But good with ill, and pleasure still with pain
Like Heaven's revolving signs, alternate reign.
TRACHINIA.

Life of my love—throne where my glories sit,
I ride in triumph on a silver cloud
When I but see thee.
SUN'S DARLING.

A few days after their return home, the weather, always so unsettled in our climate, became suddenly cold, and Aveline's illness immediately assumed a more serious form. Mr. Lindsay looked grave; and to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's repeated entreaties that he would be perfectly open with her respecting her daughter's state; he at length reluctantly owned that he entertained a very slight hope of her ever being restored to health. Mrs. Fitzpatrick bore the news with more firmness than he had expected. Although her fears had often suggested as much to her own mind, she only half believed it. If Aveline seemed languid or out of spirits; if her cheek was more flushed, or her appetite failed, then Mrs. Fitzpatrick's heart died within her; and she echoed the doctor's unfavourable sentence. But if she rallied for a time, if she turned to her usual occupations for an hour, or if, owing to the return of the fine weather, she enjoyed a temporary respite from her harrassing attacks of cough, then Mrs. Fitzpatrick's spirits and confidence rose again; no one understood she was sure, her daughter's case. Aveline was certain to recover.

It was a mild sunny morning. There had been rain, and it had dispelled the sharp wind so prevalent in our early summer. The sea lay glittering, and breaking into small crested waves. Aveline wrapped in shawls with a heavy cloak laid over her feet, sat reading upon the beach. Her mother had walked back to the house to give some forgotten order to the servants, and Aveline, as soon as Mrs. Fitzpatrick was out of sight, dropped her book, and clasping her hands on her knee, sat long gazing upon the moving line of water. It had become an exertion to her to read of late. The lines swam before her eyes, if she directed her attention to them for any length of time. Her appetite had declined; her spirits failed her; and her large eyes now filled with tears, as she remained listless, and quiet; gazing vacantly upon the slowly advancing waves.

Two or three merry peasant children were playing on the beach—urging each other closer and closer to the rippling water, and running back with shouts and laughter as the foam broke over their feet. When they came nearer to Aveline, their voices sank; they whispered to each other that it was the sick lady, and stole quietly one by one along the sand. But Aveline caught sight of them as they were passing, and beckoned them to her side.

"Come to me, Jane," said she "I wish to speak to you, I want to hear how your mother does?"

"Mother is better, Ma'am, thank you," said the girl. "Mother ate all the chicken broth," said a younger child pressing forward.

"I am glad to hear it," said Aveline, "does she sleep better, than she used?"

"Much better, Ma'am," said the girl, "the doctor says she may leave off taking the stuff at night."

"That is a good sign; and I hope you are very good children, and do nothing that might vex your mother; and that you try to help her as much as you can. It is so sad to be ill," said poor Aveline.

"Yes, Ma'am," said all the children together.

"It is such a comfort to her to have good little quiet children about her," said Aveline, in her gentle voice, "and it will be such a comfort to you to know that you have done all in your power to make her better."

Her earnest manner struck the children; they stood silent, looking stedfastly at her. At last Jane, the eldest, said timidly, "And you, Ma'am, are you getting better?"

"No," said Aveline with a faint smile "no, I do not feel much better yet. I think I must wait until the weather is warmer."

And she drew her shawl closer round her.

"Mother will be sorry for that," said the little girl sadly; "mother said she did not look to see you ever better in this world."

"And mother cried when she said so," added the boy fixing his round blue eyes on Aveline.

Aveline made no answer, when the children had done speaking, and they stood by her side, constrained and silent for some minutes.

At last she looked up, and said quietly. "Well now, you can go on playing. Jane will be very careful of her two brothers. It is quite like a woman to be trusted—is it not Jane?"

The children stole gently away hand in hand; and Aveline, after a pause, during which she struggled in vain to calm her feelings, burst into a passion of tears and convulsive sobs. Her mother had so carefully concealed from her all suspicions of her danger; so scrupulously hidden her fears of the result of her illness; that Aveline always looked forward to the warm weather as the infallible cure for her cough, and ascribed to accidental causes the different symptoms which revealed too well to others the nature of her complaint. To die. The thought was so new—so terrible. To leave the world—she was so full of genius, of intellectual life, she had done so much, she had so much to do, (the feeling of all those who have done much), and to leave her mother—who had no one—no single thing in life to supply her place. Could it be? Could nothing really save her? Was her fate so plainly indicated, that the poor peasant woman, whom she visited and relieved, could not fail to read it? Her agitation shook her from head to foot. And yet another thought would intrude itself; a memory and a hope that she had banished, yet clung to in spite of reason, for very long. "If I die," she exclaimed, clasping her hands in agony, "I shall never see him again!"

After a while she collected herself; she would not distress her mother by appearing conscious of her perilous state. And her mother was suppressing all that she feared and felt, from the same kind but mistaken motive; for both would have been relieved and strengthened had they opened their hearts, and wept together instead of in secret.

"Well, Aveline, are you tired," asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as she returned to her daughter.

"Rather tired, mamma, of sitting," said Aveline in that unequal voice that betrays recent tears; "if you will give me your arm, I will walk a little way along the beach."

"There is not much sand left," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as they strolled along, "the sea is a sad encroacher, Aveline, and stays for you no more than for King Knute."

But Aveline was weeping silently, and made no reply.

"Aveline, dearest, what is it?" asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and her heart trembled within her, for of all things she most dreaded her daughter's suspecting her danger; she knew the rapid inroads of imagination upon a delicate frame.

"Nothing, mamma," said Aveline. "I am low spirited to-day, and do not feel strong enough to resist crying—that is all."

"You must not be so much alone," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "have you seen Brand's children?"

"Yes, they have just left me;" said Aveline, "they are nice little creatures, and Jane grows taller I think every day."

"Mrs. Fletcher has sent you a basket of her fine raspberries," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "and a very kind note with them."

"She is very good. I meet every where with great kindness," said Aveline.

"You must take care we do not walk too far," said her mother, "suppose you rest a little."

"I will stand a minute, and watch the sea, mamma," said Aveline.

She leaned on her mother, and remained gazing on the long range of broken rocks against which the waves were tossing their white foam. These rocks, which a little way out at sea, rose some feet above the level of the water, decreased in size as they advanced to the shore, and appeared nothing more than an irregular mass of rough stones, covered with slippery green sea-weed.

Presently a speck appeared on the horizon, and gradually advancing, presented the appearance of some slender vessel. "Look, Aveline, there is a yacht!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "what a beautiful thing it is!"

"Yes, a pretty toy," returned Aveline listlessly, "but I prefer a fishing boat, I think my sympathies go rather with the poor, than with the rich. What tales of the still magnificence of moonlight nights, what adventures, what perils of winds and storms are connected with the meanest of those little vessels. And the watchful wife, and the sleeping unconscious children, during those rough dark nights, while the father is out toiling for their bread. I do not like the gentry of our day, mamma; all the poetry is on the side of these poor folks."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick smiled, "See," she said, "they have lowered a boat; one of your despised gentlefolks is coming ashore."

Aveline turned her eyes carelessly in the direction of the boat. "I dare say," she replied, "it belongs to the person who has taken the villa on the other side of the cliff. Mark said it had been let the other day. It would be a very convenient place for any one fond of boating." The boat, at length, neared the shore, and a man in a sailor's costume sitting idly in the stern, threw out a couple of dogs, who swam towards the land.

Aveline, not sufficiently interested in their proceedings to continue watching them, turned slowly away, and loitered along the shore in an opposite direction.

Meantime the dogs had come to land; and one of these, a setter of remarkable beauty after shaking the spray from his coat, ran prying along the shore, until upon reaching Aveline and her mother, he uttered a bark of recognition, and sprang fawning upon them.

"Mamma!" exclaimed Aveline breathless with excitement, "look; it is Farfallo! How well I recollect him. See, he knows me! Don't you remember my naming him at Sorrento? Oh, I cannot be mistaken!"

"Dear Aveline, it is very unlikely," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "No! I am sure—certain of it," cried Aveline, "how could I forget him?"

Her agitation, the glow in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, as she stooped and caressed the dog with a delight that she took no pains to disguise, gave a hope to Mrs. Fitzpatrick that sent a thrill of pleasure through her heart. It was evident that Farfallo's master could not be far off. It was equally evident that Aveline had not forgotten him; all her illness might arise merely from depression of spirits, from that protracted hope, which while it makes sick the heart, seldom altogether spares the body. Doctors did make such extraordinary mistakes in people's complaints. Mr. Lindsay, though a very judicious man, was not infallible; and Mr. Haveloc once more thrown in Aveline's way.

Her fancy was travelling very fast, when a voice, they both well knew, was heard calling Farfallo, coupled with a polite request, not proffered in the gentlest tones, that "the devil would fetch the dog."

Some rocks were between them and the impatient owner. Farfallo sprang away. Aveline stood up with a bright smile.

"So like him—so impatient!" she said, as if she were paying him a compliment. He came suddenly upon them.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick turned quietly towards him, as if they had only parted yesterday.

"We were to blame, Mr. Haveloc. We kept your dog," said she smiling.

He stopped short in astonishment.

"Mrs. Fitzpatrick! Is it possible?" he exclaimed. "How fortunate I esteem myself in meeting you again."

"The surprise is all on your side," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "This dog of yours warned us of your near neighbourhood."

"You remembered him then? I hope he has not bored you—he is so wet. And you, Miss Fitzpatrick, I trust you are quite recovered."

Aveline made a slight bow, and smiled. Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered for her.

"We have not much to boast of, at present, Mr. Haveloc," said she; "we look to the hot weather to set her up again."

"You must allow me to take you on a cruise in my yacht," said Mr. Haveloc pointing to the vessel in the distance. "Sea voyages are said to be very good for invalids; and I am becoming quite an experienced sailor."

"You used to threaten something of that kind at Sorrento," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"Yes! but the fancy has gone off as you said it would," he replied. "I shall get rid of my yacht in the autumn, and go abroad again."

"What not tired of travelling yet!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"It is not exactly the love of travelling; but I have promised a friend of mine to go with him to the Pyrenees—a young barrister, who has a few weeks of liberty in the autumn, and who likes to use it to the utmost."

"What a delightful tour!" said Aveline. "There is nothing equal to mountain scenery."

"But you know, Miss Fitzpatrick, I am not properly sensible of the charms of mountain scenery."

"That is very wrong," said Aveline, looking up to him with a smile. "I was in hopes you might have reformed before now."

"There were three things I remember that I did not justly appreciate," said Mr. Haveloc; "moonlight, monks, and mountains."

"It was only that one old monk that I ever insisted upon," said Adeline.

"I thought him the dirtiest of the whole set," said Mr. Haveloc laughing.

"He was very dirty," observed Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "You cannot think how surprised I was to see you."

"I thought you in Italy," said Mr. Haveloc.

"I thought you still farther," replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"Indeed! How far?"

"In Egypt. Was not that your plan?"

"I had some thoughts of going across to Venice, and so on to Egypt; but I became anxious to return to England."

"I hope you found your guardian in good health."

"Oh! I hope so," echoed Aveline. "He must be such a delightful old man."

"He is delightful," said Mr. Haveloc warmly. "But I cannot say much for his health; yet these sickly people often outlive stronger ones."

"That is very true," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, with a satisfied air.

As they passed the place where Aveline had been sitting, Mr. Haveloc started forward and picked up a book.

"This is yours, Miss Fitzpatrick," he said, "do not deny it—now that I am your neighbour, I shall make a point of gleaning after you, and furnish my library with the books you lose."

"You have taken that villa then," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, smiling at Aveline's confusion, for she was rather notorious for losing her things.

"I have. So you have been reading the dark old Florentine, again," said Mr. Haveloc, looking into the book he carried, "I thought, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you forbade Dante altogether."

"Not quite," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick; "but I was rather an advocate at Sorrento for studies of a lighter description. Aveline's health—"

"Oh, but I am better now, mamma!" exclaimed Aveline.

"You do, indeed, look better, Miss Fitzpatrick, than when I saw you last," said Mr. Haveloc.

"You think so—you really think so!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzpatrick eagerly, "and you must be a judge. I, who see her every day, can form no idea of her looks."

"Can there be a doubt of it?" said Mr. Haveloc.

And who, indeed, would have traced the progress of disease in those sparkling eyes—that beautiful bloom. Her walk was no longer stooping; her step was not languid. Her mother was astonished at the renovation that seemed to have taken place within her, though she was enlightened as to the cause. And Aveline, the thought of her danger had vanished like lightning from her mind. She was well, strong, happy, she could never be ill again.

"And how long are we likely to have you for our neighbour, Mr. Haveloc?" asked Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"I have taken the villa for the summer," he said; "but if it pleases me, perhaps, I shall buy it. I should like to have something of a fishing cottage by the sea-side; and though the house is a nut-shell, it is large enough for that purpose. One puts up with any accommodation at the sea."

"And a single man ought to put up with a cupboard, you know," said Aveline.

"Ah! Miss Fitzpatrick, I am aware of the immense dignity a man gains when he is married," said Mr. Haveloc; "before that awful period, he is hardly looked upon as a member of society. Is this your house? What a paradise. Allow me to return you your Dante, and do me the honour to recollect that I rescued the old bard from the waves."

"No—you must come in, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I cannot part so quickly from an old friend. We dine early on Aveline's account, and you can take your luncheon at the same time."

"I shall be too happy to come in," said Mr. Haveloc, "for luncheon, I disdain it altogether, as most men do."

"I believe you never eat, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, "you never did. People talk of ladies living on air; I never could make out what you lived upon at Sorrento."

"Turkies, I believe, Miss Fitzpatrick; they were the staple commodity in that part of the world. I do not wonder that you were anxious to return to England," he said, looking round, as they entered the drawing-room. "The wonder is, how you could ever leave so delightful a spot."

"One would go anywhere in search of health, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

"True, but having found it, as I trust you have," said Mr. Haveloc, turning to Aveline, "you cannot regret the shores of the Mediterranean, here."

"No—I regret nothing, I have not a thing to wish for," said Aveline, as she sat tranquilly on the sofa, absorbed in the content of the present moment. He was with them; he was their near neighbour; they must often see him. Her happiness was only too great to be believed. She never dreamed that his heart was engrossed by another—she judged him by herself.

For Mr. Haveloc, he was really delighted at the rencontre. He was very partial to Mrs. Fitzpatrick; he respected her character, and admired the cultivation of her mind. They had been used, when they met at Sorrento, to hold long arguments on art and poetry; on society and politics; on every possible topic; in short, both had much knowledge, much originality, much power of expression. And Aveline sat and listened as to an oracle. But with the exception of a few bantering sentences occasionally passing between them, they never spoke to each other. And while he sought and admired the society of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he only thought of Aveline as an interesting, sickly girl, whom he hoped would gain strength for the sake of her poor mother, who seemed to doat upon her. But although he was not what would be called a good-natured person, yet where his feelings were at all interested, he displayed an eager and watchful attention, which might easily be supposed to spring from a warmer source than that which actuated his conduct.

Aveline had taken off her bonnet, and her profuse curls of dark hair, of that finest silk that almost bespeaks great delicacy of constitution, hung over her face and shoulders, concealing in some measure the thinness of her outline. Mr. Haveloc was not sufficiently interested in her to mark her quick and unequal breathing; he merely thought as he had said, that she was looking much better than she had done at Sorrento.

"That is your harp, Miss Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Haveloc, as he wandered about the room. "Did you get any lessons from that person at Milan?"

"Mademoiselle S——; yes, a few. But I was obliged to leave off on account of my chest. She did me a great deal of good, however, and brought out my touch very well."

"I hope to hear you one day. Oh! by the way, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, did you ever succeed in finding an engraving of the Cenci that pleased you?"

"No, but I picked up a miniature copy at Rome which almost satisfied me."

"Almost! Ah that inimitable mouth, the colour as well as the form, the faded rose-leaves; but one cannot describe it. A man who had painted such a picture had better die; there would be nothing left for him to do—he could not surpass himself."

"Now I think, Mr. Haveloc," said Aveline, with something of her old playfulness, "he had better live to be thanked and admired for his good deeds: and having excelled others, he need not be concerned that he can no longer surpass himself."

"And what are you doing, and who have you surpassed in the arts?" said Mr. Haveloc, struck by her reply.

"Something wonderful is in progress," said Aveline laughing, "when I get better, I mean to astonish everybody." Mr. Haveloc was surprised and pleased with her conversation. Pain, whether mental or bodily, lulls the faculties of some people; but with others, it stings them into unnatural forwardness and activity. So it had been with Aveline. In accomplishment, in language, in general knowledge of every kind, she was singularly forward and perfected. Everything around her proclaimed the elegance of her mind; every trifle bore the stamp of that classic correctness of taste, which she had improved by travel, but which was a part of her natural tendencies.

When he rose to go, it was natural that Mrs. Fitzpatrick should beg him to repeat his visit; that she should assure him of being always a welcome guest.

"Thank you a thousand times," he replied, "you cannot imagine the pleasure I feel at renewing our acquaintance; but I cannot take myself off, until you consent to fix a day for our sailing expedition: do trust yourselves on board with me?"

"Come to-morrow," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I shall see how Aveline is, and we will talk it over then."

"Be very well, Miss Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Haveloc, as he shook hands with her, "as soon as I get you on board, I shall make all sail for Algiers."

This was an allusion to a laughing conversation they had once held at Sorrento, respecting the price they would all fetch, if seized upon by some pirate of the Mediterranean, and carried to the slave market at Algiers. It was clear that he remembered all that had ever passed when they were together. Was it wonderful if she thought that love had prompted his memory?

There was a silence of some moments after he left the room, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who was seated near the window watching Mr. Haveloc as he made his way down to the beach, said:

"What a curious sort of straw hat he wears." "Does he?" said Aveline, coming near her mother.

"Yes, like the reapers in the 'Tempest.'"

And that was all that passed between them on the subject of Mr. Haveloc's visit.