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love anything, and had made Marie her confidante, long before the object of her love dreamed how far he might count on the affection of the accomplished Miss Emily Sydney. Grey was well calculated to win hearts, if not to retain them when won; he was so witty, so gentleman-like, so self-possessed, and had the useful faculty of finding out and playing upon other people's weaknesses long before he had manifested his own, that it would have been evident to any one who spent five minutes in the society of the two, that John Savile could have no chance with James Grey in "turning up hearts" at the first game in the rubber of life. What wonder then if the painter's two daughters fell in love with one man, and he, James Grey? Sydney had no objection whatever to Grey's penchant (as he thought) for Emily. Yet there was a great leaven of selfishness in Grey's love (I don't know what else to call it) of Emily; he was proud of his inamorata, plumed himself upon his conquest, and had already begun to speculate on the possibility of her becoming his wife, and, when he had risen into eminence, of attracting half the lions" of society to her soirees. Still there were moments when, as he sat by the side of Marie, while her sister was flirting with half the room, he felt that he would willingly have resigned his pretensions to the envied hand of Emily for the love of one like her sister-and, halting between two opinions, he had, even at the very time when he was pressing his suit with Emily, half hinted his affection for Marie to that reserved young lady herself. Possibly, had she given him the least encouragement, the recreant lover would at the eleventh hour, have thrown off his allegiance. But Marie, with woman's quick perception, seeing all this, nevertheless had made up her mind as to the course she ought to pursue— she would never cross Emily's happiness. So she met the fickle Grey's advances with chilling hauteur, shunned him as much as was compatible with politeness, and soon succeeded in forcing upon his vanity a conviction that Marie Sydney would never love James Grey. It was indeed a sore trial to the young loving heart-but she went through it bravely. Moreover, she knew that her mother's days were well nigh ended (Mrs. Sydney was in a decline,) that her father's home would soon be broken up, and, having heard from her mother that he had once been all that she fondly hoped he never could be again, she dreaded the re-action consequent on her mother's death doubly on that score. "Mine be the path of duty!" said she. She saw it clearly defined, with tearful eyes, but brave, loving heart, and she never swerved once from it, even unto the end. So Emily Sydney became the bride of James Grey; but Marie still nursed her sick mother, and was still the angel of the painter's home.

Mrs. Sydney died, and the re-action, as Marie had feared, was too much for the painter. He

threw aside his palette, and for a while abandoned himself to hopeless grief. Commissions might pour in as of old-all in vain now he had no spirit to execute them. Soon he selfishly sought relief from sorrow in the bachelor society of "auld lang syne," to which he had long been a stranger, leaving his daughter, in spite of her tearful entreaties, night after night alone, to sit idly listening to the wind, or fall asleep over the fire, till the whole of her young life would pass before her sad retrospect; till Grey, the first—only love, would appear to her once more in her dreams, with his bright eyes, and proud dark face, till she would awake with a nervous start to find her cheek wet with tears, and her drunken father reeling into the hall. Few can tell the misery of a home like this, save they who have seen the beloved eye, that, in other and happier years, had never beamed on them but with parental affection, now glassy in the fixed stare of maudlin drunkenness, leering in hideous merriment, or flashing with a drunkard's impotent spleen. Imagine all this; imagine a fair, delicate girl, watching night after night, with eyes red with long weeping, alone in a lonely house, with no sound to answer back her sobs but the moan of the night-wind over the cold heath, or the bay of the chained watch-dog at the moon. But there comes a sound under the window, the dog bays, clanks his chain, and is silent-surely he must have come at last-go to the door, pale Marie, see thy father reeling in, staggering under the fumes of spirits, feel his burning breath reeking from the tavern upon thy pale cheek, till even thou dost shrink from him, tend him in his help. lessness till the morning sun shall shine in on thee watching in sad silence a drunken father's perturbed sleep-then go to thy chamber, not to nurse angry thoughts, but to pray long and fervently for him that he may see the error of his ways, and be as he had been of old, ere the hand of the All-Wise had been laid so heavily on thee and thine. Such was the life of Marie Sydney now, with little variation. The only happy hours she ever spent now were when John Savile came up to pass a quiet evening with them-for, on such occasions only, would her father sit quietly at home, and seem something like his former self. For he loved the young literateur as a younger brother, and she had great hopes that Savile's influence over Sydney would be exerted so far as to wean him back to his easel and his home once more. After a while her hopes were in part realised. Sydney did take up his brush once more, and Savile would now often come out to tea, so that Sydney had less excuse, if he had sought it, for leaving home. But my lady readers, if I be so fortunate as to have any such, will say "What of Savile's love for Marie-don't you mean, oh! neglectful reverist, to tell us any more of that?" And the reminder is, I feel, welltimed. To continue. One evening he called upon the painter by appointment, but found on knocking at the door, that Sydney had gone out-leaving

BROKEN MEMORIES.

a message for Savile to wait till his return. He was ushered into the drawing-room, and there sat Miss Sydney reading. Now, thought honest John Savile, is the time to speak, or be for ever silent. After much nervous circumlocution, he had at last plucked up heart of grace to tell Marie all he felt, whereat that young lady opened her blue eyes wider than was their wont, and at first seemed divided in her opinion as to the propriety of ring. ing the bell or bursting out laughing. But earnestness, however awkward, will always, in the long run, command attention, and she was soon listening with face suffused with blushes, to his passionate appeal. But as I do not mean to indite a love scene, I must, in school-boy phrase, "skip and go Now Marie had, like most other young ladies, certain elevated ideas of her own as to what gentlemen ought to be, and I fear poor John Savile in face, manners, and other minor matters, fell far below her standard. They parted that night, she with the idea that wounded vanity was his only feeling when she declined his suit, and he half inclined to believe he had made a fool of himself, and half inclined to go back again at the earliest opportunity to settle his doubts by a second and similar scene. Well-certainly the little blind god does twist us men round his finger and make fools of the wisest-from Solomon to Savile.

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dour deserves candour." She rose slowly from
her chair, walked across the room to him, and,
laying her hand on his shoulder, looking trustingly
up in his honest face, said slowly, as though the
words pained her, 'John Savile, I will evermore,
after this, love you as a sister. I have wronged
your heart-I have thought lightly of you-now
I see your truth at last. I would retain the friend
if I lose the lover, but my heart is another's, and
I can never be your wife." He laid his great
sinewy hand upon the fair young head that was
bowed down before him, and, with face as pale as
ashes, said very calmly, Be it so-love me as a
sister. God bless you, Marie, even for that same.
You do not lose the lover in wishing to retain
simply the friend. Both are combined." He
stooped down, brushed a tear from his eyes with
the back of his hand, ere he imprinted on her
upturned brow one long kiss-and with husky
voice said "Good bye, Marie."
"Good bye,
John." And so they parted; and as the door
closed upon him, Marie sank down into her chair,
and wept tears of pity for him she did so much
esteem, yet could not love. And John Savile
strode home across the heath to his books and
papers, with a heavy heart, to work manfully
through the night, with his head down to his desk
till his candle flickered in its socket, and he went
to bed worn out with his toil, to dream of love
and Marie.

Time wore away, and his affection for Marie had in nowise changed-love is hopeful, even in Marie's constitution, which had long ago been the teeth of despair-so he determined on de- undermined by her unremitting exertions at her ciding the momentous question, if his love could poor mother's bed-side, and latterly by the wretched justly claim hope as an ingredient therein, by a life she had led with poor Sydney since her mother's second appeal to Marie's heart. They were alone death, now gave way, and it became evident to once more in Sydney's drawing-room, as they had all who saw her that change of scene was necesbeen on that very 21st of June, two years ago, sary. Just when Sydney was talking about rewhen he made his first appeal. He felt that the moving his daughter to the coast of Devonshire, lapse of time was in his favour; it was at least a a friend, for whom he had imprudently become proof of the sincerity of his early love, and now security, levanted-and although it was but a small he must and would tell Marie the feelings he had sum, £250-he saw no chance of paying it withpent up within his honest, heart for two long years, out assistance, and for this he was too proud to let the result be what it might. He told her in apply to Grey, or to any of his friends. An execuSydney's little drawing-rcom, as they sat face to tion was put into the house, the furniture-even face in the two arm-chairs, with flushing brow, how the very bed whereon poor Marie slept—was about his love for her had been a purifying influence to to be sold, when the required sum was lodged at save him from the many temptations of a young the office of the Sheriff of Middlesex, and his author's life-how he had mourned in secret over myrmidons left Sydney's house. Sydney's benehis own unworthiness and shortcomings, till he factor, who had done him this kindness anonymously, could bear it no longer, and had come there to tell was no other than John Savile, who had managed her all. But still sat Marie with downcast eyes to save this sum out of the price of his literary in silence, making no answer to his wild appeal. labours, and had now well nigh beggared himself He told her in words of deep humility, that seemed to save his friend. So Sydney painted another so strange when falling from the lips of that great, picture, and with the price thereof took his sick harsh-featured John Savile, that he did not wish daughter down to L, Devonshire. It will her to mistake him for anything else than he was perhaps be asked, "where were Grey and his wife -that he had many grievous faults-but, if she all this time?" That astute barrister, who had would but suggest amendment, he would cast them now risen into fame by his great talent, unaided from him; and Marie believed all now. Still she by aught else, and his worldly wife of late seldom answered not a word. He could not bear silence came to Hampstead. Neglected by her husband, longer. Marie," said he, bluntly, at last, "I to whom ambition was everything, Emily Grey had know I am ill-fitted by nature to play carpet- determined to be happy after her own heart's knight—I don't wish to be one even now-can- desire, and to that end filled her husband's house

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nightly with the "lions" of the fashionable world, till his purse-strings were stretched beyond bearing, and till enforced retrenchment, followed by the exhibition of much ill temper, ended in mutual coldness and dislike. So their marriage was productive of nought save discomfort. Grey, having become an M.P., sold himself to the Government, gained greatly thereby, spent his nights in the House, was on the high road to preferment, and yet an unhappy man; his wife, all smiles to her guests, all frowns to him; each the other's bane as they might long ago justly have expected. Sa vile was in the habit of taking a walking-tour every year, and, as he knew the Sydneys were sojourning at L-, determined on starting on a tour through Devonshire, the sole object of which trip was once more to see Marie.

The little village of L-, in Devonshire, slopes greenly to the sea, and there, in a pretty little villa facing the beach dwelt the painter and his daughter. She was dying; he knew it well, and had once more applied himself vigorously to his painting, without which she must have been deprived of many comforts essential to a sufferer like her; yet she felt far happier now, in the midst of her sufferings, than she had been for a long time; she hailed with joy the blessed change that had taken place in her father since her illness, and thanked God that in His mercy, bringing good out of evil, He had been pleased by her illness to turn John Sydney's heart. One balmy summer day, when poor Sydney had wheeled his dying daughter in her Bath chair to the beach, they saw a pedestrian striding vigorously along, in full tourist costume, towards L. Sydney hailed him with a shout of welcome. It was Savile. He approached, and, as his eye fell on Marie, his cheek grew pale, and the words of greeting stuck in his throat.

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Having to fulfil some literary engagement within a fortnight, he took up his abode at the village inn, near to Sydney, and never missed calling on him two or three times a day. Glad, indeed, were father and daughter that he had come down-Marie had told her father, now that she felt herself dying, the story of Savile's love. She felt that, when she was gone, it would knit the two men's hearts more closely together for her sake, and ever, since that confession of hers, Sydney had loved him as a son. It was a touching sight to see the three on fine summer mornings, when the wind was mild, sitting under a tree some half-mile from L- -; Sydney with his sketchbook in his hand, drawing outlines for one of those sweet pictures of his, which I never see now without a sigh, and Savile leaning on the back of Marie's Bath chair, arranging her shawls, or anticipating her slightest wish, with almost womanly tenderness, enhanced by its coming from one usually so rough of hand and blunt of speech as he whom Marie in early days, at a quadrille, had nicknamed the "dancing bear." But this could not last long-she was fast entering upon

her eternal rest, and the stalwart man behind the dying girl's chair would often turn his face aside to conceal the tears which would fill his eyes when he thought it could be now but a little time ere she must slumber beneath the daisies in L-— churchyard. Nevertheless, there were times when these two men, father and lover, as they sat in Sydney's garden, brooding over the thought of their dear one's departure as a grief too heavy to be borne, could hardly bring themselves to realise its possibility; for that mysterious malady, which bears away so many of earth's best and fairest to an early grave, is oftentimes so deceptive in its ravages that it is hard to believe, when the hectic of a moment flushes beauty's wasted cheek, and the eye is beaming with almost unearthly brightness, that all these things are but as the last flickering flashes of a lamp ere it is quenched for ever. It was a delightful summer evening when Sydney, sketch-book in hand, strolled out from L- with Savile to the next village. Their conversation, which had been more cheerful than usual on starting, assumed a more serious tone as, casting themselves upon the grass, they watched the sun dipping redly beneath the ocean and talked of Marie.

"I fear you will think me but a Job's comforter, when I say I do not think poor dear Marie will see another sunset," said Sydney, sadly; "I remember the day her poor mother died, I saw the same bright flush on her cheek that Marie's wore when we left home this evening. I left her, my wife, that morning, and on my return to Hampstead she was dead. I really begin to feel wretchedly nervous,-let us return.”

The sun had nearly disappeared from the horizon, the night-beetle began, droning as he flew, to skim the unruffled surface of the farı-yard pool, where the bats were chasing the moths under the willow boughs; the village wives were standing at their cottage doors, awaiting their husbands' return from toil; the boys were playing cricket on the village green, their merry laugh rang pleasantly through the balmy twilight, and the good old rector, leaning on the rectory gate, was laughing louder than them all, as Sydney and Savile passed on to L. They found Marie much worse; indeed, the nurse had not expected she would have been alive by the time her father and Savile reached L

-.

Sydney went up to his daughter's room, and on coming down with a tear on his cheek an hour afterwards, told Savile that she wished to see him alone for the last time. Savile crept lightly upstairs, entered the room, bent down to kiss the dying girl, and then sank upon his knees by her bedside, with his face buried in his hands, groaning in great bitterness of soul. But this weakness was of brief duration. Brought to himself by her gentle voice, he started up, as she said in low tones, so weakly that he could with difficulty understand her,

"John, you have come to see me die : listen to

BROKEN MEMORIES.

me, ere my voice is for ever silent in the grave. Forgive me if I have embittered your life; forgive me if, in times past, I have mocked your sorrow by an affectation of indifference, and believe now that, dying, Marie Sydney does full justice to your faithful heart at last. When I am gone, think some. times of me, as of one not dead, but gone before -let my memory carry no bitterness with it, bury not all love in my grave; seek another more worthy of your love than I have been, and may God watch over you and her till we meet again in heaven. John, remember in early days you once asked me for a lock of my hair; I denied that request, let me grant it now; there is a locket in that drawer, there are the scissors too, cut a lock from these poor throbbing temples, and when I am dead, sometimes think of the giver who, if she had known in other days as she knows virtues now, might have loved you dearer than a sistermight have been to you, even now, a loving little wife."

your

Sydney came upstairs, and Marie taking his hand in hers, bade Savile grasp it too, and then looking up to heaven she prayed that these two men might comfort each other when she was gone -that John Savile would love her father for her dead sake.

"I will," said Savile fervently.

A light played over Marie's pale face; her lips moved in prayer once more ere she seemed to fall asleep, then the two men bent down over her, and kissed her once again, and so she passed away.

Their very hopes belied their fears,

Their fears their hopes belied,

They thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

And Sydney and John Savile went back after the funeral to Hampstead, where they live together now, and both go down to Devonshire every summer to spend a month at L, where Sydney often, with poor John Savile at his side, sits upon his lost daughter's grassy grave, and prays remorsefully that God will pardon him for having ever wounded the gentle heart that now moulders beneath the daisies there. One evening, after Savile had returned from a solitary visit to her grave, her father found the following lines on the young author's table among his other MSS. :

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The fragile form I loved so well sleeps in a lowly bed, The cold clay's all the pillow there for Marie's clay-cold head;

The voice is mute whose music long hath haunted me in sleep,

And cheers my midnight labours oft while lonely watch I keep; When Hope and Faith together fail, it nerves me to the strife;

Oh! Marie, here thy memory should preach a 'Psalm of Life,'

To guide me and to cheer me, and, blessed, my soul to bless;

To win me from my barren grief and bitter worldliness; .
To tell me, 'midst life's daily tasks, that, till earth's trials

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And Grey is achieving his ambition's height slowly and securely, but is not a happy man withal; and Emily is now passée and shrewish, without a vestige of her former beauty. And Savile still writes on; and his books, under another name, are read throughout the length and breadth of the land; but sadness is now the key. note of his life. His books often win men's hearts to sadness by his pictures of other blue-eyed maidens-other gentle Maries, who almost always die young, as she died, whose memory has inspired so much that is beautiful in his writings. And Sydney paints still; but he has lost his "child

2161

A ROMANCE OF VALENCIA.

angel," his blue-eyed model, and his pictures are not what they used to be; and the painter, when, in spite of Savile's tenderness, he feels lonely in the world, thanks God that he is fast growing an

old man, that he is soon going a last long journey, at whose end he fondly hopes once more to greet his long-lost daughter Marie, who upon earth had been the angel of her father's home.

A ROMANCE OF VALENCIA.

CHAPTER V.

THE PROPOSAL.

THE following day, Paco Rosales was at his usual place at the little door of the church of Notre Dame de las Desemparados, conversing with his friend Tovalito upon the events of the preceding night. "What has become of them ?" said he ; "I would willingly give all this day's alms to know."

"He has carried her off either by persuasion or force, God only knows to what place !"

He

"To his own, perhaps," replied Tovalito. "He would hardly have dared to do that. must have known that he would be pursued." "What else wouldst thou have him do with her? Trust me, he is not a man to consider the consequences. When he has satisfied this caprice, it will be all over with her; he is quite capable of sending her back to her friends."

"Why wouldst thou not say that thou knewest who he was?" said Paco, reproachfully.

"Friend Paco, it is easy to see that thou hast never frequented the society of the great. His dignity the Canon don Ignacio de Vasconcellos is gone to the corregidor's, all the alguazils of the Saint Hermandad are now on the alert in search of Donna Theresa; but if they knew the name and rank of the seducer, no farther notice would be taken of her abduction. If he be found, it will be time enough for me to declare it. Don Guzman, no doubt, goes by another name here❞—

"Silence, silence!" interrupted Paco; "here he comes; it is certainly he."

In fact it was Don Alonzo, who cautiously approached the mendicants. Although it was already dusk, he concealed the lower part of his face with his cloak, and his large hat, which was ornamented by a long black feather, fell over his eyes.

"It was thus he dressed last night," said Paco Rosales; "he is coming towards us, withdraw thyself, Tovalito."

"Oh! never fear. He won't recognise me now, take my word for it," replied Tovalito, walking to a little distance.

Don Alonzo having advanced with caution, looked round to see that no one else was near, and having thus satisfied himself that they were alone, he beckoned to Paco Rosales to approach. The mendicant obeyed, and the cavalier thus addressed him.

"Thou hast already served me faithfully; I require thy services again, thy zeal and discretion shall not go unrewarded, but if thou shouldst play me false, I am as quick to punish as to requite; thou knowest now what my conditions are-speak, art thou ready to undertake what I shall require of thee ?"

'Yes, signor; I am but a poor man, but I never yet betrayed a trust. I am ready to do your bidding."

"Which is this; find me out a priest who will undertake to perform the ceremony of a private marriage without troubling himself about the usual formalities of the church, or his archbishop. Thou who dost so continually frequent of public worship must know of some amongst the priesthood of Valencia? be well paid for his trouble."

the places such mau He shall

Paco Rosales listened to this abrupt and strange proposal in silent astonishment.

"Well! why dost thou hesitate ?" asked Don Alonzo.

"A private marriage," slowly repeated Paco; "but it will be good and valid ?”,

Certainly; dost thou know of any priest who would marry a couple whose union must remain a secret ?"

"I know a Dominican father who might be induced to perform this marriage; but I must go and seek him at his convent."

"This night, this same night, it must be done before twelve o'clock. Time presses, I must leave Valencia to-morrow," interrupted the Cavalier.

To-night!" repeated Paco. "It is a long way to Father Cyrillo's."

There is no help for it, my friend! Wilt thou go for him or not?" answered Don Alonzo impatiently.

"There is nothing to prevent me, Signor, but in whose name shall I speak to the reverend father?"

"Mine," replied the Cavalier, showing him a paper which he had held concealed in his band; "thou wilt give him this, and on thy return meet me near the garden of the Archiepiscopal palace. Do not come alone, bring some one else with thee, one in whom thou canst trust. Some poor man like thyself."

Immediately after this conversation, Don Alonzo took his departure; but not alone, for he was closely followed through all the gloomy and intricate streets that intersected the vicinity of

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