Every thing is irrevocable. The word spoken, the deed done, is registered in that book of fate from the page of which no solvent can blot it out. Nay, more: every word or action, however small, has some effect on all that surrounds it; and that effect is often quite out of all proportion to the cause. It is hard for the narrow, slippery mind of man to conceive and hold fast the fact that a pebble dropped into the Atlantic produces a ripple which is more or less felt to all the Atlantic's shores: yet it is a fact. The eye may not be keen enough to detect it ten yards from the spot where the stone displaced the waters; but, though unseen, it exists. It may be crossed by counteracting causes, but still it acts upon them while they act upon it; and it has its effect,—permanent, persisting, never ending.

It is the same with man's actions. Deeds done a thousand years ago are affecting every one of us now; and Julius CÆsar has more to do with a common-councilman of the city of London than that common-councilman ever dreams of.

We have seen that Edward Langdale had little to do but to think. The surgeons would not let him read. He was enjoined to speak as little as possible, for there was a shrewd suspicion that the sword which wounded him had passed through, or very near, one of the lungs. But he employed thought to good purpose,—to calm all angry feelings, to quench repinings, to humble himself to God's will. He was naturally led by this train of thought to follow, in reference to his own case, some of the fine threads out of which the great network of cause and effect is wrought.

"Why should I be so angry with my brother?" he thought. "If he had not taken from me my property, what a different creature I should have been!—a country squire with a pack of hounds; a justice of the peace some day, to hear old women's plaints about robbed orchards and violated hen-roosts! I should never have been Lord Montagu's page; I should never have met with dear, dear Lucette. Sweet girl! where is she now? Does she think of me still? Does she ever regret the indissoluble bond that binds us together?"

Then the train of thought became somewhat more gloomy. He recollected that for two long years—how sadly, sadly long they seemed in prospect!—he was not to see her. And what might happen in the interval? All means, all arts, would be used to induce her to forget him, to break their union, perhaps to make her love some other; and he felt for an instant, as he thus pondered, the little, sharp sting of jealousy,—the most poignant of pangs.

The world has always been full of tales of woman's fickleness, and Edward had heard them,—tales in which her firmness and her truth are often forgotten altogether. But speedily came better thoughts and nobler confidence. Lucette was full of gentleness, was of a tender, loving nature, he knew; but he thought he had remarked, in the various scenes through which they had passed,—scenes well calculated to try a young girl to the utmost,—a strength, a constancy of purpose which bade him trust.

"She will not abandon me," he thought. "She will not bestow that love upon another which was first mine,—is mine by right. Dear, beautiful girl! there is truth and enduring love in those clear, liquid eyes. Oh that I could see her again but for one moment! Oh for one embrace, one kiss!"

The day declined, and night came on. They brought the invalid the scanty supper that was allowed him, and, an hour or two after, Pierrot came to take away the light; for Edward, who had slept very lightly for several nights, had expressed a wish that the night-lamp and the good folks who had hitherto watched him might be withdrawn. He thought he should rest better, he said, if he were quite alone and in darkness. He was not mistaken. From ten till twelve he slept more soundly than he had done for many days. He heard the abbey clock strike twelve, however, but it was but a momentary interruption of his slumber; and he was turning round to sleep again, when the door of the chamber creaked a little upon its hinges. The room was large and the windows well shaded; but, as Edward lay with his face toward the door, he could see a gleam of moonlight partly interrupted at the door-way, and he gazed to discover who was coming in. The figure was small, the garments those of a woman; and the youth thought, "One of the good sisters, to see if I am sleeping well. She means it kindly; but I wish she had not come."

Unwilling to have any conversation, he shut his eyes again and affected to be still asleep; but the door was gently closed, and then a light footfall crossed the floor. It stopped near his bedside, and then a hand lightly touched him; for the room was very dark, and probably the visitor, whoever it was, did not see any thing distinctly.

"This is strange," thought Edward: "the sisters commonly have a lamp with them."

The stranger paused where she stood, and seemed to be gazing down upon the spot where he lay; and then she quietly crossed the room to where a small crack between the blind and the wall showed a very narrow ray of moonshine. She quietly and softly pulled back the blind a very little farther, so as to admit the slightest possible light into the room, and then returned to the bedside and gazed down again. A moment or two after, Edward felt the pressure of a cool, delicious kiss upon his cheek. He could affect sleep no longer, and opened his eyes; but it was in vain. He could neither see the face nor distinguish the garments of his visitor; and, stretching forth his hand, he caught her dress, saying, "Who are you? what is it you seek?"

She answered not; but, kneeling down by his bedside, she threw her arms round him, covering his lips and brow with kisses; and he thought he felt a warm drop or two fall from her eyes upon his cheek.

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, raising himself on his arm; "who are you? What is this? I should know that kiss; but I do not—I cannot believe in such happiness. Tell me, tell me who you are!"

She put her soft cheek, wet with tears, close to his, and whispered, "Dear, dear Edward! Who am I? Who but your own Lucette,—your own wife? And did you know my kiss? Never, never forget it, Edward." And she kissed him again and again, as if she would fix the soft pressure of her lips upon his memory forever.

"Never! never!" he said, putting his arm round her. "But am I in a dream? I cannot believe that this is a waking truth."

"Lie down," said Lucette, "and do not be agitated, dear husband; otherwise I must leave you. It is no dream, though it seems almost as much so to me as to you. I thought you would forgive me for waking you; and I could not be so near you, and you ill and wounded, without one word of affection before we go on. I am afraid it was cruel and wrong, when you were sleeping so calmly. But tell me yourself that you are better,—that you are getting well. The good sister who told me all about your wound said you would soon be able to ride out. They are all anxious about you here; but who can be so anxious as I am?"

"But tell me more, dear Lucette," said Edward, disobeying her, and still holding her to his heart. "How came you in Savoy? how came you here? how did you find your way hither?"

"I came on with the family of Monsieur de Rohan," answered Lucette. "He judged it best we should all quit France for a season and go to Turin or Venice, while he endeavored to deliver Rochelle; and when we arrived here the first thing the nuns told us was of the young foreign cavalier who lay wounded under their care. When I heard your name, I seemed for a moment to have no feeling in my heart, no thought in my brain; but I soon recovered. I got the good sister who attends upon you to tell me all; and, by prayers and entreaties and the gold cross I used to wear, I induced her to bring me here, telling her that you are my husband,—my own wedded husband. But I promised her, Edward, not to agitate you or talk to you too much, and only to stay five minutes."

"Oh, stay, Lucette! stay!" said Edward, forgetting all consequences. "Dearest girl, do not leave me! Lord Montagu will be back to-morrow. Must you go on to Turin?"

"Remember your promise to the cardinal, Edward," she answered. "I must remember mine to good Sister Agatha. If I break my promises to others, you will not believe mine to you,—although I fear I have already somewhat failed, and agitated you more than I intended."

"Five minutes have not passed yet," said the youth, feeling that she was about to rise from her knees, where she had hitherto remained. "Oh, no! it is but an instant since you came, dearest! Another kiss, dear Lucette. Could I have had them before, I should have been well ere this." He took another, and not only one; and, between, he told her he was really better, and would soon be well, and that he would try some means to see her soon, and at the end of two years would seek her as his wife, whoever might oppose; and she on her part promised that he should not seek in vain, but should find her ever ready to go with him to the ends of the earth.

But the five minutes were certainly outstayed; and Lucette's heart was reproaching her, and Edward was thinking how he could ever part with her, when the door opened again, and Sister Agatha came in to remind the poor girl of her promise.

It was a hard parting,—harder, perhaps, than it had been before; and many another word had to be spoken and many another kiss to be taken ere they could separate. Sister Agatha was no restraint upon them, and, to say sooth, entered into their feelings with sympathies not altogether consistent with her vows. What they said she could not understand, for they spoke in English; and, though she had a certain portion of French and a good deal more of Italian, the rich Anglo-Saxon tongue was to the good old soul a most harsh and un-intelligible jargon, and she wondered that such pretty lips as Lucette's could pronounce the hideous sounds. The five minutes were lengthened to half an hour after her arrival, for Lucette felt she was breaking no promise when the person to whom it had been made was present and not an unconsenting party; but in the end Sister Agatha insisted that they should part, asking Lucette in a reproachful tone if she would kill the poor young man.

"I have been selfish," said Lucette, rising from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting; and, kissing him once more, with a long, tender, lingering kiss, she left him.

Thus they parted, not to meet again for a longer period than they anticipated. They could hardly be said to have seen each other, for Sister Agatha had left her lamp at the door, and the ray of moonlight which Lucette had let in was very faint; but that interview, short as it had been, was something for memory to fix upon during many months.

The first effect upon Edward Langdale was what Sister Agatha had dreaded. It had agitated him much, and for more than one hour after Lucette had left him his heart beat and his brain throbbed, and sleep deserted him as if she never would return. But the reaction was balmy. He had met her again; he had held her in his arms; he had tasted once more the honey of her lips; and there was a sort of superstitious feeling about him as if a bad spell had been broken. He had felt a dread till then that some old rhyme he had heard in his young days was to be verified in his own case. It was somewhat to the following effect, though I know not if memory retains it rightly:—

It had haunted him, that old distich, ever since he left Lucette under the care of the Duc de Rohan; but now the vision was dispelled. They had met again, and his Lucette loved him still as warmly, fondly, as he could wish. It was a dexter omen; and, with more faith than ever Roman augur possessed, he interpreted it to forebode future happiness. Joy, however, is wakeful as well as sorrow; and, even after the first effect of agitation and excitement had passed away, he lay sleepless and thoughtful, but very, very happy. He remembered many a word he could have wished to have uttered, many a question he would willingly have asked; but the great question of the heart was answered. She loved him still unchanged; and Edward was at a time of life when hope and trust were sure to rise out of such assurance. Gradually fatigue and exhaustion did their work upon the body, and, through the body, upon the mind. Had there been trouble in the spirit, he might, and probably would, have slept a few minutes, from mere weariness, to wake speedily with irritation, if not fever. But the heart was at rest; and as soon as his eyes closed he slept like a wearied but happy child, calmly, profoundly, long, and only woke some three hours after every other person in the abbey. His look was relieved, his color better, his eyes more bright. During that night he had made the first rapid stride toward convalescence.

Oh, if physicians would but take pains to discover whether the malady lies most in the mind or the body, what cures might be performed!—if they could but find the medicine! But happiness is a mithridate so compound and so fine that, search over the world, you will find few places where it can be procured, and never—alas! never—pure and unadulterated. That villanous serpent has left his slime on every thing.

The whole day Edward Langdale waited impatiently for the return of Lord Montagu; but he waited in vain: Lord Montagu did not appear. Another and another day passed: still he was absent. Young men calculate not the many impediments which lie between design and performance. "He could easily do this; he might easily have done that," is the constant cry; when in truth it would have been impossible for the person spoken of to have done any thing more than he did do. The smallest thing in the world overthrows the grandest scheme, frustrates the most positive assurance. Is it accident,—that refuge of the destitute? Is it not rather the quiet intervention of that ruling Power which, foreseeing all man's acts, bends the results to the accomplishment of his own predetermined purposes?

Edward Langdale was impatient. Strength was returning fast: when he coughed, his handkerchief came from his lips unstained with blood; his wound was nearly healed, and he longed to pursue his career of active exertion. But he did not know that the Duke of Savoy had been out to kill deer in the mountains, and that Lord Montagu was forced to wait his return. In the mean time, however, he rose earlier each day. He went out; he roamed round the abbey; he visited the city; and the only thing which retarded his complete recovery was his impatience. He was eager to get on,—too eager. He had always been too eager; but there was a great difference between his eagerness now and that of former years. Hitherto he had been moved only by the vague, aspiring hope of youth,—so often disappointed till the frost of age and the chill of adversity have withered the plant and blighted the flower and destroyed the fruit under the bud,—the hope of doing some-thing great in life. Now he had a more definite object, a clearer purpose. It was Lucette.