REMORSE.

In the quiet depth of night the desolate silence which reigned throughout the house was frequently broken by the hasty step of Paul Weldon, as he paced the long passages. At first it startled the inmates from repose, but they soon became accustomed to the sound and ceased to note it, or, if they heard it, merely muttering, “It is only poor Weldon,” settled themselves again to sleep. Night after night, like an unquiet spirit, he walked up and down the corridors, across the long dining-room, through the wide hall and parlor, until the approaching day brought with it signs of life. He then returned to his apartments. Some thought him mad, and whispered of a crazed mother and hereditary insanity, trembling, at times, at the wild lustre of his eyes; another suggested deep study of dark, forbidden things, and hinted that older and wiser men had bartered their souls before for such knowledge. A horror-loving youth insinuated that some dark crime had been committed, while all shrank, involuntarily, from contact with the unfortunate Weldon.

He was gentle, yet children clung to their mothers when he approached; there was something so fearful in the glance of his large, sunken eyes. Without seeming to shun companionship, he stood apart from all. Indeed, sometimes he forced himself to seek society, and, apparently, would fain have found friends had not every one avoided him. No matter how gay the conversation might be when he entered the public drawing-room, it immediately languished and ceased at his appearance: there was a strange charm about him which cast a gloom over all. The giddiest were subdued by it; the gravest felt its melancholy influence. All eyed him askance, and whenever his pale lips moved they unconsciously nerved themselves for some terrible tale.

Perhaps he felt his fearful power, since he soon ceased to seek companionship, and confined himself almost exclusively to his apartments. He seemed to have neither friends, occupation, nor home. The present looked cheerless to him; the future, hopeless: he dwelt only in the dreadful memories of the past.

His agonies in seclusion were terrible. Sometimes he threw himself on a chair and moved his body to and fro, moaning as if in suffering; now he started up and walked the floor; then seated himself and strove to read, evidently utterly incapable of confining his attention to any single subject. Book after book was opened and thrown aside. At last, seizing his hat, he rushed into the street, where his rapid walk and abstracted manner excited astonishment but too visible to his sensitive mind. At length he ceased to quit the home, and hiding himself in his apartments, ventured from them only in the darkness, silence, and solitude of night.

He apparently struggled against this strange restlessness, for he would lie down on his bed and strive to sleep; but when repose came it brought with it such fearful dreams that he soon awoke, and sprang from his, to him, accursed couch.

“O, no, I cannot—cannot sleep!” exclaimed he; “there is no rest for me, nor will there be until I find it in the grave. Ah, might I indeed, find repose in its embrace, how soon would I seek its icy portals; but no, I cannot, for even there crime finds its reward: must I not awake to judgment and to punishment? Remorse—remorse! how shall I destroy thy fangs? How shall I hide me from that fearful vision?”

From his wild self-accusations I learned his history. It was a sad one. The effects of his youthful vices had awakened in his heart that sleepless demon, remorse, which acting on his sensitive, imaginative mind, made life a curse where it might have been a blessing.

He was an only son—the idol of parents too indulgent for his good. When will parents learn to temper kindness with prudence? Daily is the lesson of their complicated duties taught them by the fate of those who fall victims to their careless teachings. Here, one is ruined by over indulgence; there, another is embittered and hardened by undue rigor; here, genius is crushed by ridicule; there, stupidity is rendered vain by undeserved praise. How rarely is the onerous office of a parent properly fulfilled!

Weldon’s early training left him quite unfitted to resist temptation in any form. Impulse, not principle, was the law of his actions. At college he formed an intimacy with some dissipated young men. As the wine circulated they boasted of their licentiousness, until Paul Weldon’s better feelings were crushed, and he thought with them, that the ruin of the peace of the innocent and happy was a feat to be proud of.

Under such guidance he followed them to their haunts of dissipation: he was initiated into their orgies, and soon became the boon companion of the vilest of the vile—of a set of villains who wore the semblance of gentlemen, and yet, at heart, were as deeply dyed with crime as the wretch who expiates his guilt on the gallows. Strange that society banishes from its temples those who break the laws of men, yet welcomes with open arms the offender against the laws of God and the dictates of natural justice.

We will not follow Weldon through his downward path. At first conscience restrained him, but the ridicule of his associates soon drowned her warning voice, and he hurried on in his reckless course until he became a leader among his former teachers in vice.

Thus passed his college life, and when he returned to his home it was with feelings dulled and seared by crime.

Paul Weldon’s father was a country gentleman of the old school. His mother, the proud daughter of a poor earl, had been a belle, and had married, partly for love, partly for money. Preferring to be “first in a province rather than second in a city,” when her charms waned she retired to her husband’s fine old country-house, where she assumed the airs of a queen regnant over the neighboring provincials. In the outskirts of the village, however, was one who neither courted nor fawned upon her. This was Mrs. White, the widow of a gallant officer who fell bravely fighting for his country, bequeathing to his young wife’s guardianship his only child—a daughter, then an infant. Mrs. White possessed a small annuity, and with this she purchased the cottage near Weldon Manor. Here she lived quietly and happily, devoting her whole time to the education of her daughter, who, like a rose in the desert, seemed “born to blush unseen.”

When the Weldons returned to the old house, which they had not visited for years, Lucy White was a lovely, innocent girl of sixteen. I have said that Mrs. White did not court the lady of the manor, wherefore she was hated by her; but living apart and alone, the humble inhabitants of the cottage were ignorant of the enmity of the haughty dame.

Shortly after the arrival of the Weldons at the manor-house, their son returned from college. He soon discovered the beautiful cottager, and found means to make her acquaintance. From that time the fair girl was seldom alone, and she soon discovered that the light of loving eyes was preferable even to the holy radiance of the stars, and that the low tones of love were sweeter than the songs of birds, or the music of murmuring streams. She was guileless, unsuspecting; he was artful and persuasive—one who could easily make “the worse seem the better cause,” and the result was that her unsuspecting love became her ruin. Her idol was her betrayer! She soon awoke to the consequences of her crime, and besought her destroyer to spare her from misery—to save her from disgrace. Paul’s heart was melted; he loved her truly and would have repaired the wrong he had done her; but his mother unfortunately discovered the state of things, and by prayers and entreaties, jeers and taunts, so wrought on his pride that he determined to forsake her.

Poor Lucy! how earnestly, how vainly she entreated him to save her.

“O, Paul—Paul,” she exclaimed, “if you love me—if you ever loved me—spare me! Save me, I entreat you, for the sake of my poor widowed mother! For the sake of my unborn babe, if not for mine; drive me not forth an outcast—homeless, friendless. Too guilty to dwell with the pure; too innocent to consort with the vicious, where shall I go? Men will behold me with sneering pity; women will turn aside from the fallen. I am a woman and have sinned, and may not hope for pardon. In happier days, Paul, you have often told me how dear I was to you, and have you so soon learned to despise me for my sin? You turn away! Ah, yes; it is so; you—even you whom I loved so truly, and trusted so deeply, turn from me in my sorrow—in my shame. But no—no; I cannot—I will not believe it. Speak to me—give me hope, or else confirm my despair.”

Paul averted his head, for love and pity struggled in his heart; but the demon pride, mastered the angels, and he determined to leave her to her wretchedness. Still his tongue refused to speak the heartless words.

“What, still silent?” she cried. “Will you not even speak to me, Paul? And a few short months ago you seemed to live only in my presence; now you are eager to shun me. Then you had no eyes for any one but me; now, you turn away; then you had no ears for sweeter music than my voice, now you shudder at its sound; then you vowed you would never know joy apart from me; now you would drive me from you forever. Then your low, loving, passionate tones entered my soul, lulling its guardian spirit with their sweet music until my senses swam in a sweet delirium of delight, from which I awoke—to find myself the wretched creature you have made me. And you, who wrought this change—you, who sought me but to betray—stand there before me, silent, trembling, when I ask you to repair your wrong—when for the sake of love and pity I ask for justice. You will not even answer me. Why do you hesitate, if you would give me hope? Why prolong my suffering? If you would plunge me into despair, why dally with me? Why not let me know the worst? Speak, answer me, I entreat—I command you!”

She retreated a few paces, and gazing steadily on his averted face, awaited his reply. He hesitated; at last he spoke:

“Dear Lucy,” said he, “you know I love you, but—but—”

“But what,” she exclaimed; “do not stammer—do not hesitate. Speak, and quickly!”

“Well, then,” he replied, “I love you and pity you; but I cannot make you my wife. Nay,” he continued, as the pale impress of hopeless agony stole over her features, “nay, do not look so terribly, Lucy; all will yet be well!”

As he spoke he advanced and took her hand within his own; but she withdrew it quickly, as though she had been touched by a scorpion.

“Yes, yes; all will be well for you, but not for me. Paul Weldon, how dearly, how deeply I have loved you I need not say, for I have proved it, and have been rewarded for it by treachery, disgrace, and despair. But enough of this; you have decided, so have I; and all that now remains is to say that I will pray to God, if He will listen to the prayer of the fallen, that you may never know such wo as you have caused me, and to entreat you, when you go forth into the world, that when you see the young and innocent, happy in their purity, you will spare them for my sake—that you will never whisper of love and joy when you meditate treachery and ruin! And now farewell. We shall never meet again on earth! Once more, farewell—forever!”

As she spoke she glided from the room. After standing, irresolute, a few moments, he seized his hat, and left the house.

That night sleep refused to visit his eyes. Hour by hour he paced his chamber, thinking of the ruin he had wrought, and upbraiding himself for his cruelty. The struggle between love and pride was again renewed, and this time the good angel was victorious, and he determined to atone for his previous injuries by such reparation as remained in his power. Resolving not to expose his new made resolution to his mother’s attacks, he intended to persuade Lucy to an immediate marriage. At daybreak he sought the rector of the parish, and having told his story, induced him to consent to perform the marriage service. From thence he hastened to the well-known cottage. Meeting Mrs. White at the door, he asked for Lucy, and was told that she had not risen; but as he seemed eager to speak to her, Mrs. White summoned the servant and bade her call her daughter. A moment later a shrill shriek was heard, and the girl rushed into the apartment, pale and breathless:

“O, madam, madam,” she exclaimed, “she is dead—she is dead!”

With a bound Paul sprang up the staircase, and then into Lucy’s chamber, followed close by her horror-stricken mother. There, on the bed, pale, cold and lifeless, lay fair Lucy White. A cup upon the table, and a bottle, labeled “laudanum,” betrayed the manner of her death. All these things Paul took in at a glance, and stood petrified with horror. The thought struck him that life might not yet be quite extinct, throwing aside the covering, he placed his hand above her heart; but it was cold and still; its pulses had ceased to beat. She was indeed—dead! He knelt beside the corpse, and, in his agony, called on Heaven to destroy him, accusing himself of having murdered the most fair and innocent of beings. The mother, roused from her anguish, learned, for the first time, that the dear child she mourned, had fallen from her purity and innocence. At first she would not believe the dreadful truth, and springing up, she caught the betrayer by the arm.

“Paul Weldon,” she exclaimed, “by all you hold sacred, I command you to tell me the truth: Was she innocent or guilty?”

“She was betrayed!” he replied, shuddering.

“Then the curse of the widow and the childless be upon you! Begone! Linger not a moment by the corpse of your victim, lest she rise from death to upbraid you! Away, and hope not for peace on earth. Go where you will, a mother’s curse shall follow the murderer of her child!”

Mechanically he left the room, and wandered away, he knew not whither. His brain whirled. He saw strange phantoms around him. He fancied the bright heavens strove to fall on him. Dark, angry clouds seemed to envelop him and prevent him from escaping. The birds accused him in their songs. The wind whispered his crime among the green leaves. They trembled as they heard the story, and even the grass and the sweet flowers bowed their heads as they learned his crime. All nature accused him, and he strove to hide himself from the light of day. On, on, he fled until he saw a simple dwelling.

“Ah,” he cried, “this at least is the work of human hands. Here at least dwells a human being. God’s works are pure and they accuse me; but sheltered by what the hand of man has made, I shall feel secure.”

The door stood open and he rushed in. The family were seated at their breakfast, and sprang up in amazement when he appeared. The children shrieked, and he felt that they, too, knew his crime; that they, too, upbraided him. He left the house and sought the woods, but their grand, solemn quiet oppressed him.

“I will go to my father’s house,” said he; “there, at least, no one can accuse me, for my parents share my crime.”

He strove to retrace his steps, but could not: his mind grew more confused, his head became giddy, and he sunk exhausted by the roadside.

The news of Lucy’s death sped like lightning through the village, and when Lady Laura Weldon summoned her dressing-maid, the girl’s pale face struck an unexpected terror to the heart of the mistress.

“What is the matter, Warren?” said she.

“O, madam, such dreadful news,” replied the frightened girl. “Lucy White has killed herself!”

“O, mercy,” shrieked her lady; “Warren, the salts: I shall faint. There, there, I am better now. How could you break such awful news so abruptly. But where is Paul? Go and tell him to come to me.”

The girl hesitated.

“Why do you hesitate? Go and tell my son to come here. Go—instantly.”

“Ah, madam,” said the girl, “I fear it would be useless to seek him. He was there when the death was discovered, and Mrs. White upbraided him so dreadfully, that he rushed from the house and has not been heard of since.”

“Good God! has no one seen him? Run quickly; tell all the servants to seek him and bring him back. By force, if it be required. Bid them search in every direction: whoever finds him shall be well rewarded.”

A few hours later Paul was brought home. On his arrival he was carried to bed, and a physician summoned. His mother knelt by his side, and strove to rouse him to consciousness. At length a few muttered words broke from his lips; then wild cries; then delirious ravings, in which he accused himself of murder, and called on earth and heaven to witness that his mother had instigated him to do the deed, begging the attendants to take her away lest she should also kill him. Thus he lay for weeks; sometimes in a deep stupor, sometimes in furious insanity, when his mad cries rang through the house, curdling the blood of his hearers. Gradually the fever left him, and hope was entertained that he would at length recover. He became convalescent; but still, apparently, not quite sane. He was moody and silent, and avoided companionship. The physicians bade them humor all his wishes, and he was permitted to wander about the mansion and the park, unattended. Care, however, was taken that he should not escape; but as he never attempted any thing of the kind, their vigilance gradually relaxed. One day he cunningly contrived to elude them, and hastened to the cottage of Mrs. White.

The widow sat before the fire with her head bowed down. A step upon the threshold aroused her attention. She turned and beheld Paul Weldon; but so pale, so thin was he, so wild were his looks, that she scarcely knew him. She sprang up with a shriek, remembering his madness, and would have left the apartment; but he placed himself before her.

“Nay, do not leave me,” said he; “I have come to converse with you. You are greatly changed since I saw you last. And Lucy—is she, too, altered? She was pale and cold when I left her, and I thought that she was dead. But they tell me I was mistaken. May I not see her? Where is she?”

Mrs. White saw that he was still insane and dreaded to tell him the truth, yet she feared to deceive him.

He arose and took her by the hand.

“Come, show me where she is,” said he. “You need not refuse, for I will know. Come!”

Finding it useless to resist, she led him toward the church-yard. When they approached the gate, he said:

“You go to the grave-yard. Is she, then, really dead?”

Mrs. White replied not, but entered, and seeking poor Lucy’s grave, pointed to it, saying:

“Lucy sleeps here!”

A simple stone with the single word “Lucy” marked her resting-place. It stood apart from those around it, as if the dead, like the living, shrunk from the unfortunate. It was late in the autumn, and the trees were stripped of their foliage. The wind swept mournfully through their bare branches, and eddied around the vaults and monuments, like a spirit moaning over the dead.

Paul gazed long and silently on the solitary mound of earth where his victim slept. At length he turned to Mrs. White, who was striving to subdue her sobs.

“They deceived me, then, and she is dead; and they have buried her deep in the earth to hide her from my sight,” said he. “But there are no flowers on her grave—no birds to cheer her lonely resting-place. And see! even the very leaves have striven to hide her grave from me. But they shall not—they shall not. I will see her once more. Ha, ha, ha!”

With this he dashed the leaves away, and commenced tearing up the earth with his hands. Mrs. White strove vainly to restrain him; he threw her from him and pursued his fearful task with the strength and activity of insanity. He was suddenly arrested by the strong hands of his attendants, who had missed him, and in their search had been directed thither. He resisted stoutly, but at length was overpowered by their superior numbers.

Next day his fever returned, and for weeks his life was despaired of. His illness now took a favorable turn, and he slowly recovered. With renewed strength reason returned; and his physicians advised an immediate change of scene and air, lest the sight of familiar faces should cause a second relapse into insanity. Preparations were immediately made for a visit to the Continent; and when Paul was well enough to be removed, they departed, late at night, in order that the darkness might hide every thing from his eyes.

A week later they found themselves in Paris, and Paul was still improving in health. Here they rested a short time, and strove by every means to dispel the melancholy which still brooded over him. When summer arrived they repaired to one of the German watering-places. The two succeeding years were spent in Italy, and then, as Mr. Weldon’s health declined, and he pined for the air of his native land, they returned to London. Immediately after their arrival Lady Laura fell ill and died.

The corpse was removed for interment to Weldon. The anxious father would fain have left Paul in London; but the latter persisted in paying the last sad rites to his mother.

He was deeply affected when, after his long absence, he found himself gazing again on the scene of his sin and suffering. His thoughts, were, however, diverted from such reflections by his grief for his mother.

Next day she was buried. For a fortnight Paul never left his father’s side; the old man was sinking rapidly. At the expiration of that time Mr. Weldon was laid beside his wife, and Paul was alone in the world. On his death-bed Mr. Weldon entreated his son to leave England immediately after his funeral, and advised him not to return until time had entirely obliterated the past.

The funeral was over, and Paul sat alone in his chamber, looking silently and sadly toward the church, in whose dreary vaults his parents now slept their last sleep. That benumbing sensation of utter desolation which comes when we have seen the grave close over those nearest and dearest to us, stole over his heart. The past, with its shadowy memories, arose in his mind. He thought of the beloved but mistaken mother who had cherished him so fondly—of the noble father who regarded him with so much pride. He remembered the affectionate words and caresses that he had received from them, and sighed to think how frequently he had caused them unnecessary pain by his boyish willfulness. But those lamented ones were lost to him forever. They lay in the cold gloomy vault, in the lonely church. Then his thoughts wandered to an humble grave in the church-yard. He remembered the fair young girl that he had betrayed; he thought of her wild love and his crime, and felt that God’s just and unfailing retribution had already commenced. He was alone in the world; those whom he had most loved had been snatched away by death. There, in the bounds of that church, rested father, mother, and the one he had betrayed.

He arose and sought their resting-place. There at least he would be less lonely, for would not they be near him, although invisible to his sight? He hastened to the church-yard. He sought among the graves until a simple stone, with the single word “Lucy,” told him who slept beneath. He knelt beside the grave, gazing intently on it, as though his sight could pierce the earth to where she lay within her coffin. He fancied he saw her, pale, cold, rigid, as on that fatal morning when he last beheld her. He remembered how time had flown, and knew that her beauteous form had long since returned to its original clay. He smoothed the long grass that grew above her, and parted the creeping ivy that partly enveloped the grave-stone. Flowers had been planted around, and they bloomed and flourished luxuriously. He hated them when he remembered that they drew their nourishment from the ashes of the dead. Gradually the feeling changed. He plucked one of them and gazed into its cup, until he fancied he saw her face within its depth. He recalled to mind how she had loved them in her life, and felt that even in the spirit-land she delighted in their grateful incense. Their presence at her grave finally comforted him. A slight whirring sound, followed by a sharp cry, startled him. He raised his eyes, and glanced nervously toward the spot from whence the sound proceeded. Upon a grave-stone near him sat a bird, which, as he gazed on it, uttered another cry, and soared away into the azure overhead. He followed it with his eyes until it disappeared, and then, urged by an irresistible impulse, arose and approached the grave on which the bird had perched. He glanced at the head-stone, and read the name of “Mary White” on its pure surface. A heavy groan burst from his lips, as the words met his eyes. He did not need words to tell him the history of the broken-hearted mother who slept beneath the marble. He felt it all; she, too, was dead, and her blood also rested on his soul! The bitter curse which, in the madness of her anguish she had invoked, rang again in his ears. “He should never know peace.” The dead had said it. The desolate mother had called down curses on him ere she died, and they were already closing around him. He was, indeed, accursed. Father and mother had been taken from him. The joyousness of youth had passed forever. Remorse had fastened its fangs in his heart. A demon pursued him wherever he fled. His senses whirled; the hot blood danced madly through his veins. He bared his brow, that the soft air might cool the fever of his brain. He felt the old mood returning. He feared that he would again become insane. He knew himself on the very verge of madness, and strove to restore the balance of his mind. He entered the church, and resting his burning head upon the cold marble underneath which his parents reposed, endeavored to calm himself—to tear his thoughts from subjects which he dreaded to dwell on. He remembered his promise to his dying father, and felt that, to save himself from madness, he must fulfill it, and that quickly. Still Weldon had an irresistible charm for him, since he was there near the resting-place of his lost ones. He could come daily to water the grave of his injured, murdered love with repentant tears. But he was bound by his pledge, and he fully recognized the wisdom which dictated it. Gradually he became more composed, his mind grew more clear, and still kneeling, with bowed head, he entreated his dear parents to offer up the prayer for him which he himself dared not make.

He remained thus until the last rays of the setting sun left the spire of the church, when a step by his side aroused him. He turned and beheld his father’s steward. Tears stood in the old man’s eyes, as, with a faltering voice, he addressed him.

“Pardon me, sir, for intruding upon your grief,” said he; “but he who sleeps below required me to perform the duty which brings me here. He bade me entreat you to leave Weldon as soon as he was laid in his grave. Forgive my boldness; but I hope you will obey his urgent, often-repeated request.”

“And did he say I must go so soon, Elwood?” asked Paul, anxiously.

“He did,” replied the old man. “Indeed he wished you to depart in a few hours after his funeral. I ought to have told you before; but I could not interrupt the indulgence of your grief. There is a sacred comfort in weeping alone over the graves of those whom we love.”

“Well, return and order the carriage: I will be with you at once,” replied Paul.

Elwood bowed and withdrew, and Paul again knelt beside the tomb of his parents, and, pressing his lips to the cold marble, inwardly invoked their blessings. He then arose and turned to depart; but when he reached the door suddenly paused, and rushing back, threw himself once more on the tomb, and burst into tears.

Tears! what sad, yet welcome guests they are! When the deep sorrow which is pent in the heart bursts forth in its natural expression, what relief is found. Thank God for the power to weep, for grief would become madness but for this means to give it vent. Tears have a healing magic, for after an utter abandonment to weeping there comes a heavy, sullen stupor, from which gradually arises slight gleams of hope, which dissipate the midnight gloom of sorrow, and light up the horizon of the future.

Paul wept long and bitterly, then sunk into deep thought, and at length arose and left the church. He knelt a short time by Lucy’s grave, and then by a desperate effort sprung to his feet and rushed from the burial-ground, without casting a single look behind him. He hurried to the manor-house, and finding the carriage in waiting threw himself into it, and, with a hasty adieu to those around, bade the coachman drive on. The next day he found himself in London, from whence he sailed for the Continent. There he wandered from place to place, sometimes mingling with the gay, at others, immuring himself in religious houses, or again seeking excitement in every thing which promised forgetfulness. He next sought oblivion in travel, and went to Palestine, hoping to find in its sacred scenes something more powerful to charm his mind than the all-engrossing subject which continually haunted him. He visited Egypt, and pondering over her buried mysteries strove to devote his intellect to the solution of those wonderful records of old, which she holds with jealous hands, granting but slight glimpses of Truth to the most profound of seers. In vain: the one thought reigned supreme. He now hastened back to Europe, and visiting every place of note, strove to interest himself in her glorious historical remembrances, which impregnate her very air with food for thought. Still in vain. At last he resolved to seek America—the happy land of Freedom. There, among a nation who dwelt but little on the past, who looked to the future with glorious aspirations; there, where none need despair—where the road to fame was open unto all; there, in the bounding hopefulness of a young people’s heart, he hoped to find that something which might excite an overwhelming interest in his soul. His last hope failed him, and the mirage-like Lethe which he had so long and vainly followed on the Sahara of sorrow disappeared forever from his view.

Visiting one of our northern cities, and feeling unwilling to endure the noise and bustle of a large hotel, he resolved to seek a private boarding-house. He was directed to one which ranked among the highest. The terms were soon arranged, and Paul Weldon came to dwell within my walls.

What impression his strange, restless melancholy produced among his fellow-boarders, I have already made known. The cause of his conduct was a mystery which each one vainly tried to solve; and, failing in this, each gave a different reason for what they could not comprehend, agreeing in but one particular—to avoid him.

His nocturnal rambles annoyed them; but he was so gentle and inoffensive, they could not complain of this one fault. It was true that very nervous ladies indulged in delicate shrieks of alarm, or perhaps fainted outright, when returning late from some festive hall, they encountered him in the dimly-lighted passage. But, then it was so good an opportunity for displaying their pretty little feminine fears, that they were rather grateful to him than otherwise: for how could they be angry with one who indirectly caused such tender inquiries as were always made the following morning. And then how interesting the frightened lady looked, as with a scarf or mantilla thrown gracefully around her, (as though the fright caused a chill, which lasted thus long,) she related the incident to her commiserating admirers—and what a dear, delicate little creature she could seem upon such occasions! Too ethereal for this rude world, it excited a fear lest she might too soon be called to a more fitting home.

It was such thoughts, perhaps, that stirred in the hearts of the devoted swains, and made them bristle up, and look fierce, and wonder why such a person was kept in the house, hinting that they would speak sharply to the landlady about it, and have the matter corrected. And then to hear with what earnest sweetness, with what an angelic spirit of forgiveness the fair lady entreated them not to do so; and how the gentlemen expressed their admiration of the lady’s forbearance. It was worth a half-a-dozen fainting fits to give these nervous ladies an opportunity for a display of such exquisite delicacy, and such rare virtues.

Paul consequently remained undisturbed, though he continued to be shunned by all. Under the withering influence of the demon which possessed him, his health gradually declined. Day by day his cheek grew paler, and his form more slender. He now ceased to frequent the public table, and ordered his meals to be served in his own apartments; and only when the solemn stillness of night roused afresh the fearful memories of the past, did he quit his chamber and wander out in the deserted corridors.

At length he became unable to leave his bed. He refused to call in a physician, and required but little attention; and lay there alone, gradually sinking into the grave, without a single friend to soothe or console him. When his illness and his loneliness became known among his fellow-boarders, they all expressed much regret; but he had held himself aloof from all, and there was such an impenetrable mystery around him, that all hesitated at proffering any of those delicate acts of kindness, which are so welcome to an invalid. At length, a young man named Barton, resolved to act the Good Samaritan, even at the risk of being repelled by the sick man. Mr. Barton was one of those true Christians, who do not hesitate at performing their duty, even when it jars with their feelings. He accordingly sought Paul’s chamber; and, tapping at the door, was bidden to enter.

Weldon started when he saw a stranger, but immediately recovering himself, spoke.

“I am happy to see you, sir,” said he: “pray be seated?”

Mr. Barton sat down; and after apologizing for his intrusion, asked if he could render him any service. Paul expressed his gratitude, but declined the proffered assistance.

“Human aid cannot help me now,” was his reply. “I feel that I am dying, and I thank God for it; although death is a fearful thing to one so stained with guilt as I am.”

“But,” replied Barton, “have you no hope from the mercy of God? Repent of your sins, seek forgiveness through the Saviour, and you will find peace.”

“Peace!” exclaimed Weldon; “talk not of peace to me: I cannot—dare not hope for it!”

“Nay,” replied Barton, “do not despair! The Saviour pardoned the thief upon the cross; and He has bidden all that are weary and heavy laden to come unto Him. There, and there only, will you find rest and joy.”

“O, do not mock me with such words!” exclaimed Weldon. “I tell you, I may not—dare not hope. Teach me to exorcise the restless spirit of the dead, and then I may find peace. Night after night she comes to me in my dreams: waking, she is ever before me—her accusing eyes are fixed upon me. Years have elapsed since she died; oceans roll between her grave and me. I have knelt at the holiest shrines—I have dwelt in the lowest depths of vice—I have joined the giddy in pursuit of pleasure—the wise in toil for knowledge. I have hidden in the caverns of the earth, and stood upon her mountain tops. The palace and the hovel, alternately, have been my home. Men have fawned, and fair maidens smiled on me; but all in vain. Still—still her pale face haunts me. The holy hymn and the din of battle—the mad curse of the drunken revel—the silvery laugh of pleasure—the soothing words of woman—and the flattering homage of man have alike failed to silence the bitter, ringing reproach of conscience. Then, bid me not hope for the peace which for years I have vainly sought. Would you go to the fiends of hell, and picture heaven with all its joys to them, and say—‘see; all this might have been yours, though now it is lost forever?’ Would you stand upon the scaffold beside the condemned felon, and tell him that a bright heritage had been left him, and paint all the joys of life, saying—all these were his could he but live; and add, that there was no hope—he must die? It were as merciful as to tell me of that for which I would freely give up all that I possess; nay, even life itself to win—yet dare not hope for.”

“Still,” replied Barton, “you need not despair. There is no guilt, however black, that God will not wipe away. I fear you have never yet sought in the proper manner for the peace which you desire?”

“And do you think I might indeed find it?” asked Weldon, eagerly. “O, if you can but teach me how to drive this restless fiend, Remorse, from my heart, I will be forever grateful!—but you must first know what has been my crime. The blood of two innocent, unoffending women rests upon my head; and one of them was my betrothed wife. She loved me—yes, loved me deeply, madly; and I—I betrayed her. She died by her own hand, and her mother of a broken heart. Knowing this, do you still think I might hope for pardon?”

“Your crime was a fearful one; but surely your deep repentance, your great suffering have, in a measure, expatiated your guilt. But permit me to arrange your pillows, and then I will read to you for a short time.”

The pillows having been arranged, Barton produced a pocket Bible, and read such passages as he thought applicable to Weldon’s case; panning occasionally to comment upon them. This was continued as long as he thought Paul’s strength would permit, and then he arose and took his leave, advising the sick man to sleep if possible. Weldon thanked him for his kind visit, and begged him to return soon again, which Barton readily promised to do.

Thereafter Weldon found his new friend by his bedside daily, advising and soothing him. Under Barton’s teachings his mind gradually became more calm, and he learned to look on the past without that agonizing remorse with which he once regarded it. He repented of his sin, and at last found hope that it might be forgiven. But his life was fast ebbing away, and scarcely had he rejoiced in the reality of his new-found peace, when he died. Calmly and happily did his spirit burst its bonds and fly to join the loved and lamented ones in a holier and happier home.

ARIADNE:

OR THE LOVE WATCH.

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BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

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BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “FRANK FORESTER’S FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH AND FISHING,” ETC.

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