I have not spoken of Mrs. Brahan's children, because I have had so much to say of others; but she had children, and very lovely ones, who were the crowning blessings of her home. Her eldest were at school, but there were three inmates of the nursery, from five to ten years of age, adorned with the sweetest charms of childhood, brightness, purity, and bloom. She called them playfully her three little graces; and I never admired her so much, as when she made herself a child in their midst, and participated in their innocent amusements. After supper they were brought into the parlor to be companions of their father one hour, which he devoted exclusively to their instruction and recreation; but after dinner Mrs. Brahan took the place of the nurse, or rather governess, and I felt it a privilege to be with her, it made me feel so entirely at home, and the presence of childhood freshened and enlivened the spirits. It seemed as if fairy fingers were scattering rose-leaves on my heart. Was it possible that these young, innocent creatures would ever become hardened by worldliness, polluted by sin, or saddened by sorrow? And yet the doomed dweller of the Tombs had said that morning, "that he was once a praying child at his mother's knee!" How would that mother have felt, if, when his innocent hands were folded on her lap and his cherub lips repeated words which perhaps angels interpreted, she could have looked into future years, and beheld the condemned and blasted being in whose withering veins her own lifeblood was flowing?

While I was reclining on the children's bed and the youngest little girl was playing with my ringlets, as short and childish as her own, I was told a gentleman was in the parlor, who inquired for me.

"Cannot I excuse myself?" I asked of Mrs. Brahan. "I did not wish any one to know that I was in the city. I did not wish to meet any of my former acquaintances."

Then it suddenly flashed into my mind, that it might be some one who brought tidings of Ernest, some one who had met the "Star of the East," on his homeward voyage. There was nothing wild in the idea, and when I mentioned it to Mrs. Brahan, she said it was possible, and that I had better go down. Supposing it was a messenger of evil! I felt as if I had borne all I could bear, and live. Then all at once I thought of the stranger whom I had seen in the vestibule of the prison, and I was sure it was he. But who was he, and why had he come? I was obliged to stop at the door, to command my agitation, so nervous had I been made by the shock from which I had not yet recovered. My cheeks burned, but my hands were cold as ice.

Yes, it was he. The moment I opened the door, I recognized him, the stately stranger of the Tombs. He was standing in front of the beautiful painting of the fortress, and his face was from me. But he turned at my entrance, and advanced eagerly to meet me. He was excessively pale, and varying emotions swept over his countenance, like clouds drifted by a stormy wind. Taking both my hands in his, he drew me towards him, with a movement I had no power to resist, and looked in my face with eyes in which every passion of the soul seemed concentrated, but in which joy like a sun-ray shone triumphant.

Even before he opened his arms and clasped me to his bosom, I felt an invisible power drawing me to his heart, and telling me I had a right to be there.

"Gabriella! child of my Rosalie! my own lost darling!" he exclaimed, in broken accents, folding me closer and closer in his arms, as if fearing I would vanish from his embrace. "Gracious God! I thank thee,—Heavenly Father! I bless thee for this hour. After long years of mourning, and bereavement, and loneliness, to find a treasure so dear, to feel a joy so holy! Oh, my God, what shall I render unto Thee for all thy benefits!"

Then he bowed his head on my neck, and I felt hot tears gushing from his eyes, and sobs, like the deep, passionate sobs of childhood, convulsing his breast.

Yes, he was my father. I knew it,—I felt it, as if the voice of God had spoken from the clouds of heaven to proclaim it. He was my father, the beloved of my angelic mother, and he had never wronged her, never. He had not been the deceiver, but the deceived. Without a word of explanation I believed this, for it was written as if in sunbeams on his noble brow. The dreams of my childhood were all embodied in him; and overpowered by reverence, love, gratitude, and joy, I slid from his arms, and on bended knees and with clasped hands, looked up in his face and repeated again and again the sacred name of "Father."

It is impossible to describe such bewildering, such intense emotions. Seldom, except in dreams, are they felt, when the spirit seems free from the fetters of earth. Even when I found myself sitting by his side, still encircled in his arms and leaning on his heart, I could scarcely convince myself that the scene was real.

"And Richard, my brother!" I cried, beginning to feel bewildered at the mysteries that were to be unravelled; "joy is not perfect till he shares it with me."

"Will it make you unhappy, my darling Gabriella, to know that Richard is your cousin, instead of your brother?"

I pressed my hands on my forehead, for it ached with the quick, lightning-like thoughts that flashed through my brain.

"And he, the inmate of yon dismal cell?" I exclaimed, anticipating, as if by intuition, the reply,—

"Is my brother, my twin brother, whom in youth our mother could not distinguish from myself. This fatal resemblance has caused all my woe. Theresa la Fontaine was his wife and Richard is his son, not mine."

How simple, how natural, all this seemed! Why had not my mother dreamed of the possibility of such a thing! Knowing the existence of this brother, why had she not at once found in him the solution of the dark problem, which was the enigma as well as anguish of her life?

"My unhappy brother!" said he, while a dark shade rested on his brow; "little did I think, when I visited his dungeon this morning, of the revelation he would make! I have been an exile and a wanderer many years, or I might perhaps have learned sooner what a blessing Heaven has been guarding for my sad and lonely heart. I saw you as you passed out of the prison, and your resemblance to my beloved Rosalie struck me, as an electric shock."

"And yours to him whom I believed my father, had the same effect on me. How strange it was, that then I felt as if I would give worlds to call you father, instead of the wretched being I had just quitted."

"Then you are willing to acknowledge me, my beloved, my lovely daughter," said he, pressing a father's kiss on my forehead, from which his hand fondly put back the clustering locks. "My daughter! let me repeat the name. My daughter! how sweet, how holy it sounds! Had she lived, or had she only known before she died, the constancy and purity of my love; but forgive me, thou Almighty chastener of man's erring heart! I dare not murmur. She knows all this now. She has given me her divine forgiveness."

"She left it with me, father, to give you; not only her forgiveness, but her undying love, and her dying blessing."

Withdrawing the arm with which he still embraced me, he bowed his face on his hands, and I hardly dared to breathe lest I should disturb the sacredness of his emotions. "She knows all this now." My heart repeated the words. Methought the wings of her spirit were hovering round us,—her husband and her child,—whom the hand of God had brought together after years of alienation and sorrow. And other thoughts pressed down upon me. By and by, when we were all united in that world, where we should know even as we are known, Ernest would read my heart, by the light of eternity, and then he would know how I loved him. There would be no more suspicion, or jealousy, or estrangement, but perfect love and perfect joy would absorb the memory of sorrow.

"And you are married, my Gabriella?" were the first words my father said, when he again turned towards me. "How difficult to realize; and you looking so very young. Young as you really are, you cheat the eye of several years of youth!"

"I was very ill, and when I woke to consciousness, I found myself shorn of the glory of womanhood,—my long hair."

"You are so like my Rosalie. Your face, your eyes, your smile; and I feel that you have her pure and loving heart. Heaven preserve it from the blight that fell on hers!"

The smile faded from my lip, and a quick sigh that I could not repress saddened its expression. The eyes of my father were bent anxiously on me.

"I long to see the husband of my child," said he. "Is he not with you?"

"No, my father, he is far away. Do not speak of him now, I can only think of you."

"If he is faithless to a charge so dear," exclaimed St. James, with a kindling glance.

"Nay, father; but I have so much to tell, so much to hear, my brain is dizzy with the thought. You shall have all my confidence, believe me you shall; and oh, how sweet it is to think that I have a father's breast to lean upon, a father's arms to shelter me, though the storms of life may blow cold and dreary round me,—and such a father!—after feeling such anguish and shame from my supposed parentage. Poor Richard! how I pity him!"

"You love him, then? Believing him your brother, you have loved him as such?"

"I could not love him better were he indeed my brother. He was the friend of my childhood," and a crimson hue stole over my face at the remembrance of a love more passionate than a brother's. "He is gifted with every good and noble quality, every pure and generous feeling,—friend, brother, cousin—it matters not which—he will ever be the same to me."

Then I spoke of Mrs. Linwood, my adopted mother,—of my incalculable obligations, my unutterable gratitude, love, and admiration,—of the lovely Edith and her sisterly affection, and I told him how I longed that he should see them, and that they should know that I had a father, whom I was proud to acknowledge, instead of one who reflected disgrace even on them.

"Oh! I have so much to tell, so much to hear," I again repeated. "I know not when or where we shall begin. It is so bewildering, so strange, so like a dream. I fear to let go your hand lest you vanish from my sight and I lose you forever."

"Ah, my child, you cannot feel as I do. You have enshrined other images in your heart, but mine is a lonely temple, into which you come as a divinity to be worshipped, as well as a daughter to be loved. I did not expect such implicit faith, such undoubting confidence. I feared you would shrink from a stranger, and require proofs of the truth of his assertions. I dared not hope for a greeting so tender, a trust so spontaneous."

"Oh! I should as soon doubt that God was my Father in heaven, as you my father on earth. I know it, I do not believe it."

I think my feelings must have been something like a blind person's on first emerging from the darkness that has wrapped him from his birth. He does not ask, when the sunbeams fall on his unclouded vision, if it be light. He knows it is, because it fills his new-born capacities for sight,—he knows it is, by the shadows that roll from before it. I knew it was my father, because he met all the wants of my yearning filial nature, because I felt him worthy of honor, admiration, reverence, and love.

I know not how long I had been with him, when Mr. Brahan entered; and though it had been seventeen years since he had seen him, he immediately recognized the artist he had so much admired.

"I have found a daughter, sir," said St. James, grasping his hand with fervor. He could not add another word, and no other was necessary.

"I told her so," cried Mr. Brahan, after expressing the warmest congratulations; "I told her husband so. I knew the wretch who assumes your name was an impostor, though he wonderfully resembles yourself."

"He has a right to the name he bears," answered my father, and his countenance clouded as it always did when he alluded to his brother. "We are twin brothers, and our extraordinary resemblance in youth and early manhood caused mistakes as numerous as those recorded in the Comedy of Errors, and laid the foundation of a tragedy seldom found in the experience of life."

While they were conversing, I stole from the room and ran up stairs to tell Mrs. Brahan the wondrous tidings. Her sympathy was as heart-felt as I expected,—her surprise less. She never could believe that man my father. Mr. Brahan always said he was an impostor, only he had no means to prove it.

"How beautiful!" she said, her eyes glistening with sympathetic emotion, "that he should find you here, in his own wedded home,—the place of your birth,—the spot sanctified by the holiest memories of love. Has not your filial mission been blest? Has not Providence led you by a way you little dreamed of? My dear Gabriella, you must not indulge another sad misgiving or gloomy fear. Indeed you must not."

"I know I ought not; but come and see my father."

"What is he like?" she asked, with a smile.

"Like the dream of my childhood, when I imagined him one of the sons of God, such as once came down to earth."

"Romantic child!" she exclaimed; but when she saw my father, I read admiration as well as respect in her speaking eye, and I was satisfied with the impression he had made.

Richard came soon after informed by his father of all I could tell him and a great deal more, which he subsequently related to me. I think he was happier to know that he was cousin, than when he believed himself my brother. The transition from a lover to a brother was too painful. He could not divest himself of the idea of guilt, which, however involuntary, made him shudder in remembrance. But a cousin! The tenderness of natural affection and the memories of love, might unite in a bond so near and dear, and hallow each other.

In the joy of my emancipation from imagined disgrace, I did not forget that the cloud still rested darkly on him,—that he still groaned under the burden which had been lifted from my soul. He told me that he had hope of his father's ultimate regeneration,—that he had found him much softened,—that he wept at the sight of Theresa's Bible, and still more when he read aloud to him the chapters which gave most consolation to her dying hours.

The unexpected visit of his brother, from whom he had been so long separated, and whom he supposed was dead, had stirred still deeper the abysses of memoir and feeling.

I will now turn a little while from myself, and give a brief history of the twin brothers, as I learned it from my father's lips, and Richard's, who narrated to me the story of his father's life as he heard it in the dungeon of the Tombs.



CHAPTER LVI.

Henry Gabriel and Gabriel Henry St. James, were born in the Highlands of New York. Their father was of English extraction, though of American birth; their mother the daughter of a French refugee, who had sought shelter in the land of freedom from the storms of the Revolution. So the elements of three nations mingled in their veins.

There was nothing remarkable in their childhood, but their resemblance to each other, which was so perfect that their own mother was not able to distinguish the one from the other. Perhaps either of them, seen separately, would not have excited extraordinary interest, but together they formed an image of dual beauty as rare as it was attractive. They were remarkable for their fine physical development, their blooming health, and its usual accompaniments, sunniness of temper, and gaiety of spirits; but even in early childhood these twin-born bodies showed that they were vitalized by far different souls. Their father was a sea-captain; and while Gabriel would climb his knees and listen with eager delight to tales of ocean life and stirring adventures, Henry, seated at his mother's feet, with his hands clasped on her lap and his eyes riveted on her face, would gather up her gently sparkling words in his young heart, and they became a pavement of diamonds, indestructible as it was bright and pure.

As they grew older, the master-passion of each became more apparent. Gabriel made mimic boats and ships, and launched them on the bosom of a stream which flowed back of their dwelling, an infant argosy freighted with golden hopes. Henry drew figures on the sandy shore, of birds and beasts and creeping things, and converted every possible material into tablets for the impressions of his dawning genius. Gabriel was his father's darling, Henry was mother's beloved. I said she could not distinguish her twin-born boys; but when she looked into their eyes, there was something in the earnest depths of Henry's, an answering expression of love and sensibility, which she sought in vain in his brother's. The soul of the sea-dreaming boy was not with her; it was following the father on the foaming paths of ocean.

"My boys shall go with me on my next voyage," said the captain. "It is time to think of making men of them. They have been poring over books long enough to have a holiday; and, by the living Jove, they shall have it. It is the ruin of boys to be tied to their mother's apron strings after they are twelve years old. They are fit for nothing but peddlers or colporteurs."

Gabriel clapped his hands exultingly; but Henry drew closer to his mother's side.

"My hero, my young brave," cried the captain, slapping his favorite boy on the shoulder, "you are worth a dozen such girl-boys as your brother. Let him be a kitten and cry mew, if he will, while you climb the topgallant-mast and make ladders of the clouds."

"I am as brave as he is," said Henry, straightening his youthful figure, and looking at his father with a kindling eye. "I am not afraid of the water; but who will protect my mother, if I go away with you?"

"Bravo! There is some spirit in the boy after all," exclaimed the captain, who loved his wife with the devotion and constancy of a sailor. "He has chosen an honorable post, and by heaven I will not force him to leave it. I see that nature, when she gave us twins, intended we should go shares in our boys. It is just. Gabriel shall go with me, but the silver cup of fortune may after all find its way in Henry's sack."

Thus at twelve years of age the twin brothers separated, and from that era their life-paths diverged into a constantly widening angle.

The captain discovered too late the error he had committed in cultivating the roving propensities of his son, to the exclusion of steady, nobler pursuits. He had intended merely to give him a holiday, and a taste of a seafaring life; but after revelling in the joys of freedom, he found it impossible to bind him down to the restraints of scholastic life. He wanted him to go to college, but the young rover bravely refused obedience to parental authority, saying, that one genius in a family was enough; and the father, gazing with pride on the wild, handsome, and dauntless boy, said there was no use in twisting the vine the wrong way, and yielded to his will. Henry, imbosomed in classic shades, gathered the fruits of science and the flowers of literature, while his genius as an artist, though apparently dormant, waited the Ithuriel touch of opportunity to wake into life and action.

Captain St. James had prospered in his enterprises and acquired a handsome fortune, so that his sons would not be dependent on their own exertions for support. Gabriel unfortunately knew this circumstance too well, and on the faith of his father's fortune indulged in habits of extravagance and dissipation as ruinous as they were disgraceful. The captain did not live to witness the complete degradation of his favorite son. His vessel was wrecked on a homeward voyage, and the waves became the sailor's winding-sheet. His wife did not long survive him. She died, pining for the genial air of her own sunny clime, leaving the impress of her virtues and her graces on the character of one of her sons. Alas for the other!

Free now from parental restraint, as he had long been from moral obligations, Gabriel plunged into the wildest excesses of dissipation. In vain Henry lifted his warning voice, in vain he extended his guardian hand, to save him who had now become the slave as well as the votary of vice. His soul clave to his brother with a tenderness of affection, which neither his selfishness nor vices, not even his crimes, could destroy. A gambler, a rouee, every thing but a drunkard, he at length became involved in so disgraceful a transaction, he was compelled for safety to flee the country; and Henry, ignorant what course he had taken, gave him up in despair, and tried to forget the existence of one whose remembrance could only awaken sorrow and shame. He went to Europe, as has been previously related, and with the eye of a painter and the heart of a poet, travelled from clime to clime, and garnered up in his imagination the sublimities of nature and the wonders of art. His genius grew and blossomed amid the warm and fostering influences of an elder world, till it formed, as it were, a bower around him, in whose perennial shades he could retire from haunting memories and uncongenial associations.

In the mean time, Gabriel had found refuge in his mother's native land. During his wild, roving life, he had mingled much with foreigners, and acquired a perfect knowledge of the French language,—I should rather say his knowledge was perfected by practice, for the twin brothers had been taught from infancy the melodious and expressive language of their mother's native clime. The facility with which he conversed, and his extremely handsome person, were advantages whose value he well knew how to appreciate, and to make subservient to his use.

It was at this time that he became acquainted with Theresa Josephine La Fontaine, and his worn and sated passions were quickened into new life. She was not beautiful, "but fair and excellent," and of a character that exercises a commanding influence over the heart of man. Had he known her before habits of selfish indulgence had become, like the Ethiopian's skin and the leopard's spots, too deep and indelible for chemic art to change, she might perhaps have saved him from the transgressor's doom. She loved him with all the ardor of her pure, yet impassioned nature, and fully believed that her heart was given to one of the sons of light, instead of the children of darkness. For awhile his sin-dyed spirit seemed to bleach in the whitening atmosphere that surrounded him, for a father's as well as a husband's joy was his. But at length the demon of ennui possessed him. Satan was discontented in the bowers of Paradise. Gabriel sighed for his profligate companions, in the bosom of wedded love and joy. He left home on a false pretence, and never returned. It was long before Theresa admitted a doubt of his faith, and it was not till a rumor of his marriage in America reached her ear, that she believed it possible that he could deceive and betray her. An American traveller from New York, who knew Henry St. James and was unconscious of the existence of his brother, spoke of his marriage and his beautiful bride in terms that roused every dormant passion in the breast of the deserted Theresa. Yet she waited long in the hope and the faith of woman's trusting heart, clinging to the belief of her husband's integrity and truth, with woman's fond adhesiveness. At length, when she had but convincing reason to believe herself a betrayed and abandoned wife, she took her boy in her arms, crossed the ocean waste, landed in New York, and by the aid of a directory sought the home of Henry St. James, deeming herself the legitimate mistress of the mansion she made desolate by her presence. The result of her visit has been already told. She unconsciously destroyed the happiness of others, without securing her own. It is not strange, that in the moment of agony and distraction caused by the revelation made by Theresa, Rosalie should not have noticed in the marriage certificate the difference between the names of Henry Gabriel and Gabriel Henry St. James.

Henry St. James had been summoned to Texas, then the Botany Bay of America, by his unhappy brother, who had there commenced a new career of sin and misery. He had gambled away his fortune, killed a man in a scene of strife and blasphemy, been convicted of homicide, escaped from the sentence, and, lurking in by-lanes and accursed places, fell sick, and wrote to his brother to come and save him from infamy and death.

How could he wound the spotless ears of Rosalie by the tale of his brother's guilt and shame? He had never spoken to her of his existence, the subject was so exquisitely painful, for he believed himself for ever separated from him, and why should his blasted name cast a shadow over the heaven of his domestic happiness?

Alter having raised his miserable brother from the gulf of degradation in which he had plunged, and given him the means of establishing himself in some honorable situation, which he promised to seek, he returned to find his home occupied by strangers, his wife and child fled, his happiness wrecked, and his peace destroyed. The deluded and half frantic Theresa, believing him to be her husband, appealed to him, by the memory of their former love and wedded felicity, to forgive the steps she had taken that she might assert the claims of her deserted boy. Maddened by the loss of the wife whom he adored, he became for the time a maniac; and so terrible was his indignation and despair, the unhappy victim of his brother's perfidy fled trembling and dismayed from his presence.

In the calmer moments that succeeded the first paroxysms of his agony, Henry thought of his brother and of the extraordinary resemblance they bore to each other, and the mystery which frenzied passion had at first veiled from his eyes was partially revealed to his understanding. Could he then have seen her, and could she prove that she was the wife of Gabriel, he would have protected her with a brother's care and tenderness. But his first thought was for Rosalie,—the young, the beloved, the deceived, the fugitive Rosalie, of whose flight no clue could be discovered, no trace be found. The servants could throw no light on the mystery, for she had left in the darkness and silence of night. They only knew that Peggy disappeared at the same time, and was probably her companion. This circumstance afforded a faint relief to Henry's distracted mind, for he knew Peggy's physical strength and moral courage, as well as her remarkable attachment to his lovely and gentle wife. But whither had they gone? The natural supposition was, that she would throw herself on the protection of her step-mother, as the only person on whom she had any legitimate claims,—unkind as she had formerly been. He immediately started for the embattled walls of Fortress Monroe,—but before his departure, he put advertisements in every paper, which, if they met her eye, she could not fail to understand. Alas! they never reached the gray cottage imbosomed in New England woods!

In vain he sought her in the wave-washed home of her childhood. He met with no sympathy from the slighted and jealous step-mother, who had destroyed the only link that bound them together, the name of her father. She had married again, and disowned all interest in the daughter of her former husband. She went still further, and wreaked her vengeance on St. James for the wounds he had inflicted on her vanity, by aspersing and slandering the innocent Rosalie. He left her in indignation and disgust, and wandered without guide or compass, like another Orpheus in search of the lost Eurydice. Had he known Peggy's native place, he might have turned in the right direction, but he was ignorant of every thing but her name and virtues. At length, weary and desponding, he resolved to seek in foreign lands, and in devotion to his art, oblivion of his sorrows. Just before his departure he met his brother, and told him of the circumstances which banished him from home and country. Gabriel, whose love for Theresa had been the one golden vein in the dark ore of his nature, was awakened to bitter, though short-lived remorse, not only for the ruin he brought on her, but the brother, whose fraternal kindness had met with so sad a requital. Touched by the exhibition of his grief and self-reproach, Henry committed to his keeping a miniature of Rosalie, of which he had a duplicate, that he might be able to identify her, and Gabriel promised, if he discovered one trace of his wife and child, that he would write to his brother and recall him.

They parted. Henry went to Italy, where images of ideal loveliness mingled with, though they could not supplant, the taunting memories of his native clime. As an artist, and as a man, he was admired, respected, and beloved; and he found consolation, though not happiness. The one great sorrow of his life fell like a mountain shadow over his heart; but it darkened its brightness without chilling its warmth. He was still the sympathizing friend of humanity, the comforter of the afflicted, the benefactor of the poor.

In the mean time Gabriel continued his reckless and dissolute course, sometimes on land, sometimes on sea, an adventurer, a speculator, a gambler, and a wretch. Destiny chanced to throw him into the vortex of corruption boiling in the heart of New York, when I went there, the bride of Ernest. He had seen me in the street, before he met me at the theatre; and, struck by my resemblance to the miniature which his brother had given him, he inquired and learned my name and history, as well as the wealth and rank of my husband. Confirmed in his suspicion that I was the child of Rosalie, he resolved to fill his empty pockets with my husband's gold, by making me believe that he was my father, and appealing to my filial compassion. Not satisfied with his success, he forged the note, whose discovery was followed by detection, conviction, imprisonment, and despair.

The only avenue to his seared and hardened heart had been found by the son of Theresa, coming to him like a messenger from heaven, in all his purity, excellence, and filial piety, not to avenge a mother's wrongs, but to cheer and illumine a guilty father's doom. His brother, too, seemed sent by Providence at this moment, that he might receive the daughter whom, from motives of the basest selfishness, he had claimed as his own.

When I first saw my father at the Falls, he had just returned to his native land, in company with Julian, the young artist. Urged by one of those irresistible impulses which may be the pressure of an angel's hand, his spirit turned to the soil where he now firmly believed the ashes of his Rosalie reposed. He and Julian parted on their first arrival, met again on the morning of our departure, and travelled together through some of the glowing and luxuriant regions of the West. After Julian left him to visit Grandison Place, he lingered amid scenes where nature revelled in all its primeval grandeur and original simplicity, sketching its boldest and most attractive features, till, God-directed, he came to the city over which the memory of his brief wedded life trembled like a misty star throbbing on the lonely heart of night. Hearing that a St. James was in the dungeons of the Tombs, a convicted forger, he at once knew that it must be his brother. There he sought him, and learned from him that the child of Rosalie lived, though Rosalie was a more.

As simple as sad, was the solution of my life's mystery.

Concealment was the fatal source of our sorrows. Even the noble Henry St. James erred in concealing his twin brotherhood, though woe and disgrace tarnished the once golden link. Rosalie and Theresa both erred, in not giving their children their father's name, though they believed it accursed by perjury and guilt.

Truth, and truth alone, is safe and omnipotent: "The eternal days of God are hers." Man may weave, but she will undeceive; man may arrange, but God will dispose.



CHAPTER LVII.

I told my father the history of my youth and womanhood, of my marriage and widowhood, with feelings similar to those with which I poured out my soul into the compassionate bosom of my Heavenly Father. He listened, pitied, wept over, and then consoled me.

"He must prove himself worthy of so sacred a trust," said he, clasping me to his bosom with all a father's tenderness, and all a mother's love, "before I ever commit it to his keeping. Never again, with my consent, shall you be given back to his arms, till 'the seed of the woman has bruised the serpent's head.'"

"I will never leave you again, dear father, under any circumstances, whatever they may be. Rest assured, that come weal, come woe, we will never be separated. Not even for a husband's unclouded confidence, would I forsake a father's sacred, new-found love."

"We must wait, and hope, and trust, my beloved daughter. Every thing will work together for the good of those that love God. I believe that now, fully, reverentially. Sooner or later all the ways of Providence will be justified to man, and made clear as the noonday sun."

He looked up to heaven, and his fine countenance beamed with holy resignation and Christian faith. Oh! how I loved this dear, excellent, noble father! Every hour, nay, every moment I might say, my filial love and reverence increased. My feelings were so new, so overpowering, I could not analyze them. They were sweet as the strains of Edith's harp, yet grand as the roaring of ocean's swelling waves. The bliss of confidence, the rapture of repose, the sublimity of veneration, the tenderness of love, all blended like the dyes of the rainbow, and spanned with an arch of peace the retreating clouds of my soul.

"When shall we go to Grandison Place?" he asked. "I long to pour a father's gratitude into the ear of your benefactress. I long to visit the grave of my Rosalie."

"To-morrow, to-day,—now, dear father, whenever you speak the word; provided we are not separated, I do not mind how soon."

He smiled at my eagerness.

"Not quite so much haste, my daughter. I cannot leave to Richard the sole task of ministering to the soul of my unhappy brother. His conscience is quickened, his feeling softened, and it may be that the day of grace is begun. His frame is weak and worn, his blood feverish, and drop by drop is slowly drying in his veins. I never saw any one so fearfully altered. Truly is it said, that 'the wages of sin is death.' Oh! if after herding with the swine and feeding on the husks of earth, he comes a repentant prodigal to his father's home, it matters not how soon he passes from that living tomb."

My father's words were prophetic. The prisoner's wasted frame was consuming slowly, almost imperceptibly, like steel when rust corrodes it. Richard and my father were with him every day, and gathered round him every comfort which the law permitted, to soften the horrors of imprisonment. Not in vain were their labors of love. God blessed them. The rock was blasted. The waters gushed forth. Like the thief on the cross, he turned his dying glance on his Saviour, and acknowledged him to be the Son of God. But it was long before the fiery serpents of remorse were deadened by the sight of the brazen reptile, glittering with supernatural radiance on the uplifted eye of faith. The struggle was fearful and agonizing, but the victory triumphant.

Had he needed me, I would have gone to him, and I often pleaded earnestly with my father to take me with him; but he said he did not wish me to be exposed to such harrowing scenes, and that Richard combined the tenderness of a daughter with the devotion of a son. Poor Richard! his pale cheeks and heavy eyes bore witness to the protracted sufferings of his father, but he bore up bravely, sustained by the hope of his soul's emancipation from the bondage of sin.

The prisoner must have had an iron constitution. The wings of his spirit flapped with such violence against its skeleton bars, the vulture-beak of remorse dipping all the time into the quivering, bleeding heart, it is astonishing how long it resisted even after flesh and blood seemed wasted away. Day after day he lingered; but as his soul gradually unsheathed itself, clearer views of God and eternity played upon its surface, till it flashed and burned, like a sword in the sunbeams of heaven.

At length he died, with the hand of his son clasped in his, the bible of Theresa laid against his heart, and his brother kneeling in prayer by his bedside. Death came softly, gently, like an angel of release, and left the seal of peace on that brow, indented in life by the thunder-scars of sin and crime.

After the first shock, Richard could not help feeling his father's death an unspeakable blessing, accompanied by such circumstances. In the grave his transgressions would be forgotten, or remembered only to forgive. He must now rise, shake off the sackcloth and ashes from his spirit, and put on the beautiful garments of true manhood. The friends, who had taken such an interest in his education, must not be disappointed in the career they had marked out. Arrangements had been made for him to study his profession with one of the most eminent lawyers of Boston, and he was anxious to commence immediately, that he might find in mental excitement an antidote to morbid sensibility and harrowing memory.

My father's wishes and my own turned to Grandison Place, and we prepared at once for our departure. I had informed Mrs. Linwood by letters of the events which I have related, and received her heart-felt congratulations. She expressed an earnest desire to see my father, but honored too much the motives that induced him to remain, to wish him to hasten. Now those motives no longer existed, I wrote to announce our coming, and soon after we bade adieu to one of the most charming abodes of goodness, hospitality, and pure domestic happiness I have ever known.

"You must write and tell me of all the changes of your changing destiny," said Mrs. Brahan, when she gave me the parting embrace; "no one can feel more deeply interested in them than myself. I feel in a measure associated with the scenes of your life-drama, for this is the place of your nativity, and it was under this roof you were united to your noble and inestimable father. Be of good cheer. Good news will come, wafted from beyond the Indian seas, and your second bridal morn will be fairer than the first."

I thanked her with an overflowing heart. I did not, like her, see the day-star of hope arising over that second bridal morn, but the sweet pathetic minor tone breathed in my ear the same holy strain:—

"Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid; Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid."



CHAPTER LVIII.

I wish my father could have seen the home of my youth, when he first beheld it, in the greenness of spring or the bloom of summer; but white, cold, and dazzling was the lawn, and bleak, bare, and leafless the grand old elms and the stately brotherhood of oaks that guarded the avenue.

With pride, gratitude, joy, and a thousand mingling emotions, I introduced my father into a dwelling consecrated by so many recollections of happiness and woe. The cloud was removed from my birth, the stain from my lineage. I could now exult in my parentage and glory in my father.

Julian was there, and welcomed St. James with enthusiastic pleasure, who, on his part, seemed to cherish for him even parental affection. With joy and triumph beaming in his eyes and glowing on his cheek, Julian took the lovely Edith by the hand, and introduced her as his bride. Still occupying her usual place in her mother's home, in all her sweetness, simplicity, and spirituality, it was difficult to believe any change had come over her destiny. She had not waited for my presence, because she knew the bridal wreath woven for her would recall the blighted bloom of mine. She had no festal wedding. She could not, while her brother's fate was wrapped in uncertainty and gloom.

One Sunday evening, after Mr. Somerville had dismissed the congregation with the usual benediction, Julian led Edith to the altar, and her mother stood by her side till the solemn words were uttered that made them one. So simple and holy were the nuptial rites of the wealthy and beautiful heiress of Grandison Place.

My father spoke in exalted terms of the young artist, of his virtues and his genius, the singleness of his heart, the uprightness of his principles, and the warmth and purity of his affections. Had he, my father, needed any passport to the favor of Mrs. Linwood, he could not have had a surer one; but her noble nature instantaneously recognized his congenial and exalted worth. He had that in his air, his countenance, and manner, that distinguished him from the sons of men, as the planets are distinguished by their clear, intense, and steadfast lustre among the starry ranks of heaven.

I gave him the manuscript my mother had left me, and at his request pointed out the road and the diverging path that led to the spot where her grave was made. I did not ask to accompany him, for I felt his emotions were too sacred for even his daughter to witness. I mourned that the desolation of winter was added to the dreariness of death; that a pall of snow, white as her winding-sheet and cold as her clay, covered the churchyard. In summer, when the grass was of an emerald green and the willows waved their weeping branches with a gentle rustle against the clustering roses, whose breath perfumed and whose blossoms beautified the place of graves, it was sweet, though sad, to wander amid the ruins of life, and meditate on its departed joys.

The broken shaft, twined with a drooping wreath carved in bas-relief, which rose above my mother's ashes, and the marble stone which marked the grave of Peggy, were erected the year after their deaths. The money which rewarded my services in the academy had been thus appropriated, or rather a portion of it. The remainder had been given to the poor, as Mrs. Linwood always supplied my wardrobe, as she did Edith's, and left no want of my own to satisfy, not even a wish to indulge. I mention this here, because it occurred to my mind that I had not done Mrs. Linwood perfect justice with regard to the motives which induced her to discipline my character.

I did not see my father for hours after his return. He retired to his chamber, and did not join the family circle till the evening lamps were lighted. He looked excessively pale, even wan, and his countenance showed how much he had suffered. Edith was singing when he came in, and he made a motion for her to continue; for it was evident he did not wish to converse. I sat down by him without speaking; and putting his arm round me, he drew me closely to his side. The plaintive melody of Edith's voice harmonized with the melancholy tone of his feelings, and seemed to shed on his soul a balmy and delicious softness. His spirit was with my mother in the dreams of the past, rather than the hopes of the future; and the memory of its joys lived again in music's heavenly breath.

It is a blessed thing to be remembered in death as my mother was. Her image was enshrined in her husband's heart, in the bloom and freshness of unfaded youth, as he had last beheld her,—and such it would ever remain. He had not seen the mournful process of fading and decay. To him, she was the bride of immortality; and his love partook of her own freshness and youth and bloom. Genius is La fontaine de jouvence, in whose bright, deep waters the spirit bathes and renews its morning prime. It is the well-spring of the heart,—the Castaly of the soul. St. James had lived amid forms of ideal beauty, till his spirit was imbued with their loveliness as with the fragrance of flowers, and he breathed an atmosphere pure as the world's first spring. He was young, though past the meridian of life. There was but one mark of age upon his interesting and noble person, and that was the snowy shade that softened his raven hair,—foam of the waves of time, showing they had been lashed by the storms, or driven against breakers and reefs of destiny.

The first time I took him into the library, he stopped before the picture of Ernest. I did not tell him whose it was. He gazed upon it long and earnestly.

"What a countenance!" he exclaimed. "I can see the lights and shades of feeling flashing and darkening over it. It has the troubled splendor of a tropic night, when clouds and moonbeams are struggling. Is it a portrait, or an ideal picture?"

"It is Ernest,—it is my husband," I answered; and it seemed to me as if all the ocean surges that rolled between us were pressing their cold weight on my heart.

"My poor girl! my beloved Gabriella! All your history is written there."

I threw myself in his arms, and wept. Had I seen Ernest dead at my feet, I could not have felt more bitter grief. I had never indulged it so unrestrainedly before in his presence, for I had always thought more of him than myself; and in trying to cheer him, I had found cheerfulness. Now I remembered only Ernest's idolatrous love, and his sorrows and sufferings, forgetting my own wrongs; and I felt there would always be an aching void which even a father's and brother's tenderness (for brother I still called Richard) could never fill.

"Oh, my father," I cried, "bear with my weakness,—bear with me a little while. There is comfort in weeping on a father's bosom, even for a loss like mine. I shall never see him again. He is dead, or if living, is dead to me. You cannot blame me, father. You see there a faint semblance of what he is,—splendid, fascinating, and haunting, though at times so dark and fearful. No words of mine can give an idea of the depth, the strength, the madness of his love. It has been the blessing and the bane, the joy and the terror, the angel and the demon of my life. I know it was sinful in its wild excess, and mine was sinful, too, in its blind idolatry, and I know the blessing of God could not hallow such a union. But how can I help feeling the dearth, the coldness, the weariness following such passionate emotions? How can I help feeling at times, that the sun of my existence is set, and a long, dark night before me?"

He did not answer,—he only pressed me convulsively to his heart, and I felt one hot tear, and then another and another falling on my brow.

Oh! it is cruel to wring tears from the strong heart of man; cruel, above all, to wring them from a father's heart,—that heart whose own sorrows had lately bled afresh. Every drop fell heavy and burning as molten lead on my conscience. I had been yielding to a selfish burst of grief, thoughtless of the agony I was inflicting.

"Forgive me, father!" I cried, "forgive me! On my knees, too, I will pray my Heavenly Father to forgive the rebel who dares to murmur at his chastisements, when new and priceless blessings gladden her life. I thought I had learned submission,—and I have, father, I have kissed in love and faith the Almighty hand that laid me low. This has been a dark moment, but it is passed."

I kissed his hand, and pressed it softly over my glistening eyes.

"Forgive you, my child!" he repeated, "for a sorrow so natural, so legitimate, and which has so much to justify it! I have wondered at your fortitude and disinterested interest in others,—I have wondered at your Christian submission, your unmurmuring resignation, and I wonder still. But you must not consider your destiny as inevitably sad and lonely. You have not had time yet to receive tidings from India. If, after the letter you have written, your husband does not return with a heart broken by penitence and remorse, and his dark and jealous passions slain by the sword of conviction, piercing two-edged and sharp to the very marrow of his spirit, he is not worthy of thee, my spotless, precious child; and the illusion of love will pass away, showing him to be selfish, tyrannical, and cruel, a being to be shunned and pitied, but no longer loved. Do not shudder at the picture I have drawn. The soul that speaks from those eyes of thousand meanings," added he, looking at the portrait that gazed upon us with powerful and thrilling glance, "must have some grand and redeeming qualities. I trust in God that it will rise above the ashes of passion, purified and regenerated. Then your happiness will have a new foundation, whose builder and maker is God."

"Oh! dear father!" was all I could utter. He spoke like one who had the gift of prophecy, and my spirit caught the inspiration of his words.

I have not spoken of Richard, for I had so much to say of my father, but I did not forget him. He accompanied us to Grandison Place, though he remained but a few days. I could not help feeling sad to see how the sparkling vivacity of his youth had passed away, the diamond brightness which reminded one of rippling waters in their sunbeams. But if less brilliant, he was far more interesting. Stronger, deeper, higher qualities were developed. The wind-shaken branches of thought stretched with a broader sweep. The roots of his growing energies, wrenched by the storm, struck firmer and deeper, and the wounded bark gave forth a pure and invigorating odor.

I walked with him, the evening before his departure, in the avenue from which the snow had been swept, leaving a smooth, wintry surface below. I was wrapped in furs, and the cold, frosty air braced me like a pair of strong arms.

I had so much to say to Richard, and now I was alone with him. I walked on in silence, feeling as if words had never been invented to express our ideas.

"You will never feel the want of a father's care and affection," at length I said. "My father could not love you better if you were his own son; and surely no own brother could be dearer, Richard, than you are and ever will be to me. You must not look mournfully on the past, but forward into a brightening future."

"I have but one object in life now," he answered, "and that is, to improve the talents God has given me for the benefit of mankind. I am not conscious of any personal hope or ambition, but a strong sense of duty acts upon me, and will save me from the corrosion of disappointment and the listlessness of despair."

"But you will not always feel so, Richard. You will experience a strong reaction soon, and new-born hopes and aspirations will shine gloriously to guide you upward and onward in your bright career. Think how young you are yet, Richard."

"The consciousness of youth does not always bring joy. It cannot, when youthful hopes are blighted, Gabriella. One cannot tear up at once the deep-rooted affections of years. Never was a love planted deeper, firmer than mine for you, before the soil of the heart had known the hardening winds of destiny. Start not, Gabriella, I am not going to utter one sentiment which, as a wife, you need blush to hear; but the parting hour, like that of death, is an honest one, and I must speak as I feel. May you never know or imagine my wretchedness when I believed you to be my sister, knowing that though innocent, I had been guilty, and that I could not love you merely with a brother's love. Thank heaven! you are my cousin. Ten thousand winning sweetnesses cluster round this dear relationship. The dearest, the strongest, the purest I have ever known."

"You will know a stronger, a dearer one, dear Richard,—you do not know yet how strong."

"I shall never think of my own happiness, Gabriella, till I am assured of yours."

"Then I will try to be happy for your sake."

"And if it should be that the ties severed by misfortune and distance are never renewed, you will remain with your father, and I will make my home with you, and it will be the business of both our lives to make you happy. No flower of the green-house was ever more tenderly cherished and guarded than you shall be, best beloved of so many hearts!"

"Thank you, oh, thank you, for all your tenderness, so far beyond my worth. Friend, brother, cousin, with you and such a father to love me, I ought to be the happiest and most grateful of human beings. But tell me one thing, dear Richard, before we part; do you forgive Ernest the wrong he has done you, freely and fully?"

"From the bottom of my heart I do."

"And should we ever meet again, may I tell him so?"

"Tell him I have nothing to forgive, for, believing as he did, vengeance could not wing a bolt of wrath too red, too deadly. But I would not recall the past. Your father beckons us,—he fears the frosty evening air for you, but it has given a glowing rose to your cheeks!"

My father stood on the threshold to greet us, with that benign smile, that beautiful, winning smile that had so long been slumbering on his face, but which grew brighter and brighter every time it beamed on my soul.

The last evening of Richard's stay was not sad. Dr. Harlowe and Mr. Somerville were with us; and though the events with which he had been associated had somewhat sobered the doctor's mirthful propensities, the geniality of his character was triumphant over every circumstance.

My father expressed to him the most fervent gratitude for his parental kindness to me, as well as for a deeper, holier debt.

"You owe me nothing," said Dr. Harlowe; "and even if you did, and were the debt ten times beyond your grateful appreciation of it, I should consider myself repaid by the privilege of calling you my friend."

No one could speak with more feeling or dignity than the doctor, when the right chord was touched. He told me he had never seen the man he admired so much as my father; and how proud and happy it made me to have him say so, and know that his words were true! No one who has not felt as I did, the mortification, the shame and anguish of believing myself the daughter of a convicted criminal, can understand the intense, the almost worshipping reverence with which I regarded my late-found parent. To feel pride instead of humiliation, exultation instead of shame, and love instead of abhorrence, how great the contrast, how unspeakable the relief, how sublime and holy the gratitude!



CHAPTER LIX.

The snows of winter melted, the diamond icicles dropped from the trees, the glittering fetters slipped from the streams, and nature came forth a captive released from bondage, glowing with the joy of emancipation.

Nothing could be more beautiful, more glorious, than the valley in its vernal garniture. Such affluence of verdure; such rich, sweeping foliage; such graceful undulation of hill and dale; such exquisite blending of light and shade; such pure, rejoicing breezes; such blue, resplendent skies never before met, making a tableau vivant on which the eye of the great Creator must look down with delight.

It was the first time Mrs. Linwood had witnessed the opening of spring at Grandison Place, and her faded spirits revived in the midst of its blooming splendor. She bad preferred its comparative retirement during the past winter, and, in spite of the solicitations of her friends, refused to go to the metropolis. My father and Julian both felt an artist's rapture at the prospect unrolled in a grand panorama around them, and transferred to the canvas many a glowing picture. It was delightful to watch the progress of these new creations,—but far more interesting when the human face was the subject of the pencil. Edith and myself were multiplied into so many charming forms, it is strange we were not made vain by gazing on them.

I was very grasping in my wishes, and wanted quite a picture gallery of my friends,—Mrs. Linwood, Edith, and Dr. Harlowe; and my indulgent father made masterly sketches of all for his exacting daughter. And thus day succeeded day, and no wave from Indian seas wafted tidings of the absent husband and son. No "Star of the East" dawned on the nightshades of my heart. And the raven voice kept echoing in my ear, "Never more, never more." There had been a terrible gale sweeping along the whole eastern coast of the Atlantic, and many a ship had gone down, freighted with an argosy richer than gold,—the treasures of human hearts. I did not speak my fears, but the sickness of dread settled on my spirits, in spite of the almost super-human efforts I made to shake it from them. When my eyes were fixed on my father's paintings, I could see nothing but storm-lashed billows, wrecking ships, and pale, drowning mariners. I could see that Mrs. Linwood and Edith participated in my apprehensions, though they did not give them utterance. We hardly dared to look in each other's faces, lest we should betray to each other thoughts which we would, but could not conceal.

The library had been converted into my father's studio. He usually painted in the mornings as well as Julian; and in the afternoon we rode, or walked as inclination prompted, and the evenings were devoted to sewing, conversation, and music.

One afternoon, after returning from a ride about sunset, I went into the library for a book which I had left there. I never went there alone without stopping to gaze at the picture of Ernest, which every day acquired a stronger fascination. "Those eyes of a thousand meanings," as my father had said, followed me with thrilling intensity whenever I moved, and if I paused they fixed themselves on me as if never more to be withdrawn. Just now, as I entered, a crimson ray of the setting sun, struggling in through the curtained windows, fell warmly on the face, and gave it such a lifelike glow, that I actually started, as if life indeed were there.

As I have said before, the library was remote from the front part of the house, and even Margaret's loud, voluble laugh did not penetrate its deep retirement. I know not how long, but it must have been very long that I stood gazing at the picture, for the crimson ray had faded into a soft twilight haze, and the face seemed gradually receding further and further from me.

The door opened. Never, never, shall I feel as I did then till I meet my mother's spirit in another world. A pale hand rested, as if for support, on the latch of the door,—a face pale as the statues, but lighted up by eyes of burning radiance, flashed like an apparition upon me. I stood as in a nightmare, incapable of motion or utterance, and a cloud rolled over my sight. But I knew that Ernest was at my feet, that his face was buried in the folds of my dress, and his voice in deep, tremulous music, murmuring in my ear.

"Gabriella! beloved Gabriella! I am not worthy to be called thy husband; but banish me not, my own and only love!"

At the sound of that voice, my paralyzed senses burst the fetters that enthralled them, and awoke to life so keen, there was agony in the awakening. Every plan that reason had suggested and judgment approved was forgotten or destroyed, and love, all-conquering, unconquerable love, reigned over every thought, feeling, and emotion. I sunk upon my knees before him,—I encircled his neck with my arms,—I called him by every dear and tender name the vocabulary of love can furnish,—I wept upon his bosom showers of blissful and relieving tears. Thus we knelt and wept, locked in each other's arms, and again and again Ernest repeated—

"I am not worthy to be thy husband," and I answered again and again—

"I love thee, Ernest. God, who knoweth all things, knows, and he only, how I love thee."

It is impossible to describe such scenes. Those who have never known them, must deem them high-wrought and extravagant those who have, cold and imperfect. It is like trying to paint chain-lightning, or the coruscations of the aurora borealis. I thought not how he came. What cared I, when he was with me, when his arms were round me, his heart answering to the throbs of mine? Forgotten were suspicion, jealousy, violence, and wrong,—nothing remained but the memory of love.

As the shades of twilight deepened, his features seemed more distinct, for the mist which tears had left dissolved, and I could see how wan and shadowy he looked, and how delicate, even to sickliness, the hue of his transparent complexion. Traces of suffering were visible in every lineament, but they seemed left by the ground-swell of passion, rather than its deeper ocean waves.

"You have seen your mother?" at length I said, feeling that I must no longer keep him from her, "and Edith? And oh, Ernest! have you seen my father? Do you know I have a father, whom I glory in acknowledging? Do you know that the cloud is removed from my birth, the stigma from my name? Oh, my husband, mine is a strange, eventful history!"

"Mr. Brahan told me of the discovery of your father, and of the death of his unhappy brother. I have not seen him yet. But my mother! When I left her, Gabriella, she had not one silver hair. My hand sprinkled that premature snow."

"It matters not now, dear Ernest," I cried, pained by the torturing sighs that spoke the depth of his remorse. "Flowers will bloom sweetly under that light snow. Edith is happy. We will all be happy,—my father too,—come and see him, Ernest,—come, and tell me, if I have need to blush for my lineage."

"Not for your lineage, but your husband. What must this noble father think of me?"

"Every thing that is kind and Christian. He has sustained my faith, fed my hopes, and prophesied this hour of reunion. Come, the moment you have seen him, you will trust, revere, and love him."

With slow and lingering steps we walked the winding gallery that led from the library, and entered the parlor, whose lights seemed dazzling in contrast to the soft gloom we had left behind.

Hand in hand we approached my father, who stood with his back to one of the windows, his tall and stately figure nobly defined. I tried to utter the words, "My husband! my father!" but my parted lips were mute. I threw myself into his arms, with a burst of emotion that was irrepressible, and he grasped the hand of Ernest and welcomed and blest him in warm, though faltering accents. Then Edith came with her sweet April face, and hung once more upon her brother's neck, and his mother again embraced him, and Julian walked to the window and looked abroad, to hide the tears which he thought a stain upon his manhood.

It was not till after the excitement of the hour had subsided, that we realized how weak and languid Ernest really was. He was obliged to confess how much he had suffered from illness and fatigue, and that his strength was completely exhausted. As he reclined on one of the sofas, the crimson hue of the velvet formed such a startling contrast to the pallor of his complexion, it gave him an appearance almost unearthly.

"You have been ill, my son," said Mrs. Linwood, watching him with intense anxiety.

"I have been on the confines of the spirit world, my mother; so near as to see myself by the light it reflected. Death is the solar microscope of life. It shows a hideous mass, where all seemed fair and pure."

He laid his hand over his eyes with a nervous shudder.

"But I am well now," he added; "I am only suffering from fatigue and excitement. Gabriella's letter found me leaning over the grave. It raised me, restored me, brought me back to life, to hope, to love, and home."

He told us, in the course of the evening, how he had found Mr. Harland on the eve of embarking for India, and that he offered to be his companion; and how he had written to his mother before his voyage, telling her of his destination, and entreating her to write if she were still willing to call him her son. The letter came not to relieve the agonies of suspense, and mine contained the first tidings he received from his native land. It found him, as he had said, on a sick-bed, and its contents imparted new life to his worn and tortured being. He immediately took passage in a home bound ship, though so weak he was obliged to be carried on board in a litter. Mr. Harland accompanied him to New York, where on debarking they had met Mr. Brahan, who had given him a brief sketch of my visit, and the events that marked it.

As I sat by him on a low seat, with his hand clasped in mine, while he told me in a low voice of the depth of his penitence, the agonies of his remorse, and the hope of God's pardon that had dawned on what he supposed the night clouds of death, I saw him start as if in sudden pain. The lace sleeve had fallen back from my left arm. His eyes were fixed on the wound he had inflicted. He bent his head forward, and pressed his lips on the scar.

"They shall look upon him whom they have pierced," he murmured. "O my Saviour I could thy murderers feel pangs of deeper remorse at the sight of thy scarred hands and wounded side?"

"Never think of it again, dear Ernest. I did not know it, did not feel it. It never gave me a moment's pang."

"Yes, I remember well why you did not suffer."

"But you must not remember. If you love me, Ernest, make no allusion to the past. The future is ours; youth and hope are ours; and the promises of God, sure and steadfast, are ours. I feel as Noah and his children felt when they stepped from the ark on dry land, and saw the waters of the deluge retreating, and the rainbow smiling on its clouds. What to them were the storms they had weathered, the dangers they had overcome? They were all past. Oh, my husband, let us believe that ours are past, and let us trust forever in the God of our fathers."

"I do—I do, my Gabriella. My faith has hitherto been a cold abstraction; now it is a living, vital flame, burning with steady and increasing light."

At this moment Edith, who had seated herself at the harp, remembering well the soothing influence of music on her brother's soul, touched its resounding strings; and the magnificent strains of the Gloria in Excelsis,

—"rose like a stream Of rich distilled perfume."

I never heard any thing sound so sweet and heavenly. It came in, a sublime chorus to the thoughts we had been uttering. It reminded me of the song of the morning stars, the anthem of the angels over the manger of Bethlehem,—so highly wrought were my feelings,—so softly, with such swelling harmony, had the notes stolen on the ear.

Ernest raised himself from his reclining position, and his countenance glowed with rapture. I had never seen it wear such an expression before. "Old things had passed away,—all things had become new."

"There is peace,—there is pardon," said he, in a voice too low for any ear but mine, when the last strain melted away,—"there is joy in heaven over the repenting sinner, there is joy on earth over the returning prodigal."



CONCLUSION

Two years and more have passed since my heart responded to the strains of the Gloria in Excelsis, as sung by Edith on the night of her brother's return.

Come to this beautiful cottage on the sea-shore, where we have retired from the heat of summer, and you can tell by a glance whether time has scattered blossoms or thorns in my path, during its rapid flight.

Come into the piazza that faces the beach, and you can look out on an ocean of molten gold, crimsoned here and there by the rays of the setting sun, and here and there melting off into a kind of burning silver. A glorious breeze is beginning to curl the face of the waters, and to swell the white sails of the skiffs and light vessels that skim the tide like birds of the air, apparently instinct with life and gladness. It rustles through the foliage, the bright, green foliage, that contrasts so dazzlingly with the smooth, white, sandy beach,—it lifts the soft, silky locks of that beautiful infant, that is cradled so lovingly in my father's arms. Oh! whose do you think that smiling cherub is, with such dark, velvet eyes, and pearly skin, and mouth of heavenly sweetness? It is mine, it is my own darling Rosalie, my pearl, my sunbeam, my flower, my every sweet and precious name in one.

But let me not speak of her first, the youngest pilgrim to this sea-beat shore. There are others who claim the precedence. There is one on my right hand, whom if you do not remember with admiration and respect, it is because my pen has had no power to bring her character before you, in all its moral excellence and Christian glory. You have not forgotten Mrs. Linwood. Her serene gray eye is turned to the apparently illimitable ocean, now slowly rolling and deeply murmuring, as if its mighty heart were stirred to its inmost core, by a consciousness of its own grandeur. There is peace on her thoughtful, placid brow, and long, long may it rest there.

The young man on my left is recognized at once, for there is no one like him, my high-souled, gallant Richard. His eye sparkles with much of its early quick-flashing light. The shadow of the dismal Tombs no longer clouds, though it tempers, the brightness of his manhood. He knows, though the world does not, that his father fills a convict's grave, and this remembrance chastens his pride, without humiliating him with the consciousness of disgrace. He is rapidly making himself a name and fame in the high places of society. Men of talent take him by the hand and welcome him as a younger brother to their ranks, and fair and charming women smile upon and flatter him by the most winning attentions. He passes on from flower to flower, without seeking to gather one to place in his bosom, though he loves to inhale their fragrance and admire their bloom.

"One of these days you will think of marrying," said a friend, while congratulating him on his brilliant prospects.

"When I can find another Gabriella," he answered.

Ah! Richard, there are thousands better and lovelier than Gabriella; and you will yet find an angel spirit in woman's form, who will reward your filial virtues, and scatter the roses of love in the green path of fame.

Do you see that graceful figure floating along on the white beach, with a motion like the flowing wave, with hair like the sunbeams, and eye as when

"The blue sky trembles on a cloud of purest white?"

and he who walks by her side, with the romantic, beaming countenance, now flashing with the enthusiasm, now shaded by the sensibility of genius? They are the fair-haired Edith, and the artist Julian. He has laid aside for awhile the pencil and the pallette, to drink in with us the invigorating breezes of ocean. Let them pass on. They are happy.

Another couple is slowly following, taller, larger, more of the "earth, earthy." Do you not recognize my quondam tutor and the once dauntless Meg? It is his midsummer vacation, and they, too, have come to breathe an atmosphere cooled by sea-born gales, and to renew the socialities of friendship amid grand and inspiring influences. They walk on thoughtfully, pensively, sometimes looking down on the smooth, continuous beach, then upward to the mellow and glowing heavens. A softening shade has womanized the bold brow of Madge, and her red lip has a more subdued tint. She, the care-defying, laughter-breathing, untamable Madge, has known not only the refining power of love, but the chastening touch of sorrow. She has given a lovely infant back to the God who gave it, and is thus linked to the world of angels. But she has treasures on earth still dearer. She leans on a strong arm and a true heart. Let them pass on. They, too, are happy.

My dear father! He is younger and handsomer than he was two years since, for happiness is a wonderful rejuvenator. His youth is renewed in ours, his Rosalie lives again in the cherub who bears her name, and in whom his eye traces the similitude of her beauty. Father! never since the hour when I first addressed thee by that holy name, have I bowed my knee in prayer without a thanksgiving to God for the priceless blessing bestowed in thee.

There is one more figure in this sea-side group, dearer, more interesting than all the rest to me. No longer the wan and languid wanderer returned from Indian shores, worn by remorse, and tortured by memory. The light, if not the glow of health, illumines his face, and a firmer, manlier tone exalts its natural delicacy of coloring.

Do you not perceive a change in that once dark, though splendid countenance? Is there not more peace and softness, yet more dignity and depth of thought? I will not say that clouds never obscure its serenity, nor lightnings never dart across its surface, for life is still a conflict, and the passions, though chained as vassals by the victor hand of religion, will sometimes clank their fetters and threaten to resume their lost dominion; but they have not trampled underfoot the new-born blossoms of wedded joy. I am happy, as happy as a pilgrim and sojourner ought to be; and even now, there is danger of my forgetting, in the fulness of my heart's content, that eternal country, whither we are all hastening.

We love each other as fondly, but less idolatrously. That little child has opened a channel in which our purified affections flow together towards the fountain of all love and joy. Its fairy fingers are leading us gently on in the paths of domestic harmony and peace.

My beloved Ernest! my darling Rosalie! how beautiful they both seem, in the beams of the setting sun, that are playing in glory round them! and how melodiously and pensively, yet grandly does the music of the murmuring waves harmonize with the minor tone of tenderness breathing in our hearts!

We, too, are passing on in the procession of life, and the waves of time that are rolling behind us will wash away the print of our footsteps, and others will follow, and others still, but few will be tossed on stormier seas, or be anchored at last in a more blissful haven.



THE END.



* * * * *



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MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH'S WORKS.

Victor's Triumph A Beautiful Fiend The Artist's Love A Noble Lord Lost Heir of Linlithgow Tried for her Life Cruel as the Grave The Maiden Widow The Family Doom Prince of Darkness The Bride's Fate The Changed Brides How He Won Her Fair Play Fallen Pride The Christmas Guest The Widow's Son The Bride of Llewellyn The Fortune Seeker The Fatal Marriage The Deserted Wife The Bridal Eve The Lost Heiress The Two Sisters Lady of the Isle The Three Beauties Vivia; or the Secret of Power The Missing Bride Love's Labor Won The Gipsy's Prophecy Haunted Homestead Wife's Victory Allworth Abbey The Mother-in-Law Retribution India; Pearl of Pearl River Curse of Clifton Discarded Daughter



MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS' WORKS.

Bellehood and Bondage The Old Countess Lord Hope's Choice The Reigning Belle A Noble Woman Palaces and Prisons Married in Haste Wives and Widows Ruby Gray's Strategy The Soldiers' Orphans Silent Struggles The Rejected Wife The Wife's Secret Mary Derwent Fashion and Famine The Curse of Gold Mabel's Mistake The Old Homestead Doubly False The Heiress The Gold Brick



MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ'S WORKS.

Ernest Linwood The Planter's Northern Bride Courtship and Marriage Rena; or, the Snow Bird Marcus Warland Love after Marriage Eoline; or Magnolia Vale The Lost Daughter The Banished Son Helen and Arthur Linda; or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole Robert Graham; the Sequel to "Linda; or Pilot of Belle Creole"



JAMES A. MAITLAND'S WORKS.

The Watchman The Wanderer The Lawyer's Story Diary of an Old Doctor Sartaroe The Three Cousins The Old Patroon; or the Great Van Broek Property



T. A. TROLLOPE'S WORKS.

The Sealed Packet Garstang Grange Gemma Leonora Casaloni Dream Numbers Marietta Beppo, the Conscript



FREDRIKA BREMER'S WORKS.

Father and Daughter The Four Sisters The Neighbors The Home Life in the Old World. In two volumes.



MISS ELIZA A. DUPUY'S WORKS.

The Hidden Sin The Dethroned Heiress The Gipsy's Warning All For Love The Mysterious Guest Why Did He Marry Her? Who Shall be Victor Was He Guilty The Cancelled Will The Planter's Daughter Michael Rudolph; or, the Bravest of the Brave



EMERSON BENNETT'S WORKS.

The Border Rover Clara Moreland The Forged Will Bride of the Wilderness Ellen Norbury Kate Clarendon Viola; or Adventures in the Far South-West The Heiress of Bellefonte The Pioneer's Daughter



DOESTICKS' WORKS.

Doesticks' Letters Plu-Ri-Bus-Tah The Elephant Club Witches of New York



WILKIE COLLINS' BEST WORKS.

Basil; or, The Crossed Path The Dead Secret Hide and Seek After Dark Miss or Mrs? Mad Monkton Sights a-Foot The Stolen Mask The Queen's Revenge The Yellow Mask Sister Rose



CHARLES LEVER'S BEST WORKS.

Charles O'Malley Harry Lorrequer Jack Hinton Tom Burke of Ours Knight of Gwynne Arthur O'Leary Con Cregan Davenport Dunn Horace Templeton Kate O'Donoghue A Rent in a Cloud St. Patrick's Eve Ten Thousand a Year, in one volume The Diary of a Medical Student, by author "Ten Thousand a Year"



CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS.

Great Expectations Bleak House Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey's Clock American Notes; and the Uncommercial Traveller Hunted Down; and other Reprinted Pieces The Holly-Tree Inn; and other Stories The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens Our Mutual Friend Pickwick Papers Tale of Two Cities Nicholas Nickleby David Copperfield Oliver Twist Christmas Stories Sketches by "Boz" Barnaby Rudge Martin Chuzzlewit Old Curiosity Shop Little Dorrit Dombey and Son Dickens' New Stories Mystery of Edwin Drood; and Master Humphrey's Clock American Notes; and the Uncommercial Traveller Hunted Down: and other Reprinted Pieces The Holly-Tree Inn; and other Stories The Life and Writings of Charles Dickens



GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS' WORKS.

Mysteries Court of London Rose Foster Caroline of Brunswick Venetia Trelawney Lord Saxondale Count Christoval Rosa Lambert Mary Price Eustace Quentin Joseph Wilmot Banker's Daughter Kenneth The Rye-House Plot The Necromancer The Opera Dancer Child of Waterloo Robert Bruce The Gipsy Chief Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots Wallace, Hero of Scotland Isabella Vincent Vivian Bertram Countess of Lascelles Duke of Marchmont Massacre of Glencoe Loves of the Harem The Soldier's Wife May Middleton Ellen Percy Agnes Evelyn Pickwick Abroad Parricide Discarded Queen Life in Paris Countess and the Page Edgar Montrose The Ruined Gamester Clifford and the Actress Queen Joanna; or the Mysteries of the Court of Naples Ciprina; or, the Secrets of a Picture Gallery



MISS PARDOE'S POPULAR WORKS.

Confessions of a Pretty Woman The Wife's Trials The Jealous Wife The Rival Beauties Romance of the Harem The Adopted Heir The Earl's Secret

THE END