The Pacificator. (Augusta, Ga.) 1864-1865, June 24, 1865, Image 1
VOL. i. §lu f acificitoi: A JOURNAL DEVOTED TO THE INTERESTS OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH And containing, in addition to Catholic intelligence from all jiarts of the world, Tales, Poetry, Uoneral Nows, and Miscellaneous Articles. Published every Saturday Morning .Jw£f ntfa, Ga,, A T THK following rates : Cr.e Copy One Year, - - - $t 00 One Copy Six Months - - - - $2 50 Single Copies - - - • * * 010 WAIiSH & BLOME. Editors and Publishers. ADVERTISING RATE 3. Transient Advertisements, One Dollar per Square of Ten Lines. A liberal deduction will he mode to those who advertise hi/ the mouth. [From the Metropolitan.] I?2Y SISTERS THREE. y BY W. s. G. '•Faith ends in Visirn; Hope in joy; Ciiakity alone is immortal. Alone am I—yet not alone ! This dreary vale within; For though.my kindred oil have flown, My spirit yet hath kin. My brother smiles on me with love; Yet sisters three have I! Nor dwell they here, nor yet above, These daughters of thejjky ! VM -fie eld Cwhen iNvqU'nl ben i And reason scorns to fly, t A heav’nly consolation sends, And points my soul on high ; Removes all donbt, dispels all fear, And bids all gloom depart; Ilhuuos the shades that hover near, And brings peace to my heart! The second —life bestowing smile ! Opens the source of bliss; All care and sorrow doth beguile, With her suspicious kiss ! Points to a little trembling star, And-bids mo catcdi its ray ; Whispers, “ the guerdon there, afar, Shall bo an endless day.” The youngest, sweetest of the three ! O bright, seraphic guest! In element goodness comes to mo % Is allied to my breast! Unlike her eider sister, she Will live beyond the sky; Unlike the second, endless be, Nor born she cannot die ! Now, though I have not mortal kin, Yet am I truly blest; Bright visions cross ray path of sin, That antedate iny rest; Earth may recall her moulded dust! Death hath no fears for me! In my three sisters will I trust— Faith! Hope! and Charity ! (Oranticii pabor. BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON. CIfAP T E R XVI. [Continued.] She rewards him with a, bright smile, and says vrith an accent of indescribable gayety— •i We shall succeed to-night. All will go well to-night!” and she leads.the way towards the stage, aa if impatient to appear there again. * Edmund turns away with a feeling of rage in his heart, and mounting the narrow stairs that load to the stage boxes, he enters Mrs. Fraser’s box, and is warmly welcomed by her; lie seats himself in the very centre of it, and with her iaa in one hand, and his head resting on the other, he watches the, curtain rise, with a storm of vindictive resentment boiling in his breast. Ginevra is discovered alone, her eyes are fixed upon the ground, and a slow smile plays over her face as she utters these words; “Are not wy charms even more iuvincible than I ever be % fournal Dcbotci) to tljc Interests of tire Cntljolie CjHircjr. WITH THE APPROBATION OF THE RIGHT REY. BISHOPS OF SAVANNAH, RICHMOND & MOBILE. lieved them to be ?” She raises them and glances at tho corner of the orchestra; ever and anon throughout the next scenes she directs her eyes to the same spot, .and each time with a more anxious expression ; and now, during an interval between two sentences, she casts a timid glance towards the boxes, and perceives Edmund sitting by Mrs. Fraser in an attitude which indi cates the attention of a lover. She trembles, her limbs seem to sink with her, a cloud dims her sight. . She cannot act with this fear in her heart; with that sight before her eyes she can not rouse herself—she dares not look again in that direction—she presses her hand on her heart, to still its beating, and deafen ing bursts of applause ring through the house. Again and again they are repeated, and she stands for a moment confused and bewildered. “ Go on now, go on,” is whispered around her, and the prompter begins the sentence she must utter. “ The part which I undertook to per form,” he whispers ; she catches the sound, and in a voice that thrills the audience by the pas sionate energy with which it is pronounced, she exclaims: “ The part which 1 undertook to per form is over;. I will now for my whole life ap pear in my own character, ayd give aloo.se to the anguish I endure.” Fresh bursts of applause ensue, for there is a wildness and a tenderness in the inflections of the young actress’s voice, • and in the expression of her face, which elicit transports of enthusiasm from the astonished spectators. The scene is drawing to a close, the hands of the two principal actoi's are joined to gether, and the curtain prepares to fall; Ginev ra glances at the ring which has been placed n •, bar Ur.p:„r, ~’,,1 m jv .. } ■ “ Did you, sruVeat '! uTid y#'u observe it ?” is whispered through the house by all those who are acquainted with the “Simple Story” in its original form. Did you see that; did you ob serve it, Edmund Neville? Have you too re marked that strange piece of acting ? Have your eyes mot hers as the curtain descends be tween you? You have'; anil you can scarcely restrain the impetuous impulse which is hurry ing you to her side. You start when Mrs. Fra ser touches your arm and claims your attention ; hut you dart not move, for Charles Neville is by vour side, lie has been haunting your steps and watching your movements—he has been gazing alternately on Ginevra and on you, and when, pale with anger and with jealousy, you turned away from the door of the green-room, he was there with his stiff scrutiny and his mute investigation. The second piece begins, and in one of the opposite boxes, pale, dejected, like a bruised lily, between her father and Walter Sydney, sits Ginevra. The audience have recog nized her, and the murmurs of applause rise again to greet her. The scene is for a moment suspended, and Miss Leslie’s name is vociferated with enthusiasm. She shrinks back, then bend ing forward, bows and withdraws. Colonel Les lie wraps a shawl around her, and she leans against him for support. She gazes on Edmund as if her soul would force its way to his; through that long and earnest gaze, and with a mute ap plication she calls him to her side. He leaves the opposite box, and a flush of pleasure tinges her pale cheeks. She watches every sound, she counts the seconds’by the pulsations of her own heart—she hears a step, she sees the handle of the door turn—she cannot draw her breath, the expectation is so intense. Walter rises to open the door, and Charles Neville enters. She bursts into tears, she can no longer feign or struggle, and the disappointment is too much for her worn out frame and exhausted spirits. “ Father, take me home,” she murmurs, as Colonel Leslie al most carried her away. And when she bad reached her home, and the door of her room had closed upon her, when she is alone, she says again: “O, Father, take me home 1” This time it is to her Father in heaven that she speaks, and the house she prays to reach is not an earth ly home. Meanwhile, Margaret has been performing successfully her part in the afterpiece, and has gone on to Mrs. Wyndliam’s, where the corps dTUTnuticpic, and some of the audience, had as AUGUSTA, GA„ SATURDAY, JUNE 24, 1865. j seinbled to supper. Mrs. Fraser seemed to freely, now that the time was comp.-, i.r shining herself, instead of admiring ot ic and an immense fund of good-lnmored impertinence, the most difficult weapon to guard against, or to withstand, were her chief advantages in conversation. She had the rare power of talking nonsense without 1 ap pearing silly, and of insulting people without transgressing in the least the rules of good breed sag. This talent she exercised amply that evening, and the shafts of her satire flew right and left, and some, not at random sent, fell on Gtuevra, the heroine of the night. Some remark vH’-, Aprml to the sequel of the frail Miss Mil ner J\ Lsiory, which someone present wished to be dramatized, drew from her an ingenious re ply, jD which it was gently insinuated that the seqr.. Light, perhaps, find its place in real life, if in yj'n the stage. Margaret, whose presence bndf japed her notice at that moment, turned crimson, and by a strange instinct looked at Ed mund Neville. He was deadly pale, with what kind of emotion she could not devise; she felt frightened at the expression of his face. Some one present, who was unaware of her relation- Shio to, Ginevra, took up Mrs. Fraser’s remark in a sneering tone, and was stopped by an explo sion of such passion, that it startled all the by standers, as if an electric shock had touched them. None knew exactly what had been said; there had been a muttered oath, and a few un intelligible words pronounced, and then a dead silence had followed, and for a few instants, Mrs. Fraser seemed subdued more from exces sive surprise and bewilderment than from in • . A a .’«» Margaret., Yier rastynlui-'t'i (Wans'jPaLowed up in wonder and emotion at that new chink which seemed to open upon her, and to let in light on the subject of her investiga tions. Soon after the party broke up, and she passed through the first drawing-room without seeing Walter, who was sitting at a table near the door, examining an album, with that appa rent attention, and entire absence of mind, which belongs to an absorbing preoccupation, lie had been seated by her side during the ex citing performance of that evening; her manner had been kind and affectionate. Once, in a mo ment of anxiety about Ginevra’s acting, she had put he/ hand in his, and during the last affect ing scenes, she had turned to him with an ex pression of countenance, which had revived his hopes, and almost overcome his composure. Unable 4 to endure the suspense between his recent fears, and his renewed hopes, lie whis pered to her during an entr'acte— “ You said this morning, Margaret, that you would have something to confide to me. Is it—” “ Oh, yes! dear Walter,” she interrupted, with an appearance of great emotion, “ something of importance, but which I cannot speak of yet. I do not feel sure enough. I could not bear to say it, while it may still be all a mistake. But soon, very soon, I think—” ana at that moment her eyes were turned towards the part of the house where Frederic Vincent was sitting, and before she had finished her sentence, the entrance of anotherperson into the box interrupted the con versation. From that instant, the music sound ed discordantly in Walter’s ears—the lights seemed to hurt his eyes—the close atmosphere to stifle him—the noise of voices about him to produce a sensation of pain, and all the energies of his being to concentrate in the .effect of con cealing that pain. The next time Margaret spoke to him, there were strangers between them ; he answered just as gently as usual, but there was a slight altera tion in his voice. When, after the supper, which had followed the play, Margaret passed close to him without being aware of his presence, ho was revolving in his mind the incidents of that evening, and endeavoring to draw from them some final conclusion. A few moments after ward, he heard her voice in the doorway, and in an opposite looking-glass he saw that she was speaking to Vincent. “ I have something to tell you,” he heard her say in a low voice; “And I have a letter to show you,” he answered, in the same tone. The next words escaped him, but an instant afterwards lie heard her say in a tone of great feeling, “ O, Frederic! you cannot think how anxious and unhappy I sometimes feel,” and then there was some muttered answer, and a movement in the next room, and ho heard no more. But he had heard enough to make,him resolve on his own course. Speedily he revolved in his own mind the past and the present, and determined to withdraw silently from the posi tion in which he was placed, without giving her even the pang of an explanation, or the embar rassment of an avowal. He meant to leave Lon don at once, but, to return to Heron Castle, to Graritley Manor, and to his poor mother, was he* yond his strength ; and he asked himself whither ho should go. AVhen the young and the happy ask themselves that question, it is one of the most joyous of soliloquies ; one of the brightest of their communings with the free and eager spirit within them ; but wlion in affliction, in deep dejection, under severe disappointments, we ask ourselves “ Where we shall go,” then the heart pities itsfelf, while it seems to mock, by the vain question, its own utter desolation. AY’alter had asked himself two or three times that even ing where he should go, when Mrs. Wyndham’s only son, a youth of eighteen, who was about to set off for Paris on the next day, proposed to . him in the most earnest and cordial manner to go with him. A gleam of pleasure that shot through his mother’s eyes at the suggestion, en forced tho request. With all the anxiety of ma ternal solicitude, she had seen her son about to travel abroad alone, and had so entirely failed in her efforts at opposing the sebeqje that this | Futrgcnicm Wo ft Tier with delight. With out pledging himself to it, Walter half agreed to the proposal, and when he reached home that night he wrote the following letter to Mar garet : “ I do not know if you will he surprised at the sudden change in my plans, my dearest M; irgaret, or feel disappointed that I do not re main to receive the communication you prom ised. The fact is that, for yourself and for me, it. is far better that I should not stay in London. You know, dearest; how I love you, but you can not know how anxious that love makes me, or how much I reproae i myself for the errors into which my affection and anxiety lead me. I will not attempt to conceal from you, that it has net been without a painful struggle that I have come to this decision, nor pretend that I shall not suffer in carrying it out; hut, at the same time, I am sure that you will hardly believe how faint were the hopes I cherished that the dream of Heron Castle would ever become a reality. It brightened for awhile the solitude of my desti ny, and cheered the tedious hours of sickness and suffering. They have faded away, and life has reassumed its former aspect, —not quite i’.s former aspect—but as much of it as is needful for the patient endurance of the present hour, and the accomplishment of present duties. I wish to leave you free, net only free from con straint, but free from embarrassment. I go for a short time to Paris, and when 1 return, you can. call me Old Walter again, as in former days, and tell me all your secrets, as if wo had never had one of our own. I am glad to havo that secret to keep in my heart, dearest Margaret. It shall be the romance of my life, the source and the centre of all the deep emotions of my soul. I know that you have a true affection for your first, your oldest—may I say your best friend ? I know you well enough to believe that rather than cause mo pain, you would come to me to morrow, and once more bind yourself to me bj kind words and generous promises, and there fore it is that I go, « .1 v. ith it seeing you again. I know you too well, thank Heaven, to suspect you of any coquetry or any unfairness towards others. What I have sect with my own eyes, and heard- with my own ears, and what your own words havo given me to understand, is enough. Iloaven bless you, dearest Margaret. Heaven reward you for all that you have been to me since the days of your infancy up to this hour, in which I bless you with the same fervor, and the same freedom from selfish hopes anl m 35.