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CIIU*TKR V.
THK HdUKI.VOOF TUI! < il \I(M.
The theatre was crowded with
an assemblage of fashion and
beauty, arid many were theglan
ees directed towards the boxes
and numerous the comments o|
those who came to see rather
than to hear of the beauties wlm
shorn- there like so many stars
striving to otifsparkle each other,
ft In one of the side boxes Kliza
■as seated with her husband.
T'assionatelv fond of music, she
seemed to have forgotten her
sorrows, till, on turning to
Charles to make some observa
tion, she perceived that some
men, acquaintances of his, had
entered and were conversing
s\yith him, One of them <ii
fted nm his attention to a pfcilie
wjnx. following their eves,
HRHB> ei cd a \on li” lad \ . all m
IftftWl white and pale blue, with
■pearls glimmering in her dark
Btyr. A most radiant beauty.
Bier eyes sparkling w ith extraor
Klinary brilliancy and seeming to
Bar outshine tlie lns|re of tlie din
Inmnds that gleamed around ; the
ftMfetsk of her cheek putting to
■name the roses she held in her
Rind. Sever:d gentlemen stood
her, attentive to every
and look, each shiviii” t,,
ftftlftier special regard. She ap
pea red in buoyant spirits and con
versed with great animation,
smiling often with singular sweet
ness. lint her smiles, t hough so
|o civilediing, were distributed
■fcclessli. and she never distin
any one ol those about
the rest.
stiuek with admiration.
Wto I her earnestly. The
lady looked in that direr
tion. Their eves met. A thrill
passed througii Eliza's frame. All
at once the gai assemblage
seemed to vanish I min her sight,
the lights burned diin and lurid,
and the air grew heavy as if with
death. Tin* voices of the singers
retreated far away. She heard
the murmur of mountain rivulets,
and the soughing of llm wind u
ver a wide space. Ito fore her
eyes uprose a lomdy lield, with
moonbeams shimmering over its
dark ridges. She saw herself,
and fronting her a shadowy w hite
face and form, like the dim retlec
lion in a stream, of a human tig
lire. Then mingling with the
distant music, (he words "I loom
ed, doomed !" - mole on her ears
like a wailing cry of agony orthe
scornful laugh of a mocking
jiend.
Willi 11 1 i '(•(•lie before IllT,
with these words ringing around
her. -he sal on, as IT in a dream.
Hail slit' looked s..wards her Inis
hand shn would have soi'ii a dark
cloud on Ins forehead and a niood\
look in his eye. I'onldsln* liavo
soon into lii< mind it would liavo
t runldod lior nioro.
“How lovely !" lit' l bought.
“\\dial grace, wlial eyse and ani
nialion! And sho might liavo
boon my wifi'. Wliat a idol I
was! Eliza is pretty enough still ;
lint oonijiarod to lior" ho Inrnod,
that ho might niako tho eompari
son, hnt sin' was nnoonoioiisof it.
“Ah! nioro country prettinoss, •
wliioh losos hall id its charm out
ofdisplace. Vivacity was horat
traotion, and that gone, wlial has
sho ? Sho looks now as if sho
did not know w liat was going on
around lior. And for her I gave
up tho hoauty that Ininas all l’a
ris to its foot, lost a liandsoino tor
turn*, alienated my family, and
endangered my prospects from
thorn. \ot that is not worst.
1 now s,>o that my marriage
with Eliza was a mistake in every
way. 1 was mad to throw away
my prospects and happiness thus ;
to forsake her I really loved and
who loved me then at least.
Blind fold that I was !”
There was a stir in that hox
towards which so many glances
were directed. The.young lady
had risen and. pale as death,
leaning heavily on the arm of
a middle aged lady, prepared to
leave tin 1 theatre. "Slit' is faint
insr; the heat is too much for
her." was whispered around. A
dozen gentleman sprang forward
to wrap her in her’ mantle and
call her carriage; she thanked
them with a faint smile, lint ut
teretl no word. When the carri
age had drivven away and a!!
were out of sight, she cast her
self sobbing on her companion's
breast and trembled from head
to foot.
do not bring me to these
m.no In- ■in a- I
cannot hear it ; indeed I cannot ;
they are a torture to me. I know
you meant it kindly, dear friend
—thought to rouse and cheer me ;
hut it will not do; I eannot lie
gay like others while my heart i
breaking. Oh, take me far away
to some quiet spot where 1 may
pass the short time that remains
io me in peaee and seclusion !*'
-Darling. we shall leave Paris
to morrow, if you really w ish it,"
returned the middle aged lady;]
and her tone betrayed alarm, as
if she feared for the result of so
much emotion.
••Eliza!" said Charles, some
what roughly; ‘‘don't you see all
is over and everybody going a
way? Are you dreaming ?”
She started and looked up with
a bewildered air; then she saw
how dark his brow was. and the
cause puzzled her.
All that night Kliza lay awake
tossing feverishly ; she made an
effort to dispel the thoughts that
(listraided her and compose her
self to sleep; hut when she
closed her eyes faces seemed to
press dose up to hers, familiar
laces, that she used to see evorv
day. It was useless to think of
sleep, and she lay watching w eari
Iv till dawn.
In the morning Kliza was so
feverish and il! that she fell tina
i blc to rise. A doctor was sent
for. Before lie arrived she had
become delirious, and raved pit
ifully about her old home and
her father. Another name too
was often on her lips. The doc
tor, who was an Englishman, as
lie stood by her bedside, supposed
it might he that of her husband.
■•Will ! Will!" she repeated ov
er and over, sometimes in tender
loving accents, then in tones of
wild dispair. When the phvsi
; eian took her hand she seemed to
become conscious of who he was
I and of her own illness.
■•I shall die," she said in a sad
quiet tone. U I know I shall.—
There's no use in your coming to
me. Von may he the greatest
doctor in Europe, lull all your
skill wont save me. lam doom
ed. doomed !”
lie thought her still raving in
spite of her calm tom*; hut in re
alily she was not so now. Her
youth and beauty, joined to her
piteous look and tones, moved
him. Some of her wanderings
seemed to show that sin* had once
been accustomed to a sphere of
life far heiieath I hat in w hit'll he
found her. lie thought some
sorrow or trouble weighed on her
mind, and tried to discover if
such were tln* ease. But in an
swer to his kind questioning slit*
onl\ shook her head or moaned
I’eehlv.
(>n leaving his patient the doc
tnr sought ('rotton. He found
him lounging, w it h a very gloomy
brow, over a late breakfast.
"1 have seen Mrs. Croft on,"
lie said. "I do not apprehend
any danger at present. It is a
touch ol fever, which w ill pass.—
But I w ish to mention that change
of air and scene is absolutely lie
cessary for her. I was told by
her maid that she has been in the
habit of remaining very much
within doors of late, and that
she has been depressed in spir
its."
"She need not have remained
within doors if she did not choose.'
returned Charles coldly ; “and if
she was depressed it was totally
without cause."
The ot her 1 ooked at him. It
was a strange tone foi tlit* hits
band ol one so young and beauti
till, and not long wedded, as he
had been given to understand.
••Well." he replied, after a
pause, "1 recommend that she
should be removed to a quiet
country place as soon as possible ;
to morrow, if she is able to bear
the journey."
“As you say so, of course it
shall In* done. Mv ow n arrange
meats do not permit of my leav
ing Paris at present, but that
need make no ditference ; Mrs.
Croft on can go accompanied by
her maid."
Again the doctor looked at
him. the tone was so imlilfereut,
as if he w ished to dispose of the
matterat once and he troubled
no more. Merely mentioning
the place he thought most suita
ble for his patient, a quiet little
town iu the south of France, he
bowed coldly and withdrew .
Charles rose and sauntered to
the mantel piece. “She acts the
tine lady well." he muttered to
himself. "11l and out of spirits!
•SXv Isas no cause to be so. As
much as 1 lost she has gained.—
Vet she acts and speaks
sometime* as if she had made a
sacrifice for me. I could almost
fancy that she regrets that clod
hopping fellow. It i- a pity, at
THE FIELD AND FIRESIDE.
ter all, site was so ready to jilt
him. She can t expect that l
will coop myself up in a wretched,
dreary place. We art* not so
very devoted now, either of us,
that we require nootlier company
than that of the other.
In the evening Kliza was bet
ter; the feverishness had passed,
and it was thought sin* would In
abb* to leave next day; so
t’harles went to her soom to in
form her of the doctor's command
and the fact that the journey was
to he made without him.
“I have arranged to remain
here yet, and can't alter my
plans,’’ he said. ‘‘But my pres
ence could do you no good; and
when you are better you can join
me; that is, if you wish to do so.''
If she wished to do so! lie
would not then care if see did not
join him ! llis words and man
nor implied that she had become
a burden to him. which he would
willingly cast oil', were it possible;
since it was not possible, absent
from her as much as lie
could. She turned, sighing, a
way; and Charles left the room
without another w ord, without t
i kiss.
It had come now that he was
actually estranged from her!—
He could let her go from him a
lone, ill as she was, and in a for
eign land, tin* land he had brought
her to! It was not w ith any
| wild, passionate pang, such as
! she would have felt had she loved
! him, that she thought of this;
hut a dead, cold weight pressed
ion her heart, and a sense of ut
5 ter desolation came over her.
“Alone, alone !” she murmur
] ed. ‘‘Father, lover, friends,
home—l abanlioned them all,
and for \\ hat ?'*
i’llAl*TKK VI.
TIIK < 'll ARM IMSSOIA Kit.
Next day Eliza set out, accent
panied only by her inaid. No
oik*, to see her. would have fan
cied she w as not one year a wife.
In tin* sweet. <|iiiel spot to
w hich she went her illness passed
away; but she was weaker than
before, and her health precarious.
Her spirits, too, sank daily, and
the rich glow of her cheek, (lur
ing tilt* last few months than it
used to he faded more and more.
Tito sparkling smile of ot her days,
or the discontented pout which
had always betrayed any little
“temper,” never dwelt on her
lips now. A softened, subdued
shade set t led on her countenance <
In her sadness and loneliness,
forsaken by him to whom she
would still have clung even w hen
love was gone, she turned in her
sorrow, to thoughts which had
never occupied her before to
religion, the one source of conso
latiou that remains to the disap
pointed and unfortunate; fortu
nafe if they can embrace it, and
tiud peace and full satisfaction
somewhere at last.
lna peaceful nook, embo
somed among a grove of beech
trees, there was a lonely little
chapel. Thither Eliza went ev
ery evening, and kneeling among
the few quiet worshippers, lifted
her eyes to the sculptured form
above the alter, w hose mild an
gelie face and outstretched arms
seemed to speak of pity and
sympathy with human woe.
One evening she lingered till
dusk began to gather in theqiiaint
old place. It was now again the
eve of All Hallows, and her
thoughts reverted to the past and
all that had happened during one
short year. Looking up at last,
\ she found that the others Jiad
gone and she was alone. The
pale spectral rays of a rising
moon, broken and intercepted by
the fluttering trees without, stole !
in at the windows and crept with
a kind of stealthy motion across
the Ilnur. The silence was tomb
like. It smote on Eliza's heart.
Part of the chapel, where the
moonbeams did not pierce, was
veiled in gloom, and in the dark
lies* the draperies about the al
tar seemed to stir and take a
strange form. Indistinct mas
ses, which looked as if they might
at any moment become endow ed
with animation, tilled the corners.
Eliza could almost fancy that the
dim dead who slept in the vaults
beneath were rising round her.—
She turned to leave the place,
and then perceived that she was
not alone.
A female .figure knelt at a lit
tie distance, the face buried in
the hand*. As Eliza moved
down the aisle it rose slowly and
turned round. With a low sliuil
dering cry she sprang back and
almost sank to the ground. She
gasped for breath. She tried to
*peak.but for some minute* in
vain. At last, in a loud erv. her
voice broke forth : “in the name
ol the blessed (lod and by this
holy sign !’’ (crossing herself rap
idly).-speak ! Who and w hat
are you, that twice before have
crossed my path? In the lonely
lield; in the crowded theatre,
suddenly changing from an as
pert of light and beauty to a
ghastly, corpse-like image; and
now again !*'
The figure approached a few
steps, the lips moved, but no
sound came. Eliza shrank back
to the wall, pressing against it
as if she would force herself
througii the stone. A low sigh
sounded, a faint, tremulous voice
spoke: “Twice before have you
started up to bewilder and affright
me; in the lonely field, when the
night wind was sighing; in the
gay assemblage ; and here again,
the third time. Who, and what
are you. let ine a sic ?*'
Eliztt rose. “One who is lone
ly and unhappy,'' she answered ;
“wlm having deserted others, is
herself left alone now. If you
would know my name, it is Eliza
< Toft on.”
There was a pause, then in low,
awestruck tones, the last word
was repeated: -Crofton ! And
I am Ellen Courtney."
“And we meet thus, for the
first time knowing each other,
though I have often heard your
name, and you mine! Did you
too, then, go to the Twelfth Rig
last Hallow eve night'?"
“Listen, and I will tell von.--
lie did not come home that even
ing—he. I mean, who is now your
husband. There was company
at the house, and he was expect
ed. There was dancing and mu
sic, but 1 could not join in it. 1
stoic* away to my own room, and
1 afterwards wandered out into the
fields. 1 had beared ofthe charm
of the Twelfth Rig. hut il was
not with any settle intention of
trying it that I went out. When
I got to tin* field, overcome with
sorrow and weariness, for I had
\ walked a long distance, I sank
down ; and thinking that nothing
stirred in that lonely spot but the
night-wind, gave* loose to the
j grief and dispair that filled my
heart. When at last I rose up,
I saw a figure* wrapped in a cloak
standing motionless in the centre
of oik* of the ridges, pale, with
wild eyes and black dishevelled
hair. As I gazed, it uttered a
dreadful scream, and turning
lied. I had heard stories of the
banshee, and I thought this must
be il. or some spirit of doom, that
had appeared to warn me.of my
approaching dealli. 1 believe 1
sank down again on the ground.
My senses seemed to leave me.
I knew not what I did, but 1
heard a voice crying “Doomed,
doomed !" and I think it was my
self that littered the words.’’
*■ I heard it," said Eliza. “It
pursued me as 1 lied, repeated. I
suppose, by the mountain echoes.
Ah! how it has haunted me. 1
tried to crush back the thought ;
Imt it was there still, though I
wouldn't face it, and I felt in my
heart that my days were num
bered. lias the clearing up come
too late ? I have suffered so much.
1 scarcely feel tit for life now."
‘•lt comes too late for vie. —
Though it was no spirit that stood
in the midst ofthe Twelfth Rig,
the charm will work still. I was
ill after that night, very ill, else
we might have met before you
left, and recognized each other.
Then came the shock that tore
up by the roots the last hopes
that lingered in my heart. You
know to what 1 allude. 1 may
speak plainly of it now with calm
ness, standing as l do on the brink
of the grave.—Why do you look
so shocked? Have you never
heard Unit Ellen Courtney was
dying- living of a broken heart ?"
‘•No ,no ! 1 never heard it,
never dreamed of it . O heaven !"
—wringing her hands, and raising
them above her head with a dis
pairing gesture—“then J am a
murderess ! The punishment has
descended in full force now. A
curse could not but attend my
marriage. Did not friends warn
me again and again ; and yet 1
persisted—-persisted, though faith
had to be broken on both sides,
a heart east aside and trampled
on. It was an unholy marriage,
and tin* blessing of heaven could
not sanctify it. It was that which
made my husband cease to love
me, shriveled up my ow n heart
and made everything become val
unless in my eyes. I was eon tent
to sutler myself; it was only reap
inn wliat I bail sm Bitf t-hat
you should sutler- —sutler and
die; you. who never injured any
one, who must be gentle anil good
a* an aegel! Oh§ oh !" *lie pur
sued, dropping on her knees and
raising her dark eye* pleadingly,
a- sinner might to saint, "re
move the curse before you die—
if heaven so wills—before / die.
as perhaps 1 shall, and give me
hack lm husband's love, the on
h thing that remains in me now.”
• In- last words were uttered in a
piteous moan.
-Do not speak so wildly,** en
treated Ellen, sitting down on
one of the seat*, and raising her
hand (Eliza marked its transpa
rency ) to her damp white fore
head. -You are not so much to
blame. Life and happiness could
never have been mine, even had
you not intervened. If he ceas
ed to love me, as lie* must have
done soon, for lie never loved me
truly, I could not have horn it.—
My heart would have broken,
and I should have died all the
same. You have my forgiveness
fully and entirely—and lie has
too. Do not fret yourself for tlie
lover you forsook. His wound is
healed, lie has found happiness
with one who long loved him in
secret. This was the appointed
day for his marriage with your
cousin. Mary (lonian."
Eliza started and the blood
rushed to her face. He then had
forgotten her; and the thought
sent a bitter pang through her
heart ; yet she thanked heaven
that it was so.
“Part of the weight is lifted
from my soul," she said. “And
I have your forgiveness too. Lay
your hand on mv head, and say
again that you forgive me breathe
a blessing on me.”
The shadowy w hite hand was
raised. It lay like a spotless
lily, emblem of heaven's pity and
forgiveness, on the dark bowed
head.
‘•I forgive you from my heart.
If my earnest wishes can make
you happy, he so—Now I must
go." She rose, hut tottered as
she attempted to walk.
“You ar weak,'’ exclaimed
Eliza ; “let me go with you."
“No, no; there is no need. 1
have not far to go."
“But still, let me walk with
you, and lean on me. I shall
think you cannot hear my pres
ence near you if you refuse.”
“Be it so then.”
They left the chapel together.
Not a word was spoken as they
walked slowly on till Ellen pans
ed before the gate of a villa.
“Hood-by. Eliza. We shall
never meet again on earth. This
third meeting in which each first
knows the other, is the last. Even
if I lived, we could not be freinds,
our paths should lie asunder;
t hough your words, and still more
your looks, fell me how it is with
von. that we are sisters in disap
pointment and misfortune. But
there"—she lifted her eyes, calm
and serene, to the sky, where the
moon, now fully risen, gleamed
fair and radiant—“there we may
meet and be friends forever.
Farewell, Eliza."
Overcome with emotion. Eliza
cast herself, weeping, on the oth
er's breast. For a few moments
they mingled their tears together.
“Farewell, Eliza." “Farewell,
Ellen." A faint breeze swept the
beeehen wood. It came wander
ing by them, and seemed to mur
mur in an unknown tongue some
sentence or benediction over
tlieir heads.
There was silence Eliza felt
her companion lean heavily on
her. She grew alarmed. At last
she said : “It is not well for you
to linger in the night air. Will
vou not go into the house now ?”
Ellen replied not. Heavier
and heavier she leant, with a
helpless weight that almost over
powered the other. Eliza raised
the drooping head. A w hite.w hite
face, a dim, fast glazing eye, met
her gaze. It was the dead that
lay on her bosom.
That night Eliza was very ill,
so ill that a telegram was dis
patched in haste to her husband
to come at once, if he wished to
see her alive. He arrived next
day, but only in time to gaze on
a sweet marble face, that chang
ed not even in the presence of
the dread remorse that then a
woke in his heart, and to clasp in
his arms a fair but lifeless child,
whose tender eyes had never
opened on this world's light—
whose only baptism was tears.
A few days after llallow eve
Daly received a black sealed let
ter. It was that w hich Eliza had
written to him. but never sent.
So they both slept. The re
mains of Ellen (Vinrtnev were
conveyed to Iter own lauo ; and
on a dark November morning,
when all nature seemed in mourn
ing for the young and beautiful
that had passed with the summer
flowers, she was laid with her
kindred amidst streaming eyes
and voices that blessed her name
—poor victim of love and ebaog
les* faith. '
But Eliza lay in a foreign soil,
where the myrtle waved above
her head, instead of her own
mountain-ash—an exile in death
from friends and home.
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