Westminster Abbey, it would have been quite impossible for him to tell. When they came out, a sudden fear urged him to make the most of the time. "Do not let us go in yet. I should like to see the view from the terrace you spoke of," he said, hurriedly. They walked to the garden terrace. "I really am much obliged to you for being Katharine's messenger-it was so kind and thoughtful of her to make me this present, and to choose such nice books, too," observed Elea nor. Paul felt that he must "do or die." He stood still in his walk, took her hand and said, in a deep, low whisper "Miss Ogilvie, you are mistaken, Katharine never sent those books, it was but my excuse for seeing you. I can not live any longer without saying, 'Eleanor, I love you!" Why do you start-why do you turn away? Eleanor, you must hear me-you must answer me.' She could not—indeed, he hardly allowed her time-but went on rapidly รา "You were so kind, so gentle, when we were at Summerwood—I thought you might love me, or would let me teach you to do so in time. Eleanor, is it so? tell me or have I deceived myself?" Eleanor's reply was the one terrible word— "Yes!" Paul Lynedon did not answer. He leaned against the wall and covered his face. Eleanor, startled, pained, almost terrified, was also silent. They stood thus for some minutes. At last Eleanor said "You must not think bitterly of me. I did regard you very much as a friend, but I had no idea of this. Mr. Lynedon, you do not think I deceived you?" "No, no-it was my own madness," muttered Paul; "the fool I was! to think I had read a woman's heart. Well! it will be a lesson to me. Miss Ogilvie, I trust you will pardon me," he said, in a tone that savored more of wounded pride than of heart-broken love. "And you will forgive me for thus making you unhappy. Indeed, I would fain have been saved this trial, for I respect you very much," answered that soft voice which took its modulations from Eleanor's own tender heart. It touched Paul's, even amidst the throng of angry and bitter feelings that were rising there. "For God's sake, Miss Ogilvie, tell me why you reject me! Is it simply because I have been so hasty, that I have not given you time to love me, or because you love another?" A deep crimson rose to Eleanor's very brow. Paul saw the blush; his pride took arms against his lingering love, and drove it from the field. "You need not speak-I am answered; Miss Ogilvie, let me hope that you will forget this unfortunate betrayal of feelings you do not return; and accept my best wishes for your happiness. Look! I see your friend at the window; shall we retrace our steps?—I wish to heaven it could be done in more ways than one," added the rejected lover in a bitter aside, which Eleanor's agitation prevented her from hearing. If she had, it might have saved her gentle heart from many a painful thrill of womanly pity, and shown her how rootless, and how easily extinguished is the love which springs up suddenly in the breast of a proud and impetuous man, and with the thwarting of its own selfish impulse as quickly dies away. No man who loves worthily, however hopelessly, will mingle bitterness and anger with his sorrow, or say to the sunbeams under whose brightness he had walked for a time, “I would ye had never shone !" Eleanor and Lynedon re-entered the house in silence. Mrs. Breynton looked at them with a politely-qualified curiosity; but the answer to her penetrating inquiry appeared sufficiently satisfactory, for she took no notice of the discovery. And the reverend and reverenced shadow of the bishopess was still upon the good lady, who felt herself bound to reflect on all around the high dignity and honor of this rare visit, shutting out every minor consideration. "I shall be always happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," she said, replying to her guest's hurried adieus; and, with a stately politeness, "I regret that my nephew is not here, but we expect him shortly.” Paul glanced at Eleanor. In the drooped head in the bright rosy dye which suffused the very throat-he read the secret of his rejection. He turned hastily away, and his hurried strides resounded heavily down the pavement of the close. There was a little child playing in his path-he drove the frightened boy aside with a fiery glance, and a command that sounded almost like an execration. Spirit of true and pure Loveeven though sorrow-vailed-couldst thou have been in his soul and suffered this? "Well! he is the strangest young man I ever knew, is Mr. Paul Lynedon," was Mrs. Breynton's comment as she watched him from the window of the palace; "really, Eleanor-" But Eleanor had left the room to relieve her troubled heart with a gush of pent-up tears. This sudden knowledge of another's love had unvailed to her more completely the depths of her own, and shown her how her whole soul was bound up in Philip Wychnor. And no matter in how happy and hopeful a light this consciousness may come, there is always something solemn, almost fearful to a woman, who thus stands, as it were, on the brink of a life-destiny; feeling that in the future nothing can be perfectly sure or clear but the faithful love in her own heart. Yet that love is her fairest omen-her safest anchor-her chiefest strength, except in Heaven! And while Eleanor lingered alone, in thoughtful musings that were almost prayers, and Paul Lynedon dashed on his way in angry sorrow, determined to travel abroad, and so crush out of his heart every memory of his slighted love, Mrs. Breynton-good, easy soul-sat dozing over her netting, and thinking how very condescending was the new bishop's lady, when the first invitation to dinner would arrive, and whether she should wear the black velvet or the Irish poplin. Oh! youth, with thy fiery heart-which, after all, is nearest to Heaven in the nobleness that thrills through its wildest beatings-canst thou ever freeze into such a dead, dull calm as this? CHAPTER XIII. I ask no vengeance from the powers above; LYTTLETON. The bottom is but shallow whence they come. character in his way-civilly pointed out many a lovely pastoral view, among which, from every point, the "Ladies of the Vale" could be seen airily towering into the clear sky; and, with melancholy emphasis, did the foreboding hero of the whip point out the line where the threatened railway was to traverse this beautiful champaign, and bring at last the evil spirit of reform and progress into the time-honored sanctity of the cathedral town. But Lynedon hated the very name of the place. All he noticed in his neighbor's conversation was the atrocious S-shire accent, and he came to the conclusion that the English peasantry were the rudest in the world. LYNEDON strode through the quiet grassgrown streets of L-, his feet winged by the impetuous anger of a thwarted will. Despite the impulse of this sudden passion, it had cost him considerable effort, before the gay and At last Paul's mind began to settle into a few courted man of the world could resolve to give straightforward resolves with regard to his fuup his liberty, and immolate himself on the ture proceedings. The coach was bearing him matrimonial shrine for any woman soever. And toward London-but could he go there, within now the heroic resolution was wholly needless-reach of the sneers of the already suspecting the momentous sacrifice was rejected as an un- Mrs. Lancaster? No; he would pretend urvalued offering. The first proposal of marriage gent affairs, and rush abroad; and to do this, he with which Paul Lynedon had ever honored the must first go home. sex, had been refused. And by whom? By a simple country girl, who had, he now thought, neither beauty, nor fascinations of manner, nor -fortune. Home! It was a rare word in Paul Lynedon's vocabulary; very few of his friends knew of its existence at all, and he never sought to enlighten their ignorance; for, in fact, he was considerably ashamed of the circumstance. He remembered that last circumstance now, though, to do Paul justice, he had not considered The penultimate descendant of the time-honit before-for he was not a mercenary man. ored Lynedon race had sought to redeem his Even while it stung his pride, it brought a faint fortunes by trade. Paul's father had been a cotconsolation to his sense of worldly wisdom. It ton-manufacturer. The moderate fortune which had certainly saved him from perpetrating a now enabled the son to take his stand in that most improvident marriage. He "laid the flat-sphere to which his birth entitled him, had sprung tering unction to his soul," but it proved only a from the red brick mill, with its black windows, temporary balsam; the sting still remained- its ever-dinning wheels. The grim phantom wounded pride-selfish, angry sorrow, like that had been the horror of Paul Lynedon's youthof a child over a lost toy-and perhaps a deeper, it haunted him even yet. Perhaps, had his betpurer feeling, that regretted the vanished spell of that gentle woman's nature, under which every better impulse of his own had been reawakened. That which he had felt was not the real love, the one sole love of life; but no man could have entered even within the shadow of Eleanor Ogilvie's influence, without some true, deep chords being sounded in his heart: and from their silence came the pain, the only sincere and virtuous pain which Paul Lynedon experienced. To lull it, he walked for miles across the country, striving by physical exercise to deaden the excitement of his mind. It was a lovely region through which he passed-all woodland or pasture-grounds-but the young man saw nothing. Nature, pure, unalloyed nature, was rarely his delight: his perceptions, though refined, were not simple enough to relish such pleasures. Now he only felt that the roads were insufferably muddy, and the fields hatefully quiet. He did not marvel at the taste of a woman brought up in such scenes; he only cursed his own folly for ever having seen any charm in rural innocence. He would eschew such sentimentality in future; he would go back to the gay, care-drowning world-plunge in London life—or, what seemed far better, travel abroad once more. Under this impulse he sprang on a coach that was then passing, caring little whither it bore him, so that it was far away from L— Lynedon intrenched himself in proud reserve beside the coachman, and scarcely answered even in monosyllables, when this individual-a ter self gained free play, he would not have so wholly sought to stifle the memory of the place where, years before, the aristocratic father, equally proud, but yet noble in his pride, had put his hand to the plough, and never once looked back until he had replaced ancestral wealth by the wealth of industry. Paul's conscience, and his appreciative reverence for virtue, acknowledged all this, but he had not strength of mind to brave the world, and say so. Therefore, while he would not part with the simple dwelling where his gray-haired father and his young mother had both died, and where his sister and himself had spent their orphaned childhood-still Lynedon rarely alluded to his "home," and scarcely ever visited it. The distant sound of the horrible cotton-mill, now long since passed into other hands, almost drove him wild still. No head with brains could endure the din. On his rare visits he usually made a circumbendibus of half a mile to avoid it. He did so now, notwithstanding the weariness caused by his long night journey. At last, in the sunshine of early morning, he stood by his own door. It had been a straight-staring, plain-fronted house, of the eternal red brick peculiar to the manufacturing districts. But the builder's want of taste was concealed by the late owner's possession of that graceful quality. Over the staring front were trained ivy, clematis, and vine, converting it into a very bower of greenery. And amidst the formal garden had been planted quick-growing lime-trees, that now formed "pleached alleys," wherein even poets or lov- | last he crept on to his own peculiar affairs; and, ers-the true honey-bees of all life's pleasureflowers-might delight to walk. As Paul Lynedon passed hastily through them, he thought for a moment how, when the trees were growing, he and his little sister had used to play at hide-and-seek among them. He wished that the bright, curly-tressed nead had been peeping out now from the branches, and smiling a quiet, womanly, sisterly welcome from the now barred and lonely door-way. The first time for many months he remembered a little green mound beside the stately burying-place of the Lynedons-far away. Paul sighed, and thought that he might have been a better and a happier man if poor little Alice had lived to be a woman. He roused his old housekeeper; but when she came, at the first look of her sour, grumbling face, he dismissed her speedily. In the long-deserted house was neither chamber nor bed prepared; so he stretched himself on a sofa, and tried to forget past, present, and future in a most welcome slumber. This deep sleep lasted for several hours, and he woke with the afternoon sun staring right into his face, together with a couple of human optics, belonging to a young man who sat near him and maintained an equally pertinacious gaze. This individual held, likewise, his evidently medical fingers on Lynedon's wrist, while from the other hand dangled the orthodox M.D.'s watch. It fell to the ground, when Paul started up with an energy very unlike a patient's. "My good fellow-my dear Lynedon-well, I thought there would be nothing much the matter with you." "Who imagined there was?" "Why, that good old soul below, who said you slept so heavily at first, and then began to talk so wildly, she was sure you were mad, or had taken poison, and so fetched me.' as the twilight darkened, gathered courage to convey to his old friend and patron the important information that he was about to marry. "If you do, you are a confounded fool," cried Lynedon, with an energy that made the little doctor tremble on his chair. "I beg your pardon, Saville," he added, trying to laugh off the matter, "you don't know what women are-but old friend Mars did though, remember. 'Varium et mutabile semper Fœmina.' The old fellow was not far wrong, eh! They are all alike." "Except my Lizzie! oh, no! I'm quite sure of Lizzie;" and the good simple soul began to dilate contentedly on a future rendered certain by its humble hopes and limited desires. Paul was touched; it formed such a contrast to his selfish sorrow and mortified pride. He listened with a feeling almost like envy to the bridegroom-expectant's account of his already furnished house, his neat garden-Lizzie liked flowers-his little gig, wherein he could go his rounds and drive Lizzie to see her mother on a Sunday. In the midst of this quiet, monotonous stream of talk the worthy doctor was startled by Paul's suddenly springing up with the cry— "Upon my soul, Charles Saville, you are a happy man, and I am a most miserable one! I wish to Heaven that I were dead!" Lovers, and especially rejected lovers, are generally slow to communicate to any male friend the story of their sufferings. They will do so sometimes, nay, often, to a friend of the opposite sex. A woman makes the best confidante after all; and perhaps, in such cases, womanly sympathy is the surest cure for a heart-wound. It is hard to account for the impulse that made Lynedon betray his feelings to his old friend, except from the fact, that the sympathy of the worthy, simple-minded doctor was most like that of a woman. Perhaps, too, the contrast in their prospects invited sympathy, and Lynedon, having been the doctor's patron, was disposed to like him, and to be more than usually communicative. But however it chanced, most certainly Doctor Saville contrived to glean a great deal of information; and by putting together names, incidents, and "Pshaw!-well, I am very glad to see you, doctor," said Paul, rousing himself, and trying to shake off the rush of painful and mortifying thoughts that came with his waking. He could not do this altogether; and it was with considerable effort that he forced his features into a polite smile while he listened to the talk of his old college chum, who, on giving up the sermon-exclamations, to form a tolerable guess at a book for the spatula, had been considerably indebted to Lynedon's kindness for a start in life. "I am sure I hope you are coming to settle among us, or at least to stay a long time," said Dr. Saville. Paul's face darkened. "No; I shall be off in a day or two for the Continent. I don't care when I come back. I hate England." "Really-how very odd-what can be the reason?" was the simple remark of the most common-place of country doctors. "Never mind, my good fellow," said Paul, rather sharply. "Don't talk about myself, I am sick of the subject; speak about any other matters-your own for instance; doubtless far more interesting to both parties." "Thank you, Lynedon, you are very kind;" and the chattering, weak-minded, but good-natured medico held forth for a long time on the inane topics current in the neighborhood. At great deal more. In fact, if he did not arrive at the whole truth, he came very near it, and his prolific imagination easily supplied the rest. But he took care, by a respectful reserve, to avoid startling the sensitiveness of his patron; and the promise of secrecy, with which he bade Lynedon adieu, he long and faithfully kept-except with regard to his "Lizzie.' Paul, left to himself, saw night close upon him in the lonely house. He felt more and more its desolation and his own. It was not so much the lost love, as the need of loving, which came upon him with such intense pain. He thought of the poor village doctor, contemptible in mind as in person, who yet could look forward to a bright hearth, made happy by a mother's blessing and a wife's clinging arms. While he, the admired of many a circle-accustomed to the honeyed flatteries of many a fair lip, which he knew to be false as his own-he, Paul Lynedon, stood alone, with not a single creature in the whole wide world to love him | Philip Wychnor's heart experienced a slight adtruly. ditional thrill, when, riding through the grass"Not one-not one!" As he despondently grown streets of L- he saw the evening sun repeated the words, Paul Lynedon's eye fell emblazoning the palace-windows, and felt that upon a slip of paper which he had carelessly he was really "coming home." It was a dearer tossed out of his pocket-book. It was merely a home to him than to most; for it was his heart's few verses-copied by his request-written out home, too. in a girlish hand, evidently strained into the most It is a rule with novelists-and a sterling one, anxious neatness. It bore the date "Summer- too, in general-that you should never unvail wood," and the signature "Katharine Ogilvie." your characters by elaborate descriptions of As Paul unfolded the paper, his face bright- mind and person, but suffer them to develop ened, and softened into tenderness. There came themselves in the progress of the story, shining before him a vision of the dark eyes lifted, for down upon them until they unfold beneath the one moment only, in sorrowing, yearning love- sun-burst of your artistic skill, instead of pullthe fair lips which had trembled beneath his own. ing them open, leaf by leaf, with your fingers, "Dear little girl-sweet little Katharine !- and thus presenting to the reader your well-disI think she does care for me-God bless her!"sected bouquet of human-heart flowers. But, He felt almost inclined to kiss the paper, but in the present case, we will waive the aforesaid stopped; reflecting with a half-smile that she excellent rule, for no reader could ever find out was such a child! But even a child's love was the inner character of Philip Wychnor from its precious to him then. outward manifestations in the routine of daily life. Not that he was deficient in many exterior qualities to win regard: most people liked him "I should almost like to see her again before I leave England," thought Paul. "But no-it would not do! What excuse could I make for my sudden flight? However, I will write." He did write, as the impulse of the moment dictated. He spoke of his departure from England as of a painful necessity, of her remembrance as the dearest consolation of his exile, and of meeting her on his return as a cherished hope. It was a letter which spoke as his idle words had before done-every thing except the positive declaration of love. Its deep tenderness-its half ambiguous expressions-its broken and altered sentences-were such as to thrill with happiness any young, impassioned heart, that would fain make its desire its trust, and cling with wild intensity to every imagined token of love, which is, alas! but the reflection cast by its own. Poor Katharine! These outpourings of a momentary feeling, forgotten by the writer ere they met the reader's eye, what would they be to her? Paul Lynedon knew not-thought not-perchance, cared not! A few weeks after, and he was mingling in the gayest salons of Paris; the pleasure and pain of the last three months having alike passed from his memory, as though they had never been. CHAPTER XIV. I have a more than friend No other voice to me is sweet Unless it nameth him! We broke no ring of gold A pledge of faith to be, But I wear his last look in my soul I was betrothed that day: I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I would not give away. or, at least, that half of his character which was most apparent-and said, as Hugh Ogilvie once did, that he was "a good fellow enough." There was but one in the world who thoroughly understood him, who had looked into the pure depths of his noble soul. What need is there to say who was that one-precious, loving, and baloved-on whom this glorious soul rested, and from whom it drew comfort, freshness, and peace? Philip Wychnor would never have made a hero, either in body or mind-at least, not one of your grand world-heroes, who will overthrow an army, or perform some act of self-devotion with which the heart of history throbs for a century after. But there is many a lauded martyr whose funeral pile is only a huge altar to self-glory, which the man's own dying hands have reared: the true heroes are those whose names the world never hears, and never will hear-the blessed household martyrs, who offer unto God the sacrifice, not of death's one pang, but of life's long, patient endurance; the holy ones who, through "Love's divine self-abnegation," attain the white robes and the ever-blooming palms of those who "have passed through much tribulation." Our Philip might have been one of these. But, wearying of our "was-nots" and "mighthave-beens," we may ask, dear reader, what he was. A poet? No; he had scarcely ever strung together six consecutive rhymes. But his whole life was a poem-so pure, so rich in all those dear charities and holy influences which create the poetry of this world. God makes some of his truest poets outwardly dumb, but their singing is like the music of the stars; the angels hear it up in heaven; and noble spirits, looking thither from earth, can tell how glorious such unheard melody must be. Was he handsome? It might be, for genius rarely exists without casting over the outward THERE is hardly a man in the world who does not feel his pulse beat quicker, when, even after a short absence, he finds himself nearing home. A common-place this-often said, often written-but there are common-places, deli-frame a certain spiritual loveliness; and oftencious, ever-fresh truths, which seem the daisies on the world's highway; it is hard not to stop and gather them sometimes. So, beginning with this trite saying, we may go on to remark that times soul and body grow linked together in an exquisite perfection, so that neither materialist nor spiritualist would think of dissevering the one from the other. But the beauty of Philip Wychnor's face was too refined-almost too melancholy fact, that no household preparation feminine-to attract general notice. Features was made for the visitor. regularly chiseled and delicately small, shadow- 'This, you see, my dear nephew, is the result ed by hair of a pale, clear brown, in which of not doing things regularly. Had you written somewhat rare tint no one could detect either the day before, we should have had your room the admired gold or the widely-condemned red ready; but now I will not answer for your hava stature very reed-like, both as to height and ing to sleep without curtains. And I dare say slenderness—and that personal sign which in a you have not dined, and the cook is gone to bed, man so often accompanies exquisite refinement most likely." of mind, a beautiful hand-comprise the external semblance of him whom we have hitherto seen only through the reflection of Eleanor Ogilvie's love. Philip protested against the accusation of hunger, though he was quite unable to recollect whether he had dined or not. Thereupon, he was obliged to listen to a few arguments upon the necessity of taking care of his health and the evil of long fasting, and at last Mrs. Breynton's domestic anxiety could no longer restrain itself, and she rose to quit the room; only, as she passed the door, she unfortunately spied on a chair the hat and gloves which her nephew had thrown down on his entry. She could not resist the opportunity. "Philip!" Let him now stand alone in his real likeness, ungilded by even this love-sunshine; a son of Adam, not perfect, but still nearer-ay, ten thousand times nearer to that grand image of true manhood than the many poor clay deities, the work of the tailor and the fencing-master, that draw silly maidens' eyes in drawing-room or street. Stand forth, Philip Wychnor! raise thy face, sublime in its gentleness-with the pure lips, through which the foul impieties of Philip started from an earnest gaze at the boasting youth never yet passed-with the eyes clear, drooping profile which was reflected that have scorned not at times to let their lashes against the fire-light, and opened the door for droop over a tear of sympathy or sorrow. Lift the old lady. The act of politeness disarmed up thy hand, which never used its strength her; she was ever a devotee to the grave courtagainst a fellow-creature, and was not the less esies of old, and the long lecture resolved itself heroic for that. Stand forth, noble yet meek-intohearted Philip Wychnor, and show the world the likeness of a man! one! He passed the iron gateway, sprang up the palace-steps with a speed worthy of an agile youth, and a lover; in a minute the pleasant, fire-lit room where Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor held their after-dinner chat, was brightened by a presence welcome to both-now doubly so to A good and kind, if not an affectionate aunt, was Mrs. Breynton, and perhaps now as much warmth as her nature boasted was expressed in the solemn salutation which Philip's forehead received. And then came the dear, close, lingering hand-pressure of meeting and welcome-so silent, yet so full of all faithful assurance, between two, who to their inmost hearts know, love, and trust one another. After even a few months of separation, it always takes a space of desultory talk, before the dearest friends settle down into the quiet satisfaction of meeting, and so the conversation around that dear fireside at the palace was rather restless and wandering, both as to the topics discussed, and the way in which they were sustained. Philip found himself listening, or at least hearing with his outward ears, the full, true, and particular account of the new bishop's first sermon, and his lady's first call at the palace. It showed either surprising forgetfulness, or true womanly tact in Mrs. Breynton, that in her lengthened recital of that day's events she made no allusion to Mr. Paul Lynedon. “Thank you, Philip. Now oblige me by ringing for the footman to take away these." She pointed to the offending intruders on the neatness of her drawing-room, and sailed majestically away, the very genius of tidiness. Dear Eleanor and Philip!-young, simplehearted lovers!—such as the wide world's heart has ever yearned over in song or story-ay, and ever will-how did they look at, how speak to each other? They did neither; they stood by the fire-for she had risen too-stood quite silent, until Philip took first one hand, then both, in his. "Eleanor, are you glad to see me?" "Glad, Philip!" was the low reply-only an echo, after all; but the clear, pure eyes were raised to his with a fullness of love that gave all the answer his own sought. He lifted the dear soft hands-he drew them, not unwilling to be thus guided, around his neck, and folded to his bosom his betrothed. It was the silent marriage-vow between two hearts, each of which felt for the first time the other's pure beatings; a vow not less sacred than the after one, with joined hands before the altar; a solemn trothplight, which, once given and received in sincerity and true love, no earthly power ought ever to disannul. And surely the angels, who sang the marriage-hymn of the first lovers in Eden, cast down upon these their holy eyes-ay, and felt that holiness unstained by the look. For can there be in this world aught more sacred than two beings who stand together, man and woman, ." heart-betrothed, ready to go forth hand in hand, in glad yet solemn union, on the same journey, toward the one eternal home? 'By-the-by, my dear Philip, as you did not write, I did not expect you home quite so soon.' "I myself hardly expected such a pleasure until yesterday, when I found I could leave. And you know, aunt Breynton, that I never lose any time in coming to see you," answered the young man, affectionately. A pleased, though rather a sedate smile, marked the acknowledgments of aunt Breynton; and then her mind turned suddenly to the O God, look down upon them! O God bless them and fill them with love, first toward thee, and then toward one another! Make them strong to bear gladly and nobly the dear burden which all must take who, in loving, receive unto themselves another soul, with its errors and its |