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BwLLJII JulfiiJiUm MliMuilMli ItrMilfiii 11 il.
I pus, $2,00 PER ANNUM. IN ADVANCE.
Original partrtj.
for tlie SouthiTii Literary Gazette.
the tear.
. ,1,1. through ail thy phases t ack’d,
VVi„ ;e o'er thy home may be ;
spray, in dow’ret’s bell,
I, maiden’s lovely e’e.
i1; , n . .t ocean’s swelling surge,
,) ri the toi rent’s foam;
„ ~ M ,i of most consummate grace,
[. beauty’s radiant home.
|,a e.-t light, ray’d through thy globe,
Di-olves in tinted beams;
, ) ,m die darkly gaih’ring cloud,
IV arc prismatic gleams.
I I,uiu. Reflection’s magic charm,
Ami m ihy mirror gay,
i ~ ,j uckly caught and backward flung,
In fascinating play,
All grace! 1 forms and lovely hues,
That float around thy rphere,
, ,„M by thy ever changeful glow,
for aye to linger there.
V■ ruction's gravitat tig law,
In thee completely shows,
v , I, yon far and mighty orb,
Ad adiant y tout glows.
,| who that view- thy circlet clear,
Would ever dream that Life,
y I ~,, thv pu.e, transparent zone,
\buii .amly is rite.
,i vet. ih<>u ait a mimic world,
\ b ell t irotignig millions till ;
i,i e-. perhaps, I ke us instinct,
With pa rion, laneV, Will.
may wo pau e in thoughtful mood,
OY. a.I a diop reveals,
Y.'iiiie fancy dreams of wonders more,
It- lucid dome conceals.
Thanks for the lessons thou ha t taught,
Right glad are we to learn :
Ha ttlnm no more—no dearer truth,
\, tli.ng for which our spir.t’s yearn ?
Yes, yes! thou art a beauteous type,
f)| Spirit's mystic law,
which, lo one Great Centre true,
Ah souls forever di aw.
A'many mil non atoms small
Aie gather’d in this sphere,
Tatu.m one peiteet, glorious whole,
All brilliant, soft and dear.
’finis i ft from out some tiny scroll,
l'lie leeling heart will hear
Sunniest t uths for mind and soul,
For such we give—a tear.
ROSE DU SUD.
Xorrmber , 1800.
Stfltftrti Cuba.
From “ Papers for the People.**
liib LAST OF THE RUTHYENS.
CHAPTER I.
Davie Calderwood ! worthy tutor
ami master ! —Davie Calderwood.” —
The old man made no answer to the
. whu h he scarce seemed even to
hoar, lie sat not far from the shadow
el his college walls, watching the little
■silvery ripples of the Cam. 11 is doc- ;
I “id robes hid acommo.i homely, dress
“f gray ; his large feet dangling over
lie river bank, were clumsily shod, and
his white close-cropped hair gave him
a Puritanical look, when compared w ith
tlm cava.ier air of the two youths who
stood behind hitn.
” Davie t a.dei wood—wake up, man!
News!—great news! From Scotland!”
a led the elder lad in a cautious w his
per.
i pierced the torpor of the old man:
hi started up with trembling eagerness.
” kh, my dear bairn !—1 mean my
hud—my Lord Cowrie !”
“Hush!” said the youth bitterly;
“lit not t lie birds of the air carry that
so nd. Was it not crushed out of the
earth a year ago 1 Call me William
hntliven, or else plain W illiam, till
“i'dini) good sword I w in back my ti
de mid in\ father’s name.”
” A iilit—W illie!” murmured the
.'"on er brother in anxious warning.
“di i- afraid—wee Patrick!” laugh
(i Kuthven. ‘’lie thinks
-tiut wads have ears, and rivers tongues,
Ua,: that every idle woid 1 say will go j
“All ‘'peed to the vain, withered old ‘
“ten Loudon, or to dafi King Jamie
‘-'linbiirgli! lie thinks he shall )et
’ omher \Viliie’s love-locks floating
,M, in the top of the lo booth beside
d'"se 0 f winsome Aleck and noble
John.”
liie elder youth spoke in that bitter
tone used to hide keenest suf
‘e hig ; hut the younger one, a slight
de. irate boy of hi etecn. clung to Ins
1 ,; n is aim, and burst into tears.
” Alv ioid, ’ said .Master David Cat
ierwond, “ye suid be mair tender o’
■hi aid— \our ae brother — your mo
11 “ voungest bairn ! Ye speak too
Dhh) o Hungs awfu’ to tell of- —aw-
tu hi mind. Alaster Patrick,” he add
'd- i<i) iug his hand gently on the boy ’s
bolide , “ye are thinking of ilk puir
“A “ given to the tow Is of the air and
die winds of heaven,at Sterling, Edin
-1 -ii. and Dundee; but ye forget that
H|i nun dishonours the poor .dust,
mair (jod keeps the soul. There
d'v mimi . e thus o’ your twa brothers
“hie bonnie Earl of Gowrie, and no
d” Alexander liuthven —that are baith
with God.”
he spoke the doctor’s voice tal
for nature had put into his huge,
‘•-tinned fame a gentle, womanly
Tn'it; and though he hail fled from his
1 “try, and never beheld it since the
mar when his beloved lord, the first
of Gowrie, and father of these
• nhs. perished on the scaffold —still,
” ‘ hist a,l the learning and honours
pined in his adopted home, David
Jder wood carried in his bosom the
’ “• true Scottish heart; and perhaps
filmed more over the boy Patrick,
| M lllar lie was, like his long dead fa
ll'n quiet retir ng student, given to
nbitru-e philosophy ; whereas Wil
die elder was a youth of bold
s ; ‘A, who chafed under his forced re
-1 “unent, and longed to tread in the
of his ancestors, even though
*’ > led ti the same bloody end.
” Well, good master,” he said “when
a FiiM mm&k mmm m imimm. w arts mb mmm t mb m am ntmuanaL
you have wept enough with Patrick,
hear my news.”
‘•ls it torn my mother, the puir
limited dove, auld and worn, flying
hither and thither about the ruins of her
nest?”
Lord Gowrie’s—let ns give him the j
title for three months borne, then at
tainted, but which yet fondly lingered
on the lips of two faithful friends, j
David Calderwood, and Lettice his i
daughter —Lord Gowrie’s brow redden- j
ed, and instinctively he put his hand to
where his sword should have hung. — j
1 lieu he muttered angrily, “ I forget I
I am no ea 1, no Scottish knight,
but only a poor Cambridge student. — j
Hut,” he added, his face kindling, j
“though the lightning has fallen on the ;
parent trunk, and its two brave branch- j
es, and though the rest are trodden un- j
der foot of men, still there is life,
blood, fresh in the old tree. It shall
grow up and shelter her yet —my no- !
b!e, long-endui ing mother —the first, |
the best, the No; she shall not be j
the last Lady Gowrie.”
VV bile speaking, a flush, deeper even j
than that of youth’s enthusiasm, burn- \
ed on tin; young earl’s cheek, and he j
looked up to the window where Let
tice sat —sweet Lettice Calderwood,
sweeter even than she was fair! She
at a distance dimly saw the look ; she
met it with a bank smile—the smile
a single-hearted, happy girl would cast
willingly on all the world.
“ i he news—the news !” murmured
old David. “My bairns, ye talk, and :
ye rave, but ye dimia tell tlie news.”
“ My mother writes that the cloud
seems passing from our house ; for the
Queen Anne—she favours us still, de
spite her lord—the Queen Anne has
secretly sent for our sister Beatrice to
court.”
“Beatrice, whom brother Alexander
loved more than all the rest,” said Pa
trick simply. But the elder brother
ft owned, and rather harshly bade him
hold his peace.
“ Patriik is a child, and knows noth
ing,” said the young earl; “ but 1 know
all. \\ hat caie 1 for this weak queen’s
folly or remembered sin, ifthiough her
means 1 creep back into my father’s
honoured seat] Oh, shame that 1 can
only creep ; that 1 must enter Scotland
like a thief, and steal in at the court
holding on to a woman's robe, when 1
would lain come with fire and sword,
to crush among the ashes of his own
palace the murderer of my race!”
lie spoke with a resolute fierceness,
strange in such a youth; his black
brows contracted, and his statue seem
ed to swell and grow. Simple Davie
Calderwood looked and trembled.
“ Ye’re a Kuthven, true and bold;
but ye’re no like the Earl o’ Gowrie.
I see in your face your father’s father—
him that rose from a dying bed tohea
shedder of blood —him that slew Riz
zio in Holy rood !”
“And when 1 stand in Holyrood—
whether 1 creep in there or force my
way with my sword—l will kneel
down on that bloody spot, and pray
Heaven to make me too as faithful an
avenger,” was the keen low answer.—
Then, turning off his passionate emo
tion w ith a jest, as he often did, Lord
Gowrie said gaily to his brother, “Come,
Patrick, look not so pale ; tell our
good master the rest of the news—that
to-night, this very night, thou and 1
must start for bourne Scotland !”
“Who is talking of bonnie Soot
land f” said a girl s voice, young in
deed, but yet touched with that inex
plicable tone which never comes until
life's first lessons have been learned--
those lessons, whether of joy or grief,
which leave in the child’s careless bo
som a w oman’s heart.
Lord Gowrie turned quickly and
looked at Lettice, smilingly—raptu
rously, yet bashfully, as a youth looks
at his first idol. 1 hen he repeated his
intention of departure, though in atone
less joyous than before. Lettice,heard,
without emotion as it seemed, only
that her two thin hands —site was a lit
tle creatuie, pale and slight—were
pressed tightly together. There are
some faces w hich, by instinct or by
force of w ill, can hide all emotion, and
then it is the hands which tell the tale
the fluttering fingers, the tight clench,
the palms rigidly cruslnd together. —
But tokens of s tiering no one
sees: no one saw them in Lettice Cal
derwood.
“Do ye no grieve, my daughter, over
these bairns that go from us ! Y\ ae’s
me! but there’s danger in ilka step
to baitli the lads.”
“Are both going ?” asked Lettice;
and her eye wandered towards the
younger b.other, who had moved a iit
tfe apart, and stood by a little liver,
plucking leaves, and throwing them
down the stream. “ Its a long, severe
journey, and master Patrick has been
so ill, and is not \ et strong,” added the
girl, speaking with that grave dignity
which, as mistress of the household, site
sometimes assumed, and which made
her seem far older than her years.
“ Patrick is a weakly fellow, to be
sure,” answered Lord Gow rie, inward
ly smilingly over his own youthful
strength and beauty ; “but 1 will take
care of him—he will go w ith his bro
ther.”
“ Yes,” said Patrick, overhearing all,
as it scented. But he said no more :
he was a youth of few words. Very
soon Calderwood and the young lord
began to talk over the projected jour
ney. But Patrick sat down by the
river-bank,and began idly plucking and
examining the meadow-flowers, just as
if his favourite herbal and botanical
science w ere the only interests of life.
“Patrii k !” whispered Lettice’s kind,
sisterly voice. She sometimes forgot
the difference of rank and blood in her
tender compassion for the young pro
scribed fugitives w ho had been sent, in
such utter destitution and misery, to
her father’s care —“Patrick !”
“ Yes, Mistress Lettice.
“The evening closes cold; take
this !” She had brought a cloak to wrap
round him.
“ You are very kind, very thought
ful-—like a sister .” Saying this, he
turned quick, and looked at her. Let
tice smiled. Whether gladsome or
sorry, she could always bend her lips
to that pale, grave smile.
“ Well, then, listen to me, as you al
ways do; 1 being such a staid, wise old
woman”
“Though a year younger than 1.”
“ Still, listen to me. My Lord Gow
rie, your brother, is rash and bold: you
must be prudent for the sake of both.
\\ hen you go from us, Patrick, cease
dreaming, and use your wisdom. You
have indeed the strength and wisdom
of a man; it will he needed. Let not
William bring you into peril; take care
of him and of yourself.”
Here the lips that spoke so woman
ly, grave, and calm, began to tremble;
and Lettice, hearing her name called,
went away.
Patrick seemed mechanically to re
peat to himself her last words, w hether
in pleasure, pain, or indifference, it was
impossible to tell. Then his features
relapsed into their usual expression—
thoughtful, quiet, and passionless. An
old-young face it was—a mingling of
the child with the man of old, blit w it h
no trace of youth between—a face such
as we see sometimes, and fancy that
we read therein the coming history as
plainly written as in a book. So
while, as the evening passed, Lord
Gowrie’s fiery spirit busied itselfabout
plots and schemes, the late of king
doms and of kings; and Davie Calder
wood, stirred from his learned equi
poise, troubled bis simple mind with
anxiety concerning his two beloved pu
pils—Lettice hid all her thoughts in
her heart, brooding tremblingly over
them there. But the young herbalist
sat patiently pulling his flowers to
pieces, and ruminating meanwhile ; his
eyes fixed on the little rippling stream.
He seemed born to be one of those
meek philosophers who through life sit
still, and let the world roll by with all
its tumults, passions, and cares. They
are above it ; or, as some would deem,
below it. But in either case it touches
not them.
It was the dawn of a September day,
gloomy and cold. All things seem
ed buried in a dull sleep, except the
Cam that went murmuring over its
pebbles hour after hour, from night till
morn. Lettice heard it under her
window, as she stood in the pale light,
fastening her head-tire with trembling
l ands. 1 hey were just starting—the
two young Scottish cavaliers. Both
had cast off the dress of the student,
and appeared as befitted their birth.—
Bold, noble, and handsome looked the
young Earl William in his gay doublet,
with his sword by his side. As he
walked with Lettice to the garden, (he
had half-intreated, half-commanded to
have a rose given by her hand,) his
manner seemed less boyish—more
courtly and tender withal. Ilis last
words, too, as he rode away, were a
gay compliment, and an outburst of
youthful hope; alluding to the time
when he should come back endowed
with the forfeited honours of his race,
and choose, not out of Scottish but of
English maidens, a “ Lady Gowrie.”
Patrick, stealing after, a little paler
—a little more silent than usual—affec
tionately bade his master adieu ; and
to the hearty blessing and good-speed
only whispered “Amen.” Then he
took Lettice’s hand ; he did not kiss it,
as his brother had gracefully and cour
teously done; but he clasped it with a
light cold clasp, saying gently, “ Fare
well ! Lettice, my kind sister .”
IShe moved a little, as if pained ;
and then calmly echoed the farewell.
But when the sound of the horses’ feet
died away, she went slow ly up to her
little chamber, shut the door, sat down,
and wept. Once only looking at her
little hand —holding it as if there still
lingered on it a vanished touch—the
deep colour rose in her cheek, and over
her face there passed a quick, sharp
pang.
“His sister—always his sister /”
She said no more. After a w hile she
dried her tears, wrapped round her
heart that veil of ordinary outer life
w hich a woman must always wear, and
went down to her father.
“ Lettice, what are those torn papers
that thou art t’a-tening together with
thy needle? Are they writings or
problems of mine ’?”
“Not this time, father,” said Lettice
meekly ; “ they are fragments left by
your two pupils.”
“1 hat is, by Patrick! William did
not love to study, except that fantastic
learning which all the Kuthveus loved
—the oocult sciences. Whose papers
are these.”
“ Master Patrick’s; he may want
; them when he returns.”
“ When! Ah, the dear bairn, his
I puir father’s ain son ! will 1 ever see
his face again V
There was no answer save that ofsi
lence and paleness. Lettice's fingers
worked on. But a dull, cold shadow
seemed to spead itself over the room
—over every w here she turned her ey es;
duller than lhe gloomy evening—cold
er than the cold March rain w hich beat
against the narrow college-windows—
that shadow that crept over her heart.
She looked like one who for many days
and weeks had borne on her spirit—
not a heavy load, that is easier to bear,
but a restless struggle —sometimes
pain, sometimes joy, doubt, fear, expec
tation, faith, wild longing, followed by
blank endurance. It was now a long
time since she had learned the whole
hitter meaning of those words, “ The
hope deferred which maketh the heart
sick.”
“ My dear lassie,” said the old doc
tor, rousing himself from a mathemati
cal calculation which had degenerated
into a. mere every-day reverie, “w here
hae ye keepit the puir young earl’s
letter, that said he and Patrick were
haith coming back to Cambridge in a
week] Can ye no tell how lang it is
sin syne ?”
Lettice could have answered at once
—could have told the weeks, days,
hours—each passing slow like years—
but she did not. She paused as though
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, NOV. 23. 1850.
to reckon, and then said, “It is nigh
two months, if 1 count right.”
“ Twa months! Alas, alas!”
“ Do you think, father,” she sa>d
slowly, striving to speak for the first
time w hat had been so long pent up
that its utterance shook her whole frame
with tremblings—“do you think that
any harm has come to the poor young
gentlemen ?”
“ 1 pray God no ! Lettice, do you
mind what our puir W illie—l canna
say ‘the earl’—tauld us of their great
good fortune through the queen ; how
that he would soon be living in Edin
burgh as a grand lord, and his brother
should end his studies at St. Andrews;
only Patrick said he loved better to
come back to Cambridge, and to his
auld master. The dear bairn ! Do ye
mind all this, Lettice]”
“ Yes, father.” Ah, truly poor Let
tice did !
“ Then, my child, we needna fear for
them. They arc twa young gentle
men o’ rank, and maybe they lead a
merry life, and that whiles gars them
forget auld friends; but they’ll aye
come hack safe in time.”
So saying, the old doctor settled hi .-
self in his high-backed chair, and con
tentedly went to sleep. His daughter
continued her work until the papers
were all arranged and it grew too dark
to see, then she closed her eyes and
pondered.
Her thoughts were not w hat may be
called love-thoughts, such as you, young
modern maidens, indulge in when you
dream of some lover kneeling at your
feet, or walking by your side, know
y ourself adored, and exult in the ado
ration. No such li"ht emotion ruled
Lettice’s fancy. Her love —if it were
love, and she scarce knew it as such—
had crept in unwittingly, under the
guise of pity, reverence, affection ; it
had struck its roots deep in her na
ture; and though it bore no flowers,
its life was one with the life of her
heart. She never paused to think,
“Do I love?” or “Am 1 loved?” but
her whole being flowed into that thought
wave after wave, like a stream that in
sensibly glides into one dry channel,
leaving all the rest.
Lettice sat and thought mournfully
over the many weeks of wearying ex
pectation for him who never came. —
How at first the hours flew winged w ith
restless joy, how she lay down in hope
and rose in hope, and said to herself,
calmly smilingly, “ To-morrow—to
mo row !” 1 low afterwards she strove
to make those w ords into a daily balm
to still fear and pain that would not
sleep; how at last she breathed them
wildly, hour by hour of each blank day,
less believing in them than lifting them
up like a cry of despair which must be
answered. But it never was answered;
and the silence now had grown so black
and dull around her, that it pressed
down all struggles—left her not even
strength for fears.
She had feared very much at first.—
The young Earl W illiam, so sanguine,
so bold, might have been deceived. —
The king’s seeming lenity might be but
assumed, until he could crush the poor
remnant of the Kuthven blood. She
pondered continually over the awful
tale of the Gowrie plot; often at night
in her dreams she saw the ensanguined
axe, the two heads, so beautiful and
young, mouldering away on the Tol
booth. Sometimes beside them she
saw another . Horror ! she knew
it well—the pale, boyish cheek —the
thoughtful brow. Then she would
wake in shudderings and cries; and
falling on her knees, pray that wherev
er he was —whether or no he might
gladden her eyes again—Heaven would
keep him safe, and have pity upon her.
Again she thought of him in pros
perity, living honoured and secure un
der tne glory of the Kuthven line—
forgetting old friends as her father had
said. Well, and w hat right had she to
murmur] She did not —save that at
times, even against her will, the selfish
cry of weak human tenderness would
rise up —“Alas thou hast all things,
and I—l perish tor want!” But her
conscience ever answered, “ He neither
knows nor sees, so with him there is
no wrong.”
Night, heavy night, fell down once
more. Lettice had learned to long for
the dull stupor it brought—a little
peace, a little oblivion mercifully clos
ing each blank day. “Is it not time
for lest, father ]” she often asked long
ere the usual hour; and she was so
glad to creep to her little bow er-cham
ber, and shut out the moonbeams and
the starligh', and lie in darkness and
utter forgetfulness, until lulled to sleep
by the ripple of the stream close by.—
There had been a time when she either
sat up with her father, or else lay awake
till midnight, listening for steps in the
garden—lor voices beneath the window
—when every summons at the gate
made her heart leap wildly. But all
this w as passed now.
Lettice. put down the lamp, took off
her coif, and unbound her hair. Be
fore retiring she opened the window
and gazed out into the night, which
was cold, hut very clear. She half
leaned forward, and stretched out her
hands to the north. No words can
paint the look her countenance wore.
It was yearning, imploring, despairing,
like that of a soul longing to depart
and follow upwards another soul al
ready gone. In her eyes was an in
tensity that seemed mighty enough to
pierce through all intervening space,
and fly dove-winged to its desire. Then
the lids dropped, the burning tears fell,
and her whole frame sank collapsed
an image of hopeless, motionless de
jection.
She was roused by a noise—the dash
of oars on the usually-deserted river.
She shut the window hastily, blushing
lest the lamp should have revealed her
attitude and her emotion to any strang
er without. The sound of oars ceased
—there were footsteps up the garden
alleys—there was her father’s eager
voice at the door, mingled with other
well-known voices. They were coming!
—they were come !
In a moment all the days, weeks,
months of weary waiting were swept
away like clouds. The night of her
sorrow was forgotten as though it had
never been.
“ And now that I am returned,
thou wilt not give me another flower,
Mistress Lettice]” said the young
earl, as he followed her up the garden
walks in the fair spring morning. She
had risen early, for sleep had been
driven away by joy.
“ There are no flowers row, at least
none gay enough to be worth your
wearing. Daisies and violets would
ill suit that courtly dress,” said the
maiden, speaking blithely out of her
full-hearted content.
“ Does it displease you then ] Shall
I banish my silver-hilted sword, and
my rich doublet with three hundred
points, and don the poor student’s hod
den gray] I would do it, fair damsel,
and willingly for thee!” And he
smiled with a little conscious pride,
as if he knew well that six months
passed in the shadow of a court had
transformed the bashful youth into an
accomplished cavalier—brave, hand
some, w inning, yet pure and noble at
heart, as the young knights were in the
golden time of Sidney and of Raleigh.
Lettice regarded him in frank admi
ration. “ Truly, my Lord Gowrie, you
are changed. Scarce can 1 dare to give
you the name you once honoured me
by permitting. How shall I call you
and Master Patrick my brothers]”
“ / wish it not,” said the young man
hastily. “As fur Patrick —never mind
Patrick,” as Lettice’s eyes sitemed
wandering to the river-side, where the
younger Kuthven rat in his old seat.
“ You see he is quite happy with his
herbal and his books of philosophy. —
Let him stay there for 1 would fain
have speech with you.” He led her
into a shady path and began to speak
hurriedly. “Lettice, do you know that
I may soon be summoned back to
Scotland—not as a captive, but as the
reinstated Earl of Gowrie ? And Let
lice”—here his voice filtered, and his
cheek glow ed, and he looked no more
the bold cavalier, but a timid youth in
his first wooing—“dear Lettice, if 1
might win my heart’s desire, 1 would
not depart alone.”
“Not depart alone] Then thou
wilt not leave Patrick with us, as was
planned ]” said the girl, uttering the
first thought that rose to her mind, and
then blushing for the same.
“ i spoke not of Patrick—he may
do as he wills. I spoke of someone
dearer than brother or sister; of her
who”—
“ What! is it come to that]” mer
rily laughed out the unconscious girl.
“ Is our William at once, without sign
or token, about to bring to us, and then
perforce to carry away home, a bonnie
Lady Gowrie ?”
The carl sc .tied startled by a sud
den doubt. • It is strange you should
speak thus! Are you mocking me, or
is it a womanly device to make me woo
in plainer terms] Hear, then, Let
tice, that I love ! It is you 1 would
w in, you whom I would carry home in
triumph, my beautiful, my wife, ray
Lady Gowrie!” She stood transfixed,
looking at him, not with blushes, not
with maiden shame, but in a sort of dull
amaze.
“ Do my words startle you, sweet
one? Forgive, me, then, for I scarce
know what 1 say. Only i love you —
1 love you! Come to my heart, my
Lettice, my wife that shall he and
he stretched out his arms to enfold her.
But Lettice, uttering a faint cry, glided
from his vain clasp, and tied into the
house.
In their deepest affections women
rarely judge by outward show. The
young earl, gifted with all qualities to
charm a lady s eye, had been loved as
a brother —nothing more. The dreamy
Patrick, in whose apparently passion
less nature lay the mystery wherein
such as Lettice ever delight—whose
learning awed, while h s weakness at
tracted tender sympathy —he it was
who had unconsciously won the trea
sure which a man giving all his sub
stance could not gain—a woman’s first,
best love.
Her wooer evidently dreamed not
the truth. She saw him still walking
where she had left him, or passing un
der her window, looking up rather anx
iously , yet smiling. One thought only
rose ciearly out of the chaos of Let
tice’s ijimd—that he must be answer
ed; that she must not let him deceive
himself—no, not for an hour. What
she should say she mounfully knew—
but how to say it t Some small speech
she tried to frame; hut she had never
been used to veil any thought of her in
noeent heart before him she treated aei
brother. It was so hard to feel that
all this must be changed now.
Lettice was little more than eighteen
years old, but the troublous life of a
motherles girl had made her self-de
pendent and linn. Therefore after a
while, courage came to her again.—
Strengthened by her one great desire
to do right, she descended into the
garden, and walked slowly down the
alley to meet the earl. Ilis greting
was full of joy.
“Did 1 scare her from me, my bird ?
And has she flown back of her own ac
cord to her safe nest —her shelter now
and evermore ?” And once more he
extended his arms, with a look of proud
tenderness, such ai a young lover wears
when he feels that in wooing his future
wife he has east off the lightsome follies
of boyhood, and entered on the duties
and dignities of a man.
Lettice never looked up, or her heart
would have smote her—that heart
which, already half-crushed, had now
to crush another’s. Would that wo
man felt more how bitter it is to in
flict this suffering, and, if wilfully in
curred, how heavy is this sin! Even
Lettice, with her conscience all clear,
felt as though she were half guilty in
having won his unsought for love. —
Pale and trembling she began to say
the words she had fixed on as best,
humblest, kindest—“ My Lord Gow
rie”—
“ Nay, sweet Lettice, call me Wil
liam, as you ever used to do in the dear
old time.”
At this allusion her set speech failed,
and she'burst into tears. “Oh, Wil
liam, why did you not always remain
my brother? 1 should have been hap
py then !”
“ And now ?”
“ I am very —very miserable.”
There was a pause,during which Lord
Gow l ie’s face changed, and he seemed
to wrestle with a vague fear. At last
he said, “ Wherefore ?” in a brief, cold
tone, which calmed Lettice at once.
“ Because,” she murmured with a
mournful earnestness there was no
doubting or gainsaying, “ I am not
worthy your love, since in my heart {
there is no answer—none!”
For a moment Lord Gowrie drew j
himself up with all his ancestral pride.
“ Mistress Lettice Calderwood, I re
gret that—that” He stammered,
hesitated, then throwing himself on a
wooden seat, and bowing his head, he :
struggled with a young man’s first \
agony —rejected love.
Lettice knelt beside him. She took
his passive hands, and her tears rained
over them; but what hope, what com
fort could she give? She thought not
of their position as maiden and suitor
—Lord Gowrie and humble Lettice
Calderwood—she only saw her old
playmate and friend sitting thereover
whelmed with anguish, and it was her
hand which had dealt the blow.
“ YV illiain,” she said brokenly “think
not hard of me. I would make you
happy if I could, but 1 cannot! I dare J
not be your wife, not loving you as a
wife ought.”
“It is quite true, then, you do not
love me]” the young earl muttered.
But lie won no other answer than a sad
silence. After a while he broke out
again bitterly—“. Either 1 have madly
deceived myself, or you have deceived
me. Why did you blush and tremble
when we met last night] Why, be
fore we met, did I see you gazing so
longingly, so passionately, on the way
I should have come] Was that look
false to ]”
Lettice rose up from her knees, her
face and neck incarnadine. “My Lord
of Gowrie, though you have honoured
me. and I am grateful, you have no
right”
‘ 1 have a right—that of one whose
whole life you have withered ; whom
you have first struck blind, and then
driven mad for love ! Mistress Calder
woood —Lettice”
In speaking her name, his anger
seemed to disperse and crumble away
even as the light touch shivers the molt
en glass. When again he said “Let
tice,” it was in a tone so humble, so
heart-broken, that, hearing it, she, like
a very women, forgot and forgave all.
“ 1 never did you wrong, William :
I never dreamed you loved me. In
truth l never dreamed of love, at all
until”
“ Go on.”
“ I cannot —I cannot!” Again si
lence, again bitter tears.
After a while Lord Gowrie came to
her side, so changed, he might have
lived years in that brief hour. “ Let
tice, he said, “let there be peace and
forgiveness between us. I will go
away : you shall not he pained by more
wooing.’ Only, ere I depart, tell me
is there any hope for me in patience or
long-waiting, or constant much-endur
ing love]”
She shook her head mournfully.
“ i hen what was not mine to win is
surely already won ? Though you love
not me, still you love: I read it in
your eyes. If so, 1 think—l think it
would be best mercy to tell me. Then
I shall indulge in no vain hope: I shall
learn to endure, perhaps to conquer at
last. Lettice, tell me : one word—no
more!”
But her quivering lips refused to ut
ter it.
“Give me some sign—ay, the sign
that used to be one of death ! —let your
’kerchief fall!”
For one moment her fingers instine
c_*
tively clutched it tighter, then they
slowly unclasped. The ’kerchief fell !
W ithout one word or look Lord
Gowrie turned away. He walked with
something of his old proud step to the
alley’s end, then threw himself down
on the cold, damp turf, as though he
wished it had been an open grave.
When the little circle next met, it
was evident to Lettice that Lord Gow
rie had unfolded all to his faithful end
loving younger brother. Still Patrick
betrayed not his knowledge, and went
on in his old dreamy and listless wavs.
Once, as pausing in his reading, he saw
Lettice glide from the room, pale and
very sad, there was a momentary
change in his look. It might he pity,
or gi ief, or reproach, or what none
could tell. He contrived so as to ex
change no private word with her until
the next morning; when, lounging in
his old place, idly throwing pebbles in
to the river, and watching the watery
circles grow, mix, and vanish, there
came a low voice in his ear.
“ Master Patrick Kuthven ]”
He started to hear his full name ut
tered by lips once so frank and sister
ly, but he took no notice.
“ Well; what would you, Lettice !”
“ It is early morning ; there is no
one risen but we two; come with me
to the house, for 1 must speak with you.
And what I say even the air must not
carry. Come, Patrick; for the love
of Heaven, come!”
Her face was haggard, her words
wild. She dragged rather than led him
into the room where the two hoys had
once used to study with her father. —
There she began speaking hurrriedly.
“ Did you hear nothing last night ?
—no footsteps ]—no sounds ]”
“ No ; yet I scarce slept.,’
“ Nor I.” And two young faces
drooped, unable to meet each other’s
eyes. But soon Lettice went on : “At
dawn, as 1 lay awake, it seemed as if
there were voices beneath my window.
I did not look : I thought it might
be”
“William sometimes rises very ear
ly,” said the brother gravely.
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 30 WHOLE NO 130.
“It was not Lord Gowrie, fori heard
them speak his name. Your hopes
from King James were false ! Oh. Pa
trick, there is danger —great danger!
1 have learned it all!”
“ How]” And rousing himself, the
young man regarded eagerly Lettice’s
agitated mien.
“ I opened the lattice softly, and list
ened. When they went away, I fol
lowed stealthily to the water’s edge-
Patrick, they said that on the night but
one after this they will return and seize
you in the king’s name ! Fly—flv !
Do not let me lose forever both my
brothers!”
And she caught his hands as in her
childhood she used to do, when beseech
ing him to do for her sake many things
which, from dreamy listlessness, he
never would have done for his own.
“ YYriiat must I do, Lettice —I, who
know nothing of the world? Why did
you not tell all this to YVilliam]”
“I—l tell YVilliam ]” She blushed
scarlet and seemed struggling with deep
emotion.
“Oh, true —true!” Patrick said,
and there seemed a faint waking up in
his passionless features. “No matter;
I will at once go and tell my brother.”
Lettice sat down to wait his return.
All her murmur was —“ Oh, \\ illiain !
—poor William ! —so truly loving me
whom others love not at all ! I turned
from thee in thy prosperity, but now
shall I save thee end lose myself ] —
shall 1 sacrifice all to thee?” But in
stinct rather than wisdom whispered to
Lettice, that she who weds, knowing
her heart is not with her husband, wil
fully sacrifices both. In the sight of
heaven and earth she takes a false vow,
which, if reqirted not by man, will as
suredly be avenged by God.
Patrick Kuthven came back in much
agitation. “He says that he will not
fly ; that he heeds neither the prison
nor the block, that he has no joy in
life, and death is best! Lettice, go to
him ; save him—you only can !”
“ llow can I save him ]” mournfully
Lett ice cried.
“By urging him to fly. We can
take horse, and cross the country to
Harwich, whence a ship sails for Franee
to-night. I know this, for yesterday I,
too, was planning how to depart.”
“ You ]”
“ No matter,” said Patrick hurried
ly. “Only go to William ; compel
him to save his life : he will do so at
your bidding.”
He spoke commandingly, as if fra
ternal love had transformed the gentle,
timid youth into a resolute man. Let
tice, won eritig and bewildered, me
chanically obeyed. She came to Lord
Gowrie, who, w ith the distorted aspect
of one who has wasted the night in
misery, not sleep, lay on the floor of
what had been the boys’ plav-room. —
To all her entreaties he only turned
his face to the wall and answered not.
At last his brother beckoned Lettice
away.
*
Looking at Patrick, the girl marvel
ed. All his impassive coldness seem
ed to have melted from him. His
stature appeared to rise into dignity,
and there was a nobility in his face that
made it beautiful to see. Lettice be
held in him, for the first time, thelike
ness of what she knew he would one
day become—a grand, true man ; the
man before whom a woman’s heart
would instinctively bow down in Eve
like submission, murmuring—“ I have
found thee, my greater self —my head,
niy sustainer, and guide !”
Patrick stood silent awhile, some
times reading her face, sometime cast
ing her eyes downward, as it were
struggling with inward pain. At last
he said solemnly, “ Lettice, this is no
time for idle scruple. I know a 1 that
took place yesterday. I know, too,
that there is one only chance, or YVil
liam is lost. Is your will so firm that
it cannot change ] Must he die for
loving you—my dear my noble broth
er, whom I would give my poor life to
save ] Lettice, in this great strait, 1
entreat you —even l”—and he shudder
ed visibly—“ Consider what you do. —
It is an awful thing to have life and
death in your hands. I beseech you
let him love you, and be happy.”
Lettice listened. As he spoke, slow
ly — slowly the young rich blood
faded from her face: she became rigid,
white, and cold ; all the life left was in
her eyes, and they were fixed on Pa
trick, as it were the last look of one
dying.
“ Answer me,” she said with a mea
sured, toneless voice—“answer truly on
your soul. Do you desire this of me?
Is it your wish that l should become
your brother’s wife?”
“ My wish —my wish ?” he mutter
ed, and then his reply came clear and
distinct, as one says the words ■which
fix the sentence of a life-time, “ In the
sight of God, yes !”
Lettice gave him her hand, and he
led her again to his brother.
“ 1 need not stay,” he whispered :
“you, Lettice, will say all —better say
it at once.”
She looked at Patrick with a bewil
dered, uncertain air, and then began to
speak.
“Lord Gowrie, that is, William, 1”
She said no more, but fell down at
Patrick’s feet in a death-like swoon.
Lettice lay insensible for many
hours. For her there were no fare
wells—when she awoke, the two bro
thers were “one. She found on her
O
neck a golden chain, and on her finger
a ring, the only tokens of the last pas
sionate embraces which William hud
lavished on her, whom he now consid
ered his betrothed, and which she then
felt no more than one dead. But when
they told her all this, she flung away
the ring and chain, and prayed Heaven
that she might die before ever Lord
Gowrie came to claim her vows.
Os the younger Kuthven, she could
learn nothing either from her bewilder
ed father or her old nurse, except that
Patrick had forcibly torn his brother
away. He had not spoken, save leaving
a kind farewell to his sister.
In the twilight Lettice rose from her
bed. She could not, for any inward
misery, neglect her good father. And
all her senses had been so stunned that,
as yet, she was scarce alive either to
the present or the future. She sat al
most as if nothing had happened, listen
ing to the old man’s broken talk, or
idly watching the graceful smoke
wreaths of the Virginia weed that Sir
Walter Raleigh had just introduced,
and with which rare luxury the young
kinght’s friendship had provided David
Calderwood.
Oppresed by the sudden events
which had greatly discomposed the ten
or of his placid existence, the worthy
doctor smoked himself to sleep. W hen
with his slumbers Lettiee’s duties
ceased, her bitter grief rose up. It
choked her—it seemed to make the air
close and fiery, so that she could not
breathe. Dark and cold as the March
night was, she fled out. But she kept
in the thick alleys of the garden—she
dared not go near the river, lest out of
its cool, cool depths should rise a de
mon, smilingly to tempt her there.
But at length, when the moon came
out from under a black cloud, Lettice
thought she would approach and sit
in Patrick's old seat by the side of the
Cam, where in summer nights they
had spent hours—she, with girlish ro
mance looked up at the stars, and he
teaching her all concerning them in his
learned fashion, for the boy was a great
astonomer.
Was it a vision ? that he sat there
still, in his old attitude, leaning against
the willow-tree, the ligh f sla ting on
his upward brow ! Her first thought
was, that he had met some fearful end,
and this was his apparition only. She
whispered faintly “ Patric k but he
neither spoke nor moved. Then she
was sure she beheld the spirit of her
beloved. Her highly-wrought fancy
repelled all fear, and. made her feel a
strange joy in this communication from
the unseen world.
Once more she called him by his
name, adding thereto words tenderer
than his living self would ever hear. —
Then, seeing that the moon east his
shadow on the water, the conviction
that it was no spirit, but his own bodi
ly form, made her start and glow tilth
shame. Yet, when she approached, he
lay so still, his eyes were closed, and
she could almost have believed him
dead. But he was only in a deep sleep
of such heavy exhaustion that he hard
ly seemed to breathe.
Lettice crept beside him. Scarce
knowing what she did, she took his
cold hand and pressed it to her breast.
There, suddenly waking, he felt it
closely held and met a gaze so pure
and maidenly, yet so full of the wild
est devotion—a look such as man rare
ly beholds, not even in his wife’s eyes,
for the deepest tenderness is ever the
most secret. Scarce had Patrick seen
it than it melted into Lettiee’s ordina
ry aspect; but he had seen it, and it
was enough.
“ When did you come back ?” faint
ly asked Lettice.
“At twilight: a day’s hard riding
exhausted me, and 1 suppose I fell
asleep here.”
“ And wherefore did you return ?”
Mechanical were the questions and re
plies, as though both spoke at random.
“ Why did I return ?”
“ Yes—to danger. I had forgotten
all that. O, Patrick, how shall we save
you 1 Why did you not sail with Wil
liam, if he has sailed ?”
“He has ! There was a passage for
one only—his life was most precious—
he is my elder brother, so 1 persuaded
him to go on board; and then—l left
him.”
“ Patrick—Patrick !” Unconscious
ly she looked up at him in her old child
ish. loving way, and her eyes were full
of tears.
“ Are you glad, Lettice ?”
“ Glad, because you have done a no
ble thing. But if through this you
should be discovered and taken ; if I
—that is—we all—should lose you —
Hush!” That instant her quick ear,
sharpened with terror, heard down the
river the sound of oars. “ They are
coming—those men I saw last night—
they will have brought the king’s war
rant that 1 heard them speak of. It is
too late. O, would that jou at least
had been saved !”
“I, and not William ?” His words
spoke grave reproach, but his looks be
lied his tone.
“I think not of William now. Why
did he go and leave you to perish ? But
1 will not leave you ; Patrick, 1 will die
with you—l”
“ Lettice!” lie began to tremble,
he took her hand and looked question
ingly into her eyes. There seemed a
doubt suddenly purling off from his
mind, so that all was light and day—
ay, even though nearer every minute
came the distant sounds which warned
him of his danger.
“Hark! they are close upon us;”
said Lettice in an agonized whisper.—
“They will search the house through :
what must be done?”
“ I know not,” answered Patrick
dreamily.
“ But 1 know: come—come!”
She drew him cautiously into a lau
rel thicket close by, which, lying deep
in shadow,furnished a safe hiding-place.
Thinking a moment, she took off her
black mantle, and w r rapped it over him,
that his light doublet might not be
seen through the boughs.
“ We may escape them,” she said ;
“we two have bidden here many a time
w hen we were children.”
“ Ah, Lettice!” he sighed, “we were
happy then ! Even now, if W illiam
had not loved”
“Hush! they are landing; 1 hear
their steps—keep close.” She made
him kneel so that her dress might hide
him, and, as fearing that his fair float
ing curls might catch some stray moon
beam, she put her hands upon his hair.
Footsteps came nearer and nearer—
life or death was in each tread. The
terrified voice of David Calderwood
was heard declaring that, hours since,
the Scottish brothers had fled; and still
the only answer was “Search—search!”
In their agony the two young crea-