CLAIRE NEVILLE.

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BY H. L. JONES.

———

Death was in the house; in the room; in the small pallet where, side by side, lay the mother and her newly born child.

Poverty was there, too, hard-featured and repulsive always, but now hanging her head and hiding her face before the stern reality of the dark angel. What mattered it how the soul took its departure? whether in state, with many mourning eyes gazing, and white stoled priest with lifted hands at the bedside; or desolate and wholly forsaken of man as was Clara Neville’s on her straw-bed in her lonely hovel? It mattered not—and yet may our last moments be cheered by the silent and tearful love of friends—as we start on our dark voyage, may we hear the cheering tones and be buoyed up by the affectionate throbs of the beloved hearts around us!

Pestilence had come among the inmates of the hamlet. They were not barbarians, else, to leave the couch of death untended. But bereavement and selfishness and mortal fear had done its work. The few who remained were dying alone, and of this number was Clara Neville and her young daughter. Her husband in a distant land, her kindred estranged or dead, she met her fast coming fate alone, but with one all-absorbing anxiety. With that anxious will, she had kept herself, as it were, alive—that she might not leave her little one in the world behind her. While the death-damps hung on her own brow, her straining gaze yet rested on the form and face of the pale infant, whose fluttering breath grew shorter and shorter every instant. Still she clasped her baby close to her poor heart, with the energy that death itself could not subdue, and when at length the limbs straightened in what the mother knew was the last convulsion, Clara cast her eyes to heaven, and closing her speechless lips, in a glad smile passed away.

So it seemed at least. But help was nighest when it seemed farthest away. The door of the hovel was flung open—the serene air poured in; gentle hands ministered at the couch, and restoratives and cordials on lip and brow brought back the life that seemed to have left its dwelling. The disease had reached its crisis, and the eyes of both mother and child once more opened on the world.

Clara, weak and half insensible still from the deadly illness she had suffered, scarcely looked at the pure, white linen of her bed, the little comforts and luxuries about her, or the gentle and watchful Sister of Charity who bent over her, with the cool draught or the nourishing mixture. She looked only at the sleeping cherub at her bosom, without power to smooth, as she longed to, the brown curls on the forehead, or to kiss the gentle eyes in their pleasant sleep. Then she, too, sunk into such a sleep, long and refreshing, and hour after hour the Sister sat by the bed, till the night passed and the morning, and the sun came against the white curtain at the head of the silent bed. Nature was kindly dealing with Clara and her young baby; they slept and gathered strength to live. Stronger and deeper came the breath of both—more rapidly ran the rosy current over the calm faces of both, till Nature, drawing from her deep wells of love, moistened the thirsty lip of one, at the moment the glad throb of the other’s heart woke them both to happy existence. Clara nursed her child and had no words to express her joy. The watchful Sister saw the emotion that pervaded her frame, and placing her finger on her lip, prepared a composing draught for the young mother.

Many days passed of the kindest care and the most rapid recovery. Both mother and child were so well as no longer to need the constant aid of the Sister. But she sat with Clara the evening before her departure, her kind face lighted up with benevolence and interest in those she had saved from death.

“Holy Mary grant it may be best for both of you!” ejaculated she, as her fingers mechanically sought her rosary and moved rapidly over it.

“Amen!” said Clara, piously.

“You have tasted the bitterness of death once. You can never dread it so much again. I have attended many death-beds, I never saw any thing so nearly like it as yours was; but for a little warmth about the heart, I should have been quite discouraged; and then when I tore open your vest the crucifix lay there, and I was almost sure you were living. Our Blessed Mother would be loth that the pillow on which Jesus rested should be hard and cold; and sure enough it was not half an hour before your eyes opened.”

“Dear Sister Martha,” said Clara; “I had dreams in that half hour which I shall never forget to the last day of my life.”

“Tell me them if you may. The dreams of those who have passed from death back to life, must be foreshadowings and pictures of the life beyond. Holy St. Ignatius had many such, when exhausted with excessive fasts he lay in death-like swoons on the floor of his cell. Tell me, then, I pray you, in what form death came to you.”

“Like two vast dark wings, which grew darker and darker, and folded closer and closer over me, till at last they seemed to brood over me, as I have seen birds over their young. There was nothing strange or gloomy about them—nothing frightful. They seemed to have a right there, and I knew what it was; only I could not look at or attend to its approaches, because I waited and watched first for the soul of my darling to pass. I said it with my thought to the dark wings, and it replied—‘You shall pass away together.’ Then it came closer to me, like a watching mother to the bed, and I felt it come down on my eyes like a shadow, and then I seemed to sleep a long, long while. Such a sleep as one is half conscious of, and the refreshment of which he fully enjoys.

“When I awoke, I found or felt myself in the folds, as it were, of a cloud. It was rose-colored, and seemed made of music—but the music was not set harmony either, and seemed composed of all natural soothing sounds. The whisper and rush of the wave on the sea shore, the murmur of the brooklet, or the sighing of the wind among the trees or over the long grass; all sounds that are associated with peace and loveliness filled and seemed to compose this cloud, for there was a mingling of senses, so to speak, or rather all that was most lovely in sound and color and odor embathed and permeated my being without my perceiving, far less analyzing, the source of my pleasure. At length, as if the natural body were changed for a spiritual one, I began to ascend and descend on the pillowy clouds above and about me, I moved voluntarily, and was conscious of an independent existence. Slowly came back the memory of life and of its relations. But though I remembered my baby entirely, I was without that agonizing anxiety for her with which I had died. There were many soft female faces about me as I lay there, and presently I felt that the Blessed Mother herself was among them, for she leaned over me and smiled; and then, I knew without her telling me, that my own baby was the one she held in her arms and gave to me. I cannot express to you the home-feeling that this gave me. All about me grew more soft and lovely, the forms and features of all more and more distinct, as if they were careful not to oppress the new-born soul with excess of beauty.

“But when the rose-cloud floated away and the clear blue beyond of the very heavens, sprinkled with starry light, of which our firmament in a clear wintry night gives you but a feeble idea, I felt then the activity of a spirit. With the celerity of thought we traversed, in bands or alone, the infinite space, where we learned God in its beauty and vastness, and learning Him, adored Him. It was but a beginning, a moment of eternity that I had begun to taste, yet what years I seemed to myself to live! Once only I saw the Holy Jesus, and then He spoke so gently the words, ‘A little while, and where I am, you shall be also. Suffer your little one, also, to come unto me, and forbid her not; she will remember her first moments in heaven.’

“And then the next thing I remember was a dull, sluggish feeling, of almost pain, and a choking sensation; and then, your face, full of compassion, my kind Sister, beamed on me and consoled me. It had been a grievous change from heaven’s angels, but that I found one of mercy on earth.”

“Very little like an angel,” said Sister Martha, with a smile; “but tell me now, how the angels look.”

“That is just what I cannot do,” said Clara, “no more than I can tell how the soul looks that beams in your eye, but is not your eye,—how the tears well up from your tender heart, and soften but do not suffuse. Ah! with what body do they come? Something that without seeing, we love, and before which, body, and feature, and form, even in this life melt away. Even here we love what we never saw or can see, how much more in a world, where thought meets thought with purest eloquence, unimpeded by words or tones, where the glance of an eye speaks a clear reply to every question you ask, and gentle affections lapse your soul in perpetual joy. You love them, these angels, without knowing why, and without the need of sight to feed the feeling.”

“You have seen very much, Clara,” said the pious sister, “I would I might die, to learn thus, how to live.”

“Yes, life can never seem to me as it has done. I would that so it might have looked to my darling child. I would that she might have the memory of that fond embrace, and those touching words of the Divine Saviour.”

Sister Martha never forgot this incident in her monotonous and yet ever varied existence. In the varieties of pain and suffering which she witnessed and relieved, she constantly remembered the young Clara and her eventful entrance into a life which promised so little to innocence and poverty. From time to time she traced her path, and administered such consolations and assistance as were consistent with her own duties, and when ten years after, Mrs. Neville sunk into a sleep of death, Sister Martha closed the eyes of the parent, and bore the weeping child to the convent of Chaillot, where she would have at least a shelter, and the kind care she needed.

Since her birth, Clara, or as the Sisters of the French Convent called her, Claire Neville, had neither seen nor heard from her father, but her mother, who had received no intelligence of his death, had constantly looked forward, even to the day of her death, to a re-union with him upon earth, and not an hour before she died, she had told the beloved being, for whom alone she wished to live, that she was convinced that she should not depart, without once more being consoled by his presence.

A few moments before her final departure, her vivid fancy, acting on the hope that had so long filled her whole being, produced the resemblance for which she sighed. She raised her eyes to the door, and a glad expression of recognition, illumined them with more than mortal light; and while those about her in vain sought for the object of her mental sight, she was evidently in a state of happy conviction that the so long-lost was found, and that her child had, when most she needed it, found a friend and a father. Her lips moved, but uttered no sound—she gazed at her child, and smiled,—and, in that smile, passed into a world, where is no more death.

Claire remained at the convent, which was within a mile of the small town of Chaillot, on the French coast; and, by rendering such services as her tender age would permit—and by her unvarying sweetness and gentleness, endeared herself to the sisters, and as they said, amply repaid them for the slight expenses she incurred.

But, deprived of the society of children, and having no person about her, with whom she could precisely sympathize, the young girl grew up with an isolation of spirit, easy to foresee, and a prematurity of character, consequent on her position, which strangely contrasted with her childish face. Her eyes, which were of a clear blue, had a sweet seriousness in their depths, so far removed from the glad insouciance of childhood, as to startle you as you gazed, and for the moment to fill you with awe, as if in the presence of a spirit—at least such was my own feeling the first time I saw her.

I had been ordered to the south of France for my health, and had been stopping for a week in the town, near which the convent of Chaillot was situated. Its white walls could be easily seen through the trees around it, and from its windows the far-reaching sea suggested images of lonely and solemn grandeur, in unison with the secluded character of the pious inmates. From this institution, of all the passive virtues, came forth alternately bands of those heroic spirits, the Sisters of Mercy, who relinquishing the life of quiet inaction, which the convent induced, went with their hearty sympathy, their cheerful aid, and their unshrinking labor, into every abode where poverty, sickness, or even pestilence cried out for a helping hand.

Often a victim to this open-handed charity, this sublime self-sacrifice would be brought home to the convent, to breathe her last. But never was there a gap in these heroic ranks. As fast as one brave spirit fell, the place was filled by another, animated by her example, and eager to take up her cross. It was to this place, that the little Claire, taught by the example of Sister Martha, looked forward as to the fulfillment of her destiny. For this purpose, her education had, at the early age of fourteen, fitted her for a nurse; and in the convent she was called on, in all the little cases of illness which needed a soother. Nobody could spread a plaster so smoothly as Claire—nobody could place a pillow so nicely under the head as Claire—no one stepped so softly, spoke so gently, bathed so coolly, as Claire—none murmured so monotonously the rosary, or sung in a low tone the Ave Maria, so as to bring sleep on the strained eyelids, as Claire—and her gentleness and assiduity had entirely won the hearts of the good Sisters.

One day, it was late in the afternoon, I had gone down on the beach to walk, as my habit was, for some hours. The character of the shore for miles, which was exceedingly bold and rocky contrasted with the smooth expanse and soothing murmurs of the sea; and debarred by my want of strength, from scaling the rocks, as I longed to do, I used to wander on the white, hard sand, with a free feeling of delight, and an animating glow, that was second only to the sense of power with which the strong, firm step of the mountaineer springs from one cliff to another.

On the afternoon I mention, this effervescence of the blood, which induced a corresponding elevation and sensitiveness to the spirit, kept me in a perpetual state of enjoyment, which I did not attempt to analyze, but was content to feel. The sun had set, and the brilliant hues over the water continually broke in little rainbows on the crested waves. The air, balmy and fresh, was full of life. The birds wheeled and circled in graceful joyousness over the lapsing, and seemingly conscious ocean, which swelled and whispered its mysterious replies. For the first time I felt my own spirit in harmony with nature in this aspect. Formerly, an undefinable terror took possession of me at being left alone with the ocean. It was the same with the sky. Many a time I have glanced timidly at the depths of the sky, and shrunk from it, as if it were from the presence of the Creative Power; and always when the whole breadth of the sea stretched out his leviathan length before me, it awed and oppressed me to such a degree that I did not like to walk alone on the beach. Every wave, as it dashed up the smooth “untrampled floor,” had come laden with sounds of lamentation. I had continually thought, as I looked at it, how deceitful it was, in its beauty, and how its magnificence and pomp covered sorrowing, and wrecks, and heart breakings. But now, for no reason, all was different. The ocean seemed like a great angel of God’s mercy, beautiful, vast, and conscious. It married with the sky, and reflected all hues of beauty and glory, and sang out songs of praise to the Power that made them both. My spirit rose and mingled with the simple majesty of the scenery. I too felt myself a child of God, and could understand and worship him. In my heart were echoed the dim soundings of the sea; in my thoughts sparkled the watching stars, and the still lingering sun-beams. The transcendant beauty, above all form, yet which reveled in creative forms; the vastness and vague splendor of nature, in this view, all spoke of the Infinite in my soul. Deep called unto deep to praise Him, and I paced hurriedly to and fro, with an excitement and elevation of soul that rendered me insensible to the passage of time.

The water was already dark with the reflection of night, when a light touch startled me, as if I had received an electric shock. I looked up and saw a sweet, serious figure at my side.

“Madame is not aware that the evening is chill,” said she, gently.

“Chilly is it?” I answered. “It seems very warm.”

“You have been walking a long time—hours. Will Madame permit me to go home with her?”

She mingled the formal politeness of a stranger with the familiar tu that seemed induced by kindness and anxiety. I felt the feverish glow on my cheek, and replied, “that I had probably walked beyond my strength.” Already the re-action of lassitude and weakness crept over me, and I could hardly walk, as we turned toward the village.

“It is half a mile to the village. You are very weak. Permit me to attend you to the convent near. It wilt be no inconvenience. Lean on me, dear Madame.”

She spoke these words calmly and slowly, but, as if she were to be obeyed. I followed her mechanically, or rather tottered along by her side without question. I felt too much exhausted to talk, and also the need of immediate repose and care in my wearied condition.

A few minutes walk brought us to the convent gate. An old man, who was also the gardener, opened it, and two of the sisters hurried to the door to receive us. A slight gesture from my guide, produced profound silence, and I was at once taken to a room and a bed.

I awoke from an unconscious state, produced I supposed by the sedative I had drank immediately on my arrival, and looked languidly around me. I remember my first feeling was one of surprise at the comfortable appearance of every thing near and about me. I had never been in a convent before, and had supposed, with the vague notions of Protestantism about convents, that I should be put in a cell at least, with probably a death’s head and cross-bones for furniture, and a hair-cloth and thongs for entertainment. On the contrary, I felt myself lying on a down-bed—muslin curtains gathered in delicate folds above it—the windows shaded with the same material—waving lightly to and fro in the summer night air. The oaken floor so highly polished, and the neat table holding a nurse-lamp and some phials. Besides that, there was no look of a sick-room. The lamp shone on the mild face of the Madonna of Sassoferato, whose clasped hands and conventual garb seemed to make her the tutelar genius of such a scene; and below, was the never-failing crucifix of ivory on a bronze stand.

Not a sound, but the sighing of the leaves against the window, interrupted the midnight quiet of the scene. Refreshed and composed by the judicious treatment I had received, I lay calmly recalling the preceding evening, and wondering what my landlady at the village would think of my being out all night. I might have spared any anxiety on that account, as I afterward learned, as the good Sisters had at once dispatched a messenger to assure her of my safety. In that small place the arrival of a stranger is an event. The seclusion of a convent is favorable to curiosity, and my name, situation, health, and person, were perfectly well-known to all the good Sisters, though I had not chanced to meet one of them.

A distant strain of music broke the silence around me. I started, and raising myself in bed undrew the curtains. A figure clothed in white approached the bed, and I recognized at once the face of my yesterday’s companion.

“Do not be startled. It is only the Sisters.”

She bent her sweet face over me, like an angel watcher.

“You have been sitting by me all night, my dear,” said I.

“Oh! that is nothing,” she answered, cheerfully. “I like to keep awake in the night.”

“But what can you have to occupy yourself with? Surely, you cannot be satisfied with telling your beads over?”

“I have my netting by me, and then there are always one’s thoughts and memories.”

“And your memories, my dear,” said I, “what are they? What can you remember that is not so mingled with pain and deprivations, that the contemplation of it must be sad rather than pleasant?”

In reply, she told me in her own simple and touching manner the story of her mother’s death, and the almost revelation that preceded it.

“And how do you feel about it yourself?” said I.

“I fully believe, madam, that such an impression would not have been vouchsafed by the good God to my mother, unless it had been true, and important also that I should know it.”

“Then you still look for your father, my child?”

“As I look for the sunrise to-morrow,” she answered, raising her clear eyes to heaven. “Some day he will certainly come.”

“And meanwhile!”

“Meanwhile, I think of him continually. I imagine always how he would like to have me conduct myself, and in all my little troubles I look forward to the time when I shall feel no more sorrow. You will not think me superstitious, madam, when I tell you that my mother’s heart is very near to mine, and often I am conscious of heavenly thoughts that I am sure are of her whispering to my spirit.”

I would not for the world have disturbed fancies so sweet and holy as filled the breast of this lovely child with any doubts of their reality, even if I had not been more than half inclined to agree with her in the belief of spiritual intercourse with the departed.

“But, Claire,” said I, after a long pause, “it is a strange and terrible thought, one at which we instinctively revolt, that close to us, by night or by day, is a haunting spirit, even if it were our mother’s. It seems to me I should so dread the answer, that I could never gather courage to speak to such a spirit, if I believed it could and would answer me.”

“I suppose it would not answer. Ah! if it could do so, would it not long since have responded to the agonized cry of the bereaved! But, though it is not to sense that it speaks, the impression is not the less vivid or credible. It is not what you see with your mortal eye, dear lady, that you believe most fully and heartily. Even if we were to see the beloved form or hear the beloved tones, a something would whisper to us of doubt and incredulity. It would be ‘an optical illusion,’ or ‘a derangement of the auricular organs,’ and we should very soon come to believe ourselves entirely mistaken in the impressions we had received. It is only the mind itself that can take distinct cognizance of its own objects.”

“You speak like a philosopher, dear Claire. Where have you learned to consider the subject so deeply?”

“Of Father Angelo,” replied the young girl, simply.

“And he is your confessor, I suppose,” said I.

“Yes, madam; and my best friend. For dear Sister Martha, who has told me of my early life, could not resolve my doubts and fears, and the thousand anxieties that I should naturally feel, and I have been both relieved and enlightened by free conversation with Father Angelo. He must have suffered much himself, for his heart is so tender and his manner so soothing, and yet he always strengthens one’s spirit so much, with his calm views of another life, in this life of ours. Till he came to us I never knew fully what sympathy was. The Sisters but half understood me, and when I saw the excellence of their lives, when I watched their hardy activity and their daily devotion to duty, I used to feel sure that theirs must be the true thought that led directly to right action, and that my world of fancies and mysteries must be a morbid and unhealthy one. Still I felt constantly that ‘I heard a voice they could not hear,’ and never till last summer, when Father Angelo came to us, did I at all understand myself.”

“And now that you do understand yourself, you are happy, my child?” I asked.

“As happy as one with unoccupied affections can be, madam. I feel that I have much love that has never been called into action, and I fancy that my father when he comes will fill my heart. Meantime, I see why it is that there are depths in my soul that no plummet can sound, and where the voice of God alone calls forth an answer. Sometime or other, either in this world or a future one, these deep voices will find musical utterance, and the harmony of the affections, which alone is wanting to the harmony of nature, will make my being what God intended it to be.”

“You are happy, my dear child, to have such a confidence; it comes sometimes after suffering and sorrowful experiences, but seldom in the bloom of life.”

“And I should have wandered long and unhappily but for the guidance of Father Angelo,” said Claire, her eyes radiant with grateful affection whenever she spoke of this father of her best thoughts.

I became curious to see Father Angelo.

“When will he come here again?” I inquired.

“To-morrow at furthest,” said Claire.

“Then I hope I shall see him.”

“Assuredly, if madam desires it,” said Claire, with a pleased look. “But apparently, madam is a Protestant?”

“Oh, I do not want to confess to him,” said I, laughing.

“Pardon me, madam. But have you never felt that it would be a great pleasure and privilege to confess?”

“Assuredly not, Claire,” said I, more seriously.

“Madam has had dear friends then, to whom she could express every thought—confess every fault—and to whom she could apply in every difficulty?” inquired she.

“No—not always,” answered I, hesitatingly; “but, Claire, we believe that to God alone we should confess.”

“God alone can absolve,” said Claire, devoutly, “by the mouth of his minister, the repenting heart. But there are so many things we wish to say to an earthly friend, and to which we must receive an answer—”

“But we believe the Bible to be a sufficient guide to all our darkness and doubts.”

“Morally I know it is, madam. And I do not say that its precepts will not reach every variety of intellectual difficulty. But I have found that conference with a superior mind is a great relief and pleasure, as well as guide, in understanding the doubts that often weigh on the mind.”

“Unquestionably it is so, Claire; but we find those superior minds in the circle of our acquaintances, in our husbands, brothers, and the friends to whom we attach ourselves. We have not the need of confession that you feel, isolated as you are from any guiding mind.”

“Yes, madam, that is true. I can see that in such a case confession would not be so necessary; but with us it is a great need.”

She drew the curtains as she spoke, and sat silently at her netting. I lay revolving in my mind for a long time the conversation I had been holding with this strange girl. There was something in the maturity of her mind and the dignity of her manner, that contrasted greatly with the extreme youthfulness of her figure and face. Her eyes had a quiet serenity that seemed the result of having attained, at a bound, the goal to which humanity generally reaches after long and painful experiences and mental vicissitudes that leave their unmistakable marks on the face. But in Claire’s face, seen by the pale light of the room, was an angelic wisdom, pure and high. Yet she did not look satisfied; or rather, she was satisfied only in the thought of a future different from the calm present.

I asked myself how would this sweet flower bear transplanting? She had no ties but those of gratitude to the place she was in, and as a sphere of usefulness, some one more strong and hardy could fill it better than she did. She evidently looked and longed for the arrival of her father, more from “the necessity of loving” than from a filial feeling. I did not myself believe that he was in existence, or that if he were, he was worthy of her affection, or he would long ere this have sought her out. Thoughts like these kept me wakeful, and when I undrew the curtain again to speak to Claire, I found she had gone softly out, and her place was supplied by a stout “Sister,” to whom I had no inclination to speak. She told me, in answer to my query, that day was nearly breaking, and I sunk to sleep in the hearing of the distant music of the morning-hymn.

The sun was already high in the heavens when I awoke. Claire was sitting by the side of my bed, and at my first motion, spoke to me with a cheerful smile that well corresponded with the serene brightness of the day.

“Father Angelo has been here for some time, madam; I have been telling him about you, for truly, madam, I feel as if I had known you a long time, instead of only one night. He will be glad to see you.”

“And I shall like to see him, Claire. But as I feel myself, thanks to your kindness, quite recovered, I will not receive him so entirely in dishabille.”

In a few momenta I was dressed, and walking in the small garden attached to the convent. Claire left me for a short time, and then came out followed or rather attended by her friend.

He was dressed in the common black robe of his order, with the cowl thrown back so as fully to display his head and throat. For the first time, I understood that he was not a monk, but only a clergyman, as we should say. A priest, and not a very old one either. Certainly he had never numbered more than thirty-five years. His face was entirely pale, and his temples covered with dark hair, while his red lips and white, even teeth had the grace of feminine contour.

I was struck with the gravity, even to sadness, of his manner, no less than with the beauty of his person. He uttered in a low, quiet voice the usual benediction, and then asked me to listen to him, as he had much to say to me. I replied with some surprise, that I was quite at his service, and leading me to a rude garden-seat, over which honeysuckles and roses made a natural bower, he said quietly to Claire—

“You will leave us, Claire, for half an hour; and send Sister Mary with some of her coffee and best buns.”

This was not precisely the confessional I had anticipated; and in spite of the little flutter of my spirits, this picture of myself, in high colloquy with a Catholic priest, sipping hot coffee and eating nice buns, was so laughable, that I could hardly keep my face in a state of suitable gravity.

Sister Mary’s white buns and fragrant coffee were delicious indeed. While I partook of them, Father Angelo leaned his head on his hand in profound abstraction. His complete absorption continued for some minutes after the nun had left us alone. At length he raised his head, and looking steadily at me, said abruptly,

“I suppose it is vain to attempt any thing like a conversion of your principles to the true church.”

“Entirely so,” I answered, “as I was born and educated I shall probably remain.”

“So I thought.”

Again there was a long silence. What it was to end in, I could not guess; but I determined not to break it. My companion was evidently agitated and uncomfortable. His red lips became pale and quivering, and his brow bent. He rose from his seat, and paced back and forward on the graveled walk. After some time had elapsed in this inward conflict, he seated himself once more by my side, and taking my hand, addressed me thus:

“Pardon me for saying that I require from you a solemn promise of secrecy in regard to what I am about to communicate.”

I was somewhat prepared for a communication, it is true; but not at all disposed to bind myself to secrecy with a stranger. He seemed to read my thoughts, for he fixed his bright eyes on mine, and then dropped them with an expression of embarrassment.

“I should not have asked you, madam, for this pledge of secrecy, but that it is of much importance—and—and I think you can receive no inconvenience—possibly—”

He stopped entirely, but again raised his eyes with an expression so imploring, that I said at once,

“Say on, sir. I promise you that nothing but the most imperative necessity shall make me disclose to any one what you may tell me.”

“Thank you,” said he, eagerly; “it is not on my account that I desire secrecy. But there are many reasons—the good of the church—evil tongues. When I have told you all, these reasons will readily suggest themselves to your own mind. You are surprised that I should choose to make an entire stranger my confident in a secret. But in the first place, you are not entirely unknown to me. I have interested myself in you somewhat; and there have been persons enough ready to tell me of your ‘birth, parentage, and education.’ Of your mind and heart, Claire has told me much this morning, in a long conversation we have had; and, in short, circumstances make it necessary that I should confide in you.”

There was something so heartfelt in the tone in which Father Angelo spoke, something so entirely sincere, notwithstanding the mystery in which the affair was enveloped, that I repeated what I had before said:

“Whatever you wish to say to me, sir, I am ready to hear, to keep entirely to myself, and to assist you to the best of my power.”

He looked greatly relieved, and proceeded.

“You have divined, before this, madam, the reason of my wish to confide in you. You are a foreigner, a Protestant, a widow, and independent in your actions. Claire needs all these for her friend and efficient adviser.”

“Claire! then it is of her you wish to speak? I supposed your secret concerned yourself. She has told me of her own life.”

“She has told you what she knew,” said Father Angelo, with the same abruptness as before. Indeed, through the whole of our interview, there was an earnestness which dispensed with the usual forms almost of civility.

“I have been waiting, watching for such an event as your coming, ever since last year, when I first became fully acquainted with Claire, and saw how unsuited she was to a conventual life. She has warm feelings and superior intellect, and she is fretted continually by the discrepancy between her inward and outward life. She would be a companion to you, and—she has some means—” he stopped, and a slight flush passed over his pale face. “I should not wish her to be a dependent on the bounty of any person.”

“I understand, however, from Claire herself,” said I, “that her mother died poor, and that she has been indebted to charity for her support. This father of hers—if he be living—”

“You think he must be a wretch,” said Father Angelo, calmly, “so to desert those who have every claim on his care. Be it so. He is a wretch. And most wretched is he, that, seeing before him the form of his child, and listening to the outpourings of her angelic soul, he should be barred from acknowledging kindred with it, and forced, for the very love he bears her, to tear her from him forever.

“If you will accede to my earnest request, take Claire with you to America—care for her—watch over her—be to her all that, alas! her father must not be—and I shall feel that all, and a thousand times more than all I deserve, and all I live for, is granted, and shall at once enter a convent of La Trappe. I long for it—I long for eternal silence; and have only retained my present position, that I might find Claire, read her character, and do what I could to unfold and strengthen it. That mission is accomplished. Her native strength of wing has already carried her mind beyond what my feeble flights can follow. She soars to regions of purity and peace, where my soul cannot revel, unless after long years of penance and suffering. She loves the ideal parent, who is to her the personification of all virtue; and it is impossible, and ought to be so, for me to sully her thoughts with the reality which to her must always be a source of disappointment and mortification, and to me inexpressible shame.”

This revelation was not unexpected to me, so far as regarded the relationship of the two parties; but it filled me with much matter for meditation. I had no curiosity to know the events of Father Angelo’s past life. The lines of suffering, and the traces of strong passions, were marked deeply on his marble brow, and composed even to severity as his manner now was, I could read under the habitual restraint of his expressive face, that no slight agony had wrought on a naturally proud and sensitive spirit, before it could compel itself to forego its sweetest pleasures rather than breathe on the purity of the beloved object.

After some time passed on my side in revolving what I had heard, and what I was expected to do, and on his, in a distressful silence that watched painfully for my first word, I asked,

“But about Claire’s religious influences. She will have few of the kind she has been accustomed to; and all her indirect influences, you must be aware, will not be very favorable to her religious constancy.”

“I think she will become a Protestant. You are surprised that I should be willing to trust her in such an atmosphere. But there are some minds that are cast, so to speak, in a Protestant mould; and hers is one. She has not a great deal of faith, and her mind naturally tends so much to inquiry, perhaps I should say skepticism, that I found it difficult to lead her. I may as well say at once, that my own reasons for adopting the profession and character of a priest, were first to discover her, and know her mind more intimately than I could do in any other position; and secondly, because the Catholic faith promises more to me than any other religion. I feel the need of what it has to give; but to Claire, I can see its spirit and forms are not so necessary. I am not bigoted nor intolerant, as you see. Perhaps I am not a good Catholic. But I wish you to understand that I am not acting against my conscience.”

“These are strange words from a Catholic priest,” said I, looking at him. A flush of impatience crossed his face again.

“I need not qualify my words to you, I am sure. What I need—a wretched, debased sinner—stripes—fasting—silence—and digging my own grave daily—are not the necessary aliment of Claire’s soul, fresh from the forming hand of the All-Pure.”

“Then I understand that Claire, if I take her, is to be like my own child; that no interference of any kind with my authority or influence is to be allowed?”

“There is no person living authorized to interfere,” said Father Angelo, sadly. “Her father will be dead to her. And God will reward or punish you as you deal by this forlorn and most angelic child.”

“I accept the trust,” said I, with the same solemnity that was expressed in the manner of the unhappy father. He took my hand in his, and holding it up, repeated a short prayer in Latin, which I took to be an invocation, but I said nothing; and, indeed, was so agitated and exhausted that I could not speak.

“I shall leave this place this morning,” said he, with a more composed voice, “and shall send to you such information as may be necessary to her future welfare in any possible contingency.”

He rung a bell which stood on the table, and Claire came into the garden, as if she had been in waiting. He made a sign to her to attend to me, and as soon as I had taken the restorative she hastened to offer, rose to go. I shall never forget the look of anguished affection that spread over his pale face, as he murmured above Claire’s bright head the customary benediction. His whole being seemed one thrill of pain. Stooping over he pressed on her forehead a kiss of such love! and then without another word hurried away.

Claire looked astonished, as well she might, for she had never seen him agitated before, though, as she said, she conjectured he must have suffered much.

“He feels sorrowfully at leaving you, my child,” said I, “he tells me he is about leaving this part of the country.”

She looked at me, as if she wondered at his communicating such an intention to me, rather than to herself, but was too delicate to inquire further.

The same afternoon a package came to the convent, directed to me, and contained, among other things, a letter from Father Angelo “to his beloved daughter in Christ Jesus”—in which he recommended her to accept the proposal I had made of taking her with me to America, and containing besides some affectionate words of advice. It was brief, and I could easily see that many feelings had prevented his being more prolix.

I then entered more fully into the subject with Claire, of her leaving her native country for mine. I found, to my great joy, that she was not only willing but desirous to go with me, and that a night’s free converse with me had given me much of her affection.

“I have not dared to think, dear madam,” she said tearfully, “how ‘doubly lone’ I should be when you were gone.”

“And you think you shall not long for the seclusion of Chaillot, and the hymns of the Sisters?”

“Oh, I dare say I shall long to see them. But meanwhile I do so long to be with you, and to see something and somebody in the world!”

“And you will be my own daughter?” I asked her now more seriously—“do you know how much that implies? If I give you all I shall require much from you.”

“Not more than all my heart,” answered she gayly, “and that you shall certainly have.”

“Till somebody else asks for it,” said I to myself.

The remainder of my stay at Chaillot was cheered by the occasional visits of Claire, but the most of the time she spent at the convent, and among the poor of the village, who loved her and mourned her departure. When at last the vessel bore us both away from France she was deeply affected. I was glad to see it: glad that mere curiosity and interest in novelty had not dulled her heart to one sympathy.

Arrived at Boston, we met the kind faces of friends, how kind and how dear, we never feel till an ocean has separated us, and soon found ourselves quietly established at my own residence, as if not a week had passed since I was last there. Claire gained in a northern climate all she needed to make her perfect—strength of body, and consequent strength of mind. She was never weary of the bold natural scenery in which New England abounds, and wandered and climbed till I used to beg her to take care of herself for my sake.

All this time I had a plot in my head. For what woman was ever without one? Had I not a son, whose image was seldom absent an hour from my memory, yet whose name I was careful not to mention to Claire? Who could tell what might be in the future, if I did not mar its brightness by my own interference? So I patiently waited the result of accidental influences. I expected Herbert home by the next packet. He had been prevented from meeting me in France, and accompanying us home, by illness, and I had availed myself of the escort of some friends who were coming to America, without waiting for his recovery.

We had been returned for more than two months. The autumnal tints already brightened with consumptive red the rich verdure of summer, and the harvest-moon shone out with a calm brilliancy that almost mocked the daily sun. Claire was delighted with Nature under its bold American features. As I watched the daily development of her taste, and delighted to see its refinement and richness, I felt that I could not have desired more in a daughter, than was thrown as it were by the bounty of Providence into my lap.

We had been sitting in the old portico, with shawls wrapt about us, and watching the moonlight on the clumps of trees, as it silvered and sprinkled them with heavenly glory, and neither of us had for a long time spoken. Claire, who connected all still, solemn beauty with the thought of her lost mother, was, I doubted not, thinking of heaven and her; and I was myself recalling my short and eventful acquaintance with her father. Claire rose from her seat, and walked down the avenue a short distance, then turned and stood by a fountain, which played by the side of a larch tree. It was a pretty picture. The fountain, the tree, and the moon, that embathed the girl, the fountain, and the tree in soft splendor. Claire had removed her shawl from her shoulders, and stood with it dropping off her arm, as motionless as a statue. Her bright, waving hair lay over her shoulders—and like the spirit of the scene she stood.

As I, too, followed down the walk, I was conscious of a second figure, which, as I approached, came out from the shadow of a tree. Once in the light, I recognized Herbert, and did not scream. Neither did I beckon to him to look at, and fall in love with, the beautiful being before us, because I felt very certain that if it were to be done, there could not be a better time for him to do it without my aid. And with a self-command, which I believe is rare among match-makers, I beckoned to him to retire to the house, while I went forward to Claire.

She was still motionless, absorbed in thoughts of a not painful character, as was evident from the placid expression of her lifted eyes.

“You will take cold, Claire,” said I, gently.

“Thank you,” she answered, in her sweet French accent, “I am not afraid. You know I am used to all hours and weathers.”

“But I am going in now. My son has arrived. You have never heard me speak of him, I believe—but I have felt considerable anxiety about him. An anxiety which is now happily relieved by his arrival.”

She looked a little surprised, but made no inquiry and followed me into the house. I was curious to see the effect of this her first acquaintance with an accomplished and eminently attractive man. Hitherto she had seen no person above the common peasantry of the small town of Chaillot, except Father Angelo.

Three weeks after this evening, Herbert came into my room, whence Claire had just gone to take a walk, and throwing himself into a chair, wiped the wet from his forehead and hair in a state of unquestionable agitation.

“Come, mother! help me—help me, or I sink!”

“What, really overcome? You, the redoubtable! the renowned! the invincible! Can I believe my eyes!” answered I, laughing heartily—for love-sickness, like sea-sickness, gets no sympathy—and I was really pleased to see Herbert, for once, undoubtedly in earnest.

“Now, a truce to your satire, mother mine. And a truce to your smiles even. I wont allow that there is any occasion for grief either; but the fact is, I cannot live, now, without Claire and her love—and she knows it—”

“Knows it!”

“Yes!” said Herbert, impatiently; “and that’s the devil of it! While I was endeavoring to wind myself softly, soothingly, you see, into her tender heart, not to break it, you know, but just to set all its faculties and springs fluttering, like pigeons, and to watch how she should blush, and sigh, and droop—till, just at the right point, I meant, when she least hoped and expected it, when she should despairingly throw herself down, half senseless with excitement and hopelessness—then, I meant to have stepped in. Now, mother, don’t say, What an insufferable puppy! for I feel it enough, I assure you. The fact is, I didn’t know myself what I did mean till half an hour ago.”

“Is it possible! Why, Claire has been reading to me nearly or quite half an hour, and has just gone out to carry some comfort to old Nurse Dobbins. No appearance of maiden agitation about her, my poor son, but as calm as a clock.”

The fact was, I had noticed that her cheek had a slight pallor, and had recommended the walk myself; but this I did not think it necessary to mention.

“Doubtless!” was the pettish reply. “I wonder if she is not all ice—or rather, whether she has a heart for any thing but old women!”

“She certainly has a heart, and one well worth the winning, Herbert. But not in the fashion you have been used to. All-conquering knight that you are—you must lay down your tinsel and frippery, and don the helmet of sterling gold, and break a lance for honor bright, if you would win favor from this child of nature.”

“Isn’t she, mother?” said Herbert, enthusiastically, “isn’t she the noblest, and loveliest, and sweetest creature that ever the earth presumed to bear up? You love her, I know; teach me how to love her, so that she may love me! for it is true what I tell you. I cannot live without her pure and beautiful heart!”

I had never seen Herbert thoroughly moved before. Under an exterior of frivolity he concealed the real fervor and enthusiasm of which I knew him capable. But it had been long since I had seen him at all excited about any thing. That Claire should interest him, was only allowing him a pure natural taste; but that Claire should not have reciprocated the sentiment she excited, puzzled me, I allow—for I was a parent.

“Tell me, mother,” he continued—or would have done so, but that Claire just at that moment entered the room, with her basket on her arm. Her pale cheek now flushed with a rapid walk, was brilliant with health, and her eyes met both Herbert’s and mine with a buoyancy and serenity, as little like a love-stricken girl as could well be imagined. I saw Herbert’s cheek turn pale, as he suddenly rose and springing through the window upon the lawn, whistled to his dog, and walked rapidly away.

Claire looked after him, and then meeting my inquiring eye, she stood with hers looking clearly into my face.

“And so my poor Herbert has no chance?” said I.

She seated herself by me with a little embarrassment, which became her a thousand times more than the serene self-possession so habitual to her.

“My beloved mother—my benefactress!” she stopped.

“Not a word of that, Claire. Hearts are to be given, and not bought. But how comes it that you see nothing lovable or winning about Herbert? He seems perfectly hopeless.”

“I might have seen, indeed I did see, a thousand charming qualities in Mr. ——,” said Claire, with grave simplicity, “but that he seemed to be only amusing himself with me, and not in earnest about any thing. Least of all did I believe him in earnest when he professed love for me. Love! which I have always looked on as something so holy, so sacred, so ennobling! a trust so solemn as another’s heart, not to be taken without awe and trembling! Believe me, dearest mother, I did not once think, nor can I now, that Mr. —— had an earnest thought in the whole matter. Evidently he has only been amusing himself, and trying perhaps to amuse me with the idea of having made a conquest. He mistook me altogether.” She drew her head up a very little, with an expression that spoke of wounded pride; but instantly dismissed it, and resumed her usual affectionate look.

“I hope you will not think any more about it, dear Claire. These things are best dismissed from the thoughts. Shall we go on with our reading?”

I spoke hurriedly, for, in truth, I was severely disappointed. I did not think how much so, until I listened to the calm, decided tone, and looked on the quiet face of Claire. Things looked hopeless for Herbert; and I could not help sympathizing with him in his keen disappointment. Meantime, as I knew affection could not be reproached into existence, I endeavored to divert both my own mind and hers from a painful subject.

Absence is said to be the death of love, I believe it is sometimes the birth of it. Certainly, Herbert, if he had tried a thousand ways to Claire’s heart, could not have hit on a likelier road than that which led him away from her, under the pretence of going to Niagara Falls.

“My body will go in search of the picturesque, mother,” said he, with a faint attempt at gayety, “but my soul remains at home. It will haunt you—both; and I charge you listen to its whispers that shall be in your ears night and day!”

“Farewell, Claire!” was all he said to her; and when he was gone, she sat for some minutes, looking into the heart of a flower she was holding in her hand, as if trying to solve a problem too difficult for her.

Days passed, and weeks. We talked, and walked, and rode, and read by turns, as we were wont to do, before this vision of Herbert had passed over and breathed on the mirror of her pure heart. But no longer was her eye clear, and her brow serene. She was disturbed and restless. An enemy had come in to her heart to steal away its peace. When we read poetry, a consciousness in her voice, gave meaning and depth to every passionate tone; and when we walked in the November woods, their melancholy beauty woke sad feelings kindred to the scene. I saw that her sensitive nature was touched to its depths. She had begun to think, not that she was loved, for her standard of that passion was too high to leave her in such an error; but how sweet it would be to be loved. Her heart, like a lonely harp-string, vibrated in every breeze, and seemed asking vainly for its completing harmony.

She did not ask me to read to her any of Herbert’s letters. I wished she would, and once read to her what I thought a very capital description of the cataract. But she only said composedly that my son had described the scenery, and not his own impressions on seeing it.

“I don’t believe any reality on earth could equal the descriptions we have had of Niagara. It would need heaven and hell almost to body forth the ideas that travelers have called up. I can only hope to be able, if ever I see it, to forget all that I have ever heard about it, so as to shrink before its magnificence as I should feel bound to do.”

“Suppose we try, Claire?” said I.

“With all my heart,” answered she, evidently glad in her restless state to be going somewhere. I had previously told her that Herbert had gone to Quebec.

In a week’s time Claire and myself, with a man-servant, had reached Albany, and there took the canal-boats to Buffalo. The wearisome journey by stage-coach had admirably prepared us for the monotonous ease of the boat. Fortunately there were very few passengers, and we lay in our little clean white berths and rested and read as quietly as if we had been in our own rooms.

On reaching the Falls we were too thoroughly wearied to attempt more that night, and went to our beds.

On our way, a fellow passenger, experienced in sight-seeing, had recommended to us to take our first view from the American side, and from below, instead of the usual view from Table Rock. We therefore crossed the river a little distance below the Falls, without giving way to the temptation of gazing for a moment at the view before us, though the roar was terrible in our ears. Then we walked on the American side, closer, closer till we were within twenty feet of the cataract. The spray dripped over us, the rocks were slippery to our feet, the roar of a thousand floods seemed in our bewildered ears; and below, as it were, the reverberating yells of damned spirits tossing, and whirling, and dashing and howling forever. Then we looked up. The volume of water seemed coming down from the very heavens upon us. We uttered a faint cry of terror—turned round and fled. That is to say, we fled several yards. No matter. We were impressed sufficiently with the physical grandeur of the scene. It was oppressive, overwhelming. Afterward, when we roamed over all these rocks and took views from every point, and gazed at the cataract’s wondrous beauty as well as power, we found a moral grandeur with which our souls sympathized, and to which they rose to enjoy and adore. These jottings down of our impressions can give no idea to one who has not visited the Falls, and to one who has, will scarcely enhance his recollections. I mention them only to illustrate a trait of Claire’s character.

A mother with her child were wandering along among the loose stones and sharp rocks close to the terrible whirlpool from which we had just turned. The mother had let go the child’s hand, and he, a lad of some four or five years old, slipped from the stone on which he stood, and as a natural consequence was in imminent danger of his life. But one rock, and that slippery and sloping, intervened between the little fellow and certain death. The mother screamed, but was motionless from mere horror; Claire, who at once forgot every thing about her but what was connected with the living drama before her, pulled at a stroke her scarf from her neck, and giving me one end to hold, while she held the other, slid her feet rapidly down to the very brink of the torrent, caught the boy firmly by his foot and stood holding him. She was as pale as death, but as firm and strong in her attitude as if she stood on the parlor floor. She dared not move, and I had not strength, and was too distrustful of the strength of the scarf, to dare to pull them up.

As we stood thus it seemed hours, though it could scarcely be half a minute before relief was obtained by a rope thrown by a strong arm from behind over the form of Claire, which fully supported her in her perilous position. Immediately after she was clasped in the arms of a man in a cloak, whom we had seen sitting near us in an absorbed attitude, seemingly regardless of all about him. He had sprung from his seat, caught up a boat-rope, which I perfectly remembered afterward to have stepped over, thrown it around Claire, so as to support her, and then giving the noose to my servant, who stood close but inactively behind, steadied himself by the other end of the rope, slipped and sprang down by Claire, caught up the boy with one hand and tossed him up to his mother, and then bore the now fainting Claire carefully up to the bank.

The boy screamed wildly with fright, and the mother was voluble with her thanks and offers of assistance. Claire remained still and motionless in the arms of the stranger, and I watched the spray dash over her marble face. Presently her eyes opened slowly, with a deep sigh. She looked at her preserver and a beautiful color overspread her face. Then for the first time I also looked at him, for to this moment no one had spoken but the woman whose carelessness had put in jeopardy three lives.

He had bent his head down to hers and had kissed her forehead, rosy with returned consciousness. She replied by pulling her arm over his neck and kissing, not his forehead, but his very lips. The woman and her boy had gone, the servant discreetly retired, and there in the sound and rush of many waters, in the turmoil of elemental war, the still, small voice of two loving hearts, lately so near to death, was heard and registered.

“But you wrote me, Herbert, that you were setting off for Quebec last week. Who could have dreamed of finding you here?”

“And so I did go to Quebec. But I used it up in two days, and then came on here once more. In my then state of mind it was a relief to place myself where you found me, and listen to the roar of the water from morning till night. Now, I don’t care how soon we go away.”

We did journey, however, for some weeks; and when we returned and were once more in our own quiet parlor at home, I asked Herbert to come with me to my room.

“I am going to read you something, Herbert. Something about Claire.”

Then I opened the packet which Father Angelo had given me. First there was the official announcement, or rather a copy of it, of Father Angelo’s admission to the Convent of la Trappe, in Piedmont, and his consequent death to the world and every body in it. Then a separate packet contained such particulars of his life as he deemed necessary for me to know, and to communicate to Claire, if I thought proper, or to whomsoever she should hereafter marry. There were also papers conveying a small amount of property to her. Enough for her subsistence should she be deprived by misfortune of my support.

The man had been sinned against and was also a great sinner. He had sinned against the young English girl, Clara, whom he had seduced from her home under the false pretence of marriage, and whose fidelity to him and trust in him had continued to her gentle death. Afterward to win for himself the means of keeping up his dissipated habits he had recourse to forgery, and had escaped in disguise, and narrowly, with his life. After that he went to Rome; by a run of luck in gambling he obtained the means of making a handsome appearance in society there, and by his cultivation, taste and fine manners, so impressed an Italian family of some distinction that he married one of the daughters. The marriage was an unhappy one. His wife eloped with his friend, and the old drama of a duel was acted over. Finally his resources were exhausted, and either reason or conscience suggested to him the claim which a wife and child had on his memory. At all events, he became an altered man, took holy orders, obtained permission to travel, and did travel in search of his long-forgotten wife and child. After a long search he found Claire. He sought her society. He became her confessor and her friend. He learned her pure heart, and her enthusiastic devotion to the memory of her parents. Then the iron entered into his soul. He felt the impossibility of presenting himself to such an innocent being as the realization of such an ideal as hers. He now dreaded any chance by which his relationship could become known to her, as much as he had heretofore eagerly sought her. All he could do for her he did, but he constantly watched an opportunity to secure to her an efficient friend, who could take her into the world, and withdrawing her from the dull and confined life she then had, put her into the way of forming connections for herself which would in some degree lead her to forget or cease to look for her father. The agony of being forced to deny himself every parental caress, lest he should be forced to explain his relationship, and consequently the reasons for his long and unpardonable estrangement, made him wish a thousand times he were dead indeed, and he said he longed every hour for the time to arrive when he should take the vow of eternal silence, for such only harmonized with the gloom of his soul.

It would be wearisome to go through all the details of such a life, of such talents abused, of such a mournful old age.

We talked the matter over freely and fully, and Herbert concluded with me that it was best to burn the package, that under no possible combination of circumstances could it fall into her hands. It should be his happiness he said to make her forget to look for her father.

How he found out how much she could bless him—and when she discovered that though he was full of faults, she loved him, faults and all, I cannot tell; but every body’s experience will furnish similar instances for themselves or others.