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. ' 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,