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"He was indeed kind!" said Mary, her thoughts wandering away upon something else.
In the absence of the parish rector, Lawrence was called upon to perform the funeral services at the burial of the stranger. It was a task from which he shrunk; but he had no escape.
The little low parlor was half-filled, as he entered it, by a curious group, a few of the number, perhaps, drawn thither by that sympathy which the presence of death always moves.
By a sudden impulse, Lawrence drew near and bent over the coffin. It was indeed Alice, — Lady Lemwall, — as his heart had too truly told him. The soft blue eyes were closed; the heavy golden hair put away from the white brow; the lips which at their last meeting had poured forth such passionate words, -*- such stern' indignation, such hopeless despair, — drawn together in motionless purple lines; the restless hands folded in waxen repose. "You refuse to help me!" only a week before.
He felt himself falling; a mist came before his eyes; he took hold of the table which bore the coffin for support.
The first sight which met him again was his wife's face opposite, ashy pale, and the murmurs around the room reached his ear, —" How sad!" "How -gery sad!" "It's enough to make the strongest weep; no wonder he's so affected! poor yonng creature!"
"I am the resurrection and the life!" Lawrence said this as he entered the graveyard, and the short train of mourners — mourners for the hour — filed before him to the grave. He threw the first handful of sod against the coffin; an icy chill at the echo struck upon his own heart. The sunlight, sloping to the west, lay full and bright upon the long mounds before him, glistened above his father's
to fulfil his duties and to follow where God should lead him."
It was true. William had indeed fallen a victim to this very fidelity, — struck down in the opening of his profession and usefulness (he was a physician) by a malignant fever which ha was supposed to have contracted in the cottages of some of his poor patients.
"Such words can never be traced above me," thought the shuddering rector, " pure as I stand before men's eyes; the very sun and wind of heaven would blot them out."
With very different emotions from those she had so fondly anticipated, Mary caught the first glimpse, as the stage ascended the still distant hill, of her new home, — a pretty mansion embowered in honeysuckle and jasmine, with a broad, level lawn in front.
They chanced to be the only occupants left in the lumbering vehicle.
As they alighted, her husband gave her his arm up the gravelled walk. It was near nightfall, and the air was very sweet with the scent of the flowers which bordered the path.
"I trust you will be very happy here, dear Mary," said her husband, as he led her across the threshold.
She could find no words to answer; her hand lay passive in the tender clasp of his. Was this the coming home to which she had looked forward with so much joy? A painful doubt, an uneasy fear, weighed down her spirits.
The housekeeper came forward to receive her, and the servant-maid.
Her husband led her into the cheerful parlor, where tea had been laid. She took off her dusty travelling things, and sat down to preside at the table. Lawrence noticed, for the first time, her pale
"How the rector be changed!" said one parishoner to another. "He beant at all like himself, since he be married; he alPys used to be ready to go round among the sick far and near; his face was good as medicine by a sick-bed. Now you may send half a dozen times to him, and ten to one you'll find him at home. His sermons, too, — Missus Larking told my missus the other Sunday she wouldn't give one of our old Parson Fendley's for six of his-!"
"Yes, he be changed, that's a fact, in more ways than one," was the response. "It's very strange; such a sweet, kindhearted woman as Mrs. Lawrenoe should be a help to a man instead of putting him back!"
It was true; the young rector was a changed man. The interests of his parish, which had once been so dear to his heart, were slipping from his thoughts; the society of his young wife had no charm to dissipate the gloom which oppressed him; he began to seek forgetfulness in the few excitements which opened to his situation. He went often to Lemwall house, though Mary, almost from the beginning, refused her share of the invitations. The viscount welcomed around him a circle suited to his tastes, composed of gentlemen who figured on the turf, genteel gamblers, fox-hunting squires of the county, young, fast men, and into this vortex Lawrence was slowly drawn. He rose high in his patron's favor; he was a curate after Lord Lemwall's own heart.
How was it with Mary, — the pale, patient wife? Her bloom was fading; her light spirits had long given place to a subdued sadness. Lawrence must have noticed the change; but he thought little of his own share in bringing it about. "It is a part of my curse!" he thought. "I gave up the rights of an innocent woman to win her, and the love I thought I had secured to bless my life is turned to ashes! God is just!"
It was in the opening of the second year of their marriage that a child was born to them. "We will call her Alice," murmured the pale mother, as her hus
band bent over her pillow to press his first kiss upon her lips. The danger she had passed through had revived something of his old tenderness. Lawrenee started; his eyes suddenly sought those of his wife. "It was my mother's name," she said, gently; "I should like it for her sake."
What could he urge? He could only submit.
The child grew and thrived,—a healthy, rosy creature, full of life and smiles. Lawrence felt his heart drawn toward it; its innocent sportiveness and love began to draw him away from his dangerous companionship. Mary looked on with a trembling hope. Sinful as since that fatal hour in which she stood by his side when the sexton flung up the sod for the stranger's grave in the old graveyard she had feared.him to be, he was her husband still, and love never ceases to hope and pray for its object. In her prayers, she asked now that, if it were God's will, the hand of his little child might lead him back to a better life.
Lord Lemwall was about to marry; the little hamlet rung with the news. The bride was a beauty and a belle, though now past the first glow of her charms; but her broad lands and ample investments were of far more importance to Mie viscount, with his already mortgaged estates, than any fleeting fancy which had helped to bring about his suit.
Strangely enough, and contrary to all etiquette, the viscount begged of his fcride the favor of selecting the minister who should perform the ceremony, and his selection fell on his old friend, Lawrence.
The wedding was to take place at Lemwall, and a short tour was to follow on the continent. Did Lord Lemwall know of his first wife's death. Lawrence felt that he did not; the very choice of himself to solemnize the marriage—he who alone shared the secret — was a proof of his ignorance; but he kept silent.
It was a brilliant company which gathered in the old church; the light streamed dimly through the stained windows over the flashing jewels, the waving plumes, the rich satins and velvets. The
viscount looked proud and exultant, as a bridegroom should; but his eyes were restless, and his mouth wore a troubled curve in repose. Lawrence stood up; the bride was before him with her orangeflowers and her long Brussels veil shrouding her stately figure, — for the rich drapery seemed, in that one instant, to his startled fancy like a shroud. The bridegroom's eye met his, and fell beneath his look, — partners in guilt.
"If any man know just cause," — The young rector's voice had a changed and hollow tone; his look went out of the distance, beyond the shadows lingering up the long aisles, past the stately monuments of the old house of Lemwall which stood grouped around in their cold splendor, to the stranger's grave, the sod brightened now with early flowers and new springing grass. Alice, — Lady Lemwall, — who might have been living now, but for this bad man's falseness and his own wicked silence.
The air, as the bridal train passed out of the church, in its dewy freshness, laden with the scents of Hay, reminded him of his own wedding-morn only two years before. What a long period it had grown! Be looked down on the wife at his side. How strangely her bloom had faded! Was this the radiant bride of joy and blushes? He sighed, unconsciously. A' carriage stood in waiting for them; they were to share the wedding breakfast, from whence a part of the company, including the bride and bridegroom, were to set out in the noon train for London.
Lawrence ate little. His depression began to be noticed by others of the company beside his silent wife. His patron, who, from his distant part of the table, saw, with conscious eyes, every expression of his curate, rallied him on his lack of spirits, and called for a toast. Mirth and wit began to flow freely; Lawrence drained the sparkling glass again and again. Mary sat by, sorrowful and silent. She was glad when the guests,rose up, and they were at leave to depart. An intense desire pressed upon her as they re-entered the carriage; it was not a sudden thought, but a purpose which had for many months been cherished in her heart.
Since the birth of her child, she had felt more than ever the width of the gulf which from her wedding-day had yawned between her and her husband. If she could only speak ! — she knew that there was a secret rising darkly between them,— if she could only obtain his confidence! But what was that secret? Her heart sunk again at the question. No; she dared not ask.
(To be continued.)
The Interlarding Of Foreign Words. — French is oftenest called into service by ignorant scribblers, Latin comes next, Greek next, and sometimes German. We recall, in this connection, a remark of William Cullen Bryant to a young man who was then attached to .the Evening Post, and who had submitted to Mr. Bryant an article for the paper. The latter, whose felicity in writing prose is not a whit inferior to that of his poetical effort read the manuscript and commented upon it in substantially these words: — " My young friend, I observe that you have used several French expressions in your article. I think, if you will study the English language, that you will find it capable of expressing all the ideas that you may have. I have always found it so, and in all that I have written, I do not recall an instance when I was tempted to use a foreign word, but that, on searching, I found a better one in my own language." ,
A Beautiful Illustration. — It is said of the Icelanders that they scrupulously observe the usage of reading the Sacred Scriptures every morning, the whole family joining in the singing and prayers. When the Icelander awakes, he salutes no person until he has saluted God. He usually hastens to the door, adores the Author of Nature and Providence, and then steps back into the dwelling, saying to his family, "God grant you a good day !"—What a beautiful illustration is this of the Christian obligation on the part of households to recognize and worship.
Your ancestor's crimes I, reluctant, review.
In the church, at all times, have recluses bees - known,
United and governed by laws of their own;
From the rest of mankind by their views set apart,
To the Lord consecrating the life and the heart;
Content from the world in seclusion to dwell,
To the pleasures of life they have bid a farewell;
Solicitous but that their peace be preserved,
They have fled from mankind, whom they else might have served.
The State has for some thought it fit to apply,
To enlighten the church, and the pulpit supply;
But often, their talents by flattery fired,
The sins of the world they denounce have acquired.
In their quiet ambition, they parties hare gained;
Of their intrigues, some countries have justly complained.
Thus, in mortal affairs, by a fatal abuse.
The choicest of blessings assume a bad use.
The church has, in Spain, a sect long maintained,
Who the name of Dominican from their founder obtained;
Employed, from their birth, in the humblest things,
They at length found a place in the palace of kings.
Undiminished in zeal, though their power was less.
They flourished in France, where they found free access,
Protected by kings, and unsullied in name.
Till Clement, the traitor, had blasted their fame.
From his earliest age, in recluse solitude,1
Clement nourished a piety austere and rude.
Weak-minded, devout, and easy to sway,
By the stream of rebellion he was soon borne away.
In the heart of this young man, infernal Discord
The venom that flows from her mouth largely poured.
With his blasphemous vows, as prostrate he lay
At his altar, he wearied the heavens each day.
[From the French.]
The besieged are hard pressed. Discord excites James Clement to leave Paris and assassinate the king. She calls from the depths of hell the demon Fanaticism, who conducts the parricide. Sacrifice of the Leaguers to the infernal spirits. Henry III. is assassinated. Sentiments of Henry IV. He is acknowledged by the army.
In the mean time, advanced those machines
from whose womb Sure death to the rebels was destined to come; From a hundred brass mouths issued fire and
balls That broke through their ramparts and battered
The Sixteen with their rage and the skill of
Mayenne, The insolent bearing of mutinous men, The flaming appeals of the lawyers of State, — All checked not the progress of Henry the
Great. Conquest followed, with rapid advances, his
course; Threats from Philip and Rome were no longer
of force. The thunders which Rome from the Vatican
hurled Were spent in the air, and alarmed not the
world. From the tardy support of the old king of
Spain, The besieged, in their strait, no assistance could
gain; The troops were all scattered, and ravaging
France; But in succoring Paris they made no advance. The perfidious monarch, if the League should
expire, Hoped an easier conquest himself to acquire; And the League, thus deceived by a friendship
so feigned, A master instead of an ally had gained; When a son of the church was by false zeal inspired, And the course of events a new aspect acquired. You now who in Paris in safety repose, And the stream of whose life in tranquillity
flows,— Tour pardon I crave, if, to history true,
It is said, while with sackcloth and ashes arrayed,
This horrible prayer at the altar he made: —
"Thou who scourgest the tyrant, and thy church dost protect,
How long shall thy chosen ones suffer neglect?
Shall a king to foul murder and perjury given
Thy sanction receive and the blessing of heaven?
Thy rod, mighty God, our faith sorely tries; On thy enemies, deign in thy vengeance to rise! Stay the current of death that so freely has flowed!
Save us from a king in thy vengeance bestowed! Come and, heaven-insulted, bow down in thy wrath!
Let Destruction, thy angel, march on in thy path!
Descend ! let this army, to sacrilege given,
And fall as the leaf at the sport of the wind! And the Catholio League, to thy glory and praise,
On their bodies yet bleeding, hymns of honor shall raise."
These words Discord hears, as she flies through the air,
And to hell bears the vows of this blasphemous prayer.
In an instant, she brings, from the regions of woe,
The fiercest of tyrants their gloomy depths know.
And the bosom that cherishes cruelly tears.
It was he that, in Bab*, on the banks of the Anion,9
The descendants led forth of the hapless Amnion,
When, of merciless Moloch placating the ire, Mothers innocent children consigned to the fire. He dictated the rash vow 0f Jephthah for slaughter,
And conducted the sword in the breast of his daughter.
It was he that the soothsayer Oalchus inmtw'
By his voice, in past years, human victims
were brought; And the shades of the oaks where the Druids
Tell the terrible tale of his fierce homicide. From the Capitol's height, on the pagans he called
With murderous sword on the Christians to fell.
When the cross at last rose o'er the capital's dome.
He entered the church from the ashes of Rome;
In the heart of the Christians, he breathed his fierce flame,
And those who were martyrs persecutors became.
He created in London a turbulent band,*
For refusing their ancient faith to forsake.
This Fanatic Zeal, with its mission in view,
On boldness and craft for success it relies,
That magnificent Guise who with majesty beamed,
And the sovereign of monarohs and empires seemed.
Even death could not crush out the power he swayed,
And France was for long years a battle-ground made, —
That helmet, the ensign of conquest he wears; In his hand, the sword ready for murder he bears;
His Bide, even now, shows the mark of the wound,
When the hero in Blois his assassins had found, And the blood, which appears to gush forth
like a flood, Seems to point to Valois, and to cry out for
In this fearful apn»TM»l di«fio—J