and her beauty, did I not feel that they would unfit me for the occupation which henceforward, I trust, will become exclusively mine. When the morning of my life shall have fled, there may yet remain the calm twilight that will light up the joyous hope of making others happier and better." "Allow me to ask you," said Waldegrave, "whether you have yourself adopted the line of conduct you prescribe to me. "I have not ventured to express my sentiments to her," said Edgar; "I should only harass her feelings in vain. Enough has passed between us to confirm what I always believed, that I am wholly indifferent to her. I have no cause for complaint, since she never gave me the slightest reason to suppose that she even perceived my affection. I shall avoid taking leave of her; you can say, that I found it necessary to go to Milan to-night. They will not think it of any importance." Deeply as Waldegrave regretted the loss of Edgar's society at such a moment, yet he could not desire to detain him; for, from the wild inconsistencies of Constance's conduct, the fondest enthusiast could scarcely have extracted a gleam of hope. They lingered yet awhile amid the chesnut groves, as their parting was absolutely fixed for that night. Meantime Sir Ralph caused a room to be prepared for Waldegrave's reception. At midnight they bade each other farewell; Edgar having ordered a boat to wait for him at some distance from Casa Viviana, which ere Waldegrave reached had faded from his straining eyes. Waldegrave found Sir Ralph and his family awaiting his return in the garden. To apologize for the tardiness of his arrival, he spoke of having passed the time with Edgar, who was now on his way to Milan. "To Milan! to-night!" exclaimed Constance: "What can call him there so suddenly? He did not speak to me of going?" "I conclude," said Waldegrave, smiling, "that he did not think it would particularly interest you.' "And yet," said Constance, as if a little hurt," methinks a kind adieu at parting ensures a kinder meeting." "Oh! Mr. Waldegrave," cried Sir Ralph, "how thankful are my wife and I for the wonderful preservation you and my poor girl have had. I am sorry Mr. Belmore is gone, for I wished to express my gratitude to him, as I understand from Constance, that your deliverance was chiefly owing to his exertions." "I understood from Edgar," said Waldegrave, "that it was chiefly owing to hers." 66 "I am selfish enough," said Lady Vivian, who appeared to have been too much shocked by the recital, "to rejoice that I knew nothing of it till it was over." "You have quite recovered the effects of your alarm,” said Waldegrave, earnestly, approaching Edith. "I am quite well, I thank you;" returned Edith, in the same frigid accents which had benumbed her lover on their first meeting. Waldegrave was deeply wounded; and could scarcely conceal his surprise: "Do not let me detain you longer," said he, turning to Sir Ralph; "but have the kindness to direct me towards my room;" then hastily wishing his relations good night, he followed Sir Ralph within the Vivian walls. The apartment prepared for him was spacious, and opened on the garden. "Here you will rest well, I hope," said Sir Ralph. "though you must expect your slumbers to be broken by flames and smoke. I am sure I shall not sleep a wink, from thinking of the awful situation you were in with my dear daughter. Well; Heaven has wonderfully preserved you, and I hope you will never forget it. Those poor Larnos I fear will not enjoy much rest; but my dear girls have promised, out of their own pocket money, to rebuild their house, and I expect that Constance will have settled every thing with them before sunrise." Sir Ralph having bestowed his blessing on Henry, then wished him good night. CHAPTER XXXVI. Oh! colder than the wind that freezes MOORE. LEFT to his own reflections, Waldegrave reviewed in succession the late distressing events, desirous of forming a calm unprejudiced decision as to what degree of hope he could now reasonably entertain. The strange alterations of emotion and coldness which during that day had startled him in Edith's conduct, only served to bewilder him. When they met she blushed with all the outward signs of deep emotion, but her hand was given like lead; when she thought him in danger, what meant that tone of anguish with which she had cried, "Henry, Henry! save him!" Then that calmness in the moment of impending death had nothing like guilt and treachery in it. The tone too in which she uttered, " May God forgive us," was that of confiding love. Would she have taken his hand so affectionately if she had deliberately wronged him as he had once believed? "Oh! Edgar, you are right," thought he," and though the unkindness of her manner to-night chilled my heart's blood, there is something beyond all this which I will know. Toher only will I speak of this, and that before to-morrow's sun goes down." It was late when Waldegrave ceased to wander up and down his room. All had long been still within and without; yet so disturbed was his mind that sleep refused to visit his unquiet couch. The moon had risen in her beauty, and the night was calm and clear. He arose, threw open the window, and moving cautiously, strolled into the garden. The air was so cool, and the scene so lovely, that as he looked towards the shining mountains, he felt an inclination to ascend them. Gently he unlatched the garden gate and followed the path which ascends behind Casa Viviana. From thence he struck into the mountain track that leads from Blevio to Como, where he had once walked with Edith in better days. The moonbeams, which fell in variegated forms upon the path, and slept deliciously on the lake and opposite banks, glistened on the tall chestnuts, whose long branches in bold yet graceful sweep met over his head, while their stems, screened from the light, were painted in dark transparent shade, intersecting the beautiful little vistas which appeared between them. Invited by a sight so fair, Waldegrave determined to deviate from the beaten road, and winding his way upwards, scrambled through the wood, which in unbroken exuberance clothed the perpendicular sides of the hill. By the imperfect light which penetrated through intervals in the dense masses of vegetation, he followed the course of a torrent whose soft murmurs, as the waters trickled down their pebbly bed, stole with delicious melody on the night scene's stillness. Through the tall fern that waved over its banks he scrambled to a moss-covered knoll, the undisputed throne of two veteran chestnuts. From this eminence he looked over the surrounding scene, and, captivated by its luxurious beauty, seated himself between the trunks of these monarchs of the place, whose spreading branches cast a deep shade round him, and, by relieving his eyes from the moon's intense glare, enabled him to gaze with unmixed pleasure on the magic view. Often, too, he turned his thoughts inwardly, to revolve the perplexities of his situation. The lake's calm waters seemed like one unbroken sheet of light, and Torno, a little floating island, anchored by some kind spirit's hand, to bewitch the imagination of him to whom sleep's blessings were denied. Every palace, tower, and village shone with dazzling whiteness on earth, and appeared prolonged in splendour by the lake's surface, till again gently trembling into invisibility. "Alas!" sighed Waldegrave, "it is ever thus. How soft and sweet seems this deep night hour, compared with the dim twilight of this anxious being, that fades and disappears only in the grave. Yet hope, that comes to all, still whispers words of peace.' That dark line of the shore, where all seems quenched and annihilated, opens on a brighter prospect beyond. Such is the view we ought to take of our immortality, seen through the veil of ages-like the dying reflection glistening along that expanse of water, more faint though more beautiful than what we behold in a more palpable form. Yon cloudless moon is the religion of this sad world. It is she who shows us that second existence of this poor earthly scene. Thou, bright lake, inspirest us with faith-the mirror in which things good and pure are reflected. "Edith my Edith! Spirit of this refulgent Lake! all my soul prays for now is to believe you the guileless angel my flattering visions painted-and then, if you are blessed, though this world be like a sepulchre that parts us, yet shall we meet again where there are no marriages, 'tis true-but where it is no crime to love." So thought Waldegrave, whose mind had been so tranquillized and purified by the influence of religion, that he was prepared to lose the dearest hopes of his life with calm resignation, if he could only see the stainless innocence of Edith's heart restored. Such composure of mind was assisted by the determination he had formed to bring all his doubts to a close on the following day. While thus engaged, the murmur of voices, unusual at such a time and place, roused him from his reverie. From its near approach, he conjectured that some midnight wanderers must, like himself, have forsaken the right path, to pursue one which, except to the romantic lover of moonlight beauties, was replete with difficulty, and could only be sought in cases where concealment was desirable. Waldegrave could neither see nor be seen, but an instinctive sense of prudence forbade his moving. As the voices grew louder, he collected the accents of his native language, with surprise that deepened into gloomy suspicion, when Montara's and Rathallan's tones distinctly vibrated on his ear. That they should be roaming at this hour together, was not more astonishing than that Montara should speak English with such fluency as scarcely to betray his national tone. "He must be a cunning one," thought Waldegrave, "to have counterfeited so long that broken language he talks." They appeared to be walking to and fro, for the voices arose and died away, and after some time rose again. From 1 |