CHAPTER III. iy

“The weary hours steal on, ” And flaky darkness breaks.” —Richard I.
ONCE more, suddenly and unlooked for, the lord of Burleigh appeared at the gates of his deserted hall! and again the old housekeeper and her satellites were thrown into dismay and — consternation. Amidst blank and welcomeless faces, Maltravers
- bustle was over, and he was left alone, he took up the light and a passed into the adjoining library. It was then about nine o’clock - in the evening; the air of the room felt damp and chill, and the Z light but faintly struggled against. the mournful gloom of the dark book-lined walls and sombre tapestry. He placed the
candle on the table, and drawing aside the curtain that veiled
the portrait, gazed with deep emotion, not unmixed with awe, upon the beautiful face whose eyes seemed fixed upon him with mournful sweetness. There is something mystical about those painted ghosts of ourselves, that survive our very dust! Who, gazing upon them long and wistfully, does not half fancy that they seem not insensible to his gaze, as if we looked our own life into them, and the eyes that followed us where we moved were - animated by a stranger art than the mere trick of the limner’s _ colours?
With folded arms, wrapped and motionless, Maltravers con- ‘templated the form that, by the upward rays of the flickering ight, seemed to bend down towards the desolate son. How had he ever loved the memory of his mother !—how often in his childish years had he stolen away, and shed wild tears for the loss of that dearest of earthly ties, never to be compensated, “never to be replaced !— how had he respected —how sympa- thised with the very repugnance which his father had at first testified towards him, as the innocent cause of her untimely death! He had never seen her—never felt her passionate kiss ; and yet it seemed to him, as he gazed, as if he had known her AA
) mre? ed
for years. That strange kind of inner and ‘soieteal memory © which often recalls to us places and persons we have never seen
before, and which Platonists would resolve to the unquenched i and struggling Copseotene of a former life, stirred within him, _
and seemed to whisper, “You were united in the old time.” “Yes!” he said, half aloud, “we will never part again. Blessed — be the delusion of the dream that recalled to my heart the re- membrance of thee, which, at least, I can cherish without a sin. — ‘My good angel shall meet me at my hearth!’ so didst thousay _ in the solemn vision. Ah, does thy soul watch over me still? _ How long shall,it be before the barrier is broken—how long before we meet, but not in dreams !”
The door opened—the housekeeper looked in—“ I beg pardon, sir, but I thought your honour would excuse the liberty, though I know it is very bold to——”
“What is the matter—what do you want ?”
“Why, sir, poor Mrs. Elton is dying—they say she cannot get over the night; and as the carriage drove by the cottage — window, the nurse told her that the squire was returned ; and she has sent up the nurse to entreat to see your honour before she dies. I am sure I was most loth to disturb you, sir, with — such a message; and says I, the squire has only just come off a: journey, and Z
“Who is Mrs. Elton ?”
“Don’t your honour remember the poor woman that was run — over, and you were so good to, and brought into the house the day Miss Cameron :
“TI remember—say I will be with her in a few minutes, About to die!” muttered Maltravers; “she is to be envied—the — prisoner is let loose—the barque leaves the desert isle!” 3
He took his hat and walked across the park, dimly lighted — by the stars, to the cottage of the sufferer. He reached her bedside, and took her hand kindly. She seemed to rally © at the sight of him—the nurse was dismissed—they were left alone. |
Before morning, the spirit had left that humble clay ; and the mists of dawn were heavy on the grass as Maltravers returned home, There were then on his countenance the traces of recent _
. g emotion, and his step was elastic, and his cheek flushed. _ pe once more broke within him, but mingled with doubt, — nd faintly-combated by reason. In another hour Maltravers as on his way to Brook-Green. Impatient, restless, fevered, he urged on the horses—he sowed the road with gold, and, at length, the wheels stopped before the door of the village inn. ‘He descended, asked the way to the curate’s house; and crossing the burial-ground, and passing under the shadow of the old yew- tree, entered Aubrey’s garden. The curate was at home, and the conference that ensued was of deep and breathless interest to
_ the visitor. _
It is now time to place before the reader, in due order and connection, the incidents of that story, the knowledge of which, at that period, broke in detached and fragmentary portions on _ Maltravers,
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