cals and dissenters, merely reserving for those | feeling. No force of argument, no persistency benighted classes a calm and gentleman-like of logic had power to move her from the posicompassion. It is with such men, I think, that tion she assumed. "She could not for expedithe world seems to thrive most flourishingly. ency subscribe, by lip or action, to what her heart Certainly his tenants were never insolvent-his did not believe. She would not contemplate speculations never failed-while, as to minor so hideous a wrong.' matters, his house, his grounds, and his stables, were perfect models of fortunate as well as judicious arrangement. With Mr. Halliwell I was on excellent terms. He was a man of the world, and valued my society and friendship for many reasons. I had a fund of information at disposal, that was continually happening to be of service to him in his farming and gardening operations. Moreover, I had been able to render him important aid in bringing under official notice an ingenious agricultural invention of his-I forget now of what nature; but I might have saved his life, I think, and made less impression upon his sense of obligation. I suppose, after I left the Manor House, Mr. Clive took the worthy squire into his confidence, and much consultation ensued. Howbeit, only a few days after my departure, I received a letter signed "Miles Halliwell," stating that he and his excellent and reverend friend had been considering various questions in which I was interested-would I kindly join them on the ensuing Saturday? as my correspondent especially thought it desirable I should do so; and he concluded with some vague suggestions of "possible results," etc. .......................... In brief, the final result, arrived at in two separate committees of the clergyman and the squire, the squire and myself, was satisfactory in the highest degree. It was Mr. Halliwell's acute, clear-seeing judgment which at once hit upon the solution of the difficulty. Provided Paula Clive and Lewis Heber were married according to the form appointed by the Church of England, he could see no reasonable obstacle to the union. And to this argument, after some deliberation and a good deal of reasoning and persuasion on the part of Mr. Halliwell, Paula's father yielded. I was then asked if I had any objection to my part of the agreement, to which, with gravity, I replied in the negative; and I went, with the old man's formal consent, to ask Paula to name our marriage-day. Wrong? To whom, Paula ?" I asked. She paused a minute, and clasped her hands hurriedly, as if in a kind of spasm of mental pain. "To myself, if to nothing else," she then answered. "I could not bear to look into my own heart-I could not endure the chafings of my own conscience, if I stooped to such turpitude. I, who have cried out against hypocrisies which, compared with this, were excusable and harmless! I to sin against the law of truth, which you, yourself, confess beautiful and worthy of obedience! Lewis, do not ask me to play traitor to my only faith!" I listened to her without interrupting the passionate flood of words, so unlike her usual calm and almost reticent manner of speech. I watched the changing flush on her check-the sparkle that shone with almost a lurid lustre in her eyes. I tried to interpret to myself these signs of something new and strange to the still, contained nature of Paula Clive. But I was not then learned enough in the mysteries of a woman's heart to be able to translate it aright. I remember my first thought was, that her love for me must be less than I had imagined. Also, I sighed to myself, recognizing the weakness inherent, it must be, to feminine humanity, since even Paula was not exempt from it-the weakness which was betrayed in the indescribably hopeless, helpless tone in which she uttered the last three words. And I marveled why it was that this lingering, desperate desire of some faith-some object for guidance, if not for worship-had never manifested itself in Paula so strongly and visibly as now. Perhaps a glimmer of the truth reached me when, as I took her hands in mine, she drooped her head, with one swift upturned glance at me-an eloquent glance. Perhaps I allowed to myself that I might be deceived, and it was from no weakness, still less from weakness in her love for me, that this proud-souled woman was thus subdued before me. All these reflections passed in orderly array through my mind, as I stood beside her, looking into her face, and at last compelling her to look into mine. But here I met with an unexpected opposition. I shall never forget the sudden and brilliant joy that lit up her face with a wonderful dawn of radiance when she saw me-heard what 66 'Ah, don't smile!" she cried, with a restless I had to tell; and clasped my hand, as if to as- movement of the hands I held. I had not known sure herself that it was real. But, then, how I smiled, but I curbed my lips into quietude beshe shrunk back, and what a pale shadow came fore I spoke. Then briefly I set before herover her-even to her very figure, I thought—not any new arguments, not any fresh appeal to when I told her the condition, named by me her intellectual appreciation—but simply, what very much as a matter of course. was to become of me if she persevered in her re "Oh, not that! Lewis, not that!" she said, sistance to this, the only means by which she tremulously. I laughed at her at first, but not for long. I soon saw that even I must submit to recognize her scruples, as something more than a sickly fancy, unworthy her high womanly sense and might at once become my wife. I told her what a dreary life that would be to which she would exile me. I warned her that she, and she only, as my wife, could have power to detain me from joining an expedition she had heard of before, which was about to proceed on a service of imminent danger to the seat of the then war. If she willfully crushed the love out of my life, be it for years or forever, I would take refuge in the man's ambition which I could be almost content to forswear for her did she so will it. And then, having enlarged on this branch of my subject, I expatiated, with some suppressed scorn, on the real nature of the obstacles that appeared to her of such mammoth dimensions-of such irresistible force. I contrasted the gain-granting there was a gainwith the loss which would arise from the maintenance of her conscientious scruples. I showed her the picture of respected prejudices, and two lives blighted, if not ruined, on the one hand; and on the other, the letter of right-doing given up for the spirit. "For you know, you feel, Paula, that there is only one right, true, best fate for and me, you on earth. You are my wife-I your husband— let what will interfere. Shall a paltry form, a conventional observance, a trivial sacrifice to the weakness of those around us-shall such a thing have power to effect that which a million devils, did they exist, should be impotent to do? I hold my own-I hold you! I defy this puny mannikin of superstition to wrest you from me. Look me in the face, Paula. Tell me to go, if you will." But she clung close. I triumphed. In my haste I suffered some expression of exultation to escape me. I knew she must see the right at last-I knew the cloud that had obscured her quick sense, her clear brain, would pass away. "No!" she cried, standing a little apart from me, but clasping my hands still. Her look was changed, so was her voice, but her eyes dwelt on me as she proceeded calmly and slowly. "Not so, Lewis. I have not been blinded-I am not blind now. I feel and know, clearly and strongly, as I did before, that there is a terrible wrong-hideous, unnatural-in this thing that you name so slightingly-nay, do not speak. To me it is a wrong. I confess it-I face it-I dare it. I will take its penalty. Even that I can bear better than-" But the rest I would not let her speak. So we were married that day five weeks in the little country church-with snow on the fields around, and enchanted hoar-frost on the great trees that overhung the Gothic porch, and a winter robin singing his ever-interrupted song at the oriel window. Miles Halliwell, Esq., and his lady were present: her father gave away the bride. She was dressed in white, and was duly pale and self-possessed. The dean of the neighboring city (an intimate friend of Mr. Halliwell) performed the ceremony. Nothing could be more selon les regles. For a winter wedding, every one declared it quite perfect, and to have "gone off" admirably. But I best recollect, when we were driving in the chaise to the sea-port, whence we were to embark for the Continent, the thrill of satisfied, We traveled abroad for two or three weeks, and then returned to what was to be our home. After the bright and beautiful scenes through which we had been wandering the London street looked but dreary; the house, handsome and well-appointed though it was, appeared dark, and, as I thought, soulless. But that was only natural, till our daily life, entwined about the dull walls, environing the still furniture, had made it all beautiful, and we knew it as our home. Yet, even after we were settled in it, I sometimes fancied it was but a dismal abode in which to bestow my Paula, country born and bred, and loving the green fields and breezy hills with the passionate and abiding love of her deep and strong nature. Not that any look, gesture, or tone of hers ever betrayed that she missed or needed any thing that her new life did not contain. But occasionally, and not seldom, it struck me that the long line of grim and dusky houses, windowed alike in hideous brick-andmortar regularity-the prospect which was all on which her eyes could rest as she looked up from book or work-it struck me that it was singularly incongruous with her own aspect, her free bearing, her looks, that so expressed the noble, liberty-loving soul. Such a face as my wife's was never taught its changing inflections, its straight fearlessness of glance, its steady gaze that would not be denied within the cramped limits of a city's streets. Nay, Nevertheless, she never murmured. that is too little to say, and does not sufficiently indicate the spirit of brave, bright cheerfulness with which she illuminated our house, grim and dusky though it was. At last I grew to believe that she must be abundantly content, because she made me feel so. I asked, I needed no more than I had. I pursued my vocation as intently, and almost as engrossingly, as if no image of Paula ever came between me and the business of my life. But it did come; and, hard man of science though I had been held to be, I owned its sweetness, and breathed more freely for its presence. And then, during the long evenings that I snatched from my laboratory, it seemed to me that I tasted a new life, when, looking up from my grave folios and calculating papers, I saw my wife seated in her accustomed chair, working busily, but not so busily but she was quick to respond to my glance. The sudden smile that would then come trembling to her mouth, seemed to make the whole face vibrate, as it were, with tenderness. marked it, and to one who knew me less entirely than she did, it might have appeared that I I marked it unmoved. But it was not so. I loved my wife, with the might of my manhood, with the whole strength of my soul. She knew that, and rested in the knowledge, for she was one of the rare women whose nature could contain I think she must have been at least repose. very nearly happy in these days. There was such a wealth of love and utter trust between us, that it made up for, and even hid the poverty that existed in other directions. I know it did so quite to me. I believe it was almost as successful with her. She was very nearly happy, as I have said. We went into society, occasionally. That Mrs. Heber should be admired, was inevitable; but it happened that I was seldom satisfied with the kind of admiration that reached my ears. "How beautiful your wife is!" said Lady Craven, who was self-privileged to be rude under the disguise of candor. "As Miss Clive, she was striking, grand looking-a sort of Zenobia a woman born to empery. But now, there is an added sweetness, a subdued brilliance, an indescribable beauty of aspect and manner. It is very charming. I liked this none the more, because I knew that the speaker, parrot-like, was only repeating the opinions of others whose judgment was valuable. It irritated, displeased me. I looked at my wife. I contrasted the figure I then saw with that which, not many months before, I had first noted standing so erect under the radiance of the chandelier. Now, she was sitting on a sofa against the deep ruby velvet of which her face and figure were as if sculptured. Her head was slightly bent forward, for she was listening to the gentleman who stood talking to her, and presently at something he said the soft lustre, that had used to be so rare, kindled in her eyes; she looked round, vaguely and instinctively, and caught my glance. Her answering smile brought me to her side, and I learned what it was that interested her so much. Some scheme for female education, about to be undertaken by various ladies, had aroused her earnest sympathy. She was desirous of being one among these self-constituted teachers. She had time to spare, she would love such a work, and she could do it, she thought. Did I think so too? And she looked to me for approbation. I smiled indulgently. She surely could do it, if she willed so, I said. And I left her talking eagerly, asking questions, planning, deciding, upon this important matter. people to suppose that my wife was content to subside into an ordinary, everyday matron. But, a few days afterward, I noted an unusual restlessness about Paula. A curious glitter was in her eyes, a singular sharpness in her voice. At last both traits gradually subsided, and she talked and looked as she was wont. Quietly, and as if incidentally, she mentioned to me that she had given up her plan of teaching the poor girls. Surprised, I asked why. "I did not feel fit for the work," was all she replied; and then irresistibly turned the conversation to another and alien subject. Yes, I myself began to perceive the difference between Miss Clive and Mrs. Heber. And though I compressed my lips, with a feeling of perplexity which to a nature like mine must always be one of pain, I still could not in my heart, whatever were the cause of change, wish her to be other than she was. Yet I had often laughed to myself at the folly of men who were captivated by women who were eminent for womanly qualities. Even in Paula, I had always thought it was her strength, her largeness of mind, her proud, uncompromising spirit that I loved. But now it seemed that my theories had been all wrong, both as to what she was, and what I loved her for. However, I said nothing to Paula, but silently took notice of the various small traits which, now my attention was awakened, I detected day by day-traits which showed how, in her, philosophy, learning, wisdom, intellect, were all becoming subservient attributes. The authoress, the student, the brain-worker were all giving place, and she was becoming simply and merely-a woman. I had used to think her such a woman as the world of old Greece might have known, who made the fables of goddess-hood seem no extravagances. But now, the goddess bearing was gone; the regal aspect was usurped by one sweet and gentle as any mild-eyed girl's among the crowd I had been accustomed to disdain. And I was puzzled, while I kept watch. I remember, one evening in spring, I had been attracted by some primroses in Covent Garden Market, and brought them home to Paula. She took them very silently, I thought, and bore them to a distant table, to arrange them. But when I presently approached her, she looked up, and did not attempt to disguise the tears that had been falling. "Oh, Lewis! they remind me so of the spring that is somewhere, though I can not see it." This from Paula! Tears over a few hedgeAnother time, Lady Craven attacked me be- way flowers! Over the remembrance of the cause my wife had given up writing. "Ah," said she, shaking her fan affectedly, "no more books now. How shall we punish you, Mr. Heber, for depriving us of so much enjoyment?" "Believe me, your reproach is sufficient," said I, truly enough. And then, some inscrutable feeling led me to tell her of the new work which Paula was undertaking. I did not choose country and the spring! She had changed, indeed. But, even if I thought it childish, I loved her. I said, "You shall see the spring, if you wish. We will go into the country next week." And we went. It was the very first advent of spring, which seemed to be dancing in an abandonment of happiness over the whole earth. And Paula almost danced too, as if in the joy ousness of regained freedom. Her face looked band, who was dead; and she would say, in a like a child's sometimes, when she lifted it to hoarse, quiet tone-a fearful tone, that it made me from her cowslip gathering, holding the flow-even me shrink to listen to-that she had expecters before my eyes with such ineffable delight. ed it for very long. I learned to love them all for her sake, and to "Ever since I loved him I knew it. I knew listen with her to her favorite blackbird's song, he would go !" And on the word the voice rose and watch with her the tiny dew-brightened to a desperate cry. Often I buried my head in gossamers that hung to the hedges in the early my hands, almost unable to bear to hear more, morning. I believe that I too almost became a or see more of the indescribable horror her evchild again. That was an enchanted season, ery word and look expressed. And once, rousand there would seem to be something in the ing myself from a half stupor, after some such spring-time which brings out the latent youth-suffering, I was amazed to perceive that she had fulness of spirit in all of us with whom it yet become suddenly quiet. And even as I sprang lingers. toward her, she moved her arms that had been wildly tossed above her head, folded the hands one on another, and with a ghastly smile on her face, the lips began to move. For a long time I could not detect the meaning of the low utterances, but at last, with a long sighing breath some words became audible: "Pray God bless mamma and papa-and make But the brightness of that time seemed to leave her directly we returned home. I noticed she was meditative often, and sometimes even my voice would not rouse her from the deep thought with which she was engrossed. And not many days had passed before a sudden and unexpected grief came to her. Her father was taken ill, and she was summoned to what the | Paula a good child.” physician told her was his death-bed. We set out instantly for ; but we arrived too late. The old man was dead, and I could only hold Paula to my heart while she, in speechless woe, listened to the doctor, as he delivered the message committed to him by his dying patient. His last words were of his daughter. He and her mother, he said, would wait for her in heaven. And there I bade the speaker cease, and leave us; for I felt her strong, passionate sobs rising against my breast. And they burst forth, when we were alone. Great, hopeless shrieks rent the air, and her face-my Paula's face-grew dark with a mighty agony that I could not then understand. Nevertheless, I tried to soothe her. In vain. She sprang from me suddenly, and stood aloof, gazing at me like one distraught. "You tell me to be calm, to be comforted!" she cried. "You-you-you who know -" She stopped, the shrill voice broke down, and she fell helplessly at my feet. After that, a brain fever prostrated her for many weeks. From the ravings of its delirium, I learned strange new things that my man's instinct had failed to discover, that all my science, and learning, and logic could never have helped me to comprehend. Trees, birds, flowers, skies, were mingled in a chaotic crowd; while through it all seemed to stalk a dreadful incarnation, a mysterious conception of Something, which alternately she shrieked to in wild entreaty, or shrank from in horrible terror. Then she would seem to be stooping over the spring rivulet, gathering the spring flowers, as so lately I had really seen her. Murmuring to them, she would seem to shed her whole soul's tenderness over their beauty, their innocence, their happiness, till at last she seemed almost to rest in a sort of quiet trance, silent and at peace. But when that passed by, the paroxysm of convulsive fever was sure to succeed. Her diseased fancy ran riot then. Sometimes it seemed she imagined it was I, her hus And presently, she fell asleep. A calm, restful sleep, from which she awoke conscious. Feeble, more feeble than I can tell, so very frail was the thread by which she held to life for many days after. But-she lived. During the days of her convalescence, when at length she was able to move from one room to another, she used to lie on the sofa, with her head turned to the window, her eyes wandering about the familiar prospect, with unrestful eagerness. Sometimes they would fill with tears, unaware, I think, to herself. Great, grieving tears they were that fell heavily on the thin cheeks, and then her eyes went back to their old quest. What was she seeking I often wondered, with that wistful gaze of hers? I dared not ask her. I was becoming a coward. Within the last few weeks a new world of possibilities had opened before me. Those had been dreadful lessons taught by Paula. I could not bear to know more of the horror surging under the quiet surface of her soul. I let it be. I stood by, silent and passive. great tears swelled in my darling's eyes, fell on her white cheeks, and oftentimes the mouth quivered, and the hands were clenched, as in terrible pain; but I said never a word, gave never a sign. Rather, I moved farther from her side, or looked more intently on the book I held in my hand, The When-but, O Heaven! what had I to offer in barter for the power to comfort her? And how helpless I was! Her favorite dog, that came and licked her hand, or looked pensively and lovingly up at his sick mistress-he possessed as much power as I. At last she was strong enough to travel, and change was prescribed for her. We were to proceed to Italy, and spend there the next few months. The last day of our sojourn in the old village, she asked to be allowed to walk a little way by herself. At first I remonstrated; but, when she pointed to the little church-yard, I yielded. Better she should go alone, I thought, But there. So I watched her as she went. presently, overcome by an intolerable gnawing feeling, half of strange curiosity, half terrible anxiety, I followed her. She stood, leaning on the grave-stone at the head of the two solemn mounds, one green and daisy-covered, the other brown and rough as yet. Something in the mere pitiful fact of this daughter bending over the graves of her father and her mother, smote me with a sense of mysterious sorrow that was not all sorrow. Something like sympathy stirred at my heart. It gave me singular courage. I drew near to her. In a moment I had my arm round herI held her close. I felt strong, as if I could give her strength. "Paula-wife!" I said. She turned to me a still face, with a sad, forced smile just flickering on the brows. "I am ready; let us go, husband." Her arm rested on mine, her eyes were bent on me, and, with a steady step, and the same faint smile, she walked from the grave-yard. At the gate she paused, and looked back. Lush with summer were grass, and flower, and tree. Gray clouds kept back the sunshine, and softened the light. I remember well what we saw that minute, and the sound that then fell on my ears. Paula's low, trembling voice faltering these words: But one day, the last of our stay in the place, when I returned, she was not there, nor in the house, nor in any of her usual haunts. The old woman who performed the part of servant for us told me that she believed the signora had gone into the village, with a poor woman who had come to her for help. "She has a sick child, la poverina," added she, "and the signora gave her money, and then went after her with wine and meat." So, having received directions as to the locality of the casucciaccia wherein dwelt poor Madalena, who was the widow of a fisherman lost at sea the summer before, I wended my way thither. There was a little gathering of women and children about the open door, and, from their ejaculations and gestures, I was at no loss to understand that the child was in great danger. I had a curious feeling as I heard them frequently utter my wife's name with many exclamations of praise and gratitude, and frequent benedictions. My first instinctive fear was lest the illness in the miserable dwelling wherein Paula had been lingering was infectious; but of this apprehension I was relieved at once. The poor mother's voice, sharp and clear, met my ears as I entered the outer room. Then my Paula spoke; very softly, but I heard every word. "We have done all we can for him: we must "If we should be wrong, and I not comfort- hope now." less-?" Oh, the anguish of the questioning look she turned on me! But I answered nothing-I could answer nothing. She said no more. We passed through the little wicket, and it closed after us, breaking the stillness with a harsh noise. III. The foreign mission which had enabled me again to leave England occupied more than a year. During that time, we traversed almost the whole extent of the European continent, seldom staying more than a few weeks in each place, till during the last month or two, when we were able to live quietly in a little Neapolitan village on the shore of the Adriatic. I had daily business at the town a few miles off, but I used to return early, and Paula and I had many happy wanderings. The sky, the sea, the air, were all so bright and so peaceful, they could not but impart some of their brightness and peace to her. She had been bravely cheerful all through our wanderings, but I had detected how much strong effort it had needed to make her so. Now, it seemed to me she was at once quieter and more truly serene. She did not attempt to laugh or talk gayly; her voice and manner became more natural, if less mirthful. Sometimes she was thoughtful, and she had not allowed herself to be so for a long time, I knew. On those sunny afternoons, when I rode back to her, I used often to find her seated in the rude balcony of our casella, looking out over the sea intently, with something of the same searching look that I had seen long ago in her eyes, but never since. "And pray! Ah, Holy Mary, look on me! Virgin Mother, have pity! Help me-help my child!" shrieked Madalena. A torrent of passionate prayers, uttered with shrill rapidity, followed. Then, for a moment, she paused. Signora, pray for me to your God. You that have been so good to me-ah, pray!" 66 I went into the inner room. There stood Paula, motionless and pale, by the wretched bed whereon lay the child. Madalena had flung herself before a rude wooden crucifix, and was again uttering her earnest, imploring cries; while Paula watched her, but never spoke. I touched her, and entreated her to come away. The child was evidently dying, and I dreaded the effect of so much painful excitement upon her. But she shook her head. She would stay. I stood aside, and looked on. When the last painful convulsions came on, it was Paula who raised little Beppo's head, and cradled it on her shoulder; for the mother was helpless with agony, and could do nothing. And so, on my wife's bosom, the child died. She and I both watched the almost imperceptible "passing away" of that mysterious thing we call Life. We both saw the final spasm, and then the gradual and wonderful quietude which presently came over the little dead face. Madalena seemed stricken into an awe yet greater than woe by the sight. She fell on her knees beside it with a terrible cry, and then was silent and still for many minutes. Hope and fear seemed to have sunk together heavily in the empty heart. The look she wore touched I did not wonder at Paula's fast-falling me. |