large room for the school. Our house had four
rooms. The door opened into a large sitting-room, out of it
were two little bed-rooms, and below stairs a kitchen. We
took up our residence there that day. Mr. Armstrong
did not live in A , but he was the proprietor of the
school, and employed and paid the teacher. As soon as he
had seen us comfortably settled he returned home, and now
commenced the happiest period of all my life.
CHAPTER VII.
MY father opened the school, into which we were imme-
diately introduced. Estelle and I had never in our lives
had any companionship, save each other's, and sometimes
our father's. I am certain I do not speak from vanity,
when I say, that we were born with refinement of feeling.
The education we had received from our father, developed
and strengthened it, for in the midst of the greatest exces-
ses he was always a gentleman. Timid and sensitive, we
shrank at first from the rough, bold, and often vulgar chil-
. dren, of which the school was composed. By degrees, how-
ever, partly from the naturally social nature of children,
partly because our father told us it was impolite to offend
them, we came to like them better. As to the rest we im-
proved rapidly under our father's tuition, as any one posses-
sing the least talent could not fail to do, uniting as he did
to his great ability and splendid education, the peculiar
patience and kindness requisite for a teacher.
With a suddenness and firmness most astonishing, my
father abandoned the habit that had so long enslaved him.
His health enfeebled, almost destroyed by excess, want and
despair,was gradually restored in our calm and regular life,
in the certainty of something, however small, to provide for
the wants of his children. His morbid and lonely mind, no
longer tormented by the envy and rivalry of those of his
own profession, settled into something like serenity. In a
few weeks we were^ntirely domesticated in our little home.
164
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 165
My father manufactured an easel, and set it up in his bed-
room, where the light was favorable, and sent to London to
obtain a few brushes, pencils, canvases, etc., and once more
the old familiar objects of sketches, half finished heads, and
glowing landscapes, met my delighted eyes. This was only
for the amusement of his leisure hours, for among these
uncultivated villagers there was no appreciation of the arts.
Occasionally, however, some farmer brought his buxom wife
or daughter, to sit for her portrait, which my lather always
obliged them by painting at the cheapest rate.
We had a patient, kind old woman for a servant; old
dame Margaret she was called; it was she who marketed,
cooked, washed, and in short did everything that required
to be done, and she was so honest and faithful in attending
to our wants, that we soon became attached to her.
The spring advanced rapidly, already the wide open
ground around our house was covered with fresh and shining
grass already on the bank of the ravine I have mentioned
the lovely wild flowers began to appear.
After school hours my father amused himself in cultiva-
ting our garden. He gave one bed to Estelle, another to
me, and the rest he took charge of himself. A path over
the mountain, that rose not more than two hundred yards
from our door, led into a beautiful romantic wood from this
we transplanted flowers, shrubs, and little trees. Very soon,
within the fence that surrounded our home, clustered and
glowed the rose, violet, lily, jessamine, and numberless
others, whose names I knew not, but which were beautiful
in their freshness and purity.
Ah ! the memory of those summer days, how they come
back to me. Often, when a little tired of planting and
weeding our flowers, Estelle and I leaned upon the garden
gate, and sometimes watching our father who never wearied,
166 IRENE J OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
or raising our eyes to the sky, which seemed to me perfect-
ly beautiful, with its deep azure and fleecy white clouds,
which the sun at setting faintly tinged with gold; we list-
ened to the lowing of the cattle as they returned home, and
felt the soft summer air playing with our hair. At such
moments an inexpressible feeling of happiness used to fall
upon me. I cannot analyze or describe, indeed, at this
time, I can but dimly recall it. A tranquil sense of beauty
and harmony, a serenity so perfect that it seemed more
than earthly, entirely filled my soul, and thus lost in a
sweet reverie, I would remain till my father's or sister's
voice recalled me to myself. Often Estelle and I, wander-
ing in the thick wood, wove wreaths of flowers, and imag-
ined ourselves sylphs, or wood-nymphs, with the sweet
romance that always disappears with youth, and sometimes
with childhood.
One beautiful day, I think it was in July, my father, Es-
telle and I, started for the wood, an hour before sunset, each
taking a basket to bring home some flowers. After we had
rilled them, we went gayly out of the wood ; as we climbed
over the stile, we saw the sun sinking behind the distant
hills. There were some moss-grown rocks beside us, we put
down our baskets and seated ourselves to rest. From the
trow of this mountain all the landscape lay below. The
distant blue hills, the waving fields of corn and grass, the
village dotted here and there with little gardens, and our
own home, were all bathed in the mellow light of the setting
sun, which tinged the clouds with purple and gold. With a,
sad and dreamy gaze my father's eyes dwelt upon this scene
for some minutes, and then addressing me, but seeming, I
thought, to speak more to himself, -he said,
"Do you see, Irene, what radiant colors the sun lends
those masses of colorless vapor? just as beautiful, illusive,
16T
and transitory are the visions of youth. In the first flush
of youth and hope, with what free and glorious aspirations my
heart bounded, with what a fresh and buoyant spirit I started
in the race for glory; lovely forms crowded my dreams,
there seemed no difficulty too great for me to surmount. I
did not measure my own strength, how want, the chilling
coldness of the world, and more than all, its want of enthu-
siasm killed my own. Images of beauty and grace, that
lived and glowed in my thoughts, were cold and lifeless when
I would have given them life upon the canvas. The ani-
mating fire was wanting, and, if sometimes I succeeded in
giving them vitality, how few, how very few, appreciated it;
and then came poverty, and instead of dreaming of fame, I
had to think of how I should obtain bread, and then, at
last, it seemed to me that even at the best, our toils for
renown have no adequate reward, and so one by one they
faded, the bright illusions, and left me, as the sun has left
the clouds, somber and cold."
Involuntarily, as he had spoken, I had drawn nearer, and
looking intently at him, strove to understand his meaning,
but his thoughts were wandering so far beyond my reach
that I comprehended very vaguely. After a moment's
silence he drew us gently to him, and putting back Estelle's
golden curls and my brown locks, he said,
" I should not say so, for I have these, still more beauti-
ful than any poet's dream, and yet it is you, poor children,
that when I dare think, make me most sad."
He sighed, rose and took his basket, saying, " come, let 's
go home," and we took our's and followed him.
With all our sad experience we were but children still, and
no thought of the future ever cast a shadow on our spirits in
those summer days. They glided calmly and rapidly away,
vacation was almost over, the mornings and evenings were
168 IRENE; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
beginning to grow cold. One night we had just finished tea,
and dame Margaret had cleared the table ; my father had
abandoned the book he had been reading, to teach me the
game of draughts. Estelle had been engaged in endeavor-
ing to copy a natural rose, placed in a glass before her,
but had turned from it to watch my progress in learning,
over my shoulder; at this moment some one knocked
at the door. Visitors were rather unusual with us, for my
father, solitary in his habits, did not seek the society of
those around, it was, therefore, with a little surprise that I rose
and went to open the door. A man was standing on the
threshhold.
Is Mr. Stewart in ? " he said.
"Yes, sir, walk in," I replied.
He came in and my father rose and asked him to sit down.
He took a seat rather awkwardly ; he was a coarse, vulgar
looking man, and clownish in his manner. He took off his
hat and said abruptly,
"I s'pose, sir, you didn't hear that Mr. Armstrong is dead?"
My father started violently
"Dead ? " he said, "and when did he die ? "
" Very suddenly, sir, three weeks ago. I am a relation
of his, and the trustee of the school now."
A strange foreboding of evil came over me. I looked
earnestly at the hard, rough face of this man and then at my
father, whose glance was troubled. There was a moment's
silence and then the man continued
"Yes, I am the trustee now, and I 've got a little some-
thing to say to you about that. You see, sir, there seems
to be some dissatisfaction among the folks, and I think we
will have to get another teacher for the next term."
My father became lividly pale.
"What do you mean by dissatisfaction ? " he said leaning
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 169
forward, and looking at the man with a glance that made
him shrink back.
" Beg pardon, sir, didn't mean no offence, but you see,
sir, there's been a man down here from London, Barton's
his name, and he told the people something there, what makes
'em disinclined to have you teach the school. It isn't none
of my business, only jist if they want a new teacher to git
'em one, that 's all."
" This man, this Barton, I don't know him ; what does he
know ? what does he say of me ?" said my father, in a voice
that smote upon my heart, so full it was of stifled suffer-
ing.
" Sure, sir, I don't want to say what he said, howsomever,
it was somethin' 'bout knowin* ye in London, and ye wasn't
a proper person to teach children, and so the long and short
of it is, they want another teacher."
My father drew a long, deep breath, and his eyes rested on
Estelle and I, then seeming to nerve himself for a great ef-
fort, he said,
" Sir, I am desirous of keeping this situation ; I have, in
every respect, performed my duty faithfully ; the people
have nothing to complain of. I should be obliged to you if
you would use your influence in my favor."
Only those who have condescended to ask a favor from
one immediately below them can appreciate the sacrifice my
father made in speaking thus to that clown, but' it was for
his children that he lowered his pride.
The man picked up his hat from the floor, put it on his
head, and got on his feet.
" It wouldn't be of no use, sir," he said, " for me to say
nothin'. The people 's mighty stubborn in these parts, when
they takes a notion, they wants it that way and no other. I
don't want to hurry ye, sir, but in a week, ye know, the
170 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHr
school begins and we'd like this 'ouse as soon as ye can
conveniently move."
He shuffled along towards the door, and when he reached
it, stopped for one moment with his hand upon the latch, and
said,
" I s'pose you understand all quite right, it couldn't pos-
sible be fixed no other way. Good night, sir."
No one responded, and the door closed after him. There
was perfect silence for two or three minutes, and then my
father buried his face in his hands, and his whole frame shook
with convulsive emotion. Many would think this childish in
a man. Where was his energy and endurance ? they would
say. Ah, nought but experience can teach one the desola-
tion of cruel, friendless poverty. In a moment like this
every heart-breaking grief, bitter disappointment, and sting-
ing humiliation comes rushing back we suffer long buried
sorrows again. Thus it was with my poor Cither, as he sat
with the large tears rolling their way through his fingers and
falling on the table. Estelle and I went softly and sadly,
and wound our arms around him, but we found no word of
consolation except, "Dear papa, don't," till at last, his strong
emotion spent itself, and in a tone of deepest melancholy, he
murmured, " what will become of my dear children ? " He
was silent for many minutes and then said,
" They cling to me and I must not give up ; I will strive
a little longer for their sakes. No money and not one friend
upon the earth God help us ! I will try. Call Margaret,
Estelle, and go to bed, poor children."
Estelle obeyed, and presently Margaret appeared with a
lamp. She glanced anxiously at my father as we went into
our room, and when the door closed, she said in a whisper,
"What ails papa, children?"
Estelle shook her head, and Margaret continued.
171
u If there's anythin' poor old Margaret can do it will be
done, ye may be sure."
She undressed and put us into bed and kissed us good-
night, taking the light away with her as she went. For a
long time I was kept awake by the sound of my father's
footsteps, agitatedly pacing the other room.
v .
//~*
/
s v . * /.
^//C^'-^?'// fr .
* /
GliAPTttR
WE breakfasted alone next morning our father had gone
out very early, Margaret said, restless and melancholy. I
wandered about the house and garden for two or three hours,
until I saw him coming up the gently sloping lawn, and ran
to meet him.
" Where have you been, papa ? " I asked.
He clasped my hand and drew me along,
" My poor child," he said, " I have been looking once
more for a place where we may rest our weary heads."
" Oh, papa," I said, and for the first time I realized it,
" have we certainly got to move ? to leave our dear little
home?"
"Yes, quite sure, my poor child," replied my father, as
we ascended the steps and entered the house, then throwing
himself heavily into a chair, he said,
' Irene, tell dame Margaret to bring me a cup of coffee ;
I have not eaten a morsel this morning."
I ran down stairs and told Margaret, who was passing
about.
" The poor man," she said, " I've kept his coffee warm
for him," and she picked up the coffee-pot from among the
coals on the hearth, and hastened up stairs and arranged his
breakfast on the table which had been left standing. All
the little comforts that were around us, trifles, it is true, but
still valued by those who had suffered as we had, seemed to
make my father feel how soon we were to lose them. He
172
IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 173
ate nothing, and while drinking his coffee, called me to him
and said, in a low voice,
" I think we had better move to-day, Irene, it has got to
be done, and the sooner the better. I should not like, in ad-
dition to all the rest, that the new teacher should come and
turn me out of this house no, we had better go at once."
He fell suddenly into melancholy thought, as I perceived
from his abstracted glance.
" And where are we going, papa," I asked, in a veiy sad
and doubting tone.
" Into the old wretched desolation, I fear. I found, this
morning, that the reports of that man God's curse light
upon him," he added with startling vehemence, " has preju-
diced the whole village against me. They forget, in their
ignorance and stupidity, that they have known me for months
and ought to be aware of what I am. They all knew that I
was no longer the teacher, and I found it impossible to get
a decent, comfortable house ; indeed I thought I should get
none, not even a shelter. At last I found a miserable place,
almost a hut. The man who owned it was willing to let me
have it, and I took it. There is no furniture, of course, but
I have a little money and can buy sonic straw beds, a pine
table and some chairs, and we will try to live till something
better can be obtained. It will be better than the road, and
what can we do? What better off should we be in desolate
London, or in any other village, penniless as I am ? What
is there for the poor and unfriended but the grave ?"
" Oh, papa, don't say so," I said deprecatingly, frightened
at his desparing tone.
He was silent a few moments, then turning his head, he
called Margaret, who, during our conversation, had gone into
our bedroom ; she came in with her kind, honest face troubled.
a Margaret," said my father, " we are going to move to-
174 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
day, and I am not going to teach the school any more. I owe
you a month's wages ; well, my poor woman, I cannot pay
you now, but I hope I may be able to soon ; at present, if I
pay you, I must let my children starve, and I do not think
that is my duty. I don't know how we are to live without
a servant. I am sorry on your account, dame Margaret, as
well as on ours. You have been very kind to the children,
and they are attached to you, but it cannot be helped."
Margaret busied herself in putting the breakfast things
on the tray. At last, with her face very red, looking down,
and speaking very quickly, she answered,
" I'am very sorry, sir, very sorry it isn't of no matter
'bout the wages ; I'm sorry " then suddenly breaking off,
she picked up the tray and disappeared down the kitchen
stairs.
"'She is a good, honest creature," said my father, appre-
ciating poor Margaret's delicacy, a quality very rarely met
with in any station.
"Now, my children, go and pack up your things; I want
to get moved and settled, even if it be in a hovel. We are
certain of it for a little while, for I have paid for it for three
months."
*
I put my arm around Estelle, and we went into our room
and commenced our preparations. We had been there
about hah an hour when Margaret came in.
"What are you doing, my blessed children?" she in-
quired.
"Packing up, Margaret," replied Estelle.
" And what are ye doin' it for when I'm here ; run into
the garden and play I'll do everythin' that's to be done."
"Oh ! no, Margaret !" I said, "you know what papa told
vou."
:l Sure it's no matter if I chose to do it, don't I love you
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 175
both like my own children that's in heaven, I hope, and the
only one I've got on earth, that's far away. Run away,
now, and let me do it"
Tears were in her eyes. We were so touched and grate-
ful, that we hung around her neck and kissed her, and then
she pushed us gently out and shut the door, and we went
into our father's room. He was sitting by the window, quite
lost in thought, but got up when he saw us.
" I should have been busy," he said, " but I have been
dreaming ;?I have dreamed all my life."
He opened his trunk, and taking from the pegs, where
they hung, the few articles of clothing he possessed, folded
and placed them in it ; then some favorite books, and then
he shut and locked it.
"Papa," said Estelle, "what are you going to do with
all the little pictures?"
He made no reply, but walking around the room, he took
them all from the nails or shelves where they had been
placed, and lastly the one from the easel, an unfinished por-
trait of myself, and going to the window threw them out
into the long grass.
" Let the dogs take them," he said bitterly, " what have
they ever been to me but a curse ? "
I was half frightened at his dark despairing look, and said
not a word ; but a few moments after, I stole out. and gath-
ered up the pictures and locked them up in my own trunk.
In a little while we were all ready to go. We looked
around for Margaret to bid her good-by, but she had disap-
peared and was no where to be found. My father had em-
ployed some one to carry our trunks to the new abode, and
we all started on our melancholy walk. Our breaking up
had been so sudden that though I had felt very sad and
desolate that day, I had not realized that we were positively
12
176 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
to leave our pretty, comfortable house, our bright, lovely
flowers and favorite haunts ; but at the last moment I felt,
and I stopped at the little gate, looking around, burst into
tears. My father drew me gently along by the hand saying,
u Come come, my child, no tears, we must all try now
and have courage, for we shall need it."
" My flowers, papa, can I not take them with me ?"
* And mine too, papa !" said Estelle.
" There is no place to plant them where we are going, my
children no, leave them there for my successor."
The house where we were going was some distance. As
we walked through the village the old women, and some of
the school children, out before their doors, turned and looked
after us and whispered together, and occasionally a school
girl would halloo, "How d'ye do, Irene and Estelle?" and
we replied to their rough salutations and hurried on. We
came in sight of our future home at last, and a few more
steps brought us up to it. It stood quite alone on a little
hill. It was a small wooden house, black with age, and
gloomy oh ! how gloomy and dilapidated it looked to me.
My father lifted the latch and we entered. If possible, it
was worse inside than out ; there was one dirty, barren room,
and a sort of little kitchen out of it these were ah 1 the house
contained. There was but one window in the large room,
and the heavy window shutter, half closed, excluded the
cheerful light of day. There was not a vestige of furniture,
and as the boy set down our trunk I sank down upon it,
and covered my face with my dress to conceal my tears.
My father paid the boy and dismissed him, and then look-
ing at the dirty walls and floor, and the wide open, dreary
fireplace, he said,
"Surely I have fallen as low as it is possible for me to
fall this is desolation itself."
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 177
" Papa," said Estelle, " what are we going to do without
any furniture ?"
"I must go immediately and get what I can," he
answered, passing his hand over his beautiful brow, which
wore an expression of melancholy peculiar to him. " I will
return very soon," he added as he departed.
I philosophized with myself, and concluded it was best to
be as patient and cheerful as possible. After a few mo-
ments Estelle and I took off our bonnets and put them on
the trunks, (as there was no where else to put them,) then
we walked into the kitchen to take a general survey. It
was a very, very little place, with a large fireplace and one
window ; everything was dust and dirt, and looked altogether
desolate. We went to the window, opened it and looked
out. There was an uninterrupted view of fields, bounded by
the blue hills, and diversified here and there with clumps of
foliage which autumn had begun to variegate with bright
tints. It was very pleasant and cheerful, and we stood look-
ing at it, talking about our flowers, about the romantic old
ravine on whose banks we had loved so much to play ; and
of graver subjects too, of our poor dear father, and our
poverty and friendlessness, when I heard the door of the
other room open and some one enter. We went quickly in,
but instead of our father as we had expected, it was dame
Margaret. We ran eagerly to her. She did not speak a
word, but stood looking around the room, at last she said,
" Sure this is a dark, dirty place for ye, my children, it's
worse nor me own little shed. And this is the place ye're
goin to live in ?"
" Yes, Margaret," I replied, "it is not as pretty or com-
fortable as our home was, but we have got to live here for
the present. Ah, Margaret, I don't know how we are to
get along ; how I wish you could live with us. I wonder
178 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
who is to cook for us, I am sure I cant/' I added, very sor-
rowfully.
And what's the reason I'm not to live with ye, my pets?"
said Margaret.
u Oh, Margaret ! you know papa told you he could not
pay you, not even what he owes you."
Margaret laughed, took offher bonnet, and replied,
" Don't trouble 'bout the pay. I'm poor, it's true, but I
can get work enough beside what I do for ye, to gain me
livin'. Ye don't believe now that old Margaret would leave
ye two young creatures, without a body to lift a hand for
ye? Sure, I'U not do it,"
"Really, are you going to live with us and work for us
without any pay, dame Margaret," said Estelle, earnestly.
"As long as I've got hands to work, I'll do for ye, me
children ; and now if I had a broom," added she, looking
about, te I'd sweep this dirty floor."
At this moment the door opened and my father entered.
A cart was standing before the door, and I saw that it con-
tained furniture. My father stood in the door, and told the
cartman to hand him the articles, and as he did so he
placed them on the floor. These were some common chairs
and a table, two cots, and two straw mattresses, and some
bed covering ; some cooking utensils and crockery. Mar-
garet, Estelle and I picked up the chairs as they were set
upon the floor, and ranged them around the room ; put the
table in the center of it, set up the cots, and threw the beds
upon them, and moved pots and kettles on the hearth ; so
that when my father turned and entered, after the cart
roUed away, the room appeared somewhat more decent, and
habitable. For the first time he perceived Margaret.
"Why, Margaret !" he said, looking surprised, " you are
here!"
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 179
a Yes sir/' answered Margaret, courtesying, for she always
had the greatest respect for my father j " I couldn't make
up my mind to leave the children without any body to do
anythin' for 'em, so I came, and 111 do the best I can to
make 'em comfortable."
"You are a faithful, good woman," said my father warmly,
" and I am a thousand times obliged to you Margaret, for
truly I did not know how we were to manage."
Margaret looked pleased, bustled about, swept the floor
with a broom she had borrowed from a neighbor, and after-
wards kindled a fire in the hitchen with some wood she had
obtained from the same source ; then my father gave her
a little money, and she hurried out and soon returned with
some provisions, and in a little while we sat down to our first
dinner in our new habitation. As there were but two beds,
there was no place for Margaret to sleep. We agreed that
she should return home at night, to the house which she
occupied in common with another woman, and come to us
early in the morning. It was already nearly night, and af-
ter making up our bed in the large room, and our father's,
at his request, in the kitchen, Margaret left us ; and shortly
after barricading our little liut as well as we were able, we
went to our straw beds, and soon forgot all our griefs and
anxieties in blessed repose.
CHAPTER IX.
NEXT morning we were all astir early. After breakfast
my father told me he was going to see the village curate, to
try and interest him in his behalf so that, in case he should
hear of an available offer, he might have some one to refer
to for character and capacity.
Left alone, Estelle and I sought for something to amuse
us. We watched for a while dame Margaret, as she bustled
about, and then, taking a book, (our school reader,) we sat
down by the window in the large room, with our arms around
each other, and read with great earnestness for a long time;
then we put on our sun-bonnets and went out.
The bright sunshine and fresh air made us very gay; child-
like, we forgot every thing but the present moment, and
chased ducks and geese, and climbed hills till we were quite
breathless with fatigue. At length we turned homeward.
As we approached, I saw my father sitting by the open
window; his face was profoundly melancholy. In an in-
stant my gaiety abandoned me ; I hastened in, and running
to him, laid my hand upon his shoulder.
"What is the matter, papa ? Have you seen the curate ?"
I asked anxiously.
"Yes I have seen him ; and he told me he could do
nothing say nothing for me, unless he could be convinced
that the reports which that man circulated were not true-
I went to several others whom I thought might by chance
180
IRENE; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 181
have remained my friends, and received from all the same
answer ; so that now, even should I hear of a situation as
teacher, I know not how I should obtain it, having no one
to whom I can refer. There are few Mr. Armstrongs in
this world few who possess his benevolence of character,
or his perception to discriminate for themselves."
u Dear papa," I said, " you must not fret j you know we
did not know any thing good was to happen to us, two days
before we left London. Something like that may come
again ; so don't be so sad, dear papa ;" and I sat down on his
knee, and strove with all my power to cheer him, but vainly.
Every day for a week this was repeated. My father went
out to look at the newspapers, and answer any advertisement
for a teacher that he found ; but time passed, and he re-
ceived no reply to his applications, and the little money he
possessed was fast diminishing. One night, at the expira-
tion of two weeks, after Margaret had gone home, my father
said to us :
" Well, children, we shall have to fast to-morrow ; I have
not a farthing in the world!"
Estelle and I looked gravely at each other, and then at
our father ; it was certainly a subject of serious consideration ;
but all our thoughts did not better the matter. At last I said :
" No money, papa ! What are we to do?"
u That 's just the question what are we to do ?" answered
my father, looking intently at the floor. There was a pause,
and then he said :
" I see nothing before us but pauperism ; I do not believe
I could obtain employment as a common field laborer, were
I to ask it. I have not a farthing ; I can get nothing to do
here or elsewhere, for I have no friends. Yes, we shall
have to beg to become paupers."
He spoke this with an icy bitterness, and rising,
182 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
commenced pacing the room, as was his wont when agi-
tated.
" As regards myself/' he continued, " life has been a burden
to me for a long time ; were it not for you, I would lie down
by the roadside and die without a murmur, so weary I am ;
but I cannot leave you alone in the world ; I must still
live and struggle, and suffer for your sakes."
There was so much real despair in his words, that I felt
unequal to any attempt at consolation. Estelle and I drew
nearer to each other, and she laid her head upon my shoul-
der, and in the moments of silence that followed she fell
asleep. My father paced the floor for a long time, while my
thoughts involuntarily wandered off, and I dreamed some of
the beautiful queer things that come into children's minds.
At Last my father stopped before us and said:
'' Poor child ! she is tired ; go to bed, both of you."
And I aroused her and obeyed. The only blessing we
possessed was the sweet privilege of youth, that of sleeping
even in the midst of the greatest sorrows.
Early in the morning Margaret's knock awoke me, and I
got up to let her in.
" How do ye do ?" she said, in her good humored way.
I sat down on the bed, and drawing the clothes over my
naked feet, for it was chilly, I answered discontentedly :
te Oh ! Margaret, I'm very unhappy indeed. There is
nothing for breakfast, and papa has not a penny. Oh !
what are we to do?" and as our truly dreadful situation
forced itself upon my mind, I laid my head down in the bed-
clothes and began to weep. Poor Margaret, how sorrowful
she looked ; in an instant, and when she saw me weeping,
she laid her hand upon my head and said, very earnestly :
"Now, now, Irene, me child, ye mustn't; sure ye'll niver
starve while I'm alive. See ! I've got here two bright
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 183
shillings ; they'll git ye some breakfast, so now cheer up, me
pet"
She was going quickly away, but I caught her dress.
" Stop, Margaret," I said, " you must not do it ; would
you spend the money you work so hard to get for us ?"
" What ails the child ? Musn't people eat when they're
hungry ? What odds is it who gets the money long as it's
got?"
" But it is yours, Margaret."
" Ah, well, ye 'ill make it up to me some day when you
get rich. Now let me go, and keep quiet till I come
back."
She hastened away, and I rose and dressed myself. My
heart swelled with gratitude to her. I had always been
attached to her, but now, for her generosity and fidelity to
us, lonely and forsaken beings, I truly loved her. I forgot
the inequality of birth, mind, education, and saw oiJy her
noble, disinterested heart, I heard my father moving about
in the other room, and went in to inform him of her good-
ness. He was greatly astonished.
" Good creature," he said, " not only she gives us her
labor, but her money. How shall we ever repay her ?"
I went back to my room and roused Estelle. In a few
minutes Margaret came back, with her hands full of provi-
sions, which she gaily put down on the table, and commenced
making a fire. Hearing her voice, my father entered the
room and going to her he said, extending his hand,
" Margaret, you are our only friend."
" Oh ! sir, I am only a poor servant," she replied, step-
ping back with great respect.
" You are our only friend," repeated he, as he warmly
grasped and shook her hand, hard and brown with labor.
From that hour Margaret would have walked through the
184 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
fire for my father. After he had gone that day she came
to me, and said,
" Irene, me child, I've been thinkin' I'd bring over some
clothes, I've got to wash for Mr. Morgan on the hill, and
wash here to-day, at the same time I'm washing yours, be-
cause ye knows, me pet, I couldn't wash 'em all after I go
home to night. Do yer think yer papa 'ad object ?"
"Oh, no, Margaret," I said, "I know he would not, and I
am sure I could not think of having you work at night, after
working hard all day."
So it was agreed, and ever after that she brought all the
work she obtained to our house. There were two or three
rather wealthy families, living at country houses around the
village, knowing old Margaret was poor, and old, and child-
less, they had kindly given her their washing, for some time
back, so that she had plenty to do. Time flew on, and she
worked at her wash tub, singing, in a sweet and plaintive
voice ; and every farthing she earned she gave for our sup-
port. The cold weather set in, and then, with all her exer-
tions, it was with difficulty she could obtain food and fuel to
sustain the life it would have been better, far better, had
never been bestowed upon us. Meanwhile my father was not
idle, he still endeavored to hope and struggle on. He wrote
letters to those, in London, who had once been his friends
he answered every advertisement for a teacher, or a clerk,
that he saw ; he humiliated himself to seek again the friend-
ship of those who had once been his friends in the village ;
but the days wore on in the same miserable way. January
came, and all had been in vain utterly in vain. Then it
was, that I, who watched him with the anxiety of tender
affection, perceived that he was becoming hopeless, I saw
his energies flag, his unavailing efforts cease, and worse oh,
ten thousand times worse than all I saw him sink into that
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 185
old, fatal,, fatal vice again. It was a long time before Mar-
garet discovered it; she evidently noticed the change in
him, but knew not to what to attribute it. One night he
was led home by two regulators of the village tavern. Mar-
garet had to conduct him to his room, and when she came
out and closed the door after her, she approached me as I
stood silent and sorrowful beside poor weeping Estelle, with
the tears running fast over her cheeks.
" Your blessed father, where is he goin' to take himself,"
she said, wiping away her tears with her apron. " Oh ! it's
a dreadful dreadful thing. Oh ! me Irene, ye'r older 'an
ye'r sister, me dear, go to him for the Lord's sake, and ask
him not to do so for his precious children.
"I am afraid, Margaret; talk to him yourself, to-morrow."
" I ! I'd niver dare me child ; I'm only a servant, ye'r his
child, and he likes yer, I am sure."
I tried to nerve myself for the effort the next day When
our poor breakfast was ready I went to carry my father a
cup of coffee. I expected to find him in bed, but he was up,
sitting by the window, looking out at the bleak, frosty
ground, and naked trees, with an expression of face so
wretched that it made my heart ache. He took the coffee
from my hand without seeming to see me. I sat down on
a litttle wooden footstool, at his feet, and endeavored to
speak, but I found myself choked, and began to sob and cry
as though I was distracted. My father looked at me with
a half bewildered glance and said hastily
"Why, what's the matter, Irene ? What ails you ?"
But I could find no voice to answer, and hiding my tears
in the skirt of my poor old dress, I went into the other
room, and there wept myself calm, and then I said to Mar-
Don't ask me again to speak to papa, on that subject ;
186 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I can't indeed ; it is quite impossible, besides I know it would
not be of any use, for poor dear papa has lost all heart."
Margaret turned away and began to arrange the fire, but
not before I had seen that her eyes were full of tears.
Dear, kind Margaret, how can I do justice to her devo-
tion to us in the weary days that followed. Week after
week she came to us in the morning, and returned to her
home at night, through heavy snows ; gave us all her hard
earned means, mended our old worn garments, shared
our loneliness, and, in short, acted toward us as the most
faithful and devoted mother.
My friend, you weary of these scenes of poverty and mis-
ery. Patience a little longer, the shadows will soon close
over them.
The quarter for which my father had paid expired, and the
landlord was urgent for his rent. Margaret, by dint of
working hard and economizing in everything as much as
possible (though the good creature grieved, for our sakes, to
be obliged to do so,) succeeded in saving the sum, which
was but small, and paying the rent for the next quarter.
She was very proud and happy when this was accomplished,
and said to us, cheerfully,
" Ye are sure of a home now till spring, an' then please
the Lord, somethin' better may come."
Poor Margaret, she hoped still, when hope had almost
deserted me.
One night we were undressing to go to bed, when Estelle
said to me, in her earnest, reflective way
"Papa looks dreadfully, Irene; he is so pale, his eyes
have such a queer wild look, I never saw him look so before."
I could not bear to hear her say so.
Don't talk so, Estelle," I said impatiently, I don't see
any change."
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 187
" Come and look at him while he sleeps," she answered,
taking up a light and going to his door. I followed, we en-
tered noiselessly, and approached the bed ; Estelle shaded
the light with her hand, and we stood silently gazing at him.
He slept a leaden sleep, and breathed heavily. His arms
were thrown over his head, and his black hair fell away from
his beautiful, melancholy brow and lay upon his straw pil-
low. His face had such a fixed and deathly pallor that, had
it not have been for his breathing, I should have believed
him dead.
With a long wistful 'sigh I turned away ; as I did so some-
thing lying on the little trunk, at the head of the bed, attrac-
ted my attention, I picked it up, it was a hard substance,
rolled in a paper, about the size and shape of a small nut,
and emitted a powerful stupefying odor. In wrapping it up
again I saw a word written on the label. I held it to the
light and read, " Opium." I did not then know what it was,
or what was its use ; afterwards, observing my father more
particularly, I saw him eat large pieces of it very frequently.
Its destroying effect upon him was every day more and
more visible. How he obtained the means to buy it I never
knew.
CHAPTER X.
TIME passed. It was February. It had been an unusu-
ally cold winter, and the snow lay deep upon the ground.
One morning my father did not come to breakfast, and I
went to see what was the matter. He was sleeping, and his
face was hot and flushed. I touched his arm to rouse him
and when he opened his eyes I said,
" Are you sick, papa ? Don't you want some breakfast ?"
"My head is burning," he replied turning uneasily. " I
don't want anything to eat I want rest, nothing but rest.
Tell Estelle and Margaret to be as quiet as they can, and
let me sleep a few hours and then I shall feel better."
I went out, closed the door quietly, and told Estelle and
Margaret what he had said.
We were all uneasy and anxious, and several times during
the day stole in to see if he slept, or if he wanted anything.
He was always in a sort of heavy doze, and seemed impa-
tient and angry at being roused ; he told me, at last, with
great violence, that he wanted nothing but to be left entirely
alone, that he did not wish to see a cursed human face. I
was greatly terrified at his words and manner, not knowing
how to understand them. When the time for Margaret to
go home came, she said to me,
" Ask ye'r father if I shan't stay and watch with him to
night, or make 'im some herb tea."
188
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 189
I went in very timidly. He was awake, and I spoke to
him, and repeated what Margaret had said. He answered
very kindly,
" No, my child, there is no place for her to sleep. I do
not need any one to watch with me I want nothing at all
to-night. Thank her for her kindness.
I told her, and she put on her little woolen shawl and
hood to depart. We followed her to the door, it was clear
starlight, and very cold. She kissed us good night, as was
her custom, and then walked quickly away. Was it the
shadow of impending evil that lay so heavily upon my soul,
as I watched her retreating into the darkness. We looked
her quite out of sight, and then, chilled with the cold, we
went in, and stole to our father's room, finding him appar-
ently sleeping, we went to bed.
Margaret always came in the morning at six, or half past
eight o'clock. I had been so accustomed to waking at that
hour to admit her that it had become a habit. The next
morning I awoke at the usual time, and lay waiting for her
knock. Some minutes past, and not hearing, I fell asleep
again ; I must have slept an hour, for when I started up un-
der the impression that something was wrong, the sun was
shining through the holes in the shutters. Astonished at
Margaret's absence I jumped up and dressed myself has-
tily, waked Estelle and told her Margaret had not come,
and while she was dressing went into my father's room ; the
shutters were closed, and it was quite dark ; I raised the
windows and opened them a little. The noise woke my
father, I went gently to the bedside, and said,
" How do you feel,- papa ? Are you better ?"
I had no need, indeed, to ask the question. He was
crimson with fever, and his languid and almost lifeless glance
rested on me with a great effort as he replied :
190 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" I am very ill, Irene ; my throat and head are on fire ;
tell Margaret to come here, perhaps she can prescribe some-
thing for me."
rt Margaret has not come, papa. I can't imagine where
she is."
" Not come," said he in astonishment, " something must
have happened. You had better go and see."
" Well, I will go," I said; "shall I take Estelle with me,
or do you want her to stay with you, papa ?"
" Take her with you, if you like, but hasten back."
I ran into the other room, threw on my bonnet and shawl,
and bidding Estelle do the same, we were ready in a min-
ute, and started. Margaret lived about a half a mile dis-
tant, in one of a little clump of houses in the village. Our
rapid walk soon brought us to it. Groups of women and
children were collected around the door, some of them talk-
ing together with sad faces. My heart beat fearfully, dread-
ing to hear some dreadful thing. I dared not ask a question.
I was pushing my way into the house, when a woman, with a
child in her arms, caught my arm
et Are ye lookiii' for Margaret ?" she said, with tears in
her eyes.
"Yes," I answered, tremblingly.
"Bad 'il be the news to ye, for poor Margaret is lyin'
in there dead."
I uttered a loud cry, as though some one had struck me
a mortal blow, and rushed into the house. On a bed, round
which stood two or three women, lay our kind old friend.
So natural and life-like she looked, I could'not believe the ter-
rible news. I took up her hand as it lay upon the blanket,
its cold rigidity froze me with horror. I dropped it and look-
ing at the kindly face, that would never more cheer us, I fell
upon my knees by the bed, and wept in heart-broken sorrow.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 191
Poor Margaret ! My tears were unselfish ; at that mo-
ment I thought not of what we had lost, I wept for her
from the truest affection. It was some minutes before I
thought to look for Estelle ; she was standing on the other side
hiding her face in her shawl. I called her, and when she
came to me I pulled the shawl gently away, and saw that
her face was blanched to an ashy paleness, and covered with
tears. We were so absorbed by grief that we did not think
to ask how this thing happened. Presently the woman with
whom Margaret had shared the house came to us and
said,
"Poor Margaret, it's a dreadful sudden thing. It was
"bout the turn o' the night that she woke me up gaspin' an'
tryin to get her breath, like. I called out, an' asked what
was the matter, but she didn't make me any answer, and I
got up and struck a light; 'an then I saw 'er sittin up in
bed , rollin her eyes, 'an tryin to breathe, and presently she
fell back, 'an did'nt move no more. The doctors seen 'er
this mornin, and says she broke a, blood vessel, an' bled in-
side, an' that suffocated her."
I wept afresh as she spoke.
" Will you come to the buryin' ; it'l be this afternoon, I
suppose,"
" No, we cannot," I answered, sadly, " our father is ill and
we cannot leave him."
And then reminded how ill he was, I whispered to Estelle
that we must go. Mournfully we bent down and kissed, for
the last time, poor Margaret's cold cheek, then sobbing con-
vulsively, we quitted the house, and turned towards our
wretched home. I was quite overcome, and nearly fainting
when we reached the house, and sank down on a seat.
When we entered my father's room, seeing our pale and
tear-stained faces, he started up in bed and cried :
13
192 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
What has happened ? What is the matter ?"
"Oh, papa!" answered Estelle, "poor Margaret is dead."
My father fell back upon his pillow.
" Dead ! dead !" he cried, " our last and only friend, and I
so ill. Oh, my God !"
The intelligence seemed to have a stunning eifect on him,
for he lay quite silent after this ; indeed, I think he was so
ill that the power of thought was deserting him.
It may have been an hour, it may have been two, that
we all remained perfectly silent. Estelle seated at the foot of
the bed, leaned her head upon it and continued to weep silently.
My father lay with his eyes closed, and, I hoped, sleeping.
As to myself, I tried with all my might to suppress my
tears, and summon all the strength and courage I possessed
to consider what I should do for my father. I had heard the
people speaking of the village doctor, that morning, but I
knew not where he lived, and doubted much whether he
would come to see beings so utterly deserted as we were.
However, I resolved to try ; I went softly to Estelle and
told her I was going to find the doctor, and ask him to
come and see our father ; and if he awoke to tell him where
I had gone. She said, through her tears, that she would,
and glancing at the bed, as I was going out, I saw that my
father's eyes were open, and gazing past me with a strange
far-off expression ; in a moment he murmured softly, with a
smile,
"Bella! Bella!"
Bella, it was my mother's name ; how strangely it sounded
to hear him call one who had been resting beneath the turf
so many years. I stopped, very much frightened, and said:
" What is it papa? Do you want anything?"
He did not hear me, still he repeated :
" Come Bella, here no no not there."
193
Estelle drew near me and clasped my hand :
" What ails papa, Irene ?" Don't go, I am afraid," she said.
" He is very sick, and wandering in his mind, Estelle. I
must go for the doctor, stay and take care of him till I
come back, for he must not be left alone. I will be back
very soon."
She obeyed me and resumed her seat by the bed, though
she was pale with alarm, and I hurried away. I went down
the hill into the road, and stopped a minute to reflect
how I should find the doctor. Presently I saw a laboring
man coming toward me. I went up to him and asked him
if he could direct me to the house of the village doctor.
" His name is doctor Miller," he replied, " 'an he lives
'bout three quarters of a mile, straight down the road, in a
little brown stone house."
I thanked him, and set off. My feet buried themselves
in the snow as I walked, and the light shawl I wore was not
sufficient to keep out the piercing cold. I felt sick with
anxiety and grief. But they added speed to my footsteps.
In a few minutes I reached the house the man had descri-
bed to me. I went in the little gate, ran up the steps, and
getting on tiptoe to reach the rapper, knocked. A re-
spectable, neat looking girl opened the door.
" Does doctor Miller live here ?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered, " come in."
I entered, and she closed the door ; then pointing to one
on the right side, she said,
"The doctor is in there ; that's his office, you can go in."
She unclosed the door, and J walked timidly in. What
a pleasant cheerful room it was with its bright coal fire,
warm carpet and curtains ; its book cases and pictures ; and
large center table, covered with books and papers, on which
a gentleman, seated in a large arm chair, was writing.
194 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
He raised his head, and seeing me, laid down his pen.
"Well, my child," he said, " you want me ; come to the
fire, it is cold."
My heart was beating so fast that my voice trembled
very much, as I answered,
" My father is sick, sir, very sick indeed, and I have come
to ask you to go and see him ; I shall be so much obliged
to you, sir, if you will."
Something earnest and entreating in my tone must have
struck him, for he extended his hand to me and said,
" Come here, my child. Who is your father, it seems to
me I have seen you before?"
I went to him, he held my hand gently, and looked at me.
Hifi kind, handsome young face and sweet voice assured me.
" My father is Mr. Stuart, sir," I replied ; " he is very
sick, he has a fever, and is wandering in his mind ; there is
no one with him but my little sister and I must hurry back.
I should be so glad, sir, if you would go with me."
"Mr. Stuart," he said; "oh, that is the gentleman who
kept the village school last term."
I did not wish to weep, my pride was humiliated, at the
thought of this stranger seeing my tears, but vain were my
efforts to choke' them back. I was silent and they rolled
slowly over my cheeks.
"No no you must not do that," he said, taking his
handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his eyes.
" I will go right away with you and see your father ; you
are imagining that he is very ill, I know, but we will have
him all right in a little while. Sit down by the fire and
warm your feet and hands, f while I put on my great coat,
and then we will start."
My heart was immeasurably lightened. I sat down in
the chair he placed for me, feeling sure that my father was
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 195
saved. He was ready very soon and then he led me by the
hand out of the house. As we walked along he asked me
my name and how old I was, and then my sister's name and
age ; and then he commenced to ask another question, and
suddenly checked himself; and we walked the rest of the
way in silence. I proceeded him into the house ; at the
door of my father's room Estelle met me.
" Oh, Irene," she said, " has the doctor come ?" Then per-
ceiving him she stepped back, and continued in a low voice,
"I have been so frightened; he has been talking so wild-
ly. I am so glad you have brought the doctor."
My father was lying on his back, his eyes shining with a
wild lurid light, were so widely opened that the lids seemed
to be strained back. The doctor went to the bedside and
took my father's pulse between his fingers. After examin-
ing it for some moments he said,
" Mr. Stuart, do you know who I am, sir ?"
My father made no reply for several minutes ; then dis-
turbedly moving his hands over the bed clothes, he said,
" The doors are all locked, I cannot get out."
" His fever is very high, it has taken away his senses,"
said the doctor, whose face, perhaps unconsciously to himself,
had become very grave. Then he turned and went into the
other room, beckoning us to follow him.
"My children," he said, closing the door, and leaning
against it, "your father needs careful attention, his system
is in a state of great inflammation. I would send you
my servant to watch with him to-night, but my wife is ill,
and needs her. Is there not soAe woman in the village you
could get to come in occasionally, and help take care of him ?"
" No one no one, sir," I answered. " We had a dear
friend, poor Margaret, but she is dead she died this morning."
How strange and dreary the words sounded, as I said them.
196 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
"Oh!" said the doctor, quickly, "poor Margaret; how
thoughtless I am, they told me something of it this morning.
Well, Irene, what will you do?"
Oh, sir," I said, " I can take care of my father. No
one in the world will do so much for him as Estelle and I,
because no one loves him as we do."
There was trouble, and compassionate sympathy in the
doctor's kindly eyes. He drew a chair to the table, sat
down, and taking from his pocket a small case of medicines,
he took from it some powders and gave them to me, saying,
they were to be given every two hours until I went to bed,
and as soon as I arose in the morning; after "telling us we
must not fret, that our father would soon be well, and that
he would come to see him early in the morning, he then
took his leave.
I went to my father, and with great difficulty persuaded
him to take one of the powders ; then remembering what, in
my grief and anxiety I had forgotten, that neither Estelle
or myself had tasted food the whole day, I went to the
closet and found there a loaf of bread, the last remnant of
poor Margaret's generosity. We satisfied our hunger with
it and then returned to our post by the bedside. I sat down
on the trunk at the head of the bed, and she on the floor at
my feet, with her head in my lap, and so we remained, cling-
ing to each other by the side of our forsaken, delirious father,
till night closed in upon us, I asking myself what we were
to do for food and fire to keep us from starving and freezing.
It was quite dark when I heard a knock at the outer
door. I arose and went to answer it in great surprise. I
had no light, but I could perceive that it was a boy, carry-
ing on each arm a basket.
" What do you wish !" I said, timidly, holding the door
half open.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 197
" I come from doctor Miller's, with some things for you,"
was his reply.
" Come in," I said, wondering what the doctor could have
sent us.
He entered and set down his basket.
"You have no light,'' he said; "here is a candle and a
match, I will light it."
He found the wall, struck the match and lighted the
candle ; then handing it to me he said,
1 The doctor just told me to say, that he sends these things
for your use, and that he will be here early in the morn-
ing.'
Before I had time to reply he went quickly out and clo-
sed the door ; Estelle was on her knees, examining the con-
tents of the baskets. One contained wood, the other. con-
tained provisions.
"How good and generous the doctor is," I said, and yet
never had I felt more sad. I was humiliated. Ah ! I
thought, my father's words are fulfilled, we are, indeed,
beggars.
Estelle, with the sympathy of a kindred mind, shared my
thoughts.
" I do not like charity, Irene," she said; "it did not seem
like begging to take from Margaret, because she was not
above us, but I suppose we ought to be very glad and
thankful for this."
We sat up till midnight, I counted the hours by the
striking of the village clock, and gave my father his medi-
cine regularly ; then, quite exhausted, we went to bed and fell
asleep in each other's arms.
CHAPTER XI.
EARLY the next morning the doctor came. There was no
change in my father, except that his fever was more intense.
The doctor substituted some liquid medicine for the powders,
to be given with the same interval of time. I thanked him
for his kindness very warmly, feeling how much we owed
him. He answered me with benevolence and delicacy :
u My child, I will do for both of you all that I can. Your
father is a gentleman ; I wish I had known him earlier, I
would have done all in my power to have assisted him.
I need not say how earnestly I thanked him now. As
he was going away he told me he would come again that
evening, then added,
" Are you not lonely here, my little ones, all alone with
your sick father ?"
"Sometimes," answered Estelle, "but we are together."
" Ah, this is a sad world," I heard the doctor murmur as
he departed.
Days passed days of sad, aching anxiety. My father
never had his senses for a moment. Sometimes he raved
of scenes long passed, and beings gone forever from the
earth ; sometimes he lay in a dull heavy torpor, devoured
by the burning fever. Often sitting with him in the pro-
found silence and solitude of night my heart misgave me
in spite of the doctor's assurances that all would be well.
The good doctor made us perfectly comfortable, as far as
198
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 199
our physical wants were concerned, but he could not rid me
of the weight that lay so heavy on my heart that it seemed
impossible for me to breathe freely. I think it was the
tenth day of my father's illness. In the afternoon the doc-
tor came as usual. After feeling my father's pulse for a long
time he told me cheerfully that the fever was leaving him,
and that he thought the disease had taken a favorable turn.
" My little Irene," he said, " I shall want you to sit up
the best part of to night, to give him some medicine I shall
leave with you. Can you do it ?"
" Oh, yes indeed," I answered, eagerly. " Is he really
better, doctor ?"
" I think so, my child ; now be a dear patient nurse a little
while longer."
He gave me the medicine, told me he would come very
early in the morning, and bade us a kind good night.
It was soon dark. I lighted a candle and placed it on
a little table in my father's room, and the medicine beside
it; then, in order to observe our father's movements, we
seated ourselves on a chair at the foot of the bed ; for the
doctor had told me not to rouse him to give him his medi-
cine, but to wait till he woke. Hours passed wearily away ;
the village clock struck twelve, still he lay motionless.
Wearied out with watching, Estelle laid softly down on the
foot of the bed, and in a few minutes her gentle breathing
told me that she slept It was very cold ; I looked around
and found a shawl, and covered her. The wind went round
the house with a long moaning cry, and entering at every
crack and corner, made the flame of the candle flicker, and
the fantastic shadows move. For another hour I sat in dead
silence ; broken only by my father's irregular breathing
now loud and rattling, then almost inaudible. I was so filled
with a strange terror at this silence and solitude that I did
200 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
not feel inclined to sleep. I found myself chilling with fear,
as I gazed into the dark corners of the room, and listened
to the moaning wind. Wishing to shake off the vague
horror that possessed me, I took the light and went to
look at my father. The flush of fever had faded and left
his face as colorless as marble. I laid my hand lightly on
his forehead, it was damp and cold, and his parted lips, and
the flesh around them, wore a strange blueish shade. His
eyes were closed, and his respiration labored and rattling. I
felt a sudden and violent pain in my heart, a physical pain,
and went hurriedly back to my seat, repeating to myself
what the doctor had said, but I could not re-assure myself.
Trembling and with my heart beating fearfully, I laid my
head among the bed clothes, and in a few minutes, in spite
of the anguished thoughts that tormented me, my exhausted
nature gave way, and I fell asleep. I know not how long I
lay there, but I was suddenly aroused by some one calling :
" Irene ! Irene !"
I started up, and to my great astonishment, beheld my
father sitting up in bed. His eyes were longing and rest-
less, but no longer wild ; his face was white as death, and
the blue shadow had spread and deepened, and rested now
on all the lower part of his face. Every nerve and fiber of his
body quivered as though he had been galvanized.
Seeing him thus, and hearing him call, my name for the
first time in so many days had such an effect upon me that
I chilled from head to foot, and began to weep violently as
I went toward him.
" My child ! My child !" he said in a hoarse and bro-
ken voice, and clasped me in his trembling arms.
Thank God, I thought, he has recovered his senses, and
he knows me. In a moment he cried, with great excite-
ment of manner :
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 201
" Quick ! quick ! wake Estelle.
I called her loudly, she sprang up, and seeing me encir-
cled by one of my lather's arms, and the other extended
towards her she threw herself into it, and we were both
pressed fervently to his heart.
" Oh, my children ! my children ! I am dying I am going
to leave you all alone in the world," he cried in a voice of
sharp agony, with his face convulsed with emotion.
" Oh, don't don't say so " I said with streaming tears,
and clinging to him, "you are better you will get well
you will not die and leave us all alone."
" What will become of them ? What will be their fate ?
Oh, God ! Almighty God ! have mercy and protect them.
Oh ! my poor children I have not done my duty to you."
" Do you feel worse, papa ? Let me go for the doctor.
Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! what shall I do," I cried, bursting into
uncontrollable sobs and cries.
My father groaned heavily. He seemed to suffer the
most intense pain, mental and bodily. His features changed
frightfully, the pallor increased, and the dull shadows crept
all over his face that shadow seen only on the face of the
dying, cast by the wing of the angel of death. His nerveless
arm could no longer clasp us. In an almost inarticulate
tone, and striving to fix his glance upon us, he said,
" Promise me to be always honorable and virtuous, no mat-
ter what happens. Promise me."
" Yes, yes," we answered, scarcely knowing what we said,
kissing his cold hands, and bathing them with tears.
"Remember remem ," he gasped, and then suddenly
reeling, fell back on his pillow, his whole frame quivering
for a moment, his eyes shut and opened, and then he lay
perfectly still. I told myself he had only fainted. I leaped
off the bod, rushed out of the house, and across the field to
202 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
a little house that stood there knocked, shook the latch
and screamed till it was opened.
" Come ! come ! I said laying hold of the person without
knowing whether it was man or woman ; " my father is dying."
"Wait a minute, till I get a light and dress," replied a
woman's voice.
" My father is dying !" I repeated, wildly, I can't wait.
Come, come !
I fairly dragged her, by a portion of her dress I seized in
the darkness. Thus confused she went with me.
"There, there!" I said as we entered the room. "Do
something quick or he will die."
I was in a kind of delirium. I stood perfectly silent,
clenching my hands till the nails entered my flesh, watching
her as she carried the light to the bed, and held it down close
to the eyes that never moved in the least. Then I saw her
hurry away and return with a little piece of mirror, which
she put to the lips, and then held to the light, shaking her
head as she saw there was not the slightest moisture upon
it. Still I said to myself that it was not death, that it could
not be that he had gone from us ; that he would move pres-
ently. I watched as though I were but an indifferent specta-
tor of the scene; the people coming in till the room was almost
full, and they concealed the motionless form from me. I
heard a hum of voices, and at last some one said :
" It's no use, it's all over, he's quite dead."
Then like a mad creature I forced my way through them,
and sprang upon the bed, caressing the marble brow and
cheeks, and the eyes, that strangers hands closed, with kisses,
and striving to make the rigid arms embrace me.
" Oh, my father ! my father 1" I cried, " you are not dead,
you have not left me, your child, your Irene. Speak to
me ! Speak to me ! Oh ! he will never speak to me any
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 203
more he has gone forever. Oh, let me die too, bury me
with him. I can't live all alone. Papa ! papa ! will you
never answer me again ? Will they take you away where I
shall never see you again ? No no I will never go, I will
never leave you."
" Take her off, carry her away," said a voice, and some
one put their arms around me, and tried to lift me off the bed.
I screamed and clung to the senseless form. They drew me
forcibly away, my head whirled, and I lost my senses.
CHAPTER XII.
I WAS lying on my own bed, in the other room, when I
came to myself A woman was standing by me holding a
glass of water. When I opened my eyes she began to con-
sole me in her rude way. I wept broken-heartedly as I
listened. The door between the rooms opened and the
doctor entered. At sight of him my grief overpowered me,
and I buried my face in the bed clothes, unable to speak.
He came and laid his hand gently on me ;
" Irene, look at me a moment." he said, but I was silent
and did not move.
" Am I not your friend, Irene ? Won't you look at me
a moment ?"
I could not resist this appeal, 1 raised my tear-dimmed
eyes to his. His kind face was deeply sad.
" I don't want to talk to you now, Irene, because words are
of no use in a case like this. I want you to drink this like a
dear good child," and he held to my lips a glass containing
some liquid. I drank and sank down again. The doctor
signed to the women and they both quited the room. I
fell asleep almost immediately ; anguish and fatigue had
completely exhausted me, and the opiate the doctor adminis-
tered took effect at once. The sunlight was stealing into the
room when I awoke. What a sick dreary feeling there was
upon me. I sat up and tried to think what it was that made
my heart sink and sicken. Oh, with what a sharp pang
204
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 205
recollection came back, as my eyes fell on the door leading
into the other room. The house was perfectly quiet ; where
were all the people, the doctor and Estelle ? I arose and
went with faltering steps into the chamber of death. It was
partially darkened ; two women sat by the window talking
very low. A sheet had been placed over the bed, but I
could distinguish the outlines of the motionless form beneath.
Seeing Estelle's golden head resting on the edge of the bed,
I went and knelt beside her on the hard floor, and gently
lifting her head, rested it on my shoulder. The poor child
had wept till her tears were all dry. Pale cold and tremb-
ling she closed her eyes, and sighed convulsively. Neither
spoke, but never can I describe how desolate I felt, as we knelt
there beside our father's corpse. At last there was a step
in the other room, the door opened, and the doctor entered.
He came to us and said,
"My dear children, I want to take you home with me.
Come, get up and try and compose yourselves a little. Try
and have a little strength, Irene, for your sister's sake ;
see how pale and unnerved the poor child is."
u I cannot leave my father ?" I said, sobbing bitterly.
u Leave your father, my dear child, your father is not
here ; he has already left you, there is nothing left but a
senseless form; he has gone to a happier world, I trust.
You must not grieve so, though I know," added he, as if in-
voluntarily, " it is quite natural that they should feel so ; poor
unfortunate children." He was silent a moment, and then
continued,
"Come, go home with me now."
I arose and said I was ready, in a bewildered way. The
doctor took Estelle in his arms, for she seemed quite unable
to walk, and I followed to the door ; suddenly I said :
"Wait a moment," and stole quickly back to the bed-
206 IRENE; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
side, and turned back the sheet from the unconscious face.
How still how beautiful in its marble-like serenity. His
wanderings were over he was at rest at last. I saw a
pair of scissors hanging at the side of one of the women,
and asked her to lend them to me. She did so, and I
severed a long, thick lock of the beautiful raven hair,
wrapped it in paper, and placed it in my bosom. I kissed
for the last tune the cold brow, and then reverently caress-
ing it, I went quickly and joined the doctor who was waiting
for me without. The cold air revived Estelle a little. The
doctor asked her if she thought she could walk. She said,
Yes. He put her on the ground, and taking one of her hands,
and I the other, we went slowly away. My mind was so
confused that it was impossible for me to think correctly ; I
found my bonnet on my head and my shawl around my
shoulders, without knowing how they came there. Every-
thing looked queer and dark to me.
When we reached the doctor's house he entered and con-
ducted us into the office, and gave us seats by the fire. In
a moment a pretty rosy young woman entered, and spoke
to him in a low voice, then she came to me, bent down and
kissed my cheek with a kind sympathetic look, and going
to Estelle she said,
"This child is not well ; she ought to go to bed."
" They both need rest and quiet, Mary, and they had
better go to bed a few hours," said the doctor.
She told us to come with her, and led us up stairs, through a
chamber which I supposed to be hers, from a little child play-
ing on the rug before the fire, and an infant sleeping in a
cradle, into a pretty little room, in which a fire had just
been lighted. She sat down by it, and taking Estelle on
her knee, removed her bonnet and shawl, and smoothed her
disordered hair. Then she set her upon a chair for a moment.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 207
and going to her room brought one of her own night-gowns,
and, undressing Estelle, put it upon her, and laid her gently
in the bed, covering her carefully. The wearied child closed
her eyes, and sank to sleep in a few moments.
"Don't you wish to go to sleep, for a little while, Irene?"
Mrs. Miller asked me, drawing me to her, and taking off my
bonnet and shawl.
si No madam, I am not sleepy ; I will sit by my sister, if
you please."
She pushed an arm chair to the side of the bed, and I
sat down in it. Bending affectionately over me she said :
" I must leave you now, my child, to attend to my domes-
tic affairs. You will not cry any more, Irene ?'
" No," I said, " I am not going to cry."
She went out and softly closed the door. I sat without
motion or thought. Unconsciously, I found myself counting
the chairs, and examining the pattern of the carpet and cur-
tains. Tune went very slowly. I listened to every sound,
the crying children, the steps going to and fro in the halls,
and now and then Mrs. Miller's voice. At last she came
in to take me down to dinner. Estelle still slept soundly.
Mrs. Miller said rest would be of more use to her than any-
thing else, and she might have some dinner when she woke.
So I went down alone. I had not tasted food that day. I
ate some soup, feeling very strange, and out of place.
Two pretty children, as rosy as their mother, sat beside
me, one a boy, and the other a girl. After the meal was
finished, Mrs. Miller took me up stairs again and insisted
that I should remain in her room.* She gave me a seat
by the window, and went into the other room, to see if
Estelle was still sleeping. In a little while she re-appear-
ed with her, dressed and looking refreshed b> her long
sleep.
14
208 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" You must go and get some dinner now," said Mrs. Mil-
ler, as Estelle made a move to come to me. " You may
talk with your sister when you come up."
Estelle sighed and followed her with her habitual docility.
I heard and saw everything as if in a dream, and realized
nothing.
Very soon they returned, and Estelle came and sat down
on the same chair with me, and winding her arms around
me, murmured softly,
" Irene, my dear sister.''
It was the first time she had spoken to me for many
hours. Her dear familiar voice seemed to restore to me the
power of feeling. I laid my head upon her shoulder, and wept
unobserved for some minutes, quiet tears that did me good.
Mrs. Miller talked cheerfully to us, and tried to make us
look at a book of pretty engravings, and endeavored in every
way to divert our minds She had never known a great
sorrow; that was evident from her happy face. It is impos-
sible, entirely, to comprehend or sympathize with what we
have never felt, and kind and gentle as she was, she needed
the experience of a deep grief to draw her close to us. In a
few minutes she produced a piece of dark calico, cut out two
dresses, and fitted them on us, and then began to sew rapidly,
occasionally stopping a moment to play with the baby lying in
the cradle beside her, or to speak to the little ones when they
became too noisy. When it grew dark she laid aside her
sewing, and we went down to tea. As I only drank a little
tea I was very soon finished. The doctor looked sad, and
ate in silence. When he rose from the table he said to me,
" Come to the office a moment, Irene, I want to speak
to you."
I followed him.
" I have made arrangements, Irene," he said, " that your
OF AN ARTIST S DAUGHTER. 209
poor father be buried to-morrow, at two o'clock. I think,
my dear child, that you and your sister had better not
attend the funeral. It can do no good, and will only revive
your violent grief."
'- Oh! doctor!" I answered, the tears instantly rolling
down my cheeks, " do you think we will not follow our poor
father to his grave ?"
" Do not cry, my dear child, do as you please," said the
doctor, much moved. " I spoke only for the best ; not for the
world would I do or say anything to occasion you any more
grief. You shall go with me, to-morrow, and now good-
night, Irene."
I loved him for his kindness, and because he was associa-
ted with the past. I took his hand and kissed it. He
bent and kissed me with tears in his eyes.
" God bless your grateful, sensitive heart," he said j
" good night."
I went up stairs, and asked Mrs. Miller to let us go to
bed. She consented, and Estelle and I hastily undressed
and went to rest beside each other.
With a heart inexpressibly lone and desolate, I wound my
arms around her, the only being left me on earth to love me,
or for me to love, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE next day, by noon, Mrs. Miller had finished our
dresses. She provided each of us with a little cloak of black
cloth, and a black straw bonnet, trimmed with crape.
We dressed ourselves in these sad garments, and started
with the doctor for the house that had been our poor home.
The door was open, and a man standing in it, when we arri-
ved. He stepped back and we entered ; the first thing that
struck my eyes was a bier standing in the centre of the
room, with a coffin resting upon it, the lid laid over it, but
not yet nailed down. What an awful dreariness pervaded
the dark cold room. Involuntarily Estelle and I drew near
the door. Several rough looking men were in the room.
One of them said something to the doctor, who shook
his head and said, "No," then he went to the coffin, adjusted
the lid, and began to nail it down. When this was done the
doctor took a prayer book from his pocket, and going to
the foot of the bier, he began to read the solemn, impressive,
funeral service of the church of England. I listened very
intently but it did not console me. The gloom seemed to
gather more darkly. He read in a slow melancholy tone, and
several times his voice faltered. He concluded, and replaced
the prayer book in his pocket. Four of the men raised the
bier, and brushing me as they went out, moved slowly off.
We followed.
210
IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY ETC. 211
It was toward the end of February. The snow still lay
on the ground, but the air was mild, and the sun warm.
We walked on, and on, in silence. I saw men at work in
the fields, and children laughing and playing before their
homes. I wondered how any one could be happy when our
hearts were so sad. I could not imagine that I should ever
be gay again. We reached the grave yard at last. We
entered, and the men get down the bier by the side of a
newly dug grave. Then they lifted the coffin to the ground,
and arranging some ropes around it, began to lower it into
the grave. I leaned over and watched its descent with such
horror, with such a torn and dying feeling, that when it
touched the bottom, and they drew up the ropes, and I
heard the first shovelfull of earth fall upon it, I fell upon my
knees and groaned bitterly. It was the seal of our entire
separation ; nothing nothing of the past remained to us,
save recollections. The grave was filled up. and the doctor
gently raising me whispered, " we must go."
"One moment," I said. "How shall we over find our
father's grave again?"
" That is easy enough," answered one of the men, " don't
you see the mark on the fence 'No. 27.' It's lucky you've
got one by the fence. If it had been in the middle you
never could have found it."
" No, 27." It was the only sign to distinguish the artist's
grave.
CHAPTER XIV.
.Children are not generally tenacious of melancholy im-
pressions. Their grief, however violent, does not usually
last long. But our lives had been so different to those of
other children, our thoughts and affections had been so cen-
tered on one object that when we lost him it seemed that we
lost all. Time calmed the violence of our feeling, but even at
this distant day, the memory of my father is full of sadness.
A fortnight elapsed in the good doctor's home. At first,
after calmness and reason had returned to me a little, I
asked myself, what was to become of us. But finding that
neither the doctor nor his wife spoke to me upon the sub-
ject, and continued to treat us with the greatest kindness
and affection, I began to believe they intended to adopt us.
The idea made me feel very contented. Estelle and I
loved the noble-hearted doctor, and his pretty, gentle wife,
and the dear little children. Every day we wandered to our
father's grave, and by degrees our passionate sorrow became
a gentle sadness. We came to lift our eyes from the grave,
where his ashes reposed, and think of him as living in a
brighter, more blessed land. No one questioned us of the
past ; they forbore to revive painful reminiscences. One day
the doctor sent for Estelle and I to come to the office. We
went down ; the doctor was seated in his arm-chair, his face
~-J ^ "
*f, -"! u -;* '
V/. x fit / v .'.-' ' I'- V
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 213
was a little disturbed and anxious. He told us to sit down,
and after a moment's thought he said,
" I am going to tell you something very serious and im-
portant. I know that both of you are intelligent, and will
understand me. Mrs. Miller and I love you very much ; if
we had the means to provide for and educate you we would
never let you go from us, but we have our own little ones
to take care of, and we are poor."
He paused a moment, and we, commencing to feel very
sad and anxious, remained silent, and he continued.
" If I had not been able to provide for you, in a way, that
you might receive excellent educations and kind treatment,
I should have kept you with me, and done the besL I could;
but thank heaven, I have succeeded in having you provided
for more advantageously than is in my power to do for
you."
He paused again. I looked earnestly at him, mechani-
cally playing with Estelle's bright curls.
" A lady of rank and fortune," he went on, " has a coun-
try house about ten miles from here ; by a lucky chance she
happened to come down from London the other day, to
superintend some repairs, arrangements, etc. She became
indisposed and sent for me. I happened to mention you to
her, and she told me that she and some other charitable
ladies in London subscribed a yearly sum to a school, about
five hundred miles from here, for the purpose of educating
poor girls. Then she offered to send you to this institution,
and let you receive the very best educations, and when you
should be fitted, should you live, to obtain for you situa-
tions as governesses, and thus you would be able to maintain
yourselves. This is a rare chance indeed, much better than
I can ever offer you, my dear children."
I knew that he was right to think first of his own children j
214 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
that we had no right to expect him to consider us, to their
disadvantage. Still I could not help feeling sad ; but know-
ing it was our duty to accede to whatever he proposed, I said
nothing, and gently pressed Estelle's arm to indicate silence.
" I know," resumed the doctor, " that you will feel lost
and lonely at first, but very often children born to wealth
leave their homes for years, to go to school. Lady Russell,
the lady who will take charge of your future fate, is a kind,
benevolent lady, and will be sure to see that you are com-
fortable. Do not believe that we are glad to see you go ;
you cannot imagine how much I regret that circumstances
force me to part with you. Lady Russell wishes to return
to town as soon as possible, She has sent to inform the
preceptress of the school that two new pupils under her pat-
ronage, will arrive shortly. She is only waiting now to see
you, and send you to the school. She proposed to send her
carriage for you to-morrow morning, do you think you can
be ready ?"
" Oh, yes, certainly," we replied together.
"Well then, my dear children, you may go and ask my
wife what you need prepare."
We went up stairs hand in hand, found Mrs. Miller and
repeated to her what the doctor had told us. She knew
it already, of course, and immediately commenced telling us
how happy she had been when she went to school. Then
she packed the scant clothing we possessed in a trunk, tel-
ling us that she had not been able to provide all the cloth-
ing we needed for school, but Lady Russell would attend
to the rest. She talked gaily to us all day, and said she
would speak to the doctor about having us pass the vacations
with them. This encouraged us very much, and we went to
bed quite cheerful. The next morning, at ten o'clock, we
had our cloaks and bonnets on, all ready to start, but greatly
OF AN ARTIST S DAUGHTER, 215
to every bodys' surprise the carriage did not come. The
doctor mounted his horse, and rode to Russell Park, to see
what was the matter. When he returned he said that Lady
Russel was obliged to take the carriage to pay a visit, but it
would come for us at five in the evening. We were rest-
less, and the hours passed uneasily. A few minutes before
the appointed time we went up stairs to get ready again.
We had just finished our arrangements, when Mrs. Miller
came flying up stairs, and said the carriage was at the door.
We hastened down. It was an elegant carriage, with coat
of arms on the pannels, and a pair of beautiful grey horses.
The little children followed to the gate and lisped good-bye.
The doctor kissed us with a very sad face, as he lifted us
into the carriage, and murmured fervently,
" God bless you."
Mi's, Miller clasped us in her arms, with her flushed
cheeks wet with tears. The door was shut and the coach-
man gathered up his reins, and we rolled away. We leaned
out of the window and waved our hands, trying to smile till
the kind ingenuous faces, and the modest house disappeared.
We were fairly alone in the wide world.
CHAPTER XV.
i
WE were in a state of nervous dread all the way. The
idea of a great lady was very formidable. We sat silent,
close together, and the carriage drove on for about two hours,
I should think, for it was pitch dark when it stopped. I
saw lights gleaming through the trees. The coachman dis-
mounted, opened the door and lifted us out ; then unclosing
a large iron gate, he led us up a long avenue, bordered with
trees, at the end of which rose Russell Park. It was a
large granite building, and very imposing it looked to our
young eyes. We ascended the steps and the coachman rang
a bell. It was answered by the porter.
" You'll just give these children to the housekeeper," the
coachman said, passing us in the door. The porter closed
it, and pulled a bell-rope, hanging on the wall. It was a
very broad hall, lighted by a lamp representing flowers, and
adorned with pictures. In a moment a door at the end of
the hall opened, and a neatly dressed, elderly woman
appeared.
"You are to take care of these children, Mrs. Glover, till
my lady wishes to see them," the porter said to her.
"Very well," she replied, "come with me, children."
We followed through another smaller hall, into a comforta-
ble room, where a bright fire was burning. In the center
a table was set for tea. She spoke very kindly to us,
took off our bonnets and cloaks, and told us to sit up and
216
IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 217
drink some tea. We obeyed, feeling so strange and shy
that we hardly dared to look up. After this Mrs. Glover
gave us seats by the fire, and several servants came into
the room, and she talked to them, giving them directions
about something ; I fell into a reverie, my thoughts wandered
back, and I became so abstracted that I did not know what
was passing around me, till some one laid their hand on my
shoulder, and said,
" My child, Lady Russell has sent for you."
I started, and saw Lady Russell's maid standing before
me. I arose with a fluttering heart, and walked with Es-
telle after her. She led us through the great hall, up a
broad flight of stairs, and suddenly throwing open a door we
found ourselves in a large drawing room. I was so trans-
fixed with wonder that for a moment I forgot my confusion.
The brilliant light, the glowing carpet and hangings, the pic-
tures and flowers, and the sweet odor of the apartment ; all
seemed like enchantment to me. I forgot where I was till
a touch from the maid recalled me to myself.
" Come," she said, " don't you see ? What is the matter ?"
I looked and saw a lady sitting in an arm chair, at the
farther end of the room. I followed the maid to her, I saw
in one rapid glance that she was about forty, tall and stout.
She was fine looking, but I did not like her face, it was not
unkind, but hard and unsympathetic. I instinctively felt
I could expect no tenderness from her. She was plainly
dressed in black silk, and wore a head-dress of lace and
flowers.
" What are your names, and how old are you ?" she asked,
in rather a sweet voice.
We told her, and then she said.
" Can you read and write ?
" Oh, yes," we answered very quickly. She observed us
218 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
attentively for a few moments, and then, turning her head,
she said.
" What do you think of them, Sir Grey ?" My eyes fol-
lowed hers, and I saw, with surprise, that I had not noticed
that there was a gentleman in the room. He was sitting
on a lounge in the recess of the window, and somewhat in
the shadow of the heavy curtain. He leaned forward, and
replied to Lady Russell,
" Excuse me, your ladyship, I cannot see them well from
this distance."
"Go to that gentleman," she said. We went timidly.
He was a man advanced in life, with a benevolent but not
very intelligent face. He patted us kindly on the head, and
turning our faces toward the light, he said,
" Why, upon my word, they are pretty children. And
these are your ladyship's little proteges. I hope they will
be good little girls, worthy of your ladyship's patronage."
" I hope they will. You are eleven, you say, Irene, and
your sister ten ; by the time you are eighteen, and your sis-
ter seventeen, I hope you will be fitted to accept situations
as governesses. You must remember that you are depend-
ent, and this ought to be another motive for exertion, to
make yourselves respectable and comfortable, which you may
do if you please. You will be very happy where you are
going, if you behave well."
" Oh, they will do that, I am sure," said the gentleman,
" having such a generous protectress. Your ladyship merits
the thanks and prayers of many orphans."
" It is true, Sir Grey, I am always striving to do them
some real, permanent service," answered her ladyship, who
seemed pleased at this compliment.
"Now I hope you will remember what I said to you.
You will leave for school early in the morning, and now,
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 219
Louise," she added to the maid, " you may take them away,
and have them put to bed."
Louise conducted us back to the housekeeper, who put us
to bed in a cot in her own room, and, very much wearied, we
soon slept
CHAPTER XVI.
IT was yet dark when we were aroused, and told that the
stage was waiting for us, in the road. We got up and
dressed ourselves quickly. Then Mrs. Glover took us into
the hall, and told the porter to take us to the stage, then
putting a letter in my hand, she said,
" Give that to the preceptress when you get there."
The porter took our hands and hurried down the avenue,
and out of the gate, and put us into the stage.
" Halloo," he shouted to the driver, u remember, will ye,
that these children are to be left at Harley Institute.
They're all alone, ye see ; ye'll be sure and remember?"
" All right," answered the driver, and the coach rum bled
off.
It was the early dawn of day that hour so inexpressibly
melancholy, when the first grey light steals into the sky.
We were cold and lonely, and half asleep, leaning our heads
against the coach, and, in spite of the jolting, we returned
to our slumbers. When it became light I saw several peo-
ple in the stage, but took no notice of them. We traveled
two days and nights, only stopping to take meals, before
reaching our destination. Toward the end of the second
day we whirled through a little village, and stopped at a
large house on the outskirts. The driver sprang off, opened
the door, and cried out,
220
IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY ETC. 221
a Here ye are, little ones," then lifting us out went to the
door, and rang the bell loudly, then returning, unstrapped
our trunk, and set it on the ground, and mounting his box,
tho coach was gone before the door was opened. It
was unclosed by a servant girl, who seemed to expect
us. She told us to come up stairs, and ran on before.
At the first landing a woman put her head out of a door
and said,
" Take them into my room, Ann, I will be up in a minute."
The girl took us up another flight of stairs, into a decently
furnished bedroom ; the whole house had the same dreary,
cheerless appearance. There* was a little fire in the grate,
and we gladly drew around it, chilled with the cold, and
feeling much fatigued,
"Now, stay here, and Mrs. Butler '11 come to you in a
little while," said the girl, and she then left us alone.
It was a quarter of an hour before Mrs. Butler made
her appearance. She was perhaps fifty, though she wore
no cap, and her hair was not grey. She was a large
person, dressed in black, and though her manner was
rather forbiddingly staid and precise, she had a benevo-
lent face and kind voice. I gave her the letter the house-
keeper had given me. She read it and then put it in her
pocket, and said,
"If you are very tired with your journey, children, you
need not enter the school to-day."
I felt wearied, but I thought it would be more amusing to
go into the school, than to sit there, doing nothing all day.
I asked Estelle what she wished, and finding she agreed
with me, I told Mrs. Butler we would go into the school, if
she pleased.
" Well, then," she said in her slow and grave tone, " you
may take off your things, and I will come back for you in
222 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
a few moments. There is water, and a comb and brush,
arrange your dress a little while I am gone.
She went away, and we removed our bonnets and cloaks,
shook the dust from our dresses, and washed it from our
faces and hands. Then I brushed Estelle's hair, and my
own, this was easily done, for we wore it short, and it curled
naturally. Mrs. Butler returned very soon, and led us down
stairs, into the school room, where there was the most deaf-
ening noise, and the greatest confusion. Some of the girls
were walking up and down, talking, others romping and
laughing, playing at games and hallooing. A few sat qui-
etly at their desks, reading or sewing. Mrs. Butler picked
up a ruler, and striking a desk, cried,
" Silence, girls, silence. What a noise."
Her voice restored order almost in an instant. The girls
became quiet, and looked toward us.
" Come here Marianne," she said, beckoning to one of
them, who came to her,
" Here are two new pupils, I want to put them under
your charge, to learn the rules of the school. Their desks
are number twenty-nine and thirty."
The young girl was about sixteen, tall, and had rather a
superfluity of flesh, and a merry mischief-loving face. She
replied to our timid glances by a good-natured smile, and
asked if we would walk about with her, or go to our seats.
We felt too strange and shy to move, and told her we pre-
ferred the latter. The eyes of all the girls bent on us as
Marianne guided us to our desks, and made me feel very
uncomfortable. Marianne's seat was next to mine ; she
showed me her books, and explained some of the rules, till
a small bell rang, and then she said,
" Hush, now, recreation is over ; we must not talk any
more;" and she began to study, apparently with great earn-
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 223
estness. Presently a tall thin woman came in, and took a
seat behind an elevated desk, at the upper end of the room.
I had never been in any but my father's school room, but I
supposed this was the teacher. I asked Marianne,
"Yes, that's the teacher, Miss Greene. She is good,
though very strict. I am very glad I am in this room, the
other teachers are so cross. They teach the big girls. I
suppose I ought to be there, but it is so hard to study.
Do you like to study ?"
" I like to read," I said.
" Oh, how strange ; I can't bear reading. I do love fun.
Do you like to play, Estelle?"
" Sometimes, but I would rather read."
"What funny girls!"
" Miss Murry if you do not stop talking you will be
marked disorderly." said Miss Greene.
" Oh dear, I forgot !" said Marianne, and she returned to
her book.
There was about sixty girls in the room, generally near
Estelle's age and mine; there was only three or four as
large as Marianne. After a few minutes spent in these obser-
vations, Marianne took two books from her desk, and gnve
one to me, and one to Estelle. I opened mine and found it a
reader, very soon its contents entirely absorbed me, and I
read until school was out. When I looked up the girls
were leaving the room.
" Come ," said Marianne, jumping up, " don't you want to
go and see the dormitory ?"
I did not know what she meant. I asked her what it
was, and she explained as she went dancing and laughing
along. Our dormitory was in the last story of the house.
It was a long uncarpeted hall; all along the wall were
ranged little beds, surrounded by curtains. Marianne told
15
224 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
me that they went to bed and rose very early, that the rule
was, that no one must talk after they came in to go to bed,
but that they did it for all that, and had a great deal of
fun. A great bell rang while she was talking, and telling us
that was tea, she ran capering down stairs. Midway we met
a woman with a sour face, and disagreeable manner. She
stopped, and said in a severe tone,
" Oblige me, Miss Murry, by walking ; you keep the
house in a continual confusion. You are not fit to take
care of yourself, much less of others."
Poor teachers, their lives of drudgery and monotony ren-
dered them unable to comprehend the vivacious spirit of
happy youth. Marianne made no reply, and the teacher
passed on. We slowly descended to the dining room. It
was a long dark room, a table extending almost from one
end to the other was entirely filled with girls of all ages.
Our tea consisted of bread and bad butter, and something cal-
led tea. However, we had not, of late years been accustomed
to very luxurious fare, and did not find this as unpalatable
as some of the others. Every one ate rapidly and the meal
was soon over, then we returned with Marianne to the school
room. Miss Greene produced some books from her desk
and gave them to us after marking our lessons for the
morrow, and till nine o'clock we studied diligently. Then
we marched in procession to the dormitory and each girl
disappeared behind her curtains, and in ten minutes the
light was extinguished. Estelle slept next to me. I stole
to her bed for one instant, to kiss her good night, and then
went softly back to bed. I was falling into a dose when
my curtains were undrawn, and Marianne's voice said,
" Don't be frightened, I want to talk to you awhile."
"But Miss Greene!"
" Oh, never mind her, she is sound asleep by this time,"
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 225
and, seating herself on the edge of my bed, she entered into
a long account of her parents and friends which became
more and more unintelligible to me, until I no longer
heard a word.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE next day Miss Greene examined us, and placed us in
the class for which we were fitted. She told us we were to
learn English, French, Italian and music ; with this fine edu-
cation, she said we would be able to become governesses in
the highest families. She added that she trusted we would
improve the opportunities afforded us, and become good
scholars. We commenced our studies with great earnestness,
and were soon favorites with our teachers. We had not so
much to draw our attention from our books as others. Young
as we were our experience rendered us unsociable. We, with
our memories of solitude, privations and grief, could have
nothing in common with the joyous, thoughtless beings whose
light hearts had never comprehended sorrow, and to whom
the future was unclouded as the past. Of the two hundred
and fifty, or three hundred girls in the school, there were
few that did not like us, and speak kindly to us, but we had
no intimate friends among them. The only being I truly and
fervently loved on earth was Estelle, and my affection for
her was tender and anxious, as if I had been by many years
her senior, and she in her looking up, clinging tenderness
for me seemed to feel it so.
I shall pass over eight years that glided rapidly away in
our monotonous school life. We formally graduated, and
Mrs. Butler wrote to inform Lady Russell that we were ready
to accept situations as governesses. We both played well
on the harp and piano, and our fine voices had been culti-
226
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 227
vated as much as was possible at this school. We read
and wrote French and Italian, and spoke them sufficiently
to be understood. You cannot imagine me at nineteen
from what I am now. I will describe myself justly, without
vanity, as I should in speaking of another. I was tall, with
a full, rounded and yet slender form, and my feet and hands
were remarkably small. My face was oval, with a low broad
brow, slightly prominent but regular features, and large eyes
of a dark violet blue, possessing a peculiarly earnest and
melancholy expression. My long thick hair was a warm
brown. How shall I depict Estelle to you. What words
can describe the grace and beauty of her form, or the spir-
itual loveliness of her face. She was a little below the medium
height, but the cunningest fancy never bestowed on a sylph
a figure more exquisitely moulded than hers. There wa-?
not a fault from the swelling throat to the fairy foot ; and
how beautiful was that sweet face, with its complexion like
rosy alabaster, large, dark grey, tender eyes, and waving silk
hair, light brown in the shade, but the brightest gold in
the sun. The outline of her face was like mine, as were her
teeth, white, and regular as pearls. There was a great dissim-
ilarity in our natures ; I united to a vivid imagination, a clear
judgment, and great power of endurance. Estelle had the
lightning-like rapidity of thought, and the quick sensibility
that belongs to intellect; but the dreamy ideality of her mind
was not tempered by reason ; loving trusting and generous,
she acted always from impulse. With a fragile con-
stitution, and a temperament less re-active than mine, she
had neither the stern energy that prompts great efforts,
nor the stoical fortitude to support great sorrows. It was
much from my knowledge of her character, as from my
tender love for her, that I dreaded our approaching separ-
ation. I knew that I should be lonely and unhappy, but T
228 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
felt that I could bear it, but how could she, so dependent
on her affections for happiness, endure the trials and humil-
iations of the position we were to assume. I saw, too, how
the consciousness that we must soon part, oppressed and
saddened her. I saw her beautiful face grow pale, and
her step languid, and though I always strove to speak
cheeringly. I could never call a smile to her lips. At length
after an interval of some time, Mrs. Butler received a letter
from Lady Russell informing her that she had been so for-
tunate as to obtain for us excellent positions, and that in a
few days she would send her companion, Miss Hawthorne, to
bring us to London, where she then was. With this sorrow-
ful intelligence we made our preparations for departure, and
awaited Miss Hawthorne's arrival, with very much the same
feeling that condemned culprits await the day of execution.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ONE morning Estelle and I were alone in the music room.
We had just finished singing a duet from Somnambula.
Estelle's voice, a rich beautiful mezzo soprano, and mine a
pure and flexible soprano, blended finely in this duct, in which
she sang the part of Elvins, and I that of Amina. We
were turning back the leaves of the music to re-commence
it, when the door opened, and Mrs. Butler entered in a
great flurry quite different to her usual calm manner.
"My dear girls," she said. "Miss Hawthorne has come.
You are to travel to London in her ladyship's private carri-
age, in which she came. She wishes to go immediately, so
come up stairs and get ready."
Estelle and I became grave in an instant, we arose and
linked our arms in hers, and as we ascended the stairs,
told her how very, very sorry we were to leave the
school. And, indeed, we had passed there so many years
of peace and contentment, if not happiness, that we
could not fail to regret leaving it, for a future that
promised nothing but loneliness. Mrs. Butler went with
us to the clothes room, and assisted us to put on our
mantles and bonnets, and then directed two of the servant
girls to carry down our luggage. Left alone with us she
took Estelle's hand and mine in hers, and said, with much
feeling,
229
230 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
" I am sorry, indeed, to see you go. You will be alone,
and unprotected, and you are very young and beautiful.
Be good, and may God watch over you !"
We returned her affectionate embrace and descended with
her. In the lower hall several girls, who had heard we
were departing, came crowding around us. There is some-
thing melancholy in leaving even those we do not .love, and
I felt sad as I bade them good-by. Miss Hawthorne was
in the little parlor. We went in and Mrs. Butler presented
us to her. She was an ordinary looking woman, and had a
distant cold manner, that made us ill at ease. She imme-
diately took leave of Mrs. Butler, and said to us in a dicta-
torial tone,
" We will go now, young ladies," and preceded us to the
carriage. Mrs. Butler followed to the steps, and again cor-
dially shook our hands. Miss Hawthorne motioned us to
take the front seat, and seated herself in stately grandeur
on the back, and the carriage drove away.
CHAPTER XIX.
I asked Miss Hawthorne how far it was to London. She
answered shortly that it was fifty miles. She did not con-
descend to speak to us again, and we, constrained by her
presence, sat in silence. The description of any toady will
serve for a portraiture of her. She acted towards her supe-
riors in position with the most servile sycophancy, and treated
inferiors with insulting superciliousness. I was busied with
painful thoughts all the way. At sunset we began to enter
London. As we drove through the busy streets I pressed
Estelle's hand beneath the shadow of our mantles, and our
eyes met. Ah ! we remembered, we remembered our desolate
wanderings. He who had shared them was at rest, but we
were still pilgrims on the earth. The carriage rolled on to
the west end of the city, and stopped before a splendid house.
The coachman rang the bell, and when the door was opened
we alighted and followed Miss Hawthorne into the hall and
up a broad flight of stairs, into a small but elegantly furnished
ante-room. She told us to be seated there for a few moments,
and then left us.
"What a beautiful house this is, Irene," said Estelle,
looking at the pictures and furniture with childish admiration.
" Yes," I answered bitterly, " some people are born to
possess everything, and others nothing. ' ' And I fell again into
melancholy thought. Alas ! how poverty and dependence
231
232 IRENE ; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
humiliates a proud mind. I looked around this beautiful
room, and remembered with shame, that we were dependents
on Lady Russell's bounty. I glanced at the reflection of
our forms in the long mirrors, and said to myself, that nature
had been unjust, that we were more worthy of wealth and
position than she. At such moments we cannot stop to
reason, we only feel. The opening of a door interrupted these
repining reflections. A person, whom I took to be a maid,
from her smart dress and apish air, appeared, and asked
us civilly, to please to follow her. She led us through several
long halls into a pretty little bed-room, then she said,
" I will bring you a light in a moment, Miss. My Lady
told me to tell you she would send for you in a quarter of
an hour, as soon as she is dressed.
She went out, and returned with a light, and then left us.
We laid off our things, and finding that our trunks had been
brought into the room, we unlocked them, and took our
brushes and combs to arrange our hair, more from the habit
of neatness inculcated at school, than from vanity, for at
that time I believe we had never thought whether our
appearance could be of use to us or not. Estelle wore a
plain high dress of blue merino, and a little white collar. It
fitted well to her enchanting figure, and set off her transpa-
rent complexion and golden hair. Mine was of the same
material but dark brown, and this color contrasted finely with
my white skin and deep blue eyes. We conversed while
dressing our hair. Estelle, sighing, wondered in what part,
of the country our situations wre, and then she said with
a bright smile,
" Oh, dear Irene, would it not be a happy thing if they
should both be in London, then we could see each other so
often. (Oh! I would never complain of anything, if I could
see you.'/ I kissed her, add said I hoped so with all my
*~ .
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 233
heart, and that we should soon know ; and then the uncer-
tainty made her sad again, and she said she was sure, from
what she remembered of Lady Russell, that she had not
much feeling. I gently chided her for saying so, though I
agreed with her.
" You must remember, darling," I said, " that we are under
great obligations to her. If she had not taken care of us
what would have become of us ?"
"Perhaps we might have remained with doctor Miller,
and been much happier," she replied.
" We do not know that, and at any rate it does not alter the
fact of our being indebted to Lady Russell. We must not let
our pride, or even our feelings stifle our sense of justice, dear."
I was glad at that moment, to hear a knock at the door,
for she had wound her arms, caressingly, around me, and was
looking in my face so sadly, that, in spite of my efforts to
be calm, and speak reasonably, I think the tears would have
been in my eyes in another minute.
I said, " come in." It was the maid. " My lady is
ready to see you now," she said.
We walked with her in silence, back to the principal cor-
ridor, and then, throwing open a door on the left, she intro-
duced us into her ladyship's dressing room. The light from
a chandelier fell on magnificent robes and shawls, thrown on
lounges and ottomans, and on a large mirror, swinging in a
frame, before which sat Lady Russell. She was attired for
a ball or opera, in a dress of garnet-colored velvet, that left
bare her finely formed, but rather too large, neck and arms.
She wore a necklace and bracelets of diamonds, whose bril-
iancy dazzled me. It may have been the effect of dress,
but she appeared to me younger and handsomer than when
I had first seen her. She regarded us attentively as
we approached, and looked surprised.
234 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" Why really," she said, " you have so grown and improved
I should never have been able to recognize you. Sit down
there, on that ottoman. You may go, Annette."
We obeyed, and the maid quitted the room.
" Now," said her ladyship, " to speak of your business.
Mrs. Butler wrote that you were good musicians, and had
made excellent progress in the languages. You shall play
and sing for me to-morrow, to-night I have little time, as I
am going out. By the way," she added, abruptly, " have
you dined?"
I told her we had not.
<{ Well," she said, " as soon as I am done talking to you
a servant shall carry some dinner to your room. I have
been exceedingly fortunate in securing good positions for
you. To-morrow, Irene, I shall introduce you to the gen-
tleman whose little daughter you are to take charge of. He
is an Italian gentleman, Count Claudius de Giolamo, and
resides at Florence. He is now on a visit to England, and
desires to obtain an English governess for his daughter,
a child of ten. The salary is good, seventy pounds a year,
and your duties will be light. He returns to Florence day
after to-morrow. You, Estelle, will stay in London ; your
situation is in the family of a very wealthy, banker. He has
three daughters to come under your tuition, but they are
all young, the salary, the same as your sister's, is very liberal
for an English governess,"
I was so astonished and bewildered, that I could not
answer. I had thought it hard to be separated from Estelle
even by a few hundred miles, and it was proposed that I
should go to a foreign land, place the sea between us, with
an uncertainty of ever seeing her again.
"Oh! Madame, your ladyship," faltered Estelle, pale
and agitated, "I cannot let my sister go to Italy, we
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 235
have never been parted in our lives. I entreat your
ladyship to obtain her another situation, and let us remain
together in the same country."
" Oh ! I beg you to do so," I added, earnestly, " this act
of kindness will add a thousand fold to what we already owe
your ladyship."
Lady Russell looked astonished at our boldness.
" What nonsense you are talking," she said coldly. "Do
you wish to sacrifice an excellent position for a whim ? You
do not know what is for your own interest, I will not hear of
such folly."
Estelle burst into passionate tears, and hid her face in
her hands.
" Oh ! how can your ladyship call my love for my sister
a whim," she murmured. " You do not know what a sad
lonely thing it is to lose the only thing one loves."
Carried away by my feelings, at seeing her tears, I drew
her tenderly to me, and said, warmly,
" Do not fear, Estelle, I will never go so far from you,
nothing shall induce me to."
The blood mounted to Lady Russell's face ; in an angry
and severe tone she said,
"Is this the respect and gratitude you learned at Harley
Institute ? Now listen to me. I am not in the habit of
saying one thing and doing another, pay attention to what
I say. Either you accept the positions I have taken the
trouble to provide for you, or to-morrow you leave this
house, and seek homes for yourselves. I do not choose to
cater to every sentimental fancy of silly girls. You ought
to be perfectly happy, rescued from want as you have been.
If you choose to act like rational beings it is well, all is
arranged for your future welfare, otherwise take your
own course. Retire to your room, and reflect before
236 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
you decide. To-morrow morning you will inform me of
your determination."
She was as immovable as a rock. I felt that there was
no tenderness or sympathy in her nature, to appeal to. I
was quite overcome, and weeping now, myself. We arose
and left her without a word, and found our way back to our
own room. Estelle sank into a chair, and continued to weep
bitterly, and I, kneeling beside her, reflected on Lady Rus-
sell's cruel threat of discarding us, if we refused to comply
with her wishes. Abandoned by her, what could we do?
Would not every one distrust and cast out two young girls,
unknown, without money or .friends. I shrank in terror
from such an ordeal ; harsh, and painful as was the alterna-
tive, we must submit. This conviction afflicted me so much
that I wept with her for several minutes. At last she said,
"What shall we do, Irene? What can we do?"
" Nothing, dear Estelle/' I answered, " but agree to Lady
Russell's wishes. She is a cold, unfeeling woman, we can
say nothing to move her, and thrown upon the world, now,
without friends, we should be worse off than when we
were children. No, dear, don't cry so; listen one minute,
I have just thought of something cheering, let me tell you.
I will go with this gentleman to Italy, and remain three or
six months, I will be very economical and save all the
money I can, then I will send an advertisement to an Eng-
lish paper, for a governessship in London, and then I shall
have this gentleman to refer to, and be independent of Lady
Russell. Doubtless I shall be able to obtain a situation here ;
I shall have money enough to pay traveling expenses. I
will return, and we will never part again. Is not that a
good plan, dear."
She smiled faintly. " Ah ! if I could believe it would
ever happen," she said.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 237
" What is there to prevent its happening ? Come, let
us be hopeful, and believe all will be well in the end."
The opening of the door caused me to look around. A ser-
vant entered bearing a tray, on which our dinner was placed
in very nice order. She put it on the table, and left us.
After a while I persuaded Estelle to go and eat something.
We were really very hungry, for we had not tasted food
since the morning. I could not help remarking to Estelle,
how strange it was that Lady Russell should be so thought-
ful of our physical wants, and give not the slightest attention
to the requirements of the affections.'^ There were doors
opening and shutting, and the sound of gay voices, but we
sat in loneliness speaking of the uncertain future, I repress-
ing my own sorrow to console my loved Estelle. It was still
early, when exhausted by the fatigue of our long drive, and
so many agitating emotions, we undressed and went to rest
We had not yet lost the blessing of repose.
CHAPTER XX.
WE did not rise till late the next morning, At eleven
Lady Russell's maid brought me a note, I opened it and read,
"I hope the morning finds you both wiser than you were last
night. Write on the bottom of this page your determination, and
send it back to me. CLEMENTINE RUSSELL,"
I took a pencil from my pocket, and wrote, " We con-
sent to your ladyship's wishes." and gave the note back to
the maid.
Remembering that Lady Russell had said that she inten-
ded introducing me that morning, to the gentleman who had
engaged me, I dressed myself in the best things I possessed,
a dress of black silk, and arranged my hair in plain bands,
as I had worn it at school. My face was pale and anxious,
but when the maid came to tell me that Lady Russell wished
to see me in the drawing-room, my cheeks became crimson,
and exchanging a sad look with Estelle, I followed with fal-
tering steps. The drawing-room was a large, magnificent
apartment. Lady Russell, in a pretty morning dress, reclined
in a fauteuil near one of the windows, beside her a gentle-
man was seated. More timid than a child, I advanced
toward them, almost dropping with confusion. Her ladyship
and the gentleman arose, and she said, more politely than
she had ever before addressed me,
" Count Giolamo, Miss Irene Stuart."
238
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 239
The Count bowed to me with extreme elegance, I timidly
returned it, and he resumed his seat.
" Sit down, child," said Lady Russell, relapsing into her
former familiar and patronizing manner. I was glad to sink
into a seat almost behind them, to conceal my blushes.
They resumed their conversation, and presently I ventured
to look at the Count over her ladyship's shoulder. He was,
I judged, about forty-five or six years old, somewhat above
the usual height, and his figure compensated in manliness
and dignity, what it had lost of the undefinable grace of
youth. His face was oval, slightly square at the chin, and
the outline of his features classic. The calm brow of a har-
monious height, the straight delicate nose, and chiseled lips
and chin, were of a mould of ideal beauty. His complex-
ion was a clear olive, his waving hair of i softer shade than
black, and his large dark eyes, had all the Italian softness
and expression. He wore the mustache, that suits so well
the physiognomy of the southern races. Something kind
and genial in his eyes and smile attracted me at once. I
had never seen any one except my father who possessed so
prepossessing an appearance. I was still observing him,
when Lady Russell turned to me, and said,
"Will you be so good, Miss Stuart, as to sing us some-
thing?"
I knew it would not do to refuse, but I was so frightened
that I absolutely trembled as the Count arose and politely
handed me to the harp. I chose a simple, but beautiful air,
from Linda. My voice, at first low and quivering, became
pure and powerful as I recovered self-possession. When I
concluded, the Count said, in good English, though with a
foreign accent
" Bravo, signorina, your voice is very beautiful."
" Yes, that was really very well," added Lady Russell
16
240 IRENE ; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY ETC.
The Count spoke to her for some minutes in a low voice,
while I sat running my fingers listlessly over the harp
strings, and then with a gracious salutation to her, and to me,
he took his leave.
Her ladyship was in a very good humor. She said she
was glad to see us act like sensible girls, and that it was a
very fine thing to be governess in the family of a man of
rank and wealth. She told me she had sent to my room
some wearing apparel, which I should need before I received
my salary, which was to be payable quarterly. I was quit-
ting the room, when she added,
"One moment, I wish to tell you something while I
remember it. I have educated you and procured you this
situation, it will be your own fault if you do not keep
it. If you should wish to change you must seek another
for yourself. I cannot take that responsibility again.
Any persevering, well educated girl, with your advantages
can take care of herself. You may of course use my name
as a reference. I wish you to repeat this to your sister."
Her words were cold and wounding, but sadly, resigned, I
answered nothing and returned to my room.
Estelle asked me a thousand questions, and was delighted
when I told her I was sure from the Count's face and man-
ner that he possessed a kind and generous heart.
The things that Lady Russell had sent me were some
thin stuffs for dresses, suited to the warm clime of Italy,
some underclothing, etc. I put them in my trunk, and then
all was ready for my departure.
V c: O'JJ JT 'ILO (
"Ai'yir nrr vfi
CHAPTER XXI.
IT was the last day I was to pass with the companion of
my chilhood, the sister and friend of my youth. There
were a thousand things I had wished to say to her,
but I could think of nothing. The hours flew on after par-
taking of a little dinner. We extinguished our light in order
to see the beautiful moonlight streaming in, and seated our-
selves by the open window. It was a very warm night, in
the middle of May, and the gentle air was refreshing. Our
eyes did not rest on the wide plains and waving trees, they
had been accustomed to, nothing but roofs and chimneys of
houses, and church steeples in the distance met our view,
but the sky, with its floating clouds was above us, and the
silvery moonlight shone softly down, trembling on Estelle's
golden hair, and adding brilliancy to her effulgent eyes. It
was quite impossible for me to speak cheeringly now, my
own heart was too heavy. Estelle wound her arms gently
around my neck, and said,
" Irene, you will not forget me when you are far away ?
You will not fail to do what you have promised ?"
u Estelle !" I answered, reproachfully, my eyes filling with
tears, " do you believe I can ever forget you ?"
" I should not think you could," she said, " I can never
forget you, Irene. It was your hand that first led me when
I was a tiny child ; it was you who was always near to comfort
241
242 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
me when we wandered with our poor father, and since we
have become girls it is to you I have confided all my
thoughts, and loved you better than anything in this world,
dear sister."
I clasped her in my arms, and told her that I dearly
loved her, that my affection for her was so inwoven with my
life that one could not exist without the other, and so I
soothed her till the moon was high in the heavens, and the
air grew cold, and we closed the window, and prepared to go
to rest, for the last time that we should share the same pil-
low. She was more rapid than I, and when I rose from my
knees, after having knelt with the reverential habit of child-
hood, to say the nightly prayer, she had lain down, and was
already slumbering. I paused a moment to look at her. How
beautiful and innocent she was ; the bright hair waved around
her brow and damask cheeks, and the breath came gently from
her parted lips, the carelessly arranged night dress showed one
lovely shoulder, round and white as marble, and the exqui-
site bosom, on which a small golden locket, containing our
father's hair, rose and fell with her breathing. I ought to
have mentioned long ago, in its proper place, that on the
day we left doctor Miller's house, his wife had given this
locket to Estelle, and one to me. I had shared with her
the lock of my father's hair, and we had worn the lockets
attached to black ribbon around our necks ever since. They
were the most precious things we possessed. I said to my-
self, as I went to rest beside her, thatgf a pure noble nature
meets any recompense in this world hifr fate would be happy.
In the / morning Lady Russell informed me that the Count
intended taking ship direct to Leghorn, and proceed from
thence to Florence through Pisa. Probably through com-
pliment to him, her ladyship proposed accompanying us to
the ship ; she thought it best for Estelle not to go, but I
OP AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 243
insisted, and she finally yielded this point. At noon the
Count's carriage was at the door We descended to the
drawing-room, and Lady Russell presented the Count to
Etelle. He looked surprised and glanced from her to me,
with an expression of interest. We went down, entered the
carriage, and drove rapidly away. Her ladyship talked to
the Count all the way, sometimes in English, sometimes in
Italian, but it seemed to me that he answered mechanically
and looked abstracted. When we arrived at the whaif he
alighted and assisted us out, then looking around he said,
" What has become of our ship ? I do not see it," then
turning to a man who stood near, he askefl,
Where is the Ariadne ?"
" It has cast off into the stream, sir," he answered, " but
there is a boat here waiting for some passengers. I'll show
you."
He guided us through the confusion of people, carts, boxes,
and bales, to the edge of the wharf, where a boat was tied
to the bank, with the sailors seated in it-
" Ah, it's yer honor," one of them said, as they arose,
"the Ariadne is off there, sir, but we'll take yer to her in a
minute."
" Farewell, your ladyship. Adieu, signorina," said the
Count, giving his hand to Lady Russell, and bowing to
Estelle.
" Adieu Count, I hope to see you soon again." her lady-
ship replied, and taking my hand with the most indifferent
air imaginable, she said,
" Good bye, be a good girl," and added in a low voice,
" say good bye to your sister, quick, don't make a scene."
What could I say to this worldly woman, who made light
of the holiest feelings. I dropped her hand without a word,
without a sentiment of gratitude, and Estelle fell into my
244 IRENE;. OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
arms. Again and again I pressed her to my heart, and
kissed off her tears, and blessed her, and then tearing myself
away, the Count put me in the boat, sat down beside me,
and the rapid strokes of the oars bore us swiftly from the
shore.
I watched her through my blinding tears, standing motion-
less where I had left her, till she was lost in the increasing
distance, and then I bowed my head upon my hands and
wept as though my heart would break
,
.
CHAPTER XX11.
As we neared the ship, the Count said to me, gently,
" Strive to compose yourself, my dear young lady."
I dried the tears from my cheeks, and made a desperate
effort to command myself. When the boat was drawn along
side the ship the Count ascended a ladder on the side, and
assisted me to gain the deck. The sails were all set ; the
sailors said the wind was fair, and we should sail immedi-
ately. The Count conducted me below into the ladies saloon.
There were several women and children there. I procured
a state-room, and laying off my things, sat down to think.
I had suffered so poignantly that it was impossible for me
to feel more. I endeavored to be calm, remembering that
to better our destinies I needed strength and courage. I
felt the motion of the ship, gently at first, but becoming by
degrees more and more rough, till at last I could hardly
stand. Every one in the saloon was becoming seasick, and
I heard them going into their state-rooms. I felt only a
slight giddiness in my head, but thinking it might be bet-
ter to lie down, I threw myself on my birth, and soon fell
asleep. I slumbered some hours, a knocking at the door of
my state-room aroused me. I arose, surprised to find that
I had slept, and opened it. It was a servant with a mes-
sage from the Count, that he was waiting to take me to
dinner, if I was not seasick. I hastily arranged my hair
and dress, and joined him at the door of the saloon.
245
246 ffiENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
"You are not sick ?" he asked, smiling.
" It seems not, I have only a trifling head-ache."
" It is the case with myself. A sea voyage at this sea-
son of the year is delightful to me. I have a box of books
on board, they are at your service if you should wish any."
I thanked him, quite surprised at his consideration for
me. Nothing more was said at dinner.
As we arose from the table he asked me if I would not
like to walk on deck, and see the sun set I told him yes.
" You had better put a shawl around your shoulders," he
said, " it is rather cool."
I ran to my state-room, threw on a shawl, and ascended
with him, he gave me his arm, and we paced the deck.
The almost paternal kindness of his manner banished my
timidity, and^I felt as if I had known him for a long time.
The sun, resembling a ball of fire, had just touched the hor-
izon, surrounded by clouds of crimson gold and purple. A
slight breeze curled the waves, and the vessel, with all sails
set, skimmed the waters like a light winged bird.
" Ah, our beatiful Italian skies," said the Count, emphat-
ically, and speaking Italian, " when you have seen them all
others will sink into insignificance, in comparison."
" You love your country, signer," I said.
" Oh ! fondly. It is the land of poetry and music ; the
classic ground of the world, the shrine to which pilgrims of
art will ever journey."
His words called up the memory of the time, when, m
my imagination, Italy was associated with everything enchant-
ing. How little I had dreamed that I should ever see it.
What strange things come to pass. The moon had risen,
and a thousand stars gemmed the heavens. Silently enjoy-
ing the calm beauty of the scene, I listened to the Count,
who related to me many anecdotes of his travels, and
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTEB. 247
beguiled the hours with his varied entertaining conversation
until it was late.
Mornings and evenings, after this, we walked the deck, or
sat, protected from the sun by the awning, reading the great
Italian or English authors. In the eight years passed at
school I had had no opportunity of reading, and it was a
novel and delightful thing to see, for the first time, the
thoughts of the great of the earthXwith the companionship
of a fine, cultivated intellect, and appreciative taste. The
Count did not possess the daring originality of thought,or the
splendid imagination that characterizes genius, but his reflec-
tive mind, and lively fancy, his great knowledge of books
and the world, joined to a noble disposition, rendered him a
charming, instructive associate. In his long conversations
with me he drew me so away from myself that I forgot to
grieve. It was only when alone that I remembered sad
realities.
^ ^ f ft* ^-v V /
. / 1* L <\ * jti. i -c^ < '-j->^ f ,
Kfc.lfr
CHATTER XXIII.
WE had fair winds and a quick voyage. When we arrived
at Leghorn the Count hired a private carriage to convey us
to Florence. We started early in the morning and traveled
all day. The sun was declining, and the air deliciously soft
as we approached Florence. The scene was enchanting.
The Arno winding amid its green banks, the beautiful city
encircled by hills, crowned with innumerable villas, and the
picturesque dress of the peasants delighted me so much that
I could not repress exclamations of delight. We entered
the city, and following the road ascended one of the hills I
had seen in the distance. The sun had set, the pure azure
of the sky was almost entirely concealed by many tinted
clouds, whose gorgeous softness "was indescribable. A few
minutes drive brought us to a magnificent villa, standing on
the brow of a hill, and surrounded by a beautiful garden.
We alighted, and walked through the ground, up a broad
flight of steps into a marble terrace, whose bank was enam-
eled with flowers. On either side of the door a fountain
threw up its silvery spray with a soft murmur. The Count
rang, and an old grey-haired Italian servant unclosed the
door, and on seeing the Count, burst into expressions of sur-
prise and pleasure. The Count checked him, and said in a
low voice,
" Teh 1 Marietta to come to me, and do not mention to any
248
IRENE J OR, THB AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 249
one except her that I have come. I wish to surprise my
daughters."
The servant disappeared, and the Count guided me into a
smaJl sized but very elegant room, on the left side of the
hall. The floor was of marble, and the walls painted in
fresco, and adorned with statues.
" Be seated here one moment, signorina," said he, " I
have sent for a servant to conduct you to your apartment, I
know you must be fatigued."
While he was speaking, a young girl, apparently a domes-
tic, from her dress, entered, and courtesying with much
grace, told the Count she was glad to see him back again.
He received her welcome very kindly, and then told her to
show me to the room which had been prepared for me. I
followed her to it. It was above, one flight of stairs, at the
end of the corridor, and overlooked the terrace. It was a
chamber of moderate dimensions ; the floor covered with a
Persian carpet, and the furniture of rose wood ; curtains of
lace looped back from the window allowed the fragrance of
the flowers to enter. I was enchanted with the view from
the window, with the beautiful refinement of everything
around me. I thought this place an Eden. The ringing of
the dressing bell reminded me that I must prepare for din-
ner. I knew it was the custom for governesses to take
their meals with the housekeeper, still I desired to make
as respectable an appearance as possible. I dressed my hair
in its simple fashion, and changed my dress ; these slight
preparations over I leaned on the toilet table, and involun-
tarily my thoughts wandered back to my cherished sister.
A knock at the door disturbed my reflections. It was old
Pedro, the servant, who had admitted us who came to con-
duct me to dinner. The housekeeper's rooms were in the
first story, in the back part of the building. Her dining-
250 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
room was handsomely furnished, and dinner was served in a
manner that appeared to me very elegant. There was no
one in the room when I entered, but in a minute a little old
woman, dressed in black, came in, and spoke to me in Ital-
ian, in a kind, motherly manner.
" My name is Signora I trine, child," she said, "and I am
very glad to welcome you here."
I thanked her, and we sat down to dine. She had a very
queer face, several times I found myself looking at her
innumerable wrinkles, hair almost entirely grey, and faded,
features. She appeared good natured, and exceedingly
talkative. She gave me a long account of my predecessor,
of which I did not hear ten words, then she commenced to
speak of the Count and his family, and I listened. She had
lived with the Count twenty years, she said, his wife had
been dead nine years, she was an English woman, handsome,
but very haughty and violent. The Count she extolled
extravagantly ; he was the kindest, noblest being in the world,
she said. His eldest daughter was just eighteen, a very
fine young lady, but a little haughty like her mother.
There was Signora Cornells the Count's sister, who lived
with them, a kind lady, and the Count's little daughter, to
whom I was to be governess, a perfect little darling. Her
elaborate descriptions occupied all dinner time. I had risen
to return to my room, when Pedro came with a request from
the Count that I should come to the saloon. It was opposite
to the room I had entered on my arrival, a large apart-
ment, furnished with taste ; my feet buried themselves in
the mossy carpet j the chairs and couches were of blue
damask, and rose, and satin wood. The large arching win-
dows were draperied with exquisite lace, and statues of rare
workmanship filled niches in the wall, between them mirrors
and pictures were hung. A light fanciful chandelier diffused a
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 251
softened light. The Count was seated on a lounge. Stand-
ing by a harp near him I saw a very beautiful but arrogant
looking girl ; her figure tall and Diana-like in its proportions
was shown to advantage, by a dress of pale blue silk, low in
the neck, and with short sleeves. Her face was long, and
a little pointed at the chin, her features delicately aqui-
line. Her ivory white complexion, large azure eyes, and
fair hair, waving in curls on her cheeks, and twisted in a
large knot behind, indicated in an instant her English blood.
A rather large mouth, depressed at the corners, lent an una-
miable expression to her face.
The Count arose, and said,
" Miss Stuart, Countess Francisca, my daughter."
She glanced at me, and made an almost imperceptible
movement of her head. I felt the blood mount to my face,
and returned a salutation, equally forbidding.
" And this my other daughter, your little pupil, Signorina
Celeste," said the Count.
I had not observed this lovely child. She had the blue
eyes, and light hair of her sister, but a very different expres-
sion pervaded her scant low brow, and innocent eyes. The
pouting lips were uplifted for a kiss, with childish grace. I
pressed her in my arms, thinking of Estelle.
"Do you speak Italian, Signorina?" she said, in correct
English.
" A little, Signorina Celeste."
" Oh, call me Celeste, please. I do not like a little girl
called Signorina."
I smiled at the child's good sense. The Count invited
me to sit down. I did so, and Celeste drew close to me.
" I think," she said, speaking Italian, and in the most
artless way conceivable, " that I shall like you much better
than my last governess. She was not young and pretty
252 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
like you. She was tall and thin, and had a sharp voice,
but you have such soft eyes, such a pretty mouth and little
hands. I know I shall love you very much."
" Why, Celeste, what in the world are you talking about,"
said the father, laughing, " it will not do to pay such plain
compliments."
The child had really made me blush, but she had done
it quite unintentionally. The Count asked me what were
my impressions of Florence, and I timidly expressed my
admiration of all that I had seen. Francisca played chords
upon the harp, and seemed entirely unconscious of my pres-
ence. Her disdainful manner rendered me so uncomforta-
ble that when Celeste's nurse came to take her away I took
advantage of it, to say good night and retire.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE next morning, after breakfast, a servant came and
ducted me to the school room, which was only a few steps from
my own. It was fitted up with musical instruments, books
maps, and desks. In a little while Celeste joined me, and I
proceeded to ascertain how far she had advanced in her stud-
ies. For a child of her age she was very proficient, already her
little fingers ran over the harp and piano with ease, and she
possessed a sweet voice. We remained in the school room
till four, after that my time was my own, till six, when I
took Celeste to drive in the Count's beautiful carriage. The
road lay midst the lovliest landscapes, and as we returned
we saw the sun set magnificently, flooding everything with
golden light. The Count was standing on the terrace.
Celeste stoped a moment for a kiss from him, and then ran
up stairs.
" How do you find your pupil ?" he said to me with his
sweet smile.
" Very intelligent and docile," I replied.
" I am glad, as much for your sake as for hers. It is
dreadful to strive to teach stupidity. Have you had a pleas-
ant drive ?"
" Oh ! delightful. What a balmy clime, who could fail
to be happy here ?"
"Ah! cares and disappointments are everywhere, that
human beings are." He paused thoughtfully, and I was
entering the house, when he said,
253
254 IRENE ; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
"I wish to ask you something, Signorina. You have
doubtless heard of the Palazzo Veechio, that contains so
many masterpeices of art. Would you not be pleased to
visit it to-morrow?"
I was so surprised and grateful for his kindness that the
tears rose to my eyes. I thanked him warmly, and accepted
his offer, and then went to my room.
That night I wrote to Estelle, and told her all my impres-
sions of Italy, and of the Count's family. Though the coun-
try was more beautiful than my dreams, and the Count
excessively kind, I wrote I should return to England as soon
as possible, nothing should keep me from her side.
The next day I went with the Count to the Palazzo Vee-
chio. You may imagine the enthusiasm with which I beheld
those great relics of art.
At twilight Celeste and I were walking on the terrace,
when the Count came and joined us.
" Celeste did not use to be so fond of her governesses,"
he said, looking ut the child, whose arm was around my
waist.
"Ah, I did not like them as I like her."
" Why do you like her, Celeste ?"
"I don't know. I like her because I like her."
" A very philosophical explanation," said her father, laugh-
ing, " nevertheless I must say I have faith in Celeste's doc-
trine of ' liking people because you like them.' "
" I think it is as good a reason as one is ever able to
give for liking another," I said.
" It is true," answered the Count, " some people repel
and others attract me, without my being able to tell why."
We were passing around the side of the terrace, happen-
ing to raise my eyes I saw Francisea and another lady
seated at a window above.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 255
u That is my aunt," whispered Celeste to me.
She resembled her brother, but her face lacked the inte-
rest of his. Francisca held a book in her hand, and her
eyes were upon it, but an expression of anger contracted her
fine eye-brows. It instantly occurred to me that she was
displeased with her father's condescension to me. The
thought made me uneasy. I became absent, replied to the
Count in monosyllables and was glad when he was sum-
moned to dinner. A few moments after, I went to mine,
and after evading Signora Itrine's request to pass the
evening with her, I returned to my apartment, seated
myself at my window, and fell into thought. I wondered if
it was possible that Francisca, so high in social position, so
blessed in all her relations, could be indignant at a few
kind words, and attentions that had cheered my lonely heart.
I thought that she, the Count's eldest child, heiress to his
wealth, beautiful and intelligent, naturally possessed a great
influence over him. She might prejudice him agaiast me
and render my sojourn with them, whether it belong or short,
very disagreeable ; independent of this consideration I did not
desire to be at enmity with her, my soul was not formed for
hatred and strife. It darkened, and the radiant stars came
out in the blue heaven, still I sat pondering. Strains of
music floating from the saloon, and the sound of footsteps
on the terrace attracted my attention, I leaned out of the win-
dow. The moon shone brilliantly, two gentlemen were ascend-
ing the marble steps. One of them was advanced in life, but
his fine form was still majestically erect. His long hair was
entirely white, and his face mild and benevolent. His com-
panion was young and handsome, but of a profligate appear-
ance. I presumed that this was one of the Count's recep-
tions, of which Signora Itrine had spoken to me. Twice a
year the Count received all his friends, without invitation,
17
256 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
to pass an hour in the charming, unconstrained intercourse
of Italian society. I was about to withdraw from the win-
dow when the younger gentleman raised his eyes and looked
intently at me. I drew back in alarm, as if I had commit-
ted some dreadful action, closed the window, and shortly after,
went to rest.
CHAPTER XXV.
SEVERAL days elapsed without any incident worthy of
record ; the Count's manner to me continued the same and
I concluded that I had been mistaken with regard to Fran-
cisca. One morning I heard that the Count had gone to
Naples, and would be absent for some days. I missed him
greatly, as there was now no one to whom I could impart a
thought or feeling. When by chance I encountered Signora
Corneli,shespoketome cordially, and I liked her very much,
for she possessed all her brother's gentleness of heart, but she
never came to my room, and I knew her only superficially.
As to Francisca, when I met her on the terrace, or in the
halls, she sometimes deigned to evince a consciousness
of my existence by a nod, and at others passed me without
even this acknowledg ment. Celeste was almost constantly
with me, but though she was a sweet little creature, and I
dearly loved her, she was but a child, and could not sympathize
with me. Many visitors came to the villa, and it was very
gay, but the sounds of mirth reaching me in my lonely room
only reminded me of my isolated, dependent position.
A circumstance occured at this time, which troubled me
very much. Celeste and I were wandering in the garden
one evening. We had paused a moment to admire a large
rose bush, when I heard steps on the walk. I looked around
and beheld the handsome young gentleman I had seen from
my window. He removed his hat, and said to me, politely,
257
258 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" Can you tell me, Signorina, if the Count has returned
home."
" He has not, sir," I replied, a little surprised.
" Will you allow me to inquire if you are a relative of the
Count's ?" he said.
" I am only the governess, sir," I responded, quite aston-
ished at this question.
He bowed, and passed on, and in a few minutes I had for-
gotten the occurrence. The next day I met him on the
terrace. He stopped, and making some comment on the
beauty of the scenery, held me in conversation for some
time. After that I encountered him everywhere, in the
hall, on the terrace, in the garden ; one would have said
that I sought the opportunities. He spoke to me boldly,
and began to pay me extravagant compliments. I was
exceedingly frightened and annoyed. If Francisca, with
her haughty, jealous temper, should see him address me
should hear his audacious words, what would be the conse-
quence; beside this, the man was odious to me. It was
more than time for me to receive an answer from Estelle,
none came, and I was anxious, and nervous. One morning
I was in the school room, striving to concentrate my wan-
dering thoughts on the lesson I was giving Celeste, when
some one knocked at the door ; I said,
"Come in."
It opened, and the Count entered. Had he been a dearly
beloved brother his presence could not have gladdened me
more. As the genial sunshine disperses mists, his appear-
ance banished all my fears and anxieties. There was no
embarrassment in my greeting to give him my hand, and
tell him I was happy to see him, was as natural as to breathe.
" I am glad to return," he said, rt there is no place as dear
and beautiful to me as my own home. But Signorina are
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 259
you not well ? you look very pale. Is it you, naughty lit-
tle girl, that troubles her?" he added to Celeste, who had
climbed upon a chair, to put her arms about his neck.
"No indeed," I said, "it is not her, she is a sweet child."
" I know very well, papa, something grieves Signorina, for
she was weeping, last night." Celeste said, very earnestly.
" I will wager anything that I can guess what is the mat-
ter. Signorina has not heard from her sister."
Tears filled my eyes.
" Ah, you see I have guessed rightly. If you will allow,
your little pupil to go down with me one moment, we will
look among the letters which have arrived this morning. I
think we shall find one for you."
I told him, certainly, and she descended with him. Pres-
ently she came bounding back, holding up a letter.
" For you," she said; " You see papa was right !"
" Oh ! thank you, thank you, dear," I said, catching it
eagerly from her hand, and hastily tearing it open, I read
the dear lines.
I will not insert the letter, here, but I will tell you briefly
what it contained. The day after my departure she had
gone to her abode, home, she said, she could not call it.
Mr. Mouley Ashton, was a quiet, common-place, business
man ; his wife very like Lady Russell, her three scholars
were pretty amiable girls, but without intelligence. No one
was unkind to her, but she was always, always alone. Again
she begged me not to forget my promise, to her, " I can
endure anything," she wrote, " if I can only hope that
we shall soon be re-united." She was happy to learn, by
my letter, that I was so agreeably situated, but once more,
she repeated, " do not, do not let Italy wean you from Eng-
land, and Estelle. I answered her at once ; I strove to cheer
and console her, and carefully concealed all that was
260 IRENE : OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
disagreeable. I assured her that I desired nothing so much
as to fulfil my promise, and added, that we should comfort
ourselves with the reflection, that though our separation was
painful, it would be of use to teach us strength, and self-
reliance. After this, I returned to my duties with a light-
ened heart. I saw no more of my troublesome gallant, he
had ceased to visit the villa, for which I was heartily
thankful.
CHAPTER XXVI.
SHORTLY after his return, the Count observed to me, that
I must sometimes find time hanging on my hands, and
requested me to avail myself of his library, for amusement,
whenever I wished. I took advantage of this permission to
pass almost all my evenings there. I generally had possession
of it after dark, and many hours I have whiled away, forget-
ting my sorrows and almost my own existence, in the lives
and thoughts of others.
Time went ; I received another letter from Estelle ; she
wrote calmly, but in a tone of sad resignation that touched
me deeply. I looked doubtingly at the future, and won-
dered if it had nothing for us, but this life of solitude and
dependence. "Were there no other wants in life but a shelter
for one's head, and something to eat and wear.
One evening, I had just finished dinner, and returned to
my room, when Celeste came running in.
" Dear Signorina," she said, " I have not to go to bed for
an hour and a half yet, let me stay with you ; I will be very
good."
" Very well, Celeste," I answered. I am going to sit
here and see the moon rise, if you wish to look out you may
sit upon my knee."
She oame and climbed up, and playing with my hair, she
said,
261
2G2 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" Two gentleman, papa's friends, came here this afternoon
and they are going to stay some weeks, I think. I saw
them at dinner."
I was thinking of something else, and made no reply, and
she prattled on, speaking English, as I had desired her
always to do, with her pretty foreign accent. There was a
gentle tap at the door, and she slid off my knee, and went
to open it. It was Pedro, with a request from the Count
that I should bring Celeste to the saloon.
" May I go and tell nurse to let me put on another dress,
Signorina ? this is school dress, you know," she asked, with
sparkling eyes.
I told her certainly, and she hastened away. I was
vexed at being summoned to encounter strangers, my posi-
tion always humiliated me ; however, being obliged to go, I
quickly dressed myself. Since my arrival at the villa I had
grown somewhat conscious of the personal advantages I pos-
sessed, and, consequently, gave more attention to my toilet.
I no longer wore my hair with the same simplicity enjoined
at school. I allowed it to wave in its natural ringlets, and
then gathered them in a large knot behind. I put on a
dress of India muslin, cut low in the neck, and with half
long flowing sleeves. Speaking without vanity, because very
little remains now, it would have been difficult to have found a
figure more symmetrical or more elegantly rounded than mine.
I was quite ready when Celeste came back. A dress of
silk, as blue as her eyes, contrasted well with her light, flow-
ing curls, and rosy cheeks.
" Ah, how pretty you look, Signorina. Now let us go
down," she said,
We descended. As we entered the saloon I saw Fran-
cisca seated on an ottoman, near one of the windows, oppo-
site to a gentleman, with whom she was in earnest
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 263
Conversation. The Count and another gentleman were seated
near Signora Cornell!.
As we drew near, the Count arose, bowed to me, and said,
in English,
. " ( Allow me, Miss Stuart, to present Mr. Carrall to you,
one of your countrymen."
I was so much surprised at this presentation, that, for a
moment I forgot to bow. Recovering myself, I returned the
gentleman's salutation, and sat down in a chair the Count
had placed for me.
" This is the pet, Mr. Carrall," said the Count, drawing
Celeste to him.
" A very pretty one," he replied, smDing. He was a per-
fectly English looking person, who had the cordial, sincere,
but rather abrupt manner that characterizes the nation. He
and the Count were occupied with Celeste, and I turned my
eyes to Francisca, and her companion. Her manner, usually
so languid, and indifferent, was animated, anl attentive.
The gentleman was speaking, and though I could not hear
the words, the tone of his voice, and his gestures were very
earnest, and impressive. As well as I could judge, from a
distance, he was about the medium height, and his figure,
though elegant, was not particularly striking. His face was
a fine oval, but his aquiline nose was a little too large, and
his mouth too wide for beauty, though one could hardly
regret the latter, for it showed, to great advantage, his daz-
zling teeth. His head was finely formed, and covered with
dark brown, waving curls ;^his brow, broad and intellectual,
and the eye-brow beautifully expressive; but the charm of
his face was his eyes, large, dark brown in color, and the
most eloquently, irresistibly seducive, I have ever beheld./
Analyzing the face and form, no one could have called them
handsome, but taken as a whole, it would have been
264 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
impossible to imagine a more attractive exterior. I was so
absorbed in my survey that it never occurred to me that
my intent gaze might be remarked. Suddenly he arose,
offered his arm to Francisca, and led her to the harp, which
stood within two feet of where I was seated. After placing
her at the instrument, he said to the Count, in a free-toned,
melodious voice, and in Italian,
" Ah, that is Celeste, I suppose. Allow me to speak to
her for one moment, Countess, for the sake of our old
acquaintance." Celeste put her hand in his, and looked
highly delighted. The Count arose, and said, graciously,
" Signor Cellini, Miss Stuart."
I knew not why the beating of my heart accelerated as
I met those radiant eyes. I resumed my seat, strangely
confused. Francisca's glance was bent on me, her face, so
smiling a moment before, became dark. On a nearer view,
I perceived that Signor Cellini was about thirty older than
I had thought his complexion was fair, for an Italian, and
his small whiskers, and mustache, were of a lighter brown
than his hair. Every one remained silent, supposing Fran-
cisca was going to sing, but after pretending for a minute,
she said, abruptly,
"You must really excuse me, Signor, I cannot sing, I
have no voice to-night."
" Francisca," said her father, archly, " how do you kno\v
that you have lost your voice ?"
" Oh, I pray you, Signorina, do not be so cruel as to
deprive us of the pleasure of hearing you," said Signor Cellini.
" I am sorry, but I cannot oblige you," answered Fran-
cisca, coldly, and rising from the instrument, she went and
sat down by Mr. Carrall, and entered into conversation. I
saw by the Count's flashing eyes, that he was offended ; he
turned quickly to me, and said,
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 265
" May we ask you, Signorina, to oblige us with some
music ?"
" I was about to refuse, absolutely, partly because I did
not wish to increase Francisca's anger, partly because it
wounded me to be asked simply on account of her refusal,
when Signor Cellini bent toward me, and said, in his winning
accents,
" I join my entreaties to the Count's, Signorina."
It seemed that I was suddenly deprived of the power of
saying no, for I allowed the Count to lead me to the harp,
and sang a beautiful air from Roberts. I think I sang it
well, for when I concluded the gentlemen clapped their
hands and cried, "Bravo." They urged me to sing again,
but I would not, and returned to my seat. The Count
endeavored to draw me into conversation, but I could not
keep my eyes from Francisca's face, which expressed the
greatest sarcasm, and passion. Signora Cornelli, too, looked
displeased, and when I addressed her she answered very
coldly. Wounded, embarrassed, and feeling myself in a false
position, I whispered to Celeste, that it was time for her to go,
and rising, bade them good night, and retired.
CHAPTER XXVII.
I FEAR Celeste did not profit much by her lessons the
next day, for I was constantly revolving in my mind the
scenes of the preceding night. Signer Cellini was especially
in my thoughts. Often when I should have been paying
attention to grammars, and music books, I was recalling
the inexpressible beauty of his glance. Celeste was indis-
posed, in the afternoon, and this prevented us from taking
our usual drive. Not wishing to go to the terrace, or gar-
den alone, I remained in my room until dark, then I went
to the library, lighted the chandelier, and taking a volume
from its shelf, sat down by the large study table, in the cen-
ter, of the room, rested my book upon it, and began to read.
It was a translation of a German metaphysical author, speak-
ing of incomprehensible subjects, with a ghostly melancholy
that made my blood chill in the veins. I was terrified at
the desolating thoughts, and yet they possessed an undefina-
able attraction. I read on, but cold, lifeless abstractions did
not satisfy me. I threw it aside, and took a favorite Italian
poet ; this did not call up shadows, but made me feel warm,
animated life. I do not know how long I had been reading^
but it must have been late, for every thing in the villa was
quiet, when the opening of the library door startled me, and
I looked up. Signor Cellini was standing on the threshold,
bearing a light in his hand.
266
IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 267
" Excuse me, I pray you," he said, taking a step back,
I was not aware that there was any one here, I-came to get
a book."
" There is no excuse requisite, sir," I said, rising in great
confusion, " I have been reading, and have forgotten the
time. Do not let me keep you from entering, sir, I am
going to retire immediately."
"No," he said, smiling, " I am not coming in to frighten
you away. If you will remain where you are I will enter
and get my book and be gone at once."
I resumed my seat, so much embarrassed that I scarcely
knew what I was doing. He entered, and closed the door,
but without latching it, then going to the row of shelves
nearest to it, he read the titles of the books, with the assis-
tance of the light he carried. Presently, without turning
or desisting from his occupation, he said to me,
" May I ask you, Signorina, if you are English ?''
" I am, sir," I answered, feeling pleased in being addressed,
without knowing why.
" You speak Italian very well, but that is not surprising,
with your musical ear."
" You are complimenting me, sir," I said, the blood rising
to my cheek.
u I do not intend to do so, I assure you, Signorina, but I
have a book at last, I will not trespass on you any longer."
" You are not trespassing on me in the least, sir," I said,
with an earnestness that astonished myself speaking from
an irresistible impulse, without thinking that I might be
misconstrued.
" I have, at any rate, prevented you from reading," he
said, approaching the table, and looking at the books upon
it, " Metaphysics and poetry. Do you take any interest in
politics?"
268 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" I am hardly capable of doing so in my ignorance. I
have never read any political works."
" I have here an English book. * The Lives of Great
English Statesmen.' Alas ! poor Italy," he added, suddenly,
with a sigh, "there is no field for statesmanship, in a
land where freedom of opinion, and discussion, is prohibited,
man is deprived of the glorious privilege of reason, and only
the intellect that will sell itself can succeed."
I replied, timidly, distrustful of myself; he continued the
conversation, and at last sat down. Passing from one subject
to another ; he spoke of arts, sciences, and his travels, He
possessed the delightful art of drawing out another's opin-
ions, and understood (a rare accomplishment) as well how to
listen, as to speak. He did not, like many brilliant men, strive
for effect; his impressive manner indicated an earnest mind.
I was astonished at the profundity of his knowledge, and
judgment, as well as the warmth, and beauty of his imagi-
nation. I listened to the noble thoughts, flowing so elo-
quently from his lips, and watched his face light, and his
splendid eyes kindle with the fire of intellect, till catch-
ing his enthusiasm, and forgetting my timidity, I responded
with equal animation. It must have been more than an hour
that we sat there, but it appeared to me only a few minutes.
Truly, for the time, I had forgot everything, but the person
with whom I spoke. He arose at last, and taking his book
and light, he said, with a smile,
K I have not kept my word, Signorina, but I cannot, really,
tell whose fault it is. I hope it is not an unpardonable
indiscretion on my part, Good night."
He left me, and I hastened to my chamber, but not to
sleep, for all the faculties of my mind were aroused, and it
was hours before I became calm enough to repose.
I was tranquilly happy the next day. I was so innocent
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 269
minded, and so ignorant of social laws, that I never imagined
I had committed a conventional impropriety. I recalled
every word Cellini had uttered, his every look and tone, and
wondered why one gifted with such intellect and eloquence,
had not, already, rendered himself celebrated. Perhaps,
unfortunately for himself, he had been born to wealth. At
twenty he had entered the army, but he found there no
scope for a noble ambition. After attaining considerable rank,
at the age of twenty-five, he resigned his commision, and
retired to private life. Society courted him, as his unrivalled
powers of conversation, and the undefinable charm he exer-
cised over all who approached him, made him its ideal.
Pleased with this success, it may be more flattering to
self-love than any other, he gradually lost his taste for sol-
itude and self-communion, without which the greatest genius
can accomplish nothing durable ; and thus at thirty Giorani
Cellini had acquired no other fame than that of the brilliant
man of the world.
Pardon this digression let me return to the day of which
I was speaking. I was in my room, towards evening, when
I heard the sound of voices and laughter on the terrace. I
concealed myself behind the window curtain, and looked out.
I saw Francisca, the Count, and his guests equipped for a
horseback ride. Francisca wore a habit of blue cloth, and a
little hat of black beaver, with plumes, placed ccquetishly
on one side, above the fair curls that floated to her shoul-
ders. Her azure eyes were as full of light as the zenith at
mid-day. She was animated, and her graceful air, and sil-
very laughter were so charming, that, for the first time in
my life, I lelt a slight pang of jealousy. The gentlemen
wore riding coats and caps, and seemed in high spirits. I
turned sadly away ; I was alone, and unoared for. There
are moments when we cannot help feeling envy.
270 IEENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
A little while after I went to take a walk with Celeste. As
we were returning I heard the quick galloping of a horse
behind us, and stepped a little aside to allow it to pass, but
to my surprise when it reached us, the gentleman mounted
on it suddenly drew the rein, and leaped lightly off. It was
Cellini.
" Good evening, Signorina Stuart. Good evening Signo-
rina Celeste; this is a happy meeting. The Countess
Francisca had the misfortune to lose a bracelet. We had
reached the villa before she discovered the loss, and I
have returned, but have not had the pleasure of finding it."
I never thought to inquire of myself what it was that
caused my heart to palpitate, and the blood to rush to my
cheek, in a hurrying tide He walked beside us, leading
his horse by the bridle. Celeste talked to him till my unac-
countable agitation had subsided, and I joined in the conversa-
tion. When we reached the villa he left his horse at the gale,
and accompanied us to the terrace. Fearing Francisca's
anger and jealousy, if she saw me conversing with him, I
yielded reluctantly to the imperative necessity, and pleading
fatigue, hastily withdrew to my chamber.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
I WAS accustomed to rise very early in the morning, and
pass the time before breakfast in the library, or on the ter-
race. Very frequently, after this, Cellini was my compan-
ion. We spoke always on literary or artistic subjects, and
his perfectly respectful manner toward me. the total absence
of gallantries and compliments, blinded mo to the dangers
of these meetings. I was now constantly happy. I no
longer felt fear or anxiety, the sky was brighter, the earth
fairer, and sometimes in the buoyancy of niy spirits it seemed
to me I trod upon air, and yet so little do we comprehend our
own hearts, that I knew not what it was that, like a patent
elixer, stirred the blood in my veins, and awakened all the
vitality of my nature.
The Count came frequently to the school room, ostensi-
bly to inquire after Celeste's progress, but he always had
some words of delicate interest, and sympathy, for me I
seldom saw Francisca, except walking by moonlight, on the
terrace, with Cellini, with whose society, I could easily per-
ceive, she was delighted.
Mr. Carrall remained at the villa but a few days. He
was going, the Count told me, to visit Egypt and the Holy
Land.
I received two letters from Estelle. She patiently awaited
the time when we should meet again. Had she become less
dear to me, that my heart sank at the thought of leaving
18 271
272 IBENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Italy. Alas ! a feeling so intense that it absorbed all oth-
ers, had taken possession of me, although I knew it not
A trifling thing revealed to me, at last, the secret of my
heart.
Celeste and I had returned from our evening drive, she
had run on, and entered the house before me. A little
fatigued, I passed slowly through the hall, glancing care-
lessly into the saloon. The chandelier was not yet lighted,
but it was not quite dark, and the moonlight stole softly in.
Two forms were standing by one of the windows, I recogni-
zed Francisca and Cellini. He was speaking with his beau-
tiful, persuasive eyes bent on her, I could not see her face,
but her attitude was full of eager interest. It seemed as if
a bandage had suddenly been removed from my eyes in an
instant, by the tormenting pain that I suffered ; I compre-
hended my own feelings, I ran rapidly up stairs, entered my
room, closed and locked the door, and sinking into a chair,
burst into bitter, passionate tears. Cellini loved Francisca,
and I, poor fool, loved him ; unconsciously, had given away my
heart unsought. All that was dear, and beautiful in life had
perished in a moment, how blank and objectless seemed exis-
tence. I had dreamed that I was stoically cold and calm, and
awoke to the knowledge of an impassioned nature. I took
off my bonnet and scarf, threw myself on my bed, and
bathed my pillow with tears. Of all the pains, and sorrows,
poor human nature is fated to endure, humiliation or self-dis-
trust is the most agonizing. I felt that I possessed neither
intellect, nor beauty, nor virtue, 'that I was the most insignifi-
cant of human creatures ; why was such a poor, unfortunate
being ever born ? I thought, despairingly.
It was long past midnight before I forgot my wretched
feelings in sleep. There were knocks at my door several
times, but I made no reply.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 273
When I awoke, the next morning, I was astonished for a mo-
ment to find myself dressed and lying on the outside of the bed-
My head ached violently. I arose, recalling the occurrence of
the past night, with my heart beating fast with pain. My
mirror showed me my .face and eyes surrounded by black
shadows. While arranging my dress I endeavored to rea-
son calmly. I perceived the wisdom of seeing Cellini no
more; perhaps, now that I was conscious of my own heart, I
might betray myself, and then how great would be my shame
and mortification. I would avoid the library and terrace, I
would listen no more to his seductive tones. Ah ! why had
he sought my companionship to render me so unhappy.
The moment Celeste saw me she noticed my sad languid
manner, and asked me what was the matter. I told her
evasively that I was a little indisposed.
There was a closet, between the library and the school
room, in which were kept painting and drawing materials. I
went in there, in the afternoon, to get some pencils Celeste
needed. I was searching for them, when I heard some one
enter the library.
" Really, my dear friend," said the Count's voice, "it
annoys me that I can discover nothing about it. When I
question Francisca she answers evasively, I cannot, of
course, speak to Cellini upon the subject, and so I remain
in ignorance. Well, patience, we shall know in time."
"But this engagement was not positive, you say," said a
strange voice.
Not in the least," replied the Count, " his father and I
have been friends for years. Four years ago, when I was
at Turin, we agreed that when Francisca should be grown
she and Giorani should meet, and if they should love each
other, marry. There is no one in the world I should be so
happy to see Francisca united to. It seems to me that she
274 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
cannot fail to love him, so intellectual and noble, and she
is beautiful and attractive, and the faults of her character
would be corrected by a true affection. Oh ! I sincerely
hope it may be as I wish."
I had listened involuntarily to this conversation ; but at this
moment, recollecting that I was committing a dishonorable
action, I noiselessly escaped into the school room. I
understood it all now. Ah ! I thought, if I had never
seen him. If I could only forget.
Two or three days passed sadly. One morning, the Count
entered the school room, looking much troubled, and said
to me,
u Our friend, Signor Cellini, is summoned from us in
haste. His father is lying at the point of death, at Turin.
I strove to say some words of regret, in the tone of polite
indifference usual on such occasions, but my voice faltered,
and my cheek became crimson. Fortunately, the Count
was pre-occupied, and after saying that Signor Cellini would
depart immediately, he left. I felt an inexpressible long-
ing to behold him once more. I asked Celeste if she did
not wish to go to my room and see him depart, from the
window. She was delighted to be allowed to do so, and
we hastened thither. In a quarter of an hour, which
I spent in agitated thought, Cellini and the Count came
out upon the terrace. The face of the former was pale
and melancholy. He shook hands cordially with some
friends within the door, and then quickly descended the
steps, followed by the Count. I gazed wistfully after
him; only the presence of Estelle restrained my tears.
Thinking of my return to England, my heart sadly whis-
pered, I should never never see him again.
CHAPTER XXIX.
I HAD been with the Count nearly three months, it seemed
to me years. Estelle had written me that when she received
her salary, she would advertise, and, as soon as she
could, procure me a governessship in London, that I
should return. I reproached myself for not feeling perfectly
happy, in the prospect of our speedy re-union ; but even
my fond love for her was cold, beside my blind but vain
idolatry for another.
The eveiing, of the day of Giorani's departure I went to
walk upon the terrace with Celeste. We had been there
but a few moments when the Count joined us, and we paced
the terrace, conversing, for two hours. At first sad and
listless, I replied with an effort, but he exerted himself to
entertain me, and amused in spite of myself, I re-entered
the house in a happier mood. Every day, for a week after-
wards, he accompanied Celeste and me in our drives. I was
a little surprised at this, but his manner had always evinced
a calm regard for me, and I had come to look upon him
almost as a brother, as day by day I discovered in him some-
thing more worthy of regard. Solitude was irksome to me,
for books no longer diverted my sad thoughts ; every night
I sought the terrace, certain of meeting the Count to beguile
the hours that passed so wearily alone.
275
276 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
One very warm night I descended ; there was no one vis-
ible, and not a sound "broke the silence, save the low
murmur of the fountains. All the landscape was bathed in
moonlight, which is golden in this lovely clime. The dis-
tant city, reposing amidst its hills, looked like the fair but
shadowy scene of a dream. The light night-blooming flow-
ers, glowing upon the terrace, in alabaster vases, had unclosed
their glowing petals to perfume the air. Fascinated by
the poetry of the view, I gazed until I fell into reverie. I
heard no footstep knew not that any one was near me, till
a hand was lightly laid upon my arm, an,d the Count said,
" What dream absorbs you, Signorina ?"
I cannot explain how it was that those careless words
aroused so much emotion ; the tears rushed to my eyes. I
turned away my face and strove to master it, but like a sor-
rowing child, my heart heaved up, and the tears ran fast
over my cheeks. The Count continued speaking, but
receiving no reply , and seeing my averted head, he leaned for-
ward and caught sight of my weeping face, drawing near to
me, he said in an earnest and faltering voice,
" What is the matter, Signorina, has anything grieved or
offended you ? Do not weep, if you are unhappy let me
console you, Dear, dearest one, I love you."
He had taken my hand, his own trembled violently.
His face was flushed and agitated. What a throng of tumul-
tuous thoughts rushed into my mind ; amazement predomi-
nated over all. I endeavored to withdraw my hand, but he
held it gently, and continued,
" Pardon me, Irene, I had not intended to have startled
you by so abrupt a confession, your tears forced it from me,
for I love you, sweet one, as I have never loved before.
For a long time I have wished to tell you of it, but let mo
speak calmly. Irene, the bright days of youth are flown ;
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 277
can you be happy as the wife of one who will be old while
you will still be in the loveliness of youth ? Reflect, inter-
rogate your heart. If you can love me, I will devote my
life to you. In the passionate days of old, at your feet I
should have solicited an answer, but now, calmer, and wiser, I
say to you, reflect."
He pressed my hand to his lips, and left me, and with a
bewildered brain I retired to my chamber. Agitatedly
pacing the floor, I tried to think. So sudden and unexpec-
ted was this event that I could hardly realize it. The i'riend
for whom I felt so much respect, and sisterly affection, had
become my lover ; belonging to the nobility of Florence, he
renounced the prejudices of rank and wealth, to offer his hand
to a penniless governess. How I wished that I could give him
all my heart, and it were worthy of him. Strange inconsis-
tency of human nature, that my impassioned affection was
bestowed on one who thought not of me ; but what mattered
my love since it was utterly vain. The Count offered
me wealth and position, a tender friend and intellectual
companion; and I doubted not that his generous heart would
accept Estelle as a sister. I had never dared to hope for
such a happy fate. Next to Giorani no one was dearer to
me than the Count, \vhy then did I hesitate ? It was the
scruple of an honest mind that forbade me to deceive would
that I had heeded it. For a long, long time I pondered.
At last, calmly, determinedly, I resolved to accept him, and
then, wearied, I sought my bed to forget myself in sleep.
The next day Celeste told me that her father had mounted his
horse, and riden away, immediately after breakfast, and that
he had told her he should not return until evening. I spent
the day in the school-room, as usual. I was in my chamber
after dinner, when a servant brought a message that the Count
desired to see me in the garden. I went down, feeling
278 IRENE ; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
indescribably strange. The Count was waiting for me at
the foot of the marble steps ; he silently placed my hand
upon his arm, and led me to one of the paths bordered with
shrubbery. Neither spoke for some moments. From his
frequent, and deep sighs, he appeared to be struggling for
composure. At length he said,
" Irene, dear one, speak to me frankly, do not fear. J
love you so much that I seek your happiness rather than
my own. Look up, and answer me. Tell me if the joy of
possessing one so beautiful and noble is reserved for me ?"
I dared not raise my eyes. In a trembling voice I said,
" If I can make you happy, if, indeed, I am valuable to
you, I am yours."
He stopped, his breast heaved, and he clasped me in his
arms.
" Oh beautiful, beloved Irene, how happy you have made
me. Ah ! is it possible that I am so blest Never before
has my heart beat thus ; never have I felt such joys. The
world contains nothing more of happiness for me. I hold
all within my arms."
How incomprehensible are the raptures of passion to one
who does not share them. I wondered to see him so joy-
ously agitated, when I was so cold.
" Tell me, dearest," he said, as we walked on with his
arm around me, " when will you become mine ? Let it
be soon, dear Irene, in a week, that is time enough for pre-
paration, and what need is there of delay. You confide your
happiness to my keeping, I accept it as a sacred trust,
and, believe me, never, never shall you have cause to
regret it.
" My dear Count," I said, " I wish to ask you one ques-
tion, pardon it "
" Count!" he interrupted, reproachfully, "do you still call
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 279
me Count ? It is too cold and ceremonious, for your dear
lips. Call me Claudius, and the name will be sweet, indeed,
when you pronounce it."
Well, then, Claudius," I said, with an effort. " I know
that the Countess Francisca does not like me ; how shall
we be able to live beneath the same roof, on an equal
footing?"
" Have no fear for that," he replied, " Francisca, with all
her faults, obeys me. She knows now that I love you, and
I have commanded her to extend to you, at least, the cour-
tesy and kindness of an equal ; besides this, I think that she
will be married to Signor Cellini, ere long. I do not know
this, they have thought best to conceal their intentions from
me, but I am sure that Francisca admires him, and she pos-
sesses many attractions. In any event depend that I will
arrange matters well. Francisca is haughty and passionate,
but I believe she truly loves me. She is my child and I
love her, but our natures are so entirely opposite that I
have never been able to feel for her the confiding tender-
ness I have found in another relation. Ah, Irene, you can-
not know how dear you are to me."
" Now, my beloved," he continued, " I will tell you one
of my plans. You shall write, immediately, to your dear
sister, to come to us. She can come by ship to Leghorn,
there I will meet her, and conduct her to you. She shall
live with us, and shall be my sister. If Francisca should
not marry she will surely become more amiable, in the society
of two such lovely and gentle beings. In contemplating the
future I feel as happy as a joyous boy, with all life's beau-
tiful illusions smiling before him. We shall be united in a
week, shall we not, Irene ?"
I had not learnt the woman's art, of saying no, when she
means yes. I saw no objection to this arrangement, and
280 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
consented at once, and then, with the warmest gratitude, I
had ever felt, I thanked him for his noble offer for Estelle.
He would not hear me.
" No, no," he said, 'tis I who owe you thanks and grati-
tude. In giving me your love you bestow more than I can
ever repay. My Irene, you are a precious jewel that all
the world could not buy from me. Sweet one, the air
grows cool, and you have no shawl, let us go in."
My fate was decided, I possessed all the love of a true,
manly heart; in a week I would become a Countess, and
mistress of this fair donain. Why was I not entirely happy ?
I breakfasted the next morning with the Count's family.
Francisca saluted me politely, and, for the first time, addres-
sed some remarks to me. I replied in the same manner.
She had always treated me with such insulting disdain that
it would have been rather strange had I become her friend
in a moment ; beside this, the thought that she possessed Gio-
rani's love, was sufficient to prevent a cordial feeling on my part;
however, I was very glad that we were to live on amicable
terms. No one could be more gracious, and pleasing, than
she when she chose, and sometimes, after this, I found her so
gentle, and so unpretending, that for a moment she won me
to like her, against my will. I wrote to Estelle. Joyfully
I imparted to her the event which had changed the aspect
of our destinies. I bade her come to me at once, and if
my love and care could render her happy, she should be so.
I told her all, save one thing, which I could not confide
to any one.
"I begged Claudius to allow me to continue to teach Celeste.
He was unwilling, but consented at my earnest request. I
found that an active occupation has the salutary influence
of restraining the* imagination, in some degree, and for this
I eagerly courted it.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER 281
Every evening Claudius and I took a walk or drive.
He related to me the history of his past life. His marriage had
been one of convenience, and not very happy. He spoke of
his wife with respect, and forbore to recall her faults, but it
was easy to see that he had not loved her. He never wearied
of speaking of the future, that seemed to him radiant ; often
he said,
" Who could have prophesied that I should find so much
happiness, at my age, when generally life begins to lose its
charm; that I should love one young enough to be my
child. Sweet Irene, I have loved you ever since the day
when, timid and blushing, you entered Lady Russell's draw-
ing-room."
Unlimited means were placed at my disposal, and I furn-
ished myself a handsome ward-robe. The intervening time
passed rapidly, all was ready for the one great event in
a woman's life.
CHAPTER XXX.
CAN I ever forget the agitating emotion with which I rose
on my wedding morning. Claudius had invited only a few
intimate friends to the wedding, but intended giving a grand
reception in the evening. The appointed hour was twelve.
At eleven Nina, the maid the Count had employed for me,
came to assist me to dress. Shortly after, Francisca entered;
she had offered to be my bridesmaid, to my great astonish-
ment, and I had of course accepted. She was already
dressed, and looked very elegant, She wore a robe of valen-
ciennes lace,over one of white satin, and a few natural flowers
were arranged on her bosom and in her fair hair. My dress
was exactly the same, with the addition of a magnificent
veil fastened on the back of my head, crowned by a beauti-
ful wreath of natural orange blossoms. This attire, and
the animation excitement lent my face, altered me so
much that I scarcely recognized the image the mirror showed
me. While dressing I had taken off my inseparable com-
panion, the locket containing my father's hair, and forgot to
put it on again. Afterward I regretted this ; with a child-
ish superstition it seemed to me that my father had not
blessed my marriage. As soon as my toilet was completed
we descended. At the foot of the stairs Claudius and another
282
IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 283
gentleman were awaiting us. The gentleman joined Francisca,
the Count gave me his arm, and we entered the saloon.
There were about twenty persons present, standing or sitting
in groups, and conversing gaily. A priest, in his robes, was
seated at the farther end of the apartment. We advanced
to him, he arose, and after a momentary pause, commenced
the marriage service of the Catholic church. I was cold
and tremulous, the words rang in my ears, and it was with
dificulty I retained sufficient composure to make the requi-
site responses. It was finished, and the people crowded
around. Claudius presented them, and they all congratulated
me. Signora Cornelli was among the first to offer me kind
wishes. There were many fine looking men and women ;
prominent among them was a venerable looking gentleman,
whom the Count introduced to me as Count Louis Foresti ; I
instantly recognized him as the person I had seen from my
window, the day after my arrival at the villa. His appear-
ance was so prepossessing that I listened with great pleas-
ure to his courteous words. Claudius led the way to the
dining hall, where breakfast was served. Seeing every one
animated, I made an effort to participate in the gaiety. We
were a long time at the table, and when we arose the guests
immediately took leave, and Nina conducted me to my suite
of apartments, consisting of bed, dressing and bath rooms,
furnished with faultless taste. I laid aside my dress for
one of dove-colored satin. While Nina was arranging
my hair, which she insisted on doing, the door opened,
and Celeste entered. She approached me with a wondering
face.
" They would not let me go to the saloon, Signorina,"
she said, " they said papa was being married to you is it
true ? Are you my mamma now ?"
I smiled, and bent down and kissed her.
284 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" I am quite sure it is true, and will you love me the
same as ever?"
" Better, if I can, dear Celeste," I answered.
She smiled and clasped my hand, and when Nina would
allow me to go, we went down to the saloon together. Clau-
dius, Francisca, and Signora Cornelli, were there. Clau-
dius' face glowed with joy ; he seemed too full of happy
thoughts to speak. Signora Cornelli was quiet as usual,
but, fortunately, Francisca was extravagantly gay, a mood
in which I had very rarely seen her ; she, and Celeste,
who enjoyed fun exceedingly, were the life of the party.
In the evening a large apartment, opposite to the saloon
was thrown open, and lighted up, and very soon the guests
began to assemble. I wore my bridal dress, without the
veil. Francisca was dressed in blue satin, and a wreath of
natural roses surrounded her head. The slight fear I
had felt, that from the inferior position I had occupied, I
should not be well received in these aristocratic circles,
was entirely dissipated by the invariable politeness exten-
ded to me. It was a novel and brilliant scene to me.
The doors of the conservatory, which adjoined the saloon,
were opened, and lamps of stained glass, attached to the
roof by gilt chains, shone like gems midst the flowers.
Those who were weary of dancing wandered here and there
or stepped out of the windows^hich opened to the floor, on
to the terrace,andwines,fruits,and ices, were placed on mar-
ble tables, around the rooms.
After twelve o'clock the people gradually dispersed,
till all were gone. The music had ceased, Francisca had
taken flight. Claudius and I were alone in the saloon; I
was wearied, and a feeling of melancholy stole over me.
Claudius approached and gently winding his arm around
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 285
me, drew me to the window. The soft summer air fanned
my brow. I gazed upward at the pure and star-lit heavens.
"My own," he murmured in impassioned accents, "my
own precious one at last"
CHAPTER XXXI.
ONE would have supposed that, lifted from dependence,
to a position of honor and luxury, I would have been per-
fectly contented, yet it was not so. Once the Count's wife
I devoted myself to his happiness, fully conscious it was but
just to perform the duties to which I had willingly bound
myself, but though the sense of duty can school words and
actions, it cannot stifle thoughts, and it is not in a day that
a strong passionate feeling can be uprooted. I was agreea-
bly surprised to find that Francisca and Signora Cornelli
yielded me my place in the household without reluctance.
Francisca, though sometimes moody and disagreeable, was
sufficiently courteous to me to enable us to live in peace.
My esteem and affection for Claudius was, of course, increased
by the tie that united us, but as I did not feel for him the
adoration that blinds us to the faults of its object, I discov-
ered, ere long, that, despite his many noble qualities, he pos-
sessed something of the exacting spirit of man toward
woman. There were many things he was willing to do him-
self that he would not allow to me. Though I felt this to
be unjust I yielded, as woman must do, or lose the only
influence she possesses over the affections ; for between the
love of man and woman there is a vast difference. A
woman's love is entire self-abnegation ; however great her
286
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 287
pride and temper, they are conquered by it. Self-love, with
man, is always supreme; with that and his warmest affec-
tion grown cool, the laws of the land give him entire
authority ; education teaches that it is his right; woman is so
utterly dependent in her position, that she has no resource,
and must submit. These are general reflections, the result
of my observation, and only in a small degree applicable to
Claudius. There were few who possessed a nobler character-
His foibles were those of his sex, his virtues were his own.
Almost every evening, for a fortnight after my marriage,
Claudius, Francisca, and myself, attended some ball or recep-
tion, or went to the opera. In the morning I superintended
the household, and rode out on horseback. I could not
but be flattered to see him always happy, to mark his ten-
der glance follow me, even in the most brilliant assemblies.
In my letter to Estelle I had asked her to write me some
days before she left England, and tell me in what ship she
would sail. I was now daily expecting a letter from her.
With what joy I thought of beholding her once more, she
would supply all that was wanting in my heart; in anticipating
her wishes, in rendering her happy I should become so myself.
One morning, sitting in my dressing-room, Pedro brought
me a letter, post-marked England, and directed in her hand.
I opened it with a beating heart. Thus it ran,
" DEAR IUSKE,
Need I tell you how happy I am, at the unexpected fortune that
hiis raised you to the position for which you are so fitted, or what
deep and heart-felt thanks I return to your noble husband for his mag-
nanimous offer to me, but though it may seem strange to you, dear
sister, I have decided to remain in my present position for another
quarter. My pupils are attached to me, and I am not unhappy here,
now that habit has reconciled me to it. Three months will soon pass
and then I trust we shall see each other again. Dear, beloved
sister, you cannot know how I long to see you. Blessings on you, and
on your noble husband. Patience, Irene, and adieu for a little while.
Ever sincerely Yours,
August 30th, 18 . ESTELLE."
19
288 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I dropped the letter on the floor, aiid burst into tears;
astonishment, disappointment and grief entirely overcame
me. What a contrast was this ambiguous, incomprehensible
letter to what I had expected ; what could it mean? Had
she ceased to love me, or was it pride that actuated her
pride toward me ! impossible ; then to what should I attrib-
ute it. I rang, and when the servant answered I sent for
Claudius. He came immediately, and seeing my tears, said
anxiously,
" Why, Irene, dearest, what has happened ? What is the
matter ?" I gave him the letter.
" I am completely bewildered, Claudius," I said ; " I can
make nothing of it."
He sat down by me, and read it to the end, then after a
short, thoughtful silence, he said,
" There is but one explanation of this, that I can think of.
She may, like yourself, have met some one that she loves,
and who loves her, and is going to marry ; or it may be "
He checked himself, and looked disturbed. I did not guess
his thought. His suggestion was reasonable, but I still felt
deeply pained and disappointed.
"Why should she not have confided all t me ?" I said,
drying my tears from my cheeks with a long sigh.
" Young hearts are timid. I think it would be well to
write and tell her what you have guessed, this will pave the
way to confidence, doubtless she will confess all to you.
There is no occasion for sorrow ; if she marries, she shall
come and pay us a visit, or we will go to England to see
her."
" I have dreamed so much of the happiness I should en-
joy with her," I said, sadly, " and now all my hopes are frus-
trated."
" We must resign ourselves to what is inevitable, and
289
nothing is more so, than that, sooner or later, we forget home
affections, in the all-engrossing passion."
I took Claudius' advice, and that very day answered
Estelle's letter. I reproached her for her want of frankness,
and told her if a more passionate feeling than her love for me
filled her heart, she would find me at least, always a tender
and sympathizing friend. The letter dispatched, calmer
thoughts came. 1 summoned all my philosophy to my aid,
and looking into my own heart, and remembering the past,
I acknowledged the truth of Claudius' remark that these
things are indeed inevitable.
CHAPTER XXXIIV.
A WEEK had gone. One morning we were at breakfast,
Francisca had just quited the table. Claudius was looking
over his letters. Perceiving the post-mark of Turin on one
of them, he quickly opened, and read it. As he did so his
color changed, he looked surprised, and annoyed.
"Is anything the matter, Claudius?" I asked.
" Come to the library, where we shall not be interrupted,
Irene, I wish to read you this, he said, rising. I followed
him up stairs. We entered the library, he closed the door,
and walking to and fro, remained silent for a moment, while
I seated myself in an arm-chair, and prepared to listen.
Turning to me, he said,
" Irene, you know that I have supposed that Francisca
and Giorani Cellini were to be married. I have not heard
from him since his departure ; now listen to this
Mr DEAR COUNT GIOLAMO
The severe illness of my father, which, happily, has safely ter-
minated, has prevented me from writing you on the very important
subject which drew me to Florence. I shall enter upon it now with-
out hesitation or preface, knowing as I do that your opinions co-in-
cide with my own ; I do, however, most truly regret that it is my fate
to be the first to announce to you that the partial engagement between
Signorina Francisca and myself cannot be fulfilled, since I should only
be able to give her my hand, without my love. When we met I saw
and appreciated her intellect, grace, and beauty, but Ihe undefinable
something requisite for love was wanting nay, more than this, my
friend, I now love another. I was on the point of explaining my
290
IRENE ; OR THE AUTOS IOGRAPHY, ETC. 291
feelings and sentiments to you, -when I was summoned away in haste.
I trust, and on my honor I believe, that your daughter feels for me
only friendship, and never did I utter to her a word that expiessed
more. I know that I am acting in sincerity, but the thought of wound-
ing her pride grieves me. I would far rather take the position of the
rejected one. I beg you to conceal this from her, and simply say,
that for family reasons the match must be broken off. I shall see you
ere long, and explain more fully the causes that oblige me, as much
in justice to her as myself, to refuse the honor of her hand.
Your Friend, sincerely,
GIORANI CELLINI.
" I confess honestly," resumed Claudius, " that I am not
so much astonished at this as disappointed and troubled.
You may imagine how many reasons I have for regretting
this termination to my matrimonial prospect."
My heart beat wildly, thoughts chased each other rapidly
through my mind. My first emotion was joy, that he was
not to wed Francisca ; not that I disliked her. I had al-
ways dreaded his return, and being forced to witness their hap-
piness. He loved another, this love was as sudden as had been
mine for him. Claudius interrupted these reflections.
" I do not blame him ; I have no right to do so ; I know
well that feelings cannot be controlled, but I regret it ex-
ceedingly. I think I will take his advice and tell Francisca
nothing about this letter. She would never forgive such
a wound to her pride. She admires, and likes him, but I
hardly think loves him ; at any rate, she loves herself too
well to break her heart for any one. I will say that it is my
wish that the matter should end ; she will never know any-
thing of this, and it will be all well."
In spite of the emotions the letter had awakened, I pre-
served an outward composure, and answered that I entirely
agreed that this would be the wisest course. We decided
that he should seek an early opportunity, to tell Francisca
to think no more of Cellini, and inform me how she received
the command.
292 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
On the evening of the next day, we were going to the
opera. As soon as I was attired, Claudius joined me at the
door of my dressing-room, and we descended to the saleon.
Francisca had not yet appeared. Claudius wound his arm
around me, and as we slowly paced to and fro he said,
" This afternoon, I asked Francisca, very gravely, if she
was, in reality, engaged to Count Giorani. She strove, as
usual, to evade the question, but I insisted on a positive
answer, and finally, wrung from her a reluctant negative.
" I am very glad of it," I said, " for I desire that hence-
forward you think of him only as a friend."
" I have never thought of him in any other way," she re-
plied, coldly, " but what is the matter ? you were so anxious
that we should like each other and marry."
" I have changed my mind," I answered, " and I am glad
to find that you coincide with my wishes."
She said no more, and the subject dropped. Nothing,
however, can be known from Francisca's manner, her pride
masks her feelings completely ; she may feel more than she
is willing to evince, though I trust not.
The entrance of Francisca put an end to the conversation,
and we departed for the opera. I observed her narrowly
that night, but there was not a shade of thought or sadness
on her face, or in her manner. I could not prevent my
thoughts from reverting to Giorani let me confess all,
though the consciousness of duty restrained my feelings,
still deep in my heart the fire smouldered, and could not be
extinguished. Often I became melancholy at the thought
that it was not in my power to reciprocate Claudius' entire
devotion.
Another letter came from Estelle. She wrote almost in-
coherent ; not confessing that she loved, or intended to mar-
ry, but repeated that she wished to remain in England for
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 293
three months, and that at the expiration of that time she
hoped to see me. She had already given me the reasons
that induced her to act thus, she said. (Poor child, she had
explained nothing.) She assured me of her unchanged
affection, and reiterated this throughout the letter, which was
almost illegible with blots, and written in a strange, ramb-
ling style, that filled me with sorrowful misgivings. Clau-
dius tried to console me, as he best could.
" You cannot force confidence, dearest," he said, and we
must wait with patience for time to solve the mystery of her
actions."
This inexplicable affair caused me many bitter tears. It
is a hard task for a restless, longing heart to learn patience.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CLAUDIUS was constantly proposing some amusement to
iissipate my sadness. Some days after the incidents I have
just related, it was arranged that we should make a visit to
Count Foresti, who was Caludius' dearest friend, and also a
distant relative. He was a widower, and childless, and lived
alone, in a beautiful villa, four or five miles distant. We
were to start at five, dine with Count Foresti without cere-
mony, and return early, for it was one of our reception even-
ings.
I had been sad, and languid all day, and when I went to
my room to dress I felt as if I would have given all the
treasures of the world for an hour of silence and solitude.
I commenced my toilet, but the idea of joining in a con-
versation, of being gay, was so insupportably disgusting, that
I hastily decided not to go.
" Stay, Nina," I said, as she was arranging my hair, " I
am not well, I cannot go. Ring the bell, and bid Pedro tell
Count Giolamo that I wish to see him."
She obeyed, and in a few moments Claudius appeared.
" I feel indisposed, Claudius," I said, approaching him,
indeed, I should be entirely out of place in any society at
this moment. A little repose will perhaps restore me for
the reception this evening. You and Francisca go without
me."
294
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 295
u By no means," he said, " if you are unwell, Irene, I will
send an excuse, and defer the visit till some other day."
" I beg that you will not do so, Claudius," I replied,
" you know well that Francisca will be offended if the visit
is relinquished on my account I pray you to go, I shall
be better when you return ; I ask you as a favor, not to
refuse me."
He was still reluctant, but I was so urgent, that he at
last consented. I saw him from my window, descend the
steps with Francisca, and walk down the long avenue. Sev-
eral times he turned to kiss his hand to me, then they got
into the carriage and were gone.
I threw on a silk dressing gown, smoothed my hair, and
went to the library. I loved this place, that seemed perva-
ded by the elevating influence of intellect, where one could
be silent and alone without feeling solitary, for here were
constant friends, genial though unobtrusive companions, the
thoughts of great spirits. Bat on that day I was too list-
less to seek amusement from any source. I sat down in a
fliuteuil by one of the open windows, and gazing at the
smiling landscape, sank into thought.
What is it, I asked myself, that renders me happy? is it
position, wealth ? no, for I possess them, and am not any
more contented, than when a child I wandered with iny poor
father, who sleeps far away. Is it the toils and struggles of
ambition, in some degree to those whose natures are unsuit-
ted for it, but can even that satisfy the cravings of our
nature? no, no, I feel it cannot. What were the conquerer's
crown, the poet's and artist's inspiration, but for the reward of
their labors, the sympathy of a congenial mind, and the love
of a noble heart.
The mellow glow of sunset fell upon the scene, and found
me still absorbed in this train of thought, seated with my
296 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
back to the door, bracing my elbows on the arm of the chair,
and supporting my head with my hand, my eyes dwelt
abstractedly on the gorgeous-hued clouds. Suddenly a step
made me start and turn. Conceive if possible, my amazement
and confusion when, within two feet of me I beheld Giorani
Cellini. I felt the blood rush in a torrent to my face, and
recede to my heart. Shaken by an indescribable agitation
I arose and muttered something unintelligible.
"Ah ! Signorina," he said, his harmonious voice vibrating
with joyful emotion, and advancing eagerly, took my
hand in both his own, "by what fortunate chance do I
find you here. Ah ! how happy how happy I am to see
you again."
My emotion and bewilderment increased by the warmth
of his greeting, and I stammered,
"I am very, very sorry Signor,that the Count is from home,
but "
" It does not matter," he interrupted quickly, " it is true
I came hither expecting to find the Count, intending to con-
fide all to him, believing that his generous nature would
enable him to be my friend, notwithstanding the peculiar
circumstances of the case and because also I knew not how
else to obtain access to you. Imagine, then, my delight at
finding you here alone, by some strange but happy mistake
surely, surely, he added in a low and earnest voice, "you
do not need to be informed of what brings me hither."
" I do not need to be informed of what brings you hither !'
I repeated wonderingly. " Signer I do not understand you,"
" Do not do not say so, Irene," he said, pressing my
hand, which he still retained, with great emotion. " It can-
not be that you did not guess what my eyes, my manner, all
save words declared. Though you may not know the cause
that sealed my lips, it is impossible that you should be
297
ignorant that I love you. I have sacrificed every worldly
and family interest, to be able to tell you so with honor.
Pardon my vanity, I believed that I was beloved."
I despair of giving you any idea of my emotions, as I
listened to these words. I stood like a statue silently
gazing at him.
" Ah !" he resumed fervently, with his beautiful eyes bent
tenderly on me, " if you knew what efforts it cost me to
repress my feelings, when we were alone to see your ador-
able beauty, and be compelled to remain silent. Tell me,
Irene, that I have not deceived myself, that I am dear to you."
I tore my hand from him, and clasping my whirling head,
I cried,
" For God's sake, do not tell me this, you will drive me
mad," and I assure you I do not exaggerate in saying, that
for a few moments I felt as if deprived of my reason.
" What is the matter ?" he said, in accents of astonish-
ment. " What have I said to agitate you thus ?"
'' Oh ! Giorani," I said, in agony, " why did you not tell
me that you loved me why did you not give me some lit-
tle word or sign oh, it is too late, too late now there is
an insurmountable obstacle."
"What obstacle, dearest Irene? I have written to the
Count, and entirely freed myself from the Countess Fran-
cisca. He is too just toblamcmeforthecourse I have pur-
sued. What is there to oppose our happiness, if indeed you
love me?"
" From me from me comes the obstacle, Giorani; I am
married."
He drew back, and became lividly pale.
Married !" he repeated with an emotion that shook his
whole frame. "Great God! what do you tell me, am I
dreaming oh ! it is impossible impossible."
298 IRENE ; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" It is true," I replied, despairingly, " I am married to
Count Giolamo."
He covered his face with his hands, and sank upon a chair
BO profoundly agitated that he could not support himself.
" It is all over," he said, bitterly, " the dream is finished.
Oh, Irene, if you loved me how could you act thus ?"
I turned my head away in 'silence; in doing so, glancing
mechanically out of the window,! perceived the Count's carri-
age at a little distance.
" ^*> > Giorani," I cried distractedly, " the Count and
Francisca are coming ; if they find you here, and see this
agitation what will be the consequence ? go, I implore you, for
my sake."
He arose mournfully.
" One moment, Irene," he said, as I made a movement to
hasten his departure, "grant me the poor consolation of
hearing this mystery explained. I have a key of the garden
gate and one of the conservatory, meet me there to night
at twelve o'clock will you come ?"
"Yes, I will, at one I will be there." He rushed from the
room, and I flew to my chamber, locked the door, and
throwing myself on a lounge, buried my face in its cushions.
There are feelings, which words cannot describe ; one
must be under the influence of a passion as intense, and be
placed in the same position, to comprehend the keen anx-
iety I suffered. It was the bitter, because unavailing, grief
of one who has unconsciously had in their possession an
inestimable treasure, and only becomes aware that it has
been theirs, when it is inevitably lost. Tears would have
releived me but they came not to my eyes. I mutely endured
the mental agony, which is for more difficult to bear than
the severest physical pain.
Some one tried to enter, and finding the door fastened,
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 299
knocked gently ; in an instant the idea of the reception flashed
into my mind. If I said I was ill, and could not attend it,
Claudius would close his doors to visitors, and perhaps, in his
anxiety, remain with me till after the time I had appointed
to meet Giorani; no, I must dress, and conceal my aching
heart by smiles ; I came to this determination in a moment,
and rising, went to the door; it was Claudius. Night had
fallen, and thanks to the obscurity of the room, he could
not perceive any alteration in my appearance.
" What ! in darkness, Irene?" he said entering, " are you
then ill?"
" No," I answered, t{ I am going to send for lights, and
dress immediately."
"Dinner will soon be ready. We did not dine at the
Count's, I could not be happy without my Irene. I told
him we would defer it till some day when she could enliven
us with her presence.
" Thank you for thinking of me," I said, with a sense of
shame and remorse, " I will dress and join you at once."
He left me, and I rang for Nina ; she brought lights, and
I commensed to dress.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
NINA adorned my hair with bunches of rose- colored and
white camellias, in the midst of which she arranged some
diamond ornaments, that shone like drops of dew upon
the lovely blossoms. I put on a dress of rose-colored silk,
with a low corsage, and trimmed with flowers and white Brus-
sels lace. This pretty, gay attire, contrasted strangely with
my heavy eyes, and deeply sad face, from which every trace
of color had vanished.
" Mi ladi is so pale," Nina said, " if she would only put
on a little rouge."
" I think I will, Nina," I replied, " get some from my
dressing table."
She obeyed, and a little, skillfully applied, restored some
life to my face.
I descended to the saloon where I found Claudius and
Francisca, and we went to dinner. I could eat nothing, and
pleaded a head-ache as an excuse for my want of appetite
and abstraction. Francisca was never displeased at being
allowed to monopolize the conversation, and talked gaily to
her father during dinner, and after we returned to the saloon,
til] our friends began to assemble, and I was obliged to col-
lect my scattered senses, and go about dispensing bows and
smiles. How wearily the hours lagged; our visitors seemed
interminable that night ; as fast as one departed another
300
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 301
came, and it was after twelve before the room was empty.
Claudius observed my faltering step and exhausted air.
"Why Irene," he said, "you look really ill, you ought
not to have been here this evening ; your hand is burning,
pray go to rest at once, repose may restore you."
He accompanied me to the door of my chamber, and bade
me a tender goodnight. The door closed after him; I fell
into a chair before my toilet, and buried my face in my
hands. Why am I thus grieved and distracted, I thought,
in bitter self-reproach, am I. not the wife of one of the
noblest of men. What right had I to make this appoint-
ment what right have I to keep it. If it is not criminal
it is as least wrong I must not, I will not go.
My eyes rested on the little clock standing on a marble
slab fastened to the wall, it was on the stroke of one. The
current of my thoughts changed he whom I loved was
waiting for me, counting the moments ; he was sufficiently
unhappy, without being disappointed in the small favor he
had craved at my hands, besides I had promised; no
no, it is but justice, it cannot be wrong. It was in giv-
ing my hand without my entire love that constituted a culpa-
ble action. Thus it is that one false step often places us in
a position in which we cannot distinguish between right and
wrong.
The minutes flew on it was half past one, impelled by
an irresistible impulse, I stole into the hall ; the villa was
wrapt in silence; I cautiously descended the stairs, trav-
ersed the saloon with light and rapid steps, and entered the
conservatory. The lights were extinguished, but the moon-
beams poured in the long windows, upon the marble floor.
Giorani was standing in the shadow of the low arching door,
he sprang forward, impetuously seized my hand and drew
me to one of the windows.
302 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" Bless you for coming," he said fervently, " I have been
waiting so long."
" I am here," I answered, leaning against the framework
of the window for support, " though perhaps I ought not to
have come, but no matter, let us speak quickly, I entreat you.
I am already terrified at this clandestine proceeding ; if we
should be seen or heard no one would believe in my innocence."
" Come this way behind the shrubbery, there is no other
window now it is impossible to be seen or heard."
He had taken my hand to. guide me to the spot, and still
retained it in his own, I hastily withdrew it, he sighed deeply
and said,
" Irene, I never dreamed that the Count loved you ; did
you know it were you betrothed to him when I first saw
you, or did it all happen after my departure?"
" When you were here I had not the slightest idea of the
Count's love. It was some days after you left that he
declared it to me, I was convinced that you loved Francjsca,
I knew that your marriage with her was desired by both
your families, and believed it was already arranged ; you
left me without a word, how could I know that you loved
me ? I was a lonely and unhappy being, the kind, generous
Count, for whom I felt esteem and sisterly regard, offered me
the love and protection I so much needed. I flattered myself
that time would conquer my affection for you, I accepted,
and we were married almost immediately. This is the history
of my actions, and their motives, but my feelings and suffer-
ings oh ! Giorani, it would take me hours to detail them
to you."
" When I came here, Irene, I was in some degree bound
to Francisca, and the match was in every worldly respect
desired ; I admired her as an attractive woman of society,
but your intellect, beauty, and grace, won my ardent love :
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 303
the freshness of your feeling, the unaffected truth and inno-
cence of your character, refreshed my mind, wearied with the
stupidity and falsity of conventional beings. In your society
I felt again the forgotten aspirations of early youth. I had
loved many times before, but never with such earnestness,
but all, save Francisca herself, believed that I would wed
her, and I could not, in honor, breathe a word of love to
you till my position was properly understood. The circum-
stances were so peculiar and painful that I was for a time at
a loss how to act; at length I decided to tell the Count all,
with entire frankness. At this moment I was summoned to
attend, as I supposed, a dying father; in my anxiety I
thought of nothing else, and hastened away. As soon as
my father was convalescent I wrote to the Count, cancelling
forever all obligation to Francisca but doubtless you have
Been the letter. Very soon after I hastened hither, yester-
day I arrived, and sent a note to the Count, informing him
that I desired a private interview with him to-day, and that
if he would be alone in the library at five, I would enter
the villa by the private door, and find my way to the library
unannounced, for I wished every one, except himself, igno-
rant of my visit ; I received no answer, but attributing it
to some mistake, and exceedingly anxious to see him, I
came this afternoon, and was fortunate enough to enter the
private door, of which I had a key, and gain the library
without being seen. Ah ! you know my joy at finding you,
and the misery of learning that you were lost to me ; but,
beloved one, there is some consolation in the midst of so
much wretchedness, in hearing from your own lips that you
did love me no, that you do still is it so Irene ?"
" Do I love you, Giorani ?" I cried with a burst of uncon-
trollable emotion, " do I love you ? Would to God I did
not, since we are inevitably separated on this earth."
20
304 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" Why why should it be so, Irene ?" he said, in a low
and tremulous voice," nothing should sunder two fervent
souls; whatever the world may say, marriage without the
sanction of our hearts is an unconsecrated bond ; act as
though no such tie bound you be mine. Come with
me-^you are my life, my soul; do not condemn me
to live without seeing you. If my love can content
you jv&., will\ leave society, for I ain weary of it; we
wijj. ..seek some blessed retirement, where we shall find
inefl^ble happiness."
He uttered this almost incoherently, and terrified at the
seducive thoughts his dangerous words awakened, I shrank
baek
Jt-Qh! leave Giorani?" I cried, "what do you say? don't?
for pity sake to what would you lead me ?"
" Think what felicity would be ours," he continued, pas-
sionately, without heeding me, and striving to clasp my
trembling hands.
" Irene, I love you I adore you come with me lei
us never, never separate."
Carried away by the bewildering passion his words had
aroused, seized with a sort of delirium, I forgot everything,
and sprang forward to throw myself in his arms. In doing
so my sudden motion threw from the bosom of my dress
the little locket containing my father's hair; secured
from falling by the chain about my neck, it swang before
me.. v> ,Uie_sight restored my reason; like a reproach from
another world it fell upon my heart ; my long restrained
tears flowed fast. Clasping it in my hands, I said, in
a faltering voice, Giorani, my father's last words to me
were,
"Always be honorable and virtuous ;" you have nearly
caused me to forget them, and I silently wepi
OP AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 305
He did not speak, and when I looked at him, he was as
pale as the marble stand against which he leaned.
" This is not a question of the laws of society, Giorani,"
I said, sadly, " it is not a question of the marriage ceremo-
nial. It is that we have no right to break our plighted word,
voluntarily given, without cause or excuse. No right to
betray a sacred trust. I was not forced to this marriage, I
entered into it willingly ; it is true, it was a fatal mistake,
but have I the right to punish others for that? The Count
idolizes me. I have solemnly given myself to him, and
rather than render an innocent being unhappy, I will sacri-
fice myself a thousand times."
" You are right," he answered, mournfully, " I was mad ;
I would have betrayed one who has always been my friend.
Pardon me ; I am very wretched."
The struggle between love and duty, under such strange
circumstances, had been so great that mentd and physical
strength were fast abandoning me ; with a great effort, I
said,
" Let this painful interview terminate. We have said
all we know all."
'* It is true, words are vain," he replied, and walked to
the door; I followed him.
" It is, perhaps for forever that I bid you farewell,
Irene," he said, in a broken voice, and extended hh arms
to me.
" No no," I said, repulsing him, with oustretched hands,
" I dare not I cannot endure more. God bless you !
Farewell."
" Farewell," he repeated, and the door shut after
him.
Everything was growing dark around me. I clung to
the lattice work that supported some plants. I felt that it
306 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
might be dangerous to lose consciousness in this place
if I could only gain my room, I thought. I took two or
three steps forward reeled, lost my balance, and fell
fainting to the ground.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHEN I recovered my senses I was lying where I had
fallen. I arose and hastened to my chamber, undressed and
threw myself on my bed, and, completely exhausted, soon
sank into a heavy sleep.
Morning found me with a fever, and for a week I was
unable to leave my bed. Claudius watched over me with
a tenderness that caused me many self-upbraidings, though
I had wronged him only in my thoughts, which it is not
given us to control.
When I became well enough to reflect, Giorani's visit
seemed to me like a strange fatality. How extraordinary
that his note to Claudius should never have reached its
destination, that I should have been alone in the library on
that evening, and he able to enter and leave the villa un-
perceived.
After every violent emotion succeeds a calm, but that
which follows grief is a silent melancholy still more oppres-
sive. It is like the tranquility of those dark and stagnant
waters, whose unruffled surface no storm disturbs, no sun
beam ever breaks. It was thus I felt; it banished light from
my smile, and elasticity from my step, and added to it was
the reproach of my conscience for having deceived a trust-
ing heart. Better, I said to myself, to have remained for-
ever poor and retained the candour of my soul.
Probably Claudius attributed the change in me to my
307
308 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
anxiety for Estelle, but he only manifested his observance
of it by the solicitude with which he strove to cheer and
amuse me.
Days came and went, but brought no letter from the sis-
ter to whom my heart still fondly clung. I wrote to her
anxiously, and begged if she retained any affection for me
to tell me the reasons of her conduct, whatever they might
be.
Time elapsed, my letter remained unanswered, and I was
half distracted.
Claudius, I said to him one day, the best thing I can do
is to go to England. I have neglected my duty in remain-
ing so long in this uncertainty, Estelle has always regarded
me more as a mother than a sister, it is my duty to watch
over her. Alas ! I have selfishly forgotten that.
" I do not see, Irene, why you accuse yourself. You
have done all you could. She is a woman, and if she did
not choose to accept your offer you could not force her to
do so."
No, but if I could see her clasp her in my arms once
more, she would tell me everything, but here, so far away,
I can exert no influence. Oh ! indeed I must go I can-
not bear this suspense.
" Be calm, dear Irene, and take my advice on one point,
all the rest shall be as you wish. Write to the lady in
whose family your sister is governess, and ask if she is ill,
and as soon as we receive an answer we will start for Eng-
land. Does this content you ?"
Yes, thank you a thousand times, I answered, gratefully.
I did this at once, comforting myself with the reflection that
I should now very soon know something definite.
. CHAPTER XXXVI
TIME passed. It was the end of October, and the weather,
though unusually warm for the season, was enchanting.
For some time after my indisposition Claudius and I had
abandoned our horseback excursions, but as he was a fine
horseman, and fond of the exercise, and the air among the
mountains so delightful after the sun began to decline, he
persuaded me to resume them. Francisca, who rode with
grace and fearlessness, frequently accompanied us.
At the close of a very hot day, we all mounted our horses
and took a mountainous road, that commanded a fine view
of the city. Claudius, proud of his daring horsemanship,
rode a*firey dapple grey, but fearful for those he loved, he
had selected Francisca's horse and mine, for their gentle-
ness. Our spirits were exhilarated by the exercise, and
sometimes racing, and sometimes talking animatedly, we
rode on for a considerable distance.
The sun had long since set, twilight was deepening into
night, but night is never entire darkness in Italy ; thanks
to the resplendent firmament, and we often prolonged our
rides by moonlight, to contemplate the scenery sleeping in
its soft radiance. We were walking our horses ; suddenly,
Francisca interrupting herself in the midst of a lively
remark, reined up, and said, pointing to the horizon with
her whip, "See father, there is a tremendous thunder storm
rising, we had better return at once."
309
310 IRENE ; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I looked in the direction she indicated, and beheld
masses of angry clouds fast overspreading the azure sky.
Claudius checked his horse, and I mine.
" It has risen almost instantaneously," he said, " we must
turn and ride fast, or we shall not escape, it approaches
rapidly."
While he spoke the thunder reverberated amidst the
hills that encompassed us, and a vivid flash of lightning made
my horse start. We wheeled and urged our horses into a
quick gallop. In two or three minutes the rain began to
descend in large drops, and soon poured in torrents ; it grew
so intensely dark that I could not see a step before me,
save when the lightning lit up the scene with a momentary,
blinding glare. I was greatly terrified, and clung to Clau-
dius' arm from my saddle.
"Do not be frightened, there is no danger, I know every
step of the road. Give me your bridle, give me yours
Francisca, I can guide the horses faster let them feel the
whip."
Frightened by the lightning and smarting from tke lash
the animals sprang forward with frantic speed. The storm
lulled for a moment and then a peal of thunder seemed to
shake the very earth. By the dazzling play of the light-
ning I saw Claudius* horse rear and plunge. My own became
unmanageable and,to my unutterable consternation I felt his
hand relinquish my rein, and I was borne onward with the
fleetness of the wind. I shrieked, " Claudius !" "Francisca !"
and strove to stop my horse, but my efforts only increased
his pace, and no voice replied to me. Almost fainting, it
was with the greatest difficulty I kept my seat. I clung to
the horse's neck and trusted to his instinct to take the road
to the villa. I was not deceived for in a few minutes, by a
flash from the heavens I perceived it in the distance. As I
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 311
approached I saw several of our servants bearing lights, stand-
ing without the gate, and gazing anxiously up and down the
road. The moment they heard the clatter of 'my horse's
hoofs they rushed forward, stopped him, and assisted me,
drenched and trembling, to the ground.
" Blessed saints." exclaimed old Pedro in great alarm,
" has anything happened to the Count and my ladi Fran-
oji
cisca '.
" My horse ran away with me, I know not what has be-
come of the Count and the Countess Francisca. Go
instantly to seek them, all of you. You, Pedro, and two
or three more take the road over the mountain and let the
others go by the lower road. It was about three miles dis-
tant that I was separated from them."
They were off before I had finished speaking, and holding
up my dripping garments, I ran up the avenue and steps on
to the terrace. Signora Cornelli was standing in the open
door.
" What is the matter, Irene ? lias any accident hap-
pened. Where are Claudius and Francisca?"
" Oh ! Signora, I do not know. I have sent the servants
in search of them. I am very very grateful," and I rela-
ted to her how we had been parted.
" I have been in the greatest alarm ever since the storm com-
menced," she said, " I knew your horses would be unman-
ageable in the darkness, and with such dreadful lightning.
May the virgin bring them safely home."
Too anxious to speak, I stood on the wet terrace, strain-
ing my ears to catch a sound. It had ceased to rain, the
clouds were breaking away, and showing the brilliant stars.
Nearly an hour had passed, when I heard a horse coming at
a walk, and soon distinguished lights moving slowly toward
the villa. They stopped before the gate, and I saw two
312 IRENE; OK THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
servants leading a horse, upon which Francisca was seated.
They threw away their lights and bore her up the avenue
in their arms.
Nothing has happened to mi lady Francisca," they cried
out to us, " she has only fainted."
They carried her into the saloon, and laid her on a couch.
Her long, loosened hair, and her riding dress were dripping
with rain.
" Your master, where is he ?" I cried agitatedly.
" We don't know, mi ladi ; we found mi ladi Francisca
on the lower road. She told us, that not knowing where she
was in the darkness, and finding her horse frightened, and
obstinate, she stopped to wait till the storm should be over,
or some one come from the villa. Just before we got here
mi ladi fainted."
" Well go now at once to the other road, and see if there
is any sign of Pedro, or any of the rest."
They departed; Signora attended to Francisca, and I
resumed my station on the terrace. For another half hour
I gazed in the direction from which they were to come.
Suddenly lights appeared on the summit of the little hill
and moved forward with a measured motion. My heart
beat with dread as they neared the villa I saw no horse.
They entered the gate ; I perceived that they bore a bur-
den. In insufferable anxiety I ran down the steps to meet
them. Their arms were formed into a sort of litter, on
which they supported the form of Claudius. His eyes
were closed, his face ashy pale, and blood flowing slowly
from a large wound near the right temple. I uttered a loud
cry, and exclaimed, wildly,
" Merciful God ! he is dead."
" No, no, mi ladi," said Pedro, who sustained his mas-
ter's head, "he is not dead. His horse threw him
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 313
half way down a rocky hill, and there we found him
senseless/'
" Carry him to his chamber, Pedro, and then hasten to
the city for a physician," I said, in spite of my agitation,
retaining presence of mind."
The sound of our voices reached Signora Cornelli, and
Francisca, who had revived, and they rushed out. Behold-
ing the unconscious and bleeding form of her father, Fran-
cisca acted as though reason had forsaken her.
" Oh he is dead ! I know it, I feel it," she cried, bending
over him, and obliging the servants to stop. " What a fatal
day ; why did we go out ; where did you find him ; how
could it happen?" she added incoherently to those around.
" Francisca," I said, drawing her away, " if you value your
father's life let them hasten for assistance ; every moment
that you detain them makes the matter worse."
She allowed the servants to pass on, and followed. They
gently laid Claudius on his bed, and then quitted the room,
I having again urged Pedro to go with all possible speed
for the physician."
" Mi ladi," the faithful old man replied, " I will take the
fastest horse in the stable, if it breaks my neck."
I knelt by the bed, and bathed Claudius' hands with cam-
phor, while Francisca, and Signora Cornelli tried to make
him inhale some powerful salts, but he continued to lie
immovable, and the only signs of life was his almost imper-
ceptible breathing.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
IT was not many minutes ere the door opened, and Pedro
ushered in the Count's physician. He was an old man,
with an amiable face, and the grave hut gentle manner, ines-
timable in one of his profession. He saluted us, and came
to the bed-side, and after feeling Claudius' pulse for a
moment, took a vial from his pocket and poured some liquid
into his mouth, then he proceeded to examine the wound
on his head. I drew aside, and buried my face in the bed-
clothes, in aching anxiety.
" Signer," said Francisca, in a trembling voice, " is he
dangerously injured ?"
"Patience, my dear Signorina," answered the doctor in a
low voice.
No one spoke for some moments, then the doctor bent
toward me, and said,
" Excuse me, is this the Countess de Giolamo ?"
" It is, Signer," I replied, lifting my head, Oh ! tell
me," I added, earnestly, " is the wound upon his head dan-
gerous ?"
" It is serious, Signorina, but there are internal injuries
still more so."
He said this in a confident tone that gave me a pang.
" Oh my poor father," murmured Francisca, and she be-
gan to weep bitterly. Signora Cornelli had sank into a
chair, as pale as marble.
314
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 315
The doctor placed a chair by the side of the bed, and sat
down ; from time to time he poured some drops into Clau-
dius' mouth, till at kst he moved, unclosed his eyes, and his
glance, restless, and without intelligence, roamed around the
room.
" It is as I feared," whispered the doctor to me, " he has
not recovered his reason."
In a moment Claudius' eyes closed again, and he lay silent
as before.
" Irene," said Signora Cornelli, " come to me an instant,
I wish to speak to you."
I went to her.
" Irene," she said, in a low voice, and the tears flowing
from her eyes, " I believe the doctor thinks Claudius will
die. Ask him, my dear child, because if this is fatal we
must send instantly for a priest, and have extreme unction
administered. My poor brother, he has been very remiss in
attending to his religious duties of late years,."
I almost withered with the pain her words caused me.
" Oh ! Signora, what reason have you to think this don't.
I beg ; even if it were so, he has not his senses, of what use
would be a priest ?"
" Irene," she replied, in as severe a tone as one as mild
as she could speak, I think you are not a Catholic, but I
believe you are a Christian, you surely believe in spiritual
ministry to the dying."
"I cannot see the use," I said, "of calling to counsel,
and petition for the dying, those who may be no better
than themselves, for we are all mortal all alike fallible."
At this moment the door opened, and I beheld Celeste ;
she looked like a spirit with her white night dress, and
flowing hair. We ran to her.
"Oh! mamma," she cried, (by this endearing name
316 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
she had called me since my marriage,) ia papa indeed
killed?"
" My dear child," I said," " your father is ill, if you
come in and disturb him he may die, if you will quickly
return to bed you will find him better in the morn-
iug."
I forced myself to speak very firmly; she looked
into my face with an expression of great alarm, and
obeyed without a word. The poor Signora had not been
able to speak to the child.
I closed the door, and returned to kneel by the bed-
side. Francisca, who had been standing on the other side
of the bed, weeping convulsively, approached and knelt
beside me. Signora Cornelli leaned on the foot of the
bedstead, and a mournful silence reigned for some mo-
ments, till finding I did not comply with her wish and
question the physician, Signora spoke herself.
" I implore you, Signer to tell me frankly, if my
poor brother will die," she said in a faltering tone.
"God alone knows the result, Signora, but to speak
to you truly, since you ask it, his condition at this moment
almost precludes hope."
Francisca uttered an exclamation of grief, and Signor*
said in great agitation,
" Then signer, I had better send at once for the holy
father.
" I advise that you wait a little while, Signora, it is barely
possible that a favorable change may occur."
A multitude of wretched, heart- sickening thoughts
crowded upon me. Oh ! at such an hour, if the heart
possesses any sensibility, and we have ever wronged, by a
word or a thought, the being about to depart from earth,
what a gnawing pain is self-reproach. At that moment my
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 317
involuntary love for another seemed a great crime. I gazed
with agony on that pale face, and gently taking his listless
hand remorsefully kissed it. Suddenly, without motion or
sound, he opened his eyes and looked intently at me ; his
gaze was calm and conscious, and a faint doubting hope
returned to me.
" Claudius, do you know me ?" I murmured.
Twice his lips parted but no sound came forth. He indi-
cated by a movement that he wished to be raised. The
physician, anticipating us, sprang to his assistance, and sup-
ported him to a sitting posture. His eyes wandered for a
moment and then rested on a writing desk, standing upon a
table.
" Do you want that desk, Claudius ? shall I bring it to
you?"
He shook his head, "no."
u There is something in it for some of us is it for me
dear father ?" said Francisca through her tears.
"No," again.
"Is it for me, Claudius?"
He bowed his head, " yes."
" Do you wish me to see it now ?"
No His head fell back, and the physician gently
replaced him on his pillow.
*' Oh ! is there no hope ? Can nothing be done ?" cried
Francisca wildly.
" Do not, my dear Signorina do not agitate his last mo-
ments," said the doctor sadly, in a low tone, and by a sign,
imperceptible to Claudius, he told Signora Cornelli it was
time to summon the priest ; and the poor woman, bathed in
tears, hastened from the room. Claudius was evidently sen-
sible of all. His face expressed grief and suffering. With
a great effort he extended his hands to us and as we
318 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC
clasped them, his eyes beaming with ineffable tenderness,
rested on Francisca for a moment, and then dwelt on me,
till the light faded a heavy shadow swept over the face
the spirit passed away like a subtle essence unperceived.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
I WAS tearless and must have seemed naturally calm in
truth, I felt strangely nerved. There was a deep, silent
gloom upon me. I sat motionless by the bed while all the
household were aroused and in the greatest grief and confu-
sion. I saw Signoru Cornelli lead Francisca from the room,
and the physician gently urged me to take some rest, but I
told him I needed none.
Ere long Signora returned followed by a priest, who knelt
by the bed ; and she coming to me begged that I would
join in their devotion. I knelt mechanically, but their mur-
mured prayers had no share in my thoughts. When they
had finished Signora tried to persuade me to go to bed, but
1 refused, and one after another they quitted the room.
Morning broke, and found me alone alone with the dead,
nly beyond the tomb religion opens the gates of heaven
to faith vainly philosophy reasons and skepticism scoffs ;
to the intellectual mind death remains always unalterably
awful. It is not alone the melancholy fate that awaits this
earthly form, which we so love and cherish ; it is the dread
mystery and uncertainty that veils the future. The soul is
lost in contemplating eternity seized with a shuddering,
nameless horror, at the idea of annihilation, and in the
despairing despondency of these thoughts, when everlasting
existence seems incomprehensible, aimless, and wearisome,
and to ceuse to exist, unendurably dreadful, we find it in on?:
heart to exclaim, " Better, better that I had never been.'*
21 319
320 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
/
There is but one thing that can console at such a moment,
an exalted conception of, and an infinite trust in the
Deity.
So deeply did I feel the truth of this, that still upon my
knees, I rested my arms upon the bed, and my head upon
them, and my spirit breathed this fervent aspiration :
" Oh source of all knowledge and power, enlighten my
ignorance, tranquilize my fearful, doubting heart."
I remained for a long time absorbed. When I raised my
head I beheld, with great surprise, the good old Count For-
esti standing opposite to me, and gazing upon the inanimate
form of his friend, with tears slowly stealing down his
cheeks.
" Ah ! my friend," I said, sadly, " by what chance are
you here?"
" By accident, only," he replied in a voice choked with
emotion, " I passed last night in the city, and returning
home this morning I met the physician, who informed me
of this sudden and dreadful event. Ah ! my poor child, it
is you who feel it you who knew so well how to appreci-
ate his noble heart, you whom he so tenderly loved."
" It seems like a strange terrible dream," I said, rising,
"yesterday he was so well so happy, and now he lies there
dead."
The Count sighed profoundly, and turning from his
mournful contemplation, approached and took my hand.
" My child," he said, you look ill, you should have gone
to rest. Have not Signora and Francisco done so ?"
"Yes," I answered.
" Why did you not also do so ? you were very wrong ;
your eyes have a strange lustre, your cheeks are crimson,
and your hands are burning with fever, indeed you are very
*
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 321
It was true, all energy had abandoned me ; by turns
burning and shivering, I could hardly stand.
" I beg you to allow me to ring for your maid, and go at
once to rest," said the Count, pulling the bell without wait-
ing for my permission ; as he did so the door opened and
Pedro entered, bearing a letter on a salver.
" I beg mi ladi's pardon," he said, hesitatingly, " perhaps
it is wrong to bring this now, but as it is from England, and
marked very important I thought "
" Yes, yes, you were right ; give it to me," I said, eagerly,
he put it into my hand, I walked a little aside, and opened
it. It was in an unknown hand, and my head was swimming
so violently that it was with difficulty that I read the fol-
lowing lines
" To THE COUNTESS DE GIOLAMO :
In reply to your ladyship's communication inquiring of the health of
Miss Estelle Stuart, your ladyship's sister, I regret to say that she left
us more than a month since, we supposed to join your ladyship. She
was then in excellent health. Since that time we have not th<\ slight-
est knowledge of her. Very respectfully,
MARY ASHTON."
" Oh ! my Qod," I cried in heart-broken accents, " every-
thing comes at once to overwhelm me. What have I done
to merit such calamities."
'* Is there then a new misfoptune ?" said the Count anx-
iously.
" My sister my only loved sister has gone, no one knows
whither, but I will go instantly to England , I will find her
if I have to seek jll over the world."
" Be calm. Where do they think she has gone ?"
"They supposed she was coming to me.
" It may be that adverse winds have detained her at sea
compose yourself."
"No no; her conduct from the first has been inexplicable.
I must go to England, I ought to have gone long ago:
322 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
how many misfortunes might have been avoided if I had
done so, but I will go now this day this hour. Will you
tell me which is the quickest route, and arrange matters for
my departure. I am incapable of thinking or acting my
head is, bursting."
" Listen to me a moment. It is impossible that you
should travel, or in fact, do anything, in your present condition
unless you wish to kill yourself. Go to bed immediately,
and when repose has restored you, I will do all that you
desire. As your husband's dearest friend as your friend,
as much for your own sake as for his, I shall assume some
authority. Here is Nina here, conduct your mistress to
her room."
The strength lent me by excitement had passed, and I
felt ready to sink. I followed Nina without a word ; she
undressed and put me in bed as if I were a child, and I
soon fell into a heavy sleep.
When I awoke, I was suffocated with fever ; luminous
rays floated before my eyes, and the bed-clothes, and lace
curtains formed themselves into hideous mocking faces. A
dull weight pressed upon my brain, and very soon I became
entirely delirious. The wet garments, with the distrac-
tion mind, and the great mental suffering I had endured,
brought on a violent brain fever, and for three weeks, they
afterwards told me my life was almost despaired of. In
my delirium I raved incessantly of the events of that dread-
ful night. Signora Cornelli was my nurse, and I believe it
was to her patient faithful care that I <*Rred my life. She
was one of those beings whose virtues are seldom apprecia-
ted, because they are so quiet and unostentatious; in the days
of health and happiness she would not be sought for, because
she possessed no brilliant talent to enable her to shine ; no
power of eloquently pouring forth her feelings; all her
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 323
merit consisted in her sincere, unselfish goodness of heart
Exceedingly religious, I must have appeared to her crimi-
nally regardless of the rites she held most sacred, and yet
had I been one of the most devout of her creed, she could
not have tended me with more affectionate interest. The
good Count Foresti, too, came every day to inquire after me.
As soon as I became convalescent I returned my warmest
thanks to those kind friends. Signora bore her brother's
loss with resignation, she had known sorrow before, and it is
the first time of everything hi this world, that ,we feel most
intensely. Francisca had truly loved her father, and his
death was an irreparable misfortune for her. She had never
before shed tears of unavailing grief, and seeing her som-
ber dress, and subdued manner, her fair hair brushed plainly
from her pale, sad face, my heart wanned with sympathy and
affection for her. And to Celeste, she whose life had been .as
joyous as a summer's day, passed in gathering flowers, how sad
was the absence of her father's tender words, and fond indul-
gence ; how dreary thb gloom that had fallen over everything.
When I became sufficiently well to leave my bed, I
examined the desk which Claudius had designated to me in
his dying moments. I found among papers of trifling impor-
tance, a letter, sealed and directed to me. I opened it with-
out being able to form the vaguest idea of what it contained.
It bore the date of the earliest days of my marriage. Thus
it ran :
" If this ever meets your eyes, my beloved Irene, it will be when I.
shall have ceased to live on this earth, save in the 'memories of those
who love me.
It is, perhaps, strange that in these happy days truly, the happiest
I have ever passed, that I should pen these lines for your perusal in case
I should be suddenly snmmoned from the world ; but I no longer pos-
sess the buoyant hopefulness of youth, and nature has wisely ordered
that as we grow older the thought of the possibility of death is ever
present.
Sometimes, Irene, I think it was selfish to linkyour fate with mine;
324 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
it would have been better to have acted toward you as a father, for it
may be that your fresh young heart does not find perfect congeniality
with my gravity and wordly experience. If then, I should be the first
to be called from life which, in the course of human events is proba-
ble let no exaggerated constancy make you a victim to my memory.
I feel that to your self-sacrificing character these words are not unne-
cessary. If in after years you should find that the feeling you bpre to
me was cold compared to that some other inspires, then think [of me
as a father a brother anything that was dear to you, and to whom
your happiness was inestimable. ,
I have made my will, and endeavored to be just. Francisca and
Celeste inherit large fortunes from their mother ; I have therefore left
them only a remembrance of their father, and the bulk of my fortune
to you. Even at this your wealth will not equal theirs. I trust it
may be many years ere these matters will need to be referred to but
I leave that to the dispensation of the great Father of the universe.
Ever your own,
CLAUDIUS DE GIOLAMO.
I wept bitterly over that letter. Poor Claudius kind
generous nature, it must have been a mournful presen-
timent that dictated those lines.
Very shortly after the will was opened and read. There
were the legacies to Francisca and Celeste, of which the let-
ter had spoken, one to Signora Cornelli, and some smaller
ones to faithful servants, the rest of the large fortune was
mine. Francisca seemed neither surprised or displeased at
her father's disposition of his property, indeed I think she
had foreseen it.
With returning health came insufferable longing to learn
the fate of Estelle. I resolved to depart for England as
soon as possible. When I communicated my determination
to the Count, he said,
"My child, I have no ties to detain me here ; I am an
old man, and a relation of your husband, I will accompany
you. It would seem strange to see one of your youth, and
beauty, and rank, traveling entirely alone."
I accepted this kind offer with many thanks, and announ-
ced my intention to Francisca and Signora ; the former said
at once,
OF AN ARTIST S DAUGHTER. 325
"I will also go with you, Irejie. I think a change may
be of service to me. Everything keeps alive my sorrow.
"And what is to become of Celeste ?" asked Signora,
smiling.
" Can you not remain here till our return ?" inquired
Francisca.
" No, I am a social being, and do not like solitude. If
you are really serious, I will take Celeste, and go to stay
with my sister, at Piza, until your return."
Francisca was quite in earnest, and it was settled accord-
ing to Signora's proposition. We only waited until I should
regain strength for the land journey. At last, one morning
in the beginning of December, we entered a carriage, with
fast horses, and soon lost sight of the towers 'and domes of
Florence.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
ONCE more in crowded, stirring London; once more
beneath the sky so dull and cold compared to the glowing
heaven of Italy. It was but a few months since I had left
my native shores, but I had experienced years of emotion.
We took lodgings at a hotel. Francisca, who had never
before been in England, went with the Count to visit all
places of interest, and I hastened to Mrs. Ashton's only
to hear that she knew nothing more than she had already
informed me of in her letter. A last hope remained to me.
Estelle might have sought Lady Russell's protection from
some unaccountable cause. I wrote to her ladyship, and
briefly alluding to my altered circumstances, spoke of
Estelle's singular conduct, and mysterious disappearance,
and begged if she had any knowledge of her to rid my
bitter anxiety. Somewhat to my surprise she answered my
note personally. She was extremely gracious, and over-
powered me with compliments, calling me " her dear Count-
ess," and congratulating me a thousand times on my good
fortune. She said she deeply regretted that she was unable
to relieve my suspense but she knew nothing of Estelle's
movements, and had only seen her once or twice after
my departure for Florence. She was so intent on saying
agreeable things, that she almost forgot to lament the
Counts death. If I had not been so deeply saddened, I
might have felt amused, as it was I was only disgusted at
326
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 327
her want of heart and sincerity. Conscious, however, that
little as I esteemed her character, I was still under obliga-
tions to her, I received and responded with politeness to her
professions of friendship.
Count Foresti ascertained for me that all ships bound for
Leghorn for three months back had arrived at the port
safely and in due time ; and finding myself baffled in obtain-
ing even a trace of Estelle, I began to despair.
"My child," said the Count, "there is not the slightesc
doubt in my mind of the fate of your sister. She has eloped
with some one and taken every precaution that her route
might not be discovered. This total abandonment, this
indifference to the pain she must know that you suffer, is to
say the least, ungrateful, but it would really seem that at
certain times in our lives we are seized with delirium, that
weakens all previous feelings, and overthrows all preformed
resolutions. I trust all may be well with her ; but at any
rate whatever may be the reason of her silence, sooner or
later reason will return to her, and then, depend on it, she
will write to you."
I relied much on the Count's judgment, for I knew that
he had great experience and knowledge of human nature.
Francisca was already weary of London, there was no
longer anything to keep us there, and the Count proposed
that we should turn homeward.
" Indeed," said Francisca in answer to this, " I dread the
idea of going home ; I prefer even this sky and this fog ; I
am restless, and I would like to be constantly on the wing.
Let us go to Brussels."
" My dear Francisca," replied the Count, " what motive
have we for going there ?"
"Let us go as pilgrims in search of happiness," she
answered with a sad smile.
328 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
Happiness is not all our life a pilgrimage in search of
it ? Are we not ever allured by some bright dream till the
last beating of the heart is still ?
I had as little inclination to return to Florence as Francisca,
and we easily persuaded the good Count to agree to our
wishes. Francisca wrote .to Signora that she would take a
flight all over the continent before she would have the pleas-
ure of seeing us again. I also wrote a few sad words telling
her of the failure of all my efforts to discover Estelle, and
then we departed.
CHAPTER XL.
WE passed the winter in Brussels. Francisca availed her-
self of every opportunity of amusement that presented itself,
but I, absorbed in deep, bitter melancholy, buried myself in
profound seclusion. Sometimes I strove to find consolation
in thinking of Giorani's love but then my doubting heart
whispered, " perhaps he no longer loves me."
In the spring we went to Vienna, and after sojourning
there a few weeks, to the lovely Geneva of Switzerland, I
shall not pause to speak of the beauty and sublimity of the
scenery, for which this country is world-renowned. In fact, at
that time my mind was too pre-occupied to appreciate its
grandeur.
We proposed spending the summer here, and accordingly
settled ourselves comfortably in a furnished cottage, which
we hired of an English gentleman, who had been residing
in Geneva, and was about to return to his native country.
Time wore away, I scarcely knew how. One day Fran-
cisca was in my room, and happened to observe standing on
a table, the desk which contained Claudius' last letter to me,
" What have you in this Irene ?" she asked, turning the
key, and opening the desk.
" Some papers and letters of the Count's "I responded.
"Will you allow me fo look over them."
" Certainly, only be pleased to take good care of it, as a
acred memento."
329
330 IRENE J OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" I will be sure to do so," she said, and took it away with
her.
Some time after, I was drawing, and finding that I had lent
Francisca a pencil, which I needed, I went to her room to
get it; she was not there, and seeing the pencil on a table,
I picked it up, and was about to withdraw, when on the same
table I perceived my desk open, and, lying conspicuously
above the other letters, one postmarked Turin. Instantly
it occurred to me that it was the letter Giorani had written
Claudius, declining Francisca's hand. I opened it in great
alarm; yes, it was indeed so. Deprecating my carelessness
in giving the desk into Francisca's hands without having
examined its contents, but with a faint hope that this might
have escaped her eyes, I carried it to my room and imme-
diately destroyed it. Some days after, she returned the
desk to me, with thanks, saying that she had found a letter
from her mother to her father, and had kept it.
" You were quite right in doing so." I felt sure from
her manner that she had not read Giorani's letter.
On a lovely evening in July, the Count, and myself were
returning from a ramble amidst the mountains. Within a
few steps of our door, the Count, remembering that this was
the hour of an engagement with an Italian friend, begged
me to excuse him, and left me.
Walking slowly toward the house I fixed my eyes abstract-
edly on the figure of a gentleman advancing toward me ; as
we neared each other, I almost screamed with surprise on
recognizing Giorani. In a moment, my hands were locked
in his, and both uttering incoherent exclamations of joy. I
drew him into the house, and then into the parlor quite
English enough to be called so and closed the door.
I was so filled with sudden transport that I could not
speak, and he so joyfully agitated that he could only press
OF AN ARTIST S DAUGHTER. ' 331
my hands passionately to his lips, and murmur in a faltering
voice, ^
Irene, Irene."
" Ah ! what a strange and happy meeting," I said at last,
" the first moment of joy I have known for many weary
months."
He gently seated me on a lounge, and sat down by me.
u It must be a blessed destiny that thus brings us together."
he said, " oh, I have so ardently desired to see you or at
least to hear from you, yet I have restrained my impatience.
I have said to myself, that I must not forget in my impet-
uous love to mourn the melancholy fate of a good man, and
respect his memory."
I was so overcome with sad emotion, and sad memories
that I covered my face with my hands and wept.
" I know your generous heart must feel deeply, but Irene,
you have done "
" Ah, Giorani, you cannot know what I have suffered ;
sometimes I have had a dreadful thought ; it seemed to me
that in my great love for you I could not truly regret the
Count's death ; and yet the grief I felt, the tears I shed,
were real ; but it is easy to deceive ourselves, and very
very difficult to analyze our own hearts."
"Irene," he said, with his dear eyes bent on me, and
tenderly clasping my hand, u you have nothing io accuse
yourself of ; in a moment of the greatest trial and tempta-
tion you resisted bravely nobly you acted not like even
a good woman, because good women have sometimes suc-
combed to temptation, but like an angel. Had I not for
a moment lost my reason I should never thus have tried you,
but you did not fall into the fatal fallacy, that one wrong jus-
tifies another. Be contented then do not exaggerate into
crimes, involuntary thoughts, and feelings."
332 IRENE ; OR. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
His words calmed, and his presence consoled me. I
dried my tears, and sighing, told him of my great sorrow
for Estelle, of this he was entirely ignorant, he could only
bid me be patient and hope, and then after a pause, he said,
" And now, Irene, I can ask you if you love me, without
interfering with any one's happiness."
"Do you think that I have changed," I answered,
" when you have seen me flushed, trembling, speechless, on
beholding you ? No Giorani, I loved you when I first saw
you I love you now, I shall ever love you. I know it is
not well for. a woman to confess her love thus frankly, but I
believe you are not like others, and when the heart is over-
flowing the lips cannot be silent ; and now do you love me
will you ever love me ?"
" To my latest breath I will adore you ; I have sought
the world over and never found your equal. Precious one
tell me how long we must be separated how long before
we may devote our lives to each other ?"
Poor Claudius has been dead almost a year, Giorani, let
us wait another, I owe at least this to his memory, from
gratitude for his great love for me."
" Oh it will be a long, long time to live without seeing
you."
" No, if we have faith in our love, we shall be able to be
contented without being so entirely happy as to forget poor
Claudius."
" You are right ; I will resign myself. Shall we corres-
pond, Irene?"
" Surely and look forward with ineffable joy to the time
when we shall meet again."
" Is it not a proof, Irene, that I lose my reason when I
see you, that I have never thought to ask who is with you
here ?"
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 333
"Claudius' old friend, Count Foresti,and Francisca."
" Francisca ! and are you friends ?"
" We are intimate companions, and though somo> peculiar
traits in her character forbid me to love her, I am truly
her friend because she is Claudius' child."
u Irene, if I remain in Geneva even a few days, and visit
you, Francisca will guess all the past, and though for my
part I do not care, yet as you purpose living with her for
some time to come, it is best that it should be concealed
from her ; this knowledge would engender bitter feelings ,
that might render you very unhappy. Will it not be wisest
that I should leave at once ; tell me it is for you that I speak
if you say stay, I remain; if you wish me to go, I depart."
" I see, Giorani, that your departure will be the most
prudent course, not only for the reason you have mentioned
but because after seeing you for a few days, the consolation
of your presence would become indispensable to me."
* I go then, beloved ; I go to dream of our future," he said,
rising, and, drawing me to him, he pressed me with fervor
to his heart.
I forgot the past ; and thought not of the future, I felt only
that his arms encircled me that his soul-lit face was beam-
ing on me ; my head sank upon his bosom, and with a thrill,
from head to foot, my lips met his, a long rapturous kiss
my first kiss of love and then, still clasped by his caressing
arm, he led me to the door. Suddenly he started slightly,
and looking toward the windows that opened into the garden,
exclaimed,
What is that ?"
"What, Giorani?"
*' Strange it has gone. I saw, or thought I saw a face
pressed against the glass, and the moment I spoke, it di*-
534 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY,
"You must have imagined it ; I saw nothing."
" It may be, but it was strange ; I trust it was not Fran-
cisca."
" No matter ; at this distance it would be impossible to
recognize you, or overhear our conversation."
" Well, it is no great consequence Were it your wish I
would at this moment declare my love before the world.
Adieu, my Irene my beautiful, loved one, adieu."
He held me again to his heart. I timidly Jinked my
hands around his neck, and said,
" Never, never cease to love me, Giorani ; believe me,
bereft of your affection, my life would be as desolate as
these mountains wrapped in eternal snows."
' My Irene, my every thought is yours ; I could not
forget you if I would. Adieu you shall hear from me in
a few days."
It was childish, perhaps, well, it was the promptings of a
woman's fondness I ran rapidly to my room, and from the
window, which commanded an extended view, watched him
till a turn in the road hid him from sight.
He walked quickly, and did not pause to look back, it
was a little thing but it impressed me sadly ; even his
warm, devoted nature could not reach that life within
anothers which is woman's love.
CHAPTER XLI.
I MET Francisca and the Count at tea we were living in
English style and she inquired if we had enjoyed our walk,
in a natural cordial manner which dispelled my slight suspi-
cion that she had been the person Giorani had seen at the
window.
" Yes," said the Count, answering for me, " we had a
pleasant stroll and among other agreeable things (but this
to myself only) whom do you suppose, Francisca, I had the
pleasure of meeting this afternoon ?"
" I really have no idea," she replied.
" Your old friend, Signor Cellini. I stopped and shook
hands with him. I do not know any man I like and esteem
so much. He is so intellectual and possesses such a frank,
honorable character. I asked him to come and see us, cer-
tain you would be pleased to meet him, but he told me that
he leaves in the morning for Paris, and should be engaged
this evening."
'' He is a very elegant, fascinating person," said Francisca
coolly, taking the cup of tea I passed her with an unsteady
hand.
" The only thing I ever saw in Claudius that appeared
like caprice or inconsistency," said the Count to me in a
low voice, after we had gone to the parlor, " was his break-
ing the engagement between Francisca and Cellini so many
times had he said to me, that he lored him as a son and
22 335
336 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
desired nothing more than to see him united to her and
then, without assigning any reason, to put an end to the
matter it was a most extraordinary thing/'
I answered that people sometimes acted unaccountably,
and then hastily changed the subject.
I treasured every word of .the happy interview that had
restored to me the sweet solace of hope. But for the thought
of Estelle, my long harassed mind would have been at
peace.
When I received a letter from Giorani he was at Paris.
" I shall not linger here," he wrote ; " this is a fine place
for the gay ; but I am satiated with worldly pleasures, and
only travel to while away the days till we may meet again.
I am going to Spain, the only civilized country in Europe
I have never visited.
I read his dear letter over and over and answered at
once. In his next he bade me direct to Barcelona, and a
long time passed before 1 heard from him again.
--As the cool weather advanced the Count became impa-
tient to return home,
" My dear Countess," he said to me one day, with comic
gravity, " I am at a loss what to do with you and Francisca.
Here we have been wandering for nearly a year, and you
are still bent on continuing. Well may poor Signora ask if
we ever intend to return. For myself, I am an old man and
have naturally lost my taste for roaming, and I have never
found a place that suited me as well as Florence."
" My good friend," I replied, u it is quite impossible that
I should content myself to return and settle quietly, having
learned nothing of my unfortunate sister."
" And do you purpose traveling till you find her. You
may seek the world over in vain."
" That is true, but you must remember, that if she still
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 337
be in existence, there is a possibility of encountering her
in traveling, and we are quite sure that we shall never dis-
cover her in Florence."
" As usual, you overcome me with your arguments ; well
I consent to one more move provided it be the last, till we
wend our way back ; and now where are we going ?"
" Francisca desires to visit Berlin ; it is a fine gay city ;
you and she may amuse yourselves, while I pray that kind
fortune may throw Estelle in my path."
" To Berlin then, since it is so agreed," said he laughing,
and as was his custom, after our discussions, he took his hat
and disappeared.
CHAPTER XLII.
ONE morning, after a long journey, finding myself in Ber-
lin, I could not but be amused at the entire want of system
in our travels, but it was explained in the restless, impulsive
feelings that had dictated them.
Berlin is a magnificent city, full of objects of attraction
to the stranger. I went with Francisca and the Count to all
the public places, concluding that thus, more opportunities
would be afforded me of seeing or hearing of Estelle, but
never, midst the crowds, did my anxious gaze rest on her
form, or aught like it never, save in my dreams, did I
behold her seraphic face.
Two letters from Giorani, one from Barcelona, the other
from Cadiz, were forwarded to me from Geneva.
He wrote me at great length, describing all he had seen.
He spoke of the beauty of the Spanish women, and added,
" But do not fear that their black and sparkling orbs can
ever make me forget the violet eyes of my beloved."
To love, and have faith that we are loved, if indeed it be a
dream, what an entrancing one it is.
We had been in Berlin long enough for Francisca to weary
of l sight seeing,' when one morning the Count entered my
apartment, and said.
"I have a commission to intrust to you, Countess, will you
accept it ?"
" Certainly, with the greatest pleasure, what is it ?"
338
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 339
" I learned by chance, through my valet, that in the house
of an acquaintance he has picked up since we have been
here, a woman who keeps a poor lodging house, there is a
female lying ill, and entirely without means. I think he
said she was French. The woman told him, that from
compassion she had not sent her to the hospital, but that
her own poverty would soon oblige her to do so. Knowing
how charitable you are, I confide to you the task of reliev-
ing this unfortunate being."
" And where is she to be found ?"
" This is the address ; I would accompany you, but women
know best how to manage these things."
That afternoon I wrapped myself in my cloak and furs,
for it was very cold, put on my bonnet, and taking a purse
of money, for the benefit of the poor creature I was going to
see, got into a carriage I had ordered, and drove to the
number of the street written on the paper the Count had
given me. It was a narrow dirty lane, house miserably old
and gloomy. I alighted, and after telling the coachman to
wait for me, went to the door and knocked with the heavy
rapper.
An ugly, wretchedly dressed little girl opened it.
" I wish to see the sick woman who lodges here, my child."
I said.
She shook her head, and murmured something in Ger-
man, of which I did not understand a word, then making
me a sign to wait, she vanished, and in a moment re-appeared,
Mowed by a woman, with a kind though vulgar face. I
repeated to her in French what I said to the child, she
understood, and answered in the same language.
" Madame wishes to see that woman !" she said, with a
look of surprise, " well, go right up stairs to the front room
in the first story."
340 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I groped my way up the dark stairs, found the door, and
knocked gently, no one answered, and after waiting a mo-
ment I entered.
It was a large room, dingy red curtains falling over the
windows darkened it to obscurity ; a torn and faded carpet
covered the floor ; here and there stood a chair, and a few
logs burned upon the hearth. On a bed standing out in the
room, with its head against the wall, reclined the figure of
a woman, the head thrown back, and the face turned
away.
With a sense of gloom, and some dun association of the
past in my mind, I walked softly to one of the windows,
drew back the curtain, and then approached the bed. A
mass of unbound hair flowed like waves of molten gold over
the side, almost to the floor. I bent down to look at the
face. Great God ! it seemed to me for a moment my heart
ceased beating another fearful look yes yes lit was her
it was Estelle. Clasping her in my arms, I cried with
streaming tears,
" Oh Estelle ! Estelle ! my sister, is it indeed you ?"
With a violent start she awoke, and sprang up.
" Ah ! what is it who are you ?" she exclaimed, looking
wildly at me.
"It is I, Estelle; it is Irene."
She uttered a loud cry, and threw herself into my arms
once more I held her to my heart God bless her once
more.
Presently she drew herself from my embrace, and cov-
ered her face.
" Oh ! why are you here, Irene," she murmured, " I had
hoped to die alone, and that you might be forever ignorant
of my fate."
" Do you say this Estelle, when my whole soul expands
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 341
with the unexpected joy of beholding you after such long,
long absence. Ah ! at sight of you all my tender love
revives, you again become all in all to me, as you were
when we parted."
Tenderness conquered her pride, she wound her arms
around my neck.
" Do you forgive my cruel, wicked desertion, Irene."
" Hush I no longer remember it, I only know that I
have found you that nothing shall separate us again.
"Take off your bonnet, Irene, and let me look at you."
I did so, and seated myself on the edge of the bed.
" Ah ! she said, taking my face between her hands, and
tenderly kissing it, " I never expected those dear beautiful
eyes to smile on me again. It may be that God sends you
to console my last moments."
" Don't, don't speak of death, my beloved, you will live
many, many happy years."
She sighed heavily, and sinking upon her pillow closed
her eyes, and motioned me not to speak. I sadly remarked
the great change in her, she looked years older, and her
form had lost all its exquisite roundness, but her face, spite
of its pal or and expression of suffering, still retained its ideal
beauty. Soon the tears stole from beneath her eyelids,
she covered her face with her hands, and deep sobs heaved
her bosom.
" Do not weep, Estelle ; if you knew how happy I am
what a weight is lifted from my soul, you would not. What
matters the past, we are together at last. Henceforth it
shall be my duty and pleasure to restore health and hope to
y OU be cheered. Come we will go to my hotel. But stay,
I forgot ; are you able to go, dear one ? will not the expos-
ure to the cold increase your illness ?"
"Do not fear," she replied, brushing away her tears,
342 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
" nothing in this world can retard cr hasten the progress of
my malady."
" Do not speak so sadty I will not listen. Where are
your clothes, let me get them."
She took a key from under her pillow, and gave it to me.
" That trunk," she said, pointing to it, " contains all I
Night was fast gathering, I hastened to unlock it. There
was a coarse straw bonnet, trimmed with blue ribbon, an old
black silk dress, a few undergarments, and a pair of slippers.
I carried them to the bed, assisted her to rise, and dressed
her as though she had been a child. She had hardly
strength to stand, and her air was so perfectly inanimate
that only her large unnaturally brilliant eyes gaye life to her
appearance. I twisted up her splendid hair, and tied on
the bonnet, then taking off the large black velvet cloak I
wore, I wrapped her in its heavy folds.
" Now, dear one," I said, seating her on the bed, " remain
here one moment while I go to pay the woman then we
will leave this wretched place."
I descended the stairs, knocked and called till the woman
I had seen appeared.
" This lady is going away with me," I said, rt how much
does she owe you ?"
She named the sum. I took several pieces of gold
from my purse and gave them to her.
" This is much more than is due you," I said, " but no
matter, you have been kind to this lady, keep it and be
discreet and silent."
Without stopping to hear her thanks and exclamations of
wonder, I returned to Estelle.
rt Come," I said, " all is ready, let us go."
She rose, and leaning on me, we went down and entered
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 343
the carriage. I supported her all the way in my arms. We
drove to the private door of the hotel, and I hurried with
her to my apartments. She sank into a fauteuil. I closed
the door, and exclaimed,
" God be thanked ! I have you here safely at last. Oh,
Estelle, if I could see you smile hear one word of joy, I
should be the happiest being the earth holds up."
" Do not believe that I do not love you, and rejoice at
beholding yon," she answered, u but you do not know how
ill I am for months I have not uttered as many words as
I have spoken to you."
I knelt by her and removed her bonnet.
" Ah ! that beautiful golden hair." I said, fondly kissing it,
"you are changed, Estelle, but you have not lost that, so
lovely it is, as golden as the autumn sunlight in Italy."
She smiled faintly and her head dropped upon my
shoulder.
" I shall send at once for a physician, then," as she shook
her head, " you will take some refreshment let me get you
something."
" No, dear Irene, I have come like my poor father to
desire nothing but rest,"
-''Not even my love, Estelle ?
" Ah ! yes, always that," she said earnestly, " though I
am unworthy of ic, Irene."
" Come, you shall go to bed immediately ; I know that
the excitement of this meeting has exhausted you."
I led her to my bed-room and helped her to undress.
When I saw her with her long white night dress and sunny
head lying down in my bed as in the old school days, I
almost thought it must be some dear dream. I sat by her
till her sighs grew fainter and fainter, and like a tired child
she slept, and then, too happy to remain quiet, I wandered
344 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
back to the drawing-room. I was so unaccustomed to joy that
it almost bewildered me. I would not admit a foreboding
thought my tender care and love would restore Estelle, the
future would make amends for the past. I was pacing the
floor, wreathing bright hopes, when there was a knock at
the door, I opened it. It was the good Count.
" Ah, my dear child," he said, "you stayed so long that
I was anxious about you. What detained you ? Did you
find the woman ?"
I seized both his hands, and drew him into the room.
" Oh, my friend,"" I said, "I bless and thank you a thous-
and, thousand times you have restored my sister to me."
"I!" he cried in astonishment ;" that woman was"
u Estelle I brought her home with me, and she is sleep-
ing there at this moment,"
" Let us thank Almighty God," he said reverentially,
u surely his hand has guided you ; and was there no one
with her."
" No one."
" Where has she been ? what has happened to her ?"
u Oh ! I never thought to ask ; it is sufficient that she
lives that I have her. Oh, Count ! I watched over her
when an infant she never knew any other mother. She
stood with me beside our father's dying bed, and for so many
years we were each other's life. To find her after such a
dreadful separation makes me giddy with joy. I have suf-
suffered so much, but God is good. I shall be happy at
last."
"No one deserves happiness more," he said, warmly.
Good night, my dear child, I am impatient to tell Fran-
cisca the news, I am certain she will be rejoiced"
He left me and I went back to my chamber, and silently
unrobed. My soul elevated itself, for a moment, to the
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 345
Great Power from which all things emanate, and then I laid
softly down, and fell asleep with my arm around her, as I
had so often done in the times that were gone.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE next morning, unknown to Estelle, I sent for a phy-
sician, and as soon as he arrived, told her what I had done,
and begged that she would see him, and listen to his advice.
I found her willing, and when he entered, she replied to his
suggestions, and consented to take whatever he thought
proper to prescribe. After the visit was over I followed him
into the drawing-room, and eagerly questioned him as to the
nature of Estelle's illness.
" I find no special disease," he answered, " only a gene-
ral prostration of the nervous system, and want of vitality,
arising, I think, from great depression of spirits. I advise
you to induce her to rise from the bed, and endeavor in every
way to arouse, and divert her mind ; as soon as she recovers
a healthful tone of feeling, physical strength will return to
her."
I hastened to repeat this to Estelle.
" Dear one," I said " if you will rise, and wrap yourself
in a dressing gown, and sit in this comfortable fauteuil, by
and by, if you wish, I will bring, and introduce to you,
Countess Francisca, and Count Foresti ; they desire very
much to see you."
" Who are they, Irene ? Ah ! " she added, abruptly, " I
did not observe your mourning dress where is your
husband?"
" He has been dead a year, Estelle," I answered, the tears
gushing to my eyes.
346
IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 347
" Dead ! that noble man poor sister, you too have had
sorrow."
" Bitter sorrow but let us not speak of it, now I wish
to cheer, not sadden you. To answer your question, the
Countess Francisca is my poor husband's daughter, and the
Count Foresti, his dearest friend ; do you wish to know
them r
" No, Irene, they would be but strange, indifferent beings
to me, and I an object of pity to them. In all the world
there is but one dear, familiar face to me, and that is yours
let me see it ever near me, but not strangers."
" It shall be just as you please ; but you will sit up dear,
it seems to me while I see you lying there, that you are
fatally ill."
" Not to-day, dear Irene ; to-morrow. Sit by me talk
to me ; for nearly two years your voice has been a stranger
to my ears "
" I will do all that you wish, if you will only grant me
one thing. Banish from your mind every painful recollec-
tion. Will you strive to do so, for my sake ?"
" Yes, for your salve, I will do it," she answered. Still,
for many days, it was the same ' to-morrow, dear Irene,' but
at last she yielded to my entreaties, and I saw her slight
form almost buried in the large fauteuil, but yet the languid
head reclined, and the radiant eyes were fixed on vacancy,
as though the shadows of the past moved before her.
Alas ! the outward change was but the type of the inward.
It seemed as if she had bidden adieu to the world, and
lived only in memory, while waiting the barge that should
waft her from the shores of life, into the silent sea that lies
beyond.
I was constantly with her, hanging over the chair, or sit-
ting at her feet, and talking always cheerfully, but day after
348 IBENE ; OB, THE AUTOBIOGBAPHY, ETC.
day came and found her still the same, and as I gazed on
her beautiful, fragile form, I involuntarily sighed.
I had intended to remain in Berlin until her health should
be somewhat restored, but as it rather declined than im-
proved, I decided to return to Florence if she could bear
the fatigue of traveling, and consulted her upon the
subject.
" If you wish, dear, I think I am strong enough," she
replied.
As she would now unavoidably be thrown, in the society
of Francisca and the Count, she agreed that they should be
presented to her. Francisca with one of the caprices of her
wayward nature, conceived a great liking for Estelle, and
extended to her many courteous attentions. The Count
acted as usual, with unvarying delicacy and kindness.
And so, by the least wearisome route, we journeyed
slowly home. Once more at the dear old villa, affection-
ately welcomed by the good Signora, and joyfully embraced
by Celeste.
CHAPTER XLIV.
IN the tender intimacy of a social circle, surrounded by
all the luxuries that wealth procures, and with the intoxica-
ting anticipation of love in the future, how blessed I might
have been but I was not destined to be happy.
All my unceasing efforts to amuse and interest Estelle
were utterly unavailing. She faded and grew more and more
inanimate. I perceived that I had erred in thinking it
would have a salutary effect, never to avert to the past.
She remained silent, but no effort of her will could bury in
oblivion the sorrow that was consuming her life.
We were alone in my dressing-room one lovely twilight.
Insensibly partaking of the serenity of the hour, I had fallen
into silence. Suddenly she said in a low voice,
"Irene!"
'' Well, dear," I answered, approaching.
" Do you remember the night before you left England ?
Something in this scene reminds me of it. How everything
has changed, we are scarcely the same beings." I sat down
on a low ottoman by her.
" It is true, Estelle," I replied, " and it is strange that we
are still ignorant of what has happened to each otheryduring
our separation, but it is my fault ; I have been wrong. Now
let us reveal all that has transpired I will be the first."
" I have long desired it, Irene ; I am listening."
Then I told her everything, even my temptations, and
349
350 IRENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
struggles ; many times my voice faltered, and when I con-
cluded we were both weeping.
" What fortitude you have had to bear so much, my poor
Irene," she said ; " but you were always stronger and wiser
than I. I was not fitted to endure the rough storms of
life, they have destroyed me as they do the frail reeds."
She was thoughtful for a moment, and then, bending
nearer to me, her sweet face growing shadowy in the increas-
ing darkness, she commenced to speak in a low and impres-
sive tone,
" I had been at Mrs. Ashton's about two months, and my
days had passed with oppressive monotony, when a Miss
James, a sister of Mrs. Ashton, came to pass some time with
her. She was a very pretty girl, and was frequently visited
by an English gentleman, whose elegant and rather peculiar
appearance attracted my attention. He was tall and posses-
sed a fine figure, his hair light brown and complexion fair,
and his large blue eyes as dark and soft as yours. His man-
ner was grave and quiet, but full of a charming amiability.
One day, I had just returned with my pupils and their
elder brother from a walk in Regent's Park. In passing
the drawing-room, one of the girls remarked that Miss James
had borrowed a piece of music from her the night previous,
and had not returned it, and requested me to be kind
enough to get it. I told her certainly, and went into the
drawing-room. I was looking over the carelessly arranged
music, when the gentleman of whom I have spoken, entered.
My back was towards him, and mistaking, or pretending
to mistake me for Miss James, he addressed me by her
name, making some affable remark. I turned in surprise ;
he instantly apologized and I quitted the room.
I must grant that I thought a great deal of this trifling
occurrence ; he certainly interested me, but as yet it was
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 351
only my fancy thac was awakened, my heart was not
touched.
I always rose early, with the habit acquired at school,
and having neither books nor companions to amuse me, gen-
erally took a long walk. I had got but a little distance from
the house one bright morning, when I heard rapid steps
behind me, and a voice said,
1 Miss Stuart.'
I stopped, and looking round beheld him.
1 Pardon the liberty I take in thus addressing you,' he
said in a serious respectful manner, ' I wish to beg the favor
of saying a few words to you.'
'Sir,' I answered, blushing and stammering, 'your re-
quest is so singular that I '
' Do not be alarmed,' he said ; ' if you do not wish it,
no matter.'
Seeing, with regret, that I had wounded him, I said has-
tily,
' Speak to me, sir, if you wish. I am willing.'
6 Thanks,' he said, and walking on with me, continued,
' You are right in saying that this is a singular request,
but there is a good reason for it. If I should be seen con-
versing with you at Mrs. Ashton's it would arouse the envy
of those women, cause you many annoyances, and, perhaps,
loss of reputation and dismissal, for such people think that
governesses have no right with thoughts or wishes beyond
their daily bread.'
I made no reply, and he went on in the same abrupt
way.
' What I wish to say to you, Miss Stuart, is simply this,
Mrs. Ashton casually mentioned to me that you have but
one relative, a sister, who is in Italy ; apparently there are
none near you to concern themselves in your fate. Your
23
352 IRENE ; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
youth, beauty and loveliness inspire me with a great inte-
rest. I desire to offer you my friendship, it may render
you happier to feel that there is one to whom you can speak
unreservedly, and who will do anything in his power to serve
you. Those more worldly and less innocent than yourself,
Miss Stuart, might say that this is noi proper ; but there
are positions in life in which it is folly to be trammelled by
the conventions of the world, when a frank, generous impulse
lifts us above them. Do you not believe me sincere ?'
f I do believe, and thank you,' I replied timidly, but
with deep gratitude.
' And you will permit me to become your friend remem-
ber, I mean only a friend. 1
' You would not ask my permission if you knew how
highly I should value a true friend ?'
( I will endeavor,' he said, ' to be one, and deserve your
esteem.'
You, Irene, who understand me so well, will not be
astonished, that I implicitly believed all this. Conscious of
my own truth and rectitude, I never dreamed of doubting oth-
ers assuredly not one who seemed the soul of candor. Yes,
in my blind confidence, I thought that an attractive man of
thirty-five, and a girl of eighteen could be friends and nothing
more.
His language and manner to me were so perfectly fra-
ternal, that I felt at once at my ease. Before we parted he
asked me to allow him to join me in my morning walks,
and I consented.
' I will meet and leave you at a short distance from the
house,' he said, 'in order that Mrs. Ashton may not dis-
cover our intimacy ; for should she do so, instead of making
your life more endurable, as I wish, I should probably do
you an irreparable injury.'
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 353
Every day for a month he accompanied me. His mind
was of the order that pleased me most, reflective rather than
brilliant, and had been cultivated by the best education and
much travel; but that which endeared him to me more than
all was the almost womanly gentleness of his disposition, re-
deemed from weakness by a slight but proud reserve that
forbade familiarity.
You have loved, Irene, and can comprehend how grad-
ually all my thoughts centered in him. When we separa-
ted in the morning, I dreamed all day of our next meeting.
I could not be lonely for his image was ever present. A
compliment or a word approaching tenderness (and of these
he was exceedingly chary,) made my heart beat with joy.
I did not deceive myself. I knew that he was dearer to
me than aught else ; but the calm, almost cold respect with
which he treated me, forbade even the hope that I was loved.
All that I knew in regard to him was this, which he told
me with a smile,
<I think Miss Stuart, you do not know even my name,
it is Henry Gordon.'
One morning he looked very sad, and after a long silence
said, with an abruptness that startled me.
' Do you wish to know why I am so thoughtful, Miss
Stuart ?'
' Yes,' I answered.
< It is because I regret that our pleasant companionship
must soon terminate.'
1 Terminate ! and why, I pray you ?'
4 In a week or ten days, Miss Stuart, I shall leave
London.'
I vainly endeavored to conceal the deep grief I felt at
this sudden announcement. I could not speak, and hurri-
edly lowered my veil to hide my tears.
354 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
' Ah ! is it possible that you weep for me ?' he said, in a
voice the first time tremulous.
" You are my friend, the only one on earth, save my
sister, to whom my life or death is not a matter of entire
indifference, can I help mourning that you are to leave me."
'Will you go with me, Miss Stuart? Will you become
my wife ?'
I could not believe him in earnest.
' Do not jest, I pray you,' I said, sadly.
' I never jest, I ask you seriously, if you will be my wife ?'
c Oh ! if you are sincere,' I said, transported with aston-
ishment, and delight, 'can you doubt my answer.'
A strange offer you will say, unaccompanied by assev-
erations of love or tender words, but I was contented, and
ere long it was difficult to recognize in the enraptured lover
the man who had so prosaically asked me to be his.
He told me that day, that our marriage must be kept
entirely secret ; not only from every one at Mrs. Ashtons,
but also from you. I remonstrated against the latter.
' You do not know what a tender sister she has been to
me,' I said, * to deceive her would be basely ungrateful.'
' I cannot at this moment tell you the urgent reasons I
have for this request, but have you not sufficient affection
for me to make a small sacrifice, and faith enough to trust
in me ?'
I still hesitated ; a slight cloud of displeasure crossed his
usually placid brow, and he coldly averted his eyes. I was
conquered in an instant.
'Be it as you will,' I said, ' I will trust in you as I do
in heaven.'
A sweet smile thanked and rewarded me, and then he
explained his intentions.
'Berlin is my destination, and I think it is best that our
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 355
marriage should be deferred till immediately before our
departure. I shall not see you for some days, and mean-
while you will make a few requisite arrangements, and when all
is ready I will inform you by a note. Tell me, Estelle, can
you confide in me without explanations can you place your
destiny in my hands without fear or doubt ?'
6 Ah ! Henry,' I said, forgetting all girlish shame in my
deep love, ' there is no room for distrust in my soul. Have
I not told you that I would believe you as I do heaven.'
1 Adieu then for a little while, Estelle, soon it will be my
Estelle,' and with a tender glance and gentle pressure of the
hand, he left me.
The following day I received your letter telling me of
your approaching marriage. In spite of my devotion to him
I suffered greatly, and the remembrance of my promise
prevented me from disclosing all to you, but resigning my-
self to the sad necessity. I wrote in answer the strange
letter that so perplexed you, and awaited with the greatest
impatience the time that should unite me to Henry. Ten
long weary days passed before a note came from him. This
was it, as nearly as I can recollect,
' All is prepared, my Moved Estelle ; the moment this comes to
your hands tell Mrs. Ashton that you intend leaving ; she may sup-
pose that you are going to your sister. Day after to-morrow, at ten
in the morning I will send a carriage for you, trust the coachman, he
will fetch you to me. Fervently your own.
HENRY GORDON.'
I did exactly as he directed ; Mrs. Ashton seemed much
astonished, but to my great joy did not even inquire my rea-
son or where I intended to go.
The appointed time came, and the carriage arrived.
There was no one to say good-bye to me. I entered it
oppressed by a sense of shame, as if I were committing a
bsse action. Ah ! the instincts of an innocent nature are infal-
lible truths, and virtues never shroud themselves in mystery.
356 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
The coachman drove rapidly to Regent Park, and then
ch ecked the horses ; suddenly the door opened and Henry
leaped in.
' Ah ! you are here, my Estelle ; it is so long so long
since I have seen you,' he said fondly folding me in his
arms, and covering my face with kisses.
Blushing, and with a palpitating heart, I withdrew myself.
I scarcely knew him for the calm grave being who had
appeared insensible to earthly passions.
1 Where are we going Henry ?'
' To a clergyman's, dear one, that I may gain a legal
right to protect you, and then we start at once for Berlin.'
I asked no more ; the surety of honorably possessing his
love was enough.
The carriage rolled on for some minutes, and stopped at
length in a retired quarter of the town, before a plain but
pretty house. Henry assisted me out, rang, and we were
admitted, and conducted into a parlor. In a moment the
clergyman entered ; he had evidently expected us, for he
held a prayer book in his hand ; with a bow and kind smile
to me, he opened it, and we stood before him. I answered
tranquilly, but Henry was agitated and became alternately
red and pale. Our hands were joined, and the benediction
pronounced, and I was the wife of Henry Gordon.
From the time I left Mrs. Ashton's till I woke one morn-
ing in Berlin, I remember everything as we do a pleasant
but confused dream. So many incidents breaking the dull
routine of my life had bewildered me.
Henry procured elegant apartments, and though I had
never given one thought to the social position he might
occupy or the wealth he might possess, I was rather pleased
to learn from him that he belonged to an ancient English
family, and had ample means at his command. As soon as
851
we could think of anything save each other I wished to write
to you, but he objected.
( How can you do so without telling her that you are
married V he said ; ' would she not very naturally ask what
you are doing in Berlin. Dear Estelle, I entreat you not
to write till our marriage may be divulged.'
* And when will that be, Henry ?'
* In a short time. Ah ! you do not love me, or you
would not hesitate.'
I wept ; he kissed away my tears, and I yielded.
Ah ! vainly should I attempt to paint the extatic happi-
ness of those first days, when he never wearied of saying, or
I of hearing the sweet words, * I love you ;' and as if to
compensate for his former coldness, he lavished on me those
endearing names so flattering from the lips of one beloved.
I believed myself supremely blest, but unfortunately I wor-
shipped him. Men are seldom grateful for such blind and
foolish fondness, and ere long my smiling heaven was over-
cast. Slowly, very slowly, I began to perceive that he pos-
sessed more passion than tenderness ; that the amiability
which had been his greatest charm for me, was only super-
ficial, and that in his private relations, his temper was violent,
haughty, and despotic always exacting and often unjust.
Absolute self-confidence prevented him from seeing his
errors, but if it had not, stubborn pride would not have
allowed him to acknowledge them.
Do not think that I readily admitted these convictions ; I
grieved, I struggled against them. I would rather have be-
lieved that the fault was mine, but I could not forever close
my eyes to the truth. I wished to assert by action or
words the liberty which is God's most precious gift to his
creatures; it immediately caused us to disagree, for he
expected every one around him to be subordinate to his
358 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOGIOGRAPHY
will; if I remonstrated and strove to reason^ he would in-
stantly leave me with harsh coldness; then agonized at his
dipleasure, fearing he would cease to love me, I would seek
a reconciliation, with bitter tears, and after I had besought
as if I had been guilty of some monstrous crime, he would
condescend to forgive me, and with a caress, and word of
love, efface every painful remembrance. These difficulties
were always about trifles, but our every-day life is composed
of them, and nothing can be considered unimportant that
contributes to make or mar our happiness. At last I submit-
ted entirely ; his wishes, even his caprices, became my laws,
his smile my heaven, and his frown the only thing I dreaded.
But though I resignedly yielded the blind obedience of
slave to master. I was not happy in this love which bound
and oppressed me like a chain. I needed one like you,
on whose affection I could repose, whose gentle hand would
lead, and yet leave me my liberty, and whose superior
strength and wisdom would influence me through love, not
govern by severe exactions.
Well, six months had gone in this way, I believing the
relations we had assumed toward each other were perfectly
just and ordained by God. One day, during his absence, I
received a letter from England. Let me repeat it to you
every word is indelibly stamped on my memory :
MADAME
Notwithstanding Mr. Gordon's precautions, the intelligence of his
marriage has reached my ears. I cannot but believe you are ignorant,
that before he met you he was indissolubly bound to another ; ten
years ago, in London, he became my husband. I do not desire to
revert to the causes that have compelled us to live apart for six years ;
it is sufficient to inform you that no legal separation has ever taken
place, and consequently I am still his wife. I owe it to myself to tell
you this, otherwise the validity of my claim to his name might be
called in question. Any doubts you may entertain as to the correct-
ness of this, may be solved by addressing a few lines to Bishop M
in London, who consecrated our marriage IDA GORDON.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 359
Another his wife ! then, oh, my God ! what was I ? I
wept and wrung my hands, wild with grief and shame ; how
I mourned over my fatal folly.
In the midst of my distraction he returned. My wrongs
gave me courage ;
" Sir, I cried, holding the letter before him, "I know all ;
you have decieved me deny it if it is not true."
He became deadly pale, snatched the letter from my hand,
and as he read it sank into a chair without a word.
" You say nothing ! it is so, then ! Oh ! could I have
dreamed that you whom I thought it would be sacrilege to
doubt, could thus infamously deceive me but my madness
is over, and now I will leave you though I know not what
will become of me ; I will go even if I die in the streets."
My words and the upbraidings of his own conscience com-
pletely subdued him, he approached me with a sad and hum-
ble air.
" Will you hear me, Estelle? he said. "Will you allow
me to say a word in my own defence? that is a privilege
accorded to the greatest criminals."
I sat down weeping, he took his place beside me and
said,
<' I confess that this letter is strictly true ; in the opinion
of the world, I am her husband, but not in the eyes of God,
nor of enlightened beings. I was young and inexperienced,
her beauty attracted me and we were married after a month's
acquaintance. Very soon I discovered the painful incon-
gruity in our characters. She was unreasonable and pas-
sionate and wanting in the docility that becomes a woman.
For four years we led a wretched life ; criminations and re-
criminations brought matters to a desperate position and we
separated. I went abroad, traveled till I was weary and then
360 IRENE ; OB, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
restless and unhappy, wandered back to England, and, by
accident, met you, Estelle. I swear in the presence of
God/ and he fell on his knees before me, ' that in proffering
you my friendship I had no sinister designs. I formed the
austere resolution of being truly, disinterestedly your friend,
but involuntarily I grew to love you ; I saw that you loved
me, that our natures assimilated, I yielded to the irresistible
temptation. Oh, Estelle, pardon me in memory of our happy
days ; have I not in all respects treated you as a wife am
I not here faithful to you ? do you not feel that our souls
are inextricably united ?'
Could I tell him that I felt that there were never
two more unsuited, when he was gazing on me with
those candid eyes speaking in those imploring tones ? no,
my heart relented, I did not withdraw the hands he had
taken.
1 You will not leave me, Estelle, I cannot live without
you you will not go V
Oh ! shame for my weakness, he seemed again what I had
once believed him, I pardoned and forgot everything, and
consented to remain.
For a time, while his gratitude lasted, his amiable com-
placent manner repaid me for all my sacrifices, but by
degrees he resumed the old dictatorial tone, and restraint
and fear again fell upon me.
By remaining with him, knowing that I was not his wife,
I imagined I had placed an eternal barrier between you and
myself. I had not the consolation of being able to justify
this act in my own eyes, for though my love was uncon-
querable, I had ceased to respect him, and, as I have told
you, he did not render me happy; I became melancholy,
and my health failed in wearying, conflicting emotions ; often
have I lain sleepless, bathing my pillow with tears of regret,
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 361
for the weakness that had made me transgress, for one who
knew not how to recompense me.
At length I suddenly resolved to secretly fly from him,
but whither should I go ? to you ? ah, no ! after abandon-
ing you with such selfish indifference, should I seek you,
a miserable, hopeless being, to solicit your pity ? my pride
would not permit it. I decided to go to Dresden. I had
in my possession a considerable sum of money, and some
valuable jewels, dresses, etc. I prepared everything, and
waited for a favorable opportunity to escape, conscious that I
had not courage to resist his entreaties, if he guessed my
intentions.
One morning he told that he was going to ride some
miles out of town, to see a gentleman about purchasing
some rare pictures, statues, etc., and should not return till
evening. This would be an excellent chance, precisely what
I had long desired, and yet I never felt more wretched than
when he arose to go. He came to me, and carelessly kissing
my cheek, said,
< Good-bye, amuse yourself in my absence.'
'One moment, Henry one moment, please,' I said,
detaining him by the arm.
1 What is the matter ?' he said, in surprise.
' Say good-bye a little more kindly, Henry, as you once
used to do.'
' What a child you are, Estelle, I shall only be absent a
few hours.'
Oh ! Irene, J thought my heart would break. I looked
on him for the last time ah, me ! for the last time on this
earth ; he knew it not. A slight smile rested on his grave
lip, and he playfully shook my hand ; I dared not speak, I
pressed my lips on his hand, and in my thoughts bade him
an eternal adieu.
362 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
The moment he was gone, I wrote a few hurried lines
telling him that I was about to fly from a life of sin and
humiliation, and begged him not to pursue me, then in agi-
tation of mind that approached insanity, I departed.
None, unless they have experienced it, can comprehend
the desolate feeling that steals over one, when alone and
friendless in a great city and my position was peculiarly lonely;
it seemed to me that I possessed not a friend in the wide
world. Nature had bestowed on me but litt le energy, and that
was crushed. My affections had been wasted, my self-respect
was gone, and I had alienated myself from you; hope was dead
within my soul, and health abandoning me without regret
After passing six weeks in uninterrupted solitude, I saw
in a newspaper Henry's name among the arrivals in Lon-
don, then I returned to Berlin, thinking that the sight of
the house where we had lived, the street in which we had
walked, would be a kind of companionship for me, sad but
sweet. In the post office I found a letter from him.
' In taking this step, Estelle/ he wrote, * you have acted
with cruel injustice, and proved that you have no love for
me, therefore I obey your last words, and do not follow you.
Forsaken by you, I go to England. I know not your inten-
tions for the future, but I wish to inform you hoping that
by some chance you may receive this that I leave you
unlimited credit on my banker here; I trust that no false
pride will prevent you from availing yourself of it. I think
you will live to regret what you have done but no matter.'
It was I who had been treated with cruel injustice, but as
I read those lines I felt as if his words were true, and
had he been present I believe I should have craved his
pardon.
My means were exhausted, and I was soon obliged to
apply to the banker, but with a last remnant of pride. I
OP AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 363
drew only sufficient for daily expenses, and lived as econo-
mically as possible.
A month elapsed, a month of weary days, without occu-
pation or pleasure, and nights of unquiet dreams, or restless
thoughts. One morning finding my purse empty, I dressed
and went to my bankers. The clerk to whom I applied,
said to me, very courteously,
' I regret madame, that your credit on us must cease for
the present, till the will of Mr. Gordon's heirs be known.'
' What do you say ?' I exclaimed, looking wildly at him.
He put a paper in my hand, pointing to a paragraph, and
I read,
' HEKRT GORDON, ESQ., third son of JAMES GORDON, was found dead
in his bed while on a visit to his father, in Birmingham, His death is
supposed to have been caused by disease of the heart.'
My nerveless hand released the paper, and in an agony
I sank half insensible to the floor. Not till that moment
did I realize how deathless was the love which reason could
neither explain nor justify. They had me conveyed home
and I darkened my chamber, and sought my couch ; the
sight of human faces, the sound of human voices, even the
blessed sunlight, was hateful to me. In my great misery
death appeared, disarmed of all its terrors and wore the
aspect of a consoler, and yet I lived, and the daily wants of
life obliged me to rise and dispose of all the articles of
value I possessed. The lodging I occupied was too expen-
sive for my altered means, and I removed to the comfort-
less place where you found me. In a short time everything
[ had possessed was gone, and I was without a penny. I
was too ill in body and mind to make any effort to obtain
labor by which I might gain a livelihood, Tossing on my
hard, narrow bed, I resigned myself with reckless despair
to whatever might happen, but fortunately the woman of the
364 IBENE; OR THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
house, though poor, was compassionate and did not permit
me to starve.
Human nature is an anomalous incomprehensible thing.
Now that Henry was dead I forgot all his injustice, and
accused myself of ingratitude, and having caused his death.
In the long days and nights of loneliness and torturing
thought I remembered that I was not utterly forlorn when
he loved me ; and thus prostrated and despairing I was when
you came like an angel of peace, to forgive and comfort
me."
A long silence succeeded ; such heavy shadows wrapped
the room, that I could hardly distinguish the outline of her
form. I had listened, holding her hands, and resting my
head upon them, thinking with sorrow and bitterness,
through all the strange sad history, that it is to the sensibil-
ity of their hearts, and their blind credulity, which even
experience fails to overcome, that women owe all their mis-
fortunes.
She had spoken slowly, and never once had her voice
risen with vehemence or trembled with emotion. The slight
animation with which she commenced died into a tone of
cold and gloomy monotony as she continued, that sounded
to me in the darkness and stillness as inexorable as the
voice of fate, saying that joy and hope were not sleeping
but utterly dead to her.
At last, striving to dissipate my sad thoughts, I said,
" Forgive ! poor, dear one ; I have nothing to forgive,
but comfort ; ah ! yes, God grant that I may be able to do
so ; that I may be able to restore to you at least the seren-
ity of our days of girlish innocence, when position was un-
known to us. Why should it not be so ? there was a time
when we were all-sufficient for each other's happiness ; can
it not be so again ? Let us think and speak of the past
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 365
only to remember that it has gone, and peace and hope will
once more return to you."
"As well could flowers that have been broken and
trampled under foot be made to bloom again. But no
matter, Irene, why should you grieve; bright days lie
before you and as for me, there is another life, where, I
trust, I shall be happier."
My tears fell upon her hands, and feeling, perhaps, that
she was speaking cruelly, she drew me to her and laid her
cheek to mine and we wept together.
CHAPTER XLV.
IT was under the influence of Estelle's narrative that I
wrote thus to Giorani, with whom I had continued to corres-
pond regularly : " In order that those bound in indissoluble
ties should be happy, it is undoubtedly necessary that they
should love ; but it is not enough that they should love as
they generally do the woman with fond submission, and
the man with commanding, though it may be tender, affec-
tion. It is requisite that the evil spirit of injustice be ban-
ished from the heart, and that woman be not deprived be-
cause custom sanctions it, the privileges, in one word, the
freedom, which man claims for himself. It is requisite that
he should renounce the superiority he has arrogated, and
that there should be a frank, honorable understanding that
no law or custom can authorize one human being to deprive
another of just and noble liberty, which is the soul of har-
mony and the first element of all happiness."
In reply to this Giorani wrote,
"You speak, my Irene, as though you thought that I
in common with others would practice this injustice which is
all the greater because the laws and custom permit it. Be-
lieve me, your opinions on this subject are also my own,
and still farther, I believe that man loses by such a course
much more than he gains; for though woman, from her
tender and yeilding nature continues to love even when
oppressed, it cannot be with the truest and most elevated
366
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC. 367
feeling of which she is capable. Intellect and deep affection
are exotic flowers that can only bloom in the warmth and
light of unrestraint and high appreciation; and he who
imposes restrictions and exacts obedience from a noble,
intellectual and loving woman knows not what he sacri-
fices ; instead of an equal companion, whose free coura-
geous mind has ever some bright or inspiring thought to
entertain or elevate him; whose willing devotion consoles
every sorrow and heightens every pleasure, he will have at
the best, but a fond, timid child, constrained by self-distrust
and the fear of displeasing her lord."
How much more I loved him for these generous senti-
ments, so rarely met with. In my hopeful and vivid imagi-
nation the future smiled like an Eden, where the flowers
blossomed, and the joyous birds sang, and love and liberty
wandered hand in hand.
24
CHAPTER XLVI .
SPRING drew slowly on, and oh! how sadly changed
it found Estelle. Always drooping in her large fauteuil, by
the window, she looked, in her pale shadowy loveliness, like
a fading shape of air.
Since my return I had lived in the greatest retirement.
Count Foresti, for whom I felt the affection of a daughter
was my only visiter. Francisca, tired of the almost con-
ventual solitude and silence, had gone to spend some time
with her aunt, in Pisa.
It was the decline of one of the lovely spring days ; the
warm and perfumed air stole through the open windows of
my dressing-room, waving the lace curtains, and lifting
Estelle's rich hair. She sat holding a book, but her eyes
were fixed on the clouds, with such a far-off look, that I
said to her.
" Why do you think so much, Estelle ? What occupies
your thoughts ?"
She turned her eyes on me, those large, beautiful eyes,
and answered.
" I was thinking, Irene, of a lonely grave, far away, on
which the grass has grown, and the snows lain heavily for
many, many years."
" Ah, Estelle, wjiy will you indulge in this profound mel-
ancholy. Is there then nothing cheering in the world ?'
She sighed, and replied gently,
368
IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, LTC. 369
' You should not chide me for remembering, Irene. It
is only too natural for the living to regret the dead."
I felt rebuked, and kissed her brow. At this moment I
was summoned to the saloon to see the good Count, who had
called as usual, to inquire after Estelle's health. He
remained for some time, and after he took leave, Signora
Cornelli wished to consult me upon some matters relative to
Celeste, and some domestic affairs, and it was after eleven when
I returned to my room. Estelle's chair was vacant, and her
book lay on the footstool beside it. Her chamber opened
out of the dressing-room on one side, and mine on the other,
I was going to see if she was at rest, when Nina appeared
on the threshold,
"The Signorina went to bed an hour ago, mi ladi," she
said, " I thought I heard her call, and went in, but she is
sleeping quietly."
" Very well, I will not disturb her now ; come and help me
to undress,' she did so, and then placed the night lamp on
a little marble table, lowering the shade, that the light might
not annoy me, and was still folding robes, and putting things
in their places when I fell asleep.
It must have been two or three hours after, that I awoke,
and in a few moments slumbered again, and dreamed that
some one was calling me. At first it seemed my father's
voice, then Claudius', and then Estelle's, low and plaintively
it murmured,
"Irene! Irene!"
I half awoke, and still continued to hear those sounds,
dying gradually away, till they ceased. I lay for some
moments in this state, between sleeping and waking, and
then suddenly aroused myself. All was silent, I sat up in
bed, wondering if I had dreamed, or really heard those
cries ; unable to determine, I arose with a beating heart,
370 IRENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
and a strange dread, and taking the lamp, hurried to the
dressing-room.
In the middle of the floor a white figure was extended.
I rushed to it heavens ! ifc was Estelle ! I knelt and
raised her in my arms, uttering exclamations of terror. Her
large eyes were open, and floating without life, and the night
dress had fallen open on the cold, still bosom, from which
animation had forever departed. Let me pass over the rest.
* * ********
In a lovely spot on my own lands, which I had consecra-
ted at great expense, I made her resting place. I reared
no tablet to record her name and age, but I enamelled the
turf with brightest flowers, as fittest emblems of the grace and
beauty that slept beneath. At the rising and setting of the
sun, and at the still hour, when only the beaming stars
lighted the heavens, I knelt above her, and there, commu-
ning with the purer part of my nature, I found at last con-
solation; and I almost thought, sometimes, when soothed
and elevated I bent my knee on the green sod, that some
blessed spirit glided noislessly to my side and breathed
around that early grave, an atmosphere of hope and peace.
CHAPTER XLVII
THE revolving year had again brought us winter. Giorani
was still in Spain. I had written him ah 1 that had occurred,
and received in return many letters full of that earnest, puri-
fied affection which is the exalted portion of love. I wrote
now to tell him that our long, painful separation might cease.
Francisca returned to us early in the summer, and I soon
discovered an extraordinary change in her. She who at the
best had not been to me anything more than polite now
courted my society with a manner of cordial and unvarying
interest. Had I better understood human nature I should
have distrusted this sudden change, but as it was I at first
attributed it to a wayward fancy, and then, finding her con-
tinue kind and consistent, wondered and rejoiced, and at
length yielded the love and confidence I had ever desired
to be able to bestow on her.
After having written to Giorani to return, I asked myself
in the greatest perplexity what I should tell Francisca when
he arrived, and above all what I should tell her when the
time came for our marriage. Disdaining falsehood there
remained to me but one course to frankly confess the past
to her without reservation. I determined to do so, as soon
as I heard from him, and waited anxiously for a letter. Ah,
vainly I waited ; many long weeks went, and I wrote again,
and then again ; still no answer. I concluded that he must
!)p ill ; in no other way could his neglect be explained,
371
372 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Love conquered my pride, and I continued to write to him
frequently, but April found the blossoms opening over
Estelle's grave, and yet not one line from him.
Tho retched sick-heartedness of disappointment fell
upon me, and the stoical endurance with which I had borne
so many great sorrows began to depart. Of what use was
my fortitude, my faith in virtue and my trust in God ; all
amounted to nothing in the end ; but doubtless I was born
to be always unhappy.
At ten o'clock one night, I went to my room, weary and
sad, (since Estelle's death I occupied apartments in another
part of the villa,) purposing to go at once to bed. But,
leaning on the toilet table, I sank into so deep a reverie
that I forgot to ring for Nina. Suddenly the door opened
and I saw Francisca's face reflected in the mirror.
" Ah ! you are going to bed, Irene," she said, " I will
not interrupt you."
" Oh, no, Francisca, it is early, come in."
" She entered and approached me. I pushed a large arm
chair toward her, and asked her to be seated.
" No, I thank you," she said, * I will follow your exam-
ple and stand here."
She rested her arms on the table, and playing with a per-
fume bottle, said,
" I am going to announce some news to you, Irene/'
"Good, I hope, Francisca."
She slightly shrugged her shoulders, and replied.
" I cannot tell, that remains to be seen. I am going to
be married."
I was greatly surprised, and felt interested in a moment.
" It is very sudden, is it not Francisca ?" And when is
it to be?"
* I have not yet appointed the time : in a few months, 1
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 373
suppose. You know I am not like the generality of Italian
girls, who have no will of their own in these matters. I
have English blood, which makes me independent, I think,
and more especially now that there are none who have a
legitimate right to control me."
I wondered whom she was to marry, but I would not ask
as I did not wish to know more than she chose to confide.
I unbound my hair and negligently commenced combing it.
There was a momentary silence, and then she said,
" Speaking of marriage reminds me do you remember
Signer Cellini, a gentleman who was on a visit here, the
second month after your arrival ?"
What a question! Involuntarily I started, and hastily
averting my face, answered that I remembered quite well
" And do you know," continued she, regarding me with
a furtive but piercing glance, " that he and I were betrothed
then, and had been so for four years, and that after he was
called away it was my father who so earnestly desired our
marriage who bade me for the first time in an arbitrary man-
ner, never to think of him as a lover ?"
What was she aiming at ? My face flushed, and my heart
fluttered with a vague anticipation of impending evil, as I
replied in a low voice that I knew all this.
" Ah !" she went on rapidly and with a kind of smoth-
ered vehemence, " I did believe that he loved me I did
believe that he would return and claim me for his bride
marl', I did not love him but I might, yes, I might have
loved him had he desired it. You do not know him ; you
cannot understand what a power of fascination he possesses.
It must indeed be great when, cold, unimpressible as I am
called, I still remember him. This morning I received this
letter (and she drew it from her bosom) from an intimate
female friend in Turin, in which she tells me that three
374 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
months since, Giorani Cellini returned there and a month
ago married a beautiful young girl, noble and rich. Though
so long a time has passed since I have seen him ; though I
am going to be married myself ; though I do not love him,
yet I envy her."
Vivid crimson glowed upon her cheeks. She had, evi-
dently, spoken in great excitement and more to herself than
to me. And I, oh heaven ! the last words had fallen on my
ears like my own death knell. Pale and cold, I cried with
a look and tone that would have betrayed me, had she not
been mentally blind and deaf,
" Married ! married ! Impossible !"
" And why impossible ? If he ever had the least love
for me, it has died long since, or else he would have sought
me when I became free to love him. See here what she
writes."
Her finger guided me and I read,
" Something that I think will more particularly interest you, my
dear Francisca, is the marriage of your old lover, Signor Cellini, he
whom I supposed would long ago have brought you to live among us
it was your fault, wicked one, that he did not. After an absence of
two years he returned to Turin, early in the winter, but lived in great
seclusion till a month since, when he married the beautiful and rich
young Countess de Bernine."
I pressed back tears and groans into the inmost reces-
ses of 'my soul. Even in that dreadful moment, pride ena-
bled me to conceal my abandonment and humiliation. Pale,
cold and silent, I stood as if, like the fabled Niobe, anguish
had frozen me into stone.
Francisca folded the letter and replaced it in her bosom.
" Well," she said, with a forced and bitter laugh, I doubt
not that I shall be happier with the man I am to wed than
I should have been with Cellini ; such brilliant and refined
men inspire undying love, while they themselves are only
capable of ephemeral passions.
375
Some other time, if you desire it, I will tell you all about
the person who has at least the merit of truly loving me. It
is late now and I am keeping you up. Good night.
She went quickly from the room, without observing that
I made no reply.
All that night I never closed my burning eyes. When
the sun rose I laid my throbbing head on my pillow and fell
into an uneasy slumber. After that I remember nothing
for many days. They told me that I awoke delirious with
an attack of brain fever which, though not of as long dura-
tion as the first, was equally violent.
Before I was able to leave my sick-bed, I formed my
resolutions for the future, and communicated them to Sig-
nora Cornelli.
"My good aunt," I said thus I always addressed her
now " I am weary of society and intend' to leave it, at
least for a time. I wish to retire to the sacred privacy of
some convent, but not in Florence. The moment I feel
sufficiently strong, I shall send for Count Foresti and request
him to accompany me to some other city in Italy, Naples, I
think, and place me in some convent."
" My child," she answered, uplifting her eyes and de-
voutly crossing herself, " If I could believe that this bed of
illness had brought you to a knowledge of the truths of our
holy religion, and perhaps, determined you to consecrate
your life to Almighty God, after being convinced of the
vanity of all earthly things ; if I could believe this, then
truly I should rejoice."
"'Dear aunt," I said, " do not trouble yourself about my
religion, that is a matter which refers exclusively to onesself.
Your virtues are sure to secure you happiness both here and
hereafter, and for my part I believe in my Creator and in
virtue."
376 IBENE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY, ETC.
" I know that you are very good, Irene, but "
"Ah, please, do not scold me now," I said, trying to
smile, " you know I am not well."
" Yes, yes ; I forgot ; we must be quiet."
And relinquishing the lecture through fear for my health,
she smoothed my pillow, drew the lifi;ht curtains and moved
away.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN a few days I wrote to the Count, and he came imme-
diately. It was evening and I received him in my dressing-
room. After he had expressed his joy at my recovery, he
said, in his plain, straightforward manner,
" Now, my dear invalid, what is it that you desire to see
me so particularly about?"
I told him in a few words.
" Is it possible that you are serious ?" he said in aston-
ishment.
"Asuredly, I am."
" But you must allow me to reason with you upon this
subject ; you are aggravating matters. It is true you have
had great sorrows, but who is there in the world that has
not experienced them? New affections will replace those
which you have lost j do not think that you have wasted life
at twenty-two."
I sadly shook my head, and replied,
" Life has lost all its attractions for me, Count, it is now
only a burden, which I endure."
" Pardon me, but this is being very unreasonable. You
have youth, health, intellect, and beauty, the most precious
gifts of nature, and in addition to them, you possess the great
advantages of wealth, and fine social position. Do you
count all these nothing? Have patience a little while, till
time calm your grief, and then go into society, and you may
377
378 IRENE ; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
become its queen. Turn your attention to literature or the
arts, and who can prophecy what you may accomplish ; come
my child, reflect ; do not renounce from an impulse all the
blessings which providence has bestowed on you."
I listened unmoved, and firmly replied,
" I thank you, my friend, for your kind interest, but I
am not acting from an impulse, I have weighed everything,
and cannot change my resolve."
" Well," he said, sighing, " if you are bent on it I am
ready to do anything I can to serve you. You wish to
leave Florence, where do you desire to go ?"
" I have thought of Naples."
" Veiy well, and who is to attend to your property in
your absence ?"
" I wished to intrust it to you."
" Blindly, I suppose. Ah ! Countess, the weakness of too
ingenuous a nature is over-confidence ; however, this time
I think you have not misplaced your trust, and I accept
it. When will you be prepared to start ?"
I told him in two or three days, and then, seeing that I
was fatigued with the conversation, he left.
Francisca had at first affected to believe that I was not
in earnest, but when she saw me making arrangements for
departure, she expressed the greatest regret, And strove to
make me relinquish my determination, and though she could
not influence, I was moved, and very grateful.
I have spoken very little of Celeste. In three years she
had grown into a tall girl, but her face preserved its infan-
tile loveliness, and her character its gentleness. I had
striven in every way to act as mother toward her ; I loved her
almost as my own child, and she was devotedly attached to me.
The day before I left she entered my "room, and
approached me, weeping violently.
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 379
" What is the matter, Celeste ?" I asked, anxiously.
" Oh ! dear mamma," she said, " why are you going away?
What shall I do without you ? If you loved me you would
not go."
I seated her on my knee, and smoothing the bright hair
that reminded me of the lost one, I said gently,
" My Celeste, you have a good aunt and sister, who
dearly love you. In a few years you will be a young lady ;
pretty, accomplished, and good, and you will have a large
fortune. I think that everything will smile upon yon, and
fervently hope it may, but if by any chance it should not
be so, if you should need my love and protection, I will
come to you, Celeste, even should my hair have grown grey
in the convent. At present, while there are others bound to
you by nearer ties, you do not need me."
Poor child, my words did not console her ; she kissed me
and went away still weeping.
The next morning the carriage was before the gate, and
all the household, except Francisca who could not be found
were assembled to bid me adieu. The servants looked sad.
Signora Cornell! blessed me, and said,
"You must write us all about yourself my dear Irene.
I shall not cease to pray for you."
" And you must write me everything about Celeste," I
said, returning the child's fond embrace. Then the Count,
endeavoring to smile, hurried me to the carriage, put me in
and seated himself beside me, and we slowly descended the
hill, which three years before I had ascended, for the first
time, with Claudius by my side.
*# # * # # # # * *
Long months have passed in this lonely cell. At first
bitter, and despairing, but you, kind mother, have com-
forted me, and I have grown calmer, and more resigned
380 IRENE J OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
There is a kind of strange melancholy pleasure in this pro
found silence, and in watching the dark figures that glide
noiselessly through the corridors, or wander in the grounds,
bending over some devotional book, ever contemplating the
grave.
From my window I gaze on the pure sky, and adore
my God, the God of nature, and recognize the truth that all
things move beneath His supreme hand.
Francisca has never written to me, but I heard frequently
from Signora, and the Count. The latter earnestly begs me
to return to society but no, no, I have neither duties nor
inclinations to call me back. Here let me remain, far from
the bustle of life in which I can have no share.
*****#*#**
It is midnight, for two hours I have been sitting here,
holding my pen, so overpowered by an entire revulsion of
feeling, so wrapt in happy thought, that I have forgotten to
write. I look at the letter lying open before me, to assure
myself that I have not been dreaming. Ah ! it was not
astonishing that when these lines first met my eyes sudden
joy deprived me of my senses.
"I come, Irene, to pray that I may once more behold you, that I
may hear your own lips pronounce our separation, Do not refuse me
an interview, I entreat you. Ever your own GIORANI.
Animated by hope I hastened to the reception room, but
at sight of him a mist obscured my vision, my heart beat
wildly ; I stopped and leaned against the door, silent, and
with downcast eyes.
He came quickly to me, and gently taking my hand, said
in a low tone of suppressed agitation,
" Oh ! what happiness to see you again, even thus, Irene,
even thus."
He heaved a long sigh, and continued,
(i Your coming gives me a little hope. Look at this, and
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 381
tell me if you wrote it, and if so, if it is still your deter-
mination."
He put a note in my hand, and I glanced rapidly over
it. Thus it ran.
" Think of me no more, Giorani ; if we ever meet again it must be
as strangers ; do not seek me, do not ask explanation, it is enough
that this is my irrevocable decision.
May 20, 13. IRENE DE GIOLAMO.
A light broke in upon me.
"I see it all now," I said, "how could I be so blind?
Giorani, my hand-writing has been skilfully imitated, I
never wrote this, I have never seen it before."
" Ah ! is it possible !" he exclaimed, rapturously. The
Count was right ; there has been base treachery at work."
u And you, Giorani," I said, looking fearlessly in his face,
now, -'you are not married?"
"Married! you believed me so? No, my Irene, only
my soul is wedded, and that to you."
His arm stole round me, and my head sank on his shoul-
der. Involuntarily my thoughts sought the Divine Spirit of
Love that blessed me, and 1 am sure that none but holy
feelings moved our hearts, beating against each other.
We sat down, side by side at last, and I related every-
thing to him. When I had finished, he said,
" The letter in which you bade me come to Florence
never reached me. The last I received was dated Decem-
ber 21. After this I endured the torture of suspense for a
month, and then resolved to proceed at once to Florence,
and ascertain the reason of your silence, but on the eve of
my departure I was prostrated by a malignant fever, which
very nearly proved fatal, and it was not till May that I was
able to travel ; I arrived in Florence on the eighteenth, and
burning with impatience to hear something of you, hastened
to Count Foresti. I was greatly disappointed to find that
382 IRENE ; OB THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
he had gone to Naples, to be absent several days. There
was but one thing that I could do to write to you. I did
so, asking you in honor and justice, to declare to me your
intentions. A servant from the villa brought me this note
in reply. Your hand was so well imitated, and all the pre-
vious circumstances so entirely agreed with it how was it
possible for me to suspect a forgery. Filled with grief and
indignation, I went immediately to Turin. To lose faith in
you was to become a universal skeptic; I did not desire, there-
fore, that any other image might replace yours, I only
wished to forget you, but the sweet charm of your love could
not easily pass from memory. The loveliest of Italy's
daughters might smile upon me, and their low dulcet tones
murmur in my ear, but a form of etherial grace, lovlier than
all, haunted my thoughts, and a voice of melancholy music
spoke to me in the brilliant throng, and in the still hour of
solitude.
Many months elapsed, and still I was unhappy. Prompted
by an inexplicable impulse, I returned to Florence, sought
Count Foresti and told him all. The good old man was
amazed.
'This cold, heartless conduct is not in the least recon-
cilable with the frank, honorable and consistent character of
the Countess/ he said, 'and besides, at the very time that
you received this note she was in Naples with me. Early
in the spring she was dangerously ill, and on her recov-
ery told me very emphatically that she desired to leave
society, and begged that I would accompany her to
Naples, and place her in a convent there. After having
endeavored to dissuade her, but without success, I complied
with her wish. God forbid that I should wrong the daugh-
ter of my old friend, but I really think Francisca capable of
almost anything to gratify her vindictiveness. In my opinion
OF AN ARTIST'S DAUGHTER. 383
the most probable explanation of the affair is that she dis-
covered your love by some accident, and hating Irene for
having robbed her of your affections, intercepted your let-
ters, invented some falsehood which drove Irene to despair,
and, to crown all, forged this note, to deprive you of nil
hope, and separate you from her forever. ' Go to the Coun-
tess go at once ; this is the only means by which you
may arrive at the truth.'
I took his advice ; . I am here and am I not happy ?"
u Ah ! how much misery she has caused ; but we were
imprudent, Giorani. Do you remember, at Geneva, the face
you saw against the window ? doubtless it was her ; and
more than this, a few days previous I inadvertently placed
in her possession your letter to Claudius, declining her
hand."
" It is all passed now ; what a blessed thought. To-mor-
row you will quit this sad abode, and henceforth our paths
lie together, is it not a sweet one ?"
Trustingly, I laid my hands in his, and said,
ti s ure ly surely the love that has survived such severe
tests will be immortal. Where in this world should I seek
a soul as noble as yours, my Giorani ?"
"May a free perfect love ever unite us," he said, and then
bade me a fond adieu till the morrow.
At last happiness is within my grasp. Happiness that
calmed by the recollection of past grief does not shine with
the fresh, resplendent light of life's earliest morn, but glows
with the softened and tender radiance of the sunset heaven
when in its depth trembles the glorious star of eve. So let
us walk onward into the illimitable future.
THE END.
25
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