University of Virginia Library

AGNES LEE.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

1. CHAPTER I.

I like this strange morning on which I am writing; this sunless,
rainless day; the all gray sky, the phantom wind, stealing
over the hills with its ghostly feet, and now and then stopping to
blow some fearful, shrieking blast. I like it; for it comes to me
like a memorial. I sit still, holding my breath, with my hand
clasped tightly over my eyes, and think of high, fierce tides,
tramping in upon low lee-shores, of alarm-guns sounding among
the breakers at midnight, and the pale moon over head, stretching
out her arms, and fighting fiercely with black, pursuing
clouds.

Some one has said there are moments which command our
lives, — moments, looking back upon which, we can see where a
single half-hour might have changed our destinies. Every one's
life has such points, that rise, pyramid-like, above the dead
level of the years; and I am going back to one, this morning.

You would think me very old, could you see me now. The
smooth gray hair is folded back under my quaker cap, like bands
of silver; and over my face are drawn deep, furrowed lines, the
footprints left by lonesome years in their tireless journeyings. I

am old, when I count my life by incidents; and yet not so very
old, when I tell it over in years.

I do not know how far back I can remember. Sometimes I
seem to have dim visions of a fair southern home. Bright
flowers seem blooming round me; and southern breezes make
sweet music, touching with their invisible ffngers Æolian harp-strings.
Standing there, the soft eyes of beautiful pictures smile
on me, or the still form of some old marble hunter rises up in
solemn state at my side. It is a pleasant country, though I see
it very dimly through mists of years; and I am not quite sure,
after all, whether it be anything more than a floating island of
fancy. It seems little else, on mornings such as this. I can go
back to it, and bind my brow with its flowers, in the calm, pleasant
days of midsummer, when I sit in my low chair before my
cottage door, and round me the wild birds sing, the summer
flowers blossom, and the sweet south wind lifts lovingly my silver
hair.

But it is different now. This sobbing, lonely November morning,
I see no fair and sunny scenes, no southern palaces, or soft-eyed
pictures, but back to my heart comes the first deep, vivid
memory of my life, stern, crushing, terrible!

It was a strange scene; you may have read of such, but God
grant they may never have dawned on your own life, never have
made your hair stiffen, or chilled the blood in your veins. I was
very small, I know, for I had been playing on the deck of a stately
ship, handed around, baby-like, from one to another. At last I
had been put to bed in my little hammock, and a being fair as
a seraph had bent over me, saying prayers, and Ave Marias.

I had been dreaming, I believe, pleasant, sunny dreams, when

suddenly a quick grasp woke me. It was the same fair woman,
but now her face was blanched deadly pale. The white women,
whose work it is to bury the dead drowned at sea, could not have
looked more ghastly. She said nothing, but, gathering me up in
her arms, she rushed on deck.

I see it yet distinctly — that fearful scene! The good ship
was plunging like a frightened steed, — madly plunging, rushing
on toward a low lee-shore upon our left.

There, over rocks whose white tops shone up clear and ghastly
in the fitful moonlight, the great waves boiled and surged,
and then retreated, coming up again to hug those frightful, desolate
rocks more madly than before.

The winds howled and shrieked, like so many demons keeping
holiday; and onward toward this terrible shore our ship was
plunging. The moon over head shone out sometimes from thick,
black clouds, like a phantom face, looking down mockingly upon
this war of elements. Anon, the vivid lightnings flashed, and
the thunder sounded its hoarse, muffled dirge-notes; and in the
midst of it all, our vessel, like a prancing steed, was careering
joyously, bounding onward toward death.

There was no boat which could stand, for a moment, the fury
of such a gale. Some of the men launched one, it is true; but
it had scarcely cleared the ship when it went to pieces before
our eyes, and the poor fellows perished.

No, there was no hope, none; the boldest swimmers were
powerless in such a sea, and the grasp of those fiercely-battling
waves was no mother's cherishing love-clasp. I know that fair
woman strained me closely to her breast, as she clung with her
other arm to a rope overhanging the sides of the vessel. I know,

with my ear close to her lips, I could catch, amid the storm,
solemn words of prayer; then there was a mighty shock, —
a sound, as when many a cannon peals forth its echo-startling
clang of defiance; and after that I know no more.

I seem to have a faint, and yet most terrible vision, of the
moon shining down, brighter than ever, on white, ghastly faces
upturned to her gaze, their long locks dripping with the briny
waves; of the sea subsiding to a dead calm, as if contented
with its prey; but, beyond that fierce, terrible crash, I know
nothing.

My next memory is very different. It is of a fisherman's
hut on the Cornwall shore; a little, smoky, disagreeable place,
where one morning I lifted my head from a couch of sea-weed,
and looked around me. I saw low, smoke-blackened walls, hung
with fishers' nets, seal-skins and dried herring. A man sat by
the drift-wood fire; he had a strange face, in which my riper
judgment can hardly tell whether the good or evil predominated.
It wore an expression of hardy, patient endurance. About the
mouth were the strong lines of physical power, and the thick,
shaggy hair shaded a brow whose solidity and breadth betokened
anything but a simpleton.

I fancy I must have loved power and strength even then, for
I know my childish spirit seemed to recognize far more affinity
with him than with his wife, who was by far the kindest-looking
person of the two.

But, whatever I thought of them, I am sure I must have had
memories of far different scenes; for I well remember that I
resented, as an indignity, my having been brought to that humble
dwelling.

I was very weak, for I had no sooner completed my survey
of the desolate-looking apartment than I was forced to lay my
head back upon my sea-weed pillow; and it must have been
half an hour before I was able to speak. By this time, the
woman had completed the preparation of breakfast, and approached
me with a porringer of warm goat's milk, and coarse
bread. But I put it haughtily from me, and, rising up in my
bed, I exclaimed,

“I don't want any of your breakfast; and I wish you 'd just
tell me what I 've been brought to this horrid place for?”

“I reckon 't was as kind a thing,” growled the man at the
fire, “to bring you home here, as to ha' left you out o' doors to
die along with that dead woman I found you fastened to, two
weeks agone this mornin'.”

“Dead!” said I; “mamma is n't dead, is she?”

“Wal, I reckon you won't find any on 'em anythin' else but
dead, that was out on the lee-shore that night. They 're all
gone, barrin' you; and we might as well ha' left you to die, if
you can't carry a more civil tongue in your head.”

“Well, go away, please,” said I, more gently to the woman,
who still stood by the bed-side; “I can't eat any breakfast, this
morning.”

“Poor little critter!” said the woman, compassionately; —
“belike she 's lonesome, — you ought not to told her, John;”
and she turned away.

I lay there in a kind of stupor. I was not old enough to
realize how strange was the providence which had preserved
only me, a little, helpless child, out of all that crew of bold,
strong men; not old enough for praise and thankfulness; and I

was only sensible, as I lay there, still and quiet, with closed eyes,
of a deep, desperate feeling of hate and anger against I knew
not what — the sea, the storm, the ship, almost against the very
people who had died, and left me thus alone in the world.

1. CHAPTER I.

Mine was surely a strange childhood. I grew up there in
the fisherman's lonely hut, on the Cornwall shore. The fisherman
and his wife had no children, and they loved me, and were
kind to me in their way. The woman soon found that my errant,
wandering spirit could ill brook confinement; and she ceased her
attempts to teach me knitting and net-making, and allowed me
to wander whither I listed, only exacting that I should bring
home at night a certain quantity of sea-moss, which her husband
used to carry for sale to the neighboring market-town, a
distance of some twenty miles.

Perhaps, to one of my temperament, this hardy life was not
without its advantages; at least, it was singularly free from
temptation. No Indian maiden ever led a life freer, or more
tameless. I used to scale cliffs from which the boldest hunter
would have shrunk back appalled, and, standing on their jagged
summits, laugh a defiance to the eagles, and toss back my long,
black hair, with its sea-weed coronet, a princess in my own
right.

Neither the fisherman nor his wife knew how to read, and I
grew up in a like ignorance; and yet, I was by no means devoid
of one kind of education. I could tell where the eagles hatched
and the sea-birds hung their nests; where the tallest trees lifted

their great arms, praying to the pitiless sky, and where the
storm-winds lashed the waves to wildest fury.

My keen eye could discern in the distance each little cloud
no bigger than a man's hand; and afar off I recognized the
coming spirit of a blast that should be strong to strew the sea
with wrecks.

One night — I must have been about thirteen years old — I
had climbed to the very top of a high cliff, known as the Devil's
Tea-kettle. It was a singular place; steep, pointed, jagged
rocks hemmed in a basin, on whose sandy bed white, shining
pebbles lay bleaching in the sunlight. I had heard terrible
tales of this strange chasm. The peasantry said it was the
brewing-place of the waters of the stream of death, for never
were the waves known to rise high enough to fill the basin, but
that some goodly ship went down in sight of land, with all her
freight of precious souls.

I had never seen the waves boil in the Devil's Tea-kettle, but
I had been told that never had they surged so madly as on that
fearful night when I was dashed upon the lonely shore, and
the storm-spirits clasped hands with the winds, and shouted
forth my mother's requiem.

I think I must have been born in a storm, for they wore to
me the familiar faces of dear old friends. I loved them; and
on this night of which I speak, when I had climbed to the topmost
ledge of these spectral cliffs, I planted there my firm step,
and, looking forth to sea, laughed merrily. And yet a landsman
would have said it bade fair to be a beautiful night. The sea
was very calm — too calm — for it was the lull before the tempest.
The sun was going down into his palace of clouds, flinging

back over the waters the lengthening robe of his glory; and
over opposite, the moon, like a fair young bride, was climbing up
the east, with a star or two for bride's-maids, going forth to be
wedded to the night.

O, it was a beautiful scene! I have looked on such in later
years, till my heart ached with their quiet beauty. But it ached
not then. I clapped my hands as I looked forth over the waters,
for there, in the far distance, was a little cloud. It was a pretty
thing enough, quite in keeping with the scene; white, and
soft, and fleecy, as an angel's wing. But I recognized it; I
knew it was no seraph coming nearer; but that, as in their
funeral processions at the East, they send far on, in advance,
white-robed maidens, scattering flowers, even so now had the
advancing spirit of the storm, twin-leagued with darkness and
despair, sent forth before his face this peaceful herald. And I
knew from its position, and the rate at which it scudded before
the wind, that there was to be a fearful storm, — no gentle breeze
to rock a child's cradle, but a Euroclydon, to lash the deep sea
into fury.

O, how high my heart swelled as I looked on it, and shouted,
in my glee, that the Devil's Tea-kettle would boil well to-night!
But I think it was not from any native malignity. I desired
not death, but excitement. I wanted a wreck, it is true; but
then I would have braved life and limb to save the lives of its
victims. But the sunset glory faded out from the heavens, the
moon climbed higher, the white cloud widened, and I sprang
down the cliff, and, gathering up my basket of sea-moss, walked
slowly home.

I did not sleep that night. My little room opened out of the

one where I had first found myself, and which was at once sleeping-room,
kitchen and parlor, for the fisherman and his wife.
About midnight, I heard a sound. It was a signal-gun, — once
and again it boomed over the waters. Hurriedly dressing myself,
I roused the fisherman from his slumbers, and, putting on
a cloak and hood, stole unobserved from the dwelling. My feet
did not pause till I had reached the topmost ledge of the Devil's
Tea-kettle. Merciful Heavens! how the waves seethed and
boiled! What a sight! It frightened even me, who had never
known fear before; and, springing down the rocks, I fled as if
a whole army of fiends were pursuing me.

I hurried along the shore for a few rods, when the light of a
lantern flashed full in my face, and I paused. It was John.

“You here, child?” he said, in a tone which had more of
surprise than anger. I think he was glad to have some human
eyes to gaze on the terrible scene, beside his own. The moon,
which had shone out fitfully as I stood beside the Devil's Tea-kettle,
was now buried beneath billows of heavy, surging clouds.
Only now and then some vivid flash of lightning would show us,
in the distance, a great, black-looking ship, like some fearful
phantom bearing down upon the shore.

At intervals, the signal-guns would boom over the waves
like the sullen roar of some wild animal; or a human voice
would shriek out wildly, hopelessly, for the help which came
not. O, it was a terrible sight to stand there and watch that
mighty ship, hurrying helplessly to its death. I looked till my
soul grew sick — I could look no longer. I sank down upon the
cliff where I was standing, and clasped my hands across my
eyes. I did not see the struggles of the proud ship, but I heard

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE SHIPWRECK.

[Description: 655EAF. Illustration page. Image of a man and woman standing on a rocky cliff. They are watching a ship sink in the ocean. Lightning is coming down from the heavy clouds overhead.]

the sullen, deafening crash, when she, too, struck upon hidden
rocks, and went down helplessly in sight of land. I heard the
crash, and, putting my fingers in my ears, ran inland, till my
breath was spent.

And then the early summer morning dawned. We had stood
there three hours, though it seemed not as many minutes. So
long had the good ship struggled with the waves, so long her brave
crew died a living death of suspense and anguish. As soon as
the earliest dawn-rays commenced to light my path, I turned my
footsteps homeward; and, at the door of the hut, I met John,
bearing a senseless figure in his arms.

“This is all that's left of 'em, Agnes!” said he, with a sadness
unusual to his tone; and, entering the cabin, he laid his
half-drowned burden upon the sea-weed couch. His wife had
already opened the windows, and lighted the fire; and she
hastened to apply vigorously all her stock of simple restoratives.
Her care was presently rewarded, by seeing the stranger's eyes
unclose, and catching the faint sound of his irregular breathing.

It was several days, however, before he could rise from the
couch where he had been placed. On the morning of the fourth
day, he slowly approached the window, and sat down. “My
friend,” said he to the fisherman, “I owe you already more than
gold can ever pay you! Will you do more for me still? Can
you bring me, from the next post-town, a sheet of paper and some
ink; and will you let me be your guest, till I receive an answer
to the letter which I must write? When it comes, I shall have
gold to reward your care, and strength to proceed on my journey.”

Of course he gained his point, for when did Frederick Hutton

ever fail so to do? I watched his course after that for years,
and I never knew him fail to accomplish whatever he undertook.
The letter was written and sent, and, during the two months
which glided away before its answer came, Frederick Hutton was
my constant companion in all my rambles. He wanted a guide,
and took me in the absence of a better; quite careless as to the
effects such an association might produce upon my mind. And
yet, to do him justice, he was really very good-natured; and
when he found out, a week after our acquaintance began, that I
could not read, he set himself to work in earnest, to supply the
deficiency. I loved my teacher, and my progress was rapid.

I suppose Frederick Hutton would as soon have thought of
winning the fisherman himself to love him, as me, the rough,
wild-natured child of his adoption. But I have been told, by
physiognomical connoisseurs, that half the blood in my veins is
Spanish; and I, uncultivated child of thirteen as I was, loved
the handsome young Englishman with a wilder devotion than
many a grown woman is capable of. O, how I loved him!

He told me nothing of his personal history, but years afterwards
I learned that he was very rich and noble. For a long
time I was unconscious of the nature of my own love for him,
until, one afternoon, when we were walking, his own words revealed
it to me.

“So they call you Agnes Lee, do they?” he asked, pulling
me down on a rock beside him, and leisurely drawing my long
hair through his fingers. “How, in the world, came you by such
a romantic name?”

“I don't know what romantic means, sir,” I answered, simply;
“but they call me Agnes Lee, because on St. Agnes' night I was

cast upon the lee-shore in a terrible storm, and they had n't any
other name for me?”

“Ho! that 's it, is it? Quite a good account! You must have
been born for telling stories. Well, I 've a mind to amuse myself,
now, telling you one. Did you ever hear about love? But
of course you never did, you who never saw a handsome man in
your life.”

“Except you, sir,” said I, looking admiringly into his bold, handsome
face. His laughing blue eyes twinkled with fun, in appreciation
of the honestly-given compliment; and then he proceeded
to give me my first lesson of that love, stronger than life, and
more powerful than death. As he described its workings, my
cheek flushed crimson, for I knew that even so I loved him. At
last he grew weary of me, or of his subject, and, drawing a book
from his pocket (he had procured several from the next market-town,
in order to teach me to read), he bade me run away for
a while to play, and come again when I got tired.

Slowly I sauntered onward, with one remark which he had
made sounding in my ears. He had said, “Love seeks beauty as
naturally as the flowers the sunlight!”

Was I beautiful? My whole mind and soul were full of the
question. At last I remembered a sunny pool of clear, fresh
water, where I could see myself as in a mirror. I had often
looked there, to adjust my sea-weed wreaths; but I had never
noticed my face, for never, until this afternoon, had the question
suggested itself, whether I was beautiful. Cautiously I crept to
the brink, and, many times drawing back in fear, I at length
looked in. I unbound my tresses, and they floated almost to my
feet, long, heavy, and black as night. Set in them, as in a frame,

a face looked out, — a childish, sunburned face. There were eyes
there like a sloe's, large, black, and melting, and anon flashing
fire. I thought they might be beautiful, but I was not sure. As
to the features, I was not very well competent to judge. I know
now that they were regular enough for a sculptor's model; then
I only knew that Frederick Hutton was handsome — my face
was not like Frederick Hutton's; therefore I thought I must be
homely. But I was not satisfied. I stole lingeringly back to my
companion, and found him, in turn, tired of his book, and ready
to amuse himself with me. “Please, sir, may I ask you a question?”
I inquired, very timidly.

“Why, yes, Miss Agnes Lee, since you have never in the
world done such a thing, I rather think you may.”

“Well, sir, am I handsome?”

Frederick laughed long and loudly, ere he replied,

“Well, you genuine descendant of Mother Eve, you precious
little specimen of feminine humanity, where you picked up your
vanity, nested here on the lee-shore, like a sea-gull, I don't know;
but go and stand there in the sunshine, and I 'll answer you.
Shake down your long, black hair, all about you, gypsy, — there,
that 's right, — now stand still!”

I should think I stood still there a minute and a half, waiting
for him to make his decision. I really suffered while his eyes
were so bent upon me. At last, his fixed, steady look was
getting to be torture, and it was an inconceivable relief when he
made answer,

“Well, Aggie, it took me some time to decide, did n't it?
No, you are not handsome yet, Aggie. You are brown as a
Malay, and there 's something almost savage in your fierce, black

eyes. But your features are good enough, your hair is long and
thick; and, if it were taken care of, and were n't sunburnt, it
might be magnificent. As it is, you 're rather homely; but, if
some people had you, you might be made a very handsome
woman.”

Strange as it may seem, dearly as I loved him, this reply gave
me pleasure, instead of pain; though I well knew, had he loved
me, he never would have made it. But I don't think I wanted
him to love me then. He had said I had the material for a
handsome woman, and that was all I wanted to know. My
heart beat quicker, with a sense of power. I said that I would
make him know I was beautiful, some time; that, some other
day, I would make his proud heart quicken; and with this hope
for the future I was quite content.

One day, soon after, we were walking together over the rough
rocks bordering the shore. I remember a sense of life swelled
high and exultant in my heart; and I bounded over the steepest
ledges, hardly seeming to touch them, or paused to balance
myself and turn around on their sharpest points.

“Come down here, Agnes Lee,” said Frederick Hutton's voice,
at length; and, in an instant, I was by his side.

“I 've been thinking,” he remarked, carelessly binding up some
strands of sea-weed, “I 've been thinking that you would make a
capital ballet-dancer.” And then he proceeded, in answer to my
eager inquiries, to explain to me the nature of theatrical performances
in general, and ballet-dancing in particular.

“It 's a bad life,” he concluded, “and I would n't advise you
to try it. But, after all, I don't know but you 'd be better
off there than here. You do very well here now, but what 'll become

of you when you get old? If you could get to be primadonna,
you could make a fortune, if you would only keep it. Let
me tell you one thing, Agnes: some people think all dancing-girls
are wicked; but I tell you it is the soul governs the profession,
not the profession the soul; and you could be as good and pure
on the boards of the Royal Theatre as in the Hermitage of
Lough Derg.”

It was but a few days after this last conversation when the
answers to Frederic Hutton's letters came; and, having liberally
rewarded the honest fisherman's hospitality, he bade farewell
to the lee-shore of Cornwall. It was a beautiful morning
in the early autumn, and I went with him a mile or two on
his journey. O, how gladly the waves danced, and the sun
shone! and I could see his heart was dancing too. As for me,
I was not glad, nor yet very sorry; for my whole heart was
filled with a strong under-lying purpose. Pausing, at length, he
let go my hand.

“There, Agnes, you must go home now,” he said; “good-by,
my child;” and, taking a guinea from his pocket, he added,
“take that, Aggie; it 's the best thing I 've got to give you to
remember me by.”

“Will you just please to make a round hole in it, and mark
an F. on it somewhere?” I pleadingly inquired.

“Well, here 's one with a hole in it; that will do — and
there,” and, sitting down, he marked “F. H.” in bold, distinct
characters. “There, little one, good-by, now,” and, drawing me
to him he kissed me. It was the first time he had ever done
so — the first kiss man had ever left upon my lips; and it lingered
there for weeks, and its memory had power to thrill me
for many a year.

3. CHAPTER III.

Six months after this, I woke up, one spring morning, and
found myself in London. I do not know how I got there;
that is, even to this day, I can hardly understand the perseverance
with which I, an unprotected child, walked the whole
distance, seeking food and lodging of whoever had charity
enough to shelter me. Providence must have guided me, and I
think so, more than ever, when I recall a singular incident which
befell me on my arrival.

It was afternoon when I entered the great whirlpool of London.
Half-frightened by the crowded streets, I had somehow
made my way to the Park, and, for almost the first time in my
life, I sat there crying. At last I was roused from my sorrowful
abstraction by a gentle touch and a kind voice; and, looking
up, I met the glance of a middle-aged gentleman, clad in a quiet
citizen's suit of black. There needed but one look at his
kindly face to assure me I could trust him; and his question,
“What is your name, my child, and why are you here alone?”
was immediately followed by my relating to him my whole history,
save only that portion which was connected with my love
for Frederic Hutton.

“So you 've come all alone to this far-off London, to learn
to be a ballet-dancer?” he said, kindly. “I must say it is
a very strange undertaking. The chances that you will succeed
are hardly one in ten thousand. However, you could
not have fallen upon a better friend. I am a theatre-manager
myself, and I 'll try you; and, if I find you can do anything, I

will take you to a friend of mine in Paris, where I am going on
business, and you shall be educated for the stage.”

Thus it was, reader, that my first night in London was passed
in a respectable lodging-house; and I woke up in the morning
from peaceful dreams under the mighty shadow of St. Paul's.
My protector proceeded, soon after I arose, to put me through a
trial-course of calisthenics; and I suppose the result was satisfactory,
for a dress-maker was sent for, and requested to prepare
me for a journey to France, and a residence at l'école de
theatre.

Two years had passed; I was now fifteen. They had been
two of the happiest of my life. True, at first confinement had
been irksome. I had missed the wild, wailing, solitary sea, and
the free range of rocky shore. But my cherished purpose was
every day drawing nearer its accomplishment. My kind protector
had visited me several times, when business called him to
France; and it would have done your heart good to see his kind,
satisfied smile, when he received a favorable report of my progress.

It had been discovered, in the course of my instructions,
that I had a voice of unequalled power and pathos, and that I
should be able to succeed as a cantatrice with even less trouble
than as a danseuse; but I had marked out my own course. I
could not consecrate every gift to the insatiable spirit of the
stage. I must retain some power not thus prostituted, to make
beautiful my private life. However, I cultivated my voice most
assiduously, and was, in a short time, pronounced the best singer
in l'école.

There were, in the same institution, a large number of young
girls, more or less gifted, preparing for the stage; but among
them all, I had but one friend, — Inez Vaughan. She has, since
then, under another name, made the world's heart throb strangely.
She flashed, comet-like, upon the age, the very impersonation
of the genius of tragedy. The great world held its breath to
listen; but, comet-like, she was struck down suddenly, and the
Provence roses bloom upon her grave.

I could easily discern that there were no others whose acquaintance
would not rather retard the accomplishment of my
great end; but Inez and I became friends, in that word's truest
sense. We studied and read together, and she would sit beside
me, her dark eyes flashing like lighted coals, while I told her
strange, wild tales of the rocky shore, and the surging, restless
sea.

But, as I was saying, I was fifteen. My two years' study had
been completed, and the night was appointed on which I was to
make my début at the Royal Theatre. I had grown very beautiful;
no one who had known me as the romping child of
the fisherman's hut would have recognized me now. My hair
was long, and heavy, and luxuriant as ever; but now it was satin-smooth,
and from its wavy folds seemed to flash sparks of light.
My complexion, by proper care, had cleared up wonderfully;
now it was like the sunny side of a ripe peach, only deepening in
the cheeks to a richer crimson than peaches ever wore. The eyes
were the same, — large, black, and strangely lustrous, — and the
wan, thin figure of the child had rounded in the girl to a symmetry
as perfect as it was stately. Yes, I was very beautiful.

I arrayed myself for the occasion in a crimson satin, heavily

wrought with pearls. Around my neck and arms were chains of
pearls and rubies, fantastically twisted together, fastened with
gold clasps, in which a single diamond flashed like a burning
star. Strings of the same jewels flashed among the heavy bands
of my braided hair, and I almost started back in wonder as I
glanced at my full-length reflection in the green-room mirror, it
seemed so like some old picture, with its strangely vivid lights
and shades.

That night my triumph was complete. The whole house rang
with applause, and many of the bouquets thrown at my feet were
knotted with jewels. I welcomed this success, for it was one
stepping-stone the more toward my great end. O, how I wished
he had been there to see it! But never once had my eyes rested
on him since we parted in the sunshine on the desolate Cornwall
shore.

All that season I continued to draw crowded houses, and on
my last night the theatre was filled to overflowing. I had never
looked better. My costume was one just calculated to set off my
dark, oriental beauty, and it was in full glow. Half an hour
had passed, when a new arrival, in one of the front boxes, seemed
to create a sensation. I glanced that way, and my eyes met
the most perfect vision of feminine loveliness on which they had
ever rested.

Her style of beauty was totally different from mine; and I
looked on her, at first, with an artist's admiration, unmingled with
envy or jealousy. She wore a garnet-colored velvet cloak, lined
with ermine; but, as she entered the box, it fell from her neck,
revealing shoulders white as Caucasian snow-banks, and moulded
as purely as a Grecian statue. Her hair was of a bright gold tint,

and the heavy ringlets were gathered at the neck in a net-work
of pearls, from which one or two stray tresses had escaped, and
floated down over her neck and bosom. Her robe was of azure
satin, frosted with pearls; and her fan was gorgeous with the
plumage of tropical birds. Her eyes were a deep, tranquil blue,
large, and strangely bright; and her fair complexion, pure and
clear as marble, was deepened in the cheeks with a just-perceptible
tint of rose.

My eye had taken in all this at one glance. She seemed to
me like the actual presence of one of those beautiful pictures before
which I had stood with filling eyes in the gallery of the
Louvre, and from my heart I blessed her for her loveliness, as
I turned to gaze upon her companion.

Saint Agnes! patron saint of mine! why was it that in that
instant a deep and bitter hatred for that beautiful being crept
into my heart? Her companion was Frederick Hutton! It was
his hand that so carefully adjusted the folds of her cloak, his
eye that watched so eagerly her every look.

I danced that night as I had never danced before. Deafening
roars of applause fairly shook the building to its centre: but, of
all that gorgeous crowd, I saw but one. It was a full half-hour
before he seemed even to notice me, and then he carelessly turned
his opera-glass toward the stage.

I danced to him, at him — what you will; at least, I danced
for his eyes only. And I had the satisfaction of seeing him perfectly
absorbed, entranced, and apparently quite forgetful of
the presence of his companion. That was my last opera in
the season, and a few months afterwards I was in London, pleasantly
established in fashionable apartments at the West End.

“Agnes,” said my guardian (for so I had learned to call my
fatherly protector), entering my room, one morning, “there are
yet six weeks before your first engagement here commences.
What do you say to a masquerade, in the mean time? I
have plenty of relatives among the West-End fashionables, and
I should find no difficulty in having you introduced as Miss Agnes
Lee, in circles where no one would ever dream of Viola the
ballet-dancer being admitted. Will you go?”

While he spoke, an intense longing took possession of my
heart to gaze face to face on that great world of which I had
heard so much. True, I had seen people enough. I had danced
to crowded audiences, — but of fashionable society I was as
ignorant as a child. But I presume very little of my enthusiasm
appeared in my manner, as I lifted my eyes, and said, quietly,

“Yes, guardian, I will go.”

“Well, I thought so; it 's so like girls to want to see the
world! So I 've made arrangements accordingly, and I 've two
invitations for you, from two very fashionable ladies, who are
under some obligations to me. Here is one from Mrs. Somerby,
to her estate, `The Grange,' a little out of town. You 'd meet
there a half-score of ladies, beside Simmons, and Falconbrace,
and a dozen other young men who would fall in love with you.
You 'd have to look out for your own heart, because their cards
would be played out as soon as they knew your true position.”

“Well, sir, where is the other one?”

“That? O, that 's further out of town — to the Heronry, the
estate of Mrs. Somerville Sikes, and you would n't find anybody
there to fall in love with. There 'll be one man of mark there,
though, — Fred Hutton; but Lady Clara Emerson will be there,

also, and they 've been reported engaged so many times, I think
there must be something in it.”

Frederick Hutton! O, how the very mention of his name
thrilled me! Could it be? Was I indeed to see him, — to be
in the same house with him once more? My heart fluttered like
a caged bird, but my nerves were strong, and my self-command
perfect; so I answered, carelessly,

“Well, sir, I believe I 'll choose the Heronry; you know
there 's no knowing what might become of my heart at the other
place.”

My guardian laughed, and, patting my cheek pleasantly, went
out to hunt me up a dressing-maid, and provide me with a suitable
wardrobe.

The next day, at three in the afternoon, I was whirled up the
spacious carriage-drive of the Heronry, and introduced to the
stately Mrs. Somerville Sikes. She was a lady of, I should
think, about forty, extremely well preserved, and very elegantly
dressed. There was an air of patrician ease and gracefulness
about her, such as I had never before observed in any lady with
whom I had been thrown in contact.

She welcomed me cordially, and went up stairs with me to
my own room; then, kissing me, she remarked, “I will send your
maid to you, my dear; you will have just time to dress for
dinner.” O, what would I not have given to have dared to
inquire if Frederick Hutton had arrived! But I could not trust
myself to mention his name, and I threw myself in an easy-chair,
and sent my thoughts backward with memory, while my maid
unbound the long tresses of my hair.

When, at last, its arrangement was completed, I arrayed myself,

with trembling fingers, in a richly-wrought India muslin.
Nothing could have exceeded the simplicity of my attire. The
white dress was without ornament, and I wore not a single jewel,
with only a sprig of cape-jasmine in the dark folds of my hair.
I turned to the mirror, as I was drawing on my gloves, and saw
that, though I had many times been more dazzlingly brilliant, I
had never looked more beautiful; and yet my step faltered as I
entered the drawing-room.

Mrs. Sikes advanced to meet me, and I was formally presented
to the company; but my eye took in but two faces, my ear
caught but two names. Clara Emerson was there, with her face
so strangely fair in its quiet beauty, and her slender figure robed
in azure silk. A wreath of white buds nestled in her golden
curls, and she looked even more lovely than when I had first
seen her. Beside her sat Frederick Hutton. His was truly the
handsomest face my eyes ever rested on. He was, indeed,
as my guardian had said, a man of mark; with his Apollo
Belvidere figure, his hyacinthine locks, and his laughing dark-blue
eyes. The Lady Clara looked up, smiled, and spoke
very sweetly; but Frederick seemed so intent on his conversation
with her, that he merely noticed me by a bow. A moment after,
however, as Mrs. Sikes repeated my name, “Miss Agnes Lee,”
he paused in his conversation, and I knew, by his puzzled face,
he was remembering that he had heard that name before; but he
could not recall the time, and I felt relieved. But, even if he
had, he would hardly have associated the fisher-girl of the Corn-wall
lee-shore with the very different looking young lady presented
to him in Mrs. Sikes' drawing-room.

He sat opposite to me at dinner, but his attention was wholly

engrossed by his companion. Once, indeed, he casually glanced
at me, and then I heard him remarking to Lady Clara that
“Miss Lee was magnificently handsome;” and then he added,
“but her style is so different from yours, ma belle Clara,” in a
tone which left the listener little room for conjecture as to which
style he preferred.

During the evening I had been making painful efforts to be
agreeable to some dowager countesses, until I was tired; when,
much to my delight, my task was interrupted by a call for music,
and the Lady Clara Emerson was led to the piano. Her performance
was mediocre, perhaps a trifle better than that of
boarding-school misses in general. She affected opera airs, for
the most part, and, though Frederick Hutton leaned over her, and
turned her music, I could see he was neither interested nor animated;
and yet I knew that music was his passion. At last
Lady Clara arose from the instrument.

“Perhaps Miss Lee will favor us,” suggested Mrs. Sikes; and
Frederick Hutton came to my side, to lead me to the instrument.
His hand just touched mine as I took my seat, and, strong as
my nerves were, it thrilled me strangely. I sang an old Scotch
ballad of hopeless love, — a song that required power and pathos,
— and I sang it well.

I dared not glance at Frederick, but I could hear his quickened
breathing, I could almost seem to feel his attitude of rapt
attention; and I knew he recognized my power. For a week
after that he scarcely spoke to me. His attention was still
absorbed by the beautiful Clara; and yet, sometimes, when he
was sitting by her side, I would raise my eyes from my embroidery,
and meet a glance from the distant corner where they were

sitting, that would cause my cheek to crimson beneath my drooping
lashes. When I sang, Frederick never came near me; but
I knew he listened, and that, let him struggle as he would, one
day my purpose would meet its accomplishment.

4. CHAPTER IV.

The human will is strong, stronger than life, and even death
will not triumph over it utterly! I wonder whether man or
woman ever yet devoted themselves, with all their energies, to
the accomplishment of a favorite purpose, without succeeding.
At least, success is the rule, and failure the exception.

Time passed on, and Frederick Hutton gradually changed in
his deportment. His attentions to the beautiful Clara became
a shade or two less engrossing, and very often he would lead me
to the piano, and hang over me during my performance, with his
whole soul looking out of his dark eyes. The Lady Clara must
have noticed it, and I think she loved him; but her disposition
was a singular one. She was too proudly indolent to struggle
for the possession of anything. She dressed as becomingly,
talked as prettily, and smiled as sweetly, as ever. When Frederick
Hutton sat down beside her, she welcomed him with a look
that had not the slightest shade of reproach in it; and when he
was away, she seemed totally unconscious of his desertion. No
battery of attractions could have been half so effective as this
calm, indifferent dignity. I could not have had a more powerful
adversary to contend with. Sometimes Frederick would watch
her for a long time, and then turn away, with just the queerest

kind of smile about his lips, and talk to me more assiduously
than ever.

One night, I was walking in the shrubbery. It was the rich,
lustrous prime of the summer; the sun had gone down in his
glory, and the twilight hours had gathered up the gorgeous
clouds, like drapery of kings. It was evening; the moon, like
a fair queen, sat on her silver throne, among her parliament of
stars. I had gone out alone, and, with a hurried step, was
walking to and fro beneath the larches, keeping time to painful
thoughts. At last my step grew slower, and my mood changed.
I went down with memory, searching for hidden treasures
along the paths of the past; and tears came to my eyes, as
I remembered the free, happy, gypsy-like life I had led, before
Frederick Hutton came to Cornwall.

“Better, O, how far better off was I then than now!” said
my throbbing heart, beating painfully against my velvet robe.
“Alas! for I am weary,” said my lips aloud; and, at that
moment, a voice, whose faintest tone could have almost called
me from life to death, said, very gently,

“Agnes — Miss Lee — am I intruding?”

I turned, and welcomed him, with the tears still heavy on my
lashes, and the shadow heavier on my heart.

“You are sad, Agnes,” he said, sorrowfully, taking my hand
in his, as soothingly as one would pet a weary infant. “Agnes,
dear, beautiful Agnes, I love you! I never said those words
before, Agnes, to any woman, not even to Clara Emerson;
though long ago the great world voted us engaged. You will
understand them, — you will believe them. I did not mean
to love you, Agnes, — I closed my eyes against your beauty,

— I tried to shut my heart against the melody of your voice;
but you have triumphed. See, I am at your feet! Won't you,
can't you love me, my Agnes?”

But I did not speak; I could not. The hope of a lifetime
had met its fulfilment when I heard him say those words, and I
could not answer him.

“O, Agnes, Agnes!” he cried, beseechingly, “only answer
me! only say, `Frederick, I love you!'”

And, clearing my voice, and drawing my figure to its fullest
height, I stood there in the moonlight, under the larches, and
answered him,

“Frederick Hutton, I love you with my whole soul, as I have
loved you for years. I am yours, and I will be yours, and no
other man's, till I die!”

In his excitement he did not notice that I had said “for
years;” and, standing by my side, he clasped me to his heart,
whispering, “My Agnes, — my wife!”

For one moment, sick and faint with joy, I suffered my head
to lie upon his breast; and then I withdrew from his arms, and
said, firmly, “No, Frederick Hutton, not your wife; and, if you
knew me, you would sooner die than call me so. You know not
who or what I am!”

“And care not, Agnes, so that you will let me call you mine.
Nay, Agnes, do not think so meanly of me. I care not for
wealth or rank; — I know that I love you, and that is all I ask
to know.”

I am very strong-willed, naturally, but I could not summon
strength or courage to dash, with my own hands, that blessed

night, the cup of joy from my lips; and I answered him, resolutely,

“To-night, Frederick, I will tell you nothing. Meet me here
at sunrise, to-morrow morning, and I will tell you what you little
dream. I am going in, now.”

Once more I passively suffered him to fold me to his heart;
for the second time in his life his lips touched mine, and then,
gliding from his arms, I reëntered the Heronry. That evening
I was happy. I resolutely closed my eyes against the shadows
that hung around the morrow, and opened my heart to the joy-touches
of the present. He never left my side, and, when I
sang, he watched me with his dark eyes beaming through tears.

The next morning arose, fair and calm. I dressed myself
quickly, and hastened to the trysting-place. Frederick was there
before me. What a joyousness there was in his greeting!
Surely I must wait yet longer, ere I could summon courage to
freeze the smile on his lips. Once more I yielded my hand to
his clasp, and wandered along with him underneath the larches.
The sun was just rising. The tree-tops glowed like golden
arrows, pointed with diamonds; the long grass, knotted together,
shone like a fairy tracery of brilliants, and over all the sunshine
lay, broad and fair, — the very smile of the gods. Its
glad beams rested like a blessing on Frederick Hutton's hair,
and the whole world seemed to be dressed in holiday robes,
as if for a rejoicing. And yet, amid all that beauty, and glory,
and happiness, I walked on by his side, a crushed, downcast,
miserable woman, with a confession trembling on my lips which
would blot out from my own life all the sunlight, and send one
forth, dearer than my life, out into the world, a heart-broken,

hopelessly wretched man. I could not look at him, — I could
scarcely breathe. At last, I could walk no further. I leaned
against one of the larches; I stood there, and lifted up my
pallid, woful face, in the light of heaven's free sunshine.
Frederick turned and looked at me, with a vague and nameless
terror in his gaze, and then he faltered, “Agnes, my Agnes,
what is it?”

“Listen, Frederick Hutton, and I will tell you,” I answered,
and my voice was strangely calm. “You remember the fisherman's
hut, on the Cornwall lee-shore, and the wild, rude child
whom you taught to read? And you remember this!” and I
drew from my bosom, where I had always worn it, the guinea
he had given me when we parted. He took it in his hand, and
looked at it.

“Yes, I remember, Agnes; but what of that? Go on, —
how came you by this?”

“You gave it to me, sir; for I am that lowly child. Would
you call me wife, now?”

Brave, noble heart! I could see the struggle ere he answered;
but his love triumphed.

“Yes, Agnes, I would call you wife, even now. It was your
misfortune to have been cast upon the lee-shore; so it was mine.
Shall I shut you out of my heart because you stayed there a
longer time, my Agnes?”

O, I had hoped he would have spared me that last trial; but
no, I must drain the bitter potion to the dregs, and so I did.

“No, Frederick Hutton! Not your Agnes! I will never be
your wife! You saw me upon the stage at Paris; for, listen,
Frederick, — I am Viola, the dancing-girl!”

“O, God! O, God!” moaned that strong man, weeping like
a child. “Spare me, for this is bitter!”

I knew then, as I had known before, that he was lost to me
forever. I had willed that he should love me, and he did love
me. Perhaps I might have been his wife, had I willed that also;
but I would not. Even had he wished it, out of the might of
his great love, still would I have refused; for I loved him too
well, too unselfishly, ever to couple his proud name with disgrace.
At last, he drew me within his arms once more.

“Agnes,” he said, “my own, my beautiful! — God knows I
would have gone down gladly to my death, rather than live and
know that fate had put this stern and terrible barrier between
us. O, may Heaven bless thee, Agnes, and save thee from grief
like mine!” and down, over my face, fell, like rain, the bitter,
scalding tears of that proud man's sorrow.

That day, I left the Heronry. The purpose to which I had
vowed my life was accomplished, and even in the hour of its accomplishment
its curse came with it. Better far that I had
died, than brought such sorrow to him, so noble, so dear. And
yet I danced that winter better than ever. The smile that
curled my lips was as bright; the bloom died not out from my
cheeks, nor the light from my eyes. Still the world's homage
fell upon my ear, and even the noble and the gifted knelt at the
feet of the beautiful dancing-girl. Very often the Lady Clara
Emerson was among the spectators; but I never knew whether
she recognized in Viola the Miss Lee she had met at the Heronry.
I thought her cheek was a little paler than of old; and somehow
the old hatred toward her crept out of my heart, and into
its place stole a gentle sympathy. I heard of Frederick Hutton

upon the continent, and, amid all my heart-poverty and wretchedness,
my life had one crowning glory — I knew he loved me!

5. CHAPTER V.

It was toward the close of the second winter after I had
parted with him at the Heronry. I was no longer a ballet-dancer.
With the departure of him I loved, came a full conviction
that hereafter I had no private life to make rich, — that I
must give all to the world. I had commenced to sing, and I was
now prima donna of her Majesty's theatre.

It was almost the last night of the season. I had gone to the
green-room with a heavy weight upon my heart; but I shook
it off, and perhaps sang even better than usual. At last the
audience dispersed, and, going down by the private entrance, I
stepped into my carriage; but, seeing the outline of a man's form
upon the seat, I was about to spring back, and summon my servants
to my assistance, when a voice I had heard in the dreams
of many a night whispered, “Agnes!” I called “Home!” to
my coachman, and sat down. As the carriage turned, the gaslight
flashed full in my companion's face. I could scarcely restrain
a shriek of surprise. Frederick Hutton had changed so,
one would hardly recognize him.

“You are surprised, Agnes,” he said, gently, “at the work
trouble has done. Never mind, — I shall only be at rest the sooner.
I don't know what made me come to seek you, Agnes, this night,
of all others. I am to be married to-morrow. I came home, and
found that Clara had suffered terribly. She did not know that I

had ever loved another; but my long-continued attentions to her
had won her heart, and, upon my desertion, the whole joy and
hope of her life seemed to pass away. I was too wretched myself
to wish to be the instrument of like misery to another. My heart
smote me when I looked upon her pale face, and I resolved to
make what reparation I could, by giving her my hand and what
of life remained.”

He paused, but I felt that my voice was full of tears; I said
nothing, and he continued, “Agnes, I know your strength of love;
but your frame is strong, too; perhaps you will suffer more than
I, but you will live longer. I want you to promise me something,
will you? I will send for you when I am dying, and I want you
to come. Will you come, Agnes, wherever you are? Will you
promise me to come?” And, putting my hand in his, I answered
“I will come!” and it was to both our souls as if an oath had
been spoken.

I saw Frederick Hutton once more. Three years had passed,
and I was rich. I had left the stage, and was residing on
my own estate, a lovely villa in the south of France. I was
scarcely more than twenty, and still beautiful, though trouble
had wrought many a thread of silver in my hair. I think
my taste must have been tropical; for you might have fancied
my boudoir the abode of a Sultana. A fountain of perfumed
waters danced and sparkled in its marble basin, in the centre.
A glass door opened into a small but choice conservatory, where
grew the Indian aloe, with its broad green leaves; and gay
tropical birds plumed their wings on the whispering boughs of

the Eastern palm. Tiny, graceful little streams flowed among
thick, mossy grass; and beneath the Indian trees, half hidden in
the foliage, stood groups of marble statuary, that you might have
dreamed were Fauns and Hamadryads, the guardian spirits of
the scene. Around the walls of my favorite room I had hung a
few pictures, small, but choice; they were mostly woodland landscapes,
with here and there one of Claude Lorraine's Italian
sunsets, or a head by Perugino. On the floor were rich, heavy
mattings, from the far-famed looms of the Indies; and lounges
and cushions of Genoa velvet, in crimson and purple, were scattered,
with lavish prodigality, around. On one of these I lay
reading, and listlessly winding around my fingers my unbound
hair, when my favorite waiting-maid, entering the apartment,
handed me a letter. I recognized the hand-writing, and my
fingers trembled as I broke the seal. It was long, and closely-written;
but I will copy it all here. It ran thus:

Two days more, and I stepped from my travelling-carriage at
the door of a beautiful Italian villa. In the faint glimpse I had
as I hurried up the steps, it seemed like an earthly Paradise. An
English housekeeper met me at the door.

“You have been expected, ma'am,” she remarked; “my
master is just alive!”

And there, in that pleasantly-furnished room in the Italian
villa, I saw Frederick Hutton once more, and for the last time.
He was handsomer than ever, but his face wore the beauty of an
angel. His large eyes were unearthly in their brightness, and
on his forehead sat a radiance as of heavenly glory.

His whole face kindled as he saw me, and a smile of welcome
played around his lips. He stretched forth his hand:

“You are in time, Agnes,” he said; “I knew you would be;

I was waiting for you. Will you care for her?” and, with his
thin finger, he pointed to Clara, who was kneeling, in a stupor
of grief, at the bed's foot.

“Yes, Frederick,” I answered, with faltering voice and filling
eyes, “as long as she has need of me!”

“God bless you, darling!” he whispered, tenderly; and then he
closed his eyes, as if in prayer. “Agnes,” he said once more,
“you will find in that little desk what I have meant for you.
You must look for it when I am gone, and use it often. You
will come, Agnes, I know it. `He giveth his beloved sleep.'
Think of that, and be comforted when I am lying low. Sit down
now, Agnes, and take my hand in yours, and sing some old hymn.
Good-by, darling!”

I took his hand in mine, and sat beside him. I steadied my
nerves and my voice, choking back the tears; and I sang that
grand old hymn, “Saviour, when in dust to thee.” Before I
had finished, the hand I held in mine grew cold, the dark eyes
closed. Frederick Hutton was dead!

We buried him there in sunny Italy; you would know his
grave, if you should go to Florence. We placed a white stone
at his head, and on that stone was graven, “He giveth his
beloved sleep!”

The gift he had left for me was the pocket Bible which had
been his constant companion. At first I prized it for his
sake; then it became far dearer to me for its own, for it has
guided my footsteps in the path which will one day take me
home to heaven and him.

I watched over Clara, for his sake, until the throbbings of her
great grief grew still; and then, still young and beautiful, she

went forth to gladden another heart, another home; and, standing
now with her husband and her children, I know not whether
her lips murmur at night-fall the name of the dead.

I am old now, but my life is calm and happy. I am looking
forward to that day, not very far off, when I shall stand by Frederick's
side in heaven, and, putting my hand in his, whisper,
“Here am I, my beloved; I have been thine only, through
all!”