countrymen: he is judged only by what he was, not by what he might have been." were left behind-that there her highest aspirations might soar unchecked. How different were her sensations from those of some visitors, who entered soon after her, and who through the greater part of divine service were engaged in gazing, criticising, approving, or condemning, as a work of art, the different portions of the building and its interior arrangements! At the close of the prayers, a gentleman came in and joined them, in whom, as she passed, she recognized Mr. Hastings, and they walked together to the entrance. Then turning to one of his companions, he said, Mrs. Vyvyan, you have often heard me speak of my friend Darnsford; he has but just returned to England." And was Millicent unmoved at this? It was just what she had herself most deeply felt; and yet this struck her with a less keen pang than the thought of his lonely death, when he sunk in the bitterness of his spirit, tended only by such a one, as she heard, Darnsford described. But she did not yield to morbid regret. That privilege of love, which had then been denied her, was now pointed out by the finger of duty in another path. Her father's health began to decline, and for upwards of two years she devoted herself to him with unfaltering tenderness, and in his dying hours he blessed her for all she had been to him. And this mercy she with all She raised her eyes hastily towards the perthankfulness accepted. The world said her de-son thus indicated, and saw-Vyvyan! changed votion was not altogether disinterested. Mil- indeed, and aged far more than even the seven licent heeded not: her own heart acquitted her years of their separation justified. He was of sordid motives, as she knew perfectly that, dressed in a peculiar manner, and wore a long with the exception of a provision sufficient for beard; so that except to a tolerably close obher, but no more, the bulk of her father's pro- server, his recognition would have been scarcely perty had been settled on Georgie at the time of possible. But she was not to be deceived, and her marriage-a period when she had herself a second glance told her that this was the been under a domestic interdict. stranger she had met beside the grave of her child. She stood for a moment as one petrified; whilst her trembling lips essayed to pronounce words which her bewildered mind had scarcely power to suggest coherently, unable meanwhile to withdraw her eyes from him. But he, after slightly bowing, turned away abruptly to examine a monument near. In the spring that succeeded Mr. Arden's death, Millicent and her mother were together in London; and the morning of her arrival there, she went out alone-Mrs. Arden did not ask whither, for she well knew the spot to which on such occasions her steps were invariably directed. She went to visit the grave of her child. There had been of late years a little memorial cross erected over the spot where that frail blosso had withered so long ago. On her approach this day, she was surprised to see a stanger, leaning in a listless, melancholy attithe against the cross. Before she was able to dra his features, he was aware of her ty, and turned with hasty steps towards another part of the church-yard, which he soon afterwards quitted. On her return home, she found her mother full of regrets that Mr. Hastings should have called during her absence. "He appeared so much vexed not to see you, my dear." "I daresay we shall meet again, mamma," said Millicent, quietly. "And he has not been my only visitor," continued her mother. "Mr. Gray" (he was their man of business) "has been here; and he has put our affairs en train for us: and I shall want you to go out for me to-morrow about these." And Mrs. Arden commenced a series of minute directions to her daughter on the subject of the business which she wished her to transact for her. After a wearisome morning spent in the settlement of the affairs which had brought them up from the country, Millicent, on her return home, paused before the open door of a church, and entered, for it was the hour of even-song. It was an old and beautiful building, that had not long been rescued from the blighting hand of neglect, and the cruel ravages of time. What a blessed calm stole over her weary soul, as she felt that there the cares and strifes of the world Mr. Hastings was a little annoyed at his friend's ill-manners. "Never mind him," he said: "he is such a strange fellow." Then he called to him: "Darnsford, am I not to have your company home?" "No," he said. "I wish to remain here a little longer, and after that I have an engage ment. Good morning." And he turned to make a remark to one of his other friends. "He becomes more eccentric than ever," said Hastings. "It is a thousand pities. Lord Mortmain picked him up at Rome, living in such an extraordinary manner! He found very few of his former acquaintances still residing there on his return; and even on them he never called, but shut himself up almost entirely, professing to be engaged on a picture, which he expects to make him famous. Mortmain was one of the favoured few admitted to his studio, and he patronizes him immensely. Of course through him he has the best introductions; so I shouldn't wonder if he were to become something of a lion this year. His circumstances, too, have very much improved since I knew him at Venice." "He looks older than I expected to see him," said Millicent, feeling herself called on to make some remark, and yet scarcely knowing what to say. "Far older than he ought to look, rejoined her companion. "A person who formerly knew him slightly, told me he had passed him several times in Rome without in the least recognizing him. Well, I must say I shall anticipate the opening of the Exhibition this year unusually, for I expect my friend's production to shine there. I have not spoken to any one who has seen it yet, though." And thus Hastings rambled on, rather wondering at the silent abstraction of his fair companion, but attributing it to the agitation consequent on meeting an old friend of her husband's. 66 Millicent lived that day in a waking dream. Was it possible they could have met, and thus ? Or was it not all a delusion? Some marvellous likeness between the two had deceived her; and yet, in what Mr. Hastings had said, there appeared so much that gave credibility to the idea his shunning his former acquaintances at Rome, and being unrecognized by those whom he accidentally encountered. And then she remembered his formerly speaking of him as one who appeared soured by some terrible calamity, And mine was the hand that dealt the blow!" she thought. Then, again, she remembered it was no passing rumour that had announced his death. One of their personal friends had stood by his grave. If he had substituted his own name for his friend's, how could he so long have carried on the deception without detection? But the shock of his appearance had been so great, as to deprive the surprise, the impossibility of the whole occurrence, of their force. She felt as though his reappearance was a thing that might have been rationally expected. She scarcely seemed to remember that it was by death they had been parted. Such a sensation not unfrequently accompanies some very start ling and unexpected event; the mind, as it were, becoming numbed and insensible to the marvel of it. Then she endeavoured to reason upon it; supposing her senses had not deceived her, and it was really he whom she had looked upon, with what purpose had he returned? Not to be reconciled to her-that was at once apparent from his manner; for in it there was no visible emotion, save one of careless contempt. Yet, where their first meeting had been she could not forget. There was yet that link between them, Then, again, the thought occurred, if he now rose to eminence, how could she, who had left him when unknown and in poverty, ask him in his days of prosperity, to acknowledge her? She passed the next few days in bewilderment and misery. It was sometimes only by a strong effort that she was able to restrain her thoughts within the bounds of reason; and her health seriously suffered. At length they met again, accidentally, at the house of a friend, and then his manner was so pointedly rude and slighting, that she, after enduring a martyrdom of suppressed and wounded feeling, left with the painful conviction that his heart was for ever alienated from her; and she could not but own to herself, though now completely convinced of his personal identity, that this was not the Vyvyan of her girlish dreams-not the noblehearted man, whose love had so blessed her as a wife-who had so bravely, so patiently smiled on trial and sorrow, for her sake. And then again and again the thought would recur, "Ah! if we had never met; or, if I had never left him!" And so, well-nigh broken-hearted, she was obliged to maintain a calm and unconcerned demeanour; for not to her mother, or to any friend, could she bring herself to speak of that which was engrossing her every thought. Day by day she looked for some path, to open which might lead her to him, The time of their stay in London was drawing to a close; and Millicent, who with nervous anxiety had been anticipating the opening of. the Exhibition of the Royal Academy-where she learnt that Vyvyan's picture had, though not without debate, found admission-when at last the public were admitted, was from very anxiety unable to attend there. It was on the following day that she and her mother were dining with her sister and Sir James; Mr. Hastings only had been invited to meet them; and almost as soon as he entered, he addressed Millicent "Oh, Mrs. Vyvyan, such a disappointment! The critics are pulling that poor Darnsford to pieces. What he could have been dreaming of I can't imagine, to send such a picture; for I know what he is capable of. Some of his earlier pictures are of such exquisite beauty! There was a St. Margaret he used to speak of, as a very juvenile affair, but which I thought had the very sweetest expression I ever beheld - Si douce est la Marguerite." And Hastings paused, for it occurred to him as it had before, that there was a face very much resembling the one he so enthusiastically described, and that face was now inclined towards him, with flushing cheeks, and an aspect of at once the most intense interest and overpowering emotion. "I have brought one of the notices," he continued, "to show you; for I thought you would be interested in my friend." Millicent, without speaking, held out her hand for the paper in which it was contained, and read in a few lines of vigorous and sweeping condemnation the total overthrow of Vyvyan's expectations of fame. Genius, and a certain degree of power, were allowed him; but in the exercise over them, he was described as variable and injudicious. His choice of a subject was not approved, and his mode of treating it severely handled. He appeared to be the scapegoat of the year; and the meed of censure was awarded with no sparing hand, Millicent returned the paper to Hastings. "It must be a great disappointment," she said. "To his fiery spirit, almost unbearable. Other equally adverse opinions have been expressed, both privately and through the press; but, with all humility, I must venture to differ from the critics. He deserves to fall under their lash, I admit, for the daring license he has allowed himself in treating a not very engaging subject, which he appears to have done all in his power to overlay with superfluous horrors. The subject is a ghastly revel of seamen, on the deck of a sinking vessel. He has named it "The Triumph of Despair," and has affixed to it these "The very knowledge that he lived in vain- When mariners would madly meet their doom But though he has borrowed his motto from "I never liked that fellow," observed Sir James. "I met him at a conversazione at Mortmain's, and thought him singularly unprepossessing. I thought nothing of his powers of conversation, either. Lady Mortmain and her set seemed quite to worship him." " Oh, he would have been quite the fashion but for this failure" said Georgie; "but I suppose, after this, he must hide his diminished head." "I hear Mortmain has never been near him, since disapprobation was first murmured against him. So much for fair-weather friends," said Hastings. It was with a thrill almost akin to joy, that Millicent listened. Now her way seemed clearer. She, who would not have dared approach him if successful, might under these adverse circumstances, find access to him. All that night she was pondering the best means of doing so. The next morning she determined on writing, when she remembered she had not obtained his address, and was debating with herself how it might be ascertained, when Mr. Hastings was announced. After some general conversation, she reverted to the subject "I should much like to have his address." Hastings, imagining she was anxious for some communication with him respecting her husband, wrote it down for her. As soon as he left, she began a leter to Vyvyan. She could not please herself, and was tearing up several halfwritten sheets, when her mother and sister entered. Georgina was urging the former to return to Rosemount with her, instead of going to Woodstock. Millicent knew she was always in the way during such visits, from Sir James's unalterable dislike to her; she therefore understood her mother's faint refusal of an invitation which, for her own sake, she always accepted with pleasure. "If you could leave me here I should be very glad," said Millicent; and after a little discus sion, it was arranged that Mrs. Arden should return with her youngest daughter that evening, and Millicent should for the present remain in town. 'You shall hear from me in a day or two, dearest mother," she said, as she took leave of her; "and there will be some news in the letter which I trust will not displease you." How Mrs. Arden and Georgie speculated on that news during their rapid journey to Rosemount! They were fully persuaded that Mr. Hastings, notwithstanding his long engagement, had proposed; and I believe they had drawn out the settlements, and purchased the trousseau before the train stopped at the last station. And Millicent had taken her resolve, and went calmly forth to meet her fate. The vast city enfolded in its mighty arms many a sorrowful soul on that fair evening-who among that multitude so utterly cast down, so can question it? But I doubt if there was one vanquished in the battle of life, so degraded in his own estimation, as he the bright promise of whose dawn we have touched on in our earlier pages. The first burst of disappointment—that instinct of self-defence that leads us so often to attribute to the injustice of others some failure of our own-had subsided; and Vyvyan, wrapped in gloomy abstraction, sat brooding over the past, shrinking with painful apprehension_from the future. Occasionally his eyes would mechanically turn towards a paper containing the severest criticism that had yet appeared upon his "Ah!" he said, "the critics seem deter- work, and he would start and writhe as though mined to crush him; I saw another notice of stung by the sight; or sometimes they would his painting this morning, in one of the periodi-wander to an unfinished picture on the easel, cals, in which it is described as alike prejudicial to his head and his heart; and they end by expressing their surprise that the walls of the Academy should be disgraced by such a production." of Darnsford. with an expression of weariness and disgust that was scarcely more endurable than the other sensation. A stream of golden sunshine on the wall told that in the country, far away, there was dew on the grass and freshness in the breeze "That is surely too severe?" said Millicent. that the river was sparkling and the landscape "I certainly think so," returned the other. glowing; that every fair hue was deepened, and "The truth is, he has too much talent (his op- every sweet sound mellowed in that genial ponents term it pretension) to be passed un-hour of sunset. But in the soul of the artist noticed; at the same time he has certainly seen fit to exercise it in the most indiscreet manner." "Do you think it likely he will leave England?" was the next question. "Most probably, and that very soon." was darkness that might be felt. He was roused by the entrance of a servant, announcing a visitor. He had neglected to order that none should be admitted, and much annoyed at this circumstance, rose in some con ; fusion to receive his guest. A lady, clad in deep mourning, entered, with timid, hesitating steps. There is no need to use any mystery it was Millicent who thus approached Vyvyan. He, however, his thoughts pre-occupied, did not at the moment recognize her, as with trembling fingers she opened a small packet she held in her hand. "Could you copy this for me?" she said, in faltering tears; and, as she spoke, she laid on the table before him a half-finished sketch-the likeness of their child-which she had taken with her the day she returned to her father's home. Vyvyan was glancing carelessly towards her, when at once his attention was arrested. He started, and turned deadly pale; then bent over the picture, as though to examine it more narrowly. At first his expression was one of entire bewilderment; this was succeeded by one of excessive agony. Then pride and resentment seemed struggling with softer feelings for dominion in his heart: his lips moved, but his utterance was choked. Millicent crept towards him-" It is very like," she said. He turned round fiercely. "What is it to me?" he cried, pushing the picture from him. "It is your child, Louis," whispered Millicent. It was a soft, low voice, in which those words were spoken; but it seemed to thrill through his whole frame. "I, Vyvyan?" cried the trembling woman. "Yes," he said; "you-you made me doubt all-you made me hate all. And oh! what is life without faith and love? Yes, I tell you that you have made me become as one of the beasts that perish! Look here!" And he beckoned her to one side of the room, where lay a heap of shreds. It was the condemned picture, which he had withdrawn from the Exhibition, and torn to atoms. "Do you think, when you left me, my heart or my hand could so have failed me as that?" And he spurned the fragments, and then turned from them with absolute loathing. Millicent stood before him with clasped hands, and eyes that were more piteous than if they wept. Vyvyan," she said, "I have sinned very deeply against you, yet be merciful-I never would have come near you, had you won fame instead of censure, which still I hope and think to be undeserved.' "No no," he interrupted her, " don't lighten for yourself one atom of the punishment.' "Listen to me at least," she said: "I erred grievously in leaving you, but indeed it was from no such low motive as you believe. It was not from impatience under poverty; though there was pride mingled in my feelings, it was not that worldly pride which you suppose. I had in my folly fancied that I was to do great things for you; and when I found it was far otherwise, I left you, that, freed from the burden I had laid on you, you might attain the eminence I felt was in your power." She paused: he impatiently paced up and down the room; and after awhile she continued-" I have longed to say this to you. Oh! so much-so often. And when they told me you were dead, and I thought I never in this life might ask your forgiveness, how I prayed for death! That prayer was mercifully denied. Vyvyan, I know that I sinned against heaven as well as against you. There I sought forgiveness; there, I trust, I found it. Will you deny me yours?" Vyvyan stopped suddenly before her; and a sneer, a bitter sneer, absolutely deformed his features. "Oh, yes!" he said, "Mrs. Vyvyan's piety is on every lip her benevolence on every charity-list; but you know not how heavy a load of sin mine is, and that lies at your door. It was fit that our first meeting, after our long separation, should be where it was-in a house of prayer; you bending as an accepted worshipper, and I an outcast, an alien from its hopes and privileges, gazing round as on a Gothic museum." "That Millicent gazed at him imploringly. was not our first meeting, Louis-I saw you first at his grave;" and she pointed to the picture beside her; then throwing herself into a low seat, and laying her head on her hands, she sobbed bitterly. Vyvyan stood by her, much moved, but struggling to overcome his emotion. He looked alternately at her, and then at the little sketch of their lost child. At length he moved towards her, and laying his hand on hers, said soothingly "What do you propose to yourself by this, Millicent? I believe I scarcely yet understand you. Look at me! A broken, hopeless man; one who has missed fame, and forfeited happiness; whom the world cannot despise more utterly than he does himself. You cannot suppose it in my power now to reflect on our house the lustre that once I thought to win; for Time, that has dealt so hardly by ine, has not left quite untouched this fair brow" (and he passed his hand lightly over it), "that once I used to gaze on as the very mirror of truth." 'Oh, Louis! believe me," said Millicent, earnestly," that however I have erred, however weakly and foolishly I have acted, my heart has never for a moment swerved in its fidelity towards you." you. He fixed his eyes steadfastly on hers, that looked up to him so truly and lovingly. "I must believe you, Millicent," he said at last, "I must, for the sake of all you were to me; for his sake, to whom you may go, but whom I must never hope to meet again. For his sake, I forgive But oh!" and his utterance, though rapid, was thick and low, "how much I have to forgive, you can never know. Not merely for the years of suffering and solitude, when alone and in poverty I struggled to attain that eminence I no longer desired, since you would no more share it with me; not because even this faint purpose of my existence is now lost to me" (and he slightly pointed to the fragments of the D picture), "but all the utter degradation of soul and spirit into which, through my great wretchedness, I have fallen." His eyes were blinded with tears, and he turned aside; but Millicent, rising, drew near him. "You will not bid me stay, and I dare not ask it, having once forsaken you. But wherever you are, and however you may be, my heart will be always with you, and my prayers for you." She held out her hand timidly towards him, and he caught it in his own. 66 Millicent, you are, you ever have been, for good or ill, my destiny; I am too weak to struggle with fate-you must not leave me." There might have been joy amongst angels in that hour. And the sunshine faded away, and the twilight deepened into night; but the day-star had arisen in their hearts-the day-star of trusting love, that " hopeth all things, and believeth all things." And still Millicent sat beside her husband, listening to those dear accents, that breathed something of their former tenderness; until he suddenly remarked on the increasing gloom, and rose to ring for lights. "But," he said, "how dark the room has become in the last five minutes-I cannot see my hand before me." He found his way, however, to the bell; but when the servant entered with a lamp, to Millicent's surprise he asked why it was not lighted? The man could not understand him, and he repeated his question more than once. At length the servant placed the lamp on the table, and left the room; and then Millicent gently inquired what he meant? "We are in darkness, are we not?" he said. She looked into his face, and saw there an expression of bewilderment and distress that pained and startled her. "You are jesting," she replied, "the lamp is burning brightly!" 66 "It is!" he exclaimed. Oh, Millicent, I am blind!" And so, indeed, he was: the mental conflicts of the last few days had done their work-paralysis had seized on the nerves of the eyes, and he was at once deprived of sight-not hopelessly, it was at first believed; and he was encouraged to expect a restoration of his lost vision. But that expectation has never been realized. Need we say how faithful and tender a guide he has found? Her path has not been thornless: trial and disappointment had shed no softening influence on Vyvyan's character, and irritability and impatience had become habitual to him. There was a sense, too, of bitterness and wrong committed with that false step of Millicent's, which her present unwearied affection and patient forbearance could never wholly obliterate; and his pride appeared wounded by the degree of obligation which his helpless condition laid him under to her. In England he could not be persuaded to re main, nor in Italy will he choose any settled resting-place, but may be seen for a few weeks in some of its fair cities, or may be heard of for a time dwelling in some remote village, or cruising along the coasts. And by his side, like a pale guardian angel, moves, with calm, serene eye, his devoted wife; thankful to be allowed to prove thus the truth of that heart which once she gave him cause to doubt. The simple peasantry look on her as a miracle of patient, constant love. "Heretic though she "there is no purgatory, be, for her" they say she will go straight up." And so she wanders on, without earthly home or hope; but Millicent has "found rest to her soul." T. H. L. QUEEN VICTORIA. (WITH PLATE.) "The day-star of our hopes, how didst thou rise, The firmest heart dwells with the gentlest micn; Those royal virtues we most fondly prize; Which bath life's fairest flowers wreathed in between Its sparkling gems! Long may they bloom thy own; And no harsh blast of sorrow, unforeseen, Wither her joys, whom, first on England's throne, We praise both as the Woman and the Queen!" SONNET.—SORROW. BY ANNE A. FREMONT. Why hast thou wrapt me in thy sable wing, Yet will I murmur not, but silent lay For thou art beautiful e'en mid thy tears, A chasten'd spirit thy sad voice imparts, Whone'er Religion her pure light would shed Upon our dark and unreflecting hearts. |