a voice so sweet and low;
'Would that I had known thy mother.
Would that I might soothe thy woe!'
"Ellen, my sweet, life's companion!
From my being's inmost core
Then I blessed thee; but I bless thee,
Bless thee, even now, still more!
"For, as in the days chivalric
Ladies armed their knights for strife,
So didst thou, with thy true counsel,
Arm me for the fight of life.
"Saidst thou, 'No, thou must not waver,
Ever upright must thou stand:
Even in duty's hardest peril,
All thy weapons in thy hand.
"'Doing still thy utmost, utmost;
Never resting till thou'rt free! —
But, if e'er thy soul is weary,
Or discouraged – think of me!'
"And again thy sweet voice murmured,
In a low and thrilling tone;
'I have loved thee, truly loved thee,
Though that love was all unknown!
"'And the sorrows and the trials
Which thy youth in bondage hold,
Make thee to my heart yet dearer
Than if thou hadst mines of gold!
"'Go forth – pay thy debt to duty;
And when thou art nobly free,
He shall know, my good old uncle,
Of the love 'twixt thee and me!'
"Ellen, thou wast my good angel!
Once again in life I strove —
But the hardest task was easy,
In the light and strength of love.
"And, when months had passed on swiftly,
Canst thou not that hour recall —
'Twas a Christmas Sabbath evening —
When we told thy uncle all?
"Good old uncle! I can see him,
With those calm and loving eyes,
Smiling on us as he listened,
Silent, yet with no surprise.
"And when once again the lilacs
Blossom'd, in the merry May,
And the woodlarks sang together,
Came our happy marriage day.
"My sweet Ellen, then I blessed thee
As my young and wealthy wife,
But I knew not half the blessings
With which thou wouldst dower my life!"
Here he ceased, good Thomas Harlowe;
And as soon as ceased his voice —
That sweet chorusing of woodlarks
Made the silent night rejoice.
PHANTOMS AND REALITIES. – AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
PART THE FIRST – MORNING
VII
"I am not about to relate a family history," he began; "but there are some personal circumstances to which I must allude. At nineteen, I was left the sole protector of two sisters, and of a ward of my father, whose guardianship also devolved upon me. It was a heavy responsibility at so early an age, and pressed hard upon a temperament better adapted for gayety and enjoyment. I discharged it, however, with the best judgment I could, and with a zeal that has bequeathed me, among many grateful recollections, one source of lasting and bitter repentance."
"Repentance, Forrester?" I cried, involuntarily.
"You may understand the sort of dangers to which these young creatures were exposed in the spring-tide of their beauty, protected only by a stripling, who knew little more of the world than they did themselves. Upon that point, perhaps, I was too sensitive. I knew what it was to struggle against the natural feelings of youth, and was not disposed to place much trust in the gad-flies who gathered about my sisters. Well – I watched every movement, and I was right. Yet, with all my care, it so happened that an offense – an insult such as your heartless libertines think they may inflict with impunity on unprotected women – was offered to one of my sisters. Our friendless situation was a mark for general observation, and it was necessary that society should know the terms I kept with it. My enemy – for I made him so on the instant – would have appeased me, but I was inaccessible to apologies. We met; I was wounded severely – my opponent fell. This fearful end of the quarrel affected my sister's health. She had a feeling of remorse about being the cause of that man's death, and her delicate frame sunk under it."
"Perhaps," said I, "there might have been other feelings, which she concealed."
"That fear has cast a shadow over my whole life. But we will not talk of it. I must hasten on. There was a fatal malady in our family – the treacherous malady which is fed so luxuriously by the climate of England. My remaining sister, plunged into grief at our bereavement, became a prey to its wasting and insidious influence. You saw that the servant who opened the door was in mourning? I have mentioned these particulars that you may understand I was not alone in the world, as I am now, when the lady you have seen came to reside in my house. At that time, my sisters were living."
"And she?"
"Was my father's ward, of whom I have spoken. During the early part of her life she lived in Scotland, where she had friends. Now listen to me attentively. Gertrude Hastings lost her mother in her childhood; and upon the death of her father, being a minor, her education and guardianship devolved upon my father, who was trustee to her fortune. At his death, which took place soon afterward, the trust came into my hands. It was thought advisable, under these circumstances, that she should have the benefit of wiser counsel than my own, and for several years she was placed in the house of her mother's sister, who lived at no great distance from the English Border. It was my duty to visit her sometimes." He hesitated, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
"Well – I entreat you to proceed."
"Let me collect myself. I visited her sometimes – at first at long intervals, then more frequently. Every man in his youth forms some ideal, false or true, of the woman to whom he would devote his love. Such dreams visited me, but my situation forbade me to indulge in them, and I resolved to devote myself to the charge I had undertaken, and to forego all thoughts of marriage. I never found this conflict beyond my strength until I saw Gertrude Hastings."
I was struck with horror at these words, and shuddered at what I feared was yet to come. He perceived the effect they took upon me, and went on:
"You are precipitate in your judgment, and I must beg that you will hear me patiently to the end. I will be brief, for I am more pained by the disclosure than you can be. Why should I prolong a confession which you have already anticipated? I loved her; and every time I saw her, I loved her more and more. I was justified by the circumstances that drew us together – the equality of our births – the connection of our families. She was free to choose – so was I. I knew of no impediment, and there was none at the time she inspired me with that fatal passion which, when it grew too strong to be concealed from her, she was unable to return."
I breathed more freely; but seeing the emotion under which poor Forrester was laboring, I kept silence, and waited for him to resume.
"I despise what is called superstition," he said, "as