University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

Onward, and still onward, speeds the flight of
time. Deaf, blind, relentless—for nothing he stays
his wing. Ever with the same eternal haste he
presses on. Events that might astound the universe,

prayers that might pierce a fiend, never delay,
never melt him. Cities roar and are silent.
Empires rise and fall. Mountains bow their icecrowned
thrones. Seas advance from their unfathomed
beds. Even worlds, balanced in their
far places, burst asunder, and pass away in the
boundless deep of space—and yet, even unpausing,
unpitying, unwondering, his course is on, and still
on!

Unpitying, did I say? No, dark, but slandered
divinity, not unpitying. Dread minister of Providence,
thou bringest peace as well as a sword. All
that can be spared, remains unharmed by thee; and
in thy path not only ruin lies, but joy and beauty.
It is thy hand that nursed the half-blown rose,
ripened the harvest, and reared the oak. Who
spread nature with the tender spring? Who
clothed the callow bird in his gorgeous coat, and
launched him on the breeze? Who brings every
object to its true use and perfection? Who sweeps
away prejudice and error? Who unveils lustrous
truth? Not all things fall beneath thy scythe. What
blow has thou stricken against Homer and Shakspeare,
more than to brighten their radiance, to secure
their immortality? Does not all that is good
and noble triumph by thy aid? Will not the whole
globe, befriended by thee, grow wise and good?
Will not war and superstition, tyranny and vice, be
banished?

Four years! Like a breath they have passed.
A wreath of vapour, curling on the air, melts not
more lightly. Reader, you have turned a leaf—and
they are gone. Even so startingly rapid shows the
past. Yesterday—only yesterday—we were noisy
children on the green. Images were around all
bright and dear. Look you now what a transformation!
Youth is vanished. Years—how we know

not—are on our foreheads and in our hearts. As
in a theatre—the scene is changed. Other objects,
new characters are before us. They call us by
different names. They woo us to strange enterprises.
Go to the haunt of your boyhood—go
with your grave, cold face, your wearied and melancholy
heart: stand amid the careless and happy
forms that sport there to-day. You will strike them
with awe. The unshaded glance, the joyous laugh,
the high, happy shout, will be hushed till you pass.

Back from the scathed Europe, with its footmarks
of gaunt and bloody ages, we are once again
in the fresh and happy scenes of a new world.

Upon the brow of a lovely bank, gorgeous with
massy verdure, and scented with wild perfume, a
white mansion shone through the trees. Immediately
beneath swept a broad and crystal flood,
eddying and dimpling on its glad course in sudden
bends and circling meanders. Never looked
the gentle sun on a scene more fair;—never, even
in those spots by the Asiatic, the Greek, the Roman,
rendered immortal in story. Directly from the silver
river sloped up wild and beautiful mountains,
which sometimes giant nature had rent asunder, and
left naked and blasted in perpendicular cliffs. The
shores were richly decked with towns, countryseats,
and cottages. The soft sky bent all unclouded
above. Rich and sweet spread the scented
fields around.

The lovely seat to which we invite the reader
was exquisitely situated, surrounded by giant trees
and sylvan walks, and a fair promenade which led
down to the water's edge. On an ample portico, a
family group watched the changes of a magnificent
sunset.

In an arm-chair sat a silver-headed man, whose
person possessed all the mellow charm which manly

beauty receives from age. His white locks were
smoothed over his high brow with a majesty that at
once won respect and reverence. His face was
mild and happy; but years had impressed it with
heavy marks—and yet more than years—sorrow.

A graceful form hung over his chair, with her
arm affectionately upon his shoulder; and by her
side a gentleman had drawn familiary.

It required no more than a glance to discover in
the two latter Julia and Howard; and in their aged
companion, the still noble, but much changed and
time-bowed form of Mordaunt Leslie.

As they thus sat, surrounded by wreathing vines
and bursting flowers, and enjoying the mild-tempered
and illumined atmosphere, a beautiful child
of about three years, loaded with fruit and flowers,
and playing with a large curly-haired dog, came
laughing and running from a thicket.

“There's Flora—come, Flora!” exclaimed all at
once.

When there is a kind-hearted grandfather, and a
sweet aunt, and a gentle uncle in the family—and
the father is adored as the lost one found—and the
mother is pronounced “the very sweetest woman
in the world”—the only child, whatever may be its
claims, will be an angel of course. But the little
creature, now staggering under its pretty burden—
which the almost laughing dog was sportively, we
had nearly said affectionately, endeavouring to pull
away—was really altogether lovely. Look, reader!
Did you never see those blue eyes before—that little
smile, that lightly-pencilled brow—upon another
face?

A few moments after the appearance of the child,
two other figures emerged from the imbowered
walk, which wound charmingly in along the high
river-bank. The one was a gentleman, the other

a fair girl—yet not altogether a girl. Somewhat
there was in her face of sedateness which girlhood
never knew. Beautiful she was—more beautiful
than ever! Happiness and love had shed on the
young wife of the wanderer new and dearer
charms. Health glowed on her cheek. She hung
on his arm familiarly and fondly. A moment ere
they came into view, he stopped and looked down
upon her. Back from her forehead he put the soft
hair unreproved. She returned his gaze with a
glance of steady, trusting love. His hand lingered
over her forehead, and he shaded her eyes with
it as one who peruses a painting.

“Why do you look at me so?” she asked, half
blushing.

“It was one of my young dreams, Flora,” he said,
“thus to scan your face—thus to meet your eyes
—thus to avow—thus to hear how we love each
other!”

They approached the mansion.

“Ah! there comes father!—there comes mother!”
said the old gentleman, releasing the sunny infant
from a dear embrace; and off she ran and
bounded into her father's arms.

At this moment one of the magnificent steamers
which ply from New-York up the river to Albany
had sent ashore a boat. A single passenger landed.
Conceive the pleasure of all on recognising
Kreutzner, their old and valued friend.

The usual greetings were warmly exchanged,
and the new-comer was welcomed with the sincerest
friendship and hospitality. When the first
glow of pleasure had subsided, he announced that
he had brought from Europe a letter for Norman.

“For me!”

“Ay!” said Kreutzner, handing it to him—“from
one of the most extraordinary of your acpuaintance.

It was sent to my lodgings, before I left Palermo,
with a note requesting me to deliver it into your
hands.”

Norman took it eagerly, and broke the seal.
Flora leaned over his shoulder, read the signature,
and turned pale.

“Bless me—bless me!” said Norman. “Have
not the fates done with us yet? I thought we had
acted our parts;” and with strong signs of astonishment
he read the name of the “Countess
D—.”

“My dear friend,” said Kreutzner, “this communication,
I presume, will throw light upon the character
of one of the most remarkable women I ever
met. To me it will be interesting to learn any thing
that concerns you; as, owing to our sudden separation
at Rome, your own eventful story has never,
in any connected form, reached my ears.”

“There is little to tell,” said Norman. “The
singular discovery of Rosalie gratified the strongest
wish of my life—the strongest but one,” he said,
turning to Flora; “which was, you see, in consequence,
gratified also. Miss Romain—”

“Poor Rosalie!” sighed Flora.

“Miss Romain accompanied us home, where she
was identified by many, and where proper measures
were taken to make her identity and existence public.
She continued, however, for several months
after our arrival, the victim of an incurable insanity
—shrinking from all who approached, with signs
of the most agonized apprehension and alarm;
sometimes singing and smiling; sometimes praying
and weeping, and acting over again fragments
of the dreadful scenes through which she had passed.
At length she died.”

“And is nothing particular known of her flight?”

“No more than that she fled with that arch villain

Clairmont, whose brutal cruelty drove her to
madness. The Countess D— was deeply implicated
in the affair, but most mysteriously. This
package will doubtless explain. There is one,
however, connected with my adventures in Florence,
whom I have met on this side the water—the
Marquis Alezzi. Betrayed by the priest, who,
while he seemed the partner in a dangerous conspiracy,
was in fact only a spy, he was stripped of
most of his slender remaining possessions, and
banished from Italy. In this country he has sought
and found a shelter, and long resided in a southern
state. His present destiny I know not. There
are two more friends of mine,” continued Norman,
“from whom I am anxious to hear.”

“I have been much since in Rome and Florence,”
said Kreutzner; “I may chance to have
heard of them.”

“The one,” rejoined Norman, “is a most gifted
young artist—a sculptor.”

“Angelo N—?”

“The same.”

“If you love him, I shall tell his fate with reluctance.”

“Speak.”

“He also, with Alezzi, was engaged in the conspiracy
which occasioned so much talk at the time;
and he also, after having been led on by the priest
too far to retreat, was by him informed against,
and fell on the scaffold. I saw his head roll in the
dust.”

“Know you,” demanded Norman, after a pause
and a slight shudder—“know you the fair daughter
of Torrini?”

“That do I, and well too. She is the gem of
Florence. Young, gay, and beautiful, her joyous

face is pointed out to the stranger as the loveliest
at court. But you are aware of her change?”

“No. I wrote once, but the letter was unanswered.”

“She is the wife of Prince C—, and a brighter
and happier creature never floated in the dance.”

“But come,” said Norman, “the manuscript!”

The curious circle gathered around him as he
read.