description, "unkind, when he knows what agony his suspense occasions me!" Mr. Griffyths himself now be gan to feel some uneasiness respecting his son, but observing his companion's profound dejection, he strove to keep up a cheerful spirit, and repeated, as they returned home, his conviction that Charles would be with them in a day or two. Mrs. Davis reasoned in the same manner, but not once throughout the remainder of that long, gloomy evening were they able, with all their endeavours, to rouse Fanny's spirits. A thousand conflicting emotions beset her, as she sat silently by the window, looking out on Carricksawthy. She recalled the many proofs of devoted affection that Charles had shown her-his frank and generous nature his anxiety to anticipate even her slightest wishes-and above all, his utter indifference to the tastes and pursuits of the gay world-and at once difmissed the idea that he had forgotten or forsaken her. But there arose another dreadful apprehension in her mind. He might be ill-stretched on the bed of sickness in some lone, comfortless inn, with none but strangers to minister to his wants; or-God of Heaven!-he might be dead! and giving away to this last impression, the sensitive girl covered her face with her hands, and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. At night when she returned to her chamber, she knelt down and strove to compose her mind by prayer. Long and fervently she supplicated that the bitter cup might pass away; and when the next day came, and brought with it some languid revival of hope, she set of again to the post-office, and thence to the turnpike, but at both places she was doomed to meet with the same disappointment. CHAPTER III. Adieu from thenceforth to all hope in Fanny's mind! That blessed balm has lost its power to act. The kind remonstrances of the now really alarmed old folks take not the slightest hold on her attention. Silent, but uncomplaining, and without the power even to shed a tear, she sat for hours together with her eyes scarcely ever lifted from the ground; nor did she even express satisfaction when Mr. Griffyths informed her that he had written to the landlord of the inn where his son had given his address, and was in daily expectation of a reply. One sole thought haunted her imagination. Charles was dead! The companion of her childhood, the friend and adviser of her youth, the chosen of her heart, who should have walked hand and hand with her through life -him she should meet no more on this side the grave? Yet strange to say, though entertaining this conviction, she still persisted in paying a daily visit to the turnpike, notwithstanding all her aunt's intreaties, who began to dread the effect of such repeated shocks on her reason. The state of seclusion in which she livedthe very objects which surrounded her-tended still farther to increase Fanny's sense of utter desolation. She could not cast her eyes in any one di rection but some thing reminded her of the departed. From the window she beheld the bridge where he used so often to stand watching the sun drop behind Llynn-y-van; his flute lay be tween the book-shelves; his landscapesketches adorned the wall; and the very volume which he had been reading the evening before he left, remained just where he had placed it, on his writing-desk. Four days had now elasped since Charles had been expected home, and the fifth was drawing to a close. On the night of that day Mrs. Davis, who had not long retired to rest, was suddenly roused from sleep by a piercing shriek proceeding from her niece's chamber. She rushed into the room, accompanied by her servant, who had been Fanny's nurse in childhood, and by the dim rush-light which was burning on the table, beheld her sitting up in bed, in a state little short of distrartion. "Oh God!" she cried, wringing her hands in agony, "he is dead, aunt he is dead-dead-his spirit stood beside me just now, and in a hollow voice-oh, so altered from what it used to be!-he bade me a long farewell." "My dear love, be composed, I intreat you," said Mrs. Davis, seating 66 herself on the bed beside her niece, and wiping the damps from her forehead, do not give way to these dismal fancies. It was a mere dream; nothing more." "Not so, aunt; it is a solemn revelation from another world. I prayed to be permitted to see him but once more, even though he were no longer on earth; and my prayer has been answered! It was his form I saw his voice I heard-do you think I could fail to know him again? He is Idead, I tell you, dead! and I was I not by to soothe his last moments! Charles-dearest Charles-why did you ever leave us? Hark!" she continued, turning abruptly to her aunt with a look of strange meaning, "do you not hear a distant bell? They are tolling for a funeral; are they not?" Her servant here whispered something in Mrs. Davis's ear, which, attracting her niece's notice, she said, with a bitter smile, You think I am ill, aunt-mad perhaps; but no, no, I am well-quite well-would to God that I were-hark, there is that dreadfull bell again!" and with a sudden, impetuous movement she raised her hands to her head, as if to shut out the sound. In this bewildered state she continued for upwards of an hour, when she sank exhausted into a heavy but unrefreshing sleep, while her aunt kept watch beside her till daybreak. When she appeared at breakfast next morning, her look-her voice her manner-impressed Mr. Griffyths, who now spent almost all his days at the cottage, with the saddest forebodings. She scarcely answered any question that was put to her; but when she did, it was with an abruptness and irritability that showed how much the effort cost her. A settled, icy despair seemed to have frozen up all her faculties. Even her manner to her aunt was altered. She appeared suspicious of her every look and movement; and when she happened to overhear her consulting in an under tone with the clergyman about the propriety of calling in medical aid from Llandovey, she turned on her a glance that made her shudder. Suddenly however her whole demeanour changed. She started up from the chair where she had been sitting, near the window, and before her aunt could recover from her astonishment, she was half-way across the lawn on her return, with a letter addressed to Mr Griffyths. How dreadful was the expression of her countenance when she re-entered the parlour! She had snatched the letter from the postman; the writing was unknown to her; but she saw that the seal was black! Giving the communication into the clergyman's hands, she exclaimed, with a ghastly smile, "Well, aunt, Í am right; it was no dream; Charles, once my Charles, is dead!" It was even so. The letter was from the house-agent whom the young man had employed to arrange the sale of his cottages, and stated in dry, formal, business-like terms, that shortly after his arrival in London, he had caught a violent cold; that he had made light of the matter, neglecting even the most ordinary precautions; the consequence of which was that a fever of the worst kind had supervened, and affecting the brain, had carried him off in a few days; and that the writer had only been made acquainted with the melancholy circumstances, by accidently calling at the inn where the young gentleman lodged, when the landlord requested him to lose not a moment in communicating with the deceased's relatives. On the receipt of this intelligence Mr Griffyths, on whom it fell with quite a stunning effect, started off for the metropolis by the same coach, and from the same place, as his ill-fated son; who was buried in one of the gloomiest of the city churchyards, far from his native home, and from her whose heart was hourly breaking for his loss. CHAPTER IV. When the clergyman returned home from his mournful journey to London, another dreadful shock awaited bim. The child of his affectionsthe pride of his age-lay in a state of utter delirium. Her quick and ardent feelings alternately acting, and reacted on, by an imagination equally fervid, had wholly overpowered her reason-made her, in short, a raging maniac. Could she have endured to share her griefs with another, she would doubtless have escaped this last numbing blow; but with that moody waywardness, which is by no means uncommon with people of imaginative temperament, she shrunk from sympathy, even when offered by those most dear to her; and kept the thoughts and feelings that were wearing her away, fast locked within the sanctuary of her own bosom. For six days, during which her disorder raged with uncommon violence, she rarely slept, took little or no sustenance, and was incessantly starting up from her pillow, raving in the most impassioned terms about Charles. Sometimes she would imagine herself walking home with him from the turnpike, and put question after question to him about the way in which he spent his time in London; then bursting into a wild shriek, bid them close all the doors and windows, for a strange bell was tolling in her ear. Anon, she would cry out that a phantom was standing by her side; that it fixed its dead, stony eyes continually upon her; breathed a fire into her brain, and shrivelled up her skin by its touch. At other times fierce-suspicions would beset her. She was deceived-basely and treacherously deceived. Charles had arrived; she knew he had; but they purposely kept him from her sight; and whenever this idea crossed her fancy, her red, dilated eye would glow like hot steel; her whole frame quiver with passion; and it was with the greatest difficulty that those in attendance upon her could prevent her leaping from the bed, and forcing her way out of the house. On the seventh day of her malady, as her aunt and Mr. Griffyths were reading the prayers for the sick in her chamber, the physician came in to pay his usual visit, and having examined his patient, who lay perfectly motionless, with her eyes half-closed, and one hand pressed upon her heart, said, "The disorder is approaching a crisis, and for-and-twenty hours from this time will decide for life or death. "Surely she will recover!" exclaimed Airs Davis, while the tears streaming down her wan cheeks showed that she was prepared for the worst. The physician shook his head; at length, after a pause, "I will not deceive you," he observed; "It is far from unlikely that your niece, considering that youth and a good constitution are in her favour, will recover from this attack; but the shock she has received has struck so home to her imagination, that though the body may rally, I have little hope of the mind." "God's will be done," faltered Mr. Griffyths; "but it is a hard trial, to see those go before me who should have followed the old man to his grave-and so young, so happy, so affectionate as they were !-it seems but yesterday that they were both children together; and now one is dead, and the other must know me no more—indeed, indeed, it is a sore trial, and more almost than I can bear ;" and so saying, the poor, childless father, unable to wrestle with his grief, rose hastily, and quitted the room. Just as the physician had predicted, the more violent symptoms of Fanny's disorder gradually abated, and towards night she sank into a long, quiet, and, to all appearance, a refreshing slum ber. Her aunt, who kept a constant vigil by her side, entertained a confi-` dent hope that when she woke it would be to consciousness; but it was not so; she woke indeed, and no longer a raging maniac, but what perhaps was still worse, as being more hopeless, a silent sullen imbecile! There was one sin gularity attending this new phase of her malady, which showed how deeply her love for Charles was ingrained, as it were, into her very nature. Every day at noon, though previously to that hour she remained in a state of perfect apathy, not seeming to recognise any one by look, speech, or gesture, she would start into something like acti vity; a dim, transient twilight gleam of recollection would come over her; and she would hasten up stairs to her chamber; dress herself with marked care in white comely attire; make the best of her way to the turnpike, accompanied by her nurse, who followed unobserved at a distance; wait at the gate till the coach came up; inquire if Charles was among the number of the passengers; and then depart with a vacant smile on her countenance, muttering as she turned away, "he will come to-morrow!" On her re turn, she would relapse into her usual state of lethargy, moving mechanically about the lawn, with leaden pace, bowed head, and arms hanging idly by her side, or standing at the door, and indulging in a low feeble laugh whenever she saw Mr. Griffyths approach the cottage. The physician urged the expediency of her removal to a private asylum at Carmarthen, where he said she would receive every attention that her case demanded; but Mrs. Davis shrunk from the idea of consigning her to the mercy of strangers, especially when she was informed that recovery was by no means probable. So passed a year, at the end of which Charles's father, weighed down by griefs and infirmities, followed his son to the grave. No one was now left but Mrs. Davis, whose whole time was devoted, with unrelaxing attention, to her niece. It was a melancholy haunt that cottage now, where all had once been 10 cheerful-still more melancholy the spectacle of that vacant countenance once so expressive-once so radiant with youth, and health, and beauty. But comfort yet remained for the old ady; she felt that she was fulfilling a sacred duty; and this enabled her to struggle with her lot, and even to bear it with resignation. In pursuance of the physician's advice, she made repeated efforts to recall Fanny to reason, by appealing to her old tastes and feelings; the songs that Charles most loved to hear were played to her, in the hope that they might bring back some fragment, however imperfect, of recollection; his favourite books were thrown in her way; his name continually repeated in her hearing; but all was unavailing; the dark fixed cloud still brooded over her mind. traveller on the road-was seen hastening across Carricksawthy. At the commencement of the fifth year her last remaining relative died; and now there remained only her old nurse, to whose care her aunt had, in her last moments, consigned her. Yet Fanny appeared wholly unconscious of Mrs. Davis's death; made no inquiries after her; and even watched the funeral procession move away from the cottage without testifying the slightest emotion. But this state of mind was at length to have an end. It is a still autumn evening, so still that the dry yellow leaf hangs unstirred upon the ash; the Sawthy lapses with the gentlest murmur over its shrunken bed; the quiet sheep are pasturing on the common; and there, upon that little grassy mound which fronts the bridge and draws warmth and cheerfulness from the golden sunlight, sit two female figures, the younger of whom, apparently from sheer exhaustion, is reclining her head on her companion's shoulder. Can that wasted, spectral form, whose dim eye and sunken countenance speak of fast approaching mortality, be Fanny? Yes, it was indeed that once lovely girl who had crawled forth for her usual walk; but not as in earlier and happier days to feed imagination on the imposing pageantry of this, nature's choicest season, for alas the chambers of her mind still continue darkened ! Yet more than once during the last week, a feeble ray of intelligence had glimmered in upon her brain; something like consciousness had revived; and on this day in particular, the symptoms had assumed so cheering an aspect, that her nurse had purposely prolonged their walk, in the hope that the balmy, healthful evening air might tend to aid Four long, monotonous years had the languid efforts of nature. As they now rolled away, and daily during this sat together on the sunny hillock, period, whether the season was cold suddenly the bells of Llangadock struck or sultry, wet or dry, the poor girl up a loud and merry peal, for there had was seen at the wonted hour to repeat been a wedding in the morning, and her visit to the turnpike gate; make this in a secluded Welsh village is the same inquiry; receive the same always an affair of infinite rejoicing. reply; and then return home, ex- Fanny started at the sound; raised claiming, "He will come to-morrow!" her head gently; and said, while a No one thought of interrupting her; faint smile stole over her countenance, she was regarded by all with the " Nurse, what are those bells ringing tenderest and most respectful feelings for ?" of sympathy; and many a sigh was heaved, and many a bright eye grew dim, as the White Lady--such was the name by which she was known to every 66 Fanny, dearest Fanny," exclaimed her astonished and delighted attendant, her eyes filling with tears, "thank Heaven, you know me again!" that awaited it. Seldom she spoke, or made allusions to those who had gone before her; and never, even when fevered with pain, suffered a complaint to escape her lips; for a light from heaven had shone in upon her spirit, strengthening and purifying, and exalting it, while the material frame was hourly verging to decay. But was the past forgotten? Not so. The low, faint sigh; the tear stealing its way down the wasted cheek; the touching scriptural passage, "I shall go to him, but he will not return to me," whispered in the intervals of suffering, and in the long, silent watches of the night; all this told that thoughts of earth still mingled with those of heaven in Fanny's mind. On the evening of her death, feeling herself a little stronger than usual, she had requested to be raised up in bed; and sat, propped with pillows, near the open "Dead-all dead-and I am left alone! Well, it will not be for long-window, looking out upon the landscape let us come home, nurse; I feel exhausted-my strength is not what it used to be." They walked slowly on to the cottage, and when they reached it, Fanny instantly sought that bed from which she was doomed never again to rise. During the few days that remained to her of existence, nothing could exceed the sweet and patient gentleness of her nature. There was no more sullenness no more irritability-she knew that she was dying; one by one she felt life's finest ligaments giving way; and seemed anxious only to fit her soul for the great and solemn change beneath her. She saw the commonthe bridge-the distant road-scenes how dear to memory!-and gazed on them with all the yearning fondness of one who feels that they are beheld for the last time. While thus she sat, with her hands folded on her breast, and her lips feebly moving in prayer, a sharp sudden spasm struck to her heart, and a film came across her sight. "Nurse," she said, "where are you?-It is getting dark-the sun has long set-dearest Charles!" and uttering that loved name, she died.-The child of many sorrows was at rest. |