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would long to be where she could hear the she moved restlessly. “I cannot be quiet,” free wind sounding through the forest bran- she said wildly, "for quiet brings thought, ches, or rustling the waving corn—the birds and thought maddens me.” singing among the leaves, the streamlet rip- Starting up, she went to a table, on which pling over its pebbly bed, or the waves | lay some of her favourite volumes. One dashing on the shingly shore. She longed was a copy of the first Aldine edition of to stand among the ripening corn and Dante, bearing the date 1502, and the simgather the blue scabious, or the scarlet ple title of “Le Terze Rime di Dante.” poppy yet “crumpled from its sheath,” to Maurice had sent it to her from Italy before catch the scent of wild thyme when the bees doubt had come to darken the brightness were clustering, and sit on banks yellow which his love for her had cast over the with cowslips or purple with violets-or, world, and the sight of it made her start as best of all, to bury herself in the depth of if the ghost of her lost happiness had risen leafy woods, and forgetting the dark and before her. Throwing a piece of cardmocking past, live a new life alone with that board over it, she took up Goethe's Egbenign nature, which
mont, and began to read where the volume "Never yet betrayed the heart that loved her !" | first opened.
“MOTHER.—Youth and happy love have an end, and there comes a time when one
thanks God if one has any corner to creep CHAPTER XVII.
" CLARA. (shudders, and after a pause A GLIMPSE OF ANOTHER LIFE.
stands up).—Mother ! let that time come, Claire's wedding-came. She like death ! To think of it beforehand is
And if it come-if we mustbrown with age, which stood at the opposite then we will bear ourselves as we may ! side of the street; and which, during all the Live without thee, Egmont ! (weeping) No ! years it had been standing there, and among it is impossible !" all the bridal parties that had entered its doors, could never have received a fairer prise as her lover enters, Marguerite found bride. Immediately after, she set out with her death scene, and read it eagerly. Then her young husband to spend the honey- she shut the book. “I will paint her," she moon at his old home in beautiful Pro- said, “holding the phial to Brackenburg vence.
with one hand, and pointing to the lamp On the evening of that day so eventful to with the other, the pale and livid hues of those few hearts who make up the little despair, and of the deadly draught she has world of this simple story, Christian Kneller taken, darkening her beauty, but the great had fallen into his usual afternoon's slum- might of her love still illumining her eyes, bers ; Mère Monica had begun to put the and shining through the gathering shadows house into order after the late hurry and of the grave. I see her standing before me bustle which had somewhat disarranged the now, and I hear her softly saying, 'Extinregularity of its arrangements; and, for the guish the lamp silently, and without delay. first time for several weeks, Marguerite went I am going to rest. Steal quietly away. into her atelier and sat down by the win-Close the door after thee. Be still. Wake dow.
not my mother ! ” "Now it is all over,” she said, “now I In getting pencils and paper to make a may be quiet !" But in less than a minute sketch of the picture she had been imagin
A Twas maraied iwan dira
, very cold church
its Hastily turning from Clara's joyful sur
ing, she caught sight of the picture of tone in their chimes, like a faint whisper of Apollo and Clymene still on the easel. hope amidst a wail of sorrow. The church, There was the face of Maurice, beautified as has been said before, was very old, and and exalted as the light of her love and the bells were very old too, but the tones genius had beautified and exalted it, his were wonderfully rich and harmonious. radiant eyes shining into her own. Back Marguerite had always loved the strange on her memory rushed all the glad hopes, and solemn music of those old bells, laden,
, the bright visions which had filled her with as she often thought, with the sufferings and such happiness while she had worked at sorrows, the hopes and prayers of all the that picture. While she had painted it she , long centuries through which they had had thought only of Maurice, she had sounded; and now their plaintive tones, worked only for him ; his pleasure and their fitful changes, their unearthly sweetpraise were to have been her great reward, ! ness seemed to penetrate the room with a --and now, the picture and she who had holy pathos and power, drawing her soul painted it were alike indifferent to him.
away from earth and all its anguish towards Hastily covering it, she began her sketch, that diviner region where passion and pain but very soon she had to stop to brush shall cease and vanish, merged in everlastaway the tears which, in spite of all her ing rest. Softly she opened the window, efforts, began to fall in large drops from her and kneeling down as she had knelt on that eyes. Soon she could not wipe them away night of agony which now seemed so far as fast as they came, and throwing down away, she listened to the deep, clear, dropher brush, she let them flow without mak
ping tones, every one of which seemed to ing any effort to restrain them.
fall on her aching heart like dew on the “I think I will never paint any more,” parched earth, bringing healing as it fell. she said within herself. “What do I care As she thus knelt and listened, softened for any success, any triumph now? And and subdued, she saw through the grey Nohow could I achieve any if I tried, when my vember evening a funeral train coming down very soul seems dead within me. But the street. There was a bier covered with its what then am I to do? I cannot die as long black pall, and attended by a little Clara did, and break my father's heart. No company of black-robed priests and mournone shall suffer through me, least of all he | ers; and as the slow procession moved who alone has truly loved me. If I live I along with measured tread, a strain of rich must have work, but not such work as I have music seemed to float before them. The hitherto loved. Work that will blunt the priests and choristers were chanting an imagination and stifle the feelings, work that ancient Latin hymn, well known and loved, will make me as cold, mechanical and in- in Dr. Neale's English translation sensible as a machine that is the work I
“Oh one! Oh, only mansion ! must find to do now. Farewell love and
O Paradise of joy ! hope and fancy-farewell poetry and art;
Where tears are ever banished bright visions of ideal beauty and perfection,
And joy has no alloy ! farewell! Henceforth I am to live a dull,
Thy ageless walls are bonded
With amethysts unpriced, monotonous, joyless, uninspired existence,
The saints build up its fabric, a life from which all the sunshine and glory
And the corner stone is Christ! have fled !" At that instant the bells in the old
“ Thou hast no shore, fair ocean!
Thou hast no time, bright Day ! church began to toll a slow, sad funeral
Dear fountain of refreshment dirge, yet with a soft and soothing under
To pilgrims far away !
AFTER SIX YEARS.
Upon the Rock of Ages
as their melodious sounds floated through They raise thy holy power.
the grey mists of evening and seemed to Thine is the victor's laurel,
gather round her, till they wrapped her in And thine the golden dower !"
an atmosphere of peace. When the anthem The voices of the singers were very sweet was over, she rose from her knees, and and tuneful, and their execution did not mar calmed, comforted, strengthened, she went the beautiful music to which St. Bernard's down stairs to her household labours. grand old hymn was set. Marguerite had often heard it, but never before had it impressed her so deeply. The contrast between
CHAPTER XVIII. the dark despair that had been surging in her heart, and the song of triumphant joy now sounding in her ears and thrilling through all her being, brought to her mind Six years after his marriage, Maurice Vathat great army of martyrs, saints and lazé was the most celebrated portrait painter heroes, made perfect through suffering- in Paris. He had almost given up all other " whose heroic agonies rise up forever out painting ; for he no longer aspired to give of all lands, a sacred Miserere to Heaven, form and being to his conceptions of the their heroic actions also, a boundless, ever- beautiful and true; he only strove for lasting psalm of triumph !" She thought of wealth and reputation ; and skilful portraitall those suffering ones who had known all painting was a far surer road to these than the bitterness this world can give, and never works of higher art, which would take years tasted of its sweetness, yet they had gone to execute, and for which no purchaser on their way brave, patient, strong, unmind- might be found. And he had perfectly sucful of their own bleeding feet and torn gar- ceeded in his aims. He received prices for ments, binding up the scars of the wounded, his pictures that to .poor struggling artists comforting the sorrowful, strengthening the seemed fabulous; he had a distinguished feeble—living wholly for the sake of others. reputation, a magnificent house, a beautiful What was her pain compared with theirs, and amiable wife and lovely children. He and yet how weakly and impatiently she had was the favourite of society, courted and borne it. But with God's help, it should be flattered by high-born beauties, princes and so no longer. Words which she had read-statesmen, and fortune seemed never weary she did not now remember where—seemed of showering her gifts on his head. to spring out of her mernory in characters And where now was Marguerite ? of light: “Do good to others, and God will Living in her old home in the quiet and heal in your heart the wounds of sorrow.” – shadowy street, neither house nor street in A little while ago she had asked herself: any way changed, except that the honest, "Wherefore is light given to him that is in kindly face of Christian Kneller was now misery, and life unto the bitter in soul, never seen there. The good Christian was which long for death, yet it cometh not, and dead, and Marguerite had only her faithful dig for it more than for hidden treasures?" Monica now. She had conquered the love She believed that the answer had come. which she had found so sweet in its begin
Slowly, solemnly the funeral train entered ning, so bitter in its ending, and her life was the church, and for a while there was silence. calm and peaceful. She had returned to Then the organ began to play Spohr's beau- her beloved art, and she gained by her tiful anthem—“Blest are the Departed !" | labours more than enough to satisfy all her Marguerite could hear every note distinctly, wants, and provide her with such simple
pleasures as she desired. She had her sent, and wondering again and again how books and her garden, she had congenial she could bear to live such a dull and lonely work, which was not so much work, as the life, she would kiss her once more, say a spontaneous language of her being, and few loving words, trip back to her carriage, every day her hand grew more skilful in ex- and drive away, like a beautiful princess in pressing the conceptions of the spirit that a fairy tale, escaping from some grim enguided it. And though she lived a life as chanted dwelling. retired as a nun's, she did not forget the Marguerite, though she loved her as fondlesson she had learned that dark November ly as ever, never went to visit Claire. She day, six years ago, when she knelt at the lived in an atmosphere of artificial glitter window and listened to the hymn of St. and excitement, of show and seeming, in Bernard, as the funeral train passed by. which Marguerite could not have existed for She had made her own burden light by a day.
But if she had been in want, striving to lessen the burdens that others or in sorrow, she would have found Marguerhad to bear. Many a homeless victim of ite's love as faithful and as tender as in the want, many a wretched hope-abandoned days when she had knelt by her bedside and outcast found the way to that quiet dwell- sung her to sleep, with all a mother's fonding, and none ever came there without re- ness stirring her girlish heart. Maurice, ceiving help and comfort.
Marguerite never saw, and when Claire Sometimes Claire would drive up in a talked of him as the most fashionable artist handsome carriage, and looking as gay, as of his day, the courted companion of men sweet, as beautiful, as ever, get out and and women of rank, the idol of drawing. trip into the grey old house, her rich bright rooms, she felt it hard to believe that this dress, her golden hair, and lovely looks could be that Maurice who had sat beside making “a sunshine in the shady place.” her in the dear old garden, planning a life She would give Marguerite and Monica a rich with all the divinest possibilities of man, hasty kiss each, repeat for the thousandth while she listened with undoubting faith, time her entreaties that they would leave and believed that to share that life, and folthat gloomy old house, and come and live low where he led, would be the noblest with her; and then, half laughing, half destiny earth could give to woman. angry with Marguerite for refusing her con
( To be continued.)
Where Falsehood shows its venomed sting,
Let slip the golden dart of Truth, And shield, as with a seraph's wing,
The many-passioned heart of youth. Thy song should be ambrosial food,
Soul-manna, making wise and just; The mental-nectar of the good ;
Thou, worthy of thy sacred trust.
Nature's designed interpreter,
Her great High Priest, her Prince of Love, Whose hymnings, Hope-inspired, stir
The pride of earth, the heavens above. A high, a holy mission thine ;
Be brave, and battle for the right ; Mount up, as one whose flight divine,
Like morning's, makes the darkness bright.
Thine is the heart that grows not old,
The sweet eternal youth reigns there, Mild as the Zephyr, and as bold
As thunder when it shakes the air. Teacher of Beauty, Goodness, Joy,
Calm joy, and mirth that stirs the brain ; In manhood great, in soul the boy
That treads his native hills again.
Thine is the mission, too, to preach
The law of Kindness far and wide, The hate of hatred, and to teach
Forgiveness, blest and glorified. Exponent of the higher laws,
On thy firm rock of safety stand, And leave the human rooks and daws
To rear their temples on the sand.
Man of the restless brain and heart,
The dreamy, speculative eye, Living in thine own world, apart
From all the pomp that passes by ; Unknown and uninterpreted,
Unfathomed by the common herd ; Dead living, living most when dead,
Whole nations pondering o'er thy word.