The words were very tender-made still more so by the inexpressible sweetness of the tone. What music there was at times in Paul Lynedon's voice! No wonder it should echo in that poor self-deceiving heart like a celestial melody. "I have not yet inquired after your father and mother; they are well, I hope? May I not see them to-day?" "Yes, certainly;" said Katharine. "And-and-your cousin-Miss Eleanor, I mean?" Paul's head here turned toward the fire, and his fingers busied themselves in playing with a loose tassel on the arm-chair. "Eleanor is very well. I had a letter from her to-day," Katharine answered. "A letter !" "Yes; she was sent for a week since by her old friend, Mrs. Breynton. She told me to say how sorry she was not to bid you adieu; indeed, we half expected you every day last week." A slight exclamation of vexed surprise rose to Paul's lips, but he suppressed it, and only tore the tassel into small bits. No indication of what was in his mind conveyed itself to Katharine's; she sat with her sweet, downcast eyes and trembling lips, drinking in nothing but deep happiness. So habitual was Paul Lynedon's command over his voice and features, that when he turned round there was no shade of disappointment visible on his countenance-at least, only sufficient to give a joyful thrill to Katharine's unsuspecting heart, as he said— "How sorry I am-really quite vexed. You must have thought me very unkind and forgetful to stay away a whole fortnight." Katharine did not know whether to say yes or no. She was in a rapturous dream, whose light flooded and dazzled all her thoughts and senses. "But you will forgive me, dear Katharine, and ask your cousin to do the same when you write? Will that be soon ?" יי.I 66 Oh, yes; we write very often, Eleanor and "How pleasant," said Paul Lynedon; while his thoughts flew far away, and the few words with which he tried to keep up the conversation only sufficed to make it more confused and broken. Katharine never noticed how absent his manner grew. She was absorbed in the happiness of sitting near him, hearing him speak, and stealing glances, now and then, at that calm, intellectual face, which to her seemed even more beautiful in its thoughtful composure than when lighted up by animation; and perhaps, had she considered it at all, his silence would have only seemed another token of the blessed secret which she fancied she read in the deep tenderness of his words and manner. To him the time passed rather wearily-it was a duty of kindness and consideration—at first pleasant, then somewhat dull, and possibly a relief when fulfilled. To her, the bliss of a year, nay, a life-time, was comprised in that one half-hour. At the moment it seemed a dizzy trance of confused joy, formless and vague, but in after-hours it grew distinct; each word, each look, each gesture, being written on her heart and brain in letters of golden light, until at last they turned to fire. 1 Hugh came in, looking not particularly pleased. Though he had a strong suspicion that his sister Eleanor was Paul Lynedon's chief attraction at Summerwood, he never felt altogether free from a vague jealousy on Katharine's account. But the warmth with which his supposed rival met him quite re-assured the simple-hearted, goodnatured Hugh; and while the two young men interchanged greetings, Katharine crept away to her own room. There, when quite alone, the full tide of joy was free to flow. With an emotion of almost child-like rapture she clasped her hands above her head. "It may come-that bliss! It may come yet!" she murmured; and then she repeated his words the words which now ever haunted her like a perpetual music- "I almost love Katharine Ogilvie!" "It may be true-it must be-how happy am I!" And as she stood with her clasped hands pressed on her bosom, her head thrown back, the lips parted, the face beaming, and her whole form dilated with joy, Katharine caught a sight of her figure in the opposite mirror. She was startled to see herself so lovely. There is no beauty like happiness, especially the happiness of love. It often seems to invest with a halo of radiance the most ordinary face and form. No wonder was it, that, under its influence, Katharine hardly knew her own semblance. But, in a moment, a delicious consciousness of beauty stole over her. It was not vanity, but a wild gladness, that thereby she might be more worthy of him. She drew nearer; she gazed' almost lovingly on the bright young face reflected there, not as if it were her own, but as something fair and precious in his sight, which accordingly became most dear to hers. She looked into the depths of the dark, clear eyes. one day it might be his joy to do the same. She marked the graceful curves of the round, white hand-the same hand which had rested in his perhaps the time might come when it would rest there forever. The thought made it most beautiful, most hallowed in her eyes. Ah! Simple, childlike Katharine-a child in all but love-if thou could'st have died in that blessed dream! The sudden delirium of joy passed away, and left a still gladness, which lighted up her eyes and trembled in her lips, making her whole countenance beautiful. As she went down to dinner, she passed the open door of the study, and entered it for a moment. How changed it seemed!-the memorial altar of Death had become the sanctuary of Love. A little, Katharine's heart smote her, and a few tears fell, awakened by one sudden thought of him who was gone. But how could the dear, yet now faint memory of the dead, contend with the fresh, glad fount of youth and first love that sprung up in her heart, filling it with sunshine and singing evermore; so that the light and the music shut out all sorrowful sights and sounds, or changed them into joy. It could not be; it never is so in this world. And Nature, who makes the greenest grass and the brightest flowers to grow over graves, thus teaches us that, in this ever renewed current of life, there is deep wisdom and infinite love. Paul Lynedon staid all the day. It was one of quiet pleasure to every one. Mr.-or, as Paul arine saw his earnest, almost abstracted look; found some difficulty in calling him, Sir Robert she knew not that he was touched less by the -Ogilvie was glad to have a talk about politics, present, than by recollections of a happy past, and his lady was delighted that a visitor had at and vague plans for a future. That future was last arrived to break the formal gloom of a house- now all centered in Eleanor Ogilvie. hold over which death had passed, but scarcely sorrow. Hugh had an engagement elsewhere. This fact, while Sir Robert took his after-dinner nap, cost Lady Ogilvie a long apology, which her guest thought infinitely more wearisome than the circumstance for which it was meant to atone. "Though easting no reproach on your nephew's agreeable society," said the polite Lynedon, "I assure you, my dear Lady Ogilvie, that I shall be quite content, and, indeed, gratified, to have your daughter all to myself for a whole evening, such good friends as we are. Is it not so, Katharine ?" and he took the young girl's hand with the affectionate familiarity which he had established between them. How bright, how joyful, were the answering blush and smile! Paul Lynedon saw both. He was flattered at having so completely conquered the shyness of this young creature, who, in the intervals of his sudden passion for Eleanor, had at once interested, amused, and puzzled him. He could not but perceive the admiring reverence of himself which her whole manner unconsciously showed; and a proud man likes to be worshiped and looked up to, especially by the other sex. To be sure, Katharine was still a mere child; but there was something even in the devotion of a young girl that gratified his self-esteem and love of approbation-both very strong in Paul Lynedon. So his manner toward Katharine took a deeper and tenderer meaning-more so than even he intended it should. Though the other fair image, which he fancied so dear, still lingered in his heart, and he was haunted all that evening with shadowy visions of Eleanor, still he talked to Katharine as men will idly talk, never dreaming that every low, affectionate tone-every speaking look, thoughtlessly lavished on an interesting girl, went deep to the most passionate recesses of a woman's heart. After tea, Paul's. eyes wandered to the little recess where harp and piano stood. Perhaps his lover-like fancy conjured up there the sweet, calm face and bending figure of Eleanor "You feel dull without music. Is not that what you are thinking of?" inquired Katharine, timidly. A tacit prevarication, by which more tender consciences than Paul's often deem it no wrong to compromise truth, enabled him to answer, Yes; I was wishing to ask you to sing, but did not like so soon after-" and he stopped. Katharine looked grave, and her eyes filled with tears. "Perhaps I ought not.-Yet he always loved to see me happy, and he liked you so much! Mr. Lynedon, I will try to sing, if it will give you any pleasure. May I not, mamma ?" But Lady Ogilvie had gone comfortably to sleep in the inner drawing-room. Katharine sang; it was wonderful how much she had improved in that one little week. Paul listened, praised, and made her try over all his favorites which Eleanor had sung to him. Kath Under the influence of these thoughts and projects Paul felt happy. He took leave of the family-of Katharine especially, with a cheerful, tender light in his eyes-those beautiful soft gray eyes, which at times were more eloquent than even his tongue. "I am going a short journey, but I shall not be away long. A fortnight, at furthest, will see me again at Summerwood." "We shall be happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," said Sir Robert, cordially; you quite one of the family." you see we make "It is my greatest happiness," answered Paul, with a delighted look, and a tone of deeper earnestness than Katharine had ever heard him use. It made her little heart flutter wildly. Quicker still it throbbed, when Lynedon entreated Sir Robert not to stir from the fireside.-"Your good-by and your good-speed shall be the last, dear Katharine, if you will come with me to the door." She did so, trembling all over. When they stood together in the hall, he took both her hands in his, and held them there for a long time, looking down tenderly upon her agitated face. You will think of me when I am away?you will be glad to see me when I come again?" he whispered, in those low, winning tones, which men like him thoughtlessly pour into a young girl's ear. "Yes," was all she could answer; but he saw that her slight frame quivered like a reed, and that the large, limpid eyes which she raised to his, for one instant only, were swimming in tears. As he gazed, a thrill of pleased vanity, not unmingled with a deeper, tenderer feeling, came over Paul Lynedon. With a sudden impulse, he stooped down and kissed the tearful eyes-the trembling lips, which had silently betrayed so much. "God bless you, Katharine-dearest Katharine !" were his last words. Their echoes rang through her life for years. Lynedon, as he rode home. felt rather annoyed that he had committed himself in this way. But he could not help it, she looked so pretty. And then, she was a mere child after all, and would be his little cousin soon, he hoped. With this thought, he dismissed the subject, and the image of Katharine glided into that of Eleanor Oglivie. But she-the young creature whom he left behind-stood there, absorbed in a trance of delirious rapture. She saw nothing-felt nothing-but the vanished face, and the touch that lingered on her lips and eyelids. It seemed as if with that kiss a new soul-his soul-had passed into her own, giving it a second life. She awoke, as if in another world, feeling her whole being changed and sublimated. With her, every thing in existence now tended toward one thought, one desire, one passionate and yet solemn prayer-that she might one day be worthy to lay down her life, her love, her very soul, at the feet of Paul Lynedon. THERE is, in one of the counties between Devon and Northumberland, a certain cathedral city, the name of which I do not intend to reveal. It is, or was, until very lately, one of the few remaining strongholds of high Churchism and Conservatism, political and moral. In olden days it almost sacrificed its existence as a city for the cause of King Charles the Martyr, and ever since has kept true to its principles, or at least to that modification of them which the exigencies of modern times required. And the "loyal and ancient" town-which dignifies itself by the name of city, though a twenty minutes' walk would bring you from one extremity to the other-is fully alive to the consciousness of its own deservings. It is a very colony of Levites; who, devoted to the temple-service, shut out from their precincts any unholy thing. But this unholiness is an epithet of their own affixing, not Heaven's. It means not merely what is irreligious, but what is ungenteel, unaristocratic, unconservative. Yet there is much that is good about the place and its inhabitants. The latter may well be proud of their ancient and beautiful city-beautiful, not so much in itself as for its situation. It lies in the midst of a fertile and gracefully undulated region, and consists of a cluster of artistical, irregular, and deliciously old-fashioned streets, of which the cathedral is the nucleus; rising aloft with its three airy spires, so light, so delicately traced, that they have been christened the Ladies of the Vale; you may see them for miles and miles, looking almost like a fairy building against the sky. The city has an air of repose, an oldworld look, which becomes it well. No railway has yet disturbed the sacred peace of its antiquity, and here and there you may see grass growing in its quiet streets, over which you would no more think of thundering in a modern equipage, than of driving a coach-and-four across the graves of your ancestors. The whole atmosphere of the place is that of sleepiness and antique propriety. The people do every thing, as Boniface says, "soberly." They have grave dinner-parties once or twice in the year; a public ball, as solemn as a funeral; a concert now and then, very select and proper; and so it is that society moves on in a circle of polite regularities. The resident bishop is the sun of the system, around which deans, sub-deans, choral vicars, and clerical functionaries of all sorts revolve in successive orbits with their separate satellites. But one character and tone of feeling pervade every body. It is a city of serene old age, nobody seems young at Lnot even the little singing-boys. But the sanctum sanctorum, the penetralia of the city, is a small region surrounding the cathedral, and entitled the Close. Here abide relics of ancient sanctity, widows of departed deans, maiden descendants of officials who probably chanted anthems on the accession of George III., or the downfall of the last Pretender. Here, too, is the residence of many cathedral functionaries, who pass their lives within the precincts of the sanctuary. These dwellings have imbibed the clerical and dignified solemnity due to their neighborhood. It seems always Sunday in the Close, and the child who ventured to bowl a hoop along its still pavement, or play at marbles on its door-steps, would be more daring than ever was infant within the verge of the city of LIn this spot was the residence of Mrs. Breynton. But it looked down upon its neighbors in the Close with sublime dignity, inasmuch as it was a detached mansion, inclosed by high walls, gardens, and massive gates. It had once been the bishop's palace, and was a beautiful relic of the stately magnificence of old. Large and lofty rooms, oak-paneled, and supported by pillars, noble staircases, recesses, where proscribed traitors might have hid; gloomy bed-chambers with spectral furniture, meet for the visitation of legions of ghosts; dark passages, where you might shiver at the echo of your own footsteps -such was the internal appearance of the house. Every thing was solemn, still-agestricken. But without, one seemed to pass at once from the frigidity of age to the light gladness and freshness of youth. A lovely garden, redolent of sweet odors, alive with birds, studded with velvety grass-plots of the brightest green, interwound by shady alleys, with here and there trees which hid their aged boughs in a mantle of leaves and flowers, so that one never thought how they and the gray pile they neighbored had come into existence together. It was like the contrast between a human mind which the world teaches and builds on its own fading model, and the soul of God's making and nourishing, which lives in His sunshine and His dews, fresh and pure, grows never old, and bears flowers to the last. There, in that still garden, you might sit for hours, and hear no world-sounds to break its quiet, except the chimes of the cathedral-clock, drowsily ringing out the hours. Now and then, at service-time, there would come a faint murmur of chanting, uniting the visible form of holy service with Nature's eternal words and prayers, and so blending the spiritual and the tangible, the symbol and the expression, in a pleasant harmony. Dear, beautiful garden! No dream of fiction, but a little Eden of memory-let us rest awhile in thy lovely shades, before we people them with the denizens of this our self-created world. Oh! pleasant garden! let us go back in spirit to the past, and lie down on the green, sloping bank, under the magnificent old tree with its cloud of white blossoms-no poet-sung hawthorn, though, but only a double-cherrylet us stroll along the terrace-walk, and lean against the thick, low wall, looking down upon what was once the cathedral-moat, but is now a sloping dell, all trailed over with blackberries— let us watch the sun-lit spires of the old cathedral, in a quiet dreaminess that almost shuts out thought-let us rest under the shadow of this dream-its pictures made life-like to us by the accompaniment of solemn music, such as this:O earth so full of dreary noises; O men with wailing in your voices; O delved gold-the wailer's heap: O strife-O tears that o'er it fall, God makes a silence through you all! And giveth his beloved sleep. Ir was hardly possible to imagine a greater contrast than that between Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor Ogilvie. Not so much that of youth and age, or beauty and ugliness, for the lady of the palace was certainly not very old, and might once have been decidedly handsome. But there was a line-and-plummet regularity, an angular preciseness in Mrs. Breynton's mind and person, that was altogether opposed to Hogarth's curve "of beauty and grace." She was like a correct mathematical figure, altogether made up of right lines. A bishop's niece, a canon's daughter, and a dean's widow, she had lived all her life under the shadow of the cathedral walls. It was her world-she could imagine no greater-and in it she had passed a life serene, sedate, unbroken, save by two shocks the death of the dean, and an event still more terrible, her only brother's relinquishment of the church for the army. The first she recovered in time; the second she atoned for by bringing up that favorite brother's orphan son, to restore the credit of the family, through the induction of surplice and band. The elder lady and her companion sat together in the breakfast-room. It was the only apartment in the house that was small enough to be comfortable, and this shadow of domestic cosiness was taken away by one-half of it being transformed by a glass partition-wall into a conservatory. But this conservatory was unlike all others, inasmuch as it had dead brick walls and high windows, through which little light could penetrate, so that it looked as if the room had been made into a vegetable menagerie. Mrs. Breynton always made a rule of sitting still after breakfast for half an hour, during which time she read her letters, decided upon the day's avocations, and knitted one square of an eternal counterpane, that seemed likely to enter on its duties for the first time as the shroud of its centenarian fabricator. "Eleanor, my dear!" said the measured tones of the dean's widow. Eleanor had entered the menagerie with the charitable intention of opening the window to give air to its caged occupants. "My dear Eleanor!" repeated in a tone higher, made her turn round, and answer the call. "I merely wished to remind you that we never open the conservatory window until Easter, and it is now only the week before Lent." Mrs. Breynton knitted another row in silence, and then observed "Eleanor, my reference to this season of Lent, has made me remember how near it is to the Ember weeks. I wonder I did not hear from Philip to-day." Sudden blushes rarely came to Eleanor's clear, pale cheek; her feelings were too calm. But now she felt glad that she sat in the shade, for Mrs. Breynton's thoughts had taken the same direction as her own. Perhaps he will write to-morrow," was the very ordinary reply that she found herself able to make. "I hope so; but he has rarely suffered Tuesday morning to pass by; and it would have been pleasant to me to know that he is quite prepared for taking orders." "This year-so soon!" Certainly, my dear. He was three-andtwenty last month-just in time. I have already spoken to the bishop about the curacy of Wearmouth; and old Mr. Vernon, the rector of that place, is not likely, in course of nature, to live more than two or three years. I consider that there are few young men with better prospects than my nephew; and I think I may flatter myself on having been, to a certain degree, instrumental in his well-being." "Indeed, he owes you much! But I am sure, from what I know of Mr. Wychnor, that your kindness will be requited with interest." A pleased, though very frigid smile bent the thin lips of the dean's widow. "I am quite satisfied that Philip will do credit to his family. I have no fault to find with him, except, perhaps, that he is not regular enough in his studies, and has a fancy for always carrying with him a volume or two of idle poetry-not quite the thing for a young clergyman to read. But he will get over that; and if he conducts himself well in his curacy, and marries to please me, as I have little doubt he will" (here Mrs. Breynton glanced approvingly at Eleanor's gracefullydrooped head), "why then Philip will have no cause to regret that he is my nephew. But it already ten o'clock, and I have to speak to the gardener about transplanting some geraniums. Eleanor, will you be kind enough to ring for Davis ?" Long after the old lady had attired herself, and been seen slowly traversing the gardenwalks, Eleanor sat musing on her latter words, "If Philip marries to please me." It was almost the first time she had ever heard the word marriage on Mrs. Breynton's lips. The palace had always seemed a quiet, innocent paradise, wherein there was no mention of the one feeling which in society is often diluted into a meaningless and contemptible jest, or made the cause of all strife, evil, and sorrow. Eleanor and Philip, shut up together, like two young birds, in this Eleanor closed the windows, looking compas- peaceful Eden, had glided into love without any sionately at the poor orange-trees, which could one's taking apparent notice of the fact, and only drink in air and light by rule and measure. almost without knowing it themselves. The She came into the breakfast-room, and sat watch-flower had sprung up in their hearts, and grown ing the sunshine that struggled in, and rested on an old picture-the only one in the room-a portrait of a rosy, golden-haired little boy. The original was the canon Francis Wychnor, whose monument stood in the cathedral nave. Could he have ever been a child? leaf by leaf, bud by bud, neither could tell how. No doubts and jealousies from the world outside had ever come between them. Their perfect love was perfect trust-the deep faith between two beings who feel that they are formed for one another, and are united to their heart's core. T They never talked about their love-Philip made | seems to admire it so much. I mention this, no declarations-Eleanor asked no vows-and Mr. Lynedon, because, under my escort, you when they parted, for the short visit at Summer- will be able to see the Ladye Chapel, the vaults, wood, there was no formal farewell, only as they and other interesting parts, where visitors are stood at the hall-door, Philip pressed her hand not admitted in general; but I, as connected closer to his arm, and saidwith the cathedral-" "Take care of yourself, Eleanor-my Eleanor!-remember you are dearest to me of all the world." Eleanor believed it, and felt from that moment that she was betrothed to him in heart and soul. She rested in the knowledge full of trust in him, in his true, earnest, noble nature. Satisfied with this, she had not thought much of the future, until Mrs. Breynton's words awakened a restlessness, and an anxious looking forward. Eleanor knew Philip's heart better than any one, and foreboded that all these projects for his future advantage were little likely to be seconded by him. She sat pondering for nearly an hour, when she was summoned into the drawing-room by the arrival of a visitor. It was the last person in the world whom she expected. "Mr. Lynedon; this is, indeed, a surprise;" cried Eleanor. There was a slight confusion in his manner which was very soon reflected in hers, for just at that moment Mrs. Breynton entered. The extreme frigidity of her reception was enough to produce an uncomfortable feeling in any maiden of nineteen, who had to introduce a strange gentleman-arrived, apparently, without any object but that of seeing her. "Mrs. Breynton, this is Mr. Lynedon, a friend of my uncle Ogilvie's, who was staying at Summerwood. I believe I spoke of him." "Of course, my dear madam; how fortunate that I have the pleasure of an introduction from one so important as yourself," said Paul Lynedon, trying not to smile at the clerical pride of this relative of so many departed dignitaries. His tendency for delicately polite satire became almost irrepressible, until, in the midst of his pretended deference, he caught Eleanor's pure, soft eyes fixed on him. The reproach she was hardly conscious of giving, he felt, and stopped immediately. Excited by her presence, Paul's longing to unfold his love, and receive his requital, grew stronger than ever. He tried every expedient that courtesy could either sanction or conceal, in order to get the old lady out of the room. But Mrs. Breynton had been brought up in the old-world school of proprieties, and had no idea of leaving a young lady and gentleman alone together for five minutes, unless they were plighted lovers. So during two interminable hours, Paul had not an opportunity of exchanging one word with Eleanor, except on the most trivial subjects, and even then Mrs. Breynton's quick, black eyes followed him with a hawk-like pertinacity, that was any thing but pleasant. Paul grew quite nervous. "It will come to a letter after all, and I hate the idea of a proposal in ink. Confound that stupid old woman!"' thought Lynedon, while the impetuosity of his character foamed and boiled under the check he was forced to put upon it. At last Mrs. Breynton proposed to visit the cathedral. "Pray do not let me encroach upon you too much," said Paul; "the verger will show me, or if Miss Ogilvie would favor me so far." His eyes turned toward Eleanor; so did Mrs. Breynton's; but there was not the shadow of a love-plot suggested in that calm, mild face. I have not the slightest recollection of the fact, my dear; but any friend of yours, or of Sir Robert Ogilvie's is welcome to my house. Pray be seated, Mr. Excuse me, Eleanor, but I did not catch the gentleman's name." "Lynedon," answered Paul, somewhat disconcerted by the cold, penetrating gaze of Mrs. Breynton. However, he made an effort and recovered his self-command. "I bear credentials from Summerwood, which I hope will atone for "Indeed, Mr. Lynedon, I should be very glad this intrusion, a few books, which Miss Ogilvie to act as your guide, only Mrs. Breynton knows was sending to her cousin. Happening to pur- so much more than I do about these curious old pose a journey which would lead me through monuments. However, we will both go with your city, I volunteered to deliver them. Per-you." haps this was hardly disinterested, as I was glad of an excuse to stay and see your beautiful cathedral." Mrs. Breynton began to thaw. To praise our cathedral," and manifest interest therein, was a certain road to her favor. From the few words she answered, Paul Lynedon was sharpsighted enough to discover this, and he followed up his game with great patience and ingenuity. While Eleanor examined the books he had brought, he talked the dean's lady into the best of humors. She took him to the window which looked on the cathedral-yard, explained its architecture from top to bottom, and finally, delighted with the interest that he evinced, and his evident skill in antiquarian lore-Paul was the cleverest of tacticians in displaying every whit of his knowledge-she invited her unexpected guest to stay to luncheon. "Then, Eleanor, my dear, we can afterward show the cathedral to Mr. Lynedon, since he C 66 Certainly Eleanor," acquiesced Mrs. Breynton, with an air of complete re-assurance; while Paul forced his hand so precipitately into his glove that he tore it right in two. But, as if the favoring stars looked with pity on the vexed lover, it so chanced that the bishop's lady drove up to the gates just as the three were setting out. Mrs. Breynton was forced to return, and Paul at last found himself alone with Eleanor. |