  I, that please some, try all: both joy and terror Of good and bad;—that make and unfold error— Now take upon me in the name of Time To see my wings. Impute it not a crime To me or my swift passage that I slide O’er sixteen years, and leave the ground untried Of that wide gap. Winter’s Tale. The course of our narrative obliges us to pass over sixteen years ere we again introduce its characters to our readers. To those of them who may happen to have lived nearly twice that period, the interval will not appear long. Lucy Ellet had removed on the day following her marriage to the house of Henry Elmore, situated about five miles distant from New Haven. It was a cheerful country residence, fitted up with much neatness. Around it, lay a perfect wilderness of flower-gardens, amid which a refined taste had caused to be erected little summer-houses, which afforded points of view over the distant bay of New Haven. Attached to these grounds was a large farm, over which Lucy soon learned to preside with much matronly grace and dignity. The house itself had been originally small; but shortly after the marriage of the owner, it had been enlarged by the addition of a wing at the back part. This was not exactly adjoining the main building, but connected with it by a corridor. With regard to the purpose for which it had been added nothing was known in the neighborhood with any certainty. Many stories had been circulated concerning its object, and a belief had at length become current that it was haunted by spirits. There were those, indeed, who stated that they had beheld through the opening of a curtain at the window a strangely emaciated face, with sunken eyes of an unnatural lustre, and a look that was not of earth. The mystery that was attached to this portion of the building, and the tales that were circulated in relation to it—together with the former reports that had attached to Lucy Ellet and her young sister—rendered its inmates avoided and unpopular throughout the neighborhood. No distress or mollification, however, seemed to be felt at this circumstance by Henry Elmore and his wife, who showed no disposition for the society of their neighbors, and who no more exchanged visits with any other persons than Governor H. and his wife, (who still resided in L.,) visits which were mutually given and rendered as often as the distance that intervened between their homes allowed. Jessy Ellet, now grown to womanhood, resided with her sister. She had retained the exceeding beauty of her childhood, but exhibited what appeared a wildness of character to those who were incapable of understanding the superiority of her nature. She possessed a certain elevated independence, and ardent feelings, forming a character that few could love, and still fewer could understand. With the enthusiastic feelings we have described, the love of natural objects was to her a passion capable not only of occupying, but at times of agitating her mind. Scenes upon which her sister looked with a sense of tranquil awe or emotion, and the recollection of which became speedily dissipated, continued long to haunt the memory of Jessy, in moments of solitude and the silence of the night. Although she had no selfish pride or vanity, yet there was an air of superiority in her every gesture, which, taken in connection with the other traits we have mentioned, contributed to gain her the character of the eccentric young lady. There was, however, a life and animation in her gayety, a fascination in her manners and expression, whether of language or countenance, a touchingness also in her purity of thought, which, in conversation with the very few persons with whom she associated intimately, gave her society a charm. The parlor of Lucy Elmore’s house was a neat and comfortable apartment. All its arrangements bespoke the skill of a refined female genius—which genius was, in fact, her tasteful and fastidious sister. It was Jessy who had on this dark autumn-day caused the sofa to be wheeled out opposite the fire; she it was who had a few weeks previous directed the graceful looping of the dimity and silk curtains in the windows. The inventive mind of the same guardian divinity had likewise anticipated the more modern fashion of the centre or sofa-table, and induced her to keep a piece of furniture of that description constantly replenished with various new specimens of literature and art. The geraniums and other house-plants in the windows owed their flourishing condition to her training hand; and many other little accessories to the tout ensemble of the room, giving it an air of exceeding home-elegance and comfort—felt rather than perceived—were the results of her care. It was the evening. Henry Elmore was in his little study, and his wife had taken a book in her hand, and retired to the mysterious wing of the house where her sister knew she always spent an hour every morning and evening, though for what purpose she had never inquired, perceiving that Lucy desired the object of these visits to be secret. Jessy was seated alone in the parlor we have described. She had drawn near the table, and bending over a volume of poetry which lay open before her. One fair hand was engaged in playing with the ringlets of her hair, and the other lay upon the classic page. The fire had given a slight flush to her cheeks, usually perhaps a shade too pale; and, as she sat thus, it would have been difficult to imagine a more beautiful object. Sea and land might have been searched, and they would have produced nothing half so interesting or half so lovely. A slight knock at the door interrupted her reading, and a young man of polished manners and handsome exterior presented himself. The new comer was about five-and-twenty, in a military undress, and bearing in his manner and looks a good deal of the martial profession. Notwithstanding the great change which the lapse from youth to manhood makes in his sex, it would not have been difficult for any who had known him in the former period, to trace in the countenance She seemed slightly startled on recognizing him, but rose with a blush and extended her hand. No hue of rising or setting day was ever so lovely in the eyes of the young man as that blush was in his recollection, nor ever did enthusiastic visionary or poetic dreamer discover so many fanciful forms in the clouds. He advanced and took her offered hand with more of tenderness than courtesy in his manner, for he held it a moment ere he resigned it. Some little time had elapsed in a few commonplace remarks, when the gentleman drew his chair close to Jessy’s side. “Miss Ellett,” said he, “I have come this evening emboldened to pour into your ear the story of a long and devoted attachment.” “Mr. Stanley,” interrupted the lady, blushing deeply, while the small hand which lay upon the edge of the table might have been seen slightly to tremble, “I cannot allow you to place yourself at the disadvantage of uttering any thing you might regret when you become acquainted with what I must have to reply in regard to any declaration of this kind.” “Do not, I beseech you, Miss Ellet, say aught to dash my dearest earthly hopes. I had flattered myself—” “I know what you would say,” rejoined the young lady, again interrupting him. “You mean that you had hoped—” and she hesitated an instant, “that you were not altogether indifferent to me. But what avails it whether or no this be the case, when I have that to reveal to you which may make you instantly withdraw your proffered affection?” “No revelation that you could make would have the power to effect a change in the feelings of one who has known you so well.” “Nay, wait until you hear what I have to tell. Know, then, that I am not what I appear.” “Your language is enigmatical,” said her lover, looking at her bewildered; “but if it were possible for any human being to surpass in internal graces the loveliest outside, in that way I can believe that there is truth in your words.” “I thank you for the compliment,” said Jessy, smiling in acknowledgment. “But it is not in regard to my personal graces, either external or internal—for I have too much vanity, I assure you, to suppose that there is aught that can be said in disparagement of either—but in regard to my outward position I speak. I pass for the niece of Governor H., and the sister of Lucy Elmore. Now I am confident that I am neither.” “What is it you say?” said her lover, looking at her in astonishment. “Mr. Stanley,” continued she, “do you recollect the melancholy-looking lady who was present at Lucy’s wedding?” “I do,” said he, “and can tell you more than you have probably ever known. She was the mysterious Lady of the Rock, and the noble wife of the exiled regicide. I shall never forget her touching beauty, nor the heroic fortitude with which she hastened the flight of her husband and father on the day when their hiding-place in the cave was discovered. But what were you going to say of her?” “I felt drawn to her by yearnings of a peculiar kind, and a strange sympathy such as I have never known before or since for any human being. At parting with me, she dropped no tear on my face, but pressing me to her heart with a lengthened and agonized caress, whispered these words in my ears, ‘my daughter, remember your mother!’ Mr. Stanley,” she continued, looking at him steadily, “do you see no singular resemblance in me to that strange lady? Methinks I can behold a marvelous likeness.” As she spoke, a curious similarity in the beloved being before him to that unhappy lady, whose image was impressed upon his memory, struck him in the most forcible manner, thrilling him in addition to Jessy’s words with the suspicion they suggested. “She was my mother,” continued Miss Ellet. “I know it by an instinct that cannot err. Look, too, how little coincidence of looks, no less than taste, exists between myself and my uncle’s family. Lucy, too, although affectionate and kind, resembles me in nothing. I am a mysterious and lonely being.” “There maybe truth in what you surmise,” replied Stanley, who had been pondering deeply during her last remarks; “but call not yourself lonely, unless you positively decline the companionship of one who desires no higher pleasure in life than to share it with you.” “You do not shrink from me, then, because I am thus shrouded in mystery?” “Nay,” said he, venturing to take her hand, “nothing that could be either surmised or proven in regard to your parentage, could change the feelings or wishes of my heart toward you. Jessy, I sail in a few days for England, to be absent for six months, and would know my fate from you ere I depart?” There was a pause of a few moments of that expressive kind which such an occasion only witnesses, and Stanley gathered from its stillness that he might deem his suit not rejected. Some time longer passed, in which the lovers remained alone conversing. Their language was of that kind which none but those who have been in the same situation can properly repeat, and which, therefore, the inexperience of the historian prevents being here repeated. At length Lucy made her appearance, not like one who had been dealing with spirits, but full of cheerful interest in those earthly beings whom she encountered. Time had passed lightly over her, and she looked as young and blooming as on the night of her marriage. The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly. Stanley mentioned his intended visit to England, and the conversation turned for a while upon the mother country. The hour for family prayers arrived. Henry Elmore read a chapter of the Old Testament in a The house being some miles distant from the town of New Haven, the guest was shown to a room above the parlor. A cheerful fire burned in the hearth: the bed was curtained and quilted with white, and every thing invited comfort and repose. The occupant, however, was too full of his late happy interview to feel inclined to sleep, and he threw himself into a large easy chair that stood near the fire. He sat there long, in a deep reverie. After other reflections more intimately connected with his blissful emotions, his thoughts reverted to the revelation Jessy had made to him of her suspicions in regard to the Lady of the Rock. His own mind had readily received these suspicions until, in reconsidering them, they amounted almost to a certainty. What, then, had become of the lady, and what was the fate of her companion? She had announced in his hearing, in the cavern, her intention of going to England for the purpose of endeavoring to obtain their pardon. But she had never returned, nor had he heard her mentioned since the excitement caused by her appearance at Governor H.’s had subsided. There had been no rumor of the apprehension of the regicides, and it was therefore possible that they still remained hidden. Young Stanley now recalled what he had likewise overheard in the cave, about the exiles having been offered a home with Mr. Elmore. He had been absent prosecuting his studies, when the mysterious wing was attached to the dwelling, and in that way had missed hearing the reports to which it gave rise, or it is possible he might have surmised differently in regard to it, from the ordinary conclusion. At his return, the gossip had pretty much subsided into a steady avoidance of the family, so that none of the rumors had ever reached him. It was hardly possible, then, he thought, as he had seen or heard nothing of the outcasts, that they could be residing with Mr. Elmore. Jessy, too, had never named any such inmates to him: nor, this evening, when he had mentioned them in connection with the lady for whom she had expressed such interest, had she evinced a knowledge of their being. They had not, therefore, he concluded, repaired to Mr. Elmore’s; whither had they gone? Casting aside his reflections, after a considerable length of time, Stanley rose from his seat and began to prepare for bed. Walking to a window, he beheld a light in what seemed a house or room opposite. It seemed strange to him that there should be any dwelling situated in this manner in regard to the house he was in—since it was in the country. He was about to persuade himself that it was merely the reflection of his own room, when he saw standing facing him the aged man of the cave. Convinced now that his own imagination was at work, and had conjured up the likeness of one of those who had just occupied his thoughts to so great an extent, he turned away, and hastened to court repose. [Conclusion in our next. ——— BY MISS MARY MACLEAN. ——— [SEE ENGRAVING.] On a sultry noon in summer, When the very air was still, Young Jessie from her cottage Came, sighing, to the rill:— Her graceless lover, Donald, With his laird, Sir Vasavour, And a troop of gallant gentlemen. Were hunting on the moor; And many a day and night had passed Since he had sought her door. But when the simple maiden Drew slowly toward the spring— So heavy with her loneliness, She had not heart to sing— She saw a stranger kneeling, And paused, with modest fears, But the cadence of her footstep Had reached his eager ears— And Jessie lay in Donald’s arms, While he kissed away her tears. THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.
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