"Because I am unworthy of you-I, so ignorant-so young, and blind." "I will be your eyes, my dearest !" cried the lover, kissing the blue veined lids that drooped over those poor sightless orbs, as with the most tender and earnest assurances, he told Stella all-how her sweetness and childlike simplicity had awakened his deepest love-how he had struggled against it, and finally, how he had found out his error, and was resolved in despite of ill-fortune, pride, poverty, to ask her for his own. And so they plighted their faith one to the other; the blind girl and her lover. One hour, almost one moment, had changed their fate through life. Philip Armytage went home full of deep thought. His step was firmer, his carriage bolder, for he felt that he was no longer a lonely man; he was the guardian of another's happiness; the object of woman's priceless love. He had not only to think of himself, but of her who trusted him, who placed her fate in his keeping. Since yesterday, his whole thoughts were changed; even his worldly prospects seemed brighter now that Stella loved him, and that his fortunes might one day be linked with hers. Poverty looked dim in the distance; he felt a proud consciousness of his own powers; it seemed that he could brave all things-do all things, if Stella might one day be his wife. The glamor of love overspread all he looked upon; and with these delicious feelings, Philip Armytage, before he slept, sat down, and wrote a letter to Mr. Brandreth, asking Stella's hand. It was refused! The father, though not unkind, was firm. He regretted his own error in not having foreseen the end of such a friendship, and courteously, but resolutely, refused to sanction a marriage or even betrothal, so wild and imprudent. The lover read the cold, the formal epistle through twice, before he had comprehended clearly; it came like ice upon fire. The sensible, right-minded Philip Armytage was still under the influence of that sweet, bewildering love-dream. Yet, there the words were, freezing and plain, "that a man without riches should never be the husband of Stella Brandreth." His spirit sank within him; he covered his face, and the burning tears, so seldom wrung from manhood, stole through his fingers. How well he loved the poor blind girl! Night found him still pacing his chamber in utter desolation of heart. Then he yearned once more to look upon the face of her he loved. He longed to tell Stella that he had not forsaken her, that he would never love any but her. Under cover of darkness he stole to her home, crept along the grass to the window of the room where he and Stella had so often sat; the light, through the half-drawn curtains, showed that she was there and alone. From the deep sadness of her face and attitude he guessed that she knew all. Philip touched the window; it was a little way open, and in a moment he stood by her side. Long and mournful was the conference between the two; but when Philip spoke of his departure for Italy, the girl's sorrow amounted almost to agony. "Philip, Philip, do not leave me," she cried imploringly, "I was so desolate before you came; you only brought light and joy to the poor blind girl. No one has loved me but you since my mother died. Philip, I shall die too, if I lose you. Forsake me not, take me with you; as your wife I shall fear nothing, shall regret nothing." Poor Stella! she knew so little of the world, and she was so young, hardly more than a child in years, and a child in simplicity. All that she felt was the anguish of losing him who was the only one who made life precious to her. She clung around his neck, and besought him to stay, in spite of her father, of every one. Bitter, indeed, was the struggle in the young man's bosom; but the right triumphed at last. He would not commit so grievous a sin as to bring sorrow and poverty on the innocent creature who trusted him, by wedding her against her father's will. "Stella, dearest," he said, "you do not know what you ask; we must part for a while. There never comes a blessing on disobedience; and God forbid that I should be the one to steal a child from her father's arms even if I loved her as my heart's blood; and thus love I you, my own Stella.” A deep flush of womanly shame crossed the girl's face. She drew herself from her lover's arms, and stood upright. "I have been wrong, Philip; I have forgotten what I owe to myself, to my father, to you: forgive me; I am very ignorant; you are wiser and better than 1. Forget all this, and only remember that I am blind and lonely, with no one to love me but you. Go, you are right; I will strive to be content in thinking how little I deserved to be loved so well by one like you." Philip used all the sweet language of a lover, to soothe and cheer her. He told her that he would struggle for life and death, to gain that wealth which would enable him to win her; that she was so young; that nothing was impossible to love, and it might only be a few years before he could boldly come and claim his bride. "I ask no promise, but I trust your love, my Stella; you will not doubt mine ?" "Never, never," murmured the girl. "But I need not say farewell now; you will come once more?" she added, trembling. no unhappiness in love, if it be sinless. The stricken heart has shed its odors like a flower; if they are wasted or cast aside, it is sad; but still they have not been poured out in vain, they have perfumed the air around, and the flower has lived amid the incense it made. Again we say, no man or woman, who loved truly, ever loved in vain. And Philip's love for Stella was not in vain; it purified his heart; it taught him his own strength; it nerved to energy a spirit that might otherwise have yielded to apathy. In the thorny path of life, even the strong-minded Philip Armytage might Philip promised, for his patron would re- have sunk in despair but for that poor little main yet a week. He clasped his beloved wayside flower which had brightened his wildly to his heart, leaped through the win-way, if only for a time. Love for a virtuous dow, and was gone. For an hour he haunt-woman is man's best armor against sin, his strongest spur to exertion; and thus, when Philip awoke from his dream of love, he determined resolutely to gain the reality of it. ed the place, until he saw Stella at the window; the lamp showed him her face, pale, sad, and composed; she stayed a moment to breathe the cool night air, and then turned away. It was his last vision of the beautiful blind girl. When, a few days after, Philip came again to the house where he had been so welcome, it was deserted; the Englishman and his daughter had gone, no one knew whether. CHAPTER IV. "How happy is he born and taught And having nothing, yet hath all.” PHILIP ARMYTAGE went to Italy, a weary hearted, disappointed man. He had loved; he loved still; the life of love was over; yet its memory was as a sweet perfume, that would not depart. No true, earnest, pure love can be utterly in vain. Such a love is rarely placed on an unworthy object; and the mere act of loving hallows and elevates the soul. If death takes away the desire of the eyes, who shall repine at having loved, and made life sweet by that love, while it lasted? If, more hard to bear still, comes earthly separation from the beloved, nay, even falsehood, still the poor lonely one has not loved in vain. Why do poets rave about unhappy love? There is How He saw that to saunter lazily through life, as the dependant of a great man, would not be the way to win him his Stella, that he must strive to enter some profession that might give him wealth and a position in society. Yet how, without means of support, was he to attain this end? live while he was studying, how bear the expenses of study? Many a time did he ponder over this, until he was nigh unto despair. There was but one chance, and to that he bent his proud spirit. A greater' testimony could not be given to the intense love which animated him to exertion, for her sake who had awakened it. Philip Armytage came to England, and, uninvited, crossed the threshold of the uncle whose delight he had been in boyhood, and from whom he had parted a year before, if not in anger, at least in coolness; the result of suffering on the one hand, and conscious injustice on the other. He did what will at once stamp him as no hero of romance, but yet what was, in itself, the greatest heroism, as it cost him the severest struggle of his life. He asked humbly, and as a favor, that his uncle would, out of his abundant wealth, supply him with a pittance while he studied for the bar, pledging himself if he lived, to return the loan. Sir Philip Heathcote was not a man of deep feelings, yet he perceived at once how violently those of his nephew were agitated while making this request. He took his hand kindly, almost deprecatingly, for it seemed to him that his dead sister looked at him out of her son's eyes, reproaching until his brave spirit had conquered all difhim for the caprice which had brought ficulties; and, no longer dependent on his Philip so low. uncle's kindness, he took his stand among "Tell me, first, why you are thus anxious those whose eloquence and talents made to become a barrister, my dear boy?" said them renowned in the land. How was the the old man to him. boyish dreamer changed, and become the thoughtful high-hearted man, before whose intellect the wisest bowed, and upon whose eloquent tongue the learned and unlearned, the rude and the gentle, hung spell-bound with equal delight? No shallow sophistry, no underhand double-dealing ever sullied the lips or disgraced the actions of Philip Armytage; he ever stood forward for truth and justice. He showed the dignity of the law, and his strong, clear mind was never warped by meanness or prejudice. The endearing expression, and somewhat of the love of former days, melted away all Philip's lingering pride. He told his uncle why he wished advancement in the world, for the sake of one beloved. "It is foolish, very foolish; a girl so young, and blind too! What sort of a wife will she make, think you, for a man who must struggle with the world?" said the cautious uncle. Philip's pride once more rose up in his heart. "I only asked you if you would show me this kindness; if not, I will depart," he replied, coldly. And not alone at the bar did his fame make its way; but his fine intellect blossomed anew in the sunshine of good for"I must consider," Sir Philip was about tune. His darling dream from his boyto say, still doubtful, when the rustle of hood was realized, he became an author. silks announced the old man's young, beau- The voice of the poet went forth like a tiful, worldly wife, and he hastily grasped trumpet, sounding aloud for the just and his nephew's hand, whispering, "Not a right cause; men listened to it, and woman's word, Philip, you shall have all you lips grew eloquent in praise of the noble wish!" There was much good in the old spirit that was ever on the side of truth and baronet, after all. mercy. His songs went through the length Philip entered on his new career. It and breadth of the land, to prove what the was one from which, in his earlier days of true poet ought to be-not the idle rhymer, academic honors and literary pleasures, he the visionary sentimentalist, but the teachwould have shrunk in disgust, as being wea- er of all high things, the voice of God to risome and dull: but he had now a great mankind, leading them to a purer life, and end to gain, and he heeded not how unin- himself showing the way. The man of geviting was the path that led towards it. nius stands forth as the high priest of DiviMonth after month he pored over dusty nity itself, before whom it befits him to law folios, until his brain grew heated and offer up, not only the first fruits of his weary; but then between him and the page intellect, but the continued sweet savor of would float Stella's face, with the long a life high and pure, and in accordance lashes cast down, and the sweet lips that with the love he teaches. He should realtrembled with every change of feeling, as ize his own ideal, and be what he strives rose petals, by the breath of the breeze. In to delineate. And thus, amidst fame and the day time, when mingling with the hur-high fortune was Philip Armytage the elorying scenes of the life he had chosen, that quent upholder of virtue, the scorner of image grew fainter; but when at night he vice, the earnest, music-breathing poet, the closed his eyes, and his spirit retired within noble man. itself, deep in his heart's core did Philip cherish the memory of Stella. As months, years flew on, and no tidings reached him, this memory became like a dream. He had no clue whereby to trace her, and even if he had, what could it have availed? Still though hope grew less, it never utterly failed him, he could not but think that he should meet her again one day, and no other love ever came to render him forgetful of that which he bore towards her. Thus Philip Armytage went on his way, CHAPTER V. "In the unruffled shelter of thy love, My bark leaped homewards from a rugged sea. And furled its sails, and dropped right peacefully Hope's anchor, quiet as a nested dove."-LOWELL. AMONG the many whose society was pleasant to Philip Armytage, as he was to them, stood foremost an aged couple, who, united late in life, spent their childless old 66 age in pleasing themselves with all that was good and beautiful around. Mrs. Lyle was one of those few women who know how to "grow old gracefully," and are as winning and lovely in their decay as the twilight in a summer evening fading in the grey of night. None of the sourness and cold-heartedness of age was in her gentle nature; she did not turn away from the young and ardent, but rather clung to them and encouraged them. She loved all that was beautiful; she filled her pretty home with pictures, and statues, and books, so that to enter it was like coming into a sweet garden of fancy, in which the continual perfume of a graceful and elegant mind pervaded all things. And about this pleasant home moved its gentle possessor, with her low voice, her kind manner, and her face still beautiful even in age, from the sweet expression it wore. Hither she welcomed many of those who were rising or risen in art and literature, rejoicing with the fortunate, cheering the doubtful, encouraging the struggling, and sympathizing with all, and with none more than with Philip Armytage. One day the young barrister came thither to see Mrs. Lyle. The gentle old lady was in her flower garden; she loved her flowers so much, as indeed she loved everything in which was a shadow of the beautiful-and Philip was shown into an inner room where she received her favorite guests. A pleasant room it was; with its antique furniture, its crimson walls, from which looked the sweet heads of Raffaelle, and the softeyed Madonnas of Guido, besides the pure outlines of Flaxman's marble bas-reliefs, with its painted windows through which the sunlight struggled quaintly, giving an air of dreaminess and mystery to the whole. Philip Armytage half entered, but stayed his feet, for the room was not unoccupied. At the further end a lady sat reading. From her slight but rounded figure she seemed in the meridian of womanhood; her face was turned away, but Philip looked in admiration at the graceful outline of her cheek, and her Grecian shaped head, round which soft golden hair was braided, contrasting with the mourning dress she wore. Wondering who she could be, he came nearer, she turned round, half-bending in acknowledgment to a stranger, and Philip looked upon the face of his early love. Yes! it was indeed Stella; but how changed! the fairy girl was matured in the dignified woman, and those sweet blue eyes, sightless no longer, coldly met his own without recognising Philip Armytage. A chill crept over him; he, who a day before would have flown to clasp her to his bosom, now stood spell-bound by her presence, as if she had been a vision from the dead. "Have you forgotten me ?" at last burst from his quivering lips. At the sound of his voice she started, glanced wildly towards him-her cheek grew marble white and then crimson. "Have you forgotten me, Stella ?-forgotten Philip Armytage" and he took her hand. "No-no-no!" cried the girl, as she clasped it in both hers, and looked eagerly in his face. In a moment Philip's arm was round her, and his long-lost, long-beloved one wept joyful tears upon his breast. "And do you indeed remember me still, Philip?" asked Stella, with a doubtful look in her eyes. "Have all these years brought no change?" "It is you who are changed, my beloved," Philip answered, gazing earnestly at her. An expression of rapturous joy irradiated Stella's face. "Yes! I am not now as when you knew me-I am no longer blind." They sat together, hand in hand, and talked of all that had happened since they parted. Stella told her lover how, after their forced separation, months had glided into years, and still she heard no tidings of him; how she and her father at last returned to England, where the skill of an eminent oculist restored to her the light of day, and all the delights of a world so long shut out from her. Thus her girlhood stole into womanhood, and she entered into society, still keeping faithful to the memory of her early dream, dim and hopeless as it had now become. Then Stella spoke of her father, of his increased kindness, which had continued until his death. Her highspirited brother had gone to India, and she was now all alone, save for the sister of her mother-the gentle-hearted Mrs. Lyle. All this Philip learned, in return for his own tale of faithful love. But Stella, with woman's reserve, did not tell him how entirely the thought of him had engrossed her own. soul; that by night and by day his name was in her heart, his voice in her ear; that she existed but in that one idea, through months and years of absence, during which And she knew not if he ever once remembered tween Hampstead and Highgate, and talk her. She did not tell him how, when his of their old favorites who had loved these fame increased, it reached even to her, and very spots-the young dreamer, Keats, and her woman's heart swelled with pride at Coleridge, the philosopher-poet, and Shelhaving loved and been loved by one so wor- ley, the gentle-hearted, whose life was a thy; how she lived for days on the delight long sunbeam of love and poetry. of having read his name, or heard him when they came home there was Mrs. Lyle, spoken of by strangers with words of praise; ever ready to welcome them with her quiet how she hung over his writings, and traced smile; and then there was some good book there the ripe harvest of mind which she to be read, over which the good-natured, had known in its early luxuriance; and but less ethereally incliued friend dozed in how at times came the wild yearning to see sweet oblivion: or else Stella sang to her him once more, and to know if in the me- lover the dear old songs, of which she had mory of the honored man of genius lingered not forgotten one-not even the one which one thought of the blind girl he had once he had first listened to in the gay soirée, loved, and who returned that love with such when sung by the blind English maiden. passionate devotion, though it was buried in the depths of her inmost heart. This sweet communion was broken by the entrance of Mrs. Lyle; but all was soon revealed to her, and she rejoiced with almost a mother's joy over the happiness of the two whom she loved so well. Once more Philip and Stella renewed their early vows; there was now no impediment to their union, save in that lingering pride which made the lover shrink from receiving from his wife those worldly riches with which it would have been his delight to load her. But the young barrister was still poor, and Stella was an heiress. When Philip spoke of this, she answered with the loving dignity of a woman, who, with her heart, gives her all "Do you remember, Philip, years ago when I was a wild, foolish girl, I besought you to take me as your wife, and you nobly refused to bring sorrow upon me in return for my love? I am now a woman, wiser, I trust, and more worthy of you, though still most humble compared to Philip Armytage. But such as I am, take me, and all that is mine; I count it as nothing when I think of the bliss of being beloved by one like you." And now the betrothed lovers entered on that sweet time when the doubt and fear of love is over, and the two heart-united ones stood on the threshold of wedded life, and looked forward to the future as an endless vista of pleasant paths to be trodden together. How sweet were the long summer evenings when Philip left weary, dull, dusty London behind him, and came to Mrs. Lyle's cottage at Hampstead, that prettiest of pretty spots, which, but for its metropolitan prestige, would be thought a very Arcadia! It was very pleasant to Philip and Stella to stroll along the green lanes be Day by day Stella's character unfolded itself more to her betrothed-not as the sweet, innocent girl, whose helplessness had entwined her round the heart of the strong man, in spite of her half-formed mind so inferior to his own, with a tie in which compassion had awakened love; but as the matured, high-souled woman, whose ripened, cultivated powers made her a help meet for the man of intellect. Philip Armytage did not know how much of this was owing to himself. A woman's character in afterlife often, nay almost always, takes its nature from that of her first love-not her first crude, girlish fancy, but the one who unsealed the fountain of woman's feelings. She becomes like him she loves; her thoughts and predilections take their hue from his; if she weds him, their union is thus made sweeter by sympathy; if not, however her lot may be cast, she never entirely ceases to be influenced by those feelings which he first created and guided. Thus, had Stella loved one of inferior mind, she would never have become what she was now, her nature would have sunk to his, and many of its hidden treasures would have lain dormant for ever. But though hardly a trace remained of the undeveloped character of the blind girl, Stella still preserved the pure simplicity and meekness which distinguished her then. She was still as humble-minded, as devoted to him she loved, hardly bestowing a thought on her surpassing beauty and her many attractions, except so far as they made her more precious to him and more worthy to be his wife. And such was the bride whom, ere the leaves of autumn had fallen to the earth, Philip Armytage took to his home and to his heart, a treasure long wooed, long sighed for, at last won! |